Summary: Spencer revealed that he's inexperienced in the field of making women feel good, so through a stupid drunk text, you let him know you're down to teach him. What you didn't expect was for him to happily take up your offer and do an amazing job in the process.
Warnings/tags: 18+ smut and fluff!! oral (f!receiving), inexperienced spencer, clit play, pussy play, praise kink, vaginal fingering, spencer loves ur pussy, mutual pining, clothed grinding, nipple play, kissing, yearning, overthinking, begging, dumb and in love, alcohol, no drunk sex tho, drunk texting, making out, down bad reader, pantie... play i guess?
Word count: 10.4k (oops...)
Author notes
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ this fic was a lot longer than expected, but I didn't really know when to stop, still feel like it's not complete, so if you want more, just let me know, and I can whip up a part two or morning-after follow-up.
Important!! - I also just want to take the chance to say that if you like this fic, please, please reblog it as well as the likes you give, whilst I am really grateful for likes, they don't do much. reblogging on the other hand, does! I spent more than 30 hours on this, and reblogging would be really helpful for me in terms of sharing my work. much love x
“Oh no, you absolutely did”, Morgan teases Spencer with a boyish grin.
“I did not blush”, Spencer replies sheepishly, a red tint of embarrassment fleeting over his cheeks, speaking more than his words had with just a sheer colour change.
The childish bickering of Derek teasing Spencer had been going on since the plane took flight, a whole ten minutes ago. You had drowned out the conversation for a few minutes, spending the passing time reading the same page of your book, having to re-read it five times to soak in the information. Every time the sound of Derek and Elle giggling or laughing reached your ears, you were blown off focus, which resulted in you becoming completely unaware of anything you had just spent the past minute reading.
You had given up on it when it got too moving your eyes up the page for the sixth time. Placing the book next to you, you decide you need some other form of entertainment.
“What are we teasing Spencer about this time?” You ask, sliding into the seat next to Elle and opposite Derek.
You already had a good idea about what it was to do with, and you definitely wanted to participate in the teasing this time. You were on the way back to Quantico after finishing up a case in Los Angeles, following a string of rapes and murders around a few of the popular strip clubs and nightclubs.
You weren’t with Derek and Spencer when they were interviewing the girls in the clubs, but you can only imagine what Spencer was like.
Everyone knew Spencer was pretty inexperienced with females, and when he was required to talk to one his age, he got pretty flustered. Fumbling his words, doing his awkward smile that they usually thought was weird (you thought it was cute), busying his hands and blinking faster, everything out of a pre-pubescent teenage boy textbook.
“The fact that genius boy here does not know anything about women”, Elle answers in a teasing tone aimed towards said genius.
“That’s- that's not true, I’ve read things ab-” Spencer retorts, fumbling over his words.
“Oh my god, guys spencer reads porn!” Elle fakes a gasp with amusement.
Your cheeks hurt from how hard you try to keep your laughter in. The look on Spencer’s face is nearly enough to knock you overboard to the point of no return. His cheeks get redder, almost the colour of a ripe tomato during the heat of the summer, something you were sure was impossible.
“Fifty Shades of Grey? Brigertons? J.D Ward?” You say with curiosity, a teasing smile finds home on your lips as the words spill from them.
Doubt was a very vivid emotion when it came to the possibility of Spencer reading erotica; it was porn on paper, for god sakes, there’s no way he would-
“I’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey before, but it wasn't very good”, Spencer starts, sitting up, something he does before he starts explaining facts and talking statistics. “I finished it out of curiosity. From a literary standpoint, the character development is… limited. Also, the contract section is surprisingly unrealistic.”
Oh my god
“But when I purposely look for information on... women, it’s mostly blogs on how to- talk and other things.”
“I’m sorry, blogs?” Morgan raises his eyebrow “You read blogs on how to have sex?”
“Wha- I didn't say sex”, He squints his eyes, he speaks the word ‘sex’ as if it’s the most outrageous thing he’s ever spoken or possibly even been accused of.
“Yeah, you didn’t have to”, Elle mutters behind her glass, which she brings to her lips.
A small smile spreads over your lips at the picture this makes in front of you. Inexperienced, shy, nerdy, scared of women, Spencer reading ‘how to’ blogs in the dark of his apartment, wondering how to make a woman feel good whilst so desperately needing someone to touch him.
Holy shit.
You don’t know why, but that thought causes a heat in the bottom of your stomach. As a small throb makes itself recognised between your legs, you clasp your thighs together in a motion you hope goes unnoticed.
And for fucks sake, apparently you're ovulating because you’ve also just noticed how good Spencer looks when he’s flustered.
He’s got those pretty puppy eyes, his dark brows are furrowed in such a way that you almost lean over to kiss them. What the fuck?
“Look, pretty boy, if you want tips on how to get laid, just ask me” Derek shrugs his shoulders; he’s got such an ego when it comes to the topic of getting laid or hooking up, his smugness is evident on his face. He nudges his broad shoulder with Spencer's.
“Yeah, everyone knows you’re run through Morgan”, Elle comments with a chuckle laced in her words, and Derek responds with a playful eyeroll that you're surprised doesn’t reach his frontal lobe.
“It’s not- It’s not that, I just want to make a woman feel-” Spencer sighs like he already regrets his next word before he speaks it, “good.”
Spencer looks at you as soon as the sentence leaves him, a silence forms between you, and you have to wonder why the silence feels so heavy, why it has that buzz to it, the one that rings in your ears and through your bones. He looks away quickly, but quickly isn’t the way you describe the buzzing leaving, because it doesn’t.
It doesn’t leave.
“What do you mean by good? You know, there are thousands of ways to make a woman feel good,” You inquire, your tone sounding a little too interested in the matter. “Oral, kissing, fingering, licking, sucking, uh- words i guess, dirty talk maybe” You count them off on your fingers, you can feel Spencer’s embarrassment rise with every word spoken, and yet you find that’s the reason you're doing it.
“Money”, Elle adds.
“That too”
“Touching and.. Tasting,” Spencer says softly, but also like he had to force them out at the same time.
He looks so pretty flustered. And those words coming from his mouth sound the equivalent of dirty talking, at least they sound dirty to you. Is that weird?
“I already see it”, Elle nods her head, “Proper munch.”
As if you all have a sixth sense, you and the others turn around at the same time and face the eyes burning into you from the jet's couch. You had felt it, the way it always felt, like a parent scolding their children for misbehaving.
“Let’s not talk about Spencer’s sex life on the jet”, Hotch chides, glancing up from the file he had been reading. He has one of those looks that only went to one of the team members (Elle) but felt like it was aimed at all of you, even Spencer, whose cheeks still burn like the sun shining through the plane windows.
As though you were dogs just told they’ve been bad, you turn around again. The jet goes awkwardly silent for a minute before Elle’s poor mistake of trying to hold her laughter fails. You let a chuckle out alongside her, and when you hear one slip from across the table where Spencer sits, you look up.
Again, meeting his eyes, holding eye contact for longer this time. It speaks louder than last time, the absence of words wither at the heat between your glances. He smiles softly, it's genuine and warm and matches like a perfect pair with his golden eyes, they both shine from unimaginable heights and knock the breath out of you just the same.
The rest of the flight is filled with those heated glances between you and Spencer, words not spoken because even if they were… they wouldn’t live up to the feeling of catching his eyes from across the table.
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After you and the team had gotten back to the BAU, Penelope had come up to you, Elle and JJ and asked if you could all go out for drinks.
You knew you couldn’t say no; it was Penelope.
Derek had also somehow managed to sneak himself into the plans to get pissed at the nearest bar, using his flirting tricks and good looks to sway Garcia.
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When Garcia normally pulled you to the bar after a long case, you had some control over yourself when it came to drinking, but tonight was different. Tonight, you had things on your mind that you wanted to push back into the farthest parts of yourself, and nothing did that better than shitty alcohol in a bar that stunk of cheap liquor and sweaty bodies.
You had been sitting in the booth at the far end of the bar for a while now, just observing with your hazy eyes and dizzy head. Elle and Penelope had ditched you for an interesting conversation with a lone guy sitting at the bar, and JJ had headed home half an hour ago, so you were currently alone and wallowing in the unspoken feelings that had been eating away at you since the jet.
From the corner of your eye, you notice Derek being rubbed on by a group of three females who all look like they are trying very hard to get lucky tonight. You don't think their attempt at dancing did much for them, though, but you could tell that Derek wasn't paying much attention to their so-called moves and more to the cleavage that was being moved about in his line of sight.
He was very noticeably enjoying the female attention, a wide grin is plastered over his face, and his chuckle rings out when one got close enough to his lips in a teasing motion that you were surprised they weren't full-on making out in the middle of the room.
Your head buzzes like you were a million miles away, and your head sways to the speaker's music with a motion you swear you don’t control. You had a bad habit of doing things you weren't particularly in control of when you were more than four shots deep.
The words that came out of Spencer's mouth earlier on the jet had been vivid in your mind since: his cheeks that warmed as his words became more revealing, the way his voice went up a pitch when Elle had lightheartedly accused him of reading porn. And the genuine laugh when he looked up at you, the pretty one that sounded like a melody coming from a vulnerable place in his chest.
You tighten your legs together as the presence of the vision and the sound of his voice from earlier dance in your head, slow, fast, quiet, loud and oh so good. You’ve felt that way about Spencer a few times on occasion, but you always brushed it off as needing to get laid after so long. This was different in a way you weren't accustomed to, and you had no descriptive words for it other than… want. Pure unfiltered want.
You blame your actions on the stuffiness of the bar and the six empty shot glasses in front of you as you pick up your phone that had been left on the table and click on the contact you only ever really texted when it related to a case or something another to do with work.
You thought about how to word your text to him, but it wasn’t exactly up to you as the vodka in your system took the reins and sent a text that sober you would have paled over.
(you) 11:02 pm: do yu wnat me to teach you?
(you) 11:20 pm: please
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You didn’t want to see Spencer; your only thoughts whilst riding the elevator up to the BAU were the hopes that Spencer was off sick. Well, not sick exactly, you’d rather he wasn’t actually unwell, you weren't that cold-hearted.
But you were delusional enough to hope that once you stepped out onto the floor where you worked, you would come across an empty desk where Spencer would normally sit.
Your manifestations had come out cold and were not of any use as you hesitantly stepped through the glass doors to the BAU and met the hazel eyes at the desk you had so desperately hoped was empty. You look away as quickly as you can manage and speed walk to your desk at the other end of the bullpen so fast you send out a hissed curse when your hip comes in contact with the edge of the wooden table.
The dividers between the desks kept Spencer out of eyesight as you slump down on your seat and let out a groan when your elbows rest on the desk with your head in your hands. You had fucked up so bad when you sent that text last night that you couldn’t even come into work the next day without feeling like you were committing a crime.
Your chest had a burning feeling you couldn’t quite differentiate between guilt or a soul-eating dread; you had a good feeling it was the latter.
You had woken up early that morning with a pounding headache that was later soothed with painkillers and a burning hot embarrassment (that was not cured with painkillers) as you checked your phone and saw the two blue ticks next to your stupid, so fucking stupid text.
You had gotten ready with the pace of a snail as you contemplated crawling back into bed and pretending you didn’t exist. You couldn’t, but you came to the conclusion that you could pretend Spencer didn’t exist and that last night didn’t happen. And whilst that is hard to do because it is not only hurting you, but you're sure Spencer will start to feel hurt too, you have manipulated yourself to think that it's the best thing you can do as an outcome to your fucking stupid, drunk, pussy ass, fuck ass text that drunk, horny you thought was genius to send, just fucking genius.
You had asked yourself a million questions on the way here with an angry tone to your thoughts, and you only had two answers to them that you had only just admitted to yourself.
You were attracted to Spencer Reid.
You wanted to teach Spencer how to make a woman feel good, and you badly wanted that woman to be you.
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You had managed two hours of writing reports and going through old case files, ones that contained photo evidence that had made your stomach twist, before you started heavily craving caffeine as the effectiveness of your painkillers depleted when the seconds ticked by.
It took some persuading from yourself, but you get up and make your way to the bullpens' corner kitchen that you and your team only used for the coffee machine.
You remember the last time you opened the off-white mini fridge in the corner, and the putrid smell of well gone of food had you and JJ gagging, you decided to hold your nose when you planted the mouldy chinese on Gideon's desk and told him to never leave it that long again. You remember leaving his office and hearing the soft huff that sounded a lot like a chuckle seep out from the crack of the half-closed door.
You had joined the Behaviour Analysis Unit two weeks after Spencer had joined, and since that day two years ago, you have come to find yourself a family, one that didn’t just have that family feeling during working hours but all the time.
But out of everyone on the team who you held close to your heart and considered family, Spencer was your person, and he was like an extension of you most of the time. You suppose that's why you feel so much guilt about the text you sent him the night before; you didn’t want to fuck up the bond you both already cherished so deeply.
You knew you had always felt more with Spencer, but like, with pretty much everything in your life, you chose to ignore it. Until the results of your bottled-up feelings came out in a drunk text that had been weighing heavily on your heart since the morning.
You were so consumed in your own thoughts that you hadn’t been aware that you’d been stirring your coffee for at least a minute, that was, until you heard a honeyed voice behind you.
“You’ve been stirring for one minute and thirty-two seconds- and counting”
It’s like your body short-circuits and stops working on you as you freeze up in response to Spencer's words. Turning around, you meet his gaze, and so many unsaid words drift in the space between you.
You swear he looks more beautiful than the last time you saw him, but you can’t tell if it is your mind playing tricks on you, maybe it was the still-fading pain meds or just… just. Maybe it came down to the feelings you had only just admitted to yourself that were still new in your head.
He has a small wrinkle between his softly furrowed brows as he sets his eyes on you and then to the cup of ‘going cold by the second’ coffee on the counter behind you.
“Yeah- yeah, I'm sure it's mixed by now” You turn back to your coffee and toss away the wooden stirrer into the trash can by your feet. You feel a warm heat travel up your neck, curl around your ears and settle like a blanket, a very heavy blanket, on your cheeks. You knew the whole ‘ignoring’ wasn’t going to last long, but three hours felt kind of feeble. You should have expected it wouldn't go on for long. Spencer had a habit of noticing when things were ugly or, more so, awkward in this case, between him and someone, and wanting to fix it as soon as he could, as soon as he found the courage for it.
“Did you- did you have fun last night?” Spencer says with a voice that made it obvious he was trying to hide the awkwardness that was surely settled deeply in him.
“Yeah, it was good” You nod to your words and sip your coffee, trying to look at anything but him.
“Derek told me you had a lot to drink and uh- showed me the video of the karaoke”
You mentally groan so hard you accidentally let one slip out of your own throat that you don’t bother covering up. You only half remembered the poor attempt at singing to 22 by Taylor Swift after being dragged on stage by Penelope, but you find enough memory of it to know it involved drunken giggling, slurring and pure fumbling over your words that really wasn't attractive in any way.
“I was way too out of my mind to even notice that he had been filming”
“How out of your mind?” Spencer's voice was quieter than it had originally been, almost like he was getting his hopes up that you would give him the answer he wanted.
Whatever that was.
“Spencer..”
He takes a step closer, not a big one but one that shows he’s listening.
“Were you drunk enough that you’d say things?” he breathes out in soft frustration “, things that you didn’t mean”. His brows go up in question.
You shake your head in disagreement as he takes another step closer; you had never witnessed Spencer so determined to get an answer from someone in such a way that he looked like he was holding onto every word said and every shaky breath you exhaled.
He looked at you through his thick lashes that you had always said you were jealous of, and you thought you might melt right there as a result of the tension swirling around the air.
“I need you to tell me what you're talking about so I don't say something stupid about a thing that's not even relevant to what you're on about” You ask gingerly.
Spencer was acting in a way you had never seen before, and you didn’t understand how you were meant to feel knowing it was the result of you, of something that you had caused.
“Well, last night you sent me a text-, do you remember?” Spencer questions as if he couldn’t actually decide whether you knew what he was on about, like the possibility of being too drunk to forget a text like that was a high chance.
“Yeah, I remember- I know”.
“Okay, then, tell me what you meant, " he remarks.
You look down at the steaming mug in your hands, carefully moving your palms so the coffee would sway and malipulate small ripples across the surface ever so slightly. It was almost calming in a way, something so minuscule like the movement of your own hands was an enticing hypnosis. That was a habit you had had for a long time, moving whatever was in your hands as a way of distraction from the fact that you had to answer and were too flustered to even think of a right response.
“That I wanted to teach you”
“I need more than that”
“Do I really need to speak it out loud, because I'm starting to think this is a humiliation ritual”
“I would prefer if you did” His pretty puppy dog eyes that he wore so well catch your eyes and hold contact as he waits for a response, " Please.”
You exhale a sassy breath and look up to the water-stained ceiling above you so you wouldn’t have to hold eye contact and gauge his reaction in response to your answer.
“You said on the jet that you wanted- this is so stupid- that you wanted to know how to make a woman feel good. It was all I could think about last night, so I sent you that text to let you know that I'm always here if you need… a lesson. A physical one”
The prolonged silence rings out louder than any words ever could, and the burning behind your eyes starts with no grace or warning. Not with embarrassment or anxiety, but with an achy feeling commonly known as ‘I fucked up so bad, he hates me and thinks I'm a right weirdo, and why did I ever think he would want to go down on me, blah blah blah’.
“Okay”
Okay??
Tearing your eyes off the ceiling and blinking away your blurry vision, you take notice of Spencer's slicked back hair that you're sure looks more out of place than it had been before you looked up, as though he was running his hand through it absentmindedly. The tips of his curved ears are a shade darker on the blushed scale, and the pupils in the middle of his hazel eyes are a size bigger, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he looks more flushed and perhaps hungry in a way he wasn’t even certain he knew how to feel about.
“Okay?” You repeat, trying to figure out what exactly he could mean by okay, okay was such a versatile word that could be taken any which way, depending on the tone of voice, but when the word drifted from Spencer’s pressed lips, he revealed nothing.
“I- I’d like that, " he stutters, “If the offer is still up.”
You stand there stunned for a while before you speak up, your voice wavering, “Actually?”
“Unless the text was only a drunk thing- and you didn’t mean.”
“I meant it”, You say matter-of-factly, the previous unease within you flattens at the statement.
You’d gone through all the possible outcomes of this conversation when he had come up to you a few minutes ago, and you didn’t have a single ounce of hope that Spencer would agree; in fact, it hadn't crossed your mind once that Spencer would be acquainted with the idea of a lesson between your legs.
“Good, good, well, I’ll Em- do you do Email?”
“Text me, Spencer”
He nods, stepping away to walk back into the bullpen “Yeah- okay, I’ll do that”.
A small smile graces his mouth before he walks away, and the contagiousness of the upturned lips passes onto you and lingers even after he’s sat down at his desk a few meters away and you start making your way to your own desk. Your desk that was covered in silly little figures that Penelope had planted there on your first day, she told you that the minute you had stepped into the bullpen, you had a look about you that came across to her as you needing some sparkle in your life.
But the sparkle that had changed your life around for the good wasn’t the small unicorns that littered your desk, the pom pom pens in your tabby cat mug or the stickers decorating your name plaque, but instead it came in the form of bright hazel eyes, brown slick back hair, an IQ of 187 and a soft mouth grazed with frequent smiles that would soon find a place between your legs.
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You could swear you still felt a small curly hair tickle the soft skin of your upper thigh; you couldn’t exactly pluck out a pube in the middle of an apartment building hallway, so you could only hope that it was dark enough in Spencer's apartment that he wouldn't even notice the single hair on your otherwise smooth skin that you had shaved, scrubbed and moisterized more times than once.
Every step closer to his apartment door had your heart beating faster in a way that was almost a cause for concern.
You had received a text from him two hours ago, two days after the conversation in the BAU’s corner kitchen, and it only consisted of four words.
(reid >ᴗ<) 4:58 pm: Can you come over?
Shortly after reading it, you had sped into your bathroom and spent an hour under the warm rush of hot water whilst bending and stretching in awkward positions to shave the skin between your thighs, and when you were as satisfied as you could be, you had dried and moisturised with pure determination.
Only as you had been ready to slip on your underwear had you replied to Spencer.
(you) 6:03 pm: black or white?
(reid >ᴗ<) 6:05 pm: Context?
(you) 6:05 pm: doesn’t matter
(you) 6:05 pm: just answer
(reid >ᴗ<) 6:05 pm: Is this part of my learning?
(you) 6:05 pm: yeah, and it’s important
(reid >ᴗ<) 6:06 pm: White.
(reid >ᴗ<) 6:08 pm: And lace.
You gently rap your knuckles against the smooth wooden door, and on the final firm rap, you stop midway as you hear the unlocking behind the wood. The second you hear that small sound of the metal clicking out of place, your brain runs around frantically, overthinking every small thing you did whilst getting ready only a few minutes ago.
Did you put enough deodorant on? Should you have drunk more of the sweet pomegranate juice that had been in the fridge for a couple of weeks that you knew would have its use at some point? Is the lace showing above your jeans slutty in a good way or a bad way? Is the black push-up bra that you got a size too small a bad fashion decision, or should you have matched it with your underwear? Is your pussy smooth enough? What if you didn’t exfoliate right?
As the creak of the door opening sounds out, you meet the warmth of his gaze and the overthinking is reduced to a small buzz at the very bottom of your list of important things. He’s not wearing his usual work attire that normally consists of a tie and a kitted vest, but instead he’s traded it out for a loosely fitting long-sleeved grey t-shirt and a red, white and black plaid pair of trousers you recognise as pyjamas.
You don't know why it feels so foreign to see him wearing his sleep clothes, and why the foreign feeling is quite a nice feeling that settles happily in your chest. You suppose not many people have the opportunity to see him in this state, so as you do now, you cherish it.
He opens the door up, and you turn one side of your mouth up in a half-smile as you walk through the door and into the warmth of his apartment.
You’ve only stepped foot into his apartment once, one year ago, when you needed to sleep on his couch for the night, when the smell of wet paint churned your stomach so much you couldn’t stand sleeping in your own apartment until the renovations had been completed.
You found as much ease walking into the room as you did the first time; the feel of Spencer’s apartment had that effect on anyone who had the chance to visit. Since the last time you had been in the apartment, there were more spaces filled on the bookshelf and more worn books piled on top of the storage unit where his stereo sat against the far right wall in the open-plan living room.
Knowing Spencer, he’d probably read all the books he already had and needed to buy more or borrow some from the library to feed his reading addiction.
“Would you like some coffee? Milk and three sugars?” Spencer asks from behind you; it’s very obvious he’s not got any idea how to create a sexually intense thread of tension between the two of you.
You had already told yourself that you would need to take charge and tell him what to do, to lead, but standing in the middle of his apartment with nothing in your palms to fiddle with, you didn’t actually know how to start something like this. With your previous relationships or hookups, you’d just lie there and let their mouth wander, and you’d never have to say or do anything but moan and look pretty as they tried their hardest to find the clit (they never did, and you ended up faking it 80% of the time).
You couldn’t with Spencer; you had to teach, show him how to touch and taste and make you feel good so he would know how to in the future…for other women. That’s why you were doing this, you reminded yourself. So he would know how to make women feel good, not just you.
“Just water”, your reply comes out softly.
Spencer strides to the kitchen at the same time you sit yourself down on the brown leather couch facing the window. You hear the kettle boil as he makes his drink, and the turning of the sink as he pours yours.
You reach behind the back of your head and undo the messy ponytail you put up in a rush on the drive here. Because you didn’t decide to bring a bag due to the fact that you had only brought your phone and keys, you slip it onto your wrist. You find yourself subconsciously flicking the black band on your wrist, not in a way that brings you pain or discomfort, but more so in a way your mind subconsciously finds soothing, a way to comfort the anxiety and dripping arousal.
As the sound of a cup being put down follows another, you watch the smooth movement of Spencer sitting down next to you, creating a small dip in the couch. The tension pulls between you, like a string being tugged or north pole and south pole magnets colliding.
Spencer’s gaze flickers down to your lips in a motion far from subtle. You watch his chest rise and fall with a steady rhythm, a movement that shows he’s feeling something like need, like it’s a pure hunger flowing through his veins.
“You know, if you're having your tongue on my pussy soon, it’s reasonable to kiss me”
Your words have him moving his eyes from your lips. He nods nervously as he agrees, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense”.
Getting ready to flutter your eyes closed, you pause midway to closing them, and then you fully open them again. You had half expected Spencer to take charge of the kiss, but you were mistaken; he looked like he didn’t have the slightest clue about how to lean in and what was right.
“Have you ever kissed anyone?” You question softly, shuffling closer to him.
“Once in high school, but we got our braces caught together”
You huff out a chuckle and shuffle even closer to him, watching his face for the emotions that fleet across his face, whether fast or slow. Accidentally bumping your knee with his thigh, Spencer’s finger tips graze over the top of your leg in a soft caress before settling his hand down like he wasn’t sure if you were about to tell him to take it off or press down even more.
You don’t say anything, but look him in the eyes as you move your body so you're straddling his lap and pressing your chest to his. His hips buck up slightly at the sudden movement, but like it’s almost natural, and he’s gone through his head practising this. He moves his hand up your body, sending shivers up your spine with every touch of your atoms meeting.
He seems to know what to do this time, driven by desire, desire evident from the growing bulge beneath you, strained by the layers of clothes. It’s quick but not rushed as he plants his other warm palm on the side of your neck, ever so gently and tugs you towards him.
The hand still resting on the side of your clothed waist squeezes gently as the rest of his body eases when your lips gently meet his in a way only described as euphoric.
Your brain transcends into mush as you find yourself melting into the soft lips of your co-worker, the same co-worker who sends a thrill up your spine as he pushes on your waist, moving you forward and then pushing you back. He tries to chase the friction between both of you by manually moving your hips with his grip on you and grinding you down on him; he does it so gently, never gripping too hard.
He makes a small gasp into your mouth as your lips move together; there’s no tongue yet added into the mix, but the softness of each other's lips and the unfiltered lust drive you both enough as it is.
When you do add tongue to the mix, Spencer is the one to initiate it as he opens his mouth and probes his tongue against your lips, swiping it against the slit in a question.
Your answer comes as opening your mouth and accepting his tongue; you moan against his mouth as you meet halfway. He tastes like black coffee (or sugar with a side of coffee, you suppose) and desperation, both things you love when served by Spencer.
Everything Spencer gives you, when he lets out a whimper, when he bucks up against you, when he pulls back and breaths heavily against your half-open mouth while looking up at you through his lashes, you take it. You take everything he gives you, and you make it yours.
His touch moves from where it resides and comes up to the hem of your ruffled shirt; it has you pulling back and looking at him.
“Can I?”
You nod.
You feel the hot exhale against your bare collarbone after he slides your shirt off and drops it on the floor behind you. Your body shivers from where his fingers narrowly skim across the sensitive skin of your waist.
You feel intoxicated with every touch or breathy gasp exchanged, your mind is set at a current setting that only lets you think of touch, taste and the lust that's filtered through every expanse of your being.
Spencer is definitely an inexperienced kisser, and you can tell when he has the occasional slip-up or when he accidentally clashes his teeth against yours, but the sexual desire coming from a pit within him controls the movements of his mouth and body, and that is more attractive than any slip-up he could make.
“I want to take you to the bedroom, I want to make you feel good”, He begs you, his voice sounding needy.
You only had to whisper a plea, and he had stood up, you around him, without much effort. It surprised you that he did it with that much ease; he wasn’t exactly fit. He wasn’t unhealthy by any means; you just assumed that without the muscle building him up, that he wasn’t exactly capable of heavy lifting, but he had proven you wrong.
It was a short distance to his bedroom, and you have your head buried into the warm skin between his shoulder and neck as he walks with you in his hold. You feel safe in a way you have never felt before.
He drops you down onto the softness of the mattress in such a gentle way that you feel like a treasured artefact. He positions you so your back is against the mattress, but your legs are half on the bed. You take your shoes off by pushing them against each other, and they fall to the floor by Spencer with a small thump.
With only your socks covering your feet, you place them on the edge of the bed, bending your legs at the knee. Spencer stands before you, admiring the sight of you splayed out on the bed, not yet fully undressed but beautiful, with regard. The tent in his pants is visible, and the imagined vision of what was under the layers, just by guessing based on the imprint, was an intoxicating picture displayed in the front of your mind.
He leans down, bracing a hand to the side of his head. He presses a quick kiss to your lips, the first kiss that didn't feel like lust or sexual desire but instead something unspoken, something that has you widening your eyes and feeling a precious warmth settle in your chest.
You were doing this for Spencer, you were teaching him how to make a woman feel good, and yet your personal attraction to Spencer that you had become accustomed to recently was causing a hot wire in your head. You were allured by him with a captivating charm you had never experienced.
His mouth was about to find home on your pussy, and you had to pretend like you weren’t falling for him even more every time he touched you.
When he pulls away from the soft peck, you lay a hand on his jaw and turn him back towards your lips and turn the softness of his kiss to a needier sweep of your tongues.
“Can- can you tell me what to do?” He catches his breath as he pulls away reluctantly and focuses on your face, his eyes moving from your lips.
“Take my bra off”
His dark eyes flicker down from your face and land on the black bra you had decided wasn’t as bad as you had thought earlier, because from your angle, your boobs looked amazing.
The small pulse that came from the bulge resting on your leg told you he thought so to.
You prop yourself up with your elbows, giving Spencer more space to move his hand behind your back. With one palm planted on the mattress beside your head, he uses his free hand to reach behind your back, trying and failing to unclasp the back of the bra.
You admire the way he bites his bottom lip in concentration, his fingers fiddling with the metal clasps in an effort to strip your breasts bare. You feel the skin of his knuckles gently graze against your back; it sends pulses of arousal through your body, pulses that travel slowly to your lower stomach.
“Spencer, do you want me-”
“No, I-”
You feel the fabric behind you loosen.
“Got it”
His eyes hold a captivating look that spreads like glitter everywhere his glance settles on your silky skin. With the way you're propped up, the straps that were sitting on your shoulders now slip down your arms and rest at the crooks of your inner elbows. The cups of the bra still hold your breasts, no more skin shown except the strip of your shoulder that the straps were covering before they fell.
Lying down again, the bra cups finally slip, and you pull it off the rest of the way, discarding it next to you, exposing the swell of your breasts and the rose coloured nipples that were perked up so beautifully.
Your body arches up in a wordless question, a wordless beg for touch.
“Spencer, touch me”
His eyes are stuck on your breasts, admiring them like they were the most gorgeous thing he had ever laid eyes on, like they were deserving of worship.
“I- here?” He doesn’t take his eyes off your tits.
Gently holding his wrist, you move his hand to cup your breast closest to him. The first touch of his palm sends a thrill through your nipple, and a little gasp escapes from the confines of your mouth.
“I- oh god- I don't know how” Spencer gently squeezes your tit with his hand before removing it.
“Put your mouth on my nipple”
“Yeah, I know that- I just don’t know how to use it”
“Then watch me, look for reactions, and you’ll know what I like” You breathe out, desperation's presence is known.
He watches you for a few seconds, just as though he was looking for permission, even though you had already solicited the act.
He looked so innocent like this, unaware of what to do and on edge about the possibility of doing the wrong thing. It gave you a small thrill knowing it was you he was doing this with, that despite it being a lesson, you were still his first.
Through half-lidded eyes, your attention forms on the shift of Spencer as he hesitantly flattens his tongue against your hard nipple; he licks a stripe along the peak, soaking the skin where his dripple lands. He moves so he’s lying on his side more than leaning, so he can get a better angle as he takes your nipple into your mouth.
The first feel of the inside of his mouth feels like something equivalent to heaven, your eyes roll back, and your nipple gets impossibly harder on the soft bed of his tongue. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to calm down the throbbing of your ever-so-needy clit that was begging for attention.
For someone who had never sucked a girl's tit, he was impressively good at it, combined with the magnetic pull that you already felt for him was the cause for the wildness you felt so deeply as he sucked and licked your sensitive flesh.
Opening your eyes, you notice Spencer looking up at you through hungry eyes that also some way or another, still looked pure, even in the act of being the cause of such pleasure, that your sure was evident on your face.
He examined every small gasp you made and every shiver that wracked your body. And when he sucked in the way that had you moaning his name, he drank it in and learnt how to draw out as much pleasure as he could using his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the other.
He learnt how to pinch and twist using his hand, and when on the occasion it was too hard that you’d wince, he pulled back and kissed your lips with a whispered apology.
Both nipples were dripping with his spit, and the redness from pinching the peaks was stark against your skin. Spencer looks boob drunk when he pulls away, his lips pink and swollen, drool running down his chin, something you never classified as hot until this moment.
With newfound confidence, he reaches down to the waistband of your washed-out jeans and undoes the single button with one hand. Following his movements, he moves off the bed and again stands up before you. He leans down and unzips your jeans slowly, a small inhale slips through him as he moves his hands down to trace a finger against the lace of your panties that show through the opening of your jeans.
“Can I take your jeans off?” He asks.
“Please”, A small whimper slips out of you at the mere thought that you were only a couple of minutes away from having him settled over the throbbing wetness between your thighs.
He doesn’t watch his own movements as he shimmies your jeans down your legs with your help and plops them on the floor, where your discarded shoes sit. All of his attention is on you as he observes the desire written over your face in the most enticing colour he could ever imagine.
You bring the heels of your feet against the edge of the bed again, bending your legs at the knees; this time, you spread wider, giving Spencer more of a view. You can feel the wetness soaking your white underwear so much that it sticks to your pussy like a mould.
Without question, he kneels, his knees lightly hitting the hardwood floor beneath him. The sight is enough for you to prop yourself up again, just to view him on his knees at a better angle.
He experimentally brings his hand closer to the heat radiating in the middle of your thighs, stroking two steady fingers along the dampness seeping through the cotton. The gentle sweep over your covered clit has you opening your mouth on a silent moan, the bud his fingers are settled over throbs with hunger.
“You wore them”, Spencer addresses, looking up at you through his dark lashes. His voice is still nervous, almost boyish.
Spencer refers to the lacy underwear he had spoken about over text. You’d never told him what you had referred to when you asked him the question, ‘black or white’, but you guessed his IQ had come in handy when it came to the understanding of what you were on about.
You only owned two pairs of white lace underwear, and one pair had holes that your ex had been the reason for, so the options were narrowed down easily. The pair that you are currently wearing are your newest addition to your sexy underwear. You didn’t have many, so you had decided a few weeks ago that you should save up and treat yourself to a few more.
One of the best ideas you've ever had.
“I like them”, he says softly, cherished.
He moves his slender fingers towards the lace decorating your panties, tracing the delicate, floral openwork that you wore so well. Every touch against your skin brings electricity through your nerves; it feels like he’s painting a graceful lightning strike across your skin that can only be admired through feeling.
“You can keep them as long as you don’t rip them” You exchange eye contact with him.
“-keep them? I- why would I do that?”
You shrug as much as you can in the position you're in. “Smell them, wrap them around your cock?”
“People actually do that?” His eyes wide, and his voice is husky.
You nod, and Spencer's eyes furrow lightly like he’s contemplating the idea; you're sure a pros and cons list is being visually drawn through his eyes.
The pulsing of your clit only gets angrier with every awareness of time passing, every second Spencer is stuck in his thoughts and absentmindedly moving his fingers across the details on your panties and not on your clit like you desperately want them to be.
“Spencer, please do something”, You whine, drawing him from his thoughts.
“Hm? I'm sorry, so sorry,” he shakes his head like he's trying to clear his earlier thoughts out of his mind, a blush settles across his cheeks again, a sight you love to see.
He pokes his tongue out slightly, dragging it across his top lip when his attention falls back to your weeping pussy in front of him, the soaked white fabric not doing much to cover your flesh. His blink is slow, as though he’s entranced with the sight before him.
“What do you want me to do?” He asks, ready to do anything you ask of him with a simple word from your lips, “How should I make you feel good?”
“Most girls would want tongue first and then, whilst your mouth is on the clit add a finger, if you pull my panties down and-”
Your name falls out of his lips, and your eyes meet his as they glance up through a half-lidded gaze, “I don’t - I don’t want to know what other girls want, I want to know what you want”
Your body tenses, goosebumps rise over your arms at the devotion slips from Spencer's lips. So much for the ‘lesson’.
Holy fuck, that was so attractive.
You almost squeeze your thighs together with the pleasure that travels up your spine, but at last it’s probably not a good idea to suffocate Spencer with them before his mouth is even on you.
“What do I want?”
He nods, “What should I say and do to make you feel... good. Or the best I can make you feel, I suppose.”
You hesitate.
“Pull my panties down”
His fingers come to the waistband of the lace decorating your hips.
“Kiss my thighs and then my clit… if you find it”, You tease.
“I’ll find it, I’ve looked at enough anatomy books”
You huff out a laugh at his confidence. “Then put your mouth on me, suck, use your tongue, whatever and then spit on your finger and slip it inside of me”
You close your eyes as you speak, heightening the sense of touch, the feel of his fingers holding your underwear in his grip, and grazing them against the inside of your thighs as he slips the fabric down your thighs, and then as he gets you to close your legs together so he can bring them over your knees and slip them off fully.
Once he nudges his hand against your thighs and gets you to open your legs as wide as they were previously, he presses a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh, close to your knee. He hasn’t looked at your bare pussy yet, something he will cherish enough when he gets to it, you're sure.
“And what do I say to you?” he whispers, his heated exhales making your skin jump with every meeting.
“Praise me”
He nods and presses another kiss against your thighs, every press of his lips leading up higher than the last until you feel the smoothness of his lips press where it aches.
You divulge a sound stuck between a gasp and a whimper, and the silk bedding finds itself tangled up in your hand by cause of your grip. Such a small contact between your clit and his lips has you wanting more; your mind only speaks in desire, it speaks in a language only Spencer knows how to talk in.
He presses an open-mouth kiss right over your clit, and hollows his cheeks as he sucks gently. You respond by throwing your head back in pleasure, a gasp falling from your lips, one that edges him on.
‘There we go,” He smirks against you, proud of his achievements.
His tongue spreads across your clit, and his mouth moves in a dance of sucking, licking and kissing so sweet you almost find it affectionate if it wasn't such a dirty activity. He takes his time dragging the pleasure out of you; he plants his hands just below your ass, gripping for hold as he feasts on the sweet arousal dripping from every moment his mouth makes on you.
He whimpers against your pussy, and the sound has you pressing your hips further against him in an attempt to get more of him, as much as he is willing to give you.
For a man who’s never done this before, he sure is fucking incredible at knowing exactly how much pressure you want and when you want it, how long you want him to kiss for or what sounds he can make that have you shivering when they murmur against your clit.
You look down at him, devouring you thoroughly, and the blissed out eyes that meet yours are those of a starving man who has just had his first taste of real food in as long as forever.
He pulls back for only a second to mutter a few words, “You taste so sweet.”
“Need your fingers”, you beg, you're so fucked out at this point that there is no embarrassment resting in any part of you, all you know is that you need him so bad that if you don’t, you might cry, so you're prepared to beg as much as you have too to get what makes your legs shake and your head buzz.
“Yeah?” he teases.
You eye him as he spits on a single digit and runs it across your entrance before gradually pressing it inside you, dragging out your pleasure. You feel every motion he makes, to the press of the finger at your entrance to the curl that presses against the spongy part of you.
When Spencer reads at work, and his long fingers flick through the pages with velocity, you always find yourself watching the act in awe at how someone could do something so attractively with just a movement from their hands. His fingers were slender and long, something you had always admired.
But the difference of having one inside you was that it wasn’t just long, but it was filling.
You whimper loudly as he hits that precious spot inside of you that you can only reach on good days, the squelch of your wetness being played with stops, and so does the thrust of his finger.
“Is that a bad sound? Did I hurt you?” Worry is palpable in his tone, and it has your eyes softening at just how concerned he sounds.
“No, no, it’s good, really good”, You assure him, your fingers coming to thread in his hair, you push his head with encouragement to go back to the task at hand. He has an understanding of your wants; his finger brushes against your tight walls with a thrust, and he accommodates the feeling by sucking your clit between his lips and into the comfort of his mouth.
He works you with his finger until he knows you're ready, and follows along by drenching another finger with your slick and pressing it into you with gentle ease. You flutter your eyes closed and exhale a whimper. He’s exactly where you want him, and he's doing exactly what you want of him.
“Good girl”
His words cause a splutter of white-hot pleasure deep in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around him with eagerness. His fingers fuck deeper into you; he’s obvious about how his words made you feel by the flushed look in your eyes and the grip your pussy has on him.
You can tell he wants more reactions like that from you because his fingers are suddenly moving with more speed, and praises fall from him like prayer; every word he speaks is made against your clit, and it sends a vibration through you every time.
He stops swirling his tongue around your sensitive, swollen bud, pulling off with a pop and exchanges it for kissing your stomach. He pecks along the fat at the base of your stomach; every peck feels like a comfort, something so soft and gentle compared to the ruin he was in the process of making you. The soft ‘mwah’ sounds he makes as he kisses you are a melody alongside your wimpers, moans and gasps that he drags out of you with determination.
You start to feel a coil tighten in your stomach.
“I'm close”, You manage to gasp out, wanting to give Spencer enough warning so you don’t just start spasming around him without him having any notice beforehand.
His fingers start thrusting faster, and you shake your head, “No, No, same pace, means- mh- means you're doing right” You gasp out.
His movement slows down to the pace it was when you had told him you were close, the coil comes back, this time tighter. You look at him, his lips are no longer resident on your skin, just hovering over your belly, his eyes are glancing down and watching you greedily suck in his fingers.
“Spencer- baby, kiss me” You beg and grip the back of his neck at the same time he perks up at your words, the heat coiling in your stomach burns hotter with every thrust of his finger.
His lips clap around yours, full of desperation. It’s a hot and heavy kiss; there’s nothing kind about the way your tongue fights with his as his fingers encourage the orgasm building up inside.
“This doesn’t feel like just a lesson anymore”, He says.
Your orgasm comes before you can decipher his words properly.
The coil snaps, and you pull your lips from the feisty makeout, pressing your forehead to his. Your orgasm washes over you in pulses, his fingers wring out every drop of release you have to give. Your vision goes fuzzy, and the self-control when it comes to the noises leaving your mouth was nonexistent. You gasp, moan and whimper as the charge of the orgasm reaches everywhere, every nerve ending in your body is not left untouched.
His eyes move quickly between your face and the sight of his fingers plunging into you between your legs. No matter where his eyes glance, it’s still the same look, an awed observation.
Once all the pleasure is wrung out from you, and Spencer's fingers retract from your soaked walls, you collapse for a better word. Your chest heaves as you gulp down all the air you can manage,your head hits the mattress, your body unable to keep holding you up.
Sweat tickles every where is runs, as though it’s teasing you with its fingertips.
“Are you okay?” Spencer's voice rings out, sounding as if he, too, is trying to get his heart rate down with the ragged breathing he expels.
You nod weakly, “mhm”
“Are you sure?” His voice is tense and on edge, his eyes never leaving your face.
“Yeah, just- give me a- give- a second”
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
You start coming back to yourself, becoming more aware of your senses. You don’t know how much time has passed, but the faint buzz behind your ears tells you not too long.
It smells like black coffee, sex mixed with sweat, and old books.
You taste Spencer, you don’t know how to describe it other than ‘Spencer’.
And it feels.. Cold. Your forehead feels cold. Why does just your forehead feel cold?
You become cognizant of the pressure against your head, just above your eyebrows. Where it feels cold.
“You said you were okay”
You move your attention to your left, where Spencer sits beside you on the mattress, holding a damp cloth to your forehead. Worry is unmistakable; you notice the signs straight away. Tight lips, knitted brows and an increased blinking rate.
“Did I pass out?” You question, concern lays itself heavy.
“No-no, you just were a little out of it” He shakes his head.
You sit up, noting the fact that you were still naked and sitting down in the same place you had been when his fingers had been giving you attention. It comes back to you without any flashes or pictures, just memories of a few moments ago, before you lost your sense of who you were.
Your orgasm, his fingers leaving your heat, the kiss he pressed on your temple and then the quick rush of motion he made when he felt you burning up under his touch. He had left the room and came back with your discarded glass of water and a damp towel that was now resting against your forehead.
“I'm sorry, I didn’t mean for my mind to go somewhere else” You softly apologise.
“It’s alright- I was just scared I hurt you”
“You didn’t”
“Yeah, I know that now”, he whispers.
A beat of vulnerable silence passes.
“Would you be okay with staying the night?” His voice breaks the quiet.
Maybe the silent prayers you had sent up whilst getting ready earlier had worked; this seemed like a pretty good sign they had, considering one of the things you had pondered in your prayer had been whether you could have him longer than just a lesson went on for.
“Like with you?”
“In bed- sleeping. If that's okay”
You hear the unspoken words behind it, the real intent. He was just like you, having the same thoughts about whether you could share a moment like this longer, longer than the hour his hands and mouth had been on you. You both wanted more than just sex.
You lean towards him and take him by surprise by pressing your lips to his; it speaks kindness and affection. He melts against your lips and deepens the kiss, his tongue finds home in your mouth, joining yours and tangling together, only breaking apart when either of you needs to catch your breath.
When you pull back, Spencer chases the kiss and presses his lips against yours for as long as he can until you speak up.
“Yeah”, You smile with joy, just thinking about the non-sexual intimate act of sharing a bed is causing a warmth to line your cheeks.
“Good because I’d like that alot”
“A lot?”
“Mhm, I also quite like your lips against mine”, Spencer says against your lips after he leans towards you to catch you in a kiss again.
“Mhh, maybe I should give you a lesson on it”
“I’d like that”
“A lot?”
If you want to be added to the tag list for part 2, go here
the spencer reid addiction is getting so bad. i need that man carnally. biblically. my mind is filled with filthy thoughts only of him. im actually concerned abt my mental health atp.
A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.
category: smut, fluff
word count: around 8k
content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count?
a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry
You’re doing it again.
You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.
Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.
It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.
Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.
Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.
Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.
Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.
Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.
“Don’t you agree?”
Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”
“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”
This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?
Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."
“You’re such a guy."
“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."
“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”
“Are you saying I have no personality?”
Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”
You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.
Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.
You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut.
You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.
Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.
But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.
You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.
“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”
Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”
You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.
The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.
“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”
She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”
“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”
There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”
“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.
Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.
“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”
The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”
Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”
“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”
“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”
You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.
“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”
“Seventeen days late."
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.
"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”
He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.
“It’s not that bad,” you insist.
“I still don’t understand the appeal.”
Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.
This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.
It makes you very bold.
Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.
You’ll have him taste his own medicine.
You, too, can play with fire.
“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”
He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”
“I do.”
He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.
Will you show me?
And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.
It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.
It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.
And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.
The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.
It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.
Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.
“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.
“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”
He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”
“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”
“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”
That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.
You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.
“Sweet.”
“Huh?”
“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”
Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”
Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”
You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.
“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”
Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.
“You think so?”
“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”
Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”
“I’m just being honest.”
It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.
“What are you doing?”
“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”
His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”
You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”
“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”
Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.
You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”
“I’m listening.”
The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.
“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”
“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”
A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”
You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.
Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.
His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.
And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.
His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.
“What do you think?”
“I think we should drink champagne every day.”
Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”
“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”
You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.
There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.
You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.
This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.
It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.
A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”
“Champagne or me?”
“Both.”
Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”
He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.
There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.
Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.
“Is this what you had in mind?”
He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”
Spencer sinks into the cushion.
“This might get a little messy.”
His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.
You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.
He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Can you blame me?”
Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.
When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.
Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.
You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”
His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.
"Spence?"
His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.
“I think… it’s very intimate."
“Too intimate?”
"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"
You're bobbing your head up and down.
“Then I'd really, really like that.”
You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"
"More than anyone."
“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"
"Anything."
You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”
He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”
His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.
Your eyes widen in surprise.
Oh my.
“What’s wrong?”
When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.
You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.
“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.
And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.
You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.
"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.
Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”
"Are you sure?"
"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."
His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”
Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.
And you want him. So fucking bad.
“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.
“I am relaxed,” you huff.
“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”
Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.
“Should we move to your bed?”
He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.
“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”
There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”
“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”
His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”
“Until I can’t feel my legs.”
The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.
“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”
“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”
His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.
“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"
Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
"You're still tense."
Kiss. Kiss.
“Really need you to relax.”
You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.
His name slips in a desperate whisper.
"Hm?"
"Stop teasing."
His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.
He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.
"Better?"
The question is entirely rhetorical.
You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.
Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.
It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.
Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.
"Do you think you can take a third?"
Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”
Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?
Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.
"Does it hurt?"
You let out a loud exhale. "No."
"Tell me if it hurts."
"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."
He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.
A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.
You need him inside you.
“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”
He has the audacity to shake his head.
"I'll decide when you're ready."
Your breath stutters even more.
Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?
Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.
It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.
“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”
He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”
“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”
He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.
His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”
Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.
“Tell me again while you fuck me.”
You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.
“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.
And Spencer is one to keep his promises.
He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.
He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.
Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.
The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.
He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.
“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”
His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
“You won’t—”
You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.
“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.
Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.
“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”
You shake your head.
“You want it rough.”
It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.
His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.
The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.
Still. Not. Enough.
“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.
What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.
A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.
“Like this?”
The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.
“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”
Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.
Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.
Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.
Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.
It happens all at once.
You’re trembling.
You’re shattering.
You’re pathetically whining.
Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.
One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.
He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.
His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.
You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”
His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.
You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.
“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.
“Was I not obvious enough?”
You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”
To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.
“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”
“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.
You make a sound of disapproval.
“We definitely need to change that.”
-
Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.
He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.
But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.
He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.
Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.
The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.
“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”
The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.
“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.
“We slept in?”
“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”
He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.
If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.
"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."
Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.
"Oh."
That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.
"What?"
"Um."
It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.
He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.
Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you??
Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you?
Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM??
Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you?
Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!
Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.
Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning.
Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me.
Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive?
Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS.
Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.
"I think she's onto us."
It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.
"What should I tell her?"
Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.
And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.
Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.
He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.
"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."
You’re quiet for a while.
“Are you sure?"
For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.
So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?
Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?
The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"
You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.
"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.
He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"
"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."
Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.
"Do you like me?"
What kind of question is that?
"Did I seem not to like you last night?"
"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"
He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.
He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.
The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.
But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?
Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.
What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.
“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”
A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.
“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”
Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”
“Before we even kissed.”
The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.
“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”
His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”
“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”
“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”
“Last month?”
“Even before that.”
You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”
But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.
Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.
“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”
“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.
“I’m a terrible liar.”
He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.
Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.
“What took you so long then?”
Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.
That, and bad timing.
Countless abductions.
A never-ending chase after unsubs.
Death of a team mate.
And prison.
God, prison.
He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?
The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.
“I’m sorry.”
For waiting so long.
For not saying this sooner.
For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.
He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?
You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.
“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.
“If you must know, I do like you.”
But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.
"I more than like you,” he decides to add.
It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.
A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”
The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”
“You’re never getting rid of me now.”
His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.
He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.
Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.
His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.
Six minutes.
That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.
"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”
A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”
You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”
He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.
Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.
But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.
Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.
And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.
Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.
God, your taste.
He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.
I normally forget that last gf spencer had for like 2 eps lol, that whole interaction and plot line was so soft but SOOO weird, they just made a character so it would make sense for cat and spencer to kiss
Prompt: After working on a hard case, Spencer takes comfort in your body.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader
Rating: angst, mature (18+, minors DNI)
Warnings: friends with benefits dynamic, dom/sub dynamic, Sub!Spencer, Domme!Reader, dirty talking, praise kink, light hair pulling, titty sucking, breast play, oral sex (fem!receiving, male!receiving), fingerfucking, rough sex as a coping mechanism, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie
Words: 4.6k
A.N.: Is it obvious that I have a thing for Sub Spencer? Also, a massive thank you to my friend @snixkers for beta reading this for me. This was written for @imagining-in-the-margins's FWB challenge.
MY MASTERLIST.
MY GUIDELINES.
SEND A REQUEST.
MY TAGLIST.
I wasn’t surprised to find Spencer on the doorstep at midnight.
He was drenched in water and the look he had on his face was obvious: he needed something to ease his mind, to focus on someone else for a few hours. His mind was a whirlwind of something that he wasn’t going to explain to me and he needed a distraction; a good one, at last.
“Everything okay?” I dared to ask
Spencer shrugged and stepped inside, closing the door behind his back. “Not really, but I don’t want to talk.”
I knew exactly why he came to me, his eyes immediately shifting on what he wanted. His gaze was focused on my chest and I nodded my head: fooling around with Spencer didn't seem such a bad idea. I had an intense day as well, and an orgasm or two would’ve definitely helped me ease the tension clearly clinging to my bones and my joints.
Spencer took off his coat and hung it behind the main door, then he followed me in the living room. I was wearing a boring pyjama but Spencer didn’t seem to mind, he needed something else that required no clothes on. Despite our agreement to have a close friendship with benefits, sometimes we didn’t really need the friendship part - like that night. We didn’t need to talk, we just needed physical comfort.
And I was happy to provide that for Spencer, especially if it involved his mouth all over my neck and my breasts to ease the tension in my own body.
“Do you want me to…”
I pulled the small ribbon on my chest and Spencer nodded his head, helping me remove my shirt without speaking. I knew what he wanted, but I needed to know that he was ready for it and most importantly, he truly wanted it.
Spencer caressed my shoulders with both hands, kneeling on the floor between my thighs as I sat down on the couch but close to the edge. My chest was pressed to his and Spencer was happy to feel my breasts against his body, his mouth already nipping and licking the bruises he had left a few days before on my throat.
The love bites all over my skin were fading, but Spencer could still see them and create new ones that he’d dream about for the rest of week.
“Do you want to do it in this position?” I asked
Spencer shrugged, his hands now moving down to my exposed chest. I couldn’t care less about wearing a bra because I was not supposed to have guests, but Spencer appreciated my bare breasts. He didn’t want to waste time struggling to open up a bra.
Sighing, I brought both my hands behind his neck. Spencer was beautiful, I had no reason to deny that, but he was also so troubled, so upset; I didn’t blame him. His job was awful and he was constantly bombarded with horrific videos, images and information about the worst crimes that humanity could commit.
And somehow, he chose me as his safe place.
Spencer decided to come and find me each time he didn’t feel good, each time he felt too good, each time he just needed someone to be there for him - whether in a physical or emotional way.
“Bedroom.” Spencer whispered
Following him where he wanted to spend the rest of the night, I laid down on the bed and it didn’t take long for Spencer to lay on top of me. He had undressed so quickly I barely registered it. And once he was on top of me, he left kisses all over my collarbones, nipping at my throat once again while his hands caressed my waist and then the outside of my thighs.
His fingers were gentle across my skin, just like his lips - feverish kisses were peppered down my chest. Spence had his eyes open the whole time and I could see the desire flash behind them when I placed my right hand behind his head. My fingers snuck through his soft hair and I tugged on it, forcing him to look back at him. .
The lustful gaze he gave me was enough to bring a smirk over my lips.
His body reacted to my harsh tug easily: his cock hardened against my inner thigh, and I moved my leg to give him some friction. Spencer bit his bottom lip and his grip on my thighs became tighter, as he dug his fingers into my skin.
“Go on, sweet boy. Do whatever you want.”
Spencer stared at me and nodded his head. “Can I?”
I hummed, pulling on his hair again. “I said that you can do whatever you want. Go on.”
A soft whimper fell from his lips, a sound that I play in my head over and over when I pleasure myself all alone. There was nothing better than to hear Spencer whimper, moan and whine because of me, of my hands, of my mouth, of my cunt, of my body. It was enchanting to see how his body reacted to anything I gave him.
Propping myself on the plush pillows of my bed, I closed my eyes while Spencer struggled to set between my legs. He hooked his right arm underneath my waist to push my body against his. Spencer nuzzled his face against my chest and I ran my fingers through his curls, not wanting to hurt him any further.
He deserved a motherly touch that night, a gentle caress on his face as he worshipped my chest with his mouth and his tongue. Spencer’s face was pressed to my chest and I bit my bottom lip when I felt his teeth sink into the soft skin between my breasts, leaving the first mark of the night.
“You’ve been so stressed lately, sweet boy.” - I whispered, - “But now you’re safe with me in my arms, in my bed.”
Spencer dragged his tongue from the bruise forming on my skin down to my right breast and I hummed softly, moving my eyes down to his face. He knew that I enjoyed having my breasts played with and what was better than giving someone physical pleasure while, in return, receiving both physical and emotional pleasure?
Spencer was a whore for my touch, but also from my voice and the honey-coated words that fell from my lips each time we were together. He loved when I sweet-talk to him after a tough case and that was exactly what I was going to do.
“I have missed you so much today.” - I added, - “I’ve thought about you all day, how tired you must’ve been but now you’re with me. And that makes me so happy, sweet boy.”
The sound of my voice seemed to soothe Spencer, though the lust was clear in his actions.
“Did you miss me, Spencer? Did you think about me?” I asked
Spencer nodded his head, his lips never leaving my skin. “All the time. Think about you, your tits, your cunt, how good you taste.”
It wasn’t strange to hear him use bad words, but it was endearing. Spencer was always so sensible, so delicate in the way he spoke but with me he just couldn’t care less. He was direct, dirty, disgustingly exciting and that turned me on more than I could explain.
“Oh, so desperate for me, sweet boy.”
Spencer smiled against my skin. “You know it.”
I fixed his hair when a curl attempted to fall down on his forehead and I sighed, waiting for Spencer to give in to his own desire. He was always careful when it came to me, terrified that he’d go too far and I appreciated that. When I opened my eyes, however, I saw an eagerness that almost left me breathless.
Spencer was burning with a flaming desire.
“What’s wrong, sweet boy?”
His lips quivered. “Can you.. please..”
Spencer pawed at my left hand and placed it upon my own breast. He was eager to have me in his mouth, but I had to offer myself to him and not the other way around. Spencer liked the image of me offering my body to him and I wasn’t going to complain; that image was exciting for me, too.
Pressing my left hand underneath my right breast, I offered my chest to Spencer’s and his lips quickly closed around my nipple. His tongue rolled all over it, focusing on the tip before he started to suck on it slowly, lazily, gently. His face was pressed to your chest and his other hand was clinging to your waist now, still digging his fingers into your skin.
He was clinging to your body like it was an anchor and he was lost at sea.
“There you go, sweet boy. You always make me feel so good.” I reminded him
Spencer glanced up at me, but didn’t answer. He didn’t want to because that meant his mouth would’ve pulled away from where it was and he couldn’t have that. Oh no. Soft whimpers came from him as I closed my eyes again, enjoying the warmth of his tongue now pressing against my nipple.
The pleasure was slowly biting me from the insides, but I stayed quiet. It was a struggle to focus on his own desire, but I made it happen. I wanted Spencer to enjoy himself before ordering him to fuck me however he pleased to forget the miserable days we both had.
Spencer rolled his hips against my leg and I felt his cock pressing to my inner thigh, leaving a trail of wetness across my skin.
“Are you happy now, sweet boy?”
Spencer mumbled something. “Missed your tits.”
I chuckled, running my fingers through his curls again. “Hm, I can feel that.”
He went quiet again after that to focus on the pleasure that sucking my tits and touching me all over gave him. Spencer used his other hand to massage my other breast and I moaned softly, guiding his mouth exactly where I wanted him to be.
“Nobody can do this better than me, sweet boy. You know that.” I whispered
Spencer nodded his head, sucking on my right nipple before he pulled away and went to give his attention to the other one. A string of spit snapped back on his chin and he looked up at me, his cheeks bright red.
“I wouldn’t want anybody else.” he replied
With his free hand, Spencer started to play with my right nipple while his mouth closed around my left one. His tongue began its torture, while his thumb and his index rolled and pinched my right nipple.
“I know, I’m the only one who can take good care of you.” - I responded, struggling to hold back a moan when Spencer softly bit my nipple, - “Ah, ah. Careful.”
He nodded his head and gave me an apologetic look, before sucking on my nipple. Saliva was dripping down his chin and staining my chest, but I didn’t really care. All that mattered was that Spencer was happy, satisfied and horny.
His tongue lapped my nipple over and over, before Spencer shifted to the other one. And again, he started his torture: he sucked, nipped, bit my nipple and caressed it with his tongue ‘til it was hard in his mouth. And it felt good, but it was also pure torture.
“Nobody knows you the way I do, my sweet boy. So strong, so powerful, so smart outside but here in my bedroom…” - I smiled down at him, - “Here you are my helpless, eager to please and always needy for me sweet boy.”
Spencer whined and looked up at me, nodding eagerly - his eyes were full of lust and I knew that he was done with my breasts. He proved my point so easily as he pushed his body against mine again, his cock achingly pressing to my inner thigh.
“Let me take care of you.” - I stated, earning a positive response from him in the form of a moan, - “Lay back down for me, sweet boy.”
Rolling on top of him, Spencer laid down on the bed with his hands now clinging to my waist but his grip quickly slipped when I settled between his thighs. I needed to give him something more, I needed to pleasure him and also give pleasure to myself and I knew exactly how to do it.
From between Spencer’s thighs, I saw him close his eyes as he waited for whatever I was willing to give him. He was always so patient with him, so excited for a single touch from him.
His naked body was glorious to look at and I felt blessed every single time he allowed me to see it. My hands travelled down his chest and they settled on his hips, while I admired his cock twitch under my gaze. It was hard and leaking, which prompted me to lean forward and take the tip in my mouth.
Spencer hissed at the sensation and his eyes fluttered: he stared at me with his lips slightly parted and I smiled at him.
“What, sweet boy? Do you see something that you like?”
Spencer groaned in pleasure and fell back on the bed, his eyes now closed.. My fingers wrapped around the base of his cock and slowly I started to jerk him off while my tongue lavishly lapped at the tip. I was still resting back on my heels and focused my gaze on Spencer’s face, sucking his cock like I was meant to be doing.
There was nothing better than to please Spencer because the sounds he made just sent pleasure jolts straight between my thighs. It was enchanting to see Spencer react to the pleasure that I was bringing him with my mouth, with my touch, with my body.
I flattened my tongue underneath the tip of his cock before I slowly pushed him inside of my mouth - inch after inch, I took him with the tears pricking in my eyes. Spencer released a strangled moan when he hit the back of my throat, feeling my cheeks close around his cock. Engulfed in the warmth of my mouth, Spencer snuck his fingers through my hair and pulled it so harshly that I almost cried.
That felt so fucking good.
Pulling away from his cock, spit coated my chin and I brushed the back of my hands on my cheeks to wipe the tears away.
“Did that feel good, sweet boy?” - I asked, my voice filled with delirious lust for him - “Did you like it when I took your pretty cock into my mouth?”
Spencer frantically nodded his head. “Hm, yes. Yes.”
He was staring at me with his lips parted and I gave him a small smile, before returning to focus all my attention on the most precious part of his body. His cock slid on my tongue and I sucked on it lightly, moaning softly when Spencer’s hand gripped my hair again. He didn’t pull my hair, but he was anchored to me as I moved my mouth up and down his shaft to slick it with my own spit.
Spencer was a panting mess and I fucking loved it because it was all my fault. After all, he came to me for some comfort and I was bringing him more than that.
“Stop, stop. Please.”
His voice caught me off guard and I quickly pulled away from him. My chin was covered in spit and my lips were red, bruised.
“Everything okay?”
Spencer nodded, breathing hard. “Need your cunt. Now. Please.”
Struggling to hold back a laugh, I nodded my head and moved to Spencer’s side. It was endearing to see Spencer completely out of his mind with lust - his hands roamed all over my body as soon as I was laying down on the bed and he could get on top of me, again. His mouth found its way to my neck and soon, his teeth sunk into my skin to leave marks that were making my knees tremble.
“Of course you need my cunt, sweet boy, but you have to prepare me first.”
Spencer didn’t waste any and he spat right between my thighs, on my cunt. It made me giggle: that was pure desperation to have me. Usually he took his time to finger me, to eat me out but that night he was just desperate to be inside of me. Collecting his own spit and the essence of my pleasure, he sunk two fingers inside of me and slowly scissored them to stretch me. It felt good, but what I needed the most was his cock - I was just as desperate as him.
His mouth quickly attached to my nipple again and I gripped the bed sheets, whimpering.
“Fuck, Spencer.”
Spencer curled his fingers inside of me as he sucked on my nipple, torturing it with his warm tongue. I knew I was going to have little bite marks all around my nipples, but they were so worth it.
My breath was rugged and I felt my chest tighten, a sign of my impending orgasm that I struggled to hold back. I placed my hand on his forearm and whispered to him to stop, which he immediately did. I didn’t want to come on his fingers, I didn’t want my pleasure to end there.
I just wanted Spencer inside of me before I lost my mind.
When Spencer pulled his hand away from my cunt, he used his fingers to smear my own wetness all over his cock. The sight was so erotic and dirty that I could’ve come if I wasn’t so desperate for Spencer’s cock. I needed someone to paint that scene for me so that I could hang it on the bedroom door.
“Can I spend the night here?” Spencer asked
I nodded, not really wanting to kick him out after a good fuck. “Yes, of course.”
His lips twitched into a smile as he forced me to lay back down on the bed. His hands were gentle on my shoulders and when he leaned closer to my face, I was hoping that he’d kiss me but he didn’t.
Another stupid rule that we set when we decided to become friends with benefits.
I was starting to hate that fucking rule because Spencer’s lips were too pretty not to be kissed, nipped and sucked on. However, a kiss was definitely too intimate for me - especially if given during missionary or something.
Weird, given the fact that I was allowing Spencer to be inside of me as deeply as he could, but that’s how we both felt with kisses.
“Good. Then, I’ll wake you up with my tongue.”
Giggling, I wrapped my arms around his neck to pull him closer. “Oh, don’t threaten me with a good time sweet boy.”
Spencer positioned on top of me and with no hesitation, he slid his cock up and down my folds to gather more of my essence. I bit my tongue and stared at Spencer the whole time, admiring him - and he did the same.
It felt like time had stopped every single time that our eyes met.
But I couldn’t let myself go in such a way, so I forced myself to roll my hips and lift it high enough for Spencer to sink into me with no resistance. However, Spencer took his time to thrust inside - slowly, painfully slowly. Inch by inch, he filled me and I saw stars exploding right behind my eyes.
Goosebumps rippled all over my arms and I released a strangled moan, throwing my head back when Spencer finally bottomed out.
“I’ve missed your cunt, oh God.” Spencer whispered to me
Our lips were so close and I had to physically restrain myself from kissing him by scratching his back. My nails draw lines all over his skin and I didn’t really care if I made him bleed. I needed to calm down, to focus on the pleasure rather than the intimacy of the moment.
I hated how each time we seemed to grow close to one another because feelings were extremely scary for both of us. I didn’t need to get caught up with them again.
Spencer melted against my body and he hid his face in the crook of my neck, slowly rutting inside of me. I closed my thighs around his waist and moaned softly, allowing Spencer to get all the pleasure that he could while also giving it to me - it felt wonderful to feel his teeth nipping at my throat and his curls tickling my skin.
Despite his mouth pressed to my chest, I could still hear the low groans and grunts that came from Spencer. They were music to my ears.
Spencer pressed me down onto the bed as he thrusted in and out of me, picking up his own pace. The position I was in, with my hips up in the air and Spencer kneeling between my thighs, was perfect - it had me tethering on the edge of pleasure and pain, a delicious limbo that I have learned to love with Spencer.
“God, sweet boy.. so good.” I whimpered
Spencer pulled away from my chest, leaving a trail of saliva between my breasts. He looked down at me as he kept thrusting in and out of me - a brutal, rapid pace that almost didn’t allow me to breathe right. I didn’t want to if it meant that Spencer was feeling all the pleasure that he could take from me.
“You were made for me.”
I didn’t know if he was being serious or if it was just the haze of passion that blinded Spencer and made him dizzy, but it didn’t matter. His words were enough to bring me closer to the edge. Deep down, I was just like him - I basked in his praise, in the knowledge of my body being what gives Spencer pleasure.
My whole body erupted with goosebumps and I dug my fingers into his back, whining his name over and over. Spencer had his right hand between my thighs, massaging my clit with the tip of his thumb, and his other hand on my knee. He was keeping me in place, watching me as I came undone underneath him.
My orgasm hit me harder than I expected.
“Let me prove that to you, sweet boy.” I whispered in return to his words
Spencer knew exactly what I meant by that and his breath became uneven, his thrusts even harsher and violent. I didn’t want him to stop: the pleasure soon morphed into pain and I begged him for more. I started to roll my hips to match his rhythm, not caring that my whole body was shuddering with pain and pleasure at the same time.
Every sensation was heightened, the pain was so strong that it quickly morphed again into a stinging pleasure that made it difficult for me to breathe right.
“Come inside of me. Please.” I mumbled
Spencer groaned at my words and soon, he was fucking me harder and harder into the mattress. His body towered on top of mine as he pushed down, almost crashing me against the soft mattress of my own bed. Spencer was hunched over me, his lips a little too close to mine as more moans and grunts fell from his mouth.
I closed my thighs again around his waist, earning another whimper from him. He loved when I’d cage him against him, forcing him to fuck into me without pulling out - not even for a moment, not even for a second. Spencer kept whispering to me that he missed me, that he wanted to be with me every single night, that he couldn’t wait to come home and fuck me - and God, did that feel fucking amazing to hear.
And when Spencer finally reached his release, I felt his warmth spill deep inside of me. I clung to his body with all the strength that remained in me and Spencer hid his face in the crook of my neck, again.
His hot breath caressed my skin as he came down from his high, slowly rutting into me to feel all the pleasure that he could. His body was warm on top of mine as I released my grip from him.
I was trembling, still hazy from my own orgasm. It was always a struggle to come down from mine and Spencer’s activity. I barely realised that he walked out of my bedroom to grab something to clean me up.
“Are you sure I can stay here for the night?”
Spencer handed me a warm washcloth and I cleaned myself up as best as I could.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t you?”
He hesitated and I knew what was going through his mind, because it was the same thought that appeared in mine. I knew we had our agreement and the nights we spent in the same bed could be counted on a single hand, but still.
“I don’t know. Maybe things can get… weird.”
“They’ll get weird if we let them get weird.” I responded
Spencer nodded, running his fingers through his curls all messy. “Right.”
I decided to change the topic. “I hope you feel better now.”
“Much better. I needed this. I needed you tonight.” - Spencer said with a smile, standing next to my bed, - “I think our agreement might be the best I’ve ever made with someone.”
Chuckling, I got out of bed. “Hm, good. I’m glad you think so.”
Spencer followed me to the bathroom and we prepared for bed, though I felt his eyes burning on my skin the whole time. Exhaustion was written on both our faces and I craved my warm and bouncy mattress. I needed to lay down and rest my legs, my arms, every inch of my body.
We returned to my bedroom and we laid together in silence. I didn’t want to break the quiet bubble between us, I was constantly worried of always saying the wrong thing - I didn’t want to scare Spencer off. I was staring at the ceiling when he grabbed my hand and brought it up to his mouth, leaving kisses all over my knuckles.
“You’ve been strangely sweet today.”
“Is that so weird?” Spencer asked
I chuckled, turning to the side to face him. “Oh no, it’s not weird. I just wonder why.”
He pulled me closer to his body. “I just missed you, that’s all.”
“Remember that you can always come here when you need me.” - I reminded him, laying my head on his chest, - “It’s a safe space.”
Spencer pressed a kiss on top of my head. “Your cunt is my safe space.”
I went quiet for a moment, not knowing if I could laugh. Spencer was dead serious, or at least his tone was. And when I look up at him, he had that usual annoying smug smirk that made my knees tremble every fucking time.
I bursted out laughing. “You’re disgusting.”
Spencer rolled his eyes. “Well…”
“But you’re a good fuck so you’re excused.” I added
I leaned my head back on his chest and took a deep breath, enjoying the warmth of his body flushed to mine. Spencer ran his fingers through my hair and soon enough, I drifted off to sleep.
Spencer considered my body his safe space, but he was mine as well.
Remember that if you asked to be on my taglist, you can easily help me gain visibility with a like, a comment or a simple reblog. If you don't, you're asking me to include you while getting nothing in return. If you want to be removed from the taglist, just dm me.
Taglist: @reidselle @alelaeljfj @blvebanisters @Koukatsuki @donttrustlove @moesdraft @r-3dlips @alicentswife @singinghamtaro-blog @Florebore @Topguncultleader @frutilooplupin @mags11 @myoui-me @iluvreid @slaygirl466 @Kikista @icarusgold @pleasantwitchgarden @ohdearlordspencerreid @cherrqblssms @lover-of-books-and-tea @elizabethmidnight2017 @spencerssoup @emmy-reid2627 @winkev1 @benji-screem
No Pressure Ask Game! Put 5 songs you listen to, post it, then send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers :) 🎶
1: Shut up my moms calling by Hotel Ugly
2: Down Bad by Taylor Swift
3: bittersuite by Billie Eillish
4: blue by Billie Eillish
5: Why by Dominic Fike
this a mix between my all time favs and my recent listen, I'm too shy to tag anyone so just feel free to do it or if you want to be tagged tell me and I'll do it :))
when I say I rather spencer dying than unsub spencer I MEAN IT! like there’s no way that they would let him go away which means he would get caught by the end of it and then what? a even UNHAPPIER ending for him? WHY WOULD I WANT THAT
stormborns
pixelskylines
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
areudirty
gamechangershow
dailybridgerton
andulkaphoto
