COUNTER SERVICE ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x gf!reader
summary: spencer kissed you like a promise and fucked you like a prayer — right there on the kitchen counter, while dinner nearly burned behind him.
genre: smut, fluff | w/c: 2.2k
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, kitchen counter sex, teensy bit of praise kink/soft dom spencer, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, spencer calls reader sweetheart/angel/good girl, established relationship, they drink a lil wine, lovey dovey spencer, unrealistic risotto recipe (def would’ve burned in real life but just pretend ok), no use of y/n
a/n: personally I was envisioning later seasons spencer as I wrote this but could also see early seasons spencer so imagine what you wish 🙂↕️
The moment you saw the glint in Spencer’s eye, you knew you were in trouble.
He appeared in the doorway holding a folded sheet of printer paper like it was a briefing file, sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a kind of casual precision that made it very difficult to focus.
“I’ve made a decision,” he announced.
You looked up from the couch, where you’d been reading a book with a cup of tea balanced precariously on your thigh. “Should I be nervous?”
“Definitely,” he said. “We’re making lemon risotto for dinner.”
“We?” you echoed, setting the book aside. “Spencer, you know I’m a terrible cook. And risotto is an hour-long, elbow-grease, constant-stirring kind of situation.”
“Exactly,” he said brightly. “It’s the culinary equivalent of an FBI stakeout. I thought you’d enjoy the teamwork.”
You stared at him. “You planned a date night that involves fifteen minutes of zesting?”
He shrugged. “The recipe says the aromatics really come out if you’re patient.”
“You’re lucky I love you.”
He grinned and extended a hand to pull you off the couch. “Come on. I already started getting out the ingredients.”
—
Twenty minutes later, you were in full prep mode: barefoot, stirring lazily while Spencer hummed Debussy and lined up lemons like surgical tools. He measured everything with the precision of a neurosurgeon while you chopped shallots by feel, refusing to follow any of the instructions he kept reading aloud.
“The recipe says to use only the outermost zest,” he said.
“It also says to stir clockwise, which is insane. I’m winging it.”
“Winging it? While making something as delicate as risotto?!” he asked, clearly a little horrified.
“You knew what you signed up for.”
He passed you a glass of white wine. “True.”
You argued over whether the wine should go into the pot or your mouths first. He poured a little into the rice; you poured more into your glass. And somewhere in the middle of Spencer’s incessant reading of the recipe instructions, you managed to flick a bit of zest in his direction. It landed on his lower cheek.
“You’ve been tagged,” you said.
Spencer narrowed his eyes. “That’s food-grade sabotage.”
He stepped closer as you reached up to brush it away. Your fingertips grazed the soft skin beneath his cheekbone, and for a moment, everything else faded.
His eyes caught yours.
“Think you missed it,” he said quietly.
The air shifted. Something unspoken and familiar threaded between you, slow and deliberate. The kitchen wasn’t quiet — the stove was still bubbling — but it felt like the world had narrowed to this: you, him, the warmth between your bodies and the lemon-scented air.
He moved first, turning the burner down to low heat. One step, then another, until your back hit the counter and his hands found your hips.
“This feels like a dangerous way to cook,” you murmured, breath hitching.
“Who said we’re still cooking?”
His mouth met yours before you could answer — slow at first, exploratory. Then hungrier.
You reached up, fingers threading through his hair as he deepened the kiss. The countertop pressed into your back, cool against your overheated skin, and Spencer’s body curved in close, bracketing you in with careful hands and a hunger that was anything but cautious.
He tasted like citrus and something warmer underneath, and his mouth moved like he was trying to memorize you. His hands slid beneath the hem of your top, reverent and warm, fingers spreading across your waist like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.
“Can I…?” he murmured, already kissing along your jaw as he tugged at your shirt.
“Yes,” you whispered. “All of it.”
Clothes came off piece by piece. Your shirt first, then his, then the rest of your clothes. He stepped between your legs and lifted you onto the counter with ease, his hands never leaving your body. Your thighs parted for him instinctively, knees hooking around his hips, and he settled there like he belonged.
“You’re so soft here,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers just beneath your breasts. “Every time I touch you, I forget how to think.”
“Lucky for you, I like the rare occasions when you forget things.”
He smiled and bent to mouth at your collarbone. “Dinner can wait.”
“Mhm. Until much later,” you breathed, tugging him even closer by the waistband of his pants. “Much, much later.”
Then he dropped to his knees.
Spencer looked up at you like you were a miracle. Like he had all the time in the world. His hands curled beneath your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the counter, his thumbs brushing soft, dizzying circles into your skin. You were already wet, aching, trembling — and he hadn’t even touched you yet.
“God, look at you,” he murmured. “You’re already dripping.”
“Spence—”
“I know.” His voice was low, coaxing. “I’ve got you.”
And he did.
His mouth met you slow and steady, the first broad lick making you shudder. He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue working in slow, hypnotic patterns that made your spine arch and your hands fight for purchase in his hair. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He devoured you like he was studying the effect of every single flick and swirl, listening for the change in your breathing, waiting for the exact sound you made when he—
“Oh—fuck, right there, don’t stop,” you whined.
He groaned into you, the vibration ricocheting through your whole body. One hand tightened on your hip while the other slipped lower — fingers teasing at your entrance, then easing inside, slick and perfect and deep.
“Spence,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me come.”
“That’s the idea,” he murmured, voice wrecked and smug. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel it.”
That was all you needed to hear. You came hard, clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking against his shoulders, your breath catching on his name like a prayer. He worked you through it and didn’t stop until you tugged at his hair, until you were too sensitive to bear it, until you gasped his name again.
When he stood, his face was flushed, mouth slick, eyes blown wide with want. You pulled him in and kissed him — messy, grateful, open-mouthed, tasting yourself on his tongue.
“Need you,” you said against his lips. “Now.”
He helped you unbutton his pants, pulling them down just enough, and you reached for his cock the second you could. It was already hard and leaking, flushed red at the tip, thick in your palm.
“Jesus,” you whispered, stroking him once. “All this, just from going down on me?”
He moaned, twitching into your grip. “You have no idea.”
You stroked again, a little firmer, thumb circling the head. “I think I do.”
He cursed softly, pulling your hand away and nudging your thighs apart. “Need to be inside you.” He pressed himself forward teasingly against your entrance, dragging the tip of his cock through the mess he’d made of you.
“Let me see you,” he said. “Look at me.”
You did. Eyes locked, he slid into you in one long, slow thrust, filling you so deeply it stole the breath from your lungs.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, clinging to his shoulders.
“Shit, you’re so tight—so warm.” His head dropped forward, forehead resting against yours. “You always take me so perfectly, angel.”
He stayed there for a beat — buried to the hilt, breathing hard, like he was trying to keep himself from losing control too soon. You curled your legs around his waist and rocked your hips, coaxing him into motion.
“Move,” you whispered. “Please. I need you to move.”
He did — Spencer always did exactly as you asked, especially when it came to this.
The first few thrusts were slow, exploratory. Deep. He rolled his hips like he wanted to find every new angle that could make you fall apart, and god, did he find them. He gripped your hips tighter, anchoring you to the edge of the counter, and started to fuck you in a rhythm that was steady and filthy and simultaneously so fucking tender it made your chest ache.
You felt every inch of him — every drag, every push — and you moaned into the open space between you as he pulled back almost entirely before sliding in again, harder this time.
“You feel so good like this,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”
His lips brushed yours between words — a soft kiss, then a firmer one, then a pause where you just breathed each other in. You could feel him everywhere. The stretch. The weight. The press of his body into yours, solid and overwhelming in the best way possible.
You slid a hand between you and traced your fingers across his chest, over the rapid beat of his heart. “You always fuck me like you love me.”
He stilled for a moment — just to get a good look at you — and then his mouth was on yours, kissing you like a promise, like that was the answer.
“I do,” he murmured into the kiss. “I love you so much.”
Then he thrust into you harder, deeper, making you cry out. His rhythm picked up — more urgent now, more desperate, hips snapping forward in a way that made you clutch at him, panting into his neck.
“Tell me what you need,” he rasped, voice cracking with restraint.
“You,” you gasped. “Just like this. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
He groaned — a raw, helpless sound — and adjusted his angle, shifting his hips just enough to brush something deep inside you that made your whole body jolt.
“Oh god—fuck. Spencer, I—”
“Right there?”
“Right there.”
His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, the pressure just right, the rhythm relentless. Pleasure climbed fast and hot, coiling tight in your belly, stealing your breath.
Spencer kissed you deeply then pulled back to watch the way your expression was twisting. “That’s it, angel. Good girl. Let me feel you come on my cock.”
Your climax crashed through you harder than the last, raw and overwhelming, your body tightening around him in waves you couldn’t stop. You were still coming when he groaned and fucked into you deeper, faster, chasing his own high through the pulse of yours.
“Fuck, you’re still coming, aren’t you?”
You were. Still trembling, still squeezing around him when his rhythm broke. You managed a nod in response.
“Come with me then,” he gasped, fucking you through it. “Please, sweetheart—oh, fuck.”
And you did.
Your orgasms crested over each other like lightning striking twice — sharp and hot and completely blinding. You held his face in your hands and kissed him as you both fell, his hips grinding into you, cock pulsing deep inside as he came with a groan that sounded like surrender.
And when it was over, you stayed like that — wrapped around each other, shaking and breathless, his chest heaving against yours.
—
Somewhere during the haze of afterglow, the pan on the stove let out a loud, angry hiss.
Spencer’s eyes flew open. “The risotto!”
You burst into laughter, still wrapped around him. “Oh no.”
He gently lowered you off the counter, half-dressed and glowing, and the two of you stumbled over each other trying to get to the stove. He grabbed a spoon and stirred furiously while you added a splash of broth, then another.
Miraculously, the rice hadn’t burned. Browned a little — okay, maybe a lot — but not beyond saving.
“I think we stirred just enough before we got distracted,” he said, a little breathless, still flushed from everything that just happened.
You leaned against the counter beside him, giggling. “Are you saying we successfully had kitchen counter sex without totally ruining dinner?”
He grinned, nodding. “We’re a statistical anomaly.”
Spencer helped clean you up before you both redressed in scattered pieces of clothing, keeping close watch on the pot and on each other. Spencer stayed barefoot in his dress pants, and you pulled on his button-down, which hung past your hips and still smelled like him.
He stirred the rice while you read aloud from the recipe, skipping half the steps and adding your own commentary.
“‘Let simmer on medium-low until the remaining liquid is absorbed,’” you said, voice exaggerated. “Or until one of us gets impatient and turns up the heat.”
“Do not mess with the starch development, woman.”
You laughed, stealing a spoonful when his back was turned.
—
When it was finally done, you both sat on the floor with the pan between you, backs against the cabinets, legs tangled, sharing bites straight from the wooden spoon. The risotto was shockingly good despite the way it had nearly burned — creamy and bright, with just the right amount of lemon.
“I hate that you were right about this,” you mumbled around a mouthful.
“Victory tastes like Meyer citrus,” he said smugly.
You nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
He wiped a bit of risotto from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, then kissed the same spot. “Maybe,” he said. “But you’re still here.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“I’d cook with you again,” you said quietly. “Even if you do read recipe blogs like crime scene notes.”
“That’s the highest praise you’ve ever given me.”
He rested his cheek against your hair. Around you, the kitchen smelled like butter and lemons and wine and something warmer you couldn’t quite name. The dishes could wait. The future could wait.
Tonight, you had warmth, and starch and citrus, and even better — each other.
ᝰ.ᐟ
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