THE BOY’S A SLAG | SPENCER REID
Spencer Reid has a reputation. You couldn’t care less.
Word Count: 6k.
Warning: GradSchool!Spencer, smut.
Something people don’t know about Spencer Reid at 19 years old: he was a whore. And this is not an exaggeration. The little fucker (pun intended) got around. It was the brains, and the way he explained things without speaking down on anyone. It was the way he grew his hair out in the winter so it fell into his face just the right way. It was the long, skinny fingers that girls just wanted to deepthroat. The veins in his neck, his arms, and the way he licked his lips. The way some girls said he would go down on them for hours upon hours and how, allegedly, his dick was the equivalent of a snake — long, skillful and intimidating. That is what got him a bunch of pussy. Being kind and helpful and laying down pipe so well that it was spoken about around campus.
His set was the undergrads. Girls were into the genius thing. He was the same age as the sophomores and some of the freshmen and everything he heard was Oh my god, you’re already getting your doctorate? How old are you? 19? No way! Are you a genius or something? And here, this response, is key:
He’d say, “Or something.”
He was mysterious and collected and had an apartment off campus. He went to parties just to stand against the wall and sip on a cup of water. He’d play games of poker just to win a bunch of money and give it back. It was during one of these games that he first saw you. He was on a winning streak, and he had a girl hanging onto his shoulder. She was sweaty and playing with his hair. In his hands, he had a winning lottery of cards and just as he went to slam them on the table, he caught a glimpse of you and only a glimpse. The two of you held eye contact, and you raised your cup to him. The cards fell out of his hands and the room erupted in chaos and you disappeared.
“I’m out,” he said, much to the dismay of the crowd, and he brushed the sweaty girl off of him and he stood from his chair. By the time he pushed his way through the crowd, you were gone and for a long time, he carried on thinking that he had lost his mind. That he imagined you, that you were merely a hallucination that had overtaken his thoughts. For most of the night, he thought he was seeing you everywhere. When he found you smoking on the patio, he had to catch his breath. Think of what to say. Fix his hair.
He approached you with his hand in his pocket, only one, and the other held his solo cup. He had a method, and it was full proof. Working the hair and deep eye contact and leaning in close enough to make himself desirable. He does this with you and you exhale smoke, look him up and down.
“You’re new,” he says.
“Fresh out the box,” you shrug. “Who are you?”
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m Spencer. I go by Reid.”
“Okay.”
“Did you know that more than six million Americans are living with a disease caused by smoking?” he asks.
“Yeah. It also causes erectile dysfunction. I like to take my chances, y’know?”
He chuckles, he thinks: where the hell did you come from?
“What’s your major?” he asks.
“Chem.”
“No shit,” he smiles. “I’m studying chemistry, too.”
“Never seen you around.”
“I’m a graduate student.”
“And you just like to hang out at undergrad parties, or . .?”
“I’m 19.”
“You a science experiment or something?”
And here is where he looks at you, really looks at you. He grins, “Or something.”
You toss your cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Okay, well,” you pat his shoulder. “See you around, Spencer.”
He thinks: that has never happened before.
You’ve walked away before he can find the breath to speak and when he does, he says, “Just . . . Reid . . .”
Spencer fucks two other girls before he sees you again. With both, he’s a lot rougher than usual. He’s out of his head. He tosses them around and he keeps switching positions and he can’t come unless it’s in their mouths. You’ve thrown him off his game and it’s funny because you don’t even know it. The day he ate a girl out in the back of the library, you were studying there. The brothel was conveniently located in the chemistry section and you caught him in the act. He had his hand over her mouth because she was going to come and her back was against the bookshelf. Spencer was finger fucking her and you assume it’s good because she’s going cross-eyed. You clear your throat and her eyes focused on you and she scrambles to pull her dress down. She pushes Spencer off, he goes, “What? What?”
He turns to see you and his jaw is hanging open and he wipes it with the back of his hand.
“Really, dude?” you say. You roll your eyes, you grab your book and walk away.
He runs after you, but you had already made the decision to leave the library and he could not find you. Spencer thinks it’s just his luck. He feels every interaction ruining his chances of ever getting into your pants. He wishes he knew your name. He wishes he knew more about the girl who smokes cigarettes and majors in chemistry and only catches him when he’s least expecting it.
A week later a rumor is going around that he got a girl pregnant. This is the first you ever hear of him. Of course it is not said directly to you, but you overhear it in class. You raise an eyebrow, you scoff, you get back to your notes.
“I think she’s lying,” one girl says.
Another sighs, “Why, Audrey?”
“Because everyone who’s hooked up with him has said he’s extremely careful. That —“
“I’m sorry. Everyone? Didn’t you hook up with him?”
“We didn’t have sex, it doesn’t count.”
“I would say if body fluids were exchanged, that counts.”
“He’s cautious, is what I’m trying to say, smart ass. He wouldn’t fuck up and knock someone up.”
“And how are you so sure? You barely know him.”
“I know him well enough.”
“Yeah. You and everybody else.”
When it comes to light that it was, in fact, a rumor, there is a moment of silence in which Spencer does not have sex. He loses the urge for it and he does not come to any parties. His first night back out is a grand appearance. Girls and guys alike flock to him when he enters the room and he seems out of it.
When he is nowhere to be found a few hours later, there are whispers. Did he leave? To buy diapers, maybe? No, that was just a rumor. Maybe off with his new flavor of the week? Possibly, but who here hasn’t he fucked?
He goes outside in a corner of the garden and lays in the grass. He stares at the sky and the stars and for once, he wishes he was drinking. He wishes he could find a way to ascend from his body, someway, somehow. He feels so heavy and he could fall asleep.
“Hey. Earth to ET,” you call.
He lifts his head up and he gives you this real, genuine smile.
“Brought you a drink,” you tell him, holding two cups in your hands.
“Oh, I —“
“Calm down, dude, it’s sparkling water.”
You take a seat beside him and the grass pokes you through your jeans. “Thank you,” he says. He takes a big gulp and he lays back down. You look up to the sky, trying to imagine what’s there. What’s jumping out to him, what’s speaking to him.
“Hey,” he is looking at you now. “I’m sorry. About the library.”
You shrug, take a sip of water, “Not my business.”
He goes quiet and he stares up at the sky.
“We don’t have to talk about that, y’know,” you tell him. You lay down beside him and he feels as though he can’t breathe. “We can talk about . . . I don’t know, the olympics. The weather. That cloud right there in the shape of a dog.”
He observes the cloud, he tilts his head, “I don’t see it. A cat maybe.”
“A really big rabbit.”
He laughs, he says, “Maybe,” and then he says, “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.”
You choke on your water, but to be completely fair, you shouldn’t have been drinking while laying down. You sit up and hack it up and Spencer watches the whole thing. “I’m sorry,” you say. “But we were just talking about clouds. What about that triggers an existential crisis?”
“No, no,” he sits up. “The existential crisis started long before the clouds. I think I was born with it.”
“Hm,” you hum. “Y’know, I’m not a psychology major. I can’t give you the great answer.”
“That’s okay,” he chuckles. “The, um,” he holds up his cup, but he is looking at you. “The sparkling water is enough.”
You nod, you almost smile. “Well, I’ve got to get back to my friends but you should keep looking at the clouds. Hey!” you exclaim, as you stand up, “Maybe that’s what you could do with your life. Be a cloud.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“Or, a sunflower,” you back away. “A patch of grass. A shooting star.”
“You really are not a psychology major.”
“You’ll figure it out,” you turn your back to him and as he is watching you walk away, his eyes go wide and he begins to chase you.
“Wait!” he calls. “Wait!”
You turn around and he is running so fast that he nearly collides with you and he catches himself on his toes. He huffs, he puffs, “What, what’s your name?”
You tilt your head. Now, you smile, “[y/n].”
You walk away and he watches you disappear and when you are out of his vision, he whispers, “[y/n] . . . hm.”
Spencer gets your number from a friend. This friend sucks him off and immediately asks, “How do you know [y/n]?”
Spencer’s heart drops and he leans against the wall. He hasn’t even had a moment to catch his breath. “How do you know [y/n]?”
“She’s my lab partner. She doesn’t seem like your type.”
“Oh, and you know my type, huh?”
“I know you,” she says. “I know [y/n]. Not a match.”
“Don’t be jealous. It’s not a good look on you,” he tells her.
“Don’t be so full of yourself. I’ll give you her number if you want.” At this point, she is reapplying the lipstick she used to paint Spencer’s dick.
He is quiet and it is obvious.
“Wow . . .” she whispers. “You want.”
She is civil and hands over her phone and she has you saved as [y/n] (chem lab). Spencer takes a quick picture and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “This dress looks real nice on you.”
“Oh, boo you whore,” she rolls her eyes and he laughs as he leaves.
Spencer waits until he is out of her sight to freak out. He cradles his phone in both his palms. It is precious, it holds a single image and is his one mode of communicating with you. He doesn't call you until the end of the day. Just as the sun is going down. He has his phone sat on the bed and he paces back and forth. The line rings and it rings.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?” you repeat.
He clears his throat, “Hi, [y/n].” His voice cracks and he wants to shrivel up and die.
“Who’s this?” you ask.
“It’s Reid,” he says. “Spencer. Spencer Reid. You brought me the sparkling water, I had the existential crisis?”
“Ah, library boy,” you laugh.
“Just Reid is fine,” he smiles. “Are you busy?”
“Why?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to . . . I don’t know, hang out?”
“Hang out?” you repeat. Slowly.
“Yeah. We can go anywhere. I can meet you or come pick you up.”
“Why don’t you come here?”
“Oh,” his eyes go wide and he rushes over to the phone. “To you?”
“Yeah, to my dorm. I’ll send you the room number. Just text me when you’re here.”
“Oh. Okay,” he can’t hide this grin in his voice. “Okay. I’ll be there in 20.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
After he hangs up, he showers. He does his hair and he picks out sweatpants that are extra flattering. He never uses cologne and when he sprays some, it makes him cough. You don’t send your address until 10 minutes later and he is out the door as soon as he knows where to go.
He shows up tactically late and knocks on the door with his other hand in his pocket. The door opens and he says, “Oh. Sorry. I must have the wrong room,” because a guy answers.
“Who is it?” you call from inside.
“String bean,” the guy replies.
“Hey, Spencer!” you greet him. “Come on in.”
The small room is crowded, with only five people occupying the space. Spencer does not know all of them but they all know him.
“Hey, dude,” you turn around for a moment to grin at him. “We’re playing connect four. Jace is playing the winner, but you can play after that.”
“Or you can have one of these,” the guy hands Spencer a red cup and it is almost hot. “My own special creation. Way more fun than connect four.”
Spencer takes the cup and he feels like a fucking idiot. For the first time in his life, he feels not a single brain cell in his head. He looks around the room, at your friends, at you. You are having a blast, you are hardly acknowledging his existence and he wishes he was alone with you.
He looks down at the drink in his hand. This icky oozy cup of filth and he drinks it. He knocks it back and it knocks the wind out of him in turn. The Guy laughs and catches Spencer before he stumbles to the ground, “Ha!” he laughs. “I like you, string bean. Here,” he hands him a drink. “Have another.”
And Spencer does. He drinks until he can’t see straight (which, admittedly, happens only after a few cups) and he crashes onto a futon. He watches from the side as you laugh. It is a gorgeous and full laugh that makes the room stop. A guy walks up behind you and whispers in your ear and you look at this guy in a way that Spencer wishes you would look at him.
By the time he passes out in the bathroom, everyone has gone. And it is just you and him. The Guy tries to stick around, even offers to drive Spencer how. But you tell him, “I’ve got him. He’s harmless.”
You spend the night making sure he doesn’t die. If he was semiconscious, his pulse would be racing. He has no idea his head is in your lap. That you’re wiping the sweat of his brow and the vomit from his lips. The snot from his nose. And when he is lying there, sweaty and wet and red, you think: he is kind of cute.
Spencer wakes up on the floor. He is laying on a tile and his mouth is slimy. His head is killing him, his body aches from being curled up in a ball. He tries to push himself up but he collapses back to the floor. He doesn’t know you’re there until you chuckle. You cover your mouth as he looks up at you, “Hey, sleeping beauty. Thought we lost you for a minute.”
“[y/n]?” he mumbles, his face still pressed to the floor. “Where am I?”
“My bathroom.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll leave,” he says. “As soon as I can get up.”
“Take your time, party boy. I have nowhere to be today.”
He lets out a long sigh and it takes all his strength to get himself up. He grumbles and leans back against the bathtub.
“I feel gross,” he says.
“You look it.”
“Thanks.”
“I like the sweatpants, though.”
He smiles. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Did it ever occur to you . . .” he starts. But he can’t seem to put the words together. “. . . That when I asked to hang out . . . I don’t know, when I asked to hang out . . . I only . . . wanted . . . to hang out with you?”
You look at him for a long time. Heat is rising to your face and you put your hand to your cheek. “No. It hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Oh, well,” he sighs. “You’re an idiot, then.”
You burst out laughing and he is relieved. He could listen to this sound all day. “Real bold coming from the guy who can’t hold his liquor.”
“Liquor?” he exclaims. “That was liquor?”
“No, it was juice. Of course it was liquor!”
“Oh, my god,” he slumps. “I hate liquor. Must kill liquor.”
“I think liquor’s gonna win that fight.”
It is silent for a moment. He is gazing at you from the corner of his eye and you will not look away from your lap. He goes to speak, but you do so first. “Let’s hang out,” you tell him. “Just the two of us.”
“Right now?”
“Mhm,” you nod. “Right now.”
“I,” he stutters. “I’m hardly in shape to go out.”
“Be there or be square,” you say, standing up from the floor. “I’m gonna change.”
Spencer forgets the hangover in an instant and stands up too fast. He catches himself on the sink and sticks his head under the water. He washes his face and uses his finger to brush his teeth. He walks out of the bathroom to find you fully dressed for the day.
“So,” he says. “Where to?”
You walk to a diner down the street. Spencer sets a napkin down on the chair before he sits.
“Really?” you tilt your head at him.
“Just a precaution,” he smiles and starts to look at the menu, “God, this all looks . . . terrible.”
“Best hangover food in town. Give me that,” you take his menu from his hands and hand both to the waiter. You order for the both of you and he is in shock.
“I’m hungover but I can talk,” he says.
“Why? So you could order a glass of water and a piece of toast? I don’t think so.”
A big breakfast is set on the table after a few more minutes. There’s waffles and eggs and bacon and sausage and toast. Spencer could vomit just looking at it. But you tell him to take just one bite and then he cannot get enough.
The two of you stuff your faces and giggle at each other incessantly. “Right?” you ask.
“It is good,” he says with a full mouth. “It’s almost like I can remember what happened last night. Oh, god. Did I sing?”
You burst out laughing and food shoots out of your mouth and people stare. “The entire intro to Grease, actually.”
“Ah, fuck,” he puts his hands over his face as he laughs. “Never again.”
He continues eating his food. You watch him shove it down and there is a small smile on your face.
After dinner, you walk. Not a stroll, not a casual walk in the park. You walk. You tell Spencer is keep him from focusing on all the food in his gut. And you walk. You walk for hours. You talk for hours. Your voices sing the sun to sleep. You see the city and you see Spencer under the light. He wants to hold your hand. Not to be sappy or romantic, just to make sure he doesn’t lose you. Just to keep you close.
He keeps making jokes in effort to make you laugh and the sound echos down the empty street. He is so lost in you. He is so infatuated with you. That when a car rolls by, he does not see the puddle and gets splash by a wave of fallen rain. It narrowly misses you. You dodge out of the way as the car drives off and watch the entire thing in almost slow motion.
“Oh, my god!” you laugh. You cackle, actually. You bend over in hysterics. “I’m so — I’m sorry, I just —“ you’re cut off by another laugh. If Spencer didn’t enjoy the sound so much, he’d be angry. But you are happy. You are happy because of him, and that is okay.
He asks if you two can stop by his place before he takes you home. He walks there soaking wet and you walk at his side.
“I’m sorry for laughing,” you tell him. “That was a dick move.”
“Hey,” he shrugs. “You don’t ever have to be sorry about that.”
Spencer’s place is clean. About as clean as it gets for a 19 year old boy. The books as organized and shelved away. Blankets are folded and set neatly on the couch. The tile in the kitchen is spotless. The air smells nice and fresh.
“I just have to run into my room. I’ll be back,” he tells you as he walks down the hallway. He disappears and you continue to observe the apartment. Find little details of Spencer written in the walls. Your curiosity piques at the thought of his room. What it looks like, where he sleeps. You take a breath, you hold it, and you walk down the hall.
He is putting on a new shirt when you walk in and his hair is messy. “Nosey much?” he asks with a smile.
“Very much,” you step into his room and he watches you look around. “It’s cute in here.”
“Oh, yeah. Cute is just what I was going for.”
There’s a night light in the corner in the shape of a rocket. A pile of clothes on the floor right beside it. A picture of an older blond woman on his dresser. The room is filled with soft hues of blue and black and there are more books in a box beside his bed. There is a stereo against the wall. You walk up to it and hit play. Classical music leaks from the speakers at a subtle volume.
You turn around and eye him and he immediately says, “I just use it to fall asleep.”
You chuckle, “Sure.”
You walk across the room and pick up a single solo cup. It is empty and old and nearly the only piece of trash in sight. You go to throw it in the wastebasket, but he rushes over to grab it. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he grabs the cup from you. “That’s not trash.”
“Oh?” you raise your eyebrows. “It’s not?”
“No, no,” he shakes his head.
“Then what is it?”
He sighs, slowly and deeply, “It’s . . . the cup. From that night. When you — when you brought me . . .”
You tilt your head at him. Your face is stoic and void. “No shit.”
“Yeah, now that you mention it, it’s trash. I’ll just,” and he pops the cup in the waste and fiddles with his hands.
“God,” you roll your eyes and laugh. You’re trying to lighten the mood. “You’re obsessed with me, dude.”
“I’ve been obsessed with you since I met you, [y/n],” he says, and he follows it with a soft laugh. “I’ve been thinking about you. Nonstop. How could I not?”
And, for once, you’re speechless.
“I mean, you’re beautiful. You’re funny. You have this awful sense of sarcasm that makes me feel small and . . . silly and I like that. Your laugh takes up an entire room and I just, I want to be around it, I don’t know. I like that you . . . let you let me sleep on your bathroom floor. That you find me obnoxious and you let me know. I like . . . you.”
When you say nothing in response, he sighs and it is full of disappointment. He turns away and begins to dig for his drawer. For what, you’re not sure. But you are sure of one thing.
“Spencer,” you call, in a low, soft voice.
He turns around with a smile that quickly dissipates when he sees your chest. Bare, covered in a bra that pushes your boobs up in a way he likes. He loves. His jaw drops, just slightly, and he shakes his head from side to side to make sure this is real.
“[y/n] . . .” he whispers. “What are you doing?”
You chuckle, “What does it look like?”
He steps close to you. In slow, small steps like he is afraid you’ll run away. But you want this. You tell him, “I want to. I want you.”
And as his hand snakes around your waist, shakily and steadily, he asks if you’re sure. You nod, you take his face in your hands and you kiss him. It is a gentle and staggered kiss, each second bringing your lips closer and closer until they are smushed into one another’s. Spencer’s eyelids fall, like they are heavy and he cannot keep them open. He hums into your mouth and pulls you in by your waist. Your boobs graze his chest and he is craving the skin to skin contact.
He only breaks the kiss to take his shirt off. You run your fingertips up his chest, trace his collarbones to raise goosebumps on his skin. You kiss his neck and his knees buckle beneath him. Your lips are so soft, plush. They taste nice and he is getting drunk off of your saliva.
Your lips travel down his chest, your palms holding onto his biceps. You can feel his muscles tightening, growing tense and full of anticipation. You drop to your knees and hold his gaze. He tells you that you don’t have to and you tell him to shut up. He watches you undo his pants, and his cock is so hard that it nearly pops out of his clothes.
You had to look at it for a moment because it is big and you aren’t sure if it will all fit in your mouth. He repeats that you don’t have to. “I can do you if you want. I’m dying to.”
And because you are full of spite, you look him in the eye and take his length into your mouth. You hold the base in your hand and hollow your cheeks as you pull back. It is everything Spencer has wanted and more. Your mouth hugs him in just the right way and he thinks every other girl must have been doing it wrong.
You spit on his cock and it makes it easier for your mouth to slide up and down his shaft. Spit is dribbling onto your chest and it makes you look messy but Spencer can’t take his eyes off of you. He gives you quiet compliments of ooh’s and ahh’s and one, clear “Fuck.”
You take him to the back of your throat and he nearly stumbles over, so he removes himself from your mouth and pulls you to your feet. He catches your face in his hands and gives you a slimy kiss. His tongue traces a trail from your chin to your neck to your chest. He licks the saliva from your breasts and moans at the taste.
He would fuck you in his bed, where so many other girls have laid before you but this was different. And the two of you wind up laying on the carpeted floor of his bedroom, Spencer on top of you, his torso between your legs, your hands in his hair, your tongue in his mouth. The bra is thrown to a corner of the room and Spencer cannot get enough of your boobs. The way they sit perfectly and beg to be sucked. He covers them in hickeys from the suction of his mouth. Your nipples get hard between his teeth. You moan for him and it makes his head fuzzy.
He removes your pants and runs his hands over your thighs, squeezing them gently before he takes off your underwear. His hand lays flat on your tummy and he takes you in. The bleary look in your eyes and the glow around your body. When he begins to eat your pussy, it is with slow movements on his tongue and his hands gripping your thighs. He hums against you, but he is quiet because he likes to hear you moan. He buries his face into you and devours you like he is starving. Your back arches off the floor and your pinch at his shoulders. He reaches up and plays with your nipples and the stimulation causes your moans to grow three times in volume.
His fingers slip into you and you cannot take it. Your body shakes and he holds you against his face to keep you from squirming. Gotta make her come, he thinks. Gotta make this good. Gotta make this shit fucking fantastic. And so he finger fucks you like his life depends on it. He sucks on your clit until it’s pulsing between his lips. And when you come, he keeps his mouth on you until you are pushing him away.
He climbs back on top of you with a toothy grin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gives you a kiss. Your lips only move against his just slightly. You are worn out and reeling.
“Yeah?” he whispers.
“Oh, yeah,” you laugh and you guys smile into another kiss.
You part your legs as he puts a condom on and you notice his hands are shaking. “Don’t lose it on me now,” you tell him. “Come here.”
He moves over to you and you crawl in his lap. His breath catches his throat when you grab his cock and it comes to a complete halt as you slide down onto his length. You roll your head back, feeling so full and warm. He holds onto your waist and kisses your neck and tells you, “You feel so good.”
You move your hips against his and the sensation rocks you both so intensely that you embrace each other. The sweat on your skin binds you together and Spencer whispers, “Keep going.”
So you tangle your hand in his hair and grip onto his shoulder and ride him. On the floor. In his dark room, in his dark apartment as the moonlight creeps in through the window. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and moans softly. He says your name over and over, “[y/n] . . . oh, god, [y/n].”
“Mm,” you hum, falling all over him as your hips quicken in pace. “Mhm.”
He catches your lips in a deep kiss and his jaw drops to release a grunt. “You’re so good,” he tells you. “You’re so, so good. Fuck.”
You are whimpering into his ear and he runs his nails down your back. “Louder,” he commands, but you are never loud enough. He wants the walls to shake and your throat to be sore, to know he’s doing good. “Louder,” he repeats. “Louder.”
He holds you tightly and he will not let you go. He can feel you crumbling, getting closer to the edge. You tighten around his cock and you grind your hips into his and you tell him, “I’m gonna come.” So he reaches down and rubs your clit and your body spasms. You throw your head back and groan and Spencer pushes his hips up as much as he can. He plunges himself into you and he watches you come undone. Fall apart.
“Oh, fuck,” you mumble. Your eyes are roll back and your move yourself on his dick as if on autopilot. Spencer is entranced by you. By the sounds you make and the way you look while you’re getting fucked. He’s thought about it many times, what it would be like.
This is better.
Spencer’s nails are digging into your hips and the pain is just enough to get you there. You come down on his cock in just the right away, you grab his wrist and hold it tight and you cry out as you come. You gasp for air and shake and claw at his skin.
When Spencer can pull himself away, he flips you over. His dick is still inside of you as he lays you on the floor. He gives you slow and steady strokes and he nuzzles his nose against you. “Keep coming on my cock,” he tells you. “Do it again. Do it again.”
It is an easy order to obey when he puts your legs over his shoulders and pushes into you. His hips are skillful and full of motion, like the movement of a wave. He watches your face twist up and contort, your jaw dropping and your eyes squeezing shut. “You’re so hot,” he whispers to you. “So fucking hot.”
And it is throwing you for a loop, his words. How vulgar they are and how low his voice is as he says them. He sees you rub your clit and starts to fuck you faster. Harder. The floor squeaks and you can see his muscles flexing underneath his skin. He leans in to put his forehead against yours. He smiles at you and you smile back and your smile breaks down into a soft moan.
“You’re gonna make me come again,” you tell him.
“Oh,” he grunts, sinking all the way into you. “It’ll be an honor.”
You hold him close, you listen to him pant and whine in your ear. He kisses your neck sloppily, leaving traces on spit from your earlobe to your jaw. You rub your clit in soft, slow circles until you feel the tension building in your gut. You close your eyes and let out a long and strangled moan.
“Mhm, I know,” he whispers. “I know.”
You lick your lips, purse them together and when you look into Spencer’s eyes, you choke. You tense up and moan his name and come on his cock. He shoves his tongue in your mouth and holds you tightly as you tremble. “Mm,” he moans. “There ya’ go. So fucking hot.”
At this point, all his body weight is on you and he is pounding into you with messy thrusts and jagged grunts. “Can I come?” he asks you. “Can I come?”
You nod quickly, you grab a hold of his face and give him a kiss. It is long and sticky and perfect. Your moans are mixing together in the air, loud and incessant and nonstop. His body grows weaker by the second. It grows heavy and he can barely hold himself up any longer. You kiss his neck and lick his jaw and he tells you he’s close. “I’m gonna come, [y/n],” he whines. “You’re gonna make me come. God. Fuck!”
And when he does, when you make him come, he collapses on top of you. His mouth falls onto yours and he releases a loud groan against your lips. He spills into the condom and thrusts himself into you a few more times. When it is over, he lays on you and plays with your hair.
He can’t look at you while he says it, but he tells you, “It’s never been like that for me before.”
You grin. You push his hair back and kiss his forehead. “Hm,” you reply. “Shocker.”
