𐔌 . ⋮ 𝘈𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘢 𝘗. 𝘕𝘦𝘴𝘴 .ᐟ ֹ

He wasn't fully sure then, but he assumed it was some sort of kinky thing. But ironically, whatever it is, he got farther away from it when he had sex. 

It didn’t help that he only started casually having it during his addiction. It wasn’t that he hated being...dominated all the time; it's just he never felt completely safe or comfortable whenever he did it with a particularly beautiful woman. That's why he used to prefer fucking guys because he liked being dominant and they didn't pigeonhole him into being a sobbing, overstimulated “Please Mommy” character he always used to be whenever a pretty woman took him home.

Morgan says that he's acting like a chick, but Spencer knows it’s because sometimes it makes him feel like he’s on the goal post again, naked, tricked by Alexa Lisbon, the prettiest girl at his high school. So when he became a professor and met you, some pianist for the university’s pit for their musical, he felt the same. Resentful. But he would watch you walk to your car through his office window at dusk every day. 

He’d make up stories about you in his head: She probably grew up with two parents in the home, enough money for lessons. Private school. Lives her life in the clouds because that's where angels like you naturally reside. He knew he was being unfair because he hadn’t actually met you yet. He’d wonder how your first meeting would be if you guys had one.

Whenever he thought about you, he would think about murder. The way the men he’d catch at the BAU would tie you up. Or drown you. Bury you in, I don’t know—multicolor aquarium pebbles because of some sick niche fascination a freak developed through trauma. By just walking around and existing as yourself, Spencer felt as if you were foolish. 

He knows that it was his misogyny talking and that it was pathetic to think that he was your protector by just watching you all the time, but he couldn’t help it. As much as he envied your radiance, he wanted to make you his more than anything. 

Once you’d brush him off with a nice to meet you, you'd then scan the room to find a more interesting, more influential person to try to network with. He’d then bring up his 3 degrees and watch your jaw drop. Ohhh, how he’d love to imagine your jaw dropping and then taking him, all of him. He couldn’t stand women like you. Respected, nice enough to get somewhere in the world, easily laughable, carefree, and oh so beautiful. It killed him inside because he felt so immediately vulnerable with them. It felt like you were manipulating him when you probably hadn’t even noticed him before—

“Excuse me,” a voice called from behind him in the parking lot. Footsteps? No, heels against concrete echo behind him. They’re getting closer. He turns around, and it's you. Finally, it's you.

“You dropped this.” You smile at him. It's happening again to him. He fights the feeling of his head lolling backwards like the first time he tried Dilaudid, slumped, and you’ve said five words to him. His wallet is in your hand, but that's the third thing he looks at. First, it’s your beautifully manicured nails, then it's your clunky, completely childish Star Wars watch on your wrist. The laughter drums out of his lungs, like a deranged lunatic. He knew that he’d got it all wrong in that moment. He was yours. And that he would be for a long time, if not forever.

“You always treat me like I’m some dumb baby! Well, I'm not Spencer; I’m a grown-ass woman.” You’d yelled at him during your first fight. Before you guys had ever fucked. It’s true he babied you. How could he not? He adored everything about you. Even in that moment, your lips were in this cute pout, and your arms were tossed open, giving him a perfect view of your pretty tits.

“I know," he responded, his voice crackly and quiet. “I’m sorry, baby—honey." He corrected himself as the phrasing seemed inappropriate at the moment.

“I get that there is a major difference between us because of how young I am and how you’re older than me, but I can handle myself. I don’t need your money, and I don’t need ‘sorry’ gifts. I need you to change. Stop canceling dates last minute for cases. Just… don't make them or break up with me if you don't have the time.” Then you started to cry. Spencer stepped closer, holding your face in his hands, kissing where your tears fell on your cheeks. “I could never leave you, honey; I’m sorry.”

“You want me to treat you like a grown-ass woman? Fine.” He’d said, slapping his cock on your face before grabbing the back of your head and shoving your mouth towards his balls as he pumped his hand up and down his cock. You started kissing them before inhaling deeply.

“You’re so fucking disgusting,” he whispered as he began rubbing his tip on your plush lips, smearing precum on your mouth and chin before you opened your mouth, taking him all the way until you gagged.

“Oh,” he sighed, tutting. “Look at you, pretty. All drooling and fucked out, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” You begin bobbing your head on his dick, your drool pooling out the corners of your mouth and bubbling & everything before you'd pull back on it and swirl your tongue on the head.

“Awhh are you tired, slut? ‘S it too big? Want me to help you, gorgeous? Here,” Spencer’s hands took fistfuls of your hair, and he started humping your face, face-fucking you.

“I know it's a lot, honey, but since you're such a big girl now—mhm, fuck. And wanna give head, You can take it, yeah?" He feels your mouth widen while your lips still slurp around his dick, the back of your throat widening. Spencer shudders from pleasure. “Atta girl, fuck—" he breathed. “You’re gonna make me come. Ah, you’re so good; you’re such a good girl,” he moaned, his eyes falling to your hips that were grinding into the floor. “Do you want me to make you feel good while you suck me off, baby?” He pulled you off his dick so you could speak. You nodded.

“I need a yes or no, baby; use your words.” “Yes,” you said, grabbing his cock and kissing the tip before rubbing your lips up the side of his shaft. Spencer’s eyes screw shut, and his jaw drops. He thought back to those bitter days alone in the office and laughed to himself. You switched it around and won again. Licking a fat strip from his base to his tip brings him back, wincing. "Fuck—sit on my face, please." Spencer helped you stand up, kissing you before walking both of you backwards towards the bed.

“Put your full weight on me, sweetheart,” he breathed, frustrated with you practically hovering your hips over his face, taunting him. You hesitantly lowered your ass to his mouth while leaning forward to suck his dick.

His big hands hooked around your hips, pulling you down so he could lap at your pussy even deeper. Both of your hands pumped up and down the rest of his cock that couldn’t fit in your mouth; he had sucked harshly at your clit. As his tip hit the back of your throat, you moaned around it, the vibrations of your voice making him jerk his hips and quicken the pace of his licking. At this point, Spencer was making out with your pussy, hands roaming your ass, before a deafening smack cracked through the lewd sound of slurping and whining. The pinpricked stinging your skin made you clench around nothing and turned your blowjob into more of a lazy handjob featuring a couple of kitten licks.

It wasn’t a question of whether the neighbors could hear you; it was a question of whether they could make sense of your non-intelligible babbling or not.

"Spence—oh my godd— 's too much, please, please," you’d cut yourself off with a wanton moan that could only be successfully mimicked if someone experienced Spencer’s mouth on them.

Spencer's flattened tongue finds your syrupy opening and laps at your cunt. He loved you before then, but finally tasting you… God. He’s got a PhD and 3 BAs, but he’s never been so devoted to something—someone—before.

He needed you so bad it felt like every grain of his worldly flesh was on fire. Spencer has never been religious, especially due to the card he was dealt growing up, but how could he not have been in that moment, nourished by ambrosial nectar and kneeled on by a goddess? He moaned into your pussy as you started to cry from overstimulation, which only worsened his need for you.

You were even more beautiful when you cried. He could imagine your face now, your plush lips in a cute pout, your entire face flushed with your eyes screwed shut, brows pinched together. He slurped at you again, humming contentedly as you ran down his chin.

You hiccuped his name, still running your hand up and down his cock, index finger teasing his tip as your drool dripped down from your bottom lip to his balls.

Not even Moses, standing at the threshold of the Red Sea, had felt reverence at this intensity before. Your body felt red hot against his hand, like how sustained violins played with freshly rosined bows hit your ears. 

Callused hands found fistfuls of fat on your ass as you regained your senses and started sucking on the head of his dick, whining, spit bubbling around his dick.

He started sloppily fucking your fist, your hand tightening around his shaft as he throbbed in your hand and circled your clit with his tongue.

His. You were his. Your sobs, the rasp in your voice from his cock being stuffed down your throat, and your sweet weeping cunt parked on his fucking face. His his his his.

He wished he could have talked you through it. Told you that you were his pretty, sweet girl that tastes so good. But he was focused. His hands massaged your ass, thighs twitching and shaking, and you were about to come again. 

“Ohh baby sosogood'mclose” 

He’d wanted to smile at your incoherence, but he was on a mission, his hands now spreading your ass cheeks apart, swiveling his head in a transient figure 8, wrecking you on his tongue. More tears welled in your eyes as the slippery feeling of Spencer's wet, hot mouth, his tongue pushing between and sucking at your cunt, got to you.

Your body writhed in ecstasy, shoulders wracked with sobs as your pussy gushed on Spencer's face. He softly licked at your swollen, puffy petals as your desperate hips rolled against his face. 

It’d been three years since the two of you had broken up. You’d gone through two boyfriends since Spencer ended things via letter. A culmination of fights over the same things he promised to change. He decided to cut his poor, pretty woman loose after he had to cancel a double date because ‘the enucleator claimed another victim across state lines’ so he’d embarrassed you in front of your work friend. You’d gone to a bar after being stood up, where you ran into your ex. He didn’t know what happened after your meeting, and he never wanted to know, so he simply broke up with you to avoid finding out, leaving the apartment you shared and all his belongings there. Went on sabbatical at the BAU, too.

Spencer had mourned your essence, beauty, jokes, and smile every day since. Even though he was the one who ended it, he felt as if he were just excommunicated from his awaiting him, engraved by a medieval manufacturer that coincidentally shares a name with you, glaring against the sun. 

You were his biggest mistake that he ruminated over until its hippocampus rotted out his skull and its necrotic flesh cannibalized itself before metabolizing in his bones. His eidetic memory had never been crueler; he saw you everywhere, in everything. 

You ruined his life.

The only warmth he’d known since you was his right hand. He hadn’t even dared to try with another. He knew that any man or woman who dared to be your runner-up would be met with flaccid indifference. And his heart ached so sourly beneath his ribs that he could barely get up in the morning for work, let alone seek flesh to please him or another love to paralyze him while he was still reeling from the last one. He couldn’t think of how you reacted when you got the letter, what you're doing now, or what you'd say if you went back. Until.

One day after work, his legs propelled him away from his new front door and towards his car that he hadn’t warmed up in three months. He drove and drove as chilled pebbles from the sky cascaded from the ether onto the hood of his car and his windshield. 

As he drove up a familiar hill, the hail turned into rain. Rain that dowsed him as he stepped out of his vintage Volvo. And he trekked up familiar stairs.

Violins started again with each watery step he took into the blue night. The freezing water seeping into his Converse, soaking the edge of his pants that flood him since you're not there to hem them anymore. 

Until he's at the door. He wants to knock, but he feels as if he were a phantom that would noclip through the door and see something he wouldn’t want to see if he tried. You against the wall, the strap of your favorite nightgown slipping off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your warm breasts to the cool air and the delicate swan-like curve of your neck to his chaste kisses. Or someone else's. 

He knocks. No answer. He knocks again and again. 

“Baby, please," he says to himself, completely blinded by lovesickness and longing to feel your warmth again. 

He runs his hands against the ice-cold doorknob. He envied a doorknob. Then your car seat and the curtains in your once-shared bedroom that get drawn whenever you change. He stares blankly at the door until—

He sees you abstracted by the glass of the front door. It swung open, and, by God, there you are. 

Candy apple red dress on. Tight, hair cascading down in those pretty waves you’d do whenever you had a concert. He drinks in the sight of you. And your face. Jaw dropped, the way he likes, gobsmacked. 

“What are you doing here?” You say, breathless.

You’re not quite eye level with him, but you’re close. He looks down. You're wearing pretty strappy heels. Sexy. You look sexy. But for who? He wanted to cry at the thought.

“I miss you." His voice croaked out, almost drowned out by the buckets being poured out from above.

You look away from the door, expression hard and unreadable. “You left me,” you say, quietly.

His ears are ringing at the sound of your voice.

“I know.” Is all he can say. Soaked. His hair, glued to his face by the rain.

“So why are you here? " You look up at him. You do your makeup a little differently now; your hair is a shade darker too. But you still look like his baby that he was stupid enough to walk away from out of pride.

“Because I love you. And I'm a fool for ever leaving you.”

You look down again before taking a step closer to him. He can smell your perfume. He got it for you for your second anniversary, sending a thrill through his body and blood straight to his

“Fuck you.”

“Honey, please," his voice cracks. You fold your arms.

“I have places to be, Spencer.” You huff, trying your best to keep your voice steady.

He falls to his knees and begins to cry, pathetically grasping at the fabric of your dress.

“Don’t go. I'm sorry—please, you have no idea… I’ve thought about you every day…every second.”

“Get up.” You say dryly.

“I can’t. I walked away from you once; I won't ever do it again. I love you and I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, baby; please forgive me. It was cruel of me to leave you over something so insignificant after all the times I left you alone... by yourself—" He wipes his face with your dress, hiccuping and gasping for air as he cries. He looked up at you with puppy-like, watery eyes and a sniffling pink nose.

“You just wanted to spend time with me, love me, and I—took your love for granted and left you because I felt discarded for a moment when I had been making you feel that way for years, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” He wipes his running nose on the back of his hand.

“I don’t deserve you. I'm sorry, my love, my beautiful girl. I let you down and left you. But I promise, honey—I—I’ve changed. I won’t ever… ever make you feel that way again.”

You wipe away a tear you didn’t realize fell from your eyes before your hand finds his hair. “I love you so much." He sobs when he feels your touch before bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it.

“I promise, please give me another chance… please," sniff. "I'm sorry."

“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Spencer's dick hit your cervix. Your hands find Spencer's shoulders, freshly curled hair haloed around your head as your mouth hangs open. "Ngh—oh my goddd, you’re so big," you groan, Spencer's forehead against yours. “It’s okay, I’ll make it fit, baby…” he reassures you, brushing hair away from your face. “Missed me, didn't you, pretty…hm?” moan. He’s not talking to you; he’s talking to your cunt. "I missed you, sweetheart," he whispers reverently, grabbing your face and angling it so he could lick from your clavicle to your jaw. "Mmm, and how you taste ‘nd how you shiver against my touchy ‘n–” one of his hands squishes your breasts. “These pretty heavy tits. Made to fit in my hands, God—" Spencer cuts himself off with a cymbal as you clench around him, which only makes his hips roll into yours faster.

“Nobody makes me feel like you do, Spencer," you whisper.

“Fuck! Say my name again, honey—....pleasepleasples”

“I love you, Spencer.”

“Does that big dick feel good, princess? Are you gonna cum on it?” He teases. You nod, but Spencer cranes your head to look down at you getting fucked by him. The burning knot in your stomach starts to build as Spencer whines in your ear.

“Y-you looked so pretty in that dress, wearing the perfume I bought you… Mmm, you like watching me fuck you like this?” 

“I love fucking you raw."

Spencer shudders when you say that, taking a deep breath.

“Keep saying shit like that and I'm gonna hold you down and breed you."

“You feel so s’good raw I don't even care," you moan, running your hands down the side of his face, palms prickled by his slightly grown-out facial hair. He stares into your eyes, vision unfocused, brows pinched together, mouth agape, completely pussy-drunk and hanging on your every word.

“You won’ be m-mad if I come inside you?? Make you take this dick and fill you up with my cum?? No???” He asks, breathless.

You look at him, eyes half-lidded and dark, smirking as you wrap your legs around his waist.

He looks down at him fucking you before he meets your eyes again, his brows furrowed.

Spencer pulls all the way out, then pushes back in as far as he can, feeding you rough, deep strokes. You choke out a sob as he hits that gummy spot inside of you that turns you into liquid.

“Are you gonna cry for me like you used to, angel?” moan “As I get you pregnant and fucking mate you like a bitch in heat?” He huffs, breathing heavily as you moan in response. “Miss me that bad that you wanna make up for lost time by giving me babies, huh, gorgeous?” Plap, plap, plap. “Fuck, I'm so close. I'm going to give you what you want. I’ll give you everything that you want.”

‘Iloveyous’much” you whine as you come undone on his cock, clenching down and creaming on his fat dick.

Stars dance in your bleary vision as Spencer lets out a wanton moan from his diaphragm, hot, seedy ropes of his come shooting into your pussy.

Both of you are heaving as Spencer pulls out. He plants a chaste but loving kiss on your forehead before you scootch up on the bed to kiss him on the lips, both of your hands finding the sides of his face. Spencer sighs, melting into your touch. The happiest he thinks he’s ever been.

The next morning Spencer wakes with you not by his side, terrified. Until he hears piano keys, a sustained melody pouring in from the living room. He shoots out of bed to find you, but he quiets his footsteps as he hears you begin to sing. His footsteps softly pad into the archway of the living room, watching you just from out of sight, behind you. The toaster springs up two cinna-strudle cream cheese pastries, the ones he introduced you to after your first grocery store shop together after you moved in. Your voice is as soft as chiffon but sweet and piercing, like a siren's. You weren’t trying to sound good, but you just… did, only singing the words to help keep the melody of the song:

Mon amour, je sais que tu m'aimes aussi. Tu as besoin de moi, tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie. Tu ne peux vivre sans moi. Et je mourrais sans toi. Je tuerais pour toi

Or according to Spencer’s sleepy translation:

My love, I know you love me too. You need me, you need me in your life. You can't live without me. And I would die without you. I would kill for you.

Spencer walks up behind you; you turn around on the piano bench, startled by the creaking of floorboards under the weight of his steps.

“Spencer! God—" You laugh breathlessly. “What's your problem? You scared me…Jesus." 

You giggled. He could shed a tear. 

He did actually, and he fell to his knees, resting his head in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist.

“Oh–okay.” You laugh again. "Someone's clingy this morning.” 

Spencer buries his face into your thighs, leaving sleepy kisses near your hips as your fingers raked through his mousy brown curls.

“I love you,” he says, his voice wrecked from the night before. He picks his head up from your lap when you stop petting him. You press a kiss into his cheek, holding his face in your hands.

“I love you too, baby.”

He wasn't fully sure then, but he assumed it was some sort of kinky thing. But ironically, whatever it is, he got farther away from it when he had sex. 

It didn’t help that he only started casually having it during his addiction. It wasn’t that he hated being...dominated all the time; it's just he never felt completely safe or comfortable whenever he did it with a particularly beautiful woman. That's why he used to prefer fucking guys because he liked being dominant and they didn't pigeonhole him into being a sobbing, overstimulated “Please Mommy” character he always used to be whenever a pretty woman took him home.

Morgan says that he's acting like a chick, but Spencer knows it’s because sometimes it makes him feel like he’s on the goal post again, naked, tricked by Alexa Lisbon, the prettiest girl at his high school. So when he became a professor and met you, some pianist for the university’s pit for their musical, he felt the same. Resentful. But he would watch you walk to your car through his office window at dusk every day. 

He’d make up stories about you in his head: She probably grew up with two parents in the home, enough money for lessons. Private school. Lives her life in the clouds because that's where angels like you naturally reside. He knew he was being unfair because he hadn’t actually met you yet. He’d wonder how your first meeting would be if you guys had one.

Whenever he thought about you, he would think about murder. The way the men he’d catch at the BAU would tie you up. Or drown you. Bury you in, I don’t know—multicolor aquarium pebbles because of some sick niche fascination a freak developed through trauma. By just walking around and existing as yourself, Spencer felt as if you were foolish. 

He knows that it was his misogyny talking and that it was pathetic to think that he was your protector by just watching you all the time, but he couldn’t help it. As much as he envied your radiance, he wanted to make you his more than anything. 

Once you’d brush him off with a nice to meet you, you'd then scan the room to find a more interesting, more influential person to try to network with. He’d then bring up his 3 degrees and watch your jaw drop. Ohhh, how he’d love to imagine your jaw dropping and then taking him, all of him. He couldn’t stand women like you. Respected, nice enough to get somewhere in the world, easily laughable, carefree, and oh so beautiful. It killed him inside because he felt so immediately vulnerable with them. It felt like you were manipulating him when you probably hadn’t even noticed him before—

“Excuse me,” a voice called from behind him in the parking lot. Footsteps? No, heels against concrete echo behind him. They’re getting closer. He turns around, and it's you. Finally, it's you.

“You dropped this.” You smile at him. It's happening again to him. He fights the feeling of his head lolling backwards like the first time he tried Dilaudid, slumped, and you’ve said five words to him. His wallet is in your hand, but that's the third thing he looks at. First, it’s your beautifully manicured nails, then it's your clunky, completely childish Star Wars watch on your wrist. The laughter drums out of his lungs, like a deranged lunatic. He knew that he’d got it all wrong in that moment. He was yours. And that he would be for a long time, if not forever.

“You always treat me like I’m some dumb baby! Well, I'm not Spencer; I’m a grown-ass woman.” You’d yelled at him during your first fight. Before you guys had ever fucked. It’s true he babied you. How could he not? He adored everything about you. Even in that moment, your lips were in this cute pout, and your arms were tossed open, giving him a perfect view of your pretty tits.

“I know," he responded, his voice crackly and quiet. “I’m sorry, baby—honey." He corrected himself as the phrasing seemed inappropriate at the moment.

“I get that there is a major difference between us because of how young I am and how you’re older than me, but I can handle myself. I don’t need your money, and I don’t need ‘sorry’ gifts. I need you to change. Stop canceling dates last minute for cases. Just… don't make them or break up with me if you don't have the time.” Then you started to cry. Spencer stepped closer, holding your face in his hands, kissing where your tears fell on your cheeks. “I could never leave you, honey; I’m sorry.”

“You want me to treat you like a grown-ass woman? Fine.” He’d said, slapping his cock on your face before grabbing the back of your head and shoving your mouth towards his balls as he pumped his hand up and down his cock. You started kissing them before inhaling deeply.

“You’re so fucking disgusting,” he whispered as he began rubbing his tip on your plush lips, smearing precum on your mouth and chin before you opened your mouth, taking him all the way until you gagged.

“Oh,” he sighed, tutting. “Look at you, pretty. All drooling and fucked out, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” You begin bobbing your head on his dick, your drool pooling out the corners of your mouth and bubbling & everything before you'd pull back on it and swirl your tongue on the head.

“Awhh are you tired, slut? ‘S it too big? Want me to help you, gorgeous? Here,” Spencer’s hands took fistfuls of your hair, and he started humping your face, face-fucking you.

“I know it's a lot, honey, but since you're such a big girl now—mhm, fuck. And wanna give head, You can take it, yeah?" He feels your mouth widen while your lips still slurp around his dick, the back of your throat widening. Spencer shudders from pleasure. “Atta girl, fuck—" he breathed. “You’re gonna make me come. Ah, you’re so good; you’re such a good girl,” he moaned, his eyes falling to your hips that were grinding into the floor. “Do you want me to make you feel good while you suck me off, baby?” He pulled you off his dick so you could speak. You nodded.

“I need a yes or no, baby; use your words.” “Yes,” you said, grabbing his cock and kissing the tip before rubbing your lips up the side of his shaft. Spencer’s eyes screw shut, and his jaw drops. He thought back to those bitter days alone in the office and laughed to himself. You switched it around and won again. Licking a fat strip from his base to his tip brings him back, wincing. "Fuck—sit on my face, please." Spencer helped you stand up, kissing you before walking both of you backwards towards the bed.

“Put your full weight on me, sweetheart,” he breathed, frustrated with you practically hovering your hips over his face, taunting him. You hesitantly lowered your ass to his mouth while leaning forward to suck his dick.

His big hands hooked around your hips, pulling you down so he could lap at your pussy even deeper. Both of your hands pumped up and down the rest of his cock that couldn’t fit in your mouth; he had sucked harshly at your clit. As his tip hit the back of your throat, you moaned around it, the vibrations of your voice making him jerk his hips and quicken the pace of his licking. At this point, Spencer was making out with your pussy, hands roaming your ass, before a deafening smack cracked through the lewd sound of slurping and whining. The pinpricked stinging your skin made you clench around nothing and turned your blowjob into more of a lazy handjob featuring a couple of kitten licks.

It wasn’t a question of whether the neighbors could hear you; it was a question of whether they could make sense of your non-intelligible babbling or not.

"Spence—oh my godd— 's too much, please, please," you’d cut yourself off with a wanton moan that could only be successfully mimicked if someone experienced Spencer’s mouth on them.

Spencer's flattened tongue finds your syrupy opening and laps at your cunt. He loved you before then, but finally tasting you… God. He’s got a PhD and 3 BAs, but he’s never been so devoted to something—someone—before.

He needed you so bad it felt like every grain of his worldly flesh was on fire. Spencer has never been religious, especially due to the card he was dealt growing up, but how could he not have been in that moment, nourished by ambrosial nectar and kneeled on by a goddess? He moaned into your pussy as you started to cry from overstimulation, which only worsened his need for you.

You were even more beautiful when you cried. He could imagine your face now, your plush lips in a cute pout, your entire face flushed with your eyes screwed shut, brows pinched together. He slurped at you again, humming contentedly as you ran down his chin.

You hiccuped his name, still running your hand up and down his cock, index finger teasing his tip as your drool dripped down from your bottom lip to his balls.

Not even Moses, standing at the threshold of the Red Sea, had felt reverence at this intensity before. Your body felt red hot against his hand, like how sustained violins played with freshly rosined bows hit your ears. 

Callused hands found fistfuls of fat on your ass as you regained your senses and started sucking on the head of his dick, whining, spit bubbling around his dick.

He started sloppily fucking your fist, your hand tightening around his shaft as he throbbed in your hand and circled your clit with his tongue.

His. You were his. Your sobs, the rasp in your voice from his cock being stuffed down your throat, and your sweet weeping cunt parked on his fucking face. His his his his.

He wished he could have talked you through it. Told you that you were his pretty, sweet girl that tastes so good. But he was focused. His hands massaged your ass, thighs twitching and shaking, and you were about to come again. 

“Ohh baby sosogood'mclose” 

He’d wanted to smile at your incoherence, but he was on a mission, his hands now spreading your ass cheeks apart, swiveling his head in a transient figure 8, wrecking you on his tongue. More tears welled in your eyes as the slippery feeling of Spencer's wet, hot mouth, his tongue pushing between and sucking at your cunt, got to you.

Your body writhed in ecstasy, shoulders wracked with sobs as your pussy gushed on Spencer's face. He softly licked at your swollen, puffy petals as your desperate hips rolled against his face. 

It’d been three years since the two of you had broken up. You’d gone through two boyfriends since Spencer ended things via letter. A culmination of fights over the same things he promised to change. He decided to cut his poor, pretty woman loose after he had to cancel a double date because ‘the enucleator claimed another victim across state lines’ so he’d embarrassed you in front of your work friend. You’d gone to a bar after being stood up, where you ran into your ex. He didn’t know what happened after your meeting, and he never wanted to know, so he simply broke up with you to avoid finding out, leaving the apartment you shared and all his belongings there. Went on sabbatical at the BAU, too.

Spencer had mourned your essence, beauty, jokes, and smile every day since. Even though he was the one who ended it, he felt as if he were just excommunicated from his awaiting him, engraved by a medieval manufacturer that coincidentally shares a name with you, glaring against the sun. 

You were his biggest mistake that he ruminated over until its hippocampus rotted out his skull and its necrotic flesh cannibalized itself before metabolizing in his bones. His eidetic memory had never been crueler; he saw you everywhere, in everything. 

You ruined his life.

The only warmth he’d known since you was his right hand. He hadn’t even dared to try with another. He knew that any man or woman who dared to be your runner-up would be met with flaccid indifference. And his heart ached so sourly beneath his ribs that he could barely get up in the morning for work, let alone seek flesh to please him or another love to paralyze him while he was still reeling from the last one. He couldn’t think of how you reacted when you got the letter, what you're doing now, or what you'd say if you went back. Until.

One day after work, his legs propelled him away from his new front door and towards his car that he hadn’t warmed up in three months. He drove and drove as chilled pebbles from the sky cascaded from the ether onto the hood of his car and his windshield. 

As he drove up a familiar hill, the hail turned into rain. Rain that dowsed him as he stepped out of his vintage Volvo. And he trekked up familiar stairs.

Violins started again with each watery step he took into the blue night. The freezing water seeping into his Converse, soaking the edge of his pants that flood him since you're not there to hem them anymore. 

Until he's at the door. He wants to knock, but he feels as if he were a phantom that would noclip through the door and see something he wouldn’t want to see if he tried. You against the wall, the strap of your favorite nightgown slipping off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your warm breasts to the cool air and the delicate swan-like curve of your neck to his chaste kisses. Or someone else's. 

He knocks. No answer. He knocks again and again. 

“Baby, please," he says to himself, completely blinded by lovesickness and longing to feel your warmth again. 

He runs his hands against the ice-cold doorknob. He envied a doorknob. Then your car seat and the curtains in your once-shared bedroom that get drawn whenever you change. He stares blankly at the door until—

He sees you abstracted by the glass of the front door. It swung open, and, by God, there you are. 

Candy apple red dress on. Tight, hair cascading down in those pretty waves you’d do whenever you had a concert. He drinks in the sight of you. And your face. Jaw dropped, the way he likes, gobsmacked. 

“What are you doing here?” You say, breathless.

You’re not quite eye level with him, but you’re close. He looks down. You're wearing pretty strappy heels. Sexy. You look sexy. But for who? He wanted to cry at the thought.

“I miss you." His voice croaked out, almost drowned out by the buckets being poured out from above.

You look away from the door, expression hard and unreadable. “You left me,” you say, quietly.

His ears are ringing at the sound of your voice.

“I know.” Is all he can say. Soaked. His hair, glued to his face by the rain.

“So why are you here? " You look up at him. You do your makeup a little differently now; your hair is a shade darker too. But you still look like his baby that he was stupid enough to walk away from out of pride.

“Because I love you. And I'm a fool for ever leaving you.”

You look down again before taking a step closer to him. He can smell your perfume. He got it for you for your second anniversary, sending a thrill through his body and blood straight to his

“Fuck you.”

“Honey, please," his voice cracks. You fold your arms.

“I have places to be, Spencer.” You huff, trying your best to keep your voice steady.

He falls to his knees and begins to cry, pathetically grasping at the fabric of your dress.

“Don’t go. I'm sorry—please, you have no idea… I’ve thought about you every day…every second.”

“Get up.” You say dryly.

“I can’t. I walked away from you once; I won't ever do it again. I love you and I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, baby; please forgive me. It was cruel of me to leave you over something so insignificant after all the times I left you alone... by yourself—" He wipes his face with your dress, hiccuping and gasping for air as he cries. He looked up at you with puppy-like, watery eyes and a sniffling pink nose.

“You just wanted to spend time with me, love me, and I—took your love for granted and left you because I felt discarded for a moment when I had been making you feel that way for years, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” He wipes his running nose on the back of his hand.

“I don’t deserve you. I'm sorry, my love, my beautiful girl. I let you down and left you. But I promise, honey—I—I’ve changed. I won’t ever… ever make you feel that way again.”

You wipe away a tear you didn’t realize fell from your eyes before your hand finds his hair. “I love you so much." He sobs when he feels your touch before bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it.

“I promise, please give me another chance… please," sniff. "I'm sorry."

“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Spencer's dick hit your cervix. Your hands find Spencer's shoulders, freshly curled hair haloed around your head as your mouth hangs open. "Ngh—oh my goddd, you’re so big," you groan, Spencer's forehead against yours. “It’s okay, I’ll make it fit, baby…” he reassures you, brushing hair away from your face. “Missed me, didn't you, pretty…hm?” moan. He’s not talking to you; he’s talking to your cunt. "I missed you, sweetheart," he whispers reverently, grabbing your face and angling it so he could lick from your clavicle to your jaw. "Mmm, and how you taste ‘nd how you shiver against my touchy ‘n–” one of his hands squishes your breasts. “These pretty heavy tits. Made to fit in my hands, God—" Spencer cuts himself off with a cymbal as you clench around him, which only makes his hips roll into yours faster.

“Nobody makes me feel like you do, Spencer," you whisper.

“Fuck! Say my name again, honey—....pleasepleasples”

“I love you, Spencer.”

“Does that big dick feel good, princess? Are you gonna cum on it?” He teases. You nod, but Spencer cranes your head to look down at you getting fucked by him. The burning knot in your stomach starts to build as Spencer whines in your ear.

“Y-you looked so pretty in that dress, wearing the perfume I bought you… Mmm, you like watching me fuck you like this?” 

“I love fucking you raw."

Spencer shudders when you say that, taking a deep breath.

“Keep saying shit like that and I'm gonna hold you down and breed you."

“You feel so s’good raw I don't even care," you moan, running your hands down the side of his face, palms prickled by his slightly grown-out facial hair. He stares into your eyes, vision unfocused, brows pinched together, mouth agape, completely pussy-drunk and hanging on your every word.

“You won’ be m-mad if I come inside you?? Make you take this dick and fill you up with my cum?? No???” He asks, breathless.

You look at him, eyes half-lidded and dark, smirking as you wrap your legs around his waist.

He looks down at him fucking you before he meets your eyes again, his brows furrowed.

Spencer pulls all the way out, then pushes back in as far as he can, feeding you rough, deep strokes. You choke out a sob as he hits that gummy spot inside of you that turns you into liquid.

“Are you gonna cry for me like you used to, angel?” moan “As I get you pregnant and fucking mate you like a bitch in heat?” He huffs, breathing heavily as you moan in response. “Miss me that bad that you wanna make up for lost time by giving me babies, huh, gorgeous?” Plap, plap, plap. “Fuck, I'm so close. I'm going to give you what you want. I’ll give you everything that you want.”

‘Iloveyous’much” you whine as you come undone on his cock, clenching down and creaming on his fat dick.

Stars dance in your bleary vision as Spencer lets out a wanton moan from his diaphragm, hot, seedy ropes of his come shooting into your pussy.

Both of you are heaving as Spencer pulls out. He plants a chaste but loving kiss on your forehead before you scootch up on the bed to kiss him on the lips, both of your hands finding the sides of his face. Spencer sighs, melting into your touch. The happiest he thinks he’s ever been.

The next morning Spencer wakes with you not by his side, terrified. Until he hears piano keys, a sustained melody pouring in from the living room. He shoots out of bed to find you, but he quiets his footsteps as he hears you begin to sing. His footsteps softly pad into the archway of the living room, watching you just from out of sight, behind you. The toaster springs up two cinna-strudle cream cheese pastries, the ones he introduced you to after your first grocery store shop together after you moved in. Your voice is as soft as chiffon but sweet and piercing, like a siren's. You weren’t trying to sound good, but you just… did, only singing the words to help keep the melody of the song:

Mon amour, je sais que tu m'aimes aussi. Tu as besoin de moi, tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie. Tu ne peux vivre sans moi. Et je mourrais sans toi. Je tuerais pour toi

Or according to Spencer’s sleepy translation:

My love, I know you love me too. You need me, you need me in your life. You can't live without me. And I would die without you. I would kill for you.

Spencer walks up behind you; you turn around on the piano bench, startled by the creaking of floorboards under the weight of his steps.

“Spencer! God—" You laugh breathlessly. “What's your problem? You scared me…Jesus." 

You giggled. He could shed a tear. 

He did actually, and he fell to his knees, resting his head in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist.

“Oh–okay.” You laugh again. "Someone's clingy this morning.” 

Spencer buries his face into your thighs, leaving sleepy kisses near your hips as your fingers raked through his mousy brown curls.

“I love you,” he says, his voice wrecked from the night before. He picks his head up from your lap when you stop petting him. You press a kiss into his cheek, holding his face in your hands.

“I love you too, baby.”

He wasn't fully sure then, but he assumed it was some sort of kinky thing. But ironically, whatever it is, he got farther away from it when he had sex. 

It didn’t help that he only started casually having it during his addiction. It wasn’t that he hated being...dominated all the time; it's just he never felt completely safe or comfortable whenever he did it with a particularly beautiful woman. That's why he used to prefer fucking guys because he liked being dominant and they didn't pigeonhole him into being a sobbing, overstimulated “Please Mommy” character he always used to be whenever a pretty woman took him home.

Morgan says that he's acting like a chick, but Spencer knows it’s because sometimes it makes him feel like he’s on the goal post again, naked, tricked by Alexa Lisbon, the prettiest girl at his high school. So when he became a professor and met you, some pianist for the university’s pit for their musical, he felt the same. Resentful. But he would watch you walk to your car through his office window at dusk every day. 

He’d make up stories about you in his head: She probably grew up with two parents in the home, enough money for lessons. Private school. Lives her life in the clouds because that's where angels like you naturally reside. He knew he was being unfair because he hadn’t actually met you yet. He’d wonder how your first meeting would be if you guys had one.

Whenever he thought about you, he would think about murder. The way the men he’d catch at the BAU would tie you up. Or drown you. Bury you in, I don’t know—multicolor aquarium pebbles because of some sick niche fascination a freak developed through trauma. By just walking around and existing as yourself, Spencer felt as if you were foolish. 

He knows that it was his misogyny talking and that it was pathetic to think that he was your protector by just watching you all the time, but he couldn’t help it. As much as he envied your radiance, he wanted to make you his more than anything. 

Once you’d brush him off with a nice to meet you, you'd then scan the room to find a more interesting, more influential person to try to network with. He’d then bring up his 3 degrees and watch your jaw drop. Ohhh, how he’d love to imagine your jaw dropping and then taking him, all of him. He couldn’t stand women like you. Respected, nice enough to get somewhere in the world, easily laughable, carefree, and oh so beautiful. It killed him inside because he felt so immediately vulnerable with them. It felt like you were manipulating him when you probably hadn’t even noticed him before—

“Excuse me,” a voice called from behind him in the parking lot. Footsteps? No, heels against concrete echo behind him. They’re getting closer. He turns around, and it's you. Finally, it's you.

“You dropped this.” You smile at him. It's happening again to him. He fights the feeling of his head lolling backwards like the first time he tried Dilaudid, slumped, and you’ve said five words to him. His wallet is in your hand, but that's the third thing he looks at. First, it’s your beautifully manicured nails, then it's your clunky, completely childish Star Wars watch on your wrist. The laughter drums out of his lungs, like a deranged lunatic. He knew that he’d got it all wrong in that moment. He was yours. And that he would be for a long time, if not forever.

“You always treat me like I’m some dumb baby! Well, I'm not Spencer; I’m a grown-ass woman.” You’d yelled at him during your first fight. Before you guys had ever fucked. It’s true he babied you. How could he not? He adored everything about you. Even in that moment, your lips were in this cute pout, and your arms were tossed open, giving him a perfect view of your pretty tits.

“I know," he responded, his voice crackly and quiet. “I’m sorry, baby—honey." He corrected himself as the phrasing seemed inappropriate at the moment.

“I get that there is a major difference between us because of how young I am and how you’re older than me, but I can handle myself. I don’t need your money, and I don’t need ‘sorry’ gifts. I need you to change. Stop canceling dates last minute for cases. Just… don't make them or break up with me if you don't have the time.” Then you started to cry. Spencer stepped closer, holding your face in his hands, kissing where your tears fell on your cheeks. “I could never leave you, honey; I’m sorry.”

“You want me to treat you like a grown-ass woman? Fine.” He’d said, slapping his cock on your face before grabbing the back of your head and shoving your mouth towards his balls as he pumped his hand up and down his cock. You started kissing them before inhaling deeply.

“You’re so fucking disgusting,” he whispered as he began rubbing his tip on your plush lips, smearing precum on your mouth and chin before you opened your mouth, taking him all the way until you gagged.

“Oh,” he sighed, tutting. “Look at you, pretty. All drooling and fucked out, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” You begin bobbing your head on his dick, your drool pooling out the corners of your mouth and bubbling & everything before you'd pull back on it and swirl your tongue on the head.

“Awhh are you tired, slut? ‘S it too big? Want me to help you, gorgeous? Here,” Spencer’s hands took fistfuls of your hair, and he started humping your face, face-fucking you.

“I know it's a lot, honey, but since you're such a big girl now—mhm, fuck. And wanna give head, You can take it, yeah?" He feels your mouth widen while your lips still slurp around his dick, the back of your throat widening. Spencer shudders from pleasure. “Atta girl, fuck—" he breathed. “You’re gonna make me come. Ah, you’re so good; you’re such a good girl,” he moaned, his eyes falling to your hips that were grinding into the floor. “Do you want me to make you feel good while you suck me off, baby?” He pulled you off his dick so you could speak. You nodded.

“I need a yes or no, baby; use your words.” “Yes,” you said, grabbing his cock and kissing the tip before rubbing your lips up the side of his shaft. Spencer’s eyes screw shut, and his jaw drops. He thought back to those bitter days alone in the office and laughed to himself. You switched it around and won again. Licking a fat strip from his base to his tip brings him back, wincing. "Fuck—sit on my face, please." Spencer helped you stand up, kissing you before walking both of you backwards towards the bed.

“Put your full weight on me, sweetheart,” he breathed, frustrated with you practically hovering your hips over his face, taunting him. You hesitantly lowered your ass to his mouth while leaning forward to suck his dick.

His big hands hooked around your hips, pulling you down so he could lap at your pussy even deeper. Both of your hands pumped up and down the rest of his cock that couldn’t fit in your mouth; he had sucked harshly at your clit. As his tip hit the back of your throat, you moaned around it, the vibrations of your voice making him jerk his hips and quicken the pace of his licking. At this point, Spencer was making out with your pussy, hands roaming your ass, before a deafening smack cracked through the lewd sound of slurping and whining. The pinpricked stinging your skin made you clench around nothing and turned your blowjob into more of a lazy handjob featuring a couple of kitten licks.

It wasn’t a question of whether the neighbors could hear you; it was a question of whether they could make sense of your non-intelligible babbling or not.

"Spence—oh my godd— 's too much, please, please," you’d cut yourself off with a wanton moan that could only be successfully mimicked if someone experienced Spencer’s mouth on them.

Spencer's flattened tongue finds your syrupy opening and laps at your cunt. He loved you before then, but finally tasting you… God. He’s got a PhD and 3 BAs, but he’s never been so devoted to something—someone—before.

He needed you so bad it felt like every grain of his worldly flesh was on fire. Spencer has never been religious, especially due to the card he was dealt growing up, but how could he not have been in that moment, nourished by ambrosial nectar and kneeled on by a goddess? He moaned into your pussy as you started to cry from overstimulation, which only worsened his need for you.

You were even more beautiful when you cried. He could imagine your face now, your plush lips in a cute pout, your entire face flushed with your eyes screwed shut, brows pinched together. He slurped at you again, humming contentedly as you ran down his chin.

You hiccuped his name, still running your hand up and down his cock, index finger teasing his tip as your drool dripped down from your bottom lip to his balls.

Not even Moses, standing at the threshold of the Red Sea, had felt reverence at this intensity before. Your body felt red hot against his hand, like how sustained violins played with freshly rosined bows hit your ears. 

Callused hands found fistfuls of fat on your ass as you regained your senses and started sucking on the head of his dick, whining, spit bubbling around his dick.

He started sloppily fucking your fist, your hand tightening around his shaft as he throbbed in your hand and circled your clit with his tongue.

His. You were his. Your sobs, the rasp in your voice from his cock being stuffed down your throat, and your sweet weeping cunt parked on his fucking face. His his his his.

He wished he could have talked you through it. Told you that you were his pretty, sweet girl that tastes so good. But he was focused. His hands massaged your ass, thighs twitching and shaking, and you were about to come again. 

“Ohh baby sosogood'mclose” 

He’d wanted to smile at your incoherence, but he was on a mission, his hands now spreading your ass cheeks apart, swiveling his head in a transient figure 8, wrecking you on his tongue. More tears welled in your eyes as the slippery feeling of Spencer's wet, hot mouth, his tongue pushing between and sucking at your cunt, got to you.

Your body writhed in ecstasy, shoulders wracked with sobs as your pussy gushed on Spencer's face. He softly licked at your swollen, puffy petals as your desperate hips rolled against his face. 

It’d been three years since the two of you had broken up. You’d gone through two boyfriends since Spencer ended things via letter. A culmination of fights over the same things he promised to change. He decided to cut his poor, pretty woman loose after he had to cancel a double date because ‘the enucleator claimed another victim across state lines’ so he’d embarrassed you in front of your work friend. You’d gone to a bar after being stood up, where you ran into your ex. He didn’t know what happened after your meeting, and he never wanted to know, so he simply broke up with you to avoid finding out, leaving the apartment you shared and all his belongings there. Went on sabbatical at the BAU, too.

Spencer had mourned your essence, beauty, jokes, and smile every day since. Even though he was the one who ended it, he felt as if he were just excommunicated from his awaiting him, engraved by a medieval manufacturer that coincidentally shares a name with you, glaring against the sun. 

You were his biggest mistake that he ruminated over until its hippocampus rotted out his skull and its necrotic flesh cannibalized itself before metabolizing in his bones. His eidetic memory had never been crueler; he saw you everywhere, in everything. 

You ruined his life.

The only warmth he’d known since you was his right hand. He hadn’t even dared to try with another. He knew that any man or woman who dared to be your runner-up would be met with flaccid indifference. And his heart ached so sourly beneath his ribs that he could barely get up in the morning for work, let alone seek flesh to please him or another love to paralyze him while he was still reeling from the last one. He couldn’t think of how you reacted when you got the letter, what you're doing now, or what you'd say if you went back. Until.

One day after work, his legs propelled him away from his new front door and towards his car that he hadn’t warmed up in three months. He drove and drove as chilled pebbles from the sky cascaded from the ether onto the hood of his car and his windshield. 

As he drove up a familiar hill, the hail turned into rain. Rain that dowsed him as he stepped out of his vintage Volvo. And he trekked up familiar stairs.

Violins started again with each watery step he took into the blue night. The freezing water seeping into his Converse, soaking the edge of his pants that flood him since you're not there to hem them anymore. 

Until he's at the door. He wants to knock, but he feels as if he were a phantom that would noclip through the door and see something he wouldn’t want to see if he tried. You against the wall, the strap of your favorite nightgown slipping off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your warm breasts to the cool air and the delicate swan-like curve of your neck to his chaste kisses. Or someone else's. 

He knocks. No answer. He knocks again and again. 

“Baby, please," he says to himself, completely blinded by lovesickness and longing to feel your warmth again. 

He runs his hands against the ice-cold doorknob. He envied a doorknob. Then your car seat and the curtains in your once-shared bedroom that get drawn whenever you change. He stares blankly at the door until—

He sees you abstracted by the glass of the front door. It swung open, and, by God, there you are. 

Candy apple red dress on. Tight, hair cascading down in those pretty waves you’d do whenever you had a concert. He drinks in the sight of you. And your face. Jaw dropped, the way he likes, gobsmacked. 

“What are you doing here?” You say, breathless.

You’re not quite eye level with him, but you’re close. He looks down. You're wearing pretty strappy heels. Sexy. You look sexy. But for who? He wanted to cry at the thought.

“I miss you." His voice croaked out, almost drowned out by the buckets being poured out from above.

You look away from the door, expression hard and unreadable. “You left me,” you say, quietly.

His ears are ringing at the sound of your voice.

“I know.” Is all he can say. Soaked. His hair, glued to his face by the rain.

“So why are you here? " You look up at him. You do your makeup a little differently now; your hair is a shade darker too. But you still look like his baby that he was stupid enough to walk away from out of pride.

“Because I love you. And I'm a fool for ever leaving you.”

You look down again before taking a step closer to him. He can smell your perfume. He got it for you for your second anniversary, sending a thrill through his body and blood straight to his

“Fuck you.”

“Honey, please," his voice cracks. You fold your arms.

“I have places to be, Spencer.” You huff, trying your best to keep your voice steady.

He falls to his knees and begins to cry, pathetically grasping at the fabric of your dress.

“Don’t go. I'm sorry—please, you have no idea… I’ve thought about you every day…every second.”

“Get up.” You say dryly.

“I can’t. I walked away from you once; I won't ever do it again. I love you and I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, baby; please forgive me. It was cruel of me to leave you over something so insignificant after all the times I left you alone... by yourself—" He wipes his face with your dress, hiccuping and gasping for air as he cries. He looked up at you with puppy-like, watery eyes and a sniffling pink nose.

“You just wanted to spend time with me, love me, and I—took your love for granted and left you because I felt discarded for a moment when I had been making you feel that way for years, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” He wipes his running nose on the back of his hand.

“I don’t deserve you. I'm sorry, my love, my beautiful girl. I let you down and left you. But I promise, honey—I—I’ve changed. I won’t ever… ever make you feel that way again.”

You wipe away a tear you didn’t realize fell from your eyes before your hand finds his hair. “I love you so much." He sobs when he feels your touch before bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it.

“I promise, please give me another chance… please," sniff. "I'm sorry."

“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Spencer's dick hit your cervix. Your hands find Spencer's shoulders, freshly curled hair haloed around your head as your mouth hangs open. "Ngh—oh my goddd, you’re so big," you groan, Spencer's forehead against yours. “It’s okay, I’ll make it fit, baby…” he reassures you, brushing hair away from your face. “Missed me, didn't you, pretty…hm?” moan. He’s not talking to you; he’s talking to your cunt. "I missed you, sweetheart," he whispers reverently, grabbing your face and angling it so he could lick from your clavicle to your jaw. "Mmm, and how you taste ‘nd how you shiver against my touchy ‘n–” one of his hands squishes your breasts. “These pretty heavy tits. Made to fit in my hands, God—" Spencer cuts himself off with a cymbal as you clench around him, which only makes his hips roll into yours faster.

“Nobody makes me feel like you do, Spencer," you whisper.

“Fuck! Say my name again, honey—....pleasepleasples”

“I love you, Spencer.”

“Does that big dick feel good, princess? Are you gonna cum on it?” He teases. You nod, but Spencer cranes your head to look down at you getting fucked by him. The burning knot in your stomach starts to build as Spencer whines in your ear.

“Y-you looked so pretty in that dress, wearing the perfume I bought you… Mmm, you like watching me fuck you like this?” 

“I love fucking you raw."

Spencer shudders when you say that, taking a deep breath.

“Keep saying shit like that and I'm gonna hold you down and breed you."

“You feel so s’good raw I don't even care," you moan, running your hands down the side of his face, palms prickled by his slightly grown-out facial hair. He stares into your eyes, vision unfocused, brows pinched together, mouth agape, completely pussy-drunk and hanging on your every word.

“You won’ be m-mad if I come inside you?? Make you take this dick and fill you up with my cum?? No???” He asks, breathless.

You look at him, eyes half-lidded and dark, smirking as you wrap your legs around his waist.

He looks down at him fucking you before he meets your eyes again, his brows furrowed.

Spencer pulls all the way out, then pushes back in as far as he can, feeding you rough, deep strokes. You choke out a sob as he hits that gummy spot inside of you that turns you into liquid.

“Are you gonna cry for me like you used to, angel?” moan “As I get you pregnant and fucking mate you like a bitch in heat?” He huffs, breathing heavily as you moan in response. “Miss me that bad that you wanna make up for lost time by giving me babies, huh, gorgeous?” Plap, plap, plap. “Fuck, I'm so close. I'm going to give you what you want. I’ll give you everything that you want.”

‘Iloveyous’much” you whine as you come undone on his cock, clenching down and creaming on his fat dick.

Stars dance in your bleary vision as Spencer lets out a wanton moan from his diaphragm, hot, seedy ropes of his come shooting into your pussy.

Both of you are heaving as Spencer pulls out. He plants a chaste but loving kiss on your forehead before you scootch up on the bed to kiss him on the lips, both of your hands finding the sides of his face. Spencer sighs, melting into your touch. The happiest he thinks he’s ever been.

The next morning Spencer wakes with you not by his side, terrified. Until he hears piano keys, a sustained melody pouring in from the living room. He shoots out of bed to find you, but he quiets his footsteps as he hears you begin to sing. His footsteps softly pad into the archway of the living room, watching you just from out of sight, behind you. The toaster springs up two cinna-strudle cream cheese pastries, the ones he introduced you to after your first grocery store shop together after you moved in. Your voice is as soft as chiffon but sweet and piercing, like a siren's. You weren’t trying to sound good, but you just… did, only singing the words to help keep the melody of the song:

Mon amour, je sais que tu m'aimes aussi. Tu as besoin de moi, tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie. Tu ne peux vivre sans moi. Et je mourrais sans toi. Je tuerais pour toi

Or according to Spencer’s sleepy translation:

My love, I know you love me too. You need me, you need me in your life. You can't live without me. And I would die without you. I would kill for you.

Spencer walks up behind you; you turn around on the piano bench, startled by the creaking of floorboards under the weight of his steps.

“Spencer! God—" You laugh breathlessly. “What's your problem? You scared me…Jesus." 

You giggled. He could shed a tear. 

He did actually, and he fell to his knees, resting his head in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist.

“Oh–okay.” You laugh again. "Someone's clingy this morning.” 

Spencer buries his face into your thighs, leaving sleepy kisses near your hips as your fingers raked through his mousy brown curls.

“I love you,” he says, his voice wrecked from the night before. He picks his head up from your lap when you stop petting him. You press a kiss into his cheek, holding his face in your hands.

“I love you too, baby.”