Ink fandom yall need to start writing fic and making fanart and make this an actual fandom instead of just a vague collection of people that like the music and think spencer is hot.
Post your fic on ao3, post raunchy fanart on twitter, make discord servers, be an actual fandom!!!
From here on out im gonna be posting freaky ass weird ass fics and art and yall are just gonna have to deal with it and learn how to actually be a fandom from a crazy person on the internet
CW/TW: NSFW (18+), smut, morning sex, oral (f receiving), light dom/sub dynamics, cum play, mild language
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You woke slowly, the first rays of morning light cutting through the curtains in Spencer’s bedroom, dust motes dancing lazily in the golden beam. He was warm behind you—so warm, all long limbs and sleepy weight, curled into your back like he belonged there.
Which… he did.
You smiled against the pillow, wiggling just slightly to reposition, and that’s when you felt it—thick and unmistakably hard, pressed right up against your ass. Spencer was dead asleep, mouth slightly open, breath soft and even, but his cock? Very much awake.
You bit your lip. Naughty thoughts flooded your barely-conscious mind like molasses in the heat, slow and sticky and irresistible.
What was a girl supposed to do?
You arched your back just a little, enough to grind your hips back against him. He didn’t react. Another slow roll of your hips—this time dragging deliberately against his length—and you felt the barest twitch.
Ohhh.
A little grin tugged at your lips. Dangerous game. You pressed back again—more pressure this time, slower. His breath hitched. Yes.
And then—voice rough like gravel, low and dangerous right against your neck:
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing, sweetheart?”
You froze. Just for a second. Then you giggled, coy and guilty, like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“Mmmmaybe…”
Spencer groaned, his hand sliding down your side to grip your hip. He rolled his own hips forward once, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was.
“You wake me up like that, and think I won’t make you pay for it?”
You were about to say something smart—something bratty—but his mouth was already on your neck, kissing and sucking the skin there until your body melted against his. One hand splayed flat over your stomach, pulling you closer as he slid down under the blankets.
You gasped when his breath ghosted over your thighs. He didn’t even ask. Just spread your legs with a confident tug and dove in.
His tongue was everywhere—lazy licks at first, warm and slow, like he had all the time in the world. And when your hips bucked? He groaned like it turned him on just as much as it did you.
“You taste so fucking good,” he murmured, voice wrecked and low.
Then he got serious. Flat of his tongue pressing up into your clit, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you still while he devoured you like he had to. Like it was breakfast and lunch and dessert and everything in between.
You came embarrassingly fast.
You tried to twist away, oversensitive and gasping, but he didn’t let you.
“Nope,” he growled, voice dark now. “You woke me up, baby. You started this.”
His mouth was relentless, his tongue working you open until tears welled in your eyes and your body shook. Your fingers gripped the sheets. Your moans were strangled and breathless and loud—so loud—but Spencer just held you there, groaning into you like he was getting off on the sound of you falling apart.
When he finally pulled back, chin wet, eyes black with lust, you barely had time to breathe before he was flipping you onto your stomach and shoving your legs apart.
“Gonna fuck you now,” he muttered, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, torturing. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”
You whimpered—nodded, bit your lip, pushed back on him with no shame.
He slid in slow. A drawn-out stretch that made you whine and claw at the pillow. He leaned forward, chest against your back, and whispered filth in your ear as he started to move.
“So fuckin’ wet for me. So fuckin’ tight. God, baby…”
The pace built fast. He was rough, but not cruel—just desperate. A man completely consumed. He fucked you hard enough to rock the bed, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like a handle.
Your second orgasm hit harder than the first, triggered by the way he reached around to rub tight, perfect circles over your clit. You screamed his name, and that was it.
He pulled out with a guttural groan, stroking himself fast—frantic—until all of his hot warm cum covered your lower back.
You collapsed in the sheets, dazed and soaked and shaking. Spencer flopped down next to you a second later, chest heaving, eyes still hungry even as he caught his breath.
“That’s what you get for teasing me,” he murmured, brushing a sticky strand of hair from your face.
Vibe: Soft, sleepy, cuddly migraine care. Quiet love. No cringe.
CW: migraine and symptom mention
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You don’t even make it past lunch before the headache kicks in.
At first, it’s just pressure behind your eyes. Then it creeps up the side of your head, goes full throb mode, and suddenly every sound is the loudest thing that’s ever existed. By the time you’re halfway back to the bus, your vision’s doing that weird thing where the light looks like it’s rippling.
You manage to text Spencer one-handed:
“migraine. dead.”
Then you crawl into the dark lounge in the back of the bus, yank your hoodie over your head, and pray for death or darkness—whichever shows up first.
You don’t hear the door open, but you feel the air shift. Then a warm hand lands gently on your ankle and gives it a little squeeze.
“Hi, babe,” Spencer says, voice way softer than usual. “Heard you’re dying.”
You groan. That’s all he needs.
He disappears for like thirty seconds, then comes back with water, meds, and one of his worn-in band tees that smells like cologne and cigarettes.
You’re already curled on your side, hoodie half-eating your face, so he doesn’t say anything. Just sits on the edge of the couch and taps the water bottle against your hand.
“Here. Slow sips, here’s some Tylenol. You got it?”
You nod, barely cracking your eyes open to take the meds and sip at the water like a dehydrated Victorian child. He waits until you’re done, then pulls the bottle from your hand and trades it for his shirt.
“Change into this,” he says, still whispering. “You’ll overheat in that hoodie.”
You grumble something about being cold, but he just grins and helps you out of it anyway. Once you’re in his shirt, he tugs a blanket over you and slips in behind you without another word.
The second he’s curled around you, arm over your waist, it’s like your body finally lets go. Not of the pain, but of the tension. He’s so warm. And quiet. And his thumb starts tracing lazy little shapes on your stomach, not trying to distract you—just being there.
Eventually, you mumble, “Sorry I’m like this.”
He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “Like what? Human?”
You smile, eyes still closed.
He keeps whispering like it’s a secret between you. “If I could take it for you, I would. But since I can’t, I’ll just be annoying and cuddle you until it passes.”
You snort. That hurts. He immediately kisses your shoulder like it’ll fix it.
“Okay. No more jokes,” he says. “Only cuddles. Doctor’s orders.”
He stays like that for the next hour, humming random bits of your favorite songs under his breath when he thinks you’re falling asleep, occasionally reaching for your hand and kissing your knuckles just to check in. At one point, he whispers, “Love you,” real soft like he doesn’t expect you to answer.
You don’t. You’re half asleep. But you smile, and he sees it.
