darling?!?! @glennussy - Tumblr Blog

glennussy

May 28

whoswitchybabyanyway

miraculous

character has no physical description other than having boobs, pic is just for vibes

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

word count: ~9k

summary: a quiet Saturday, a doctor who marathon, and spencer reid trying to act casual about reader's tits in a sundress

includes: smut (MDNI), no use of y/n, established relationship, first time, heavy making out, boob fixation, reader has boobs, soft dom!reader vibes, awkward/flustered spencer, spencer reid vs boobs (battle of the century), oral fixation, nipple play, breast worship, fingering, p in v, riding/cowgirl, emotional intimacy, light humor, dirty talk, slight overstim themes, reader wears a dress, unprotected sex, he's trying so hard to be professional, he's also a lil clueless

based on this request

Saturday arrives like a soft bell chime you can almost hear before it happens.

You’ve got the apartment half-lit, curtains pulled back just enough to let in honeyed afternoon sun. There’s a faint stack of snacks on the coffee table, a questionable amount of blankets piled like you’re preparing for emotional weather, and the TV already paused on the opening menu of Doctor Who, glowing patiently like it knows it’s about to be emotionally overused.

You hear the knock.

Not loud. Never loud with him. Two beats, careful, like he’s asking permission from the door itself.

You pad over barefoot, smoothing your hands down your dress out of habit more than necessity. The fabric is light purple, soft as early twilight. It fits you neatly at the top before easing outward into something airy and floaty that shifts when you walk, like it can’t decide whether it wants to stay still or drift.

You open the door, and there he is.

Spencer looks like he always does when he’s trying to be normal and failing in the most quiet, devastating way possible. Button-up slightly rumpled from sitting on the train. Messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Hair already doing whatever it wants, curling forward like it has opinions about gravity.

His mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

It’s subtle at first, the way his expression shifts, like a thought trips over itself inside his head and refuses to stand back up. His eyes flick up to your face, hold there for a respectful second too long, then betray him almost immediately by dropping, catching on you in a way he clearly did not intend.

You tilt your head slightly. “Hey.”

That seems to reboot him, but only halfway.

“Hi,” he says, too quickly. Then, like he’s correcting a mistake only he can hear, “Hello. Hi. I mean. Hi.”

There’s a beat where he looks like he’s considering reassembling the sentence in his hands.

You lean lightly against the doorframe, watching him with growing amusement. “You’re doing great.”

“I am,” he agrees immediately, then stops. Swallows. Adjusts his grip on his bag strap like it has suddenly become very interesting. “I’m doing… normal levels of greeting.”

“Normal levels,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

His gaze flickers again, just for a fraction of a second, before he catches himself and snaps it back to your face so fast it almost looks like a reflex. His ears have gone a little pink already, which is never a good sign for his composure.

You step back and open the door wider. “Come in before you short-circuit on my porch.”

“I’m not short-circuiting,” he says, immediately proving the opposite by stepping inside and nearly forgetting how to move his own limbs.

You don’t comment on it right away.

Because the thing about Spencer is that he always thinks he’s being subtle. Like his attention is something he can fold neatly into his lap and hide under polite conversation. But you’re starting to learn the language of him anyway, the small tells that give him away before he realizes he’s been read.

The couch dips when he sits, all careful angles and nervous adjustments, like he’s negotiating peace treaties with cushions. You settle beside him with the easy confidence of someone who has already claimed this space a dozen times before.

The episode starts.

TARDIS glow. Theme music. The familiar whirl of escapism wrapping around the room like a spell.

Spencer exhales softly, tension loosening from his shoulders in a way that makes him look almost younger. Less like an FBI profiler and more like a man allowed, briefly, to exist without solving anything.

You shift closer without thinking.

It starts innocently.

Your legs stretch across the couch, dangling lazily over the cushions. Your back presses against Spencer's chest as you snuggle into him. He adjusts immediately, like it’s instinct, like your body near his is something his nervous system has already been trained to accommodate. One arm settles around your shoulder, careful but certain, pulling you in just enough that your weight rests comfortably against him.

The episode keeps playing, but you feel it before you see it.

That shift in the air behind you. Not movement exactly, more like attention becoming tangible. Like someone has turned a page too slowly and the silence between words has started to mean something.

Spencer’s arm is still around you. Still steady. Still careful in the way he always is when he thinks about touching you too much.

And yet.

There’s a pause in his breathing that doesn’t match the rhythm of the scene on the TV.

You don’t turn right away.

You just tilt your head a fraction, like you’re listening to the room instead of the show. “Spence.”

A beat.

“Yeah?” he answers too quickly.

That’s enough.

You glance up. And there it is.

He’s looking at you.

Not the TV. Not the snack table. Not anywhere defensible.

Just you.

For a second he doesn’t move at all, like he’s been caught mid-thought and forgot how to pretend otherwise. His eyes flicker when they meet yours properly, caught in the act of being unguarded.

Then his brain clearly returns to the scene all at once.

“Oh—” he starts.

It comes out small. Almost soundless. Like the word itself is embarrassed to be involved.

His cheeks bloom pink so fast it’s almost unfair, color rushing up beneath his skin in a way that gives him away completely. He tries to look away immediately, but it’s too late now, the moment already exposed between you like a page turned too far.

“I wasn’t—” he begins again.

Stops.

Swallows.

His hand, still resting around your shoulder, tightens just slightly like it forgot it was supposed to be relaxed. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough that you notice.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, which is objectively not an explanation but sounds like he needed to say it anyway.

You shift just enough to angle yourself toward him.

“Oh?” you murmur.

That single syllable does something catastrophic to him.

His gaze flicks away again, immediate and reflexive, like eye contact has become too loud. “I mean, I am doing things. Just… not the things you’re thinking I’m doing.”

“That’s very specific,” you say softly.

His cheeks are fully pink now.

You let the silence stretch just a little, like you’re testing how far it will go before he tries to fill it.

The TV hums on in the background, all blue light and distant alien drama, but it feels secondary now. Like the room has quietly rerouted itself around the two of you without asking permission.

You glance back at him, lips curving. “I thought this was your favorite show.”

Spencer blinks once.

Twice.

Then, a little too fast, “It is.”

There’s immediate conviction in it, but also something strained underneath, like he’s trying to hold the answer in place with both hands.

You hum, tilting your head against his shoulder slightly, settling in even more like you belong there. “Mm. Strange behavior for someone watching his favorite show.”

His throat works as he swallows.

“I’m watching it,” he says.

“You’re watching me.”

His gaze darts to the TV for half a second, as if checking whether it still exists. It does. Unfortunately for him, it is not helping.

“I’m doing both,” he insists, but it comes out softer now, less like an argument and more like a confession he didn’t plan to make.

You shift slightly so you can look up at him properly.

His arm around you tightens again, subtle enough that it could almost pass for unconscious. Almost.

“Both,” you repeat, slow and amused. “So the Doctor is saving the universe, and you’re… what? Multitasking emotionally?”

A faint huff of air leaves him that might be a laugh if it had more confidence behind it.

“I’m not emotionally multitasking,” he says. “That would imply I’m managing it well.”

You don’t answer him right away.

Because the look on his face is doing something quiet and dangerous to you too.

Spencer sits there like he’s holding himself very carefully in place, as if any sudden movement might tip the whole moment over. His arm is still around you, but now it feels less like comfort and more like containment. Like he’s forgotten where he’s supposed to stop and start.

His eyes flick to your mouth for half a second.

He catches himself immediately, of course. But you see it anyway.

That’s enough.

You lift a hand to his cheek first, slow enough that he has time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t. His breath catches instead, a small break in the careful rhythm he’s been maintaining all afternoon.

He looks at you like he’s bracing for a math problem that might change his life.

You kiss him.

It’s not rushed. Not theatrical. Just simple and certain, like you’ve finally decided to stop pretending there’s any other logical outcome for the way he’s been looking at you.

For a second, he doesn’t move at all.

Then he makes a sound under his breath that disappears into you before it can become anything fully formed, and suddenly he’s kissing you back like something in him has finally been allowed to exist without permission slips.

It’s Spencer in every detail: careful at first, almost hesitant, like he’s checking if this is still real.

Then it changes.

His hand shifts from your shoulder to the side of your neck, fingers curling gently there as if he’s learning your shape by memory instead of sight. The hesitation doesn’t vanish so much as dissolve into something warmer, something more certain.

The TV continues in the background, forgotten.

Time does not so much pass as it gives up.

When you finally pull back just slightly, it’s only enough to breathe.

Spencer’s eyes are half-lidded, unfocused in a way that makes him look undone. Like someone has quietly rearranged the air inside him and he hasn’t figured out where to put his thoughts yet.

You don’t let the distance last.

You shift.

It starts small, just repositioning your legs, but the intent changes everything. You move fully onto him, straddling his hips in a way that makes the entire world narrow down to the couch beneath you and the warmth of him under your hands.

Spencer goes still.

His hands hover for a fraction of a second at your waist like they’re asking questions without words.

“Is this—” he starts.

His voice is rougher now, threaded with something he hasn’t figured out how to regulate yet.

You lean in before he can finish the sentence and kiss him again.

That seems to answer it better than language ever could.

His hands finally settle.

Carefully. Like he’s choosing you on purpose.

One at your waist, steady. The other sliding up your back in a slow, cautious motion that makes your skin feel suddenly too aware of itself. He exhales into the kiss like he’s been holding it in for too long.

You pull back just enough to breathe again, forehead still hovering close to his.

The room feels warmer now. Not in a dramatic way, just subtly rearranged, like the air itself has decided to sit closer.

Spencer’s eyes open slowly.

And immediately, they drop.

It’s quick. Instinctive. Like gravity briefly forgets its manners.

Then he freezes as if he’s been caught committing a crime he didn’t realize was visible.

His throat bobs. His hands, still resting at your waist, go very still in a way that somehow feels louder than movement.

You don’t move right away. Just watch him for a second longer than strictly necessary.

“Spence,” you say softly.

His eyes snap up immediately.

Too fast. Too guilty.

“I wasn’t—” he starts.

Stops.

Swallows.

His grip at your waist tightens just a fraction, not pulling you in, just anchoring himself like he’s trying not to float away inside his own thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, quieter now.

You tilt your head, studying him like he’s a puzzle you already know the answer to. “You’ve been doing that all afternoon.”

You can see it. The way his brain tries to compute whether there is any version of reality where he hasn’t been entirely obvious.

“I have not been—” he begins, immediate reflex.

Then his gaze slips again.

Just for a second.

Down.

And that tiny lapse undoes the whole sentence.

You let out a slow breath, almost amused. “You have.”

His ears go pink again, softer this time but spreading quickly.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says, and that’s the thing that always sits under everything with him. Not denial. Not ego. Just concern, threaded through every reaction like a nervous stitch.

You shift slightly closer, fingers sliding up to rest at his jaw.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you say.

You feel it then.

The smallest shift of his fingers at your waist. A subtle tightening, like he’s grounding himself through touch because looking is getting harder to regulate.

He notices your expression immediately and stills again, as if he’s afraid even that small movement gave too much away.

You don’t let him retreat into politeness.

“Spence,” you murmur again.

His eyes lift again, already softer now, already a little lost.

You wait until he’s actually looking at you.

“Just say it,” you say gently.

His breath catches.

For a second, he looks like he might actually obey. Like the words are right there, lined up behind his teeth, just waiting for permission to exist.

Instead, what comes out is smaller.

“…That dress is just…”

He trails off.

His gaze drops again, slower this time, less like a reflex and more like he forgot how not to look.

His fingers at your waist twitch again, betraying him completely.

He clears his throat, embarrassed at himself, and tries to recover, but it’s already gone. The sentence has dissolved.

You let the silence sit between you, warm and expectant.

When he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“I’m trying not to be obvious,” he admits.

His eyes finally lift back to yours, fully honest now in a way that makes something in your chest go quietly still.

“And I’m… not doing a very good job.”

“You don't say?”

Spencer looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether he’s misunderstood something fundamental about language.

His hands are still at your waist, warm and careful, like they’ve forgotten they’re allowed to exist anywhere else. His thumbs make a tiny, unconscious movement against your sides, then still again as if he’s caught himself thinking too loudly.

“I’m serious,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you answer, softer now. No teasing in it this time. Just certainty.

That seems to make things worse, in the way truth often does when someone has been bracing for correction.

His gaze drops again. Not greedy. Not reckless. Just helpless in its honesty. Like his eyes keep slipping out of his control.

You shift closer instead of giving him space to retreat into his head.

“You’re allowed to touch me.”

It lands differently than everything before it.

His entire body stills.

Not tense exactly. More like all his nervous movement has been paused mid-thought, hands frozen at your waist as if the concept needs time to render.

“I am,” he repeats, like he’s testing whether the sentence is real.

You nod once. “Yes.”

A beat.

His throat works as he swallows. “I just don’t want to assume anything.”

“I know,” you say again, and there’s something warm in it now, something that softens the edges of his restraint instead of pushing against it. “You don’t have to guess.”

That does it.

You feel the shift before you see it. The smallest exhale breaking out of him, like something inside finally loosens just a fraction.

Still, he doesn’t move.

His hands stay exactly where they are, fingers slightly curled into the fabric at your waist, as if even this is already more than he’s sure he’s been granted.

So you take the decision away from him.

You reach down, sliding your fingers over the backs of his hands where they rest tensely against your ribs. You don’t ask again. You don’t give him the chance to overthink the geometry of the question.

You just pull.

His breath hitches in a way that sounds almost like a stopped note, a sharp intake of air that he doesn’t quite manage to swallow. You guide his hands upward, slow and deliberate, sliding them up your ribcage until his palms settle fully against your breasts.

For a second, Spencer doesn’t seem to breathe at all.

It’s like a system crash in real time. His eyes go wide, dark and unfocused, staring at you like you’ve just performed a magic trick that violates the laws of physics. His hands rest against your chest, heavy and warm through the light fabric of your dress, but he’s holding them so rigidly it’s like he’s terrified they might burn through the material.

“Is this—” His voice cracks, splintering on the word. He clears his throat, tries again, and it comes out thin and high. “Is this okay? I feel like I should be asking for a notarized statement of consent.”

"Jeez, Spencer, you'd think you'd take me having you touch my boobs would be enough consent," you tease.

Spencer lets out a sound that’s halfway between a huff of breath and a genuinely startled laugh, his eyes widening a fraction more.

“That is not—” He stops, his gaze darting from your face to his own hands and back again, color climbing up his neck so fast you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. “That is not the point. The point is statutory interpretation is much clearer than non-verbal cues, and I have a history of misinterpreting data sets that are… significantly less high-stakes than this.”

You smile, feeling the way his fingers are still curled slightly inward, hovering against you without actually applying pressure. He’s touching you, but he’s terrified of holding on.

You let out a quiet laugh, soft and breathless, and lean forward just enough to rest your forehead against his. “Yes, Spencer. This is okay.”

You feel the exhale leave him, shuddering and uneven, like a breath he’s been holding for weeks finally escaping.

“Okay,” he whispers, mostly to himself. “Okay. Good. This is… good.”

The word “good” has barely left his lips before his hands move.

It’s not calculated. It doesn’t feel like a decision his brain made and then communicated to his body. It feels like gravity. Like his hands have been wanting to do this for so long that the moment you gave them permission, they just… stopped fighting it.

He squeezes.

It isn't rough or greedy, though you can feel the potential for it trembling in his fingertips. It’s careful. Reverent, almost. His palms mold to the weight of you, thumbs brushing experimentally over the curve of your chest, and the sensation is so electric that your breath hitches audibly.

That sound seems to break something inside him.

His fingers curl in, just a fraction, testing the give of you against his hands. A low, broken sound escapes him—half a groan, half a sigh—and his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to memorize the topography by touch alone.

“Oh,” he breathes out, like he’s just solved an equation he didn’t know he was working on.

He doesn’t stop. The squeeze turns into a slow, kneading motion, his palms heavy and warm through the fabric of your dress. He’s exploring, mapping the shape of you with a focus that borders on academic, but the feeling behind it is anything but clinical. His thumbs sweep over the swell of you, hesitating slightly when they graze the edge of your bra, then circling back like he’s found a favorite page in a book.

You rock forward involuntarily, your body chasing the friction before your brain catches up.

Spencer reacts like he’s been burned, but in the best possible way.

His hands stutter to a halt for a fraction of a second, palms pressing flat against you like he’s trying to anchor himself to the earth, and then his head falls back against the couch. His eyes are squeezed shut, his throat exposed, a long, vulnerable line of skin that makes your mouth go dry.

“You moved,” he chokes out. It sounds like an accusation, but his tone is ruined. It’s wrecked.

“I felt you do it,” you point out, amused breathless. You grind down again, slower this time, deliberate. “I’m supposed to move, Spencer.”

He makes a noise that is dangerously close to a whine, high in the back of his throat. His fingers twitch against you, no longer kneading, just pressing in like he’s trying to anchor himself to the only solid thing in the room.

“I know,” he gasps, his head tipping back even further, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. He looks like he’s in pain, but you know better. It’s too much sensation and not enough friction all at once. “I know you’re supposed to. I just— I wasn’t prepared for the kinetic energy transfer.”

You laugh again, but it’s breathless now, caught somewhere between amusement and the sudden, sharp heat that’s taken up residence in your own lungs. “You’re thinking about physics while you’re feeling me up?”

Spencer opens his eyes at that, blinking up at you like he’s surfacing from deep water. They’re dark, pupils blown so wide the iris is just a thin, burning ring of hazel.

“I’m always thinking,” he manages, but his voice is wrecked. It cracks in the middle, betraying him completely. He looks at his hands on you, then back up at your face, and the sheer adoration mixed with hunger on his expression makes your heart trip over itself. “It’s how I process. If I don’t categorize the input, I’m going to—” He cuts himself off, his breath hitching as his thumbs brush the underside of your breast again. “I’m going to lose it.”

You rock your hips down again, harder this time, watching the way his composure fractures like glass under a hammer.

“Then lose it,” you whisper.

You lean down, bracketing his face with your arms so he has nowhere else to look. His hair is a mess against the cushion, his lips red and swollen, and he looks at you like you’re the only gravitational constant in the universe.

It’s not a request. It’s a permission slip for a system failure.

Spencer stares up at you, his eyes wide and wet and unblinking, like he’s seeing the solution to a problem that’s been haunting him for months. His breath shudders out of him, a ragged, uneven exhale that fans against your cheek.

“You’re—” He starts, then stops, his voice cracking on the word. His hands flex against you, no longer careful, no longer testing the weight. They just hold. His fingers dig into the soft fabric of your dress, dragging over the curve of your chest with a desperation that makes your own head spin. “You’re dangerous.”

You smile, but it’s not sweet. It’s slow, knowing, a smile that acknowledges exactly what kind of power you have over him right now.

“You have no idea,” you murmur.

You reach up, hooking your fingers into the thin straps of your dress. You don’t look at him as you slide them down your shoulders—you keep your eyes locked on his, watching the dilation of his pupils until they almost swallow the color.

The fabric sighs as it slides down your arms, pooling at your waist.

Spencer doesn't blink. He physically cannot.

His eyes track the movement like it’s the most critical data stream he’s ever analyzed, dropping from your face to your shoulders, and then lower. The air between you feels suddenly oxygen-thin.

For a moment, the world is absolutely silent.

Spencer just stares.

It’s not a leer. It’s not even particularly sexual in the way you’re used to men looking. It’s captivated. His eyes roam over the lace, the shadow of skin beneath it, the way your chest rises and falls with your shortened breath. He looks like he’s trying to commit the image to memory with the same intensity he usually reserves for crime scene photos or quantum physics equations.

"Spence."

His name snaps him out of the trance, but his eyes don't lift. They stay glued to you, dark and reverent, like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.

"You can touch me," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels like the only sound in the room.

For a second, you think he might actually argue.

His hands hover over your bare skin, trembling slightly, fingers curling into loose fists like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching out. He looks stricken, caught between the overwhelming urge to touch and the terrifying reality that he finally can.

"I don't want to..." He trails off, swallowing hard. He looks up at you finally, and his expression is so open it’s almost painful. "I don't want to ruin this. I don't want to be too much.”

You smile, soft around the edges, stripping away any lingering teasing until all that’s left is the truth. You lean in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the way his breath stutters against your lips.

“You’d never be too much for me,” you whisper against his skin. “I want exactly what you’re giving me, Spencer. Not less.”

He breathes. A sharp intake of breath through his nose, followed by a ragged exhale that sounds like a deflation. The tension that has been holding his shoulders rigid evaporates, replaced instantly by a kind of trembling intent.

His hands aren't hovering anymore.

They settle on you with a kind of desperate, aching gravity.

His palms are warm, slightly damp with nervous sweat, and they cup the weight of your lace-covered breasts like he’s handling something volatile. Precious. Unstable.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. The second his skin makes contact with the lace, something inside him just—unspools.

He squeezes, harder than before, no longer treating you like something that might shatter. A rough, broken sound tears out of his throat, halfway between a groan and a sigh, and his eyes flutter shut as his fingers dig into the soft fabric.

“God,” he breathes, the word sounding like it’s been dragged out of him. “You're... You're beautiful."

He says it like a discovery. Like he’s the first person to ever find land.

He dips his head then, not waiting for encouragement, not giving himself time to second-guess the trajectory. He presses his face against your chest, burying himself in the soft curve of you with a desperation that makes your breath catch.

His lips are hot against the lace, dragging over the sensitive skin beneath with an open-mouthed kiss that feels more like worship than foreplay.

You gasp, your fingers tangling automatically into his hair, holding him there as he mouthes at the fabric. He doesn't seem to care that there’s still a layer of lace between his mouth and your skin; if anything, the friction seems to undo him.

His hands are restless now, roaming the shape of you with a focus that makes your head spin. He squeezes the weight of you, thumbs sweeping over the lace just to feel the texture of it against your skin. He’s mapping you. Memorizing the give of you under his palms, the way your breath hitches when his thumb grazes a sensitive spot.

Then he nips.

It’s shocking.

Not enough to hurt, just a sharp, intentional pressure of his teeth against the sensitive curve of your breast, right through the lace. A spark of heat jolts through you, electric and sudden, and your hips jerk against his before you can stop them.

“Spencer,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan.

The sound of his name on your lips seems to snap whatever remaining thread of control he’s been clinging to. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his expression dazed, mouth wet and eyes completely blown. There is a desperation in his gaze that seeps right into your bones.

"Off," he says.

It comes out wrecked, barely a word at all. Just a harsh, expelled breath shaped by consonants. He sounds almost pained, his voice cracking on the single syllable like it’s costing him something just to say it.

"Please."

The addition is ragged, tacked onto the end like a prayer he forgot he was saying. His hands are still cupping you, thumbs dragging over the lace with a restless, repetitive motion, like he’s trying to soothe an itch he can’t scratch.

You nod immediately.

His hands leave you, leaving a sudden cool space against your skin that makes you shiver. But before you can miss the warmth, his long fingers are skating up your back, searching for the clasp.

He doesn’t fumble. You expected him to—Spencer fumbles with doorknobs and coffee cup sleeves—but his hands are steady on your spine. There is a terrifying precision in the way his index finger finds the hook, the way his thumb slides the metal eye free with a click that sounds loud in the quiet room.

The tension in the band gives way with a second and third soft click, and then the pressure against your back simply... vanishes.

You feel the lace loosen immediately, the support slipping away, but Spencer doesn’t pull it off you right away. He leaves his hands resting against your spine for a moment, his splayed fingers spanning the width of your back, grounding himself against the reality of what he’s about to do. He’s breathing hard, you can feel the expansion of his chest against yours, a rapid, unsteady rhythm that matches your own.

Then, slowly, so slowly it feels like time has stretched thin, he slides his hands forward. He drags his palms around your ribcage, following the line of your bra until he reaches the straps. With a gentle tug, he pulls them down your arms, peeling the fabric away until it joins your dress at your waist.

The air hits your skin, cooler than you expected, and the sensation makes you shiver. But the reaction is purely physical. Emotionally, you are burning.

His eyes are locked on your chest in pure, unadulterated awe, like he’s just walked into a library he’s spent his entire life dreaming about and realized he’s allowed to read the books.

For a moment, he does absolutely nothing but look.

He doesn’t reach out. He doesn’t lean in. He just stares, his eyes cataloging every inch of newly exposed skin like he’s trying to build a photographic memory in real-time. It’s the kind of attention that would usually make you feel self-conscious, the kind that feels like a spotlight, but coming from Spencer it just feels… heavy. Like being known without speaking.

"You're so pretty," he breathes, and it sounds like a confession.

It’s soft, barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears, but the reverence in it knocks the air out of your lungs. He doesn’t say it like he’s commenting on your appearance; he says it like he’s acknowledging a force of nature, something inevitable and beautiful that he is helpless to resist.

Before the echo of the words has even faded, his restraint dissolves completely.

Before you can process the compliment, his head dips.

He doesn’t ease into it. He doesn’t start with the slow, drag of lips you were expecting. He just surges forward, his mouth closing over your nipple with a desperation that borders on clumsy.

The contact is electric—hot and wet and sudden. A sharp gasp tears out of your throat, your back bowing instinctively, pushing you deeper into the heat of his mouth. It feels like he’s trying to consume you, like he’s been starving for this exact moment for months and finally remembered how to eat.

His other hand moves to your neglected breast almost on instinct, his palm molding to the curve with a kind of desperate, grateful pressure. He’s greedy with it, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that matches the pull of his mouth, the circle of his tongue, like he can’t get enough of the way you fill his hands.

He’s mapping you by touch and taste simultaneously, and you can feel him trembling against you, vibrating with the sheer effort of holding himself back from completely falling apart.

You look down at him, your fingers tangling tight in his hair, and the sight nearly undoes you. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He looks lost in you, wrecked in the most beautiful way, like the entire world has narrowed down to the feeling of your skin under his hands and the taste of you on his tongue.

He doesn't stay there long. It seems he needs to ensure equity in his research, or perhaps he just needs to know if the other side tastes just as overwhelming. He pulls away with a wet, audible pop that sends a jolt straight down your spine, his breath panting hot against the damp skin he's left behind.

Before you can even miss the heat, he’s shifting, turning his face to capture your other breast. He treats this one with the same desperate reverence, his tongue swirling over the peak before he sucks it deep into the heat of his mouth.

Your body reacts instinctively, your hips grinding down against his, seeking friction to match the wet heat of his mouth. You expect his hand to follow the lead, to switch sides so he can touch and taste in tandem, maintaining the rhythm he’d established.

But his hand doesn't move up.

Instead, his long, clever fingers trace a distracted path down your ribs, his palm skating over the curve of your waist before slipping beneath the bunched fabric of your sundress.

The air feels cool against your skin for a split second before his hand makes contact, sliding over the heated expanse of your stomach. He maps the terrain of your body with single-minded focus, bypassing the tease of your hip to slide directly toward the apex of your thighs.

He pulls his mouth away from your nipple with a wet, ragged gasp, but he doesn't give you—or himself—a moment of stillness. His lips immediately find the soft swell of your breast again, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin, his breath hot and uneven.

"You're so... God, you're perfect," he mumbles, the words muffled against your skin. He sounds delirious.

His hand doesn't hesitate beneath the fabric of your dress. His fingers trace the edge of your underwear, just for a second, a fleeting tactile confirmation of what lies beneath, before he’s hooking his fingers into the lace and pulling it to the side.

The drag of the lace against your hip is sharp and fleeting, but the touch of his fingers following immediately after is searing. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask for permission again—he’s already past the point of being able to form coherent sentences. He simply slides his fingers through the slick heat of you, his touch exploratory but devastatingly sure.

"Oh," he breathes, the sound vibrating against your chest. "You're... you're wet."

It’s a statement of fact, delivered with the same wonder he’d use to identify a rare botanical species. He pauses there for a beat, his fingers coated in the evidence of how much you want him, seemingly stunned by the data.

“So that’s—” He swallows hard, his voice cracking on a dry throat. “That’s for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your head tipping back as his fingers slide through the wetness again, testing the slickness with a fascination that makes your toes curl. “It’s all for you, Spencer.”

He makes a sound that is purely involuntary—a choked-off groan that vibrates against your ribs. He can’t seem to decide where to put his hands. He wants to touch you everywhere, memorize every reaction, but his focus keeps snapping back to the heat between your legs.

He seems to accept the data, files it away under a header labeled Miraculous, and then his brain clearly short-circuits from the overload of sensory input. Because his hand moves, but his mouth doesn't abandon its post.

He slides two long fingers inside you, slow and deliberate and the sensation makes your vision white out at the edges. It’s a stretch, a burning pressure that feels exactly like relief, and he seems just as overwhelmed by it as you are. His other hand remains on your breast, kneading the soft flesh with a rhythmic, desperate squeeze, his palm dragging over your nipple in a way that makes you gasp.

“You feel—” He chokes on the word, his breath fanning hotly over your damp skin. He presses a messy, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you shiver. “You feel incredible.”

He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the intrusion. He starts to move, curling his fingers in a slow, devastating arc that drags against your inner walls with terrifying precision. It’s practiced in theory, even if he’s shaking with nerves, his mind clearly cataloging the anatomy of your pleasure even as he loses himself in the reality of it.

"Spencer," you gasp, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss against your skin.

He takes the sound as encouragement. He shifts his weight, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit in a way that makes your hips buck off the couch, a desperate, involuntary motion that chases more friction.

He catches the rhythm of your hips immediately, his brain fast-tracking the mechanics of your pleasure even as he’s losing the battle for his own composure. The heel of his hand grinds down in slow, deliberate circles, matching the curl of his fingers inside you, and the dual sensation is so sharp, so perfect, that your nails dig involuntarily into his scalp.

“God, yes,” he breathes, the words damp and hot against your skin. He doesn’t lift his head; he’s too consumed. He presses his face into the valley between your breasts, nipping at the sensitive skin there, kissing the marks he leaves like he’s trying to soothe the sting even as he inflicts it. “You’re so tight, I can’t—I can’t believe how you feel.”

His other hand is still busy on your breast, kneading with a desperation that borders on worship. He drags his thumb over your nipple, catching the peak just as his fingers curl inside you again, hitting a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

"Wait," you gasp, the word scraping against your throat.

Spencer stops instantly. It’s not a gradual slowdown; it’s a full cessation of motion, like a puppet whose strings were cut. His fingers still inside you, his hand pauses its ruthless rhythm, and his mouth lifts from your skin, though he stays close enough that his breath fans hot and damp against your sternum.

He looks up at you, eyes wide and wild, blinking rapidly like he’s waking from a deep sleep. There’s a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, his hair is a complete wreck from your fingers, and his mouth is swollen and red. He looks dazed, dangerously undone, but mostly he looks terrified.

“Did I hurt you?” The question tumbles out in a rush, his voice cracking on the syllables. His hand twitches against you, like he wants to pull away but is paralyzed by the fear that moving might make it worse. “Oh god, I hurt you, didn’t I? I was moving too fast, I should have been more careful, I know the anatomy but I didn’t—”

“Spencer,” you cut in softly, trying to catch his frantic gaze. You reach up, smoothing a hand over his messy hair, your thumb brushing his temple. He leans into the touch immediately, his eyes fluttering shut for a split second before snapping back open to search your face for any sign of pain. “Spencer, breathe. You didn’t hurt me.”

"But if it wasn't pain..." He falters, his brow furrowing so deeply it looks like it hurts. He looks confused, genuinely baffled as to why you would call a halt to something that seemed to be going so well. "Did I do it wrong? I know the statistics on female pleasure are often exaggerated in media, and I thought I was hitting the anterior wall but I might have miscalculated the angle, and if the pressure was too much—"

You can't help it; a soft laugh bubbles up in your chest, spilling out before you can stop it.

Spencer blinks, the rambling cutting off mid-syllable. The confusion in his eyes shifts, melting into something softer, though no less intense.

"Sorry," you murmur, your thumb stroking his cheekbone, feeling the frantic pulse of his heart hammering against his ribs where your bodies press together. "I didn't want to come yet."

The silence that follows is absolute.

Spencer stares at you, his mouth slightly open, the frantic apology dying on his tongue. The sheer confusion on his face would be funny if he didn't look so completely floored.

You just smile, shaking your head gently at his disbelief, and drop your hands to his waistband.

It takes him a second to process the shift. His brain is still stuck back on the confession, trying to calculate the variables of why exactly stopping is a good thing when the outcome was so promising, but then your fingers are working at the button of his dress slacks, and his thought process whites out entirely.

His breath hitches—a sharp, jagged intake of air that sounds almost like a sob. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly over your hips, snap down to grip your thighs, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"Is this—?" he starts, his voice pitching up high and tight, cracking on the question. He doesn't finish it. He can't. His eyes are glued to your hands, watching your fingers deftly slide the metal button through the loophole.

The sound of his zipper lowering in the quiet room is obscenely loud. It feels like a gunshot in the heavy atmosphere between you.

You tug the fabric of his slacks and boxers down just enough to free him, and the reaction is immediate. Spencer gasps, a full-body shudder racking his frame, his hips jerking up off the couch to help you, desperate to be rid of the barrier.

He’s hard—achingly, undeniably hard.

The sight of him, flushed and straining against his stomach, makes your mouth go dry. He feels heavy in your hand, hot to the touch, and when you wrap your fingers around the base, his entire body jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

"Ah—!" The sound is sharp, startled out of him. His head falls back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently as he swallows. "Okay. Okay, that’s—God.”

"Do you want to keep going?" you start to ask, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels too loud in the quiet room. "Or should we—"

"Yes."

The answer cuts you off before you can even finish the sentence. It’s immediate, desperate, breathed out on an exhale that sounds like he’s been holding his breath for a lifetime.

"Please," he tacks on, his eyes snapping open to find yours, wide and desperate and completely unguarded. "I need—please."

You smile, soft and reassured, and shift your hips. You line him up, the head of him nudging against your entrance, hot and insistent. The stretch is slow as you lower yourself down, inch by inch, taking your time to adjust to the sheer size of him.

Spencer makes a sound like he’s dying.

It’s a low, broken noise that starts in his chest and rattles its way up his throat, sounding for all the world like a prayer that’s gone horribly wrong. His head drops back against the couch cushions, his eyes squeezing shut so tightly his lashes tremble, his mouth falling open on a silent gasp that looks almost painful.

You go slow, torturously slow, sinking down until your hips meet his. The feeling is overwhelming—a thick, impossible fullness that makes your breath hitch and your thighs tremble. You can feel him everywhere, the heat of him searing you from the inside out, the way his body strains to stay still under yours.

"Oh god," he chokes out, his voice wrecked. His hands find your waist again, but instead of gripping you, they just hold on, his fingers pressing into your skin like he's trying to anchor himself to the earth. "You're... you're tight. I can't—Jesus, you feel like..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He can't seem to find the words in the English language—or any of the other ones he knows—that adequately describe the feeling of being inside you. Instead, he just exhales, a long, shuddering breath that ruffles the hair falling near your face.

His grip on your waist tightens, not to steer you, but just to hold on. His thumbs press into your hip bones, his long fingers spanning nearly the entire width of your torso, and he looks at you like you are the only thing keeping him from floating away.

"You can move," he breathes, the permission falling from his lips like he’s granting you access to a restricted section of the library. "Please, you can move.”

You lift your hips experimentally, dragging yourself up his length before sinking back down, and the friction is enough to make you both gasp. Spencer’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hitching in a rhythm that matches your movements.

And as soon as you start to find a steady pace, his attention snaps right back to where it’s been desperate to go all night.

His hands leave your waist, sliding up your torso with a reverent urgency that makes your skin prickle. He doesn't ask; he just reaches, cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms like he’s checking their density, confirming their reality. He squeezes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a pressure that borders on possessive, his thumbs sweeping over your nipples in time with the roll of your hips.

It’s like he’s trying to physically merge with them. He pushes them together, his palms pressing inward to create a deep, soft valley, and then he’s burying his face in it with a groan that sounds absolutely wrecked.

He breathes you in, his nose brushing against your sternum, his exhale hot and damp against your skin. He turns his head, rubbing his cheek against the curve of your breast like a cat claiming territory, his hair tickling your skin in the sweetest, most maddening way.

"Perfect," he mumbles, the word vibrating directly into your chest. "You're so—God, I can't believe I'm touching you. Who gave me the right?"

"I did," you gasp out, the rhythm of your hips making your voice shaky. You bury a hand in his hair, holding him close to you as you move. "You literally asked permission five minutes ago."

He lets out a huff of breath that might be a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob of relief. He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the inner curve of your left breast, right over the hammering of your heart. "Best decision I ever made."

He seems to lose himself in the slide of skin against skin. He’s not just touching you anymore; he’s interacting with you, experimenting with what makes you gasp and what makes your internal muscles clamp down around him. When you grind down particularly hard, he whines low in his throat, his hands spasming against your ribs, and he ducks his head to capture a nipple in his mouth again.

He sucks hard, the sudden pull of his mouth sending a sharp jolt of pleasure that arcs all the way to your toes. It makes your rhythm stutter, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your walls flutter around him.

He groans at the reaction, the vibration humming against your sensitive skin. He’s completely lost to it now, any remaining semblance of his usual control shattered. He lifts his head just enough to switch sides again, but he doesn’t let go with his hands. Instead, he kneads the heavy weight of them, pushing them up and together, burying his face between them with a desperate, breathless sound.

"Spence," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. He doesn't pull away; he just leans into the sting, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt-sweat gathering in the valley of your cleavage. "I'm gonna—fuck, I'm gonna come."

He doesn't stop. If anything, the confession acts like a detonator.

He pulls his face out from the valley of your breasts just enough to look up at you, his eyes dark, blown wide, and utterly frantic. He looks like a man watching a supernova, terrified and awestruck all at once.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice cracking on a desperate whine. “Please, let me—let me feel it.”

The coil in your belly snaps, heat flooding your veins with a force that makes your vision blur. Your body seizes up, your back arching instinctively, pushing your chest further into his hands as the wave crashes over you.

You cry out his name, your voice breaking, and Spencer takes it like a revelation.

He doesn't stop moving, but he gentles the roll of his hips, guiding you through the aftershocks with a terrifyingly precise intuition. He watches your face with rapt attention, his eyes darting across your features like he’s trying to memorize the exact expression of your pleasure. The feeling of you pulsing around him drags a guttural sound from his throat, raw and unfiltered.

"God," he chokes out, his hands trembling against your ribs. "I can feel you... I can feel everything."

The sensation of you coming around him seems to be the final straw. His control, already hanging by a thread, evaporates. His hips snap up to meet yours, a sharp, involuntary thrust that punches a startled moan out of you, but he’s gone too far to stop it now.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't—" The apology is a fractured chant, breathless and desperate. His head falls forward, burying itself back against the soft sanctuary of your chest as his rhythm breaks apart completely. "You feel too good, I can't hold it—”

"It's okay," you breathe out, the words hitching in your throat as his movements turn sharp and erratic. Your hands find his hair again, tangling in the messy curls to hold him against you, grounding him as he starts to unravel. "Spence, let go. It's okay."

The permission seems to break the last dam.

He lets out a sound that is half-groan, half-sob, muffled completely against your skin. His hips snap up one last time, harder than before, and then he’s freezing, his entire body growing taut.

A moment later, he collapses.

The tension in his frame releases all at once, leaving him heavy and pliant against you. He shudders violently, a full-body reaction that feels like it’s rattling his bones, and you feel the pulse of him deep inside as he falls apart. He’s making low, broken sounds against your chest, frantic little noises of relief that taper off into wet, shaky breaths.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged harmony of your breathing. The air feels thick, charged with the static of what just happened, the smell of sex and warmth hanging between you.

Eventually, his breathing slows, the ragged gasps smoothing out into something deep and rhythmic, but he doesn’t move. If anything, he seems to be actively trying to merge his skeleton with yours.

He keeps his face tucked firmly against your chest, his nose pressing into the soft curve of your breast, his hair a wild halo of sweat-damp curls tickling your skin. Every so often, a small, involuntary shudder ripples through him, an aftershock of the intensity, and he tightens his arms around your waist like he’s afraid you might evaporate.

You can feel the frantic thud of his heart where his chest is pressed to yours—fast, too fast, like a bird trapped in a cage.

You run your fingers through his hair, the damp strands clinging to your fingertips, and scratch gently at his scalp. The simple touch seems to soothe him immediately; you feel the tension drain out of his shoulders, his muscles turning liquid against you. He sighs, a long, contented exhale that ruffles the skin over your heart, and presses a kiss there—lazily, without any of the earlier desperation, just a soft, reverent press of his lips.

"Spence?" you murmur, your voice raspy in the quiet.

"Mhm," he hums, the sound vibrating through your chest. He doesn't lift his head. If anything, he tries to burrow deeper, nuzzling into the softness of your breast like he's found the perfect pillow. "Don't talk yet. I'm rebooting."

You smile, your chest rising and falling with a quiet laugh that he feels instantly. You keep stroking his hair, letting your nails graze lightly against his scalp, feeling the way he leans into the touch like a starved plant leaning toward the sun. He feels heavy in your arms, a solid, warm weight that pins you to the couch in the most grounding way possible.

"Take your time," you whisper.

upsidedownbunnyy

I need to live in this fic fr

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