Miaou 😿 @kenzieluvssatan - Tumblr Blog

kenzieluvssatan

Jul 9, 2025

ladysaja

Ass, Tits, Thighs or Legs? ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Pairing: Saja Boys x Female Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Smut, Spice

𝒥𝒾𝓃𝓊 ❦

Definitely your Legs.

It doesn’t even matter if they’re long or short.

If you guys have sex, he has at least one of your legs over his shoulder.

I’d say Jinu prefers them smooth and shaved. But of course, if you don’t wanna shave, he respects that too (He’s a gentleman, after all 🤭).

𝒜𝒷𝒷𝓎 ⚡︎

That dude is OBSESSED with your ass.

If it’s thick and fat, he’d grope and smack it all the time, making it jiggle. If it’s flat, he’d do those things anyway 😏

That’s why his favorite sex positions are Doggy Style and Backshots (or any other position where he can watch your ass).

You wanna distract him? Then wear some booty shorts and bend over 😘

ℛℴ𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒸ℯ ꫂ ၴႅၴ

He’s a tits guy for sure. Nothing can change my mind about that 💪🏻

This dude will make sure you wear clothes that define your boobs, no matter if they’re big or small <3

Bro is a sucker for missionary position and any other position where he can watch your tits bounce and jiggle with each thrust 🤤

Romance also loves nuzzling his face in your tits. Like cmon, they’re so soft, you surely can’t blame him 💔

ℳ𝓎𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓎 ୭

Thighs. Do I even need to explain?

It just feels so comforting for him to just lay his head down on those after a long, stressful day.

Wear thigh highs and he has you either bend over on the nearest surface or pressed against a wall in a few seconds 🙃

He always makes sure to have one hand on one of your thighs whenever you guys are sitting next to each other 🩶

ℬ𝒶𝒷𝓎 ☁︎

Also an Ass guy. Cmon, it’s quite obvious, isn’t it?

He’s quite similar to Abby, when it comes to loving your ass. Both are basically nasty in their own ways, I’d say.

He LIVES for Reverse Cowgirl. It gives him such a delicious view of your pretty ass 🍑

That mf also shamelessly watches your ass whenever he has the chance to do so. You could be walking to the bathroom and his eyes would be glued to your ass until you’re out of sight

Thanks for reading <3 Likes, Reposts and Comments are deeply appreciated 🩷

Wishing you and amazing Morning/Late Morning/Afternoon/Evening or Night ^^

kenzieluvssatan

Jun 29, 2025

cuzxai-deactivated20251020

side effects - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!teader

a/n: youre exposed to sex pollen in the field. 5k words… im sorry😭

The warehouse had been cleared by the time you arrived—agents already sweeping for evidence, bodies already bagged, the sting of gunpowder still clinging to the humid air. You and Spencer were last to respond, mostly for paperwork and profiling, wrapping up what the rest of the team started. A simple cleanup, they said. Nothing dangerous.

No one had warned you about the broken vial in the corner. It was barely noticeable—just a cracked glass container, its liquid contents long evaporated into the air. You barely remembered brushing past the table it had been resting on but the chemical team flagged it almost immediately. “Unidentified compound,” they said. “Possibly synthetic. Possibly hormonal.”

They didn’t use the words sex pollen until they got the preliminary analysis back but the moment you heard the phrase, your stomach dropped. That shit never ended well in any field report. And by then, it was already too late.

“You’ll start feeling the effects within a few hours,” the hazmat technician told you, holding a clipboard and avoiding your eyes. “It’s uh… fast-acting. Intense. And it mimics extreme heat symptoms. We’re required to isolate anyone exposed. Just until it wears off.”

“Great,” you muttered. “So I get to sit in quarantine while my body tries to fuck itself.”

Beside you, Spencer shifted uncomfortably.“Someone will be assigned to supervise in case medical intervention is needed,” the tech added, flipping to the next page. “Or if symptoms become… unmanageable.” You didn’t ask what that meant.

You expected to be sent to some sterile room in Quantico. Instead, Spencer offered his apartment. Hotly. Quickly. The moment the idea was brought up, his hand was already half-raised and his voice had that eager, slightly-too-fast edge to it.

“I can do it,” he said. “We’re coworkers. I mean—we’re close. I know her. It’s better than sticking her in a glass box with strangers, right?”

You had no argument for that. Just heat blooming in your chest as you glanced at him—soft curls, worried eyes, fingers twitching by his side. They agreed. No one questioned it.

You’d been at his apartment for three hours. Three. The early onset effects were supposed to have hit by now. And sure, maybe your skin felt a little too warm under your shirt. Maybe you’d showered longer than usual, just to stand under something cool. But you didn’t feel crazy. Not like the stories went. No desperate writhing, no begging for touch, no burning arousal that left you breathless. You just felt… irritated. Restless.

Horny in a way that wasn’t quite urgent but definitely persistent. Like a low hum beneath your skin. A knot that wouldn’t untangle.

“I feel fine,” you said, for the third time. “You don’t need to babysit me, Spencer.”

From his kitchen, he raised a brow. “You’re quarantined for a reason.”

You flopped back onto his couch, groaning. “I could be home, in my own bed. But instead i’m rotting away in your living room.

“You’re not rotting.”

“You don’t know that.”

He leaned on the counter, glass of water in one hand, hair pushed back from his forehead. There was something almost amused about the way he looked at you—like he knew better but was letting you burn yourself out. “Do you want anything to eat?”

“Unless it’s a cure for vague, medically induced horniness, I’m not hungry.”

That earned a real smile. The faintest quirk at the edge of his lips. He set the glass down and crossed the room, arms folding in front of him, his frame tall and lean and calm as ever.

“You’re going to feel worse before it gets better,” he said gently. “The symptoms build.”

“And you are not helping,” you mumbled, thighs shifting where you sat.

He tilted his head. “How am I not helping?”

“Your voice is annoying,” you lied.

Spencer’s brows ticked up slightly. “That’s new.”

“Everything you say makes it worse.”

A beat passed. The air shifted. His mouth parted like he was going to speak—but he didn’t. Just studied you for a second. The flush rising in your cheeks. The way your arms crossed too tightly over your chest. And your thighs—pressing together. Trying to ease the ache building between them. The knot that was already tightening.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes.

Spencer’s smile twitched again.

“I’m not the one clenching my legs together every time I talk.”

You glared. “Fuck you.”

His voice dipped an octave. “That might actually help.”

Your breath hitched. His expression stayed soft, almost unreadable—but there was something behind it. Something careful. Curious. Watching you like a scientist, like a profiler, like a man trying to read something far more dangerous than a casefile.

“I’m kidding,” he said after a moment. “Mostly.”

“You’re such a dick.”

Spencer walked back to the kitchen but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder—sharp and deliberate. You could still feel it after he turned away. You shifted again on the couch. Your shirt clung to your skin. Everything tingled. Maybe you weren’t fine after all.

You wanted to pace the apartment like a caged animal, restless in a way that doesn’t feel like arousal—but it is. It’s in your skin, your breath, your nerves. It’s in how warm the couch feels under your thighs, how every fabric that brushes your body feels like too much and not enough all at once. You’re not squirming, not really. But your hips shift a lot. And Spencer sees it.

“You okay?” he asks again. He’s in the armchair across from you, nursing a tea he hasn’t taken a sip from in twenty minutes.

“I’m fine,” you bite back, the words sharp—not at him, not really. You’re just uncomfortable. Hot. Frustrated.

He watches you with that too-big brain of his, eyes sweeping your body like he’s reading symptoms off your skin. You’ve shed your jacket. Then your socks. You sat in a tank top. Now you’re curled into the corner of his couch, arms crossed under your chest, thighs clenched tight like a pressure valve.

You know he notices. Of course he does. You catch the flicker of his gaze down your body—quick, cautious, reverent. And when your hips shift again, slow and subtle against the cushion, you see him swallow.

“It’s warm in here,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, rubbing your palms down the sides of your thighs like it’ll help. “I feel… itchy. My skin’s buzzing.”

Spencer nods, slow. “That lines up with the early stages of arousal-inducing pheromone exposure. Symptoms are typically mild at first—”

“I know what the report said,” you interrupt, huffing a breath. “I was there. I read it. Twice.”

He doesn’t take it personally. “Just making sure you remember.”

You throw your head back with a groan, eyes squeezing shut. “I remember. I also remember it saying the effects can be psychosomatic, which means this might all be in my head. Which means you don’t have to babysit me like I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”

“No,” he says, firmer than before. “That’s not what psychosomatic means and you’re not leaving.”

You blink at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes. You’re not driving in this condition and we don’t know how your symptoms will progress. I’m not risking you being alone.”

There’s something final in the way he says it. Something that makes your stomach twist and not in a bad way. You press your thighs together tighter, annoyed by how easily that helps.

“…Your voice is different,” you murmur, surprised by the words as they come out. “When you talk like that.”

Spencer blinks. “Like what?”

“Like you’re in charge.”

He shifts in his seat. “I’m not trying to be in charge.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” you murmur, mouth dry. “I just said it’s different.”

Your heart thumps once, hard. You see the flicker in his jaw when you look at him again—his leg bouncing, his knuckles pale around his mug. He’s trying to be good. So good. But you’ve worked with him long enough to know the signs of when he’s not entirely in control of himself. And this is starting to look like that.

You lean your head back against the cushion and sigh through your teeth. “God, I feel like I’ve had five espressos and a daydream I can’t stop.”

“That… might actually be one of the effects,” he says, tugging at his collar.

“Oh my God, stop talking like a doctor Spencer.”

He shuts up. A beat passes. Then another. His eyes flicker toward you. You watch him over the edge of your arm.

“…Sorry,” you say, a little sheepish. “I’m just—I don’t know. I feel weird. And your voice is not helping.”

Spencer’s brows knit. “I am a doctor. And… my voice?”

“It’s just—it’s like everything you do feels hotter right now and I don’t know if that’s you or me or the pollen or what but—” You cut yourself off. “I think I’m going insane.”

His eyes stay locked on yours. You can see the moment something shifts in him.“…You pressed your thighs together when I told you no,” he says, so quietly it almost doesn’t register. “Didn’t think I noticed.”

Your lips part. You hadn’t expected him to say that. You hadn’t expected him to notice that, not out loud. And now it’s hanging there in the air like an admission. The tension between you thickens like syrup. And suddenly you realize you’ve stopped breathing. “I didn’t mean to,” you say.

Spencer hums, something low in his throat. He sets his mug down, eyes on you like you’re something fragile and glowing. “I don’t think you meant to feel like this either,” he murmurs. And you don’t know if he means aroused or frustrated or aching but he’s right. And it’s getting worse.

“You’re not touching yourself, are you?” he asks, a little hoarse now. “That’s what they said not to do. Until the effects pass.

Your whole body burns. “No,” you whisper.

“But you want to.” He says it like a statement. A soft, knowing one. Like he already has you figured out and doesn’t need you to say it.

Your voice comes out thin and barely audible: “Yeah.”

Another beat. Then quietly, almost tender— “Don’t.”

Your body shivers. He’s not even touching you and you can feel him. The weight of his voice. The way he’s watching you. The way your hips shift again, slower this time, like gravity is pulling you toward something.

“Spence…”

“Don’t,” he repeats, softer. “Not yet.”

Your thighs clench again. You can’t stop. Every word he says sinks straight into you. And you don’t even realize your nails are digging into the couch cushions until his eyes dip down to your hands.

“You’re not okay,” he says. “You just think you are.”

“I’m fine,” you whisper. Your voice breaks on it. You last all of five minutes.

Five minutes of shifting on the couch, of pressing your thighs together so tight they ache. Five minutes of trying to breathe normally, trying to ignore the slow, electric hum beneath your skin. Five minutes of Spencer watching you like he’s memorizing every twitch of discomfort, every unconscious move you make to relieve the pressure building between your legs. It’s unbearable. And it’s only getting worse.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” you blurt out, standing too fast.

Spencer raises a brow. He doesn’t argue but you can feel his eyes on your back as you walk away—fast, too fast. You don’t even turn on the water. Just lock the door, shove your pants down, and sit on the closed toilet lid with your head thrown back and your hand already between your legs.

You’re soaked. And it’s instant, the relief of pressure from finally touching yourself—but it’s not enough. Not even close. You rub slow and firm circles, breath catching, hips rocking with every pulse of heat that crashes over you. Your thighs shake. Your toes curl against the floor. You bite your lip to stay quiet but it only makes it worse. You try to speed up, fingers moving faster, sloppier. But no matter how close you get, it won’t happen.

Your breath is a mess. Your body is screaming for something it can’t reach, and it hits you: the report warned about this. That once the arousal sets in, your brain stops registering solo touch the same way. That you need external stimulation to reset the chemical overload.

And you’re not alone in the apartment. You don’t know you’re moaning until you hear it echo against the tile. And then you hear him on the other side of the door.

“Are you okay?”

Your heart stutters. “I’m—fuck. I’m fine.” The silence after that is so loud, you think maybe he’s walked away.

“You’re not fine.”

Your breath stutters again. “Spencer—“

“I can hear you.”

Shame burns hot across your face but your hand doesn’t stop moving. It can’t.

“You said you were fine but I know you aren’t,” he murmurs through the door.

“I’m sorry,” you say weakly.

“I’m not mad,” he says gently. “But I think you’re past the point of pretending you can do this alone.”

You don’t respond. Not with words. Your legs are trembling, your hand still moving between them but you already know it’s not going to work. You’re panting like you just ran a mile, back arching off the seat—and still nothing.

Another knock. Softer. “I can help,” Spencer says, voice low.

You should say no. You should tell him it’s the pollen talking. You should warn him that once this starts, it won’t stop. You want to tell him that it’ll ruin everything between you. But your hand’s already reaching for the lock.

You barely get your pants all the way back up when Spencer gently pushes the bathroom door open, his gaze dark and steady. You try to pull your sweater down over your thighs like it’ll hide anything—but it’s useless. He saw you. Heard you. And he knows.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it, fingers curling lightly around your wrist. You don’t even hesitate—you let him lead you out, your heart hammering against your ribs, your body so wound up it almost hurts.

Spencer leads you through the hallway, the short walk to his bedroom feeling longer than any distance you’ve ever traveled. His hand stays on you the whole time, thumb stroking slow circles against your wrist, soothing and claiming all at once. The bedroom door clicks shut behind you and then there’s nothing separating you from him. No reason to pretend, no rules, no shame. Just the gnawing, burning need.

Spencer tugs you toward him until your chest brushes his. His hands settle lightly on your hips, the heat of them sinking through the thin fabric of your clothes. His forehead drops to yours, breathing you in. “Been wanting to touch you all night,” he murmurs, his voice fraying at the edges. “You know that? Sat there watching you squirm, pretending you’re fine—” His hands trail down your sides until his fingers find the hem of your pants again. “—when you’re really falling apart.”

You let out a shaky exhale, grabbing at his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you standing. Your skin feels hot and tight, hypersensitive, desperate for something to soothe the ache. “I can’t—I can’t think straight,” you breathe out, pressing closer.

“I know.” He ducks his head to kiss along your jawline, slow and savoring like he’s tasting something he’s been denying himself for far too long. “You’re burning up. Need me to take care of you, huh?”

“Yes—” it leaves you before you can even think, a desperate little whine slipping from your lips. Your hips buck forward slightly, brushing against the hardness tenting his pants and the soft groan it pulls from him makes your knees go weak.

“You’re so wet already, aren’t you?” he whispers, one hand slipping between your bodies to cup you through your pants. The pressure makes you gasp, you press into his hand shamelessly. He chuckles low in his throat, all fond and wrecked at the same time. “Fuck, you’re dripping through your clothes.” You whimper, face going red. The humiliation burns but it’s nothing compared to the need clawing at you. Spencer gently nudges your chin up until you’re looking at him. His thumb traces your lower lip, slow and careful. “You gonna let me help you, baby?” You nod, already too wrecked to form words.

“That’s not good enough,” he breathes and suddenly you’re shoved back onto the bed, Spencer following you down until he’s hovering over you. “Say it. Tell me you need me.”

You squeeze your thighs together, your whole body pulsing with need. “I need you, Spencer. Please.” He grins and it’s all teeth and something dangerous glinting behind his eyes. Hungry and desperate to make you feel as good as he knows you deserve. “That’s my girl,” he mutters, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pants and dragging them down your thighs slow enough to make you whine. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Could spend hours between your legs…” His voice is nearly trembling with restraint, his hands splaying over your bare thighs like he’s grounding himself.

Once your pants and panties are gone, he spreads your legs open and just looks for a moment. “So fucking pretty.” His fingers ghost over your inner thighs, making you twitch and squirm. “Look how messy you are for me already. Been suffering all by yourself, haven’t you?” You nod again, hips jerking up slightly in search of more.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, leaning down to kiss just above your mound, maddeningly close but not close enough. “I’m gonna make you feel so good you won’t even remember your own name.” You whimper again, bucking your hips in a silent plea. Fianlly Spencer drags his tongue up your slit, slow and deliberate. You cry out, hands flying to his hair.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs against you, pressing a kiss to your clit that makes you jolt. “Gonna have you coming so many times you’ll forget how to say no.” You mewl, tugging at his hair and he chuckles breathlessly, wrapping his arms around your thighs to pin you down. “No running away,” he teases, voice warm and wrecked. He flattens his tongue against you again, licking a thick stripe up your cunt before swirling around your clit with infuriating precision. Your thighs tremble in his grip, your whole body arching off the bed.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he mutters between licks. “Could get drunk off you.” You can’t even form coherent words anymore—just high, broken moans spilling out of you as he eats you like he’s starving as if you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him. And god, you want it to last forever. Your hands fist in his hair, your hips grind against his mouth. He lets you—lets you use him, lets you fuck yourself on his tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

“You’re so good,” he murmurs against you, the vibration making your whole body shudder. You’re right there, right on the edge when he slips a finger inside you. He moves perfectly to hit that sweet spot that makes your whole body lock up. You moan his name, head tossing back against the pillows and Spencer just smiles against you, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

You’re right there, teetering on the edge. Your thighs quivering around Spencer’s head— when he suddenly pulls back. A broken whine tears from your throat, hips chasing him instinctively but he just chuckles. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers tighten around your thighs to hold you down.

“Not like this,” he pants with desperate eyes. “Wanna feel you come around my cock.” You barely manage a whimper of protest, your whole body screaming for release but then he’s shushing you, climbing up over you, nosing along your jaw. His hips grinding into yours and making you feel the thick, hard length of him through his sweats. “You can wait a little longer, can’t you, baby?” he murmurs, voice all syrup and sin. “Gonna make it so fucking good for you. Promise.”

You nod frantically, your hands sliding under his shirt. You’re clawing at the warm, solid planes of his stomach. Anything to get him closer, to get him inside you. “Please Spencer,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist like you could pull him in yourself. “I need you—need you so bad.” His breath shudders against your ear as he ruts against you as if he’s barely holding himself back.

“Fuck—” he groans, dragging his pants down just enough to free his cock, hot and heavy and leaking against your bare thigh. “You have no idea what you do to me. Gonna fill you up so good…you’ll forget anything else ever existed.”He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock sliding through your soaked folds—and it’s already almost too much, the anticipation, the need.

“You ready?” he rasps, his voice trembling with restraint.

“God, yes,” you sob, lifting your hips into him. Spencer smirks and starts pushing inside, slow and deep. Splitting you open perfectly as everything else disappears.

You barely have time to breathe before he’s moving, his palms hot and firm around your waist as he lifts you and nudges your hips back, steering you further up the bed like you’re something breakable—precious, even now. Even with the way both of you are trembling to touch, to fuck, to feel. Spencer’s lips brush against your ear as he leans over you and the heat of his breath sends a shudder tearing through your body.

“So tight,” he mutters roughly. His voice nearly unrecognizable, caught between a growl and a plea. “So perfect.” You can only nod, throat too dry to speak— heart pounding a riot against your ribs. You feel him shift behind you, the rustle of his own clothes joining yours in the scattered mess on the floor. You whimper and it makes him groan under his breath. You can feel the way he’s struggling to keep it together, the way his cock twitches inside of you, pulsing with need.

“Please,” you manage and Spencer rewards you by speeding up.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, like he can’t help but marvel at it. He leans down, mouth grazing your neck. It’s just above the frantic beat of your pulse. “Fuck— you need this, don’t you?” You nod frantically, back arching. You’re chasing the barest hint of him.

“I do,” you whine. Voice breaking with each thrust. “Need this— need you.”Your fingers clutch at the sheets, at anything you can grab as he fills you, thick and heavy and stretching you so perfectly you think you might actually cry. Spencer lets out low, guttural sounds. He’s burying his face against your shoulder as he seats himself fully inside you.

“Fuck,” he hisses, voice cracking. “It fits so good— made for me.” He pulls out slowly and the drag of him inside you rips a broken gasp from your throat. When he thrusts back in harder, it knocks the air right out of your lungs. Your body jolts, pleasure burning through you so hot and fast that your knees nearly buckle. He moving in long, grinding strokes. He’s dragging the thick head of his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. Just fast enough. Cruel, almost. Intentional. Controlled.

Every thrust is a brand, a mark he’s stamping deep into your body. “God, look at you,” Spencer pants against your ear. One hand slides down to press against your stomach, feeling the way he moves inside you. “Taking me so good. You can see it.”

You choke on a whine, barely able to form words. “Y-yeah. You’re so big. I need—”

“I know what you need,” he cuts you off, hips snapping a little harder, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. “You need me to fuck you until you can’t think about anything except how full you are. Hmm?” You nod desperately, hands gripping at him, at yourself, at the bed. Anything you can grab. Your whole body feels raw, wired so tight you think you might snap apart at the seams.

Spencer’s rhythm grows rougher, deeper, the slap of skin on skin filling the air along with the filthy sounds you’re both making—panting, moaning, gasping each other’s names like prayers. And through it all, Spencer keeps talking.

“Wanted you like this for so long,” he groans, voice wrecked. His hands are everywhere now—your hips, your waist, your shoulders—like he can’t touch enough of you at once. “Dreamed about it. Fucking you. Making you feel good.”

You’re barely holding on, your entire body trembling with the effort of staying right on that edge, right where he’s keeping you. When he pulls you up slightly, forcing your chest against his, it’s almost too much. One hand holds you up— the other finding your throat, squeezing softly.

“You’re gonna come when I tell you,” he breathes against your temple. “Okay?”You moan, you’re thrumming with need. There’s sweat slicking your skin. His hand slips from your neck inbetween your thighs, fingers teasing and circling just above where you need him most but not touching, not giving you that last push.

Spencer keeps fucking into you, deep and slow and deliberate. Grinding his hips in just the right way to make you sob. “You feel good?” he murmurs. “You’re dripping all over me. Making a mess.” You can’t think anymore. Can barely breathe. You’re nothing but sensation, tethered only by the sound of his voice, the relentless rhythm of his body inside yours. But still—you don’t come. Because Spencer hasn’t told you to. You want to be good for him. You want to give him everything. Even if it kills you.

Spencer’s thrusts start to falter—still deep, still good but messier now, losing that iron control he’d fought so hard to keep. His breath is ragged against your ear, every exhale a soft, desperate whimper that shoots straight through your blood.

“Spence,” you whisper, reaching back to touch his hip. You’re trying to steady him, to soothe him. “Let me— let me ride you.” He groans, low and broken like just the idea of it shatters whatever composure he had left.

“Please,” he rasps, nodding frantically, barely able to get the word out. “Okay— yes.” It’s clumsy, the two of you scrambling to reposition but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting closer, closer, closer. You straddle his lap, legs shaky from how much he’s already wrecked you but the second you sink down onto him again—God, he’s so deep—everything else fades away. Spencer’s head falls back against the mattress, a choked moan ripping from his throat. His hands find your thighs, clutching hard enough to bruise— like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You move slowly at first, savoring the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. The way his mouth falls open, eyes glassy and wide and so fucking gone beneath you. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he babbles, hips jerking up instinctively to meet your movements. “So tight, so good, you’re gonna make me come. I can’t—“

“You can,” your hands braced on his chest, feeling the frantic hammer of his heart under your palms. “You’re so deep.” And he whimpers. Actually whimpers, high and broken, thrusting up into you helplessly as you start to ride him harder. You roll your hips, grinding down just right and he loses it.

“Oh, fuck— gonna breed you.” The words tumble out of him in a stream of gasped, pleading sounds, almojst incoherent. His fingers dig into your thighs, dragging you down harder onto him. Trying to chase the friction, the heat. His pretty mouth falls open, desperate sounds spilling out with every thrust. Grunts and moans.

“Taking me so good,” he babbles. “So fucking pretty like this. So wet—feel so good around me—” You speed up, hips snapping faster. Riding him hard now, and you’re both falling apart. Spencer’s cock pulsing inside you so thick and hot you can feel him twitching already, right on the edge.

“You— ah— so good.” you pant, leaning down so your lips brush his jaw, your words a filthy little tease. “Gonna fill me up, Spence?” He gasps, the sound so wrecked it barely sounds human and his hands claw at your hips, yanking you down harder as he bucks up into you wildly now, rhythm lost completely.

“Please,” he groans, high and broken. “Yes— filling you all the way up.”

You nod, whispering, “I want it. Need it.” That’s all it takes. Spencer cries out desperately, jerking up into you for a few last times as he finally lets go. You feel it—the heat flooding inside you, the way he throbs and twitches with every pulse of pleasure. You ride him through it— triggering your own orgasm. It’s loud and messy. You’re slowing your movements just enough to make it last, to draw every last drop.

Spencer’s hands are digging where they hold you. His hips stutter weakly, his chest heaving like he’s been running for miles. When you finally collapse against his chest, both of you boneless and shaking and soaked in sweat— it’s like the entire world narrows to just this—his heartbeat pounding against your cheek, the wrecked little sounds he’s still making under his breath, the way his arms tighten around you like he can’t stand to let you go.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Just breathing. Just existing. Finally, Spencer’s hand lifts, trembling slightly, to run through your hair. “Holy shit,” he whispers hoarsely. His voice is wrecked, thin and scratchy like he’s been screaming for hours. “I—I think I saw God.” You huff a weak, breathless laugh against his skin.

“Good,” you whisper back. His arms wrap tighter around you, pulling you impossibly closer. And for the first time since this whole night started—you feel something other than desperation.

“Are you okay?” he asks, shifting enough to pull himself out of you— letting your guys’ mess to spill out all over him. You nod against him and he presses his chin to your forehead, breathing you in like he needs it. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs after a second, thumb brushing the side of your thigh.

“So are you,” you say, your voice soft.

He gives a weak, breathless laugh—a little hoarse thing that barely escapes his throat—and shifts you carefully off his lap, laying you back against the pillows. His hands never leave you. He tugs the comforter up over your bodies, his fingers smoothing the edges near your shoulders, almost absentmindedly like he’s on autopilot. Like he needs to be touching you, even if it’s just fixing the blanket.

He leans in, his nose brushing your temple. “You did so good,” he says quietly, almost a whisper. “You feel so good.”

You blink up at him, heart stuttering stupidly hard against your ribs. “You do,” you whisper back. Spencer’s mouth quirks into the faintest, most exhausted little smirk and for a second he just looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real. You reach for his hand under the blanket, threading your fingers through his. He lets out a soft, broken sound at that—almost like a whimper—and squeezes your hand tight, clutching it to his chest.

Neither of you says anything else. You don’t have to. He stays curled around you like that, close and warm and steady, until your heartbeat slows and your breath evens out. And even then, he doesn’t let go.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Miaou 😿