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OMG I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE NEXT NYCTO SMUT! I NEED IT! MEAN DOM SPENCERR!! FOAMING AT THE MOUTH! THIS IS GONNA BE PURE FILTH AND I’M SOO EXCITED! NYCTO SPENCER IS EVERYTHING AND I WANT HIMM! MY IMAGINATION IS RUNNING WILD U ARE SO GONNA EAT THAT FIC AND IM GONNA LOVE IT I CANT WAIT IM GOING CRAZY RN BC I LOVE NYCTO SM AND IM SOO EXCITED
nycto spencer 🙏😮💨 he’s sick in the head but he’s the prettiest in all the land so it’s fine
as usual i’m very nervous about writing/posting this (it feels like every nycto fic is pushing me further and further out of my comfort zone. which is good!!) but i will persevere yessir 🙂↕️ for the good of the people
Bobby, I'm watching Avatar: Fire and Ash rn and Varang and the avatar that's like obsessed/in a trance because of her are low-key giving Spencer and Mephi
spencer and mephi are everywhere for those with eyes to see yessir!!!
summary : spencer makes a series of bad decisions that lead to an unfortunate confrontation out at a bar. you make a series of bad decisions that lead to a late night phone call with him.
wc : 8k
tags/warning : enemies to enemies with benefits, pornwithplot, coworkers, fast burn?, virgin!spencer, experienced!reader, male masturbation, alcohol consumption, pervy!spencer, lots of talking about sex, stalking if you squint, premature ejaculation if you squint even harder, EXTREMELY fast burn
a/n : this is lowkey the opposite of a slow burn, this is me moving the plot as quickly as humanly possible to get to the freaked out part
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Between the ages of sixteen and twenty, 50% of Americans lose their virginity.
By the age of twenty-two it’s 90% of Americans.
If you haven’t lost your virginity by thirty, the likelihood that you ever will falls off dramatically.
At twenty-five Spencer isn’t feeling too great about those odds. With every year that passes he can feel the agonizing tick of the proverbial clock.
He keeps waiting for it to stop. Eventually the clock has to stop ticking, right?
He’s a literal genius after all. (Of course there isn’t actually a medical definition or anything like that but at this point they might as well just put a photo of him under the word in every dictionary.) He should be able to solve this problem just like any other.
Yet he can’t.
God, and he was so close. Elle would have let him, he was sure of it.
She was way out of his league, but who wasn’t? He had been laying the groundwork, he was going to ask her on a date, she was always so serious and understanding, she was the perfect choice. They would go on a few dates, he would lose his virginity to someone who understood him and then they could go back to being friends.
And he would finally be free from this torment.
That wasn’t the case of course, thanks to you.
He loathed you for that. Even if it was his own damn fault for never asking her out, he’s sure if he’d had more time he would have gotten there… eventually.
Logically he understood why it happened, and that you had no control over it, but subconsciously he still blamed you. One day Elle was gone and instead you were there. Pretty and unattainable, a painful reminder of his still intact virginity. At least he felt like he stood a chance with Elle, she liked him as a person, whether she was attracted to him or not, she was kind to him. You were something else entirely. You were unapologetic and loud in every sense of the word. You were constant. And impatient, and unpredictable. It made him miss her.
You were nothing like Elle, you made yourself impossible to ignore.
You wore your hair up in a different way everyday, always something big and flowy that bounced with your every move. Your nails were always too long, the polish was always multicolored and catching his eye whenever he was trying to get his work done. And all of your outfits barely stayed within the office dress codes. You served as a bright, sparkling, constantly giggling reminder of what could have been.
Worst of all, no one else had a problem with you. No one else seemed to understand that you were a succubus sent undercover to the BAU, designed to make his life miserable.
When Gideon retired he was left completely alone. Emily Prentiss stepped in and of course you buddied right up to her. And because you seemingly couldn’t stand him, neither could she. In the blink of an eye the team he had come to know and love was gone, now he felt like he was back in high school, surrounded by mean girls. Except this was worse than high school, because here he had to be involved in every conversation. Whether it was the bullpen, or the conference table, or the jet, he was stuck sitting and listening to every word. And sure, maybe he’s extra sensitive at this point but seemingly, all anyone talks about anymore is sex.
The second Hotch dismisses the group or leaves the room Derek starts talking about his weekend with “a blonde goddess.” or “a redhead goddess.” or “a brunette goddess.”
Emily had a seemingly endless supply of girlfriends and boyfriends in her rotation, something that Spencer found to be extremely unfair.
J.J. and Penelope never shared explicit details but they made enough suggestive comments to make it clear that they were just as busy.
Even strict, stoic Hotch was rubbing it in his face every Thursday when he rushed out of the office early, he’d never admit it but the whole team knew Thursday was the day he scheduled his “date nights” with Haley.
But none of that held a candle to you.
They called you maneater.
And your stories were so… animated.
Morgan, Emily, Penelope, and J.J. would gather around your desk on Monday mornings, you rolled your eyes back, parting your lips as you would sigh dramatically before recounting your tales from the weekends.
You reveled in the laughter of your peers, it sustained your bright, bubbly demeanor. From what he observed you adored positive attention, and it didn’t matter what you had to do to get it. He had pointed that out once during a rather heated argument, it was one of the only times he was truly worried you might hit him.
Mondays were always torture.
You were explicit enough to get him worked up and vague enough to leave him wondering, he wouldn’t dare ask follow up questions like the rest of the team.
He wasn’t a part of the conversation. He was just the guy stuck in your desk clump.
You mentioned men who were tall, and strong, with pretty hair and striking eyes. You would lean back in your chair, making lewd comparisons to coke cans, garden hoses and beer bottles. Biting your lip and letting out ridiculous faux moans, your tongue poking out between your teeth whenever you laughed.
He hardly got anything done on Mondays.
At least not until he got home, with his pants pooled around his ankles the second he stepped into his living room. He could always think clearer after relieving himself. The problem was that you would still be there when he gets to work in the morning and he risks it happening all over again.
Sometimes he wished you’d just sink your claws into him. Devouring him like all your other prey, putting him out of his misery. But that wasn’t going to happen so instead he was stuck, all alone.
Marooned on a sexless island.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
“It’s basically a sex island. That’s like it’s only purpose.” Morgan’s voice is ringing in your ears as he continues to brag about his plans for the long weekend ahead.
Another one of Hotch’s mandatory vacations.
After Gideon retired he got so scared of the team burning out he made some changes to the schedule. Every three months you’re faced with what is essentially your only break from the relentless call of your chosen career. A long weekend, sometimes even a full week where you’re forced away from work.
“Are you absolutely sure I can’t convince you to come? My offer still stands.” His smile is as bright as the fucking sun. You can’t be trusted around that smile, especially on a sex island.
“As much as I would love to join you on your sexcapades I can’t. My landlord’s doing some stupid construction thing at my apartment and I have a thing about people being in my space when I’m not around.” You really would love to go, you’re going through a painfully long dry spell and if you don’t get laid soon you’re seriously worried your virginity might grow back.
“Your loss.” He gives you a theatrical wave goodbye before he turns off his monitor as he leaves.
It really is your loss, you helped Garcia pick out a few new swimsuits for this particular trip and you’d give anything to lay back on the beach and see Derek’s reaction to some of the tiny bikinis she bought.
“I’m surprised you aren’t going with him, that sort of thing seems right up your alley.” Spencer is mumbling from his desk, he’s always mumbling from his desk. He never speaks plainly, he wants to make snarky comments because he just can’t help himself, but he doesn’t want to deal with the conflict afterwards.
How does anyone here tolerate him?
“Are you saying that sexcapades are right up my alley?” You say it loud enough for him to immediately start looking around to make sure no one overheard. He might not like conflict, but you do.
“Are you worried they might find something in your apartment? Do you think they’d go through your stuff while you’re not home?” Typical of Spencer fucking Reid to not only change the subject immediately, but also pick at you anxieties to try and get the upperhand.
“It’s normal to be worried about that kind of thing. I know it might be hard for you to understand that since you’ve never been able to get someone to come over to your apartment.” He sets down whatever it was he was working on as he looks up at you as you speak, that stupid look of mock concern on his face.
“Would you even notice if someone went through your drawers? If I were you I’d try and memorize where everything is so you’ll know if something goes missing.” He looks so smug, he always does halfway into these conversations, then you deliver the killing blow and he shuts right up.
“Unfortunately I don’t have that big brain of yours, maybe you could come over and put that eidetic memory to good use. If you help make sure all my panties are in the right place I might just let you take a pair home.” He makes it too easy. Just like that, his mouth snaps shut and he puts his head down.
“You’re disgusting.” Right back to mumbling Spencer.
“I’m sure you’d be more than willing to accept that offer. Especially considering that you haven’t gotten any action since Lila Archer.”
“You weren’t even here for that, why are you always bringing that up?” He whines, he’s so fucking predictable.
“Because you always get red in the face when I do.”
He doesn’t bother responding, he never does when he gets all flustered like that. You have a theory that it short circuits his brain if he thinks about sex for too long, so you make a deliberate effort to talk about it as often as you can.
Even after a weekend spent alone in your bed you make sure to make up some rowdy story about how you raised hell.
You have to take out your frustrations somewhere and he makes himself such an easy target. He’s always there, wherever you are. You know it’s a part of the job, with you in forensics and him being… well a walking encyclopedia, you’re often left alone to work in whatever conference room you’re shoved into by the local police while the rest of the team’s out in the field.
Derek likes to say that the two of you are ornamental members of the team. Too pretty to be in the field, so you have to be tucked away somewhere safe.
You usually respond to that by punching him in the arm, hard enough to remind him that you went through the same training he did.
You tried to be nice to Spencer when you started, you really did. You offered to bring him coffee, you engaged in his interests, you played chess with him even though no one else would because he always won.
But he was still a brat.
It’s an odd word to use to describe a grown man but that’s exactly what Spencer is. He’s a brat, he pouts, he whines when he doesn’t get his way, and he runs to Hotch every time he has a problem with you.
So you don’t feel too bad about teasing him.
You spend the next two hours ignoring him as you transfer the last of your case notes over to the digital files. You aren’t in a rush to finish your work, your weekend plans can wait.
“Are you still going to Betty’s tonight?” Emily sidles up to your desk, her bag’s slung over her shoulder, she’s probably on her way to the airport, is it six thirty already?
“Unless a guy offers to take me home in the parking lot then I think so.”
“Have a drink for me, the wellness retreat my mother booked doesn’t serve any alcohol.”
“It’s a wellness retreat, did you think they were going to?” You can’t help but laugh as you spin your chair to face her.
“She told me it was a vacation, vacations have booze.”
“Yikes.”
“So, what’s the game plan tonight, maneater?” She leans in like you’re sharing a secret, as if there’s anyone left in the bull pen but the two of you and Spencer.
“I’m thinking heels, jeans, and the tightest shirt I can find.” That’s always been your go to and it hasn’t failed you yet.
“Now you’re making me want to stay.” She tilts her head to the side, brushing her bangs to the side.
“You know the black one that’s cut down to here?” You motion towards your chest, she was with you when she bought it so she knows just how low it is.
She throws her head back as she groans.
“I’m gonna miss the debut of the perfect tits top?” It’s a good thing everyone’s gone home because she is loud.
“Paired with the perfect tits red push up bra. I’m still trying to figure out if I want to do my makeup like-.”
Your sentence is abruptly cut off when he clears his throat.
You turn to glare at him but he isn’t looking at you.
“Well, you better get out of here before the fun police start reciting the HR policy. Tell your mom I said hi.” You stand up to hug her, planting a kiss on her cheek and wishing her well as she disappears out the elevator, leaving you alone with your favorite coworker.
“I should start reciting the HR policy, it isn’t appropriate to talk like that in the bullpen.” You should install a microphone on his desk with the way that he mumbles everything.
“Oh no, I didn’t realize, should we ask everyone if they were offended by my comments?” You gesture around the empty bull pen.
“Extremely inappropriate.” He mumbles to himself, returning his focus to the report he’s been filling out for the last hour.
You spend more time with Spencer then anyone else on the team, at least during work hours. Thanks to your chosen field of expertise, you’ve begged Hotch to move your desk somewhere else but he says you’ll be a distraction if he puts you with Emily or Morgan. Like you’re a rowdy student in class who has to sit next to the teacher's pet so he can keep an eye on you.
“You know Hotch wants us out of here by seven at the latest.” He manages to speak clearly this time.
“I’m aware.”
“It’s six forty five, we should get going.” He turns his monitor off, closing the file in front of him.
“I’m almost done.” You need to look over everything you just filled out, it shouldn’t take more than five minutes.
“Hotch is really serious about these breaks, burn out effects over fifty percent of the American work force, it often results in-”
“Are you gonna tell on me if I don’t?”
“I won’t have to, Hotch will see your timecard on Monday.”
“If I’m being honest, I don’t really want to deal with an elevator ride with you. I’ve been waiting for you to leave so I can go home.” You give him a tight lipped irritated smile as he shoves his book into his satchel.
He turns on his heel, knuckles white as he clutches the strap of his bag.
“Have a good weekend.” You call over your shoulder in a sickly sweet tone.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
You’re the devil.
You must know what you do to him, otherwise why would you do it? You know how cruel it is, that’s the only explanation.
He tried to take care of it at home. Picturing your tits in a push up bra, wrapped in tight black fabric with your cleavage pouring out. He didn’t even get past unbuttoning his pants before he came, whining as he ruined another pair of boxers.
And it wasn’t enough.
He has an eidetic memory, he remembers every lowcut, flowy shirt you’ve ever worn. He’s carefully filed away every slip of your bra strap, every time you’ve ever worn a hoodie without a bra on the jet ride home. He has it all tucked away for later use in the seemingly infinite expanse of his mental library. But you’d never wear what you were describing to work, even if you don’t always act like it, you do have your limits. You maintain a very precarious sense of professionalism.
You put the thought of this mysterious black blouse into his mind and now he can’t think about anything else.
Opening his laptop he throws himself onto his bed, shoving his pants the rest of the way down and unbuttoning his shirt before kicking both onto the floor. He stares at the search bar, sifting through his brain in an attempt to recall the stores you mentioned going to with Emily.
He opens up the directory of the mall you typically frequent, scrolling through the store list, clicking open all the generic clothing stores.
Old Navy, Kohls, JCPenny.
He sorts through the filter bar, clicking the options available in your size in black.
If his dick wasn’t so painfully hard right now he’d probably feel like a creep right now, but he’s done worse.
He scrolls, imagining you in each top, how the fabric would cling to your body, how each neckline would hug your clavicle… With a groan he slams the laptop shut.
This isn’t working.
The models in the pictures don’t look like you, they don’t do anything for him. He needs to see it.
All he needs is one look, then he’ll remember it forever.
His mind wanders to the top you wore today.
A loose fitting maroon button up, it didn’t cling to you, instead it flowed seamlessly with your every move. Teasing him with the thought of what might be underneath. You always left too many buttons undone, today it was three. Three was enough for the fabric to slip down one of your shoulders a few times, showing off a thick dark green bra strap.
His cock is demanding his attention now.
With a sigh he reaches across his bed to his nightstand, using muscle memory to yank the drawer open, grabbing the bottle of lube without so much as a glance in that direction.
Popping the cap open he coats his palm before tossing the bottle back in the drawer, hissing as the cold liquid hits his skin as his fingers wrap around the base of his cock.
He pictures you in your maroon top and only that top, opening the door of your apartment to let him in. You’d give him that harsh, thin lipped, mean smile, you were always so mean to him.
“Ah-” He lets out a small whine, his hips rocking up and off the mattress.
You would call him gross, and disgusting, and he wouldn’t object like he usually does. He is, he’s abhorrent, you deserve to say all of that and more.
His grip tightens as he picks up the pace, he never lasts that long anyway so why bother trying to take it slow.
You would bring him into your room, he’s never seen the inside of your apartment but he has ideas of what it might look like. Based on your descriptions it’s some kind of cave of debauchery. But that’s not his focus right now.
You would bat your eyelashes at him like you do when you’re trying to get a reaction out of him..
“I might just let you take a pair home.”
Your voice rings out clear as day in his mind. Who cares if you were trying to be mean when you said it? In his mind, now, he can use his unyielding ability to recall things to use your words for whatever he wants.
He knows what pair he’d want if your offer was anything more than a sick joke. You’ve got a pair of pink panties that he’d kill to have.
They're your favorites, he’s sure of it. You wear them on Monday’s, your laundry day is Sunday so everything’s clean Sunday night, when you’ve got everything available you always choose the simple pink pair. Even if he doesn’t get much work done thanks to you on Monday’s he’s still got enough brain function to keep an eye out for them. They aren’t lace or anything fancy, as far as he can tell they’re just cotton. They sit higher than your others, if he’s lucky you’ll walk in on Monday morning in a shirt that doesn’t fully cover your waist line and he’ll get a little glimpse.
One time, while you were on a case in California you tried to reach for something on the top shelf in the file room. You never asked him for help, even when he could reach it easily.
You were wearing a tank top that rode up and he got a clear view of your navel and the sweetest surprise ever when he learned that your pink pair of panties have a little bow on the front, resting just below your belly button.
In his fantasy you lay back on your bed, pulling your shirt up so he can see the pink fabric and the little bow. Wrapped up like a pretty present. His teeth dig into his bottom lip as he tries to stifle the groan that’s building in his throat.
Those manicured nails, every nail a different color, drag across the front of your blouse, pulling open another button, and another, and another.
His dick twitches in his hand, before he can get any further into his fantasy the muscles in his thighs spasm and his grip tightens as his hips jerk upwards one last time.
He slurs out a mess of whimpers and something that almost sounds like your name as he comes.
It’s the only time he gets a break from the insistent demands of his brain. For once he isn’t trying to keep up with his own train of thought as his mind goes blank.
Laying in his mess he takes a moment to catch his breath, using his clean hand to shove his hair out of his face. Trying not to feel as pathetic as he does after that.
He doesn’t even get to touch you in his fantasies.
He should see a therapist.
Instead he opens his laptop again, looking up Betty’s bar. It’s a good hour and ten minutes away, all he has to do is glance over the map before he knows exactly how to get there.
He shouldn’t have done that.
Because now he knows how to get there, and he can’t forget it if he tries.
He’s on auto pilot as he slides out of bed and into the bathroom, rinsing his hand off in the sink as he cleans his stomach with a washcloth.
Normally after fucking his hand he feels better. All the traces of you typically wash off of him, leaving him to have a brief moment of respite where you do not plague his thoughts.
Not this time though.
This time he feels even worse, knowing that somewhere out there, you’re wearing a top that reveals more of your chest then he’s seen. Unmapped territory waiting to be explored.
The though has his body crossing the room, he puts on a clean pair of boxers and slacks. Before he knows it he’s tightening a tie and he’s fully dressed.
And then he’s locking the door behind him.
And then he’s walking to his car.
And then he’s driving.
He just couldn’t help himself. How would he ever forgive himself if he didn’t at least try and get a look at the ‘perfect tits top.’ He can go home once he sees you and harmlessly enjoy the memory in the safety of his own room.
Easier said than done.
Especially now that he’s here, self-loathing creeping in as he scans the crowd for you. He checks his watch, worrying that it might be too early, it’s only ten, what time are people normally out at bars?
He felt sleazy, and out of place. He had expected a dive bar would be the chosen hunting grounds of the prolific maneater. Instead he finds himself standing in a pretty classy establishment.
Full of girls that are too pretty for him and guys that make him feel small.
He’s about to leave, no harm done, he can go home and pretend this never happened while he still has a shred of his pride. He gives the room one last scan as he takes a step towards the exit.
And there you are.
All alone, standing against the wall, doing your own search about the room.
“Perfect tits top” is an understatement. It should be called the “perfect hips, tits, shoulders, little bit of exposed midriff and he can almost see your nipples through that bra top.”
Great, he’s seen it, he loves it, he wants to marry that top, he wants to burn all the clothes you own so you have to wear that top every day. Now he can go because he’s gotten exactly what he wanted to get out of this.
But his legs don’t move.
Probably because all the blood has rushed out of his brain and into his penis.
He’s stuck in place, staring, and hoping that it’s dark enough in here for him to remain unnoticed.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
The bar is full and somehow there isn’t a single guy worth your time here.
The curse of being a profiler is knowing immediately the type of people you’re dealing with. At one point you were approached by a rather handsome and well spoken blonde guy in his thirties. You were pretty sure you'd struck gold until an hour into your conversation when you saw the tan line on his ring finger and the small circular indent in his wallet as he paid for your drink.
You kindly excused yourself before trying to find some place far away from him. Eventually putting yourself against a wall so you can scan the crowd for your next mark.
The glint of someone's glasses catches your eye in a painfully familiar way. The same little flicker of light you see in your peripherals on a daily basis.
Surely not. There’s no reason for him to be here. You tell yourself not even entertain the possibility by looking but on instinct you seek out the source and of course, there he is.
Even in a place like this he manages to suck the fun out of the air around him. He looks like he would on any other day in the office and it makes him stick out like a sore thumb. He’s out on the town, you think he could unbutton just one button on his shirt. He went home and changed, and he still chose to wear a short sleeve button up with a tie.
You’re about to just get up and leave, there’s no reason to spend your day off dealing with his shitty attitude. There are plenty of other bars in town and it’ll be best to just get out of here before he sees you.
Except he has. It becomes extremely apparent that he’s staring at you, he doesn’t even try to hide it.
Scratch that, he isn’t staring at you. He’s staring at your chest.
If he just looked up ten inches he’d find himself making direct eye contact with you but you’re pretty sure a gun could go off in the bar right now and he still wouldn’t look away.
This can’t be happening.
He couldn’t be more obvious, standing twenty feet from you with his eyes wide, he literally gulps like a cartoon character, he might as well have hearts in his eyes with his tongue rolled out of his mouth.
When you start walking towards him he finally manages to look up at your face, where he’s currently receiving the most severe glare he’s ever been faced with. In return you’re met with an absolutely terrified Spencer.
“So you just… look like this all the time, huh.” You poke at the top button of his shirt.
“It’s a nice shirt.”
“Sure it is. Why are you here?” You arch an eyebrow at him, cocking your head to the side. Oftentimes when you’re trying to pick a fight with him you start off with the same opening move. A question with an obvious answer while you bat your eyelashes at him. Usually, in return you’re met with frustrated Reid, or exasperated Reid, or whiney-go-and-tell-Hotch Reid.
Never once have you been met with slackjawed, silent, bright-red-in-the-face Reid. Until now that is.
“Reid, did you follow me here?” His adams apple bobs as he swallows, his eyes are everywhere but your face right now. “Hello? Earth to Spencer?”
“Sorry, what?” He just can’t help himself, even now his eyes dart down to your chest before blinking back to your face.
Oh my god.
You grab him by the end of his tie. Yanking him down to your level so he has no choice but to look you in the eye, you wouldn’t dare pull this kind of move when you’re at work but this is a different playing field.
“I said, did you follow me here, you absolute creep?” You typically just ignore it when you catch him sneaking a glance down your shirt but this is unbelievable, there is absolutely no way you can ignore this.
“I- I am not- no. I did not- I’m just stopping in to see-“ Boy genius seems to have realized you're speaking to him but he has nothing of importance to say.
“Who? What? What are you stopping in to see? I know you didn’t come all this way just to stare at my chest, because that would be extremely inappropriate.” The second the words leave your mouth his eyes stop darting around the room and actually meet your gaze.
“I- I should go.” He manages to pull his tie free as he does his best to maneuver through the crowd; it immediately becomes apparent that he’s never been here before. He avoids the exit entirely and ends up tucked into the dark quiet alcove by the bathrooms.
You aren’t sure what’s motivating you, at this point in the night it might be your sexual frustration that fuels your angry stomping after him. When you catch up with him he’s turning around, realizing he’s ended up at a dead end.
You plant your hands on his shoulders and shove him back against the wall. You really shouldn’t but you aren’t on FBI property and what’s he gonna do about it? Tell Hotch you shoved him because he stalked you outside of work hours so he could gawk at you?
“I- I just-” He’s red in the face.
“Just what? Spit it out already.”
“I- I knew Emily was out of town, and I was worried about you drinking and being alone. You- you’re a federal agent it just doesn’t seem safe.” His voice falls off into a whisper as you squint at him.
“Really? That’s the best you could come up with?”
“I’m just a concerned coworker.”
“Reid, you wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire. I seriously doubt you had concerns about me.”
“It’s extremely irresponsible to drink when you’re all alone and dressed like… that.” For a second he starts to sound a little firm but he shrinks right back down by the end of his thought.
“Dressed like what, Reid? You seem to be rather fond of the way I’m dressed.”
“You’re clearly very drunk, I should just go-” He tries to sneak past you once more but you just shove him again.
“I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, I’m not dumb enough to drink when I’m here alone.” It’s true, you’d never drink while out alone, you aren’t an idiot.
“I- I need to go.” He steps to the side but you do the same thing.
“Isn’t this place like an hour away from your apartment?” Tilting your head you gauge his reaction, the guilt that falls over his face is obvious.
“Yes, so I really should get going, I’ve got a long drive home.”
“You just got here, sit, let’s have a drink.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Aww, but who’s gonna protect me if I drink too much? Clearly I’m not capable of doing it myself.” You jut your bottom lip out at him as he finally manages to get past you, taking a step back towards the crowd.
“Can we just forget this ever happened?” He’s holding his hands up in front of him as if you’re holding him at gun point.
“Oh, definitely not, I will be calling Emily the second I get home. And then maybe I’ll call Hotch and let him know I ran into you.”
“I’m allowed to be out at a bar after work hours, I didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice does that thing where it flips from being in control of his emotions to that breathy whine that makes your spine straighten.
“I never said that you did, all I’ll be telling them is the truth of my experience.”
“I’m not scared of you.” He sure looks like he is.
“And I’m not trying to scare you. I’m simply letting my coworker know what my busy weekend plans are.”
“I’m sure you’re gonna be really busy, there are some real winners here tonight. Are you planning on taking home the guy over there with the Family Guy face tattoo or the very obviously married guy trying to cheat on his wife?” He points around the room, and it seems like he finally found his voice. “I think there are also a couple of guys who look drunk enough to take home the next thing that talks to them if you want to enjoy what I’m sure will be a thrilling thirty seconds of love making.”
You hate that he’s right.
“Love making? Are you twelve?” You lean forward to shove him again but he anticipates it this time, stepping backwards.
“Goodbye. I’ll see you on Monday.” He turns and before you can stop him he manages to disappear into the crowd effectively this time.
What the fuck just happened?
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
You pour yourself another generous glass of wine as you check your phone at the sound of an alert.
Debrief?
You open Emily’s contact, hitting the call button, you’re surprised she’s even still awake, it’s almost one in the morning.
When she picks up she’s already giggling, she doesn’t manage to get a word out as she laughs to herself for a good thirty seconds.
“How are you drunk? You told me just a few hours ago that they didn’t serve alcohol there.” You can’t help but laugh along with her, her joy is always infectious.
“I brought my own stuff.” She hiccups.
“Of course you did. Are you having fun so far?” You’re careful not to spill any of your wine as you slip under your blankets, situating yourself against your pillows.
“It’s been surprisingly enjoyable so far. Lots of spa music and I got a massage an hour after I landed.”
“God, that sounds incredible.” Anything sounds better than the night you had.
“My night was boring, I’m more interested in yours. How’d it go?”
Terrible. You left five minutes after Spencer did.
“Well I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if it went well.” You let out a small sigh.
“You’ve gotten too picky.” She’s quick to throw that out there, she must be a few drinks in to be this blunt.
“It’s not even that it’s just…”
“Just?” It sounds like she’s leaning closer to her phone.
You got distracted because he was there?
You’d be lying if you blamed tonight on him entirely. You’ve been going home alone for a while now.
“I’m gonna sound crazy.” There’s a reason you haven’t brought this up yet, it’s embarrassing.
“You always sound crazy.”
“I just- I’ve been having this problem for the last few weeks.”
“Oh I’ve noticed. You’re grumpy.” She lowers her voice an octave as she says it, forcing another fit of tipsy giggles out of you.
“It’s been a little while since I’ve had a successful night out.” You pick at your nails, thankful for the liquid courage that you’re finally getting this off your chest.
“How long?”
“A month and a half? Maybe two months.” She gasps the second you say it.
“Oh wow. That’s like two years in maneater time.”
“Shut up.” You groan.
“Well what’s the problem? I’ve been out with you, you’ve got plenty of options.” It’s true, she’s out with you every weekend and there’s no shortage of potential suitors for either of you.
“Promise you won’t laugh?” All you’ve done on this call is laugh, you’re asking her to promise the impossible.
“Scouts honor.” She’s already stifling a laugh but you don’t let that stop you.
You take a deep breath.
“None of them want me enough.”
There’s a pause and for a moment you’re worried you got disconnected until she bursts into laughter.
“I’m sorry, but I promise you, all of the guys that you talked to tonight wanted you.” She manages to get out between snickers.
“Sure whatever, the problem is that they don’t want it enough.”
“I don’t understand.” Her laughter fizzles out.
“Of course you don’t, you have consistent partners, people who understand you and your body and want you.” You set your phone down on the sheets, clicking on speaker phone. “I’m just a vessel to make them have an orgasm, they aren’t even grateful enough to go down on me. All I want is a guy who’s obsessed with me but isn’t clingy.”
“I think you’ve had too much to drink.” She giggles, on cue she takes a long sip of her own drink.
“Just- just let me explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re right, every guy who I talked to at the bar wanted to have sex, but you can take me out of the equation and they still just want to have sex. It doesn’t matter if it’s with me, all they care about is finishing as fast as possible. They don’t care about me, they care about having a hole to fuck. It’s- it’s too easy.” You swirl your whine around in gentle circles, you’re already nearly done with the glass.
“Okay…”
“One night stands don’t put any feeling behind it, they don’t… want to try new things, or have fun. They don’t even want to take the time to cuff me to the headboard. They're always in such a rush to get their rocks off, they forget that the act itself is supposed to be fun. They think the whole goal is just to shoot their load and leave before they have to make small talk.” Your head spins a little as you take a deep breath.
“It sounds to me like you want a boyfriend.”
“That’s the last thing I want. I want… a consistent partner who wants to do more than four minutes of missionary with the lights off. I want ropes and chains, and gags, and- and I want someone to be mean to me, like really mean, not some stranger who’s worried that I’m gonna break or cry if he spanks me too hard.” Your cheeks are getting hot. You really need to get a handle on yourself. “I want someone to make me cry and I want them to want me to cry, for the love of god I need someone to manhandle me. I need someone to manhandle.”
You’re a lot drunker than you realized.
“Wait, don’t kill me.” She hiccups, you can practically hear the smile on her face.
“Oh my god, what?”
“I think I know who would be perfect for you.” She drags the words out.
Perfect.
“Aww, Em, are you gonna offer me one of your boyfriends?”
“You wish, I’m just thinking, I know someone who’s obsessed with you, and I bet he would do anything you wanted if you just asked.”
Sounds too good to be true, if this man is out there you would have sniffed him out by now.
“Have you been holding out on me? Hiding some secret perfect man?”
She’s a mess of giggles as she takes a deep breath like she’s bracing herself.
“What about Spencer?”
You’re waiting for more laughter, something to indicate that she’s joking.
“That’s not funny.” Your voice is flat now.
“I’m not trying to be funny, I’m serious.”
“Gross, Em. He’s gross, oh my god.” You want to kill her for even putting the thought into your head.
“Exactly! All he does is stare at your tits, and your ass, and your mouth, just you in general. You won’t find someone more ready and willing.”
“He stares at everyone, he’s got a staring problem.”
“Yeah but he stares at you way more than the rest of us. We get passing glances but you get straight ogling.” She says it like that makes it okay.
“Ew. Exactly.”
“Give the kid a break, how's he supposed to get anything done with you walking around in your tiny skirts and your low cut shirts?”
“He’s- no- he is so gross, he’s literally a pervert Emily.”
“And you are…?”
Woof.
“Low blow.” You exhale harshly.
“Besides, you must not hate the attention. I’ve seen you yell at him for breathing too loudly but you’ve never commented on the staring.”
“Well that’s not- that has nothing to do with-”
“Look, all I’m saying is that he would do anything you wanted, happily. Like an eager little puppy. Whether he’d admit it or not, all he wants is your attention.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. He might like to stare but he hates me, he makes a conscious effort to irritate me on a daily basis.”
“That’s just because he makes a conscious effort to insert himself into every situation you’re in. Yes, he’s annoying, but you get the worst of it because he never leaves you alone. You want someone obsessed with you, right?”
This feels like a trap.
“…Right.”
“There is no one more obsessed with you than Dr. Spencer Reid. It’s insane to me that neither of you have realized this, I clocked it two days after I started working with you.”
“He hasn’t realized it either?”
“Of course not. Just like you, he thinks that he hates you. He just hates that he feels bad for leering at you.”
He must not hate that feeling too much because he drove forty miles from his apartment to leer.
“You’re wasted.” It’s all you can say because for some reason she’s making sense.
“Yeah, and barely keeping my eyes open.”
“Go to sleep.” You murmur, picking your phone back up.
“Mhmm.” She sounds like she might already be snoring.
“Love you, I’ll see you Monday.”
“Love you too.” She mumbles. “Good luck with the rest of your weekend, maneater.”
In the dark of your room all you can see now is the glow of your phone screen.
There is no one more obsessed with you than Dr. Spencer Reid.
What a joke.
You scroll back up through your contacts, clicking on the all caps name just below Aaron Hotchner, labeled ASSHOLE, you have no message history. Why would you? Texting is for joking around, making plans, and casual conversation, you don’t do any of that with Spencer.
His contact photo is a blurry photo you took of him as he tried to shove your phone out of his face. You took it after he begged you for your number. Claiming you needed to have everyone on the team’s contact information in case of an emergency.
You’ve shared maybe two phone calls in that time. Both while on a case, both when Hotch made you call him.
You shouldn’t call him, it’s late, nothing good can come of it.
He’s disgusting, you shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea.
She just made it sound so appealing. And for the first time in the year you’ve been working at the BAU, you consider for a moment that Spencer might actually be good for something other than pissing you off and reciting facts that you can find with a quick Google search.
Like an eager little puppy.
Huh.
Are you really this desperate?
You click the call button without thinking about it.
Fuck you’re so drunk.
You’re about to cancel the call but he picks up.
On the first ring.
“Hello?” Why is he out of breath? It’s the middle of the night.
“Whatcha doing?” You try to sound casual, taking another sip of your drink.
“What?” His voice is a mix of sleepy and guilty, it’s hard for you to place.
“You sound… sweaty.” You giggle, high pitched and bubbly. Yikes, you’re a lot more out of it than you realized, you definitely shouldn’t have called him.
“Are you still at Betty’s? Do you need me to come get you?” It catches you off guard how normal he sounds, like he might really be worried about you.
“No- no, I’m home.”
“Are you okay?”
“No, Doctor Reid. I’m not.” You over enunciate his name.
“Do you need help?” Is he actually worried about you? You didn’t know he was capable of that, considering all you’ve seen from him before is disdain and poorly concealed lewdness.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay…?”
“Okay.” You repeat it back to him in the same tone.
“You’re drunk.” Boy genius solves another case.
“Don’t worry Doctor, I waited until I was safe at home to indulge.”
There’s a long silence, similar to when you spoke with Emily you wonder if he hung up until he finally speaks again
“Are you alone?”
Code for: did you bring someone home from the bar?
“All alone.” You swear he sighs in relief when you say it. It makes you laugh even harder, this entire situation is unbelievable. “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend? We’ve got four more days to get through.”
“There’s a chess tournament livestreaming Friday night that I was hoping to catch.” You’re waiting for him to list anything else but he’s seemingly done.
“That’s it?”
“Not all of us are on the prowl at bars every night."
“You’re so judgemental, and- and rude.” You sneer, as if he can see your expression.
“Why exactly did you call me?”
Because you want to know if he’s really obsessed with you.
Because you’re so horny right now you hardly know what to do with yourself and you’ve run out of options.
Because for the first time in weeks you actually feel something happening between your legs as you listen to him struggling to catch his breath over the phone.
That last one’s probably the wine talking.
“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” You say it like you aren’t throwing a live grenade out into this conversation.
“Why?” He sounds suspicious, as if you’re luring him into a trap, and he’s right, you are.
“Maybe we can sit and talk for a few minutes, and really get to the root of our problems.”
“Really?” He sounds unconvinced.
“No, not really. But I’ll make it worth your while.” You really do mean that part. If you can prove that he really is obsessed with you then you might be able to make this work.
“Why would I want to spend my day off being berated by you?”
“I told you, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Goodnight.”
“Spencer.” You whine, his breath hitches loud enough for you to hear it over the phone.
“Fine, how will you make it worth my while? Contrary to what you believe, I don't enjoy your constant verbal abuse.”
“I’ll wear the shirt again, the one I wore tonight.”
You’re left in a full sixty seconds of silence again before you hear him let out a breath.
“What time are we meeting?” He sounds defeated. Good, you need to have the upperhand if you’re going to do this.
“You choose, text me a place and a time and I’ll see you there.” You have to stop yourself from smiling.
“What? Why do I have to-”
“Goodnight Doctor Reid.” You click the little red button, effectively ending your call.
Your palms are sweating. God this is so stupid, you shouldn’t have done that.
You receive a message immediately.
White Rabbit Diner, 10:30 a.m.
It’s twenty minutes from your place, perfect. You set an alarm before you toss your phone onto your nightstand.
You’re already regretting your decision now that you’re alone in the silent darkness. It’s Spencer.
Whatever.
You don’t have to do anything, if you wake up sober and regret your decision you can just have breakfast with him, it’s fine. You just need to know if Emily’s right. You don’t have to do anything with the information, it’s just nice to have options.
yeah yeah yeah citrus zest or whatever HELLO YOUR CD COLLECTION?! 🪷
I LOVE PHYSICAL MEDIA 🗣️🗣️🗣️
i fell off my cd collecting game after going to uni because i don’t have a cd player there (i started collecting dvds instead! and, of course, books) but now that i’m home i’m back scrounging around charity shops for 10p cds that i can add to my stash 🙂↕️
spencer reid only eats pussy when you have full bush. idc. if you shave down there he's genuinely distraught (not just because she's bald but because the risk of bacterial infection increases without bush). he will literally wait for it to grow back before putting his mouth on you IDC!!!! 😤
— 💚🐰🔪
bun get out of my bush rn……you’re 100% right.
spencer reid #1 bush eater. spencer reid the jungle explorer. spencer reid, lover of body hair because he reveres the beauty of the natural human form because he’s a man of science!! and humans are so cool!! and hot!! it’s canon, I’ve decided 🫶🏻
okay i would like to formally apologize. i just checked the weather for next week and karma has its kiss for me because its supposed to be 104°+ F (40°+C) plus humidity, i may cry.
- 🦎
oh no!! 🦎 anon i'm gonna be keeping you in my thoughts this week omg
