⋆. four eyed fairy princess ⋆

"Like, it makes sense to get it out of the way, you know."

"Yes. Figure out what works for us, note it down so we'll remember." he replies, nodding along.

"Right. Establish boundaries. Well, make adjustments to the current ones and stuff." you glance down at the journal lying innocently beside you, opened to a new page with the word "Addendum re: Kissing" written on top.

Spencer's sat facing you, cross-legged and casual like this is no big deal, him on your bed. And maybe it's not. This isn't the first time he's sat across you after all, a spill of spindly limbs and shining amber eyes. Some traitorous part of you thinks, hopes, it won't be the last.

That might be acceptable, but the context is new.

"Okay, so how do we… you know," your hands flail uselessly.

"Kiss?" Spencer says. He tilts his head with a small, teasing smile, bares the line of his jaw and neck and oh maybe you shouldn't have suggested this in the first place. Maybe you should relocate somewhere less… personal. "Two people normally just get close enough to press their lips together."

"Don't make fun of me." You grumble.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound it. You watch him scoot closer, his knee touching your thigh. "You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Because you can, you know, back out." he gets serious quickly. His fidgeting stops and he rests a warm hand over your knee, "We don't actually have to do this, if you're not comfortable."

"I am!" you squeak, flushing at the pathetic sound. "I-I mean, I'm comfortable and I want to get it over with." you wince at how crass you make it sound, and curse the version of yourself from yesterday who came up with this idea. The one that panicked over an offhand comment from your best friend after you told her that yes I will be bringing a plus one, I'm actually dating someone right now.

Melissa had gushed on and on about how hot and steamy the honeymoon phase of a new relationship is.

You wouldn't know. This whole thing with Spencer is a farce, there's no phases to speak of. Just friendship—and lightly begrudging, on your part.

But of course, your brain had latched on to the words, spiraled at the idea that people expect a newly dating couple to act a certain way. And not that you want to bend to these arbitrary norms, but still. You don't want to be caught off guard.

So you'd suggested this. Practice, a trial, preparation.

On kissing.

And where else would be the most logical spot to practice than in your apartment? At the time, it seemed like a good idea. It's close, he's been here before, and it's private.

Now, you're starting to lose your nerve.

Spencer is still, like he's waiting for you to make the first move.

"You don't think I'm just trying to make out with you for the hell of it, do you?" you ask Spencer, teeth worrying your lower lip.

He laughs, soft and painfully endeared. "No. Although, I wouldn't be mad about that either."

You smack his hand off your knee. "Shut up."

"Okay." he's grinning. Hasn't stopped since you've started this conversation, actually. You're here, feeling raw and tender like skin on the verge of breaking, barely able to breathe, and he's grinning. Has the gall to tease you. "I get it though. It's less of a practice and more… doing it on our own terms. In a controlled environment."

You nod, deflating with relief. "Yes. And no one to witness us flounder around awkwardly."

"You really think I'm that bad at kissing?"

"I didn't say that!" You huff, then add, "Should I take my glasses off?"

"Are you planning to wear contacts to the wedding?"

"No."

"Then keep them on. You know, for realism."

You can't stop the soft giggle from escaping. "Right, yeah. Realism."

"Are you done stalling?" Spencer asks.

"I'm not stalling!" To prove your point, you shuffle even closer, the bed dipping beneath your combined weight. Immediately, it's dizzying. His scent is even more potent up close. Nutmeg and cedar and who knows what else, all you know is it's borderline intoxicating. Spencer's eyes are fixed upon you. On your lips, the pen in his hand carelessly tossed aside.

Your eyes follow the pen as it drops to the bed, but his hand curls warm and firm over your cheek and tilts your head up. He's much closer now, lashes shading his pretty brown eyes. Pupils blown wide as he holds you there and lets the moment linger.

Your nerves feel serrated, the brief spark of courage stretched torturously thin. You take the plunge before it snaps, close your eyes and bridge the gap.

It's awkward. Skin smushed against skin, clumsy and juvenile.

His lips are chapped. Even with your stiff, tight lipped peck, you can feel that, small bits of skin that tug and shift as he moves and kisses you back. Nothing more than a brush at first, a slow, warm thing that you can't help but melt into. Can't help but return, just as tender, your lips finally moving like shaping out a question. Testing waters and boundaries.

It's been years, embarrassingly, since you've kissed anyone, but muscle memory kicks in like a dying ember catching kindling. Your mouth parts and welcomes his tongue. Deepens it. Pushes into him where he's treading lightly.

A faint taste of mint clings to his lips, cool unbidden sharpness.

You hear him groan, feel slim fingers tangling into your hair as he matches your passion, and he's kissing you now, properly, deeply, the type of toe curling, movie-esque kiss you'd convinced yourself you don't want, don't need.

All those years of repressed emotions claws back to the surface, curling hot and raw low in your belly and between your legs. Some deep instinctual part of you knows he's done irreparable damage, cracked open something you thought you had ensconced under layers of ambition and self preservation.

Each slide of his lips weakens whatever fortress you'd previously thought impenetrable.

He kisses you again, and again, and again.

It's slow. Careful, like he's mapping your mouth, testing out the perfect angle of his palm to cradle the curve of your jaw. Different from any kiss you've had before. Deeper, more sure, despite the strange ambiguity of this relationship.

Faint sounds form and ascend from the back of your throat, sounds that he swallows before they take shape beyond your lips. Your own hands reach up, clutch a handful of his sweater. Beneath fabric and skin and bone, his heart pulses like it's determined to rupture straight out his ribs.

You find yourself wanting to feel more of that. Chest to chest, just to figure out if your hearts are as in sync as your mouths are.

You've moved without realizing. Closer, and closer still, until he's toppling back from your insistence, the physical weight of you burdened tenfold by the frightening gravity of your desire.

His hands leave your face in favor of steadying your hips. Fingers dig in, clinging too tight, too honest, not enough.

You feel teeth catch on your bottom lip, and you're not sure if it's a mistake or something deliberate, something heavy with meaning. You wonder if he means to repeat it.

It isn't meant to get this far.

The break is abrupt, strident, punctuated with a heady, wet sound, and the bitter disappointment of things parting too soon. Spencer's fully supine, blinking up at you on top of him.

You're nestled snug between his legs, staring down at the blurred edges of him. Your glasses have fogged, and yet there's so much of him everywhere. Lips saturated with each other, the firm, unmistakable press of his arousal against your stomach.

Fuck.

Neither of you speak. The silence curdles into something heavy and uncomfortable.

"Sorry," you blurt out, scrambling back for space, desperate to replace the silence with anything. "Sorry, that—um, sorry."

His hands fall from your body. Prop him back up to sitting, slow and methodological. He clears his throat. You notice, for the first time, how pink he's gotten.

He shifts his hips. Adjusts his pants. You keep your gaze on the now crumpled page of your journal, and pretend not to see.

Addendum re: Kissing.

What the actual fuck are you even supposed to write there now?

"So, that probably wouldn't be appropriate to do in public." Spencer says.

Your laugh comes out shrill. When you glance at him, he's smiling back, bashful, a little tense. But smiling.

"Absolutely not," you take your glasses off, wipe the foggy residue away and welcome a sharper world, "I'm sorry, seriously. I feel like I attacked you."

"I've been attacked many times, but attack by kiss is very new to me, so thank you."

"Spencer."

The pink creeps up his ears, down his neck.He clears his throat again. "It's all right. I'm sorry too, for, you know… enjoying it too much."

"It's fine, at least I know I haven't gotten bad at it," you say, reaching for the pen which had miraculously survived the impromptu make out session and hadn't rolled off the bed, but find that you're still blanking on what to write. You look at him again, "I'm very much out of practice."

"I couldn't tell," he pats a hand over his sweater, smoothing down where you've clung as if that would somehow erase the fact that you had just been on top of him, tongue deep in his mouth. But he tries to redirect focus, perhaps for your sake, by taking the journal. "So what have we learned?"

"That we're really good at it?" That you want to do it again. That you've missed it. That your body isn't as immune to this as you had thought.

You expect a laugh, but Spencer gives you a look that suggests perhaps his thoughts aren't so far from your own.

You squirm, burning under his gaze. You roll the pen over to him, willing your heart to stop racing and your lips to stop tingling. You want to crawl under the covers and hide. You want to lean over and kiss him again.

He scribbles something on the page, and it takes you a moment to decipher as it's upside down from your perspective.

No making out in public or private.

"We already had that in the original." You point out.

"And then promptly broke it." He underlines the sentence twice. Under it, he adds, No kissing with tongue, and your gut twists sharply in disappointment. You want to throw up.

Lastly, he writes keep kisses brief.

"There," he turns the journal, "I don't think there's anything else, but tell me if you have any suggestions."

You pore over it like you haven't already decided the entire page is an insult. Your glasses slip down your nose and Spencer pushes it up like it's reflex, and it's all very distressing. The kiss, this strange robotic focus you've both decided to hide behind, and now these rules.

You shrug. "Um, maybe we should make it… nice? Enjoyable? There's no reason we should be like, weird and stiff about it."

Spencer nods and add that. His voice is low, hoarse when he says, "But not too enjoyable. Wouldn't want a repeat of earlier."

"Exactly. Of course not." You lie.

On good days, he's reverent. Who wouldn't be, if they have someone like you in their life? Reverence seems like the bare minimum. But that reverence does not interfere with his daily functions, or impede his sense of judgment. In fact, it's often the opposite—he loves you to the point of betterment, of motivation, doing more stuff just to make himself worthy of your affections.

Tonight, he's sad to say, is one of his bad days.

Tonight, he is so overcome with his devotion he's practically dripping in it. Convinced that every pore of his body is leaking with I love my girlfriend pheromones and that the whole bar can smell it.

Tonight, he can't move for every clumsy action seems offensive to you and your presence.

And, despite consuming zero alcohol, he still feels so utterly inebriated. Swaying on his seat, dizzy with want, eyes trained on you and you alone. Hazy neon and blinking flashes do nothing to dim your appearance, only serving to highlight your beauty, the way you spin and shimmy on the dance floor without a care in the world.

He had declined your multiple invites to dance. On another night, perhaps he'd muster up the courage to join you, but he doesn't trust his own body right now. Not that you'd ever complain about his graceless dance moves, but he's convinced any sense of coordination will disappear the moment you press into him.

Worse, Spencer knows, with a thousand percent certainty, that he would not be able to control any bodily reactions if you start dancing the way he knows you like—swinging your hips flush against his. Sensual. Torturous.

He'd rather not be arrested for public indecency tonight. Or ever, actually. Imbecilic as he is right now, he's got enough presence of mind to at least avoid that.

So he contents himself with watching. You are angelic in this light, transforming even the pounding, fast paced music into something he'd enjoy, all because now he associates the song with the memory of your smile, the sheen of sweat on your forehead that glints neon pink when you twist your head just so.

Beside him, Emily yells with a flashing smile. Something teasing, no doubt. He's used to it, being on the receiving end of jokes (playful and told with love, of course), but somehow he's much more relaxed when he's with you. Anxieties of being too weird, or too smart, or too scrawny, all seem to collapse because the entire time he's dated you, you've never made those things seem like flaws.

So he grants Emily a sheepish smile, and a shake of his head. She laughs and calls him 'Lover boy' and he doesn't bother disputing it. He's proud of it. It feels like a badge of honor, especially after years of thinking he'd never be the kind of man to have this sort of love in his life.

In fact, he'd wear a physical badge of it, if such a thing existed—Penelope probably would make one if prompted—simply because it's true.

And then Emily says 'Uh oh' and her face shifts enough to make his spine stiffen. Spencer follows her gaze and frowns.

He's always known you're beautiful. Had always admired how you bore it—proudly, never shrinking from the attention, always taking up the space like you owned it. He knows you're beautiful, knows that other people are aware of it too. Rightfully so.

But sometimes, they make it too obvious.

The man on the bar would be subtle, if Spencer isn't trained to watch out for signs like this. Body language, profiling training paired with his heightened senses in everything about you, all lead him to the same conclusion: you're being hit on.

And you, sweet perfect angel you, are doing everything in your power to reject the man.The stern line of your mouth, the arms crossed over your chest, body angled from this stranger.

Spencer doesn't like imposing himself in your space. Doesn't consider himself to be someone possessive, or a savior. He believes you to be strong enough to handle this without his intervention.

But the man lingers. Reaches, drags his unworthy fingers down the length of your arm, and finally Spencer moves, his brows furrowed.

He's shouldering his way through the crowd when you smack the man's hand away. Even through the pounding music, Spencer can hear your voice—snapping and testy—and the man's indignant exclamation of bitch. He pushes through and puts himself between you and the man before anything else escalates.

"Is there a problem?" he snaps, glaring at the stranger, "You want to explain why you're calling my girlfriend a bitch?"

The man sputters.

Behind him, Spencer feels you press closer, chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel your smugness emanating in waves.

"I told you, I wasn't interested. Now look, you've pissed off my honey."

Your breath tickles his neck. Spencer has to suppress a shudder, but manages to maintain his intimidating stance. He finds it surprisingly easy, channeling everything he's learned from his coworkers and his job to ward away this stranger.

The man holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jeez. Thought you were just lying about the boyfriend."

"Uh, no. And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested."

"Oh please, you're not even—"

"Watch your mouth." Spencer doesn't think he's ever sounded so angry as right now. He's faced impudence of many kind, and only a select few had ever been at the receiving end of this. But he finds himself ready to pull whatever stops for you. "Unless you want a problem."

"Whatever, man, I was just talking to her." with a scoff, the man finally turns and stomps off.

The tension in the air turns lax, but Spencer keeps an eye on the man until he's swallowed by the crowd. He feels your laugh before he hears it, feels the hitch in your breath, the shuddering shoulders against his side that tells him it's one of those laughing fits that overtake your entire body.

He glances down and instantly brightens at your giddy expression, free hand cupping your cheek.

"Hey."

"Hi, handsome."

All the anger he's felt eases from him from those words, simple and sweetly uttered. Just for him. Only ever for him. At once, he feels the effects of alcohol despite avoiding it—lightheaded and trippy and effervescent—all from the sight of your smile.

He presses his forehead to yours. "You okay? He didn't try anything else, did he?"

"I'm perfect. You came just in time."

"I hate that I had to," a muscle ticks in his jaw, "he shouldn't have pushed after you said no."

"Well, that's just how a lot of men are."

There's nothing he can say to that. He knows it's true, has seen several versions of the aftermath of an offended man. Spencer moves behind you and wraps his arms as if that act alone could protect you from any more harm.

At least it signals one thing: you're taken; everyone else back off.

He feels you sink into his chest, soft and content, hair tickling his chin.

"That was really hot, by the way."

He chuckles. "What was?"

"You getting all pissed off and protective. Didn't think you had it in you."

"Excuse you, I'm in the FBI! I've interrogated worse people."

"Really? I couldn't tell. You don't ever act like that around me."

"It's important to keep a work life separate from my personal life, you know that. I already study cases at home, I shouldn't bring that energy when I'm around you as it–"

Your giggle tells him he's being baited into a reaction, and he sags against your back. "You're mean."

"Me? I just said you were hot, how is that mean?"

"You know how."

"Explain it to me, genius."

He huffs. "I hate you."

You twist to face him, gasping dramatically. "You what?"

"Nothing."

"Not nothing, you said you hated me. Apologize!"

Spencer answers with a kiss to the tip of your nose and an acquiesce. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

"Hmm, not convincing. I need compliments."

"You possess an incredible ability to still look fresh after being in a dance floor surrounded by forty other people."

You giggle and tilt your head up for another kiss, which he eagerly grants. Sticky, artificial sweetness clings to your lips, a mix of your lip gloss and whatever drink you have been nursing. Your next words are uttered into the kiss, muffled and teasing. "How'd you even come to that number, you nerd?"

"Capacity estimation based on the width and length of the dance floor." he answers without a beat, grinning when he earns one of your full-bodied laughs. "Am I forgiven?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good. You look like an angel." he adds. Not for good measure; just because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's true.

"I've already forgiven you."

"I know. I just thought I'd say it anyway." he watches, somewhat smugly, as you fluster, chin tipping down and fighting a smile.

He won't ever get enough of this—the weight of you, the way his angular body feel less disjointed when it's doing its job to hold up yours. Not completing him—neither of you believe in the idea of another person completing someone else. But being with you somehow augments his existence. Adds to who he is, what he can do.

He cups your face again, tips your chin up and captures your lips in a kiss. Slow and deep and completely inappropriate for the setting, judging by the pointed coughing from the bartender.

There's matching sheepish looks on your faces when you pull back.

The bartender looks unamused.

Spencer tucks his face in the crook of your neck, partly in shame, but mostly so he can keep peppering your skin with kisses. The longer he spends time with you, the more his earlier hypothesis is proven: his body is traitorous in its reactions. Already, his pants are beginning to feel strained and all he's done is share a few kisses.

Still, he can't stop. Finds any excuse to keep touching his lips to the sweat-slick softness of your neck, your shoulder. Something earthy and herbal hits his nose, the notes of your perfume melting into your skin, fusing with your natural musk. Chemical reactions have never been sexier.

He bares his teeth, nips at your ear. Your shiver reverberates right through his chest, straight to his heart, and all he can think is good, good, more.

"Excuse me, can you put this on David Rossi's tab?"

Spencer blinks, pulling back enough to stare at you, confused. There's a knowing smirk on your face, and he feels dizzy, undone by just the mischievous curl of lip. You aren't even addressing him; the words had been said to the bartender.

His heart stutters in anticipation. That smile is a promise; he will be remade before the night is over.

The bartender punches several buttons on the register, before lifting his thumb in affirmation. Successful.

You slip off the stool, lacing a hand through one of his. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here before the entire bar notices your raging boner."

Spencer sputters, but doesn't deny nor protest. It's all true.

It knocks air from his chest, this casual familiarity. How you've memorized his tells enough to make a decision for both him. How well you just know him. Your acceptance—encouragement, even—of his oddities. Sometimes questioning them but not to judge. Only to understand, to learn parts of himself that he thought had been hidden, but were really simmering right past the surface. No one has just bothered to dig before. Until you.

It should make him shrink back. Should make him feel like a topic of study, like one of the profiles he pores over, academic and impersonal.

Instead, Spencer welcomes it. It's scary, being seen in this light, but your gaze is always so full of adulation, and so the intimacy never feels violent or intrusive. Only sacred.

He follows you with single-minded focus, his vision myopic, singular, honed on the sway of your hips, the way your hair flutters when the late night breeze hits it after the two of you spill out the exit.

He moves to the sidewalk, intending to call a cab, but is stopped by a tug and a laugh.

"Spence, honey, you drove us here, remember?"

Oh. Right.

He chuckles, stumbling with you to the direction of the parking lot. His arm wraps over your shoulder, and your form melds into his side. Head tucked against him, strides in perfect sync, magnets snapping in place.

His car comes into view, but his attempts to unlock it is impeded by your mouth. Soft, lazy kisses along his neck, and already his hands are trembling.

"Angel," he croaks, gone, and you laugh, taking pity on him. Back off enough to let him open the passenger's side, slide in. Spencer rounds the vehicle and climbs to the driver's seat, and you're on him the moment the door slams shut.

Leaning over the console, your mouth finds his. Spencer returns it like he's been expecting it. Instantly, the kiss is messy. Full of greed and desperation, the tension from the bar culminating right here. In his vintage car, at a public parking lot.

Well, at least it's in semi-privacy.

At least there's no one around.

He's a little too far gone to make rational judgments. All he knows is you, you, you.

He kisses you with a low, throaty moan, hands everywhere, mapping out the familiar contours of your body, so warm and pliant under his ravenous palms. He squeezes handfuls of you through your clothes, one hand on your ass, the other on your thigh, guiding you from the passenger's side and straight on his lap.

You straddle him with ease, the action almost reflexive after how many times you've done it. Both your legs planted by his thighs, never breaking the kiss as you sit balanced on the tops of his knees like you belong there—and you do.

He'd be whatever you want of him, be the throne, altar, and object of your affection. All three things have converged in his mind anyway; entire linguistic and symbolic fields fracturing at the power of your hands and heady kisses. Meanings warp because he says so, because he's convinced that preexisting ideas are not nearly sufficient enough to describe you and the way he feels for you.

You moan into his mouth, and he responds with a needy thrust upwards. Your hips are too far for any proper friction, so he holds the span of your waist in both hands and hauls you closer until you're positioned over his crotch.

"Oh, you're a little aggressive tonight," you giggle, fingers threaded through his hair.

A soft whine of protest fills the car when you pull away from the kiss.

Another giggle. "Ah, there's the Spencer I know."

He laughs too, barely more than a choked breath misting over your chest. "S-sorry. If it's making you uncomfortable–"

"Oh, baby, it's doing the exact opposite." You grind down on his straining erection lazily. He fights back another whimper; he knows you can tell. In the darkness of his car, your teeth gleam, bared in a smile that's bordering on feral. "I told you earlier, it's hot. Not really aggressive, just more… assertive."

"It-it's hot?"

"Uh huh. I like when you get all confident." You lean in for another kiss, slow and deep like you have all the time in the world. Like the threat of getting caught isn't looming over both of your shoulders.

He feels your hands on his belt, hears the metals clanging softly as you unbuckle the leather.

"Y-you kind of help," he admits. His fingers flex anxiously into your skin, and he hopes he doesn't accidentally give you bruises, "it's easier to… just be… like I never have to second guess myself when I'm with you. I get to just… exist."

He feels your hands pause. For a brief moment, he wonders if he said something wrong, but your eyes are glimmering when they meet his, little sparkling bits clinging to your lashes.

Tears, Spencer realizes. You're crying. Or about to, at least.

"Angel." he breathes, cupping your face with both of his large hands and kissing away those tears before they have the chance to spill.

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

Despite his attempts to prevent your crying, your voice still gets choked up in sobs. He kisses you through those too.

"It's true. It's true, you just… You make me lose my mind sometimes, but in a good way. I can get so in my head, but with you, I just am." He whispers with a breathless chuckle, holding you flush to him, as if eradicating distance will help his words sink bone deep.

"Don't lose your mind too much, though," you sniffle, and nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly, "You also need to think to be, or whatever it was Descartes said."

He laughs. This time, when your lips meet, it's a slower tangle of tongue and teeth. His hands move from your hips to slip under your skirt, higher until his fingertips skim over soaked lace.

You shudder and rock into his grasp, seeking friction through fabric, and he lets you have it for a few languorous moments. Watches with bright eyes as you find pleasure from the gentle circles of his thumb, catalogues the way your lashes flutter like delicate wings over your cheeks.

When he feels like you've had enough teasing, he slides two fingers under your panties, slipping one past your entrance.

The familiar flutter around his digits is a welcome feeling—your body gently accepting him. Human anatomy never ceases to amaze him. The way something so tight and small can open up with a few simple caresses, the right attention. And Spencer intends to shower you with all of his focus right now.

Another finger joins the first, stretching you further, curling up until he finds that familiar spot deep inside you.

Your whole body trembles on his lap, and Spencer can't hold back a moan.

Foreplay is necessary, both of you realized early into your relationship, not just to keep you wet, but also to get these muscles to relax. He'd never fit inside you otherwise, and he'd rather be celibate for the rest of his life than to ever hurt you deliberately.

So he finds a rhythm with his fingers. Watches every reaction with large, honey eyes, committing every hitch of your breath to memory. He's hard under you again. Hell, he's afraid he'd come just from this—the exquisite friction of having you on his lap and taking in your reactions while he gives you pleasure. He wouldn't complain if that's how he comes, actually, would be perfectly content to fall apart just from pleasuring you.

But you've other ideas and he's utterly beholden to you. So when you whisper, "Stop, stop, I don't want to finish yet," Spencer halts every action.

He keeps his fingers buried in your warmth as you lean in for another kiss. Somehow, you still taste sweet after making out with him. He marvels at that, at you. But then you're rocking into his palm again, and he knows that you want—need—more.

"Condom's in my left pocket," he mutters against your lips, laughing when you pat the wrong side, "No, angel, my left."

You giggle, shoulders shaking uncontrollably until you finally pull the packet out. The unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone fills the car, and then finally he feels relief as the length of him is freed from his boxers. He's hard, so red it looks almost painful—and it had been, tenting under layers of clothes though he's not about to complain now.

Spencer's forced to pull his fingers from you in favor of tugging your panties down. It's awkward and messy, with you contorting just to get the panties off, and by the time it's gone, you're both giggling.

"Maybe we shouldn't have done this in a car." he says, nipping at your lower lip.

"Would you have been able to wait until we got home?" you retort. The foil tears open in one clean yank, a testament to your resolve.

"Honestly, I would wait for you forever."

"Okay, Orpheus." your sarcastic tone is blunted by the hint of giddiness, the slight lift at the corners of your lips. You reach down, patting along the side.

"Angel, my seats don't recline." he reminds you.

"Fucking hell," you groan, glaring at him as if it's somehow his fault. He rubs circles into your thighs and waits patiently while you contemplate whether or not to continue. "Whatever. Condom's already open."

He laughs and lets you roll the condom on, groaning when your hands wrap around his girth. He's so large that you can barely fit your palm around it, squeezing slightly at your teasing strokes. Spencer moans, his head already thrown back against the headrest.

You silence him with another kiss, tongue sweeping hungrily into his mouth, and he surrenders. Any amount of his assertiveness you claimed to find hot vanishes. Spencer is always ecstatic to give away control, let you take over.

You part for air, although he's convinced the car is running out of it, that it's getting so thick and heavy with tension that you'd both end up suffocating. Oh well. Not a bad way to go.

He helps you lift up, skirt bunched up to your hips and pinned there by his palms. With a confident grip, you glide the length of his cock over your folds, gathering slickness, and offering a glimpse of what's to come.

After a few teasing passes, it becomes evident that you're both desperate for this, because you finally line him to your entrance and sink down. Gravity does its job, but he keeps you steady with his hands, nails carving crescent moons into your skin.

You're tight. That shouldn't come as a surprise, but he whimpers all the same, brows furrowed in concentration as he fights every instinct to just buck up and take. But no. Not while the broadest part of his cock is barely past that tight ring of muscle.

He feels your walls flutter, then tense, and he's reaching between your legs and thumbing gentle halos over your clit. Your heaving breaths warm his skin, but he feels you beginning to relax again.

"Fuck," you groan, face buried in his neck. "God, this first entry is always so–oh!"

Spencer mirrors your groan as he finally breeches your entrance and he's surrounded by the most heavenly, velvety warmth.

"You okay?" he asks, raining kisses to your temple, your cheek like a shower of starlight. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, this—mhm, fuck." you're already grinding on top of him, chasing your pleasure.

Spencer gasps, expecting a little bit more adjustment time, but he isn't about to complain. Not when you're mewling above him, sweaty and dazed and all his. Already, you're whispering filthy words in his ear, crude and just on the verge of blasphemous.

He moans and nods and shifts. Mutters broken little yeses like he's substituting them for hail Mary's. When your hips start moving up and down in earnest, Spencer swears his vision whites out. He sits back, slack jawed and rapturous, blinking up at your figure. The pace you've set is quick and sloppy, perhaps because you've realized as well that this is being done in a public parking lot.

Distantly, he registers that the windows of his car have fogged up. That the creaking metal is directly caused you bouncing on his lap. That if anyone were to pass by, they would know exactly what's happening inside his vehicle.

For some reason, it's that thought that makes him shudder and hurtle straight to his orgasm. The recklessness of it all, the threat of being caught. It's thrilling. Kinks and fetishes had always seemed so abstract to him, but now, he understands them with frightening clarity.

And then, on top of it all, the fact that he never would have done this with anyone else. Just you, only you, oh god.

"That's it, baby," you pant, grinning at his every whine and whimper. "God, I can feel you throbbing."

He is. And it isn't just his cock. Every single part of him is overcome with tremors, so out of his control that his hips jerk up into you. He breaks your rhythm by mistake, hears a sharp gasp, followed by a moan.

"God, Spence, yes, just like that."

"Yeah?" he repeats it again, head still cloudy from the aftershocks, and eager to get you there as well. "Like this, angel?"

He thrusts up, again and again, eyes and ears perked for any shift in your tone or breathing, afraid to get too rough and hurt you. But you've turned to putty in his hands, body slumped against his chest, face buried in his neck.

Feeling bold, Spencer gets a firm grip on your hips and starts moving you with him. His cock is sensitive, and the tips of his fingers feel electric, but he doesn't stop. Keeps thrusting up into you despite the tears gathering in his lashes from over stimulation.

Your legs are trembling around him as you find the rhythm and move without the help of his hands, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle your desperate moans. He has no such restraint, his head titled back and whining, loud and shameless.

There's a familiar clenching around his length, telling him you're close, almost there, and he doubles his efforts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, he moves with more confidence, taking cues from your trembling body to keep himself in check.

The car's rocking is obscene.

And then you're crying out, shuddering, a rush of slickness coating his cock. Spencer locks his arms around your waist and breathes you in. Lets you ride out the waves in the firm comfort of his embrace.

"My god." he mumbles. Soothing kisses run down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder. "Are you okay?"

You can only nod, legs feeling delicate and immovable. Spencer is content to keep you on his lap while you recover, nosing through the tendrils of hair plastered to your temple. He feels elated, content, and mildly disbelieving.

"Angel," he breathes, sheepish and worn out, "I don't think I can drive."

Your laughter is bright, slurred, and so, so angelic. You are the picture of ruin when you finally emerge from his neck and look up at him. "Maybe I should have let you call us a cab earlier."

He tilts your chin up, grinning and so in love. "Really? I'm glad you didn't."

He watches you laugh again, and he swears that's enough to help him recover feeling back to his lower body. Just the sight of you and the sound of your laughter.

Spencer leans in for another kiss. The last for right now, in this car, but definitely not for the night. In fact, the first of many, forever, if he could help it.