tannertan36
almost home
cherry valley forever
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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sheepfilms
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
h
NASA
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
occasionally subtle
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Andulka
noise dept.
todays bird
bliss lane
One Nice Bug Per Day
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@freelancelobotomy
╰┈➤ＮＡＶＩＧＡＴＩＯＮ˚. ᵎᵎ
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁....blk, She/her, INTJ, podcast consumer, professionally annoying 𓏵
ᝰ.ᐟRequests: OPEN ౨ৎ
₊⊹(*I dont write piss, scat, any proshipping nonsense, or anything super taboo so do with that what you will)؛ ଓ .𖥔 ݁ ˖Masterlist༝༚༝༚
Hello Shuake nation im so back
MY MAN ON WILLPOWER
in which: you thought you'd grown to understand your boyfriend inside and out. yet after two months of dating, you just aren't sure why he has no interest in sleeping with you.
spencer reid x neighbour!reader
warnings: smut, hurt/comfort! part of my neighbour!reader universe, mentions of cat adams and s/a, established relationship, fem!reader, late seasons spencer, insecure reader + spencer, lots of self loathing tbh, unspecified age gap, mentions of spencer's experiences in prison, tears and sadness and doom (hooray!), cute domesticity that gets tainted by both parties (horny freaks! just fuck it out😭😭), masturbation (both m and f… separately), vibrator use (f), spencer reid is honestly a pervert, not panty stuff but not not panty stuff, um premature ejactulation NOT SORRY👀👀, cumming in pants! awesome!, auditory voyeurism..., back rubbing! massaging! spencer’s hands!, prolonged flashing? spencer is a pathetic man around a pretty pair of tits…, important conversations regarding healthy relationships!!! communication! and the lack of it!, no use of y/n!
wc: 7.1k
now playing: sabrina carpenter - my man on willpower
post prison spence deserves the entire world and our lovely neighbour!reader will absolutely provide it for him! ++ this fic came to me in a dream and i actually love it so i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing!
masterlist ♡ meet the reader
(my man’s in touch with his emotions / my man won’t touch me with a twenty foot pole)
you were always over confident in your self restraint. you gave yourself far too much credit.
you truly thought you were smart enough to not allow spencer reid to loiter in your apartment.
especially not when you were running on fumes with a to-do list a mile long and a nauseating work event peering over your shoulder.
apparently, you were wrong. blame it on the puppy dog eyes and not your severe lack of better judgement when it came to your boyfriend.
after reluctantly letting him through your front door and explaining how paralyzingly busy you were, he kissed you like he missed you, as he so often did, and successfully disarmed the drowning overflow of anxiety spilling from your brain.
maybe having him over wasn’t exactly a bad thing.
he helped you relax in the form of kissing you until you couldn’t breathe. standard practice for him, really. and somehow thirty minutes had elapsed and you had somehow materialized into your bedroom–now straddling his lap on your bed, late, and rethinking the stability of steady income and appearances, in favour of sucking spencer reid’s pretty little face off until he was a mess of purple splotches and swollen lips.
you would’ve–if he let you. you would’ve been peeling off your top in his lap instead of by your lonesome in your bathroom, if he let you.
but of course, despite claiming not to be, spencer reid was a tease who worked you up and then forced you to well, work.
all in good conscience he says, you can’t afford to miss it he says, i’ll be here when you get back he says.
you wished he was saying less and touching you more, yet as it goes, that was not the case, and you were once again left blue balled by your ever loving boyfriend.
though thankfully, you didn’t go down without a fight, or rather, without punishing him in return. spencer would’ve fed mushu and folded your laundry without your insistence that he do so, but you led yourself to believe that he was just as annoyed at the task as you currently were. balance. a true 50/50 relationship.
you were tortured. getting ready for a night filled with fake smiles, and people you hated for the sake of god knows what, at a horrible venue, with portion sizes that would have spencer pulling into a drive-thru once he picked you up, was absolutely not something that filled you with joy.
you considered yourself less than gracious for the opportunity, and would’ve much rather played hooky and tangled yourself into your pink sheets, naked with your naked boyfriend, happily practicing the basis of human nature recreationally. sex.
yet, you had even been deprived of that. you didn’t exactly take spencer for some sort of nympho, but you’d assumed his libido wouldn’t have allowed him to kiss you with such fervour and then proceed to innocently peck your nose and drag you off of his lap instead of into his bed.
did he have an aversion to sex in general? were you the problem? did he just not want to fuck you?
spencer was, by far the best man you’ve dated. the kindest, the one who truly cared for you the most. but he was also the only man you’ve ever dated who hadn’t made any moves on sleeping with you.
spencer had an exceptionally intelligent brain. it was beautiful, it was part of why you loved him, yet it was still the brain of a man. and you were concerned as to why he spent so much time thinking with it instead of with well, something else.
a knock on your on-suite bathroom’s door startled you out of that spiraling tangent and back into a reality where you were still late and still in only your bra.
“i have a feeling you were looking for these?”
spencer always brought you back to your feet when your worries were throwing you out of your own control. god you hated him. you loved him.
you cracked open the door separating your partially undressed body to your boyfriend’s fully clothed one, and watched as his bashful expression averted his eyes and instead ushered his hands towards you, hands which held the outfit you’d planned for the night, which had been sitting on your dresser.
spencer once again offered you a small salvation, and you were unbelievably glad he hadn’t questioned what you’d been doing for the past three minutes with nothing to change into. generous in ways you didn’t deserve.
“right. thank you. um,”
your gaze drifted to the laundry spencer had folded with military precision on your wrinkled sheets. sheets that had become wrinkled because of him. sheets that you had just washed but would gladly dirty if it meant you could fuck him in them.
the flame in your stomach re-ignited as you felt heat creep up the back of your neck, filling every crevice of your face until it forced you into an awkward smile. did he have any idea that you were fantasizing about devouring him, or did he find your constipated expression endearing?
“would you mind putting the laundry away as well? and fixing up my bed a bit? if that's okay?”
all the demanding tone that had filled your throat mere minutes before dissipated, as spencer had reduced you to mush by the heinous act of simply being himself. you were a pitifully horny excuse for a woman.
“you got it.”
spencer handed you your clothes and gently closed the door, now happily busying himself with the simple task of cleaning up for you.
normally, a man that had graced your past dating history would complain about such tasks. normally, you wouldn’t be changing in the privacy of a second room. normally, you would have tumbled out of the door with your makeup half done and your hair a mess because said tasks were completed half-assed and had to be onced over by you. normally, a relationship would only bring a constant state of feeling as though you were taking care of an incompetent child, who couldn’t understand the purpose of caring for another without expecting something in return.
spencer reid was everything but normal. and you adored him for it.
something as trivial as sex didn’t really matter when a man like spencer loved you, right?
not when you had to cover the soft break in your voice with a cough when he returned to the bathroom door–knocking first, of course, to hand you your designated “going out” jewelry when you hadn’t even asked him to.
he was so sweet he almost made you cry off your mascara, curled up on the cool tiled floor of your bathroom. over a pair of earrings.
if spencer only wanted to kiss you, you were fine with it.
you could take care of yourself in other ways.
said ways made themselves abundantly clear nearly two days later, after spencer had taken care of your far-past-tipsy self post work event, where you had taken the liberty of indulging in one too many glasses of complimentary champagne.
now, as the clock beside your bed flashed too bright numbers in your face, confirming it was far too late in the night for you to be awake, you thought about him as you rolled over for the umpteenth time in a measly matter of minutes.
he’d stroked the soft curls of your hair with the sort of reverence that would’ve made your knees buckle had you not been so inebriated and girlishly ecstatic to see him.
he’d kissed both of your cheeks and returned every “i love you” with just as much genuine certainty as the last. because he was perfect.
he’d cleaned you up. washing your face, fussing over you as he helped you brush your teeth, handed you your comfiest pair of pajamas and turned around so you could change into them, because he respected your space and privacy even when your drunken lack of cognition was unable to uphold it.
and of course, because he wanted to kill your now sober self, you recalled how he then proceeded to help you get your tank top on straight after your drunken self had gotten all tangled up. you were a mess in every sense and he tucked frizzed locks behind your ear and kissed your forehead despite yourself, like it didn’t matter.
now, with a completely dissipated hangover (thanks to a certain someone insuring you drank almost copious amounts of water, while leaving two advil on your bedside table) you were left unbelievably, and irrevocably horny. as it often went.
you’d woken up to a cold bed and even colder messages. a local case and an incredibly busy boyfriend. spent your day stupidly sad, as if your entire life revolved around him, and now you lay awake. and thinking of him so late at night–or at this point, early in the morning. this never did you any good.
the conclusion you came to was more indulgent than anything. less than forty-eight hours and you couldn’t bear it (pathetic!). you were sure tiring yourself out another way would lull you to sleep when soft forehead kisses and backrubs couldn’t.
such thoughts only made you more ridden with guilt. as if masturbation (while thinking of him, for that matter), was the only way you were able to satisfy a gluttonous hunger and offer yourself rest sans spencer reid.
you didn’t allow yourself to dwell on it, one track mind already sending your holy hands crawling between your legs.
the same could not be said for your tragic, tortured boyfriend.
poor spencer had gotten home late, not wanting to wake you with a text, he’d landed on going over for breakfast in the morning. he’d find a way of making it up to you, he always did.
and now the universe had found a way to pay any of his misdoings back to him, tenfold.
the walls separating your apartments were thin, the two of you were more than well aware of this–a past you having been the cause of many sleepless nights for spencer. it was how you first met, now a silly little love story to be told with shining eyes and full hearts.
the flimsy, un-soundproofed structures dividing your homes had become such an insignificant issue it was never even thought of. practically all of your free time was now spent together, and any noise was welcomed as a soft comfort of connection.
and now horror had come back to bite him. because spencer reid sat painfully awake in his favourite reading nook, listening in on none other than your moans.
you were dating, you took pleasure in calling yourself his and vice versa, but it was still wrong, a cruel invasion of privacy, destroying any semblance of respect he harbored for you (which was most definitely saying something), but spencer could not find the strength to tune your sweet sounds out. they were too beautiful. he absolutely did not deserve you.
no, spencer did not carry the power to not eavesdrop on his girlfriend masturbating. it was far too difficult for him to withstand, his mind folded embarrassingly easily when it came to you, he always did, especially when he could picture you oh-so perfectly.
he’d first seen about two days ago, he couldn’t manage to muster up the exact amount of elapsed time, which only spoke to how greatly you affected him. a completely useless mess of a genius. he couldn’t even remember the details of the case that had dragged him away from your drunken bedside. just you. you you you.
he’d been putting your laundry away while you got yourself all dolled up for what–according to you, scarcely deserved your beauty. such a routine would have been completely innocent and disgustingly domestic had it not been for the fact that he had soiled the light of that memory with the distraction of your… undergarments.
there was most definitely no saving him now. spencer reid was a pervert. through and through.
he swore he had never meant to think of them, or of you that way, but holding silken fabrics and pretty lace of which he knew had adorned your most intimate parts was not shy of sexual for spencer. and while unbeknownst to you, his arousal was quite easy to earn when you were mixed into the equation.
he was turned on by practically anything regarding you. his blessing and his curse.
he’d only folded them, then put them away as per your instruction. he absolutely did not steal anything, despite the incessant, disgusting voice in his brain that practically screamed at him to do so. because he was seemingly unable to do anything involving his girlfriend without his thoughts ruining it.
without him ruining it.
and when he finally managed to cool himself down and shoo away his dark thoughts? one brush of his organizing hand revealed something that made every synapse in his brain misfire. pink silicone slithered into his view. his feigned innocence in an attempt to recover some sort of decorum, now reduced to prey which fell for a serpent's trap.
a vibrator.
his skin burnt up with a ferocious shade of red as he hurried to put away the rest of your intimates and slam your dresser drawer shut. yet his speed was no match for the guilt as blood travelled down, until he couldn’t think straight and the heat in his skin wasn’t the only thing that was rising.
he wasn’t surprised, no, obviously such items were exceedingly normal despite the embarrassment of societal taboo regarding sexual pleasure. it was the confirmation that you in fact, also harboured sexual desires that got to him. that was now real, and completely unignorable.
he wasn’t stupid, he felt the disappointment seeping through your skin each time he held your hips still, the small sigh when your attempt to chase his lips was futile, he was aware of what he was depriving you of, but he hadn’t found the courage to speak of it, to actually tell you what was going on inside the brain that you constantly praised him for, instead opting to completely ice you out regarding anything intimately physical.
because he was scared.
he was cruel.
were you this worked up because of him?
guilt seeped through the cracks of his daze as his right hand traveled the wide valley between his spread thighs. his eyes were glossed over, body moving in a sinfully practiced familiarity rather than under the control of his better judgement.
his fingers faltered at his belt. this was wrong on so many levels, something he would never manage to come back from, he’d swim too far and drown in his own self disgust. he wasn’t able to bring himself to speak to you about what had caused him to hold himself back, but was completely fine indulging in his own pleasure. pathetic.
had he really changed in the ways his mind had convinced him of? would he never regain the innocence of who he used to be?
a particularly loud moan snapped him out of his own head, a thick fog clearing out as you dragged him from the deep end, saving him as you always did.
you. he could picture you now, panties soaked and sticky with the evidence of your unholy arousal, hot pink tip of your toy making a mess of your swollen clit. you were pretty, he didn’t have to see you to know so. his pretty girl with a pretty mess between her thighs.
he should be the one pressing such unrelenting vibrations against your core, soaking up every praise that left your perfect lips. you would tell him how good he was through broken breaths. he knew that.
“fuck! spence–”
it was like you could hear his thoughts as clearly as he could hear you. you said his name. you were sleepless thinking about him. worked up thinking about him.
spence. spencer spencer spencer. he would die a thousand deaths, bleed at your unyielding hand, just to hear you moan his name again.
what was wrong with him.
he hadn’t even realized he’d began palming himself through his trousers until he was too far gone to stop. was it better because he was demonstrating some sort of control by not stroking himself fully? or was it simply more wretched that he managed to get off through such light touches by completely tainting your glowing image.
he landed on the latter, as his self loathing would not allow him to think highly of himself in such a pivotally low moment. but his greed was too strong, festering until it consumed him. he hung onto every sound that passed your lips, small praises as you thought of him. soft whimpers a harmony of your pleasure, and his misdoings.
he was a horrible boyfriend, as he feared he would be.
which was exactly why his palm didn’t stop its cruel pace against the growing flame in his core.
his hand moved with an uncoordinated velocity saved only for the desperation of you, chasing a high where you were at the peak.
your sounds never faltered, the comfort of letting go, of foolishly thinking you were in the clear to let two months of built up tension escape through your spent throat. spencer hated himself for getting off on the fact that you had no idea he could hear you, that you truly didn’t know he was aware of how badly you wanted him, that he felt the same, if not more in return.
revolting. anyone would be revolted if they knew, if they could see what he saw, hear what he heard, if his vile actions were to ever be exposed he was sure he would curl up and die, unable to face the extent of his shame. or maybe he was so unworth saving that the humiliation would only push him further.
he hadn’t any way of knowing, because this moment, not unlike many other thoughts, would end up locked in an impenetrable vault where anything undeserving lurked, each disgusted in their own likeness. it was suffocating. he wasn’t sure where else to keep them.
it was almost ironic that his own self disgust sent him barrelling over the edge, so quickly he had no way of stopping its path. he couldn’t keep breathing, he had to rip his teeth into his bottom lip in order to not make a sound, he was loud, he knew so, had been told so in the past. louder than you were, yet he suppressed it because something had told him that he had to, that he’d changed.
spencer sat in the shame of sticky soiled slacks, with the taste of iron on his tongue as he listened to you finish with a squeal of his name.
spencer had thought he would become distant, he laid awake, now to silence as he watched wisps of sun dance across his ceiling through the gaps in his curtains, and felt you in every fleeting moment of warmth they provided. he knew he would implode from the lack of you, even if every moment felt like he was stealing what he would never have the grace of deserving.
spencer reid, was in his own eyes, more selfish than what he knew to do with.
things felt simpler in the time before, when he first realized he liked you. when he spent his time dreaming up little what-ifs. when every miniscule queue, every blink, every breath, felt like he was grasping at air searching for even a hint of love, love for him.
now he knew that you loved him. and knowing should’ve been enough. more than enough. selfish. he felt he was being selfish.
selfish because he wouldn’t–couldn’t–tell you what was wrong with him. he wanted you to keep him. he didn’t want to give you an out because what he wanted more than anything was for you to stay. selfish.
so selfish that he blinked and he was outside your door. he’d changed since the mess of prior… events. he’d cleaned up. something in him wanted to be pretty, for you. to feel like he wasn’t lying about who he’d become.
selfishness reared its ugly head and formed itself as a desperate knock turned crashing of lips. the swapping of spit, as if transferring just a bit of you, your bacteria, your soul, your anything, could fight whatever infected him. fix him. he believed you were pure enough to do so.
“spencer?–when did you get back?–”
he tried to let you speak, he swore it. pulling away because you deserved to be heard, because he wanted to listen. yet he dove back in because he could feel the rot writhing back every second he was away from your skin.
his mouth melded with yours as if it were meant to be, and he let himself believe it was, before pulling away to mutter a useless string of apologies. you weren’t here to save him, but he’d keep crawling back like you had the power to.
“spencer–”
he wouldn’t let you finish, lips already back on yours because he couldn’t breathe on his own, contrasting how his anatomy actually functioned, you rewired him completely. he backed you into a wall, hard, without meaning to, hands too busy cupping your perfectly warm cheeks, body too busy pressing into yours, mind too busy being full of you. he wouldn’t have noticed your discomfort if not for the small wince you kissed into his lips.
the drop in his chest settled like an anchor in his stomach as he pulled off of you so quickly he surely gave himself whiplash, hands empty, body cold.
“did i hurt you? i’m so sorry–i–”
he couldn’t even find the words if he tried. the vast library of knowledge that was his brain rendered completely useless. he was only thinking of himself. what he thought he’d done. aggressive, violent, unpredictable. he felt like he was once again looking over his shoulder when he was only looking at you.
“what? no–i just slept weird the other night and have a kink in my back, it’ll pass… are you okay?”
you missed him. you wanted to simply hold him, wrap your arms around him and rock back and forth like a calm ship at sea. a soothing rhythm. though, you weren’t sure if he’d accept your touch if you tried. you’d never seen him so scared.
all he wanted was to feel you. and when your hand tentatively met the flesh of his cheek, he melted into it so quickly it was hard to keep the threatening tears in his eyes at bay. you were too good to him. you were perfect.
“when you were drunk?”
he was asking about your sleep. something that felt extraordinarily minor in this current moment. you were far more occupied with his sporadically odd behavior and concerned with the fact that he was ignoring it. his touch was always welcome, but spencer had a way of pushing his needs aside, and his actions felt weirdly forced in a way you weren’t familiar with. his affection typically felt more natural.
“yes i guess so, i kind of woke up sort of folded in half–i guess? i’m fine now,”
you made a small gesture with your hands, demonstrating the pretzel shape that had haunted your drunken dreams and left you with a deadly case of neck stiffness. entirely untreatable. fatal, judging from spencers abhorrent expression.
hypocrite. this was a moment that required your concern for him. something that he did not offer up lightly.
“so… when did you get back? how was the case? have you eaten?”
the strategy of bombarding him with so many questions that he was actually forced to answer at least one had yet to be patched (small wins), and spencer smiled as his hand stroked short circles at the small of your back.
his touch was soft, skilled yet still delicate, as if you were something fragile and would shatter under the lightest impact. but not in a way that ever made you feel small. just, wanted.
he was so gentle with you now, the striking jump leaving you dizzy when his taste was still prickling on your lips.
“everything went fine, don’t worry–it was local–but you know that…”
he was doing everything not to lie to you and still failed.
“i got in about an hour ago, i didn’t want to wake you i guess–sorry… let me help with your back and then i’ll make us something to eat? yeah?”
not exactly the truths you deserved. anything to deter from the fact that he had definitely been home for hours and definitely knew how much you missed him.
“you didn’t want to wake me at nine o'clock on a sunday?”
your brow curved, spencer’s brain perceived that as an obvious message for something along the lines of i know you’re a pervert and now you have to explain yourself in excruciating detail you disgusting dog when he really knew you had only meant it as a tease.
“yes… you like to sleep in.”
how had he circled the conversation back to you again?
“you didn’t want to wake me with a text… so you waited around for an hour and showed up at my door…”
it could be believable, he hoped. there truly was zero method to spencer’s madness over you. nothing had to make sense. it just was. he’d hoped you’d buy it so he would not be sent to the pound with his tail between his legs.
“exactly. i just missed you too much. needed to see you.”
he used his stupid looming-over-you-turned-bending to shove his nose into the crook of your neck and then proceeded to nuzzle himself in the warmth there as a means of disarming you. don’t be fooled by the shine in his eye and the way his arms wrapped your shoulders, he was evil.
you mumbled a curt missed you too into his hair because it worked. you were easy.
“let me fix it now?”
you could feel his teeth against your skin as he spoke, his breath sweltering against your already hot flesh. was this a practice of persuasion? some sort of profiling technique, making you malleable enough to blindly follow what he says without so much of a second thought?
“hmm? fix what?”
you ran your fingers through his messy chestnut hair, two could play at that game, spencer. you could even out the playing field. you scratched his scalp ever so slightly, tips of your fingers worshiping, lulling, until he was just as dazed as you.
he was easy too.
“lemme rub your back for you. get the knot out of your shoulders… please it’ll feel so nice.”
and, fifteen minutes later your face was buried into the same pillow you’d gripped only hours before when you were… thinking of him.
your top half was bare (because spencer swore it was better that way) and you didn’t have it in you to argue with science, or the fact that he had asked you to take your top off in the first place. a simply demure woman.
shirtless face down while spencer’s left thigh cut into the curve of your right ass cheek. he was bony. long a spiraling and so devastatingly climbable and– if this was a ploy to take your mind off the insignificant sting in your shoulder, by making you ridiculously horny, it was absolutely working.
if he moved a good four inches left you were sure you could make something else bony.
you moaned when his thumb dragged over the harsh blade of your shoulder. he was really, really good with his hands. what wasn’t he good at?
the cool metal of the watch he hadn’t removed was a striking temperature against the burning heat of your back, which had been lathered in some warm essential moisturizing oil you rarely touched, that he’d found in the mess of products in your bathroom. because lubrication was important (was everything he said sexual or had your brain already melted?)
his hands were big as they were long. sheer size most definitely spanning across the width of your face with ease, and currently covering large sections of your skin with ease. he practically kneaded your flesh like dough, following a strict stress reducing pattern he’d undoubtedly studied.
if he went just a little bit lower his hands would be on your ass. that was honestly what was keeping the fire between your thighs ablaze. that and his scent. and his voice. and him… come to think of it, spencer had never really touched you there, his hands always seeming to stop just a touch too low on your waist, yet still remaining too high to actually make themselves useful.
maybe he just wasn’t an ass guy.
actually. you’d caught him staring in the reflections of full length mirrors far more than once. you’d spared him his dignity when your eyes had met. you regretted it now as he drained what felt like years of weight off of your shoulders, and sent every electric shock straight to your cunt because he was incapable of achieving perfect domestic boyfriend status without turning you on.
but that was as much your fault as it was his.
back to his hands though. they were good. great even. gold star worthy (you knew he had a praise kink, and you’d use it against him if he wasn’t literally against you… you should be stronger than this.)
his deft fingers traced little beauty marks and blemishes you hardly recognized the existence of. you knew every pattern he found in your skin would be catalogued in the files of his brain, most definitely in his favourites folder.
“feels good, spence.”
that was practically the first time you’d spoken to him since he’d started. you hadn’t even recognized the sound of your own voice. was that even you?
he’d sort of expected you to instruct him where to touch, how much pressure to apply, how fast, how slow. you were demanding (lovingly) and he liked when you told him what to do.
weirdly enough you remained relatively silent throughout the whole process (minus every little open mouthed sigh that was muffled against the growing pile of drool under your chin.)
he had reduced your brain to slop, absolute mush, only senses remaining revolved solely around him and his touch and how you were clenching around nothing and–
“yeah? that’s good. told you, angel.”
why were you worried again? you could’ve sworn you were worried about something.
right. he was acting weird. and also you wanted to fuck him. like right now.
spencer had stopped his endlessly strung together tangent regarding the benefits of back massages, and how they lowered stress and released endorphins and yada yada sexy science crap, loosening tight muscles (could’ve spent his time loosening something tighter) and all of the sudden you were begging him to continue talking.
was it possible to reach climax via posture correction and induced blood circulation? it was, right?
all he could make out were quite little whines which he had assumed were an okay to continue his ministrations. little whines that were definitely not you pleading with him to never stop talking.
wow, covering up an all consuming guilt with a hands-on anatomy lesson for your girlfriend surely proved itself a great diversion technique. way to go spencer!
and then you started rolling over and his brain literally stopped working.
spencer had been compared to a deer before, something about his lanky clumsiness and beautiful big brown eyes (your words, not his.)
and now said comparison was proving itself undyingly correct as he stared at your chest like your pretty nipples, which now consumed the entirety of his view and thoughts, were the headlights of the most beautiful semi truck he’d ever seen.
spencer was lucky that thought was not one that ever left his mind. for the sake of his integrity and your confidence. don’t worry, every girl dreamed of being compared to a gigantic immovable force!
and oh look–he's dead. roadkill flat against the highway. he’d wear the tiremarks like a badge of honour, he’d proudly tell the whole world that his girlfriend’s stunning tits had actually killed him.
he absolutely did not register how stupid he appeared in the moment, or how his jaw had slacked, his mouth was agape, or how you’d said his name.
somewhere between the unheard begs and unchecked pulses between your thighs, you’d had enough. suddenly recalling that all confrontations were short-lived and you were exceptionally good at getting what you needed. (and there was also the months of becoming increasingly insecure about your sex appeal, which probably also contributed something.)
so you flashed him–exposed yourself to him? whatever it was, it obviously caught his attention. seems not every plan had to be meticulously thought through!
“spencer.”
your voice of his name fell on completely deaf ears.
his gaze followed your chest as you sat up, your face was level with the mid section of his frame, and his neck was cranked in a position that most definitely violated his previous lecture regarding the correlation between postural habits and back pain. he did not care. nor did he bother to notice the discomfort in his neck.
your eyes were only slightly, embarrassingly teary, from the sexual frustration or from genuine hurt, you truly didn’t know. but you would simply not allow yourself to reach the low of getting off to a massage because you had literally nothing else to work with.
“are you attracted to me, spencer?”
he wouldn’t have heard your words had they not been so paralyzing. he was both confused and growing red eared (and hard) from his perversion.
before his loose, stupid lips could jumble together a useless string of yes of course, why wouldn’t i be? you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever laid eyes on–you saved him from mortification.
“like physically… sexually. like do i even turn you on?”
the words would’ve landed pervertedly condescending (because he was disgusting) if he hadn’t caught the break in your voice. suddenly his melted brain reformed and flipped the profiling-my-girlfriend switch on. his mind immediately darted to the unsteady beat of your chest and your averting gaze and the way your shoulders collapsed in on yourself and oh god.
he was a horrible boyfriend.
“of course you do–i don’t even… i couldn’t put it into words–what you do to me.”
your scoff came off more as more of a wounded cry than anything. frail and caught in a cruel trap that was your mind and his disregarding actions.
“really? because–well i told myself i was okay with it... but i’m not. i can’t handle being undesirable and i need you so badly and i just don’t understand why you won’t–”
you stopped yourself because you were sure you would’ve literally choked on your own words had you not, and spencer only looked at you like you were all delicate and preciously pitiful until all that you felt was guilt. because how could you ever question his love when he looked at you like that?
i can’t handle being undesirable.
he could live a hundred lives being the best possible version of himself and still remain undeserving of you. undesirable. you were the first thing that he thought of when he woke up and the last thing when he drifted to sleep. he saw you everywhere. in everything.
his entire team knew practically every little detail about you. from the way you scrunched your nose when you read to how you always leaned into him while you slept. all he did was desire you.
he fell to his knees–albeit awkwardly, as if your words had literally stabbed him in the chest, he believed they did. he had said he would bleed for you.
and because he never learnt to articulate his emotions properly, his mouth started moving before his brain could stop it.
“i heard you last night.”
your eyes went unimaginably wide in horror. you spill your guts out to a man and he decides to leave you on the side of the road instead of stitching you up. great.
“and i lied about it because. well because i didn’t want you to know how much it affected me. and–and i know how disgusting it is and i’m so unbelievably guilty at how much i… like it. and i swear. i swear i was going to stop and then you said my name and i just–couldn’t keep my hands off–and i know it’s disgusting and i understand if you want to scream at me… or–or hit me or run away–or even hate me.”
oh.
“you touched yourself to… the sound of me touching myself to you…”
spencer ran a hand through the mess of his hair and squeezed his eyes shut, tightly, fingers pressing into his covered corneas so hard that he prayed he would do irreversible damage to his vision, and would not have to face your repulsed expression.
“yes. i’m sorry.”
spencer spared himself a glance at you, remembered your tits were out and now quite literally in his face, and closed his eyes again.
“then why won’t you… have sex with me?”
“because… i’m scared,”
he breathed hard, making preparations to finally reveal a reality he’d completely hidden from you. from the fear that he was too much, held too much baggage and was too insecure and had too many deep rooted issues to ever truly love.
and with how he’d changed. how he wanted to preserve a version of himself that no longer existed because he couldn’t bear to accept that he had changed into something festering with an unrestorable rot.
that terrified him far more than any dirty confession could ever manage to.
“because. a lot has happened to me. because a lot of bad things have happened to me. I’ve become… bad. and i’m scared that if i indulge in you, i’ll only confirm that i’ve been lost for good. i’m scared i’ll hurt you.”
he hadn’t realized he was crying until your soft hands cleared the blurred lines of his vision and pulled him close to you. his face found the crook of your neck like it always did and you soothed him by carding your fingers through his perfectly tangled hair.
he looked up at you as you cradled his face in your palms.
“there was this unsub. and she–she did things… took advantage of me to gain a psychological upper hand, to hold something over my head. and i did time. because of her. and she made me feel–i had never felt so angry–or violent or… the things i did inside. they’re unfathomable. and when i got out… all i wanted–i wanted to hurt her. i did. she ruined me and now i’m this disgusting visicious–thing that i don’t even recongize. and if i ever hurt you i could never forgive myself–because you are the only good thing in my life and i will never be worthy of having you. i shouldn’t have lied. i should’ve told you what i really was instead of tricking you into loving me. i’m so sorry.”
it was almost too much to process–it practically hit you in the face and stole the air from your lungs. because your boyfriend just spilled a lifetime of traumatic experiences and you were shirtless questioning why he wouldn’t sleep with you.
above all, your heart ached for him in ways you never knew were possible.
“spencer,”
his eyes were searching yours for the inevitable look of shame, disdain, the words of contempt that he knew were tragically bound to spill from your untainted lips.
but none of that came. you only held him closer.
“you’ve spent months showing me exactly who you are. and i will do anything to prove how beautifully kind, and sweet–and gentle you truly are.”
spencer had taught you the importance actions held above all. behaviour spoke louder than anything. there was nothing he could tell you that could ever deter you from his light. not even for a second.
you had never known someone like him. never been graced with something so pure and heavenly. perfect in every nook of imperfection. your love was so undyingly devout you weren’t sure how you would ever be capable of forming it into words.
“i’m sorry if i ever made you felt like your experiences made you less than–and i’ll do anything to show you how much my love transcends anything–everything… spencer you could never. and i mean never scare me away. you’re stuck with me.”
he’d spent so long being terrified of who he’d become, living in a body he couldn’t recognize, that he’d lost sight of the fact that he was still himself.
you’d help him find himself again. because you cared. because you loved him. because he deserved it.
he shied away from you again, the soft curve of his nose meeting the skin of your collar bone. his favourite hiding place. you could feel his smile, the sun peeking out from behind a cloudy sky.
“hey… let me see you.”
you chuckled, watching as he blinked back the last of tears that prickled the sensitive skin surrounding the warm gold of his eyes.
“only if you’re okay with it–ready i mean, i want you to tell me everything. i want to be here for you, spence.”
you watched as his rosy cherub cheeks perked, his lips curved into the most tenderly compassionate smile you ever had the honour of being familiar with as he nodded.
“i think i’d like that.”
you pressed him closer to your bare skin, in the sense of shared proximity and loving intimacy, dragging his willing form up until you pressed a delicate kiss against his lips.
“great! um… would you mind grabbing my shirt now–”
spencer snorted as he rose from your carpeted floor and fetched the garment that had previously been folded with a now practiced precision (because of course he folded it!)
his new found confidence had him feeling rather risqué, and he teased you by pulling it closer to his chest.
“how about we have this conversation under the condition that i get to worship the beauty of your skin beforehand?”
you only rolled your eyes and raised your arms so he could pull the fabric back over your body.
“maybe next time.”
because there absolutely would be a next time.
i remembered that neighbour reader loves sabrina and boom this fic was born! also… i was squealing writing this because!!!! them!!! i love them together so much im sick! yes i skipped far into their established relationship future, and yes, don’t worry, i will absolutely be back tracking!!! i just like needed to write this. ok i love you all!! thank you so much for reading🤍🤍 please reblog if you enjoyed! ^_^
Spencer would love putting you to sleep with his dick
You're either gonna cum or youre gonna doze off, either way youre relaxed and he's happy. Just slow thrusts and kissing your forehead, not even trying to cum, he just wants you to. He might have already, but he's so focused on your soft sighs that he can't remember anything.
And he laughs when he pulls out because you whine as if your eyes aren't shut already, too heavy to open back up
And he'll clean you up and tuck you in before he lays next to you, holding you in whatever position you'd ended up in. And it's all very warm and slow and gentle and he kisses behind your ear before he can doze off, wrapped around you.
Maybe one time you both fell asleep in the middle of it, but the waking up and separating was so uncomfortable and weird that he vowed to never let himself fall asleep before cleaning up.
And if he really can't fall asleep and he gets restless while you do, he'll get a glass of water for you to have ready in the morning, while telling you how much fluid is lost during intercourse so you should really hydrate.
He's happy to wake you up with it, too
woah!
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 CARMEN [s.r.]
— ᨳଓ Pairing: Spencer x Pianist!Reader
⋆˙⟡♡WC: 4k
.✦ ݁˖ Summary: Haunted by his past, Spencer is cynical about love until he crosses paths with a the university’s newly hired Piano player for their orchestra’s pit. Drawn into her world, he begins to open up—only to face a devastating heartbreak that upends their lives and pushes them both down an entirely new, unpredictable path.
⊹܀˙CW: Spencer’s focalization, MINORS DNI!!!, smut, Age-gap, Blowjob, 69, P in v, dacryphillic tone, Breeding!Kink, your favorite character isn't perfect and is still a man, Bisexual!Spencer, use of "good girl" and "atta girl," no use of y/n, Fem!Reader, AFAB reader descs, mentions of drugs and death.
♪‧₊˚A/N: Back from an unnecessarily long hiatus my bad guys. I hope you like this one bai
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋
⤷ ゛Spencer ˎˊ˗ hates pretty girls. Well, not literally anyway. More in a… sort of perverted way. As a profiler, he knows it's because of childhood development. Girls never looked his way because he was 12 years old and in high school and 14 years old at Caltech. The ones he liked were always older, and he’s only just figured out what to do with his hair. There's always been this feeling he’s never known but always craved.
He wasn't fully sure then, but he assumed it was some sort of kinky thing. But ironically, whatever it is, he got farther away from it when he had sex.
It didn’t help that he only started casually having it during his addiction. It wasn’t that he hated being...dominated all the time; it's just he never felt completely safe or comfortable whenever he did it with a particularly beautiful woman. That's why he used to prefer fucking guys because he liked being dominant and they didn't pigeonhole him into being a sobbing, overstimulated “Please Mommy” character he always used to be whenever a pretty woman took him home.
Morgan says that he's acting like a chick, but Spencer knows it’s because sometimes it makes him feel like he’s on the goal post again, naked, tricked by Alexa Lisbon, the prettiest girl at his high school. So when he became a professor and met you, some pianist for the university’s pit for their musical, he felt the same. Resentful. But he would watch you walk to your car through his office window at dusk every day.
He’d make up stories about you in his head: She probably grew up with two parents in the home, enough money for lessons. Private school. Lives her life in the clouds because that's where angels like you naturally reside. He knew he was being unfair because he hadn’t actually met you yet. He’d wonder how your first meeting would be if you guys had one.
Whenever he thought about you, he would think about murder. The way the men he’d catch at the BAU would tie you up. Or drown you. Bury you in, I don’t know—multicolor aquarium pebbles because of some sick niche fascination a freak developed through trauma. By just walking around and existing as yourself, Spencer felt as if you were foolish.
He knows that it was his misogyny talking and that it was pathetic to think that he was your protector by just watching you all the time, but he couldn’t help it. As much as he envied your radiance, he wanted to make you his more than anything.
Once you’d brush him off with a nice to meet you, you'd then scan the room to find a more interesting, more influential person to try to network with. He’d then bring up his 3 degrees and watch your jaw drop. Ohhh, how he’d love to imagine your jaw dropping and then taking him, all of him. He couldn’t stand women like you. Respected, nice enough to get somewhere in the world, easily laughable, carefree, and oh so beautiful. It killed him inside because he felt so immediately vulnerable with them. It felt like you were manipulating him when you probably hadn’t even noticed him before—
“Excuse me,” a voice called from behind him in the parking lot. Footsteps? No, heels against concrete echo behind him. They’re getting closer. He turns around, and it's you. Finally, it's you.
“You dropped this.” You smile at him. It's happening again to him. He fights the feeling of his head lolling backwards like the first time he tried Dilaudid, slumped, and you’ve said five words to him. His wallet is in your hand, but that's the third thing he looks at. First, it’s your beautifully manicured nails, then it's your clunky, completely childish Star Wars watch on your wrist. The laughter drums out of his lungs, like a deranged lunatic. He knew that he’d got it all wrong in that moment. He was yours. And that he would be for a long time, if not forever.
“You always treat me like I’m some dumb baby! Well, I'm not Spencer; I’m a grown-ass woman.” You’d yelled at him during your first fight. Before you guys had ever fucked. It’s true he babied you. How could he not? He adored everything about you. Even in that moment, your lips were in this cute pout, and your arms were tossed open, giving him a perfect view of your pretty tits.
“I know," he responded, his voice crackly and quiet. “I’m sorry, baby—honey." He corrected himself as the phrasing seemed inappropriate at the moment.
“I get that there is a major difference between us because of how young I am and how you’re older than me, but I can handle myself. I don’t need your money, and I don’t need ‘sorry’ gifts. I need you to change. Stop canceling dates last minute for cases. Just… don't make them or break up with me if you don't have the time.” Then you started to cry. Spencer stepped closer, holding your face in his hands, kissing where your tears fell on your cheeks. “I could never leave you, honey; I’m sorry.”
“You want me to treat you like a grown-ass woman? Fine.” He’d said, slapping his cock on your face before grabbing the back of your head and shoving your mouth towards his balls as he pumped his hand up and down his cock. You started kissing them before inhaling deeply.
“You’re so fucking disgusting,” he whispered as he began rubbing his tip on your plush lips, smearing precum on your mouth and chin before you opened your mouth, taking him all the way until you gagged.
“Oh,” he sighed, tutting. “Look at you, pretty. All drooling and fucked out, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” You begin bobbing your head on his dick, your drool pooling out the corners of your mouth and bubbling & everything before you'd pull back on it and swirl your tongue on the head.
“Awhh are you tired, slut? ‘S it too big? Want me to help you, gorgeous? Here,” Spencer’s hands took fistfuls of your hair, and he started humping your face, face-fucking you.
“I know it's a lot, honey, but since you're such a big girl now—mhm, fuck. And wanna give head, You can take it, yeah?" He feels your mouth widen while your lips still slurp around his dick, the back of your throat widening. Spencer shudders from pleasure. “Atta girl, fuck—" he breathed. “You’re gonna make me come. Ah, you’re so good; you’re such a good girl,” he moaned, his eyes falling to your hips that were grinding into the floor. “Do you want me to make you feel good while you suck me off, baby?” He pulled you off his dick so you could speak. You nodded.
“I need a yes or no, baby; use your words.” “Yes,” you said, grabbing his cock and kissing the tip before rubbing your lips up the side of his shaft. Spencer’s eyes screw shut, and his jaw drops. He thought back to those bitter days alone in the office and laughed to himself. You switched it around and won again. Licking a fat strip from his base to his tip brings him back, wincing. "Fuck—sit on my face, please." Spencer helped you stand up, kissing you before walking both of you backwards towards the bed.
“Put your full weight on me, sweetheart,” he breathed, frustrated with you practically hovering your hips over his face, taunting him. You hesitantly lowered your ass to his mouth while leaning forward to suck his dick.
His big hands hooked around your hips, pulling you down so he could lap at your pussy even deeper. Both of your hands pumped up and down the rest of his cock that couldn’t fit in your mouth; he had sucked harshly at your clit. As his tip hit the back of your throat, you moaned around it, the vibrations of your voice making him jerk his hips and quicken the pace of his licking. At this point, Spencer was making out with your pussy, hands roaming your ass, before a deafening smack cracked through the lewd sound of slurping and whining. The pinpricked stinging your skin made you clench around nothing and turned your blowjob into more of a lazy handjob featuring a couple of kitten licks.
It wasn’t a question of whether the neighbors could hear you; it was a question of whether they could make sense of your non-intelligible babbling or not.
"Spence—oh my godd— 's too much, please, please," you’d cut yourself off with a wanton moan that could only be successfully mimicked if someone experienced Spencer’s mouth on them.
Spencer's flattened tongue finds your syrupy opening and laps at your cunt. He loved you before then, but finally tasting you… God. He’s got a PhD and 3 BAs, but he’s never been so devoted to something—someone—before.
He needed you so bad it felt like every grain of his worldly flesh was on fire. Spencer has never been religious, especially due to the card he was dealt growing up, but how could he not have been in that moment, nourished by ambrosial nectar and kneeled on by a goddess? He moaned into your pussy as you started to cry from overstimulation, which only worsened his need for you.
You were even more beautiful when you cried. He could imagine your face now, your plush lips in a cute pout, your entire face flushed with your eyes screwed shut, brows pinched together. He slurped at you again, humming contentedly as you ran down his chin.
You hiccuped his name, still running your hand up and down his cock, index finger teasing his tip as your drool dripped down from your bottom lip to his balls.
Not even Moses, standing at the threshold of the Red Sea, had felt reverence at this intensity before. Your body felt red hot against his hand, like how sustained violins played with freshly rosined bows hit your ears.
Callused hands found fistfuls of fat on your ass as you regained your senses and started sucking on the head of his dick, whining, spit bubbling around his dick.
He started sloppily fucking your fist, your hand tightening around his shaft as he throbbed in your hand and circled your clit with his tongue.
His. You were his. Your sobs, the rasp in your voice from his cock being stuffed down your throat, and your sweet weeping cunt parked on his fucking face. His his his his.
He wished he could have talked you through it. Told you that you were his pretty, sweet girl that tastes so good. But he was focused. His hands massaged your ass, thighs twitching and shaking, and you were about to come again.
“Ohh baby sosogood'mclose”
He’d wanted to smile at your incoherence, but he was on a mission, his hands now spreading your ass cheeks apart, swiveling his head in a transient figure 8, wrecking you on his tongue. More tears welled in your eyes as the slippery feeling of Spencer's wet, hot mouth, his tongue pushing between and sucking at your cunt, got to you.
Your body writhed in ecstasy, shoulders wracked with sobs as your pussy gushed on Spencer's face. He softly licked at your swollen, puffy petals as your desperate hips rolled against his face.
It’d been three years since the two of you had broken up. You’d gone through two boyfriends since Spencer ended things via letter. A culmination of fights over the same things he promised to change. He decided to cut his poor, pretty woman loose after he had to cancel a double date because ‘the enucleator claimed another victim across state lines’ so he’d embarrassed you in front of your work friend. You’d gone to a bar after being stood up, where you ran into your ex. He didn’t know what happened after your meeting, and he never wanted to know, so he simply broke up with you to avoid finding out, leaving the apartment you shared and all his belongings there. Went on sabbatical at the BAU, too.
Spencer had mourned your essence, beauty, jokes, and smile every day since. Even though he was the one who ended it, he felt as if he were just excommunicated from his awaiting him, engraved by a medieval manufacturer that coincidentally shares a name with you, glaring against the sun.
You were his biggest mistake that he ruminated over until its hippocampus rotted out his skull and its necrotic flesh cannibalized itself before metabolizing in his bones. His eidetic memory had never been crueler; he saw you everywhere, in everything.
You ruined his life.
The only warmth he’d known since you was his right hand. He hadn’t even dared to try with another. He knew that any man or woman who dared to be your runner-up would be met with flaccid indifference. And his heart ached so sourly beneath his ribs that he could barely get up in the morning for work, let alone seek flesh to please him or another love to paralyze him while he was still reeling from the last one. He couldn’t think of how you reacted when you got the letter, what you're doing now, or what you'd say if you went back. Until.
One day after work, his legs propelled him away from his new front door and towards his car that he hadn’t warmed up in three months. He drove and drove as chilled pebbles from the sky cascaded from the ether onto the hood of his car and his windshield.
As he drove up a familiar hill, the hail turned into rain. Rain that dowsed him as he stepped out of his vintage Volvo. And he trekked up familiar stairs.
Violins started again with each watery step he took into the blue night. The freezing water seeping into his Converse, soaking the edge of his pants that flood him since you're not there to hem them anymore.
Until he's at the door. He wants to knock, but he feels as if he were a phantom that would noclip through the door and see something he wouldn’t want to see if he tried. You against the wall, the strap of your favorite nightgown slipping off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your warm breasts to the cool air and the delicate swan-like curve of your neck to his chaste kisses. Or someone else's.
He knocks. No answer. He knocks again and again.
“Baby, please," he says to himself, completely blinded by lovesickness and longing to feel your warmth again.
He runs his hands against the ice-cold doorknob. He envied a doorknob. Then your car seat and the curtains in your once-shared bedroom that get drawn whenever you change. He stares blankly at the door until—
He sees you abstracted by the glass of the front door. It swung open, and, by God, there you are.
Candy apple red dress on. Tight, hair cascading down in those pretty waves you’d do whenever you had a concert. He drinks in the sight of you. And your face. Jaw dropped, the way he likes, gobsmacked.
“What are you doing here?” You say, breathless.
You’re not quite eye level with him, but you’re close. He looks down. You're wearing pretty strappy heels. Sexy. You look sexy. But for who? He wanted to cry at the thought.
“I miss you." His voice croaked out, almost drowned out by the buckets being poured out from above.
You look away from the door, expression hard and unreadable. “You left me,” you say, quietly.
His ears are ringing at the sound of your voice.
“I know.” Is all he can say. Soaked. His hair, glued to his face by the rain.
“So why are you here? " You look up at him. You do your makeup a little differently now; your hair is a shade darker too. But you still look like his baby that he was stupid enough to walk away from out of pride.
“Because I love you. And I'm a fool for ever leaving you.”
You look down again before taking a step closer to him. He can smell your perfume. He got it for you for your second anniversary, sending a thrill through his body and blood straight to his
“Fuck you.”
“Honey, please," his voice cracks. You fold your arms.
“I have places to be, Spencer.” You huff, trying your best to keep your voice steady.
He falls to his knees and begins to cry, pathetically grasping at the fabric of your dress.
“Don’t go. I'm sorry—please, you have no idea… I’ve thought about you every day…every second.”
“Get up.” You say dryly.
“I can’t. I walked away from you once; I won't ever do it again. I love you and I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, baby; please forgive me. It was cruel of me to leave you over something so insignificant after all the times I left you alone... by yourself—" He wipes his face with your dress, hiccuping and gasping for air as he cries. He looked up at you with puppy-like, watery eyes and a sniffling pink nose.
“You just wanted to spend time with me, love me, and I—took your love for granted and left you because I felt discarded for a moment when I had been making you feel that way for years, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” He wipes his running nose on the back of his hand.
“I don’t deserve you. I'm sorry, my love, my beautiful girl. I let you down and left you. But I promise, honey—I—I’ve changed. I won’t ever… ever make you feel that way again.”
You wipe away a tear you didn’t realize fell from your eyes before your hand finds his hair. “I love you so much." He sobs when he feels your touch before bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it.
“I promise, please give me another chance… please," sniff. "I'm sorry."
“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Spencer's dick hit your cervix. Your hands find Spencer's shoulders, freshly curled hair haloed around your head as your mouth hangs open. "Ngh—oh my goddd, you’re so big," you groan, Spencer's forehead against yours. “It’s okay, I’ll make it fit, baby…” he reassures you, brushing hair away from your face. “Missed me, didn't you, pretty…hm?” moan. He’s not talking to you; he’s talking to your cunt. "I missed you, sweetheart," he whispers reverently, grabbing your face and angling it so he could lick from your clavicle to your jaw. "Mmm, and how you taste ‘nd how you shiver against my touchy ‘n–” one of his hands squishes your breasts. “These pretty heavy tits. Made to fit in my hands, God—" Spencer cuts himself off with a cymbal as you clench around him, which only makes his hips roll into yours faster.
“Nobody makes me feel like you do, Spencer," you whisper.
“Fuck! Say my name again, honey—....pleasepleasples”
“I love you, Spencer.”
“Does that big dick feel good, princess? Are you gonna cum on it?” He teases. You nod, but Spencer cranes your head to look down at you getting fucked by him. The burning knot in your stomach starts to build as Spencer whines in your ear.
“Y-you looked so pretty in that dress, wearing the perfume I bought you… Mmm, you like watching me fuck you like this?”
“I love fucking you raw."
Spencer shudders when you say that, taking a deep breath.
“Keep saying shit like that and I'm gonna hold you down and breed you."
“You feel so s’good raw I don't even care," you moan, running your hands down the side of his face, palms prickled by his slightly grown-out facial hair. He stares into your eyes, vision unfocused, brows pinched together, mouth agape, completely pussy-drunk and hanging on your every word.
“You won’ be m-mad if I come inside you?? Make you take this dick and fill you up with my cum?? No???” He asks, breathless.
You look at him, eyes half-lidded and dark, smirking as you wrap your legs around his waist.
He looks down at him fucking you before he meets your eyes again, his brows furrowed.
Spencer pulls all the way out, then pushes back in as far as he can, feeding you rough, deep strokes. You choke out a sob as he hits that gummy spot inside of you that turns you into liquid.
“Are you gonna cry for me like you used to, angel?” moan “As I get you pregnant and fucking mate you like a bitch in heat?” He huffs, breathing heavily as you moan in response. “Miss me that bad that you wanna make up for lost time by giving me babies, huh, gorgeous?” Plap, plap, plap. “Fuck, I'm so close. I'm going to give you what you want. I’ll give you everything that you want.”
‘Iloveyous’much” you whine as you come undone on his cock, clenching down and creaming on his fat dick.
Stars dance in your bleary vision as Spencer lets out a wanton moan from his diaphragm, hot, seedy ropes of his come shooting into your pussy.
Both of you are heaving as Spencer pulls out. He plants a chaste but loving kiss on your forehead before you scootch up on the bed to kiss him on the lips, both of your hands finding the sides of his face. Spencer sighs, melting into your touch. The happiest he thinks he’s ever been.
The next morning Spencer wakes with you not by his side, terrified. Until he hears piano keys, a sustained melody pouring in from the living room. He shoots out of bed to find you, but he quiets his footsteps as he hears you begin to sing. His footsteps softly pad into the archway of the living room, watching you just from out of sight, behind you. The toaster springs up two cinna-strudle cream cheese pastries, the ones he introduced you to after your first grocery store shop together after you moved in. Your voice is as soft as chiffon but sweet and piercing, like a siren's. You weren’t trying to sound good, but you just… did, only singing the words to help keep the melody of the song:
Mon amour, je sais que tu m'aimes aussi. Tu as besoin de moi, tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie. Tu ne peux vivre sans moi. Et je mourrais sans toi. Je tuerais pour toi
Or according to Spencer’s sleepy translation:
My love, I know you love me too. You need me, you need me in your life. You can't live without me. And I would die without you. I would kill for you.
Spencer walks up behind you; you turn around on the piano bench, startled by the creaking of floorboards under the weight of his steps.
“Spencer! God—" You laugh breathlessly. “What's your problem? You scared me…Jesus."
You giggled. He could shed a tear.
He did actually, and he fell to his knees, resting his head in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist.
“Oh–okay.” You laugh again. "Someone's clingy this morning.”
Spencer buries his face into your thighs, leaving sleepy kisses near your hips as your fingers raked through his mousy brown curls.
“I love you,” he says, his voice wrecked from the night before. He picks his head up from your lap when you stop petting him. You press a kiss into his cheek, holding his face in your hands.
“I love you too, baby.”
self-reblog :3
Calling The 3D Old Keeps It Old
Like??? I thought everybody already knew by now that calling your 3d old makes no sense. Everything is now. So if everything is now, how can your 3d be old? I feel like people always say this so others can feel validated about “not having” their manifestations but the only time you don’t have it is when you say you don’t. That’s why the “ignore the 3d” bullshit irritates me. If I already have what I wanted, what the fuck do I have to ignore??? If I want someone to propose to me and they do, do I ignore it because I want to be proposed to?? Read that again. Are you gonna ignore what you manifested because you want to manifest it? No. You are going to acknowledge you have it already so that's what you do now since you do. There is no time delay. There is no purge and there is no fuckass bridge of events. You either have something or you don’t. You’re either a tight pumpum gyal or you’re not. You are either rich as fuck or broke as dirt. It’s all up to you and what you choose to tell yourself. Manifesting isn’t a journey, it’s deciding. You decide something once and it’s done. No if ands or buts about it. There is nothing for you to force because it already done ugh omg. If you think the 3d is old, that’s all it’s ever gonna show you. You can’t be surprised if the illusion tells you you don’t have something when that’s what you keep repeating over and over. It’s done, it’s here and it’s now omg shut uppp.
credit to @uzmacchiato for the insane dividers
hope yall know
a bryce fic is prolly coming ur way
the spirit of art donaldson possessed him
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ soundgasm links ࿓
ᵎ!ᵎ a/n: minors DNI, a collection of m4f audios i like, i can post more if you like pink links are my favsᝰ.ᐟ
⌗ 𝟷 [M4F] Edging Me and Forcing Me — [ASMR] [msub] [whimpers] [moans] [begging] [mommy] [real orgasm] [soft voice] [long as heck, wow]
⌗ 𝟸 [M4F] Your Best Friend Helps You Get Over Your Ex — [MDom] [Friends to Lovers] [Isolated Cabin] [Size Difference] [Nipple Play] [Spit Play] [Blowjob] [Dick Slaps] [Multiple Speaker Orgasms] [Good Girl] [Standing Sex] [Spanking] [Pussy Slaps] [Creampie] [Mating Press] [Aftercare]
⌗ 𝟹 [MM4F] Let Your Roommates Help You Relax — You get home from an exhausting day only to realize that you forgot to charge your vibrator. Your roommates come to check on you and see if they can help, and you certainly have something you can think of that would help.
⌗ 𝟺 Shower Isn’t Over Until Bakugo Cums — After a brutal sparring session, you slip into the showers alone… but Bakugo follows — and doesn’t leave. What starts as teasing turns into a full-blown power trip. He fingers you until your legs give out, fucks you through overstimulation, and refuses to finish until you’re broken open and full of him. Shower walls shake. Steam fogs. You’re not done until he says so.
⌗ 𝟻 [M4F] Making a Deal with Your Best Friend's Younger Brother
⌗ 𝟼 Finally Fucking Your Feral Best Friend [M4F] — [script fill] [FERAL] [friends to lovers] [mdom] [fsub] [down BAD] [extremely needy] [desperate] [built up tension] [clothes ripping] [panty stealing] [blowjob] [cunnilingus] [choking] [spit in mouth] [mating press] [creampie]
⌗ 𝟽 Revenge is Making Him Call You Mommy — this one was my shit!!
⌗ 𝟾 [M4F] Making your academic rival your good boy — [Msub] [Rivals to Lovers] [Why did you kiss me?] [Bratty] [Cocky] [I'm your good boy] [Mommy] [I need you] [Begging] [Whimpering] [Oral] [You taste so good] [Slapping] [Covering my mouth] [Choking] [I'll keep my glasses on] [Restrained by tie] [Riding] [Improv]
⌗ 𝟿 [M4F]Obsessed best friend fucks you hard, then you turn the tables — [Shy] to [Mdom to Msub]] so [good girl] then [good boy]speaker receives[choking] and [slapping][roommates][heavy breathing][multiple positions][obsessive]
⌗ 𝟷𝟶 [MM4F] A Lesson In Slut Theory — [Friends to FWB] [Threesome] [Mdom] x2 [Sharing Scandalous Stories] Lots of [Degradation] & [Praise] [Handjobs] [Blowjobs] [Taking Turns] [Cunnilingus] [Spitroasted] [Rough Sex] [Spanking] [Multiple Listener Orgasms] [Mutual Orgasms] [Aftercare] You can tell us anything, honey~
debs the only girl who gets me fr
COWBOY TOJIII
Hello another toji art I promise next one is gojo or geto or maybe them both I don’t know yet!!
Ouuu SHITTTT
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 CARMEN [s.r.]
— ᨳଓ Pairing: Spencer x Pianist!Reader
⋆˙⟡♡WC: 4k
.✦ ݁˖ Summary: Haunted by his past, Spencer is cynical about love until he crosses paths with a the university’s newly hired Piano player for their orchestra’s pit. Drawn into her world, he begins to open up—only to face a devastating heartbreak that upends their lives and pushes them both down an entirely new, unpredictable path.
⊹܀˙CW: Spencer’s focalization, MINORS DNI!!!, smut, Age-gap, Blowjob, 69, P in v, dacryphillic tone, Breeding!Kink, your favorite character isn't perfect and is still a man, Bisexual!Spencer, use of "good girl" and "atta girl," no use of y/n, Fem!Reader, AFAB reader descs, mentions of drugs and death.
♪‧₊˚A/N: Back from an unnecessarily long hiatus my bad guys. I hope you like this one bai
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋
⤷ ゛Spencer ˎˊ˗ hates pretty girls. Well, not literally anyway. More in a… sort of perverted way. As a profiler, he knows it's because of childhood development. Girls never looked his way because he was 12 years old and in high school and 14 years old at Caltech. The ones he liked were always older, and he’s only just figured out what to do with his hair. There's always been this feeling he’s never known but always craved.
He wasn't fully sure then, but he assumed it was some sort of kinky thing. But ironically, whatever it is, he got farther away from it when he had sex.
It didn’t help that he only started casually having it during his addiction. It wasn’t that he hated being...dominated all the time; it's just he never felt completely safe or comfortable whenever he did it with a particularly beautiful woman. That's why he used to prefer fucking guys because he liked being dominant and they didn't pigeonhole him into being a sobbing, overstimulated “Please Mommy” character he always used to be whenever a pretty woman took him home.
Morgan says that he's acting like a chick, but Spencer knows it’s because sometimes it makes him feel like he’s on the goal post again, naked, tricked by Alexa Lisbon, the prettiest girl at his high school. So when he became a professor and met you, some pianist for the university’s pit for their musical, he felt the same. Resentful. But he would watch you walk to your car through his office window at dusk every day.
He’d make up stories about you in his head: She probably grew up with two parents in the home, enough money for lessons. Private school. Lives her life in the clouds because that's where angels like you naturally reside. He knew he was being unfair because he hadn’t actually met you yet. He’d wonder how your first meeting would be if you guys had one.
Whenever he thought about you, he would think about murder. The way the men he’d catch at the BAU would tie you up. Or drown you. Bury you in, I don’t know—multicolor aquarium pebbles because of some sick niche fascination a freak developed through trauma. By just walking around and existing as yourself, Spencer felt as if you were foolish.
He knows that it was his misogyny talking and that it was pathetic to think that he was your protector by just watching you all the time, but he couldn’t help it. As much as he envied your radiance, he wanted to make you his more than anything.
Once you’d brush him off with a nice to meet you, you'd then scan the room to find a more interesting, more influential person to try to network with. He’d then bring up his 3 degrees and watch your jaw drop. Ohhh, how he’d love to imagine your jaw dropping and then taking him, all of him. He couldn’t stand women like you. Respected, nice enough to get somewhere in the world, easily laughable, carefree, and oh so beautiful. It killed him inside because he felt so immediately vulnerable with them. It felt like you were manipulating him when you probably hadn’t even noticed him before—
“Excuse me,” a voice called from behind him in the parking lot. Footsteps? No, heels against concrete echo behind him. They’re getting closer. He turns around, and it's you. Finally, it's you.
“You dropped this.” You smile at him. It's happening again to him. He fights the feeling of his head lolling backwards like the first time he tried Dilaudid, slumped, and you’ve said five words to him. His wallet is in your hand, but that's the third thing he looks at. First, it’s your beautifully manicured nails, then it's your clunky, completely childish Star Wars watch on your wrist. The laughter drums out of his lungs, like a deranged lunatic. He knew that he’d got it all wrong in that moment. He was yours. And that he would be for a long time, if not forever.
“You always treat me like I’m some dumb baby! Well, I'm not Spencer; I’m a grown-ass woman.” You’d yelled at him during your first fight. Before you guys had ever fucked. It’s true he babied you. How could he not? He adored everything about you. Even in that moment, your lips were in this cute pout, and your arms were tossed open, giving him a perfect view of your pretty tits.
“I know," he responded, his voice crackly and quiet. “I’m sorry, baby—honey." He corrected himself as the phrasing seemed inappropriate at the moment.
“I get that there is a major difference between us because of how young I am and how you’re older than me, but I can handle myself. I don’t need your money, and I don’t need ‘sorry’ gifts. I need you to change. Stop canceling dates last minute for cases. Just… don't make them or break up with me if you don't have the time.” Then you started to cry. Spencer stepped closer, holding your face in his hands, kissing where your tears fell on your cheeks. “I could never leave you, honey; I’m sorry.”
“You want me to treat you like a grown-ass woman? Fine.” He’d said, slapping his cock on your face before grabbing the back of your head and shoving your mouth towards his balls as he pumped his hand up and down his cock. You started kissing them before inhaling deeply.
“You’re so fucking disgusting,” he whispered as he began rubbing his tip on your plush lips, smearing precum on your mouth and chin before you opened your mouth, taking him all the way until you gagged.
“Oh,” he sighed, tutting. “Look at you, pretty. All drooling and fucked out, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” You begin bobbing your head on his dick, your drool pooling out the corners of your mouth and bubbling & everything before you'd pull back on it and swirl your tongue on the head.
“Awhh are you tired, slut? ‘S it too big? Want me to help you, gorgeous? Here,” Spencer’s hands took fistfuls of your hair, and he started humping your face, face-fucking you.
“I know it's a lot, honey, but since you're such a big girl now—mhm, fuck. And wanna give head, You can take it, yeah?" He feels your mouth widen while your lips still slurp around his dick, the back of your throat widening. Spencer shudders from pleasure. “Atta girl, fuck—" he breathed. “You’re gonna make me come. Ah, you’re so good; you’re such a good girl,” he moaned, his eyes falling to your hips that were grinding into the floor. “Do you want me to make you feel good while you suck me off, baby?” He pulled you off his dick so you could speak. You nodded.
“I need a yes or no, baby; use your words.” “Yes,” you said, grabbing his cock and kissing the tip before rubbing your lips up the side of his shaft. Spencer’s eyes screw shut, and his jaw drops. He thought back to those bitter days alone in the office and laughed to himself. You switched it around and won again. Licking a fat strip from his base to his tip brings him back, wincing. "Fuck—sit on my face, please." Spencer helped you stand up, kissing you before walking both of you backwards towards the bed.
“Put your full weight on me, sweetheart,” he breathed, frustrated with you practically hovering your hips over his face, taunting him. You hesitantly lowered your ass to his mouth while leaning forward to suck his dick.
His big hands hooked around your hips, pulling you down so he could lap at your pussy even deeper. Both of your hands pumped up and down the rest of his cock that couldn’t fit in your mouth; he had sucked harshly at your clit. As his tip hit the back of your throat, you moaned around it, the vibrations of your voice making him jerk his hips and quicken the pace of his licking. At this point, Spencer was making out with your pussy, hands roaming your ass, before a deafening smack cracked through the lewd sound of slurping and whining. The pinpricked stinging your skin made you clench around nothing and turned your blowjob into more of a lazy handjob featuring a couple of kitten licks.
It wasn’t a question of whether the neighbors could hear you; it was a question of whether they could make sense of your non-intelligible babbling or not.
"Spence—oh my godd— 's too much, please, please," you’d cut yourself off with a wanton moan that could only be successfully mimicked if someone experienced Spencer’s mouth on them.
Spencer's flattened tongue finds your syrupy opening and laps at your cunt. He loved you before then, but finally tasting you… God. He’s got a PhD and 3 BAs, but he’s never been so devoted to something—someone—before.
He needed you so bad it felt like every grain of his worldly flesh was on fire. Spencer has never been religious, especially due to the card he was dealt growing up, but how could he not have been in that moment, nourished by ambrosial nectar and kneeled on by a goddess? He moaned into your pussy as you started to cry from overstimulation, which only worsened his need for you.
You were even more beautiful when you cried. He could imagine your face now, your plush lips in a cute pout, your entire face flushed with your eyes screwed shut, brows pinched together. He slurped at you again, humming contentedly as you ran down his chin.
You hiccuped his name, still running your hand up and down his cock, index finger teasing his tip as your drool dripped down from your bottom lip to his balls.
Not even Moses, standing at the threshold of the Red Sea, had felt reverence at this intensity before. Your body felt red hot against his hand, like how sustained violins played with freshly rosined bows hit your ears.
Callused hands found fistfuls of fat on your ass as you regained your senses and started sucking on the head of his dick, whining, spit bubbling around his dick.
He started sloppily fucking your fist, your hand tightening around his shaft as he throbbed in your hand and circled your clit with his tongue.
His. You were his. Your sobs, the rasp in your voice from his cock being stuffed down your throat, and your sweet weeping cunt parked on his fucking face. His his his his.
He wished he could have talked you through it. Told you that you were his pretty, sweet girl that tastes so good. But he was focused. His hands massaged your ass, thighs twitching and shaking, and you were about to come again.
“Ohh baby sosogood'mclose”
He’d wanted to smile at your incoherence, but he was on a mission, his hands now spreading your ass cheeks apart, swiveling his head in a transient figure 8, wrecking you on his tongue. More tears welled in your eyes as the slippery feeling of Spencer's wet, hot mouth, his tongue pushing between and sucking at your cunt, got to you.
Your body writhed in ecstasy, shoulders wracked with sobs as your pussy gushed on Spencer's face. He softly licked at your swollen, puffy petals as your desperate hips rolled against his face.
It’d been three years since the two of you had broken up. You’d gone through two boyfriends since Spencer ended things via letter. A culmination of fights over the same things he promised to change. He decided to cut his poor, pretty woman loose after he had to cancel a double date because ‘the enucleator claimed another victim across state lines’ so he’d embarrassed you in front of your work friend. You’d gone to a bar after being stood up, where you ran into your ex. He didn’t know what happened after your meeting, and he never wanted to know, so he simply broke up with you to avoid finding out, leaving the apartment you shared and all his belongings there. Went on sabbatical at the BAU, too.
Spencer had mourned your essence, beauty, jokes, and smile every day since. Even though he was the one who ended it, he felt as if he were just excommunicated from his awaiting him, engraved by a medieval manufacturer that coincidentally shares a name with you, glaring against the sun.
You were his biggest mistake that he ruminated over until its hippocampus rotted out his skull and its necrotic flesh cannibalized itself before metabolizing in his bones. His eidetic memory had never been crueler; he saw you everywhere, in everything.
You ruined his life.
The only warmth he’d known since you was his right hand. He hadn’t even dared to try with another. He knew that any man or woman who dared to be your runner-up would be met with flaccid indifference. And his heart ached so sourly beneath his ribs that he could barely get up in the morning for work, let alone seek flesh to please him or another love to paralyze him while he was still reeling from the last one. He couldn’t think of how you reacted when you got the letter, what you're doing now, or what you'd say if you went back. Until.
One day after work, his legs propelled him away from his new front door and towards his car that he hadn’t warmed up in three months. He drove and drove as chilled pebbles from the sky cascaded from the ether onto the hood of his car and his windshield.
As he drove up a familiar hill, the hail turned into rain. Rain that dowsed him as he stepped out of his vintage Volvo. And he trekked up familiar stairs.
Violins started again with each watery step he took into the blue night. The freezing water seeping into his Converse, soaking the edge of his pants that flood him since you're not there to hem them anymore.
Until he's at the door. He wants to knock, but he feels as if he were a phantom that would noclip through the door and see something he wouldn’t want to see if he tried. You against the wall, the strap of your favorite nightgown slipping off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your warm breasts to the cool air and the delicate swan-like curve of your neck to his chaste kisses. Or someone else's.
He knocks. No answer. He knocks again and again.
“Baby, please," he says to himself, completely blinded by lovesickness and longing to feel your warmth again.
He runs his hands against the ice-cold doorknob. He envied a doorknob. Then your car seat and the curtains in your once-shared bedroom that get drawn whenever you change. He stares blankly at the door until—
He sees you abstracted by the glass of the front door. It swung open, and, by God, there you are.
Candy apple red dress on. Tight, hair cascading down in those pretty waves you’d do whenever you had a concert. He drinks in the sight of you. And your face. Jaw dropped, the way he likes, gobsmacked.
“What are you doing here?” You say, breathless.
You’re not quite eye level with him, but you’re close. He looks down. You're wearing pretty strappy heels. Sexy. You look sexy. But for who? He wanted to cry at the thought.
“I miss you." His voice croaked out, almost drowned out by the buckets being poured out from above.
You look away from the door, expression hard and unreadable. “You left me,” you say, quietly.
His ears are ringing at the sound of your voice.
“I know.” Is all he can say. Soaked. His hair, glued to his face by the rain.
“So why are you here? " You look up at him. You do your makeup a little differently now; your hair is a shade darker too. But you still look like his baby that he was stupid enough to walk away from out of pride.
“Because I love you. And I'm a fool for ever leaving you.”
You look down again before taking a step closer to him. He can smell your perfume. He got it for you for your second anniversary, sending a thrill through his body and blood straight to his
“Fuck you.”
“Honey, please," his voice cracks. You fold your arms.
“I have places to be, Spencer.” You huff, trying your best to keep your voice steady.
He falls to his knees and begins to cry, pathetically grasping at the fabric of your dress.
“Don’t go. I'm sorry—please, you have no idea… I’ve thought about you every day…every second.”
“Get up.” You say dryly.
“I can’t. I walked away from you once; I won't ever do it again. I love you and I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, baby; please forgive me. It was cruel of me to leave you over something so insignificant after all the times I left you alone... by yourself—" He wipes his face with your dress, hiccuping and gasping for air as he cries. He looked up at you with puppy-like, watery eyes and a sniffling pink nose.
“You just wanted to spend time with me, love me, and I—took your love for granted and left you because I felt discarded for a moment when I had been making you feel that way for years, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” He wipes his running nose on the back of his hand.
“I don’t deserve you. I'm sorry, my love, my beautiful girl. I let you down and left you. But I promise, honey—I—I’ve changed. I won’t ever… ever make you feel that way again.”
You wipe away a tear you didn’t realize fell from your eyes before your hand finds his hair. “I love you so much." He sobs when he feels your touch before bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it.
“I promise, please give me another chance… please," sniff. "I'm sorry."
“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Spencer's dick hit your cervix. Your hands find Spencer's shoulders, freshly curled hair haloed around your head as your mouth hangs open. "Ngh—oh my goddd, you’re so big," you groan, Spencer's forehead against yours. “It’s okay, I’ll make it fit, baby…” he reassures you, brushing hair away from your face. “Missed me, didn't you, pretty…hm?” moan. He’s not talking to you; he’s talking to your cunt. "I missed you, sweetheart," he whispers reverently, grabbing your face and angling it so he could lick from your clavicle to your jaw. "Mmm, and how you taste ‘nd how you shiver against my touchy ‘n–” one of his hands squishes your breasts. “These pretty heavy tits. Made to fit in my hands, God—" Spencer cuts himself off with a cymbal as you clench around him, which only makes his hips roll into yours faster.
“Nobody makes me feel like you do, Spencer," you whisper.
“Fuck! Say my name again, honey—....pleasepleasples”
“I love you, Spencer.”
“Does that big dick feel good, princess? Are you gonna cum on it?” He teases. You nod, but Spencer cranes your head to look down at you getting fucked by him. The burning knot in your stomach starts to build as Spencer whines in your ear.
“Y-you looked so pretty in that dress, wearing the perfume I bought you… Mmm, you like watching me fuck you like this?”
“I love fucking you raw."
Spencer shudders when you say that, taking a deep breath.
“Keep saying shit like that and I'm gonna hold you down and breed you."
“You feel so s’good raw I don't even care," you moan, running your hands down the side of his face, palms prickled by his slightly grown-out facial hair. He stares into your eyes, vision unfocused, brows pinched together, mouth agape, completely pussy-drunk and hanging on your every word.
“You won’ be m-mad if I come inside you?? Make you take this dick and fill you up with my cum?? No???” He asks, breathless.
You look at him, eyes half-lidded and dark, smirking as you wrap your legs around his waist.
He looks down at him fucking you before he meets your eyes again, his brows furrowed.
Spencer pulls all the way out, then pushes back in as far as he can, feeding you rough, deep strokes. You choke out a sob as he hits that gummy spot inside of you that turns you into liquid.
“Are you gonna cry for me like you used to, angel?” moan “As I get you pregnant and fucking mate you like a bitch in heat?” He huffs, breathing heavily as you moan in response. “Miss me that bad that you wanna make up for lost time by giving me babies, huh, gorgeous?” Plap, plap, plap. “Fuck, I'm so close. I'm going to give you what you want. I’ll give you everything that you want.”
‘Iloveyous’much” you whine as you come undone on his cock, clenching down and creaming on his fat dick.
Stars dance in your bleary vision as Spencer lets out a wanton moan from his diaphragm, hot, seedy ropes of his come shooting into your pussy.
Both of you are heaving as Spencer pulls out. He plants a chaste but loving kiss on your forehead before you scootch up on the bed to kiss him on the lips, both of your hands finding the sides of his face. Spencer sighs, melting into your touch. The happiest he thinks he’s ever been.
The next morning Spencer wakes with you not by his side, terrified. Until he hears piano keys, a sustained melody pouring in from the living room. He shoots out of bed to find you, but he quiets his footsteps as he hears you begin to sing. His footsteps softly pad into the archway of the living room, watching you just from out of sight, behind you. The toaster springs up two cinna-strudle cream cheese pastries, the ones he introduced you to after your first grocery store shop together after you moved in. Your voice is as soft as chiffon but sweet and piercing, like a siren's. You weren’t trying to sound good, but you just… did, only singing the words to help keep the melody of the song:
Mon amour, je sais que tu m'aimes aussi. Tu as besoin de moi, tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie. Tu ne peux vivre sans moi. Et je mourrais sans toi. Je tuerais pour toi
Or according to Spencer’s sleepy translation:
My love, I know you love me too. You need me, you need me in your life. You can't live without me. And I would die without you. I would kill for you.
Spencer walks up behind you; you turn around on the piano bench, startled by the creaking of floorboards under the weight of his steps.
“Spencer! God—" You laugh breathlessly. “What's your problem? You scared me…Jesus."
You giggled. He could shed a tear.
He did actually, and he fell to his knees, resting his head in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist.
“Oh–okay.” You laugh again. "Someone's clingy this morning.”
Spencer buries his face into your thighs, leaving sleepy kisses near your hips as your fingers raked through his mousy brown curls.
“I love you,” he says, his voice wrecked from the night before. He picks his head up from your lap when you stop petting him. You press a kiss into his cheek, holding his face in your hands.
“I love you too, baby.”
tweet im too scared to post
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 CARMEN [s.r.]
— ᨳଓ Pairing: Spencer x Pianist!Reader
⋆˙⟡♡WC: 4k
.✦ ݁˖ Summary: Haunted by his past, Spencer is cynical about love until he crosses paths with a the university’s newly hired Piano player for their orchestra’s pit. Drawn into her world, he begins to open up—only to face a devastating heartbreak that upends their lives and pushes them both down an entirely new, unpredictable path.
⊹܀˙CW: Spencer’s focalization, MINORS DNI!!!, smut, Age-gap, Blowjob, 69, P in v, dacryphillic tone, Breeding!Kink, your favorite character isn't perfect and is still a man, Bisexual!Spencer, use of "good girl" and "atta girl," no use of y/n, Fem!Reader, AFAB reader descs, mentions of drugs and death.
♪‧₊˚A/N: Back from an unnecessarily long hiatus my bad guys. I hope you like this one bai
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋
⤷ ゛Spencer ˎˊ˗ hates pretty girls. Well, not literally anyway. More in a… sort of perverted way. As a profiler, he knows it's because of childhood development. Girls never looked his way because he was 12 years old and in high school and 14 years old at Caltech. The ones he liked were always older, and he’s only just figured out what to do with his hair. There's always been this feeling he’s never known but always craved.
He wasn't fully sure then, but he assumed it was some sort of kinky thing. But ironically, whatever it is, he got farther away from it when he had sex.
It didn’t help that he only started casually having it during his addiction. It wasn’t that he hated being...dominated all the time; it's just he never felt completely safe or comfortable whenever he did it with a particularly beautiful woman. That's why he used to prefer fucking guys because he liked being dominant and they didn't pigeonhole him into being a sobbing, overstimulated “Please Mommy” character he always used to be whenever a pretty woman took him home.
Morgan says that he's acting like a chick, but Spencer knows it’s because sometimes it makes him feel like he’s on the goal post again, naked, tricked by Alexa Lisbon, the prettiest girl at his high school. So when he became a professor and met you, some pianist for the university’s pit for their musical, he felt the same. Resentful. But he would watch you walk to your car through his office window at dusk every day.
He’d make up stories about you in his head: She probably grew up with two parents in the home, enough money for lessons. Private school. Lives her life in the clouds because that's where angels like you naturally reside. He knew he was being unfair because he hadn’t actually met you yet. He’d wonder how your first meeting would be if you guys had one.
Whenever he thought about you, he would think about murder. The way the men he’d catch at the BAU would tie you up. Or drown you. Bury you in, I don’t know—multicolor aquarium pebbles because of some sick niche fascination a freak developed through trauma. By just walking around and existing as yourself, Spencer felt as if you were foolish.
He knows that it was his misogyny talking and that it was pathetic to think that he was your protector by just watching you all the time, but he couldn’t help it. As much as he envied your radiance, he wanted to make you his more than anything.
Once you’d brush him off with a nice to meet you, you'd then scan the room to find a more interesting, more influential person to try to network with. He’d then bring up his 3 degrees and watch your jaw drop. Ohhh, how he’d love to imagine your jaw dropping and then taking him, all of him. He couldn’t stand women like you. Respected, nice enough to get somewhere in the world, easily laughable, carefree, and oh so beautiful. It killed him inside because he felt so immediately vulnerable with them. It felt like you were manipulating him when you probably hadn’t even noticed him before—
“Excuse me,” a voice called from behind him in the parking lot. Footsteps? No, heels against concrete echo behind him. They’re getting closer. He turns around, and it's you. Finally, it's you.
“You dropped this.” You smile at him. It's happening again to him. He fights the feeling of his head lolling backwards like the first time he tried Dilaudid, slumped, and you’ve said five words to him. His wallet is in your hand, but that's the third thing he looks at. First, it’s your beautifully manicured nails, then it's your clunky, completely childish Star Wars watch on your wrist. The laughter drums out of his lungs, like a deranged lunatic. He knew that he’d got it all wrong in that moment. He was yours. And that he would be for a long time, if not forever.
“You always treat me like I’m some dumb baby! Well, I'm not Spencer; I’m a grown-ass woman.” You’d yelled at him during your first fight. Before you guys had ever fucked. It’s true he babied you. How could he not? He adored everything about you. Even in that moment, your lips were in this cute pout, and your arms were tossed open, giving him a perfect view of your pretty tits.
“I know," he responded, his voice crackly and quiet. “I’m sorry, baby—honey." He corrected himself as the phrasing seemed inappropriate at the moment.
“I get that there is a major difference between us because of how young I am and how you’re older than me, but I can handle myself. I don’t need your money, and I don’t need ‘sorry’ gifts. I need you to change. Stop canceling dates last minute for cases. Just… don't make them or break up with me if you don't have the time.” Then you started to cry. Spencer stepped closer, holding your face in his hands, kissing where your tears fell on your cheeks. “I could never leave you, honey; I’m sorry.”
“You want me to treat you like a grown-ass woman? Fine.” He’d said, slapping his cock on your face before grabbing the back of your head and shoving your mouth towards his balls as he pumped his hand up and down his cock. You started kissing them before inhaling deeply.
“You’re so fucking disgusting,” he whispered as he began rubbing his tip on your plush lips, smearing precum on your mouth and chin before you opened your mouth, taking him all the way until you gagged.
“Oh,” he sighed, tutting. “Look at you, pretty. All drooling and fucked out, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” You begin bobbing your head on his dick, your drool pooling out the corners of your mouth and bubbling & everything before you'd pull back on it and swirl your tongue on the head.
“Awhh are you tired, slut? ‘S it too big? Want me to help you, gorgeous? Here,” Spencer’s hands took fistfuls of your hair, and he started humping your face, face-fucking you.
“I know it's a lot, honey, but since you're such a big girl now—mhm, fuck. And wanna give head, You can take it, yeah?" He feels your mouth widen while your lips still slurp around his dick, the back of your throat widening. Spencer shudders from pleasure. “Atta girl, fuck—" he breathed. “You’re gonna make me come. Ah, you’re so good; you’re such a good girl,” he moaned, his eyes falling to your hips that were grinding into the floor. “Do you want me to make you feel good while you suck me off, baby?” He pulled you off his dick so you could speak. You nodded.
“I need a yes or no, baby; use your words.” “Yes,” you said, grabbing his cock and kissing the tip before rubbing your lips up the side of his shaft. Spencer’s eyes screw shut, and his jaw drops. He thought back to those bitter days alone in the office and laughed to himself. You switched it around and won again. Licking a fat strip from his base to his tip brings him back, wincing. "Fuck—sit on my face, please." Spencer helped you stand up, kissing you before walking both of you backwards towards the bed.
“Put your full weight on me, sweetheart,” he breathed, frustrated with you practically hovering your hips over his face, taunting him. You hesitantly lowered your ass to his mouth while leaning forward to suck his dick.
His big hands hooked around your hips, pulling you down so he could lap at your pussy even deeper. Both of your hands pumped up and down the rest of his cock that couldn’t fit in your mouth; he had sucked harshly at your clit. As his tip hit the back of your throat, you moaned around it, the vibrations of your voice making him jerk his hips and quicken the pace of his licking. At this point, Spencer was making out with your pussy, hands roaming your ass, before a deafening smack cracked through the lewd sound of slurping and whining. The pinpricked stinging your skin made you clench around nothing and turned your blowjob into more of a lazy handjob featuring a couple of kitten licks.
It wasn’t a question of whether the neighbors could hear you; it was a question of whether they could make sense of your non-intelligible babbling or not.
"Spence—oh my godd— 's too much, please, please," you’d cut yourself off with a wanton moan that could only be successfully mimicked if someone experienced Spencer’s mouth on them.
Spencer's flattened tongue finds your syrupy opening and laps at your cunt. He loved you before then, but finally tasting you… God. He’s got a PhD and 3 BAs, but he’s never been so devoted to something—someone—before.
He needed you so bad it felt like every grain of his worldly flesh was on fire. Spencer has never been religious, especially due to the card he was dealt growing up, but how could he not have been in that moment, nourished by ambrosial nectar and kneeled on by a goddess? He moaned into your pussy as you started to cry from overstimulation, which only worsened his need for you.
You were even more beautiful when you cried. He could imagine your face now, your plush lips in a cute pout, your entire face flushed with your eyes screwed shut, brows pinched together. He slurped at you again, humming contentedly as you ran down his chin.
You hiccuped his name, still running your hand up and down his cock, index finger teasing his tip as your drool dripped down from your bottom lip to his balls.
Not even Moses, standing at the threshold of the Red Sea, had felt reverence at this intensity before. Your body felt red hot against his hand, like how sustained violins played with freshly rosined bows hit your ears.
Callused hands found fistfuls of fat on your ass as you regained your senses and started sucking on the head of his dick, whining, spit bubbling around his dick.
He started sloppily fucking your fist, your hand tightening around his shaft as he throbbed in your hand and circled your clit with his tongue.
His. You were his. Your sobs, the rasp in your voice from his cock being stuffed down your throat, and your sweet weeping cunt parked on his fucking face. His his his his.
He wished he could have talked you through it. Told you that you were his pretty, sweet girl that tastes so good. But he was focused. His hands massaged your ass, thighs twitching and shaking, and you were about to come again.
“Ohh baby sosogood'mclose”
He’d wanted to smile at your incoherence, but he was on a mission, his hands now spreading your ass cheeks apart, swiveling his head in a transient figure 8, wrecking you on his tongue. More tears welled in your eyes as the slippery feeling of Spencer's wet, hot mouth, his tongue pushing between and sucking at your cunt, got to you.
Your body writhed in ecstasy, shoulders wracked with sobs as your pussy gushed on Spencer's face. He softly licked at your swollen, puffy petals as your desperate hips rolled against his face.
It’d been three years since the two of you had broken up. You’d gone through two boyfriends since Spencer ended things via letter. A culmination of fights over the same things he promised to change. He decided to cut his poor, pretty woman loose after he had to cancel a double date because ‘the enucleator claimed another victim across state lines’ so he’d embarrassed you in front of your work friend. You’d gone to a bar after being stood up, where you ran into your ex. He didn’t know what happened after your meeting, and he never wanted to know, so he simply broke up with you to avoid finding out, leaving the apartment you shared and all his belongings there. Went on sabbatical at the BAU, too.
Spencer had mourned your essence, beauty, jokes, and smile every day since. Even though he was the one who ended it, he felt as if he were just excommunicated from his awaiting him, engraved by a medieval manufacturer that coincidentally shares a name with you, glaring against the sun.
You were his biggest mistake that he ruminated over until its hippocampus rotted out his skull and its necrotic flesh cannibalized itself before metabolizing in his bones. His eidetic memory had never been crueler; he saw you everywhere, in everything.
You ruined his life.
The only warmth he’d known since you was his right hand. He hadn’t even dared to try with another. He knew that any man or woman who dared to be your runner-up would be met with flaccid indifference. And his heart ached so sourly beneath his ribs that he could barely get up in the morning for work, let alone seek flesh to please him or another love to paralyze him while he was still reeling from the last one. He couldn’t think of how you reacted when you got the letter, what you're doing now, or what you'd say if you went back. Until.
One day after work, his legs propelled him away from his new front door and towards his car that he hadn’t warmed up in three months. He drove and drove as chilled pebbles from the sky cascaded from the ether onto the hood of his car and his windshield.
As he drove up a familiar hill, the hail turned into rain. Rain that dowsed him as he stepped out of his vintage Volvo. And he trekked up familiar stairs.
Violins started again with each watery step he took into the blue night. The freezing water seeping into his Converse, soaking the edge of his pants that flood him since you're not there to hem them anymore.
Until he's at the door. He wants to knock, but he feels as if he were a phantom that would noclip through the door and see something he wouldn’t want to see if he tried. You against the wall, the strap of your favorite nightgown slipping off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your warm breasts to the cool air and the delicate swan-like curve of your neck to his chaste kisses. Or someone else's.
He knocks. No answer. He knocks again and again.
“Baby, please," he says to himself, completely blinded by lovesickness and longing to feel your warmth again.
He runs his hands against the ice-cold doorknob. He envied a doorknob. Then your car seat and the curtains in your once-shared bedroom that get drawn whenever you change. He stares blankly at the door until—
He sees you abstracted by the glass of the front door. It swung open, and, by God, there you are.
Candy apple red dress on. Tight, hair cascading down in those pretty waves you’d do whenever you had a concert. He drinks in the sight of you. And your face. Jaw dropped, the way he likes, gobsmacked.
“What are you doing here?” You say, breathless.
You’re not quite eye level with him, but you’re close. He looks down. You're wearing pretty strappy heels. Sexy. You look sexy. But for who? He wanted to cry at the thought.
“I miss you." His voice croaked out, almost drowned out by the buckets being poured out from above.
You look away from the door, expression hard and unreadable. “You left me,” you say, quietly.
His ears are ringing at the sound of your voice.
“I know.” Is all he can say. Soaked. His hair, glued to his face by the rain.
“So why are you here? " You look up at him. You do your makeup a little differently now; your hair is a shade darker too. But you still look like his baby that he was stupid enough to walk away from out of pride.
“Because I love you. And I'm a fool for ever leaving you.”
You look down again before taking a step closer to him. He can smell your perfume. He got it for you for your second anniversary, sending a thrill through his body and blood straight to his
“Fuck you.”
“Honey, please," his voice cracks. You fold your arms.
“I have places to be, Spencer.” You huff, trying your best to keep your voice steady.
He falls to his knees and begins to cry, pathetically grasping at the fabric of your dress.
“Don’t go. I'm sorry—please, you have no idea… I’ve thought about you every day…every second.”
“Get up.” You say dryly.
“I can’t. I walked away from you once; I won't ever do it again. I love you and I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, baby; please forgive me. It was cruel of me to leave you over something so insignificant after all the times I left you alone... by yourself—" He wipes his face with your dress, hiccuping and gasping for air as he cries. He looked up at you with puppy-like, watery eyes and a sniffling pink nose.
“You just wanted to spend time with me, love me, and I—took your love for granted and left you because I felt discarded for a moment when I had been making you feel that way for years, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” He wipes his running nose on the back of his hand.
“I don’t deserve you. I'm sorry, my love, my beautiful girl. I let you down and left you. But I promise, honey—I—I’ve changed. I won’t ever… ever make you feel that way again.”
You wipe away a tear you didn’t realize fell from your eyes before your hand finds his hair. “I love you so much." He sobs when he feels your touch before bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it.
“I promise, please give me another chance… please," sniff. "I'm sorry."
“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Spencer's dick hit your cervix. Your hands find Spencer's shoulders, freshly curled hair haloed around your head as your mouth hangs open. "Ngh—oh my goddd, you’re so big," you groan, Spencer's forehead against yours. “It’s okay, I’ll make it fit, baby…” he reassures you, brushing hair away from your face. “Missed me, didn't you, pretty…hm?” moan. He’s not talking to you; he’s talking to your cunt. "I missed you, sweetheart," he whispers reverently, grabbing your face and angling it so he could lick from your clavicle to your jaw. "Mmm, and how you taste ‘nd how you shiver against my touchy ‘n–” one of his hands squishes your breasts. “These pretty heavy tits. Made to fit in my hands, God—" Spencer cuts himself off with a cymbal as you clench around him, which only makes his hips roll into yours faster.
“Nobody makes me feel like you do, Spencer," you whisper.
“Fuck! Say my name again, honey—....pleasepleasples”
“I love you, Spencer.”
“Does that big dick feel good, princess? Are you gonna cum on it?” He teases. You nod, but Spencer cranes your head to look down at you getting fucked by him. The burning knot in your stomach starts to build as Spencer whines in your ear.
“Y-you looked so pretty in that dress, wearing the perfume I bought you… Mmm, you like watching me fuck you like this?”
“I love fucking you raw."
Spencer shudders when you say that, taking a deep breath.
“Keep saying shit like that and I'm gonna hold you down and breed you."
“You feel so s’good raw I don't even care," you moan, running your hands down the side of his face, palms prickled by his slightly grown-out facial hair. He stares into your eyes, vision unfocused, brows pinched together, mouth agape, completely pussy-drunk and hanging on your every word.
“You won’ be m-mad if I come inside you?? Make you take this dick and fill you up with my cum?? No???” He asks, breathless.
You look at him, eyes half-lidded and dark, smirking as you wrap your legs around his waist.
He looks down at him fucking you before he meets your eyes again, his brows furrowed.
Spencer pulls all the way out, then pushes back in as far as he can, feeding you rough, deep strokes. You choke out a sob as he hits that gummy spot inside of you that turns you into liquid.
“Are you gonna cry for me like you used to, angel?” moan “As I get you pregnant and fucking mate you like a bitch in heat?” He huffs, breathing heavily as you moan in response. “Miss me that bad that you wanna make up for lost time by giving me babies, huh, gorgeous?” Plap, plap, plap. “Fuck, I'm so close. I'm going to give you what you want. I’ll give you everything that you want.”
‘Iloveyous’much” you whine as you come undone on his cock, clenching down and creaming on his fat dick.
Stars dance in your bleary vision as Spencer lets out a wanton moan from his diaphragm, hot, seedy ropes of his come shooting into your pussy.
Both of you are heaving as Spencer pulls out. He plants a chaste but loving kiss on your forehead before you scootch up on the bed to kiss him on the lips, both of your hands finding the sides of his face. Spencer sighs, melting into your touch. The happiest he thinks he’s ever been.
The next morning Spencer wakes with you not by his side, terrified. Until he hears piano keys, a sustained melody pouring in from the living room. He shoots out of bed to find you, but he quiets his footsteps as he hears you begin to sing. His footsteps softly pad into the archway of the living room, watching you just from out of sight, behind you. The toaster springs up two cinna-strudle cream cheese pastries, the ones he introduced you to after your first grocery store shop together after you moved in. Your voice is as soft as chiffon but sweet and piercing, like a siren's. You weren’t trying to sound good, but you just… did, only singing the words to help keep the melody of the song:
Mon amour, je sais que tu m'aimes aussi. Tu as besoin de moi, tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie. Tu ne peux vivre sans moi. Et je mourrais sans toi. Je tuerais pour toi
Or according to Spencer’s sleepy translation:
My love, I know you love me too. You need me, you need me in your life. You can't live without me. And I would die without you. I would kill for you.
Spencer walks up behind you; you turn around on the piano bench, startled by the creaking of floorboards under the weight of his steps.
“Spencer! God—" You laugh breathlessly. “What's your problem? You scared me…Jesus."
You giggled. He could shed a tear.
He did actually, and he fell to his knees, resting his head in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist.
“Oh–okay.” You laugh again. "Someone's clingy this morning.”
Spencer buries his face into your thighs, leaving sleepy kisses near your hips as your fingers raked through his mousy brown curls.
“I love you,” he says, his voice wrecked from the night before. He picks his head up from your lap when you stop petting him. You press a kiss into his cheek, holding his face in your hands.
“I love you too, baby.”
self-reblog
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 CARMEN [s.r.]
— ᨳଓ Pairing: Spencer x Pianist!Reader
⋆˙⟡♡WC: 4k
.✦ ݁˖ Summary: Haunted by his past, Spencer is cynical about love until he crosses paths with a the university’s newly hired Piano player for their orchestra’s pit. Drawn into her world, he begins to open up—only to face a devastating heartbreak that upends their lives and pushes them both down an entirely new, unpredictable path.
⊹܀˙CW: Spencer’s focalization, MINORS DNI!!!, smut, Age-gap, Blowjob, 69, P in v, dacryphillic tone, Breeding!Kink, your favorite character isn't perfect and is still a man, Bisexual!Spencer, use of "good girl" and "atta girl," no use of y/n, Fem!Reader, AFAB reader descs, mentions of drugs and death.
♪‧₊˚A/N: Back from an unnecessarily long hiatus my bad guys. I hope you like this one bai
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋
⤷ ゛Spencer ˎˊ˗ hates pretty girls. Well, not literally anyway. More in a… sort of perverted way. As a profiler, he knows it's because of childhood development. Girls never looked his way because he was 12 years old and in high school and 14 years old at Caltech. The ones he liked were always older, and he’s only just figured out what to do with his hair. There's always been this feeling he’s never known but always craved.
He wasn't fully sure then, but he assumed it was some sort of kinky thing. But ironically, whatever it is, he got farther away from it when he had sex.
It didn’t help that he only started casually having it during his addiction. It wasn’t that he hated being...dominated all the time; it's just he never felt completely safe or comfortable whenever he did it with a particularly beautiful woman. That's why he used to prefer fucking guys because he liked being dominant and they didn't pigeonhole him into being a sobbing, overstimulated “Please Mommy” character he always used to be whenever a pretty woman took him home.
Morgan says that he's acting like a chick, but Spencer knows it’s because sometimes it makes him feel like he’s on the goal post again, naked, tricked by Alexa Lisbon, the prettiest girl at his high school. So when he became a professor and met you, some pianist for the university’s pit for their musical, he felt the same. Resentful. But he would watch you walk to your car through his office window at dusk every day.
He’d make up stories about you in his head: She probably grew up with two parents in the home, enough money for lessons. Private school. Lives her life in the clouds because that's where angels like you naturally reside. He knew he was being unfair because he hadn’t actually met you yet. He’d wonder how your first meeting would be if you guys had one.
Whenever he thought about you, he would think about murder. The way the men he’d catch at the BAU would tie you up. Or drown you. Bury you in, I don’t know—multicolor aquarium pebbles because of some sick niche fascination a freak developed through trauma. By just walking around and existing as yourself, Spencer felt as if you were foolish.
He knows that it was his misogyny talking and that it was pathetic to think that he was your protector by just watching you all the time, but he couldn’t help it. As much as he envied your radiance, he wanted to make you his more than anything.
Once you’d brush him off with a nice to meet you, you'd then scan the room to find a more interesting, more influential person to try to network with. He’d then bring up his 3 degrees and watch your jaw drop. Ohhh, how he’d love to imagine your jaw dropping and then taking him, all of him. He couldn’t stand women like you. Respected, nice enough to get somewhere in the world, easily laughable, carefree, and oh so beautiful. It killed him inside because he felt so immediately vulnerable with them. It felt like you were manipulating him when you probably hadn’t even noticed him before—
“Excuse me,” a voice called from behind him in the parking lot. Footsteps? No, heels against concrete echo behind him. They’re getting closer. He turns around, and it's you. Finally, it's you.
“You dropped this.” You smile at him. It's happening again to him. He fights the feeling of his head lolling backwards like the first time he tried Dilaudid, slumped, and you’ve said five words to him. His wallet is in your hand, but that's the third thing he looks at. First, it’s your beautifully manicured nails, then it's your clunky, completely childish Star Wars watch on your wrist. The laughter drums out of his lungs, like a deranged lunatic. He knew that he’d got it all wrong in that moment. He was yours. And that he would be for a long time, if not forever.
“You always treat me like I’m some dumb baby! Well, I'm not Spencer; I’m a grown-ass woman.” You’d yelled at him during your first fight. Before you guys had ever fucked. It’s true he babied you. How could he not? He adored everything about you. Even in that moment, your lips were in this cute pout, and your arms were tossed open, giving him a perfect view of your pretty tits.
“I know," he responded, his voice crackly and quiet. “I’m sorry, baby—honey." He corrected himself as the phrasing seemed inappropriate at the moment.
“I get that there is a major difference between us because of how young I am and how you’re older than me, but I can handle myself. I don’t need your money, and I don’t need ‘sorry’ gifts. I need you to change. Stop canceling dates last minute for cases. Just… don't make them or break up with me if you don't have the time.” Then you started to cry. Spencer stepped closer, holding your face in his hands, kissing where your tears fell on your cheeks. “I could never leave you, honey; I’m sorry.”
“You want me to treat you like a grown-ass woman? Fine.” He’d said, slapping his cock on your face before grabbing the back of your head and shoving your mouth towards his balls as he pumped his hand up and down his cock. You started kissing them before inhaling deeply.
“You’re so fucking disgusting,” he whispered as he began rubbing his tip on your plush lips, smearing precum on your mouth and chin before you opened your mouth, taking him all the way until you gagged.
“Oh,” he sighed, tutting. “Look at you, pretty. All drooling and fucked out, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” You begin bobbing your head on his dick, your drool pooling out the corners of your mouth and bubbling & everything before you'd pull back on it and swirl your tongue on the head.
“Awhh are you tired, slut? ‘S it too big? Want me to help you, gorgeous? Here,” Spencer’s hands took fistfuls of your hair, and he started humping your face, face-fucking you.
“I know it's a lot, honey, but since you're such a big girl now—mhm, fuck. And wanna give head, You can take it, yeah?" He feels your mouth widen while your lips still slurp around his dick, the back of your throat widening. Spencer shudders from pleasure. “Atta girl, fuck—" he breathed. “You’re gonna make me come. Ah, you’re so good; you’re such a good girl,” he moaned, his eyes falling to your hips that were grinding into the floor. “Do you want me to make you feel good while you suck me off, baby?” He pulled you off his dick so you could speak. You nodded.
“I need a yes or no, baby; use your words.” “Yes,” you said, grabbing his cock and kissing the tip before rubbing your lips up the side of his shaft. Spencer’s eyes screw shut, and his jaw drops. He thought back to those bitter days alone in the office and laughed to himself. You switched it around and won again. Licking a fat strip from his base to his tip brings him back, wincing. "Fuck—sit on my face, please." Spencer helped you stand up, kissing you before walking both of you backwards towards the bed.
“Put your full weight on me, sweetheart,” he breathed, frustrated with you practically hovering your hips over his face, taunting him. You hesitantly lowered your ass to his mouth while leaning forward to suck his dick.
His big hands hooked around your hips, pulling you down so he could lap at your pussy even deeper. Both of your hands pumped up and down the rest of his cock that couldn’t fit in your mouth; he had sucked harshly at your clit. As his tip hit the back of your throat, you moaned around it, the vibrations of your voice making him jerk his hips and quicken the pace of his licking. At this point, Spencer was making out with your pussy, hands roaming your ass, before a deafening smack cracked through the lewd sound of slurping and whining. The pinpricked stinging your skin made you clench around nothing and turned your blowjob into more of a lazy handjob featuring a couple of kitten licks.
It wasn’t a question of whether the neighbors could hear you; it was a question of whether they could make sense of your non-intelligible babbling or not.
"Spence—oh my godd— 's too much, please, please," you’d cut yourself off with a wanton moan that could only be successfully mimicked if someone experienced Spencer’s mouth on them.
Spencer's flattened tongue finds your syrupy opening and laps at your cunt. He loved you before then, but finally tasting you… God. He’s got a PhD and 3 BAs, but he’s never been so devoted to something—someone—before.
He needed you so bad it felt like every grain of his worldly flesh was on fire. Spencer has never been religious, especially due to the card he was dealt growing up, but how could he not have been in that moment, nourished by ambrosial nectar and kneeled on by a goddess? He moaned into your pussy as you started to cry from overstimulation, which only worsened his need for you.
You were even more beautiful when you cried. He could imagine your face now, your plush lips in a cute pout, your entire face flushed with your eyes screwed shut, brows pinched together. He slurped at you again, humming contentedly as you ran down his chin.
You hiccuped his name, still running your hand up and down his cock, index finger teasing his tip as your drool dripped down from your bottom lip to his balls.
Not even Moses, standing at the threshold of the Red Sea, had felt reverence at this intensity before. Your body felt red hot against his hand, like how sustained violins played with freshly rosined bows hit your ears.
Callused hands found fistfuls of fat on your ass as you regained your senses and started sucking on the head of his dick, whining, spit bubbling around his dick.
He started sloppily fucking your fist, your hand tightening around his shaft as he throbbed in your hand and circled your clit with his tongue.
His. You were his. Your sobs, the rasp in your voice from his cock being stuffed down your throat, and your sweet weeping cunt parked on his fucking face. His his his his.
He wished he could have talked you through it. Told you that you were his pretty, sweet girl that tastes so good. But he was focused. His hands massaged your ass, thighs twitching and shaking, and you were about to come again.
“Ohh baby sosogood'mclose”
He’d wanted to smile at your incoherence, but he was on a mission, his hands now spreading your ass cheeks apart, swiveling his head in a transient figure 8, wrecking you on his tongue. More tears welled in your eyes as the slippery feeling of Spencer's wet, hot mouth, his tongue pushing between and sucking at your cunt, got to you.
Your body writhed in ecstasy, shoulders wracked with sobs as your pussy gushed on Spencer's face. He softly licked at your swollen, puffy petals as your desperate hips rolled against his face.
It’d been three years since the two of you had broken up. You’d gone through two boyfriends since Spencer ended things via letter. A culmination of fights over the same things he promised to change. He decided to cut his poor, pretty woman loose after he had to cancel a double date because ‘the enucleator claimed another victim across state lines’ so he’d embarrassed you in front of your work friend. You’d gone to a bar after being stood up, where you ran into your ex. He didn’t know what happened after your meeting, and he never wanted to know, so he simply broke up with you to avoid finding out, leaving the apartment you shared and all his belongings there. Went on sabbatical at the BAU, too.
Spencer had mourned your essence, beauty, jokes, and smile every day since. Even though he was the one who ended it, he felt as if he were just excommunicated from his awaiting him, engraved by a medieval manufacturer that coincidentally shares a name with you, glaring against the sun.
You were his biggest mistake that he ruminated over until its hippocampus rotted out his skull and its necrotic flesh cannibalized itself before metabolizing in his bones. His eidetic memory had never been crueler; he saw you everywhere, in everything.
You ruined his life.
The only warmth he’d known since you was his right hand. He hadn’t even dared to try with another. He knew that any man or woman who dared to be your runner-up would be met with flaccid indifference. And his heart ached so sourly beneath his ribs that he could barely get up in the morning for work, let alone seek flesh to please him or another love to paralyze him while he was still reeling from the last one. He couldn’t think of how you reacted when you got the letter, what you're doing now, or what you'd say if you went back. Until.
One day after work, his legs propelled him away from his new front door and towards his car that he hadn’t warmed up in three months. He drove and drove as chilled pebbles from the sky cascaded from the ether onto the hood of his car and his windshield.
As he drove up a familiar hill, the hail turned into rain. Rain that dowsed him as he stepped out of his vintage Volvo. And he trekked up familiar stairs.
Violins started again with each watery step he took into the blue night. The freezing water seeping into his Converse, soaking the edge of his pants that flood him since you're not there to hem them anymore.
Until he's at the door. He wants to knock, but he feels as if he were a phantom that would noclip through the door and see something he wouldn’t want to see if he tried. You against the wall, the strap of your favorite nightgown slipping off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your warm breasts to the cool air and the delicate swan-like curve of your neck to his chaste kisses. Or someone else's.
He knocks. No answer. He knocks again and again.
“Baby, please," he says to himself, completely blinded by lovesickness and longing to feel your warmth again.
He runs his hands against the ice-cold doorknob. He envied a doorknob. Then your car seat and the curtains in your once-shared bedroom that get drawn whenever you change. He stares blankly at the door until—
He sees you abstracted by the glass of the front door. It swung open, and, by God, there you are.
Candy apple red dress on. Tight, hair cascading down in those pretty waves you’d do whenever you had a concert. He drinks in the sight of you. And your face. Jaw dropped, the way he likes, gobsmacked.
“What are you doing here?” You say, breathless.
You’re not quite eye level with him, but you’re close. He looks down. You're wearing pretty strappy heels. Sexy. You look sexy. But for who? He wanted to cry at the thought.
“I miss you." His voice croaked out, almost drowned out by the buckets being poured out from above.
You look away from the door, expression hard and unreadable. “You left me,” you say, quietly.
His ears are ringing at the sound of your voice.
“I know.” Is all he can say. Soaked. His hair, glued to his face by the rain.
“So why are you here? " You look up at him. You do your makeup a little differently now; your hair is a shade darker too. But you still look like his baby that he was stupid enough to walk away from out of pride.
“Because I love you. And I'm a fool for ever leaving you.”
You look down again before taking a step closer to him. He can smell your perfume. He got it for you for your second anniversary, sending a thrill through his body and blood straight to his
“Fuck you.”
“Honey, please," his voice cracks. You fold your arms.
“I have places to be, Spencer.” You huff, trying your best to keep your voice steady.
He falls to his knees and begins to cry, pathetically grasping at the fabric of your dress.
“Don’t go. I'm sorry—please, you have no idea… I’ve thought about you every day…every second.”
“Get up.” You say dryly.
“I can’t. I walked away from you once; I won't ever do it again. I love you and I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, baby; please forgive me. It was cruel of me to leave you over something so insignificant after all the times I left you alone... by yourself—" He wipes his face with your dress, hiccuping and gasping for air as he cries. He looked up at you with puppy-like, watery eyes and a sniffling pink nose.
“You just wanted to spend time with me, love me, and I—took your love for granted and left you because I felt discarded for a moment when I had been making you feel that way for years, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” He wipes his running nose on the back of his hand.
“I don’t deserve you. I'm sorry, my love, my beautiful girl. I let you down and left you. But I promise, honey—I—I’ve changed. I won’t ever… ever make you feel that way again.”
You wipe away a tear you didn’t realize fell from your eyes before your hand finds his hair. “I love you so much." He sobs when he feels your touch before bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it.
“I promise, please give me another chance… please," sniff. "I'm sorry."
“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Spencer's dick hit your cervix. Your hands find Spencer's shoulders, freshly curled hair haloed around your head as your mouth hangs open. "Ngh—oh my goddd, you’re so big," you groan, Spencer's forehead against yours. “It’s okay, I’ll make it fit, baby…” he reassures you, brushing hair away from your face. “Missed me, didn't you, pretty…hm?” moan. He’s not talking to you; he’s talking to your cunt. "I missed you, sweetheart," he whispers reverently, grabbing your face and angling it so he could lick from your clavicle to your jaw. "Mmm, and how you taste ‘nd how you shiver against my touchy ‘n–” one of his hands squishes your breasts. “These pretty heavy tits. Made to fit in my hands, God—" Spencer cuts himself off with a cymbal as you clench around him, which only makes his hips roll into yours faster.
“Nobody makes me feel like you do, Spencer," you whisper.
“Fuck! Say my name again, honey—....pleasepleasples”
“I love you, Spencer.”
“Does that big dick feel good, princess? Are you gonna cum on it?” He teases. You nod, but Spencer cranes your head to look down at you getting fucked by him. The burning knot in your stomach starts to build as Spencer whines in your ear.
“Y-you looked so pretty in that dress, wearing the perfume I bought you… Mmm, you like watching me fuck you like this?”
“I love fucking you raw."
Spencer shudders when you say that, taking a deep breath.
“Keep saying shit like that and I'm gonna hold you down and breed you."
“You feel so s’good raw I don't even care," you moan, running your hands down the side of his face, palms prickled by his slightly grown-out facial hair. He stares into your eyes, vision unfocused, brows pinched together, mouth agape, completely pussy-drunk and hanging on your every word.
“You won’ be m-mad if I come inside you?? Make you take this dick and fill you up with my cum?? No???” He asks, breathless.
You look at him, eyes half-lidded and dark, smirking as you wrap your legs around his waist.
He looks down at him fucking you before he meets your eyes again, his brows furrowed.
Spencer pulls all the way out, then pushes back in as far as he can, feeding you rough, deep strokes. You choke out a sob as he hits that gummy spot inside of you that turns you into liquid.
“Are you gonna cry for me like you used to, angel?” moan “As I get you pregnant and fucking mate you like a bitch in heat?” He huffs, breathing heavily as you moan in response. “Miss me that bad that you wanna make up for lost time by giving me babies, huh, gorgeous?” Plap, plap, plap. “Fuck, I'm so close. I'm going to give you what you want. I’ll give you everything that you want.”
‘Iloveyous’much” you whine as you come undone on his cock, clenching down and creaming on his fat dick.
Stars dance in your bleary vision as Spencer lets out a wanton moan from his diaphragm, hot, seedy ropes of his come shooting into your pussy.
Both of you are heaving as Spencer pulls out. He plants a chaste but loving kiss on your forehead before you scootch up on the bed to kiss him on the lips, both of your hands finding the sides of his face. Spencer sighs, melting into your touch. The happiest he thinks he’s ever been.
The next morning Spencer wakes with you not by his side, terrified. Until he hears piano keys, a sustained melody pouring in from the living room. He shoots out of bed to find you, but he quiets his footsteps as he hears you begin to sing. His footsteps softly pad into the archway of the living room, watching you just from out of sight, behind you. The toaster springs up two cinna-strudle cream cheese pastries, the ones he introduced you to after your first grocery store shop together after you moved in. Your voice is as soft as chiffon but sweet and piercing, like a siren's. You weren’t trying to sound good, but you just… did, only singing the words to help keep the melody of the song:
Mon amour, je sais que tu m'aimes aussi. Tu as besoin de moi, tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie. Tu ne peux vivre sans moi. Et je mourrais sans toi. Je tuerais pour toi
Or according to Spencer’s sleepy translation:
My love, I know you love me too. You need me, you need me in your life. You can't live without me. And I would die without you. I would kill for you.
Spencer walks up behind you; you turn around on the piano bench, startled by the creaking of floorboards under the weight of his steps.
“Spencer! God—" You laugh breathlessly. “What's your problem? You scared me…Jesus."
You giggled. He could shed a tear.
He did actually, and he fell to his knees, resting his head in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist.
“Oh–okay.” You laugh again. "Someone's clingy this morning.”
Spencer buries his face into your thighs, leaving sleepy kisses near your hips as your fingers raked through his mousy brown curls.
“I love you,” he says, his voice wrecked from the night before. He picks his head up from your lap when you stop petting him. You press a kiss into his cheek, holding his face in your hands.
“I love you too, baby.”
loml
