ASTERIA. 20. british. she/her. bellamy blake. bruce wayne. steve harrington. clark kent. spencer reid. dick grayson.
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In which Spencer is not letting his injury stop him from putting you in your place
genre smut (18+)
cw dom!jesus!reid, bratty!reader, teasing from both sides, fight for control, bdsm relations, established relationship, spanking, caning, rough fingering, deep throating, p in v, praise, dirty talk, brat taming, dacryphilia, pet names, talking you through it, mentions of masturbation
wc 4,7k
a/n jesus reid + that mf cane have such a hold on me, i knew i had to write about it. this is also the last kinkfest fic, thank you so much for being here and reading. your support truly is the biggest motivation to write, so if you enjoyed this, please let me know! <3
“I’m bored,” Spencer announces.
You’ve lost count of the number of times he has repeated this sentence in the last couple of hours. Days, even.
Ever since your boyfriend got shot in the leg out on the field — an event that still makes your heart race when you think back on it for too long — he’s been bored. Bored. You’d imagine someone feeling any other way than bored when getting shot, but no, Spencer Reid was bored. Tired of being on bedrest. So tired that he had begged Hotch to join today’s case, which ended up with the both of you stuck in a hotel room.
You had just stepped out of the car, not even close to the destination of the crime scene, when Spencer's limping and whining got the both of you being assigned to the nearest hotel.
Most of the time, you wouldn’t be one to complain about spending the day with Spencer in a luxurious hotel bedroom. But that’s when you’re not taking into consideration that you’re now on research duty and don’t have the time for a boyfriend-shaped distraction.
Turning your head, you find Spencer in the same position you’d left him in when you had entered the room an hour ago. Looking like an ill Victorian child with his upper body propped against a wall of pillows, his injured leg resting on a bundled-up mess of blankets, and a large pout displayed across his face.
You give a small shrug of your shoulders and murmur a “Well, I’m not,’’ before turning back to the tower of case files stacked on top of the narrow desk in front of you. With a flick of your finger, you uncap your yellow highlighter and scan the text to see where you were left off.
“I finished my book.”
Your hand halts in its motion. For a second you close your eyes, composing yourself as you take a steady breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. “You’ve reread it?”
“Thrice.”
“Front to back and back to front?” You question him, like you’re a mother wanting confirmation that her son indeed did his homework.
“Yup,” Spencer answers, popping the p. “Why won’t you let me take a look? You know I can go through those files much faster than you can.’’
Spencer tries sitting up, stifling a groan when a sharp pain courses through his leg.
“That’s why,” you say, pointing your highlighter at him. “Hotch gave me specific instructions to not let you do anything work-related.”
He huffs. “Hotch isn’t a doctor.”
“Neither are you.”
The defense is ready to fly out of his mouth. “I am a–”
“Nuh uh,” you shush him. “Not a medical one. And Dr. Carter — a medical doctor — has also reminded me, just this morning actually, that you need to take two weeks off from doing anything strenuous.”
“Strenuous meaning activities that will increase my heartrate,” he corrects as he slowly lifts himself up on the bed. “Reading reports will not have that effect on me. Actually, complete rest after an injury like this can delay recovery.”
“So, if you don’t mind, I’ll…” His hand reaches out beside him, patting the air in search of his cane. You catch the moment his eyes flicker from the bedside table to the wall next to you, the item he’s looking for right in your possession. “You took my cane?”
You unapologetically hum, giving him a single nod. “That’s what happens when you’re too stubborn for your own good.”
Spencer’s mouth falls open, eyebrows raised in indignation. “I get shot in the leg and you’re being this mean to me? You should be taking care of me.”
A scoff escapes your throat, not being able to help the lines of your mouth from curving into a smile. “I’m your girlfriend, not your nurse.”
He seems to ignore your correction altogether, fingers tapping against each other, and you see the wheels turning in his mind. “I think I know what this is.”
Here we go. With a small sigh you click the cap back on the highlighter and let it drop on the table. “Enlighten me, Reid.”
He pulls a long lock behind his ear, his eyes finding yours across the six feet of distance.
“I think you’re frustrated that I’m the one being taken care of and not you. You miss me taking care of you, and now you’re punishing me for it.” He’s deadpan as he says the words, as confident as he’d be while delivering a profile.
It takes a second for his words to catch up to you, then you let out a loud cackle. “What?”
“I’m not joking,” he continues, sure of his own theory. “When was the last time we had sex?”
Embarrassingly, it took you a while to come up with an answer. It must’ve been longer than two weeks by now. Despite living together, the cases lately had been so energy consuming that neither of you had it in you to make even the slightest bit of movement when you’d lie in bed at the end of the day. And then the leg thing got in your way, of course.
“Some time ago,” you silently mutter.
Spencer nods, having made the mental calculations way before you did. “Considering the case will keep everyone busy for some more hours, we might as well not let this time go to waste.” Spencer says, almost purrs, as his voice drops a notch.
His eyes scan over your figure, unapologetically ogling you. “Do you know how distracting you look when you’re working?”
“Do you know how distracting you are when I’m working?”
The words leave your mouth harsher than they were meant. You open your mouth to soften the blow, but before you could even apologize, Spencer’s expression had shifted. An eyebrow is cocked in surprise, his brown eyes have narrowed shut, and there’s a clear ticking of his jaw.
“Come here.”
Two simple words rolled off his tongue, and you’re already burning up. The heat crawls over your skin, warming your body as it moves up and up until it finds a place to settle on your cheeks. “Spence, I didn’t mean—”
He pats the blankets next to him. The gesture in itself is inviting, gentle, but you’ve known him for long enough to predict what will follow.
“Take the cane and come over.”
The choice is yours. To obey or disobey? That is the question.
“Oh, so you think that’s funny?”
You’re not even aware that the stupid inner thought has caused a small smile to form on your lips until Spencer mentions it. A flicker of anxiety passes through you. You don’t feel as confident in the decision now.
Spencer’s eyes rake over yours, reading your hesitant expression and seeming rather pleased by it.
“Take the cane,” he repeats. “And come over.”
You grab the cane.
Certain objects carry memories: every time you touch your apartment key, you think back on the day Spencer had handed it to you. Every time you feel the soft fur of your childhood plushie, it takes you back to your hometown. Spencer’s cane carries its own memories. Filthier ones.
Just a slight trail of your finger against the smooth wooden handle is enough to remember past events. It almost slips out of your grip by the light layer of sweat that has gathered with your nerves. You know exactly what the cold, curved wooden handle feels like when it brushes against your nipples, can vividly remember the stir of goosebumps it causes when it moves down your spine, and you’ll never forget about the sharp stings it leaves on the insides of your thighs or the plump skin of your ass after a couple of spanks.
Something tells you it’s the latter that you’ll be receiving today.
The creaking of the floorboard goes unnoticed by you, as your heart seems to beat louder with every step that you take toward him. Spencer is seated on the edge of the bed, his legs spread wide in a way that would bother you with anyone that isn’t him. With a sense of shame, you hand him the cane. He accepts it by the other end and then pulls it to him so that you come to stand in between his legs.
Your breath stutters at the eye contact he’s making, hazel eyes taking you in and darkening with every second. You’re holding onto the handle of the cane for dear life when Spencer’s hand slides up your outer thigh, making you feel like you’d fall right through your shaky knees if you didn’t.
His hand slowly travels higher until it pauses at the swell of your ass. He doesn’t take a moment of consideration as he roughly cups the flesh, eliciting a gasp from you.
“You missed this?” He asks in a low groan. “Missed being manhandled like the dirty little brat you are?”
Your throat grows dry. You meet his gaze with wide eyes, watching him like a deer, curious to know what his next move will be. If he’ll take a slow, cautious step forward, or if the attack is already near.
His palm continuously rubs over your ass in slow circles, warming the skin through your pants. You can feel yourself growing wet, embarrassingly so. You want to rub your thighs together to find relief for the throbbing ache between your folds and the slick that’s uncomfortably gathering behind the thin fabric of your underwear.
Spencer’s gaze flicks from the undeniable wet spot that’s starting to form on your pants to your eyes.
“Did you enjoy your time spent alone?”
He catches on to your confusion and elaborates. “I heard you in the shower. It sounded like you had fun on your own.”
The heat in your face rises. You never realized that he had heard. It’s been ages since you’ve reached for one of your sex toys or were desperate enough to make use of the other functions of a showerhead. Spencer was enough to satisfy you — more than enough — but the last few weeks your boyfriend wasn’t able to help you out like he usually would. And him looking that good with his long hair and light scruff and that damn cane had gotten you needy to find release elsewhere.
“Don’t be shy now,” Spencer hummed. “I know you liked getting that sweet pussy stimulated, but we both know it doesn’t come close to the way I can make you feel. I could’ve still helped, you know? Still have a mouth you could ride... Still have my fingers to make you feel good.”
The rasp of his voice leaves a ripple of sparks to your core, which Spencer seems to take notice of, obviously. A cocky smile curves on the edge of his lip, and he tilts his chin up.
“Lay over my lap.”
His voice is certain, a demand — one he knows you can’t reject.
“Spence-“
He tsks. “Come on now, angel. You can’t stand on those shaky legs for much longer.”
It was the truth. There was a magnetic force (or maybe it was just his hand making a “come here” motion that drove you crazy) that pulled you to him, one that you could only fight for so long.
You did as he ordered — your fingers moved to your zipper on instinct. You didn’t make a show out of it, didn’t turn around and slightly bend through your knees to slowly reveal the thin, lacy underwear peeking between your cheeks. Today you didn’t have the patience. With a sharp tug you pull your pants down your legs and find them sticking to your thighs.
It’s not like you didn’t know that you were incredibly turned on, but it always keeps amazing you to find out how wet Spencer can make you just by his words and some slight touches.
“Good girl, that’s it,” Spencer praises. “Now come sit.”
The position comes naturally to you. You pass him the cane and lay yourself on his lap: you place your arms on the mattress, hovering over it with your chest as your stomach and legs lay over his thighs, ass on display.
Spencer hums. “I’ll never grow tired of this sight.”
Butterflies flutter through your stomach as he whispers the words. They only swarm wilder when you feel heat coming from underneath your lower stomach — not from your own body, but from the growing bulge in your boyfriend’s pants that’s pressing up against you.
He traces slow circles over your skin, playing with you in awe. His hand leaves you momentarily, and then it falls back with a sharp sting.
You jolt forward, gasping out a “fuck”.
He gently caresses the stricken spot as a form of apology before giving another slap.
“So sensitive,” he observes. “It’s really been a while if just my hand already has this effect on you.”
You whimper in his grasp, grinding your ass in the air, shamelessly begging him for more.
“What is it that you want?”
The faux cluelessness in his voice makes you want to roll your eyes back and cry out in frustration. He knew exactly what you wanted. You dare say he knows your body even better than you. Still, he always asked you. Not only to confirm your consent, but because he revelled in hearing you speak your filthy wishes out loud. There were few things he liked more than you admitting how badly you wanted him. How you needed him to take you. To claim you.
“Cat got your tongue?”
You glance over your shoulder and catch Spencer smirking down at you. But no matter this cocky exterior, Spencer stays Spencer — the man who still gets flustered when you kiss him in public.
A teasing, wicked smile forms on your lips as you find his eyes. “I want you to grab your cane and spank me until I can count every mark.”
His eyes widen comically, and a few coughs follow that he swallows down.
“I- I can do that.”
His fingers flex around the cane, and he adjusts his grip on it, quickly composing himself. He brings the handle back over your ass and mimics the vexing slow circles of his hand. “Until you see marks,” he mutters to himself.
“Yes, please,” you breathe out in a soft moan.
He lets out a low groan, released from deep in his throat. Then the heavy wood falls sharply onto your skin.
Then again.
And again.
Until a galaxy of stars blurs your vision.
The blows burn deliciously; each spank sends tingles to your core. Your juices are leaking onto his pants at this point, mixing in with Spencer’s arousal where your bodies connect. Proof that this is turning him on just as much, if not more.
“Fuck, angel. You’ll look so perfect with your ass all painted in blacks and blues,” Spencer praises, using his free hand to trace over the marks he’s created on your ass.
“Please, Spencer,” you whisper. “I need more.”
He takes your beg as a command, the cane falling to the ground with a thud, and his now-free fingers immediately find you. He trails them over your thighs and grazes downwards until he cups your heat.
“So soaked already,” he says, satisfaction lacing his voice.
He slips his finger into your underwear, pulling the string. “These don’t have that much use anymore, do they?” He answers himself by pulling it to the side, replacing the fabric with two of his long and slender fingers.
“Oh god, Spence,” you whine, bucking your hips to grind against his fingers.
“How many can you take?” he asks, his breath heavy as two of his digits press against your entrance. “Two?”
To test his theory, he enters you and curls his fingers, hitting that sweet spot so easily.
“Three’s more like it,” he corrects himself as he pushes another one in.
Your mind is blurred in white, hot fog. You can’t think nor respond back, just gratefully nod and moan, as those three fingers were exactly what you needed.
Spencer switches between curving his fingertips up — repeatedly hitting your g-spot and making you want to roll your eyes to the back of your skull — and moving them swiftly in and out of your heat, as filthy squelches fill the room.
“You feel so good around my fingers, angel,” Spencer whispers, pressing his lips to your hair. “Stretching you out for my cock, hm? Want me to fill you up? You want to be full of my cock, sweetheart?”
Spencer shifts underneath you as he says the words, his arousal twitching against your stomach.
“God, yes, Spence. Want it so bad, but—“
The words escape you as he leans forward and places a kiss on top of the curve of your ass. “But what?” He mutters against your skin.
“But— fuck, but…”
He smirks. “Come on, you can say it.”
“But the doctor says—“
“I only care about what my girl says,” he cuts you off with a shush. “Do you want my cock?”
Strenuous activities. Rest. Don’t get his heart rate up…
“Yes, please.”
Before you know it, you have found yourself in a new position. Still stretched out on your stomach, but now between Spencer’s bare legs. He’s propped against the headrest like before and holding out his stiffened cock for you as he lazily gives the length some tugs.
The image was downright obscene but mouthwatering nonetheless. It was similar to vanilla ice cream on a sunny day, his precum melting down from his reddened tip to his thick shaft.
“I think you need to clean me up before I enter you, angel. Don’t want to make a mess on these fresh sheets, do we?”
He tangles his fingers into your hair, holding your scalp as he guides you closer. Your lips part in anticipation, glossed from the sweep of your tongue.
A moan leaves your mouth as Spencer taps the head of his cock gently across your bottom lip, smearing a sticky layer over it.
“Come on, angel. Open up for me...”
You do, opening your mouth further and letting him rest his heavy cock on top of it. You drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft as you take him in. Looking up through your lashes as your eyes slowly start to water. The muscles in his jaw tighten, but the clear relief in his face is undeniable.
“That’s it,” he whimpers in a high-pitched breath as his tip grazes along the roof of your throat.
“Oh, that’s it.” He repeats when you start working a rhythm, bobbing your head along his length. “Just like that.”
He isn’t able to drive his hips into your mouth like he usually would, so instead he presses your head down each time you’re close to taking him all the way in — helping you until your nose is nuzzled against his happy trail, holding you down for a second before easing you up by your hair to let you catch a breath.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” Spencer hisses when you pull off, your swollen lips glistening with saliva from your ministrations.
You giggle, catching your lip teasingly in between your teeth. You run your nails along his thigh, feeling the hairs stand straight in goosebumps, while using your other hand to take hold of his shaft.
Spencer’s legs flinch up when your tongue goes up and down his slit. A grunt of pain leaves his chest from the sudden movement of his injured leg. You hold him down to prevent him from more pain while continuing to work your tongue in quick, steady licks.
He’s trying to hold it together, batting away the small moans and groans that force their way out of his throat. But his composure is swiftly slipping with every hollow of your cheeks as you suck harder and faster — taking away his sense of control.
He hisses through his teeth and tightens his grip on your hair. “That’s enough.”
You hum around him, letting him know you’ve heard loud and clear, but choose to ignore the warning as you keep bobbing your head.
A guttural moan sounds, one that has your chest filling with lust and pride.
“I said that’s enough,” Spencer repeats as he tugs you up.
He doesn’t give you time to catch your breath as he presses his thumb in between your lips. He shakes his head in disbelief as you happily wrap and swirl your tongue around the digit. “Fuck. Such a sweet, horny girl, aren’t you? Always need something in your mouth.”
For a moment (that felt like eternity to you, you simply watched each other. Your eyes speak, reminding each other of the safety and trust that you both feel when being this close. Are you enjoying it? His hazel ones ask. You give a small nod of your head, and Spencer understands.
“Get up.”
Your knees scramble over the mattress as you sit up. With a swish of your arms, strip yourself of your shirt and bra. In the time that the items of clothing have dropped beside you, Spencer is bare too. His chest is flushed in pink and painted with small brown birthmarks that you can’t admire for long, as his warm hands reach out to cup the skin where your hips meet your waist as he draws you closer.
“You want to take control?” He whispers against your lips.
A moan hugs in between your intertwined lips as you kiss him back in response.
“Ride me then.”
Keeping your lips on his, you slowly sink down his length. Spencer steadies your hips with his hands, but he doesn’t guide you. Letting you tackle this on your own.
“That’s it,” he murmurs as he watches himself fill you up inch by inch. “Look at you, baby. Such a big girl taking all of my cock all by yourself.”
Heat spreads low in your belly as he stretches you out. Your thighs are shaking by the time his body meets yours, and you wonder if he’s experiencing the same sweet torture from you putting your weight on his injured leg.
Spencer shifts his hands to your shoulders. Holding you there, and then he —
“Ah, Spencer!”
The whimper gets knocked out of you as Spencer pushes you further down on his cock — making you realize you missed an inch until you could now feel his trimmed pubic hair tickling against your folds.
“Mm, there you go,” he praises, licking his lips. His gaze is intently fixed on your body, connecting with his, as not a single fraction of space is keeping you apart.
You whimper again. You feel so full. And full is good. Full is fucking good. But only for some seconds before you need him to move. But that won’t happen. No, not with his injury. You’re in charge, just like he said.
With large hands he’s cupping your cheeks, pressing them softly together to get you to pout.
“Come on, honey. You got to work for that cock.”
You tighten your fingers around his shoulders, palms flat on his chest, as you clumsily lift yourself up on your trembling knees that are seated on each side of his body. With uneven moves of your body, you try to roll your hips in a nice pattern, trying to find that sweet spot that Spencer manages to find in a second. But failing.
“Take your time.” He encourages, folding his hands behind his head as he watches you with a smirk.
“Not funny.”
“Not funny, but very entertaining.”
You adjust yourself again, your knees sliding against the white blankets as you try riding him again. This time lifting yourself up and slowly dropping back down. It feels good enough; your wetness makes it easy for his cock to slip in and out of you. Still you weren’t satisfied. Maybe Spencer spoiled you too much, to the point where nothing could satiate the throbbing need in your core but him taking control.
“Spence?”
He lifts his brow ever so slightly. “Hm?”
A small, frustrated noise escapes you as you nod your head to your intertwined bodies.
“Giving up so quickly?” He teases, already knowing the answer.
It’s too embarrassing to admit out loud, so you just nod.
Then his hands move.
You gasp when he grips you by the ass and tilts you over, your body hovering over his as you plant your arms on each side of his head on the pillow.
Your breath catches as his palms slap against your ass, reigniting the sharp burn from his cane. There’s no warning as he lifts your cheeks up and slams you back down on his cock — using his strength to bounce you on top of him, since he can’t use his legs to pound into you like he usually would.
“Fuck, Spencer!” You cry out in the crook of his neck.
“Nuh uh, no hiding. Let me see you. Let me see how I make you feel.”
You weren’t planning to, not with your eyes all watery and your expression showing a raw, messy need that would stroke his ego way too much (even though he deserved all the praise).
He squeezes your ass, harshly enough for you to obey his command and face him.
“Oh, does that hurt?” He pouts. “Is your ass still so sore?”
You whimper a yes. Large, clear tears rolling down your cheeks like they’re a paid actor.
“God, look at you,” Spencer breathes out in awe, looking like he’s trying to memorize every expression on your face in vivid detail. “Taking me so well, angel.”
It didn’t feel like you were taking it well. You felt like a fucked-out mess as Spencer dragged you up and down his cock at a devastatingly fast speed.
“Tell yourself, sweetheart. You’re taking my cock so well.”
You lick your lips that have turned dry and nod. “I-I’m taking it.”
“So well, huh?”
Another nod. “Taking your cock so well.”
Spencer lifts you again and drops you as your hips meet in a filthy, wet slap. You bite back a cry, instead letting a just as filthy moan of his name fill the room.
“That’s my girl, looking so pretty when I’m doing the work,” Spencer groans in pride. One hand slides up your spine as he pulls you flush against him. Hard nipples meeting his sweat-slicked chest.
“Oh, I can come like this, baby.”
The way he whispers it into your ear and instantly presses his lips to the side of your face has you exploding in both pleasure and adoration.
“Let me feel it, angel. Come around my cock like this.” He urged you on as you clenched around him. Your climax tears through you in hot, sharp waves, taking you under and making you feel as light as a feather. Spencer’s deep and slowing thrusts almost lulling you to sleep.
“Oh, oh, oh.”
Spencer’s cock slips out of you, and he paints the sensitive flesh of your lower back.
“So good, sweetheart. So good.” He whispers against your temple, marking the words with a kiss. And another, as he kisses his way from your cheek to your plump-kissed lips.
Orgasm-stricken and exhausted, you decide to stay where you are — comfortable with your head on his chest, gratefully accepting your boyfriend’s soft kisses.
You don’t need a blanket with the way he’s keeping you warm. His hands roaming from your ass to the other parts of your body, rubbing your skin up and down and working like your own personal heater.
“I don’t wanna get up,” you mutter in a disappointed groan as you hear the ticking of Spencer’s watch and are reminded of the unfinished stack of papers on the desk.
“I think I’ve proven to you I feel good enough to read some files.”
“God,” you groan against his neck. “We shouldn’t have done that, I probably have ruined all of your progress.”
Spencer chuckles, moving you as his chest shakes in warm laughter. “I think this was the best motivation I could get to get better as soon as possible.”
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader
Category: Smut 18+ MDNI
Summary: A shared motel room, two bored agents, and a bar of chocolate—what could go wrong? Everything, when the chocolates turn out to be fast acting aphrodisiacs. Or it all goes right; it’s simply a matter of perspective. Part 2 of In the Secrecy of his Room.
Content: 5k words, early season dom!Spencer Reid, bratty reader, dom and sub dynamics, accidental consumption of aphrodisiacs, probably inaccurate depiction of aphrodisiacs, nipple play, unprotected p in v, dumbification of reader, size kink if u squint, use of good girl and sir, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting.
a/n: I listened to ben platt’s version of diet pepsi on loop while writing the last 2k words lol. Also, I’ve been seeing sentiments against writing early seasons Spencer as a dom so uh click here if you prefer him whiney and inexperienced. Or just scroll away! It’s all free! If u stay, i hope you enjoy! Requested by the lovely @misserabella. First half was proofread by @cherrypickinns and then it's all my deranged writings once they begin kissing. Gif is by the bestest @reidgif
It isn’t that the case is harder than usual, but there’s something about this small town in Nebraska that makes everything seem like it’s moving through water. Warped and just on the side of sluggish. The team had come at an unfortunate time, because there’s a harsh thunderstorm outside. So strong the authorities made necessary suspensions, and now everyone is stuck indoors.
On top of that, you’re sharing a room with Spencer. Of course, the universe is cruel enough to work like this. To his credit, he’s the picture of professionalism. He had assured you secrecy and it’s a promise he’s been upholding consistently. No teasing, nothing to give away the activities you’ve engaged with each other, no references to how he’d given you pleasure. For this, you are grateful. Small miracles and whatnot.
Tonight is no different; stranded together on a work trip, he’s politely ignoring you by poring over the case files, as if his single minded focus would be enough to solve it.
It would be easy to coax him out of this, but you don’t want to make anything awkward. Besides, you’d both set strict rules—those activities, your roles, all must be contained within his bedroom. The moment you’re out of it, you’re simply two coworkers again, barely friends, and yet…
You drag your eyes away from him, away from those fingers tracing over words on a page as the very sight triggers some treacherous part of your brain and goosebumps break across your inner thighs where he’d drawn invisible patterns with the very same fingertips and littered deep purple blossoms from his mouth.
Okay, stop.
“Ughhhh,” you roll over until you’re first into the pillows, muffling the last bits of your very articulate sound of complaint.
His snort catches you by surprise though it doesn’t quite ring as annoyance. More like amusement.
“What?” you lift yourself on your elbow, pouting.
“I thought being difficult was just something you play up… you know, when we’re having our sessions.” He murmurs from his seat, a slight hesitance tugging at his voice; this is the first time either of you acknowledged that outside of their designated weekends. Outside his room. He continues, musing, “But it seems like you’re simply a brat in real life too.”
His form remains focused on the case files at the desk. Still reading, as if you aren’t important enough to warrant his full attention.
You aren’t sure if he’s doing it deliberately, but, well, it’s making you want to act up and get his attention.
You don’t fall for it, though. Mostly. “Well, sorry if I’m bored.”
“You have a case file sitting in your bag, and it’s not going to read and solve itself.”
“We’re off the clock. Everything’s suspended until tomorrow because of the storm, Spencer. Besides,” you roll over onto your back with a groan, “I’ve no interest reading it again—I’d read it cover to cover multiple times already. It won’t get solved if we’re stuck in here with incomplete puzzle pieces. Like Hotch said, we need to search the woods and cross examine some witnesses, but that’s not happening in this weather.”
“I, for one, would appreciate some silence,” he replies quietly. He turns the page. You pout at his back, unsure of what you want and infinitely restless.
Finally, you sit up and rifle through your bag, huffing with annoyance. If he hears, he doesn’t bother acknowledging it. You almost want to scream. The rummaging noises you’re making are so obviously calculated. It’s just a passive aggressive attempt to get his attention; you don’t even know what you’re looking for, this is simply done for the sake of doing something.
Spencer still doesn’t dignify you with a response. However, your fingers curl over something smooth and unfamiliar. A smile splits across your face when you pull it out, relief and elation replacing the initial curiosity.
A bar of chocolate. This had been from Penelope, something she slipped to you with a beaming face the morning before you left. You had stuffed it into your go bag when Hotch said you’re leaving, and thank heavens for that. At least now you have a sweet treat.
You push off the wrapper, eager for some sugar. The wrinkling sounds make Spencer turn in his seat, brows raised in question. “Have you finally decided to review the—what is that?”
“Oh, Pen gave me some chocolates.” you reply, peeling off the carefully packaged wrapping paper—Penelope loves elaborately wrapped gifts, even gifts as simple as these. A glance back at Spencer shows that he’s looking at the bar with some form of longing, “Want some?”
He shrugs, “If you don’t mind.”
“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous, Dr. Reid.” With a grin, you hold the chocolate from both ends and bend. It’s gotten softer from being in your bag, and you’re able to halve the bar easily.
“How fortunate, indeed. You know, some studies have linked chocolates to heightened focus.” he says as he accepts his share. His fingers brush against yours briefly, just the tips, but it’s once again enough to trigger memories of how those fingers feel running across hidden crevices in your body. Slow, teasing. You clear your throat and retreat immediately once the chocolate is in his possession.
No room for lewd thoughts tonight. Absolutely none. Not when you’re on a work trip. And sharing a room on top of that.
Nope. You cram chocolate into your mouth quickly. Too much. So much that your cheeks bulge at the sides and it’s difficult to chew through. It’s good old milk chocolate, sweet but decadent, and thankfully, it melts easily in your mouth.
You take another bite, not trusting yourself to speak to him. There’s a slight aftertaste to the chocolate, but you figure it’s probably just an unfamiliar flavor. Penelope enjoys experimenting with her desserts, after all. It’s good, regardless, and you’re not going to complain about free chocolates.
Unsurprisingly, the chocolate is consumed quickly.
“Is that enough chocolate to help your brain focus better, Dr. Reid?” you ask him teasingly.
“I didn’t have an issue focusing in the first place, in fact, I think you would benefit from it more.” the words would cut if it came from someone else, but it’s Spencer and he’s grinning back at you like you’re worth something, and finally, you feel satisfaction bloom in your chest.
And then with a quick thanks, his attention dissipates and he ducks back to the case file and the satisfaction wilts like a neglected houseplant.
With a groan, you give up trying to pull him away from his reading and pick up your own case file. Maybe he’s right and the chocolate would help you focus.
It creeps up on you, the uncomfortable heat. Nearly imperceptible at first, and quickly eased by turning on the small fan provided by the motel. It’s weird, though, because the storm pelting outside has made the place considerably cooler. Still, the heat creeps with such subtlety that you don’t dwell upon it. Maybe your body heat’s fluctuating. Maybe you need a shower.
After a little while, Spencer speaks up too, brows knit in annoyance.
“Do you mind sharing the fan, it’s too hot.” he says, glancing at your figure. Prone on your bed, legs up in the air like you’re reading some issue of Cosmopolitan rather than your work folder, and hair rustling from the fan pointed directly at you.
You glance up fast enough to catch his eyes on your ass.
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” With an exaggerated groan, you heave yourself up and move to press the button on the fan. It oscillates, and you huff annoyed sentiments about the lack of air conditioning. It’s unique to the room you two are sharing; Gideon and the others had managed to claim first dibs on the rooms with functional air conditioning systems. You suspect it’s more that you two are the youngest, and there’s still some playful hierarchy going on within the team. After all, everyone else got their own solo rooms as well—you and Spencer had been the only ones sharing a space.
But the heat only seems to thicken as time passes by, and you shift on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Something in you curls, heavy and slow and burning like molten honey.
“Oh my god,” you hiss, sitting up.
From the desk, Spencer whirls to face you, “Do you mind? It’s already difficult to focus with this heat.”
Your eyes land on his forehead, noting how the strands of his hair have tumbled down and are now plastered to his skin, moist. A bead of sweat runs down from his temple, and your eyes trace its movements. Somehow your gaze lands on his mouth, the tops of his lips also gathering moisture.
What would he taste, all hot and worked up like this?
You blink. Glance away. But he seems to catch something in your expression, because suddenly he’s on his feet and walking to your bed.
“What was in the chocolate?”
“What?”
“There’s something wrong with both of us—we’re exhibiting similar symptoms of discomfort, increased body heat, and—” his voice drifts lower, frustrated, “What was in the chocolate? We shared one bar and approximately six minutes and forty seven seconds later, I began feeling hot.”
You blink up at him, watching as his hand swipes over his forehead. His eyes are trained at your neck, where a couple of droplets are racing down your throat. His eyes considerably darken. Your thighs clench.
“What was in the chocolate?”
“I don’t know,” your voice sounds higher, squeakier, as you begin to panic very slightly. Tearing your gaze away from his accusatory expression, you rummage through your bag for the wrinkled wrapper, “Penelope gave it to me, I doubt she’d try to poison us.”
“This doesn’t feel like poison, this—”
“Oh my god, no!”
“What?”
If possible, you feel even hotter as you read through the little pink post-it note from Penelope. It had been stuck on the wrapper and in your boredom and haste to eat, you had simply missed its existence.
This is the aphrodisiac I told you about, my beautiful cupcake. Consume moderately and enjoy!
Aphrodisiacs. Yes. A vague memory pops into your head, giggles and secrets shared in Penelope’s technology cave—one you treasured since not a lot of agents are allowed access into her sacred office. Chocolates loaded with aphrodisiacs. Her promise to get you some.
And she pulled through—of course she did, she’s Penelope fucking Garcia—and gave it to you the morning you left.
Oh, you could pass out. This is mortifying.
“What? What is it?” When you don’t answer, Spencer grabs the wrapper with an impatience he doesn’t usually exhibit. He first scans Penelope’s note, then pieces the slightly torn and creased wrapper together to go through the list of ingredients, before speaking in a tone at least two octaves higher than normal. “An aphrodisiac chocolate!?”
“Is it bad?” you mumble, running your hands through your hair.
“Chocolate by itself already contains phenethylamine, which controls our so-called ‘love chemicals’ but the addition of these ingredients means that these will work at a faster pace. Mixed together, they’re optimal—”
Normally, you listen to his tangents with more patience than the other members of the team, but right now, you’re grappling with so many feelings it’s difficult to process his high falutin explanations. He’s rattling off words that mean nothing to you. In fact, they make everything sound so clinical. So much worse.
Your anxiety manifests by way of frustration. “Okay, genius, now translate that to English.” you interrupt, which makes him pause. Immediately, your tone softens, “Sorry, this is already freaking me out, and all that science wasn’t helping.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, more moisture congregating at the hollow of his throat now. Distracting—sinfully so. You want to tongue that spot until the taste of his sweat is somehow absorbed into your bloodstream.
“We’ve essentially just consumed an entire bar of sex drugs.”
“Oh,” your eyes squeeze shut when he confirms your suspicions. That conclusion didn’t require his level of genius, although you had been hoping it hadn’t been the case. That his explanation would somehow point to the opposite—hey we’re actually just really hot because there’s some type of pepper in the chocolate that enhances body heat or something to that effect. Not a confirmation. You groan, “Well yeah, I figured that much. That explains the, um… heat.”
The bed dips beside you as he eases onto it, “Yes, all the symptoms aren’t from poison or disease, it’s—”
“We’re horned up.”
“There’s less crude ways to put it,” he laughs and tosses the crumpled wrapper back into your bag, “But yes. We are, as you very eloquently said, horned up.”
You peek up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to make yourself smaller in the midst of this mortification. “What’s the statistical probability of us being able to wait it out like adults with incredible self control?”
“Factoring in our—”
“Reid, that was rhetorical,” you attempt to conjure enough energy for a glare, but it simply comes across petulant. His smile twists, and something flashes in his expression. Something you recognize. You’re sure you’re looking at him the exact same way—desire reflected back at you from clear amber eyes.
“Is it?” his voice drops and you feel the weight of his gaze prickling your overheated skin, “Forgive me, I quite enjoyed figuring out the math of the age old question: how long will it take for you to initiate something between us.”
This time, you glower. And the bastard laughs, which only serves to heighten your annoyance. “I’m not initiating anything with you.”
“No? But you’re so skilled at it.”
Memories of your previous trysts flood your mind. His room, the list of rules and your punishment, the way you came apart on his lap. A meeting that you had, indeed, initiated.
You huff like a brat, and look away.
“It’s only 22.45%,” he says when the silence stretches long enough to grow uncomfortable and swells until it threatens to suffocate, “If my math is correct.”
Admittedly, the low chances make you curious. You shift slightly to glance at him, “22.45% chances of me initiating? Why is it so low?” In your mind, you’d give it 90% and that’s being modest. You’re barely controlling yourself right now. No way it would be so slim; the number is actually a little insulting to you and how much you want him to jump your bones.
“Well,” he leans in, breath ghosting over your face, close enough you smell the hints of chocolate and coffee and cologne. And yet, still not close enough, “Factoring in the probability of where we are, there’s a 4.94% chance we get called by the team, and 3.88% to us actually being good—that is, not succumbing to these hormonal cocktails in our brains.”
“That doesn’t make sense, those are even lower numbers.”
“Mhm. Because based on my calculations, there’s a 68.73% chance that I initiate something.”
Your breath catches. Math and numbers have never sounded so fucking hot until this moment.
“What are you waiting for?” your voice catches in your throat and comes out a fluttery sigh.
“Your consent.”
A smile splits across your face, and you decide that tonight, your 22% chances trump his 68%.
Your soft lips press upon him, eager, open, and tasting faintly of chocolate. Spencer has never been more happy to be proven wrong.
He has always kissed with intention—slow, deep, as though he's trying to meld himself with the velvety warmth of your mouth. But this kiss is different. This kiss has edge. Teeth. The same unhurried pace but marked by a molten need that makes your toes curl and your thighs clench. He leans forward and you follow like you're wired for submission. Like laying down beneath him is simply part of the natural order, the same way planets orbit around the sun.
Sweaty palms find their way beneath your shirt, pressing into equally slick skin, the surface of which immediately breaks out in goosebumps.
"Spencer," You groan into the kiss, hands wandering up his shoulders, "Should we be doing this?"
"That sounds like another one of your rhetoricals."
You laugh, breathless, muffled, "I suppose it is."
"Then there’s no point in answering," He dips his head, lips latching on your neck and, because he’s Spencer Reid, he offers some form of answer anyway, “For the record, I don’t think it’s a question of should.”
"We're debating semantics now?"
"No." A bite. Hands squeezing around your waist before they traverse the softness of your breasts. "The point is we're not debating anything. We both know this is happening regardless of whether or not we should."
He punctuates the statement with a decisive snap that unhooks your bra. "Arms up." Spencer whispers.
You do as he says without another second thought. He tosses your sweaty clothes to the ground. It’s careful. Your bottoms ease off next, and then it’s his turn, stripping down to his boxers with shaky hands. As more clothes join the floor, the room spins and the heat swells.
You’ve both figured there’s no running from it, so instead, you hurtle headfirst and off balance, hands squeezing and tongues dragging across sweat-sodden skin. Spencer settles between your legs with ease, his body slotting with a familiarity that should unsettle you. He moves like he belongs there, and you’re afraid that you want this to be true.
“Fuck—so hot.” he groans against your chest, lips closing around a nipple.
Your back arches, urging him deeper, “Thanks.” You giggle, taking credit for an adjective you’re not even sure is intended for you.
“I—you know what, yeah,” he rasps, lifting himself up on his elbows. The loss of his lips on your chest is alleviated by the look in his eyes. Intense, pupils blown wide as they survey the sight of you beneath him. Glistening and heaving, eyes already out of focus as if a few simple kisses from him is enough to throw you completely off your equilibrium. It’s a sight he’ll keep for as long as he’s alive, no eidetic memory needed. “Yeah, you are. Hot. So hot, so beautiful.” his mouth captures yours again, and you swear you’re melting straight into the sheets.
Your hands fumble uselessly at the waistband of his boxers, pushing the fabric as he attempts to shimmy out of them on top of you. Unfortunately, that simply drives his obvious bulge against your already needy core. With a whine, a prayer, and enough determination to possibly put you through law school, his boxers finally drag down his thighs, just enough for him to kick them off.
Spencer pauses then, looking down at you with gooey brown eyes, every bit of his attention now on you and the sensation burns deep in your gut, a soft kind of heat, one you wish to kindle.
His voice is soft when he asks, “You remember your safe word?”
“Yes—Jupiter,” the next teasing word - nerd - is immediately swallowed by a kiss. You moan, the burning in your belly spreading white hot just beneath your skin, tinging at every point of contact.
“And you remember what instances to use it?”
Leave it to him to still be concerned about his rules while you're both nearly consumed by such a ruinous chemical reaction. Still, this attentiveness makes something curl in your chest, and you find yourself breathless for an entirely different reason.
“Yes, I do.”
“Yeah? Tell me.” His teeth sink into the softness of your shoulder, hips grinding down onto your core, both of which effectively eliminates any and all ability to form coherent thought, let alone his goddamned rules.
“Uh - it's - I -”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he pulls back to look down at you, voice raspy but tinged with amusement. Smugness glimmers beneath the desire in his amber irises, “Have you already lost your ability to speak? Do I need to remind you?”
“Y-yes.” you gasp, not really sure what you're replying to.
“Yes what?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good girl. God, you’re so wet for me.” He takes your lower lip between his teeth, sucks until it's tender and numb, before letting go. You feel his tongue push past your teeth, and once again, pure jelly replaces your gray matter. Nothing is real except for him and all the sensations he's giving you. Your hips cant up for any relief. “Be patient,” he cooes, “You need to remember the rules. Safe word if it gets too much, yes? Even if you just want me to slow down. Do you remember now?”
“Yes sir.” you're nodding desperately, and the moment the words leave your lips, you feel the stretch at your core, “Oh god!” You tense around his girth, the broad tip spreading you open. There’s a slight sting, as there always is when he first breaches your entrance with his large cock. It’s familiar. It’s welcome—it means he’s here, he’s with you.
“Angel, you gotta relax,” he says through gritted teeth, his breaths shallow as he pauses, “You're—ugh—too tight like this.”
The most pathetic whine trembles from your lips. He chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours, “Relax, or we'll be stuck like this all night.” He says it like that's somehow a threat, as if you wouldn't be content having him buried inside you. “I don't want to hurt you.”
Against all odds, you manage to relax, walls fluttering delicately as he slides his hard length deeper. Excruciatingly slow. Part of you wonders if it's still because he doesn't want to hurt you, or if he's deliberately torturing you by inching his way in like this. You'd think that after the broadest part of his head pushes past your entrance, it would be an easier fit, but you still find yourself gasping as the rest of his cock slides in and you're still being stretched taut.
“Fuck!”
“I know, I know, god, you're so tight. Should’ve stretched you out with my fingers first, baby, I’m sorry.”
You laugh, “Don’t apologize, I’ll live.”
“You’re in pain.”
“Just a little bit,” you whisper, “Trust me, it’s fine. Please move or I’ll combust.”
Spencer laughs, his forehead pressed to yours. “Okay. You’re lucky I can’t help myself right now, otherwise that would count as an infraction.”
“Not fair, I said please.” you’re pouting as you say it, but the expression immediately dissolves into a slack jawed, glazed over scream of silence as he drags his length nearly all the way out and thrusts back in. Holy fuck.
“Too much?” he pauses, fingers pushing back the strands of your hair that cling at your forehead.
“No, god no, that was perfect.”
“Yeah?” he grins. Does it again. Slow, deep thrusts that make your spine arch in a way you weren’t even aware you could do. Every time he sheathes himself in your warmth, he deliberately grinds his pelvis into yours, the wiry hairs giving your sensitive folds just the right amount of friction. Drag out. Thrust in. Grind, repeat.
Whatever aphrodisiacs were in those chocolate must be working overtime, because everything feels sensitive. You could feel every ridge of his cock as he drags it in and out of your sodden cunt. By some miracle, you’re wetter than normal, slickness dripping around your thighs, into your ass, soaking into the sheets.
Your hands curl into his biceps, fingers clawing his flesh, as gasps are torn from your throat. He’s building up a rhythm now. Black dots dapple your vision, “Oh, god, yes! Just like that!”
“Mhm, you feel so good,” he groans, one hand finding your chest, “So soft and hot for me.” His thumb circles your nipple, then pinches it right as he buries himself balls-deep.
You’re undone within moments. Teeth clamping around the soft part of his shoulder until the skin blooms berry red and are marred by indentations of your teeth.
“Already?” he tuts, letting go of your nipple to grip your waist with both hands, “I didn’t even give you permission yet.”
You sob, “Too good. Please, again.”
“Think you can handle more?” he asks, as if he’s not continuously rutting into you with scientific precision.
“Mhm, please, sir.”
That word seems to make him lose any modicum of restraint and he slams into you so roughly your body rocks forward. Again and again, only his hold on your waist grows more firm, keeping you in place to take this rougher pace. Your skin is prickling with goosebumps and tacky with sweat, and, when he takes one of your legs and hooks it up over his shoulder, you scream.
“Angel!” he halts in an instant, brown eyes wide with concern.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, please, I’ve been so good, I can take it.”
His skin flushes as the realization dawns upon him. It wasn’t from pain; no, the complete opposite. Spencer slams his hips into you again, eliciting a more subdued response—a low, keening whimper. The new angle allows him to burrow deeper, the tip of his cock nudging against your cervix, but every time he does, your walls clench tighter, an indication that tells him you’re enjoying it.
Now certain that you can, indeed, take it, he resumes his steady pace, all while nibbling at the leg slung over his shoulder.
“You’re so pretty like this, but you gotta be quiet.” he murmurs, sinking his teeth into your flesh and sucking.
“Or what?” you groan, somehow still managing to find a sliver of insolence even while he’s balls deep in your cunt. “You’ll stop?”
He can’t. You both know that. Not while those aphrodisiacs are still coursing through your systems.
A dangerous glimmer passes through his eyes. “No,” his free hand finds your clit and soothes quick halos over the slick bud, “I’ll be even louder. Let everyone know exactly what we’re doing.”
From those words, your eyes snap to focus.
He’s grinning and something in his expression reminds you of a triumphant and mocking devil. “Is that what you want? For everyone to know how good you are for me? Quite frankly, I’d prefer to keep it between ourselves, angel, but if that’s what you want, then—”
“No, no, no,” you’re mortified at the very idea, something resembling shame curling in your chest. You push it away; this shouldn’t be shameful, you do not want your memories with Spencer to be tinged with something so negative. “Please, I’ll be quiet, I swear.”
Your clit throbs between his index finger and thumb as he pinches it lightly, “You promise?”
“Yes sir.” you whine.
He nods, though there’s no relief for your poor clit. He keeps it pressed between his fingers, occasionally rubbing his thumb over the exposed top, and you begin to seriously consider if there’s a limit to how much pleasure a body can feel before it spontaneously combusts. If there is, you’re dangerously close to that point.
You’d gladly face it, if that’s the case. What did the French call it—la petite mort? You’re not sure. Right now all you can feel is an all consuming, syrupy sort of bliss. Besides, whatever you can muster of your brain power goes directly to making sure you don’t make a sound. His threat might seem extreme, but Spencer rarely bluffs with his punishments. Either way, you have no intention of finding out.
When it all gets too overwhelming—the fullness that settles in your fluttering channel, the consistent pressure on your clit—you decide this isn’t such a bad way to go.
Only, the pleasure simply splits the world, and suddenly you’re gushing around his cock, and the meeting of your flesh is chased by soft, squelchy sounds.
“My god,” Spencer groans, slowing his pace to marvel at the massive wet spot beneath your bodies, “Did you just?”
“Mhm,” your head tilts in a barely perceptible nod, too exhausted and cock-drunk to reply with words. Never mind that the word in question contains only a syllable—yes. Yes, you just squirted around him.
The world whirls into smudges and colors as he continues fucking into you, his soft grunts echoing in your mind like a favorite song you refuse to unlearn. He finds your hand, cradles it to his chest and, despite everything, you manage to smile up at him. He returns it, a gentleness to the feral creatures that seem to have taken over the two of you.
“God, you’re so lovely. My good girl. Do you need a break?” he cooes, slowly bringing your leg down so that it rests on the bed. You’re limp as a ragdoll beneath him, eyes fluttering and barely kept open, but your walls are squeezing around him so tightly.
“No,” you shake your head.
“Are you sure? You look out of it.” he says, attempting to pull out.
You whine and squeeze your walls to keep him inside.
Spencer laughs, “Let’s turn you over, huh? So your back isn’t all bent all night.” he says, gently pulling out of your heat.
You’re dead weight as he rolls you over, unable to do anything but follow his gentle manhandling. A pillow slides under your hips, elevating the area for easier access. And he’s right, the position does take pressure off your back, but you’re sure that’s temporary, since his entire body weight is going to be above you at any moment.
Palms squeeze and spread your ass playfully, “So pretty. Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks, pressing a soft kiss at the small of your back.
Your answer comes in the form of a low, needy moan. Spencer chuckles, his tip nudging at your entrance once again.
“You know your safe word, right?”
“Jupiter.” the answer slips from your mouth on instinct.
“Good girl. Remember it, because otherwise, I don’t think I'll stop any time soon.”
He shouldn’t. He should stay buried in you forever, or until the aphrodisiacs wear off, or until you die. Whichever of the three comes first.
“I don’t think we’ll be needing the safe word.” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow.
Spencer laughs and slides in, deep and gentle, and doesn’t stop until the clock reads 3am, and neither of you have any energy to do anything but sleep in each other’s arms.
i feel insane. more early season dom content here. thank you for reading! tagging ppl who specifically asked for part two @cherrycemeterry @ana-stasssiaaa @spencerreidwannabe @appledressing @rafayelsheart @aliteralsemicolon
clark kent is a giver, in every sense of the word. christmas is his favourite time of the year, followed swiftly by thanksgiving (an excuse to bake for everyone he’s ever met), and he’s often caught buying entire coffee rounds for his colleagues.
so when it comes to you, he’s give, give, give. so much so that having your mouth on his cock had never even crossed his mind.
“have you ever even had a blowjob?” you’d huff, arms crossed over your chest, leaning against the counter of his sleek, modernised kitchen.
“what? o-obviously. yes. where’d that come from?” he retorts, brows furrowed in that half-amused way you’ve grown to love/hate, a little flustered by the sudden question, toned and tanned and freckled forearms half buried in soapy water.
he earns a frown from you, expression somewhere between a pout and a scowl and raising your brows in a silent hmph.
“never from me.”
“of course from you.”
“when?”
silence. huh. never from you.
clark sighs, scrubbing old residue from a plate, careful not to let it crack under his hold. “maybe not, then. it doesn’t matter. i’m not bothered about that kinda stuff. just me and you.”
and it’s true, he’s not. where a lot of guys would come home from a long day, looking for release in the form of his partner’s welcoming, warm tongue, clark is the complete opposite. if he’s stressed, if he’s tired, if he’s happy, if he’s mad, his outlet is having his mouth on you, tonguing at your slick to refill his endorphins like it’s a second sun. the roles have never been reversed, and you can’t find it in yourself to complain.
but in four months of dating, you’ve never even so much as run your tongue across him. it’s infuriating; having full access to a cock that good, that big, and never having had your mouth on it. a vein running perfectly from balls to head and you’ve never felt it pulse beneath your tongue. it’s a cruel form of torture.
“not bothered, or not into it?”
“not bothered.”
“so let me do it.”
he sighs through his nose, putting the last dish on the rack before his hands find their placement on the edge of the countertop, leaning into it. “it doesn’t- i don’t- gosh. it’s just not…feasible.
you snort. feasible?
“what does that mean?”
clark runs a hand down his face, pausing to gently rub the tiredness from his eye. turning his body towards you now, his cheeks burn under his palm. “it’s not…it doesn’t fit…there. it gets awkward.”
oh. oh. clark kent is insecure, because his dick has never fit in someone’s mouth. it’s so cute it’s laughable, but you don’t laugh, because under all that muscle mass, he is sensitive.
“you’ve never let me try it,” you shrug, pushing back off the counter to come in front of him, head tilted back in order to actually see him.
he raises his brows at you, a silent plea for you to back down, to spare him the embarrassment. to spare him the situation. he’s always prioritised you since you’d made things official (and before, don’t kid yourself). he’s slow when he touches you, gentle when he enters you, all too aware of his size, all too avoidant of your mouth. he knows how it’ll end for him, and how you’ll laugh at him.
“angel…” hands to your waist, fiddling with the vertical hemline of your shirt.
“baby…” you retort, fingers hooking into the loop of his belt buckle.
“it’s good. i promise. i’m good,” you add, cocking your head.
clark is all too simple, too easy to have at your will. it’s minutes before he’s hard enough for you to drop to your knees before him, still there in the kitchen.
this man is tall. annoyingly tall, and you hadn’t quite thought it through. with previous partners, your head tends to be perfectly level with their pelvis from this angle. with clark? you’re still about six inches away from the large bulge forming in his pants, still dressed from work.
“fuck’s sake.”
“see, i told you,” he’d practically whine. “it’s awkward.”
“mm, no, we’ll just have to go to the couch. or the bed.”
clark picks the bed, of course he picks the bed, feeling too bad to let you (try to) suck him off for the first time on that old, lumpy couch. his back is against the comforter, one arm thrown over his eyes as he feels you shimmy him out of his underwear.
standing tall in front of you, nearly matching your face in length, is his cock. pink and blushed around the tip, and not quite leaking yet, but you’ll have him there soon.
he murmurs your name, lifting his head up and sitting on his elbows. “you really don’t have to. it’s- it’s not a big deal if you decide you don’t want to. i get it, i really do—“
you shut him up. you very quickly shut him up, tongue starting from where his cock meets his balls, running all the way up that same vein you’d wanted to memorise for months, until you’re pressing a gentle, open-mouthed kiss against his tip.
clark’s abdomen visibly tenses, twitching with the touch of your tongue and holding back the whimper threatening to stain the air. he breathes out deeply, fingers grasping fabric as he looks down at you, awaiting the actually, you’re right, this isn’t working. it never comes.
he’s not used to this, not used to having all of the pleasure being focused on him, and solely him, so when you manage to wrap your lips around his wide tip, eyes closing and moaning around him, jaw slacked and strained to accommodate the sheer size of him, his only appropriate reaction is;
long time no see, tumblr 💔 school had me by the balls, for lack of better words. thank you for everyone who checked up on me in the askbox!! im sorry for not offering any updates, but im okay!
anyway, hopefully got something NOT smutty for once coming soon, who would’ve thought ???
how are you angel? 🫶🏼🩷 missing you and your content
eeek thank you!! i’m okay, sorry for being MIA 🙈
sooo much went on for me in the second half of january, all my plans went out the window (unfortunately) and i literally had no time to write, which is so frustrating but i’m gonna try to get back to it soo!!
thank you for checking in, so sweet of you, miss you lot too!!
no stop, you’re going to make me cry (⋟﹏⋞) i really needed that spencer post, he’s so understanding and sweet. thank you so much, i seriously love every blurb you write <3
