Ryland picking you up for your 'first date' on Erid.
Ryland who can't keep his mouth shut because what better thing to do when nervous than talk? And says, "You know, my dating profile never said anything about long walks on the beach but uh..." He looked over his shoulder and with a shy smile, turned back towards you and chuckled under his breath, "There's not much else to do here, honestly."
You giggled softly and followed his blue eyes to the pebbly beach with a small nod, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear as Ryland's face turns a cute shade of pink. You take this moment to sneak past him and shut the door, your scent wafting into his nostrils as you pass. Ryland feels like he's about to pass out. "I think it's the perfect date."
"Oh, thank goodness." He puffed his cheeks out and rubed the back of his head, fingers tangling into his blonde hair for a moment as another uncouth joke sliped out, "It was between this and going to the Eridian Theology lecture on the 'Digital Age'. I think the topic was Wikipedia. That didn't strike me as all too romantic, unless you're into that sort of thing, at which point we can just ditch the beach and go---"
"Ryland."
He shut his mouth slowly and looked at you with a sheepish smile.
"I really want to walk on the beach."
"Good, because going to that lecture was totally going to throw off everything I had planned." He smiled softly and looked down at his feet.
"What do you have planned, Ry?"
The way he was staring at the small pebbles underfoot made them seem like the most fascinating thing on all of Erid as his mouth got away from him as it so often did, "Oh you know..." His broad shoulders rose slightly, "I t-thought maybe would could take a walk... Along the beach..."
"Yeah, I got that." You grinned, feeling your shoulder bump against his as you began trailing along the coastline. "What else?"
"And I thought that if the conversation... never got awkward," He sucked a deep breath in, "And I resisted my urge to explain to you the tidal mechanics of the Biodome, I'd see if you maybe uh... wanted to hold my... hand."
A beat.
"Are you asking me if I want to hold your hand---?" Your entire body felt hot at the unintentional flirtation that the man next to you had offered.
"No---"
Your question overlapped with Ryland's response as his feet came to a slow stop, his weight shifting against the pebbles, the shine of the dim, foggy light bouncing off his golden frames as he glanced down at you over the rims, the blush on his face so rampant it was overpowering his facial hair. "I figured that was sort of... ambitious in the itenerary for a first date..."
The smile that slid along your expression almost goofy. "I dunno about that." You slipped your hand into his, feeling the sweat hit yours immediately, but that wasn't a bother as your fingers seemed to fit perfectly with his with incedible ease. "I think you've already checked the hardest thing off your itinerary."
Oh goodness gracious. Ryland was sure that his ears were pink at this point as he slowly locked his gaze onto your entwining hands. "Th... That uh... really throws off my plans."
"We can make new plans."
"New plans." Ryland echoed softly as you began walking again, tugging him along with your hand. He seemed almost superglued to the ground before feeling the warmth of your hand in his and quickly, he was moving alongside you, hands dangling between your bodies. "I think I can work with some new plans."
Summary: You'd spent years convincing yourself that you weren't attracted to your best friend, but one wine-soaked confession about his unconventional research begins to unravel your carefully constructed lie…
Warnings: SMUT MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, alcohol, kissing, nipple play(?), fingering, masturbating, oral fem!receiving, PinV, condom usage #safesex, praise kink, mirror usage, multiple orgasms, friends in love, statistics and knowledge, porn is the plot #culture
A/n: this is 10k words.... help
★・・・・・・★
Spencer Reid was not an attractive man.
That's what you tell yourself.
That's what your mind mutters when you can't stop staring at your best friend during a case briefing, or staring at his veiny hands during an autopsy, or staring at his hair, imagining what it would be like to tug at it when he—
Christ, you needed to get laid.
And not by Spencer Reid.
Because Spencer Reid was your best friend, your co-worker, and not an attractive man. And you were definitely not in love with him.
He couldn't flirt with women at bars like Derek could, though he still always managed to get a woman's number without trying — just saying some well-timed nerdy fact and dragging his eyes up and down in a way that seemed like he was studying a woman, not objectifying her… not that you noticed, of course, since he was just your best friend.
He confessed to you, over too much wine after a particularly stressful case, that he'd read countless smut books and non-fiction books on "women's pleasure." You were sitting outside on his apartment’s mini balcony on a worn out blanket on the floor, a glass of wine in each of your hands. You giggled in reply, sloshing your wine over yourself, imagining Spencer blushing while reading but maintaining a clear and rigorous focus. Imagining the way his fingers traced the words on the page, imagining him licking his fingers to turn it. Imagining him making notes, running a flustered hand through his hair.
He leaned over, his pocket hankercheif in hand, and helped clean the wine from your dress, and suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. It was so painfully, beautifully, perfectly Spencer. Your Spencer… your best friend Spencer.
But you couldn't pretend your heart didn't do flips when he cleaned you up, laughing shyly, embarrassed, protesting that he also "conducted practical experiments."
"So you're not a virgin?" you asked, boldly.
"I'm thirty," Spencer said dryly. "Of course I'm not a virgin."
"You never argue when Morgan makes fun of you for it?"
"Yeah, because then he'd want… details." He shuddered slightly. "I like being private."
"So Dr. Reid doesn't kiss and tell?"
"Never," he said, with far more seriousness than the conversation required — and you felt your stomach flip like it always did when Spencer looked into your eyes.
He wasn't attractive. You'd told yourself that so many times it should have started sounding true by now. It never did. Spencer Reid was beautiful, but you refused to let your stupid heart acknowledge it, because if you did, if you let yourself feel it all then there would be no going back, and that terrified you.
It was the way he existed in a room, maybe. The way he'd fold himself into a chair like his limbs were an afterthought, then forget his own body entirely the second something interesting crossed his mind. You weren't supposed to notice things like the curve of his jaw when he tilted his head mid-thought, or the way his hands moved when he talked — precise, almost delicate, like he was conducting something only he could hear. You definitely weren't supposed to notice his mouth. You'd made a personal rule about that months ago and broken it approximately four hundred times since.
This isn't attraction, you told yourself. Not really. It's just… observation. Anyone with eyes would notice these things. It didn't mean anything. Noticing that someone was beautiful wasn't the same as wanting them. You could admire a painting without needing to own it, could stand in front of a sculpture and think God, that's stunning without any of it meaning you'd lost your mind.
Except paintings didn't laugh at your jokes. Sculptures didn't remember your coffee order down to the exact ratio of oat milk. And you'd never wanted to trace your fingers along a canvas the way you wanted to reach across and push a piece of hair off his forehead, just to have an excuse to touch him.
He was your best friend. That was the whole point of him. That was supposed to be the entire, uncomplicated shape of this.
You were just observing. That's all this was.
… You were becoming a very unconvincing liar.
And maybe that's why you found yourself asking "any recommendations?" before you had a chance to stop yourself; you supposed you could always blame it on the wine.
"…recommendations?" Spencer questioned tilting his head as he did so.
"Yeah, like book recommendations. About... about the... the topic you were just telling me about."
"...Women's pleasure books?"
"…yes…"
"I— surely you're already an expert in that field?" he laughed awkwardly, avoiding your eyes.
Three PhDs. Spencer took knowledge seriously, any knowledge. He wouldn't just read about something; he'd study it, understand it, master it. The thought sent a sharp pang through your chest—jealousy for every woman who had already experienced Spencer's expertise, for every person who had been on the receiving end of those precise, analytical hands applied to pleasure instead of paperwork. The thought made you want to both run from this conversation and lean into it simultaneously.
"It's funny, really," you began, the wine making you say more than you probably should — but Spencer was your best friend, you could tell him anything, even this. "I've never… you know…"
"Wait, you're a virgin?"
"What? No—"
"Then what?"
"Do I have to spell it out?"
"Do I have to remind you that yes, always?"
"Well." You felt your face flush a bright crimson. "I've never… cum before." you said, voice small, eyes avoiding his gaze.
Spencer’s head jolted up and just stared at you for a second, "Wait, you mean—?"
"…yeah."
"But you dated Andrew for, what, four years?" he immediately recalled the name of your most recent ex, and you swore for a second you could see his face sour a tiny bit at the mention of his name.
"…yep."
"And he never once—?"
"We had Sex, but I just never… It wasn't bad, and it's not like I need to, you know, to have fun. It feels good, I just — I don't know, I think I'm too stressed or something. Or maybe I’ve never really trusted the people I’ve been with as much as I should. I just kind of accepted it would never happen for me. Which is fine. But — sorry, this is weird, isn't it?"
"I don't think it's weird."
"No?"
"No."
"Okay." You said it almost at a whisper. You knew Spencer meant what he said. It felt like there were no boundaries between the two of you.
Truthfully, your previous sexual experiences had been fun and they felt good but you’d never experience that total wave of pleasure, you’ve felt the coil wind itself inside you but it just never snapped. You knew what it was supost to be like — Christ you’d faked enough to almost convince yourself... almost.
"Can I ask a question?" Spencer probed, pulling you out of your thoughts.
"Go right ahead."
"So you've never even cum on your own?"
"You mean like… masturbated?" you said at almost a whisper, suddenly aware that the two of you were outside, the thought of his neighbours overhearing the conversation had you squirming.
"Yeah. Have you ever tried toys, or anything? At the end of the day you're the one who knows your body best, but — when you say never, do you mean never never, or never with someone else?" Spencer said, completely oblivious to the fact that you were trying to talk as quietly as possible.
"Erm." You were flustered. "I guess both. I've never — sorry, I'm a grown adult, I don't know why this is so difficult for me to talk about. I mean, I've never done anything on my own. I think it's a shame thing? And I know it's not shameful, not to profile myself, but maybe it was my upbringing, or maybe I'm not sure. I've read fiction and watched things and wanted to — I really wanted to, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Is that weird?"
"I don't think it's weird."
"You don't?"
"Of course I don't."He paused, considering you with those intense eyes that saw too much. "I just think you need more confidence, and to learn more about your own body — what you do and don't like. Learn your erogenous zones, stuff like that, what feels good for you."
"Yeah, maybe. I am nearly thirty, though, Spencer."
"Most women learn new ways to climax in their late twenties — in fact that's when a lot of women squirt for the first time. But plenty of women never orgasm in their lives at all, usually because they've only had one partner who didn't know what they were doing. A lot of women cum for the first time using toys. Some don't have their first orgasm until their forties and later. No one's sexual journey is the same."
"Wow, you really have read a lot of books."
"Yeah, I suppose I have." He shifted slightly closer. "Do you know your erogenous zones?"
"My what?"
Spencer just said your name, in a slightly condescending tone.
"What?"
A silent tension settled over the two of you, you could see Spencer's mind working in real time, saw him weighing up the pros and cons of something, something you weren’t entirely sure what it was yet.
“You trust me right?” Spencer's voice was suddenly softer, more intimate than before.
“More than anything.” The thought flashed through your mind and fell out of your mouth before you could stop it, and you realized with a jolt that it was absolutely true. You trusted Spencer Reid with your life on the job, with your secrets after hours, with your heart when it was breaking. Why not with this too?
"Okay, so…" Spencer took a breath, his eyes fixed on yours. "Let me try."
Did you hear him right? Your brain scrambled to catch up, replaying the words like they might change if you looked at them from a different angle. Spencer — your best friend, the one who once color-coded your bookshelf without asking, who'd fallen asleep on your couch more times than you could count — was offering to... no. That couldn't be right. This was Spencer. This was safe, familiar, uncomplicated Spencer, and yet here he was, looking at you like the ground had shifted and he was waiting to see if you'd noticed too. Was this even real? Was this some wine-soaked fever dream you were going to wake up from, mortified, in an hour? You searched his face for the joke, the out, the moment he'd laugh and say he was kidding. It didn't come.
“Let me try,” He repeated himself, “I don’t want to get your hopes up but I’ve been told I’m pretty good…”
"Shut up." You laughed in spite of yourself, the sound coming out shaky.
"I am being serious though…" His voice dropped lower, the academic detachment melting away into something raw and honest. "I don't want it to be weird between us but, I mean we're friends right?"
"Of course."
"And friends help each other out, right?"
You couldn't fault his logic. It was perfectly Spencer—framing an offer of intimate, mind-blowing pleasure in the practical terms of mutual assistance.
"...yeah?"
"It's obviously completely up to you, I'm not saying that we should have a whole complete friend with benefits situation, unless you want to, but I could… teach you?"
"Teach me?"
The words hung in the air between you, fragile but determined. Spencer's hands stilled on your waist, and he met your eyes in the mirror again, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.
"you know, to save you the trouble of reading every dusty book in my personal library," he teased gently.
"I mean yeah i guess we could do something like that," you managed, a nervous laugh escaping you.
His expression softened, the teasing replaced by something serious, something intent. "Alright," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
You nodded, your breath catching in your throat.
"Would you like to come inside?"
You laughed, a genuine, breathless sound this time. "I'd like to cum full stop, that's why we're in this predicament, Spencer."
"Shut up, you know what I mean." A faint blush crept up his neck, and you found it endearing.
"Yeah, sorry, after you,"
He led the way inside, his apartment a familiar space that suddenly felt charged with new potential. "My bedroom is this way," he said, his voice casual as if discussing the weather, "unless you'd rather the couch but I think that the bedroom would probably work better?"
"Yeah that… that works for me," you felt flush, heat pooling between your legs. You couldn't believe that you were doing this.
Spencer opened the door, and you followed him, unsure what else to do. His bedroom was quintessentially him—books stacked in precarious towers, a worn-out copy of some dense text on the nightstand, and a perfectly made bed with hospital corners. He turned to face you, and the air between you thickened.
"We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with," he said softly. "We can stop at any point."
You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. The logical part of your brain, the part that sounded suspiciously like Spencer himself, was screaming that this was a catastrophic idea. It would ruin everything. But the rest of you, the part that had been starved for this exact kind of attention, was thrumming with a nervous, desperate energy.
He seemed to understand your silent assent. He didn't move to kiss you or undress you. Instead, he stepped back, giving you space, and gestured towards a full-length mirror leaning against the far wall. "Come here for a second."
Confused, you walked up to him, your legs feeling unsteady. He positioned you in front of the mirror, standing behind you but not touching. You could see both of your reflections—your flushed face and wide eyes, and him behind you, his expression unreadable but intensely focused.
He took your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles. "Okay, so... we're going to start with a lesson?" you asked, unsure of the situation you found yourself in.
Spencer shook his head slightly, his eyes sharp and focused on yours. "Not a lesson. A profile. You've been faking it, which means you're an excellent observer of others' pleasure but not your own. Let's treat this like a profile. I'm going to present you with stimuli, and you're going to tell me what data you gather from your own body. No right or wrong answers, just raw data. Can you do that for me?"
all you did was nod, what else could you do. Spencer, your spencer, even now was searching for ways to make you comfortable, to make you familiar. You knew profiling, you did it every day, and he knew that. He knew the logical part of your brain was telling you that this uncharted waters were a bad idea, he made it seem normal. you appreciated it more than he would ever know.
"Step 1," he said, his voice low and steady, a direct contrast to the frantic beating of your heart. "Observation. You need to see what I see." His hands came to rest gently on your waist, and you jumped slightly at the contact. "Easy," he murmured. "Relax, and just watch."
“Okay,” you breathed out, trusting him entirely.
“Before I do anything I want you to see how beautiful you are, no matter what does or doesn’t happen I need you to know that, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Can you say it back to me?”
“Spencer this is silly—”
“Just humour me, just say you’re beautiful,” his head dipped so his lips were next to your ear, his voice low and steady “Because you should know that you are so so beautiful.”
“I—” you swallowed thickly, your eyes resting on your figure, “I’m beautiful.”
“That’s so good.” he praised, “Well done.” His eyes met yours in the mirror. "I can feel your heart racing, relax."
You tried to even out your breathing — you really did — but Spencer was so close. Sure, you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder on the jet before, you'd hugged him a hundred times, but this was something else entirely. This sent heat pooling low in your core and made your head spin, and he was barely even touching you, his hands just resting on your waist.
“Do you think you could take your dress off for me? We can do whatever you’re comfortable with, it may be easier if you're just in your bra and panties.”
“..yeah, okay.”
Your fingers trembled as they found the zipper of your dress, the metallic sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you exposed in nothing but your simple lace bra and panties. Spencer's gaze was like a physical touch, scorching a path over your skin. A low, strained sound escaped his throat, something between a groan and a whimper, and his hands returned to your waist, his thumbs stroking circles against your hip bones.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn't name. "Repeat it back to me, baby."
The pet name sent a fresh wave of heat through you, making your head spin. Your voice was barely a whisper when you obeyed. "I'm so beautiful."
"Good girl," he breathed, the praise so quiet you almost thought you imagined it. But the way your knees went weak, threatening to give out, was very, very real. His hands tightened on your waist, the only thing holding you upright as he pulled you back flush against his chest.
"Now, I don't want you to just watch. I want you to watch your micro-expressions. Notice the slight flaring of your nostrils, the dilation of your pupils. Those are autonomic responses. They don't lie. We're going to use them as feedback to calibrate what works. Just tell me what you see, and tell me what you feel as we go on okay?"
He slowly slid his hands up your sides, his touch feather-light. "We're going to start with your somatic mapping points. These aren't technically sexual, but they're very receptive to touch in general, but especially when you're aroused. I’m going to touch you in these places, keep your eyes on the mirror baby so you can see exactly what I do."
His fingers traced the line of your jaw, and you watched in the mirror as your head tilted back slightly into his touch. "The neck," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "A concentration of nerve endings." He demonstrated, his fingertips skimming the sensitive skin below your ear, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. You saw it happen in the mirror, the way your body responded instantly to his.
"See?" he said, a hint of academic satisfaction in his tone. "Your body knows what it likes. You just have to learn to listen." He moved his hands to your shoulders, kneading the tight muscles there. "Stress is an inhibitor of pleasure. We need to get rid of it."
His touch was clinical in its precision, yet it sent arcs of electricity through you. You watched in the mirror, mesmerized, as his long fingers worked deep circles into the muscles flanking your spine. Your head lolled forward, giving him better access, and a soft sigh escaped your lips. The visual was intoxicating—seeing his large hands on your bare skin, watching the way your own body responded, the flush creeping up your chest and neck, the unmistakable pleasure slackening your features. It was like watching a stranger discover a new language of sensation, and you were both the observer and the observed. A fine sheen of sweat bloomed across your skin, not from exertion, but from the sheer, concentrated heat of his touch.
His hands were a study in controlled grace, a paradox you were only just beginning to understand. They weren't the hands of a laborer, thick and calloused, but they possessed a strength that belied their elegant appearance. You could see every long, tapered finger, the clean, square nails, the faint dusting of light brown hair on his knuckles. These were the hands that flicked through hundreds of pages a minute, that wrote complex formulas on whiteboards, that handled evidence with delicate precision. And now, they were mapping the terrain of your body with that same exacting attention to detail.
His thumbs were the focal point, pressing with an almost scientific pressure into the stubborn knot between your shoulder blades. You could feel the muscle slowly yielding, the tension unwinding under his relentless, circular motion. His other fingers splayed wide across your back, anchoring him, their pads a warm, steady presence that promised safety. As he worked his way down your spine, you could feel the subtle shift in his grip, the way his fingers would trace the line of your ribs before his palms would flatten against the small of your back, pressing gently to ground you. It was a language of touch, fluent and articulate, and with every passing second, you were becoming more and more fluent in reading it.
"Ready for the next step?" he asked.
You could only nod, your voice gone.
His hands moved around to your stomach, splaying across it. "The abdomen," he explained, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Full of nerve endings. Often overlooked." He began to trace slow, deliberate patterns on your skin, and your hips began to move restlessly.
"Here," he murmured, moving his hands, his voice a low hum against your ear. "The antecubital fossa," he said, his fingers gently tracing the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of your elbow. "The skin here is thinner, and the veins are closer to the surface, making it more receptive to light touch." He demonstrated, his fingertips barely grazing the area, and you shivered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with being cold. He smiled, a small, knowing curve of his lips. "And the wrists," he continued, his thumb pressing gently into the pulse point there. "Another area of high sensitivity. It's a vulnerable spot, biologically. Protecting major arteries. The brain registers touch here as particularly significant. One of the reasons why people like being tied up, but we won’t get onto that today" He lifted your wrist to his lips, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the thrumming beat of your heart. You watched, mesmerized, as your own pulse seemed to leap in response.
His hands slid around to your ribcage, his long fingers spanning your waist. "The intercostal muscles," he explained, his voice a low, hypnotic drone. "The muscles between your ribs. They're constantly in use, expanding and contracting with every breath. They're not often touched, which makes them highly sensitive when they are." His thumbs traced the bottom curve of your ribs, a slow, deliberate motion that made you arch your back, a silent plea for more. "And the thorax," he continued, his hands moving up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing against the underside. "The mammary glands. We'll get to the nipples specifically, but the entire area is an erogenous zone, rich with nerve endings connected to the same network that innervates the clitoris." He squeezed gently, his palms molding to your curves, and you felt a fresh wave of wetness between your legs. He was turning your body into a textbook, and you were the most willing student.
"Spencer," you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut.
"No," he said gently. "Eyes open. Watch yourself. See how beautiful you are when you're feeling pleasure."
Your eyes flew open, locking onto your reflection. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, which were already hard and straining against the fabric. The sensation was electric, shooting straight down to your core.
"This is a primary erogenous zone. these are universally responsive," he continued, his voice maddeningly calm as your body began to tremble. "Direct stimulation is key." He deftly unhooked your bra, letting it fall away. Your breasts were exposed in the mirror, and for a moment, you felt a flash of self-consciousness.
"Don't look away," he commanded softly. He rolled your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and a choked moan tore from your throat. "That's it. Let yourself feel it."
One of his hands left your breast, trailing down your stomach. "There are other primary zones," he said, his fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. "But I think the most important lesson for tonight is about control."
He turned you to face him, his hands now on your waist. "I want you to see what I do," he said, his eyes dark with an emotion you couldn't quite name. "And then, I want you to do it to yourself."
Your breath hitched. "What?"
"You're the expert on your own body," he said, his lips curving into a slight smile. "I'm just here to give you the textbook. Now it's time for some practical application."
He led you back to the bed, positioning you against the pillows. He knelt between your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. "First," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "Remember, I'm going to show you. Then, you're going to take over."
And as his fingers finally found your clit, you knew this was a night you would never forget.
His fingers were impossibly gentle as they made contact, a stark contrast to the jolt of electricity that shot through you. You watched, mesmerized, as he slowly, deliberately circled your clit with his middle finger. The touch was barely there, a whisper of sensation, but it was more intense than anything you'd ever felt.
"The clitoral glans," he began, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated through you. "It contains approximately eight thousand sensory nerve fibers. That's double the number found in the entire penis, baby. It's purely for pleasure."
A soft whimper escaped his lips as he felt you pulse against his finger. He was getting off on this, on teaching you, on feeling you respond. The realization sent a fresh wave of arousal through you.
"More," you breathed, your hips arching off the bed.
"Not yet," he chided softly, his other hand pressing gently on your stomach to keep you still. "Patience. We're building sensation. Rushing bypasses crucial neural pathways." He applied a fraction more pressure, changing the motion to a slow, firm figure-eight. "The external structure is just the tip. The internal clitoral bulbs and crura extend down, wrapping around the vagina. When we stimulate this area," he paused to press down slightly, making you gasp, "we're engaging the entire complex."
Your hands fisted in the sheets. "Spencer... please."
"Please what, sweetheart? Use your words."
"Please... more. Please, sir."
The word hung in the air between you. Spencer's breath hitched, his eyes darkening with something primal. He let out a low, guttural groan. "Fuck," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "Don't... don't call me that unless you mean it."
"I mean it," you panted, the submission feeling natural, right.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Good girl." He increased the pressure, his movements becoming more deliberate. "Now, pay attention. The clitoris isn't a button to be pushed. It's an entire network. Watch how I vary the pressure and speed. See how your body responds differently to each touch."
He demonstrated, switching from slow circles to rapid, light flicks, then back to firm, steady pressure. Each change sent you spiraling higher, your body trembling uncontrollably.
"You're doing so well," he praised, his voice strained with his own arousal. "You're so responsive. Look at you." He nodded towards the mirror, and you forced your eyes open. Your face was flushed, your mouth parted, your chest heaving. You looked debauched, and you'd never felt more beautiful.
"Now," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "We're going to explore the anterior vaginal wall. Often called the G-spot, though that's a misnomer. It's actually the clitoral-urethral-vaginal complex, or CUV." He slowly slid a single finger inside you, and you cried out at the exquisite stretch. "There. Do you feel that? That slightly rougher, ridged texture?"
You could only nod, your words lost.
"That's it," he murmured, his finger curling upwards to stroke that spot. "That's the root of the clitoris we're stimulating from the inside. It's why some women can orgasm from penetration alone, though most need direct clitoral stimulation as well." He began to move his finger in a 'come here' motion, his thumb returning to circle your clit.
The dual stimulation was overwhelming. Your vision blurred, your body arching off the bed.
"Easy, baby," he soothed, his voice strained. "Breathe through it. Don't chase it. Let it build." He whimpered again, the sound barely audible. "God, you're so tight. So wet for me."
You were close, so close to that edge you'd never been able to reach before. "Please Sir," you begged, "I'm gonna..."
"No," he said firmly, suddenly withdrawing his hand. You cried out at the loss, your eyes flying open in protest. "Not yet. I told you. You're going to do it yourself."
He shifted, leaning over you until his body bracketed yours, caging you in with a warmth that was both a comfort and a torment. His face was so close to yours that his curls brushed against your temple, and you could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. His voice was a low, intimate rumble, a vibration that seemed to travel from his chest straight through your bones. "Your heart rate is still elevated—I can feel your pulse hammering right here." He punctuated the statement by pressing a soft, impossibly gentle kiss to the side of your neck, right over the frantic, fluttering pulse point. The contrast between his tender lips and your wild pulse made you whimper. "Your pupils are blown," he continued, his gaze dropping to your eyes for a fraction of a second before returning to your face. "But I need to know what's happening in your head. Are you truly processing the sensation, letting your body feel without judgment or analysis? Or are you just performing the role you think you're supposed to play, trying to give me the reaction you think I want to hear?"
"that's... this—"
"It's okay baby, take your time and tell me."
"Felt so good, I was going to cum spencer, please, please, please keep going," you whined.
He made a 'tsk' noise as he shifted, positioning himself beside you, his eyes burning into yours. "My turn to watch," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Show me what you learned. Touch yourself for me, baby. Let me see you make yourself cum."
Your hand shook as you brought it between your legs, your fingers sliding easily through your wetness. You mimicked his motions, circling your clit, then sliding a finger inside to stroke that sensitive spot.
"That's it," he encouraged, his hand resting on your thigh, his touch grounding you. "Just like that. You're in control now. Show me how you like it."
And as you watched yourself in the mirror, your fingers moving with growing confidence, Spencer's eyes locked on yours, you finally understood. This wasn't just about pleasure. It was about power. Your power. And as the first waves of your orgasm began to build, you knew this was only the beginning.
Your fingers moved with a hesitant rhythm, mimicking the patterns he'd taught you, but lacking his confident precision. It felt good, but it wasn't the same. The edge was there, but it was fuzzy, indistinct.
"Look at me, not the mirror," Spencer commanded softly, his voice a low thrum that seemed to resonate directly in your clit. You tore your gaze away from your reflection to meet his. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire, and they were fixed on your face, on your hand. "That's it. Good girl. Now, tell me what you're feeling."
"I... it's good," you panted, your strokes faltering slightly. "But it's not... it's not the same."
"Because you're thinking too much," he said, his hand still resting heavily on your thigh. "You're performing instead of feeling. Your brain is still trying to analyze the data instead of just experiencing it. Let go."
"I don't know how," you whispered, frustration welling up inside you.
"Yes, you do," he murmured, his voice dropping impossibly lower. "You just need to stop fighting it. Let me help." He covered your hand with his, his long fingers wrapping around yours. "Together. Feel how I'm guiding you? Feel the pressure?"
His hand over yours was a revelation. He guided your fingers, showing you exactly where to press, how fast to move. The pleasure sharpened, your hips bucking up to meet the combined pressure of your hands.
"That's it," he breathed, his own voice strained. "You feel that? That's the frenulum of your clitoral hood. Extremely sensitive. We're going to focus there for a moment."
He guided your fingers in tiny, precise circles, and the coil inside you began to tighten, a hot, heavy pressure building in your core.
"Spencer," you gasped, your head falling back against the pillows.
"No," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Eyes on me. I want to see you when you cum for the first time."
The authority in his voice sent a fresh jolt of arousal through you. "Yes, sir," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
He let out a ragged groan, his hips jerking against the bed. "Fuck, baby. You can't say things like that." He was painfully hard, his control clearly fraying at the edges. "You're so perfect. So responsive."
He guided your fingers faster, the pressure increasing. "Now, I want you to add another finger. Inside. Curl them up, just like I showed you." You obeyed, a second finger sliding easily into your wet heat. "That's it. Now press. Can you feel how full you are? How your body is opening up to receive pleasure?"
You could only moan in response, your body trembling on the verge of something monumental.
"You're close," he said, his voice a strained whisper. "I can feel it. Your muscles are starting to contract. Don't fight it. Let it happen." He removed his hand, leaving you to your own devices. "Now, baby. You know what to do. Show me. Cum for me."
His words were your undoing. You drove your fingers deeper, your thumb working your clit in a desperate, frantic rhythm. And then it happened. The coil snapped. A wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful crashed over you, stealing your breath, your vision whiting out. You cried out his name, your body arching off the bed, your inner walls clamping down on your fingers as wave after wave of ecstasy washed through you.
It was endless. It was everything. It was heaven.
When you finally came back to yourself, Spencer was there, his eyes soft, a gentle smile on his face. "There you are," he murmured, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead. "Welcome back."
You could only stare at him, your body still trembling with aftershocks. You'd never felt anything like that. You'd never even imagined anything like that.
"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice soft.
"Incredible," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I... I had no idea."
"You're just beginning to learn what your body is capable of," he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. "And I'm going to teach you everything."
A profound silence settled over the room, broken only by your ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of your own heart. Spencer didn't move, just watched you with an intensity that was both clinical and deeply intimate. You felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally, laid bare by the force of your own pleasure.
"Your body is still responding," he observed quietly, his gaze dropping to where your hand still rested between your legs. "The involuntary contractions can last for several minutes. It's called the resolution phase. The blood is still engorging the tissues."
He gently took your wrist, his touch careful as he drew your hand away. He brought your fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours, and slowly, deliberately, licked them clean. The sight was so obscene, so possessive, a fresh jolt of arousal shot through you.
"You taste incredible," he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. "Slightly sweet, slightly tangy. The pH balance changes throughout the menstrual cycle, affecting the taste. Right now, it's perfect."
You whimpered, your body already gearing up for more.
"Shh, baby," he soothed, releasing your hand and leaning over you. "Don't rush. The refractory period for women is notoriously shorter than for men. In some cases, it's virtually non-existent. We can build on this sensation, make the next one even stronger." He lowered his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "But first, I need to taste you properly."
His mouth was on yours before you could respond, a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of you and of him. It wasn't gentle; it was hungry, devouring. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize you, his tongue exploring your mouth with the same thoroughness he applied to everything else. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair, tugging just as you'd imagined so many times.
He groaned into your mouth, his hips pressing into yours, and you could feel the hard, thick length of his erection through his pants. He was so turned on, and it was all because of you.
"Spencer," you gasped as he moved his mouth to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. "Please."
"Please what, sweetheart?" he murmured against your skin. "Use your words. Tell me what you need."
"I need... I need you."
"I know," he said, his voice strained. "And you'll have me. All of me. But we're not done with this yet." He moved down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire on your skin. "The perineum," he whispered, his tongue flicking out to taste the sensitive stretch of skin between your vagina and your anus. "Often neglected, but rich with nerve endings. Part of the pudendal nerve network."
You cried out, your hips bucking off the bed. No one had ever touched you there, never with their mouth. The sensation was shocking, electric.
"And then," he continued, his voice muffled as he moved lower, "there's the anus itself. The external sphincter has one of the highest concentrations of nerve endings in the entire body." He gently spread your cheeks, his tongue circling your tight hole. "It's not for everyone, but for those who enjoy it... it can be incredibly intense."
You were writhing now, your body a live wire of sensation. "Spencer, please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for.
"Patience, baby," he chided, his voice a low chuckle. "We're getting there." He moved back up, his face hovering over your dripping core. "Now for the main event. Cunnilingus. From the Latin 'cunnus' for vulva and 'lingere' to lick." He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I'm going to use my tongue on your clitoris, baby. I'm going to make you cum again baby but this time on my mouth. I know you have it in you so I'm not going to stop until you do okay? I've been wanting to taste this pretty pussy for so long are you going to let me baby?"
"yes," you moaned at the mental image forming in your head, "yes sir."
"fuck," spencer groaned, "you're so perfect."
And then his mouth was on you, his tongue delving into your folds, licking and sucking with a skill that left you breathless. He was relentless, his tongue exploring every inch of you, his lips closing around your clit and sucking hard. You were lost, your body a vessel for pleasure, your mind gone.
"Spencer!" you screamed, your hands fisting in his hair, holding him to you. "Please, don't stop."
He didn't. He doubled his efforts, his tongue flicking your clit in a rapid, staccato rhythm while he slid two fingers inside you, curling them up to stroke that sensitive spot deep within. The combination was devastating, a perfect storm of sensation that sent you spiraling towards the edge again.
"That's it, baby," he growled against your core, his voice muffled. "Cum for me. Let me taste you. Give me everything."
And you did. You came with a force that terrified you, your body convulsing, your vision blacking out, a scream tearing from your throat. It was even more intense than the first one, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to drown you.
When you came back to yourself, Spencer was still there, his face glistening with your cum, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face.
"Two," he said, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "And that's just the beginning."
The world slowly came back into focus, not all at once, but in soft, hazy increments. The first thing you registered was the gentle weight of Spencer's hand on your trembling thigh, a grounding point in the sea of sensation you were still floating in. The second was his breathing, a steady, controlled rhythm that contrasted sharply with your own ragged gasps.
He didn't speak. He just watched you, his gaze soft but analytical, like a scientist observing a fascinating new phenomenon. He was giving you time, letting your body ride out the lingering aftershocks that were still making your muscles quiver.
"Your heart rate is approximately one hundred and ten beats per minute," he finally murmured, his voice a low vibration that you felt more than heard. "Elevated, but decreasing. The post-orgasmic prolactin surge is likely kicking in, creating that feeling of deep relaxation. It's nature's way of ensuring you rest and process the experience."
A weak laugh escaped your lips. "Only you would turn the best orgasm of my life into a biology lesson."
A small, genuine smile touched his mouth. "It's all biology, baby. Beautiful, messy, perfect biology." He shifted, moving to lie beside you, propping his head up on his hand. "How do you feel? Be specific. Describe the sensations."
You took a moment to assess yourself. "Tingly. All over. Like... like my skin is too small for my body. And heavy. So heavy, but in a good way. Like I could sink right through the mattress."
"That's the myotonia," he explained, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach. "The muscle tension that builds during arousal and release. It leaves you feeling limp, pliant. It's why you're so responsive to touch right now. Your nerve endings are still firing at an elevated rate."
His touch was light, almost absent-minded, but it was setting you on fire all over again. You could feel the heat building between your legs, a slow, deep ache.
"Again?" you asked, your voice filled with wonder.
"We can," he said softly. "But not like that. Not yet." He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder. "Rushing from one orgasm to the next can be overwhelming. It can desensitize the clitoral glans, making subsequent orgasms more difficult to achieve. We need to be more strategic."
"Strategic?" you repeated, a breathless laugh escaping you. "You make it sound like a military operation."
"In a way, it is," he said, his mouth moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. "It's a campaign for pleasure. And right now, we're in the reconnaissance phase." He nipped at your earlobe, his tongue swirling around the delicate shell. "We need to map out all the places that make you gasp."
His hands began to roam again, but this time, they were slower, more deliberate. He wasn't trying to get you off; he was exploring. He traced the line of your collarbone, his fingers dipping into the hollows of your throat. He skimmed his knuckles down the sides of your ribs, counting them one by one.
"Twenty-four," he whispered, his lips following the path of his fingers. "Protective cage for your heart and lungs. But so sensitive to touch."
You were melting, your body turning to liquid under his ministrations. This was a different kind of pleasure, slower, deeper, more intimate. It wasn't about the frantic chase for release; it was about the journey itself.
"Spencer," you breathed, your hands coming up to rest on his back, feeling the shift of his muscles under his shirt.
"Yes, baby?"
"Take this off," you tugged at his shirt. "I want to feel you."
He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of something—vulnerability, perhaps—in his eyes. Then he nodded, sitting up to pull his shirt over his head. Your breath caught. You'd seen him without a shirt before, on beach trips, but this was different. This was Spencer, your Spencer, bared to you in the soft lamplight of his bedroom.
He was leaner than you'd expected, his body a roadmap of pale skin and wiry muscle. There was a thin, silvery scar on his side, and another on his shoulder. You reached out, your fingers tracing the scar on his side.
"What happened here?" you asked softly.
"Gunshot wound," he said, his voice quiet. "A few years ago."
Your heart clenched. You knew, of course, about the dangers of his job, but seeing the evidence of it on his body made it terrifyingly real.
"Hey," he said, his voice gentle as he covered your hand with his. "I'm okay. It's all part of the past."
You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. And in that moment, you saw it all—the genius, the profiler, the teacher, the man who had seen too much, the man who was offering you a piece of himself that he'd never offered to anyone else.
"Come here," you whispered, pulling him down for a kiss.
It was different this time. Slower, deeper, more tender. It wasn't about hunger or desperation; it was about connection. It was about the quiet intimacy of two people who had seen each other at their most vulnerable and had chosen to stay.
"I want you," you murmured against his lips. "All of you."
"I know," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And you'll have me, we have one more step for today if you're up for it."
He moved back down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of soft, wet kisses. "We've explored the external," he said, his voice a low whisper against your skin. "Now it's time to go deeper."
His hands left your waist, moving to the button of his trousers. You watched, your breath held tight in your chest, as he undid them with quick, efficient movements. The fabric slid down his narrow hips, taking his boxers with it, and your eyes widened.
Oh.
He was built like the rest of him—all long lines and surprising substance. Your gaze traced the proud, rigid length of him, the flushed head already glistening at the tip. It wasn't just long; it was the thick, solid weight of him that made your mouth go dry, a formidable presence that promised a challenge, a stretch. A thatch of soft, brown curls nestled at the base, and the sight sent a dizzying rush of pure, unadulterated desire through you. This wasn't just a part of him; it was a statement, a quiet, undeniable proof of the power he usually kept so carefully restrained.
He reached for his nightstand, the movement pulling you from your reverie. He pulled out a foil packet, ripping it open with his teeth before rolling the latex on with practiced, steady ease. He positioned himself between your legs, his eyes fixed on yours. "I'm going to enter you, baby. But I'm not going to move. I'm just going to let you feel me. Let you get used to the sensation of being filled."
He leaned forward, his forearms braced on the bed beside your head, and positioned himself at your entrance. He didn't push, just rested the tip of his cock against your wet, swollen folds. The contact was electric, a promise of everything to come, and you gasped at the sheer intimacy of it.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
"Don't stop," you breathed, your hands gripping his shoulders.
Slowly, inch by excruciating inch, he pushed into you. It was a stretch, a delicious, overwhelming fullness that stole your breath. He was bigger than you'd expected, his thickness pressing against your inner walls in a way that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you.
When he was finally fully seated inside you, he stopped, his body still, his weight resting on his elbows. He just looked at you, his eyes dark with an emotion that took your breath away.
"How does that feel?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Full," you gasped. "So full. It's... it's incredible."
"Good," he murmured, his hips rocking slightly, a tiny, experimental movement that made you cry out. "That's just the beginning, baby. That's just the first taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly mine."
He remained still, a statue of restraint above you, and the stillness itself became a form of exquisite torture. You could feel every single inch of him, the thick, hard length of him stretching you, filling you completely. Your inner muscles clenched around him, an involuntary spasm that made him hiss in a sharp breath.
"Easy, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, strained vibration against your throat. "Don't do that. Don't rush. Just... feel."
His words were a command, but they were also a gift. He was forcing you to slow down, to experience every nuance of the moment. You closed your eyes, focusing inward, cataloging the sensations. The pressure, the fullness, the heat of him, the way your body seemed to mold itself to his shape, as if they were two pieces of a puzzle you hadn't even realized were missing each other.
"The vaginal canal is remarkably elastic," he began, his voice a low, hypnotic drone that was somehow both incredibly arousing and deeply comforting. "It can expand significantly, but it's also rich with nerve endings, particularly in the outer third. What you're feeling now, that intense pressure, is the stimulation of those nerve endings. The deeper penetration primarily stimulates the internal structures—the cervix, the anterior fornix."
He shifted slightly, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, and you cried out, your hips bucking up to meet him.
"Shh," he soothed, his hand coming to rest on your hip, holding you still. "I know. It's a lot. But we need to take it slow. Your body is still adjusting to the intensity of the stimulation. We need to give your nervous system time to process the input."
"Spencer," you begged, your hands fisting in the sheets. "Please. I need... I need more."
"I know, baby," he said, his voice thick with sympathy and desire. "And you'll get it. But first, I want you to do something for me."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "I want you to bear down. Just a little. Like you're trying to push me out."
You looked at him, your eyes wide with confusion. "What? Why?"
"Just trust me," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Do it."
You took a deep breath, then did as he asked, bearing down slightly. The sensation was immediate, and incredible. As you pushed down, his cock seemed to sink even deeper into you, hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars. At the same time, the pressure on your clit intensified, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through you.
"Oh god," you cried out, your back arching off the bed.
"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "That's it. That's the anterior fornix, also known as the A-spot. It's a highly sensitive erogenous zone located deep inside the vagina, near the cervix. Stimulating it can lead to incredibly intense, full-body orgasms."
He began to move then, but not with the frantic thrusting you were used to. His movements were slow, deliberate, a deep, grinding rhythm that seemed to touch every part of you at once. Each time he bottomed out, he would pause, letting you feel the full, overwhelming pressure, before pulling back just as slowly.
"Feel that?" he asked, his voice a low, strained whisper. "Feel how I'm filling you up? How your body is opening up to receive me?"
You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure. This was different, so different from anything you'd ever experienced. It wasn't just about the physical act; it was about the connection, the intimacy, the way he seemed to know your body better than you did yourself.
"You're so tight, baby," he groaned, his hips grinding against yours. "So wet. So perfect for me."
He shifted his angle slightly, and suddenly, the stimulation on your clit intensified, his pubic bone rubbing against it with each deep thrust. The combination of the deep, internal pressure and the external friction was intoxicating, a slow, steady build towards an orgasm that you knew would be unlike anything you'd ever experienced before.
"Spencer," you gasped, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. "I'm... I'm close."
"I know," he said, his voice a low, triumphant growl. "I can feel it. Your muscles are starting to contract. You're getting so tight around me."
He increased his pace slightly, his movements becoming more deliberate, more purposeful. He was chasing your orgasm, but he was doing it with a surgeon's precision, with a scientist's understanding of the female body.
"That's it, baby," he urged, his voice a low, commanding whisper. "Let go. Give it to me. Cum for me. Cum all over my cock."
And with a final, deep thrust, you did. You came with a force that shattered you, a scream tearing from your throat as your body convulsed around him. It was a full-body orgasm, a tidal wave of pleasure that started deep inside you and radiated outwards, consuming you entirely.
As you came down from the high, Spencer was still there, his body still buried deep inside yours, his eyes soft, a gentle smile on his face.
"Three," he said, his voice a low, satisfied purr.
The world didn't just come back into focus; it seemed to have been entirely remade. The air in the room felt thicker, charged with the energy of what had just happened. Spencer remained inside you, not moving, just letting you adjust, letting the last tremors of your orgasm subside around him. He was a warm, heavy weight, a solid presence that anchored you to the earth when you felt like you might float away.
He lowered his head, not to kiss you, but to press his forehead against yours. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering against your chest. He hadn't found his own release, you realized with a jolt. He had been so focused on you, on teaching you, that he had completely ignored his own needs.
"Spencer," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "You didn't..."
"Shh," he murmured, his eyes closing. "This wasn't about me. This was about you. About showing you." He finally pulled out of you slowly, carefully, and the loss was immediate and profound. He dealt with the condom in the bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm, damp cloth.
You lay there, feeling exposed and vulnerable, as he gently cleaned you up. His touch was reverent, his movements careful and precise. It was the most intimate thing you had ever experienced, more intimate than the sex itself.
"There," he said softly, tossing the cloth aside and pulling the covers over both of you. He settled beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath your ear.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
"I don't have words for it," you admitted, your fingers tracing patterns on his skin. "It was... like my body was a foreign country, and you were the only one who had a map."
A small smile touched his lips. "I just have a lot of reference material," he said, his hand stroking your hair. "The female orgasm is a fascinating subject. Did you know that the clitoral-urethral-vaginal complex, the entire network of structures responsible for female pleasure, is actually the size of a wishbone? Most of it is internal."
"I feel like I've just been on a field trip," you said, a sleepy laugh escaping you. "A very, very good field trip."
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "There's still more to see," he said, his voice soft. "But not tonight. Tonight, we just rest."
“So they’ll be a next time?”
“If you’ll have me?”
“Yes, Spencer, I’ll always want you.”
You lay in comfortable silence for a long time, the only sounds the steady rhythm of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. You felt safe, cherished, in a way you never had before.
"Spencer?" you said quietly.
"Hmm?"
"Why did you... why did you do this for me?"
He was quiet for a moment, like he was weighing every word before he let himself say it. "Because I hate the idea of you going through life missing something so fundamental," he said finally. "Because I've seen so much darkness in this job, in this world, and I wanted — just once — to be the reason something good happened to you instead." He paused, and you felt him take a breath, like he was steadying himself for something he'd rehearsed a hundred times and still wasn't ready for. "And because I've been in love with you for three years. The thought of you never knowing what it felt like to be wanted, completely, by someone who actually paid attention — I couldn't stand it anymore."
Your breath caught in your throat. You lifted your head to look at him, eyes wide, sure you'd misheard. "What?"
"I love you," he said again, steadier this time, like saying it once had used up all his fear. "Not as a friend. Not as a colleague. As the person I want to wake up next to for the rest of my life, if you'll let me. I've rewritten this confession in my head probably two hundred times, tried to find the perfect moment, the perfect words — and there never was one. So tonight I stopped waiting for the right time to say it, and just tried to show you instead."
Tears welled in your eyes, hot and sudden. You'd spent so long insisting that you didn't find him attractive, that he was just your best friend, that whatever you felt was loneliness dressed up as something else. But hearing him say it out loud, watching him hand you his fear like it was the safest thing in the world — you couldn't lie to yourself anymore. You never really could. You'd just been good at pretending.
"I love you too," you whispered, and the words felt strange in your mouth, like a language you'd never let yourself speak before. "I think I have for a long time. I was just too scared to say it first."
He leaned in, and the kiss that followed wasn't hungry — it was slow, careful, almost reverent, like he was sealing a promise rather than starting something. Like he needed you to feel every ounce of finally in it.
When he pulled back, he was smiling — not his usual crooked, nervous half-smile, but something wide open or unguarded, a smile you didn't think you'd ever seen on him before.
"So," he said, voice light, "what do we do now?"
"Well," you said, a matching smile spreading across your face. "I think we should probably go on a date. A real one. With dinner and a movie. And then maybe we can come back here and you can teach me about the male orgasm..."
He laughed, a full, rich sound that filled the room. "I think that can be arranged," he said, pulling you closer. "But for now, let's just sleep. We've had a big night."
And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you knew that this was just the beginning of a whole new chapter in your life, a chapter that you couldn't wait to write with him.
★・・・・・・★
a/n: second time writing smut kinda nervous, how did i do? El try not to write a praise kink challenge, level impossible #writewhatyouknow.
but like fr tho how do people write smut, like this shit is HARD (and I'm not just talking about cock bbg)
I know this is not realistic, but the man is fictional so let me be delusional, and we don't read smut to mirror our own sex lives as they are either bad or non existant xoxo we read smut for empowerment and for a fun, funky and fictional time
thanks for cumming to my TEDtalk (get it CUMming lol)
dirty little secret . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
spencer reid x reader
summary: spencer reid is a private person, and unfortunately it comes back to bite him when a case leads him to his girlfriend’s bar
Spencer Reid was one of the more private people of The Behavioural Analysis Unit, it was helpful to him on most occasions. It was easier for him to separate his work life and his home life. His coworkers were his family, of course they were he saw them everyday. But after a long day, he wanted his time in his own space, with his girlfriend and their two cats. It was easier that way and it always had been. His team didn’t know he had a girlfriend of two years, how they’d been living together for a year now. Or the two cats, named Mark Sloan and Rene Descartes. Respectfully.
That was up until The BAU ended up in the same neighbourhood as her music bar, The Live Wire. There was a string of murders in the area, the last one happened two nights ago, down the road from The Wire, as it was known in D.C. Two young women had been shot dead, just outside of where CCTV could capture it. Once in the chest, and then a second time in the head, and then their ankles were wrapped in newspaper. The police had kept an eye on the case, informing the families and allowing grievances. But this time it had deviated, same method, same appearance but this time it was a man. A well known bartender in the area, the other two girls were bartenders too, but not as known as the male was.
The Wire from the outside looks like a hipster bar cafe, plants everywhere and references to music everywhere, during the day it was. But the nighttime? It was a bustling live bar, with live music every Friday and Saturday, a different band each week, some more popular bands. It was a popular spot, everyone knew it. Even The BAU had been in there once or twice.
But they were in here on business, a few people were already in there having lunch, staff were zipping around the bar, trays filled with food that looked delicious. But Spencer already knew the food was good, the menu items he had already tried were good. Some of the staff knew him already, one or two had flashed him a smile already as he walked in with Derek Morgan and Aaron Hotchner. Morgan raised an eyebrow but brushed it off as a place Spencer would come in to read or something scholarly.
“Hey, would we be able to speak to the manager? Wherever he is?” Morgan flashed a smile to the girl behind the bar and flashed his badge. Hotch rolled his eyes at the flirting when they were on a case, not here for drinks.
“Morgan. The case. Please.” Hotch said, they were all at the bar now. The girl gave Spencer a look like she recognised him but brushed it off.
“Yeah, I’ll go grab her for you now. I think she’s just in the kitchen at the moment” She said before wandering off and leaving them with the male bartender who’d just come back with a tray of glasses.
A few moments later, the same girl came back with a woman who was dressed semi-professionally but also had some alternative vibe to her. She had a smile on her face when she approached the group, it was more of a knowing smile when she saw them. Knowing but professional.
“Can I help you guys at all?” She chirped, customer service voice was full throw.
“We were wondering if you had any CCTV footage from the murder of this man from the other day?” Spencer spoke in a voice sounding like it was reserved just for her as he handed her the photos from the incident. She took them from him, their hands brushing together accidentally. As if it were habit. Both Hotch and Morgan raised an eyebrow.
“Ohh, that’s Jonas! He worked across the street, lovely gentleman. God rest his soul” She sighed, taking in the photos before speaking again “Follow me”
Morgan and Hotch looked at each other as Spencer matched into step with her almost immediately. It was as if they knew each other, maybe a little too well, but maybe they were just close friends. Best friends maybe. Not what they actually were. She showed them to the office, it was a little cramped but they all fit. She sat in the chairs and was configuring the computer to get the footage up from the other night.
“See right there? Across the street? That’s the club Jonas worked in. Very popular. People do drugs and shit in there. It’s a good night.” She said, pointing to the CCTV where he leaving work for the night. “He usually finishes around twelve am, they’re sometimes open till 4 in the morning, depends. But, we keep our bar open until quarter to so he can come in for a drink.”
Spencer took more care than he usually would when listening to someone explain what was happening. If he did speak, it was in that same soft tone he used with her when explaining the case.
“But he didn’t come in that night did he?” Hotch asked, a professional voice. She looked up at him as the chair turned.
“Exactly, we got worried but we saw him walk away with a guy so we assumed it was a friend and they left” She shrugged, not thinking everything of it at the time. They were just told to stay vigilant with the murders of the two girls, not told a description of a killer.
“Did he usually walk off with friends after shifts?” Morgan probed
“Sometimes yeah, they would either leave or would come in here for a drink afterwards. Depends on how the shift goes really.” She chuckled softly “But that’s the way hospitality goes, I’m afraid. It’s different everyday”
“Seems like a tough shop” Morgan chuckled, Spencer did aswell, it was a soft chuckle. But a chuckle nonetheless. It would be missed by a passing person, but not a profiler. Definitely not by a profiler.
“You have no idea, FBI is light work.” She joked. It’s clear the mystery woman was cheeky. She had some mischief about her, it was fun. Spencer liked that about her the most.
“Uh huh sure” Morgan was a flirt, she’d heard about Morgan, she had. But didn’t expect that much of a flirt. Spencer really toned it down.
She raised a curious eyebrow, she didn’t ask questions. There wasn’t much time. A radio crackled on the desk, someone called after her, probably asking for something. or needed something fixed. She quickly put the CCTV footage onto a flash drive, handing it to Hotch. She knew he was the boss, even if he didn’t know that she knew. He looked like the boss.
“I have to go back now, so this is for you guys” She said as she quickly wrote down the bar’s number and her own incase they needed anymore information. Handing it to them. “If you need anymore information, please come pop in, or call me. Anything you need” She smiled, like she was asking for them to come by again. They were nice, she liked them.
She showed them out of the office, back into front of house. Walking towards the door, passing by customers who were eating lunch. As she was about to show them out the door, Hotch and Morgan already walked and Spencer held back. He paused in his step before turning around to face her.
“Are we still going ahead with movie night like we agreed on?” He asked quietly, Spencer liked routine and knowing what plans were.
“Yeah, I’m finishing at eight tonight. So I can bring pizza home?” She responded with the same kind of quiet, discreetly brushing his arm as a form of ‘I see you’
“That would be nice, I can find a movie for us to watch” He smiled, but pausing when he realised he had to go back to work now. Pulling away and going to catch up with where Hotch and Morgan were walking down the street. But not before whispering a soft “See you later”.
She watched them walk away from her bar, crossing her arms at her chest and smiling softly. Seeing Spencer would probably be the better part of her day, away from all the murders, the customers and the drivers who sent the bar’s delivery to the wrong restaurant. Going home to him later would be worth it.
As Spencer caught up with Hotch and Morgan, he had a clap on the shoulder from Morgan and an amused smile from Hotch.
“So who’s the girl, boy wonder?” Morgan chuckled
“She’s none of your business” He mumbled, his face turning red. But all Spencer could think was the pizza and movie night that was planned for four hours time.
based on Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel .. genuinely one of my favorite paintings ever it was super fun to draw this !!
this is a Clouded Leopard suit version of Chris in @littlecrittereli 's fic Reprogrammed ^_^!!! super good read once again I recommend it so much peace and love
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
enjin struggles with his confidence once he falls head over heels for your pretty self.
Enjin hated mirrors. He knew exactly what people saw when they looked at him.
The tattoos that crawled over his skin like spilled ink. The smell of smoke that clung into his clothes. The rough features and the large scar on his skull. Hands that looked better suited for fighting than to hold something beautiful.
He fit the pit and it had never been a problem until you.
You looked like something untouched by all of this. Where grime stained the walls and nearly everyone carried exhaustion beneath their eyes you somehow stayed pristine.
He didn’t even mean this in a bad way. You weren’t spoiled like the Nijikus or acted above everyone else. You were just neat.
Your clothes were always clean, layered and styled. Trimmed nails and hair that never looked tangled - even after missions. You smelled faintly like soap instead of smoke and blood and rust.
The first time Enjin saw you fixing the collar of your coat in a cracked mirror he genuinely thought you had gotten lost. Someone like you should’ve been up in the sphere - not down here beside people like him.
He cringed at himself for thinking that way. You were kind and talked to everyone the same way. Not once you had acted superior.
No, you were found joking around with the cleaners. You sat with rudo and the kids to doodle and share snacks. Enjin had once seen you sewing riyo’s jacket with a tiny sewing kit you carried around.
You belonged here more than most people. Still, Enjin’s brain couldn’t stop thinking about the difference between you and him.
Somehow his brain also added Gris to the mix. Gris with his composed appearance and smooth confidence. Gris who looked out together with his shiny blond hair. Gris who could stand beside you and just fit there.
Enjin compared himself to his friend a lot after meeting you. The ash that clung to his fingers. That he has really prominent knuckles. His tattoos that covered part of the truth and could been seen as aggressive to someone polished as you.
You didn’t smoke. Fuck, the smoking.
One night he caught sight of himself in a window reflection while lighting a cigarette and immediately put it out.
Zanka got real nervous watching this. “Are you sick?”
Enjin scoffed. “Shut up.”
But afterward he stared at the crushed cigarette under his boot and wondered if you hated the smell.
It got worse over time. Every little interaction sat under his skin for days.
He watched you smiling at Gris. Once you adjusted follo’s collar while talking to him.
It was the fucking fact that you looked so natural standing beside people who looked cleaner, calmer, prettier.
Enjin started avoiding you without even meaning to. Fuck. It wasn’t his intention, okay?
But he’d leave rooms. Stood further away during meetings or just hang outs. He pretended to be busy. Because each time you smiled at him hope blossomed in his chest.
Hope was a dangerous for someone like him.
The thing he failed to realize was that you noticed his absence.
Your expression fell a bit when he stopped sitting beside you or how he stopped joking around with you. He didn’t tease you at all anymore and you didn’t knew why.
Maybe you had upset him somehow
At first you thought maybe you’d upset him somehow until semiu spilled the beans, having mercy with the two of you.
“Dude’s losing his mind because he thinks you’d prefer Gris.”
“What?”
“You didn’t know, huh? I’m not surprised. Dude’s not known for talking about his feelings.
Suddenly everything made sense to you. And oh, your face grew warm. That was something you could work with and finally talk to him.
In the evening you got your chance when you found Enjin alone on the roof of headquarters, leaning against the railing while smoke curled into the air beside him.
You walked over quietly. “Can I sit here?”
Poor man nearly jumped as he stared at you. “Yeah. Sure.”
You sat beside him and for a moment neither of you spoke. Then you reached over, plucked the cigarette from his fingers, and took the last drag of it. Enjin stared at you in absolute horror.
“That was my last one.”
“You can survive.”
A weak laugh escaped him as he shook the head. You snipped the cig bud over the railing and it was so unlike you. He liked it.
You glanced at him carefully. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
“A little.”
“Why?”
Enjin rubbed a hand over his face.
‘because you’re too pretty for me. Because standing beside you makes me feel filthy. Because I look at Gris and think yeah, obviously you’d pick someone like him.’
He couldn’t say any of that aloud. So instead he shrugged roughly. “You just seem more comfortable around cleaner guys.”
The second the words left his mouth he regretted them. You blinked confused.
“Cleaner guys?”
“Y’know.” he gestured vaguely at himself. “Less… this.”
Oh he sounded so fucking bitter. You stared at him for several long seconds before realization softened your face.
“Oh.”
Shit. Can he please rewind and push all the words back into his throat? His jaw twitched as he spoke up again.
“You don’t gotta pretend or anything. I know what I look like.”
“Enjin.”
“You and Gris make more sense.”
“Enjin.”
“He’s—”
“Enjin.”
Your hand grabbed his wrist firmly. It shut him up instantly.
“You really think I’d choose someone based on how polished they look? Do you really think so low of me?”
He didn’t answer, because yes. No. Yes. But he didn’t think low of you.
You sighed softly, thumb brushing against the tattoos on his wrist. “I like your tattoos and those hoops in your ears.”
“What?”
“And your hands,” you smiled softly. “They look warm.”
Something genuinely helpless crossed his face. Nobody had ever described him as warm before. He knew he was the connection for many of them, but being described as warm was new.
“And for the record,” you added quieter now, “You’re really handsome.”
What?
His entire body went still. Handsome? Him? You weren’t lying either. He saw you once lying. It was terrible.
Heat climbed violently up his neck. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“No it isn’t.”
“It is.”
“You need your eyes checked.”
You laughed softly and the sound nearly killed him. Suddenly all those awful thoughts in his head felt quieter.
You shifted closer until your shoulder bumped his and you rested your head against his shoulder. Not caring that you smudged your pants on the dirty roof or that he cleaned his coat, well, many many moons ago the last time.
“I don’t care if you smoke,” you murmured. “Or if you’re rough around the edges. None of that scares me.”
“You should be scared,” Enjin whispered.
“I’m not.”
Enjin looked down at your hand still resting over his tattooed wrist and felt something painful bloom in his chest. Again the hope, but this time it didn’t feel ugly.
“Give me a chance,” you added quietly. “I’m more than clean clothes like I know you’re more than tattoos and cigarettes.”
Enjin looked at you for a long time and then he did the only right thing. He turned his hand around and interlocked your fingers together. “Okay.”
Ryland was getting ready to leave for school. “I'll see you later, baby” he said, adjusting his tie and leaning down to press a kiss to your lips like he did every day.
The moment his lips touched yours, the thick, slick product transferred to his lips. The warm scent of vanilla filled his senses, making him pull back slightly.
“Is this a new lip balm?” he asked, his eyes dropping from your eyes to your mouth. You hummed in response, “Yeah, I bought it recently”
While he was used to kissing you with lip balm on, you had never used a flavoured one before.
“M’kay” he muttered. He dipped back down to kiss you properly, his grip on your face tightening as he tasted the vanilla. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip. Usually, your morning parting kisses were quick because he had to rush out on his bike to reach school on time. Today, however, he lingered. He kept moving his lips against yours, lost in the feel of your mouth as the vanilla mixed with the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue.
For the rest of the day, he couldn't stop kissing you. He kept finding excuses to steal a quick peck, or better yet, pull you into a proper kiss. You were literally just existing, and the man was all over you, constantly leaning in with a quick, “Lemme just...” before pulling you into a smooch. You had to reapply the lip balm dozens of times because half of what you applied ended up on his lips, or directly into his system because he kept licking it off.
A few days later, he kissed you expecting that familiar vanilla flavour he had grown to love. Instead, a sweet, fruity scent hit him just before his lips landed on yours. He made a muffled noise against your mouth before pulling back, his tongue darting out to taste his own lips.
“It’s different” he whispered.
“What?” you asked.
“The flavour” he replied, “It’s not vanilla”
“It’s peach” you informed him.
His gaze dropped to your lips, noticing the sheer, light nude tint.
“‘S nice” he murmured. He leaned in to kiss you again, his tongue brushing the corner of your mouth. A tiny amount of the balm transferred to his tongue before it entered your mouth and he deepened the kiss. When he finally pulled back, you raised your hand to his face, your fingers gently wiping away the excess product smeared below his lips.
“If this keeps up, I'm going to run out of this balm way too soon” you teased.
“You have more than one, so it's fine” he said softly with a small smile.
The next few days went exactly the same way, with Ryland kissing you insistently as if he had absolutely no control over himself.
Then came the day you chose a new flavour - cherry, which left a sheer, slight red tint on your lips. Ryland noticed the difference immediately. The day went on as usual, except Ryland kept cutting you off in the middle of your sentences just to kiss you. Sometimes, his tongue would brush your lips before his actual mouth even touched yours, making you gasp into the kiss.
You were looking at your phone, “Hey, Ry, about dinner, I was thinking-”
He suddenly stepped into your space, and captured your lips in a deep, needy kiss, devouring your mouth like he was trying to taste every drop of it. When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, he murmured against your lips, “Sorry for interrupting you, babe”
You blinked, breathless, a little flush spreading across your cheeks, “It’s fine, but as I was saying-”
He leaned right back down, cutting you off again. His hands found your waist to pull you against him. Yeah, he’s not sorry in the slightest.
Another day brought another flavour - caramel. It amused him because he wasn't eating any toffee, yet he kept getting the sugary taste of it directly from your mouth. This flavour made him nip at your bottom lip a lot as if he were eating actual toffee.
One morning, you were getting ready for the day and reached out to grab whichever tube your fingers landed on first. Ryland, who was tucking his shirt into his jeans, suddenly stopped you.
“Baby, can you...” he trailed off. His eyes were trained on the peach lip balm in your hand, “Can you use the cherry one today?”
You paused, processing his words, before a slow smile spread across your face, “Oh, do you like the cherry one, Ry?” you teased.
A light blush spread across his cheeks, and he finally forced himself to look into your eyes, "Uh, n-no, nothing like that. It just...” He stumbled over his words, trying to find an excuse, “It just tastes the best out of all of them” he managed to say.
You laughed softly, switching the peach tube for the cherry one, “You know, you could just use it on yourself, right?”
He stepped closer to you the second you finished applying it, wrapping his arms around you, “Won't taste as good as it does from you” he murmured, before leaning down to kiss you.
Imagine accidentally pavloving Ryland into paying attention…
( I need clicker trained Ryland in my life)
"Grace."
Nothing.
You glanced down at your clipboard before looking back at the man who's currently attempting to see how far he could lean back in his chair before gravity eventually won.
"...Grace."
Still nothing.
His attention was somewhere beyond the conference room walls. Judging by the absentminded smile on his face, he was probably replanning a middle school science lesson in his head instead of listening to the briefing about humanity's impending extinction.
Around the table, scientists exchanged grim looks.
You sighed.
It had taken exactly four meetings to realize Dr. Ryland Grace wasn't ignoring people on purpose.
His brain simply... wandered.
Constantly.
Which was a problem when every meeting contained information that might save the world.
So you did what every exhausted government handler eventually does.
You adapted.
The first time, it had been accidental.
You noticed he'd finally answered a question after you'd slid a mug of coffee in front of him.
The second time, it happened again.
By the third meeting...
"...Grace."
You set a chocolate bar beside his notebook.
His head snapped up immediately.
"Yep."
Every eye in the room turned toward him.
"...Were you listening?"
"...Absolutely."
"You weren't."
"I wasn't."
But this was enough to help you refine the system.
Coffee.
Chocolate.
Occasionally those tiny cinnamon candies he insisted he didn't like because it's "old people candy" despite mysteriously eating every single one.
Never as a reward.
Always as a cue.
Whenever something important came up...
Tap.
A mug appeared beside him.
His attention shifted instantly.
Months later, you didn't even need the coffee anymore.
A click tap of your pen was enough to get his attention.
*Click.*
Ryland looked up automatically.
The sudden movement scaring one scientist.
—
Ryland didn't notice.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe he simply appreciated that someone had figured out how to cut through the tornado in his head without embarrassing him.
Because he'd started doing it himself.
Whenever he caught his thoughts drifting, he'd glance toward you.
You'd press the tip your pen once.
*Click.*
His focus settled back into place.
—
Months later, during one particularly heated strategy meeting, two physicists were arguing over equations while everyone else slowly lost the will to live.
Ryland had completely checked out.
His eyes were fixed on a bird outside the window.
You didn't even look up from your folder.
*Click.*
One press of your pen.
Ryland straightened instinctively.
"What'd I miss?"
Half the room stared.
He blinked.
"...Why's everyone looking at me?"
One of the engineers pointed between the two of you.
"Did..."
He frowned.
"...Did they just summon your attention?"
Ryland looked at you.
You looked back with perfect professionalism.
"No idea what you're talking about."
"...Huh."
He shrugged.
"Anyway, continue."
The meeting resumed.
Someone leaned over and whispered to you, "You're never beating the clicker-training allegations." (apparently everybody noticed Ryland's habit before this moment, much to your dismay)
"Ryland"
Without missing a beat, you reached into your bag and tossed a cinnamon candy across the table toward Ryland.
He caught it without looking.
"Thanks."
"...You brought him, treats?" the engineer whispered.
You smiled faintly.
"I'm a government agent, it's my job to keep his attention."
A blurb in which Grace and Rocky fall into the innate masculine desire of digging a gigantic hole in the sand while you and Adrian watch.
“Is digging large hole in ground part of human mating ritual?” Adrian asks as you both sit on the artificial beach watching Grace and Rocky hard at work on said giant hole in the sand. You think about that question for a bit before answering “I don’t know.”.
Adrian turns towards you, “So what is the purpose of Grace informing (name) on progress of hole if it is not some sort of display of worth?” they ask. “Your guess is as good as mine.” you shrug, “It’s just an innate desire that all human men have in them for some reason.” you remark as you watch said man and his rock companion continue with their meaningless task.
“Is digging a hole a mating thing on Erid?” you ask.
“Creating gifts and simulated nest making to show that eridian can provide for mate, yes. Creating large hole in ground, no.” Adrian answers as they turn back to look at Rocky coming up from the hole and using his two front legs to dig and his back leg to push the sand out of the way at the new spot. “Do not know why Rocky is doing this and also updating Adrian on progress.” they claim.
As if on cue, Grace looks up to both of you a little ways away and calls out “We’re making it wider!” with a big smile on his face. “Cool!” you call back in approval and watch them go back to their labor.
“Men are such fascinating creatures. You can spend years with them and never know what’s going on inside their brains and why they do half the things they do.” you remark, focusing on the way his muscles move and flex as he does his work. You stare for a while, admiring the show for a while only to hear Adrian letting out a long rumbling hum. A sound that you have learned is the hum of an Eridian basically checking someone out.
“Grace and Rocky look good digging hole.” their translator relays.
