𐔌 . ⋮ 𝘈𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘢 𝘗. 𝘕𝘦𝘴𝘴 .ᐟ ֹ

The renaissance faire sprawls across the park in ribbons of color and noise.

Fabric banners snap overhead in the wind. Children race past with wooden swords. Somewhere nearby, someone is playing a flute with the confidence of a man who has never once feared public humiliation.

The entire place smells like cinnamon almonds, leather, trampled grass, and smoke from roasting meat.

Spencer Reid stands in the middle of it looking deeply unconvinced by existence.

Not by the faire itself.

By the crowds.

There are too many people packed too closely together, too many overlapping voices colliding in his ears. Bright colors flash in his peripheral vision every few seconds. A woman dressed as a queen just walked past carrying an enormous turkey leg like a medieval warlord.

He adjusts the strap of his satchel higher onto his shoulder and checks his phone again.

No new texts from Garcia.

Which means he is still technically waiting.

The BAU is in town on a case. A local victim was last seen at the renaissance festival two nights ago, and while the team splits up to follow leads, Garcia had sent Spencer to confirm whether a specific vendor sold rare antique books to attendees.

Simple.

Straightforward.

In theory.

In practice, Spencer got distracted twenty-three minutes ago by a stall selling historical reproductions of first edition classics.

Now he’s staring at a handwritten sign discussing annotated copies of Victorian detective fiction while a man in tights passionately explains paper quality to another customer.

Spencer barely notices the world narrowing around him.

Until—

“Let me guess.”

He glances up automatically.

A mistake.

Because now he sees you.

And his brain stalls like someone tossed a wrench directly into the engine.

You’re standing beside the stall with glitter dusted across your cheeks like scattered stars.

Layers of gauzy fabric spill around you in shifting shades of twilight blue and soft violet, the colors changing every time the sunlight catches them. Tiny crystals are sewn into the skirts and sleeves, glittering like dew on spider silk. 

Your corset is embroidered with silver thread curling into vines and crescent moons, and delicate translucent wings shimmer behind you in iridescent flashes of lavender and sapphire whenever you move. 

Small golden bells are tied into strands of your hair, chiming softly in the breeze. There’s a jeweled beetle pinned to the neckline of your corset, emerald-green and sparkling.

You look less like someone attending the renaissance faire and more like something the forest itself made by accident.

Spencer blinks once. “What?”

“Let me guess.”

“…Guess what?”

“Your favorite book.”

Spencer stares.

You stare back with devastating confidence.

Then, before he can answer, you start circling him slowly.

His posture goes rigid immediately.

“You read constantly,” you murmur. “Not casually. Recreationally and professionally. Your shoes are practical, your watch is functional, your sleeves are rolled unevenly because you did it while distracted…”

Spencer opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“You notice details,” you continue. “You correct people in your head but usually not out loud unless they’re really wrong. You probably had weird hobbies as a child.”

“I still have weird hobbies,” Spencer says before he can stop himself.

Your grin flashes instantly. You stop in front of him again, hands clasped behind your back.

“You like books where intelligence feels magical. Not fantasy magical. Human magical.” You tilt your head. “Your favorite author is probably… Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise despite himself.

“And your favorite book,” you continue triumphantly, “is The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

A beat passes.

“…How did you do that?”

Your expression turns deeply smug. “The fairies told me.”

“That’s not actually my favorite book,” Spencer admits after a second.

Your face falls with exaggerated devastation. “No?”

“But it is my favorite author.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “That still counts as wizardry-adjacent.”

“It’s profiling.”

“Same thing.”

The bells in your hair chime softly as you lean against the edge of the book stall, smiling at him like this entire interaction has already become one of your favorite stories.

Spencer realizes, abruptly, that he’s smiling back.

Dangerous.

Potentially catastrophic.

“Okay,” you say. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Guess my favorite book.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh. Um…”

You wait expectantly.

Which makes this worse.

He looks at you properly this time, trying to gather information instead of simply reacting to the overwhelming phenomenon of your existence.

Fairy costume. Handmade, probably. The stitching near the sleeve hem is slightly uneven but reinforced carefully, meaning you made it yourself and anticipated wear. Glitter on your cheekbones. Tiny paint stains on your fingertips. The jeweled beetle pinned to your corset is slightly chipped near one wing from frequent handling.

There’s also a pressed flower tucked into one of your bracelets.

And—

“Is that a luna moth embroidered onto your bag?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Your eyes light up immediately. “Yes!”

“You like insects.”

“I like friends,” you correct. “Some of them just happen to have exoskeletons.”

Spencer’s mouth twitches.

You are deeply strange.

Not strange in the dangerous way he’s learned to look for.

Strange in the way constellations are strange. The way antique stores smell strange. The way people become when they’ve decided embarrassment is a waste of time.

It’s… nice.

He clears his throat and tries to refocus.

“You probably read emotionally driven narratives,” he says slowly..“Character-focused stories. Escapist elements, but with strong interpersonal relationships. Optimistic endings statistically increase reread value, so…”

Your grin widens by the second.

“You think my favorite book is a romance novel,” you say.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it with extreme confidence.”

Spencer exhales softly through his nose, trying not to smile while simultaneously already failing.

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. I think your favorite book is probably a romance novel.”

You place a hand dramatically against your corset.

“Sir,” you whisper, scandalized, “I am a fairy.”

“I’m aware.”

“I collect moss voluntarily.”

“That doesn’t eliminate romance as a category.”

You narrow your eyes at him like he’s personally offended woodland creatures everywhere.

Spencer studies you again, more carefully this time.

Not just the costume.

The details.

The handmade jewelry. Ink stains on your fingers. Tiny stars painted near your temples. The way you move like your body naturally follows music no one else can hear.

And beneath all of that, there’s intelligence in your eyes. Quickness. A playful sort of calculation.

“You like stories that feel hopeful without being naïve,” he says slowly. “Emotionally sincere, but strange enough that they don’t take themselves too seriously.”

Your expression shifts.

Not enough for most people to notice.

Enough for him.

Spencer tilts his head slightly.

“You reread comfort books,” he continues. “And you romanticize ordinary things on purpose.”

Your grin starts to return. “Oh, he profiles.”

“You also like nature symbolism, transformation metaphors, and unconventional protagonists.” Spencer pauses. “So… I’m guessing your favorite book is probably…” He searches your face once before deciding. “Howl’s Moving Castle.”

Silence.

A bell in your hair chimes softly in the breeze.

Then your entire face lights up.

It’s immediate. Bright. Unfiltered.

Spencer feels something warm and startled unfurl in his chest at being the cause of it.

“You got it,” you say, delighted.

His eyebrows lift. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re serious.”

“I contain whimsy, not dishonesty.”

“That feels statistically unlikely.”

You laugh, and Spencer realizes he likes the sound instantly. It bubbles out of you without restraint, soft around the edges but full in a way that makes nearby noise seem dull by comparison.

Then he narrows his eyes slightly.

“…Although,” he says slowly, “I do have a feeling you would’ve told me I was right no matter what I said.”

You wink at him cheekily. “You'll never know.”

Spencer opens his mouth to argue that technically he could know with enough behavioral analysis and baseline comparison over time—

His phone rings.

The sound slices cleanly through the moment.

You glance toward the noise while Spencer fishes the phone out of his pocket, the screen glowing with Garcia’s name.

Reality returns all at once.

Case.

Crowds.

Work.

The tiny strange bubble around the two of you flickers but doesn’t disappear entirely.

Spencer clears his throat and answers. “Reid.”

“Boy Genius!” Penelope Garcia chirps immediately through the speaker, loud enough that even you can faintly hear her. “Please tell me you found the antique vendor and not another extremely niche literary side quest.”

Spencer glances once toward the book stall. “…Define side quest.”

You grin shamelessly.

“I’m waiting near the east entrance,” Garcia continues. “Morgan found someone who might’ve seen our victim talking to a guy near the performance tents. We need your brain immediately.”

“Okay,” Spencer says automatically. “I’m on my way.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear.

You’re still looking at him.

Still smiling, though softer now. Less theatrical. More real.

For a second, neither of you moves.

The renaissance faire swirls around you in a blur of color and noise. Someone nearby cheers loudly as metal clashes against metal from a staged sword fight. Bells jingle somewhere behind the booths. Smoke curls lazily into the late afternoon air.

Spencer should leave.

He knows that.

The case folds itself back into place inside his mind with practiced precision. Victim timeline. Witness statements. Geographic radius. Probability mapping.

But some stubborn, inconvenient part of him stays rooted exactly where he is.

“Duty calls?” you ask lightly.

He nods once. “Yeah. I should…”

His sentence trails off uselessly as he gestures vaguely in the direction of somewhere.

You glance toward the path behind him, then back to his face.

Then, suddenly:

“This is really forward,” you blurt.

Spencer pauses mid-motion.

“But can I have your number?”

Silence.

Not awkward silence.

Catastrophic silence.

The kind where Spencer Reid’s brain, normally operating at approximately seventeen thousand thoughts per second, suddenly blue screens like an overworked laptop dropped directly into a pond.

You watch it happen in real time.

His eyes widen slightly.

Then blink.

Then widen again.

“Oh,” he says.

A beat.

“Oh.”

You immediately start laughing.

Not meanly.

More like you’ve just accidentally startled a very intelligent deer.

“I can retract the question,” you offer, grin crooked. “Pretend I was briefly possessed by boldness.”

“No,” Spencer says instantly.

Too instantly.

Your eyebrows lift.

“I mean,” he corrects rapidly, “you don’t have to retract it. Direct communication is actually more effective than prolonged ambiguity in establishing interpersonal—”

He stops.

Because you’re looking at him with poorly concealed delight.

Spencer clears his throat.

Right. Human conversation.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Yes. You can have my number.”

You beam so brightly it honestly feels medically significant.

“Cute,” you announce.

His brain catches on the word like a loose thread in machinery.

“…What?”

“The flustered thing,” you say casually. “Very cute.”

Spencer physically short-circuits.

Not metaphorically.

Actually.

A nearby child runs past waving a wooden sword and yelling something incomprehensible about dragons. Spencer looks about as internally stable as that child.

He fumbles for his phone so quickly he nearly drops it.

Your grin turns helplessly fond.

“You’re adorable,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Spencer finally manages to unlock his phone after one failed attempt and holds it out toward you with the careful concentration of someone handling explosives.

You take it gently, bells chiming softly in your hair.

Your fingers brush his for maybe half a second.

It should not matter.

It absolutely matters.

You type your number in, then pause.

A mischievous little smile curls at the corner of your mouth.

Spencer notices immediately.

That is rarely a good sign.

When you hand the phone back, he glances down automatically.

🪲 fairy girl 🧚‍♀️✨

Spencer stares at the contact name.

Then up at you.

Then back at the phone.

“You put bug and fairy emojis in your own contact.”

“Yes.”

“You understand that this tells me nothing.”

“It tells you everything.”

“That’s objectively false.”

You smile. “I get the feeling you'll know exactly who that contact is.”

He smiles before he can stop himself.

Again.

You notice that too.

“Text me sometime, Spencer Reid,” you say, his name warm and easy in your voice like you’ve already decided it belongs there. “Preferably before the apocalypse.”

His pulse does something deeply inconvenient.

“…I have to go,” he says, equal parts apology and regret.

“I know.”

But you don’t sound disappointed.

You sound certain.

Certain in the way people sound when they fully expect to see someone again.

And that feels far more dangerous.

Spencer starts backing away once.

Then stops.

“You never told me your actual favorite book,” he says suddenly.

You smile, sunlight catching in the glitter scattered across your cheeks.

“I’ll save that for the second conversation.”

Then you turn, skirts swaying behind you in shimmering twilight colors, and disappear into the crowd like something enchanted slipping back into the woods.

the thrill that moves through you has you gasping into his mouth, pussy fluttering from how easily he overwhelms your senses. melting into him, letting him kiss you stupid. growing too horny to continue this way, you hold onto him and somehow manage to get him to lay on the couch.

his back resting on the cushions with you straddling him. "i wanna ride you," words spoken soft and tantalising, hand slipping under his shirt again to rest where it once was.

gojo's shirt rides up with your touch, the warm pressure of your soft palm has his cock twitching in his pants. "are you waiting for an invitation?"

"more like a plea," you challenge his glib attitude.

"pleaseee sit on my dick, pretty," his hands slide up your thighs to grip your hips, "i'm aching for it." and as if to prove his point, he ruts his hips up under you. grinding his erection against your clothed cunt.

your nails lightly scratch against his skin, lungs shuddering from the much needed stimulation. you're digging your teeth into your lower lip to stifle down any pathetic sound he might be able to pull from you. failing completely when he tugs you down at the same time that he's rutting up.

"fuuuuck– hold on– hnn– this feels soo—" he doesn't finish his sentence, head tilting back as he keeps dry humping you.

his skin is all flushed and radiating heat, eyes dazed and lost in the muted pleasure he's gaining from this. he's acting like a dog as he keeps relentlessly grinding against you. a small and pitiful whimper leaves him and you're keening into it. hands tugging his shirt up more, palms perched on him as you meet his grinds.

"wait– wait– hng– i'm gonna—" even though he's asking you to wait he doesn't stop his hips, continuing until he's shuddering through his own orgasm.

his pants growing damp as he cums in them, gojo can feel the way his seed clings to his clothes. coating his dick in his own sticky release. if it hadn't felt so fucking good he'd probably be embarrassed but he's in complete bliss right now.

"did you just cum?" you ask him, somehow even more aroused. his relaxed and borderline fucked out expression making you want him more.

he's panting softly, eyes glazed over as he answers, "you shouldn't have looked at me like that."

You send him the same bewildered stare, "You're a six-foot tall, nerdy, pretty boy with glasses, there's no way you're some kinda virgin."

"Well... uh..." He gulps thickly and leans back, the pillow in his lap faltering with the way he readjusts his long legs to try and ease the rather annoying ache in between them, "I kinda am..."

Now you were giving him that cute deer-in-headlights kinda look as if there wasn't a single thought inside your head, the same look that has him flustered for some reason. Followed by which is a turn of your head before you casually return to reaching for that needed puzzle piece, "That's surprising. 'Thought a guy like you would have tons of women."

Gojo looks around for a second before pointing at himself, "You though I would have tons of women? Me?" He scoffs as if that were the most ridiculous thing in the world. "I mean, I know plenty of women who talk to me, sure. But, I've never slept with any of them."

"Why's that?" You ask, knees shifting against the floor so that you could find the desired spot for the piece in your hand, "If you don't mind me asking, of course."

You seem to be entirely oblivious to the way your skirt is still rising against your thighs, especially as you bend down a bit to plop the little puzzle piece into place. Gojo finds himself looking up at the ceiling now, hoping for you to become self aware any moment now, "I dunno, I'm not good at flirting, I guess." He says with a shrug of his shoulders.

The sound of that makes you glance back at him again. This time you look down at his now uncovered crotch and spot the boner prettily resting there. Smiling a bit, "I could teach you." You offer sweetly.

His cock drools at the idea alone before he's fixing his glasses against his face and looking at you again, "Really? You'd teach me how to flirt?"

You snort, "No, silly. I'm offering to teach you how to fuck."

Now, Gojo is many things. Filthily educated in Digimon? Well, of course—he's even got it plastered all over his shirt right now. The most studious individual in every academic institution he's ever attended? Duh. And a completely closeted freak who does nothing but imagine what it'd be like to feel pussy for the first time? Well, yeah...

So when you offer to teach him how to fuck and essentially, take his virginity, he doesn't think he's ever nodded his head faster in his life.

Next thing he knows and your legs are sprawled out over him, caging the sides of his lengthy limbs in between yours as your ass hovers in the air and you move a hand back to tug your panties to the side. Your cute nerd of a friend thinks he's in love as your gorgeously soaked cunt is revealed to him.

He almost reaches out to touch it-, to touch you but, he controls himself and lets you do all the work. After all, he has no idea what he's doing. Gojo only knows things about sex through porn and... well, that can only teach a person so much.

"Y-Y'know," And then he's starting already—yapping as if that would hide his nervousness. His cock is out and you're rubbing two pretty fingers through your folds before moving your hand in between your legs to grab ahold of him. "S-Shiit... Y'know this uh, this puzzle we got-, oh... it-, oh, that feels good-, it was a limited edition-"

"Satoru, you're cute but," You giggle as the lips of your pussy begin to close around his drooling cockhead, "If this is your idea of dirty talk then you have so much to learn..."

He tries to swallow a whine down his throat but it unfortunately escapes him as he continues his rambling, "I just-, goddamn... I thought you'd wanna know that," Gojo utters with a nervous chuckle, hips bucking up slightly to sink himself deeper into the dewy warmth that's currently swallowing up his length. "'Cause o-only a thousand," his breath hitches as you get about halfway down on him, "You're so fuckin' warm... Only a-ah.. a thousand of those sets were s-sold..."

Biting back your own moans whilst his thick cock stretches up into your welcoming walls, "Yeah?" You chime as if you genuinely cared about what he was saying. It's not that you didn't care at all but, the puzzle was the last thing on your mind with the way his dick felt slowly splitting you open. "T-That's... so nice, sweetie."

Gojo's hips snap up at the sound of the praise—wether or not you meant it to be sarcastic—and it's instant the way he brings a hand up to your hip to hold you down as the rest of his lengthy shaft disappears inside you. "Fuck, that felt good," He gasps as if this were some kind of new discovery for him, "C-Can you say that again? Praise me more?"

You work up a steady rhythm of lifting and then slamming your hips down on him after only a few moment of adjusting to his staggering inches, your jaw quickly falling open with slutty drool dangling out past your lips, "You're into that?" You huff softly before glancing back at him, "Y-You want me to-, mmnh, praise you more?"

Gojo's eyes are a little glossy from pleasure and he nods cutely, "P-Please? I'm being good so far, aren't I?" Then he looks down and you feel his cock throb inside of you, "Fuuuck... I haven't even-, ohgod... h-haven't even told you any more s-stupid facts. Aren't you proud of me?"

Another laugh exits your lips before you still your hips down against his, grinding with his cock buried inside of you instead of bouncing on it, "Yeahhh, I guess you have a point," You snort. Then you turn your face forwards and reach for a new puzzle piece before placing it somewhere. Your honeyed pussy clamps around his bulging girth and you hear the way he chokes out a gasp. "I'm so proud of you, 'Toru. Bein' such a good boy for me, aren't you?"

What you don't expect is the thick cum that spills out inside you. The hand he has on your hip grips a little tighter and he groans loudly, tossing his head back losing it at the sound of those words on your tongue. Well, that and the way you'd went back to those puzzle pieces as if this was just another Thursday night for you...

You have a little smile on your face as you feel him finishing inside you and by the time you look back at him, Gojo seems to be completely out of it—as if that was singlehandedly the best nut of his life. Glasses crooked on his face now, hand still anchoring your hip against him, hair tousled, and heavy pants exiting him, you can't help but tilt your head.

"Wow, two minutes. Impressive, really." You snort.

Gojo looks at you, just barely, and then pouts, "It was my first time, I'm sorry."

banner art by rororogi mogera || perm gojo tags (1/2):

@imyourightnow @cupidstrace @billiondollarworth @navyllll @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @sugo-jo @etsuniiru @not-a-glad-gladiator @2kool4skoolll @yulissacastillo11

@daxphoriax @gorouenjoyer @oookore @blubearxy @wonderfullymickey @iaintblockinnobody @anothergojostan @kitassecretgf @nanasukii28 @iam-souless

@nanamitiddiechomper @ohreallyfriend @kunababy @withersworld @suguphile @megottheswaskikacooooke @kvsqkiii @forest-nymph666 @yourlocalcatscammer @viiennie

@1stmagnoila @moonmilk102 @v33326 @lucy-lulu @sukubusss @sweetieelilii @lisabelhyhn @serenadesvt @bloxdhawks @riameriash

“y/n,” He chokes out. “Don’t tease me, plea–oh” Your lewd hands palming his hardening dick through his pajama pants cut off his sentence. “Oh?” You purr, mockingly. “Does that feel good, Doctor?” Now you’ve got him. Spencer swallows hard, “Yes…yeah, it does,” he breathes, the right side of his mouth perking up and morphing into a smirk. “It’s been a while.” “Not true,” you chuckle lightly. “Since we’ve had actual sex, yes, it’s been a while.” He says, quietly but matter-of-factly. He’s technically right. You guys haven’t actually fucked since he was shot. 7 weeks ago. To say that you’d been feeling a little frisky because of your circumstances is an understatement. “You don’t…miss me?” He asks, timidly. You exhale through your nose, “Of course I miss you, it’s just…” you sigh “I don’t want to hurt you, Spencer.” “I’m cleared, and you know that. But if you really don’t want to, then…that's totally fine too.”

“K-kiss my neck again, pleasepleaseplease,” Spencer begs, his voice destroyed as the plush of your ass collides against his skin as you slam your hips down onto his cock over and over again. 

You do as you're told, leaving open-mouth kisses on the unharmed side of his neck. You nip at the skin before sinking your teeth into the flesh of his neck. You take his arms that are hovering over your body and move them to your waist, the erotic sound of your sopping wet pussy taking his fat cock. He hits that spot inside of you that makes you whine and makes your eyes glaze over.

“Feels s’good…oh my God,” He sobs as you clench around him, his hands moving lower as he pathetically gropes at your ass. “I love you so much.”

“You mean you love it when I use you like this?”

Spencer shakes his head as he babbles some nonsense about loving you so much and how he’s never really loved anyone before you. 

“You like fucking me raw?” “You’re so perfec— your…. pussy’s so tight ah– around me.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, your hips rising higher, almost lifting yourself completely off of his dick, before taking all of him again.

Spencer loses it, hips bucking, swearing in between every word that isn’t your name.

Your finger grazes Spencer’s neck, and all of a sudden, you're flipped on your back.

“Sorry—“ He looks into your eyes, “need you like this for a sec’nd, kay, pretty?”

Disoriented and overwhelmingly aroused from the position change, you nod, completely fucked out, and his hips have only just started thrusting into you like this. It's the eye contact that has you. He’s not just desperate, he’s starving. His eyebrows are furrowed, his lips are parted, and that gossamer happy trail—Jesus Christ, how lucky are you to have someone like him rearranging your insides right now. And how stupid are you for waiting so long to get back to fucking him? 

As he starts to pound into the gummy spot inside of you, you begin to moan. Loud and senselessly with reckless abandon as your cunt throbbed around him. 

“Y’Sound so -hck good, sweetheart.” He hiccups, “It’s so cute when you go limp, and lemme take care of you. You like it too, don’you? Hm? When I ragdoll you on my cock?”

When he’s drilling you like this, and he’s looking at you like you’re good enough to eat, it’s hard to answer with a sentence that isn’t a string of whines or ‘I love you.’

He holds the side of your face, and you lean into his touch. “Oh, I know, baby. It’s been so long. You’re taking me so good—fuck.”

Shamelessly, you start running your hands over wherever they can reach. His face, his biceps, and his nipples, which earns you a shudder from him.

“Like what you see?” He exhales.

“So—‘ansome. Missed you so much.”

“Do you feel that stretch?” Spencer says, moving your hand to your stomach, right, where it bulges from his cock that's currently stuffed inside of you. You whimper in response when he does this. 

“My pretty—“ moan “Cockdrunk girlfriend. My caretaker.”

“I missed you,” you slur.

“As you’ve said.” He chuckles, breathily.

“‘M sorry if you thought I didn’t. I was jus’ worried about you.”

“I know, honey. S’okay. You take care of me, I'm gonna take care of you, yeah?”

Your hand moves to rub your clit in tight circles. “Show me how much you missed me.” He coos, “Make yourself come.”

Closer to the edge, your walls begin to flutter around him. “I can feel you gripping me. Are you gonna come, slut?” 

“Mhm,“ You hiccup. “Oh fuck–” You come with a high-pitched whine, legs basically thrashing. He holds you tighter, pushing you into the mattress until he buries his head into your shoulder and starts rutting into you. Using you—your body—to get off. Taking all his frustrations over his circumstances and limitations out on your cunt.

“Your pussy feels so good–” plap plap plap “fucking milking me,” He whines.

He buries his head into your shoulder, pushing his full body weight on top of you while fucking into you impossibly deeper. The plush of your slick-coated thighs tremble against his as your second orgasm ripples throughout your entire body, lingering in your legs. Spencer presses himself to the furthest point inside of you before flooding you with his essence. 

Spencer cranes his head up from your neck to look at you before planting a chaste kiss on your lips. You look into his rich, warm eyes, and your hand instinctively finding his cheek.

“So pretty,” you say under your breath without thinking. He smiles, his face reddening

“Are you flustered from me calling you that?” Spencer chuckles, his head returning to your shoulder to hide how embarrassed he truly is in the moment. How whipped he’s become. “Spencer, you’re literally inside of me right now.”

“You’re so mean to me.” He whines, his voice hoarse. “Don’t act like you don’t like it, Doctor.” You whisper, your tone comically seductive. Regardless, he winces, his hips instinctively rocking against yours.

“Sorry, sorry.” he cymbals, “You just feel so good—so warm.” he mumbles that last part.

Your hand gently runs down to his neck, and suddenly he bucks into you again, his cock half-hard again. And this time you don’t have to wait 7 weeks.