oops

just to be clear, we've had conversations in the past about consent and limits and we had a safe word so everything that happened was pre agreed upon and consensual!!

he was just SO ROUGH (in the absolute best way), like he basically just manoevered me around however he wanted and at one point my legs were bent in ways they NEVER have been before i was fully 🥨 and LORD!!

he was choking me and then i like yelped because he was fucking me rly hard and he slapped me, then put his hand over my mouth and told me to shut the fuck up and !!! hello !!! yes !!!!

so you're lay on the sofa, with your legs in his lap, a cushion under your back, just watching the tv with him. you've already noticed, because of course you have, but you want to see how obvious he's willing to make it.

the answer? very obvious. at every possible moment, he's shifting in his seat, trying to get them to wiggle further down. even adjusting your sock because it was 'slipping off your foot' (it wasn't) in the hopes that you'll look down as he's doing it and see them peaking out from under his trousers. no such luck. you keep your eyes firmly trained on the tv, giving him a "thanks babe.”

after about five more minutes of unsubtle wiggling, he gets up under the guise of ‘getting a drink of water.’ except you STILL don’t look and desperate times call for desperate measures which is exactly why he purposely turns the tap on so hard (you’re not giving him the satisfaction of looking, but the gushing tap is louder than the tv) and splashes all over the front of himself with the tap water.

“shit!” he shouts, at an unncessarily loud decibel, acting incredibly surprised that he’s wet for a man who just intentionally doused himself with water.

but it finally gets you to look. you don’t say anything. just smirk, amused. he’s stood there staring at you, his eyebrows pressing together, trying to comprehend what exactly you’re up to and then he realises where you’re staring. directly at his crotch. his t-shirt is sodden, and so is the top of the boxers. the boxers which you are very clearly staring at.

he can feel himself starting to get hard already. the tight fabric is even tighter now it’s wet, and it’s not an unpleasant sensation actually, it provides a good amount of the friction he so badly wants.

“look at you,” you coo, taking some paper towels off the side and wiping his t-shirt down, “you’ll really go to any lengths to get my attention won’t you baby? you’re such a whore.”

there’s a hiss as he sucks in a breath. his cock is as hard as it can possibly get while constrained within the fabric. your face goes right past the tent in his pants as you sink to your knees, attentively rubbing at the dampness collected right above the waistband of his boxers. his breath catches in his throat as your palm ghosts over him, providing just the tiniest amount of friction.

the feeling of the boxers is no longer pleasant. in fact, it borders on painful.

“you’re so desperate spence,” you tell him, linking just your index and middle finger inside the waistband of the boxers and yanking. not taking them off, only moving them far enough so that his dick pops out, red and throbbing, “you’re such a whore, aren’t you?”

his swallow is audible. he isn’t sure what to say. you’re looking up at him with eyelashes, eyes almost completely black, looking like you’re going to devour him.

he doesn’t want to do or say anything that might convince you otherwise. you smirk, taking him casually in your hand while looking him in the eye, as if it’s no big deal at all, your tongue licking one languid stroke over the tip of his cock before you speak, “don’t you agree?”

“y-yes,” he stutters.

“good boy,” you praise, leaning in to suck a tiny mark just where the boxers end, “i should probably punish you for being so desperate.”

“p-please,” he whines, having to physically restrain himself so that he doesn’t buck his hips. the feeling of your mouth, wet, your tongue laving over him, only makes him want to be inside of you more. he’s so close, you’re touching him, but the inch space from where he needs you feels like a gulf.

i imagine it in one of two ways:

if you’re dating, he’s cuddled up to you. being the big spoon, pressed against your back, his crotch against your ass, his face nestled into the crook of your neck.

he whispers, “are you awake?” his voice is raspy and low, thick with sleep even though he hasn’t been successfully in drifting off yet, and so quiet you can barely even hear it over the pitter patter sounds of the rain at the window. you nod, barely visible in the dim lighting, but he feels it.

his fingers move from where they’re interlocked with yours, skimming over the exposed skin at your waist where your pyjama top has ridden up.

you use your right knee to shift yourself, pushing your body further into his, properly facing him. he doesn’t say anything. neither do you. but your eyes meet, and you can just about make out the outline of his nose as he leans in to kiss you. soft. his fingers following the trail upwards to your nipple, and rolling the left one between his thumb and forefinger. you lift your hips upwards, and feel him grin against your mouth. your hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck, using the hair there as leverage.

his crotch meets yours. he’s hard, really hard, and you gasp. he revels in the noise, it only spurs him to kiss you harder, wiggling his hips to make quick work of his pyjama pants. clumsily, with the hand that isn’t in his hair, you do the same with your own.

surprisingly (or, perhaps, unsurprisingly) you’re wet already. who could really blame you, your incredibly hot boyfriend is so insatiable for you that he’s forgoing precious hours of sleep.

neither of you strip all the way off. he slips inside of you. it’s almost unceremonious, like you’re just meant to slot together like that, nothing out of the ordinary happening. and in a way, it isn’t, you’ve had sex plenty of times. but there’s something different about this time. the way his mouth devours you, the way every move feels measured and thought out.

there’s no loud moans. no cries of each others names. there’s a veil of peace and content shrouding you that neither of you wants to pierce. it’s all quiet gasps, swallowed by his mouth or breathed into his neck while you adorn it with kisses. not harsh ones that will leave marks, just light ones. a small trail down to his collarbone before he captures your lips with his again. his breathing increasing in tandem with your own as he thrusts, your hand threading through the one resting next to your head. the other pulling desperately at his back. to hold him closer to you.

his thumb rubbing over your clit as he slips in and out of you. your head tipping back, biting back a moan as your releases find each other. the pitter patter of the rain never intruding on the moment. just serving as a peaceful backdrop as you lose yourselves in one another.

-

OR version two: you’re on a case together and he can’t sleep. he hears you leave your room, so he pokes his head around his door. you’d gone to the vending machine at the end of the hall to get a snack.

you almost jump out of your skin when you turn around and see him, tousled bed hair, head peaking around the frame of his bedroom door.

“oh,” he breathes, a mock whisper, “sorry i didn’t mean to frighten you. i just wondered who was walking around.”

“just me,” you reply sheepishly, briskly walking the four steps down the hallway to meet him so that your voices don’t draw out the rest of your team on the floor, “sorry, did i wake you?”

he shakes his head, “no. no i was already awake.”

“you can’t sleep either?”

“no.”

“do you want to come and sit with me?”

he tips his head, considering it for a moment. it really isn’t that big a deal, you’ve hung out on plenty of occasions. even shared a bed once, although that time every single breath he’d breathed had caught in his throat whenever you came within an inch of him, his heart leaping out of his chest.

“you don’t have to,” you follow up, and watch his eyes widen, “you just could if you want to. i know it’s no fun being awake alone.”

he presses his lips together thoughtfully, “um, if it’s not too much bother. i wouldn’t want to impose.”

“i invited you,” you say, turning around and using the key card to open your bedroom door, “come in.”

he follows you into the room. there’s a double bed, and your lamp has been left on. you’d had it off when you were trying to sleep, but the storm outside is pretty bad. as if to illustrate your point, there’s a loud rumble, and you’re so startled you almost jump, your hand flying to your chest.

“i wasn’t expecting that,” you laugh.

“there’s a storm coming in from the east,” he informs you, walking in and hovering awkwardly by your bed.

“sit down,” you instruct, “make yourself comfortable.”

you clamber onto the bed yourself. the curtains are shut, but you don’t miss the flash of the lightning that comes two beats after the thunder.

“did you know it takes the sound of thunder approximately 5 seconds to travel one mile?”

“i didn’t,” you reply, crossing your legs, “is it true that you can guess when the lightning will strike based on the thunder sound? i remember hearing about that as a child but i didn’t know if it was true.”

he doesn’t reply for a second. mostly because your pyjama shorts rode up when you crossed your legs, exposing a sizeable amount of skin that he hadn’t been privy to seeing before. he swallows, and your eyes fall down to where his gaze is sat, approximately a milisecond before he tears it away.

the tips of his ears turning pink, his voice cracks on the first syllable, “y-yes, that is actually true.”

“huh,” you nod, “do you want to look at the lightning?”

“w-what?”

right on cue, there’s another rumble. it lasts one, two, three, four, five seconds.

you pull back the curtains, wiggling forward. he follows your lead. the window is only small so you end up pressed against one another as you look at it. all darkness, the window pane smeared with rain that’s beaten down against it. his body is warm, and your heart hammers in your chest at the sensation of your shoulders pressed together. you swear his knees shake before he settles down more properly, sitting on the balls of his feet.

flash. the lightning lasts all of five seconds, but you’re not looking at it after maybe three. instead, you’re looking at him, the last fragments of it reflected in the lenses of his glasses.

“do you like storms?”

“i’m not the biggest fan,” he admits.

you’re staring right at him. you see his adam’s apple bob. it does twice before he caves and looks at you. in the lamplight, you can see his pupils dilate, the honey absorbed right before your eyes. there’s a static in the air that the storm can’t be blamed for.

neither of you move. a game of almost chicken. you don’t want to be the one to make the first move incase it’s something he doesn’t want, something he’s unprepared for. but his gaze drops from your lips and back to your eyes, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip and it’s so obvious that it must be deliberate. it must be deliberate because he’s a profiler and he knows better, knows what those kind of non-verbal cues suggest. so when you tilt your head, the faintest bit, and his follows in the same direction you know what’s happening.

there’s a warmth in the air between your lips, searing hot, and your heart thrums with nerves. your nerves couldn’t possibly be quelled, it’s too much, but your knees can’t quite adjust to the movement of your weight and you tip forward, hand resting on his shoulder. if he wanted to stop you, if he didn’t want to do this, now would be an opportune time to stop you but he doesn’t. he stares at you, imploring you to come closer, pursing his lips.

he’s a blur. you’re so close to his face that the features can’t be made out anymore and it’s him, it’s spencer, the one who finally closes the gap and kisses you.

really kisses you. it starts off slow. gentle. tentative. the heat radiates off his hand but he doesn’t bring it to your waist until you lean in to deepen the kiss. and then he holds you.

it moves so far so fast. the kissing is hurried, enthusiastic, as if now you’ve started you can’t quite fathom how you’d go about stopping. shedding clothes, thrown behind you in your haste. the rumble of thunder is the soundtrack as you pepper kisses all down his body, sucking marks that will purple right above his hipbone. pressing him back against the headboard. when he looks up at you, glasses slipping down his nose, he’s no longer the picture of innocence.

it happens so fast you’re not sure how you get there but what you do know is you’re on top of him, riding him, both so fucking loud that you’re not sure even the sounds of the storm can drown you out.

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