+ comment whatever you want bc i need validation please i won't judge you
overview
basically I have a main account but I don’t want to be personally connected to my cringe writing LOL so this is just my lil fic and over-sharing toilet
most of these are going to be whumpy with a happy ending (or just smut) bc I can’t afford therapy and get no bitches
and ofc dom!reader supremacy ☺️🫶🏼
about me
between 18 - 23 years old ;)
mixed asian girlie from canada
engineering sweat (pls feel free to talk to me about tech and coding and computers and math !!!!)
most sensitive person ever and if you give me feedback (please do) I’ll just cry probably
who i (would) write for (bc i probably haven't yet)
Warnings/Contains: mmf threesome, cuckolding, humiliation, vaginal sex, anal sex, come play, come eating, coming inside, coming on the back, there is so much come stuff, domination, dirty talk, handjob, spitting, degradation, m/m sex, this is a hummer it is worse than i’ve ever done lol
Word Count: 3098
Part one
so somebody reminded me that the first part exists and my own writing had me feeling some type of way? i also will not apologise for anything you’re about to see x
one day I’ll finally write that ridiculously elaborate fanfiction that I’ve been carefully constructing in my daydreams for months and then you’ll be sorry. you’ll all be sorry.
Summary: What if the world ended tomorrow and all he did was spend his last day with you thinking about how you never hold his metal hand and you never walk on his left side and you constantly reach out for his right arm?
Characters: Bucky Barnes/(f)Reader
Warnings: 18+ (no smut but lots of physical affection), strong language, anxiety, panic attacks, a touch of angst with a happy ending, established relationship, mostly fluffy
Word Count: 2771
A/N: Thanks for reading! This is a commissioned fic for @jbuchanan-barnes Thank you so much for your commission, Lauren! I hope you enjoy! If you would like to commission a fic from me, please visit my commission post to find out more.
main masterlist
It’s not an issue.
Steve would probably call it a botherance. Or brain noise. Or if Bucky was really, really pushy about it, Steve would even go so far as to call it anxiety.
It’s not an issue, but it’s a fear. Bucky knows what anxiety feels like—chest all tight, can’t breathe, gotta breathe, gotta sit down before his knees buckle ‘n dump him on the floor—because anxiety takes up a home in the space between his lungs far too often. Bucky also knows what fear feels like. Fuck, Bucky knows what fear tastes like. It tastes like metal.
And maybe, he thinks, you’re afraid of metal too.
Right now, everything is perfect. The two of you are walking down the streets of New York City, sun bright in your kaleidoscope eyes, breeze twisting the ends of your hair. You’re all easy and warm and pliant, like a cat stretching out, unsure if it wants to nap or play. Bucky likes you when you’re like this, ice cream dripping from the cone you’ve got in your right hand, tongue lapping up all the sweetness to disappear behind your sticky lips. Your left hand is intertwined with his flesh hand, fingers laced together in neat strings. Everything is how it should be.
Everything is how it always is, ‘cause you never put your flesh to his metal.
But it’s not an issue. He swears it’s not an issue. It can’t be an issue because Bucky Barnes has been in love with you for the past two years and he’s barely had eight months with you now and that’s not—that’s not enough for him when he wants you for eight lifetimes. What if the world ended tomorrow and all he did was spend his last day with you thinking about how you never hold his metal hand and you never walk on his left side and you constantly reach out for his right arm?
“Bucky?” Your voice breaks through the miasma of his mind and his eyes snap over to you. There’s concern muddling your gaze and a streak of cream running down your forearm and you’ve stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk, crowds of New Yorkers pushing past the two of you on both sides.
“Huh?”
“Is something wrong?” you ask him, looking up at him so innocently, and Bucky swallows hard.
“No,” he lies, or doesn’t lie, because it’s not an issue. “Why?”
You smile sheepishly and raise your left hand, showing how tightly his flesh fingers are wound around yours. Bucky balks. Immediately, he lets go and drops your hand at your side, flexing his fingers and cursing himself. You tilt your head to the side, confusion now clouding your bright eyes, and he curses himself again.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, because he knows he could break your bones as easy as you could break a toothpick. Because he knows he knows he should be more careful with you, your fragile human body in the palm of his super soldier hand.
Because he knows that this—this is why you won’t hold his metal hand. Because if he can crush you under his fleshy thumb, what could he do with vibranium?
What if Bucky is the reason he doesn’t get to spend eight lifetimes with you?
He doesn’t realize he isn’t breathing, or that he’s breathing too hard, or that there’s the sting of tears behind his eyes because he isn’t breathing or he’s breathing too hard until your palm falls across his chest, just above his heart, and you’re pushing through the crowded streets and guiding him to one of the alleyways nearby.
You look so pretty, he thinks, gasping for breath. You look so pretty as you push his shoulders to rest against the brick and your hands flutter gently over his face, pushing his hair back and wiping sweat from his forehead. You look so pretty with your kind eyes and your soft, sweet lips and your body that fits perfectly in the space he’s left for you.
Unlike him, you’ve got fingers like marble. Like cool, glossy water. Healing hands, really, he thinks. ‘Cause every time you touch him he feels like he’s been blessed and Bucky ain’t much of a praying man anymore but—
Wheezing, he takes your left hand in his flesh grip and brings the tips of your fingers to his lips to press kisses there, and it doesn’t make you giggle like it usually would but it wanes some of that worry away that still crinkles your brow and that’s enough for him ‘cause he feels like he’s dying.
—he’d pray every goddamn night if it meant you’d just touch him. Keep touching him forever. Even if it ain’t that metal arm of his.
You pull your hand away from his grasp, gently, and trace your fingers along his jawline until you’re cupping his cheek. Your thumb rubs the space just below his eye, and Bucky catches his breath.
“There you go,” you praise, lips set in a thin line of concern. “Just breathe, baby. One step at a time.”
Bucky wonders how he got so damn lucky. Especially when you smooth out his shirt, pull at the leather of his jacket he gets too hot under, and fix his hair for him. All while Bucky just leans against the wall, panting, staring at you.
“I’m in love with you,” he says, fully, but he feels the prick of tears start again because it’s not an issue, but you won’t hold the hand that doesn’t belong to him. And it’s not an issue, but fuck, he knows he shouldn’t care when that arm doesn’t belong to him but it hurts like a hot knife skewering his lungs.
“Hey,” you coo at him softly. “And I’m in love with you, Bucky. What’s wrong?”
His chest feels like a tree is rooting inside of him, busting through his bones and carving out his organs to make room for thick oak and thin leaves.
“Can we go home?” he asks.
You’re already moving to hail a cab before he finishes his question, your fingers locked tightly around his wrist. His right wrist.
The comfort of your shared apartment does little to soothe Bucky. And he knows that’s bad because it’s not an issue and he doesn’t have anxiety and he certainly didn’t just have a panic attack out in public. He’s definitely not going to have to convince you not to call his therapist, please.
He almost laughs again when you force him over to the couch, huffing like he’s too heavy to move, but then he realizes it’s ‘cause he feels like there are weights tied to his ankles. And once you’ve got him sitting down on the sofa, you move to walk away, and Bucky grabs you around the waist and pulls you down atop him.
“Bucky!” you call, but he can hear the smile on your lips. “Let me up!”
“Nuh uh,” he hums, wrapping his arms around your middle. “You’re one a’those blankets now. For anxiety.”
“A weighted blanket?” You laugh. “Are you trying to tell me I’m fat, Barnes?”
“No!” He tightens his grip and tries to angle his metal arm away from your stomach where your shirt is riding up. “I just don’t wanna let you go, doll.”
“Well, I want to get you a glass of water, so you’re gonna have to let go. After that, you can hold me as much as you want, ‘kay?”
“Forever?” Bucky asks, and you pat his arm lovingly.
“Forever.”
Reluctantly, Bucky releases you from the cradle of his arms and watches you walk away. His hands, resting in his lap, are empty—upturned palms and flexing fingers, life lines in one and gold engravings in the other. He’s not surprised that you don’t want to touch his vibranium hand. You’ve watched how lifeless it is.
You’ve seen Bucky pull a tray right out of the oven with it. Seen him detach it from his body to help sleep at night when the remnant pain gets too bad. Seen him break a man’s face beneath his fist with it.
It’s not human. It’s metal. He’s not surprised that you don’t want anything to do with it.
So why doesn’t it make him feel like he can’t breathe when he thinks about it?
“Hey, hey, hey.”
Suddenly, you’re in front of him again, and it’s not his empty hands he’s staring at. You press a cold glass of water into his flexing fingers and help bring it up to his mouth. When Bucky looks up at you, your eyes are pleading.
“Drink, babe.”
Well, Bucky would die for you, so the least he can do is drink.
He downs the glass in what feels like a mere second, gulping it down. His throat is dry, voice raspy. And he doesn’t have to ask for you to rush back into the kitchen, fill it up again, and to place the rim at his lips. Bucky drinks and the cool water slips down his throat and god, he didn’t realize how bad he felt until now.
“Better?” you ask, ready to fill up his glass a third time.
“Not ‘till you get back in my arms,” Bucky says, and he wonders if you’d be happier if he took his left one off. He shifts to lay down across the couch, spreading his legs to make space for you the way he knows you like, and your reaction is immediate. You throw yourself on top of him, head resting on his chest where he hopes you can’t hear the putt-putt-puttering of his unsteady heart, using his body like it's your favorite pillow.
Your left hand moves up and down his right arm, soothingly, in a gesture that would have calmed him once. Now, it only incites his anxiety. Bucky moves his vibranium arm to hang around the back of the couch so it doesn’t touch you, and maybe it’s that or maybe it’s the fact that his heart is racing, but you tilt your chin and look up at him.
“Bucky, what’s wrong? What’s got you upset today?”
He shouldn’t tell you. It’s not an issue. He can’t. It’s not an issue.
You sit up, propped up on his chest, eyes searching his own. “Bucky? Baby?”
“Are you afraid of it?” he blurts, face stricken. “Of me?”
Frowning, you take his cheek in your left palm, shifting to straddle his waist so you can look down at him easier. Bucky grips the back of the couch, his metal hand wanting nothing more than to hold your hips and feel the soft skin of your stomach under his artificial thumb, but he refuses his desires.
“What are you talking about?” Bucky watches as your eyes turn glassy, like the marbles he and Steve used to shoot when they were bored, back before the war. “Why would you… Why would you ever think that, Bucky? Did I do something wrong?”
He shoots up so fast that you nearly rock back and fall, but it’s his metal arm that catches you, curving around your back to keep you upright. You don’t flinch away, but a single tear slips down your cheek and Bucky’s back to cursing himself.
“Oh no,” he murmurs, and his lips kiss the tear away. “No, no, doll. You’re perfect.” It tastes like salt and faintly of your skin, a familiar combination that he prefers under any other circumstance.
“Then why?”
“I—” Bucky stutters, his words failing him. Now, forced to say it out loud, it almost sounds childish. “You never… You don’t hold my…”
Bucky holds his metal hand up before you, vibranium fingers twitching. Even in the dim lighting of the apartment, he can recognize how scary such a thing looks. All gleaming, all dark, all void of life. It shouldn’t be an issue. Steve would probably say it’s not one. Steve would probably tell Bucky that if a dame is afraid of that arm of his, then he oughta start lookin’ for a new one.
But Bucky Barnes is in love with you, and he knows he wants to spend about eight lifetimes with you, even though you’ve only been his for about eight months now. And he’d be fine with more than that, too. Like eight-hundred lifetimes. Or eight-thousand lives. Or, hell, he’d be fine to be yours forever.
So it isn’t an issue, ‘cause he’d do anything for you.
“I’m left-handed,” you blurt out, in a similar fashion. “Bucky, I—”
“You’re what?” he asks, partially stunned because he doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed, and partially embarrassed because how the hell hadn’t he noticed?
“I’m left-handed!” You laugh, and dart down to kiss him fully on the lips, and he’s still in shock. “I hold important things in my left hand, Bucky. I hold you in my left hand because you’re important. Not—I’m not afraid of your arm.”
“Oh,” he breathes out.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t know you felt that way. You should have told me sooner.”
“It wasn’t an issue,” he says quietly.
“It obviously was.”
You press another kiss to his lips that he can’t return, too stunned to move. Instead, he feels you trail kisses down his chin and along his jaw, peppering his cheeks like freckles. Your mouth moves over the bridge of his nose, down the tip. Across his forehead where the wrinkles go deep in thought. You kiss his hairline, trail down his temples. You kiss every inch of Bucky’s face that you can, and he sits underneath you so still, arms wrapped tightly around you as if to anchor you to him.
“I love you,” he says, swallowing hard. His chest feels full, but it’s different. It’s not the buzzing of bees or the root of trees or even a version of Steve Rogers that clings to his lungs. His heart feels full and it feels full with you.
“I love you too,” you murmur against his skin, nosing underneath his chin to start decorating his neck with kisses. It tickles, making him jump a little. Little devilish thing you are.
“Stop it,” he grumbles.
“Why?” you giggle, nipping at his adam’s apple.
“You keep kissin’ me like that and I’m gonna have to retaliate, doll. I’m tryin’ to be grumpy.”
You lay a last kiss in the hollow of his throat, smiling lazily at him. “Don’t be grumpy. I love you. And I’m not afraid of you. Not you, not your arm, not the Winter Soldier. Nothing.” Then, your mouth meets his, and Bucky can’t stop his tongue from slipping between your lips to taste you. He might not have eight-thousand lifetimes to memorize your taste, or your scent, or how your body feels in his hands.
Bucky gathers you in his arms and sits up, throwing you underneath him. You squeal happily as he settles your thighs around his waist, your legs wrapping around him instinctively. Bucky peppers kisses all over your face, just like you did to him, but he quickly migrates south to find the spot that drives you mad. He mouths your pulse point, nose pressing underneath your jawline, and you make a sound that’s not quite a giggle, and not quite a breathy moan.
“Oh, does that tickle?” His metal hand slips underneath your shirt to palm your waist and you shriek with laughter, whining about the cold. “Does that feel good, doll?”
He kisses your lips again. Once. Twice. Again and again, tasting the sweetness of your words on his tongue as he replays them over and over in his head. You put important things in your left hand. You hold important things, like him, in your left hand.
“Bucky, c’mon! We’re gonna be late.”
“I’m here, I’m here,” he calls, jogging to the door and pulling at the collar of his dress shirt. “Sheesh, woman.”
You smack his chest with your clutch. “Say that again and you’ll regret it.”
He gives you a mock salute. “Yes ma’am.” And then his eyes roam over you, all dolled up for date night. “You look…” Bucky licks his lips.
“Can it, mister. We’ve got reservations. Now let’s go!”
Bucky moves to take your hand in his, but you’re faster. Your right hand wraps around his metal wrist, fingers moving fluidly down to intertwine with his black and gold ones. When he looks at you, mouth agape, you squeeze his vibranium hand and smile.
“I’m in love with you,” Bucky says, and it makes you laugh.
this hits the spot and you completely nailed it. I love him and how you wrote him to be so nervous but IN LOVE and he’s such a people pleaser :’( he’s so considerate of reader and has no resentment toward her despite his misconceptions of her (blames himself for her supposed fear of him, rather than getting angry) and
YOU JUST PORTRAYED IT PERFECTLY THROUGHOUT THE FIC UHFGGHH THE SELF CONSCIOUSNESS love love love thank you
Summary: After coming home late from a stressful day at work, Spencer needs nothing more than to be in your arms in order to feel like himself again. You offer your touch to him in more ways than one.
or
melodramatic handjob :>
Word Count: 3423
Songs: ‘cry’ by cigarettes after sex may fit !!
Pairing: softdomme!reader x sub!spencer
Warnings: smut (18+ please), choking (m receiving), spencer cries xoxo, fully consensual but his reactions are described as ‘involuntary’ sometimes, sudden tense switch at the end bc it felt right idk, 65% buildup, 15% action, 20% orgasm LOL
a/n: guys the transition from comfort to seggsy just happened out of nowhere and the pacing is aggressively slow, prob making this hard to get off to. i’m sorry. also if you don’t think you should be reading this (🔞) you’re probably right ?? but please don’t tell me about it. do comment anything else though if you're feeling up to it :3
With a twist of his hand on the doorknob and a step through the door, Spencer took his long awaited whiff of home. It smelled of cedarwood and floral candles and you, and the tension released from his shoulders completely for the first time today.
He walked straight to the bedroom where he knew you’d still be up waiting for him, door open with a lit bedside light to welcome him despite his insistence that your sleep is more important. The urge didn’t even come up to wash his hands, disinfect his phone, or sanitize his work bag, being replaced instead by his desire to be in your presence.
As he’d suspected, there you were, sitting up on the bed you shared, eyes fighting to stay open as they flitted through the pages of a book. The comforter covered your legs, and only a thin sleep shirt separated your back from the headboard you leaned against, the shape of your nipples hardly poking through. Spencer hesitated to walk in and ruin the pretty picture.
When you noticed him, a fond smile grew on your face and you dropped your book to open your arms wide for him. He slowly walked over to you, stomach twisting just a little at the fear of being a bother, and started to position himself as he did whenever he needed a bit of extra comfort. He gave you a quick peck and settled down so his head rested on your lap, lying down on his side with his arm hugging your bare thighs. His long frame curled sideways by your legs under the blanket. He said nothing when you combed your fingers through his hair—just held you a bit tighter; nuzzled his cheek impossibly closer.
You broke the silence, absentmindedly separating small locks of his hair now with your fingers. “Want to talk about it?” you asked, to which he shook his head, movement still restricted by your thighs on his cheek, hating that he didn’t have more to say. Hated to have to make you pry just to hear about his day, but all the more in awe of how attuned you were to his emotions—even more than he was sometimes. Hated being moody and uncommunicative, but his brain was betraying him.
Your thumb now stroked his eyebrow, smoothing it out. Every part of him that your fingers touched relaxed in its wake, coupled with the scent of your lotion and laundry into his breaths. He finally spoke up, voice slightly muddled from his cheek against your leg; perhaps he sounded like his handwriting would sound, though he hoped he was more understandable than that.
“Per hour of sleep we lose, human blood pressure tends to increase by 3 to 5 millimeters of mercury, so you waiting up for me this late probably already caused an increase of 10 mmHg. Cortisol levels can also increase by up to 80% when sleep deprived, and your reaction time can slow by up to 500 milliseconds, which will make it more unsafe for you to drive tomorrow.” I appreciate you so much, baby, but you shouldn’t have waited up, is what he wanted to say. It never came out that way. I love when you greet me. Don’t put your health at risk for me. I’m sorry I’m late. But it always came out instead as numbers and statistics because that’s all he knows how to do, and it’s the only way his voice knows how to love, but you get it. He wants to add more.
You get him. “Stop worrying, Spence. I need to see you just as much as you need to see me. Can’t sleep otherwise,” you assured him. Goosebumps rose on his skin as you rubbed slow, pressured circles onto his forehead, massaging him properly now. Maybe your words were supposed to make him feel better, but he couldn’t shake the guilt in his gut. His burden complex weighed heavier today.
“My Spencer,” you breathed. Heat rose onto his cheeks. Your Spencer. “What do you need from me?”
He laid still on your lap, face now turned upward to memorize your own, pondering on the question. Always too scared to ask, though he knew what he needed. “Anything you’ll give me,” he whispered.
Now freshly dried from his shower, Spencer walked toward where you stayed sitting on the bed just as you had been when he arrived. He stood completely bare before you, an unlikely mix of both self-consciousness and pride filling him as you looked him up and down. The implied power imbalance of your clothed decency juxtaposed with his nude vulnerability has just occurred to him; he felt a rush in his stomach.
You pulled the covers off and spread your legs apart, then patted the space in between. Spencer crawled onto the bed as carefully as he could, trying not to shake it too much, now unsure of how long he could last. He found a seat between your thighs, the outer edge of his legs lining the inner side of your own, his back flush against your torso.
Goosebumps rose on his skin when your hands trailed up his neck, grazing his ears, then his cheekbones, to comb themselves through his soft hair. He shivered, just once. His mouth parted slightly in a shaky exhale and his head lolled back toward you, as a cat would, until it rested gently on your shoulder, full trust in you to support him. His eyelashes fluttered to a close as you slowly but firmly squeezed your fingers into a closed fist against his scalp, hair tangled within your grasp, letting the leverage of your palms against his head do the tugging. Despite the tightness of the skin around his temples, his facial muscles only continued to relax as he silently handed you all control of him. He released a shallow gasp as you gave your wrists a slow twist before releasing his hair entirely.
You slid your fingers down to his nipples, running your thumbs over them each for not long enough. He let out a sigh that must’ve released more air than his lungs had the capacity to carry in the first place. The stresses of the day began to leave with it, Spencer being overcome instead by the relief of being back in the comfort of his own home—in the arms of his beloved. Your hand was cool against his humid skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Ears ringing, he hardly heard his own voice releasing a shaky, dragged out, sh— shhhit, between gritted teeth.
Your hands trailed down even further toward his soft stomach which was scrunched into a bean-like mound from his position against you, grazing down his happy trail before ignoring his painful erection and inching toward his thighs instead. Your nails dragged gently over his inner thighs and he pried them open for you; all for you.
He whined under his breath and his legs flexed under your touch, only the duration of a single twitch, lifting his hips up subconsciously to contact your hands where he needed them most. You gently pushed him back down, wordlessly insisting on giving attention to his soft thighs, asserting that it was your pace being followed. And he couldn’t object. He didn’t want to. Always so patient with him, he longed for you to be proud of his obedience. His thighs were yours to touch, after all, and so was what rested now painfully hard between them.
His head still laying against your shoulder, you gently swiped your tongue against his ear lobe, getting his attention. You whispered to him, and he was so receptive to you. “Do you think you’re ready?”
He didn’t need to see it to know, but he glanced down anyway, his cheeks burning up to a colour he imagined matched his throbbing penis. He ached to be touched there, swallowing at the thought.
He hummed lazily in response, already lightheaded from the rush in his head. He tilted his head in slow roll to place clumsy kisses all over your face, whatever part of it he could reach, nodding continuously to please touch me, I’m ready. He thought his lips had caught your nose, cheekbones, ear, jaw… but at that point he’d already been intoxicated by your touch and couldn’t tell the difference; only wanted to taste the saltiness of your supple skin.
“Words, Spence.” With his head still turned to you, you caught his bottom lip between your teeth and nipped at it until it puffed up, drawing a light whimper from him. He arched his neck sideways to grant you access to the rest of him that your lips and teeth could reach. More of him now exposed to you, he quietly pleaded as you lightly sucked on sensitive points behind his jaw. A lone tear slipped out of his eye closest to you, and you lapped it up as it hung from his jaw.
“Ready. Always ready for you,” he choked, voice already hoarse. Your ability to take him to the clouds far before touching the most sensitive part of him only turned him on further, as well as the nurturing and patient but complete control you exerted. He was undeserving and yet eternally grateful. Swore to himself he’d spend the rest of his days trying to love you as completely as you did him.
Upon squeezing out some lubricant from the bottle in your bedside drawer, you grasped his erection in your slick hand, your other hand exploring the rest of his body, and he gasped with an unintentional jolt. From this position you two were in, it allowed the ridges of your curled palm and fingers, as well as the coolness of your wedding ring, to make full contact with the sensitive vein along the underside of his cock.
You played him like an instrument, and the sounds he made proved nothing less. You’d glide your sharp knuckles over him, barely making contact with him, much to his protest; your hand would run along the thin, elastic stretch of skin connecting his head to the underside of his cock. Or you’d bunch your delicate fingertips together at his tip, letting the widening of his cock separate them as you pushed down toward his balls. He almost wished, as the pads of your fingers trailed his length, that your fingerprints could be ingrained in his skin, if only to be claimed by you even more. His breaths grew laboured and he slowly lost the shame in his whimpers.
Your other hand moved to his lips, muffling his sounds slightly. Your breath tickled his ears, and he threw an arm back to grasp your hair or neck or whatever he could grab, trying fruitlessly to get closer for you to ground him.
He whined helplessly against your now vibrating hand, though it did nothing to quiet his volume as you so creatively played with his cock, fidgeting with him and using him like nothing. Tension was prominent between his eyebrows sewn together, and surely his forehead carried a few creases as well.
You gently ran your thumb against his bottom lip, and he instinctively pulled it into his mouth. Your thumb pushed degradingly against the inside of his cheek, forcing his mouth to open slightly. His tongue circled your thumb out of habit, and the slightest bit of spit dribbled out the corner of his lips.
The room started to smell and feel like sweat, though he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was experiencing everything and nothing all at once, sensations heightened yet brain numbed. Rare were the occasions that he couldn’t explain everything, and the times where he couldn’t think straight, but he revelled in it. Nowhere else was Spencer able to be completely defenseless and equally safe but in your arms—or hands, in this case. His guard wholeheartedly down, he cherished the privilege of being worriless and thoughtless.
His brain’s unusual absence of words and knowledge—two things which he so dutifully guarded just to feel competent—was welcomed because you were around to protect his vulnerability in the meantime.
By now, from the sweat or his own sheer lack of control, Spencer had slid down slightly so his shoulder blades were flush with your breasts; your hard nipples pressed against him through the soft silk of your nightshirt and it reminded him how eager he was to return the favour. He was leaning back a bit more, hardly noticing the ache from his weight resting on his tailbone.
The position gave you access to move your working hand even lower, gentle fingers starting to toy with his balls before moving down toward the sensitive patch of skin right beneath. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth when you hit it, hums and groans gradually increasing in pitch. Against his own will, he clenched around nothing, causing his perineum to shift against your fingers. He choked out another embarrassingly loud sound, mouth shamelessly open now, and then did it again.
You kissed his jaw. “How do you feel?” you whispered. You gave more attention to the pink head now, fingers tickling his smooth tip, thumb pressing down periodically on the ridges. Your other hand played with hair.
“You treat me so well,” he breathed, as earnestly as he could, turning his head to give a sloppy kiss to your wrist, drunk on your touch, your warmth, and you. “Love you so much,"—he swallowed—"ah— oh, f— fuck— Love what you do to me.”
“You deserve it all.”
His moans got more high pitched as you worked, and his breaths came in faster than his chest could keep up with. His hands grasped at your thighs to steady himself, blunt nails digging in.
“My Spencer baby, you look oh so beautiful,” you praised, voice dripping in sheer adoration. His eyes drew open and his gaze rolled back, then lazily toward you. Another tear slowly escaped the corner of his eye, and he wished he weren’t tearing up if only to see your pretty face more clearly. His eyebrows were still tense under the nearness of his undoing, tilted in a pleading pout.
“Please, please-please-please-please-plea— mmngh…” He pleaded and begged for release, no longer making sense of what was coming out of his mouth, eyes ever-downturned and watering once again.
He was helplessly putty in your hands, his body no longer his own, but rather a shell of just euphoria and feeling. He was floating and completely at your mercy, just as he loves to be.
“I love you, please, I—” His sentences grew choppy and more and more incoherent, his speech being mixed with unintelligible throaty noises. His chest rose and fell significantly faster than it had earlier, lips hardly separating as he mumbled a yesyesyesyes keep going yes just like that please, and his hips thrusted up to move his length further into your hand.
His desperate hands sought purchase from whatever they could grab, now tightly squeezing and scratching at your thighs. He readjusted his sweat-slicked palms as they slipped down your skin.
Your hand in his hair slid down roughly to grab his jaw in utter possessiveness, twisting it up toward you to plant a sloppy kiss on his lips. He did the best he could to return it. “Go ahead, baby,” you mumbled against his mouth.
He whimpered into the kiss, with no more capacity to spare you an audible ‘thank you’ as usual. You squeezed your working hand just the slightest bit tighter around his cock, working your way back up to his ever-sensitive pink head.
“Shitshitshitshit, fuck, oh, God. I’m so close, I’m so close, I’m so—ah—” How naughty he felt. Maybe you’d tease him later about the junk coming out of his mouth, flustering him with the thought of what the neighbours would think. But as a sunflower proved its affinity to the sun and its warmth, all he could do now was gaze at you mindlessly, his neck aching at the effort. Under the dim yellow lamp lighting up the room, he embodied the sunflower’s golden glow. Its face would follow the bright star by nature and so would Spencer's, happily compelled by some force of nature to show you his authentic self as he held on so close to his orgasm. You smiled at him.
The bed squeaked under his shaking legs. Lone tears made their way down his face, free-falling now, and he made no move to wipe them. As he neared his peak, you kept your hand on his cock, hand wrapped snugly around his tip, angling it toward his chest.
You grabbed his throat with the other, fingers squeezing inward toward the two valleys around his neck that carried his precious arteries, and he felt the first spurt of cum burst through with a loud wail of surprise.
“Baby—“ he tried breathlessly, eyes still attempting to meet yours to please understand what I’m saying, please be proud of me, “baby, I’m coming, I’m fucking coming, I’m…” His muscles spasmed and sharply leaned him forward, causing your hand to obstruct his throat just a bit more, and he was thankful for it if only to ground his shaking to a minimum.
His head was pounding and his vision grew spotty as he basked in the feeling of his life, and his penis, in your hands, and the purpose with which you handled him as he prayed for this state of euphoria to not simply kill him. Though that wouldn’t be a terrible way to go.
He fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, yet still saw only white. He was burning up and held no sense of himself as his muscles twitched in waves, knees buckling, though you were there to hold him through it all. His mouth opened in a silent scream as you continued moving your hand along his sensitive length.
His panting gradually became less breathy and more audible, now backed by a throaty groan with every breath he released. Your name became the only thought in his mind, and he let it shakily slip out of his mouth, not caring how absolutely brainless he sounded. With each spurt of his release onto his chest, each involuntary clenching and thrust of his hips, he repeated it. Whether a cry of pleading, gratitude, or adoration, he wasn’t certain—but it all centred around you.
You talked him through the final stages of his orgasm with gentle murmurs of praise, pushing his hips down to forcefully guide him through it. Good boy, Spencer. Keep going. I’m right here. You got it. You’re doing great. Almost done. I love you. You’re so safe here. Your ministrations on his sensitive penis didn’t slow as you patiently waited for him, though he had to rest his hand on your wrist to slow you down, eyes finally falling closed; you obliged. His body offered you one final tremor of overwhelming pleasure.
The horrors of the day seemed to have been released with his release. But with the way you were now atop him, cleaning up the mess on his chest with your tongue, then crawling back up to his own mouth to offer him a taste, he felt his once-against stiffening cock asking for more where that came from. His aftercare be damned. No longer overwhelmed by his need for solace, this new rise of arousal was geared toward you—thanking you, loving you, cherishing you, pleasuring you in the way his words so often failed to do.
He would do for you what you had so generously done for him, and more, if you’d let him. He could give you his tongue, his length, his fingers, a toy—or whatever you wanted. Offer himself to be used and taken however you pleased. Longed to give you everything he could. He was yours, after all.
Spencer told himself that there would be time for all that, though he always worried otherwise. Keeps it in his head, but he pleads every day that you wouldn’t end up like those he sought justice for at work, or be the body that haunted him until he arrived home to you, or the victim of a target aimed at him. Pleads every day that there would be more time.
But in the meantime, with not much else he can do, just as a sunflower would, he swears to turn his back to everything else dark about the world and follow his sun as long as he is able.
Spencer loved the rain. He loved how it calmed down every rush of people, made a cup of coffee warmer and made a movie feel more cosy. He loved the way drops of water fall from trees, leaf to leaf, like listing strands of thread. Occasionally falling on the rose of the apples of our cheeks, satin beads kissing us. The way the fragrance of the water relaxes our minds.
It never surprised anyone when he became a little distracted, staring a little too long at the drops of rainfall instead of finishing his paperwork. No one ever told him off or reminded him to get back to work, because they all knew about needing to escape and they would never bring him out of it before he needed to.
However, he stopped searching for it after a while, which correlated with your appearance in his life. His mood didn't only be positive on days it rained, but also when he'd seen you or when he planned on seeing you. A spring in his step and a smile planted on his face, even while staring at pictures of things a little to gruesome to your taste he thinks, he still can’t help the grin that appears when he notices the snacks you’ve placed in his bag.
He came home to his apartment after telling you to stay there so he could make you dinner, with his hair dripping from rain, a puddle appears at the front of his doorframe while you stood in shock.
“Spence! You’re soaking oh my god” You rushed over to him patting him dry with a towel, ignoring the grin on his face.
“Kiss me”
“What?”
“Please, Kiss me”
So you did. You kissed him so gently, with so much love, making the world quiet for a moment, just you, him, and the rain.He still admired the rain.
Just sometimes theirs something else he would rather admire.
Spencer loved the rain. He loved how it calmed down every rush of people, made a cup of coffee warmer and made a movie feel more cosy. He loved the way drops of water fall from trees, leaf to leaf, like listing strands of thread. Occasionally falling on the rose of the apples of our cheeks, satin beads kissing us. The way the fragrance of the water relaxes our minds.
It never surprised anyone when he became a little distracted, staring a little too long at the drops of rainfall instead of finishing his paperwork. No one ever told him off or reminded him to get back to work, because they all knew about needing to escape and they would never bring him out of it before he needed to.
However, he stopped searching for it after a while, which correlated with your appearance in his life. His mood didn't only be positive on days it rained, but also when he'd seen you or when he planned on seeing you. A spring in his step and a smile planted on his face, even while staring at pictures of things a little to gruesome to your taste he thinks, he still can’t help the grin that appears when he notices the snacks you’ve placed in his bag.
He came home to his apartment after telling you to stay there so he could make you dinner, with his hair dripping from rain, a puddle appears at the front of his doorframe while you stood in shock.
“Spence! You’re soaking oh my god” You rushed over to him patting him dry with a towel, ignoring the grin on his face.
“Kiss me”
“What?”
“Please, Kiss me”
So you did. You kissed him so gently, with so much love, making the world quiet for a moment, just you, him, and the rain.He still admired the rain.
Just sometimes theirs something else he would rather admire.
Your question had been plain and simple, but you knew Spencer's answer would be anything but. You watched him tense from his place at the counter, his hands stilling for a second as he leaned over the sink washing his coffee mug.
"Jealous?" His voice was measured, too casual, "I'm not sure why you think I would be."
"I think you burned holes through my thighs with your glaring," You laughed cautiously, remembering his laser-focused animosity that made the rushed, 15 minute van ride you'd taken earlier absolute hell.
"Well we are dating," Spencer mused, finally shutting off the sink and turning to stare calmly at you, "I like looking at your thighs."
"Just.. not that they were on top of Derek's?"
"I don't see why you had to sit on his lap." Spencer finally frowned, his perfectly constructed aloof façade crumbling, "I was sitting two seats down!"
"Spencer," You started, "It was randomly assigned seating! I didn't choose to."
"Well you could have moved!"
"Yeah," You scoffed, keeping your voice low, "And that wouldn't look suspicious? What would my reason be? ''Scuse me, sorry, I've actually gotta sit with my secret boyfriend instead'? Something tells me Hotch wouldn't have liked that."
He knew you were right. It wasn't your fault. But the sight of Morgan's hands on your waist to steady you when the van took sharp turns, or the way your thighs flattened against his own, or the way his chest laid flush with your back at abrupt stops made him livid.
"Listen," You stepped forward, hands limp by your sides, "I didn't like it any more than you did. I know that you're angry about it, and you have every right to be. Just don't be angry at me. I didn't do it."
"I'm not angry with you," Spencer sighed, a hand rubbing tiredly over his face, "I'm- I'm just frustrated. Come here." He reached out, arms open as you rushed forwards into his chest.
You relished in the warmth of the hug, some of the weight that had been pressing on your chest dissipating the longer he held you. You focused on the fabric of his fuzzy sweater against your cheek, his chin resting on the crown of your head, his hands slipping lower and lower down your back until- wait.
"Spencer," You mumbled into his sweater, "You really shouldn't be grabbing my ass at work."
"Then I'll do it at home." He reluctantly slid his hands back up to encircle your waist, "Now, are you gonna help me pour salt in Morgan's coffee, or am I doing this alone?"
Summary: After coming home late from a stressful day at work, Spencer needs nothing more than to be in your arms in order to feel like himself again. You offer your touch to him in more ways than one.
or
melodramatic handjob :>
Word Count: 3423
Songs: ‘cry’ by cigarettes after sex may fit !!
Pairing: softdomme!reader x sub!spencer
Warnings: smut (18+ please), choking (m receiving), spencer cries xoxo, fully consensual but his reactions are described as ‘involuntary’ sometimes, sudden tense switch at the end bc it felt right idk, 65% buildup, 15% action, 20% orgasm LOL
a/n: guys the transition from comfort to seggsy just happened out of nowhere and the pacing is aggressively slow, prob making this hard to get off to. i’m sorry. also if you don’t think you should be reading this (🔞) you’re probably right ?? but please don’t tell me about it. do comment anything else though if you're feeling up to it :3
With a twist of his hand on the doorknob and a step through the door, Spencer took his long awaited whiff of home. It smelled of cedarwood and floral candles and you, and the tension released from his shoulders completely for the first time today.
He walked straight to the bedroom where he knew you’d still be up waiting for him, door open with a lit bedside light to welcome him despite his insistence that your sleep is more important. The urge didn’t even come up to wash his hands, disinfect his phone, or sanitize his work bag, being replaced instead by his desire to be in your presence.
As he’d suspected, there you were, sitting up on the bed you shared, eyes fighting to stay open as they flitted through the pages of a book. The comforter covered your legs, and only a thin sleep shirt separated your back from the headboard you leaned against, the shape of your nipples hardly poking through. Spencer hesitated to walk in and ruin the pretty picture.
When you noticed him, a fond smile grew on your face and you dropped your book to open your arms wide for him. He slowly walked over to you, stomach twisting just a little at the fear of being a bother, and started to position himself as he did whenever he needed a bit of extra comfort. He gave you a quick peck and settled down so his head rested on your lap, lying down on his side with his arm hugging your bare thighs. His long frame curled sideways by your legs under the blanket. He said nothing when you combed your fingers through his hair—just held you a bit tighter; nuzzled his cheek impossibly closer.
You broke the silence, absentmindedly separating small locks of his hair now with your fingers. “Want to talk about it?” you asked, to which he shook his head, movement still restricted by your thighs on his cheek, hating that he didn’t have more to say. Hated to have to make you pry just to hear about his day, but all the more in awe of how attuned you were to his emotions—even more than he was sometimes. Hated being moody and uncommunicative, but his brain was betraying him.
Your thumb now stroked his eyebrow, smoothing it out. Every part of him that your fingers touched relaxed in its wake, coupled with the scent of your lotion and laundry into his breaths. He finally spoke up, voice slightly muddled from his cheek against your leg; perhaps he sounded like his handwriting would sound, though he hoped he was more understandable than that.
“Per hour of sleep we lose, human blood pressure tends to increase by 3 to 5 millimeters of mercury, so you waiting up for me this late probably already caused an increase of 10 mmHg. Cortisol levels can also increase by up to 80% when sleep deprived, and your reaction time can slow by up to 500 milliseconds, which will make it more unsafe for you to drive tomorrow.” I appreciate you so much, baby, but you shouldn’t have waited up, is what he wanted to say. It never came out that way. I love when you greet me. Don’t put your health at risk for me. I’m sorry I’m late. But it always came out instead as numbers and statistics because that’s all he knows how to do, and it’s the only way his voice knows how to love, but you get it. He wants to add more.
You get him. “Stop worrying, Spence. I need to see you just as much as you need to see me. Can’t sleep otherwise,” you assured him. Goosebumps rose on his skin as you rubbed slow, pressured circles onto his forehead, massaging him properly now. Maybe your words were supposed to make him feel better, but he couldn’t shake the guilt in his gut. His burden complex weighed heavier today.
“My Spencer,” you breathed. Heat rose onto his cheeks. Your Spencer. “What do you need from me?”
He laid still on your lap, face now turned upward to memorize your own, pondering on the question. Always too scared to ask, though he knew what he needed. “Anything you’ll give me,” he whispered.
Now freshly dried from his shower, Spencer walked toward where you stayed sitting on the bed just as you had been when he arrived. He stood completely bare before you, an unlikely mix of both self-consciousness and pride filling him as you looked him up and down. The implied power imbalance of your clothed decency juxtaposed with his nude vulnerability has just occurred to him; he felt a rush in his stomach.
You pulled the covers off and spread your legs apart, then patted the space in between. Spencer crawled onto the bed as carefully as he could, trying not to shake it too much, now unsure of how long he could last. He found a seat between your thighs, the outer edge of his legs lining the inner side of your own, his back flush against your torso.
Goosebumps rose on his skin when your hands trailed up his neck, grazing his ears, then his cheekbones, to comb themselves through his soft hair. He shivered, just once. His mouth parted slightly in a shaky exhale and his head lolled back toward you, as a cat would, until it rested gently on your shoulder, full trust in you to support him. His eyelashes fluttered to a close as you slowly but firmly squeezed your fingers into a closed fist against his scalp, hair tangled within your grasp, letting the leverage of your palms against his head do the tugging. Despite the tightness of the skin around his temples, his facial muscles only continued to relax as he silently handed you all control of him. He released a shallow gasp as you gave your wrists a slow twist before releasing his hair entirely.
You slid your fingers down to his nipples, running your thumbs over them each for not long enough. He let out a sigh that must’ve released more air than his lungs had the capacity to carry in the first place. The stresses of the day began to leave with it, Spencer being overcome instead by the relief of being back in the comfort of his own home—in the arms of his beloved. Your hand was cool against his humid skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Ears ringing, he hardly heard his own voice releasing a shaky, dragged out, sh— shhhit, between gritted teeth.
Your hands trailed down even further toward his soft stomach which was scrunched into a bean-like mound from his position against you, grazing down his happy trail before ignoring his painful erection and inching toward his thighs instead. Your nails dragged gently over his inner thighs and he pried them open for you; all for you.
He whined under his breath and his legs flexed under your touch, only the duration of a single twitch, lifting his hips up subconsciously to contact your hands where he needed them most. You gently pushed him back down, wordlessly insisting on giving attention to his soft thighs, asserting that it was your pace being followed. And he couldn’t object. He didn’t want to. Always so patient with him, he longed for you to be proud of his obedience. His thighs were yours to touch, after all, and so was what rested now painfully hard between them.
His head still laying against your shoulder, you gently swiped your tongue against his ear lobe, getting his attention. You whispered to him, and he was so receptive to you. “Do you think you’re ready?”
He didn’t need to see it to know, but he glanced down anyway, his cheeks burning up to a colour he imagined matched his throbbing penis. He ached to be touched there, swallowing at the thought.
He hummed lazily in response, already lightheaded from the rush in his head. He tilted his head in slow roll to place clumsy kisses all over your face, whatever part of it he could reach, nodding continuously to please touch me, I’m ready. He thought his lips had caught your nose, cheekbones, ear, jaw… but at that point he’d already been intoxicated by your touch and couldn’t tell the difference; only wanted to taste the saltiness of your supple skin.
“Words, Spence.” With his head still turned to you, you caught his bottom lip between your teeth and nipped at it until it puffed up, drawing a light whimper from him. He arched his neck sideways to grant you access to the rest of him that your lips and teeth could reach. More of him now exposed to you, he quietly pleaded as you lightly sucked on sensitive points behind his jaw. A lone tear slipped out of his eye closest to you, and you lapped it up as it hung from his jaw.
“Ready. Always ready for you,” he choked, voice already hoarse. Your ability to take him to the clouds far before touching the most sensitive part of him only turned him on further, as well as the nurturing and patient but complete control you exerted. He was undeserving and yet eternally grateful. Swore to himself he’d spend the rest of his days trying to love you as completely as you did him.
Upon squeezing out some lubricant from the bottle in your bedside drawer, you grasped his erection in your slick hand, your other hand exploring the rest of his body, and he gasped with an unintentional jolt. From this position you two were in, it allowed the ridges of your curled palm and fingers, as well as the coolness of your wedding ring, to make full contact with the sensitive vein along the underside of his cock.
You played him like an instrument, and the sounds he made proved nothing less. You’d glide your sharp knuckles over him, barely making contact with him, much to his protest; your hand would run along the thin, elastic stretch of skin connecting his head to the underside of his cock. Or you’d bunch your delicate fingertips together at his tip, letting the widening of his cock separate them as you pushed down toward his balls. He almost wished, as the pads of your fingers trailed his length, that your fingerprints could be ingrained in his skin, if only to be claimed by you even more. His breaths grew laboured and he slowly lost the shame in his whimpers.
Your other hand moved to his lips, muffling his sounds slightly. Your breath tickled his ears, and he threw an arm back to grasp your hair or neck or whatever he could grab, trying fruitlessly to get closer for you to ground him.
He whined helplessly against your now vibrating hand, though it did nothing to quiet his volume as you so creatively played with his cock, fidgeting with him and using him like nothing. Tension was prominent between his eyebrows sewn together, and surely his forehead carried a few creases as well.
You gently ran your thumb against his bottom lip, and he instinctively pulled it into his mouth. Your thumb pushed degradingly against the inside of his cheek, forcing his mouth to open slightly. His tongue circled your thumb out of habit, and the slightest bit of spit dribbled out the corner of his lips.
The room started to smell and feel like sweat, though he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was experiencing everything and nothing all at once, sensations heightened yet brain numbed. Rare were the occasions that he couldn’t explain everything, and the times where he couldn’t think straight, but he revelled in it. Nowhere else was Spencer able to be completely defenseless and equally safe but in your arms—or hands, in this case. His guard wholeheartedly down, he cherished the privilege of being worriless and thoughtless.
His brain’s unusual absence of words and knowledge—two things which he so dutifully guarded just to feel competent—was welcomed because you were around to protect his vulnerability in the meantime.
By now, from the sweat or his own sheer lack of control, Spencer had slid down slightly so his shoulder blades were flush with your breasts; your hard nipples pressed against him through the soft silk of your nightshirt and it reminded him how eager he was to return the favour. He was leaning back a bit more, hardly noticing the ache from his weight resting on his tailbone.
The position gave you access to move your working hand even lower, gentle fingers starting to toy with his balls before moving down toward the sensitive patch of skin right beneath. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth when you hit it, hums and groans gradually increasing in pitch. Against his own will, he clenched around nothing, causing his perineum to shift against your fingers. He choked out another embarrassingly loud sound, mouth shamelessly open now, and then did it again.
You kissed his jaw. “How do you feel?” you whispered. You gave more attention to the pink head now, fingers tickling his smooth tip, thumb pressing down periodically on the ridges. Your other hand played with hair.
“You treat me so well,” he breathed, as earnestly as he could, turning his head to give a sloppy kiss to your wrist, drunk on your touch, your warmth, and you. “Love you so much,"—he swallowed—"ah— oh, f— fuck— Love what you do to me.”
“You deserve it all.”
His moans got more high pitched as you worked, and his breaths came in faster than his chest could keep up with. His hands grasped at your thighs to steady himself, blunt nails digging in.
“My Spencer baby, you look oh so beautiful,” you praised, voice dripping in sheer adoration. His eyes drew open and his gaze rolled back, then lazily toward you. Another tear slowly escaped the corner of his eye, and he wished he weren’t tearing up if only to see your pretty face more clearly. His eyebrows were still tense under the nearness of his undoing, tilted in a pleading pout.
“Please, please-please-please-please-plea— mmngh…” He pleaded and begged for release, no longer making sense of what was coming out of his mouth, eyes ever-downturned and watering once again.
He was helplessly putty in your hands, his body no longer his own, but rather a shell of just euphoria and feeling. He was floating and completely at your mercy, just as he loves to be.
“I love you, please, I—” His sentences grew choppy and more and more incoherent, his speech being mixed with unintelligible throaty noises. His chest rose and fell significantly faster than it had earlier, lips hardly separating as he mumbled a yesyesyesyes keep going yes just like that please, and his hips thrusted up to move his length further into your hand.
His desperate hands sought purchase from whatever they could grab, now tightly squeezing and scratching at your thighs. He readjusted his sweat-slicked palms as they slipped down your skin.
Your hand in his hair slid down roughly to grab his jaw in utter possessiveness, twisting it up toward you to plant a sloppy kiss on his lips. He did the best he could to return it. “Go ahead, baby,” you mumbled against his mouth.
He whimpered into the kiss, with no more capacity to spare you an audible ‘thank you’ as usual. You squeezed your working hand just the slightest bit tighter around his cock, working your way back up to his ever-sensitive pink head.
“Shitshitshitshit, fuck, oh, God. I’m so close, I’m so close, I’m so—ah—” How naughty he felt. Maybe you’d tease him later about the junk coming out of his mouth, flustering him with the thought of what the neighbours would think. But as a sunflower proved its affinity to the sun and its warmth, all he could do now was gaze at you mindlessly, his neck aching at the effort. Under the dim yellow lamp lighting up the room, he embodied the sunflower’s golden glow. Its face would follow the bright star by nature and so would Spencer's, happily compelled by some force of nature to show you his authentic self as he held on so close to his orgasm. You smiled at him.
The bed squeaked under his shaking legs. Lone tears made their way down his face, free-falling now, and he made no move to wipe them. As he neared his peak, you kept your hand on his cock, hand wrapped snugly around his tip, angling it toward his chest.
You grabbed his throat with the other, fingers squeezing inward toward the two valleys around his neck that carried his precious arteries, and he felt the first spurt of cum burst through with a loud wail of surprise.
“Baby—“ he tried breathlessly, eyes still attempting to meet yours to please understand what I’m saying, please be proud of me, “baby, I’m coming, I’m fucking coming, I’m…” His muscles spasmed and sharply leaned him forward, causing your hand to obstruct his throat just a bit more, and he was thankful for it if only to ground his shaking to a minimum.
His head was pounding and his vision grew spotty as he basked in the feeling of his life, and his penis, in your hands, and the purpose with which you handled him as he prayed for this state of euphoria to not simply kill him. Though that wouldn’t be a terrible way to go.
He fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, yet still saw only white. He was burning up and held no sense of himself as his muscles twitched in waves, knees buckling, though you were there to hold him through it all. His mouth opened in a silent scream as you continued moving your hand along his sensitive length.
His panting gradually became less breathy and more audible, now backed by a throaty groan with every breath he released. Your name became the only thought in his mind, and he let it shakily slip out of his mouth, not caring how absolutely brainless he sounded. With each spurt of his release onto his chest, each involuntary clenching and thrust of his hips, he repeated it. Whether a cry of pleading, gratitude, or adoration, he wasn’t certain—but it all centred around you.
You talked him through the final stages of his orgasm with gentle murmurs of praise, pushing his hips down to forcefully guide him through it. Good boy, Spencer. Keep going. I’m right here. You got it. You’re doing great. Almost done. I love you. You’re so safe here. Your ministrations on his sensitive penis didn’t slow as you patiently waited for him, though he had to rest his hand on your wrist to slow you down, eyes finally falling closed; you obliged. His body offered you one final tremor of overwhelming pleasure.
The horrors of the day seemed to have been released with his release. But with the way you were now atop him, cleaning up the mess on his chest with your tongue, then crawling back up to his own mouth to offer him a taste, he felt his once-against stiffening cock asking for more where that came from. His aftercare be damned. No longer overwhelmed by his need for solace, this new rise of arousal was geared toward you—thanking you, loving you, cherishing you, pleasuring you in the way his words so often failed to do.
He would do for you what you had so generously done for him, and more, if you’d let him. He could give you his tongue, his length, his fingers, a toy—or whatever you wanted. Offer himself to be used and taken however you pleased. Longed to give you everything he could. He was yours, after all.
Spencer told himself that there would be time for all that, though he always worried otherwise. Keeps it in his head, but he pleads every day that you wouldn’t end up like those he sought justice for at work, or be the body that haunted him until he arrived home to you, or the victim of a target aimed at him. Pleads every day that there would be more time.
But in the meantime, with not much else he can do, just as a sunflower would, he swears to turn his back to everything else dark about the world and follow his sun as long as he is able.
Summary: After coming home late from a stressful day at work, Spencer needs nothing more than to be in your arms in order to feel like himself again. You offer your touch to him in more ways than one.
or
melodramatic handjob :>
Word Count: 3423
Songs: ‘cry’ by cigarettes after sex may fit !!
Pairing: softdomme!reader x sub!spencer
Warnings: smut (18+ please), choking (m receiving), spencer cries xoxo, fully consensual but his reactions are described as ‘involuntary’ sometimes, sudden tense switch at the end bc it felt right idk, 65% buildup, 15% action, 20% orgasm LOL
a/n: guys the transition from comfort to seggsy just happened out of nowhere and the pacing is aggressively slow, prob making this hard to get off to. i’m sorry. also if you don’t think you should be reading this (🔞) you’re probably right ?? but please don’t tell me about it. do comment anything else though if you're feeling up to it :3
With a twist of his hand on the doorknob and a step through the door, Spencer took his long awaited whiff of home. It smelled of cedarwood and floral candles and you, and the tension released from his shoulders completely for the first time today.
He walked straight to the bedroom where he knew you’d still be up waiting for him, door open with a lit bedside light to welcome him despite his insistence that your sleep is more important. The urge didn’t even come up to wash his hands, disinfect his phone, or sanitize his work bag, being replaced instead by his desire to be in your presence.
As he’d suspected, there you were, sitting up on the bed you shared, eyes fighting to stay open as they flitted through the pages of a book. The comforter covered your legs, and only a thin sleep shirt separated your back from the headboard you leaned against, the shape of your nipples hardly poking through. Spencer hesitated to walk in and ruin the pretty picture.
When you noticed him, a fond smile grew on your face and you dropped your book to open your arms wide for him. He slowly walked over to you, stomach twisting just a little at the fear of being a bother, and started to position himself as he did whenever he needed a bit of extra comfort. He gave you a quick peck and settled down so his head rested on your lap, lying down on his side with his arm hugging your bare thighs. His long frame curled sideways by your legs under the blanket. He said nothing when you combed your fingers through his hair—just held you a bit tighter; nuzzled his cheek impossibly closer.
You broke the silence, absentmindedly separating small locks of his hair now with your fingers. “Want to talk about it?” you asked, to which he shook his head, movement still restricted by your thighs on his cheek, hating that he didn’t have more to say. Hated to have to make you pry just to hear about his day, but all the more in awe of how attuned you were to his emotions—even more than he was sometimes. Hated being moody and uncommunicative, but his brain was betraying him.
Your thumb now stroked his eyebrow, smoothing it out. Every part of him that your fingers touched relaxed in its wake, coupled with the scent of your lotion and laundry into his breaths. He finally spoke up, voice slightly muddled from his cheek against your leg; perhaps he sounded like his handwriting would sound, though he hoped he was more understandable than that.
“Per hour of sleep we lose, human blood pressure tends to increase by 3 to 5 millimeters of mercury, so you waiting up for me this late probably already caused an increase of 10 mmHg. Cortisol levels can also increase by up to 80% when sleep deprived, and your reaction time can slow by up to 500 milliseconds, which will make it more unsafe for you to drive tomorrow.” I appreciate you so much, baby, but you shouldn’t have waited up, is what he wanted to say. It never came out that way. I love when you greet me. Don’t put your health at risk for me. I’m sorry I’m late. But it always came out instead as numbers and statistics because that’s all he knows how to do, and it’s the only way his voice knows how to love, but you get it. He wants to add more.
You get him. “Stop worrying, Spence. I need to see you just as much as you need to see me. Can’t sleep otherwise,” you assured him. Goosebumps rose on his skin as you rubbed slow, pressured circles onto his forehead, massaging him properly now. Maybe your words were supposed to make him feel better, but he couldn’t shake the guilt in his gut. His burden complex weighed heavier today.
“My Spencer,” you breathed. Heat rose onto his cheeks. Your Spencer. “What do you need from me?”
He laid still on your lap, face now turned upward to memorize your own, pondering on the question. Always too scared to ask, though he knew what he needed. “Anything you’ll give me,” he whispered.
Now freshly dried from his shower, Spencer walked toward where you stayed sitting on the bed just as you had been when he arrived. He stood completely bare before you, an unlikely mix of both self-consciousness and pride filling him as you looked him up and down. The implied power imbalance of your clothed decency juxtaposed with his nude vulnerability has just occurred to him; he felt a rush in his stomach.
You pulled the covers off and spread your legs apart, then patted the space in between. Spencer crawled onto the bed as carefully as he could, trying not to shake it too much, now unsure of how long he could last. He found a seat between your thighs, the outer edge of his legs lining the inner side of your own, his back flush against your torso.
Goosebumps rose on his skin when your hands trailed up his neck, grazing his ears, then his cheekbones, to comb themselves through his soft hair. He shivered, just once. His mouth parted slightly in a shaky exhale and his head lolled back toward you, as a cat would, until it rested gently on your shoulder, full trust in you to support him. His eyelashes fluttered to a close as you slowly but firmly squeezed your fingers into a closed fist against his scalp, hair tangled within your grasp, letting the leverage of your palms against his head do the tugging. Despite the tightness of the skin around his temples, his facial muscles only continued to relax as he silently handed you all control of him. He released a shallow gasp as you gave your wrists a slow twist before releasing his hair entirely.
You slid your fingers down to his nipples, running your thumbs over them each for not long enough. He let out a sigh that must’ve released more air than his lungs had the capacity to carry in the first place. The stresses of the day began to leave with it, Spencer being overcome instead by the relief of being back in the comfort of his own home—in the arms of his beloved. Your hand was cool against his humid skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Ears ringing, he hardly heard his own voice releasing a shaky, dragged out, sh— shhhit, between gritted teeth.
Your hands trailed down even further toward his soft stomach which was scrunched into a bean-like mound from his position against you, grazing down his happy trail before ignoring his painful erection and inching toward his thighs instead. Your nails dragged gently over his inner thighs and he pried them open for you; all for you.
He whined under his breath and his legs flexed under your touch, only the duration of a single twitch, lifting his hips up subconsciously to contact your hands where he needed them most. You gently pushed him back down, wordlessly insisting on giving attention to his soft thighs, asserting that it was your pace being followed. And he couldn’t object. He didn’t want to. Always so patient with him, he longed for you to be proud of his obedience. His thighs were yours to touch, after all, and so was what rested now painfully hard between them.
His head still laying against your shoulder, you gently swiped your tongue against his ear lobe, getting his attention. You whispered to him, and he was so receptive to you. “Do you think you’re ready?”
He didn’t need to see it to know, but he glanced down anyway, his cheeks burning up to a colour he imagined matched his throbbing penis. He ached to be touched there, swallowing at the thought.
He hummed lazily in response, already lightheaded from the rush in his head. He tilted his head in slow roll to place clumsy kisses all over your face, whatever part of it he could reach, nodding continuously to please touch me, I’m ready. He thought his lips had caught your nose, cheekbones, ear, jaw… but at that point he’d already been intoxicated by your touch and couldn’t tell the difference; only wanted to taste the saltiness of your supple skin.
“Words, Spence.” With his head still turned to you, you caught his bottom lip between your teeth and nipped at it until it puffed up, drawing a light whimper from him. He arched his neck sideways to grant you access to the rest of him that your lips and teeth could reach. More of him now exposed to you, he quietly pleaded as you lightly sucked on sensitive points behind his jaw. A lone tear slipped out of his eye closest to you, and you lapped it up as it hung from his jaw.
“Ready. Always ready for you,” he choked, voice already hoarse. Your ability to take him to the clouds far before touching the most sensitive part of him only turned him on further, as well as the nurturing and patient but complete control you exerted. He was undeserving and yet eternally grateful. Swore to himself he’d spend the rest of his days trying to love you as completely as you did him.
Upon squeezing out some lubricant from the bottle in your bedside drawer, you grasped his erection in your slick hand, your other hand exploring the rest of his body, and he gasped with an unintentional jolt. From this position you two were in, it allowed the ridges of your curled palm and fingers, as well as the coolness of your wedding ring, to make full contact with the sensitive vein along the underside of his cock.
You played him like an instrument, and the sounds he made proved nothing less. You’d glide your sharp knuckles over him, barely making contact with him, much to his protest; your hand would run along the thin, elastic stretch of skin connecting his head to the underside of his cock. Or you’d bunch your delicate fingertips together at his tip, letting the widening of his cock separate them as you pushed down toward his balls. He almost wished, as the pads of your fingers trailed his length, that your fingerprints could be ingrained in his skin, if only to be claimed by you even more. His breaths grew laboured and he slowly lost the shame in his whimpers.
Your other hand moved to his lips, muffling his sounds slightly. Your breath tickled his ears, and he threw an arm back to grasp your hair or neck or whatever he could grab, trying fruitlessly to get closer for you to ground him.
He whined helplessly against your now vibrating hand, though it did nothing to quiet his volume as you so creatively played with his cock, fidgeting with him and using him like nothing. Tension was prominent between his eyebrows sewn together, and surely his forehead carried a few creases as well.
You gently ran your thumb against his bottom lip, and he instinctively pulled it into his mouth. Your thumb pushed degradingly against the inside of his cheek, forcing his mouth to open slightly. His tongue circled your thumb out of habit, and the slightest bit of spit dribbled out the corner of his lips.
The room started to smell and feel like sweat, though he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was experiencing everything and nothing all at once, sensations heightened yet brain numbed. Rare were the occasions that he couldn’t explain everything, and the times where he couldn’t think straight, but he revelled in it. Nowhere else was Spencer able to be completely defenseless and equally safe but in your arms—or hands, in this case. His guard wholeheartedly down, he cherished the privilege of being worriless and thoughtless.
His brain’s unusual absence of words and knowledge—two things which he so dutifully guarded just to feel competent—was welcomed because you were around to protect his vulnerability in the meantime.
By now, from the sweat or his own sheer lack of control, Spencer had slid down slightly so his shoulder blades were flush with your breasts; your hard nipples pressed against him through the soft silk of your nightshirt and it reminded him how eager he was to return the favour. He was leaning back a bit more, hardly noticing the ache from his weight resting on his tailbone.
The position gave you access to move your working hand even lower, gentle fingers starting to toy with his balls before moving down toward the sensitive patch of skin right beneath. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth when you hit it, hums and groans gradually increasing in pitch. Against his own will, he clenched around nothing, causing his perineum to shift against your fingers. He choked out another embarrassingly loud sound, mouth shamelessly open now, and then did it again.
You kissed his jaw. “How do you feel?” you whispered. You gave more attention to the pink head now, fingers tickling his smooth tip, thumb pressing down periodically on the ridges. Your other hand played with hair.
“You treat me so well,” he breathed, as earnestly as he could, turning his head to give a sloppy kiss to your wrist, drunk on your touch, your warmth, and you. “Love you so much,"—he swallowed—"ah— oh, f— fuck— Love what you do to me.”
“You deserve it all.”
His moans got more high pitched as you worked, and his breaths came in faster than his chest could keep up with. His hands grasped at your thighs to steady himself, blunt nails digging in.
“My Spencer baby, you look oh so beautiful,” you praised, voice dripping in sheer adoration. His eyes drew open and his gaze rolled back, then lazily toward you. Another tear slowly escaped the corner of his eye, and he wished he weren’t tearing up if only to see your pretty face more clearly. His eyebrows were still tense under the nearness of his undoing, tilted in a pleading pout.
“Please, please-please-please-please-plea— mmngh…” He pleaded and begged for release, no longer making sense of what was coming out of his mouth, eyes ever-downturned and watering once again.
He was helplessly putty in your hands, his body no longer his own, but rather a shell of just euphoria and feeling. He was floating and completely at your mercy, just as he loves to be.
“I love you, please, I—” His sentences grew choppy and more and more incoherent, his speech being mixed with unintelligible throaty noises. His chest rose and fell significantly faster than it had earlier, lips hardly separating as he mumbled a yesyesyesyes keep going yes just like that please, and his hips thrusted up to move his length further into your hand.
His desperate hands sought purchase from whatever they could grab, now tightly squeezing and scratching at your thighs. He readjusted his sweat-slicked palms as they slipped down your skin.
Your hand in his hair slid down roughly to grab his jaw in utter possessiveness, twisting it up toward you to plant a sloppy kiss on his lips. He did the best he could to return it. “Go ahead, baby,” you mumbled against his mouth.
He whimpered into the kiss, with no more capacity to spare you an audible ‘thank you’ as usual. You squeezed your working hand just the slightest bit tighter around his cock, working your way back up to his ever-sensitive pink head.
“Shitshitshitshit, fuck, oh, God. I’m so close, I’m so close, I’m so—ah—” How naughty he felt. Maybe you’d tease him later about the junk coming out of his mouth, flustering him with the thought of what the neighbours would think. But as a sunflower proved its affinity to the sun and its warmth, all he could do now was gaze at you mindlessly, his neck aching at the effort. Under the dim yellow lamp lighting up the room, he embodied the sunflower’s golden glow. Its face would follow the bright star by nature and so would Spencer's, happily compelled by some force of nature to show you his authentic self as he held on so close to his orgasm. You smiled at him.
The bed squeaked under his shaking legs. Lone tears made their way down his face, free-falling now, and he made no move to wipe them. As he neared his peak, you kept your hand on his cock, hand wrapped snugly around his tip, angling it toward his chest.
You grabbed his throat with the other, fingers squeezing inward toward the two valleys around his neck that carried his precious arteries, and he felt the first spurt of cum burst through with a loud wail of surprise.
“Baby—“ he tried breathlessly, eyes still attempting to meet yours to please understand what I’m saying, please be proud of me, “baby, I’m coming, I’m fucking coming, I’m…” His muscles spasmed and sharply leaned him forward, causing your hand to obstruct his throat just a bit more, and he was thankful for it if only to ground his shaking to a minimum.
His head was pounding and his vision grew spotty as he basked in the feeling of his life, and his penis, in your hands, and the purpose with which you handled him as he prayed for this state of euphoria to not simply kill him. Though that wouldn’t be a terrible way to go.
He fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, yet still saw only white. He was burning up and held no sense of himself as his muscles twitched in waves, knees buckling, though you were there to hold him through it all. His mouth opened in a silent scream as you continued moving your hand along his sensitive length.
His panting gradually became less breathy and more audible, now backed by a throaty groan with every breath he released. Your name became the only thought in his mind, and he let it shakily slip out of his mouth, not caring how absolutely brainless he sounded. With each spurt of his release onto his chest, each involuntary clenching and thrust of his hips, he repeated it. Whether a cry of pleading, gratitude, or adoration, he wasn’t certain—but it all centred around you.
You talked him through the final stages of his orgasm with gentle murmurs of praise, pushing his hips down to forcefully guide him through it. Good boy, Spencer. Keep going. I’m right here. You got it. You’re doing great. Almost done. I love you. You’re so safe here. Your ministrations on his sensitive penis didn’t slow as you patiently waited for him, though he had to rest his hand on your wrist to slow you down, eyes finally falling closed; you obliged. His body offered you one final tremor of overwhelming pleasure.
The horrors of the day seemed to have been released with his release. But with the way you were now atop him, cleaning up the mess on his chest with your tongue, then crawling back up to his own mouth to offer him a taste, he felt his once-against stiffening cock asking for more where that came from. His aftercare be damned. No longer overwhelmed by his need for solace, this new rise of arousal was geared toward you—thanking you, loving you, cherishing you, pleasuring you in the way his words so often failed to do.
He would do for you what you had so generously done for him, and more, if you’d let him. He could give you his tongue, his length, his fingers, a toy—or whatever you wanted. Offer himself to be used and taken however you pleased. Longed to give you everything he could. He was yours, after all.
Spencer told himself that there would be time for all that, though he always worried otherwise. Keeps it in his head, but he pleads every day that you wouldn’t end up like those he sought justice for at work, or be the body that haunted him until he arrived home to you, or the victim of a target aimed at him. Pleads every day that there would be more time.
But in the meantime, with not much else he can do, just as a sunflower would, he swears to turn his back to everything else dark about the world and follow his sun as long as he is able.
