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.
A/N: I do not wanna see ANY Minors in this bitch. Seriously. Like you'll get it when you get older I promise. This worm has been wiggling around in my brain for MONTHS. Things have been so busy that it's been a real struggle trying to write. I really hope you all like my excuse to write porn. Thank you to @cafekitsune for the border/dividers used. Thank you to @beenreidingaboutyou and @alsofoundinpeas and practically the WHOLE discord server for letting me send this google docs to you and yapping with me about logistics (positions at one point I'm sure). Enjoy!
Link to the AO3: Busy Woman -> Link to the: Yee olde masterlist Tags: Smut with plot. Reader is a maneater, some she/her pronouns at one point or another, PinV sex yall, wrap it up!!!! condoms my beloved (they are not used here, reader and the team go out drinking, spencer reid yapping, reader is a dommy mommy idc Spencer Reid would have a mommy kink, he’s a whiner, SUB SUB SUB SUB Spencer, nothing too crazy sexually (in my eyes), i forget something else this is porn, no creampie for you!!! (I know... i know..).
Genre: Smut w/ Plot. Pairing: ManeaterBAUFem!Reader x Season4!SpencerReid
Plot: After spending countless months watching you break men's hearts, Spencer is surprised when you call a sudden dating hiatus. Amid your 'break,' you confide in your lanky coworker how much you miss certain physical intimacies. Spencer is quick to offer a solution.
Word count: 11,827
A man-eater… by definition, is a woman who uses men to have a series of sexual relationships but does not love the men. The thought of being one of those men has been lingering in the back of Spencer’s mind for the past eight months.
He knows, of course, that you’re more nuanced than that feeble definition. The team never misses the opportunity to tease you; your dating habits are an ongoing joke and mystery within the bureau. Derek often jokes that the two of you are peas in a pod, which, in turn, makes you respond that he’s the one with commitment issues, not you. You insist that you’re just picky.
You’d give any guy a chance until they disappoint you, and then you’re gone. You knew what you wanted from them, and if they couldn’t fulfill those ‘duties’ (as Emily jokingly puts it), then it wasn’t worth it. Spencer hates to admit it —to you or anyone else— but he loves how you detach from them.
He likes how you lure them in with honey and how they drop like flies at your feet— that trap of yours working effortlessly. It feels strangely voyeuristic, which makes him feel like a creep, but he swears it isn’t like that. If he could describe it better, he’d say it was more like a form of admiration. He likes that you know what you want out of your relationships. The way you don’t stick around and accept bad behavior. It’s exceptional and incredibly intimidating. Maybe femme fatale would be a better title, though he doubts you’ve ever destroyed a man’s life, as that definition suggests. Distress? Most definitely.
His eyes are glued to you now as you brush a stray hair behind your ear, how your brows knit together when you’re concentrating, watching as your left hand plays with the chain of your necklace. Tearing his eyes away from you, he focuses on the map on his desk, circling the location of the recent body discovered earlier that morning. JJ leans over his right shoulder, her blue eyes looking at the work-in-progress geographical profile with silent intrigue.
She leans away from him, folding her arms across her chest, getting lost in thought until her gaze lands on you. You were so focused a few minutes ago, but now you’re looking at one of the officers across the station. He was young, about the same age as Spencer, if she had to guess. His uniform is a little loose on him, the material around his arms droops, and his shirt hangs off his body in a way that makes it obvious he’s wearing a size too big for him.
She watches with you as he tucks it into his pants nervously, his fingers adjusting his collar as he mutters something under his breath. He’s handsome, boyish, with decently styled brunette hair. His dimples pop when he gives one of his fellow officers a slight grin— just your average prey. “Don’t give him that look.”
Your eyes are on her in seconds, and she holds back a laugh when she sees your offended expression. “What look?” You sound shocked, glancing at the young officer. “I was just people-watching.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is hunting.” JJ counters as Emily walks in with a coffee in hand.
“Oh? She’s on the prowl away from home? Down girl, down!”
You frown, eyes narrowed as you look between the two women taunting you. “I’m not a dog. A girl can’t make an observation anymore?”
Emily shakes her head as she pulls her coffee cup away from her lips, “Not when the girl is you.”
Your frown deepens, looking at Spencer with a look that silently pleads for help. He can never resist that look— it’s one he knows well. He looks over his shoulder at JJ and gives her a light pout, “I don’t think that’s a fair assumption of her character.”
JJ’s eyes shine with amusement. This is how the dance usually went. You’d be selecting some poor gentleman as your next meal, they’d tease you about it, and then Spencer would come rushing in to protect your honor— assuming you had any, to begin with. “Spencer the Valiant enters into the arena, ladies and gentlemen.” Her hand comes up to playfully ruffle his hair.
Spencer fails to dodge her efforts. “Don’t,” he grumbles as he swats at her hand as it touches his already messy curls. “Do that.” He can never catch a break when it comes to being teased by the team.
You grin, watching Spencer flatten out his hair carefully, rearranging it until it’s slightly neat and wavy. You silently motion to him that part of his hair is still sticking up and watch as he blindly tries to fix it. Watching him struggle with his hair, you break the usual respect you show for his personal space, leaning over and smoothing down the cowlick with a soft chuckle.
His cheeks are red, watching you lean away from him, his gaze awkwardly avoiding yours. “Besides,” You begin, looking at the young officer with a charming smile. “You and Will make it work, don’t you?” You ask, talking to JJ without looking at her.
JJ scoffs a little, watching as the young officer looks up from his desk and across the station— he won’t last. You give him a little wave and flirty smile combo before looking at JJ. “Don’t even think about it,” JJ warns, but you technically don’t have to do anything. You shrug a little, looking down at the evidence pile on your desk.
Not while the young officer stands up, smoothing out his too-big uniform and taking large strides over to you. You don’t have to look to know he’s coming. JJ shakes her head with Emily when he arrives at your side. When he clears his throat, you don’t look up from your task, twirling a pen around your fingers.
The way you look up with gentle doe eyes and a polite smile on your lips as you turn to face him has Emily holding back a giggle. You blink a little, eyes reading the name tag on his uniform— David Miller. “Can we help you with something, Mister…” You trail off, acting as though you hadn’t just read his name tag.
“Miller and I don’t need help from all of you, maybe just you.” His voice is slightly deeper than you expected, and he sounds confident— which is fine— you just thought he’d be the shy type.
You let out a soft ‘ah,’ nodding slowly like the idea just occurred to you. “Well, as sweet as that is,” you don’t even let the poor guy officially ask you out. You just openly assume. “I’m afraid we’re all swamped working on this case— myself included.” You watch his broad shoulders slump slightly— the action doesn’t even last a full second— and you sigh like you’re contemplating something. “But maybe we could get a coffee in the break room?”
His demeanor brightens, eyebrows raising as he asks, “Now?”
You shrug, looking at the clock on the wall, “Ten minutes.” Standing, you brush off your jeans, as if this sudden coffee date weighs heavily on you. “You coming?” As you walk towards the breakroom, the question hangs in the air, and you don’t even bother looking back to see if he’s following you.
Three days later, Spencer watches you frown at David. Words can not describe how much he hates David. Well, many words could describe how much he dislikes David, but Spencer Reid is not a man to spit petty remarks at a man undeserving of them (though some may disagree). In truth, he only dislikes David because he envies him a little… he’s lying to himself. Spencer Reid envies that man with an intensity that rivals forest fires.
Spencer watches as David’s lips form words he cannot hear— words he’s sure you know all too well— Stay. He watches as you give David a small, sympathetic smile. His gaze lingers on your plump lips as you lean in to press a chaste kiss to another man’s lips, and he can imagine the sticky, sweet tone of your voice as you tell him that you have to leave.
Once you’re in the backseat, you relax your shoulders with a huff. Derek shakes his head at you in the front seat, staying quiet as the black SUV drives off towards the airport in this small Maryland town. Spencer knows that he should stop watching you, but it’s like he’s bewitched.
Your lip gloss is a faint pink— messy. You probably left some of David’s lips. Spencer wonders if it has a taste; he’s seen you use a cherry lip balm a handful of times. He can imagine kissing you, slow and sweet to start, if he had the time, getting hungrier and hungrier with each press of your lips on his. He wonders if you’d let him drag his tongue on your bottom lip and let him get a taste of cherries and skin. Could he pull on that full bottom lip with his teeth– “Spencer!”
He blinks, hazel eyes focus on yours. You chuckle, airy and slightly concerned, “Are you okay? You’re staring.”
Derek barks out a laugh from the driver’s seat, “When isn’t he?”
Spencer shakes his head, mainly at Derek’s idea of a joke, but also because he doesn’t want you to think something is wrong with him. His smile is unconvincing and quick: “I’m fine.” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, trying again. “Just thinking about you and David. H-He seems nice.”
You shrug, hair falling into your face, “I guess he’s nice, yeah.” Then you lift a hand, waving the idea off like it’s bothersome. “I don’t think I’m going to see him again.”
Derek groans out, “Surprise, surprise.”
Spencer manages to keep the smile off his face, but his voice gives him away: “Why not?” he sounds elated.
You move with your hands, throwing them up before letting them rest on your outer thighs, slumping a little in the seat. Your eyes search the car’s floor, as if it’ll help you find a good enough answer. Why not? He’s not what you envisioned in a romantic partner. He wasn’t gentle, well-spoken, or even stimulating.
He seemed like a good conversationalist during that ten-minute coffee break, but he kept pushing for a late dinner with you. When you finally relented, you found he lacked any real substance. He was… dull, hot, but bland. He didn’t have strong beliefs like you, lacked wit, and seemed entitled.
Sure, you could have let him take you home and given him something to remember you by. But, considering how dull he was over dinner, you doubted he could impress you in the bedroom. Why go looking for disappointment?
You force a small smile, gentle eyes leaving the SUV’s flooring to look at Spencer. “Didn’t pass the benchmark, I’m afraid.” It’s meant to be a joke, but your delivery is slightly off. You sound somewhat saddened by the fact, and Spencer debates asking you what’s wrong. However, discussing your dating life is not his strong suit. Instead, he simply delivers a curt nod, lips drawn into a tight line as the car falls silent on the way to the tarmac.
A week later, it’s one of those rare days when the BAU team stays in DC. Indeed, this week is a way to make up for lost time. Spencer has heard about two coffee dates, one dinner date, and how you’re going on a lunch date this upcoming Saturday. Not that you’re telling him necessarily; he tries his hardest not to ask about your dating habits out of fear that you’ll eventually catch on to his hopeless crush on you and break his heart before he’s mentally prepared for such a tragedy.
No, he hears about your escapades from Penelope, Emily, or JJ. Mostly in passing gossip sessions, he hears when he shouldn’t be eavesdropping. He’s not the biggest fan of gossip, especially when said gossip is about a coworker, but he can’t stop listening when it’s about you.
The second he hears your name leave one of their lips, he pours his coffee a little slower in the break room or takes smaller bites of his lunch. He even held the elevator doors for the group of women on a handful of occasions so he could silently listen in. Morgan says he’s whipped (and after Spencer gets clarification on what that terminology entails, he nervously disagrees).
He’s just a naturally curious person. His high IQ can be blamed here— you’re a constant question on his mind. He cannot solve you, and every time he thinks he’s close, you switch it up on him.
Penelope is trying to be discreet—genuinely— she’s walking at a normal pace, a rested smile on her face, and the feathered flower pinned into her blonde curls shakes slightly as she approaches Emily’s desk. Her eyes look towards your desk, glad to find you lost in conversation with Anderson. Spencer watches her anyway.
Emily’s eyebrows raise as Penelope leans down and whispers something into the small space between them, which is effective because Spencer can’t hear anything (much to his dismay). Emily reels her head back, shocked as she mutters in disbelief, “No way.”
Penelope beams, nodding quickly and letting out a drawn-out “Mhm!”
Spencer wonders if it has anything to do with Anderson. Could they be alluding to the two of you getting together? Spencer would feel nervous about the idea, but you never dated coworkers. Besides, Anderson didn’t have that boyish charm you so adore. Spencer thinks he can mark him as safe.
But what else could it be? He’s trying his hardest not to stare at Penelope and Emily as they whisper to each other a few feet away, his eyes darting around the case file in his hands as his mind runs away with him. His gaze occasionally flits over to your desk, taking note of that polite smile you’re sporting. Yeah, you’re definitely not into Anderson.
Something work-related? No, that sounds ridiculous the second he thinks it. He blinks, forcing himself to set down the case file and mull over all the probabilities. He feels like it’s too obvious to be a date. You go on those all the time. And he doubts it's a second date update because those never end well for you. However, there is a slight chance that this time, it did.
He’s still in the process of analyzing every bit of information related to you when he hears an open laugh from Penelope as she follows Emily over to your desk. Anderson is nowhere to be seen as you settle back into your desk chair, barely looking up when Emily asks, “You’re taking a break from dating?”
“Derek is such a gossip.”
“Don’t blame him, he can’t resist me.” Penelope sighs out.
Emily dismisses the comment with a slight wave, “For how long?”
You shrug, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, “I don’t know. Until I feel like talking to a man again?”
“Oh my god, an indefinite hiatus!”
You chuckle a little, “Why do you care so much?” You couldn’t imagine your dating life being that interesting. Then again, you have dated some questionable people.
Penelope gasps, hands reaching her chest, “Why do we care? You’re the only thing that saves us from boredom. You’re water in this gossip dessert. Don’t let us dehydrate, please, please.” Her palms press together as she begs you.
A strange laugh escapes you, your shoulders shaking as you giggle. “Listen, I really need—” You gently swat at Penelope’s still clasped hands, “I need a break from all the disingenuous compliments and ploys to get into my pants—” you scoff. Spencer’s heart stutters in his chest; he’s empathetic towards your feelings. He wants what’s best for you, of course (that and this could be his once-in-a-lifetime chance to see you be wholly unattached, his chance). “I need to be alone and work on some things before I date again, simple as that.” Well, so much for his chance.
“She’s so wise.” Emily turns to Penelope, her tone mocking. “Isn’t she so wise?”
“Oh, on par with Buddha.”
Your eyes shine with amusement, though you keep your tone serious, “Yes, laugh at me all you want for being a healthy person.”
Two months later, your hiatus is still going strong. Spencer has not seen or heard of any flirty endeavors surrounding you, much to the other’s dismay. It’s true in a way, gossip is drier during your dry spell. There’s been no mention of terrible dates nor any mention of bad kisses on first dates, or worse, lousy lays.
Spencer has never had any issues talking to you, but lately, he’s noticed you’re prone to daydreaming. You’ll stare off sometimes during a lull or mutter to yourself in the breakroom. He wants to ask how you're feeling amidst your break from dating, but it feels like such an intimate topic that he’s hesitant to approach it.
So now, he’s watching you watch Emily flirt with some stranger at the bar. This week has been grueling, with case after case. It never gets easier, but moments like these—the whole team spending time together—make it less painful at the end of the day. Spencer’s nursing his whiskey, always a slow drinker, but his attentions are on you as you roll the straw of your mojito between your fingers.
Eventually, after a quick sip of whisky, he gains the courage to ask, “Everything alright?”
You jump at the sound of his voice beside you, but you still smile at him when you turn to look at him. You open your mouth for a moment, then close it again, then open it again, “Yes.” You say in a strange voice— a twisted mixture of confident and drained.
Spencer raises an eyebrow, his expression letting you know that he doesn’t truly believe you. You laugh a little at that look of disbelief before your shoulders slump, and you mutter a soft, “I sort of miss dating.”
“Sort of?” It's more confident, more teasing than he’d like, but it just slips out of him. His cheeks are tinted the prettiest shade of pink, and you try your hardest not to stare at him.
Your eyes shift to the drink in your hands, fingers leaving the straw as you elaborate on the topic. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I would miss the flirty conversations or feeling wanted.” You trail off for a moment, eyes not meeting his for a moment. “Does that make me sound,” Your eyes finally reach his, “Conceited?” Your gaze is so full of worry that he has to stop himself from shouting his answer upon impact.
Instead, he swallows down a shocked breath, shaking his head. “No! No, you’re not conceited. That’s normal, considering all the attention you…well, attract.”
“Great,” You murmur, frowning. “You think that I’m some shameless, attention-seeking seductress,” gazing downcast at your mojito.
Spencer laughs nervously, “What?” He can’t deny that the seductress part might be true— you could seduce a saint, he’s sure. “I think a lot of things about you when I think about you, but shameless, attention-seeking seductress is not one of them.”
He’s melting at the look you give him. Head slightly bowed, looking up at him through those long lashes of yours, full lips in a slight pout. “Really?”
“Really.” He squeaks, much to your delight— the alcohol is messing with your head.
You sit a little straighter at that, sighing, “So, what do you think about when you think about me?” You ask, teasing Spencer wasn’t something you did often. The team teases him so much that you feel bad joining in. But you can’t help yourself, not when he’s looking at you with his gorgeous, honey eyes. All wide and deer-like, fuck, he’s pretty.
You would feel bad for thinking about your coworker like this, but in the dim lighting of this bar, you find that you don’t mind. Truth be told, if Spencer Reid weren’t your coworker, you would have worked some charms on him a long time ago. He was so pretty, so receptive to new ideas, a genius, a man of his word. God, he was so sincere. Why is that such a turn-on?
You drag your tongue along your bottom lip, lost in thought, a movement not lost on Spencer as he can’t seem to take his eyes off your lips. His mouth is dry, and his voice is caught in his throat as he stammers out a gentle, “What–” he clears his throat, trying to stop his voice from sounding so high, “What do I think about?”
That slow smile makes his heartbeat skip a beat, he’s seen that smile before, and he’s screwed if you decide to do anything more than teasing him. “Yeah, you said you think lots of things when you think about me. I’m curious.”
“Well, I, uhm,” He swallows, his tongue feels like sandpaper. His eyes shift down to his whiskey, his gaze shifting between you, his drink, and the table. “ I think you’re kind. You’re always willing to help a friend, like when you made all those meals for Penelope after she got shot.” Your expression softens at that, your teasing smile melting into something warmer. He takes this as a sign to keep going, “You’re considerate. I think you could make Hotch smile, I’m sure you have, all because of your sense of humor. You rarely judge people; you’ve never judged me. You’re empathetic, seeing you connect with people so easily, it’s— you have this gift for shifting your perspective, and I—”
“Spencer,” You cut him off with a gentle touch of your hand on his. You’re quiet for a moment, eyes searching his, looking for some kind of sign of deception, but finding none. Your gaze warms him to his core, melting away anything cold residing within him. “Thank you.”
He lets out a soft stammer of confusion, about to ask you why you’re thanking him, but instead, he regains some of his composure and nods. “Anytime.” He hates how cold his hand feels when your fingers leave his skin. Everything about you is so warm: your smile, your laugh, your touch— and against all reason— he’s sure he could survive frigid winters as long as he spends them by your side.
An hour later, you’ve ditched the idea of feeling sorry for yourself. You were seemingly determined to make your own fun. And you were. Penelope had bought a second round of drinks, and you chose something a little stronger than the mojito from before, and drank it fast. It wasn’t enough to get you drunk, but it did give you a slight buzz, feeling looser now as you spun around the dance floor with Penelope.
Penelope’s sure that your voice will be gone from how loud you’re singing to the song the DJ just started playing, laughing harder as you place a finger to her lips, grab hold of both of her shoulders, and dance to the beat.
Spencer isn’t a dancer, well, he can slow dance, but he doubts he could keep up with you right now. So, he lingers on the sidelines of the bar. He —like many of the men at this bar— can’t take his eyes off of you as you spin around in a sloppy circle. The way you move your hips in a circle has his head cocking to the side, focusing on the slope of your lower—
A chuckle can be heard beside him, making Spencer stand up straight, turning to look at Derek. Derek, who has the biggest grin on his face, is shaking his finger at Spencer. Spencer rears back his head, giving his friend an odd look. “What?”
“Nothing.” Okay, so he’s lying. Derek stuffs his hands in his pockets, acting aloof as Spencer stares him down. Derek, however, has his attention on you and Penelope. “You know,” there it is, “She’s gonna need someone to walk her home.”
“Who?” For a genius, Spencer can be incredibly dense at times.
Derek sends a deadpanned look his way, eyebrows raising, waiting for Spencer to catch on. Spencer blinks, his brows furrowed in confusion, oblivious to what Derek is saying. Derek groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose before dragging his hand down his face.
He then points over to you, Spencer’s gaze following his finger. “Ms. Vixen, Pretty Girl, the Man-eater of the BAU, the temptress of the —” Spencer holds up a hand, cutting him off.
“I get it, okay?” Even though he knows that Derek’s joking, Spencer’s tone still comes out clipped. He forces his shoulders to relax.
“She’s going to need someone to walk her home,” Derek says in a calmer tone, his shoulders shrugging slightly.
Spencer stammers, flustered with the idea of walking you home. To be honest, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He wouldn’t let it. His imagination runs wild when it comes to you, and he daydreams about the oddest things— the taste of your skin, his palm on your lower back. “Didn’t she come with you and Penelope?”
Derek clicks his tongue, “Nope, she lives two blocks over, walked here.”
“Oh,” He responds lamely, his arms crossing over his chest. He chews lightly on his bottom lip, thinking it over. He had his whiskey over an hour ago and had been nursing a water, but it didn’t matter much, considering he, too, walked here. “Well, I mean, I can’t assume, wouldn’t it be rude to think she’d,” He bounces around before he drops his arms at his sides. “You think she‘d say yes?”
“What makes you think she’d say no?”
“I don’t know,” Spencer tries to think of a good reason as to why he’s worried you’d turn him down, but finds nothing but his own insecurities. He knows that you’re kind; he knows if you didn’t want to do something, you wouldn’t. Spencer finds that very reassuring. “Just don’t want her to think I’m weird.”
Derek barks out a sharp laugh as if he knows something that Spencer doesn’t. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Pretty Boy.”
Spencer wants to ask why, but Derek looks away from him before he gets the chance. Spencer steals a glance over to the dance floor, watching as Penelope and you giggle yourselves away from the crowd.
Your pupils are dilated, and Spencer is sure that if he pressed a hand to your cheek, your skin would be warm, either from the alcohol or light giggles still leaving your lips. He feels his lips twitch upwards at the sound of them, broken up with soft gasps of air as you and Penelope hold onto each other in front of them. His heart clenches in his chest as he hears your giggles die away, and your gaze meets his. He wishes he could keep you this giddy all the time.
Your face relaxes into a gentle smile, and you let out a slow sigh. “Hi,” you motioned between Derek and Spencer with a wave of your hand. “What are we talking about?”
Derek cuts Spencer off before he has the chance to embarrass himself. “We were actually discussing leaving,” Derek says, much to Penelope’s dismay.
She’s frowning, and Derek knows he can’t tell the blonde his plan to get these two together, not yet, anyway. Spencer’s pining is evident to anyone with eyes, and you aren’t exactly smooth either, always choosing men who look strikingly similar to your lanky coworker.
“It is getting pretty late,” You mutter, sobering up a little at the idea of walking yourself home at this late hour.
Worry must be written across your face because Spencer is softly clearing his throat. “I can walk you home,” he offers in a soft voice. You don’t even question how he knew that you walked here. Instead, you can feel your cheeks flush. The idea is tempting, but it feels somewhat… intimate.
“That’s okay,” You begin, “You don’t have to go out of your way–”
“I don’t mind!” He’s leaning into you, nodding his head slowly. “I’d sleep better knowing you got home safe.”
A little tiny voice inside of you is shrieking with delight at that, but you answer him in a reasonably calm voice. “Well,” you tsk, “if it’ll help you sleep better.” Your tone is flirtier than you’d like it to be. You’ll be the first to admit it: It’s hard controlling yourself around him, and being dehydrated and tipsy isn’t helping. “Let me grab my things.”
Spencer is nodding, discarding his plastic cup of water and ensuring he has everything on his person before he looks at Derek, who has very clearly filled Penelope in by now in fast whispers. Derek gently taps a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, “Breathe. You’re just walking her home. Remember, you’re already friends with her. She won’t bite… hopefully.”
Spencer prepares to shoot back that he doesn’t need the pep talk because nothing is going to happen, but his mouth snaps shut as you materialize by Penelope’s side. “Ready?” You rock back and forth on your heels, eyes shining.
Spencer’s brows raise, smiling nervously as he hums a shaky-sounding, “Mhm.”
The night air smells fresh and clean with the promise of summer, warm and refreshing. You dragged in a slow inhale through the nose and hummed. A cool breeze brushed over your shoulders for a moment, and you felt awake again, your slight from earlier replaced with a second wind of energy. You glance over at Spencer, who is still holding the bar’s exit door for Penelope and Derek.
He doesn’t look bored or annoyed by the task, and though it’s the tiniest act of kindness, it makes you smile. You hug Penelope, tight and secure around her middle, muttering gentle goodbyes to her in a playful tone. Derek laughs when you bid him farewell in the same style, pulling away from the hug, smiling widely, and shaking his head. He then points at Spencer, “Stay safe,” his gaze moving to you. “Both of you.”
You wave his worries off, nodding, “Dr. Reid, lead the way.”
Spencer lets out a tiny scoff, waving his friends goodbye before doing exactly as you say. You seem incredibly awake, despite the last hour. His eyes are so focused on you as the two of you begin the short walk back to your respective apartments that he almost trips on a crack in the sidewalk, not even ten minutes in, and he’s already making a fool of himself.
You pause your movements, hands raising in the air as if you’re preparing to catch him, “Everything okay?” Your tone gives away your amusement.
He nods, “Yeah, yes, just distracted.”
“How out of character for you.” You tease lightly, sighing out as you lower your hands. You let out a soft hum, thinking about a tune they played at the bar, when you see two bodies pressed up against a wall in the not-so-far distance.
Your shoulders feel tense as you try your hardest not to stare at the couple as they kiss, soft sighs and moans of pleasure leaving one lover’s lips as you force your eyes straight ahead. Spencer, however, is staring. His eyes don’t stay on the couple long as he hears a frustrated sounding exhale from you.
His lips quirk up when he sees you walking with a rigid posture. “Does PDA bother you?” He asks curiously, keeping his voice low as he passes the couple to his right.
You shake your head, cheeks feeling warm at the sound of his voice. “What? No. I just,” You pause, unsure about how much you should be sharing with him anyway. Would he want to hear about how much you missed it, dating, kissing, sex, the touch of someone’s hand in your hair? Your eyes nervously glance at him, then the sidewalk, a soft laugh leaving you. “It’s going to sound so pathetic.”
Spencer finds that highly unlikely, “Try me.”
You bite your lower lip, considering it for a moment. It had only been two months, how could you be so… needy? You can feel the edges of your ears grow warm as the night air— you were so pathetic. How could someone become so touch-starved in such a short amount of time? How could you tell that to him? Then again, Spencer Reid was not quick to judge… though maybe he would be if he knew what you were thinking about right now.
You're slow to smile, and your face looks a little shy and awkward. You speak in a hushed tone, “I think I miss it.”
“Kissing?”
“No, I mean yes, but more than kissing. Touching, heavy-petting, dates,” You dare not glance at him, “Sex.” You can’t stop yourself now, the words leaving you against your will. “I’ve just been stressed, irritable lately, and I think sex… took my mind off things.”
Spencer’s throat fills with cotton, and he tries to swallow normally, going shockingly quiet for someone who always seems to have something to say. It doesn’t last long as he feels the growing silence crawl under his skin— he can’t stand it. “That’s normal, for someone— well, anyone who hasn’t had it, sex, I mean, in a while.” He stops himself from asking how long it has been before continuing. “Regular sex can boost your immune system, am-among other things.”
You grin, “Of course, it does.” You feel lighter hearing Spencer nervously ramble about sex, less judged, more listened to. You glance to your side, admiring the sharp slope of his jaw, the ends of his brown hair curling against his smooth skin. “Don’t stop on my account; I love learning.”
Of course, you do.
It seems to be Spencer’s turn to stare daggers into the distance, following you as you take a left turn. “In some women, sex can lower the risk of heart attacks. Which is funny, Men’s likelihood of a heart attack goes up with continuous sexual activity.” He chuckles lightly, sparing a glance over his left shoulder at you.
His knees feel weak seeing the way you’re looking at him. Your gaze occasionally glances at the sidewalk, but your eyes shine with curiosity. He’s always liked that about you. You’re always willing to listen to his random rants, never poking fun at him. No, it's not like you to laugh at someone for something as direct as knowledge, but you still smile at him.
He keeps going, his hazel eyes focused on you. “Rhythmic stimulation,” He should not look at you as he says this, “During an orgasm, has similar brain activity to dancing.” Your eyebrows raise at that, mouthing a gentle ‘huh’.
“So, what, like birds?”
“Yes! Dancing has been a long-standing method of seduction, so I suppose it stands to reason that muscular stimulation, in that way, would make our brain activity act that way.”
Your head tilts, trying to get the mental image of Spencer’s hands on your waist as you dance against him out of your mind. “I suppose it would. Though I wouldn’t consider orgasmic pulsing to have a steady rhythm.”
Spencer feels his heart stutter against his ribcage, his jaw clenching as his mind graces him with the mental image of you under him, shaking, hips stuttering against his roughly. He blinks, the tips of his ears turning red as he struggles to find something interesting to say. “W-Well,” he squeaks, and he feels panic flood his system, watching your grin widen when you hear such an embarrassing sound. He coughs, fixing his shirt collar, “Oxytocin— endorphins really— are released when dancing, same with uh,” His mouth hangs open for a second as his gaze dips down to your lips, “Climax.”
He’s your coworker, he’s your coworker, coworker, cowork— “Would you consider orgasms to have a steady rhythm?” Honestly? Not the worst question you could ask right now. You just hope that it comes off as you being curious instead of desperately horny.
Spencer needs someone to put him out of misery, cheeks hot as he answers you, “I suppose that maybe, possibly, they could, yes.”
Your chin tilts upwards, and a soft “Uh-huh” leaves you before the two of you are swept up in a slightly charged, albeit awkward, silence. You try to talk down the little voice in your head that seems to be screaming at you for making things so uncomfortable.
Why did you ask him that? What did you expect? Was Spencer supposed to drag you into an alleyway and immediately make you cum? Well, on second thought, that’s not such a bad idea— enough! You try to think of a possible escape from this silence, but all your dirty mind can think about are more inappropriate questions and remarks— just your luck.
“It wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” Spencer’s voice pulls you away from your thoughts.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea––” He clears his throat in an attempt to keep it from closing up, “Having sex, to help with your, uhm, stress problem.” He holds his breath, waiting for your reactions. Morgan told him that the worst thing a person can do is say no, but Spencer disagrees. Said person could scream at him, slap him for being brazen, or stop talking to him altogether. He wouldn’t blame you if you did. Why did he have to say that? Why would he suggest something like that so openly—
Your laughter makes his brain short-circuit. What kind of reaction is that? Did you think he was joking, or did you find his suggestion so funny that you’re laughing at him? His laughter escapes him in a nervous attempt at self-preservation. If he can play this as a joke, maybe you won’t tell Penelope, and then Penelope won’t tell Derek, and Spencer can live another day free of embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” You stammer, “Is the Doctor Spencer Reid suggesting that we sleep together for a dopamine boost?”
He doesn’t know how to save himself from that; his poker face is not a good one, not when it comes to you. His emotions almost always show on his face; there’s no way you’d believe him if he lied. So, he mentally prepares himself for rejection. “Not necessarily, strictly, suggesting anything. I’m just saying that it could be beneficial to you— both of us— if you needed some help with your irritability, since you’re free.”
“Are you saying that I have nothing better going on, so I might as well have sex with you?” He’s not exactly wrong, but you don’t need to admit it.
His cheeks feel hot, burning as he rasps out a shrill, “No! No, speaking from a scientific standpoint, biologically it is one solution to your problem.”
You let out a soft chuckle, breathy and short-lived. He can’t be serious, there’s no way he’s serious. Not Spencer Reid. And if he wasn’t joking, what would you even say? Sure, sounds like a great plan. Do you have a condom, or should we stop at the store? Better yet! Let’s do it raw to reap the full biological benefits of sex together.
It’s not realistic.
Spencer says odd things all the time. Once, he told you about how the spread of ringworms between animals and humans works, solely because of one off-handed comment. Not that you mind, you do enjoy learning, that was no lie. Spencer was a plethora of knowledge, and you trusted every little word that came out of that pretty mouth of his.
He’s grown to be more than just your favorite walking, talking, human encyclopedia. Spencer Reid had the biggest heart, the best laugh, and the softest hazel eyes. He cares about other people intensely, is always willing to go out of his way to listen and help others, and is borderline selfless sometimes. Sure, that was part of the job, but Spencer made it into something more, something raw.
So, no, he couldn’t be suggesting such a thing. Not your Spencer Reid. “You’ve got a weird sense of humor, Reid.” You mutter, your feet falling into sync beside him. You can see your apartment building coming into view and feel your body beginning to long for your bed.
The rest of the walk is quiet, with soft mentions of summer plans and idle chatter. Spencer shouldn’t be so disappointed. You’re still talking to him, still laughing at his jokes, listening to his random facts mid-conversation. You’re willing to make everything go back to normal, ignore his odd suggestion, and go to bed. He should be grateful, and maybe a small part of him is, but the rest of him? The rest of him is so disappointed.
Not because you ignored him, but because you didn’t give him a proper yes or no. Even without a direct answer, he feels rejected, and he’s kicking himself for not being able to make a move like a normal person.
He walks you up to your door, staring at the number four on the outside of your apartment door for longer than necessary as you dig through your bag to find your keys. When you find them, you hold them up with a proud smile. “They materialize.” You muse, your back facing him as you push the key into the lock.
The last thing he wants tonight is for him to walk home regretting something. He could go home lamenting the fact that he didn’t make a move, or he could go home regretting the fact that he did. For him, one of those options is far worse than the other.
Pushing your apartment door open, you begin to turn back towards him, “Thanks for walking me home, Spence, I appreciate it—” A jolt of energy zips through you as Spencer’s lanky fingers wrap around your wrist, yanking your body closer to him. You barely have time to look down at your wrist before he’s inching closer, pressing his lips against yours in one swift movement.
The kiss is timid and far too quick for your liking, and when he pulls away from your lips, he immediately apologizes. “I’m sorry! I know I should have asked you first, but I got so nervous with everything I said earlier and—” The rest of his rushed apology is tuned out as you stare up at him with wide eyes.
In complete amazement, you stare at him like that for what feels like forever. You’d blame it on the alcohol for the way that you find his pathetic ramblings adorable, or for the way you’re reevaluating your conversation from earlier, when you laughed him off. And then there was that little, insistent voice in your head that demanded another kiss, claiming the feeling of a dim spark.
And who were you to deny it?
Spencer’s hands are moving with him as he talks, finger trembling as he explains that he “....couldn’t go home ruminating on the what-ifs and I needed to do something, and Morgan says that confidence is key and I was trying—” Your fingers hook into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down to your level with a rough yank.
Your lips meet his in a sloppy kiss for just a moment before he kisses you back, and when his head tilts ever-so-slightly to the side, it becomes something else entirely. His lips are softer than you expected, hungrily meeting yours. Spencer kisses like he’s starved for attention, for touch. His hands find purchase on your hips, holding you in place with both hands, like he’s scared you’ll disappear.
The way the palms of his hands squeeze at your waist makes you weak at the knees. The kiss has seemingly shifted from tender to needy in a matter of seconds, his lips pressing against yours with a delicious roughness. When you pull away, you can feel your bottom lip tingling, a feeling that leaves you a little lightheaded.
The soft pink of Spencer’s lips is the first thing you’re looking at before pushing him deeper into your apartment. His feet stumble as you force him into your apartment, the flat of your palms on his chest. When the door shuts behind you, the two of you are left in the dark of your apartment. Moonlight seeps through your living room curtains, illuminating the room with a softness so close to ethereal that it leaves Spencer wondering if he’s dreaming.
He’s sure you’re about to tell him that this is a bad idea and send him home, before you let out a frustrated groan and ask him, “Are you sure this is alright?”
Holy shit.
He can feel a faint squeeze in his lower abdomen, licking his lips as he tries to think clearly, for your sake and his. “I want this.” He’s clear with his feelings for once. “And I can promise you I want this and much more.”
As his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, he can see the shine in your eyes. You're staring up at him with the eyes of a woman lost between admiration and awe. You nod slowly, your left hand grabbing his right, “Then don’t keep me waiting.” And while your tone is playful, he can’t help but take it to heart, letting you guide him toward your bedroom.
A soft giggle can be heard from you as you press a quick kiss to his lips, then another, and another, until the back of his knees are hitting the edge of your bed. You lean in slower now, with the tempting promise of a sweeter, sensual kiss—one where Spencer can enjoy the taste of your lips in full. Your lips brush against his as your hands press against his chest, his balance wavering, and then he’s pushed down on the edge of your bed with a light groan of disappointment.
His head is spinning from the teasing brush of your lips, his eyes lingering on them as you smile down at him, the look of innocence. “Did you think I’d make this easy for you?” Your teasing words shoot an electric shiver down his spine, a breathless laugh leaving him as your hands rub his shoulders.
“I don’t believe easy is in your vocabulary.”
“Oh?” You muse, your hands stopping the gentle massage of his shoulders, your left hand leaves a trail of fire up his neck to his chin, tilting it up slowly. Your head cocks to the side, he’s never seen you this smug. Were you like this with everyone else? Or is this just for him? He’s too scared to ask. “Care to elaborate?”
Spencer swallows slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. “You like the challenge. You like having to work for it. I used to think it was because you wanted to be intellectually stimulated, but seeing you like this makes me think that you get off on it. ”
You try to hide your smile, the grip on his chin slacking as your thumb traces a soft pattern on his lower jaw. “God forbid a girl has a bit of fun.” He cracks a smile with that, letting out a low hum as he raises his hands to pull you closer towards the bed, your knees hitting the edge of the bed that lies between his thighs.
Spencer’s pleading eyes almost make you cave, those soft chocolate pools of desire almost too alluring to resist. Almost. Although you guess he deserves a little treat before the night begins. You lean down, cupping both cheeks to press a slow kiss to his lips. Spencer matches your energy, not taking the kiss up a notch until you do, one of your hands straying to the root of his hair and pulling lightly at his brown curls while your tongue slowly slides against his bottom lip.
Fighting back a groan, Spencer eagerly parts his lips for you. Your tongue drags against his, exploring his mouth at a torturous pace. Spencer can feel his cock, begging for some friction, jump inside his pants as you softly suck on his bottom lip. He’s breathing hard, your mouth swallowing most of his groans and sighs, until your teeth pull at his bottom lip and he lets out a sweet, quiet whimper.
You pull away, and Spencer can feel himself spiraling before you push his hair back and whisper a breathy, “So good, baby.” His genius mind is out of commission after that, and whatever energy, whatever brain cells he has left over are now yours to use as you like. “Lean against the headboard.”
It’s a direct order that he immediately follows. He’s kicking off his shoes as fast as possible, moving around on your bed until his back hits the headboard.
His enthusiasm both excites you and amuses you, your eyes rolling with a playful shake of your head. He watches as you crawl over to him on the bed, swallowing hard as his eyes take you in. He’s waiting for his alarm to go off and for him to wake up in bed, without you, alone, and painfully hard.
You let out a short laugh, seeing his wide-eyed expression, “You’re sure you still want this?” You ask as you reach him, your eyes on his.
Spencer’s answer is a quick, “Yes!” which makes you smile wide at him, “Are you?” His fingers are itching to touch you, but he keeps them in his lap, fidgeting.
You let out a playful hum as you swing a leg over his lap, carefully straddling him. “Yes," you answer, looking down at him. You lean in, teasing his lips with a light brush, leaning away whenever Spencer tilts his head up in a vain attempt to kiss you thoroughly.
“Patience is a virtue.” Your lips brush against his as you whisper, kissing the corner of his lips, much to his dismay.
Spencer would say he’s not usually this needy, but he doesn't have ample experience to draw from anyway. He can only blame his neediness on you. You who is grinning from ear-to-ear as you kiss his cheek, you who is hovering over his lap, you who is laughing when you see his pleading expression. You mutter something that Spencer can vaguely make out as disappointed, “Greedy.” Before your lips press firmly onto his.
He could spend hours kissing you. In fact, if nothing else happens tonight, he’d walk home happy knowing he kissed you like this. Your languid kisses easily turn hungry as Spencer slides his hands to your waist, guiding you to sit on his lap. He can feel a ghost of a smile against his lips, his hands squeezing gently at your sides as you resume your earlier task of exploring his mouth with your tongue.
You swallow a groan from Spencer as you take a moment to suck on his tongue, his hand gripping your waist tighter. Letting out a muffled hum of pleasure, you grind your hips down on his with almost perfect precision.
Spencer’s back goes rigid, feeling the way your hips grind against his, unsure if it’s okay for a moment before lust wins out against logic. His large hands tighten around your clothed hips, pulling your hips down against his until he’s rutting his hips against yours like a dog in heat. He can feel your grin against his lips again, and he’s already whining by the time you pull away from him. Your hips lean away from his, sitting up on your knees.
His eyes look dazed, lust and confusion dancing in them as he tries his best not to come off as anxious, “Why’d you stop?” His breathy voice sends a shiver down your spine, right to your core.
“You want to take my clothes off, don’t you?” You leave his lap, moving to the side of his outer right thigh to properly strip.
His parted lips snap shut, nodding as fast as he can, immediately playing to your whims. You raise an eyebrow, “You need to learn to let a girl have her fun with you.” You muse as your hands reach for the edge of your top. Spencer’s heart rate doubles as he watches your fingers curl around the bottom hem.
His gaze darts between your fingers and your face, but his brows knit together, clearly confused. “What do you mean?” You’re pulling your top off painfully slow, and he’s debating asking you if he can do it for you.
Your top is passing your midriff. “If I’m on top,” His breath catches in his throat as he sees the bottom swell of your breast, “And if I want to tease you, learn how to take it.”
“Jesus Christ,” He shifts under you, your words reminding him how his erection is going ignored. “I’m going to need a good teacher.” It’s meant to be witty, but his tone sounds so strained that he’s surprised that you aren’t laughing at him right now. His eyes, not knowing what to stare at, barely meet yours before the sight of your lace-covered breasts enthralls him.
His strained, whiny voice has your body feeling hot all over. Making a mental note to make this man whine some more, you throw your top off to the side of the bed, hands making a beeline for your pants. “Oh, how exciting.” You slide out of them, leaving you in your bra and panties. “Your first lesson.”
Spencer, feeling awkward that he’s still fully clothed, begins to pull his shirt off. But when he goes to undo his pants, your fingers cover his. Your fingers are quick to pull his pants down to his thighs, and Spencer kicks them off without needing to be told.
You were a professional; you didn’t sleep with coworkers, no matter how tempting. Spencer Reid, however, is your forbidden fruit. His hazel eyes, wide and soft with need, make your chest clench with affection. You can feel some part of you salivating for another taste of him, knowing you’re too far gone to listen to reason.
Your gaze is slow to drop to his lap, eyes flickering across his bare chest, then down to the bulging outline of his cock against the thin material of his boxers. You hesitate, just for a moment, hand hovering in the air before you gently trace the outline of his cock through his boxers— undeniably pretty.
“Just for me?” Your head is bowed, eyes looking up through your lashes. Spencer lets out a shaky sigh, nodding a wordless response. You drag your index fingers roughly against the tip of his clothed dick. “Words, Spence.”
“Yes,” He whines, groaning as your hands pull down his boxers. “It’s all for you.”
“Very good.” Then, you're pulling his boxers down, gaze hungry as you expose Spencer’s hard cock inch by inch. You shift slightly to help him pull his boxers off, but your eyes are locked onto his cock. Red, hot tip with a slight curve towards his stomach, thick and twitching. You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth slowly, and millions of ways to tease him immediately come to mind.
He tries to stop himself from feeling hot under your intense gaze, fighting the urge to beg you not to stare. He’s about to cave when you reach your left hand into your panties. A gentle groan leaves your lips as you swipe your fingers along the entrance of your warm cunt, “I can do that—” Spencer begins, but you’ve already stopped touching yourself, pulling your left hand away from your heat, fingers covered in your slick. You wrap your hands around his length, and Spencer has to stop his hips from immediately bucking at the feeling of your slick-covered hand.
“What was that, pretty boy?” Your hand slowly begins to move up and down the length of his cock.
Usually, Spencer would say something in rebuttal to that nickname, but the only thing you can hear right now is the sounds of him letting out tiny moans. He sputters, trying to reply, but your grip grows tighter as your hands move down his length, and all you get is a pathetic-sounding whine.
Leaning in to press a wet kiss to his shoulder, you watch as Spencer’s hips jolt when your index finger does a quick sweep over the pretty pink head of his cock. “Feels so much better than your hand, huh?” You read his mind, looking up at him.
Spencer’s head nods, breathing picking up as your lips suck on the sensitive skin of his neck as your hand steadily strokes him. “I–” You pick up the pace, teeth dragging against his pulse point. “Mmm, I’ve fantasized about you touching me like this.” He has no reason to lie, not now. He has pictured what it could feel like to have your fingers wrapped around his cock instead of his own, how you’d spread the pre-cum around the head of his cock, how you’d look licking his cum off of your hand.
His breathy admission earns him a soft groan, “Often?” You sound excited as you pull away from his neck. The idea of fulfilling one of his fantasies leaves you with an oddly triumphant sense of pride. Truth be told, he was fulfilling your fantasy: having Spencer Reid whining and moaning at your touch—a guilty pleasure on lonely nights.
Spencer doesn’t want to look you in the eyes when he answers, but he does anyway, your lustful gaze making it hard for him to look away. “Yes.”
You let out a satisfied sounding hum, looking away from him to lean down closer to his cock, for a second he’s sure you’re about to take him into your mouth. But, he isn’t disappointed when he sees a long trail of spit leaving your lips and coating the head of his cock.
Your hands helps coat your spit all around his cock and he’s in heaven. His head leaning back against the headboard as your hand brings him closer to the best orgasm he’s ever had. “ I-I’m, oh god,” He pants out, head rolling to the side to catch your gaze. “I won’t last very long if you keep this up. I’m not as experienced as,” His mouth falls open mid-sentence as you move your hand faster, letting out a cry of pleasure.
“I’m not, shit—” He swallows hard, “I’m not as experienced as I’d like to be, can–can’t last that long with you doing that!” He practically shouts at the end of his sentence.
“With a cock this pretty,” You give his length one last pump, “I find that hard to believe.” Carefully letting go of his cock, after all you want to have fun too. If Spencer thought his cock was being ignored before, he wasn’t expecting this. He whines, feeling the warmth of your hand leave him, his breathing heavy.
Your hand, covered in remnants of spit, dips into your underwear where you haphazardly smear the spit against your folds. Spencer’s heart skips a beat, enjoying the show you make of pulling your panties off your body. He almost sobs when you straddle his lap again, carefully sitting with your dripping core pressed directly onto his aching cock.
You let out a shaky groan when Spencer’s hips buck into yours, a wild look in his eyes that makes him seem more animalistic than needy. You can feel your walls squeeze around nothing as the head of his cock slowly grinds up into your clit. You bite your bottom lip to muffle a low moan, shuddering above him.
Your lips part, staring down at him with half-lidded eyes as Spencer’s brows furrow and eyes flutter shut with every needy rock of his hips. His hands grab at your hips, pushing and guiding you down to meet his. It’s not nearly enough and the both of you know it, the desperate urge to fill your sopping cunt to his heart's content growing with every pleasured sigh that leaves your lips.
“Please,” Spencer’s hands move to swell of your ass, gripping the skin hard as he uses your pussy lips as his personal toy. His breath is hot against your chest, lips leaving sloppy kisses below your collarbone. To him, you’re ethereal, a seraph, as you grind your pussy lips against his length and he desperately needs to be inside you. He needs to know how the cunt of an angel feels as soon as possible. “Let me fuck you.”
Fuck. It’s not a question, nor a demand, but a plea. His wording makes you groan, the idea that he has to beg to fuck you like this, that you have control over him like this. You’ve imagined Spencer in bed a handful of times, assuming that he’d be timid, yes, but fantasies are nothing compared to hearing that desperate plea.
You reposition your knees, pressing your chest into his face as you reach between your legs to guide him to your entrance. Spencer’s hands knead against the plump skin of your ass as you slowly sink down on him, a shaky exhale can be heard from the both of you. The fact that you haven’t been stretched out on his fingers dawns on you as you struggle to relax around the girth of his cock.
And Spencer seems to have the same thought, his hands snaking up your back to unlatch your bra. Once off, his lips sucking and nipping at the skin around your right nipple before his lips latch around its aroused bud. Your discomfort is partially forgotten as the flat of his tongue drags against the sensitive bud. A gasp, followed by a small, “Mhmm, that’s it.” Your hands leave his shoulders to push his hair back and away from his face as he focuses on his task, threading your fingers into his brown locks.
Your core swallows the rest of him whole, and you experimentally grind your hips down on his cock. His eyes, previously half-lidded, widen for a second before looking up at you. His lips still attached to your breast, eyes silently pleading for more, for anything, he has you teasing him with a light clench of your walls around him.
“Remember what I told you, Reid,” Spencer remembers… well, practically everything. But memories are hard to conjure when he’s buried deep inside you, velvet walls pulsing around him. Leaning away from your breast, a trail of spit still connects your skin to his tongue. “Learn how to take it.” You playfully scold, right thumb trailing down from his hair to swipe at the spit on his lips. “You can do that, can’t you?”
Spencer’s lips twitch into a soft smile, your thumb tracing a soft pattern against his bottom lip. “I can do that.” He confirms with a gentle tone, eyes searching yours. The man beneath you looks lovesick, drunk on your touch, perfectly content to spend his days doing whatever you tell him, obedient.
The thought that he’ll do anything you say. The first move from you is a gentle roll of your hips, followed by a slow exhale. The sting of discomfort readily gets replaced with pleasure as you begin to ride him. Your palms move to grip the headboard behind Spencer’s shoulders, tilting your head to the side to carefully observe him, getting off on every little reaction he shows you.
A quick, lust-filled smile graces your lips as you move your hips up and down at a slow and steady pace. Spencer’s head tilts back slightly, soft sighs of pleasure leaving his parted lips everytime your hips sink down on his cock. “Is that good?”
You're teasing him, and he’d be dumb not to notice it; he knows that you can see—feel— how much he’s enjoying this, hear it even. Nevertheless, his head nods quickly as he rasps a mewl of a “Yes, so good.”
Canting your hips closer, you pick up the pace. The slight change in your position has his cock brushing against that sweet spot inside your pussy that has you shivering ontop of him, electricity coursing down your spine. Your eyes flutter closed, chasing after that feeling, panting as you use Spencer’s cock to bring yourself closer to your climax.
Spencer’s hips meet yours now as you ride him faster, the slapping and squelching of skin meeting skin can be heard alongside a cacophony of sinful-sounding moans and pants. Spencer’s head is thrown back, brows drawn together as he staves off his orgasm, wanting to drag this out for as long as possible. “Oh, god,” your name falls from his mouth in a string of pathetic-sounding moans, “Oh, Mommy—” He squeaks as he realizes the words that have escaped the dirtiest parts of his mind. His rosy cheeks turn slightly pale, eyes peering open to see your reaction.
Your cunt squeezes him tighter when his worried eyes reach yours. Your gaze isn’t filled with disgust, but darkened with desire. “What was that baby?” You gasp out, hips expertly snapping down onto his. Spencer’s mouth falls open to shamelessly repeat himself, but it’s too much for him. His words choking in the back of his throat as cries of pleasure replace them.
Pouting, you snap your hips down onto his with an abrupt stop. Spencer lets out a strangled sounding sob as you tilt his chin up, “Oh, Spencer, baby, do you need to say something?” You’re breathless and so, so, so, so close, but you need to hear him repeat those words before you cum.
Spencer’s chest softly heaves, blinking away the confusion in his eyes as you squeeze your tight walls around him, his hips struggling against yours. It’s hard to tease him properly as the head of his cock keeps grinding into your g-spot, your mind becoming hazy with pleasure. But you can’t risk stopping, not when you’re this close. Your lips part, a whine threatening to leave them as you speak, “I’m so s’close, you can handle a little more. Just a-a little longer.” Your voice trembles for a second, but it coaxes a gentle moan out of him nonetheless.
His cock feels desperate to empty into you as you deny him his orgasm with another sharp, “Not yet.” He feels he must obey your demand, his head becoming lightheaded whenever you order him around. He can feel tightening around him, walls fluttering against him with every second you get closer to your climax.
Spencer can feel his eyes prickle with tears, his bottom lip trembling, “I need to cum. Need to cum, let me cum, Mommy.”
You let out a broken laugh as he finally says the words you were so desperately waiting for, “You’re the one who asked for this, Spence.” You managing to speak so coldly to him while vigorously bouncing on his cock has him letting out another weak sob, “Look at you, you can barely handle it.” Your moans are becoming louder and slightly animalistic. “Let me use you while I can.”
You do exactly that, using him as you feel your orgasm crashing on you, your hands move to his shoulders, nails dragging against his skin as you loudly cry out for him. When your hips stutter against his, your body shuddering and melting into pleasure, Spencer is quick to buck his hips erratically up to yours, helping you ride out your orgasm to the fullest.
Spencer is quick to follow, grabbing your hips tightly to pull himself out of you with a curse, his seed coating your pussy lips and inner thighs. “I’m sorry,” He pants out, the ends of his hair sticking to his forehead, “I’m sorry, I’m–”
“Spencer, it’s okay.” You exhale, panting lightly as you look down at him with a lazy grin.
He’s quiet after that, his grip of your hips loosening as you dip your head to look at him, forehead slowly pressing against his. You let out a little laugh, exhausted and giddy, “You good?”
He lets out a soft ‘mhm’ that tells that all his energy has left him. You can’t judge him; your body is suspiciously close to crashing. You can hear him mumble your name, and you move your head away from his, “Yes?”
“Are you—” He stops, licking his lips, “I’d like it if we could be—” He struggles to find the right words, anxiety and exhaustion making him into a simpering fool.
But you’re grinning, so he must be doing something right. He’s about to attempt his messy request to be the only man in your love life when you mutter a soft, whisper-like, “I’d love to be exclusive with you, Dr. Reid. On one condition.”
You smooth his hair back, out of his face, “We keep this between us until we’re ready to tell the team, I don’t need a team of profilers in my love life— not while we’re together.”
Spencer can feel his chest tighten, watching as you move to hold your pinkie finger towards him. He links his pinkie around yours, “Deal,” He laughs. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Spencer finds acting normal around you increasingly difficult, especially when you keep leaving flirty notes telling him to meet you in the supply closet in ten minutes on his desk (for the fourth time this week). Ever challenging when you insist that your ‘innocent’ little rendezvous won’t lead anywhere, but your plump lips kiss his so hard that they’re swollen in seconds.
He knows the team knows something is amiss, but he can’t think to worry about it as his head finds a place between your hips, your fingers threading into his hair as you bite your swollen bottom lip in a weak attempt to quiet yourself.
JJ and Emily note your absence this fine Wednesday morning, something Derek doesn’t find too interesting until he sees that Spencer is also missing. But who is he to ruin it for Spencer? He’s sure the boy genius has you on a mini-coffee date at some café across the street.
Well, he was sure, until he rounded the corner to see you stumble out of a supply closet, your hair ruffled and makeup smudged. He almost calls out your name when he notices Spencer tailing behind you, his cardigan ruffled and hair equally tousled. Derek’s jaw drops open, waiting and standing in awe as you blow Spencer a kiss and head in the opposite direction toward the bathrooms.
The second Spencer turns to see his friend, the smile drops away from his face, and the color leaves his cheeks. Morgan’s smile is reminiscent of the Cheshire cat’s as he draws out a proud “My man!” and Spencer feels dread fill his soul. He’s never going to live this down.
