nsfw-chu4ever

[nsfw-chu4ever]

FLOW STATE ➻ spencer reid

➻ You make water droplets race down Spencer's back. He makes your heart race in return.

cw: 18+ MDNI spencer reid x gf!reader. smut (fingering, unprotected p-in-v [wrap it before you tap it guys] and I think thats it i don’t know i’ve literally never had to tag smut before kinda nervous) fluff!!! if you really squint i think this constitutes as softdom spence a/n: first smut post here what. this has been sitting in my drafts for SO long because I was really nervous about posting it but here we are. also discovered my biggest enemy is pace. like i couldn't for the life of me figure out if this was too long, or too short, or whatever so bish bash bosh this is the finished product it is what it is. my requests are always open and you can ask for them here :) I promise i’m getting through them (just at a snail’s pace) w/c: 3.3k

‘My droplet is winning,’ you murmur, nudging a tiny bead of water just a fraction ahead of the others as it slides down Spencer’s damp back. It sparkles in the warm bathroom light, racing along the smooth curve of his spine.

From in front of you, he gives a breathy little laugh.

‘Pretty sure you just moved it,’ he says, his voice low, still drowsy from the shower’s warmth. ‘That’s cheating.’

‘I didn’t cheat,’ you whisper dramatically, tracing the water’s path with your finger. ‘I guided it. There’s a difference.’

‘Mmm, sounds like cheating to me.’

The droplet you’re watching collides with another, ending that trail. You hum softly, dragging your eyes back up to the smooth line of his shoulder, and follow the path of another droplet as it curves around the subtle dips of his muscles, racing to catch up with the one just ahead.

Spencer’s eyes close, breathing even and calm. His hair, damp and tousled, clings to his forehead and the nape of his neck in messy strands. You wring out a small section in your hand, coaxing more water onto his skin.

‘It’s strangely hypnotic,’ you say, tracing a streak down his back.

He shivers where your touch reaches the small of his back, but stays still. Relaxed. Letting you explore.

‘You’re paying very close attention,’ he says.

‘I have to. This competition is serious.’

You hook your chin over his shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to his jaw. Your eyes catch the path of a lone droplet sliding slowly down his chest, starting near his collarbone.

‘Oh,’ you say softly, tapping his side. ‘This one’s trying to win now.’

Spencer glances down, brows raised slightly, watching the bead of water crawl toward the center of his chest.

‘Decent form,’ he says, voice hushed and amused. ‘Confident start.’

You smile, unhooking your chin to find another bead just beginning its journey down the slope of his back. Resting your finger between his shoulder blades, you say, ‘Okay. Mine’s going from here. Same rules: no guiding, no cheating.’

He huffs a quiet laugh. ‘So you admit you cheated before?’

‘I admit nothing.’

You tilt your head, watching the droplet inch lower, catching on a dip in his spine before picking up speed again.

‘Is yours winning?’ he asks after a moment, eyes still following the one on his chest as it meanders past his sternum.

You compare their positions.

‘No way. Yours is practically halfway down. Mine’s being a slacker,’ you mumble.

Spencer tilts his head, stealing a glance at you over his shoulder.

‘Should we… cheer them on?’ he asks, lips twitching into a tiny, crooked smile.

You laugh softly, considering it. ‘It might distract them.’

‘Oh. Well we can’t have that.’

Pressing your forehead to his shoulder, you watch silently as your droplet reaches the small of his back, just about to slip beneath the towel wrapped low on his hips. Both of you are still, neither speaking – just breathing and listening to the soft hush of water in the pipes.

You look at his front to see the position of his droplet, palm splayed across his back as your thumb lazily brushes over a ridge in his spine.

‘I think they tied,’ you conclude.

Spencer hums. ‘A diplomatic outcome.’

Something about the moment feels suspended. You don’t want to speak too loudly. Don’t want to shatter the bubble of comfort surrounding you. You’re not even sure how long you’ve been doing this – tracking droplets, touching, breathing him in.

‘I was supposed to be cutting your hair,’ you say, reminding yourself and sitting up straight on the counter.

Spencer smiles, unconcerned. ‘That you were.’

You smile back, hand still tracing the curve of his spine. ‘You distracted me. Being all quiet and sweet. Indulging me in my water races. And… well.’ You gesture as if to say here we are.

‘Well,’ he echoes, soft and fond, not moving.

A pair of scissors sit on the edge of the bathroom counter. You glance at them briefly, then back at his hair. The curls cling damp at the nape of his neck, still too long – the very reason you brought him here – but suddenly, you don’t want to cut a thing.

You run your fingers through the strands, mussing them up further.

‘I can finish another time,’ you say, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. ‘You’re too pretty like this.’

‘Too pretty?’ His voice is teasing.

You smile, brushing your fingers lightly through his damp curls again. ‘Yeah. Way too pretty to mess up with scissors right now.’

He chuckles softly, a small laugh vibrating through his chest. ‘Is that so?’

‘Definitely,’ you confirm, wrapping your arms around him from behind, thumbs rubbing warm skin. You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

Spencer’s eyes flutter closed for a moment. ‘You’re being too nice to me.’

‘Somebody has to be.’

He turns in your arms, looking at you with a soft pout. ‘Does this mean I don’t get my haircut?’

‘No,’ you say, laughing quietly. You lift your hands and playfully curl your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to pull him closer. He shifts, resting his hands on your waist as he stands between your legs. ‘Can I offer you a different service instead?’

He pretends to think it over, letting out a faint hum.  ‘…Kisses?’

You sigh, as if he’s massively inconvenienced you, then smile and nod.

‘I think that can be arranged,’ you say.

Spencer’s lips quirk into another crooked smile, then part as you press gentle kisses to his nose, his forehead, then down to the curve of his neck. His skin is warm beneath your lips, water droplets still clinging to him like tiny jewels.

His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you closer. He tits his head, chasing your lips, and you giggle when his catch yours in a careful kiss – slow, at first, then deepening as you surrender to the warmth between you.

He shifts, trying to get even closer, and his towel slips a fraction lower. Instinctively, he reaches to pull it back up, nearly knocking you off the bathroom counter in the process. His laugh is a quiet, delighted sound against your mouth, breath mingling with yours in the shower-steamed air.

‘Was that an invitation?’ you tease, pulling away just enough to flick your eyes down to the now slightly lower towel.

Spencer laughs again. ‘I wasn’t trying to—’

You cut him off with a sweet kiss to his jaw, then trail your lips back down the other side of his neck. His breath catches, and he lets out a contented sound.

‘—But it can be an invitation, if you want it to be.’

You confirm that yes, you do want it to be an invitation, pressing your lips to his again, kissing until his tongue traces softly against your lips in his typical exploratory fashion. Always careful, but unmistakably eager.

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and he murmurs, ‘Off?’

You nod, and he helps you lift it over your head, his hands trailing reverent paths along your sides, fingertips brushing lightly against your ribs as he goes. The shirt drops somewhere on the floor, forgotten.

‘You’re pretty—’ he starts to say, but you kiss the words right off his mouth.

One hand slides into his damp curls, keeping him against you, while the other rests against his chest – right over the steady thrum of his heart. You shift slightly, drawing him in, and when your thighs tighten around his waist, he exhales a low, unguarded sound that sends a hot ripple through your stomach.

‘These too?’ he asks quietly, between kisses that have now migrated down to your collarbone, hands tracing the waistband of your shorts.

You nod again.

He adjusts your position with measured movements, guiding you forward to ease the fabric over your hips. He kneels slightly, just enough to help get them off your legs, fingers brushing reverent lines along your thighs, then your calves, as he slips them off.

You nod before he can ask about your underwear. They go next.

When you’re bare in front of him, he stands again, looking at you like you’ve just undone him.

You hook your ankles behind his back, drawing him close, grounding yourself in the heat of his body. Your arms loop around his neck again as his hands settle on your thighs.

‘Okay?’ he whispers, brushing his nose gently against your cheek.

‘Very okay,’ you murmur, turning your head just enough to catch his mouth again.

His hips shift forward, and when he presses against your center, the contact makes you gasp quietly against his lips.

He laughs softly, pulls back and rests his forehead against yours. His breath is shallower now, voice barely above a whisper. ‘What do you need?’

‘You,’ you say quietly. ‘Whatever you’re willing to give.’

In Spencer’s mind, that equates to everything.

His hand slides between your legs, fingers finding you slick and warm.

He makes a pleased sound. You bite your lip. Eyes flutter closed as you rest your forehead against his shoulder.

His breath brushes your ear, steady and warm, anchoring you as heat starts to coil lower in your belly.

His fingers move slowly at first – lazy circles that coax soft gasps from your mouth. The warmth spreads, thick and dizzying, curling through your body until your breath is hitching against his skin. You feel his nose nudge your cheek again, encouraging you to look at him.

When you lift your head, his gaze is already waiting – unbearably soft eyes and a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Completely enchanted.

You shift your hips instinctively, pressing into his hand, wordlessly asking for more.

He listens, as always, pressing harder, fingers gliding over sensitive skin. Each stroke draws a soft, involuntary moan from your lips, and you don’t even try to hold them back.

‘Feeling good?’ he murmurs.

‘Mmh… better than good,’ you breathe.

He adjusts the angle of his hand, just enough to slide two fingers inside you, curling perfectly – and your breath stutters. A full-body shiver ripples down your spine.

He watches, making sure you’re okay, taking the way your fingers dig lightly into his shoulders as a sign to continue.

His fingers move in a careful rhythm, curling with intention, each motion precise and devastating.

‘You’re so, so perfect,’ he says.

The words seep into your skin. You giggle breathlessly, voice fluttering out in shaky little gasps. ‘Feel—feel like I’m gonna melt…’

‘Oh no,’ he whispers with mock concern, unoccupied hand sliding up your side. It’s as if he’s taking your words seriously, arm wrapping around your body and holding you close – keeping you together so you don’t completely dissolve.

‘I won’t let you melt all the way,’ he says. Grins. ‘Not just yet.’

Your hips press against his hand again, chasing the warmth that’s building fast and sweet. The bathroom feels far away now – everything narrowed down to him: his hands, the soft rasp of his voice in your ear, and the care woven through every movement.

The air is thick with steam and the quiet sounds of your breathing, punctuated by his low hums of encouragement. When his fingers find that perfect spot, you gasp, a helpless little sound that spills from your lips before it can be caught.

Every movement winds the tension tighter, fanning the flames inside you. Your thighs tremble around his waist.

‘Almost there?’ he asks, and your body’s clench around his fingers already tells him the answer.

You nod, one hand fisting gently in the damp curls at his neck. The world narrows to his hand, the pulse of his thumb, and the heat rising inside you.

A moan slips free, low and breathy, as your body tenses, the wave building fast and bright in your core. You lean forward instinctively, hips stuttering into his touch – and your whole body shudders forward with the force of it.

He catches you immediately, using the arm wrapped around you to guide you back onto the counter. He keeps you steady. Held.

‘Easy,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve got you.’

You shiver, letting the tension crest – sweet and full and flooding through you in trembling waves. You melt against him, the warmth of your climax leaving you loose and shaking, lingering in every shudder and sigh.

He keeps his hand between your legs a moment longer, gentle through the aftershocks, before slowly easing it away. His fingers brush along your thigh as they withdraw, reluctant to leave.

Quiet reassurances are whispered against your temple, a kiss pressed to your forehead as your body slowly settles.

‘You should see how beautiful you look right now,’ he murmurs, voice low and full of quiet awe.

You smile, eyes still heavy-lidded.

‘Can’t,’ you say, still breathless. ‘Mirror’s fogged up.’

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh, his smile curling against your temple.

‘Guess I’ll just have to describe it to you.’

He shifts a little closer, his fingers drawing absent, soothing patterns along your skin.

‘You’re flushed right here,’ he says, brushing a knuckle over your cheek. ‘And your lips are a little swollen from kissing me too much. And I believe the scientific description for your eyes is completely blissed out. It’s very beautiful.’

‘You’re being too nice to me.’

‘Somebody has to,’ he says, and your chest aches just a little. He gives you a soft smile, before his expression shifts back to teasing, and he lightly taps your nose. ‘Seriously: blissed out.’

‘If I am,’ you murmur. ‘You’re the reason.’

Something flickers in Spencer’s eyes – warm and unguarded and particularly reverent. His hand stills on your thigh, stroking gently against your skin. Thoughtful.

You shift slightly on the counter, your legs still wrapped around him, and the movement draws a soft inhale from both of you. The air thickens, already warm with steam and affection and the pulse of what’s still lingering.

Your body still trembles faintly, the aftershocks of your climax making every touch feel sharper, every sensation more intense.

‘We can keep going,’ you say. ‘If you want.’

‘You sure?’ he asks softly, lifting a hand to gently cup your cheek. ‘Not feeling too overwhelmed?’

‘No, I want to,’ you say, firm but tender. ‘I want you.’

His eyes soften. He leans in, brushing his lips against yours in a light kiss that deepens just enough to make you sigh softly. He guides you closer to the edge of the surface, both hands settling on your hips.

His towel is gone – somewhere without your notice – leaving him entirely bare against you. Your eyes remain on his face, pushing back his hair as one of his hands slides down, steady and sure, guiding himself to you.

The first press is careful. His thumb strokes your hip as he sinks into you, inch by inch, giving you time and anchoring himself in the soft give of your body and the trust in your (still blissed out) eyes.

You gasp – pure breath – as he fills you completely. Your hands move to tighten lightly on his arms, every inch felt more acutely than ever after the high he just gave you. It borders on overwhelming. But it’s perfect. It’s him.

He pauses when he’s fully seated inside you, and it’s all he can do to breath.

‘God—’ he exhales, voice rough, almost startled by how good it feels. You can feel his body trembling slightly with the effort of restraint. ‘Alright?’

‘Uh-huh. Please—you can move.’

His eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, and you catch what is a whispered swear leaving his lips. He begins to move then, slow and deep, his breath stuttering in rhythm with each roll of his hips.

He tries to talk, to say how it feels, but can’t to find the words that do it justice.

Every thrust is deliberate. Unhurried. Not frantic. Just full feeling and the quietly overwhelming Spencer Reid kind of intensity. Like he’s feeling everything all at once and is trying to give it all back to you in return.

Your name falls from his lips like it’s sacred. You answer with a breathless moan, wrapping yourself tighter around him, and the look he gives you then – half undone, wholly in love – makes your heart pound.

The rhythm builds, each thrust a little deeper, a little more desperate in the way it seeks closeness, rather than friction. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours, his eyes never straying far from your face – even when they threaten to roll back from the way you clench around him.

Every sound he makes – soft, stuttered gasps and half-formed praises – settles deep inside you.

The heat swells again in your core, overwhelming and steady, coaxed further by every deep press of his hips and the whispered “you feel so good”s that fall from his mouth like he can’t stop them.

You try to tell him that you’re close. All that comes out is a quiet, high-pitched whimper, and he knows. He feels it too.

He shifts his hand between your bodies, fingers slipping deftly to where you need them most, drawing slow, perfect circles that push you right to the edge.

‘’S okay,’ he whispers, so gentle. ‘I’ve got you.’

And then you’re unravelling, clinging to him like he might float away. Your release rushes through you again, more full-bodied this time, thighs tightening around his hips as the wave rolls through, leaving you gasping.

The way you pulse around him pushes Spencer right over the edge. His rhythm falters, and a low, broken sound tears from his throat as he spills into you, his whole body tightening with the force of it. He buries his face against your neck, breath hitching with each soft aftershock, holding you like he never wants to let go.

Eventually he does move, oncee your breaths have synced into something more steady, slowly easing out of you with reluctance.

You shiver at the absence, at the lingering sensitivity.

Without a word, he leans down and retrieves the towel, unfolding the fabric in his hands. He steps in close, wrapping it around both of you in a shared bundle, tucking you to his chest as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

He pats gently at the sheen of sweat on your shoulder, down your arm, over the dip of your back. Tender, almost methodical. His fingertips are warm, but his touch is cooler than your skin, making you twitch and sigh in little, overstimulated flutters.

For a moment, you both simply exist in the steamy bathroom – relishing in the lingering heat, the feeling of his body against yours.

Then, he lifts a hand and points to the streak of water trailing down one of the tiles just beside the mirror. ‘That one,’ he says softly, tapping just beside it, the action a little languid. ‘That’s mine.’

You blink, then laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. ‘Oh, we’re doing this again?’

‘I take droplet racing very seriously now,’ he says, feigning gravity.

You tilt your head, peering at the tile beside his. Another droplet forms near the top and begins a slow descent down the fogged porcelain. You point to it. ‘Mine.’

You both go quiet for a moment, watching them drip side by side – slow and unbothered, weaving slightly as they trail down the tile wall.

Spencer shifts closer, nudging his nose against your cheek. ‘No guiding, no cheatig,’ he whispers.

Your laugh is a soft puff of air against his skin. You rest your head on his shoulder, eyes half-closed as you watch the droplets chase each other down the smooth, misted wall.

Yours gets caught on a ridge of grout. His slides ahead.

‘Unbelievable,’ you murmur. ‘Yours has an unfair advantage.’

Spencer, looking at you like he can’t believe he gets to have this at all, murmurs one last thing as his lips find the edge of your smile:

‘Pretty sure I win.’

You hum, nose brushing his.

‘Yeah,’ you whisper. ‘Me too.’

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