Hiding your pregnancy is getting harder and harder, especially when you agree to go to a dinner party and Spencer has to drink every glass of your wine to keep the secret.
୨ৎ ──── fluff. 5,4k. fem!reader. drunk reid. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.
David Rossi loved hosting dinners.
Not because he particularly enjoyed cooking—though he’d spend the entire evening pretending he did, shooing away anyone who wandered too close to the stove with the indignation of a Michelin-star chef—but because dinner was one of the rare occasions when the people he cared about gathered for reasons that had nothing to do with bloodstained crime scenes or the worst humanity had to offer. Around his dining table, they weren’t profilers or agents or supervisors carrying the weight of impossible decisions. They were simply friends. They laughed a little louder, lingered a little longer over dessert, argued about books instead of behavioral patterns, and, for a few precious hours, remembered what life looked like outside the Bureau.
At least for the first twenty minutes.
After that, someone inevitably mentioned a case.
“You realize,” Morgan announced as he reached across the kitchen island and shamelessly stole a piece of warm bread straight from the basket, “this is exactly how horror movies start.”
Rossi didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. He merely stirred the sauce with practiced ease, entirely unfazed by the theft.
“The difference,” he replied smoothly, “is that my guests survive dessert.”
Morgan laughed, surrendering with an exaggerated nod before tearing into the bread anyway.
The house was already alive with familiar voices.
Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers, blending with the rhythmic clatter of pots and the comforting aroma of garlic, rosemary, simmering tomatoes, and freshly baked bread. Warm light spilled from antique lamps, reflecting against framed photographs and shelves lined with decades of books and souvenirs collected from places Rossi rarely spoke about. Every room carried that unmistakable feeling of having been lived in, a home that had witnessed countless celebrations, quiet conversations over late-night whiskey, and the occasional impromptu team meeting when cases refused to stay at Quantico.
Emily wandered into the kitchen, accepting a glass of wine from Rossi before immediately rolling her eyes at something Morgan said.
Garcia was already circling the living room in complete admiration, pausing every few steps to gush over a painting, a sculpture, or an antique clock.
“Oh my God, Rossi,” she gasped dramatically, “this lamp is gorgeous. It’s giving wealthy Italian novelist who solves crimes in his free time.”
“It was just a lamp until you said that.”
JJ slipped toward the patio with Henry balanced comfortably on her hip, the little boy already fascinated by the garden lights beginning to glow outside. Will followed behind carrying an impressive collection of toys that looked capable of entertaining an entire daycare, smiling patiently as Henry reached for everything except the toys he’d brought.
Hotch, unsurprisingly, had arrived exactly on time.
Not a minute early. Not a minute late.
His jacket was already neatly folded over the back of a chair, a glass of sparkling water in one hand as he quietly observed the controlled chaos with the smallest hint of amusement softening his usually unreadable expression.
And, of course, Spencer’s attention had been on you from the moment the two of you stepped through Rossi’s front door.
Before anyone could greet you, Spencer was already helping you out of your coat with the quiet attentiveness that had become second nature over the past several weeks. His hands were careful as he eased the fabric from your shoulders, lingering for just a heartbeat as if making sure you were steady before draping both your coat and his neatly over the rack by the entrance. It was such a small gesture that no one else would have noticed it.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning close enough that only you could hear him beneath the lively chatter filling the room.
You offered him a reassuring smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.
“Perfect.”
The word came automatically, polished by repetition until it sounded almost believable. You’d said it to your mother over the phone earlier that week. To your coworkers when they’d commented on how pale you’d been looking lately. To the cashier who had apologized after you’d abruptly abandoned a shopping cart halfway through the supermarket because someone nearby had opened a container of tuna. You were becoming remarkably good at pretending everything was normal.
Spencer, however, had never been particularly easy to fool.
His honey-colored eyes lingered on your face for another moment, quietly studying you with the same careful concentration he reserved for unsolved cases and impossible puzzles. He noticed everything: the faint shadows beneath your eyes despite the makeup you’d carefully applied that afternoon, the way your smile didn’t quite reach them, the almost invisible hesitation before you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. For a second, you watched concern flicker across his expression, followed by the unmistakable impulse to suggest going home instead. You knew him well enough to see the thought forming before he gently pushed it aside. You had insisted you wanted to come. You’d been looking forward to seeing everyone. If he asked again, you’d only reassure him again.
So instead, he simply intertwined his fingers with yours for the briefest moment and gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, silently reminding you that if you needed to leave, even five minutes after arriving, you only had to say the word.
Because the truth was…you hadn’t exactly been perfect lately.
For nearly eleven weeks, your body had seemed determined to reinvent itself overnight, transforming familiar routines into unpredictable obstacles and ordinary sensations into impossible challenges. Pregnancy wasn’t anything like the books had described. It wasn’t the glowing skin and sentimental smiles people loved talking about. At least, not yet. Right now, it was exhaustion so profound it settled into your bones no matter how much you slept. It was waking up starving only to burst into tears because the toast you’d been craving suddenly smelled unbearable. It was dizziness when you stood too quickly, headaches that appeared without warning, and emotions that shifted so rapidly they often left you laughing one moment and crying the next.
And the smells were by far the worst.
It was as though someone had turned every scent in the world up to an impossible volume.
Coffee, the rich aroma you’d once relied on every morning, now seemed so overwhelmingly bitter it made your stomach twist before you even entered the kitchen.
Garlic lingered in the air like smoke.
Perfume clung to strangers in grocery stores so intensely that you found yourself instinctively holding your breath as they walked past.
Gasoline from passing cars seeped through open windows with startling force.
Fresh paint, cleaning products, scented candles, everything had become an enemy.
Even the earthy fragrance of Spencer’s favorite loose-leaf tea, a scent that had always reminded you of rainy afternoons spent reading together on the couch, had betrayed you. One quiet Saturday morning, he’d barely begun pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves before your stomach lurched violently. You hadn’t even managed to explain what was wrong. You’d simply clamped a hand over your mouth and hurried toward the bathroom, leaving Spencer frozen in confusion beside the kettle.
When he’d found you a few minutes later, you were sitting on the cool tile floor with your knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in one of his oversized cardigans because you hadn’t had the energy to put on your own sweater after climbing out of bed. Your eyes were watery, your face pale with exhaustion, and the half-steeped tea sat forgotten in the kitchen.
He’d knelt beside you immediately, rubbing slow circles against your back until your breathing steadied.
“I think,” he’d said carefully, as though presenting a well-researched hypothesis, “we should buy different tea.”
The absurd sincerity of the suggestion had broken something inside you.
You’d laughed, the kind that left tears streaming down your face and your stomach aching until Spencer began smiling too, still entirely unsure what had been so funny.
An hour later, you’d taken the pregnancy test.
You remembered sitting together on the edge of the bathtub, your shoulders pressed together so tightly they might as well have been one person, both pretending not to stare at the little plastic stick resting on the counter. Spencer’s knee bounced nervously the entire time, though he’d deny it if anyone ever asked. When the result finally appeared, neither of you moved.
Positive.
You’d looked at him, and he’d looked at you.
For a long moment, there had simply been silence, stunned, breathless silence, as though neither of you trusted your own eyes enough to speak first.
Then Spencer had whispered, almost reverently,
“We’re having a baby.”
The memory still settled warmly inside your chest every time you thought about it.
Only the two of you knew.
No one else.
Not the team, your parents, or his mother.
No one.
It wasn’t because you weren’t excited.
God, you had never loved someone you’d never met quite so fiercely. And you had never been so afraid.
At night, when the apartment had gone quiet and Quantico seemed impossibly far away, the two of you often found yourselves lying awake long after the lights were off, talking in hushed voices about a future that suddenly felt both unimaginably distant and frighteningly close. Spencer wondered aloud whether babies recognized music before they were born and whether reading aloud during pregnancy had any measurable effect on language development. You debated names neither of you was ready to admit you genuinely liked. You imagined tiny knitted sweaters, impossibly small socks, sleepy mornings, first birthdays, scraped knees, school concerts, and the possibility—one that made you laugh every single time—that Spencer might accidentally teach your future toddler quantum mechanics before the alphabet.
Other nights, words simply weren’t necessary.
You would lie tangled together beneath the blankets, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly traced slow circles over your arm. Eventually, almost without thinking, his hand would drift lower, settling with extraordinary care against your abdomen. There was hardly anything to feel yet. At eleven weeks, your stomach remained almost perfectly flat, your dresses fitting exactly as they always had. If someone didn’t know, they would never have guessed. But Spencer touched you as though the slightest movement might disturb the tiny life growing there, his palm resting so gently against you that it sometimes made your chest ache. He would smile into the darkness with an expression so impossibly soft it stole your breath every single time, as though he could already sense the little heartbeat hidden beneath his fingertips. Sometimes he whispered things you weren’t sure he realized he was saying: little observations about fetal development he’d memorized from medical journals, promises about museums he’d one day visit with your child, absentminded thoughts about buying children’s editions of classic literature. Other times, he simply stayed there, smiling quietly, overwhelmed by the astonishing reality that someone already existed. Someone who belonged entirely to the two of you.
Every ultrasound photograph had become a treasure.
The first one lived inside an ivory envelope that had already begun to soften at the edges because neither of you could stop taking it out to look at it. Realistically, there wasn’t very much to see. To anyone else, it was little more than a grainy black-and-white blur surrounded by indecipherable shadows and medical measurements. Yet the two of you had spent embarrassing amounts of time staring at it as though it were the most extraordinary piece of art ever created. Spencer, naturally, had analyzed it with the same enthusiasm he brought to everything else.
Of course, once the initial excitement had settled, he had immediately begun worrying about where to keep the photographs.
Not because he thought someone was going to steal them.
Because he wanted them safe.
You still remembered finding him standing in front of his bookshelf one afternoon, head tilted thoughtfully as though he were solving one of the Bureau’s most complicated cases. He had scanned hundreds of titles before finally pulling out one of the thickest mathematics textbooks you had ever seen.
“They’re going inside my copy of Differential Geometry,” he’d declared with complete confidence while carefully sliding the envelope between two chapters.
You had stared at him, blinking in complete confusion.
“…Why that one?”
Without so much as lifting his eyes from the pages, he’d answered with absolute certainty.
“Statistically speaking, no one voluntarily opens my copy of Differential Geometry.”
You had laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
Weeks later, the ultrasound photographs remained exactly where he’d hidden them, tucked safely between chapters discussing curved manifolds and tensor fields, untouched by anyone except the two of you. Every now and then, usually late at night, Spencer would quietly retrieve the envelope before climbing into bed beside you, and together you’d study the tiny image all over again, smiling as though seeing it for the very first time.
You weren’t keeping the pregnancy a secret because you were ashamed.
If anything, the secret had become almost impossible to contain.
You loved this baby already with a depth that surprised you daily. Sometimes you caught yourself resting your hand absentmindedly against your stomach while reading on the couch or waiting in line for coffee you could no longer stomach. Sometimes Spencer would catch your eye from across the apartment, and without either of you saying a single word, you’d both smile, remembering the extraordinary little secret that existed only between you. It felt like carrying a universe inside your chest, one that threatened to spill into every conversation, every laugh, every quiet glance exchanged across a room.
But eleven weeks still felt fragile.
Delicate.
As though happiness itself had become something you were afraid to hold too tightly.
You knew the statistics.
So did Spencer...perhaps better than anyone.
The first trimester carried uncertainties neither of you could ignore, no matter how desperately you wanted to celebrate. So you had made a quiet promise together. Just a little longer. One more week. Maybe two. Long enough for the fear to loosen its grip. Long enough for the joy to feel louder than the anxiety. Then you’d tell everyone. Properly. Surrounded by the people who loved you most.
Which was exactly why tonight needed to remain wonderfully, blissfully ordinary.
Smile.
Compliment Rossi’s cooking.
Laugh at Morgan’s increasingly terrible jokes.
Listen to Garcia declare herself emotionally attached to another one of Rossi’s antique decorations.
Eat dinner.
Go home.
And above all else, pretend that beneath the soft fabric of your dress, your entire world wasn’t quietly growing one tiny heartbeat at a time.
***
For the first few minutes, everything went exactly according to plan.
The conversation flowed effortlessly around the table, moving from travel stories to teasing remarks about Rossi’s inability to let anyone else near his kitchen. The warm glow of candlelight reflected against crystal glasses, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates, and the rich aroma of roasted vegetables, fresh herbs, garlic, and homemade pasta drifted through the dining room. It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Exactly the kind of evening you’d hoped for.
Then Rossi appeared beside the table carrying a bottle of red wine.
With practiced ease, he moved from place to place, pouring generous servings into each waiting glass until he eventually reached yours. Deep ruby liquid swirled elegantly into the crystal, catching the candlelight before he continued around the table without another thought.
Your smile froze.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost felt like missing the last step on a staircase.
Of course. Wine.
You hadn’t thought about the wine.
For one long second, you simply stared at the glass sitting innocently beside your plate, your thoughts racing far faster than they should have. Refusing it outright would be strange. Claiming you weren’t in the mood might invite questions. Pretending to sip it was risky, especially with Rossi proudly watching everyone’s reactions to the bottle he’d undoubtedly spent far too much money on.
Across the table, Spencer had arrived at the exact same realization.
His eyes drifted from his own glass to yours.
Then to you.
You watched the understanding settle across his face almost instantly.
Without either of you exchanging so much as a glance, he quietly reached across the table toward your place setting, his movements so natural they might have gone completely unnoticed.
“I’ll take yours,” he said casually, lifting the untouched glass before anyone could question it.
Morgan blinked. “You stealing her wine already?”
The question earned a few amused smiles around the table.
Spencer answered so quickly it almost sounded rehearsed.
“She’s driving.”
For a single heartbeat, the entire table fell into that peculiar silence that followed an answer no one had expected. You turned your head slowly to look at him, your expression carefully composed despite the disbelief bubbling beneath it.
Driving? You hated driving.
Everyone at the table knew you hated driving. Morgan had teased you about it for years after you’d once admitted that parallel parking made you feel like you were diffusing a bomb. Garcia had jokingly offered to create a color-coded GPS system “for emotionally distressed drivers.” Even Rossi had learned long ago that inviting the two of you over automatically meant Spencer would be behind the wheel on the way home. If given the choice between navigating rush-hour traffic yourself or spending an hour on public transportation with three transfers, you’d choose the train without a second thought. Spencer knew that better than anyone. Which was precisely why, judging by the fleeting look of horror that crossed his face, he realized what he’d said the exact moment the words left his mouth.
Your eyes met across the table for the briefest instant.
He knew. You knew.
Neither of you dared acknowledge it.
Fortunately, Morgan simply shrugged, entirely unbothered.
“Fair enough.”
The conversation drifted elsewhere almost immediately, someone making a comment about Rossi’s pasta sauce before Garcia launched into a dramatic story about accidentally adopting another stray cat she absolutely insisted she hadn’t meant to bring home. Around the table, laughter resumed, forks scraped softly against porcelain plates, and the comfortable rhythm of dinner settled back into place. You released a slow breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, allowing yourself to believe, if only for a moment, that perhaps the obstacle had been overcome more easily than you’d feared.
Or so you thought.
Barely ten minutes later, Rossi reappeared beside your chair carrying the bottle of red wine in one hand, his attention immediately falling to the untouched glass still sitting exactly where he’d left it. His thick brows drew together in mild confusion before his expression softened into concern.
“Oh, bambina,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he gestured toward the glass. “You haven’t touched your wine.”
Your heart lurched.
For a fraction of a second, your mind raced desperately through possible explanations. You weren’t feeling like drinking. You were waiting until dinner. You had a headache. None of them felt convincing enough, particularly not with Rossi watching you so expectantly.
Before you could utter a single word, Spencer calmly reached across the table, lifted your untouched glass as though it had belonged to him all along, and took a generous sip.
“I did.”
Rossi looked between both of you.
“You finished two glasses already?”
“I was thirsty,” Spencer replied with complete sincerity, sounding as though that single sentence explained everything.
Rossi stared at him.
“You were thirsty.”
“Yes.”
“For wine.”
“Correct.”
For another beat, Rossi simply looked at him, clearly debating whether there was any point continuing the conversation. Eventually, with the resigned expression of a man deciding that Spencer Reid’s brain operated on principles beyond ordinary comprehension, he shrugged lightly and reached for the bottle once more.
“There.”
Deep red wine flowed smoothly back into your crystal glass until it sat nearly full again.
“There we go.”
“Thank you,” you offered with what you hoped was a perfectly natural smile.
Rossi nodded once before wandering toward the other end of the table to refill Morgan’s glass, already distracted by an entirely new discussion about baseball statistics.
The instant his back was turned, Spencer moved.
Without saying a word, without drawing attention to himself, he rested one hand casually beneath the edge of the tablecloth and, in one fluid movement, exchanged your freshly filled glass with his own half-empty one. The motion was so smooth it could have passed for absentmindedness, his fingers never fumbling despite the growing amount of alcohol already in his system. By the time Rossi looked back toward the two of you, Spencer was quietly lifting the newly acquired glass toward his lips while your place setting once again held one that appeared partially consumed.
No one noticed.
Well…almost no one.
Across the table, Emily’s conversation with JJ faltered for just a fraction of a second.
She didn’t say anything.
She simply took another sip of wine while her gaze lingered thoughtfully between the two of you before returning to her plate.
Another half hour slipped by beneath easy conversation and frequent bursts of laughter. Stories gave way to teasing, teasing turned into old Bureau memories, and before long the first bottle stood empty in the center of the table. Rossi noticed almost immediately.
“Well,” he announced proudly as he disappeared toward the kitchen, “that means it’s time for the good one.”
He returned carrying another bottle with the reverence of someone transporting a priceless family heirloom.
“This one’s from Tuscany,” he declared, carefully peeling away the foil. “I bought it during my last trip. You have to try it.”
The cork eased free with a satisfying pop.
You felt your stomach sink all over again.
One by one, Rossi circled the table, refilling each glass with generous enthusiasm.
Including yours.
Again.
You forced another smile.
“Thank you.”
Your glass remained untouched.
Again.
Spencer noticed before anyone else did.
Again.
Without hesitation, he reached over sometime during the next conversation, lifted your glass as naturally as though the two of you shared everything—which, technically, you did—and quietly added yet another serving to the growing collection he’d already consumed.
By now he’d finished one glass.
Then two.
Then three.
Now…four.
Under ordinary circumstances, four glasses of wine spread across an entire dinner might not have seemed particularly remarkable.
For Spencer Reid, it was becoming increasingly obvious.
A warm flush had spread across his cheeks, dusting the bridge of his nose with soft pink that somehow made him look several years younger. His posture remained perfectly straight, and his words retained the precise articulation that years of lecturing and endless reading had ingrained into him. If anything, he enunciated even more carefully than usual, each syllable pronounced with meticulous clarity. Spencer Reid, it seemed, was physically incapable of slurring his words.
Instead, he simply became significantly more talkative.
“Do you know,” he announced to absolutely no one in particular while thoughtfully examining his wineglass as though it were a fascinating scientific specimen, “that the average adult liver metabolizes approximately one standard alcoholic beverage per hour? Assuming average enzymatic activity and normal hepatic function, I’m currently operating at a significant biochemical disadvantage.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning so broadly it bordered on smug satisfaction.
“You drunk, pretty boy?”
Spencer looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.
“No.”
He paused.
Thought about it.
Then nodded once with complete seriousness.
“Probably.”
The table erupted into laughter.
Even Hotch lowered his gaze toward his plate to disguise the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You couldn’t help laughing too, though yours carried a distinct note of affection.
Spencer looked utterly adorable.
Hopelessly, undeniably adorable.
Across the table, however, Emily wasn’t laughing nearly as much.
She watched Spencer lift your glass instead of his own.
Again.
She watched you politely thank Rossi for every refill without drinking a single sip.
Again.
She watched Spencer volunteer to finish both glasses with increasingly enthusiastic determination.
Again.
Something about the evening refused to fit together.
Emily wasn’t quite sure what the answer was yet.
But she knew, with absolute certainty, that something wasn’t adding up.
***
By the time coffee replaced the wine, the evening had settled into that wonderfully unhurried stage that always followed one of Rossi’s dinners. Dessert plates had been pushed aside, empty bottles stood abandoned along the center of the table like evidence of a celebration well enjoyed, and the rich scent of freshly brewed espresso drifted through the dining room, mercifully replacing the overwhelming aroma of alcohol. Conversations had fractured into smaller ones, overlapping comfortably without anyone needing to follow every thread. Garcia and JJ were animatedly debating vacation destinations, Garcia insisting that every itinerary should be based entirely around bookstores and bakeries while JJ attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince her that beaches had their own merits. At the other end of the table, Morgan and Rossi had somehow wandered into a passionate disagreement over baseball statistics, each one accusing the other of remembering history incorrectly despite both sounding equally confident. Hotch sat quietly between them, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, saying very little but wearing the faintest trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth as he watched the familiar chaos unfold around him.
Beside you, however, sat the true consequence of the evening.
Spencer Reid was undeniably drunk.
Not the loud, reckless kind of drunk that knocked over glasses or forgot people’s names. Spencer remained perfectly articulate. Every sentence emerged with the same impeccable diction he used while lecturing, every word carefully pronounced as though he were still delivering an academic presentation. If anything, the alcohol had only made him even more determined to enunciate correctly. His tie had been loosened somewhere between the second and third bottle, though neither of you remembered who had done it. His curls had escaped in every direction until they framed his flushed face in complete disarray. A warm blush stretched across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, his eyes had taken on a dreamy softness you rarely saw, and he had developed the oddly adorable habit of pausing before every answer, nodding solemnly to himself as though consulting an invisible committee inside his own mind before reaching a unanimous decision.
Watching him was almost painfully endearing.
You couldn’t help smiling as your fingers found the middle of his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles through the fabric of his shirt.
“You okay?”
He turned toward you immediately, his entire face lighting up with such overwhelming affection that your heart threatened to melt on the spot.
“I love you.”
The words came so easily, so honestly, that several people around the table instinctively smiled.
You laughed quietly.
“I love you too.”
“No…” He shook his head with exaggerated seriousness, lifting one finger as though correcting an important scientific misconception. “I don’t think you understand the statistical magnitude of how much I love you.”
Morgan snorted into his coffee.
“Oh, this is priceless.”
Spencer didn’t even acknowledge him.
His complete attention remained fixed on you, his expression one of absolute sincerity as he searched painstakingly for the perfect description.
“You are…” He frowned thoughtfully, eyes drifting toward the ceiling for several long seconds before returning to you with visible satisfaction. “…my favorite person.”
Warmth spread through your chest so quickly it almost hurt.
God, he was going to destroy you.
“You’ve had enough wine,” you said gently, brushing one of his unruly curls away from his forehead.
“I have had…” He stopped speaking to count carefully on his fingers, restarting twice after apparently losing track somewhere around three. “…more wine than you.”
“Yes.”
He nodded proudly, pleased that you’d confirmed his calculation.
“Because you couldn’t.”
Every muscle in your body went rigid.
The smile disappeared from your face almost instantly.
“Spencer.”
He looked delighted with himself.
“I helped.”
Across the table, Emily glanced up from her coffee.
“So noble.”
“It was.” Spencer nodded once, completely accepting the compliment. “Because it’s a secret.”
Your stomach dropped so violently you were certain everyone could hear it.
Without thinking, you reached for his hand beneath the table, gently squeezing his fingers.
“Sweetheart—”
He leaned closer immediately, lowering his voice in what he clearly believed was an incredibly discreet whisper.
It wasn’t.
“We’re very good at secrets,” he confided with unmistakable pride.
The entire table continued talking.
No one seemed to notice.
Relief washed over you so suddenly you nearly laughed.
Then Spencer smiled thoughtfully, as though another important realization had just occurred to him.
“Although…”
Every instinct in your body screamed.
“Oh no.”
He looked around the entire table before announcing, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the dining room to hear with perfect clarity, “keeping a baby secret is significantly harder than I expected.”
Silence.
Morgan blinked once.
“A what?”
Garcia’s mouth slowly fell open.
JJ lowered her coffee cup so carefully it barely made a sound against the saucer.
At the far end of the table, Hotch’s eyes shifted from Spencer to you with the calm expression of a profiler mentally reorganizing every unusual observation he’d made over the previous several weeks: your sudden avoidance of coffee during morning meetings, Spencer’s increasingly protective behavior, the mysterious disappearances during cases to “find crackers,” the exhaustion, the nausea, the untouched wine.
Pieces quietly clicked into place.
Rossi simply stared.
His mouth opened slightly before closing again.
For perhaps the first time in anyone’s memory, David Rossi seemed completely incapable of finding words.
Emily, meanwhile, merely closed her eyes and a slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh,” she sighed, sounding more relieved than surprised. “I knew it.”
You buried your face in both hands.
“Spencer…”
He looked around the table with complete confusion, blinking at everyone’s expressions as though he genuinely couldn’t understand why the conversation had stopped.
“What?”
“You…” you whispered through your hands, shaking your head helplessly. “You just told them about our baby.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I did?”
“Yes.”
A long pause.
He frowned thoughtfully.
“I wasn’t supposed to.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
He considered that information with remarkable seriousness, nodding slowly as though accepting constructive criticism.
For one suspended heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Garcia exploded.
The delighted shriek that escaped her was so loud it probably startled every bird within a three-block radius. She launched herself out of her chair before anyone else had even processed what was happening, one hand already covering her mouth as tears filled her eyes.
“I can't believe it!” she squealed. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”
JJ was crying before she’d even reached you.
She wrapped her arms tightly around your shoulders, laughing and wiping away tears simultaneously.
“I am so happy for you,” she whispered.
Morgan shot to his feet with a bark of laughter, pointing triumphantly between the two of you.
“I knew something was going on!”
Emily looked at him flatly.
“You absolutely did not.”
“I suspected!”
She folded her arms.
“You spent the entire evening convinced Spencer had developed a drinking problem.”
Morgan hesitated.
“I was…close.”
Rossi finally recovered enough to laugh, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the dining room as he crossed the room and pulled both you and Spencer into one of his characteristically overwhelming hugs.
“I’ve spent years trying to get this kid drunk,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped back to look at Spencer with unmistakable affection. “Years.”
His eyes flickered toward you before returning to Spencer.
“I have to admit…”
He smiled.
“I didn’t expect this to be what finally loosened his tongue.”
Even Hotch stood.
He wasn’t particularly demonstrative, never had been, but the smile he offered the two of you was genuine enough to soften every sharp line in his face.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned instinctively against Spencer’s shoulder, still half laughing and half hiding your burning face from everyone’s delighted attention.
Spencer looked down at you with sleepy affection, completely oblivious to the fact that he had single-handedly dismantled weeks of carefully orchestrated secrecy. He leaned over and pressed the gentlest kiss against the top of your head before sighing softly.
“I ruined the surprise.”
“You did.”
“I’m sorry.”
You looked up at him.
His expression was so genuinely remorseful, so heartbreakingly sincere despite the unmistakable haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, that you couldn’t possibly stay embarrassed.
A smile spread across your face.
“I’ll forgive you.”
His eyes brightened immediately.
“You will?”
“Eventually.”
The relieved smile that followed was almost childlike.
“Good.”
He sat quietly for another few seconds, apparently satisfied that the crisis had been resolved.
Then he turned toward Rossi with complete seriousness.
dr. spencer reid was always just your very good friend—that was until you watched him slip on an awfully tight pair of latex gloves while working on a case together.
summary : dr. spencer reid was always just your very good friend—that was until you watched him slip on an awfully tight pair of latex gloves while working on a case together.
pairing : spencer reid x bau agent!reader
warnings : SMUT, friends/coworkers to lovers, sexual fantasies, reader is just fucking horny (aka in love) but is in denial, explicit but short descriptions of fingering and finger sucking, spencer’s just as much desperate for the reader ‘cause who are we kidding, suggestive ending
notes : i thank the amazing @haydenssweetheart for introducing & promoting the spencer reid agenda
when you had first joined the behavioral analysis unit a year ago as the latest rookie, the team had teased the possibility of spencer and you becoming a “we” almost instantly.
the bright, genius young man was only a couple years your senior—leading to teasing remarks made by agent morgan and garcia about how you two should just shut up and kiss… and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about stealing just that from pretty boy reid.
platonically, of course!
you were just curious about how his mouth, the culprit behind his many informational ramblings, would feel against yours. there was no harm in that! right? that is to say, there was nothing unusual about you two being too physically and emotionally close with one another: you’d nap beside each other—fingers intertwined to “keep warm”—on the jet plane back home to quantico after an across-the-nation case, or would share doctor germaphobe’s lunch during the team’s one and only break in between searching for the unsub. just normal, friendly behavior as you’d like to call it—he’d even agree with you!
however, as the days passed and seasons changed, you began to see your very good friend in a new light… but it was still purely platonic! spencer reid could never be more than only your bestest friend in the whole world—that would be logically impossible… but the thought of it suggested that it’d be nice, like really nice.
so here you were now, outside of the latest victim’s residence after hotch sent you and reid to look for evidence that could direct the team in finding the unsub before he could strike again.
shrugging your fbi jacket off of your shoulders and onto the couch to accompany spencer’s satchel, you looked over at him to see what he was up to. ever so the loather against bacteria, he rummaged through the pockets of his pants for a pair of gloves and all you could do was a raise a brow at his franticness.
he breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled out four gloves, a set for you without even asking him to. “my lifesaver,” you winked as you snagged it from him—fingers brushing against his—earning a playful eye roll. “and yet you were here, judging me like a germ-loving weirdo.”
after putting them on swiftly, you turned your head over to spencer to see him struggling with slipping the small gloves on his hands—but no, it wasn’t his clumsiness and strenuous effort to fit them that had you staring at him all wide eyed... it was the sight of the latex hugging his veins tight enough that they were visible through the gloves.
his grunts of frustration had you subconsciously biting your lip before realizing you were ogling at his fingers like a freak—imagining them being sucked into your sopping wet cunt, absurdly deep and hitting that perfect spot against your cervix; or how perfect they’d fit inside your mouth, tongue swirling around and reveling in the taste of him. clearing your throat and attempting to find anywhere else to keep your eyes fixated on, you couldn’t help but let them drift back at his hands as they flex against the latex.
this time, spencer witnessed you staring at him with your mouth parted as if you were about to say a witty joke, “what?”
“nothing! let’s just head inside,” you averted your gaze quickly, truly and absolutely mortified by being caught red handed in the act, “hotch is expecting us in an hour.” he pursed his lips together, nodding in agreement, “right, we oughta get to it then.
once the day at work concluded, which consisted of receiving peculiar glances across the room by none other than spencer reid even hours following what took place at the victim’s home, you found yourself rushing to the curb to flag down a taxi cab and escape—only to be cornered by yours truly.
foregoing the niceties he ever so upheld each time, he took a step forward, breath now fanning across your face. before you could even get the chance to ask what in god’s name he’s doing this close to you where lips are almost touching, he asked begged, “tell me that this is all in my head… please. i’m going crazy just trying to figure out if you’ve thought about this, us, too.”
“spence.”
“god, i’m a profiler for the fbi but i can’t decode you.”
without a moment’s hesitation, you tilt your face up to his as you leant in to capture reid’s lips into a far overdue kiss—after months of pent up longing and denial of feelings. you felt his mouth still against yours in pure astonishment, the moment feeling too surreal for him, but then you felt spencer smile into your lips—reciprocating it with just as much fervor.
it was getting harder to kiss with the clashing of teeth, the both of you a grinning and giggling mess as you kissed under the streetlight outside of the fbi academy.
pulling away with closed eyes, you savored the imprint of his lips on yours. when they finally opened to meet his piercing gaze, a very flustered you cringed at the sight of your red lipstick messily smudged and leaving stains all over his chin and mouth. he seemed to catch on, his fingertips tracing the marks with a teasing glint in his eye, “how do i look?” the expression on your face faked contemplation before stealing another peck from him, “handsome as hell.”
adjusting the collar of his coat as his arms found solace in being wrapped around your waist, spencer guided you down to his car in the parking lot while pressing passionate kisses across your jaw like a boy so in love.
have been reevaluating and I’m actually quite grateful for only making fics and not further interacting with the Hayden community. just went down a rabbit hole on all of the drama that has unfolded recently— some of y’all need to log off 😭😭😭 I’ll just stick to posting occasionally and then dipping afterwards
kinda lost motivation for writing hayden christensen characters because of the bs going around with his parasocial “fans”… like why tf are we full on harassing this man and his PERSONAL life ?? if we don’t treat non-celebs this way, then we most certainly SHOULDN’T with them.
summary: spencer works up the nerve to kiss you, but it doesn’t go as planned. he spends the next day avoiding you until he’s backed into a corner and forced to confront what happened, and maybe try again.
18+ fluffy smut, subby spencer, bau reader, reader is afab, coworkers to lovers, mutual pining, so much kissing, one bed trope, hotel sex, praise, fingering (r receiving), PinV (w protection)
w/c - 3.6k
He fucked up. He knew he fucked it all up.
He had been walking you to your car after work, this wasn’t unusual, had become almost routine actually.
He was telling you all about a new book he'd just read, chatting comfortably as you stepped into the outside air.
Anybody else probably would’ve cut his ramble off by now, but you were listening. You were looking at him and nodding and laughing at the right times like you always did, and you were so pretty and genuinely interested in what he was saying…
Meanwhile he was losing track of what exactly it was that he was saying, his mouth running on autopilot as the forefront of his attention got caught up on the way the streetlight in the distance illuminated your eyes, when you reached your car, stopping where you stood.
He wasn’t thinking straight. He made a stupid, irrational, split-second decision.
He leaned down and kissed you. It was brief, only for a moment or two really, but in his mind the milliseconds stretched infinitely as he fixated on one detail. You weren’t kissing back.
It didn’t matter that you hardly even had time to, even if you had been mentally prepared. He broke away as quickly as he had leaned in, managing to spit out a small ‘sorry’ before turning and walking as fast and far away as his legs could take him.
He hated himself for it. For running away pathetically, and for jumping the gun in making a move in the first place.
As your brain caught up to what just happened you were kicking yourself in much the same way. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to kiss him, that couldn’t be further from the truth, your brain just short-circuited at the suddenness, and you fumbled the chance you’d been hoping to get for months.
You immediately called after him, “Spencer, wait-“
The words died in your throat when he didn’t turn around. Didn’t even pause in making his escape.
Your shoulders slumped as you watched him grow further and further, sighing as you got in your car and solemnly drove off, your brain working at a mile a minute to think of a way to fix this.
You could fix it. You would. You just had to get a minute alone with him.
-
This, however, proved much harder than expected.
You were currently staring directly at him from where you sat several seats away on the plane.
He was playing chess with Gideon. You didn’t want to interrupt him, but it truly seemed like he hadn’t spent a single moment unoccupied today.
You had first found him in the break room chatting with Morgan. He glanced up as you walked in, before quickly returning his gaze to the coffee he was stirring.
“Morning,” you said, in as normal a tone as you could manage as you reached for your own mug from the cabinet.
“Morning.” Was all he politely answered before turning on his heels and heading back to his desk to bury himself in paperwork.
Then in the conference room, he wouldn’t meet your eyes, barely acknowledging you were there beyond nodding discerningly at something you pointed out.
You thought you might’ve caught him staring pitifully at you once when you weren’t looking, but he played it off so well you couldn’t be sure.
You had seen him talking to Penelope at her desk, poring over files with Hotch, to now where he had almost immediately jumped into a game after the jet briefing.
Overall acting completely and entirely normal in the presence of everyone but you.
‘Look at me. Look up.’ You tried to telepathically send across the seat rows.
It didn’t work.
You returned to the book in your hand, starting back up on the same paragraph you had been too distracted to absorb for the umpteenth time.
-
Once the team landed and arrived at the scene, you and Reid were assigned to separate areas of the investigation, keeping you apart from each other for most of the day, which was likely for the best.
However, as night fell and the team went to the hotel to settle in, you learned that you had been assigned to share the same room.
The group checked in and dispersed to their rooms, the two of you pairing off, him trailing silently behind you down the hall.
You were getting tired of this game he was playing, but you were a little worried he might flee again if you made any sudden movements, so you kept your mouth shut.
You stepped aside as he turned the key in the door, both stopping in your tracks as you walked in and were met with the singular queen bed lying ahead of you.
Great. This had to be the only room left, and it had to be bestowed upon the only two people on the team who weren’t speaking. You felt the cosmos laughing at you.
It wasn’t like you’d never shared a hotel room, it wasn’t unheard of when available spaces were short, but always with two beds at least.
From the corner of your eye you saw a momentary flicker of disbelief at the situation pass over his features, before he crossed the room to set his bags down, his movements stiff, unreadable.
You sat on top of the covers on your side, flicking through the tv channels while he went to change out of his work clothes. Predictably, there was hardly anything on outside of crappy cable movies and talk shows.
Until your eyes landed on an old ‘Doctor Who’ rerun.
Figuring spencer probably didn’t watch much, if any, tv at his place and knowing how nerdy he was about this show, this might get him out of the shell he’d crawled back into. You hoped.
When he came back in you tried to act casual, keeping your eyes fixed on the screen.
He paused a moment in the entryway, gaze ping-ponging from the tv to you and back again. You were watching 1970's Doctor Who? By yourself?
He observed you for a moment in confusion, processing this. Pondering if there was some deeper meaning here he was missing.
Ultimately your plan half-worked as he resigned to climbing onto his side of the bed, the episode pulling in his attention, even though he’d definitely seen it before.
“You’re… watching this?” He asked quietly.
“Mm-hmm” you answered lightly, shooting him an innocent smile, “Unless you want to put something else on?”
He shook his head, accepting your answer with only slight suspicion, and returning to sitting quietly absorbed in the screen. Too quietly. You never knew it was possible for him to be this quiet.
His hands were very subtly fidgeting excitedly where they rested, your only clue that he was enjoying himself at all.
He was so clearly biting his tongue, fighting the urge to spew fun facts the way he normally would.
You gave in, trying to come up with any stupid question to ask just to get him to talk to you.
"His scarf is like a mile long," you said abruptly, "what's the story with that?"
He looked at you for a moment like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
“Um… it was sort of unintentional actually," he mumbled, looking away as he spoke, "the woman that they had knitting it, they gave her several wool options and instead she ended up using them all, so it came out super long… and they just decided to keep it that way...” he trailed off.
"Interesting," You nodded thoughtfully, trying, and failing, to come up with something else to ask, anything to ease the gargantuan tension between you. Well, anything besides the main topic you wanted to broach.
You turned your attention back to the television.
Swing and a miss.
-
As the episode ended you decided to get up and take your turn brushing your teeth and getting ready for bed.
By the time you returned he had rolled over, presumably to go to sleep, laid as far to the opposite end of the mattress as was physically possible.
You crawled back into your side of the bed, defeated, your back to him, and let a silence fall for several minutes. The inside of your head remained anything but.
Finally, you quietly rolled over to face the back of his head.
“Spencer,” you broke the silence, just barely above a whisper.
He didn’t respond. Had he actually fallen asleep that quickly?
“Can we talk?” You tried again.
You might’ve believed his act if not for the tiny nervous stutter in his breath.
“What’s the plan, are you just gonna avoid me forever?”
He hadn’t really considered how long he would have to keep this up exactly, the ramifications it would inevitably cause during work hours. All he knew was right now the safest option felt like pretending like what he had let happen last night didn’t happen, which only resulted in borderline pretending like you didn’t exist either.
He was being juvenile, he knew he was, but he just didn’t know how to handle the shame he felt. He’d crossed the invisible boundary in your friendship and now even if you forgave him you wouldn’t ever look at him the same way as before again.
He gave in, turning over to face you, though he didn’t meet your eyes just yet.
“I’m sorry.” He said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, yesterday. I don’t know what came over me, it was inappropriate, and you have every right to be mad at me, or uncomfortable, and-” it tumbled out of him now, once he started talking he couldn’t stop.
“Spencer, hey,” you rested a hand on his arm, trying to get him to slow down.
He looked up at you, listening intently.
You suddenly realized you didn’t actually have a plan for what you wanted to say.
So instead you just bridged the small gap that remained, and gently kissed him, in hopes that would get the message across.
He broke away slightly, “what- what are you doing?” he asked, exasperated.
You paused.
“Kissing you?”
He let out a small sigh, “I don’t want you to… to kiss me because you feel bad, I-I really am sorry for making things weird yesterday,” he said.
You bit back a grin, studying him.
“I did want to kiss you, last night” you softened your tone, “I still do, I just… froze, it happened so quickly, and then you were gone.”
He searched your face for any sign that you were lying, or messing with him.
“Really?” He breathed.
You held his gaze, “can I try again?”
He nodded.
You leaned in a second time, kissing him slowly, patiently.
He graciously accepted, matching your speed. But once he got it through his head that you were serious, his excitement took over, practically tripping over himself to kiss you again and again.
You climbed into his lap, his hands gingerly finding your waist as you straddled him.
“I thought I messed everything up…” he spoke between kisses, “I should’ve just asked, I should’ve…” he shook his head, mulling it over again.
You shushed him with another kiss.
“Maybe I should’ve chased after you,” you hummed, “but it’s not like I could’ve caught up anyway, I blinked and you were already halfway across the parking lot,” your head fell to his shoulder as you laughed.
It’d only been a little over 24 hours since he’d last heard that sound but god, he missed it. He missed you.
“I’m sorry…” he repeated, failing to fight the boyish grin plastered on his face, “I don’t know why I thought running away would somehow be less embarrassing,”
“At least I caught you now,” you teased, tucking his hair behind his ear as you kissed him again. You swiped your tongue just barely over his, and he hummed sweetly in response, mimicking the action back.
You shifted in his lap, a tiny hiss escaping him when you made contact with his bulge. His hands reflexively pulled your hips down harder against him, then loosened his grip nervously.
Luckily for him you repeated the motion, his reaction stirring you on as the kiss grew heavier, and you sighed a quiet moan against his lips.
His dick twitched in his pants. He liked that sound.
His shirt was riding up just slightly, exposing a sliver of lightly happy-trailed stomach that you reveled in getting the chance to witness.
Your hands slipped under the hem, fingertips trailing gently over the warm skin underneath, making him shiver.
“Are we actually…?” he trailed off, eyebrows raised.
“Do you want to?” You asked seriously, your hands pulling away to hover in wait.
“Yes,” he said quickly, “I want to- I… can I touch you?”
“You can have whatever you want”
He almost whimpered at that. He couldn’t believe this was happening.
He mouthed at your neck to ground himself, his hands shyly traveling higher to feel the swell of your breasts over your top, glancing back up at you for reassurance.
“You want it off?” You asked.
He nodded like that was the greatest idea he’d ever heard.
You broke away from his touch to pull your shirt off for him, his eyes shamelessly widening as he took in your bare chest.
“So pretty,” he said under his breath.
You giggled, taking his wrist and guiding it back to you.
He obliged, cupping the warm skin and rolling your nipple with his thumb, listening to your content hum as he brought his mouth down to kiss tenderly at the area.
You rocked your hips again and he brought a hand down to soothe your needy movements. He could feel the heat radiating from you, lightly tracing over your clothed clit.
This only made it worse, of course, a breathy ‘please,’ falling from your lips.
He couldn’t dream of making you wait, not when you were asking so nicely for him.
He slowly pushed your shorts and panties to the side, dragging a fingertip over your slit.
“You’re… so wet,” he observed in fascination.
“Cause’ of you,” you whispered.
“Oh.”
He bit his lip, putting every ounce of focus into his task, using your slick to circle your clit for a minute before pushing a digit into your hole, his free hand gently squeezing at your hip to hold you steady.
You rolled your hips into his touch, the flat of his palm in the perfect position for you to chase after more friction right where you needed it.
He couldn’t pry his eyes away, adding another one in and watching in awe at the way his fingers disappeared in and out of you.
His cock was aching for attention, but all he could focus on was the sweet harmony of sounds spilling out of you, how badly he needed to feel you fall apart in his hand.
“Spence,” you whined, your hips stuttering as you got closer.
He kept the same pace, letting you take what you needed from him and bury your face in his neck as you tipped over the edge.
He held his breath as you climaxed with a high pitched shudder, soothing your cheek with his thumb as you came down, before slowly easing out of your warmth.
“Was that… okay?” the shy lilt in his voice being offset by a proud little smirk.
“Yes, genius,” you teased lightheartedly, “you get a gold star”
He laughed, but he was practically beaming at the praise.
“Do you wanna…” you toyed lightly with the waistband of his pants as you spoke, “keep going?”
“Yes- yeah… y-you want to?” He nodded, his eyes widening slightly.
“Course’ I do” you said, like it was the simplest choice you'd ever made.
You guided his shirt off and tossed it to the side, your eyes roaming over him while your hands trailed down his chest to rest at his waist.
“Look at you, such a pretty boy”
The faint blush that was blooming over his face deepened.
“God,” he said under his breath, “do you know,” he hesitated, considering his words.
You brought a hand down to stroke over his clothed length, as he tried to resist bucking into your hand at the feeling.
“Yeah?” You prompted softly, “do I know what?”
“What you do to me,” he confessed, in a whisper, “I’ve… I’ve dreamed about this…”
"Really?"
He nodded, sheepishly.
With a delighted grin, you leaned down closer to his ear, “So have I”
He felt the air leave his lungs, and carefully rolled you both over so he was kneeling over you.
“Can I?” He asked shyly, gesturing to your bottoms.
You nodded eagerly, lifting your hips for him as he gently slid them off.
His hands delicately made their way back up the expanse of your calves and thighs, taking his time to admire you in full.
You tucked your fingers into his pajama pants and pulled them down with his boxers, freeing him.
Poor thing was practically leaking from how hard he was, flushed and heavy and just as pretty as the rest of him.
“Wait, I have- let me get a condom,” he detached from you to reach over to his leather bag.
“Oh, you do this often?” You joked, raising an eyebrow.
“What? No- I-“ his nose scrunched, searching his brain for the correct response.
“I’m just kidding,” you smiled, softly nudging him.
He finally located the foil square, crawling back to slot himself between your legs.
He leaned into your touch as you ran your nails through his grown-out hair, while he focused on opening and rolling on the condom.
He tried his best to seem composed as he positioned himself over you. He slid gently through your folds a couple times, his tip kissing up against your clit, before lining himself up. His eyes found yours again, patiently waiting for a green light.
“M’ready.” You nodded back at him, tone coming out just shy of desperate.
His façade crumbled the moment he sank inside you.
“Oh- fuck…” he whined.
It was slow, almost reverent, like he was savoring every inch of you.
He was always pretty, but right now he was gorgeous. Warm pink blush scattering across his face, soft brown eyes scrunching up in pleasure, chestnut curls falling out of place, plush mouth hung open around the sweetest noises.
He grabbed one of your hands and laced his fingers with yours. Debauchery turned nothing short of sugar-sweet under his touch.
You threaded your free hand into the nape of his neck, tugging softly and nipping at the space above his collarbones.
He whimpered at the feeling, eagerly rutting into you, chasing pleasure. Not selfish. Just greedy.
“Oh- oh! Spence,” you clutched onto him harder, breathless noises escaping you as he found the perfect angle.
He was a fast learner, quickly committing to memory exactly how to touch you to get his name falling from your mouth, to receive more of your praise he craved so badly, to earn more of your pleased sounds ringing in his ears.
"Ohmygod. You like that spot? You sound so pretty... Feel so good." He was babbling, muttering pretty nonsense against your skin. "S-say it again, my name... please"
"Spence- er..." you choked out through his excited thrusts.
He echoed your name back, louder.
You brought your hand over his mouth.
"We gotta be quiet!" you giggled.
"Mmh sorry," he said meekly, muffled by your palm.
You pulled him down to kiss him again, before rolling back over on top of him.
“Let me take care of you, honey,” you cooed as you rocked your hips into him.
He didn't protest, his head falling back against the pillows and his restless hands finding comfort at your waist.
His hips jumped up almost unconsciously to meet yours, broken moans and shaky breaths spilling out of him despite his best efforts to bite his tongue.
“I’m- I- I can’t… I’m close” he mewled.
You moved his hand back to your clit, and he obliged immediately, matching your rhythm with his fingertips.
“Go ahead, I wanna feel you,” you urged.
That did it for him. He bucked deep into you with a gasp, his twitching hand pulling you over right behind him.
“Good boy,” you soothed, catching your breath, “so good”
He clung to you as you both came down, chest heaving and butterflies still taking up residence in his stomach.
After a few minutes you managed to pry yourself away long enough to get cleaned up. As soon as you returned to the bed all six feet of him curled innocently into your side, like he thought if he stopped touching you, you might vanish out of thin air.
You absentmindedly stroked his hair. Warm, hazy exhaustion and a giddiness that made you want to run laps warred deep in your bones.
He stilled for a few moments, his lips pressed together in thought.
“I really like you,” he said finally.
You smiled to yourself, letting the words settle in the air before you answered.
“I really like you too.”
He let out a relieved little breath at hearing those words out loud, “Do you wanna… come with me for coffee or something in the morning?”
You nodded softly, your cheek pressing into his hair, “I would very much like that,” you said happily.
A comfortable silence fell, only your quiet heartbeats and the passing cars providing any sound.
He picked his head up, eyes fixed intently on yours, “can I have one more? kiss, I mean…” he said in a hushed tone.
You couldn’t help giggling, not a hint of malice in it, just surprise.
“Yes, you can have one more,” you brought a hand to his face to pull him closer, almost struggling to actually get a kiss in from how hard you both were smiling.
summary: you have to go undercover as your rival’s girlfriend.
relationship: spencer reid x rival!fem!reader
genre: smut - MDNI!
word count: 6.3k
tags: definitely unrealistic undercover proceedings, banter about virginity & sex, idiots in love, dom!spencer, sub!reader, explicit sexual content - MDNI!, kissing, making out, oral (reader receiving), degradation ? (dumbification of reader), edging, thigh fucking, more edging, implication of further intimacy
author’s note: feeding into the post-prison dom!spencer delusions here even though i am a firm sub believer… hope y’all enjoy these freaks
based on requests one & two
If it were up to you, you’d be on an actual date tonight. Unfortunately for you, being a member of the BAU entails surrendering control of your schedule; day in and day out, you’re forced to drop everything at a moment’s notice to pursue a case. While you love your job and being on-call is rarely more than a nuisance, it’s turned into quite the headache tonight, namely because you’re currently undercover with your least favorite teammate.
Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. You don’t actually dislike Spencer Reid—quite the opposite, actually. He’s more of a frenemy than an outright nemesis, and you genuinely find engaging in sharp-tongued banter with him to be quite entertaining.
Your rivalry started practically the minute you joined the BAU; the day you arrived, you had proudly announced that your favorite book was some shitty, slutty romance novel. You had seen the stack of Penguin classics on Spencer’s desk and plucked the arbitrary title from the depths of your mind solely because you knew a fan of real literature would be insulted by your choice. Of course, he had fallen for it. You were one hundred percent bullshitting him, yet he took personal offense to your self-proclaimed favorite. Predictably, he’s been determined to prove his intellectual superiority ever since, and your apparent indifference while he does so grates his nerves to no end. Honestly, you find it hilarious that you’ve been on the team for nearly a year at this point, and he still insists that your “childish preferences are a reflection of your greater incompetence.”
Just the thought of him saying so has you threatening to giggle.
“Here.” Spencer’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You tear your eyes from their absentminded stare as he slaps a tall glass onto the table, a rivulet of clear liquid dribbling over the lip. Your brow furrows as you assess the cup with an unimpressed glare.
“What the hell is this?” you ask as Spencer slides into the booth. He opts to sit on the same side as you, trapping you between him and the wall, sliding the glass closer to you. You lean forward, cautiously sniffing its contents.
“Sprite,” he answers, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, relax.”
“Excuse me,” you retort sharply, lifting the glass to your lips and taking a dainty sip. The soda fizzes pleasantly as you swallow, warmth sliding down your throat. You shoot a sidelong glance at Spencer and murmur, “I wouldn’t put it past you to get me drunk so you can take all the credit when we catch this guy.”
The rest of the team is stationed outside, ready to intervene once the unsub arrives. He’s a sexual sadist who’s been targeting women in the area. More specifically, women he deems guilty of infidelity. It’s an easy enough setup; fawn all over Spencer before approaching the unsub, and you’re sure to piss him off. The most fallible aspect of the plan isn’t even luring the unsub outside; it’s playing a convincing couple. While you find Spencer ridiculously attractive, it’s become second nature at this point to tease him until he’s red in the face—from either embarrassment or blatant irritation.
Spencer snorts. “I don’t need to get you drunk to do that.”
According to Garcia, the unsub is en route to the bar, but won’t arrive for another several minutes. Essentially, this information translates to: you still have a few minutes to go tête à tête without having to monitor your facial expressions. You say pointedly, “So you admit that you’d step on everyone on your way to the top?” You offer Spencer a smug smirk over the lip of your glass.
“Not everyone, just you,” he replies flatly. You huff with amusement, gaping at him with faux indignance.
“Aw, is that any way to talk to the only girlfriend you’ll ever have?” you coo, a disappointed pout downturning your lips.
“Fake girlfriend,” Spencer tersely responds, as if the thought of verifiably dating you horrifies him. A glint of mischief flits in his eyes as he mocks, “Or are you so obsessed with me that you forgot?”
“You’re not my type,” you lie easily. The two of you have fallen into this sort of flirtatious teasing so many times, you’ve almost convinced yourself that you’re telling the truth. Almost.
Spencer sighs dramatically, his lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Well, that’s a relief.”
“Yes, your virginity lives to see another day,” you deadpan. Blinking harshly at him, you add, “Phew.”
Narrowing his eyes, his smile looks downright feline. “At least look like you’re enjoying yourself while you spit unoriginal insults at me.”
“I am enjoying myself,” you boast gleefully. “It’s actually pretty cathartic to—”
“Shut up and get your ass over here,” Spencer whispers, words laced with a frantic yet insistent energy.
“I beg your—” you scoff, but before you can finish vocalizing your thought, he’s grabbing you by the hips and planting you firmly in his lap. Not only are you in his lap—you’re straddling it. Your dress is riding up your thighs, and you’re very thankful that you had the foresight to wear some spandex shorts beneath the skirt. You gape at him, simultaneously shocked and turned on by how easily he’s thrown you over his thighs.
The movement jostled a curl from behind your ear, and Spencer reaches up to tenderly tuck the hair back into place. With one hand cupping the back of your neck and the other gripping your hip, he leans toward you. Your breath hitches, and for a brief moment, you allow yourself to indulge in the delusion that this is real. Spencer angles his lips toward your ear and murmurs, “He’s here. Just do your job.”
His words course through your veins like icy water, effectively cooling the heat in your core. Refusing to let any disappointment show, you plaster on a joyous smile, which isn’t all that much of a challenge when the hottest man you know is smirking at you like you’re the prettiest little thing he’s ever seen.
“Bossy,” you tease through your teeth. Your hands lift to his shoulders, fingers fiddling with the collar of his dress shirt. Just playing the part, you tell yourself. Another plus of those spandex? He can’t tell how wet you’re getting. Weakly, you taunt, “Admit it, you just wanted an excuse to put me in your lap.”
“You are so—”
“Lovely?” you interrupt, injecting as much sweetness into your smile as possible. Spencer squints at you, and you sigh, “Come on. If you’re gonna manhandle me like a caveman, the least you can do is call me pretty or something. I get enough denigration from you on a daily basis.”
Your hands fall to his chest. You try to make the motions appear absentminded, like you’ve touched him a thousand times, but you’re relishing the feeling. On one hand, you’re tempted to look over your shoulder, curious if the unsub is buying your little show, but on the other, you’d like to pretend that it’s just the two of you here.
“You poor thing,” Spencer croons, his hand trailing from the back of your neck to cup your jawline. “Fragile ego?”
You laugh like he’s just referenced some kind of inside joke as opposed to insulting you, exaggerating your amusement for anyone who’s watching. You sigh, meeting his eyes as you answer, “Aw, it’s so cute how you think your words have any power over me.”
“If they don’t, what do you need the praise for?” Spencer quickly retorts.
“Because your job tonight is to be a convincing boyfriend, and right now, you’re not making me wanna date you,” you chide quietly. In a combination of self-indulgence and an attempt to get under Spencer’s skin, you lean closer. With the way Spencer’s thumb has been stroking your cheek, it probably appears to anyone watching that he’s preparing to kiss you. Your eyes flit between his as you tut in mock disappointment, “We might have to break up.”
You don’t miss the strain in his eyes, the way he appears to be refraining from looking at your lips. Then again, he can probably still see them in his periphery. Your own gaze falls to his mouth as the corners of his lips twitch into a small smile. “Are you saying you normally wanna date me?”
“Only in your most unrealistic, most horny dreams, Reid,” you purr, lying straight through your teeth. You sit back in his lap, finding the position quite comfortable. His hand falls away from your face, settling back on your hip.
Spencer rolls his eyes, though there’s a fondness in the motion that only comes from months of familiar bickering. “So charming.” His voice is flat—unimpressed—but there’s a gravely quality to his low tone that has your stomach pitching as if he had sounded even the slightest bit flirtatious.
“I know,” you hum. “Must be why I’m the star of all your fantasies.”
Spencer barks out a laugh at that. The sound is sharp, edged with surprise; almost like you’ve struck a chord, appealed to some truth he’s not yet willing to admit. He huffs, “You seem awfully interested in my fantasies for someone who says I’m not their type.”
“I’m just worried about your health,” you assure him, voice dripping with feigned concern. “All that pent-up sexual frustration cannot be good for you.”
“Neither is being stuck on a case with you,” Spencer quips, though he doesn’t really sound that broken up about it.
“So you admit that you’re sexually—”
“Just go talk to him,” he interrupts, unwilling to concede your point.
“Yes, sir,” you oblige, softly patting his chest before you slide off his lap, heels practically sticking to the dirty bar floor. Before Spencer can offer a witty retort, you amend, “Oh, sorry. I’ll try to keep things vanilla for your sensitive soul.” Blowing him a kiss, you mouth, “Later, loser.”
Spencer looks like he might try to fit in a final word, but he clamps his mouth shut and you look away, focusing on the objective ahead of you.
You’ve just emerged from your hotel suite’s bathroom when a firm knock sounds on your door. Instinctively, your gaze shoots to the clock on the nightstand; its bright red digits confirm your suspicions. It’s late, late enough that there’s no reasonable explanation for someone to be bothering you.
You’re exhausted after this evening’s events. Between the emotional turmoil of being around Spencer—of sitting in his lap, for Christ’s sake—and the stress of closing a case, you’re determined to sleep for at least the next ten hours. It’s no surprise when your voice comes out as a disappointed groan. “Who is it?”
“Open the door and find out, smartass,” Spencer retorts, the amusement in his tone evident even from the other side of the door.
“Tempting, but I think I’ll just keep pricking your voodoo doll,” you quip. You’re debating just flopping into bed and ignoring him; you’re so exhausted, even incessant knocking probably wouldn’t keep you from a heavy slumber, at this point. Yet, that stupid little sliver of your mind—the horny part, that is—wants to see him.
“Funny,” he says flatly.
“Maybe, but the chest pain you’re about to feel isn’t.” You’ve never given much thought to voodoo, but there’s something tantalizing about the thought of stabbing a little needle right through Spencer’s plush heart after his aggravating behavior earlier. You huff to yourself.
“Open the door,” he commands, sounding wholly unimpressed by your witticism.
Relenting with a dramatic sigh, you pad across the drab carpet and unlock your door. As soon as Spencer catches sight of you, his eyes are trailing down your body, seemingly admiring the oversized t-shirt and baggy shorts currently serving as your pajamas. You wouldn’t think that there would be much of interest to admire, but Spencer’s gaze lingers on your bare legs just the same.
“It’s late,” you mutter, pretending for all the world like you’re not also drinking in his appearance. Since you last saw him, he’s changed into loungewear of his own—a worn tee and flannel pants. Clearing your suddenly dry throat, you arch a brow and ask, “Shouldn’t you be jerking off?”
Spencer’s gaze snaps back to your face, and he shoots you a withering glare. “You’re exhausting. Don’t you ever get tired of yourself?”
Not dignifying his snippiness with a response, you taunt, “If you came here to steal some panties, I’d rather you just be honest.” You look over your shoulder, gesturing vaguely to your neatly-packed suitcase, propped in the corner of the room. “See, ‘cause I have this lace pair I really don’t—”
“Shut up. For once, stop talking.” Spencer steps into your room, crowding you against the door as it clicks shut behind you. You tilt your head to look up at him as he murmurs, “You think you’re so smart, huh? You think you have me all figured out?” He pauses, and you’re tempted to cut in with a sharp retort, but then he’s diving back into his rant. “Well, you’re a shittier profiler than you think. All this talk about me being a virgin, all this teasing me about being sexually frustrated—” he jabs a finger into his chest, and then redirects his pointing to you, “—when you’re the one who was about to get yourself off thinking about me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you chide, scrunching your nose in distaste as if the thought has never crossed your mind. You fold your arms across your chest, elbow almost poking him in the process with how close he’s hovering. “Why are you here, Reid?”
“I thought I’d offer you some help,” he says simply, not bothering to be remotely subtle as he ogles your chest, crossed arms pushing your breasts together, even under your loose shirt.
“With what?” you ask, though you’re sure you know what he’s implying. With a mock gasp, you joke, “Oh. Cute. No. I don’t do that kind of charity work.”
Spencer’s eyes drag up the column of your throat, landing back on your face after a tense moment. He shrugs and takes a step back, moving like he’s waiting for you to step away from the door so he can leave. “Suit yourself.”
“You idiot,” you scowl. “You think you can just show up at my door and I’ll drop my pants? You think I’m some kind of slut?”
“No, but I do think you’re desperate,” he replies instantly.
“Wow,” you scoff. “You sure know how to charm a lady.”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong,” Spencer challenges. You roll your eyes at his self-assured tone, leveling him with an annoyed look.
“You’re wrong,” you state, heat creeping up your neck at the realization that it’s more difficult to lie to him than usual.
Perhaps you’re just tired of lying to yourself.
The corners of Spencer’s lips twitch into an irritatingly charming smirk. He croons, “That was a good try, but I said my eyes, not my lips.”
“Fuck you,” you hiss.
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he replies smoothly.
“You’re goddamn annoying,” you complain, uncrossing your arms and grabbing the door handle. Admittedly, your heart’s not completely into the notion of kicking him out, but you’ll do it to avoid him having the upper hand. “How about instead of assuming I’m so obsessed with you, you ask yourself this: why would anyone want to be with someone who’s so abrasive, and haughty, and authoritarian—”
“Because you like when I’m authoritarian,” Spencer confidently interrupts. For a moment, he waits for a response, likely expecting you to counter his statement with a petty argument. When you remain silent, glowering at him—though it’s unclear whether you’re more pissed at him or yourself—he sighs and says, “Fine, you don’t wanna admit it? I can go first. I’ve been crazy about you for a long time. The only reason I put up with your ginormous goddamn attitude is because I can’t stop thinking about kissing you to make you shut up.” Your stomach drops at his confession, a flicker of heat sparking in your abdomen. It’s been obvious that the two of you have been dancing around these feelings for some time now, but to hear him say so has your insides twisting with desire. “You think I’m abrasive? Well, I’m not the one constantly degrading you because I’m too much of a coward to admit that I actually like you.”
Damn. It doesn’t necessarily feel good to be called out so explicitly, but he’s not wrong, per se. You have been a bit of a coward, using humor as a defense mechanism when you’ve been sure that Spencer would reject you if you made your interest overt.
“That’s some grand speech for a hookup,” you mumble, still unwilling to drop your bravado.
“I don’t just want a hookup, but I’ll settle if that’s what you’re into,” Spencer admits. His face is, shockingly, a mask of cool indifference; while it’s usually so easy to fluster him, to get under his skin, he seems perfectly comfortable right now, like he hasn’t just been utterly vulnerable with you. Oh, how the tables have turned.
“Isn’t it kind of backwards to fuck and then go out to dinner?” you question pointedly, quirking a brow.
“I did take you out for drinks earlier,” Spencer responds easily. At this point, you’re still cornered against the door, and you lean against the wood for support. After all, his confession has you slightly winded, and you don’t trust your wobbly legs to keep you upright all on their own.
“For a job,” you argue.
“Semantics,” he says dismissively.
“I knew you liked me,” you answer, speaking more to yourself than to him.
“And I knew you were massively overcompensating with all your teasing,” he replies, his unimpressed expression morphing into that familiar, smug countenance.
“Teasing?” you repeat, brow furrowing as you innocently pout. “I’m not a tease.”
Spencer takes a step closer once more, towering over you. He huffs with amusement, and his breath puffs across your face. Cracking an amused smile, he goads, “Prove it.”
You cock your head. “Aren’t you gonna make me, Spence?”
The bright grin drops off his face as he solemnly responds, “Only if you call me ‘sir’ again.”
Your heart stutters. You have half a mind to laugh, to write off what he’s just said as sarcasm, but something in his dark eyes gives you pause. “Oh,” you gasp, “are you serious?”
He breaks character, devolving into a low chuckle. “Fuck no.”
Without further ado, his hands are cupping your jaw, and he’s tilting your face toward his. Your arms have been hanging limply at your sides since you uncrossed them, but they instinctively loop over his shoulders as he pulls you into a deep kiss. His movements are fiery and tender all at once, like he’s been fantasizing about this moment for far too long, but doesn’t want to rush things. His lips insistently press against yours, mouth moving in an expert rhythm.
His fingers trail your throat, falling to the nape of your neck as he pulls you impossibly closer. His thumbs are pressed against your pulse point, and you’re vaguely aware that he knows how rapidly your heart is racing—how affected you are by his touch. The thought should embarrass you, but you’re too delighted by the feel of his body molding to the contours of your own to think twice about it.
While he had initially inched you closer to him, he’s now backing you against the door, seeking leverage as he continues to ravish you. Before you hit the wood, one of his hands tangles in your hair, simultaneously protecting your head from a blow while he holds you in place. The duality of his intentions—the combined need to protect you and consume you—doesn’t go unnoticed as you continue to reciprocate his kiss.
Eventually, Spencer’s lips part from yours, and a breathy sigh escapes your lips before you can contain it. As he works to catch his own breath, he mutters, “You know, there’s something you said earlier that I can’t stop thinking about.”
“I know, I’m hilarious,” you smirk, somehow able to feign confidence while your head is spinning, dizzy with the thought of surrendering control to him. “What in particular amused you?”
“How wrong you are about me,” he answers, busying himself with peppering kisses across your jaw and down your neck. Between pecks, he clarifies, “How you think I’m… vanilla?”
“You didn’t come here to ask me to join some sort of BDSM cult, did you?” you attempt to tease, but your voice comes out breathy and very blatantly aroused.
“No, nothing like that,” he replies, huffing against your throat. Lifting his head to shoot you an amused glance, he teases, “Why? Would that interest you?”
“That’s a good question,” you shamelessly admit, unable to deny your fascination with the idea.
“Huh,” Spencer hums, ducking his head again to continue laving at the junction of your neck and shoulder. He starts to lightly suck at the sensitive skin, and the pleasurable sting is enough to make you gasp, your grip tightening on his shoulders.
“Is Twenty Questions your idea of foreplay or something?” you joke half-heartedly, cheeks burning as your arousal builds. With a mildly embarrassing whine in your tone, you complain, “I thought you said you wanted to help.”
“Oh, I do,” Spencer promises, lifting his head to assess you through half-lidded eyes. “I was just curious.” His gaze falls to your shirt, the material practically swallowing you. He drags a finger across the embroidery right above your sternum, smiling delightedly to himself. “This is cute.”
“I feel like you’re stalling. Trying to prepare a good line, are we?” you taunt, though your chest is rapidly rising and falling beneath his touch. You’re not fooling anyone, and you know it, but you’re stubborn as all hell.
“Not at all,” Spencer denies with a minute shake of his head. His curls flop around, and you’re struck with an overwhelming temptation to run a hand through them. At the rate things are going, though, you’re guessing you have a good chance of doing so by the time the night’s over. “It looks good on you. Of course, it would look better on the floor, though.”
“There it is,” you say flatly, pretending like his words don’t have you wanting to strip naked right then and there. Spencer hums knowingly, stepping away from you. Immediately, you crave his proximity, missing the warmth of his body against yours.
He nods over his shoulder, gesturing to your bed. “Go sit down.”
Your mind fumbles to produce a witty response. You should tell him not to boss you around, that you won’t listen to any man, that he can go to hell, but…
Your feet carry you across the room, and you’re plopping down on the edge of the bed. You watch him expectantly; he hovers by the door for a mere second before following you, stopping right in front of you. Your knees are tightly pressed together, and your hands are clasped in your lap as you look up at him. The air feels dense with tension. Despite having already kissed him, you want so much more, that the desire threatens to suffocate you.
“I don’t want to fuck you,” Spencer murmurs, and you practically hear a record scratch echo through the room. Your immense disappointment must show on your face, because he quickly amends, “I don’t want to fuck you tonight. But I do want to make you feel good.”
One of his hands falls to your knee, gently coaxing your legs apart. He steps closer, slotting himself between your legs. You swallow thickly as you silently watch him, as his slender fingers drag up your barely-covered thighs and begin fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
“I’m gonna take this off now,” he declares in a low voice. Despite his commanding tone, his brows lift in a concerned expression, seeking your agreement. “Okay?”
Your heart lurches at the realization that you’re about to be half-naked in front of him, yet the thought is exceedingly exhilarating. You feel kind of pathetic for bowing to his whims so easily, but his promise has you slowly nodding your consent.
He lifts your shirt, slowly revealing your bare skin. You’re so absurdly turned on by this entire ordeal that even the tiniest shift of fabric against your chest has your nipples hardening. Naturally, Spencer’s gaze flits to your breasts, his pupils blowing wide at the sight.
Then, he kneels between your legs, his hands settling on your waist. More specifically, the waistband of your shorts. You sit back on the heels of your palms, lifting your hips for him before he even has to ask—or tell. While he had removed your shirt with a languid fluidity, he wastes no time tugging both your shorts and your underwear down your legs.
Your cheeks flush with heat once you’re bare before him. He takes a generous moment to stare at your glistening folds before dragging his attention back to your face. Seeing your evident embarrassment, he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of one thigh. The sensitive skin prickles under his touch.
His strong hands grip your hips, digging into the flesh as he guides you closer to the edge of the mattress. Once he’s satisfied with your position, he returns his focus back to the junction of your thighs.
He inches closer, nipping at the skin just beside your core. You jump at the sensation, but quickly relax as he soothes the spot with his tongue. He seems like he’s debating teasing you further, but he takes one look at your glistening folds, and he’s lapping at your arousal, dragging his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one smooth motion. You jolt, a hand instinctively clutching his hair for leverage as he starts to devour you.
His tongue swirls your clit, a light stimulation that sends electricity coursing through your abdomen. As a pleasured sigh escapes you, Spencer encircles your clit with his mouth, sucking on the sensitive bud.
His hands, which had been resting on your hips, keeping your legs spread for him, start to wander. One hand travels up your waist, cupping your tit and squeezing gently. You think you may come just from his ministrations thus far, but then his other hand snakes between your legs, and your heart skips a beat.
Collecting your arousal on his fingers, he prods at your entrance. It doesn’t take much effort to slip one digit into your sopping pussy; it quickly sinks inside of you, and you moan at the drag of his finger inside of you. He hums his approval against your clit, and the vibration only furthers your pleasure.
He crooks his finger against a spongy spot deep within you at the same time as his other hand toys with your nipple, the pinch going straight to your core. You feel yourself growing wetter around Spencer’s finger, and he must notice, too, because he carefully inches another one inside of you. While his fingers are slim, they’re still thicker than yours, and there’s a dull ache as he stretches you open. You try not to think about how many times he must have done this with other women in order to know just how long to give you to adjust to the feeling. After a short time, he crooks his fingers and begins pumping them in and out of your pussy, hand moving in time with his mouth.
You mewl, a pathetic little whimper that has him huffing against your core. You would be indignant at his response if you weren’t so fucking lost in arousal right now. Your thighs begin to tremble as he continues to lick and suck and fuck you open; his hand that had been fondling your breast moves to grip your thigh, holding you in place.
You moan, your breaths devolving into shaky little pants. You’re helplessly gasping and whining as Spencer expertly works you toward your climax.
“Spence, fuck—” you cry, stomach tightening as you race toward release. He’s unrelenting, mouth practically attached to your pussy.
Like a taut rubber band, the pressure in your core threatens to snap. You’re so close that tears are starting to burn in your eyes as you approach that intense pleasure. Your body tingles with the anticipation of it, but right when you feel yourself creeping over the edge, Spencer pulls back.
Cool air hits your core like a bucket of water dousing an inferno. Your hazy eyes snap to his as he retracts his fingers from inside of you.
“N-no,” you whine, voice no more than a breath.
He sits back on his heels before rising from the floor, looking down at you with a devious glint in his eyes. Your mind runs through a list of the most insulting expletives you can conjure, and you’re about to unleash a snappy complaint when you stop yourself.
As promised, he had made you feel good—better than good. Fucking incredible. You’ll be damned if you ruin this for yourself by telling him off. You can handle a little bit of edging. It’s not ideal, but you can play this game how he clearly wants you to.
“P-please,” you beg.
“Aw, you sound so sweet,” Spencer coos, settling onto the mattress. You glower at his mocking tone, but your face is bright red with a combination of arousal and… something at his demeaning statement. He cracks a cheeky grin, tapping the tip of your nose as he says, “Don’t be embarrassed, baby. Please what?”
You grit your teeth, admitting, “I want… more.”
“Yeah?” he asks. Surely, he’s just feeling cocky and wants to hear once more how badly you want him. Asshole.
“Mhm,” you nod weakly.
Spencer leans toward you, brushing a sweaty strand of hair away from your ear as he murmurs, “Then stand up for me.”
Your brow furrows in confusion at his command. You’re not sure what to expect next, but you’re far too invested in the situation to refuse. You oblige, shakily rising from your seat and angling your body toward him, awaiting further instruction.
Spencer pats his clothed thigh and purrs, “Sit right here.”
You blink harshly, wondering what sort of gratification he would possibly get from you doing so. You’re positively soaked, and you would only ruin his pants. You try to vocalize this thought, yet all that comes out is a soft, “But…”
“What? You don’t wanna make a mess?” he croons, clearly reveling in your suddenly shy demeanor. You jerkily shake your head, but your gaze darts to his lap, to his spread legs. He waits until your focus returns to his face before asking, “Even if I want you to?”
You consider this for a moment. It would be super hot. “Well…”
“Oh, come on,” he coaxes. “Be good.”
You had told him earlier tonight that you didn’t like constantly being teased by him, but there’s something so attractive about his mock praise in this context that has you wanting to do whatever he asks. So, after a minuscule internal debate, you step toward him, sinking onto his thigh. His hands immediately fall to your hips, holding you in place as you straddle his leg.
He’s gotten you so damn worked up that the mere feeling of his flannel pants pressing against your clit has you holding back a shiver. You’re desperate for friction, but you’re well aware that doing this means that things will change between you—more than they already have, that is—and that you can never go back.
“Atta girl,” Spencer praises, thumbs brushing against your bare hips. His fingers are dangerously close to kneading your ass, and you would almost prefer if he would start guiding your movements. Yet, he’s looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to make a move. “What?”
“‘S embarrassing,” you complain in a small whisper, unable to stop a dismayed pout from crossing your face. He grins in response, clearly enjoying finally having reduced you from a confident brat to a submissive little lamb.
“Aw, don’t be embarrassed,” he tuts. “You wanna come, don’t you?”
“Mhm,” you hum reluctantly.
“Pretty girl, all you have to do is roll your hips,” he says, patting them in encouragement. As desperate as you are to feel some release, there’s something vaguely humiliating about getting yourself off in front of him. Your embarrassment is only heightened when he teasingly instructs, “C’mon, put on a little show for me.”
You scowl at him, narrowing your eyes at the humorous lilt in his voice. To spite him—or perhaps to tease yourself—you shift forward slightly, dragging your core along his thigh. You had meant the motion to be a stubborn display, to appear like you’re not as helplessly interested in him as you are, but the friction is delicious, and the tension in your body starts to melt away.
“That’s it. Just like that,” Spencer murmurs, gripping your hips tighter as you resign yourself to grinding against his leg. “That feel good?”
“Mhm,” you confirm, quickly losing yourself in the sensation of rocking against him. Once more, your clit catches on the fabric of his pants, and you bite your lip to suppress a satisfied groan.
“You’re so cute, getting all worked up like this,” he praises, and his words resonate deep in your stomach, adding to the building tension there.
He had brought you so close to orgasm moments ago that it’s not long at all before you’re rutting in his lap with fervor, abdomen tightly coiled with your impending climax. Once more, little whimpers and moans tumble from your lips, and their increased volume indicates that you’re close to coming.
“Stop,” Spencer commands, his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you in place. He’s not gripping you tight enough to truly prevent you from continuing to grind on him, but that submissive part of your brain obediently freezes.
“No, Spence, please—” you whine.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he promises, lifting one hand to card his fingers through your damp hair. He meets your gaze with dark, lust-filled eyes. “Just for a second, alright?”
“Mm, wanna…” you whimper.
“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, smoothing your tousled hair.
“Please, can I…?” you plead.
“You gonna make yourself come all over my thigh?” he asks, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. You hang your head, panting at the sight of his clothed erection just inches away from the mess you’ve made on his thigh.
“Mhm,” you hum.
“Go ahead,” he permits, loosening his hold on your hips just enough so that you can move freely again.
“Thank you…” you breathe, instantly returning to your desperate pace. As you continue to rut against him, dragging your pussy along his thigh, he grips your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, and you can taste your arousal on his lips.
You’re so worked up, you think you may sob as your orgasm begins to wash over you in an all-consuming wave. You unseal your lips from his, huffing against his mouth, “God, ‘m gonna… ah….”
“I got you,” he assures you. “Go ahead, baby.”
“Mm… ah…” you moan, riding his thigh for all you’re worth. Mercifully, you finally come, and the sensation causes your vision to dance with dark spots and your body to erupt in a pleasant tingle. You yelp, biting your lip to hold back a scream. All of Spencer’s teasing has only ensured that when you finally reach the precipice, you have the most intense orgasm of your life.
Your hips still to a halt as you tremble on top of him. You’re left feeling absolutely boneless, a satisfying warmth blooming in your abdomen. As you puff and gasp for air, Spencer peppers your face with tender kisses.
“So good,” he murmurs. “You’re so good.”
For a moment, you allow yourself to be the recipient of his unadulterated affection. Once the initial wave of bliss passes, however, the reality of the situation comes crashing down on you, and you bury your face in your hands.
“Oh God,” you groan. “Oh my God, that was so embarrassing.”
“If by ‘embarrassing’, you mean ridiculously fucking hot,” Spencer quips. When a moment passes and you still haven’t met his eyes, he starts pressing a kiss to each knuckle on your fingers. His gentle touch is enough to have you lowering your hands and glancing at him with a worried look.
“There was one thing you were right about earlier, by the way,” he notes.
“Yeah?” you ask nervously. “What’s that?”
“This is like my horny dreams,” he replies lightheartedly, though his expression suggests that he is anything but joking.
You huff, smiling sheepishly as you mutter, “Fuck off.”
“What?” he squawks, slapping a hand to his chest in an offended gesture. “I mean, sure, I can go handle this myself, but I’d much rather stay.” His gaze falls to the tent in his pants, and then he looks up at you through his lashes, a hopeful sparkle in his eyes.
“You’re not invited,” you decree, clambering off his lap and standing up.
“Aw. Shame,” he tuts, clearly unconvinced. Then, seeking clarification, he meekly asks, “Really?”
Echoing his words from earlier, you declare, “Fuck no,” before mimicking his actions and moving to kneel before him.
The two of you have quite the night ahead of you, but you’re going to make the most of it. After all, it’s been a long time coming.
warnings: age gap (21 x 33), mentions of masturbation (both m & f), suggestive clothing mentions ??, spencer is horny as fuck, light dom!spencer sorta, reader isn't really a sub tho, unprotected piv sex, oral (f recieving) #munchreid
i have seen this done before but this is one of my favorite tropes so its my turn now
dr. spencer reid liked his job. one of the simple reasons being, he got to spend hours a week talking about topics that interested him most. he was sure half the students who attended his lectures didn't truly care, but if he was able to get his ramblings out, outside the bau, he had no qualms.
no one usually sat at the very front of his lectures, he noticed. another thing he didn't really mind, because he preferred talking over calling on unsuspecting students, who would ruin his flow of thought.
except you did. you sat at the front. something that caught his attention immediately when you took one of his lectures two semesters ago, seemingly unbothered by his hard stare. he didn't call on you at first, assuming you weren't aware of his teaching methods, or the rigourous coursework. but you kept up, and in fact, he was more than surprised when you would volunteer during class, during any silent pause. you would ask questions, offer suggestions, even probe his teaching further. something spencer had never experienced before, not even through anyone at the bau. he admired how intelligent you were for being so young. it fascinated him.
you took his lecture again this semester, a different topic of course, but chose him out of the more experienced professor that was offered at noon. he taught at night, partly because he was offered the times that no one wanted, and partly because this was still a side job, something that was easily accessible to him in the evenings. for most students, evening courses weren't ideal, and if they did attend, it was because it was their last option. but on the first day, you acknowledged to him that wasn't the case.
"dr. reid!" you had a bright smile for the first day of classes, he thought to himself. he's fairly certain most of your fellow pupils he's seen had the exact opposite expression walking the hallways.
"good to see you again." he nods as you take your seat in the front.
"i couldn't believe you had another lecture. i had to take it." your voice becomes muffled as you lean under your desk to dig something out of your bag. he blinks, processing your confession.
"you wanted to take my course again? i mean, hear my teaching methods? you liked it?" he sounds pathetic, he knows. but he can't help it, for some reason.
you pop back up from under your desk. "of course! you're one of my favorite professors i've ever had."
"well. thank you." he doesn't know what to say, and doesn't have to, as a few more students fill in, causing him to glance at the clock and notice lecture starts soon.
he doesn't want to assume anything. no, because if he did, it would put him in a seriously terrible position. spencer knows the odds and problems with assuming, and the outcomes of doing so. in fact, assuming about this, would lead to a high outcome of being incredibly screwed over. but he can't help but want to assume. more than anything, with his depraved mind, something he never thought he would think about in his life.
you had started showing up in short skirts. and if it wasn't short skirts, tight blouses or revealing tops. the rational part of his brain says that you have a boyfriend, this is for him afterwards. or maybe you just like to show yourself off. nothing wrong with that. but the deeper, needier, part of him? no, that says that's all for him. that's telling spencer, she's doing this for you.
and so, in return, spencer does something he's never done. nothing huge, of course. but he officially marks on the chalkboard his office hour postings.
clearing his throat he announces the new change. "i have added office hours after this lecture, if any of you ever need anything or have questions. you're welcome to stop by or make an appointment." his eyes briefly run over you, where you're already watching him, gaze flickering back and forth from him to the board.
you came up to him after class. he fights, he really does, to keep his eyes level with yours, but you're wearing the tightest white blouse. one that you have popped the buttons on to the second top button, to where he can just see the red of your bra peeking out.
"i hope you don't mind if i stay for office hours. i had a question about the assignment." your voice is like silk.
"of course." he motions towards his desk, where he takes a seat, waiting for you to explain your question.
"the assignment, dr. reid," you begin, casting your eyes down. "where human behavior is reinforced..." your tongue sweeps across your lips, wetting them as you talk, and he can't hear anything else you say. he's transfixed by your mouth.
how disgusting he felt. ogling his student like this.
"dr. reid?" your head was cocked to the side, watching him, his glazed eyes behind his glasses finally snap to.
he clears his throat. "i'm sorry. i must've got lost in thought, i tend to do that lately."
"that's alright. i can come back next lecture, if you'd like. i think i can figure it out, i just wanted some extra clarity."
your tone doesn't seem hurt, he notices, but maybe... frustration? no that wasn't it. he couldn't place it. he runs a hand through his messy brown hair, already tousled from how many times he did it through lecture, trying not to let more thoughts consume him. your lips part slightly, watching him, and he forces himself to look away.
his pants were growing tighter, more uncomfortable, the longer you were there staring at him, your breasts barely hidden in your top, your skirt too short for his liking, leaving him wondering where the hell you could even get such a thing besides a halloween store. or a sex site.
and he should've never thought of you in a sex store, because his next thought was even worse.
"next class would be fine." he rasps. he was tense, he could've almost came in his pants then, he needed you gone.
he realized soon, managing to escape one day of you, wouldn't solve his issue. no, it in fact, made it worse. everyday until his next lecture, he thought about the 'what ifs'. what if he said he needed you instead of pushing you away. what if he took you over his desk, right there. his fantasies led him to palm himself, late at night, eyes squeezed shut, pretending one day it would maybe be you with your hand wrapped around his cock.
he was becoming unhinged. as quickly as he offered office hours, he had them "postponed", due to some scheduling conflicts outside of work. which was bullshit. he just couldn't get his thoughts together, his emotions either, at that. he saw your face fall when he announced it in class, before looking down at your notes once more.
at night, he would think about it. what if he entertained it. but then he thought about the statistics of how such thing affects a students work in class, or around their peers. even if they don't know, and spencer had to squeeze his eyes shut, the number too high for him to want to think about.
you never stopped wearing those all too revealing outfits, though. he wishes you would've, because the lead to his resolve snapping happened in class not long after your first- and only- office hours. about two weeks later, you were in his favorite skirt, because he's started to take note of all of them, and pink button up. spencer had a special distaste for the boys in the back row, who didn't do much most of class and would email him asking for a bump on essays. today, spencer was running late in starting his lecture because he was reading a text from morgan, but he didn't fail to hear what was happening in the room.
"you wearin' those outfits for a reason? bet they'd look good at our party this weekend." a laugh. "or you don't have to wear anything."
he raises his head, seeing your cheeks tinted red, staring at one of the boys in the back, who has a hand inches away from touching the hem of your skirt, as if he wanted to pull it down himself. spencer finds himself talking before he registers it.
"my lectures aren't for harassing women." all heads snap towards the front, the sudden outburst- if you could call it that- causing an uncomfortable silence.
"ah, dr. reid, it was all in good jest." a typical, suave, sort of save, but spencer doesn't bat an eye.
"doesn't seem like she finds it funny." in some world, he's embarassed, because the only reason he's still going at this argument, is because he doesn't like the thought of another man touching you.
your voice pipes up. "it's okay dr. reid. thank you." you take your seat but he can feel the tension in the room. he scans everyone before turning to write on the chalkboard, but he swears he can hear people muttering that he's playing favorites or, worse, "he just wants her all to himself".
he stayed late that day, grading papers, trying to focus his mind on anything else. he's aware that his thoughts haven't been normal lately, in fact, one could call them obsessive. and maybe it's because he is resisting it so much. he knows the psychology behind wanting what you can't have. he sits back in his chair, his eyes fixated on your desk, running through the robotic facts in his brain.
your dopamine assigns higher value to restricted rewards.
anything blocked to you becomes of an inflated value.
he also knows, though, you can't magically fix or stop these things, just because you know it's stupid. he grabs his satchel, fed up with thinking, and trudges towards the outside of the building. it's raining, a heavy downpour at that, making for an uncomfortable drive home. barely off campus, he sees a figure, soaked from the rain, under one of the campus buildings. he doesn't need a second glance to register who it is, he's mapped your shape thoroughly by now. he pulls his car off to the road, in front of the building, and grabs an umbrella from his backseat.
the rain patters loudly on the temporary shelter as he walks, his brows furrowing as you make eye contact.
"i think classes are done for the day." he tries to smile, insinuating he's joking.
"yeah, wish i knew that before my car broke down. you hold your phone up. "and my phone died. i'm a mess. then it started raining." he sees tears forming in your eyes.
"hey, hey! i can take you back. no worries."
your shoulders sag. "it's okay. i really should just wait it out."
"no, no. it's dangerous, it's night and raining. i don't want you to be an statistic i may have to be called in to solve."
he tells himself it's the right thing to do, of course. you're in a dangerous position and he's helping. but you're still in that same outfit from earlier, that's now soaked, clinging to your body, outlining all your features he can never pull his eyes away from to begin with, and he feels the last thread of resolve snapping.
maybe asking you if you needed help getting inside or carrying anything was backed up with the same excuse, he was just making sure you got home safely. what wasn't, couldn't, be backed up with any sort of excuse, is how he helped unbutton your top, peeling away the soaked layer. how he met your eyes, that burned with the same desire his did, before he finally shut off his brain, cupping your cheeks in his hands, and kissing you.
you were both still damp from moving from his car to inside, your skin wet against him, leading you to take off his shirt for him, through the kisses, through the silent pleads for more. you lead him to your bedroom and in the process, somehow, your skirt came off, his pants. spencer felt like he was in a dream, satisfying every thought he's ever had.
"were the outfits for me?" the question tumbles from his lips before he can stop it, but he's hovering over you, his hips aligned in between your legs. he knows you can feel him, feel how hard he is already, and he can feel your warm cunt pressed against him, driving him wild.
"yes." you pause, as if you were choosing your words carefully for the next sentence. "but you stopped doing office hours, and i didn't know how else to get you alone. i thought maybe you'd ask to see me after class. it sounds stupid, i know. like a fantasy." his pulse is racing, despite your eye contact faltering, he assumes because of embarassment.
he moves down you, stopping in front of your pussy, pressing a small open mouthed kiss over your underwear. a broken moan escapes you.
"keep telling me what you wanted and you'll get rewarded." spencer was high off your confession, wanting more, needing more. you swallow, your eyes trained on him kissing around your thighs.
"i... i thought maybe one day you would fuck me over you desk. i thought the one day when i saw you after class, oh fuck, that maybe it would be then." he had pushed your panties aside, dipping his tongue inside you, his mouth finding your clit. your hands fisted your pristine sheets, your hips were rocking against his face. and you kept going. "i got off to the idea of you."
his eyes snapped open, looking at you. he licked a stripe up you, before he pulled away. he needed to be inside you, needed to feel you pulse around him as you did everything he had ever dreamed of, ever stroked his cock to.
"did you touch yourself too dr. reid?"
he pauses as he lines his cock up with your entrance. the name makes him twitch.
"i did."
"will you tell me about it?" his heart rate picks up all over again, his breath coming short. he goes to answer but you have a follow up. "while you fuck me?" all he can do is nod, as you wrap your legs around him, pulling him in as his cock slides into you, your moans mixing together.
"i thought about fucking you in class," he thrusts deep, to the hilt. "i thought about taking off that skirt and white blouse, making sure you'd never be able to wear it again," he pulls out, only leaving his tip in, before sinking back in. a strangled cry for him leaves your lips, calling him spencer instead of dr. reid, and he has to think of all the numbers in plancks constant to not cum right then. his thrusts become needier, more insistent, as he meets your lips as he continuously buries himself deep inside you.
"where do you want it baby." he rolls your nipple in his finger, then alternates, fueling your overstimulation and arousal.
"in me. please. please." you beg, your eyes wide watching him.
"please what?" he needs to hear his name on your tongue again, while he's feeling your cunt squeeze him like this.
"dr. reid?" your breaths are ragged, as your back is arching off the bed, barely able to speak.
he hums. "mm i don't think so." you claw at his arm, seconds away from your orgasm and he knows it.
"spencer. fuck, spencer, please. cum in me. god." your legs shake as you hit your peak, and those words are his own undoing, encasing your hand in his as he feels himself release inside you, barely able to keep his eyes open.
he gently lays down against you, not yet removing himself, as you tangle your hands through his hair. his face is buried in the crook of your neck, as he recalls what he just did. it's incredibly wrong, incredibly against ethics.
but he wasn't going to turn you down when you asked if he wanted to clean up with a shower.
literally going through a dilemma about a boy i’ve liked for ages rn. we’re good friends (haven’t talked since grad though), but i’m convinced he knows i like him (probs just anxiety). i try to find him in every guy i talk to and it’s so bad—a “thinking of you” by katy perry situation i fear. send help and i NEED advice. what the actual FUCK do i do??
you haven’t heard from your now ex-boyfriend in weeks, the last time was when you sent him on his way out of your life during a late night fight.
it’d be a lie if you said you hadn’t missed the way he’d chuckle at your naivety about cars, or how he’d smother you with his biceps when all tangled up together in bed, or how his voice filled the quietness your apartment now nursed.
all of your heart missed the little things he would do when he was still your man—but you were sure you were just a mere afterthought in his mind. that was JAMES KELLY’s nature. he never cared and why would he start now when everything was in ruins?
so it came as a shock when his boss at lewis’ auto had phoned you early one thursday morning, calling that james hadn’t come into the shop for the past few days with a heads up and that he’d been slacking off way before. there was no better way in finding out you were still listed as his emergency contact.
with a groan of frustration that veiled the anxiety coursing through your veins, you shrugged a coat on and hailed a cab to his house on the other end of town. as you approached his front porch, knocking on the door twice, you whispered a prayer under your breath—hoping he was all right. when you didn’t hear movement from the opposite side, your knuckles began to rap against the wood, fear settling in.
“james, it’s me,” you hesitantly announced, “are you there?” nothing but the sound of silence, and it kills you slowly… but then you heard some shuffling, then a groan, then the latch lock opening. he peeked out from the sliver he creaked open, heavily guarded as he was still hungover from his endless night of drinking. once he fully revealed himself to you in the doorway, you practically launched yourself onto him—arms wrapping around his chiseled chest and into a hug.
“fuck, you’re all right, you’re okay,” face hiding into the crook of his neck, he smelled of tobacco and beer. though instead of annoyance seeping into your mind, it was relief and warmth—familiarity. james stilled in your hold before he melted into your tight embrace, his hand fisting onto the back of your head to make sure this was real—and it was.
“you’re here,” he sighed contentedly, as if the wind got knocked out of him when you surged forward at him. “i’m here,” you affirmed, “for as long as you’ll have me.”
“can it be forever?”
“yes, i’d like that very much.”
for @haydenssweetheart , @h4yden-skywalker , @mark-renton-luvr , @mythicalcowboyatheart , @akan3aoi — 🏷️ (comment below to join the taglist!)
small town family ice cream shop rivals- scott barringer x reader
warnings: pure fluff, pwp, some vulgar banter and innuendos, mentions of sex, allusions to finding the other person sexually attractive
"mint chocolate chip with sprinkles on a cone!" you hold your arm to hand out the final cone of the day to a tween with peculiar taste for her age, you thought. but working at your family ice cream shop has taught you people have strange preferences when it comes to flavors, no matter what the age.
like rum raisin.
it was no secret that your family had the best ice cream in your small town, even in the winter months, people would line up in jackets and parkas to get pints to take home to eat in the comfort of the heat or fireplace. you had fifty flavors consistently, and seasonal flavors that would rotate, which you especially liked the fall ones. pumpkin marshmallow had become a favorite for you and you made your father bring it back every year.
you worked there when you came home from college or when you arrived back for holidays, always eager to try the new creations your parents had whipped up in the back. this summer, they had a rotation of apricot watermelon sorbet, berry shortcake, and mango coconut.
throughout these years, there really had been no competition with your shop, sure a baskin robbins, or some chain would come in, but it never compared to the creativity and quality your family put out.
until the barringer family moved in and built theirs. your father wasn't concerned at first, said it would just be another try and fail. but as time went on, the conversations as you came home seemed a little more tense when it came to business. you heard it when you were working the stand last year, during a fall holiday, as you handed out a banana cream pie in a cup to a regular.
"you know, it seems like folks are really taking a liking to that barringer shop." you felt your eyes widen. he continued poking around his ice cream, paying no mind to you. "i don't think it's all that, they don't do fun flavors like y'all. i think it's just the appeal of the soft serve."
and that was that. your father was never a fan of putting a soft serve machine in the shop, you asked him why, specifically after that.
"they can't think we're stooping to their level, to try and compete. what we had always worked. i'm not investing more. soft serve will eventually lose it's touch." he said firmly, his eyes never leaving his newspaper that morning, dismissing you- or the conversation. you weren't sure which, but most likely both.
this summer, you were getting fed up. it's not as if you didn't have customers, but you could see the change in business. so what if you went there yourself, saw what all this shit was about? a hot saturday, soft serve didn't sound that bad, so you threw on a tank top and shorts, and biked down to their store.
your eyes scanned the building. it was cute, you had to give them that. pastels, cute calligraphy that spelled out "barringer ice cream", basic but your family wasn't more creative either. you threw your bike into a rack, walking to the sliding window.
a blonde boy leans his head out, to start to ask you, what you assume is what you wanted, before narrowing his eyes.
"aren't you the girl from the other shop?"
you fold your arms over your chest. "well, what a hello. i hope you don't greet all your customers like this, or i'd be real confused why you have such positive reviews."
"i can assume you would piece two and two together and figure out that's not the case, since we took half your customer base."
you bite your tongue, because this wasn't what you came here for. you can feel your cheeks getting red with irritation, he was truly spiking your blood levels.
"god forbid i wanted some soft serve on my day off. can you accomplish that before a line starts forming behind me and they need to be rerouted to my store? wouldn't want you to lose precious business."
he glares at you. "what flavor. chocolate, vanilla, or swirl?" he points to the machine, to what you can assume is the flavors.
"oh gee, can i get a taste of the chocolate?" you feel a smirk creeping on to your face.
"you know what fucking chocolate tastes like."
"but it's soft serve..." you trail off, realizing you don't know his name yet. "mr. barringer? i just realized i don't have your formal name. boy, how rude. i never introduced myself either." you offer a hand, throwing your name, watching as he clearly debated his options.
"scott." he snips at you.
"oh good. well, scott, i've never had chocolate soft serve. i would love to try." a lie. you had. plenty of times. you cast a look behind you, only a few people were lingering, so you weren't too concerned.
he huffs a breath, before handing you a wooden spoon with a dab of chocolate ice cream. you place it into your mouth, wrapping your lips fully around the spoon, making a big show of sucking every last drop of it off.
"wow, that's incredible. let me get a taste of the vanilla scotty." you grin.
"don't call me that. i'm not giving you a sample of the vanilla."
"well shit, why not? i have to make sure it's better than the chocolate."
he reluctantly hands you a new spoon, as you lean over the counter, repeating the same motions as before. "wow, that's truly amazing. i can't imagine what that would be like... swirled." you hold back a laugh, seeing his face twist into an even deeper glare than you thought was humanly possible.
"get out of here before i call the cops."
"someone doesn't like having fun. i'll be sure to recommend you to my favorite customers. see you soon scotty!" you throw a spoon into the window at him, hopping onto your bike back home.
at the end of june, your father happily announced the stand was asked to have a setup at the towns fourth of july fair that year, thrilled about how much business it would bring. he was busy taking inventory and your mother began making a list of the most popular flavors the week before, to figure out what to bring while you worked the shop. you looked down, putting cash into the drawer, when you heard a strangely familiar voice.
"gee, i would love to try a seasonal flavor. what do you recommend?" your head snaps up, meeting the blue eyes of scott barringer. you cock your head at him.
"is that what truly brings you here? let me know if you're allergic to coconut. i definitely won't give you the mango coconut."
"partly. also wanted to spread the joy that both our families are working this fourth of july fair, and just how excited i am." it was his turn to give you that devilish grin.
"and what, you're gonna bring that huge ass soft serve machine?" you lean over the window, staring down at him.
"we just might. now, i'm not allergic to coconut, so get me two scoops of that on a cone. waffle."
you roll your eyes, moving towards the tin to scoop him the flavor. this was going to be a long fucking summer.
especially when you got a text the day before the fair, one you immediately identified as scott based on the tone of the text.
"hope you're ready to get your ass ate tomorrow."
you made a face, because he definitely could've worded that better. or added something to make it not sound the way it did. it was actually so bad, you couldn't even move past it to banter back.
"can you rephrase that please? i'm not into ass eating."
"and i might be."
you scrunch your nose, because of course he doesn't rephrase it, just makes a dirty comment. and of course it makes you think of him actually eating your ass, which has you shaking your head to get the thought out as soon as possible.
your parents are an organized mess the next morning, checking and double checking things that have already been confirmed to be there, because they're so stressed about this imaginary competition they've set up in their heads against the barringer family. you can't really imagine that scotts' family cares that much, but your father built his reputation on this store, so you shrug it off.
the heat is intense as you help them set up, sweat trickling down your forehead, soaking your white tank top, making your shorts stick to your legs. your parents mutter something to you about going to get more dry ice from the store, and to make sure everything in the stand sets up okay. you sigh, fixing the cart the ice cream is situated in. you dig around in the bag to find a spoon, before digging into double chocolate brownie and taking a scoop for yourself.
"can't even wait 'till business starts?"
scott appears in front of you, eyeing you eating the ice cream. he's wearing a light t shirt, one that has similarly been soaked from sweat, and athletic shorts. you don't miss how his eyes scan you, lingering on your breasts, making you aware your bra is visible.
"i'm hungry. it's probably not a good look that a barringer keeps showing up to the opposing business, gonna make everyone think you don't like your own product."
"don't think they would assume that if i walk away with nothing."
you inhale deeply, regulating your next string of words. "what do you want scott."
"oh nothing. just walking the setups, happened to see you. wanted to see how it was going. i'll be working today if you want to come by. you know, see how much better we're doing."
"you gonna give me samples this time, or you gonna be a dipshit about it?" you bite back, crossing your arms. his eyes flicker back down to your breasts, puffed up due to your posture. you open your mouth to acknowledge it, but shut it. you hated how much you actually liked seeing him look at you, a different kind of heat flushed your cheeks. you thanked the heat for already reddening your face so he couldn't tell.
"i might give you samples. if you're being good." he meets your eyes, you resisting the urge to ask him what that means, even though you know it's an innuendo.
"looks like you can forget it then." you look back down to your setup, avoiding his eyes.
"your loss ice princess."
as the day went on, you should have predicted that when it was this hot, people would try their luck and get ice cream twice in one day. once at your stand, another at scotts. or vice versa, since some would show up with soft serve, still running down their fingers, only some realizing what they were doing, and trying to finish it before you saw them. you begged your parents to be done by the time the fireworks were about to start, your back was sore, the sweat from the day had dried and soaked into every piece of clothing, every crevice. you felt disgusting.
you leaned back against a tall tree, staring at the sky, waiting for the first launch.
"you've had better days."
you don't even have to turn around. "scott, take your shit somewhere else. otherwise, i'll throw my sweat soaked shirt on you."
"and leave you in a bra? i'd take it. i can see it now," he holds his hands in an arc in front of his eyes. "rivals have heated, passionate sex despite how obnoxious he thinks she is." he smirks at you as you roll your eyes. "wow what a headline. i should work for the news instead, don't you think?"
"stop flirting with me." you grumble.
"why? too irresistible for you? please, tell me. mango coconut ice cream or me."
"you have an ego that doesn't match your looks."
"not what i've been told."
you push up from under the tree, to stand and face scott. you hardly meet his height. he peers down at you, his blue eyes glinting with the fair lights in the distance, his behavior making you feel like you just rode one of those poorly put together rides your mayor insists on having every year.
you don't know if you should speak, or let him, really. you're both awkwardly staring at each other, the irritation fading out of your features as he simply blinks at you, long and slow. his blonde hair is messy from the long day, his t shirt he'd had on earlier was still damp, pressed to his chest.
"i better get going." your voice comes out raw, strangled, like it was forced to leave your mouth, as if you didn't truly mean it. maybe you didn't, you hadn't seen the fireworks yet. but you felt weird, this felt weird. he doesn't stop watching you.
"guess so."
since the fourth of july fair, your run ins with scott had been limited. a passing at the grocery store, one time at the docks. it was approaching the end of july, your return to college nearing in august. it wasn't like you felt yourself dying to see him, but he did leave an agitating hole in your mind, one that screamed 'irritating moron' but something else along with it you didn't really want to name. you refused to put yourself in his line of fire though, to put yourself out there and make yourself seem what one could call, needy. so instead, you chose to recluse yourself in work or home.
"sprinkles please. the chocolate ones." an elderly woman squints at you as you mindlessly scoop her butter pecan ice cream, silently thinking about how disgusting that sounds, but you add the sprinkles nonetheless. you hand it to her, waving her off, and go back to drawing on a napkin with pen.
"you think the peanut butter fudge ice cream is good?"
you raise your head, meeting the blue eyes of scott barringer.
a soft smile graces your features, despite the confusion and lingering irritation he brings along with it. "i'd say it's one of my favorites."
"oh well in that case, two scoops for me. cup please." you oblige, scooping it into a cup and handing it to him. he nods at the benches outside your shop. "wanna join me? i think it would be time for your lunch break right about now, hm? our store needs some more business right now anyways."
running a tongue along your teeth, you hold back a remark and nod, flipping around a closed sign on the window, and heading out the side door. sitting across from him, you stare at him, waiting for him to say what he came here for. you had a feeling it wasn't to try a new flavor from your parents business.
"i've been thinking." he says, bringing a spoonful to his mouth, running his tongue along the sides. you watch, aware of what he's doing, but you can't help yourself. "this whole, rival thing, truly exhausting, isn't it?"
"i didn't know this was a formal rival relationship."
"oh, c'mon." he waves, "you act like we're the jets and the sharks."
you make a face. "you know west side story?"
he ignores you. "we could be romeo and juliet."
you roll your eyes. "this is cheesy."
"let me take you on a date." he folds his arms across the table, cocking his head at you.
"if i say no?"
"then you're stupid."
you grit your teeth. asshole. "fine."
he claps his hands loudly, making you jump. scott leans in closer, to the point where you could smell his cologne, his breath that now smelled like peanut butter. "y'gonna let me kiss you?"
"i'm getting back to work."
he stands, matching your movements. "i'll take it as a yes. wear a sundress." he winks at you, the suggestion making you blush. "have a good rest of your day... sweetheart."
andulkaphoto
dailybridgerton
stormborns
yousharknotpass
