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‼️tumblr user esote-rika why do you write so much early season smut? Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4
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Series masterlist
Pairing: Spencer Reid x femBAU!reader
Category: smut 18+ MDNI, angst
Summary: Attending Rossi's wedding while nursing the betrayal of your boyfriend, you find solace (and revenge) in the arms of Dr. Spencer Reid.
Content: 7.7k porn with a plot. Mentions of smoking and drinking, reader wears a dress, heels, and make up, and cheats on her shitty bf, semi-public sex, oral (m and f receiving), softdom!Spencer, fingering, overstimulation, squirting, reader is called naughty girl and good girl, very slight degradation, lots of praise, big dick!Spencer, size kink, unprotected p in v, creampie, rumination and references to sin and Eve and religion in general, probably blasphemous, Jeid mention, unhealthy coping mechanisms, this is kinda toxic but it's sexy I swear (I HOPE; yell at me nicely if i missed anything)
A/N: this fic had been MARINATING for more than a month. Probably overwritten and self-indulgent, years of Catholic trauma rlly just spilled onto my docs ya know. Tried very very hard to make the smut worth it because there's so much build up and I'd hate for the smut to be meh. Lost the plot multiple times. Reached the point of i’m sick of this fic pls let it end but ultimately it's a piece that I’m actually proud of. Dedicated to user @notlongtolove for the yap fest and brainstorming, iykyk!!! Pls enjoy while I rejoice; this mammoth is finally over. Special request to leave a comment so I feel accomplished, pretty please tyyyy.
Rossi's wedding had been your opportunity to introduce your new boyfriend to the team. You've taken great pains to keep your relationship private, a feat that makes you proud because the amount of things that gets past Penelope Garcia is next to nothing. But somehow, in the past four months, you've managed. You've passed the threshold, the personal rule of three months of privacy, of keeping things on the down low, and you had been excited to stroll up to Rossi's fourth wedding in the arms of Cameron, your boyfriend of nearly five months.
Unfortunately, you'd caught another woman's underwear in his car nearly a week before the day of the wedding. He still hasn't admitted to his betrayal, no matter how many times you've pleaded and talked to him. You already know, anyway. It's easy enough to tell from his body language. The twitch of his lips he does whenever he's nervous, the way he overuses the phrase come on, every single one of his tells point to his infidelity. You've used every trick in the profiler handbook— interrogation, an attempt to seduce, anger— none has worked.
Your pathetic boyfriend would only repeat that he loves you so much, why are you acting like this?
So you're a depressing cloud on Rossi's big day. You hide it behind a big smile, which would normally be unconvincing, but everyone is too wrapped up in the festivities to look too closely at your hastily erected facade.
And it’s worked, for the most part. You know it’s not because of your acting skills, but more because there’s too much going on to pay attention to you. And disappearing as part of the crowd allows you to observe and stew in your betrayal, fingertips tingling with the desire to get even somehow.
You wish you could say he’d tempted you. Pursued you with gentle brushes of his hands on the exposed skin of your back, bewitched you with his dimpled smile, so inhumanly beautiful you just couldn’t say no. How could you resist temptation when it is being presented to you by someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself?
Because Spencer Reid has always been something akin to divinity, at least to you. As the BAU's newest recruit— appointed and transferred by the infamous Linda Barnes herself—you've had to fight tooth and nail to earn the team's trust.
Now, Linda Barnes is gone, you have a spot on the team, and Spencer Reid remains elusive.
His reputation preceded him, of course, one of the smartest active agents, incarcerated for something he didn't do. He's kind in the moments you've spent with him, with a bumbling earnestness that you've found endearing.
He's also incredibly beautiful.
So who could blame you if you did give in to his advances? People stronger than you have succumbed, after all, and you, in your vulnerable, lovelorn glory, would not have been responsible if you decided to take a bite from the forbidden apple, right? Giving in to temptation is the lesser sin, more forgivable, would absolve you of guilt especially after the betrayal you've gone through.
Except Spencer Reid hadn’t pursued you. The meeting had been accidental, at least that’s what you tell yourself. You’d seen him leave towards the end of the ceremony. Of course you did, you had been watching him all night. Sometime towards the end of the ceremony, while the minister was talking about the importance of second chances, he’d slipped away.
You had been the one to go after him. In your defense, you’ve been itching to get your hands on a cigarette since you got here. Weddings have always made you giddy, excited. It’s a celebration of love, after all, a declaration of two people’s commitment to each other. In sickness and health. But Cameron's infidelity weighs heavily upon your shoulders, and though you've borne more than this—you're a BAU agent, after all, you face horrors on a daily basis—it's still difficult to set aside the burn when you're surrounded by happy couples.
So you’d put your focus on Dr. Reid: handsome in his suit, but something about him seemed distracted. Perhaps he'd been banking upon the wedding as a distraction, just like you had been. Everyone is too busy with the happy couple to pay attention to two lonely souls.
But he's wrong. You've got your eye on him, and you see something in his amber irises that reflect your own.
Loneliness.
Why is Spencer Reid lonely?
It’s the intrigue that ultimately leads you out into the hallways. And when you stumble upon his brooding form, your excuse is truthful, “I'm trying to find the bathroom.”
He kindly escorts you to the correct wing, making small talk. Something about wedding dresses not being white historically. You smile and nod, thanking him graciously as you slip into the ladies room. When you leave the bathroom after basically inhaling a stick of cigarette, he’s still lingering outside. Waiting by the wall, smiling upon your return.
“Oh,” you return his smile, “You’re still here.”
“Figured we could walk back together.” his nose wrinkled a little as you stepped closer, the smell of your cigarette apparently not sufficiently disguised.
You're smile becomes sheepish, shaking your head, “I thought I was being slick by spraying perfume, but apparently not.”
He laughs. It reminds you of the church bells that rang for the wedding. Rich and lilting.
“Not to judge, but why the need for a smoke break?”
“Why should there be a reason?”
“You've told me you only smoke when you're stressed out.” Fuck. “Why are you stressed out?”
“Just having a bad day.”
It's the wrong answer, because his gaze zeroes in on you, oozing with an intense curiosity. “On Rossi's wedding?”
“Not because of it,” You laugh airily, but in the quiet of the hallway, it's much more difficult to pretend that everything is okay. Two can play at this game though. “Why are you out here?”
He averts his gaze to his shoes, brows furrowing in a way that makes you blood spike. He’s hiding something.
“I just needed some fresh air.” he pushes his hands deep into his pockets, lifting his gaze from the floor and dragging it through your form, taking in your appearance in the cocktail dress you’ve donned for the wedding. His voice is strangled when he speaks again,, “You look lovely. I don’t think I’ve had the chance to tell you yet.”
“Thank you. You look very dashing too.” A pause stretches between you. In that quiet moment, it seems like the universe has presented the perfect way of retaliation for you. The nicotine had made you bold, audacious. And if you’d read him correctly, then he’s in need of relief as much as you are, the kind of relief a simple cigarette wouldn’t fix. You step closer, looking straight into his eyes, “Truth be told, I’m not in any hurry to go back.”
You see his jaw clench, the beautiful brain of his going a thousand miles per minute, likely computing every possible meaning of your words. His eyes flicker to your lips, and you decide to help him out, taking another step forward and tilting your head up.
When you kissed him, he didn’t even hesitate to kiss you back. Mouth parting, fingers tightly clenched at your waist, pulling you closer and closer until space felt like a foreign concept altogether. He is an insistent kisser, leaning his whole weight into you as his lips opened and sucked at yours.
The dark corner isn’t ideal, but it was the closest space at your disposal. Neither of you are willing to spend more time looking for somewhere to hide, not when you could spend that time running your hands and lips in places undiscovered. Your lips across the strong angle of his jaw, his stubble tickling your skin. Spencer tonguing the space beneath your ear, fragrant with traces of your perfume. Your hand massaging him into an erection through the fabric of his pants.
He lets out the prettiest moan when you drop to your knees in front of him.
You don’t miss the irony of it as you tugged and undid his belt and zipper, fully conscious of the act you’re about to commit. Kneeling in a chapel, for all the wrong reasons.
“Are you sure?” the words spill from his lips so sweetly, as if he isn't standing before you with his erection only inches from your face. Long and thick and already leaking precum at the tip.
You take him into your mouth as an answer, condemning yourself to your fate. Spencer is beautiful like the devil, and you’re Eve succumbing to the first sin.
Two wrongs do not make a right. You know this. Everyone does. A lesson as old as time itself, written in languages you can’t comprehend. Even mathematics dictates that adding two negative integers does not cancel them out—the negative value merely increases. You should not retaliate on your boyfriend by committing the very sin that hurt you in the first place. By all accounts, nothing good should come from it.
Yet here you are, on your knees for a man as pretty as the devil himself. A man very much not your boyfriend.
Even fucking worse, your coworker.
Tucked in some dark corner—not even given the dignity of a dusty closet. That at least would have given you complete privacy. No, you’re on your knees in some seemingly abandoned hallway, half hidden by a combination of the dim lights, and ostentatious pillars, and him. His lean body shields you from general view as your lips stretched around his throbbing length.
You learn that he is a contradiction. A large hand gathers your perfectly styled curls, holding them at the crown of your head. Gentle, careful. The other rests just beneath your jaw, holding your head still as he slowly pushes his hips forward. Your nails grip his pants as your mouth stretches around his girth. The fabric wrinkles under your clutches as the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, then begins to push beyond it.
Only half of his length in and you're already choking.
Wide, panicked eyes dart up to meet his deceptively honeyed ones. You consider pulling back, just to catch your breath but you can’t; his hands are holding you steady. Oddly enough, the look in his eyes helps you relax. There’s something inherently trustworthy about those ochre irises, despite the fact that his pupils have blown up so much and nearly eclipsed them. Maybe you’re too used to indifference from Cameron, too used to sex being so clinical and borderline perfunctory, that the unbridled lust in his gaze excites you instead of scare you away.
Still, it doesn’t help the little choking issue you’re currently having.
“Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs. You blink back the tears that have gathered at your lashes, still maintaining eye contact with him. Spencer sighs, pulls his cock out. Mercy. It's not something you deserve, but you take advantage of the moment wisely, following his instructions and breathing through your nose.
The stench of sin is musky and stale. You fill your lungs with it all the same, just as he rams his cock back down your throat and fills your mouth. He hisses when you gag around him lightly, but doesn’t stop. You realize that you’d probably chase after him if he does anyway.
His thumb caresses your cheek, “That’s it, good girl. You can take it.”
Well fuck.
It’s a little too much, balancing on your knees like this while he uses your mouth and throat, but you push through because he says you can. You fancied yourself the seductress, but somehow, the tides have turned and you’re little more than putty in his hands.
His cock glides in and out of your mouth with ease, painting chapped red marks from your lipstick along the veined length with every push of his hips. Finding your balance, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock, stroking up what you can't fit into your mouth. After a few clumsy attempts, you manage to match the rhythm of his hips.
What a pretty figure you make, on your knees, looking up at him with fluttering lashes. You moan around his length, sending vibrations up his spine, and are rewarded by his mouth falling open, a wordless expression of pleasure. He continues to fuck your mouth, never breaking eye contact as he eases his cock deeper with each thrust. Tears gather at your lash line every time he goes down your throat.
You’re sure your throat is distending in order to accommodate his girth, and it makes your own pussy clench at the idea. What would it be like to have such a large cock inside your walls, filling you? It makes you moan again, and Spencer’s hand tightens at your hair. His pace quickens, and you hollow your cheeks, urging him to continue.
You hear his undoing before you feel it, strained groans tumbling from trembling lips, before his hips thrust forward and suddenly your nose is pressed to his crotch, and there’s an explosion at the back of your throat. He holds you there, eyes watering, drool spilling from the corners of your ruined mouth as he blows his load deep in your throat.
Yeah, he definitely needed that.
You swallow what you can, but that’s difficult when there’s a huge cock obstructing your throat.
It ends up being a mess, combination of your saliva and his cum dripping out of your mouth and onto the floor. How fitting. In the back of your mind, you’re just happy that only a few drops landed on your dress. Easy enough to clean. Miraculously. Your conscience, however, is an entirely different story.
Still, some part of you can’t even begin to feel bad. Cameron had cheated first, he’d broken the bounds of your relationship first.
Sure, this is still wrong. You have no moral ascendency to stand on, but who cares about any of that when Spencer Reid is kneeling before you with gentle hands and even gentler eyes?
“Are you all right?” he murmurs, his voice slow and sensual like dripping honey.
Somehow, your voice does not betray you, coming out clear and far more confident than you’re actually feeling. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He smiles, thumbs wiping away some of the residue off your lips, “Are you sure? You look a little dazed.”
You laugh, “I mean, yeah, but I just need to catch my breath.”
He takes your hand, helps you stand back up. “I think another trip to the bathroom is in order.” he says as he guides you to the bathroom again.
When you get there, you are a wreck of the highest order, curls dishevelled despite his attempts to be careful, lipstick smudged around your mouth. Your chin is still a little moist from the drool and cum that had dripped down. Tear tracks drag down your cheeks, but thankfully your eye makeup and foundation are only a little smudged. Nothing a little dab of a napkin won’t fix.
You fix what you can—quick spray of perfume, reapplication of lipstick. Hands steady as you work. You aren't sure if this is a sign of guilt, or lack of it. You don't really care. He's gone when you leave the bathroom now, and the soft, treacherous side of your heart fills with disappointment. You remind yourself that it's better this way, less conspicuous, if he returns to the wedding before you.
Still, swallowing his load with an obstructed throat somehow had been easier than swallowing the bitter disappointment that builds in the back of your tongue.
The ceremony is just about to end when you return to the makeshift chapel, people standing and clapping as David and Krystall Rossi share the sweetest kisses. A celebration of love and second chances. After what you've done with Spencer, you know this is out of your cards now. You've fallen far beyond redemption, shot the remnants of your relationship with Cameron after kneeling in service of another man.
You catch sight of Spencer, standing in the midst of other agents. Clapping like everyone else, but his eyes are trained upon something else. Curiosity gets the best of you and you follow his gaze, trying to approximate what he's looking at.
Or rather— whom.
If you're correct, then he's looking at someone.
Oh.
Blonde hair, a slim frame in a beautiful red dress that perfectly accentuates the long, muscled lines of her arms and legs. Beside her, a man with salt and pepper hair and kind blue eyes. His arm at her waist. Your coworker and her husband. JJ and Will.
Oh.
Your gaze returns to Spencer, and despite your attempts not to dig deep, not to learn why he's looking so forlorn, it’s easy to put the pieces together. Whether or not this is a full blown affair isn’t important; all you know is he wants her, and she's married to another man.
Is this connected to the previous case? You recall the last case, the hostage situation in LA. He and JJ had been in there for a long time, but neither really shared what exactly happened. Nobody knows except for the two of them, the unsub, and the victims. You aren’t about to pull rank and ask traumatized people about the drama between your coworkers. You’re better than that.
Are you?
Yes. You don’t hold much sacred, but your job is important. It is above you. You aren’t about to jeopardize it over some workplace drama.
But still, the curiosity gnaws at you no matter how much you attempt to tamp it down. Does he have feelings for JJ? Does she, for him? She couldn’t possibly; she has a husband, two beautiful kids. Easy enough to deduce that it’s probably Spencer, then, who is pining after her.
As though he feels your stare, Spencer looks over at you. Hurriedly, you avert your eyes, heart pounding faster than you would like it to.
Was he thinking about JJ while he used your mouth?
The thought knocks the wind out of your lungs, and you banish it to the deepest crevices of your mind. It shouldn't matter.
It doesn't. It doesn't.
You don’t have any room to judge, anyway. You’ve dragged Spencer into your own messy relationship by sucking him off in the middle of the wedding. A relationship he doesn’t even know about. So, with a smile, you clap for the new couple, and follow the crowd to the reception.
Joy and excitement are nearly palpable in the room. A small, intimate crowd of smiling faces surrounded by the tastefully extravagant decor, obviously paid for by the wealthy groom. The air is filled with that soft, electric energy that often occurs when people are happy and sufficiently buzzed with some drinks.
The only thing on your mind is him.
How can it not be, when you can still remember the little tryst you'd had prior. The weight of him in your mouth, the fetid mess of skin and cum and the lingering nicotine.
It passes by in a blur. The food is delicious, you gush to Portia, you look so beautiful; congratulations, to the new couple. None of it is fake, but you are possessed by a single, irrevocable urge to watch Spencer. That glance at JJ has intrigued you more than you should be. What sort of web had you stumbled upon? And instead of trying to get out, you're eager to spin more.
Bringing the champagne flute to your lips, you pretend to sip, allowing the glass to obscure some parts of your face while you continue to watch them. They’ve met up at the bar now, deep in conversation, hands clasped together in a way that’s far too intimate to be just friends. You can't tear your eyes away as JJ leaves, returning to the embrace of her husband, and you watch with an almost sick sense of fascination as Spencer lingers by the bar. Longing, pure and unmistakable, is etched upon every line on his face.
Before you can stop yourself, your feet are moving, gliding across the floor until you're beside him. He startles, brows lifting as he gazes at you. Your name slips through his lips with an exhale.
“You don't have to act like I'm a ghost, Spencer.” your lips quirk up in a teasing grin as the bartender refills your glass of champagne.
He looks chagrined, the implications of your words hitting him like a brick. “I’m not, you just seemed like you were having fun with Garcia.” he says, leaning on the counter. His eyes travel down the length of you again.
“You’re right, but you were looking a little lonely,” you take a sip from your champagne, letting the bubbly drink fizzle in your mouth and wash away the taste of him. “So, what was that with JJ?”
He sputters, eyes wide as his gaze darts back to your blonde coworker—now currently wrapped up in her husband’s arms.
“Nothing!”
“Holding hands when you’re a known germaphobe doesn’t seem like nothing.”
“I’m not that bad,” he protests, shaking his head, “I’d hold your hand too, but that’s besides the point.”
“It is,” you agree, tilting your head innocently, as your voice lowers, “Just wanted to know who you were imaging in place of me.”
He looks horrified to be reminded of your little quickie from before, “No one. It’s not—I wasn’t using you to—god, it’s not like that.”
“I’m not judging you if it was,” It’s true. It’s exactly what you’re doing with him, using him to forget about Cameron, to get back at him. Poor Spencer just doesn’t know about your secrets. Your amused look only makes him fluster even more.
“It isn’t,” he insists, “I just –”
“Listen, it’s okay,” you interrupt gently, fighting the urge to rest a reassuring hand on his forearm. The words are true anyway; you don’t wish to unearth whatever secrets he wants to keep buried. You have your own, anyway; it’s only fair he’s allowed his secrecy. Your reasons for approaching him are entirely different, and perhaps a little self serving. But you’ve already condemned yourself to being the bearer of temptation, you might as well take full advantage of it.
“Don’t look so ashamed,” you grin as you lift the recently refilled glass to your lips, “You know I have a room for the night… in case you want to blow off more steam.”
The invitation makes his eyes darken in a way that’s becoming increasingly familiar. “You’re—we shouldn’t.”
“Who would know?” you quirk a brow in response, “Besides, it’s pretty much tradition for people to hook up at a wedding. Why shouldn’t it be us?” Please, say yes.
“We’re coworkers.”
“We’re adults.” you deliberately don’t say single adults, “It’s fine. Listen, I booked a room because I didn’t want to deal with the traffic, so if you want, it’s 309B. Completely up to you.” with a smile, you leave him at the bar and Spencer Reid is forced to watch a woman walk away from him for the second time.
That night, there's knocking at your hotel door—three sharp, no nonsense knocks that seem to mean business—echoes in your room minutes before midnight. You don’t bother looking through the peephole to confirm who’s on the other side. The moment you open the door, there’s not a lot of build up.
He’s shed his suit jacket; wearing only the white button down, slightly rumpled from the day’s events. His crown of light brown curls, carefully pushed back earlier, had fallen all over his forehead, messy tendrils tumbling across his face.
He takes one look at you—still in your lavender dress, but devoid of makeup and no more heels to add inches to your height. In the dimness of the room, you are diminutive, stripped of the ethereal mystique you bore from earlier. Human.
God, he wants you.
Not even as someone to help him forget about JJ. No, he wants you in your entirety, to possess you even for one night.
He kisses you again, but there’s no rush to his movements now. The previous rendezvous had been hasty in every sense of the word, made within minutes in an attempt to alleviate the desperate need all while staying safely hidden and inconspicuous.
Now, you have the entire night. He intends to make full use of it. He kicks the door closed behind him, one hand reaching back to lock it as the other tilts your face up so he can kiss you deeper. Your own arms snake around his neck, hands burying into those messy curls. There’s no more public reception to worry about; you can tug and twist and mess with it as much as you want.
Spencer groans into your mouth, hands tight at your hips, before pulling back slightly, “Jump.” he mumbles against your lips.
Your body reacts as if it’s wired to obey him, launching off the balls of your feet. His hands help to hoist you up, and you wrap your legs around his hips.
“You smell so good,” He whispers as he noses through your neck, before his teeth close around your earlobe. You giggle, urging him on by craning your neck to the side. His teeth tug on your earlobe playfully as he crosses the room to your bed. He toes off his shoes and lays you down carefully, his body hovering above yours while his kisses travel down your neck. Soft and sloppy and wet, they mark you like a brand.
Long, eager fingers hike your dress up, bunching it up your thighs, past your hips, and you hear him groan when your bare pussy is exposed to his darkened gaze.
“No panties?” he runs a finger up your folds, gathering your slick, “Don’t tell me you’re been going around like this all day?”
“Maybe I have,” you grin, legs parting even more to accommodate him. You haven’t—you’d just been touching yourself to the thought of him as you waited, but you’re not about to tell him that.
“Naughty girl,” he mumbles, one long finger pushing past your entrance and curling into you, “And so wet, too. You get off on being this dirty, or am I just lucky?”
A breathy laugh escapes your lips, “Which one would you prefer?” you ask, because tonight, you’re not yourself. Not really. You’re whoever he needs to be, the same way he’s exactly what you need right now. A body to which you can lose yourself.
“I’d like to think this is all just for me,” he adds another finger, the pace languorous and teasing.
“It is,” you gasp as he curls his fingers, then withdraws. Torturously slow, he fucks you with two lengthy fingers, hitting the spot inside you with ease. Your toes curl into the bed, sinking into the soft mattress, “Faster.”
“So needy,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he takes you in. There’s something addictive in the way you look in this moment, spread out beneath him like something unreal and sublime.
Your hips buck up. Something volatile simmers beneath your skin, desperate for more, “Please.”
Spencer chuckles as he watches you, fingers stilling inside your fluttering walls. Hovering above you with soft brown curls framing his face, he looks every bit an angel come to life. The laughter continues, his lips twisting into a sneer as you push your hips up desperately.
“So, so needy.” he repeats, but he acquiesces to your plea. More than that, he sinks a third finger inside you and speeds up. A cry of surprise and pleasure falls from your lips, head thrown back as he works his fingers inside you, “Oh, you’re taking it so well.”
Shame unfurls in your chest. What are you doing? Begging another man to fuck you with his fingers? Enjoying it? Is this truly what you’ve come to?
It’s not something you can dwell on, as Spencer begins to curl his fingers inside you while his thumb finds your clit. It circles the nub slowly, adding a layer of stimulation that has your thighs trembling. With a squeal, you writhe, moving to close your legs as the sensations become red-hot, building up closer and closer to a crescendo.
Spencer tuts teasingly, one leg pressing down on your thighs, and his other hand coming to grip your hip and hold you in place. “No, no, darling, I want to see you coming undone on my fingers.” he says, continuing to make come hither motions inside you.
“God—oh, I’m so—ah!” words trip over one another as you approach your climax, the world coming down into one point of focus. “Spencer!”
“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs, laying his body over you as his fingers help you through your orgasm, “There you go.”
You’re thankful for the weight of him; it is a grounding presence in the midst of all the flurry. You’ve come undone at the hands of another man—literally. Never mind that Cameron had betrayed your trust first; you are no better than him.
But if sin felt as good as Spencer Reid’s kisses, then you have no qualms indulging.
His lips are upon you again, traveling down your collarbone and nipping at the skin there. You whine and wrap your legs around his waist, sensitive but still eager for more. He laughs against your skin with a tenderness that takes you by surprise.
“Are you always this needy?”
“No,” you’ve had a taste of the forbidden fruit earlier. Thrown out of Eden, you’re already past the point of no return. Might as well succumb and have one hell of a time. “Only for you.”
He hums, pushing your dress up again. It gets caught somewhere around your chest and there’s a brief moment of awkward laughter as he tries to tug at it, force it up and off you.
“Zipper,” you gasp when your brain finally works. Lifting yourself up on your elbows allows him to slide his hands to your back, find the dangling piece of metal and ease it down. The dress loosens across your shoulders and chest, and he’s finally able to pull it off altogether.
“Beautiful,” he sighs, descending upon you once again, “So beautiful.”
His words have you preening, and you wonder how something so insignificant as the word beautiful could make you feel so heavy. You used to associate delight with weightlessness, floating and light, but everything about Spencer is lumbering and grounded especially after he came back from prison.
You feel his lips and tongue making their way down, kissing every inch of your body. He tugs your bra down, not even bothering to take it off completely, your breast spilling forth and free for his touch. He takes one nipple and sucks, while his thumb circles and gently tugs the other. Every single act has you gasping, and you wonder when and where the hell did Spencer Reid ever learn how to do this? You shouldn’t question it though.
When his mouth lands upon your hips, you jerk. “Spencer,” you gasp, looking down on him, but there’s no more teasing from him now, no hesitation. Before you can even formulate what to say next—you don’t have to, I’ve already cum, I’m still so sensitive—his mouth is at your core, tongue lapping up what remains of your previous orgasm and all evidence of your arousal.
“Fuck!” you are not responsible for your actions anymore, not responsible for the way your fingers find his russet curls and tug hard, the way your thighs try to clamp shut around his head. He chuckles against you, the sound sending tingling vibrations that travel from your pussy to the tips of your toes and fingers.
“Settle down,” laughter drips from his gentle admonishment, “Or I’ll stop.”
“Please don’t.” you’re past the point of shame and guilt, eager to beg and obey as much as he wants. The positions have turned since the tryst in the hallway. No longer are you on your knees for him, no longer the one servicing him and choking around his length, yet somehow you’re still at his mercy. “Don’t stop, please, so good.”
He laughs, and you feel something sliding past your entrance. You clench around it involuntarily, as if you can tell what it is from the mere feeling, but then his mouth wraps around your clit and you’re reeling into oblivion once again.
“Spencer!” you thrash against the pillows, overwhelmed and sensitive but still eager to take more, “Spencer, oh my god, Spencer!” you lose count of how many times you’ve uttered his name from your lips. It has simultaneously lost every meaning, yet retained all of it. An invocation of fervent desire from a lowly, undeserving sinner. Thankfully, your god is merciful and giving, because Spencer wraps his arms around your thighs to hold you down, sucks at your clit harshly and thrusts into you again—fingers, you now realize, all three spreading you open and curling deep inside you.
With everything going on, your climax comes as no surprise. You and Spencer are both expecting it, you’re so worked up after all. What makes you both pause is the fact that something gushes out of you as you arch off the bed and cry out his name.
His movement stills for a split second, before he continues and helps you through your orgasm, tongue lapping at the mess between your legs as your body is wracked with the aftershocks, trembling beneath him. After a few moments, he stops, resting his head at your hip.
Looking at him feels like a risk. Fear keeps your eyes squeezed shut, afraid of what you’ll find. More teasing? Disgust? Doesn’t seem like it, from the way his fingertips are trailing over your thighs. You lift your lids again, eyes meeting his own hazy ones. They are nearly black, but what pulls your attention are his lips and chin. Glistening with slickness.
Your slick.
“Oh god,” your words are half groan, half laugh when the reality hits you, “Did I really?”
He laughs again, light and tender. “I believe you did.”
“I’m sorry.” you mutter, feeling utterly mortified that you just squirted all over your coworker’s face.
Spencer’s expression is one of mischief, but his eyes gleam with something darker. “What for?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
Another laugh, “But I wanna hear it,” he coos, pressing his lips to your hip bone, “Come on, darling, what are you sorry for?”
When you don’t answer, he nips at your skin playfully, slowly moving back to your center. Your pussy throbs both in anticipation and overstimulation.
“Spencer.”
“Mhm?”
“Too sensitive.” you try to squirm out of his grip. It only tightens, presses you deeper into the mattress.
A lick, teasing and light. “Tell me why you’re sorry.”
“Spencer!”
“Come on,” He's grinning, the bastard, “Why are you sorry?”
“Because I squirted in your face.”
He bites your inner thigh with more force than usual, “You shouldn't be.”
“Hm?”
“I loved it,” He murmurs, soothing the bite with a flick of his tongue, “Wanna see you do it again.”
You shudder, though you’re unsure whether it’s from his moistened tongue, or his words. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” he drags himself up, kissing along your body as he does so, “Think you can be a good girl and do it again for me?”
“I think that’s entirely dependent on how well you do.”
Soft, dewy lips curl into a smirk at your challenge, and suddenly he’s sin incarnate, a devil about to pounce. Once again, how are you to deny this man of anything? How could you resist temptation when someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself is looking at you as though you were the masterpiece? Liquid gold irises take you in, inspecting every inch of your body with unabashed want, and you’re reminded of the fact that he’s fully clothed, cock straining through his pants, and you’re in nothing but your flimsy bra that’s been pulled down your chest it’s not even covering anything anymore.
You fight the urge to squirm under his gaze, but then his hands come up your sides, ghost over your ribs and your back until he finds the hook of your bra.
“Not really fair,” you say as the last strip of your clothing falls away, your chest heaving from the sheer weight of his gaze, “I want to see you too.” with that, you reach for him, deft fingers quickly undoing the buttons of his shirt.
He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t help, only continues to regard you with quiet intensity.
Once his clothes are off, he meets your lips again. His kisses are slower this time, an almost dreamy tangle of tongue and teeth, but his body is hot and slick with sweat even as he holds himself on his elbows above you. His cock rests upon your lower abdomen, its heft reminding you of how much your mouth had to stretch to accommodate him earlier. How the length and girth had all but blocked your airways as he thrusted into your throat.
You clench around nothing at the idea of that same cock filling your pussy.
His kisses move down your jaw, down the column of your throat, being careful not to suck too hard on the skin and leave marks. You never know when you might be called in for a case, and he doesn’t want any trouble.
“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, positioning the tip at your entrance.
You grin and shake your head, “No, I want to see if you can make me squirt again, or if that last one was just beginner’s luck.”
Laughter. You’re beginning to find sex with Spencer enjoyable on more than just the physical aspect. He drags the tip of his cock over your folds, combining his precum and your arousal into a heady, natural lubrication. He’s big, you already know that, but right now, you’re so pleasure drunk that you have no problem opening up to him.
You can tell he’s being careful, pushing his tip in slowly, and your entrance flutters, stretches around him. There’s a slight burn, but it’s accompanied by awe, overtaken by pleasure. You marvel at how his cock sinks into your slick, velvety heat, the way every slight thrust makes your body conform to his own as he carves out a space for himself.
As if he belongs there.
As if you’re his.
Every single memory about your cheating boyfriend is expelled from your mind with every thrust of his hips. You moan and clench around him at the thought.
“Fuck,” he groans, hips stilling. His cock is only halfway through, and you already look so fucked out, “Careful with that, darling, or this is gonna end sooner than we’d like.”
Your lower lip trembles, but you nod, spreading your thighs apart even further. “Sorry.”
He kisses that expression away, “Don’t be sorry,” two large hands hold your thighs in place, keeping you spread for him as he sinks in another inch. And then another. You’re so wet, and he’s done such a great job stretching you out that your walls engulf him easily.
“Oh god!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut as he fills you. You hear a chuckle, before he retreats, pulls out almost all the way, and once again you’re clenching around his length as though you’re trying to convince him to stay buried inside you.
“Stop clenching.”
“Can’t help it!”
“Fuck, you’re so tight.” With a soft hiss, he thrusts back inside, still slow and steady. The curse makes you gasp; you’ve never heard him curse before, somehow it’s even more jarring than when he’s murmuring filth into your ears. When you open your eyes, he’s staring at you, unblinking and focused, watching your every reaction. “You okay?”
“Fuck yes,” you gasp as his thrusts grow steady. The world seems to disappear around you, the only point of importance is where your bodies are coming together repeatedly. You reach up, hands seeking for something to ground you, and finding purchase at his tangled curls, “Oh god, yes!”
It’s funny, crying out for a god you don’t really believe in. Crying out for a god when you’re in the midst of sin, carnal pleasure and infidelity and who knows what else, you were never religious to begin with. You wonder if this is what religion is, this free fall, the blind surrender. But faith as you know it believes in something unseen, the conviction to the intangible and unexplained.
Spencer is very much here, and you can feel him between your thighs, his very existence present in the stretch of your walls around his cock, the soft curls you’ve woven around your fingers. He keeps his thrusts slow but deep, letting your walls feel every single vein and ridge on his cock.
“Spencer,” you moan, one hand falling to his face, soft palm on the stubble at his jaw, “Feels so good.”
“You too,” he turns his face, pressing his lips to the warmth of your hand. He’s very tender, his movements measured to ensure your comfort, “God, you’re taking me so well.”
Your walls tighten around him in response.
Something seems to ignite in his brain, his hand catching your wrist, pulling it from his face and pinning it to the bed. “You like that, my pretty girl? Like knowing you’re doing a good job for me?”
Fuck. The same rush of heat from when he’d had you on your knees fills your stomach. The heat that compels you to do whatever he wants, take whatever he’ll give in order to hear more of his praise. Like a devoted servant, at the service of a benevolent god.
“Yes,” you gasp, hooking one leg around his hips, while the other is bent at an angle, foot pressed to the mattress in order to allow you some leverage to meet his thrusts. It’s sloppy at first, your body not entirely in your control right now.
“That’s it, my darling, you can do it.” he mutters encouragingly, pausing to allow you to join in this tangled, exhilarating dance. When you’ve gotten steadier, he resumes his thrusts, and you’re finally able to buck your hips up to meet them.
The action sends his entire length buried deep inside you, something he’s been very careful to avoid in fear of hurting you. But instead, you let out a cry of pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head, “Yes!”
“Right there?” he grunts. You’ve never heard him before, voice low and strained as he slams his hips into yours, again and again. The mattress begins to creak from the force of his actions.
“Mhm hmm!” You meet him thrust for thrust, the impact hitting spots deep inside you that you’ve never felt before. Toes curling in on themselves, one hand buried in his hair, the other pinned by his strong grip, “Oh, god, Spencer, yes!”
He loosens his grip on your wrist, intertwines your fingers together, “Good girl. Look at you, so pretty while you take me.”
No words come from your mouth, only his name, repeated over and over that it begins to sound made up, unreal. Perhaps he is divine. Nothing human can make you feel this way, surely.
He shifts, his free arm wrapping around your hips to elevate you slightly, and the new angle has you keening, every single muscle in your body tightly wound and white-hot as he pounds into you. It’s obscene how easily your body accepts every single inch of him, the way your pussy flutters and yields to the throbbing length of his cock.
“My god, you feel like heaven,” he groans, and that’s it, those words have you screaming so loud he starts to laugh and kiss you just to swallow the sound. You’re shuddering beneath him, crying, the pleasure coiling and building until it bursts and snaps, cascading over you with such fervor he has to wrap both his arms around your limp body to help you calm down.
Somehow, your hazy mind registers the wetness between your thighs, the loud, nearly pornographic squelching of his body plunging into yours. He’d done his goal; he’s made you squirt again. You are boneless in his arms as he fucks you through your orgasm, and chases his own. You only regain agency when he tenses, groaning into your ear.
“Gonna cum,” he says, moving his hips to drag his length out. He’s so long you’re able to wrap your legs around his waist before he’s pulled his cock out all the way.
“No, please, do it inside.”
His body stutters, head falling to the crook of your neck as he ruts his hips into you, not even bothering to argue or ask you if you’re sure. He thrusts into your sensitive pussy erratically, mouth open and groaning into your neck, “Oh my god, oh my — ah!”
Spencer holds onto you, breathing heavily into your ear as you both come down from your high. You feel simultaneously weightless and heavy, melting into your mattress with sweet, glassy eyes.
“That was incredible,” you whisper against his hair. He’s already half asleep on top of you, mumbling incoherently against your shoulder. You don’t bother to move, letting his still hard cock stay buried inside your pussy as you both drift off into dreamland.
Morning comes with a delicious ache in your lower belly. Spencer has you tucked to his chest, his arm around your waist. The air is heavy with the lingering smell of sweat and sex, but also oddly light with the knowledge of a new day. You shift in his arms, yawning as you will your body to wake up and shake off the sluggish feeling clinging to your bones.
He wakes slowly, groaning into your hair, “Morning.” he mumbles.
“Morning,” you reply, but before either of you can say any more, your phone rings. Mindlessly, you reach for it, not even bothering to hide the screen from Spencer, who’s nosing at your temple sweetly.
Cameron ❤️
Your heart sinks. Before you can hit the ignore button, Spencer turns his head, still half asleep as he catches sight of your screen. The name, the heart emoji, the multiple missed calls shakes off every single sleepy cell in his body.
“Who’s Cameron?”
more size kink fics in the BUD Chronicles.
Forehead smooches to the many people who witnessed the conception of this fic and patiently listened and helped me as I crashed out and went screaming crying throwing up, hey nachos, @mggslover (who also proofread ty) @beenreidingaboutyou @reidingandallthat @burymagdalene and @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat good god there's so many, my need for reassurance is actually extremely bothersome and embarrassing but ily guys.
im so sorry to rant in your asks, but holy moly !!
my friend said to me while dropping me off from his house “ if i had to love anyone, i’d probably love you. “ and it just hit me ?? he is so sweet genuinely, and he was my first kiss — which was more of a pity thing 🥲, but i just thought about it and wanted to rant !
WAIT I WOULD HIGH KEY CRASH OUT IF SOMEONE SAID THAT TO ME!!!
WHY TF WOULD HE SAY THAT WHAT PROMPTED IT??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN IF HE "HAD" TO?! THAT'S CRAZY WORK HOW DID HE WANT YOU TO REACT 😭 HOW DID YOU REACT? Sorry I'm nosy and kind of Head-in-my-handsing at this I understand why you needed to rant about it bc???? Wtf!?
i am the person i am today because helia was my favorite among the boys: he was sweet and romantic with flora, they had to nerf him in the later seasons by making him be an ass about crystal and having flora jealous (it made no sense). i loved when she bumped into him with the letter she wrote for him and instead of taking it when it dropped, he gave it right back to her 🥹
I LOVE THAT WE ALL JUST COLLECTIVELY AGREE HELIO IS THE BEST!!! He's so dreamy and gentle but also very badass. Also aesthetically, they just match SO well.
Honestly, I don't like the later seasons in general, the characters all felt defanged and less like their original versions 😭 my recent rewatch ended at believix which i think was season 4
my favorite was flora! it also helped that she had the best boyfriend 😭😭
WHAT I'M SAYING!!!! He was so dreamy and they match each other's vibes so perfectly. Have you seen the reboot??? They changed him entirely, I was so pissed off.
HELL YEAH! I have an irl bestie named Stella and was soooooo confused and surprised when I first met her because it didn't occur to me that it was a name you could use in real life LMFAO. In my head, that was invented for the show, you know? It's like meeting someone named Katniss irl after only knowing about that word from reading THG 😂
OH MY GOD I LOVE WINXCLUB !!i watched all the time when i was younger
i think my favourite growing up was probably Flora? but i switched between her and Musa because i thought the power of music was soo cool! i also loved aisha / layla when she came into it !!
i also think when roxy came into it, i hated her because i wanted to be a fairy of animals..
Flora is so so so beautiful and she had the dreamiest boyfriend IMO!!! Helio? Who wrote poetry and shit hell yeah. And I agree about Musa, I wanted huge magenta headphones because of her ahahah. I also think her character design is soooo y2k. They all are, but Musa specifically is what I think of when I imagine y2k fashion.
OMG how you felt about Roxy was me with Layla/Aisha bc I wanted to be a fairy of water/the sea. AND THEN SHE CAME IN AS THE PRINCESS OF AN UNDERWATER KINGDOM!? LIVING MY DREAM?! God I was so salty HAHAHAHA love her in my rewatch though! Her going blind was genuinely so touching
My fav sounds like a basic answer but it was Bloom lol I loved her outfits tbh the fashion and color palettes they chose for each girl was gorgeous
like if you think about it they could have made Bloom’s outfit red and orange to represent fire but they chose a nice blue which I love I’m fangirling sorry 😂
HAHA I'm in unemployment hell right now so I'm revisiting a lot of my childhood faves!!!
I love Bloom, her backstory is soooo cool and her whole thing with Valtor was honestly lowkey hot JFJWKDJS You're so valid for choosing based on how much you liked her fashion, that's the exact same reason I loved Stella HAHAHAH. Although Bloom's base magic winx outfit is my favorite, alongside Flora's! I think I dressed up as Flora one Halloween bc my parents wouldn't let me go trick or treating in a crop top + tiny skirt/short like Bloom and Stella's outfit, and Flora had a full dress HAHAHA.
Also, I loved that Stella had long hair that got tied up when she transformed! HAHAHAHA for some reason her pigtails were always so iconic to me
Summary: Spencer catches you going down memory lane, looking through your old photos with your best friend, and what ensues after is a soft moment shared within the quiet library walls.
Contents: 1.7k, FLUFF, prof!reader, fem!reader, no use of y/n, reader has glasses, mentions of partying and sex toys, reader is described to have smiley eyes and crow's feet (this is super self-indulgent bc I have smiley eyes and am probably gonna get crow's feet lol)
A/N: Quite a short one to start off the event! Happens right after Footnotes on Intimacy. I love you guys muah!!!
➳ Save the Date masterlist
"I thought you were grading papers?"
You flinch in surprise, twisting your head to the side only for your nose to come dangerously close to Spencer's face. He's bent over your library chair and peering over your shoulder at your laptop screen—nosily, if you're being honest. Though oddly enough, you can't quite muster even the slightest hint of annoyance. He smells like cinnamon and ink, cheeks and nose bitten rosebud pink from being outside.
You lift an index finger, poke at his jaw, and push him away gently. Lips thinned, brows furrowed, a play at being annoyed.
"Move."
"Aren't we supposed to act like a couple in public?" he asks, the dimple on his cheek appearing even as he fights back a smile. He catches your wrist and holds it hostage near his chest. You, for some unfathomable reason, don't pull away.
"Yeah, but there's practically no one else here." you say, nose wrinkling, "We don't need to lay it on thick—or at all, if I'm being honest."
He chuckles, but lets your hand go and inches away as you'd asked him. However, his attention is still on your laptop, large brow eyes squinting at the image on your screen. You inhale sharply, and gather your bearings just enough to close the currently open tab—a picture of you and Melissa at six or seven, with twin gap tooth smiles and matching ladybug costumes.
A picture he does not need to see that right now. Or ever, if you can help it.
It disappears from view, only to expose another tab, upon which a more recent photo is flashed. Blurry, neon lights in the background. You and Melissa, off centered and flipping off the camera, wearing tight dresses and sky high heels that you can remember pinched your toes and gave you blisters before the night was even over.
"Fuck!" you hiss, closing that window this time. Unfortunately, you've opened an exceptional amount of tabs in your search for older—and specifically embarrassing—pictures of you and Melissa, so another picture is blasted in HD right there on your screen.
This third one is the worst. Somehow, its composition is even messier than the previous one, even though this was taken in a hotel room. You and Melissa were on vacation with a couple other friends, and the photo captures the exact type of chaos that follows a vacation of four young women—a large bed, its fluffy sheets littered with make up products and mismatched bikinis.
One girl stands on the bed in denim cut offs and a tiny swimsuit top, proudly chugging vodka straight from a bottle. Melissa's kneeling in front of her, holding a large, silicone, very adult toy, and you poised right beside it, mouth wide open and your tongue sticking out.
You slam the laptop shut. Warmth blossoms at your cheeks and spreads everywhere.
Beside you, Spencer is failing to hide a laugh.
"I see you're too preoccupied going down memory lane." he says, sliding into the seat next to yours.
"Melissa's wedding organizers asked if I had any old pictures of Melissa—old, hidden ones, you know, the stuff that's not posted online," you explain, the humiliation hardening into defensiveness. Your voice is steely, even though your heart is pounding hard. He isn't meant to see those. "It's for a slideshow, the embarrassing ones are for her bridal shower and the childhood ones are for her wedding."
His smile softens in an instant, turning kind and gentle. "The ladybug one was really cute."
"The ladybug one I can live with, but Melissa might actually commit homicide if I send the other two."
"I don't think the party one was that bad. And the hotel—"
"Do not mention that, please. In fact, just forget about it." you groan, snatching your glasses off and rubbing the heels of your palms to your eyes. Rings of color explode in darkness, and your hands drop to your lap, glasses hanging between your fingers. Without them on, Spencer is a blurry image, which is good because you don't think you can look him in the eye after what he just witnessed.
"I'm just saying, they aren't that bad. Just proof you've had fun and lived, you know?" his voice is so warm you're worried your insides would turn gooey and coalesce into one messy stew.
"They're still embarrassing."
"I've had my share of embarrassing photos, trust me."
You squint at him. Sharp angles, beautiful eyes, a perfect sloped nose—all features that would photograph handsomely. "Somehow, I find that difficult to believe."
He chuckles and pulls out his phone. Humiliation evanesces into curiosity—he's one of the few people you know who, very prudently, keeps his phone in his pocket when he's with company, so this must be something big. You slide your glasses back on just as he tilts his screen to you.
For a moment, you just stare. Blink. Eyes darting at the image on his phone, to him, then back to his phone.
"Oh my god, is that you?"
It must have been from at least a decade ago. There he is, smooth faced and so thin he appears bug eyed, lips pulled in a thin line like he's unsure which muscles to use to smile. His hair is straight, lacquered down his head like an ocher helmet, so unlike the unruly mop of curls he wears now. Even in his youth, he's wearing a button down shirt tucked into a sweater vest, a detail you can't help but find endearing.
Some things never change.
You can't help it; you snort.
"Hey!" Spencer narrows his eyes in mock anger, "I didn't laugh at yours."
"Technically, I didn't laugh." you reply, grinning wide, "A snort isn't a laugh."
His response is an indignant exhale, and he pockets his phone again. You let a soft giggle slip out, resting an elbow on the table, palm cradling your chin.
"How old were you there?"
"Twenty–one."
"And already in sweater vests?"
Spencer laughs sheepishly. "I was surrounded by professors and academics my entire life, I suppose I modeled my wardrobe after them."
You could just imagine it: a younger Spencer, lankier, but equally brilliant. Losing the battle with his curly hair and taming it into a more socially acceptable hairstyle—because it's easier, or because he had no clue how to style the curls? You don't ask; being able to see the picture feels intimate enough.
A beat passes, silent and comfortable.
"Do you wanna see the pictures I've already chosen? Just the ones for the wedding though, the bridal shower ones are confidential." you offer, still smiling at him.
His face lights up. "If you don't mind."
"I don't; you're attending the wedding with me, so you'll see them anyway."
"Then I would be honored."
You boot your laptop back on, this time without the panic or the embarrassment. Spencer dutifully averts his gaze while you close the opened tabs of even more embarrassing snapshots.
Navigating through the folders quickly, you locate the compilation you've chosen for the wedding slideshow. Mostly from childhood and high school, special ones that only you and Melissa have copies of. Themed slumber parties with your precious childhood toys, more matching costumes throughout the years, your first few disastrous dabbles with make up stolen from your moms.
Spencer is quiet. Even from your peripheral, you can he that he's smiling as he watches and absorbs the photos flashing on the screen. Your childhood memories being shared in this quiet, nearly empty library.
Once you've shown him everything, you say, "Well, now you have potential material for blackmail."
He laughs. "I've no intention of ever blackmailing you."
"I will hold you to that."
Spencer clicks to the previous photo—you and Melissa as your favorite Disney princesses, knees bent in a childish approximation of a curtsy. "I like this one."
"You do?"
He nods. "You must have been really excited over something."
Surprise floods through you. You were. That was the day the two of you performed for a school talent show, and were awarded with the biggest available stars for singing a medley of princess songs.
"What? How did you know?" you ask.
"You smile with your entire face, but it's more noticeable when you're excited. Your eyes scrunch and nearly close." He points to your expression on the screen, where you're beaming so wide that your eyes are, indeed, almost closed, before glancing back at you. "You still do."
The room suddenly feels much warmer than it did a moment ago. He noticed?
"So you're saying I was always destined to have crow's feet." you joke, self consciously touching the skin by your eyes. "With the way I smile."
"You say that like it's a bad thing. I think it's beautiful," Spencer says gently, his hand closing over your wrist again. This time, when he tugs at your hand, he doesn't let go at all. Instead, he shifts and interlaces his fingers with yours, and you let him, even though there's hardly anyone in this library to catch such performance.
He goes on, like this is normal, launching into one of his typical Spencer tangents.
"It's really lovely to see someone with smiley eyes. There's a scientific explanation behind it, you know—a French scientist named Guillaume Duchenne identified it in the 19th century, naming facial muscles that get triggered when—"
But you aren't listening anymore. Too preoccupied with this new piece of knowledge—he knows your smile. You don't know what to make of it, or of the tenderness that forms in the pit of your stomach, trembling and delicate.
Your mind spins as Spencer continues to talk, explaining the functions of orbicularis oculi muscles, and you feel yourself smiling, feel your cheeks lifting so high that the corners of your eyes crinkle. You squeeze his hand carefully, trying to ground yourself through the action, and grateful for something you don't have a name for.
He returns the gesture in an instant, smiling as he talks now, and you can't help but notice he smiles the exact same way. Cheeks pushing up so high the skin around his eyes crinkle, owlish brown eyes narrowing—smiling. Smiley eyes, he said.
And he's right. They're beautiful.
Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed! Also, happy birthday Lils @spencellelvrr enjoy your day my love!!!
Finished season 2 of TLoK, there's something so deeply upsetting watching a young woman be physically overwhelmed and controlled by an older man over and over again. Like getting your ass kicked is one thing, but Korra is consistently overpowered by men who could bloodbend her, which didn't just leave her defenseless; they could force her to do things she doesn't want to. Then in s2, yet another older man (whom she trusted and looked up to as a mentor, only for him to manipulate and lowkey groom her) physically overwhelms her, FORCIBLY RIPS OUT THE AVATAR SPIRIT FROM HER THROAT like. It's all so visceral. I don't remember Aang's villains ever being this physically invasive. Idk. It's 1am and my thoughts are all over the place, I just felt such a specific type of dread anytime Korra faces off with her big bad villains.
summary: spencer has always been an exceptional listener, but one whispered "please" makes him wonder what it might feel like if, just this once, you listened to him instead
includes: smut (MDNI), no use on y/n, soft dom/switch!spencer, established relationship, consensual power exchange, relationship dynamics, gentle dominance, praise, teasing, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, spanking, dirty talk, "good girl", little bit of begging, switch realization, aftercare, communication, consent, reassurance, fluff, romance, emotional intimacy, spencer being adorably flustered after making you see stars
a/n: hi everyone, I am alive and kicking still. though my brain has been kicking my ass the past couple weeks. thank you to the people who checked in on me, yall are too sweet 💕
based on this request
Spencer Reid is a good listener.
He always has been.
He listens when you spend twenty uninterrupted minutes telling him about your day, even if half of it is dedicated to a coworker you've never particularly liked and the other half is an animated retelling of something that happened in the grocery store. He listens when you launch into a scene-by-scene breakdown of whatever show you've become obsessed with this week, nodding along despite having absolutely no context because you're so excited that your words tumble over one another, and he knows you'll inevitably pause every few minutes to ask, "Are you even listening?"
He always is.
He listens when you tell him your coffee order has changed. When you mention, weeks in advance, that your favorite bookstore is getting a special edition release. When you absent-mindedly admit you haven't been sleeping well lately, only to discover a weighted blanket appearing on your bed a few days later because Spencer quietly researched the statistics on sleep quality before buying one.
He listens because that's how he loves.
It carries into every corner of your relationship without either of you ever really noticing.
He listens when you murmur, "Come here," from across the apartment, abandoning whatever article he's reading without a second thought because if you're asking for him, he'd always rather be where you are.
He listens when you tilt your chin up with that familiar smile and whisper, "Kiss me."
He listens when you laugh against his mouth and say "Slower." When you smile and tell him to keep going. When you breathe "Wait." When you say "Okay." When you say "Stop."
Every single time—without hesitation, without question—Spencer listens.
It isn't one-sided, not even close. If Spencer listens, you direct. It's simply how the two of you fit together.
You don't really ask. You tell. You like taking the initiative. Spencer likes following it. The rhythm develops so naturally that it becomes as familiar as breathing, neither of you questioning it any more than you'd question why the sun rises every morning.
If anything, Spencer finds it comforting. He spends enough of his life making impossible decisions. Profiling killers. Choosing who goes through which door. Calculating risks that end in lives saved or lost. Here, with you, there are no impossible choices. You simply smile, hook a finger through one of his belt loops as you step through the front door, and say, "Bedroom."
He follows.
Because Spencer Reid is an exceptionally good listener.
Your fingers find the first button of his shirt before you've even cleared the hallway.
It's automatic—the way you reach for him, the way your hands know the geography of his chest better than he knows the layout of his own apartment. You walk backward, and Spencer follows, his steps careful and unhurried, watching your face as you glance up at him with a sly smile and batting lashes.
There's a faint flush across your cheeks that has nothing to do with embarrassment. Two glasses of wine at dinner—maybe three, if you count the sips you stole from Spencer's glass when he wasn't paying attention, which he absolutely noticed but chose not to mention because you'd looked so pleased with yourself. You're not drunk. Your wits are still comfortably intact, your words still coming out clear and deliberate. But there's a softness to you tonight, a looseness in your limbs and a brightness in your eyes that the wine has gently coaxed to the surface.
The backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sink down with the grace of someone who's had just enough wine to move like water. Your fingers slide the open shirt from Spencer's shoulders, and it catches briefly on his elbows before you tug it away and toss it aside.
You don't stand on ceremony. You never do.
You lean back on your palms, then shift your weight and crawl backward across the bed, the hem of your dress dragging across the sheets as you go. The movement is unhurried, deliberate, your eyes never leaving his face as you settle against the pillows with the kind of easy confidence that Spencer has spent entire evenings trying to understand and never quite managed to replicate.
Spencer climbs onto the bed after you, one knee first, then the other, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moves forward. His hands find your legs before the rest of him catches up, palms settling against your ankles and sliding slowly upward along the bare skin of your shins.
The touch is warm and careful, his thumbs tracing idle patterns against your calves as he moves closer. His fingers skim past your knees, and he feels the slight hitch in your breathing when he reaches the softer skin of your thighs. His hands disappear beneath the hem of your dress, palms pressing flat against you as they continue their slow path upward, the fabric bunching around his wrists.
It's been weeks.
Not by choice. Not by any fault or failure. Just the ugly mathematics of conflicting schedules—late cases and early shifts that keep passing each other in the dark like ships. He comes home to the shape of you under the covers, already breathing slow and deep. You wake to a cold pillow and a cup of coffee he made for you before leaving.
But tonight, tonight he has you.
His lips find the inside of your knee first.
It's a soft press of warmth, almost chaste, the kind of absent kiss he might leave on your forehead on his way out the door in the morning. Except his mouth lingers, and his breath ghosts across your skin when he speaks.
"I've missed you."
The words vibrate against you, soft and unguarded, and your breath catches before you can stop it.
His mouth drifts higher. Another kiss, pressed to the tender skin of your inner thigh, his lips parting just enough against you that you feel the damp warmth of his breath. His hands tighten fractionally on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles against the fabric of your underwear.
"I've missed you so much." The confession comes out quieter, almost fragile, like it's been sitting in his chest for weeks and only now found its way out. He kisses the same spot again, then higher, his curls brushing against your thigh as he moves. "You're so pretty."
Your breathing stutters.
It's not something you decide to do. It just happens—the way your chest rises and falls losing its steady rhythm, catching somewhere between one inhale and the next. Your fingers curl into the sheets beneath your palms, bunching the cotton into loose fists as Spencer's mouth maps a slow, deliberate path along your thigh.
"You're so pretty," he says again, and this time the words press into the crease where your leg meets your hip, his lips dragging against skin that's grown impossibly warm. His voice has dropped into that low, unhurried register that he seems almost unaware of—the one that surfaces when he's focused entirely on you, when the analytical part of his brain finally, mercifully, goes quiet.
The sound you make in response is barely a sound at all.
A soft, broken thing—a whimper that catches in the back of your throat before it can become anything more substantial. Your hips shift on instinct, pressing toward the warmth of his mouth in a motion that bypasses every rational thought you've ever had. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, the cotton twisting beneath your palms as the ache of weeks without this—without him—pools low and insistent beneath his hands.
"Please."
The word falls out of you like something dislodged—unplanned, unmeasured, dragged up from somewhere deeper than thought. It's soft and breathy and barely audible, little more than a trembling exhale shaped into a single syllable. Your lips part around it without permission, your voice catching on the end of it so that the sound fractures into something almost helpless.
The sound... does something to him.
It happens fast—faster than he can catalogue, faster than his brain can dissect and shelve and rationalise. It hits somewhere beneath his ribs first, a sharp, electric jolt that drops low and heavy into his stomach, and then lower still. His cock twitches against the fabric of his pants, and his breath catches in a way that surprises him.
It isn't an instruction. It isn't a direction. It's a request—falling from your lips like you couldn't hold it back.
Spencer doesn't move.
He doesn't follow the cue. Doesn't respond to the request. Doesn't do what he's always done, which is listen, which is obey, which is give you whatever you ask for the moment you ask for it.
Instead, he stays exactly where he is—mouth hovering against the warm crease of your thigh, breath fanning slow and deliberate across damp skin.
His lips press into the same spot he'd just kissed, and he feels your whole body respond—a tremor that starts in your thighs and radiates outward, your breath going thin and unsteady above him.
He does it again.
Another kiss, slower this time. His mouth opens slightly against your skin, his tongue tracing a lazy, deliberate line along the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh before his lips close and pull gently. Not hard enough to mark. Just enough to feel. Just enough to make your fingers twist tighter in the sheets and your hips lift off the mattress in a silent, seeking motion that you can't seem to control.
You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a protest—breathless, incredulous, your head lifting from the pillow just enough to look down at him through half-lidded eyes.
"What the hell, Spence."
It comes out more whine than words, your voice thin and frayed at the edges in a way that would be embarrassing if you had the bandwidth to care about it. Your thighs press together instinctively, seeking friction that isn't there, and you feel the sharp spike of frustration needle through the haze of want when Spencer's hands hold your legs apart with a gentle, immovable certainty that you did not teach him.
"I want to hear you ask nicely."
The words leave his mouth before his brain fully registers them. They come out soft, unhurried, almost curious—like he's testing the weight of them on his tongue and finding he doesn't mind the taste.
He watches the shift in your expression. Your brows knit together first—confusion, maybe, or disbelief. Your lips part and then close again. Your eyes search his face for some sign that he's joking, some flicker of hesitation that would give you back the ground you've suddenly lost.
You scoff.
It's an automatic response, the kind of sound that usually precedes you taking charge. Your mouth opens, no doubt preparing to tell him exactly what to do and how to do it, and Spencer watches the words form behind your eyes before they ever reach your lips.
But they don't reach your lips.
Because Spencer's fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and the words dissolve into a sharp inhale.
He takes his time peeling the fabric down your legs.
There's no reason for it to take as long as it does. His fingers move with agonizing deliberation, hooking into the elastic at one hip and then the other, dragging the cotton down over the curve of your hips like it's delicate.
Your hips lift for him without thought. The fabric slides down your thighs, and Spencer's palms follow its descent—over your knees, along your shins. His thumbs press into the soft hollows behind your ankles as he eases the underwear free and drops it somewhere off the side of the bed without looking.
Then he settles between your legs. His mouth finds the inside of your thigh again, but it's different.
Before, he was meandering—an unhurried exploration, his lips wandering wherever instinct carried them. Now there's intention. A slow, deliberate trajectory that makes your pulse hammer in places you can feel but can't see.
He starts high on your inner thigh, close enough to where you need him that your breath stutters, but not close enough. The kiss is soft—barely a press of lips—and then he moves. Higher. Another kiss, slightly firmer, his mouth lingering against the sensitive skin long enough for warmth to bloom and settle.
You huff again, your head falling back against the pillow with a soft thud as the frustration coils tighter in your stomach. Your fingers abandon the sheets and find his hair instead—sliding into those soft, unruly curls and tugging with a desperation you don't bother to disguise.
Spencer hums against your thigh. The vibration travels through already-sensitive skin, and your hips buck upward without your permission—seeking, searching, a motion so involuntary it almost embarrasses you.
"Spence—"
Spencer's response is to press one more kiss to the junction of your thigh. His lips are warm and deliberately unhurried, and you can feel the faint curve of a smile against your skin that makes you want to scream.
Then his mouth finally—finally—finds you.
The first stroke of his tongue is a slow, flat press from bottom to top that has your spine arching off the mattress and your fingers tightening in his hair.
But he doesn't stay where you need him.
His tongue traces upward, then drifts sideways—circling the edges of where you're desperate for him to be.
Your thighs press against the sides of his head and his hands respond instantly—palms sliding beneath you, fingers curling over your hips to hold you steady against the mattress.
"Ask me nicely."
It's not a command. Not really. It's barely above a murmur, the words pressed into your skin like a secret—like he's almost asking you for permission to ask this of you. His voice is warm and a little rough around the edges, and you can feel the vibration of it travel upward, settling somewhere deep in your stomach.
"Please, Spence."
His fingers tighten briefly on your thighs. "Tell me what you want."
Your fingers are still threaded through his hair, and you feel the shift of his breathing against you when you tug gently at the curls. "I want your mouth on me. Please.”
He doesn't say anything else. He dives in.
There's no other way to describe it—the way his mouth settles over you with a sudden, devastating purpose that steals the air from your lungs. His tongue presses flat and broad against you, dragging upward in one long, slow stroke that pulls a sound from your chest that you don't recognize.
Your back arches off the mattress. Your fingers seize in his hair—tight, tighter than you mean to—and Spencer groans against you in response. The vibration radiates inward, sinking into tissue that's already swollen and desperate, and your thighs clench around his head so hard you half-expect him to pull away.
He doesn't pull away.
He presses closer.
His hands slide beneath you, palms flattening against the small of your back as he pulls you toward his mouth. His tongue works in slow, focused strokes now—no longer teasing, just there, exactly where you need him, applied with a precision that shouldn't surprise you because this is Spencer, and Spencer has always been precise about everything, but somehow you hadn't expected precision like this.
His tongue finds a rhythm—deliberate and devastating in its consistency. Your hips roll against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and Spencer's hands tighten on you in response. Keeping you exactly where he wants you.
It's new. That's the thing that strikes you somewhere through the haze. The want in his grip. The quiet certainty in the way he holds you against him like he's decided this is where you belong and he has no intention of letting you move.
You've always been the one deciding where you belong. Spencer has always let you decide.
Every position, every pace, every whispered instruction—he's followed it with a devotion that made you feel untouchable. Cherished. In control.
Now his hands are holding your hips against the mattress like control is something he's not ready to give back, and the absence of it sends something electric spiraling through your chest.
His tongue shifts—flattening, then narrowing, tracing a path upward that makes your thighs tremble against his ears. He finds you with a focus that's almost clinical in its precision, except nothing about this feels clinical. Nothing about the warm, wet pressure of his mouth or the soft, greedy sounds he's making against you feels like anything other than Spencer discovering something new about himself and using your body to explore it.
Your hand flies to your mouth.
It's instinct—the desperate attempt to muffle the sound that's building in your throat, the one that's too loud, too much, too desperate for a weeknight in an apartment with neighbors on the other side of the wall. Your palm presses flat against your lips and your head turns into the pillow, breath escaping in sharp, fractured gasps between your fingers.
His hand leaves your hip without warning—one moment his palm is warm and steady against you, and the next his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth with a gentle firmness that makes your stomach drop.
"Wha—"
The word barely makes it out of you. It's less a question and more a sound—confusion and arousal tangled together into a single, breathless syllable that dissolves the moment Spencer's fingers guide your wrist down to the mattress beside your hip.
He pulls back just enough for you to feel the sudden, devastating absence of his mouth. The cool air hits wet skin and you shiver, your hips lifting off the mattress in an involuntary search for contact that isn't there anymore.
"Don't hold back."
The words are quiet. Almost gentle. They ghost across your skin like a warm exhale, and the juxtaposition of softness and command makes your brain short-circuit.
You don't have time to respond.
His mouth returns to you before you can blink. The sound that leaves you is obscene.
It's somewhere between a moan and a cry—your voice cracking open in a way you couldn't have controlled if you'd tried. Your head falls back against the pillow and your spine curves off the mattress, and Spencer makes a sound against you that you've never heard him make before. Low and satisfied. Almost like a purr.
His tongue shifts.
It dips lower, and the first experimental press inside you makes your whole body jerk. Spencer's hands are already there—palms pressing your hips flat, holding you open and still as his tongue works its way deeper.
He finds a rhythm quickly. Slow, deliberate thrusts that drag against walls of muscle and nerve endings you didn't realize could feel like this. His chin is wet, his breath coming hot and ragged through his nose, and every stroke of his tongue sends a fresh wave of heat rolling through your stomach.
His nose nudges against you with each thrust of his tongue—the bridge of it pressing flush against your clit in a steady, maddening friction that he seems entirely aware of. Each time his tongue pushes deeper, his nose drags upward. Each time he pulls back, it slides down. The rhythm is devastating, and the realization that he's calculated this—that some part of that brilliant, relentless mind has figured out exactly how to make you fall apart with maximum efficiency—sends a sharp spike of arousal through you so intense it borders on painful.
Your hands slam back into his hair.
"Spence—Spencer—"
Spencer doesn't stop.
If anything, your hands in his hair seem to sharpen something in him. His tongue thrusts deeper, the rhythm shifting—faster now. Hungrier. The wet sounds of his mouth against you fill the room in a way that would make you combust with embarrassment if you had a single functioning brain cell left, but you don't, because Spencer Reid's tongue is inside you and his nose is grinding against your clit and you're fairly certain you've forgotten your own name.
Your thighs are shaking. Your legs are clamped around Spencer's head so tight you can feel his curls pressed flat against your inner thighs. Your heels dig into his back, your ankles crossing behind him like your body is trying to hold him exactly where he is, and Spencer responds by groaning against you in a way that vibrates through your entire pelvis.
You're close. You can feel it building in the pit of your stomach, winding tighter with every thrust of his tongue, every drag of his nose. It's coiling hot and heavy at the base of your spine, and your hips have stopped following his rhythm entirely—they're rolling against his mouth in short, desperate circles that have nothing to do with finesse and everything to do with the fact that you're about to come apart and your body knows it even if your brain hasn't caught up.
Your orgasm hits you hard.
Your back bows off the mattress. Your fingers convulse in his hair, pulling hard enough that you'll feel guilty about it later, and your thighs clamp so tight around his head that for one hysterical moment you genuinely worry you might be hurting him.
He stays exactly where he is—mouth pressed against you, tongue working you through the waves of your orgasm with a gentleness that contradicts everything about the last several minutes. His hands smooth up from your hips to your waist, palms warm and steady against your trembling stomach as the aftershocks ripple through you in diminishing surges.
Your thighs unlock from around his head. Your fingers release his hair—though not entirely, some strands still tangled between your knuckles—and you feel the tension drain from your legs as they fall open against the mattress. Your breathing is ragged, your chest rising and falling in uneven intervals, and you can feel your heartbeat pulsing in places you didn't know had heartbeats.
Spencer presses one last, impossibly soft kiss against you. Then another. Each one lighter than the last, his lips barely grazing oversensitive skin until the touch is little more than a whisper.
He lifts his head, and the sight of him nearly undoes you all over again.
His chin is slick. His lips are swollen and pink, parted around uneven breaths. His curls are a disaster—mussed beyond recognition by your fingers, falling across his forehead in wild, chaotic strands that stick up at angles that defy physics. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, warm pink that spreads down his throat and disappears beneath the collar of his shirt.
He looks wrecked.
It's the word that surfaces through the fog of your afterglow—hazy and imprecise, but the closest thing to accurate your brain can produce. Spencer looks absolutely wrecked, and he hasn't even taken anything off yet.
His hands are still on your waist. His eyes find yours, and there's something in them you don't recognize—not quite confidence, not quite surprise, but something caught between the two.
He just smiles.
A wide, entirely pleased smile—the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and lifts his cheeks and transforms his whole face into something so openly, unguardedly happy that it almost looks like a different version of him. Unselfconscious. A little bit smug, like he's just solved something he didn't expect to solve, and the answer pleases him.
You let out a breathy giggle. Your head drops back against the pillow, and you stare at the ceiling while your body continues to tremble in tiny, residual waves.
"What is that face?"
"Nothing," he says, and his voice is rough in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just—" He stops. Swallows. His thumbs trace small, absent circles against your hipbones. "You look really pretty right now."
The laugh that escapes you is wet and breathless. "Spencer, I'm a mess."
"Exactly," he says softly. "A pretty mess."
You reach for him.
It's instinct—your hand lifting from the sheets, fingers stretching toward his chest with the automatic need to touch him, pull him down to you, take hold of whatever you can reach. You've been reaching for him all night, all your life together really.
Spencer catches your wrist. His thumb presses against the inside of your wrist, and you can feel him find your pulse. You're not sure if it's intentional or just Spencer, always cataloging data, always paying attention to the things nobody else thinks to measure.
"Stay still."
The words are soft. Almost tender. But there's something beneath them—something that wasn't there an hour ago. A thread of steadiness that winds through the syllables like he's not just asking you to stay still but telling you.
"Oh," you sigh, almost dazed. This is new. This is... nice.
Your wrist goes limp in his grip, surrendering to the novelty of it, the strange and electrifying sensation of Spencer Reid telling you to stay still and meaning it.
He releases your wrist slowly, his fingers trailing down your palm before letting go entirely. Then he sits back on his heels, and his hands move to the button of his own pants.
He doesn't look away from you.
His fingers work the button open. Then the zipper, drawn down tooth by tooth with the same deliberate patience he used on your underwear, and you realize with a lurch of your stomach that he's doing it on purpose—drawing it out, making you watch, making you wait.
You're not used to waiting.
Your tongue drags across your lower lip. Spencer's eyes track the motion, and something flickers in his expression—heat, maybe, or the quiet satisfaction of knowing he's the one making you restless for a change.
His thumbs hook into the waistband. The pants slide down. He kicks them off without ceremony, and then he's moving over you.
He settles between your thighs, and the first thing you feel is the heat of him.
No barriers. Nothing between you. Just skin against skin, the warm, solid weight of his body pressing against yours, and the startling intimacy of feeling him hard against your thigh. The contact pulls a sharp breath from your lungs—your body arching up against his before you can stop it, hips tilting seekingly, every nerve ending still raw and electric from your orgasm.
You almost expect him to just start. To take the momentum and run with it, the way anyone else might when the person beneath them is still trembling and slick and visibly, desperately ready.
But he doesn't.
Instead, Spencer lowers himself slowly—the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he brings his body down against yours, chest to chest, hip to hip. One hand plants beside your shoulder, his forearm taking some of his weight while the other hand finds the side of your face.
He kisses you the way he always kisses you—deeply, thoroughly, with the kind of whole-body commitment that makes you feel like the only person who has ever existed. His mouth opens against yours, and his tongue slides against your lower lip before slipping inside. His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head, tilting you just slightly so he can deepen the angle. His tongue sweeps against yours, slow and deliberate.
You can taste yourself on him.
It's a thought that should embarrass you—or maybe it's the kind of thing that would embarrass someone else. But Spencer is kissing you like he has all the time in the world, like the fact that he's hard against your hip and you're still trembling beneath him is secondary to the simple, devastating act of kissing you properly, and the taste of yourself on his tongue just makes you melt further into the mattress.
Your hands find his shoulders. Your fingers curl into the tense muscle there, nails pressing crescents into his skin, and you feel the shudder that runs through him at the contact—a full-body tremor that starts in his shoulders and works its way down his spine.
"Spence," you mutter against his lips, the words half-lost in the seam of his mouth against yours. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders, your hips rolling up against his—searching, seeking, done waiting. "I want you to fuck me." Then, quieter—"Please."
The sound Spencer makes isn't quite a moan. It's lower than that, rougher, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest like a wire being drawn taut. His hips jerk against yours once, and then his forehead drops against your shoulder.
His breath is hot and uneven against your collarbone.
"Tell me how you want it."
His voice is muffled against your shoulder, but you hear every word. Your brain is still fuzzy, still caught in the slow-spinning aftermath of your orgasm, and the question takes a moment to parse through the haze.
You swallow. "I want to see you."
He lifts his head from your shoulder. His eyes find yours.
"You want to see me," he repeats, like he's testing the words. Tasting them. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, and his gaze drops to your mouth, then lower—tracking the rise and fall of your chest, the way your body is already arching up toward him in unconscious invitation.
He sits up. Your hands slide from his shoulders, fingers dragging down his arms, reluctant to let go entirely.
Spencer's hands find your hip. Then your waist. His palm presses warm and firm against the side of your ribs, and his other hand slides beneath your top knee.
It's not rough, but there's a quiet authority in the way his hands guide your body. His palm shifts from your ribs to your hip, pressing with a steady, even pressure that rolls you onto your side. Your back stays flat against the mattress, shoulders pressing into the sheets, but your hips turn and your legs come together—one stacked atop the other, thighs pressed tight.
He adjusts the angle with a small, precise correction. His hand on your hip tilts you just slightly—barely a degree of difference—and then his fingers splay wide across the curve of your waist, holding you exactly where he's put you.
His other hand wraps around your top thigh, just above the knee, and he lifts it—just enough to open you, to create the space he needs. The shift is small, but the new angle changes everything. You feel the cool air against you for barely a second before the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance.
He doesn't thrust. He sinks. Slow, steady, inexorable pressure that makes your body open for him inch by inch, your breath stuttering out of you in fragmented, shaking exhales as he fills you.
He leans down, his body folding over you and his mouth finding yours before the rest of him has even settled. His lips brush against your lower lip first, a featherlight touch that makes you chase him, tilting your chin up to deepen the kiss.
Your arms wrap around him. Your hands find the warm plane of his back, palms pressing flat against his shoulder blades, and you feel the muscles there shift and flex as he holds himself above you.
He kisses you the way he always kisses you—like he's trying to tell you something his vocabulary can't quite articulate. His tongue slides against yours with a slow, deliberate sweep that makes your toes curl against the sheets, and the kiss deepens as his hips press the rest of the way forward.
He bottoms out with a groan.
You feel it everywhere—the sound traveling through his chest into yours, through his lips into yours, through the place where your bodies are joined and his hips are flush against the backs of your thighs. He's deep. Deeper than you expected from this angle, the tilt of your hips creating a tight, devastating channel that makes your breath catch audibly against his tongue.
He starts moving.
Not thrusting. Grinding is more accurate. Slow, rolling presses of his hips that keep him flush against you, each one sinking him impossibly deeper and dragging a low, broken sound from your throat that he catches with his mouth.
Spencer keeps the pace deliberate, measured, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it. His mouth moves against yours with the same lazy, devastating rhythm as his hips. His tongue keeps sliding slow against yours, pulling back just enough to catch your bottom lip between his teeth before sinking back in.
You try to move with him. Your hips shift, seeking more friction, searching for a faster pace, and Spencer's hand leaves your thigh to press flat against your hip—pinning you to the mattress.
"Ah," he murmurs against your mouth, and the sound is barely audible. A soft, breathy correction that vibrates against your lower lip. "Stay still for me."
Your body doesn't listen.
It's not deliberate—or maybe it is, maybe some part of you needs to know what happens if you don't obey. But your hips roll against his grip before the conscious part of your brain can intervene, chasing the friction, chasing the pace he's deliberately withholding. The movement is small, instinctive, your body seeking more of him the way it always has.
Spencer stops kissing you.
His mouth lifts from yours by a fraction of an inch. Barely enough space to exist between your lips, but you feel the absence like a withdrawal.
His hand on your hip presses harder. Not enough to hurt, just a reminder. "I said stay still."
Your hips twitch again. You feel his fingers flex against your hip, and you know he felt it.
"Spencer—"
His hand leaves your hip. Then his hand connects with the curve of your ass.
The sound is sharper than you expected—a flat crack that rings through the bedroom and sends a jolt of electricity straight up your spine. The sting blooms warm and immediate across your skin, and your whole body seizes in response.
You clench around him.
Hard. Involuntary. Your inner walls clamp down on his cock so suddenly that Spencer's breath hitches—a sharp, strangled inhale against your mouth that tells you he felt it too. His hips stutter forward once, losing their careful rhythm for just a second before he steadies himself.
"Shit," he mutters. The word is barely a breath. His forehead drops to yours, and his eyes squeeze shut for a moment—a single, telling second of composure-gathering.
"Are you gonna stay put for me so I can fuck you or not?"
The question lands somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, like he can't quite reconcile the fact that you're still squirming beneath him with the fact that he just—he just smacked your ass—and the combination of those two realities is short-circuiting something in his brain.
You bite your lip.
Your teeth sink into the swollen flesh hard enough to leave an indent, and you nod.
Spencer watches you do it. His eyes drop to your mouth, tracking the way your teeth press into your bottom lip.
He rewards you with movement. His hips resume their slow, grinding rhythm, and the first press of his cock back into you draws a shuddering exhale from you.
But this time his hand stays on your ass.
His palm settles over the curve where the slight sting still hums—warm and broad and possessive. His fingers curl into the flesh, squeezing once, firm and deliberate.
It all makes you moan, loud enough that the neighbors definitely heard. But you can't seem to care anymore.
Spencer kisses you deeper.
His mouth closes over yours, swallowing the whimpers and moans, pulling the sounds from your throat and into his chest like he needs them there.
"Good girl."
You feel him go still above you. His hips stop their slow grind. His hand on your ass goes rigid, fingers frozen mid-squeeze. Even his breathing catches, held behind his teeth like he's trying to decide whether to apologize, take it back, pretend it never happened—
Your walls clench around him, a sudden involuntary squeeze of you around his cock. His breath stutters out of him in a ragged exhale.
"Y-you liked that?"
You nod.
Your head moves in a jerky, desperate motion against the pillow—teeth still caught in your bottom lip, eyes wide and dark and imploring.
"Please," you whisper, and the word comes out wrecked. "Please just fuck me."
Something snaps.
He drives forward, hard and fast, and the force of it punches the air right out of your lungs. The rhythm he sets now is hungry, sharp—hips snapping against yours with a wet, rhythmic slap that echoes through the quiet room.
"God," he breathes. He braces one hand beside your head on the mattress, the other still gripping your ass, holding you in place for every thrust. "You feel... you feel so good."
"D-don't stop," you moan.
"I'm not stopping," he says, and the words come out rougher than anything you've heard from him tonight.
You feel him everywhere. Deep, impossibly deep, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur at the edges.
You're close.
It's building in the pit of your stomach—a tight, coiling pressure that radiates outward with every snap of his hips. Your nails drag down his back, leaving pink lines across his skin, and your legs tremble against his. The pleasure is cresting, fast and relentless, and you can feel yourself barreling toward the edge with a speed that makes your breath come in short, punched-out gasps.
"Spencer—" His name tears from your throat, ragged and raw. "I'm close. I'm so close—"
"That's it," Spencer says, and his voice is a wreck. His forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. "Let go. Come for me."
The words undo you.
Your back arches off the mattress, your nails biting into his shoulders hard, and a sound tears from your throat that you'll be embarrassed about later—a broken, sobbing moan that has no right coming out of your mouth but does anyway because Spencer Reid just told you to come and your body decided that was a command it was going to follow without debate.
You clench around him in wave after wave, your inner walls pulsing in rhythmic, helpless contractions that drag a sound from Spencer's chest that you've never heard before. Low. Guttural. Something between a groan and your name, fractured down the middle.
His rhythm stutters. His hips jerk forward once, twice, three times in quick, uneven thrusts that have nothing of his earlier patience. Then he buries himself deep, so deep it steals what little breath you have left, and his whole body goes rigid above you.
His mouth finds yours.
The kiss is messy and desperate and barely a kiss at all—more like his mouth pressing against yours because he needs somewhere to put the sound he's making, the low, broken groan that shudders through his chest and vibrates into yours. His jaw trembles against your chin. His breath comes in hot, ragged bursts against your lips, and you feel him pulse inside you.
His hips roll forward once more—a slow, involuntary press that drains the last of the tension from his body—and then he stills.
The next kiss is slow. Lazy. His tongue slides against yours with none of the urgency from before—just a gentle, unhurried drag that feels like sinking into warm water. His lips are swollen and soft, and he tastes like you and salt and the faintest trace of the coffee he drank hours ago, before any of this started.
You hum against his mouth. A small, satisfied sound that vibrates between you.
Spencer pulls back first. Not far—just enough to see you. His nose bumps against yours, and his breath is still coming in uneven, warm gusts that fan across your sweat-damp skin.
Your lips curve against his. Slow, uncoordinated, the kind of smile that forms when every muscle in your body has been reduced to something the consistency of warm honey.
"That was..." You pause. Your brain sifts through the remnants of your vocabulary, looking for something adequate, and comes up empty. "...new."
Spencer's thumb traces the line of your cheekbone. His eyes are still closed, his lashes dark against his flushed skin. "Is that a good thing?"
The question comes out quieter than he probably intended. His eyes open—hazel, soft, still a little glazed—and search your face. Like he's scanning for signs of regret he won't find.
You let out a breathless laugh. It's a weak thing, mostly air, but it carries.
"Well," you say, and the word stretches out long and lazy, your voice still raw, "it's definitely not bad."
Spencer huffs. It's almost a laugh. His forehead drops against your shoulder again, and you feel his lips press against the curve of your neck—not a kiss, exactly. More like he needs somewhere to rest his face while his heart rate comes back down to something that isn't indicative of a medical event.
"Sorry," he mutters. The word lands warm and muffled against your skin, his lips barely moving against the curve of your neck. "I should have—I didn't ask before I just—"
He stops. Swallows. You feel the motion against your throat.
"I didn't talk to you about any of that before doing it." His voice is careful now, measured in that way it gets when he's retracing his steps and finding all the places he thinks he went wrong. "The—asking you to stay still. And the..." He trails off. His fingers twitch against your hip, and you know he's thinking about the spank. "That's not something I should have just introduced without checking first. That was—I should have asked."
You let out a long, slow breath. Your hand lifts from his back and finds the messy landscape of his hair—curls damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in chaotic whorls that you've never seen quite this disheveled. Your fingers thread through them, gentle, unhurried, the way you've done a hundred times before on the couch, in the car, lying in bed on lazy Sundays.
"Spence." Your fingers keep moving through his curls, scratching gently against his scalp the way you know he likes, and you feel some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders. "I would've told you. You know that. If something didn't feel right, I'd have said so. I promise."
He nods against your neck. A small, tentative motion that you feel more than see—his chin dipping down and then rising again, the scratch of his stubble dragging against your skin.
But he doesn't lift his head. And his body is still holding a thread of tension that wasn't there before, a careful stillness in the way he's resting against you that tells you he's not quite done carrying it yet.
"Come here." Your hand slides from his hair to the side of his face. Your palm curves against his jaw, fingers settling into the warm space behind his ear where his pulse is still hammering, fast and unsteady. You lift his face from your neck. He comes willingly, letting you guide him up for a soft kiss.
Spencer's eyes close. His lashes brush against your cheek, and his breath comes out in a long, shuddering exhale.
You pull back just enough to look at him. "I love you," you say.
It comes out easy. Simple. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world, because it is.
"I love you too."
"And," you add, and your voice drops into something lighter, teasing, "the whole..." You gesture vaguely between the two of you with the hand not currently cradling his jaw. "Power shift thing. That was hot."
Spencer's eyebrows lift. A flush creeps up his neck, spreading across his cheeks in a slow, uneven bloom.
"It was?" The word comes out higher than he intended.
You laugh. The sound is loose and warm, shaking through your chest where it's still pressed against his. "Spencer, you literally made me—I mean, you saw what happened. I saw what happened. That was—" You shake your head, smile curving wide and helpless. "Yeah. It was hot."
Spencer's blush deepens. The pink spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. You watch him. This man—this beautiful, ridiculous, devastating man—still inside you, still pressed against you, still flushed and disheveled and glowing with the aftermath of what he just did to you, and he's blushing.
He smiles. "Okay. Okay. Good."
He pauses. His gaze drops to the space between you for a moment. Then his eyes find yours again, and the smile shifts into something quieter. A little crooked. A little pleased.
"I'll keep that in mind." His thumb traces a slow circle against your hip. "It'd be nice to be the one in charge every so often."
This actually triggered me to rewatch the entirety of korra just so i can defend my girl with evidence and a fresh perspective you will never catch me lacking
