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Hello, and welcome to my fanfiction blog. I am currently way too deep in the Criminal Minds fandom. If youād like, please feel free to Fuel my Coffee intake!
I am only posting my one shots on here. You can find my series on AO3.
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I have ^50 WIPS I am currently working on right now.Ā
I have my 3K Celebration going on all this month!
Recent Releases: (*denotes explicit smut)
Check You for Ticks | The Way You Felt | Crush on You | Good Enough for You Love the Way You Lie* | Take Me Away to You* | Worthwhile | Summer's a Knife*
š SFW Spencer Reid
š NSFW Spencer Reid
š MGG/CM Characters
š30 Days Blurbsgiving
š¤Reidams
āØHoliday Inspired
šØĀ I am updating my taglists. I will not tag you in any of my Explicit (NSFW 18+) fics if I do not see your age on your profile/about me section šØ
everyday i wake up and think about that video of mgg getting smooched by all those ladies and the sight of him covered in red lipstick and them peeling back his shirt to kiss him more and how he was visibly red down to his neck and babbling awkwardly and kept making the shyest face every time they put their lips on him. i cannot believe that video is real and not the work of fanfiction or acting
summary: spencer has always been an exceptional listener, but one whispered "please" makes him wonder what it might feel like if, just this once, you listened to him instead
includes: smut (MDNI), no use on y/n, soft dom/switch!spencer, established relationship, consensual power exchange, relationship dynamics, gentle dominance, praise, teasing, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, spanking, dirty talk, "good girl", little bit of begging, switch realization, aftercare, communication, consent, reassurance, fluff, romance, emotional intimacy, spencer being adorably flustered after making you see stars
a/n: hi everyone, I am alive and kicking still. though my brain has been kicking my ass the past couple weeks. thank you to the people who checked in on me, yall are too sweet š
based on this request
Spencer Reid is a good listener.
He always has been.
He listens when you spend twenty uninterrupted minutes telling him about your day, even if half of it is dedicated to a coworker you've never particularly liked and the other half is an animated retelling of something that happened in the grocery store. He listens when you launch into a scene-by-scene breakdown of whatever show you've become obsessed with this week, nodding along despite having absolutely no context because you're so excited that your words tumble over one another, and he knows you'll inevitably pause every few minutes to ask, "Are you even listening?"
He always is.
He listens when you tell him your coffee order has changed. When you mention, weeks in advance, that your favorite bookstore is getting a special edition release. When you absent-mindedly admit you haven't been sleeping well lately, only to discover a weighted blanket appearing on your bed a few days later because Spencer quietly researched the statistics on sleep quality before buying one.
He listens because that's how he loves.
It carries into every corner of your relationship without either of you ever really noticing.
He listens when you murmur, "Come here," from across the apartment, abandoning whatever article he's reading without a second thought because if you're asking for him, he'd always rather be where you are.
He listens when you tilt your chin up with that familiar smile and whisper, "Kiss me."
He listens when you laugh against his mouth and say "Slower." When you smile and tell him to keep going. When you breathe "Wait." When you say "Okay." When you say "Stop."
Every single timeāwithout hesitation, without questionāSpencer listens.
It isn't one-sided, not even close. If Spencer listens, you direct. It's simply how the two of you fit together.Ā
You don't really ask. You tell. You like taking the initiative. Spencer likes following it. The rhythm develops so naturally that it becomes as familiar as breathing, neither of you questioning it any more than you'd question why the sun rises every morning.
If anything, Spencer finds it comforting. He spends enough of his life making impossible decisions. Profiling killers. Choosing who goes through which door. Calculating risks that end in lives saved or lost. Here, with you, there are no impossible choices. You simply smile, hook a finger through one of his belt loops as you step through the front door, and say, "Bedroom."
He follows.
Because Spencer Reid is an exceptionally good listener.
Your fingers find the first button of his shirt before you've even cleared the hallway.
It's automaticāthe way you reach for him, the way your hands know the geography of his chest better than he knows the layout of his own apartment. You walk backward, and Spencer follows, his steps careful and unhurried, watching your face as you glance up at him with a sly smile and batting lashes.
There's a faint flush across your cheeks that has nothing to do with embarrassment. Two glasses of wine at dinnerāmaybe three, if you count the sips you stole from Spencer's glass when he wasn't paying attention, which he absolutely noticed but chose not to mention because you'd looked so pleased with yourself. You're not drunk. Your wits are still comfortably intact, your words still coming out clear and deliberate. But there's a softness to you tonight, a looseness in your limbs and a brightness in your eyes that the wine has gently coaxed to the surface.
The backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sink down with the grace of someone who's had just enough wine to move like water. Your fingers slide the open shirt from Spencer's shoulders, and it catches briefly on his elbows before you tug it away and toss it aside.
You don't stand on ceremony. You never do.
You lean back on your palms, then shift your weight and crawl backward across the bed, the hem of your dress dragging across the sheets as you go. The movement is unhurried, deliberate, your eyes never leaving his face as you settle against the pillows with the kind of easy confidence that Spencer has spent entire evenings trying to understand and never quite managed to replicate.
Spencer climbs onto the bed after you, one knee first, then the other, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moves forward. His hands find your legs before the rest of him catches up, palms settling against your ankles and sliding slowly upward along the bare skin of your shins.
The touch is warm and careful, his thumbs tracing idle patterns against your calves as he moves closer. His fingers skim past your knees, and he feels the slight hitch in your breathing when he reaches the softer skin of your thighs. His hands disappear beneath the hem of your dress, palms pressing flat against you as they continue their slow path upward, the fabric bunching around his wrists.
It's been weeks.
Not by choice. Not by any fault or failure. Just the ugly mathematics of conflicting schedulesālate cases and early shifts that keep passing each other in the dark like ships. He comes home to the shape of you under the covers, already breathing slow and deep. You wake to a cold pillow and a cup of coffee he made for you before leaving.
But tonight, tonight he has you.
His lips find the inside of your knee first.
It's a soft press of warmth, almost chaste, the kind of absent kiss he might leave on your forehead on his way out the door in the morning. Except his mouth lingers, and his breath ghosts across your skin when he speaks.
"I've missed you."
The words vibrate against you, soft and unguarded, and your breath catches before you can stop it.
His mouth drifts higher. Another kiss, pressed to the tender skin of your inner thigh, his lips parting just enough against you that you feel the damp warmth of his breath. His hands tighten fractionally on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles against the fabric of your underwear.
"I've missed you so much." The confession comes out quieter, almost fragile, like it's been sitting in his chest for weeks and only now found its way out. He kisses the same spot again, then higher, his curls brushing against your thigh as he moves. "You're so pretty."
Your breathing stutters.
It's not something you decide to do. It just happensāthe way your chest rises and falls losing its steady rhythm, catching somewhere between one inhale and the next. Your fingers curl into the sheets beneath your palms, bunching the cotton into loose fists as Spencer's mouth maps a slow, deliberate path along your thigh.
"You're so pretty," he says again, and this time the words press into the crease where your leg meets your hip, his lips dragging against skin that's grown impossibly warm. His voice has dropped into that low, unhurried register that he seems almost unaware ofāthe one that surfaces when he's focused entirely on you, when the analytical part of his brain finally, mercifully, goes quiet.
The sound you make in response is barely a sound at all.
A soft, broken thingāa whimper that catches in the back of your throat before it can become anything more substantial. Your hips shift on instinct, pressing toward the warmth of his mouth in a motion that bypasses every rational thought you've ever had. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, the cotton twisting beneath your palms as the ache of weeks without thisāwithout himāpools low and insistent beneath his hands.
"Please."
The word falls out of you like something dislodgedāunplanned, unmeasured, dragged up from somewhere deeper than thought. It's soft and breathy and barely audible, little more than a trembling exhale shaped into a single syllable. Your lips part around it without permission, your voice catching on the end of it so that the sound fractures into something almost helpless.
The sound... does something to him.
It happens fastāfaster than he can catalogue, faster than his brain can dissect and shelve and rationalise. It hits somewhere beneath his ribs first, a sharp, electric jolt that drops low and heavy into his stomach, and then lower still. His cock twitches against the fabric of his pants, and his breath catches in a way that surprises him.
It isn't an instruction. It isn't a direction. It's a requestāfalling from your lips like you couldn't hold it back.
Spencer doesn't move.
He doesn't follow the cue. Doesn't respond to the request. Doesn't do what he's always done, which is listen, which is obey, which is give you whatever you ask for the moment you ask for it.
Instead, he stays exactly where he isāmouth hovering against the warm crease of your thigh, breath fanning slow and deliberate across damp skin.
His lips press into the same spot he'd just kissed, and he feels your whole body respondāa tremor that starts in your thighs and radiates outward, your breath going thin and unsteady above him.
He does it again.
Another kiss, slower this time. His mouth opens slightly against your skin, his tongue tracing a lazy, deliberate line along the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh before his lips close and pull gently. Not hard enough to mark. Just enough to feel. Just enough to make your fingers twist tighter in the sheets and your hips lift off the mattress in a silent, seeking motion that you can't seem to control.
You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a protestābreathless, incredulous, your head lifting from the pillow just enough to look down at him through half-lidded eyes.
"What the hell, Spence."
It comes out more whine than words, your voice thin and frayed at the edges in a way that would be embarrassing if you had the bandwidth to care about it. Your thighs press together instinctively, seeking friction that isn't there, and you feel the sharp spike of frustration needle through the haze of want when Spencer's hands hold your legs apart with a gentle, immovable certainty that you did not teach him.
"I want to hear you ask nicely."
The words leave his mouth before his brain fully registers them. They come out soft, unhurried, almost curiousālike he's testing the weight of them on his tongue and finding he doesn't mind the taste.
He watches the shift in your expression. Your brows knit together firstāconfusion, maybe, or disbelief. Your lips part and then close again. Your eyes search his face for some sign that he's joking, some flicker of hesitation that would give you back the ground you've suddenly lost.
You scoff.
It's an automatic response, the kind of sound that usually precedes you taking charge. Your mouth opens, no doubt preparing to tell him exactly what to do and how to do it, and Spencer watches the words form behind your eyes before they ever reach your lips.
But they don't reach your lips.
Because Spencer's fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and the words dissolve into a sharp inhale.
He takes his time peeling the fabric down your legs.
There's no reason for it to take as long as it does. His fingers move with agonizing deliberation, hooking into the elastic at one hip and then the other, dragging the cotton down over the curve of your hips like it's delicate.
Your hips lift for him without thought. The fabric slides down your thighs, and Spencer's palms follow its descentāover your knees, along your shins. His thumbs press into the soft hollows behind your ankles as he eases the underwear free and drops it somewhere off the side of the bed without looking.
Then he settles between your legs. His mouth finds the inside of your thigh again, but it's different.
Before, he was meanderingāan unhurried exploration, his lips wandering wherever instinct carried them. Now there's intention. A slow, deliberate trajectory that makes your pulse hammer in places you can feel but can't see.
He starts high on your inner thigh, close enough to where you need him that your breath stutters, but not close enough. The kiss is softābarely a press of lipsāand then he moves. Higher. Another kiss, slightly firmer, his mouth lingering against the sensitive skin long enough for warmth to bloom and settle.
You huff again, your head falling back against the pillow with a soft thud as the frustration coils tighter in your stomach. Your fingers abandon the sheets and find his hair insteadāsliding into those soft, unruly curls and tugging with a desperation you don't bother to disguise.
Spencer hums against your thigh. The vibration travels through already-sensitive skin, and your hips buck upward without your permissionāseeking, searching, a motion so involuntary it almost embarrasses you.
"Spenceā"Ā
Spencer's response is to press one more kiss to the junction of your thigh. His lips are warm and deliberately unhurried, and you can feel the faint curve of a smile against your skin that makes you want to scream.
Then his mouth finallyāfinallyāfinds you.
The first stroke of his tongue is a slow, flat press from bottom to top that has your spine arching off the mattress and your fingers tightening in his hair.
But he doesn't stay where you need him.
His tongue traces upward, then drifts sidewaysācircling the edges of where you're desperate for him to be.
Your thighs press against the sides of his head and his hands respond instantlyāpalms sliding beneath you, fingers curling over your hips to hold you steady against the mattress.
"Ask me nicely."
It's not a command. Not really. It's barely above a murmur, the words pressed into your skin like a secretālike he's almost asking you for permission to ask this of you. His voice is warm and a little rough around the edges, and you can feel the vibration of it travel upward, settling somewhere deep in your stomach.
"Please, Spence."
His fingers tighten briefly on your thighs. "Tell me what you want."
Your fingers are still threaded through his hair, and you feel the shift of his breathing against you when you tug gently at the curls. "I want your mouth on me. Please.ā
He doesn't say anything else. He dives in.
There's no other way to describe itāthe way his mouth settles over you with a sudden, devastating purpose that steals the air from your lungs. His tongue presses flat and broad against you, dragging upward in one long, slow stroke that pulls a sound from your chest that you don't recognize.
Your back arches off the mattress. Your fingers seize in his hairātight, tighter than you mean toāand Spencer groans against you in response. The vibration radiates inward, sinking into tissue that's already swollen and desperate, and your thighs clench around his head so hard you half-expect him to pull away.
He doesn't pull away.
He presses closer.
His hands slide beneath you, palms flattening against the small of your back as he pulls you toward his mouth. His tongue works in slow, focused strokes nowāno longer teasing, just there, exactly where you need him, applied with a precision that shouldn't surprise you because this is Spencer, and Spencer has always been precise about everything, but somehow you hadn't expected precision like this.
His tongue finds a rhythmādeliberate and devastating in its consistency. Your hips roll against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and Spencer's hands tighten on you in response. Keeping you exactly where he wants you.
It's new. That's the thing that strikes you somewhere through the haze. The want in his grip. The quiet certainty in the way he holds you against him like he's decided this is where you belong and he has no intention of letting you move.
You've always been the one deciding where you belong. Spencer has always let you decide.
Every position, every pace, every whispered instructionāhe's followed it with a devotion that made you feel untouchable. Cherished. In control.
Now his hands are holding your hips against the mattress like control is something he's not ready to give back, and the absence of it sends something electric spiraling through your chest.
His tongue shiftsāflattening, then narrowing, tracing a path upward that makes your thighs tremble against his ears. He finds you with a focus that's almost clinical in its precision, except nothing about this feels clinical. Nothing about the warm, wet pressure of his mouth or the soft, greedy sounds he's making against you feels like anything other than Spencer discovering something new about himself and using your body to explore it.
Your hand flies to your mouth.
It's instinctāthe desperate attempt to muffle the sound that's building in your throat, the one that's too loud, too much, too desperate for a weeknight in an apartment with neighbors on the other side of the wall. Your palm presses flat against your lips and your head turns into the pillow, breath escaping in sharp, fractured gasps between your fingers.
His hand leaves your hip without warningāone moment his palm is warm and steady against you, and the next his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth with a gentle firmness that makes your stomach drop.
"Whaā"
The word barely makes it out of you. It's less a question and more a soundāconfusion and arousal tangled together into a single, breathless syllable that dissolves the moment Spencer's fingers guide your wrist down to the mattress beside your hip.
He pulls back just enough for you to feel the sudden, devastating absence of his mouth. The cool air hits wet skin and you shiver, your hips lifting off the mattress in an involuntary search for contact that isn't there anymore.
"Don't hold back."
The words are quiet. Almost gentle. They ghost across your skin like a warm exhale, and the juxtaposition of softness and command makes your brain short-circuit.
You don't have time to respond.
His mouth returns to you before you can blink. The sound that leaves you is obscene.
It's somewhere between a moan and a cryāyour voice cracking open in a way you couldn't have controlled if you'd tried. Your head falls back against the pillow and your spine curves off the mattress, and Spencer makes a sound against you that you've never heard him make before. Low and satisfied. Almost like a purr.
His tongue shifts.
It dips lower, and the first experimental press inside you makes your whole body jerk. Spencer's hands are already thereāpalms pressing your hips flat, holding you open and still as his tongue works its way deeper.
He finds a rhythm quickly. Slow, deliberate thrusts that drag against walls of muscle and nerve endings you didn't realize could feel like this. His chin is wet, his breath coming hot and ragged through his nose, and every stroke of his tongue sends a fresh wave of heat rolling through your stomach.
His nose nudges against you with each thrust of his tongueāthe bridge of it pressing flush against your clit in a steady, maddening friction that he seems entirely aware of. Each time his tongue pushes deeper, his nose drags upward. Each time he pulls back, it slides down. The rhythm is devastating, and the realization that he's calculated thisāthat some part of that brilliant, relentless mind has figured out exactly how to make you fall apart with maximum efficiencyāsends a sharp spike of arousal through you so intense it borders on painful.
Your hands slam back into his hair.
"SpenceāSpencerā"
Spencer doesn't stop.
If anything, your hands in his hair seem to sharpen something in him. His tongue thrusts deeper, the rhythm shiftingāfaster now. Hungrier. The wet sounds of his mouth against you fill the room in a way that would make you combust with embarrassment if you had a single functioning brain cell left, but you don't, because Spencer Reid's tongue is inside you and his nose is grinding against your clit and you're fairly certain you've forgotten your own name.
Your thighs are shaking. Your legs are clamped around Spencer's head so tight you can feel his curls pressed flat against your inner thighs. Your heels dig into his back, your ankles crossing behind him like your body is trying to hold him exactly where he is, and Spencer responds by groaning against you in a way that vibrates through your entire pelvis.
You're close. You can feel it building in the pit of your stomach, winding tighter with every thrust of his tongue, every drag of his nose. It's coiling hot and heavy at the base of your spine, and your hips have stopped following his rhythm entirelyāthey're rolling against his mouth in short, desperate circles that have nothing to do with finesse and everything to do with the fact that you're about to come apart and your body knows it even if your brain hasn't caught up.
Your orgasm hits you hard.
Your back bows off the mattress. Your fingers convulse in his hair, pulling hard enough that you'll feel guilty about it later, and your thighs clamp so tight around his head that for one hysterical moment you genuinely worry you might be hurting him.
He stays exactly where he isāmouth pressed against you, tongue working you through the waves of your orgasm with a gentleness that contradicts everything about the last several minutes. His hands smooth up from your hips to your waist, palms warm and steady against your trembling stomach as the aftershocks ripple through you in diminishing surges.
Your thighs unlock from around his head. Your fingers release his hairāthough not entirely, some strands still tangled between your knucklesāand you feel the tension drain from your legs as they fall open against the mattress. Your breathing is ragged, your chest rising and falling in uneven intervals, and you can feel your heartbeat pulsing in places you didn't know had heartbeats.
Spencer presses one last, impossibly soft kiss against you. Then another. Each one lighter than the last, his lips barely grazing oversensitive skin until the touch is little more than a whisper.
He lifts his head, and the sight of him nearly undoes you all over again.
His chin is slick. His lips are swollen and pink, parted around uneven breaths. His curls are a disasterāmussed beyond recognition by your fingers, falling across his forehead in wild, chaotic strands that stick up at angles that defy physics. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, warm pink that spreads down his throat and disappears beneath the collar of his shirt.
He looks wrecked.
It's the word that surfaces through the fog of your afterglowāhazy and imprecise, but the closest thing to accurate your brain can produce. Spencer looks absolutely wrecked, and he hasn't even taken anything off yet.
His hands are still on your waist. His eyes find yours, and there's something in them you don't recognizeānot quite confidence, not quite surprise, but something caught between the two.
He just smiles.
A wide, entirely pleased smileāthe kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and lifts his cheeks and transforms his whole face into something so openly, unguardedly happy that it almost looks like a different version of him. Unselfconscious. A little bit smug, like he's just solved something he didn't expect to solve, and the answer pleases him.
You let out a breathy giggle. Your head drops back against the pillow, and you stare at the ceiling while your body continues to tremble in tiny, residual waves.
"What is that face?"
"Nothing," he says, and his voice is rough in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You justā" He stops. Swallows. His thumbs trace small, absent circles against your hipbones. "You look really pretty right now."
The laugh that escapes you is wet and breathless. "Spencer, I'm a mess."
"Exactly," he says softly. "A pretty mess."
You reach for him.
It's instinctāyour hand lifting from the sheets, fingers stretching toward his chest with the automatic need to touch him, pull him down to you, take hold of whatever you can reach. You've been reaching for him all night, all your life together really.
Spencer catches your wrist. His thumb presses against the inside of your wrist, and you can feel him find your pulse. You're not sure if it's intentional or just Spencer, always cataloging data, always paying attention to the things nobody else thinks to measure.
"Stay still."
The words are soft. Almost tender. But there's something beneath themāsomething that wasn't there an hour ago. A thread of steadiness that winds through the syllables like he's not just asking you to stay still but telling you.
"Oh," you sigh, almost dazed. This is new. This is... nice.
Your wrist goes limp in his grip, surrendering to the novelty of it, the strange and electrifying sensation of Spencer Reid telling you to stay still and meaning it.
He releases your wrist slowly, his fingers trailing down your palm before letting go entirely. Then he sits back on his heels, and his hands move to the button of his own pants.
He doesn't look away from you.
His fingers work the button open. Then the zipper, drawn down tooth by tooth with the same deliberate patience he used on your underwear, and you realize with a lurch of your stomach that he's doing it on purposeādrawing it out, making you watch, making you wait.
You're not used to waiting.
Your tongue drags across your lower lip. Spencer's eyes track the motion, and something flickers in his expressionāheat, maybe, or the quiet satisfaction of knowing he's the one making you restless for a change.
His thumbs hook into the waistband. The pants slide down. He kicks them off without ceremony, and then he's moving over you.
He settles between your thighs, and the first thing you feel is the heat of him.
No barriers. Nothing between you. Just skin against skin, the warm, solid weight of his body pressing against yours, and the startling intimacy of feeling him hard against your thigh. The contact pulls a sharp breath from your lungsāyour body arching up against his before you can stop it, hips tilting seekingly, every nerve ending still raw and electric from your orgasm.
You almost expect him to just start. To take the momentum and run with it, the way anyone else might when the person beneath them is still trembling and slick and visibly, desperately ready.
But he doesn't.
Instead, Spencer lowers himself slowlyāthe mattress dipping beneath his weight as he brings his body down against yours, chest to chest, hip to hip. One hand plants beside your shoulder, his forearm taking some of his weight while the other hand finds the side of your face.
He kisses you the way he always kisses youādeeply, thoroughly, with the kind of whole-body commitment that makes you feel like the only person who has ever existed. His mouth opens against yours, and his tongue slides against your lower lip before slipping inside. His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head, tilting you just slightly so he can deepen the angle. His tongue sweeps against yours, slow and deliberate.Ā
You can taste yourself on him.
It's a thought that should embarrass youāor maybe it's the kind of thing that would embarrass someone else. But Spencer is kissing you like he has all the time in the world, like the fact that he's hard against your hip and you're still trembling beneath him is secondary to the simple, devastating act of kissing you properly, and the taste of yourself on his tongue just makes you melt further into the mattress.
Your hands find his shoulders. Your fingers curl into the tense muscle there, nails pressing crescents into his skin, and you feel the shudder that runs through him at the contactāa full-body tremor that starts in his shoulders and works its way down his spine.
"Spence," you mutter against his lips, the words half-lost in the seam of his mouth against yours. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders, your hips rolling up against hisāsearching, seeking, done waiting. "I want you to fuck me." Then, quieterā"Please."
The sound Spencer makes isn't quite a moan. It's lower than that, rougher, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest like a wire being drawn taut. His hips jerk against yours once, and then his forehead drops against your shoulder.
His breath is hot and uneven against your collarbone.Ā
"Tell me how you want it."
His voice is muffled against your shoulder, but you hear every word. Your brain is still fuzzy, still caught in the slow-spinning aftermath of your orgasm, and the question takes a moment to parse through the haze.
You swallow. "I want to see you."
He lifts his head from your shoulder. His eyes find yours.
"You want to see me," he repeats, like he's testing the words. Tasting them. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, and his gaze drops to your mouth, then lowerātracking the rise and fall of your chest, the way your body is already arching up toward him in unconscious invitation.
He sits up. Your hands slide from his shoulders, fingers dragging down his arms, reluctant to let go entirely.
Spencer's hands find your hip. Then your waist. His palm presses warm and firm against the side of your ribs, and his other hand slides beneath your top knee.
It's not rough, but there's a quiet authority in the way his hands guide your body. His palm shifts from your ribs to your hip, pressing with a steady, even pressure that rolls you onto your side. Your back stays flat against the mattress, shoulders pressing into the sheets, but your hips turn and your legs come togetherāone stacked atop the other, thighs pressed tight.
He adjusts the angle with a small, precise correction. His hand on your hip tilts you just slightlyābarely a degree of differenceāand then his fingers splay wide across the curve of your waist, holding you exactly where he's put you.
His other hand wraps around your top thigh, just above the knee, and he lifts itājust enough to open you, to create the space he needs. The shift is small, but the new angle changes everything. You feel the cool air against you for barely a second before the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance.
He doesn't thrust. He sinks. Slow, steady, inexorable pressure that makes your body open for him inch by inch, your breath stuttering out of you in fragmented, shaking exhales as he fills you.
He leans down, his body folding over you and his mouth finding yours before the rest of him has even settled. His lips brush against your lower lip first, a featherlight touch that makes you chase him, tilting your chin up to deepen the kiss.
Your arms wrap around him. Your hands find the warm plane of his back, palms pressing flat against his shoulder blades, and you feel the muscles there shift and flex as he holds himself above you.
He kisses you the way he always kisses youālike he's trying to tell you something his vocabulary can't quite articulate. His tongue slides against yours with a slow, deliberate sweep that makes your toes curl against the sheets, and the kiss deepens as his hips press the rest of the way forward.
He bottoms out with a groan.
You feel it everywhereāthe sound traveling through his chest into yours, through his lips into yours, through the place where your bodies are joined and his hips are flush against the backs of your thighs. He's deep. Deeper than you expected from this angle, the tilt of your hips creating a tight, devastating channel that makes your breath catch audibly against his tongue.
He starts moving.
Not thrusting. Grinding is more accurate. Slow, rolling presses of his hips that keep him flush against you, each one sinking him impossibly deeper and dragging a low, broken sound from your throat that he catches with his mouth.
Spencer keeps the pace deliberate, measured, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it. His mouth moves against yours with the same lazy, devastating rhythm as his hips. His tongue keeps sliding slow against yours, pulling back just enough to catch your bottom lip between his teeth before sinking back in.
You try to move with him. Your hips shift, seeking more friction, searching for a faster pace, and Spencer's hand leaves your thigh to press flat against your hipāpinning you to the mattress.
"Ah," he murmurs against your mouth, and the sound is barely audible. A soft, breathy correction that vibrates against your lower lip. "Stay still for me."
Your body doesn't listen.
It's not deliberateāor maybe it is, maybe some part of you needs to know what happens if you don't obey. But your hips roll against his grip before the conscious part of your brain can intervene, chasing the friction, chasing the pace he's deliberately withholding. The movement is small, instinctive, your body seeking more of him the way it always has.
Spencer stops kissing you.
His mouth lifts from yours by a fraction of an inch. Barely enough space to exist between your lips, but you feel the absence like a withdrawal.Ā
His hand on your hip presses harder. Not enough to hurt, just a reminder. "I said stay still."
Your hips twitch again. You feel his fingers flex against your hip, and you know he felt it.
"Spencerā"
His hand leaves your hip. Then his hand connects with the curve of your ass.
The sound is sharper than you expectedāa flat crack that rings through the bedroom and sends a jolt of electricity straight up your spine. The sting blooms warm and immediate across your skin, and your whole body seizes in response.
You clench around him.
Hard. Involuntary. Your inner walls clamp down on his cock so suddenly that Spencer's breath hitchesāa sharp, strangled inhale against your mouth that tells you he felt it too. His hips stutter forward once, losing their careful rhythm for just a second before he steadies himself.
"Shit," he mutters. The word is barely a breath. His forehead drops to yours, and his eyes squeeze shut for a momentāa single, telling second of composure-gathering.
"Are you gonna stay put for me so I can fuck you or not?"
The question lands somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, like he can't quite reconcile the fact that you're still squirming beneath him with the fact that he justāhe just smacked your assāand the combination of those two realities is short-circuiting something in his brain.
You bite your lip.
Your teeth sink into the swollen flesh hard enough to leave an indent, and you nod.
Spencer watches you do it. His eyes drop to your mouth, tracking the way your teeth press into your bottom lip.
He rewards you with movement. His hips resume their slow, grinding rhythm, and the first press of his cock back into you draws a shuddering exhale from you.
But this time his hand stays on your ass.
His palm settles over the curve where the slight sting still humsāwarm and broad and possessive. His fingers curl into the flesh, squeezing once, firm and deliberate.
It all makes you moan, loud enough that the neighbors definitely heard. But you can't seem to care anymore.Ā
Spencer kisses you deeper.
His mouth closes over yours, swallowing the whimpers and moans, pulling the sounds from your throat and into his chest like he needs them there.
"Good girl."
You feel him go still above you. His hips stop their slow grind. His hand on your ass goes rigid, fingers frozen mid-squeeze. Even his breathing catches, held behind his teeth like he's trying to decide whether to apologize, take it back, pretend it never happenedā
Your walls clench around him, a sudden involuntary squeeze of you around his cock. His breath stutters out of him in a ragged exhale.
"Y-you liked that?"
You nod.
Your head moves in a jerky, desperate motion against the pillowāteeth still caught in your bottom lip, eyes wide and dark and imploring.
"Please," you whisper, and the word comes out wrecked. "Please just fuck me."
Something snaps.
He drives forward, hard and fast, and the force of it punches the air right out of your lungs. The rhythm he sets now is hungry, sharpāhips snapping against yours with a wet, rhythmic slap that echoes through the quiet room.
"God," he breathes. He braces one hand beside your head on the mattress, the other still gripping your ass, holding you in place for every thrust. "You feel... you feel so good."
"D-don't stop," you moan.
"I'm not stopping," he says, and the words come out rougher than anything you've heard from him tonight.
You feel him everywhere. Deep, impossibly deep, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur at the edges.
You're close.
It's building in the pit of your stomachāa tight, coiling pressure that radiates outward with every snap of his hips. Your nails drag down his back, leaving pink lines across his skin, and your legs tremble against his. The pleasure is cresting, fast and relentless, and you can feel yourself barreling toward the edge with a speed that makes your breath come in short, punched-out gasps.
"Spencerā" His name tears from your throat, ragged and raw. "I'm close. I'm so closeā"
"That's it," Spencer says, and his voice is a wreck. His forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. "Let go. Come for me."
The words undo you.
Your back arches off the mattress, your nails biting into his shoulders hard, and a sound tears from your throat that you'll be embarrassed about laterāa broken, sobbing moan that has no right coming out of your mouth but does anyway because Spencer Reid just told you to come and your body decided that was a command it was going to follow without debate.
You clench around him in wave after wave, your inner walls pulsing in rhythmic, helpless contractions that drag a sound from Spencer's chest that you've never heard before. Low. Guttural. Something between a groan and your name, fractured down the middle.
His rhythm stutters. His hips jerk forward once, twice, three times in quick, uneven thrusts that have nothing of his earlier patience. Then he buries himself deep, so deep it steals what little breath you have left, and his whole body goes rigid above you.
His mouth finds yours.
The kiss is messy and desperate and barely a kiss at allāmore like his mouth pressing against yours because he needs somewhere to put the sound he's making, the low, broken groan that shudders through his chest and vibrates into yours. His jaw trembles against your chin. His breath comes in hot, ragged bursts against your lips, and you feel him pulse inside you.
His hips roll forward once moreāa slow, involuntary press that drains the last of the tension from his bodyāand then he stills.
The next kiss is slow. Lazy. His tongue slides against yours with none of the urgency from beforeājust a gentle, unhurried drag that feels like sinking into warm water. His lips are swollen and soft, and he tastes like you and salt and the faintest trace of the coffee he drank hours ago, before any of this started.
You hum against his mouth. A small, satisfied sound that vibrates between you.
Spencer pulls back first. Not farājust enough to see you. His nose bumps against yours, and his breath is still coming in uneven, warm gusts that fan across your sweat-damp skin.
Your lips curve against his. Slow, uncoordinated, the kind of smile that forms when every muscle in your body has been reduced to something the consistency of warm honey.
"That was..." You pause. Your brain sifts through the remnants of your vocabulary, looking for something adequate, and comes up empty. "...new."
Spencer's thumb traces the line of your cheekbone. His eyes are still closed, his lashes dark against his flushed skin. "Is that a good thing?"
The question comes out quieter than he probably intended. His eyes openāhazel, soft, still a little glazedāand search your face. Like he's scanning for signs of regret he won't find.
You let out a breathless laugh. It's a weak thing, mostly air, but it carries.
"Well," you say, and the word stretches out long and lazy, your voice still raw, "it's definitely not bad."
Spencer huffs. It's almost a laugh. His forehead drops against your shoulder again, and you feel his lips press against the curve of your neckānot a kiss, exactly. More like he needs somewhere to rest his face while his heart rate comes back down to something that isn't indicative of a medical event.
"Sorry," he mutters. The word lands warm and muffled against your skin, his lips barely moving against the curve of your neck. "I should haveāI didn't ask before I justā"
He stops. Swallows. You feel the motion against your throat.
"I didn't talk to you about any of that before doing it." His voice is careful now, measured in that way it gets when he's retracing his steps and finding all the places he thinks he went wrong. "Theāasking you to stay still. And the..." He trails off. His fingers twitch against your hip, and you know he's thinking about the spank. "That's not something I should have just introduced without checking first. That wasāI should have asked."
You let out a long, slow breath. Your hand lifts from his back and finds the messy landscape of his hairācurls damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in chaotic whorls that you've never seen quite this disheveled. Your fingers thread through them, gentle, unhurried, the way you've done a hundred times before on the couch, in the car, lying in bed on lazy Sundays.
"Spence." Your fingers keep moving through his curls, scratching gently against his scalp the way you know he likes, and you feel some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders. "I would've told you. You know that. If something didn't feel right, I'd have said so. I promise."
He nods against your neck. A small, tentative motion that you feel more than seeāhis chin dipping down and then rising again, the scratch of his stubble dragging against your skin.
But he doesn't lift his head. And his body is still holding a thread of tension that wasn't there before, a careful stillness in the way he's resting against you that tells you he's not quite done carrying it yet.
"Come here." Your hand slides from his hair to the side of his face. Your palm curves against his jaw, fingers settling into the warm space behind his ear where his pulse is still hammering, fast and unsteady. You lift his face from your neck. He comes willingly, letting you guide him up for a soft kiss.
Spencer's eyes close. His lashes brush against your cheek, and his breath comes out in a long, shuddering exhale.
You pull back just enough to look at him. "I love you," you say.
It comes out easy. Simple. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world, because it is.
"I love you too."
"And," you add, and your voice drops into something lighter, teasing, "the whole..." You gesture vaguely between the two of you with the hand not currently cradling his jaw. "Power shift thing. That was hot."
Spencer's eyebrows lift. A flush creeps up his neck, spreading across his cheeks in a slow, uneven bloom.
"It was?" The word comes out higher than he intended.
You laugh. The sound is loose and warm, shaking through your chest where it's still pressed against his. "Spencer, you literally made meāI mean, you saw what happened. I saw what happened. That wasā" You shake your head, smile curving wide and helpless. "Yeah. It was hot."
Spencer's blush deepens. The pink spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. You watch him. This manāthis beautiful, ridiculous, devastating manāstill inside you, still pressed against you, still flushed and disheveled and glowing with the aftermath of what he just did to you, and he's blushing.
He smiles. "Okay. Okay. Good."
He pauses. His gaze drops to the space between you for a moment. Then his eyes find yours again, and the smile shifts into something quieter. A little crooked. A little pleased.Ā
"I'll keep that in mind." His thumb traces a slow circle against your hip. "It'd be nice to be the one in charge every so often."
synopsis: after seven years of friendship, spencer finally introduces you to his team. unfortunately, they're all very good at their jobs.
word count: 4.5k
content: no use of y/n, friends to lovers, mutual pining, everyone knows but them, seven years of accidental courtship, the BAU drawing one very reasonable conclusion, alcohol consumption, fluff
Spencer changes his mind about bringing you somewhere between ringing the bell and Rossi opening the front door.
āWe can still leave,ā he says, leaning closer and lowering his voice as though someone might overhear him, despite the empty porch.
āYou spent three weeks convincing me to come.ā
āI know.ā He glances towards the house, and you watch the implications of what heās done catch up with him. āI may not have thought this through.ā
You follow his gaze to the nearest window. The curtain falls back into place with such violent innocence that you can practically hear Penelope Garcia denying everything from the other side.
āSheās been waiting there?ā
āPossibly.ā
āHow long?ā
Spencer glances at his watch. āWeāve only been here for forty-three seconds.ā
āAnd sheās already frightened you into retreat.ā
āIām not frightened.ā His mouth pulls to one side, though his eyes stray to the curtain again. āI just want to make sure youāre comfortable.ā
You look back at him. Heās dressed slightly better than the occasion requires, which is normal enough that you noticed only in passing when he arrived at your flat. His tie is patterned but subdued, and his hair keeps falling forwards no matter how often he pushes it away. His coat is still unbuttoned despite the January cold; he began telling you about Rossiās cooking before you made it out of your building and apparently forgot there were buttons involved.
The knot of his tie has worked its way a little to the left. You reach up to straighten it. āIām comfortable.ā
His attention drops to your hands. āYouāre cold.ā
āIām standing outside in January.ā
āYou loosened the scarf.ā
āIt made me look like I was being strangled by a blanket.ā
āItās cashmere.ā
You glance down at the loosened scarf. āI know. That doesnāt mean it wasnāt aggressive.ā
Spencerās smile spreads slowly, warm and crooked and bright enough to make you forget the weather for a second. āThat doesnāt make sense.ā
āYou understood me.ā
āI usually do.ā
The door opens before you can answer. Rossi takes in the two of you on his porch ā your fingers still resting against Spencerās tie, Spencer standing close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushes yours ā and lets his eyes linger on your hand before returning to Reid.
āReid.ā He steps aside. āAnd you must be the woman who stole his seat.ā
You turn on Spencer. āYou told him that?ā
āItās how we met.ā
āThatās not how we met.ā
Rossi accepts your coat. You unwind the scarf and hold it out without looking; Spencer takes it automatically, hanging it beside your coat while he continues to regard you with the stubborn composure of someone who possesses an eidetic memory and has appointed himself sole custodian of the past.
āThere was a programme on the chair,ā he says.
āThere was rubbish on the chair.ā
āIt was the programme for the lecture.ā
āWhich had already started.ā
āThat doesnāt make it rubbish.ā
Rossi closes the door behind you. āYou can argue the case over dinner. Iāve heard Reidās testimony several times.ā
You follow him into the hall, looking sideways at Spencer. āHow many times have you told this story?ā
āIt comes up more often than youād think.ā
Before you can ask how a disagreement over auditorium seating could possibly come up at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, someone makes a small, delighted noise at the end of the hallway.
Garcia appears in a sweep of colour, bracelets and barely restrained curiosity. āYouāre real.ā
āGarcia,ā Spencer warns.
āI never suggested she wasnāt.ā She reaches you and takes both your hands, looking you over with such open pleasure that itās impossible to feel inspected. āIām Penelope. I have been waiting so patiently to meet you that I think I deserve official recognition from the Bureau.ā
āYou sent me four messages this afternoon,ā Spencer says.
Garcia dismisses this with a flick of her bracelets. āAnd every one of them was supportive.ā
āOne of them was nine exclamation marks.ā
She hugs you before you have decided whether handshakes are still an option. Over her shoulder, you find Spencer watching you, ready to intervene and relieved when he sees he doesnāt have to. He knows you have never enjoyed entering a room full of strangers. He also knows that Garcia has rendered strangers impossible within thirty seconds.
Morgan comes around the corner carrying two bottles of wine. āSo this is whoās been taking up all your Thursdays.ā
Spencerās head turns. āShe doesnāt take them up.ā
āYou make that sound worse,ā you tell him.
āI mean, I choose to spend them with you.ā
Morganās eyebrows rise. āAnd disappear before anyone can give you another file.ā
Spencer has already turned back to you, taking the bag from your shoulder before you have to hitch it back into place.
āI leave work at a reasonable time on Thursdays,ā he adds. āThat isnāt disappearing.ā
āYou texted me from the lift last week saying, āI escaped.āā
āTheyād already given me three,ā he says, as though this settles the choice of verb.
Morgan studies the two of you for another second, then gives you a slow nod. āYouāre going to fit in fine.ā
The rest of the introductions happen in Rossiās living room, where the fire is lit and every available surface has acquired either a glass or a plate. JJ greets you with an easy warmth that eases the last of your nerves. Hotch is more reserved, although the handshake he offers comes with a sincere, āItās good to finally meet you.ā
Between the BAUās cases and your own habit of declining invitations to crowded gatherings, finally becomes the common thread of the evening. Oddly, the feeling is mutual. Spencer has been talking about his team for seven years, long enough that you sometimes forget youāve never actually met any of them. Tara, seated on the arm of a chair, tells you that she has only known Spencer for a few months and has somehow still heard enough about you to recognise your name immediately.Ā
You look at him. āWhat have you been telling these people?ā
āNot much.ā
Morgan sets the wine beside Rossiās decanter. āHe brings you up more than he thinks he does.ā
āOnly when something reminds me of her,ā Spencer says.
āSo whenever anyone sits in a chair,ā you say.
āOnly if they sit in my seat.ā
āThat wasnāt your seat.ā
Tara looks between you. āIām beginning to see how you two have kept an argument about a chair going for seven years.ā
āSeven years, two months and six days,ā Spencer corrects.
āIt is,ā JJ agrees, a small smile tucked into the words, and Rossi calls everyone to the table before you can work out what she finds funny.
He has prepared enough food for twice as many people and accepts praise as his due. The conversation moves easily around you, propelled by the overlapping stories of people who spend too much time together. Morgan disputes Rossiās version of an arrest in Baltimore; JJ supplies the part both men have omitted. Tara waits until they have nearly finished before revealing that Garcia showed her the security footage and neither account is accurate.
At the head of the table, Hotch listens with the patience of a man who has long since accepted that authority has limits.
As everyone gathers around the table, Spencer rests a hand on the back of an empty chair. You slip into it without either of you acknowledging the gesture, and he takes the seat to your right, tucking your bag safely beside his feet.
The conversation follows everyone to the table, breaking and reforming as chairs are pulled in and Rossi begins sending dishes around. When the bread reaches Spencer, he selects the darker end piece before handing you the basket. Heās looking down at his plate, but you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You dig beneath the slices for the remaining end and set it on your plate.
āDid you just take that?ā
He arranges his face into innocence. āTake what?ā
āYou know I like the end.ā
āThere are two ends.ā
āYou took the better one.ā
āTheyāre structurally identical.ā
āThey absolutely are not.ā
He lets you make your case, then exchanges his piece for the one on your plate with the ease of a ritual completed many times before. You tear the bread in half and put half back on his plate, which is when you notice Tara watching from across the table, amusement gathering at one corner of her mouth.
āWhat?ā you ask.
āNothing.ā She reaches for her wine. āIām learning.ā
Spencer leans nearer to you. āAbout bread?ā
You give him a look and take a bite. He glances across at Tara, clearly tempted to investigate.
āDonāt make the face,ā you warn.
āWhat face?ā
āThe one you make before asking a question that adds twenty minutes to a conversation.ā
Spencer turns to you, brow furrowed and mouth pulled into a small, dubious line. āI donāt have a face for that.ā
āYou do,ā JJ says from his other side.
Morgan points his fork at her. āHe definitely does.ā
Spencer appeals to Hotch, who takes a measured drink of wine. āYou do.ā
The table breaks into laughter, Spencer along with it. His head tips back, his eyes close, and the smile opens across his face without the flicker of self-consciousness that sometimes follows when he realises a room is watching him. You know the quieter laugh he uses when heās trying not to encourage you, the startled one that escapes when you catch him off guard, the breathless, helpless version that makes him fold forwards and hide his face. This one is easy and bright. He looks happy.
You are still watching when he turns back. The laughter remains in his eyes as his expression shifts into a question, and only then do you notice the small streak of sauce near the corner of his mouth.
āHold still.ā You wipe it away with your thumb before it occurs to you that a napkin would have done the job just as well.
His lips part at the touch. For a second, the noise of the table seems to move around the two of you, then you drop your hand and reach for your glass. By the time Spencer does the same, Morgan has turned the conversation towards Rossiās wine.
Later, once the plates have been cleared and Rossi produces a tiramisu large enough to require architectural planning, Garcia asks how you and Spencer became friends after what she calls the Auditorium Incident.
āShe followed me outside,ā Spencer says.
āYou followed me.ā You turn towards him, eyebrows raised at the version of events he has chosen to present. āApparently handing me a pen and saying āHereā was supposed to communicate a short-term loan.ā
āI thought it was obvious.ā
Morgan rests an elbow on the table. āWas this at least a good pen?ā
āNo. It leaked all over my hand.ā
āThatās what I was trying to tell her when she walked away.ā
JJ glances between you. āSo you followed a woman out of a lecture hall over a defective pen?ā
āI didnāt follow her,ā Spencer says, a little too quickly. āShe was walking towards the Metro.ā
āI was walking towards coffee. He spent three blocks correcting a route I wasnāt taking.ā
Garcia presses both hands to her heart. āAnd he came with you.ā
āIt had started raining,ā Spencer says.
JJ looks at him. āYou hate coffee shops.ā
āTheyāre usually loud.ā
āThat one was,ā you say. āYou stayed after the rain stopped anyway.ā
He looks at you, momentarily caught without a correction. His knee has rested against yours beneath the table for most of the conversation, warm and solid through two layers of clothing. āYou were interesting.ā
The answer is simple, offered without embarrassment. Before you can decide what to do with it, Rossi cuts into the tiramisu. āAnd the rest is seven years, two months and six days of arguing.ā
āWe donāt always argue,ā Spencer says.
āYou called me at midnight last week because my bookshelf leans.ā
āIt leans towards your bed.ā
āProtectively.ā
He gives you a long, suffering look. āItās going to fall on you.ā
Hotch hides a smile behind his wine. āHe may have a point.ā
āThank you,ā Spencer says, vindicated, and you promise the table that when he appears at your flat with a spirit level, they are all invited to help him.
The evening loosens after dessert. Rossi opens another bottle of wine, Morgan finds music, and people drift between the living room and kitchen as the conversation divides into smaller pieces. You spend a while talking to JJ and Tara near the fire. Spencer is pulled into a discussion with Hotch on the other side of the room, but his attention returns to you often enough that you begin to anticipate it. You look up, and his eyes are already there.
He never stares. His gaze finds yours, checks, and returns to the conversation. When Garcia drops onto the sofa beside you with enough force to send your glass wobbling, his hand lifts from across the room before you catch it yourself.
You raise the rescued glass in his direction. He smiles, lets his hand fall and turns back to Hotch.
Between the fire and the overlapping voices, the room soon grows too warm. You finish what remains in your glass, leave it on the side table beside Garcia and slip through the doors onto the back terrace. At the stone railing, you draw one full breath of cold air before the door opens behind you.
āYouāre going to say you told me so,ā you say.
Spencer settles your coat over your shoulders. āI was going to ask why you came outside without this.ā He draws the fabric closed at your throat, making sure your hair stays clear of the collar.
āSame sentiment.ā
āNot exactly.ā
You turn before he has taken his hands away, leaving the two of you close enough that his hands slide down to your elbows instead. Through the glass doors, Garcia is looking directly at you. Morgan comes up beside her, follows her gaze and says something you canāt hear.
āWhat are they doing?ā
Spencer glances over his shoulder. Both of them disappear from the window.
āI donāt know.ā
āTheyāre very strange.ā
āThey like you.ā
His certainty draws your attention back to him. āTheyāve known me for three hours.ā You reconsider this, glancing towards the living room. āThen again, Garcia gave me copies of your childhood photographs.ā
Spencerās eyebrows lift. āShe gave you copies?ā
āAnd made me promise Morgan would never see them. You were very serious about that chess trophy.ā
Spencer smiles, small and pleased. āThat means she trusts you.āĀ
You laugh, and his thumbs shift against the sleeves of your coat. The movement is small, nearly absent-minded. You have held his hand through turbulence, hooked an arm through his in crowded streets and fallen asleep against his shoulder during films neither of you remembers finishing. This belongs to the same familiar language, a touch whose meaning has never required either of you to stop and examine it.
You rest your hands against the front of his jacket. āI like them too.ā
The line of his shoulders softens. āI knew you would.ā
āEven Morgan.ā
āThatās premature.ā
The door opens, and Morgan sticks his head outside. āWe can hear you, genius.ā
Spencer looks back at him without removing his hands from your arms. āShe said she likes you.ā
āI heard the rest too.ā Morgan gives you a wounded look before retreating inside.
Spencerās grin is immediate and entirely unrepentant. It stays with him as you go back indoors together, his hand resting lightly between your shoulder blades. Once the doors close, he eases the coat from your shoulders before the heat can become uncomfortable and carries it back to the hall.
Itās close to midnight when people begin leaving. Hotch goes first, followed shortly by JJ. Morgan hugs you and tells you to come back even if Reid doesnāt, Garcia informs him that threatening a guest is poor etiquette and then hugs you twice as hard. By the time Tara finds her coat, Spencer is helping Rossi carry glasses into the kitchen, although the discussion drifting down the hallway suggests that helping involves an argument about the safest way to store crystal.
āIt was lovely meeting you,ā Tara says. She loops her scarf around her neck, then glances towards the kitchen with affectionate amusement. āI understand now why he keeps disappearing on Thursdays.ā
āHeāll be pleased you believe it counts as disappearing.ā
āIām sure heāll explain the distinction to me at length on Monday.ā She reaches for the door, then pauses. āIāll admit, I was confused at first. Reid talks about you all the time, but he never mentioned you were his girlfriend.ā
The word is gentle, tossed into the conversation without any reason to be careful with it.
āHis girlfriend?ā
Tara looks back at you. The realisation reaches her a moment later. āOh. Iām sorry. I thought the two of you were together.ā
Behind her, Garcia stops rearranging the bracelets on her wrist.
āNo.ā The answer comes automatically. It is a simple fact. You and Spencer have never crossed that line or even discussed it. The rest ought to follow just as easily. Instead, weāre just friends catches somewhere behind your teeth, suddenly too small to account for seven years of Thursdays and everything the others have been watching all evening. The evening begins moving through your mind again, Rossi opening the door to find your hand on Spencerās tie, Morganās eyebrows when he said Spencer chose to spend Thursdays with you, JJās quiet smile, Tara watching the bread pass between your plates, Garcia and Morgan vanishing from the terrace window. āItās not like that. Weāre notāā
āYou ready?ā
Spencer comes down the hallway with your bag in one hand. His attention passes from your face to Taraās and then to Garcia, who has become far too interested in her bracelets.
āWhat happened?ā
āNothing,ā Tara says, recovering first. āI was saying goodnight.ā
You canāt find the end of the sentence you were saying. āYeah. Iām ready.ā
He holds your coat while you slip your arms into it and frees your hair from beneath the collar with practised fingers. The touch is the same one you have barely noticed a hundred times. Now the word girlfriend seems to catch against it.
Rossi appears at the end of the hallway. He surveys Tara, whose hand is still on the door, Garcia valiantly looking elsewhere and Spencer adjusting your scarf. āGoodnight,ā he says, much too entertained for someone who canāt possibly know what has just happened.
By the time the two of you reach the Metro, Spencer has filled the walk with an account of Rossi insisting tiramisu canāt be made properly without alcohol. He talks while you wait on the platform and keeps going once youāre inside the carriage. The earliest known versions of the dessert lead to the disputed origins of ladyfingers, which somehow bring him back to the argument about stacking Rossiās crystal.
Usually, you interrupt. You ask questions, argue over details or tug him back to the original point when one tangent begins producing another. Tonight, you watch his reflection in the darkened window while he talks. His curls have grown increasingly disordered over the course of the evening, and one falls across his forehead whenever he turns towards you. Interest animates his whole face ā his eyes brighten, his hands move with the rhythm of his words, and every trace of fatigue leaves him for as long as the thought holds him.
You know all of this because you have always known him. What it does to you when he turns that attention on you is hardly new; the part you have never allowed yourself to question is what any of it means from his side. A room full of profilers watched the two of you for a few hours and assumed they already knew. Tara gave that assumption a name, and now every small, familiar thing seems to return carrying the possibility with it.
When the train lurches around a curve, Spencerās hand closes lightly around your forearm. He releases you once you are steady, still talking. You feel the place his fingers were long after the warmth is gone.
Outside the station, the pavement is damp from an earlier rain, catching the streetlights in long, blurred reflections. Spencer slows his stride to yours without acknowledging the adjustment. He has glanced at you more than once since the train pulled away, waiting at the end of a sentence as though he expects you to tug the conversation elsewhere, and each time he has gone on when you donāt. Youāre only a few blocks from home when his explanation of why Rossiās crystal glasses should never be stacked trails off.
āEverything okay?ā His words soften as he studies your face. āYouāve been unusually quiet.ā
āYeah. Iām good.ā
He doesnāt look convinced, but he lets you have the answer. You make it another half-block before a disbelieving laugh slips out.
āWhat?ā
You shake your head. āDid you know Tara thought we were dating?ā
A smile begins at one corner of his mouth. āWhat?ā
āYeah.ā Saying it aloud makes you unexpectedly shy. You push your hands deeper into your coat pockets. āApparently everyone did.ā
You expect him to laugh. You expect him to question the teamās observational abilities or reconstruct the evidence that led them there. Instead, the smile falters as something you cannot read moves through his expression, and for the first time all evening Spencer has nothing to say.
At the corner, he waits for the light with his hands in his coat pockets and his shoulders drawn in against the cold. The unfinished explanation about Rossiās glasses hangs somewhere behind you.
āSpence?ā You bump your arm against his. āGot really quiet there for a minute.ā
He looks at you, then towards the signal as it changes. āDid you correct her?ā
You start across the street beside him. āI tried. Then you came over.ā
āWhat were you going to say?ā
āThat it wasnāt like that. That we werenātā¦ā
āDating,ā he supplies.
āRight.ā
He nods, but the silence returns. You reach the other pavement and stop. Spencer takes one more step before noticing you are no longer beside him.
āWhat?ā he asks.
āYouāre being strange.ā
āIām not.ā
āYou abandoned a fact halfway through.ā
āI can finish it.ā
āI donāt want to hear about the glasses anymore.ā
His eyebrows lift. āThen why did you bring them up?ā
āSpencer.ā
He goes still. For a moment he simply looks at you, his hair untidy from the wind, a nervous half-smile appearing and disappearing at the corner of his mouth. When he speaks, each word sounds measured.
āI didnāt realise it was that obvious.ā
Your pulse stumbles. āWhat was?ā
He doesnāt answer with words. His gaze holds yours, open enough that you can see the question heās too careful to ask and the truth he has already let escape.
āOh,ā you say. Everything you have been turning over since Rossiās house settles into place at once. Spencer is still watching you with nervous hope, and Taraās mistake no longer feels entirely like one.
Spencer glances down at the wet pavement, then back at you, waiting.
āWhy didnāt you say anything?ā
āI didnāt want to lose you,ā he says quietly, holding your gaze this time.
For several seconds, all you can do is stare at him. āSpencer, I rearranged my entire week so I could keep Thursdays free for you.ā
He blinks. āYou said Thursday was convenient.ā
āItās convenient. I made it convenient.ā
āFor me?ā he asks, still sounding uncertain enough to make you want to shake him.
You let out a breath and catch the lapels of his coat. āYes. For you.ā
Then you pull him down and kiss him.
The first touch of your mouth to his goes awry only because Spencer inhales at exactly the wrong moment. His body stills beneath your hands. You feel the startled warmth of his breath, the edge of his lower lip and the smallest movement as he begins to respond ā just before nerves get the better of you and you draw back.
His eyes stay closed for another second. When they open, he stares at you, lips parted.
āBecause I wanted Thursdays with you,ā you say, still holding his coat. āAnd because I think Iāve wanted to do that for longer than I realised.ā
His gaze searches your face. āYouāve wanted this too?ā
āYes, Spence.ā
Relief breaks across his face as one of his hands finds your waist, tentative only until you lean into it.
āThen why did you stop?ā he asks.
A nervous laugh slips out. āYou went completely still.ā
āI wasnāt expecting you to kiss me.ā His fingers curl into your coat and bring you a little closer. āI am now.ā
You kiss him again.
This time Spencer meets you halfway. One hand settles against the side of your neck, his thumb fitting beneath your jaw, while the other draws you in at the waist. He kisses you slowly at first, learning the angle, and then with an eagerness that makes you smile against his mouth. His answering laugh is breathless, one you have never heard before and already know you will want to hear again.
When the cold finally makes itself impossible to ignore, you part only far enough to breathe. Spencerās forehead rests against yours, his breath still unsteady.
āGarcia is going to be unbearable,ā you whisper.
āSheās going to say she knew.ā
āShe did know.ā
Spencer closes his eyes. āPlease donāt tell her that.ā
You laugh and smooth the curl the wind has dropped between his eyebrows. He catches your hand as you lower it, keeping your fingers curled inside his.
āAre Thursdays still mine?ā he asks.
āTheyāre still yours.ā
He keeps hold of your hand as you begin walking again, his thumb moving over your knuckles while his shoulder keeps brushing yours. He makes it almost half a block before speaking.
āFriday,ā he says.
āWhat about it?ā
āAre you free?ā
āNo.ā
His disappointment is immediate. āOh.ā
You let him endure it until you reach the next streetlight. āBut I can move things.ā
Summary: You'd spent years convincing yourself that you weren't attracted to your best friend, but one wine-soaked confession about his unconventional research begins to unravel your carefully constructed lieā¦
Warnings: SMUT MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, alcohol, kissing, nipple play(?), fingering, masturbating, oral fem!receiving, PinV, condom usage #safesex, praise kink, mirror usage, multiple orgasms, friends in love, statistics and knowledge, porn is the plot #culture
A/n: this is 10k words.... help
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Spencer Reid was not an attractive man.
That's what you tell yourself.
That's what your mind mutters when you can't stop staring at your best friend during a case briefing, or staring at his veiny hands during an autopsy, or staring at his hair, imagining what it would be like to tug at it when heā
Christ, you needed to get laid.
And not by Spencer Reid.
Because Spencer Reid was your best friend, your co-worker, and not an attractive man. And you were definitely not in love with him.
He couldn't flirt with women at bars like Derek could, though he still always managed to get a woman's number without trying ā just saying some well-timed nerdy fact and dragging his eyes up and down in a way that seemed like he was studying a woman, not objectifying herā¦ not that you noticed, of course, since he was just your best friend.
He confessed to you, over too much wine after a particularly stressful case, that he'd read countless smut books and non-fiction books on "women's pleasure." You were sitting outside on his apartmentās mini balcony on a worn out blanket on the floor, a glass of wine in each of your hands. You giggled in reply, sloshing your wine over yourself, imagining Spencer blushing while reading but maintaining a clear and rigorous focus. Imagining the way his fingers traced the words on the page, imagining him licking his fingers to turn it. Imagining him making notes, running a flustered hand through his hair.
He leaned over, his pocket hankercheif in hand, and helped clean the wine from your dress, and suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. It was so painfully, beautifully, perfectly Spencer. Your Spencerā¦ your best friend Spencer.
But you couldn't pretend your heart didn't do flips when he cleaned you up, laughing shyly, embarrassed, protesting that he also "conducted practical experiments."
"So you're not a virgin?" you asked, boldly.
"I'm thirty," Spencer said dryly. "Of course I'm not a virgin."
"You never argue when Morgan makes fun of you for it?"
"Yeah, because then he'd wantā¦ details." He shuddered slightly. "I like being private."
"So Dr. Reid doesn't kiss and tell?"
"Never," he said, with far more seriousness than the conversation required ā and you felt your stomach flip like it always did when Spencer looked into your eyes.
He wasn't attractive. You'd told yourself that so many times it should have started sounding true by now. It never did. Spencer Reid was beautiful, but you refused to let your stupid heart acknowledge it, because if you did, if you let yourself feel it all then there would be no going back, and that terrified you.
It was the way he existed in a room, maybe. The way he'd fold himself into a chair like his limbs were an afterthought, then forget his own body entirely the second something interesting crossed his mind. You weren't supposed to notice things like the curve of his jaw when he tilted his head mid-thought, or the way his hands moved when he talked ā precise, almost delicate, like he was conducting something only he could hear. You definitely weren't supposed to notice his mouth. You'd made a personal rule about that months ago and broken it approximately four hundred times since.
This isn't attraction, you told yourself. Not really. It's justā¦ observation. Anyone with eyes would notice these things. It didn't mean anything. Noticing that someone was beautiful wasn't the same as wanting them. You could admire a painting without needing to own it, could stand in front of a sculpture and think God, that's stunning without any of it meaning you'd lost your mind.
Except paintings didn't laugh at your jokes. Sculptures didn't remember your coffee order down to the exact ratio of oat milk. And you'd never wanted to trace your fingers along a canvas the way you wanted to reach across and push a piece of hair off his forehead, just to have an excuse to touch him.
He was your best friend. That was the whole point of him. That was supposed to be the entire, uncomplicated shape of this.
You were just observing. That's all this was.
ā¦ You were becoming a very unconvincing liar.
And maybe that's why you found yourself asking "any recommendations?" before you had a chance to stop yourself; you supposed you could always blame it on the wine.
"ā¦recommendations?" Spencer questioned tilting his head as he did so.
"Yeah, like book recommendations. About... about the... the topic you were just telling me about."
"...Women's pleasure books?"
"ā¦yesā¦"
"Iā surely you're already an expert in that field?" he laughed awkwardly, avoiding your eyes.Ā
Three PhDs. Spencer took knowledge seriously, any knowledge. He wouldn't just read about something; he'd study it, understand it, master it. The thought sent a sharp pang through your chestājealousy for every woman who had already experienced Spencer's expertise, for every person who had been on the receiving end of those precise, analytical hands applied to pleasure instead of paperwork. The thought made you want to both run from this conversation and lean into it simultaneously.
"It's funny, really," you began, the wine making you say more than you probably should ā but Spencer was your best friend, you could tell him anything, even this. "I've neverā¦ you knowā¦"
"Wait, you're a virgin?"
"What? Noā"
"Then what?"
"Do I have to spell it out?"
"Do I have to remind you that yes, always?"
"Well." You felt your face flush a bright crimson. "I've neverā¦ cum before." you said, voice small, eyes avoiding his gaze.
Spencerās head jolted up and just stared at you for a second, "Wait, you meanā?"
"ā¦yeah."
"But you dated Andrew for, what, four years?" he immediately recalled the name of your most recent ex, and you swore for a second you could see his face sour a tiny bit at the mention of his name.
"ā¦yep."
"And he never onceā?"
"We had Sex, but I just neverā¦ It wasn't bad, and it's not like I need to, you know, to have fun. It feels good, I just ā I don't know, I think I'm too stressed or something. Or maybe Iāve never really trusted the people Iāve been with as much as I should. I just kind of accepted it would never happen for me. Which is fine. But ā sorry, this is weird, isn't it?"
"I don't think it's weird."
"No?"
"No."
"Okay." You said it almost at a whisper. You knew Spencer meant what he said. It felt like there were no boundaries between the two of you.
Truthfully, your previous sexual experiences had been fun and they felt good but youād never experience that total wave of pleasure, youāve felt the coil wind itself inside you but it just never snapped. You knew what it was supost to be like ā Christ youād faked enough to almost convince yourself... almost.Ā
"Can I ask a question?" Spencer probed, pulling you out of your thoughts.
"Go right ahead."
"So you've never even cum on your own?"
"You mean likeā¦ masturbated?" you said at almost a whisper, suddenly aware that the two of you were outside, the thought of his neighbours overhearing the conversation had you squirming.
"Yeah. Have you ever tried toys, or anything? At the end of the day you're the one who knows your body best, but ā when you say never, do you mean never never, or never with someone else?" Spencer said, completely oblivious to the fact that you were trying to talk as quietly as possible.
"Erm." You were flustered. "I guess both. I've never ā sorry, I'm a grown adult, I don't know why this is so difficult for me to talk about. I mean, I've never done anything on my own. I think it's a shame thing? And I know it's not shameful, not to profile myself, but maybe it was my upbringing, or maybe I'm not sure. I've read fiction and watched things and wanted to ā I really wanted to, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Is that weird?"
"I don't think it's weird."
"You don't?"
"Of course I don't."He paused, considering you with those intense eyes that saw too much. "I just think you need more confidence, and to learn more about your own body ā what you do and don't like. Learn your erogenous zones, stuff like that, what feels good for you."
"Yeah, maybe. I am nearly thirty, though, Spencer."
"Most women learn new ways to climax in their late twenties ā in fact that's when a lot of women squirt for the first time. But plenty of women never orgasm in their lives at all, usually because they've only had one partner who didn't know what they were doing. A lot of women cum for the first time using toys. Some don't have their first orgasm until their forties and later. No one's sexual journey is the same."
"Wow, you really have read a lot of books."
"Yeah, I suppose I have." He shifted slightly closer. "Do you know your erogenous zones?"
"My what?"
Spencer just said your name, in a slightly condescending tone.
"What?"
A silent tension settled over the two of you, you could see Spencer's mind working in real time, saw him weighing up the pros and cons of something, something you werenāt entirely sure what it was yet.
āYou trust me right?ā Spencer's voice was suddenly softer, more intimate than before.
āMore than anything.ā The thought flashed through your mind and fell out of your mouth before you could stop it, and you realized with a jolt that it was absolutely true. You trusted Spencer Reid with your life on the job, with your secrets after hours, with your heart when it was breaking. Why not with this too?
"Okay, soā¦" Spencer took a breath, his eyes fixed on yours. "Let me try."
Did you hear him right? Your brain scrambled to catch up, replaying the words like they might change if you looked at them from a different angle. Spencer ā your best friend, the one who once color-coded your bookshelf without asking, who'd fallen asleep on your couch more times than you could count ā was offering to... no. That couldn't be right. This was Spencer. This was safe, familiar, uncomplicated Spencer, and yet here he was, looking at you like the ground had shifted and he was waiting to see if you'd noticed too. Was this even real? Was this some wine-soaked fever dream you were going to wake up from, mortified, in an hour? You searched his face for the joke, the out, the moment he'd laugh and say he was kidding. It didn't come.
āLet me try,ā He repeated himself, āI donāt want to get your hopes up but Iāve been told Iām pretty goodā¦ā
"Shut up." You laughed in spite of yourself, the sound coming out shaky.
"I am being serious thoughā¦" His voice dropped lower, the academic detachment melting away into something raw and honest. "I don't want it to be weird between us but, I mean we're friends right?"
"Of course."
"And friends help each other out, right?"
You couldn't fault his logic. It was perfectly Spencerāframing an offer of intimate, mind-blowing pleasure in the practical terms of mutual assistance.
"...yeah?"
"It's obviously completely up to you, I'm not saying that we should have a whole complete friend with benefits situation, unless you want to, but I couldā¦ teach you?"
"Teach me?"
The words hung in the air between you, fragile but determined. Spencer's hands stilled on your waist, and he met your eyes in the mirror again, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.
"you know, to save you the trouble of reading every dusty book in my personal library," he teased gently.
"I mean yeah i guess we could do something like that," you managed, a nervous laugh escaping you.
His expression softened, the teasing replaced by something serious, something intent. "Alright," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
You nodded, your breath catching in your throat.
"Would you like to come inside?"
You laughed, a genuine, breathless sound this time. "I'd like to cum full stop, that's why we're in this predicament, Spencer."
"Shut up, you know what I mean." A faint blush crept up his neck, and you found it endearing.
"Yeah, sorry, after you,"
He led the way inside, his apartment a familiar space that suddenly felt charged with new potential. "My bedroom is this way," he said, his voice casual as if discussing the weather, "unless you'd rather the couch but I think that the bedroom would probably work better?"
"Yeah thatā¦ that works for me," you felt flush, heat pooling between your legs. You couldn't believe that you were doing this.
Spencer opened the door, and you followed him, unsure what else to do. His bedroom was quintessentially himābooks stacked in precarious towers, a worn-out copy of some dense text on the nightstand, and a perfectly made bed with hospital corners. He turned to face you, and the air between you thickened.
"We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with," he said softly. "We can stop at any point."
You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. The logical part of your brain, the part that sounded suspiciously like Spencer himself, was screaming that this was a catastrophic idea. It would ruin everything. But the rest of you, the part that had been starved for this exact kind of attention, was thrumming with a nervous, desperate energy.
He seemed to understand your silent assent. He didn't move to kiss you or undress you. Instead, he stepped back, giving you space, and gestured towards a full-length mirror leaning against the far wall. "Come here for a second."
Confused, you walked up to him, your legs feeling unsteady. He positioned you in front of the mirror, standing behind you but not touching. You could see both of your reflectionsāyour flushed face and wide eyes, and him behind you, his expression unreadable but intensely focused.
He took your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles. "Okay, so... we're going to start with a lesson?" you asked, unsure of the situation you found yourself in.
Spencer shook his head slightly, his eyes sharp and focused on yours. "Not a lesson. A profile. You've been faking it, which means you're an excellent observer of others' pleasure but not your own. Let's treat this like a profile. I'm going to present you with stimuli, and you're going to tell me what data you gather from your own body. No right or wrong answers, just raw data. Can you do that for me?"
all you did was nod, what else could you do. Spencer, your spencer, even now was searching for ways to make you comfortable, to make you familiar. You knew profiling, you did it every day, and he knew that. He knew the logical part of your brain was telling you that this uncharted waters were a bad idea, he made it seem normal. you appreciated it more than he would ever know.
"Step 1," he said, his voice low and steady, a direct contrast to the frantic beating of your heart. "Observation. You need to see what I see." His hands came to rest gently on your waist, and you jumped slightly at the contact. "Easy," he murmured. "Relax, and just watch."
āOkay,ā you breathed out, trusting him entirely.
āBefore I do anything I want you to see how beautiful you are, no matter what does or doesnāt happen I need you to know that, okay?ā
āOkay.ā
āCan you say it back to me?ā
āSpencer this is sillyāā
āJust humour me, just say youāre beautiful,ā his head dipped so his lips were next to your ear, his voice low and steady āBecause you should know that you are so so beautiful.ā
āIāā you swallowed thickly, your eyes resting on your figure, āIām beautiful.ā
āThatās so good.ā he praised, āWell done.ā His eyes met yours in the mirror. "I can feel your heart racing, relax."Ā
You tried to even out your breathing ā you really did ā but Spencer was so close. Sure, you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder on the jet before, you'd hugged him a hundred times, but this was something else entirely. This sent heat pooling low in your core and made your head spin, and he was barely even touching you, his hands just resting on your waist.Ā
āDo you think you could take your dress off for me? We can do whatever youāre comfortable with, it may be easier if you're just in your bra and panties.ā
ā..yeah, okay.āĀ
Your fingers trembled as they found the zipper of your dress, the metallic sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you exposed in nothing but your simple lace bra and panties. Spencer's gaze was like a physical touch, scorching a path over your skin. A low, strained sound escaped his throat, something between a groan and a whimper, and his hands returned to your waist, his thumbs stroking circles against your hip bones.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn't name. "Repeat it back to me, baby."
The pet name sent a fresh wave of heat through you, making your head spin. Your voice was barely a whisper when you obeyed. "I'm so beautiful."
"Good girl," he breathed, the praise so quiet you almost thought you imagined it. But the way your knees went weak, threatening to give out, was very, very real. His hands tightened on your waist, the only thing holding you upright as he pulled you back flush against his chest.
"Now, I don't want you to just watch. I want you to watch your micro-expressions. Notice the slight flaring of your nostrils, the dilation of your pupils. Those are autonomic responses. They don't lie. We're going to use them as feedback to calibrate what works. Just tell me what you see, and tell me what you feel as we go on okay?"
He slowly slid his hands up your sides, his touch feather-light. "We're going to start with your somatic mapping points. These aren't technically sexual, but they're very receptive to touch in general, but especially when you're aroused. Iām going to touch you in these places, keep your eyes on the mirror baby so you can see exactly what I do."
His fingers traced the line of your jaw, and you watched in the mirror as your head tilted back slightly into his touch. "The neck," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "A concentration of nerve endings." He demonstrated, his fingertips skimming the sensitive skin below your ear, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. You saw it happen in the mirror, the way your body responded instantly to his.
"See?" he said, a hint of academic satisfaction in his tone. "Your body knows what it likes. You just have to learn to listen." He moved his hands to your shoulders, kneading the tight muscles there. "Stress is an inhibitor of pleasure. We need to get rid of it."
His touch was clinical in its precision, yet it sent arcs of electricity through you. You watched in the mirror, mesmerized, as his long fingers worked deep circles into the muscles flanking your spine. Your head lolled forward, giving him better access, and a soft sigh escaped your lips. The visual was intoxicatingāseeing his large hands on your bare skin, watching the way your own body responded, the flush creeping up your chest and neck, the unmistakable pleasure slackening your features. It was like watching a stranger discover a new language of sensation, and you were both the observer and the observed. A fine sheen of sweat bloomed across your skin, not from exertion, but from the sheer, concentrated heat of his touch.
His hands were a study in controlled grace, a paradox you were only just beginning to understand. They weren't the hands of a laborer, thick and calloused, but they possessed a strength that belied their elegant appearance. You could see every long, tapered finger, the clean, square nails, the faint dusting of light brown hair on his knuckles. These were the hands that flicked through hundreds of pages a minute, that wrote complex formulas on whiteboards, that handled evidence with delicate precision. And now, they were mapping the terrain of your body with that same exacting attention to detail.
His thumbs were the focal point, pressing with an almost scientific pressure into the stubborn knot between your shoulder blades. You could feel the muscle slowly yielding, the tension unwinding under his relentless, circular motion. His other fingers splayed wide across your back, anchoring him, their pads a warm, steady presence that promised safety. As he worked his way down your spine, you could feel the subtle shift in his grip, the way his fingers would trace the line of your ribs before his palms would flatten against the small of your back, pressing gently to ground you. It was a language of touch, fluent and articulate, and with every passing second, you were becoming more and more fluent in reading it.
"Ready for the next step?" he asked.
You could only nod, your voice gone.
His hands moved around to your stomach, splaying across it. "The abdomen," he explained, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Full of nerve endings. Often overlooked." He began to trace slow, deliberate patterns on your skin, and your hips began to move restlessly.
"Here," he murmured, moving his hands, his voice a low hum against your ear. "The antecubital fossa," he said, his fingers gently tracing the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of your elbow. "The skin here is thinner, and the veins are closer to the surface, making it more receptive to light touch." He demonstrated, his fingertips barely grazing the area, and you shivered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with being cold. He smiled, a small, knowing curve of his lips. "And the wrists," he continued, his thumb pressing gently into the pulse point there. "Another area of high sensitivity. It's a vulnerable spot, biologically. Protecting major arteries. The brain registers touch here as particularly significant. One of the reasons why people like being tied up, but we wonāt get onto that today" He lifted your wrist to his lips, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the thrumming beat of your heart. You watched, mesmerized, as your own pulse seemed to leap in response.
His hands slid around to your ribcage, his long fingers spanning your waist. "The intercostal muscles," he explained, his voice a low, hypnotic drone. "The muscles between your ribs. They're constantly in use, expanding and contracting with every breath. They're not often touched, which makes them highly sensitive when they are." His thumbs traced the bottom curve of your ribs, a slow, deliberate motion that made you arch your back, a silent plea for more. "And the thorax," he continued, his hands moving up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing against the underside. "The mammary glands. We'll get to the nipples specifically, but the entire area is an erogenous zone, rich with nerve endings connected to the same network that innervates the clitoris." He squeezed gently, his palms molding to your curves, and you felt a fresh wave of wetness between your legs. He was turning your body into a textbook, and you were the most willing student.
"Spencer," you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut.
"No," he said gently. "Eyes open. Watch yourself. See how beautiful you are when you're feeling pleasure."
Your eyes flew open, locking onto your reflection. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, which were already hard and straining against the fabric. The sensation was electric, shooting straight down to your core.
"This is a primary erogenous zone. these are universally responsive," he continued, his voice maddeningly calm as your body began to tremble. "Direct stimulation is key." He deftly unhooked your bra, letting it fall away. Your breasts were exposed in the mirror, and for a moment, you felt a flash of self-consciousness.
"Don't look away," he commanded softly. He rolled your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and a choked moan tore from your throat. "That's it. Let yourself feel it."
One of his hands left your breast, trailing down your stomach. "There are other primary zones," he said, his fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. "But I think the most important lesson for tonight is about control."
He turned you to face him, his hands now on your waist. "I want you to see what I do," he said, his eyes dark with an emotion you couldn't quite name. "And then, I want you to do it to yourself."
Your breath hitched. "What?"
"You're the expert on your own body," he said, his lips curving into a slight smile. "I'm just here to give you the textbook. Now it's time for some practical application."
He led you back to the bed, positioning you against the pillows. He knelt between your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. "First," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "Remember, I'm going to show you. Then, you're going to take over."
And as his fingers finally found your clit, you knew this was a night you would never forget.
His fingers were impossibly gentle as they made contact, a stark contrast to the jolt of electricity that shot through you. You watched, mesmerized, as he slowly, deliberately circled your clit with his middle finger. The touch was barely there, a whisper of sensation, but it was more intense than anything you'd ever felt.
"The clitoral glans," he began, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated through you. "It contains approximately eight thousand sensory nerve fibers. That's double the number found in the entire penis, baby. It's purely for pleasure."
A soft whimper escaped his lips as he felt you pulse against his finger. He was getting off on this, on teaching you, on feeling you respond. The realization sent a fresh wave of arousal through you.
"More," you breathed, your hips arching off the bed.
"Not yet," he chided softly, his other hand pressing gently on your stomach to keep you still. "Patience. We're building sensation. Rushing bypasses crucial neural pathways." He applied a fraction more pressure, changing the motion to a slow, firm figure-eight. "The external structure is just the tip. The internal clitoral bulbs and crura extend down, wrapping around the vagina. When we stimulate this area," he paused to press down slightly, making you gasp, "we're engaging the entire complex."
Your hands fisted in the sheets. "Spencer... please."
"Please what, sweetheart? Use your words."
"Please... more. Please, sir."
The word hung in the air between you. Spencer's breath hitched, his eyes darkening with something primal. He let out a low, guttural groan. "Fuck," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "Don't... don't call me that unless you mean it."
"I mean it," you panted, the submission feeling natural, right.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Good girl." He increased the pressure, his movements becoming more deliberate. "Now, pay attention. The clitoris isn't a button to be pushed. It's an entire network. Watch how I vary the pressure and speed. See how your body responds differently to each touch."
He demonstrated, switching from slow circles to rapid, light flicks, then back to firm, steady pressure. Each change sent you spiraling higher, your body trembling uncontrollably.
"You're doing so well," he praised, his voice strained with his own arousal. "You're so responsive. Look at you." He nodded towards the mirror, and you forced your eyes open. Your face was flushed, your mouth parted, your chest heaving. You looked debauched, and you'd never felt more beautiful.
"Now," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "We're going to explore the anterior vaginal wall. Often called the G-spot, though that's a misnomer. It's actually the clitoral-urethral-vaginal complex, or CUV." He slowly slid a single finger inside you, and you cried out at the exquisite stretch. "There. Do you feel that? That slightly rougher, ridged texture?"
You could only nod, your words lost.
"That's it," he murmured, his finger curling upwards to stroke that spot. "That's the root of the clitoris we're stimulating from the inside. It's why some women can orgasm from penetration alone, though most need direct clitoral stimulation as well." He began to move his finger in a 'come here' motion, his thumb returning to circle your clit.
The dual stimulation was overwhelming. Your vision blurred, your body arching off the bed.
"Easy, baby," he soothed, his voice strained. "Breathe through it. Don't chase it. Let it build." He whimpered again, the sound barely audible. "God, you're so tight. So wet for me."
You were close, so close to that edge you'd never been able to reach before. "Please Sir," you begged, "I'm gonna..."
"No," he said firmly, suddenly withdrawing his hand. You cried out at the loss, your eyes flying open in protest. "Not yet. I told you. You're going to do it yourself."
He shifted, leaning over you until his body bracketed yours, caging you in with a warmth that was both a comfort and a torment. His face was so close to yours that his curls brushed against your temple, and you could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. His voice was a low, intimate rumble, a vibration that seemed to travel from his chest straight through your bones. "Your heart rate is still elevatedāI can feel your pulse hammering right here." He punctuated the statement by pressing a soft, impossibly gentle kiss to the side of your neck, right over the frantic, fluttering pulse point. The contrast between his tender lips and your wild pulse made you whimper. "Your pupils are blown," he continued, his gaze dropping to your eyes for a fraction of a second before returning to your face. "But I need to know what's happening in your head. Are you truly processing the sensation, letting your body feel without judgment or analysis? Or are you just performing the role you think you're supposed to play, trying to give me the reaction you think I want to hear?"
"that's... thisā"
"It's okay baby, take your time and tell me."
"Felt so good, I was going to cum spencer, please, please, please keep going," you whined.
He made a 'tsk' noise as he shifted, positioning himself beside you, his eyes burning into yours. "My turn to watch," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Show me what you learned. Touch yourself for me, baby. Let me see you make yourself cum."
Your hand shook as you brought it between your legs, your fingers sliding easily through your wetness. You mimicked his motions, circling your clit, then sliding a finger inside to stroke that sensitive spot.
"That's it," he encouraged, his hand resting on your thigh, his touch grounding you. "Just like that. You're in control now. Show me how you like it."
And as you watched yourself in the mirror, your fingers moving with growing confidence, Spencer's eyes locked on yours, you finally understood. This wasn't just about pleasure. It was about power. Your power. And as the first waves of your orgasm began to build, you knew this was only the beginning.
Your fingers moved with a hesitant rhythm, mimicking the patterns he'd taught you, but lacking his confident precision. It felt good, but it wasn't the same. The edge was there, but it was fuzzy, indistinct.
"Look at me, not the mirror," Spencer commanded softly, his voice a low thrum that seemed to resonate directly in your clit. You tore your gaze away from your reflection to meet his. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire, and they were fixed on your face, on your hand. "That's it. Good girl. Now, tell me what you're feeling."
"I... it's good," you panted, your strokes faltering slightly. "But it's not... it's not the same."
"Because you're thinking too much," he said, his hand still resting heavily on your thigh. "You're performing instead of feeling. Your brain is still trying to analyze the data instead of just experiencing it. Let go."
"I don't know how," you whispered, frustration welling up inside you.
"Yes, you do," he murmured, his voice dropping impossibly lower. "You just need to stop fighting it. Let me help." He covered your hand with his, his long fingers wrapping around yours. "Together. Feel how I'm guiding you? Feel the pressure?"
His hand over yours was a revelation. He guided your fingers, showing you exactly where to press, how fast to move. The pleasure sharpened, your hips bucking up to meet the combined pressure of your hands.
"That's it," he breathed, his own voice strained. "You feel that? That's the frenulum of your clitoral hood. Extremely sensitive. We're going to focus there for a moment."
He guided your fingers in tiny, precise circles, and the coil inside you began to tighten, a hot, heavy pressure building in your core.
"Spencer," you gasped, your head falling back against the pillows.
"No," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Eyes on me. I want to see you when you cum for the first time."
The authority in his voice sent a fresh jolt of arousal through you. "Yes, sir," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
He let out a ragged groan, his hips jerking against the bed. "Fuck, baby. You can't say things like that." He was painfully hard, his control clearly fraying at the edges. "You're so perfect. So responsive."
He guided your fingers faster, the pressure increasing. "Now, I want you to add another finger. Inside. Curl them up, just like I showed you." You obeyed, a second finger sliding easily into your wet heat. "That's it. Now press. Can you feel how full you are? How your body is opening up to receive pleasure?"
You could only moan in response, your body trembling on the verge of something monumental.
"You're close," he said, his voice a strained whisper. "I can feel it. Your muscles are starting to contract. Don't fight it. Let it happen." He removed his hand, leaving you to your own devices. "Now, baby. You know what to do. Show me. Cum for me."
His words were your undoing. You drove your fingers deeper, your thumb working your clit in a desperate, frantic rhythm. And then it happened. The coil snapped. A wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful crashed over you, stealing your breath, your vision whiting out. You cried out his name, your body arching off the bed, your inner walls clamping down on your fingers as wave after wave of ecstasy washed through you.
It was endless. It was everything. It was heaven.
When you finally came back to yourself, Spencer was there, his eyes soft, a gentle smile on his face. "There you are," he murmured, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead. "Welcome back."
You could only stare at him, your body still trembling with aftershocks. You'd never felt anything like that. You'd never even imagined anything like that.
"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice soft.
"Incredible," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I... I had no idea."
"You're just beginning to learn what your body is capable of," he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. "And I'm going to teach you everything."
A profound silence settled over the room, broken only by your ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of your own heart. Spencer didn't move, just watched you with an intensity that was both clinical and deeply intimate. You felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally, laid bare by the force of your own pleasure.
"Your body is still responding," he observed quietly, his gaze dropping to where your hand still rested between your legs. "The involuntary contractions can last for several minutes. It's called the resolution phase. The blood is still engorging the tissues."
He gently took your wrist, his touch careful as he drew your hand away. He brought your fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours, and slowly, deliberately, licked them clean. The sight was so obscene, so possessive, a fresh jolt of arousal shot through you.
"You taste incredible," he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. "Slightly sweet, slightly tangy. The pH balance changes throughout the menstrual cycle, affecting the taste. Right now, it's perfect."
You whimpered, your body already gearing up for more.
"Shh, baby," he soothed, releasing your hand and leaning over you. "Don't rush. The refractory period for women is notoriously shorter than for men. In some cases, it's virtually non-existent. We can build on this sensation, make the next one even stronger." He lowered his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "But first, I need to taste you properly."
His mouth was on yours before you could respond, a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of you and of him. It wasn't gentle; it was hungry, devouring. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize you, his tongue exploring your mouth with the same thoroughness he applied to everything else. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair, tugging just as you'd imagined so many times.
He groaned into your mouth, his hips pressing into yours, and you could feel the hard, thick length of his erection through his pants. He was so turned on, and it was all because of you.
"Spencer," you gasped as he moved his mouth to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. "Please."
"Please what, sweetheart?" he murmured against your skin. "Use your words. Tell me what you need."
"I need... I need you."
"I know," he said, his voice strained. "And you'll have me. All of me. But we're not done with this yet." He moved down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire on your skin. "The perineum," he whispered, his tongue flicking out to taste the sensitive stretch of skin between your vagina and your anus. "Often neglected, but rich with nerve endings. Part of the pudendal nerve network."
You cried out, your hips bucking off the bed. No one had ever touched you there, never with their mouth. The sensation was shocking, electric.
"And then," he continued, his voice muffled as he moved lower, "there's the anus itself. The external sphincter has one of the highest concentrations of nerve endings in the entire body." He gently spread your cheeks, his tongue circling your tight hole. "It's not for everyone, but for those who enjoy it... it can be incredibly intense."
You were writhing now, your body a live wire of sensation. "Spencer, please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for.
"Patience, baby," he chided, his voice a low chuckle. "We're getting there." He moved back up, his face hovering over your dripping core. "Now for the main event. Cunnilingus. From the Latin 'cunnus' for vulva and 'lingere' to lick." He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I'm going to use my tongue on your clitoris, baby. I'm going to make you cum again baby but this time on my mouth. I know you have it in you so I'm not going to stop until you do okay? I've been wanting to taste this pretty pussy for so long are you going to let me baby?"
"yes," you moaned at the mental image forming in your head, "yes sir."
"fuck," spencer groaned, "you're so perfect."
And then his mouth was on you, his tongue delving into your folds, licking and sucking with a skill that left you breathless. He was relentless, his tongue exploring every inch of you, his lips closing around your clit and sucking hard. You were lost, your body a vessel for pleasure, your mind gone.
"Spencer!" you screamed, your hands fisting in his hair, holding him to you. "Please, don't stop."
He didn't. He doubled his efforts, his tongue flicking your clit in a rapid, staccato rhythm while he slid two fingers inside you, curling them up to stroke that sensitive spot deep within. The combination was devastating, a perfect storm of sensation that sent you spiraling towards the edge again.
"That's it, baby," he growled against your core, his voice muffled. "Cum for me. Let me taste you. Give me everything."
And you did. You came with a force that terrified you, your body convulsing, your vision blacking out, a scream tearing from your throat. It was even more intense than the first one, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to drown you.
When you came back to yourself, Spencer was still there, his face glistening with your cum, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face.
"Two," he said, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "And that's just the beginning."
The world slowly came back into focus, not all at once, but in soft, hazy increments. The first thing you registered was the gentle weight of Spencer's hand on your trembling thigh, a grounding point in the sea of sensation you were still floating in. The second was his breathing, a steady, controlled rhythm that contrasted sharply with your own ragged gasps.
He didn't speak. He just watched you, his gaze soft but analytical, like a scientist observing a fascinating new phenomenon. He was giving you time, letting your body ride out the lingering aftershocks that were still making your muscles quiver.
"Your heart rate is approximately one hundred and ten beats per minute," he finally murmured, his voice a low vibration that you felt more than heard. "Elevated, but decreasing. The post-orgasmic prolactin surge is likely kicking in, creating that feeling of deep relaxation. It's nature's way of ensuring you rest and process the experience."
A weak laugh escaped your lips. "Only you would turn the best orgasm of my life into a biology lesson."
A small, genuine smile touched his mouth. "It's all biology, baby. Beautiful, messy, perfect biology." He shifted, moving to lie beside you, propping his head up on his hand. "How do you feel? Be specific. Describe the sensations."
You took a moment to assess yourself. "Tingly. All over. Like... like my skin is too small for my body. And heavy. So heavy, but in a good way. Like I could sink right through the mattress."
"That's the myotonia," he explained, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach. "The muscle tension that builds during arousal and release. It leaves you feeling limp, pliant. It's why you're so responsive to touch right now. Your nerve endings are still firing at an elevated rate."
His touch was light, almost absent-minded, but it was setting you on fire all over again. You could feel the heat building between your legs, a slow, deep ache.
"Again?" you asked, your voice filled with wonder.
"We can," he said softly. "But not like that. Not yet." He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder. "Rushing from one orgasm to the next can be overwhelming. It can desensitize the clitoral glans, making subsequent orgasms more difficult to achieve. We need to be more strategic."
"Strategic?" you repeated, a breathless laugh escaping you. "You make it sound like a military operation."
"In a way, it is," he said, his mouth moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. "It's a campaign for pleasure. And right now, we're in the reconnaissance phase." He nipped at your earlobe, his tongue swirling around the delicate shell. "We need to map out all the places that make you gasp."
His hands began to roam again, but this time, they were slower, more deliberate. He wasn't trying to get you off; he was exploring. He traced the line of your collarbone, his fingers dipping into the hollows of your throat. He skimmed his knuckles down the sides of your ribs, counting them one by one.
"Twenty-four," he whispered, his lips following the path of his fingers. "Protective cage for your heart and lungs. But so sensitive to touch."
You were melting, your body turning to liquid under his ministrations. This was a different kind of pleasure, slower, deeper, more intimate. It wasn't about the frantic chase for release; it was about the journey itself.
"Spencer," you breathed, your hands coming up to rest on his back, feeling the shift of his muscles under his shirt.
"Yes, baby?"
"Take this off," you tugged at his shirt. "I want to feel you."
He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of somethingāvulnerability, perhapsāin his eyes. Then he nodded, sitting up to pull his shirt over his head. Your breath caught. You'd seen him without a shirt before, on beach trips, but this was different. This was Spencer, your Spencer, bared to you in the soft lamplight of his bedroom.
He was leaner than you'd expected, his body a roadmap of pale skin and wiry muscle. There was a thin, silvery scar on his side, and another on his shoulder. You reached out, your fingers tracing the scar on his side.
"What happened here?" you asked softly.
"Gunshot wound," he said, his voice quiet. "A few years ago."
Your heart clenched. You knew, of course, about the dangers of his job, but seeing the evidence of it on his body made it terrifyingly real.
"Hey," he said, his voice gentle as he covered your hand with his. "I'm okay. It's all part of the past."
You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. And in that moment, you saw it allāthe genius, the profiler, the teacher, the man who had seen too much, the man who was offering you a piece of himself that he'd never offered to anyone else.
"Come here," you whispered, pulling him down for a kiss.
It was different this time. Slower, deeper, more tender. It wasn't about hunger or desperation; it was about connection. It was about the quiet intimacy of two people who had seen each other at their most vulnerable and had chosen to stay.
"I want you," you murmured against his lips. "All of you."
"I know," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And you'll have me, we have one more step for today if you're up for it."
He moved back down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of soft, wet kisses. "We've explored the external," he said, his voice a low whisper against your skin. "Now it's time to go deeper."
His hands left your waist, moving to the button of his trousers. You watched, your breath held tight in your chest, as he undid them with quick, efficient movements. The fabric slid down his narrow hips, taking his boxers with it, and your eyes widened.
Oh.
He was built like the rest of himāall long lines and surprising substance. Your gaze traced the proud, rigid length of him, the flushed head already glistening at the tip. It wasn't just long; it was the thick, solid weight of him that made your mouth go dry, a formidable presence that promised a challenge, a stretch. A thatch of soft, brown curls nestled at the base, and the sight sent a dizzying rush of pure, unadulterated desire through you. This wasn't just a part of him; it was a statement, a quiet, undeniable proof of the power he usually kept so carefully restrained.
He reached for his nightstand, the movement pulling you from your reverie. He pulled out a foil packet, ripping it open with his teeth before rolling the latex on with practiced, steady ease. He positioned himself between your legs, his eyes fixed on yours. "I'm going to enter you, baby. But I'm not going to move. I'm just going to let you feel me. Let you get used to the sensation of being filled."
He leaned forward, his forearms braced on the bed beside your head, and positioned himself at your entrance. He didn't push, just rested the tip of his cock against your wet, swollen folds. The contact was electric, a promise of everything to come, and you gasped at the sheer intimacy of it.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
"Don't stop," you breathed, your hands gripping his shoulders.
Slowly, inch by excruciating inch, he pushed into you. It was a stretch, a delicious, overwhelming fullness that stole your breath. He was bigger than you'd expected, his thickness pressing against your inner walls in a way that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you.
When he was finally fully seated inside you, he stopped, his body still, his weight resting on his elbows. He just looked at you, his eyes dark with an emotion that took your breath away.
"How does that feel?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Full," you gasped. "So full. It's... it's incredible."
"Good," he murmured, his hips rocking slightly, a tiny, experimental movement that made you cry out. "That's just the beginning, baby. That's just the first taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly mine."
He remained still, a statue of restraint above you, and the stillness itself became a form of exquisite torture. You could feel every single inch of him, the thick, hard length of him stretching you, filling you completely. Your inner muscles clenched around him, an involuntary spasm that made him hiss in a sharp breath.
"Easy, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, strained vibration against your throat. "Don't do that. Don't rush. Just... feel."
His words were a command, but they were also a gift. He was forcing you to slow down, to experience every nuance of the moment. You closed your eyes, focusing inward, cataloging the sensations. The pressure, the fullness, the heat of him, the way your body seemed to mold itself to his shape, as if they were two pieces of a puzzle you hadn't even realized were missing each other.
"The vaginal canal is remarkably elastic," he began, his voice a low, hypnotic drone that was somehow both incredibly arousing and deeply comforting. "It can expand significantly, but it's also rich with nerve endings, particularly in the outer third. What you're feeling now, that intense pressure, is the stimulation of those nerve endings. The deeper penetration primarily stimulates the internal structuresāthe cervix, the anterior fornix."
He shifted slightly, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, and you cried out, your hips bucking up to meet him.
"Shh," he soothed, his hand coming to rest on your hip, holding you still. "I know. It's a lot. But we need to take it slow. Your body is still adjusting to the intensity of the stimulation. We need to give your nervous system time to process the input."
"Spencer," you begged, your hands fisting in the sheets. "Please. I need... I need more."
"I know, baby," he said, his voice thick with sympathy and desire. "And you'll get it. But first, I want you to do something for me."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "I want you to bear down. Just a little. Like you're trying to push me out."
You looked at him, your eyes wide with confusion. "What? Why?"
"Just trust me," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Do it."
You took a deep breath, then did as he asked, bearing down slightly. The sensation was immediate, and incredible. As you pushed down, his cock seemed to sink even deeper into you, hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars. At the same time, the pressure on your clit intensified, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through you.
"Oh god," you cried out, your back arching off the bed.
"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "That's it. That's the anterior fornix, also known as the A-spot. It's a highly sensitive erogenous zone located deep inside the vagina, near the cervix. Stimulating it can lead to incredibly intense, full-body orgasms."
He began to move then, but not with the frantic thrusting you were used to. His movements were slow, deliberate, a deep, grinding rhythm that seemed to touch every part of you at once. Each time he bottomed out, he would pause, letting you feel the full, overwhelming pressure, before pulling back just as slowly.
"Feel that?" he asked, his voice a low, strained whisper. "Feel how I'm filling you up? How your body is opening up to receive me?"
You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure. This was different, so different from anything you'd ever experienced. It wasn't just about the physical act; it was about the connection, the intimacy, the way he seemed to know your body better than you did yourself.
"You're so tight, baby," he groaned, his hips grinding against yours. "So wet. So perfect for me."
He shifted his angle slightly, and suddenly, the stimulation on your clit intensified, his pubic bone rubbing against it with each deep thrust. The combination of the deep, internal pressure and the external friction was intoxicating, a slow, steady build towards an orgasm that you knew would be unlike anything you'd ever experienced before.
"Spencer," you gasped, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. "I'm... I'm close."
"I know," he said, his voice a low, triumphant growl. "I can feel it. Your muscles are starting to contract. You're getting so tight around me."
He increased his pace slightly, his movements becoming more deliberate, more purposeful. He was chasing your orgasm, but he was doing it with a surgeon's precision, with a scientist's understanding of the female body.
"That's it, baby," he urged, his voice a low, commanding whisper. "Let go. Give it to me. Cum for me. Cum all over my cock."
And with a final, deep thrust, you did. You came with a force that shattered you, a scream tearing from your throat as your body convulsed around him. It was a full-body orgasm, a tidal wave of pleasure that started deep inside you and radiated outwards, consuming you entirely.
As you came down from the high, Spencer was still there, his body still buried deep inside yours, his eyes soft, a gentle smile on his face.
"Three," he said, his voice a low, satisfied purr.Ā
The world didn't just come back into focus; it seemed to have been entirely remade. The air in the room felt thicker, charged with the energy of what had just happened. Spencer remained inside you, not moving, just letting you adjust, letting the last tremors of your orgasm subside around him. He was a warm, heavy weight, a solid presence that anchored you to the earth when you felt like you might float away.
He lowered his head, not to kiss you, but to press his forehead against yours. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering against your chest. He hadn't found his own release, you realized with a jolt. He had been so focused on you, on teaching you, that he had completely ignored his own needs.
"Spencer," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "You didn't..."
"Shh," he murmured, his eyes closing. "This wasn't about me. This was about you. About showing you." He finally pulled out of you slowly, carefully, and the loss was immediate and profound. He dealt with the condom in the bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm, damp cloth.
You lay there, feeling exposed and vulnerable, as he gently cleaned you up. His touch was reverent, his movements careful and precise. It was the most intimate thing you had ever experienced, more intimate than the sex itself.
"There," he said softly, tossing the cloth aside and pulling the covers over both of you. He settled beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath your ear.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
"I don't have words for it," you admitted, your fingers tracing patterns on his skin. "It was... like my body was a foreign country, and you were the only one who had a map."
A small smile touched his lips. "I just have a lot of reference material," he said, his hand stroking your hair. "The female orgasm is a fascinating subject. Did you know that the clitoral-urethral-vaginal complex, the entire network of structures responsible for female pleasure, is actually the size of a wishbone? Most of it is internal."
"I feel like I've just been on a field trip," you said, a sleepy laugh escaping you. "A very, very good field trip."
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "There's still more to see," he said, his voice soft. "But not tonight. Tonight, we just rest."
āSo theyāll be a next time?ā
āIf youāll have me?ā
āYes, Spencer, Iāll always want you.ā
You lay in comfortable silence for a long time, the only sounds the steady rhythm of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. You felt safe, cherished, in a way you never had before.
"Spencer?" you said quietly.
"Hmm?"
"Why did you... why did you do this for me?"
He was quiet for a moment, like he was weighing every word before he let himself say it. "Because I hate the idea of you going through life missing something so fundamental," he said finally. "Because I've seen so much darkness in this job, in this world, and I wanted ā just once ā to be the reason something good happened to you instead." He paused, and you felt him take a breath, like he was steadying himself for something he'd rehearsed a hundred times and still wasn't ready for. "And because I've been in love with you for three years. The thought of you never knowing what it felt like to be wanted, completely, by someone who actually paid attention ā I couldn't stand it anymore."
Your breath caught in your throat. You lifted your head to look at him, eyes wide, sure you'd misheard. "What?"
"I love you," he said again, steadier this time, like saying it once had used up all his fear. "Not as a friend. Not as a colleague. As the person I want to wake up next to for the rest of my life, if you'll let me. I've rewritten this confession in my head probably two hundred times, tried to find the perfect moment, the perfect words ā and there never was one. So tonight I stopped waiting for the right time to say it, and just tried to show you instead."
Tears welled in your eyes, hot and sudden. You'd spent so long insisting that you didn't find him attractive, that he was just your best friend, that whatever you felt was loneliness dressed up as something else. But hearing him say it out loud, watching him hand you his fear like it was the safest thing in the world ā you couldn't lie to yourself anymore. You never really could. You'd just been good at pretending.
"I love you too," you whispered, and the words felt strange in your mouth, like a language you'd never let yourself speak before. "I think I have for a long time. I was just too scared to say it first."
He leaned in, and the kiss that followed wasn't hungry ā it was slow, careful, almost reverent, like he was sealing a promise rather than starting something. Like he needed you to feel every ounce of finally in it.
When he pulled back, he was smiling ā not his usual crooked, nervous half-smile, but something wide open or unguarded, a smile you didn't think you'd ever seen on him before.
"So," he said, voice light, "what do we do now?"
"Well," you said, a matching smile spreading across your face. "I think we should probably go on a date. A real one. With dinner and a movie. And then maybe we can come back here and you can teach me about the male orgasm..."
He laughed, a full, rich sound that filled the room. "I think that can be arranged," he said, pulling you closer. "But for now, let's just sleep. We've had a big night."
And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you knew that this was just the beginning of a whole new chapter in your life, a chapter that you couldn't wait to write with him.
ā ć»ć»ć»ć»ć»ć»ā
a/n: second time writing smut kinda nervous, how did i do? El try not to write a praise kink challenge, level impossible #writewhatyouknow.
but like fr tho how do people write smut, like this shit is HARD (and I'm not just talking about cock bbg)
I know this is not realistic, but the man is fictional so let me be delusional, and we don't read smut to mirror our own sex lives as they are either bad or non existant xoxo we read smut for empowerment and for a fun, funky and fictional time
thanks for cumming to my TEDtalk (get it CUMming lol)
Summary: despite saying it was the last time, you crawled back into Spencers bed again, needing to completely claim him as your own.
Warnings: 3k words 18+ MDNI, porn with little plot, soft!dom reader, sub!spencer he eats you out like a man starved, blowjob, unprotected p in v, kinda fluff and angst if you really squint.
Part One - One Last Time.
You got home around midnight, unlocking the door as quietly as you could, placing your bag down and shimmying off your shoes, kicking them vaguely off to where they lived.Ā
After spending your evening surrounded by your friends gushing about how in love they are whilst you had to sit in silence, only speaking to congratulate yet another engagement or couple event - had you feeling dangerously lonely.Ā
You stared at your bedroom door for a moment, before your eyes traitorously drifted towards Spencers. You told him after last time that it really was the last time youād end up in his bed.Ā
He had just smiled and agreed, but the pair of you knew that inevitably either one of you would come crawling back. And after the evening you had, you felt that you deserved a little pick me up.Ā
Decision made, you opened the door slowly. You expected him to be asleep, but instead you were met with Spencer reading, his back resting against the backboard, the room only illuminated by the lamp in the corner of the room.Ā
He didnāt say anything, just watched as you walked to the stand at the end of the bed, his eyes greedily taking you in, sweeping up and down.Ā
You kept your eyes fixed on his as you slowly started to peel your top off your body over your head, throwing it on the ground with little regard.Ā
Spencer sat his book aside, his eyes never leaving yours as he sat up a little straighter.Ā
You tucked your thumbs under the waistband of your skirt, pulling it down antagonisingly slowly. Spencer swallowed and his eyes widened as it hit the floor with a small thump.Ā
Despite seeing you naked on numerous occasions, he never seemed to take it for granted. He always looked at you like it was the first time.Ā
You carried on until you were completely bare in front of him, taking your hairclip out to allow your hair to fall free. Spencer's hands flexed at his sides momentarily.Ā
You crawled towards him deliberately slowly, your hair falling over one shoulder.Ā His hand came up to touch your arm, you swatted it away.Ā
Leaning in close to his face, your lips inches away from his, you whispered. āAre you going to be good for me?āĀ
āYesā he stammered out, voice thick and shaky. Nodding as he spoke.Ā
You loved when Spencer took the reins, when he pounded into you and made you cum over and over again, but it took little real investigation to know that this side was within him. You saw it in the way you would grip his hair, bite him, stick your thumb in his mouth.Ā
āGood boyā you say. āLie flatāĀ
Spencer listened to your command with no obligation, sliding down the headboard and resting his head on his pillow.Ā
You made your way further up his body until your knees sat either side of his head, his hands automatically resting on your thighs. You put one hand on the headboard, the other threading through his hair.Ā
Spencer didn't hesitate. He surged upward, his tongue darting out to swipe a long, wet stroke all the way up to your clit. You gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his head firmly against you.Ā
He began to lap at you with a feverish pace, his tongue flat and broad, tasting every drop of your arousal. He groaned into your folds, the sound vibrating through your entire body, as he used his lips to suck your clit into his mouth, pulling and swirling it with a rhythmic intensity.
You arched your back, your hand gripping the headboard for leverage as he worked. He was thorough, his tongue flicking rapidly against your most sensitive spot while his hands squeezed your thighs, anchoring you to him.Ā
He was eating you like he were starving, his nose buried in your scent, making wet, sloppy sounds that filled the quiet room.
You could feel the tension building in your lower belly, the familiar coil of an orgasm tightening. As you felt the first wave of your climax hit, you pushed yourself down harder against his face, muffling his moans with your wetness.Ā
You shuddered, your internal muscles pulsing violently against his tongue as you came, a loud, unrestrained moan escaping your lips. Spencer didn't pull away.Ā
Even as you trembled, he continued to lick and suck, cleaning every drop of your come from your skin with a devotion that bordered on worship.
Once the tremors subsided, you slowly lifted yourself off him, leaving him breathless and glistening. You looked down at him, a smirk playing on your lips.
You reached your hand down between both your bodies to rub his cock through his boxers. He whined, leaning forward to try to kiss you.Ā
Tutting, you leaned back, sly smile on your face. āNuh UhāĀ
You slipped your fingers underneath his waistband and pulled them off quickly. Leaving his cock aching and twitching in the cool air.Ā
You watched him squirm beneath you, his hips twitching instinctively as you avoided the very thing he was craving. Every kiss you pressed into his inner thigh or the soft skin of his hip made him gasp, his breath hitching in a desperate rhythm. He was a taut string, vibrating with a need so intense it was almost tangible in the air between you.
Finally, you looked up at him, your eyes hooded, seeing the sheer agony of desire etched into his features. His cock was fully erect, a thick, pulsing vein running along the side, leaking a bead of pre-cum that glistened under the dim light of the lamp.
Without a word, you leaned in and swiped your tongue along the length of him, from the base all the way to the head, groaning at the taste of the salt and musk of him.Ā
Spencer let out a strangled moan, his head slamming back against the pillow, his fingers curling into the bedsheets.
You opened your mouth and took him in, sliding your lips over the head of his cock with a wet, sloppy sound.Ā
You didn't just suck; you focused your attention on the sensitive underside, the frenulum, flicking your tongue rapidly against the most nerve-dense part of him.Ā
You swirled your tongue around the rim, creating a vacuum of heat and moisture that made him shudder violently.
"Please," he whimpered, his voice a broken rasp.
You ignored his plea, increasing the pace. You took him deeper, your throat tightening around him, while your tongue continued to tease and lash at the underside of his shaft.Ā
Spencer was losing it. His thighs trembled, and his hips began to buck upward, driven by a primal urge to thrust into your mouth. But as soon as he moved too much, you paused, pulling back just an inch and giving him a warning look.Ā
He froze instantly, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and glazed. He stayed still, enduring the exquisite torture of your mouth, his hands gripping the comforter so hard his knuckles were white.
You went back to work, becoming even more precise, using your tongue to work in small, frantic circles on the underside, driving him closer and closer to the edge. He was twitching now, his entire body humming with tension, his breath coming in short and jagged.Ā
Just when he was teetering on the edge, you pulled back completely with a smirk. Releasing him with a soft, wet pop.Ā
Spencer's eyes remained completely screwed shut, his hips shifting and twitching, trying to fight back his orgasm. You had never thought he had looked more beautiful. You wanted to end his torture, but you didnāt. You both knew the end result would be better off if you prolonged.Ā
āYou can only come when I tell you you canā You say as you straddle his lap, placing your hands flat against his chest.Ā
He whined at your words, but nodded anyway. You took his hands and placed them above his head.
āDonāt move your hands. If you do, Iāll have to punish youāĀ
The words that left your mouth surprised you. Being this horny apparently turned you into some sort of succubus. Perhaps your version of Spencer's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.Ā
You angled your hips just right, so his cock rested at your entrance. You pushed down until only his tip entered, leaving it inside for one brief moment to pull back. You repeated this process until Spencer was a blubbering mess beneath you, whining and twitching with impatience.Ā
His hands still remained above his head throughout it all, you rewarded his good behaviour with a kiss and finally sinking down all the way to the hilt.Ā
Your head lazily rolled all the way around as you groaned, feeling impossibly full from him. He was always the perfect fit, nothing could ever compare. Perhaps that was one of the reasons no matter what you said, there would never be a last time.Ā
You stayed still for a moment, savoring the friction and the sheer heat of his cock buried deep inside. Spencer let out a sound that was half-sob, half-groan, his chest heaving beneath your palms. His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide and glazed with a mixture of desperation and devotion.Ā
He looked like he was on the verge of shattering, his entire body vibrating with the effort of keeping his hands pinned above his head.
"You're so... fuck, you're so tight," he gasped, his voice trembling.
You smirked, leaning forward so your breasts brushed against his chest, your hair falling like a curtain around both your faces. "Am I, Spencer? Do I feel good?"
"Yes... please... god, yes," he whimpered, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch upward.
You didn't let him move. Instead, you gripped his shoulders, pinning him further into the mattress, and began to move. You started slow, lifting yourself just enough to let the head of his cock slip out before slamming back down, burying him to the hilt with a wet, slapping sound.
The rhythm was deliberate and punishing. You weren't just fucking him, you were claiming him, even if you had no right to do so.Ā
Every time you descended, you felt him pulse inside you, his cock swelling even further as he fought the urge to thrust back. You could feel the tension in his thighs, the way his abdominal muscles were locked tight, his body a coiled spring of pure sexual frustration.
"Keep those hands still, good boy," you whispered, your voice a low, sultry command.
You increased the pace, your movements becoming more frantic and primal. You began to grind your clit against the base of his shaft, seeking your own pleasure while driving him further into the red.Ā
Spencer was no longer just moaning, he was making guttural, animalistic sounds. He was right on the edge, his breathing coming in ragged, desperate hitches. You could feel him twitching inside you, the tell-tale signs that he was seconds away from blowing.
You felt your own orgasm building, a tight coil of heat in your belly that threatened to snap. You leaned down, biting his earlobe hard enough to make him yelp, your voice a commanding hiss.
"I can feel you, Spencer. I can feel how badly you want to cum for me."
"I do... I'm... I'm right there... please!" he begged, his voice breaking.
You paused abruptly, freezing your hips mid-stroke, leaving him suspended in the most agonizing moment of anticipation. You looked down at him, seeing the sheer desperation in his eyes, the way he was practically vibrating beneath you.
"Not yet," you whispered, a cruel, beautiful smile on your lips. "I didn't tell you that you could."
You shifted your weight, lifting your hips. You reached up, grabbing his wrists and dragging his hands down from above his head, guiding them with a firm grip until his palms were pressed flat against the underside of your thighs.
Slowly, you fell forward, pressing your chest flush against his, your skin slick with sweat and heat, feeling of his racing heart hammering against your own ribs.Ā
Spencer froze for a second, his breath hitching. He knew the rules, but the placement of his hands was an invitation he couldn't ignore. He began to move, his hips bucking upward in slow, agonizingly deliberate thrusts.Ā
Because he was already balanced on the edge of climax, he was moving with cautious, trembling precision, terrified that one too-deep plunge would shatter his control and send him over the edge.
You had planned this perfectly. By giving him the physical means to drive himself into you, you had increased his torture. Now, the responsibility of his restraint lay entirely in his own muscles, and you could feel him shaking under the pressure.Ā
He was no longer just a passive recipient of your pleasure; he was fighting his own body, struggling to maintain the pace you demanded while his cock pulsed violently inside your tight, wet walls.
"That's it," you whispered into the crook of his neck, your voice thick with desire. "Slow... just like that. Don't ruin this by rushing."
Spencer let out a broken sound, a whimpering groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, anchoring you to him as he pushed up again, the wet, squelching sound of your pussy gripping his shaft filling the air. He was gasping for air, his eyes squeezed shut in a mask of pure, concentrated ecstasy and desperation.
He was fighting for every second, his hips twitching with the instinctive urge to slam into you with everything he had, but he held back, terrified of the punishmentāor the loss of your approval. You could feel the pre-cum leaking from him, lubricating the friction as he continued to grind upward.
You arched your back, grinding your clit hard against the base of his cock, your own climax beginning to ripple through you. You loved the way he was struggling, the way he was completely at your mercy even while he was the one doing the thrusting.
"You're doing so well, Spencer," you breathed, your voice a teasing caress. "So close... I can feel you trembling. Do you want to let go? Do you want to fill me up?"
"Please..." he sobbed, his voice barely a whisper, his hips giving a sudden, sharp jerk that nearly sent him over. "Please, I can't... I can't hold it..."
āMake me cum and you can,āĀ
Spencer gasped, the words barely leaving his lips before his restraint snapped.
The slow, agonizing torture was over. He clearly didn't care about the rules anymore; he didn't care about the permission he had been begging for. He mustāve been able feel the tremors racking your body, the way your internal muscles were beginning to squeeze his cock in rhythmic, desperate pulses. He knew you were right there, balanced on the same edge as he was, and the realization triggered something primal in him.
With a guttural groan, Spencer stopped the cautious movements. He gripped your thighs with bruising force, his fingers digging deep into your skin, and began to buck upward with violent, unrestrained power.
The change in pace was electric. The slow grinds were replaced by hard, slapping thrusts that drove his cock deep into you, bottoming out with a wet, heavy thud every single time.
He was fucking you with a desperate, starving intensity, his entire body shaking with the effort. He wasn't just seeking his own release anymore; he was hunting for yours. He drove himself into you harder and faster, his cock rubbing aggressively against your G-spot and grinding into your clit with every upward surge.
"Come for me," he groaned, his voice raw and commanding, a sudden flip in the power dynamic as he focused entirely on your pleasure. "Fuck, you're so tight... just come already!"
You let out a loud, piercing scream, your head falling into the crook of his neck as the friction became unbearable in the best way possible. The sheer force of his thrusts was overloading your senses, pushing you past the point of no return.Ā
Your walls clamped down on him, tightening around his shaft with violent contractions that nearly sent him over the edge instantly, but he pushed through it, determined to see you shatter first.
He hammered into you one last time, a deep, punishing plunge that just near hit your cervix, sending a massive electrical shock through your entire nervous system.
Your orgasm ripped through you in waves of blinding intensity, your pussy gripping his cock in a series of tight, rhythmic spasms that sucked him deeper into your heat. You collapsed against his chest, sobbing and shaking, your body vibrating with the aftershocks of a massive climax.
The moment you peaked, Spencer lost every shred of control he had left. The feeling of your orgasm clamping around him was the final straw. He let out a choked, animalistic sound and gave one final, powerful thrust, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go.
He stiffened, his back arching off the bed as he finally exploded. You could feel the hot, thick ropes of his cum pulsing violently inside you, filling you up with wave after wave heat.Ā
He groaned loudly, his eyes rolling back in his head as he spent himself completely, his cock throbbing inside you while he shuddered in the grip of a long-overdue, crashing release.
Re remained inside of you as you stayed laying on top of him, his hands tracing indistinct shapes on your back softly.
Spencer gently squeezed your behind, the touch was a stark contrast to the bruising grip heād had on you just moments ago. You leaned up, your skin still flushed and humming, just enough to lock eyes with him.
His gaze was soft, the pupils still blown wide from the rush of endorphins, filled with a complicated devotion. He reached up, his fingers grazing your cheek with a lightness that felt almost sacred, and slowly pushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear.
In that quiet look, the realization hit you again.Ā He had systematically ruined every other man for you. No one else knew the exact rhythm of your body, the precise way to push you to the edge, or how to surrender to you so completely. You wouldnāt have it any other way.
The silence was broken by a voice that sounded frayed, barely a whisper.
āI canāt do this again,ā he said quietly.
The words landed like a physical blow. For as long as this had been going on, it had always been you playing the part of the one trying to walk away, with Spencer simply agreeing, both of you knowing you were lying.Ā
You had spent months in a cycle of desperate returns, crawling back to each other the moment the distance became unbearable. Hearing him be the one to draw the line hurt deeply, a sharp ache in your chest that mirrored the fading throb of your orgasm.
But as you looked at him, the pain shifted into a sudden, crystalline clarity.
Slowly, you pulled away from him. The sudden absence of his heat, the loss of him filling you, left you feeling cold and exposed.Ā
You leaned back in, pressing your lips to his in the smallest of kisses. In any other context, it would have felt like a final goodbye, a closing of a chapter. But here, it felt like reassurance. It was a promise whispered without words.
You stood up and walked out of his room, the door clicking softly behind you.
As you moved down the hallway, the smile remained on your face.
Despite the finality in his tone, you knew Spencer better than he knew himself. He wasn't pushing you away because he wanted you gone; he was pushing you away because the hunger had evolved into something he could no longer control.Ā
He was terrified of that truth, you knew it was only a matter of time before he realized it too.
a.n I couldn't not write again for these two. There's something so sexy about everything left unspoken š«¦
Summary: After a night surrounded by his colleagues at the bar, you come to the conclusion Spencer actually wanted to end things with you, what you donāt know is that Spencerās just trying to figure out how to tell you.
Warnings: 3k words 18+ MDNI, porn with little plot, fluff, unprotected p in v, soft!dom spencer, he eats you out like his life depends on it, couch sex!! Missionary and cowgirl.
Part One - Part Two.
You shouldnāt have gone tonight.Ā
Spencer asked you if you wanted to go out with him and his colleagues tonight and there was no way you could say no.Ā
You liked his team. They each found a way to make you feel comfortable. When you first met his team you were apprehensive that they wouldnāt be at all friendly or, quite frankly, human considering the job they all did. But like most things in your life it turned out to be the complete opposite.Ā
They were funny, and a delight to be around. The girls always included you in conversations and the boys always made sure you had a drink.
You werenāt sure if they ever knew about yourā¦..situation with Spencer. You knew for damn sure he wouldnāt have told them, not out of ashamedness, because Spencer has never made you feel as if you are something to hide, but more out of awkwardness and out of respect for his private life.Ā
But you couldnāt be sure, they were profilers after all. Over the months they must have noticed the lingering touches on your waist as he moved past you, the way he would look at you first if someone made a joke to see if you found it funny, how he would just look at you with longingness.Ā
If they didnāt put two and two together before, they most certainly did now Spencer wasnāt doing those things.Ā
Since Spencer ended things with you, there was no such thing as a gentle touch, a warm look from across the room. Now it was replaced with something that appeared cold, indifferent almost.Ā
You knew better, better than his whole team if you had to put money on it. Spencer wasnāt acting uninterested in you all of a sudden because he was, rather, the opposite.Ā
In his mind, none of this was linear, you donāt go from strangers to roomates to friends, to fuck buddies to possible lover.Ā
The whole thing confused him so much that he needed time. Not time away from you, but time to think away from sex. If you were constantly fucking like bunny rabits there was no time to assess his own thoughts.Ā
The whole night, he sat opposite you. He spoke to you here and there, lighthearted conversations like it had been for the past two weeks. But you could always feel the elephant in the corner, looming over the both of you. The tension was so thick it felt like two opposite sides of a magnet being held apart, slowly threatening to collide with all the words left unsaid between you two.Ā
There were only so many times you could sit near him and catch his eyes before it all got too much. You both longed to be together, but him and his stubbornness was forcing you to be apart. You expected a few days of his contemplation, not two weeks.Ā
So much time had passed that you concluded that you mustāve been wrong. He wasnāt in love with you. You thought you knew how his brain worked, and how quickly he would be able to organise his thoughts and feelings and diagnose himself with being hopelessly in love with you. When he didnāt come back home one day and confess his love, you simply expected it to be the next day instead.Ā
Until tonight, you sit opposite him realising that no such confession was ever coming your way, feeling rather sorry for yourself, upset that you thought you knew better.Ā
You announced to everyone that you were getting tired and you were going to head home. You wished everyone a goodnight and left.Ā
They mustāve known that was strange, considering you always left with Spencer, not only because you lived together, but because by the end of the night, you were both itching to get home and rip each other's clothes off.Ā
You pulled your coat tighter as you started your walk home, the cold air biting the tip of your nose. You approached one particular alley, stopping to look down it.Ā
You remembered one night when you and Spencer left early, laughing and running down it, tipsy and full of joy, when he stopped you both and pulled you in for a kiss, cupping your head in both of his hands.Ā
You continued on for barely thirty seconds before you heard your name being called from behind you.Ā
You turned to see Spencer half jog to catch up with you, his warm breath curling in the cold air.Ā
āWhy did you go?ā He asked once he reached you.Ā
āI couldnāt sit there and pretend nothingās changed Spencerā You replied, looking at his battered converse.Ā
āI know, Iām sorry. I know iāve been distant with youā He shifted his weight between his feet, speaking so quietly you could barely hear him. āI just needed time to thinkāĀ
āYouāve had two weeks, that's a lot of thinkingā You huffed, your frustration seeping out. āPerhaps it was wrong of me to initiateā¦.. whatever this is the way I did. And I apologise, I never wanted to lose your friendship.ā
āYou havenāt!--ā Spencer started.Ā
ā-Spencer, donāt you see?ā You spoke over him. āThere's no way we could ever go back to being friends after this. I care about you far too much to be your friend and pretend none of this ever happenedāĀ
āI donāt wantāāĀ
āNo Spencer, I understand. I misunderstood the situation differently than youāā
āNoāā He tried to interrupt.Ā
ā--Yesā You cut in right away. You were too exhausted to hear him try to appease you with pity you didnāt deserve.Ā
ā-Will you ever fucking let me finish?ā He interrupted you quickly, his voice low and gravely, with the slightest hint of passion laced between each word.Ā
You hated how much that turned you on. Now was not the time. You clicked your neck to ease some of the newfound arousal simmering under your skin.Ā
āI donāt ever want to be your friend again. Because Iāve been trying to find the words to try and describe the way I feel about you. But there are none. There will never be any words in any language that gives justice to the feelings I have for youā He near shouted, his hands clenching at his sides.
āYou plague my mind and heart, Itās been torturous to be near you and not be able to hold you. I see you in our home and all I curse myself for not being enough of a man to tell you I've made a mistakeāĀ
He continued, taking one fractionally small step closer to you. āSo yes, I would hate to be your friend too, because it would kill me to just call you my friend when I love youāĀ
The words hung between you, impossibly still. Spencer swallowed hard, like even saying them had stolen the air from his lungs.
āI told you we couldn't do this anymore because every time we end up in my bed...ā He paused, searching for words that refused to come. ā...you leave, and suddenly I'm supposed to act like the love of my life didn't just walk back into the room next doorāĀ
āYou smile at me the next day like nothing happened, and I smile back because I don't know what else to do. So I thought if I stopped... if I put some distance between us... eventually I'd stop wanting more.āĀ
He got closer to you to the point where you were sharing the same air. You looked up at him with tears in your eyes, his to match.Ā
āInstead, all it did was prove that it was never about sex. I need all of you, I canāt run from that anymoreāĀ
He tipped his forehead onto yours, inhaling shakily. You finally put your hands on his waist beneath his coat, feeling him immediately melt beneath your touch.Ā
Neither of you spoke. Spencer's eyes fluttered closed for the briefest moment, almost as though he'd finally allowed himself to rest.Ā
One hand slid from beneath his coat, climbing slowly over the buttons of his shirt until your fingertips rested against his jaw. He leaned into your touch instinctively.
"You made me think..." Your voice cracked. "You made me think you regretted me."
His face fell immediately.Ā
"Never." The answer came so quickly there wasn't even room for thought. "Not once."
You searched his face, looking for even the smallest trace of doubt, there wasn't any, there never had been.
Your thumb brushed over the faint stubble along his cheek, running along his lower lip and jaw before pulling him closer towards you so his lips could finally meet yours.Ā
His hands found you immediately, cradling your face with such devoutness it almost made you cry all over again. What started off as the purest of kisses, gentle, small touches of lips turned into something much heavier. His teeth catching your bottom lip before sucking it hard, pulling a soft moan from your throat.Ā
His hands trembled against your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks while his fingers threaded into your hair, gripping tight as if he was terrified you'd disappear.
You pressed your body flush against his, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through his shirt. Your hands slid down his chest, fingers working at his buttons near his waist with shaking urgency until you could slip your palms inside and feel the heat of his skin. Spencer groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue as he kissed you harder, deeper, like he was trying to crawl inside you.
"Fuck," he gasped against your lips, breaking away only long enough to breathe before diving back in.Ā
His tongue curled around yours, slow and filthy, while his hands dropped to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You could feel him getting hard against your hip, his cock straining against his pants as he ground forward instinctively.
"I love you," he whispered between kisses, the words spilling out like he couldn't hold them back anymore. "I love you, I love you, I love you."Ā
āI love you too,ā you said back, overlapping with his declarations, each punctuated by another desperate kiss, his mouth moving to your jaw, your neck, sucking marks into your skin before returning to your lips like he couldn't stay away.
āLets go homeā You manage to say in between kisses, your voice broken and hoarse.Ā
He nodded quickly, grabbing your hand, almost tripping on his own feet in his haste to get home.Ā
He couldnāt keep his hands off you, as you walked, his hands slipped from where they rested under your coat around your waist to your ass, squeezing as you walked, pulling you in for another kiss.Ā
You shamelessly would retaliate, stroking his erection through his slacks as you kissed him, each whine going straight to your core.Ā
The door barely clicked shut before Spencer had you slammed against it, his mouth crashing into yours with a force that rattled the frame. His tongue pushed past your lips, claiming every inch of your mouth while his hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. You could feel his cock straining against his pants, thick and insistent as he ground forward, desperate for friction.
"I need you so much, I can't wait," he growled against your mouth, already working at your shirt with shaking fingers. The fabric tore slightly as he yanked it over your head, but neither of you cared.Ā
His mouth found your neck immediately, teeth scraping down to your collarbone while his hands fumbled with your bra clasp. When it finally gave, he groaned in relief, palming your breasts roughly before his mouth descended to suck one nipple between his lips.
Your hands were just as frantic, tearing at his shirt until buttons scattered across the floor. You shoved it off his shoulders and went for his belt, yanking it open and shoving his pants down. His cock sprang free, heavy and leaking, the head already glistening. You wrapped your fingers around him, stroking from base to tip, and Spencer bucked into your grip with a broken moan.
"Bedroom," he managed, but the word was barely out before he was lifting you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you deeper into the apartment, his cock pressed hot and hard against your stomach.Ā
He made it as far as the couch before dropping you down and climbing over you, his mouth finding yours again as his hands worked your pants off with desperate urgency.
The moment you were bare, Spencer dropped down your body and spread your thighs wide. He looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes before lowering his mouth to your pussy. His tongue dragged slowly from your entrance up to your clit, tasting how wet you already were for him. The first long lick made your hips jerk, and Spencer groaned against your folds like he was starving.
His tongue circled your clit with firm, wet strokes before dipping lower to push inside you. He fucked you with his tongue, thrusting deep and curling to catch every drop of your arousal. His nose pressed against your clit as he worked, creating friction with every movement of his head.
Your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the strands as he licked and sucked at you. Spencer was relentless, alternating between broad flat licks that covered your entire slit and focused attention on your clit that made your thighs tremble around his head. He sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves between his lips, flicking his tongue against it rapidly while two of his fingers teased your entrance without pushing inside.
"Spencer," you gasped, your back arching off the couch as he worked you over. He responded by pressing his face harder against you, his tongue pushing deeper into your pussy as he tried to taste every inch of you.Ā
Your hips rolled against his face, grinding your pussy against his mouth as he devoured you. Spencer let you use him, his tongue staying flat and still while you rode his face. Every movement dragged your clit against his tongue, building the pressure inside you until you were shaking with need.
He moaned as you did, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh, adding another layer of sensation as he went back to work. His tongue pushed inside you again, fucking you with deep, wet strokes while his nose bumped your clit with every thrust.
You could feel yourself getting closer, the tension building in your core as Spencer worked you with single-minded focus. The sight of him between your thighs, face buried in your heat, was almost too much to handle.
Spencer seemed to sense how close you were getting. He doubled his efforts, his tongue working your clit with rapid flicks while he sucked the sensitive nub between his lips. Two fingers finally pushed inside you, curling against that spot that made your vision go white. He pumped them in time with his tongue, creating a rhythm that had you crying out his name.
The combination of his moans, his fingers, and his relentless tongue pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you in waves, your pussy clenching around his fingers as you came with a broken cry. Spencer didn't stop, his tongue gentling but still working as he licked you through it, tasting every drop of your release.
Even after you came down, he stayed between your thighs, pressing soft kisses to your sensitive pussy. His tongue made lazy circles around your clit, avoiding direct contact as you twitched and shuddered from overstimulation.Ā
His fingers slipped out of you slowly, and he brought them to his mouth to suck them clean while maintaining eye contact.
"I love how you taste," he said, voice hoarse. He pressed one more kiss to your clit before climbing up your body, his hard cock dragging against your thigh as he settled between your legs.
His mouth found yours in a deep kiss, and you could taste yourself on his tongue. The evidence of what he'd done to you was all over his face, his chin still wet from your arousal. Spencer didn't seem to care, kissing you like he was trying to devour you whole.
"Need to be inside you," he groaned against your lips, his cock pressing against your entrance. He pushed forward slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank into your wet heat.
The stretch was perfect, your body still sensitive from his mouth. Spencer buried himself to the hilt with a shaky groan, his forehead pressed to yours as he fought for control. "So fucking tight," he breathed. "God, I love you."
He started moving with long, deep thrusts that had you gasping beneath him. Each stroke dragged his cock against your sensitive walls, hitting spots that made your toes curl. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he fucked you with desperate intensity.
"Missed this," he panted against your neck. "Missed being inside you." His thrusts grew harder, more urgent, the couch creaking beneath you with every movement.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper as he pounded into you. The new angle had his cock hitting your cervix with every thrust, the sensation bordering on too much but exactly what you needed. Spencer's hand found your clit again, rubbing tight circles that had you seeing stars.
You came with a cry, your pussy clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Spencer followed right after, burying himself deep as he came with a broken moan of your name. You could feel him pulsing inside you, filling you with hot spurts of cum as his whole body shook with the force of his release.
Even after, he didn't pull out. He stayed buried inside you, kissing you slow and deep while his hands stroked over your skin with trembling tenderness.Ā
"Never letting you go," he whispered against your lips. "Never letting anyone take you from me. You're mine. All mine."
Spencer shifted slightly, his softening cock still inside you as he adjusted your position on the couch. He pulled you closer, arranging your bodies so you were half on top of him, his arms wrapped around you protectively.
"I truly did miss you. I want you to know that, not just sex. I missed all of you " he said quietly, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. "What happened before... being apart... it nearly killed me. I don't want to do that again. I can't pretend I don't need you."
āI missed you too, but you donāt need to anymore. Iām all yours, Spencer, I always have beenāĀ
You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, steady and strong. The apartment was quiet around you, the only sounds your breathing and the distant hum of traffic outside.Ā
Spencer's hand moved to your hair, stroking through the strands with gentle fingers.Ā
His cock twitched inside you, already starting to harden again as he held you close. The sensation made you shift against him, and Spencer groaned softly at the movement.Ā
"I can't get enough of you," he admitted. āIām already getting hard againā he smiled against your lips.Ā
You rolled your hips experimentally with a smirk, feeling him grow harder inside you. Spencer's grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your skin.Ā
"Good, because Iām still not done with you "you say, your voice still rough from your earlier cries. The words scrape against your throat, raw and honest. "Two weeks without you is far too long." Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble that's grown in since this morning.
The words seem to unlock something in him. Spencer's hazel eyes darken, the brown and green swirling like storm clouds. In one fluid motion that surprises you with its strength, he flips you both over. The world tilts, and suddenly you're straddling him on the couch, his body beneath yours, your knees sinking into the cushions on either of his hips.
"Then take what you want," he said, his hands settling on your hips. His eyes were dark with renewed desire, watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
You started moving slowly, rolling your hips in circles that ground your clit against his pelvis. Spencer's cock was fully hard again, thick and hot inside you as you worked yourself on him. His hands guided your movements, helping you find a rhythm that had both of you breathing hard.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice strained. "Show me how much you missed me." His words send heat through you, pooling low in your belly. You pick up the pace, bouncing on his length with increasing urgency. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, a rhythmic slap that marks your tempo. His dick fills you completely, stretching your pussy with each downward thrust.
Spencer sat up to meet you, his mouth finding your breasts as you rode him. He sucked one nipple between his lips, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak while his hands gripped your ass. The new position had him hitting different angles inside you, his cock dragging against spots that made your vision blur.
You could feel another orgasm building, the pressure coiling tighter with each movement. Spencer's hand moved between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that had you gasping. The dual stimulation was almost too much, pushing you closer to the edge with every thrust.
Your orgasm crashes through you with devastating intensity, your pussy clenching around him as you come with a broken cry. Waves of pleasure roll through your body, making your toes curl and your back arch.Ā
Spencer holds you through it, his hands steady on your hips as you shake and tremble above him. Your vision whites out, all sensation narrowing to the points where your bodies connect.
He followed you over the edge, his cock pulsing inside you as he came with a groan of your name. You could feel him filling you again, his cum mixing with your own wetness as he held you close through his release.
This time when you came down, Spencer carefully lifted you off his cock and arranged you both on the couch. He pulled a throw blanket over your bodies, tucking it around you with gentle hands. His arms wrapped around you, holding you against his chest as your breathing slowly returned to normal.
"Stay with me tonight," he said quietly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. "In my bed I mean,. I don't want to wake up without you again." The vulnerability in his voice made your chest tight, and you pressed closer to him, seeking his warmth.
"Of course," you promised, and felt him relax beneath you. āAlso, we might need to discuss whoās bedroom we will be moving intoāĀ
Spencer pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. āMine, obviously. Thereās more space I have a bigger bedāĀ
āOkay. As long as we can have my plants and other trinkets in thereā You say, tracing absent shapes on his bare back.Ā
āI think I can manage thatā He smiled, flicking his nose against yours.
āI love youā You whisper.Ā
Being in love with Spencer didnāt feel new, as somewhere along the way, between the shared bedroom walls, movie marathons, takeouts and mind boggling sex, you had both already fallen in love.Ā
Love had woven itself into the ordinary, into the books you shared, into the photobooth pictures of the pair of you on the fridge, into the mugs left in the sink because you knew heād use them again.Ā
You had recognised it long before you found the courage to name it. Spencer had simply been slower to see what had been right in front of him.
He hadn't fallen in love tonight, Heād simply realised that you'd been already living inside it all along.
a.n. I finally finished a series - well done me ! I lowkey loved writing this style of series, there is no plot at all but I wanted to write something that you don't really need to read part to follow along.
TAGLIST - @sweet-t33a @unlikelylovebarbarian @cocoabears @cryingoblivioneden @haydenssweetheart @sabbiabbydabbywabbie @moonz33 @pinkpantheris @throughmylifetimesiwatchtheworld - Please let me know if you'd like to be added!
Summary: For two years, Reader flirts with and buys presents for her crush. Little does she know a single card is whatāll make him snap.
A/N: This started when I saw the Valentineās Day card while snooping the internets. Then, I actively searched for āsuggestive gifts.ā Anyway, please, enjoy some Spencer Smut for Valentineās Day!!Ā
Beta Reader:Ā @cupcake525āĀ
A/N 2: Also, if youāre looking for a SFW Valentineās Day fic to read from me, please check out Love Notes & Lipstick Kisses!!Ā This is my official entry for @eideticmemoryās 2021 Valentineās Day Writing Contest! āAND I know I have Emily/Hotch and Luke/Morgan in here likeĀ I doā¦ Forgive me. Itās a fantasy.Ā
Edited: 02/06/2022
Couple: Dr. Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader
Category: Fluff. Smut (NSFW 18+)
Content Warnings: Flirty Banter. Mutual Pining. Idiots in Lust. Cursing. Slight D/s. Minor Degradation. Oral Sex (Male Receiving). Clothed Sex. Slight Exhibitionist Kink. Slight Masturbation. Unprotected Sex. Penetrative Sex. Idiots in Love.
Word Count: 4.6k
Masterlist
Ā The day I first walked into the bullpen of the BAU was the day I knew my life would change forever. Being promoted from Sex Crimes was a huge step up, and after six years, I felt like I was ready for a change of scenery.
Scenery that came in the form of one Dr. Spencer Reid.
As our boss, Unit Chief Emily Prentiss, was introducing me to the team, I shook hands immediately with everyone except the highly gossiped about doctor, I knew to keep my hands to myself.
āNot one for handshakes?ā he asked, shyly. I gave him a small smile as I took two steps towards him, placing a quick peck on his left cheek while keeping my hands behind my back.
āActually, Iāve heard from an adorable source that itās much safer to kiss, donāt you agree, Doctor Reid?ā The man blushed a deep crimson, taking a step back to create some distance between us.
āUhhāyeah, um, you said your name was ā¦ā
āY/N Y/L/N. Iām just here to learn from the tech queen, herself.ā
That much was true. I wasnāt cut out to be a profiler, that much I knew. Being welcomed into the coveted 'Batcaveā was a dream come true.
After my first week, I learned that Garciaās special suggestive friendship with one Derek Morgan was just that: a strong, bonded friendship, built on trust, love, and clever comebacks. I even started a tip jar for Morgan to pay into every time I heard him call her his 'babygirl.ā
The first case we had where I was needed outside the safety of the batcave, was a local one. Dr. Reid had stayed behind to work on the geographical profile, working with both Garcia and I to narrow it down to a four-block radius.
āI think I know where our unsub is,ā he said, capping his sharpie as he moved to grab is satchel that had been sitting on the chair. āOh, uhh, Y/N? You drive, right?ā I nodded, unsure where he was going with it. āI need a ride to the intersection of 13th and Bouldere Avenue.ā
The unsub was apprehended, but not before they shot a bullet into Dr. Reidās kevlar vest, piercing just enough to then ricochet of, Ā and hit me in the shoulder blade. I had woken up in the hospital with my 'ride or dieā sitting in the chair closest to the bed I was laying in. From that day on, that was my nickname for him.
Heād insisted I call him Spencer, leading us into a very interesting friendship.
Summary: Reader is in love with Reid. Heās fallen for a woman named Maeve. While trying to save her, Reader makes a choice.
A/N:Ā I love this request! Soā¦this will have a happy ending, I promise you all that. It will get very ANGSTY. No Smut. Fluffy Ending. I hope itās close to what you had in mind when you sent me this request!
Couple:Ā Dr.Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader
Category:Ā Angst. Fluff in the End.
Content Warnings:Ā Mutual Pining. General Case-Related Angst. Mentions of Sex. Jealousy. Cursing. Minor Character Death. Flirting. Hospital Stay. Awkwardness. Love Confessions.
Word Count:Ā 9.5k
Masterlist
Have you ever just known from your own reactions, that you were in the presence of the love of your life? Well, thatās the language in which my body spoke against my will as I was introduced to one Dr. Spencer Reid.
I fell in love with every part of him. From the way his hair quaffed atop his head, down to the way he smiled wide whenever I asked him to elaborate on a tangent he had spent several minutes talking about. I loved everything there was and forever will be about Spencer Walter Reid.
I almost believed he felt the same way, too, that is, until he began experiencing mind-numbing headaches. Heād stumble into work late, and perpetually disheveled.
Summary: Spencer accidentally tells you he loves you over the phoneāand hangs up before either of you can process it. Unfortunately for him, the entire BAU hears his side of the conversation.
Word count: ~620
___________________________________
Spencerās phone rang while Morgan was stealing crackers from his desk.
āThose are mine,ā Spencer said, answering the call.
Morgan opened another packet. āYou werenāt eating them.ā
āHi,ā Spencer said into the phone, turning away.
āYou forgot your satchel,ā you told him.
Spencer looked beneath his desk. It was empty. āI noticed.ā
āNo, you didnāt.ā
āI was about to.ā
āYouāve been at work for three hours.ā
āIāve been busy.ā
āClearly. I found your wallet inside it.ā
His hand immediately went to his pocket.
Morgan snorted.
āIāll bring it over,ā you said.
āYou donāt have to.ā
āIām already nearby, and apparently you canāt be trusted without supervision.ā
āIāve survived thirty-four years.ā
āDebatable.ā
Spencer smiled. āDrive carefully,ā he said. āLove you.ā He ended the call. Then froze.
Morgan slowly lowered the crackers.
JJ looked up from her desk.
Emily stopped halfway down the stairs.
Spencer stared at his phone.
āDid you justāā Morgan began.
The phone rang again. Spencer answered immediately. āHi.ā
āDid you just tell me you love me and hang up?ā
āI didnāt hang up because I said it.ā
āYou said it and then the call ended.ā
āThose events were related, but not intentional.ā
āYou panicked.ā
āI did not panic.ā
Morgan coughed loudly. Spencer turned his back on him.
āYou panicked,ā you repeated.
āI was surprised.ā
āBy your own feelings?ā
āNo. Iāve known for some time.ā
His voice softened on the last sentence. The bullpen went quiet.
āHow long?ā you asked.
Spencer glanced around at the people pretending not to listen. āIād rather discuss that when I donāt have an audience.ā
āAn audience?ā
Morgan waved. Spencer glared at him.
āUnfortunately.ā
You laughed.
He relaxed a little. āYou still havenāt answered,ā he said.
āAnswered what?ā
His eyebrows pulled together. āYou know what.ā
āI might need to hear it again.ā
āYouāre doing this deliberately.ā
āMaybe.ā
Spencer sighed, but he was smiling. āI love you.ā This time, he said it slowly. Deliberately.
āI love you too,ā you said.
His smile widened. āYou do?ā
āI was going to say it tonight.ā
āI ruined your plan.ā
āYou improved it.ā
Morgan grabbed Spencerās shoulder and shook him once. āMy man.ā
Spencer pulled away. āPlease stop.ā
āIāll be there soon,ā you said.
āOkay.ā
āAnd Spencer?ā
āYes?ā
āDonāt lose anything else.ā
He glanced at Morgan, who was eating his last packet of crackers.
āToo late.ā
Twenty minutes later, you stepped out of the elevator carrying his satchel. The entire team looked at you. You stopped beside Spencerās desk. āWhy are they staring?ā
āThey heard me.ā
āNot me?ā
āNo.ā
āSo they watched you panic alone?ā
āI didnāt panic.ā
Morgan laughed from across the bullpen at that.
You handed Spencer the bag.
He checked inside and found his wallet, two books and a paper bag. āWhatās this?ā
āLunch.ā
āI brought crackers.ā
āMorgan ate them.ā said JJ as she passed by.
Spencer looked at him.
Morgan raised the empty wrapper. āCongratulations again.ā
Spencer opened the paper bag. Inside was a sandwich and a note.
He unfolded it.
I love you. Please try not to forget that too.
He smiled down at it.
āYouāre keeping that, arenāt you?ā you asked.
āYes.ā
āItās written on a napkin.ā
āThat doesnāt make it less important.ā
Your expression softened.
Spencer stood and stepped closer. āCan I kiss you?ā
āYou already told everyone you love me. You might as well.ā
He kissed you gently.
Behind you, Garcia gasped.
You pulled away. āWas she here the entire time?ā
āNo,ā Spencer said. āMorgan texted her.ā
āTraitor,ā you told Morgan.
āWorth it.ā
Spencer took your hand. āCome have lunch with me.ā
āAre you going to forget me here too?ā
āNo.ā
āYou sound confident.ā
āIāve known I loved you for forty-three days.ā
You blinked. āYou counted?ā
āI remember the exact moment.ā
āAnd youāre only telling me now?ā
āI had a plan.ā
You smiled. āHow did that work out?ā
Spencer glanced toward the team.
Morgan was grinning. Garcia looked close to tears, and JJ was already asking how long you had been together.
Summary: Spencer and Diana were set to take a trip to Ireland. Spencer goes alone and meets Reader. After meeting him, Reader informs Spencer sheād like to propose to him on Leap Day.
A/N: I got strangely inspired after watching Leap Year & seeing that scene where Spencer talks about how his mom went on a vacation trip without him.
Edited on 02/22/2022
Couple: Dr. Spencer Reid x Irish!Fem!Reader
Category: Fluff.
Content Warnings: Cursing. Aggressive Behavior. Mentions of Sex. Drinking. Alcohol. Mentions of Derogatory Words. Mentions of Polygamy. Mentions of a Case. Kissing. Heart-Tugging Proposal.
Word Count:9.7k
Masterlist
āSo, what are your plans for our mandatory leave from the BAU, Spence?ā J.J. asks.
āOh, my mom and I are going to Ireland. She had so much in Paris, I thought we could enjoy another trip like that again,ā Spencer said.
In truth, though, his mother had already told him she wasnāt able to make it. She had come down with a cold of some kind. Her doctors assured him it was nothing he should worry himself over. He pleaded with Diana that he could cancel the trip altogether and reschedule it for the next mandatory vacation he could get.
āNonsense, Spencer. How often do you get to take a trip like this? Youāre 34 years old, son. You shouldnāt be worrying about me the way you do. Who knows, maybe youāll meet someone. You know itās a leap year this month.ā Diana had said.
āMom, Iām happy with how my life is. I have you. I have my friends. I-ā Diana cut him off.
āI know you do, honey. But, do you have someone waiting for you when you go home? Someone who canāt wait to see you again, even if youād only been gone a minute?ā she questioned her son. She was right. Why are mothers always right?
āNo, but, Mom. It really doesnāt bother me. I promise you, Iām okay.ā Spencer insisted.
And he truly was okay.
Now, though, laying alone in his king-sized bed, he let his motherās words resonate within him. Did he wish he had someone lying next to him now? A warm body to snuggle up to and hold forever?
He thought he would have that. Years ago. She was the only good thing that came out of those excruciating headaches.
SAVE THE DATE - a prof!reader x Spencer Reid event
YOU'RE INVITED! Join Spencer Reid and prof!reader as they prepare for the upcoming weddingāgoing shopping together, ironing out their fake dating story, and growing closer along the way. I will post one fic every other day, for a total of five fics, all of which will be added to the series masterlist, slotted in between parts to fit the main timeline.
Please note, they ARE NOT the ones getting marriedājust attendeesā¦ as a fake coupleā¦
SAVE THE DATES:
Thursday, July 23
Saturday, July 25
Monday, July 27
Wednesday, July 29
Friday, July 31
PINK IN THE NIGHT masterlist | main masterlist | event tag: esoterika's save the date
"youve already written that trope" yesss. i like it a lots. i will be writing it again. 1000 stories of the same trope over and over again for ten million years
Dr. Spencer Reid calculates everything, cognitive efficiency, statistical anomalies and the exact distance he needs to keep to protect his own sanity, but for three months, your laughter has been a constant agonizing hum in the bullpen, a bright and tactile frequency shared with everyone but him. You think he hates you, but the reality is infinitely more dangerous.
Read it on AO3 | Spencer Reid/Female reader
Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Hate S*x, Couch S*x, Jealousy, Jealous Spencer Reid, Coworkers to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Misunderstanding, Sexual overstimulation, Rough S*x, Multiple S*x Positions, Multiple Orgasms, Marking/Biting, Dirty Talk, Soft dom Spencer Reid, Degradation/Praise, P*rn With Plot, Aftercare
Word Count: 8.3k
Notes: He hates you because he's jealous so he fucks you :)
šMasterlistš
The fluorescent lights of the BAU bullpen always seemed a little too bright, but lately, they felt downright blinding to Spencer, specifically whenever you walked into the room.
You had only been with the team for three months, but you had slipped into the unitās rhythm with an infuriatingly effortless grace. You were sharp, your profiling skills were precise and worseā¦ you weren't remotely intimidated by him.
While other new agents usually blinked in dazed silence when he rattled off statistics at 180 words per minute, you just leaned back, smiled and countered with your own observations.
He should have liked that, he should have appreciated the intellectual challenge, instead it made a strange tight knot form in the center of his chest, and then there was the way you interacted with everyone else.
"Good morning goddess," your voice echoed lightly from the doorway of the tech office.
Spencer -who was currently sorting through a stack of geographic profiling data at his desk- went completely still. He didn't look up, but his eyes stopped tracking the words on the page.
"Oh stop it, you beautiful girl!" Penelopeās giggling squeal carried easily across the bullpen.
From the corner of his eye, Spencer watched as you leaned over Garciaās desk, setting down a specific half caf caramel macchiato. You whispered something close to her ear, some private joke that made Penelope cover her mouth, blushing and swatted playfully at your arm.
You laughed, a low warm sound and let your fingers brush against Penelope's shoulder before stepping back.
Spencerās grip tightens on his pen until his knuckles turned white. āItās unprofessional,ā he told himself, his mind furiously scrambling to find a logical analytical reason for the sudden hot spike of irritation in his gut. āThe bullpen is a secure federal environment. Displaying that level of casual intimacy distracts from the psychological focus required for active cases.ā
Except, it wasn't just Penelope.
Later that afternoon, Hotch called a roundtable briefing. The air was thick with tension as the team analyzed the timeline of a new unsub in Seattle.
"If we look at the victimology," you spoke up, sliding a crime scene photo across the smooth wood of the table, "the unsub isn't choosing targets based on geography, he's choosing them based on their routine. Emily, look at the transit schedules, they all use the same train line at exactly 6:15 PM."
Emily studied the file for a second, a slow nod forming. "She's right, it accounts for the three day gap between the second and third abductions. Good catch!"
"Just following your lead," you replied smoothly. As Emily looked up, you caught her eye and gave her a deliberate playful wink.
Spencerās breath hitched, his eyes darted from you to Emily, his brain short circuiting so violently he completely lost his train of thought. A heavy suffocating weight settled in his stomach. "Why did you do that? Why did you look at her like that?ā
When the meeting was over, the team dispersed back to their desks. Spencer intentionally lingered by the coffee maker, his posture stiff, eyes fixed on the dark liquid dripping into the pot. He heard your footsteps before he saw you.
You walked up to the bullpen lounge, standing right next to Emily as she filed a report. You said something low, laughing and reached out to casually touch Emilyās forearm, just a brief lingering pressure of your hand against her sleeve.
Spencer didn't even realize he was staring until you suddenly turned your head and caught him.
The warmth in your expression vanished instantly, replaced by a cautious guarded look. The contrast was agonizing, with Penelope and Emily you were bright, tactile and radiant but with him, you were walking on eggshells.
"Am I disrupting your focus Dr. Reid?" You asked, your tone completely dropping the playful edge it had just had a second ago.
Spencer cleared his throat, his chest tightening as his social anxiety spiked, locking his muscles in place. He wanted to say something normal, he wanted to be a part of the casual ease you shared with everyone else, but the sheer terror of rejection -the crushing certainty that you would never look at him with that kind of warmth- made him freeze.
So he did what he always did, he built a wall of academic formality.
"The human brain requires sustained focus to process complex behavioral patterns," Spencer said, his voice clipped, cool and entirely detached. He didn't look you in the eye as he grabbed his mug. "Superfluous socializing in the workspace statistically reduces cognitive efficiency by 23%. So yes, it is distracting."
He turned on his heel and walked straight back to his desk without waiting for your response, leaving a heavy frustrated silence in his wake.
He didn't see the way your jaw tightened or the hurt that flashed in your eyes before turning into pure irritation. He just sat at his desk, staring blankly at his paperwork, his mind screaming at him because he had done it again.
He had pushed you away, all because he couldn't handle the burning desperate jealousy of wanting that attention for himself.
By the following Friday, the tension between you and Spencer had stretched into a thin dangerous wire, ready to snap at the slightest touch.
For an entire week, he had barely looked at you. If you handed him a file, he took it without letting his fingers brush yours, if you spoke in a briefing, he stared fixedly at the whiteboard, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle ticked.
The breaking point arrived at 9:00 PM on the same Friday night.
The team had just returned from a brutal exhausting case in Seattle, the unsub was in custody, the paperwork was logged and the heavy oppressive cloud of the job finally lifted.
Instead of heading straight home, everyone clustered around the desks in the bullpen, loosening ties and kicking off heels, unwinding with a rare relaxed camaraderie.
JJ had brought out a bottle of whiskey someone had gifted Hotch and plastic cups were being passed around.
You were leaning against the edge of Emilyās desk, a cup in your hand, finally letting the exhaustion melt away. Emily was sitting in her rolling chair, laughing softly as Penelope recounted a ridiculous online dating horror story.
A few feet away, Spencer sat at his desk. He hadn't joined the circle, he was meticulously cleaning his satchel, pretending to be deeply engrossed in organizing his books, but his ears were entirely tuned to your frequency.
"Iām telling you, the guy said he had a coupon to a Michelin star restaurant and then asked if we could split the appetizer three ways," Penelope said, laughing and throwing her hands in the air.
"Oh absolutely not," you laughed, leaning down closer to the two of them. "See, this is why I don't bother with dating apps, the standard is entirely too low."
Emily looked up at you, a smirk playing on her lips. "And what exactly is your standard?"
You smiled, the dim light of the bullpen catching the playful glint in your eyes. You leaned in just a little further, your shoulder brushing comfortably against Emilyās as you looked between her and Penelope.
"Honestly? If I wasn't working here and if regulations didn't exist, Iād just ask one of you two out on a proper date," you teased, your voice dripping with an affectionate exaggerated drawl. "You're both brilliant, gorgeous and you actually know how to dress. I'd treat you like queens."
Penelope clutched her chest with a dramatic gasp. "Oh my heart! Don't tempt me sweet girl!"
Emily chuckled, shaking her head, leaning back into your space with an easy familiar warmth. "Careful, don't make promises you can't keep."
It was a joke, it was a harmless casual bullpen banter meant to lighten the mood after a week of tracking a monster, but to Spencer, it was the sound of a match striking a puddle of gasoline.
āA proper date.ā The words bounced around his skull, mutating into something agonizing. His brain didn't process the teasing tone, it only processed the visualization of you holding Emilyās hand, of you taking Penelope out, of you looking at someone else with that soft open desire.
The proprietary suffocating jealousy that he had spent three months trying to cage suddenly tore free, it filled his chest until he couldn't draw a full breath, a hot toxic wave of adrenaline that made his fingers tremble.
He couldn't do this anymore, he couldn't sit here and pretend he was just an annoyed coworker when the truth was ripping him apart from the inside out.
With a sudden violent movement, Spencer jammed a book into his satchel, the heavy thud of the binder hitting the bottom of the bag cut through the laughter at Emily's desk.
You paused mid laugh, your eyes instinctively darting over to him.
Spencer stood up so fast his chair rolled back and slammed into the desk behind him. He didn't look down to adjust it, he just looked across the bullpen, his gaze locking directly onto yours.
For a fraction of a second, the mask of the detached genius dropped entirely, his hazel eyes were dark, burning with a raw chaotic mixture of hurt, anger and a desperate untamed hunger that made your breath hitch. It was a glare that stripped away all the polite distance he had built between you.
You froze, the smile dying on your lips, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. āWhat is he looking at me like that for?ā
Before you could even think to say anything, Spencer ripped his satchel over his shoulder. He didn't say goodbye to Morgan, he didn't wish the team a good weekend, he turned on his heel and strode toward the doors of the bullpen.
"What's crawled up his edge tonight?" Emily muttered, frowning as she watched the empty hallway where Spencer had just vanished.
"Maybe he's just tired," Penelope offered softly, looking confused.
But you couldn't speak. You stared at the empty doorway, your fingers tightening around your plastic cup. That look, the sheer unadulterated fury and longing in Spencerās eyes had left your skin tingling. You didn't know what it meant, but as you looked down at your hands, you realized you were shaking.
The streetlights of the city blurred into long bleeding streaks of amber against the windshield of Spencerās old car. He had been driving aimlessly for hours, completely lost in a vicious looping spiral of his own thoughts.
He hadn't even realized it was already approaching 2:00 AM nor that he hadn't made a single move toward his own apartment. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were completely bloodless, the leather casing groaning under the pressure.
His mind was a runaway train, a chaotic overlapping mess of statistics, psychological profiles andā¦ your voice.
āIf I wasn't working here... Iād ask one of you two out on a proper date.ā
He pressed his foot harder onto the gas pedal, the engine whining in protest. āItās a statistical anomaly for a team to maintain a cohesive environment when personal desires cross professional boundaries,ā he reasoned, his brain working overtime to build a logical fortress around his breaking sanity. āSheās careless, sheās entirely unprofessional, she doesn't respect the psychological weight of this job if she can just stand there and throw around reckless flirtations like they mean nothing.ā
He repeated the words like a mantra, trying to turn his blinding jealousy into a righteous clinical lecture on workplace protocol. But it was a lie, a desperate pathetic lie because every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see a violation of FBI guidelines, he just saw the slope of your shoulder brushing against Emilyās, he saw the warm easy smile you gave Penelope.
āHe wanted to tear that smile away from them, he wanted to force you to look at him even if it was with hatred just so he could be the center of your universe for a single fleeting second.
The car jolted to a halt, but Spencer didn't pause. He didn't think, he didn't rationalize and he didn't formulate a single objection as the sheer momentum of his own thoughts took over entirely.
āBefore his mind could formulate a single coherent objection, he was out of the car.
āInside your place, you had just changed into an oversized shirt, trying to shake off the strange vibrating electricity that had settled under your skin ever since Spencer had fled the bullpen. You were just about to pour yourself a glass of water when a heavy frantic knocking rattled your front door.
You frowned, your heart instantly leaping into your throat. "A case? An emergency?"
You hurried over and pulled the door open and the words died in your throat. It was Spencer.
He looked entirely unraveled, the cool pristine meticulous Dr. Reid was completely gone, his long brown hair was wildly messy, falling into his face as if heād been running his fingers through it over and over. His coat was open and his tie was completely loosened.
The top two buttons of his dress shirt undone to reveal the pale skin of his throat and he was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as if he had run up a flight of stairs.
"Spencer?" You breathed, staring at him in shock. "What... what are you doing here? It's 2:30 AM! Did we get a call? Is there a new case?"
"No," he said, his voice lower than usual, rough and vibrating with a dangerous unstable energy. He didn't ask to come in, he just took a commanding step forward, forcing you to step back into your entryway so he could slam the door shut behind him.
"Then what is wrong with you?" You asked, your voice rising as defensive instinct kicked in. "You look like you're losing your mind."
"I am losing my fuckin mind," he shot back, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly sharp intensity. He began pacing the narrow hallway, his hands gesturing wildly, the academic persona returning like a clumsy shield. "Iām losing my mind because the operational integrity of our unit is being compromised and nobody else seems to notice or care. Your behavior tonightā¦ your behavior every day directly violates basic professional protocol!"
You stared at him utterly bewildered before a hot spark of anger ignited in your chest. "My behavior? What the hell are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" He snapped, spinning around to face you, stepping entirely too close. "The casual touching, the whispering, telling Emily and Garcia that you want to take them on a proper date in front of the entire bullpen! It's distracting, itās reckless and it is entirely unprofessional!"
"Unprofessional?!" You yelled, taking a step right back into his space, your chest nearly brushing his. You had to tilt your head back to look him in the eye but you refused to back down. "It was a joke! We were winding down after a brutal case! Emily and Penelope are my friends. It's called bonding Spencer, it's called being a human being!"
"Itās a distraction!" He shouted, his voice cracking, a raw vein of pure emotion bleeding through his academic lecture.
"No you know what? I am sick of this!" You fired back, your voice shaking with months of built up frustration. All the cold shoulders, the clipped answers, the way he made you feel like a nuisance, it all boiled over. "You've been looking for an excuse to tear me down since the day I got here! Why do you hate me so much Spencer? What did I ever do to you?!"
"I don't hate you!" He roared, the sound tearing from his throat, echoing off the walls of your quiet apartment.
"Then why can't you even look at me?!" You screamed back, tears of sheer frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. "Why do you treat everyone else with kindness and treat me like shit?!"
"Because you don't look at me like that!" Spencer finally exploded. The words cut through the air like a knife, slicing the shouting match dead in its tracks.
He stopped breathing, his hands hovered in the air trembling, his chest heaving violently. His face was flushed, a deep dark red creeping up his neck to his cheekbones. The anger in his eyes suddenly shattered, leaving behind something so raw and so agonizingly vulnerable it made your knees go weak.
"You spend all day..." Spencer whispered, his voice cracking, the fierce mask completely gone as he looked down at you, totally exposed. "You spend all day laughing with Penelopeā¦ you tease Emilyā¦ you touch themā¦ you smile at themā¦ you look at them like they're the only people in the room, and you act like I'm completely invisible. You walk on eggshells around me, you drop your voiceā¦ you look at me like Iām something dead who doesn't feel anything."
Your jaw slacked, the blood in your veins turned to liquid fire as the puzzle pieces slammed together in your head. The coldness, the glaring, the meticulous avoidanceā¦ it wasn't hatred, it was never hatred.
He was losing his mind because he was desperately and agonizingly jealous.
The anger between you instantly shifted, morphing into a heavy thick breathless tension that made the air feel like velvet. The space between you suddenly felt charged with a magnetic pull so strong it was dizzying.
You looked at his trembling hands, then up at his mouth and finally back into his dark burning hazel eyes. Slowly and deliberately you took a step closer, the tips of your toes brushed against his. You could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"You think I want them Spencer?" Your voice was barely a whisper now, low and steady, your eyes locking onto his with a fierce intensity of your own. You reached out, your hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before you let your fingers brush against the loose fabric of his tie.
Spencer let out a shaky hitched breath, his eyes dropping to your lips.
"I was trying to get your attention," you murmured, looking up at him through your lashes. "I was loud and playful because it was the only time you would actually look up from your paperwork and notice I was in the room. I don't want them Spencer, I've been waiting for you."
"Fuck it," he rasped, his eyes dilated so wide the hazel almost vanished into black.
He reached out, his long fingers tangling fiercely into the hair at the back of your head, his other hand gripping your waist with a bruising possessive pressure and pulled you violently against him as his mouth crashed down onto yours.
It wasn't a gentle kiss, it was clumsy, desperate and completely feral.
A soft breathless whimper escaped your lips and the sound only seemed to drive him crazier. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, burying your fingers deep into his soft brown hair. You kissed him back with an equal starving hunger, your tongue sliding against his, tasting the dark intoxicating heat of pure desire.
Spencer groaned, a deep vibration that rumbled right into your chest. He staggered forward, completely blind to his surroundings, his lips never leaving yours for a single fraction of a second.
You backed up willingly, your legs tangling with his until the back of your knees hit the soft edge of your living room sofa. You tumbled backward onto the cushions and Spencer came down right on top of you, his heavy body a comforting solid weight.
You didn't want a single inch of space between you, you hooked your thighs around his hips and pulled him closer, guiding him until he sank down between your legs.
With a rough tug, Spencer gripped your hips and hoisted you upward, shifting his weight until you were completely straddling his lap.
The burning heavy heat of his thighs pressed directly against your bare skin, a searing contact that ignited the raw hunger he had been suppressing for months.
Without a second of hesitation, his large trembling hands slid down your waist, his palms dragging possessively over the exposed skin of your outer thighs, his long fingers digging firmly into your flesh, tracing upward until his hands molded perfectly to the burning heat of your bare hips.
The kiss became entirely unhinged, he was devouring you, his lips sliding from your mouth to bite at your bottom lip then instantly sucking it back in, his breathing so loud and ruined it filled the quiet apartment.
You arched your back into him, your hands moving from his hair to grip his broad shoulders, pulling his chest flush against yours as your hips tilted instinctively into his lap.
When he finally broke the kiss, it was only because his lungs were screaming for air. He dragged his mouth away, a thin wet silver thread breaking between your lips.
Both of you were completely breathless, your chests heaving violently against one another.
Spencerās head dropped into the crook of your neck, his forehead resting against your collarbone as he sucked in a sharp ragged breath. His heart was hammering so fast against your ribs it felt like a trapped bird.
"You're..." Spencer panted, his voice completely wrecked, dropping an octave into a gravelly, breathless whisper. He pressed a hot wet kiss right beneath your jaw, his lips dragging against your sensitive skin, "...you are so incredibly... unprofessional."
A breathless euphoric laugh bubbled up from your throat, even now -completely unraveled and hard as a rock beneath you- his brain was trying to process it.
"Shut up Spencer," you murmured, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.
You reached down, your fingers catching the hem of his loosened dress shirt. You began tugging the buttons free, your hands trembling as you popped them out of their holes, wanting the barrier gone.
Spencer didn't help you, he was entirely consumed by the texture of your skin. As your hands worked the shirt open, exposing the pale smooth expanse of his chest, his mouth trailed down your neck, biting gently at the junction where your shoulder met your neck, making you gasp and arch into him.
His large hands kept running frantically up and down your bare thighs, his palms smooth but firm, bunching the oversized shirt higher and higher up your waist until there was absolutely nothing between his hands and your skin. He squeezed your thighs, lifting you slightly just to press his hips up against yours, a low needy growl escaping his throat when he felt how soft and completely bare you were for him.
"Look at me," you whispered, finally pushing his shirt off his shoulders, letting it pool around his elbows.
Spencer looked up, his face flushed a dark beautiful crimson, his eyes completely pitch black with blown out desire. He looked completely untamed.
You didn't give him a chance to speak, you leaned down and captured his lips again, smothering whatever academic thought was left in his head.
This time, the kisses became slower, heavier and agonizingly deep. You sucked on his top lip, soothing the sting with the tip of your tongue before he groaned and took over, pulling your upper lip into his mouth, tasting you over and over until your brain felt entirely fried.
"I need to touch every single inch of you," he rasped as he gripped the hem of your shirt. He violently yanked it up and over your head, throwing it carelessly onto the floor. Spencerās breath caught completely, his hands trembling as he stared down at your bare skin under the dim light of the room. "Look at youā¦ you're fuckin perfect."
He didn't wait a single second, he lunged back in, his mouth crashing not against your lips this time but against your jaw, his teeth scraping gently over your skin, leaving a wet trail down the column of your neck.
Your head fell back as the heavy friction of his mouth drove you absolutely crazy. You were so desperate for him to finally touch you below the waist, to end the agonizing ache that a wave of sheer physical frustration took over your body.
You tilted your hips blindly into his lap, your hands sliding down to frantically tug at his belt. "Spencer... please, no more waiting," you begged rawly, a tight sob catching in your throat as your fingers fumbled uselessly with his clothes. "I can't take this... please just fuck me... I need you inside-"
Driven by his own need to punish you more, his mouth dragged lower. Spencer caught your nipple between his lips and sucked deep and hard, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before pulling it into the heat of his mouth.
A loud horny moan ripped from your lips, echoing off the quiet walls of your apartment. Your head fell back, your fingers tangling frantically in his messy brown hair, pulling him closer to your chest.
The sheer intense friction of his tongue sent a violent jolt of electricity straight between your thighs, making you tilt your hips instinctively against his covered lap.
He switched to the other breast, lashing his tongue over the peak, sucking until you were shaking beneath him, whimpering his name like a prayer. He broke the contact by barely an inch, his chest heaving as he fought for air.
"You like that baby?" He panted, his voice a dark gravelly rasp you had never heard from him before. "Tell meā¦ do you like it when I touch you like this? When I bite you?"
"Yes!... Fuck yes Spencerā¦ please," you sobbed out, your hands sliding down to his chest, feeling his heart hammering at a dangerous rapid fire speed. āI need youā¦ I need you right nowā¦ ple-ā
The admission seemed to break whatever thread of sanity he had left. Before you could even finish the word, Spencer leaned up, his large hands anchoring your jaw as he violently pulled you down into a crushing desperate kiss.
The thought of how much time they had wasted, how many days he had spent glaring at paperwork while his mind secretly simulated the exact texture of your skin turned into a rough unforgiving urgency.
He dragged his lips away by barely a millimeter, his chest heaving violently as he gripped your face, keeping you entirely pinned to his mouth.
"Three months," he muttered against your lips, his voice tight with an agonizing mixture of fury and need. "Three months of looking at you... of watching you touch everyone else and losing my mind... we wasted so much time."
He didn't give a fuck about fully undressing, the desperation was entirely too high for perfect positioning. With a trembling feral hand, Spencer reached down and violently ripped his belt open, his fingers fumbling with a manic breathless urgency at his zipper just enough to shove his trousers down past his heavy thighs, finally freeing his massive aching length.
It snapped out between you, violently hard, thick and dripping with a heavy coat of precum that smeared instantly against your skin, throbbing like a live wire as it pressed directly against your soaking wet, dripping cunt and a fractured breathless gasp caught in your throat.
Spencer gripped your bare waist with a brutal bruising hold, his fingers sinking deep into your flesh to anchor you. He hoisted your hips up slightly, his chest heaving violently as he forced you to look right into his blown out eyes, letting you see the absolute depraved ruin you had made of his sanity.
"You're mine," he growled, the primitive dirty declaration vibrating right against your mouth. "No one else touches you like thisā¦ no one else gets you this fuckin wet."
"Yes... ahh!~... fuck yes," you wailed breathlessly, blindly grinding your soaking wet, dripping entrance up against his hard length, practically begging for the stretch."Please Spencer... now... put it in!"
With a sudden violent downward yank of his hands, he slammed your hips down, completely burying his entire length inside you in one deep brutal thrust.
The sheer shock of it made your eyes snap wide, a loud high pitched scream of pure pleasure tore from your throat but Spencer was already leaning up, capturing your mouth in another heavy bruising kiss that smothered the sound, his tongue forcing its way past your lips to match the sudden violent movement of his hips.
"Fuckā¦ you're so tight," Spencer groaned directly into your mouth, his tongue sliding wetly against yours as his hands anchored your hips. His fingers dug into your waist and with a ruthless heavy heave of his arms, he began physically lifting your body up his length and slamming you back down.
The friction was overwhelming, the combination of his rough heavy pacing, the coarse fabric of his pushed down pants rubbing against your bare thighs and the intense deep stretch of him hitting your sweet spot was too much for your senses to handle.
You let out a broken needy wail, your hands abandoning his shoulders to clutch at his face, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you pulled him down into a frantic sloppy kiss. You were completely unraveled, swallowing his hot spit, your mouth working against his as frantically as your hips were rolling against his lap.
Spencer was completely unraveled, hoisting you up and down in a fast punishing cadence. He kept his mouth locked to yours, bruising your lips, swallowing your ragged gasps as he pounded up into you. He could feel how incredibly hot and slick you were, the tight walls of your cunt clamping down around him with every hard thrust.
"Spencer!... I'mā¦ ahh fuck~..." you whimpered, breaking the kiss, your head tossing back as your vision went completely blurry. Your internal muscles violently clamped around him, contracting in a sudden shattering orgasm that rippled through your entire body.
"Fuckin look at you," he growled, his voice dropping into a filthy gravelly rasp as he watched your face twist with pleasure. "You like having my cock inside you don't you? Tell me how good it feels to take itā¦ tell me you're my good whore."
"Spencerā¦ fuck yeah~ā¦ I'm yoursā¦ nghh~... pleaseā¦ I love it," you sobbed out, your mind entirely short circuited by the high of the orgasm. You couldn't even think straight, you were just blindly rolling your hips against his lap, begging for more of the friction. "Iām yours Spencer... please... cum for meā¦ inside me please..."
The desperate undone admission shattered the very last of his sanity, his hands gripped your waist with a brutal trembling pressure, slamming his pelvis flush against yours as he rode the wave.
"You're a fuckin drug," he choked out, his fingers bruising your waist as he delivered three more deep frantic, incredibly rough thrusts, burying himself to the absolute hilt before a loud deep sound of pure surrender tore from his chest.
His body went completely rigid, his hips locking tightly against yours as he spilled himself deep inside you, his hot length pulsing hard against your contracting walls as you both shook with the violent aftermath of a desperate long awaited release.
Spencer didn't pull out, he stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy forehead resting against your shoulder as his chest heaved, his heart slamming against your ribs.
"Good girl," Spencer panted rawly into your neck, his voice completely broken from the release. He squeezed your waist, pressing himself deeper into your heat. "Fuckin perfect... you took every single inch of me so good baby."
You couldn't even answer, you were slumped heavily against him, your breath hitching in little pathetic stutters. You were completely helpless to the throbbing ache of his thick length stretching you open from below, gravity keeping you sunk all the way down on him.
Spencerās hands came up to clutch the back of your head, his fingers tangled in your hair as he pulled your face to his. He began kissing you again, not rough this time but incredibly wet, desperate and open mouthed, his tongue lazily sliding against yours, tasting you and your shared heat.
You kissed him back just as hard, your lips slippery against his, small whines escaping you every time his pulsing length twitched deep inside your stretched out core.
"Mmm... you're so mean to me," you whimpered tiredly against his lips, completely out of it as you loosely wrapped your arms around his neck. "You were taking so long... I was almost ready to give up and let someone else do it.ā
"You think I'll let anyone else touch you?" He whispered roughly against your lips, his free hand tracing a slow heavy line over your hip and thigh, his touch making your internal muscles squeeze him so tightly that his thick length twitched hard deep inside you.
You just giggled as you pulled him back to kiss him deep. He let out a dark needy growl into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist to anchor you down.
"You're mine," he rasped, breaking the kiss just enough to look at you, his thumb sweeping across your bottom lip. "Every single inch of you is mine and nobody else is ever getting near you."
"Mhmmā¦ I'm yours baby," you whined back, your lips slippery against his as you kissed him more, your hips trembling around his thick length. "I'm all yours... can we please go take a shower?"
"Oh, you think we're done?" Spencer let out a low gravelly chuckle, his eyes darkening as his fingers dug punishingly into your waist. "We're not going anywhere until you can barely stand up, let alone walk to the bathroom."
He was angry at how easily you had undone him, angry that he had spent weeks agonizing in silence while you possessed this total absolute power over his body.
Before you could even process the words, Spencer gripped your thighs tightly and shifted his weight, flipping you beneath him as he drove his body forward. He didn't pull out to move you, he kept himself buried to the hilt as he forced your body backward onto the sofa.
The sudden change in position made him shift inside you, his thick length grinding hard against a dangerously sensitive spot. You let out a sharp breathless gasp, your hands flying to his bare shoulders. "Spencerā¦ waitā¦ I'mā¦"
"No," he cut you off, his tone flat, unyielding and downright mean. He didn't want to wait, he didn't want to be clinical or polite. "You don't get to tell me to wait, not after making me wait for months.ā
He leaned down, his mouth crashing onto yours to stifle your protests and immediately began to move. The pace had changed, it wasn't the frantic rushing scramble from before, it was a heavy, deliberate and deeply punishing rhythm.
He pulled back until he was almost entirely out, letting you feel the full agonizing width of him stretching your dripping entrance wide before slamming back down to the hilt with a loud wet slap of his pelvis, using his weight to pin your hips into the couch cushions.
"Spencerā¦ AHH!~... Pleaseā¦" You screamed into his mouth, your hands clawing at his back.
He didn't stop, he didn't even slow down. His jaw remained locked as he used his hands to angle your hips up, slamming directly into your sweet spot with a blunt heavy thud.
The sheer force shattered your control, sending a sudden blinding second orgasm rolling through your entire body.
"S-stop... please... Spencerā¦ itās too... too much!" You sobbed out, your voice breaking as you blindly tried to push at his chest, but even as the word left your lips, your hips instinctively rolled up to meet him, your voice turning into a desperate shriek. "Harder!... Please... harder... fuck... ah-ahh!~... I can't..."
"Make up your fuckin mind," Spencer growled, his breathing loud and completely unhinged as he pushed right through your climax. He maintained his hard unforgiving pace, anchoring your thighs to keep you pinned. "You want me to stop? Youāre literally sobbing while your pathetic cunt is begging me for more."
"I'm sorry... ah!~... Spencer please!" You wailed, completely helpless as the pleasure held you under. Your hyper sensitized walls convulsed violently around him in erratic desperate waves, overflowing and coating his length.
He was pounding into you with a steady relentless force, his bare chest grinding roughly against your sensitive wet nipples with every single thrust, smearing your shared sweat between you.
The friction was too intense, your nerve endings -already raw and hyper sensitized- began to scream as a tight electric coil snapped awake in your lower stomach almost instantly. Your breath hitched before you started moaning incredibly loud, your voice echoing off the walls as your entire body shivered.
Feeling how close you already were again, Spencer let out a ragged groan, his mouth crashing back down onto yours to swallow your loud cries as he praised you.
"Good girl, such a needy little whore for me," he mumbled dirty and wet against your lips. "You're close yeah? I can feel you baby come on."
"Ah!~... Spencer... stop... I'm gonna..." You tore your mouth away from his, your head tossing violently against the couch cushion as your hands tried to push against his shoulders.
He didn't stop, he didn't even slow down. His jaw remained locked as he drove himself deeper, using his hands to angle your hips up so he could slam directly into your g-spot with a blunt heavy thud.
The sheer force of the impact shattered your control. Your overstimulated walls convulsed violently, clamping down around his cock like a vice as a sudden blinding second orgasm took over your entire body.
Your back arched completely off the couch, your toes curling as a loud high pitched sob ripped from your throat. Your internal muscles squeezed him in erratic desperate waves that had him groaning out loud against your lips, your cunt overflowing and soaking the cushions beneath you.
Spencer didn't give you a second to breathe. He felt your walls contract, felt the hot slick gush of your cum coating him and it only seemed to make him meaner. Instead of riding out your climax, he pushed right through it, maintaining his hard unforgiving pace and slamming into you while you were still actively cumming.
The friction of his thighs against yours, the heavy pressure of his chest, the relentless deep stretching of his length was an absolute sensory overload.
Your brain was screaming that it was too sensitive, that you couldn't take another friction rub without snapping, yet as your hands frantically gripped his wrists, you weren't pushing him away. Your fingers were clawing into his skin, your hips instinctively tilting upward to meet every punishing downstroke.
You were terrified of the intensity, but the primal desperate part of your brain was utterly addicted to it. You didn't want him to stop, you wanted him to destroy you with it.
āYouā¦ you can't get enough of it too yeah?ā He whispered in your ear, his voice a dark rough taunt. He bit down on your skin hard enough to leave a deep bruise, his teeth scraping over your pulse point as he kept delivering bruising thrusts that squelched loudly against your overflowing wetness. "Don't tell me to stop when you're moaning and begging for more like a greedy little bitch."
He captured your lips again, his kiss much sloppier and wetter than before, his tongue sliding against yours with a bruising desperate hunger that tasted like your shared breath and sweat. He swallowed your whimpers, turning them into shared groans as he kept up the relentless punishing pace.
He was intentionally rubbing his pubic bone against your overstimulated clit with every single hard drive, driving you absolutely insane.
You let out a broken breathless wail, your hands flying up to grip the back of the couch as your vision went completely white. The overstimulation crossed a dangerous line, turning the excess of sensation into pure unadulterated ecstasy.
Before your body could even fully recover from the last climax, the violent rhythmic pounding dragged you right over the cliff again. This one was deeper, a total full body convulsion that made your hips shudder violently against his.
You went completely limp beneath him, your chest heaving as you cried out his name, your body totally wrecked and still shaking from the climax that wouldn't stop.
āYou're so fuckin hot, you're destroying me," Spencer growled, his voice completely raw. He slowed his pace down to a brutal agonizingly slow crawl, dragging his thick length out to the very tip before buried it back in, deliberately making your orgasm last as long as possible. "You're such a good obedient whoreā¦ taking it so deep."
"Spencer... please... stop... too far... ah~..." you whimpered, your arms feeling like lead as you weakly tried to push at his chest. You were trying to tell him how good it felt but you were so exhausted that the words just came out as an incoherent slurred mess. "Moreā¦ p-pleaseā¦ā
Spencer easily caught both of your wrists in one hand, bringing them up to his mouth to press a kiss against your pulsing skin. With a violent jerk, he pinned your hands flat against the cushions directly above your head. He didn't stop that slow torturing friction for a single second, leaning all his heavy weight down to kiss you again.
āYou think this is over?ā He growled darkly against your lips. "Iām going to ruin you for anyone else tonightā¦ youāre gonna remember exactly who owns this body."
Before you could say a word, he shifted his body, crowding you completely on the narrow couch. He slid his forearm under your right thigh, roughly yanking it upward. The position forced your hips to tilt upward at an extreme, completely exposed angle, tightening your core until it felt like a vice around him.
"Iā¦ I can'tā¦ Spencer... pleaseā¦ I'm tooā¦ sensitive," you sobbed, your head tossing against the cushions, your pinned wrists twisting weakly in his iron grip. "It's too muchā¦ nghh~... I'mā¦ I'm gonnaā¦"
"Good," he cut you off brutally, not giving you a single second to adjust to the stretch, he accelerated instantly, unleashing a hard, fast and completely merciless pace.
The friction was monstrous, he was deliberately grinding against your hyper sensitized walls, completely deaf to the way you were weeping, entirely consumed by the primitive need to claim you completely.
He slammed his hips against yours over and over, his heavy weight pinning you down as his cock tore through your slick heat. He leaned down and crashed his mouth back onto yours, his tongue driving inside with heavy rhythmic force that matched his pelvis, swallowing your loud messy sobs.
The room filled with the loud wet slapping sound of his skin punishing yours, the pace so frantic it felt like he was trying to drill right through you. He kept that solid bruising rhythm going, letting the friction build heavily between you until your bodies were slick with sweat.
Gradually, Spencer let out a sharp ragged gasp into your mouth. He felt his own length swelling to the absolute limit, his balls tightening as the climax began to rush up on him.
He ripped his mouth away, his breathing completely unhinged as he grabbed your thighs, hoisting your legs way up over his shoulders. The new angle shifted his cock perfectly and when he slammed back down, he hit your g-spot with a blunt crushing thud.
"Ahhh!~... Spencer!" You shrieked, your eyes rolling back as the direct hit shattered you instantly. Your walls clamped around him like a violent vice, milking him in frantic desperate waves as a new hard orgasm tore through your body, soaking his thighs in a hot gush of your cum.
"Yeahā¦ take itā¦ fuckin cum for me baby," Spencer growled, his voice completely wrecked. Your tight convulsing walls were too much for him to hold back. He groaned out loud, his body going dead rigid as he came deep inside you. A massive thick release pulsing hard into your contracting core.
Instead of stopping, Spencer kept his hips grinding, forcing himself to keep moving in slow heavy friction filled thrusts. He dragged his length back and forth through your pulsing walls, intentionally prolonging the agonizing pleasure for both of you until your bodies were trembling uncontrollably.
Finally, his strength gave out. He collapsed completely over you, his heavy chest heaving violently against your breasts as he buried his face in your neck.
Using the absolute last bit of energy you had left, you weakly wrapped your arms around his broad back, holding him close as he moved to press slow lazy wet kisses against your lips, both of you tasting your shared heat.
When he finally shifted to pull out, a soft pathetic whimper escaped your throat at the cold ache of him leaving you empty. Your overstimulated muscles twitched in protest at the sudden loss of his thickness.
"I got you," Spencer murmured roughly, his voice soft now as he planted a gentle kiss on your forehead. He lingered there for a second, his thumb tenderly wiping away the tears on your cheek while his other hand stroked your tangled hair. "Don't move alright? Just rest... I'm right here."
He sat up on the edge of the sofa, panting heavily as he tiredly pulled his pants back up and fastened them, his shoulders still rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. He didn't even care about his shirt, leaving his bare chest exposed as he leaned back over you, his arms sliding under your back and knees.
Spencer lifted you into his arms, your legs were so weak they felt like jelly, dropping helplessly over his forearms as he carried you out of the living room and into the small dimly lit bathroom.
He gently hoisted you up, setting you down on the cool smooth surface of the sink counter. The sudden contact with the porcelain made you shiver, your thighs parting slightly.
Spencer immediately stepped between your knees, crowding your space again but this time his movements were hyper gentle, almost reverent.
He reached over and grabbed a soft washcloth, turning on the faucet until the water ran warm. As he soaked the cloth, he leaned in, his lips pressing softly and repeatedly against your jawline and the sensitive skin of your neck.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured against your skin, his breath hitching. "I was just... I was so angry at myself and I lost controlā¦ I've never lost control like that. Did I hurt you? Please tell me I didn't hurt you."
You reached out, your trembling hands finding his bare shoulders, your fingers digging softly into his skin to pull him closer.
"Spencer, look at me," you whispered, your voice raspy and broken from screaming his name.
He looked up, his eyes wide, swimming with anxiety and regret.
You didn't let him speak, you leaned forward and captured his lips in a slow deep reassuring kiss. It was completely different from the bruising chaos on the couch, it was soft, wet and filled with a quiet reassurance.
You parted your lips, letting your tongue slide against his, tasting him, showing him with the gentle friction of your mouth that you weren't angry.
"You didn't hurt me," you breathed, a small exhausted smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I loved itā¦ every single second of it. Stop overthinking Spencer."
A shaky breathless laugh escaped his throat, the tension in his broad shoulders finally melting away as he pressed another soft kiss to your lips.
"I'm just an idiot who was terrified you'd never look at me," he mumbled, his voice dropping into a soft quiet tone before he caught himself. "But mostly... I just thought I lost you before I even really had you."
"Well, I'm here with you now," you murmured.
Spencer smiled, a genuine soft expression that reached his eyes. He squeezed the excess water from the warm cloth and with agonizing gentleness, he began to clean you. He wiped the dried sweat from your stomach, his hand slow and steady before moving between your thighs.
Every stroke of the warm cloth was tender, soothing the hyper sensitive throbbing ache between your legs with a care that made your heart swell.
As he cleaned you, he couldn't seem to stop touching you. His free hand rested firmly on your hip, his thumb rubbing small soothing circles into your skin right over the faint red marks his fingers had left earlier.
Every few seconds, he would lean up to plant a soft lingering kiss on your lips, your nose or your forehead as if he needed to constantly remind himself that you were actually here, holding onto him.
You leaned back against the bathroom mirror, your hands sliding up from his shoulders to tangle loosely in his messy hair.
"What are we going to do on Monday?" You asked softly -teasingly- as he tossed the cloth into the sink and wrapped his arms completely around your waist, burying his face in your chest.
Spencer groaned into your skin, his grip tightening possessively around you. "According to section 4, paragraph B of the FBI employee handbook, undisclosed romantic relationships between active field agents can result in reassignment," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin before he looked up, a fierce unyielding look in his eyes. "But I don't careā¦ I'll transfer to a different unit if I have to. I'm not letting you go."
You laughed softly, leaning down to press one final long kiss to his mouth. "Let's figure that out later, right nowā¦ carry me to bed.ā
Tag list: @maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals @hiddentattooodyssey
