Spencer Reid X famele reader 18+
The Weight of Silence
Y/n's POV
The meeting room door clicks shut behind me, and every head turns. I'm five minutes late—JJ's case file ran longer than expected, and I'd been double-checking the witness statements.
"H-hi, sorry I'm late," I say, clutching my folder to my chest.
Hotch just nods, gesturing to the empty chair. The only empty chair.
Right next to Spencer Reid.
My stomach drops. Of course. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor.
I walk toward him, hyperaware of every step. He's staring at the whiteboard like it holds the secrets to the universe. His posture is stiff, shoulders hunched slightly inward, messy hair falling into his eyes. God, even when he's avoiding me, he looks beautiful.
I slide into the seat, keeping as much space as the conference table allows. But it's not enough. His scent hits me—laundry detergent, old books, something faintly herbal. I catch myself inhaling deeper than I should.
Spencer shifts away, angling his body toward Morgan.
My chest tightens. Again. Always the same reaction, like I carry some contagious disease.
The briefing drones on. Unsub profile, geographic mapping, witness timelines. I take notes mechanically, but my focus keeps drifting to the man beside me. He's rubbing his temple, eyes fixed ahead, jaw tight. He's not paying attention either. Not really.
I watch his hand move, long fingers tracing patterns on the table. I imagine those fingers gripping my waist, sliding through my hair. Stop. Stop it. I'm here to work, not fantasize about a colleague who can't stand me.
But every time I shift my legs, the hem of my skirt rides higher. I feel his gaze flicker down for a split second before snapping back to the front. I pretend not to notice.
The meeting ends. People shuffle out. I deliberately lag behind, packing my things slowly, waiting until it's just me and Spencer left in the room.
He stands abruptly, gathering his files.
"Spencer." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He stops. Doesn't turn around. "What?"
"I need to talk to you."
"There's nothing to talk about." He starts walking toward the door.
I follow. "There is. You've been avoiding me since I joined the team. You switch seats when I sit next to you. You barely look at me. I need to know what I did wrong."
He freezes, hand on the doorframe. His back is still to me.
"You didn't do anything wrong." His voice is strained, barely above a whisper.
"Then why? Why won't you even give me a chance?"
He turns. And for the first time, I see it—the crack in his armor. His eyes are dark, guarded, but there's something else underneath. Something hungry.
"Because," he says slowly, "if I let myself talk to you, I won't be able to stop."
My heart stutters.
The door clicks shut. He's still holding it, but some of the tension has shifted. The air between us thickens.
"I don't understand," I breathe.
He takes a step toward me. Then another. His voice drops, rough and low. "Every time you walk into a room, I can't think straight. Every time you smile at me, I want to pin you against the wall and—" He stops himself, jaw clenching. "You wear skirts that make me want to drop to my knees. And you have no idea what you do to me."
I can feel the heat radiating off his body. We're close now. Close enough that I can count the flecks of gold in his irises.
"Then stop holding back," I whisper.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing my jaw. The touch is featherlight, almost questioning—like he's asking permission.
I answer by closing the distance.
Spencer's POV
Her lips are softer than I imagined. Softer than in any of the hundred fantasies I've tortured myself with. She tastes like coffee and something sweet, lip gloss maybe. My hand slides into her hair, and she makes a sound—a tiny desperate noise that goes straight to my cock.
I shouldn't be doing this. We're in the office. Anyone could walk in. Hotch. Emily. Garcia.
But her tongue touches mine, and every rational thought evaporates.
I push her backward until her hips hit the edge of the conference table. Her fingers fumble with my tie, pulling me closer. I break the kiss, gasping.
"Y/n... we can't..."
"Don't care." She's already working on my belt buckle, hands trembling. "I've wanted this for months. I've wanted you."
My resolve shatters.
I grab her thighs, lifting her onto the table. Papers scatter. A coffee cup tips over, but neither of us looks. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me against her. I'm hard as steel, straining against my slacks.
"Tell me what you want," I growl, mouth trailing down her neck.
"Everything." She arches into me, her skirt riding up to her hips. "I want your mouth on me. I want you inside me. Don't hold back."
Her hands are in my hair, tugging. I groan against her collarbone, my hips grinding into her. She's wet—I can feel it even through layers of fabric.
I drop to my knees.
She gasps as I push her thighs apart. Her panties are black lace, already soaked. I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, feeling her shiver.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to taste you."
I hook my fingers under the waistband, pulling them down her legs. She's bare, glistening, and I'm fucking mesmerized.
I lean in, running my tongue through her folds. She cries out, hands gripping the edge of the table. Her taste floods my senses—sweet and salty and purely her. I lick her clit in slow circles, then harder, faster, as she bucks against my mouth.
"Fuck, Spencer—right there—"
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them up. Her walls clench around me, and I can feel her getting closer. I suck on her clit, relentless, until she shatters with a scream muffled by her own hand.
Her cum coats my fingers. I lick her clean, savoring every drop.
She pulls me up, kissing me deep, tasting herself on my tongue. "My turn."
Y/n's POV
I push him back against the table, reversing our positions. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. I unbuckle his belt, unzip his pants, and free his cock. It's thick, flushed, pre-cum beading at the tip.
I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly. He throws his head back, a low groan escaping his lips.
"You're so beautiful," I murmur, and then I take him in my mouth.
He swears—a breathless "fuck"—as my lips slide down his shaft. I take him deep, throat relaxing, letting him hit the back. His fingers thread into my hair, not pushing, just holding.
I work him with my tongue, alternating between long, deep strokes and quick, teasing flicks at the tip. His hips twitch, and I know he's close.
"Y/n... I'm gonna—"
I pull off just in time to see him cum, ropes of white spilling across my tongue. I swallow, looking up at him through my lashes.
He pulls me up, kissing me hard, passion and gratitude and raw need mixing between us.
"On the table," he commands.
I obey.
I lie back on the cold polished wood, legs spread, skirt bunched around my waist. He positions himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He pauses.
"Last chance to stop."
"Don't you dare."
He thrusts in. All at once. Deep.
I cry out, nails raking across the tabletop. He fills me completely, stretching me in the best way. He starts to move—fast, punishing, exactly what I wanted. My legs lock around him, pulling him deeper with every stroke.
"Yes—Spencer, yes—"
He leans over me, lips against my ear. "I've imagined fucking you on this table so many times. Right here where anyone could see. Where Hotch gives his briefings." He thrusts harder, driving me up the surface. "Where you sit next to me with those perfect legs."
I'm trembling, close again. His hand finds my clit, rubbing in tight circles.
"Cum for me," he whispers. "Now."
I shatter, body arching off the table, waves of pleasure crashing through me. He follows, burying himself deep, filling me with his heat. We stay locked together, panting, sweat-slicked.
The office is silent except for our breathing. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings. Reality seeps back in.
He pulls out slowly, kissing my forehead, my cheek, my lips.
"I don't hate you," he says softly. "I never did. I was just... terrified of how much I wanted you."
I smile, fingers tracing his jaw. "Don't be. I wanted you too. Still do."
He helps me sit up, hands lingering on my thighs. "We should... probably clean up."
"Probably." I don't move.
He grins—a real grin, boyish and relieved. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Only if you let me sit next to you in meetings."
"Deal."
We rearrange our clothes, fix our hair, try to look like we didn't just fuck on the conference table. But the flush on my cheeks and the smile I can't quite hide tell a different story.
And honestly? I don't care who knows.