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whereireid · 30 days ago

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one of my best pieces of work

˚ · . 𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐀𝐂𝐒

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: miles quartich x fem!reader | masterlist.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: An unexpected visit from Colonel Miles Quaritch has you itching for relief.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: imbalances of power. unestablished relationships. degradation. unedited. nsfw content; dubious consent (sex pollen/aphrodisiacs.) nipple play, rough p in v, oral, male masturbation, breeding [knotting].

“They’re just stupid plants.” Quartich’s stern voice cuts through the thick and palpable tension which lingers in the air. His lips are pursed, his arms crossed over his chest in disapproval. “Stop gettin’ so worked up over it.”

Eyes narrowing, you can’t help the unamused scoff which slips past your lips. You can’t really comprehend the situation, your hand coming up to rub your forehead in annoyance. Not only has the Colonel invaded your office, he’s also managed to break various forms of surreptitious vegetation that you had sheathed away in jars.

One of those jars was stuffed full with a plant that secretes a mysterious liquid when threatened, which it very much was, considering the fact that Quaritch knocked it off your desk without bother, smashing the glass jar it sat in to pieces.

“They aren’t just plants,” you mumble, sighing as you sink to your knees and begin picking up the broken shards of glass, grimacing as your fingers swipe over the creamy, milky liquid which has pooled onto the marble flooring. “Have you learnt nothing about Pandora and the way of life since being here? Nothing is never really nothing. All things have a purpose.”

He scowls, his nostrils flaring slightly as he looks down on you. He’s only slightly intimidating, the shine of his boots catching your eyes as you awkwardly scoop the glass into the plastic bag. You’re still unsure as to why he’s actually in here, the reason for his invasion untold.

When he doesn’t speak, you do, your voice wobbling slightly. “Haven’t you gotten what you wanted, now? Can you just go?”

“Can’t you smell that?” Quaritch asks, his nose twitching slightly as he sniffs the air. You glance up at him, your face flushing as you notice his looming frame inches away from yours.

You hadn’t even heard him get any closer. “Um, no?”

His nose twitches again, and you try to hide the smile which graces your face as you realise that he holds a striking resemblance to that of a cat when he inhales so desperately. As you stand to your full height, you lose your grip on the plastic bag as you’re met with your head level with his crotch.

If he’s heard the glass shatter again, he doesn’t comment on it. “It smells so sweet,” he says instead, his voice low and his hands reaching towards your shoulders. The touch makes you feel hot, sending sparks shooting through your body, and you feel a strange, tingling sensation brushing over the nerves of your fingertips, where you’d brushed over the mysterious creamy liquid accidentally. “Can you really not smell that?”

Quaritch’s voice is husky, riding through you in a smooth wave, and his grip on your shoulders tightens. His fingers dig into your collarbone, and you close your eyes, trying to ignore the way your body feels like it’s being set alight by his touch. You lean into him, your throat growing tight as you inhale deeply, trying to make sense of what he’s saying.

Then, it succumbs you. Warmth rolls through your body, goosebumps peppering up and down your skin as you breathe in a deep, sickly-sweet smell. It makes you grow hot, and your brows knit together as you open your eyes, staring up at the Colonel.

“Oh my god, what have you done?” You breathe out, accusation lacing your tone. You swat his hand away, and you can feel the imprint of his fingertips burning your skin.

A bead of sweat rolls down your forehead, and you watch as Quaritch looks down on you, confusion littering his features.

“I haven’t done nothin’,” he protests, his nose crinkling as he inhales deeply. “You need better ventilation in this god damn office, get rid of this smell.”

“There is no smell!”

“It’s so god-damn hot in here,” he practically snarls, his eyes fluttering shut, lashes kissing his cheekbones. His tail thrashes in irritation behind him, his blue skin glistening with sweat as he lowers himself closer to your height. “You and the other science pukes always work in such heat?”

“You need to go,” you murmur, and you press against his chest. Quartich doesn’t waver, his hard, green eyes staring into yours. “Colonel, you — you need to leave.”

His eyes flash over your features, unimpressed by how irritable you’re being. His palms cup your shoulders, enveloping your body, and your knees weaken at his touch. “And you need to calm down, darlin’.”

Darling. Anger bubbles up in your chest, irritated by his choice of words, but as his thumb swipes over your shoulder, a different feeling entirely bubbles inside of you. It boils — makes your body feel scorching hot, and your breath hitches in your throat as you push against Quaritch’s stomach.

“This is your fault! You destroyed the plant,” you complain, your hands shaking as you feel his muscles ripple and tense beneath his tank top. “You have absolutely no idea what you’ve done, and you don’t care, and you really should get out now!”

Sniffing the air again, ears flitting, Quaritch lets out a quiet hum. He’s incredibly observant, his thumb still swiping back and forth on your shoulder, his body so exceptionally large compared to yours. “What’ve I done? Broken a god-damn plant?” His brows knit together in frustration, and as you raise your fist to swat him away again, he catches your wrist in his hand. “You need to calm down, darlin’. If you’re that bothered, I’ll go and get you another one — there’s thousands in that fuckin’ forest.”

Stomach twisting into a knot, your body thrums with anticipation. With desire. Though he’s holding you so loosely, you know that even a small clenching of his fists could result in your wrist being snapped almost completely in half, and you gaze at him with doe eyes.

“That plant is the reason your sense of smell is heightened.”

Quaritch’s nose crinkles again. The air smells sweet and warm, although anytime he diverts his attention away from you, it disappears. It’s like you’re the one who smells good; ravishing, in fact — desirable enough to eat.

“Jesus Christ, darlin’, what the hell are you talkin’ ‘bout? My sense of smell is heightened because I’m a god-damn Avatar—"

“Those — those flowers, in those jars, that you broke,” you breathe out, your heart fluttering as his thumb softly grazes your skin, “us ‘science pukes’ didn’t know what they were. We found them on the coast of Awa’atlu, and we didn’t have the proper equipment to know what they were at the time, but now I know, and it’s your fault, and you need to leave!”

The confidence in your tone wavers slightly as Quaritch brings dips his head. His nose softly grazes over your wrist, and a low growl rumbles in his chest as he inhales your scent.

“What’re you tryna tell me?”

He holds your wrist in place, nuzzling his head into your skin. It’s feral, it’s weird, and it’s surprising — this is Colonel Miles Quaritch, and your nose crinkles as you realise he’s absentmindedly scenting himself with you, something that happens in Na’vi mating rituals.

“Colonel, I—”

“— What’re those plants?”

You drag your eyes away from the wall, finally meeting his eyes. It feels like you’ve just taken a blow, instinctively recoiling as you notice his black, blown pupils. You don’t manage to recoil far, his grip on your wrist so tight, so possessive, and you let out a soft whimper as all the green within his irises appear sheathed by the dilation of his lust.

“They’re — they’re aphrodisiacs,” you blurt, trying to dull down the hammering of your heart. Your insides feel insatiably warm as he stares at you, unblinking, so domineering, so handsome, so big.

Your skin prickles as he inhales again. He’s so close, marking himself with your scent, and you curse yourself for even letting him in here in the first place. He must be horny — he just doesn’t know it yet. It’s bubbling inside of him, curling into a knot, and if he doesn’t leave soon, you’re going to the only one that can help unfray it.

Quartich doesn’t leave.

“You’re tellin’ me I just smashed a god-forsaken sex drug all over the god-damn floor?” He murmurs, stilling his motions. His cheeks are a dark, navy blush, his bioluminescent freckles sparkling like constellations.

You nod your head, trying not to show your fear as you stammer out, “that is exactly what I’m saying, sir,” you exhale, shakily, “and to make things worse, these aphrodisiacs are used primarily by Na’vi mates to, um, trigger an induced rut.”

“Rut?” Quaritch inquires, staring at you. His tail sways behind him, his skin feeling warm and itchy, his head growing fuzzy. “What the hell is a rut?”

You blink. You feel hot and confused, the excrement from the plant rendering you incredibly horny, and you find yourself leaning into his touch. Your knee brushes his inner thigh as you ask, “did they not teach you anything about the Na’vi mating rituals when they transferred you over to a recombinant?”

Instead of speaking, he just shakes his head. The side effect of the plant is affecting him, too — you can tell. His ears are pinned upright, his lips curling and exposing his canines. Impressively sharp, glinting in the light, and you have to hold back the urge to reach out and let him bite you. Your eyes flicker down absentmindedly, and you notice the strain in his cargo trousers from where he’s became erect, and your breath hitches in your throat as his spare hand reaches over to graze across your neck.

“Mating is sacred to the Na’vi. Aphrodisiacs are used to ensure that once two mates commit tshaelyu, they can breed until satisfied.” You notice the Colone’s jaw tick as you speak, his tongue sliding over his teeth as he thinks. “You don’t mate with just… anyone. Once you mate, you mate for life. Tshaelyu or not.”

A gasp slips past your lips as his hands glide over your neck, his thumb pressing into the base of your throat. “And what happens if I don’t get relief?” His southern drawl is strong, sending goosebumps darting across your skin. “If I don’t mate?”

Trying to swallow away the lump in your throat, you stare at him sheepishly. “You’ll be — you’ll be pent up until you do. Um, one of the primary side effects that the aphrodisiacs used by the Na’vi is that the recipient of the drug often has persistent—” His hands close around your throat, the foreign feeling of him gently pressing against your trachea causing tingles of desire to shoot over your body, “—persistent, um, epididymal hypertension.”

“English, darlin’.”

“Blue balls,” you stumble out, your breath hitching in your throat as the Colonel pulls you closer, his nostrils flaring as he runs his nose against your collarbone. “It’s basically blue balls.”

A groan slides past his lips as his nose pushes into the crook of your neck, and you try to hold back the whine which threatens to slip past your own. This is so wrong — he’s so intimately close to you that he’s setting your body alight with desire, but he’s the only cool stimulant to your burning skin.

“I already have those, sweetheart.” His lips tug into an amused smirk as your lips part in surprise, your cheeks flushing with warmth at his lewd statement. His palm presses into your throat slightly, and he hums as your eyelids flitter shut. “You’re sweatin’. This little drug havin’ an effect on you too, darlin’?”

Shaking your head, you try to ignore the wrenching of your heart as his fingers begin slide down to towards your chest. Everywhere that his hand graces is left cool, a reminder that you need to get relief soon. “No,” you lie, your voice wavering as he idly twirls the pendant which sits between your breasts. “No, um— oh, god— no.”

A soft moan is dragged from your throat as Quaritch’s hand brushes over your breasts through your blouse. “You lyin’ to me?” He asks, tilting his head to the side as he brings his other hand towards your chest, rubbing the swell of your chest through your blouse. “You sayin’ this don’t feel good? That all of your senses aren’t heightened?”

“There are — there are machines created by the biology team to help you through your rut.” You grit your teeth as he touches you, avoiding his question. Shame washes through your body, and it feels so good but so wrong — this is the Miles Quaritch that you’re being touched by! “Please, use them. They’ll help!”

“And what about you, sweetheart? What’re you going to use to get your relief?” Green eyes so blown and blackened you can no longer see his irises at all — an eerie black sheen just stares back at you, and you flinch as in one swift motion, he rips your blouse apart, your buttons scattering all over your office floor. “No answer? That’s okay, darlin’. You don’t have to speak. In fact, I don’t want you to.”

He dips his head slightly, his teeth dragging over the skin of your neck. “Good girls don’t talk unless they’re spoken to.”

Your eyelids flutter, your belly twisting with an insatiable desire as Quaritch gently unclips your bra, his motions calm and collected. You know he’s burning with just as much arousal as you — you can see a small bead of sweat pooling by his browline, but he’s staying cool and composed, his tongue running over his lips as your bra drops to the floor.

You open your mouth to speak, but he shushes you. “You been hidin’ these away, sweetheart?” He breathes, his head tilting down towards your chest, his tongue darting out to slowly swirl around one of your nipples. “God, they’re fuckin’ huge. Look big even in my hands.”

Gently, his lips wrap around the sensitive nub. You gasp, the spark which blazes inside of you now descending into a roaring wildfire, electricity pulsing through you as he purrs against your chest. It’s a foreign sensation, a feeling that you’ve never explored — but now you really wish that you had, because the feeling of his tongue and lips grazing over your nipples has your legs trembling.

His mouth latches onto your nipple, and your eyes flicker down to his face. You really wish that you hadn’t looked at him, because the sight forces a moan out of your mouth. His eyes are lust-filled, blown with desire, his eyes set on yours, his lips swollen as they suck softly at your chest. You squirm, your panties growing slick with your arousal.

“This is wrong.”

“I can smell you. You don’t think it’s that wrong, darlin’.”

Your head bows in shame.

“You want me to touch you? Want me to make it go away?”

He pinches your nipple with his teeth, and you exhale shakily. His canine grazes over the nub. Any sharper and he'll draw blood, and you flex your fingers in pain.

You screw your eyes shut, voice wavering as you force out, “yes, please, Colonel.”

Your pleading works, as his hand darts towards your thighs, beckoning them apart. You waste no time in opening them for him, your eyes rolling backwards slightly as he gently bites down on your nipple. Every nerve inside of you is lit, blazing and burning wilding. The concoction of the sex pollen and his unruly desire has you mewling, the skirt that you’re wearing allows him easy access. Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers glide other your clothed folds, a soft purr rumbling through him as he notes how wet and slick you are.

Face growing warmth with embarrassment, you almost falter and move away. You don’t know why you’re letting him touch you — but it feels amazing. He pushes your underwear to the side, and a whine becomes hitched in your throat as his fingers push inside of your cunt, the burning of his intrusion making you jolt.

“Ow!” Your hands plant themselves on his shoulders, pushing slightly as he scissors your walls. “That hurts!”

He smiles, but he isn’t best pleased. “Course it hurts. I’m more than twice your size, darlin’.” His voice is eerily steady, his eyes flicking across your face. “You need to learn to stop speakin’ if you haven’t been spoken to.”

His fingers curl inside of you, and in response, your hands curl in his tank top. You need him, now. Your hips buck against him, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he laps at your chest eagerly. Quaritch’s movements are precise, deliberate, each flicker of his tongue sending electricity through you, causing your body to drown in heat.

Again, Quaritch bites at your nipple, this time doing it simultaneously with the curling of his fingers. It hurts, the sensation causing tears to bubble in your eyes. The feeling of your sensitive nipple being pressed between his sharp canines has you gasping in pain, but you’re so wet and full that it doesn’t feel like it matters, a sultry twinge pulsing through you at the lewd action.

He fills you so perfectly, and your fingers curl into his shoulders as he flicks his fingers out every few seconds. He hums as droplets of your slick hit the office floor, pooling alongside the milky, white excrement of the plant, his lips curling upwards into a satisfied grin. "So wet for your Colonel," he praises, "so perfect and tight. You feel good?"

Your lips part as you hump against his hand, your skin burning a fever as you respond, "yes, yes, I feel so good!"

“That’s a good girl. Buckin’ into my hand, making it all nice and wet. Oh, darlin’, you’re so sensitive. You gonna cry?” His fingers push into you, your walls growing tight in appreciation. “God, I want you to cry. Come on, sweetheart, cry when you cum on your Colonel’s fingers.”

It’s all too much; his hot mouth suckling at your chest, the feeling of his digits pressing against the sensitive spot inside of your cunt. The names he’s calling you, the name’s he’s calling himself — it’s dirty and it’s wrong, but it soothes the shameful desire which blazes inside of you.

“Can I?” You exhale breathily, heat pooling inside your stomach as he continues to toy with you. “Can I cum, please?”

“Please what?”

“Please, Colonel?”

Your eyes are closed so tight that you see stars. His silence is looming, and you cry out as you attempt to take a deep breath, your breathing become shaky and ragged. You wail as he curls his fingers inside of you, your chest heaving and growing tight. You need to cum, and you need it now, unable to hold back the feeling which washes over you.

As though he can read your mind, Quartich says, “yes, darlin’, you can cum for me.”

Your body writhes against him, and you whimper, nodding eagerly at his words. You’re glad that he’s so buried into your chest, unable to see the swirl of emotions which paint your face. You’re shrouded by pleasure, dumbed out by the hot sparks which flicker through your body. You’re convulsing, warmth shooting through every nerve, your cunt growing slick as he rolls his fingers against the spongy spot inside of you.

Once you come down, you feel strangely numb. Satisfied. Quartich’s breath is still hot, but you feel cool. Satisfied. You’re lax against him, your eyes squeezed shut as you feel his lips pepper soft kisses to your chest.

Tears have stained your cheeks, burn the corners of your eyes, and Quaritch stares down at you in admiration, in awe. He'd never seen anything so pretty in his life, and he growls slightly as you blink the tears away.

“Open your legs.” His voice is booming, and you blink back at him in confusion. His fingers press into your thighs, and you yelp, doing as he says. “Don’t make me repeat myself. When I ask you to do somethin’, I only want to ask once."

“Yes, Colonel.”

Quaritch can see the evident confusion flitter across your face, but he doesn’t care. He isn’t bothered. His cock is straining against his cargo trousers, and he feels so hot and bothered, so overwhelmed with his desire and lust for you. He needs to taste you, needs to drown in your sweet nectar. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as the sight of your slick, glistening cunt, he decides as he forces your underwear off, the cloth now pooled around your ankles.

“Maybe this was a blessin’ rather than a curse,” he comments, his hands pressing against your plush thighs as he presses hungry kisses to the areas of skin not covered by his own. “You know, you’re the only scientist here hot enough to take a peek at.”

“I—” Your body trembles slightly as his teeth graze against your skin, his digits leaving marks into on your soft flesh. “Thank… you?”

Humming, Quaritch’s nose twitches as he presses it against your inner thigh. He’s tired of waiting — your cunt is so, so close, and it’s so wet and needy for him. “You’re welcome, darlin’.” He pauses from between your legs, and you gasp as he jolts you forward, his nose nuzzling into your pelvis bone. “Gonna eat this pretty little pussy now, sweetheart, and then I’m gonna fuck it so hard, you won’t be able to walk.”

At first, the sensation is strange. Unfamiliar and wrong. His tongue is rough, painful as it glides past your folds, the muscle mesmerising as it rides up and down your cunt. Then, however, he does what you need him to do the most — his tongue teasingly rolls up your slits, towards the pearl which sits swollen at the top of your pelvis, and it swirls around it.

“Oh, fuck,” you mumble, your thighs trembling involuntary, the plush of your flesh being indented by his harsh grip. “Ohmygod.”

“You like that, sweetheart?” He purrs, and it vibrates against you. It’s powerful, precise, and it’s much better than your vibrator.

“Yeah,” you agree absentmindedly, your eyes fluttering shut as he continues to lap at your cunt like a man starved.

Pulling away momentarily, you feel your heart leap out of your chest as you look at him. A string of spit is carried from your folds to his lips, and he lets out a breathy chuckle. “Mmm, this pretty little pussy is so swollen and so needy for its Colonel,” he comments, before he dips his head again, his tongue going back to its previous movements. "So wet and swollen and fuckin' puffy."

The feeling of Quaritch nestled inbetween your thighs makes your stomach clench, your walls fluttering. You’re burning a fever, again, and you can feel how hot his own face is now that it’s pressed against your cunt. The effect of this Aphrodisiac is too much, too overwhelming, and you wonder how he’s managing to roll his tongue up and down your cunt without pleasuring you once.

Then, it hits you — soft sounds of grunting fill your ears, and your eyes flicker back down to him. You can’t help but audibly moan as you see him stroking his cock, which is hard and beading with cum, in a slow, steady motion. He’s rutting into his hand, his grip tight, and your eyes roll backwards as he nuzzles into your cunt, licking and lapping, sucking at the heat. His motions are sloppy, his tongue being particularly attentive to your overwhelmingly sensitive bundles of nerves.

You don’t know if it’s just the drug anymore, because Quaritch’s groaning is like music to your ears. His tongue draws patterns on your clit, his breathing growing heavy as he laps sloppily at your cunt. He’s eager to please, desperate to drown in the sweet taste of your cum, and he listens to every mewl and whine, bucking into his hand every time you roll his name on your own tongue.

Moans growing breathy, you softly grind into his face. His nose presses against your pelvis bone as he grazes his teeth against your clit, his tongue swirling, his lips suckling at the bundle of nerves. He knows what you want, what you’re about to do, and it only encourages him further.

It feels like there’s a knot inside of you that breaks when you cum. It’s being torn and twisted, your stomach clenching as you cry out. You stop bucking against him, your ears ringing as you cum, your hands curling in Quaritch’s short hair.

You try to calm your hammering heart, try to relax, but you involuntarily tense as you’re seized by his rough hands. His rough tongue laps at your cunt, sliding through your folds, his tongue drawing lazy circles on your sensitive nub. Your muscles tense as you convulse, pulling and pushing him away simultaneously.

“Oh, that’s it, darlin’.” He lets out a breathy laugh as he pulls away, a lewd trail of slick following him. “Jesus Christ, you were pent up. Squirted all over me.”

“I’m sorry,” you squeak as his fingers curl into your thighs, his rough hands turning you around so your ass is facing him.

Behind you, he coos. “Oh, don’t apologise, sweetheart. You bein’ nice and wet only helps.”

There isn’t an audible warning. The only time you have to prepare is when you feel Quaritch’s tip rolls through your puffy folds, slapping lewdly against your slick cunt in order to obtain more lube.

The sting is unbearable at first. His cock is massive — bigger than anything you’ve ever tried, and a choked cry escapes your mouth as his tip breaches your swollen cunt, your walls sheathing him instantly.

“Holy fuck,” he hisses from behind, watching as your cunt swallows his cock inch by inch, his girth stretching you unbearably thin, “this pretty little pussy is just eatin’ me alive.”

You whine, and Quartich softly palms your ass as he spreads your thighs further apart, urging your body to take him. “You’re huge. Na’vi shouldn’t mate with humans, Colonel—“

“—‘S too late now. I’ve already chosen you.”

It's like he's splitting you in half. His thrusts are slow, sloppy, edging you closer and closer to being utterly destroyed. There's something rhythmic about his movements, something soothing, his palm on your ass cool.

Your feverish, fuzzy mind blocks out any forms of rationality as you let him take you. Your cunt flutters around his cock as his tip brushes against your cervix, impossibly hard; again and again and again.

"God, this hurts," you mumble, shuddering as Quaritch's fingers dart downwards to toy with your puffy, sensitive clit, his digits gliding through your sticky folds, "too big."

Feral, like an animal, Quaritch's nose nuzzles against your wrist, his teeth sinking into the skin softly. He bites you; draws blood, paints his tongue crimson with the metallic taste of your wound. You pull, tug away from him, your cunt throbbing, the heat of the room too much.

Suffocating, no, drowning in the insatiable warmth, you buck against him. It hurts — he hurts, and he mouths you again, nuzzling his teeth into your wrist, insatiably biting you, marking you; palming at your ass like it belongs to him.

"So tight," Quaritch grunts, "so small," his hands come around to your stomach, palming the plump flesh softly, "bet you'd love to be nice and round, pumped fill with my babies? Have a little half-breed?"

You let out a quiet whimper. Your skin itches, burns with desire, and with each sluggish roll of his hips, your head lulls.

"Answer me when I'm talkin' to you," he says, his teeth biting down on your wrist. Your head angles back so you can see him; and he looks so animalistic; so delicious, and you nod your head weakly.

"Yeah," you choke out, "I want a little half-breed."

Bent almost in half, skin glistening with sweat and spit, you let Quaritch take you. The white, milky excrement from the plant is still pooled on the floor, and your eyes focus on the way it drips from each stem, trying to calm your racing heart.

"I knew you would," he follows up, "you little fuckin' freak. Wonder how many of your little scientist friends would feel betrayed, knowin' you're bein' mated by a fuckin' recom."

Your eyes tilt backwards slightly. His balls slap lewdly against your ass, and warmth trickles into your lower tummy as he grips your flesh slightly. He's palming you, imagining your stomach more curvy and round; imagining you waddling around, pumped fill of his seed. God, you'd look so fucking hot, and he's not sure if it's just the Aphrodisiac making him feral anymore.

"Please," your voice wavers, "I'm gonna—"

"—Cum for me, darlin'," he says, his tongue rolling against the marks he's left peppered on your wrist, "squeeze me nice an' tight, let me fill this pretty little pussy up."

"Oh, god, please," you cry out as his hips roll into yours; his body beginning to chase his own high.

The sheer size of him is overwhelming. With each thrust, you can feel your tummy bulge — he can almost stroke himself through your navel, and he gives your plump flesh a soft squeeze as he continues to thrust into you. Green eyes darting towards the area in which your body links, Quaritch let out a guttural, animalistic growl as he notes the way a ring of arousal paints his stripey, blue cock white, his grip on your body tightening.

Disoriented and confused, fuzzy with lust, your body begins to tremble. Your thighs burn, unable to hold yourself up anymore, and your cunt flutters and squeezes his cock; desperate to feel him closer than he already is, although it's practically impossible.

"That's it," he praises, "come undone for me, my fuckin' — fuckin' cockdrunk cumslut," he grits his teeth, swatting your ass, "this perfect fuckin' pussy is going to be dripping with my seed."

Choked, stuttered moans crawl out of your throat, slipping past your lips in a beautiful melody as you come undone. Your body feels spent, worn, used; beautifully broken, limp as Quaritch continues to fuck into you — the Colonel, your Colonel. Your eyes gloss over, still focusing on the milky liquid pooled on the floor, your breathy shaky as your juices coat his cock, wetting his cock.

"Ow," you whine, "it's sore."

"I'm right behind you," he forces out, his eyes screwing shut as he lets himself go.

Your walls flutter around him as he cums, the aftershock of your orgasm pulsing throughout your body.

Something weird happens, though — the warmth blooms within you as opposed to dulling, a painful throbbing sensation pulsing in-between your legs. You pull, press against Quaritch's body, but his teeth have sunk into your wrist, his hands holding you against him, keeping you trapped.

"You've — you've knotted me," you breathe, bewildered, "you've knotted me."

His hot breath fans your ears, his grip on you tightening as he pulls you closer. "I know," he grunts, his cock still insatiably hard inside of you, "I'm gonna make sure I give you that god-damned half-breed baby you want."

#imo

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whereireid · 1 month ago

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˚ · . 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐘

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: earlyseason(s)!spencer reid x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Spencer loves you no matter what you earn. It’s just a benefit, really, that you’re exceptionally wealthier than he is and you love to spoil him. — masterlist.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship —bratty!sub!spencer, soft!dom reader, mommy kink, handjobs, dumbification, oral sex [f recieving], safewords [red, green], aftercare

Spencer Reid isn’t exactly one for materialism.

Sure, contemporary society suffers from a consumer culture, and owning expensive items makes people feel good. And, yes, Spencer is a person, so by affiliation, him owning expensive should makes him feel good.

Sure, having a nice, expensive outfit makes Spencer feel good. More than good, actually — feeling luxurious makes him feel attractive, alluring, and he admits that he would love to own more pairs of Dior shoes than he already does.

Despite this, Spencer’s paycheck isn’t exactly hefty enough to buy everything that he wants to buy. He can’t afford all of Dior neckties and Rolex watches that he wants on his own accord. He can’t even look at them without grimacing at the price, which is a little disappointing because he loves the way they look and feel.

Luckily for him, however, that’s where you come in.

Spencer isn’t exactly sure what you do for work. He doesn’t even want to know. He knows it’s not porn, and that makes him satisfied enough, because he isn’t too sure how he’d handle other men looking at you and touching you.

What you do for work is satisfactory. You keep it a secret, you keep it hush — though you have assured him it’s not anything illegal. It gives him a peace of mind, allows him to stay silent when you walk in with a hefty amount of cash after a long day.

Spencer stays silent because he loves you and he loves being spoilt. He stays silent because the second your eyes fall on him, you drop the overwhelming stack of hundred dollar bills on the counter, scattering it all over the place, just to pepper him in kisses.

It’s his favourite part of the day. Especially when he’s been away for so long on a case and he’s been waiting for you on your couch, stirring and needy for your touch.

Spencer can’t count the days one hand the last time he saw you. By proxy, that means it’s been too long. He shuffles on your couch, uncomfortable as he cranes his neck towards your apartment’s door, his eyes flickering down to the Rolex on his wrist that you’d gifted him only two weeks ago, before he left for the case.

You’re late.

Usually, you’re home at six o’clock on the dot. You’re punctual — it’s something he adores about you. Your obsession with sticking to routine allows him a comfort he didn’t know he needed, which is why his face is flushed red in confusion as he realises you’re a half hour late.

He suddenly feels so small sitting on your couch. You’re never late, and he wonders if he’s intruded — what if you had plans, and that’s why you’re not home yet?

He gets so wrapped up in his own mind that he doesn’t hear the door open, nor the clicking of your heels as you walk in.

A sight for sore eyes. Doctor Spencer Reid, your Spencer, is sat on your five thousand dollar leather couch, his knees drawn up to his chest in thinking. A cashmere purple scarf wraps around his neck like a snake, and you smile as you notice his fingers subconsciously rolling against the fabric.

Your heart flutters as you watch him. He smells like Creed Himalaya, the scent of the expensive cologne flooding your senses as you slowly saunter towards him. He’s wearing his glasses, for once — the frames being Cartier, a gift you had brought him three months ago when he’d dropped his contact lenses and lost them somewhere in your bedroom. There’s a few rings that you’ve brought him plastered on his fingers, and he toys with them nervously, his chest rising and falling.

“Spencer,” you call, and his head finally raises, his honey eyes dilating the second his pupils find your face, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he breathes, and his fingers abandon his rings, opting to reach out for you instead. “Are you okay?”

His voice is timid and small, so lovingly sensitive. His fingertips brush your waist, his hands toying with the fabric of your workshirt lightly.

“I’m perfect.” You reach down, your fingertips brushing beneath his chin. Spencer’s big eyes instantly flicker up to yours, a glint in them that has your stomach flooding with warmth. “Especially now I’ve seen you, handsome.”

His cheeks tinge pink, and you can’t bite back the smile which tugs at your lips. Always so nervy, his eyes dart away, a small ‘thank you’ brushing past his lips.

Brown curls brushing over your clothed stomach, Spencer nuzzles his forehead into your navel. His breath comes softly, his lashes tickling you as he closes his eyes, his big hands enveloping your waist.

“You haven’t greeted me properly yet,” you say finally, your hands trailing through his curls. “Two weeks without seeing me, and you’ve forgotten your place?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and he stands from his position on the couch.

As he does, your head has to tilt upwards to follow him. He’s much taller than you are, and your hands gently brush over his Ralph Lauren cardigan. It’s fraying at the hems, and you pout slightly.

“I’m going to need to buy you another one of these soon,” you murmur, your face warm as Spencer’s hands softly press against your cheek, his head dipping to pull you into a gentle kiss.

Lips soft against yours, Spencer’s careful to worship you. To kiss you intently, as an apology for not greeting you as you’ve asked him to before. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, and he drowns in the scent of your Miss Dior perfume, the subtle taste of your cherry lipstick dancing along his tastebuds.

When he finally pulls away, his cheeks are flushed. His lips are a little swollen and puffy, and he smiles apologetically as your hands run over the worn fabric of his cardigan. “I’m sorry. I just pull at the threads when I’m nervous. You know, one in three people actually have an anxiety disorder, and out of all of those people, sixty-three percent are female?”

“I didn’t know that,” you say quietly, your fingers darting over the frayed woven. You watch his eyes follow your movements, and you wonder if he thinks you’re upset with him. “I’m not mad at you, Spencer.”

“I know. It’s just —” he swallows, and his Adams’ Apple bobs nervously, “—it’s upset me. This cardigan was a gift that you got me when we first started dating.”

His lips jut into a pout.

“I’ll buy you another one,” you state simply, and you run your hands along his scarf.

He smiles. “I know you will.”

You beam back at him, and you softly slip his scarf off of his neck.

His neck is plain, rid of the bruises that you sent him away with two weeks ago. It’s a reminder that it’s been half a month without his touch, and your body thrums with excitement as you gently glide your thumb over his throat.

“Was work okay?”

“Work was work,” he responds quickly, his hands coming up to cup your wrists. Spencer’s eyes bore into yours, brimming with love and adoration. “You?”

You grin. “We don’t talk about my work,” you reply, your eyes flickering down to his pillowy lips. “Now, give me another kiss, Spencer.”

He obliges. Of course, he obliges. Spencer will do anything you ask of him. It’s his biggest weakness, and arguably his biggest flaw — you could tell him to ‘jump’, and he’d respond ‘how high?’.

This time, Spencer studies your face before he indulges you. It’s disobedient, it’s bratty, but he has to see you. His lips teasingly brush over yours as he memorises the way your nose crinkles slightly and your brows knit together, the way your lashes fan faintly across your cheekbones as your eyes flutter shut in anticipation.

“Tease,” you grumble as his lips brush softly against yours, hardly encasing you into a kiss.

“I’m not a tease.”

“Maybe brat is more of an appropriate word,” you quip back, and at this, Spencer finally presses his lips against yours in an adequate manner.

Your thumb glides over his button-up shirt, your mouth moulding perfectly against his. His tongue runs over your bottom lip, and you listen to his whimper when you reject him.

“You are most certainly being a brat right now,” you comment, your eyes piercing as you pull away from his lips.

Spencer pouts. He is being a brat, but that’s his role. “I’ve missed you,” he responds, ignoring your comment as he attempts to pull you back in, his hands delicate against your face.

It’s not exactly that he’s missed you. Sure, he most certainly has — but there’s a weird twinge of jealousy which pulses through him. For the life of him, he can’t figure out why you’re home late; and he wants your attention, and he’s too shy to ask.

He’s acting out. He knows it, and you know it.

“So that makes it okay for you to tease me? To forget your place?” Your voice is soft, but the underlying meaning behind it is not, and you resist his feeble attempt at drawing another kiss out of you.

He thrums with excitement at your pointed tone, his eyes scanning your face.

“I’m not being a tease,” Spencer says quietly, innocently, making sure to put on the most vulnerable expression he can muster, “and I’m most certainly not being a brat.”

Your eyes flick over his face. You hate how his big, rounded chocolate eyes make you melt. The way they glisten with apology, the way they never falter as they bore into your own.

“Stop lying to me.” You softly place his scarf on your coffee table, facing away from him. “If you lie to me again, you’re not getting your gift.”

At this, Spencer’s ears seem to perk up. His face literally lightens, and he takes a feathery step forward, his hands taking their rightful place back on your waist.

Gift. He should’ve known, really. It’s been two weeks. Of course you’d gotten him a gift — you always do when he goes away for long periods of time. His heart flutters in his chest, his fingers curling into the soft flesh of your waist.

“A gift?” He asks quietly. “What kind of gift?”

“You might not get it if you keep playing this game of yours,” you warn him, although you’re lying, and both you and Spencer know it.

His lips set into a frown. He weighs out his options. He could either continue being bratty and then be put in his place, perhaps having his present taken away from him as a result, or he could cave and behave and get his gift now.

“Okay,” Spencer says, his hands slipping from your waist. “I surrender. Can I get my gift, now?”

You snort at him. His hazel eyes are glinting with excitement, his hands intertwined as he awaits your answer. He sways on his feet, his thumb brushing subconsciously over the diamond rings you had purchased him.

“No,” you respond, amusement lacing your tone. “You can’t just be a brat and then get a present. What kind of person would I be if I let you walk all over me like that?”

Spencer pouts, a look of disbelief flooding his features. “All I did was not kiss you when you came in,” he argues, his voice coming out like a whine.

“That’s not all you did.” You raise your hand to cup his face, forcing his eyes onto yours. “You didn’t meet my eye to begin with. You didn’t kiss me. When I asked you for a kiss, you deliberately teased me. Do you know how hard it is when I’ve not seen you for two weeks, and then you decide to act out?”

Head dipping in guilt, Spencer tries to avoid your eye. Of course, he knows how awful it is to be teased after that long, because you do it to him all of the time. You flaunted around in nothing but lavender lingerie the last time he was away for more than a week, forbidding him from touching you. It had been painful — excruciating, and he can feel his head grow light as the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers grow worse as he thinks back to how mean you were.

He doesn’t want to get on your bad side again.

“Okay.” He raises his eyes back up to yours. “I’m sorry. I mean it.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it.”

As if to add to his point, Spencer nods his head. His words are affirming, and he stays still. You convey him, weighing up his words.

“Get on your knees, then.”

Spencer’s eyes glint, but he doesn’t move. He stays glued into place.

You stare at him, unwavering. “Why are you making me repeat myself today?” You tut, and shake your head. “Maybe you aren’t all that sorry.“

As you begin to turn, Spencer sinks to his knees. His hands reach up to grab at the plush flesh of your thighs, and his eyes are slightly wide and blown as he cups the flesh through your dress.

“Please.” His voice is breathy and his pupils are dilated from his lust, sheathing his honey irises. “I’m sorry. I mean it.”

“Did I give you permission to touch me?”

Something similar to a strangled whine crawls out of Spencer’s throat, but his hands drop from your thighs. His lips are set into a small pout, his brows furrowed. You can feel your slick uncomfortably begin to paint your panties as you stare down at him; his subservient stance making your body thrum with arousal.

Feeling lightheaded, Spencer shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry,” he whispers, feeling foolish as he gazes up at you. All of his blood has rushed somewhere else entirely, and he finds himself forgetting about the prospect of gift-giving as he stares up at you from his position on the floor.

You look deliciously cruel.

“Colour?” You ask, your features softening for only a second.

“Green.”

He says green, so you go for it.

“You’re being awfully naughty tonight, aren’t you?” Your words cut through him like a knife.

Your hands glide into his hair, your lips quirking upwards slightly as he shivers from your touch. His brows pinch together as you reprimand him, confusion fluttering his features.

“I’m not meaning to be,” his answers, lying through his teeth, and you can hear his voice crack as your heels softly glide over the tight crotch of his trousers. “I’m sorry.”

Spencer is agonisingly hard.

“Your apologises mean nothing if you don’t have the decency to respect me by referring to me by name.”

His lips part, so pillowy and pink, so swollen. Desperate to touch you, but unable to do so, Spencer’s fingers curl into his trousers, a low whimper slipping past his lips as your heel gently begins to press down into his crotch, applying a satisfying amount of pressure to his throbbing cock. He knows what you want, and he’s now desperate to give it to you.

“I’m sorry…” his voice shakes as he meets your eye, “…mommy. I’m sorry, mommy. I mean it.”

“You mean it?”

“God, yes, I mean it more than anything,” he breathes, his voice laced with affirmation. His eyes screw shut as your heel teasingly glides over his inner thigh.

You blink down at him. You pull your heel away, tired of watching him writhe beneath you. “Clothes off, Spencer.”

You don’t have to tell him that twice.

His button-up and cardigan are tossed to the floor besides him before you could even finish speaking his name. The clinging sound of his Gancini belt floods your ears, and you watch as he struggles to unbuckle it, his lust for you making him dumb.

“I thought you were supposed to be smart,” you call from above him, taking satisfaction in the way his fingers glide over the leather.

“I am smart,” he says, wavering slightly as he tugs the belt off. He lets out a satisfied huff, his cheeks reddened from his frustration, and he scrambles to unbutton his trousers.

You hum in response. “Clearly not. You couldn’t even take off your belt, and you’re talking back again.”

Biting back a retort, Spencer slides his trousers down. The tent in his boxers is impressive, the grey fabric stained darker from his lust, and your eyes stay trained on the dribble of precum which has bled through.

“Needy?” You ask slyly, and he shuffles from your praise.

“Yes. I’m sorry, mommy. I can’t help it.” His breathing quickens as he slides his trousers off. “I’ve needed you everyday the past two weeks.”

His fingers tremble as he pulls his boxers down, exposing his cock. The tip is red, glistening with dribbles of precum, and you watch as his hands stay by his sides, waiting for your next command.

“Did you touch yourself when you were away?”

“No, never.” Spencer shakes his head, “I know the rules, mommy. I wouldn’t dare to break them.”

“You’ve broken a lot of rules tonight, baby. How can I trust you?”

You indulge him with your touch. Your fingers dance beneath his chin, tilting his head up to look at you. The expression on his face is priceless — his features contorted into a mixture of submissive and pure desperation.

He blinks. You rub your thighs together, the slick in your panties a result of his pitiful actions tonight. One thing you love more than a docile, willing Spencer is a bratty Spencer, and in reality, he wasn’t being all too bad.

You just needed an excuse to punish him.

“I — I wouldn’t lie to you, mommy. Ever.” His heart races in his chest as you sit on the couch opposite him, his hands still remaining at his side. “I promise.”

You smile down at him. “You’re such a good boy when you want to be,” you praise sweetly, “now, come here. Mommy wants you.”

Spencer shuffles forward slightly. He slots between your legs perfectly, his eyes finding yours. He waits.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Four seconds pass until you speak again. You’d spent those four seconds gliding your eyes over his frame, appreciating every dip, every freckle, every scar.

“You were being a brat —“

“—I was not being a brat, mommy, I —”

“—Interrupt me one more time, baby, and I’m going to make sure you don’t cum for a month.”

Your voice is smooth. Steady. Even. You mean it.

You blink, and then Spencer blinks. His cheeks tint a deep shade of red, and he leans backwards slightly. Lips parting, they then close. He wants to argue; to say that he just wanted to embed your face into his memory so he could relive the moment of seeing you for the first time in two weeks forever, but it doesn’t matter.

You’re going to punish him anyway.

“I’m sorry, mommy.”

You cock your head. “I know you are,” you say, after observing him for an additional for seconds.

He shuffles, the tip of his cock brushing against your ankle. You watch how his teeth grit, how a quiet hiss is born and killed in his throat. He’s sensitive, he’s sore, and he’s needy.

But he’s also bratty.

“You’ve been so naughty,” you begin again, your voice smooth and even as you stare down at Spencer, “why?”

He blinks. “I missed you.”

“Nuh-uh. It’s more than that.” Your brows pinch together, and you open your legs a little further. “What have I done to turn my pretty boy into such a little brat?”

Your fingers are cool and soft against his face. You reach towards him; angling yourself so the low-cut of your dress exposes itself to him.

From the way your thighs have parted to show him how wet you are, your panties dampened; darkened by your slick, Spencer knows you want him just as badly as he wants you.

He swallows. “I just missed you,” he tries again, his voice thick with emotion. “Please. I’m sorry, mommy.”

He’s lying, and you know it.

“Colour?”

“Green.”

You reach out to cup his face. “Stop being a brat, Spencer. I’m serious now,” you say, digging your nails into his cheeks slightly, relishing in the way he inhales sharply. “What’s gotten into you?”

He whines. His brows knit together and he pulls away. You let him, your eyes still trained on his.

“You were late,” Spencer mumbles, quiet as a mouse, gazing away from you. His words are incoherent, and you tilt your head.

“Repeat yourself, baby. I can’t hear you when you mumble. You know that.”

Your fingers gently graze his jaw, and you encourage him to meet your eyes. The necklace you’re wearing — the one which spells out Spencer’s name — is hidden between your cleavage, and his eyes flutter shut.

It’s pathetic, but he repeats himself, more clearly this time. “You were late home, mommy.”

You feel your shoulders lax. “I was late?”

“You were late. You’re never late.” Spencer opens his eyes again, and you almost pity him for how solemn he looks. “I — I don’t like the idea of other people having your attention.”

“How late was I?” You ask.

“Thirty minutes,” he grumbles, and he feels pathetic now. You’re staring down at him with an unreadable expression, and he pouts. “I — that’s our time, mommy. You know that.”

Spencer craves routine. He craves stability, and with his messy job, you bring him that. Coming home late meant that it was broken, and coming home late probably meant that one of your many male colleagues were dragging you into conversation when you were supposed to be at home with him.

“I do know that, baby.” Your voice is soothing, and your thumb glides over his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Your stomach twirls with heat.

Spencer Reid — your Spencer Reid — a doctor with three PhD’s, who has never been anything but kind and docile, is jealous.

“You’re being bratty because you wanted my attention?” You ask quietly, your fingers gently running through his hair.

Spencer feels his face grow even warmer. There’s an ache that’s been pulsing between his legs for the better half of forty minutes. You’ve been teasing him, non-stop. He presses his head against your cool thigh to soothe the heat on his face — and surprisingly, you don’t reprimand him.

“Yes,” he admits quietly, trying to dull the throbbing of his leaking cock. “I’m sorry, mommy.”

You tug him by his hair slightly. It sends a wave of pleasure throbbing through him.

“You could’ve just said so,” your voice is plain, “you know, because I understand.”

“You understand?”

“Yeah.” You see his shoulders lax. You part your thighs more, watching the way his eyes flicker down to your soaked panties. Relishing in the ways his pupils dilate. “But you’re still going to have to make it up to me.”

Spencer blushes. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He doesn’t ask for your permission to touch you, and for once, you don’t scold him.

There’s something so arousing about the way his nimble fingers push your soaked panties to the side. He’s eager — there’s no denying that. The low groan which slips past his lips as his eyes dart over your slick, puffy folds is affirmation of that, and he gently grazes his teeth against your inner thigh as he nears the area in which you need him most.

“Spencer,” you warn as he presses teasing kisses to your thigh, his warm breath fanning your cunt.

You swear you hear him chuckle. “Sorry, mommy,” he murmurs, “I’ll get to the point.”

Chanel, Dior, Louis Vuitton.

The three brands swirl inside of your brain, creates a luxurious mixture of words as he dips his head further.

You’re going to buy him whatever he wants after this.

Spencer’s tongue rolls through your sticky folds, licking a deliberate, slow stripe up your heat. Warmth bubbles in your stomach as he does so, your chest tight with desire as your hands find his locks.

So perfect, positioned between your legs like the obedient little brat he is, his hazel eyes sheathed by their lids as he indulges in the taste of you.

“So sweet,” Spencer praises, and you don’t miss the way he grinds against your ankle in the process.

You part your lips to scold him for his movements, but the words die in your throat as his tongue rolls around your delicate pearl.

Spencer knows your body better than you know it yourself. You let out a quiet gasp, your stomach growing flush with arousal as his nose presses further into your pelvis, his tongue lapping at you. He’s like a dog starved; a bitch in heat, his tongue flicking up and down your folds as he grinds his hips into your ankle.

Another shuddery whimper glides past your lips. Spencer's fingers curl into the soft flesh of your thighs, and he nuzzles closer towards you. His lips pepper lewd kisses along your folds, suckling around your clit gently, aware that you're overwhelmingly sensitive.

You tug on his hair softly, encouraging him to do more. You can feel his lips quirk upwards, and he feels your walls pulse, desperate for something more than his mouth. You don't want him to indulge you — if you did, you'd say, so he keeps his hands by his side, rolling the sensitive tip of his cock against the soft skin of your ankle.

"That's it," you murmur, your fingers curling in his hair, tugging at the roots of his brunette curls, "my good boy."

Spencer lets out a quiet whimper. You angle your ankle so he can hump against it easier, the slick of his precum acting as lube against your skin. Your body grows electric with sparks as his tongue licks stripes up and down your cunt, his tongue carefully swirling around your clit.

Your legs jolt, and his fingers curl into your thighs more. You're sure his fingers will leave bruises in their wake, but you don't care — you praise him, consistently, until your sentences becomes strings of wordless, incoherent babbles.

"Spencer," you whine, bucking your cunt into his face.

"Please, mommy," he begs shakily, "cum for me? Please? Wanna taste you so bad, mommy, please?"

Movements becoming more deliberate, more sloppy, Spencer lets out a choked groan as you tug his hair again — this time, a little harder. Your thighs clench, and your walls flutter, your stomach blooming with butterflies as you grind down against his face.

You indulge him, blinking away stars as Spencer's lips and tongue sloppily dote on your clit. Your mouth opens and closes, quiet gasps of pleasure spilling past your lips, your stomach tight with pleasure.

It feels like there's a knot inside of you. Spencer's worshipping is ripping it apart, slowly, and your eyes grow teary, swirls of black and white stars shrouding your vision.

You walls flutter, and your hips judder against his face.

You cum, gasping and writhing, your hands curling in his hair tightly, locking him into place. Spencer doesn't move, instead, lapping up everything that you give him. He indulges himself in you completely, happily drowning himself in you.

"Thank you, mommy," Spencer blushes, pulling away from your cunt. A string of spit and slick follows him, and his lower lip glistens from your orgasm. "So tasty."

His voice drops, and you roll your eyes. Your breath shudders as you exhale, blinking away stars as you gaze down at him.

"You're stupid."

"No, I'm not, mommy."

You lean forward, swiping your thumb over his lower lip. You collect the string of salvia and cum, pushing the pad of your thumb past his lips, humming as they instinctively suck on your digit.

"You're not dumb?" you ask, not moving your ankle away from Spencer as he continues to roll his hips against you.

"No." Spencer's breath hitches slightly as precum dribbles out of his sensitive tip. "I'm not dumb. I have an IQ of —"

"— 187, three PhD's, and you can read up to 20,000 words per minute." You lean backwards, pulling your thumb from his lips. "You're not dumb, baby. You're right. I'm wrong."

Spencer beams at this, your appraisal sending jolts of electricity pulsing through him. His tip brushes over your ankle, and his head lulls against your thigh. It's not much, but he's been going at it for a while now, and the friction is just enough to get him going, to get his length pulsing with want.

It's when you draw your ankle away, he's snapped back into reality. "But when I'm done with you, Spencer," you sneer down at him, your painted red lips twisting upwards into a cruel grin, "you will be."

Already, the lustful desire of needing you has melted his brain to mush. He's entirely forgotten about the gift that you'd gotten him, and your lips quirk twitch in satisfaction as he gazes up at you silently, his beautiful, honey-coloured eyes glistening with anticipation.

You wait until he speaks.

"Mommy —"

"Bedroom, baby." You interrupt, drawing your hands away from his face. When he stays still between your legs, you instruct, "now."

You don't have to ask him a third time. Spencer practically scrambles from his position on the floor, desperate to reach your bedroom before you call him back and decide to scold him further.

Whatever you've got planned for him must be somewhat tame if you're secluding it to the privacy of your bedroom.

It doesn't take long for you to follow him. You're pulling your shirt off when you enter your bedroom — the blouse fluttering down towards the ground, forgotten as you begin to unclip your bra.

Spencer's mildly upset that you've decided to strip without his help, having been looking forward to undressing you. It's arguably his favourite pastime; being able to shed you of your clothes and worship every inch of your exposed skin. He tries not to show his disappointment, but it doesn't work, the frown on his lips evidence of his dismay.

"Did you really thing I'd let you undress me after you've been so bratty?" You ask, watching his eyes dart over your body, although they're primarily focused on your chest.

He pouts as you say this. "I guess I'd thought you'd be nice," he grumbles, his hands positioned on his thighs as he stares at you.

You bite back a laugh at this. "I'm never nice," you respond, sliding into bed. You pat his back slightly, urging him forwards.

"You are nice," Spencer responds, following your instructions. He shuffles forward, and you position yourself against your pillows, your body resting against the headboard. His brows knit together in thought as you struggle to grow comfortable, and he adds, "sometimes."

"I'm nice when you're good," you tell him, finally satisfied with your position.

Spencer leans his head against your shoulder, and he exhales softly. You're so close — there's not an inch of you not touching him. Your thighs are looped on either side of his, your arms wrapped around his middle. Spencer looks so content like this, snuggled against you, in your arms; entirely at your mercy.

"I'm always good, mommy."

"Liar."

You softly glide your hand over his front, beginning at his navel. You ignore the area which needs you most — simply swiping your hand over his tip teasingly, cooing as he jolts slightly. Your nails rake into his skin, dragging upwards, and he shudders as crescent moons indent in their wake.

"What are you doing?" Spencer asks softly, shuddering as your hands meet his chest, your nails gliding over his nipple incredibly gently.

The cold air nips at his skin. Goosebumps ripple on his arms and his chest, and he exhales shockingly as you give his skin a light pinch.

"I told you," you answer quietly, enjoying the way his muscles tense as you gently roll his hardened nipple between your fingers, "I'm going to make you dumb."

"Mm," he murmurs in disbelief, only engaging in your antics because of the desire simmering in his lower belly.

Spencer sighs sweetly as your palm presses against his chest, softly dragging down his body. Your nails gently trace lines over his tummy, jagged, gentle lines. You pepper soft kisses to his left shoulder, your nose pressing into his skin as you breathe in his scent. He smells amazing, and his skin is so warm, and you lull your head against him as you gently begin to trail your hands over his thighs.

His cock is perked and needy, and he lets out another gentle sigh. It sounds more like a huff this time, but you don't mind. He's frustrated — of course he is; he's been interested in his relief for about an hour now, so incredibly frustrated and needy for you.

Your touch lingers near his crotch, and your nails digging into the skin of his thighs as your lips skim his ear. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, baby, and I want you to answer them," you murmur, pressing a small, wet kiss to his jaw. "Can you do that for me?"

Heart racing in his chest, Spencer nods timidly. "I can do that," he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut as you softly suckle at his skin. "You know I can do that, mommy."

"Mm," you hum quietly, beginning to trail your lips down towards where his shoulder meets his neck, "do you know... when the first aeroplane was flown, baby?"

Parting his lips to speak, Spencer is interrupted by the feeling of your right hand gently circling around his length. It envelopes him, barely wraps around his girth, and he has to focus on steadying his voice as he responds. "That's easy, mommy," he says, "December 17th, 1903."

"Who flew it?"

You jerk your hand slightly, and Spencer's thighs flex. Your left hand scrapes at his thigh.

"The Wright Brothers," he answers finally, a choked moan gliding past his lips as your hand rolls slowly, up and down his length.

"Good boy," you praise quietly, and you nip at his neck softly. "You're so smart. Do you know that?"

"Yes."

Spencer's eyes droop slightly. He shifts his hips, a quiet 'ah' gliding past his lips as your thumb swipes over his leaking tip softly. He's so sensitive that even the small squeezes of your palm drive him overboard, his body sizzling with electricity as you tease him.

"Mommy, please," he begs quietly, his breath short and staggered already. His thighs tense again as you softly scratch your nails against his thigh, and his cock aches harder in your hand.

It's been so long. It's been two weeks, and your hand is so small and delicate against his length. So teasing. He doesn't dare rut into your hand, but he wants to.

You ignore him. "What's the one letter that doesn't appear in the name of any American state?"

"Q," he responds quickly — a little too quickly for your liking. "Please?"

Spencer shifts his hips again, hoping to allow you a better angle. If anything, it makes you pull away more, your grip on his cock loosening.

"Impatient," you comment, disapproval seeping from your tone as you glide your hand up his glistening cock softly, "so impatient."

"I'm sorry. It's been two weeks."

"I know."

"This is torture," he grumbles, his eyes screwing shut slightly as your palm softly squeezes him. His heart thrums.

"I know."

Spencer lets out a soft whimper as you continue to jerk your hand, your lips pressing warm, hot kisses to his shoulder.

"Another question," you say, breaking through the sound of your hand wetly rolling up and down Spencer's cock. "You should know this one."

His jaw ticks. "I know them all."

“Six letter word for the hole on a shoe in which laces are threaded through."

"Eye —" Spencer grunts as your hand squeezes his cock, forcing another spurt of precum to dribble out of the slit, "— eyelet."

"Impressive," you pause, and you kiss your teeth. "How many ridges does a dime have?"

Spencer's head tilts back in exhaustion. His curls are damp from sweat, his skin warm and a little sticky. You press wet, hot kisses to his exposed neck, and your teeth pinch at his throat softly.

"A dime?"

You glide your tongue over his pulse point. "Yes, a dime. My pretty boy is getting teased so badly he can't even think straight?"

He's so hungry for release. He's practically gnawing for the bliss that you bring him, and he lets out a soft whimper as your teeth scrape down his throat.

"118," he answers shakily, "the ridges allow the coin to determine if it is real or fake, and it —"

Faltering as your thumb twists around his mushroom head, Spencer's words stifle in his throat.

"What, baby?"

"It was implemented on all coins before the 18th century to help do so," he forces out, a pant following suit. "You're — oh, mommy, please?"

Voice coming out strained, you feel Spencer's thighs twitch beneath your palm. Your dig your nails into his skin a little harsher now.

"Please, what?"

"Let me — let me cum," he answers, his head lulling against your shoulder.

You smirk. "Not yet," you answer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "That'd be rewarding your disobedience, Spencer, and I can't let you cum until I've got what I've wanted from you."

His hips shift upwards, a sign of his impatience.

You understand; you do. There's just something so satisfying about pushing him to the edge, melting his genius brain into a puddle of incoherent goo.

As his thighs tremble again, you pull your hand away. Spencer lets out his first irritated cry, his hips bucking upwards.

"This is awful," he grunts, his eyes screwing shut.

You smile. "You'll get what you want soon enough, baby. You'll get this present, and your present from earlier. I'll make sure that you're very satisfied."

You softly let yourself drool over your hand, massaging the sticky saliva into your palm. You pull your hand back towards Spencer, and as you grip his cock, he lets out a deep gasp.

He wants to speak — you know he wants to speak. His throat bobs as you gently jerk him off, the slick, lewd sounds of your hand slapping against him reverberating around your bedroom. You twist your palm perfectly, your movements deliberate, touching him exactly how he likes.

"What are the plastic tips of shoelaces called?"

"Aglets."

"What's a jiffy?"

"It's 1/100th of a second."

You hum. Your teeth nibble at Spencer's neck, and your hand continues to pump away at his cock. His tummy and thighs tense, and you drag your thumb over his leaking tip softly.

"How many seconds are in a year?"

Spencer shivers, a sickly sweet whine escaping his lips. Your hand drags down to cup his balls, the other still pumping his cock lovingly. It's so much, and yet it's nowhere near enough. He needs more, he needs relief, something that you're refusing to give him.

"I —"

His eyes screw shut, his hands clutching the bedsheets tightly.

"Seconds in a year?"

You nod your head in affirmation, a small coo gliding past your lips as he bucks into your hand. Your grip on his cock is tight, and it's wet, and he glides in and out of your palm beautifully. His lips part in wonder, his body trickling with warmth.

"Don't know," he breathes finally, a broken moan choking in his throat, "'m sorry, mommy, I don't know."

He's burning hot. It's like he's got a fever. You fondle his balls softly, careful not to squeeze too hard. You want him to dip into the feeling of ecstasy, not drown in it.

"I thought you were supposed to be a genius," you whisper huskily, a satisfied grin on your lips as you speed up your movements.

Your stomach is pinched with warmth, sizzling with desire as Spencer cries out at your words. You wonder if you've pushed him too far, if your degradation was wrong, but his incoherent babbles of, 'mommy, please' reassures you that you haven't.

Pleasure buzzes wildly in his body. He can't think, let alone speak correctly, and his back arches up to meet you better. "Please," is all he manages, his words coming out in staggered breaths, "oh, please!"

"You little brat," you murmur, twisting your hand purposefully, "so fucked out you can't even think straight."

"I'm going to cum," is all he can manage to say before his sentence gets swallowed by a moan, "mommy, I'm going to —"

You quicken your pace.

Fire blazes inside of his stomach. Your nails rake into the soft flesh of his thighs, and Spencer's head tips further back. His lips are all pretty and pink, dangerously pump, and your breath hitches in your throat as he lets out another strangled whine. His eyes screw shut, and you give him a deliberate, tight squeeze.

He moans your name as he cums. It's too much — all of it is too much. His hips jolt, bucking upwards into your touch. Your feverish pace burns a hole in his heart, the loving kisses you pepper to his shoulder soothing his quarrels as his cock spurts of lines of cum, his hot seed coating your hand.

"My sweet boy," you coo quietly, inhaling the concussion of his expensive cologne and his sweat, "all fucked out and dumb for me."

Spencer gasps softly. His head rings as he finishes, your thumb gliding over his slit carefully. He can't speak, and his body twitches as your palm slows, your hand still cupping his balls softly, worshipping every inch of his cock.

"So pretty," you praise, and Spencer blinks away the black stars which shroud his vision.

It feels like it takes forever for him to settle back down. Your nails lovingly scrape up and down his skin, your voice gentle and angelic as it utters sweet praises to him. He feels spent, exhausted, impossibly stupid as he slumps against you, his lungs burning with relief.

He's tired, and he doesn't open his eyes again until he can feel damp fabric softly press against his forehead.

"Did I go too far?" You murmur quietly, concern plastering over your features as your eyes flit over your boyfriend.

You've never seen him so physically exhausted. You gently glide the cloth down towards his crotch, wiping away any evidence of your rendezvous, and he shakes his head.

"No. You were perfect."

"I got you your gift," you say meekly, pointing his gaze towards the small box in the corner of your bedroom, wrapped neatly with a satin bow.

A chuckle is dragged from Spencer's throat, and you smile, unable to bite back your own small laugh as his face burrows into your neck. "Can I open it tomorrow? I'm a little tired now."

"Of course," you murmur sweetly, letting him rest the weight of his body on you.

Your fingers run it's way through his hair, a small smile of satisfaction painting your lips.

It drops, though, when Spencer speaks.

"There's 31,536,000 seconds in a year," he mumbles into your neck, "just in case you wanted to keep doubting my genius."

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