people act like vulnerability is a weakness. showing you care means youāre desperate. communicating makes you clingy. humans to our core crave connection. we want to feel loved. Iāve spent a lot of time minimizing my needs to ease the ache of loneliness. I signed the dotted line, agreeing to be casual, pretending somewhere along the line youāll want to change the terms of the contract. holding back my own emotions to be held in the arms of another. if everything felt right in your arms, why am I being left on delivered.
Very very early seasons (1 ā start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader
SMUT!! (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencerās past because it can never be too happy, weāre not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.
āāāā autistic spencer (itās a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).
Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how iād like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, theyāre both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.
w.c: 4k
a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)
āāāāāāāāāāāāāāā
Thereās a lot Spencer hasnāt done.
He knows heās behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, heās ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like heās lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on āgoā. Touch isnāt easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. Heās different, god heās heard that his entire life. āYouāre not weird, youāre justā¦ differentā, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because heās missed out on so much, so much that he canāt understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, heās not used to being incompetent.
Heās never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but thereās drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is nowā it would all be plainly simple.
But heās not, heās not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.
Pyrrhic victory, heāll always be renowned for his intelligence. āYouāre going to change the world kid,ā maybe, but simultaneously, heāll never get to experience said world. Thereās a chance heāll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.
Thereās not enough possessions in the world heād sacrifice just to experience love.
Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesnāt want to be hurt, to hurt, itās a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.
He thought heād never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.
But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on itās axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.
He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.
āYouāre my favourite person in the team.ā you admitted, āAnd I know thatās dumb, because weāve spoken the least, butā¦ youāre just, so you. Thatās a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.ā
He couldnāt quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, itās not like he was going to be crowned āwhite boy of the monthā.
āNot dumb.ā Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. āThatās good. I like being me.ā he mumbled. āSometimesā¦. sometimes it sucks. But thatās okay. I think itās okay?ā
He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.
Oh.
āPlease. Please.ā he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, āPlease like me. And more than in a weird, ājust friends or coworkersā way.ā
Best date ever. You listen, even when heās rambling about planets, when heās pointing out that yes, Jupiterās density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You donāt care that heās not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That heās nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.
In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like youāre the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.
āWhat do you want the most? Like,ā¦ if you could ask for one thing.ā you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.
You. He wants to say. But he settles for āBeing remembered,ā instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. āRight now though? I think Iād settle for kissing you.ā
You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. āSettle huh? You should be more appreciative.ā
He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because heās never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. Heās kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, heād be left with no fingers raised.
āBelieve me, iām very appreciativeā¦ā
This isnāt like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, itās actually the best thing heās ever experienced, and heās going to become so insufferable after this, because heās just found out he is very very into kissing.
Correction: heās very into kissing you.
In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.
A shaky inhale, a pause. āI hopeā¦ I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Umāā to be honest, heās just glad he didnāt say thankyou.
āYeah, Spence. That wasā¦ wow.ā you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. āWanna try again?ā
Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, āwhy didnāt we do this sooner?ā But thatās not fair; heās only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.
āPlease,ā is his answer, and then heās catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).
This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. Itās an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellarā and god, heās relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word āvirginā to his back and call it a day.
Thereās soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; thereās a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.
This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; heās always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.
You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.
You both stumble back back back until heās hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. Heās making all sorts of sounds he canāt justify, and itās a supernova, an infinite black pool ofā oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.
āPlease,ā heās never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one heāll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.
Youāve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.
āSpence,ā you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.
His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. Heās being loud, heās actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently heās the most whorish virgin to ever exist.
āI lied, I lied,ā he admits between messy kisses, āWhen you asked what I wanted the most? Itās not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. Butāā he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.
āI wanna cum.ā
Eloquent.
Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, itās hot, itās so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.
Still, thereās shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but becauseā
āYouāve never? Havenāt even experienced it once? By yourself?ā
He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. āNever,ā he sighs shakilly. āNever, and iāmā iām starting to understand why itās so popular.ā
He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. āIs that weird? Please donāt think iām weird. Because Iām really, really weird. Just maybeā¦ not in that way?ā
Itās never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasnāt been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.
āItās actually kinda hot,ā you interrupt his thoughts, and just because youāre evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.
Itās performative, really. Alone in his apartment, thereās no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.
āTo think that youāve never even felt what itās like. That youāre gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shitā god, youāre going to look so fucking pretty for me.ā
You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.
Heās never wanted anything more in his entire life. Itās all tertiary now. Only this matters.
āPlease donāt praise meāā he protests, āIāll probably finish in my pants.ā
āPraise kink, noted.ā
You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. āDonātā donāt laugh. Youāre not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, andā¦ā he sighs, āYou do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.ā
āShut up. Wanna see you.ā you say, and heās just muttering breathless mhmās, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.
His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid āupā, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because heās analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, heās fairly certain heāll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didnāt have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.
Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. Heād love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.
āHow can you not think youāre pretty, Spence?ā His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.
Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment youāre on him, heās a live-wire. Itās sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe itās purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.
āHoly shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.ā Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, heās certainly in a vegetative state.
āOhmygodohmygod,ā he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.
Because itās not wrong, not all. Itās the most right heās ever felt, and heāll tell you that if youāll just keep it up.
The sounds heās making are phonographic, lewd, youāve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but heās justā¦. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, notā
This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, heāll take it.
āPlease,ā he whines, and he canāt look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. Heās gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because heās trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?
Heās pretty sure theyāre past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and heās debauched.
You want this, you want him, he feels like heās transcended humanity, like heās become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way youāre taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you donāt leave a single ounce of him intact.
āWanna kiss you. Ohā oh oh,ā heās sobbing now, āCome back here. Miss your mouthā even if itās,ā he looks down and thatās a mistake. āPlease.ā
Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.
You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it canāt be too profane. Maybe? Heās not sure, heās not sure and it doesnāt matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because itās allowed this irreverence to occur.
Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.
āSpence,ā you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. āLets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?ā
āYes, yes please. That would uhā yes.ā heās not even sure how heās conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.
You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, thatās from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.
Youāre so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until youāre pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, youāre on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.
And yeah, heās more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then theyāre reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before theyāre being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor ā leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.
āI canāt,ā he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. Itās slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesnāt care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.
Or maybe, maybe heās just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.
Your body presses against his, and he thinks heās going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why itās integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.
Thereās this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hipsā and oh your body is wet against him, and youāre so tight, and itās perfect because he doesnāt have to do anything.
He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.
He knows heās a giver, that heād bleed himself dry for you. Itās a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.
Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, heās really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because heās rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.
You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. Thereās no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?
Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.
āPleaseā please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,ā heās slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.
āShh, shh..ā you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. āYou wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?ā
āMhmā mhmā¦ā is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.
āOh. Ohā¦ā he repeats, again. Like thereās anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.
Itās the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and heās bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.
He sobs. Breaks down. Because itās so so good, and he canāt believe he ever deprived his body of this.
Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.
It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.
āJustā¦ just stay like this?ā he asks, collapsing against your body after heās drawn out of you. Thereās mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when heās blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.
You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. āHi,ā he mutters dumbly.
āSpence,ā Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.
āYeah?ā he breathes out.
āYou weāre so goodāā
He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. āStop. Stop.ā he groans, āDonāt do that. Youāre going to destroy me. Iām notā¦ equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds likeāā
He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, āOkay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. Thereās a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still havenāt seen the third Star Warsāā
Heās happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. āYeah,ā he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, āLetās do this again.ā
Out of all ENTP characters you type who is the unhealthiest and who is the healthiest ENTP?
Healthiest:
Violet Baudelaire (A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket)Princess Kida (Atlantis: The Lost Empire)Bumi (Avatar: The Last Airbender)Hiro Hamada (Big Hero 6)Jason Todd (DC: New 52)River Song (Doctor Who)Cisco Ramon (The Flash)Fred and George Weasley (Harry Potter Series by J.K. Rowling)Dr. Ian Malcolm (Jurassic Park)Cyrus (Once Upon a Time in Wonderland)Jouji Saiga (Psycho-Pass)Kalf (Vikings)Mulan (Mulan)Gertrude Stein (Midnight in Paris)Minato (Naruto Shippuden)
Unhealthiest:
Jeff Winger (Community)The Joker (DC: New 52)Wade Wilson (Deadpool)Missy (Doctor Who)Chandler Bing (Friends)Ramsay Bolton (Game of Thrones)Bill Cypher (Gravity Falls)Rita Skeeter (Harry Potter Series by J.K. Rowling)Lestat (Interview with the Vampire)Desmonde Hume (LOST)Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer)Lord Henry Wotton (The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde)Jack Sparrow (Pirates of the Caribbean)Rick (Rick and Morty)Q (Star Trek: The Next Generation)Alex Vause (Orange is the New Black)Jim Moriarty (BBCās Sherlock)
However, I want to highlight a specific ENTP character, Damon Salvatore from The Vampire Diaries.
He is the best example I have come across so far of an unhealthy ENTP transitioning into a healthy ENTP. Due to this he is mistyped as ESTP, because an unhealthy ENTPās Ne can appear like Se from how they bounce from one thrill to the next. This is caused by him being in the grip of his Introverted Sensing inferior function. He was an ENTP whose heart was torn out by the two people he loved the most and relied on Katherine Pierce and Stefan Salvatore. In his human life he has a stable Si. But his brother turned him into a vampire when he didnāt want to be, betraying him. This sent him into a loop that lasted a super long time. He uses Fe as a defense in his humor to disarm those around him. He moves from one activity to the next, leading him to love and embrace being a vampire. He never has to be in one place at one time, he has total freedom.Ā
This is the abusive uncontrolled Damon we see in the first two seasons. Especially, after Katherine crushes his heart not only turning out to be alive and about the whole time, but never seeing him and saying to his face it was always Stefan. However, we get a much healthier Damon with his progressing relationship with Elena, an ISTJ. Her dominant Si grounds Damon and leads him at the end of season 6 picking to be human again, a signal of his embracing his Si in a healthy way, just as it was when he was human before. Going from unhealthy to healthy. Granted he still has his issues, but no vampire comes with their shit together.
āThey look at each other like they were almost lovers, like they should have kissed and made love and laughed in bed together, but they chose to stay friends instead. They look at each other with what ifs and could haves and hearts full of regrets.ā
āBut those are not the crimes Iām being tried for. Itās murder. And I am no murderer. What I am is a survivor. I survived getting taunted by the N-word when I was in grade school. I survived the sexual abuse by my uncle when I was 11. I survived losing my first love, Eve, because I was scared to be gay. Then the death of my son in a car accident, the murder of my husband, then alcoholism, depression, grief, and every death leading up to this trial. But today, you decide. Am I a bad person? Well, the mask is off, so Iām gonna say yes. But am I the mastermind crimminal who pulled off a series of violent murders? Hell no.ā
HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER: S06E15, āStayā.
