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22 ⏾⋆.˚ she/her sub spencer reid truther

[luvsvite]

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22 ｡𖦹° bisexual ꩜.ೃ࿔ she/her ⋆˚࿔⋆˚ artist ꩜｡✶⋆.˚

Requests open!

I'd like to point out that I will not include the following kinks/themes in any of my fics: scat, hard bdsm, piss kink, physical torture, vore, noncon, incest, illegal age gap and pregnancy

Masterlist ☆

Criminal minds

Spencer Reid

Latch (MDNI 18+) (w/c:3.5k)

❀ Reader has a special birthday present for Spencer.

Siren Sounds (MDNI 18+) (w/c:3.5k)

❀ sub!Spencer and dom!reader fuck in his car after their fancy anniversary dinner.

Peaches and cream (MDNI 18+) (w/c:2.5k)

❀ switch!Spencer and reader have semi-public, fluffy sex on vacation.

Illicit affairs (MDNI 18+) (w/c:3.5k)

❀ sub!spencer and dom!therapist!reader give in to their feelings for each other.

October passed me by (MDNI 18+) (w/c:4.6k)

❀ reader has a dream about sub!spencer and decides to turn it into reality.

Important

plsplspls if ur a minor don't interact w my blog it makes me super uncomfortable :') please respect that!

[itzwillow]

Do you want me to teach you? | Spencer Reid

⊹₊⟡⋆

Pairing: s2!Spencer Reid x f!Reader

Summary: Spencer revealed that he's inexperienced in the field of making women feel good, so through a stupid drunk text, you let him know you're down to teach him. What you didn't expect was for him to happily take up your offer and do an amazing job in the process.

Warnings/tags: 18+ smut and fluff!! oral (f!receiving), inexperienced spencer, clit play, pussy play, praise kink, vaginal fingering, spencer loves ur pussy, mutual pining, clothed grinding, nipple play, kissing, yearning, overthinking, begging, dumb and in love, alcohol, no drunk sex tho, drunk texting, making out, down bad reader, pantie... play i guess?

Word count: 10.4k (oops...)

Author notes

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ this fic was a lot longer than expected, but I didn't really know when to stop, still feel like it's not complete, so if you want more, just let me know, and I can whip up a part two or morning-after follow-up.

Important!! - I also just want to take the chance to say that if you like this fic, please, please reblog it as well as the likes you give, whilst I am really grateful for likes, they don't do much. reblogging on the other hand, does! I spent more than 30 hours on this, and reblogging would be really helpful for me in terms of sharing my work. much love x

⟶ masterlist

“Oh no, you absolutely did”, Morgan teases Spencer with a boyish grin. 

“I did not blush”, Spencer replies sheepishly, a red tint of embarrassment fleeting over his cheeks, speaking more than his words had with just a sheer colour change. 

The childish bickering of Derek teasing Spencer had been going on since the plane took flight, a whole ten minutes ago. You had drowned out the conversation for a few minutes, spending the passing time reading the same page of your book, having to re-read it five times to soak in the information. Every time the sound of Derek and Elle giggling or laughing reached your ears, you were blown off focus, which resulted in you becoming completely unaware of anything you had just spent the past minute reading.  

You had given up on it when it got too moving your eyes up the page for the sixth time. Placing the book next to you, you decide you need some other form of entertainment. 

“What are we teasing Spencer about this time?” You ask, sliding into the seat next to Elle and opposite Derek.

You already had a good idea about what it was to do with, and you definitely wanted to participate in the teasing this time. You were on the way back to Quantico after finishing up a case in Los Angeles, following a string of rapes and murders around a few of the popular strip clubs and nightclubs. 

You weren’t with Derek and Spencer when they were interviewing the girls in the clubs, but you can only imagine what Spencer was like. 

Everyone knew Spencer was pretty inexperienced with females, and when he was required to talk to one his age, he got pretty flustered. Fumbling his words, doing his awkward smile that they usually thought was weird (you thought it was cute), busying his hands and blinking faster, everything out of a pre-pubescent teenage boy textbook.   

“The fact that genius boy here does not know anything about women”, Elle answers in a teasing tone aimed towards said genius. 

“That’s- that's not true, I’ve read things ab-”  Spencer retorts, fumbling over his words. 

“Oh my god, guys spencer reads porn!” Elle fakes a gasp with amusement.

Your cheeks hurt from how hard you try to keep your laughter in. The look on Spencer’s face is nearly enough to knock you overboard to the point of no return. His cheeks get redder, almost the colour of a ripe tomato during the heat of the summer, something you were sure was impossible. 

“Fifty Shades of Grey? Brigertons? J.D Ward?” You say with curiosity, a teasing smile finds home on your lips as the words spill from them. 

Doubt was a very vivid emotion when it came to the possibility of Spencer reading erotica; it was porn on paper, for god sakes, there’s no way he would-

“I’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey before, but it wasn't very good”, Spencer starts, sitting up, something he does before he starts explaining facts and talking statistics. “I finished it out of curiosity. From a literary standpoint, the character development is… limited. Also, the contract section is surprisingly unrealistic.” 

Oh my god 

“But when I purposely look for information on... women, it’s mostly blogs on how to- talk and other things.” 

“I’m sorry, blogs?” Morgan raises his eyebrow “You read blogs on how to have sex?” 

“Wha- I didn't say sex”, He squints his eyes, he speaks the word ‘sex’ as if it’s the most outrageous thing he’s ever spoken or possibly even been accused of. 

“Yeah, you didn’t have to”, Elle mutters behind her glass, which she brings to her lips. 

A small smile spreads over your lips at the picture this makes in front of you.  Inexperienced, shy, nerdy, scared of women, Spencer reading ‘how to’ blogs in the dark of his apartment, wondering how to make a woman feel good whilst so desperately needing someone to touch him. 

Holy shit. 

You don’t know why, but that thought causes a heat in the bottom of your stomach. As a small throb makes itself recognised between your legs, you clasp your thighs together in a motion you hope goes unnoticed. 

And for fucks sake, apparently you're ovulating because you’ve also just noticed how good Spencer looks when he’s flustered.  

He’s got those pretty puppy eyes, his dark brows are furrowed in such a way that you almost lean over to kiss them. What the fuck? 

“Look, pretty boy, if you want tips on how to get laid, just ask me” Derek shrugs his shoulders; he’s got such an ego when it comes to the topic of getting laid or hooking up, his smugness is evident on his face. He nudges his broad shoulder with Spencer's. 

“Yeah, everyone knows you’re run through Morgan”, Elle comments with a chuckle laced in her words, and Derek responds with a playful eyeroll that you're surprised doesn’t reach his frontal lobe.

“It’s not- It’s not that, I just want to make a woman feel-” Spencer sighs like he already regrets his next word before he speaks it, “good.”

Spencer looks at you as soon as the sentence leaves him, a silence forms between you, and you have to wonder why the silence feels so heavy, why it has that buzz to it, the one that rings in your ears and through your bones. He looks away quickly, but quickly isn’t the way you describe the buzzing leaving, because it doesn’t. 

It doesn’t leave. 

“What do you mean by good? You know, there are thousands of ways to make a woman feel good,” You inquire, your tone sounding a little too interested in the matter. “Oral, kissing, fingering, licking, sucking, uh- words i guess, dirty talk maybe” You count them off on your fingers, you can feel Spencer’s embarrassment rise with every word spoken, and yet you find that’s the reason you're doing it. 

“Money”, Elle adds.

“That too”

“Touching and.. Tasting,” Spencer says softly, but also like he had to force them out at the same time. 

He looks so pretty flustered. And those words coming from his mouth sound the equivalent of dirty talking, at least they sound dirty to you. Is that weird? 

“I already see it”, Elle nods her head, “Proper munch.” 

As if you all have a sixth sense, you and the others turn around at the same time and face the eyes burning into you from the jet's couch. You had felt it, the way it always felt, like a parent scolding their children for misbehaving.

“Let’s not talk about Spencer’s sex life on the jet”, Hotch chides, glancing up from the file he had been reading. He has one of those looks that only went to one of the team members (Elle) but felt like it was aimed at all of you, even Spencer, whose cheeks still burn like the sun shining through the plane windows.

As though you were dogs just told they’ve been bad, you turn around again. The jet goes awkwardly silent for a minute before Elle’s poor mistake of trying to hold her laughter fails. You let a chuckle out alongside her, and when you hear one slip from across the table where Spencer sits, you look up.

Again, meeting his eyes, holding eye contact for longer this time. It speaks louder than last time, the absence of words wither at the heat between your glances. He smiles softly, it's genuine and warm and matches like a perfect pair with his golden eyes, they both shine from unimaginable heights and knock the breath out of you just the same. 

The rest of the flight is filled with those heated glances between you and Spencer, words not spoken because even if they were… they wouldn’t live up to the feeling of catching his eyes from across the table. 

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩   

After you and the team had gotten back to the BAU, Penelope had come up to you, Elle and JJ and asked if you could all go out for drinks.

 You knew you couldn’t say no; it was Penelope. 

Derek had also somehow managed to sneak himself into the plans to get pissed at the nearest bar, using his flirting tricks and good looks to sway Garcia. 

                                   ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ 

When Garcia normally pulled you to the bar after a long case, you had some control over yourself when it came to drinking, but tonight was different. Tonight, you had things on your mind that you wanted to push back into the farthest parts of yourself, and nothing did that better than shitty alcohol in a bar that stunk of cheap liquor and sweaty bodies.

You had been sitting in the booth at the far end of the bar for a while now, just observing with your hazy eyes and dizzy head. Elle and Penelope had ditched you for an interesting conversation with a lone guy sitting at the bar, and JJ had headed home half an hour ago, so you were currently alone and wallowing in the unspoken feelings that had been eating away at you since the jet.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Derek being rubbed on by a group of three females who all look like they are trying very hard to get lucky tonight. You don't think their attempt at dancing did much for them, though, but you could tell that Derek wasn't paying much attention to their so-called moves and more to the cleavage that was being moved about in his line of sight. 

He was very noticeably enjoying the female attention, a wide grin is plastered over his face, and his chuckle rings out when one got close enough to his lips in a teasing motion that you were surprised they weren't full-on making out in the middle of the room.  

Your head buzzes like you were a million miles away, and your head sways to the speaker's music with a motion you swear you don’t control. You had a bad habit of doing things you weren't particularly in control of when you were more than four shots deep. 

The words that came out of Spencer's mouth earlier on the jet had been vivid in your mind since: his cheeks that warmed as his words became more revealing, the way his voice went up a pitch when Elle had lightheartedly accused him of reading porn. And the genuine laugh when he looked up at you, the pretty one that sounded like a melody coming from a vulnerable place in his chest.

You tighten your legs together as the presence of the vision and the sound of his voice from earlier dance in your head, slow, fast, quiet, loud and oh so good. You’ve felt that way about Spencer a few times on occasion, but you always brushed it off as needing to get laid after so long. This was different in a way you weren't accustomed to, and you had no descriptive words for it other than… want. Pure unfiltered want.    

You blame your actions on the stuffiness of the bar and the six empty shot glasses in front of you as you pick up your phone that had been left on the table and click on the contact you only ever really texted when it related to a case or something another to do with work.

You thought about how to word your text to him, but it wasn’t exactly up to you as the vodka in your system took the reins and sent a text that sober you would have paled over.  

(you) 11:02 pm: do yu wnat me to teach you?

(you) 11:20 pm: please 

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You didn’t want to see Spencer; your only thoughts whilst riding the elevator up to the BAU were the hopes that Spencer was off sick. Well, not sick exactly, you’d rather he wasn’t actually unwell, you weren't that cold-hearted. 

But you were delusional enough to hope that once you stepped out onto the floor where you worked, you would come across an empty desk where Spencer would normally sit.

Your manifestations had come out cold and were not of any use as you hesitantly stepped through the glass doors to the BAU and met the hazel eyes at the desk you had so desperately hoped was empty. You look away as quickly as you can manage and speed walk to your desk at the other end of the bullpen so fast you send out a hissed curse when your hip comes in contact with the edge of the wooden table. 

The dividers between the desks kept Spencer out of eyesight as you slump down on your seat and let out a groan when your elbows rest on the desk with your head in your hands. You had fucked up so bad when you sent that text last night that you couldn’t even come into work the next day without feeling like you were committing a crime. 

Your chest had a burning feeling you couldn’t quite differentiate between guilt or a soul-eating dread; you had a good feeling it was the latter. 

You had woken up early that morning with a pounding headache that was later soothed with painkillers and a burning hot embarrassment (that was not cured with painkillers) as you checked your phone and saw the two blue ticks next to your stupid, so fucking stupid text. 

You had gotten ready with the pace of a snail as you contemplated crawling back into bed and pretending you didn’t exist. You couldn’t, but you came to the conclusion that you could pretend Spencer didn’t exist and that last night didn’t happen. And whilst that is hard to do because it is not only hurting you, but you're sure Spencer will start to feel hurt too, you have manipulated yourself to think that it's the best thing you can do as an outcome to your fucking stupid, drunk, pussy ass, fuck ass text that drunk, horny you thought was genius to send, just fucking genius.

You had asked yourself a million questions on the way here with an angry tone to your thoughts, and you only had two answers to them that you had only just admitted to yourself. 

You were attracted to Spencer Reid.

You wanted to teach Spencer how to make a woman feel good, and you badly wanted that woman to be you.

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You had managed two hours of writing reports and going through old case files, ones that contained photo evidence that had made your stomach twist, before you started heavily craving caffeine as the effectiveness of your painkillers depleted when the seconds ticked by. 

It took some persuading from yourself, but you get up and make your way to the bullpens' corner kitchen that you and your team only used for the coffee machine. 

You remember the last time you opened the off-white mini fridge in the corner, and the putrid smell of well gone of food had you and JJ gagging, you decided to hold your nose when you planted the mouldy chinese on Gideon's desk and told him to never leave it that long again. You remember leaving his office and hearing the soft huff that sounded a lot like a chuckle seep out from the crack of the half-closed door.

You had joined the Behaviour Analysis Unit two weeks after Spencer had joined, and since that day two years ago, you have come to find yourself a family, one that didn’t just have that family feeling during working hours but all the time. 

But out of everyone on the team who you held close to your heart and considered family, Spencer was your person, and he was like an extension of you most of the time. You suppose that's why you feel so much guilt about the text you sent him the night before; you didn’t want to fuck up the bond you both already cherished so deeply.

You knew you had always felt more with Spencer, but like, with pretty much everything in your life, you chose to ignore it. Until the results of your bottled-up feelings came out in a drunk text that had been weighing heavily on your heart since the morning.

You were so consumed in your own thoughts that you hadn’t been aware that you’d been stirring your coffee for at least a minute, that was, until you heard a honeyed voice behind you.

“You’ve been stirring for one minute and thirty-two seconds- and counting” 

It’s like your body short-circuits and stops working on you as you freeze up in response to Spencer's words. Turning around, you meet his gaze, and so many unsaid words drift in the space between you. 

You swear he looks more beautiful than the last time you saw him, but you can’t tell if it is your mind playing tricks on you, maybe it was the still-fading pain meds or just… just. Maybe it came down to the feelings you had only just admitted to yourself that were still new in your head.

He has a small wrinkle between his softly furrowed brows as he sets his eyes on you and then to the cup of ‘going cold by the second’ coffee on the counter behind you. 

“Yeah- yeah, I'm sure it's mixed by now” You turn back to your coffee and toss away the wooden stirrer into the trash can by your feet. You feel a warm heat travel up your neck, curl around your ears and settle like a blanket, a very heavy blanket, on your cheeks. You knew the whole ‘ignoring’ wasn’t going to last long, but three hours felt kind of feeble. You should have expected it wouldn't go on for long. Spencer had a habit of noticing when things were ugly or, more so, awkward in this case, between him and someone, and wanting to fix it as soon as he could, as soon as he found the courage for it.

“Did you- did you have fun last night?” Spencer says with a voice that made it obvious he was trying to hide the awkwardness that was surely settled deeply in him. 

“Yeah, it was good” You nod to your words and sip your coffee, trying to look at anything but him. 

“Derek told me you had a lot to drink and uh- showed me the video of the karaoke” 

You mentally groan so hard you accidentally let one slip out of your own throat that you don’t bother covering up. You only half remembered the poor attempt at singing to 22 by Taylor Swift after being dragged on stage by Penelope, but you find enough memory of it to know it involved drunken giggling, slurring and pure fumbling over your words that really wasn't attractive in any way.  

“I was way too out of my mind to even notice that he had been filming” 

“How out of your mind?” Spencer's voice was quieter than it had originally been, almost like he was getting his hopes up that you would give him the answer he wanted. 

Whatever that was.

“Spencer..” 

He takes a step closer, not a big one but one that shows he’s listening.

“Were you drunk enough that you’d say things?” he breathes out in soft frustration “, things that you didn’t mean”. His brows go up in question.  

You shake your head in disagreement as he takes another step closer; you had never witnessed Spencer so determined to get an answer from someone in such a way that he looked like he was holding onto every word said and every shaky breath you exhaled.

He looked at you through his thick lashes that you had always said you were jealous of, and you thought you might melt right there as a result of the tension swirling around the air.

“I need you to tell me what you're talking about so I don't say something stupid about a thing that's not even relevant to what you're on about” You ask gingerly.

Spencer was acting in a way you had never seen before, and you didn’t understand how you were meant to feel knowing it was the result of you, of something that you had caused.

“Well, last night you sent me a text-, do you remember?” Spencer questions as if he couldn’t actually decide whether you knew what he was on about, like the possibility of being too drunk to forget a text like that was a high chance. 

“Yeah, I remember- I know”. 

“Okay, then, tell me what you meant, " he remarks. 

You look down at the steaming mug in your hands, carefully moving your palms so the coffee would sway and malipulate small ripples across the surface ever so slightly. It was almost calming in a way, something so minuscule like the movement of your own hands was an enticing hypnosis. That was a habit you had had for a long time, moving whatever was in your hands as a way of distraction from the fact that you had to answer and were too flustered to even think of a right response. 

“That I wanted to teach you”

“I need more than that” 

“Do I really need to speak it out loud, because I'm starting to think this is a humiliation ritual” 

“I would prefer if you did” His pretty puppy dog eyes that he wore so well catch your eyes and hold contact as he waits for a response, " Please.” 

You exhale a sassy breath and look up to the water-stained ceiling above you so you wouldn’t have to hold eye contact and gauge his reaction in response to your answer. 

“You said on the jet that you wanted- this is so stupid- that you wanted to know how to make a woman feel good. It was all I could think about last night, so I sent you that text to let you know that I'm always here if you need… a lesson. A physical one” 

The prolonged silence rings out louder than any words ever could, and the burning behind your eyes starts with no grace or warning. Not with embarrassment or anxiety, but with an achy feeling commonly known as ‘I fucked up so bad, he hates me and thinks I'm a right weirdo, and why did I ever think he would want to go down on me, blah blah blah’.  

“Okay” 

Okay??

Tearing your eyes off the ceiling and blinking away your blurry vision, you take notice of Spencer's slicked back hair that you're sure looks more out of place than it had been before you looked up, as though he was running his hand through it absentmindedly. The tips of his curved ears are a shade darker on the blushed scale, and the pupils in the middle of his hazel eyes are a size bigger, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he looks more flushed and perhaps hungry in a way he wasn’t even certain he knew how to feel about. 

“Okay?” You repeat, trying to figure out what exactly he could mean by okay, okay was such a versatile word that could be taken any which way, depending on the tone of voice, but when the word drifted from Spencer’s pressed lips, he revealed nothing. 

“I- I’d like that, " he stutters, “If the offer is still up.” 

You stand there stunned for a while before you speak up, your voice wavering, “Actually?”  

“Unless the text was only a drunk thing- and you didn’t mean.”

“I meant it”, You say matter-of-factly, the previous unease within you flattens at the statement. 

You’d gone through all the possible outcomes of this conversation when he had come up to you a few minutes ago, and you didn’t have a single ounce of hope that Spencer would agree; in fact, it hadn't crossed your mind once that Spencer would be acquainted with the idea of a lesson between your legs.

“Good, good, well, I’ll Em- do you do Email?”

“Text me, Spencer” 

He nods, stepping away to walk back into the bullpen “Yeah- okay, I’ll do that”.

 A small smile graces his mouth before he walks away, and the contagiousness of the upturned lips passes onto you and lingers even after he’s sat down at his desk a few meters away and you start making your way to your own desk. Your desk that was covered in silly little figures that Penelope had planted there on your first day, she told you that the minute you had stepped into the bullpen, you had a look about you that came across to her as you needing some sparkle in your life. 

But the sparkle that had changed your life around for the good wasn’t the small unicorns that littered your desk, the pom pom pens in your tabby cat mug or the stickers decorating your name plaque, but instead it came in the form of bright hazel eyes, brown slick back hair, an IQ of 187 and a soft mouth grazed with frequent smiles that would soon find a place between your legs.

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You could swear you still felt a small curly hair tickle the soft skin of your upper thigh; you couldn’t exactly pluck out a pube in the middle of an apartment building hallway, so you could only hope that it was dark enough in Spencer's apartment that he wouldn't even notice the single hair on your otherwise smooth skin that you had shaved, scrubbed and moisterized more times than once. 

Every step closer to his apartment door had your heart beating faster in a way that was almost a cause for concern. 

You had received a text from him two hours ago, two days after the conversation in the BAU’s corner kitchen, and it only consisted of four words.

(reid >ᴗ<) 4:58 pm: Can you come over?

Shortly after reading it, you had sped into your bathroom and spent an hour under the warm rush of hot water whilst bending and stretching in awkward positions to shave the skin between your thighs, and when you were as satisfied as you could be, you had dried and moisturised with pure determination. 

Only as you had been ready to slip on your underwear had you replied to Spencer.

(you) 6:03 pm: black or white?

(reid >ᴗ<) 6:05 pm: Context? 

(you) 6:05 pm: doesn’t matter 

(you) 6:05 pm: just answer 

(reid >ᴗ<) 6:05 pm: Is this part of my learning?

(you) 6:05 pm: yeah, and it’s important

(reid  >ᴗ<) 6:06 pm: White.

(reid  >ᴗ<) 6:08 pm: And lace.

You gently rap your knuckles against the smooth wooden door, and on the final firm rap, you stop midway as you hear the unlocking behind the wood. The second you hear that small sound of the metal clicking out of place, your brain runs around frantically, overthinking every small thing you did whilst getting ready only a few minutes ago. 

Did you put enough deodorant on? Should you have drunk more of the sweet pomegranate juice that had been in the fridge for a couple of weeks that you knew would have its use at some point? Is the lace showing above your jeans slutty in a good way or a bad way? Is the black push-up bra that you got a size too small a bad fashion decision, or should you have matched it with your underwear? Is your pussy smooth enough? What if you didn’t exfoliate right? 

As the creak of the door opening sounds out, you meet the warmth of his gaze and the overthinking is reduced to a small buzz at the very bottom of your list of important things. He’s not wearing his usual work attire that normally consists of a tie and a kitted vest, but instead he’s traded it out for a loosely fitting long-sleeved grey t-shirt and a red, white and black plaid pair of trousers you recognise as pyjamas. 

You don't know why it feels so foreign to see him wearing his sleep clothes, and why the foreign feeling is quite a nice feeling that settles happily in your chest. You suppose not many people have the opportunity to see him in this state, so as you do now, you cherish it.

He opens the door up, and you turn one side of your mouth up in a half-smile as you walk through the door and into the warmth of his apartment. 

You’ve only stepped foot into his apartment once, one year ago, when you needed to sleep on his couch for the night, when the smell of wet paint churned your stomach so much you couldn’t stand sleeping in your own apartment until the renovations had been completed.

You found as much ease walking into the room as you did the first time; the feel of Spencer’s apartment had that effect on anyone who had the chance to visit. Since the last time you had been in the apartment, there were more spaces filled on the bookshelf and more worn books piled on top of the storage unit where his stereo sat against the far right wall in the open-plan living room.

Knowing Spencer, he’d probably read all the books he already had and needed to buy more or borrow some from the library to feed his reading addiction. 

“Would you like some coffee? Milk and three sugars?” Spencer asks from behind you; it’s very obvious he’s not got any idea how to create a sexually intense thread of tension between the two of you.

You had already told yourself that you would need to take charge and tell him what to do, to lead, but standing in the middle of his apartment with nothing in your palms to fiddle with, you didn’t actually know how to start something like this. With your previous relationships or hookups, you’d just lie there and let their mouth wander, and you’d never have to say or do anything but moan and look pretty as they tried their hardest to find the clit (they never did, and you ended up faking it 80% of the time). 

You couldn’t with Spencer; you had to teach, show him how to touch and taste and make you feel good so he would know how to in the future…for other women. That’s why you were doing this, you reminded yourself. So he would know how to make women feel good, not just you. 

“Just water”, your reply comes out softly. 

Spencer strides to the kitchen at the same time you sit yourself down on the brown leather couch facing the window. You hear the kettle boil as he makes his drink, and the turning of the sink as he pours yours. 

You reach behind the back of your head and undo the messy ponytail you put up in a rush on the drive here. Because you didn’t decide to bring a bag due to the fact that you had only brought your phone and keys, you slip it onto your wrist. You find yourself subconsciously flicking the black band on your wrist, not in a way that brings you pain or discomfort, but more so in a way your mind subconsciously finds soothing, a way to comfort the anxiety and dripping arousal.

As the sound of a cup being put down follows another, you watch the smooth movement of Spencer sitting down next to you, creating a small dip in the couch. The tension pulls between you, like a string being tugged or north pole and south pole magnets colliding. 

Spencer’s gaze flickers down to your lips in a motion far from subtle. You watch his chest rise and fall with a steady rhythm, a movement that shows he’s feeling something like need, like it’s a pure hunger flowing through his veins. 

“You know, if you're having your tongue on my pussy soon, it’s reasonable to kiss me” 

Your words have him moving his eyes from your lips. He nods nervously as he agrees, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense”.

Getting ready to flutter your eyes closed, you pause midway to closing them, and then you fully open them again. You had half expected Spencer to take charge of the kiss, but you were mistaken; he looked like he didn’t have the slightest clue about how to lean in and what was right. 

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” You question softly, shuffling closer to him. 

“Once in high school, but we got our braces caught together” 

You huff out a chuckle and shuffle even closer to him, watching his face for the emotions that fleet across his face, whether fast or slow. Accidentally bumping your knee with his thigh, Spencer’s finger tips graze over the top of your leg in a soft caress before settling his hand down like he wasn’t sure if you were about to tell him to take it off or press down even more. 

You don’t say anything, but look him in the eyes as you move your body so you're straddling his lap and pressing your chest to his. His hips buck up slightly at the sudden movement, but like it’s almost natural, and he’s gone through his head practising this. He moves his hand up your body, sending shivers up your spine with every touch of your atoms meeting.

He seems to know what to do this time, driven by desire, desire evident from the growing bulge beneath you, strained by the layers of clothes. It’s quick but not rushed as he plants his other warm palm on the side of your neck, ever so gently and tugs you towards him. 

The hand still resting on the side of your clothed waist squeezes gently as the rest of his body eases when your lips gently meet his in a way only described as euphoric. 

Your brain transcends into mush as you find yourself melting into the soft lips of your co-worker, the same co-worker who sends a thrill up your spine as he pushes on your waist, moving you forward and then pushing you back. He tries to chase the friction between both of you by manually moving your hips with his grip on you and grinding you down on him; he does it so gently, never gripping too hard.

He makes a small gasp into your mouth as your lips move together; there’s no tongue yet added into the mix, but the softness of each other's lips and the unfiltered lust drive you both enough as it is. 

When you do add tongue to the mix, Spencer is the one to initiate it as he opens his mouth and probes his tongue against your lips, swiping it against the slit in a question. 

Your answer comes as opening your mouth and accepting his tongue; you moan against his mouth as you meet halfway. He tastes like black coffee (or sugar with a side of coffee, you suppose) and desperation, both things you love when served by Spencer. 

Everything Spencer gives you, when he lets out a whimper, when he bucks up against you, when he pulls back and breaths heavily against your half-open mouth while looking up at you through his lashes, you take it. You take everything he gives you, and you make it yours.

His touch moves from where it resides and comes up to the hem of your ruffled shirt; it has you pulling back and looking at him.

“Can I?”

You nod. 

You feel the hot exhale against your bare collarbone after he slides your shirt off and drops it on the floor behind you. Your body shivers from where his fingers narrowly skim across the sensitive skin of your waist.

You feel intoxicated with every touch or breathy gasp exchanged, your mind is set at a current setting that only lets you think of touch, taste and the lust that's filtered through every expanse of your being.

Spencer is definitely an inexperienced kisser, and you can tell when he has the occasional slip-up or when he accidentally clashes his teeth against yours, but the sexual desire coming from a pit within him controls the movements of his mouth and body, and that is more attractive than any slip-up he could make. 

“I want to take you to the bedroom, I want to make you feel good”, He begs you, his voice sounding needy. 

You only had to whisper a plea, and he had stood up, you around him, without much effort. It surprised you that he did it with that much ease; he wasn’t exactly fit. He wasn’t unhealthy by any means; you just assumed that without the muscle building him up, that he wasn’t exactly capable of heavy lifting, but he had proven you wrong.

It was a short distance to his bedroom, and you have your head buried into the warm skin between his shoulder and neck as he walks with you in his hold. You feel safe in a way you have never felt before. 

He drops you down onto the softness of the mattress in such a gentle way that you feel like a treasured artefact. He positions you so your back is against the mattress, but your legs are half on the bed. You take your shoes off by pushing them against each other, and they fall to the floor by Spencer with a small thump. 

With only your socks covering your feet, you place them on the edge of the bed, bending your legs at the knee. Spencer stands before you, admiring the sight of you splayed out on the bed, not yet fully undressed but beautiful, with regard. The tent in his pants is visible, and the imagined vision of what was under the layers, just by guessing based on the imprint, was an intoxicating picture displayed in the front of your mind. 

He leans down, bracing a hand to the side of his head. He presses a quick kiss to your lips, the first kiss that didn't feel like lust or sexual desire but instead something unspoken, something that has you widening your eyes and feeling a precious warmth settle in your chest. 

You were doing this for Spencer, you were teaching him how to make a woman feel good, and yet your personal attraction to Spencer that you had become accustomed to recently was causing a hot wire in your head. You were allured by him with a captivating charm you had never experienced. 

His mouth was about to find home on your pussy, and you had to pretend like you weren’t falling for him even more every time he touched you. 

When he pulls away from the soft peck, you lay a hand on his jaw and turn him back towards your lips and turn the softness of his kiss to a needier sweep of your tongues. 

“Can- can you tell me what to do?” He catches his breath as he pulls away reluctantly and focuses on your face, his eyes moving from your lips. 

“Take my bra off” 

His dark eyes flicker down from your face and land on the black bra you had decided wasn’t as bad as you had thought earlier, because from your angle, your boobs looked amazing. 

The small pulse that came from the bulge resting on your leg told you he thought so to.  

You prop yourself up with your elbows, giving Spencer more space to move his hand behind your back. With one palm planted on the mattress beside your head, he uses his free hand to reach behind your back, trying and failing to unclasp the back of the bra. 

You admire the way he bites his bottom lip in concentration, his fingers fiddling with the metal clasps in an effort to strip your breasts bare. You feel the skin of his knuckles gently graze against your back; it sends pulses of arousal through your body, pulses that travel slowly to your lower stomach. 

“Spencer, do you want me-”

“No, I-” 

You feel the fabric behind you loosen. 

“Got it” 

His eyes hold a captivating look that spreads like glitter everywhere his glance settles on your silky skin. With the way you're propped up, the straps that were sitting on your shoulders now slip down your arms and rest at the crooks of your inner elbows. The cups of the bra still hold your breasts, no more skin shown except the strip of your shoulder that the straps were covering before they fell. 

Lying down again, the bra cups finally slip, and you pull it off the rest of the way, discarding it next to you, exposing the swell of your breasts and the rose coloured nipples that were perked up so beautifully.

Your body arches up in a wordless question, a wordless beg for touch. 

“Spencer, touch me” 

His eyes are stuck on your breasts, admiring them like they were the most gorgeous thing he had ever laid eyes on, like they were deserving of worship. 

“I- here?” He doesn’t take his eyes off your tits.

Gently holding his wrist, you move his hand to cup your breast closest to him. The first touch of his palm sends a thrill through your nipple, and a little gasp escapes from the confines of your mouth. 

“I- oh god- I don't know how” Spencer gently squeezes your tit with his hand before removing it. 

“Put your mouth on my nipple”

“Yeah, I know that- I just don’t know how to use it”

“Then watch me, look for reactions, and you’ll know what I like” You breathe out, desperation's presence is known. 

He watches you for a few seconds, just as though he was looking for permission, even though you had already solicited the act. 

He looked so innocent like this, unaware of what to do and on edge about the possibility of doing the wrong thing. It gave you a small thrill knowing it was you he was doing this with, that despite it being a lesson, you were still his first. 

Through half-lidded eyes, your attention forms on the shift of Spencer as he hesitantly flattens his tongue against your hard nipple; he licks a stripe along the peak, soaking the skin where his dripple lands. He moves so he’s lying on his side more than leaning, so he can get a better angle as he takes your nipple into your mouth. 

The first feel of the inside of his mouth feels like something equivalent to heaven, your eyes roll back, and your nipple gets impossibly harder on the soft bed of his tongue. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to calm down the throbbing of your ever-so-needy clit that was begging for attention. 

For someone who had never sucked a girl's tit, he was impressively good at it, combined with the magnetic pull that you already felt for him was the cause for the wildness you felt so deeply as he sucked and licked your sensitive flesh. 

Opening your eyes, you notice Spencer looking up at you through hungry eyes that also some way or another, still looked pure, even in the act of being the cause of such pleasure, that your sure was evident on your face. 

He examined every small gasp you made and every shiver that wracked your body. And when he sucked in the way that had you moaning his name, he drank it in and learnt how to draw out as much pleasure as he could using his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the other. 

He learnt how to pinch and twist using his hand, and when on the occasion it was too hard that you’d wince, he pulled back and kissed your lips with a whispered apology. 

Both nipples were dripping with his spit, and the redness from pinching the peaks was stark against your skin. Spencer looks boob drunk when he pulls away, his lips pink and swollen, drool running down his chin, something you never classified as hot until this moment. 

With newfound confidence, he reaches down to the waistband of your washed-out jeans and undoes the single button with one hand. Following his movements, he moves off the bed and again stands up before you. He leans down and unzips your jeans slowly, a small inhale slips through him as he moves his hands down to trace a finger against the lace of your panties that show through the opening of your jeans.

“Can I take your jeans off?” He asks.

“Please”, A small whimper slips out of you at the mere thought that you were only a couple of minutes away from having him settled over the throbbing wetness between your thighs. 

He doesn’t watch his own movements as he shimmies your jeans down your legs with your help and plops them on the floor, where your discarded shoes sit. All of his attention is on you as he observes the desire written over your face in the most enticing colour he could ever imagine.  

You bring the heels of your feet against the edge of the bed again, bending your legs at the knees; this time, you spread wider, giving Spencer more of a view. You can feel the wetness soaking your white underwear so much that it sticks to your pussy like a mould. 

Without question, he kneels, his knees lightly hitting the hardwood floor beneath him. The sight is enough for you to prop yourself up again, just to view him on his knees at a better angle. 

He experimentally brings his hand closer to the heat radiating in the middle of your thighs, stroking two steady fingers along the dampness seeping through the cotton. The gentle sweep over your covered clit has you opening your mouth on a silent moan, the bud his fingers are settled over throbs with hunger. 

“You wore them”, Spencer addresses, looking up at you through his dark lashes. His voice is still nervous, almost boyish. 

Spencer refers to the lacy underwear he had spoken about over text. You’d never told him what you had referred to when you asked him the question, ‘black or white’, but you guessed his IQ had come in handy when it came to the understanding of what you were on about. 

You only owned two pairs of white lace underwear, and one pair had holes that your ex had been the reason for, so the options were narrowed down easily. The pair that you are currently wearing are your newest addition to your sexy underwear. You didn’t have many, so you had decided a few weeks ago that you should save up and treat yourself to a few more. 

One of the best ideas you've ever had. 

“I like them”, he says softly, cherished.

He moves his slender fingers towards the lace decorating your panties, tracing the delicate, floral openwork that you wore so well. Every touch against your skin brings electricity through your nerves; it feels like he’s painting a graceful lightning strike across your skin that can only be admired through feeling.    

“You can keep them as long as you don’t rip them”  You exchange eye contact with him. 

“-keep them? I- why would I do that?”

You shrug as much as you can in the position you're in. “Smell them, wrap them around your cock?”

“People actually do that?” His eyes wide, and his voice is husky. 

You nod, and Spencer's eyes furrow lightly like he’s contemplating the idea; you're sure a pros and cons list is being visually drawn through his eyes. 

The pulsing of your clit only gets angrier with every awareness of time passing, every second Spencer is stuck in his thoughts and absentmindedly moving his fingers across the details on your panties and not on your clit like you desperately want them to be. 

“Spencer, please do something”, You whine, drawing him from his thoughts. 

“Hm? I'm sorry, so sorry,” he shakes his head like he's trying to clear his earlier thoughts out of his mind, a blush settles across his cheeks again, a sight you love to see. 

He pokes his tongue out slightly, dragging it across his top lip when his attention falls back to your weeping pussy in front of him, the soaked white fabric not doing much to cover your flesh. His blink is slow, as though he’s entranced with the sight before him. 

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, ready to do anything you ask of him with a simple word from your lips, “How should I make you feel good?”

“Most girls would want tongue first and then, whilst your mouth is on the clit add a finger, if you pull my panties down and-”

Your name falls out of his lips, and your eyes meet his as they glance up through a half-lidded gaze, “I don’t - I don’t want to know what other girls want, I want to know what you want” 

Your body tenses, goosebumps rise over your arms at the devotion slips from Spencer's lips. So much for the ‘lesson’.  

Holy fuck, that was so attractive. 

You almost squeeze your thighs together with the pleasure that travels up your spine, but at last it’s probably not a good idea to suffocate Spencer with them before his mouth is even on you.  

“What do I want?”

He nods, “What should I say and do to make you feel... good. Or the best I can make you feel, I suppose.” 

You hesitate. 

“Pull my panties down” 

His fingers come to the waistband of the lace decorating your hips. 

“Kiss my thighs and then my clit… if you find it”, You tease. 

“I’ll find it, I’ve looked at enough anatomy books” 

You huff out a laugh at his confidence. “Then put your mouth on me, suck, use your tongue, whatever and then spit on your finger and slip it inside of me”  

You close your eyes as you speak, heightening the sense of touch, the feel of his fingers holding your underwear in his grip, and grazing them against the inside of your thighs as he slips the fabric down your thighs, and then as he gets you to close your legs together so he can bring them over your knees and slip them off fully. 

Once he nudges his hand against your thighs and gets you to open your legs as wide as they were previously, he presses a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh, close to your knee. He hasn’t looked at your bare pussy yet, something he will cherish enough when he gets to it, you're sure. 

“And what do I say to you?” he whispers, his heated exhales making your skin jump with every meeting. 

“Praise me”

He nods and presses another kiss against your thighs, every press of his lips leading up higher than the last until you feel the smoothness of his lips press where it aches. 

You divulge a sound stuck between a gasp and a whimper, and the silk bedding finds itself tangled up in your hand by cause of your grip. Such a small contact between your clit and his lips has you wanting more; your mind only speaks in desire, it speaks in a language only Spencer knows how to talk in. 

He presses an open-mouth kiss right over your clit, and hollows his cheeks as he sucks gently. You respond by throwing your head back in pleasure, a gasp falling from your lips, one that edges him on.

‘There we go,” He smirks against you, proud of his achievements.   

His tongue spreads across your clit, and his mouth moves in a dance of sucking, licking and kissing so sweet you almost find it affectionate if it wasn't such a dirty activity. He takes his time dragging the pleasure out of you; he plants his hands just below your ass, gripping for hold as he feasts on the sweet arousal dripping from every moment his mouth makes on you.

He whimpers against your pussy, and the sound has you pressing your hips further against him in an attempt to get more of him, as much as he is willing to give you. 

For a man who’s never done this before, he sure is fucking incredible at knowing exactly how much pressure you want and when you want it, how long you want him to kiss for or what sounds he can make that have you shivering when they murmur against your clit. 

You look down at him, devouring you thoroughly, and the blissed out eyes that meet yours are those of a starving man who has just had his first taste of real food in as long as forever. 

He pulls back for only a second to mutter a few words, “You taste so sweet.” 

“Need your fingers”, you beg, you're so fucked out at this point that there is no embarrassment resting in any part of you, all you know is that you need him so bad that if you don’t, you might cry, so you're prepared to beg as much as you have too to get what makes your legs shake and your head buzz. 

“Yeah?” he teases. 

You eye him as he spits on a single digit and runs it across your entrance before gradually pressing it inside you, dragging out your pleasure. You feel every motion he makes, to the press of the finger at your entrance to the curl that presses against the spongy part of you. 

When Spencer reads at work, and his long fingers flick through the pages with velocity, you always find yourself watching the act in awe at how someone could do something so attractively with just a movement from their hands. His fingers were slender and long, something you had always admired. 

But the difference of having one inside you was that it wasn’t just long, but it was filling. 

You whimper loudly as he hits that precious spot inside of you that you can only reach on good days, the squelch of your wetness being played with stops, and so does the thrust of his finger.

“Is that a bad sound? Did I hurt you?” Worry is palpable in his tone, and it has your eyes softening at just how concerned he sounds.

“No, no, it’s good, really good”, You assure him, your fingers coming to thread in his hair, you push his head with encouragement to go back to the task at hand. He has an understanding of your wants; his finger brushes against your tight walls with a thrust, and he accommodates the feeling by sucking your clit between his lips and into the comfort of his mouth. 

He works you with his finger until he knows you're ready, and follows along by drenching another finger with your slick and pressing it into you with gentle ease. You flutter your eyes closed and exhale a whimper. He’s exactly where you want him, and he's doing exactly what you want of him. 

“Good girl” 

His words cause a splutter of white-hot pleasure deep in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around him with eagerness. His fingers fuck deeper into you; he’s obvious about how his words made you feel by the flushed look in your eyes and the grip your pussy has on him. 

You can tell he wants more reactions like that from you because his fingers are suddenly moving with more speed, and praises fall from him like prayer; every word he speaks is made against your clit, and it sends a vibration through you every time. 

He stops swirling his tongue around your sensitive, swollen bud, pulling off with a pop and exchanges it for kissing your stomach. He pecks along the fat at the base of your stomach; every peck feels like a comfort, something so soft and gentle compared to the ruin he was in the process of making you. The soft ‘mwah’ sounds he makes as he kisses you are a melody alongside your wimpers, moans and gasps that he drags out of you with determination. 

You start to feel a coil tighten in your stomach. 

“I'm close”, You manage to gasp out, wanting to give Spencer enough warning so you don’t just start spasming around him without him having any notice beforehand. 

His fingers start thrusting faster, and you shake your head, “No, No, same pace, means- mh- means you're doing right” You gasp out.

His movement slows down to the pace it was when you had told him you were close, the coil comes back, this time tighter. You look at him, his lips are no longer resident on your skin, just hovering over your belly, his eyes are glancing down and watching you greedily suck in his fingers. 

“Spencer- baby, kiss me” You beg and grip the back of his neck at the same time he perks up at your words, the heat coiling in your stomach burns hotter with every thrust of his finger. 

His lips clap around yours, full of desperation. It’s a hot and heavy kiss; there’s nothing kind about the way your tongue fights with his as his fingers encourage the orgasm building up inside.

“This doesn’t feel like just a lesson anymore”, He says.

Your orgasm comes before you can decipher his words properly.   

The coil snaps, and you pull your lips from the feisty makeout, pressing your forehead to his. Your orgasm washes over you in pulses, his fingers wring out every drop of release you have to give. Your vision goes fuzzy, and the self-control when it comes to the noises leaving your mouth was nonexistent. You gasp, moan and whimper as the charge of the orgasm reaches everywhere, every nerve ending in your body is not left untouched. 

His eyes move quickly between your face and the sight of his fingers plunging into you between your legs. No matter where his eyes glance, it’s still the same look, an awed observation. 

Once all the pleasure is wrung out from you, and Spencer's fingers retract from your soaked walls, you collapse for a better word. Your chest heaves as you gulp down all the air you can manage,your head hits the mattress, your body unable to keep holding you up.

Sweat tickles every where is runs, as though it’s teasing you with its fingertips.

“Are you okay?” Spencer's voice rings out, sounding as if he, too, is trying to get his heart rate down with the ragged breathing he expels. 

You nod weakly, “mhm” 

“Are you sure?” His voice is tense and on edge, his eyes never leaving your face. 

“Yeah, just- give me a- give- a second” 

                                  ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You start coming back to yourself, becoming more aware of your senses. You don’t know how much time has passed, but the faint buzz behind your ears tells you not too long. 

It smells like black coffee, sex mixed with sweat, and old books.

You taste Spencer, you don’t know how to describe it other than ‘Spencer’. 

And it feels.. Cold. Your forehead feels cold. Why does just your forehead feel cold?

You become cognizant of the pressure against your head, just above your eyebrows. Where it feels cold. 

“You said you were okay” 

You move your attention to your left, where Spencer sits beside you on the mattress, holding a damp cloth to your forehead. Worry is unmistakable; you notice the signs straight away. Tight lips, knitted brows and an increased blinking rate. 

“Did I pass out?” You question, concern lays itself heavy. 

“No-no, you just were a little out of it” He shakes his head. 

You sit up, noting the fact that you were still naked and sitting down in the same place you had been when his fingers had been giving you attention. It comes back to you without any flashes or pictures, just memories of a few moments ago, before you lost your sense of who you were. 

Your orgasm, his fingers leaving your heat, the kiss he pressed on your temple and then the quick rush of motion he made when he felt you burning up under his touch. He had left the room and came back with your discarded glass of water and a damp towel that was now resting against your forehead. 

“I'm sorry, I didn’t mean for my mind to go somewhere else” You softly apologise. 

“It’s alright- I was just scared I hurt you”

“You didn’t” 

“Yeah, I know that now”, he whispers. 

A beat of vulnerable silence passes. 

“Would you be okay with staying the night?” His voice breaks the quiet. 

Maybe the silent prayers you had sent up whilst getting ready earlier had worked; this seemed like a pretty good sign they had, considering one of the things you had pondered in your prayer had been whether you could have him longer than just a lesson went on for. 

“Like with you?” 

“In bed- sleeping. If that's okay” 

You hear the unspoken words behind it, the real intent. He was just like you, having the same thoughts about whether you could share a moment like this longer, longer than the hour his hands and mouth had been on you. You both wanted more than just sex.

You lean towards him and take him by surprise by pressing your lips to his; it speaks kindness and affection. He melts against your lips and deepens the kiss, his tongue finds home in your mouth, joining yours and tangling together, only breaking apart when either of you needs to catch your breath. 

When you pull back, Spencer chases the kiss and presses his lips against yours for as long as he can until you speak up.

“Yeah”, You smile with joy, just thinking about the non-sexual intimate act of sharing a bed is causing a warmth to line your cheeks.  

“Good because I’d like that alot” 

“A lot?” 

“Mhm, I also quite like your lips against mine”, Spencer says against your lips after he leans towards you to catch you in a kiss again. 

“Mhh, maybe I should give you a lesson on it” 

“I’d like that” 

“A lot?”

If you want to be added to the tag list for part 2, go here

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[luvsvite]

October Passed Me By 🍂˚ ༘ ೀ⋆

S.R. x Reader

MDNI 18+

a/n: alright lovelies I'm back :') I've been struggling quite a lot with my mental health like a whole lot. I apologize for being away for so long </3

summary: After showing up at your close friend Spencer's house to talk, things get heated and he realizes quickly he can't escape his feelings for you anymore.

tags: subby!spence x dom (ish)! reader, oral sex (f receiving), heavy petting, fingering (f), spencer cums in his pants (again), flufffffffff, spencer is head over heels, love confession, sex dream

w/c: 4.6k

"October passed me by like every month, but I still remember the times you took the breath out of my lungs." - girl in red

Spencer's apartment was filled with the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls he had just taken out of the oven, mixing with the scent of rain flowing in through the open window in his kitchen. Along with it went a breeze of fresh air that made the garlands chime.

Spencer wasn't much of a baker. Between reading and watching his favourite shows and movies, he admittedly didn't have a lot of hobbies, something that his sponsor had stressed was important during recovery–keeping busy, picking up hobbies, socializing, all that crap.

Lord knows he needed every distraction he could get. For the past few months he'd done everything in his mind to suppress whatever feelings he was developing towards you. He'd failed miserably. You'd grabbed onto his heart from the moment you'd become part of the team–being the kind person that you were, greeting him every morning with a warm smile, listening to him go on about his latest special interests for hours on end, knowing he wasn't much of a hugger but initiating them anyway when you sensed he needed one. Soon, he'd told you about Tobias, his addiction and how he'd been struggling with his recovery. Somewhere along the way you'd become the person Spencer would turn to whenever he messed up while on assignment, whenever he felt misunderstood by the whole world and the many, many times he didn't even understand himself.

Inevitably, he fell for you and found himself craving things he used to shy away from with everyone else–hugs, slight touches of reassurance, small talk which he hated but absolutely loved with you if it meant he could listen to your sweet voice as you went on about your day. Yet, whatever feelings he had for you, he never let them show because, if there was one thing he was certain of is that there was no chance in hell you felt the same way. So he settled for being your friend.

A knock on Spencer's door almost had him dropping the tray in his hands. He sat it down to go check who could possibly be at his door at this hour. Imagine his surprise when he opened the door to find you outside of his apartment, runny mascara, puffy eyes, hair disheveled as if you'd been in bed all day. His mind immediately listed off every possible reason for your surprise visit but before he his mind could go to darker places–

"Hey Spence, I hope it's okay to- I mean I hope I'm not disturbing you. I uhm. I just needed to talk to someone and you were the first person I thought of. I don't know if this is weird or anything but I-", Spencer's mind wandered off for a minute, delighted by the fact that for once, he wasn't the one rambling. Though, he wondered what possible reason there could be for you to be nervous around him, it had always been the other way around.

"It's no problem really. I-uh- I'm glad you decided to come to me. Please, come in."

Head to the ground, you stepped into his apartment, shaky hands by your sides fumbling with the hem of your dress. You opened your mouth as if to say something but nothing came out, you didn't know where to start.

"Have you been baking?" You asked then, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips.

"Oh. Yeah, I'm trying to pick up more hobbies. Do you like cinnamon rolls?" Spencer stood before you awkwardly.

"I love them."

Spencer took a plate out of the cupboard and placed the cinnamon roll that came out looking the best on it, handing it to you with a tight smile. You thanked him and you both moved to the couch in the living room so you could talk. He sat with you in silence for a few moments while you ate, occasionally smiling at him in approval as if to say now this is a hobby you should definitely pursue.

"Is this about today?" Spencer asked you suddenly mid–bite. You glanced at him, too distracted with the sweet taste of the baked good in your hand to process his question.

"Because it's okay. I mean not okay but it could've happened to any one of us, so."

You gulped down the rest of it, your expression falling slowly.

"But that's just it, it couldn't and it didn't. It was me. I let my feelings get in the way of the job, I let the unsub get under my skin and it could've gotten you hurt and I could never forgive myself if something ever happened to you." You let out an exhausted sigh.

Now it was Spencer's turn to be speechless because, although you were right, all he heard was that you were terrified of losing him. He knew it was unprofessional, he knew it was selfish–but you were sitting on his couch eating his food, and you were confiding in him out of all people. He couldn't help but think of the situation as domestic, somewhere in his twisted mind.

"Listen, it's- I mean I'm okay, the team is okay", he paused, his expression softening as he offered a warm smile "You're okay. In a way I admire you for it."

The confused look on your face wasn't lost on him. He cleared his throat before he began to explain. "I mean–how you're able to express your feelings so openly, how they just flow out of you as if it were nothing. It's admirable in a way. I could never do that."

As he ushered those last few words, barely above a whisper, something fluttered in his chest. He wondered whether you had somehow acquired the ability to read his mind and now knew what he was really referring to.

"But that's just it though, it's a curse in this field." You sighed, clearly frustrated and at that, his chest tightened.

"That is true, but beating yourself up won't do any good. He's in custody and we're all okay."

You forced a smile, knowing he meant well, but the guilt of what had happened still weighing on you, which was obvious to Spencer who was now listing off things in his mind he could do to make you feel better. He came up empty, until-

"Would you like to take a bath?", he blurted out without a second thought, regretting it the second the words left his mouth. He felt the blush creep up his neck as he watched you blink your eyes in surprise.

"Sorry?" You chuckled lightly.

"N-not like- I mean. Uhm. I can tell you're clearly still pondering over what happened and I thought a bath might make you feel better. Taking baths has great mental benefits you know, just fifteen minutes a day can make a difference in your overall health. Warm baths are linked to decreases in stress hormones and more balanced serotonin levels, which help regulate mood, it can help with muscle soreness and tension as well so-"

His voice died down when you burst out laughing. It weren't being mean, but Spencer cursed himself anyway.

"You know what, that actually sounds pretty nice." You reassured him quickly. "Unless this is weird for you–I know how you get with...germs and stuff."

Spencer fought the urge to tell you just how much he didn't care about germs when it was you who was about to get naked in his bathroom. Be cool.

"No! It's not weird at all. I'll show you where it is. The bathroom." He cleared his throat before getting up so he could lead you there.

Fifteen minutes later you were settled in Spencer's bathtub, the hot water slowly melting away all the stress and guilt. You had dimmed the lights, a cinnamon–apple scented candle lit in the corner and a soft breeze whispering in through the open window as you felt your eyelids shut closed.

***

"Does this feel good?" Spencer asked against your skin, never breaking contact as he kept prepping kisses along your neck, his hand leaving goosebumps all over your body from where it was drawing lines on your leg.

You nodded your head in response to his question, simply unable to speak, overwhelmed by how he seemed to be everywhere at once, his hands greedily feeling up your body while his mouth worked your neck.

"Yeah?" The question wasn't cocky, it was a form of asking for reassurance.

He was turning you into a puddle of want, teeth scraping and biting at your neck now, his body pressing impossibly closer into yours. In a rush of need you pulled his head up so he was looking at you. His lips were coated in a shiny substance which you made out to be water when you noticed his hair was wet too. Quickly you realized you were both in a steamy bath, now becoming impossibly aware of the overwhelming warmth that was enveloping you. His lips were not only wet but red and bitten, swollen, kissable. So you pulled him in and kissed him with fervor, a muffled moan escaping you at the feeling of his lips against yours. He kissed you back like he'd been starved off tasting you all his life, like his life's purpose was to have you bite his bottom lip, to have you swipe your tongue against his as he swallowed your groans.

He dug his fingers wherever he could get his hands on, anywhere, everywhere. You felt a familiar coil in your stomach, chased it, let yourself be enveloped by it.

***

The next thing you knew you were woken up by a quick, loud clicking noise and what you believed to be someone's voice calling for you. You jumped up slightly, some of the now cold water splashing onto the floor tiles.

"I-I'm sorry! You were in here for quite some time, I. I got worried, ha. But since you seem to be okay I'll leave you be." Spencer stuttered out as he did his best to look anywhere but your naked body. You were sure the sleep induced confusion was clouding your perception, and yet it was impossible to miss the way Spencer nervously ran a hand through his hair as he spoke. Or the very obvious flush on his face and neck. Or even how quickly his breath was going, how he was clearly trying everything in his power not to stare.

It made you hot, how undeniably turned on he was from catching but a glimpse of your body. The dream you'd previously had mixed with the situation you were currently in, Spencer right there 5 feet away from you while you were still trying to shake your arousal, made it so you speak the next words with a confidence you didn't know you had.

"Spencer, hold on! I'm. The water got kinda cold. I'm freezing, could you?"

He stopped in his tracks.

"Towel's on the-"

"Could you get it for me?"

Spencer swallowed thickly, heartrate picking up. He swiped his tongue over his lips, genuinely contemplating to just walk out of the door, walk out of the apartment, go somewhere else, anywhere. Shame built in him at how much he didn't want to do any of that.

"A-alright.", he cleared his throat as he maneuvered his way to the sink without looking up from the floor once. He picked up the towel on the rack and was about to hand it to you, but you reached for his arm.

"Will you help me dry off, please?"

At this point he was certain you had somehow figured out his feelings for you and were now making a mockery out of him, toying with him, dangling yourself infront of him as if to say you can never have me.

"What are you doing?" His voice sounded strained as he asked the question, defeated.

"I-I don't know, I just wanted you to help since-"

"Stop. Stop this, this isn't funny. I don't know if you're making fun of me or...whatever but I'd appreciate it if you could just. Stop."

"Making fun of you? Spencer I- I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I'm sorry." You start, grabbing the towel out of his hand where he was clutching onto it for dear life, eyes still fixated on the floor. You tried to cover yourself up as best as you could, shame flooding your body now. "I don't know what came over me really I've been so stressed and confused and-"

"I'm not- I'm not uncomfortable. You could never make me feel..." He let out a shakey breath before the next part "I'm never uncomfortable around you. The opposite really, I want you around all the time. I like you so much that, yes, maybe I do feel uncomfortable at times but not in the way you might think and so–"

Your mouth was hanging open, mind racing while you felt something bloom your stomach at his words.

"I'd sure love it if you wouldn't make a mockery out of my...my feelings. It's humiliating."

Everything had just come pouring out before he could stop it and now he was standing there with you, naked and just inches away from him and you weren't looking at him with disgust or anger.

"I'm not mocking you, Spencer." You reassured hoping he'd believe you, hoping you hadn't just messed up what was an amazing friendship. You lifted the towel off yourself and let it fall to the ground as your hand touched his arm again. He flinched, but didn't back away.

"Look at me."

Spencer didn't know if it was the electric jolts your hand on his were sending through his body, or the adrenaline of having basically just confessed his feelings for you, but against all odds he actually worked up the courage to lift his head. His eyes were still looking away from you, as if searching the room for a way to escape, knowing very well he wanted nothing more than to stay. It wasn't until your hand squeezed his that he really looked at you. And it was breathtaking.

Your lips wet and bitten, your hair stuck o your flushed face. You were breathing heavily, droplets of water dripping down your chin and onto your chest. His eyes followed the drops down your body and though he couldn't make out much, the sight made his knees weak. You looked like a goddess and he couldn't believe he had the privilege to see you like this.

"You don't have to help me dry off."

"Huh?" Spencer muttered, half listening now. His eyes were rested on where your lips were forming words, but he was focused on how drops of water caught on your bottom lip. He wanted to catch them with his thumb and–

"But can you atleast warm me up?"

Before Spencer could process what you were really asking, you were already moving his hand to your face. It rested there as you asked him, "Is this okay?"

Spencer nodded without hesitation, vibrating with want just from feeling your flushed face against his skin. His fingers traced your jawline first, then your chin and then he caressed your cheek as his thumb came down to swipe over your bottom lip, the touch light as a feather. Still, you found your eyes fluttering closed at the sensation. Spencer exhaled a shakey breath and before he could think about it too much, his newfound confidence had him slowly slide his thumb into your mouth as he watched your lips part for him. The sight was so so lewd but so beautiful, he found it hard to keep looking at you like this, but also couldn't look away. He watched in awe as you sucked on his finger like it was second nature to you, the sensation igniting a tiny whimper from him.

"You're so beautiful." He heard himself say before he could stop it.

You let go of his finger with a pop, your hand guiding his along your colorbones. "Thank you." Your voice was barely above a whisper as you kept guiding his hand to your breasts.

You'd expected him to start greedily groping at your chest but instead, his mouth found yours in a matter of seconds, a groan escaping his lips as he moved against you with need. Your damp, shakey hands found his face, droplets of water melting into his skin as more whimpers escaped him. His hand was holding on to your shoulder, visibly shaking just as much as you.

"You can touch me." You whispered to him when you pulled away to catch your breath. The look he gave you in that moment felt so intimate you could've melted into a puddle with the water. Instead, you kissed him again.

This time, he touched you–really touched you–fingers exploring the skin on your chest where more waterdroplets had accumulated. He caught them with his hand and kneeded at your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple. A moan escaped you at this and his other hand rushed up to your face resting there as he kissed you harder this time.

Knowing Spencer wasn't as experienced, you were curious to see how long it would take for him to break. Sure enough, you heard him whimper against your mouth, the movement of his hands against your skin becoming more urgent, desperate, needy. You took the opportunity to slip your tongue into his mouth to see if it would elicit more sounds from him.

You did.

Between breathless kisses and muffled whimpers, you'd started to grow desperate yourself, the growing heat between your thighs making it almost impossible to focus on anything but his hands against you. One of which had abandoned your chest and was now aimlessly tracing lines down your torso.

"Can I- Can I just. Do you want me to–" Spencer breathed against you. You didn't have to ask him to clarify what he needed, what you both needed.

"Yes. Please."

Another whimper escaped him as he finally let his hand slip between your thighs, not caring about his soaked sleeves or germs or anything he would've probably worried about if this were any other situation. No, right now all he was focused on was moving his fingers against you just right to hear those sounds from you again.

He couldn't contain the smile that spread across his face upon hearing your breath catch in your throat when his fingers found your clit.

"Yes that's- good. Doing so well." You praised.

"Yeah?" He breathed. He'd tucked his head into your neck, finding it almost painful to look at you–not only was his heart seconds away from combusting, he was also growing harder in his pants by the second.

"Mhm, use your fingers to–" As if he had read your mind, he replaced his ring and middle finger with his thumb and slipped the other inside of you.

"Fuck." Was all you could bring yourself to say and yet, it was enough to have him work his fingers harder against you, desperate to please now that you had allowed him to. He was pumping his finger inside of you while the other was working your clit as your walls clenched around him and your back arched up against his movements.

The room was growing hotter by the minute even though you had been sitting in cold water for the past twenty minutes or so. It felt like pure ecstasy, the way Spencer was kissing you. You smelled cinnamon on him, and old books. He smelled of autumn and rain and you could have just melted away if it hadn't been for his hand speeding up against you.

"Spencer! I'm- I-" You sighed out, your body arching against him.

"Can I- uhm. Taste you? Please.” He begged desperately, not bearing the thought of this being over before he had pleased you in every way he could think of.

"Of course- yes, of course, fuck."

Spencer slowed his movements before gently pulling his fingers out of you, turning you into a whiny mess under him.

"I'll make you feel good in a minute, I promise. Let's get you out of this cold water first though, okay?"

So he helped you out of the bathtub, wrapped a big fluffy towel around you and led you to his bedroom. The moment you stepped inside, you realized the room was so him–countless books on the shelf, papers and notes taking up space on sprawled on the desk, along with three mugs which you assumed had once contained coffee with an insane amount of sugar in them. You huffed out a chuckle at the thought.

When Spencer layed you on his bed you were in heaven, enveloped by the warmth of his sheets his scent on the pillows. You were suddenly very aware you were completely bare before him. You tried to hide yourself awkwardly, but Spencer wouldn't have any of it.

"Don't. Please." He breathed "You're so gorgeous. I can't stop looking at you."

He hovered above you, one hand holding himself up while the other gently pushed your hands to the side to replace them with his own. He was back to making you lose your mind in no time. You pulled at his sweater, a silent plea. He nodded, too focused on making you feel good to produce a single word, so you pulled his sweater over his head and let your hands trail over his bare chest. If his racing heartbeat didn't betray him, his breathing definitely did–he was panting just from that feather light touch alone. He kissed you once, twice, slow and precise, before he finally made his way down your body, prepping little kisses all over your skin.

You could only gasp in shock when Spencer put his mouth on you. He started off by licking a stripe up your core, simply enjoying the taste of you. He hummed against you as he lapped up your slick, wondering why he hadn’t done this sooner, how he could ever go back to living a normal life when this was everything he'd dreamed of. His hands gently curled around your thighs, holding you in place as he circled your clit with his tongue, not knowing if it would do anything for you. He’d had a couple sexual experiences here and there, but never like this, never with you.

Your hand found its way through Spencer’s curls as you spoke “Good- that’s good, baby-”

Spencer’s eyes shot up and he reluctantly parted from your core as he took a brief moment to examine your facial expressions.

“I’m sorry.” You blurted out, unsure if pet names were in the cards for you two, considering they usually implied something bigger, something more complicated.

Spencer gave your inner thigh a kiss, his hand caressing your other thigh reassuringly.

“No, I like it.” He confessed, going back to prepping kisses on your inner thigh.

“Love it, even.” Kiss. “Love it so much.” Kiss.

Spencer refrained from what he really wanted to say, his heart begging to put himself bare before you and have you accept him for everything he was–but his brain not letting him utter the words against you.

Never once had you hinted at this being more than just a one–time thing. It was a stress reliever for you if anything, he assumed. He couldn’t take his chances, the thought of losing your friendship simply too much for him to bear. He figured if this is what you needed, casual and easy, then this is what he would give you. Nevermind his feelings for you.

You sighed, head falling back into the pillows as you felt all the heaviness fall from your shoulders slowly, Spencer’s hands and mouth seemingly melting away all the stress that had accumulated over the past few weeks–months even. You had to ask yourself where Spencer had learned this. He was surprisingly skilled with his tongue, sucking and licking at your clit, occasionally kissing along your thighs again while his fingers replaced his tongue. He looked up at you with those beautiful brown eyes, looking for approval which you were happy to give him. Your hand twisted in his brown curls.

“You’re doing such a good job, baby."

This time you didn’t let it slip, you said with confidence, hoping he’ll catch the intent behind it. Which he did, or so you guessed by the way he whimpered into your mouth, hands desperately grabbing at your sides as he doubled his efforts to make you come on his tongue.

You suddenly noticed a subtle movement against the bed, realizing spencer was desperately trying to get himself off as he pleasured you. The realization had you moan high, hands pulling on his curls, forcin his head in your direction.

“Feels good, huh?”

“So good, so good.” Spencer mumbled against you, hands gripping at your plush thighs again, hips stuttering against the mattress.

It was getting too much, his hands on you, the movements against the bed, those big brown eyes looking up at you as if you were the best–the only–person in the world. His eyes studied your face as if asking for permission and you nodded your head immediately before he’d even voiced what he wanted to do. You felt Spencer slide his ring and middle finger inside of you again, a shiver running through your body at the feeling. He lifted his head momentarily to bite your thigh, eliciting a gasp from you.

“I'm sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He said in his defense, not a trace of remorse in his voice.

You moaned high when he put his tongue back on you, praise spilling from your lips. You hadn’t touched him at all but you knew he was close–his breathing irregular, his hips losing rhythm, his face a flushed mess, eyes watery–and you were determined to get him there.

“Are you close, pretty boy?”

“Hmpfh..” His tongue work was messy and unfocused as he breathed you in and got drunk on your taste.

“Do you want to come?” You gently gripped his jaw, forcing him to look at you again. “Well?”

“Please.” He confessed.

You smiled at him tenderly, unable to deny him anything with the way those big brown eyes were practically sparkling with want and threatening to overflow with tears. The sight had you bite back a groan.

Your thumb stroked his bottom lip gently. “Come for me, then.”

And Spencer did. His hips freezed against the mattress as he made a mess of his pants and the sheets, nonsense spilling out of his mouth as he rode out his high. You followed him quickly, riding out your own high against his tongue, fingers tangled in his curls so hard he couldn't help but whine against you.

You knew then–with him leaving trails of little kisses along your thighs, your hands, your chest, eyes sleepy and loving and kind–that this wouldn’t be a one–time thing.

***

Later, with his chest to your back and his arm around your torso in the darkness of his room, Spencer thought about how in a few hours you wouldn’t be in his bed anymore and how much he dreaded that. He knew then that you might be okay with keeping things casual, but he definitely wasn’t.

So he whispered your name into the silent room, hoping you were still awake.

“Yeah?” You whispered back.

“You know how I told you I admire how, uhm. How expressive you are with your feelings?”

You turned around then, facing him. It was dark but you could practically feel the heat radiating from his face as he spoke.

“I do admire that, I meant it and it would be hypocritical of me to not be honest with you a–and myself.” His hand came up to rest on your face. “I want this to just be...” He searched for the right words. "...just a mistake we made." He was very aware of the rules about coworkers dating, he was also very aware of how hard it was to care about those rules when you were playing with his hair. In his bed. In his arms.

"I want it to happen again." He confessed.

He expected you to freak out, maybe laugh at him. You did neither. Your lips found his, gently. It wasn’t for another few minutes that you parted from him.

“So let's make more 'mistakes'.” Your heart pounded against your chest as you spoke those words into the darkness.

Spencer grinned, heart so full as he kissed you some more, kissed you silly, kissed you to sleep.

The next morning–a saturday, thank god–you both slept in, not getting up until late noon. You kissed each other awake, had cinnamon rolls in bed, changed the sheets and ruined them again (and again). You spent the rest of the day tangled up in each other, kissing and talking, thankful for the night before and thankful for October afternoons.

***

so um this was kewtttt or wtv <333 notes, reposts & comments are appreciated mwuah love yall

[esote-rika]

HE LOOKS LIKE HE WORKS WITH HIS HANDS

pairing: Chip Taylor x rich girl!reader Summary: You’re used to getting what you want. When you experience rejection for the first time, it shakes you so deeply that you end up in a random handyman’s shitty apartment for the night.  Contents: 3.9k words, SMUT MDNI!!!, mentions of alcohol and smoking, explicit sexual content, nipple stimulation, fingering, p in v, birth control, Chip has a big dick sorry i love big dicks what can I say, mention, reader is a nepo baby who doesn’t know how to deal with rejection a/n: sorry the writing is so wonky, i haven’t written for Chip, or smut in mooooonths. Hope u still enjoy! Also, do we want more of them? I think there’s potential for more idk lemme know.

Low lights make everything hazy, tinting your hair with neon red and yellows. Your perfectly tailored wool slacks keep sticking to the pleather cushion of the stool upon which you’ve perched yourself. You’d left the matching blazer in the office, a thoughtless accident done in your hurry which ends up being a good thing, for the dive bar is hot. An air conditioner whirls in the corner, but it’s not enough to cool the mass of bodies clinking glasses, dancing blindly on the makeshift dance floor, or playing pool in the dark corner. 

You try your hardest not to shift uncomfortably. 

You’re already overdressed—the silk blouse and trousers stand out in a crowd of tees and denim, not just because of their style but also because they scream money. Paired with the sleek, maroon pumps and the matching handbag you’ve strung on the back of your stool, you’ve already earned quite a few curious looks thrown by the other patrons. 

Admittedly, this establishment normally wouldn’t be your first choice.

Hell, it probably wouldn’t even make it to the top ten. Or top fifteen.

Which is precisely why you’d chosen it. Well, that, and the fact that you hadn’t paid that much attention to where you were going when you left the office. You simply wanted to disappear for a little bit, but without your driver navigating through traffic, the city and its sidewalks are an indecipherable maze. Especially at night. Especially at night, to a woman who’s heartbroken over a promotion that should have been hers.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t always guaranteed, and in the business world, there’s nothing owed to you. And maybe your father only ever hinted at giving you the promotion without ever confirming anything. 

But he’d put it in your mind, made you want it. And your whole life, you’d gotten what you want, and more.

“You should’ve worked harder for it, then.” he’d said when you confronted him after the meeting had adjourned. 

Rich words coming from the man who’d taught you that you deserved everything handed to you on a silver plate. 

So you’d congratulated Mr. what’s-his-face for his promotion, declined every invitation for cocktails from the rest of your colleagues, and speed walked out of the business district. Perhaps your subconscious led you here, in the grungier part of downtown, because you knew they’d be hitting up all the places you enjoy going to.

The bartender slides another whiskey neat over to you. 

It’s shitty whiskey, tastes like straight gasoline without the refined, woody afternotes you’re used to, but the burning line down your throat is welcome. Tangible pain. You’re aware this is cliche—rich girl drinking her feelings in some unknown bar—but it’s your third glass of the night, which means you’re too far gone to care.

Halfway through this glass, the music changes to something upbeat and fun. With a squeal to no one in particular, you slide off your chair to join the small crowd in the middle of the room, swinging your hips this way and that. 

A couple of girls accept you into their fray, wrapping an arm around your waist and yelling the lyrics at each other over the speakers. Sweat drips down your back, along your temples, but the world is a blur of lights and shadows and the promotion is promptly forgotten. Everything is forgotten, every worry, every thought.

That is, until a slight altercation happens over at the bar. Yelling, two men shuffling over a chair, and then a bouncer. You wouldn’t have cared, would have continued dancing with these two girls who smell like vanilla and cigarette smoke, if it weren’t for the bartender yelling and pointing at you.

“Girl, I think they’re calling you over.” one of your dance partners says, glittery eyes wide with surprise. 

“Oh,” you giggle, and extricate yourself from the other girl, who pouts but continues dancing, “Yeah, I guess they are.”

Stumbling in your heels, you manage to walk back to the bar in one piece. A soft, confused smile stretches your lips, eyes glancing between the bartender and another taller man with light brown hair. 

“Hey!” you exclaim, pointing at his hands, “Why do you have my bag?”

The bartender bristles, blue eyes turning sharp as he regards you. “Lady, he saved your bag from that asshole.”

“Huh?”

The tall man moves behind you, guiding you back to the stool. “Easy, I think she’s drunk.”

“Yeah, clearly. Fucking out of her mind, leaving her fancy ass designer bag laying around.” the bartender grumbles.

You plop on the stool with a groan, still glancing between the two of them. “What’re you talking about? I’m not that drunk.” And you aren’t. You’re still able to dance in your pumps, that counts for something.

The bartender rolls his eyes. “You got her, Chip? I don’t wanna babysit.”

The tall man nods, crowding behind you in a way that feels oddly protective. Like he’s just there to make sure you’re okay. “Grab her some water?”

“Gotcha.”

“I’m not drunk!” you insist, twisting in your seat to face this mystery man called Chip. You come face to face with him hovering by your temple, a corner of his lips tilted up in a smirk. Up close, you see that he’s handsome, some weird, compelling mix of rugged and boyish that makes your stomach twist into knots.

“No?” he sounds amused, a little exasperated, “Then why’d you just leave your bag on your chair?”

“Because it’s my chair! I was going to come back for it after the song.”

“Lady, that’s the drunkest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

“No, it makes perfect sense!”

“Sure it does.” he reaches forward, closing the gap between you as he grabs the glass of water that the bartender had provided. Something leathery and spicy hits your nose. The knot in your stomach grows more uncomfortable. “Here, baby, drink up.”

You grumble, but oblige, sipping at the water for a few moments. “What even happened?” 

“Some asshole was trying to take your bag and I stopped him, that’s what.”

Comically, your eyes grow wide. “What, like to steal?”

His head tilts, and the smile grows confused. “Yeah, what else?”

“Don’t you guys have security around here?”

“There’s Dave outside, but I doubt he’d think twice if someone walked out with your bag under their coat.”

“Oh my god, so someone tried to steal my bag.”

“Hate to break it to you, but that’s bound to happen if you leave it on a random chair.”

You look at him bewildered, never even considering it like that. Most of the places you frequent have such high security detail that no one would even dare. Besides, the people in those places would have their own designer bags, and wouldn't even blink twice at yours. It never occurred to you to worry about your stuff, simply because you’ve really never had to.

The man stares back, equally bemused, eyes dragging down the length of you, taking in your fancy ensemble with a more critical gaze. His grin returns, crooked and teasing. “Now, what’s a rich girl like you doing here? Got lost?”

You huff, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “No. This was a very intentional choice.”

“Ah, you just wanted to what? Mingle with us poor people?”

“No!”

“Then what, trying to act up so daddy pays attention to you?”

“No.” this time, you slap his shoulder. 

He laughs, but doesn’t seem deterred. “I’m just saying, doll face, we don’t get folks like you around here very often.”

“I was in the area, and wanted a drink.” you lie, sipping at the water again. The way he called you doll face made your throat go dry. 

“Well,” he shifts, moving beside you now that he can see you can still keep yourself upright. “You shouldn’t leave your shit lying around like that. You’re lucky I saw him.”

Your brain finally catches up to what has happened. Someone tried to steal your bag. With a panicked jump, you go through your belongings, rifling through to make sure everything is still inside. Wallet, your phone, a leather journal that you use as a planner, the small bottle of perfume you can’t live without. 

“Everything there?” his eyes have softened, like sunlight warming the earth.

“Yeah, it’s all here. God.” you run a hand over your forehead, a sudden tiredness washing over you. “Thank you, that would have actually ruined my life if he took my stuff.”

“Hey, no worries baby.”

The pet name makes you scoff, your name leaving your lips as an introduction.

“Pretty name, but I think I’ll stick to baby.” he winces when you smack his shoulder again. “All right, damn. I’m Chip, if you care.”

“Chip?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“Sure.” you giggle, wondering what sort of name could possibly warrant a nickname like Chip. “I should buy you a drink, Chip.”

His grin returns. “You coming onto me now?”

“I meant as a thank you.” you huff, glaring at him. Up close, he’s actually very handsome, cheeks dimpled, with an angular face that’s framed by floppy brown hair. Bad idea, but then again, tonight has been filled with pretty classic bad ideas. Your back straightens and something shifts in your smile. “You know what, maybe I am.”

His grin stalls for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting you to own it so easily. Then it comes back wider, slower, eyes dipping to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “Oh,” he says, voice dropping just enough to feel intentional, “Careful, doll face, that sounds an awful lot like an invitation.”

“You think?” your eyes roll dramatically, “What, do you need a billboard with massive neon letters too?”

He laughs, the sound easy and unguarded, and for a moment you forget about the noise around you—the music, the crowd, the sticky floor beneath your shoes. He crowds you into the bar again, one arm moving to the back of your stool, while the other rests on the counter. 

“I’ll just have a beer, then,” he says.

“Lame.” you quip.

“Baby,” his breath tickles your neck, warm and smelling like menthol cigarettes. “If you’re serious about this, then I don’t want to be drunk and stumbling around.”

You suppress a shudder, teeth sinking into your lower lip. “Oh. Oh, uh, okay.” 

Chip flags down the bartender, ordering a beer for himself, and another water for you. You’re parched, but you know it’s the sort of thirst that can only be quelled by one thing.

Chip’s studio apartment is the size of your bedroom. An unmade bed is pushed to one corner. Beside it sits a dresser, the top bearing an ashtray and a couple loose sticks of cigarettes. Another corner is turned into a makeshift kitchenette, complete with a stovetop and a minifridge, and to your left, a half opened door that leads to a small bathroom.

On the drive here, he’d mentioned being a handyman, taking jobs all over the city. You didn’t really know how that would reflect his living situation, and now it’s staring you in the face.

“It’s not much.” he laughs as he closes the door behind you, “But it’s home.”

Not much feels like an understatement. It’s bare. Clean in a way that suggests he doesn’t have much money for the frill, only the most basic necessities to survive. You slip your heels off, following Chip’s lead as he kicks his shoes right by the door. His tool box sits there, deep green and black, filled to the brim with things you’ve never touched before. It sobers you slightly, your two-bedroom penthouse suddenly feeling excessive. 

“It’s cozy.” you say, and it’s true. The space is small, but it doesn’t feel suffocating. He’s decorated it with vinyls on the walls, which brings a smile to your face. Well, at least that’s one luxury. “You like music, huh?”

“Yeah,” he grins, coming up behind you, “You wanna play something?”

“Not really,” you giggle, spinning around to face him, “I wanna see you good you are with your hands.”

 “Eager, huh?” his head dips, lips finding your jaw as he backs you deeper into the room.

“Well, you talked big game.” you yelp in surprise when the backs of your knees hit his bed, but Chip’s hands tighten over your waist before you could fall.

“I guess I did.” he mumbles, lips traveling down the length of your neck, his stubble rough against the sensitive skin. Something warm and wet moves over the juncture beneath your ear, eliciting a low moan from your lips.

“Fuck,” you breathe, arms wrapping around his neck as he tongues at that spot again, slowly licking his way down. “Good with your tongue too.”

“Barely even started, baby.” he chuckles. Big, calloused hands keep you steady, one firmly planted on the small of your back, while the other explores. Up your sides, squeezing your hips tentatively, like he’s giving you room to say stop, but all the sounds that leave your lips are soft, pretty moans.

He groans, kissing his way back up your neck, finally finding your lips for the first time tonight. Your knees nearly buckle at how deeply he kisses you, mouth moving slow and languid against yours. He sucks at your bottom lip greedily, and you’re already gasping for breath, body buzzing with the remnants of alcohol and the smell of cigarette smoke, and something even more addictive.

Finally, his roaming hand lands on your ass, squeezing handfuls of you through the slacks. 

It’s embarrassing, how high your voice goes when he does it again. And again. And again, until he swallows your moans with another kiss, tongue pushing past lips and teeth, licking deep into your mouth. 

You clutch handfuls of his hair and try to keep up. 

He’s right. He’s barely even started, and you already feel gone.

He pulls back, laughing hoarsely as you lean forward, nearly tipping over in your attempt to latch on his lips again. 

“Easy, baby.” he cooes, making sure you’re upright before his hands leave your hips to unbutton your blouse. “We’ve got all night, I promise.” he says, making quick work of your top. You shimmy out of them, the fabric sliding like a breath off your shoulders, while he unzips your pants. 

Long, gentle fingers ease the pants down, and a breath whooshes from Chip’s lips as he takes you in. The underwear you’ve chosen aren’t your best set, they aren’t even lace for heaven’s sake, you’d worn the most boring pair to feel professional today, but Chip’s looking at you with such an open adoration and desire that it makes your entire body hum. 

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles, hands returning to your ass, fingers sinking deep before he hoists you up. 

Your legs wind around his hips automatically. “Thanks.” 

You’re airborne for all of five seconds, because he lays you back down on his bed, slow and careful. Long, heavy limbs settle atop you, presses you into the mattress as his head dips and he’s kissing you again, kissing you like he’s trying to steal your breath and your very soul. Rough fingers draw patterns over your neck and collar, and then his lips are following, open and sucking with a desperation that makes your toes curl.

When those lips lick at your chest, your nipples pebble, peaking even through the padded fabric of your bra. Chip tugs the offensive scrap down, too distracted now to even think of taking it off completely, and wraps his mouth over one nipple.

If his body weren’t pressing into you, you would have arched right off the bed.

Instead, you content yourself in twisting beneath him, fingers scrambling all over his back, fisting into his t-shirt. He groans in complaint when you pull at the fabric, forcing him to part from your pert, heaving chest.

“Off.” you demand, tugging his shirt over his head. 

Chip eases himself up, just enough to pull it off, and then eagerly returns his attention to your chest. His skin is slick against yours, body lean with muscle that’s obviously used to long hours of hard labor. 

“Fuck, you’re so soft.” he breathes, moving to lave your other nipple with equal fervor as his free hand cups you through your panties. He moans at the wetness he finds there, warm and messy even with the barrier of fabric. “And so wet, baby, this all for me?”

“Yeah.” you don’t bother with denial, with coyness, too far gone you would have started begging if he asked you to. And begging has never even been part of your vocabulary. “All for you, Chip.”

He hums. Slides his hand down the front of your underwear and finds a throbbing slickness that makes his own shaft twitch. A finger slides in, slow and careful, before a second follows. You clench around them instinctively, neck baring as your spine curves upwards.

“There you go,” he whispers against your breast, teeth closing around the pebbled nipple the same time his fingers curl, pumping in and out. “Feel good?” When you nod, a third finger slides in, stretches you out easily.

Stars explode behind your eyes.

“So good.” You’re sobbing, all the pent up disappointment of today dissolving into pure, aching bliss. “More, please, I need more.”

Suddenly his fingers are gone, leaving you fluttering around emptiness. Another sob wracks from your throat, though there’s no tears, not really, just sweat and a gnawing need that has you feeling like floating.

“I’ve got you,” he shushes, shifting over your body to kiss your lips again, featherlight touches meant to soothe rather than work you up. “Shh, baby, just let me-”

You hear a zipper, and rustling clothes, feel his legs kicking around against yours until the unmistakable weight of his erection settles on your thigh. A gasp escapes your lips at the sheer heft of it, and then it’s gone again, and Chip is sitting on his haunches, cursing under his breath.

“What now?” you whine.

“Condom.” He grunts, searching the pockets of his discarded jeans.

Oh. He’s right, it’s the responsible thing to do, after all, but you’re so desperate to continue you find yourself tugging him back down. 

“I’m on the pill, don’t worry about it.”

“You- fuck, baby, you sure?”

Your legs wrap around his hips as you nod. “Positive.”

He groans again, hands running up your thighs. “Okay, if you’re sure.” His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your panties, drags them down your legs. You free one leg from his hips, just enough to unhook your underwear off and get it out of the way, unwilling to completely let go. 

Chip laughs. Leans back over your body slowly, one arm bracing himself by your head, the other wrapped around his base. He drags the tip over your soaked folds, gliding through the wetness until he’s covered with your arousal. The friction is delicious, makes your fingers fist into his sheets and your hips cant up, seeking more of the sensation. 

Every slow drag hits your clit, and you whimper. “Damn it, Chip, stop teasing.”

He laughs. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it, you look so pretty, writhin’ like that.”

“I assure you, I’ll still be writhing even with your cock inside me.”

His laughter rings out alongside yours. It’s a crude little joke, nothing you’d say in different circumstances, but this is Chip, and this feels special. At least, you think it is. He bends down, kisses you softly as he finally guides himself to your entrance, replacing the space his fingers had previously occupied.

And oh, the stretch is even more delicious than before. There’s no room to clench around him, not initially, not while you’re still adjusting and he’s easing torturously slowly into your tight heat.

“Jesus Christ.” he hisses, dragging his shaft out, then thrusts back in shallowly. He doesn’t bottom out just yet. “God, baby, I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No,” you whimper, half lying. It does sting, the fullness just on the edge of too much, but there’s also so much pleasure from being stretched taut, of being stuffed. “It’s good, just don’t move too fast.”

“Okay,” he nods, allowing himself another inch, eyes trained on your face with every thrust in. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You nod, though you doubt you’ll actually do it. How can something be too much when you want even more? And you’re used to getting what you want, after all.

Chip thrusts back into you, groaning as your walls flutter with more ease now, sinking deeper than before, moving slowly until his pelvis is flush with yours. His hips stutter, letting you adjust when he finally bottoms out.

“Fuck,” you moan, “Oh my god, Chip.”

“Good?” he asks, lips pressed against your jaw. He starts a slow, shallow rhythm, like he’s testing how much you can take.

“Yeah.” Your ankles lock together at the base of his back, keeping him deep inside you. “Yeah, just like that.”

His groan rumbles through his entire body, thrusts growing more confident when he feels you relaxing around him enough to properly fuck into you. Your body seizes with pleasure when his rhythm grows a little harsher, squeezing around the length of him like you never want him to leave.

“God,” he groans, “Fuck!” his hands grip your hips, holding you steady as his pace gets faster, deeper, pulling out nearly all the way before slamming hard into you. Loud, wanton sounds fall from your lips, only to be muffled when you bury your face into the crook of his shoulder.

“Chip!”

“I know, baby.” he grunts, an arm coming around your waist and lifting your hips up. The angle drives him even deeper somehow, lets his hips grind against your exposed clit. Beneath you, the bed creaks dangerously, the frame hitting the wall with dull thuds in time with each thrust.

You feel delirious. Drunk. Eyes half-lidded as you watch him take you, over and over until the pleasure curls and swells, flooding your body from your lower belly, to the tips of your fingers, till there’s nowhere else to go but out.

Your orgasm shakes your body, squeezes hard around Chip’s already twitching length, and he groans, falling over you as he chases his own high. His pace is sloppy now, quick bursts, skin slapping into skin until he bites down hard against your shoulder, hard.

Heat floods inside you, filling you so much you could feel it leaking out as he keeps thrusting, riding out the intense high. And then he slumps. Apologizes.

“What for?” you whisper, breathless in the sudden stillness. His apartment smells of sex and sweat.

“Didn’t pull out.”

You laugh. “Oh. Don’t worry about it. Told you, I’m on the pill.”

He hums, soothing over the bite mark with his lips, gentle and sweet. “Right. Guess I forgot.”

“S’okay.”

He pulls out with a hiss, rubbing your hips gently with his large palms. The emptiness is staggering. You already miss the way he’d made you feel, but you don’t say any of that, not tonight.

“Can I stay?” you whisper, afraid to disturb whatever aftershocks are present.

“Doll face, did you really think I was gonna make you leave?” his arms close around you, piling your boneless body over him, until you’re cradled against his lean frame. “Stay. Stay as long as you like.”

pls reblog, thank you!!!!

[sundrop-writes]

Freak Like Me

Dom!Lydia Martin x Sub!GN!Reader

You want a good girl who does bad things.

Summary:

After breaking up with Jackson, Lydia doesn't stay single for long - she finds a new toy in you. From the outside, everyone thinks that the relationship is entirely one-sided and that you're pathetic for following her around and doing things for her without question. But you're definitely getting something out of it. More than anybody else could know...

Dom!Lydia Martin x Sub!Gender Neutral!Reader. Established Relationship. Smut/PWP. Set during Season 2.

Word Count: 2,700

Teen Wolf Masterlist | AO3 Link

Detailed Warnings and Author's Notes below the cut.

Warnings: in case it needs to be said, all characters in this fic are 18 or older (it’s based on a show where none of the actors were actually teenagers, and that’s what’s important to me); this fic features a gender neutral reader, meaning that the reader character’s gender is not described in any way - their genitals are not described, and the primary pronouns used to describe the character are you/yours; (as with all my GN fics, this is intended to be enjoyed by AFAB or AMAB people); the reader character’s looks are not described, including hair, skin colour/race, and body type; mentions of past Lydia x Jackson (this would be set after they have broken up); passing mention of Stiles having a crush on Lydia; mentions of background Allison x Isaac (would be after she broke up with Scott); Lydia assumes Shrondinger’s sexuality - she’s straight in the show, but her sexuality changes or doesn’t change depending on your gender (and it’s not explicitly discussed in the fic because of that); this is mostly just smut with pretty much no plot; there are sub/dom dynamics - Lydia is the dominant one and the reader is the submissive one; the word ‘bitch’ is used to describe the reader (not in a gendered way, as in ‘being subservient to someone’); bondage - the reader is tied to the bed by leather cuffs on all four limbs, making them mostly immobile; use of a strap-on, from Lydia towards the reader - because the reader’s genitals are not described, it is vague enough to be interpreted as either vaginal or anal penetration (with lube); Lydia teases the reader; Lydia calls the reader ‘pumpkin’; some humiliation kink; some objectification kink; accidental exhibitionism kink - Lydia speaks to Allison on the phone and the reader has to be quiet; finger sucking; cockwarming (around the strap-on); slow sex that turns into rough sex; orgasm denial; the strap-on is described as Lydia’s ‘cock’ or ‘her dick’; I think that’s it, but please let me know if I have forgotten anything.

A/N: Sooo a while ago me and @star-mum came up with a long list of smut prompt ideas for Teen Wolf that I can pull from when I am bored (and I am planning on writing more of them soon). I wrote this one and never got around to editing and posting it. But I really love it a lot, and I think it's so much fun, and it's hilarious because I was struggling for what it should be titled and then I saw an edit for Lydia to this song and it had 'tie him down to my queen bed' and that is already basically what the fic is about, and 'you want a good girl who does bad things' is soooo Lydia coded, so I had to title the fic after that song. I hope you guys like it. There are definitely not enough Lydia fics out there - I really want to write more soon, and I also really want to write about Allison too. There's not enough appreciation for the ladies in the Teen Wolf fandom. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

...

Dating Lydia Martin had to be one of the wildest roller coasters of your life. 

One of the best, but definitely one of the wildest. 

Since Jackson had dumped her, you had never experienced a more wild and unpredictable time in your life. She had assured you over and over again that she had dumped him, she left him in the dust, but you knew the truth. Of course, you would never bring up that truth, because you were never going to bruise her ego and be on the other end of a fit about it. But you had never been more thankful for a stupid man making such a stupid decision. Lydia was someone who loved herself, and she always made herself the top priority in her own life. She could have been entirely happy as a single woman if she wanted to be. 

But at the same time, she was someone who got bored so easily. 

You knew right from the start that she didn’t think of you as a partner, an equal - it wasn’t really a relationship, even if she called it that. You knew exactly what it was. She considered you a play thing. A pet - someone she kept around for entertainment, but someone she would get rid of incredibly quickly if you became inconvenient for her. So, knowing that you were utterly blessed to be in her presence, you bent over backwards to be more than a convenience in her life. You carried her books for her, rubbed her feet when wearing heels all day became a pain - as much as she refused to admit it. You drove her places, you carried her shopping bags up and down the mall like a loyal donkey when she was in search of the perfect outfit. 

Some people - a lot of people, actually, would call you her bitch.

(It was a word Stiles threw at you often in mocking, and then you promptly reminded him that he would have loved to trade positions with you in a minute, which always shut him up.) 

You would never admit aloud that he was right. Because you never liked to get into the deeper, more pleasant fact - that being her bitch got you certain privileges. 

One of those key privileges being: assuming the position of her sexual play thing now that Jackson was gone. You weren’t sure if Jackson ever did all the things that she got you into. But holy fuck, if he did - he was one lucky man. (And again, incredibly stupid to have broken up with her.) 

Currently, Lydia had you tied to her bed, completely at her mercy. 

When she first told you that she wanted to tie you up, you were slightly confused, because her very beautiful upholstered bed frame didn’t seem to have any anchor points for you to be tied to. So you thought that she meant to put you in a simple pair of fluffy handcuffs as a joke, or something like that. But it turned out, she was much more serious than that. You should have known that someone like her would be more prepared. 

Hidden from view, tucked underneath the mattress, secured to the bed frame itself, was a full on bondage system. Four padded leather cuffs, one for each of your limbs, attached to springy elastic cord that didn’t give you much room to pull on, held down by the weight of the mattress itself, more than strong enough to hold you in place with no struggling.

She had you strip down completely naked, and she secured your arms above your head, one wrist on each corner. And then she pinned your legs wide open, putting the cuffs around your ankles and dragging them wide to each corner on the end, leaving more than enough space for her to play between them. You didn’t even have time to feel embarrassed or vulnerable, because that’s what she quickly got to doing - playing. 

She was playing with you as though you were nothing more than a toy for her pleasure. It was as maddening as it was exhilarating. 

Lydia herself had stripped down to nothing but her leopard print bra and dawned a strap-on with an impressive, smooth eight-inch pink cock. It was one of her favourites, and she had mocked you the first time your jaw had dropped when you had seen the size of it. 

She took her time warming you up, playing with your nipples, going from lightly licking them to aggressively biting and pinching them in a way that made you squeal and moan - something that you knew she loved to hear. She kissed all over every inch of your skin until her lipstick was more than worn off and rubbed all over you, a rough pink ring around her mouth now that was so sloppy and unkept, so unlike her. It made you absolutely wild, made your blood boil along with the touches across your already heated skin. She teased between your thighs - licking you, rubbing you slowly, teasing you with her fingers, but never quite giving you contact right where you needed it the most. 

It was absolute torture. 

Of course, she hadn’t let you cum yet. She was a master at reading you, knowing right when you were on the edge, even if you were too incoherent to warn her yourself. She didn’t have any explicit rules about you asking to cum, but she would definitely keep orgasms from you when she was in the mood. She could read every little tense in your thighs, the furrow in your brow, the unique little whimper you let out as an unconscious tell - and she always pulled away all of her touches right when you were on edge, always tutting her tongue and telling you: 

“Ah, ah pumpkin, not yet.” 

Always scolding you in that perfectly condescending tone that she spoke to everyone with. Like she was the supreme authority on everyone and everything. 

Which, of course, you had to agree that she was. 

And when you had been perfectly wound up, sweaty, nearly driven completely insane, the space between your thighs utterly throbbing with need - she took it to the next level. She took out a bottle of lube from her bedside table and made sure that you were more than wet enough before she pushed her impressive, thick dick inside of you. 

You thought for sure that she would go to town on you - that she would fuck you hasty and rough like she had other times. She never hesitated to make you cum hard and fast when it was what she wanted. 

Times when you were gasping worries about getting caught - when she had your pants down in the front seat of your car in the parking lot at school minutes before the bell rang. When she gave you a ‘goodnight kiss’ and brought your hand up her skirt, demanding ‘a good one’ before she let you go for the night. When she captured you and took you in the small powder room downstairs when her parents were still eating dinner at the expensive dining room table a few feet away. 

Of course, though, tonight - she didn’t want it to be haste and fast. She wanted it to be slow. Agonizing, maddening, and slow. 

She fucked her hips into you at a horrendously slow pace, barely pulling the silicone cock an inch out before she leisurely fucked it back in, gently humming to herself as she did so, as though this was just another chore in her day that she had to get through. She had the most utterly content smile on her face, looking down at you as though you weren’t any more significant to her than a single pair of shoes in her closet, but still, you pleased her nonetheless. Perhaps you were more like her favourite pair of shoes - an object in her eyes, but a worthy one. 

She kept running her warm hands up and down your body, teasing you in an utterly maddening way as she fucked you so slowly and so deeply. 

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, her phone rang. 

You thought that she would ignore it, seeing as she was clearly in the middle of something, but she picked it up off her nightstand, saw the contact, and then said to you oh-so-casually: 

“I have to take this.” 

Before you could wonder if that meant that she would pull the fake cock out of you, untie you perhaps - she hit a button on her phone and began talking. 

“Allison,” She grinned, greeting the girl on the other end warmly. “Ever a delight. What can I do for you this evening?” 

You had no clue if she expected you to suppress your noises - especially not when she continued to fuck her hips into you - making those same, slow, deep motions, making all your internal nerves slowly light with intense, hot fire. Still making you clench down around the fake cock, making your gut warm as your orgasm slowly but surely came to life deep in your gut. You bit your lip hard and hoped that she would wrap up the phone call soon - you hoped that if you were silent and well behaved during it, then you would be well rewarded. 

“Ooh, a date with Isaac,” Lydia continued talking, entirely ignoring you. 

She twirled her hair between her fingers, her eyes casually locked on the wall ahead of you, still swaying her hips, still fucking you - acting as though you weren’t even there. 

And it was that fact that added an entirely new level of arousal to the situation, one that you could never have described. She often treated you as though you were disposable, but now, having her treat you like you were non-existent - you had no clue what went on in your mind to make this so hot, but you loved being her pointless little object. You loved being her toy. You loved being her bitch. You loved the fact that she considered having you needy and gaping on her cock to be so low on her list of priorities - it made your insides stir in an utterly embarrassing way. 

“I thought you said that you weren’t ready to get back out there yet?” She let out a laugh, and it shook her dick, adding a twinge of vibrations that had you struggling to keep in a moan. 

A tiny echo of it escaped, slightly muffled through your lips, and then - Lydia did something that nearly had you cumming on the spot. She reached down toward you without looking, shoving three fingers between your lips, holding them there against your tongue - clearly in an effort to gag you and keep you quiet. But she didn’t look at you once, keeping her eyes disinterested, facing the wall as she continued to talk with Allison. 

“Actually, I’m a little tied up with something right now, so I can’t come over.” Lydia emphasized the words to her friend, finding the double entendre amusing, even if Allison had no clue how accurate it was. “You could send me some pictures if you want?” 

Lydia thrust herself deep, stilling her hips, burying her cock to the hilt in your needy hole and keeping in there, forcing you to cockwarm her fake dick for the rest of the conversation. It left you a mess - drool leaking around her fingers, clenching hopelessly around a plastic dick when she couldn’t even feel it, when she couldn’t care, your entire body on edge and unable to cum. 

And she was graciously unaffected by all of it. At least - she was very good at acting like it. 

“Or you could pick out some options and bring them over here in say… an hour?” She posed to Allison over the phone. “I know you’re probably just gonna end up borrowing something of mine anyway - we both know I have better clothes.” 

That cocky confidence and that sweet little ‘hmm’ that she ended her sentence with - it nearly killed you. 

An hour. An hour - that was more than enough time for you to cum on Lydia’s cock. Now please - just get off the phone. 

“Come on, it’ll be fine. You know you’re gonna look amazing in anything anyway. And he won’t even care about what you’ll be wearing because-” Lydia assured her. “Oh you shut up! Yeah, fine. Buh-bye.” 

She even gave Allison a sweet little air kiss over the phone, and you didn’t have a moment to comprehend it (perhaps the single moment that she tossed her phone aside) before she pulled her hips back and began pounding into you with utter vengeance. With her fingers pressing down on your tongue, gagging you, making you drool even more viciously, you knew that you looked like some dumb mess out of a clickbait porno - but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

Your moans couldn’t even be fully contained as you gagged on her fingers, just slightly muffled, adding to an array of sounds, like the sloppy squelch of lube coming from between your thighs as she pounded into you. But your ears became numb and careless as she braced her knees on the bed and pounded into you in swift, harsh movements. The contrast from barely any stimulation to the onslaught of sensations, the thick, long dildo slamming in and out of your hole - it had your mind singing, had your body curling up against the stimulation as you were overwrought with white-hot pleasure. 

In a few blinding moments, you went from nearly still to looking like you were being exorcised. 

“I’m giving you five minutes.” Lydia purred in your ear, sounding as in control as she ever had. “If you don’t cum in five minutes, you don’t cum tonight.” 

You moaned against her hand, entirely understanding. Five minutes, five minutes - you could do that. Hell, two more minutes of this would get you there. 

You were already so close, your body so on edge from her damn teasing - you tried your hardest to move against the binds, trying to fuck yourself against her. The fullness was so demanding, the way that she fucked you so utterly unforgiving, now filling you up from both ends while her fingers continued to dance on your tongue. You wanted to beg her, please, please, please-

You were so close. 

You were given the shock of your life when the next thing she did was pull her dick out of you completely - incredibly harsh, in one swift, smooth movement, leaving you gaping and empty and crying out in protest around her fingers. While your needy hole clenched around nothing, pathetically smearing lube all over your inner thighs in the process, she next pulled those fingers out of your mouth and began wiping the thick spit across your cheek without a care. Much to your disappointment, she didn’t move to touch you between your thighs, made no effort to get you off. Instead, she began untying you. 

She was done playing with you now, and she was packing you up like an abandoned old toy without care. 

She left your body hot, sweating, and thrumming right on the edge of an orgasm - humming happily to herself as your head span somewhere between anger and confusion. 

“Lydia?” You questioned, your throat worn out from the moaning already. “What? That - that wasn’t five minutes?” 

“Hmmm, it wasn’t?” She titled her head at you in mock confusion as she unstrapped your legs, playing dumb - the one thing she wasn’t good at. “I don’t know, I wasn’t keeping track.” 

She was a math whiz, she was great at keeping time in her head. And you both knew it wasn’t anywhere close to five minutes. 

“Lydia-” You began to argue, and she cut you off. 

“Now, now, no sass.” She told you, warning you that you were close to getting on her bad side - somewhere you didn’t want to be. “We both have to clean up because Allison is coming over, remember?” 

You sighed, heavily resisting the urge to roll your eyes (because you knew it was something that Lydia hated). 

“If you’re a good little peach while she’s here, then I’ll let you cum later.” Lydia told you, leaning in and giving you a peck on the lips. “Now, you go and have a quick shower, and then you’ll go and get me and Allison a couple of lattes, yes? Allison takes oat milk in hers.” 

“Yes, babe.” You nodded and forced your tired body off the bed, heading toward the bathroom. 

You really were her bitch - but there was no one else you’d rather be.

...

Please keep in mind, even though I do have some ideas for a second part to this, this is a complete fic on its own and I will not be rushing to post a 'Part 2'. I find it rude when people only comment on fics asking for a continuation rather than actually discussing the content that has been written.

If you enjoyed this and you would like to see more from me, including a possible continuation of this fic, a proper avenue to discuss that would be my inbox, whether on anon or not if you prefer.

If you would like to see more of the fics that I have already written, you can check out my Teen Wolf Masterlist, or check out My Main Masterlist for all the fics I have written for all different fandoms.

I am so glad if you enjoyed this, and I do hope that you choose to comment and/or reblog, because those things really do make my day.

Happy reading,

Sunny ☀️

[theunfortunate-author]

[whisperedmeg]

WEAR & TEAR ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: after a brutal week on a case and an evening at o’keefe’s spent hiding your relationship from the team, you and spencer finally get each other alone — and your fishnets do not survive the night. genre: smut tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI! reader is elle's sister, pent up sexual tension, the team teases spencer (all in good fun), makeout, hickey on the inner thigh lolll, oral (m receiving), protected p in v, spencer calls reader baby one (1) singular time, spencer reid is Not A Virgin, possibly the longest and most tooth-rotting aftercare scene of all time, reader is in her lovergirl era, no use of y/n a/n: this was supposed to be a short & filthy lil smut piece to break up some of the longer and more intense fics in the series lately but it ended up being quite long and quite soft…oops. oh well, hope you enjoy! | GIF by @reidgif 🫶🏼

greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀

O’Keefe’s is too loud for how tired you are.

The place is packed, air thick with fryer grease and cheap beer. Glasses clink, somebody’s laughing too hard at the far end of the bar, and the jukebox is cycling through three classic rock songs and then a random Spice Girls track Penelope paid for.

You slide into your seat last, shrugging your jacket off like it weighs forty pounds. It feels like it does. You’ve spent the better part of a week sleeping in thirty-minute increments, living on gas station coffee and adrenaline, surrounded by your team and never — not once — getting a second alone with Spencer.

Morgan’s on your left, already two beers deep. JJ and Will are wedged in on the other side. Prentiss is half-melted into the corner with a martini. Garcia has a pink drink that looks like cotton candy. Across from you, Spencer sits angled toward Rossi, fingers wrapped around a sweating club soda with lime. Rolled sleeves. Sweater vest. That soft little concentration line between his brows he gets when he’s listening intently.

You used to hate these nights. The forced bonding, the pretending you’re fine after something that scraped you raw.

You still don’t love them. But now your boyfriend is across the table, and that makes it a little easier to breathe.

The word still snags on your ribs a little even though you’ve been using it for weeks. Boyfriend.

“Reid,” Morgan says, pointing at him with his beer. “You’re awfully chipper for a man who ran through a dirty storm drain to save a kid today.”

Spencer blinks. “I’m not… chipper.”

Prentiss tilts her glass. “Morgan’s right. You’re bordering on downright sunny.”

Garcia’s eyes widen with theatrical horror, then sparkle with delight. “Oh my GOD. They’re right. The pep in your step. The mysterious little plans. The glow. Is our illustrious Dr. Reid seeing someone?!”

Spencer goes pink immediately. “I— that’s none of your business.”

JJ smiles, kind and nosy at the same time. “You do seem… happier lately, Spence.”

“C’mon, pretty boy,” Morgan says, grinning. “Fess up. You got a secret girlfriend?”

Garcia squeals.

Spencer ducks his head and takes a sip of soda like it can save him. “No comment,” he says, very carefully. “I’m just glad the kid’s okay.”

They keep poking, and you let them. You sip your drink and watch the way the corner of his mouth keeps wanting to turn up, like he’s fighting a smile and losing.

He has been happier lately — tired, yes, but settled. Like something in him finally slid into place. Like that something is you.

You shift in your chair and your knee bumps his under the table. He jolts, glances at you fast, and you watch him force his gaze back to Rossi.

You leave your knee there on purpose. After a beat, he presses back.

You drag the toe of your boot slowly up his calf, feel the muscle jump under your touch. His fingers tighten around his glass.

Then your phone buzzes in your lap.

Spencer: You’re doing that on purpose.

You smother a smile in your drink and type back one-handed.

You: doing what, reid

Spencer: Stimulating the mechanoreceptors in my skin.

You: holy shit. nerd.

You: you’re the one who’s been staring at my legs all night every time I get up

Spencer: I’m not staring.

You: liar liar pants on fire

Spencer: Okay fine, I’m staring. But to be fair, I haven’t seen you in fishnets in six days, thirteen hours, and fifty-some odd minutes.

You: oh, i know. i went home and changed before coming here just to torture you. you’re welcome xo

He chokes on nothing. Morgan clocks it immediately.

“You alright, pretty boy?”

Spencer coughs. “Yeah. Fine. Soda went down the wrong pipe.”

You set your glass down and stand, stretching like you need it — like you’re not doing this on purpose at all. You bend just enough to “adjust your boot,” skirt shifting, fishnets catching the bar light.

Spencer’s gaze flicks up the length of your legs, tracking the line of netting to where it disappears under your skirt before he snaps his eyes guiltily back up to your face.

You smirk and sit back down.

The night moves in a blur after that: Morgan’s dancing, Garcia’s cheer, the edge of the week finally dulling under noise and alcohol and the simple relief of being back in D.C. breathing regular air.

JJ and Will slip out early to relieve Henry’s sitter. Rossi pays for another round and leaves with a clap on Spencer’s shoulder. Prentiss is somewhere across the bar trying to stop Garcia from totally commandeering the jukebox.

Eventually, Morgan stretches like his bones are creaking. “Alright, I’m getting too old for this.” He looks at you. “Need a ride?”

You shake your head. “Nah. I’m good. I’ll grab a cab.”

He turns to Spencer. “Kid?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer says. “I’m gonna take the metro.”

Morgan eyes him in that big-brother way that says he’s absolutely using this as further evidence for the existence of a mystery woman, but he just smirks and goes to find Emily and Garcia.

You shrug into your jacket. You can feel Spencer’s eyes on you like a touch you’re not allowed to take in public.

“Night, Reid,” you say, casual, like his name isn’t already written under your skin.

His mouth quirks. “Goodnight.”

You walk out alone.

—

The air outside is colder than it looked from inside. You suck in a lungful of it anyway, welcoming the way it slices through the fuzzy warmth in your chest. You round the corner onto a side street behind the bar, the one with the busted streetlamp and less traffic. It’s instinct now — muscle memory.

A minute later, you hear footsteps.

Spencer appears at the corner, hands shoved in his coat pockets, curls a little wind-tossed.

“Hey, stranger,” you say.

The smile you get back is ridiculous. “Hi,” he answers, a little breathless.

“You sure took your time,” you add, stepping closer. “Thought maybe you’d run off with your secret girlfriend.”

Color climbs his cheekbones. “I waited an appropriate amount of time to evade suspicion.”

You hook two fingers in his lapel and tug him down. The kiss is quick — soft, almost chaste — but there’s a week of distance behind it, all teeth-grinding restraint and stolen glances.

When you pull back, you stay close, breath fogging shared air.

“Cab?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You find his hand and lace your fingers through his. “My place.”

—

By the time the cab pulls up in front of your building, your skin is buzzing in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol. You pay, climb out into the chill, and Spencer falls into step beside you.

Up the stairs, you stop at your door.

You can feel Spencer at your back, hands settling at your hips like a question he already knows the answer to.

You get the key in the lock. The click sounds too loud in the quiet.

Then you open the door.

You barely get the deadbolt turned before Spencer’s spinning you and pressing you back into the wood. The impact is soft, more guided than shoved, but your breath still catches — and then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not careful at first. It’s messy, a little off-center, teeth knocking gently as he chases the taste of you. His fingers tighten at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You curl your hands into his coat, drag him closer.

He breaks for air with his forehead against yours. “I missed you this week,” he says quietly.

Your heart does a stupid little lurch. “You saw me literally every day.”

“Not like this. Not just us.” His thumb strokes over your hipbone, tentative but sure. “I— I kept thinking about getting back here. To you.”

Old you would’ve made a joke sharp enough to cut that softness open before it could settle, but you just look at him instead. His eyes are blown, lashes dark against the faint flush on his cheeks. He looks gorgeous and wrecked and absolutely certain.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Me too.”

The way his face changes at that, the way his whole body seems to loosen — if you weren’t already pinned to a door, it might knock you over.

The second kiss is slower. Deeper. You let him crowd you, let his weight press you into the wood, let the case and the week burn off one inch at a time.

His hands slide lower, over the curve of your ass. He hesitates there, like he’s asking a question without actually saying it.

“Yeah,” you murmur against his mouth. “Bedroom.”

That’s all it takes.

He bends, hands firm under you, and you jump just enough to let him lift you. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, skirt riding up. He grunts a little, adjusting his grip, laughing under his breath like he can’t believe his own life.

“Got you,” he says, half to himself.

“I sure hope so,” you tease. You kiss the corner of his mouth as he carries you down the short hallway, bumping your shoulder on the doorframe when he misjudges the angle.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Keep going,” you tell him. “You’re doing great.”

He huffs a breathy laugh and shoulders your bedroom door open.

Your room is dim, street lights leaking in around the edges of the blinds. Spencer sets you down on the bed with more care than you think you deserve, like you’re something breakable he’s resisting the urge to manhandle.

You grab his tie and yank him down on top of you.

He catches himself on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you, but you’re already arching up to meet him and feel him sigh into your mouth like that’s better. His weight settles over you, long body stretching down yours. You hook a heel behind his calf to keep him close.

His coat goes first. Then the layers — tie, vest, shirt — your fingers dragging over warm skin as you work your way down his buttons.

“You always wear so many layers,” you complain.

“You’re the one who likes me in vests,” he says, a little smug despite the way his breath keeps hitching.

“Yeah, well.” You rake your gaze over his bare torso. “I’m reconsidering that opinion.”

He pushes your top up and over your head, hands splaying over your ribs like he’s still surprised by the fact that he gets to.

Then his gaze drops.

Your skirt is rucked around your hips, fishnets black and latticed against your skin. He goes still, fingers skimming your thigh.

“These should be illegal,” he murmurs.

You smirk because it’s safer than melting. “You’ve been staring at them all night.”

His thumb traces one line up, slow, to where the net disappears under your skirt. His eyes go darker. “I, um… I like them.”

“Good.” You roll your hips just enough to drag the rough texture against him. His jaw clenches. “I wore them for you.”

He makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan, and drops his head for a second like he’s recalibrating.

When he moves again, it’s decisive. He pulls your skirt off, then slips his fingers under the waistband of the tights.

He tries to be careful. Of course he does. Fingers working the band over your hips, easing the fabric down in slow increments.

Then there’s a small, sharp ripping sound. You feel several rows of lattice snapping open against your skin.

Spencer freezes. “I’m so sorry,” he blurts. “I didn’t mean to— My watch caught, and— I can— I’ll buy you another pair. I didn’t think about the tensile strength, or—”

You grab his wrist hard enough to stop the spiral. He looks up, wide-eyed.

“Spencer.” Your voice drops. “I liked that.”

His pupils blow wider. “Huh?”

You pull him closer. “I. Liked. That.” You hold his gaze. “Just rip them off. I own a million more pairs.”

He hesitates a moment, but when he doesn’t sense any concern in your expression, he nods. “Okay.”

He hooks his fingers into the torn nylon and pulls. The sound is filthy, a long tear, cool air kissing your newly bare skin. He drags the ruined tights down and tosses them aside.

Spencer’s hands come back immediately, covering the skin he’s just exposed, thumbs pressing in like he’s trying to warm you back up. He ducks his head and presses his mouth to your thigh, just above your knee. A kiss first, gentle, then another higher, slower. The third one lands even higher. This time he sucks, just hard enough to bruise. Enough that you feel it everywhere. A purple mark blooms beneath his lips on your inner thigh, hidden high so no one other than the two of you will see it.

You inhale sharp, fingers sliding into his hair. He hums against your skin.

For a moment you just lie there, letting him worship you, letting yourself be the kind of person who gets worshipped.

Then something in you shifts. That old, sharp-edged impulse to deflect has been rewired into the sudden, fierce need to see him fall apart. You tug lightly on his hair, guiding his head up. He looks wrecked and ready and so stupidly obsessed with you it almost hurts to look at straight on.

“Come here,” you say, softer than you mean to.

He moves up over you, bracing his weight on his forearms again, kissing you softly. You let him, for a minute. Let him taste you, let his hand roam up and down your now-bare thigh, thumb brushing the fresh mark.

Then you roll your hips up once, slow and deliberate, feel the hard line of him through his pants. You break the kiss, breathing hard, and push at his shoulder.

He pulls back. “Are you okay?”

You nod, already sliding your hands down his sides to his belt. “‘M okay,” you murmur. “Just lie back for me.”

Confusion flickers across his face, then trust settles in its place. He shifts off you, stretching out on his back, watching you with awestruck focus.

You move to kneel between his knees, and his breath catches.

You undo his belt slowly, leather sliding through the loops. His fingers flex against the sheets when you pop the button on his fly and drag the zipper down. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and reverent and a little dazed, like he’s not fully convinced you’re going to keep going until you actually do.

You tug at his waistband. “Lift,” you murmur.

He does, obedient, letting you peel his slacks down over narrow hips and long legs. His boxers are still on, but there’s not a lot left to the imagination. You sit back on your heels for a second, just looking at him. Shirtless, flushed, curls mussed from your hands.

He’s never going to be the kind of guy who’s casual about being wanted, and you love that about him — how it still knocks him breathless that you’re here at all.

“Spencer,” you say, because his name tastes good right now. “You look wrecked.”

He gives a shaky little laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

You glance down at yourself: bra, underwear, thighs bare and marked where his mouth had been a minute ago. Your pulse jumps at the sight of that blooming spot of color on your skin, his claim in a place no one else will ever see.

“Fair enough,” you say.

You hook your fingers in the waistband of his boxers and ease them down, keeping your gaze locked on his as long as you can manage before curiosity wins and you look. You’ve seen him plenty of times now, but it doesn’t stop your breath from catching when you take in the whole picture — the way his body responds to you, to the fact that you’re kneeling between his legs with every intention of ruining him in the best way you know how.

You lean forward and kiss a slow path down the length of his stomach, over the scatter of freckles, the faint line of dark hair. Each press of your mouth draws a different sound out of him: a soft inhale, a broken oh, your name.

“I want to take care of you,” you say into his skin, more confession than flirtation.

His hand finds your shoulder, thumb tracing a small circle there. “You already do,” he says. It’s quiet, almost like he didn’t mean to let it out at all.

You swallow around the sudden thickness in your throat and let that be your last fully-formed thought for a minute.

You shift lower, settling more comfortably between his thighs. One hand curls around the base of his cock, fingers wrapping, thumb brushing where you know he’s sensitive. He sucks in a breath, hips jerking before he catches himself. You glance up.

“Okay?” you ask.

He nods, jaw tight. “Yeah. Yes. I’m— I’m, uh, very okay.”

You huff a small laugh and then lean in, closing your mouth over him.

His reaction is instant. His whole body tenses, then shudders, like you’ve hit a live wire. His hand flies to your hair, fingers spreading at the back of your head.

He doesn’t push. He just holds, gathering the strands off your face, thumb stroking mindlessly against your scalp like he can’t stand not touching you somewhere.

The first few passes are slow, more about getting reacquainted with every twitch and breath than about technique. You find a rhythm that feels good, that you can feel working in the way his thighs tremble and the way he keeps saying your name.

You’re aware of everything: the warm slide of his skin, the salty-sweet taste of him on your tongue, the way the muscles along his stomach jump when you change the pressure. The tiny, helpless noise he makes when you get it just right.

His breathing gets rougher, unsettled. You feel him fighting the urge to thrust, hips stuttering and then going still as he reins himself in. The restraint only makes you want him more.

“God,” he groans, voice frayed. “You don’t… you don’t have to…”

You pull back just far enough to speak, keeping your hand moving lazily. “You know I don’t do anything because I have to, Spence,” you say, looking up at him, lips slick, voice low. “I want to.”

His eyes meet yours and something in them goes molten. He looks undone, yes, but also unbearably soft.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

You lean back in and lose yourself in the simple, selfish pleasure of watching him fall apart. It happens faster than either of you probably expected, the week of tension and the way he’s been stealing looks at your legs all night catching up to him.

“Wait,” he gasps suddenly. “Wait, hey—”

You slow, then stop, easing off him with one last soft kiss to the tip that makes him swear under his breath.

“Sorry,” he pants. “It’s just— I’m close, and I…”

You rest your palm on his hip, thumb stroking idly there, and take a second to just look at him. His chest is heaving, hair a mess, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

“You want to wait to finish with me,” you say for him.

Color floods his face, but he nods.

The funny thing is, you can feel the exact same ache in your own bones.

“Good,” you murmur.

You shift up his body, slow and deliberate, dragging your mouth along his stomach as you go, kisses replacing the words you could say and won’t. When you reach his mouth, he meets you immediately — like he’s been starving for this part too, not just the release.

Your kiss tastes like him. He groans softly when he realizes it, and his arms come around you, pulling you closer until your bodies align again. The frantic edge from a minute ago is still there, humming under everything, but the way he holds you now is gentler. Protective. Like he’s trying to remind himself you’re real.

“Clothes,” you mumble. “I’m still wearing… too many.”

He nods, eyes flicking down your body like he’s trying to be respectful and failing miserably. He reaches behind your back, the clasp of your bra popping open with a quick, confident movement that makes you pause.

“Damn,” you huff. “Alright, show-off. You’ve gotten better at that.”

His mouth tugs up. “I’m a quick learner.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, and he’s already sliding the straps down your arms, palms warm against your skin.

He presses his mouth to your sternum, then the curve of your breast, slow kisses that make your stomach twist in a way that’s not just arousal. He’s careful. Not hesitant — he’s past being hesitant with you — but deliberate, like he knows this is part of the whole thing. The soft middle. The quiet in-between.

You thread your fingers into his hair and guide him to your mouth again before you can start thinking too hard.

He kisses you, long and deep, and you feel the hard evidence of his restraint between your bodies. You shift your hips, letting the friction speak for you. He makes a small, broken sound and grips your waist.

His eyes meet yours. Something passes between you — an old reflex of yours, an old carefulness of his — and then you both decide, together, not to flinch away.

You roll onto your back, pulling him with you until he’s braced over you. He slides his hand down your stomach, fingers hooking the waistband of your panties and easing the fabric down, slow enough to feel like devotion. You kick them off and let them disappear into the messy halo of clothes on the floor.

For a beat, you’re both just breathing. The room’s quiet except for the city hum outside your window.

Spencer’s hand cups your cheek. His thumb strokes once, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“You’re… really beautiful,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes because you have to do something with your face. “You’re biased.”

You kiss him again, and when he sighs into your mouth, you let the sound fill up the empty spaces where your avoidance used to live.

He reaches into your nightstand without looking and fishes out a condom from the back corner of the drawer with ease. The thought hits you, sharp and sweet — that this is just your life now. Your life now includes Spencer Reid knowing where you keep the Trojans.

He opens a wrapper with quick, practiced fingers and rolls the condom on, all intense focus and care. He’s not trying to be sexy. He just is, which is infuriating and dizzying all at once.

He tosses the wrapper aside and comes back over you, bracing himself on his forearms.

“Okay?” he asks, quiet.

“Yeah,” you say, voice already wrecked. “Spence… please.”

He shifts, one hand sliding under your thigh to lift it, opening you up. He lines himself up and pushes in slowly — slow enough that you feel every inch. It doesn’t just light you up, it settles you.

You exhale on a shaky laugh that turns into a gasp. “Oh my god.”

He closes his eyes for half a second like he’s trying not to come undone immediately. When he opens them again, his gaze is fixed on your face.

“You okay?” he whispers again.

You nod, then reach up and drag him down by the back of his neck. “Stop asking me that,” you breathe into his mouth. “Just— kiss me.”

He does. Like it’s his job. Like he’s trying to say everything he can’t with his mouth.

The first thrusts are careful and measured — deep, slow strokes that make your toes curl and your hands clutch at his shoulders. He’s watching you the whole time, adjusting his angle like he knows your body better than you know your own.

You can feel the week in him. The restraint, the forced distance, the lack of sleep, the way you had to be coworkers and professionals while your bodies kept leaning toward each other like magnets. Now that you’re alone, the boundary is gone — but Spencer is still Spencer. Still careful, still sweet, even when he’s a little desperate.

“Spence,” you whimper, and it comes out softer than you meant it to.

His jaw tightens. He shifts a fraction, and the next thrust hits the spot that makes your whole body clench.

You suck in a breath, nails digging into his back.

He makes a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a groan. “That’s it,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “There.”

“You’re so smug,” you manage.

“Maybe a little,” he admits, and kisses your cheek, your jaw, your mouth again.

His hand slides down between you, fingers finding your clit with the same practiced ease as always. He touches you like he’s returning something to its rightful place.

You gasp, hips lifting to chase his hand.

“Yeah,” he breathes, watching your face. “There you go.”

He keeps thrusting, slowly at first, then a little faster when he feels your body start to tip toward the edge. The bed shifts beneath you; your breaths quicken. You open your eyes and catch him looking at you like you’re a miracle he’s still not used to.

It’s deeply unfair.

You pull him down for another kiss — messier now, open-mouthed — and he groans into it, hips losing a bit of their careful cadence.

“Spence,” you whisper into his mouth, half laugh, half plea. “Harder.”

His breath stutters. He nods once, then he gives it to you — deeper thrusts, firmer, headboard tapping faintly against the wall with every movement. He keeps his fingers on your clit, slow, building you steadily instead of trying to wreck you all at once.

Your whole body starts to tighten, the familiar pressure coiling low and hot.

“Oh,” you gasp. “Fuck, I’m close.”

He kisses your temple, your cheek. “I know,” he whispers. “I know. I’ll get you there.”

You laugh weakly. “Yeah, yeah. Mr. Perfect.”

He makes a small, breathy sound. “Not perfect,” he says, and then his voice drops, softer. “Just… yours.”

It’s dizzying, what those words do to you. Yeah. Mine, you think. And I’m yours.

Your body clenches around him on the next thrust and he swears under his breath. You drag your fingers into his hair and pull his mouth back to yours, kissing him like you’re trying to keep him from saying anything too honest. He lets you.

His thrusts get a little uneven. You can tell he’s close too — the way his breathing breaks, the way his shoulders tense.

“Come with me,” you whisper against his lips, voice shaking. “Please.”

He nods hard, forehead pressed to yours. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m— I’m right there.”

His fingers keep moving on your clit, firm and consistent. The sensation is too much now, sharp and bright, sending sparks up your spine. You gasp, hips bucking.

“Let go, baby,” Spencer murmurs, voice broken with want. “I’ve got you.”

And you do. You let go.

Your orgasm hits like a wave you can’t outrun. You arch, breath torn from your lungs, Spencer’s name spilling out of you like it’s the only word you know. Your muscles clamp down around him, pulsing, dragging him deeper as you fall apart.

His breath turns into a rough sound in your ear. He thrusts twice more — short, deep movements — then shudders, hips pressing flush against you as he comes with you, body going rigid above yours.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

Spencer is still inside you, chest pressed to yours, his weight a solid, anchoring heat. His breath fans hot against your cheek, gradually slowing from ragged to merely winded. You can feel his heartbeat start to ease against yours.

You drag one hand up into his hair, fingers sifting through damp curls at the nape of his neck. He makes a small, involuntary noise that you feel more than hear.

“You alive up there?” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh against your mouth. “Define alive.”

You grin, lazy. “Not dead. Capable of basic speech. Heart rate under… whatever alarming number you were at three minutes ago.”

“In that case,” he says, tilting his head just enough to kiss you, slow and soft, “yeah. I’m alive.”

The kiss is nothing like the frantic ones from earlier. It’s a warm, unhurried slide of mouths, the kind that’s more about staying connected than starting anything. He’s still filling you, softening gradually, and it leaves you feeling… rooted. In your own body, and in his.

He shifts just enough to look at you properly, still close enough that his nose brushes yours.

“Are you okay?” he asks. It’s not the automatic, perfunctory check-in it could be. He’s really looking, scanning your face like a map he doesn’t want to misread.

You roll your eyes on principle. “You have to stop asking me that every ten seconds. It’s getting a little out of hand.”

He doesn’t flinch. “You say that as if my sample size doesn’t include several data points where you insisted you were fine and absolutely weren’t.”

“Rude,” you say. “But fair.”

His mouth curves. “So. Are you?”

You let yourself actually think about it for half a second. Your body is pleasantly wrecked, every muscle loose. Your brain is quiet in a way it never usually is after a case. There’s a man inside you who just called you baby and looks at you like you hung the stars.

“Yeah,” you say finally, soft enough that if he wasn’t this close, he might miss it. “More than okay.”

His eyes go a little warm and shiny around the edges. You can tell he wants to say something else — something too big for this moment — and watch him swallow it back for you.

“Good,” he says instead. He presses a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. “That’s… good.”

You lie there for another few minutes, your fingers tracing idle patterns between his shoulder blades, his hand stroking your side. It’s stupid, how nice it feels.

Eventually, his brow creases.

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” he says, reluctant, “I am starting to worry about the statistical likelihood of a UTI.”

You snort. “Only you would dirty talk me with infection rates.”

“I contain multitudes,” he laughs.

He eases out of you carefully, one hand on your hip, kissing your cheekbone softly when you wince at the emptiness.

He ties off the condom, slips off the bed, and pads to the bathroom, reaching down to the floor to pick up his boxers on the way. You watch his silhouette in the doorway — the long lines of his back, the curve of his shoulders — and feel that strange, traitorous warmth seeping through your ribs.

Your boyfriend, walking naked into your bathroom to take care of practicalities. That’s just… a thing that happens in your life now.

Weird.

Wonderful.

He’s back two minutes later, boxers on, hair still a little mussed. There’s a washcloth in his hand, steam curling faintly from it.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell him as he climbs back onto the bed.

“I like to be thorough,” he says with a shrug. “Let me?”

You could make a joke. About how he’s already been extremely thorough tonight. About how you’re not made of porcelain. About how you can wipe your own damn—

But no. You just let him, knees falling open.

He murmurs a quiet, “Thank you,” like you’ve given him something big, and then he’s gentle and methodical, cleaning you up with the kind of care that shouldn’t feel this intimate and yet somehow does. You watch his face instead of looking at what he’s doing. The concentration, the little furrow in his brow, the way he glances up to check your expression at each shift.

When he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth toward the hamper and misses entirely. “It’s… been a long week,” he says. “My aim doesn’t count.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

Spencer’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile back. Then his expression goes faintly serious again — earnest in that way that would be annoying if it wasn’t him.

“Hey,” he says, brushing his knuckles along your thigh. “Can you do one more thing for me?”

You narrow your eyes. “Depends. Is it illegal?”

He smiles. “Bathroom. Please.”

You groan and flop back against the pillow like you might stage a protest. “You really don’t let anything be romantic, do you?”

“This is romantic,” he says, dead serious. “This is me wanting you to be comfortable tomorrow.”

That lands — annoyingly sweet — so you roll your eyes and sit up. “Fine, Dr. Reid, protector of urinary tracts.”

His relief is immediate. “Thank you.”

When you come back a minute later, tugging on fresh underwear, he reaches for you immediately — hand warm at your hip, pulling you in like you never left.

He leans over you, kisses your knee, your bare hip, then pushes up to grab your water bottle from the nightstand. He hands it to you before sliding off the bed again to rummage through your dresser.

“What are you doing?” you ask, watching him.

“Looking for your favorite shirt to sleep in,” he says over his shoulder matter-of-factly, like that should be obvious. “You always keep it in the second drawer.”

You stare at him. “You… know my drawer system.”

“Yes. And I live in hope that one day you’ll know mine,” he replies simply, holding up the soft, worn Caltech t-shirt you stole from him months ago. “Arms up.”

You sit up, letting him tug it over your head. The cotton smells like his detergent and your skin, evidence of the both of you lingering in the fabric.

He climbs back into bed, flicks off the lamp, and immediately reaches for you, arm open in invitation. You hesitate for half a heartbeat on instinct, that old reflexive urge to roll to the far edge of the mattress, to face the wall, to keep your softness tucked where nobody can see.

Then you think about the looks Spencer kept sneaking at you across the table tonight, about how your chest unclenched the second his hand found yours on that dark street behind O’Keefe’s.

You scoot into his space like you never considered not doing it.

He exhales, a long, satisfied sound, and folds you into his chest.

“Hi,” he says again, softer now, like this is the real greeting and everything else was preamble.

“Hey,” you reply, your voice muffled against his sternum.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. Your heart does something embarrassing.

You lie there, listening to the steady thump of his pulse under your ear. His thumb starts tracing absentminded patterns on your shoulder — circles, half-formed constellations. Every so often, his nose bumps your hair as he breathes you in.

“You know they’re going to get nosy,” you say, eventually. The thought has been hovering since the bar, waiting for a crack to slip through. “The team.”

He hums. “They already are. Morgan told me I was ‘suspiciously chipper’ for a man who’d spent the week in a storm drain.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“I am not chipper,” Spencer says, like the accusation is personally insulting.

“You are so chipper, Spence.”

You feel his chest shake under your cheek as he laughs. “I’m pretty sure Garcia thinks I’m secretly dating… I don’t know. A librarian, or something.”

You snort, nudging his ribs with your knuckles. “We’re going to screw up eventually. I’m just hoping we still have a bit of time before that happens.”

He sighs softly. “I know. Me too. I swear I’m trying to be nonchalant, but…” he trails off, running his fingers through your hair gently. “It’s hard. I’m not very good at pretending with you.”

He drops his hand back to your arm, thumb resuming its slow path on your skin.

“We’ll deal with it when it happens,” you say after a moment.

He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “We don’t have to do anything about it right now.”

You shift a little closer, if that’s even possible, bending a leg over his hip. His hand immediately slides to rest on your thigh, palm broad and warm, thumb sketching lazy arcs there.

“You’re disgustingly good at this,” you say, mostly to the ceiling.

He snorts softly. “Sex?”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not what I meant, but yes, that too,” you say, poking him gently. “I was referring to all the… the post-game stuff.” You gesture vaguely at his chest. “The towel, the shirt, the hygiene lecture. Cuddling. All of this.”

“I… I really like the post-game stuff.”

You roll your eyes.

“I get to hold you,” he continues, unapologetic now. “And you let me.”

You swallow around the weird lump that puts in your throat. “Don’t get used to it.”

His hand squeezes your thigh. “Too late.”

You should tell him to shut up. You don’t. You let the words settle low and warm, like something you might want to keep.

He kisses your forehead. You tilt your head up and catch his mouth instead, because you’re not that soft, and because kissing him is easier than saying any of the things sitting under your tongue.

The kiss is unhurried, almost lazy, sleepy. You nip his bottom lip and he smiles into it, deepening it for a second before letting it taper off into a series of little pecks — your jaw, your cheek, the tip of your nose, again and again.

“Stop,” you laugh, even as you chase the last one. “You’re being cute.”

“That’s your fault,” he says. “It’s… kind of a you-specific side effect.”

He pulls back enough to look at you again, really look, like he’s cataloging details for later. His thumb brushes a damp strand of hair off your temple.

“You know,” he says quietly, “for someone who claims to be emotionally unavailable, you’re very good at this too.”

You want to argue. You don’t, because you’ve just spent the last ten minutes letting him clean you up and put his shirt on you and wrap you in his arms without bolting.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you whisper. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

He smiles, soft and a little dazed. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

You nuzzle back into his chest, let your eyes fall closed. His hand keeps tracing slow lines on your arm. You can feel him getting sleepy under you; you can feel yourself starting to sink.

Just before you go under, a stray thought floats up: that if anyone looked in on you right now, there wouldn’t be any question about what you are to each other. It’s written on every inch of you — on the mark he left high on your thigh, on the way you’re curled around him, on the growing collection of his belongings in your drawers.

You should probably be more freaked out by that than you are.

You tighten your arm around him instead.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs.

You fall asleep like that, with your legs tangled between his, your fishnets torn and abandoned on the floor — evidence of a week you survived and the quiet way you let yourself be held at the end of it.

ᝰ.ᐟ

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[whisperedmeg]

the tooth fairy dilemma — s.r.

girl dad!spencer reid x wife!reader

summary: your daughter has her first loose tooth, but she’s deeply unconvinced the tooth fairy is real. spencer, who was exactly the same way at her age, does his very best to get her to believe in a little magic anyway. genre: fluff word count: 3.5k tags/warnings: late-seasons married!spencer & reader with a daughter, first loose tooth, BAU team appearance (not canon to the later seasons team oops), brief mention of blood, vaguely suggestive comment between spencer and reader lol, domestic fluffy sweetness, no use of y/n a/n: same family from home game but you don’t have to read that one first! i 💗 girldad spencer. enjoy 🧚‍♀️

dad!spencer masterlist

You’re halfway through your first cup of coffee when the shouting starts.

“MOMMY!”

There’s a thump, a squeak of socks on tile, and then your daughter barrels in, wide-eyed and breathless, clutching Sir Reginald Goosebury the Third by one wing.

You set your mug down. “What’s wrong, bug?”

Margot plants both hands on the table, then leans in and bares her teeth at you. “Look.”

You squint. She presses the tip of her tongue against the back of her bottom front tooth, pushing it forward.

“Oh,” you say, heart squeezing. “Oh, wow. Wiggle city.”

She pokes it with her tongue again, eyes shining. “It’s loose,” she says, equal parts awe and horror. “Is it gonna fall out? Is it supposed to fall out? Is it—”

“Yes,” you cut in, laughing softly. “It’s supposed to fall out, honey. It’s normal. It just means you’re getting bigger.”

She gasps like that’s personally offensive. “But I like this tooth.”

“You’ll get a new, stronger one,” you promise. “A big kid tooth.”

She considers this, then scowls thoughtfully. “Do I get to keep this one?”

“Well.” You lean back in your chair. “You can. Or you can put it under your pillow and give it to the tooth fairy.”

She freezes.

“The… tooth fairy,” she repeats slowly, like you’ve just said something in Russian.

“Yeah.” You gesture her over. “When your tooth falls out, you can put it under your pillow and the tooth fairy will sneak in while you’re sleeping, take the tooth, and leave you some money as a reward.”

Margot squints. “How?”

“How what?”

“How does she get in?” she demands. “The house doors are locked. We’ve talked about stranger danger. You and Daddy always say strangers aren’t allowed in the house. She is a stranger.”

You bite back a smile. “Well, she’s magic, so it’s a little different.”

“That’s not a real answer,” Margot says, completely serious. Sir Reginald bobs in her fist like he agrees. “Does she have a key? Does she pick the lock? Does she come down the chimney like Santa?”

Oh boy. You are not caffeinated enough for tooth fairy logistics.

“She’s very small,” you try. “Maybe she fits under the door. I’m not sure exactly.”

“Why does she take teeth? What does she do with them?” Margot presses. “She can’t just keep them all. That’s weird. And unsanitary.”

You stare at her. “You know you’re five, right?”

“I’m five and three-quarters. That’s almost six,” she corrects. “And I have questions.”

Of course she does. She’s Spencer’s child, after all. The only five-year-old you know who regularly uses words like “unsanitary.”

You sigh and reach for your phone. “You can ask Daddy all your questions. I’m sure he knows lots about the tooth fairy.”

She brightens. “Can we go see him today? At his work?”

“I think that can be arranged,” you say. “We’ll swing by after breakfast so you can show him your wiggly tooth.”

“Can I bring Sir Reginald too?”

“Of course you can,” you laugh. “Go get dressed. And don’t wiggle too hard in the meantime, okay? It’ll fall out when it’s ready.”

She nods and scampers off, goose flapping against her side.

You tap out a quick text to Spencer.

your daughter’s tooth is loose and she has a LOT of questions. prepare yourself

His reply comes almost immediately.

I’ve been preparing for this since she was born.

And then:

Bring her by whenever. It’s just paperwork day here, so I’m not too busy. Can't wait to see my girls.

Your heart does a little stupid flip at that. All these years and “my girls” still gets you every time.

You smile down at your phone, finish your coffee in three sips, and go wrangle the rest of your morning.

—

The BAU is quieter than usual when you and Margot step off the elevator, her small hand tucked in yours, Sir Reginald dressed to the nines in a tiny clip-on bowtie Garcia made last year because “every distinguished goose needs formalwear.”

Margot knows this hallway. The security guards at the door know her. This isn’t her first time here — not by a long shot. The bullpen is as much an extension of her family as your living room.

As soon as you clear the glass doors, a familiar voice booms across the room.

“Hey, there she is! My favorite member of the Reid family.”

“Uncle Derek!” Margot shrieks, abandoning you completely. She launches herself at Morgan, who catches her with insulting ease, hoisting her up like a sack of flour and spinning her once.

“Well alright then Derek,” you say dryly as you approach. “Nice to see you too.”

He grins over Margot’s shoulder. “You’re a very close second favorite, mama.”

Penelope appears seconds later in a flurry of color and sparkles, gasping so dramatically you’re surprised she stays conscious.

“My tiny best friend!” she cries, reaching up to squish Margot’s cheeks. “Look at you! And look at this goose!” She plucks Sir Reginald out of Margot’s hand to admire the bowtie. “Reggie, you are looking devastatingly handsome.”

“It’s Sir Reginald,” Margot reminds her. “Daddy says titles matter.”

“Of course they do,” Garcia says. “Forgive me, Sir Goosebury.”

“Where is Daddy?” Margot demands, craning her neck.

Spencer is on his feet, file abandoned on his desk, smile soft and wide in that way he saves just for you and her. Even from across the bullpen you can see him relax, like someone let the air back into his lungs.

“Right here, Margoose,” he calls.

She squirms until Morgan sets her down, then barrels across the floor toward Spencer. He crouches to meet her halfway, arms open, laughing when she slams into his chest.

“Hi, Daddy,” she says into his tie.

“Hi, sweet girl.” He kisses her hair, breathing her in like she’s oxygen. “I heard a rumor there’s a loose tooth situation?”

She leans back, immediately baring her teeth like she did with you. “Yes! Look. It’s very wiggly.”

He peers closely, gentle fingers on her chin. You watch his face soften even more, if that’s possible. “Ah,” he says. “Classic exfoliation of the lower central incisor.”

“Ex-fol-ation?” she asks, eyebrows raised quizzically.

“Exfoliation. It’s dental terminology. Just a fancy way to say it’s normal for your tooth to be loose. It’s part of a natural biological process in which—”

“Daddy.”

He chuckles. “Yes. It’s very wiggly.”

JJ and Emily wander over from the conference room, drawn by the chaos.

“What’s this I hear about a loose tooth?” JJ asks, eyes lighting up. “Henry lost his first one when he was six. He was so excited for the tooth fairy.”

Margot frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t really know if she’s real yet,” she tells JJ. “I have to do more research.”

Emily lifts an eyebrow. “Research?”

“She’s concerned about the logistics,” you explain. “Locked doors. Tooth storage. Sanitation.”

Penelope clutches her chest. “Oh, she’s just like her father.”

Your husband gives you a look. You know the story from his mother: six-year-old Spencer standing up in class to calmly announce that the tooth fairy was both “logistically implausible” and “economically unsound.”

“Hey, I’m proud,” he says now, smoothing a curl behind Margot’s ear. “Healthy skepticism is important.”

“Healthy belief is, too,” you remind him, nudging his leg with yours.

He sighs, caught. “Yes. That also.”

Margot twists to look at him. “Daddy, do you think the tooth fairy is real?”

Several pairs of adult eyes swing to him, interested.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that when I was a kid, I couldn’t make sense of it. I didn’t like the idea of someone coming into my room while I was asleep. And I didn’t understand why she would want teeth. It felt…silly.”

Margot nods, pleased. “That’s what I said!”

“But,” he continues, “just because something is hard to understand, that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. There are a lot of things we can’t measure easily but still see the effects of.” He taps the tip of her nose.

She squints at him. “So you believe in her?”

“I haven't personally observed her, but I've seen her work. Too many kids get too many teeth turned into surprises for it to be random. So, yes. I think she's real. Just... working with rules we don't know yet."

Margot thinks about this, brow furrowing.

“That makes sense I guess. But… if the tooth fairy is actually you and Mommy, you can tell me. I’m big. I can handle it.”

Morgan snorts. Emily covers a smile with her hand.

Spencer looks like he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. “You don’t have to decide what you believe right now,” he tells her. “You can hope she might be real but also question the logistics. That’s allowed.”

She huffs. “I’m going to make a list,” she announces. “Evidence of the tooth fairy.”

Garcia claps her hands like it’s the best idea she’s ever heard. “I’ll give you some stickers to decorate it!”

Spencer catches your eye over Margot’s head with a look so warm and amused and full of love it almost knocks you over. You give him a knowing smile, because you don’t have to be a profiler to read what that look means: this is what he always wanted. You, Margot, and this life, full of gentle complications like tooth fairy plausibility and loose teeth.

—

Two nights later, you’re in the kitchen drying dishes when a shriek tears through the house:

“DADDY!”

You nearly drop a plate. Spencer is off the couch before you can react, book discarded, socks sliding on the hardwood as he sprints down the hall.

You follow at a slightly more dignified pace.

He’s kneeling by the bathroom sink when you reach them, one hand on Margot’s shoulder, the other hovering near her mouth. There’s a tiny smear of pink in the running water, a minuscule white tooth on the countertop.

“Hey, hey,” he says, voice soft and steady. “You’re okay. Breathe for me.”

Her eyes are huge and wet. “It fell out,” she says, sounding betrayed. “It fell out of my face when I was brushing my teeth!”

You bite back a laugh. “That it did.”

“Is there a hole?” she demands. “Is it bleeding? Am I going to die?”

Spencer’s mouth twitches. “You’re absolutely not going to die. There is a small hole, and it’s bleeding a little. That’s normal. Your body pushed the old tooth out to make room for the new one.”

She sniffles. “It feels weird.”

“I know,” he says. He wets a washcloth with cool water. “Here. Bite down on this for a minute. It’ll help.”

She obeys, clutching Sir Reginald to her chest with one arm.

Spencer plucks the tooth carefully from the counter, holding it up between finger and thumb. He looks at it like it’s a precious gem.

“Wow,” he murmurs. “First one.”

You watch his face. There’s a whole universe in that look: pride, nostalgia, a flicker of something sad. You slip your hand into his free one and squeeze.

“Big day, huh?” you say quietly.

He squeezes back, eyes still on the tooth. “Yeah,” he says. “Big day.”

Margot spits the washcloth into the sink and pokes her tongue through the new gap between her teeth. “I don’t like it,” she declares. “It feels wrong.”

“It’ll feel normal eventually,” you promise. “Your brain just needs a minute to get used to it, but you won’t even notice it soon.”

Spencer smiles faintly. “Exactly. It’s actually called neuroplasticity, which is a process by which our brains rewire their neural connections, enabling them to adapt in response to changes such as learning a new skill, experiencing environmental shifts, recovering from injury, or—”

“Daddy,” Margot groans.

“Sorry,” he laughs, bending to kiss the top of her head. “You get to decide what we do with this,” he adds, holding up the tooth. “We can keep it in a little box in your room. Or…”

“Or the tooth fairy,” she finishes for him, eyes narrowing.

“Or the tooth fairy,” he agrees.

She glances between the tooth, Sir Reginald, and the two of you. You can practically see the gears turning in her brain.

“Do I have to believe in her for her to come?” she asks.

Spencer considers. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I think you just have to be open to the possibility that something magical might happen.”

You bump his arm lightly. “Look at you,” you murmur. “Team Magic.”

He gives you a tiny, helpless smile. “I’m trying.”

Margot chews her lip, then straightens her shoulders. “Okay,” she says. “We’ll try the tooth fairy. For science.”

You and Spencer exchange a look.

“For science?” you ask.

“Well, I need to know what happens,” she explains. “I’m still collecting data.”

Spencer’s eyes sparkle. “That’s my girl.”

—

At the small desk in her bedroom, Margot carefully tucks the tooth into an envelope from Spencer’s office. He prints “MARGOT REID – BABY TOOTH 1” on the front in neat block letters.

Then Margot pulls out her favorite purple pen and a piece of paper.

“I’m going to write a letter to go with my tooth,” she announces. “To see if the fairy responds.”

You sit on the edge of her bed while she hunches over the desk, tongue between her teeth, painstakingly writing each letter as clearly as she can and occasionally pausing to ask for help with spelling. She’s proud of every line.

“Read it to us?” you ask when she’s done.

She clears her throat and does.

Dear Tooth Fairy, This is my first lost tooth. Take good care of it. P.S. Please explain what you do with all the teeth and how you get into houses without breaking and entering. Thank you. Love, Margot Diana Reid, age 5 ¾ (and Sir Reginald Goosebury III)

You’re pretty sure this is not in the standard language for a note to a fairy, but it’s very her.

Spencer looks like he’s trying not to cry and laugh at the same time. “That’s an excellent letter, Margoose,” he says. “Very clear questions.”

She beams, then folds the paper into quarters and tucks it into the envelope with the tooth. Together, the three of you slide it under her pillow.

She crawls into bed, hugging Sir Reginald close. Her nightlight throws soft stars on the wall.

“Are you sure nobody bad can come in?” she asks quietly.

“I’m sure,” Spencer says, voice steady. “No bad guys will ever get into our house. The only people allowed in your room are me, Mommy, and maybe a very polite fairy who leaves money.”

“And Sir Reginald,” she adds.

“And Sir Reginald, of course,” he agrees.

She studies him, then nods, apparently satisfied. “Okay,” she whispers. “I’m going to try to believe. For real, not just for science.”

You lean over and kiss her forehead. “That’s all anyone can do,” you say. “Goodnight, lovebug.”

“Goodnight, Mommy. Goodnight, Daddy. Goodnight, Sir Reginald,” she murmurs with a yawn.

The goose, naturally, says nothing.

—

Later, in the kitchen, you sit at the table while Spencer pulls a small notepad from the drawer. He smooths a page down like he’s about to start a report.

“You’re really going to write back,” you say, watching him.

“She asked very good questions,” he says. “It would be rude not to.”

He thinks for a long moment, pen hovering, then begins to write in a looping script that’s intentionally nothing like his usual handwriting.

When he’s finished, he turns the pad so you can read.

Dear Margot (and Sir Reginald), Thank you for the excellent tooth. I can tell you brushed it very well. No, I do not break into houses. Your parents keep you very safe. I only visit when I’m invited, and I use magic to get inside. I use all the teeth to build stars in the sky. (This is a secret only very curious kids like you get to know.) Keep asking good questions. They make the world more interesting. Love, The Tooth Fairy

Your throat does an embarrassing little wobble.

“That’s really sweet,” you say, voice low. “Stars, huh?”

He shrugs, a little self-conscious. “I thought she might like the idea that when she looks up, she can see pieces of herself.”

You lean over and kiss him, slow and appreciative. “You’re kind of ridiculous,” you murmur against his mouth. “In a perfect way.”

“Comes with the territory,” he says softly, “of loving you two this much.”

You smile, following him down the hall with the note and a folded five dollar bill in his hand.

In Margot’s room, you move like you’ve practiced this a thousand times — gentle, careful, quiet. Spencer lifts the edge of her pillow while you slide the envelope out. He tucks the money and note underneath, smoothing the pillow back into place.

She sighs in her sleep, rolling toward Sir Reginald. The gap in her teeth makes her look impossibly young and weirdly grown up at the same time.

You both stand there for a long second, just looking at her.

Then you retreat to the hallway and Spencer lets out a slow breath.

“Magic achieved,” he says softly.

“Good. Tooth fairy’s off duty now,” you say, tugging him toward your bedroom by his tie. “And I think I owe the tooth fairy a thank you,” you murmur.

He comes willingly, eyes bright and fond and a little mischievous. “Funny, I was just thinking the tooth fairy owes you one.”

—

The next morning, Margot barrels into your room before your alarm even has a chance to think about ringing.

“She came!” she yells, launching onto the bed between you. “Mommy, Daddy, she came!”

You blink awake to a faceful of curls and goose.

“Oh, she did?” you mumble.

She thrusts a crumpled five-dollar bill into your hand, then waves the folded note in front of Spencer’s face.

“And a letter,” she says breathlessly. “Look, Daddy. She even answered my questions!”

He reaches for his glasses on the nightstand and slides them on. “Want to read it to us?”

She nods, sitting up against the headboard and squinting at the paper.

“Dear Margot (and Sir Reginald Goosebury the Third),” she reads carefully. “Thank you for the excellent tooth. I can tell you brushed it very well.” She pauses to beam at you. “She noticed!”

“She did,” you say, heart stupidly full. “You’ve been brushing like a champ.”

Margot goes on.

“No, I do not break into houses. Your parents keep you very safe. I only visit when I’m invited, and I use magic to get inside.” Her voice goes a little soft on that line. “I use all the teeth to build stars in the sky. This is a secret, so only very curious kids get to know.” She gasps, eyes wide. “Daddy, she said she builds stars!”

He watches her, something luminous in his expression. “What do you think?”

Margot’s gaze flicks to the window, to the ceiling, like she might see new constellations popping into existence above your bed.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that sounds scientifically suspicious.”

You snort into your pillow.

Spencer bites back a smile. “Suspicious how?”

“Teeth are made of calcium,” she says, very sure of herself. “Stars are mostly gas. So that doesn’t make sense.” She pauses. “But I like it. I want to believe it.”

“You’re allowed to believe in things that don’t always make perfect sense,” you remind her. “The world would be really boring if everything was tidy.”

She chews her lip, thinking. Then she nods, a decision settling over her.

“Okay,” she says. “I believe her. For real. Not just for science.”

Spencer’s eyebrows lift. “You do?”

She nods again, more firmly this time. “Maybe she really is magic and that’s why science is weird. And maybe magic is just science we don’t understand yet.” She hugs Sir Reginald close. “And I like that my tooth is a star now. That’s…that’s nice.”

Your chest actually hurts.

Spencer looks at her like she hung every star herself. Like this tiny, gap-toothed girl and her ridiculous goose are the best things that have ever happened to him.

You reach across the tangle of blankets and goose wings to lace your fingers with his.

“Pretty good outcome, huh?” you say quietly.

He squeezes your hand, eyes bright. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty good.”

Margot slides off the bed, chattering about what she’s going to buy with her tooth fairy money and which classmates she’s going to tell first. Sir Reginald dangles from her arm, bowtie askew.

You watch her go, then look back at Spencer — the sleepy hair, the soft smile, the way he’s still holding your hand like he’ll never quite get over the fact that he gets to.

“If anyone asks,” you say, “I’m absolutely bragging about being married to the tooth fairy.”

He huffs a laugh. “I’m definitely bragging that I married someone who believes in her,” he counters.

You roll your eyes, but your heart does that annoying, wonderful twist again.

Loose teeth, star stories, a goose in a bowtie, and Spencer Reid pressed warm against your side — it’s not the kind of magic you can chart or quantify the way your daughter would like, but even so, you believe in it completely.

ᝰ.ᐟ

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[spenceloria]

IT'S JUST LIKE MAGIC

in which: you’re in desperate need of a little magic, and spencer reid is the perfect man for the job.

spencer reid x fem!reader

part two of magic in your eyes ! warnings: so fluffy—tooth rotting!!! heart aching!! fluff, spencer is so good with kids i wanna marry him, magician spence MY LOVE, r has a sister and nephew, horrific teasing from r’s sister, silent admiration from both of you, they!!! kiss!!!

wc: 2.6k

div: cursedcarmine

lowercase intended, no use of y/n

will edit more thoroughly in the morning… im so tired😭😭

not too long after spencer arrived, the backyard had transformed into a full-blown carnival—minus the questionable variants of fried food, but with all the noise. 

children shrieked and ran wild, bubbles drifted lazily through the air, catching sunbeams and scattering little rainbows everywhere. someone was already crying over a slice of pizza that had landed cheese-down on the grass. 

the bluetooth speaker you regretted ever offering to bring blasted an aggressively cheerful playlist that could probably be used as a form of psychological torture.

it was chaotic. it was loud. it was sticky.

and honestly? it was perfect.

because right there, in the centre of it all, spencer reid looked like he’d been dropped into his natural habitat.

you lingered off to the side, half-hidden behind a cluster of folding chairs, watching him move among a group of sugar-charged fourth graders with effortless gentleness. he crouched down to their height, asked their names—remembered every single one of them.

kids who were normally shy were suddenly glued to his sleeves, and even the most chaotic ones hovered close, waiting for his next trick like he was handing out pure magic.

he was the pied piper—minus the obvious morbidity, as he filled the yard with the kind of attentive wonder that was rare to see from adults these days. he was overjoyed, completely in his element.

it was undeniably, almost infuriatingly attractive. 

“okay, now hold very still…”

spencer told a little girl in a sparkly dress, using a voice so sweet and theatrical it made your heart do embarrassing things.

he pinched his fingers delicately, twisted them with intense concentration, and somehow—from absolutely nowhere, a ribbon unspooled from behind her elbow.

she gasped so hard she hiccupped.

the kids screamed.

spencer’s whole face lit up like someone had plugged him in. a tree on christmas morning, the sun in the afternoon. he glowed. 

you pressed a hand to your chest because honestly—honestly, there should’ve been laws against a man being this adorable in public.

adorably—hot? was that a thing? he was making it impossible for you to look away. it was honestly cruel. completely unfair. 

“wow,”

your sister murmured beside you, folding her arms, already sporting the most insufferably smug grin.

“look at lover boy go.”

you didn’t even get a moment to brace yourself.

“he’s not—” 

you started, but she cut you off with a snort so sharp it could’ve punctured one of the colourful balloons bowling lightly in the breeze next to you.

“mhmm. sure. that’s exactly what people say when they’re not madly in love with the extremely handsome genius doing birthday party magic tricks for their nephew—for free...”

you choked on absolutely nothing. violently.

your sister slapped your back with zero sympathy.

“there it is. the dying-fish reaction. classic.”

“shut up.” 

you hissed, cheeks blazing.

she wiggled her eyebrows. 

“you’re staring like he invented sunlight.”

the worst part? she was right. well—almost.

truely, you were staring like he was sunlight itself. warm, bright, soft, kind. 

you were staring.

you were so, so caught. and so painfully whipped.

across the yard, spencer had gathered about fifteen kids who were all vibrating with excitement while he rummaged dramatically through his pockets.

his brows knitted together in an exaggerated worried little frown. his mouth tugged sideways in that crooked half-smile that always made you feel like you’d forgotten how to stand up straight.

“where could it be?” 

he wondered aloud to his tiny audience.

“i put it right… here—”

the kids shrieked as he pulled a plastic frog from his sleeve, sending them scattering in delirious laughter. one boy with a superhero cape tripped over his own enthusiasm and fell straight onto the grass.

spencer was at his side instantly—gentle hands, soft voice, checking if he was okay. the boy nodded and promptly wrapped his arms around spencer’s waist.

and spencer hugged him back. easily. naturally. like warmth was second nature to him.

you felt your heart liquefy.

your sister—not missing a single millimetre of your expression, leaned in.

“you’re gone,” 

she whispered, delighted. 

“completely, helplessly, epically gone.”

you could only glare because… yeah. there was no coming back from this one.

“can you go check on the cake? or leave the country? something?” 

you groaned, desperate to salvage the tatters of your dignity.

“fine,” 

she said breezily, heading toward the house. then, over her shoulder, 

“but only because you two need to flirt without surveillance—also i think tommy might've stolen some icing off the corner.”

you swatted at her, missed, and she vanished inside.

you exhaled. tried to gather yourself. tried to stop thinking about proposing to him right there between the bouncy castle and the snack table.

you turned again—

and spencer caught your eye.

not dramatically. not conveniently.

just… naturally. softly.

like he’d been searching the yard for you.

his face relaxed instantly, warmth blooming there like he couldn’t help it. he excused himself gently from the group and motioned you over.

you swallowed. walked toward him. tried to pretend your heart wasn’t waging war against your ribs.

“hey,” 

he said, slightly breathless from playing human jungle gym. 

“tommy wants a disappearing coin trick, but i, uh… i thought it would look better with a volunteer.”

you blinked.

“me?”

he nodded, tucking his hair behind his ear. the criminally adorable move.

“only if you want. he’ll like it more if you’re part of it.”

you were pretty sure that sentence shaved at least five years off your life expectancy.

“yeah. okay. of course.”

suddenly you were surrounded by messy hair, glitter, light-up sketchers, and eager faces.

spencer stepped closer, then closer—closer until the entire backyard faded into warm static.

“i’m going to reach behind your ear,” 

he murmured. his voice was soft. careful. 

“that’s okay, right?”

you nearly combusted.

“yes.” 

you barely managed to form the word, your voice coming out dazed and breathless. 

his fingers brushed behind your ear—light, warm, lingering just long enough to short-circuit your nervous system.

and then, with a flourish, he produced the red coin from thin air.

the kids erupted. tommy screamed. your knees did something unsafe.

spencer leaned in, whispering, 

“was that good?”

you nodded helplessly. 

“yeah, it… it was perfect.”

and he stayed there—close, eyes flicking to your lips and back—

until:

“awwwwwwwww!”

your sister. of course.

for a self proclaimed “wingwoman” she sure was ruining any chance at an intimate moment between the two of you. she stood on the porch with her hands clasped over her heart like a victorian maiden seeing her lover return from war. overly dramatic. infinitely embarrassing.

“are you kidding me?” 

you groaned, baking away in an attempt at playing the moment off casually, as if your heart wasn’t in overdrive. 

she pointed at spencer, who was blushing so deeply—he matched the red of the coin he had just magically pulled from behind your ear.

“you. are. adorable.”

spencer made a tiny, flustered squeak.

you wanted to die and melt into the soil simultaneously.

the kids dragged him away again, chanting his name, begging the magnificent spencer for an encore. he shot you one last shy, glowing smile before disappearing into the chaos.

your heart. your poor heart.

you sighed and met your sister’s gaze through the doorway. she mouthed, “told you,” with the dramatic flourish of someone who lived for this.

she wasn’t wrong.

you were done for.

completely gone.

and you didn’t even mind.

later, when you were arranging ten rainbow candles around tommy’s magic-themed cake—lopsided layers, smudged icing, slightly tragic lettering, the whole thing looking like a very earnest bake-off attempt gone rogue, you heard spencer’s voice behind you.

“did you make this?”

you nearly dropped the candle you were holding.

“spencer! hi! sorry—you kinda snuck up on me.”

your pulse was doing ridiculous acrobatics again, refusing to settle, refusing to act normal. honestly, the coin trick earlier had ruined you. destroyed you. rebuilt you into someone softer and far more susceptible to smiling at one (1) man—who had you absolutely ruined with one look from his big brown eyes.

spencer stepped closer to the counter, studying your cake the way some people admire stained-glass windows—too reverent for something with frosting fingerprints.

“you really are amazing—you know that?”

and then he smiled. a real smile. gentle. warm. devastating in that way that should be illegal.

you froze. did he know what he was doing to you? did he have any idea? he had to. there was no way he didn’t see the way your heart practically pirouetted whenever he spoke.

you forced a little laugh, playing it cool, muttering a soft “thank you” as you flicked your lighter and lit the candles one by one. warmth spread across the icing, making the crooked “happy birthday tommy” glow like it was intentional—and not the result of you re-piping the word birthday three times.

spencer smiled again, his eyes crinkling. he trailed behind you as you carried the cake out, not hovering—just… following, like watching your reaction to tommy’s smile was the most important thing in the room.

and when tommy’s whole face lit up at the sight of his cake, spencer wasn’t looking at him, he was looking at you. with admiration so full and soft it made his own heart beat like it was trying to escape.

your love—your way of loving, was gentle. quiet. earnest. it made everything around you feel warmer. 

even spencer felt it, like a small glow in his ribcage when you leaned extra hard on the words “happy birthday dear tommy” just to make the kid laugh.

spencer loved you.

not the workplace-crush kind of love. not the polite admiration someone might feel for a coworker they spend too much time around. no—he loved you in that dizzy, nauseous, oh-god-i-might-faint way. enough that he sometimes had to pretend to adjust his tie or look at the wall just to hide how red his face got around you.

he watched you place the cake on the table, the candlelight catching your features so perfectly he forgot how to breathe. you looked unreal—ethreal, your beauty early indescribable to him. 

tommy puffed his cheeks like a blowfish, squeezing his eyes shut as dramatically as humanly possible. your sister got her phone out, filming, but the camera inevitably caught spencer in the corner—not awkward, not stiff, just relaxed and openly watching you with the softest smile she’d ever seen.

“okay, go on, make a wish!” 

your sister encouraged. 

“before the wax melts into the frosting!”

tommy inhaled with enough force to power a small wind turbine and blew out the candles in one mighty blast.

and then, because he was ten and had no concept of pacing—he announced:

“do you wanna know what i wished for?”

you nodded, smile still brightly adorning your features.

“sure, tell me.”

“promise it’ll still come true?”

you ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead. 

“i promise.”

he sat up straighter, frosting on his cheek, confidence of someone delivering breaking news live on national tv.

“i wished that when i’m older, i’m gonna be as cool as mr. spencer!”

you felt it like a punch to the chest—in the softest, sweetest way.

your sister clutched her heart.

and spencer… spencer absolutely malfunctioned.

his smile faltered into something startled and helpless and overwhelmed. his cheeks flushed pink, and he rubbed the back of his neck with the energy of a man who suddenly had no idea what to do with his limbs.

“buddy,” 

he said, leaning down to tommy’s level, voice a little wobbly, 

“that’s… wow. that’s a pretty big honour.”

tommy beamed like he had bestowed a knighthood.

your sister nudged you with the most obnoxiously knowing eyebrow in human history.

the next thirty minutes blurred into a swirl of wrapping paper, juice boxes, and half-eaten slices of cake until tommy was showing off his new train set to his friends.

“oh! tommy still has one more gift!” 

you said, making eye contact with spencer and giving him a little nudge.

spencer stepped forward, kneeling so he was eye-level with your nephew. he grabbed the gift he’d brought—one tommy had been buzzing about since the moment spencer arrived.

“this one’s from me.” 

he said quietly, like tommy could forget.

tommy shredded the wrapping like a raccoon going through a compost bin, and the second he saw what was inside, he squeaked.

the magician’s starter kit gleamed up at him—sleek wand, colourful handkerchiefs, trick cards, booklet titled the astonishing art of everyday magic! 

and a handwritten note: for tommy the great—use your powers wisely.

tommy tackled spencer with full child force. spencer laughed, hugging him back and bracing them so they didn’t topple over entirely.

“i know you like magic,” 

spencer said, shy smile creeping in. 

“figured you should have some of your own.”

“i’m gonna practice every day!” 

tommy shouted directly into spencer’s ear.

spencer winced. 

“i believe you, buddy.”

you melted straight through the floor. your sister whispered, “marry him,” into your ear, dead serious, because she had absolutely no chill and loved to torture you.

eventually, the guests trickled out. balloons drooped. tommy raced upstairs yelling something about making his socks disappear.

you walked spencer to the door.

“thank you again,” you said softly. 

“really. you were incredible today. with tommy. with everything.”

his ears went pink. 

“it was nothing.”

“it wasn’t nothing,” 

you insisted. 

“i know it was short notice, and i was so nervous asking you, but you were… honestly perfect.”

he froze. the word perfect hit him like a truck.

“actually…” 

he started, shifting his weight like he wanted to escape and kiss you at the same time. 

“when you asked if i was free this weekend…”

he swallowed hard.

“i was so panicked because i—i thought you were asking me out.”

his voice cracked as he used all of his power to not avert his gaze..

“oh.” 

you said, heart slamming against your ribs.

spencer panicked internally. had he imagined everything? every shy smile, every glint in your eye? had he ruined the whole night? had he ruined everything?

you stepped in before he combusted.

“if i had asked… would you have said yes?”

he blinked. 

“i—um. yes.”

you took one tiny, electrified step closer.

“spencer… if you’re free tomorrow, would you go out with me? like… on a date?”

he exhaled like he’d been underwater.

“please—yes. i mean—yes.”

you didn’t give him time to spiral. you reached up, cupped his jaw, and kissed him—soft, warm, a little shaky, the kind of kiss that feels like saying i’ve been waiting for this longer than i can remember without words.

he kissed you back immediately, careful and sincere and absolutely undone.

when you pulled back, both of you were grinning like fools.

“finally.” 

your sister announced from the hallway, arms crossed like she’d been waiting to deliver that line for years. 

“if i had to watch one more slow-burn eye-contact moment, i was gonna start charging admission.”

you groaned. spencer hid in his hands.

from the stairs, a small voice rang out:

“does this mean i can call mr. spencer uncle spencer now?”

you and spencer choked in perfect harmony.

your sister cackled. 

“give it ten minutes. they’ll get there.”

you laughed, cheeks warm, heart light, and spencer’s hand finding yours like it always belonged exactly there.

AFTER MONTHS PART TWO IS FINALLY HERE!!! i hope you all enjoy!

i finally watched nysm3 and omg i loved! it def exceeded my expectations and i was genuinely geeking out in the theatre (to my friend who i dragged w me… hes never seen any of the other movies but hes agreed to watch them now! wooho!) also i am officially in love w dominic sessa and those sexy eye bags!! bosco had me limping out of that movie seat…

andddd one final note b4 i get the “loria wheres the rest of kinktober” questions… i dont wanna do it LMFAOOO i have pretty decent drafts but no motivation to refine them AT ALL!! i’ll maybe probably save the promots for the future but for now they stay in the vault… i have sm awesome stuff planned for u guys tho!! so stay hyped!! love u all🩵🩵

[miedei]

spencer eats it like this btw

[esote-rika]

giggling kicking his feet and rutting into the mattress all at the same time

[fawninadoll]

developing a crush is so embarrassing, cuz I remember that he's not matthew gray gubler, so I immediately get the ick

[directedbygubler]

so true bestie.

This actually did happen to me.

[luvsvite]

Siren Sounds ⟡ MDNI

S.R. x Reader | 18+ explicit content

a/n: well....... I'm back :') I started Uni so life has been stressful to say the least BUUUT I got yall- since I couldn't participate in kinktober because of my chaotic routine I tried to include lots of different kinks in this one! here's a little sth while I try to finish my other wips!<3

Summary: Black tie dinner, lots of wine and fogged up car windows.

Warnings/tags: dom! afab!reader, sub!spencer, established relationship, mommy kink, breeding kink, public (ish) sex, car sex, voyeurism, public teasing, mutual masturbation, inexperienced Spencer x experienced reader, simultaneous praise kink and degradation kink, alcohol consumption, cum eating, oral sex (f receiving), public handjob, porn no plot lmao

w/c: 4.4k | divider by @dollywons <3

Spencer Reid

loved everything about you. He loved the scent of your perfume and the way you did your hair. He loved your full lips and the way they stretched into a smile in response to his rambling, unlike the others who would merely roll their eyes at him. He also loved the way your head rested in your perfectly manicured hands as you listened to him attentively. Although entirely grateful for your interest in his spontaneous info-dumps, he more often than not fell victim to your natural charm.

He would go on about something one minute and be unable to remember his own words the next- all because your attention was always on him and only him, even in a dining room full of people in black suits and fancy dresses.

“Go on, baby. I’m listening.” You reached for his hand in a reassuring manner, giving him that look he simultaneously loved and feared greatly because of what it could do to him.

Once again Spencer had found himself in the same position like so many times before; He could not for the life of him figure out what he had been talking about just a moment ago- not with you marveling at him like he was the only person in the room.

“I’m. What was I just saying?” Spencer breathed nervously, suddenly very aware of the intensity your gaze held. He frequently found himself unable to lock eyes with you, the intimacy of it bordering on painful.

“Mr. eidetic memory can’t remember his own words? Must be the wine.” A snicker followed your accusation as you took another sip from your own glass.

“Yeah, must be.”

Admittedly, Spencer had always been a lightweight, a few glasses of wine and he’d be good to go (home). And yet, with you looking at him the way you were, he barely acknowledged the wine-induced flush spreading on his face. All he could think about was the way you were leaning forward, the way your hand ever so gracefully pushed your hair behind your shoulder in a swift motion, the red lipstick you’d put on and how it made him want to kiss and bite your lips bloody.

“I don’t think either of us is going to be able to drive.”

Spencer could only nod in agreement, half listening. He was too focused on the rhythmic movement of your chest and the single drops of sweat collecting there. How he would love to use his tongue to gather them, to taste you.

He watched as you held up your hair, catching a glimpse of the marks left there from a different night. After you taught him how to give someone a hickey, he went a little overboard in his aching to please you. This was one of the many things you loved about him- how he was always eager to learn from you despite his lack of experience. He was someone you could mold into whoever you wanted him to be sexually.

Still, as much as you loved possessing physical proof of having taught him well, you’d tried to cover up the mark for the occasion- Spencer had planned a fancy dinner as a two month anniversary gift to you- ultimately unsuccessful, the makeup ended up wiped off from touching and rubbing at the sensitive spot. So now it was visible and causing your boyfriend to adjust his briefs that were getting tighter by the minute.

“It is kinda hot in here, though.” You sighed.

“Mhm.”

“Are you okay, Spencer?”

Now that you had asked the question he wasn’t sure of himself, he became painfully aware of the blush creeping up his neck. He pushed his hair away from his face, forcing out a nervous laugh.

He was desperately trying to form words, but with the way you crossed your legs, dress riding up your perfect thighs, he could only stare dumbfoundedly.

It didn’t take long for Spencer to snap out of his trance though, as he felt a familiar hand on his thigh from under the table.

When did you stop holding up your hair?

“Spencer.” Your hand squeezed once, then slid higher.

“Y-yeah?.” Between the way your eyes were piercing through his skin and the way your hand was sending waves of pleasure through his body, he didn’t know whether to panic or melt under your touch. Oh, and just how badly he wanted to melt under your touch, feel your hands explore his skin, your rosy lips kissing along his neck, whispering sweet nothings in his ear while all he could do was sit and listen.

Spencer absolutely adored the power you had over him, he loved how his worries, no matter how heavy or persistent, seemingly vanished in a matter of seconds whenever you touched him.

He could still vividly remember the one time he had messed up while on assignment; After your countless unsuccessful attempts at comforting him, you’d had just about enough. You had ordered him to meet you in the car and wait for you. Not five minutes later, he was fucking into your mouth as he let out the prettiest whimpers, gripping onto your hand for dear life. He ended up painting his sweater as you kept telling him how much of a good boy he was. And just like that, he’d completely forgotten what had gotten him worked up in the first place.

Of course, he remembered this, it was hard to forget how well you took care of him, even in settings like these. Which is why he decided it would be safer to keep his eyes on your face, purposely avoiding looking at where your dress was riding up your beautiful thighs. Or where your chest was partly exposed from the way you were leaning over the table.

“I’m ready to leave, are you?” You asked, with your hand settling on his crotch now, eyes dark and piercing through him.

“Y-yes. Yeah.” Spencer breathed as he closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if in pain.

***

For five minutes and fifty-three seconds- the exact time it took you both to call the waiter for the check and head to the elevator- Spencer did the absolute best he could think of not to let his composure falter, ultimately unsuccessfully. With you both now waiting on the elevator doors, he was near losing it, tension so thick you could’ve cut it with a knife. He was certain you must’ve been feeling it too, until he took one look at you and realized to his disappointment that you were merely looking straight ahead- no sign of excitement or tension. Either you didn’t notice or didn’t care about how much he wanted to pull you into the nearest bathroom and let you have your way with him.

And it was driving him nuts.

“Ah, finally! Elevator’s here!” You grinned at him. Was the tension all a product of his unbearable need for you? Disappointment rushed through him and settled deep in his stomach at the possibility of you not wanting to end this night with him tasting you, or your pretty hands on his cock, or him feeling you stretch around him-

“Spencer?”

Once again, the genius with an IQ of 187 had found himself denuded of sense of time and place because of you. The mere thought of your skin against his made him feel drunk on life, while everything else lost its significance.

When did the doors open?

Spencer felt like a fool, being so overpoweringly in love with you and desperate for you to the point where logic and reason seemingly ceased to exist whenever you were around. All you had to do was touch him a certain way or throw him a certain look and he’d be at your feet ready to do whatever you asked of him.

He had tried to rationalize his way into understanding his devotion to you a million times. Eventually it dawned on him that it resembled phototaxis. From the day you started working at the BAU, he’d felt drawn to you like a motile organism did in response to light. You were cheerful and charismatic and yes, you lit up every room you entered. Paradoxically, he couldn’t help but think of you as a source of darkness instead of light; an alluring being, tempting and irresistible in its nature. The worst part was, you knew the effect you had on him, calculatingly charming your way into his heart, turning him into nothing but a puddle of need- similar to how sirens lure in sailors with the sweet sound of their voice and a promise of companionship after being starved off human connection for too long.

Spencer’s theory proved to be right when your hand brushed against his thigh. Sure, you were aware you weren’t alone in that elevator but truthfully, it emboldened what you were planning to do. The moment your fingers started to skillfully open his zipper, it was over for both you and him, no way to back down. Neither you nor him possessed the self restraint to. Still, he was quite shocked at how easy it was for you to initiate something so intimate in front of other people who, to be fair, were merely looking straight ahead, waiting to reach their floors.

But you looked too calm and composed.

Unlike Spencer, who was falling apart at the feeling of your hand wrapped around him. He had to bite back a moan, only spurting you on further as you leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“With the way you were eye-fucking me in there I figured you might need some help with that little problem of yours.” You teased, referring to the erection in his slacks he’d been trying to ignore.

Your words were barely above a whisper but Spencer still shot you a wide-eyed look, stunned at the vulgar way you had decided to phrase that.

And yet, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking about your hands on him all evening.

“Where’s that big brain of yours now? Got nothing to say?”

“W-we’re in public I-” He whisper-yelled, trying to sound serious and like he wasn’t enjoying the thrill of potentially being seen like this- pathetic and at your mercy.

“Okay, I’ll stop.” You pulled away your hand that was now shiny, coaxed in his slick, bringing a finger to your mouth and looking Spencer directly in the eyes as you let it slip between your lips and around your tongue. He could only watch in awe as you tasted him on your fingers and sucked them clean.

He couldn’t take it. He yearned for your hand back on him, suddenly feeling cold and exposed.

“No, wait- don’t stop- please..”

He had no idea how you had gotten him so desperate and willing to risk being caught so vulnerable and exposed by other people, but seeing the way you were enjoying yourself he didn’t question it, instead allowing himself to melt under your beguilement.

You chuckled, making sure no one was looking so you could lower your hand again and wrap it around his cock. He was now fully hard, precum spurting from his tip and onto your fingers. You had to suppress a groan at the sight, hand beginning to pump him as you watched him shut his eyes in pleasure.

“Feels good, baby?”

Spencer could only nod, too scared to actually engage in your usual teasing, yet wanting so desperately to make sure you knew how good you were making him feel. He wanted to thank you for blessing him with the feeling of your perfect hands on him, wanted to kiss you and make you cum undone on his tongue. Instead, he brought a shaky hand to your side, gripping onto the fabric of your dress helplessly as you continued making his knees bend in pleasure.

“O-oh my god-” Spencer whispered to himself, struggling to catch his breath now. You loved seeing your nerdy boyfriend like this- desperate and pathetic and completely at your mercy.

“Such a good boy, letting me have my way with you in front of everyone.”

Spencer accidentally let out a tiny whimper at this. As soon as the sound left his mouth he immediately cursed his entire life, panic washing over him as he hurriedly looked around for any eyes on you both, settling down when he couldn’t find any.

“Really want everyone to hear you, huh? Such a slut.”

This was ultimately what made him lose it; he felt his orgasm wash over him suddenly and quickly, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood as he spilled all over your perfectly manicured hands and his slacks, making a mess of you both right as the doors to your floor opened.

Despite still being shaken up (and still hard) Spencer acted fast- he was quick to zip his pants back up, trying not to let it show that he had just cum in his pants in an elevator full of people just from the sound of your voice. He studied you, trying to see if you were just as wrecked as he was but all he was met with was a smug look on your face. Once again, you refused to expose how he affected you, preferring to watch him struggle and doubt himself. You loved to make him work for it, wanted him desperate and at the verge of tears for you.

Of course, he didn’t know that wetness was pooling between your thighs just from touching him for a few minutes, your panties completely soaked and ruined. The tension building between you two on the way to the car wasn’t helping your situation. Anticipation was blooming in your chest at a rapid pace, your composure faltering slowly. Spencer who was stumbling behind you was no better, as he impatiently fumbled for the keys to the car.

“Get in the back.” You ordered sternly to which he nodded hastily, hands trembling with need as he finally opened up the door to the car.

And as soon as you got in beside him, it was like something primal snapped in him. He was on you in seconds, mouth meeting yours in a fiery haze of biting and licking and tasting you. You were quick to keep up with him, hands splaying all over his body- curling in his hair, holding onto his neck, gripping onto his clothes. With the way Spencer was equally as eager to feel you, it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended.

“Taste so good, god-” Spencer breathed between kisses, one hand grabbing at your face to keep you in place while the other felt up your thigh.

“You’ll get something better in a minute.” You promised, reluctantly parting from him to take him in like this- His face was flushed, his curls a mess from your fingers pulling at them. His shirt was half undone along with his tie and his bulge was clearly pressing against his clothes uncomfortably. He looked ruined already and you weren’t even anywhere near being done with him.

In a swift motion you lifted yourself up as far as you could from the awkward position you were in to slide your dress up your thighs. You made sure to move at a painfully slow pace, watching Spencer marvel at you. Your hands traced your own skin teasingly, goosebumps arising at the contact. You had to forcefully bite back a groan at the implication that they soon would be Spencer’s hands instead- you didn’t want him thinking he didn’t have to work for it anymore.

“Want this instead, hm?” You purred, pulling at the waistband of your panties and letting it snap back on your skin.

Spencer’s reaction was everything you had hoped- He had this distinct expression on his face that told you he was wrapped around your finger, nothing but your plaything. His eyes locked on where you were now touching yourself over your panties. At this point, Spencer didn’t care how desperate he looked. He was shamelessly eye-fucking you, teeth biting down on the tissue of his lips so hard he was certain he would draw blood any second. His fingers twitched beside him, itching to touch- slide over your smooth legs, grip onto your flesh, scratch and knead and claim you as his as you had him. But he knew better than to act prematurely with you.

“Answer me. Unless you don’t want this?”

You were now- finally- slipping off your panties exposing your glistening pussy to him. This time, he couldn’t bite back that groan.

“I do- oh, oh please- I’ll be good, mommy..” He blabbed, barely holding back the urge to pull at your perfect thighs and bury his face in you.

“You’re going to pleasure me. If I’m satisfied I’ll let you fuck me, sound good, baby?”

Spencer had never agreed to something this fast in his entire life.

“You may touch me now.” It was all he needed to hear before he finally let his need to feel you take over.

His hands gripped onto your thighs, spreading you apart and diving into you in a matter of seconds. His body went into autopilot, fueled by pent up tension and frustration as he licked a stripe up your pussy, savouring the taste of your slick. There was nothing careful about the way he lapped at you, he was entirely focused on how you tasted, loving the way you dripped down his chin, hands pressing firmly on your thighs to keep them apart. He didn’t bother coming up for breath before his tongue made its way to your clit, circling it once, twice, then biting and sucking at it. The action had you gasping audibly, sending shock waves through Spencer’s body as he moaned into you in response.

He kept switching between lapping up everything you had, occasionally kissing along your folds and your center- and circling your clit. It was making you lose it, to the point he had to put in more strength to hold your shaking thighs in place.

“That’s it- such a good boy for me, baby.” You praised breathlessly, watching your boyfriend grin against you before he locked eyes with you through his lashes.

“Thank you, t-thank you, thankk you..”

This became his mantra. He was so incredibly grateful to you for letting him have you like this after what felt like forever. He was completely at your mercy, he could’ve bathed in your scent and gotten drunk on your wetness. Your taste overwhelmed him, made him forget his name, making the fact that you were still technically in public seem immaterial- In that moment, he wished nothing more than to please you. You enveloped him, swallowed him whole and made him forget anything besides you ever existed.

Spencer’s right hand left your thigh and came down to circle your center. He was eager to feel your warmth on him, even just around his fingers. But before he could do so, you slapped away his hand throwing him a warning look.

“Did I give you permission to do that?”

His face dropped, anxiously avoiding your face. “Couldn’t help m-myself..” He breathed, but his fingers itched to go back to where they were. He was fairly certain his heart would give out if he didn’t get to feel your wetness around him soon.

“Since you want to be a brat so bad..” You started, gently pushing him away from you so you could replace his tongue with your own fingers. “You’re going to watch.”

Spencer’s mouth dropped, panic sinking into his stomach at the thought of being forced to watch you do what he so desperately wanted- touch you. He let out a whine, high and pathetic, but ultimately complied as he watched you gather some of your slick on two fingers to circle your clit. He watched in awe as he sat back, his cock hard and leaking through his pants.

You never said he couldn’t touch himself.

With your head thrown back as you fingered yourself, you didn’t notice how Spencer freed his cock from his pants, giving it a tug and starting to slowly pump himself as he watched your facial expressions. You looked so beautifully wrecked- cheeks flushed, tears in your eyes, lips red, bitten and trapped between your teeth as you let gasps fall past them. Nevermind the vulgar sounds of your slick filling the car. God, he could’ve cum from the sound alone.

“Oh- nghh-” Spencer accidentally let a moan slip past his lips. His eyes shot open, looking for any signs he had angered you, but to his surprise you grinned at him and resumed what you were doing, this time meeting his eyes. It was entirely too overwhelming for your boyfriend and if he didn’t stop he was going to cum way too fast- and the thought of finishing without getting to feel you around him was unbearable.

“Let me- hm- please. Let me fuck y-you-” Spencer begged you pathetically, still stroking himself, having to shut his eyes yet again and the intensity of the situation. It was pitiful, how he begged for you, yet couldn’t be bothered to look you in the eyes as he did so. But you knew from the way he was holding himself back from cumming, that he meant it. So you decided to show him mercy.

“Poor baby, it’s okay. I’m gonna give you what you want, sit back for me.”

You loved the way his lips immediately curled into a big smile, his face lighting up at your words as he finally opened his eyes, stopping his movements entirely. Excitement grew inside of him at watching you make a show out of his suffering yet again. You moved as slow as you possibly could, enjoying the way he occasionally let a whimper slip from his lips. However, your teasing was short lived- you needed to feel him.

The second you climbed onto Spencer’s lap and aligned him with your center, it was like something snapped inside of him. His hands quickly grabbed at your love handles as soon as you were settled on top of him, pounding into you with so much force you had to hold onto his shoulders for stability, gasping out at every thrust.

“Spencer!” You moaned as he fucked you like he’d been starved off you his entire life. You briefly cooed at the bright smile on his face before you kissed him roughly, overwhelmed with love for him. Desperate whines slipped from his mouth, one of his hands coming up to pull at the top part of your dress, pulling it down and exposing your chest. He greedily kneaded at your breast, fingers skillfully circling your nipple to see if it would get him more praise.

It did.

“Mh- good boy, baby.”

His hips stuttered at this, he bent forward, taking your nipple into his mouth so he could hear you make those delicious sounds for him some more.

If it had been any other day, he would have been paranoid about being watched, being heard. But with the way you had been riling him up for hours at this point, he figured getting to see you cum on his cock was worth potentially being caught.

One thing about Spencer, he absolutely adored seeing you cum. He loved how your whole body would vibrate, how your legs would shake around him, hair sticking to your flushed face, lips shiny with spit that dripped down your chin. You always looked so beautifully fucked out. And he especially loved the fact that despite this, you were still the one in control.

“Spence, I’m gonna-fuck-gonna cum-”

His ears jumped up like a puppy the second those words left your mouth. He doubled his efforts, determined to get you there, to have you cling onto him as you tightened around him and praised him for fucking you well.

“N-need to see you finish, oh please-” He urged you, fingers rushing to circle your clit as he fucked into you. Hearing him beg you so desperately is what undid you eventually. Your body was on fire when it hit you- stars exploding between your eyelids as you gasped out praises. It was the most mindblowing orgasm you’d ever experienced, you realized quickly, still feeling the ecstasy flow through your body a minute later.

You rode out your orgasm, coming to a halt eventually to look down at your boyfriend. His reaction was simply adorable. He was entranced like he’d just witnessed the performance of a lifetime, chest heaving and eyes blown wide. Spencer himself wasn’t far behind, simply too overwhelmed by all of you to hold himself back any longer.

“So beautiful mommy, m’gonna- nghnh-” Spencer blabbed, so close to his orgasm even though he had stopped fucking you so you could ride out your own. Instead, you started moving again, figuring he deserved a reward for being so good to you.

“I think you deserve to cum baby, don’t you?”

“Can I? Inside? Please, oh-”

You simply nodded your head, smiling at him and grabbing at his jaw, forcing him to look you directly in the eyes as he came inside of you. The piercing look you gave him was enough to make him chant your name like a prayer and spill into you, making a mess inside of you.

You were convinced you would never get tired of watching your boyfriend cum. He was the type to come with his whole body, to hold you close to him as he calmed down, kissing along your neck and your face, eventually stopping at your lips to capture them in a breathless, heated kiss. He liked to thank you and tell you how beautiful you were. Which is exactly what he did, except today he realized something else about himself when he gently lifted you off of him, watching his cum drip out of you.

“God..” He breathed in awe, two fingers coming down to catch the mess dripping along your inner thighs to fuck it back into you, making you whine in overstimulation. “So gorgeous.”

“You said that.”

“I meant it.” He grinned, prepping little kisses all over your face.

“You’ve got to take me out on fancy dinners more often.” You teased, arms wrapping around his neck. His response was to kiss you (for the millionth time and counting) and to promise you ‘of course I will, angel’.

“Happy anniversary to me.”

please reblog if you enjoyed !!<3

[spenceloria]

STRAIGHT TO VIDEO

KINKTOBER '25 ❤︎ DAY TWENTY-NINE camgirl → spencer reid !

like what you see? check out my kinktober 2025 masterlist!

warnings: fem!reader, sub!spence, spence is obsessive and a little ooc, early-ish spence was in mind..., plant + fish dad spence is canon to me idc, r is a broke uni student... + camgirl on the side what!, r is also a little cruel w her teasing, spencer has sm guilt i might just eat him, theyre both a little pervy but aren't we all, um a little voyeuristic, recording (duh... pretty much a sextape), handjob, teasing, kissing, a few tears, cum eating, mutual whipped-ness but spence is just convinced he's a creep, idk if i love this or hate it! technically kinkvember: day five!

wc: 3.2k

div: animatedglittergraphics-n-more, toastray

lowercase intended, no use of y/n

one thing spencer reid never expected he would do was share his space.

his space was… sacred. practically consecrated. a perfectly balanced ecosystem of worn-in books, meticulously labelled drawers, and plants that thrived under classical music, filtered sunlight, and the exact humidity level he checked more often than his own pulse. 

the idea of foreign dna drifting through that sanctuary had once been enough to make his chest tighten—unauthorised fingerprints on his doorknobs, particles clinging to the rim of his mugs, the air he’d kept pure diluted by someone else’s breath.

so when morgan suggested a roommate, tossed out a too-casual “this’ll be good for you, pretty boy” spencer nearly laughed in his face. or panicked. with him, the two were often indistinguishable. 

still, morgan had persisted: someone to be around when he was away, someone to water the plants exactly as instructed, someone who could double check and be sure the automatic fish feeder never decided to malfunction and murderously attack his fish.

morgan meant it as a joke, but spencer had watched enough malfunction videos online to know humour had limits.

eventually, he’d relented. he’d been working on broadening his horizons, nudging them outward an inch at a time—a little more conversation, a little less obsessing over the simplicity of a handshake. tiny victories against a lifelong fear of pathogens. growth, in a sense.

this would be considered a gigantic victory, a colossal change. he wanted to predict everything, leave no variable untouched.

what he didn’t expect, what nothing could have prepared him for—was you.

you were perfect. catastrophically perfect. kind without performing it, soft without effort. and you followed his rules so precisely he sometimes wondered if you’d memorised them. even then, he assumed it was just because you were considerate. thoughtful.

you tended his plants like you’d been entrusted with heirlooms. you checked the fish with a tenderness that made something warm and uncomfortable move in his chest. you folded blankets with neat little pats on the corners that made him bite the inside of his cheek. you moved through his apartment so gently, with so much respect, that he felt like the intruder instead.

and that was what ruined him.

because the more careful you were with his space, the more he wanted you to leave some trace of yourself behind.

he told himself that was pathetic, that wanting that was selfish, that he was imagining things. but he still found himself staring at the half-drained mugs you left behind, memorising the exact shape your fingers made on the glass. he paused mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-breath, waiting for the sound of you moving in the hall.

you trusted him. completely. painfully. you were buried under school and work and debt, stretched impossibly thin, and still you refused lowered rent, refused his help with this gentle stubbornness that made him feel both protective and intrusive. he decided that was why he needed to keep his distance.

but sometimes—when he caught the shift of your breath, or when your eyes lingered on his hands longer than he thought they should—he slipped. stepped a little closer. let silence stretch too long. let his voice drop a little when he said your name.

each time you flinched or flushed, he assumed it was because he was being weird. because he’d crossed some invisible line. because he’d made you uncomfortable.

he never considered you might be doing anything on purpose. that you weren’t naturally this devastating. that you weren’t naturally this gentle in his space.

that maybe you slowed down when you watered the plants. maybe you brushed past him a little too close for a reason. maybe you left the faintest fingerprint on a glossy leaf not out of forgetfulness but intention.

no—he always assumed it was him being overly aware. him projecting. him wanting too much.

he told himself he was imagining the way your lips parted sometimes when he spoke. imagining the way your posture tightened when he stood too near. imagining the soft, breathless hesitations you gave him. wanting made him unreliable, and he knew that.

god, he knew he was far gone.

and still, he didn’t see you often. maybe that was why each time he did, it felt like the world narrowed down to the single space you occupied.

your schedule was brutal—lectures, labs, shifts, debt looming like a stormcloud—and he tried to remind himself that was good. he needed the space. he couldn’t hide the embarrassing truth that he’d fallen for you, hard, not if you were around too much.

and yet he missed you. constantly. stupidly. missed you when he left. missed you when he came home. missed you even when you were only a room away.

he admired you—quietly, helplessly. the way you bit your lip when you were stuck on coursework. the way you twirled your hair when stressed. the sleepy shuffle you did when you got home at midnight and still sat down with your readings. the little smile you always spared him, no matter how tired you were. he didn’t understand how you managed everything. didn’t understand how you made space for him in the chaos.

he wondered about you constantly, questions piling in his chest like clutter he couldn’t throw away.

and then this morning happened.

you’d stumbled out of your room just as he was heading for the door—hair mussed, sweatshirt slipping off your shoulder, voice thick with sleep. you blinked at him like he was part of a dream you hadn’t finished yet. he’d nearly forgotten how to breathe.

he replayed the moment all day like an idiot. every detail preserved with humiliating clarity.

now he sat in his study, working late on a local case. he should be grateful he could sleep in his own bed for once. he should’ve been grateful. he should’ve been focused. he wasn’t.

the case files blurred. his mind kept dragging him back to you in the morning light, soft and warm and domestic in a way that made something deep in him ache.

and then—because he was weak, because he was exhausted, because he was lonely—his mind wandered further.

to the way your lips might feel if he kissed you, to how your eyes would gleam when he pulled away.

to how you might whisper his name if he cupped your face.

to how you might look above him, flushed and close, breath warm against his cheek—

his whole body tensed. shame burned hot under his skin. he pressed his hands over his eyes, furious with himself, terrified of himself. when had admiration turned into this? he wasn’t supposed to think about you like that—not when you trusted him, not when you depended on him, not when you lived under his roof.

you were supposed to be safe here. untouched by the mess in his head. and yet you were tangled in the corners of his imagination, warm and persistent, a ghost he couldn’t shake.

the guilt sat heavy in his chest and, god—lower. heat coiled through him, insistent and humiliating. he felt disgusting. ashamed. pathetic.

he was so tangled in that guilt, in that longing, that he almost missed it—a crash from your room. something falling. then a startled curse.

he didn’t think.

he didn’t calculate safety or boundaries or propriety.

he just stood up and moved, heart in his throat, opening your door before he even realised he’d crossed the room.

his breath caught behind his lips. 

you were crouched on the floor, adjusting a tripod, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting a warm glow over your skin. your sweatshirt slipped off your shoulder again in that way that felt engineered to destroy him—barely concealing the curve of your back. 

and then his gaze, god help him—zeroed in on your thighs, soft, exposed, positioned in a way that made his breath hitch. you were practically bare.

he didn’t mean to stare. he never meant to.

but he froze in the doorway, pinned by the sight of you like some helpless creature caught in headlights. his mind spiralled immediately, shame, desire, panic, need—colliding so violently he felt nauseous.

heat gathered at his collar, his pulse racing like it was trying to outrun his body. he could feel a faint dryness in his throat, his fingers curling unconsciously against the doorknob. the tension in his slacks worsened, pressure building to an all time peak as he his hardness screamed against his zipper.

and then you looked at him, and he knew he’d been caught. your gaze was startled before it settled, and he waited, he waited for your anger, your well deserved judgement for his persistent staring. for his outrageous behaviour, for a lecture on how it disgusted you.

yet instead, your gaze shifted to more amused, something more devastating. like you knew. like you’d always known. 

“come here, spencer.”

three simple words as you chuckled under your breath, a low sound that felt like it was aimed directly at his bloodstream, and patted the edge of the bed beside you—an easy, casual invitation that might as well have been an earthquake.

he swallowed, throat tight, and stepped inside the room before he could stop himself. as he sat, the mattress dipped under his weight, and his posture went rigid with the effort to stay calm, to stay decent, to not let his body betray anything. he folded his hands in his lap like a nervous schoolboy, shoulders locked, breath shallow.

you, meanwhile, were a portrait of quiet confidence—kneeling in front him, soft and warm and devastatingly close. your ease made him feel even more ridiculous in contrast.

“i didn’t want to tell you like this…” 

your voice was a soft purr, a melody that sent shivers down his spine. he averted his gaze, unable to bear the intensity of your eyes, but the image of you, barely clad, was seared into his mind. 

“do you know what this is?” 

you asked, your voice laced with a sweetness that bordered on condescension. you gestured towards the tripod, perfectly angled towards the bed, the monitor that mirrored what it recorded, and the image of him reflected back, nervous, jittering.

he nodded slowly, his mind finally catching up to the reality of the situation. 

“i would ask if it bothers you, me doing this under your roof, but something tells me that it turns you on more than anything, is that right?” 

he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. what he was seeing. what he was understanding.

you wanted him.

not kindly. not politely. not in the vague, distant way he always told himself he was imagining.

you wanted him filthily, biblically so, there was something hungry in your gaze tainted by desire, you wanted to take him.

“it’s okay, spencer,” 

you said—soft words, but the tone behind them wasn’t soft at all. it hit him like a shove, like a punch straight to the ribs, like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed. 

“i know how you feel about me. i know what you think… when you steal a glance and pretend you’re invisible.”

the air left his lungs in one violent rush.

you cooed at his shyness, but it wasn’t gentle. it was mocking in a way that made his pulse trip over itself. he finally dared to meet your eyes—his heart stuttered.

you reached for his tie like you were claiming it, curling your fingers around the fabric with a confidence that made his knees weaken. no hesitation. no sweet slow approach.

you yanked.

his breath tore out of him as you dragged his face down, the motion abrupt enough to send a shock through every nerve in his body. he barely had time to gasp, barely had time to understand—before your mouth collided with his.

his hands hovered uselessly in the air, his mind blanking out under the force of it. instinct took over before thought, and he kissed you back—messy, desperate, all the restraint he’d held onto for months blowing apart in an instant.

his breath rushed against your lips, uneven and startled, as if you’d punched the need out of him and he hadn’t learned how to inhale again.

his hips bucked up, a pathetic movement that made your heart ache. you stole his breath once more, your lips moved against his, a soft, teasing dance that sent waves of desire coursing through his veins. 

he whimpered into the kiss, he was lost in you, his mind a blur of pleasure and longing. your hands roamed his body, tracing the lines of his skin through his shirt, igniting his flesh with every brush of your fingers. 

slowly, you began to undress him, your fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. he let out a shaky breath as the cool air hit his skin, his nipples hardening under your gaze. you kissed down his neck, your teeth grazing his skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in your wake. 

his breath hitched as you unbuckled his belt, the sound of the leather sliding through the loops a friction filled anticipation. you teased him, your fingers brushing against the bulge in his pants, making him gasp. he was so hard, for you. and what killed him was you knew it. 

you pushed him back onto the bed, your eyes never leaving his as you straddled him, your heat hovering just over where he needed you most, a tease of what he desired, but couldn’t bear to take. he moaned, a sound of pure need, his hips bucking up against you. 

you reached over to the tripod, adjusting the camera so that it was angled perfectly at him, at his desperation, cheeks flushed red and panting, hips stuttering under yours. 

“look at yourself, spencer.” 

he turned his head, his eyes meeting his own in the monitor. the sight of himself, flushed and needy, was almost too much to bear. the guilt surged through him, a wave of shame that made his eyes sting. 

“please,” 

he whimpered, his voice nothing more than a pitiful plea. 

“please, i…” 

“shh.” 

you soothed, your fingers unzipping his slacks with a precision that made his head loll to the side. your hand wrapped around him, stroking him through his stained briefs, spreading the slick stain over the tent of his length—revelling in the sounds you drew from his throat. 

“you like this, don’t you spencer? seeing yourself all messy for me?” 

he nodded, a silent admission, his hips thrusting into your hand. you could feel the heat of him, the way he pulsed against your palm, and it made your own desire spike. 

he lifted his hips, allowing you to pull his pants and boxers down in one fell swoop, freeing his length. you wrapped your hand around his length, fingers stretching around the girth of him.

he gasped, his body arching off the bed as you dribbled a wad of spit on his flushed tip, pressing the softest peck there before you began to stroke him. your touch was electric, sending jolts of pleasure through his body. 

“look at you,” 

you murmured, your voice a mix of awe and amusement. 

“so hard, so needy. you’re so beautiful like this, spencer. all flushed and desperate.” 

he whimpered, a sound of pure submission, his eyes fluttering closed. 

“please—” 

he gasped. 

“please, don’t stop.” 

you continued to stroke him—your hand moving in a slow, torturous rhythm. you could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles coiled, your hand continued to work him.

his body trembled like a leaf, the image of you, each stroke of your palm dragging the life out of him—it stole his breath, utterly and completely. he couldn’t control himself, his hips bucked into your hand. 

“you like this, hmm? seeing yourself? filming how dirty you are?” 

he whimpered again, eyes reluctantly yanking away from your form and finding his own—flashed back at him through a screen. chest heaving, cheeks tear streaked.

he moaned a sound of pure ecstasy, a sound that echoed off the walls, a sound that embedded itself into your brain.

“yes—“

he gasped, his eyes nearly fluttering close. 

your movements never faltered—hand moving faster now, your grip tighter. you could feel the way his body tensed, the way his stomach tightened, ready to snap. you leaned down, your lips capturing his in a sloppy kiss that made a mess of his fucked out face.

“‘m sorry—sorry—“

he whimpered again, slurred apologies between kisses, fingers tangling so deeply into your sheets he nearly ripped holes.

what was he apologizing for? he couldn’t exactly be sure, you’d already turned his brain to mush, destroying any tether to reality he could manage to fathom, you conquered and corrupted his brain with simple ease—a few words, limp flicks of your wrist, and he was gone.

“it’s okay baby—you can let go, let me see how ruined you are.”

you gripped his jaw—not forcing, only softly guiding his gaze to yours, so you could see his wrecked form perfectly below you. his eyes puffy and red, his lips swollen—drool trickling down his chin, tears streaming down his cheeks.

he was beautiful.

you’d made him yours.

“that’s it, spencer, come for me. let me see you fall apart. let me see how much you need this, how much you need me.” 

and with a final stroke, he did, his body convulsing as he came, a cry of release tearing from his throat. you held him close, your hand gentle now, soothing him as he rode out the waves of pleasure. 

hot sticky ropes of his release splattered his chest—illicit evidence of what you’d done, marking him, milky white stark against the rose colour of his panting flesh. 

“so good for me spence—such a good boy.”

it shouldn’t have effected him the way it did, not when you dragged your finger through the mess on his skin, swirling it around your tongue with an obscenity that made his eyes roll, riling him up before he’d properly come down. 

you kissed him again—quick, decisive, stealing the breath straight out of his lungs. just fleeting enough to give him a taste of himself that lingered on your tongue.

the sound that slipped out of him was humiliatingly unrestrained, choked from somewhere deep in his chest before he could swallow it down.

you pulled back slowly, like you wanted him to feel every fraction of distance closing between you, leaving the air thin and trembling.

his lips were still parted, his breathing uneven. yours wasn’t much steadier.

“can i… keep the tape?” 

you asked, your voice rough in a way that sent a shiver slicing through him. the question felt almost predatory, almost tender, the very idea infested his brain.

“god—please.”

you smiled then, softer than he expected. you leaned in and brushed your mouth against his in a kiss so gentle it made the earlier ones feel like violent storms.

“i’m guessing this means i’m allowed to stay? yeah?” 

you murmured against him, teasing but not cruel. 

the idea that you might think otherwise hit him like a physical blow. his breath hitched, sharp and startled, eyes flying wide with something close to panic.

“i—” 

his voice cracked. he swallowed hard. 

“i think i’d die if you left.”

and it wasn’t dramatic. wasn’t metaphor. wasn’t exaggeration.

it was the truth—raw, unfiltered, terrifying in its honesty.

you looked at him like you already knew.

i genuinely dont think ive rewritten/edited a fic as many times as this one bruh!!! this shit killed me!! and im still 50/50 if i like it or not… hope u guys enjoyed tho🫶 (pls reblog if you did!)

taglist! @willowhaylund @dorotheareid @blacksnake13 @giannaisannoying @hanguels @diekinderhuis @chicken-went-bye-blog @svtluvrsstuff @dilflover-3 @kyeomlurver @queenbee127 @dokxxhvhdklkkjjhhgggdj @simpfornikolailantsov @imaginewagons34 @alwayssnivellus @luvpinkjaz @avazlyn @sugarsunshine4 @cmloverr  @avazlyn @sugarsunshine4

@hellhasclaimedmymind @adaslvr @willowsblanket @bxuzi @otteshamoshfegha @viviandarkbloom11 @bellaciao0 @jay-2s-world @lookingforvivy @tayslov3r @hellhasclaimedmymind @moifcuv, @majoneedsahug @cynbx

[luvsvite]

Peaches and cream (sweeter than sweet) 18+

18+ content mdni pls pls

A/N: Wrote this back in may & only finished it now:') if you miss summer like me, you'll def enjoy this!<3

summary: basically reader & spence having semi-public, disgustingly romantic sex on vacation

tags: switch!Spence x afab!Reader, established relationship, (public) fingering, porn w plot essentially (if u squint rly hard), cum eating, spence being pussy drunk (as one is), oral sex (f! receiving), spence cums in his pants, both are head over heels for each other

w/c: 2.5k | cute divider by @dollywons <3

Without a doubt, summer was your favourite season. In fact to you, summer was the only season- the only one that mattered anyway.

You spent all year waiting for trips to the beach on warm summer evenings, for cocktails with your girlfriends on the patio and late night drives with the windows rolled all the way down and music blasting. Ever since you were little, you knew that everything you could ever wish for, everything magical happened in the months between may and august. Back then when things were still easy and dreaming wasn’t a luxury, you wished for nothing more than to live in a castle and for your prince charming to find his way to you. However, by the time you reached your twenties, having gone through your fair share of disappointing tinder dates and unsatisfying hookups, you began to doubt fairytales would ever come true for you.

That was, until you met Spencer Reid.

You'd met him one October night when you were out with your girlfriends, having stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. You weren't a smoker really, but occasionally, especially after you'd had a few, you enjoyed it. Having forgotten a lighter, you'd asked the first guy you saw if you could borrow a light. When he started rambling on about how every cigarette would take six minutes off your life, you could only laugh. It was endearing in a way- a total stranger being concerned for your health. So when he let you borrow a light anyway, you stayed. You exchanged numbers and ended up talking for hours that night, from the moment you left the bar, to being tucked in your bed, half asleep and barely able to register what you were typing. You quickly realized he was no ordinary man.

You and Spencer made your relationship official not one month in, knowing what you two had was special. You spent months getting to really know each other, falling deeper in love with every day that passed. Then, summer came around. You could barely contain your excitement when you surprised your boyfriend with a trip to Fiji financed by your Christmas bonus. To say Spencer was thrilled was an understatement. He was ecstatic, being in desperate need for a week off his draining job. And of course, he got to spend that week with you- no interruptions or work calls or reminders of how badly his life had really sucked before he met you.

July 17th

Your teeth bit into the tissue of your flushed lips, hands gripping into the hot sand beneath you, breath coming quicker now that Spencer's hand was slowly inching closer to your core- agonizingly slow. Your tongue licked along your lips, tasting your peach chapstick, simultaneously humming at the flavour and at Spencer’s hand gripping onto your thigh while the other curled around the waistband of your swimsuit.

"Spencer, I swear to god." You finally looked up at him, a warning look on your face. Bad mistake. The sight of him had you holding back a groan. With him looking straight ahead pretending he didn't hear you, you were able to fully admire his side profile, his jawline, the curls falling onto his eyes, his arm flexing as he held back, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop if he kept going.

Then suddenly, he turned his head, asking for permission silently, pleading almost. You noticed his breath was coming quicker now too with his hand being so close to your core. How could you ever deny him anything?

"Please." You whispered, eyes locked on his as your mouth stood open in shock at your own desperation.

A breath escaped his lips as two fingers slipped under your painties, feeling how wet you were for him. His fingers lingered over your clit for a moment, not moving just yet, relishing in your wetness and warmth around him. And as if he couldn't take it anymore, he inched closer to you, burying his head in your shoulder as he spoke.

"Jesus.." He whined "So wet, baby, you-"

His words were interrupted by a low groan being dragged out of him as his fingers finally slipped between your folds. Between waves crashing, wind blowing and people talking and laughing, he could only imagine the obscene sounds your bodies were making under the blanket.

You tried holding back your own moan the best you could, but Spencer caught it, finger curling up as he let yet another whine slip from his lips.

"Love feeling you, g-god.." He confessed, seemingly drunk on touching you, feeling you, knowing you could get caught at any moment. Truthfully, Spencer had never been the type to engage in anything as intimate as this in public, but you brought out this side in him. Never mind his eidetic memory, he’d lost count of how many times he’d grown hard in a public setting simply from being close to you. It was a curse really- but in this moment, with how you were letting the most gorgeous sounds slip between your rosy lips, he couldn’t be bothered to care all that much.

"Yeah?" You gasped back as he started pumping his finger into you in a slow but steady rhythm.

"So much." He breathed against your heated skin in response. Fuck, your skin was always so soft, so gorgeous, so perfect- as was every single thing about you. The flowery, intoxicating scent on you was what made him lose it eventually, lips now tracing along your shoulder blade before, without a second thought, he bit into it. He barely registered your squeak as his tongue joined his teeth on your skin, tasting desperately for something.

You could barely even focus on anything other than his thumb moving in fast circular motions around your clit while two fingers curled, pumped inside of you. Everything else around you had now disappeared.

"C-can't, fuck." Spencer half breathed, half chuckled at what he was about to do. Breathlessly, you watched him pull his fingers out of you to bring them up to his lips. You scanned your area frantically at this, checking if anyone was looking. When you realized everyone was minding their own business, you could only marvel at how your boyfriend put his lips around his fingers to taste you. You tasted sweet, he noticed, tongue lapping up every single drop of your essence. As drunk on you as he was, he was probably imagining things, but he could've sworn he tasted berries on his fingers- he tasted sweetness and sugar that melted away his tongue and everything about you that consumed every inch of his being.

"Taste good?" You chuckled.

"Mhm.." He was barely able to get out as he sucked on his fingers one last time. The sight being simply too much for you to bear, you pulled him into a heated kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Sweet indeed.

"Spence, let's go back to the hotel right now, please." You pleaded as you reluctantly parted from him.

"Yes. Yes, let's go."

So you ended up packing your things and driving back to the hotel you were staying at. Not one foot set into the hallway, Spencer had you pinned against the door, lips finding yours in a haze of sweat, sweetness and hunger.

"Need you." He whispered against your lips, tongue dragging along yours while his hands gripped your waist hard enough to leave marks. Your own hands were roaming his body in a frenzy, heavy pants leaving your mouth as you tried your best to fight back your whines, which proved to be a lot harder than you thought when one of his hands slipped under your shirt. His touch was tentative, but his movements precise as fingertips scraped along your heated skin.

He kissed along your jaw as he spoke breathlessly "Why do you taste so good, I mean you're so- I- I can't. I can't." He chuckled the last bit to himself, accidentally brushing his hard-on against your thigh. Fuck.

"Let’s go inside. You're killing me."

He nodded hastily, fumbling around for the doorknob, lips never leaving your neck as he pushed you both inside your room. Moments later, you were shedding each other of the little clothes you had on, leaving you both bare as you stumbled onto the bed. Spencer was between your legs in seconds, anticipation blooming in your stomach as you watched him kiss along your inner thigh, fingers gripping the outside, holding you in place.

"Jesus.." He marvelled at your inner thighs, captivated by the way your juices dripped down your already glistening skin. He wasted no time putting his tongue against it, lapping everything up as the tiniest moans formed at the back of his throat at the taste of you. The sight nearly had you fainting as your fingers brushed through his locks tenderly.

"Spencer.." You whined, already closer than you would’ve liked to admit.

"I know, baby. I'll make you feel good, I promise. Just wanna take you in like this." His fingers spread your folds as he breathed out a moan at the sight.

"Always look so beautiful for me.." He huffed a laugh as if he couldn't believe it himself- as if he couldn’t believe you were his. His lips were on your pussy rather quickly, unable to contain himself any longer. You gasped highly, fingers gripping into his locks harder than you intended.

"F-fuck, sorry baby." You breathed, really only half there.

"Mh, no. No, please, I like it. Do what you want, pretty girl." He murmured against you, tongue moving against your pussy with eagerness. He was sucking on your clit, moaning around it while he gripped moon crescents into your thighs, and you let him, drunk on the feeling of his tongue against your heat. With his permission, you kept pulling on his hair, drawing whimpers from him continuously.

Spencer continued sucking your clit into his mouth, however now one of his hands was drifting between you and his chin, circling your entrance as he looked up at you for consent. You gave him an urgent nod and lifted your hips slightly to allow him better access. The moment his middle finger slipped inside of you, you were gone. Having lost any sense of self restraint, you closed your thighs around him, fingers holding on to his curls as you moaned loudly.

"I'm- Mh.." You realized you weren't making any sense with what you were saying (or trying to say)- still you wanted to express to him just how ecstatic he was making you feel, how good he was being for you. So instead of forcing out more nonsense, you pushed up against him, practically using his face, knowing exactly what it would do to him. Sure enough, you were right. You looked down to find his movements against the bed faltering as he fought to keep up a steady rhythm against your pussy.

"Mhm, yes angel, use me m'yours, I'm yours..." He blabbed against you, adding another finger. Spencer's words paired with the hot air whispering in through the open window, brushing your skin as it melted away any tension you'd been carrying, were making you edge too close to your release too fast.

"S-Spencer.." You tried to warn him, but he kept eating you out like a man starved, groans escaping his throat as he resumed his movements against the bed.

With the little strength you had, you sat up a little, fingers pulling at his curls to make him look at you.

"Kiss me? Please." You requested breathlessly. Spencer smiled tenderly before pecking your clit, then the inside of your thigh as he moved himself over so he was lying on top of you, face inches away from yours.

"Of course i'll kiss you, gorgeous." He sighed, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth, releasing it and then tracing his tongue over it, sliding it into your mouth as he kissed you with fervor. You barely registered his fingers slipping out of you to come rub against your sensitive clit, but when they did, you swore you blacked out for a minute. Now that his body was so close to you again, you were able to really take in his scent and god was it making you lose it.

You swore he smelled of rain even though the sun had been out all day. He smelled of waves crashing against sand. Of skin against skin. He smelled sweet- so sugary you could melt away his skin with a swipe of your tongue. He smelled of summer and kissed you with heat and fuck, you were so close to cumming.

"Wanna make you cum now." He whispered as he parted from you.

You shook your head weakly, not wanting this to end yet.

"Always so beautiful, so perfect. Wanna see you let go for me, angel.” He continued, making it that much harder for you to hold back as he accelerated his motions against you. The sounds your bodies were making were pure obscenity, you registered, but you couldn't bring yourself to care one bit. Not when his mouth was kissing along your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin down to your color bone.

"Always so wet for me.. jesus. Let go, baby. Cum for me."

His words rang in your ears like a mantra as you felt him through his boxers against your thigh, and that was all it took for your vision to go white and spots to form behind your eyelids. You cried out his name as you came on his fingers, hands gripping him to pull him down into an open mouthed kiss.

"Oh fuck-" You gasped as you you breathed heavily against his lips, slowly coming down from your high. Spencer kissed along your jaw tenderly removing his fingers as he locked eyes with you, admiring how beautifully wrecked you looked.

“God, I love you.”

It was the first time you’d said it- really said it. You’d tried to tell him before, building up just shy of enough courage to actually let the words slip between your lips. Surprisingly, now that you had, you weren’t anxious at all, knowing deep in your heart he felt the same way.

“I love you too, angel.”

The reassurance had you smile happily into his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him as you felt something wet against your thigh.

“Did you- did you finish in your pants?” You laughed suddenly to which Spencer could only bury his face into your hair in shame. Still, you could practically feel him smiling against you as he spoke.

“Please don’t make fun of me.”

“I would never!”

You spent the next thirty minutes tangled up in each other like this, breathing in each other’s scents, with the sunlight shining through the window warming your skin and the smell of july enveloping both your bodies as you slowly drifted off to sleep.

Summer was definitely your favourite season.

-

I'd appreciate a follow/repost/note if you enjoyed! love yall<3

[spenceloria]

i think pulling on munch! s5/jesus reids hair would fix me.

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

acts of service (and other sexy things)

pairing: spencer reid x reader

word count: 2.3k

summary: you thought moving in together would be cute and domestic. turns out it’s ruining you. spencer does the dishes, fixes a bookshelf, remembers to water the plants—and suddenly you’re ready to drop to your knees over basic responsibility.

includes: smut (MDNI), no use of y/n, soft dom!spencer, domestic fluff turned feral, acts of service as foreplay, praise kink, use of "good girl" and such, reader has zero chill, unholy levels of horniness over chores, hair pulling, oral (f receiving), he just loves you bro

based on requests: 1, 2

The day starts ordinary enough.

Spencer’s in his usual weekend rhythm—hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature. You watch from the couch as he empties the dishwasher, humming softly under his breath. He pauses to line the mugs neatly in the cabinet, then wipes his hands on a dish towel before reaching for the coffee pot.

It’s nothing flashy. Just him being… him. Thoughtful, careful, methodical.

And yet, every small thing he does sends a slow, molten warmth through your veins.

He glances over his shoulder to ask if you want sugar and you can’t even form a coherent answer. You nod, a little too quickly.

Later, he’s in the living room, glasses sliding down his nose as he fixes the leg on the wobbly bookshelf you’ve been complaining about. His hair keeps falling into his face, and he keeps huffing it away with a puff of air, muttering to himself like an old man. You should be helping. You’re not.

You’re watching the veins in his forearm flex every time he tightens a screw.

Then it’s the laundry—him methodically folding towels, matching socks like it’s a puzzle. Then it’s him remembering to water the plant on the windowsill.

And then, Christ, it’s the way he looks at you—his eyes soft and sweet and his voice so, so gentle when he tells you to go get ready.

“For what?” you ask.

He smiles. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question. He’s not asking permission.

And something about that makes your knees a little weak.

You take a quick shower, throw on a pretty sundress, do your makeup and hair, and when you’re about to step into your heels, he kneels down in front of you.

His fingers brush your ankle as he buckles the strap. Then he does the other foot.

It’s so simple. But it turns you on more than you can explain.

He stands and looks at you, brushes your hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You can tell by the look on his face—gentle, knowing, a little amused—that he knows exactly where your mind has gone. But you just smile and say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He says, “Okay,” and the two of you walk out to his car.

Your hands are wrapped around his elbow like it’s 1942 and he’s taking you to the dance. He opens the door for you, and you freeze.

For a second, you're glad he can't hear your thoughts. The dirty ones. The ones where he bends you over the hood of his car and fucks you in broad daylight. But he’s just standing there, waiting for you to get in the car.

Then he raises a brow at you—a bold smirk on his lips and you wonder… maybe he can hear your thoughts.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says. And you nearly melt into the ground.

You’ve been living together for a couple of months now. And he’s finding out—little by little—how unbelievably, downright, unhinged horny you are. He leads you back upstairs. And as soon as the door falls closed behind you, you’re pinned against it, his soft lips on yours.

You can taste the toothpaste on his tongue.

You’re still in your heels and sundress, and he’s fully clothed, and he’s kissing you so hard you can’t catch your breath. His hands are in your hair, tugging, pulling, and your fingers are fumbling for his belt. You think how easy it would be to undo it, unbutton his pants, let them fall. You want them to pool around his ankles; you want him to kick them away and take you right here, up against the door.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers. And even though his tone is loving and tender, he’s also a little rough. A little commanding.

You have to tell him. He won’t move until you do.

“I want you,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “No. Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. “I want you to bend me over the couch. I want you to pull my hair and make me come on your cock. I want it to hurt just a little bit.”

He nods. “Good girl.”

Then he spins you around, bends you over the arm of the couch, flips your dress up, and yanks your panties down to your knees.

And for a second it's embarrassing—the idea of him seeing you like that. It’s easier when it’s dark, when you can pretend he can’t really see you.

But it’s broad daylight and you know he can see everything. The way your thighs are shaking, the wet spot on your panties, the way your body is so, so ready for him.

“Spencer,” you whisper, trying to look over your shoulder at him. But he presses a hand to your back—keeps your face and chest pinned to the cushions.

“Don't move,” he tells you. “I’m going to take care of you.”

You feel his lips brush the back of your thigh.

He kisses a path from your knee to your ass. And when he reaches the soft flesh there, he sinks his teeth in.

“Ow,” you whine, even though it doesn’t really hurt.

He soothes the skin with his tongue, and you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you wider for him. Then his tongue is on your pussy—licking a slow stripe up your center, and you nearly whimper.

“Shh,” he tells you.

And you don’t know why you have to be quiet. The two of you are alone in the apartment. But something about the command, about him shushing you, makes you bite your lip to stay quiet. You press your cheek into the couch cushions, muffling a moan.

“Good girl,” he praises. “You look so pretty like this.”

You can feel his tongue on your clit, lapping at your slick folds, dipping into your hole. He fucks you with it, pressing it inside you as he grips your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He hums against your pussy, and the vibrations make you shiver.

“God, you’re so wet. You’re making such a pretty mess, baby.”

His words send a shockwave through you. And you wonder if this is turning him on as much as it is turning you on. If it’s possible for him to be just as gone, just as crazy for you.

You hear the sound of his belt being undone, then his zipper coming down.

And then he’s pushing inside you, so slow, so careful—like you’re fragile.

You feel every inch of him stretching you, and you let out a gasp. He’s so hard. You can feel it in the way his cock twitches inside you. In the way he hisses when he bottoms out, and his fingers dig into your ass.

He pauses for a moment, lets you adjust, and then he’s pulling out, and thrusting back in—so hard you let out a cry.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. “Tell me if it hurts.”

You shake your head, and he thrusts again.

It hurts just a little, but it feels good, too. Feels like you’re full. Like your body is being rearranged to fit him.

And you can’t help the way your walls clench around him.

He groans.

Even though he’s being dominant—even though he’s telling you what to do, fucking you from behind—he’s still so, so loving. He mutters soft compliments, tells you how good you feel, tells you he doesn’t deserve you.

And every time he’s all the way inside you, he sits there for a second—lets you clench around him, lets you feel every inch.

“You’re taking me so well,” he purrs, fingers tangling in your hair. He yanks, and you move with him, sitting up on your elbows. “Good girl.”

He reaches around to yank your dress down, freeing your tits. And his fingers are kneading, massaging, before he’s pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers.

You let out a whimper.

“Tell me you want it,” he hisses. “Beg me to keep fucking you.”

“Please,” you cry, pressing back against him. “Please don’t stop.”

He keeps that deep, torturous pace—keeps toying with your nipples, pulling and rolling them between his fingers.

“What got you so horny for me, baby?”

And you have to tell him. You have to say the words out loud, even though they sound so dirty, so depraved.

“It was you helping me. Fixing the bookshelf. When you emptied the dishwasher. God, I wanted to drop to my knees and blow you right then.”

He moans and fucks into you—hard and fast.

You swear you feel him hit your fucking cervix. You let out a loud moan.

Then he pulls out, and you’re empty and cold and you whimper at the loss.

"Stand up."

You do, shaky legs and trembling thighs.

He sits down, looks up at you.

“Come here, ride me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

You straddle him. Your knees sink into the soft cushions, and your hands find his shoulders. You raise up on your knees and position him at your center. And slowly—oh, so slowly—you sink down on him.

You can see his face now. The way he watches you like you’re a work of art. Like you’re something to be worshipped.

And it makes you feel powerful and sexy.

You raise up again, and slam back down. He lets out a hiss and bites his lip. So you do it again.

His hands are on your hips, helping you, guiding you. And it’s not long before the two of you find a rhythm. He thrusts up to meet you, and you fuck yourself on him—slow and deep. It’s so good. He’s so good.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His eyes haven’t left your face. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your breast.

Then his lips find yours again.

And it’s sweet and gentle, the way he kisses you. The way his hands hold your face, his tongue licks at yours. He sucks on your bottom lip before he bites it. And it takes your breath away. It feels like a dream—the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re the only person in the world.

Like nothing else matters.

“I love you,” he breathes. “God, I love you so much.”

His voice is so soft, so sincere, you feel a lump form in your throat.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

And he smiles—this little boyish grin that makes him look so young. Makes him look like the world isn’t weighing him down. And you press your forehead to his, feeling his breath on your lips, and then you’re riding him again.

“Touch yourself,” he tells you.

His voice is husky, and his eyes are on you—watching the way you bounce on his cock. You reach down between your legs, playing with your clit in slow circles as you fuck yourself on him. 

He grips your hair, pulling your head back gently so he can look at you.

“I’ll always give you what you want,” he tells you softly. “Anything you ask for.”

“I love you,” you moan again.

“I love you, too.”

You’re still touching yourself like he asked you to. Like you promised. And he notices.

“Good girl,” he moans, and starts fucking up into you—harder. Faster. “My girl.”

“Spencer,” you're breathless as you say his name. “I’m gonna come.”

He’s thrusting up, hitting that spot inside you that feels so fucking good. “You feel so good, baby. So warm and tight.” He bites your neck softly, sucks the skin into his mouth.

“Please,” you whine. “Spencer, I can’t.” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your nails are biting into his skin, and you can feel your orgasm building. “Please let me come.”

He kisses your lips—soft and gentle.

“Of course you can come, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Come on my cock. I want to feel it.”

You let out a moan and do exactly that. You clench around him and see white. You’re gasping for air and shaking and whimpering.

He keeps fucking you through it—slow and gentle, and it feels so good you think you might come again.

“That’s it,” he coos. “You did so good, sweetheart. You made yourself come on my cock.”

And you nod, biting your lip, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucks you. He’s going harder now. You know he’s close. He whispers how good you feel. How beautiful you are. And then he’s coming—groaning softly as he fills you. You can feel him pulsing inside you and you clench around him. It makes him moan and bury his face in your neck. You can feel him smiling against your skin. And the two of you sit there for a moment—him still inside you, his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, smoothing your hair down. He pulls back to look at you and you smile. He kisses you again—so lovingly, so tenderly you melt into him.

And then you’re lying on the couch together. He’s holding you in his lap, your head on his chest. You’re tracing the lines of his chest as he strokes your hair. It’s quiet—save for the sound of your breathing.

You could fall asleep like this. With your head on his chest and his fingers in your hair.

[whisperedmeg]

🎶i get wet at the thought of spencer reid being a responsible guy🎶 or whatever sabrina carpenter said

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

acts of service (and other sexy things)

pairing: spencer reid x reader

word count: 2.3k

summary: you thought moving in together would be cute and domestic. turns out it’s ruining you. spencer does the dishes, fixes a bookshelf, remembers to water the plants—and suddenly you’re ready to drop to your knees over basic responsibility.

includes: smut (MDNI), no use of y/n, soft dom!spencer, domestic fluff turned feral, acts of service as foreplay, praise kink, use of "good girl" and such, reader has zero chill, unholy levels of horniness over chores, hair pulling, oral (f receiving), he just loves you bro

based on requests: 1, 2

The day starts ordinary enough.

Spencer’s in his usual weekend rhythm—hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature. You watch from the couch as he empties the dishwasher, humming softly under his breath. He pauses to line the mugs neatly in the cabinet, then wipes his hands on a dish towel before reaching for the coffee pot.

It’s nothing flashy. Just him being… him. Thoughtful, careful, methodical.

And yet, every small thing he does sends a slow, molten warmth through your veins.

He glances over his shoulder to ask if you want sugar and you can’t even form a coherent answer. You nod, a little too quickly.

Later, he’s in the living room, glasses sliding down his nose as he fixes the leg on the wobbly bookshelf you’ve been complaining about. His hair keeps falling into his face, and he keeps huffing it away with a puff of air, muttering to himself like an old man. You should be helping. You’re not.

You’re watching the veins in his forearm flex every time he tightens a screw.

Then it’s the laundry—him methodically folding towels, matching socks like it’s a puzzle. Then it’s him remembering to water the plant on the windowsill.

And then, Christ, it’s the way he looks at you—his eyes soft and sweet and his voice so, so gentle when he tells you to go get ready.

“For what?” you ask.

He smiles. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question. He’s not asking permission.

And something about that makes your knees a little weak.

You take a quick shower, throw on a pretty sundress, do your makeup and hair, and when you’re about to step into your heels, he kneels down in front of you.

His fingers brush your ankle as he buckles the strap. Then he does the other foot.

It’s so simple. But it turns you on more than you can explain.

He stands and looks at you, brushes your hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You can tell by the look on his face—gentle, knowing, a little amused—that he knows exactly where your mind has gone. But you just smile and say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He says, “Okay,” and the two of you walk out to his car.

Your hands are wrapped around his elbow like it’s 1942 and he’s taking you to the dance. He opens the door for you, and you freeze.

For a second, you're glad he can't hear your thoughts. The dirty ones. The ones where he bends you over the hood of his car and fucks you in broad daylight. But he’s just standing there, waiting for you to get in the car.

Then he raises a brow at you—a bold smirk on his lips and you wonder… maybe he can hear your thoughts.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says. And you nearly melt into the ground.

You’ve been living together for a couple of months now. And he’s finding out—little by little—how unbelievably, downright, unhinged horny you are. He leads you back upstairs. And as soon as the door falls closed behind you, you’re pinned against it, his soft lips on yours.

You can taste the toothpaste on his tongue.

You’re still in your heels and sundress, and he’s fully clothed, and he’s kissing you so hard you can’t catch your breath. His hands are in your hair, tugging, pulling, and your fingers are fumbling for his belt. You think how easy it would be to undo it, unbutton his pants, let them fall. You want them to pool around his ankles; you want him to kick them away and take you right here, up against the door.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers. And even though his tone is loving and tender, he’s also a little rough. A little commanding.

You have to tell him. He won’t move until you do.

“I want you,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “No. Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. “I want you to bend me over the couch. I want you to pull my hair and make me come on your cock. I want it to hurt just a little bit.”

He nods. “Good girl.”

Then he spins you around, bends you over the arm of the couch, flips your dress up, and yanks your panties down to your knees.

And for a second it's embarrassing—the idea of him seeing you like that. It’s easier when it’s dark, when you can pretend he can’t really see you.

But it’s broad daylight and you know he can see everything. The way your thighs are shaking, the wet spot on your panties, the way your body is so, so ready for him.

“Spencer,” you whisper, trying to look over your shoulder at him. But he presses a hand to your back—keeps your face and chest pinned to the cushions.

“Don't move,” he tells you. “I’m going to take care of you.”

You feel his lips brush the back of your thigh.

He kisses a path from your knee to your ass. And when he reaches the soft flesh there, he sinks his teeth in.

“Ow,” you whine, even though it doesn’t really hurt.

He soothes the skin with his tongue, and you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you wider for him. Then his tongue is on your pussy—licking a slow stripe up your center, and you nearly whimper.

“Shh,” he tells you.

And you don’t know why you have to be quiet. The two of you are alone in the apartment. But something about the command, about him shushing you, makes you bite your lip to stay quiet. You press your cheek into the couch cushions, muffling a moan.

“Good girl,” he praises. “You look so pretty like this.”

You can feel his tongue on your clit, lapping at your slick folds, dipping into your hole. He fucks you with it, pressing it inside you as he grips your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He hums against your pussy, and the vibrations make you shiver.

“God, you’re so wet. You’re making such a pretty mess, baby.”

His words send a shockwave through you. And you wonder if this is turning him on as much as it is turning you on. If it’s possible for him to be just as gone, just as crazy for you.

You hear the sound of his belt being undone, then his zipper coming down.

And then he’s pushing inside you, so slow, so careful—like you’re fragile.

You feel every inch of him stretching you, and you let out a gasp. He’s so hard. You can feel it in the way his cock twitches inside you. In the way he hisses when he bottoms out, and his fingers dig into your ass.

He pauses for a moment, lets you adjust, and then he’s pulling out, and thrusting back in—so hard you let out a cry.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. “Tell me if it hurts.”

You shake your head, and he thrusts again.

It hurts just a little, but it feels good, too. Feels like you’re full. Like your body is being rearranged to fit him.

And you can’t help the way your walls clench around him.

He groans.

Even though he’s being dominant—even though he’s telling you what to do, fucking you from behind—he’s still so, so loving. He mutters soft compliments, tells you how good you feel, tells you he doesn’t deserve you.

And every time he’s all the way inside you, he sits there for a second—lets you clench around him, lets you feel every inch.

“You’re taking me so well,” he purrs, fingers tangling in your hair. He yanks, and you move with him, sitting up on your elbows. “Good girl.”

He reaches around to yank your dress down, freeing your tits. And his fingers are kneading, massaging, before he’s pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers.

You let out a whimper.

“Tell me you want it,” he hisses. “Beg me to keep fucking you.”

“Please,” you cry, pressing back against him. “Please don’t stop.”

He keeps that deep, torturous pace—keeps toying with your nipples, pulling and rolling them between his fingers.

“What got you so horny for me, baby?”

And you have to tell him. You have to say the words out loud, even though they sound so dirty, so depraved.

“It was you helping me. Fixing the bookshelf. When you emptied the dishwasher. God, I wanted to drop to my knees and blow you right then.”

He moans and fucks into you—hard and fast.

You swear you feel him hit your fucking cervix. You let out a loud moan.

Then he pulls out, and you’re empty and cold and you whimper at the loss.

"Stand up."

You do, shaky legs and trembling thighs.

He sits down, looks up at you.

“Come here, ride me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

You straddle him. Your knees sink into the soft cushions, and your hands find his shoulders. You raise up on your knees and position him at your center. And slowly—oh, so slowly—you sink down on him.

You can see his face now. The way he watches you like you’re a work of art. Like you’re something to be worshipped.

And it makes you feel powerful and sexy.

You raise up again, and slam back down. He lets out a hiss and bites his lip. So you do it again.

His hands are on your hips, helping you, guiding you. And it’s not long before the two of you find a rhythm. He thrusts up to meet you, and you fuck yourself on him—slow and deep. It’s so good. He’s so good.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His eyes haven’t left your face. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your breast.

Then his lips find yours again.

And it’s sweet and gentle, the way he kisses you. The way his hands hold your face, his tongue licks at yours. He sucks on your bottom lip before he bites it. And it takes your breath away. It feels like a dream—the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re the only person in the world.

Like nothing else matters.

“I love you,” he breathes. “God, I love you so much.”

His voice is so soft, so sincere, you feel a lump form in your throat.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

And he smiles—this little boyish grin that makes him look so young. Makes him look like the world isn’t weighing him down. And you press your forehead to his, feeling his breath on your lips, and then you’re riding him again.

“Touch yourself,” he tells you.

His voice is husky, and his eyes are on you—watching the way you bounce on his cock. You reach down between your legs, playing with your clit in slow circles as you fuck yourself on him. 

He grips your hair, pulling your head back gently so he can look at you.

“I’ll always give you what you want,” he tells you softly. “Anything you ask for.”

“I love you,” you moan again.

“I love you, too.”

You’re still touching yourself like he asked you to. Like you promised. And he notices.

“Good girl,” he moans, and starts fucking up into you—harder. Faster. “My girl.”

“Spencer,” you're breathless as you say his name. “I’m gonna come.”

He’s thrusting up, hitting that spot inside you that feels so fucking good. “You feel so good, baby. So warm and tight.” He bites your neck softly, sucks the skin into his mouth.

“Please,” you whine. “Spencer, I can’t.” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your nails are biting into his skin, and you can feel your orgasm building. “Please let me come.”

He kisses your lips—soft and gentle.

“Of course you can come, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Come on my cock. I want to feel it.”

You let out a moan and do exactly that. You clench around him and see white. You’re gasping for air and shaking and whimpering.

He keeps fucking you through it—slow and gentle, and it feels so good you think you might come again.

“That’s it,” he coos. “You did so good, sweetheart. You made yourself come on my cock.”

And you nod, biting your lip, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucks you. He’s going harder now. You know he’s close. He whispers how good you feel. How beautiful you are. And then he’s coming—groaning softly as he fills you. You can feel him pulsing inside you and you clench around him. It makes him moan and bury his face in your neck. You can feel him smiling against your skin. And the two of you sit there for a moment—him still inside you, his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, smoothing your hair down. He pulls back to look at you and you smile. He kisses you again—so lovingly, so tenderly you melt into him.

And then you’re lying on the couch together. He’s holding you in his lap, your head on his chest. You’re tracing the lines of his chest as he strokes your hair. It’s quiet—save for the sound of your breathing.

You could fall asleep like this. With your head on his chest and his fingers in your hair.