anyway i fucked up. this was just going to be a place where i put my criminal minds fanfics so they wouldn't clog the drain that is my main, but then i went and got invested.
if you're only here for actual fic i have so much respect for that and you can block the tag "#ginsoaked ficlessness". then you won't see any of the other nonsense.
the basics:
lizzy. she/her/whatever. born to fic and take naps, forced to work and pay bills. eurotrash.
the fics:
spencer-centric. x reader, or x oc, or just whatever. might be smutty but kinda vanilla. g.ai free.
the masterlist
the wips
the ask box:
open for prompts | closed for prompts
always open for chat and questions
because this is a side blog it can't follow you back and i hate that for me. (my main is @olderbynow and you might catch me snooping from there.)
thinking about how when prentiss joined the team hotch just left her behind when everyone took off on a case and then she didn't leave so he sent her to gitmo with gideon and reid
tags: s2!spencer x bau!reader, virgin!spencer, glasses!spencer, no use of y/n, spencer gets another lesson, on the curriculum this week: hickeys and fingering
warnings: sexually explicit content (handjob (f receiving), handjob (m receiving))
word count: 6.3K
part of the lonely planet’s guide universe. masterlist is here.
summary: spencer has learned that making out is a good way to stop someone talking and sometimes it works so well he gets to do other things as well and also you take your clothes off
*˜*˜*
“That might just be the dumbest thing I’ve heard all year,” you say, rolling your eyes as you exit the elevator behind Morgan. With the team spread out on several floors, the fact that you and Spencer are on the same one seems like a cruel joke JJ is playing on you.
“Dumb? Are you calling me dumb?” Spencer is incredulous, trailing behind you and missing the eyeroll. “I will have you know, my IQ is—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you cut him off. “You have an IQ of 187 and you read really fast, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be dumb as dung.”
“That comparison is completely nonsensical, dung isn’t sentient, it doesn't have a quantifiable intelligence.” Spencer is disgusted, and it’s not by the idea of being compared to something as gross and smelly as dung, it’s the fact that that’s the best insult you could come up with. How disappointing.
“You aren’t sentient,” you sneer, feeling unbelievably childish, but also like that’s probably true, actually.
Ahead of you, Derek stops in front of the door to his room, casting a glance at the two of you and shaking his head as he unlocks the door. “Don’t stay up all night arguing, kids.” Maybe the cruel joke is mostly on him, now that you think about it.
“Oh, we won’t,” you assure him. “This guy doesn’t have that kind of stamina.”
Derek lets out a low whistle at that and then quickly enters his room, disappearing from view and washing his hands of any and all responsibility for cleaning up the mess if the two of you murder each other. You wonder what the expression on Spencer’s face is right now to make Derek run away so quickly: You have the impression that normally he finds the way you and Spencer fight kind of funny in a big brotherly sort of way, but maybe this was too far. Spencer probably brags about how he can argue people into a coma, in which case what you said must have really hurt his pride.
When you turn to look at him at last, his cheeks are red and splotchy and he’s almost vibrating with frustration. “Don’t tell people that!” he hisses at you.
You frown, because Derek definitely knows Spencer can talk forever and ever and ever better than you do, so he’ll have known you were kidding. But then the words and his red cheeks and the whole energy he’s got going on land and you realise what he thought you were saying. Which you guess kind of makes sense, and that’s probably what Derek thought you meant, too. Oops. “Oh, get over yourself, Reid.”
“I am very over myself, thank you,” he says, stepping close to you until he has you trapped against the door to your room.
“Are you sure?” you ask, like you’re addressing someone who’s either very drunk or very stupid. “Because it doesn’t really feel like you are.”
He’s squinting at you through his glasses, his glare travelling between your eyes and your mouth like he’s speed-reading your face over and over and it’s pissing him off. “Shut up,” he tells you. And then his lips crash into yours.
The kiss is messy and just a little painful, the rim of his glasses cutting into your cheek, his teeth cutting your lip, but fuck if it isn’t turning you on, the way he’s pressed all the way into you like he’s desperate and you can feel his erection growing against your stomach, the little mewling sounds you’re pretty sure he doesn’t realise he’s making when you open your mouth to his tongue.
Your hand on his chest pushing him away pulls Spencer out of whatever trance he was in. Humiliatingly, he can feel his upper body responding to your command while his hips aren’t getting the message and continue to grind themselves against you. And he’s pretty sure he just whined as his lips separated from yours.
He expects you to tell him to stop being so pathetic and go to his own room, but what you say instead is, “Wait,” and then, still with a hand on his chest right where his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribcage, you start rummaging through your handbag with the other. “Not out here.”
Which is probably the last words he expected to come out of your mouth, but they’re not ones he’s going to argue with.
It feels like it takes forever for you to find your key card, but not long enough for either of you to come to your senses, and as soon as the lock beeps Spencer is pushing the door open and you through it, his lips back on your mouth, his hands roaming up and down your body as he kicks the door shut behind himself.
It closes with a loud bang and you’re sure the noise can be heard several rooms away.
He draws back just far enough to pull an ‘oops’ expression and you laugh. “Relax, genius. Everyone probably just thinks I slammed the door in your face to end the argument.”
“That does seem like the kind of rude thing you’d do,” he agrees, accepting the explanation immediately so he can get back to groping you through your clothes.
“No hickeys,” you warn him when he latches on to your neck with his lips. “Not anywhere anyone can see.”
“I—I…” he stutters, pulling back. “What?”
“I can’t cover that shit up with concealer for a whole day, someone’s going to notice.”
“I gave you a hickey?” Spencer is equal parts fascinated and appalled. “Where?”
“A hickey?” You stare at him, incredulous. “A? Singular? Are you actually stupid?”
He moves the collar of your shirt as if to inspect your skin. Which is flawless. Because: “Reid. That was weeks ago. They’re gone now.”
He pulls another face, looking genuinely apologetic. “Sorry. I didn't realise.”
“Clearly.”
“Um,” he says, suddenly hesitant, hands hovering an inch from your body in case he breaks you.
You laugh, just a huff of air leaving your body through your nose. “Okay,” you say, and then you tug on his vest, indicating that he should take it off.
He does, pulling it over his head quickly, before you can change your mind, gripping it tightly in both hands and not sure what to do with it. He watches intently as you undo the knot of his tie, leaving the piece of fabric hanging loosely around his neck, still tucked in the collar, and then unbutton his shirt, pulling it aside until his chest is exposed.
The air in the room is cool on his skin, and despite the heat his body is generating, he shivers.
Your lips curl up in a smile and settle again, so quickly Spencer would have missed it if he had blinked at the wrong moment. Then you lean in and press your lips softly to his chest.
He holds his breath.
Your eyelashes flutter, brushing his clavicle, your lips moving gently against him, and then more firmly as you suck on the sensitive skin.
He whimpers, the vest dropping from his hands as he reaches for you, gripping you by both shoulders, not sure if he’s doing it to keep you there or to maintain his balance.
When you’re satisfied, you pull back and look up at him. “That’s a hickey,” you tell him, and he looks down to see a red mark where your lips have been working.
He nods, wonders if he could get away with pretending he doesn’t really get it and make you do it again, but then realises that the natural second part of this lesson is a practical exercise, which would be him giving you a hickey somewhere, so he keeps his mouth shut, eyeing your chest discreetly.
You snort and he realises he wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was, but you don’t seem to mind, unbuttoning your shirt the same way you did his and then pulling it open. You’re wearing a tanktop underneath, but it’s thin and stretchy and low-cut enough that the tops of your breasts are revealed.
Spencer licks his lips and feels his slacks getting even tighter. You indicate a spot on your right breast with your index finger, your head tilted slightly as you continue to look at him.
Which is, that’s basically an instruction for him to put his mouth on your breast. He nods, bending and letting his hands glide down your arms until he’s in position and then he hesitates, just an inch away, not sure he’s actually allowed to do what he’s about to do.
You breathe in deeply, which closes some of the distance, and then he leans in the rest of the way himself, lips landing less softly than yours did, but at least it’s not like he’s crashing into you.
He kisses your breast experimentally, familiarising himself with the softness of you, and then he sucks gently on your skin, not even realising what he’s doing when his hand moves up to cup your breast, pushing it upwards to give him more leverage, except then he feels your nipple hardening under his thumb as he brushes it back and forth and suddenly he is very aware of where his hand is.
You sigh softly, and it’s not a loud noise, barely any voice in it, but it rings in his ears and he hums against you. Then he releases your breast and uses his hand to push your tanktop and bra off your shoulder, pulling them both down your arm until he’s able to free your breast from them, revealing your half-hardened nipple to him.
He stares at it, wide-eyed, for a second, wondering if you’re going to tell him to stop, but you don’t, so he kisses you there instead, wet and openmouthed, letting his tongue run over your nipple the way his thumb did, then teasing it with a circular motion before he sucks, very gently.
He hears the thunk of your head falling back against the wall, the moan that spills from you, and it spurs him on, reaching up to pull your clothes off your other shoulder as well, revealing your whole chest to him.
Your breath is ragged and shallow and there’s a trail of saliva glistening on your right breast. Spencer runs a thumb along it, unable to tear his gaze away. Then he latches on to your left nipple and gives it the same attention, his thumb still playing with your right nipple as he squeezes that breast in his palm.
He’s pretty sure he could have spent all night like this, but eventually you push him off of you, hands on his shoulders guiding him to pull away and he stands up. When he looks at you, your skin is flushed and your pupils are completely blown. First he wonders if your head hit the wall harder than he thought and you’ve injured yourself, but then he realises you’re aroused.
You’re turned on by what he was doing.
That knowledge does absolutely nothing to improve the situation in his slacks and he shifts from one foot to the other, trying to get less uncomfortable without drawing attention to it, but you don’t really seem to care, slowly walking him backwards and guiding him in the direction of your bed while you shrug off your shirt.
The backs of his knees hit your bed and he sits down, eyes skating from your face to your exposed breasts, pushed forward as you reach behind your back to undo your bra, and then you pull both bra and tanktop off over your head and throw them on the floor.
He watches you, open-mouthed, as you stand in front of him wearing nothing but your suit pants, which you’re unzipping and then nudging past your hips until they fall to the floor and you can step out of them. His dick twitches and he squirms, leaning back slightly on his hands because he isn't really sure if he’s allowed to touch you and it’s either that or covering his crotch.
You seem to take it as some kind of invitation that he’s extremely glad you accepted without him meaning to make it when you straddle his lap, pushing the shirt and tie off him completely. He wraps his arms around you, really only intending to push your breasts against his chest, to feel your warm, soft skin against his own, but all of you moves and then your core is pressed against his almost painfully hard erection.
He moans, so loudly he almost doesn’t realise that so do you, as his hips stutter up off the bed and he grinds against you.
Your hands go in his hair, holding him in place so you can kiss your way into his mouth, your tongue pushing aggressively against his as your hips move in a circular motion against him. The combined sensations are driving him crazy and he can feel his control slipping.
He grips your hips with both hands, pushing you away slightly even as his own body protests, his fingers digging into your exposed flesh as if they’re never planning on letting go, and he pulls back from your kiss. “Please.”
You blink and he feels like he’s slowly coming back into focus for you, as if maybe you forgot where you are and who you’re with. And maybe making you stop was a huge mistake he’ll go to bed regretting, because everything feeling too good and ending in another humiliating experience seems like it would have been a better way to finish the night than what he’s facing now: jerking off alone in his own room while trying not to think about how hot your tongue is or how your nipples taste.
Your breathing is ragged, your chest heaving, and he can’t tear his eyes away. Before you can get up and tell him to get the hell out of your room, he brings his hands up to cup both your breasts, memorising the feel and weight of them in his hands. When he looks up at your face, just to see how annoyed you are that he isn’t leaving, you're watching him intently, a smile small on your face.
He frowns, surprised at your reaction, and then kisses you again.
You kiss him back, softer this time, slower, and he can tell that you’re letting him set the pace, as if you know he won’t last another minute if you don’t.
He kisses a trail down your throat, mindful of what you told him about not giving you any visible hickeys, just nibbling gently along your skin, licking at it - first because he’s fascinated by the salty taste of you and then because of the way it makes you hum and expose yourself further to him.
When he reaches your collarbone he decides that this must be far enough, you won’t be wearing anything this low cut tomorrow, and he scrapes his teeth lightly just below the protruding bone before selecting a spot, licking it before sucking and then licking again.
“You know,” you say, a lilt to your voice that makes his jaw tense in anticipation of a snide comment. “You’re a pretty quick study when you just shut up and pay attention.”
His brow furrows as he mulls over the words. He’s pretty sure underneath your snarky tone and wording, that was actually a complement.
It annoys him how pleased he is by it, that he’s proud you think he’s doing a good job at… whatever it is the two of you are doing. But he can’t help it, the praise makes him smile against your skin, and although you can’t see it, he’s sure you can feel it, so he quickly refocuses on the task he was doing, sucking another red mark on your skin, in the spot right above your breast.
“Mmm,” you sigh and your hands tangle themselves in his hair and you lean back, and there’s no way to interpret this, really, other than you wanting his mouth back on your breast and why couldn’t the two of you working together be this easy all the time, because he’s more than happy to oblige?
You lean back even further, arching your back and pushing yourself into his mouth, and Spencer wraps his arms around you to stop you from falling backwards.
Just to see what will happen, he scrapes his teeth over your nipple. Not hard, just with enough pressure that he feels your nipple shift.
You moan, your hips grinding against him, and the sudden movement against his dick makes him hiss in surprise. He needs to stop you from doing that, because as good as it feels, he knows if he comes in his pants again then this will be done. And he’s not ready to be done yet.
It’s not a particularly graceful maneuver, but he manages to turn you both around and get you underneath him so you’re lying on the bed and he’s half on top of you, one of his legs in between yours and his erection rubbing dangerously against your thigh as he stretches so he can kiss your lips. But at least he’s in control of the contact he’s making with you now.
When you move to take off his glasses he pulls away, turning his face to the side. “Then I can’t see you.”
The expression on your face is one he’s not sure how to interpret, surprise and amusement and something else that makes him realise what he said. Right now you’re probably both wondering why he’d want to be able to see you.
But you don’t reach for his glasses again, and he doesn’t take them off.
He kisses you again, his hand finding your breast and his thumb drawing an abstract pattern around and over your nipple, enjoying the feeling of it against the pad of his finger, then remembering there are two of them, and he can get the other one on his tongue to compare the sensation, so he kisses a trail down your neck and chest until his lips find their target.
You’re squirming underneath him, just a little, letting out a disgruntled little huff every time he has to readjust his glasses, and it’s almost enough to make him change his mind and take them off, but instead he shifts, just enough that he can use his other hand for his glasses instead and he doesn’t need to stop touching you. It’s an awkward position, but on balance it’s definitely worth it.
When you grab his hand just as he squeezes your nipple lightly between his thumb and forefinger, he freezes, wondering if he did something wrong or if you’re just getting bored, but then you’re moving his hand down your body, settling it over your panties, his fingers pressed into your mound.
Your hips stutter upwards and you’re pressing yourself harder against him, moaning softly, and Spencer’s mouth leaves your breast with a popping sound so he can watch his fingers as they draw a line up and down the centre of your panties, feeling the wetness that has soaked through the fabric.
Your thighs fall open and so does his mouth.
This is… not at all what he expected. He looks from the last piece of clothing you’re wearing to your face and then back again. “Should I…?”
You chuckle. “I’m really fucking hoping you will,” you say, just breathless enough that he notices. “But if you don’t, I’m gonna.” You’re already lifting your hand off the bed.
He shakes his head, quickly. Watching you masturbate would be great, obviously, but if the other option is him getting to do it? “No, I want to.”
“Good.” You take his hand, holding it very gently, and move it up to your stomach and then push it into your panties and down until his middle finger is pressing between your folds. Everything is slick and wet, and Spencer is fully aware that the sound he makes isn’t a dignified one.
He presses the finger deeper, rubbing it up your slit and observing your reactions, smiling a little when you let out a breathy whine just as he feels his finger move over a swollen bud and he concludes that he just found your clit.
“You look way too smug right now,” you say and he turns to look at you. You don’t seem annoyed at all, more kind of flushed and pleased and like maybe you think you’re a great teacher when actually he did that himself.
“I’ve studied the theoretical side of this,” he says, letting his finger travel back down until it finds your opening and then back up, just to make sure he’s clear on where everything is.
“Oh, I’m sure you have, Reid.”
He realises you misunderstood him. “I didn't mean that, I meant textbooks. Practical guides online.”
“Are you reading fucking blogs about how to finger women?” You raise yourself up on your elbows so you can look at him properly.
“Um.” If his face hadn’t already been flushed with arousal, he would be blushing. “Well, yes.”
You think about it for a moment before you nod. “Good for you.” Then you nudge his hand with yours as you lie back down. “Good for me, too.”
He huffs with amusement and doesn’t tell you that nothing he ever read could have prepared him for the reality of how this feels. How simple it seems when it’s all in his head, how complicated it is when he’s trying to keep track of your reactions but he’s also trying to keep track of his own, to keep his own body in check, while his head is buzzing and too full of impressions and sensations and—He moves carefully, so his finger won’t stray from the path its memorising, until he’s face to face with you, hovering above you, and then he leans down for a kiss.
Your mouth opens willingly to him, like you’re perfectly happy for him to be kissing you, like you don’t know he’s doing it because he needs the noise to stop.
Bizarrely, it works. Soon, all he’s aware of is the taste and feel of your mouth and the way his finger feels, coated in you, and he pulls back. “Thank you.”
Your eyes open and look at him suspiciously. “For what?”
He just shakes his head. “Never mind.” Then he moves down the bed, settling so he has a better view of what his hand is doing before he carefully pushes the tip of his finger inside you. The sound you make in response can’t possibly be one of disapproval so after a few seconds he pushes in further, then pulls almost all the way out and then all the way in until his middle finger is buried deep inside you.
It feels… amazing. Wet and warm and tighter than he expected and he feels his dick throbbing jealously at what his finger gets to do while it’s trapped in his pants. If only he could see what he’s doing. He actually feels as stupid as you accused him of being when he realises that the only thing preventing him from seeing everything is your panties, and the way you’re breathing and the way your hips are moving off the bed just a little to meet him when his finger pushes into you, it feels like a reasonable conclusion to draw that you won’t mind him removing your underwear.
He hooks a finger through the panties and tugs gently. “Can I take these off?”
You don’t reply, but your knees push together, trapping his hand between your thighs, and you raise your hips off the bed completely. He nudges your panties down your thighs and past your knees and then you let your legs fall open again, the panties bunching themselves up and getting stuck around your ankles. Which is out of the way and you ignore them, so Spencer does too.
He has other things to focus on, the view of you completely exposed to him, the visual of the roughness of his own hand moving against you in contrast to the smooth softness of your inner thighs. It makes him moan, and when he pulls his finger back, he pulls it out all the way, then carefully inserts both his index and middle fingers, feeling you stretch to accommodate him.
On the next stroke, he pushes in a little deeper, knuckles pushing against you, and your back arches off the bed and you curse.
“I—sorry, was that…?”
“Right there,” you say, your voice laced with desperation. “Please don’t stop.”
Ohh. Spencer does it again, and then a third time, before he curls his fingers experimentally, trying to hit the same spot at a different angle.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” you hiss.
Spencer licks his lips, watching you.
“Reid,” you say, sounding out of breath.
Spencer is surprised to find that so does he when he answers you. “Hmm? What?” His eyes are glued to where his fingers are pumping into you, your hips thrusting up to meet them.
“Man evolved with opposable thumbs for a reason.”
“Huh?” He turns his head to look at you blankly, but then realises what you mean, notices his other hand on your breast and wonders how it got there. He twists his hand slightly until he can get his thumb against your clit, keeping it there rubbing in a circular motion while his other fingers keep moving in and out of you, still hitting that spot inside you that he found. It requires just enough focus for him to forget how desperate he’s getting for his own release and he thinks maybe he should be thanking you again.
You moan in approval and he turns his head to look at you. Your face is contorted, your mouth open as you let out a stream of nonsensical moans and curses. Your fingers are gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles have turned white.
Spencer can’t remember ever seeing anything this beautiful and the realisation is startling and confusing, but before he can process it you’re arching off the bed again, and he can feel you clenching around his fingers as your moans get louder. He keeps moving his fingers in and out of you, pushing in as deep as he can each time, marvelling at the way he can feel your orgasm building, wondering how it would feel to actually be inside you when it happened.
The sounds you make when you come are ones Spencer wishes he could have recorded so he could replay them whenever he wants, because he’s sure his memory of them is going to be inferior to reality and he wants to hear them forever.
He’s pretty sure those sounds alone could get him off, they definitely could paired with the memory of this moment.
Your thighs are clenched around his hand, his fingers trapped deep inside you as your inner walls convulse uncontrollably around them, and he keeps looking from your face to where his hand disappears between your thighs, completely entranced by the sensation and the sounds you’re making and the fact he’s the one who made this happen. This is why he kept his glasses on.
You sigh contentedly, your eyes and your thighs opening at the same time, and then he carefully extracts his fingers, watching as they slide out of you. Once it’s free his instinct is to wipe his hand on the sheet, but before he can do that, you grab it.
He watches you with his lips slightly parted, completely fascinated as you pull his hand to your mouth, sucking his fingers between your lips and licking them clean. His dick twitches, probably resentful of the way your tongue is wrapping itself around his fingers, all this action it’s missing out on. When you let go of his hand it takes a moment for him to pull his fingers from your mouth, his hand just resting on your chin for a few long seconds, and when he does, he looks at them as if they’re a foreign object and he’s not quite sure what to do with them.
Then, frowning slightly, he puts them in his own mouth, wanting to taste what you tasted, but you did such a thorough job cleaning them that there’s nothing left. You’re watching him and he tries not to look too disappointed because that feels ungrateful, but then you smile at him and shake your head before you reach down and rub yourself, until your middle and index fingers are covered in your own slick, and then you offer those same fingers to him.
He looks at them for a moment, and then grabs you by the wrist, bringing your hand to his mouth.
The instant your fingers land on his tongue, he moans, his eyes fluttering shut. He hears you chuckle and opens his eyes to look at you, but the way you’re watching him is all fascination and amusement, not mockery.
You smile at him and he smiles back, his lips still wrapped around your fingers.
He has done enough research - the online and literary theoretical kind - to know that it’s not something all men (or women) like, but right now, with the taste of you on his tongue, he can’t think of anything he wants to do more than get his head between your legs, and he wonders if that’s something you’d enjoy. Just the thought of it makes his hips stutter, thrusting into thin air.
You sit up, reach out a hand and run your fingers along the length of him, your touch so light he’d assume it was just wishful thinking if he weren’t looking straight at you.
“You know, I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get through that,” you say, your voice tinged with amusement as you rub him more firmly, pulling your thoroughly cleaned fingers from his mouth. “Impressive.” The way you say it, he isn’t entirely sure if you mean the fact that he didn’t come in his pants this time, or you’re talking about his actual erection.
He pulls a face. “Me neither.” No need to tell you just how close of a call it was. Still is, with your hand doing that.
You laugh, but not unkindly, and he smiles.
Then you twist so you can get both hands on him and start to open his pants. Once he realises what you’re doing, he helps, pushing down his slacks and boxers at the same time and his erection pops out, red and hard and leaking. You spit into your own hand, the one that was in his mouth a moment ago, and then wrap it around him, your thumb brushing over the tip, spreading the precum, and he whimpers, gripping his pants without pushing them down any further.
“You okay?” you ask and he nods quickly, whimpering desperately as he looks at your hand working up and down his length, squeezing him and releasing in a way that has him bucking into your hand.
“You wanna watch that or you wanna kiss me?” you ask. It doesn’t sound like there’s a right and a wrong answer, you’re just giving him options.
“Both,” he says, then shakes his head. It feels like an impossible choice and he wouldn’t be able to decide even if his brain hadn’t been completely scrambled by lust.
You smile and take his hand, putting the fingers he had inside you back into your mouth, your tongue twirling around them as you put your own fingers into his mouth.
It feels like he’s getting both, somehow, and he doesn’t understand how you did that, but he hopes you interpret his moans correctly and realise he’s grateful.
The way you suck on his fingers, he thinks maybe you do understand.
It’s over far too quickly, he feels like your fingers have barely wrapped around him before he’s thrusting into your grip, a tension gathering in his balls and he tries to talk around your fingers, unwilling to remove them from his mouth but wanting to warn you that he’s about to come. “Mmm,” is all he manages, but you smile and nod.
He watches himself come so hard that most of it shoots all the way to your breasts and the sight of it makes his breath hitch, and a strangled sound escapes him as he pushes into your hand again and again as if, if he doesn’t stop, he can feel this way forever.
Except he can’t of course, time and biology don’t work that way, and eventually he collapses, lying down next to you, your fingers slipping from his mouth and pulling his own from yours.
“Thank you,” he says, still out of breath.
You smile, turning your head to look at him. “How polite,” you joke. “So all I need to do is let you come on my tits and you’ll be nice to me?”
“I—” he says, not sure how to answer that. He feels like his brain is still running with limited functionality. He would be nice to you if you let him do that again, though. He’ll be nice to you for any of this. Any tiny little part of it.
But he’s pretty sure you wouldn’t want him to.
You snort, then you grab his shirt and start wiping his come off your chest with it.
He opens his mouth to object but then closes it again. It seems only fair, after all, even if it makes him grimace at the thought of having to carry his semen-crusted shirt back to his own room.
When you’re done, he gingerly unbuttons the shirt, bunches it up into a ball, and throws it on the floor.
“Don’t fall asleep here,” you warn him as you pull your panties back on.
“I wasn’t going to,” he insists, pretending that his body doesn’t feel heavy and loose, unwilling to move.
“Mhmm,” you say, leaning over him and he thinks you’re going to kiss him, but instead you push yourself up with a hand on his chest, putting just enough weight on him that it’s uncomfortable, not so much that it hurts, and then you get out of bed and walk to the bathroom.
Once he hears the door clicking shut, he gets off the bed and starts rearranging his clothes, carefully tucking in his t-shirt and zipping up his pants. Standing in the middle of the room, he runs his hand through his hair, wondering just how messy it is, how obvious it’ll be to anyone he might meet in the hallway what he’s been doing. Even without that disgusting shirt.
He’s almost tempted to just leave it behind, but he’s not entirely sure you won’t whip it out on the plane home after the case and hand it back to him. It seems like the kind of thing you’d find funny, mainly because of how humiliating it would be for him.
You come back out of the bathroom, still wearing only your panties, and he tries not to stare at you.
“By the way, it would have made much more sense to compare me to a dung beetle, if you were determined to go in a manurial direction,” he says. A way to distract himself from your naked body and you from the way his eyes are probably bugging out at the sight of it, even now.
“Manurial?” You glance at him as you walk to your bag and pull out a t-shirt.
He watches you put it on, allowing himself a brief moment to let his eyes take you in properly while your face is covered by white cotton, and then he looks at the floor. “Yeah. It’d be a much more effective insult.”
“I don’t know, I think it worked pretty well if you’re still thinking about it,” you say, talking like you’re actually discussing something that matters. Like you’re discussing a case and you’re so sure you’re right.
“I’m not still thinking about it. It just occurred to me,” he insists, wonders why he sounds so much like he’s lying when he’s telling you the truth. It's not like he was thinking about much of anything since he walked in the door to your room, other than you.
“So you’re obsessing about it? You’re going to wake up in the middle of the night thinking about that insult, and you still think it was a bad one?” You shake your head. “That makes it a fucking amazing insult, Reid.”
He breathes in deeply, releasing the air slowly and noisily through his nose. If he wakes up thinking about anything in the middle of the night, it’s not going to have anything to do with dung or beetles.
Insults might be involved, though.
“I’m just saying, the beetles make more sense.”
“Have you heard ‘Magical Mystery Tour’? You tilt your head, looking at him.
“What?”
You tilt your head to the other side, waiting silently.
“I prefer the Rolling Stones,” he deadpans.
For just a moment, you look like you actually believe him, and then you laugh. He thinks you even look a little impressed, and he isn’t sure how to feel about it. He should probably be offended, but his lips are still swollen from kissing you and his whole body feels like you reorganised every atom it’s made up of.
“I—” He trails off, uncertain. Somehow, his instinct is to kiss you goodnight before he leaves.
“‘Night, Reid,” you say, shaking your head at him. “See you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight,” he replies, a smile that feels a little awkward on his face, and then he leaves your room.
Summary:
Spencer tries to convince himself that you're just a figment of his imagination, an added benefit of the dilaudid he injects into his arm to forget what happened to him during his kidnapping.
But then the team is called in to investigate a murder committed in a place that is just a little too familiar, and suddenly everything is a lot more real than he would have liked.
A Spencer x Mysterious!Reader fic.
Content warnings:
Smut, Drug use, Smoking, Violence (nothing crazier than what's on the actual show).
Timeline:
Set in the second half of season 2, after Revelations and before the addiction storyline is brushed under the carpet where it belongs.
Having more than one multi-chapter fic brewing is what all the cool kids are doing, right?
plan your trip: don't forget your travel insurance
tags: s2!spencer x bau!reader, virgin!spencer, glasses!spencer, no use of y/n, hurt/some kind of comfort, book chat
warnings: some medical babble nothing too graphic
word count: 1.6K
part of the lonely planet’s guide universe. masterlist is here.
note: this assumes spencer received some kind of medical care at the end of 2x15. which i know is a big leap to take, all things canon considered, but here we are.
*~*~*
You’re curled up on two chairs pushed together right next to his bed, your body twisted in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable, your hand resting on the metal frame of his bed and your fingers almost but not quite touching his. A translation of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot is open in your lap with the cover aimed in his direction. It feels like it must be a dig - you’ve never ever shown any interest in Russian literature as far as he knows - and somehow the familiarity of it is comforting to him.
He might have nearly died, but you’re still going out of your way to insult him.
He wonders if you know what the story is actually about or if you just saw the title as an easy joke to make. Do you think he’s Myshkin, destined for the sanatorium? Do you think he’s that kind of idiot?
You stir and Spencer briefly considers pretending to still be asleep, but he’s too caught up in watching the way your body uncurls itself, how you stretch, the softness of your features when you aren’t schooling them - how open your expression is when you aren’t aware that he’s looking. It makes you seem like a completely different person and he’s not quite sure what to do with that.
Your eyes blink rapidly and you squint, taking a moment to focus on him, your expression closing itself off in a way that makes him miss something without really knowing what it is. “You’re awake,” you say, stating the obvious. Like you’re not quite sure you want him to be.
“Yeah,” he agrees, then winces with pain when he tries to shift and his ribcage feels like it’s trying to crash in on itself.
“You’re in the hospital,” you go on, explaining in some soothing voice that he doesn’t recognise but quickly decides he doesn’t like.
He looks around the room; it’s the most hospital-like place he’s ever seen, the grey linoleum floor, the hand sanitiser and protective gloves hanging on the wall, the gas outlets behind his head. The heart monitor next to his bed. Not monitoring anything, just sitting there and leaving his heart alone. “I know.”
You smile at his tone, which isn’t soothing at all. “Yeah, well, you hit your head pretty hard. Maybe all that brain spilled out.”
Spencer closes his eyes, trying to hide from what your words are implying. The reality that you saw that, that everyone did. Tobias setting up the video feed was undoubtedly what saved his life, he would have given up much sooner if not for the fact that he could tell himself help was coming, but everyone didn’t just see what he wanted them to. They saw everything.
“Are you—how do you feel?”
He wishes closing his ears was as easy as closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to hear your uncertainty. “Like I died and someone punched me in the chest until I came back to life,” he says sarcastically. It’s not all he feels, but it’s the part he can talk about. You already know, after all.
You just nod, chewing on your lip.
“What are you doing here?” The question comes out colder than he means it to, more accusation than jokey annoyance, but you don’t seem fazed by it.
“No-one expected you to wake up in the middle of the night, so they landed me with the nightshift. Don’t worry, JJ will be here in a couple of hours.” It’s the closest to normal you’ve sounded since you woke up.
“What are you reading?” he asks, lifting his hand to wave in the general direction of your lap, where the book is still resting, relieved when you take the bait he practically throws in your mouth.
“Oh, this?” You hold it up so you’re sure he can see the cover, a not at all discreet finger aimed at the title. “You were out of it for so long, they already put out your biography. Pretty boring, if I’m honest.”
He chuckles, then immediately regrets it when he feels like he’s being stabbed in the lungs. You’re not that funny anyway.
“Have you read it?”
Spencer nods. “I read all Dostoyevsky’s novels when I was nine.”
You pull a face, your nose actually wrinkling in disgust. “For fun?”
“Yeah. What did you do when you were nine? Eat slugs?”
You snort. “Probably. Actually, no. I broke my leg when I was nine, falling off the roof of the neighbour’s shed.” You pause, clearly remembering the scene. “Because Anny Shirley walked the ridge pole of a roof on a dare and I wanted to be just like her. I hadn’t planned on being quite so much like her, though,” you admit.
“Someone dared you to do it?”
“No!” You look at him like he’s the crazy one. Which, really? “Anne did, so I did. I didn’t need anyone else to get involved. Which is lucky because my neighbourhood had a severe Gilbert Blythe shortage.”
“I’m pretty sure Josie Pye was the one who dared her to do it,” Spencer says. “Not Gilbert.”
You smile, actual full wattage delight on your face. Maybe you’re so excited about this news, you forgot who you’re talking to. “You’ve read Anne of Green Gables?”
“It took about eight minutes,” he says dismissively, looking away. He read pretty much every book in the school library. Including the girly books, thinking it might help him understand something he didn’t really know he didn’t understand yet at the time.
“Still. Eight minutes well spent. And longer than it takes to do some things.”
“Shut up,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it, hopes you’ll keep talking until it’s time for you to leave. Save him from the quiet, from his own thoughts, from his memories. Give him just a sliver of normal.
“I mean there were eight books,” he says when you actually do what he tells you for once and don’t speak. Typical that it would happen right when he doesn’t want it to.
“That’s a whole hour, Reid. Feeling ambitious?”
He shifts, trying to adjust the pillow that’s slipping down behind his back, and his fractured rib reminds him that unlike the pillow it isn’t going anywhere. “Not right now,” he says through gritted teeth.
You stand up and move over him, dropping your book on the chair you got out of. “Are you okay?”
“Please don’t,” he says, holding up a hand to stop you from doing whatever you were about to do.
But you just roll your eyes, put a hand on his back to push him forward slightly, so he can move away without tensing his muscles too much, and then you pull the pillow up, placing it against his shoulders. When you lower him back against it, the pain in his chest is reduced from a stab to a dull throb as he’s able to relax.
“Thank you.”
“Sure.” You sit back down. “When JJ gets here, tell her I was very nice to you.”
He smiles, looking at the frame of his bed. Where your hand used to be. Where his own hand almost was when he woke up. “Absolutely not. I’ll tell her you were vile the whole time.”
“And I’ll tell her about the wet dream you had while I was sitting right over there, watching you.” You point to the corner, where the chairs clearly belong, on either side of a small table.
He feels his body go cold all over. “What?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, relax, Reid. I’m joking.” Then your face falls. “I think maybe you had a nightmare, though.”
He wishes you hadn’t told him that. He would have much rather believed the other version of the story, that your proximity was a cause, not an effect. Much less embarrassing.
“If you really want to be nice,” he says, changing the subject. Shoving the memory of the nightmare back down; he might not remember the dream, but he has a pretty good idea what it was about. “You can read that book to me.”
You stare at him, clearly surprised by the request. “You want me to read to you?” You don’t say ‘like a kid’, but he feels that it’s implied and he regrets asking for this.
He’s about to tell you never mind, but then you sit up straighter, leafing through the pages of the book. “I’m not doing the voices and I’m not doing a weird accent.”
“Good,” he says. “That would probably be pretty painful to listen to.”
“Well, in that case…” You trail off, looking up at him.
He looks back at you, daring you to say he’s already in enough pain, hoping you won’t.
Your eyebrows do a little wiggle and then you turn back to the book. “At nine o'clock in the morning, towards the end of November, the Warsaw train was approaching Petersburg at full speed,” you read in the most painfully forced Russian accent he has ever heard.
“Please stop that,” he says. “It’s unbearable.”
You laugh softly, then continue reading in your normal accent, and eventually Spencer lets himself relax, lulled back to sleep by the sound of your voice.
When he wakes up hours later, you’re gone and JJ is sitting in the chair you were occupying when he closed his eyes. She’s reviewing case files, a stack of them sitting on the other chair, and behind the folders is your copy of The Idiot with the bookmark sticking out far enough into the book that he can tell that you kept reading long after he drifted off. Possibly even until JJ arrived.
He closes his eyes again, pretends to still be sleeping and stays that way until the doctor comes to do morning rounds and release him.
tags: s2!spencer x bau!reader, virgin!spencer, glasses!spencer, no use of y/n, spencer reid v. chopsticks
warnings: none
word count: 974
part of the lonely planet’s guide universe. masterlist is here.
summary: someone orders takeout and there are chopsticks. spencer is handling it like a mature and reasonable adult. (not really.)
*~*~*
Rationally Spencer knows the police chief is trying to be nice. Irrationally it feels like this guy, who hasn’t stopped being offended since Spencer failed to shake his hand when they first met three days ago, is doing it deliberately just to humiliate him.
Walks into the precinct with his beard split in two by a smile, carrying heavy plastic bags of takeaway. “Y’all have been workin’ so hard,” he says, this drawl that gets heavier when he talks to any of them, so much more subtle when he’s bossing his own people around. “Bet those FBI brains don’t run on nothin’.”
Everyone else coos and smiles and practically jumps on the food like vultures - those FBI brains have been running on nothing for quite a few hours - while Spencer finishes the notes he’s making on the whiteboard so he can move on to something else after eating.
So he sees everyone else digging into the food, he knows what’s coming, and he wonders if he can just pretend he’s not hungry actually, but the smell of the food is making his stomach growl and JJ turns to look at him. “Come eat before it gets cold, Spence.”
Which seems irrelevant, the food will be cold before he gets it in his mouth regardless. And there's no way you won't laugh at him.
Somehow, the thought of you seeing him unable to do something that seems like a basic skill to everyone else - something else he never learned how to do - is making him want to leave, go find a sandwich in a vending machine or whatever. It can only be better than this.
But there’s no getting out of it, by this point even Hotch is telling him to join them, and it almost but not quite feels like an order. Either way, Spencer sighs and comes to sit down in the only seat left around the large table, right next to you.
It might be an advantage, actually, he thinks, even if he’d prefer not to be this close to you, because it means he can turn away from you, engage himself in a conversation at the other end of the table, and then maybe you won’t be able to see him fumbling with his chopsticks as he struggles to eat so much as a piece of broccoli, never mind an actual noodle.
All he needs for his plan to succeed is for no-one else to point it out.
Which means the plan is doomed to fail, of course.
“How have you still not figured that out, kid?” Derek asks, watching Spencer try and fail to move a few noodles from his takeaway box to his mouth. “I thought you were meant to be a genius."
“I am a genius,” he says, trying to get a different grip on the chopsticks, his body still turned away from yours. “This just isn’t a logical way to eat food.”
“I think you’ll find that 1.3 billion Chinese people would disagree with you there,” you say, and he turns his head to look at you. Which is a mistake, because it means he gets to see you skillfully pick up a mouthful of noodles and fried vegetables and shove them in your mouth, while you get a front row seat to him trying to wrap noodles around his chopsticks like spaghetti on a fork, and completely fail to make that work when it all wiggles off halfway to his mouth.
“The Japanese, too, probably,” JJ says, not at all helpfully.
“Korea,” Derek adds.
“Both Koreas.” Hotch points at Derek with his chopsticks, then gets them back in his food.
“Yes, thank you,” Spencer says, hoping everyone will shut up now. He doesn’t need a list of all the countries that use chopsticks, he already knows. Because that’s the sort of thing his genius is good for.
You lean closer to him, your body actually pressed into him, and he shifts, trying to get away from your touch as you lean down, waving your container of food in the air as you dig through your handbag. When you sit back up, you drop something in his lap. You don’t say anything, just go back to eating.
He looks down and sees a small bag containing a set of single use cutlery. He frowns at it, picks up the bag and tears it open, pulling out the fork. Then he starts eating.
He sees you watching him from the corner of your eye but doesn’t acknowledge you.
“What do we say to the nice lady?” you ask finally, like he's a toddler.
“Which nice lady?” he asks back, like he's a brat. The alternative is telling you he’s actually grateful and you should be careful or he might just think you were being nice to him. So, bratty it is.
“Hey!” JJ protests, throwing a wadded up napkin at him.
“Sorry,” he tells her. “Obviously I didn't mean you.” Then he turns to look at you and says nothing.
“I think the word you're looking for is ‘xièxiè’,” you tell him, still in that annoying borderline condescending tone.
“Thank you,” he mutters.
“You’re welcome, Reid,” you say, mock polite. “Now don’t tell people I don’t do anything for you.”
He looks up and sees Derek rolling his eyes and grinning: clearly he’s getting some meaning from your words that he himself is missing. Spencer decides the safest response in that case is to say nothing because that’s better than saying something stupid without realising it.
When everyone is done eating and starts making moves to go back to work, he grabs your cardboard food container and chopsticks from you before you can get up, and puts them into the trash along with his own.
Now you can’t tell people he doesn’t do anything for you, either.
to the anon who just sent the migraine request: i am definitely going to write that (and thank you for suggesting it!), but if you have any preferences for smut or nah, send me another dm and then i'll know where to fit it in the overall story? <3
where to stay: sometimes you just want a place that feels like home
tags: s2!spencer x bau!reader, virgin!spencer, glasses!spencer, no use of y/n, spencer learns how to eat you out, aftercare, we are retconning the shit out of this okay (be a pal and pretend not to notice. thanks. kisses)
warnings: sexually explicit content (oral (f receiving), accidental penetration (sort of), handjob (m receiving))
word count: 5.1K
part of the lonely planet’s guide universe. masterlist is here.
note: set at the end of the case from experience hell after dark. this probably makes more sense if you’ve already read that one, but hey. you control your own experience in hell and if you don’t care about context, all you’re here for is spencer eating pussy, i’m not judging.
*˜*˜*
There’s a knock on the door and Spencer puts down the book he’s reading, wondering which of his neighbours is having a party and gave bad directions to their apartment as he makes his way to the hallway.
He’d ignore whoever is out there, but it feels rude and the interruption can serve as an excuse for why he isn’t going to finish this book tonight. It’s a better reason than the truth, because the truth is one he’s trying hard to avoid.
He opens the door, trying to fit a smile on his face that doesn’t feel too forced or too friendly. Just something that seems polite enough for a random stranger who knocked on the wrong door and is probably going to be embarrassed. Except the door opens and it’s not a stranger.
It’s the truth.
“Hey,” you say, a much better version of a smile on your face, your go-bag slung over your shoulder.
“Um. Hi.”
Spencer looks at your go-bag, then your face again. He hasn’t seen or heard from you since he hung up the phone, the sound of you moaning still echoing in his ear, his shirt not quite tucked in properly, and he felt like he had settled somewhat comfortably into the reality of your absence in the two days between then and now.
It seemed like it was probably a good thing, both of you keeping your distance, because it was all getting far too easy, and starting to feel just a little too dangerous. Like maybe he is Icarus and you are the sun.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, eyebrows shooting up, asking him something.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, because he should probably be the one with the questions when you turn up on his doorstep unannounced.
“Well, I thought with the way things were going, we might as well make it official," you say, your voice somehow managing to be both light and sarcastic. It’s the thing that makes distance feel like a good idea. You shake your go-bag. “So I’m moving in.”
Spencer’s eyes narrow but he opens the door to let you in. “Did you come straight from Quantico?”
He was still at work when the jet took off from Michigan, but it was late and no-one was actually going to do anything else, so there didn’t seem to be much point in staying, just waiting for the jet to arrive. It would have felt like waiting for something else, something he shouldn’t be waiting for.
“Yes,” you say, dropping your bag on the floor. It lands on the hardwood with a muted thump, nothing heavy in there.
“Why?” he hopes the question sounds less rude than it feels, really he’s just wondering, trying to figure out what this is.
Your eyes roam around his hallway, taking everything in, and it’s making him feel naked and exposed, the way you’re assigning meaning to every single thing in his home. But then you keep looking around and he realises you’re doing it to avoid looking at him.
Like you’re just a little bit uncomfortable, and he’s not sure he has ever seen that before.
He reaches out a hand and places it on your shoulder. “Hey. What’s going on?”
You chuckle, too lightly, and shrug him off. Then you sigh. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about what you said,” you admit, your eyes landing on his chest but not going any higher.
What he said? Did he call you in his sleep and say something inappropriate? Did he—confess something and then completely repress it? “What did I say?”
Your eyes shift, meeting his at last. You lick your lips and Spencer feels the air get trapped in his lungs. “That you wanted to have your tongue inside me when I came.”
Oh.
“Did you mean that?”
Oh, thank god.
His eyes travel down your body and then back up to your face. He thinks your pupils might be bigger now than they were when he looked away from your eyes five seconds ago. He nods. “Yes.”
You bend down to pick up your bag from the floor, nodding. “Okay.”
“Are you leaving?” He wonders how many wrong feet he has, how you manage to keep finding them.
You smile. “Yeah. Now I know. It’s late, I should get home.”
“It’s not that late.” Spencer looks at his watch. It’s 10:54PM. If he hadn’t been determined to finish that damn book he couldn’t focus on, he would have been getting ready for bed already.
“It’s been a long day,” you say, your tone so light it would probably defy even gravity, whereas Spencer’s feet and shoulders and mind all feel heavy like lead.
“So you don’t want me to?”
“I didn’t pay for parking,” you tell him. If it’s an excuse to leave, it’s a pretty feeble one. What it definitely isn’t, is an answer to his question.
“Metered parking doesn’t start until 7AM.” There’s a sign explaining the parking rules pretty much right outside this building.
He watches you as you think, the way your eyebrows shift slightly, your mouth working from side to side. “I don’t actually know why I’m here,” you say finally.
“Because you do want me to?” he suggests. Really, he has no idea why you’re here, either, but it’s probably as good a guess as any. He would show up at your home in the middle of the night if he thought you’d let him put his hands on your body. It’s the only one he’s going to voice, anyway.
“I’m thirsty,” you say. “Could I maybe have a glass of water?”
Spencer tries not to notice the fact that you take off your shoes before you follow him to the kitchen. You’re still carrying your stupid little go-bag. He gets a clean glass from the cabinet above the sink and pours you a glass of water, then turns and hands it to you.
“Thank you.”
“Sure.” If nothing else, he’s learning why the two of you don’t do the trivial formalities of politeness, at least not in a sincere way. This all feels strange and like you’re both playing parts no-one gave you the correct script for.
You lean against the kitchen counter while you drink, taking a small sip first like you’re testing the water you watched him pour, and then you drink the rest of it in one gulp and set the glass down in the sink before resting your hands on the counter on either side of you. It pushes your chest out, your breasts straining slightly against your t-shirt.
He has a brief vision of you pushing yourself up on the counter and spreading your legs to him and he blinks, his mouth going dry.
You smile suddenly, your mouth curving upwards on one side, your eyes doing none of the work, like you know exactly what he’s thinking. He looks down his front and realises that you might not know exactly, but you probably have a good idea of the direction his mind is headed.
He shakes his head. “Sorry.” He’s not really sure why he’s apologising, this is all definitely your fault. None of this would be happening if you hadn’t been… setting a precedent, conditioning his body. Whatever.
All he knows is, he never used to be like this, and he’s only like this around you. He can’t imagine wanting anyone else the way he wants you.
It’s not a truth he’s comfortable with, so he doesn’t tell you.
Your eyes keep straying to his crotch until finally you just don’t bother trying to look away. Watching you watching him is having a very predictable effect on him, and the way you lick your lips as his bulge grows isn’t making it any easier for him to reverse it.
“I do want you to,” you say suddenly, eyes still laser-focused. Like you want to see his body’s reaction to your words.
He’s sure the reaction you get is exactly the one you expected and he scratches the back of his head, resisting the temptation to cover himself. He’s fully clothed, the only difference between his work clothes and what he’s wearing now is that he took off his tie when he got home, but something about the way you look at him makes him feel like he took off more than that.
“I mean, obviously,” you add.
Spencer nods, although you probably can’t tell. In some ways, yeah, it does seem obvious. But in other ways, he has no idea what you want, or why. Least of all why. And anytime he tries to work that out, nothing at all is obvious, all his certainties turning into questionmarks. “Okay.”
You still don’t move, so he reaches out and takes the bag hanging off your shoulder, carrying it to the hallway where he sets it down next to your shoes. When he comes back into the kitchen you’re standing exactly where he left you, your eyes trailing him as he moves into the room.
“Are you okay?” he asks, because he doesn’t really know what to do with your stillness, how to read it. You’re only ever quiet for a reason and he can’t see any reason for it right now.
“I’m fine.” You smile at him, then reach up a hand to cup his cheek. Against his better judgement, he leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. “You’re very sweet, Reid. Probably too sweet.”
“Too sweet for what?” he asks, eyes open so he can look at you again.
You let out a huff of amusement, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “All of this.”
“I’m really not,” he insists, shaking his head and you let your hand fall back to your side, making him wish he hadn’t moved. “Didn’t we establish that the other day?”
You flinch but then just shake your head. “I don’t think we did.”
He squints as if it might help him see better. “Then I don’t—”
“Did I ruin you?” you ask, the words suddenly urgent. There’s something in your eyes that makes him feel like he got punched in the gut.
“What? No!” At best, he was joking when he said that. At worst, it was a complement. You have ruined him, but only for everyone else. Clearly you interpreted it some third, unanticipated way. He wants to hug you, but he’s not sure how you’d react if he did. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?” There’s nothing significant about the way you say it, your voice is completely neutral, but somehow he knows his answer is going to be important. Just telling you it was only a joke isn’t going to cut it.
“I want to be ruined.” He reaches for you, a hand on either side of your face pulling you close. “By you.”
Then he leans down and kisses you, sealing his lips to yours before any more truth can spill out. You let him, adding nothing to the kiss except your presence, your lips moving passively, parting for his tongue, and he pulls back. “I wish I could ruin you,” he admits.
“You could,” you say, your fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt. “But I’m not gonna let you.”
He tugs your t-shirt free from your jeans. “Oh, no?”
“No. Now show me your bedroom. I want to see what kind of magazines you’ve got stashed away under the mattress.” There’s a glint in your eyes, familiar and teasing, and Spencer wonders what this was all really about.
“I think you’ll find it extremely interesting,” he says, walking ahead of you. “There are several volumes of the Journal of Biochemical Engineering down there.”
Trailing behind him, you snort with laughter. “I honestly don’t even know if you’re joking or not.”
“The pictures are very appealing.” He turns just inside the doorway, watching you when you first enter his bedroom.
You laugh, shaking your head at him. “Such a fucking nerd.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, wondering if he’s pushing too far. “You’re the one who’s about to get into this fucking nerd’s bed.” The word ‘fucking’ feels strange and foreign in his mouth, he can count on his fingers the number of times he has said it in his entire life.
“I guess I am,” you agree. “You’d better make it worth it.”
He smiles, replying in the same words as he did on the phone. “I will.”
“Good,” you say, and this time he sees the way you smile at the words, the hungry look in your eyes.
“I believe we’re both supposed to be naked,” he points out. It’s only when your eyes widen in surprise that it occurs to him that you’ve never actually seen him naked. With his shirt off? Yes. With his pants around his ankles? Also, yes. Both at the same time? No. “I mean…”
“Oh no, Reid. There’s no walking that one back. You’re taking all your clothes off right now.” You sit down on the bed, your legs crossed at the ankles and lean back on your hands as you look at him expectantly, a grin on your face.
He feels the blush creeping up his whole body and arriving in his cheeks. “Um.”
You shake your head and beckon him over with an outstretched hand. When he moves closer you open your legs so he can come to stand between them, and then you start undressing him, pulling his shirt from his pants and undoing the buttons. He helps with the ones you can’t reach and then he shrugs out of the shirt, pulls the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath over his head.
You run your hands over his stomach, nails scraping down his skin and making him shiver. When you lean forward and kiss him, just above his belly button, he hums deep in his throat and then pulls his hips back when his erection twitches against your chest. “Sorry.”
You don’t reply, just move your hands to unbutton his slacks, and then you pull them down along with his boxers. When you sit back up, your mouth is practically level with the glistening head and he has to physically pull back or he’ll thrust right into your face. You lick your lips, then reach out to stroke two fingers along his length, from the root to the head.
Spencer whimpers.
“So pretty,” you murmur, and when he looks down at you, you’re just staring at his dick with a small smile on your lips.
“It’s your turn,” he says, because if you keep looking at him like that, he might just explode, or at the very least orgasm. And telling himself that he can’t come all over your face isn’t making it any easier at all to not accidentally do that, more like the opposite, because now the idea is in his head and it’s not something he ever thought he’d be into but right now it’s making his balls ache.
You look up at him and for a moment it seems like you’re going to object, but then you pull off your t-shirt, unhook your bra and shrug it off, and then you scoot back on the bed, unbuttoning your jeans as you move, pushing them down your hips along with your panties as far as your hands will reach, and then you lift up your legs and look at him.
Spencer’s head is spinning. He had expected this to go slower, to have more time to wrap his head around the fact that you were going to be in his bed. Naked. With him. But now you’re suddenly there and the only reason you aren’t naked is him.
He crawls on the bed and pulls your jeans and panties off, and then he just hovers there, on his knees, looking at you as you lie in his bed with your head on his pillow and no clothes on your body. “I only have two pillows,” he says.
“We’ll just have to make do,” you reply, mock-serious, like this is a very big problem, actually, but you’re willing to let him off the hook for it.
“Okay.” He nods, then moves to lie down on his side next to you.
You turn your head to look at him, so he puts a hand on your cheek, stretching his neck to get closer. “If I remember correctly, I started by kissing you.”
“Putting that eidetic memory to good use, I see,” you joke, rolling onto your side and meeting him halfway.
Your lips are soft and wet and pliant and Spencer takes his time. Kisses you until the inclination to tell you that you have no idea of the details he remembers has passed, the way he can picture every single moment between you, every facial expression you’ve made, every hill and valley of your body. That he can hear every sound you’ve made in his head, that he can replay that orgasm he gave you in technicolour and surround sound at will. And every now and then against his will.
That all of this is being stored as well.
His hand moves to your breast, cupping it, teasing your nipple until it’s hard, and you grab him by the neck to make sure he follows as you roll onto your back, humming into his mouth. As if there’s any way he wouldn’t.
He ends up half on top of you, one leg between yours, the heat of your core against his thigh, his erection pressed into the soft flesh of your thigh, and he can feel the wetness of the precum leaking out of him when his hips jerk against you. He moans desperately and every cell in his body wants to do it again, wants him to just rub himself against your soft, warm skin until he comes.
Nothing in the world has ever felt this good, except maybe when you had your lips wrapped around him and your tongue was doing the same thing to his dick that it’s doing to his tongue right now. He moans again, thrusting into you, and then pushes himself up on his knees, just enough that his erection is touching nothing but air.
He feels you smiling against his mouth and then you do that thing with your tongue again, like you know exactly what has him on edge. He moans and then pulls away. “Mean,” he says, but he can’t suppress the smile on his face.
“You want me to stop?” There’s not a hint of sincerity in your tone, but he knows you would if he said yes.
“Never,” he blurts out, but you don’t seem to notice.
He kisses your chin and you expose your neck to him, so he licks and nibbles a trail down your jugular vein, feeling your pulse against his lips, then trailing down to your breast where he finds your nipple and takes it in his mouth, working it in the way he remembers you saying you liked. You moan, so softly at first that he thinks he just imagined it, but then louder as he keeps it up, his tongue and teeth teasing you before he sucks gently, until you're pushing your chest off the bed and into his mouth. Then he moves on to the other breast and repeats the process.
By the time he’s satisfied that both your breasts have had enough attention, you’re panting and writhing, your hips thrusting up gently. “Please,” you say, your voice breaking and your legs parting.
He stares at you, mesmerised.
“Reid…” he tears his gaze away from your open thighs to look you in the eye. You’re sweaty and flushed and your eyes are all pupil, he can barely see your irises at all. He wants to hang you in a museum, you’re the most beautiful thing he ever saw.
If you are the sun, let him burn.
He moves down the bed until he can position himself between your legs, his head so close to your pussy that the smell of your arousal burns his nostrils. He breathes in deeply through his nose. When he exhales through his mouth, you mewl and he realises just how sensitive you are. He kisses the insides of your thighs and then looks up at you to find you watching him. “Okay?”
“Mhmm,” you hum, your voice several octaves higher than normal, and he smiles.
Then he lowers his head and gets his first taste of you. His intention is to just kiss you gently, but the instant his lips touch you, your hips buck up and you moan.
“Sorry,” you say, breathing heavily.
“Don’t be,” he says and means it. He wraps his arms around your thighs, holding you firmly in place, and then tries to kiss you again. This time, when your hips thrust upwards, he’s keeping you in place. “Is this okay?”
“Uhhuh,” you moan, your hands coming down to twist themselves in his hair.
He remembers telling you he was going to do the same thing to your clit that he did to your nipples and he wonders if there’s any way you’ll let him stay down here for that long. Then he darts out his tongue and licks you. When he reaches your clit, he circles it, then flattens his tongue against it, pressing and pushing on it until he has the tip of his tongue on it, and then he swirls. You swear. A string of moaned expletives, cursing God and Jesus and Spencer while your grip on his hair tightens to the point of being almost painful.
Spencer is pretty sure he has never enjoyed anything as much as this.
He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, lightly at first and then harder, as the sounds you make get increasingly desperate and your thighs are fighting him with everything you’ve got.
With one last swirl of his tongue he abandons your clit and licks a trail down until he reaches your entrance. He circles it once, then pushes the tip inside you, feeling you tighten around his tongue. His hips buck, pumping into thin air, and he moans against you.
The vibrations force a strangled sound from you, and he pulls out his tongue, then pushes it in a little further, repeats the motion a few times, each time getting a little deeper until his tongue is as far inside you as he can get it.
“So close,” you tell him, breathless and desperate. “Don’t stop.”
He hums reassuringly, then shifts, struggling to keep his grip on your thighs, and the movement pushes his nose against your clit.
That’s all it takes and then your back is arching off his bed and you moan through your orgasm, the noise strangled as you run out of air, and he feels your inner walls contract around his tongue as he keeps pushing it into you, desperate not to miss any of this.
Eventually, your hands loosen their grip on his hair and your body settles back on the bed, completely spent. Your moans turn into soft hums as your breathing returns to normal, and Spencer pulls his tongue out of you, unable to resist the temptation lick you one last time, lapping up your juices. When he does, your whole body twitches.
He raises his head to look up at you and you’re staring up at the ceiling but when you sense him looking at you, you tilt your head down to look back at him.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“No,” you say and his face falls. You pull him up by the hair until he’s lying on top of you and he forces himself to meet your eye, wondering what on earth he got wrong. You seemed to be enjoying it. If that was you faking it, he’s retiring from profiling forever, he doesn’t trust himself to catch another liar ever again.
“Don’t ever, ever do that to a woman unless you’re prepared for her to never leave your bed.”
Relief floods through him. “Okay, I won’t,” he promises. He wants to do it to you again, immediately.
You kiss him, moaning when you taste yourself on his mouth, and he wonders if you’re going to lick his whole face clean. He’s pretty sure his ears are wet, too. He thinks he should probably be disgusted by this, it feels like the most natural reaction for him to have, but he’s not.
Your tongue twirls around his, pressing against it, and he pushes himself up on his elbows so he can get a better angle, kiss you more deeply. The shift pushes his whole body up, and he feels his erection get coated in your slick as it’s suddenly pressed against your entrance.
He moans into your mouth, pleasure mingling with desperation as his body takes over and he thrusts against you without meaning to, his dick clearly determined to go where his tongue has just been.
You hum, you hips twisting to give him a better angle and somewhere in the back of his mind a voice is screaming ‘condoms, STDs, pregnancy’ as he continues to push into you, the throbbing head of his dick pushing its way inside you, when suddenly your hands on his hips push him back and he breaks the kiss, pulling back to look at you.
“I told you,” you say, your breaths shallow and your eyes glazed. “That’s for someone you actually like. You need to save something for when it matters.”
“But—” Spencer starts to object and then stops himself, all those truths about to spill out. “Yeah. Right.”
Your hand moves between your bodies and when it wraps itself around him, it’s warm and wet and he realises it’s coated in your slick. You work your hand up and down his length and now that he knows what you actually feel like, it’s really no substitute, but it still feels better than anything should be allowed to, and before he knows it he’s whining in warning, his forehead against yours and you tilt your head back to kiss him, your tongue invading his mouth as you milk him, and he comes all over your stomach.
He thrusts helplessly into your hand a few more times and then collapses on top of you, your mouths still connected as he breathes heavily, recycling your air.
Your other hand moves to his hair, gently scritching his scalp and he sighs, enjoying the feeling as his whole body gets heavier and he thinks he could probably fall asleep right here if you keep it up.
But then you shift slightly underneath him and he’s reminded of the mess he left, that’s now trapped between your bodies, and he pulls away. Somehow he’s a lot more comfortable with what comes out of your body than what comes out of his own.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, kissing the tip of your nose and then scooting off the bed. In the bathroom he runs the warm water in the sink and finds a clean washcloth, rinsing and wringing it, wiping his stomach clean, and then rinsing it again, wringing it under the tap to keep it as warm as possible before hurrying back to the bedroom with it.
You’re lying in the same spot, but he catches you mid-stretch, arms above your head and your face contorted in a yawn. You’re watching him like you don’t quite know what he’s planning to do, but you’re not going to bother to object unless you really have to.
“I’m just going to clean you up,” he says. “This might be a little cold, sorry.”
You blink, then close your eyes. It feels like you’re hiding, somehow, but you’re doing nothing to conceal your body from him.
He cleans your thighs first, carefully wiping your skin, resisting the temptation to lick your pussy clean, instead gently running the watchcloth over your skin, not parting your folds and getting his tongue back in there. Then he moves on to your stomach, gathering up his own semen in the washcloth. He kisses you right next to your bellybutton, then heads back to the bathroom to rinse the washcloth and then he returns, finishing the task of cleaning you up.
Once he’s satisfied, he brings the washcloth back to the bathroom and dumps it in the shower so he can deal with it tomorrow. Then he goes back to the bedroom and crawls into bed next to you, removing his glasses and pulling the blankets over you both.
“I should go,” you say as he nestles against you, an arm wrapping around you, his fingers tracing an abstract pattern on your now clean stomach.
“Okay,” he says, kissing behind your ear. You yawn again. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
“Yeah,” you insist, but you don’t move.
“You can just stay.”
“Yeah?” You sigh softly and he can feel your body relaxing against him, little by little. “Maybe just for a bit? I’ll take a quick nap and then I’ll go.”
“Stay as long as you want,” he offers.
“Dangerous thing to say with a mouth like yours,” you say, chuckling, and he feels his cheeks get warm and his heart clench. You both feel the way his dick twitches against your ass.
He doesn’t tell you you’re welcome to stay forever. That he wants you to.
He falls asleep with your soft, naked body pulled into his, one arm wrapped loosely around you. He wakes up hard and alone, with the truth still on the tip of his tongue.
The alarm clock on his bedside table reads 6:59AM.
Next to it is a sheet of paper, decorated by hand to look like a diploma. At the top it says Certificate of Excellence, and underneath it announces him as the star pupil and only graduate of the BAU School of Sex.
He reads through it several times, fingers brushing the faux calligraphy border you’ve drawn and filled in blue ink, the stencilled text and then your tight, loopless signature at the bottom. Then he lifts up his mattress and tucks the diploma underneath it.
Hi I just read ur lonely planet hell fics and I absolutely loved them I do have some questions idk if Im missing it but in some of the fics it’s mentioned they had more sexual encounters that weren’t in other fics if I’m making sense I read them from the master list so idk if I’m missing any or what 😭
hey! it's hell, nothing makes sense. well, you do, but nothing about hell makes sense! i'm writing the story out of order and just posting each part as i finish it. it's because i want everyone else to suffer too, and be as confused as i am.
but yes, there are references to parts i haven't written yet because i have sort of an outline of what's going to happen - which keeps changing and expanding and honestly once this is all done i'm going to have to rewrite half of it because it'll make no sense if you read it all in order. but that's a problem for the future. maybe i'll do a part that's just retconning everything that doesn't make sense. wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey or whatever.
for now, can i just promise you that you're not crazy and you're not missing anything. this fic is just weird and i'm sorry.
tags: s2!spencer x bau!reader, virgin!spencer, glasses!spencer, no use of y/n, spencer is smart but he's not THAT smart, accidental phone sex
warnings: mature content (male masturbation, implied female masturbation, graphic descriptions of sexual fantasies)
word count: 3.0K
part of the lonely planet’s guide universe. masterlist is here.
summary: spencer is at quantico working the case while the rest of the team are working locally. he uncovers something it's very important to tell everyone immediately and he calls you.
note: probably safe to say this thing has spiralled out of my control, but hey. we bravely soldier on and maybe at some point spencer will no longer be a virgin. who knows.
*~*~*
You don’t answer your phone until the fifth ring, which is exactly long enough for Spencer to wonder what on earth you’re doing, worry something bad happened and he hasn’t been told yet, and realise what time it is just as you mumble, “Reid?” on the other end of the line.
“I figured it out,” he says, valiantly trying to pretend he still isn’t aware that it’s significantly past midnight. “The granite samples. They’re all related to unsolved murders from the ‘70s. The samples are all from really specific areas and—”
“That’s great, Reid, good job, but do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah, it’s…” He stops himself, glancing at his wristwatch so he can give you the exact time, then remembers that he’s supposed to pretend not to know. “No.”
You chuckle slightly and he can hear the muted noise of rustling sheets as you move in bed. “Are you still at Quantico?”
“Yeah,” he admits.
“It’s nearly one in the morning. Have you been looking at your little rocks for this long?”
“No. The lab finished analysing the samples a couple of hours ago. Well, five. I’ve been reviewing old case files. Once we established the limited geographical area each rock sample could be from, I had Garcia look up each location and—”
“Penelope is still working?”
Spencer vaguely remembers Penelope tossing him a bag of chips, saying goodnight, and telling him not to stay too late. That was… three hours and 27 minutes ago. “No, she left.”
“Very smart of her.” Your tone is dry and he knows you’re mocking him. He doesn’t really care, though, he thinks he might be mostly immune to it by now. He knows your bark is worse than your bite, and your bite is mostly pretty enjoyable.
“You’re missing the important point,” he tells you, trying to get the conversation back on track.
“You found a connection to unsolved cases from the ‘70s, I heard you,” you say. “Could you not just email this to everyone and we’d see it in the morning?”
“I could,” he concedes. “But I didn’t realise how late it was and I assumed that you’d all be together and this was simpler.”
“Calling me was simpler than sending an email?”
Right. Almost anything would be simpler than calling you. Smoke signals, probably. So why did he? “I didn’t realise how late it was.”
“Uhhuh.”
“Okay, well. I should go. It’s late,” he says as if this is new information he’s sharing with you.
“Is it?”
“Goodnight.” He’s moving the phone away from his ear to hang up when he hears your voice again.
“Hey, Reid.”
“Yes?”
“What are you wearing?” You have your teasing tone on, and he wonders where this could possibly be going.
“What do you mean? Just my normal clothes. What are you wearing?” The question was meant to make it clear to you how strange and irrelevant your question was, but when you chuckle he realises he walked right into your trap.
“I’m in bed, Reid. I’m not wearing anything.”
His mouth goes dry as he pictures it. He has seen enough hotel rooms that his imagination is able to conjure up a generic looking one, you in the bed. Naked.
“I’m in the middle of the bullpen,” he whines.
Your chuckle becomes a laugh and the sound of it isn’t helping anything. “It’s one in the morning. Is anyone else there?”
“No,” he admits. “But this is the FBI. There are cameras everywhere.”
“That feels like a problem someone with an IQ of 187 should be able to deal with.”
It is, obviously, but he has a few other problems he’s dealing with at the same time, so not all 187 points are going towards solving that particular one. He rubs the heel of his hand roughly against his thigh as if anyone ever successfully reversed an erection that way. “Are you actually?” he asks, in case you’re just joking.
“Am I actually what?”
“Naked.”
“Oh. That,” you say, your voice light. “Is for me to know and for you to spend the rest of the night wondering about.”
He will be, you're absolutely right about that. But he'll be damned if he's going to admit it. “Right. Well, goodnight then,” he says as casually as he possibly can. Which might be too casually to actually sound casual, he realises as he hears the words leave his own mouth.
“Do you think I am?”
Spencer knows what he wants to think. “Yes.”
“Then I guess I am.” You pause then add, “Schrödinger's nudity.”
Spencer makes a mental note to email you a picture of Erwin Schrödinger later. Then he looks at the upstairs offices, decides quickly that he won't be able to look either JJ, Gideon or Hotch in the eye ever again if he goes into any of those, and then he walks to the men's room, wondering if he’s actually about to do what it feels like he’s about to do.
“Reid?” You’ve been quiet for so long, he sort of forgot that the reason he’s holding the phone to his ear is that you’re still at the other end of the line.
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
The door clangs shut behind him.
“I—” he pushes open each stall, just to make sure they’re all empty. It might be 1AM, but you never know. “You can’t just tell me you’re naked.”
“Reid. What are you doing?” There’s a sudden urgency to your question, but you don’t sound… worried.
“Nothing.” Technically not a lie. He’s not doing anything. Yet. He’s just sitting on a closed toilet lid. Thinking isn’t doing, so him thinking about you lying naked in bed doesn’t count as him doing anything.
“Are you in the bathroom?”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Acoustics. Maybe I’m a genius, too.”
“You definitely aren’t.”
“If you’re going to pee, I’m hanging up. I do not want to hear that.”
Spencer pulls a face, disgusted. “I’m not. You’re gross.”
“You’re the one who’s in the bathroom.” You clear your throat, and when you speak again, your tone is very different. “Reid. Why are you in the bathroom?”
He leans back until his head hits the tiled wall behind him with a muted thunk. “You can’t just tell me you’re naked,” he says again, more than a trace of whininess in his voice. Maybe this is good. Maybe you find out what he’s considering doing and you’re so disgusted by it, you yell at him and maybe that’ll make the images of you that won’t stop playing in his mind evaporate and his hard-on go away and he can leave the office and go home.
“Are you jerking off?” You don’t sound disgusted. Not at all. You sound… intrigued?
“Well, not yet,” he admits.
You hum. “Why not yet?”
“Because I’m still talking to you.” This feels like it should be very obvious.
“How did you have time to get three PhD’s if you can’t multitask?”
His mind stutters to a halt. “What?”
You chuckle. “Come on, then.”
“What?” Sometimes a question really is good enough that it needs to be asked twice.
“I’m naked in bed and I’m very lonely,” you whisper seductively.
Spencer swallows. “Okay.”
“Your turn,” you prompt him.
“I—” Spencer looks around the bathroom stall, the chipped paint on the door, the missing screw on the lock. “Can I join you?”
“That sounds like a lot of fun,” you say, still in that voice like you’re narrating porn.
“Can you talk normally? This is too weird, I can’t focus.”
You laugh, throaty and soft and real, and suddenly Spencer is very focused. “I can, if that’s what you prefer,” you say in your normal voice.
“Thank you.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You came into my room just to do nothing while I’m lying here naked? That’s the weirdest fantasy I’ve ever heard, Reid.”
“Oh, right.” He hesitates, thinking it over. “You’re in bed, and you’re naked,” he confirms, visualising it again. “What colour is the blanket?”
“It’s a duvet. It’s white.” He realises you’re telling him the truth, this is your actual hotel room. “I have four pillows, it’s the height of luxury.”
“Is your hair up or down?”
You chuckle softly. “It’s down.”
“Okay.” The image in his mind changes from one that feels imaginary to one that feels like it could be true. He shifts in his seat.
“Are you naked?” you ask, clearly trying to move things along.
“Um. Yes,” he decides.
“Good.” You say it so firmly, his dick twitches in response. Or maybe agreement.
“Are you in bed with me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He can hear the smile in your voice. “You can have two of my pillows, but you’d better make it worth it.”
“I will,” he says with a confidence he wouldn’t have felt if he had actually been there.
“Good. You start by kissing me,” you suggest.
Spencer nods, then realises you can’t see that. “Yes,” he agrees, remembering kissing you for real, the way your tongue feels against his, the taste of your mouth.
“You can keep your glasses on, if you want,” you say, and he can tell that you’re teasing him.
“I do,” he says, like he didn’t notice.
“Okay. So we’re both in bed, and you’re kissing me,” you say. “Your hand is on my breast and you’re playing with my nipple.”
Spencer’s breathing speeds up and he realises this is actually happening, you’re doing this. You’re going to talk dirty to him while he masturbates in a cubicle at Quantico at 1 in the morning. He knows he could just hang up, just tell you to stop it or pretend it’s all a joke, and then he could go home. He unbuttons his slacks awkwardly with one hand, unzipping them and then pushes them down just far enough that he can pull himself from his boxers.
He wraps his hand around his own dick just as you say, “I’d like you to kiss my breasts, would you do that?”
“Uhhuh,” he says, slightly breathless.
“Will you do that thing you do with your tongue?”
“What thing?” He wasn’t aware that he did a thing. He presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to pretend it’s you.
“You do this thing with the tip of your tongue on my nipple,” you say, your voice soft and slightly distant. “It feels amazing and I can’t get that same pressure with my fingers.”
His dicks throbs as he moves his hand up and down the length of it, thumb moving over the tip and spreading the precum that’s leaking from him.
“My fingers don’t feel anything like your tongue either,” he tells you.
“No?”
“No. Nothing feels like that.”
“I guess not,” you say and then you sigh. Spencer wonders if you’re tired and this is actually boring you. “So is that what we’re doing now? I’m sucking your—”
He cuts you off with a groan at the thought of it, his hips thrusting upwards. “No.”
“No?” You sound surprised and like you aren’t really paying attention.
“I want to taste you,” he admits. “I want to lick you and feel you come on my tongue.”
On the other end of the line, you moan. At first he thinks you’re playing it up and he’s about to ask you to stop, but then you do it again, and he can hear your ragged breathing down the line. Shit. You’re actually… The hand that’s working him up and down grips a little tighter, moves a little faster as he listens to you.
“I want to kiss my way down your stomach,” he says, “and then I reach your…” He doesn’t really know any words for female genitalia that aren’t clinical and that he feels like he can say out loud. “You’re so wet,” he says instead.
“Mhmm,” you hum in agreement and he thrusts into his own hand again, struggling to maintain control of his own body as he continues to work himself on autopilot, his hand clearly determined to get him where the rest of him wants to be.
“I spread you open with my fingers,” he explains, picturing himself doing it. “And then I lick you. I find your clit and I play with it with my tongue, the same way I love to do with your nipples, and then I suck on it and—”
“Fuck,” you say, interrupting him. “Yes.”
He grins to himself. “I find your opening with my fingers and I push two inside you. It’s my middle and ring finger,” he adds, in case that’s important. He remembers the way it felt when you tightened around him. “You feel so good.”
You moan again and the sound goes straight to his dick. He needs to focus and get you there quickly or he’s going to lose it completely.
“You have to tell me before you come,” he says. “I want to have my tongue inside you when you do.”
“Jesus Christ, Reid,” you say, and you almost sound angry. “What the hell?”
“I want to fuck you with my tongue,” he goes on, ignoring your protests, although part of him thinks maybe he should be apologising for something. Maybe what he’s saying is that inappropriate? But he started, so he might as well just get all his fantasies out there, no holds barred. Just thinking about it has him right on the edge, never mind the fact that he can hear your heavy breathing right in his ear, just a hint of your voice in your exhales, and it’s the single most arousing sound he has ever heard in his life.
“Oh my god,” you say, breathing out heavily. No anger, you sound more desperate than anything.
“Will you come on my tongue sometime?” he asks. “Please?”
You moan, a strangled sound that’s muffled halfway through, and he guesses you’ve turned your head away from the phone as you whine with pleasure. He recognises those sounds, even if they’re muted, and he realises you’re coming. You’re really—the sound of your moans gets louder again, and suddenly they’re right in his ear and inside his head and it’s only the fact that he doesn’t want to miss a single note of it that stops him from dropping his phone when his own orgasm hits, hips thrusting up into his hand with so much force he worries briefly that he’s going to fall off his seat.
He falls back against the cistern, eyes closed, his head hitting the wall with a thunk he doesn’t even register this time. He listens to the sound of your soft mewls as you come down off your orgasm while his own breathing slowly returns to normal.
“Jesus Christ, Reid,” you say with a chuckle. “What was that?”
He squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them, his surroundings slowly coming into focus. When he sits back up he sees globs of his own semen sliding down the wooden door of the toilet stall, some of it already on the floor. “I don’t know.”
“Did you learn that from a blog?”
“No,” he says, slightly offended. “I told you, it’s not that kind of blog. It’s educational.”
“Yeah, well you clearly learned somewhere. Are you secretly a sex phone operator?”
“I didn’t learn that anywhere,” he insists. He didn’t. He has no idea where it all came from, except it’s what he thinks when he thinks about you, at least when he’s not too annoyed with you for some very valid reason. And he definitely had no idea of the effect it would have on you.
“Hmm,” you say, skeptical.
“I definitely think it’s your fault, though,” he says, tucking himself back in and closing his pants with the phone trapped between his ear and shoulder.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. You’ve ruined me,” he says flatly, hand coming back up to hold the phone.
“Aww. That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“I can believe that.” He unspools about half a roll of toilet paper, until his whole hand is wrapped in several layers of the stuff, and then he starts wiping the evidence of his own misdeeds off the door and floor.
You laugh. “Well, whatever part of your weird mind that came out of, I’ve gotta admit, I enjoyed it.”
“I could tell,” he blurts out, so surprised by the compliment, not wrapped up in anything snide or mean, that he completely misfires and hits you with a shot of arrogance he’s not sure where he dug out. Maybe it lives in the same area of his mind as the dirty talk?
He folds up the toilet paper glove, wiping some more until he’s sure it’d require forensic lights to see that anything sordid happened here tonight. Really, he wants to disinfect the entire stall, but the janitor’s closet is locked at this time of night.
“It wasn’t a secret,” you say, he thinks defensively.
“I enjoyed it, too,” he says quickly, in lieu of apologising.
“I could tell,” you say, mockingly mimicking his tone and he interprets that as you accepting the unspoken apology.
“Right, well, I’ve got to go and find some disinfectant wipes in my drawer so I can clean this bathroom stall,” he says. “And you should probably go back to sleep. You’re about to receive a very long email detailing how clever I am.”
“Why do you—” you cut yourself off. “Wow, okay. I look forward to picking that email apart and suggesting to everyone that Penelope probably did all the hard work tomorrow over breakfast.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”
You hum in agreement. “Probably only marginally more than I enjoyed this phone call.”
He chuckles. “Goodnight. See you when you get back.”
“‘Night.”
You hang up first and Spencer stands there for a moment, just looking at the phone in his hand, then shakes his head and heads back to the bullpen.
had a 16 hour work day today (big no love, never again. at least not until the next time head office beckons) and because 8 of those hours were commute and i was travelling alone for once and we can't do work on public transit for ~security reasons, i did this instead:
so, yeah. safe to say there's phone sex in hell and reid was not aware of this until way too late for a man of his intelligence.
hello and please take a moment to review this crucial piece of evidence in the case of ginsoakedheart v. marcidstars where i intend to prove that marcidstars is actually the evil one, not me. because who asks anyone to do this?? evil. there, case closed, the jury is dismissed.
rules: make a poll with five of your all-time favorite characters and then tag five people to do the same. see which character is everyone's favorite.
pick your favourite among my 5 favourite characters to play with like they're little puppets who do my bidding in my little pretend scenarios
Nikki Alexander (Silent Witness)
Sam Swarek (Rookie Blue)
Teresa Lisbon (The Mentalist)
Jack Robinson (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries)
Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)
Voting ended onMay 23
(in chronological order of obsession because do not ask me to rank them!)
tagging: @reidlover321 @hiddentattooodyssey @spencerscardigan and anyone else who wants to suffer
