a 21 year old mess | wp: K4REVSREID- spencer reid enthusiast (he’s my hubby) i mostly write on wattpad i just kinda read on here kind of a slut for spencer reid 🪐
hey guys, if anyone can help me for this week i would appreciate it. whether it’s a $1 or a lot, it would help! it’s been a real struggle but i’m pulling through. i start my second job next week so hopefully these posts will become less frequent!
i appreciate the help from everyone over these last few months i really can’t thank y’all enough. please know from the bottom of my heart, all of your support is really appreciated 💛
hey guys, if anyone can help me for this week i would appreciate it. whether it’s a $1 or a lot, it would help! it’s been a real struggle but i’m pulling through. i start my second job next week so hopefully these posts will become less frequent!
i appreciate the help from everyone over these last few months i really can’t thank y’all enough. please know from the bottom of my heart, all of your support is really appreciated 💛
My name is Mya, and I’m reaching out because I’m facing a really difficult time. I’ve found my… Mya Aguilar needs your support for Help Mya
hey everyone
i try not to post too much about my personal situations mainly because i am embarrassed about asking for help but sometimes it’s the only thing you can do.
as some know, i have been struggling for the last few months. (most of my mutuals on here have helped me and for that i send them so much love and appreciation!) but as of this moment i’m barely making good pay at my current job and i can barely pay rent or utilities. and my roommate is deciding not to continue with our lease as of next month so i’m not entirely sure what i’m gonna do. i’m worried i’m not gonna have anywhere to go.
at this moment, i’ve really hit rock bottom and i never thought it’d get this bad.
so i started a gofundme. it’s not my first choice but it’s a last resort at this point. (though i wish they came up with a better title).
but anything helps. whether it’s $1 or $20. anything will do. i understand not everyone can help but if you can, please do.
hey everyone, i have been struggling recently financially since i got a new job and since i have no car i uber to and from work and that is $40 a day- (i am working on getting my license and a car) and my new job is paying me minimum wage for training and so far i cannot survive on it. i barely made my rent this last month. i also don’t have much food at my apartment rn. if you guys can help in any way, it’s much appreciated 🙏 even if it’s a dollar, anything will do
and i very much appreciate everyone that helped me last time. one day i’ll repay all of you <3
Summary-You are blindly, tooth-achingly, breathlessly in love with Spencer Reid.
Prompt- sender deliberately slows their rhythm, intent on lasting as long as possible.
Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI, literally just pure smut but they're also in love so i tried to make it as fluffy as i could, also not proofread godbless
A/N- divider from @rmstitanics | i tried to make this as fluffy as possible per the request! i am also still new to the whole smut thing so again, if it's terrible don't tell me or it will hurt my feelings
Spencer is everywhere. His hands, his lips, his cock buried deep inside you. It's relentless, the slap of his skin against yours echoing through the room at a rapid pace. A strangled moan escapes your lips, your stomach swirling with desire.
"Spencer," you moan, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. You press your nose into his cheek, your heavy breaths warming his soft skin. You nuzzle in slightly, pecking him lightly on the skin there. You feel his cheek warm at your touch, the relentless bucking of his hips turning you into soup. You whine once more.
"I know," he nods against you, shuddering from his own rocking against you. "I know. Y'feel so good," he whispers.
"It's good, so good," you breathe, chest heaving up and down in time with his thrusts.
"Always so good with you," he mutters, sitting up on his knees, pulling your legs around his waist.
The new angle allows him to hit harder, deeper. The tip of him nudges against your cervix, and you bite your lip so hard you're surprised you don't draw blood. Your heart beats rapidly against your ribcage, the pit of your stomach boiling white hot.
He presses a sweet kiss to your ankle, and heat rushes through your body to the top of your head. You cover your face with your hands, pressing into the plump heat of your cheeks. You open your eyes to a sinister smile stretching Spencer's lips. Your mouth falls into a helpless 'o' at the sight.
He kisses it off you, lapping his tongue gently into your mouth. Your tongue licks back, and somewhere in the back of your head you know it's wiggling aimlessly, definitely unsexy, but Spencer doesn't seem to care.
He's dizzy for it, pulling your tongue in between his lips, bobbing his head slightly, sucking even harder. You melt, biting back a moan as he continues his assault on your mouth.
His lips continue their journey down your neck, your chest, finding the pretty peak of your nipples.
"Oh! Oh Spencer," you babble, tears pricking the corner of your eye. "I'm getting-I'm almost-"
He cuts you off with a kiss, his arms looping around your back to lift you off the bed. Your legs lock around his waist as he continues to slam into you.
"I know, baby, I know," he coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your nose.
The band inside you bends and bends, so close to snapping, so close. Your brows furrow, a high pitched whine echoing in the back of your throat.
Then, your body goes cold. You feel the heat drain from your body, your color likely going along with it. Spencer's hips have slowed, nearly to a halt. He sinks into you painfully slow, pulling back out just enough.
He wiggles his hips, teasing your hole with his tip. It's so tantalizing you start to cry again, a desperate, bratty wail. A devilish smirk blossoms across his face.
"Spencer!" You whine, head falling back. He mouths gently at your exposed neck, licking over his kisses and bites.
"I know, I know," he husks, his full length finally inside you once more. "My girl was so close, huh? My pretty girl was about to cum."
He's still thrusting, it's still slow, you're still crying. You nod, a strangled sob wrestling out of your throat as you crumple back into him.
"So mean, so mean Spencer," you mewl, teeth sinking in to the skin of his shoulder.
"That's me, baby," he grunts, taking your bottom lip between his teeth. "I'm so mean, that's why I'm fucking you so good, because I'm so mean."
You whimper, lip jutting out in a bratty pout. He kisses it off.
"Just want it to last as long as possible," he breathes, picking up his pace enough for you to regain that . "Want to be inside you forever, don't want this to ever end."
The Earth stutters on its axis at his words, your orgasm rippling through you, a tsunamic wave leaving you completely helpless.
You white out for a moment, clawing at his back, his chest as he finds his own climax. You feel his cock twitching inside of you, his length jerking in and out of you still.
You flop back on the bed, a calming haze taking over your body. Spencer falls beside you, and you immediately curl into him. He grasps you tightly to him, your breasts pressing against his chest. He rubs gentle circles in the small of your back, your breathing in tandem.
"I love you, Spencer," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his lips.
"I love you too, you feel so good, always," he affirms, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
pairing: Chip Taylor x rich girl!reader
Summary: You’re used to getting what you want. When you experience rejection for the first time, it shakes you so deeply that you end up in a random handyman’s shitty apartment for the night.
Contents: 3.9k words, SMUT MDNI!!!, mentions of alcohol and smoking, explicit sexual content, nipple stimulation, fingering, p in v, birth control, Chip has a big dick sorry i love big dicks what can I say, mention, reader is a nepo baby who doesn’t know how to deal with rejection
a/n: sorry the writing is so wonky, i haven’t written for Chip, or smut in mooooonths. Hope u still enjoy! Also, do we want more of them? I think there’s potential for more idk lemme know.
Low lights make everything hazy, tinting your hair with neon red and yellows. Your perfectly tailored wool slacks keep sticking to the pleather cushion of the stool upon which you’ve perched yourself. You’d left the matching blazer in the office, a thoughtless accident done in your hurry which ends up being a good thing, for the dive bar is hot. An air conditioner whirls in the corner, but it’s not enough to cool the mass of bodies clinking glasses, dancing blindly on the makeshift dance floor, or playing pool in the dark corner.
You try your hardest not to shift uncomfortably.
You’re already overdressed—the silk blouse and trousers stand out in a crowd of tees and denim, not just because of their style but also because they scream money. Paired with the sleek, maroon pumps and the matching handbag you’ve strung on the back of your stool, you’ve already earned quite a few curious looks thrown by the other patrons.
Admittedly, this establishment normally wouldn’t be your first choice.
Hell, it probably wouldn’t even make it to the top ten. Or top fifteen.
Which is precisely why you’d chosen it. Well, that, and the fact that you hadn’t paid that much attention to where you were going when you left the office. You simply wanted to disappear for a little bit, but without your driver navigating through traffic, the city and its sidewalks are an indecipherable maze. Especially at night. Especially at night, to a woman who’s heartbroken over a promotion that should have been hers.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t always guaranteed, and in the business world, there’s nothing owed to you. And maybe your father only ever hinted at giving you the promotion without ever confirming anything.
But he’d put it in your mind, made you want it. And your whole life, you’d gotten what you want, and more.
“You should’ve worked harder for it, then.” he’d said when you confronted him after the meeting had adjourned.
Rich words coming from the man who’d taught you that you deserved everything handed to you on a silver plate.
So you’d congratulated Mr. what’s-his-face for his promotion, declined every invitation for cocktails from the rest of your colleagues, and speed walked out of the business district. Perhaps your subconscious led you here, in the grungier part of downtown, because you knew they’d be hitting up all the places you enjoy going to.
The bartender slides another whiskey neat over to you.
It’s shitty whiskey, tastes like straight gasoline without the refined, woody afternotes you’re used to, but the burning line down your throat is welcome. Tangible pain. You’re aware this is cliche—rich girl drinking her feelings in some unknown bar—but it’s your third glass of the night, which means you’re too far gone to care.
Halfway through this glass, the music changes to something upbeat and fun. With a squeal to no one in particular, you slide off your chair to join the small crowd in the middle of the room, swinging your hips this way and that.
A couple of girls accept you into their fray, wrapping an arm around your waist and yelling the lyrics at each other over the speakers. Sweat drips down your back, along your temples, but the world is a blur of lights and shadows and the promotion is promptly forgotten. Everything is forgotten, every worry, every thought.
That is, until a slight altercation happens over at the bar. Yelling, two men shuffling over a chair, and then a bouncer. You wouldn’t have cared, would have continued dancing with these two girls who smell like vanilla and cigarette smoke, if it weren’t for the bartender yelling and pointing at you.
“Girl, I think they’re calling you over.” one of your dance partners says, glittery eyes wide with surprise.
“Oh,” you giggle, and extricate yourself from the other girl, who pouts but continues dancing, “Yeah, I guess they are.”
Stumbling in your heels, you manage to walk back to the bar in one piece. A soft, confused smile stretches your lips, eyes glancing between the bartender and another taller man with light brown hair.
“Hey!” you exclaim, pointing at his hands, “Why do you have my bag?”
The bartender bristles, blue eyes turning sharp as he regards you. “Lady, he saved your bag from that asshole.”
“Huh?”
The tall man moves behind you, guiding you back to the stool. “Easy, I think she’s drunk.”
“Yeah, clearly. Fucking out of her mind, leaving her fancy ass designer bag laying around.” the bartender grumbles.
You plop on the stool with a groan, still glancing between the two of them. “What’re you talking about? I’m not that drunk.” And you aren’t. You’re still able to dance in your pumps, that counts for something.
The bartender rolls his eyes. “You got her, Chip? I don’t wanna babysit.”
The tall man nods, crowding behind you in a way that feels oddly protective. Like he’s just there to make sure you’re okay. “Grab her some water?”
“Gotcha.”
“I’m not drunk!” you insist, twisting in your seat to face this mystery man called Chip. You come face to face with him hovering by your temple, a corner of his lips tilted up in a smirk. Up close, you see that he’s handsome, some weird, compelling mix of rugged and boyish that makes your stomach twist into knots.
“No?” he sounds amused, a little exasperated, “Then why’d you just leave your bag on your chair?”
“Because it’s my chair! I was going to come back for it after the song.”
“Lady, that’s the drunkest excuse I’ve ever heard.”
“No, it makes perfect sense!”
“Sure it does.” he reaches forward, closing the gap between you as he grabs the glass of water that the bartender had provided. Something leathery and spicy hits your nose. The knot in your stomach grows more uncomfortable. “Here, baby, drink up.”
You grumble, but oblige, sipping at the water for a few moments. “What even happened?”
“Some asshole was trying to take your bag and I stopped him, that’s what.”
Comically, your eyes grow wide. “What, like to steal?”
His head tilts, and the smile grows confused. “Yeah, what else?”
“Don’t you guys have security around here?”
“There’s Dave outside, but I doubt he’d think twice if someone walked out with your bag under their coat.”
“Oh my god, so someone tried to steal my bag.”
“Hate to break it to you, but that’s bound to happen if you leave it on a random chair.”
You look at him bewildered, never even considering it like that. Most of the places you frequent have such high security detail that no one would even dare. Besides, the people in those places would have their own designer bags, and wouldn't even blink twice at yours. It never occurred to you to worry about your stuff, simply because you’ve really never had to.
The man stares back, equally bemused, eyes dragging down the length of you, taking in your fancy ensemble with a more critical gaze. His grin returns, crooked and teasing. “Now, what’s a rich girl like you doing here? Got lost?”
You huff, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “No. This was a very intentional choice.”
“Ah, you just wanted to what? Mingle with us poor people?”
“No!”
“Then what, trying to act up so daddy pays attention to you?”
“No.” this time, you slap his shoulder.
He laughs, but doesn’t seem deterred. “I’m just saying, doll face, we don’t get folks like you around here very often.”
“I was in the area, and wanted a drink.” you lie, sipping at the water again. The way he called you doll face made your throat go dry.
“Well,” he shifts, moving beside you now that he can see you can still keep yourself upright. “You shouldn’t leave your shit lying around like that. You’re lucky I saw him.”
Your brain finally catches up to what has happened. Someone tried to steal your bag. With a panicked jump, you go through your belongings, rifling through to make sure everything is still inside. Wallet, your phone, a leather journal that you use as a planner, the small bottle of perfume you can’t live without.
“Everything there?” his eyes have softened, like sunlight warming the earth.
“Yeah, it’s all here. God.” you run a hand over your forehead, a sudden tiredness washing over you. “Thank you, that would have actually ruined my life if he took my stuff.”
“Hey, no worries baby.”
The pet name makes you scoff, your name leaving your lips as an introduction.
“Pretty name, but I think I’ll stick to baby.” he winces when you smack his shoulder again. “All right, damn. I’m Chip, if you care.”
“Chip?”
“It’s a nickname.”
“Sure.” you giggle, wondering what sort of name could possibly warrant a nickname like Chip. “I should buy you a drink, Chip.”
His grin returns. “You coming onto me now?”
“I meant as a thank you.” you huff, glaring at him. Up close, he’s actually very handsome, cheeks dimpled, with an angular face that’s framed by floppy brown hair. Bad idea, but then again, tonight has been filled with pretty classic bad ideas. Your back straightens and something shifts in your smile. “You know what, maybe I am.”
His grin stalls for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting you to own it so easily. Then it comes back wider, slower, eyes dipping to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “Oh,” he says, voice dropping just enough to feel intentional, “Careful, doll face, that sounds an awful lot like an invitation.”
“You think?” your eyes roll dramatically, “What, do you need a billboard with massive neon letters too?”
He laughs, the sound easy and unguarded, and for a moment you forget about the noise around you—the music, the crowd, the sticky floor beneath your shoes. He crowds you into the bar again, one arm moving to the back of your stool, while the other rests on the counter.
“I’ll just have a beer, then,” he says.
“Lame.” you quip.
“Baby,” his breath tickles your neck, warm and smelling like menthol cigarettes. “If you’re serious about this, then I don’t want to be drunk and stumbling around.”
You suppress a shudder, teeth sinking into your lower lip. “Oh. Oh, uh, okay.”
Chip flags down the bartender, ordering a beer for himself, and another water for you. You’re parched, but you know it’s the sort of thirst that can only be quelled by one thing.
Chip’s studio apartment is the size of your bedroom. An unmade bed is pushed to one corner. Beside it sits a dresser, the top bearing an ashtray and a couple loose sticks of cigarettes. Another corner is turned into a makeshift kitchenette, complete with a stovetop and a minifridge, and to your left, a half opened door that leads to a small bathroom.
On the drive here, he’d mentioned being a handyman, taking jobs all over the city. You didn’t really know how that would reflect his living situation, and now it’s staring you in the face.
“It’s not much.” he laughs as he closes the door behind you, “But it’s home.”
Not much feels like an understatement. It’s bare. Clean in a way that suggests he doesn’t have much money for the frill, only the most basic necessities to survive. You slip your heels off, following Chip’s lead as he kicks his shoes right by the door. His tool box sits there, deep green and black, filled to the brim with things you’ve never touched before. It sobers you slightly, your two-bedroom penthouse suddenly feeling excessive.
“It’s cozy.” you say, and it’s true. The space is small, but it doesn’t feel suffocating. He’s decorated it with vinyls on the walls, which brings a smile to your face. Well, at least that’s one luxury. “You like music, huh?”
“Yeah,” he grins, coming up behind you, “You wanna play something?”
“Not really,” you giggle, spinning around to face him, “I wanna see you good you are with your hands.”
“Eager, huh?” his head dips, lips finding your jaw as he backs you deeper into the room.
“Well, you talked big game.” you yelp in surprise when the backs of your knees hit his bed, but Chip’s hands tighten over your waist before you could fall.
“I guess I did.” he mumbles, lips traveling down the length of your neck, his stubble rough against the sensitive skin. Something warm and wet moves over the juncture beneath your ear, eliciting a low moan from your lips.
“Fuck,” you breathe, arms wrapping around his neck as he tongues at that spot again, slowly licking his way down. “Good with your tongue too.”
“Barely even started, baby.” he chuckles. Big, calloused hands keep you steady, one firmly planted on the small of your back, while the other explores. Up your sides, squeezing your hips tentatively, like he’s giving you room to say stop, but all the sounds that leave your lips are soft, pretty moans.
He groans, kissing his way back up your neck, finally finding your lips for the first time tonight. Your knees nearly buckle at how deeply he kisses you, mouth moving slow and languid against yours. He sucks at your bottom lip greedily, and you’re already gasping for breath, body buzzing with the remnants of alcohol and the smell of cigarette smoke, and something even more addictive.
Finally, his roaming hand lands on your ass, squeezing handfuls of you through the slacks.
It’s embarrassing, how high your voice goes when he does it again. And again. And again, until he swallows your moans with another kiss, tongue pushing past lips and teeth, licking deep into your mouth.
You clutch handfuls of his hair and try to keep up.
He’s right. He’s barely even started, and you already feel gone.
He pulls back, laughing hoarsely as you lean forward, nearly tipping over in your attempt to latch on his lips again.
“Easy, baby.” he cooes, making sure you’re upright before his hands leave your hips to unbutton your blouse. “We’ve got all night, I promise.” he says, making quick work of your top. You shimmy out of them, the fabric sliding like a breath off your shoulders, while he unzips your pants.
Long, gentle fingers ease the pants down, and a breath whooshes from Chip’s lips as he takes you in. The underwear you’ve chosen aren’t your best set, they aren’t even lace for heaven’s sake, you’d worn the most boring pair to feel professional today, but Chip’s looking at you with such an open adoration and desire that it makes your entire body hum.
“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles, hands returning to your ass, fingers sinking deep before he hoists you up.
Your legs wind around his hips automatically. “Thanks.”
You’re airborne for all of five seconds, because he lays you back down on his bed, slow and careful. Long, heavy limbs settle atop you, presses you into the mattress as his head dips and he’s kissing you again, kissing you like he’s trying to steal your breath and your very soul. Rough fingers draw patterns over your neck and collar, and then his lips are following, open and sucking with a desperation that makes your toes curl.
When those lips lick at your chest, your nipples pebble, peaking even through the padded fabric of your bra. Chip tugs the offensive scrap down, too distracted now to even think of taking it off completely, and wraps his mouth over one nipple.
If his body weren’t pressing into you, you would have arched right off the bed.
Instead, you content yourself in twisting beneath him, fingers scrambling all over his back, fisting into his t-shirt. He groans in complaint when you pull at the fabric, forcing him to part from your pert, heaving chest.
“Off.” you demand, tugging his shirt over his head.
Chip eases himself up, just enough to pull it off, and then eagerly returns his attention to your chest. His skin is slick against yours, body lean with muscle that’s obviously used to long hours of hard labor.
“Fuck, you’re so soft.” he breathes, moving to lave your other nipple with equal fervor as his free hand cups you through your panties. He moans at the wetness he finds there, warm and messy even with the barrier of fabric. “And so wet, baby, this all for me?”
“Yeah.” you don’t bother with denial, with coyness, too far gone you would have started begging if he asked you to. And begging has never even been part of your vocabulary. “All for you, Chip.”
He hums. Slides his hand down the front of your underwear and finds a throbbing slickness that makes his own shaft twitch. A finger slides in, slow and careful, before a second follows. You clench around them instinctively, neck baring as your spine curves upwards.
“There you go,” he whispers against your breast, teeth closing around the pebbled nipple the same time his fingers curl, pumping in and out. “Feel good?” When you nod, a third finger slides in, stretches you out easily.
Stars explode behind your eyes.
“So good.” You’re sobbing, all the pent up disappointment of today dissolving into pure, aching bliss. “More, please, I need more.”
Suddenly his fingers are gone, leaving you fluttering around emptiness. Another sob wracks from your throat, though there’s no tears, not really, just sweat and a gnawing need that has you feeling like floating.
“I’ve got you,” he shushes, shifting over your body to kiss your lips again, featherlight touches meant to soothe rather than work you up. “Shh, baby, just let me-”
You hear a zipper, and rustling clothes, feel his legs kicking around against yours until the unmistakable weight of his erection settles on your thigh. A gasp escapes your lips at the sheer heft of it, and then it’s gone again, and Chip is sitting on his haunches, cursing under his breath.
“What now?” you whine.
“Condom.” He grunts, searching the pockets of his discarded jeans.
Oh. He’s right, it’s the responsible thing to do, after all, but you’re so desperate to continue you find yourself tugging him back down.
“I’m on the pill, don’t worry about it.”
“You- fuck, baby, you sure?”
Your legs wrap around his hips as you nod. “Positive.”
He groans again, hands running up your thighs. “Okay, if you’re sure.” His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your panties, drags them down your legs. You free one leg from his hips, just enough to unhook your underwear off and get it out of the way, unwilling to completely let go.
Chip laughs. Leans back over your body slowly, one arm bracing himself by your head, the other wrapped around his base. He drags the tip over your soaked folds, gliding through the wetness until he’s covered with your arousal. The friction is delicious, makes your fingers fist into his sheets and your hips cant up, seeking more of the sensation.
Every slow drag hits your clit, and you whimper. “Damn it, Chip, stop teasing.”
He laughs. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it, you look so pretty, writhin’ like that.”
“I assure you, I’ll still be writhing even with your cock inside me.”
His laughter rings out alongside yours. It’s a crude little joke, nothing you’d say in different circumstances, but this is Chip, and this feels special. At least, you think it is. He bends down, kisses you softly as he finally guides himself to your entrance, replacing the space his fingers had previously occupied.
And oh, the stretch is even more delicious than before. There’s no room to clench around him, not initially, not while you’re still adjusting and he’s easing torturously slowly into your tight heat.
“Jesus Christ.” he hisses, dragging his shaft out, then thrusts back in shallowly. He doesn’t bottom out just yet. “God, baby, I’m not hurting you, am I?”
“No,” you whimper, half lying. It does sting, the fullness just on the edge of too much, but there’s also so much pleasure from being stretched taut, of being stuffed. “It’s good, just don’t move too fast.”
“Okay,” he nods, allowing himself another inch, eyes trained on your face with every thrust in. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
You nod, though you doubt you’ll actually do it. How can something be too much when you want even more? And you’re used to getting what you want, after all.
Chip thrusts back into you, groaning as your walls flutter with more ease now, sinking deeper than before, moving slowly until his pelvis is flush with yours. His hips stutter, letting you adjust when he finally bottoms out.
“Fuck,” you moan, “Oh my god, Chip.”
“Good?” he asks, lips pressed against your jaw. He starts a slow, shallow rhythm, like he’s testing how much you can take.
“Yeah.” Your ankles lock together at the base of his back, keeping him deep inside you. “Yeah, just like that.”
His groan rumbles through his entire body, thrusts growing more confident when he feels you relaxing around him enough to properly fuck into you. Your body seizes with pleasure when his rhythm grows a little harsher, squeezing around the length of him like you never want him to leave.
“God,” he groans, “Fuck!” his hands grip your hips, holding you steady as his pace gets faster, deeper, pulling out nearly all the way before slamming hard into you. Loud, wanton sounds fall from your lips, only to be muffled when you bury your face into the crook of his shoulder.
“Chip!”
“I know, baby.” he grunts, an arm coming around your waist and lifting your hips up. The angle drives him even deeper somehow, lets his hips grind against your exposed clit. Beneath you, the bed creaks dangerously, the frame hitting the wall with dull thuds in time with each thrust.
You feel delirious. Drunk. Eyes half-lidded as you watch him take you, over and over until the pleasure curls and swells, flooding your body from your lower belly, to the tips of your fingers, till there’s nowhere else to go but out.
Your orgasm shakes your body, squeezes hard around Chip’s already twitching length, and he groans, falling over you as he chases his own high. His pace is sloppy now, quick bursts, skin slapping into skin until he bites down hard against your shoulder, hard.
Heat floods inside you, filling you so much you could feel it leaking out as he keeps thrusting, riding out the intense high. And then he slumps. Apologizes.
“What for?” you whisper, breathless in the sudden stillness. His apartment smells of sex and sweat.
“Didn’t pull out.”
You laugh. “Oh. Don’t worry about it. Told you, I’m on the pill.”
He hums, soothing over the bite mark with his lips, gentle and sweet. “Right. Guess I forgot.”
“S’okay.”
He pulls out with a hiss, rubbing your hips gently with his large palms. The emptiness is staggering. You already miss the way he’d made you feel, but you don’t say any of that, not tonight.
“Can I stay?” you whisper, afraid to disturb whatever aftershocks are present.
“Doll face, did you really think I was gonna make you leave?” his arms close around you, piling your boneless body over him, until you’re cradled against his lean frame. “Stay. Stay as long as you like.”
hey guys so this may be really really stupid but i am really struggling financially rn and i honestly would not post this on here unless i was absolutely desperate
like it’s to the point where i can’t even afford to buy toilet paper or food for myself. and my family can’t help because we are very low income. please help in any way you can— whether it’s $5 or just $1 please and thank you <3
Meeting someone unexpectedly is like stumbling across a hidden gem in the midst of the chaos.
Part One : WHAT A GHOSTLY SCENE
FWB! Spencer Reid x Biochemist! Fem! Reader
Synopsis: In which you meet someone you find particularly interesting at a bar on Halloween.
Category: Angsty (in ways) but kinda fluff
Warnings: takes place in season 3, reader is i guess sad, spencer’s a fucking down bad nerd, drinking, suggestive themes towards the end (if you squint)
Author’s Note: hey lovelies, in honor of halloween coming up i decided to post the first part of this lol and controversial topic but i always say spencer’s birthday is on october 28th (even if it’s not i believe it is (i say as they drag me to a room with padded walls)) so this is sort of a birthday thing for spencer lol and i guess an early birthday present from me for my own birthday lol anyways let’s get to it!! so excited for this, i worked on this for the last two months hope you like it!!
2007
CLUB 36 was the club everyone went to every weekend to get high and drunk on the events of birthdays, having fun and dealing with the occasional midlife crisis. In your case, you were just ready to party away Halloween night with some friends from work.
You worked as a biochemist, on top of a being the city of Quantico's medical examiner. Most of the time, your days were full. So, to finally have a free night, of course, with it being a holiday and going to hang out with your friends at a local bar was rare. Especially when you’d must rather stay at home and chill on the couch watching a soap opera.
After a few shots and your friends finding their own suitors to grind on, you found yourself back at the bar, taking another shot.
This was the usual, your friends would ditch you after they found some eye candy for the night and would apologize profusely to you the next morning, but you assured it was alright. You really didn't mind it because you were used to being alone in a crowded room.
So, you sat at the bar stool, in your Rizzo costume with a black blouse, black jeans and Pink Ladies jacket. The only thing that would’ve topped off the look would’ve been a wig and a fake cigarette but this was a last minute plan.
You kept a close eye on your friends as they danced the night away with two dudes, you confused their names, one was Brad and one was Chad. You forgot which one was which, but you also didn’t care.
Figuring you may need to be the sober one of the group, you ordered a water from the bar and took a sip of it, washing down the two vodka shots you had earlier.
"Can I have a water, please?" You glanced over to your side and saw a rather awkward-standing man — or boy disguised as a man — you weren’t sure quite yet, with shaggy hair and wearing a suit nonetheless, standing at the bar and awaiting for a water.
You scoot down your seat a few inches as the man took a seat right next to you. You two exchange a look and the man awkwardly waves and offers a tight-lipped smile to you. You give him a small awkward smile, continuing to sip your water and hoping this guy wasn't about to hit on you. You were not in the mood for some flirting, not tonight, at least. And it wasn't your intention coming into a bar.
But instead of hitting on you, the man opted for something else. "Did you know that if the body doesn't have enough water, it won't function as well." You furrow your brows as you look at him. "People who don't drink enough water every day are at greater risk of kidney stones, problems with their heart valves and some kinds of cancer. Even minor dehydration can affect physical and mental performance."
Was this guy a robot? You let out a laugh and set your drink down at the table. "Well, that's some way of hitting on a girl."
"Oh, no, no! I wasn't— I wasn't hitting on you, I just—" The man tucked his shaggy hair behind his ears as he avoided eye contact with you.
You turn towards him. "Well, then, if you weren't hitting on me, what would you call it then?" You wondered. "I just—" The man turned to her and you were quick to notice his honeycomb eyes, his irises brighter the pool of chocolate surrounding them. In other words, they were pretty.
"I s-saw you and you looked... you looked..." He stuttered and looked like he couldn't find the right words to make the situation any better. "Vulnerable?" You guessed, trying to help him out.
"Sad." He corrected and your smirk dropped instantly at that. Sad. If this guy was hitting on you, he wasn't doing a very good job at it. The man then realizes what he just sad and so desperately wants to take it back.
"I'm sorry, I just... you looked like you could use some company." The man corrects himself. "And you wouldn't be the only one." He mumbled that last part but it was loud enough for you to hear. As he grabs his water from the counter, you furrow your brows and the man looks at you and he realizes you’ve heard it and didn't ignore it... like his coworkers seemed to always do.
Spencer sighs, knowing he needs to clarify. He doesn’t need to, necessarily, but for some reason, he decides to. "My coworkers are out there, dancing and drinking, while I'm newly sober. I wouldn't want to do anything anyways, but... I'm the only one that chose not to drink for the occasion." The man explains his situation and you nod, "Then what's a sober guy like you doing at a bar?"
"We're celebrating," The man stated. "Government job we took care of."
"I know a thing or two about government jobs.” You say. "My friends, on the other hand," You then motion to your friends on the dance floor. "This is every Friday night for them."
"Dr—" The man stops himself and makes a face, at himself- that is. "I mean, I'm Spencer. Spencer Reid." He introduces himself. It was obvious that he was trying out his name without the doctorate in front of it.
"Well, Dr. Spencer Reid," You enunciate and then hold your hand out. "I'm Dr. Y/n L/n." Spencer looks at your hand and nearly flinches as you hold it out.
"Uh... the number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering." Spencer stated and you slowly retract your hand after realizing you’ve held it out for so long. "It's, uh, actually safer to kiss." Spencer adds that last part quietly.
"Do you just... pull facts out of your ass or are you some kind of genius?" You wonder as you take another sip of water from your glass and Spencer furrows his brows. "I, uh... I don't believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I do have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and can read 20,000 words per minute." He tells and then looks down in shame. "I told Morgan I wouldn't be weird. Damn it." He curses under his breath.
"Consider me impressed, Dr. Reid." You say. "You spewing facts isn't weird... it's just... a quirk. It shouldn't be something you're ashamed about."
Spencer looks at you in awe. For the first time in his life, someone didn't call his facts weird. They understood it. You understood it. Maybe because you were the same way. I mean, it wasn't often he'd run into someone who also went by Doctor.
"So, an IQ of 187. Is that why you called yourself doctor?" You lean forward. "Uh, yeah, I'm trying to, uh, socialize better and I figured if I kept introducing myself like that, I actually wouldn't have any friends." Spencer explained with a small shy chuckle.
You’d kept your career humble enough that you never took your title seriously. You couldn’t relate, but he seemed shy and reserved enough that he didn’t know how to interact without announcing his doctorate.
"So, you're a- you're a doctor too. A medical doctor?" Reid asks, wanting to stray away from the subject of himself for a minute. He didn't want to seem cocky or conceited to you.
You took a breath. You often didn't tell guys in bars about your occupation due to the classification of it all. But considering this guy just spewed out that he was some kind of genius, you figured, no harm, no foul.
"Biochemistry," You confess, playing with your straw. "And I'm a medical examiner, so double the doctorate."
Spencer furrows his brows. He looks at you and asks, "Do you work at Quantico?" He wonders and you raises your brows. "Wow. You're either a genius or just a creep with a big IQ." They worked at the same place but he'd never seen you before?
"I'm asking because... I work at Quantico. I'm with the Behavioral Analysis Unit." Spencer takes out his credentials for proof and shows them to you. You chuckle as you reach into your coat on the counter and show him your own credentials and you two chuckle at one another like you’ve done it often. "I'm with the Laboratory Unit."
"And wow, you and your team are like, famous, I wonder why I've never seen you before." You add. "Yeah, I'm wondering why I've never seen you before either." Spencer admits. "I'm usually down in the basement, you know working with chemicals and stuff." You informed.
"You have a degree in chemistry?" Spencer asks and you take another sip of your drink, "Yeah, I do." Spencer's jaw drops, "I have a degree in chemistry too! Next to math and engineering, too." Your brows furrow. What are the odds? "Wow, did you get bored at college or something?"
"Well, I'm a child prodigy and—" He stops himself once you pause. "That was rhetorical, wasn't it?"
You smirk to yourself and look away and Spencer can't help but look at your costume. “Are you going for a, uh, sixties theme with your costume?” He asks and you look down, half expecting him to know what you’re dressed as.
“Uh, Rizzo?” You say and he furrows his brows in confusion. “From Grease?” Spencer shakes his head, not understanding you. “Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never seen the movie, Grease.”
“I don’t watch much entertainment.” Spencer informs you. “Of course you don’t.” You look to him and take in his dress-shirt and tie that was perpetually crooked. "And I'm guessing you're a nerd in a suit."
Spencer chuckles as he tucks a piece of stray hair behind his ear. "Yeah, um, my coworkers and I just finished up a case in Dallas. We're drinking to celebrate our new arrival." Spencer explained and you look at him questioningly, "New arrival?"
"You ever heard of David Rossi?" Your eyebrows raise and you nearly spit out a sip of your drink. "The founder of the BAU? The author?" You ask and Spencer nods, vehemently. "Yeah, him!" He points over down to the opposite side of the bar.
There, David Rossi is sitting at one of the tables with another man, his blazer rested on his chair as he sips from his drink. You, of course, knew of Aaron Hotchner. And you could tell that David Rossi and Aaron Hotchner were the only other ones that weren't drinking based on their nonchalant movements.
Near them had been three other women, a blonde woman, a dark haired woman and a woman with glasses all dancing with each other and a bald, muscular man dancing with another group of ladies.
As you looked over at the group, Spencer recited who his team had been — Jennifer Jareau, their communications liaison. Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan, profilers in the BAU. And Penelope Garcia, their bubbly technical analyst. Of course, you knew who they were by name and occupation but you let him introduce them to you anyways.
You look towards your friends grinding on their suitors of the night. You point to them, getting Spencer's attention. "The one in the cheerleading costume, the blonde one? Gigi. The one with the pink cowboy hat is Dani and the one grinding on your friend Derek Morgan like there's no tomorrow is Wendy."
"Are you their designated driver for the night?" Spencer wondered. "Supposed to be." You nod.
Spencer bit his lip in thought before licking them and turned to you once more, "How long do you think it'll be before you'll need to take them home?" He ask, curiously.
You look down at the watch on your wrist. "Probably in about an hour or so, why?"
"Because I wanted to stay here and talk to you." Spencer admitted shyly and just as quickly as he said that— refrained. "That is if you wanted to, of course. I don't want to pressure you or anything." You smile at his chivalry and carefulness, you never do see that anymore. You could tell he was raised right.
You shrug at that thought. It wasn’t like you to jump into something random with someone. "Well, I would be happy to have some company." You tell.
The night carried on and as it did, so did the conversation between the two doctors. When Spencer talked, all you could do was focus on his lips. They looked soft and plump and pink. And God, when he sipped from his straw a few times - you were glad you were sitting in a chair, your knees would've buckled at the sight.
And of course, Spencer couldn't help but stare into your eyes. He couldn't help but notice the sadness in them when you’d both first started talking. But since you’d been talking for a while, your eyes were more adorned, your face more relaxed and under the sadness of your face, he discovered a smile underneath all of it.
Honestly all you two had been doing for the last hour or so was talk about work and what you two did for a living. And even talking about the gruesomeness of your work, you both found enjoyment in talking about it with each other.
Like him, Spencer recognized you were also a bit of a rambler and he had listened to you - the opposite of what his coworkers would do to him.
As you two continued, Spencer felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to Hotch. "Dave and I are gonna take everyone home. Are you staying?" He asked, curiously and Spencer turned to you and then nodded, "Yeah, yeah, I'm gonna stay." All he wanted to do was stay with you for the rest of his days.
Rossi was the first out of the door, following Hotch, then Morgan passed by, raising an eyebrow at Spencer as he walked past them with Emily at his side. Garcia and JJ hugged Spencer goodbye in a drunk fashion and they had inevitably left, to Spencer's relief.
You checked your watch and stood, flattening down your costume. "I should probably get everyone home." Spencer stood right up with you, offering to help you out. He called a cab for the three drunk women as you rounded up the troops.
And soon enough, you piled them all in, assuring to them that you’d be fine and before you could pay the cab driver in advance, Spencer had done it for you. You told them to send you a message to assure you they'd gotten back to their homes okay. Luckily, your friend Wendy wasn’t so drunk like Dani and Gigi were assured to you they’d be fine. The cab driver had driven off, leaving you alone with your own suitor of the night.
"Do you mind if I, uh, walk you home?" Spencer asked, scratching the back of his neck in nervousness. "You can walk me to my car. Or drive me back to my place, the choice is yours." You offered his options and Spencer thought about it and you could read in his eyes that he had his answer and quickly tossed him your keys.
The drive back wasn't so far from your apartment complex. It was about a couple of blocks from where you lived actually. And now that Spencer was driving back in this direction, he realized that he knew the neighborhood well. Mostly because of the fact that this was his neighborhood.
"You live over here?" Spencer asked. "Uh, yeah, why?" You retorted. "We live in the same complex." Spencer answers. Your eyes widen at this revelation. "Wow... guess you and I are more alike than I thought. What unit?" You tested, to see if he was telling the truth. "Unit 23," He answered. "You?"
"Unit 38. Above you." You gesture a finger pointing up. Spencer puts the car in park and kills the engine as he settles his hands on the wheel. "Small world." He stated. "Or maybe just a little Halloween fate." You chuckle as you two get out of the car.
Spencer had opted for walking you to your apartment, telling you he just wanted to make sure you got to the apartment safe but you knew that wasn't the case. He wanted to spend as much time with you as he could. And now knowing they lived in the same apartment complex meant that he knew where you lived now.
You unlock the door to your apartment and as settle your things down on the table and turn over to spot a nervous Spencer Reid and you narrow your eyes to him.
"Coming in, Dr. Reid?"
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summary: you've had enough of aaron hotchner's famous self-restraint, deciding to take control of this fucked up romantic dark comedy nightmare, only for aaron to remind you who's really in charge.
content warnings: dom!aaron, public sex/exhibitionism, dirty talk, aaron being kind of a jackass (literally, the gentleman leaves his body and soul), p in v, no protection (please be safe, safe is sexy), dubious consent (he doesn't really ask, but reader wants it), rough sex.
word count: 1.7k
author's note: listened to so much sabrina carpenter for this one -- my man on willpower, nobody's son, taste
It’s frustration that drives you to it, really. Frustration of being overlooked and ignored by a man you constantly think about. Fucking Aaron Hotchner. His stupid silk ties and pressed suits and dark hair you’re desperate to rake your hand through and sinewy arms you dream about holding you again. Three weeks since the affair and he hasn’t looked at you again. A part of it stings — he’d said he hadn’t regretted it, and he hadn’t entirely committed to never doing it again. Part of you feels disgusted with yourself, getting into bed with a recent divorcee. Another part angrier at him for planting the seed in your head (and between your thighs) in the first place.
That’s what drives you to a darker shade of lipstick than usual. It drives you to choose the backless silk dress, dark strings lacing over your spine, and strappy black heels. It’s a statement, one that rings loud and clear to the stoic Unit Chief. You will not be ignored.
And ignored, you are not, in a sea of the same tailored suit-clad, Gucci tie wearing, Rolex adorning crowd of lawyers, you’re the one turning heads as you make your way to the open bar at the Attorney-General’s New Year’s party.
Aaron’s not one to gawk at girls, priding himself on being a gentleman, but you’ve always managed to find a way to turn his brain mammalian. The hem of your dress covering the tops of thighs and not more than that, and he flexes his free hand in the memory of gripping them, parting limbs like the Red Sea, a shiver running up his spine where your manicured nails had left marks, clawing as his name left your lips in a cry. He blinked, refocusing on the man he was talking to about golf of all things (did middle to old aged lawyers not have another hobby?), politely listening along to his story, while also attempting to push the night three weeks ago to the back of his brain instead of below his belt.
You’re half-tempted to scream at him, to take the martini glass you delicately sipped from and smash it, your head demanding him to look at you. It feels almost dirty, the way you’re displaying yourself to him, begging him to give you more than the scraps of attention you were getting. Instead, you catch the eye of a younger man, good looking in his own right, but without the sense of maturity and authority that Aaron held, and you smile at him, invitational, thinking fuck Aaron Hotchner.
It nearly buckles Aaron, spying over his conversational partner’s shoulder on you, with another man, and he hates himself for being jealous like some half-wit Neanderthal. And God, the way you preen around this man makes him almost seethe, the tilt of your head, the way you lean in to flirt, the sweet curl of your smile. In his mind’s fantasy, he would storm over, grab your wrist and tug you away like a child that needed to be scolded, but it’s probably exactly what you wanted anyway. And when your eyes flit over to look at him, it’s all but confirmed. Fuck, he thinks, seeing your lips fail to repress a smirk, lips that belonged on him, around his— Christ, you were gonna kill him. He watched you with dark eyes as you wet your lips, crossing your legs, nudging the man sitting across you, pretending to pay rapt attention to the lawyer talking to you. The last fraying thread of his self-restraint snapped when you reached to correct the man’s tie, and Aaron excused himself for a refill, barely listening to his partner’s response as he marched over to your other side, ordering another whiskey, watching you attempt to ignore him, focusing on your partner.
It’s petty, it really is, but you’re stepping on his last nerve with your Jimmy Choo heels, and so he lets his knuckle drag up your spine, feeling a twinge of satisfaction when you stiffen. To your credit, you swallow and stay attentive to whatever case this lawyer was bragging about, but then Aaron’s fingertips lightly trail over a divot on your lower back, slowly creeping up, waiting for his whiskey, withholding a smirk as he feels you take a deep breath. His finger curls around one of the laces that pulled taut across your back, tugging lightly enough for you to feel it.
You bit your lip hard, Aaron thanking the bartender for his whiskey, politely excusing yourself from your new friend to go to the bathroom, with your purse. Your stilettos click as you rush out of the crowd to find a quiet space, leaning against the wall, breathing hard. A wall of windows show off the jewel that is Washington D.C., lights making your features glow in the dark.
“You know, you shouldn’t play games you can’t handle,” Aaron’s smooth voice follows you, and you can’t make yourself look at him, anger and shame lingering in your veins.
“I wouldn’t have to play games if you remembered that I exist,” you snap back, trying to make it feel as venomous as your anger did.
“Is that what this was?” he asked, his voice a low baritone that made you want to melt, his chest finding your back as you resolutely stare out the window. “Is that what this dress is?” Aaron asked, gently running his fingertips over the outline of your dress. “A reminder that you exist?”
You swallowed, keeping your chin stubbornly high. “So what if it is?”
“I don’t need a reminder,” he murmured, leaning down to press his lips to your shoulder, uncaring that there was a literal hallway between the two of you and the crowd outside. He can feel himself harden at your compliance, at the way your head tilts for him, his waist meeting the curve of your body. “Trust me, I haven’t stopped thinking about you for weeks,” he murmured, kissing his way up your neck, so smooth and fragile. And then his hands slide over your waist, down to your thighs, holding you to him.
“Trust you?” you asked with a slight scoff, and the attitude has him bring a hand up to grasp your throat, tipping your head back against his shoulder, teeth grazing the line of your jaw.
“You don’t get to throw yourself at other men and talk about trust, sweetheart,” he murmured darkly, making you swallow.
“I wouldn’t have to if you just—”
“Touched you?” he whispered, sliding his fingers higher, between your legs, finding your panties already wet. “Look at that,” he murmured, rubbing his fingers over your sensitive nub, despite the fact that anyone could walk in on you both. “Already wet for me.”
“Aaron,” you gasped, his hand clamping over your mouth.
“Shh,” he whispered. “You’re gonna be quiet for me, won’t you?” He felt you nod, breathing quickening, his hand still firmly over your mouth, fingers relentlessly rubbing your clit through your panties. “Good, at least you remember how to follow orders.” His fingers circled your clit and you choke back a moan. “Or maybe you want someone to see us,” he rasped, growing harder by the second, hips twitching to grind against you. “You want everyone to know how I turn you into a fucking mess,” he whispered as you silently sob for relief. He tugged your panties to the side, sliding a finger into your hole. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he asked, cocky. “Needed someone to fill you up, take care of you.”
“Aaron,” you cry softly into his palm, feeling it tighten over your mouth.
“You thought that sorry excuse for an attorney could fuck you like this?” he hissed, crooking his finger, and God, you’re sobbing into his hand. “That’s right,” he whispered. “You’re mine. I’m the only one who can make you feel this good.” His finger stretched you open enough to take a second finger in, your walls squeezing around his digits. “Fuck, look at how desperate you are for me,” he whispered. “Clenching around me already. You gonna come for me so soon?”
“Aaron, please,” you begged.
“So, you have manners, after all,” he taunted you, slowing his fingers down just to torment you.
“Aaron, I’m sorry, please,” you sobbed, begging him. “Please, please, I need you.”
“You’re not getting out of it that easy,” he told you, pressing you against the window, hooking his fingers under your panties, dropping them to your ankles, lacy and black. “Bend over,” he ordered, unbuckling his belt. Your hands trembled, pressed against the window as you bent, his large hands gripping your hips, running his hands over smooth skin. “That’s it, sweetheart, you’re perfect like this,” he murmured, squeezing your ass before unzipping his trousers, pulling out his cock, already leaking, but you didn’t need to know that, pumping his hand over it before guiding it to your entrance, running the tip over your folds before sliding it inside. “Fuck,” he groaned, his hand landing on yours, the other on your hip. “Fuck, you take me so well,” he murmured, bottoming out. You’re gasping, almost tearing up at how deeply buried he is inside you.
“Aaron,” you pleaded and he shifted back, slamming back into you, and you could cry out, whether in pain or in pleasure, you couldn’t tell anymore, his thrusts blurring the line between the two. His hand comes around to toy with your clit, but all you can think about is the feeling of him pounding into you in a way that’s gonna make it hard to walk home. He let out a ragged breath as he slowed down, trying to make the feeling last, but the way your cunt clenched around him made it impossible, and his temple crashed against your shoulder, his release spilling into you as he saw stars, panting, your dress hiked up obscenely around your waist. It’s too much, as he rides out the high, spilling out of your ravaged pussy and down your thighs as you both catch your breath.
“You’re coming home with me,” he whispered, leaving no space for a question, not that you wanted it, and when he’d tucked himself back into his pants and your panties in his trouser pockets, when you’d made yourself presentable enough to walk back out into the throng of people, he followed you out, surreptitiously guiding you into his car.
MDNI, NSFW 18+ Kinktober Masterlist Main Masterlist
wc: 3.7k
cw: Smut, BAU reader, Colleagues, Enemies to ? , unprotected p in v, Oral (m&f), rough, desperation, Dirty talk, Dom! spencer, degradation, arguing, when i say hate i mean hate. PWP, Aftercare.
You’d been with the BAU for just over six months when Spencer Reid finally walked back through those glass doors. Everyone had talked about him like he was some kind of legend brilliant, eidetic memory, a walking encyclopedia.
But the man who showed up wasn’t the one from the stories. He was gaunt, shadowed, fresh out of prison with a chip on his shoulder the size of Quantico. And from the moment he laid eyes on you, it was like you’d personally offended him.
Maybe it was because you’d slotted into the team so seamlessly while he was gone. You were smart, sure top of your class in behavioral psychology, with a knack for patterns that rivaled his own. Or maybe it was the way the others had started relying on you, praising your insights during briefings.
Pretty and smart, that’s what Rossi had joked once, but you knew better than to let that define you. Whatever the reason, Reid’s dislike was immediate and palpable. He’d correct you in meetings with a sharp edge to his voice, dismiss your theories without a second glance. At first, you tried to brush it off give him space, he’d been through hell. But his constant sniping wore you down, and soon enough, the feeling was mutual.
You hated him. Hated his arrogance, his know-it-all attitude, the way he looked at you like you were an intruder in his world.
It all boiled over on that case in Atlanta. A serial arsonist, and you’d both profiled the unsub differently. You thought it was a displaced aggression thing, targeting symbols of authority. Reid insisted it was revenge-based, personal vendettas. In the end, the stakeout went south because neither of you could agree on the approach, and the unsub slipped away, torching another building before they caught him. Back at the precinct, the blame game erupted.
“You had to push your half-baked theory, didn’t you?” Reid had snarled, his face inches from yours in the bullpen. “If we’d stuck to the data—”
“The data? Your data was outdated bullshit, Reid! You were too busy playing martyr to see what was right in front of you!” You’d shouted back, voice cracking with fury. The team watched in stunned silence as insults flew him calling you reckless, you calling him a washed-up genius hiding behind his IQ.
It got ugly, personal, until Emily stepped in, her voice like a whip. “Enough! You’re both off rotation together until you sort this out.”
After that, you avoided each other like the plague. Separate assignments, minimal interaction. It worked, mostly. Until this case in rural Montana. A string of ritualistic killings, bodies left in abandoned mineshafts with symbols carved into their skin.
The team was stretched thin, the local PD incompetent, and the motel options? Laughable. Somehow, in the chaos of booking, you and Reid ended up sharing a room.
One bed, because of course. Emily had apologized profusely, but there was no fixing it every other room in town was taken by press or overflow from a nearby conference.
The first night was a nightmare of tense silence. You claimed the bed, he took the floor with a blanket that looked like it hadn’t been washed since the ‘80s. Neither of you slept much; you could hear him tossing, his breathing uneven.
By morning, exhaustion sharpened your edges, and the butting heads started all over again. He’d profile the unsub as a loner with religious delusions; you’d argue it was cult-influenced, communal. Round and round, every briefing a battlefield.
Now, on the second night, it was worse. The day had been brutal another body found, leads drying up. You’d argued the whole drive back from the station, his voice rising over the hum of the SUV’s engine. “You’re just contradicting me to be difficult,” he’d accused, gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles whitened. “Admit it, you’re selfish. You’d rather tank the case than agree with me.”
“Selfish? Coming from the guy who can’t stand anyone challenging his precious intellect?” You’d fired back, slamming the car door as you both stormed into the motel. He was right behind you, slamming the room door with enough force to rattle the cheap frame.
The room was dim, lit by a single lamp, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and whatever mystery stain was on the carpet.
“You’re impossible,” he snapped, tossing his satchel onto the bed. His tie was askew, hair disheveled from running his hands through it all day. “If you’d listened for once instead of playing the contrarian—”
“Oh, please. You’re the one who steamrolls everyone with your monologues. Newsflash, Reid: not everything’s about your genius.” You whirled on him, arms crossed, heat flushing your cheeks. The argument spiraled, voices overlapping in a cacophony of resentment.
He called you incompetent, a newbie who didn’t belong. You hurled back that he was broken, prison had shattered whatever made him human. It hurt god, it hurt each word a dagger aimed to wound. You hated him so much it burned, a fire in your chest that made your hands shake.
He stepped closer, towering over you despite his lanky frame, eyes blazing. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Parading around like you own the place. But you’re just—”
“Just what, Spencer? Say it.” Your voice was low, challenging, inches apart now.
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes regret? No, fury. Then he surged forward, hands gripping your shoulders as he shoved you back against the wall.
The impact jarred you, but before you could react, his mouth crashed onto yours. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an assault, angry and desperate, teeth clashing, his body pressing you into the peeling wallpaper. His hands fisted in your shirt, pulling you closer even as the kiss bruised.
You shoved him off with all your strength, gasping. “What the hell—”
His expression cracked, eyes wide like he’d shocked himself. Like he just realised what he’d done and was already thinking about how he’s going to lose his job amongst many other things.
Apology hovered on his lips, but you didn’t give him the chance. Grabbing his tie, you yanked him back, slamming your mouth against his. This time, it was mutual destruction tongues battling for dominance, hands clawing at clothes. You hated him, but god, you wanted him too, the line between loathing and lust blurring into something explosive.
He growled against your lips, spinning you around and pushing you toward the bed. “You drive me insane,” he muttered, voice rough as he tugged your blouse open, buttons scattering. His hands were everywhere rough on your skin, pinching, claiming. You arched into it despite yourself, hating how your body betrayed you.
“Fuck you, Reid,” you spat, but your fingers were already working his belt, yanking it free. He shoved you down onto the mattress, following you, his weight pinning you. His mouth trailed down your neck, biting hard enough to mark, and you hissed, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Oh, I plan to,” he replied, voice laced with venom and heat. He stripped you efficiently, clothes hitting the floor in a heap. No tenderness, just raw need. His eyes raked over you, dark and hungry. “Look at you, all worked up. You hate me so much, bet you’re soaking for me already, aren’t you?”
You wanted to deny it, but his hand slipped between your thighs, fingers finding you wet and ready. A smirk twisted his lips as he teased, circling your clit with maddening precision. “Pathetic. Acting like you don’t want this.”
“Shut up,” you snarled, bucking against his hand. But he pulled back, denying you, and you whimpered in frustration. He chuckled darkly, shedding his own clothes—shirt, pants, boxers—revealing lean muscle and a cock that made your mouth water despite everything. Hard, throbbing, pre-cum beading at the tip.
“On your knees,” he ordered, voice commanding, dom in every syllable. You hesitated, glaring, but the ache between your legs won. Sliding off the bed, you knelt, hating how eager you felt. He stood over you, hand tangling in your hair, guiding you forward.
“Suck,” he demanded, and you did, wrapping your lips around him. He groaned, hips thrusting shallowly as you took him deep, tongue swirling. “That’s it, take it like the slut you are. All that mouth, finally put to good use.”
His words stung, but they fueled the fire, making you bob faster, hollowing your cheeks. He fucked your mouth roughly, hitting the back of your throat until tears pricked your eyes. “Good girl,” he praised through gritted teeth, the degradation laced with approval. “So desperate for my cock, even when you hate me.”
You pulled off with a pop, glaring up at him. “You’re the one who’s rock hard, asshole. Admit it you’ve wanted this since you got back.”
He hauled you up, tossing you back on the bed. “Maybe I have. Doesn’t change that you’re infuriating.” He knelt between your legs, spreading them wide. His breath ghosted over your core, and you shivered. “But look at this pretty pussy, all mine to ruin.”
Before you could retort, his mouth was on you tongue delving in, lapping at your folds like a man starved. You cried out, hands fisting the sheets as he sucked your clit, fingers plunging inside you, curling just right. “Spencer—fuck—”
He hummed against you, the vibration sending shocks through your body. “Taste so good, even if you’re a bitch,” he murmured, nipping at your thigh. “Come on, come for me. Show me how much you need this.”
You argued even as pleasure built: “You’re—ah—still wrong about the profile.” But your words dissolved into moans as he worked you relentlessly, tongue and fingers driving you over the edge. You shattered, back arching, his name a curse on your lips.
He didn’t give you time to recover, climbing over you, positioning himself at your entrance. “Ready to admit I’m right?” he taunted, rubbing his cock against your slickness.
“Never,” you shot back, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him closer. He thrust in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. You both groaned, the stretch exquisite and painful.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growled, starting a punishing rhythm. No protection, just skin on skin, raw and reckless.
His hands pinned your wrists above your head, hips snapping against yours. “Take it, take every inch. This what you wanted? Me hating you while I fuck you senseless?”
“Yes—god, yes,” you moaned, meeting his thrusts. It was rough, angry, his teeth on your collarbone.
“Harder, you prick. Is that all you’ve got?”
He laughed breathlessly, pounding deeper, the bed creaking under you. “Greedy little thing. But you feel so good, clenching around me like you can’t get enough.” Degradation mixed with praise, his voice a rasp. “Such a smart mouth, but right now, you’re just my fucktoy hm?.”
You bit his shoulder, stifling a scream as he hit that spot inside you. “You’re—still—an arrogant bastard,” you gasped, but your body betrayed you, chasing the high.
“And you’re loving it,” he countered, releasing your wrists to grip your hips, angling deeper. Sweat slicked your skin, breaths mingling in harsh pants.
The room filled with the slap of flesh, your moans, his grunts. Desperation clawed at you both hate fueling the fire, making every touch electric.
“I’m close,” you admitted, hating the vulnerability.
“Come then,” he ordered, thumb finding your clit, rubbing circles. “Come on my cock, prove how much you need me.”
The coil snapped, orgasm crashing over you in waves. You clenched around him, crying out, and he followed seconds later, spilling inside you with a guttural moan. “Fuck—take it all, you perfect slut.”
He collapsed beside you, both panting, the air heavy with spent rage. For a moment, silence then reality seeped in. You turned away, chest heaving, unsure what to feel.
But Spencer surprised you. His hand, gentle now, brushed your hair back. “Hey,” he murmured, voice soft. No more venom. He pulled you against him, wrapping an arm around your waist. “You okay?”
You nodded, exhaustion winning over pride. “Yeah. Just… intense.”
He hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple tender, apologetic. “Let me get you some water.” He slipped out of bed, returning with a glass from the bathroom, helping you sit up to drink. His fingers traced soothing patterns on your back, easing the marks he’d left.
“Sorry if I was too rough,” he said quietly, eyes searching yours. No hate left, just concern.
You shook your head, leaning into him. “It was what we needed, I think.” The anger had burned out, leaving something raw but calmer.
He nodded, pulling the covers over you both. “Get some rest. We’ve got a case to solve tomorrow.” Maybe you both would talk about what happened. Maybe you’d leave it unsaid, only to do again when things boiled over again.
You drifted off in his arms, the hate simmering down to embers for now. And he followed suit.
(if you think your tag should be here lmk! my taglist recently deleted itself and ive tried to piece it back together as best i can…lmk pls.)
synopsis: ‘The alchemist’ is what the media is calling the Unsub the BAU are looking for—it’s gruelling and after no leads for a while when one tip comes in about an abandoned warehouse you and your best friend/partner Spencer Reid go to check it out…but quickly find out it was a trap, being drugged by the unsub—with an aphrodisiac.
wc: 4.7k
cw: Poisoning, Dub con (but before they are fully under they consent) , sex pollen drugging, desperation, colleagues, dirty talk, rough, dom! spencer, criminal minds level violence spoken about briefly, very slight facefkn and (f) oral.
The case had been gnawing at the team for weeks. The unsub, dubbed “The Alchemist” by the sensationalist media, was a ghost with a twisted fascination for transformation.
He didn’t just kill his victims he orchestrated their deaths like experiments from some medieval grimoire. Some he drugged into a trance, turning one into a puppet that murdered the other before succumbing themselves.
Others got straight poison, bodies left in symbolic poses: limbs arranged in circles, skin etched with runes that mimicked lead turning to gold. Autopsies revealed exotic compounds rare herbs mixed with synthetics, always just shy of traceable. The BAU profiled him as a failed chemist or pharmacist, someone with a god complex, seeking control over life and death.
You’d been buried in it alongside your best friend, Spencer Reid. Late nights in the bullpen, him rattling off facts about historical alchemists while you cross-referenced victimology.
Spencer was different now, post-prison sharper edges, a quiet intensity that made him seem taller, more commanding. His hair curled a bit wilder, his eyes held shadows from those months in hell, but he was still your Spencer: the genius who could quote entire books verbatim, the one who made you laugh with obscure trivia.
You’d always felt a spark with him, buried under professionalism, but prison had forged something raw in him. He moved with purpose, less awkward, more dominant in subtle ways like how he’d hold your gaze longer during briefings, or brush your arm when passing files.
Hotch paired you two for the recon that afternoon. An anonymous tip had come in about suspicious activity at an old industrial park crates moved at odd hours, chemical smells reported. “Check it out,” Hotch said, his voice clipped. “Eyes open. This could be our break, but don’t take risks.”
You and Spencer arrived as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the chain-link fence. The warehouse was a hulking beast of rusted metal and broken windows, the kind of place that screamed “trap” in every profiler’s handbook.
But tips like this were rare, and the body count was rising. You slipped through a side door, flashlights piercing the gloom, guns at the ready.
“Air’s stale,” Spencer murmured, his beam sweeping over stacked crates labeled with faded chemical warnings. “No recent disturbances on the floor—dust patterns are uniform. But the tip specified this sector. Statistically, anonymous calls have a 62% chance of being hoaxes or misdirections, but given the unsub’s pattern…”
You nodded, heart rate ticking up. “Let’s clear it quick. Something feels off.”
Deeper in, the space opened up high ceilings with exposed pipes, shadows pooling like ink. You both should have turned back when the faint hiss started, like a leak in the plumbing.
But you pressed on, and that’s when it hit: a fine mist spraying from unseen vents above, coating your faces, your clothes, in an instant. You gasped, stumbling, wiping at your eyes as the particles invaded cool at first, then warming unnaturally.
“Spencer—what the fuck?” Panic clawed at your throat. Was this poison? The Alchemist’s signature? You fumbled for your radio, but your hands shook.
He coughed, swiping at his face, but his mind was already dissecting it. “Wait—analyze. No burning in the throat, no immediate respiratory distress. Scent is… herbal, synthetic undertone. Not lethal neurotoxin. Pupils are dilating, heart rate accelerating, but it’s… oh.” His voice dropped, eyes widening as realization hit.
You leaned against a crate, breathing hard. “What? Spencer, talk to me.”
“It’s not going to kill us,” he said, but his tone held an edge of alarm. “It’s an enhancer. Aphrodisiac compound likely a custom blend. Yohimbine for arousal, maybe phenethylamine derivatives for euphoria, laced with hallucinogens. The Alchemist’s experimenting beyond murder. This is behavioral manipulation.”
The words barely registered before the symptoms crashed in. Heat flushed your skin, starting in your chest and spreading like wildfire. Sweat beaded on your forehead, trickling down your neck, making your shirt cling uncomfortably.
The warehouse warped at the edges—colors intensifying, blues shifting to vibrant purples, shadows pulsing gently. But worse was the ache building low in your belly, a insistent throb between your legs.
You shifted, horrified to feel wetness soaking your panties, your clit swelling with unbidden need. Your nipples hardened against your bra, every brush of fabric sending jolts straight to your core.
You tried to play it off, pressing forward. “We need to get out. Call it in.” But your voice came out breathy, strained. The radio crackled in your hand—Hotch’s voice, faint: “Reid? Status?”
Spencer was feeling it too. He adjusted his stance, but you caught the bulge straining against his slacks, his cheeks flushed under the flashlight’s glow.
He grabbed his own radio, voice tighter than usual. “Hotch—we’ve been exposed to an airborne agent. Non-lethal, but debilitating. Send backup, hazmat protocols. Location pinned.”
He dropped the radio, leaning against the wall a few feet away. “We can’t press on like this. The effects will intensify. Body temperature rising, sensory overload… we need to wait it out.”
You nodded, but the heat was unbearable now, like a fever without illness. You slid down to the floor, knees drawn up, trying to focus on breathing. “I’m… hot. Everything’s spinning.” You didn’t mention the arousal, the way your thighs clenched involuntarily, seeking friction.
But he knew his eyes flicked to you, dark with the same struggle.
“Me too,” he admitted, voice rough. “Erection started almost immediately. Head’s foggy hard to think straight. This drug shuts down prefrontal cortex inhibitions, amplifies limbic responses. We’re going to… crave touch. Intensely.”
The admission hung heavy, electric. You curled tighter, nails digging into your palms to distract from the yearning. Spencer did the same across from you, back to the wall, eyes squeezed shut. But the distance only made it worse the drug twisted your thoughts, fixating on him.
His long fingers, how they’d feel inside you. His mouth, clever and quick, turned to something filthier. You’d always harbored a crush, but this was amplified to torture.
Minutes dragged like hours. Sweat soaked through your clothes, your skin hypersensitive. Colors warped more the gray concrete shimmering like oil on water.
The radio buzzed again—Morgan this time: “Reid, kid? You okay? We’re ten out.”
Neither of you answered. You whimpered softly, rocking slightly, the pressure between your legs agonizing. Spencer glanced over, his restraint visible in the tense set of his jaw, the way his hands fisted at his sides.
Prison had taught him control, but this was chemical warfare on his stoic brain. Fear flickered in his eyes not of the drug, but of what it might unleash in him. The animal side he’d buried. What he was capable of.
“Spencer…” Your voice was a quiet plea, breaking the silence. “It hurts. I can’t fight it anymore.”
He turned, crawling closer on his knees, stopping just short. His pupils were blown wide, breath ragged. “Don’t. We can’t— this isn’t real consent. It’s dub-con at best, the drug forcing us.”
But his words lacked conviction, his gaze dropping to your lips, your heaving chest. The heat between you was palpable, the air thick with unspoken want. You reached out, fingers brushing his arm, and he shuddered. “Please. I need you. It’s you—it’s always been you.” Because it had, and maybe you were just to scared to say it before.
That shattered him. With a growled curse, he closed the gap, pulling you into his lap roughly. His mouth claimed yours in a desperate kiss, nothing gentle about it teeth nipping, tongue delving deep as if to devour you.
Hands roamed frantically: his tearing open your shirt, buttons scattering, exposing your lace bra. Yours fumbling with his belt, freeing his straining cock.
“Fuck, I can’t stop,” he muttered against your neck, biting down hard enough to mark. Spencer surged through dominant, unapologetic. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to bend you over, fuck you until you can’t think. But this drug… it’s making me lose it.”
His words sent shivers through you, the dirty talk igniting fresh wetness. He shoved your bra up, mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard while his hand dipped into your pants, fingers finding your slick folds. “So fucking wet. This pussy’s dripping for me the drug did that, but I bet you’ve been wet thinking about my cock before.”
You moaned, grinding against his hand as two fingers plunged inside, curling to hit that spot that made your vision blur. “Yes Spencer, please. More.”
He pumped them faster, thumb circling your clit with expert pressure. “Beg for it, then. Tell me how bad you need me to fuck you raw.”
“God, fuck me hard, please. I need your cock inside me now.”
He withdrew his fingers, making you whine, then flipped you onto your hands and knees on the cold floor. Pants shoved down to your thighs, he knelt behind, gripping your hips bruisingly. “That’s my good girl. Gonna take every inch like you were made for it.”
He thrust in without warning, burying deep in one stroke. The stretch was exquisite, painful-pleasure that had you crying out. He didn’t pause, setting a brutal rhythm hips snapping forward, skin slapping as he pounded into you.
“Fuck, you’re tight. Squeeze me harder yeah, just like that. This cunt’s mine now.” The drug amplified everything: the drag of his thick cock against your walls, the way he hit your cervix with each thrust, sparks of ecstasy building fast.
His hand wrapped around your throat from behind, pulling you up against his chest, controlling the angle for deeper penetration. “Listen to you moaning like a slut. The team’s on the radio, and here you are, begging for my cum.”
The radio crackled Hotch again: “Reid? Respond!”
But you couldn’t stop, wouldn’t. You reached back, nails digging into his thigh, urging him on. “Harder—don’t stop. Make me cum, Spencer.”
He growled, free hand slapping your ass lightly before rubbing your clit in furious circles. “Cum for me then. Milk my cock show me how desperate you are.”
The orgasm hit like a storm, ripping through you, walls clenching as waves of pleasure drowned out the world.
You screamed his name, body shaking. He followed moments later, thrusting erratically before spilling deep inside, hot pulses filling you as he groaned low in your ear.
You collapsed together, panting, the drug’s intensity ebbing into a warm afterglow. Spencer pulled out gently, tucking you against him as reality filtered back. “We… that was…”
“Needed,” you finished, cupping his face. “Drug or not, I wanted you. Consent was there dubious, but real.”
He nodded, eyes softening, but that dom spark lingered. “When this is over… we do it right. No chemicals.”
The team burst in shortly after, finding you both “disoriented from the gas.” You blamed hallucinations for the flushed skin, the scattered clothes. The Alchemist was caught later that night—another tip leading to his lab, where the team ambushed him mid-experiment.
Back at the hotel, the case wrapped, Spencer knocked on your door. No drug haze this time just raw want. “Round two?” he asked, voice low, that post-prison confidence shining.
You pulled him inside, kissing him slow. “Make it last.”
He did.
Pushing you against the wall, hands pinning yours above your head. “On your knees first,” he commanded, and you sank down, taking him into your mouth, sucking eagerly as he guided you with a hand in your hair. “Good girl take it deep. Swallow around me.”
He fucked your mouth gently at first, then rougher, praising your gag reflex. Then he lifted you, tossing you on the bed, spreading your legs wide. “Gonna eat this pussy until you beg me to stop.”
His tongue was magic, lapping at your folds, sucking your clit, fingers curling inside. You came twice before he finally thrust in, slow and deep, building to fast, desperate again. “You feel so good tight and wet just for me. Cum again, let me feel it.”
You did, over and over, until exhaustion claimed you both. Curled in his arms, the kink satisfied, you knew this was just the beginning alchemy of your own, turning friendship to fire.
Summary: After being ditched by your friend at a bar, you meet an older, intriguing man and share a daring moment with him. You don't expect to see him again—until he walks into your class as your new professor.
Pairing: spencer reid x reader
Word count: 12.3k
Warnings: professor!reid, reader is 25, p in v, oral sex, safe sex, age gap, angst, fluff, loneliness, rossi!reader, dead parent, absent parent, bad friend, hurt, comfort, spencer is a dick,
A/N: finally done!! i can't remember the last time i wrote something this long but it's been so much fun! currently rewatching cm and i'm reminded of how much i love spencer
Main | Masterlist
You hadn't even wanted to go out tonight, yet here you were in a bar that reeked of sweat, smoke, and stale spilt beer. Claire was beside you in the booth, her lips glued to some guy she'd found while you were peeing.
There were times when you admired her ability to draw in guys, just a smidge jealous at her magneticism, but at this moment, it was the most aggravating trait she possessed.
She had promised that it would just be the two of you tonight. Absolutely no guys! And deep down, you knew how it would play out the second she got drunk, but you had foolishly allowed yourself to hope that things might be different tonight.
"We're—" she giggles as the man trails kisses down her neck. "We're gonna go," she leans in, shouting louder than she needs to. "Sorry." There's a flicker of remorse in her eyes, but it dies down the moment he playfully nibs her ear.
"Text me tomorrow," you respond sullenly, but she doesn't answer, already waving her fingers at you as he pulls her away.
"Figures," you murmur to yourself as you navigate through the crowd to the bar for a parting drink. Sliding into an empty seat, you order a cocktail, hoping to dull the ever-present ache in your chest, trying your best to avoid thinking about being alone again.
The deep bass reverberates through the room as your fingers close around the cool glass, a heavy sigh escaping from your lips.
"Are you okay? A voice interrupts your thoughts from the right. You turn to see a man, looking a bit out of place. He's older than you with soft curls framing his face, and his warm eyes hold a genuine concern.
"Uh... Yeah," you shrug, trying to sound casual until you relent, "Well, my friend just ditched me."
"I'm sorry. That's not nice," he replies, angling his body towards you.
"Yeah," you sigh, teeth grinding together as frustration bubbles to the surface. "The worst part is she promised she wouldn't, and I actually believed her." The words spill out, raw and unfiltered, fueled by the alcohol rushing through your veins. Embarrassment flares through you when you remember your surroundings and the fact that you're venting to a stranger.
"Uh... but what about you?" You shift focus, trying to let the irritation ebb away. "You don't look like you come here often." Your eyes trail down his figure, noting the stiff posture and the crispness of his shirt. He's in a full suit, tie and all, starkly contrasting the outfits surrounding you. The dress you're wearing feels even shorter in comparison. "Not that you don't look good, I-I didn't mean that," you add, flustered when his gaze follows yours down his body.
"No, no," he chuckles, a warm smile spreading across his face. "I get what you meant. I'm here for a friend's — or more like an acquaintance's —bachelor party."
"Oh, really," you breathe. That explains things. "Where are they?"
He gestures with a finger over his shoulder. "Dancing. Not really my thing..." he admits with a shy laugh.
"You sure?" you tease, flashing him a playful grin, intrigued by the idea of you and him together on the dancefloor. His chest pressed to your back, scruff lightly scratching your neck as he presses kisses—. You shake your head lightly, trying to get the images out of your head before he notices.
"Yeah," he replies, certain, with a hint of embarrassment creeping into his voice. "I'm a terrible dancer."
"What a pity," you say, fingers trailing the rim of your glass lightly. "I still think we could have fun out there."
He coughs, choking on a sip of his drink, cheeks flushing as he gathers his bearings. He huffs a laugh, the sound warm and slightly breathless. "I'm sure, we could," he concedes.
Silence falls over you for a quiet second before he speaks again, watching as your nails tap against the glass.
"Did you know that the name Daisy comes from Old English 'daes eage' meaning 'day's eye'?" he says. "It refers to the way that the petals close at night and open again in the morning, marking the beginning of a new day."
Your eyes flash to the daisies dotted across your nails, studying them in the dim light. "Oh. No, I didn't."
His back straightens, knees brushing against yours as he turns to face you even more. "Yeah, and they're also found on every continent except Antarctica. Historically, they've been used for a variety of medicinal purposes, such as—" he cuts himself off, embarrassment flaring in his eyes. "Sorry... I tend to ramble about boring stuff that no one wants to hear," he grimaces, running a hand through his hair.
"No, don't be sorry," your hand finds his arm without thought, squeezing it in reassurance. "That was interesting. What medicinal purposes?"
He looks at you for a moment, searching for any dishonesty before he hesitantly continues. "To stop bleeding and relieve indigestion."
You hum as your favourite flower begins to shift from sheer aesthetic appreciation to something deeper. "You're an interesting man," you smile.
"Is that good?" he asks, taking another sip.
"Yes," you reply. "Definitely!" Adrenaline surges through your veins, a spark of determination igniting within you. You down your drink in one swift motion and push yourself off the chair.
"I'm gonna go dance," you declare, a playful grin spreading across your face. "Hope to catch you out there." As you turn to leave, your fingertips brush softly against his knee, catching his eyes one last lingering time.
With slightly unsteady steps, you make your way onto the dancefloor, letting the pulsating bass guide your movements. Men flock around you— one attempting to pull you close with a heavy, insistent hand, another leaning in, his breath sour and stale, but you deftly push them all away. They're not who you're hoping will join you.
And so you dance on alone. That is, until warm, steady hands find their way onto your waist. They don't roam, but settle comfortably into the rhythm you've created. Your back comes to meet his chest as you move, and the height difference sends a thrill through you. You resist the urge to look back, not wanting to shatter the illusion that this isn't the man from the bar.
So you lean back, losing yourself in the rhythm again. The drink you consumed is warming you up, inhibitions flying away as you grind back against the stranger.
You feel his breath hitch, a subtle reaction that sends shivers coursing down your spine. His hands, emboldened by the dimly lit atmosphere, trail further down your body. His fingers tease the hem of your dress, brushing against bare thighs, the smooth skin igniting under his touch.
"Fuck," you breathe, heat pooling in your core at his daring touch. A ghost of a laugh escapes him.
Confidence surges through your veins as you turn in his grip, your heart racing at the face that greets you. "Oh," you exclaim. It's him, Mr Handsome from the bar. His curls fall more waywardly now, and there's a flush of warmth tinting his cheeks.
"Is that a good 'oh'?" he teases with a smirk, but beneath the playful banter, you catch a flicker of nervousness.
"Definitely," you respond, arms instinctively draping around his neck, surprising even yourself with the boldness of your action.
"Good," he replies, gaze intensifying as you lean in closer. When your lips finally collide, it's a heady rush of heat. His hands tighten their grip on your waist, but soon crawl lower, exploring your curves as the kiss deepens. After a teasing bite to his lower lip, his fingers dare to move under your dress, brushing against soaked panties.
"Fuck," he gasps, surprised, voice thick with desire. "Can we— come with me?" The darkness of his pupils betrays the lust burning inside him. A mischievous grin spreads across your face as he grips your hand and weaves through the crowd, pulling you toward a dimly lit hallway. His long strides are hard to keep up with, but his firm grasp assures you that there's no way he'll let you slip away.
He pulls you into an empty bathroom, the lock clicking soundly behind you. Your giggles die on your lips as he descends on you again. His mouth is hot and heavy as he pushes you against the cool porcelain sink. He cradles your face as he pushes himself close, an unmissable hardness pressing against you. His hand travels down, pushing your dress up, fingers lightly brushing against your soaked centre.
"Oh," you moan in surprise. His eyes glint amusedly as he continues to touch, his mouth pressing kisses from your jaw down to the swell of your breasts.
Your eyes blink open, heavy-lidded, when he pulls away. "This okay?" he asks, thumbs hooked in the band of your underwear. You moan in response, hips rising to help him.
"I need you to say it," he insists, voice low and compelling.
"Yes," you whisper.
"Good girl," he replies, a warm satisfaction lacing his tone as he pulls it down your legs, leaving it dangling by the shaft of your boot.
His touch is light and teasing, and a fluttering feeling courses through you. He adds a finger, then another, and curls them just right. Loud and embarrassing sounds echo around the room, but you can't find it in yourself to care. "Goddamn, you're so— so wet," he groans into your neck. You can only moan at his words, breath stuttering as the feeling grows.
"You're doing so good," he breathes in your ear as he leans back to watch your face. "So beautiful."
The feeling peaks at his words and then crushes down on you, hard and fast. He talks you through it, praising you, until he slows his fingers.
It takes you a moment to gather your bearings, but you are so far from done. His pants look painfully tight, and the gasp he makes when your fingers trail down the front has you clenching around air.
"We don't have—" his breath stutters as you unzip his pants, "We don't have to—" You push his boxers down, your fingers gripping onto him before he can finish. He hangs heavy in your grip, tip flushed and leaking.
"I want to," you smirk, your fingers gently squeezing around him, feeling the way he twitches beneath your touch. His eyes roll back, a moment of pure ecstasy washing over him, but that bliss is quickly overtaken by panic.
"I-I don't have a condom," he stammers, his wide eyes darting as he frantically pats down pockets he knows are empty. "I don't— I don't do this," he admits.
"Uh..." you say, but then a flicker of realisation hits you. "I have one," you respond, recalling how Claire had tossed a condom into your purse before you left, a sly grin on her face as she said you never know. At the time, you'd rolled your eyes, but you guess you owed her one, now.
You rummage through your bag, your heart racing as your fingers close around the shiny foil packet. With a sense of urgency, he rips it open, his hands moving clumsily as he puts it on, atmosphere shifting as tension turns into anticipation.
His hand finds your thigh, lifting your leg as he steps close. Your arm drapes around his neck, the other steadying you on the sink. He swipes his cock against your soaked folds, sparks coursing through you as he bumps against your clit.
"Stop teasing," you grit, back arching at the pleasure. With a grin, he pushes himself in, carefully burying himself to the hilt.
"Oh god, you're so warm," he breathes against your neck. "You feel so good." Any lingering hesitation vanishes, and you gasp as he begins to move, the rhythm of his thrusts growing more powerful and demanding.
"Turn around," he orders, gripping your waist with decisive hands that steer your body over the sink. As you glance at your reflection, you are struck by how utterly undone you look. Mascara smudged around your eyes, hair falling in a wild tangle, and your lips swollen darker.
You have no time to consider anything else as he lines himself up against you, the fullness of him scratching an itch you hadn't even known was there. His hand grasps your jaw, firmly yet carefully, in a grip that anchors you in place, compelling your gaze to lock onto his in the mirror.
"Look at you," he groans, a deep velvety sound that wraps around you. "Fucking gorgeous. You'll be the death of me."
You moan at his words, pussy clenching around him at the sight of him. He looks desperate, cheeks flushed, curls flopping against his face with every thrust.
"I—" you attempt to speak, breath stuttering when his fingers find your clit, circling with just the right amount of pressure. The words disappear as you come again, knees buckling as it strikes you.
He catches you, hands tightening their grip on your waist as he begins pounding you impossibly faster, chasing his own high. He moans, a low stuttering sound against your neck, hips stuttering to a close as he comes.
Silence envelops you as you both breathe. "You okay?" he murmurs eventually, caressing your hip gently.
"Mmm," you hum softly, still basking in the hazy afterglow, limbs trembling in a good way.
He pulls out, fingers gliding over your lower back when you flinch slightly. "Sorry," he whispers, reaching for a wad of paper. His movements are tender as he cleans you both. He tucks himself back into his pants and carefully tugs your panties up your legs, smoothing down the fabric of your dress.
The tenderness of his actions stirs something in you that you don't want to think too much about, so you turn around the second he's done. You glide your fingers through your hair in an attempt to tame the wild mess, stealing glances at him through the mirror.
Gone is the confident man; now he stands awkwardly behind you, watching as you swipe at the smudges under your eyes. "Can I walk you home?" he asks, his voice hesitant.
You frown at him, turning to face him. Misreading the surprise for uneasiness, he rushes to clarify, "I don't feel right leaving you alone after... You know".
"Okay," you reply softly, a hint of laughter in your eyes at his awkwardness, but something inside flutters at his sweetness.
The brisk air wraps you in a chilly embrace, your short dress doing little to shield you from the wind. He notices and, without any hesitation, drapes his blazer around your shoulders, a warm and comforting scent cocooning you.
"I live nearby," you say quietly, the pulsing music of the bar gradually fading behind you as you lead him towards your home. An uncertain atmosphere rises as the haze of the bar lifts. You walk mere inches apart, hands brushing against each other now and then. You'd just had him carnally, and now you're laughably doubting your every move.
Summoning what little liquid courage that remains inside you, you reach out, lacing your fingers together again. From the corner of your eye, you catch him glancing at you, an inconceivable glimmer in his eyes, but he doesn't let go.
In fact, he tightens his grip.
"I wasn't lying when I said I don't do that," he says, in a perceived nonchalance, as you continue walking, not wanting you to think he was a gross old man preying on younger girls.
"I know," you reply with a soft smile at the relief that is evident in the way his shoulder drops, tension melting away as he exhales slowly.
"Now, me on the other hand..." you tease, letting your voice trail off. He huffs a laugh, the sound rich and genuine, filling the air with warmth.
"Nah," you laugh, shaking your head as you burrow into the warmth of his blazer. "Not my thing. You should consider yourself lucky." He grins, fingers tightening their hold on yours.
It doesn't take long to reach your apartment, and as you approach the familiar building, a flicker of disappointment washes over you. "Well... This is me," you say, gesturing towards the entrance, your fingers lingering in his for a heartbeat longer before you reluctantly pull away. You pull his blazer off, already missing the warmth and comfort. "Thanks for walking me home."
"Of course, he breathes, putting his blazer back on that you shamelessly hope that some of your perfume has rubbed off on. The two of you linger for a moment, neither making any move to step away.
"Kiss me goodbye?" you tease, playful as you break the silence, feet poised to step away, but to your surprise, he leans in without hesitation. His hand cups your cheek, lips brushing against yours in a soft and tender kiss that sends shivers down your spine, your breath caught in your throat at the difference in this kiss from the ones at the bar.
"Goodbye, Miss Daisy," he says, looking down at your nails and meeting your gaze again for a moment before you both step away. You glance back at him as you push open the door, the warmth of his kiss lingering and heating you long after the door clicks shut behind you.
It's only once you lie in bed, trying to sleep, that the thought hits you— you didn't even get his name.
Perhaps it's for the best. It forces your interest to cut short with nothing to search the internet for, and leaves him as just a memory for you to fantasise over. A very hot fantasy.
The elective course Criminal Psychology is nearing the halfway mark of the semester, marked by the changing leaves outside and the attendance dropping. This is no thanks to your Professor Richardson, whose monotone drones do their best to make you zone out.
Still, you show up for every class, having nothing better to do at home. You're interning at a local clinic that your father set up, following a criminal psychologist and helping her prepare cases. However, the sparsely allotted time still gives you far too much free time to consider skipping class.
So you do your best to follow along, even if you do end up doodling in your notebooks most times, letting the assigned reading teach you the material instead.
You like to arrive early to class, settle into your seat in the left corner, not too far back and not too far in the front, and look over your notes again. It allows you to avoid the awkwardness of trying to find a seat between groups of friends.
You're taking this class alone, so you're disturbing the least amount of people if you take a corner seat. Claire was supposed to be in this class with you, but changed her mind at the last minute. She made the right choice, seeing how happy she is with her cognitive course, but having her to chat with would have made you feel less out of place.
"Hi," friendly voices interrupt your reading. Louisa slides into the seat next to you, sending you a warm smile, and Annie's curls bounce as she waves her fingers at you from the adjacent seat.
Louisa and Annie had chosen the seats next to you at the beginning of the semester, and now, like a familiar default, they tended to choose the same seats. They're kind enough, but the way they occasionally engage you in conversations or invite you out with them feels more like a polite obligation rather than genuine offers.
"There are rumours that we're getting a new professor," Annie leans in, murmuring conspiratorially, her wide eyes sparkling. "—something about Professor Richardson's wife being sick."
"What?" you exclaim, setting your notebook down on the table.
"Well, not to be harsh, but I guess every cloud has a silver lining. Professor Richardson was so boring," Louisa grimaces.
"Yeah," you nod in agreement. "It's hard to imagine we can do worse."
"Hi, class," a familiar voice interrupts, snapping everyone's attention to the front of the room. The speed at which you do so nearly gives you whiplash, wanting to make sure you heard correctly.
"I'm Professor Spencer Reid. I graduated from—"
Your breath catches as you lay eyes on the man. He stands tall in a well-fitted grey suit, and you watch mesmerised as he writes his name on the board in flourishing strokes. It was him— the man from the bar.
Spencer Reid.
You taste the name on your lips in a silent whisper, finally having an answer to your mystery. You can see his lips moving as he continues speaking, but his words are drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in your ears.
Panic floods you as the realisation sets in. You had fucked your professor. Had kissed his lips. Had his fingers inside— you shake your head, cutting the train of thought off as horror pours over you.
"He's hot," Louisa whispers, and Annie giggles in response. Their voices snap you out of your stupor, your body instinctively folding into itself. Desperately trying to make yourself smaller and hide behind the back of the student in front of you. A wave of relief washes over you when you notice that neither Louisa nor Annie seem none the wiser, pens scribbling down notes with a fervour rarely seen in this class.
Despite your best efforts to focus, your eyes keep falling to his lips, his chest, his fingers— images flashing in your mind of how they felt pressed against your body. You squirm slightly in your seat as the inappropriate memories stir up a searing flutter deep inside you.
Time blurs by, and you do your best to write down a semblance of notes. But just as some of the panic had begun to settle, the guy in front of you drops his pencil, the sound attracting Spencer's attention. And before you can even think to duck your head, his eyes are on you.
He's better than you at hiding his surprise, but the signs are there if you look closely. His eyes widen, brows raising as alarm creases his face for split seconds, but then he turns his head, and all traces of it are gone. If you hadn't known to look for it, you would have doubted that he even knew you at all.
His eyes keep flickering back to you, though, an unwanted rush of desire and panic coursing through your body again, making it hard to concentrate.
After what feels like an eternity, a gentle squeeze on your arm pulls you back to reality as Louisa and Annie tell you goodbye.
All plans to leave in the sea of other students fall to the ground when you glance around, realising that most have already flooded out the doors. Still, you frantically pack your things, hoping to slip away unnoticed.
You see him from the corner of your eye as you try to rush past. He stands at his desk, methodically packing his things into a worn leather bag.
"Wait," he calls out behind you with a sense of urgency.
For a fleeting moment, you consider walking on, but with the last student having already exited the room, you realise that there's no plausible reason not to stop.
With a deep breath, you turn around, your shoulders tense and heart racing. "Hi."
"Hi," he replies, his feet halting a few paces away from you. He runs his eyes over you, taking in your appearance. Gone is the party girl in a too-short dress; your thighs are covered by a mid-length skirt, just a sliver of your skin peeking out now.
"So..." you run a hand through your hair, a gesture that betrays your nerves. "This was unexpected."
He chuckles softly— a huff of laughter that somewhat eases the air. "Yes." He hesitates, his eyes searching yours for something unknown to you. "Uh... You can't tell anyone about what happened. Even if we didn't know, it might not reflect well on me— or you... I—" His words spill out in a frantic rush, betraying how worried he was.
"Oh no, I wouldn't," you interject quickly. "I haven't told anyone, actually. I kept it for myself," you confess, offering him an awkward smile at your unexpected honesty, fingers nervously fumbling with the strap of your bag. When Claire texted you the next day detailing her night, you didn't mention anything about yours; it didn't feel right to share it.
He exhales sharply, a look of relief crossing his face as the weight of unspoken fears begins to lift. Silence falls between you, thick and charged.
He's so much taller than you remembered, and you're relieved that your fantasies about his handsome face hadn't been a conjured-up drunken haze.
"Wait, how old are you?" A pinch of panic flickers back to life in his eyes.
"I'm old enough," you reply, a hint of laughter escaping your lips. Your answer does little to quell his worries as he simply stares at you.
"I'm twenty-five," you clarify, eyes glinting mirthfully as his shoulders drop, tension melting away. It's silent for no more than five seconds before you speak again. "Well... I should—" you gesture to the door, needing to escape before the awkwardness kills you or makes you say something stupid, but his voice halts your movement once again.
"Your necklace is—" his words catch in the air, stopping you in your tracks as he steps closer, hands reaching for your neck. His fingers brush against your skin, a feather-light touch that ignites a spark, as he catches the chain before it slips away. Instinctively, you brush your hair to one side, watching with bated breath as he clasps the lock back into place. Up close, the details of his face sharpen— the warmth of his smile lines, the shadows under his eyes carrying hints of sleepless nights, things your drunken mind hadn't thought to remember.
"Thanks," you breathe out, the moment stretching between you as your eyes meet again. Swirly chocolate pools that you could drown in. You lick your lips, swallowing hard at his closeness and the scent of him that brings back memories. Remembering how he had kissed you a few days ago, and how you had thought of that ever since.
"You're welcome," he replies, his eyes flickering down to your lips and then onto the chain he's still holding. "Daisy again?" he asks, fiddling the pendant between his fingers before letting go. "You know, daisies are often associated with purity, innocence and new beginnings."
You hum, afraid to speak again lest your inner voice betrays you. Body flushing with images of the impure things he did to you, and how you definitely couldn't be classified as innocent with the way you’re thinking about him.
An inner struggle flashes across his features, but something in your eyes seems to convince him. "Fuck it," he breathes, the gravity of his decision palpable before he closes the distance, lips crashing against yours with a fervour that sends a rush of warmth through your entire body.
You respond with an equal hunger, moving all too eagerly with him as he guides you to the desk. His hands grab hold of your thighs, and he perches you on the edge, nudging your legs apart so he can slot in between. Your lips part, allowing his tongue to slip inside, as his hands find their place at your waist.
"I—I can't stop," he groans, hips pushing closer to you, a familiar hardness pressing against you. "I've been thinking about you all week," he confesses, a thrill rushing through you. He trails kisses down your jaw onto your neck, and when he nibs at your earlobe, you let your own confession slip.
"I've thought about you, too," you admit shyly, but the moan he lets out emboldens you. "I couldn't focus during class— I kept thinking about your hands on my body. On how you touched me last week."
His kisses return with a dizzying fervour, his hands touching everywhere. He pulls your hair, cradles your jaw, cups your boobs before he tugs at the hem of your skirt. "Can I?" he asks, between kisses. You moan in reply, but he tuts gently.
"Yes," you breathe, amused as you remember his fondness for the spoken word. He doesn't waste time, scrunching the fabric up as his hands trail up your thighs.
"Christ," he swears once his eyeline reaches your panties. "You're soaked." He brushes a knuckle against the wet patch before swiftly hooking his fingers under the fabric and revealing your pussy in all its dripping glory.
"God. We shouldn't," he says, but still he swipes his thumb against your folds, spreading your wetness around.
"Please," you breathe, hips thrusting toward him as you try to increase the pressure.
"I don't—" he starts before he huffs out an unamused laugh. "I don't have a condom." The irony of it isn't lost on either of you.
"But—" he bends down until he's crouched between your legs, fingers still holding your panties to the side. "This is just as good." He looks up at you, eyes dark and smouldering, before he licks a broad stripe up your cunt.
"Fu-" you gasp, head falling backwards in pleasure, your hands just barely steadying you on the desk.
He chuckles, pleased with himself as his free hand grasps your thigh, his shoulder bumping against the other, keeping them from closing around his head.
He leans in again, but this time he nibs at your thigh, biting and kissing everywhere else but the place where you want him the most. "She's a desperate one, isn't she?" he comments, watching as you clench around nothing, drops of wetness trailing down your thighs.
"Please," you moan, hips wriggling as much as he allows, trying to move his face closer.
"Call me Spencer," he murmurs, watching your antics amusedly.
"Please, Spencer," you whine as heat pools in your belly.
"Please what?" he teases, licking a stripe just beside your folds.
Embarrassment shoots up your spine, but desire wins as you finally whisper, "Please lick my pussy." The feeling quickly dissipates as his lips close over your clit in a light suck that has your toes curling.
Pleasure courses through your blood, rushing and pulsating as he licks and sucks. Finding the precise movements that have you gasping or pulling at his hair. He moans, lightly murmuring as he glances up at you, "You taste so good," before diving back in.
Your body tingles, and once he adds his fingers, the wave of pleasure builds. He curls them, easily finding the spot that makes your legs tremble, already too familiar with your body. You try to hold back, not wanting the moment to end already, but it's too late. A crashing wave floods your senses, and you bite down hard on your lips, trying your best to keep quiet.
"You did so well," he murmurs once he comes up for air, releasing his hold on your panties. He places them properly, pulling down your skirt before he stands up. His chin and lips glisten in the light, and he swipes at them with the back of his hand. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you breathe, hands slotting into his as he helps you off the desk, steadying you until your trembling legs find a stable position. "That was..." you pause, breathing deeply. "Incredible."
He laughs shyly, his bravado gone as he rubs a hand on the back of his neck. "We can't do that again."
"Not even—" you glance down at his pants that seem to struggle to contain him.
He hesitates, tempted, but ultimately says, "No. This can't happen again." He tries to be stern, but his eyes betray him, pupils letting you know just how affected he is.
"Okay. If you say so," you relent with a shrug.
And so you don't do it again. You definitely don't do it when you visit him at the end of his office hours. His desk has definitely never had its hinges rattle as he pounds into you. His couch has never had your face pressed into the pillows, trying to keep your moans down. And the wall has definitely not felt your body pressed up against it, nor has the carpet burned your knees as you knelt on it.
He definitely doesn't keep a stock of condoms in his desk drawer, and you definitely don't buy new underwear just for him.
No, the two of you never do it again...
Definitely not.
Weeks pass, and autumn roars its windy and rainy head as the semester passes the halfway mark, your two-week break nearing.
Autumn does have its good days, though, sunshine breaking through the covers of clouds, letting some semblance of summer linger. You and Claire find a spot on campus, on a slightly secluded bench where a ray of sunshine hits, both clutching a steaming cup of coffee.
It's been weeks since you last saw Claire. Her workload has been crazy with two classes and her job, as well as roommate drama. True to her nature, this doesn't deter her, and she stumbles right into a story about her roommate stealing her top and lying about it.
You hum at the right moments, eyes drifting over campus at the changing leaves, groups of friends teasing each other, couples holding hands and sharing kisses—
"Who is that?" Claire exclaims, cutting herself off. You follow her line of sight until you see... Spencer.
"He's hot," she continues, biting her lip as she stares shamelessly.
"That's... Uh, that's my professor," you murmur, bumping your shoulder into hers, afraid he'll spot you. "Stop staring."
"Damn," she sighs. "I should've never switched courses. How do you even concentrate in class?"
"I—" your eyes widen, panic floating through your body, afraid that you'll let your secret slip.
"Come on! You find him hot, too," she exclaims, slapping your shoulder, mistaking your panic for reluctance to confess your attraction. Your shoulders drop in relief, grateful that she can't read you that well.
"...Yeah, maybe," you admit, eyes floating back to his figure, admiring the sight. He's in a brown sweater vest, his usual blazer resting loosely on his arm. Casual in a way that only he could be while still wearing a tie. His leather bag swings from his shoulder as he makes his way across campus, too engrossed in his book to notice the two of you ogling him, thankfully.
Claire giggles loudly into her cup, "Maybe my ass." Her sarcastic drawl draws laughter out of you, too.
As she returns to her story, your eyes sneak a look at his disappearing figure, counting down the days until you can see him again.
You've tried to convince him to come to your apartment, but he's adamant that all contact must be on campus— that way, you have some semblance of an excuse for being with each other.
So you only see him twice a week, in class and after his office hours. The rest of the week is for daydreaming.
Without intending to, the dynamic between you shifts from being solely physical to something far more intricate. Most of the time now, you end up staying in his office after he’s done rearranging your guts. He sits at his desk preparing for class or grading papers, and you scribble notes down as you read on the couch. It's light and cosy, yet charged with an unspoken tension that neither of you dares to address.
Your conversations don’t go beneath the surface, an unspoken boundary set in place. He shares his enthusiasm for teaching and rambles on about topics that you have no interest in, but that you are far too willing to sit and listen to. You talk about your aspirations, the paths you dream of exploring after college and explain random and silly trends that he doesn't know of. The age gap between you only seems visible in those moments, and yet it still feels so insignificant.
Things change on a pouring Tuesday when you show up for class, grin gone and body stiff. He watches as you laugh at Louisa and Annie's chatter, but it is a mechanical sound, not like your usual self. He tries to catch your eye throughout the entire class, but you stare down at your notebook the entire lesson, scribbling down notes robotically.
The secret you shared tightened its chokehold when he had to bite back his concern. Couldn't call out for you to wait when you rushed out of class. Couldn't afford to ask you what's going on in front of everyone, the price of not acting suspicious winning over his suffocating concern.
Relief washes over him when you enter his office later, slipping in without knocking. He hadn't been sure that you would show up after class earlier, and he's ashamed to admit that his mind had been running loops, creating numerous scenarios for your strange behaviour— most about you regretting doing this with him. His fear of taking advantage of you is always lurking in the back of his mind.
You move almost on instinct, finding your way to him with an urgency unlike you. You crash into him, your lips pressing against his with a desperation that leaves him momentarily stunned.
"Hey," he murmurs, holding you back so he can see your face. "What's going on, Daisy?" The nickname slips out, unguarded, but you don't even seem to register it.
"Please, I don't want to talk about it," you breathe. "I don't want to think. Can we just— Please." The words scratch their way out of your throat, the rawness surprising him.
He hesitates, searching your eyes for clarity, but then nods, leaning in again. He takes control, and you let him. His body envelops you, his touch bringing you to a place where you float. To a place where you don't have to think about anything else but the pleasure that he gives you.
Afterwards, he sits you gently down on his couch, wrapping you in the soft blanket he keeps on the side, after you complained about his office being too cold. You pull your knees up to your chest, watching silently as he brings the kettle in the window to a boil. He fishes out two cups, dropping teabags into them before pouring the steaming water carefully. He places them on the side table before settling down next to you.
Silence stretches, settling into every nook and cranny, but he doesn't do anything to fill it. He simply sits with you.
"My mom died four years ago today," you eventually murmur, gaze drifting to the shadows that flicker and sway on the wall across you.
"I'm really sorry for your loss," he replies softly, his voice gentle and sincere. He doesn't try to make you feel better or tell you that it will get easier with time. He knows it doesn't help, so he just remains steady and earnest.
"Thank you," you whisper, your head slipping to rest against his shoulder. "I didn't know my dad until she was too sick to—" a lump rises in your throat, making it difficult to continue. His fingers find yours, the familiar warmth comforting you.
"She kept him a secret— kept me a secret from him, too. And he tries... but it's not the same. I—" you pause, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. "I just miss my mom." Your voice cracks into a sob, the tears that had been brimming falling freely now as he wraps you in a hug. He holds you until you pull back.
Then he breaks his own rules when he drives you home. You don't speak about it, but you don't feel as alone as you did when you woke up.
The excitement is clear as students rush out of their seats the moment class is over— ready for the two-week break.
You bid Louisa and Annie farewell, letting them drift away into the bustling hallway while you linger behind in class purposefully. Normally, you would walk with them to avoid suspicion and meet Spencer in the seclusion of his office later.
But today is different. You have plans for the break and don't have time to see him later. No matter how much you wished you did.
As the last student leaves through the doorway, door banging shut behind them, you make your way towards him, sensing his gaze on you before you turn to meet it.
"Everything okay?" he asks, his brows knitting together with a hint of concern. You stick to the rules you had set up, so the departure from your usual routine worries him. Ever since that day in his office, he has found himself worrying more about you than he should. He tracks your facial expressions in class, the way you seem to engage in conversation, but then suddenly shy away. He can't stop, no matter how many times he tells himself it's wrong.
"Yeah," you reply, a warm smile spreading across your face as you stop, a few feet away— close enough that the faint aura of his cologne tickles your senses, yet far enough to keep things discreet. "I can't stop by later; I have to go to my dad's."
His expression softens, but you can see a flicker of disappointment cross his features as he processes your words. "I see," he says, shifting on his feet, slightly moving closer to you. "Any fun plans during the break?" he asks deceptively lightly, but the unspoken question hangs in the air: Would you forget him during the time apart?
"Nah, just spending some time with my dad," you shrug lightly. "Nothing exciting." His shoulders relax somewhat at your words. "What about you?" you inquire.
"Gonna spend the break grading papers," he murmurs, his hands finding yours without meaning to, fingers folding over yours with a comforting pressure.
"Okay," you reply, squeezing his fingers tightly, an unspoken promise lingering between you. "I'll see you after the break, yeah?"
"Yeah," he echoes back, his voice steady but laced with a hint of something else. You glance around the room, gathering courage, before you lean in, lips pressing against his quickly. He answers immediately, his hands gripping your waist, drawing you close for just a heartbeat longer than he should out in the open.
"Bye," you say, stepping back reluctantly. You wave your fingers at him, an ambivalent flutter spreading through your stomach as you catch his wistful smile.
"Bye, Daisy."
Even though you've been at your dad's place countless times, it never ceases to amaze you. It practically towers over you with multiple stories, a stark contrast to the small apartment you grew up in. More often than you can remember, you had to endure cold showers until your mom could scrape enough money together to turn the heat back on.
You don't have to do that anymore. Not ever since your dad learned of your existence. He bought you an apartment in a location far too expensive for any other student to live. He got you books for uni, replaced your old laptop with a sleek new model, and even sent you extra money that you could use for anything you wanted. Thanks to his generosity, you don’t even have to juggle a part-time job like most other students, as student debt isn’t a problem for you.
Even if you hadn't been studying psychology, it's clear that he tries his best to make up for the years he missed through monetary means. The demands of his job also keep him away most of the time, so he doesn't have much time to spend with you.
Guess that's how it is, being David Rossi, supervisory special agent in the BAU. At least that's how your mom explained it to you. That she did it for your own good, that he was too busy to have a kid.
But he tries his best, carves out time in his schedule when he can to be with you. To make up for missing out.
As you unlock the door, the familiar joyful sound of cara mia echoes through the hallway. You are enveloped in a warm embrace the moment he comes around the corner. "I am so happy to see you," he declares, an unmistakable warmth in his voice.
"Hi, Dad," you smile, as you loosen his hold and hang up your coat and scarf.
You're still not entirely comfortable calling him that, mentally referring to him as Rossi still, but years in therapy have helped to ease the sting of his absence as well as the knowledge that he hadn't abandoned you purposefully. Now, with his steadfast commitment to building a relationship, you find yourself wanting to meet him in the middle. The clear joy on his face when you do also makes it worth it to keep doing it.
"I made carbonara, just how you love it," he points toward the kitchen, and a delicious smell hits you, stomach grumbling in response. "Come on," he chuckles, guiding you to the dining table before entering the kitchen.
He returns with two heaping plates and pours a deep red wine into glasses. "If I remember correctly, you liked this wine last time, no?"
You nod, a soft hum escaping you as he pours. You both dig in as a comfortable silence folds over you. Without meaning to, your mind flickers back to earlier, the electric kiss you shared with Spencer lingering in your thoughts.
"Where's your mind drifting off to?" Rossi asks, an all-too-knowing grin stretching across his face. "You've got a boyfriend, I don't know about?"
"What?" you nearly choke out a mouthful, eyes wide in panic. "No!" You're painfully aware of how your reaction betrays you. Damn him and his profiling skills.
"Okay, whatever you say, amor." He chuckles, his gaze softening as he mercifully drops the subject. The heat in your cheeks begins to fade as he shifts the conversation to your internship, eager to know what you've learned so far and if he can contribute any of his own learnings to them.
Spencer is definitely not your boyfriend. No, he's... he's just someone you have sex with. Incredibly good sex, but just sex, nonetheless.
You never imagine what it would be like to hold hands in public, go on dates or wake up in the morning together. That's not the kind of relationship you have.
So you definitely don't do that.
The Rossi household is buzzing with guests, all gathered to celebrate Rossi's latest milestone— the tenth anniversary of his first book. It's not an official event, just a gathering for close friends, and serves more as an excuse for him to bring out that expensive whiskey he saves for special occasions.
However, given that it is Rossi hosting, who has an affinity for the finer things in life, the atmosphere is infused with elegance and guests are dressed to impress. You're in a long, one-shouldered dress that makes you feel more sophisticated than you are. An armour that you hope will help you feel less insignificant in a room of the most intelligent people you'd ever meet.
Rossi introduces you to his team, who all greet you with interested eyes. They were by his side when he received the call from your mom and had witnessed the whirlwind of disbelief that followed. But they had also seen how his eyes lit up whenever you'd been to visit him, and so they were more than a little curious to meet you.
Despite their warm intentions, the intensity and the gleam in their eyes fluster you, and so you step away as soon as you can without being impolite.
As you slip through the terrace doors, you welcome the refreshing chill of the evening breeze that washes over you. With a glass of wine in hand, you find solace in a secluded corner, gazing up at the twinkling stars.
"Ah, cara mia. There you are," Rossi's familiar timbre calls softly after some time. "I want you to meet my former colleague. The two of you have a great deal in common."
You inhale deeply, casting one last lingering glance at the night sky before you turn around.
The greeting on the tip of your tongue dies as Spencer steps into view— a picture of handsomeness. He is in a suit like always, but this one is clearly more expensive. It fits him well, fabric stretching over his strong arms.
"This is Spencer Reid," Rossi announces with enthusiasm, a proud smile on his face as he claps a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "We used to call him boy-genius. There isn't a thing this man doesn't know."
"You talk too highly of me," Spencer murmurs to him, but his eyes don't leave you, an unknown emotion flickering in them.
"Hi," you manage to say, your voice barely rising above a whisper, as you struggle to maintain your composure. Spencer merely nods in acknowledgement, his expression now hardened and void of any other emotion.
Rossi studies you, brows furrowed as he processes the odd atmosphere between you and Spencer. "Have you met be—" His mouth closes as a bright voice calls from inside, summoning both him and Spencer back inside. He turns with an expression that lets you know he knows something, but ultimately decides to leave it be, as he steps inside.
"It was nice to meet you," Spencer says at last, before he turns to follow. He stops just before the door, giving you a final, lingering glance over his shoulder before he disappears through the doors.
Panic roots you to the ground, but the moment you're able to move, you navigate the crowd as swiftly as you can to the safety of your room, trying your best not to raise suspicion.
As the door closes behind you, your chest bursts into quick breaths, distress pouring over you like wet, thick molasses.
Oh God. Rossi knew something was up, and Spencer, he—
He probably thought this was some sort of sick game. That you had known he was Rossi's friend the moment you saw him. Bile rises in your throat, a choking sound leaving you as you clutch at your throat.
A sharp knock on the door interrupts the suffocating grasp of your panic.
"Dad, I—" you croak, voice mangled.
"It's me," a familiar voice speaks through the door.
Spencer. Of course.
You hesitate for a moment, heart racing, before opening the door. He bursts in, door closing behind him forcefully, back pressed against it as if to hold him up.
His wild eyes search yours, desperation etched into every crease of his face. "Did you know?"
"No, I didn't know. I—" You press your trembling fingers against your forehead, trying to will away the sharp throb building there. "Please, I didn't know."
"On the first day in class, I told you that I previously worked as a profiler in the BAU," he counters.
"I was freaked out. I didn't hear it," you exclaim, all too aware of how bad it sounded, and how every word sounded like a pathetic lie.
"I—" his voice falters for a moment, taking in the panic in your stature, but you can see the gears turning in his mind as realisation hits him, concern fading. He lets out a low, humourless laugh. "That's why you and Claire were laughing when you saw me on campus. I bet you were talking about what a fucking idiot I am."
"What? No!" Your protest feels feeble against the fire he is currently stoking, branch after branch feeding the heat.
"I bet you somehow even orchestrated the whole thing in the bar." He gestures dramatically, fingers raised in air quotes, "Let's have some fun and ruin this man's life."
"I wouldn't-" you attempt to interject, a new form of panic forming.
He runs a hand through his hair. "I didn't think your daddy issues were this bad that you would fuck his former colleague to get back at him for missing out on your life."
A surge of disbelief washes over you, and tears threaten to spill from the corners of your eyes, which you desperately blink away. "I can't believe you said that."
He falters for a split second, eyes softening at your reaction, yet he continues, delivering the final, crushing blow. "And as a bonus, you'd also fuck your way to better grades."
"You—" you blink, face crumbling under the weight of his accusations. "I didn't do that myself?" Memories of celebrated achievements, good jobs, and high grades flood your mind, your pride deflating into a sharp ache.
He bites down on his lip, finally allowing a tense silence to sink its claws into the room.
"I—" you take a shaky breath, chest tightening as you fight to keep your emotions in check, acutely aware of the party waiting for you downstairs. The desperate urge you had to make things right, to make him believe you, fades as scorching frustration morphs into the cold sting of betrayal. The realisation that he thought your relationship, or whatever you could call it, was a reciprocal transaction, good grades for sex, hurts more than you care to admit.
"I can't believe you think that lowly of me. I would never do that. I—" you shake your head, halting yourself mid-sentence. He didn't care to listen before, so he doesn't deserve to hear it now.
"Dais," he says, doubt flaring at your genuine hurt, but you brush past him, feeling the weight of the moment settle heavily on your shoulders.
"Don't call me that." Your hand lingers on the doorknob, pausing for just a beat as the depth of the situation hits you, realising that leaving means shattering whatever it is you share for good.
"Goodbye, Professor Reid."
The break passes in a blur, over before you even know it. You spend the first week at Rossi's house, trying desperately to maintain an air of normalcy, though you can feel him seeing right through the facade.
He's perceptive, but he doesn't confront you about it, doesn't mention how swollen your eyes are when you wake; instead, he fills the silence with efforts to distract you, and offers gentle reminders that he's there if you want to talk.
You don't.
By the second week, the hurt sours, and frustration and bitterness crash down on you like an unstoppable wave. Your apartment feels even more empty, so you reach out to Claire, desperately seeking any form of distraction, even with the knowledge that she will ditch you if a guy approaches her. It's still better than sitting on your own.
But Claire's not home. She's flown back home and won't return until break's over. So in desperation, you text Louisa, half-expecting her to leave your message unread.
To your surprise, she responds quickly, inviting you out with her, Annie, and some of their friends. You consider backing out right until the last minute, overwhelmed by self-doubt, but end up forcing yourself to go.
The group of strangers welcome you immediately, and the worry you felt disappears quickly as the shots rain down on you. You didn't even know that partying with your friends could be that much fun. Dancing, singing, and laughing until your sides hurt. Annie even lets it slip just how happy they are that you finally agreed to come.
A couple of them crash at your place afterwards, after missing the last bus home, and you raid the local pizzeria before going home, promising to do it again soon.
It's the most fun you've had in weeks. Maybe even longer.
When the break comes to an end, however, the thought of returning to class feels insurmountable. You send Louisa and Annie a white lie about the overwhelming workload in your internship, an urgent case they need help with, and they promise to share their notes.
You're not ready to face him just yet. The image of him in your bedroom plays on a constant loop, each detail seared into your memory— the narrowing of his eyes, the harsh laughter that feels like daggers, and the weight of his cruel words that linger and taunt you. The hurt burrows deep, refusing to fade.
No matter how hard you try to distract yourself, the truth remains— you'd fallen for him, handed him your heart on a platter, only for him to crush it beneath his foot, leaving you alone to try and pick up the pieces.
It takes you three weeks to gather the courage to walk through those familiar doors again. You arrive later than you usually would, afraid that he is waiting for you before class, aware of your usual pattern.
He's apparently a profiler, so it isn't an irrational fear.
As you step into the room, Louisa and Annie spot you immediately, their faces lighting up with matching grins. They wave you over to your usual seat, reserved for you, when you texted that you were coming.
A soft sigh escapes your lips as you make your way over, relieved that he isn't there yet, a small smile forming as you embrace them. The warmth of their genuine affection melts away some of your lingering hesitation about whether the fun in the break was just a fluke, that they'd realised that you weren't fun to hang out with after all.
"It's so good to see you again," Louisa exclaims, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm, while Annie nods vigorously in agreement. "We need to go out again soon!" Their genuine happiness wraps around you as you slide past them into your seat.
Louisa begins to recount the events of the past few weeks, her tone laced with concern as she mentions Professor Reid. “He’s been acting strange lately. The other day, he went off on a random tangent about cars for ten minutes instead of talking about stressors. It was just… odd.”
Your ears perk up at the mention of his name, your grip on the pen you need slipping as it tumbles into your bag again.
Annie leans in, her brows raised high. “And he’s clearly not sleeping,” she adds. “It’s just… something feels off.”
You find yourself frozen, one hand still buried in your bag, your thoughts racing at the revelation. Was this because of you? Panic swirls in your stomach as you realise they're watching you expectantly. “That does sound weird,” you manage to say, your voice steadying itself.
"Yeah," Louisa nods, about to continue, but cutting herself short when the doors swing open.
He steps in, and your heart sinks at the sight. He looks worse for wear—his usually pristine curls are now falling haphazardly, and his suit appears rumpled, the fabric barely holding its shape. Deep shadows mar his features, giving him a haunted look as he drops his bag onto the desk with an exhausted sigh.
"As mentioned last week, a stressor is an event that pushes a potential offender to act on their impulses." He begins without further ado, eyes flickering momentarily to your seat, as if on instinct. A casual glance before he looks away again.
"It's—" The sentence hangs in the air, interrupted by a pause that stretches uncomfortably as his mind processes the sight of you—actually sitting there, in front of him.
When his gaze returns, it's intense, locking onto you for a heartbeat longer than necessary, until the reality of the situation rushes back in and he tears his gaze away. He clears his throat softly, the sound a combination of nerves and uncertainty, as he fumbles over his next words. "Sorry. It's important to consider what this stressor can be..."
But his words drift past you, barely registering as his harsh words swirl in your mind again. Time ticks by, each second feeling more like a minute, before you're able to sprint out of class again.
You knew deep down that you shouldn’t have come—not yet. And seeing him supports this. It hurts too much to see him.
You don't show up at the next class, instead huddling up on your couch, desperately trying to drown out your thoughts by focusing on your assignment. Spencer's claim of you fucking your way to better grades haunts you, though, casting a shadow over every word you write. You question the validity of your arguments, hating how each sentence seems more flawed than the previous.
A persistent knocking at your door breaks through your spiral of frustration, but it doesn’t register at first. You disregard it, focusing on the structure of an aggravating sentence. Searching for the perfect word, changing the order—
It continues, though, relentlessly, until you can no longer ignore it.
Irritated, you shove your laptop aside, tossing off the blanket, blinking to adjust to the darkness that had crept into the room unnoticed.
You skip the peephole, aware of the scolding Rossi would give you, but too frustrated to care at this moment.
"What?" you snap as you fling the door open, revealing Spencer standing there. His fist is poised in mid-air, hair a tousled mess as if he’s run his hands through it countless times, shirt wrinkled, and... clutched in his hands is a bouquet of daisies.
"What do you want?" your grit, your voice steadier than you anticipated.
"I—" he murmurs, lost for words, his gaze falling on you and retreating into a vulnerable, uncertain silence.
You wait for him to continue, patience running thin when he just stands there.
"Oh-kay..." you say, fingers brushing against the door frame as you start to close it. "Good talk."
"No, wait!" he bursts, his palm halting the door’s closing. “Can I— Can I come inside?”
You hesitate, weighing the sincerity and desperation etched on his face, your resolve softening. "Okay. You have five minutes." You relent, stepping back to let him in.
As he enters your small hallway, his gaze drifts over your coatrack, landing on the small side table cluttered with knick-knacks and the painting of daisies you discovered in a vintage shop. He huffs a half-amused breath at the sight.
He runs a hand through his hair again, bouquet pressed tightly to his chest as if it could anchor him. “I’m sorry,” he starts, voice trembling. “I... I messed up. I was so wrapped up in my own hurt that I didn’t even think about how crazy it was to accuse you of that. I am so, so sorry. I was so—” His voice falters, cracking under the weight of his remorse.
“I was cruel. I shouldn't have said what I said. That wasn't fair, and it definitely isn't true. They say you get wiser with age, but I guess I was greedy at birth," he grimaces ruefully as the joke purposefully falls flat.
Your tongue traces your teeth, grappling with his words as they settle in the cracks of your chest. “I-I just don’t understand why you would think that about me. What have I done to deserve that?”
"Nothing," he rushes to assure you. “I was a fool." He pauses, gathering his thoughts. "I... I was so terrified of what I felt for you that I stumbled the moment things became a bit shaky. You're too young for me, and I kept thinking that you could do so much better, and it just exploded when I saw you there." He swallows hard, fingers tightening their hold on the bouquet.
"I couldn't deal with the fact that I love you and what it meant if all of it had just been a ploy to get back at Rossi."
His confession sucks the breath out of you, world standing still as the words linger in the air.
"You... You love me?" The words stick to your skin, and tears well up in your eyes, blurring the edges of your vision. You blink to keep them at bay, your fingers anxiously twisting the fabric of your shirt, desperately trying to absorb the gravity of his confession.
"I do." He says simply, the weight of his sincerity, weaving a fragile thread of hope between you, of a possible reconciliation.
“So it wasn’t true what you said? Not even the part... the part about my grades?” you say, voice trembling with raw emotion.
"God, no!" he takes a tentative step forward, and emboldened by your lack of retreat, he inches even closer. "You're one of the smartest students I've ever taught. You're so curious about the world that it inspires me to keep learning, too.
A stray tear breaks free and traces a path down your cheek. He reaches out hesitantly, his thumb gently brushing away the tear with a tenderness that sends shivers down your spine. His hand cradles your face, and all the anger you harboured dissipates, too fatigued to keep it going. Instinctively, you lean into his palm.
"I'm so sorry, Dais," he murmurs softly. The nickname sends a wave of emotion crashing over you, triggering a flood of emotion that you can no longer contain. A sob escapes your throat, and without second thought, he wraps you in a protective embrace, holding you close as the tension melts away.
"You were so mean," you cry into his chest, fingers clutching the fabric tightly, a desperate attempt to ground yourself amidst the whirlwind of feelings.
"I was," he concedes, his voice low and sincere, his hand gently stroking your back until your sobs begin to subside.
“You brought me daisies,” you hiccup, pulling back slightly and glancing at the flowers still in his grasp. “I’ll find a vase.” You turn toward the kitchen, only pausing when you realise he’s not following. “You coming?”
He nods eagerly, toeing off his shoes and hanging up his coat, a glimmer of hope lighting up his weary eyes as he accepts your flimsy offer of indulgence.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you," you warn, remnants of hurt still lingering like a stubborn, oily film on your skin.
"I know," he replies, lingering in the doorway.
You rummage for a vase in your cupboards, and as you fill it up with water, you murmur softly, your back turned to him. "I love you, too."
When you eventually dare to look at him, there are tears in his eyes, but also a smile on his face.
Your admission doesn't fix things, but sensing his determination to make amends for all the hurt, you're willing to try.
The semester ends before you can even blink— or at least that's how it feels.
Louisa and Annie become close friends, and the three of you meet often for coffee. You join their nights out, even inviting Claire to join at times, and when she inevitably disappears, you don't mind, dancing the night away with them instead.
Your internship draws to a close with an important case that you pour extra hours into, and ends with an offer of a part-time job as you study, and a full-time position once you've graduated.
The extra workload also meant that you were unable to see Spencer in his office like you used to. But that doesn't hinder him from seeing you anymore. All the rules he had created for himself didn't matter the second he knew what it was like to lose you. Your relationship is still a secret, but he shows up at your place whenever you both have the time, even if it is just to sit and work together.
He's shown you that he definitely isn't just with you for the sex. He's cooked dinner (you take over that part now, after he managed to burn pasta), watched cringy movies, and cuddled up on the couch, and not once has he attempted to move further.
He's the perfect gentleman trying to win you back. And if you're honest, it didn't take much for you to forgive him. Not when you understood his side of things and saw how his regret bled into his every action. But you're so done with gentle and tender kisses and brushes of fingers on your waist.
You want more. And if he's not gonna give it to you, you'll take it yourself.
Candles flicker on the table as you pour wine into two glasses. The door opens behind you, with a flick of the key you'd given Spencer.
"Hi, Dais," he says from the hallway as he hangs up his coat and puts down his bag. "It smells amazing in here." He enters the kitchen, cheeks flushed from the cold, flecks of snow wetting his hair.
He comes to kiss your cheek as you ladle food onto two plates. But when he turns to sit down, you catch him by the lapel, pulling him into a passionate kiss. His hands automatically pull you closer, folding over the curves of your hips. Your heart beat flutters, skipping a beat as he enthusiastically moulds himself to you. It's been weeks since you've shared this kind of kiss, and you've missed it more than you thought.
"Hi," you breathe once you break the kiss.
"Hi," he smiles, amused but slightly breathless. "This is a nice welcome home." His fingers trace familiar patterns on your hips.
"Mmm," you hum, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, huffing a laugh when he chases you as you step back. "Sit." You point to the table to which he reluctantly sits.
Dinner is charged with tension. His eyes keep dipping down to your lips, and you do your best to ignore it, questioning him about his day, while your foot traces patterns on his leg.
His eyes flash, pupils darkening, when you pull off your sweater, claiming to be warm, and reveal a lacy top, more lingerie than normal wear. His fingers tighten around the fork, and his reaction pools heat low in your belly.
The second you're finished, standing to carry the dishes to the sink, he's upon you.
"I think those can wait," he breathes into the back of your neck.
"No, I—" you start to tease, but gasp when he presses himself into you, his hard cock prodding against you. You move slowly, pushing back into him. He groans, and memories of this exact position from when you first met flash over you.
Who knew that the man from the bar would end up here with you, bodies pressed tightly together in your kitchen.
Spencer breaks your deja vu, spinning you around before throwing you over his shoulder.
"Sp-Spence—" you squeak, giggling but breaking off into a gasp, when he smacks your ass.
"What?" he asks as he sets you down on the bed, smirking at your flushed appearance. He crawls after you, crowding you. "Isn't this what you wanted?"
He turns your head, pressing soft kisses against your neck. He trails kisses down to the swell of your breasts, pulling the sheer fabric out of the way as he swipes his tongue over a nipple, revelling in your responsive reaction.
With a soft suck, he pulls back entirely, settling down next to you.
He grins when your eyes open in confusion. "If you want something, then come get it."
You're too horny, too deprived, that embarrassment doesn't even creep up your spine at the speed at which you straddle him. Your lips find his with an urgency that cuts his laugh off with a gasp.
His teasing stops, unable to stop himself from accepting the invitation in the form of your parting lips. Your hips grind circles on his lap, moans spilling from your lips as his lips close over your nipples again.
He looks stunning. Scrunched up brows, darkened pupils and lips a delicious red shade. A stir flutters inside, desperation pouring over you.
"N-Need you inside," you murmur, words cracking as he nips at the bud. Clothes fly off at the speed of light, fire burning in your veins as he eventually stands naked before you, putting on a condom.
"You sure you don't want me to—" he trails off when he crawls over you, groaning at the wetness that catches on his thumb when he brushes a hand down your body.
"I just want you," you whisper, pulling him close. "I missed this."
You can feel his breath stuttering at your words, and his hesitation disappears as he gently pushes inside. He's big, thicker than you remember, and he stills once all of him is inside.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, lips meeting yours as you get accustomed to his size. The stretch turns from uncomfortable to delicious faster than you expected, and soon you're begging for the slight thrusts to turn harder.
He obeys, snapping into your warmth, with a fervour that has you trembling. His fingers trail down, circling your clit, and a warmth begins to spread, faster than you're used to.
"I missed this. Missed feeling your tight pussy clench around me, missed how fucking wet you get—" he murmurs, and the filthy words combined with the pressure of his thumb bring you over the edge.
He follows soon after with a loud groan as he spills into the condom. He ties it, throws it into the bin in the corner, before he pulls you close again.
"You know, we're gonna have to do that again," he murmurs into your hair. "I don't think I've ever lasted that short before."
You bury your face in his chest, a laugh bubbling in your throat. "What about when I sucked your dick the first—" A hand flies over your mouth, cutting off your words.
"Hey, you promised not to talk about that." He sounds indignant, but there's a wide grin on his face as he pulls you back into his chest. "You're unbelievable."
You press yourself closer, contentedly closing your eyes as he presses a soft kiss to your hairline.
Having him this way brings back a sense of normalcy, but it's so much better than it ever was before. This time, you get to wake up with him in the morning.
summary: spencer brings you back from the land of dreams to a state of euphoria, just to get the guilt of not being part of your reality off his chest.
content warnings: somnophilia, dubcon, fingering, p in v, condoms mentioned (safety is sexy), no aftercare (it's sleepy sex, people)
word count: 1.2k
author's note: listened to 'you you you' a lot for this fic
He’s late. Again. He’s always loved his job, until you came along and now, all he wants, all he can think about is coming back home to you. Spencer sighed, pushing his key through the lock on the door, the warm light of a lamp left on for him, probably so he wouldn’t bump into something, like the clumsy ass he is. The bruise on his knee from your coffee table still hasn’t faded completely. The door closed with a click and he silently toed off his shoes, leaving his satchel and bags by the couch to find you sprawled in bed, asleep in the cutest pyjamas, leaving a pit of guilt in his stomach. He wanted to be there, to watch you go through the motions of your nighttime routine. The way you unmask, the most intimate act he’s witnessed. Or maybe he’s just sentimental.
Selfishly, he wishes he could wake you, just so you could undress him, the look in your eye as you loosen his tie around his neck, tease him for all the layers he wears, despite the love you have for his cardigans and vests. Instead, he imagines it’s you as he takes off his clothes, standing in the corner of the room like an exile, like he doesn’t deserve to take up space, despite the room you leave for him. With teeth brushed, and his contacts taken out, he slides into bed next to you, tentative and light, not wanting to wake you.
You look like a fallen angel, he thinks, unearned grace fallen into his lap, your hair fanned out behind you, peaceful in sleep. He can’t help himself, tracing the line of your jaw, turned towards him as if you expected him at this angle, and the slight parting of your lips, paired with the scent of shea and cocoa butter has him press his lips to yours, because you’ve told him he can, pushing all his guilt into the kiss, and he’s not sure if he’s imagining you return it because you’re not quite awake, even if your pulse has jumped, even if your chin tilts up, and he pressed his lips to the dimple on your chin. One arm props him up, the other running over your stomach, skimming over it as he kissed his way down your jaw, fluttery and light, thinking you you you.
“So pretty, my girl,” he murmured, lips right by your ear, and God, the way your hips shift automatically, like a Pavlovian response. “I know, I got you,” he whispered, burying his nose in the crook of your neck, sliding his leg between yours, gently sucking on a spot on your neck. “Was thinking about you all week,” he murmured, lightly laving over your collar bone, his thigh pressed to your core, cursing when your hips cant over his limbs. “Always so impatient, even when you’re asleep,” he murmured, unbuttoning your pyjama top to part the candy striped shirt. “I couldn’t stop dreaming about you, you know that?” he said to your skin, kissing his way down the valley of your breasts. “So soft,” he whispered. “My soft, lovely girl.” A low groan slipped from your throat, hands sluggishly moving to find purchase, not awake enough to be your usual white-knuckled on the sheets.
His fingers gently slide your sleep shorts off, along with your panties, leaving them at the foot of the bed, hand running over your thighs again, parting them to settle between them. “You’re so wet for me already, honey,” he murmured, his fingers collecting slick, running it over your folds, his thumb rolling your nub in slow, lazy circles that had you go taut. “That’s it, baby, doesn’t that feel good?” he asked, a low rasp, followed by his digits sliding into your entrance. “Just gotta get you ready for me,” he murmured, taking a deep breath as your hips arch into his palm, your grip on the sheets tightening. “That’s it, angel, you feel that?” he asked quietly. “You’re so tight.” His finger crooked into your walls, finding your sweet spot like muscle memory. “There you go,” he cooed as you groan again, head tipping back. “So pretty,” he whispered. “My girl, made for me.”
He nuzzled against your neck, breathing you in, crooking his fingers again as you sob, half-asleep, starting to stir as your hands grip his arms. “I know, honey, it’s a lot,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your jaw, sucking, fingers unrelenting as he pushed you to the brink of your climax. “Sound so pretty,” he rasped, still pressed into your neck, breathing in your warm cocoa scent, slowly scissoring his fingers to stretch you out. “So beautiful,” he whispered, gently biting your earlobe.
“Spencer,” you sobbed louder, little more than a gasp, hands clawing down his back.
“I’m getting you there,” he assured you, making each motion of his digits purposeful as you trembled under him, half-conscious, the same crooking motion that drove you insane. “That’s it, baby, you’re so close,” he whispered, thighs clamping over his wrist. “You’re gonna come for me?”
You nod, even though you’re barely in the land of the living, the arms of Morpheus clutched around you tighter than he could unravel. “Good girl,” Spencer murmured. “My perfect girl.” He slid off his briefs, fingers moving inside you, the free hand reaching for a condom from the bedside drawer, ripping the little foil packet with his teeth. He managed to somehow shimmy out of his briefs, rolling the condom on and shuffling onto his knees, his fingers temporarily slowing and withdrawing to pump over his cock to your soft whine.
But, oh, when he slides into your entrance, the feeling of your tight walls around him, slowly pushing deeper, it’s everything to him. “Oh, God,” he shuddered, temple pressed to yours, bottoming out, trying to gather some semblance of sense, before slowly rocking his hips into you, letting out shaky breaths as he watched your face grow taut with pleasure, soft grunts escaping your lips. He slid his hand between your thighs, running his thumb over your clit, rubbing slow circles in, increasing the pressure as he slid his cock back, thrusing into you, over and over, shifting your thigh for the right angle, until you’re crying out his name, starting to wake as he picked up his rhythm. You kissed him, sloppy and mouth milky with sleep, Morpheus releasing you into your lover’s caress. “Fuck,” he breathed out, thrusting harder, faster, losing all rhythm as he crashed into you, hand gripping your hip.
“Spencer, I’m gonna—”
“Me too,” he whispered, and it’s a dream, the two of you falling into the abyss together, limbs entangled, the world going still, his hazel eyes locked on yours, entirely dark, the universe in those eyes.
“I love you,” you whispered.
“I love you,” he whispered back, kissing you gently, sliding out of you. “Go back to sleep, baby.”
“I’d rather be with you,” you murmured, hands running over his neck.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised to your sleepy smile, tossing the condom in the bin by the bed, your arms tugging him close to you, eyes closing, like the whole thing had been a dream, Spencer pulling your shorts and panties back over your waist, pressing close to you as his eyes fluttered shut, unable to stay awake any longer, welcomed back by Morpheus’s arms.
