☕︎ spencer reid, my love 𐚁

You just wanted to do something nice but, apparently, the universe had other plans. You're beginning to think you must have some major karmic debt, because that is the only explanation for how you manage to destroy everything you touch. It would be funny — and it is, sometimes — if it weren't so damn frustrating.

A steak dinner. That was all you wanted. A simple, home-cooked dinner that you could surprise Spencer with upon his return from work — a Valentine’s Day gift that wasn't just flowers, chocolates, and niche hundred-year-old books. It was all planned out in advance; you even bought his favourite wine to pair with it, and you had the recipe for a perfect dessert saved on your phone. Nothing could go wrong.

And then it did. 

And then, you burned the goddamn steak. 

It wasn't well-done. It wasn't overcooked. It was burned. Blackened. It looked like you had plucked a piece of coal from the fucking fireplace.

Now, you're sitting on the kitchen floor. Head in your hands. Trying desperately to not ruin your makeup with the tears that are threatening to spill.

Spencer is going to come home any minute, and you have nothing to show for yourself. Nothing but burned steak and broken dreams. With no time to run to the store or order food, the only thing you can do is wait for him, for the humiliation that you'll feel when you have to tell him you've ruined Valentine's Day, like a prisoner awaiting execution.

You hear his key turning in the door, and the nausea that overwhelms you is unlike anything you've felt before in your life. Pursing your lips, you try to suppress the urge to vomit as you push yourself to your feet. It's just anxiety, is what you tell yourself. This isn't the end of the world. You need to get a hold of yourself.

Except this is the end of the world. This is definitive proof of your complete incompetence. Spencer can probably smell your culinary disaster from the hallway. If he knows what's good for him, he will turn and run, and never look back.

But then the door opens, and Spencer comes striding into the apartment. Bouquet of roses in one hand, and a pink gift bag in the other. He glances around until he spots you hovering awkwardly in the doorway, and he gives you this big, adorable smile that just about shatters what's left of your spirit.

"Honey, I'm home!"

Every word that comes out of his mouth feels like another burned steak.

He says this every time he walks through that door, in that same tone, with that same smile — hell, he used to say it when he would visit you in your old apartment — and it's something you always look forward to, something that never fails to light up your day. At least, it usually is.

But today it only fills you with dread. Today, you have half a mind to push past him and bolt straight out of that door before he can see what you've done, but you're frozen in place. So, instead of running for the hills, you force a smile.

"Hey," you say.

Spencer practically comes bounding towards you, arms outstretched. Before you can say anything further, he's engulfing you in this monster of a hug, crushing you — and probably the roses, too — against him as he rocks back and forth like an excited child.

"Happy Valentine's Day, my lady," he says, pulling away with a grin that's damn near blinding. As his gaze comes to rest on your face, his expression shifts slightly. His smile softens, and he looks at you with nothing but pure, unapologetic awe. "You look absolutely stunning."

Your smile falters at his words. Your cheeks ache. Your heart aches. And your eyes are watering. 

Through tears, you watch as Spencer's face falls. Immediately, he sets his gifts aside and takes you by the shoulders. "Hey," he murmurs, voice so soft it hurts, "what's wrong?"

Sniffling, you cover your mouth in a vain attempt to hide your quivering lower lip. "I'm sorry," you whisper. You almost choke on the words.

"For what?" he asks. "Honey, did something happen?"

"I'm sorry," you repeat, shaking your head frantically as you feel the panic rising. "I was going to— to make dinner, and— and it was going really well, and then—" you bury your face in your hands. "I'm so sorry, Spence, I ruined it. I burned the steak, and— and I didn't have time to— to—"

"Oh, sweetheart…" he doesn't waste another moment before pulling you back into a hug. "It's okay."

You blink away tears as you lean against him and try to steady your breathing. This is embarrassing enough as it is, but if you were to break down completely? That would be utterly ridiculous, you'd never recover. And yet you can't stop your shoulders from trembling as he holds you.

"It's okay," he repeats in a low, tender whisper. "It's all okay…"

"…You're not mad?" you mumble.

Spencer's hands move to your face, cupping your cheeks as he encourages you to meet his gaze. "Of course I'm not mad."

"Disappointed?"

"Never," he says, smiling. "You being here is enough for me. More than enough."

You scoff softly, biting back a smile of your own. "I live here, Spence."

"Precisely," he presses a kiss to your cheek. "Why would I be upset about food when you're right in front of me?"

To say you feel relieved at his words would be the understatement of the century. Almost immediately, the tension vanishes from your body, and you feel ten tonnes lighter as Spencer leans in to kiss along your jaw. 

"You're all I need," he murmurs, bringing his lips close to your ear. "You know that, right?"

His voice, equal parts tender and possessive, sends a slight shiver down your spine. Sniffling away the last of your doubts, you nod.

Spencer moves to look you in the eye once more. "Now you say it."

You roll your eyes. "Spence—"

"Come on," he whines, "say it for me."

"I…"

Can't say no. Not to him.

"…I'm all you need," you mutter.

Spencer's face lights up with a smile, and he presses half a dozen quick, chaste kisses to your forehead before embracing you once more. "God, I love you."

His hugs must be laced with something — pure dopamine, maybe — because you're beginning to think you're addicted to them. Addicted to him. His strong arms; his tight, but not suffocating, embrace; his warmth. 

He's your human safety blanket, and you do not hesitate to wrap your arms around him in turn. "I love you, too."

"You're perfect," he murmurs.

"Even though I can't cook?"

You hear him chuckle softly. "Even though you can't cook," he says. "It makes no difference to me; you are the most perfect, most beautiful woman in the world — physically, and intellectually. You're one of the smartest people—"

"Evidently not."

"Hey," grasping your shoulders, he leans down so your faces are level, and his kind brown eyes meet yours with nothing but love. "You are one of the smartest people I have ever met," he says clearly, holding your gaze with an intensity that silences any protest you may have. "I mean it. And this is a good thing, anyways."

You frown. "How is this a good thing?"

"I can give you cooking lessons."

Spencer speaks with such genuine enthusiasm that, for a moment, you forget one of the key facts of your relationship. His excited, charming little smile almost has you fooled — almost.

Narrowing your eyes, you regard him sceptically. "Spence," you say, "you can't cook, either."

All he does in response is shrug. "Only one of us nearly sets the apartment on fire every time— hey!"

You give him a playful shove, being a gentle as possible. You barely touch him, and yet he stumbles backward, flailing his arms dramatically as he pretends to lose balance.

"Not funny," you say, crossing your arms. You're barely able to hold back the smile tugging at your lips.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he raises his hands in surrender. "It is a fact, though— ow!"

Spencer yelps as you pinch his cheek.

"Not. Funny."

As you reach up to pinch his other cheek, his fingers close around your wrists. In one quick move, he pins your arms to your sides and his lips come crashing down onto yours. Although caught off guard, you lean into the kiss instinctively, letting your eyes close as the last dregs of your anxieties vanish.

Releasing your wrists, Spencer sets his hands on your waist, guiding you closer to him until your chest touches his. His grip is firm. Steady. But there's a gentleness to his touch that is not lost on you — the same gentleness that has remained a constant in every interaction he has with you. It's reverence. Almost worship. And it never fails to make your heart skip a beat.

Your hands are in his hair, fingers weaving into the silken brown strands as his press ever so gently against your waist, anchoring themselves in the softness of your body. You feel him smile against your lips before he pulls away to trail kisses down your neck. He takes his time; each kiss is slow and tender, as though he is savouring every single one. 

"I think…" he raises his head to meet your gaze, and his nose brushes against yours as he whispers, "…it might be best if we order take out."

With a soft sigh, you nod in agreement. "I concur," you say, taking a step back.

But before you can turn to retrieve your phone from the kitchen, Spencer's fingers are digging into your waist and he's pulling you back in. With your body flush against his, he leans in impossibly close. As close as he physically can without kissing you again. His breath is hot against your skin as his lips ghost over yours.

"Later," he murmurs, voice low. "Stay here so I can keep kissing you."

The day starts ordinary enough.

Spencer’s in his usual weekend rhythm—hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature. You watch from the couch as he empties the dishwasher, humming softly under his breath. He pauses to line the mugs neatly in the cabinet, then wipes his hands on a dish towel before reaching for the coffee pot.

It’s nothing flashy. Just him being… him. Thoughtful, careful, methodical.

And yet, every small thing he does sends a slow, molten warmth through your veins.

He glances over his shoulder to ask if you want sugar and you can’t even form a coherent answer. You nod, a little too quickly.

Later, he’s in the living room, glasses sliding down his nose as he fixes the leg on the wobbly bookshelf you’ve been complaining about. His hair keeps falling into his face, and he keeps huffing it away with a puff of air, muttering to himself like an old man. You should be helping. You’re not.

You’re watching the veins in his forearm flex every time he tightens a screw.

Then it’s the laundry—him methodically folding towels, matching socks like it’s a puzzle. Then it’s him remembering to water the plant on the windowsill.

And then, Christ, it’s the way he looks at you—his eyes soft and sweet and his voice so, so gentle when he tells you to go get ready.

“For what?” you ask.

He smiles. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question. He’s not asking permission.

And something about that makes your knees a little weak.

You take a quick shower, throw on a pretty sundress, do your makeup and hair, and when you’re about to step into your heels, he kneels down in front of you.

His fingers brush your ankle as he buckles the strap. Then he does the other foot.

It’s so simple. But it turns you on more than you can explain.

He stands and looks at you, brushes your hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You can tell by the look on his face—gentle, knowing, a little amused—that he knows exactly where your mind has gone. But you just smile and say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He says, “Okay,” and the two of you walk out to his car.

Your hands are wrapped around his elbow like it’s 1942 and he’s taking you to the dance. He opens the door for you, and you freeze.

For a second, you're glad he can't hear your thoughts. The dirty ones. The ones where he bends you over the hood of his car and fucks you in broad daylight. But he’s just standing there, waiting for you to get in the car.

Then he raises a brow at you—a bold smirk on his lips and you wonder… maybe he can hear your thoughts.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says. And you nearly melt into the ground.

You’ve been living together for a couple of months now. And he’s finding out—little by little—how unbelievably, downright, unhinged horny you are. He leads you back upstairs. And as soon as the door falls closed behind you, you’re pinned against it, his soft lips on yours.

You can taste the toothpaste on his tongue.

You’re still in your heels and sundress, and he’s fully clothed, and he’s kissing you so hard you can’t catch your breath. His hands are in your hair, tugging, pulling, and your fingers are fumbling for his belt. You think how easy it would be to undo it, unbutton his pants, let them fall. You want them to pool around his ankles; you want him to kick them away and take you right here, up against the door.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers. And even though his tone is loving and tender, he’s also a little rough. A little commanding.

You have to tell him. He won’t move until you do.

“I want you,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “No. Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. “I want you to bend me over the couch. I want you to pull my hair and make me come on your cock. I want it to hurt just a little bit.”

He nods. “Good girl.”

Then he spins you around, bends you over the arm of the couch, flips your dress up, and yanks your panties down to your knees.

And for a second it's embarrassing—the idea of him seeing you like that. It’s easier when it’s dark, when you can pretend he can’t really see you.

But it’s broad daylight and you know he can see everything. The way your thighs are shaking, the wet spot on your panties, the way your body is so, so ready for him.

“Spencer,” you whisper, trying to look over your shoulder at him. But he presses a hand to your back—keeps your face and chest pinned to the cushions.

“Don't move,” he tells you. “I’m going to take care of you.”

You feel his lips brush the back of your thigh.

He kisses a path from your knee to your ass. And when he reaches the soft flesh there, he sinks his teeth in.

“Ow,” you whine, even though it doesn’t really hurt.

He soothes the skin with his tongue, and you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you wider for him. Then his tongue is on your pussy—licking a slow stripe up your center, and you nearly whimper.

“Shh,” he tells you.

And you don’t know why you have to be quiet. The two of you are alone in the apartment. But something about the command, about him shushing you, makes you bite your lip to stay quiet. You press your cheek into the couch cushions, muffling a moan.

“Good girl,” he praises. “You look so pretty like this.”

You can feel his tongue on your clit, lapping at your slick folds, dipping into your hole. He fucks you with it, pressing it inside you as he grips your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He hums against your pussy, and the vibrations make you shiver.

“God, you’re so wet. You’re making such a pretty mess, baby.”

His words send a shockwave through you. And you wonder if this is turning him on as much as it is turning you on. If it’s possible for him to be just as gone, just as crazy for you.

You hear the sound of his belt being undone, then his zipper coming down.

And then he’s pushing inside you, so slow, so careful—like you’re fragile.

You feel every inch of him stretching you, and you let out a gasp. He’s so hard. You can feel it in the way his cock twitches inside you. In the way he hisses when he bottoms out, and his fingers dig into your ass.

He pauses for a moment, lets you adjust, and then he’s pulling out, and thrusting back in—so hard you let out a cry.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. “Tell me if it hurts.”

You shake your head, and he thrusts again.

It hurts just a little, but it feels good, too. Feels like you’re full. Like your body is being rearranged to fit him.

And you can’t help the way your walls clench around him.

He groans.

Even though he’s being dominant—even though he’s telling you what to do, fucking you from behind—he’s still so, so loving. He mutters soft compliments, tells you how good you feel, tells you he doesn’t deserve you.

And every time he’s all the way inside you, he sits there for a second—lets you clench around him, lets you feel every inch.

“You’re taking me so well,” he purrs, fingers tangling in your hair. He yanks, and you move with him, sitting up on your elbows. “Good girl.”

He reaches around to yank your dress down, freeing your tits. And his fingers are kneading, massaging, before he’s pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers.

You let out a whimper.

“Tell me you want it,” he hisses. “Beg me to keep fucking you.”

“Please,” you cry, pressing back against him. “Please don’t stop.”

He keeps that deep, torturous pace—keeps toying with your nipples, pulling and rolling them between his fingers.

“What got you so horny for me, baby?”

And you have to tell him. You have to say the words out loud, even though they sound so dirty, so depraved.

“It was you helping me. Fixing the bookshelf. When you emptied the dishwasher. God, I wanted to drop to my knees and blow you right then.”

He moans and fucks into you—hard and fast.

You swear you feel him hit your fucking cervix. You let out a loud moan.

Then he pulls out, and you’re empty and cold and you whimper at the loss.

"Stand up."

You do, shaky legs and trembling thighs.

He sits down, looks up at you.

“Come here, ride me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

You straddle him. Your knees sink into the soft cushions, and your hands find his shoulders. You raise up on your knees and position him at your center. And slowly—oh, so slowly—you sink down on him.

You can see his face now. The way he watches you like you’re a work of art. Like you’re something to be worshipped.

And it makes you feel powerful and sexy.

You raise up again, and slam back down. He lets out a hiss and bites his lip. So you do it again.

His hands are on your hips, helping you, guiding you. And it’s not long before the two of you find a rhythm. He thrusts up to meet you, and you fuck yourself on him—slow and deep. It’s so good. He’s so good.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His eyes haven’t left your face. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your breast.

Then his lips find yours again.

And it’s sweet and gentle, the way he kisses you. The way his hands hold your face, his tongue licks at yours. He sucks on your bottom lip before he bites it. And it takes your breath away. It feels like a dream—the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re the only person in the world.

Like nothing else matters.

“I love you,” he breathes. “God, I love you so much.”

His voice is so soft, so sincere, you feel a lump form in your throat.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

And he smiles—this little boyish grin that makes him look so young. Makes him look like the world isn’t weighing him down. And you press your forehead to his, feeling his breath on your lips, and then you’re riding him again.

“Touch yourself,” he tells you.

His voice is husky, and his eyes are on you—watching the way you bounce on his cock. You reach down between your legs, playing with your clit in slow circles as you fuck yourself on him. 

He grips your hair, pulling your head back gently so he can look at you.

“I’ll always give you what you want,” he tells you softly. “Anything you ask for.”

“I love you,” you moan again.

“I love you, too.”

You’re still touching yourself like he asked you to. Like you promised. And he notices.

“Good girl,” he moans, and starts fucking up into you—harder. Faster. “My girl.”

“Spencer,” you're breathless as you say his name. “I’m gonna come.”

He’s thrusting up, hitting that spot inside you that feels so fucking good. “You feel so good, baby. So warm and tight.” He bites your neck softly, sucks the skin into his mouth.

“Please,” you whine. “Spencer, I can’t.” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your nails are biting into his skin, and you can feel your orgasm building. “Please let me come.”

He kisses your lips—soft and gentle.

“Of course you can come, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Come on my cock. I want to feel it.”

You let out a moan and do exactly that. You clench around him and see white. You’re gasping for air and shaking and whimpering.

He keeps fucking you through it—slow and gentle, and it feels so good you think you might come again.

“That’s it,” he coos. “You did so good, sweetheart. You made yourself come on my cock.”

And you nod, biting your lip, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucks you. He’s going harder now. You know he’s close. He whispers how good you feel. How beautiful you are. And then he’s coming—groaning softly as he fills you. You can feel him pulsing inside you and you clench around him. It makes him moan and bury his face in your neck. You can feel him smiling against your skin. And the two of you sit there for a moment—him still inside you, his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, smoothing your hair down. He pulls back to look at you and you smile. He kisses you again—so lovingly, so tenderly you melt into him.

And then you’re lying on the couch together. He’s holding you in his lap, your head on his chest. You’re tracing the lines of his chest as he strokes your hair. It’s quiet—save for the sound of your breathing.

You could fall asleep like this. With your head on his chest and his fingers in your hair.

You love to hear him talk. Like this one time, he was ranting about how Scott Fitzgerald plagiarized his wife’s writing and how she gets absolutely none of the praise and then you proceed to spend the next ten minutes kneeled in between his legs, giving him the sloppiest, drooliest, head ever.

Or another time when he started talking to you about how Paradise Lost should’ve been written in Latin because its noun cases would better support the structural order that Milton attempted to impose when you guys went for a walk in the park and then you guys steamed up the windows of your vintage ford mustang as he gave your dicking of a lifetime.

Its so strange to you because in your previous relationships you were never the one to initiate sex. But with Spencer, it’s like an instinct. Yesterday he was rambling to you and usually you’re very attentive to what he has to say but all you’d heard was “blah blah blah lexicon blah blah.” and then out of nowhere he's moaning your name and you’re riding him??? So weird? Like you did you just materialize onto his lap???? 

This evening is no different. You guys are watching Doctor Who in bed, your head lying on his chest as it rises and falls. The light from the television screen reflects on the slope of his nose and his cheeks. His soft brown eyes are so focused on the TV screen and you need him so so so badly. You need to get your mind off of cracking him… just for a second. You could barely walk today from last night, you need to pump the brakes.

“What’d you do today?”

“We didn’t have a case so the team spent today at the office catching up on paper work,” He smiles down at you. His hand finds the flushed skin below your shirt at your waist. “I went out to get lunch for the team at that bakery you like down the street—I uh actually…—got you a danish from there today for later. It's in the kitchen.” You plant a quick kiss on his lips. Your poor, sweet boyfriend. Sometimes you’re worried that you’re going to break him in half someday because you two go at it so much. You know that he loves to be intimate, especially with you and that your need for him can’t be one sided because he initiates sex a lot too but dammit you can’t help but feel like such a pervert around him all the time. 

“Thank you,” You say, exhaling. “What else did you do today?” “On my way back I played chess in the park with three different people at the same time. It was pretty was fun”

You crawl on top of him, perching yourself in his lap before kissing him slowly as you roll your hips down onto him.

“Yeah?” You exhale, your hands softly running up and down his chest. “Did you win?”

His hands find your waist, and then grope the plush of your ass through your short shorts as he cymbals from the friction against his dick. “I always win.”

You leave a dozen of sloppy kisses trailing down his neck, leaving him whiny and helplessly running his hands over the flesh of your hips.

“Y/n” he says, breathily.

Your head perks up from his neck and you redirect your focus back to his face. “Mhm?” You begin peppering his face with kissing, starting at his cheek.

“Do you get um… aroused whenever I talk about the stuff that I like?”

“I get aroused whenever you talk, period.”

“But specifically, you initiate sex with me the most whenever I'm rambling about the latest book that I’ve re-read or whatever degree that I’m considering on getting next or— my point is.” He sighs, “Do you only initiate sex with me to get me to stop talking? I know that I can ramble on and on but-”

“Spence no, I’d never.” You reassure him, hand cradling his face as he looks up at you, expressioned vulnerable and pleading for you to convince him that you’re being honest. How dare he even think about that. “I love hearing you talk and I think that everything that you have to say is interesting. It’s just— I don't know how to explain it…it kind of just heightens my attraction to you. Its like a catalyst almost.”

“Really?” He asks, unsure.

“Yes, really.” you say, genuinely. He leans forward to meet capture your lips in a kiss. His hands move to your tits, his thumbs immediately finding your nipples and rubbing them through the thin cloth of your camisole. You whine as your back arches from the sudden stimulation goes straight to your core.

“God, Y/N you’re going to be the death of me.” he says before he flips you over onto your back.

“Can I take these off, angel?” He whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw as his fingers find the waistband of your shorts.

“Yes.” you breath out. 

He pulls your shorts down and discards them to the side of the bed. You weren’t wearing panties. He sighed at the sight of you glistening with anticipation.

“So wet” he says to himself as he hooks your legs over his shoulders.

He presses a sloppy opened mouth kiss onto your clit before slight opening his mouth and letting a string of drool drip down your cunt, leaving you whining. He flattens his tongue against your opening and licks a fat stripe up your pussy.

“Spencer, please.” You beg, your brain already short circuiting from the stimulation.

He begins lapping at you, each purposeful stroke of his tongue slick with desperation. He groans as your hands find his hair and you buck your hips towards his face when he comes up for air. He re-buries his face in between your legs, hands now gripping and massaging your ass as you clench around nothing. Just as your orgasm is approaching, he plunges his index and middle finger into your soaked core. He sucks harshly on your clit, as his long slender finger his that perfect spot inside of you and you cry out as you come around him. He emerges from in between your legs and plants a kiss onto your lips, the heady taste of yourself still lingering on his tongue.

“Need you. Take this off.” You slur, pawing at his shirt. He obliges, removing his star trek shirt and freeing himself from his boxers. Shaft is flushed and translucent, pearly beads of precum leaked from the head. He spit on his hand and pumped his cock a few times as you took off your cami.

Spencer leans over your, slapping your clit with his tip whilst looking into your eyes. “Is this what you wanted, pretty? For me to stretch your out and fuck you into the materess?”

You whimpered and nodded, desperate for him to enter you.

“Say it.” “I need you to fuck me.” you say, shakily.

“No, angel, say exactly what I said.”

You flush, this is so embarrassing. “I want you to stretch me out and for your to fuck me into the matress.” You say, lowly.

He pushes into you slowly as he splits you in half on his cock,

“Good.” He groans. He pulls all the way out of you and then pushes in so far the his tip kisses your cervix, your cry out in pleasure. He starts to fuck you slowly, both hands pressed into the mattress but holding yours at each sides of your head.

“Is that better, sweet girl?” he coos as you clench around him. “Yes” You sputter, your mind only focused on how dizzyingly good his cock feels driving into you. His lips slam into yours, the lewd sound of your pussy squelching around his cock only making you wetter. You can’t even kiss him properly because you’re so busy whimpering.

“Y/n—” he moans “Legs. Give me.” He says, as you spread them further apart and position them within his grasp. He swiftly pushes your thighs to your chest, folding you in half and positioning you into the perfect mating press. You moan as his cock drives even deeper inside of you as you tighten around him. It’s like your walls are moulding to the shape of him.

 “So deep,” You whine. The head of his cock pounds into that spongey part inside you that makes your eyes roll into the back of your head and your legs shake uncontrollably. You gasp his name before you clench around him. “I know baby,” he kisses you on the lips with slow procession “Feels really good, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you hiccup as you wrap your legs around his waist. His eyes narrow at you

“Tell me what you want honey.” “Want you to fill me up. Please Spence? Just once—it’ll feel ‘s good.” You babble. He groans. “You want me to breed you, baby?” he can barely get the words out, moaning at the thought. “Oh fuck d’you wan’ me to make you a mommy? I’d take such good care of us. Suuuuch good care of you.” He groans, voice crackling. 

His dick plunges in and out of you at a relentless place. 

Your jaw drops and your brows furrow, feeling a know in your stomach that you’ve only felt once or twice before. Its hot and tense in the pit of your stomach.

“You okay, baby?” Spencer asks, grabbing your face by the cheeks with one hand to force you to look at him. 

“Mhm,” you inhale sharply, “‘m so close–Oh’pence–”  you’re legs tremor before your back is arched off the bed and you’re writhing in ecstasy as Spencer fucks you through your orgasm. You can’t stop it when it comes, gushes of your essence from your cunt paints both of your thighs and completely soaks his maroon sheets. A pale, creamy ring collecting at the base of his cock.

You feel weightless and blurry afterwards. “God I’m close” he whimpers. “Gonna—mm—fill you up so good just like I promised…I’m so lucky I got such a pretty slut— that begs me to…to…this is so risky.”

“Iloveyou s’much” You slurred, delirious from overstimulation. “I’d let you do anything you wanted to me.” Spencer kisses you sloppily before grabbing your face in one hand and turning it away from him to grant him access to your neck. He flattens his tongue against your hot, flushed skin, and licks a stripe from the middle of your neck to your temple.

It's so wet and warm. The feeling of his tongue against your neck. Your face. He hums contently, I guess you must’ve tasted good. He then cradles the back of your head in his hand, tilting you up so your can watch him fuck you and look at the sticky mess you’ve made all over his thighs. All over his bed. He’s only looking at you, gaze half lidded and chest heaving. When he removes his hand from the back of your head, your arms find his back.

That look in his eye paired with the sound of his heavy balls against your ass, his ragged breath, and the sweet aroma of his woodsy cologne is just way too much at the same time. Your whines turn into wanton, whorish, moans that definitely penetrate the thin walls of your apartment.

“Goood Girl get loud for me—sound so pretty.” He groaned, his voice getting higher on the last word. “Oh fuck—Let me feel you honey. I’m close.”

Your nails scratch down his back as you practically scream, coming around him again. Spencer whines as he buries his head into the crook of your neck, “Take it” he mumbles into your skin before hot ropes of his come flood your pussy.

Spencers collapses gently onto you, his weight a comforting press. He kisses your forehead, then your lips softly, murmuring, “You okay?”

You nod, slightly clenching around him at the sound of his voice which earns a hiss from him. You suppress a laugh. Literally all he did was speak and you're like putty in his hands again. Maybe you are a pervert.

“What's funny? Hm?” He says breathlessly, without seeing him, you can hear the smile in his voice. 

You shake your head “Nothing.”

His hand finds your jaw and presses a kiss into your cheek. “We gotta clean you up.” He brushes a piece of hair glued to your forehead with sweat away from your face.

“Me?” You say “Look at you. I’m practically dripping down your legs.” You laugh.

He kisses you. “I guess there is one solution. We could” kiss “ take a shower–” He said.

“Together?” You rasp, unable to hide the eagerness in your voice. 

Spencer laughs. “Yeah, together.”