Welcome to my Blog! • 37 yr old • Fanfic Writer • My Content Knows No Filter • Just know that when I'm not reading your fics---I'm writing mine • Wattpad | AO3 • Requests Are Closed Fanfiction Masterlist
Hello, and welcome to my fanfiction blog. I am currently way too deep in the Criminal Minds fandom. If you’d 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.
• I would love to be added to your Spencer Reid taglists. 😍
I have ^50 WIPS I am currently working on right now.
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*
📕 SFW Spencer Reid
📕 NSFW Spencer Reid
🎇 MGG/CM Characters
💛30 Days Blurbsgiving
🖤Reidams
✨Holiday Inspired
🚨 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 🚨
Summary: For two years, Reader flirts with and buys presents for her crush. Little does she know a single card is what’ll make him snap.
A/N: This started when I saw the Valentine’s Day card while snooping the internets. Then, I actively searched for ‘suggestive gifts.’ Anyway, please, enjoy some Spencer Smut for Valentine’s Day!!
Beta Reader: @cupcake525
A/N 2: Also, if you’re looking for a SFW Valentine’s Day fic to read from me, please check out Love Notes & Lipstick Kisses!! This is my official entry for @eideticmemory’s 2021 Valentine’s Day Writing Contest! —AND I know I have Emily/Hotch and Luke/Morgan in here like I do… Forgive me. It’s a fantasy.
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
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.
“Not one for handshakes?” 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.
“Actually, I’ve heard from an adorable source that it’s much safer to kiss, don’t you agree, Doctor Reid?” The man blushed a deep crimson, taking a step back to create some distance between us.
“Uhh–yeah, um, you said your name was …”
“Y/N Y/L/N. I’m just here to learn from the tech queen, herself.”
That much was true. I wasn’t cut out to be a profiler, that much I knew. Being welcomed into the coveted 'Batcave’ was a dream come true.
After my first week, I learned that Garcia’s 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.’
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.
“I think I know where our unsub is,” he said, capping his sharpie as he moved to grab is satchel that had been sitting on the chair. “Oh, uhh, Y/N? You drive, right?” I nodded, unsure where he was going with it. “I need a ride to the intersection of 13th and Bouldere Avenue.”
The unsub was apprehended, but not before they shot a bullet into Dr. Reid’s kevlar vest, piercing just enough to then ricochet of, and hit me in the shoulder blade. I had woken up in the hospital with my 'ride or die’ sitting in the chair closest to the bed I was laying in. From that day on, that was my nickname for him.
He’d insisted I call him Spencer, leading us into a very interesting friendship.
Summary: Reader is in love with Reid. He’s fallen for a woman named Maeve. While trying to save her, Reader makes a choice.
A/N: I love this request! So…this will have a happy ending, I promise you all that. It will get very ANGSTY. No Smut. Fluffy Ending. I hope it’s close to what you had in mind when you sent me this request!
Couple: Dr.Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader
Category: Angst. Fluff in the End.
Content Warnings: Mutual Pining. General Case-Related Angst. Mentions of Sex. Jealousy. Cursing. Minor Character Death. Flirting. Hospital Stay. Awkwardness. Love Confessions.
Word Count: 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, that’s 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. He’d stumble into work late, and perpetually disheveled.
Summary: Spencer accidentally tells you he loves you over the phone—and hangs up before either of you can process it. Unfortunately for him, the entire BAU hears his side of the conversation.
Word count: ~620
___________________________________
Spencer’s phone rang while Morgan was stealing crackers from his desk.
“Those are mine,” Spencer said, answering the call.
Morgan opened another packet. “You weren’t eating them.”
“Hi,” Spencer said into the phone, turning away.
“You forgot your satchel,” you told him.
Spencer looked beneath his desk. It was empty. “I noticed.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I was about to.”
“You’ve been at work for three hours.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Clearly. I found your wallet inside it.”
His hand immediately went to his pocket.
Morgan snorted.
“I’ll bring it over,” you said.
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m already nearby, and apparently you can’t be trusted without supervision.”
“I’ve survived thirty-four years.”
“Debatable.”
Spencer smiled. “Drive carefully,” he said. “Love you.” 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.
“Did you just—” Morgan began.
The phone rang again. Spencer answered immediately. “Hi.”
“Did you just tell me you love me and hang up?”
“I didn’t hang up because I said it.”
“You said it and then the call ended.”
“Those events were related, but not intentional.”
“You panicked.”
“I did not panic.”
Morgan coughed loudly. Spencer turned his back on him.
“You panicked,” you repeated.
“I was surprised.”
“By your own feelings?”
“No. I’ve known for some time.”
His voice softened on the last sentence. The bullpen went quiet.
“How long?” you asked.
Spencer glanced around at the people pretending not to listen. “I’d rather discuss that when I don’t have an audience.”
“An audience?”
Morgan waved. Spencer glared at him.
“Unfortunately.”
You laughed.
He relaxed a little. “You still haven’t answered,” he said.
“Answered what?”
His eyebrows pulled together. “You know what.”
“I might need to hear it again.”
“You’re doing this deliberately.”
“Maybe.”
Spencer sighed, but he was smiling. “I love you.” This time, he said it slowly. Deliberately.
“I love you too,” you said.
His smile widened. “You do?”
“I was going to say it tonight.”
“I ruined your plan.”
“You improved it.”
Morgan grabbed Spencer’s shoulder and shook him once. “My man.”
Spencer pulled away. “Please stop.”
“I’ll be there soon,” you said.
“Okay.”
“And Spencer?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t lose anything else.”
He glanced at Morgan, who was eating his last packet of crackers.
“Too late.”
Twenty minutes later, you stepped out of the elevator carrying his satchel. The entire team looked at you. You stopped beside Spencer’s desk. “Why are they staring?”
“They heard me.”
“Not me?”
“No.”
“So they watched you panic alone?”
“I didn’t panic.”
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. “What’s this?”
“Lunch.”
“I brought crackers.”
“Morgan ate them.” said JJ as she passed by.
Spencer looked at him.
Morgan raised the empty wrapper. “Congratulations again.”
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.
“You’re keeping that, aren’t you?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s written on a napkin.”
“That doesn’t make it less important.”
Your expression softened.
Spencer stood and stepped closer. “Can I kiss you?”
“You already told everyone you love me. You might as well.”
He kissed you gently.
Behind you, Garcia gasped.
You pulled away. “Was she here the entire time?”
“No,” Spencer said. “Morgan texted her.”
“Traitor,” you told Morgan.
“Worth it.”
Spencer took your hand. “Come have lunch with me.”
“Are you going to forget me here too?”
“No.”
“You sound confident.”
“I’ve known I loved you for forty-three days.”
You blinked. “You counted?”
“I remember the exact moment.”
“And you’re only telling me now?”
“I had a plan.”
You smiled. “How did that work out?”
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 she’d 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
“So, what are your plans for our mandatory leave from the BAU, Spence?” J.J. asks.
“Oh, my mom and I are going to Ireland. She had so much in Paris, I thought we could enjoy another trip like that again,” Spencer said.
In truth, though, his mother had already told him she wasn’t 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.
“Nonsense, Spencer. How often do you get to take a trip like this? You’re 34 years old, son. You shouldn’t be worrying about me the way you do. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone. You know it’s a leap year this month.” Diana had said.
“Mom, I’m happy with how my life is. I have you. I have my friends. I-” Diana cut him off.
“I know you do, honey. But, do you have someone waiting for you when you go home? Someone who can’t wait to see you again, even if you’d only been gone a minute?” she questioned her son. She was right. Why are mothers always right?
“No, but, Mom. It really doesn’t bother me. I promise you, I’m okay.” Spencer insisted.
And he truly was okay.
Now, though, laying alone in his king-sized bed, he let his mother’s 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.
[𝐝𝐫. 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [☘︎ = personal favourite, ✶ = most popular] Alphabetically sorted because this is my blog, and for some reason, I like it that way
✦ 𝐀 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐄𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬
[4.5k] [fluff w. smutty thoughts] The BAU is overheated, overworked, and one department-wide email away from mutiny. Rossi's solution: a pool party. Spencer's problem: you, a sundress, and the fact that his brain has apparently forgotten how to form complete sentences.
✦ 𝐂𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐭
[2.6k] [fluff] Spencer Reid has spent his life solving problems—patterns, equations, unsubs. But the woman he loves isn't a problem to be solved, and your suffering isn't a case to be cracked. When a heatwave and a medication side effect leave you struggling against your own body, he learns the hardest lesson of all: sometimes, the most important thing you can do is simply stay.
✦ 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐯. 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐮𝐬
[2.1k] [fluff] He came to consult on a behavioural profile. He stayed for the woman who challenged him. And for once, Spencer Reid is perfectly happy to be wrong.
✦ 𝐃𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐎𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬
[3.2k] [smut] When a bullet puts Spencer on bed rest, he's devastated—until you show him that "lying still" doesn't have to mean "missing out."
✦ 𝐏𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚
[2.4k] [angst with open ending] He thinks he's too late. The warehouse is a labyrinth. The unsub is gone. And when he finally finds you, you're barely holding on—pale, bleeding, and looking at him like he's a ghost. Spencer Reid has solved impossible cases before. He's saved victims who had no right to survive. But this is different. This is you. And he's not sure he can survive losing the only person who ever made him believe in happy endings.
✦ 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
☘︎ [3.8k] [smut] "Statistically, the success rate of practical application following targeted research is significantly higher than trial and error alone."
Or: Spencer Reid has been reading. A lot. And he'd like to put his findings to the test.
✦ 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞
✶ [2.7k] [fluff] In which Derek Morgan's teasing backfires spectacularly, and Spencer Reid accidentally reveals he's been keeping a very important secret.
✦ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭
[3.1k] [smut] Spencer Reid has never been able to resist an unsolved mystery. And tonight, you have just become his most fascinating one yet.
✦ 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡
[3.4k] [hurt/comfort] When a grieving father shoves you into a kitchen cabinet during an interview, Spencer is across the room before anyone can blink—hand on the man's chest, voice like steel, all that quiet intensity finally aimed at someone who deserves it. The team is stunned. Morgan is asking questions. And the secret you and Spencer have been keeping for months is about to come crashing down.
: ̗̀➛ [return to navigation] [return to criminal minds masterlist]
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 wedding—going 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 married—just attendees… as a fake couple…
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 :)
🌟Masterlist🌟
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 unit’s rhythm with an infuriatingly effortless grace. You were sharp, your profiling skills were precise and worse… 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!" Penelope’s giggling squeal carried easily across the bullpen.
From the corner of his eye, Spencer watched as you leaned over Garcia’s 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.
Spencer’s grip tightens on his pen until his knuckles turned white. “It’s unprofessional,” he told himself, his mind furiously scrambling to find a logical analytical reason for the sudden hot spike of irritation in his gut. “The bullpen is a secure federal environment. Displaying that level of casual intimacy distracts from the psychological focus required for active cases.”
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.
Spencer’s 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?”
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 Emily’s 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 Emily’s 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.
"I’m 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 Emily’s as you looked between her and Penelope.
"Honestly? If I wasn't working here and if regulations didn't exist, I’d 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.
“A proper date.” 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 Emily’s 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. “What is he looking at me like that for?”
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 Spencer’s 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 Spencer’s 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 and… your voice.
“If I wasn't working here... I’d ask one of you two out on a proper date.”
He pressed his foot harder onto the gas pedal, the engine whining in protest. “It’s a statistical anomaly for a team to maintain a cohesive environment when personal desires cross professional boundaries,” he reasoned, his brain working overtime to build a logical fortress around his breaking sanity. “She’s careless, she’s 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.”
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 Emily’s, he saw the warm easy smile you gave Penelope.
He 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.
Before his mind could formulate a single coherent objection, he was out of the car.
Inside 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 he’d 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. "I’m losing my mind because the operational integrity of our unit is being compromised and nobody else seems to notice or care. Your behavior tonight… 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, it’s 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!"
"It’s 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 Penelope… you tease Emily… you touch them… you smile at them… 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 voice… you look at me like I’m 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 avoidance… 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.
Spencer’s 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. Spencer’s breath caught completely, his hands trembling as he stared down at your bare skin under the dim light of the room. "Look at you… 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 me… do you like it when I touch you like this? When I bite you?"
"Yes!... Fuck yes Spencer… please," you sobbed out, your hands sliding down to his chest, feeling his heart hammering at a dangerous rapid fire speed. “I need you… I need you right now… ple-”
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 this… 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.
"Fuck… 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'm… 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 it… tell me you're my good whore."
"Spencer… fuck yeah~… I'm yours… nghh~... please… 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. "I’m yours Spencer... please... cum for me… 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.
Spencer’s 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.”
"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."
"Mhmm… 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. "Spencer… wait… I'm…"
"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.”
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.
"Spencer… AHH!~... Please…" 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... Spencer… it’s 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? You’re 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.
“You… you can't get enough of it too yeah?” 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.
“You'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 whore… 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. "More… p-please…”
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.
“You think this is over?” He growled darkly against your lips. "I’m going to ruin you for anyone else tonight… you’re 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.
"I… I can't… Spencer... please… I'm too… sensitive," you sobbed, your head tossing against the cushions, your pinned wrists twisting weakly in his iron grip. "It's too much… nghh~... I'm… I'm gonna…"
"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.
"Yeah… take it… 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 control… 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 it… 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 care… 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 now… carry me to bed.”
Tag list: @maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals @hiddentattooodyssey
Summary: Reader is in love with Reid. He’s fallen for a woman named Maeve. While trying to save her, Reader makes a choice.
A/N: I love this request! So…this will have a happy ending, I promise you all that. It will get very ANGSTY. No Smut. Fluffy Ending. I hope it’s close to what you had in mind when you sent me this request!
Couple: Dr.Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader
Category: Angst. Fluff in the End.
Content Warnings: Mutual Pining. General Case-Related Angst. Mentions of Sex. Jealousy. Cursing. Minor Character Death. Flirting. Hospital Stay. Awkwardness. Love Confessions.
Word Count: 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, that’s 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. He’d stumble into work late, and perpetually disheveled.
summary: a wrong assumption lands you in a holding cell, and you come face to face with the one man you didn't read right
includes: smut (MDNI), technically has a plot but not really, no use of y/n, dom!spencer, reader giving brat/switch energy (me again?), power imbalance, reader was arrested (but like it wasn't her fault tho), unresolved feelings, mutual frustration, teasing leads to escalation, car sex, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink hehehe, power and control dynamics, professional lines getting absolutely obliterated, morally gray behavior, not enemies or lovers but a third (worse) thing, technically he's at work but once again... priorities
The room is uncomfortable.
The metal of the bench bites through the thin layer of your stockings. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, one bulb flickering every so often. No velvet. No shadows. No places to hide.
You sit with your arms crossed, spine pressed back against the wall like you’re daring it to push first.
You're freezing.
You're still in your “uniform”—lace, straps, barely-there fabric that was never meant for fluorescent lighting or cold metal benches. The stockings are slightly torn at the knee, a ladder running just enough to catch your eye every time you shift. Your heels are gone, lost somewhere between the squad car and booking, leaving your feet flat against the floor.
Disgusting.
One of the deputies had muttered something about “a statement” before disappearing.
You haven’t been told anything since.
Typical.
Your jaw tightens as you replay it again—his hand, the way it grabbed, entitled and careless. The slap that followed, sharp enough to turn heads. The way his expression twisted after, ego bruised deeper than his cheek.
Assault, he’d said.
Like you were the problem.
You huff under your breath, shifting slightly on the bench, the movement making your left stocking slide down your thigh slightly. You tug it back up without thinking, irritation prickling under your skin like static.
“Comfortable?”
The voice cuts through the room cleanly.
You look up prepared to snap at another officer, then freeze when you see him.
For a second, your brain doesn’t quite catch up. It’s like seeing him out of context has knocked something loose. No low lighting. No quiet room. No heat curling between you.
Just Spencer.
Your lips part before you can stop yourself. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
It’s the lighting, you think distantly. That’s what makes it feel wrong. He doesn’t belong under fluorescent buzz and chipped paint, doesn’t fit between scuffed floors and holding cells. The last time you saw him, everything had been gold and shadow and heat—something soft-edged and dangerous.
This is… sharp. Real.
And it’s been weeks.
Not a few days. Not a blur you could brush off as a one-night lapse in judgment.
Weeks.
Long enough for him to settle into memory instead of expectation. Long enough that you stopped glancing at the door during shifts. Long enough that “later” started to feel like a lie you told yourself.
And yet—
Here he is.
Your gaze drags over him, slower this time, taking him in properly. He's wearing a button-down, sleeves neatly cuffed, a sweater vest pulled over it like something out of a lecture hall, tie slightly loosened at the collar. Dress pants, leather shoes, windbreaker folded over his arm. He looks basically the same as he did that night at your club.
One corner of his mouth lifts—not amusement, not quite—but something close. “Nice to see you again, too.”
You let out a short breath through your nose, still staring at him like if you look long enough he might glitch out of existence.
“Don’t tell me this is your usual hangout,” you mutter, shifting on the bench. “What are you doing here—are you like… what, an office assistant or something?”
It’s meant to be dismissive. A little sharp. Something to take the edge off the way your pulse picked up the second you recognized him.
Spencer’s brow lifts slightly, like he’s filing the comment away for later.
“Office assistant,” he repeats, almost tasting the words. Then, dry, “That’s new.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “You’ve got the whole academic thing going on,” you add, gesturing vaguely at his outfit. “Thought maybe you alphabetize reports or something.”
“I don’t,” he says simply. “I was called in.”
“Called in,” you echo slowly. “To…?”
"Your case was flagged."
You just stare at him."I don't know what that means.”
Spencer shifts his arm slightly, a small, careful motion—like he’s not trying to draw attention, but refusing to hide it any longer.
The windbreaker slips down his forearm.
And there it is.
A badge. And a holstered weapon at his hip.
Your brain takes a second too long to process it.
Not because you don’t see it. Because you do. Very clearly.
Your gaze drops again, slower this time, like if you look at it from a different angle it’ll turn back into something normal. Something explainable. Something that fits the version of him you’ve been carrying around in your head for weeks.
It doesn’t.
He's an officer. You flirted with an officer. You were fingered by an officer.
“I… honestly thought you were, like, a doctor or something before,” you admit.
“I am, technically,” he says. “Doctor Spencer Reid. I’m part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. I was investigating your club the night we met.”
Silence snaps into place. It’s not loud. It’s worse than loud.
You let out a short laugh that doesn’t have any humor in it. “Oh? You mean the night you fing—?”
“I’m not here to discuss that,” he says evenly.
Your head tilts. Something in your chest tightens, hot and ugly.
“Right,” you say slowly. “Of course you’re not.”
You look away from him then, just for a second, because if you keep looking you might do something stupid like remember the way his hands felt instead of the badge you just saw.
The fluorescent light buzzes overhead like it’s laughing at you.
When you speak again, your voice is quieter. Worse somehow.
“So let me get this straight,” you say. “You walk into my workplace undercover, you let me flirt with you, you let me think you’re just some random guy, you don’t tell me you’re FBI, and then I get hauled in here because some cop groped me. And my case was flagged because, what, I work at the club you're investigating?”
“Yes, that exactly,” he says. “I have some questions to ask you. I'm here to take you to Quantico.”
“Quantico,” you repeat flatly.
Spencer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften it. Just holds your gaze like he’s waiting for you to catch up to a reality he’s already standing in.
You exhale through your nose, sharp. Annoyed. A little stunned. A lot of both.
You push yourself off the bench.
The metal complains under your shift in weight, cold peeling away from your thighs as you stand. The windbreaker slides again, too big, too useless, and you tug it down out of pure spite more than modesty.
“Alright,” you say, like you’re agreeing to a schedule change instead of your entire life tilting sideways. “Let’s go then.”
Spencer’s gaze drops as you step forward. His expression shifts. “Where are your shoes?”
You glance down at your own feet like you’ve forgotten they belong to you at all. Bare against the cold floor, toes curling slightly as if that might somehow fix the situation.
For a second, you just stare. Then you shrug.
“I don’t know.”
It comes out simple. Almost bored. Like you’re talking about a missing pen instead of your entire dignity.
Spencer doesn’t respond immediately.
That’s worse.
He looks past the bars, briefly, toward the hallway where the deputies had brought you in. His jaw tightens by a fraction, so small you almost miss it.
Then his attention comes back to you.
Still calm. Still composed. But sharper now.
“Did they remove them when you were booked?”
You lean your weight onto one hip, arms folding again like you can physically hold yourself together through sheer irritation.
“I guess?” you say. “Everything happened kind of fast.”
A beat.
Another.
His eyes flick down again, slower this time, taking inventory without lingering where it doesn’t belong. Stockings. Torn knee. Bare feet on institutional tile.
Then back to your face.
“I brought this for you,” he says, holding out the windbreaker tucked over his arm.
You glance down at it like it might’ve grown teeth since you last looked at it. “I didn’t ask for it.”
“I know.”
That, somehow, makes you bristle more.
You shift your weight, arms still folded tight across your chest like you can physically out-stubborn the situation. “I don’t want it.”
Spencer doesn’t react right away. He just looks at you.
Not the kind of look that slides over skin or lingers in the wrong places. Something steadier. He’s not evaluating your body, your outfit, your attitude.
He’s waiting you out. Like he has time.
The silence stretches.
Fluorescent light hums. Somewhere down the hallway, a radio crackles and dies again.
You tilt your chin slightly, daring him to break first.
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
Your jaw tightens. “Are you always this annoying when you’re working?”
“I’m not being annoying,” he says calmly. “I’m being patient.”
“Same thing.”
A faint flicker crosses his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the idea of one, carefully restrained.
Then he lifts the windbreaker slightly.
“I brought it because it’s cold,” he says. “And you’re clearly underdressed.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Spencer doesn’t even blink at your tone.
It’s almost worse that he doesn’t. Like you’re the only one in the room reacting to anything at all.
His grip tightens slightly on the windbreaker, just enough to crease the fabric.
“It means,” he says evenly, “stop being difficult and put on the jacket so I can get you out of this damn holding cell and out of being arrested for an act of self-defense.”
The words land clean. Too clean.
Like he’s already said them in his head a dozen times before ever walking in here.
You stare at him. Then at the jacket. Then back at him again, incredulous.
“Self-defense,” you repeat slowly, like the concept itself is insulting. “So you do know what happened.”
“I do,” he says.
“And I’m still in here.”
“You don't have to be.”
Your jaw tightens. You hate that your body is cold enough to make this even remotely persuasive. You hate more that he noticed before you even said anything.
With a sharp, irritated exhale, you snatch it from him.
“Fine,” you mutter. “Happy?”
“I will be when you’re warm,” he replies.
That earns him a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass.
You turn your back to him just enough to shrug into it, the oversized fabric swallowing your arms first, then your shoulders. It smells like him in a way that’s annoyingly subtle—like sage and old books, something that makes your brain misfire for half a second before you can stop it.
You refuse to acknowledge that.
Absolutely refuse.
You adjust it roughly, yanking it the rest of the way on like it’s guilty of something. It hangs long, brushing mid-thigh, covering more than you expected and somehow still not enough.
Spencer watches the whole thing without comment.
When you finish, you cross your arms immediately over your chest.
“I’m not zipping it,” you say.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
You narrow your eyes. “Good.”
The hallway is worse than the cell. Too bright, too open, too aware. Everything echoes here—your heels would’ve clicked if you had them, but now it’s just the soft, slightly uneven sound of your bare feet against the floor.
You reach the front desk. The officer there straightens slightly when he sees Spencer, posture shifting into something more attentive.
“Doctor Reid,” he says.
“Is she cleared for release into federal custody?” Spencer asks.
The words are calm. Professional.
A pause. A glance at you. Then back to him. “Yeah. She’s yours.”
Yours.
You hate the way that lands in your chest, like it shouldn’t fit there but does anyway.
Spencer doesn’t react to it. Just nods once. “And her personal effects?”
The officer doesn’t answer right away—just blinks, like he’s been pulled out of autopilot.
“Oh—right. Yeah. I’ll grab it.”
He disappears down the hall with a kind of hurried eagerness that wasn’t there a second ago, like Spencer’s presence alone rewrote the tempo of the room.
When he comes back a moment later, he's carrying a clear evidence bag, the plastic crinkling softly with each step. “Here we go,” he says, holding it out toward Spencer first, then adjusting mid-motion and offering it to you instead.
Inside: your shoes, slightly scuffed. A thick wad of cash, folded tight with a rubber band. Your lipstick, cap a little loose like you’d shoved it in a hurry.
You take it without a word. The plastic is cold in your hands.
“Sign here,” the officer adds, sliding a clipboard across the counter.
You shift the bag to one hand, scribbling your name with the other. It’s messier than usual. You don’t care.
“Thanks,” you mutter, already stepping back.
You don’t bother stepping aside.
You just hook your fingers into the straps of your heels, lift your foot slightly off the ground, and slide them on—one, then the other. Smooth. Balanced. Like you’ve done it a thousand times without thinking.
Because you have.
The leather settles against your skin like something familiar, something that belongs to you in a way none of this does. The extra height shifts your posture instantly—shoulders back, chin up, weight redistributing like a switch flipping back into place.
Armor, in its own way.
When your heel clicks softly against the floor again, you straighten fully.
Better.
You adjust the windbreaker once more, tugging it into place like you’re negotiating with it instead of wearing it, then glance up at him.
“Happy now?” you ask, tone dry.
Spencer’s gaze lingers for half a second—taking in the shift, the regained composure, the way you’ve rebuilt yourself piece by piece in under ten seconds.
Then he nods once. “That’s more practical.”
“Thrilling answer,” you mutter.
He doesn’t rise to it. Of course he doesn’t.
Instead, he gestures subtly toward the exit. “We should go.”
Outside, the air hits different. Cooler. Cleaner. Real in a way the station wasn’t.
It slips under the edges of the windbreaker, brushes your bare thighs, makes you more aware of your body than you’d like to be. The night is quieter here, stretched thin beneath a half-moon that hangs low and watchful above the parking lot.
Spencer walks beside you without touching you.
Not guiding. Not hovering. Just… there.
It’s strange. After everything, you almost expect his hand at your elbow, his voice telling you where to go next. But he doesn’t. He lets you walk at your own pace, heels clicking steadily against the pavement, each step grounding you back into something familiar.
Then you see it.
All black. Clean lines. Government-issued, but polished enough to feel intentional.
He steps ahead of you just slightly, reaching for the passenger door and pulling it open.
You pause, one brow lifting as you glance between him and the SUV.
“Fancy,” you say, the word dipped in sarcasm, like you’re testing how it sounds in your mouth.
Spencer doesn’t take the bait. He just stands there, one hand on the door, waiting.
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, like maybe you can force a reaction out of him through sheer stubbornness.
Nothing.
Your lips press together, something like a huff slipping through your nose before you slide into the seat.
The leather is cold. Smooth. Too nice for the kind of night you just had. He shuts the door behind you with a quiet, solid click.
A moment later, the driver’s side opens. Closes. The engine turns over, low and steady, like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
Figures.
The ride is quiet.
You sit with your arms crossed, angled slightly toward the window, watching the world slip by in streaks of dim streetlights and empty roads. The half-moon follows, or maybe you’re following it—hard to tell.
Your reflection stares back at you faintly in the glass.
Windbreaker too big. Hair slightly out of place. Lipstick faded at the edges.
You look… off.
Not wrong. Just… not put together the way you like.
You hate that he saw you like that. You hate more that he didn’t say anything about it.
The silence stretches.
Five minutes. Maybe ten.
You lose count somewhere between one streetlight and the next.
Spencer’s voice finally cuts through the quiet, measured but softer than before.
“You seem upset.”
You don’t turn right away.
You let the words sit there for a second, like you’re deciding whether they even deserve a response. Then your eyes flick toward him, flat, unimpressed.
“I am,” you say. “Thanks for noticing.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Can I ask why you're taking me to Quantico?”
“You owe me.”
The words land cleanly. Like a fact. Like something already filed away in his head.
You blink once, then turn toward him slowly.
“Oh, I owe you now?” you repeat, voice raising in disbelief.“Do you think you did me some amazing favor?”
His brow lifts slightly, like he’s genuinely trying to understand where you’ve lost him.
“Uh—yes,” he says.
That gets a sharp laugh out of you. Not warm. Not amused. Something edged.
“Of course an FBI agent would think he did me a favor,” you say, leaning back into the seat. “By, what? Taking advantage of me while I was at work?”
Spencer’s hands tighten on the wheel.
“What? No.” The words come out too fast for his usual control, clipped by something sharper underneath. “I got you out of an assault on an officer charge.”
You tilt your head, watching him now like he’s suddenly more interesting than the road.
“Wow, thanks,” you say slowly. Then you glance at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you want in return? A blowjob?”
The SUV swerves half a fraction before Spencer corrects it immediately. His head snaps toward you.
“Could you stop being so dramatic?” he says, incredulous. “I want information.”
“Information.”
“Yes.”
You study him for a moment. His jaw is set, his attention never fully leaving the road—even when he’s speaking to you, like control is something he refuses to loosen even for a second.
“And if I don’t have any?” you ask.
Spencer’s gaze flicks to you briefly. Then back forward.
“Then after the interview, I’ll take you home,” he says, voice leveling out again, “Your home.”
Your lips twitch before you can stop them.
“Generous,” you murmur.
The silence in the SUV thickens after that, like the air itself has decided to stop pretending this is professional.
Outside, the road unspools in pale ribbons of streetlight. Inside, everything feels too contained. Too aware. The kind of quiet that starts listening back.
You shift slightly in the seat, one leg crossing over the other with slow intention, the hem of the windbreaker sliding higher up your thigh again. You don’t fix it this time.
His eyes stay forward, hands steady on the wheel, but there’s a subtle tightening in his grip. A small betrayal of composure.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says after a beat.
You hum lightly. “Doing what?”
“That.”
You glance at him, feigning innocence. “I’m sitting?”
His jaw ticks once, barely there. “Adjusting your posture.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “And the jacket.”
A soft smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “Maybe I’m just cold.”
“You’re not cold.”
That lands sharper than it should.
“And you're not telling me the full truth.”
He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s complicated.”
You laugh under your breath. “That’s FBI for ‘I don’t want to explain it.’”
Spencer glances at you, quick and sharp this time. “It means there’s an ongoing investigation, and you’re connected to it whether you like it or not.”
“Charming,” you say. “So you show up, you take me out of a holding cell, you put me in your car, and suddenly I’m what… evidence?”
“You’re not evidence,” he says immediately.
The speed of it catches you slightly off guard.
You watch him for a second longer. “Then what am I?”
“A lead.”
You lean back into the seat, letting that settle.
“A lead,” you repeat slowly. “That sounds less flattering than I think you meant it to.”
“It’s not about flattery.”
“No,” you agree softly. “It never is with you, is it?”
That earns you a glance. Longer this time. A little less controlled.
“You’re upset,” he says again, like he’s circling the same conclusion from a different angle.
You sigh, tipping your head back against the seat. “Observant again. Give the man a medal.”
“Is it because I didn’t come back?”
You blink once.
Then again.
Your first instinct is to laugh it off. To turn it into something sharp, something light, something that doesn’t stick to your ribs on impact.
“Not everything is about you,” you snap.
The words land sharp, like you meant them to cut and not just deflect. The inside of the SUV feels smaller immediately, air tightening in a way that has nothing to do with physics and everything to do with him suddenly going very still beside you.
Spencer doesn’t answer. No correction. No rebuttal. No gentle unpacking of your tone.
Just silence. Spreading over the next minute.
Until, finally, you give up.
A small, irritated exhale slips out of you as you lean back harder into the seat, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended you.
“Fine,” you snap, the word sharper than you intend. “Yes.”
Spencer glances at you—too long, just a fraction past what’s safe—and then forces his attention back to the road. The car stays steady anyway.
“What can I do,” he asks quietly, “to make up for it?”
You stare at him for a moment.
At the way his hands are still fixed at ten and two, knuckles just a shade too tight against the wheel. At the way his jaw has that quiet tension in it again, like he’s holding himself in place piece by piece. At the way he asked that—what can I do—like he actually meant it.
Like he doesn’t already regret it.
So, naturally, you go for the worst possible answer.
Your lips curve, slow and deliberate, something sharp-edged and a little reckless. “Let me give you that blowjob.”
Spencer doesn’t even blink.
“I’m getting the impression,” he says, eyes fixed on the road ahead, “that you’re used to getting what you want by saying things like that.”
The response lands softer than a rejection—and somehow cuts deeper for it.
Your smile falters.
Just for a second.
You recover quickly, of course. You always do. Your chin tilts, your expression sliding back into something sharper, more practiced.
“Is that a no?” you ask innocently, batting your lashes.
Spencer doesn’t answer.
Not a word. Not even a glance.
It’s almost impressive, the way he just… absorbs it. Like you tossed something sharp at him and he decided it wasn’t worth catching.
Your smile lingers anyway, a little tighter now, a little more deliberate.
Fine.
You shift in your seat, slow, testing. Then you lean toward him.
Not all the way. Just enough that your shoulder angles in his direction, your body turning slightly, like curiosity instead of intent.
Nothing.
His eyes stay on the road. Hands steady. Posture unchanged.
If anything, he looks more focused.
Your tongue presses briefly against the inside of your cheek.
Alright.
You move closer.
The seat creaks faintly under the shift, your thigh brushing the center console this time, your space bleeding into his. The windbreaker slips again, fabric dragging higher, exposing more skin than it covers. The seatbelt tugs against your shoulder, resisting the movement like it knows better. Your breath is closer now, your presence impossible to ignore.
And still—
Nothing.
Something in your chest tightens. Annoyance. Challenge. Something sharper hiding underneath both.
So you push.
Slowly, deliberately, you lift your hand. You don’t rush it. Don’t make it sudden. You let it happen in stages.
Your palm settles against his thigh. Warm through the fabric of his slacks. Solid. Real.
His leg goes rigid under your hand, the muscle locking like a reflex he refuses to follow through on.
You shift your wrist just slightly, letting your touch travel higher along his thigh. Not rushing. Not forcing. Just testing the line he’s drawn like you’re seeing how much ink will smudge before the page gives out.
Still no glance your way.
You tilt your head, watching him from the corner of your eye like this is all still a game you’re meant to win.
“Still focused on the road?” you murmur softly.
His jaw tightens.
“Yes,” he says, clipped. Controlled.
It makes something in you flare hotter. Your hand continues upward.
The car feels smaller with every inch. The space between you and him no longer behaves like space at all. It behaves like pressure.
Your fingertips brush him through the fabric again, firmer this time, and that’s when everything changes.
Spencer inhales sharply through his teeth.
A clean break in his composure.
His grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening in an instant. The car stays steady, but only because he forces it to.
“You’re going to get us killed,” he says, voice lower now, rougher at the edges.
“Seems dramatic,” you tease. “Do you want me to stop?”
Spencer goes very still. His eyes stay on the road. Hands locked at ten and two. Jaw set like he’s holding something back by force alone.
Then, quieter than before, he says, “No.”
The smile on your face is immediate.
You don't wait for permission or a second warning; your hands move with practiced efficiency, undoing his belt with a metallic click that sounds deafening in the quiet cabin. You tug his fly down and reach in to pull him free without a hint of hesitation.
You waste no time on theatrics or teasing. You unbuckle your seatbelt, lean over the center console, and take him into your mouth in one smooth, deliberate motion. The heat of him against your tongue is immediate and overwhelming, and you hear the air leave his lungs in a harsh, stuttering gasp.
"Fuck—"
The curse is barely out before the SUV lurches to the right.
The vehicle grinds to a halt on the shoulder of the road, throwing you forward slightly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you moan around him, the vibration drawing a ragged sound from deep in his chest that is half-groan, half-desperate warning.
His hand is in your hair immediately, fingers tangling into the strands.
You don’t let up. If anything, the sudden stop and his reaction just spur you on.
You flatten your tongue against the underside of him, dragging it up slowly, deliberately, relishing the weight of him on your tongue before taking him deep again.
His hips jerk involuntarily, followed by a ragged groan. It’s a raw, unfiltered noise—completely different from the composed, clinical agent persona he’s been projecting.
You hum around him again, a low, satisfied sound, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair to the point of pain.
He’s trying to hold back, trying to keep some modicum of control, but the way his breathing has turned into shallow, desperate hitches tells you he’s already losing the battle.
You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue over the head, teasing the sensitive slit before sinking down again.
The response is immediate—his head falls back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as a string of curses escapes his lips, quiet and harsh in the confined space.
It’s intoxicating, him coming undone like this, stripped of his composure and reduced to nothing but sensation.
You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, and listen to the way his breath catches, the wet heat of your mouth drowning out everything else.
You can feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his entire body is drawn tight like a bowstring. You double your efforts, bobbing your head faster, letting your teeth graze him just enough to elicit a sharp hiss.
The sounds he's making now are unrestrained—broken moans and harsh exhales that he can't seem to swallow, and you know you've won.
The rush of power is intoxicating—a heady, electric surge that makes your blood hum. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, ready to push him right over that edge, ready to finally crack him wide open.
But then his hand in your hair changes.
It stops cradling the back of your head and tightens—sharp, sudden, insistent. The sting radiates across your scalp, enough to make your eyes water, just enough to make you freeze.
"Stop," he breathes out, the word ragged but absolute.
He doesn't give you a chance to argue or tease, just applies firm, upward pressure with his fist tangled in your hair. The message is clear, stripping away the power play in an instant and replacing it with an undeniable command.
You pull back, the suction breaking with a loud, wet pop that seems obscenely loud in the sudden, heavy stillness of the car.
You sit up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your breathing uneven. You look at him, expecting to see bliss or surrender, but what you find is even better.
He’s wrecked—face flushed, chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy.
"Get in the back," he says, his voice rough, stripping away the last veneer of the composed FBI agent.
You blink, stunned for half a second by the sheer authority in his tone. It’s not a request. It’s a command.
Your heart hammers against your ribs as you scramble to obey, clambering over the center console with clumsy haste.
You barely have time to find your balance before Spencer is there, crowding into the space after you with a frantic lack of grace that makes your breath catch.
He doesn't give you a moment to recover or to regain the upper hand—his hands are on you immediately, gripping your hips to pull you flush against him while his knees hit the floor mats with a dull thud.
The windbreaker is shoved off your shoulders without ceremony, left to pool forgotten on the seat as he looms over you, his gaze dark and heavy enough to pin you in place without him even touching you.
He kisses you then, and it’s nothing like the careful, composed man you’ve been dealing with all night. It’s messy and desperate, teeth clicking together as he pours every ounce of his fractured control into the slide of his mouth against yours.
One hand tangles back into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slides down your body, skimming over your waist to grab the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up and over his hip.
The movement presses him flush against your core, the rough fabric of his slacks and your torn stockings dragging together in a way that makes you gasp into his mouth.
"God," he mutters against your lips, the word muffled and wrecked. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“No idea,” you gasp against his mouth, the words breathless and ragged. “Show me.”
He lets out a low, ragged groan that vibrates against your mouth, pure frustration finally snapping its leash. There’s no hesitation left in him, no careful testing of the waters.
His hand slides from your hip and dips straight under the lace covering you.
He doesn’t give you a second to adjust, to breathe, to regain any semblance of the upper hand you thought you held. His fingers slide up the inside of your thigh, blunt and demanding, tracing the wet heat there with a kind of intent focus that feels more like an interrogation than foreplay.
When he finally pushes two fingers inside you, it’s sudden and unrelenting, forcing a cry out of you that he swallows immediately with his mouth, kissing you deeply to stifle the sound.
The angle is awkward, the space too cramped, but he makes it work with a desperate kind of efficiency.
He curls his fingers, and you shudder violently, your head falling back against the headrest.
The heel of his hand presses firmly against your clit, grinding down in a way that makes your vision go white at the edges. You gasp, your hips bucking up against him involuntarily, desperate for more friction, more anything to ease the ache he’s building inside you.
He slows his pace—just enough to be tormenting—dragging his fingers out almost to the knuckle before pumping them back in, slow and deliberate.
He pulls his mouth back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your lips, his voice a low, rough scrape that sounds more like a challenge than a question.
"Did you miss this?"
He punctuates the question with a deliberate curl of his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body jerk. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and heavy, drinking in every gasp and tremor like data he needs to collect.
"Is this what you’ve been thinking of all night?" he murmurs, his tone shifting, dropping into something lower, almost mocking. "While you were dancing on that stage? While you were in that holding cell? Is this the scenario you were hoping for when you decided to test my limits in the front seat?”
"Fuck you," you gasp, the words scraping out of your throat, jagged and breathless. You try to inject it with venom, try to make it sound like an insult, but it comes out wrecked—punctuated by a sharp cry as his fingers crook inside you again.
His mouth ticks up at the corner. It’s not a kind smile—it’s sharp, knowing, and entirely too pleased with himself. "So close to asking for what you want."
A high, broken noise tears out of your throat as his fingers curl again.
Your hips jerk up off the seat, chasing the friction, chasing the pressure, your body entirely betraying the sharp retort dying on your tongue. The heel of his hand grinds down against your clit in slow, deliberate circles that are just shy of enough, keeping you suspended on that agonizing edge where every nerve ending feels raw and exposed.
"God," you gasp, your head falling back against the headrest, your eyes squeezing shut as your hands fist desperately in the fabric of his shirt. "Please—"
"Please what?" he asks. He doesn't stop the movement of his wrist, but he slows it, dragging his fingers against that sensitive spot with maddening precision until your thighs are trembling around his hand. "You’re a smart girl. You know how to use your words. Ask me for what you want."
"Fuck me," you breathe out, the words ragged and scraped raw from your throat. It’s not a request; it’s a demand, a desperate, breathless command born of frustration and a need so deep it feels like it’s eating you alive from the inside out. "Hell, Spencer, just fuck me."
The composure he’d been clinging to shatters instantly. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't tease—he just moves with a sudden, frantic efficiency. He grips himself, lines up, and pushes into you in one hard, deep thrust that punches the air out of your lungs.
The stretch is sudden, a sharp, stinging burn that fades immediately into a deep, overwhelming ache. You cry out, your head falling back against the leather as your body struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion.
It’s too much, too fast, and for a second, you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but cling to his shoulders and ride out the shock of it.
Spencer stills.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and hot against your skin, but he doesn't move. He holds himself there, giving you a moment to catch up, his hand shifting from your hip to cradle the back of your head almost gently.
"Need you to breathe for me, sweetheart." His hand strokes through your hair, soothing where his grip had been demanding only moments before, the contrast making your head spin.
Slowly, almost agonizingly, he starts to move. He pulls back just an inch, then presses forward again, testing your give, watching your face with an intensity that feels like he’s cataloging your every reaction.
"That's it," he breathes, his voice dropping into a warm, approving tone that makes your chest tighten. "You take it so well. Look at you, being so good for me now." He rocks deeper, the slow drag forcing a broken whimper from your lips, and he rewards you with another kiss, this one lingering and impossibly tender. "So beautiful when you let go."
The deliberate pace is a torture of its own design. He keeps his thrusts measured and deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, but he never rushes, never lets the rhythm fracture into something messy. He’s holding all the strings, orchestrating every gasp and shudder with a terrifying, gentle precision.
When your nails dig into his shoulders, desperate for more friction, he just captures your mouth in a kiss that swallows the sound, murmuring, "I know, I know. You can handle it. You're doing so good, just a little more for me, okay?"
He shifts the angle of his hips slightly, grinding into you rather than thrusting, and the change in pressure makes your back arch off the seat. A breathless moan tears from your throat, and instead of silencing you, he catches your earlobe between his teeth, nipping gently before soothing the sting with his tongue.
"Perfect," he breathes, the word sinking into your skin like a brand. "Look at you—so beautiful. Not arguing, not fighting me. Just taking exactly what I give you."
The praise wraps around your senses, warm and dizzying, effectively blurring the sharp edges of your own defiance until there's nothing left but the friction of his body against yours and the overwhelming need to please him. Every time your internal muscles flutter around him, he lets out a low, hum of approval, rewarding your surrender with deeper, harder strokes that make it impossible to think.
The coil inside you tightens to a breaking point, a trembling inevitability that steals the air from your lungs. "Spencer, please," you gasp, the words tumbling out without permission, stripped of any demand and left as pure, desperate pleading. "I need—"
"I know," he cuts in softly, not unkindly, but with that same quiet authority that makes your bones feel like water. "I've got you. Let go for me." His rhythm never falters, driving into you with a deep, rolling precision that feels less like he's chasing his own end and more like he's guiding you inevitably toward yours. "Come on, sweetheart. Be good and let me feel you."
The command snaps the last thread of your control.
The pleasure crests and breaks, a white-hot wave that tears the air from your lungs. Your body seizes, back bowing off the seat, and in that moment of absolute unraveling, your legs clamp around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him impossibly deeper.
It’s the involuntary lock of your thighs around his hips that finally does something.
His rhythm—which has been so measured, so controlled, so agonizingly perfect—stutters. A sharp, ragged gasp tears from his throat, his composure fracturing instantly under the sudden, tight heat of your release. He tries to hold back, you can feel the way his muscles lock up, the strain radiating through his shoulders as he fights to keep from taking you too hard, but it's a losing battle with you.
"Spencer, please—don't hold back," you gasp, your voice wrecked and trembling, barely recognizable as your own. The desperation claws at your throat, making each plea jagged and raw. "Fuck me like you mean it, let go—please, I can take it, I promise, just let go for me."
The words seem to snap the last tether of his restraint. A low, guttural sound tears from his chest, something between a groan and a growl, and the careful, measured rhythm shatters entirely. He pulls back, hands gripping your hips with an almost bruising force, and then drives into you with a deep, punishing thrust that knocks the air out of your lungs.
The control is gone, replaced by a frantic, desperate rhythm as he finally takes exactly what he needs. He fucks you into the seat with hard, relentless strokes, the leather creaking beneath you, the world narrowing down to the friction and the heat and the overwhelming feel of him losing himself inside you. "You feel so good," he grits out, his voice ragged and breathless, dropping the praise into your ear like a confession. "Taking me so well—god, I'm gonna—"
It’s not a graceful ending. It’s a chaotic, messy collision, the last of his discipline dissolving entirely under the force of his release. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, broken shout that he tries unsuccessfully to muffle against your jaw, his whole body seizing up as he spills inside you.
The rhythm fractures into short, shallow jolts, his grip on your hips turning desperate and bruising as he rides out the shockwaves, anchoring himself to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from flying apart.
For a long moment, the only sound in the car is the harsh, uneven synchrony of your breathing, the air thick and humid with the scent of sex and heat.
Spencer collapses against you, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his weight solid and grounding. You can feel the frantic thud of his heart against your ribs, beating a frantic rhythm that matches your own. His hands slowly loosen their hold, one coming up to cradle the back of your head again, with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
Gradually, the reality of the cramped backseat starts to intrude—the awkward angle of your legs, the leather sticking to the cooling sweat on your skin.
He shifts slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the pulse point below your ear before pulling back just enough to look at you. The dark intensity is gone from his eyes, replaced by a soft, slightly unfocused haziness that makes him look younger, stripped of his defenses.
He reaches out, tucking a strand of sweat-dampened hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. "You okay?" he asks softly, his voice raspy and wrecked, sounding less like a question and more like a need to reassure himself.
A breathless laugh escapes you, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, light and dizzying. "Yeah," you manage, your voice sounding scratchy and used. "I'm... I'm good. So good."
Spencer huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, the vibration humming through you both, before he pulls away.
He shifts carefully, bracing one hand beside your head so he doesn’t crush you with his weight, his other hand already moving with quiet purpose.
You feel it before you fully register what he’s doing.
The brush of his fingers at your hip. The gentle tug of lace back into place where it’s twisted wrong. The slow, deliberate smoothing of fabric over your thigh, thumb grazing just a second longer than necessary before moving on.
Just like before. Like this is just… something he does, putting you back together.
You watch him as he works, your head still tipped back against the seat, your body loose and heavy in a way you’re not used to. He doesn’t look at you right away. His attention stays on his hands, on the small, precise adjustments—fixing a strap, pulling the windbreaker back up over your shoulders, tugging it closed just enough to cover you.
“I'm sorry,” he says once he's done. “For not coming back.”
You look at him properly now, and it’s disorienting in a way that has nothing to do with what just happened in the backseat. His hair is a mess, his tie half undone, his lips still flushed, but his eyes are steady.
Too steady.
“I meant to,” he continues, voice low, rough around the edges but controlled in a way that feels deliberate. “That night wasn’t… it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I was there to work. I shouldn’t have—”
“You did,” you cut in.
He stops.
You swallow, your throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with earlier.
“You did,” you repeat, softer this time. “And then you just… disappeared.”
There’s no bite in it now. No edge to hide behind.
Spencer’s jaw tightens slightly, like he’s absorbing that instead of arguing it.
“I know,” he says. “And I should have handled it differently.”
A humorless breath leaves you, something that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t quite make it.
“That’s one way to put it.”
The words hang there for a second, not sharp enough to cut, not soft enough to soothe. Just… there. Like something set down between you that neither of you feels like picking back up.
Spencer watches you for half a beat longer, like he might say something else. Like there’s a version of this conversation where he explains, where he untangles all the threads he left knotted.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he exhales quietly, the sound controlled, deliberate. A reset.
“We should get going,” he says, voice steadier now, slipping back into something more structured, more familiar. “We’ve been here longer than I planned.”
You blink at him, the shift almost jarring in its normalcy. “You’ve got a curfew?”
“Not exactly,” he replies, already reaching for the door, pushing himself back toward the front seat with a kind of quiet efficiency. “But my team will start asking questions if I’m gone much longer.”
You sit up slowly, adjusting the windbreaker around yourself again, fingers smoothing the fabric like it matters more than it does.
You sit there a second longer after he moves, the backseat still warm, still holding the ghost of everything that just happened like it doesn’t quite know how to let go.
The door opens. Shuts. The soft thud feels louder than it should.
Then the faint shift of weight as Spencer settles back into the driver’s seat. Fabric rustling. The quiet click of his seatbelt. The small, controlled exhale he gives like he’s putting himself back into a shape he recognizes.
You don’t follow.
You could. It would be easy. Slide forward, reclaim the passenger seat, rebuild that thin line of normalcy he’s clearly trying to restore.
But you don’t.
Instead, you lean back into the leather, one leg stretching out across the seat, the other bent slightly, your heel tapping once against the floor before going still.
Spencer doesn’t look at you directly. Just a flick of his eyes, quick and measured, through the rear view.
Spencer finds himself locked in a room with his rival. Based on:
warning: 18+ explicit content including oral (both), hair-pulling, chocking, and unprotected, semi-public, hate sex
words: 6.8k (I'm a smut-with-a-plot kind of person)
a/n: this is not enemies to lovers. This is, quite frankly, enemies to (fuckable) enemies. Also, we hit 1.2k followers!! Tysm!! I legit made this blog 2 months ago that’s crazyyy😳
MASTERLIST
“…mind games until you lose control…”
CHANGE WAS INEVITABLE WHEN IT CAME TO HIS WORK. Spencer encountered many great people walking through the door of the bureau throughout the years he worked as a profiler. Most of them he genuinely liked, and most of them he considered more than mere colleagues. But from all the people he had to work with, there was one person he really couldn't stand.
"Move out of the way, Reid, you're blocking the way."
He turned to see the last person he wanted to indulge in standing close to him, a hand on her hip and a frown on her face. "There is literally enough space for you to pass through."
"And jeopardize myself by touching you?" She wrinkled her nose. "I think I'll pass."
His gaze, usually warm and welcoming, hardened into a steely resolve. It pierced through her like an icy dagger, radiating an unmistakable contempt. He then backed away, walking further into the room that held rows of shelving units lining up the space. "What are you even doing here?"
"Well, ever since we found the victim's body surrounded by those cryptic signs, it reminded me of the cult massacre which happened in—"
"St. Joseph, 1947," he finished.
"Yeah, although this isn't mass murder, I thought the nature of the death was very similar to that old case." He could practically hear the smugness in her voice as she continued, "I also knew you'd be here and wanted to beat you to it."
His gaze settled on her standing by the door. "I don't think that's going according to plan considering I was here before you arrived."
"Please, you just got here. I bet I can find the files before you do."
His brows furrowed. How could he not feel some kind of disdain when she was acting the way she was? One might say he was acting too immature for his age, for a man who was close to pushing forty he did consider himself too old for petty fights. But it was hard to keep his composure when she was often the one taunting him, ridiculing him with that haughty mouth of hers.
It was better to ignore her presence completely, so he did just that, focusing his attention on the files in front of him as she stepped into the room.
She frowned, feeling her throat clenching before coughing out loud as dust particles greeted her entrance. She was busy trying to swat the specks of dust away from her face when something solid suddenly nudged her feet. Her eyes swept towards the floor.
"Why is this massive book laying here?" She picked up the thick paperback and read its title. "The Anatomy of Motive?"
Spencer's head snapped in an alert. "Wait! Don't—"
But it was too late. The old wooden door hanging loosely on its rusted hinges creaked without any support to keep it ajar, and with a resounding thud, it closed, the sound echoing through the stagnant air. "I put that there for a reason," he grumbled. "And now we're stuck here."
She leaned forward and wrapped her hand around the handle, trying to yank the door open. The panic on her face was evident when it didn't budge. "Shit."
"You can only open it from the other side."
She turned towards him. "Do you have your phone with you?"
"No."
She groaned because her own device was also securely tucked in her bag. Not wanting to be locked in a room with the last person she wanted to be with, she started pounding on the door frantically. "Help! Penelope! Luke!" Bang. Bang. "Anyone!"
"Nobody's going to hear you."
She tuned him out.
"Emily! JJ!" She pressed herself against the door, drawing her mouth close towards the tiny gap between the wooden panel and the wall. "Help! We're locked in!" She suddenly caught his movement from the corner of her eyes and turned to him, noticing the way he was already studying a file.
"What are you doing?"
He slipped back the document into the cabinet and went through the other folders. "Might as well work until they realize we're gone."
She straightened herself and glanced at the watch around her wrist. "But it's late. What if everyone's gone home and we're stuck here for the night?" A thought struck her and she looked up in horror. "Or for days?"
"Then you have yourself to blame."
She glared at him. "You're not helping."
Spencer looked up to see her jaw clenching, accentuating the sharp angles of her face. Her normally composed features, so delicately balanced, now seemed to unravel in a heat of fury. It was the only expression she held every time she had to deal with him.
He glanced away and focused back on his task. "Don't worry, we have a team of competent profilers. If they can find dangerous criminals throughout the country, they can also find their two missing agents."
She considered his words and acknowledged the truth behind them, so she reluctantly moved to the other side of the room, going through the shelves opposite of him. The space went completely still as they both went through the stack of folders shelved between the old cabinets. It wasn't until curiosity got the better of him that he finally looked up, his eyes falling onto her form.
Her back was facing him, giving him a view of her tousled hair falling down over her shoulders. His eyes involuntarily trailed the contours of her body, betraying a mixture of intrigue and curiosity. His gaze lingered upon the gentle curve of her shoulder, the graceful line of her spine, and the sway of her hips as she moved onto the next shelf, her steps echoing through the silence and it was then he realized she was wearing heels.
Again.
This wasn't the first time she decided to wear shoes that looked very uncomfortable to wear. Who even wore heels in this line of work? Being an FBI agent meant you had to be quick on your feet because anything could happen unexpectedly. He once voiced out his opinion on this matter, which she only answered with, "My choice of clothing won't reduce the capability of my brain, Reid. You and I are still doctors even if I wear a bathing suit to work."
"It's not about your choice of clothing, it's about being practical."
"That's why I keep a pair of sneakers in my drawers,” she had haughtily replied, then narrowed her eyes at him. "And don't comment on my shoes when I've held myself from judging on your ugly cardigans."
His cardigans were not ugly.
He shook the memory away as eyes roamed over her again, noticing her very exposed legs. She was also wearing a skirt today, something she often did and something he never dared to have an opinion on, knowing she would probably bite his head off if he did.
"Stop staring at me."
Spencer cleared his throat at being caught. "I wasn't."
"I could practically feel your eyes on me." She looked over her shoulder. "I have great spidey senses."
There was a sudden pause. "Spidey senses?"
"Yeah, like Spiderman." When he didn't respond, she turned around and faced him. "Please tell me you know who Spiderman is?"
When he returned her gaze with a frown, she couldn't help but laugh, turning her back towards him again. "You know this is why people like me better than you. We both may be smart, but you got to admit, my knowledge doesn't simply stop on academics."
He should've been offended by her words, he should've countered back a vile reply, but her voice became white noise to him as he watched her body leaning down, picking up a document that slipped from her grasp. His eyes caught the way the tight skirt clung to her form like a second skin. The fabric, stretched taut against her curves, highlighted the alluring lines of her figure. The skirt's snug fit caressed her thighs, tracing their slender form and hinting at the softness beneath.
This wasn't the first time he noticed her beauty in this type of way, beneath all that glare she often carried whenever he was around her, he knew she was an attractive woman. It was her personality that often stopped him from marveling this insight. But being in this closed, tight space, Spencer was forced to study her, and with the way his body was reacting, he knew his lingering stare was more than simple admiration.
He could feel his blood pulsing down south, tightening underneath the confinement of his pants.
As she straightened herself, she felt a sudden shift in the atmosphere. She turned her head and noticed his eyes training on her body.
"You're still staring." She then caught a glimpse of something unguarded in his gaze, something that was definitely far from hatred. Her mind whirled with questions, trying to decipher the meaning behind it. "Stop looking at me like that."
A hint of a smile played on his lips. "Like what?"
"Like you either want to strangle me or—"
"Or?" He prompted.
Like you want to eat me alive.
It was the only way she could describe it. She was aware of how his eyes usually pierced her, how every movement she made or word she uttered could trigger this immense disdain radiating from him. But now the weight of his gaze bore down upon her, casting a palpable heat that danced across her skin. Something had changed, and she felt it in the intensity of his eyes, so different from the usual hostility she had come to expect.
They held a predatory gleam as if he could pounce on her at any moment.
“If I hadn't known you better," she carefully spoke, watching as he took a step towards her, and she took one back, bumping into the wall. "I'd say you're trying to flirt with me with those eyes."
"Me? Flirt with you?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Don't flatter yourself."
She scoffed, squaring her shoulders as he closed the distance between them. "You're right. What was I thinking? You can't even flirt to live."
"You don't even know how I flirt."
"Reid, I've seen you flirt," she said between fits of laughter. "Remember you tried getting that cop's number? You were stuttering and suddenly giving her facts about oil paintings. Paintings."
"She had an interest in fine art," he stated. "And if you must know, after giving those informative facts, I told that no amount of art could ever compare to her beauty as a compliment.”
She snorted, shaking her head in disbelief. "And that actually worked? She gave you her number?"
"No." Then a smirk curled on his lips. "But she did come home with me."
She frowned. That was new information. She never really thought about what went on in his love life, but hearing him implying his active sex life had her feeling strange. "She did?"
He took another step forward. "If I hadn't known you better," he carefully spoke, mimicking her words before. "I'd say you're jealous."
She tilted her head up and scowled at him. "Even if you were the last person on this planet I wouldn't consider breathing in the same air with you."
She waited for his response, but he didn't even seem to be bothered by her words. And as they stood there, holding each other's gaze, she became acutely aware of everything; their close proximity, the warmth radiating from his body, and the rise and fall of his chest. His unfamiliar scent lingered in the air, a distinct combination of earthy musk and a hint of something indefinable. She had never allowed herself to notice it before, but now it was impossible to ignore.
Her eyes then traced the lines on his face, sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and finally settled on his eyes. At first, she thought her eyes was deceiving her, but she knew exactly what held behind his gaze. It was the same expression she saw in all her past lovers. It wouldn’t have surprised her to see the same intensity on other men, but to see it on him? The guy who had always hated her guts the moment she corrected his statistic rants the first time they met?
Spencer fucking Reid?
It was too much for her to handle. She was used to his piercing gaze, his evident disdain. Not this. It became almost overwhelming that she decided to step away.
Just as she turned to retreat from the intensity of his gaze, her body froze as she felt warm fingers gripping her wrist. The contact sent a jolt through her body and her eyes snapped back at him. "What the hell are you doing?"
Ah, there it was, that hatred she was looking for blazing in his eyes again. "You see, I don't like you."
"Good." She held her chin up. "The feeling's mutual."
"You think you're better than everybody else, you think you're better than me."
She was about to retort another response when he suddenly yanked her, a gasp leaving her mouth. "But somehow I can’t help myself from wanting to taste you.”
Then it happened so fast. One moment she was trying to register what was happening, the next thing she knew his lips were on hers, moving frantically in desperate hunger. She couldn't believe he was actually kissing her. It also burned her up inside to find he was good at it. She wanted him to be all teeth and awkward so she could sneer at him and push him away, but he was holding her face in his hands like they hadn't spent months sniping at each other.
A turmoil of thoughts swarmed her mind—What are you doing? Why are you kissing him back? What the hell is wrong with you?—while she gripped onto his arm as a pleased sigh slipped through her mouth before she could catch it.
He slowly pulled away from her, eyes glittering in mischief. "Would you look at that?" he muttered, gripping her jaw and tilting her face like he was appraising her. "All bark and no bite."
She shoved his hands away from her face, ignoring how nice it had felt, wide and warm and firm. "Don't test me."
"Yeah?" His hand settled on her hip, pulling her against him deliberately slow, giving her every opportunity to knock his hand away, to sidestep him, to tell him to stop, but she didn't. He took it as a sign to run his hand behind her. "I think you're bluffing."
Her heart quickened when she felt him gently squeezing her ass. "A-About what?"
"All this bravado of yours," he taunted, his hands now trailing down to her sides. "I bet there's something sweet underneath all this bitterness."
"You don't know me," she hissed breathlessly. It was difficult to keep snapping back at him when his other hand ran up her leg, pushing her skirt up as he went, his grip encompassing the entire width of her thigh.
"Maybe not. But I'm always up for a challenge." His calloused hand brushed at the lacy edge of her underwear and she sucked in a shaky breath. "Let's see how long you can keep up with this attitude."
She opened her mouth to say something snippy, but he ducked down and kissed the words out of her mouth with a low groan. Her brain suddenly froze when his finger curled under the outline of her underwear and tugged it to the side, trailing his slender finger through her bare slit.
A smirk curled at the corner of his lips as pulled away, trailing his mouth along her jawline. His finger brushed along her slickness and it took a lot of self-control for her not to moan. "How are you already so wet?"
Although a small gasp emitted from her as she felt him sliding a finger, and when his thumb pressed against her clit, she closed her eyes, tossing her head to the side at the feeling of him filling her up.
"You're awfully quiet," he murmured against her neck, sucking a bruise against her soft skin as he began to pump his finger. "Who would've thought I had to touch you to keep your mouth shut."
She bit her bottom lip, fighting against the pleasure that surged through her, desperately trying to suppress the enjoyment coursing through her veins. "I hate you."
"No, you don't." His tone was vexingly calm, and all it did was rile her up more. She wished he'd match her frustration because his composure was annoying. Then to make matters worse, he let out an amused laugh. He fucking laughed. "Look at you trying to hold yourself back."
"I'm not—fuck." She gasped as she felt his finger curling inside her.
"Keep telling yourself that." He added another finger and she slumped against the wall, pressing back hard to keep herself upright as he pumped his wrist. "It's okay to admit you're enjoying this."
"I-I'm not," she huffed indignantly.
"Has anyone ever told you you're a bad liar?"
Her breath mingled with the sound of her arousal echoing in the narrowed space as he drove his fingers into her faster. "Shut up, Reid." She then grabbed onto his arm as the pleasure intensified, nails digging into his skin. "You think you're so smart, so full of yourself—"
"You really like picking up a fight, don't you? That's why you always have an attitude with me." His lips brushed her ear. "It gets you worked up. It gets you wet."
She quickly shook her head. "I just don't like you."
"Hmm." He leaned back and watched the way she tensed beneath his touch, her muscles coiling with delicate restraint. It was as if she fought against the pleasure that threatened to consume her, seeking to maintain control even as her body betrayed her desires. "I wonder if you'll like it as much if I put my head between your thighs."
The thought of having his face buried right where her arousal burned drove her over the edge. Her body betrayed her and she knew he could feel it too. "Oh wow, you're clenching around my fingers," he hummed in satisfaction. "Is that what you want? You want me to eat you out?"
"No," she mumbled but he found her hips bucking against his palm.
"Your body is saying otherwise." He withdrew his fingers but kept rubbing tight circles against her clit. Her blood was hammering under her skin and her legs shook as she tried to roll her hips up against his hand again. "Say you want me between your thighs."
She gritted her teeth, her muscles tightening in a valiant effort to hold back the mounting pleasure that begged to be unleashed. "I'm not saying that."
"Are you sure?" His other hand traveled along the back of her head before fisting her hair in his hand, exposing the column of her throat to him. "Don't you want to come all over my face?"
"Reid..." she mumbled hopelessly, her head spinning as his hot breath brushed against her skin. The thought of admitting that infuriated her because him actually getting her off was something she'd never live down. This was Spencer Reid, the man who had always infuriated her with his know-it-all statistics as if she hadn't already known half of the things he said.
But damn it, she really wanted him between her thighs.
"Say it," he repeated, moving his hand away entirely, and she grabbed his wrist desperately, pulling his fingers back to where she wanted them. "Say I want your mouth on me, Spencer, and I'll happily oblige."
"Reid—"
"Spencer," he corrected. "Say it."
Her body quivered, a taut wire stretched to its limit, yearning to snap under the weight of the pleasure that coursed through her. And then his finger suddenly stopped its movement and she knew he wasn't going to touch her again until she gave in. If that's how he wanted it, fine. She was going to consider this as one of their silly mind games, their usual banter whenever they tried to outwit one another. She could figure out a way to get back at him later. She could swallow her pride for now.
"I want your mouth on me," she reluctantly caved in.
"Did you forget my name?"
Unbelievable.
"I fucking hate you," she sneered. Then she pushed him away from the crook of her neck and leveled her gaze on him. "Just put your fucking mouth on me, Spencer."
He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "You have a very foul mouth."
But true to his words, he eventually dropped to his knees, his hands trailing on either of her sides before he slipped her underwear down her legs. His fingers trailed along her skin as he did it, prickling the depth of her anticipation even when her mind was still trying to comprehend what she was letting herself in.
Because she had never thought of getting eaten out at work, let alone with someone she hated. Sure, hate was a very strong word, but it was what she was used to feeling whenever it came to him. It was easy to engross her hatred every time he treated her differently from the others.
Hate she could do, it came naturally to her. But to desire him, actually wanting him to bury his face between her thighs, was starting to mess her up, and not in a bad way. Not in a way that had her feeling repulsed, but in a way that made her want to grab onto his hair and pull his face right at the center of her heat.
Spencer looked up at her and smiled, as if he knew what she was thinking, and pushed up her skirt around her hips. His eyes bored into her as he hiked one of her legs onto his shoulder. His gaze traveled down her body, taking in her flushed cheeks—out of anger or embarrassment, he didn't know—and continued to sweep over the curve of her breasts before they stopped right in front of him.
"Look at you." He leaned closer, his breath brushed her damp skin. "Aren't you a pretty thing?"
There was something compelling about having Spencer sinking on his knees before her, but having his mouth wrapped around her clit pulled away her senses and her legs started to buckle that she had to grab onto the nearest cabinet for support. She stifled a moan, not expecting the enthusiastic way he devoured her from below with frantic motions of his wandering tongue.
This was so wrong. However, heat continued washing over, traveling up towards her face and burning at the tips of her ears. The more his mouth sucked onto her, lapping his tongue through her slickness, the more her body coursed with pleasure that she couldn't stop herself from sinking her fingers into his hair, holding him in place as she ground her hips over his face.
"For someone who claims to hate me," he whispered, his voice vibrating against her skin, his tongue pushing into her walls. "You sure are enjoying this."
A moan was thick in her throat until she swallowed it down, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of how true his words were. "You're annoying. So fucking annoying," she hissed.
Spencer hummed. "And you taste so good."
She gasped in surprise when she felt him lick a long stripe along her slit, the rough pad of his tongue catching her clit as she jolted. His fingers dipped into her thighs as he held her steady, lewd sounds leaving his lips as he continued to suck her wetness. His movements were suddenly fast, so feral and animalistic as he shamelessly lapped her skin, swallowing every liquid dripping off her body.
The built-up pleasure inside her continued to grow as she rolled her hips into his mouth, trying to focus on the sensation of him pressing his tongue against the same spot each time. Her chest was heaving as she tried to focus on the pleasure that was slowly taking over her rational thoughts, the coil inside her desperately close to breaking.
"Oh, god," Her voice shook, head tipped back and eyes staring at the ceiling as she felt herself dance on the precipice of release for a few agonizing moments before she finally started to shatter. Then a strangled cry left her lips as she began to buck her hips as he continued to suck her clit through her climax, the pleasure clouding her mind. It wasn't until he finally stood up, looking down at her with a grin that she finally took in what just happened.
"Do you still hate me?"
Yes, yes she did, especially with that smug smile of his taunting her. Yet she found herself hooking her fingers around the belt strap of his pants, pulling him closer as the weight of her resistance began to crumble under the force of his unwavering gaze. "So fucking much." The triumphant smile on his face grew as she started to unbuckle his belt, the sound echoing in the room. "Do you have a condom?"
"Do you really think I'm the type of person to be carrying a condom in my pocket?"
"I think you're the type of person who never gets laid." He threw her an uninterested stare which she decided to ignore. Then she let her hands fall to the side. "I'm not having sex without a condom."
Spencer weighed in her words. If he was smart, he would've stopped himself, pulled away, and accept her admission. But he didn't want to be smart, after depending on his intelligence throughout his life, he didn't want to be rational. It was definitely out of his character, but there was something about her that stirred a dormant part of him, awakening desires and emotions he hadn't known existed within his soul.
He had always prided himself on his restraint and self-discipline, but after finally having a taste of her, he found himself unraveling. He wanted more. So he leaned closer, and pressed a desperate kiss at the hollow of her throat, marveling at the way her body trembled from his touch. "Why not?"
She was going to regret it. She really was. But damn it, how could she restrain herself when he was sucking into her skin like a man starved. She splayed her hands on his chest and pushed him away before giving him the deadliest glare she could muster.
"I swear to god if you finish inside me I will kill you."
Then a smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. "Was planning to come in your mouth anyway."
She was about to retort a haughty response when he suddenly grabbed her by the elbow and turned her around, pushing her against the wall. She was taken aback by the newfound dominance he exuded in his touch. It was a side of him she had never witnessed before, and it sent a thrill of surprise and intrigue coursing through her veins, something she would never admit out loud.
He dragged his tongue across his lips at the sight before him as his hands reached for his belt, unclasping the strap before unbuttoning his pants, the sound of his zipper being pulled down echoing in the narrowed space. He then slightly pulled down his briefs, slipping out his cock before his knee wedged in between her thighs, parting her legs to open.
He slightly shifted, his jaw twitching as he gathered saliva in his mouth, craning his neck down to spit on her pulsing core before the head of his cock gently nudged her clit. Embarrassingly, she clenched around nothing. Her vision went white and she felt herself tremble as he positioned himself at her entrance, pushing in inch by inch.
"Fuck," he sighed, hips twitching as he finally slid into her fully, feeling her walls clenching hard around him. "I can get used to this."
She could get used to this too. She had never felt so full before, never felt herself being stretched like this so deliciously, but she certainly didn't need to feed his ego by moaning about it. "Well don't, this is the only time I'm letting this happen."
He pulled back his hips, leaving only the tip as he watched her slickness coated around him. "We'll see about that."
And then all hell broke loose.
He slammed into her with so much force that she let out a muffled scream as her eyes shot wide open. He relentlessly bucked his hips, his cock filling her over and over without self-control, the tip of him hitting her deepest parts relentlessly. She could barely even think as his hips fell into a rhythm, sending her higher and higher with each thrust.
Her legs tensed up even more at the pressure, his hands gripping her hips so hard his fingers dig into her flesh that she knew she would leave bruises. Behind her, he was grunting and growling through gritted teeth as he repeatedly buried himself into her without remorse. It didn't take long before his vicious thrusts had her eyes rolling back behind closed lids, her mind going entirely blank to everything but this very moment.
One of his hands released her hip before she felt him grabbing a fistful of her hair, just at the base of her skull, and sharply pulling. A high-pitched, breathy noise tore out of her at the feel of it. "Poor baby," he cooed. "Look at you so desperate for my cock."
She couldn't help but be stunned by his words. Who would've thought Spencer Reid was good at dirty talk? Definitely not her. It was as though he had unveiled a secret facet of his personality that had remained hidden until now, and she found herself captivated by this revelation.
Not that she was going to admit this, of course, so instead, she solely focused on the way he addressed her. "I am not your baby."
"You want me to call you something else?" He asked between bated breaths, hips thrusting into her. "How about Angel? Darling? Sweetheart?"
She let out a frustrated groan at his teasing but it was probably impossible to discern it from the rest of the noises she was trying to hold. "Are you always this chatty during sex?"
"No," he hummed as he picked up his pace, sending a helpless spasm through her.
"R-Really?" She mused breathlessly. "I must be special then."
He then tugged on her hair even rougher, causing her to curse loudly in response, her hips beginning to eagerly press backward into him as his hips jutted into her relentlessly like a man possessed. "Don't get too cocky."
"Just admit it," she whispered, pleasure racing down her body in waves. "You like me."
With another sharp tug on her hair, he abruptly plunged his cock so deep inside of her that she couldn't stop herself from arching her back. He held himself there as he used the grip on her hair to haul her backward to him, a surprised yelp falling out of her. "I don't like you."
Her back fell onto his chest and she felt his body vibrating behind her. "Then why is your heart beating so fast?"
"Well, sex is physically exerting so..."
How was it possible to be this aroused and annoyed at the same time? Wasn't sex supposed to be enjoyable? Well, she was clearly enjoying this, but it was hard to fully sink into the pleasure when he was driving her insane. Unless...
It dawned on her, that was her move. That was how she could play his game. Maybe she should be enjoying this to the fullest, maybe she should stroke his ego, get into his head, and have him feel as desperate as she was. A fierce determination ignited within her, fueling a newfound resolve to turn the tables on him. This was how she was going to get him back.
"Harder," she asked, pushing her hips into him.
His pace suddenly slowed down, uncertain whether he was hearing her right. "Yeah?"
She nodded. "Please?" she added before he could prompt her.
A satisfied sound escaped his lips—it was a sound she had never heard coming from him, loud and crude emitting between a growl and something coming close to a whimper, which had her smiling triumphantly. "L-Look at you begging now."
This was easier than she expected. She rolled her head back against his shoulder and let out a moan she had kept so hard on controlling. "I want you to fuck me harder, Spencer."
His sharp intake of breath at that moment was worth it. "I know what you're doing."
"What am I doing, baby?" she asked sweetly, dripping in forced affection that sounded nothing like her at all.
He instantly released the hold on her hair, his hand snaking around to grip her throat as his other hand slid around the front of her. "You're messing with me."
She let out a strained sound as she felt his other hand traveling down where they were connected. "I-I thought you wanted me to admit how good you make me feel? Is that not enough? You want me to cry out how amazing your cock feels inside me?"
Then she couldn't help her next words.
"Should I call you daddy?"
Oh, that got him. He hissed as the hand on her throat tightened. "You're a menace."
"A menace you enjoy fucking?"
His lips curled into a snarl. "I'm going to wipe that smug look off your face."
Only then he began to thrust back into her roughly. A series of breathy, needy gasps fell out of her as she held tight onto his forearm that was holding her by her throat. His other hand on her clit circled around roughly, touching her just right that she entirely lost it, her hips quaked against him as he groaned out in response, her walls clenching his cock.
Then his hand left her clit a few moments later, instead landing hard on her ass with a sharp smack that sounded throughout the room. His fingers dug into the flesh there as his hips began clumsily ramming into her, his cock twitching inside of her. The stimulation was too much for her that she clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to keep quiet as he stretched her harshly, the delicious burn only adding to the pleasure.
"You're still holding back?" He taunted, bringing back his hand before another loud smack rang in her ears, her ass burning from the pain. "Let that voice out, no one's going to hear you."
It was amazing how long she could hold in her pleasure because now her walls were starting to crumble when a particularly deep and brutal thrust had his cock hitting her just right. And then, it happened—the dam of restraint finally burst. A low moan escaped her lips, a primal cry of pleasure that echoed through the room like a song of surrender
"That's it," he grunted. "You sound so pretty."
As the sensations intensified, her breaths came in shallow gasps, her heart pounding in her chest. Once she let herself go, she couldn't stop herself from moaning out his name, to which he responded with his own moan, especially when she clenched around him even tighter.
"You gonna come for me now?" She helplessly nodded, not trusting herself to form any coherent words, squirming her hips against him for more. "Go on then," he demanded, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Come for me."
She finally snapped as she gave in to the sensation that had been gradually crawling its way up her spine. Pleasure was soon coating every inch of her and as her eyes closed. She didn't bother to muffle her cries this time as she fell apart around his cock, her body convulsing as he continued to thrust inside her, forcing the pleasure to keep growing stronger and stronger until small black spots started to appear in her vision.
When her climax had washed over, she was left dizzy and breathless, still leaning against him. His loud panting breaths quickly filled her ears, his chest heaving beneath her head and she could tell by the way his hips were fluctuating in their pace, the feel of his throbbing cock inside of her, that he was very close to his release.
Panic suddenly crept into her daze state and she craned her neck to look back. "Don't you dare finish inside me, I swear to god—"
Very abruptly he slipped his cock out from inside of her, his arms releasing their hold on her just as fast before turning her to face him.
"Get on your knees."
The ground scraped her skin as she quickly sank onto her knees, and just because he looked so damn good tethering in his pleasure as she stared up at him, she gripped his cock in her hands and took him fully in her mouth.
"Fuck," the gravel in his voice was prominent, her lips gliding effortlessly down his shaft until her nose hits his stomach. His hand finds its way into her hair as she kneeled there before him, fisting a bunch of it at the scalp, desperately needing something to tie him down to reality.
She slid back off his cock to take just his head inside her mouth, swirling her tongue around it before flattening it against his tip, licking a fat stripe while looking up at him through her lashes. Spencer sucked in a sharp breath, tightening the grip on her hair.
Maintaining his gaze, she took him completely down her throat again, essentially swallowing him, holding herself there until she gagged around him. She could taste him on her tongue as she continued to repeat the motion, tears welling at her lids and saliva building at her lips, seeping down her chin.
He groaned at the sight.
"I-I'm gonna come—"
And he did. She felt lightheaded as the first shot of liquid filled her mouth, and then he jutted his hips a few more times before another surge of his release spilled down her throat. She swallowed him whole, swallowed every drop of him into her mouth as he continued to look down in wonder. She never thought of ever being in this position, but now she decided there was nothing else more satisfying than to watch her rival come undone from her touch.
Although she couldn't dwell in her contentment for long because as she released him from her mouth, the sound of the door rattling waked her senses. Panic flashed in her eyes as they met his gaze, and they instinctively stepped apart before sprinting into action, Spencer tucking himself back in his pants, while she quickly got to her feet and pulled down her skirt, scurrying to the other side of the room.
It wasn't until she spotted her underwear laying by his feet that she realized she was still naked underneath. Spencer followed her line of sight and just as the door creaked, he bent down and quickly grabbed the fabric, shoving it in his pocket at the same time their friend entered the room.
"There you are," Luke sighed in relief, casting them both a look. "We've been searching everywhere for you guys. Are you both alright? I thought I heard screaming."
In that fleeting moment, they both exchanged a glance laden with unspoken messages, each silently urging the other to maintain composure.
"Yes. I-uh." She cleared her throat, struggling to suppress the heat rising to her cheeks, willing herself not to betray the blush that threatened to expose what went on before this. "I was screaming for help."
Luke watched them with keen eyes, skepticism etched upon his face. A subtle tension crackled in the air, barely noticeable to most but not escaping the scrutiny of his gaze. He watched as Spencer hid his face behind a file he was holding, and she was studying her nails as if they were the most interesting thing in the world.
He narrowed his eyes but didn't say anything, before stepping back towards the door again. "Well, come on, there's a new lead on the case. Everyone's waiting."
When he finally left them alone again, she let out a breath she wasn't aware of holding and quickly held out her hand. Spencer raised his eyebrows at her. "What?"
"My underwear?"
He stared at her empty hand, then at her face, and shrugged nonchalantly, leaving her dumbfounded as he started to leave the room before the door closed on them again.
"Reid," she hissed, following behind him. "Give it back."
He looked over his shoulder and gave her a smile, or something close to it because even after what happened a few minutes ago his smile was far from looking genuine. "Come by my place after work and I might give it to you."
Her steps faltered.
"Might?"
But his back was already facing her as he strode down the hallway. She stood there, feeling extremely exposed wearing nothing but her own skin underneath her skirt, and the only way to get back her missing piece of clothing was to force herself in his presence again.
She closed her eyes and sighed, not sure what she felt right now was either anger or exhaustion. Probably both—no, wait, definitely both.
Because what the fuck did she get herself into?
.
Quick question, if I make a taglist for my one-shots does anyone want to be added?
Summary: Spencer Reid x fe!Reader -> Despite the fact that you and Spencer are mortal enemies, you still trust one another. And made a pretty good undercover couple.
Disclaimer: This is going to be a multi-part story. Enemies/strong dislike to lovers, avoidance in feelings, yearning, undercover kiss, platonic!penelope, found family vibes with the team.
Not only had you surprised yourself when you decided to kiss Spencer Reid, but you’d also surprised him.
It had been a simple undercover job; sit in a jazz bar, posing as a couple, waiting to see if the guy a witness had described seeing would turn up.
Emily was sitting at one end of the bar, sipping on a virgin cocktail. Derek was sitting at one of the tables by a dim lamp, ‘eying’ up Emily. JJ and Hotch were in the surveillance van outside, Gacia was waiting at her desk, watching the CCTV.
And yourself and Spencer were waiting at the bar for a booth to free up.
Despite your and Spencer’s relationship, which wasn’t smooth sailing for anyone, you both did pretty well at selling the ‘couple’ thing.
Dressed in a sharp suit, Spencer’s arm rarely left your waist. He kept you steady on the stiletto heels that fit the dress code for the building.
Once you were both seated at the bar, you crossed one leg over the other. You could feel the black silk of your dress slide away for a moment, exposing a little more of your leg through the slit of your dress. But it was still classy.
You really needed to ask Penelope where she’d found your dress.
“You’re too far away,” Spencer said, quietly.
To anyone else, the comment might have felt…flirtatious. The low tone of his voice, the hushed notes floating out from his mouth that caused goosebumps across your entire body.
But, despite your efforts not to, you knew Spencer.
He wasn’t being flirtatious. And, as much as the effortless way he’d reached under your stool and pulled you closer to him, opening his legs a little so your own could slot between them, made a small part of your brain question if you’d judged him wrongly. He was doing it for the show.
You were too far away to be considered a couple on a date. The distance would let someone, like the Unsub, read into you both and maybe set off alarm bells.
But then he rested his hand just above your exposed knee.
“Spencer.”
Suddenly, he looked at you. And not because you sounded like you were going to tell him something.
You’d used his first name.
You never used his first name.
For less than a second, your confusing feelings surfaced, but you quickly slipped your mask back on. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to read you and was annoyed you hadn’t given him a chance, or if he was simply annoyed at you.
“What?”
Forcing yourself to look away, you were thankful when a waiter came over and said there was an open booth if you would like to take it.
Spencer nodded, looking back at you as if you were the love of his life. Then, stepping away from the stool, he held out his hand to you and held it all the way to the table.
Despite your feelings for Spencer Reid, you had to hand it to him; He knew how to act.
As just over an hour passed, Derek had convinced Emily to sit with him and have a drink, yourself and Spencer had finished your dinner and somehow managed to fake a delightful conversation.
Though, you didn’t know how much credit you could give to yourself and Spencer considering Hotch and JJ had done most of the work over comms.
Paying for the bill, Spencer signed the check like it was second nature to him and stood from the booth. For a brief moment, as you took his hand and let him help you stand, he kissed your knuckles.
You swore you heard a lady gasp on the next table. And you didn’t blame her because you wanted to gasp, too.
You really hadn’t known how thick Spencer would lay on the romance. Even if it was subtle to the public, every woman knew what lay behind every gesture and touch.
Care. Tenderness. Consideration. Passion. Love.
If they only knew the truth.
Your history with Spencer Reid was not one of friendship or kindness. Trust, sure. Neither one of you could do your jobs on the team if you didn’t trust one another. But that didn’t mean you had to like one another.
Hotch would try every once in a while, to pair you up together as a team. But it always resulted in the same outcome; arguments and very clear tension that could be cut with a blunt knife, nevermind a sharp one.
Finally leaving the building, you both heard JJ tell you both to head back to the bullpen and that they’d meet you there once Derek and Emily left.
However, you both only got to the end of the red carpet outside the building, before you spotted a guy with incredibly familiar features.
And he spotted you looking.
He stalled for a moment and your internal alarm went off. If either you or Reid made a movement close to him, he’d flee.
So, your brain came up with the next best idea.
In your eyeline, you could make it look like you were looking at Spencer. You stepped forward and gave Spencer one warning in the sentence of; “Put your hands on me.”
Then, putting a hand at the back of his neck, you pulled him down to your level and kissed him.
You could feel his surprise in the kiss, but must have heard you because half a second later, his hands were on you. On your waist, down to your hips and pulling you in.
But, just before you pulled away from the kiss, you’d felt a small pull in your stomach. A hidden gasp of shock.
Because Spencer Reid kissed you back.
Pulling away for a moment, you saw the confused if slightly drunk look in Spencer’s eyes. Meanwhile, you tried to catch your breath and steadied yourself by placing your hands on his chest.
As a figure passed you both by, you let out a breath. And once the doors to the building closed behind him, you said; “He’s just walked in.”
Neither you or Spencer spoke the entire way back to the bullpen. Not in the car, not walking into the building.
Maybe words would have been exchanged when Spencer, who perhaps got caught up in the act, helped you before you stumbled in the stilettos. But as the elevator dinged and you both stepped inside, you let the sound of the tracks fill the silence.
Thankfully, Penelope was there to greet you both.
“So, tell me what happened? You spotted him outside?”
Reid cleared his throat, excusing himself from the moment as he headed towards the bathroom, leaving you to tell Penelope what happened.
“We saw him and…that was it. Walked right past us and into the building,” Spencer heard you tell Penelope before the bathroom door swung shut behind him.
Why didn’t you tell her? He had to sit in the briefing room for twenty minutes, listening to you tell Penelope about a date you’d gone on with some guy from accounting. So why didn’t you tell her what happened?
By the time Spencer walked back into the bullpen, you were at your desk with Penelope.
“Hey,” Penelope smiled before looking down at his suit. “What happened to your tie?”
Spencer had to look down to understand what she meant. He wasn’t wearing it.
“It’s…I took it off.”
Thankfully, Garcia didn’t question it but simply chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a tie on. It’s a good look on you.”
Then she turned to you, “I’ll go and grab your shoes from your locker.”
You smiled as relief washed over you, seemingly eternally grateful for her gesture. “Thank you, Pen.”
“Sweetheart, if I could have found you a pair of block heels that were suitable for that place's management, I would have done.”
You nodded. “I know.”
“Be back in two ticks.”
As she disappeared, you took a brief moment to study Reid. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d been running his hands through it. His jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled to his elbow. Meanwhile, his tie was very much off his body and the first couple of buttons looked like they’d been torn open.
What the hell happened in the bathroom?
“You okay?”
“Fine,” Spencer clipped. “I’m gonna start setting up the interview room. Emily and Derek will probably bring the guy in.”
It was a little shocking to you, but you felt a little worried for Reid. “You sure everything’s-”
“Yeah. Fine.” Again, clipped. But, if you were being honest, that was always Reid’s tone with you.
It was usually yours with him, too. But after spending nearly six hours breaking in stilettos, walking in them and being on the edge of adrenaline, and…
You were too tired to fight with him for the moment.
“Okay?”
By the time the others got back, everything seemed to be back to normal. Except from when you and Spencer were faced with each other.
You were still in the silk dress, going over the case. He was still dressed in his suit and you couldn’t lie; Penelope was right. Spencer Reid without a tie was a good look on him.
You’d barely looked at one another, which wasn’t anything new. But looking at each other when the other wasn’t – now that was different.
“You should all head home and try and get some rest,” Hotch told you all. “This will still be here in the morning and it doesn’t look like anything is gonna change from here.”
With it approaching midnight, none of you argued with Hotch’s logic and headed home.
But, even with a change of outfits and fresh showers and not so dreamless sleep, it was clear to you something had changed between yourself and Reid.
You just couldn’t gauge if it was leading to a bomb going off, or something changing for the better.
Summary: Spencer and Diana were set to take a trip to Ireland. Spencer goes alone and meets Reader. After meeting him, Reader informs Spencer she’d 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
“So, what are your plans for our mandatory leave from the BAU, Spence?” J.J. asks.
“Oh, my mom and I are going to Ireland. She had so much in Paris, I thought we could enjoy another trip like that again,” Spencer said.
In truth, though, his mother had already told him she wasn’t 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.
“Nonsense, Spencer. How often do you get to take a trip like this? You’re 34 years old, son. You shouldn’t be worrying about me the way you do. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone. You know it’s a leap year this month.” Diana had said.
“Mom, I’m happy with how my life is. I have you. I have my friends. I-” Diana cut him off.
“I know you do, honey. But, do you have someone waiting for you when you go home? Someone who can’t wait to see you again, even if you’d only been gone a minute?” she questioned her son. She was right. Why are mothers always right?
“No, but, Mom. It really doesn’t bother me. I promise you, I’m okay.” Spencer insisted.
And he truly was okay.
Now, though, laying alone in his king-sized bed, he let his mother’s 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.
