Summary: When you wake up in a familiar yet unfamiliar bed with no memory of begging your long-time work crush to sleep with you, you have even less recollection of him actually agreeing. Small memories of pleasure haunt you as he tries to figure out why you're suddenly so distant.
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!! Alcohol use (whole BAU team, and as a precursor to sex), implied smut, on page (?) smut, dom-ish!Spencer, male masturbation, marking, nipple play/torture, edging, penetrative sex, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, semi-public sex/ make out, creampie, reader is very into male moans. That should be it.
A/N: I forgot about this fic TWICE, but it's here!!! Posting again for @imagining-in-the-margins FWB challenge, and I feel like this one slightly misses the mark but it works anyway. Gif inspiration is at the end for anyone familiar with Business Proposal lol
Masterlist
Being an FBI Agent means you'd slept in - and woken up in - some sketchy places on jobs. A number or motel and hotel rooms across the backroads of America, planes, cars, and office desks. You could usually orient yourself pretty well upon waking, and remember how you'd gotten yourself there quickly.
There was something strange about that morning in particular, though. The bed was comfier and warmer than any motel you'd ever seen, and the fact that there was one meant no jet or desk. It was pitch black outside, though, so visually, you were out of luck. The sheets smelt fresh and familiar, and if weren't for a small warning bell in the back of your head, you'd have shut your eyes again and huddled against the large body pressed against your back.
‘Ah,’ you thought, inwardly cringing. ‘That would be it then.’
Slowly, you pulled what you assumed to be a man's arm from around your midsection, trying to extricate yourself quietly from the bed without any notice.
Whoever was asleep behind you, though, was a lot stronger than you had bargained for, and he quickly pulled you back into him.
Your back hit his chest as he nuzzled into your neck, and you heard his groan out a greeting before stilling and returning to the land of rest. If anything, for your troubles you just came to an understanding that whoever was behind you was just as naked as you were, and based on the way your body seemed over stretched, and well-rested, you had no doubt about the events leading upto your discovery.
You just had no memory of it either.
You wracked your brain, trying desperately to recall where you were, who you were with, and what you were going to do to get out. Unluckily for you, your brain was at about half capacity as his hands worked their way between your legs, even as he slept.
His hands were soft, his touch light on your skin, as if he were tracing words along a page. You twitched under him, stomach flipping as your hips bucked backwards, and your eyes dropped closed again.
You hadn't a clue who you'd climbed into bed with, you simply had the greatest regret that you'd likely never see him again, and would not remember what was likely a deeply, deeply satisfying night.
In abject mortification, you tried once more to free yourself from the very pleasurable prison you'd found yourself in.
Thankfully, his hands chose that moment to fall limp, and you took your chance, hopping up and searching the floor for at the very least your underwear before chancing a glance around you.
Like an arrow through the heart, you realised the room was familiar because you had slept here before. You'd slept over at Spencer's house many times, after work ran late and you needed a place to crash.
Never naked, though. Until now.
You pulled on your clothes as fast as you physically could and tried not to squeak out your disbelief. You almost wondered if you hit your head hard enough against the bookshelf, some braincells would knock together and produce the memory you'd been desperate to make for half a year.
You had finally succeeded in bedding Spencer Reid. And you didn't remember a moment of it.
It was grief that drove you out of his house at 5 am. on a Saturday morning, and definitely, absolutely no regret.
Stepping outside the dark building and being greeted by the first hints of a sunrise, one single, trifling memory slipped back into your brain.
“Something casual,” you giggled, every 's' sound slurring together with each letter touching them. “Something casual and naughty, and fun.”
You didn't remember his exact reply, but though a flicker of arousal ran through you at the memory of the deep rumble of his voice. He had been close, his mouth next to your ear.
You supposed now that his reply hardly mattered when you knew the outcome anyway. It'd been the man himself wrapped around you in bed that morning, his fingers grazing your skin, his cock hard against your ass, his dreams obviously clearer than your own memories.
“It's not like we have the time to see other people,” you'd said to him the night before, hand pushing up his thigh to signal your intent. “We can have some fun. Share a motel room now and then.”
Four sentences.
Four sentences were the extent of your memories, and each one of them had been said by you. Not even a single reply flittered through your brain anymore, a single reaction.
You'd have thought it all a dream but for the fact that you were hunched outside the main entrance to Spencer's building, sans pair of panties you couldn't locate, thanking the gods that your very expensive bra was still around and that you'd worn pants the night before.
To say that Spencer was similarly disorientated when he woke hours later was an understatement. Of course, with the caveat that he remembered every word, every breath, every touch and movement. Instead, he was surprised to find you gone, without a word.
You'd promised as much last night, though.
Casual sex. That's what you'd asked for, and what he'd spent the better half of an evening trying to talk you out of, first with words and then with actions.
It didn't take a night together with you for Spencer Reid to realise that what he wanted quickly bypassed casual. Even now, alone in bed with the memory of you, your scent buried deep in his sheets, the history of your lips branded into his skin, he felt an overwhelming longing.
His body protested against his interrupted plans. He'd hoped to wake you up much the same way he'd put you to sleep the night before, limbs tangled, his cock buried deep inside of you. Instead, he swung his legs out of bed and looked for any trace of you.
It didn't take him long to find your accidental gift. He'd been the one to remove them from you the night before, and he had a good grasp of what the room was supposed to look like, so spotting a pair of fire truck red panties tucked by the door wasn't hard.
It was less spotting them and more staring at them until he convinced his body to calm down, which in and of itself was like fighting a losing battle.
He'd woken up hard, which he didn't doubt was due to dreams of you. He tried his best to ignore it, but before he knew it, he was laid back down with your discarded panties in his hand, pressed up to his mouth and nose as he worked out his frustrations.
Usually, he tried to get himself off as quickly as possible. Time was a commodity, and he always had to be somewhere doing something. That morning, though, he gladly sat back and indulged.
His brain queued up the memories of the night before, playing them chronologically so he could enjoy the feeling of your lips on his, your legs gripping around him, your tongue flicking at the tip of his dick. When he finally came, it was with the disappointment that he hadn't gotten to the best bit yet, finally pushing inside of you.
But after a night of activity and a lonely morning, he let himself rest again and turned his mind to other objectives.
1. Get your panties back to you without being put in handcuffs for indecency.
2. Have enough casual sex with you that you realise you no longer want casual, but something more.
3. Change the bedsheets.
The following week at the BAU was - thankfully - a blur of cases, consultations, and computer files. You were swept off on another case by Sunday evening, back in two days and off again by Thursday morning. Before you knew it, an entire week had passed, and you hadn't had to discuss anything with anyone.
Every morning walking into the bullpen was like walking on shards of broken glass. Willingly.
You'd said less than four sentences to Spencer since you'd accidentally on purpose thrown yourself into his lap, and you found yourself suddenly lacking the vocabulary to actually bring it up.
Instead, you'd simply chosen to sigh after him as he did anything at all in the office, with a single thought in your head: ‘Did he keep the glasses on while we fucked?’
He'd been wearing them all week, and you always thought they made him look hotter than he already was. A little nerdy, but in a Superman way. You couldn't for the life of you get the memory to pop back into your head, though, despite prompting it with many out of pocket daydreams.
“What's got you all introspective?” Derek asked, striding up beside you in the office kitchenette.
“Nothing in particular, what makes you ask?”
“Well, Princess, you just poured salt in your coffee, and from memory, you don't take it that way, so maybe there's something going on with you.”
You cursed and emptied your cup quickly as the man laughed.
“Take it what way?” A voice called out from the doorway, and every hair on your body stood on high alert. There was something about Spencer saying ‘take it’ that should've been so casual, but sent shudders across your body as you heard the words whispered into your ear.
“Take it like a good girl, that's right. So good for me.”
Your cup almost went crashing to the floor as your ears pricked, but you refused to turn around for fear he'd read the truth on your face.
“Nothing kid,” Morgan said, chuckling as you rinsed your cup and kept rinsing it until you felt yourself cool down a bit.
“What's up with the glasses? You've been wearing them a lot this week.” Derek asked, and you cursed his sudden onset curiosity, knowing there was no way to dismiss yourself from the room without garnering an entirely new set of questions.
“I just ran out of contacts,” Spencer replied, but you heard the grin in his tone without even having to look at him.
“You should just throw out all of your contacts,” you'd said, as you nipped at his throat. “I swear I'd jump you every day if you looked at me like that down your glasses.”
You tried to remain composed as the memory of straddling him and grinding down against his hard member hit you like a freight train. You felt you managed it well until you looked down to see another ruined, salty coffee.
“If you ever want to fuck me, just, like, come in wearing the glasses. I'll know,” you'd moaned as his hands gripped your hips controlling your rhythm and pressing you harder into him. “Fuck, I’ll know.”
“I give up,” you mumbled and took off, avoiding all eye contact as you left the small space.
A small part of you had wished that Spencer had your memory of the night. The smallest, teeniest part of you that didn't want a do-over that was. Getting possible confirmation that he remembered everything you'd said while drunk on dick (and tequila) was a lot to take on at 2 pm. on a Friday.
As you walked away, you sent up a prayer to every deity you could think that the memories came back whole and intact, and quickly, and preferably while you were alone and not in company.
Because you wanted nothing more than to relive that brief bite of pleasure you'd been granted.
The weekend came and went fairly obstruction free, even if your dreams, waking and not, were filled with the image of Spencer's head tipped back as you raked your teeth and tongue over sensitive areas.
It took you all the way until Monday morning, when you'd returned to work and seen Spencer in the glasses once again, to remember the meaning of the words you'd thrown at him.
Spencer wanted to fuck you again. Still. Continuously?
The thought made you a little apprehensive - he already knew your body, from the sounds of it, he'd definitely been competent enough, and you was left stranded on the desert island of short term memory loss. He wanted to fuck him you again. Was there a reason? Was there something you did that he enjoyed? What were his boundaries? His kinks? What positions did he like?
Half your days now, it seemed, were filled with questions about sex with Spencer. So it wasn't a surprise you'd kept up your staring. You couldn't fault him for having his eyes trained on you more times than not as well.
You were so glad that your emotions on the subject were so tangled and crossed that no one else could read them there.
BAU 0-1 EMOTIONAL TURMOIL
It was lucky, though, that you were watching him near constantly and were the first to notice the flash of purple against his neck as he loosened his tie.
You stood with a startling bang, hitting your knee against the table as you sprinted over to his desk.
Leaning over him, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and, tugging him around so he was facing you, began buttoning it for him.
“Y/N,” he whispered, looking up at you and trying to play this off as a daily occurrence, to not alert the room full of human lie detectors to suspicious behaviour.
“What are you doing?”
“Your tie is loose. Strauss is always visiting these days. Let's not give her petty reasons to penalise us.”
He relaxed more into your touch and let you work, tilting his head so your hands could get where they needed to be.
“So you're being a good friend?” he asked, and despite the obvious bait, you answered.
“Yes.”
“Good friends help each other out.”
“We can still be friends, Spencer,” you'd begged as you fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to get it off so you had more skin to taste. “Good friends who help each other out from time to time. Like this.”
“Your neck is still purple,” you whispered, changing the subject and moving on to his tie as you untied it and levelled it again, ready to twist back up.
“Is yours?”
“You can see my neck, it's fine.”
“That's not what I meant.”
You met his eyes finally, completing the last loop of the knot as you challenged him.
Or rather, challenged yourself to not drop your eyes to his lips.
“Say what you mean,” you glared, straightening his shoulders and brushing off non-existent dust as you attempted to slip away.
“The purple marks on you. I didn't leave them on your neck. Are they still… bright?”
You looked around you. Emily and Derek seemed to be giving you slightly weird looks, but both seemed trapped on business phone calls that wouldn't end anytime soon.
You'd noticed the marks straight away, of course, across the tops of your breasts and surrounding them, as if that area had been the coordinates for a targeted assault. Now, though, with his eyes burning a path down from your eyes to your chest as loudly as a person could ever look, you knew just how true that was.
“Spencer, fuck YES!” You had moaned the second your back hit the mattress of his bed. You'd been drinking together on his sofa, but were ecstatic to graduate to the bedroom and lose half your clothes in the process.
With greedy hands, he'd ripped away your bra, and immediately he'd latched on with his mouth, sucking, biting, licking, fondling. He bruised one spot with his mouth while his hand tortured a nipple, first ignoring it, circling it but not touching it directly, and then pulling it to the border of pain and pleasure before switching hand and mouth and repeating the process.
Back in the present, you looked down at Spencer in his seat, breathed deeply, and replied.
“You know as well as I do that you made them to last.”
“So we match, then?” he asked, and you gave a quick nod before escaping back to the relative sanity of your desk. His eyes didn't leave your chest though, and for the whole afternoon, you wondered if he'd invented a way to look so hard that you bruised further.
If you had to give one reason why you loved your job, you'd probably say because you spent your day solving riddles and puzzles and getting to the bottom of situations. You liked clear-cut explanations for things and couldn't stand the roundabout ways people in other professions had to talk to each other. You'd listen to Hotch walk laps around other lawyers in legalese enough times to know you were no fan of espionage or double talk.
So there was only one downside of the job, and that was having to be covert. If you'd wanted to spy, you'd have joined the CIA instead.
Your most recent case, unfortunately, had landed you doing exactly that. It had also landed you in a closet, chest to chest with Spencer Reid, as you listened into a conversation between two likely suspects.
In the first five minutes, you gained the important information you needed, and the next forty-five was a waiting game to see when they'd finally get out so you could escape.
If you'd been alone, you wouldn't have minded. But with Spencer's 6 foot something frame practically wrapped around your own, your spine was ramrod straight, your thoughts turning back to frustration as you urged your brain to give back the night of memories you'd lost.
Because if he felt this good just stood next to you, you would go crazy imagining how good he felt inside you.
The most you managed to squeak out, after nearly an hour wrapped around each other, though, was “Do you get a sense of Deja Vu here?”
It was the first time you'd turned your head to look at him, having been looking to the door the entire time. But your gaze returned to him, and even the shadows of the closet couldn't hide the obvious list dripping from his eyes as he covertly stared down your shirt. Your breasts had popped up a bit more with him squished up against you, and your hands were pinned to the wall beside your waist should you need to draw your gun quickly if found.
Your companion, instead, was in a world of his own, and you were suddenly grateful that he'd kept at least an inch of space between your hips, knowing that you, too, would be a goner if you had to stand against the hard line of his cock for this long.
“Hmm?” He whispered, still staring at the little speckles of faded yellow and purple that popped out of your suddenly too low shirt.
“Deja vu?” You asked again, slightly breathless and dizzy, a side effect of his lusty gaze.
He raised an eyebrow and gave a slow nod, his hands gripping your waist and pinning you more firmly to the wall as he debated giving into temptation. “We've definitely been here before.”
A snippet of a memory caught you unaware, and you gasped in response.
He pinned your hands above your head against the wall as you crashed your way into the bedroom, his fingers too impatient to undress you to start pleasuring you. Without a warning, he slipped a hand up your dress and down your panties, keeping you in place with one impossibly large hand as the other skilfully drew out moan after moan with soft caresses.
“So fucking wet for me,” he groaned against your lips, as your memory melted away to reality.
You were being edged by your goddamn frontal cortex, and you had absolutely had enough. As soon as the suspects left, you raced out of the closet as fast as your feet could carry you away from the torment.
A week of solid case work, avoiding Spencer and hitting your head against a brick wall in your spare time later, and you found yourself attending a hasty work celebration with the team.
A murderer had been caught job well done, or whatever excuse you needed to unwind after work over a few large pizzas.
“All I'm saying is, a deep dish every now and again would be appreciated. We're never that far from Chicago.”
“We're 613 miles away from Chicago.”
You laughed at the tired face Derek flashed the team before biting into his slice, your other coworkers similarly tucking into the late night meal.
You'd landed at 11pm, and starving, had come to your last resort.
“Is anyone else's pizza wet?” Emily asked, picking up her slice and letting it drip onto her cardboard plate.
You shrugged at the comment, just happy to finally be filling your stomach with something other than coffee for the first time in what felt like forever.
But there seemed to be no rest for the wicked, and you caught Spencer's eye as you tugged the cheese into your mouth.
“Mhmm. So wet.”
There was no reality in which you stopped yourself from choking on your food then, as he kept a quiet smile on his face as the others offered you drinks and tissues.
Perched next to him, you shot him a dirty look out of the corner of your eye and were about to turn back to your meal when he moved again.
Bringing a tissue to your lips, he wiped away the grease from the corners, quietly berating you as he cleaned you like a child.
“So messy. Don't choke on it next time.”
The double entendre didn't go unnoticed, as Derek piled on quickly, not noticing the unsettling mix of deep, bitter embarrassment and utter arousal warring on your features.
“Kid, you don't have to tell the woman to swallow. I'm sure she's perfectly capable.”
Each memory that hit you came with a wave of matching mortification, as you tried to keep every reaction to yourself.
But remembering the feeling of Spencer Reid's cum shooting across your face was something you'd much rather have experienced privately. You stayed trapped into much too intimate eye contact with him anyway as he kept tending to your small spills. He wiped away the drops of grease on your legs, gripping your thigh much tighter than you could ever have possibly needed.
Evidently, your coworkers had found some satisfaction with the pizza, as they all seemed to not notice the tension a simple touch had snapped between the two of you. Using their hunger as a shield, you quickly excused yourself from the table to clean yourself up.
The door to the bathroom was only a step away from the door to the alley, and you quickly let yourself out into the crisp night air. Not even two minutes later, Spencer was with you.
“Y/N?”
“Oh god, it's happening again. I can hear his voice!”
“Y/N, please, come back inside.”
“Sure, if you stop trying to eye fuck me in front of my boss!”
With the words finally out in the open between you, you stood still for a best or two, letting Spencer pick up the slack in the conversation.
“The… The others were talking about going to get some drinks,” he started carefully, afraid you'd spook at any moment. “After pizza?”
“Drinks?”
“Alcohol.”
You gave a short bitter laugh and brushed a hand through your hair as you turned your face away from him.
“I seem to make a lot of mistakes when I'm drunk.”
“Mistakes?” He said. The word was so quietly hurt that you instantly winced, realising your mistake.
“No. No. That's not how I meant it, Spencer, I just…” you grabbed your hair in frustration again, trying desperately to find the words to explain the gaping void where pleasing memories should've been.
“Everyone… everyone is still inside, right? No chance of a surprise visit from anyone.”
“They're debating Hawaiian pizza, I think we have time. Why?”
Another minute passed as you thought through your next actions, leg shaking as you processed every possible emotion.
Lunging toward him, you grabbed a hold of his shirt and pressed up to meet him in a kiss. Responding quickly, his hands gladly claimed a hold of your body as he walked you back against the wall, his mouth furiously engaged with your own in a battle of lust.
“I don't-” you gasped between kisses, unable to get more than a word in as his tongue works his way into your mouth. He pulled away eventually, but only to distract you further with a wandering tongue exploring the plains of skin already on show. Neck, lips, cheeks, collar, nothing is safe from the hear of his tongue tracing up and down the length of you..
“Don't what?” He said, finally finding the willpower to pull back for more than a millisecond.
“I don't remember. Any of it, I can't remember. God, I'm so stupid. Why don't I remember?”
For a second, his tongue kept up its journey, and you moaned as he nipped at the edge of your ear. That was until your words hit his ears and his hands flew up faster than you could've ever pushed them off.
“What?”
“I don't-” panic surged in your voice as you felt it tremble and shake, gulping it down to continue.
“I don't remember anything. And I woke up in your bed, and it felt so good and nice, but I couldn't remember it until you started doing things, and then I remembered… small parts?"
He raked a hand through his hair and took a deep breath as you continued, desperate to get every word out as fast as possible.
“I-I-I, shit Spencer, I woke up feeling so good, and then I saw you there, and I couldn't remember a thing. Do you know how long I was waiting for something to happen? I couldn't even remember one stupid fucking kiss, let alone anything else we did-”
“You seriously don't remember anything.”
“That's what I've been saying.”
He nodded and let out a shaky breath as you stepped closer to him, desperate to explain your predicament.
“You don't… you didn't just regret It and decide to leave?”
“I can't regret something I don't remember.”
Worrying his lip, he looked away for a minute and looked back, and you found yourself creeping closer again until his hands were gripping your hips again as he looked back to you.
“If you could remember, would you regret it?”
In a heartbeat, you had your answer.
“No.”
His lips crashed into yours again, and you gladly moaned into this one. With one hand buried in curls and the other pulling him closer by his loose tie, your hands stayed fastened to his body, clutching him like there was nowhere else you'd rather be.
His hands followed suit, falling down to your thighs as he spread your legs further apart, holding you against the wall and lifting you just slightly, angling your hips together in a way that numbed your senses.
Everywhere you touched left you craving further exploration, to be closer to him, and you whined in his mouth as if to let him know what you so dearly craved.
He listened and gave in, his fingers pushing to the centre of you, mere centimetres away from where you wanted him.
It was as if God was laughing down at your struggle, though, as just as he was about to make contact, a shout of your names rang out around the corner. Just as Penelope rounded into the alleyway, you shoved Spencer away, accidentally flinging him to the ground as you desperately righted yourself again.
“There you two are. What are you doing out here?”
“Earring,” you gasped, praying it was just dark enough for Penelope to not notice that your lipstick and Spencer's lipstick were the same shade.
“I dropped an earring, and Spencer is helping me look for it.”
Slightly confused, Spencer quickly went along with your lie, patting the ground where he'd fallen to look for the imaginary jewellery.
“Okay. Well, we're hopping over to the bar next door, and no! This is not optional, Emily already ordered the first round.”
Without another word or explanation, or anything to really help you figure out what was going on with you and Spencer, the two of you awkwardly followed Penelope into the bar and to your seats.
You stuffed yourself into the seat beside Penelope, and were not at all upset when Spencer climbed into the booth right beside you, sitting shoulder to shoulder with you knees bumping every now and then from the movements.
And just like that, you found yourself drinking for another two hours, unable to process any of the emotions you'd been through in the alley.
Elation. Desperation. Sadness. Arousal. All stuck in your tiny, tiny brain as you tried still to remember any small detail you could about your last encounter.
Your look of concentration didn't go unnoticed.
“Y/N, what's with the pensive look?” Derek shot at you across the table as he finished the last dregs of his beer. “Is it perhaps the melancholy of singleness?”
“That's not a word,” Spencer mumbled into his own drink.
When Penelope joined in, you knew you'd been backed into a corner.
“Are you not seeing someone?” She asked, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
“There was that guy you mentioned last week, right?” The sound of betrayal came directly from the other side of you, and your head whipped from Penelope to Spencer so fast, you were sure you'd be feeling it in the morning.
“What? What guy, Y/N? You never mentioned a guy to me! Spencer knows, but I don't know. How is that fair?”
“No, Penelope, he's-”
“Spencer, what do you know? What's this guys name? What does he look like? What does he do for a living? When you say she mentioned him last week, was it a mention mention, or just a mention?”
“Penelope, slow down.”
“Well-”
“Spencer! Do NOT answer her.”
“You don't want me to tell her about the guy you wanted something casual with. You said you were around him a lot, so you might as well try it at some point.”
Your face burnt in shame as you narrowed your eyes at him. Had you really said that? Had that honestly been your opener for hitting on the man you'd wanted for the longest time?
“Mhmm, really? And what else did I say?”
“I don't think you'll want me to say-”
“No, please, jog my memory.”
“You said, and I quote, that he had a ‘very rideable face.’ You followed up with, ‘it would look very pretty buried between your legs.’”
The chorus of laughter that rang out only set you more on edge after the flush of memories that hit you once more. He had looked very pretty sat between your legs licking your cunt, lapping up your cum as your legs shook and you fucked yourself against his face. He had simply pressed a hand to your stomach, held you still and kept up the good work. His eyes sparkled with passion and his lips glistened with cum. It was quite the picture, now that you remembered it.
You were just annoyedeniugh, so you had to shoot back a retort. You were just too slow to realise “yes, well, I can recall that I was, in fact correct,” wasn't the right retort.
Another half hour of questioning later, and you'd finally been allowed passage out of the bar, into a taxi, and back to your apartment, alone but for the shame.
Spencer, perpetually sober-ish, had been put on designated driver duty to get others home, and it wasn't as if you could protest.
You threw yourself down onto your bed as soon as you got into your apartment and stayed there until you were about to fall asleep. A knock at your door pulled you back into the world of the woken, and you dragged yourself to the door.
You weren't surprised to see Spencer back at your side an hour after you'd left him. You knew it was a possibility, though you thought you'd be waiting another 12 hours or so.
It took less than 12 seconds for his searching eyes to find whatever silent consent he was looking for before he stretched out and claimed you. He softly cradled you as his lips met you, his gentle touch delicate where his soft lips were hard and insistent. He closed the door. He pushed you back a step at a time until you were out of the doorway. Pausing, he pulled away and took off his glasses, putting them down on the side table, before cupping your cheek and stealing your breath. Again.
You moaned into his kiss, and he slipped his hand down to your neck, gently squeezing as he moved you back towards the bed.
“Spencer…” you begged wordlessly.
“Remember now?”
“N-No.”
He nodded and continued, his other hand loosening his tie once more, as you clung to him like glue, hands not daring to move from the holds you had on his shirt, afraid you'd trip and lose sight of him all over again.
You reached the bed, and he sat you down, tearing his lips away at last, but still choosing to keep hold of your neck, standing above you.
“Are you sober?” He asked, as though he hadn't watched you drink only virgin cocktails all night. You shook your head, yes.
“Good.”
“Are you going to fuck me?” You blurted out, unable to help yourself, even without the liquid courage.
“You wanted the experience, right? And then you forgot all about it, so it's only polite…” His hands began massaging your neck, shoulders, pushing down into your shirt to get the top of your chest, too.
“I don't want the experience,” you said quickly. “Not- not a casual experience, Spencer, I want… I want…” His hands distracted you as your shirt stretched to allow his hands to grope your breasts. He slipped into your bra and began his assault of your chest, still looming above you as he listened to your explanation.
“I… don't want a casual thing, Spencer, I want- I want…” you moaned as he pinched your nipple hard, seething as you attempted to not shout out.
“What do you want, Y/N? Be specific.”
“I want you!” You moaned, chest pushing into his touch, trying to avoid the mixture of pain and pleasure pulsing through you with each flick of his finger.
“For how long?” He asked, and your brain short circuited as you whined and pouted up at him, his fingers still tugging at your nipples, still kneading your skin, and pretending his touch was nothing.
“D-don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Don't make me give this an expiration date.”
Spencer's eyes locked with yours, and you found yourself on your back swiftly after, his lips pressed to yours as he held himself over you. Instead of assaulting your chest again, he was slower, more delicate as he gently removed your shirt, encouraging you to move further up the bed as he planted himself firmly between your two legs.
Everywhere he kissed and licked and sucked was a distraction from his attempts to uncloth you, to make you forget that he was still fully dressed and you were about to be laid out plain as day before him.
You covered your chest when he stole your bra, but you couldn't push your thighs together quick enough when he got your panties, and his hand slipped between your folds before you could even catch a breath.
“Good girl,” he whispered, as his fingers found your clit, dipping into your wet spot before tracing along your bundle of nerves and rocking his fingers back and forth, eyes always on yours.
He dropped his forehead to yours and watched silently as your mouth widened to an ‘O’ as you grew wetter, more desperate, more aroused, until you hit your peak and came apart on his fingertips. He hadn't even put a finger inside you, and your whole body was awash with satisfaction.
Another kiss stolen ended all thoughts of contentment as he slid in a finger into you while slipping his tongue back into your mouth.
If his fingers on your clit had been gentle, probing, curious about your release, the fingers stretching you out were the opposite. He knew your limits, had taken pleasure in your pleasure and now he was testing it, seeing how far he could push you until you did everything once again.
His free hand reached up to your face, and before you knew it, two fingers had been inserted into your mouth. You sucked instinctively, desperate to please him as your hips jumped upwards, trying to ride his hand. But every time you so much as moved, he withdrew slightly, pulling that pleasure you so desperately sought from your grasp.
“Spencer- please-” you said as he pulled his fingers from your mouth.
“I'm not going faster. I want you to remember every second, I want this to last as long as possible, okay? Can you do that?”
You pouted as he stroked your cheek with his wet fingers, gathering the spit from your chin before pushing it right back into your mouth. You kept sucking.
Every time he felt you tighten around him, his fingers withdrew, or they stilled, or he moved in a slightly different way, and you were set adrift again on the tide of arousal. He edged you for what felt like days to your pleasure addled mind, and you kept up your task, too.
“Good girl. No more cumming. Not yet.”
Finally, he withdrew his fingers, your legs shaking from the tension of holding off your pleasure.
He stood and removed his shirt, unbuttoning his pants just enough to free his swollen cock, but not removing it entirely.
The sight of him almost made you weep in relief, so sure that now you were going to be able to cum, that he'd enter you and your get to release around his cock, to suck him in deeper.
Instead, he got on his knees in front of you and gave another sharp order.
“No cumming, remember Princess.” Without waiting for a response, his tongue dragged across your folds, before reaching your clit. His lips wrapped around your nub and your whole body reacted, convulsing inwards as you shouted your pleasure.
“Spencer! Spencer, no, please - please!!” You clawed at the bed as you fucked his face, hips pleading with his tongue to finish the job he'd begun an age ago with his scant fingers.
You desperately wanted your release, but he was equally desperate to frustrate you, pinning your hips and pulling back to just spit on your cunt when your thrusts became erratic, close to the edge.
He touched everywhere except the part where you needed him, content for a moment to listen to the moans turn to tears, turn to anger and frustration and longing as you clawed a hand in his hair and humped his tongue like a beast.
Finally, you came, more than happy to use his tongue like the pillow you'd stuffed between your legs in your horny adolescence.
He wasted no more time entering you, rigid and hot, and more than welcomed by your aching cunt.
He pushed in inch by inch, and the eternity that passed before that point was nothing in comparison to the millenia caught between one breath and the next, between him readying himself, and him thrusting into you in his entirety.
He filled you perfectly, as if you were born to let him take you, to despoil your cunt again and again, until the scent of him never left you.
He moved, pushing your knees up as you welcomed somehow more of him, as he hunched over you and began.
It was animalistic, and noisy, and messy, and fuck, was it hot. The bedsheets were wet already from your water show foreplay session, but with his cock locked inside of you, you couldn't hold back, and you came with a spurt.
You screamed, not expecting your pleasure to squirt out of you, as he fucked you harder, your breaths mingling with the wet, sloppy sounds of your cunt being used again and again and again.
“Spencer, fuck, I'm-”
“You're what? Use your words.”
“I'm… safe, just- Fuck, just fill me up.”
He groaned into your ear as he made his thrusts more and more shallow, slowing down just enough to pull back from you and let you watch him claim you again and again.
He swiped his hair out of his face, biting his lip as his hips rolled into yours, and you swear if you had it left in you, you'd have came on his cock once more watching him do that.
You committed to memory every line of his body, every bruise, every scratch, every line, every hair, everywhere a bullet had nicked him, everywhere on his body that held pain, every gesture on his body that was registering pleasure. You cared less for your own now and more for his as you bucked up into him, meeting him silently as he sucked in a deep breath.
You watched him forget himself inside of you as he tipped his head back in pleasure and, with a small moan, emptied himself inside of you.
His breath crashed back into his body, and you felt every heartbeat resonate through him and into you.
“If you forget this again,” he panted, wrapping his arms around you again. “I'm not waiting another 20 days for a reminder.”
You smiled as his hair tickled Your neck, nuzzling into his neck as you enjoyed his warmth. You tried your best to memorise his scent, too.
“Wake me up bright and early, then,” you smiled, letting your brain settle as you replayed the day back in your head over and over again.
XXX
The inspo:
(Kim Mingue one fucking chance... one chance Kim Mingue...)
Being a girl is: wanting to go to bed early but deciding to just get on tumblr/wattpad/Ao3 for a little bit and then end up finding a fic series that you really like and read until well past your usual bedtime then keeping on because it’s already past your bedtime. Then being mad when you wake up in the morning because you overslept your timer.
please PLEASE learn how to tag your fanfics. Don’t tag fluff when it’s angst, don’t tag smut when it’s fluff and please don’t tag characters that ARENT EVEN MENTIONED IN THE FIC!!!!
good morning, good afternoon or good night depending on the time you see this . Excuse my English, I'm using the translator.I wanted to ask for an imagine about dad Spencer, where his son (Theo/Luca or whatever name you prefer) besides being jealous of his mother (not letting Spencer give him kisses, pushing him so they don't hug, etc.) at his young age He starts calling Spencer "Spencer" instead of "Papa", I think it would be a nice imagine
sorry this is so short <3 loved this req tho!!
hearing your son laugh was easily your favorite sound in the whole world. there was nothing that created a warmth inside of you the way hearing your son laugh did.
however, your feelings were a bit more conflicted when you heard your husband let out a long, “Heeeeyyyy!” You could tell by his tone he was offended. “You guys okay?” You holler, pausing the show you were watching as you folded laundry.
“No!” Spencer yelled, followed by another fit of giggles from your son. You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face at the sound. The smile quickly dissipated as you opened the door.
“Mommy!” Your son cheered, quickly running over to hug your legs. Spencer had just finished getting him dressed, but his crooked shirt made you laugh. “Hi, honey,” You cooed at him as you bent down to pick him up.
“Oh, so she gets mommy?” Spencer questioned your son as he moved to start cleaning up his room. He could tell you were confused by his statement based on the way you furrowed your eyebrows. He raised his, giving a ‘watch this’ kind of expression. Spencer moved to your side, attempting to press a kiss to your son’s head. Your son did not appreciate this action, squealing and burying his head into your shoulder to avoid his father’s lips.
You couldn’t help but laugh at the sequence of actions. Once your son realized Spencer had move his head away, he removed himself from the nook he’d created of your body. “No, bencer!” He said, glaring at his father. Your jaw dropped as he attempted to pronounce Spencer’s first name. “Luca!” You scolded, shocked at his words.
“See!” Spencer said, defeated. “He’s been like this ALL morning. He just wants you.” He collapsed on the toddler bed as he finished. “Luca,” you cooed again, moving to sit next to Spencer. You two barely fit in the small bed. “You gotta be nice to daddy,” You told him, moving him so that he was sitting between you and Spencer.
Luca didn’t answer, simply shaking his head ‘no’, and moving closer to you.
“I see how it is,” Spencer told Luca as he stood to his full height. “I guess you’ll have to have the breakfast mommy makes.” Spencer shrugged, making his way to the door. You turned your head to Luca, who nuzzled his way to your side. Spencer left the room.
“Why are you being mean to daddy?” You asked, running your hand through his hair. Luca left out an all too adorable huff, “I wanted my biderman shirt.”
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