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l4viee · 1 month ago

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STRAWBERRY PICNIC - S.R

pairing = touchy!bf!spencer + gf!reader

summary = A sunny picnic turns into soft kisses, tangled limbs, and quiet laughter under the trees. Later, it’s warm sheets and wandering hands, breathless moments and one too many philosophical tangents. Spencer’s mind races, yours melts, and somehow it’s perfect anyway.

content warning = MAKING OUTTTT, lots of touches all in bed. No actual smut!! They're very close and cute.

A/N = My account is legit flopping please interact and check out my other posts.. 🙏

The blanket is too big for just two people, but Spencer insists on unfolding the whole thing anyway.

“It’s better this way,” he mumbles as he smooths the corners down against the grass. “That way, if we roll around or if the wind picks up nothing gets dirty.”

You laugh softly, sitting cross legged near the middle while he fusses over the edges. His hair is curling at the ends from the summer air. Warmth clings to his cheeks in a pinkish hue, the same one that always shows up when he’s proud of something or nervous about being close to you.

The park is quiet, just after noon. A few families in the distance. A dog barking happily near the trees. But here, under the shade of a tree Spencer claimed was “statistically the safest place to avoid sunstroke,” it feels like you’re in your own little world.

He finally sits beside you, close but not quite touching, until you lean your shoulder against his.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods once.

Then, after a pause, his voice softens. “I just… really like this. Being here with you.”

Your chest warms. You glance at the basket between you, filled with things he packed, half of which are way too specific to ever come from a regular grocery run.

You pull out a small container of strawberries. They’re perfectly red and neatly sliced.

“You cut these?”

Spencer shrugs, but his lips curve up.

“I read they taste sweeter if you chill them and slice them in halves before serving. Something about the surface area and sugar exposure. I” He catches your expression and stops himself, cheeks flushing again. “Sorry. That wasn’t very romantic.”

You rest your head on his shoulder.

“It was,” you say.

A beat of silence. Then another.

He lets out a breath. Relaxing into you.

You feel the weight of his hand settle gently over yours where it rests on your knee. His fingers play lightly with your skin, tracing tiny, absentminded patterns. The kind of touch that says I love you without needing words.

A breeze moves through the branches above, ruffling his hair. You reach up to brush it from his eyes. He closes them for a moment under your touch, like it’s something holy.

Then his voice, soft like the July wind.

“I used to think quiet meant lonely.”

You glance up at him. He’s still looking down at your hand.

“But now…” he trails off.

“Now?” you whisper.

He finally lifts his eyes to yours. There’s something shy in his gaze. Something reverent.

“Now I think it can mean safe.”

You lean in and kiss his cheek.

He leans into it like he’s trying to remember how it feels forever.

Later, after the strawberries are gone and the air grows a little heavier with heat, Spencer shifts behind you and fluffs the pillow he brought from home. You didn’t even realize he’d packed it, but of course he did. Of course he thought ahead.

You tilt your head with a smile. “You planned this like a stakeout.”

He gives you that small, crooked grin, the one that melts just beneath his eyes.

“Technically, I planned it like a field operation. Optimal shade, low noise exposure, ideal visibility, a soft perimeter for comfort.”

You crawl back toward him and sink down between his legs, letting your back rest against his chest. His arms come around you right away, warm and secure. He exhales like you just completed something.

“A soft perimeter?” you echo, eyebrows raised. “Are you talking about the blanket?”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. “And also your body. You’re very soft.”

You snort. “Did you just call me a human perimeter?”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, smug now. “An exceptionally cuddly one. Top-tier defense system.”

You reach back and swat lightly at his thigh. “You’re such a nerd.”

He leans in and kisses your cheek. “And yet, here you are. Sitting in my lap. Voluntarily.”

“Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Mmm. Classic deflection. Also, by the way, I packed three flavors of jam. I don’t know if you noticed. But that’s love.”

You blink. “Did you just equate emotional commitment with a jam variety?”

“I’m not saying all love can be measured by jam,” he says, pausing for effect. “But it doesn’t hurt.”

You tilt your head back against him and laugh, full and real. His arms squeeze a little tighter.

“You’re impossible,” you say, still smiling.

He grins into your hair. “You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You love me,” he sings, the words muffled against your shoulder.

“Tragically.”

“Say it.”

“Nope.”

He drops his head with a dramatic sigh. “I bring you shade, strawberries, structural support, and jam. And still. No verbal validation.”

You twist around a little in his arms until you can meet his eyes. They’re soft and golden and way too proud of themselves.

You kiss him. Light at first. Then slower.

When you pull away, he’s flushed and smiling.

“That was validation,” you murmur.

He kisses you again. Just because he can. Then he tucks his chin over your shoulder and speaks into your ear.

“You’re my favorite human perimeter.”

You groan. “Stop. I’m never letting you plan another date again.”

“Yes you are.”

You sigh. “Yeah. I am."

You lean into his face pressing another kiss on his cheek before closing your eyes and letting the sun wash over you both.

After a while when the heat isn't as strong, the wind gets stronger, you both know you slowly have to make your way back home.

But for now you’re still nestled between Spencer’s legs, your back to his chest and his arms looped lazily around your waist. The sun’s shifted now, light dappling through the branches above. There’s a half-empty bottle of lemonade rolling around somewhere to the side, but neither of you moves.

You’re too deep in it now.

Not the cuddling. The conversation.

“I just think Kant had this way of moralizing action that kind of overlooks how… fundamentally irrational people are,” you say, twisting the edge of the blanket between your fingers. “Like, duty and obligation? Sure. But people don’t really behave based on abstract reason. Not consistently. Not unless there’s something primal anchoring them to it.”

You pause, turning your head slightly like you’re waiting for a challenge.

Silence.

No rebuttal.

You glance up at him.

Spencer is just staring at you.

Eyes wide. Lips slightly parted. Like he’s witnessing a solar eclipse.

“What..?” you ask, squinting. “What is that face.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. His voice comes out quiet.

“You’re talking about Kant. While sitting in my lap. In a park. Eating strawberries. And you’re actually criticizing him correctly. With nuance. And passion.”

You blink.

“Okay, but you taught me half of this stuff.”

“Still,” he breathes, brushing his fingers slowly along your arm like he’s grounding himself. “Hearing you say it. Like that. I think my entire central nervous system just short-circuited.”

You grin.

He doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” he says, eyes still fixed on you. “This is very attractive behavior.”

You laugh. “Did you just say my philosophical rant turns you on?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes. It genuinely does. Please continue. Possibly slower. Possibly with a bibliography.”

You roll your eyes and reach back to flick his leg, but he catches your hand and kisses the knuckle.

“I mean it,” he says more softly, voice lower now. “You know how rare this is? To feel understood like this? You didn’t just read what I gave you. You… you felt it.”

You rest your head back on his shoulder again. His lips press into your hairline.

“You are unbelievably cheesy,” you murmur, grinning.

“And you are unbelievably hot when you quote Kant in a tank top.”

You gasp. “You can’t say that! That’s not even a sexy philosopher!”

“It is now.”

You both break into laughter, tangled up in each other, arms wrapped around limbs and sun-warmed skin. His fingers toy with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, more like he’s grounding himself than anything else. He’s still smiling when he speaks again, this time quieter.

“You’ve got a little bit of me inside you,” he whispers.

You blink.

“Okay that sounded-”

“Yup,” you cut in.

“Intellectually,” he clarifies, laughing through the embarrassment. “That’s what I meant.”

You laugh too. “Sure, genius. We’ll go with that.”

He wraps his arms tighter around your waist.

And you stay like that. Under the trees. Philosophers and fruit and flawed humanity.

And two people who have never felt more perfectly understood.

—–-

It starts the way all the best things do, slow and unassuming.

You’re lying in bed now, after the park, after the leftover jam sticky fingers and forehead kisses and the slow walk home. The golden hour melted into dusk. The bedroom glows faintly with it. The windows are cracked, the fan hums low, and Spencer is under the sheets with you.

You’re curled into him again. Familiar. Warm.

But it’s different now.

You shift slightly, fitting your leg between his, and you feel it. The tension in his muscles. The sharp inhale. The way his hands, always hesitant, always soft, suddenly press into your back like he’s anchoring himself to you.

You don’t say anything.

You just move again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

That’s all it takes.

His lips are on yours a second later.

It starts soft. Lingering. Like he’s still trying to figure out if he’s dreaming.

But then you open your mouth to him.

And his brain shuts off completely.

He rolls you onto your back gently but firmly, kissing you deeper now, hands sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing into your waist like he needs to memorize the feel of you. You arch into him without thinking, and he makes a quiet, broken sound in his throat like he can’t quite believe it.

You tangle your hands in his hair, tug just slightly.

He groans.

His mouth drops to your neck, then your collarbone, and you feel him there, flushed and solid above you, and everything starts unraveling fast.

His hand slides up your side, fingers grazing over your ribs. His other hand is tangled in yours. Your legs shift, opening slightly under his. His hips press down, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Spence.” you whisper.

He kisses you again, open mouthed, desperate now, one hand dipping to the waistband of your shorts. His fingertips slide beneath the fabric. He’s just about to-

“Wait,” he breathes.

You freeze. “What?” You're just about to ask if something's wrong. If you touched him in the wrong place or if he wants to go further.

But he doesn't let your thoughts linger any longer with his lips still on your neck when he says it, voice muffled.

“This is exactly what Kant warned about.”

You blink up at the ceiling.

“No.”

He lifts his head, flushed, dazed, breathing hard. “I’m serious. The blurring of rational thought in the face of human desire. He was terrified of this.”

“Spencer." you say, completely deadpan. “You were literally about to take my pants off.”

He looks down at your shorts. Then up at you. Then at your shorts again.

“I still am." he says, leaning down to kiss you again before giving you a cheeky smile and grinning in your face as if he didn't just turn the moment into a philosophical talk.

You pull back a fraction. “Not until you promise to stop quoting dead philosophers while you’re on top of me.”

“But it’s relevant.." he whispers into your ear. “Kant would be losing his mind right now.”

You shove his shoulder and laugh, and he drops his forehead to yours, still grinning, still out of breath.

You cup his face with both hands.

“Tell Kant to wait his turn.”

Spencer kisses you again, slower this time, deeper.

“He’s going to be so mad at me.”

“Good,” you whisper against his lips. “He deserves it.”

And then you’re kissing again, tangled limbs and warm sheets and laughter between every breath. His hands never stop moving. Neither do yours.

"And I deserve you right now" You softly mumble against his lips.

He smiles at that, soft boba eyes looking down into yours, admiring your face, your eyes. Admiring you.

And just then, somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear Spencer whisper:

“God, you’re such a beautiful moral contradiction.”

And you fall in love with him all over again.

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