synopsis: you find spencer asleep on the sofa after a princess tea party with your daughter, and he’s dressed for the occasion
pairing: dad! spence x reader
genre: fluff !!
wc: 1k
notes/tags: reader is gn, had the urge to write this right after my period hashtag whatdatmean, lowkey pictured spencer like bertram from jessie after his tea parties with zuri😭, i had late seasons/professor! spence in mind but its not specified so choose for yourself !
masterlist // if you enjoy pls reblog it helps promote the fic so much !!
————————————👑———————————
The house was quiet as the door swung shut behind you. You were expecting your daughter to be fast asleep by now, with the usual sound of your husband shuffling about somewhere, hovering over dinner in the kitchen or clearing up the toys littered about the place. But there was nothing. As you wondered into the living room, you saw why.
There was a circle of stuffed animals propped up around the coffee table, plastic cups and saucers scattered about a pink tablecloth and slices of plastic cake in its centre. Yet your eyes were on the lump on the sofa. A tall body sprawled across the cushions with mismatched socks dangling over its edge. You smiled as you stepped closer, lowering yourself to a crouch in front of him.
A tilted tiara lay crooked in Spencer’s soft hair, curls splayed over the cushion beneath his squished cheek. A pink feather boa was loosely wrapped around his neck, draping over his shoulders and shedding on his cardigan. One hand was curled against his chest and you noticed his nails were painted, splotchy blobs of glittery purple that covered more of the skin on his fingers than anything. Whatever party you missed while you were at work must have really worn him out.
“Spence,” you whispered, gently shaking his shoulder as the boa dropped a couple more feathers onto the sofa, “honey, wake up.”
He grumbled lowly, rubbing his eyes with a polished hand as he shifted. When he pulled his hand away there was a mascara smudge on his fingertips. Slowly, he blinked awake, taking in the wide beam you shone at him as you noticed the dabs of pink blusher on his cheeks.
“Well good morning, princess.” You grinned, reaching up and trying to straighten his tiara as best as you could while he was still lying down.
“Wait, what time is it?” He mumbled. When he lifted his head there was a piece of plastic fruit beneath it.
“It’s only eight pm, don’t worry.” You said, and he sighed in relief. Your daughter must have thrown a serious party if he genuinely believed he slept through the night.
Spencer pushed himself up, groaning with the effort as he sat up. Without needing an invitation you pulled yourself up too, settling into the cushions beside him as a lazy arm draped over your shoulders. His warmth seeped into you, melting away the bitter iciness of your commute home and you couldn’t help but notice that he smelt like your daughter’s favourite fruity perfume.
“It looks like she threw one hell of a party.” You mused, gesturing to a stuffed animal toppled over on his side, passed out like your husband was just moments ago.
“Tell me about it.” He chuckled. “I’m sorry, I meant to have this cleaned up by the time you got home.”
“Don’t be silly. Im just jealous I missed this.” You fiddled with the end of his boa, twirling feathers around your fingertip. “Looks like she gave you a makeover too, huh?”
“Actually, this was the dress code to get in.” He huffed a light laugh. Specifically, she had told him that his regular outfit was too boring- apparently button ups and cardigans aren’t exactly glamorous princess attire.
“Oh, really?” You could totally picture her, her brows furrowed in a way she’d inherited from him and a matching pout as she scrutinised his work clothes that in all fairness probably do seem rather drab to a princess-loving six year old. “Sounds strict.”
“Oh, she has very high standards.” Spencer nodded, holding up a teddy bear she’d abandoned on the arm of the sofa. “This little guy was denied entry entirely.”
“Well you look very beautiful, I have to say.” You shifted slightly so that you were angled towards him, finding those big sleepy eyes of his already gazing down at you. He really did look beautiful. He always did- but something about him now, sitting happily without a protest on his mind about the tiara on his head or the perfume on his clothes, made him absolutely radiant. You were too used to him coming home ragged and tired, dark circles under his eyes and pain within them. How lucky you were to be able to see him like this too.
“You think so?” He blushed beneath the pink already painted on his cheeks, dropping his gaze down shyly as if he were a teenage boy talking to his first crush.
You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. It was warm. “The most beautiful royalty I’ve ever seen.”
Spencer laughed and reached up, taking the tiara from his hair and gently settling it in yours, fiddling with it a little until it was perfect. “Then you’ve clearly not seen yourself. Or our little Sleeping Beauty upstairs.”
You smiled at the mention of her, imagining her equally as worn out and covered in glitter no matter how thoroughly Spencer had probably tried to clean her up. She was likely tucked up in her bed the same way he had been on the sofa, cheeks squashed against her pink pillowcases and her starry nightlight casting constellations against the walls. Sleeping Beauty, indeed.
“She gets it from you.” You said softly, pulling yourself from his hold before he could protest as he pouted at your sudden absence. Before he could sulk too much you stood up, holding your hand out to him which he gratefully took immediately. “Come on. Let’s get you something real to eat.”
“I’ve had plenty of fresh plastic cake, actually.” He hummed happily, his hand staying glued to yours as he trailed after you into the kitchen. “She’s a wonderful pretend cook. I think she’s got a real future in the princess tea party business.”
“I bet.” You turned to face him as you came to a stop at the fridge, the grin on his face identically matching a photo of your little girl pinned up beside him with a heart shaped magnet. His face was positively alight with joy. “You know you’re going to be her guest of honour every single time, right?”
Spencer nodded, feathers continuing to float to the ground from the boa still around his neck. “I’m counting on it.”
Synopsis: spencer finds himself struggling with his identity and autonomy after being released from millburn and it’s beginning to affect your relationship. you do everything you can to help him adjust, but the hurdle of shaving seems to be one he just can’t jump.
Pairing: post prison spencer x reader
Genre: angst with a happy ending
Word Count: 5.9k
Notes/Tags: READ WITH CARE!! sad spencer, they fight just a tad, spencer is snappy for a sec, spencer struggles like a lot, panic attacks/prison flashbacks, accidentally cutting while shaving, blood mention, talks of luis delgado & nadie ramos’ murder, references to spencer stabbing himself in prison, BUT READER HELPS HIM HES OK IN THE END !! title from I Will by Mitski :3
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy!! it helps promote the fic so so much !!
—————————————💙——————————
To say it was difficult for Spencer to readjust to normal life would be a drastic understatement. Nothing quite felt as real as it did before nor as safe as it did before. Even moving through his own apartment felt like falling in a dream, that paralysing fear when you know it’s not real and you know you just need to wake up but for whatever reason you just can’t. The panic makes itself at home in your throat, squeezing the breath out of you as you rapidly try to chase after it, as you try to stop the fall but it’s hopeless. Eventually you wake up and think that everything should be okay now but it’s not, at least not for Spencer. It still feels like some kind of hazy trap to him, like he’s scared he’ll open his eyes and still be there.
Spencer tried to be his old self for your sake but you could tell that the walls had never fully crumbled down. He’d let you reach out for him, let you lace your fingers through his or let your arms wrap around him but you caught the way he’d flinch if you held too tight. You felt the way his body tensed, or the way he jerked like something in his gut was telling him to pull away. Logically, he knew he was safe with you but after months of sleeping with one eye open and obsessively checking over his shoulder his nerves had begun to lie to him. He’d engage when you spoke to him, but he would never start the conversation. There were no ramblings or fun facts, no casual conversations over breakfast or sweet whispers in your ear as you fell asleep. He’d smile at you the way he always used to, except now it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
You thought having him back would feel different. Not that you weren’t grateful about it- God you prayed for this every single day, his name on repeat in your mind like a broken record- but it felt sometimes that all you’d gotten back was a body, a spectre, moving through your shared space like a puppet on strings. Seeing Spencer so fragile broke your heart more than you could have ever prepared for, and what was worse was you still had no idea what had happened to him in there to strip him of himself so cruelly. Occasionally you still caught glimpses of him; when his hand instinctively reached for you in his sleep before he woke up and hastily snatched it back, how his eyes lit up for just a second like a flame reignited when you called his name before it was snuffed out again, how for a second- just one small, blissful second- he allowed himself to lean into your touch before he stiffened and pulled away. The latter stung, you had to admit, the stab of rejection piercing through you with a sharpness that took your breath away, but you could see through him when the smoke cleared. In those short, serene moments before the walls shot back up you felt it. He was still in there somewhere- he was still your Spencer.
Shortly after his release you had woken up one night to use the bathroom, the bed cold beside you and the distance between you and Spencer feeling larger than usual. Shyly, you poked out a hand finding nothing but an empty mattress and crumpled sheets. A newly familiar feeling of panic clouded your mind like fog as you gently called his name into the darkness to no answer. You hopped out of bed, feet padding along the wooden floor and your heart sank as you slowly pushed open the bathroom door. There was Spencer, on the floor in the corner in a ghost-like state. His eyes were blank and his mouth was parted as he stared ahead into the shadows with his hands hovering near his head, like he had reached to grasp at his hair and malfunctioned halfway through the motion. Tears stung at your eyes, a wretched weight in your chest dragging you to the ground as you carefully crouched in front of him, your movements slow and tentative. He’d flinched when he spotted you and you bit so hard on your quivering lip you almost drew blood.
“T-the uh,” he began shakily, voice barely there at all, “the door closed.” His eyes squeezed shut as he swallowed his words, a heavy, shameful sigh leaving his lips.
His vacant eyes explained everything he couldn’t say. He’d felt trapped. In the darkness of the night the bathroom became a cell, every dreary drip from the sink’s tap had felt deafening as they echoed off of inescapable walls, the tiles were harsh and icy beneath his hands as he sunk to the floor and froze in place. He never spoke of it again, but after that night a nightlight was placed in every room, a doorstop in every doorway.
Since then you’d coaxed him out of the strict meal schedule he’s become accustomed to, a compulsion he still battled for a while after he was home. You’d put yourself in charge of cooking meals or ordering take-out to save him reaching for whatever was plain and simple as if he’d convinced himself he wasn’t worth the effort anymore. You even helped him pick his clothes out in the morning when you noticed he’d abandoned his colourful ties and patterned sweaters, realising he’d become overwhelmed by the choice after months of wearing the same thing- months of being the prison’s property.
Spencer was still avoiding talking about Millburn but you didn’t push or pry, rather you observed. You recognised what made him lash out, what made him shrink into himself without a word, you realised there were painful memories clinging to him like leeches wherever he went like his brain was never fully relaxed, interpreting everything around him as a threat. As much as you wanted- needed- him to open up to you, you were scared to push too hard and cause him to retreat entirely. And so you found silent ways to help him, a subtle hand on his shoulder to try and help him heal one day at a time, yet there was one thing you couldn’t quite figure out and that was why hasn’t he shaved yet?
Before Spencer had shaved almost obsessively, always complaining about the feeling of the stubble or the way it made him look. You’d assumed that he might struggle with that more than he already did after being made to grow it out but as time went by without it being touched you thought that maybe he’d just gotten used to it. However the way he itched and itched told you otherwise. The way he looked in the mirror like he didn’t even recognise himself told you otherwise.
“Spence?” You called gently from your spot on the armchair. Spencer was sat in the corner of the couch, tucking himself against the armrest like he was trying to take up as little space as possible while his hand absentmindedly made its way to his chin again.
“Yeah?” He responded, not looking up from his book. He hadn’t turned a page in 10 minutes.
You swallowed before you spoke, hesitant to bring it up again. “Why don’t you just shave it, honey?” You tried giving him a small smile but it didn’t help.
His brows furrowed as he lifted his head to meet your eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s bothering you.”
“It’s not.” He replied bluntly, coldly. “I already told you it’s not.”
About a week ago you’d had the same discussion. Spencer seemed to be in a better mood than usual, much to your relief- it felt like you were finally making real progress. The two of you were sitting together on the couch closer than you’d been since his release, you sitting with your knees propped by your chest and angled in a way so that they leaned over him. Something was on TV that you weren’t paying attention to, engrossed in a conversation he’d started about a book he’d read lately. Truthfully you weren’t saying much back as you were far too enamoured by the warm sound of his voice that you’d missed so much as it flowed, bright and lively with an excitement and passion that had been all too absent from him lately. At some point he began to itch, more and more often over time you’d noticed. It had been the kind of evening you’d dreamed of since having him home, huddled up together in the candlelight talking about nothing in particular just like before, but as soon as you suggested shaving his voice froze over. His expression dropped. Almost as soon as the words left your mouth the atmosphere shifted- instant and harsh. Spencer had deflected it, but there was a sharpness in his voice, one that sliced a gap between the two of you again and left you baffled.
“You keep scratching at it.” You pushed hesitantly as his hand dropped on cue as if to prove you wrong.
“My skin’s just dry.” He said, his eyes returning to that same page in his book. “I don’t know why you’re so fixated on this.”
“It’s just that you never liked growing your hair out before.” Before. You regretted the word as soon as it left your lips.
“Does that mean I’m not allowed to like it now?” He finally flipped the page with a crisp thwack that filled the air.
“Of course not, it’s just-“
“I’m capable of deciding what I do and don’t like.” He bit back. Somewhere inside of your heart you knew it wasn’t really directed at you, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.
“I know that, Spence. I’m just trying to help.” You sighed despite yourself, losing patience. You were understanding, of course. You’d been nothing but understanding- but elastic will only stretch so far before it snaps back.
Spencer’s eyes narrowed almost in offence but he kept them pointed downward. “Well you’re not.”
“Not what?” You asked louder than before, tilting your head as you blinked in surprise.
“Helping.” He answered, far too matter of factly for your liking.
With a bitter laugh you dragged your hands down your face in pure exhaustion and when they dropped back down to your lap you saw Spencer staring up at you in confusion like he wasn’t even aware of what he’d just said. “I’m not helping?” You echoed incredulously, your voice shaking slightly under the weight of everything you’d been holding in.
His lips parted and his expression dropped as his brain caught up and he promptly closed the book he’d been pretending to read. “I didn’t mean-“
“No, Spence” you began shaking your head, “I’ve done everything I possibly can to help you. My brain is working so hard trying to put the pieces together myself and figure out what you need so that I can help you because you still won’t tell me anything. You’re still shutting me out.” Biting your lip, you paused and blinked up at the ceiling before looking back at him. “I know I couldn’t possibly understand even a fraction of how you’re feeling and I know that it’s hard to talk about but we can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay. Why can’t you trust me with this, Spencer?”
He was silent for a moment as the cogs turned in his head, hands clenching and unclenching restlessly against the cushions of the couch. “I do trust you.” He almost whispered, though he didn’t even sound convinced.
“So talk to me.” You spoke back, voice gentler but cracking around the edges. “I am so grateful to have you back and I love you, Spence- so fucking much- but I don’t know what you expect me to do. How do you expect me to feel when I suggest something as simple as shaving and you shut down on me or lash out at me without telling me why?”
You waited. And waited. Like they were moving on their own your fingers began drumming against the armrest of the chair, their humble beat echoing in the otherwise empty room. You waited for the sound of his voice to join in, singing words of reassurance and comfort, but it never did. Instead he bowed his head, gazing at the floor like he was trying to hide from you entirely as he shrank even further into the couch- further away from you. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you took a deep breath before speaking again.
“Can we please talk about this?” The silence deafened you, ears ringing as you nodded solemnly and rose to your feet. “You know what, there’s only so much I can do by myself, Spencer. I know you’re struggling but this isn’t fair- you have to meet me halfway at some point. Until then I’m going to bed.”
In his head Spencer thought about calling after you, about saying goodnight as you walked away. He imagined getting up and following you, gently grabbing your wrist to stop you in your tracks so he could apologise and tell you that he’s just scared. He’s scared that you won’t see him the same way anymore, or scared that maybe you already do see him different, scared that you’ll think Millburn sent home a burden and not your boyfriend. He pictures telling you that he’s sorry and that he’s ready to let you in. But his brain and his body are not one anymore. While his mind screams at him to do something, imprisoned behind the bars of his own guilt, his body remains paralysed. No matter how hard he wills it too it simply will not move, rather it seems to fuse further into the course fabric of the couch, adamant on watching you leave.
Spencer didn’t know how long he sat there, unmoving except for the hand scratching at his face. He wasn’t even sure if he realised he was doing it, numb to the feeling of nails against skin as the compulsion took over like a parasite. Behind the closed bedroom door he could hear you getting ready to go to sleep, the sounds so familiar he could practically see himself in the room. As he listened to the rustling of fabric as you changed into your pyjamas he remembered how he used to sit on the edge of the bed, listening to you ramble about your day with a soft smile on his face. When he heard the creak of the mattress as you climbed into bed he thought about how you were climbing into bed alone, becoming all too accustomed to sleeping beside an empty space instead of next to him. He heard the click of the bedside lamp being shut off and his heart clenched with something bittersweet when he heard the nightlight on his side of the bed being switched on and when he turned his head tears flooded his waterline as it’s warm glow poured out under the doorway.
With a weighted sigh his hand fell to his lap, his face raw and stinging- not that he noticed. His head pounded. A chorus of voices bickered over one another, all sounding completely foreign to him despite sharing his voice. His hands shook in his lap as he bounced his knees obsessively and when his eyes dropped down his breath stopped. Blood. Buried beneath his nails. Clinging to his skin, dark and sinister. Perhaps the Spencer of before would’ve brushed it off as anxiety, recognising his body was simply kickstarting whatever self soothing behaviour it could think of to distract itself, but Spencer now only saw blood drawn from his own hands. And it scared him.
Raggedly running his hands through his hair he replayed the spat between the two of you over and over again in his head. Spencer had tried to convince himself that he liked the hair he’d grown, he tried to believe it made him look more mature. He recalled a throwaway comment someone had made about how he ‘looks like a real man now’ and had told himself it was a badge to be proud of. Spencer told himself that maybe people will finally start taking him more seriously now that he looks the part, that the years of being underestimated and dismissed would finally be behind him.
But in reality it drove him positively insane. It was like a piece of Millburn had left with him, keeping him rooted there no matter how far he distanced himself. It drove him crazy the way his image in the mirror morphed into his reflection in the prison glass, his blue inmate clothes growing over his skin like a disease no matter how much he clawed at his body or rubbed his eyes raw. He could barely recognise himself nor could he easily remember how he looked before. Maybe it was dramatic or self pitying but he felt well and truly alien. Millburn had took him in, chewed him up and spat out someone else entirely.
Deep down he knew that you were right. You had a talent for knowing him better than he knew himself most of the time. Logically, he knew he was shutting you out for no good reason other than the fact he’d reached a new, terrifying level of vulnerability he didn’t know how to share with you and so he shut down. Or worse, lashed out. Spencer had tried to shave on his own a couple of times but each time the fear racked through him like a wave, crashing over him ruthlessly and taking his breath away with it. It would always play out the same: he’d stare in the mirror, eyes glassy as he forced himself to move. The blade in his hand felt like it weighed tonnes, anchoring his hand to his side every time he tried and failed to lift it to the mask staring back at him. The first time he’d panicked and given up, the second time he’d cut himself. The blade had clattered to the floor, slipping from shaking hands as he tried to soothe his shuddering breath, his head spinning so fast he thought he might throw up. Spencer hadn’t so much as entertained the idea since.
Truthfully, he felt too embarrassed to let you in. He felt like he was regressing, like Millburn had made him inferior. In an unlikely turn of events Spencer found himself mourning who he was when he was younger. Growing up he’d always thought of himself as wimpy and weak, and he still felt that way even once he’d joined the FBI with him being both the youngest and an exception to the bureau’s typical rules. But that Spencer had survived torture, addiction, poisoning, grief and loss of inexplicable degrees and more. That Spencer raised himself while supporting his mother alone and worked himself to the bone to get to where he was. This Spencer couldn’t even shave his face. He couldn’t help but feel pathetic. He felt he quite literally was not the man he was before and he feared he may never be again- his identity and autonomy had been left behind in that cold, dark cell. As he stared blankly at the wall ahead of him, still sunken into the couch, he recalled a conversation with Emily years ago in which she’d thanked him for being himself and he’d said with gratitude that he didn’t know how to be anyone else. With a lump in his throat, Spencer realised he didn’t even know how to be that anymore.
Eventually, he pulled himself up from the couch and made his way to the bedroom. There you were, in his shirt, curled up on your side with your back to his side of the bed. Your fingers twitched against the pillow and your eyelids fluttered in your sleep, the soft sound of your steady breathing the only sound in the room. You looked peaceful on the surface, but Spencer could see deeper than that. He saw the dark purple beneath your eyes, no doubt the result of the sleepless nights he’d caused you. He noticed how you were sleeping facing away from his pillow where you always used to sleep curled into his side. The glow of the nightlight you’d still cared enough to leave on for him highlighted dried streaks down your cheeks, puffy and flushed from the silent tears you’d shed into your pillow. His throat tightened as he realised just how much you’d sheltered from him and he felt the guilt creeping up through his body. You’d been pleading with him all this time while hiding just how much you were struggling and he’d simply ignored you. Worse, he’d been isolating himself so much he didn’t even notice.
Unbeknownst to him his feet had carried him to the bathroom with a quiet determination that took him by surprise. Frankly, he was fed up with himself and he’d decided it was time. Once again, he found himself planted in front of the mirror, blade in hand, eyes glazed over as he fought with his reflection. Before he could give it a second thought, he watched as his hand came up to his face, felt the cold metal against his skin as he began. Tiny hairs fall to the sink below and the blade keeps moving, repetitive movements propelled by pure muscle memory as Spencer’s consciousness fails him. He is merely a spectator, watching as his limbs move of their own accord and his eyes remain unblinking. The limbs seem to find a rhythm, working out pressure and direction on their own as their host remains stuck in place. After a while Spencer begins to feel himself relax, his eyes water and shake as they regain their focus and his breathing starts to even out. He can feel the weight of the blade in his hand again as it moves and he feels a small twinge of pride, just a small victory, somewhere in his chest.
Just as the feeling began spreading throughout him his hand shook. Just once, but it was enough. He saw it. Thick, red, instant- blood. Spencer didn’t react at first, he simple froze as his eyes followed it trailing down his chin in one clean undeniable line. Slowly, he began to feel the sting in his skin as it grew stronger and stronger, screaming for his attention as he swallowed his pride. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears the world around him seemed muffled, the sounds of cars rushing by outside and voices beneath the window sounded drowned, tortured. His heartbeat travelled from his ears to his throat, from his throat to the tips of his fingers until it was drumming under his skin all over his body.
Almost in slow motion his eyes dropped to his hand, except now he saw a knife and not his razor. There’s a cut on his hand, or at least he thinks there is- he doesn’t remember doing it and he can’t seem to feel it the way he can on his face. Everything feels slow and hazy, blurred around the edges and swaying with every breath he takes. Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees something, a lump sprawled out on the tiles. It’s a body, a woman’s body, yet when he turns to face it it’s gone. Trembling, he rubs at his eyes hard, frantically trying to get the truth out of them but to no avail. With panic rising in his throat like bile he turns back towards the mirror, watching the sweat beading on his face mix with the blood and drag it down his neck.
In an instant he’s back there. The laundry room, Luis gasping on the floor behind his reflection. Spencer hears his voice calling for the guards, distant and echoing like it’s not even his, but his lips stay still in the mirror. A stabbing pain shoots through his arm, through his leg and suddenly he’s throwing the razor at the glass as his knees give out beneath him and hit the tiles below. His breath feels caught in his throat and he tugs desperately at the neckline of his shirt, the tear of the stitches cracking like thunder in the silence of the bathroom. A shaking hand moves of its own accord, running through his hair and sinking its fingers into the roots in frustration as Spencer’s eyes clamp shut. He can’t open his eyes, too afraid to face the blood now on his hands, but even the darkness behind his eyelids makes him feel trapped. Before he can stop it, a pained sob leaves his lips as his chest heaves.
Your eyes snap open and your ears prick up almost as fast as you rise to your feet. Not even fully awake yet, you automatically hurry to the bathroom, trying to peak through the gap the doorstop left but you can’t see anything. Carefully you pushed open the door and as your eyes land on him, crumpled in a corner half shaved and bleeding, you felt like your heart was being torn out of your chest. Tears pricked your eyes, fast and hot, but you blinked them back as you took in the scene.
“Spence?” You called out gently, trying to hide the wobble in your voice. He didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up. You try a couple more times, but he doesn’t even seem to hear you.
Taking a deep breath, you move further into the room. You didn’t need to ask. Without a word you pick the blade up off the floor, rinsing it and cleaning the sink before putting it away out of Spencer’s sight. Tentatively, you crouch down to his level, blocking his view of the rest of the room as he finally looks up at you with dazed eyes. You hold back from asking if he’s okay or from asking what happened, afraid of him shutting down again. Instead, you force a small smile, meeting his gaze with a warm expression.
“You didn’t come to bed.” You said softly, watching as he slowly blinked himself into focus.
“I didn’t think you’d want me to.” He croaked back, fingers twitching against his knees as he pulled them up to his chest.
You sighed, wanting to reach out for him but knowing to keep your distance. “Of course I wanted you to.”
He didn’t respond and you let the silence pass between you as you sat cross-legged on the floor opposite him. You watched as his breath deepened and his body stopped shaking. The blood had stopped atop his collar bone and was beginning to dry.
“Why don’t we get you cleaned up and ready for bed, huh?” You suggested lightly, half expecting him to protest but to your relief he nodded. “I’m going to stand up now but I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m gonna be right here.”
Pushing yourself to your feet, you padded over to the sink and ran a washcloth under the tap. Sitting back down in front of Spencer, you cupped his face with a feather light touch, rubbing a circle over his skin with your thumb before lifting the cloth to his chin. You wiped slowly and gently, careful to keep the rag angled in a way that hid the blood from his view before cleaning his hands. Neither of you spoke, but his eyes fluttered shut with a peaceful sigh as he relaxed into your touch.
“I’m sorry.” Spencer whispered after a while, his voice small and drained.
“We don’t have to talk about it.” You placed the cloth on the floor, still keeping his face in your hands. “At least not right now.”
“We do.” He took your hands in his, lowering them to your lap before letting go. “We should.”
You nodded back at him, leaning back slightly and letting him take the lead. “Okay.”
His brows furrowed in thought as he took a moment to collect himself, staring at the wall over your shoulder. He fidgeted with his hands, wringing them in his lap before licking his lips and turning back to you.
“I was frustrated with myself.” Spencer began, dropping his gaze back to the floor. “I was fed up of having this connection to prison every time I look at myself and being too much of a coward to do anything about it. And I was fed up of taking it out on you. I thought I could handle it but when I cut myself I-“ he paused, “when I saw the blood it-“
“It brought everything back.” You finished for him.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Everything that happened in Mexico, the things that happened to Luis because of me, the things I did to protect myself. Everything” He swallowed as his voice began to quiver. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said and about how much you were struggling without me even realising. I was spiralling so much that I-“ he cut himself off again, dragging his hands down his face as his voice threatened to break. “I didn’t even realise.”
“Spencer, it’s okay.” You soothed, but he shook his head.
“No, no it’s not.” He lifted his eyes to meet yours. “I shut you out because I was ashamed. I didn’t think I was good enough for you anymore, I didn’t think I was safe for you anymore. I was so scared to touch you, to look at you wrong, to talk to you wrong. I didn’t feel like the man you fell in love with and I was terrified that if I let you in you would realise it too. There was part of me that didn’t want to let you in because I thought you’d leave me, but I think a bigger part of me thought I deserved to be left.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks, matching the ones that had poured down your own. Your heart ached with every word that left his mouth. Hesitantly you reached out a hand, pulling it back for a second before stretching it out again and resting it on his knee, and he let you. You wanted to jump in, you wanted to protest and tell him how wrong he was but you decided to let him continue.
“I just don’t understand why you stayed. I don’t understand why you still went to so much effort for me.” He whispered, recalling everything: the nightlights; the doorstops; the meals, everything you’d done in the shadows to help him adjust.
“Spencer, listen to me.” You said firmly, taking his hands in yours. “I could never regret taking care of you. I want to take care of you.”
He sighed deeply, tilting his head as his brows furrowed in genuine confusion that threatened to pull more tears from your eyes. “Why?”
“Because I love you.” You shrugged, plain and simple. “It’s not transactional. Whether we’re fine or whether we’re fighting, if we’re together or apart- I’m still going to take care of you. I’m still going to love you. Yes I’ve been frustrated and upset but I’m not going to turn my back on you when you’re struggling. Not now, not ever.”
“I don’t feel like I deserve it anymore.” Spencer tries to pull his hands away but you don’t let him.
You flash a tiny smirk at him, bringing one of his hands up to your lips and placing a gentle kiss to it. “Unfortunately that’s not for you to decide.”
“I’m not even sure I know who I am anymore.” He says, voice barely audible.
“Well, I do.” You respond, ducking your head to meet his eyes where they had dropped once again. “You’re Spencer Reid. My Spencer Reid. You’re the man who walked me home from every date even though I lived in the complete opposite direction to you because you wanted me to be safe. You’re the man who gave up your favourite sweater to me and pretended not to care because I said it was cosy.” You paused for a moment, laughing fondly before continuing. “You’re the man who hand picks all the tomatoes out of my instant noodle cups before boiling them just because I don’t like them. You are the single most loving, caring, doting man I have ever met, Spencer.”
“I just-“ He started, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s hard to believe I still am.”
“Hmm.” You hummed, cupping his face and leaning in to stare into his eyes as if you were scanning them. “I still see him in there. We just have to get to him, and I’m going to make sure we do, okay?”
“Okay.” He agreed shyly. “Thank you. So much.”
With a reassuring smile you moved your hand along his face, running it over the shaved half before switching to the stubble that still sat on his chin.
“Do I look ridiculous?” Spencer asked, the corners of his lips finally tugging upwards.
“Handsome as ever.” You giggled back. “Do you want me to help you finish it?”
As soon as you ask you noticed the way he shrank into himself, still unsure. He drew his lips into a line, breath hitching with hesitation at the thought of the razor touching his face again.
“I’ll be careful, I promise.” You push gently. “You can keep your eyes on me the whole time.”
Wordlessly, he agreed with the slightest nod of his head, gingerly rising to his feet as you followed suit. You led him over to the sink, lightly guiding him to sit on its edge with his back to the mirror. You grabbed the razor and some shaving balms from the cabinet before returning to stand between his legs. Like you were holding something fragile you took his face in your hands again, pressing a kiss to the shaved side of his face.
“Are you ready?” You asked quietly.
His hands found your waist, fingers bunching in your shirt as if to ground himself. “Yes.”
Spencer’s eyes never left your face as you worked, never drifted to the blade in your hand that now seemed so much more insignificant than it did in his. You moved delicately and precisely, taking the utmost care all the while murmuring words of reassurance between strokes. You felt his breath against your neck as he exhaled all his worries, his posture relaxing under the warmth of your skin on his. Soon after, like it was nothing, you were finished.
“You wanna take a look, handsome?” You asked, resting your hands on his shoulders.
“I um,” he began, grip tightening on your waist momentarily. “I think I’ll take your word for it for now.”
“Of course.” You nodded in understanding, helping him up with a smile. “Can you please come to bed now? It was lonely in there without my favourite pillow.”
With a breathy laugh, Spencer took your hand and followed you into the bedroom. That night you fell asleep side by side, curled into one another as if made from matching moulds just the way you used to. Of course this was just one bump in the road, the path to readjustment was unfortunately never going to be so simple. But as you fell asleep with his arm wrapped around you, his nose buried in your hair as he held you blissfully tight, you knew it would be the last bump he faced alone.
spencer who loves to nap with you, whether it’s the both of you curled up together, or just him laying his head on your shoulder or lap with a book until he dozes off (and feels honored when you do the same to him)
spencer who wants to stay awake to spend more time with you (and he does make an effort) but you just make him feel safe and regulate his nervous system so good he can’t help how sleepy he gets
spencer who struggles to sleep very well when you’re not there with him so you let him borrow a sweater or shirt or scarf or anything soft that smells like you when he’s away on a case
spencer in the colder months reciting data about conserving body heat and the neuroscience of cuddling as he nuzzles into your neck
spencer sometimes even just burrowing under your shirt to lay on your tummy and listen to your heartbeat when his head hurts or he feels especially clingy
Summary: For years, Spencer Reid has kept his feelings for his best friend locked away, certain she would never feel the same way. But Spencer, ever the profiler, can't stop noticing certain patterns in her behaviour. The data is right there in front of him, he's just too afraid to trust it. What happens when he can't ignore the evidence anymore?
Genre: Smut (and some fluff. But mostly smutty smut.) 18+ mdni
Word count: 7000
Warnings: Idiots in love trope, no use of 'y/n', oral (m & f receiving), fingering, protected p-in-v (we are sensible), aftercare, use of pet names ('angel' and 'sweet girl'). This is porn with minimal plot. (Let me know if there's anything I've missed).
A/n: Thank you to everyone who read my last (first) fic, I wasn't expecting that many people to even notice it, so all the notes meant a lot. This one has been sat in my drafts for so long, every time I read it I change something, so I think it's finally time to put it out there into the universe before I drive myself insane. I have a few other drafts/ stories on the go, but my requests are open if anyone would like to send me any of their ideas.
This one is very self-serving - I get off on giving late-seasons Spencer Reid a happy ending. He deserved so much more. Anyway, happy reading my loves.
(Divider by @strangergraphics)
Spencer looked up at you from across the room. You were at your desk, staring at the same paragraph of a consult report you'd been trying to finish for the last hour. Your eyes kept drifting, your mind wandering.
He'd been doing that more often lately. Watching. Not the clinical way a profiler watched a suspect, more like an astronomer studying a newly discovered star, trying to make sense of something that had rearranged the shape of his universe. You hadn't noticed, of course.
Across the bullpen, Spencer Reid sat at his desk. He'd been fidgeting all afternoon. More than usual. His pen tapped against his legal pad in rhythms you'd learned to read over four years of friendship. Morse code for anxiety, for something tugging at his brain that he couldn't quite articulate.
You knew him, maybe better than anyone.
What you didn't know, what you couldn't have known, was that Spencer had spent the last three weeks cataloguing data points. Not for a case. For you.
Your head tilted slightly as you read, and your right hand moved to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was automatic, unconscious, and Spencer had seen you do it thousands of times. But now he let himself notice the shape of your ear, the way your fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary, the way your lips parted just slightly as you reached the end of a paragraph.
He looked down at his own hands. They were trembling. His heart rate (he'd counted) was sitting at a steady ninety-four beats per minute, which was textbook sympathetic nervous system activation. This had been building for weeks, ever since he'd started letting himself catalogue the evidence instead of dismissing it.
The pupils. That was the one he couldn't explain away. Three days ago, you'd brought him coffee during a briefing. When you handed it to him, your fingers had brushed his, and your eyes had met his for exactly two-point-three seconds. He'd counted. And in those two-point-three seconds, your pupils had dilated. Not dramatically, but enough. Enough that someone trained to notice micro-expressions would catch it.
Spencer had caught it.
And then he'd spent the next seventy-two hours constructing and deconstructing arguments for why it might not mean what he desperately wanted it to mean. Maybe the lighting had shifted. Maybe you were experiencing an adrenaline spike from the case. Maybe he was projecting, imposing his own inconvenient, persistent, all-consuming feelings onto perfectly platonic physiological responses.
He was good at that. Convincing himself he was wrong. He'd had years of practice.
But the pupils weren't the only data point.
Your proximity. In any room you always found yourself close to him. Like the way you'd leaned into his shoulder on the jet last Tuesday, your breath evening out as you drifted off, your body choosing him over the empty seat across the aisle.
There was the way you mirrored his body language. When he leaned forward at the conference room table, you leaned forward. When he crossed his arms, you crossed yours beat later. When he took a sip of coffee, you reached for your own mug. Mirroring was a subconscious indicator of rapport - every profiler knew that - but you did it with him specifically. Consistently. Exclusively.
There was the way you reached for him when you were uncomfortable. A hand on his arm during difficult briefings. A shoulder pressed against his in the elevator after a bad case.
There was the way you called him. Not Garcia, not JJ, not Emily. *Him*. When your car had broken down at two in the morning, you'd called him. When you couldn't sleep because a case had wormed its way into your subconscious, you called him. He always answered. Even at 2am. Even when he was busy. Exhausted. It didn't matter. And when your voice cracked on the other end, something in his chest pulled tight with the need to fix it, to be whatever you needed him to be.
You'd done the same for him, of course. After prison, when sleep became something to fear, when closing his eyes meant being dragged back into that cell, you'd slept beside him. Held him. Your body warm and solid and real against his, anchoring him to a world that didn't always feel worth staying in. With your hand on his chest and your breath steady against his shoulder, he'd found something that felt almost like safety.
It would have been so easy to kiss you then. In the dark, with your body curled against his and your hair smelling like roses and your fingers tracing unconscious patterns on his shirt.
He hadn't.
Because what if he was wrong? What if the thing he saw in your eyes was just friendship? Deep and genuine and real, but friendship nonetheless? What if kissing you meant losing you? He couldn't lose you. He'd lost too much already. His mother, in a way. Maeve. The years the FBI had taken from him. Pieces of himself he wasn't sure he'd ever get back.
But the evidence was mounting. The data was irrefutable. And utterly terrifying.
Spencer closed his file and stood. His chair scraped against the floor, and you looked up from your report. Your lips curved into the small smile you reserved just for him, the one that made his chest ache.
"Hey," he said, crossing the distance between your desks. His satchel hung from his shoulder, and he kept his hands in his pockets. Casual. Like his heart wasn't hammering against his sternum.
"Hey Spence. Everything okay?"
Spencer blinked. "Yes. I mean... Yes. Everything's fine. I was just thinking."
"About?"
About the way your voice softens when you say my name. About the statistical improbability that you could ever feel the same way I do. About how I've memorised the exact shade of your eyes and I'm terrified that telling you the truth might mean I never get to see them again.
"Case," he said.
Your eyebrow lifted. "Which case?"
"The..." He scrambled for something plausible. "The Albuquerque arson case. The accelerant pattern doesn't match the profile."
"We closed that case three weeks ago."
Spencer ran a hand through his hair. "I know. I just... I can't stop thinking about it."
The lie felt flimsy, and he could tell you didn't buy it. Your head tilted and your eyes searched his face.
"Spence." Your voice dropped, quiet enough that no one else in the bullpen would hear. "Talk to me."
And there it was. The opening. The opportunity he'd been waiting for. The moment he'd rehearsed a hundred times in his head, always with a different outcome. Sometimes you smiled and kissed him. Sometimes you looked at him with pity and gently explained that you didn't feel that way. Sometimes you just walked away.
He could let the moment pass. He could make a joke, deflect, retreat to the safety of statistics and comfortable silence. He could bury his feelings so deep that even he forgot they were there.
But the pupils. The mirroring. The way you'd held him through the worst nights of his life and never once made him feel broken.
The evidence was there.
And Spencer Reid had never been able to ignore evidence.
"Can we… I need to talk to you. Not here."
Your brow furrowed. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Yes. I just - " He swallowed. "My place? Or yours. Either. Whatever you prefer."
Something in his voice. A tremor beneath the words. You'd heard it before - in the weeks after Millburn, when he'd wake up gasping and you'd be there, already reaching for him in the dark. But this wasn't that. This was different.
"My place," you said, saving your file and shutting down your computer. "Let me grab my coat."
The drive took fourteen minutes. Spencer counted.
He counted because it gave his brain something to do other than imagining every single way this conversation could go wrong, every possible sentence he could fumble, every micro-expression that might cross your face when you realised what he was trying to say. Every way you could let him down. When you finally pulled up outside your building, Spencer followed you inside without a word. The latch of your apartment door clicked into place behind you. Final. Irrevocable. A quiet, ordinary sound that, to Spencer, felt like a point of no return.
Your apartment was warm and cosy. Books stacked on every available surface. A record player sat by the window, a stack of well-worn vinyl leaning against its stand. And there, stuck to your fridge, a photo of the team. Worn soft at the edges like you'd looked at it more than once. He stood in the middle of your living room, hands still buried in his pockets, shoulders tight.
"Spence." You hung your coat on the hook by the door and turned to face him. "You're scaring me a little."
"Don't be scared. Everything's fine. I just need to... I need to talk to you about something."
He pulled his hands from his pockets and gestured toward the couch. "Can we sit?" You nodded and settled into your usual corner, tucking your legs beneath you. He sat, but not close. A careful foot of distance between you. Unusual. Spencer turned to face your direction, but his eyes remained fixed on the floor. This was it. It was now or never.
"I've been observing something," he started, and the words came out stilted, rehearsed. Like he'd been practicing them in his head for days. "Patterns. Behavioral patterns. Specific to you. And me. Us."
Your breath caught. He heard it - the slight hitch, the way your chest stuttered. "Spencer."
"Just - let me finish. Please. If I don't get this out I'm going to lose my nerve."
He took a breath. Rapid. Shallow. "Your pupils dilate when you look at me. I've measured, I have three weeks of data. Not consistently, but with a correlation coefficient that's statistically significant."
You didn't say anything.
"You mirror my body language," he continued, the words coming faster now, tumbling out like he was reciting a paper from memory. "Crossing your arms when I cross mine, leaning forward when I lean forward, even adjusting your breathing rate to match mine, which is a phenomenon called interpersonal synchrony and it's been well-documented in dyads who share a close emotional bond but it's typically most pronounced in..." He stopped. Swallowed. "In romantic partnerships."
Your lips parted. Said nothing.
"You reach for me," he said, and the words caught in his throat. "Instinctively. When you're uncomfortable. When you're scared. When you're upset. You reach for me. When we're in a room together, you position yourself within arm's reach of me regardless of the spatial configuration. Your body orients toward mine. Your feet point at me when we're talking. You find reasons to touch me - my shoulder, my wrist, your knee against mine. You're not… you don't do that with anyone else. I've checked."
Your mouth opened. Closed. You stayed quiet.
"And at first, I dismissed it. All of it. Because it didn't make sense. I know correlation doesn't equal causation. I know there could be other explanations, I've considered all of them. I thought, there's no way. I'm projecting. I want it to be true so badly that I'm manufacturing evidence to support a conclusion I've already drawn. That's confirmation bias. It's a classic cognitive error."
He paused. You still hadn't moved.
But the pupil dilation," he broke off and looked at you. Finally. His eyes, those impossible hazel eyes, held yours with an intensity that stole your breath. "It's a physiological response mediated by the autonomic nervous system. You can't fake it. And your pupils dilate for me."
The silence that followed was deafening. Spencer's heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his temples. His hands were trembling. You watched him notice you notice, and he folded them together in his lap, knuckles whitening. Then he turned to face you fully, and though his hands still shook, he didn't try to hide it anymore. "I'm terrified that saying what I'm about to say might ruin everything. But I can't... I can't ignore the evidence anymore." He braced himself. "I'm in love with you," he said. "I have been. For a while. A long while. I don't know exactly when it started, but I know that when I was in that cell, when I couldn't think of anything worth surviving for, I thought of you. I thought of your laugh. Your smile. The way you ask me questions when I'm rambling about something no one else cares about. The way you make me feel like my brain isn't something to tolerate but something to..." His voice broke again. He pressed his lips together, composing himself. "Something to celebrate. And I know... I know that the probability of someone like you having feelings for someone like me is statistically very low. I know I've never been the person people choose. I know I'm broken in ways that might never fully heal."
You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but watch him unravel before you, this brilliant, beautiful man who had no idea how completely he owned you.
"I'm a profiler," he said, quieter now. "And I see things. I see how you look at me. And as improbable as it might seem, every piece of evidence I have suggests you might feel the same way. I need to know if the data means what I think it means. Because if it doesn't, if I'm wrong, I need to find a way to be okay with that. I need to find a way to keep being your friend without this - this hope - eating me alive." His voice dropped to something raw and unguarded. "So I guess my question is," he said, rough, scraped bare, "am I wrong? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm reading into things that aren't there, and I'll stop. I'll never bring it up again. We can pretend this conversation never happened, and I'll be fine. *We'll* be fine. I just need to know, because I can't keep - " His voice broke. "I can't keep hoping for something that might not exist."
The tears spilled over. One traced a path down your cheek, and Spencer's fingers twitched with the urge to brush it away. "Do you have feelings for me?"
For a long moment, you didn't speak. Couldn’t.
Spencer counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. His heart pounded hard enough to shake his ribs, and his palms were sweating, and he was already mentally preparing himself for the rejection, already constructing the argument for why this didn't have to change anything, already drafting the apology.
Your hand found his cheek, warm and stubbled and so familiar. His breath caught. His eyes - wide, terrified, hopeful - searched your face like he was memorising it for the last time.
"Yes" you said, a smile appearing on your face despite the tears that were still falling. Despite the evidence, to hear you say it out loud... he didn't believe what he was hearing.
He blinked. "You do?"
"I've been in love with you for years, Spencer. Years." A laugh bubbled up from your chest, wet and disbelieving. "I thought you didn't see me like that. I thought I was just your friend. Your safe person. And that was enough. God, that was more than enough, just being in your life. But I never let myself hope for more."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I was scared." He laughed, and the sound was shaky and raw and more honest than anything he'd said in years. "I'm still scared. Terrified, actually. Because if this goes wrong, if I mess this up, I lose the most important relationship in my life. I lose you. And I can't... I can't lose you."
"You're not going to lose me." You reached for his hand. "Spencer, you're never going to lose me. You're the best thing in my life."
The world stopped. Spencer couldn't speak. His throat had closed up, and his eyes were stinging, and everything he wanted to say felt too big for words.
So he kissed you instead.
It wasn't calculated. It wasn't one of the forty-seven scenarios he'd run in his head. It was gentle at first. Tentative. His lips pressed to yours with a reverence that made your chest ache. His hands were on your cheeks, cradling your face like you were something precious.
Your hand came up to cup his jaw, and you kissed him back.
The confirmation that you wanted this - that you wanted *him* - broke something open inside Spencer's chest.
He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding into your hair, the other finding your waist. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between your bodies and he could feel the hammering of your heart against his chest.
*Matching rhythm,* he thought distantly. *Our hearts are beating in matching rhythm.*
You pulled back first, gasping for breath, and Spencer's forehead dropped to rest against yours.
"Hi," you whispered, and your smile was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Hi," he whispered back.
You kissed him again, harder, and the sound he made - a small, broken thing from the back of his throat - ignited something in your belly. This time, there was nothing gentle about it. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt. His hands slid down to your hips and gripped, anchoring you to him. The kiss deepened. Opened. His tongue brushed your lower lip, a question, and you answered by pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left to close.
Somehow, you ended up in his lap. Straddling him on your couch, knees bracketing his hips, your hands fisted in his hair. His mouth was everywhere - your lips, the corner of your jaw, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss a discovery. Each gasp a confession.
"Wait," he breathed against your collarbone. "Wait, wait."
You stilled immediately. Your hands loosened in his hair. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. No, nothing's wrong, that's - everything's right. That's the problem. I just need to know." He lifted his head and met your eyes. His pupils were blown wide, dark swallowing hazel. "Are you sure? Are you sure about this? About me? Because if we do this, if we - there's no going back. I can't - I can't lose you. Not you. Anyone else, but not you."
Your heart cracked open. Right down the middle. You cupped his face in both hands and held his gaze.
"I have never been more sure of anything in my life," you said, and you said it slowly, deliberately, so he could profile every microexpression, every involuntary tell that proved you meant it.
"If we do this, I can't - I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I don't want casual. I want... I need something real in my life."
"I want the same thing. I want you. All of you. Everything. The parts you think are broken and the parts you think are too much and every single thing in between. I want all of it, Spencer. I love you."
He kissed you again, slower this time. Deeper. His teeth caught your lower lip, drawing a soft whimper from your throat, and the sound sent a rush of heat spiralling through his veins.
"Then we're not doing this on the couch," he murmured.
Before you could respond, he bent down and scooped you into his arms.
You made a startled sound, your arms wrapping around his neck. "Spencer!"
You laughed, and the sound was bright and surprised and so lovely that Spencer felt his chest ache with it. He'd made you laugh. He'd kissed you and you'd kissed him back and now he was carrying you to your bedroom, and this was his life. This was actually his life.
He carried you down the hallway toward your bedroom, and the movement, the easy strength of it, sent heat pooling low in your belly. Spencer - lanky, bookish Spencer, who got winded walking up three flights of stairs - was carrying you to bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He laid you on the bed gently. Reverently. The mattress dipped under your weight.
He lowered himself onto the bed, his body covering yours, his weight braced on his forearms. Your legs parted to accommodate him, and the fit was perfect; your hips aligned, your chests pressed together.
Spencer looked at you. Your lips were swollen. Your cheeks were flushed. Your pupils were blown wide, and he didn't need a textbook to tell him what that meant.
"You're beautiful," he said, and the words came out reverent. Worshipful. "You're so beautiful. I've always thought so. Even before - I've always thought so."
You reached for him. Your fingers found the hem of his sweater and brushed the warm skin of his stomach underneath. He shivered. A full-body tremor that you felt through the mattress.
"Can I?" you asked.
He nodded, and you pulled the sweater up. He raised his arms to help you, and the fabric slid over his head and fell somewhere on the floor. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you smiled at the sight of him - flushed, disheveled, and entirely undone.
Your turn.
He undressed you slowly.
Piece by piece. Button by button. And he let himself savor every inch of skin he uncovered. The curve of your shoulder. The hollow of your throat. The way your breath caught when his knuckles brushed your collarbone.
The last button slipped free, he pushed the fabric aside and the blouse joined his sweater, discarded somewhere on the floor.
He finished undressing you with the same deliberate care, mapping your body with his hands and his mouth.
When the last piece of fabric was stripped away and you were bare beneath him, he looked at you and he made a sound. Low. Almost pained.
"_Wow._"
His pants and boxers were next. You undressed him carefully, pressing kisses to each new inch of skin revealed - his narrow chest, the jut of his hipbone, the pale stretch of his thigh. He was trembling by the time you were done. So were you.
Naked together. Nothing between you. The air was cool and his skin was hot and when he settled beside you on the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, you turned toward him on instinct.
His hands found your breasts. Palms first, cupping the weight of them, and you exhaled sharply at the contact. Then his thumbs circled your nipples, and you arched into his touch. He catalogued your responses - the way your breath caught when he applied pressure, the way your hips shifted when he rolled a nipple between thumb and forefinger, the way your mouth fell open when he bent his head and took one peak into his mouth.
"Oh," you gasped.
He worked your breasts with his mouth and his hands, switching sides, learning what made you gasp and what made you moan and what made you fist your hands in the sheets. The flat of his tongue. The edge of his teeth. The gentle suction that made your back bow off the mattress.
"Spence, oh my God."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close, and he let himself get lost in the taste of your skin, the sounds you made, the way your body arched into his touch.
His mouth found yours again. Different now. Hungrier. The gentle reverence was still there, an undercurrent, but layered over it was something more urgent, more desperate.
His hand slid lower. Over your stomach. Down to the junction of your thighs.
"Can I?" Another question. Always checking. Always making sure.
"Yes. Yes."
You gasped as his fingers finally, finally slipped between your legs. You were wet. So wet. His fingers slipped through your folds and you shuddered, a full-body tremor that he felt in his own bones.
"You're so - " He didn't finish the sentence. Couldn't, apparently. His vocabulary abandoned him entirely as his fingers explored you. Slow. So agonisingly slow. His index finger traced the outline of your clit, so gently it was barely there.. Your hips bucked involuntarily, and you made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a curse.
"I've got you," he said. "I've got you.
He applied more pressure now. Circled his finger, slow and deliberate, working you higher, higher, until you were trembling beneath him.
"I want - " you started, but the words dissolved into a moan as he applied slightly more pressure.
"What do you want?"
"More," you whispered. "Please."
The please nearly undid him.
He gave you more.
He pressed two fingers against your entrance, sliding in with an ease that made both of you groan. His thumb found your clit at the same time and began drawing circles while his fingers curled inside you, searching.
When he found the spot - that rough patch of tissue on your anterior wall - your whole body jolted. "There," you gasped. "Right there. Oh god, Spencer, right there."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He hit it again. And again. Over and over.
His fingers worked you with almost surgical precision while his thumb continued its maddening pattern.
"It's _too_ good. It's... I need... faster. Please."
He adjusted immediately. His fingers quickened, his thumb pressed harder, and the pleasure sharpened into something almost unbearable.
You were babbling now, words dissolving into sounds, your hands fisted in the sheets and your head thrown back.
He lowered his mouth to your breast again, sucking in rhythm with his fingers, and you screamed.
"I'm going to - " you started.
He pulled his fingers out.
You made a sound of pure frustration, and Spencer laughed - a low, dark sound he hadn't known he was capable of making.
"Not yet."
The kiss he pressed to your lips was brief. Then he kissed your chin. Your throat. Your sternum. The soft skin of your stomach. Your hipbone. Lower. Lower. Until his breath ghosted hot on your inner thigh.
His mouth found your clit and you bucked against him.
His tongue was flat and hot and when it dragged over your clit, your vision whited out. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping, anchoring. He hummed against you, and the vibration pushed you even higher.
He slid two fingers inside you while his mouth worked your clit, and this time he didn't hold back. His fingers curled, found that rough patch of tissue, and pressed. Over and over. With the same surgical precision he'd used moments ago only faster now, harder, more insistent. The rhythm building toward something that had your thighs trembling and your breath coming in ragged gasps.
The dual stimulation was overwhelming. His fingers inside you, precise and relentless. His mouth on your clit, soft and slick and perfect.
He sucked, gently at first, and your thighs clamped around his head.
"Right there, right there, oh my God, Spencer, right there - "
He didn't stop. Didn't pause. His free hand pressed your thigh back, holding you open for him, and he sucked harder.
You broke.
Your orgasm hit you hard. It was an implosion. A collapse inward. Your body folded around the pleasure, every muscle clenching and unclenching in rhythm, and you cried out something that sounded like his name.
He worked you through it, gentler now, softer, until your body went limp beneath his hands. Then he pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh and looked up at you.
His lips were swollen. His eyes were bright and awed and a little bit smug. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, and your eyes were glassy and distant and so, so beautiful.
You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe. You reached for him blindly, and he understood. He crawled up your body, arms bracketing your shoulders, and let you pull him down into a kiss.
"Are you okay?" he murmured against your mouth.
You blinked. Focused on his face. And then you smiled. "Yeah. Yes. That was..." You laughed, breathless and giddy. "That was intense."
He smiled at you. "Good." Then he fell quiet, eyes locked on yours, like he couldn't bring himself to look away.
You kissed him again, deeper, and felt his erection heavy against your thigh. Hard and hot and leaking. "Your turn."
He pulled back slightly, brow furrowing. "You don't have to. If you're tired or sensitive or... "
When you wrapped your fingers around him, he made a sound you'd never heard from him before - a broken, desperate whimper.
"You're..." he started, and then your thumb swiped across the head of his cock, collecting the bead of moisture there, and he forgot the rest of the sentence.
"I'm what?" You looked up at him through your lashes, eyes sparkling with mischief and wonder.
"Perfect," he managed. "You're perfect."
You pushed at his shoulder. He let you roll him onto his back, his head finding your pillow, his hair fanning out in a messy halo.
You took your time. The same deliberate reverence he'd shown you. Your lips traced the line of his sternum, the dip of his navel.
"You're beautiful," you said as you kissed down his body. "I don't know if anyone tells you that enough. But you are."
Spencer's throat tightened. "No one tells me that."
"Then I'm going to tell you every day." You pressed a kiss to his hipbone. "Every single day." Another kiss, lower. "Until you believe it."
You kissed the inside of his thigh and he shuddered, his hands fisting in the sheets.
Your hand wrapped around the base of his cock. The contact made him gasp, his hips jerking involuntarily, and you tightened your grip in response.
You stroked him slowly. Once. Twice. Learning the shape of him, the weight of him in your palm.
"You're... that's... *oh.*"
You traced the ridge of his frenulum, slow and deliberate, and his hips jerked off the bed. You pressed a hand to his stomach, holding him still.
"Be patient," you murmured against his skin.
"I've been patient for four years," he gritted out. "I'm at capacity."
You laughed - couldn't help it - and took him into your mouth.
The sound he made was inhuman. Your name, half-sob, half-prayer. His hand flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding. Anchoring. You worked him slowly, learning his shape the way he'd learned yours. Your tongue traced the ridge of his frenulum and he gasped.
"Oh."
You did it again. Slower. Your tongue flat and warm, tracing the ridge of the glans, probing the sensitive spot just beneath the head. His hands fisted in the sheets. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts.
"You like that?"
"Yes. Please. Keep... keep doing that."
You did. You took him into your mouth, inch by agonising inch, your lips stretched around his girth, your tongue pressing against the underside of his shaft. The wet heat of your mouth was overwhelming. The suction. The rhythm. The way you hollowed your cheeks and pulled back, only to sink down again, deeper this time, until the head of his cock nudged the back of your throat.
"Oh my God," he breathed.
You hummed around him. The vibration traveled through his entire body, and his hips bucked before he could stop them, and you made a small choking sound and pulled back.
"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to - "
"It's fine." You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and your smile was absolutely devastating.
Then you took him back into your mouth, and Spencer stopped being able to form coherent sentences. Your hand worked the base of his shaft while your mouth focused on the head, sucking and drawing patterns with your tongue. Then you pulled back and pressed the flat of your tongue against his frenulum, and he saw stars.
"Fuck. Fuck."
Your thumb found the sensitive spot. Rubbed small circles over it. Your tongue traced down his shaft, lower, until your lips were pressed against his balls, and the dual sensation - your hand on his cock, your mouth on his sac - made his vision blur at the edges.
"I'm - I'm close." he managed. "If you don't stop, I'm going to come. And I really, *really* want to be inside you when that happens."
You lifted your head. Met his eyes. His pupils were so dilated they'd almost swallowed the hazel entirely.
You kissed the head of his cock once, and pulled off immediately. His cock throbbed at the loss of contact, and he made a sound that might have been a whimper.
"Condom," you said. "Nightstand drawer."
He fumbled for it while you watched, chest heaving, skin flushed. His fingers were less steady than usual - he dropped the foil packet twice before tearing it open with his teeth, which stirred something in your chest. You took it from him and rolled it down his length, slow, deliberate, watching his face contort with the effort of holding still.
"Okay," you breathed. "Okay."
You swung your leg over his hips. His hands found your waist, steadying you, and his eyes never left yours as you positioned yourself above him.
The first press of him against your entrance made you both freeze. Eye contact. Held. Suspended.
You sank down slowly.
The first inch stole his breath. The second made him groan. He filled you inch by inch, and you watched his face as you took him in; the way his jaw went slack, the way his pupils blew even wider.
"Oh my God," he whispered.
"Yeah," you agreed, your voice thin and reedy. "Yeah."
The stretch was incredible. He could see it on your face; the way your lips parted, the way your brow furrowed. He could feel it in the way you clenched around him, tight and hot and perfect.
Then you bottomed out. He was fully inside you. And for a moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just _felt_.
"Are you okay?" he managed.
"Yes." The word was breathless.
You stayed like that for a moment, both of you adjusting, both of you trembling. Then your hips began to move. Slowly at first. A grinding motion that had you both gasping. His hands found your hips, steadying you.
"You feel - " He couldn't finish. Had to swallow. Tried again. "You feel _amazing_."
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and began to move. Up and down. A slow, rolling rhythm. His cock dragged against your inner walls with every stroke.
"Oh my god," you breathed. "Spencer, you feel - "
"I know. So do you. You feel - I can't even - you're incredible."
You lifted your hips and sank back down. Lifted and sank. The angle, the depth, the fullness - it was everything. It was too much and not enough and exactly right all at once.
His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. "You're so beautiful," he said again, because he couldn't stop saying it. "So, so beautiful. I've wanted this for so long. I've wanted you for so long."
"I'm here." You leaned down to press your forehead to his.
Tears pricked your eyes. You blinked them away, leaned down, kissed him hard. He kissed you back, one hand still cradling your face, the other sliding down to your hip to guide your movements.
You rode him like that - foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, eyes locked - until your thighs burned. Until his breathing went ragged and his grip went bruising and you could feel him straining toward the edge.
"Lie down, angel," he whispered.
The endearment slipped out before he could stop it, but your eyes went wide and soft.
You smiled and slid off him. He followed you immediately, rolling you onto your back, settling between your thighs. Your arms reached for him as his cock found your entrance again, and he pushed in with one smooth stroke.
"Yes," you hissed. You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him deeper, closer, _more_.
He started thrusting. Slowly at first - savoring every sensation, cataloguing every response. But his control was fraying, and your legs were tightening around him, and the sounds you were making were driving him out of his mind.
He built speed.
He set a pace that was almost punishing. Fast. Deep. His hips snapped against yours and the sound of it - wet and rhythmic and obscene - filled the room. His chest pressed against yours. His breath was hot against your ear.
He angled his hips, searching for that spot he'd found with his fingers, and when you gasped - loud and sharp - he knew he'd found it again.
Then his hand was between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
The dual stimulation. Again. But different this time - sharper, more urgent, his cock inside you and his thumb on your clit and his voice in your ear.
You were begging now.
"Oh god - Spencer - don't stop - please don't stop, it feels so good, I'm so close - "
"I won't stop." His voice was wrecked. "I've got you, sweet girl. I've got you. Let go for me."
You did.
Your orgasm hit like a detonation.
It was bigger than the first one. Deeper. Your vision went white, then black, then exploded into stars. Your body arched off the bed and locked there, every muscle seized, every nerve firing. You might have screamed. You might have said his name. You didn't know. You didn't know anything except the pleasure, rolling through you in waves that crashed and retreated and crashed again.
Somewhere in the haze, you felt him follow.
His release slammed into him with the force of a freight train. He buried himself deep and came with a moan that was almost a sob, groaning your name into your throat. His face pressed into the curve of your neck, his body shaking against yours. His grip on your hip tightened almost to the point of pain.
And then stillness. Silence.
You didn't know how long you stayed like that - bodies tangled, breath ragged, hearts pounding in matching rhythm.
His weight was warm and solid on top of you, and you didn't want him to move. Ever.
Eventually, he became aware of your hand stroking his hair. Of your lips pressing soft kisses to his temple, his cheek, his jaw.
He lifted his head. Looked at you with something like wonder, something like disbelief.
Then he kissed you. Your forehead. Your eyelids. The tip of your nose. Both cheekbones. Your chin. Your lips. Every inch of your face, pressed with soft, reverent kisses that made your throat tight and your eyes sting. You smiled beneath his lips, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Eventually - reluctantly - he pulled out and rolled onto his back. His hand found yours immediately, lacing your fingers together. He laid there for a while, just breathing, before he lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
"I'll be right back," he whispered.
He disappeared into your bathroom. You heard water running. Cabinets opening and closing. His soft footsteps returning. And then a warm washcloth, gentle between your thighs. You watched him with heavy-lidded eyes as he cleaned you up. Gentle strokes. Careful hands. The same reverence from before.
When he was done, he tossed the washcloth towards the hamper and climbed back into bed beside you. His arms wrapped around you, your head found the hollow of his shoulder and your hand splayed across his chest. His fingers traced absent patterns on your upper arm.
"You should go pee," he said. "To avoid a UTI. The risk of urinary tract infections after intercourse increases by approximately 50 percent. Postcoital urination reduces the risk by - "
You burst out laughing. "There's my nerd."
He smiled. You felt it against your hair. "I'm serious. The urethra is in close proximity to multiple bacterial sources and during intercourse those bacteria can be - "
"I'm going. I'm going." You pushed yourself up, still laughing, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Don't go anywhere."
"Unlikely."
You padded to the bathroom. When you returned, he was still there. Still in your bed. Still looking at you with that expression - like he couldn't quite believe you were real.
You climbed in beside him and he pulled you close immediately, his arms wrapping around you like he'd been doing it for years. Like he'd never let go.
"I love you," he whispered into the darkness. "I've been telling you I love you for years in the only way I knew how. Every word. Every look."
"I love you too, Spence."
His arms tightened. His lips pressed to your forehead.
"Goodnight, my angel."
You felt his breathing slow, felt his body relax against yours — the tension he'd carried for months, years, finally bleeding away. Your eyes grew heavy, your limbs warm, and all you could think was how much you loved him. How much you'd always loved him. How ridiculous it was, that you'd both spent so long terrified of something that felt this right.
Sleep came quickly. The last thing you were aware of before you were pulled under was the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, and the weight of his arm, warm around your waist.
check out the masterlist for more! spencer requests welcome
summary: you’re just like many other college students with a crush on your criminology professor, spencer reid. sweet, handsome, oblivious spencer reid. except you were never one to ogle from afar. you were determined to be the one to seduce him.
tags and warnings: smut, no use of y/n, sub!spencer reid x dom!reader, afab!reader, pretty mean dom reader, professor x student, slight dubcon, dynamic implies age gap but not specified, masturbation (reader), implied fingering during masturbation, reader is a nasty gal!, reader wears a very mini skirt at one point, degradation, reader gets off on shaming spencer, p in v sex, oral (fem receiving), cowgirl position riding, face sitting (fem), slight blackmail for a moment, creampie, mentions of pregnancy but no preg bc WE DON’T DO THAT HERE, author is waaay into foreplay, most of spencer’s rambling is random stringed-together criminology jargon as i pretend to know what im talking about
a/n: inspiration for this fic! this is like if a smut fic was very silly. reader wants that cookie baaaad. this is a very small concept that stretched into a big long fic i hope no one gets bored. also IF YOU’RE READING THIS GET IN MY INBOX!!! I AM WILLING TO TAKE REQUESTS!!! I WANT SPENCER IDEAS, EVEN FLUFFY ONES!!!!
It was certainly hard to focus when in the class of Professor Reid. Almost every seat in the front row was taken up by a girl twirling her hair or chewing on her pen. Or both. And you really couldn’t say you were any better.
Spencer stood at the front of the lecture hall, adjusting his glasses with one hand while holding a stack of papers in the other.
He didn’t mean to be distracting, but he so very was. Tall, lanky, always dressed neatly in button-ups and vests, and his intelligence just radiated from him. And when he was teaching, his voice gained such weight and precision it was impossible for the attention of the room not to be drawn.
He was certainly handsome. And it was sweet of him to pretend he didn’t know it.
You couldn’t blame the ogling women. You'd be lying if you said you weren't taking this class at least partially for Reid. You sat near the middle, your notebook open but mostly blank. You’d spent the last ten minutes sketching tiny hearts in the margins instead of taking notes. you were listening. You just… liked looking at him, too. The way his hair fell slightly over his forehead when he leaned forward onto his desk, how he bit his lip when concentrating, how soft-spoken yet assured he sounded. It was all kind of unfairly attractive for a professor who probably didn’t even realize half these girls were here for him and not criminology.
But you were a woman of drive. A woman of initiative. And a woman of... well, perverse sexual desires, honestly. And Professor Spencer Reid would see that soon enough.
You pretended it was a coincidence that you’d arrived earlier than could possibly be accidental.
And it was a coincidence, technically. A class of yours prior had been canceled last minute, and now roaming the halls of the building, the open door to Spencer’s hall was just too inviting to possibly ignore.
You hadn’t planned to show up an hour early just to secure a good seat. But now here you were, walking in at 8:05 AM for a class that started at 9, eyes roaming over the empty front row with a giddy greed.
Part of you had hoped to spare just an extra minute with the handsome professor before his lecture began. But much to your pleasant surprise, he wasn’t one to arrive two minutes before class was to begin like your other professors. As you stand in the door, Reid stares back at you with brown eyes like saucers, mid-scribble on the board, slightly alarmed to see someone so early.
His hair was unruly. The eyebags under his eyes, not dark enough to be troubling, but just enough to make you wonder if he had spent more than a few hours resting.
Spencer straightened up quickly and nearly knocked over the empty coffee cup on his desk. He clears his throat, and gives you a stiff wave. “Oh! Uh… good morning.”
You clear your throat and shift your bag on your shoulder, moving to secure a front row seat. “…First one, huh?” you say, like it’d been accidental.
Spencer nodded, still slightly flustered by your presence. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re… pretty early! 53 minutes early, actually.”
He turned back to the board and picked up his marker again, but didn’t resume writing just yet. Just stood there shifting it in his grip awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that someone was watching him work.
He slowly turns back around. “Did you… uh… have a question? Or something I can help you with?”
It makes you a little giddy inside that he was talking to you directly now. Like being alone with a celebrity. It was quite invigorating to have a crush.
“Oh,” you wave your hand, settling into your chair. “Nope. No questions here.”
He stares at you for a moment, eyes just subtly roaming over your figure. “…Cool,” he said lamely, then turned back to the board and started writing again, a subheading to yesterday’s lecture notes.
Crossing your leg over the other, you tap your fingers on your knees. You sit front and center, watching Spencer like he’s on display. The silence is a little uncomfortable, the only sound in the room the squeaking of the marker as his hand flies across the board, but you didn’t care. You were too busy getting an eyeful of his derriere each time his blazer rode up with his arm.
Eyes still fixed on the prize, you muse, “You like to be early too, huh?”
Spencer nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I like to get everything set up before class starts. Y’know… organize the slides, make sure the projector’s working,” He gestures vaguely to the ceiling. “Helps to not feel, uh, overwhelmed, actually.”
“Ah. A lot to do, I imagine.”
“Mhm!” he hummed in agreement, scribbling more notes on the board, something about a list of common stress triggers in violent offenders.
“Anything I can help with, sir?”
He turns slowly, marker in hand. “Uh… no? I mean, I’m good.” He smiled awkwardly, then immediately went back to writing before the conversation could continue further.
Your face falls. The slight sting of embarrassment makes you grimace behind his back. “Not even get you another coffee? …You look like you need it, sir.”
At that, Spencer considers. “…Actually,” he said slowly, “that would be really nice.”
You pop up from your chair like a spring. Spencer is slightly startled. “I, uh, take it with a lot of sugar!” He calls as he watches you move to the door, then retracts it as soon as he feels too demanding. “Actually, just— just bring the sugar here, I’ve got it.”
“Aye, aye, professor.”
Five minutes later, you returned, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a generous amount of sugar packets between your teeth.
You climb up the steps to the stage, for the first time being on the same level as your professor. And just a few feet away at that. You bite your cheek.
He carefully takes the cup with a tiny, grateful smile, but hardly makes eye contact with you, much to your dismay. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”
He immediately ripped open three sugar packets, dumping them in at once. He stirred it with a spoon from his desk, watching the swirl of cream and sugar mix. When he finally sipped it… perfect. Strong. Sweet. Just how he liked it.
Still not looking at you directly, too aware that you were just standing there watching him oddly, he gave another quiet thanks.
You were lingering a little longer than necessary if you were being honest, eyes following the way his throat bobs as he swallows another gulp of the coffee.
Spencer stares at you awkwardly. You give a sheepish grin as you catch yourself. “Sorry! I’m not, uh,” you bite your lip, humming, “bothering you or anything by being here so early?”
“Oh, no! No, it’s— it’s fine,” he said quickly, setting the coffee down. He fidgeted with his cufflinks and finally looked at you properly for the first time since you arrived. Maybe you were obsessed and ready to froth at the mouth over scraps, but something about the eye contact felt intimate. “It was really thoughtful of you,” he says again, gesturing to the coffee. “Besides, your performance in this class is excellent, might I say,” he compliments.
You suppress a grin. Score. You knew furiously scribbling down those notes as your head spun from all the criminology jargon, studying all night until you could recite the pages back to him was all worth it just for that tiny compliment.
“—So I don’t think you’re in any need of extra help outside of class,” he continues, smiling with a nod, “Therefore you’re… more than welcome to come in right at the time of the lecture. Don’t feel like you need to arrive early or anything.”
You deflate a little at that.
Goodness, you hadn’t even considered that. A little private tutor session? Just you and Professor Reid? Goddamn it, none of it was worth it at all. You should’ve been failing.
Spencer seemed to notice the shift in your expression, how your smile faded. Whoops. You forgot to be subtle.
He backtracks quickly, “I mean… unless you wanted extra help?” He offers, raising his eyebrows slightly.
“Always more to learn!” You smile brightly, voice a little too chipper.
Spencer’s eyes brightened at your enthusiasm. “Okay! Cool,” he nods. “If you want, you can come by my office after class? I can go over some advanced profiling techniques for crime assessment and inputs.”
You struggle to keep the fireworks booming in your body from exploding out of your mouth. God, he had no idea. “Yes! Y-yes. yeah,” you nod rapidly. “Sounds great.”
He smiled, a genuine one that made your insides clench. “Awesome! My office is 208B,” he said, pointing down the hall with his thumb. “I’m usually there until around five?”
With a final nod, Spencer turns to organize some papers. You see the opportunity and seize it.
Leaning on his desk, you ask casually, “Ah, five, huh? Gotta… get home to the wife?”
His eyes snap back to yours, confused and startled.
“Oh! N-No, no, I’m not married.”
“Whaaat? Get outta here. Not even a girlfriend?”
He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then looks down at his papers, suddenly very interested in alphabetizing them. “…Nope.” Why was this conversation happening?
Meanwhile, you could practically fall over and die. “Wow. That’s… yeah, that’s crazy.”
He opens his mouth with the strange need to defend himself. “I… I mean… I just haven’t—” He cleared his throat and gestured stiffly to the board. “Anyway! Should probably finish this, uh, lecture prep.”
“Right, right! No, of course.” You shuffle away, moving to the steps to make your way off the stage. But you halt, pivoting on your heel. “…Aaanything else I can help you with?”
Spencer thinks. The room was quiet, the air thick with the smell of coffee and faint scent of whiteboard markers. He turns to spare you a glance, and realizes you seemed… eager to help.
“…You could hand me those slides?” He asked, pointing to a stack of pages on the side table that needed sorting into order.
“Hah, fuck…”
Laying back on your bed in your vacant dormitory, you let the back of your head hit the mattress again. Hair tussled, cheeks warm, a layer of sweat on your body.
As your fingers work between your legs, the only thought in your mind was your handsome professor. The thought of his lips greedily sucking your heat, dark locks falling over your thighs, as those long, wiry fingers work in and out of your cunt. The fantasy played out vividly in your mind, every detail sharp. His wide brown eyes shining with tears, his erection straining against those stiff pants he insisted on wearing to each class. His lips would be swollen and glistening from lapping and suckling. How sweet he’d sound, you think, with his moans muffled into your pussy as you grind against his face.
You fantasized about your Professor more often than you were ready to admit. When you were sure you were alone, the words “professor”, “teacher”, or “college” found itself in your laptop’s search bar frequently, often accompanied by your fist down your panties.
It certainly wasn’t the one fantasy you had. Gripping his wrists like a vice, fucking yourself on his dick while he could only watch helplessly— that was another contender. God, the sound he’d make if you yanked his hair just right. Or clamping a hand over his mouth as he sat between your legs, your fist working his cock faster than he could possibly keep up with. How flustered he’d be, stammering something sweet and nervous between kisses.
You thought of stuffing that tie in his mouth, of tugging that unruly hair, of bending him over your knee, of—
You lay back on your mattress, panting and flushed with a sheen of sweat, basking in the afterglow with your nerves still buzzing.
You hadn’t meant to get that carried away, but once you started thinking about him like that… it was impossible to stop.
You kicked your legs in the air, letting a breathless giggle escape you, the excitement of seeing him again so soon enough to send another rush of arousal through you.
You’ll admit, you were a little disappointed with the result of the small tutor session, none of the fantasies exactly coming to life.
“Well, I gotta say, I think you’re keeping up incredibly well,” Spencer flips a page in a file as he sits in his office chair across from you. “You’re remarkably competent. I mean, I don’t think you’re in need of any help outside of my class at all.”
You sat stiffly in the chair across from his desk, knees pressed together.
Remarkably competent. Keeping up well. That was… great. But also so boring. You wanted him to say something like “you’re stunning,” “I think about you constantly,” “let me kiss you.” But instead, it looked like you were losing the opportunity for these sessions.
“It’s… nice,” he says, looking up at you properly now, “to have someone actually enrolled who cares about the subject. It’s funny, did you know you’re just about one of the only students of mine actually registered?” He laughs lightly. God, you would eat him alive. “Turns out, most of the people I get in my lectures are only auditing, it’s… it’s a little disappointing, actually.”
“Yeah, I know,” you nod casually, far less oblivious as to the reason for that.
Spencer pauses, sensing something. “You… do?”
“Yeah,” you shrug.
“Oh!” He glances off to the side for a moment. “Well, it’s, uh… kinda weird, right?”
“I mean… have you noticed it’s only the girl students doing the auditing?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “…Yeah,” he says slowly, “I guess I have.”
With a slow, strange shock, you realize. “Oh, you actually don’t know.”
Spencer’s face scrunches slightly. “Don’t know… what?”
“Uh, well. They audit the class for you, sir.”
His lips part slightly. He blinks at her for a moment in surprise. “For me?”
“Yeah. Like… they think you’re cute.”
The color drains from Spencer’s face, then floods back in a rush of red.
“Oh,” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “Oh.”
“Mhm. Kind of flattering, no?”
Spencer is already not handling this well. His fingers tap nervously against the file on his desk. He can’t look at you. His eyes keep darting to the ceiling, then back down.
“It’s… um,” he stammers, “I mean… I don’t— I never considered that.”
He was so oblivious. Painfully so. “Yeah.” You fiddle with your pencil and decide to test the waters. “You could, like… fix your whole ‘single’ problem with just about any one of them.”
Spencer looks mildly horrified by the idea. “I don’t—” he starts, then stops, “I mean… I could, but I wouldn’t want to.” His nose scrunches slightly.
“You wouldn’t?” you ask quickly.
“No,” he says automatically. Then he suddenly gets a little shier. “I mean… it’s not appropriate. I’m their professor.”
“Oh,” you say softly. “So it’s a moral thing.”
He nods, happy to be understood. “Yeah, professional boundaries, and all that. It just… wouldn’t be right.”
“Yeah, but you’ve never liked something that’s wrong?”
Spencer frowns. That was a very specific question. He shifts in his seat, suddenly feeling very warm under his button-up. “…No? Not like that?”
“No?”
“I mean…” he swallows hard, “not in a way that would ever matter.” This conversation had suddenly veered very personal before Spencer had even realized.
You’re leaning closer across the desk than he remembers you were five minutes ago. “So, if you did, hypothetically, happen to like one of those students, you wouldn’t date them?”
Spencer’s hands clench slightly in his lap.
“…No,” he says quietly, but there's a strange waver in his voice.
The sly tease flies out of your mouth before you can help it, “…Are you considering it now, Professor?”
“I’m not—!” he starts, defensive. His eyes flicker to yours for half a second before darting away again.
Got him.
After letting the silence linger for just another tense second longer, you stand abruptly. Your chair screeches against the floor, and Spencer nearly jumps out of his seat at the sudden movement. Slapping laptop down and sliding it under your arm, you flash him a smile. “Much to think about!”
“Uh— wait,” he blurts, standing too. “M-Miss—!”
But you were already halfway to the door, bag tucked under your arm. “See you in class, sir!” you call over your shoulder.
The door clicks shut. Spencer stands there, frozen in the middle of his office, staring at where you’d just been.
His palms are sweaty.
He slowly sinks back into his chair and stares blankly at his desk.
What just happened?
A few days later, he’s a little startled the by the sound of a cup enthusiastically landing on his desk.
His eyes trail up the arm attached until he meets your sparkling eyes, and he immediately relaxes. “Morning!” You chirp.
This had become routine between the two of you now. Every morning you’d show up, steaming cup in hand, sugars and all.
“Ah, my prized student,” he says back warmly, and accepts the cup with both hands.
“Oh! Will that graduate to favorite student if I keep bringing you these coffees?”
Spencer’s lips twitch into a smile, his lips around the rim of the cup. “You’re already my favorite,” he admits without thinking. After a moment, he seems to catch on to his own words, and suddenly backpedales. “I mean— not in a weird way! Just… you bring me coffee.”
The smile on your face is downright perverted. “And sugar,” you remind him.
“And sugar,” he echoes, smiling shyly. He rips open four packets of sugar and dumps them in one heap.
You tap your nails against his desk idly and muse, “Y’know, I was studying for your class last night when I realized, I think I’ve finally found something I’m stumped on.”
Spencer perks up. “Oh! Okay, what is it?”
“Geographical profiling. Don’t understand it a lick.”
He brightens. “Ah, that’s actually really fascinating!” He says, setting his coffee aside. “What is it specifically you’re struggling with? Are you struggling with the mathematical algorithms or more the theoretical framework?”
You wave a hand. “All of it,” you lie, miming something flying over your head. “Whoosh.”
Spencer quiets for just a fraction longer than normal. All of it? That… seemed extreme for someone who had been acing tests so far. But he plays along. “Okay, well… let’s start at the beginning—”
“—After class, right? In your office?” You interrupt him eagerly.
“Oh! Uh, yeah,” he nods. “Sure. After class.”
“Wonderful. Wouldn’t wanna distract my mind before your lecture today, y’know?” You tap your index finger against your temple and smile at him warmly. Shifting your bag on your shoulder, you begin to walk to secure your front row seat.
But the moment you step out of the way of the desk, Spencer’s gaze drops before he can stop it. His eyes can’t help but roam over your lower half. Specifically your legs. Practically the entire expanse of your legs, in fact. You were wearing just about the shortest skirt he thinks he’s ever laid eyes on. A skirt that if it was even an inch shorter, there’d be a problem.
His brain short-circuits for a solid two seconds, long enough that the coffee cup tilts dangerously in hand. Then he chases himself away, his throat tight, awkwardly adjusting his tie. He busies himself with pretending to organize files that don’t need organizing.
As you shuffle down the steps, you call over to him, “Don’t you just hate when your mind’s distracted?” You don't dare peek at him over your shoulder, fearing he’d see the coy smile plastered on your face.
Spencer swallows hard. “Yeah,” he croaks out, “Hate it.”
That lecture is practically public humiliation for Professor Reid.
He stands at the front of the class as usual, his voice echoing across the hall as he speaks, gesturing with his hands for emphasis. But his fingers keep twitching. In minute and a half intervals— because yeah, you were counting— his eyes accidentally flick down to you, front row center, legs crossed primly.
He’s usually quite a smooth lecturer. Articulate. Confident. Lost in the thrill of sharing his knowledge. But today, he keeps stumbling over words, noticeably missing transitions between points, and a few of the students are beginning to exchange glances. Since when did Professor Reid lose track of his lectures?
Meanwhile, you’re watching it all unfold smugly from your seat. Your eyes haven’t left your dear professor since this class began. Which wasn’t out of the ordinary. After all, everyone in the class had their gaze on him. But Spencer’s only painfully aware of one.
You notice the way he begins to subtly avoid looking in your general direction. Each time he glances up to check for engagement, his eyes skip a whole section of students like there was a bubble around you.
He discreetly wipes his perspiring palms on his pants.
Unhappy with the lack of attention, you shift in your chair. Under the guise of getting more comfortable, you sink in your spot, legs uncrossing, your mini-est skirt in the world at risk of riding up with any strong movement. You casually lean back, stretching one leg out just a little further, the fabric of your skirt rising up just an inch.
Your shoe taps against the floor like a quiet Yoo-hoo, over here. And when you’re certain he’s looking your way again, albeit in his peripheral, and with the slowest, softest, subtlest movement you can manage, you idly flex your legs open and shut, open and shut. His throat bobs, and your lips curl.
You keep the motion slow, almost lazy, like you weren't even aware of it. Just tiny, imperceivable movements. Rhythmic, absentminded. The way one taps their fingers or twirls a strand of hair. But it might as well have been a flashing neon sign saying Look at me, with your thighs tensing under the thin material of your skirt over and over before relaxing again.
Each time your legs spread, if Spencer looked close enough, he’d catch the color of your thong.
He grips the edge of his podium, knuckles whitening. The lecture drags on, every second an eternity. He finishes his last point five minutes early, voice trailing off awkwardly. “…And that’s— that’s all for today.”
A beat of silence. The students blink at each other. Each person shuffles out quickly, confused by the abrupt ending, but not exactly complaining. Spencer just wanted it to end.
You take your sweet time packing up. Slinging your bag over one shoulder, then pausing to yawn, arms high above your head in a long stretch that makes your shirt rise up at the waist.
Spencer watches, against his will, as your shirt lifts just enough to reveal a sliver of skin, then as you reach higher, pulling your muscles in a different angle, and this time your back arches slightly.
He’s speechless atop the stage.
Frustratingly, you don’t spare him a glance as you file out alongside the other students that trickle through the door. “Bye, Professor,” he hears your voice above the rest.
“Bye,” Spencer mumbles back, robotic.
The second the door clicks shut behind you, he exhales like he’d been holding his breath the entire lecture. Miserably, he drops to his chair and presses both palms into his eyes.
What was wrong with him?
A light knock comes to his office door, and Spencer’s head jerks up. That's you.
He clears his throat. “Come in!” he calls.
In comes you, with the brightest smile, one he can hardly tear his eyes from. “Hi, Professor!” You chirp.
“Hi,” he says back, softer than intended. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit down, whenever you’re ready.” His hands are folded neatly in front of him. A professional, composed posture. But his heart isn’t listening.
Spencer notices the absence of the skirt immediately, the expanse of your legs hidden from view again. But why was he looking? Was he hoping you hadn’t changed?
You plop down in your seat across from him with a bounce. After light conversation and a moment to get settled, he grabs a folder labeled Geographical Profiling and cracks open a textbook. “So,” Spencer begins, flipping open the folder. “Geographical profiling is basically a way to predict where a serial offender might strike next based on their previous crime scenes.” He pulls out a map, already marked with locations. “It uses statistical analysis and spatial patterns—”
“—Can I come over to your side?”
Spencer stops, staring at you a little oddly.
You shrug a shoulder. “I just think I’d get it better looking at it from your angle.”
“Oh! Yeah, for sure,” he says, scooting his chair over to make space.
You stand and circle around the desk, dragging the chair behind you. As you sit down with your shoulders just barely brushing his, the smell of your perfume engulfs him. Pleasant, not too overwhelming. Girly in a way that made him nervous. He clears his throat, “Where— where were we?”
Refocusing on the map, his steady, academic tone returns easily. “So we’re looking at these crime scenes here and here—” His finger taps two dots on the paper.
As he talks, you lean closer to the paper. Which naturally results in you leaning closer to Spencer. Your arms brush at some point with featherlight contact.
He doesn’t react. Instead, he keeps pointing at the map, voice even despite his body temperature suddenly rising. “…And based on this pattern,” he continues, “the offender likely lives somewhere along this radius.”
Abruptly, you turn to open a drawer on his desk. You scan the contents inside, then move to the next.
“Uh…” he starts, watching you with bewilderment.
“Looking for a pencil.”
“Ah!” He fumbles in his own pocket and pulls out a clicky ballpoint. “Here,” he says, offering it to you. “You can use mine.”
“Ohh, your’s huh? I’m flattered. Promise not to chew on it.” You wink.
Spencer’s lips twitch. He watches as you take the pen, your fingers brushing. On purpose? Or was that just wishful thinking?
“Y-yeah, for sure. Just, um… just ask me next time, okay? I’d prefer it if you didn’t dig through my drawers.”
“Ah, I see,” you chuckle behind your lips.
“…See what?”
“I dunno. You hiding something dirty in there, Professor?”
Spencer’s face is mortified. “W-what? No!” He sputters, voice cracking slightly. “It’s just… paperwork! Notes. Th— that I’d prefer to keep organized.”
You bite back your grin. “You don’t have to be shy about it!”
“I-I’m not shy! There’s nothing to be shy about!” Spencer insists, a little too loudly.
He clears his throat awkwardly and tries to turn back to work like nothing happened. The paper and textbook stare back at him, completely uninteresting now. All he could focus on was how close you still were. How your perfume kept wafting over every time you moved. “So… statistically speaking, the offender likely lives within a three-mile radius of these clustered crime scenes.”
You nod along, but you're not really listening. You’re still watching him. The way his brow furrows when he concentrates, how his fingers tap the paper absentmindedly.
Spencer feels a poke on his shoulder.
“Hey.”
He turns his head sharply, eyes wide. “…Yeah?”
There’s a heartbeat of silence where you just stare into each other's eyes, your faces far too close. And for a moment, Spencer thinks this was going in a very different direction.
Then you smile. Soft, playful. “You talk with your hands a lot,” you observe casually. “I like it.”
“Oh,” is all he says at first. “Thanks?”
“Yeah, you’ve got good hands, you know?”
“Uh… yeah, thanks,” he mumbles again, voice weirdly small. “You too? I think?”
“Yeah? Mine?”
“Yeah, your—” Spencer gestures vaguely to your hands. They were nice. Soft-looking, well-manicured. Holdable. “I mean… they look… clean?”
“Hm. Clean.” You examine your own hands, spreading out your fingers and flipping them back and forth. You seemingly nod in agreement. “Don’t like to be messy, Professor?”
Spencer shakes his head quickly. “No, I hate messes,” he admits. “Germaphobe, honestly. The sheer amount of pathogens passed in a handshake alone is staggering, actually.”
“Really? What about… in a kiss? Now that’s gotta be dirtier.”
“Actually,” he says immediately, leaning forward slightly, “saliva contains millions of bacteria. Some studies estimate that a single kiss transfers 80 million microorganisms between people.” His voice gains the same weight you recognize from his lectures. “And it’s not just bacterial exchange either! There’s enzymatic activity too…”
Spencer’s scientific rambling slowly trails off mid-sentence as he takes notice, finally, of where your gaze is locked. His lips. His brain also finally acknowledges the warmth of your thigh deliberately pressed against his through the fabric of his pants, and he feels something stirring in his lower half he’d really rather ignore.
As Spencer’s mouth goes dry, a slow, wicked grin spreads on your face. “Sorry, I’m getting you all distracted again, aren’t I?”
He squirms slightly in his seat. “Y-yeah, a little.”
You nod to the paper. “You wanna… go back to telling me about geographical profiling?”
What was this, the third time now he’s had to begin again?
“Yeah. So… like I was saying, the offender’s most likely residence is here—”
For a while, you seem, to him, to be listening well. You occasionally nod, ask a question here and there to keep him talking. But your attention once again is curved by the handsome man sitting not even an inch away. And as he talked, the gears in your mind were turning.
You knew what came next. The big part. The one you’d actually practiced a humiliating amount of times. You squeeze your thighs together, your skin prickling with the thrill running through you.
Spencer doesn’t notice your distraction, too focused on explaining the logistics of distance decay. “And based on these crime scene locations,” he says, “we can calculate the mean center, which is essentially how all these points would balance if we put them on a scale.”
“Hm. Yeah, I just feel like I would see it better from your angle.”
Spencer stops as you interrupt him for the nth time. There’s no space left to scoot closer, but he still shifts a little— an instinctive, subconscious lean toward you. His shoulder is pressed flush against yours now. “Yeah… okay,” he murmurs, tilting the map slightly so you could see better, the proximity making his pulse erratic again.
You shiver a little at the closeness, subtly biting your lip. It practically takes all of your self-control to shake your head. “No, no, now you can’t see it.”
Spencer huffs a tiny, almost-laugh. “I assure you, I can see it. Not to worry. Besides, you should really be the one looking—”
“May I?”
“…May you what?”
“Move to a better angle for both of us, obviously.”
“Oh, right! Right,” Spencer scoots his chair back a generous amount to give you room, a little sheepish about having moved closer to you in the first place.
But you don't even acknowledge this. You rise from your chair smoothly, casually adjusting your clothes. Then, much to Spencer’s surprise, you lay a hand on his shoulder and move to stand between his legs, lording over him. He was suddenly at a disadvantage, looking up at you with eyes wide as saucers and watching your every move like a frightened animal.
You lock eyes with Spencer as you slide your arm around his neck. You feel the tenseness in his body, each muscle taut with anticipation. With a jut of your knee, you spread his legs and calmly perch yourself atop his thigh, effectively sitting in his lap. He nearly jumps back in shock, but pinned under your weight, he doesn’t have far to go. His body is stiff as a robot’s, so you take it upon yourself to grab his arm and effortlessly maneuver it until it’s wrapped comfortably around your waist, pressing his palm flat against your hip.
Spencer looks as though he’s been electrocuted. He’s completely paralyzed. You were in his lap. Your weight settled against him, your warmth seeping through his clothes. For a moment, he wonders if he’s just died.
“…What? You said I could.”
Spencer’s lips parted, but no sound came out. When his brain finally rebooted, all it could manage was a weak “I—I didn’t—”
You could somehow feel his heartbeat, wild and frantic, from where you sat on his knee. The rapid thump-thump of his pulse circulating through every vein like a trapped bird. Spencer could feel it too, betraying every ounce of panic and… something else he didn’t want to name. His fingers finally twitched slightly where they rested against your hip, like testing you were really there under his palm.
“Well, go on,” you feigned innocence, patting his shoulder twice. “Keep talking.”
Spencer’s mouth opened. Nothing. All he could focus on was the girl in his lap, your scent, your warmth, the soft fabric of your shirt under his palm. “…I,” he started, then stopped.
Poor guy. You suppose you should give him some help after being so cruel. “What’s that one mean?” you ask, pointing to a diagram in the open textbook.
Spencer’s gaze followed your finger to the diagram. He swallows hard. “That one,” he starts slowly, voice slightly higher than usual, “shows how crime scenes cluster around the mean center based on statistical dispersion.”
“Oh, I see. So what else do you have to teach me?”
Not this. He wasn’t qualified for whatever this was.
But his mouth moved anyway, defaulting to academia, his safety. “Uh… there’s also the concept of hotspot analysis, which uses kernel density estimation to identify high-crime areas—”
You weren't listening. Obviously. You watch his lips move as he rambles, gently trailing a manicured nail down his scruffy cheek, which briefly makes Spencer stutter.
“…And— and the—” He takes a shuddering breath. “…the algorithm accounts for temporal decay too, which means crimes are more likely to occur closer in time to previous events than further away. Th— there’s an equation for it, but I can’t… really remember right now.”
“Oh, dear, am I distracting you again Professor?”
“…A little!” he squeaks, a tight, bashful smile on his face.
“I was starting to think you never forgot anything.”
“I don’t, I— I just… I’ve never been distracted like this before.” It was true he had an eidetic memory. Something he was keen to remind everybody of. But right now, he was sure he couldn’t recall his own phone number if someone asked him.
“Never had a student on your knee?”
The way you phrased it, like this was normal, almost made him laugh at the absurdity. “N-no, no, never.”
“Well. Don’t let me distract you. Just trying to learn.”
You lean into his side almost affectionately as he talks, your nose brushing against his cheek. Spencer swallows hard. He falters, just barely, but it was enough to make his next sentence waver. “…and the weight is inversely proportional to distance from the epicenter, meaning closer crimes have higher influence on predicting future locations…”
You blow once on his ear.
Spencer jumps, his arm tightening around you involuntarily and his head tilted away from the sudden puff of air. He whispered-shouts your name, scandalized.
You snort. “Oops.”
“You’re— you’re messing with me,” he accuses, voice low but tinged with something begrudgingly playful.
“Who, me?” You bat your lashes.
A tiny, disbelieving laugh leaves his lips, nearly a scoff. “Yes,” he says, “You!”
You giggle, and Spencer feels some part of his brain turn mushy at the sound. “Okay, okay! Sorry, Professor. I’ll behave.”
He exhaled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured genuinely. “…So if we apply this methodology to an actual case,” he said, pointing at a crime scene map on the textbook page.
Before he can say much, he feels the lightest press of lips to his stubbly cheek, and his words quickly fade into an unintelligible, flustered mumble.
“W-we can predict with… um… reasonable accuracy where... mm…”
“Can’t hear you when you mumble, sir. How am I supposed to learn?” You nose his cheek.
He tried again, louder this time, “I said we can predict future crime locations with statistical modeling!”
God, this was torture.
“You’re getting kinda sweaty.”
“It’s— it’s hot in here,” he lied weakly, tugging at his cardigan.
“You can take that off,” you gesture to the sweater. “You don’t have to be professional with me.”
He laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, I… think I stopped being professional with you the moment I let you sit on my knee.”
You pull at his cardigan. “Take it off,” you whine.
“No! No,” Spencer grasps your wrists, his grip firm. He says your name in a scolding tone. “We’re still… on campus. I can’t just—”
“What, taking off a sweater isn’t allowed on campus?”
He exhaled through his nose. “I just… don’t feel comfortable, that’s all.”
“What, are you thinking of something gross?”
“No!” He blurts. “I just—I mean—I’m not—” He flounders for words, horrified by the accusation.
You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing. You double over slightly, still perched on his knee, shoulders shaking, and Spencer’s chest does a weird little squeeze. He didn’t know whether to be offended or charmed, but his frown softened into something almost shy.
Your laughter ends with one sweet sigh, and with your hand on his cheek, you lean in to press a chaste kiss to his temple. Grinning against his skin, you murmur, “Wanna know something?”
“…Yeah?” He whispers back, voice small and uncertain.
“I know this is turning you on.”
Spencer’s red down to his chest now. He sputters, “Wh— I— that’s not—”
“Mhm. Wanna hear what else I know?” You tilt his head up to peck his cheek twice. “I know you were staring at me in that skirt.”
Spencer couldn’t even form a coherent response to that.
“What were you thinking about? My legs? My ass? ‘Cause I’d say that’s pretty dirty, Professor.”
“No!” he whispers harshly, eyes wide. He squirms in his seat like he wants to escape. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—” His hand tightens slightly where it rests on your waist.
“So you were!” You giggle, pulling back from him and cupping his face in your hands. “C’mon, look at you. What happened to those… professional boundaries you were so worried about?”
Spencer’s expression twisted with shame and flustered panic. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a tiny voice, “You just… ruined them.”
“Oh, I did, huh? So it’s my fault? It’s my fault you were staring at me?”
Alarmed, he shook his head violently. “No! No, that’s not— I didn’t mean it like that, I-I meant it like—”
“Guess it’s just my fault you’re having all these perverted thoughts about your favorite student.”
“They’re not—” His chest rises and falls as he pants with desperate frustration. “I don’t have perverted thoughts!” he protests, voice pitching higher.
You laugh cruelly, “You do! Who knew? Professor Reid’s a big pervert who stares at the girls in his class.”
You shift in his lap, moving until your front is squished up against his, thighs clamped on either side of his legs, your hips putting unfortunate pressure on his pelvis.
Spencer presses himself as far back as he could in his chair, eyes darting everywhere except your face. “I-I’m not! No! No, it’s not like that!” His hands hovered in the air like he was trying to surrender. Every nerve in his body was screaming this is wrong, this is wrong, but his traitorous cock pulsed anyway.
“Gross. I can feel your dick getting hard.”
Mortification crashed over him like a tidal wave. “It’s not— I can’t help that!”
“What, are you turned on by this or something?”
Spencer just squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed, grip tight on the armrests of his chair. His silence was answer enough.
“Pervert,” You hiss.
His face burns a deep, humiliated crimson. “I’m not… I’m not a pervert, okay?” He whispered, voice trembling with shame and genuine distress.
You dip down slowly, lowering your forehead to his, your breath on his lips. “Then why do you wanna fuck me?”
Finally, reality laid bare. And with the arousal very clearly straining against his pants, Spencer sees the uselessness in denying it, though his lips still part reflexively. For a heartbeat or two, you stayed like that, faces touching, breaths mingling. Then at last, he moves, and slowly he presses his lips to yours in the softest, most unsure kiss of his life.
At first, you don’t seem to reciprocate. Your lips stay upsettingly still, he’s not even sure your eyes are closed. Spencer whines slightly in his mouth in embarrassment. The moment his lips shy away from yours more than an inch, however, your grip suddenly winds into his hair. With an abrupt and furious force, you tug him back, teeth nearly colliding as you devour his mouth. Instantly, he melts back into your taste, completely unprepared for the intensity but his body responding instinctively. His hands fly back to your waist and his lips clumsily attempt to keep up with your hungry movements as he drowns in you.
One hand slides up your back while the other grips your waist tighter. He makes a small, needy noise against your mouth. You kiss him like you’ve been starving for it. like this was inevitable, like Spencer had been yours all along. You bite his lower lip gently before diving back in, tongue sliding against his with a hunger that leaves him breathless. He clutches you closer, fingers twisting into the fabric of your shirt.
Time seems to blur as the world narrows. The chair creaks under your combined weight as you shift atop him, pressing yourself even closer. Your thighs tightening around his hips, your body molding against him, beginning to grind over his erection.
Spencer groans into the kiss, his palms sliding down to grip your thighs. Your hips move against his with deliberate pressure, rolling down in slow, smooth circles just to feel him twitch. He breathes raggedly through his nose, trying to force himself up to meet your body every time it rises off of him just to grind back down.
“You’re stupidly hard,” you growl the moment you part for air.
Spencer looks up at you through his lashes with a dazed expression. His lips are kiss-swollen, his face flushed, and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. “S-sorry,” he breathes out automatically.
“I haven’t even fucking done anything to you,” you smile wickedly. “I kissed you and you’re throbbing.”
Spencer nods frantically, his cheeks burning with humiliation and arousal. “You’re… really pretty,” he blurts out suddenly.
The compliment elicits some kind of reaction from you, something he can’t quite place. You smirk again, eyes briefly rolling back like he’d touched you. You hum in satisfaction. “I’ve waited so fucking long to hear you say that.”
Spencer’s chest swells with something warm. His heart pounds harder. He wants to say more now, clumsy and sweet things that aren’t usually his style.
“You want me to touch you?” you coos condescendingly in a way that makes him dizzy, cupping his face. “Yeah? You want my pussy? Want me to suck your filthy cock?” you say crudely.
He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know what the right answer is. Instead, his eyes dart down to your lips again, then lower, just for a split second, before snapping back up in panic.
“Answer me, Professor.”
“…Yes, y-yeah,” he finally squeaks out, the words so quiet it’s barely audible. Then he adds in a slightly louder whisper: “Please.”
“Yeah? Just like this?” One of your hands slides down to press against the front of his pants, right where he’s straining. He strains to not buck into your palm like a virgin.
His breath comes out in short, shaky puffs. He nods rapidly. “Yeah. Yeah, uh-huh. Like that.”
You rip your hand away suddenly like you’d been burned. In an instant, his collar is wrapped in your fist as you slide off his lap and yank him to his feet. He stumbles after you, wide eyed and bewildered. Spencer barely has time to process what’s happening before he’s being whirled around, practically manhandled, and he finds you both have swapped places. You seat yourself lazily in his chair and tugs him down with you, down until his knees hit the floor of his office, until his head is hovering between your thighs.
“Wha—?”
“Earn it.”
Spencer’s brain is scrambling. He stares at your spread legs and closes his jaw. He swallows hard. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do with them. He’s never done this before. But the thought of touching you, tasting you, it sends a thrill through him that overrides his nervousness.
You casually undo the button of your pants, stripping them from your legs and kicking them off carelessly with effortless confidence. Spencer watches, mesmerized. Without a word, you sling one leg until your ankle rests over his shoulder, the other sitting on his thigh.
Now here you are, half-naked in his chair while he kneels like a supplicant, and the view is unreal.
He’s suddenly hyper-aware of every detail. The warmth radiating from between your thighs, the faint scent that makes his stomach flip. His hands finally move, trembling as they reach for the hem of your fine, lacy panties— specifically chosen, to be sure. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slowly peels them down.
The lace slides down your legs easily, unveiling your cunt. Spencer’s not sure he’s seen a woman like this up close before, not in person. Not like this. His face burns as he stares for half a second too long. With tentative, almost reverent hands, Spencer leans forward and presses a single, feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. It’s not where you want him, but he needs a moment to steel himself.
His lips are soft. Nervous. The kiss is chaste, too innocent for what you want, but the warmth of his lips against your skin still sends a little shiver through you. You tilt your hips slightly, nudging his back with your heel. “Don’t be shy. Lick it.”
His face is inches from you, so close he can feel the heat.
He swallows hard, then slowly, painfully slowly, he leans in and drags his tongue over you in one experimental stroke. The taste is new. Sweet, musky. Spencer does it again, a little bolder this time, his tongue moving with cautious curiosity as he explores the soft folds of you, his hands gripping your thighs to steady himself.
You inhale sharply through your nose, threading your fingers into his hair to guide him. “Fuck, yes,” you grin.
The praise shoots straight to his loins.
He redoubles his efforts, following the gentle tug of your fingers in his hair. He presses a few open-mouthed kisses before finally sealing his lips around your folds and sucking gently. His tongue flicks experimentally over your clit before he laps at it properly.
Your back arches slightly, letting airy moans slip. Spencer might be a virgin at this, but he’s a smart boy. He adapts fast. His tongue works in small circles now, swirling the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pressing him closer, not that he even needs encouragement.
Spencer loses himself in the rhythm. Licking, sucking, following whatever makes you gasp. He drags his teeth very lightly over your clit before soothing it with a long swipe of his tongue. Fuck, he likes this. So much. He moans mindlessly into your cunt, the vibration of which travels through your body, making your hips jerk up into his mouth.
Spencer’s arousal is obvious, the bulge in his pants twitches with practically every movement. He’s so turned on by this, by the way you react to him, that it almost hurts.
You spread your legs further, pushing his head and shamelessly grinding up into his mouth. You laugh breathlessly, then let your head fall back in a moan.
He loves this. He lets you use him, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, helping guide your movements as he devours you with messy enthusiasm.
The office is quiet except for the wet sounds of his mouth on you and your hitched breathing. Spencer’s lips are glistening, his cheeks flushed. He can feel himself getting dizzy from the scent of you, from how good you taste. Each moan he pulls from you goes straight to his cock, aching in its confinement.
Spencer has no idea how hot he looks right now. Wild hair, flushed face, lips slick with you. But you know. You’ve been fantasizing about this for months now, him between your legs, his clever mouth working on you like this. And reality is so much better than any daydream you ever had. Months of imagining this, and Spencer is even better than any late night, desperation-fueled fantasy. His lips are so soft, his tongue so eager, like he genuinely wants to please you. It’s intoxicating.
A particularly good flick makes you gasp “Fuck!”
Spencer has lost track of time, only aware of the warmth between your thighs, the way you squirm and moan above him.
Your fingers twist tighter in his hair, and you start rocking against his mouth faster. The realization that you’re close makes Spencer’s stomach flip with excitement. He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he doubles down with a greedy sort of focus, his tongue moving with more purpose.
Your thighs flex, hips jutting erratically as you near the edge. Spencer’s own body is strung tight, his cock leaking, his pants sticky, but he ignores it. All that matters is you and the way your breathing turns ragged, the cries escaping your lips. He wants to taste it when you cum.
Your back arches off the chair, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head as you cum with a sharp cry. He keeps going gently through your orgasm.
The aftershocks ripple through you in small twitches and soft gasps, and Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels. His lips are wet. His face is a mess.
When the last waves of pleasure subside, you slump bonelessly in the chair. Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels.
You exhale shakily, blinking down at Spencer, still between your legs, his lips wet and swollen. The rest of him disheveled. You laugh breathlessly at his ruined and endlessly attractive state.
Spencer wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still a little dazed, but your laugh makes him smile faintly. He’s never felt so satisfied, and he didn’t even get off.
“Did I…” he pants, “did I do okay?”
Through the bliss, you shrug, teasing him. “Took you long enough, didn’t it?”
Spencer’s face falls slightly. “It was my first time,” he mumbles defensively, a little hurt.
“Still,” You groan as you fix your posture, sitting up in the chair, “coulda figured out geographical profiling while you were trying to figure out what to do with your tongue.”
His lips purse, embarrassed. He stares up at you from the floor with unintentional puppy dog eyes. “I-I was trying…” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
From your elevated position, your eyes catch his cock is still straining in his pants. “Get on the floor, professor,” You push him back with a heel against his shoulder.
“Okay!” Spencer goes down without resistance, lying flat on his back now. He watches you from the floor, wide-eyed and waiting.
You slide out of the chair and drop to the floor, crawling atop him. You pop open the top button of his shirt. “Lie there and let me use your cock, or I’ll tell everyone Professor Reid licked his student’s cunt.”
Blackmail? His brain jumps back and forth between panic and pathetic arousal. “…Okay,” He nods quickly, hands hovering uselessly in surrender. “Okay, do whatever you want. Just… just don’t tell anyone, okay?”
She smiles in satisfaction. “So you know this is wrong.”
He swallows. Yes, it was wrong. It was all wrong. But it also felt so, so right, and he wanted this too badly to stop now. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I know.”
“Then you admit it, huh?” Your fingers suddenly grip his collar, undoing the knot of his tie. “You admit you’re a pervert?”
“…I’m not a pervert,” He says resolutely.
“Right.” His tie freed, You bunch it into a ball in your fist. “Then you’re not gonna, like… cum or something, right? ‘Cause that’d be pretty bad for your case.”
Yes. “…Nope.”
“Oh, good!” You grin, “Now we don’t have to worry about a condom!”
He opens his mouth to protest, and you swoops in to take the opportunity to stuff his tie between his jaw, effectively gagging him.
His muffled sound of surprise barely escapes. Panic spikes in his chest, but it’s too late. You're already moving, and Spencer can only lie there helplessly as you unzip his pants with a hungry gleam in your eye.
His cock springs free, hard and aching, and completely at your mercy. Spencer’s eyes are huge behind the gag. “Careful,” You whisper dangerously as you hover over his dripping cock, “don’t wanna get your student pregnant.”
Spencer whimpers nervously.
You don't tease. No, you waste no time. In one smooth motion, you sink yourself down onto him. Spencer’s body goes taut, a choked noise escaping around his tie. It’s too much. You're tight and warm and he wasn’t ready for this at all.
You bite back a groan as you sheath the entirety of his length, every inch swallowed. “Fuck, this all for me?” You laugh mockingly, “Look at you, oh, you’re so fucking hard. It’s pathetic.”
Spencer lets out a muffled, shameful whine. His hands finally move, clutching at your hips like he doesn’t know where else to put them. You allow it, if only because the touch of his hands still sends a thrill through your body. “Poor thing… if only your body were half obedient as your mouth. Must be so frustrated.”
Spencer is frustrated. Frustrated that he can’t kiss you, frustrated that you’re talking like this, frustrated you’re not moving. He squeezes your hips gently, begging without words as he squirms under you. Move. Please.
You admire the way his cock bulges slightly in your tummy. “What? Huh? I can’t hear you under there."
Spencer makes a muffled noise, a furious cry, and rolls his hips upward, trying to show you what he wants.
You gasp slightly at the movement, laughing under your breath. “Aww, are we getting impatient?”
Spencer nods rapidly. His hands slide up your sides, then back down to grip your ass this time. He’s already breathless.
“You want me to fuck you so bad it makes you look like a virgin.”
Spencer just nods again, his saliva soaking the tie.
“Last I checked, dildo’s don’t whine.” Finally, mercifully, you slide yourself back up to his tip, cock almost slipping out. “I’m gonna ruin you,” you purr, “and you’re gonna thank me for it. Won’t you?”
Spencer moans as he nods frantically, like a bobblehead.
The slow drag of you taking him back in makes his toes curl, the sensation electric. It’s so good he almost forgets to breathe. The stretch is perfect, the heat maddening. But the slow, careful movements as you adjust don’t last long. You grip the collar of his shirt for stability as you begin to move yourself faster, then faster, immediately setting an unforgiving pace.
Spencer’s entire body convulses with pleasure. Each sharp bounce of your hips punches the air from his lungs. His hands scramble to hold onto your waist, fingers digging in as you ride him hard. Muffled moans spill out continuously from behind the fabric in his jaw as his vision blurs at the edges. His stomach tightens, his thighs tremble.
The pace is relentless and purposeful. It sends a message. That you’re taking what you want from him, and Spencer is just along for the ride.
Through your own bliss, you laugh at his state. “Oh, you are gone.”
The laugh vibrates through him and sends another wave of pleasure down his spine. His hips twitch up weakly to meet yours with every bounce.
You lean forward, pressing your chest against his, the pace never faltering. You bring your lips to his ear, your breath against his skin. “Gonna make you cum so hard you’ll show me what a whore you are.”
The words send a shiver down his spine, and he clenches his eyes shut. So vulgar, so degrading, and yet Spencer’s cock throbs at the sound of them.
The pace doesn’t slow for a second. If anything, it gets harder, more punishing. Spencer’s muscles tense, his orgasm already building fast, and he knows he’s not gonna last. He moans and whines girlishly as he starts to writhe beneath you.
“Oh, poor baby,” you mock, “I thought you… mmm, said you weren’t gonna cum in me. Fuck. Don’t tell me I’ve got a little liar.”
His entire body is tensing, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts out his nose, but he shakes his head violently.
“Oh, so close. So close, aren’t you? I know. I know, and you don’t wanna cum. Don’t wanna get me pregnant, do you? Fuck, I bet you’d lose your job.”
He tries to hold back, biting down onto his tie. It’s agony trying to hold back. His balls are tight, his cock pulsing with every bounce of your hips. The threat of consequences makes it worse. He can’t cum, he really can’t, but you're making it impossible. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes from desperation.
“Too bad,” You hiss, leaning down again to whisper in his ear like a devil on his shoulder. “C’mon, just cum for me. C’mon, who cares? Who cares I’m your student? Make me drip with you.”
He tries to shake his head, but Spencer’s body betrays him. With a silent, shuddering convulsion, his orgasm rips through him. Even through the gag, his choked moans escape as he cums inside you, pulse after pulse filling you as pleasure tears through his entire being.
You let out an airy, girly moan and laugh at him, giddy and triumphant.
Spencer goes limp underneath you. He breathes heavily through his nose, still whining and squirming. After a while, his eyes flutter open as he weakly lifts his head. He stares at where you’re connected with horror, the haze fading and the clarity hitting him.
You notice. “You wanna see?”
Spencer nods rapidly.
You lift yourself from his softening cock, the globs of his release sliding down his length. You're dripping with him. His cum, so much of it, leaking down his own cock and dripping from your thighs.
The sight makes him nauseous. His chest rises and falls rapidly in panic. His eyes are blown open wide and searching yours for an answer.
Finally satisfied, you end the game. “I’m on the pill.”
Spencer's entire body sags with instant relief.
You chuckle, then grasp his cock from between your thighs, realigning it with your dripping entrance.
Again? His cock is sensitive, overspent, he’s still coming down from the high of his last orgasm. But you don't seem to care, just guiding his half-hard cock back inside without hesitation.
The moment you push yourself back down, it’s too much. Too sensitive. The oversensitivity makes his writhe involuntarily, a whimper escaping around his gag. He doesn’t know if he can go again, but you clearly expect him to try.
You don't give him time to adjust. You start moving immediately, rolling your hips in slow circles. His body responds despite itself, his cock stirring back to life, slowly hardening again inside you.
Spencer’s hands clutch at the carpet beneath him helplessly. It shouldn’t feel good. It hurts. But the sensation is undeniable, and his hips give tiny little involuntary thrusts upward.
You lean down, finally pulling the gag out of his mouth. “There we go,” You murmur, then kiss him, deeply this time.
Your lips are warm, your tongue sliding against his as you start to ride him again. To Spencer, it feels intimate. He hums into your mouth, kissing you softly. But it doesn’t take long before your pace stops being gentle.
You’re using him. Using his cock like a dildo, and something about it is dizzying. His hands find your waist again, gripping tight as you pick up speed, chasing your own pleasure now. He just lies there, letting you take what you want from his body.
The kiss breaks as you focus on riding him harder, faster. Spencer’s head lolls back against the floor. He’s just a thing to you right now— a toy, a tool. He’s much comparable to a ragdoll. He watches you from the floor as you use him, gritting your teeth and moaning.
You’re riding him erratically, moving yourself and his dick whichever way hits that spot inside you best. He watches your face, the way your brows furrow, how you bite your lip, and decides it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Even as a ragdoll, he can appreciate that.
Your moans get louder, coming out in shorter, clipped bursts. You're close. Spencer feels it, the way your thighs tense around him, how you grind down with purpose now. He stays perfectly still, letting your chase that high on top of him.
A sharp cry escapes you as your body locks up, and he feels the sudden tight clench around him. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you ride out the waves of pleasure.
When it’s over, you huff once, then slump forward, forehead pressed to his chest, and just breathe for a moment.
Spencer stays still, one hand hesitantly rubbing your back.
After a beat, You grab his face with a ferocity and force your lips back to his. With a dazed expression, Spencer eagerly accepts.
The kiss is messy and sloppy. Your post-orgasm haze mixes with any lingering adrenaline. And Spencer kisses back like he’s starving for it, his hands sliding up to cradle your face.
But you slip out of his grasp all too soon, and Spencer whines. Sliding yourself off his cock with a groan, you suddenly reach up to grip his hair, tilting his head back. “Open your mouth,” you command.
Albeit a bit confused, he obeys, lips parting. His heart is still racing, his body humming from everything that just happened.
You crawl up his body like a predator, and Spencer realizes with dizzying clarity, you want to straddle his face. And some part of him gets a thrill that he did it well enough the first time you would demand it again.
You don't have to guide him. He’s ready, eager even, holding out his hands to steady you. His palms slide up your thighs, and he tilts his head just right, lips parted expectantly. Please. That’s what the look in his eyes says.
You lower yourself onto his mouth with zero hesitation. Spencer inhales sharply through his nose, your scent is everywhere, before his lips press even against you.
This time, he doesn’t bother with the coquettish hesitation. He dives in. Immediately, he tastes himself on your tongue, the flavor of which strange, salty and musky. But he doesn’t mind. Spencer laps at you contentedly, his tongue exploring with more confidence than before, licking and sucking and kissing.
You inhale sharply through your teeth, your fist gripping his hair. You shudder atop him, your thighs squeezing around his head. “Oh my god,” You breathe out, genuinely surprised. His tongue is moving just right, his pressure is perfect. Your hips start rolling against his mouth, chasing the pleasure.
Spencer, for his part, is fully immersed, licking and kissing like he’s worshipping you. His cheeks and nose are damp with your arousal.
Your back arches into him as you practically ride his face, greedily taking everything his mouth has to offer. He holds your thighs steady, letting you grind against his lips, his tongue working tirelessly to give you exactly what you want.
You're close again, sooner than last time. Breathing raggedly, your grip on his hair tightens as you chase that second high.
Spencer can feel it, the way your body tenses, the tiny trembles in your thighs. A high, broken moan tears from your throat and you shake, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head. He keeps his tongue right where he is, letting it happen, letting you ride out the waves on his mouth.
You finally lift yourself from his mouth, taking the heat of your cunt with you. Spencer helps you crawl back to his lap as he catches his breath. He pulls your limp body gently into his arms. He can’t help but cradle you against his chest. It felt like the right thing to do. You slump against him without a complaint.
You’re both a mess. Sweaty, sticky, and exhausted, the smell of sex thick in the air.
You both lie there, boneless. The floor doesn’t make for the most comfortable spot to lie, but neither could especially move if you tried. The cool air conditioning, at least, is pleasant against your overheated skin.
Spencer exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “So, uh… what… what now?”
Your breath is still coming out in puffs. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”
Spencer purses his lips, suddenly nervous. He swallows. “…Are we… um… gonna talk about what just happened?”
You lie there wordlessly for a moment. “…I dunno. I didn’t really plan this far.”
Spencer nods slowly. Silence stretches between them, heavy and awkward. Then he suddenly frowns in thought. “You… you planned this?”
“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to fuck your brains out since I found out you weren’t another old, boring professor.”
Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. His cheeks flush again. “Oh.”
“Yeah, I mean… shit, everybody does. I just did it first. I tried to tell you.”
“Yeah, I, uh… thought you meant— well…” He thinks back to your conversation in his office, about the female students in his class, auditing only because they intended to spend the class ogling him instead of listening. “I assumed the fact that you were enrolled meant you… didn’t share the sentiment.”
“What, sitting in your lap wasn’t enough of a hint?”
“W-well, I think it hit me by that point, actually!”
You drop your head in exasperation with the knowledge that all of your flirting, this entire time, flew under his radar. Jesus, it was a miracle you’d gotten to this point at all.
You exhale theatrically, reaching up to pat his cheek. “You’re very dense. It’s very charming.”
He smiles, small and shy. “Thank you?”
You just hum. The both of you are silent again, slumped against each other. The clock ticks in his room, the AC rattles.
Spencer idly taps his fingers against your back, still staring at the ceiling. “Did you, uh… wanna… get coffee sometime? Or something?”
A lazy grin spreads across your face, Spencer feels it against his skin. “God, I could fuck you again.”
check out the masterlist for more! spencer requests welcome
summary: being the adventurous one of the pair, you liked to play with your boyfriend whenever and wherever you please. including the elevator! much to the humiliation and dismay of your poor, poor boyfriend, spencer.
tags and warnings: smut, sub!spencer x dom!reader, no sex u just make spencer cum in his pants, semi-public sex, exhibitionism kinda, almost caught (nobody catches u though), could qualify as dubcon, over the clothes stimulation, light choking
a/n: haha get it. going up. like his erection. his dick’s going up in his pants. anyway. spencer’s ramble in the beginning is very not subtly yoinked straight from the fibonacci episode because. well. writing my own spencer rambles is hard when the author isn’t as smart as him okay. ALSO THANKS FOR 1000 NOTES ON THE LAST SPENCE FIC!!! MORE TO COME AND MY REQUESTS R OPEN!
“It’s an irrational number known as phi, based on the ratio of line segments to each other and to the whole. I-It’s called the golden ratio, it’s a ratio we find all through life. In fact, most people we find conventionally attractive are based on that ratio. The unsub made an, uh, a reference to Leonardo Di Vinci, remember this? Di Vinci used it in a lot of his paintings. As a matter of fact, the last supper is the perfect example—”
The words tumbling out of Spencer’s mouth along with the pair of your footsteps are the only sounds echoing through the quiet halls of the rather antique hotel you were resting in for this case. A pleasant location. Clean carpets, which had Spencer pleased. Deep wood and golden light hanging above. The elevator was a bit on the slow side, however. Or maybe that was due to the building being so very towering in height. The ride to your room had to be at least a handful of minutes, and you and your boyfriend weren’t even sleeping at the very top.
As Spencer speaks, your eyes drift to the hanging lights above, the ones that stretch honeyed light across the winding hall. Normally, you would be nodding along, even if you couldn’t quite keep up with his mind. But this time, you stayed quiet. You just kept walking, Spencer trailing at your side, mouth moving like a motor as you both enter the old elevator as it groans and creaks.
Spencer, never one for social cues, seems entirely oblivious to your curious demeanor. Spencer keeps talking animatedly as the doors slide shut. “…and the Fibonacci sequence is directly related to phi! The way seashells spiral, flower petals arrange themselves— it’s all golden ratio-based. Even human faces… statistically speaking, facial symmetry aligned with phi correlates with perceived attractiveness at a 67% higher rate than average—” He pauses only to adjust his glasses and press the button for your floor. The silence from you feels normal to him. After all, you always listen quietly when he shares his mind.
Before the doors shut, you take a moment to peer around the enclosed space. Small, even for an elevator. The way you crane your neck around, it’s almost as though you're looking for something.
You press the floor button again before the doors can shut, and the glow of the number disappears, effectively stopping the elevator before it can begin its descent. Instead, you crouch down, absurdly choosing to press the floor at the very, very bottom, just shy of the basement.
“The whole concept is represented by the pendant the unsub had, including the logarithmic spiral created by… um…” Spencer starts to trail off, hands hovering in the air. “By- by using the fibonacci sequence, and if we pull up the towns all of the… missing are from— you, I, uh- I think you pressed the wrong floor?” He furrows his brow at your strange behavior, pointing to the row of numbers on the wall. With his infallible memory, he can be certain he had it right the first time.
But you're still poking your head about the elevator like you're looking for something, hardly acknowledging him. “Why’d you stop?” You ask.
“Uh… I mean…” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I stopped because we’re going to the wrong floor. Our floor was 7? We’ll have to go all the way to the bottom now, why’d you do that?”
You step impossibly closer to him, shuffling in front of his body to create a barrier between him and the doors as they slide shut with a creak. “Go ahead, I was listening,” you nod encouragingly.
For a second, Spencer just stares at you with a suspicious look. Then, with a furrowed brow, he remembers his train of thought and resumes talking, albeit with slightly less energy than before. “So… phi is approximately 1.6180339887…”
The elevator has begun its descent. You watch above your shoulder as the aged dial begins to slide across the numbers at a snail’s pace.
The longer Spencer’s mouth moves, he almost becomes absorbed enough again to forget you were headed to the wrong floor. “It’s- it’s funny, actually, 11235 is a Fibonacci series, each number added to the number before. So it’s what the unsub’s ticks mean, subconsciously counting out fibonacci sequences over and over in his head! I mean…”
The elevator hums, you take another step even closer, taking advantage of the way he’s absorbed with his own ramblings again. With movements as casual as you could manage, you slide his cardigan off his shoulders, gently tugging his tie loose and popping open the top button of his shirt.
It doesn’t last long. His eyes are watching your every move and he slowly trails off as he stares at you with utter bewilderment. “… it’s a Fibonacci… series…?” He blinks. Once. Twice. “What- what, uh, what are you doing?” He makes no move to run from your hands, just looking back and forth between your fingers and your face, utterly lost.
Your lips hastily press to his with a force, and Spencer’s eyes blow open wide. His back thumps against the elevator wall. His lips move clumsily against yours by pure reflex. One hand hovers awkwardly near your waist while the other presses flat on the wall beside him for balance.
When you pull back, he pants, staring at you owlishly and looking delightfully vulnerable. “Wha— what?”
It all happens so fast. As the elevator hums and creaks with slow movements, your hands slide down his shirt, trailing from his neck to his chest, to his abdomen, then latching to his crotch and caressing his dick through the fabric of his khakis.
Spencer’s jaw falls open in a gasp, body slightly curling in on itself at the touch. He stares down at your hands on him, face burning red from his hairline to his collarbone. Then his eyes snap back up to you. “Hey! What are you- ah! Wh— wha— whatareyoudoing?” He tries to ask again, voice coming out a little too high.
“What’s it look like I’m doing?” You chuckle, batting your lashes up at him.
It looks like you're touching his penis. Through his khakis. In an elevator. But that doesn’t make sense, right?
“I-uh…” He can’t seem to form words. Just staring, wide-eyed and blushing furiously. “W— we’re in an elevator!” He whisper-yells.
“Uh-huh,” you keep rubbing circles over his cock, pressing the heel of your palm into the bulge of his head under his pants.
Spencer makes a tiny, strangled noise. His hands finally move. One flies up to cover his mouth. The other holds the wall behind him uselessly. His eyes dart across your face as he sputters, panicked. “There- there are generally cameras and microphones p-placed in— mmm! Placed in elevators f… for safety reasons!”
“I already checked. I didn’t see any cameras. This place is too old-fashioned.”
He whines girlishly as her palm presses more firmly against his straining cock. “Microphones, then! M-Microphones can be quite easily… oh, fuck… hidden from view if the owner of the establishment—”
“Then you better keep your voice down, huh?”
Spencer bites his lip hard, trying to muffle the onslaught of dirty sounds threatening to escape. “Y-Yes,” he whispers, nodding frantically. “Voice down… quiet… oh, god.”
He’s trying so hard to be obedient, but every rub and squeeze and brush sends electric pulses through him and he’s already throbbing. His breath comes in short, panicked little puffs through his nose like a startled rabbit.
“W-Why?” He nearly sobs.
You tilt your head innocently. “Why what?”
Spencer swallows, his throat bobbing. “W-Why are you… doing this? I mean— we’re in a public elevator. We have a case. And I-I was just talking about math.”
The elevator continues descending, dinging as it passes floors 16… 15…
You rub your thumb over the shape of his tip and Spencer’s knees feel weak. You just shrug, “‘Cause I like to tease you.”
He whines, humiliated. “I… I like your teasing too,” he admits in a tiny, breathless voice. “B-but usually with words. Not this.” He’s completely overwhelmed by your casual dominance over him, and panicking over how much it was turning him on.
He gasps sharply when you massage his bulge just right. “Please! Please, please— hey! don’tdon’tdon’tdon’t—”
Your hand stills slightly. “Don’t?”
Spencer squirms, watching you toy with him helplessly. “I mean— yes! Wait, no— I mean—” His voice cracks. “Please, please, I-I really don’t wanna cum right now...”
You chuckle, biting your lip. “You sure?”
Spencer nods rapidly, eyes wide with panic. “No. No— I mean— yes! Just not… not like this. Not in the elevator.”
“Oh, but I wanna play with you…” You pout.
“P-Playing is fine! I love playing!” he blurts, then sheepishly lowers his voice to a frantic whisper. “But maybe… maybe in our room? Where we can close the door and— and change clothes if needed?” He’s grimacing now from the touch, his expression twisting like he’s in pain.
“Oh, you don’t wanna cum in your pants, huh?” You tease.
He ducks his head into your shoulder to stifle the sounds. “N-No,” he mumbles into the fabric of your shirt. “I—I have a meeting in an hour. With Strauss. And my pants are… they’re not stain-resistant.”
“Aww! That’d be so cute!”
Spencer lifts his head slightly, horrified. “Cute?!” he squeaks. “What? No! Not cute. Embarrassing! P-professionally devastating!”
Ding! Just then, the elevator doors fly open as they reach the floor nearest to the basement.
Spencer nearly jumps out of his skin when the doors open, practically leaping away from you, only to see an empty, dimly lit hallway. The second they close again, he exhales sharply, shoulders slumping.
You casually hit another button with your elbow. The elevator starts moving up to the very top.
“Top floor?” he asks quietly, eyes wide with hope. “Our room is on 7…”
“We’re not going to our room, I’m fucking you here, silly.”
“H-here?!” he squeaks, eyes darting around the tiny elevator. “In this… this box? B-But the— the microphones! The elevators are monitored for safety violations and— and crimes! Public indecency is a crime!”
But he stops when your hand comes up to squeeze his throat, a thrill shooting through him and straight to his loins.
His lips part slightly as he stares at you with wide, glazed over eyes. “Why don’t you keep talking to me about your math sequences? Hm?” You coo, rubbing your thumb over his adam's apple.
“I-I…” He swallows hard against your palm. “F-Fibonacci sequence… um, mmm, it’s a recursive series wh-where each number is the sum of the, uh? Two preceding ones… and um…” It’s hard for him to remember when the majority of his blood flow was going straight to his cock.
“Yeah?” You encourage him with a nod, so Spencer keeps babbling, dazed and breathless.
“S-so 0, 1… then 1… and the next is, oh, the next is two, so it’s— it builds exponentially. Like a spiral! Mm-hm. A logarithmic spiral which relates to phi again because of the golden ratio division in geometry which creates perfect aesthetics like Da Vinci’s paintings or seashells or—”
He pauses when you squeeze his throat just slightly tighter, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his voice crack cutely.
“…a-and the ratio of a shell’s chambers to its width follows, ah, phi exactly, which means nature uses math for beauty and-and symmetry, like how people are attracted to faces with phi proportions statistically but god, you’re squeezing my neck…”
You grin. “You like it?”
“Y-Yeah,” he breathes, “I mean, scientifically speaking… mild pressure to the carotid artery increases blood flow which could theoretically heighten arousal but—”
“You didn’t finish telling me,” you remind him, but math was the furthest thing from his mind.
Spencer thinks, trying to remember where he left off, but nope. All gone. Erased by your hand on his throat and the heat coiling low in his stomach. “I… uh…” He swallows hard under your fingers. “I forgot.”
“You forgot!” You laugh, “Oh, no you didn’t, you don’t forget anything.”
Spencer pouts. “I did! I swear!” he insists, voice high and flustered. “My brain… I can’t really… recall anything.”
You rub your nose against his affectionately. “Am I making you dizzy, my sweet boy?”
Spencer nods slowly, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Dizzy… and warm… and my heart’s going really fast.” It wasn’t only the pressure on his throat, or the hand caressing his throbbing cock. It was the way you looked at him, touched him like you wanted to devour him alive in this stupid elevator.
Dizzy wasn’t the right word, he was overloaded. But dizzy works.
“You’re so cute when you’re all spacey,” you whisper.
Spencer’s face scrunches up, embarrassed and deliriously happy. His lips twist into a tiny smile, but he quickly tries to hide it by shyly pressing his face back into her shoulder.
“Am I making you feel good?”
“Mmm-hmm,” he hums into your skin.
You glance over your shoulder to see another number lit up on the panel. “Uh, oh…” You bite back a smile.
Spencer lifts his head slowly. He doesn’t notice the new number lighting up, still lost in his stupid, blissed-out haze. “Huh?”
“We got a visitor!”
Spencer’s body tightens. He straightens up instantly, panic flashing across his face as his dizzy brain scrambles to come back online. “Oh, no,” he frantically smoothes down his shirt and fixes his tie with shaky hands. He combs his hands through his hair and wipes any trace of lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand. He shoots you a wide-eyed look that says what do we do?!
But you are the face of indifference. You detach yourself from his side and turn your back to him, folding your hands in your lap like someone simply riding the elevator while Spencer is still panting and sweating and struggling to not look suspicious at all.
As the doors ding open, Spencer ducks his head down and half-turns his body away to hide the erection straining against his pants from view, while you are all but the picture of inconspicuousness.
A hotel janitor in a blue uniform steps in, pushing a cleaning cart. He nods politely at you, to which you respond with a small, polite smile back, then glances briefly at Spencer.
Spencer keeps his head ducked, shoulders hunched like he’s studying the floor tiles. One hand grips the railing for balance; the other crosses over his lap awkwardly to block his erection from sight.
The janitor presses button 3 and hums quietly to himself. And so, all the way back down you go, slow and quiet. Spencer stays statue-still, like he’s not allowed to breathe too loud. The janitor stands on the other side of the cart, occasionally glancing at his clipboard.
You remain perfectly calm. Not a single nervous twitch.
Every second feels like an eternity to him as they creep back down to floor 3 with this random man who could turn around and see his horribly suspicious posture at any given moment.
The elevator dings as it reaches floor 3. The janitor gathers his cleaning supplies and wheels the cart out without a word, leaving you and Spencer alone again, doors sliding shut behind him.
Spencer exhales like he’s been holding his breath for ten minutes straight. Only then does he finally unclench, shoulders dropping, and look at you with wide, traumatized eyes.
“Really? I mean, really! Th-this is why I said doing… that in an elevator was a-a ridiculous idea!”
“Doing what?” You hum as you casually press another floor on the console.
Spencer gapes. “Doing that!” he hisses, waving a hand vaguely at the space between you, where seconds ago you were touching him. “Right before, with th-the—! And the—! …You know what I mean!”
You turn around, and Spencer’s protests and complaints simply evaporate when you latch your lips onto his. Spencer makes a soft noise into your mouth and kisses back, clumsy but eager. His hands lift to cradle your face instinctively, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he tilts his head to deepen it.
Your thumb circles around the head of his cock through his pants. Spencer whimpers into the kiss, hips grinding forward slightly to chase the contact. He breaks the kiss for a second to gasp, forehead resting against yours. He breathes your name like a plea.
“Where were we?” You grin cheekily.
“We were… uh…” He swallows, eyes fixed to your lips. “I think you were— you were torturing me.” He leans in to kiss you again like your mouth was magnetic, which you greedily accept.
You laugh softly against his lips, massaging his pulsing cock once again, smoothing your palm over his bulge. “Not gonna stop until you cum for me, okay?”
The thought is terrifying and thrilling at the same time. He whines against your lips, squirming as you massage him through his pants with just enough pressure to drive him insane. “I—I can’t… I don’t wanna—” he stammers between kisses, but his hips betray him by rolling into your touch. “Please, I-I really don’t wanna ruin my underwear…”
But his body isn’t listening. Every rub of your hand sends sparks through him, and the coil in his stomach tightens dangerously.
“C’mon, it’d be so cute. I bet you’re all leaky under there anyway.”
Spencer whines, mortified. “I-I’m not leaky!”
You laugh at his childish protest.
He flushes. “I-I don’t… leak! I control my bodily functions!”
But then your hand squeezes again, firm this time, and all defensiveness withers as a sharp gasp and a whine escape him.
“Bet you wish you could fuck me, huh?”
He nods mindlessly. “Mhmm. Yeah, a lot.”
The elevator dings. The doors slide open to reveal a quiet, dimly lit hallway. He recognizes it. Your room is just down the corridor. Spencer stares at it like salvation, then back at you, eyes wide with hope.
But your hand doesn’t stop moving. Caressing him, toying with him, rubbing his bulge. You make no move to take the both of you back to your room to have sex properly. No, because it’d be silly of him to think you’d have any interest in proper sex.
What’s making his stomach sink, however, is the way you’re not pressing another button. The way you’re letting the heavy elevator doors stay wide open as you touch him, letting all his needy little noises escape into the corridors for any unfortunate passerby to overhear.
Spencer’s voice cracks as he whispers, “H-hey… the door… it’s open…?” He tugs weakly at your sleeve, eyes wide with nervousness. The hallway is silent now, but anyone could turn the corner. “People could, um… could see us?” He adds in a tiny, embarrassed squeak. He wants this, desperately, but not like this. Not out in the open where someone might walk by and see him panting, blushing, completely at your mercy.
You simply follow his eyes, glancing at the open door, considering it nonchalantly, then wordlessly return your focus back to him and his dick, much to his frustration.
“P-Please,” he whispers shakily. “Can we… go to our room? Just a few steps? Please?”
You sharply pat his cock right where he’s most sensitive, and it sends a jolt through him. “I told you, silly, I wanna play with you here.”
Spencer yelps. His knees buckle. “O-Ow!” It didn’t actually hurt, but it stung in that electrifying way that was making his cock throb even harder. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes from overwhelming sensation and your stubborn refusal to move this somewhere private.
Spencer bites his lip, eyes watering. “I-I don’t wanna— I don’t wanna cum in my pants… please, please…”
Teasing him, you ask, “Why not?”
Spencer blinks, baffled. “B-Because…” he stammers. “It’s messy! And— and I’ll have to change my clothes, and we didn’t pack extra underwear because we thought this trip would be short and— and—” He hesitates. “And I don’t— I just don’t wanna feel sticky and gross all day!” He whines miserably.
You chuckle, affectionately leaning your head on his shoulder like your hands aren’t down there working to make him explode. “But this cock is mine,” you murmur close to his ear.
He whimpers, tilting his head instinctively to give you better access to his ear. “I-I know… I know, I know,” he admits in a tiny voice, defeated but oddly turned on by how easily you claim him. “Yeah. Yours. But can I please cum in bed?”
You ignore him. “Mine, isn’t it? All mine? Mine to play with?”
Spencer nods frantically, eyes fluttering shut. “Y-Yours,” he breathes. “All yours. You can— you can play with me whenever you want.” The thought of being yours is almost as intoxicating as the physical sensations.
“Uh-huh. Then that’s all you need to worry about.”
Spencer hides his face in your shoulder again, breathing fast and shallow. It’s terrifying, being exposed like this. But also… thrilling. The risk makes every touch feel ten times more intense.
“Tell me how good I’m making you feel, Spencer,” you murmur to him sweetly.
“S-So good,” he whispers against your shirt, voice trembling. “You’re making me feel so good…” His face burns with shame and pleasure. “You’re… you’re the best, the best at this… I love it, I love you.” His hips seek more friction, rocking up into your touch.
“I love you too, my sweet boy. Are you getting close?”
Spencer nods against you, his breath coming in quick little puffs. “I-I think so… really, really close.”
You smile, feeling his tension, his breath picking up pace against your skin. You press a soft kiss to the top of his head before whispering, “That’s okay. You can cum if you want to.”
He swallows a moan, his body shaking. “I-I can… I can cum?”
“Uh-huh, you wanna cum for me? Wanna be my good boy and make a mess? Just for me?”
Spencer’s stomach flips. The words are filthy, and so tempting. He wants to, desperately, he’s so near to tipping over the edge. But the thought of actually doing it here and now, exposed and vulnerable, still worries him.
He whines softly. “Y-Yeah… but I’m scared.”
“Oh, baby,” you coo, “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”
Your voice, soft and loving, quells the fear, and for a moment Spencer is lulled into believing you two are in the privacy of your own bedroom. Your hand is perfect, moving with just the right pressure and rhythm.
“Fuck, feels really good. Feels really, really good,” he cries pathetically. He moans your name in a plea for mercy. “Fuck, I think I’m gonna…! Please, please, oh fuck! I think I’m gonna—”
Everything tightens. The coil in his stomach, his chest, his shoulders. He clutches your shirt like a lifeline as he stops denying himself and the pleasure crashes over him in sweet waves. A quiet gasp escapes him before he can stop it, and suddenly he’s cumming right there, still fully dressed, pressed flat against you. He moans like a girl into your skin, jaw falling open wide as his release coats the inside of his boxers. You keep working him through his orgasm diligently.
The afterglow hits, warm and floaty. But he can feel it as he pants, coming back down from his high: the horrific wetness against his skin. And when the wire in him fully snaps and he goes slack in your arms, he grimaces.
Spencer is a limp, dazed puddle. He’s panting, sweaty, and so embarrassed by the mess in his pants. He hides his face further in your shoulder with a tiny groan of humiliation.
You just hum, gently stroking his hair, quite pleased with yourself. You kiss the top of his head sweetly. “It’s okay,” you murmur, soothing. “Nobody else booked this floor, anyway.”
Spencer nods weakly against your, still hiding. “Okay…” he pants, voice muffled by fabric. “That’s… that’s good to know.”
The two of you are silent for a moment as Spencer recovers, the only sound his heavy huffs and the faint hum of the lights beyond the elevator. “…Did you like it?” You eventually ask.
Spencer lifts his head slowly, finally meeting your eyes, cheeks still pink. “Mm-hm,” he nods shyly. “A lot.”
You smile, letting out a warm chuckle. “Good.”
You press the button to slide the doors closed, giving the two of you a quiet moment in your little bubble before any reality can creep back in again. Holding his warm cheek, you press your lips to Spencer’s.
He quickly leans into your kiss, eyes fluttering shut, melting into you with lingering affection and arousal. When you part again, he sighs contentedly and rests his rests his forehead against yours.
Eventually, he interrupts the peace with a meek voice, “Can I… can I please go change my pants?”
You giggle at him and lovingly pat his cheek with a nod.
synopsis: at your first sleepover at spencer’s apartment you find yourself being introduced to his most special friend- his childhood teddy bear.
pairing: spencer x gn reader
genre: fluff!
wc: 1.7k
notes/tags: new established relationship, cosy domestic spencer, had to rewatch the instincts & memoriam for literally the tiniest details ever (agony), little sad tidbits about his childhood with some canon and made up aspects :3 he loves his mother so much and hes so soft and sweet and cute and
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it rly helps promote the fic!
———————————🧸————————————
“Oh, could you grab my pyjamas please?” Spencer called from the bathroom through a mouthful of toothpaste. “In the drawer.”
“Sure.” You called back, a little giddy.
Things were still new between you and Spencer, with this being the first time you’d ever stayed the night. There was a buzz in the air, both of you excited like teenagers at a slumber party over popcorn on his sofa. You’d spent the evening watching movies, your legs slung over his lap and his hand cradling your knee, until you both began to feel your eyelids grow heavy. You’d shuffled into his bedroom, only for you to spark back to life once a realisation hit you. This was a whole new stage of domesticity for you both.
You’d parked yourself on the edge of his mattress, holding yourself back from swinging your legs as you bit back a grin. You’d been picturing him in his pyjamas, a soft shirt and baggy pants so different to the usual crisp ironed silhouette of his work clothes. You wondered what his hair looked like in the morning, tousled from his pillow as he tried to sleepily smooth it back. Butterflies danced in your stomach as you pictured waking up beside him, seeing his flushed cheeks and hearing his lazy morning rambles inches away from you as you lay anchored to his chest.
With a hop, you sprung up from the bed, practically skipping over to the drawers across the room. With a flourish you pulled one open, eager to see what he slept in. Oh, you sighed, wrong drawer. Your lips melted into a small smile as you took in a mountain of colourful socks, oddly unorganised compared to the rest of his bedroom. Stripes and polka dots in every colour piled on top of neons and silly cartoon pictures, a set of ‘days of the week’ socks each highlighting a different star in the Big Dipper catching your attention the most.
You were sliding the drawer closed when you caught a glimpse of something in the back, poking out between two pairs of dinosaur socks. Something brown and fluffy, two beady glass eyes staring up at you.
“Who’s your friend?” You asked, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. In your hands you held an old, well-loved teddy bear. Its fur was a little matted with age but still soft in its little brown curls, and on its chest sat an embroidered comet with its threads surprisingly still mostly in tact.
Spencer’s eyes widened in the mirror, his cheeks turning red almost instantly. “Where did you find that?” He tried to feign indifference, but his voice wavered.
“Stashed away in your sock drawer.” You turned the bear over in your hands so that he was looking at you. Were you just getting tired or did its eyes look sad? “What was it doing in there?”
“No idea.” He shrugged, moving to take it from you. “Must’ve forgotten he was there.”
Cocking a brow at him you hid the bear behind your back, trapping him between you and the doorframe and out of Spencer’s reach. “He?”
“It.” He corrected himself. You brought the bear forward, gazing down at his little face as Spencer brushed past you into the bedroom. His little glass eyes definitely looked sad.
“‘He’ implies an identity.” You said, following Spencer as he perched on the edge of the mattress. “He’s clearly important. Why were you hiding him from me?”
“I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to think I was-” he paused, brows creasing as he searched for the right word, “uncool.”
You smiled at him, a little loose and sappy. This was the man who first said hi by complimenting your edition of Great Expectations that he saw peeking out of your bag on the subway. The same man who called his mother before your first date to ask her what flowers he should bring you. He once took you to a chess tournament and commentated on every match with low whispers in your ear, sprinkling in a handful of sassy comments and tutting about moves he believed to be, what he called, ‘idiotic and completely incomprehensible’. ‘Uncool’ wasn’t even a word that came to mind.
“I think he’s very cool.” You shifted closer until your knees were touching, the bear resting in your lap as you toyed with him. “What’s his name?”
“Carl.” Spencer answered fondly, finally allowing a boyish grin to grace his face.
You nodded in recognition. “Sagan.” It made perfect sense. You recalled him telling you a childhood story about him making a salt model of the universe, intended as a birthday gift for his hero. You were pretty certain he could work Carl Sagan into any conversation given the opportunity.
“Well thank you for formally introducing us.” Propping the bear up with your hand, you tilted his head sadly to the side. “He must hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you.” Spencer frowned.
“Oh, I bet he does. I bet he was thinking who is this mean, mean person I’m being shoved into a dark, scary drawer for?” The bear’s head bobbed in your hand as you jostled him like a puppeteer until your boyfriend reached over, taking him from your hands. He was gentle, handling his little best friend with a carefulness you’d only ever seen reserved for you. His gaze was loving, suddenly belong to a much, much younger version of him.
“Yeah. I’m sorry about that, Carl.” He murmured, voice tender. His fingers hovered over his fur, the familiar softness transporting him somewhere else.
You’d never quite seen this look on his face before. Spencer was someone who often acted older than he was, desperate to be seen with the sense of maturity he thought he ought to carry. There were always cracks in his mask, of course, he was far too passionate about things to keep it hidden for long. Whenever he was rambling, especially about something- for lack of better words- nerdy, there was that twitch of his lips that often gave way to a bright grin, that little glimmer of excitement in his eyes as his words poured from his brain faster than his mouth could keep up. It was almost that look you saw on his face now, but quieter. Gentler.
“How long have you had him?” You asked softly as his fingers moved to trace the embroidery on the bear’s chest.
“Since I was eight. He was the only toy I kept when…” He trailed off, flashing you a small smile, weaker than the one he wore earlier, before continuing. “I never could outgrow him.”
“Who could? Look at his little face.” You cooed, staring at the bear’s glass eyes once more- significantly less sad-looking in Spencer’s hands. “Where’d he come from?”
“Science museum gift shop.” He chuckled, face lighting up at the memory. “My mom took me. They had an interactive astronomy exhibit I’d been desperate to go to- not that I said anything. She found a flyer for it in my room and for my birthday she surprised me. It’s one of my favourite memories with her. We didn’t get many days out like that.”
His voice trailed off, his thoughts going with it. The room you were both in disappeared before his eyes, rearranging itself into the bedroom of his younger years. Toys were a scarcity, limited to models he’d made himself. They’d been replaced long ago by notebooks, pages and pages of poems and songs copied out to calm his mother. He’d told you about it once briefly, how he did it to soothe her paranoia. There was no time for toys when he was growing up so fast, but still in his small hands he held Carl. When he was too fretful to fall asleep, his door cracked open enough to hear Diana down the hall, his bear stayed awake with him. When he came home from school late and the sky outside the window was black, he had someone to confide in.
It was less and less often that he got good days with his mother, but Carl served as a reminder for every single one, most of all that day at the museum.
“I guess you could say he’s my oldest friend.” Spencer smiled with an embarrassed laugh, clearing his throat as he tried to steady his expression.
“Well, I’m very honoured to finally meet him.” You reached out, shaking his little paw between your fingers. “I take it he doesn’t usually live in your sock drawer?”
“No, no- he takes the left side of my pillow usually. Sometimes he sits at my desk when I’m working.” He wrinkled his nose, debating whether he should say more. “He, uh. He sits on the other side of the board when I play chess by myself. He’s pretty good at it.”
You laughed, feeling your cheeks ache as you leaned into him and propped your head on his shoulder. You’d been prepared to see him in his pyjamas, you were working up to being prepared to sleep in the same bed. What you hadn’t been ready for was meeting your boyfriend’s teddy bear. If it was even possible you loved him even more now, heart swelling as you pictured him coming home to his little roommate. Did he talk to him about his day? Tuck him in before he left for a case? Does he miss him when he’s away?
“You know I have a childhood bear too?” You said, your voice lazy as your cheek melted into the fabric of his shirt. “You’ll have to bring Carl over sometime, we can have a double date.”
Spencer’s shoulder shook beneath you as he laughed. “Yeah, I think he would love that. It’s about time.”
He turned his head to look down at you, and you tried your best to meet his eyes from your perch. His face looked so soft, relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. He was always at his most beautiful like this, completely unguarded, the mask that etched a crease between his brows and a frown on his lips comfortably lifted and leaving him looking impossibly young. You lifted your head, pressing a gentle kiss to his warm, flushed cheek.
“I can’t wait.” You smiled, rising to your feet and extending a hand to him. “Now come on. I am desperate to see your pyjamas.”
“I still don’t understand your infatuation with this.” He sighed, shaking his head fondly. But still he took your hand, letting you pull him up before following you as you skipped over to the drawers once more.
i wish spencer reid was real so he could info dump about something to me right now. i think that would cure all of my mental illnesses. somebody prescribe me early seasons autistic spencer reid.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
Category: Smut 18+ MDNI, FLUFF
Summary: Spencer comes out of the shower looking like a wet dog and it’s enough to send you on your knees.
Content: 2.9k words, established relationship, size kink, hand job, blow job and deep throating, choking on dick, sub!Spencer undertones, dacryphilia, Spencer says something slightly mean but it’s resolved quickly, Spencer cums too soon.
a/n: My google search history will get me on a watchlist one day, and it’s all because of these fics. Combination of Rucha’s request, anon who gave me the “getting rid of reader’s gag reflex” idea, also hi to this anon who requested dacryphilia for kinktober, October came early hehe.
You make your attraction to your boyfriend very clear. Sometimes, perhaps, to the point of comical exaggeration, so much so that it makes Spencer Reid suspect that you may only be teasing him. His doubts aren't unwarranted—not because of you, of course. But growing up the way he did—knobby joints and limbs too long, too scrawny, too smart, too much yet somehow simultaneously still not enough—makes the notion of desire and romance feel out of his reach.
He doesn't quite know how to deal with being the subject of your desire. To be on the receiving end of your undivided attention. An object of lust. Really, him, of all people?
You, meanwhile, revel in his confusion. Sending such a brilliant man into spirals is an achievement you wear with pride, and a challenge you consistently tackle head on.
So when you drape your arms over his shoulders, the soft furrow of his brows makes something in your chest curl. Love. A sense of power. The heady, addictive combination of both.
Droplets from his wet hair scatter all over your wrist and upper arms, still warm from his shower. The heat from your skin keeps them from cooling. Spencer huffs, a nervous smile on his face as his hands land on your hips. Warm, pruned fingers flexing and squeezing into your body, testing out the authenticity of your existence. An overactive imagination came with his genius, and he wants to make sure you aren't something conjured from his fantasies.
You aren't. You're solid, and he isn't in the mood to test any more hypotheses as to why you're currently in his arms.
“Hey, angel,” he whispers the nickname like he's holding the very thing, his unworthy palms making contact with something heavenly.
“Hi baby,” You coo, light and pretty as birdsong, “Did you have a nice shower?”
He chuckles, unsure of what you want but enjoying the guessing game all the same. He loves games. He loves them even more when it involves you, and your affection. “I did. I used the conditioner you got for me.”
Your hands tangle into his hair when he mentions that, humming as you squeeze out the strands, “You didn't do the routine though.”
“I know, I didn't want to stay in there too long,” He says sheepishly. You'd lovingly pointed out a curly hair routine for him before, and on days where he has the time, he tries to do them. Often than not, he's a bit too busy with work. Right now though, there’s other reasons for his rush. “I wanted to spend as much time as I could with you.”
“Is that so?” you giggle, and he swears he's about to tip over.
“Yeah. I missed you all week.”
“Really?”
“Really. In fact, I missed you while I was showering.” He smiles all dopey and soft, body flushed with his love for you. His breath becomes a prisoner lodged somewhere between his chest and throat when your lips widen into a bright smile as a result of his words.
“Did you?” your body presses into his nearly naked one, hips flush.
He gulps, knowing you could feel his body reacting to your proximity. The slightest bit of affection from you and he’s already aching, fingers digging into your hips as he closes the distance between your mouths in place of a proper answer. The kiss muffles your giggles, a sound so precious he’s uncertain if he’d like to record it and play it for the rest of the world, or keep, selfishly, to himself.
You press into him further, and he’s following your lead, feet padding backwards. Stumbling. Slightly unsure, but he trusts your judgement, trusts wherever it is you’re planning to take him.
The couch, it turns out, so overstuffed it swallows his form when he sinks onto it. Somewhere along the way, his towel had slipped on the floor, no doubt by the insistence of your frisky, demanding hands. You break apart from him, lips kiss swollen and pulled into that familiar, cheshire cat smile as you sink to your knees between his spread legs.
Gently, he keeps you back, brows knit as he surveys your position. With worry dancing in his eyes, he cups your cheek and whispers, “You don’t have to do that, angel.”
“I wanna,” you insist, palms wrapping around the base of his already half-hard cock.
The feeling chokes the breath from him, but he forces himself to focus. “But it hurt you the last time.”
“No, baby, it didn’t. I just gagged a little, that’s all.” You reply with a soft giggle. Your breath washes over the sensitive skin of his length as you do so. It’s dumbfounding that such a tiny shift of air could send shivers prickling down his spine, but perhaps it’s more because of the very existence of you (here, in his apartment, and against all odds, his) than the action itself.
“Yeah, you did. It was honestly a little surprising."
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t catch the edge in your voice, hurtling forward with a hasty reply, “Well you just seem so experienced.”
“Are you saying I got around?”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all!” His eyes widen comically, large hands framing your face and gripping with a desperation that makes you laugh. “Please, that’s not—why are you laughing?”
“Relax, Spence, I know what you mean. I think.”
He burns, from the tops of his cheeks and crawling everywhere like spilled water. Fighting through the ache in his chest—you’re so, so bad for his breathing—he manages to croak, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything mean, just… surprised, is all.”
“That I had a problem last time?” another stroke, and another, slowly both hands in tandem. He can feel himself throbbing, and it’s a little embarrassing how little it takes for you to coax him into an aching erection.
His voice breaks as he responds, “Yeah. You don’t have to do it, if it’s an issue.”
“It’s no big deal, baby. You just triggered my gag reflex, it wasn’t life or death,” you pump his length gently as you explain, twisting your fists every time you move down. The twitch of his thighs tells you you’re having the exact effect you want from him. “I’ve never had anyone as big as you before.”
“You called me a choking hazard.”
As you laugh, your breath wafts over his heated length, and nearly undoes him.
“What? You did!”
“I know,” your tongue skims over the slit of his tip, before gently circling its circumference, collecting as much of his precum as possible, before your soft lips part wider, stretching wide to take the broad head. Carefully, your tongue caresses the underside, spreading sticky, warm wetness as far as it can go.
Spencer wonders if it’s socially acceptable to pass out in the middle of getting a blow job. If he did, it wouldn’t be his first social faux pas, but the thought of being unconscious while you wrap those sinfully plush lips around him feels like a waste. How dare he lose consciousness while he has you on your knees for him? No, the only way to get through this is by being completely wide awake, and focused on you.
So he distracts himself, if only to keep from fainting, the best way he knows how.
“You know, the biggest trigger for your gag reflex is usually psychological.” he feels your laughter vibrating from his length, up his spine. An endearing crack in his voice comes as a result as he continues, “It’s true—this is your brain protecting you because it thinks the matter is life or death.”
You pull off, pressing your sticky, curling lips against the side of his shaft. Spencer whines at the loss, large eyes already glassy as they plead with you wordlessly. Come back, he seems to beg, why did you stop? But he’s perfect and patient, and never demands, so he shuts his mouth.
Smirking, you mumble, “But I know I’m not in danger. You’re just huge.”
“Well, uh, yes admittedly, that’s a factor too. Somatogenic stimulus.” at your raised brow, he hastens to explain, “T-that means it hits trigger points inside your mouth that sends signals to your brain. In response, your pharynx contracts to prevent you from choking.”
“What if I want to choke?” your pout glistens with his slick and your own saliva.
Spencer wants to weep.
“There’s certainly ways to, um, train your gag reflex.”
“Yeah?” you brighten, tongue flicking out and tracing the vein on the underside of his length.
He feels himself twitching in your hands, voice breathless and strangled as he responds.
“Yeah. A lot of it involves simply relaxing,” slowly, his hand comes to your hair, pushing back the strands from your temple, “Breathe through your nose before going deeper. If it hits the back of your throat, don’t panic and make sudden movements.”
“Seems like you know a lot about giving head, baby.”
Spencer can’t help but laugh at your jest, thumbs caressing the softness of your cheeks. “Maybe I do. Maybe I did my research after the first time you tried it.”
“Mhm, nerd. That’s why I love you.” you giggle, lashes fluttering and skimming over the tops of your cheeks as you close your eyes and lean into his warm, steady palm. “Good thing you told me. Now we can test it out.”
Without warning, you take him into your mouth again, pretty lips stretching wide to accommodate his girth. A soft, tortured gasp tears past his mouth when your cheeks hollow in, sucking eagerly at the tip before your mouth relaxes.
He manages to take a breath, labored and panicked despite his earlier advice for you to stay at a relaxed state. In contrast, you’re completely at ease, eyes sparkling mischievously and peeking up at him from beneath your lashes. He swears you’re smirking. Your mouth is wrapped around him but he just knows, okay, you’re smirking one of those sweetly mocking smirks you like to flash his way just because you know he’s utterly yours.
“Angel,” he exhales, and your head surges forward, jaw relaxing further, and he feels the slight drag of teeth against the oversensitive skin of his cock. It’s warm and wet, and his fingers reflexively tighten in your hair, curling around the strands for something to ground him.
It stings, this new grip, but deliciously so, a pain that heightens your senses and makes your own thighs clench together. But this is about him, and you’re enjoying the view in front of you. Spencer Reid, reduced to the most pathetic whimpers. Spencer Reid who doesn’t know his own strength and is all but pulling you by the hair with how rigidly he’s wound your hair around his fingers.
God, you feel drunk.
Filled with more confidence, you breathe slowly as he’d instructed, before taking him deeper, watching as almost half of his length disappears into your mouth. Now faced with some confirmation that you can, indeed, take more, you push further until he hits the back of your throat and that treacherous reflex triggers.
The sound you make seems to shake Spencer from his trance, hazel eyes blinking rapidly as he shuffles his hips away.
“Are you okay?” he blusters, all clear eyed focus now. He tries to pull you off of him, hands migrating to your shoulders.
You nod, brows furrowing into a stubborn, warning look. He immediately backs off, protests dying on his lips as you remain on your knees. Fisting over the rest of his cock that you couldn’t fit into your mouth while simultaneously bobbing your head up and down what you could take.
“O-oh my god,” Spencer’s hands return into your hair, pushing back the strands that have fallen over your forehead.
Knowing that he’s overly sensitive, you moan around his length. His body tenses, shivers, filling you with enough confidence to bob your head up again, deeper this time, and more prepared. When his tip reaches the back of your throat, it feels more like a kiss than a nudge.
“Fuck!”
You moan in response, eyes flashing up to meet his awestruck gaze, before pulling away. Twin gasps for air; you from an exhilarating sense of accomplishment, Spencer from a flushed, dizzy haze.
“That was so good,” he slurs, body bending down to catch your lips. Your giggles are swallowed by his insistent kisses, tongue pushing into past your lips as though he wants to taste himself through your mouth. “So good, honey, you did it deeper than the last time.” he’s babbling into the kiss, hands cradling your head back.
You moan, shift to a more comfortable angle on the floor, before breaking the kiss, your lips connected by a glossy string of saliva.
“I wanna try again,” you whisper, pushing him back, “Just sit back and enjoy, Spence.”
Without waiting for his response, you take him into your mouth again, relaxing and breathing as steadily as you can, before you begin the rhythm. He’s groaning above you, one hand fisted on his cushions, the other at the crown of your head, holding back your hair.
Again, spurred by his reactions and a sense of boldness, you pull back until only his tip remains in your mouth. Your cheeks hollow as you suck, preparing yourself mentally for another attempt. Holding his cock steady at the base, you lower your mouth slowly, slowly, over his length, blinking through the tears that prickle at the corners of your eyes when you feel him sliding past your tonsils and down your throat.
“Fuck!” Spencer cries out. His whole body is tense, every single muscle flexing as he holds back the desire to thrust into the wet warmth of your mouth. He can’t tell which of you is more affected, more defiled. You or him? He thought you’d be in a position of power, as you usually are, as he usually surrendered to you, but right now it seems you’re both equally ruined.
The mere sight of you tearing up and gagging gently around him, struggling to keep him inside your tight throat nearly undoes him. When he feels your nose nestling over the skin of his lower abdomen, he can’t help it. A sob escapes. Big fat tears chase each other down his cheeks as he feels your throat contracting around him.
He can’t lift his teary-eyed gaze from your prone figure. Somehow, despite it all, you’re still looking up at him, the tears down your cheeks mirroring his. Before he knows it, his cock twitches, and then he’s bursting thick, hot ropes of his spend directly down your throat.
It takes you completely by surprise. You were only trying to see if you could take him all the way; triumph had curled in your chest when you did, but only for a moment as you felt him swell impossibly bigger, and then he’s cumming.
Down your throat.
You’re choking on both his cock and his cum.
It’s difficult not to panic, and once you start, your brain fires off at every self-preservatory neuron. Gagging around him, your own tears burn hot streaks down your cheeks, until he pulls you off his shaft and onto his lap.
“Oh, angel,” he sniffles, arms encircling your waist tightly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, oh my god.”
He’s sobbing into your shoulder, one hand tucking your head against the crook of his neck. As you cough and regain your breath, his scent fills your senses, the familiar evergreen of his soap and the spicy aftershave, and for a moment, all you can think of is how you’re drooling all over his freshly washed skin.
“I’m fine, Spencer, really.” You hug him back tight, heart drumming in your ears as you calm back down, “I made a mess.”
He angles his head to take a look, eyes skimming over the mixture of saliva and cum dripping from your lips, down your chin and neck, and shakes his head. “No, you–I think you’re beautiful.”
“You’re just saying that cause I gave you great head.”
He laughs through his tears, hands moving to frame your face. His thumbs drag over your cheeks, brushing away your tears. “No, that’s not true. You know that.”
“I do.” You smile, leaning in tentatively, unsure if he’d want to kiss you with such messy lips. Spencer has no such qualms, meeting you halfway and groaning as he tastes himself on your tongue.
“I think you’re divine.” he murmurs as he begins kissing along the corners of your mouth, cleaning off his spend by his own lips. You weren’t expecting him to do something so filthy, and every lick of his tongue gives you a delicious shiver. “The prettiest. I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“Stop apologizing,” you admonish, shifting on his lap to wrap your legs around his waist, “I told you, I wanted it. Seems like you enjoyed it too.”
“Immensely,” he admits, lips now at your jaw, nipping playfully at the sensitive skin, “But now, I think it’s time I take care of you.”
You press your hips against his with a giggle, "Yeah? You want to make a mess elsewhere?"
He groans, embarrassed, but doesn't deny it.
i love them so much they make me so fucking sick. pls reblog and comment if you enjoyed, thank you for reading!!!!
Summary: After a case gone wrong, you learn the hard way that yours and Spencer's superpower isn't so super. A fact you'd come to accept if it didn't continue to torment you both.
Tags: the angst is heavy here (I promis I kissed the brick first), mention of kidnapping, all the regular Criminal Minds tw, reader is going through it, Spencer is in denial, workplace romance, they're both oblivious, reader is down bad (aren't we all), idiots in love, friends to lovers.
w/c: 4.0K
Notes: Here is the long-awaited pt.2 of In Sync. Thank you, everyone, for all the support and lovely comments; trust me, I read them all. I genuinely didn't think In Sync would receive any attention, so thank you sm. If you enjoy pls interact; it's greatly appreciated (pls lets bring back old fandom culture)
Thank you to my lovely PickelDick (this is a joke name lmao) for beta-reading @imustembracemymistakes
The concrete was cold, pressing into your tear-soaked cheeks, eyes puffy and red from crying.
You looked pathetic.
Salty tears continued to run down your face as you heaved in the far right corner of the room, the corner that had become your default resting place over the last few hours. Lying on the floor like a rag doll, time a fragmented concept to you, the same as sleep. The unsub's random appearances were frequent enough to disturb any hope of sleep you had, storming in only to drag you around and torment you, recording his crimes to add to his collection.
Cigarette burns littered your upper arms, complementing the purple and red hand marks around your neck, merging all into one cacophony of brutality.
You, and your body the unwilling participant in it all.
It was becoming a routine: once he left, you pulled yourself on your hands and knees to the corner of the box you called a prison in some desperate attempt to console yourself. The only true comfort it brought was the knowledge that it was the furthest away from the camera. You didn't want the team to see you like this … you couldn't stomach it.
Especially Spencer.
Poor, sweet Spencer.
In a last-ditch attempt to get any semblance of rest, you let yourself curl into a ball and lie on the floor. Closing your eyes for a moment, exhaustion washing over your limbs. Your good hand, or rather unrestrained hand, tangled into your hair, nails scratching gently along your scalp. Maybe if you just forgot for a moment that your nails were caked with grime and blood, that your whole body ached and shivered, you could sleep for a moment.
Pathetically, you imagined it was Spencer's hands running through your increasingly tangled hair, gently lulling you to sleep in his cozy apartment. The one that smelled of old books and cinnamon, with the ridiculously comfy couch that he insisted wasn't good for sleeping on. Something- something, lack of proper spinal support. You always secretly hoped it was because he wanted you in his bed, deep down somewhere in your gut and more realistically loins.
He was always so gentle with you, sickly sweet and attentive. His stupidly good profiling skills and equally skilled, veiny hands.
God, you were disgusting. Why was captivity doing this to you? Why were you enjoying this?
Your cuffed hand pulled painfully, shattering your daydream and dragging you back to reality. Desperate, cold and alone.
You just hope the team finds you sooner rather than later. You’d haunt these idiots for the rest of your undead life if you're dragged out of here in a body bag.
Eight hours… it had been eight hours since you were taken, and with each agonizing moment that passed, Spencer was increasingly becoming restless. Worse than before- at least, if that was even a measure considering his state since they reported you missing.
Morgan, arms crossed over his chest as he half-leaned on the edge of a desk, watched Spencer from afar. He was almost scared to approach the boy, unsure if his presence would be comforting or send him deeper into his profiling spiral. Just as Hotch’s well-intentioned “maybe you should take a step back” had half an hour earlier.
Leading the team to their current predicament: a sleep-deprived Spencer, pacing around the conference room, talking to himself.
Tilting his head to get a better view of the boy through the glass windows that made up the outer-facing wall of the room, Morgan finally voiced what everyone was thinking. “He's gonna drive himself into a wall and burn out.” Despite the enjoyment Derek got from seeing Reid all flustered, this was just painful. He too was missing your presence.
You were like a sister to him, and he was more than ready to beat this unsub half to death when the team finally caught the bastard. But seeing Spencer like this, so frantic and out of his element, it almost scared him more.
He already lost you; he didn't need to lose Spencer too.
JJ, holding a pile of villain folders stacked in her hands, rounded the corner. “He's on what, his fifth cup of coffee?”
“Great, so he's running frantic on a sugar high,” Emily piped up from where she sat across Morgan, eyes still trained on the papers in front of her, scribbling notes in the margins.
“I'm worried for him; I've never seen him act this way. And with the shit we've been through the last few years, that terrifies me.” Morgan hesitated as he spoke.
“I mean, I can understand why, ” Emily paused. “The two were practically attached at the hip; it's as if he lost his other half. If anything, he's strangely put together.” She shrugged, looking over at Morgan and the look of disbelief that crossed his face.
Pointing to the conference room, “That looks put together to you, Prentiss?”
Exasperated, she slammed her open palms on the hardwood table. Emily huffed out. “Morgan, he watched the footage with Garcia. I think he's compartmentalizing it pretty well.”
“He's not compartmentalizing nothing right now; he's throwing himself into work so as not to confront that reality of the situation.” Morgan didn't realize it in the moment that he was yelling and that the entire bullpen was watching his and Emily’s exchange.
But as he looked around, reality hit him so hard in the face; they weren't watching the yelling match, they were watching Spencer stand in the middle of the room. An ugly expression crossed the boy's face as he bit his lower lip not to let it tremble.
Emily’s reply dried in her mouth as she too saw Spencer, choosing the smart approach and shutting her mouth before she could do any more damage.
The silence that stretched in the room was suffocating; the tension hummed for a second too long before Morgan jumped in to do damage control.
“Reid, that's not what I meant.” It was the same voice he used to talk to victims’ families, calm, controlled, too professional to leave any room for real empathy.
A curt nod of his head was all Spencer could muster up before storming away, he had no energy left to scream and yell. The coffee he kept drinking wasn't sweet anymore, the office was no longer the cozy and controlled chaos he'd come to call home.
His world that was once so bright and filled with colour had become void, and he knew why.
Spencer wasn't one to gloat, but he was often the smartest person in almost every room he walked into; he was also a formidable profiler. And just like every profiler before him, he too couldn't help but fall into the trap of picking apart his own behaviour. Hyper aware of all the inconsistent justifications he gave himself when it came to you, you were his exception in everything.
His social anxieties, his distaste for handshakes or any physical touch. The stupid scratchy material he hated but you loved, so he kept a blanket made of it in his apartment anyway. All the coffee shops he took you to because he knew you loved trying new things, just to order the same drink. Every book he lied about reading so he could watch your face light up telling him about it. Every game of poker he let you win to feel better so you'd continue to play with him.
All the nights he insisted you stay at his place because he selfishly couldn't let you go.
Dragging you to sleep in his bed and not the couch because greedily he wanted to watch your delicate sleeping form as the moonlight seeped through his curtains and over your face. Capturing the fleeting moment in his memory as you rested and Spencer watched on, feeling like the biggest pervert in the world.
It was you who made him squirm, you who made him feel crazy at times. You, always you.
His whole world.
And it was you, with all his intelligence, that he failed to protect.
You were gonna kill someone, or maybe yourself; you weren't sure yet, but every time the unsub or rather Jonathan, as you learned, came back, you considered it.
Gritting your teeth, you refused to give him the satisfaction of your screams. He had your jaw in his hand so tight it was gonna leave bruises, again. Pushing the back of your head further into the concrete wall of your prison, yelling something incorrect about leaving him. Crushing you, further and further. You couldn't move. God, why couldn't you just pull your hand free?
Your neck was straining in the awkward position, leaving your throat completely exposed and vulnerable. Blood-crushed nails scraping at the stone wall, your animal instincts the only thing driving you at this point. Pull your hand from behind your back, you screamed in your own hollow mind, pain filling your temples as it pooled behind your eyes. The pressure building as you wracked your sleep-deprived brain for something coherent; something real.
You needed space.
To breathe.
Anything.
Just to get away.
Kicking your legs up was doing nothing to deter him; it egged him on further until you finally landed the side of your foot into his ribcage with a desperate half-cry.
With a grunt, he threw your head back, letting go as he did, walking far enough away to pace around. The room swam for a moment as you stayed there, crumbled against the wall, your shaky hand pressing into the concrete for support as you waited for your vision to clear.
The thought hit you before you could catch your breath: you could hear him, but you couldn't see him.
Your faltering vision serves as an echo chamber for your laboured breaths, thoughts racing.
Fuck, you couldn't see. You needed to see. You could hear him moving. Closer.
Muttering to himself, once again walking in rushed circles. “You listen, you're supposed to listen. Listen.” Each repetition, slowly transforming into a mantra. His tone evolving into something more aggressive until he was straight out yelling. Flinching, you cowered to the floor, cradling your head.
You couldn't stay still; that was a death sentence. Pull yourself together, you were an FBI agent for crying out loud. Feeling out the ground directly in front of you as you hesitantly crawled along the wall, one hand in front of the other, gently tapping the ground to navigate. Relying on your non-compromised senses and the hope that Jonathan would stay distracted with whatever psychotic break he was going through right now.
With each small step you shuffled forward, crawling on your hands and knees. For a split second you almost celebrated, cried, screamed; you didn't know anymore. The breath you didn't realize you were holding escaped your lips, until the deafening crackle of the cuffs rang out in the room and you were plunged into ice.
No, no please no.
Your nails dug into the floor like it was the concrete's personal fault you were here. You tried to run, pulling yourself onto your feet. The hazy world fell around you in waves, the handcuff still around your wrist mocking your futile attempt.
From the weight of his steps alone, you could hear the man barreling towards you. “Listen, you listen!"
Barely recognizing your own voice, you croaked out, “I'm sorry, Jonathan. You're right, I didn't listen.” The words came out in fractured gasps as you fought him; the second apology you had on the tip of your tongue faltering when he slammed you back against the wall. Your nails dug into the meaty parts of his palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake as he planted one hand on either shoulder.
You pitied the poor woman you were meant to replace. You'd been a profiler long enough, you knew it was a woman. It wasn't even a question anymore.
You gagged on the stale air of the room, the ceiling was coming back into focus. You breathed, again and again; another greedy gulp. Blinking once, then twice, your vision clearing.
“I’m sorry for not listening, I really am. I'll listen, just stop." Your eyes closed, bracing for another hit that didn't come. Slowly you glanced up, only to find him huffing in your face, fuzzy behind the eyes in a trance-like state.
“You'll listen.” It almost sounded like he was asking a question.
“Yes, yes, I'm listening, see.”
Nodding, his grip loosened, backing away enough for you to breathe in your own air. Another breath of silence stretched, and he let go completely, heading for the door without so much as a look back.
The sound of the heavy metal door shut behind him, and your eyes found the camera involuntarily. You tried your best to ignore it or hide from it entirely, but now you had no choice. You knew how these kinds of cases ended; you knew the progressions, he was already spiralling, becoming more frantic and risky.
After hour eleven, the exhaustion finally caught up to Spencer, and he begrudgingly took a break from the case. The team had made some progress using the previous kills to narrow down the unsub's comfort zone, but they still had no way of narrowing down your location. The unsub was obviously operating out of a house; he had to be. He would need the space and privacy to set up and record his crimes, and since he was torturing his victims, it had to be remote enough for no one to hear.
The thoughts rushed through Spencer's head as he made his way into his apartment, keys tossed somewhere on the mahogany coffee table as he dropped his messenger bag. The worn leather thumped onto the ground, slouched beside another bag he was too tired to remember he put there. Spencer rubbed his eyes, a migraine steadily building behind his tired sockets, slumping onto his couch with a huff.
He knew Hotch was right; he needed to take a break. More realistically, take a step back from the case entirely, it was all getting too personal for him.
The only problem was that he couldn't bring himself to.
Each time he closed his eyes, he saw your scared expression, your face as your lips trembled, hurt, alone, terrified. He couldn't rest knowing you were still in danger, all the while he lounged around feeling sorry for himself. The guilt was eating him alive. Driving him up the wall, settling into an abhorred amalgamation of vile emotions Spencer couldn't identify.
Like now, as he lay face-first on a couch cushion in his apartment, the apartment you loved so much, on the couch you spent so many nights curled up with a book from his collection.
His own subconscious was torturing him at this point. And honestly, the more he thought about it, the more it dawned on him that maybe the team wasn't crazy in thinking you two should date. Albeit Morgan and Garcia’s effort in getting you two to go on dates was invasive; he would never admit it to their faces, but he was starting to see their point.
His every waking thought revolved around you; you were his sun, the dominant force he orbited helplessly around.
It was only in your absence that he saw how cold it could be.
The pressure pooling behind his eyes was becoming painful. Spencer begrudgingly dragged himself from the couch and to the little medicine drawer he kept next to his cutlery. Digging through its contents to find the little greenish bottle of migraine pills he had on hand, followed swiftly by a gulp of water.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the pills, leaning against the counter, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He stared off, his gaze trailing back to his living room and the couch that held so many memories and movie nights. Memories of you he wished wouldn't be buried under the new image of your scared face pleading for help. For a moment, his eyes drifted to his work bag and the files he knew he should have left at the office inside, but slowly his eyes paused on the other bag beside it.
It was a small leather tote he was certain didn't belong to him. Aside from the fact that he knew exactly what was in his apartment, the cherry keychain on the bag gave it away.
In a few strides, Spencer crossed the room, picking the bag up off the floor, inspecting it. As Spencer pulled the tote open, familiarity washed over him; it was your bag.
Inside was a pair of pyjamas, a bag of toiletries, jeans, a sweater…
It was one of your spare to-go bags; after the second night you crashed at his place, you had brought a bag. Insisting it would be easier to head straight to work from his appointment rather than going back to your own. Spencer was grinning like an idiot the rest of the day after; he remembered because Morgan made it a point to comment on it.
Holding the knit sweater in between his fingers, he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember anything but your scared expression carved into his memory.
Any other memory would do, literally anything.
Like the time when he wore his glasses, so absorbed in what he was doing he barely registered them sliding down his face until your soft, nimble fingers pushed them up onto the bridge of his nose. He sat there for a good five minutes completely forgetting how to function, his brain drawing a blank for the first time in his life. He flushed so hard he turned red, not the usual tips of his ears but his whole face. You and JJ had burst out laughing, and Garcia called him tomato boy the rest of the day.
Before he realized what he was doing, Spencer brought the soft fabric up to his nose, burning his face into it, taking in your lingering smell. Your sweet perfume mixed with just the naturally intoxicating smell of your skin.
It still smelled like you, and with another deep inhale, Spencer froze.
You had managed to finally get some sleep, the dark circles under your eyes becoming a little less unsightly. Rather than waking up refreshed or with a clearer mind, a pit settled in your stomach; you were gonna be sick.
You hadn't seen Jonathan in a while, which was a break from his typical routine. Once again, a blaring neon sign that he was starting to get sloppy. After napping, you weren't entirely sure if your concept of time was still reliable. If you were to guess, it had to have been a few hours at least; a few hours with still no sight of your tormentor.
You felt strange, not quite sure what to do with yourself as dizzying nausea settled over you. The only indicator that time was real and you weren't hallucinating or dead was the little red dot flashing on the camera.
One, then twice. Again and again; counting each second as the footage kept rolling.
The hushed words fell from your lips in whispers:
“One,”
“Two.”
Blinking for a moment, you missed one, forcing yourself to start over as you drifted further into nothingness. With the sudden abundance of time, you couldn't help but let your mind wander: to the team, the outside world, Spencer’s awkward smile.
All pressing and very important thoughts when you've been kidnapped.
Depressingly enough, you laughed at your own joke. The chuckle filled the suffocating silence of the room, the almost painful rasp of your strained vocal cords settling in the air. For a moment, the realization knocked you back into reality, and hard. Your hands wandered up the side of your face, feeling the once soft skin under your fingertips. The slight pressure mapped out every bruise and gash on your face; the pain was intoxicating.
What did you even look like anymore?
Dishevelled, sure. You knew you had bruises and a variety of other injuries— you felt them, but seeing it, genuinely perceiving the damage. That thought crashed through you, and you almost felt angry.
You had spent so long in fight or flight; you almost forgot about the outside world and the after of it all. You could tell you were changing, as you sat applying intentional pressure to your own open wounds just to feel something. Rocking yourself, knees to your chest as you tried to laugh it off.
Would you be able to go back to the team? Act like everything is normal, completely block out what happened? You saw what happened to Elle.
You didn't want to lose the team; they were your family, you loved them.
Suddenly you wished for Jonathan to come back, to beat you and drag you around; at least you could rationalize the pain of a physical wound.
Feel it, treat it, watch it heal.
If it was his hands causing the damage, it wouldn't be as bad, right? Better than your own, than the thoughts that started to consume you when you were alone for too long. Because no one could save you from your own mind or the endless depth of your lonely thoughts. Dragging you deeper into the abyss, staring straight back into you.
Emily was relieved that Hotch finally got through to Spencer. Just like Morgan had said, the kid was burning himself out and would crash sooner rather than later. The team didn't need an Icarus on their hands; a burnt-out profiler helped no one.
Prentiss hovered over the coffee pot as she waited for it to brew, her right hand tapping the opposite arm as they sat crossed. In the corner of her eyes, she spotted Morgan as he joined her in the break room, his eyebrows etched with worry. Concern, maybe.
“What's wrong?” Emily's tapping stopped as she glanced over Morgan, his shoulder drawn stiff and his usual air of confidence dulled.
“Hm, nothing.”
“You have that look.”
With an exasperated huff, Morgan let out, “You're losing me, Prentiss.”
Gesturing vaguely to her own eyebrows, Morgan's jaw tightened as Emily drew an exaggerated circle with her pointer finger around her face.
“What happened to no profiling each other?” He quipped, his signature smirk finding his way to his face once more.
“It's not profiling if it's an observation.”
“Oh, so now you got jokes.”
In the distance of the bullpen, the two heard a commotion followed by Rossi’s voice calling Reid’s name. Quickly exchanging confused expressions, the coffee long forgotten as they headed towards the sounds of a frazzled Spencer.
“Kid, slow down, I have no idea what you're saying.” With a hand on either one of Spencer's shoulders, Rossi held the boy in place. Reid looked almost manic as he kept talking, stumbling over his own words, waving around what appeared to be a sweater in a clear plastic bag. The increasing volume of the bullpen drew Hotch from his office, JJ following in step behind him.
“I found this in my apartment. It's hers. She was there the night before the raid.”
“Whoa, pretty boy, take a breath,” Morgan chimed in, patting Spencer on the back in an attempt to be comforting.
Emily watched as Hotch’s eyebrows drew together, his expression guarded as Reid continued to ramble.
“It still smells like her. We could use it to track her, track her scent.” In one long breath, Spencer huffed out his final words and the room quieted for a moment. Incisively, the team looked over to Hotch.
“I'll call in the search dogs. Reid, go help Garcia- everyone else with me.” Without missing a beat, the team leader pulled out his phone in a swift motion.
Just like that, the bullpen was plunged back into chaos. This time, however, the flicker of hope settled comfortably within the buzz of the room.
Summary: You want to build a cyberdeck. Spencer knows someone who can help, but doing so means meeting one of his friends from the FBI, and convincing her of your 'relationship'.
Contents: 4k words, FLUFF, prof!reader with glasses, no use of y/n, fake relationship, misuse of engineering and programming terminology (sorry lmfao), PENELOPE GARCIA CAMEO
A/N: PENELOPE MEETS PROF!READER CAN I GET AN AMEN. The thought of Spencer holding a screwdriver is so fucking hot to me ndfksf. No clue if any of my cyberdeck talk is coherent, I watched three tiktok videos and made up some bullshit. Takes place after I Don't Even Dare... but before Black Tie.
➳ Save the Date masterlist
"You have a degree in engineering, right?"
Spencer blinks, setting his mug of coffee down before he nods.
"Why's this relevant?" he eyes the pile of 19th century research spread across your side of the table in the cafe as if he's already calculating how to link those two topics. It's not unusual at this point—you've found ways to discuss subjects that seem even more unrelated. But the structural integrity of 19th century buildings and their textual symbolism isn't what you're worried about right now.
"I'm just curious if you still remember like, the basics and stuff."
He looks affronted. "I've got an eidetic memory."
"I know, but your current field of expertise isn't exactly about electrical engineering, is it?"
"I hold a PhD. in engineering, I would still know more than a regular person."
"Okay then," you say, opening your phone for a photo. You hand it over to him, curiousity sparking your tone, "Can you explain what a cyberdeck is and how I'd go about building one?"
He pauses and stares at the photo of a cyberdeck on your phone. His mouth drops to an 'o' like he's about to spout his usual trail of facts, only to reconsider.
"A cyberdeck?" his face twists as if the word burns on his tongue, "Like the computers they use in cyberpunk games?"
"Uh huh. How would someone make one in real life? A functional one."
"I wasn't even aware it's something people made. Doesn't it seem counterintuitive, when there are laptops and phones that are programmed to do the same thing?"
"Yeah, but people make it for all sorts of reasons. To practice programming, have their own storage and avoid clouds."
"Why are people avoiding clouds?" he glances out the window, confused.
"Not literal clouds, Spencer, storage clouds. On the internet."
He frowns in distaste and hands your phone back to you.
You laugh. "Okay, Dr. Troglodyte, I get it you hate modern technology. But you did just say you're an engineering grad, so I'm wondering if you could help me build one. A cyberdeck, not a cloud. I already have some of the parts, you know, it's recommended—"
"I wouldn't know the first thing about it."
You look at him in disbelief. "But you just said—"
"I know, I know," he winces like it pains him to admit defeat, "Admittedly, my engineering skills might be… underutilized after decades of focusing of criminal psychology. Why do you want to build one, anyway?"
"For Melissa's wedding. A personalized gift, have it programmed to have pictures and music, maybe have well wishes they could read."
His face softens. "That's very sweet of you."
"Thanks." You laugh, looking at the rustic, cyberpunk mini-computer pictured on your phone. "It's a little impractical and I'm not even sure I could make one on time, so I did get them something from their registry. But giving a stand mixer to your best friend of over a decade doesn't really scream special, you know?"
Spencer nods, face now lined with focus. "You say you've gotten the parts?"
"Yeah. There are explanations and tutorials online, so I probably could figure it out," you shrug, noncommittally, "I just thought it'd be easier if an engineering grad takes a look."
Spencer rubs his temple with one hand, looking as though he's considering it. "I might be able to help, if you give me a few days to read up on it."
You blink. "Wait, really?"
"Yeah. No promises, though."
"Okay. I'd appreciate that."
You have absolutely expectations. Not from any skepticism on his abilities—you're certain he'd figure out the mechanics by tomorrow, if he gets a couple of hours free tonight—but because… well, why would he? Spencer doesn't owe you anything.
He might condense the information available so you would have easier instructions, but ultimately, you are convinced you'd have to figure out the cyberdeck yourself.
And you wouldn't hold it against him. Again, he owes you nothing.
Spencer knocks on your office door three days later, during a vacant lull in between classes—a surprise since he usually saves whatever he has to say until you're both seated at the cafe by the end of the work day.
You fling the door open to his suspiciously beaming face.
"Hi."
"Dr. Reid." you say, just to get a reaction.
He shakes his head, cheeks dimpling when his lips press into a thin line. "Spencer."
Just as you predicted.
You grin, letting him into your office and closing the door behind him for privacy. He sweeps his gaze around the small, sun drenched space, before turning back to you, beaming.
"I think I've got a solution to your cyberdeck problem."
You are very proud that your jaw doesn't drop in utter surprise. "You do?"
"But it, uh, might require someone else."
"Oh?"
He pulls something from his pocket—a sheet of paper, carefully tucked—and moves to stand next to you. An entire page of messy, scribbled notes unfold before your eyes and you push your glasses up, trying to get a clearer look.
"See, I broke it down to the bare necessities—parts, programming, and the actual construction. If you've got the parts ready, I could help you with the construction," he says, pointing at a rough sketch of what seems to be a circuit board, labeled with the basic parts required to run.
You're happy he's explaining this to you. His handwriting is undecipherable, which tells you he did this in one of his hyper-focused moments. Sharp scrawls that taper into nothingness, sentences missing words because his mind is moving too fast for his hand to keep up.
You do not dare comment on that. Not when spent time learning all of this, and offering to help all because you asked him to.
"Okay, but where does this 'someone else' come into this?"
"I have no clue how to do any of the programming part." he looks at you expectantly, as if he's waiting for you to reveal some secret computer programming knowledge.
"That makes two of us."
He chuckles. "That's fine. I know someone who does."
Ah. That's how this mystery person comes into play.
"And would they be willing to help with this?"
Spencer nods, though he looks a little nervous. "I think she would be."
She?
"This isn't an ex, is it?" you say, a little bit mortified. Partly from the thought of meeting his ex, and partly at the sharp sting that lances through your chest at the very idea of Spencer Reid having an ex.
Ridiculous. You aren't even his real girlfriend.
"What?" his voice squeaks, "No, no, it's a old friend of mine from the FBI."
The FBI? You feel your eyes bugging out of your head. "Oh my god? Why would an FBI agent help with something so… silly?"
Spencer shakes his head. "It's not silly, it's actually a rather interesting process. It's an application of the fundamentals of engineering, mixed with computer science. Besides, Penelope loves this sort of thing, it'd be like a fun assignment for her."
Penelope. What a pretty name. Penelope, wife of Odysseus, clever and endlessly faithful. Your mind fills with images of navy blazers and crisp folders, someone equally sharp as Spencer, and maybe more severe in her presentation.
"I could call her. We could probably meet with her, complete the thing over a weekend." he continues, handing the page of notes to you, "But if you don't want to do that, you can keep this, and we could do it, just the two of us."
Just the two of us. You shut down the part of your brain that wants to linger over the implications of that.
Spencer stands beside you, patiently waiting for your response.
"If… if we ask for her help, what will we say? You know, about… this," you gesture between the two of you vaguely.
This Penelope is neither part of faculty, nor is she invited to the wedding. There is no need to keep up the fake relationship around her, but telling her would also technically break one of the rules: no one can know about the arrangement.
"We'll just have to keep up the act," Spencer replies quickly, clearly having already thought this part through, "You've already posted something online, right? There's a huge chance Penelope will see that, if I so much as mention you."
Your heart is in your throat. Fooling the people at the university is one thing; your colleagues don't really know either of you, and they never pry in the name of professional courtesy. The wedding will be another test, but at least it's only for a weekend, and most of the people will, hopefully, be too preoccupied by the bride and groom to scrutinize your relationship with Spencer.
But pretending to be a couple in front of his friend? Someone from the FBI?
"You think we can fool an FBI agent?" you ask, voice weak from the mere thought of it.
Spencer winces, looking apologetic. "It's—yeah. Think of it as our ultimate test. If we can fool Penelope, then that wedding will be a breeze."
"Oh my god."
"We don't have to! Like I said, I'll help you with the cyberdeck by myself if you want, we'll figure out the coding stuff when we get there."
It's sweet, how earnest he is about this. He doesn't have to, but you're learning that Spencer likes helping, and it isn't a crime to accept it.
On top of that, this Penelope must be amazing, if she's anything like Spencer. No doubt she'd figure out how to make the cyberdeck work like an actual computer better than you ever could.
Besides, you've been pretending to be Spencer's girlfriend long enough for it to feel semi-normal, anyway. How hard can it be? It's just another audience. Like he said, Penelope could be the ultimate test of your acting skills.
And it would just be a really cool gift. Enough to earn back the brownie points you'd lost after declining to be part of Melissa's entourage, like she'd always wanted.
"No, we can… we can ask your friend for help. I think we'll be fine." you answer finally, resolutely.
Spencer nods. "I'll call her later.
A warm, sunny day is exponentially becoming rare, but the sun is beaming bright on you and Spencer that weekend. The air smells crisp, a perfect day to be outside.
However, you are standing side by side outside an apartment building, and waiting for Penelope Garcia to buzz you in. From your shoulders hangs a backpack full of the rudimentary parts and an old laptop, while you know Spencer has tools in his satchel—screwdrivers, electrical tape, and copper wiring.
It feels almost like high school. Coming over a friend's house to work on a project, minds full of ideas and hands clumsy with youth. Despite your nerves, you feel your lips curling into a smile.
The apartment entrance buzzes open. Spencer lets you go in first and you walk gingerly up the steps, nerves humming like a live wire. You've never met an FBI agent before. Well, besides Spencer, but you're sure he's an exception to most things so he really can't be your point of reference to anything.
Would she be nice? Serious? Would she look at you with quiet judgment, wonder why she's spending her time helping you make something so frivolous?
You gulp as Spencer knocks on a door, a kind, reassuring smile on his face.
What you don't expect, in all the time you spent worrying about today, is a perky blonde wearing a deep green sundress and a matching cardigan would be the one to greet you. Twin rose barrettes hold back her blonde curls, and at least three necklaces are wound around her neck.
A pair of orange glasses are perched on the bridge of her nose, and beneath them, twinkling brown eyes that widen when they land on you.
"Oh my gosh, you're even prettier in person!" she squeals, and before you can react, she's enveloped you in a tight, lily-scented hug. "Hi! I'm Penelope, you can just call me Pen, oh my gosh, Reid, why did you wait so long to introduce her?"
Beside you, Spencer laughs. "It's great to see you as always, Garcia."
Penelope pulls away and holds you at arms length, surveying your appearance. You've dressed more casually today, dark jeans and an even darker sweater in case building this cyberdeck gets messy, and you feel the urge to tell Penelope you aren't always so glum-looking.
"It's nice to meet you," you say instead, telling her your name even though you're certain she already knows.
"You too! Come in, you guys, this is so fun! I haven't seen Reid in a while." she pouts and throws a glare at Spencer, mock angry, "I thought you'd forgotten all about us."
"Of course not," he chuckles, "I've been busy, and I'm sure you have too."
"Thank you for squeezing this in, really." you say.
Penelope waves a perfectly manicured hand dismissively. "Please, I'd cancel everything if it meant meeting Spencer Reid's girlfriend."
The word is squealed, laced with genuine giddiness. To be honest, it seems like Penelope is incapable of hiding or faking her emotions. Everything is felt, and worn like another accessory.
You can't help but return her smile, even though the girlfriend title stings with guilt. You're lying to this sweet woman who's welcoming you into her home and doing you a favor.
"I appreciate it," you follow her deeper into her apartment. It is far nicer than yours, spacious and well lit, large enough to be divided into rooms. She leads the three of you into the kitchen, where she's set up a workspace on the large table.
"Nonsense! I'm more than happy to help. Programming can be so fun, but sadly all I do is use it to fight evil. Which is all well and good, obviously, but you're doing me a favor too, by letting me in on this." Penelope says, turning on one of the many laptops on the table. "Now, refreshments are on the counter, and I must ask you to keep them there. Liquids are banned on the dining table, I'm sure you both understand why."
She points to the kitchen counter, where an array of pastries are sitting pretty, right next to a large pitcher of iced tea. You feel yourself melting at her hospitality, feel the anxiety melting with dramatic gesture from Penelope.
You place your bag on one of the chairs, quickly taking out your own things. You've brought an old laptop, hoping to salvage it for parts, but you also managed to order a single board computer online, as well as an unused SD card, and an old tablet's LED screen.
Seeing them all arranged on Penelope's table fills your with a sense of excitement.
This cyberdeck might actually come out well.
"I'm guessing Spencer told you what I was hoping to make?" you say, watching her monitor turn on. Spencer has wandered to the other side of the room, surveying everything with an analytical eye.
"Yes, he said you wanted a cyberdeck that would specifically store and flash the pictures of the wedding on loop, is that right?"
You nod, "That's right. But I wanted it to be like a noir movie, you know? I was planning to house it in this."
You pull out last thing in your backpack, the one causing majority of the bulk—a vintage cigar box made of polished oak. "Is this practical, or would it overheat?"
"Don't worry about overheating, we can always attach a cooling system!" Penelope reassures you, "Anything else you want, besides the aesthetics?"
"Maybe store messages and play music? If that's possible."
"Honey, we're building a computer, anything is possible!" Penelope grins, taking the old laptop you'd brought, "Is this something we can use?"
"Yeah, I fucked up the screen about a year ago," you reply with a laugh, "I meant to give it away for parts, but never got around to it."
"Good thing you didn't." she says. She points at Spencer, "And you, my favorite genius, have to open it up so we can pick it apart for parts. Grab a screw driver and get to it."
Spencer seems unfazed by being bossed around. With a smile, he grabs the smallest available screwdriver, flipping over the laptop and dutifully studying the tiny screws.
Penelope sits by your side as Spencer works, taking the single board computer you've brought for this project and hooking it up to her own laptop.
"While he does that, let me walk you through the program I made for you." Penelope says, clicking around her screen until an application opens. It looks like an old timey, black and white movie, complete with the elaborate framing and fonts.
Your mouth drops. "You made this?"
"Uh huh." Penelope says cheerfully, like it's no big deal. She clicks on a 'start' button and pictures of cute baby animals flash onscreen, "Obviously, these are just placeholders. Once you insert your own SD card into the circuit, it'll be filled with pictures you chose."
She walks you through another function, clicking on a music icon. "We can either hook up a music app on here, or download clips individually and add them to the memory card."
"Oh, but I didn't bring a speaker." You say.
"That's fine! The old laptop probably has one, once Spencer gets it open, we'll connect it to this circuit and see if it works." Penelope reassures, going through the rest of the menu settings, showing you things like slideshow timing, button mapping, startup animations, and the codes you'll need to modify them through Python.
You try to pay attention.
You really, truly do.
Unfortunately, there's two things against you: you don't know the first thing about computer programming and Spencer is sitting directly across the table. Working on the laptop. Distractingly.
He's rolled his sleeves halfway to his elbows. Your eyes fall to the veins on his hands—familiar by now, after so much perfomative hand holding—and follow them up the newly exposed skin. Pale forearms which are, surprisingly, corded with lean muscle. Strands of hair are scattered across, turning golden when sunlight hits it. You take it all in greedily.
Everything Penelope's saying goes in one ear and leaves out the other as he disassembles the laptop, slim fingers carefully twisting the screws off. A small crease forms between his brows as the motherboard is exposed, a complicated, technological maze. He looks focused. Happy, eager to solve a puzzle despite his supposed disdain for tech.
You catch bits and pieces of Penelope's spiel.
"...and if we allocate more memory to the media partition—"
"Mhm," you nod.
"… I'll make it so this button barks when it's pressed."
"Okay."
Penelope stops talking.
You barely notice the silence that settles, eyes fixed upon Spencer as he gingerly unscrews the battery, and takes it from the laptop's shell. You watch as he leans down for a closer view, peeking at what remains of the circuitry, his free hand twiddling with the screwdriver in absentminded dexterity.
He looks… serene. Intense, but somehow relaxed.
It's a good look on him.
"...Sweetie."
You jump and turn to Penelope, wide eyed and nodding profusely. "Uh huh, that sounds great."
"I didn't say anything." she giggles, twinkling eyes darting between you and Spencer.
A laugh escapes, shaky and thin. "Right."
Her lips twist into a smirk, knowing and sly. She leans in and nudges your shoulder with hers. "Honey, I know you're dating, but if you keep looking at him like that, then I'm gonna start feeling like a third wheel."
"Looking at him like what?"
"Like you wanna jump across the table and straddle him!" she replies, hushed and giddy. Your face feels like it's been set on fire, but she goes on, "Listen, I'm not going to judge. In fact I'm happy the Mighty Professor's found someone."
"The Mighty Professor?" you repeat, because that feels like the most neutral part of everything she'd said. Everything else feels too loaded.
At the nickname, Spencer glances up. "Yeah?"
"I can't believe you actually answer to that."
His mouth parts, as if he's ready to defend himself, but only ends up chuckling sheepishly.
"She doesn't know about your nicknames?" Penelope gasps dramatically, "The Good Doctor? Boy Genius? Pretty Boy?"
"Pretty Boy, huh?" you grin at him, taking pleasure in the way pink blossoms over his dimpling cheeks.
"I didn't choose any of them." he protests, carefully disentangling what looks to be the laptop's sound system.
"I can't believe you never told her, though. They're so cute, half of those were given by Morgan." Penelope says. She reaches forward and takes the small speakers from him. With a decisive movement, she begins to fit it into the circuit for the cyberdeck.
"She has her own nickname for me," Spencer mumbles.
You resist the urge to hide beneath your palms when Penelope gasps, excited.
"You do? Tell me, what is it?"
"Dr. Four Eyes," you wince, gesturing at your own spectacles, "You know, for the irony."
Penelope looks delighted as she types more codes into her laptop. "That is adorable. You two are adorable."
"I think we did it." You whisper later that day, as Spencer drives you home. The cyberdeck, the gift you had thought too far fetched, sits balanced on top of your knees, complete with a rustic brass handle and gleaming hinges.
The three of you had spent a great portion of the day fitting the parts together and designing the shell—Penelope had made such quick work of the applications and programs that the handiwork became the most time consuming part. Now you have a functioning, personalized cyberdeck decorated in a way you know both Melissa and her fiance would love.
Spencer glances at you, smiling soft and warm. "The cyberdeck, or convincing Garcia?"
You chuckle, remembering the giddy looks Penelope kept throwing at the two of you. She seemed so certain, had even extended an invitation for you to hang out with her after today.
"Both, I guess."
"We did." he sounds proud, relaxed. Outside, the darkness is dotted with the lights from windows and streetlamps, converging into streaks as he drives.
"It was… easier than I expected." you admit, tracing the intricate brass handle to abate the restlessness. "Convincing her."
"Was it?"
"Yeah. I don't know, I thought we'd have to lay it on thick, you know. Throw in kisses or something."
He looks over with a crooked grin, the one that has your words twisting and tripping together before they can leave your mouth.
"You want me to kiss you in front of my friend?"
"No, that is not what I meant."
"I know."
"But we'll have to eventually." God, of all the moments, why would you say that now? When you're physically stuck in a space with him, unable to escape the weight of his eyes. You glance out the window, avoiding another one of his inevitable glances.
"Why not right now?" his voice sounds light, forcibly so.
"Stop teasing me." you huff, and his laughter fills the car, easing the tension. You take your glasses off and murmur, "Don't you feel bad? She's so sweet and we basically lied to her."
Spencer's laughter dies down, and the silence that follows is heavy. Not uncomfortable, per se, but thick with the knowledge of your shared deception. With the knowledge that this wouldn't be the last. That Penelope is just one of many.
But then:
"It's not all a lie." he murmurs.
You risk a glance at him. Through the haziness, he sits stiffly and refuses to meet your eye.
You spend the rest of the ride in contemplative silence, trying to piece together what he could possibly mean.
Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!
Hiding your pregnancy is getting harder and harder, especially when you agree to go to a dinner party and Spencer has to drink every glass of your wine to keep the secret.
୨ৎ ──── secret pregnancy. 5,4k. fem!reader. drunk reid. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.
David Rossi loved hosting dinners.
Not because he particularly enjoyed cooking—though he’d spend the entire evening pretending he did, shooing away anyone who wandered too close to the stove with the indignation of a Michelin-star chef—but because dinner was one of the rare occasions when the people he cared about gathered for reasons that had nothing to do with bloodstained crime scenes or the worst humanity had to offer. Around his dining table, they weren’t profilers or agents or supervisors carrying the weight of impossible decisions. They were simply friends. They laughed a little louder, lingered a little longer over dessert, argued about books instead of behavioral patterns, and, for a few precious hours, remembered what life looked like outside the Bureau.
At least for the first twenty minutes.
After that, someone inevitably mentioned a case.
“You realize,” Morgan announced as he reached across the kitchen island and shamelessly stole a piece of warm bread straight from the basket, “this is exactly how horror movies start.”
Rossi didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. He merely stirred the sauce with practiced ease, entirely unfazed by the theft.
“The difference,” he replied smoothly, “is that my guests survive dessert.”
Morgan laughed, surrendering with an exaggerated nod before tearing into the bread anyway.
The house was already alive with familiar voices.
Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers, blending with the rhythmic clatter of pots and the comforting aroma of garlic, rosemary, simmering tomatoes, and freshly baked bread. Warm light spilled from antique lamps, reflecting against framed photographs and shelves lined with decades of books and souvenirs collected from places Rossi rarely spoke about. Every room carried that unmistakable feeling of having been lived in, a home that had witnessed countless celebrations, quiet conversations over late-night whiskey, and the occasional impromptu team meeting when cases refused to stay at Quantico.
Emily wandered into the kitchen, accepting a glass of wine from Rossi before immediately rolling her eyes at something Morgan said.
Garcia was already circling the living room in complete admiration, pausing every few steps to gush over a painting, a sculpture, or an antique clock.
“Oh my God, Rossi,” she gasped dramatically, “this lamp is gorgeous. It’s giving wealthy Italian novelist who solves crimes in his free time.”
“It was just a lamp until you said that.”
JJ slipped toward the patio with Henry balanced comfortably on her hip, the little boy already fascinated by the garden lights beginning to glow outside. Will followed behind carrying an impressive collection of toys that looked capable of entertaining an entire daycare, smiling patiently as Henry reached for everything except the toys he’d brought.
Hotch, unsurprisingly, had arrived exactly on time.
Not a minute early. Not a minute late.
His jacket was already neatly folded over the back of a chair, a glass of sparkling water in one hand as he quietly observed the controlled chaos with the smallest hint of amusement softening his usually unreadable expression.
And, of course, Spencer’s attention had been on you from the moment the two of you stepped through Rossi’s front door.
Before anyone could greet you, Spencer was already helping you out of your coat with the quiet attentiveness that had become second nature over the past several weeks. His hands were careful as he eased the fabric from your shoulders, lingering for just a heartbeat as if making sure you were steady before draping both your coat and his neatly over the rack by the entrance. It was such a small gesture that no one else would have noticed it.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning close enough that only you could hear him beneath the lively chatter filling the room.
You offered him a reassuring smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.
“Perfect.”
The word came automatically, polished by repetition until it sounded almost believable. You’d said it to your mother over the phone earlier that week. To your coworkers when they’d commented on how pale you’d been looking lately. To the cashier who had apologized after you’d abruptly abandoned a shopping cart halfway through the supermarket because someone nearby had opened a container of tuna. You were becoming remarkably good at pretending everything was normal.
Spencer, however, had never been particularly easy to fool.
His honey-colored eyes lingered on your face for another moment, quietly studying you with the same careful concentration he reserved for unsolved cases and impossible puzzles. He noticed everything: the faint shadows beneath your eyes despite the makeup you’d carefully applied that afternoon, the way your smile didn’t quite reach them, the almost invisible hesitation before you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. For a second, you watched concern flicker across his expression, followed by the unmistakable impulse to suggest going home instead. You knew him well enough to see the thought forming before he gently pushed it aside. You had insisted you wanted to come. You’d been looking forward to seeing everyone. If he asked again, you’d only reassure him again.
So instead, he simply intertwined his fingers with yours for the briefest moment and gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, silently reminding you that if you needed to leave, even five minutes after arriving, you only had to say the word.
Because the truth was…you hadn’t exactly been perfect lately.
For nearly eleven weeks, your body had seemed determined to reinvent itself overnight, transforming familiar routines into unpredictable obstacles and ordinary sensations into impossible challenges. Pregnancy wasn’t anything like the books had described. It wasn’t the glowing skin and sentimental smiles people loved talking about. At least, not yet. Right now, it was exhaustion so profound it settled into your bones no matter how much you slept. It was waking up starving only to burst into tears because the toast you’d been craving suddenly smelled unbearable. It was dizziness when you stood too quickly, headaches that appeared without warning, and emotions that shifted so rapidly they often left you laughing one moment and crying the next.
And the smells were by far the worst.
It was as though someone had turned every scent in the world up to an impossible volume.
Coffee, the rich aroma you’d once relied on every morning, now seemed so overwhelmingly bitter it made your stomach twist before you even entered the kitchen.
Garlic lingered in the air like smoke.
Perfume clung to strangers in grocery stores so intensely that you found yourself instinctively holding your breath as they walked past.
Gasoline from passing cars seeped through open windows with startling force.
Fresh paint, cleaning products, scented candles, everything had become an enemy.
Even the earthy fragrance of Spencer’s favorite loose-leaf tea, a scent that had always reminded you of rainy afternoons spent reading together on the couch, had betrayed you. One quiet Saturday morning, he’d barely begun pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves before your stomach lurched violently. You hadn’t even managed to explain what was wrong. You’d simply clamped a hand over your mouth and hurried toward the bathroom, leaving Spencer frozen in confusion beside the kettle.
When he’d found you a few minutes later, you were sitting on the cool tile floor with your knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in one of his oversized cardigans because you hadn’t had the energy to put on your own sweater after climbing out of bed. Your eyes were watery, your face pale with exhaustion, and the half-steeped tea sat forgotten in the kitchen.
He’d knelt beside you immediately, rubbing slow circles against your back until your breathing steadied.
“I think,” he’d said carefully, as though presenting a well-researched hypothesis, “we should buy different tea.”
The absurd sincerity of the suggestion had broken something inside you.
You’d laughed, the kind that left tears streaming down your face and your stomach aching until Spencer began smiling too, still entirely unsure what had been so funny.
An hour later, you’d taken the pregnancy test.
You remembered sitting together on the edge of the bathtub, your shoulders pressed together so tightly they might as well have been one person, both pretending not to stare at the little plastic stick resting on the counter. Spencer’s knee bounced nervously the entire time, though he’d deny it if anyone ever asked. When the result finally appeared, neither of you moved.
Positive.
You’d looked at him, and he’d looked at you.
For a long moment, there had simply been silence, stunned, breathless silence, as though neither of you trusted your own eyes enough to speak first.
Then Spencer had whispered, almost reverently,
“We’re having a baby.”
The memory still settled warmly inside your chest every time you thought about it.
Only the two of you knew.
No one else.
Not the team, your parents, or his mother.
No one.
It wasn’t because you weren’t excited.
God, you had never loved someone you’d never met quite so fiercely. And you had never been so afraid.
At night, when the apartment had gone quiet and Quantico seemed impossibly far away, the two of you often found yourselves lying awake long after the lights were off, talking in hushed voices about a future that suddenly felt both unimaginably distant and frighteningly close. Spencer wondered aloud whether babies recognized music before they were born and whether reading aloud during pregnancy had any measurable effect on language development. You debated names neither of you was ready to admit you genuinely liked. You imagined tiny knitted sweaters, impossibly small socks, sleepy mornings, first birthdays, scraped knees, school concerts, and the possibility—one that made you laugh every single time—that Spencer might accidentally teach your future toddler quantum mechanics before the alphabet.
Other nights, words simply weren’t necessary.
You would lie tangled together beneath the blankets, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly traced slow circles over your arm. Eventually, almost without thinking, his hand would drift lower, settling with extraordinary care against your abdomen. There was hardly anything to feel yet. At eleven weeks, your stomach remained almost perfectly flat, your dresses fitting exactly as they always had. If someone didn’t know, they would never have guessed. But Spencer touched you as though the slightest movement might disturb the tiny life growing there, his palm resting so gently against you that it sometimes made your chest ache. He would smile into the darkness with an expression so impossibly soft it stole your breath every single time, as though he could already sense the little heartbeat hidden beneath his fingertips. Sometimes he whispered things you weren’t sure he realized he was saying: little observations about fetal development he’d memorized from medical journals, promises about museums he’d one day visit with your child, absentminded thoughts about buying children’s editions of classic literature. Other times, he simply stayed there, smiling quietly, overwhelmed by the astonishing reality that someone already existed. Someone who belonged entirely to the two of you.
Every ultrasound photograph had become a treasure.
The first one lived inside an ivory envelope that had already begun to soften at the edges because neither of you could stop taking it out to look at it. Realistically, there wasn’t very much to see. To anyone else, it was little more than a grainy black-and-white blur surrounded by indecipherable shadows and medical measurements. Yet the two of you had spent embarrassing amounts of time staring at it as though it were the most extraordinary piece of art ever created. Spencer, naturally, had analyzed it with the same enthusiasm he brought to everything else.
Of course, once the initial excitement had settled, he had immediately begun worrying about where to keep the photographs.
Not because he thought someone was going to steal them.
Because he wanted them safe.
You still remembered finding him standing in front of his bookshelf one afternoon, head tilted thoughtfully as though he were solving one of the Bureau’s most complicated cases. He had scanned hundreds of titles before finally pulling out one of the thickest mathematics textbooks you had ever seen.
“They’re going inside my copy of Differential Geometry,” he’d declared with complete confidence while carefully sliding the envelope between two chapters.
You had stared at him, blinking in complete confusion.
“…Why that one?”
Without so much as lifting his eyes from the pages, he’d answered with absolute certainty.
“Statistically speaking, no one voluntarily opens my copy of Differential Geometry.”
You had laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
Weeks later, the ultrasound photographs remained exactly where he’d hidden them, tucked safely between chapters discussing curved manifolds and tensor fields, untouched by anyone except the two of you. Every now and then, usually late at night, Spencer would quietly retrieve the envelope before climbing into bed beside you, and together you’d study the tiny image all over again, smiling as though seeing it for the very first time.
You weren’t keeping the pregnancy a secret because you were ashamed.
If anything, the secret had become almost impossible to contain.
You loved this baby already with a depth that surprised you daily. Sometimes you caught yourself resting your hand absentmindedly against your stomach while reading on the couch or waiting in line for coffee you could no longer stomach. Sometimes Spencer would catch your eye from across the apartment, and without either of you saying a single word, you’d both smile, remembering the extraordinary little secret that existed only between you. It felt like carrying a universe inside your chest, one that threatened to spill into every conversation, every laugh, every quiet glance exchanged across a room.
But eleven weeks still felt fragile.
Delicate.
As though happiness itself had become something you were afraid to hold too tightly.
You knew the statistics.
So did Spencer...perhaps better than anyone.
The first trimester carried uncertainties neither of you could ignore, no matter how desperately you wanted to celebrate. So you had made a quiet promise together. Just a little longer. One more week. Maybe two. Long enough for the fear to loosen its grip. Long enough for the joy to feel louder than the anxiety. Then you’d tell everyone. Properly. Surrounded by the people who loved you most.
Which was exactly why tonight needed to remain wonderfully, blissfully ordinary.
Smile.
Compliment Rossi’s cooking.
Laugh at Morgan’s increasingly terrible jokes.
Listen to Garcia declare herself emotionally attached to another one of Rossi’s antique decorations.
Eat dinner.
Go home.
And above all else, pretend that beneath the soft fabric of your dress, your entire world wasn’t quietly growing one tiny heartbeat at a time.
***
For the first few minutes, everything went exactly according to plan.
The conversation flowed effortlessly around the table, moving from travel stories to teasing remarks about Rossi’s inability to let anyone else near his kitchen. The warm glow of candlelight reflected against crystal glasses, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates, and the rich aroma of roasted vegetables, fresh herbs, garlic, and homemade pasta drifted through the dining room. It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Exactly the kind of evening you’d hoped for.
Then Rossi appeared beside the table carrying a bottle of red wine.
With practiced ease, he moved from place to place, pouring generous servings into each waiting glass until he eventually reached yours. Deep ruby liquid swirled elegantly into the crystal, catching the candlelight before he continued around the table without another thought.
Your smile froze.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost felt like missing the last step on a staircase.
Of course. Wine.
You hadn’t thought about the wine.
For one long second, you simply stared at the glass sitting innocently beside your plate, your thoughts racing far faster than they should have. Refusing it outright would be strange. Claiming you weren’t in the mood might invite questions. Pretending to sip it was risky, especially with Rossi proudly watching everyone’s reactions to the bottle he’d undoubtedly spent far too much money on.
Across the table, Spencer had arrived at the exact same realization.
His eyes drifted from his own glass to yours.
Then to you.
You watched the understanding settle across his face almost instantly.
Without either of you exchanging so much as a glance, he quietly reached across the table toward your place setting, his movements so natural they might have gone completely unnoticed.
“I’ll take yours,” he said casually, lifting the untouched glass before anyone could question it.
Morgan blinked. “You stealing her wine already?”
The question earned a few amused smiles around the table.
Spencer answered so quickly it almost sounded rehearsed.
“She’s driving.”
For a single heartbeat, the entire table fell into that peculiar silence that followed an answer no one had expected. You turned your head slowly to look at him, your expression carefully composed despite the disbelief bubbling beneath it.
Driving? You hated driving.
Everyone at the table knew you hated driving. Morgan had teased you about it for years after you’d once admitted that parallel parking made you feel like you were diffusing a bomb. Garcia had jokingly offered to create a color-coded GPS system “for emotionally distressed drivers.” Even Rossi had learned long ago that inviting the two of you over automatically meant Spencer would be behind the wheel on the way home. If given the choice between navigating rush-hour traffic yourself or spending an hour on public transportation with three transfers, you’d choose the train without a second thought. Spencer knew that better than anyone. Which was precisely why, judging by the fleeting look of horror that crossed his face, he realized what he’d said the exact moment the words left his mouth.
Your eyes met across the table for the briefest instant.
He knew. You knew.
Neither of you dared acknowledge it.
Fortunately, Morgan simply shrugged, entirely unbothered.
“Fair enough.”
The conversation drifted elsewhere almost immediately, someone making a comment about Rossi’s pasta sauce before Garcia launched into a dramatic story about accidentally adopting another stray cat she absolutely insisted she hadn’t meant to bring home. Around the table, laughter resumed, forks scraped softly against porcelain plates, and the comfortable rhythm of dinner settled back into place. You released a slow breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, allowing yourself to believe, if only for a moment, that perhaps the obstacle had been overcome more easily than you’d feared.
Or so you thought.
Barely ten minutes later, Rossi reappeared beside your chair carrying the bottle of red wine in one hand, his attention immediately falling to the untouched glass still sitting exactly where he’d left it. His thick brows drew together in mild confusion before his expression softened into concern.
“Oh, bambina,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he gestured toward the glass. “You haven’t touched your wine.”
Your heart lurched.
For a fraction of a second, your mind raced desperately through possible explanations. You weren’t feeling like drinking. You were waiting until dinner. You had a headache. None of them felt convincing enough, particularly not with Rossi watching you so expectantly.
Before you could utter a single word, Spencer calmly reached across the table, lifted your untouched glass as though it had belonged to him all along, and took a generous sip.
“I did.”
Rossi looked between both of you.
“You finished two glasses already?”
“I was thirsty,” Spencer replied with complete sincerity, sounding as though that single sentence explained everything.
Rossi stared at him.
“You were thirsty.”
“Yes.”
“For wine.”
“Correct.”
For another beat, Rossi simply looked at him, clearly debating whether there was any point continuing the conversation. Eventually, with the resigned expression of a man deciding that Spencer Reid’s brain operated on principles beyond ordinary comprehension, he shrugged lightly and reached for the bottle once more.
“There.”
Deep red wine flowed smoothly back into your crystal glass until it sat nearly full again.
“There we go.”
“Thank you,” you offered with what you hoped was a perfectly natural smile.
Rossi nodded once before wandering toward the other end of the table to refill Morgan’s glass, already distracted by an entirely new discussion about baseball statistics.
The instant his back was turned, Spencer moved.
Without saying a word, without drawing attention to himself, he rested one hand casually beneath the edge of the tablecloth and, in one fluid movement, exchanged your freshly filled glass with his own half-empty one. The motion was so smooth it could have passed for absentmindedness, his fingers never fumbling despite the growing amount of alcohol already in his system. By the time Rossi looked back toward the two of you, Spencer was quietly lifting the newly acquired glass toward his lips while your place setting once again held one that appeared partially consumed.
No one noticed.
Well…almost no one.
Across the table, Emily’s conversation with JJ faltered for just a fraction of a second.
She didn’t say anything.
She simply took another sip of wine while her gaze lingered thoughtfully between the two of you before returning to her plate.
Another half hour slipped by beneath easy conversation and frequent bursts of laughter. Stories gave way to teasing, teasing turned into old Bureau memories, and before long the first bottle stood empty in the center of the table. Rossi noticed almost immediately.
“Well,” he announced proudly as he disappeared toward the kitchen, “that means it’s time for the good one.”
He returned carrying another bottle with the reverence of someone transporting a priceless family heirloom.
“This one’s from Tuscany,” he declared, carefully peeling away the foil. “I bought it during my last trip. You have to try it.”
The cork eased free with a satisfying pop.
You felt your stomach sink all over again.
One by one, Rossi circled the table, refilling each glass with generous enthusiasm.
Including yours.
Again.
You forced another smile.
“Thank you.”
Your glass remained untouched.
Again.
Spencer noticed before anyone else did.
Again.
Without hesitation, he reached over sometime during the next conversation, lifted your glass as naturally as though the two of you shared everything—which, technically, you did—and quietly added yet another serving to the growing collection he’d already consumed.
By now he’d finished one glass.
Then two.
Then three.
Now…four.
Under ordinary circumstances, four glasses of wine spread across an entire dinner might not have seemed particularly remarkable.
For Spencer Reid, it was becoming increasingly obvious.
A warm flush had spread across his cheeks, dusting the bridge of his nose with soft pink that somehow made him look several years younger. His posture remained perfectly straight, and his words retained the precise articulation that years of lecturing and endless reading had ingrained into him. If anything, he enunciated even more carefully than usual, each syllable pronounced with meticulous clarity. Spencer Reid, it seemed, was physically incapable of slurring his words.
Instead, he simply became significantly more talkative.
“Do you know,” he announced to absolutely no one in particular while thoughtfully examining his wineglass as though it were a fascinating scientific specimen, “that the average adult liver metabolizes approximately one standard alcoholic beverage per hour? Assuming average enzymatic activity and normal hepatic function, I’m currently operating at a significant biochemical disadvantage.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning so broadly it bordered on smug satisfaction.
“You drunk, pretty boy?”
Spencer looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.
“No.”
He paused.
Thought about it.
Then nodded once with complete seriousness.
“Probably.”
The table erupted into laughter.
Even Hotch lowered his gaze toward his plate to disguise the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You couldn’t help laughing too, though yours carried a distinct note of affection.
Spencer looked utterly adorable.
Hopelessly, undeniably adorable.
Across the table, however, Emily wasn’t laughing nearly as much.
She watched Spencer lift your glass instead of his own.
Again.
She watched you politely thank Rossi for every refill without drinking a single sip.
Again.
She watched Spencer volunteer to finish both glasses with increasingly enthusiastic determination.
Again.
Something about the evening refused to fit together.
Emily wasn’t quite sure what the answer was yet.
But she knew, with absolute certainty, that something wasn’t adding up.
***
By the time coffee replaced the wine, the evening had settled into that wonderfully unhurried stage that always followed one of Rossi’s dinners. Dessert plates had been pushed aside, empty bottles stood abandoned along the center of the table like evidence of a celebration well enjoyed, and the rich scent of freshly brewed espresso drifted through the dining room, mercifully replacing the overwhelming aroma of alcohol. Conversations had fractured into smaller ones, overlapping comfortably without anyone needing to follow every thread. Garcia and JJ were animatedly debating vacation destinations, Garcia insisting that every itinerary should be based entirely around bookstores and bakeries while JJ attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince her that beaches had their own merits. At the other end of the table, Morgan and Rossi had somehow wandered into a passionate disagreement over baseball statistics, each one accusing the other of remembering history incorrectly despite both sounding equally confident. Hotch sat quietly between them, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, saying very little but wearing the faintest trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth as he watched the familiar chaos unfold around him.
Beside you, however, sat the true consequence of the evening.
Spencer Reid was undeniably drunk.
Not the loud, reckless kind of drunk that knocked over glasses or forgot people’s names. Spencer remained perfectly articulate. Every sentence emerged with the same impeccable diction he used while lecturing, every word carefully pronounced as though he were still delivering an academic presentation. If anything, the alcohol had only made him even more determined to enunciate correctly. His tie had been loosened somewhere between the second and third bottle, though neither of you remembered who had done it. His curls had escaped in every direction until they framed his flushed face in complete disarray. A warm blush stretched across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, his eyes had taken on a dreamy softness you rarely saw, and he had developed the oddly adorable habit of pausing before every answer, nodding solemnly to himself as though consulting an invisible committee inside his own mind before reaching a unanimous decision.
Watching him was almost painfully endearing.
You couldn’t help smiling as your fingers found the middle of his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles through the fabric of his shirt.
“You okay?”
He turned toward you immediately, his entire face lighting up with such overwhelming affection that your heart threatened to melt on the spot.
“I love you.”
The words came so easily, so honestly, that several people around the table instinctively smiled.
You laughed quietly.
“I love you too.”
“No…” He shook his head with exaggerated seriousness, lifting one finger as though correcting an important scientific misconception. “I don’t think you understand the statistical magnitude of how much I love you.”
Morgan snorted into his coffee.
“Oh, this is priceless.”
Spencer didn’t even acknowledge him.
His complete attention remained fixed on you, his expression one of absolute sincerity as he searched painstakingly for the perfect description.
“You are…” He frowned thoughtfully, eyes drifting toward the ceiling for several long seconds before returning to you with visible satisfaction. “…my favorite person.”
Warmth spread through your chest so quickly it almost hurt.
God, he was going to destroy you.
“You’ve had enough wine,” you said gently, brushing one of his unruly curls away from his forehead.
“I have had…” He stopped speaking to count carefully on his fingers, restarting twice after apparently losing track somewhere around three. “…more wine than you.”
“Yes.”
He nodded proudly, pleased that you’d confirmed his calculation.
“Because you couldn’t.”
Every muscle in your body went rigid.
The smile disappeared from your face almost instantly.
“Spencer.”
He looked delighted with himself.
“I helped.”
Across the table, Emily glanced up from her coffee.
“So noble.”
“It was.” Spencer nodded once, completely accepting the compliment. “Because it’s a secret.”
Your stomach dropped so violently you were certain everyone could hear it.
Without thinking, you reached for his hand beneath the table, gently squeezing his fingers.
“Sweetheart—”
He leaned closer immediately, lowering his voice in what he clearly believed was an incredibly discreet whisper.
It wasn’t.
“We’re very good at secrets,” he confided with unmistakable pride.
The entire table continued talking.
No one seemed to notice.
Relief washed over you so suddenly you nearly laughed.
Then Spencer smiled thoughtfully, as though another important realization had just occurred to him.
“Although…”
Every instinct in your body screamed.
“Oh no.”
He looked around the entire table before announcing, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the dining room to hear with perfect clarity, “keeping a baby secret is significantly harder than I expected.”
Silence.
Morgan blinked once.
“A what?”
Garcia’s mouth slowly fell open.
JJ lowered her coffee cup so carefully it barely made a sound against the saucer.
At the far end of the table, Hotch’s eyes shifted from Spencer to you with the calm expression of a profiler mentally reorganizing every unusual observation he’d made over the previous several weeks: your sudden avoidance of coffee during morning meetings, Spencer’s increasingly protective behavior, the mysterious disappearances during cases to “find crackers,” the exhaustion, the nausea, the untouched wine.
Pieces quietly clicked into place.
Rossi simply stared.
His mouth opened slightly before closing again.
For perhaps the first time in anyone’s memory, David Rossi seemed completely incapable of finding words.
Emily, meanwhile, merely closed her eyes and a slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh,” she sighed, sounding more relieved than surprised. “I knew it.”
You buried your face in both hands.
“Spencer…”
He looked around the table with complete confusion, blinking at everyone’s expressions as though he genuinely couldn’t understand why the conversation had stopped.
“What?”
“You…” you whispered through your hands, shaking your head helplessly. “You just told them about our baby.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I did?”
“Yes.”
A long pause.
He frowned thoughtfully.
“I wasn’t supposed to.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
He considered that information with remarkable seriousness, nodding slowly as though accepting constructive criticism.
For one suspended heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Garcia exploded.
The delighted shriek that escaped her was so loud it probably startled every bird within a three-block radius. She launched herself out of her chair before anyone else had even processed what was happening, one hand already covering her mouth as tears filled her eyes.
“I can't believe it!” she squealed. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”
JJ was crying before she’d even reached you.
She wrapped her arms tightly around your shoulders, laughing and wiping away tears simultaneously.
“I am so happy for you,” she whispered.
Morgan shot to his feet with a bark of laughter, pointing triumphantly between the two of you.
“I knew something was going on!”
Emily looked at him flatly.
“You absolutely did not.”
“I suspected!”
She folded her arms.
“You spent the entire evening convinced Spencer had developed a drinking problem.”
Morgan hesitated.
“I was…close.”
Rossi finally recovered enough to laugh, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the dining room as he crossed the room and pulled both you and Spencer into one of his characteristically overwhelming hugs.
“I’ve spent years trying to get this kid drunk,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped back to look at Spencer with unmistakable affection. “Years.”
His eyes flickered toward you before returning to Spencer.
“I have to admit…”
He smiled.
“I didn’t expect this to be what finally loosened his tongue.”
Even Hotch stood.
He wasn’t particularly demonstrative, never had been, but the smile he offered the two of you was genuine enough to soften every sharp line in his face.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned instinctively against Spencer’s shoulder, still half laughing and half hiding your burning face from everyone’s delighted attention.
Spencer looked down at you with sleepy affection, completely oblivious to the fact that he had single-handedly dismantled weeks of carefully orchestrated secrecy. He leaned over and pressed the gentlest kiss against the top of your head before sighing softly.
“I ruined the surprise.”
“You did.”
“I’m sorry.”
You looked up at him.
His expression was so genuinely remorseful, so heartbreakingly sincere despite the unmistakable haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, that you couldn’t possibly stay embarrassed.
A smile spread across your face.
“I’ll forgive you.”
His eyes brightened immediately.
“You will?”
“Eventually.”
The relieved smile that followed was almost childlike.
“Good.”
He sat quietly for another few seconds, apparently satisfied that the crisis had been resolved.
Then he turned toward Rossi with complete seriousness.
Summary: You'd spent years convincing yourself that you weren't attracted to your best friend, but one wine-soaked confession about his unconventional research begins to unravel your carefully constructed lie…
Warnings: SMUT MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, alcohol, kissing, nipple play(?), fingering, masturbating, oral fem!receiving, PinV, condom usage #safesex, praise kink, mirror usage, multiple orgasms, friends in love, statistics and knowledge, porn is the plot #culture
A/n: this is 10k words.... help
★・・・・・・★
Spencer Reid was not an attractive man.
That's what you tell yourself.
That's what your mind mutters when you can't stop staring at your best friend during a case briefing, or staring at his veiny hands during an autopsy, or staring at his hair, imagining what it would be like to tug at it when he—
Christ, you needed to get laid.
And not by Spencer Reid.
Because Spencer Reid was your best friend, your co-worker, and not an attractive man. And you were definitely not in love with him.
He couldn't flirt with women at bars like Derek could, though he still always managed to get a woman's number without trying — just saying some well-timed nerdy fact and dragging his eyes up and down in a way that seemed like he was studying a woman, not objectifying her… not that you noticed, of course, since he was just your best friend.
He confessed to you, over too much wine after a particularly stressful case, that he'd read countless smut books and non-fiction books on "women's pleasure." You were sitting outside on his apartment’s mini balcony on a worn out blanket on the floor, a glass of wine in each of your hands. You giggled in reply, sloshing your wine over yourself, imagining Spencer blushing while reading but maintaining a clear and rigorous focus. Imagining the way his fingers traced the words on the page, imagining him licking his fingers to turn it. Imagining him making notes, running a flustered hand through his hair.
He leaned over, his pocket hankercheif in hand, and helped clean the wine from your dress, and suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. It was so painfully, beautifully, perfectly Spencer. Your Spencer… your best friend Spencer.
But you couldn't pretend your heart didn't do flips when he cleaned you up, laughing shyly, embarrassed, protesting that he also "conducted practical experiments."
"So you're not a virgin?" you asked, boldly.
"I'm thirty," Spencer said dryly. "Of course I'm not a virgin."
"You never argue when Morgan makes fun of you for it?"
"Yeah, because then he'd want… details." He shuddered slightly. "I like being private."
"So Dr. Reid doesn't kiss and tell?"
"Never," he said, with far more seriousness than the conversation required — and you felt your stomach flip like it always did when Spencer looked into your eyes.
He wasn't attractive. You'd told yourself that so many times it should have started sounding true by now. It never did. Spencer Reid was beautiful, but you refused to let your stupid heart acknowledge it, because if you did, if you let yourself feel it all then there would be no going back, and that terrified you.
It was the way he existed in a room, maybe. The way he'd fold himself into a chair like his limbs were an afterthought, then forget his own body entirely the second something interesting crossed his mind. You weren't supposed to notice things like the curve of his jaw when he tilted his head mid-thought, or the way his hands moved when he talked — precise, almost delicate, like he was conducting something only he could hear. You definitely weren't supposed to notice his mouth. You'd made a personal rule about that months ago and broken it approximately four hundred times since.
This isn't attraction, you told yourself. Not really. It's just… observation. Anyone with eyes would notice these things. It didn't mean anything. Noticing that someone was beautiful wasn't the same as wanting them. You could admire a painting without needing to own it, could stand in front of a sculpture and think God, that's stunning without any of it meaning you'd lost your mind.
Except paintings didn't laugh at your jokes. Sculptures didn't remember your coffee order down to the exact ratio of oat milk. And you'd never wanted to trace your fingers along a canvas the way you wanted to reach across and push a piece of hair off his forehead, just to have an excuse to touch him.
He was your best friend. That was the whole point of him. That was supposed to be the entire, uncomplicated shape of this.
You were just observing. That's all this was.
… You were becoming a very unconvincing liar.
And maybe that's why you found yourself asking "any recommendations?" before you had a chance to stop yourself; you supposed you could always blame it on the wine.
"…recommendations?" Spencer questioned tilting his head as he did so.
"Yeah, like book recommendations. About... about the... the topic you were just telling me about."
"...Women's pleasure books?"
"…yes…"
"I— surely you're already an expert in that field?" he laughed awkwardly, avoiding your eyes.
Three PhDs. Spencer took knowledge seriously, any knowledge. He wouldn't just read about something; he'd study it, understand it, master it. The thought sent a sharp pang through your chest—jealousy for every woman who had already experienced Spencer's expertise, for every person who had been on the receiving end of those precise, analytical hands applied to pleasure instead of paperwork. The thought made you want to both run from this conversation and lean into it simultaneously.
"It's funny, really," you began, the wine making you say more than you probably should — but Spencer was your best friend, you could tell him anything, even this. "I've never… you know…"
"Wait, you're a virgin?"
"What? No—"
"Then what?"
"Do I have to spell it out?"
"Do I have to remind you that yes, always?"
"Well." You felt your face flush a bright crimson. "I've never… cum before." you said, voice small, eyes avoiding his gaze.
Spencer’s head jolted up and just stared at you for a second, "Wait, you mean—?"
"…yeah."
"But you dated Andrew for, what, four years?" he immediately recalled the name of your most recent ex, and you swore for a second you could see his face sour a tiny bit at the mention of his name.
"…yep."
"And he never once—?"
"We had Sex, but I just never… It wasn't bad, and it's not like I need to, you know, to have fun. It feels good, I just — I don't know, I think I'm too stressed or something. Or maybe I’ve never really trusted the people I’ve been with as much as I should. I just kind of accepted it would never happen for me. Which is fine. But — sorry, this is weird, isn't it?"
"I don't think it's weird."
"No?"
"No."
"Okay." You said it almost at a whisper. You knew Spencer meant what he said. It felt like there were no boundaries between the two of you.
Truthfully, your previous sexual experiences had been fun and they felt good but you’d never experience that total wave of pleasure, you’ve felt the coil wind itself inside you but it just never snapped. You knew what it was supost to be like — Christ you’d faked enough to almost convince yourself... almost.
"Can I ask a question?" Spencer probed, pulling you out of your thoughts.
"Go right ahead."
"So you've never even cum on your own?"
"You mean like… masturbated?" you said at almost a whisper, suddenly aware that the two of you were outside, the thought of his neighbours overhearing the conversation had you squirming.
"Yeah. Have you ever tried toys, or anything? At the end of the day you're the one who knows your body best, but — when you say never, do you mean never never, or never with someone else?" Spencer said, completely oblivious to the fact that you were trying to talk as quietly as possible.
"Erm." You were flustered. "I guess both. I've never — sorry, I'm a grown adult, I don't know why this is so difficult for me to talk about. I mean, I've never done anything on my own. I think it's a shame thing? And I know it's not shameful, not to profile myself, but maybe it was my upbringing, or maybe I'm not sure. I've read fiction and watched things and wanted to — I really wanted to, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Is that weird?"
"I don't think it's weird."
"You don't?"
"Of course I don't."He paused, considering you with those intense eyes that saw too much. "I just think you need more confidence, and to learn more about your own body — what you do and don't like. Learn your erogenous zones, stuff like that, what feels good for you."
"Yeah, maybe. I am nearly thirty, though, Spencer."
"Most women learn new ways to climax in their late twenties — in fact that's when a lot of women squirt for the first time. But plenty of women never orgasm in their lives at all, usually because they've only had one partner who didn't know what they were doing. A lot of women cum for the first time using toys. Some don't have their first orgasm until their forties and later. No one's sexual journey is the same."
"Wow, you really have read a lot of books."
"Yeah, I suppose I have." He shifted slightly closer. "Do you know your erogenous zones?"
"My what?"
Spencer just said your name, in a slightly condescending tone.
"What?"
A silent tension settled over the two of you, you could see Spencer's mind working in real time, saw him weighing up the pros and cons of something, something you weren’t entirely sure what it was yet.
“You trust me right?” Spencer's voice was suddenly softer, more intimate than before.
“More than anything.” The thought flashed through your mind and fell out of your mouth before you could stop it, and you realized with a jolt that it was absolutely true. You trusted Spencer Reid with your life on the job, with your secrets after hours, with your heart when it was breaking. Why not with this too?
"Okay, so…" Spencer took a breath, his eyes fixed on yours. "Let me try."
Did you hear him right? Your brain scrambled to catch up, replaying the words like they might change if you looked at them from a different angle. Spencer — your best friend, the one who once color-coded your bookshelf without asking, who'd fallen asleep on your couch more times than you could count — was offering to... no. That couldn't be right. This was Spencer. This was safe, familiar, uncomplicated Spencer, and yet here he was, looking at you like the ground had shifted and he was waiting to see if you'd noticed too. Was this even real? Was this some wine-soaked fever dream you were going to wake up from, mortified, in an hour? You searched his face for the joke, the out, the moment he'd laugh and say he was kidding. It didn't come.
“Let me try,” He repeated himself, “I don’t want to get your hopes up but I’ve been told I’m pretty good…”
"Shut up." You laughed in spite of yourself, the sound coming out shaky.
"I am being serious though…" His voice dropped lower, the academic detachment melting away into something raw and honest. "I don't want it to be weird between us but, I mean we're friends right?"
"Of course."
"And friends help each other out, right?"
You couldn't fault his logic. It was perfectly Spencer—framing an offer of intimate, mind-blowing pleasure in the practical terms of mutual assistance.
"...yeah?"
"It's obviously completely up to you, I'm not saying that we should have a whole complete friend with benefits situation, unless you want to, but I could… teach you?"
"Teach me?"
The words hung in the air between you, fragile but determined. Spencer's hands stilled on your waist, and he met your eyes in the mirror again, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.
"you know, to save you the trouble of reading every dusty book in my personal library," he teased gently.
"I mean yeah i guess we could do something like that," you managed, a nervous laugh escaping you.
His expression softened, the teasing replaced by something serious, something intent. "Alright," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
You nodded, your breath catching in your throat.
"Would you like to come inside?"
You laughed, a genuine, breathless sound this time. "I'd like to cum full stop, that's why we're in this predicament, Spencer."
"Shut up, you know what I mean." A faint blush crept up his neck, and you found it endearing.
"Yeah, sorry, after you,"
He led the way inside, his apartment a familiar space that suddenly felt charged with new potential. "My bedroom is this way," he said, his voice casual as if discussing the weather, "unless you'd rather the couch but I think that the bedroom would probably work better?"
"Yeah that… that works for me," you felt flush, heat pooling between your legs. You couldn't believe that you were doing this.
Spencer opened the door, and you followed him, unsure what else to do. His bedroom was quintessentially him—books stacked in precarious towers, a worn-out copy of some dense text on the nightstand, and a perfectly made bed with hospital corners. He turned to face you, and the air between you thickened.
"We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with," he said softly. "We can stop at any point."
You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. The logical part of your brain, the part that sounded suspiciously like Spencer himself, was screaming that this was a catastrophic idea. It would ruin everything. But the rest of you, the part that had been starved for this exact kind of attention, was thrumming with a nervous, desperate energy.
He seemed to understand your silent assent. He didn't move to kiss you or undress you. Instead, he stepped back, giving you space, and gestured towards a full-length mirror leaning against the far wall. "Come here for a second."
Confused, you walked up to him, your legs feeling unsteady. He positioned you in front of the mirror, standing behind you but not touching. You could see both of your reflections—your flushed face and wide eyes, and him behind you, his expression unreadable but intensely focused.
He took your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles. "Okay, so... we're going to start with a lesson?" you asked, unsure of the situation you found yourself in.
Spencer shook his head slightly, his eyes sharp and focused on yours. "Not a lesson. A profile. You've been faking it, which means you're an excellent observer of others' pleasure but not your own. Let's treat this like a profile. I'm going to present you with stimuli, and you're going to tell me what data you gather from your own body. No right or wrong answers, just raw data. Can you do that for me?"
all you did was nod, what else could you do. Spencer, your spencer, even now was searching for ways to make you comfortable, to make you familiar. You knew profiling, you did it every day, and he knew that. He knew the logical part of your brain was telling you that this uncharted waters were a bad idea, he made it seem normal. you appreciated it more than he would ever know.
"Step 1," he said, his voice low and steady, a direct contrast to the frantic beating of your heart. "Observation. You need to see what I see." His hands came to rest gently on your waist, and you jumped slightly at the contact. "Easy," he murmured. "Relax, and just watch."
“Okay,” you breathed out, trusting him entirely.
“Before I do anything I want you to see how beautiful you are, no matter what does or doesn’t happen I need you to know that, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Can you say it back to me?”
“Spencer this is silly—”
“Just humour me, just say you’re beautiful,” his head dipped so his lips were next to your ear, his voice low and steady “Because you should know that you are so so beautiful.”
“I—” you swallowed thickly, your eyes resting on your figure, “I’m beautiful.”
“That’s so good.” he praised, “Well done.” His eyes met yours in the mirror. "I can feel your heart racing, relax."
You tried to even out your breathing — you really did — but Spencer was so close. Sure, you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder on the jet before, you'd hugged him a hundred times, but this was something else entirely. This sent heat pooling low in your core and made your head spin, and he was barely even touching you, his hands just resting on your waist.
“Do you think you could take your dress off for me? We can do whatever you’re comfortable with, it may be easier if you're just in your bra and panties.”
“..yeah, okay.”
Your fingers trembled as they found the zipper of your dress, the metallic sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you exposed in nothing but your simple lace bra and panties. Spencer's gaze was like a physical touch, scorching a path over your skin. A low, strained sound escaped his throat, something between a groan and a whimper, and his hands returned to your waist, his thumbs stroking circles against your hip bones.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn't name. "Repeat it back to me, baby."
The pet name sent a fresh wave of heat through you, making your head spin. Your voice was barely a whisper when you obeyed. "I'm so beautiful."
"Good girl," he breathed, the praise so quiet you almost thought you imagined it. But the way your knees went weak, threatening to give out, was very, very real. His hands tightened on your waist, the only thing holding you upright as he pulled you back flush against his chest.
"Now, I don't want you to just watch. I want you to watch your micro-expressions. Notice the slight flaring of your nostrils, the dilation of your pupils. Those are autonomic responses. They don't lie. We're going to use them as feedback to calibrate what works. Just tell me what you see, and tell me what you feel as we go on okay?"
He slowly slid his hands up your sides, his touch feather-light. "We're going to start with your somatic mapping points. These aren't technically sexual, but they're very receptive to touch in general, but especially when you're aroused. I’m going to touch you in these places, keep your eyes on the mirror baby so you can see exactly what I do."
His fingers traced the line of your jaw, and you watched in the mirror as your head tilted back slightly into his touch. "The neck," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "A concentration of nerve endings." He demonstrated, his fingertips skimming the sensitive skin below your ear, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. You saw it happen in the mirror, the way your body responded instantly to his.
"See?" he said, a hint of academic satisfaction in his tone. "Your body knows what it likes. You just have to learn to listen." He moved his hands to your shoulders, kneading the tight muscles there. "Stress is an inhibitor of pleasure. We need to get rid of it."
His touch was clinical in its precision, yet it sent arcs of electricity through you. You watched in the mirror, mesmerized, as his long fingers worked deep circles into the muscles flanking your spine. Your head lolled forward, giving him better access, and a soft sigh escaped your lips. The visual was intoxicating—seeing his large hands on your bare skin, watching the way your own body responded, the flush creeping up your chest and neck, the unmistakable pleasure slackening your features. It was like watching a stranger discover a new language of sensation, and you were both the observer and the observed. A fine sheen of sweat bloomed across your skin, not from exertion, but from the sheer, concentrated heat of his touch.
His hands were a study in controlled grace, a paradox you were only just beginning to understand. They weren't the hands of a laborer, thick and calloused, but they possessed a strength that belied their elegant appearance. You could see every long, tapered finger, the clean, square nails, the faint dusting of light brown hair on his knuckles. These were the hands that flicked through hundreds of pages a minute, that wrote complex formulas on whiteboards, that handled evidence with delicate precision. And now, they were mapping the terrain of your body with that same exacting attention to detail.
His thumbs were the focal point, pressing with an almost scientific pressure into the stubborn knot between your shoulder blades. You could feel the muscle slowly yielding, the tension unwinding under his relentless, circular motion. His other fingers splayed wide across your back, anchoring him, their pads a warm, steady presence that promised safety. As he worked his way down your spine, you could feel the subtle shift in his grip, the way his fingers would trace the line of your ribs before his palms would flatten against the small of your back, pressing gently to ground you. It was a language of touch, fluent and articulate, and with every passing second, you were becoming more and more fluent in reading it.
"Ready for the next step?" he asked.
You could only nod, your voice gone.
His hands moved around to your stomach, splaying across it. "The abdomen," he explained, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Full of nerve endings. Often overlooked." He began to trace slow, deliberate patterns on your skin, and your hips began to move restlessly.
"Here," he murmured, moving his hands, his voice a low hum against your ear. "The antecubital fossa," he said, his fingers gently tracing the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of your elbow. "The skin here is thinner, and the veins are closer to the surface, making it more receptive to light touch." He demonstrated, his fingertips barely grazing the area, and you shivered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with being cold. He smiled, a small, knowing curve of his lips. "And the wrists," he continued, his thumb pressing gently into the pulse point there. "Another area of high sensitivity. It's a vulnerable spot, biologically. Protecting major arteries. The brain registers touch here as particularly significant. One of the reasons why people like being tied up, but we won’t get onto that today" He lifted your wrist to his lips, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the thrumming beat of your heart. You watched, mesmerized, as your own pulse seemed to leap in response.
His hands slid around to your ribcage, his long fingers spanning your waist. "The intercostal muscles," he explained, his voice a low, hypnotic drone. "The muscles between your ribs. They're constantly in use, expanding and contracting with every breath. They're not often touched, which makes them highly sensitive when they are." His thumbs traced the bottom curve of your ribs, a slow, deliberate motion that made you arch your back, a silent plea for more. "And the thorax," he continued, his hands moving up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing against the underside. "The mammary glands. We'll get to the nipples specifically, but the entire area is an erogenous zone, rich with nerve endings connected to the same network that innervates the clitoris." He squeezed gently, his palms molding to your curves, and you felt a fresh wave of wetness between your legs. He was turning your body into a textbook, and you were the most willing student.
"Spencer," you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut.
"No," he said gently. "Eyes open. Watch yourself. See how beautiful you are when you're feeling pleasure."
Your eyes flew open, locking onto your reflection. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, which were already hard and straining against the fabric. The sensation was electric, shooting straight down to your core.
"This is a primary erogenous zone. these are universally responsive," he continued, his voice maddeningly calm as your body began to tremble. "Direct stimulation is key." He deftly unhooked your bra, letting it fall away. Your breasts were exposed in the mirror, and for a moment, you felt a flash of self-consciousness.
"Don't look away," he commanded softly. He rolled your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and a choked moan tore from your throat. "That's it. Let yourself feel it."
One of his hands left your breast, trailing down your stomach. "There are other primary zones," he said, his fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. "But I think the most important lesson for tonight is about control."
He turned you to face him, his hands now on your waist. "I want you to see what I do," he said, his eyes dark with an emotion you couldn't quite name. "And then, I want you to do it to yourself."
Your breath hitched. "What?"
"You're the expert on your own body," he said, his lips curving into a slight smile. "I'm just here to give you the textbook. Now it's time for some practical application."
He led you back to the bed, positioning you against the pillows. He knelt between your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. "First," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "Remember, I'm going to show you. Then, you're going to take over."
And as his fingers finally found your clit, you knew this was a night you would never forget.
His fingers were impossibly gentle as they made contact, a stark contrast to the jolt of electricity that shot through you. You watched, mesmerized, as he slowly, deliberately circled your clit with his middle finger. The touch was barely there, a whisper of sensation, but it was more intense than anything you'd ever felt.
"The clitoral glans," he began, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated through you. "It contains approximately eight thousand sensory nerve fibers. That's double the number found in the entire penis, baby. It's purely for pleasure."
A soft whimper escaped his lips as he felt you pulse against his finger. He was getting off on this, on teaching you, on feeling you respond. The realization sent a fresh wave of arousal through you.
"More," you breathed, your hips arching off the bed.
"Not yet," he chided softly, his other hand pressing gently on your stomach to keep you still. "Patience. We're building sensation. Rushing bypasses crucial neural pathways." He applied a fraction more pressure, changing the motion to a slow, firm figure-eight. "The external structure is just the tip. The internal clitoral bulbs and crura extend down, wrapping around the vagina. When we stimulate this area," he paused to press down slightly, making you gasp, "we're engaging the entire complex."
Your hands fisted in the sheets. "Spencer... please."
"Please what, sweetheart? Use your words."
"Please... more. Please, sir."
The word hung in the air between you. Spencer's breath hitched, his eyes darkening with something primal. He let out a low, guttural groan. "Fuck," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "Don't... don't call me that unless you mean it."
"I mean it," you panted, the submission feeling natural, right.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Good girl." He increased the pressure, his movements becoming more deliberate. "Now, pay attention. The clitoris isn't a button to be pushed. It's an entire network. Watch how I vary the pressure and speed. See how your body responds differently to each touch."
He demonstrated, switching from slow circles to rapid, light flicks, then back to firm, steady pressure. Each change sent you spiraling higher, your body trembling uncontrollably.
"You're doing so well," he praised, his voice strained with his own arousal. "You're so responsive. Look at you." He nodded towards the mirror, and you forced your eyes open. Your face was flushed, your mouth parted, your chest heaving. You looked debauched, and you'd never felt more beautiful.
"Now," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "We're going to explore the anterior vaginal wall. Often called the G-spot, though that's a misnomer. It's actually the clitoral-urethral-vaginal complex, or CUV." He slowly slid a single finger inside you, and you cried out at the exquisite stretch. "There. Do you feel that? That slightly rougher, ridged texture?"
You could only nod, your words lost.
"That's it," he murmured, his finger curling upwards to stroke that spot. "That's the root of the clitoris we're stimulating from the inside. It's why some women can orgasm from penetration alone, though most need direct clitoral stimulation as well." He began to move his finger in a 'come here' motion, his thumb returning to circle your clit.
The dual stimulation was overwhelming. Your vision blurred, your body arching off the bed.
"Easy, baby," he soothed, his voice strained. "Breathe through it. Don't chase it. Let it build." He whimpered again, the sound barely audible. "God, you're so tight. So wet for me."
You were close, so close to that edge you'd never been able to reach before. "Please Sir," you begged, "I'm gonna..."
"No," he said firmly, suddenly withdrawing his hand. You cried out at the loss, your eyes flying open in protest. "Not yet. I told you. You're going to do it yourself."
He shifted, leaning over you until his body bracketed yours, caging you in with a warmth that was both a comfort and a torment. His face was so close to yours that his curls brushed against your temple, and you could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. His voice was a low, intimate rumble, a vibration that seemed to travel from his chest straight through your bones. "Your heart rate is still elevated—I can feel your pulse hammering right here." He punctuated the statement by pressing a soft, impossibly gentle kiss to the side of your neck, right over the frantic, fluttering pulse point. The contrast between his tender lips and your wild pulse made you whimper. "Your pupils are blown," he continued, his gaze dropping to your eyes for a fraction of a second before returning to your face. "But I need to know what's happening in your head. Are you truly processing the sensation, letting your body feel without judgment or analysis? Or are you just performing the role you think you're supposed to play, trying to give me the reaction you think I want to hear?"
"that's... this—"
"It's okay baby, take your time and tell me."
"Felt so good, I was going to cum spencer, please, please, please keep going," you whined.
He made a 'tsk' noise as he shifted, positioning himself beside you, his eyes burning into yours. "My turn to watch," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Show me what you learned. Touch yourself for me, baby. Let me see you make yourself cum."
Your hand shook as you brought it between your legs, your fingers sliding easily through your wetness. You mimicked his motions, circling your clit, then sliding a finger inside to stroke that sensitive spot.
"That's it," he encouraged, his hand resting on your thigh, his touch grounding you. "Just like that. You're in control now. Show me how you like it."
And as you watched yourself in the mirror, your fingers moving with growing confidence, Spencer's eyes locked on yours, you finally understood. This wasn't just about pleasure. It was about power. Your power. And as the first waves of your orgasm began to build, you knew this was only the beginning.
Your fingers moved with a hesitant rhythm, mimicking the patterns he'd taught you, but lacking his confident precision. It felt good, but it wasn't the same. The edge was there, but it was fuzzy, indistinct.
"Look at me, not the mirror," Spencer commanded softly, his voice a low thrum that seemed to resonate directly in your clit. You tore your gaze away from your reflection to meet his. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire, and they were fixed on your face, on your hand. "That's it. Good girl. Now, tell me what you're feeling."
"I... it's good," you panted, your strokes faltering slightly. "But it's not... it's not the same."
"Because you're thinking too much," he said, his hand still resting heavily on your thigh. "You're performing instead of feeling. Your brain is still trying to analyze the data instead of just experiencing it. Let go."
"I don't know how," you whispered, frustration welling up inside you.
"Yes, you do," he murmured, his voice dropping impossibly lower. "You just need to stop fighting it. Let me help." He covered your hand with his, his long fingers wrapping around yours. "Together. Feel how I'm guiding you? Feel the pressure?"
His hand over yours was a revelation. He guided your fingers, showing you exactly where to press, how fast to move. The pleasure sharpened, your hips bucking up to meet the combined pressure of your hands.
"That's it," he breathed, his own voice strained. "You feel that? That's the frenulum of your clitoral hood. Extremely sensitive. We're going to focus there for a moment."
He guided your fingers in tiny, precise circles, and the coil inside you began to tighten, a hot, heavy pressure building in your core.
"Spencer," you gasped, your head falling back against the pillows.
"No," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Eyes on me. I want to see you when you cum for the first time."
The authority in his voice sent a fresh jolt of arousal through you. "Yes, sir," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
He let out a ragged groan, his hips jerking against the bed. "Fuck, baby. You can't say things like that." He was painfully hard, his control clearly fraying at the edges. "You're so perfect. So responsive."
He guided your fingers faster, the pressure increasing. "Now, I want you to add another finger. Inside. Curl them up, just like I showed you." You obeyed, a second finger sliding easily into your wet heat. "That's it. Now press. Can you feel how full you are? How your body is opening up to receive pleasure?"
You could only moan in response, your body trembling on the verge of something monumental.
"You're close," he said, his voice a strained whisper. "I can feel it. Your muscles are starting to contract. Don't fight it. Let it happen." He removed his hand, leaving you to your own devices. "Now, baby. You know what to do. Show me. Cum for me."
His words were your undoing. You drove your fingers deeper, your thumb working your clit in a desperate, frantic rhythm. And then it happened. The coil snapped. A wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful crashed over you, stealing your breath, your vision whiting out. You cried out his name, your body arching off the bed, your inner walls clamping down on your fingers as wave after wave of ecstasy washed through you.
It was endless. It was everything. It was heaven.
When you finally came back to yourself, Spencer was there, his eyes soft, a gentle smile on his face. "There you are," he murmured, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead. "Welcome back."
You could only stare at him, your body still trembling with aftershocks. You'd never felt anything like that. You'd never even imagined anything like that.
"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice soft.
"Incredible," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I... I had no idea."
"You're just beginning to learn what your body is capable of," he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. "And I'm going to teach you everything."
A profound silence settled over the room, broken only by your ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of your own heart. Spencer didn't move, just watched you with an intensity that was both clinical and deeply intimate. You felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally, laid bare by the force of your own pleasure.
"Your body is still responding," he observed quietly, his gaze dropping to where your hand still rested between your legs. "The involuntary contractions can last for several minutes. It's called the resolution phase. The blood is still engorging the tissues."
He gently took your wrist, his touch careful as he drew your hand away. He brought your fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours, and slowly, deliberately, licked them clean. The sight was so obscene, so possessive, a fresh jolt of arousal shot through you.
"You taste incredible," he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. "Slightly sweet, slightly tangy. The pH balance changes throughout the menstrual cycle, affecting the taste. Right now, it's perfect."
You whimpered, your body already gearing up for more.
"Shh, baby," he soothed, releasing your hand and leaning over you. "Don't rush. The refractory period for women is notoriously shorter than for men. In some cases, it's virtually non-existent. We can build on this sensation, make the next one even stronger." He lowered his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "But first, I need to taste you properly."
His mouth was on yours before you could respond, a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of you and of him. It wasn't gentle; it was hungry, devouring. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize you, his tongue exploring your mouth with the same thoroughness he applied to everything else. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair, tugging just as you'd imagined so many times.
He groaned into your mouth, his hips pressing into yours, and you could feel the hard, thick length of his erection through his pants. He was so turned on, and it was all because of you.
"Spencer," you gasped as he moved his mouth to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. "Please."
"Please what, sweetheart?" he murmured against your skin. "Use your words. Tell me what you need."
"I need... I need you."
"I know," he said, his voice strained. "And you'll have me. All of me. But we're not done with this yet." He moved down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire on your skin. "The perineum," he whispered, his tongue flicking out to taste the sensitive stretch of skin between your vagina and your anus. "Often neglected, but rich with nerve endings. Part of the pudendal nerve network."
You cried out, your hips bucking off the bed. No one had ever touched you there, never with their mouth. The sensation was shocking, electric.
"And then," he continued, his voice muffled as he moved lower, "there's the anus itself. The external sphincter has one of the highest concentrations of nerve endings in the entire body." He gently spread your cheeks, his tongue circling your tight hole. "It's not for everyone, but for those who enjoy it... it can be incredibly intense."
You were writhing now, your body a live wire of sensation. "Spencer, please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for.
"Patience, baby," he chided, his voice a low chuckle. "We're getting there." He moved back up, his face hovering over your dripping core. "Now for the main event. Cunnilingus. From the Latin 'cunnus' for vulva and 'lingere' to lick." He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I'm going to use my tongue on your clitoris, baby. I'm going to make you cum again baby but this time on my mouth. I know you have it in you so I'm not going to stop until you do okay? I've been wanting to taste this pretty pussy for so long are you going to let me baby?"
"yes," you moaned at the mental image forming in your head, "yes sir."
"fuck," spencer groaned, "you're so perfect."
And then his mouth was on you, his tongue delving into your folds, licking and sucking with a skill that left you breathless. He was relentless, his tongue exploring every inch of you, his lips closing around your clit and sucking hard. You were lost, your body a vessel for pleasure, your mind gone.
"Spencer!" you screamed, your hands fisting in his hair, holding him to you. "Please, don't stop."
He didn't. He doubled his efforts, his tongue flicking your clit in a rapid, staccato rhythm while he slid two fingers inside you, curling them up to stroke that sensitive spot deep within. The combination was devastating, a perfect storm of sensation that sent you spiraling towards the edge again.
"That's it, baby," he growled against your core, his voice muffled. "Cum for me. Let me taste you. Give me everything."
And you did. You came with a force that terrified you, your body convulsing, your vision blacking out, a scream tearing from your throat. It was even more intense than the first one, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to drown you.
When you came back to yourself, Spencer was still there, his face glistening with your cum, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face.
"Two," he said, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "And that's just the beginning."
The world slowly came back into focus, not all at once, but in soft, hazy increments. The first thing you registered was the gentle weight of Spencer's hand on your trembling thigh, a grounding point in the sea of sensation you were still floating in. The second was his breathing, a steady, controlled rhythm that contrasted sharply with your own ragged gasps.
He didn't speak. He just watched you, his gaze soft but analytical, like a scientist observing a fascinating new phenomenon. He was giving you time, letting your body ride out the lingering aftershocks that were still making your muscles quiver.
"Your heart rate is approximately one hundred and ten beats per minute," he finally murmured, his voice a low vibration that you felt more than heard. "Elevated, but decreasing. The post-orgasmic prolactin surge is likely kicking in, creating that feeling of deep relaxation. It's nature's way of ensuring you rest and process the experience."
A weak laugh escaped your lips. "Only you would turn the best orgasm of my life into a biology lesson."
A small, genuine smile touched his mouth. "It's all biology, baby. Beautiful, messy, perfect biology." He shifted, moving to lie beside you, propping his head up on his hand. "How do you feel? Be specific. Describe the sensations."
You took a moment to assess yourself. "Tingly. All over. Like... like my skin is too small for my body. And heavy. So heavy, but in a good way. Like I could sink right through the mattress."
"That's the myotonia," he explained, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach. "The muscle tension that builds during arousal and release. It leaves you feeling limp, pliant. It's why you're so responsive to touch right now. Your nerve endings are still firing at an elevated rate."
His touch was light, almost absent-minded, but it was setting you on fire all over again. You could feel the heat building between your legs, a slow, deep ache.
"Again?" you asked, your voice filled with wonder.
"We can," he said softly. "But not like that. Not yet." He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder. "Rushing from one orgasm to the next can be overwhelming. It can desensitize the clitoral glans, making subsequent orgasms more difficult to achieve. We need to be more strategic."
"Strategic?" you repeated, a breathless laugh escaping you. "You make it sound like a military operation."
"In a way, it is," he said, his mouth moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. "It's a campaign for pleasure. And right now, we're in the reconnaissance phase." He nipped at your earlobe, his tongue swirling around the delicate shell. "We need to map out all the places that make you gasp."
His hands began to roam again, but this time, they were slower, more deliberate. He wasn't trying to get you off; he was exploring. He traced the line of your collarbone, his fingers dipping into the hollows of your throat. He skimmed his knuckles down the sides of your ribs, counting them one by one.
"Twenty-four," he whispered, his lips following the path of his fingers. "Protective cage for your heart and lungs. But so sensitive to touch."
You were melting, your body turning to liquid under his ministrations. This was a different kind of pleasure, slower, deeper, more intimate. It wasn't about the frantic chase for release; it was about the journey itself.
"Spencer," you breathed, your hands coming up to rest on his back, feeling the shift of his muscles under his shirt.
"Yes, baby?"
"Take this off," you tugged at his shirt. "I want to feel you."
He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of something—vulnerability, perhaps—in his eyes. Then he nodded, sitting up to pull his shirt over his head. Your breath caught. You'd seen him without a shirt before, on beach trips, but this was different. This was Spencer, your Spencer, bared to you in the soft lamplight of his bedroom.
He was leaner than you'd expected, his body a roadmap of pale skin and wiry muscle. There was a thin, silvery scar on his side, and another on his shoulder. You reached out, your fingers tracing the scar on his side.
"What happened here?" you asked softly.
"Gunshot wound," he said, his voice quiet. "A few years ago."
Your heart clenched. You knew, of course, about the dangers of his job, but seeing the evidence of it on his body made it terrifyingly real.
"Hey," he said, his voice gentle as he covered your hand with his. "I'm okay. It's all part of the past."
You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. And in that moment, you saw it all—the genius, the profiler, the teacher, the man who had seen too much, the man who was offering you a piece of himself that he'd never offered to anyone else.
"Come here," you whispered, pulling him down for a kiss.
It was different this time. Slower, deeper, more tender. It wasn't about hunger or desperation; it was about connection. It was about the quiet intimacy of two people who had seen each other at their most vulnerable and had chosen to stay.
"I want you," you murmured against his lips. "All of you."
"I know," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And you'll have me, we have one more step for today if you're up for it."
He moved back down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of soft, wet kisses. "We've explored the external," he said, his voice a low whisper against your skin. "Now it's time to go deeper."
His hands left your waist, moving to the button of his trousers. You watched, your breath held tight in your chest, as he undid them with quick, efficient movements. The fabric slid down his narrow hips, taking his boxers with it, and your eyes widened.
Oh.
He was built like the rest of him—all long lines and surprising substance. Your gaze traced the proud, rigid length of him, the flushed head already glistening at the tip. It wasn't just long; it was the thick, solid weight of him that made your mouth go dry, a formidable presence that promised a challenge, a stretch. A thatch of soft, brown curls nestled at the base, and the sight sent a dizzying rush of pure, unadulterated desire through you. This wasn't just a part of him; it was a statement, a quiet, undeniable proof of the power he usually kept so carefully restrained.
He reached for his nightstand, the movement pulling you from your reverie. He pulled out a foil packet, ripping it open with his teeth before rolling the latex on with practiced, steady ease. He positioned himself between your legs, his eyes fixed on yours. "I'm going to enter you, baby. But I'm not going to move. I'm just going to let you feel me. Let you get used to the sensation of being filled."
He leaned forward, his forearms braced on the bed beside your head, and positioned himself at your entrance. He didn't push, just rested the tip of his cock against your wet, swollen folds. The contact was electric, a promise of everything to come, and you gasped at the sheer intimacy of it.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
"Don't stop," you breathed, your hands gripping his shoulders.
Slowly, inch by excruciating inch, he pushed into you. It was a stretch, a delicious, overwhelming fullness that stole your breath. He was bigger than you'd expected, his thickness pressing against your inner walls in a way that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you.
When he was finally fully seated inside you, he stopped, his body still, his weight resting on his elbows. He just looked at you, his eyes dark with an emotion that took your breath away.
"How does that feel?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Full," you gasped. "So full. It's... it's incredible."
"Good," he murmured, his hips rocking slightly, a tiny, experimental movement that made you cry out. "That's just the beginning, baby. That's just the first taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly mine."
He remained still, a statue of restraint above you, and the stillness itself became a form of exquisite torture. You could feel every single inch of him, the thick, hard length of him stretching you, filling you completely. Your inner muscles clenched around him, an involuntary spasm that made him hiss in a sharp breath.
"Easy, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, strained vibration against your throat. "Don't do that. Don't rush. Just... feel."
His words were a command, but they were also a gift. He was forcing you to slow down, to experience every nuance of the moment. You closed your eyes, focusing inward, cataloging the sensations. The pressure, the fullness, the heat of him, the way your body seemed to mold itself to his shape, as if they were two pieces of a puzzle you hadn't even realized were missing each other.
"The vaginal canal is remarkably elastic," he began, his voice a low, hypnotic drone that was somehow both incredibly arousing and deeply comforting. "It can expand significantly, but it's also rich with nerve endings, particularly in the outer third. What you're feeling now, that intense pressure, is the stimulation of those nerve endings. The deeper penetration primarily stimulates the internal structures—the cervix, the anterior fornix."
He shifted slightly, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, and you cried out, your hips bucking up to meet him.
"Shh," he soothed, his hand coming to rest on your hip, holding you still. "I know. It's a lot. But we need to take it slow. Your body is still adjusting to the intensity of the stimulation. We need to give your nervous system time to process the input."
"Spencer," you begged, your hands fisting in the sheets. "Please. I need... I need more."
"I know, baby," he said, his voice thick with sympathy and desire. "And you'll get it. But first, I want you to do something for me."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "I want you to bear down. Just a little. Like you're trying to push me out."
You looked at him, your eyes wide with confusion. "What? Why?"
"Just trust me," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Do it."
You took a deep breath, then did as he asked, bearing down slightly. The sensation was immediate, and incredible. As you pushed down, his cock seemed to sink even deeper into you, hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars. At the same time, the pressure on your clit intensified, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through you.
"Oh god," you cried out, your back arching off the bed.
"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "That's it. That's the anterior fornix, also known as the A-spot. It's a highly sensitive erogenous zone located deep inside the vagina, near the cervix. Stimulating it can lead to incredibly intense, full-body orgasms."
He began to move then, but not with the frantic thrusting you were used to. His movements were slow, deliberate, a deep, grinding rhythm that seemed to touch every part of you at once. Each time he bottomed out, he would pause, letting you feel the full, overwhelming pressure, before pulling back just as slowly.
"Feel that?" he asked, his voice a low, strained whisper. "Feel how I'm filling you up? How your body is opening up to receive me?"
You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure. This was different, so different from anything you'd ever experienced. It wasn't just about the physical act; it was about the connection, the intimacy, the way he seemed to know your body better than you did yourself.
"You're so tight, baby," he groaned, his hips grinding against yours. "So wet. So perfect for me."
He shifted his angle slightly, and suddenly, the stimulation on your clit intensified, his pubic bone rubbing against it with each deep thrust. The combination of the deep, internal pressure and the external friction was intoxicating, a slow, steady build towards an orgasm that you knew would be unlike anything you'd ever experienced before.
"Spencer," you gasped, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. "I'm... I'm close."
"I know," he said, his voice a low, triumphant growl. "I can feel it. Your muscles are starting to contract. You're getting so tight around me."
He increased his pace slightly, his movements becoming more deliberate, more purposeful. He was chasing your orgasm, but he was doing it with a surgeon's precision, with a scientist's understanding of the female body.
"That's it, baby," he urged, his voice a low, commanding whisper. "Let go. Give it to me. Cum for me. Cum all over my cock."
And with a final, deep thrust, you did. You came with a force that shattered you, a scream tearing from your throat as your body convulsed around him. It was a full-body orgasm, a tidal wave of pleasure that started deep inside you and radiated outwards, consuming you entirely.
As you came down from the high, Spencer was still there, his body still buried deep inside yours, his eyes soft, a gentle smile on his face.
"Three," he said, his voice a low, satisfied purr.
The world didn't just come back into focus; it seemed to have been entirely remade. The air in the room felt thicker, charged with the energy of what had just happened. Spencer remained inside you, not moving, just letting you adjust, letting the last tremors of your orgasm subside around him. He was a warm, heavy weight, a solid presence that anchored you to the earth when you felt like you might float away.
He lowered his head, not to kiss you, but to press his forehead against yours. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering against your chest. He hadn't found his own release, you realized with a jolt. He had been so focused on you, on teaching you, that he had completely ignored his own needs.
"Spencer," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "You didn't..."
"Shh," he murmured, his eyes closing. "This wasn't about me. This was about you. About showing you." He finally pulled out of you slowly, carefully, and the loss was immediate and profound. He dealt with the condom in the bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm, damp cloth.
You lay there, feeling exposed and vulnerable, as he gently cleaned you up. His touch was reverent, his movements careful and precise. It was the most intimate thing you had ever experienced, more intimate than the sex itself.
"There," he said softly, tossing the cloth aside and pulling the covers over both of you. He settled beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath your ear.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
"I don't have words for it," you admitted, your fingers tracing patterns on his skin. "It was... like my body was a foreign country, and you were the only one who had a map."
A small smile touched his lips. "I just have a lot of reference material," he said, his hand stroking your hair. "The female orgasm is a fascinating subject. Did you know that the clitoral-urethral-vaginal complex, the entire network of structures responsible for female pleasure, is actually the size of a wishbone? Most of it is internal."
"I feel like I've just been on a field trip," you said, a sleepy laugh escaping you. "A very, very good field trip."
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "There's still more to see," he said, his voice soft. "But not tonight. Tonight, we just rest."
“So they’ll be a next time?”
“If you’ll have me?”
“Yes, Spencer, I’ll always want you.”
You lay in comfortable silence for a long time, the only sounds the steady rhythm of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. You felt safe, cherished, in a way you never had before.
"Spencer?" you said quietly.
"Hmm?"
"Why did you... why did you do this for me?"
He was quiet for a moment, like he was weighing every word before he let himself say it. "Because I hate the idea of you going through life missing something so fundamental," he said finally. "Because I've seen so much darkness in this job, in this world, and I wanted — just once — to be the reason something good happened to you instead." He paused, and you felt him take a breath, like he was steadying himself for something he'd rehearsed a hundred times and still wasn't ready for. "And because I've been in love with you for three years. The thought of you never knowing what it felt like to be wanted, completely, by someone who actually paid attention — I couldn't stand it anymore."
Your breath caught in your throat. You lifted your head to look at him, eyes wide, sure you'd misheard. "What?"
"I love you," he said again, steadier this time, like saying it once had used up all his fear. "Not as a friend. Not as a colleague. As the person I want to wake up next to for the rest of my life, if you'll let me. I've rewritten this confession in my head probably two hundred times, tried to find the perfect moment, the perfect words — and there never was one. So tonight I stopped waiting for the right time to say it, and just tried to show you instead."
Tears welled in your eyes, hot and sudden. You'd spent so long insisting that you didn't find him attractive, that he was just your best friend, that whatever you felt was loneliness dressed up as something else. But hearing him say it out loud, watching him hand you his fear like it was the safest thing in the world — you couldn't lie to yourself anymore. You never really could. You'd just been good at pretending.
"I love you too," you whispered, and the words felt strange in your mouth, like a language you'd never let yourself speak before. "I think I have for a long time. I was just too scared to say it first."
He leaned in, and the kiss that followed wasn't hungry — it was slow, careful, almost reverent, like he was sealing a promise rather than starting something. Like he needed you to feel every ounce of finally in it.
When he pulled back, he was smiling — not his usual crooked, nervous half-smile, but something wide open or unguarded, a smile you didn't think you'd ever seen on him before.
"So," he said, voice light, "what do we do now?"
"Well," you said, a matching smile spreading across your face. "I think we should probably go on a date. A real one. With dinner and a movie. And then maybe we can come back here and you can teach me about the male orgasm..."
He laughed, a full, rich sound that filled the room. "I think that can be arranged," he said, pulling you closer. "But for now, let's just sleep. We've had a big night."
And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you knew that this was just the beginning of a whole new chapter in your life, a chapter that you couldn't wait to write with him.
★・・・・・・★
a/n: second time writing smut kinda nervous, how did i do? El try not to write a praise kink challenge, level impossible #writewhatyouknow.
but like fr tho how do people write smut, like this shit is HARD (and I'm not just talking about cock bbg)
I know this is not realistic, but the man is fictional so let me be delusional, and we don't read smut to mirror our own sex lives as they are either bad or non existant xoxo we read smut for empowerment and for a fun, funky and fictional time
thanks for cumming to my TEDtalk (get it CUMming lol)
strip poker with spencer and at first it’s totally unfair because he’s so good at poker, except after he starts winning a few times he gets more and more flustered and starts losing because he’s too distracted by you
Ever since Spencer got a job in another state and left the FBI, there isn't a single person who can exchange even a single word with you without realizing just how much you love him and how wonderful he is.
୨ৎ ──── long distance marriage. 4,3k. bau!reader. post season 15. extra fluff. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.
The first time someone pointed it out, you genuinely thought they were exaggerating.
It happened on a Tuesday morning nearly two months after Spencer had packed the last cardboard box from his apartment, hugged everyone in the bullpen goodbye, and boarded a plane bound for another state, where a university campus had somehow convinced the FBI’s most brilliant profiler that there could be a life waiting for him beyond crime scenes and police tape. These days, he divided his time between lecturing graduate students on criminal psychology, filling whiteboards with impossibly neat equations and behavioral models, disappearing into research projects that excited him enough to make him forget meals, and continuing to accumulate books at a rate that suggested every bookstore within a fifty-mile radius had already learned his name. It suited him.
For the first time since you’d known him, Spencer Reid wasn’t simply surviving his life, he was building one.
His departure from the FBI had left an absence that everyone felt. The BAU had weathered enough changes over the years to understand that nothing stayed the same forever. People retired. Others transferred. Some left because the job demanded too much, while others simply reached a chapter where they wanted something different. The team adapted because it always had to. Cases never stopped arriving simply because hearts needed more time to catch up.
Life continued, because it always did.
But Spencer’s goodbye had never felt like one born from defeat. He hadn’t left because the darkness had finally swallowed him whole or because the Bureau had broken whatever remained of his spirit. He had left because he’d finally chosen something that belonged entirely to him. Students asking about cognitive biases, memory retention, and offender typologies instead of detectives calling about another body. Chalk dust clinging absentmindedly to the sleeves of his cardigans rather than dried blood staining the cuffs of his dress shirts. Weekends where the only mystery he intended to solve was deciding which novel to read first. There wasn’t a single selfish thing about that decision, and you loved him too much to wish otherwise. If anything, watching him discover a version of happiness that didn’t require surviving constant tragedy made your chest ache with pride.
The distance, however, proved considerably more difficult to romanticize.
Your own transfer paperwork had become trapped somewhere inside the endless machinery of FBI administration, buried beneath signatures, approvals, and enough bureaucratic delays to make even Emily sigh whenever you asked for an update. So, until everything was finalized, your marriage existed in fragments stitched together across state lines. Calendars hanging on both of your refrigerators carried matching circles around the weekends one of you would catch a flight. He called every morning while walking across campus, usually with coffee balanced precariously in one hand and a leather satchel slipping off his shoulder because he still refused to admit it was too heavy. You called every evening on your drive home from Quantico, sometimes talking for an hour, sometimes sitting together in comfortable silence while each of you finished ordinary little tasks like folding laundry, making dinner, watering plants, grading papers in Spencer’s case, reviewing reports in yours.
There were no grand declarations about how unbearable the separation felt.
Instead, it lived inside tiny habits your body hadn’t yet unlearned. You still woke some mornings reaching instinctively across the mattress before your fingertips brushed only cool sheets instead of the familiar warmth of Spencer’s shoulder. You still found yourself setting two mugs beside the coffee machine before quietly returning one to the cabinet with an amused shake of your head. Grocery shopping became an exercise in catching yourself before placing his favorite cereal into your cart out of pure instinct. Every Thursday evening your suitcase practically packed itself, and every Sunday night the apartment seemed to exhale after he left, settling into a silence that never quite felt natural anymore. You missed him with an ache so constant it had stopped feeling dramatic altogether. Missing Spencer had simply become another ordinary part of loving him.
The strange thing was that, somehow, everyone else noticed too.
Not because you walked around looking heartbroken. You didn’t. You never cried at your desk, never stared wistfully out the bullpen windows. If anything, you seemed happier than you had in years. There was a softness to you now, an ease that came from knowing exactly where your future was headed, even if it required a little patience to reach it. Your wedding ring caught the light whenever you shuffled paperwork between meetings. Sometimes, during particularly long briefings, your thumb absentmindedly traced over the gold band without you even realizing it. Every now and then your phone would vibrate with a text from Spencer and your entire expression would brighten in that quiet way reserved only for people hopelessly in love.
The part none of you noticed at first was how naturally your husband had woven himself into the way you experienced the world.
Luke was the first to say anything.
The morning briefing had ended only a few minutes earlier, leaving the bullpen to dissolve back into its familiar rhythm. Emily disappeared into her office before anyone had the chance to stop her, already answering a call from the director. Tara perched herself on the corner of a desk, one ankle crossed over the other as she absentmindedly skimmed through preliminary forensic reports. JJ stood near the map wall discussing flight schedules with one of the newer profilers, a young agent who knew Spencer Reid only through stories everyone told with the sort of reverence usually reserved for urban legends. It felt like any other Tuesday.
Luke returned from the coffee shop a moment later, nudging the bullpen door open with his shoulder while balancing one of those cardboard drink carriers against his hip. A paper bag filled with pastries dangled from his free hand. He set everything down in the middle of the nearest desk before calling out, “I grabbed everyone something,” earning a scattered chorus of grateful thank-yous without anyone looking up from their work. One by one, he handed out drinks he’d somehow memorized without writing a single order down. Black for Emily. Something aggressively sweet for Garcia. Plain for Tara. JJ’s usual. Yours came last.
“I guessed vanilla,” he said, offering the warm paper cup with a small shrug.
You accepted it with a grateful smile. “You guessed right.”
The cup was still almost too hot to hold, warming your palms through the cardboard sleeve as you carefully peeled back the plastic lid. A cloud of fragrant steam curled into the air, carrying the familiar scent of roasted coffee beans mixed with warm spices. You blew gently across the surface before taking a cautious sip, letting the flavor settle for only a second.
“Oh…”
Luke noticed the change instantly.
“What?”
You glanced back down into the cup as though the answer might still be floating somewhere inside it.
“The cinnamon.”
He frowned.
“What about it?”
You let out a quiet little laugh, shaking your head.
“Nothing.”
You took another sip, slower this time, smiling to yourself.
“It’s just…”
A tiny shrug lifted your shoulders.
“Spencer would’ve loved this place.”
Luke blinked.
“What?”
“The cinnamon tastes different.”
“Different?”
“Mhm.” You nodded absentmindedly, still studying the coffee like it had unlocked a memory. “He always says you can tell how a coffee shop stores its spices because cinnamon changes flavor depending on humidity and oxidation. Apparently most places keep it too close to heat sources, so it loses a lot of its natural oils.”
Luke simply stared.
“That’s…”
He searched for the right word.
“…that’s an incredibly specific thing to know.”
“I know.” You smiled into your coffee, unable to help yourself. “I asked him once how he figured that out.”
“And?”
“He spent twenty-three minutes explaining spice preservation techniques throughout different civilizations.”
Luke’s eyebrows climbed even higher.
“Did you understand any of it?”
“Not really.”
A quiet laugh slipped past your lips as you cradled the paper cup between both hands, letting the comforting warmth sink into your fingers. Your gaze lingered on the thin curls of steam rising from the coffee, but your thoughts had already drifted somewhere hundreds of miles away. The memory arrived so effortlessly that it felt less like remembering and more like stepping back into the moment itself. You could practically hear him, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter while absentmindedly stirring sugar into his coffee long after it had dissolved, enthusiastically explaining the chemical composition of cinnamon as though he’d personally uncovered the information after years of archaeological research.
“He was excited,” you said softly, almost to yourself.
Your smile deepened without permission.
“And when Spencer gets excited…” Another small laugh escaped you as you shook your head fondly. “He starts talking with his hands so much that half the time he accidentally knocks into whatever’s closest to him.” You looked down into your coffee, tracing absentminded circles around the rim of the lid with your thumb. “He always thinks he’s talking too much.” Your expression softened even further, the corners of your eyes crinkling with quiet affection. “He isn’t, though. At least…not to me.”
Luke simply stared at you.
For a long moment, he forgot entirely about the coffee cooling in his own hand.
He’d expected you to say Spencer knew a lot about coffee. Maybe that he’d read an article once. Possibly that he’d recommended the café.
Instead, somehow, an offhand comment about cinnamon had turned into a story about the way your husband smiled, the way he gestured while he spoke, the way he apologized for taking up space in conversations, and the way you loved every second of listening to him anyway.
Luke slowly turned toward Tara and ask, “did she just answer my coffee with her husband?”
Tara didn’t even lift her eyes from the forensic report resting across her desk.
“Yes.”
Luke looked back at you, still smiling absentmindedly into your coffee as though nothing unusual had happened, before turning toward Tara again.
“Did you hear all of that?”
“I did.”
“Isn’t that weird?”
The only response was the quiet rustle of paper as Tara calmly flipped another page. She underlined something in the margin, took an unhurried sip of her coffee, and only then allowed the faintest hint of amusement to tug at the corner of her mouth.
“It gets worse.”
Luke frowned.
“It gets—”
She finally looked at him, her expression carrying the quiet patience of someone who had witnessed the exact same sequence of events so many times that she could practically predict them down to the minute.
“Give it until lunch.”
“What?” He said, pointing a finger at her with an amused grin. “You’re making this into a bigger thing than it is.”
Tara didn’t even bother looking up.
“If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”
Luke rolled his eyes, still smiling to himself as he settled into his chair. There was no way Tara was right. Sure, you’d mentioned Spencer over coffee, but that hardly counted as evidence of anything unusual. Married people did that all the time. JJ talked about Will. Rossi occasionally mentioned Krystall with that soft smile he always got whenever her name came up. It was normal. Perfectly normal. Tara was simply exaggerating because she’d worked beside you longer than he had.
Barely twenty minutes passed before Emily’s office door opened again.
The conversation with Washington had clearly done little for her mood.
She emerged rubbing the bridge of her nose beneath her glasses, a thick folder tucked beneath one arm while several loose pages threatened to slide onto the floor with every step.
“I swear,” she muttered to no one in particular, dropping the folder onto her desk with a dull thud, “if anyone knows a decent Italian restaurant near Georgetown, I’ll owe you my firstborn.”
The bullpen barely reacted.
Garcia yelled something unintelligible from behind her office door that sounded suspiciously like, “Only if there’s tiramisu!”
Without even lifting your eyes completely from the report you were reading, you answered as naturally as if Emily had asked what time it was.
“Oh.”
You smiled.
“Spencer took me to this tiny family-owned place for our anniversary last year.”
Emily stopped moving.
“The owner makes all of the pasta fresh every morning,” you continued warmly, already smiling at the memory. “Spencer spent almost half the meal talking to him because he wanted to know why northern Italian flour behaves differently from southern varieties. Apparently the protein content changes the elasticity of the dough, which—”
Emily closed her eyes.
“There it is.”
You stopped midsentence.
“…There what is?”
She opened one eye.
“The Spencer Reference.”
You frowned.
“The…what?”
Emily folded her arms across her chest, the corners of her mouth already threatening to betray her growing amusement.
“You’ve mentioned your husband four times today.”
Your eyebrows immediately pulled together.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“No…”
“I promise you.”
“I don’t think so.”
Before Emily could continue, Luke slowly pushed himself away from his desk and, without saying a word, he lifted one finger into the air.
“Coffee.”
A second finger joined it.
“Humidity.”
A third.
“Your anniversary.”
Then, with theatrical precision, he raised a fourth.
“The flour.”
Silence settled over the bullpen.
Your gaze moved slowly from Luke to Emily before landing on Tara, who had quietly hidden the beginning of a smile behind the rim of her coffee cup. A small crease appeared between your brows as you looked back at the others, genuine confusion written plainly across your face.
“Those all reminded me of him.”
Emily immediately pointed in your direction as though she’d just presented the final piece of evidence in a courtroom.
“Exactly.”
You blinked.
“I wasn’t trying to bring him up.”
You lowered your eyes to the coffee warming your hands, watching another ribbon of steam disappear into the lights above the bullpen. You wanted to tell them it wasn’t intentional, that you weren’t consciously steering every conversation toward your husband, but the more you thought about it, the less convincing that argument became. They weren’t wrong. Every answer you had given that morning had begun with Spencer.
For the first time since they’d started teasing you, you wondered if maybe they had a point.
***
The team started recognizing the pattern long before you did.
It happened so often that, eventually, nobody reacted anymore when an ordinary conversation somehow found its way back to Spencer. They simply waited. Someone would mention coffee, books, trains, birds, crossword puzzles, museums, or the weather, and there would be a brief moment of anticipation before your husband’s name inevitably entered the conversation. It wasn’t forced, nor was it something you seemed conscious of. You simply loved him so thoroughly that pieces of him lived in everything you saw. Every experience reminded you of one you’d shared with him, every topic unlocked a memory, every passing comment became another opportunity to tell a story that, somehow, always started with, “Spencer once told me…”.
The team had stopped wondering if it would happen. They’d moved on to predicting when.
It eventually turned into a game...but they never told you.
Luke had started it.
The first few times had been accidental, just a quiet observation shared with Emily after noticing that a five-minute discussion about coffee had somehow become an explanation of Spencer’s preferred brewing method. Then another conversation about classical music had ended with you describing the first concert the two of you had attended together. By the end of the week, Luke was convinced it wasn’t coincidence but a measurable phenomenon. Emily, amused enough to indulge him, had begun participating. Garcia, naturally, had become far too enthusiastic about the whole thing.
So when travel arrangements came up during a morning briefing and Tara casually suggested taking a train instead of another connecting flight, Luke didn’t even bother pretending to pay attention to the logistics. He simply glanced at the watch around his wrist and murmured, quietly enough that only Emily and Garcia could hear, “Three.”
Emily had to bite the inside of her cheek and Garcia immediately looked away before she laughed.
Tara frowned. “Three what?”
All three of them looked at you.
You continued studying the itinerary for another couple of seconds before something seemed to click behind your eyes.
“Oh! Spencer actually explained why train travel is statistically one of the safest forms of transportation despite people feeling less secure on them than airplanes because—”
Luke pointed triumphantly across the conference table.
“There it is.”
Emily laughed into her coffee.
“Not even three seconds.”
“What?” You asked, looking between them.
“Nothing,” Luke answered with suspicious innocence.
Emily simply shook her head.
“You’ll see eventually.”
You never did.
A few days later, Garcia swept into the bullpen carrying a paper bag that smelled so overwhelmingly of fresh bread and toasted sesame seeds that nearly everyone looked up from their paperwork. She placed it dramatically on her desk before announcing to absolutely no one in particular that she’d discovered the greatest bagel shop in Washington and that every single person present was morally obligated to experience them at least once in their lifetime.
Luke, who happened to be passing by with a case file tucked beneath one arm, looked from Garcia to you.
Then, almost solemnly, checked his watch.
“Two.”
Emily immediately lowered her head to hide a smile.
You looked up from your report and ask, “what does that mean?”
“Nothing,” Luke replied.
Garcia, already in on the joke, offered you a bagel with an expression that was bordering on mischievous. But you just thanked her, took one, complimented the smell, and returned to your paperwork.
Luke sighed dramatically.
“False alarm.”
“I told you,” Emily whispered. “Bagels aren’t specific enough.”
Later that afternoon, the bullpen had settled into the comfortable quiet that always followed lunch. Phones rang intermittently, keyboards clicked beneath busy fingers, and the low hum of conversations drifted through the room without anyone needing to raise their voice. Garcia suddenly emerged from her office with theatrical determination, stretching her arms over her head before announcing to the room that she had reached a life-changing conclusion.
“I’ve been criminally deprived of culture.”
No one looked up.
“I’m sure you’ll survive.” Emily said and kept typing.
“I won’t,” Garcia declared. “I’ve decided I’m spending this entire weekend visiting museums. Art museums. Science museums. History museums. Tiny museums that no one has ever heard of. I need enrichment.”
Luke slowly closed the file in his hands and without saying anything, he looked at his watch.
“One.”
Emily pressed her lips together so tightly they nearly disappeared.
“Why are you timing her?” Tara asked and glanced between them in complete confusion.
“I’m not timing Garcia.”
“Then who are you timing?”
Before Luke could answer, your face lit up.
“Oh! Spencer absolutely loved the Natural History Museum in Chicago because they had this incredible exhibit on early forensic anthropology. He spent almost forty minutes talking—”
“I knew it!” Luke threw both hands into the air in triumph before you could finish. “I absolutely knew it!”
Your sentence stopped halfway through.
“…What?”
Emily finally gave up trying to remain composed and pinched the bridge of her nose, laughing openly now.
“You did it again.” She said.
“Did what?” You asked, already frowning.
“The Spencer thing.”
“What Spencer thing?”
“The fact that literally every conversation somehow circles back to your husband.” Emily pointed at you with her pen.
“I was talking about museums.”
“No,” Emily corrected gently. “You were talking about Spencer at a museum.”
You paused.
“…I was.”
“Sweetie, you’re so in love it’s honestly unbelievable.” Garcia said and smiled so fondly it almost hurt.
“I don’t talk about him that much.” You said.
Four people looked at you and no one said a word.
The silence itself was the answer.
Your eyes drifted toward the ceiling as you replayed the conversation in your head, your cheeks growing warmer with every passing second.
“…Okay.”
“It isn’t a bad thing.” Emily laughed. “You’ve somehow turned Reid into an invisible member of every conversation we have.”
“The funny part is that he isn’t even here.” Garcia said and rested her chin in her hands, smiling at you over the top of her monitors.
You smiled despite yourself, looking down at the wedding ring glinting softly beneath the fluorescent lights.
“…He kind of is.”
For a moment, nobody teased you because they all knew exactly what you meant.
Spencer wasn’t in the bullpen.
He wasn’t even in Virginia.
And yet, somehow, every ordinary conversation still managed to leave room for him, as naturally and effortlessly as if he’d been standing beside you the entire time.
Maybe, just maybe, they had a point.
***
All of it reached its peak several weeks later at one of Rossi’s famous Sunday dinners.
The house was warm with the familiar smells of garlic, rosemary, fresh bread, and whatever secret ingredient Rossi refused to admit he added to his tomato sauce. Conversations drifted lazily between the dining room and kitchen while glasses of wine caught the golden glow of the lights above the table. Emily was arguing with Tara about baseball statistics she clearly hadn’t cared enough to verify, Garcia was enthusiastically showing Luke photographs of a foster kitten she insisted she absolutely wasn’t adopting despite everyone knowing she already had a name picked out, and JJ was helping Rossi clear dessert plates while telling him about Henry’s latest school science project. You sat quietly among all of it, smiling more than speaking.
Then your phone vibrated softly against the wooden table.
Without thinking, you reached for it.
Spencer: I can’t call right now, I’m sorry. Enjoy the dinner. I love you.
A smile immediately softened your face. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment before you locked the screen again, already imagining him buried beneath paperwork somewhere, probably apologizing to himself for not being able to steal five minutes to call you. It was such a Spencer thing to do, and somehow that made you miss him even more.
When you finally looked up again, the entire table was quiet.
Everyone was watching you.
You blinked, glancing between them.
“…What?”
Rossi slowly folded his linen napkin, taking his time like he was carefully choosing the right words.
“You know, I’ve lived long enough to know a great many kinds of love,” he began, his voice carrying the calm warmth that always seemed to follow him. “I’ve known couples who barely survived their first year together and couples who spent fifty years never losing the habit of reaching for each other’s hand. I’ve watched people fall in love in impossible circumstances, rebuild marriages after unimaginable grief, raise children, lose people they loved, forgive mistakes, and still choose the same person every morning.”
His expression softened as he looked at you. “I’ve seen extraordinary marriages, like mine.” His eyes briefly moved toward Krystall before returning to you. “But I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who carries their spouse into every room they walk into.”
You frowned slightly, unsure what he meant.
“You don’t even realize you’re doing it,” Rossi continued with a small smile.
Your fingers immediately found your wedding ring, rolling the familiar gold band beneath your thumb without even noticing you had started.
Rossi noticed.
“Half the conversations we have somehow end with ‘Spencer said this,’ or ‘Spencer read that article,’ or ‘Spencer would love this recipe,’ or ‘Spencer once explained why that happens.’”
A quiet laugh moved around the table.
You looked down at your ring, smiling softly. “I guess…I miss him.”
“We know,” Emily said gently, squeezing your hand. “The funny part is that you make the rest of us miss him too.”
You looked up at her, laughing quietly at the truth of it.
And then the front door opened.
At first, nobody reacted.
Your brows furrowed as you glanced toward the hallway.
“Did someone forget something?” you asked, beginning to stand.
But no one answered.
Instead, everyone at the table suddenly looked suspiciously pleased with themselves. Garcia was trying not to smile, Luke looked down into his wineglass, Emily suddenly found the tablecloth fascinating, and JJ covered her mouth to hide her reaction.
You looked between them. “…Guys?”
Then you heard footsteps across the hardwood floor.
Something in your chest shifted before your mind could understand why.
You turned toward the hallway, and there he was.
Spencer stood beneath the warm light of the entryway, one hand resting on the doorknob and the other holding his worn leather satchel. His tie had been loosened after the drive, his curls slightly messy, and exhaustion was written all over his face after what had clearly been a long week. But the moment his eyes met yours, all of it disappeared behind the small, familiar smile that belonged only to you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You simply stared at him, because your brain refused to believe what your eyes were seeing.
“…Spencer?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking nervous despite having walked into rooms full of dangerous criminals without hesitation.
“Hi.”
That was all it took.
Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, already moving toward him before you could even think. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming.”
The second you reached him, your arms wrapped around him, and the force of your hug made him laugh softly. His satchel slipped from his shoulder and landed forgotten beside the door as he held you tightly, like he had been waiting all week just for this moment.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he murmured against your hair, his arms tightening when he felt you trembling slightly.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, smiling through the emotion you couldn’t hide, and kissed him in front of everyone without caring that the entire team was watching.
Rossi leaned back in his chair, wrapping an arm around Krystall and smiling at the two of you like he was watching the ending of a movie he already knew he loved.
“And that,” he said, lifting his glass, “is love, kids.”
