SMUT !! PwP. Spencer is more than willing to get down on his knees like a dog for a semblance of pleasure.
──── intelligent equals who drop the equal act behind closed doors.
+ Autistic Spencer, engrained into all of my one-shots re: him. (should’ve been canon i say as they drag me away kicking and screaming)
Warnings: sub spencer (like total, tell me what to do i am beneath you spencer), soft dom reader (with explicit mentions of her being hard dom, she’s versatile i love her), inexperienced spencer (but not a virgin this time !!!! oh my god, we’re making progress), crying, condescension, praise, some light degradation, copious amounts of begging (take a shot every time spencer uses his manners and says please), handjobs, head (reader receiving, spencer mentioned to receive), sex on every surface — SEX MARATHON (oh my god someone sedate them holy shit???????), they’re cute if you can believe me after reading all of that.
— this one is kinda academic!! learn something new while you goon guys!!! intellectual gooning!!!
w.c: 3.2k
A/N: tap tap tap is this thing on??? I apologise, it has been like a year and I can’t promise how consistent I will be with posting henceforth, but here i am…..
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Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
Midnight. The world feels pale and weightless, rinsed out and left to dry. He’s airy, courtesy of the Cabernet Sauvignon split over dinner.
Not drunk, he tells himself. Outside the restaurant, the light bleeds off the street lamps in a slow haemorrhage. He stumbles, wayward in movement: flushed cheeks, wine-soft mouth, half-unraveled already.
You’re standing beside him, and he never learnt how to talk to pretty girls. Not really. Not when it matters.
His mind won’t stop. Alcohol affects cognitive function, warnings smeared across college bulletin boards. He can confirm; right now, he is not functioning remotely. He should’ve told you, god he really should’ve told you that you’re beautiful. That he saw you a month ago and has been ruining himself in the weeks between.
If this is a humiliation ritual, then he will gladly regard it as a kink.
What do you think of him? The question nags.
Spencer, Spencer who you think is too soft. He wears a halo like the crooked glasses he traded last fall. Intellect like the black-hole in his stomach.
He is too good, too good for you, too good for anyone. He’ll stare at you like a wounded animal, but feed from touch regardless.
He’s a mess and you’re relating him to divinity. Well, divinity and wing-clipped birds.
Here. Now. In this moment that spills back into time, his brain is a blur of obscure facts, futile etymology, half-formed footnotes. Freud’s death drive loops behind his eyes, fucking Thanatos—right now?
“Good?” you ask. “Maybe we shouldn’t of ordered a bottle, ostentatious.”
Spencer laughs boyishly. He can’t believe you agreed. Internally, he’s 14 again; all elbows and unbrushed hair, holding the kind of loneliness that calcifies into something permanent.
He remembers the way girls used to approach him: lacquered nails tapping against lockers, mascara-heavy eyes, dressed in body spray and spite. Daring each other to flirt with the boy who could recite the periodic table backwards.
He fell for it. Fell for it until it carved something mean into his stomach. Something he never quite outgrew.
“It’s etiquette,” he argues, too earnestly.
“Ettiquette. Right. Next time, we should order everything off the wine menu and see how long it takes for us to get kicked out.”
Spencer is too strangled by the notion of a next time to even discern the rest of your sentence.
He blinks at you. ”Next time?”
“Yeah, Einstein.” your shoulder knocks into his. “Next time.”
You say it so definitively. Like you know, are terrifyingly consciously aware, that you own the noose looped around his throat.
Spencer is fine suffocating, if it means his mind will call cease-fire. Shut up shut up shut up. That last glass of wine was a big mistake.
He thinks of Pascal’s wager, betting on belief, even without certainty. No, he thinks of Camus’ absurdism, the conflict between humans search for meaning. No. Japanese ma (間) - the space between, the silence that holds tension. Fuck fuck fuck.
The smart ones always make dumb decisions. He should’ve never picked up the bottle in general.
So what’s he going to do? Word vomit. (…. nothing screams successful end-of-date behaviour like a spontaneous lecture on metaphysics and emotional dysfunction).
“You know, Schopenhauer believed that existence is driven by this blind, irrational force—The Will—and that it, um… well, compels everything to keep striving, desiring, even though fulfilment is always temporary.“
Great start. He’s going to die alone. “So we chase, we want, and we think that when we get the thing we want, we’ll be at peace, but we’re not, because..”
He makes a small, helpless gesture, like he’s trying to pull the words to him..
“The Will just,… finds something new to want. We’re built to be dissatisfied. We’re—we’re biologically wired for hunger, for longing. Even this, even you, saying next time—it lights up every neuron in my brain, every craving, every ridiculous, hopeless part of me that wants to hold onto you and know there’ll be more. But if Schopenhauer’s right, it’s all just… another loop. Another itch I can’t scratch.”
Spencer wonders if there’s a fault in his binary coding. “I’m sorry— that’s a lot. I just…. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to just… let myself want something without dissecting it to death.”
He’s still half-laughing, half-apologising, all stuttered ‘i’m sorry’s’ and ‘Derek is going to kill me for fumbling this’ when you cut through.
“Spencer. Genuinely, who cares?” You catch his wrist, sharp enough to register. “I’m not telling you there might be a next time. I’m telling you there will be.”
When you make decisions for him, it feels like a relief his prefrontal cortex can’t justify; you’ve short-circuited his need for autonomy by offering something even more seductive: certainty.
If he pops a boner right now, please have the decency to look away.
You sigh, “Stop running theoreticals in your head, genius. You just have to show up. Think you can manage it?”
Spencer swallows. “Um—yeah. Yeah. Definitely. I’ll uh,” he gives you this awkward, ‘I’m really trying!’ smile, “I’ll write it into my calendar…?”
“Preferably in red ink. With a little exclamation mark.”
“Oh. Okay. Yes ma’am.”
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Spencer likes dates. Like when your knees knock under tables, likes your ankle hooked around his, likes the drag of your thigh when you shift in cramped spaces.
His favourites exist in coffee shops, when you overstay, just to psychoanalyse a stranger three tables over. When you stand up to stretch, soft and godless. He picks lint from his sweater like it means something, shows up with flowers and dumb memorabilia; pressing receipts into your palm, ‘Keep this, it’s from the night we first met,’ all wide-eyed intimacy that comes in a soft package.
He wears your hair tie like a wedding band around his wrist. Starts to humour horoscopes, simply because your star-signs match. If they decide to deem you ‘incompatible’ one day, he will resort back to fuck the stars, what are they anyway? Hydrogen and helium gas bombs. They’re wrong,… baseless.
Seventh date. You have him up against a bookcase, and he can only recite [ Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxyg… ] as you carve your way down his neck.
He keeps pausing, to highlight the legal risks of public indecency, to compare you to the Golden Ratio. 1.618: he can trace the sequence in your bone structure. He’s found it in autopsies and blood spatter and now, somehow, in the curve of your eyebrow.
“You should um…. come back to my place.” Spencer winces. “Ha, that sounded like a proposition. It’s not. I mean—I don’t think it is?”
He laughs, dropping his head to your shoulder. “I just…. have this list of movies I want to watch with you. Because people, normal people, do that right?”
“Last time I checked…”
“Okay. Yeah. Good. Um, here’s your warning. My TV buffers randomly, and the subtitles are stuck in Dutch for some reason, but… I have good snacks?”
Your hands bleed through his hair, sinking to the scalp. If he moans right now, he will kill himself.
Instead, he just blushes, pulling his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m aware I’m not selling this well.”
“Heeey. I like subtitles. Subtitles are good. I’m a talker, so it’s probably for the best—“
“—You like talking. I love talking. Everyone always looks at me weird when I pause 12 angry men to explain how Juror 8’s entire argument hinges on cognitive bias theories that weren’t even formalised until decades later, but! but! they’re so obvious if you just know where to look—“
He cuts himself off, goes to apologise (for the nth time this week). You beat him to it.
“Or when you try to explain how Solaris isn’t about space at all, it’s about the impossibility of human connection and how every interaction we have is just a projection of ourselves on the other person. Yup. Been there. My friends hate me. Movie nights are banned. It’s a crime.”
Fuck. Everything. You simply exist, talk all your pretty intellectual words, and now nothing else feels sufficient for him.
Queue the vows.
Sometimes, he gets off on the thought of exclusivity, commitment. Statistically, he knows that’s not marketable. Porn doesn’t cater to emotional stability.
Monogamy. Eye contact. Not exactly a thriving niche in adult content.
“Right. OK. You just summarised Solaris in one sentence. Cool.” he blinks, then again…. “Let’s get married.”
He stares. Kicks himself mentally. Attempts to backtrack. “I mean… platonically! Intellectually! The cost of living is too high right now to live alone— not….”
You scoff. “Platonically? You just had my tongue down your throat.”
“What? And you don’t kiss your friends?” he says, before holding up his hands in surrender. “That’s um, I was joking. I have never done that, won’t ever do that—can we leave now?”
“Scared we’re gonna get caught?”
“Yes, actually. I’m ah, a very serious FBI agent. It would be…. distasteful?… to be seen in such a compromising position.”
“You’re into it.”
“Yeah…” he sighs, like he’s disgusted by his own perverted actions, “Potentially.”
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Spencer’s place is quiet, paper-soft around the edges—patchwork blankets thrown over mismatched furniture, books stacked into every miscellaneous corner.
The city outside is slick. Shitty late night weather: puddles that reflect sodium streetlights, fractured constellations smeared across the asphalt. It’s humid, everything outside smells of petrichor and old stone.
You’re both splayed across the couch, watching old re-runs as you debate over a movie. Dumb little arguments, interrupted by messy kisses that escalates into tangles of limbs and skin, and ‘oh? what was I saying?’
He lives in his own untouchable haze of domesticity. Leaving behind pen smudges and ringed coffee stains. He’ll let you kiss him, sweater half-on, collared shirt underneath creased. Pausing to pull himself together, only to ruin it all over again when his lips return obediently to yours.
Right now. Present moment. You’re straddling him. Bunched up fabric and heated touches He makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
He wonders if you believe in limbic resonance. Wonders if his nervous system has attuned to yours emotionally.
“I want…” (he pauses, the words you, you, you lingering in his horny, sleep-deprived mind). “I want to.. be able to show you how I feel,” he says, which is an odd way of saying ‘I want to make you feel good.’
He’s just glad he can speak. Everything feels like glass and balanced china.
“This… yeah, .. shit Spence. “ — you can feel the pressure, the prominent bulge that presses between your thighs.
Maybe you’re hedonistic for dragging your hips against it. Earning a choked whimper from Spencer, who looks like he’s about to unravel.
“But—“ your voice drops mean. But what? You have the physical manifestation of warmth beneath you? What could possibly be more important than taking care of him?
“We should really figure out what movie we’re watching. I still haven’t seen Rashomon, which is a crime in itself….”
Interesting use of free-will.
It’s bait. Spencer knows it’s bait. Still, he’s a naive loser with a hard-on and prominent inexperience, so he bites, predictably. “Yeah. Huge crime.” pause. “Oh— ohmygod, you’re torturing me. That’s worse. That’s the actual crime here.”
His hips arch up to meet yours. Yes, yes please. He does not get out a lot (read: at all), and this is an amalgamation of every wet-dream, come to reality.
If he wakes up to tangled sheets, sweaty with damp in his pants, he will sue.
“You’re the worst.” he whines, “I really really don’t care if it’s bad manners, I want to kiss you again. I want to do a lot—don’t… please, I will beg. I have no dignity, I don’t care.”
You think there might be fatal consequences if you don’t remove his clothes in the matter of seconds. So, diligently, like a good house-guest, you work on his tie: tugging at the knot, unravelling it to start on his shirt.
“Thank you,” he says , genuinely terrified you’d leave him half-hard to watch a movie about the philosophy of justice.
Torso bare: he’s lean under those grandad clothes. Skinny, with olive-toned skin and sensitive nipples. Whore, you think, virginal, you settle on.
“Please—“
“Please what?” you repeat, pushing your hand against his chest, palm outstretched, forcing him back against the cushioned surface. “Use that big brain of yours to tell me what you actually want. I need words Spence, i’m sick of hearing pointless begs.”
“Anything,” he whimpers out. Little ah ah’s that bounce off the walls of his very grown-up apartment. In contrast, he feels like an angsty teenager now. “You could do anything to me. That’s what I want— I’m… I’m very good at following instructions!”
He will debase himself. Because, hello? He’s hard, throbbing and needy, and if you want to use force to coax him into coherence, then yes please…
No complaints here.
Your top comes off. Discarded fabric marking its way across his hardwood floor. Something incriminating. Perhaps it constitutes as evidence; that you have him, painfully awkward Spencer Reid, who averts his eyes and fumbles over sentences, all blushed and undone on the same couch he litters with academic journals.
Of course anything academic has been sidelined; he’s too busy marking his way across your breasts, messy lips latching onto nipples, leaving behind tethered strings of saliva, to care about…. IQ’s and WAIS scores.
“Do you think about this often?” you tug at his hair, pull him off your skin like a leashed dog. “Spencer. Listen to me when i’m speaking to you.”
“Mhm,.. ‘m sorry…”
He looks like he’s about to cry. He’d argue tears of fucking joy.
“Do you touch yourself and think of me?”
Everything is coming out wrangled. “Yes—“ he whimpers, “All the time. I can’t stop…. That’s bad. I’m sorry. That’s really bad….”
The TV is still playing. To Spencer’s dismay, it doesn’t muffle every indecent word that leaves his bruised lips undisclosed.
“I think about you every time I do—do that.”
They’re going to take away his badge, demote him to some office rookie. He will be punished for every night he’s stuck his hand down his pants and came to your name.
“The other day… when you dropped me off, when you got really close, I had to um,… you know, in the shower.”
He has the audacity to follow that confession up with: “I respect you, so much. But—you’re making me dirty. And I—“
Spencer’s hand clasps around your wrist, dragging your palm to his erection, the fabric soaked through with pre-cum.
He bucks up. Whines, like he can’t handle the consequences of his own actions.
“It’s a— a psychological process.” he says, in a last ditch attempt at maintaining (some) semblance of control. “When you see something you like, the visual stimulus affects your autonomic nervous system, which is.. um, linked to your hypothalamus. I’m, ah.. I’m a little overwhelmed,… if that helps?”
A pained whimper tears through him. “Oh— oh,” he can’t help himself in grinding against your palm.
You’re having a psychosexual effect on his brain. Everyone point and call out shame shame shame. “I need you,… just, just take care of me. Please?”
“Oh look at that, you asked so nicely. That was an actual request, well done.”
“I can be nicer.” Spencer argues; pathetic. So pathetic that it aches.
Someone collect his backbone on the way out.
You remove his pants, his stained boxers. If there’s anytime to play coy, it’s now, when you’re wrapping a hand around his cock: long, curved, with cum pearling around the pretty flushed tip
Everything is messy. The soak of saliva and lubricated arousal. “How does that feel? Poor baby, so deprived…”
It might be time to admit that he’s in over his head. How you’ve managed to reduce his thought process to base instinct is beyond comprehension.
It’s impressive. Spencer wants to study your skills in a lab.
“Feels,..” his words spill into sloppy whines, head falling back against the couch to bare the unmarred expanse of his neck. “You’re good. Too good! This is— you’re… I can’t last. I’m sorry, I can’t.”
It’s mean. Mean, making him watch as your hand drags down his length. He’d take notes, if he wasn’t so gone, because fuck, his own palm never felt this good.
This is corruption. Everytime you brush your thumb over his tip, he is being tainted. Left with too much pleasure for his big, yet so so dumb, brain!
Swollen lips part, forming a little o. He’s liquid, melting, coming apart at the seams. The orgasm itself makes him choke back mewls; it feels like warmth, it feels like he just debunked Schopenhauer, because for the first time, in his jagged life, he’s satisfied.
Personal record. He lasted 30 seconds. At least he didn’t cry,… improvements improvements. (A mercy kill sounds ideal right now.)
He doesn’t care about eloquence. Noise control, a filtered disposition. You’re kissing him through it, gentle parenting at this point, talking out soft praises that he’ll repeat later as he pre-orders a ring.
( ‘So perfect. There’s my boy. Shh shh, I know it’s a lot, you can take it.‘ ) Spencer wants your words under his skin. ( ‘Mm. You really needed this. It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.’)
This is a well-respected FBI agent. Condolences to the victims of the cases he works on.
“I didn’t know it could feel like that—“ he’s clambering over you, a fervid tangle of limbs, trying to communicate through actions.
He fumbles with the button of your jeans, stuttering out sorry! sorry! when his hands fail at simple tasks.
“Shh—slow down. Hey, eyes on me.” you say, coaxing his gaze to yours. “Chill out, Einstein. I’m not going anywhere. Literally, you’ve kinda got me cornered here.”
“Mm, yup. Can we stay like this forever?” he laughs, abandoning task to kiss you again. “Well, y’know… after i’ve gotten you off, of course.”
“Wow, a real gentleman.”
“The best. You should probably keep me.”
“Every intention. Knees.”
Spencer drops immediately. Like he was born to be reduced to such a demeaning position. There, he hooks his hand around your ankle and repositions you: legs draped over his shoulder, thighs parted - adequate room for him to slot between.
“I have an oral fixation. So, yeah. You can shut me up like this anytime. In fact,” he looks up, smiles, inches from your clit. “I insist.”
He’s not careful, nor considerate. He’s still strangled by the belief that he needs to repay you for making him see constellations. Burdened with the holy weight of being wanted, his tongue drags across your swollen clit, collecting wetness, before drawing it into the heat of his mouth.
Face drenched, cheeks smeared, he buries himself, sees god as he traces halos. He really really doesn’t want to do a subpar job. His mind has fixated, so now he’s going to overcompensate.
He is so so good at pleasing. He wants you to be proud, to give him a gold star and glowing reviews. He wants to be needed, to find some use in himself. To appease and provide and let you dictate his entire existence.
Your thighs tighten, groans, punctured moans crowding the stuffy air with noise. You feel the push of his fingers, long, deft digits, filling up hollow space, carving their methodical touch inside.
“Fuck—Just like that. There we go. So much better when your mouth is preoccupied.”
You can hear him whimpering, muffled little begs, careless and hurried, as he suffocates. He pushes through, abandoning trivial concepts like oxygen, pft—unnecessary. It’s a myth, Priestley was wrong. Lavoisier named a fallacy.
“Good boy. Good fuckin’ boy.”
Spencer stares up at you with a mouthful of pussy. Doe-wide eyes, glossy. “Just for you.”
Then, he’s returning to the task: tongue dragging between folds, leaving him to sloppily suck at your swollen clit.
He’s not sure who’s getting off on this more.
His fingers curve, earning a strangled gasp that has him nudging closer. You can only cant your hips upwards, limbs flagging, squirming as the bliss runs through. Snaking its way around your body until you’re overstimulated, hiccuping broken sounds.
In the aftermath, he has the audacity to press a chaste kiss to your clit. To clean up his mess, like a respectful citizen.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Pointless. Every inch of him is smeared. There’s cum on the couch, and Spencer is currently situated on his knees, looking all too confident in his ministrations.
“Maybe we should’ve done this in the shower,” you say, knocking your thigh against his flushed cheek. “Shit, i’m going to ride you so hard for that.”
“Right now? Is that an option? Please say that’s an option.” he stands, stumbles, nearly knocks over a book as he fights the need for friction. “Because im hard again. And yeah—ow.”
He eats his own words.
Every sexually-suppressed nerve in his spent body is assiduously destroyed. You christen his kitchen, his bathroom, bed and dining table. He cries into the sex, let’s you bully him through every thrust: ‘Cmon, harder. I know you have it in you. Don’t make me disappointed.’
He genuinely, hand over heart, sobs when you take his overused, very confused, cock into his mouth later. His entire body is a bruise. You own every scrape. Tears spill down his flushed cheeks, wetting the soft skin there. “Shut up,’ you say, ‘Just stand there, look pretty and fucking take it.’ Or, ‘Behave. Show me that I’ve trained you well.’
And you have! You really have! Because he does shut his mouth, and he does thankyou after.
Refractory periods are apparently banished, you seem hellbent on corrupting him in every position, angle, and—
He has blame. Vindictive, censurable blame. If, mid-way through attempt 2 of after-care, he gets a little too fixated on the sight of your slick-wet skin, the steam of the shower, and his wandering touch.
And sure, maybe he drops to his knees the moment you suggest Star-Trek for background noise.
Every part of him is impure. Maybe he was born to live inside you.
Post-touch, stretched out across the mattress, the sheets are kicked aside: relinquished, probably in dire need of being burnt, entropy spilled between linen. Spencer turns to meet your stare.
“This is so unhygienic,” he mutters, pressing the pad of his forefinger to your bottom lip, cracked open, still branded by his teeth. “I’m gonna have to bathe myself in hand sanitiser.“
“Well I clearly can’t trust you in the shower.”
“Hey.” he pouts. “I want a do-over. Let me wash your hair. Then you can wash mine, and it’ll be just like that one shampoo ad I saw.”
“Mm, nothing makes stocks sell like the promise of domestic bliss.”
“Exactly!” he rolls over, rests his chin between your breasts—the same ones that are stained red, imprinted with Spencer-owned bruises. “Hear me out on this: shower, nap, movie marathon.”
You laugh, gather his face in the palms of your hands. Watch, real time, as he softens into molten gold “Yeah, OK. You’re on.”
There’s this study on Oxtocin, how it creates memory impressions during intimacy; a clinical way of saying that he will remember every detail of this until the day he dies.
Summary: after a note from a very known, very popular girl in school ended up in Spencer's locker, you agree to keep a close distance in the parking lot just in case something goes wrong, and it turns into a late night hangout which he thinks he messed up.
Highschool senior!Spencer Reid x fem!reader
notes/warnings: highschool AU like senior year for both
words:1845
It was late September in Vegas, the kind of afternoon where the sun hit the pavement just enough to make it shimmer, but not enough to make you sweat. The air held the first hint of fall, cooler in the shade, a little crisper in the lungs. You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, school books scattered around in a circle, but neither of you were remotely focused on homework. Spencer was lying on his stomach beside you, long legs stretched out and his hair slightly disheveled from where he’d kept brushing it back. He was halfway through a passionate explanation of Schrödinger’s cat and how it related to quantum superposition, his words tumbling over one another with excitement.
“I mean, think about it,” he said, his voice light and full of energy. “You don’t actually know if the cat is dead or alive until you observe it. So, it’s both, in a way. That’s the beauty of theoretical physics. The possibilities are layered, uncertain until we collapse them into one.”
You were smiling at him, not because you understood every word (he was three textbooks ahead of you in AP Physics), but because he was radiant when he talked about things he loved. There was something magical about how alive he became when he was in his element.
You nudged his shoulder gently. “You’re the only person I know who could make theoretical death traps for cats sound poetic.”
He gave a soft, amused breath through his nose, his eyes flicking toward you. “It’s not a real cat, you know. It’s just a metaphor-”
“I know, Spencer. I was joking.”
A comfortable silence settled for a beat before he looked away from the spiral notebook in front of him and said casually, “Oh, by the way… I got a note today.”
You raised a brow, curious. “What kind of note?”
“From a girl,” he said, eyes still not on you. “It was in my locker when I went to get my calculus book. It said ‘meet me by the parking lot after school’ and it was signed. By Katie Shilling.”
You blinked, processing. Katie Shilling. Blonde, cheerleader, loud laugh in the hallways—she was popular in that low-effort, effortless kind of way. Pretty, always surrounded by people, not the type you'd ever imagined would pass notes to Spencer Reid. You tried to keep your face neutral.
“She signed it?” you asked.
“Yeah. In purple ink. Her handwriting has that… bubbly roundness to it. I compared it to a worksheet she turned in last week in chem.”
Of course he did. You tried not to smile. “And… what do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. Statistically, high school pranks increase in frequency after senior year starts. Especially targeting those perceived as…” he paused, hesitating.
“Different?” you offered.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
You looked at him, really looked at him. His eyes were glassy, distant, like he was bracing himself. Your heart sank a little. You knew how often Spencer was underestimated or mocked, how people could be cruel simply because he didn’t blend in. He was smarter, quieter, and kinder. And that made him a target.
You reached out and lightly touched his arm. “Do you want me to come with you after school?”
He hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. “Could you… stay hidden? Just in case it’s nothing. Or something.”
“Of course,” you said, instantly. “We’ll treat it like a stakeout.”
A small, grateful smile ghosted across his face.
The next day dragged by, every ticking clock hand slow and full of tension. You caught Spencer glancing at his locker between classes, his brows furrowed. You knew he was turning it over in his mind, trying to calculate the odds of something real versus something malicious. When the final bell rang, you followed him outside, ducking behind the old oak near the edge of the parking lot. Spencer stood where the note said, backpack slung over one shoulder, fidgeting with the strap, eyes scanning every person that passed.
You crouched lower behind the tree. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
And then, they showed up.
Three guys. Not jocks, not that obvious, but loud enough. Familiar troublemakers from third period. They moved in like shadows, too casual, too slow, and then it shifted. One of them shoved Spencer’s backpack from his shoulder. Another smacked the books from his hands. Names started, quiet at first, then louder, sharper. “Freak.” “Robot.” “Too smart to function.”
You didn’t wait.
Before the third guy could land another jab, you pushed off from behind the tree and stormed toward them.
“Hey!” you barked, stepping directly between Spencer and the guys. “Back off.”
They blinked, surprised. One of them smirked. “What, is he your boyfriend now?”
“Would it matter if he was?” you snapped. “You three idiots have nothing better to do than ambush someone after school? Real tough.”
They muttered, one scoffing, another looking vaguely embarrassed. The third rolled his eyes and said, “Whatever. This is boring anyway.”
And then, they turned and left, just like that. Like it wasn’t worth the energy.
You turned to Spencer, who was crouching, picking up his books without a word. His hands were trembling. You knelt beside him, silently helping gather everything back into a messy pile. His notebook was crumpled, the corner bent inwards. You gently folded it back.
“Come on,” you said quietly. “You’re coming to my house.”
He looked at you, eyes wide. “Are you sure?”
“My parents aren’t home tonight. I can make popcorn and we’ll watch something stupid and loud. You’re not being alone after that.”
He gave the faintest nod.
The drive to your house was quiet. He sat beside you in the passenger seat, legs curled up just slightly, his hands still twitchy. You put on the radio, you both liked instrumental stuff, soft piano over ambient soundscapes, and let it fill the silence. When you pulled into your driveway, he followed you inside like a shadow.
The rest of the evening felt like a soft blur of trying to forget.
You both changed into more comfortable clothes. He wore one of your oversized hoodies because his shirt was torn at the sleeve, and it looked ridiculously big on him, but he didn’t complain. You made popcorn, added M&M’s to it like you always did, and threw a blanket over the both of you on your bed while some old sci-fi movie played in the background.
You kept the lights dim, fairy lights around your window the only glow in the room. You made a few dumb jokes, he laughed once or twice, and slowly, that tightness in his shoulders eased.
It was nearly two in the morning by the time the world felt like it had stilled. The movie had long since ended, the credits a distant memory, and only the soft hum of your fairy lights buzzed faintly in the background. Your room smelled faintly of popcorn and vanilla, and the blanket wrapped around both of you had slipped lower, pooled at your waists.
He had barely moved in the last half hour, lying on his side with his head propped on one arm, facing you. His other hand was idly tracing invisible patterns into the comforter, a small nervous tick you’d seen before. He hadn’t said much since earlier, just little sentences, half-thoughts, but now, in the low light, his eyes looked darker, deeper, heavy with something else entirely.
You weren’t sure who was studying who more.
“I used to think if I just… kept my head down, no one would notice me,” he said softly, his voice carrying in the quiet. “If I didn’t correct people or answer questions too quickly or… quote weird facts. I thought maybe they’d stop.”
You kept your gaze on him, gentle. “But you didn’t stop.”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know how to not be me.”
There was something so raw in the way he said it, so completely unguarded, that your chest ached. You reached over and placed your hand over his, fingers brushing his knuckles, and that seemed to quiet something inside him. He looked down at where your hands met, his thumb brushing the back of yours, almost absentmindedly.
Then, with the faintest inhale, he lifted his gaze again.
You watched something shift in his expression, eyes lingering on your face, flicking from your eyes to your mouth and back again. There was a hesitance to it, a tension coiled in his posture. He was thinking too hard. Calculating it. You could almost see it happening behind his eyes.
“Spence,” you murmured.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and then, before you could ask why, he leaned in.
The kiss was soft. Barely there. It was the kind of kiss you almost imagined you dreamed, gentle pressure, a warm breath, the ghost of his lips touching yours like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. He lingered only for a moment before pulling back, eyes wide, full of guilt before you’d even said a word.
“I’m…God, I’m sorry,” he blurted, pulling back further, already shaking his head. “That was, stupid, I don’t know why I did that, I didn’t mean to make it weird-”
“Spencer-”
“I don’t want to ruin anything, I just…It’s late and I’m tired and you were being nice to me and I think maybe my brain misinterpreted-”
“Spence.”
“-and I promise I wasn’t trying to take advantage or anything-”
You reached out, grabbed the front of your hoodie that he was still wearing, and tugged him forward before he could spiral any further.
And then you kissed him.
This time, deliberately. No hesitation, no accident, no uncertainty.
His lips were soft again, but this time his breath caught against yours, his hand gripping the blanket for balance. You could feel him exhale slowly through his nose, feel the way the tension bled out of his shoulders as you pressed in gently.
When you finally pulled back, your hand still lightly resting against his chest, he looked dazed, blinking like he wasn’t entirely sure what plane of reality he was on.
You smiled a little.
“Wasn’t weird,” you said softly.
He blinked once. “It… wasn’t?”
You shook your head. “Not even close.”
His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and he looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time, like somehow, you’d just redefined the edges of his world.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you said, voice low. “Not when it’s real.”
And just like that, he smiled, shy, relieved, like a weight had quietly lifted off his chest. He didn’t say anything else.
dailybridgerton
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