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Love You More

As newlyweds, you and Spencer can’t hold back the urges of wanting each other at all times [ 6k ]

Includes female reader; husband Spencer, kinda unit chief Spencer if you’d like; smut (+18): phone sex; p in v unprotected sex; breeding kink; reader is loud and talkative; (and so is he); a bit rough but still sweet and domestic and fluffy bc am who I am; multiple orgasms; after care; discussing baby names; brief infertility talk; Diana and reader are besties. did I mention how domestic this is?

Totally self indulgent but also this is my appreciation post to the lovely @reidgif thank you Eva for always blessing us with the best Spence gifs to ever exist <33 we love you and appreciate you tons mwaahhh💋

A framed picture of you sat on his desk.

Your happiness radiated through and made him smile every time he looked at it, taking him back to that day so vividly—when he asked you to be his girlfriend, three years ago. You’d captured that moment on your phone without him noticing. (He rarely noticed anything around him when he was with you). It was the hug right after you said yes to his question—chin tucked over his shoulder and your smile slightly covered by a few pieces of his hair that flowed with the salty beach breeze. The beach has turned into one of his favorite places on earth since then. 

Now, as newlyweds, he thought of updating your picture, or finding a companion piece for it, and framing one of you from the day he asked you to marry him, to keep the tradition going. If he did that, though, he would also have to find one to put there from the day you got married, which could end up looking like an altar of you.

That wouldn’t be too bad considering he had his own office now. The shelves behind him were still pretty empty.

Spencer sighed as he glanced at your smile for another second, then went back to his paperwork. He flipped through endless pages, and his wedding band flashed under the lamplight every time.

“Still not used to it, huh?” Luke’s voice entered the office.

Spencer glanced up just to find Alvez leaning on the door frame, his eyes glancing down at Spencer’s hand. Only then he noticed he’d been rolling his ring with his thumb. 

“Yeah,” Spencer merely breathed out, rolling the ring once again.

“I meant the office,” Luke chuckled as he stepped in and looked around, one hand tucked in his pocket while with the other he adjusted his backpack’s strap over his shoulder. “Still a bit empty.”

“Garcia said she was gonna take care of it while I’m on my honeymoon, so it won’t be like this for too long.” Spencer gave him a tight-lipped smile as he nodded.

“Now that’s gonna be interesting,” Luke softly laughed. “Where are you guys going?”

“Uh, Spain,” Spencer said with amusement.

“Huh,” Luke smirked. “It was her decision, wasn’t it?”

“Like everything else, pretty much.” Spencer’s cheeks flushed. He was happy with anything as long as it made you happy.

“Well, let me know if you need some Spanish classes, te puedo enseñar algunas palabras.”

Spencer quirked his brows. His Rs were much slurred than Luke’s, but he still tried. “Gracias?”

Luke frowned his lips as in not bad, then added, “Alright, just wanted to stop by and say goodnight before heading out. You should go, too. You have a wife at home.”

Yes, he did, but unfortunately…

“I still have a few more things to do.” Spencer waved Luke goodbye.

A single ding coming from Spencer’s pocket got his attention. It was your signature message sound, so he squeezed his phone out without a second thought.

It was time for a short break, anyway.

Y/n (wife) sent a video

Spencer smiled before opening the message, bringing his mug with steaming coffee to his lips. He was waiting to see your beautiful face with one of your usual reports about how the remodeling of the house was going. He had to admit, he felt guilty that he couldn’t be there and work on it too, but Morgan offered to help (since the house was one of his few remodeling projects), so you weren’t entirely on your own on this.

The preview was blurry, and what started playing was not what he expected.

At all.

Your hand—the one with the wedding band—massaged your bare left breast and ended with you tweaking your nipple and stretching it out.

The video lasted just five seconds, yet it was enough for his body to react almost immediately. Blood rushed to his cheeks, neck, and groin in an instant.

All while he spilled some coffee over his lap, choked on his last sip, and coughed most of it all over his paperwork.

“Shit,” he barely managed to breathe out between more short hitched coughs.

Ding!

Y/n (wife): Are you coming home soon? I miss you :(

God, you were the death of him.

He glanced down at his pants, then at the open door, and rushed to close it—lock it—and drew down the blinds.

His phone rang. 

Y/n (Wife) is calling…

His thumb hovered over the green button until the third ring as he cleared out his throat to speak properly.

Still, his voice came out tight and slightly panicked. “You can’t just do that.” 

Your devilish and adorable laugh tickled his ear.

“Hi, handsome. Did you like it?”

“Y-yeah, of course I liked it.” He cleared his throat yet again. He was madly obsessed with you. ”You look, god, you’re so beautiful, but I’m at work, wha-what if someone else saw it?!”

“I’d say they’re very lucky because one of those can be very expensive.”

As soon as he heard your tone, his demeanor changed, and his choked-up breathing came back to normal. He glided his fingers through the blinds just enough to peek outside.

Everyone was gone, so there was no need to panic, yet he said, “Stop it.”

And you completely ignored him. “Where are you now?” 

“My office.” He matched your tone.

“Look at you, so official now. I should surprise you one of these days so we can fuck on your desk,” you said and the mere thought of doing that fueled something in him. ”Would you bend me over and fuck me from behind?”

He didn’t answer right away as the image of him doing exactly what you’d said popped into his head. He’d love that, actually, sweeping everything out of his desk, bending you over, spreading your legs open as he undid his belt, dragging your pants down to your ankles…

“You know I’d much rather see your face,” he said. “And kiss your pretty mouth while we fuck.”

Every time, he let you know how much he enjoyed seeing every single expression of yours as he plunged into you.

Let me see your face

God, you’re beautiful

Show me your smile

There she is

“Is that a yes, then?” You challenged him.

Spencer paced toward his desk and leaned on it, facing the door just in case. “I can’t promise you we’ll fuck because you’re so loud.” He smiled to himself. “You could get me in trouble, but we can definitely do something, yeah.” 

“Would it be okay if I showed up one of these days unannounced?”

“So many questions,” he said through a soft laugh, almost to himself, then continued, “I, uh, yeah. Yes, you can always visit me. Whenever you want, just… don’t forget the condoms. We don’t want to get messy here. And I don’t think it would be appropriate if I kept some in my drawer.”

“And if I forget them on purpose?”

“You’ll have to use your mouth to get rid of the evidence,” he responded without hesitation.

You’d polished this side of him. So openly unbrazen to say out loud all of his darkest thoughts. 

Your provocative yet shy laugh softened him everywhere. “I’d be happy to.”

“I know you would.”

This wasn’t the first time you’d teased him during working hours, but it usually was when he was away for a few days and when you knew he was alone in a hotel room where he could peacefully take care of himself. And since the first time you did it, he learned what you liked and why you did it. You were frustrated, and you missed him and needed him to help you get off in one way or another. 

“Was that a recent video?” He asked. 

“Yeah, you think I pre-record videos?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should.” He teased you. “Are you still naked?”

“Mmm, almost. I’m wearing one of your shirts.”

Of course, you were, and you sounded so needy.

“Would you do something for me?” He reached for the picture at his desk and turned it so it’d face him. There was your smile. Your so beautiful smile that lit up every place you walked into. Even the most somber corners of his mind.

“Mhm.”

“Where are you now?” He asked, just to picture you better.

“Couch. Watching a movie.”

“Turn the volume down.”

The background sounds faded, and then it was just you, your breathing, and him.

“I wanna… talk to you about something.”

He didn’t, but his focus on finishing his paperwork was wholly gone, and since you became a part of his life, he promised himself you’d be at the top of his list, always. So he had to distract you to gain some time and get home as soon as possible because you needed him.

“Oh, okay?” 

“Remember the last time we fucked on our couch?” He asked.

He sandwiched his phone between his shoulder and ear and was quiet to gather his things—the reports he was now going to finish at home.

“You mean last night?”

“Last night, yeah,” he sweetly replied.

Last night was glorious. You’d decided to take the next step. Or at least, put a tentative date about when you could start trying to get pregnant. He still refused to finish inside you (despite you being on birth control), but he fucked you with the idea of beginning a family with you at that exact moment.

You had moaned his name until your mouth went dry and came around his cock four times. 

You just… Couldn’t. Stop. Coming.

He could still feel the ghost of your throbbing cunt around him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget last night.” You sighed.

Everything he needed was inside his messenger bag, so Spencer locked his office from the outside and hurriedly strolled to the elevator as he kept talking. “Me neither.”

“I… touched myself when I woke up this morning without you, you know, thinking about last night.”

“You did?” Spencer said before putting himself on mute for a moment just before the elevator dinged open. He entered it and pressed the button that would take him to the parking garage.

“I don’t know what it is, but every time you’re away I… I touch myself thinking about you…” Your voice was shy as you continued to tell him about your fantasy. He was two floors away from his stop. “Baby? You still there?”

Come on, come on, he muttered to himself, staring at the changing numbers.

2

1

-1

Yes!

“Even after we started dating,” he spoke immediately, sliding between the opening doors, then muted himself again. He took long, long steps toward his car, and after he swiftly got in, he turned the key. He hoped the purr inside wasn’t too loud as he put you on speaker.

“Oh, god, yes,” your voice filled the air of his car, and he already knew this was going to be a fun ride home.

“You’ve never told me that before.” He replied once he unmuted himself for good and started his journey back to you. He gripped the steering wheel tight. 

“I know. I… I would even touch myself thinking of you, come with you in my mind before our dates.”

So he didn’t imagine that scent when he kissed your knuckles on those first dates. It drove him crazy—your pheromones—and forced him to jerk off as soon as he got home. 

He hadn’t confessed that to you yet. But maybe it was time.

“That’s— wow, I didn’t know that.” He stopped at a red light and took the chance to untighten his pants by the crotch. Blood had been rushing through his erection since the video you sent him, and the more you talked… it just kept on growing. 

“I know, crap, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I thought it could be hot, but now I’m mortified.” You muffled yourself against something. “Why do you sound weird? Distant. Am I on speaker?”

“No! No, just… bad signal.” He swept your thoughts away. He couldn’t let you feel this way when he’d done the exact same. “What if I told you I did the same thing?” Your reply was a sigh. “Not before our dates but definitely after. I- I would picture you there in my bed, or in the shower, and I just… had to.”

You said something out of breath, then, “And you looked so innocent.” 

Spencer smirked to himself. “I never was.”

“Yeah, I know, you proved it to me. Many times.” Your smile was so present through those words… “Would you tell me how you did it? What… you did?”

His mind went straight to the first time he did it, and he had no trouble telling you all about it.

“It was… after our second date,” he confessed, then went on, in no hurry, as he kept on driving. “The night of our first kiss. When we agreed to take things slowly yet you still sat on my lap to kiss me. And we kissed, all night, just to kiss each other. You tangled your fingers in my hair, and I hoped you couldn’t feel how hard your kisses made me. How all of you had me. It was a cold night, but it felt like summer inside. I- I still feel awful for not staying that night as you’d asked me to, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready to have you like that, but then, when I got home, I got in the shower and my mind went somewhere. A moment we hadn’t had yet but knew would happen eventually. I pictured you there with me, and I was already hard but wanting you there with me…” he trailed off as he heard you curse under your breath. 

“Keep going, baby,” you said, and he smirked. 

So he kept going. 

“I… hesitated at first. You were the one good thing happening to me at that time, and I didn’t want to… stain you by objectifying you, but before I knew it, I was stroking myself. And it felt good. So good,” he almost whispered. 

He was good at this. He knew he was so he kept going, telling you all about that first time he touched himself thinking about you. 

The usual fourteen-minute quiet drive turned into 9 minutes of not-so-usual dirty talking, and soon, he was walking through the door of his home with the phone call still ongoing.

It smelled brand new. Like paint and wood and incense. 

You were supposed to be here on the first floor, in the living room, but you must’ve moved to the bedroom at some point because he didn’t find you there.

“…my god, f-fuck.” Your heavy breathing echoed between his ear and phone.

You’d given him a clear sign that you’d finished one time already—sweet, sweet moans filled his car a few minutes ago, and he had to make a quick stop at the side of the road or else he would’ve crashed—and now you were going for a second one. And he was right there to help you through it. 

From the empty living room, he heard your blissful noises and he followed them upstairs, bewitched by your voice. 

The call remained ongoing, but his phone was long forgotten in his pocket. Your harsh breathing was closer and closer with each step, and once he reached the bedroom, he stayed by the door. Inside his home, he allowed himself to be like this: a pervert, sometimes, he admitted. But it’s what you liked and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy this, too.

The door was cracked open, and he peeked through to delight himself with the view. He had to muffle a long sigh, but his face flickered with immediate pleasure. Brows melting, bottom lip tucked between his teeth, nostrils flared ever so slightly.

There you were, lying on your stomach in the middle of the bed, naked from the waist down with his shirt riding up your back as if you’d stopped yourself from taking it off, legs spread open and a pillow between them. You were grinding it in perfect, short and controlled rocking motions. Back and forth. Side to side.

You whimpered against the mattress. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come again I—“

His cock throbbed. Jolted inside his pants, and his hand went there to calm the swelling.

“I need you so badly,” you breathed out. “So, so—“ your hips stuttered and began to roll and rub against the pillow until you released all the pleasure you’d been building.

Shit, he muttered to himself. 

He needed you, too. 

Reaching for his phone without tearing his eyes off you, he murmured, “You do?” quietly enough, pushing the door open with one finger and putting one foot inside, then another,  as he walked inside stealthily like the perfect intruder. 

He didn’t want to scare you, but also didn’t want to spoil the surprise, so he remained out of your possible eye range, by the end of the bed, and god, this point of view was so much better. You were something else like this. So immersed in your pleasure that you still hadn’t heard him coming inside.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said, now loud enough for you to hear. 

But you didn’t. You were drowning in bliss; your hips never lost rhythm, riding the pillow, and your eyes remained closed, a slight frown over your brows and an exquisite smile.

That sight. He needed to fuck you right there. 

Without a second thought he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants with one hand while he stretched his other arm and reached for your ass, giving your right ass cheek a tight squeeze to finally let you know he was there. 

You gasped, and your eyes fluttered open, ready to stand up and fight whoever came here without a warning, but the moment you realized it was him—

“Baby,” you breathed out and let your body fall onto the bed with relief. “I thought– I– my heart almost gave out.” You then laughed a little.

Spencer walked to your side, leaned to kiss your temple and squeezed your ass one more time, murmuring in your ear, “Hi sweetheart, stay right there for me, yeah? Don’t move.”

All you did was nod. Willing to let him handle you however the fuck he wanted.

He took off all of his clothes right there and settled on the bed behind you, with his knees at either side of your hips, stroking his still growing erection to become fully hard when entering you.

You adjusted the pillow underneath you for support to keep your hips up and wiggled your ass onto him, using your hands to spread your cheeks open for him. 

So damn inviting.

“Jesus Christ.” He stared and gulped and kept staring, and his mouth watered. 

You were so ready for him. Wet and puffy. But he tortured himself for a moment, and instead of slipping his cock right in, he let it hover over your ass, smacking each cheek with it persistently, creating a sinful sound in the dimly lit up room. 

These bed lamps were new.

“Spencer, baby, please.” You lifted your ass towards him and blindly reached for his erection, but he pinned your hand close to your hip. You closed it into a defeated fist.

It was time to torture you now and let the tip of his cock simmer between your folds. Nestled there. Slippery and warm and soft. His hips stuttered instinctively and he almost slipped in, the gentle squeeze of the entrance of your cunt giving him a loving kiss. 

Always looking down, Spencer decided there was no point in holding back anymore and slowly–so very slowly–pushed his hips forward, delighting himself with the view of his cock being swallowed up. His gaze flickered up at your face then, that gorgeous needy face, and kept his eyes trained on you until he was fully inside. You angled your face toward your shoulder, shooting him a glance through fluttering lashes and a drunken smile. 

You bit your lip. “I think ‘m gonna come already, f–uck.” You tightened your walls around him and motioned your hips in a way that withdrew some of his erection and bent it slightly downward. Then you did it again, and your cunt began to pulse ardently. 

“Shit.” Spencer held onto you, hissed between clenched teeth, one hand tight on your hip while the other still held your hand in place by the wrist, now closer to your back.

It felt too good. You felt so damn good, and an early flutter grew in his balls and lower stomach, all while you turned into a whiny, moaning turmoil under him. Ever smiling. 

Right then, as you used his cock, all he could focus on was not coming just yet even though small drops started to drip out of the tip, but the pleasure snowballed too quickly for him to stop it. Spencer groaned, weakened, and let his body fall over yours, his hips just pressing and pressing against your ass desperately as you sucked everything out of him. Spurts of cum shot inside you with each jolt of his cock, and as his body naturally did that, the deliberate part of him searched for your hands and locked his fingers with yours, tight, pressing them on your sides and his lips and nose hovering along your jaw.

“That’s it, baby, come inside me, yes, yes, y-yes,” you encouraged him, and he grunted some more. “That’s so good, you feel so good, give it to me, please, please f-fuck!” Your voice went high-pitched, loud as you ever were, and he was sure you were coming again–pulsating and pulsating around his erection.

“Show me your face,” he whispered breathlessly at the back of your head and slammed into you. You cried out as an instant response. “Let me see your smile.” He slammed into you again, and harder. You turned your head, gluing your chin to your shoulder. He licked your earlobe, dragged his lips to the underside of your chin, then to your lips, capturing them into an open-mouthed kiss. You whined into it and glared at him from up close, nose to nose, and smiled sweetly. 

Every part of him softened with love. 

“There she is.” He smiled, too. “There’s my girl.”

“I love you so much, baby.” You breathed out.

Sweet nothings slipped through his lips to your skin about how much he loved you too, how good you felt, how good you were to him, and he stayed there, intentionally twitching his cock inside you as another way of showing you his love.

After a moment, he gave you one last messy kiss and straightened up with a grunt, allowing his cock to slip out. His cum dripped out of you like melting caramel, cascading down to the pillow that was so flattened out now, there was no purpose for it anymore. He yanked it out, tossed it to the floor, and snatched you close by your hips to lift them up, ready to go for a second round. A single spank there on your cheek to let you know that this was still going. 

You’ve trained him for this—coming multiple times in a row. It was torture the first few times (a good kind of torture, of course, one he much enjoyed), then it was the only way sex always went. Finishing once, then coming back inside you for a second one and third, giving his cock no chance to soften. 

No exceptions.

He used his own cum as lube, smearing it all over—up to your clit, between your swollen folds and back to your opening. Pushed the tip in, then drilled into you. Fuck, you were somehow tight now, sensitive by your many orgasms most likely, but you gave him no sign of discomfort. Instead, you took the lead and withdrew to slam back onto him, ready to keep going, too. 

Then he continued. The globes of your ass bounced and smacked against his lower stomach with each new thrust and this desperate rapped out cadence had his thighs stinging. But it was thrilling, so exquisite it went on for a long while, and you never ceased to let him know how much you were enjoying this. Moaning, whining, gripping the bed covers, and every once in a while reaching for the hand holding onto you.

Until you got tired from being with your face pressed down to the mattress.

There was no need to vocalize any of it, and agreed with a glance followed by a kiss that it was time to change positions. 

With even more kisses in between, Spencer lay down with his upper back pressed to the headboard and made himself more comfortable with a few pillows behind him, ready to have you riding him. You finally took off your shirt and settled on top of him. He couldn’t help but sit up right to take one of your breasts into his mouth, just to show you how much he loved them. Nuzzled his nose into your flesh while you sank into his erection. He hummed around your nipple and wrapped his arms around you into a hug to bring you with him as he settled back. 

“I’m gonna move fast, baby, I need to thrust so badly.”

“Go ahead,” he replied, peeling off your breast and looking up at you.

You were beautiful like this, in charge yet so cock-drunk.

You supported both hands under his ribs, not quite pressing but rather holding onto him, and did as you’d said—as you’d warned him. The prowess of your hips turned him into a groaning chaos. His feet tensed and his thighs clenched and unclenched trying to hold it together, but fuck, you were so good at this.

“You’re so h-hard, Spence, fuck.” Your eyes fluttered closed and bit your bottom lip through a smile and little laugh. 

So good, so fucking good, so hard, baby, you continued to praise him through clenched teeth.

He was, he so fucking was, it was a matter of a few more thrusts that he came again. 

His face twitched with the almost unbearable pleasure you were giving him, bouncing your ass up and down and giving him rolling motions in between that allowed your cunt to wrap around every curve of his cock. 

“’m gonna come again mm—!” Your cunt tightened and stayed tight while you kept moving, then those familiar pulses caressed his erection. “My god, you feel so fucking good, so b-big.”

Your hips lost rhythm, only spasmed persistently, but kept his cock curved in the way you so much liked and as you kept moving, you went silent. Focused. Eyes closed, brows low. Shaky breaths caged on your throat.

“That’s it, use my cock,” Spencer encouraged you. His mouth was dry.

Then you released it. All at once. A shaky yelp, relaxed and silky cunt. “Oh, sh-shit, baby, I’m coming, y-yess!” 

So was he. Fuck fuck fuck he was so close to coming too. He loved it when this magical synchronization happened. 

“Don’t stop,” he breathed out. He needed to come with you, so he built his pleasure some more by taking you in, all of you, and chased it and began to express it before it struck him fully. With short breathless groans and loving kisses on your arms, now that you were holding onto him by his sweaty shoulders. “Don’t stop, feels so good.”

Your voices blended together in the air and soon, your orgasms did, too.

“fucking god.” Spencer groaned, staring down at where your bodies met. 

His hands roamed across your sides, from your ribs to your hips and thighs then back to your ass and the arch of your back.

“One more, baby. You can come once more for me,” you told him, cupping his jaw. “Yeah? You just feel so good, I don’t want this to end.”

He knew he had it in him. A third one, it was right there even when he was barely out of the second one. 

Baby, please, you begged next to his ear.

Yeah, he definitely had a third one.

He harshly handled you so you’d be lying down instead, and he settled between your legs, entered you and ruthlessly pounded into you, mouths clasped together as you both moaned into each other, sharing a single, agitated breath. 

“Yes, yes, yes baby!” you cried out. “Come in me again.” 

Spencer tucked his face on your neck, blindly hooked his arms under your thighs to bend your legs and bring them up and with his eyes closed he still pictured you, as if he wasn’t right there on your arms. 

“Ah, sweetheart,” Spencer exhaled a groan. “You make me crazy.” He then hummed and nibbled your neck and spoke into your hot skin. “So fucking crazy.”

“Kiss me,” you breathed out. “Keep talking to me.” Spencer lifted his face from your neck and glued his lips to yours. “Like this, yeah.” 

You swept your tongue along his and as he kept plunging into you, in and out, creating a wet mess between your bodies, he said, “I want to get you pregnant so bad.”

“Yeah?” you replied, so damn whiny.

“Yeah, baby.” Spencer tugged your bottom lip between gentle teeth and morphed it into a kiss. His balls tightened; his cock spasmed. “Ah, fuck, there it is. I’m c-coming again.” 

“Yes, baby, do it, come inside me, please.”

Come in me, you repeated, and he clung into your embrace, thrusting and thrusting and groaning until he released inside you through a low and deep grunt that you gladly kissed and moaned into, too. Then the pleasure ripped through him so hard it almost jumped through his skin. 

There was nothing left inside him anymore. He felt drained in the most exhilarating way, so he stayed there in your arms for a moment. You gently tapped his arm so he’d let your legs go, and you relaxed them right away. Your muscles were trembling.  

“That was so good, baby.” You panted, and clammed your cunt around him as you adjusted your body under him. While still inside you, Spencer kissed your neck then brought his mouth to your lips. Your hands traveled to the back of his neck and pulled him closer to receive his lazy kisses with much more strength. “Thank you.” 

You then peppered kisses all over his sweaty face, which gave him enough fuel to move a little, falling on your side at last.

He took the longest, joyful breath.

“Tired?” You asked him.

You were quick to reach for wipes and began to clean yourself and him. An excess of cum pooled around his now softer cock and with so much care, you cleaned it all. 

“Sleepy,” he replied, and continued cleaning himself with another wipe as his eyes closed. His voice was barely there.

“Do you need something?” You pecked the corner of his mouth.

“I’m good.” He shook his head.

“‘Kay.” You kissed him again. “I’ll be right back.” 

You slipped from his side with a huff. An exhausted huff. He squinted one eye open to get a glimpse of you, and your legs wobbled as you bent to pick up something. He couldn’t hold back a mocking laugh.

You laughed along, shooting him a teasing smile. “You’re proud, aren’t you?”

“Mhm I am.” He raised his brows at you. 

His breathing was more regulated when you came back from the bathroom break. Still naked, you joined him in bed again, lying on your stomach.

Just to stare at him.

And play with his hair.

And steal some kisses.

“What did you do today?” He asked you, turning to face you. His hand mindlessly went to your back, and caressed you along your spine with his fingers with feather-light glides.

“I went tile shopping with Derek.” You brushed a piece of hair away from his forehead. “A cream tone for the kitchen and a light blue for the guest bathroom. Savannah and little Hank joined us for lunch, then I came back to paint the kitchen cabinets.” You then sweetly shrugged.

“Sage green?” His hand stopped briefly.

Your face lit up. “How do you know?” 

“I know things,” he said with a cocky grin and continued his motions along your back. He just saw the paint in the living room. “What else did you do?”

“I talked to Diana.”

“I called her today, too,” he raised his brows at the coincidence. 

“Well, she called me.” You countered with slight humor. “I thought she’d gotten the numbers mixed up, but she didn’t.” 

The proud look on your face was… endearing. 

“And what did she say?”

“She was wondering when I was going to visit her.”

“She didn’t ask about me?” He asked, mildly offended.

You shook your head and didn’t give him much time to think of it as you continued, “So, I was thinking, after Spain, we can make a stop in Vegas for a few days?”

“I like that, yeah.”

“And did you tell her, perhaps, about us and babies?”

“I don’t think so.” He quirked his brows. “Why?”

“She hinted at something, but maybe I’m thinking too much of it.”

“Tell me.”

You held the thought for a second, your eyes wandering around to explain, “She told me about how this woman from her home had a son and that he’d recently brought his newborn baby to meet her. She said how she could almost picture you doing the same someday.” You shrugged. “Then proceeded to say how the baby’s cry annoyed her.”

A heartily laugh rolled from his chest. 

This, knowing how his mom called you to just chat, was a dream come true. 

“Anyway, I don’t know why I asked her if she knew the baby’s name, but she didn’t, which made me think of baby names. For our future baby.” 

Spencer leaned and teased you by your ear. “You did?”

“Mhm.” You nodded. “I don’t know why, but I feel like… We’ll have a girl first.”

First. So you wanted more than one.

His chest fluttered. “And what’s her name?”

“You’re gonna laugh.” You covered your face with your palms.

“Tell me.” He reached for your fingers and gently peeled one hand away, bringing it to his lips. To kiss you. To nibble you.

“Sage.” You said, and your eyes glimmered. “I saw the name when I was searching for paint colors and something about it felt… right.”

“Sage,” he said in deep thought.

“Mhm. Sage Reid. Or Scout. I like that one too. Or Sadie. Definitely a name that starts with an S.” You drew lines over his chest. “I really like your initials.”

Spencer planted a kiss on your cheek and spoke right there with his lips brushing over your skin. “She could have my initials, but I’m sure she’ll have your eyes.”

You hummed, then something in you shifted.

“Spence, what if… we struggle to get pregnant?”

He frowned, pulling back to stare and try to read you. Something told him this uncertainty has been there for a while.

“Is this something you think about a lot?”

“No?” You frowned. “Not a lot, but it’s definitely a thought, I guess.”

“We’re not in a rush.” He lifted one hand to cup your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek. “So, I don’t think struggle is a word if it takes us a while.”

“Yeah.” You let out a long sigh and snuggled into his embrace, one leg propped over his. “Do you think it’s late?”

“It was late when I left the office, so probably.” A soft kiss on the top of your head. “Why?”

“I haven’t eaten.” You grumbled. “And I have to shower, again.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said, kissing your temple. “Let’s shower first, then we’ll make something to eat.” You groaned again in protest. “Just stand there. I’ll soap up your gorgeous body.”

“And wash my hair?” You lifted your head to look at him.

“Double shampooing if you want.”

Eva if you made it to the end, I know it’s not exactly what we once talked about, but this was the result 🥹 I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless 💋

Dear reader, please don't hesitate to let me know what you thinkkkk. I'd love to read all of your thoughts

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTRELIST

ERIKA YOU DIRTY GIRL

and fav s1 dom spencer truther 💁‍♀️

𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 | 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader Category: Smut 18+ MDNI Summary: You have several (stereotypical) assumptions about your nerdy coworker; he proves how wrong you are about them. Content: 3.2k, early season dom!Spencer Reid, bratty reader, reader has hair that can be put in a ponytail, brat taming, BDSM dynamics, sensation play (feather tickler hehe), reader is ticklish, spanking, making out, thigh riding, coworkers hooking up (are we even fucking surprised), hopefully still soft and sweet and hot. a/n: Listen I know I keep saying I’m taking a break but unfortunately I’m ovulating HARD; this is the last one for May, but there will be a part 2, I’m already planning it. I wrote this completely piss drunk (my friends can probably share screenshots as proof oops) and then sobered up enough to edit (might have missed some stuff). Based on a request that Tumblr ate 😭 but basically, BAU reader teases Spencer about sex only to find out he's a kinky BDSM dom. Hope u enjoy!

“What would you know about BDSM?” The question, spoken with a carefree laugh and just a hint of condescension, is directed at your coworker, who is currently stirring copious amounts of sugar into his coffee beside you. 

Dressed in a tweed blazer that overwhelms his slight frame, Spencer Reid only tilts his head to the side, honey eyes keen and flashing with something you can’t quite place. You lean against the counter in the pantry, intrigued by his response. You’d expected a blush, chin tipping down, hair falling over his pretty eyes, lips uttering bashful, stuttering words. 

Not… this. Regarding you with a frank, unblinking calm that has you shifting in place.

“Oh, right,” you roll your eyes teasingly, unwilling to let him see how easily his nonplussed reaction has fractured your easygoing facade, “You’ve read about it extensively, haven’t you? What do psychology textbooks have to say about whips and blindfolds, Dr. Reid?”

“Quite a lot,” he replies with a serenity that unnerves, “Some attribute it to the feeling of being safely back inside the womb.”

You scoff, “Right, because thinking of your mother during bondage is so sexy.”

“But,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you, patient but warning, “There’s often explanations that go hand in hand with biology. Deprivation of one sense tends to heighten the other. Physical restriction offers the same feeling, which then leads to altered states of pleasure. In a more emotional sense, surrendering your power to a partner communicates the highest level of trust, offering a deeper sense of intimacy for some people.”

So he does know a lot about it. Still, you don’t drop your teasing grin as you reply, “God, how do you manage to make BDSM sound so clinical?”

“Because it is a little clinical, if I’m just explaining it in polite conversation. The communication is better enjoyed if the actions match.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm hmm,” he smiles, dimples flashing, a show of innocence. A mask. 

“And this information is from experience?” you tease.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

His tone carries implication and it settles upon your stomach, heavy and warm. That makes you perk up, but you fight the urge to show your intrigue. Instead, you scoff, “As if there’s anything to know.”

He’s quiet. Sipping at his coffee, honey eyes twinkling over the rim of his mug. It’s infuriating.

“No way.” you huff, finally breaking. The lightness of teasing leaves your voice, shifting to something darker, more accusatory, “You expect me to believe you have experience? In BDSM?” 

“Announce it to the entire office, why don’t you?”

You pause, looking at him almost in betrayal. Really, how could you not? Spencer Reid, who looks like his nose would start bleeding from the slightest sexual attention from a living, breathing person, has BDSM experience? The man who wears sweater vests and slicks his hair back like he’s a seventy year old librarian? You survey him today, in all of his rumpled, mismatched glory, trying to find one hint of his apparent favored pastimes.

He looks almost smug as he meets your gaze, cocking his head to the side.

“No way.” you repeat.

“You possess an awfully limited vocabulary for today.” 

“Shut up, stop pulling my leg,” your eyes narrow suspiciously, still in disbelief. 

“I’m not pulling your leg,” he says, allowing a small, almost imperceptible smirk to curve up his lips for one split second, before his face gets hidden by the coffee cup again.

“Prove it, then.” 

The words startle both of you, but you’re stubborn enough to see it through. Meeting his gaze with a confidence that would seem sincere to the untrained eye, but Spencer has worked with you long enough to know it’s all bravado. 

He looks at you, unsure. “Prove it?”

“Look who's vocabulary is limited now.”

He scoffs and lowers his voice, “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

“I know what I’m getting into, I’m a grown woman, thanks.” 

“Then I’ll fax you a copy of my rules. If they still seem like something you’d want to try out, come to my apartment Saturday night—that is, if we aren’t called in for a case.”

You shrug, the perfect picture of nonchalance. “Great, sounds like a plan. Don’t forget to fax.” You both know he wouldn’t.

By some universal twist of fate, that Saturday is devoid of any last minute cases. You spend the whole morning poring over the sixteen-page document that Spencer had sent over on Friday, reading through the risks—a lot of which you already know from your own research—his specific set of rules, and what he’d normally allow for a beginner. You don’t have the same perfect memory he does, but you’re sure you’ve memorized everything by the time you knock at his apartment.

“So you came,” he says, offering you a cool glass of lemonade, looking perfectly at ease as he leads you into his bedroom. 

“Of course,” you say, looking around as you sip on the drink, taking it all in, “I was serious when I said prove it.” It’s dim, but nothing else is inside that rouses suspicion. It looks completely normal—a neat bed, a messy desk, haphazard piles of books—until your eyes land on the items on the dresser. 

Silk ties. A paddle. Something that looks similar to a feather duster, but you assume it’s made with a different activity in mind. Your cheeks are aflame.

“You know the safe word?”

“Yes. Jupiter—you’re such a nerd, by the way.”

He laughs, taking you half finished glass and setting it down. “Do you have any objections to the terms I’d laid out? Additions?”

“I just need you to make a promise.”

“For what?”

“That this stays between us.” You face him, searching his eyes for any deceit. It’s always a risk, being a woman and engaging in anything that could be considered deviant, especially in an environment like the BAU, which is honestly a glorified boy’s club.

“You have my word. Everything that we do stays in this room.” he vows, stepping closer.

“And,” you bite your lip, “No sex, right?”

He shakes his head, “None. We’ll focus on sensations tonight, just to let you get a feel for things.”

It seems more intimate, just trusting him to tease and play with your body, but you’re glad that the boundary is set in place. Spencer seems to have gotten a lot of experience at this, and briefly, you wonder just how many other people has been in your place.

You push the thought away and smile at him. “Okay. Then that’s all on my end. I accept all your terms, and I remember the safe word.”

He hums, turning you around. Standing so closely behind you, his heat warms your back like a gentle fire. Long, elegant fingers that carry the lingering musk of old books and coffee gather your hair into a ponytail at the base of your neck. He secures it with a thin elastic, before leaning in, breath whispering goosebumps into your skin. 

“Strip.”

There’s a sudden loss of heat as he steps back. You’re surprised to miss it, already, but even more surprised by his command. “What?”

“I said strip, angel.” he says, walking to your front with an expectant look on his face, “Down to your underwear.”

You sputter, looking up at him incredulously, but his face is serious. Patient, but serious.

“Do you need your safe word?”

You don’t reply, realizing that it’s begun and this is exactly what you agreed to do. To submit to him and his commands. The weight of this reality sinks in, rendering you mute and frozen, and he immediately softens. 

Hands cupping your cheeks, Spencer looks at you with concern, “Hey, we can stop.”

“No,” you reply, forcefully. Stubborn pride pulsing through your veins—no way you’re stopping before you’ve even done anything, “I don’t want to stop, it’s okay. I just—okay. Strip.” you step back, nodding and muttering to yourself, “Okay, yes, I can do that.” Looking down, you fumble at the buttons of your blouse, undoing them with clumsy, unsure fingers.

He steps back to the dresser, retrieving the bundle of feathers, never averting his gaze. Wide brown eyes take you in as you lose your shirt, and then your pants, standing before him in matching lace underwear. A slow grin spreads over his lips, “You dressed up for me?”

You feel your cheeks burn, “No.”

“So you just wear expensive lace sets for no reason, even on Saturdays?”

“You don’t know what I like.”

A step closer, “I’m about to,” he says in a low, smug tone that has your breath catching, “Stay still.”

Stay still. Easy enough. Your eyes follow his movements, the way he brandishes the feathers in his hands. Your head cranes back as he circles you, and he tuts in disapproval.

“I said stay still,” he murmurs, hand cupping your jaw and adjusting your head forward.

“But—”

“But?” 

“Nothing.” you squeak as you look ahead again. Your heart makes itself known, drumming in an exaggerated, hurried way that makes you want to shift. But Spencer said stay still, so you do.

A small part of you wants to scoff—why are you following Spencer Reid’s orders? This is ridiculous. Say the safe word and this would all be over. He’d never mention it to anyone else, like you both agreed earlier. You can get out, and you know for a fact that Spencer wouldn’t judge or protest.

But you don’t.

Because a larger, more significant part of you finds this whole thing incredibly hot.

Several seconds pass. Agonizingly slow. He’s drawing it out, you realize, testing how long he can get you to stay still. Or maybe he left. No, he wouldn’t—couldn’t, you’d hear his footsteps.  Finally giving in, you look over your shoulder, brows knitted in confusion.

You’re met with a disapproving look and a shaking head. “Didn’t I tell you to stay still?”

“You’re taking too long,” you pout.

“That’s the second time you’ve disobeyed me, angel,” he tuts. The heat of his body envelops you as he steps into your space again, his chest pressing to your back. A hand skims over your side, warm and firm as it finds the swell of your hip, and sits there. A warning. “You know what’s going to happen when you do it thrice, don’t you?”

Your mind flashes back to the conversation and the list, the rules he laid out so painstakingly for you. Thoughtful and attentive, Spencer had made you read through pages of what he expects from this dynamic, the rules you must follow as his submissive, the punishment that will be enforced should you disobey.

Three strikes and you get spanked.

“I do,” your words drift out the most delicate breath, heart hammering even more now. “I remember.”

He hums when you are finally still. Lips land on your bare shoulder, chaste and warm, while his hand travels up your side, featherlight and teasing. They skim up your ribcage and you can’t help but gasp, fighting every cell in your body to keep from moving. Your compliance is rewarded by another satisfied hum, and then finally it touches you. 

The feather. 

Crawling up the back of your left thigh, soft as a whisper. 

Ticklish.

“Fuck,” you gasp, jerking away from his grasp in surprise. You find yourself missing the feel of his hand on your waist before you realize your mistake. 

“That’s the third.” he says, shaking his head.

“I wasn’t expecting it on my thigh!” you snap, suddenly feeling so exposed. To shield yourself, your arms cross over your shoulder defensively, voice lowering by way of apology, “I’m ticklish!”

He considers it for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed, but his eyes remain trained on you. Gauging your reaction, the same way he’d talk to a skittish witness. You find yourself shifting again, unused to being on the receiving end of such a stare. When he speaks, his voice is calm, as if he’s soothing a ruffled creature, “You’re welcome to say your safe word.” 

The easy way out. But you’ve already gone this far, stripped out of your so-called armor, down to your lace underwear and allowed him to regard you in ways far too intimate for coworkers. It would be such a waste to back out now. Besides, he said the punishment would just be spanking, how bad could that be?

“No,” you reply finally, voice breaking through the silence that settled and swelled in the room, “No, I’m okay, I’ll—I’ll take the punishment, like I agreed to.”

He sits up straighter, “Are you sure?”

A gulp. “Yes.”

He pats his lap, “Come here then.”

You’ve lost count of how many times you felt warmth at your cheeks, but this feels like a wildfire has started now, smoothing over your face before spreading all over your body in an all consuming blaze. Flashes of those kinky magazines and news articles you’d rolled your eyes over flit through your mind, the models now replaced by the image of you and Spencer. He’s asking you to bend over on his lap to receive your punishment.

With a nod, you join him on the bed, your torso draping horizontally over his lap. Your legs are laid on the bed, and you hold yourself up by your elbows. From this position, he has perfect access to your ass, a large hand smoothing over one cheek. 

You squirm, “Your hand’s cold.” 

He laughs, “God, you never stop complaining, huh? I should add another one just for that.”

“Sorry, I can’t help it.”

He sighs, “I know. You’re doing fine, all things considered. I’ll just do three, okay? For every time you moved.”

“Okay.”

“I want you to count.”

You inhale so sharply you almost choke on nothing. That had no business being as hot as you found it. His hand is on your ass again, and you have to dig into your brain to focus and answer, “Okay.”

The first strike comes quickly, a sharp sting followed by a cool, gentle hand soothing over it. You exhale a gasp along with the word, “One.”

“Good girl.”

Jesus Christ.

Another smack, this time on the other cheek. “Two… three.”

It’s over before you know it, barely even lasting three minutes, but it’s still managed to take your every breath away. You find yourself wishing he had added another strike, just so you could feel the sharp sting again. 

“Are you okay?” his voice pulls you from your reverie, hands helping you sit back up beside him, “Do you need a break? I could get you some lotion—”

You tune him out, staring as he offers different ways to soothe the stinging. His hands keep making lazy strokes up and down your arms, eyes completely focused on you. Words are flying past his lips, attempting to reach you through this haze, solutions and probably another reminder of your safe word, but all you can think about is how close he is, how pretty with his earnest brown eyes and pouty lips, but also how hot and since when was Spencer Reid hot? 

A familiar sensation settles low in your belly, slickness between your thighs, and oh my god you just want to kiss him.

So you do.

His lips are soft, pausing mid sentence for just one moment, before he’s kissing you right back, open mouthed and desperate, his hand cradling the back of your head, tilting it up so his tongue can dive deeper into your mouth. You moan, kissing him back with just as much fervor, scrambling forward in an attempt to get even closer. He tastes like mint and cinnamon, the oddest combination that has you sucking on his bottom lip, eager for more.

An arm wraps around your waist, and you find yourself on his lap again—no, on his thigh. Singular, straddling it with nothing but a tiny scrap of lace and his trousers in between your skin. Two degrees of separation. You moan again, biting down hard.

“Wait,” he pulls back, breathless, thrown off, “Wait this isn’t part of the agreement.”

You laugh, “I’m sorry, I don’t really care about it right now.”

Soft brown locks tickle your jaw as he ducks his head. Lips run over your collar, moist and gentle as he speaks, “I wasn’t really prepared for this. I don’t have a condom.”

“Oh.” you seem to deflate in his arms, despite the incessant pounding in your chest, the buzzing at your fingertips.

He looks up, surveys you like a puzzle to be solved. On his thigh, with barely anything on, practically throwing yourself at him. Muscle flexes and shifts beneath you, eliciting a gasp from your lips. It moves again, just as his hands hold onto your hips and keep you in place. 

Your lips fall open, “Oh.” you repeat, but this time, it’s a low, breathy moan. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you with a small smirk, “Move those hips for me, angel.”

You don’t need to be told twice, pressing down hard onto his thigh. The pressure gives your clit enough stimulation, pulling another moan from your lips. Louder this time. Loud and pretty, as his hands keep you steady, and your arms wrap around his shoulder, fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Oh god,” you gasp, staring right at him, at those intense hazel eyes that have turned nearly black. You ride his thigh shamelessly, finding a rhythm that you know will have the pleasure snapping within minutes. Paired with Spencer’s praise, the sweet kisses he’s laying on your jaw, you find yourself trembling in his arms as you rub yourself along his muscular thigh. 

All of the anticipation seems to have built up to a fever pitch, his teasing, the spanking, it all floods back until your orgasm hits you like lightning. Razor sharp, every nerve of your body seems to sing and tremble from pleasure as Spencer keeps his thigh gently moving, helping you come down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, burying your face into his neck. 

He laughs, wrapping his arms tightly around you, “Are you okay?”

“Better than okay.”

Slender fingers card through the back of your head, tangles into your hair, “You did really well. We went a little off script, but it seems like you found it pleasurable, which is always the goal.”

Pleasurable is the understatement of the century, but your only response is a breathless chuckle. At the moment, that’s all you’re capable of. 

“Okay,” you whisper into his neck, losing all ability to extricate yourself from him. He doesn’t seem to mind though, his hold on you just as tight, free hand rubbing warm circles over your bare back. “Okay, you’ve proved your point. You seriously are a dom.”

“Mhm.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“What? You can’t believe it? I literally just gave you one of the most hands on demonstrations anyone could ask for.” he says with a laugh. It rumbles through his chest, and the feeling makes something in your stomach clench pleasantly. 

You lift your head, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes flash with mischief when you reply, “I don’t know, I might need another one to fully understand it.”

He smiles back, wide and catlike, “Well then, I think that calls for an encore.”

Thank you for reading!!! also if you could give me some encouragement for my thesis that’d be much appreciated i’d give you so much brain kisses MUAH.

Can I recommend Daylight by christmasbarbie

will definitely be adding this one! <3

Spencer and reader get stuck in the cold weather while on a case, and after Spencer rambles about body heat being a good source of warmth (or a similar fact); reader suggests testing that theory

oh i really liked this ask 😭 i always love writing for things i havent before! i actually thought id already posted this but i found it in my drafts

cw; 18+ mdni!! needy!spencer, softdom!spence if you squint, sexy science puns, lots of heavy petting, dry humping, fingering

The cold was unforgiving. It bit through every layer of clothing, sinking into your bones with a chill that felt almost personal. You wrapped your arms around yourself, blowing into your hands as you glanced at the snow-covered road stretching endlessly ahead. The SUV sat uselessly on the shoulder, engine dead, and the faint crackle of your radio confirmed that the rest of the team was still hours away.

Spencer stood a few feet away, pacing in a tight circle to keep his blood moving. His long coat whipped slightly in the wind, and his hair, unkempt from hours in the field, fell into his face. He pushed it back absently, his gloved fingers trembling slightly from the cold. His breath puffed in front of him like small, fleeting clouds.

“We’re going to freeze out here,” you muttered, your teeth chattering as you hugged yourself tighter.

Spencer paused mid-step and looked at you, his brows knitting together in concern. “Not necessarily,” he began, his voice wavering slightly from the chill but still steady enough to deliver one of his signature facts. “The human body has remarkable thermoregulatory mechanisms. For instance, shivering is a natural response designed to generate heat through muscle activity.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips quirking despite the cold. “Not sure shivering is going to cut it, Reid.”

He blinked, his face taking on that familiar, earnest expression as he shifted gears. “Well, there is another method that’s proven to be highly effective in conserving warmth. Sharing body heat—specifically, skin-to-skin contact—can significantly reduce the risk of hypothermia. It’s a technique commonly used in survival situations.”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a short laugh that fogged the air between you. “Skin-to-skin, huh?”

His eyes widened slightly, and he stumbled over his words, his hands flailing in a nervous gesture. “I-I didn’t mean it like that—I mean, not like that—just, you know, from a purely biological standpoint. It’s logical.”

You couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips, despite the fact that your face was half-frozen. “Relax, Spencer. I’m not accusing you of anything. You’ve got a good point.”

His head tilted slightly, his mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to decide whether or not you were teasing him.

“I’m serious,” you said, stepping closer and gesturing toward the SUV. “Let’s test that theory. Unless you’ve got another way to keep us from turning into popsicles out here?”

He froze for a second, his cheeks turning pink—not just from the cold, you noted. “Oh. Uh… okay. Yes. That—that makes sense.”

You led the way back into the SUV, grateful for even the limited shelter it provided. Spencer followed, his movements stiff and hesitant as if he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to be there. You shrugged off your heavy coat, setting it aside, and gestured for him to do the same.

He hesitated, his hands hovering near the buttons of his coat. “You’re sure about this?”

You rolled your eyes, though your tone was light. “Unless you want to freeze out there alone, yes, I’m sure.”

Spencer nodded quickly, shedding his coat and draping it over the seat. His movements were deliberate, precise, as though he were calculating every step.

“You know, this is purely for survival,” you teased as you slid onto the backseat.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice a touch too high-pitched to be convincing.

Settling beside him, you turned to face him fully. “So, how does this work, Doctor?”

“Well,” he began, his tone shifting into that of a lecture despite the awkwardness in his posture, “the idea is to maximize surface area contact to facilitate heat transfer. The skin is an effective medium for conduction, and by—”

“Spencer,” you interrupted, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice. “Just hold me.”

His lips parted in a silent “oh,” and he nodded, his cheeks darkening further as he opened his arms. Tentatively, you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. His body was lean and sharp beneath the layers, and his arms wrapped around you with a hesitance that made your heart squeeze.

“Warmer already,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you pressed closer.

He let out a nervous laugh, his breath brushing the top of your head. “That’s… good. It means the method is working.”

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, save for the faint sound of his breathing and the occasional rustle of clothing. Gradually, his grip on you became more secure, his hands resting lightly on your back. You could feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek—quick and irregular, as though he were nervous.

“You’re like a walking space heater,” you teased softly, breaking the quiet.

“That’s not entirely accurate,” he replied, his voice carrying a hint of his usual matter-of-fact tone. “The human body only generates a limited amount of heat—around 100 watts at rest, give or take. It’s not comparable to a—”

“Spencer,” you said again, a laugh bubbling up despite yourself. “I was joking.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He cleared his throat, and you could practically feel the embarrassment radiating off him.

You tilted your head to look up at him, finding his gaze already on you. His brown eyes were wide, soft, and filled with something that made your stomach flip—curiosity, vulnerability, and a hint of awe.

“It’s okay. I like when you ramble. Especially when you get all excited about sciencey stuff.” Your voice was soft, meant to soothe, and you tilted your head to meet his gaze. The small smile you offered was an invitation, a reassurance that he hadn’t overstepped. “In fact, it’s one of my favorite things about you.”

The effect of your words was immediate. Spencer blinked rapidly, his expressive brown eyes widening as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. His eyebrows shot up, almost vanishing beneath the tousled strands of his hair. He opened his mouth as if to speak but hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow.

“Oh,” he finally managed, his voice unsteady. “I, uh... thanks.”

You could see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his eyes darted to the side, searching for an anchor in a moment that felt too big for him. Your heart ached at his reaction, and without thinking, you raised a hand to rest your palm gently on his chest. The warmth of him seeped into your skin, and you felt the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your touch.

The muscles beneath your hand tensed slightly, a reflexive reaction, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stood frozen, his eyes fixed on yours, his vulnerability laid bare in the way he held his breath. You let your fingers drift upward, brushing over the edge of his collarbone and the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. The movement was slow, deliberate, meant to ground him.

Spencer’s breath hitched audibly, a faint gasp escaping his parted lips. His wide eyes flickered back to meet yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you, the snowy storm outside fading into insignificance.

“Y/n?” His voice was barely a whisper, your name fragile and questioning on his tongue.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in, closing the small distance between you to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. The sound he made in response—a soft, involuntary whimper—sent a ripple of warmth through your chest. His lips parted slightly against yours, his breath mingling with your own, and you could feel the way his body trembled ever so slightly under your touch.

The kiss deepened by degrees, slow and exploratory, as if neither of you wanted to rush the moment. His hand came up tentatively to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. There was a sweetness to his touch, a kind of reverence that made your chest tighten with affection.

When you finally broke the kiss, you stayed close, your foreheads nearly touching. Spencer’s breathing was uneven, and his eyes were dark, filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite name but felt all the same.

“I like when you ramble,” you murmured again, letting your fingers trace the line of his jaw. “It’s one of the things that makes you, you. And I love that.”

Spencer swallowed hard, his lashes fluttering as he looked down at you. “I... don’t think anyone’s ever said something like that to me before.”

“Then it’s about time someone did,” you said, your voice firm with conviction.

His lips curved into the smallest of smiles, shy and a little uncertain, but so genuine it made your heart squeeze. You leaned up to kiss him again, this time lingering a little longer, savoring the warmth of his lips against yours.

“Tell me something scientific,” you murmured, your voice muffled as you turned your face into the curve of his neck. Your lips found the soft spot beneath his ear, and you pressed a gentle kiss there, feeling the slight shiver that ran through him.

Spencer cleared his throat, his voice a little uneven as he obliged. “Humans have a remarkable capacity to generate warmth through muscle activity. For example, shivering alone can increase your metabolic rate by up to ten times.”

“That’s interesting,” you hummed against his skin, the vibration making him swallow hard. Your lips trailed lower, brushing against the tender skin of his throat before settling at the hollow where his pulse beat steadily. You kissed him there, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his breath hitched. “Do you know what else can generate warmth?”

For a moment, Spencer froze, his body stiffening slightly in your embrace. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight, and the single word seemed to catch in his throat. “Uh... friction?”

You grinned against his neck, the curve of your smile pressing into his skin. “That’s a good one.”

His exhale came out in a shaky mix of a laugh and a gasp, his nerves and amusement intertwining. “You- you think so?”

Shifting beneath him, you arched your back just enough to press your hips against him, and the reaction was immediate. Spencer groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your chest as you undulated again, slow and deliberate. “I really do,” you clarified, your tone teasing as you moved against him.

Spencer dropped his forehead to your shoulder, letting out a low chuckle tinged with exasperation. “God, Y/n. You’re ridiculous.”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” you shot back, your grin widening as you tightened your grip around him. The warmth of his body against yours was intoxicating, every slight movement feeding the growing tension between you.

He lifted his head, his expression softer now, his gaze locking onto yours. Without hesitation, he kissed you, his lips tentative but sweet as they met yours. “And I learned from you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words carrying a weight that made your chest ache. “Everything.”

His kiss deepened as he spoke, his tongue slipping past your lips to meet your own in a slow, intoxicating dance. “Everything,” he repeated, his voice husky as he pulled back just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. “Including this.”

Spencer rolled his hips against you, the hard length of him dragging against your center with a pressure that made your toes curl. The friction was maddening, delicious, and you gasped into his mouth, your hands clutching at his back as you arched against him.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Spencer whispered, the confession raw and unguarded. Despite his words, he didn’t stop moving, his rhythm steady and almost instinctual. “I just—fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugged at your heart, the mix of lust and affection swelling in your chest until it felt like you might burst. “You could never mess this up,” you said, your voice trembling slightly as your fingers traced the lines of his spine. “Spencer, I—”

The words faltered on your tongue, the depth of your feelings too overwhelming to articulate. How could you possibly express how much you cared for him, how long you’d admired him, how deeply you craved this closeness? The enormity of it all made your throat tighten, the emotions too big and too raw to put into words.

So instead, you kissed him. You poured everything you couldn’t say into the press of your lips against his, hoping he would feel the depth of your emotions in the way your hands held him, in the way your body pressed against his, in the way your heart beat wildly in sync with his own.

Spencer's fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, his palm tentative but burning hot against your side. His touch was so light it sent a shiver skittering down your spine, and your breath caught in your throat as he hesitated. “Can I...?”

“Spencer.” You reached down to capture his hand, guiding it higher and pressing it firmly against the flat of your stomach. “You don’t have to ask.”

He exhaled shakily, leaning in to kiss you again. This time, there was a hunger in his kiss that hadn’t been there before, an urgency that made your pulse race. His other hand found its way to your chest, and he palmed you through your bra, his movements still cautious but full of intent. “I want to be good at this,” he murmured, his voice low and raw against your lips.

You arched your hips into his, the movement slow and deliberate, eliciting a sharp gasp from him when his cock dragged against your clit. “You already are,” you whispered, your words a mix of reassurance and pure honesty.

He pulled back slightly, his lips parting as he searched your face. His gaze was soft but piercing, filled with a vulnerability that made your chest ache. “Really?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah.” You swallowed hard, your throat tightening with the weight of your emotions. “You’re perfect.”

The corners of his mouth lifted into a small, almost bashful smile, his face softening at your words. His gaze drifted downward, his lashes dark against his skin as he took in the sight of your bodies pressed together. “You are, too,” he murmured, the sincerity in his voice making your heart stutter.

Without warning, Spencer pushed himself up, his hands bracketing your hips as he knelt between your legs. His fingers fumbled at his belt, his brow furrowing in concentration as he worked to undo it. After a moment of struggling, he gave up with a quiet huff, opting instead to slide a hand into his jeans. When he began stroking himself, his lips parted on a soft, unbidden moan, and your stomach clenched at the sight.

The way his hand moved, slow and deliberate, combined with the way his jaw tightened and his breath came in ragged gasps—it was intoxicating. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, your mouth watering as you imagined replacing his hand with your own, with your mouth. You wanted to feel him, taste him, make him lose himself in you.

“Spencer—” you breathed, the single word thick with want.

But before you could finish your thought, he was shifting back down, his body settling against yours as his lips found your neck. “I want you to get off on me,” he whispered, his voice rough and urgent against your skin. His mouth trailed along your jawline, the light scrape of his teeth sending sparks of heat through you. “Is that okay?”

“Fuck, yes,” you gasped, your hands finding purchase on his hips. You dragged him closer, your fingers digging into the firm muscle of his ass to pull him against you.

The friction was delicious, the slow roll of his hips against yours making your head spin. The heat of him, the weight of him, the low, breathy sounds he made—it was almost too much and yet not enough all at once. You tilted your head back, offering him more of your neck as you ground against him, losing yourself in the rhythm of his body against yours.

Spencer gasped as your hips rocked up against his, the friction of his cock sliding over your clit drawing a soft moan from you. The two of you found a rhythm, slow and deliberate, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Each roll of his hips sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your veins, the growing pressure between your thighs impossible to ignore. His hardness rubbed against you with each motion, his movements unpracticed yet intoxicatingly eager.

He dropped his head to your shoulder, his breath hot and erratic against your skin. His groan was low and guttural, the sound vibrating through you as his body tensed. You couldn’t help the soft whimper that escaped your lips in response, your hands sliding up his back to hold him closer.

He felt incredible like this—hot, hard, and trembling with need in your arms. You pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, feeling the dampness of his hairline as you drew back to take in his face. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted, and his eyes... God, his eyes. They met yours, dark and stormy with a desperate hunger that made your breath catch.

“What do you want?” you asked softly, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.

Spencer’s gaze didn’t waver. “You,” he breathed, his tone raw and unguarded. “I want you.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest, high-pitched and giddy with affection and desire. You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. “You’ve got me, Spencer.”

His eyes fluttered shut as you rocked your hips against him again, drawing a sharp inhale from his lips. His voice was rough with longing when he spoke, barely more than a whisper. “I know. I want—I want to...” He trailed off, his brow furrowing in frustration as he struggled to articulate his thoughts.

You leaned in, your lips grazing his forehead before trailing down to his ear. “Tell me,” you murmured, your voice soft and coaxing. “Whatever it is, Spencer. Tell me.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your lips as he searched for the words. His breaths were shallow and uneven, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and ragged. “I want—fuck. I just want to make you feel good.” He exhaled sharply, his hand sliding between your bodies to cup you through your underwear. His palm pressed against your cunt, tentative but deliberate, and your breath hitched in response.

“I want to feel you come,” he continued, his words spilling out in a rush. His fingers twitched against you, his touch gentle but insistent. “Is that—can I—fuck—”

You silenced him with a kiss, your lips capturing his in a heated press that said everything words couldn’t. His hand flexed against you, and when you rocked against him, a strangled moan tore from his throat. You felt his hesitation melt away as his fingers pressed more firmly, his eagerness making up for any lack of experience.

“Yes,” you breathed against his lips, your hips moving in time with his touch. “Yes, Spencer. Please.”

The desperation in your voice seemed to spur him on, his confidence growing with every gasped moan and whispered plea that fell from your lips. His movements were clumsy but earnest, his need to please you shining through in every stroke and press of his hand. It was intoxicating, the way he gave himself to you so completely, so openly.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your breaths coming faster as the tension coiled tighter in your belly. “Spencer,” you gasped, your voice breaking on his name. “I’m—God, I’m so close—”

His response was immediate, his free hand sliding to your hip to hold you steady as he pressed harder, his movements matching the rhythm of your hips. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice shaking with both nerves and determination. “Let go. Please, I want to feel it.”

And when you did—when the tension snapped and a wave of pleasure crashed over you—it was his name that spilled from your lips in a cry, his hands anchoring you as you trembled in his arms. Spencer held you through it, his own breaths ragged and uneven, his forehead pressing against yours as he whispered your name like a prayer.

“FERTILISE US!!” screamed my ovaries

the wet hair?? oh im so sick 😭😭😭😭😭😭

Dear all trick or treaters 😤😈🫦 I’m coming back for that ass 🫵🏼 if I ain’t get that butt last year?! Then this year getting smashed!! 💕😤🫵🏼🤭☺️🫦🩷🤤

dommy mommy emme is gonna get touched bro 💁‍♀️

when are we getting part 3 of “anything for ellie”?

I PROMISEEEEE SOOOOOOONNNNN i just got a second job so i’m trying to work my writing into my days off but i’m exhausted most of the time now🫠 i promise, it will be out- i’m aiming for beginning of/mid march <33

LOU POSTED RAHHHHH

Devil’s advocate

Softcore Spencer doesn't feel any remorse when it comes to this strange arrangement involving sex. Neither do you.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 3.6k Content: fem!reader, dom!spencer, bratty reader if you will, implied age gap, unprotected p in v, spit kink, overstimulation, squirting, and kinda fwb or (more precisely) not-exactly-friends with benefits a/n: it took me more than 3 months to post again and it will probably take me another for the next post (kidding) (maybe not). try to imagine this spencer for a better experience

-

Spencer isn’t a good man.

A quiet verdict, a fault line.

A truth etched into the grain of his being that is unmoved no matter how many times people say otherwise.

He’s made a habit of the dissection — words, meanings, intent. A lexical autopsy, combing through every definition in the dictionary if it meant finding just one that could give weight to the well intentioned affirmations spoken by those who’ve shared his life through fourteen years of cases. From friends to mentors. From people he considers family. Even his mother has taken part in the exercise in her own way, quietly revising the definition of goodness to fit the shape of her son.

His love for her isn’t enough to convince him.

And he loves her, deeply, enough to bear the fragmented reality she clings to without complaint. Still, her confidence sounds like a desperate attempt to defend a virtue that, as far as he can tell, simply doesn't exist. Her faith in him is stubbornly rooted in wishes rather than proof. Pretty, fragile things wilting from reality. She doesn’t see the cracks hidden behind the glassy surface of his supposedly endearing charm.

Like most people never do. The brilliance of his brain blinds them. They think his mastery of facts or ability to weave information into careful answers is a reflection of some deeper moral foundation. Assuming that the man who can recite obscure case law from memory and deconstruct a lie with nothing but tone and syntax must also be someone incapable of harm. That someone who thinks in algorithms surely knows the difference between right and wrong and essentially follows it. Articulate, therefore righteous.

What lazy math that they run.

The truth, however, is far less romantic.

If there’s anything genuinely good left in him, he likes to believe it’s the act of waiting. Patience still sounds noble enough. It casts him as a silent benefactor, gifting others the space to sketch their own truths while he quietly collects their misconceptions and spends them like counterfeit bills.

He’s getting good at it, too.

Exchange his intelligence for wisdom.

Detachment for strength.

Emptiness for depth.

Little trades, so small and constant they almost feel natural now. As long as he keeps showing them the version they’ve come to accept, no one pauses to wonder if those long months locked inside his own head have carved him down to something less than whole. Selfish, perhaps, letting them cling to these illusions. But it’s a comfortable deception. They get the man they want, he keeps the truth to himself, paying nothing but time and silence for whatever reward comes from that carefully preserved silence.

After all, waiting is nothing more than delayed gratification, isn't it?

And this right here is what he’s waited for, to have you like this — warm and wet and dangling precariously off his bed.

A decadent reward for every second of restraint.

Purely carnal. Blasphemous in its perfection.

Your body curves at an angle that looks uncomfortable, a leg hooked over his shoulder, another barely hanging onto the edge of the mattress with the cool air licking your calf. Common sense tells him a complaint is warranted, yet not a murmur of discomfort escapes your pretty lips. You seem perfectly content to let him mold you into whatever shape he wants. Harmless, he insists, just a mutual indulgence between two consenting adults.

But morality has a way of souring sweet things — and maybe he should be ashamed.

Should be embarrassed at the way he finds satisfaction in this.

Should feel something other than pride watching your brows pinch together in pleasure.

Should care that he’s reduced to fucking you with all the desperation of a man who likes being selfish. It’s statistically uncommon for someone with his level of empathy, yet he stitches hunger into the tender curve of your body, scoring endless sensation with needles that prick and sting but never draw enough blood to slow him. Only if he distanced himself from you could he see the cruelty he’s gouging into the very seams of your skin.

He does no such thing.

He can’t. Not when he’s buried inside you like this, when your breath splits apart into fragile little pieces with weak fingers clawing at his back. Not when his selfishness feels bottomless, a craving so raw and wide and insatiable he's never dared give it a name — but somehow you seem to understand.

Understand what, though?

That he can’t help himself? That despite all the logic, all the reasons why he shouldn’t let himself have you, he does?

That he doesn’t regret it, not even a little?

No.

Good men don’t do this.

But you’re no saint either.

Innocence wears your face, but never fit so poorly. You’re trouble in its finest form — beautifully packaged, masterfully delivered with a smokey laugh that glides over the fine shiver pebbling across his skin as you offer a sly, “You’re getting sloppy.”

The smug little curl of your lips has his heart leaping in his throat, and he would have joined in your laughter if it weren’t for the way your breathless tone slithered into his ears. His brows draw together, sweat dripping down nose as he shakes his head to free the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

“Am I?”

“Mm.” You tip your head back against the bed, exposing the lovely curve of your neck. "Your age is starting to show.”

He finally huffs a laugh, lowers the leg hooked over his shoulder and trails up the inside of your thigh. “That’s not very nice.”

Your teeth briefly catch your lower lip.

“Neither is slowing down right when it’s getting good.”

“You think I’m slowing down?”

You faintly nod. “It’s actually cute how you’re pacing yourself. Should I be worried about your knees?”

That earns a sharp, almost affronted look before his palms grip both your inner thighs, followed by a sudden thrust that sends you back against the mattress. He thinks he’s regained some semblance of power over himself, until you let out a breathless little moan and continue to taunt him, arching your back with full insolence but only half the mockery. Docile in appearance alone when you’re flaunting your nipples in blatant invitation.

“That the best you can do?”

A hand flies to your breast, curling around the supple meat as he catches the stiff bud between his knuckles. “You’re acting brave tonight.”

“Sexually frustrated,” you admit with an exasperated sigh, rolling your hips. Urging him to move again. “Spent the whole day picturing you fucking me stupid and got exactly nothing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Nothing feels almost insulting considering how easily he coaxed you through his apartment.

He tries to bend lower, and sure enough, there’s something that feels suspiciously like age nipping at his lower back. A dull throb he quickly swallows as his mouth find your nipple. And toys with it, rolling the taut peak between wet tongue and wetter teeth, each slow suck a deliberate rebuttal that the way he’s been driving his cock into you for the past twenty minutes is anything but nothing.

Your fingers slip into the softest surface of hair.

“Fuck me harder.”

He turns his attention to your other nipple. “That still wasn’t enough for you?”

“If you have to ask, then clearly not.”

His mouth closes around you again, laps slow, teasing circles, all the while you grind your hips, shamelessly trying to fuck yourself with every delicious tug of his lips.

Instinctively, he starts rutting his hips in response. Little thrusts of his cock easing inside you inch by inch. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I have every intention of finding out,” you counter, pulling him by his curls. “I know you can do better.”

His gaze touches yours.

You smile lazily.

“Go on. Show me.”

His eyelids dip in a slow, dangerous blink, and lets his nose brush the soft swell of your breast. Lingers. Smells the powdery scent of jasmine and honey consuming his senses.

What part of himself can he exchange this time? What currency of half-truths still has any value left?

The answer, adamantly, is etched in the narrow space of his mouth and your skin, a hush too charged to disguise. He doesn't think he owes you anything in counterfeit tonight. No borrowed patience. No repurposed kindness polished thin by repetition. The second you ask for more when he’s been giving you nothing less is the moment every polished veneer he’s spent years perfecting shatters like chipped glass.

So he gives you the one thing he’s never bartered — himself, stripped of caution.

Because no matter how many labels others slap on his name, you’ve never bought into a single one.

Not entirely. You catch the edges that don’t quite align, the rougher layers hidden beneath his careful composure. You see past the softness everyone assumes is the entirety of him, the reputation they’ve stitched together from fragments pieced carefully since he was an innocent young boy with oversized glasses and a penchant for knowledge.

Rationally, he is soft. He’s spent a lifetime wrapped in the belief that his gentleness is his sole trait. That it’s all he can embody.

But not with you.

With you, he's whatever he needs to be.

He's whatever he wants to be.

He pulls back just enough to watch your body seize around him, and drags his tongue over his chapped lips, tastes the salt of effort and the musky smell of sex before channeling what’s left of his energy into his core. Then fucks you harder. Shoving every inch back with a strangled noise of his own, savoring the tight pull of your dripping cunt. Relishing the slight roll of your eyes as he pushes deeper, harder, with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust. 

Your moans ride every groaning hinge of the mattress, too, then linger, fogging the dark walls of his room as the wet slap of skin bounces off every surface. Stepping three beats out of time with reason, maybe more, for the way his eyes chase that music down the slope of your belly, following the trail of his thumbs over your mound, over your stretched folds, and pulls the soft skin apart.

His throat rises and falls in time with the motion of his cock — in, out, in, out. For someone so famously averse to germs, the streaks of your slick smearing across his skin outweigh every compulsion, so much so he pries you open even wider and lets a hot ribbon of saliva pool in his mouth. Watches it dribble over your clit. He’s nowhere near coherent enough to care about cleanliness when he can tell how much the slow trickle of his spit sliding down your swollen flesh — a foamy mess now resting heavily on his cock — only seem to intensify your thirst.

You squirm when he moves closer, fingers clawing around his wrist like you’re on the verge of asking for more but can’t bring yourself to say.

Stubborn, he's not surprised.

But he knows you well enough to understand the subtle shifts in your expression. He takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a plea for him to give you what you need, so he smears the extra coat of lube over your clit and rubs frantically. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it too, not when he’s seen how much you like it under rough hands. He’s proven right when he notices your muscles tensing up.

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

He rubs your clit with more pressure. “Good enough for you?”

You swallow thickly, blinking up at him through heavy lids. “Still—fuck—”

“What was that?”

“Still—think you can—do better,” you retort, hiccupping through your words. 

It’s beyond him that you’re still functioning. Your hair clings messily to your forehead, damp strands caught in a tangled halo around your face. Your cheeks are blotchy from where his stubble scraped across your skin, lips kiss-bruised and swollen and somehow still trying to get the last word.

You should be done by now. Boneless, reduced to little more than trembling limbs, yet you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. There’s a spark of energy left to bait him. Foolish, he decides, but if there’s even a sliver of you left untouched, he’ll gladly take every fragment that dares to surface.

He wrenches off your body just long enough to fist his cock, dragging his bulbous tip through the sticky fluids down to the puckered hole beneath, then slaps himself through the mess. If it weren’t for your hips bucking shamelessly, he’d think he was wrong for indulging such filthy impulses he’s never dared to overstep. You can’t seem to discern whether the sharp throb is pain or pleasure, but your cunt flutters around emptiness and aches like it's grieving the loss of him.

One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s right back where you need him, hammering into that devastating spot that sends your pupils scattering upward, leaving nothing but the whites of your eyes. He pulls out and does it again.

And again.

And again.

And again, until he’s certain all your senses have braided into one indistinguishable pulse.

“Oh God,” you moan, trying to press your thighs together out of reflex, but his grip tightens as he pries them open once more.

You feel lightheaded. Your belly rolls, your cheeks burn, drool slips from the corner of your mouth. You’re so far gone you don’t even notice. Too wrapped up in the desperate drag of breath through your parted lips, too busy chasing the dizzy spark bursting behind your eyes. You’re nothing short of raw nerves, lost in the punishing rhythm that keeps tearing you open and stitching you together in the same brutal stroke.

It doesn’t take long for a high, agonizing squeal to wrench free from your throat as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Steals your breath away, leaving behind only a splintered string of gasps and trembling cries that fall recklessly from your lips as his pelvis hammers into the curve of your hip bone.

And he catches every fractured syllable and synchronizes his thrusts to the quiver of your voice, or maybe he’s simply addicted to the jagged rise and fall of your moans — like a direct stroke to his ego, trophies he hoards greedily.

He ponders how many more of those rewards he can coax from you tonight, how many more heights your body can scale before it finally gives way. He assumes it’s too much to ask, yet the greedy pulse in his veins insists there’s always more shiver to claim, another breathless note to add to his growing collection.

It turns out to be unnervingly easy.

Your second climax arrives in the span of a single heartbeat.

The third steals in like an electric stab, splintering along your spine as he pins you down and pounds hard into you.

By the fourth, your cunt swells and clenches around him in frantic pulses, yet he’s still fucking you relentlessly as if one more keepsake will finally satiate his greed.

Your hand shake when you lift one to trace his bicep, though it ends up as more of a twitchy pawing than anything resembling grace before you blindly scramble up his shoulder, finding his damp mess of curls again. Its wild, humid knot of heat tangles between your fingers as the most wrecked little whine trembles in your throat.

“P-Pee.”

He blinks, straining to pluck your voice over the rush in his ears. The words barely register at first, but when they do, his own pulse comes apart in a hot scatter mess.

“Need to pee,” you fluster again.

And if that doesn’t unravel him to his bones, he doesn’t know what will.

He tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs. “‘S not pee.”

“What?”

The confusion in your voice is almost cute for someone who usually acts like they know everything. Adorable how you’ve been nothing but provocative all night, only to falter gradually.

“You don’t need to pee,” he rasps. The grip behind your knees tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drives deeper with all the focus he can muster. He’s holding back by sheer will alone now, even when the familiar feeling of his balls growing taut creeps up, but that ache is a small price to pay when he’s painfully aware of what your body is capable of giving.

His cock strikes a deep, delicious spot inside you.

Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him.

“Fuck,” you croak. “I’m gonna piss your bed.”

“It’s not pee.”

His words barely register when your whole body winds so tightly that your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. Eyes unfocused, spine bowing, throat bared. The muscles in your neck tighten like cords that it’s clear you’re still trying to fight whatever pressure you’re under.

“You need to relax,” he urges, finding your clit once again. Wide eyes flutter over intense brown orbs.

“Wait wait wait—gonna pee—”

“You’re gonna come again,” he corrects. He sees you puff out a long breath, which is nothing less strained than his own. “Female ejaculation, different glands. Less than—”

His words catch in a groan as your cunt flutters around his thickness.

“…less than ten percent of the fluid is even related to—to urine.”

Annoyed, you tug on his curls and whine, “This isn’t the time.”

“No better time than now.” His hips continue to buck into you with a sharp, hungry rhythm. “You’ll understand if you stop fighting it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You will.”

The sound of his balls slapping against the wet cradle of your ass is making you delirious. Even more so when a warm, buzzing sensation sparks in your core and rushes outward, blooming into this intense prick that spreads across your lower belly with startling speed.

“Oh—shitshitshit—”

“That’s it, just breathe through your nose.”

His words falls on deaf ears. “I-I can’t hold it any longer.”

“You’re not supposed to hold it in.”

"I—wa—wait—Spencer!”

“Let it out,” he frets, and closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads nearly touching, brows pulling together in quiet frustration. “Need you to trust me for once.”

“I don’t—fuck! I am NOT pissing on you—”

“Do it.”

“I can’t—”

“C’mon,” he prods. “Give it to me.”

You sniff a strangled sob.

“Do it.”

You claw at his hair once more, and any semblance of control that you clung to shatters immensely.

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding. A passage of whines pitches upward as his thumb swipes side to side over your tight nub while he slams into you. Once, twice, over and over — until a concentrated surge of pressure around his cock urges him to pull out.

Warm bursts of liquid splashes onto him. Streaks down his damp thighs, the flushed skin of his skin. Seeps deep into the cotton fabric of his sheets with muffled sounds as your heart thunders wildly in your chest. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile that pulls at his mouth the second your eyes flicker with disbelief, or the lazy circle his thumb traces around your sensitive, overstimulated clit. He’s too focused on the way your release continues to mark the bed he intends to sleep in.

"There it is,” he hums proudly, "knew you could do it."

He did. He knew this would happen the moment your breath stuttered into helpless little gasps, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. His lust blooms unchecked, a fever behind molten eyes, something his vision can’t seem to outrun. Even as his gaze blurs over your dripping hole puckering around nothing, over the tiny bead of precum trickling down your cleft, he’s stunned into silence.

You’re a ravishing mess, and he’s never seen anything so pretty.

You’re on another level of divine that it makes something in his head tick just from the sight. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously inserts himself back through the warm puddle of your flesh, and swears he can still feel you fluttering. Feels the tremor in your sweet, sopping cunt. Hears the faint splatter of droplets beating the sheets with every deliberate stroke of his hips.

He’s long since fallen behind in being a good man, but you certainly deserve something in return for listening to him. So he reaches out, cradles your face between palms that have never claimed to be gentle, and drinks deeply. Tries to steal back the breath you robbed from him.

Kiss, taste, repeat.

Touch, grab, repeat.

But it’s not enough.

He doesn’t think it ever will be.

The dopamine surge won’t last, a notion as clear as the haze of your sweat gluing to his skin. He’s even sure he could rattle off half a dozen papers about reward circuits and compulsive behavior, recite the exact millisecond window in which the pleasure centers will spike and fall. None of it matters when your mouth parts for him and your breath warms his cheeks.

He tries to catalog the way your pulse thumps beneath his thumb, the microscopic tremor in your lashes, the sweetness of carbon dioxide exhaled against his tongue. It becomes another unsolved equation, a tangle of variables his doctorate never prepared him to parse. There’s only the thunderous beat of his own heart and the simple, staggering fact that you’re here, giving when he has taken so much.

But there is no safe dosage of you that will let him step back unscathed. One hit becomes two, two becomes habit, soon habit feels indistinguishable from necessity. An addiction he can’t refuse when it would only mean denying himself the only thing that makes him feel alive.

And if that makes him weak, he might as well be weak for you — again and again until there’s nothing left of him that doesn’t carry the imprint of your name. To ruin or to worship, it makes no difference to him.

He’ll fall to his knees just the same.

Your pulse begins to settle into a calmer rhythm in the hush that follows, and he scatters small kisses along the corner of your jaw, up the sweep of your cheekbone, pausing at the hinge of your lips. The gentle weight of his mouth has you shifting along wet sheets, every muscle tensing at the unexpected softness threaded through his touch.

Tenderness, in your world, feels foreign. Unfamiliar. Ill-fitting. And truthfully, he isn’t much better when it comes to you. Sharper tongues seem to be the better fit for two people who know how to fight more than they know how to surrender.

His lips skate beneath your chin instead, slides along the sweat slick column of your throat and hums, “Think you can do that again?”

Avoidance. It’s the language you both speak fluently.

The stiffness in your body bleeds out with your next exhale.

“…depends on your skill, old man.”

That's it. He can take another one of your barbed little comments. Another sly jab delivered with that pretty pout of your mouth. In fact, he finds himself almost craving it. Your taunts fuel the heat beneath his skin as much as they test his patience, and patience is something he's mastered after all. So he continues to grind his hips. Rubs the tip of your clit with the fine coarse of hair dusting his belly before you’re writhing again.

Peculiar, how easily his selfishness devours reason. Logic. Decorum. How quickly a man who’s built his life on discipline can find himself unraveling for something as simple and devastating as the way you gasp his name.

A good man would’ve stopped at the soft mist pooling in your eyes.

Spencer keeps going.

"If a God is a dog and a man is a fraud then I'm a lost cause." Devil’s Advocate—The Neighbourhood

Let Me Stay

Ex! Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU Reader

Synopsis: You and Spencer have gone back to normal, somewhat. But it only takes one conversation to ruin that all again. All you wanna do is stay, but he won’t let you.

Category: Angst

Warnings: not really a happy ending, established past relationship, maeve arc, mentions of death and suicide, takes place during 8x17 “The Gathering”, mentions of 8x17 events, spencer being a lil sad shit, crying, reader was in a past relationship before spencer, it’s just really sad, let me know if i missed anything! <3

Author’s Note: here is part two to “when you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light”! it’s short and sad 🤗 might make a part three???

part one

After helping Spencer, things were back to somewhat normal. You’d both bumped up from only talking on cases to the occasional small talk near the kitchenette or asking how each other’s days were going when you both were in the elevator on the way to the bullpen.

Everyone seemed to notice the change but hadn’t said anything to indicate that they knew. But then you’d heard Garcia gossiping about it in her office the other day to Morgan.

“Can you believe it? They’re finally talking again! Isn’t that great? Small talk can lead into something more! Maybe they’ll finally get together again and my ship will sail!” She’d fangirl and you shook your head with a small chuckle escaping your lips. (She was always so hell-bent that you two would eventually get back together).

Not that you didn’t agree with her, you always hoped you’d get somewhere with Spencer again. You just didn’t know when you could. He was still in mourning over Maeve and you knew he needed time to heal before dating again. You’d wait forever if you had to, unfortunately.

He still seemed quiet during most of the cases or would bury himself in his work to avoid feeling his feelings. And you couldn’t say you blamed him, because if it were you, you’d do the same thing. You have done the same thing. So, with understanding, you left him alone. And you were waiting for him to come to you.

And then you had that case in Minnesota. Your unsub was Peter Harper, he had stabbed women and pulled their tongues out pre-mortem. And you knew that him pulling the tongues out had some kind of significance to him. The disparate set of women victims was chosen at random until they discovered one connection between the women and it was that they all have a very strong on-line presence, their deaths telegraphed by stories in their own online blogs, messages or texts.

They’d finally found him at a public pool, ready to throw a woman in the pool and to wait for her to drown and when the team finally found him, he’d had a knife to his neck, ready to kill himself. You and JJ tried to talk him down off the ledge and told Peter he’d get help and that everything was gonna be okay. But then Reid had spoken up, telling him the truth and the total opposite from what you and JJ were saying.

Peter had killed himself shortly after that. And Reid walked off in frustration. You and JJ shared a look, wondering what the hell that was about.

You’d gone back to the office after filling out your paperwork. You were ready to go home, to relax and to wash the stench of this case off of you. And while you were packing up, you’d overheard Hotch and Reid’s conversation nearby. You knew Hotch was questioning his decision with telling Peter Harper the truth — that it wouldn’t get better, that it was gonna be hard to get help.

And when questioned about it, Reid’s answer was simple. “Well, Hotch, I thought the last time I was in a situation like this, I did exactly what I was supposed to. I told a perfect lie and that didn't work, so this time, in the hopes of saving someone's life, I tried something different.”

And then it was clear what this was about. Maeve. And you’d known that he still wasn’t over her. And of course, it really hadn’t been that long since she died, the wounds were still raw.

When you saw Reid abruptly leave the convo between him and Hotch and head towards the elevator, you knew to follow immediately. You’d worried a lot about him since what happened with Maeve. And you guessed that you just wanted him to be reassured that he had someone in his corner.

“Spencer,” You called in the parking garage and he’d turned around at the sound of your voice and could tell by his sigh that he was in no mood to talk with you but regardless he stopped.

“Look, I really don’t want to talk right now—” And you should’ve just left it at that. But you pushed, like you always do. Instead of walking away, you interrupted him. “I don’t care if you don’t wanna talk, but you know what you’re gonna do? You’re gonna listen.” Spencer crossed his arms, obviously in defense mode as you continued.

“Spencer, we have given you time. We have been there for you thick and thin and all we wanna do is help—” This time, he interrupts you. “Have you ever thought about the fact that maybe I don’t want your help? That maybe what I need is just a little bit of space?”

With that, he walked off.

And you’d officially had enough.

“Do you really think that you are the only person in the world who has lost someone?” You exclaimed and Spencer stopped in his tracks, his back still facing you. “Well, you are barking up the wrong tree because — newsflash, Spencer — you are not the only person who’s lost someone. When I lost—” You pause, not wanting to say his name. “I was… such a wreck.”

You gulp, deciding to continue, hoping your words were getting somewhere with him. “And you helped me, remember? I never would’ve gotten through that if you hadn’t of helped. And I pushed and pushed you away but you didn’t leave. You stayed. All I’m asking is to let me stay.” You walk over to Spencer and he looks down at the ground, avoiding your eyes as you choose to stand in front of him.

You bow your head, wanting to meet his eyes as you put a waiting hand on his soft cheek. You move his head to look at you. “So, let me stay.” He can see the tears forming in your eyes as you practically beg him. His eyes gaze over to your lips before quickly going back to your eyes.

“Please don’t shut me out when all I wanna do is help.” You tell him and instead of nodding and listening to you and asking you to stay, he walks away. Because if he stays any longer, he might kiss you. And you don’t deserve that. Not right now.

He walks away, leaving your heart in pieces and you in shambles. He chose his path, so you must take the same route and forget you’d ask him to let you stay.