Post Prison Spencer Reid x fem!Reader
Warnings: Angst, 18+ smut, MINORS DNI! Choking, degradation, unprotected sex, dom! Spencer Reid, fingering, mentions of male and female masturbation, implied creampie, angry sex, etc.
Summary: You don't think Spencer is good for you, until he goes to prison. The problem is that when Spencer gets out, he doesn't think he's good for you either.
A/N: Please don't say I didn't warn you with this one because the angst tag is right there <3 Just remember I would do nothing to hurt you and that I lie regularly! I'm still working on getting another fully functioning masterlist, so please stay tuned for that, but I have been relatively prolific for the past two years so there are a lot of fics to organize. Anyway, let me know what you think in the replies and the tags!
Masterlist
The first time your lips brush up against Spencer Reid’s, you weren’t even aware that was something that could happen. You’d been civil at most with the man, and downright frosty at best, meaning that you expected all contact with him to be verbal and preferably online.
But he was somewhat drunk, and his grip was strong on your waist as he pinned you to the wall and joined his lips to yours.
It wasn’t unpleasant. It was a good kiss. His lips were firm, his body wall, filling the gaps in your own body in an increasingly comfortable way. It was just that you weren’t expecting it. So with a firm hand, you pushed him away and caught your breath.
“What are you doing, Spencer?” you asked tentatively, mistaking his expression of infatuation with a simple drunken mistake. You were the only wrong one.
“I like you,” he managed to mumble out, raising your hand to his lips and kissing it softly. It almost made it worse that the simple gesture sent shivers up and down your spine, that he looked so lovely in the rays of moonlight illuminating the trash-laden side street that you almost let yourself get entangled with him.
Almost.
You unfortunately had only two rules set for yourself. You didn’t play with people's feelings and you didn’t fuck your coworkers. Spencer was practically a walking rule violation, as he stepped closer and pressed a simple kiss to your neck, breathing in your scent deeply, as if he’d never get the chance again.
You forced yourself to be strong as you held him at arms length again.
“Spencer, we shouldn’t do this,” you said, begging him to look in your eyes, forcing him to see how serious you were about this.
“We…” he took a breath before continuing. “We shouldn’t? We shouldn’t,” he said, finally resolutely, walking away.
“Spencer,” you said, chasing him down the alley, half afraid that he was still too intoxicated to not end up in a ditch somewhere. Or someone else’s bed. The thought already irked you. Even if you didn’t want him, you didn’t want anyone else to have him.
“Spencer, please wait and listen to me,” you grabbed his arm again, and placated, he turned around, but his eyes were darker than before, the life drained out.
“We don’t work well together, Spencer. We wouldn’t… this can’t… We work together and I don’t want things to be complicated. You know?”
“Complicated. Right. I’m sorry for all that back there-”
“No, Spencer, don’t- Fuck, don’t white knight this one.”
“What are you talking about?” He asked, his resigned features turning hard again as you swore.
“You always want to be a hero. You want to be the good guy, and you don’t get to do that by turning me into the bad guy,” you sighed, raking a hand in your head until you ran into a knot and had to pull your hand free, a small clump coming loose as you swore again. Typical.
“That’s not what I’m doing. I just-”
“Drop it, Spencer. Let’s just pretend this never happened.”
When you walked away that night, you weren’t expecting that it would be months before you’d see him again. If you knew that, maybe you would have spent more time sleeping that night, and less time worrying about what you would say to him the next day at work. Maybe you would have sent him away with a nicer phrase to remember you by.
It was really a kick in the teeth, then, when the next time you wanted to see him you had to send a formal request. It was a shot in the chest when he had asked Emily to not allow you to come.
The only message you got from Spencer for the entire duration of his prison sentence was the one where he explained.
“Everything between us never happened. Don’t come.”
You were never one to do what you were told. You weren’t allowed to go to Mexico with Emily to help get him out of there, but you made sure that you were allowed a visit to the State prison when he was transferred. The man you saw in front of you was changed, but he was still Spencer, and a little part of your heart ached when you saw that the life you had drained from his eyes that night was nowhere to be found still, permanently snuffed out.
You didn’t manage to talk that much that day, mostly focused on getting details from him to help find a way out of this sham sentence. You were fighting for that light. You managed to slip your hand into his on the way out, and for the longest minute, you thought about pressing your head up to meet his lips with your own one last time before they took him away.
The rest of his sentence was a blur of grief and confusion.
You had never thought about Spencer Reid romantically before he’d pinned you to a wall and kissed you in what might have been your best kiss to date. And yet now he was all that was consuming your thoughts.
In all fairness, he was all anyone in the BAU could think of at that point in time. You worked other cases, but all talked rarely, missing that final piece of the puzzle that was your teammate. You were sure that you were the only one who thought about him at night though, haunted by thoughts of what could have been if you weren’t so cowardly.
You came around to the thought of being with Spencer, selfishly. You worked harder because of it. You thought of finally throwing your arms around him when he was released, the whispers he would drop in your ears of thanks when he realized you’d been one of those to help free him.
His hands on your hips, his voice in your head, you rocked your hips slowly into a pillow thinking about him, wondering if he was treating his memories of you sparingly in prison, if the ghost of your body was enough comfort on lonely nights.
On the day Spencer was released from prison, you cried.
You sobbed is probably more accurate. The rest of your team gave you worrying looks, thinking back to your less than friendly relationship before this entire situation and wondering if this was just a breakdown that they had to watch out for.
You weren’t close enough to Spencer to have this much of a reaction.
He didn’t think so either, which is why he avoided you for two whole weeks after.
You called him, and he didn’t answer. He iced you out in the office on those rare occasions he was allowed to visit, still not a full member of the team yet, still in therapy.
You knew he didn’t answer texts, technology averted as he was, but you still tried that to no luck.
You had a single reply to every attempt to see him privately. After trailing him like a lost puppy for a week around the office, he had grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the elevator with him after hours one night.
“You don’t need to talk to me. We shouldn’t do this,” he said, relaxing his strong hold on you as you stared up at him, the space between you polite enough for coworkers but the atmosphere absolutely not. You could feel the lust dripping from his tongue even as he warned you away from him, you could see the way his hands twitched wanting to touch you.
The next night, ignoring his warning, you knocked on his door and invited yourself in.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, half-exhausted, half-anticipating, tension bouncing off his vocal cords, leaving his voice tight. He coughed as if that would help.
“I wanted to see you,” you sighed, somewhat unsure of what you were going to say as well, unsure of how this would play out. “I needed to see you.”
He waited for you to continue, obviously sure that your answer wasn’t thorough enough to justify your being there.
“Spencer, I made a mistake that night,” you admitted, the words dropping unhelpfully from your mouth, the shame of having to admit you were wrong weighing heavily on your shoulders.
“I missed you so much, it hurt. Do you know what that feels like, Spencer? It was hard to even breathe without you,” you shook with the words, feeling every word reverberate in the room around you.
“You said that we don’t work well together,” he said, unmoving as you stepped closer to him and grabbed his arms, trying to have him welcome you the way you wanted him too.
He couldn’t resist the temptation, hands sliding up your hips, cradling you while still trying to hold himself at arms length.
“I was wrong,” you said, feeling the bile in the back of your throat grow as your desperation did.
As if the spell was broken, Spencer took a step back.
“No,” he nearly yelled, controlling himself and then starting again. “No. You don’t get to just do that. I’m a different person now, I am- I am seriously fucked up, and you don’t even want this.”
“Don’t tell me what I want!” you yelled back, poking a finger at his chest as he backed away.
“You don’t get to decide to just kiss me with no warning, disappear and put us all through hell on earth for months on end, and then decide that you’re suddenly damaged goods,” you laughed slightly then, as he fell down onto his own couch, having let you gain more ground around him.
“You’re being a white knight again, Spencer. You’re not a fucking anti-hero.”
Climbing into his lap, you levelled your gaze with him as you sat, feeling his cock already straining in his pants as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Just use me,” you said, trying your best to keep your voice still, even as you wanted to whine and beg for him, to take his cock into your own hands and get the pleasure you’d been finding by yourself for months.
“You asked for this,” he said, nails digging into your side as he finally, once again, crashed his lips into yours.
The kiss was hot, and violent, a clash of two people fighting to be right. Physically, though, he was stronger, which you learnt as you tried to tangle your hands in his hair. Pinning your wrists behind your back, he held them there in one hand.
“Don’t fucking move,” he growled into your ear as you gyrated your hips against his, moaning pathetically in response.
In a second you found your positions switched, or at least you found yourself lower than you had been before.
Releasing you for a second, Spencer shoved you off his lap and onto the sofa itself, so you were sat on all fours across the two-seater.
Another nudge, and he’d pressed your head into a pillow, your ass remaining higher as he grabbed your hands out from under you and forced them back behind your back. It was an embarrassing position, your vision limited to everything to one side of the dark apartment, made only worse when he coaxed your pants and underwear down to your knees.
He worked his fingers into you first, not one, but two, small shallow thrusts that had you gasping for air. When you found that too satisfying, he sped up, getting harder and sharper, his other hand tightening it’s grip around your wrists enough to leave marks that you would find the next day.
“That’s it, slut,” he said as you cried out, fingers finally leaving your cunt as you approached your first denied orgasm. With those fingers, he teased your clit, pinching and stroking it in haphazard movements, enough to have you whining for your release again.
“You asked for this, so shut up and take it,” he growled out as a warning, just as you felt his cock against your ass. He tapped it against your already dripping and sore cunt once, then twice, then slid it in deep as you moaned.
His extra weight against you caused you to slip forward again, and he released your hands so you could hold yourself still for him. It wasn’t long, though, before his now free hands wound their way around your neck.
He tightened his grip there, adjusting it until it was just right, and you were clawing against his hand, cunt gripping his cock crazily, that he finally started thrusting into you.
His pace was hard, each inch entering you with a harsh slap of his balls against your ass. It was like the sound gave him ideas, as he began spanking you as well.
“That’s it,” he moaned into your ear as you scratched his hand again, begging for air even as the sensation made your cunt flutter and finally five out, spilling your cum across his couch. “You’re such a good little whore for me, making me so dirty.”
“I bet you thought about this, right? I was too nice for you before, because you wanted someone to use you like a fucking cum rag, right?”
“Spencer.” you moaned, the sound dampened by the lack of air. “Spencer, please-” you begged him for mercy, wanting to feel more of his cock inside of you.
“Shut up,” he groaned, his hand on your neck reaching up to cover your mouth instead, forcing two fingers inside, making you drool for him.
“Your cunt is so warm and tight. You’re so wet. You like being a slut so much, right?” he asked, hitting your ass harder when you were unable to answer.
“I’m going to fill you up with my cum. I’m going to use you,” he moaned, finally, wrapping his arms around your torso and pressing you down with his own body weight until all he could do was thrust into you deeply, unable to pull his cock too far out of your cunt because he was so enamored with the idea of being buried in you.
He rutted against you like a dog until, finally, with a twitch, his cock spurted inside of you.
It was over, and you were ecstatic. With a groan as his cock slipped out of you, you pushed yourself up and straddled the man again, wrapping your arms around him, thankful that he’d allowed you to use him like this. He didn’t hold you at all, focused on gaining back his breath, a hand over his eyes.
The spell was broken when he finally spoke.
“I think…” he said, sitting up and forcing you up with him, troubled at the contented and happy look on your face. “I think you should go.”
“What?” you whispered, not believing your ears.
“You should go. I gave you what you wanted, and now you should leave.”
“But-” you started, desperate to plead your case once again.
Spencer had already begun cleaning your things up, encouraging your pants back up your legs and buttoning them too, as you sat dumbfounded like a child.
“I need a fresh start,” he explained, avoiding your eyes, as he cleaned himself up too, pointedly ignoring the drops of cum that spoke to your previous actions. “I can’t hold onto the past anymore, especially with everything that has happened.”
“I’m… I’m your past.”
“You said it yourself. We wouldn’t be good together. I… I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t enjoy what we just did,” he said, making his words slow and calm so as not to betray the panic that he felt. “But it scares me just how much I enjoyed having total control of you.”
You wanted to protest, until you heard his whispered confession. “I could’ve killed you.”
You didn’t say another word, but picked up your things and left, still carrying the grief of what could have been along with you.
Spencer Reid x fem!Reader
Summary: Needing an extra helping hand, the BAU gets a transfer from another agency that seems to push every button Spencer has, until one day, she just doesn't anymore.
Warnings: SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI, soft-dom!Spencer, miscommunication/ lack of communication, case details mentioned, sexual harassment of reader in one scene by an unsub, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, slight cumplay, slight angst, oral (m receiving), dry-humping, etc.
A/N: This fic was supposed to be like 2k words, and now it is basically 8k because I am a sucker for useless plot and sex scenes that are longer than necessary, so without further ado, please enjoy <3
Oh and please let me know what you think in the comments and tags!
The Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI was used to many tense situations. Hostage situations, the first 24 hours of a kidnapping, international murders involving diplomats, and even mob-affiliated murders were easy to navigate compared to the absolute stalemate of the office.
Spencer Reid, resident genius, had been less than pleased to find himself teamed up with a second genius for the few weeks that JJ was going to be gone on leave. That wasn’t exactly true, he’d felt indifferent about the ordeal at first. But then he’d met you.
That wasn’t the stalemate though.
As Derek Morgan walked into the office that morning, he noticed something had changed. Though Reid and his partner - you, freshly on loan from the CIA - had seemingly been sitting in the office for around an hour before his arrival time, you hadn’t yet begun insulting one another.
“Did I miss something?” he asked Emily, throwing his back into his desk chair as the pair stared across the room, as if waiting for a bomb to go off any minute.
“They haven’t even looked at one another for the last half hour. Hotch is worried they’re finally at the end of the fuse and that we’re about to blow up,” she replied.
“Let’s hope they last one more case then,” Rossi said, sneaking up on the two from the bottom of the stairs. Everyone in the office was so focused on what was not happening between the two geniuses that they had so far neglected a lot of work, a trend over the past weeks.
As if queued by his senior, Hotch emerged from his office and called for his team's attention. “We have a case. Conference room, now” he said, catching the eye of Spencer and you first, holding it for a second longer there as if to say ‘Don’t pull anything stupid.’
While the rest of the members of the team took their time collecting things and getting ready to enter the office, you gathered everything you needed as quickly as possible, keeping your head down to avoid making eye contact with - well, with anyone. But specifically, with Spencer Reid.
Thankfully, as a transfer from another agency, you didn’t exactly have the freedom to acquire much desk junk. Your files were perfectly organised and alphabetised on your desk, in separate file holders based on case, location, and level of completion. You had one small notepad on your desk, along with three 2B pencils, a ball point pen, an eraser, and a ruler. Your desktop was similarly organised, and over the course of the last two months at the BAU, you’d taken it upon yourself to streamline the online file organisation system as much as the files themselves allowed.
Penelope Garcia could do with a computer things that you couldn’t even dream. She also, though, had been known on multiple occasions to name a file “FinishedFile_Real_Final_REALLYTHISTIME_3”
You mostly disagreed with the title of genius that had been placed on you by the BAU members at the beginning of your time there. You’d said a few words, and a raised eyebrow and a comparison was all that you needed to feel a burning resentment from a few paces away.
You still felt Spencer’s burning gaze now, desperately ignoring it as you climbed the stairs and quickly took your temporary seat at the table.
Once everyone gathered, Penelope began.
“This one is not pretty, but they rarely are, please view the pictures on your tablets, as I will not be showing that on the big screen when my lunch break is half an hour away-”
You listened as well as you could to the case details, looking through the files yourself as the meeting continued. You were about to ship out anyway, and you’d learn the case details again when you got to wherever it was you were going. So your mind drifted.
It would only be a week or so now before JJ returned, and you were glad though you’d never met her. Another agent had been in charge of preparing all your training and helping you find your role in the team, and Emily had filled in most of your gaps even though you were technically assigned to Doctor Spencer Reid.
Spencer.
You thought back to your first meeting with him, your first day at the FBI. You blamed a lack of sleep and a lack of understanding when it came to how you actually were meant to converse with coworkers for everything that happened that day.
“Excuse me, is this the Behavioral Analysis Unit? I was told that I would be meeting an Agent Reid here to begin my training,” you’d asked tentatively at the edge of the room, noting the large offices above your head and the crammed desks on the main floor.
You wondered which one would be yours.
“Doctor Reid?” the voice asked back, more startled than you, and you assumed that he was actually a regular worker. “Not Hotchner or Morgan? Rossi? Prentiss?”
With every shake of your head, the man grew more astounded.
“I’m surprised they’re letting him talk to people,” he mumbled under his breath, but it was something you heard nonetheless, and you grew apprehensive about this too good to be true job opportunity.
“He’s probably at his desk,” the man shrugged, gesturing vaguely near the stairs, before walking away from you completely. You couldn’t even thank him. You wouldn’t have, to be clear, but now you could blame it on his own rudeness instead of yours.
Luckily, the next person you asked for help was Emily Prentiss.
“Oh yes, hi. Spencer just stepped out of the office for a minute, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
She showed you your desk, logged you into their system, paged Reid, and then let you have time to unpack your few belongings before Reid arrived.
“You’re late,” was the first thing he’d said to you. “You were supposed to be here at 10:45. It’s 11:30.”
He was panting slightly, as quietly as he could, hands on his hips as he looked down at you, towering as he was.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the agent from the CIA? And you’re late.”
A few people stood by to watch, suddenly needing to photocopy something urgently at the nearest printer, or to ask a colleague at a nearby desk a question. Or just a quick stretch.
“No. No, I'm not,” you replied coolly. You realized quickly that wasn’t the best response, but before you could open your mouth to reply, you locked eyes with the man above you.
It was like lightning. You saw the instant dislike in his eyes, and recognized it as a look you were probably making at the same time. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive. It was just the overwhelming sense of superiority that stunk on him at that second.
He thought he was right, and though he wasn’t, you disliked the overconfidence.
“Doctor Reid, presumably?” you asked, and he nodded, and you stood, trying to squash the distance and superiority that height gave him.
“Agent Prentiss tells me that you just got back from a case last night. You were in Puerto Rico for an assignment, correct?”
The man grimaced, and you returned it, noticing that even after standing up he had a handful of inches on you. Irksome.
“You are still almost an hour late.”
“No, I’m 15 minutes early,” you said, grabbing his wrist and pulling it so you could see his watch. You smiled, and took a breath to relax. “Your clock is still set to Atlantic Standard Time. You’re running an hour ahead, Doctor.”
A deep red spread across the tips of his ears, made only more notable by the way he ran his hands through his hair. You wondered if he’d recently had a large trim, but quickly shook the thought from your mind. You had a weakness for a man with long hair, and you didn’t even want to entertain the idea of this man being your ideal type for even a second longer.
He composed himself, handed you some documents, and pointed you towards Hotchner’s office all before the blush could dissipate, but it was enough for the rumours.
You had challenged the pet genius of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and come out on top (give or take a few inches). A rivalry had begun.
Spencer had watched you walk up the steps while holding his breath. He wondered how still he would have to stand for his coworkers to forget he was there. You took five steps, and then turned around, satisfied that you were now finally above Spencer Reid.
“Doctor Reid?” you called out, knowing that once you dropped the gauntlet there was no way to pick it back up again. You may as well have fun with it.
“I look forward to helping you out for the next few weeks. It seems as though you need it.”
You mentally scolded yourself remembering that moment.
It seems as though you need it, you thought. Really?
It had been satisfying at that moment, of course, but it had come back to haunt you weeks in. You’d found yourself in the midst of a challenge with the good doctor, of who could solve a case first. Mostly who could be the most helpful to the other.
You’d reorganised all the files in the BAU’s folder (with permission), and he’d found crucial undigitalized documents that had helped solve a string of copy-cat murders in Chicago.
You had connected the dots between a local kidnapping and a human-trafficking ring, and he had ever so graciously tracked down three cases in the FBI system that were unsolved but could now be definitively connected.
You interviewed a possible suspect in a sexual sadism murder case leading to an admission of guilt and an arrest, he shot the guy when he’d pulled a knife on you as you were getting your handcuffs.
You still weren’t entirely sure if he was aiming for you or not.
For nearly two months, the BAU was reporting productivity hereto unknown. And you still made sure to talk to him primarily from higher ground.
The problem with hating a coworker, though, was that he was always there. A further problem with your situation, too, was so was everyone else.
“Are you listening?” a voice to your right asked, as you felt a nudge against your leg from the left.
“Wheel’s up in 30,” Hotch said, keeping his eyes on you for a minute before flickering to Spencer. Your eyes were fixed forward, though, to where Reid was sitting, the direction of your nudge from earlier.
He was ever so helpful.
You realized that you’d done what you’d promised you wouldn’t do that day, which was look at him. You’d wondered if you could even go as far as to not acknowledge him, but realized that was likely too obvious.
So now the eye-contact that you’d promised to prohibit was ruined, and you were stuck leveling a look across the table at his soft brown eyes.
‘Soft?’ you scolded yourself, eyes twitching but not looking away, somewhat entranced.
You felt other eyes on you as you kept your eyes locked with his, your coworkers trickling out of the room as you sat frozen.
Slowly, eventually, Spencer pushed his chair back and slowly rose to a standing position. He was far enough away that you didn’t have to crane your neck, but close enough that you felt small just comparatively.
“Don’t be late,” he whispered quickly as he walked past you and out of the door.
Most of the cases you’d worked together followed the same pattern.
Aaron Hotchner wasn’t stupid, and he knew exactly how to push his team members to get the best results. Luckily, you and Spencer did most of the pushing for him.
You’d been partnered up to explore crime scenes from that first day, where you’d taken a local arson case.
“You don’t do field work with the CIA, correct?” Spencer had asked you as soon as the two of you were alone. It was like he was grilling a suspect instead of a coworker.
“Not usually, though it was a part of my training.”
He nodded and pulled on a pair of gloves, his shoes already covered to prevent crime scene contamination. You followed suit.
“So what do you see?” He asked, wondering if you’d miss anything that he already knew.
“I think we’re dealing with someone that knows fire department procedure, but not someone in the service themself.”
He frowned at that, but asked you to elaborate.
“The fire was started with an accelerant and a lighter found on the scene. But not a quick spreading or high burning one like gas. Nothing that could cause an explosion, or even a death.”
“There was a death at the last fire, though,” he said, probing you again.
“Which would suggest that our unsub was progressing. If he meant to kill that victim, we could expect to have another body here, even more. Instead, we have a smaller fire than last time.”
“Why don’t you think that this one just didn’t work? That he meant for this to be bigger but the fire department reacted quicker than he thought.”
“Why do you keep referring to the unsub with male pronouns?” you asked.
Smugly, he replied. “Statistically, men account for over 90% of known arson cases, that figure increasing when we take into account-”
“But the fire marshal for this building is a woman. The same woman who is a fire marshal for the last two fire locations.”
With a jolt, Spencer took a step back, stared at you for a second, and immediately pulled his phone out to call Hotch.
Your consultations on that case ended quickly, but you’d been equally combative on cases across the country.
You didn’t bother trying to get along with him in front of local PDs or even suspects. It was almost a new interrogation technique. Putting the two of you in a room with an unsub, and seeing who had the most problems.
Spencer had grown used to a certain level of comfort in the FBI, especially having been on the same team in the same role for so long. Of course he was challenged on his ideas regularly, but somehow when you did it, it was different.
It wasn’t exactly combative. You weren’t throwing around insults or threatening each other. It was more deeply heated debates, opinions thrown back and forth and a solid refusal to admit that either of you were wrong that caught you up. In conclusion you were both stubborn.
You somehow managed an entire flight without speaking to anyone, listening quietly while everyone else threw theories around. Everybody but Spencer.
He had similarly holed himself up in a corner, almost as if the two of you had agreed to ignore each other, which was impossible because the two of you would agree on nothing.
Quietly, your teammates placed bets on which of you would come out of this one triumphant. When it came to case wins, you were a week away from the end of the job and everything was tied up. 5-5.
You knew about the bets because the jet wasn’t exactly big, and Morgan wasn’t exactly quiet about winning. You wondered if some of that natural arrogance had rubbed off on Spencer somewhere. He certainly looked up to the man. If it was arrogance he’d gotten from Morgan, it was his communication skills he’d gotten from Hotch. His cards were always close to his chest. You had no doubt that this team had raised him. This was his family, and you were the side character for a week or two; his problem to overcome.
He’d certainly overcome you in the last case or two, though you’d done your best to forget as much of it as you could.
Landing in Nevada, you ignored again that he was now on home turf. You ignored his coworkers asking after his mother, you ignored the prickling feeling of his eyes on you, you ignored the curiosity you had about his younger years, about discovering more about him, and climbed into the car, letting yourself be carried to your new precinct.
Reaching the car before the others, you shut the door, shutting your eyes and allowing yourself a few minutes peace on the tarmac before the blurring voices got closer, became more distinct. The driver door opened first, and someone climbed in, but to your surprise, your door opened, too.
You looked up at Spencer again, his head ducking down as he made to sit where you were. He looked surprised too for a minute. The seats in the car filled up, but you silently stared up at Spencer, wondering if this would start another argument, even if you were both past that now. Even if no one was paying attention to you anymore.
Instead, he quietly reached over you, and clicked your seatbelt into place.
You could’ve sworn you felt a breath in your ear, the phantom of his lips against your skin. You could almost convince yourself that he had muttered an apology.
You knew that he had nothing to apologize for in the end. The mistake was all yours to own.
After 7 cases with the BAU, you thought you had settled in nicely. You were instrumental in solving cases, and had delivered a number of scathing set downs to Spencer Reid. They seemed like polite corrections to others, but to him, every time you talked was like you poking a knife in his side.
He scowled at you and was sharp with his words. He enjoyed nothing more than poking back at you with his own taunts.
You were on assignment at a prison, stuck together mid-week while you processed information and interviewed inmates that had finally agreed to be a part of BAU’s research files in return for leniency and better treatment inside.
Due to your nagging and biting at each other, however, no other team member had wanted to go with the two of you.
“I’m not a babysitter, Hotch,” Morgan had shook his head when asked, crying off with the blessed excuse of a court date.
Rossi’s birthday was coming up, so he had his own inmates to prepare for.
Emily was suddenly busy getting information from an Interpol contact she knew about an old case, and Hotch couldn’t leave the team behind in case an important case came in.
Really, there was no one else to go with the two of you, and so the problem solved itself.
If there was no one to accompany you, then no one would.
It wasn’t as if you wouldn’t get the job done. Your constant squabbling on cases had increased productivity by around 150%. Not one member of the team had worked overtime since you’d begun your rivalry, the both of you willing to pick up extra slack in the team to prove yourselves more useful than the other.
You were each given the file, a company card, specially prepared credentials, and a car key, and you were told to drive yourself to a prison one state over to get to work.
“I’ll drive,” Spencer had said, grabbing your bag from your hand and packing it into the back with his own as you seethed quietly. It was fine. You didn’t like driving anyway, and you knew he didn’t either.
You’d made your way practically silently along the highway, stopping off now and then to use amenities. You both took turns driving, reading the case files in the meantime until you finally arrived.
It was when you finally arrived that you realised that you had overestimated yourself.
You’d mainly worked behind the scenes during your cases up to that point, not interacting a lot with the unsubs apart from the one time one had almost made you a victim. You’d been somewhat more safe in the larger numbers of your team, not the only woman around, and almost protected by the experience of the other men.
This prison was different.
Even as you were greeting the prison staff, you noticed the looks they were giving you, almost concerned and unsure. You wanted to prove yourself, but they looked at you as if you were the sacrificial virgin about to be given up to an angry god. You knew who you were about to talk to. You had read the file more than once, and, though it irked you, you were mainly just there to take notes and assist Spencer with his interview.
You had instead found yourself the centre of attention for the prisoner.
He had murdered and killed a number of women, violating them both before and after. It was a miscalculation to send you into that, and Hotch had later regretted the decision.
“Who is this? What a beautiful girl,” he had started, hands on the table, relaxed even though you noticed they were cuffed together by a somewhat relaxed set of chains. You had watched him walk in, noting the chains were wrapped around his ankles as well.
The chains were attached to the table, the table was fastened to the floor, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Still, bile rose in your throat.
“My name is Doctor Spencer Reid, this is my colleague, we’re here today from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct an interview-”
“What’s her name?” the prisoner asked, addressing Spencer but staring at you, his body still relaxed.
“We’re here from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct a research interview. Please state your name for the record.”
He did so, irked slightly, but continued. “She’s pretty.”
Spencer brushed the man off, but he sat up a little straighter in his chair. The guards behind the prisoner moved toward the door and took their spot opposite the prisoner once again. You tried to relax as best you could, looking down at files and organizing your materials so you could avoid eye contact. You didn’t want to avoid eye contact, but there was no way you could look at the monster in front of you without flinching.
Spencer began asking questions, and though you had agreed to ask some yourself, Spencer quickly took charge of the situation, and you found yourself thankful that he wasn’t making you interact any more than you had to.
“Why isn’t she talking to me?” the prisoner asked again, pricking your ears with the desperation in his voice.
“My colleague is just here to observe, she is not an interviewer and she isn’t qualified to ask questions.”
“I want her to ask me questions,” the man pouted, almost childlike, as he slipped his hands off the desk, leaning back.
“No-”
“It’s okay,” you said quietly, cursing your voice for the rasp that came out. “I can take over a few questions from here.”
You continued the interview for a few more questions, and part of you felt your confidence growing by the minute. He was responding well to you, you were doing well, you hadn’t stuttered once since your first line.
But just as you were about to ask for your final question, you felt a hand grip your wrist tightly, another wrapping around your eyes as you were quickly pulled from your seat and from the room entirely, Spencer leading you out as the guards began shouting orders at the prisoner inside the room.
“Spencer!” you gasped as he pulled you into a free space, not private but not anywhere near guards or prisoners. He released his hand from your eyes, but kept ahold on your wrist.
“Are you okay?” he gasped, chest heaving with urgency, scanning your face for any signs of hurt or injury.
“Yes? What happened, I was about to finish the last question. One more minute and I would’ve been done,” you groaned. You couldn’t help the annoyance in your voice. Even if you didn’t want to be in that room one more second, and that Spencer likely had a damn good reason for dragging you away.
“He was… under the table, he had revealed himself, and he was about to-” he struggled to find the words as the situation dawned on you. “He was taking pleasure in talking about the past, and I just wanted to get you out of there. It doesn’t bode well to let them revel in their crimes.”
“Oh,” you muttered, suddenly defeated. “Oh. Thank you?”
You didn’t say much else, letting him lead you back to the guards areas, collecting your things to drive once more.
You sat quiet and still in the passenger seat on the way back. It shouldn’t have been any different than the drive on the way there, still silent, but it was.
Arriving back in Virginia, Spencer took mercy on you and drove you straight to your own house instead of making you drop the vehicle back at Quantico. You were a little blurry, even though you hadn’t slept, and didn’t even realize as he opened your car door and led you out.
He carried your back, clutching your hand in his as he guided you to your door.
You vaguely heard him asking you for your key, and you pressed it into his hand.
The next time you truly became conscious was when he was about to leave.
“Can you… Could you just stay for a minute?” you said, taking a seat on your couch and looking up at him with pleading eyes.
You didn’t want to beg him to stay. You didn’t want him looking down on you, pitying you again. But he sank down to his knees and rubbed a quiet thumb over your knuckles as you closed your eyes and let yourself relax on the couch, until you fell asleep.
When you reached your final crime scene as a member of the BAU, you were happy to find that this was as straightforward a case as you could get for your last.
You’d heard stories about big cases, emotional ones, that had inspired members of the team in previous years to finally let go of the team, and you were thankful that you didn’t have to go out with a bang.
You’d simply finish, and that would be that. You would wash your hands of Spencer Reid, and the team that was watching the both of you, confused.
You worked on the case for the later hours of the day, going through old crime scene footage, Hotch and Prentiss heading out to a current one. You’d been stuck on file duty, working closely with Garcia on conference calls to get your job done.
When you finally retired to your motel room, Spencer was waiting outside for you.
Quietly, you let him in.
You showered, you washed your hair and your body. You let the steam and heat from the shower wash away all the stress of the day. You left the shower, and he was still there even though his room was down the hall.
He had already showered, having spent some time in the field earlier, returning before you.
You finished and, wordlessly, tucked yourself into his side, already spread out on the bed. Without saying a word, you shut your eyes, feeling him wrap himself around you, and slept.
You weren’t sure why you let it happen. It wasn’t exactly the first time either. You just knew that, without talking, Spencer was comfortable and warm, and he made you feel safer.
He’d found you in your room for the last three cases, sat by you for every case since that interview. Sometimes you just held hands, other times he held you against him. He hadn’t gone further than that, though you desperately wished he would. But you couldn’t say that to him, because that was the one unspoken rule.
You didn’t communicate.
When you did, it became a competition, and that wasn’t what these moments were for.
You were quite impressed though, that none of your teammates had noticed so far. Spencer was always gone by 4am, and you’d had your own rooms on the last two cases, so there was no one monitoring his presence in his hotel rooms. Everyone thought you hated each other, though you awoke each day to him tearing himself away from you, a hard presence pushing subconsciously between your thighs as he dreamt of you before he came back to his senses.
You woke up aching for him, not platonically at all.
You were using him like an emotional support toy, a child’s stuffed animal that you refused to part from, even if it was hideously past retirement, and you were old enough to comfort yourself.
This was your last case with the BAU, and even though you hated Spencer Reid, you wanted him badly.
The case continued in the morning, the way most cases had, and you found yourself more lethargic than usual. Your mood had taken a turn, just like your attitude to Reid had in the last few weeks, and you tried your best not to mourn the time you’d wasted being angry at him, for what could have been.
Meanwhile, the other members of the BAU grew frustrated as well. There had been no leads on the case, no breakthroughs where there usually were. When working, you and Spencer had gravitated to opposite sides of any building or job. You were both working, both trying your best, but not challenging each other anymore.
You spent two weeks in that tiny precinct, avoiding one another in the day and gripping each other as close as you could at night until the case was finally finished.
A slip up by the unsub had led your other teammates to an arrest. The both of you were left with a tied up score, your shared indifference to competition resolving itself.
To say that you and Spencer had never conversed about your situation was technically false.
The day after your interview, you’d woken up in bed, where Spencer had led you half asleep about an hour after you’d requested his continued presence. He was there beside you, still holding your hand, but softer in sleep.
Not that he’d been harsh on you at all the day before.
As if he could feel his eyes on you, Spencer had woken. You thought about pretending to be asleep for a minute longer, to see what he would do. But exhaustion and curiosity kept your eyes open.
“Good morning,” you whispered, letting your head rest comfortably next to his on the pillows, legs only just not touching. His hand squeezed yours once in greeting, still not detangling as he came to.
“Good morning,” he answered. “What time is it?”
“6am. We have some time before we have to go to work.”
He nodded and closed his eyes again for a moment, laying flat on his back and raising his other arm to cover his eyes, avoiding the light streaming through your windows.
You looked at him, almost overcome, and climbed over him, letting his hand fall as you laid your head on his chest and wrapped your arms around his neck.
He moved slightly to accommodate you, hands startled for the moment, unsure of what to do before he rested them innocently on your back.
“We should get up and go,” he whispered quietly, even as you shook your head and buried it in his neck now, his hands slipping lower as he petted your lower back.
“I don’t want to,” you said, moaning slightly. You didn’t know how true those words were until your words continued as your brain stopped. “I don’t want to fight with you. I want to stay like this. This is nice, and it’s comfortable.”
Lifting your head, you searched his face to see how he reacted to your words.
It was like he was troubled.
“We still have to work,” he said, pushing a hair behind your ear as you pouted.
“I know,” you said.
“And you’re… you’re really not that comfortable with me at all. This is just-”
“I know,” you said. Before he said anything else, you leaned down and claimed his mouth. It was soft, a slight pressure. He could have missed it if you weren’t the only thing taking up space in his mind at that time. He was a genius, but at that moment he was a fool.
You pulled away, a little ashamed, as he broke eye contact and looked away. Understanding, you made to climb off of him, but he gripped your hips and made you stay.
Still he said nothing, and so you waited, growing angry. Sitting up himself after a few minutes, Spencer pressed his lips to your cheek, as if placating a child, and then gently slid you off of his lap, and went on with his day.
That was the end of your communication on the subject. But you’d felt him.
You’d felt the way his hands had gripped your skin as if he didn’t want to let go. You’d felt his cock hard between his legs, desperate for release. You’d felt him stroke his hand across your arms as he had left your bed, denying himself of the pleasure you were begging him to take.
You raged against him for the next two cases, growing angrier after he climbed back into your bed at night, especially when he refused to touch you as you wanted to be touched. He had told you no, out of some chivalric misunderstanding of your emotions.
You knew about transference, and this may be that, but you made the decision to involve yourself with Spencer Reid the moment you’d begun hating him. You wanted him to comfort you, because you were so, so tired, and so was he, but he wouldn’t even do that.
And so for your last case, you avoided him, defeated.
The entire team congratulated you as soon as you touched down from your final mission. It was almost as if you were retiring, leaving this place behind.
You supposed they were just happy to be losing a member without a gunshot wound or a mental breakdown, or a forced transfer.
Spencer stood off to the side, but when it came time to gather your things, he helped you pack up.
He handed you your pencils as you carefully packed them into your box, he wiped the nonexistent dust from your monitor as you climbed under the desk to unplug your laptop. When everyone else left ahead of you, promising to meet you the following night for a goodbye meal, he carried your box out to your car, took your car keys and drove you home.
You weren’t sure what to say when you pulled up, so you climbed out of the car first, and moved to his side of the car, closing his door shut when he started to open it. Confused, he rolled down the window, as you leaned down over him and kissed him a second time.
This kiss was significantly heavier than your first. You gripped the back of his head to keep him from pulling away, though it seemed clear that he wouldn’t do that as he kissed back just as fiercely. You thought you would be locked there forever, desperately trying to take control of that second kiss, trying to communicate the months of shared frustration like it was another argument.
You finally pulled away, but he grabbed and held your hand again as you both caught your breath, both neither in or out of the car.
“I just wanted… I think…” you gasped, brain muddled by the intensity of his stare, the sad look in his eyes.
“Let me come in,” he asked, cutting you off. “Please.”
You nodded and opened the door for him, silently closing it as you stared at one another. Feeling slightly ashamed, you looked down at the ground as you carried yourself to your door and then inside, the sound of his footsteps behind you enough to know that he was following.
You opened the door, throwing your keys into the dish near your door, leaving it open so he could follow, all without looking back.
You unlaced your shoes, taking them carefully off before making your way to the kitchen. You poured yourself a cup of water, drinking it carefully, as you heard the door shut carefully behind you.
In another second, there were hands on your hips, encouraging you to turn, then encouraging you up onto the countertop of your kitchen.
Spencer stood between your legs, and the few inches afforded you by the counters was enough to level your gazes.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, hands on either side of your legs, refusing to touch you first.
Stubbornly, as if you couldn’t help it, you kept your mouth shut, just staring into his eyes defiantly.
“Tell me what you want,” he said again, a little more forcefully, his brows slightly furrowing. “We don’t work together anymore, and enough time has passed since- since this started that I think we can finally have a clear conversation about this, but you need to tell me what you want before I take what I want.”
“I was pretty clear about what I wanted. Before,” you said, raising a hand to his chest, unsure if you wanted to push him away or take a fishful of his shirt and pull him closer.
“You weren’t clear, you haven’t ever been clear,” he said, a hand raking through his hair in frustration.
“You weren’t exactly an open book either, Spencer.”
“It’s- I couldn’t back then, it wouldn’t have been fair,” he said, a pang of regret straining his voice.
“You can now,” you whispered, stroking a hand up and around his neck as he leaned closer.
“For how long?” he asked, lips so close to yours they brushed your cheek with every murmur.
You surged forward, unable to answer, pressing your legs around him and your lips against him as you pushed further and further into him.
Every frustration with him came to the surface and you channeled it into your movements, matching his frustrated raking of your skin. His hands pushed eagerly into your soft flesh, pushing your shirt as far up as it could go before being hindered by your buttons.
His teeth bit into your lip as you bickered in your touches, small whines and groans echoing through the tiny kitchen.
He pulled you away, craning down over you as you both stumbled to the bedroom, neither willing to give up the ground you had conquered.
His hands lifted up again, this time to rip your godforsaken shirt apart, the buttons too taxing now for him to focus on. Pushing you down against the bed, his hands found your breasts, cupping them entirely as he kissed down your naval, only coming away to rid himself of his own shirt.
When his mouth found you again, it was lower, claiming a nipple in his mouth as you gripped your own bedsheets, each moan a plea to move faster.
He instead took his time, a hand slid down from your chest to your underwear, leaving you clothed though wet from the anticipation. He stroked a single digit against your wet and aching clit, as if cooing at an apprehensive cat, slowly winding you up, up, up until you shuddered your pleasure. Only then did he kiss your lips again and slide his hands away.
You made to push your bottoms off, sure that now he would wish to enter you, but he grabbed and held your hands in place above your head. A small nudge had you falling to the floor, landing unceremoniously on your knees, as your hands stayed loosely pinned above you, held by a single hand.
His cock bobbed in his pants, and slowly, working with one hand, he released it from its place. You needed no further instruction, licking up the underside of his shaft as it hit your face, before wrapping your lips around the tip and pushing it down your throat.
You got three inches deep, slowly taking more so as not to gag, before coming back up for air. You alternated deeper and shallower strokes, making sure to watch his face as you pleasured him, looking up at his eyes as he came apart above you. He pushed one leg between your thighs as you continued to suck him, and you took the opportunity he gave freely, rubbing your clothed cunt against him like a bitch in heat.
Before he could cum, he quickly pulled out, wrapping two hands warmly about you and pressing you into the bed again.
He finally undressed you both, and, resting his forehead against your own, pushed into you.
He surrounded you, keeping eye contact as he pushed himself all the way into your body, not stopping even as you moaned and clawed at his skin, desperate for the deep contact he was providing.
“How long?” he asked again, holding himself still inside of you, teasing one nipple as he demanded an answer once more. “How long can I hold you like this? Just today? Until you find someone else? Until you move on and forget all about how comfortable this feels, how nice it is to have me next to you, inside you?”
It was all you could do to moan in answer, let alone give him the answer he wanted.
He began with shallow pumps, eyes still locked with yours, even as yours squinted shut in pleasure, your body pulsing with the charge of electricity between you.
“Don’t-” you cried, trying to answer as he pushed into you harder, deeper.
“Don’t what? Don’t fuck you? Don’t cum inside you? Don’t claim you?”
“Don’t stop-” you gasped out as he began stroking a thumb against your clit, spitting on it as he did so, loosening you up as you began to shake again through another orgasm.
“Good,” he said. “That’s a start, good girl.”
Dropping your pinned hands, he gripped your knees and pressed them back, letting his cock sit shallowly in your cunt as he changed your angle. You didn’t argue, you couldn't as your arms stayed obediently above your head, exactly where you’d left them.
He pushed in again, the new angle urging a string of curses to drop from your lips as he pressed in harder. He sped up, and you lost your breath so fast that all you could hear was the sounds of your bodies meeting, not even your heartbeat distracting you from listening to the sounds of your pleasure.
“How long do I have you?” Spencer asked again, his voice tight as he climbed towards his pleasure. “How long?”
“For as long as you want,” you gasped, watching his face fall apart above you, sweat trickling down his forehead, running down his chest and meeting the flash of hair where his body joined to yours.
You tightened around him, aroused by the simple sight of him as you tipped over the edge, and he fell with you. Gripping your knees tight and pushing his chest forward again so that the two of you were face to face again, he forced his cock as far inside you as it could go, and emptied himself.
His forehead rested against yours as your legs stiffened, twitching with the aftershocks of your fucking.
He peeled himself away, pulling slowly out, so as not to dirty your sheets with his semen, before dropping a kiss to your lips.
“You’re mine,” he said, standing above you, organizing the pillows at the head of your bed as he propped you up.
Instead of following his silent commands to lay and rest, you propped yourself up on your knees on the bed, wrapped your arms around his neck in a surprise attack, and dragged him back down with you.
If you were to replace your work arguments with more stimulating activities, it only seemed right that you should come out on top once in a while, and on top is where you meant to be now.
A day later, when the weekend finally came and you had managed to stay off one another long enough to get ready and leave for your final meal with the BAU, you figured that by now, the team must have some clue of what was going on between the two of you.
Quietly, you made a bet outside the restaurant, settled in the car you’d shared to the venue.
“I think Hotch knew. He had to, to have sent us off together so many times,” Reid bargained
“I’ll take that bet. I think they all see you as a kid still though, or at least as someone a little… inexperienced.”
“And was I?” he asked, grabbing your hand in his and kissing it.
“Hmm?”
“Inexperienced?”
You thought for a second, trying not to flush with heat.
“Are you asking me if I think you have been with other women before, Reid?” you asked, irked by just the suggestion, already possessive and territorial, even if this had only really started the day before.
“Jealous?” he smirked, and you scoffed, leaning into his ear and whispering something so that only he could hear it.
“Let’s talk about that later at my place,” you said, gently leaning in to kiss his lips quickly, leaving him wanting. “Let’s see what you remember of those experiences after that.”
When you entered the door together, you got a number of awkward looks from your teammates, all of whom thought it best that you didn’t sit together.
But Spencer quietly took a chair out for you, and you thanked him with a smile, before he sat directly next to you, letting a hand rest on your thigh.
With a curse, everyone on the team began taking out cast from their wallets, and handing it over to Rossi.
“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, even though it was pretty clear.
“Three months, $400 worth of bets, and the only one I took part in was this: you two were definitely going to end up doing the Devil’s Tango.”
You both looked at each other and laughed, even as the sounds of a lot of money changing hands soundtracked the moment.
“When did you even make that wager? We knew about the other bets, but those were all on cases,” you asked, suddenly curious about when you’d started getting obvious about your affection for one another.
“Did you see Spencer heading to my room at the motel?” you asked, which led to a raised eyebrow.
“No, but you can regale us with that tale later. We made this bet on your first day. When you told Spencer you looked forward to helping him out, I knew it was a little friendlier than it needed to be, if you catch my drift.”
With every shocked gaze on you, you had only a moment to feel shame before the table - or more realistically, Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia - erupted with questions.
Summary: You end up in a couple of tight situations with Spencer, and he decides that the body language you're displaying is an obvious sign of claustrophobia rather than a desperately horrible case of sexual attraction.
Warnings: smut, 18+, shower sex, unprotected sex, sexual frustration, fingering, minimal foreplay etc.
Masterlist
Spencer Reid was a budding anthropologist.
To be clear, he was very much a physicist, a mathematician, an engineer, a Supervisory Special Agent, and many other things. But he reasoned that a Bachelor’s Degree in a subject only cleared him to be someone who dabbled in anthropology.
And anthropology told him that you were hiding something. He had studied human behavior for years, and he had some qualms about using his knowledge as a profiler against his friends and colleagues - it wasn’t nice to psychoanalyse each other, he had been told many a time - he felt that certain scientific observations needed some further study.
Take, for example, the observation of societal reactions to small or tight spaces. While Spencer knew for a fact that many people had a fear of small, enclosed spaces, also known as claustrophobia, he knew you were not one of those people.
And yet, here you were, squashed against his side in a packed elevator, displaying a heightened heart rate, higher body temperature, and flashes of discomfort only otherwise present in those with the fear.
You’d gotten onto the elevator happily enough, he’d noted. There was no trepidation or avoidance. You hadn’t once suggested taking the stairs instead. But on the second floor, a crowd of people had gotten in, and you’d been left pressed so tightly against Spencer’s chest that he could measure your pulse no problem.
Struggling to find something to comfort you in your distress, Spencer settled for a hand on your back, wrapping it around you to keep you from bumping into any more people. Morgan had already told him that elevator death statistics rarely comforted those stuck in and/or using them, and he didn’t want to alert the elevator full of FBI agents that you were in any form of distress.
Touching you, however, almost made it worse. He noted a second spike in your pulse, before you began measuring your breathing slightly more so it would calm down.
He wanted to help; he surely did, but there was only one more floor before you both reached the BAU, and before he could think of anything truly comforting to say, you’d pushed through the crowd of people and started walking to your desk as if nothing in the world was wrong.
He almost missed the beat of your heart as you walked away.
From that day on, Spencer made it his mission to figure out if you were struggling with claustrophobia or rather with something more akin to enochlophobia, a fear of crowds.
It was rather lucky then that after a few days again, you found yourselves both back in an elevator, though this one was much less crowded. Spencer was almost disappointed that he couldn’t test both variables at once to repeat the pattern of the first observation, but luck was on his side when, after all the other inhabitants of the elevator alighted on their work floors, the elevator decided to break down with only the two of you left on it.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you said, shutting your eyes in silent defeat as the elevator lights switched themselves off.
“I guess the power just went out,” Spencer said, moving a step or two closer to you to buzz the alarm, and noting the way you flattened your back against the wall to avoid him further.
After notifying the building maintenance again, he stopped and stayed near you.
“Statistically, this won’t take too long, the-”
“Spencer, if you start telling me facts about elevator breakdowns, I’m going to have a breakdown myself.”
Nodding quickly, he wisely shut his mouth, but he didn’t attempt to move back. As the next floor doors were pried open by firefighters a few moments later (the perks of a job at Quantico, expedited rescues), he stepped further into your personal space.
You couldn’t escape him without completely obviously swerving to the opposite side of the elevator, which might be dangerous considering the quick repair work that was happening on it, so you instead tried your best to hold your breath and die.
It was better than letting your mind run away with the thought - the tempting, very detailed, and somewhat scary thought - of Spencer pinning you against the wall and doing whatever the hell he wanted with your body.
There was a certain level of detail your mind went to after the boundary of personal space had been crossed, and unluckily for you, Spencer was crossing it a lot these days. You were left feeling absolutely, devastatingly horny, with an aftertaste of guilt from thinking these things about your coworker.
“Could you-” you coughed, trying to free your voice from any squeaks. “Could you step back a bit?”
The Spencer in your horny brain would’ve pinned your hands above your head and asked you if you really meant that, which of course you didn’t, you wanted to feel his hands all over you.
The real Spencer seemed to take this instead as confirmation of your fear, and backed up immediately, staying as still as a wildlife rescuer trying to calm a shaking abandoned puppy.
If only you were shaking in fear and not months of accidental sexual tension turned up to the max.
You were surprised that Spencer himself hadn’t noticed how you desired him carnally. You couldn’t hold his eye contact, and you wouldn’t even let yourself brush against him in fear that you would say something embarrassingly true. You thought these to be pretty easily defined as measures of one with unwanted sexual desires.
Spencer, however, went with enochlophobia.
“You two good down there?” Emily yelled from her perch on the floor just above you, comfortably situated between the firefighters who were currently putting a hold in the door to help you shimmy out of it.
“We need you two to get out of there quickly. We have a case in Atlanta. Wheels up in 30,” she said, reaching a hand down for your bags as the firefighters urged you to grab onto them so they could lift you.
A sudden wave of relief washed over you. Work! Real, true, and honest work to distract yourself with. A case where you could escape impure thoughts for the time being would be perfect.
You must’ve enjoyed the moment a second too long, though, as Spencer once again flooded your senses.
With a hand on your hip, chaste and purely platonic from anyone else's perspective, Spencer encouraged you forward, to meet the reach of the team of firefighters.
“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low and hot in your ear. He was probably giving himself a pat on the back for comforting you. “You’re doing great, just hang in there.”
Helping to send your bags up to Emily, he reached around you, his chest hitting your back, his entire body crowding yours once again near the edge of the space.
Every touch felt electric, and you wished to god it did not. You let the team of firefighters drag you out of the hole you were physically in, even as you sank further into the one you were in mentally.
After confirming his suspicions, Spencer took it upon himself to be your silent protector. If you’d had any clue that was what he was doing, you’d have definitely thought it cute.
Instead, you were just on edge whenever he so much as breathed in your direction.
He sat next to you on the jet, going so far as to ask you if you had any problem with turbulence even though you’d been working with him for the last year and he’d travelled in a plane with you. When he leaned over you to open the blinds to the window, you twitched away from his hand, so sure that it was about to land somewhere inappropriate.
He sat in the back of the van beside you when you landed, getting strange looks from every other member of the team because he was usually very serious about sitting front and centre. The stares only got more intense when he tried to put your seatbelt on for you.
“Spencer,” you whispered sharply as he stretched across you for the second time that day. “I’ve got it.”
He quickly retreated into his seat and even seemed a little disappointed in himself.
Spencer wasn’t entirely sure why he was being so intense either. He’d found out about your so-called weakness, and it was like some part of him leaped into protector mode. He wanted to be closer, to study every reaction, to make things easier for you.
He really couldn’t help it when he volunteered to room with you.
With three rooms available with the company card, Rossi took the initiative and booked his own private suite, leaving Emily and JJ, Hotch and Morgan, and of course yourself and Spencer to cosy up in twin rooms.
“I’ll grab that,” Spencer said, grabbing your bag for you and climbing up the stairs, notably avoiding the elevator either out of deference to you, or because he was similarly freaked out about the morning’s elevator accident.
“Spencer, I’ve got it,” you sighed, half exasperated, half dreamy. But he was already out of sight and unlocking the door to your room, walking in to inspect it.
You trailed along quickly, noting that he’d stopped rather suddenly at the door.
“Oh,” he said, staring into the room and lowering the bags he’d commandeered to the floor.
Of course, you’d been left without a twin room. You’d been left a standard double. With, of course, a single double bed.
For Spencer, he saw this as a scientific chance to keep exploring his own theories. Was it all people you were uncomfortable with? Would the close proximity of sharing a space highlight any discomfort you had with people in general? Would you refuse the room entirely, and leave, or would you push yourself through it?
You similarly had many plaguing thoughts: how the fuck were you going to get through the night without an embarrassingly horny wet dream, or at least some kind of Nyquil to knock you out cold before you could harass the man any further?
Neither of you had the chance to discuss your new living arrangements, as you were quickly - blissfully - called into the precinct to begin your case.
Twelve hours of traipsing around crime scenes and pulling longer hours than you had in months - purposefully - you were almost glad to be heading back to sleep.
Not that you were looking forward to discussing the sleeping arrangements, but because you’d had a few more strange encounters with Spencer across the day that you absolutely needed to be unconscious to fully avoid.
First, he’d taken it upon himself to angle himself between you and any other detectives you met on the case, which actually hindered your chance to ask about evidence and the facts of the case for a few hours, until Hotch had sent Spencer on an errand.
When he’d come back, he’d pulled you aside to talk, which was normal enough, except he’d pulled you into a storage closet to talk, and though he kept the topic strictly on the case, your brain had overloaded the second he’d pressed his hand against the wall beside your head and you’d sprinted back out of the closet, avoiding eye contact with anyone who you thought may have witnessed the entire exchange.
And then he’d insisted - insisted - on driving you home alone, turning down all the offers from the local PD to get you an escort so you didn’t have to worry about the unfamiliar roads.
Spencer patted himself on the back for seeing to your needs so well.
You wanted nothing more than to fall straight into bed and never get back out again, dumping your bag, and walking straight into the attached bathroom, as you began to undress so you could take a shower.
“Don’t mind me,” Spencer said as you popped a second button, sending you jumping across the already very small room.
Leaving you stood there in shock, clutching your shirt to your chest, though you were still more or less covered, he reached around you and placed his toiletries on the counter, practically pinning you (once again) to the sink.
You weren’t cognizant of your brain making the decision, but you felt your hands pushing up against Spencer’s chest, and shoving just deliberately enough to pin him to the solid shower stall door, turning the tables on him.
“What are you doing, Spencer?” you asked, shocked both at how professional you sounded and that your hands had yet to travel from his chest to any other part of his body.
“I’m dropping my toiletries bag off,” he said, the picture of nonchalance.
“I was about to get in the shower. I told you as much before walking in here. I was undressing.”
“Yes, but-”
“You pulled me into a closet earlier, you acted strange in the elevator, frankly, you’ve been entirely too helpful today, and I know you’re a kind person, but Jesus Christ, Spencer, there’s only so much I can take!”
“I know,” he said soothingly, a soft smile playing on his lips, and if you weren’t so frustrated, you might have swooned at the way he looked at you.
“You know what?”
“That…that this is hard for you, right? It’s totally normal to-”
“Oh god,” you whispered. He knew.
“No, it’s okay, really, it happens to a lot of people, this kind of thing is just a natural part of society, and-”
“Spencer, for the love of god, please shut up!” you nearly screamed, trying your best to keep your shattered emotions in tow.
“I just want us to be able to communicate clearly about this,” he said, and with that, he raised a hand to your face, brushing a hair aside quickly and tucking it behind your ear.
No longer in control of your actions, you had no choice but to let your body push closer to his and join your lips to his, suffocating his helpful smile.
You felt his shock, but then you felt his hands grip you a little bit closer, pulling you into him and pressing his lips back into yours with the same pressure.
You gasped for air, but he pulled you in closer still, turning you around to press you against the shower door, nearly tripping inside as you tugged and pulled at one another, needing to be closer, to be close at once.
“Fuck, Spencer-” you said as you drew away, pressing kisses along his chin and down his neck as he held you propped up against the wall.
He had been incorrect, he had been absolutely incorrect in the best way, and now his cock was throbbing in his pants and you were wrapping your legs around him as you moaned into his ear with every kiss, and he was so happy that he was incorrect.
His hands fumbled against the buttons of your shirt as you similarly worked against the zipper of his pants, desperate to get him free, to feel him inside you. But you both absolutely refused to detach from one another, lips once again finding each other as you stumbled blindly around the shower stall.
Another stumble was all it took for the, luckily hot, water of the shower to pour down on you, and you detached quickly to rid yourselves of now wet clothing before colliding again.
It was quick - possibly the quickest you’d ever consummated a relationship - and near silent, no spoken communication besides moans and nods, and the fingers that had been desperately gripping your waist instead moving to spread your legs. He stroked along your clit as your hands found his cock, pumping it once, twice, and once again before you begged in a single desperate moan, and he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pressed himself in.
Blissful is how he would describe it. You were lost for words, so you wouldn’t be able to even come up with anything that could do it justice.
Neither of you lasted long, you from the months of pining, and Spencer because he’d been entirely overwhelmed in the last twenty minutes, and he usually liked time to prepare for these things.
He continued stroking you through your release, and you panted, holding yourself up against a wall as he pulled out and stroked himself to completion.
Silently, and rather awkwardly, you turned off the shower and stared at one another for a beat before you both wordlessly stepped out of the shower and got yourselves ready for sleep.
After redressing yourselves in dry nightwear, you both sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for the other to say something.
“Just… out of interest, you’re not.. Claustrophobic, are you?” Spencer asked.
“No, why?” you replied, almost confused, before he grabbed and kissed you again. A distraction from revealing his monumental fuck up.
“No reason,” he said, pushing you down into the bed and slowly pressing his lips to your skin again, having enough time now to truly think out how he could treat you well.
Summary: Realizing you've put your foot in your mouth, you desperately try to backtrack as Spencer desperately tries to help.
Warnings: fluff, future chapters will be 18+ though, reader is an erotica romance author, and is already thinking somewhat impurely about hands
A/N: This one was very trope-y and a bit cliché but we're finally through the set-up so now onto the more fun chapters next week! Let me know what you think in the comments!
Masterlist
Stepping back for a moment, you realized you’d finally reached peak exhaustion.
Neither your writing job nor your role on the BAU was a particularly restful career. You’d balanced week-long cases with midnight writing time, burning the candle at both ends.
Now whatever was left of your wits after expending your last half an hour writing was desperately clutching Spencer’s shirt, haunting the man with your desperation.
The emergency lights flicked on as you came back down to reality.
“Sorry!” You squeaked out, putting as much space between you as possible. Which admittedly wasn’t a whole lot.
“No…no. Not at all. What-”
“I should go,” you shouted again, fully aware you were at least thirty seconds from passing out from sheer embarrassment. You grabbed your bag quickly, hard shut down your computer, quickly saving your first chapter, and tried to run away.
Tried being the operative word.
“What do you need me for?” Spencer stepped in front of you again, steadying you with a hand by your elbow to make sure you couldn’t fully dodge him.
“It’s nothing. It’s a stupid idea really. Not appropriate.”
Not appropriate was exactly how you would describe the thoughts that popped into your head when he was straddling you earlier, too.
“In this scenario, I think I can define what is and isn’t inappropriate. Sit down and talk me through it,” he said gently, walking you back to your seat.
“Okay,” you nodded quickly, trying to avoid the many different scenes from books popping into your head as he pulled your chair out for you and sat you down.
“Your writing was good, Y/N. It’s for your book, right?”
“Yes,” you said, almost embarrassed to respond in more than one syllable. But Spencer let the silence rest and waited for you to do or say anything else, so you had to pull your big girl pants back up and communicate. Effectively.
“Yes. I have a book due to my editor in a couple of weeks - I signed a four book deal after my first one was modestly popular online. Social media really blew it up so they wanted to lock me in for a few books,” you started, sinking back into the chair as you explained the fluke that was your writing career.
“Anyway, I’ve been here for a while now so romance isn’t exactly on the brain. I haven’t written in months and so my editor… So I need to start writing.”
Spencer sat so silently, you’d be so sure he was asleep if his eyes weren’t locked directly on yours.
You were so used to Spencer fidgeting - moving, reading, playing with a pencil between his fingers, drinking coffee - that this sudden rush of attention wasn’t immediately comfortable. “Spencer, you’re staring.”
“Sorry, sorry. Um, so you just needed to find something to write?”
You nodded and continued again.
“Yeah, I needed to find something to write about. And I don’t really want to lean into the whole serial killer romance thing.”
Spencer nodded along with you, finally nodding and moving again, and you let out a sigh as you watched him think.
“Okay. Okay, I’ll help you.”
Surprised, you looked up, once again making almost uncomfortable eye contact with Spencer Reid. You wished, too, that you had a notebook at that very moment to help you remember the exact feeling of your heart beating out of your chest.
A scene where you jumped straight into his lap and started twirling your fingers through his hair came to mind. Focusing again, you pushed it away.
“Help me with what?”
“I’ll help you write your book.”
“Oh! Oh no…” you stood and grabbed your bag again. “You really don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“Okay, great, glad we are in agreement. Now let’s never talk about this ever again.”
You stood and grabbed your bag, but a firm grip on your wrist tugged you right back down. Instead of your own chair though you found yourself in Spencer’s chair.
Or more realistically speaking, in Spencer’s lap.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you mumbled under your breath.
“I know I don’t have to help you, but I want to. It sounds interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Yes.”
“You have three PhDs, and a number of other accolades, an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory. Helping me write a romance novel that will be, at best, a good beach read, is interesting to you?”
Spencer seemed to consider for a moment, and then leaning in slightly, whispered his answer. “Yes.”
You would have shivered had your body had the energy for that.
“Sure, Spencer. Okay. And how exactly are you going to help me?”
He took another moment to think about his answer. You took that as your opportunity to leave, quickly jumping up again after a too comfortable moment in his arms, and quickly left the office.
For two days after you avoided even thinking about Spencer, or your book, or writing about Spencer in your book.
Two whole days. A wonderful weekend away from what was becoming a real puppy crush. You found yourself inexplicably looking up Spencer on any platform you thought he’d have a presence on (not a single social media but a number of child prodigy articles from newspapers in Nevada from a handful of years ago.)
Then you found yourself back at work, facing a stack of books and the most confrontational version of Spencer Reid you’d ever been acquainted with.
“The Love Hypothesis, The Spanish Love Deception, The Unhoneymooners, The Deal, The Kiss Quotient - did you know that fake relationships are often ranked as readers second favorite romance trope?”
“Spencer what are you- Spencer our coworkers will be here soon, put those away,” you gasped, quickly rushing to push each and every book into some nook or cranny of your desk.
“This is the FBI, Spencer, what has gotten into you?”
As you moved each book, you realised that, though they appeared to be new, there were cracks in each book's spine. There were some tabs sticking out randomly, the type you’d seen in Spencer’s paperwork before, and you found yourself almost more exasperated.
“You read them? All of them?”
“ I wanted to help,” he shrugged, taking a few out of your hands and stuffing them back in his satchel. “Besides, some of them were pretty good.”
“Okay. Okay, Spencer, since we’re both acting a little bit out of character today, I have to ask: why do you want to help me?”
Finally, the man fidgeted uncomfortably. He tugged at the collar of his shirt once, then twice and finally looked back at you.
“I want… I want to practice,” his voice was barely a whisper as the tips of his ears reddened. “There’s… there is a girl I like, and… I’m not exactly the most experienced at romance.”
You tried to stop yourself from feeling disappointed at his admission. Your sudden burst of interest in Spencer was only due to his helpfulness. It had been three days, it wasn’t enough for you to feel truly disappointed that nothing could start with him.
And he was your coworker, too, and that would be a nightmare. And you realized quickly that he was still talking, and you’d accidentally tuned him out for half a minute at the least.
“I read your books, too. The first two. They’re not exactly instructional guides I can follow, but it would be fun to get some ideas about y- about what girls like on dates. You know?”
Letting out a sigh, you sat down at your desk.
“So you want to do this?” you asked, holding up the nearest book to you.
“I want to do this.”
You nodded and thought it out for a second. You needed the help. You needed to write, and though apparently clueless about women, he was courteous and handsome, and most importantly consenting.
“Fine.”
“Fine? Really?”
“Don’t make me regret this, but yes. Let’s try it out.”
Spencer’s smile warmed your heart. It genuinely warmed your heart. Handsome men really needed to be stopped, you thought, nearly regretting your decision. But, as you had been before agreeing to many relationships with men before in the past, you were desperate.
“So we need to do the contract thing and the ground rules thing, and then-” Spencer started, flicking through one of the books for quotes and places to start.
“Vetoed and vetoed. We’re just doing research for a book, right Spencer? Why should we put rules down? We’re profilers. We know what is too far, and more importantly, we know how to communicate.”
Spencer nodded along with your points.
“Then, we should just shake on it?”
You hesitated for a second, thinking about where your mind would evidently go and thus had already gone if you got even a glimpse of his hands. You knew they were veiny.
“We can shake on it, sure.”
With that, his hand - yes, veiny - grabbed yours and you found yourself in an agreement of mutual destruction.
Spencer was going to help you write your book, and you were going to stop yourself from thinking about wrapping your legs around him until you were satisfied.
And with that you found yourself a fake boyfriend.
Like any of the great creatives of our time, the reader has found themselves stuck in a writing slump to end all writing slumps. With a literary agent breathing down her neck, and an absolute refusal to download any dating apps, she stumbles upon one of the greatest untapped romantic resources of her lifetime: Spencer Reid.
Warnings: Fluff/ none? Future smut, slow burn, slightly suggestive etc. Mentions of inappropriate age gap romance (not reader and Spencer).
A/N: Here's the first part! I got carried away with a request and decided to make it a full series, so we'll see how well I do with remembering to post ㅠㅠ everyone please send whatever the opposite of a writing block is my way, I wanna make it through this one fr
The view of a blank screen illuminating your dark apartment was one that you were beginning to grow immensely tired of. You’d tried typing out paragraphs, and then deleted them, and then simply tried to go with sentences, and those had ended up being deleted, too. By the time you’d tried to force yourself to type out a single word, you’d given up.
“I can’t do it,” you’d cried into your coffee a week earlier, meeting with the literary agent you knew was absolutely tired of your shit by this point.
“Okaaaayyy. What exactly is it that you can’t do exactly? Because if you say "write" you'd be absolutely incorrect.”
“I can’t write.”
Taking a long sip of her coffee and trying her best to subtly roll her eyes - subtlety was the one thing she hadn’t managed - you squared your shoulders and repeated yourself.
“I really can’t write,” you moaned. “I’ve tried and tried and all that comes out is thriller, horror, death, gore - the worst parts of a Christie novel tied up into a neat little Doyle novel with a splash of whatever new mystery writers there are. It’s not my genre but I started my new job at the FBI and it’s all that’s on the mind.”
You really loved your job. You didn’t enjoy that it was becoming your entire life, but you’d been warned multiple times from coworkers and acquaintances that it was a lot to handle.
“So quit.”
“I can’t quit, I love my job.”
“Then stop writing.”
“I can’t stop writing, I love writing.”
You would’ve screamed out your frustrations, but the franchise coffee shop you were stuck in was currently filled with stressed students and drone-like salary workers just trying to replace the blood in their bodies with caffeine, and you didn’t quite like the idea of zombified masses coming towards you.
“I can’t write, but I can’t stop writing, and I can’t quit my job.”
Nodding, your agent took another sip of her coffee, then set it down carefully and leaned into you across the table.
“I’m sorry to ask this but… when was the last time you had sex?”
“Oh my god!”
“It’s a valid question in this line. Your books have been marketed so far as spicy romances, I need to make sure you’re getting the best inspiration you can in order to write. If you’re in a dry-spell, it could explain your difficulty writing.”
“But-”
Your agent stood up, cutting you off quickly as she began to pack her things.
“But nothing, girl. Get back on the apps and give me at least 10,000 words, a synopsis, and some buzz words this time next month. I believe in you.”
You sighed and downed your coffee, melting further into the table before another stressed looking student asked you to vacate it so they could write an essay while aptly caffeinated.
Apps were off the table after a rough internet stalking case you’d worked on a few months prior, so you tried bars, but drinking alone was depressing and none of the men were inspiration-worthy.
Instead you’d tried a change of atmosphere. Your apartment was dark and dingy, and at least your desk at the BAU had a lamp. And the kitchen provided as much free coffee as you deemed healthy enough to drink.
You stared again at a blank document before deciding you needed to resituate yourself into the world of your novels.
You’d published three so far, under a quite popular and rather famous pen name. They were all connected but followed different couples among them. You sighed looking through their GoodReads pages, avoiding the reviews with a desperate zeal. You remembered the feeling of writing each one. The first you’d finished while in your final year at college.
You’d been with your high school boyfriend still, so the novel had been a sentimental pile of shit about how love was forever. You’d luckily had it published weeks before he announced that he’d got his female roommate pregnant, so at least you got a paycheck out of that heartbreak.
After college you’d taken a year out to work on yourself, which obviously meant you’d been unemployed and living on your book royalties and the remainder of your savings from college. When you started dating an older man who bought you dinner and not your fellow somewhat broke peers, you’d been absolutely inspired to write another book.
That one hadn’t ended well either, after you’d met the man’s adult daughter. So adult that she was in fact older than you. You did some therapy after that one.
Your third romance novel had seemingly come from nowhere, even if you’d been casually seeing a few people the year it came out. But you found that working towards a goal had made you infinitely inspired, and you were trying your best to get accepted into a role in the BAU that year.
Any ex boyfriend claiming to be the inspiration for that one was dearly mistaken. That dreamy man was tough to attain, high maintenance, required multiple qualifications, and a certain level of… physical fitness only parallelled by the FBI.
Now with all your goals met, and a further two books of the three book deal you’d signed with your publisher still unfulfilled, you were in a slump to end all slumps.
You were still sitting at your desk feeling sorry for yourself when you felt someone breathing down your neck.
“Burning the midnight oil?” Spencer asked, leaning over your desk and clutching his own free coffee in his hands.
“You know you probably shouldn’t sneak up on someone with a gun and a licence.”
“If I also didn’t have a gun myself, that might be wise advice,” Spencer replied, pushing in closer to read your writing.
You closed the document a second too late. The damned man was like a super computer.
“What is ‘The Boss Breakdown?’” he asked.
“It’s a book I think,” was the best you could come up with as you closed the tab. Which only unfortunately brought up the work in progress document you’d been not-working on and making no progress in earlier.
“Untitled Project 4?” Spencer asked again, as you willed yourself to spontaneously combust.
“It’s what I’m calling my paperwork. You know, to get it done quicker?” You said, hastily closing this tab, too. Google chrome chose that moment exactly to end your social life at work forever as your idea document popped up behind that one.
“Friends to lovers. Enemies to lovers. Roommates to lovers. Friends with-”
“Okay, please stop! STOP!” You screamed, choosing to just turn off the monitor, standing quickly.
Standing too quickly as your legs got caught in the cursed government assigned desk chair, you found yourself quickly tumbling to the floor. A hand reached out to grab you, but your incredible luck meant that the both of you dropped to the floor together.
Spencer’s arm hit just above your head as he grimaced feeling the pain of the fall reverberate into his arm. His legs fell either side of yours as you finally opened your eyes.
Hands interlocked, bodies pushed together on the floor, both panting from the sudden adrenaline of the fall, you found yourself in the perfect rom-com compromising position.
“Sorry,” you whispered as Spencer hovered centimeters above you, eyes locked with yours.
“Anyone here?” the voice of the security guard called out into the office as you froze up. You weren’t sure if it was embarrassment or fear of being caught up in an office scandal that stopped the both of you from making your presence known.
“Call themselves Supervisory Special Agents, and not one of them is special enough to supervise turning the lights off. Damn…” the officer muttered before entrenching the two of you in complete darkness.
Spencer stayed atop of you, as though it were the most comfortable place in the world.
“So what was that all about?” He asked in another whisper, even though no one else was near.
“It was nothing,” you whispered back, trying your best to figure out where every part of his body was in relation to yours in the shadows.
“It didn't look like nothing.”
“Oh yeah? What did it look like then?”
“It looked like a book.”
“Well… ding ding ding we have a winner,” you said with a huff and tried to stand, only to be forced down again by an unseen hand.
“Y/N. Are you that author?” Spencer asked?
“What? No. What author? That author? Why would you ask that?” you practically vomited the words out, still trying and failing to wiggle yourself out from underneath the apparently very solidly built man.
“You’re writing a book, right? I heard you on the phone with your literary agent a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”
“You- what?”
“Rossi is an author too, you know.”
“Rossi writes non-fiction books about cases he has worked on. I write the book modern bodice-rippers. Not exactly the type of thing I want to tell the whole world, Spencer- would you move? God you are hard.”
You couldn’t see the eyebrow raise, but you practically heard it.
In a flash, something came to you. Whether it was the comment you made or a final willingness to listen, Spencer suddenly became easier to move as you jumped back up into your desk chair, turned on your monitor, and vomited up your brain onto the page.
You felt Spencer once again at your back as you typed out every word that entered your brain, not stopping to edit or proofread once. It was messy, there was no plot, no character names, no visible progression so far, but there were words.
There were finally words.
After a solid thirty minutes of panting and the banging sounds of your fingers connecting with your keyboard, you finally pushed away from your desk and grasped at where Spencer, now illuminated by your monitor once again, stood.
Grabbing his shirt between your hands and pulling him a step closer as you still sat, you practically screamed out your request.
Like any of the great creatives of our time, the reader has found themselves stuck in a writing slump to end all writing slumps. With a literary agent breathing down her neck, and an absolute refusal to download any dating apps, she stumbles upon one of the greatest untapped romantic resources of her lifetime: Spencer Reid.
Genre: Fluff, slow burn, eventual smut (I'm going to make you work for it though tee hee)
The Meet Cute
The Fake Date
The Enemies to Lovers
The Office Romance
The Roommate Special
The Long Distance Relationship
The Bed
The Forced Proximity
The Love Triangle
The Small Town
The Unresolved Sexual Tension
The One Night Stand
The Happily Ever After
A/N: I started writing one of my requests and it started looking more and more like a series instead of a standalone fic, so I hope you enjoy "The Romantic Comedy!" There's no strict upload schedule with this one, because like our self-insert reader, I too am plagued with a full-time job and writer's block 6/7 days a week. Nevertheless, I'm aiming for a chapter a week <3 I won't do a tag list for this one, but I will be reposting on @reiderslibrary so if you follow and turn on post notifs for that account you should get a notification every time a chapter drops. Or just... check in once a weekend!
Plot: Rossi recommends a book binding service to get Spencer to stop complaining about his broken book. Maybe you can fix more than just the broken spine of his book.
Warnings: None, fluff. I will preface this with I know the bare minimum about actual book binding though, unfortunately! ㅠㅠ
A/N: I'M BACK! Did you miss me? Unfortunately I lost any belief I had in love for a while there, but I found myself thinking about this little fluff idea for a while, and couldn't get it out of my head so I had to write it. It's been almost two years since I began writing, and I decided I want to put this first as a hobby at least once a week, so you will hopefully be hearing from me more often as well. I got a lot of inspiration from the request box too, so thank you to everyone who requested <3 Enjoy~
To say that Spencer had taken this book everywhere would be an understatement. The tattered heap of papers could probably be legally recognized as a member of the BAU the amount of case hours it had seen. It probably had a degree or two of its own as well.
Spencer always justified it in one way or another. It was in Russian and he needed to practice. It was an incredible book. His mother gave it to him as a child, and she still recognized it sometimes, so he had to take it when he visited her. It was just a really good book.
In short, over the years it had been through a lot.
It had seen gunshots, stabbings, a drug addiction, multiple spills and drops from high areas, and yes, probably some book eating insects at some point, but it still stood the test of time.
Until, ironically, a prison sentence meant it hadn’t been cracked open in months and it had decided to disintegrate overnight.
Spencer had spent the best part of his first week back at the BAU grumbling about it that it was beginning to disintegrate his team mates nerves. Yes, they were all sympathetic to the struggles of the newly free man, but there was really only so much Russian literature one could take before losing it. And for the members of the BAU, that was pretty much none.
“Kid, why don’t you just go out and buy a new copy. Same words, same meaning, same book, just without the bullet holes,” Rossi sighed, trying to effectively end the same conversation he’d been having for the last 6 days straight.
“It’s a rare copy, it was published in the 50s. You of all people should know they don’t make books the same way anymore, Rossi.”
“Me? Of all people? How flattering, Spencer.”
“No-” the man sighed, jogging to catch up with the still prime older man as he walked brusquely down the hallway. “I just mean that as a fellow enjoyer of literature, that you would share my appreciation for…”
“The elderly?”
“Antiques. Come on Rossi, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”
Spencer sighed again.
“I just don’t want to buy another copy.”
Rossi stopped his march finally, letting Spencer catch up with him as he finally turned around and gave his last suggestion.
“Then you just have to get it fixed, Spencer.”
He shut the door to his office behind him before the open door could invite any other literary debates to his doorstop, but he did put the kid out of his misery later over text.
“I had a collection of Joy’s articles bound by this company for Christmas last year as a gift. Local business, give them a call.”
A week later, a free enough day rolled around, and Spencer - ever willing to avoid technology at all costs - decided that going to the shop's location and hoping for an on-sight consult would work. He assumed people still talked to each other.
You definitely still talked to people.
When you could see them, hear them and knew they were there. But you also liked to work with a set of large headphones drowning out the world, and everyone else had gone home for the day, so to say that you screamed when you saw the 6 foot something slenderman out of the corner of your eye was an understatement.
“FUCK!” You screamed, clutching at your heart that you thought was definitely still having an attack of its own. You weren’t sure if this was what fight or flight felt like, but you were quickly disappointed to find that your own trigger reaction was ‘fuck.’
“I’m sorry, the door was open, I assumed…” Spencer started, holding his hand up to show he wasn’t a threat, even if he’d spent the last phase of his life being just that to a lot of people.
“Yeah..yeah… sorry, heart still racing, I’ll be with you in just a second.
You made a mental note of not listening to any more horror audiobooks while at work and pulled a smile back onto your face.
“Welcome to The Rebound, I guess,” you said, coming around the counter to greet the man. “Are you here to pick up or deliver a package?”
Spencer shifted uncomfortably as he stood before speaking.
“Actually neither. I was hoping for a consultation? I need a book rebound.”
You let out a sigh so loud you almost felt bad for the man. “Okay, so thank god you’re not a serial killer.”
You tried to laugh off the joke, but the man’s eyes bugged out of his head as he scrambled for something.
“Oh, no, sorry, I’m out of practice with this I guess,” he laughed a little, doing absolutely nothing to dissipate the awkward tension as he pulled out his FBI creds.
“Huh. FBI. Would you hold it against me if I said I feel a little bit less safe again?”
“Considering I spent that last few months in prison, not at all.”
You laughed again and then stopped again as you saw he wasn’t laughing.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little off-putting?” you asked, completely innocently as you grabbed your coffee mug, leaning back on your work counter.
“Many, many times,” he smiled, finally relaxing.
“Wonderful. So what can I do for you today, Mr….?”
“Doctor.”
“Perfect. What can I do for you today Mr. Doctor?”
He smiled shyly again, and you finally took the lull in conversation to look him over again. He was maybe a few years older than you, but he still looked young. Every item he wore seemed like it came fresh from a copy of Grandpa’s Weekly, or whatever Vogue was doing in Men’s fashion in the 50s, which almost made it annoying how well it draped on him. His hair was brown, and curled cutely around his face in a very ‘needs a haircut’ way, but you almost appreciated that more.
He was handsome.
“Fuck.” you thought again, realizing that the man had been talking for the last few seconds as you’d oggled him anyway.
“Fuck?” He repeated. “I mean, I know it’s in bad condition, but I didn’t think it’d be that hard…” His eyebrows furrowed as he stared down at the book you now only just noticed was in his hands.
“Sorry, no that’s not what I meant!” You scrambled, combing your hair back roughly in your hands, and clipping it in place before walking back closer to him.
He even smells fucking good, you grumbled to yourself as you held out your hands for your next project.
“I’ve had it for about 25 years now, and it was definitely second hand when I got it, so…”
“So you want me to resuscitate it. Cool. Let me take a look at it quickly.”
You gently pried the book from the pouting man's hands and took it back to your work station as he played with his fingers, and you found yourself bumping into pieces of furniture you’d practically grown up with.
“So, Mr. Doctor, is there any specific damage you want us to take care of?” You asked as you forced your attention onto the book. “Missing pages, rips, that kind of- Is this in Russian?”
“It’s Dostoyevsky. There’s no missing pages, but there are a lot of tears around a third up on the pages,” he blinked, pointing a single finger at the edge of the page, where there were in fact small tears.
Ignoring that his fingers were also somehow attractive, you grabbed your glasses from the top of your shirt and pushed them onto your face and up your nose, getting closer to take a better look.
“These are pretty even across all the pages, how did you even manage that?” you laughed, flicking the pages as you searched for any particular mildew marks or signs of wear.
“Gunshot,” he said with such practiced nonchalance that you almost accepted it as a regular answer. Almost.
“WHAT?” You said looking up, noticing a beat too late that Mister Doctor was also leaning over the book, as if scared to let it out of his sight.
Unfortunately for him, the only thing in his sight was now you, as you’d come up so passionately you found yourselves nose to nose, a breath the only thing between you.
You felt the heat in your cheeks, just as you saw it in his, before you hastily looked back down to the book.
He straightened and looked away, taking a deep breath.
“I work for the FBI, remember.”
“I’m sorry, I assumed you were in a paperwork-diplomacy-tax-evasion department, not a pew-pew-bang-bang department.”
“You know I think those are the official titles, but we usually just call my team the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m a profiler.”
“Huh. Do I get three guesses which Dostoyevsky this is?”
“Wouldn’t most of his works fit in this scenario?”
“Touche, Mr. Doctor. Touche.”
You finished up your consultation on the book, which, gunshot aside, wasn’t in bad shape for a book over half a century old. You carefully catalogued the book's information in your system, and then turned back to him.
“As I assume Mr. Doctor isn’t your real name, can I try again at asking what it is? No sarcasm this time, and I promise that my hands aren’t crossed behind my back currently.”
“Spencer Reid.”
“And the Doctor part was real, or have I been out-maneuvered?”
“If a PhD is real, then yes. Three times over.”
You took another look at him again and then smiled widely as his breath caught in his throat.
“Doctor Reid, you look like the exact kind of person that would have three PhD’s. Congratulations, you’ve worked hard.”
Unable to respond to the sudden kindness, Spencer returned a tight smile of his own before taking a shaky breath to steady himself.
“Okay, so luckily we can fix the damage on this copy for you. We can try and salvage some of the cover details as well, but it will need a new spine, which usually means a complete overhaul of the cover. Do you have any specific design in mind, or would you like something similar?”
“As close as you can get it, please.”
“Of course. Now about the binding. Would you like it tight, or a little looser so it reads easier, like a floppy paperback?”
“Loose is good for me. I read it pretty regularly.”
“I mean this in the nicest way possible: I can tell,” you said, looking up from your computer again for the minute. “Between us, these are always my favorite projects, but I’m never allowed to work on them because I always want to keep the books at the end.”
Spencer smiled at that, picturing you pouting handing over his book finally when it was done, refusing to let it go. There was something playfully childish about you that he found endearing.
Endearing? He cleared his throat again before he found himself in further trouble.
“Please don’t steal my book,” he requested in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in slightly dangerously.
“Don’t you worry about that Mr Doctor,” you said, smiling at him. “I have absolutely no impure intentions for your book whatsoever.”
Spencer wanted to bury the disappointed feeling that popped up in the pit of his stomach at that moment. You were talking about the book, and this was a business transaction, and really he’d only just gotten out of prison, so he most likely didn’t need to feel disappointed by anything at all, whatsoever.
“I, myself, cannot read Russian,” you smiled at him, handing him the receipt and guiding him back to the door he’d so innocently walked through about an hour earlier.
Just as Spencer was feeling relieved - relieved? - and ready to move on from this exciting albeit distracting visit in his day, you spoke again.
“So you’ll just have to read it to me if I get very attached.”
Clutching the receipt in his hand, and soon to realize that you’d scribbled your phone number on it in a hail mary, Spencer smiled to himself and made a mental note of thanking Rossi the next day.
Even if the other man wouldn’t appreciate the new topic of conversation that Spencer would find himself unable to escape for a while. You.
A (very late) submission for @imagining-in-the-margins Undercover challenge!!
Prompts: Character is surprised when their undercover partner is *very* good at pretending to be in love with them.
“It’s just acting.” / “So you can make your heart race like that on command?”
Warnings: mentions of case details (bombing/ arson), mainly fluff
A/N: I don't know when the last time I posted fluff was, but I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you all enjoy it! I'm trying to post more regularly once a week now, so hopefully, I'll have something else for you next Sunday~
Masterlist
Two months of undercover work was probably standard in the FBI. You hadn't exactly been in the FBI that long, obviously, or in any job too long for that matter, being pretty fresh from a decade in academics, but you were a hard worker, and you got work done.
But your undercover work with the BAU wasn't exactly what you would call work.
You woke up in the morning, cooked breakfast for your fake husband, went to your pilates class with the other neighborhood wives, went to your fake job, and then went back to your fake home where you publicans flirted with your fake husband outside for an hour or two to make your real neighbors believe in your fake relationship.
So that hopefully, one of them would attempt to blow you up.
With three “accidental” house fires in the neighborhood in the last year, and insurance company who'd been investigating potential fraud in the area had tipped off the BAU of a possible undiscovered arsonist, though you'd quickly deduced as a team that your unsub was likely a bomber instead.
A few months of surveillance, and then the gradual introduction of pairs of agents into the neighborhood under heavy cover, and here you were.
Making your fake husband pancakes.
Spencer emerged into the kitchen to one of his favorite views in recent months. You'd been the first pair put in, the one most likely to get attention quickly, the team had said. He watched as you hummed along to the morning radio, stacking up piles of pancakes and dancing along as you cooked.
You looked happy.
The concept of pretending to be married hadn't sat well with Spencer at first. He was never the greatest actor, and his last attempt at cover with Cat Adams hadn't exactly lasted too long. He was two months in now, sure, but he owed most of that to you.
Every time he'd blundered, you'd been there to help him out.
You'd suggested working on the garden together at the weekend to show off your effective communication as a couple. He'd let you feed him strawberries and sprayed you with the water hose, causing a water fight the neighborhood kids had politely asked to be included in.
You'd also been the one to request weekly flower bouquets, preferable from the local florist, just so everyone could see how dedicated he was to his wife. You'd sneezed heavily into the first few bouquets, and he'd requested mainly tulips, roses, and carnations after that when your nose looked a little red.
You'd also been the one to hook your legs around his waist in the swimming pool in your back yard - in clear view of at least 5 neighbors houses - and angle your head just so, inspiring pats on the back from a few heavy handed husbands at the neighborhood barbecue the week after.
That was all to say, Spencer thought you were an incredible actor.
Until that morning, when you'd rolled over in the bed you shared after waking up and kissed him full on the lips as you groggily said good morning, before padding off to the bathroom to take your morning shower.
If Spencer hadn't been awake before then, he definitely was after. It was like every cell in his body jolted at the touch of your lips. You'd zapped him with a lightning bolt, then walked off so casually he didn't even have the time to question you.
By the time he stood to follow, the sounds of the shower were already pronounced alongside his own heartbeat.
It took the best part of the morning to remind himself that this was just work. You were just acting, and you'd gotten into the role.
“And don't forget to head to the dry cleaner today in your way home from work, I dropped off some summer dresses last week and your other work blazer and they called twice yesterday to say they were done-”
He listened to you happily telling him what to do as he ate his pancakes, responding where you wanted him to respond, and being a generally agreeing husband, all the while thinking about how your lips felt pressed against his.
He thought as well about the way your body felt against his. You'd been sharing a bed for two months, and obviously, you'd ended up tangled in one another more than once. He'd never let himself think about it as any more than an extension of work before that morning, though. Part of the cover.
And now he felt the contours of your body matched his in a way that made the tips of his ears pink.
His eyes - and attention - must've slipped away from where you thought they'd ought to briand you looked at him with a questioning glance.
“Spencer?”
“Hmm? Yes, dry cleaning and visit Tara at the bank. Anything else?” he asked, begging you to say nothing about where he'd just been caught looking.
“No. You got everything. Well, just make sure you wash up the breakfast pots on the way out, I'm leaving for pilates now.”
Without another word, Spencer watched you grab your car keys from the basket in the foyer, directly down the hall from his seat at your kitchen island, and felt a sense of dread.
He couldn't let you go again without asking you about the kiss, his body screamed at him, though his mind begged him to be rational.
His body seemed to win out rather quickly, as he called after you just as you opened the front door.
“Wait,” he said, jogging to catch up with you before he pulled you into his arms. The memory of the pool filled his thoughts to the point where he could almost smell the chlorine, the tips of his ears aflame with the sensation of your breath against his skin.
You tried to relax into his hug, knowing that a few of your neighbors were already outside, getting their cars ready to go to work. “Spencer,” you whispered, “What are you doing?”
His eyes flicked to your lips as he thought about just kissing you then and there. But the almost worried look on your face had him loosening his grip slightly, losing his resolve.
Luckily, the shame at his loss of self-control made his head drop slightly, just enough to catch the translucent wire centimetres from your foot glare in the sunlight.
At the worst possible time for Spencer Reid, you'd had your biggest break in the case in months.
...
A week later, you were you again and on the jet with colleagues you hadn't fully been able to interact with in months. Of course, you'd seen them all about the neighborhood, and you laughed and joked about it now that you were going back to your real lives.
“I swear to the almighty himself, if Joy ever suggests putting me in one of those old people's homes really, I want you to just take me out back and shoot me,” Rossi complained, swearing off slippers and bingo for the foreseeable future.
“You had company at least,” Luke muttered, having been confined to a small apartment on the upper side of the neighborhood that coincidentally housed all their surveillance equipment.
“Speaking of company, how was married life?” Emily joked, elbowing Spencer in the side from her seat next to him.
“It was… it was good,” he said, taking a sip of water from his bottle and avoiding all eye contact from everyone.
“Okay…. Y/N, what about you? What was Spencer like as a husband?”
You looked nervous as Spencer finally found it in himself to look at someone else again, desperately avoiding Emily's probing gaze.
“It was…. Nice. To switch off for a while. Not think too much, just…. Pretend?”
“Really? It was hard for me to get into character, and I lived alone. You and Spencer had to keep up a double act,” Luke laughed and shook his head, and Spencer found the ensuing silence more than a little awkward.
“I don't know, I just think it was kind of nice,” you said after too long of a pause. “Living with someone again. Less lonely, you know?”
Some sad smiles flicked your way in sympathy, then out the window, and you found yourself looking up at Spencer directly across from you and smiling shyly.
“Maybe I should start dating again,” you sighed under your breath when no one else was listening. But Spencer was listening. Spencer was always listening to you.
Two days in the office working late on paperwork and research was all Spencer could handle before he started asking questions.
Two hours into overtime, the moon was out, and the light in the office had dimmed just enough for the majority of the light in the room to be coming from your computer screen and desk lamp.
Spencer watched you casually, quick to look away any time you looked up at him, the feeling of his eyes burning into you, alerting you to his attention.
After a few minutes of looking up just as he looked away, you sighed in resignation and confronted him.
“What is it, Spencer?”
“Hmm? No, um… nothing,” he said, fumbling his pencil so it fell to the ground. He stood and retrieved it before hesitating and taking a step closer to your desk.
“You're really good at your undercover work, you know?” He said with a cute smile, leaning on the side of your desk as you looked up at him.
“What does that mean?” you asked, suddenly on edge. Spencer didn't usually pay you compliments, and you'd hoped to completely drop the topic of the cover completely after you'd landed and closed the case.
“I don't know, it's just… it seemed like you put a lot of yourself into it.”
“It was work. I put a lot of myself into everything I do. Work is included in that.”
“Work…” he said, nodding. He almost turned around and walked away. Almost.
“You kissed me that morning, you know?”
It didn't come out loud, but it resonated around the empty room anyway as you felt your heartbeat faster.
“You were awake?” You squeaked out before you could stop yourself, suddenly looking up Spencer with pleading eyes as you willed him to tell you he was joking.
“Yes, I was- hold on, you thought I was asleep? You kissed me because you thought I was asleep?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“It was just something… I didn't think, and-”
“Y/N, I kissed you back. Why did you think I was asleep?”
“Well, you didn't kiss back hard enough if I hardly noticed, did you?” you pouted, trying to go back to your work, but finding yourself with a brain so blank you couldn't even pretend to type. “I was acting, Spencer. I just.. got too into it, I suppose.”
“Y/N, look at me please,” Spencer pleaded, but you kept your head stubbornly turned away.
You felt his eyes on you, heard him take a step closer. Then another. You felt him loom over you, saw his hand come to rest beside yours on your desk.
Finally, you cracked.
“Spencer, I really don't think-” you stood and faced him, and immediately regretted both actions.
You'd shared a bed for two months, but this was definitely the closest you'd ever gotten. You could practically taste Spencer. You stood almost attached at the hip, his mouth not even inches from your own, but centimetres.
His forehead practically rest against your own, and he clutched your waist for balance, bringing you in closer.
You were stunned into silence, and when he grabbed your wrist in his hand and looked down at it in silence for a minute, you stood with baited breath for him to do something, anything else.
“The average resting heart rate for someone your age and activity level is around 75 beats per minute. I estimate yours is currently between 112 and 115. Are you acting now, too?”
You almost wanted to pull away and pout, but before you could do anything with your bottom lip, he'd claimed it with his own. His kiss was soft and delicate but intentional. His second was bolder, harder, and invasion of all your senses as he cupped your chin in his hand and lifted it just a little higher, pressing his tongue between your lips as he begged for permission.
A small moan granted him everything he wanted, as his hands sparked up your skin.
When he finally pulled away, not far enough to be out of your reach yet, your pants filled the air, syncopated as you breathed each other in and out.
“Let's keep acting. Just for now,” he gasped, whispering in your ear as he stroked your cheeks.
“Please,” he whispered as he once again claimed your lips.
A/N: I'm back! I started this one literally in February and then got so distracted by my job I couldn't finish it. Employment is a curse.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader
Plot: Spencer is displeased about some rumours he hears about you around the office. Only the way he goes about confronting them is clumsy and downright maddening.
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, misogyny, misunderstanding, Spencer is a dick for a while, violence (breaking glass etc.), penetrative sex, oral (F receiving), slapping, choking, anal fingering, general BDSM content, Dom!Spencer, sub!reader, breeding kink (tee hee), cock warming, almost exhibitionism?
Masterlist
It wasn't as if you'd made it your life's mission to be the most rumoured about person on your team at the FBI, but you weren't exactly doing anything to correct people's perception of you. Spencer may have been to jail, Emily may have faked her own death, and Luke's past was a big, fat question mark, but nothing caught the attention of the pencil pushers in the office than the string of broken hearts you'd ostensibly left behind you at Quantico.
At one point in time, you'd even promised yourself you wouldn't date anymore law enforcement officers, lawyers, detention officers or anyone even remotely adjacent, but life was short, and you had a decent appetite for a men with guns and badges. It was very convenient to say the least.
Convenient for everyone apart from Spencer Reid.
The FBI was a boys club, sure, but with all the women on your team, the most ridicule you got after a drunken escapade with a distant coworker was a few teasing remarks. The first few months on the team, you'd been able to date, fuck, and play freely without any judgement. And then Spencer Reid had come back from leave, and you suddenly began to doubt your bachelorette lifestyle.
Because fuck was he frustratingly territorial.
It wasn't as though he was interested in you. He was 13 years your senior, fresh from an FBI mandated leave of absence and false imprisonment, and absolutely used to being coddled by every member of the team. If the BAU was a family, he was absolutely the youngest child who'd returned home to find his parents had adopted a dog while he'd been gone to replace him with.
You were the dog.
Spencer took issue with your attitude, your work ethic, your professionally, and with the sheer amount of times he'd been approached by men asking for your number, home address, or if the rumors were true.
He was used to casual oversharing, of course, he'd worked with Penelope long enough to not be phased by much sexual talk. But everytime he stepped into the office - or specifically the offices male bathrooms - he'd end up stuck in the same conversational loop.
“I heard she can do this thing with her tongue…”
“... definitely likes it rough…”
“I could show her a good time…”
“....I'm definitely hitting that by the end of the year…”
He stewed in it for a few weeks before the cracks fully formed in his exterior professionalism. When he heard about how you'd definitely fucked every male member of your team, though, that's when he lost it.
“You need to be more careful,” he said one day, pulling you aside between cases in a rare private conversation.
“Oh, yeah, in the field I can definitely rush in-”
“No. You need to be more careful with men.”
The look on his face sent a flare of shame through your chest, as you found yourself suddenly out of your depth. You didn't know this man well enough for him to be giving you advice. Your body set to full alert, and your fight or flight was in full go, as he cornered you and continued.
“They talk about you in the bathrooms, and I would not like to repeat what they say, but-”
“I don't care what they say.”
“You should.”
You frowned again, as he continued, completely oblivious to your growing anger.
“You should, because now it's reflecting badly on the team, and-”
“The team? I'm sorry what had the team got to do with this?”
To his credit, Spencer at least managed to look uncomfortable after that. He was set on reprimanding you, fine, but you'd make sure he wouldn't try to get so personal again.
“They're saying that you've slept with a number of coworkers-”
“Why should I care if-”
“Including me.”
You managed a half laugh in his face as his frown deepened.
“Oh so this isn't about my reputation, it's about yours. I should be safer with men because I'm reflecting poorly on our golden boy?”
“That's not what I'm-”
“Don't worry, Spencer. I'm safe enough.”
You made sure to push past him as you walked away, and he'd not been quiet about his dislike of you ever since.
Every man on a case you interacted with got you a disapproving glare, a slight turned down lip, a questioning glance. It was like you were being watched constantly, and it felt horrendous.
It was almost worse when the knowing looks he sent you were spot on in their assumptions. If you spoke to a man you had been with, hooked up with, been on a date with, even simply flirted with for a while, you felt his eyes pricking you.
His gaze knew everything it needed to know, almost as if he'd been in the room watching you submit your body for pleasure.
You thought it would be better on cases, that he'd be focused on other things and not worry as much, but when your first case post-argument landed, it landed you uncomfortably close to your childhood home, and included a face from your past you'd hoped not to see again.
Having an ex boyfriend in the police department in the middle of nowhere Washington was helpful for the case, but on a personal level it sucked.
You managed five minutes of personal conversation before you felt his eyes on you.
“Beautiful, you're not paying attention to me anymore. And here I thought fate had sent you back into my life as a little gift for a job well done,” your ex had said, ducking in close to you at your makeshift desk but locking eyes with an approaching Spencer as he spoke.
“Y/N, can I have a word?” he asked, though his jaw was set, and his tone insistent.
“Professionally or privately?”
“Y/N,” he warned, his tone a bit lower as you rolled your eyes and stood, following him to a quiet interrogation room quickly.
“What's wrong with you this time?” you demand as soon as he has the door closed. “Panties in a twist?”
“We are on a case, Y/N. Please at least pretend to be a professional.”
“What? What am I doing that is so wrong?”
He fisted a hand in his hair quickly, closing his eyes as if it would drown out your arrogant tone.
“You can't be serious, Y/N, he was practically fucking you with his eyes in the middle of the precinct-”
“And that's a behaviour he needs to change, not me. What. Did. I. Do. Wrong?”
“What? What, you expect me to sit around here and wait for him to ask you if you can still do that thing with your tongue that makes him cum instantly? Want me to wait around for him to ask you if you're still as flexible as you were give years ago, while we have work to do?” He demanded, stepping so close you had to back up against the wall to avoid colliding with his incoming body.
“I bet you'd love to hear just about everything I can do Spencer, but if you're going to act like a jealous ass, maybe you should take a breather.”
“Jealous? You think I'm jealous?” he chuckled slightly, raising a hand slowly and pushing against the wall as he stepped, somehow, closet to you again.
“You're so obsessed with my personal life that-”
“Your personal life is not so personal when I have people asking me if I've also fucked you on a weekly basis-”
“You're being cruel. My sex life is none of your business, Spencer.”
“That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you. I'm glad we finally agree.”
He was so close you could practically taste his breath, and while your mind raged at his thoughtless words, your body wanted his to press his against it and say all of that one more time with his hand wrapped around your throat this time.
“Jackass,” you said, pushing against his chest and storming out of the room quickly, before you could make any other mistakes.
Part of you wanted to stick it to Spencer after that. Part of you wanted to do something to start an even bigger rumor, something to piss him off more, something that would get him angry and bring him closer to you somehow.
Another part aggravatingly agreed with him. Your behaviour, while nowhere near as promiscuous as half of the male staff, was judged twice as hard as anyone else's. You enjoyed sex, and you wanted to unashamedly keep enjoying sex, but every man you ran into recently had that look about them. Half judgement, half possession, like they were looking at goods to consume rather than a coworker. You weren't obtuse, but you'd allowed yourself to ignore it until Spencer made you face it, which only made you resent him more.
You stopped going on dates, stopped entertaining the men in the office when they flirted with you. You put your head down, and you worked, and it frustrated you to no end.
You ended up snappy in the office, short with every single coworker and not just Reid, who was also (inexplicably) short with you. You'd done what he'd asked, and he was still not satisfied.
Emily, sensing the tension, tried to ease the situation slightly, with a mandatory team dinner, volunteering Rossi for dinner duty.
“Welcome to Casa Del Rossi, keep your hands off the pasta until I serve it, and please do not ask about the wine unless you want to be talking about it all night.”
You felt slightly uncomfortable being forced to play happy families under the watchful eye of 5 profilers and an incredibly perceptive tech support girl, but you tried to be civil over dinner.
Until you couldn't be.
“So, Y/N, any dates recently?” Emily laughed over a sip of wine, genuinely curious about your sudden lack of suitors.
“No,” you said, locking eyes with Spencer, who rolled his eyes as he looked away.
“What, not even a single hinge match?” JJ added, and you suddenly regretted not telling any of your other coworkers the root of your tension with Reid, because they were happily digging your grave.
“Come on, we all love your stories, Y/N,” Penelope laughed, prodding you with a finger as you smiled feebly.
“No, not all of us do,” Spencer mumbled under his breath, still loud enough that the room fell silent.
“Relax, Doctor Reid, I'm not going to regale you with tales of my conquests.”
“Good, I get enough of that in the male bathrooms,” he said, standing up from the table and excusing himself.
You stared slack jawed at him as he walked away, simmering anger getting ready to explode. You stood as well, and followed him, aware of every set of eyes watching you intently as you searched for Spencer.
You found him in a spare room, following him in and closing the door behind you with a thud so he would know you were there.
“What the fuck is your problem, Spencer?”
“Oh, it was Doctor Reid earlier, but now we're friends, huh?” he said, not bothering to look at you as he picked up a book and sat in a chair at the edge of the room.
“You can't just disrespect me in front of the team like that, and… and what? Slink away to read?”
He looked up at you with an annoyed glance, and you almost lunged at him. You'd probably be able to gouge out an eye before he could react if you wanted.
“You know, when we first talked about this, I was seriously worried for you. The way those men talk about you-”
“How do they talk about me? What do they say about me specifically that's any worse than usual misogynistic bathroom talk, huh?”
You stepped closer, leaning over him and poking his chest. You wanted him to react, wanted him to get angry. You wanted a fight, not for him to walk away shaking his head in resignment.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes. I'm a big girl, tell me what's so bad that has you acting like such a spoiled brat.”
“Okay. Okay, fine.” Putting down the book, he looked up at you, locking eyes with you as he started.
“They talk about how well you take it. How much you love cock, and how if they got the chance they'd fill you up with so much cum you'd be leaking for days. Some of them even talk about using you as a human toilet.”
“They mostly talk about your body, about how flexible you are, about how flexible they'd force you to be, how-” he had to stop to look away, clear his throat and start again.
“Mostly they talk about your lips,” he said, finally risking a look down at them before dragging his eyes back up to your own.
“My lips?” you asked, mentally scolding yourself when you hear the breathy whisper you let out.
“They talk about your lips a lot. I'm sure you can imagine.”
You take a second to think about it, reeling at how close he was, how open he was being, how….
How turned on you were hearing these words fall from his mouth. Every sentence from his mouth felt like a confession.
“I don't believe them though,” he said finally.
“What?”
“I don't believe them. I don't believe you're as good as they say you are, as they're fantasising about you being.
Your mouth opened in shock, and the indignity of the accusation had your heart beating out of your chest.
“Say that again,” you demanded, forcing him to meet your eyes again.
“You're not that good, Y/N. I'm sure of it.”
Quickly, you snaked your arm up and around his neck, grabbing him and pulling him down to meet your lips. You'd hoped to take him by surprise, to enter his mouth as he lost himself in the feel of you pressed against him. You'd hoped for the upper hand, until you realized you'd played right into his.
He kissed back immediately, hotly, insistently. His hands roamed your body for any hold of you they could find, settling on your waist and your ass as he pushed you back into the wall you stood in front of.
Frustrated by his attitude, you pushed back, twisting your bodies around until you'd switched positions, nails digging into the tender skin at his collarbone. You wanted to grab him hard enough to draw blood, you wanted to permanently scar him to remind him how good this felt.
He growled into the kiss, and you momentarily lost focus. He swung you around again, hands pushing your shirt up and roughly grabbing your boobs as he bit down on your lower lip.
With a moan, you hiked a leg up around his hips, rolling into him as he pinned you to the wall.
Your final act of defiance was pushing him away with all your strength.
Taken aback, he stumbled once or twice before hitting a dresser behind him. It shook, and with the tremors, the lamp that had been sat on it fell to the floor with a crash.
You stared at him panting as your coworkers ran to you both, opening the door with a loud bang as they assessed the situation.
You kept your eyes on him as Emily scolded you both, putting the two of you on BAU time out.
You quickly left the party after that, apologising to Rossi and tucking your tail firmly between your legs as you retreated.
Desk duty for the next two weeks was exactly the punishment you were expecting from Emily. Honestly it was what you deserved. If you couldn't play nice together, you weren't allowed to play at all.
You sat at your desk, and Spencer sat at his, and you were happy and content to ignore him for as long as physically possible.
Unfortunately, your sudden voluntary celibacy must have been driving you insane, because you couldn't stop picturing his hands on your waist, his hot lips tracing down your neck, your hips pushed so close you could practically feel his cock begging to be inside you.
Imagining.
You were sure your staring was making the man uncomfortable, or at the very least frustrated. You saw the vein in his neck jump out when he noticed you looking at him, but it didn't help too much to dispel the sudden and aggravating attraction you felt towards him.
You wanted to be angrier. Every interaction you entered needing to be angry.
Instead you found yourself somewhat softening based purely on lust, and it was eating you up.
You were not a pushover, and contrary to popular office belief, neither were you desperate or easy. One kiss with a coworker shouldn't have you trailing after him like a forlorn love struck child.
Spencer was definitely avoiding you though.
At first, he justified it to himself as giving you space, an apology of sorts after you'd been so brash before.
Then he came clean to his own conscious and realized he was afraid of another confrontation. Afraid was perhaps the wrong word, eagerly anticipating might be better, though when he tried to explain it to Penelope it didn't come out right at all.
“It's like- Okay, so we're like water and potassium, right?”
“You've lost me lover boy, I do computers not sciency science.”
“Potassium and water are both stable enough on their own. They do their job well, they work nicely.”
“Potassium is in potatoes, ergo they are in French fries. They work superbly.”
“Yes, but when you put potassium in water it has a tendency to catch on fire and explode.”
Penelope still looked at him confused, unsure what kind of avoidance excuse he was crafting in his mind.
“I'm potassium. She's water,” he said again to no avail.
“I need to avoid her so I don't explode.”
“What makes you think you're going to explode? Just talk to her nicely. Avoid topics you think are going to be more… reactive?”
Spencer just solemnly nodded and went back to avoidance.
He realized quickly that the only thing he'd ever talked to you about outside of working hours was your sex life, and that made him feel like both a creep and a pervert and also like he needed to take a long cold shower before quitting his job and moving into a cabin somewhere in the woods. But he wasn't Gideon, so he just suffered through it, leaving rooms you entered and ending work related conversations as quickly as possible, before his mouth could move quicker than his brain.
After a week of being swiftly dodged, you had the chance finally to corner him and you took it.
Watching as Spencer stood to get himself another coffee from the break room, you stood, grabbed your own mug and quietly followed him. You prayed to God that the room would be empty, but were quickly forsaken by the door when you heard two make voices inside.
“So Y/N, huh?” an unfamiliar voice asked, tone polite but playful.
“I've heard some stories about that one,” he chuckled, and even the sound of it set your hair on edge.
“She's a very hard worker,” Spencer simply answered, as you heard him preparing his own coffee.
“She certainly makes working hard,” the man slapped his back, taking a sip of coffee.
“I heard you two have been going at it in the office. Strange foreplay, but she must be into rough stuff like that, isn't that right?”
You'd heard enough men talking about you in your life to be used to it, but a flush of anger still ran through you at the man's insinuations. You almost walked in to embarrass the man when Spencer spoke up.
“I don't like your tone,” he said calmly, and continued quickly when the man tried to joke again. “I have been to prison, you work in white collar, let's see which of us comes out of the kitchen in better shape when you're done speaking.”
“You're fucking insane.”
“You're what, 35? From the looks of it, your marriage is over because you keep playing with your ring uncomfortably, probably because you're cheating, but you feel just guilty enough about it to worry about your kids. They lied by the way, your not the world's no. 1 dad. Even if such metrics could be determined, you'd rank low on the list. Is it their babysitter or their teacher you're sleeping with? Or your wife's sister, perhaps?”
“You're crossing a line, Dr Reid, I don't know how-”
“Well, I'm glad you seem to understand boundaries well enough. There are lines you cross, and ones you respect, and if I hear anything at all unprofessional from you about my coworker again, I will use the last six months of my experiences to make life difficult for you.”
You walked in quickly, hearing the change in Spencer's tone from casual to something more threatening, more desperate. The other man had two fistfuls of Spencer's shirt, though you didn't doubt Spencer would easily be able to floor the man.
“Good afternoon,” you said quickly, just loud enough to be heard above the thick tension filling the room. “I believe you were just leaving, right?”
You looked to the unfamiliar man, and the shame burned his face as you forced him out of the room. As soon as he was gone, you walked over to Spencer, finished making his coffee as he stood silently next to you, eyes refusing to meet yours.
You put the hot drink in his hand, smoothed his shirt out and whispered a quick thank you before retreating back to your desk.
After that, you didn't get closer.
You thought you would. You tried to follow him to the kitchen to actually have the talk you wanted in the days that followed, but you never quite managed it.
You'd just stand together in equitable silence making your coffees. Sometimes you'd talk about the weather. About the case. About things your coworkers did that you both found funny. About shows and books you both liked. About whatever random fact Spencer became enthusiastic about that day, or whatever noir movie he'd seen the previous day.
You didn't become closer, but you grew used to one another.
When the team finally came back, Emily patted herself on the back for a job well done for keeping the two of you grounded. You begrudgingly admitted to yourself that while Spencer lacked tact, you should've been more patient with him when he was asking you to be careful.
You'd heard him similarly chastising a handful of men since, always careful just to listen until he was done, and then clean up afterwards.
Spencer found his anger closer to the surface after prison than it had been before prison. Instead of sympathy or words, his fists always tightened into balls when anything displeased him. He wanted desperately to hit colleagues sometimes, and kept his breathing steady enough to reply with violent words rather than violent actions.
He couldn't blame his experiences in prison for everything, of course. Part of the blame was yours.
As much as he knew potassium and water weren't a safe combination, he found himself wanting to be dropped back into that pool once again. Looking at you was like setting himself on fire, remembering your bodies twinned together was like a little explosion.
He didn't know what brought him to your door, but he knew it was an inevitable reaction, one in a long chain.
“Spencer?” you asked, meeting him at your door, wrapped only in a loose robe and the too small, too flimsy sleep set you'd taken to sleeping in in the summer months.
“Hi,” he said, a little awkwardly, as if gaining the courage to knock on your door was the end of his plan, and he didn't know what the next steps were.
“Hey. Why are you…?” Here. Standing at your door looking so hot after you'd stayed obsessed with him for the last week.
“Why are you holding a bottle of wine?”
“Oh. Oh this. This is for you. To drink. Its for us to drink together, really, I… I wanted to apologise.”
You welcomed him in silently and quickly. Quickly still, you made your way to the kitchen, grabbed two glasses and a bottle opener and made your way back to your sofa where Spencer was standing awkwardly still.
“Please sit down,” you said, craning your neck to look up at him as he gently handed you the bottle. He nodded and sat down next to you, both too close and too far away at once. You'd thought of Spencer as more of a silent apologiser. You'd expected him to just be happy and friendly with you from here on out instead of directly acknowledging anything had happened. You'd seen him bottle up so many emotions, what was a little more shame and sympathy?
Now that he was in front of you, you didn't know what to do.
“So, um. I'm sorry.”
“Yes. Yes, I know.”
The tension in the air was thick as you turned to pour two glasses of wine, waiting for him to continue.
“Thank you,” he said taking the glass you offered him in two hands before glancing at it quickly and then downing it.
“When I got out of prison, I was in a bad shape, and that isn't an excuse, it's just a fact. My brain was in overdrive, and I was on guard around all… all men specifically. The things I heard in prison weren't good, nothing nice as said about women in prison, and when I got out, and I still heard those things…” He stopped and looked away, taking another deep breath.
“I was overstepping. I was being overprotective, and overfamiliar, and jealous-”
“Spencer, stop,” you said, putting your glass down, and smiling at him reassuringly.
“I appreciate your apology, but really it's fine. I came in while you were gone and getting back to schedule when your entire team dynamic is off is hard, so of course you were going to be on edge around me and a little bit jealous of my bond with the team but-”
“The team?” Spencer stammered quickly, cutting you off as you tried to reassure him.
“You were… jealous of my place in the group. I was an outsider who took your place and then you were just a little shorter with me than you would've been if we were introduced in normal circumstances.”
“No, Y/N… I- Did you think this whole time I was jealous of you?”
He said it in his softest voice which almost hurt a little bit more.
“Yes. That's how you were behaving, you were always annoyed and-”
“Jealous. Yes. Not of you, because of you.”
You felt every single place on your body where the material of your clothes were touching your body. The distance between the two of you, already small, felt smaller still, like you were tipping over an edge towards one another when in reality you were as solid as a statue in your seats.
“Y/N, I want you,” Spencer whispered, almost little bit ashamed, a little bit scared of his confession. It was the kind of voice criminals used when confessing, a voice that seemed ashamed of its own actions. “I listened to every single word men said about you, and I wanted to rip their tongues out and feed them back to them so they wouldn't have the chance to taste you again. So they couldn't torture me with their knowledge of you.”
He stood up abruptly and took a step back, placing his wine glass down on the table and pacing a few more steps away.
“Y/N, why did you have to kiss me?” He said, almost defeated. “Why did you have to kiss me and then push me away?”
You stared at him for a second, unsure whether he wanted a real answer or not, his eyes round with desperation, but face turned away slightly, as if he couldn't bare the answer.
“To shut you up,” you whispered. He nodded at your answer and took a deep breath.
“Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist-”
“Spencer? What-”
“I really believe he is Antichrist—I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do?”
“Spencer, what are you doing, why are you- are you quoting something at me.
“If you want me to stop, you know an effective solution,” he said, kneeling to the floor and looking up at you, continuing after a moments pause.
Quickly sinking to your knees as well, you grabbed the man by the collar and brought your lips to his.
As quietly desperate Spencer had been moments before, he took your kiss as an act of submission and countered quickly. You'd come to him, you'd listened to his request, and now he wasn't going to let you get the upper hand anymore.
Pulling you into his lap, his to guess pushed into your mouth as he wrapped your legs around him, guiding your cunt over his bulge as he kept up his attack against your tongue.
You fought back, trying to push him down to no luck. He caught your hands quickly, and standing up on his knees with one hand holding your ass in place, pinned you to the floor, arms held above your head in one large, strong, nearly painful grip.
Your body shook at the sudden motion, robe falling open and satin spilling over your body, revealing a single pink, perked up nipple that he eagerly latched onto.
You moaned at the contact of his hot tongue, the cold air hitting you at the exact moment his tongue dipped, as you held in a moan.
You couldn't hold in the second or third. By four you were practically humping up into the air to chase the sensations of his body pressed against your cunt.
“Spencer-” you moaned, cut off by a choke from your own throat as he roughly ripped down the other side of your shirt, harshly tugging at your other nipple with his fingers.
“If I had more time, I'd make you cum just from this. I'll spend hours edging your sore little nipples, just to make you happy,” he whispered, and you moaned as if it were your job, as if you were some cheap whore he was paying to abuse for the night.
“Good girl,” he said, tugging your underwear to the side and rubbing you slowly, coating his digits with your juices before pushing two fingers fully inside you quickly.
“No complaints. Take everything nicely.” he said, changing the angle of his hand as he began fucking you hard with just his hands.
“Fuck, Spencer, fuck- no, no, no, you have to stop! Fuck, I'll-”
He stopped just as instructed quickly, and you grabbed his hands to still his fingers, still inside of you.
“I need… shit I need hard nos's quickly Y/N. Tell me what I can and can't do.”
You gathered your breath enough to speak, but it was breathy, your breath still uneven, your legs still twitching as you lay on your back, cunt exposed to Spencer's greedy eyes. He drew small, gently circles on your clit with his thumb as you recovered.
“W-Why?” You managed to squeak out, cunt twitching at every accidental contact between you both.
“Because I'm either going to slap you to shut you up, or fuck your face, and I do believe in letting the lady decide.”
You couldn't help the scoff that came from your mouth, even though it was followed by another hitched breath and moan as you melted beneath him.
“You wouldn't do that, you're not the type.”
“What? What type am I not?”
“Slapping, spitting, demeaning. You're too… Spencer to do any of that,” you said, slowly raising your hips to fuck his fingers once again, pracitically begging him to keep us all his hard work.
Until he withdraws his hand and pulls you back into his lap, arms locking you in place on either sides of your waist.
“If I was anyone else,” he said slowly and deliberately, “Or if I was me and I possessed the ability to do any of that, would you consent to it?”
His words were a whisper, his fingers wet and hot on your nipples as he pulled, prodded, and played with them quietly.
“Well… you wouldn't-” you moaned at a sudden hard pinch, your hips jolting as he continued abusing your nipples.
“Everyone else has. Why can't I?”
“Spencer-” Another sharp pinch cut you off, forcing your eyes down to where he had a hand gently brushing against your chest, before sharply pinching it again.
“Hmm? What was that?”
“Spencer, p-please-”
You moan again as his other hand hooks around you to slide into your panties.
Pulls you fully onto his lap as he starts playing with your clit while tugging on your nipples, and he's waiting for you to give him permission to fuck you rougher.
“Can I do those things, Y/N?”
“Spencer….”
“Use your words to answer me, not your cunt. I know you're enjoying this.”
“Y-Yes.”
“Thank you,” he said, letting a hand trail up to your neck before kissing you gently on your lips again. The softness didn't last long as he picked up the pace with his other hand again, looming over you like a monster bent to its prey. His hand moved quickly, pushing in and out of you as you writhed on the floor, breaths shallow as he controlled where you went, where you looked, how you moved, and even how you breathed.
“S-Spencer,” you choked out, hands wrapping around his between your thighs, already twitching as your first orgasm hit you, twitching as he didn't slow down, moaning as you felt wetness seeping out of you in waves.
“Good girl. Good girl, you're doing so good for me. You want me to stop?” He asked.
“Yes, I can't- I can't do it anymore- nghhhh.”
“You can. Yes, you can, baby, you can. My little whore,” his voice was soft where his hands were hot, gripping your neck tighter as you focused only on breathing, legs shaking and twitching, squirming to get away even as you wished yourself to stay put.
“Good girl,” he said again, kissing you once again as his hand on your neck eased up. “One more time? One more right, baby?”
You nodded, not trusting yourself not to scream. With an open hand he slapped your face, just hard enough to draw a moan from your lips.
“Use your words, Y/N.”
“Y-Yes, I can do one more,” Ayou moaned, unsure if the stars you were seeing were from the harshness of the slap or the overstimulation. “Please.”
“Good manners,” he said, fingers slipping out of your cunt as you started to grind into him again, as soon as you said yes to another orgasm. “But I don't think I want you to cum yet.”
Lifting your hips, he urged you to turn over, pulling a pillow under your hips to help you lift them, still trembling as you were. A soft blanket was put under your head as he pushed your hips up, your shorts and panties pulled down and not just to the side now as he took all of you in.
“So drippy and wet, just for me…” he mused, probing a finger at your pussy again, laughing when you twitched at the contact.
“They say it tastes better than it feels you know,” he said pulling his phone out of his pocket before snapping a photo of your pussy, dripping and ready for him. “Look at it, what do you think?”
He thrusts the photo in your face as he pulled his dick out, letting it rub against the folds of your pussy as you moaned into defeat.
“Y/N, come on, what do you think? Do you taste better, or feel better?”
He propped up the phone in front of you and opened the camera, clicking record quickly as he slapped your ass.
“Answer me,” he insisted, cock head rubbing furiously against your clit now, fingers clamped down on a nipple, nails digging into your waist.
“Should I fuck you or eat that little cunt?”
“I- I don't know, Spencer, I don't know please-”
“Yes, you do. What should I do?”
You cried out in pleasure as you came again, the pressure on your clit too much too soon.
“F-fuck me,” you said, exhausted but still excited.
“Good girl,” he said again, withdrawing his touch before laying down under you and bringing your cunt to his mouth.
You tried to hold yourself up, but you couldn't as he licked and sucked and nudged at your clit with his nose. He'd ignored you, prolonged your torture, and decided he needed to decide for himself.
“Spencer…” you moaned, but it was weak. He chuckled into your cunt and you clamped your thighs around his face as far as you could, but he didn't relent.
Running a finger through your pussy to pick up your cum, he pushed a single digit into your asshole as you moaned slowly and weakly, face completely squished into the floor.
He pushed in and out slowly at first stretching your ass as you began riding his face, fucking against his to gue as you got closer and closer to release. The sooner you came now, the sooner he would release you.
But Spencer stilled your hips, and slowed his own movements to a few kisses here and there, letting one finger become two as he fucked your asshole. Eventually, all contact stopped with your cunt as you hungrily fucked his fingers, the stretch uncomfortable but good.
“Good girl, you like that? You like being my little anal slut? Good girl.”
The words hit hard, as you came on his face. He pulled his hands away and pushed you onto your back again, rising up to your fsve again.
“Open,” he said, and you obeyed letting him spit your own cum back into your mouth. His tongue connected with your own as you tasted yourself, hot and heavy on his lips.
As you kissed, he pushed your legs up, knees spread and with a single, hard, rough push, filled you with his cock.
You screamed in pleasure as he cooed into your ear. “I'm sorry baby, I couldn't help it. Your cunt looked too delicious, it was begging for my dick.”
Another slow pull out, and again he pushed in hard, stealing the breath from your lungs without even needing a hand on your neck.
Grabbing his phone, Spencer angled it towards where you were hungrily taking him in.
“This cunt is mine now, okay?”
You nodded, and he slapped you again.
“Words, Y/N, I need words. Tell me whose cunt this is.”
“Its yours, Spencer, all yours,” you moaned as he picked up his pace, lifting to his knees so he could drop it all into you.
“Shit, say more. Tell me what I can do to this pussy?”
“Abuse my pussy, Spencer. Stretch me out, slap me, keep me full, fuck I don't care, breed me,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around his neck as you lifted your chest up to his, thighs wrapped around his waist, ankles locked together behind him.
“You want me to cum in you? Want me to claim you so everyone can see?” He asked, nails digging into your thighs almost hard enough to draw blood.
“Yes!”
“Good…. fucking… slut,” he saif, and with a final thrust, he emptied his balls inside you.
You didn't move for a long time, catching your breath on the floor, a pile of limbs coated in sprsys of wetness and cum.
You started rubbing your cunt again first, as he joined in again with shallow thrusts, wincing and seething as he overstimulated himself.
You came quietly that last time and waited for him to pull out and clean you up.
He didn't. Keeping himself sheathed inside you, he awkwardly lifted the two of you to the couch and pulled your head down into his chest, letting you cockwarm him as your cum soaked into the material of the couch.
“Sleep for an hour or two. You'll wake up when it's time to go again.”
When you woke, it wasn't to Spencer starting again, but instead the ring of your phone. You tried to reach for it, to silence whatever alarm had decided to disturb you at that point, but Spencer was faster.
“Hello?” he said down the line, forgetting where he was for a second before you nestled into the crook of his neck again, fingers gently tracing his collarbone.
“Spencer?” Emily asked, confused and voice tired.
“Emily?” He asked. “We have a case?” He sat you up with him crasling you in his arms as you fully woke, your muscles objecting at this sudden movement. His cock stayed buried within you as you reoriented yourself.
“Uh, yeah. We've got an hour to get to the office and debrief, then were flying out- Spencer. This is Spencer?” she asked again, voice a muddle with confusion, tone rising by the second.
“Yes, Spencer. I'll be there.”
“And Y/N?” Emily asked. “I didn't dial the wrong number, Spencer, I have you all on speed dial. You're with Y/N?”
You sat bolt upright and took the phone from Spencer quickly, the shrill ringing of Emily's voice echoing down the line.
“We’ll be there,” you practically shouted. “We just drank together and-” you pulled the hair out of your face as you felt Spencer go rigid inside you again.
“A-and that's it. See you in an hour.”
Speedily you hung up, grabbed Spencer and pressed your lips to his again, pushing him down into the couch.
hi Kacie :"> it's me :">
just thinking about ''reader sitting on his face in reverse cowgirl and decides to just unbutton and zip down his pants, turning this to a 69 and somehow both of them make it into a 'who's gonna make the other one finish first' competition'' nothing much how has your afternoon been I hope you'll have a great day xx
-kei
A Kei request a day keeps the chances of my going to heaven away 🙏 I <3 smut
Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI, use of pet names (good boy), sub(ish) Spencer Reid, munch!Spencer, oral (m +f), 69ing, rough sex, face fucking, unprotected oral sex, no plot just sex. Literally no plot.
Masterlist <3
With a cock that perfect and neglected right in front of your face, you could hardly resist the temptation to give it a tiny taste.
It wasn't like it was against the rules of your non-hookups with Spencer. He'd ask for explicit pictures twice a week, which you'd happily send for the chance to be sat on his tongue by 10pm that Friday evening, days on which cases landed notwithstanding.
Hotel rooms were very convenient hook up spots, especially the ones with free condoms and tissues on both the nightstand and by the desk chair.
Not that you ever needed condoms, really. You'd never so much as touched Spencer's cock, let alone had it inside you. He was too much of a giver to take something like that from you. His cock was always hard, always visible through his pants, but he was so focused on your pleasure, he didn't care about his own needs being met.
Spencer's tongue was your personal sex toy. You'd fucked his face multiple times, grabbing his hair and forcing his nose into the bristles of hair at the end of your pelvic bone as you ground your cunt into his wet, hot mouth. You'd laid back contentedly and let him peacefully lick and suck slowly for hours on end, cumming multiple times as he explored your sensitive parts.
You'd sat on a chair, legs spread, and let him lap up your cum on his knees, because there was nothing in the world he wanted more.
More than once, you knew, he'd walked away with cum dampening his pants, having enjoyed your moans and taste so much that he'd lost it before really touching you.
But Spencer Reid was being unfair getting you to sit on his face, to look at his big, thick cock atraining through his pants, straight on, and telling you to sit still and enjoy his tongue when all you wanted was to take him as far down your throat as he could get.
“Fuck, Spencer,” you moaned again as he nipped at your clit, tongue flicking it as you felt a familiar burn of stimulation at your core.
You were going to end up roughly fucking his face if you weren't careful. His tongue just felt too good.
You slid your hands down his stomach a bit, landing on his loose pants as you repositioned your knees.
“Spencer, that's it keep going. Good boy, good boy.”
You gripped his pants tightly, using the little bit of tension to help you arch back, pushing more of your ass onto his face than before.
But your arms, already weak from a rough day at work, slipped again pushing his pants down just one more inch until his cock could finally spring loose. You wanted nothing more than to taste it, reaching forward and looking at it intensely as your mouth watered. You didn't get closer than a breath away, as Spencer immediately stopped when your mouth almost achieved its goal.
“Fuck, fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Spencer mumbled crawling out from underneath you as he scrambled to get his cock back in his pants.
“Spencer-”
“I'm sorry, it won't happen again, I'll-”
“Spencer, slow down. What?”
You'd seen Spencer flushed with desire before, but the redness of his cheeks was different somehow now. More embarrassment than anything else.
Slowly, you crawled towards him again, trying to look as non-threatening as you could, clad only in hastily pushed aside panties and dishevelled dress. Your hand slowly traced up his thigh, and you kept it there, still for a second watching to see what Spencer would do next.
“Spencer. Why can't I see your cock?” You asked, voice low but light, almost surprising yourself with how breathy and needy you sounded.
“I… I thought you wouldn't want to see…” he trailed off, and you pouted up at him, stroking his thigh as he looked down distractedly at you.
“I want to. Can I have it now?” You asked in a sickeningly sweet voice.
“Y/N…. It's… I've had complaints in the past, it's not…” he struggled to find the words as your hand brushed over his crotch now tracing the bulge in his pants as his head dropped backwards.
“It's not what? Big? Don't lie to me.”
“That's not it… I get… I get too overwhelmed if you do that, I get too-”
“Too….” You mimicked, dropping a hand into his underwear as his hand fell over yours, unsure whether it was to stop you or to set the pace of your impromptu hand job.
“Rough,” he said, as you firmly gripped his cock, using your other hand to free him from his pants and underwear, knocking his hand away as you ran your palm along the length of his hard cock.
“Rough?” You said, gripping the tip of his cock, teasing it until it shone with precum.
His hand fell back over yours, more firmly this time, as he met his eyes with yours.
“I didn't want to hurt you, but I get so overwhelmed if I use it that I… I get rough, I don't listen well-”
You were practically dripping listening to his explanations for not fucking you, or even letting you see his cock.
“Overwhelmed?”
“Yes! It's like… Y/N, I'd treat you like a sex toy, not a person, and I want this to be good for you, too, so let's not-”
You cut him off with a rough kiss as you pressed him back into the bed, straddling his thighs as you gently fisted his cock, rubbing up and down slowly.
“I'll make a deal with you, Spencer,” you said, between gasps of air. “I'll sit on your face again, and you let me suck your cock. When you get rough, if you get rough, you'll be able to feel how much I'm enjoying it, okay?”
He nodded between kisses, words forming and melting on his tongue as his hips began thrusting into your hand, his thigh digging into your mound as he thrashed towards a climax.
“Good boy,” you said, kissing him one last time before letting go of his cock and climbing out of his lap.
His body twitched in protest, but his big hands grasped you quickly, pulling you up the bed as you eagerly went with them, losing your panties on the way as you let your dress fall around his face in an all too familiar position.
But this time, you lowered yourself down, too, spitting on his tip quickly as his tongue got to work teasing your clit slowly.
You gave him a few pumps, before lowering yourself more completely on his face, pressing your chest close to his abdomen and taking his cock slowly onto your mouth.
Spencer wasn't small, but you also weren't going to let him be a challenge. You got a few inches down before you decided to come back up again, hands still stroking the base and massaging the rest. You did that a few times before you felt Spencer's body angle up into you again.
Changing his leg position on the bed, Spencer thrust his cock up into your mouth as you forced yourself to breathe. His cock thrust up again, quickly but totally and he left it there for a few seconds before pulling it out again.
The entire time, he hadn't let up his work on your cunt. His to guess flattened out against your clit, roughly stroking that sensitive area with a precision only he knew. A hand clasped around your hips, gripping your ass kept you firmly in place on his face, as his hips bucked into you.
He got faster, wilder, and yes, rougher.
You didn't want to pull off his dick, but moving back was instinctual. He pushed you right back in with a hand on your head, fisted into your hair as he synchronised your movements, pulling your head up as he pulled his cock away from your lips, and pushing it back down when his hips snapped up.
You moaned hysterically when you came apart on his face, feeling your cum trickling down your leg as he continued to use you to get off. His to guess never stopped, even after wave after wave of your juices hit him.
The only sign of his impending orgasm was the tightening of his hands, both of them now coming down on your head, forcing you to the base of his sizable cock as your tongue touched his balls. He came down your throat and immediately releases you, spluttering and coughing as your legs trembled.
Spencer scrambled to get you on your back, pushing you upright and patting your back as you regained your breath.
“I'm sorry, Y/N, I said it wasn't a good ide-”
You pushed your cum stained tongue into his mouth, shutting him up quickly as he tasted himself, and you tasted yourself, and your tastes mingled quickly, as you climbed into his lap again.
“Spencer,” you said, catching your breath once again, collapsing into his arms.
“If I need to beg for your cock, I will. I like it rough. I-” you gasped again, feeling his cock stirring with each word.
“I very much like it when you use me like a sex toy. So… so in the future, please use all of me, and I'll use you, too.”
Summary: After catching your boyfriend cheating, you find accidental comfort in your coworker. With your phone ringing nonstop, you're willing to do whatever it takes to start fresh.
A/N: Haha... hi guys... been a while 😚 Please enjoy the fic I dreamed up over a month ago now, and was finally able to conjure up!
Masterlist
If you were to be asked how you assumed a five-year-long relationship would end, you'd likely say something like irreparable differences. Maybe a difference in lifestyle, growing out of love, or even different plans for the future. Unfortunately, the irreparable difference your boyfriend had chosen at 10 pm on a Thursday evening was being balls deep in an irreparably different woman.
You supposed you should've seen the signs the relationship was drawing to a close and likely you did, but with your job itself being a life or death situation almost daily, you really didn't have much time to worry about the fact that your boyfriend was sowing his oats in other fields. Based on the look of the woman spread across your bed, the oats weren't that great for her either.
Your reaction had been somewhat delayed, but curiously not as much as hers. She'd been wonderfully blasé about the man writhing on top of her before you started screaming and throwing things, and even now you were armed with a vase of flowers (dead - you'd bought them yourself before the case you'd been on for the last two weeks) she still looked slightly bored. But at least her legs were together now, and not gynaecologist level apart.
Your boyfriend - ex-boyfriend? - managed to regain an ounce of dignity with a scrap of clothing, and did his best to shepard you out of the crime scene as you regained the ability to hold coherent thoughts that weren't about strangling him with his own tie.
“Listen to me, please just for five minutes-”
“Listen? I was just listening! To you moaning into that woman's shoulders with your eyes rolled back in your head!”
It was as if in the last few minutes all the love you'd had for this man, all five years of relationship and comfort, and nights spent together had melted away in an instant. The rage dissipated, and you were surprisingly calm again, though that worried you, too. Surely you should be crying, or at the very least upset. You should be feeling some kind of emotion that wasn't a vague disgust at the man in front of you in full pooh bear mode, trying to tug down the hem of his shirt to cover the crown jewels.
“It didn't mean anything. She doesn't mean anything. She's just - You're gone so long on cases, and I just-”
“So you're saying it's my fault you're cheating on me?”
“Yes! No, wait, no, no, no, no-”
“No, heard loud and clear, I'll try not to save lives in the future, I'm sure the BAU will understand I should be on my back 24 hours a day instead, taking all four inches you have to donate to my worthy cause.”
“Y/N, don't be like that,” he said, exasperated. Whatever he had to be exasperated about, you had no idea. Maybe blue balls.
“Like what?”
“Like a bitch!”
The room went still with silence as you let him sit with the words he'd just spoken, willing him to snap back quickly so you could keep even just a shred of respect for him.
No such apology came.
“I'm leaving now. I expect your things packed and out of here by 12 pm tomorrow, including your thing in the bedroom. Don't bother cleaning the sheets. Just burn them. Lock the door and post the keys through the letterbox when you're done.”
“Y/N, I told you it's not like that, I still love you, come on-”
“Well I don't love you. And please go put some fucking pants on.”
You stepped back over the threshold of your apartment - the lovely, nice apartment you'd been living in for the last eight years, your nice safe space - and you shuddered.
The question wasn't exactly what next, but more like where next. What next was sending a group text in your ex-boyfriends family chat telling them what you'd walked in on, and then leaving the chat before you could get any response. The where would be a harder sell.
From this part of the city, it'd take 2 hours to get to Penelope’s apartment, especially at this time of night without a car. Emily's apartment was similarly far. Going through a list of your coworkers again, you mentally crossed off Tara, who'd been injured on your last case and was resting at her girlfriend's apartment, Luke, who despite the promised comfort of a cute dog, you were absolutely sure didn't have a spare bed, and all members of the team with spouses and/or children. Which left just Spencer and Rossi.
Needless to say, you found your way to Spencer's apartment in only 20 minutes, though you were sure you had disassociated the entire thing.
Knocking on the door, you felt a little bit awkward, but not awkward enough to leave and find a hotel at nearly 11 pm. Your last case hadn't been a pleasant one, hotel-wise, and you weren't exactly eager for another check-in.
Spencer opened the door quickly, his eyebrows knitted in confusion as he found you there but only for a brief flash before his face brightened up.
“Y/N? Do we have a case again? I thought Hotch said-”
“Can I stay here tonight?” you blurted, needing to get the words out as quickly as possible before you convinced yourself to walk away.
Spencer took a moment to take in your words, and you took the opportunity to look at him then. He was fully clothed at least, and you were glad to find that his pajamas looked comfortable and clean. A simple plaid cotton pant with a soft-looking white long sleeved shirt pushed up his arms slightly. He'd taken out his contacts and put on his glasses, and you wondered if you'd caught him mid-book.
“Please?” you added in a hopeful voice as he still looked at you slightly confused.
“Oh, of course,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing inside. “Is there something wrong with your apartment?” he asked, taking your go-bag from you without question and guiding you into the main living space of his apartment.
“Thank you, yeah. Something like that. Shoes off or on?”
“I have some slippers. You can take them off. What happened?” he said, placing the slippers in front of you and turning back to bolt the door.
“Invasive species?” You said, trying to sound as nonplussed as possible despite now feeling incredibly plussed.
“Oh, bugs? Yeah, I've had a cockroach or two in the apartment before. Did you know that the average female cockroach can produce up to 10,000 offspring in a single year?”
You sat on his couch quietly, trying not to imagine 10,000 cockroaches and failing nearly spectacularly. Unfortunately, the only image that could surpass tiny cockroach babies was of your boyfriend pounding away at another woman. Which was just a brilliant move for your psyche.
“Spencer, I know I've really intruded here tonight, but do…. Do you wanna drink with me?” You asked, hoping to drown at least a memory or two of the last 24 hours. Hopefully, the cheating one, but you'd take cockroach extermination as well.
A slightly worried look settled on Spencer's face, but he said nothing and nodded, walking to his kitchen, grabbing two beers and meeting you back on his loveseat.
“Oh you really have beer here!” You exclaimed, thanking him for the beverage before cracking it open and taking a sip.
“Morgan came over with some to celebrate 6 months out of prison. These are leftovers.”
“Right… right…”
The first few sips were so painfully awkward that you thought about returning back to your apartment and just sleeping on your own couch.
Vaguely, you felt Spencer watching you, taking a sip of his drink for every sip you took of yours.
“So…” you said, and he raised an inquisitive eyebrow again, already questioning whatever was about to come out of your mouth.
“So?” he asked. You weren't sure if it was the beer, the look on his face, or the crazy implosion of the last 5 years that had you giggling all of a sudden. You were just glad that when you cracked up, he cracked a smile as well, and a little bit of the tension went away.
“Why are you really here, YN?”
You took a deep breath and looked straight forward at the bookshelves Spencer had lovingly filled. Maybe this had taken him half a decade as well, so he'd understand how your life felt a little bit like a wobbly bookshelf at that second.
“The invasive species I mentioned? It was the woman screwing my boyfriend in my bed. Ex. Ex-boyfriend.”
You heard the intake of breath from Spencer before he put his can down and started thinking of something to say in reply to that.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh… Y/N, I-”
A shrill ringing cut him off, and you were almost glad to not be on the receiving end of whatever pitiful words he was about to push on you, until you checked the caller ID and saw your ex's name.
“Don't pick that up,” Spencer said as you hesitated towards the phone. With a hand over yours, he flipped the phone over, locking eyes with you as he let it ring out.
“He's just going to try it again.”
“Let him.”
You nodded, breaking eye contact and sinking back into Spencer's slightly wilted couch cushions.
“In your bed? Really?” he asked, talking another sup as you took a gulp, letting the beer fizz down your throat before you could answer.
“I told him to expect me tomorrow because of how the case was looking. I guess he wasn't expecting me.”
“I think that was a given. Unless he was into that. Exhibitionism is one of the most common kinks among adult males, and-”
“Oh he was not into exposing himself,” you laughed into your drink, propping your head up on your hand and turning to face Spencer more. He shot another questioning glance but didn't push the issue, so you silently explained as well. By pinching your fingers together to the approximate size of your ex-boyfriend's dick.
“Oh. Well, it's not the size that counts?” He whispered almost ironically as he took another sip, now much closer than before. You'd done your best to distance yourself from your boyfriend even as he'd followed you through your apartment half naked, but you didn't seem to find Spencer's proximity threatening at all.
Maybe because he wasn't having sex with a random woman in your bed 5 seconds before.
“You wanna know the worst part?” You said, leaning closer as if to tell him an even bigger secret. “He didn't even know how to use it. I haven't-”
Another phone call blasted through, and you grabbed your phone and put it behind you.
“He's really great at interrupting conversation when it’s just getting good,” Spencer laughed, but you were slightly disappointed that he'd leaned back away now.
“What was it you were saying?” He asked, taking a swig of beer again, can nearing its close.
“I haven't had an orgasm in almost three years,” you said bluntly, watching the most genuine spit take you’d seen in your life. You pat Spencer's back as he coughed up inhaled beer, bringing your feet up under you into a cosier position.
“Okay now?” you asked as his breathing returned to normal.
“No? Three years, Y/N? Really?”
You shrugged and looked away almost embarrassed to be meeting his eyes now that your sexual history was the topic of the night.
“We had sex. He's just… he's just a really lazy lover. It'd be the same stuff every time. Handjob to some clumsy fingers missing my clit, a few pumps and cum on my face. I wasn't exactly initiating seven days a week in the hopes that this time he'd be able to locate it.”
Spencer was somewhere between horror and trying not to laugh, eyes wide with either alarm or the strain of having to keep it in.
“It's okay, you can laugh,” you said, but he shook his head politely.
“Y/N, I was in prison and still had more orgasms than you this year.”
“Hey, I hear prison is a great place to meet new people. Have new experiences.”
Spencer shot you a quickly horrified look as his cheeks flushed with heat. “Y/N, I was not someone's bitch in prison.”
“Why not? You're pretty enough for it?”
You'd meant the line to come across as teasing, just as you'd expected the finger now twisted in a lock of his hair, playing with him, to come off as teasing as well.
But you felt a definite throb between your legs when he looked at you again, doubly so when his eyes darted down to your lips.
You cleared your throat and tried for a teasing tone once again.
“So you made someone else your bitch?” you smiled, trying to drag his eyes away from your lips before you did something you'd regret.
“No. I… I spent a long time in solitary, and there's… there's really not that much to do.”
“So you did yourself?”
The tips of his ears were scarlet when you finally decided to back off, tucking the curl of hair behind his ear and letting him cool off.
“Why didn't you masturbate then?” he asked, pouting slightly still from your interrogation.
“Excuse me?”
“Your boyfriend couldn't make you cum, but a vibrator probably could. But you still haven't had an orgasm in three years. Why is that?”
It was your turn to feel the heat, the warmth from the beer finally reaching your head.
“He didn't want me to.”
You didn't mean for the words to sound as sad as they did. The fact itself was just incredibly sad. Your boyfriend saw anything vaguely phallic shaped as competition and had encouraged “organic” coupling instead.
You waited for Spencer to say something else, anything else as you held his gaze, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and him to start talking down to you as if you were simply a victim of the worst sex in the world.
Instead, he said “so did that other woman look as miserable as you've been for the last three years?” and the spell was broken.
You laughed so hard, you nearly choked on the beer you'd already finished. This time, it was Spencer's turn to land a hand on your back as you winded yourself with laughter.
“She looked bored! She looked genuinely bored. I almost thought it was just a lifelike doll, she was that unphased,” you kept giggling between gasps, forcing the words out as you threw your head onto Spencer's shoulder, hand landing on his thigh as you finally calmed down.
“I'd be horrified if anyone looked bored while in bed with me,” came Spencer's voice, and a little shiver ran down your spine as the rasp of his whisper rang in your ear.
You looked up from his shoulder and caught his eye immediately. If you wanted to, you could lean up by a centimetre and catch his lips with yours. And you suddenly, very much wanted to do that.
A final shriek of your phone behind you deterred you for a few seconds, and you were about to work yourself up to scooting a little bit away from Spencer when he leaned over you, grabbed the phone, and hung up on your boyfriend.
“Do you want to cum, Y/N?” he asked, as quietly as before as his hands traced over you on their return journey to him. He looked down your body, eyes greedily drinking in your breasts, hips, thighs and legs tucked into his side on his couch.
You didn't know what you were going to respond when your head practically nodded by itself. Enthusiastically.
He doesn't immediately pull you in for a kiss, and you're worried for a beat that he meant that only as a hypothetical and not an invite. A final cry from your phone has you standing in seconds, completely detached from Spencer, and the nearly embarrassing moment you pouncing him would've been.
“I should probably take it this time,” you explained, turning slightly.
But Spencer was faster than you, if not more prepared for what was to come. Wrapping an arm around your waist, Spencer tugged you back, pulling you onto his lap. When you were firmly situated - ass over his now evidently firm cock - he grabbed the phone out of your other hand, hung up and put it in his pocket.
“Spencer, I-I don't think that's a good idea,” you gasped as his hands slowly progressed up to your chest, and his lips dropped to your neck, biting and sucking along whatever flesh was easy for him to access.
“You need to cum. You deserve to cum, Y/N. I'm just here to help. Use me.”
You stifle a sharp, quick moan, biting your lips and thanking God that he couldn't see the face you made when his hips ground his cock up into your ass.
“I'm probably not ready for this,” you stuttered slightly, breath departing your body quicker than it could arrive.
“Probably not.”
“We work together, too. It would be awkward.”
“It might,” he nodded. “But you still want to.”
You couldn't help the moan, finally letting it free as you tossed your head back and clawed at his forearm, wrapped around you.
Your ass had a mind of its own, grinding back into him in circles as his hands found their way under your shirt, inquisitive fingers stroking your nipples through your bra.
“S-Spencer,” you whimpered again, legs spreading apart as you felt that familiar warmth settle between them. He didn't miss the longing in your tone, the shift in your core, pushing one hand down your stomach and trailing it onto your thigh.
It was as close as he could get with your pants still on, tight against your skin. He squeezed your thigh, still licking and sucking at your neck before his hand rose to the clasp of your pants.
It took him a long lime to fumble with them, and you thought of helping multiple times but you let yourself get distracted by the tense definition of his muscles, the rigid line of his body as he strained to please you.
Your mind fogged with lust, and you felt the vibrations from his pocket right under you when your phone rang again. You practically jerked up in shock as pleasure hit you in a wave, Spencer's fingers finally dipping into your panties just as the vibrations hit you. They weren't centred, of course, not anywhere close to where you needed them to be for you to enjoy them the way you would a toy, but that's what Spencer was for.
He let the call ring out, tracing small, slow circles over your clit as you jumped up into his hand, moaning and whimpering the entire time.
“What an idiot. I bet he never touched you like this. Nice and slow.”
“N-no, S-s-”
“I'm so glad I'm right. He didn't deserve this beautiful cunt. You're so wet for me, right, baby?” You nodded and he hummed in response, voice low and making you pulse in his lap.
“That's it, good girl,” he whispered as you worked your cunt up and down his fingers, stilling himself so you could find your own pleasure.
“Spencer… Spencer, fuck-”
With his free hand, he turned your face to the side and finally kissed you properly as you moaned into his mouth. He was quick to deepen the kiss, to press his tongue against the seam of your mouth and enter your mouth, quickly dominating you as you let yourself get more and more excited. Your hips stuttered, out of rhythm and out of practice, and you almost whimpered in frustration that you couldn't get off quicker, that your body wasn't finding the orgasm quick enough despite how good, how perfect this felt.
Sensing your growing frustration, Spencer broke the kiss.
“Come with me,” he said, pulling his hands away from your wet cunt and out of your stupid pants and encouraging your hips up until you were stood and he was stood behind you.
Cock still firmly stood against your ass, he walked you all the way to his bedroom, hands on your hips the entire time, memorising the sway of your walk.
“Strip and get on the bed, please, Y/N,” he said, finally peeling himself away from you as you nodded quickly and listened to him immediately. You weren't sure what to expect, so you hesitated, laying down, crawling up until your head hit the pillows. You were almost disappointed when you finally looked back at Spencer and he was still fully clothed, so sure that he was going to fuck you to your climax.
Instead, he approached the bed, gently slid his arms around your thighs, opened your legs wider, knelt on the floor and brought your cunt to his face.
The first touch of his to guess to your clit had you almost beside yourself with lust. You'd been sexually active for a handful of years, and this - THIS - was the first time you'd experienced such acute pleasure.
Your hips were unable to stop, thrusting up into his face as you willed his tongue to engulf you, to be a tool in your pleasure.
Again your phone rang, but he grabbed it quickly, pausing only a second to silence it and discard it on the bed beside you, sitting it further up the bed where it would no longer be a distraction to him.
He dove right back in, and you rewarded him with wave after wave of fierce moan, your writhing body only restricted by a hand snaked up onto his stomach. You still pushed against his face, practically fucking it as he flattened out his to guess and let you chase your high.
“Spencer!” You gasped and moaned, voice dripping with lust and desperation, mouth not even properly forming words now you were so close.
You propped yourself up slightly, looking down as Spencer's eye caught your own, his chin slick with your juices, his eyes dripping with lust. You grabbed a handful of his hair and jumped that little bit faster as you felt that long forgotten whisper of pleasure, that all-encompassing explosion of satisfaction, and you came apart on Spencer's tongue.
“Thank you, thank you, Spencer, shit, thank you,” you whimpered, falling back again into the bed as you rode out the high. When you managed to open your bleary eyes again, Spencer was propped up above you, but instead of paying you attention, he'd grabbed your phone and bought it to his ear.
“You heard that? Good. I'm sure you're aware now that she won't be returning your calls tonight. Goodbye.”
His voice, his words, were like a cold bucket of water to your brain as you sat up, reaching for him and finding him as his hips circled your waist.
“Was that-?” He cut you off with a kiss a sweet, soft one.
“Yes.” He kissed you again and you melted into his touch as he pulled you into his lap again.
“H-He-”
“He knows now what a real orgasm sounds like. He knows you're not interested anymore. He knows you're mine now.”
You shivered at the words, your lust addled brain flooding your senses, and your cunt as you reacted to the possessiveness of his words, his tone. Part of you was turned on by the exhibitionism as well. You'd had to walk in on your ex boyfriend completely exposed, and there was satisfaction in kicking him to the curb with a similar fuck you. A fuck you that you'd enjoyed a lot.
You pressed your lips against Spencer's and rocked your hips against him again, tasting yourself on his tongue as he laid you down once more. His cock twitched against your leg as he propped you up on the pillows, and your hands trailed down to show it some attention as your sighed into his kiss.
He eagerly shed his clothes, first his top, sitting up and pulling it over his head, giving you a deliriously enticing shot of his chest and soft stomach before dropping down to cover your body again. You let your hand find the sprinkling of hair on his lower stomach, though, following it down as you encouraged his pants off. His cock was thick and heavy in your hand, and you gladly stroked it as he kissed the plains of your body again. He found the side of your neck that he'd neglected earlier, licking and sucking until it was almost as loved as the first side, before pulling your hand away from his cock.
You pouted and began to protest when he quickly lined his cock up with your cunt, and slid in deep and soft before you could.
“Needed to be in you,” he whispered in your ear, gripping your hips and sliding your legs up and around him as he pushed that little bit deeper. “Keep them nice and wide for me,” he said, dropping one last kiss to your lips, before his chest rose, and his hips pulled away again.
When they snapped back into you, you let out a generous scream of pleasure that almost had you wishing you'd never hung up. He set a quick pace, a furious pace as he too moaned into the contact of your cunt and his cock, two desperate people searching for release.
“So tight, Y/N, you're so tight,” he moaned, flesh hitting flesh as you dug your nails into his arms, already so wet again, you could feel the sheets under you growing damp. His hand left its perch on your hip and found its way to your clit once again, and you knew that you weren't going to be able to keep to this pace without cumming a second time.
“Keep moaning for me baby, show me how much you want it,” his voice begged, almost a rumble with how lustful he sounded. You let your voice carry, each moan a little bit more unrestricted than the last.
“Louder, Y/N, please. I want to hear how much you're enjoying this, you don't know how much I enjoy hearing your pleasure.”
His prayers were answered when he lowered his head back down and took one of your nipples into his mouth, gently grazing it with his teeth between licks and sucks. You practically screamed his name, pressing your chest up to grant him better access.
You liquefied beneath him, pressure building and building until you felt him rock, lifting his chest as you came. He pulled his cock out, teasing it through your folds as you stuttered around him, your arousal squirting across his cock and sheets as you fell back to the bed, gasping in pleasure. Your hips stuttered against him, and he soothed you gently, still working his cock through your folds gently as your clit went from overwhelmed to calm to quickly overstimulated.
“Spencer,” you whimpered, almost unable to take all the pleasure he was offering you. “Spencer, it-it hurts.”
“Don't you want me to stop?” He asked, stopping his movements for a second as you deliberated your answer. The lack of movement was answer alone, and you shook your head no wanting to feel his cock against you, inside you, one more time.
“Louder, Y/N, tell me what you want.”
“I want to keep going,” you said, as he began slowly rocking his cock against you again, sticky from your cum.
“What do you want me to do?” He asked, teasing a nipple with his hand as your eyes fluttered shut.
“Please fill me up again, please I want to cum again.”
“One more time?” He asked.
“Mhmmm… one more… one more, please.”
You were cum drunk, so horny that you couldn't fathom stopping there. He pressed another kiss to your lips and encouraged you to flip over, propping a pillow under your stomach as he pulled your legs into the right position.
You snuggled into the pillows at your head, pushing your ass up for him slightly as he nudged his cock against your entrance once more.
“Where should I cum Y/N?” He asked, reaching under you to slowly circle your clit again.
“H-hmmm…” you said, eyes shut, focused more on the pleasure than the question. You didn't care anymore. You didn't care where he came, just as long as he let you do it, too.
“Y/N, I expect an answer. Where should I put my cum?”
“Anywhere,” you pouted, pressing your hips back into his cock in the hopes that he'd just fuck you again already.
“That's not an answer,” he said, gently slapping your ass as he pulled his cock away.
“On your back?” He asked, fingers still working your clit underneath, but trailing lower until they found your cunt, two entering you to keep you wet and stretched for him.
“You'd need to shower before you could pass out, but I'm happy to help clean you off. They have communal showers in prison, so I'm not shy.” You moaned at the suggestion but couldn't answer further.
“On your stomach? Again we'd have to shower off, but I would love to see your boobs decorated all nicely.” Your moans were whimpers now as he edged you with his fingers, his words gentle in your ear but dripping with so much lust and promise you couldn't stand it. You didn't want to make decisions anymore.
“On your face?”
“Not on my face,” you snapped quickly, and he nodded and stroked your hair, hooking a strand behind your ear as he agreed.
“Okay. Where, Y/N? Be a good girl and tell me.”
“I-Inside. Cum inside me. Please.”
“Of course. Good job.”
He pulled his hand free gently, and quickly replaced it with his thick cock, and you moaned again at the weight of it against your walls, the familiar stretch of it. In this position, he reached deeper somehow, his thrusts slower, more precise as he drew out his own orgasm as long as possible, maximising his ability to pleasure you.
“Good girl,” he muttered against your skin, dropping a kiss to your back. “Good girl.”
“Wanted to do this for so long, Y/N,” he confessed with each thrust. “Look at how pretty this pussy is, how wet it is for me. I wish your boyfriend could see it. I wish he could see how well-behaved you are for me. How nicely you take my cock.”
His deep, slow strokes, his words, the kisses he pressed against any inch of your skin he could reach combined to push you over the edge a third and final time. This one wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was a steady shudder of pleasure from your hips and a quiet, satisfied sigh.
You didn't say anything but Spencer knew, he felt it, and he came moments after, cock deep inside as he filled you with his cum.
“You're on birth control, right?”
“IUD. Pill. Yeah.” You say between breathy sighs of contentment.
Muttering something behind you, he pulled out finally, leaving for a minute to grab a washcloth and clean himself off before returning to help you as well.
“What did you mumble?” You asked, as he crawled back into your arms, looking up at him.
“What?” He asked, ears turning slightly pink as you stared at him intently.
“Just now. I told you I was on birth control, and you mumbled something.”
He looked away, refusing to meet your gaze before dropping to kiss you sweetly once again.
“Tell me,” you said, and he kissed you again.
“Spencer, tell me,” you pouted, and he kissed the pout away.
You almost asked again, but he kissed you too quickly, too deeply and you lost your breath again.
“I said,” he started, leaving you panting under him again. “It was good you're on birth control, because I like the sight of my cum dripping out of you.”
The remaining breath left your body as you gasped, your face growing hot. You burrowed your face in his chest and let him hold you as you drifted into sleep, wrapped up in each other.
Summary: When you wake up in a familiar yet unfamiliar bed with no memory of begging your long-time work crush to sleep with you, you have even less recollection of him actually agreeing. Small memories of pleasure haunt you as he tries to figure out why you're suddenly so distant.
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!! Alcohol use (whole BAU team, and as a precursor to sex), implied smut, on page (?) smut, dom-ish!Spencer, male masturbation, marking, nipple play/torture, edging, penetrative sex, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, semi-public sex/ make out, creampie, reader is very into male moans. That should be it.
A/N: I forgot about this fic TWICE, but it's here!!! Posting again for @imagining-in-the-margins FWB challenge, and I feel like this one slightly misses the mark but it works anyway. Gif inspiration is at the end for anyone familiar with Business Proposal lol
Masterlist
Being an FBI Agent means you'd slept in - and woken up in - some sketchy places on jobs. A number or motel and hotel rooms across the backroads of America, planes, cars, and office desks. You could usually orient yourself pretty well upon waking, and remember how you'd gotten yourself there quickly.
There was something strange about that morning in particular, though. The bed was comfier and warmer than any motel you'd ever seen, and the fact that there was one meant no jet or desk. It was pitch black outside, though, so visually, you were out of luck. The sheets smelt fresh and familiar, and if weren't for a small warning bell in the back of your head, you'd have shut your eyes again and huddled against the large body pressed against your back.
‘Ah,’ you thought, inwardly cringing. ‘That would be it then.’
Slowly, you pulled what you assumed to be a man's arm from around your midsection, trying to extricate yourself quietly from the bed without any notice.
Whoever was asleep behind you, though, was a lot stronger than you had bargained for, and he quickly pulled you back into him.
Your back hit his chest as he nuzzled into your neck, and you heard his groan out a greeting before stilling and returning to the land of rest. If anything, for your troubles you just came to an understanding that whoever was behind you was just as naked as you were, and based on the way your body seemed over stretched, and well-rested, you had no doubt about the events leading upto your discovery.
You just had no memory of it either.
You wracked your brain, trying desperately to recall where you were, who you were with, and what you were going to do to get out. Unluckily for you, your brain was at about half capacity as his hands worked their way between your legs, even as he slept.
His hands were soft, his touch light on your skin, as if he were tracing words along a page. You twitched under him, stomach flipping as your hips bucked backwards, and your eyes dropped closed again.
You hadn't a clue who you'd climbed into bed with, you simply had the greatest regret that you'd likely never see him again, and would not remember what was likely a deeply, deeply satisfying night.
In abject mortification, you tried once more to free yourself from the very pleasurable prison you'd found yourself in.
Thankfully, his hands chose that moment to fall limp, and you took your chance, hopping up and searching the floor for at the very least your underwear before chancing a glance around you.
Like an arrow through the heart, you realised the room was familiar because you had slept here before. You'd slept over at Spencer's house many times, after work ran late and you needed a place to crash.
Never naked, though. Until now.
You pulled on your clothes as fast as you physically could and tried not to squeak out your disbelief. You almost wondered if you hit your head hard enough against the bookshelf, some braincells would knock together and produce the memory you'd been desperate to make for half a year.
You had finally succeeded in bedding Spencer Reid. And you didn't remember a moment of it.
It was grief that drove you out of his house at 5 am. on a Saturday morning, and definitely, absolutely no regret.
Stepping outside the dark building and being greeted by the first hints of a sunrise, one single, trifling memory slipped back into your brain.
“Something casual,” you giggled, every 's' sound slurring together with each letter touching them. “Something casual and naughty, and fun.”
You didn't remember his exact reply, but though a flicker of arousal ran through you at the memory of the deep rumble of his voice. He had been close, his mouth next to your ear.
You supposed now that his reply hardly mattered when you knew the outcome anyway. It'd been the man himself wrapped around you in bed that morning, his fingers grazing your skin, his cock hard against your ass, his dreams obviously clearer than your own memories.
“It's not like we have the time to see other people,” you'd said to him the night before, hand pushing up his thigh to signal your intent. “We can have some fun. Share a motel room now and then.”
Four sentences.
Four sentences were the extent of your memories, and each one of them had been said by you. Not even a single reply flittered through your brain anymore, a single reaction.
You'd have thought it all a dream but for the fact that you were hunched outside the main entrance to Spencer's building, sans pair of panties you couldn't locate, thanking the gods that your very expensive bra was still around and that you'd worn pants the night before.
To say that Spencer was similarly disorientated when he woke hours later was an understatement. Of course, with the caveat that he remembered every word, every breath, every touch and movement. Instead, he was surprised to find you gone, without a word.
You'd promised as much last night, though.
Casual sex. That's what you'd asked for, and what he'd spent the better half of an evening trying to talk you out of, first with words and then with actions.
It didn't take a night together with you for Spencer Reid to realise that what he wanted quickly bypassed casual. Even now, alone in bed with the memory of you, your scent buried deep in his sheets, the history of your lips branded into his skin, he felt an overwhelming longing.
His body protested against his interrupted plans. He'd hoped to wake you up much the same way he'd put you to sleep the night before, limbs tangled, his cock buried deep inside of you. Instead, he swung his legs out of bed and looked for any trace of you.
It didn't take him long to find your accidental gift. He'd been the one to remove them from you the night before, and he had a good grasp of what the room was supposed to look like, so spotting a pair of fire truck red panties tucked by the door wasn't hard.
It was less spotting them and more staring at them until he convinced his body to calm down, which in and of itself was like fighting a losing battle.
He'd woken up hard, which he didn't doubt was due to dreams of you. He tried his best to ignore it, but before he knew it, he was laid back down with your discarded panties in his hand, pressed up to his mouth and nose as he worked out his frustrations.
Usually, he tried to get himself off as quickly as possible. Time was a commodity, and he always had to be somewhere doing something. That morning, though, he gladly sat back and indulged.
His brain queued up the memories of the night before, playing them chronologically so he could enjoy the feeling of your lips on his, your legs gripping around him, your tongue flicking at the tip of his dick. When he finally came, it was with the disappointment that he hadn't gotten to the best bit yet, finally pushing inside of you.
But after a night of activity and a lonely morning, he let himself rest again and turned his mind to other objectives.
1. Get your panties back to you without being put in handcuffs for indecency.
2. Have enough casual sex with you that you realise you no longer want casual, but something more.
3. Change the bedsheets.
The following week at the BAU was - thankfully - a blur of cases, consultations, and computer files. You were swept off on another case by Sunday evening, back in two days and off again by Thursday morning. Before you knew it, an entire week had passed, and you hadn't had to discuss anything with anyone.
Every morning walking into the bullpen was like walking on shards of broken glass. Willingly.
You'd said less than four sentences to Spencer since you'd accidentally on purpose thrown yourself into his lap, and you found yourself suddenly lacking the vocabulary to actually bring it up.
Instead, you'd simply chosen to sigh after him as he did anything at all in the office, with a single thought in your head: ‘Did he keep the glasses on while we fucked?’
He'd been wearing them all week, and you always thought they made him look hotter than he already was. A little nerdy, but in a Superman way. You couldn't for the life of you get the memory to pop back into your head, though, despite prompting it with many out of pocket daydreams.
“What's got you all introspective?” Derek asked, striding up beside you in the office kitchenette.
“Nothing in particular, what makes you ask?”
“Well, Princess, you just poured salt in your coffee, and from memory, you don't take it that way, so maybe there's something going on with you.”
You cursed and emptied your cup quickly as the man laughed.
“Take it what way?” A voice called out from the doorway, and every hair on your body stood on high alert. There was something about Spencer saying ‘take it’ that should've been so casual, but sent shudders across your body as you heard the words whispered into your ear.
“Take it like a good girl, that's right. So good for me.”
Your cup almost went crashing to the floor as your ears pricked, but you refused to turn around for fear he'd read the truth on your face.
“Nothing kid,” Morgan said, chuckling as you rinsed your cup and kept rinsing it until you felt yourself cool down a bit.
“What's up with the glasses? You've been wearing them a lot this week.” Derek asked, and you cursed his sudden onset curiosity, knowing there was no way to dismiss yourself from the room without garnering an entirely new set of questions.
“I just ran out of contacts,” Spencer replied, but you heard the grin in his tone without even having to look at him.
“You should just throw out all of your contacts,” you'd said, as you nipped at his throat. “I swear I'd jump you every day if you looked at me like that down your glasses.”
You tried to remain composed as the memory of straddling him and grinding down against his hard member hit you like a freight train. You felt you managed it well until you looked down to see another ruined, salty coffee.
“If you ever want to fuck me, just, like, come in wearing the glasses. I'll know,” you'd moaned as his hands gripped your hips controlling your rhythm and pressing you harder into him. “Fuck, I’ll know.”
“I give up,” you mumbled and took off, avoiding all eye contact as you left the small space.
A small part of you had wished that Spencer had your memory of the night. The smallest, teeniest part of you that didn't want a do-over that was. Getting possible confirmation that he remembered everything you'd said while drunk on dick (and tequila) was a lot to take on at 2 pm. on a Friday.
As you walked away, you sent up a prayer to every deity you could think that the memories came back whole and intact, and quickly, and preferably while you were alone and not in company.
Because you wanted nothing more than to relive that brief bite of pleasure you'd been granted.
The weekend came and went fairly obstruction free, even if your dreams, waking and not, were filled with the image of Spencer's head tipped back as you raked your teeth and tongue over sensitive areas.
It took you all the way until Monday morning, when you'd returned to work and seen Spencer in the glasses once again, to remember the meaning of the words you'd thrown at him.
Spencer wanted to fuck you again. Still. Continuously?
The thought made you a little apprehensive - he already knew your body, from the sounds of it, he'd definitely been competent enough, and you was left stranded on the desert island of short term memory loss. He wanted to fuck him you again. Was there a reason? Was there something you did that he enjoyed? What were his boundaries? His kinks? What positions did he like?
Half your days now, it seemed, were filled with questions about sex with Spencer. So it wasn't a surprise you'd kept up your staring. You couldn't fault him for having his eyes trained on you more times than not as well.
You were so glad that your emotions on the subject were so tangled and crossed that no one else could read them there.
BAU 0-1 EMOTIONAL TURMOIL
It was lucky, though, that you were watching him near constantly and were the first to notice the flash of purple against his neck as he loosened his tie.
You stood with a startling bang, hitting your knee against the table as you sprinted over to his desk.
Leaning over him, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and, tugging him around so he was facing you, began buttoning it for him.
“Y/N,” he whispered, looking up at you and trying to play this off as a daily occurrence, to not alert the room full of human lie detectors to suspicious behaviour.
“What are you doing?”
“Your tie is loose. Strauss is always visiting these days. Let's not give her petty reasons to penalise us.”
He relaxed more into your touch and let you work, tilting his head so your hands could get where they needed to be.
“So you're being a good friend?” he asked, and despite the obvious bait, you answered.
“Yes.”
“Good friends help each other out.”
“We can still be friends, Spencer,” you'd begged as you fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to get it off so you had more skin to taste. “Good friends who help each other out from time to time. Like this.”
“Your neck is still purple,” you whispered, changing the subject and moving on to his tie as you untied it and levelled it again, ready to twist back up.
“Is yours?”
“You can see my neck, it's fine.”
“That's not what I meant.”
You met his eyes finally, completing the last loop of the knot as you challenged him.
Or rather, challenged yourself to not drop your eyes to his lips.
“Say what you mean,” you glared, straightening his shoulders and brushing off non-existent dust as you attempted to slip away.
“The purple marks on you. I didn't leave them on your neck. Are they still… bright?”
You looked around you. Emily and Derek seemed to be giving you slightly weird looks, but both seemed trapped on business phone calls that wouldn't end anytime soon.
You'd noticed the marks straight away, of course, across the tops of your breasts and surrounding them, as if that area had been the coordinates for a targeted assault. Now, though, with his eyes burning a path down from your eyes to your chest as loudly as a person could ever look, you knew just how true that was.
“Spencer, fuck YES!” You had moaned the second your back hit the mattress of his bed. You'd been drinking together on his sofa, but were ecstatic to graduate to the bedroom and lose half your clothes in the process.
With greedy hands, he'd ripped away your bra, and immediately he'd latched on with his mouth, sucking, biting, licking, fondling. He bruised one spot with his mouth while his hand tortured a nipple, first ignoring it, circling it but not touching it directly, and then pulling it to the border of pain and pleasure before switching hand and mouth and repeating the process.
Back in the present, you looked down at Spencer in his seat, breathed deeply, and replied.
“You know as well as I do that you made them to last.”
“So we match, then?” he asked, and you gave a quick nod before escaping back to the relative sanity of your desk. His eyes didn't leave your chest though, and for the whole afternoon, you wondered if he'd invented a way to look so hard that you bruised further.
If you had to give one reason why you loved your job, you'd probably say because you spent your day solving riddles and puzzles and getting to the bottom of situations. You liked clear-cut explanations for things and couldn't stand the roundabout ways people in other professions had to talk to each other. You'd listen to Hotch walk laps around other lawyers in legalese enough times to know you were no fan of espionage or double talk.
So there was only one downside of the job, and that was having to be covert. If you'd wanted to spy, you'd have joined the CIA instead.
Your most recent case, unfortunately, had landed you doing exactly that. It had also landed you in a closet, chest to chest with Spencer Reid, as you listened into a conversation between two likely suspects.
In the first five minutes, you gained the important information you needed, and the next forty-five was a waiting game to see when they'd finally get out so you could escape.
If you'd been alone, you wouldn't have minded. But with Spencer's 6 foot something frame practically wrapped around your own, your spine was ramrod straight, your thoughts turning back to frustration as you urged your brain to give back the night of memories you'd lost.
Because if he felt this good just stood next to you, you would go crazy imagining how good he felt inside you.
The most you managed to squeak out, after nearly an hour wrapped around each other, though, was “Do you get a sense of Deja Vu here?”
It was the first time you'd turned your head to look at him, having been looking to the door the entire time. But your gaze returned to him, and even the shadows of the closet couldn't hide the obvious list dripping from his eyes as he covertly stared down your shirt. Your breasts had popped up a bit more with him squished up against you, and your hands were pinned to the wall beside your waist should you need to draw your gun quickly if found.
Your companion, instead, was in a world of his own, and you were suddenly grateful that he'd kept at least an inch of space between your hips, knowing that you, too, would be a goner if you had to stand against the hard line of his cock for this long.
“Hmm?” He whispered, still staring at the little speckles of faded yellow and purple that popped out of your suddenly too low shirt.
“Deja vu?” You asked again, slightly breathless and dizzy, a side effect of his lusty gaze.
He raised an eyebrow and gave a slow nod, his hands gripping your waist and pinning you more firmly to the wall as he debated giving into temptation. “We've definitely been here before.”
A snippet of a memory caught you unaware, and you gasped in response.
He pinned your hands above your head against the wall as you crashed your way into the bedroom, his fingers too impatient to undress you to start pleasuring you. Without a warning, he slipped a hand up your dress and down your panties, keeping you in place with one impossibly large hand as the other skilfully drew out moan after moan with soft caresses.
“So fucking wet for me,” he groaned against your lips, as your memory melted away to reality.
You were being edged by your goddamn frontal cortex, and you had absolutely had enough. As soon as the suspects left, you raced out of the closet as fast as your feet could carry you away from the torment.
A week of solid case work, avoiding Spencer and hitting your head against a brick wall in your spare time later, and you found yourself attending a hasty work celebration with the team.
A murderer had been caught job well done, or whatever excuse you needed to unwind after work over a few large pizzas.
“All I'm saying is, a deep dish every now and again would be appreciated. We're never that far from Chicago.”
“We're 613 miles away from Chicago.”
You laughed at the tired face Derek flashed the team before biting into his slice, your other coworkers similarly tucking into the late night meal.
You'd landed at 11pm, and starving, had come to your last resort.
“Is anyone else's pizza wet?” Emily asked, picking up her slice and letting it drip onto her cardboard plate.
You shrugged at the comment, just happy to finally be filling your stomach with something other than coffee for the first time in what felt like forever.
But there seemed to be no rest for the wicked, and you caught Spencer's eye as you tugged the cheese into your mouth.
“Mhmm. So wet.”
There was no reality in which you stopped yourself from choking on your food then, as he kept a quiet smile on his face as the others offered you drinks and tissues.
Perched next to him, you shot him a dirty look out of the corner of your eye and were about to turn back to your meal when he moved again.
Bringing a tissue to your lips, he wiped away the grease from the corners, quietly berating you as he cleaned you like a child.
“So messy. Don't choke on it next time.”
The double entendre didn't go unnoticed, as Derek piled on quickly, not noticing the unsettling mix of deep, bitter embarrassment and utter arousal warring on your features.
“Kid, you don't have to tell the woman to swallow. I'm sure she's perfectly capable.”
Each memory that hit you came with a wave of matching mortification, as you tried to keep every reaction to yourself.
But remembering the feeling of Spencer Reid's cum shooting across your face was something you'd much rather have experienced privately. You stayed trapped into much too intimate eye contact with him anyway as he kept tending to your small spills. He wiped away the drops of grease on your legs, gripping your thigh much tighter than you could ever have possibly needed.
Evidently, your coworkers had found some satisfaction with the pizza, as they all seemed to not notice the tension a simple touch had snapped between the two of you. Using their hunger as a shield, you quickly excused yourself from the table to clean yourself up.
The door to the bathroom was only a step away from the door to the alley, and you quickly let yourself out into the crisp night air. Not even two minutes later, Spencer was with you.
“Y/N?”
“Oh god, it's happening again. I can hear his voice!”
“Y/N, please, come back inside.”
“Sure, if you stop trying to eye fuck me in front of my boss!”
With the words finally out in the open between you, you stood still for a best or two, letting Spencer pick up the slack in the conversation.
“The… The others were talking about going to get some drinks,” he started carefully, afraid you'd spook at any moment. “After pizza?”
“Drinks?”
“Alcohol.”
You gave a short bitter laugh and brushed a hand through your hair as you turned your face away from him.
“I seem to make a lot of mistakes when I'm drunk.”
“Mistakes?” He said. The word was so quietly hurt that you instantly winced, realising your mistake.
“No. No. That's not how I meant it, Spencer, I just…” you grabbed your hair in frustration again, trying desperately to find the words to explain the gaping void where pleasing memories should've been.
“Everyone… everyone is still inside, right? No chance of a surprise visit from anyone.”
“They're debating Hawaiian pizza, I think we have time. Why?”
Another minute passed as you thought through your next actions, leg shaking as you processed every possible emotion.
Lunging toward him, you grabbed a hold of his shirt and pressed up to meet him in a kiss. Responding quickly, his hands gladly claimed a hold of your body as he walked you back against the wall, his mouth furiously engaged with your own in a battle of lust.
“I don't-” you gasped between kisses, unable to get more than a word in as his tongue works his way into your mouth. He pulled away eventually, but only to distract you further with a wandering tongue exploring the plains of skin already on show. Neck, lips, cheeks, collar, nothing is safe from the hear of his tongue tracing up and down the length of you..
“Don't what?” He said, finally finding the willpower to pull back for more than a millisecond.
“I don't remember. Any of it, I can't remember. God, I'm so stupid. Why don't I remember?”
For a second, his tongue kept up its journey, and you moaned as he nipped at the edge of your ear. That was until your words hit his ears and his hands flew up faster than you could've ever pushed them off.
“What?”
“I don't-” panic surged in your voice as you felt it tremble and shake, gulping it down to continue.
“I don't remember anything. And I woke up in your bed, and it felt so good and nice, but I couldn't remember it until you started doing things, and then I remembered… small parts?"
He raked a hand through his hair and took a deep breath as you continued, desperate to get every word out as fast as possible.
“I-I-I, shit Spencer, I woke up feeling so good, and then I saw you there, and I couldn't remember a thing. Do you know how long I was waiting for something to happen? I couldn't even remember one stupid fucking kiss, let alone anything else we did-”
“You seriously don't remember anything.”
“That's what I've been saying.”
He nodded and let out a shaky breath as you stepped closer to him, desperate to explain your predicament.
“You don't… you didn't just regret It and decide to leave?”
“I can't regret something I don't remember.”
Worrying his lip, he looked away for a minute and looked back, and you found yourself creeping closer again until his hands were gripping your hips again as he looked back to you.
“If you could remember, would you regret it?”
In a heartbeat, you had your answer.
“No.”
His lips crashed into yours again, and you gladly moaned into this one. With one hand buried in curls and the other pulling him closer by his loose tie, your hands stayed fastened to his body, clutching him like there was nowhere else you'd rather be.
His hands followed suit, falling down to your thighs as he spread your legs further apart, holding you against the wall and lifting you just slightly, angling your hips together in a way that numbed your senses.
Everywhere you touched left you craving further exploration, to be closer to him, and you whined in his mouth as if to let him know what you so dearly craved.
He listened and gave in, his fingers pushing to the centre of you, mere centimetres away from where you wanted him.
It was as if God was laughing down at your struggle, though, as just as he was about to make contact, a shout of your names rang out around the corner. Just as Penelope rounded into the alleyway, you shoved Spencer away, accidentally flinging him to the ground as you desperately righted yourself again.
“There you two are. What are you doing out here?”
“Earring,” you gasped, praying it was just dark enough for Penelope to not notice that your lipstick and Spencer's lipstick were the same shade.
“I dropped an earring, and Spencer is helping me look for it.”
Slightly confused, Spencer quickly went along with your lie, patting the ground where he'd fallen to look for the imaginary jewellery.
“Okay. Well, we're hopping over to the bar next door, and no! This is not optional, Emily already ordered the first round.”
Without another word or explanation, or anything to really help you figure out what was going on with you and Spencer, the two of you awkwardly followed Penelope into the bar and to your seats.
You stuffed yourself into the seat beside Penelope, and were not at all upset when Spencer climbed into the booth right beside you, sitting shoulder to shoulder with you knees bumping every now and then from the movements.
And just like that, you found yourself drinking for another two hours, unable to process any of the emotions you'd been through in the alley.
Elation. Desperation. Sadness. Arousal. All stuck in your tiny, tiny brain as you tried still to remember any small detail you could about your last encounter.
Your look of concentration didn't go unnoticed.
“Y/N, what's with the pensive look?” Derek shot at you across the table as he finished the last dregs of his beer. “Is it perhaps the melancholy of singleness?”
“That's not a word,” Spencer mumbled into his own drink.
When Penelope joined in, you knew you'd been backed into a corner.
“Are you not seeing someone?” She asked, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
“There was that guy you mentioned last week, right?” The sound of betrayal came directly from the other side of you, and your head whipped from Penelope to Spencer so fast, you were sure you'd be feeling it in the morning.
“What? What guy, Y/N? You never mentioned a guy to me! Spencer knows, but I don't know. How is that fair?”
“No, Penelope, he's-”
“Spencer, what do you know? What's this guys name? What does he look like? What does he do for a living? When you say she mentioned him last week, was it a mention mention, or just a mention?”
“Penelope, slow down.”
“Well-”
“Spencer! Do NOT answer her.”
“You don't want me to tell her about the guy you wanted something casual with. You said you were around him a lot, so you might as well try it at some point.”
Your face burnt in shame as you narrowed your eyes at him. Had you really said that? Had that honestly been your opener for hitting on the man you'd wanted for the longest time?
“Mhmm, really? And what else did I say?”
“I don't think you'll want me to say-”
“No, please, jog my memory.”
“You said, and I quote, that he had a ‘very rideable face.’ You followed up with, ‘it would look very pretty buried between your legs.’”
The chorus of laughter that rang out only set you more on edge after the flush of memories that hit you once more. He had looked very pretty sat between your legs licking your cunt, lapping up your cum as your legs shook and you fucked yourself against his face. He had simply pressed a hand to your stomach, held you still and kept up the good work. His eyes sparkled with passion and his lips glistened with cum. It was quite the picture, now that you remembered it.
You were just annoyedeniugh, so you had to shoot back a retort. You were just too slow to realise “yes, well, I can recall that I was, in fact correct,” wasn't the right retort.
Another half hour of questioning later, and you'd finally been allowed passage out of the bar, into a taxi, and back to your apartment, alone but for the shame.
Spencer, perpetually sober-ish, had been put on designated driver duty to get others home, and it wasn't as if you could protest.
You threw yourself down onto your bed as soon as you got into your apartment and stayed there until you were about to fall asleep. A knock at your door pulled you back into the world of the woken, and you dragged yourself to the door.
You weren't surprised to see Spencer back at your side an hour after you'd left him. You knew it was a possibility, though you thought you'd be waiting another 12 hours or so.
It took less than 12 seconds for his searching eyes to find whatever silent consent he was looking for before he stretched out and claimed you. He softly cradled you as his lips met you, his gentle touch delicate where his soft lips were hard and insistent. He closed the door. He pushed you back a step at a time until you were out of the doorway. Pausing, he pulled away and took off his glasses, putting them down on the side table, before cupping your cheek and stealing your breath. Again.
You moaned into his kiss, and he slipped his hand down to your neck, gently squeezing as he moved you back towards the bed.
“Spencer…” you begged wordlessly.
“Remember now?”
“N-No.”
He nodded and continued, his other hand loosening his tie once more, as you clung to him like glue, hands not daring to move from the holds you had on his shirt, afraid you'd trip and lose sight of him all over again.
You reached the bed, and he sat you down, tearing his lips away at last, but still choosing to keep hold of your neck, standing above you.
“Are you sober?” He asked, as though he hadn't watched you drink only virgin cocktails all night. You shook your head, yes.
“Good.”
“Are you going to fuck me?” You blurted out, unable to help yourself, even without the liquid courage.
“You wanted the experience, right? And then you forgot all about it, so it's only polite…” His hands began massaging your neck, shoulders, pushing down into your shirt to get the top of your chest, too.
“I don't want the experience,” you said quickly. “Not- not a casual experience, Spencer, I want… I want…” His hands distracted you as your shirt stretched to allow his hands to grope your breasts. He slipped into your bra and began his assault of your chest, still looming above you as he listened to your explanation.
“I… don't want a casual thing, Spencer, I want- I want…” you moaned as he pinched your nipple hard, seething as you attempted to not shout out.
“What do you want, Y/N? Be specific.”
“I want you!” You moaned, chest pushing into his touch, trying to avoid the mixture of pain and pleasure pulsing through you with each flick of his finger.
“For how long?” He asked, and your brain short circuited as you whined and pouted up at him, his fingers still tugging at your nipples, still kneading your skin, and pretending his touch was nothing.
“D-don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Don't make me give this an expiration date.”
Spencer's eyes locked with yours, and you found yourself on your back swiftly after, his lips pressed to yours as he held himself over you. Instead of assaulting your chest again, he was slower, more delicate as he gently removed your shirt, encouraging you to move further up the bed as he planted himself firmly between your two legs.
Everywhere he kissed and licked and sucked was a distraction from his attempts to uncloth you, to make you forget that he was still fully dressed and you were about to be laid out plain as day before him.
You covered your chest when he stole your bra, but you couldn't push your thighs together quick enough when he got your panties, and his hand slipped between your folds before you could even catch a breath.
“Good girl,” he whispered, as his fingers found your clit, dipping into your wet spot before tracing along your bundle of nerves and rocking his fingers back and forth, eyes always on yours.
He dropped his forehead to yours and watched silently as your mouth widened to an ‘O’ as you grew wetter, more desperate, more aroused, until you hit your peak and came apart on his fingertips. He hadn't even put a finger inside you, and your whole body was awash with satisfaction.
Another kiss stolen ended all thoughts of contentment as he slid in a finger into you while slipping his tongue back into your mouth.
If his fingers on your clit had been gentle, probing, curious about your release, the fingers stretching you out were the opposite. He knew your limits, had taken pleasure in your pleasure and now he was testing it, seeing how far he could push you until you did everything once again.
His free hand reached up to your face, and before you knew it, two fingers had been inserted into your mouth. You sucked instinctively, desperate to please him as your hips jumped upwards, trying to ride his hand. But every time you so much as moved, he withdrew slightly, pulling that pleasure you so desperately sought from your grasp.
“Spencer- please-” you said as he pulled his fingers from your mouth.
“I'm not going faster. I want you to remember every second, I want this to last as long as possible, okay? Can you do that?”
You pouted as he stroked your cheek with his wet fingers, gathering the spit from your chin before pushing it right back into your mouth. You kept sucking.
Every time he felt you tighten around him, his fingers withdrew, or they stilled, or he moved in a slightly different way, and you were set adrift again on the tide of arousal. He edged you for what felt like days to your pleasure addled mind, and you kept up your task, too.
“Good girl. No more cumming. Not yet.”
Finally, he withdrew his fingers, your legs shaking from the tension of holding off your pleasure.
He stood and removed his shirt, unbuttoning his pants just enough to free his swollen cock, but not removing it entirely.
The sight of him almost made you weep in relief, so sure that now you were going to be able to cum, that he'd enter you and your get to release around his cock, to suck him in deeper.
Instead, he got on his knees in front of you and gave another sharp order.
“No cumming, remember Princess.” Without waiting for a response, his tongue dragged across your folds, before reaching your clit. His lips wrapped around your nub and your whole body reacted, convulsing inwards as you shouted your pleasure.
“Spencer! Spencer, no, please - please!!” You clawed at the bed as you fucked his face, hips pleading with his tongue to finish the job he'd begun an age ago with his scant fingers.
You desperately wanted your release, but he was equally desperate to frustrate you, pinning your hips and pulling back to just spit on your cunt when your thrusts became erratic, close to the edge.
He touched everywhere except the part where you needed him, content for a moment to listen to the moans turn to tears, turn to anger and frustration and longing as you clawed a hand in his hair and humped his tongue like a beast.
Finally, you came, more than happy to use his tongue like the pillow you'd stuffed between your legs in your horny adolescence.
He wasted no more time entering you, rigid and hot, and more than welcomed by your aching cunt.
He pushed in inch by inch, and the eternity that passed before that point was nothing in comparison to the millenia caught between one breath and the next, between him readying himself, and him thrusting into you in his entirety.
He filled you perfectly, as if you were born to let him take you, to despoil your cunt again and again, until the scent of him never left you.
He moved, pushing your knees up as you welcomed somehow more of him, as he hunched over you and began.
It was animalistic, and noisy, and messy, and fuck, was it hot. The bedsheets were wet already from your water show foreplay session, but with his cock locked inside of you, you couldn't hold back, and you came with a spurt.
You screamed, not expecting your pleasure to squirt out of you, as he fucked you harder, your breaths mingling with the wet, sloppy sounds of your cunt being used again and again and again.
“Spencer, fuck, I'm-”
“You're what? Use your words.”
“I'm… safe, just- Fuck, just fill me up.”
He groaned into your ear as he made his thrusts more and more shallow, slowing down just enough to pull back from you and let you watch him claim you again and again.
He swiped his hair out of his face, biting his lip as his hips rolled into yours, and you swear if you had it left in you, you'd have came on his cock once more watching him do that.
You committed to memory every line of his body, every bruise, every scratch, every line, every hair, everywhere a bullet had nicked him, everywhere on his body that held pain, every gesture on his body that was registering pleasure. You cared less for your own now and more for his as you bucked up into him, meeting him silently as he sucked in a deep breath.
You watched him forget himself inside of you as he tipped his head back in pleasure and, with a small moan, emptied himself inside of you.
His breath crashed back into his body, and you felt every heartbeat resonate through him and into you.
“If you forget this again,” he panted, wrapping his arms around you again. “I'm not waiting another 20 days for a reminder.”
You smiled as his hair tickled Your neck, nuzzling into his neck as you enjoyed his warmth. You tried your best to memorise his scent, too.
“Wake me up bright and early, then,” you smiled, letting your brain settle as you replayed the day back in your head over and over again.
XXX
The inspo:
(Kim Mingue one fucking chance... one chance Kim Mingue...)
ACK I'm so excited that your requests are open again! Um okay, this one feels a bit silly but I'd love a fic where fem!bau!reader is really attracted to Spencer and the way that he smells? (I just KNOW that man smells like cinnamon and a Scholastic Book Fair.) Like, she's been doing a good job hiding her crush from the team, until Spencer catches her eyes dilating at him when he's standing close. And he's an oblivious king, so he's trying to figure out why they were dilated. If it could be race blind like my last request, and from Spencer's POV, that'd be great. (Or split POV, if you'd rather). I really see this as fluff, but if you want to include angst or smut go right on ahead! Thank you for reading my request! Your writing makes my day.
-❤️🩹
A/N: This was so fun and silly, and I love writing awkward, puppy love Spencer because sometimes you just have to let yourself become mildly infatuated with a coworker. For the plot. Or at least character development. I hope you like this one!!
Warnings: none.
Masterlist
You thought you'd settled into work well in your first few weeks as a member of the BAU. You thought you were up to speed about everything going on in the office. There was just one mystery left to solve.
“Where is that smell coming from?” You whispered to yourself, frustratedly sniffing the air for the second day in a row as you attempted to locate the warm, delightful smell that seemed to follow you whenever you were in the office.
“Could be one of Garcia's scented candles. They tend to linger,” JJ said from her corner of the bull pen.
“No, I checked earlier and she said they made her throw those out weeks ago.”
Honestly, it was not knowing that was driving you insane. If you knew what the smell was, you could bottle it, spray it all around yourself, and wrap yourself in it like a little blanket. It somehow reminded you of home and of the public library you'd spent much of your childhood in.
After another day of being able to figure out whoever had bought the scent version of the Scholastic Book Fair mixed with homemade cinnamon buns, you gave up. 12 hours of paperwork, and you were just as excited to get away from the sight of brown folders as ever, and as everyone else in the bureau, evidently.
Grabbing your bag, you got in the line for the elevators alongside your team.
“Ready for the crush?” Derek said, punching Spencer Reid on the arm as they waited ahead of you.
“Ow,” the younger man muttered and you tried to hold your giggles back, rolling your eyes as you watched them in amusement.
Derek’s words were true, though. Every day at home time, the elevators packed up quickly, and being on the middle floor meant that it could often take a while for the elevator to come back to you. You swore it was half the reason Hotch stayed late most nights, just to avoid the crush of the trip home.
“I've been taking the DC public transport since I got this job. You think the elevators are bad. Try 8 am subway on a Monday morning.”
The doors opened, and the three of you climbed into the barely there space of the elevator. With a quick side step, you found yourself against the left wall of the elevator. But to your shock, the scent you'd been searching for for three weeks didn't dissipate as it usually did when you got on the elevator.
It was here. The source of the scent was here.
You tried to stay calm as it grew more potent, tried not to frantically look around searching for whatever man or woman was perfumed in heaven. The doors opened again, and more people squeezed in, and suddenly, you found yourself buried nose-first in whatever sensory heaven existed here on earth.
“Sorry,” you heard a mumble in front of you as Spencer held his hand against the wall above your head, trying to keep a polite enough distance so as not to squish you any further. Your mismatching heights, however, led to your face being just about level with his neck.
You really weren't trying to smell him, but you had to inhale, and each time you did, it was a sensory overload.
It was him. Dear God, it was him.
The proximity and his scent really weren't helping your brain stop short circuiting in that moment, and you had to remind yourself after a minute or two or three that you were staring.
Though evidently Spencer had already noticed, and was looking at you with some concern.
“Are you okay? It's pretty tight in here, but I can try and move back if you're uncomfortable.”
“No! No, it's okay,” you did your best not to shout the words out, suddenly wanting his smell and his body close forever.
You hadn't been looking before, but like a freight train at maximum speed, the weight of his attractiveness hit you all at once. There was a slight stubble peppering his jaw, his hair hanging slightly loose, eyes big, and brown, and beautiful. He was tall, and you knew he was strong from watching him manhandle unsubs each week.
To put it blankly, you spiralled. Hard. Straight into infatuation and attraction, and you felt your head growing light with the tipsy feeling of a girlish crush.
You were fucked.
Spencer was concerned about you for the next week.
For starters, he knew that most new hires pushed themselves to the extreme over the first month and ended up quickly burnt out, mentally and physically. He may not have the best physical stamina, but he knew the lengths he had to go to to maintain his mental and physical wellness while working the job.
Which was why he started looking out for you a bit more. Every time he looked at you, you were staring off into space, somewhere just past him, or around him, face glazed over.
He wondered if you had a fever a few times, subtly touching your forehead - wiping away some sweat or a strand of hair - to feel you, and you did always feel hot.
You insisted you were fine though. But the nervous panic, and the constant insistence made him wary enough to pull you aside one day and ask you straight to your face.
“Do you need something?” He said, having unassumingly lured you off to the meeting room without arousing suspicions.
“What? What do you mean?” You said, instantly defensive. You'd hoped you hadn't been as creepy as you knew you had and that he hadn't caught on to your stolen glances and sudden close proximity.
You really couldn't help it. The man smelt too fucking good.
“If you're feeling sick, no one is going to think any less of you for taking a half day, you know.”
His voice was so gentle, you almost didn't die from sheer embarrassment. Almost.
“Oh! Oh, oh no, I'm fine, I'm totally healthy. As a cow!”
“A cow?”
“Yes, I'm as healthy as your average farm animal. Can I go back to work?”
You made to leave, but he grabbed your wrist gently as you brushed past him, and it was like sparks travelled up your arm and pierced your heart directly.
“Spencer!?” you squeaked.
“Your heart rate is elevated, and you feel hot and clammy,” he said, which was exactly the kind of compliment you were aiming to receive from men you were falling for. “You should go see a doctor and then get some rest.”
“No, Spencer, that's not-”
“Everyone pushes themselves in these first few weeks. I had to take a week off after two days in the field from the weight of holding a gun up for so long, which is more embarrassing than it sounds, and Derek-”
“What cologne do you use?” you snapped, desperately hoping to both shut him up and also detangle yourself from this situation with at least one win under your belt. If you found out whatever the smell was he used, you could buy it, grow accustomed to it, and grow out of whatever phase you were going through before you out your job in jeopardy.
“What?”
“You smell… really good. I was wondering what cologne it is.”
“I don't… I don't really use cologne.”
You baulked, unable to stop your face from dropping as your dreams of detaching yourself from your little crush on Spencer Reid faded before your very eyes.
“Shower gel? Shampoo maybe?”
“They're both unscented.”
“So you just… you just smell like that naturally?”
It was his turn to flush then, though the panic never left your head fully.
“Sorry, is it… distracting.”
“Yes,” you whispered, but with such an exhausted exhale, it sounded like a dreamt sigh. You wanted to kick yourself. You wanted to open his jacket, step inside, bury your face in his chest, and fall asleep.
“I see.”
“Mhmm.”
A minute passed in awkward silence, and you wanted to kick yourself for blurting everything out. Quickly turning to leave again, you wished so dearly to erase the last five minutes of your life, sending up enough hail mary’s to absolve you of any sin.
“Lavender. And sometimes patchouli,” he called from behind you as you took your first steps to the door.
“Hmm?” you said, turning back around against your better judgment.
“What?”
“That's what you smell like,” he explained, hands suddenly very preoccupied with his jacket buttons. “I'm not great with scents, but you also smell… nice. Sorry, that was weird.”
“No, not at-”
“You know, the major histocompatibility complex genes are important for the immune system and appear to play a role in sexual attraction via body odour. Studies have shown that body odour is strongly connected with attraction in heterosexual females.”
“Oh. I didn't know that…”
“Do you want to grab dinner with me?”
The words almost knocked you back into the door, as sudden as they were. Had he just asked you on a date? Or was it a friendly coworker thing? A friendly coworker thing where he acknowledged your attraction to his scent and then invited you out on a date.
“Yes?”
“Yes?”
“Yes. Yes, I would like to get dinner with you.”
He did his best to suppress the smile, and you tried hard as well, though neither of you succeeded.
“Great, perfect,” he said, circling you as he made his way to the door, his eyes always turned to you no matter what. He likely regretted that as he bumped into first the edge of a table, then a chair, and then hitting the door with his back, but in your state of puppy love, you didn't care.
“It's a date,” he said, opening the door and walking away, cheeks flushed with heat.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x female reader (best friends to lovers)
For @imagining-in-the-margins FWB Challenge!
Prompt: "I'm your boyfriend without the benefits." "Do you want the benefits?" "Yes- No... I'm your fluffer!" (Inspired by New Girl) (yes, I suggested this prompt, bo idc if that's cheating)
Warnings: Mentions of BDSM, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, choking, mentions of spanking, and butt worship, slight Dom Spencer, bratty reader, creampie. The classics, yk.
A/N: I'm back!!!! I took a break because I couldn't bring myself to even look at a word document for about a month, but there's nothing like a Pom challenge to get me writing again! I did have a lot planned for my 1 year anniversary, but because I was sick, and then busy, and then work got hectic, I had to put it off. I still am going to try to finish my kink bingo Carr, though, even though its a month late, but I had two fics left iirc, and I have both of them plotted, so I may as well! I will, however, be abandoning the final epilogue of I Can't Help Myself, because I wrote myself into a depressed corner with that one, and honestly, some people were getting very pushy about it, and it wasn't fun anymore. Anyway! This one was fun to write, so I'm going to stick to one shots for the foreseeable future, or incredibly limited series.
Masterlist
Spencer was your friend. A good friend. Your best friend, perhaps. A really good, very best friend.
Obviously, you were good friends because he always knew when you were feeling down. He bought you flowers regularly when he passed by flower shops. He came over to your place and helped you build every piece of flatpack furniture you had, which, as a single woman in your mid-twenties, was every piece of furniture that you owned.
You really looked forward to the movie nights the two of you had weekly. The popcorn, the blankets, the cuddling, his lips by your ear, in-time translating the foreign movies word for word as you watched it, the shivers down your spine as you pressed further into the heat of him.
Spencer was the best best friend you could ask for.
He was also the most frustrated.
“Kid, what are you doing this weekend? I'm thinking of hitting some clubs, you know, getting my groove on, maybe meeting A few ladies,” Morgan smirked, rubbing his hands together as he gently moved side to side, already dancing to himself as he anticipated his big weekend out. “You in, or are you in?”
“I can't. I promised Y/N I'd help her with some document digitalisation. We're going to order pizza and watch Star Trek while backing up her entire paper trail.”
The smile on Spencer's face was so stupid that Morgan had to stop himself from wiping it off of him immediately.
“Man, you are so down bad for that girl,” he mused, shaking his head.
“What? Down bad?”
“You like her. It's okay to admit it.”
“We're friends. I'm happy being friends,” Spencer said, picking up his bag and walking to the elevator desperate to escape a repeat of a conversation he'd already had three times that week.
“You know everyone thinks you're dating.”
“Well aware. Despite the number of times we've both stated to the contrary, people don't seem to accept ‘we're just friends’ when they hear it.”
“That may be because you're doing things that just friends don't do.”
“Everything we do is totally platonic.”
“You buy her flowers-
“I buy my mother flowers,” Spencer said, turning on the man and raising his hands in exasperation.
“You know that's different. Do you buy Emily flowers?”
Silence.
“What about JJ?”
“I bought JJ flowers!” He grinned triumphantly until the other man spoke again.
“When she was in the hospital. Giving birth. Okay, what about the movie nights?”
Rolling his eyes, the younger man walked on, pressing the bell for the elevator and allowing his friend to keep bothering him.
“Friends watch movies together, Morgan. We've watched movies together, are we dating?”
“One, you are not my type, pretty boy, and two, you didn't exactly have your dick pressed against my ass the entire time we watched a film now, did you?”
“Be q- be quiet. I don't have my dick against her ass ever.”
“Oh, I'm sorry, was it pressed against her stomach instead? I know she likes to lie on top of-”
“Derek!”
The elevator arrived, and the two quickly jumped in, to Spencer's relief.
“All I'm saying, kid, is-”
“Hold the elevator!” You shouted, running to it quickly with Penelope Garcia on your heels.
“Thanks, Spence!” You said, smiling at him as you entered the small space.
And continued your not too unsimilar conversation with Penelope.
“So, as I was saying Penelope,” you shot her a look that told her you were finished with the conversation. You were not dating Spencer Reid, and you were unlikely to in the future because of his total and complete lack of interest in you.
“You can set me up this weekend, right? It's been an age since I've been on a date, and I would really like to-” you glanced around the elevator and whispered the end of your sentence, suddenly mindful of your company. “You know.”
“If you're absolutely sure, I have a few men in mind that could throw you about, but-”
You squealed and squeezed the woman as the elevator landed on your floor and jumped out of the elevator quickly, cheeks burning.
“Thanks, Pen, you're the best!”
“Y/N, wait,” Spencer called out behind you, desperately holding the elevator open for a few more seconds.
“I thought we were doing your papers this weekend? Star trek, pizza, remember?”
You stared guiltily at the floor as you forced your voice to sound as casual as possible, not sure you could make any excuse that didn't sound pathetic.
“Oh, sorry, Spencer. I totally forgot. We can rain check, right? I… I really need this.”
Spencer was aware of what disappointment felt like, but it never hollowed out his chest like your lack of eye contact in that moment did.
“Yeah. Sure, of course. We can do that whenever.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Spencer. You're the best… friend.”
He smiled and let the door finally shut, aware of the two sets of eyes now watching him.
It took a surprisingly long time for the ‘I told you so’ to come, but come it did, as if Morgan were unable to help himself.
“You're telling me that you're not into her at all?”
“I'm…not into her like that at all.”
“And you're fine with me setting her up on a date with a man that'll do somewhat empowering, somewhat disgusting things with her?” Penelope piled on.
“What? That's…that's not my business,” he ground out.
“No. Of course it’s not. Because you're not her boyfriend.”
“Exactly, I'm not her boyfriend-”
“You're her fluffer.”
With a pat on the shoulder, the elevator hit its last stop, and Morgan exited, leaving Spencer scrambling after him as Penelope waved the two of them off.
“What? No, what's a fluffer?”
Morgan chuckled and waved him off, walking to his car.
“Come on, what's a fluffer, and why am I hers?”
“You've seen porn before, right?” The older man asked, pausing as he opened his driver side door. “Actually don't answer that. The fluffer is the person who keeps the actors and actresses… ready between takes. Prepares them for the good stuff.”
With a bright flush across his cheeks, Spencer tried his best for an indignant look, landing somewhat closer to a petulant child.
“I am not her fluffer. We have never-”
“I know you've never. If you had, we wouldn't be standing here right now having this conversation. What I'm saying is you should.”
“We're friends!”
Climbing into the car and closing the door, Morgan dismissed the younger man quickly, but he wasn't finished.
Knocking on the door, Spencer waiting a beat, then two for it to open again.
“I'm not her fluffer.”
“You build her furniture and cuddle with her. You're doing everything a boyfriend would do, without any of the boyfriend rewards.”
“What rewards?” he gasped, exasperated.
A single look was all the reply he got before Morgan out his keys into the ignition and started driving.
Spencer never made the decision to turn up at your house later that night. He just found himself all of a sudden at your front door on a Friday night, pulling out the key from the plant pot by the front door and letting himself in. Unlocking his shoes, he called out through the apartment, letting you know he was there as he slipped into the house shoes you'd bought him after the first of many movie nights.
“Spencer? We cancelled earlier, remember?” you said emerging from your bedroom, fitted in the tightest dress he'd ever seen you in. He already had no answer for your question, but seeing you like that, getting ready, he had no answer to any question at all. If you'd have asked him his name, he wouldn't have known it.
Well, he would've, but only because you'd said it only three seconds ago and had reminded him that he was, in fact, standing in your apartment when he should've been literally anywhere else.
“Um. I'm…I'm just-” he scratched the back of his neck, waiting for something to come to him.
“Spencer, I'm leaving in like an hour, so there's no time to watch a movie, and I have to get ready, so-”
“I'm… I'm angry?”
You raised an eyebrow at his questioning tone, unsure where this conversation was going.
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah..yes. I'm sure. I'm angry. We, we had plans, and you gave me like an hours notice and cancelled them to go do something stupid-”
“Spencer! I'm going on a date. That's not stupid.”
“It is when you have me!”
He half shouted, half murmured the words, as if he himself were unsure of how confident he was in making that statement.
“That came out wrong-”
“Yeah, I think it did.”
“What I mean is- I mean…Morgan said that-”
You crossed your arms and sat yourself on the arm of your sofa, looking forward at him and waiting for him to get through whatever this was. You hoped the entire time that he was saying what you'd wanted him to say for the last year and a half.
“Have you ever watched porn?”
Not what you were hoping for, but a start, at least.
“Spencer!”
“That came out wrong, I- don't throw the couch cushions at me. I have a point, I swear!”
You lowered your next projectile and gestured for him to go on, not fully relinquishing it just yet.
“I'm your fluffer! I get you…in the mood for dates, and- and- I do all the boyfriend stuff without any of the boyfriend benefits!”
He stood in front of you, red-faced, and you stared him down a second or two as you collected your thoughts.
“Do you…want the boyfriend benefits?”
“Yes! No, wait - wait a second. I- I- What are the boyfriend benefits exactly?”
You threw the pillow down and turned your back on him, not entirely sure what you were expecting from the most oblivious genius on the planet.
“Y/N, wait. Wait-”
With a hand wrapped around your wrist, Spencer spun you around, and, tripping over your feet, you landed hard on your sofa. Your fall should've been relatively pain-free, but for the 6-foot man that landed directly on top of you.
“Get up.”
“What are the boyfriend benefits?”
“You should know if you're saying you want them! Now, get up!”
“Not until you tell me.”
“Spencer!”
“Y/N!”
You groaned and writhed under him, but he just dropped his weight onto you, unmoving, hands pinning your wrists lazily, leg poking between your two, hips pinning yours.
It certainly wasn't the closest you'd ever been, but in those circumstances, during that conversation, you felt more flustered than you had before.
“What are the benefits.”
“You really want me to say? You're not afraid it's going to throw off our friendship, ruin whatever good thing we have going?”
“I think that if you go out tonight, and enjoy your date, and get a boyfriend, that he's going to feel weird about this good thing we have going and it's going to be over anyway. Tell me.”
You desperately searched for a way out of this situation, but a stronger part of you wanted to simply wrap your legs around him and let him take as much advantage as he could.
You settled for disturbing him.
“Fine. A boyfriend would be able to spank me.”
“Y/N, be serious.”
“I am. I like it. A boyfriend would pull my hair back and make me count as he hit my cute round ass until it turned all red, and I couldn't sit down comfortably anymore. A boyfriend would then kiss it better.”
You'd never spoken about sex with Spencer, and you hoped the vulgarity would force him back to his senses. Instead, he didn't stir, and you had no choice but to continue.
“Another boyfriend benefit would be choking me. I like that, too. Are your hands big enough to wrap around my throat, Spencer?”
“Yes.”
The answer came so quickly and do confidently, you weren't sure you actually heard it outlook until he spoke again.
“What other benefits, Y/N?”
“A… boyfriend would get to cum inside me,” you whispered, suddenly aware of hips rocking into yours slowly as his cock poked up, listening intently to the promises spilling from your lips that you likely should've regretted.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I want the benefits.”
Your body was hot everywhere he touched you, but he didn't move, didn't follow through on anything just yet. But you were aware of his head moving closer and closer to yours and panicked.
“And what have you done? As my fluffer? To deserve those benefits?”
“What have I done?” He asked, pulling back an inch. Even as his chest rested, flush against yours, your breasts pushed up against him as his hands held yours over your head.
“I-I bought you flowers-”
“Emily buys me flowers, too. So does Penelope. Should I let them be my boyfriend?”
With your hands in use, you took advantage of his distraction and wrapped your legs up and around his waist, rolling your hips up into him.
“I suppose I do like flowers, though. What else?”
“I… We're always t-together?”
“We work together.”
Using the leverage of his weight against yours, you rolled up harder into his hips, grinding into him slowly as you watched his resolve melt away.
“The m-movie nights are-”
“The movie nights where you rut your cock into me while we watch a movie? Friends do that all the time. You're just translating the movie for me after all.”
“Y/N, please don't-”
“Don't say that? Okay. I'll just let someone else hump against my thighs to get off because you're too proud to admit you want to sink your dick into me and pound me?”
“Y/N-”
“Maybe that's why you don't have the boyfriend privileges, Spencer. Because I'm waiting for something, you're too much of a prude to try-”
His lips meet yours before you can finish the thought, and you're not sure whether it's a triumph or a defeat.
After precisely five seconds of his lips on yours, though, you no longer cared.
Releasing your hands gently, he lifted his hips an inch, distracting you enough to force his tongue into your mouth as his hand found its way between your legs.
“Did you really mean it?” He asked between kisses as you rake your hands through his hair, getting lost in him. “About the benefits?”
You allowed yourself to imagine it for a second, Spencer's hands on your throat. His hands on your ass. His mouth buried between your legs.
You moaned into his kiss, and he laughed - actually laughed - as he pulled away.
“Spencer!”
“No, no, please, don't let me keep you from your thoughts, I'll just be down here.”
His fingers reached your clit and he wasn't surprised to find you already wet, legs spread. Snaking another hand to your neck though, he wasn't exactly as opposed to the ideas you'd flung at him as he'd acted.
You gasped as his hand closed around your neck, the prettiest necklace you'd ever worn. You grabbed a hold of his hands as he pulled your underwear off, pushing them down your legs as he gently pushed your legs open wider and replaced his fingers with his tongue.
You curled up on yourself, craving your body to watch him devour your pussy as you tried your best to keep your breaths shallow, to keep breathing entirely as he squeezed your throat.
His tongue licked and flattened, his head bobbing up and down and then stilling as your hips began moving by themselves, letting you ride his face as you moaned and whined and desperately ran towards your climax.
You wrapped a leg around his shoulder, pressing down on his back to keep him in position, grabbing a handful of hair as you jerked against his face, fucking it as he looked up at you through hooded eyes, drinking down every drop of you.
His hold on your neck tightened, and you felt your body shudder as you squeaked out his name, not wanting this to end so soon, needing to feel more of this. He let you ride it out until you were whining in frustration again, hips twitching from the friction of his tongue against your cunt.
Then he pushed away.
He wasn't gone long, but you followed him up. You thought about pushing him down to the couch again, thought about sitting on his pretty boy face and doing it all over again. You thought of turning over and presenting your ass to him, letting him punish you like you'd promised. Your thoughts ceased as quickly as they came when he pulled his cock free of his pants, not even bothering to pull them off fully before pulling you into his lap, lining himself up, and pushing you down onto his hot, hard, lengthy cock.
You swear you would've screamed if his to guess hadn't already claimed your mouth. A good scream. A “holy shit holy shit holy shit” scream. Definitely a “I didn't know it was that big, and honestly I'm a little scared” scream. But overall, a “god that feels so good” scream.
From the lack of movement, you were sure that Spencer was giving you a moment to adjust to his intrusion, and you were thankful as you clung to his neck, hands balling in the material of his shirt on his back.
Although he was bigger than expected, he wasn't uncomfortably large, and you calmed quickly, giving him a quick nod as you buried yourself in his neck, hiding your face to stop yourself from drooling, mouth wide as he tipped you back against the couch pillows, lifting your legs slightly and slipping his hands underneath yous thighs, and began his steady pace of thrusts.
You were sure your world was imploding on itself, that all your senses had ceased except that of touch, and his touch was fire. But you heard the wet, slutty sounds of your pussy welcoming him, you smelt the sweat against his skin, and, opening your eyes, you saw the absolute pleasure blasted against his features as he groaned in your ear.
And before you could form another coherent thought, he'd claimed another boyfriend benefit, as, rocking his hips against yours, he slowed to a stutter as he emptied himself inside you.
“Spencer!!” you moaned, but he wasn't done, spitting on his fingers and finding your clit again as you squealed, twitching and turning and milling his cock with your movements as you found your second release.
You moaned his name again, though it sounded less like his name this time, and more like a definite noise complaint from your neighbours in the morning.
“Spencer?” you asked, still trying to regain your breath as he, once again, collapsed on top of you.
“Mhmm,” he said, slowly pulling out of you, watching the mess you'd made together drip out too, and resisting the urge to push right back into you and go again.
“Was that a friendly fuck, or a boyfriend fuck?”
His eyes snapped to yours again as you continued.
“I just want to give Penelope the correct reason for cancelling on her friend when I text her-”
“I came inside you.”
“So you did.”
“Y/N!”
“.... So that wasn't a fluffer thing, but a boyfriend thing, got i-”
With a kiss, he shut you up again, and you realized quickly that you probably wouldn't have the time to send that text anyway.
Warnings: Angst, hopeful ending, mentions Canon character death (Gideon), mentions of new parent stress, single parenthood, etc.
A/N: I'm back! The final chapter is finally here, and I'm so very happy!! Thank you all for waiting patiently while I recovered from my illness. It's monsoon season here right now, so I've been hit with just depressing wave after wave of coughs, colds, fevers, and general rainy season ailments. But now this is finished! Thank you for joining ke on this three month journey. I'll be publishing a much happier, much fluffier epilogue within the week, so please look forward to that~♡ Without further ado, The End.
In the six weeks since his daughter had been born, Spencer Reid had experienced what he could solidly call the most terrifying weeks of his life.
The baby cried, and his heart beat out of his chest. Rain or shine, fully awake or fully knocked out, a single gargle or a full on scream and he was sprinting to her side to coo her back to blissful sleep, or to change her, or just to hold her close.
In the six weeks up to her birth, he'd pointedly avoided parenting books on the whole, doing his best to drown out all the memories from reading similar books when JJ was pregnant. Every memory stung as he clawed his way back to the family that was prematurely ripped from him.
But the baby was here now. The baby was safe, and the baby was crying, which he knew was absolutely healthy and nothing to worry about, and completely and totally fine, except it dropped his heart to his stomach everytime she did it.
It wasn't as if your daughter was a particularly fussy child. She was a newborn, she was a healthy weight and size, and the doctors who had checked her over at the hospital after her birth had reassured him multiple times that she was totally healthy. A miracle, all things considered.
And she was his miracle. For six weeks, she'd been his little wonder.
The team had banded together to fix up his apartment while she'd been observed in the hospital for the first few days of her life.
He'd sat and watched her through the newborn window at the hospital while Penelope had cleaned up his apartment, and Luke had built him a crib.
Emily and JJ had gone hunting for baby clothes and found probably a lifetime supply of 0-3 months, 3-6 months, and 6-9 months babygrows, t-shirts, dresses, and matching little hair bows for everything.
The first time he'd seen the socks, he'd broken down.
Arriving back with his newborn daughter to his apartment, he'd carried her to her new room, desk removed and crib added, though the walls were still shelved with books he really needed to do something with. He'd opened the sock drawer and been faced with a drawer full of single socks. There wasn't a matching pair in sight.
He'd pulled his daughter into his arms and held her close as the tears fell once again.
It had been six weeks since you'd delivered your first baby, and Spencer was sure that if you had the opportunity, you'd be cussing him out continuously.
Because as much as he doted on his daughter, his sweet baby, who he swore was already smiling sweetly up at him each time she grabbed his pinkie with her whole tiny fist, he had still not given her a a name.
“We can't just call her baby,” Emily complained to him after three days, already getting restless with Spencer's lack of decisiveness.
“I won't name her without Y/N,” he'd replied, and Emily had shut her mouth, not willing to open up that can of worms around him just yet. The sudden silence whenever he mentioned you was deafening. Spencer felt the team growing rigid each time he said something even slightly hopeful, then gently tried to lead him back to being ‘realistic.’
It had been six weeks since you'd given birth, and smiled at him sweetly as you brought you'd daughter into the world and six weeks since you'd quietly slipped into a peaceful coma.
The first week, he'd been told to prepare himself for the worst. The second week, he'd been told there was nothing more that they could do.
But in the third week, you'd moved. Just your hand, just a twitch, but a sign of life the doctors had been trying to convince him wasn't there before.
In the fourth week, you'd recovered enough to be taken off the ventilator.
You were clawing your way back to consciousness, readying yourself to meet your precious, sweet baby.
In the sixth week after Spencer Reid became a father, he took his daughter back to the hospital to meet her mother again. With some expert baby-sitting from Penelope, he'd managed to visit you once every two days at least in the last few months, but with the little-one still only small, hospital visits to trauma wards weren't exactly recommended.
When they'd transferred you to a regular ward, he'd packed his bags immediately and gathered the baby up, strapping her into her carrier and waiting desperately for visiting hours to begin.
After thirty minutes, he made a call.
“Emily? Can I… can we get a ride?”
Of course, she'd agreed. While no one else had been letting themselves hope, they had absolutely been at his beck and call. He'd been swamped with guilt calling JJ at 3am asking how to settle you because he'd tried everything, and constantly relying on Penelope to come and help him and Luke and Emily, picking up extra hours to finish his paperwork because his paternity leave still hadn't been approved.
He felt guilty, overwhelmed, and stressed, and he needed you to wake up so goddamn much that he feared if he got any bad news, he would shatter. And he didn't know how to be a father, because really he hadn't had one before he was 20 and Gideon became his, and even he had left when things got hard. So how could he be sure he wouldn't.
So he hadn't given his daughter a name. And, yes, it was because he wanted to do it with you, to pick out a name together, but also it was because he didn't think he could stand knowing it if he was too weak and ran from her.
The pressure built and built for six weeks, as he fell in love with his daughter, who deserved better than his love, and then Emily pulled up in his car, and he started sobbing.
“Spencer!” Emily exclaimed, not expecting the outburst at all, the loneliness of the last five months catching up to him finally.
“Emily… Emily, I'm a terrible father-”
“No! No, sweetie, you're-”
“My daughter doesn't have a name!”
Emily switched the engine off and then grabbed Spencer's shoulder, roughly turning him to face her if he wouldn't meet her in the eyes.
“You have survived this job for nearly two decades. You have survived gunshots, and murderers, and loss that I can not begin to comprehend, and you love that child. You are grieving, and you are stressed, and it is so totally, completely normal to not be okay after everything you've been through,” Emily held her breath, waiting for his reply. Just as he opened his mouth to whisper more doubts, the baby in the back seat began to fuss and cry.
Unable to stop himself, Spencer laughed. Emily laughed with him. They sat giggling in the car together, tears in their eyes as his daughter kicked up a fuss.
“She doesn't like hearing you talk badly about her daddy,” Emily joked and started the engine again.
When Spencer finally made it to your room, his daughter had stopped fussing. A quick bottle in the parking lot had mollified her, and she was gurgling softly now, still pink, her eyes tightly closed. He'd dressed her up nicely, or as nicely as he could muster. A cute pink newborn dress for his tiny baby and a matching pink hair bow.
He gathered the baby carrier in his arms and let the hospital doors open for him.
Finding your new ward wasn't hard. The nurses were helpful enough and honestly, he'd taken a look at the building blueprints weeks before, when he'd been obsessing over every small detail of your care, so he practically knew the route by himself.
Straight, then a left turn, then straight again, and a right turn and keep going until there was a final turn into your ward.
He let out a deep sigh as soon as he reached the nurses station and readied himself to ask for you.
“Hello, I'm here to see my Y/N, I was told she was transferred here this morning?”
The nurses on the station looked up at him in shock and blinked at him a few times before speaking up. If ever there was a time to hear the words “you haven't heard?” uttered from the mouth of a nurse in a hospital where your comatose girlfriend was being treated, then it likely wasn't when he held a newborn in his already weak arms.
The panic set in quickly as he tuned the noise out. An older nurse walked around the side of the desk to comfort him, sticking by his side and grabbing the baby carrier before he could accidentally let it go in his shock.
Another nurse came to his side to take care of the baby, and quickly, they both ushered him down another hall to an adjacent ward. He drowned out every word as they tried to comfort and reassure him, his brain jumping to the worst conclusions.
His teammates were right when they said he shouldn't hope. He needed to be realistic now. If you were gone, he had to call your family and organize the funeral. He had to pack up your stuff. He had to settle the hospital bills and decide how you would be seen off.
He had to name his daughter.
The nurses pushed him towards the room quickly, and he mentally prepared himself to say goodbye, but as the doors swung open, he saw you, and he fell to his knees.
“Spencer?”
In the two hours since you'd woken up, you'd been poked, prodded, hydrated, fed, rubbed down, and spoken over like you were still somewhat asleep.
No one had explained exactly what had happened, and no one explained where your baby was, and you'd kicked and screamed yourself hoarse, as the doctors noted down that you still had use of your vocal chords and all four limbs.
So seeing Spencer crash into your room at full force through your tear filled eyes was the best experience you'd had in months, especially when you spotted the nurse with the baby sized car seat coming in behind him.
“Is that my baby? Is that my baby? Please-” You pushed sheets off your body as a nurse tried to hold you still, not wanting you to pull the IV from your arm or the oxygen tubes from your face.
And suddenly Spencer was there, and he'd regained his strength, and his hope, and his happiness because you were awake, and talking and god you remembered.
It was all he could do not to grab you, bundle you up, and carry you away to safety, but the nurse propping you up was stern-looking, and he had a daughter to tend to.
He pulled your face into his hands and kissed you as softly as he could, holding back his emotion as he held you like you would break, feeling your wet tears on his skin.
“I missed you,” he whispered, dropping his forehead to yours as he gently stepped back and allowed the nurses to help you get comfortable.
Then he turned quickly and grabbed your daughter, and your breath caught in your throat as he held her out to you.
“What do I…? Where should I put my hands- Oh god, I'm so unprepared, I-” your eyes welled again, but it was joy as you saw her serene little sleeping face for the first time and he slowly lowered her into your arms. It turns out, no-one needed to help you out holding her at all, because she was so precious and perfect and yours that she slotted into your arms completely, like it was a spot made completely for her, like you'd been purpose made to hold her and be her mother and love her and cherish her.
You cried and looked up at Spencer and laughed. He rested on the side of the bed and pulled you into his arms, and you felt that completeness a second time, and you knew that you were made for him the way she was made for you.
Your family.
It had almost been taken for you, but it was yours, and it was fate.
With a quiet whisper that only Spencer could hear, you leant down to your baby's ear and said your first words to her.
“I wish that I could be your mother in every lifetime, my sweet Angel.”
Summary: After taking a bullet on a case, Spencer orders you to desk duty. After two months of pushing papers and his pushing you away for fear of hurting you, you've had enough.
Warnings: Established BDSM scenario, public sex, masturbation (female and male), mentions of sex toys, breaking and entering, multiple orgasms, squirting, shoe riding, slapping (ass, face, pussy), wet/dirty/messy sex, deep-throaring, face fucking, exhibitionism, risky sex, creampie, sloppy sex, pet play (puppy), Hard Dom Spencer, bratty sub reader, degradation (slut, whore, bitch used). Confessions of love at the end because I'm not a monster.
A/N: Hello, it's me, painfully single, back with another in a series of fics that I think will haunt my (wet) dreams for eternity. Thank you to @lightvixxen for requesting shoe riding all those moons ago, I am so glad we share in the same brand of brain rot. Enjoy~♡
Masterlist || Bingo Board
The first time you were shot, you were surprised it hurt so much. Of course, you knew it was going to hurt. You knew you'd eventually be shot.
But the graze to your arm stung like a bitch, and had you whimpering on the floor of a warehouse like a small child who'd fallen off their bike for the first time.
You'd picked yourself back up, and, luckily, the shot had avoided doing any serious damage, but you were relegated to desk duty for two months after. Just until you could prove you weren't traumatised, and there wasn't any permanent damage to your arm.
Two months of staying home while your boss gallivanted around the country, happily diving in front of bullets and jumping on bombs. Two months of staying home waiting for him to come back and rail you.
You'd been sleeping with Spencer Reid practically since he'd become the Unit Chief, and with the announcement that there were only a few more weeks left until Emily Prentiss came back from her special task force, you were really losing time alone in the office you'd been enjoying the pleasures of one another in.
Of course, there would still be motel rooms for you later, but soon he wouldn't have the keys to your room, making your secret trysts slightly riskier. You weren't sure you wanted everyone in the office to know just what it was the two of you were getting up to in your spare time.
So, with your last two months of freedom relegated to desk duty, you sulked.
Spencer was clear that he was leaving you behind so you could recuperate, but you didn't exactly expect him to go cold turkey.
You'd been apart before, having been sent on separate inmate interviews, and you'd made do with a poorly connected video call, a dildo and your hands, getting all the inspiration you needed watching him pump his cock in his fist.
But somehow, your injury had made him borderline chaste, and he refused to even touch you while you were still in - his words, not yours - recovery.
It had been a month since he'd fucked you. Hell, it had been a month since you'd even seen his cock. A month since you'd had any kind of orgasm, first because your dominant hand had been out of action, and then because you'd felt so frustrated without him, you couldn't bring yourself to do it alone.
He messaged you daily, called practically once every eight hours, and made sure you were eating and sleeping even from halfway across the country.
But he didn't make any mention of your growing frustration, even as you tried your best to tempt him into sin.
A month into purgatory, you'd started hinting at your own needs. Your teammates had taken a case in Atlanta, and you'd stuck behind a days drive away and heard absolutely nothing.
You'd called, and Luke had picked up, making his presence known before you could royally screw up and beg for something to fuck.
“H-Hi, Luke. I was just wondering how the case was going. Is there anything I can help with from the office?” You asked, stammering on the phone as you pulled your hand out from between your thighs.
“You want to help? At 11pm at night?”
“Sure do! You know me… go-getter?” You stuttered the words, not even believing them yourself, biting your lip in anxiety and hoping that Luke would just think you were going stir crazy.
“I'll hand you to Reid, he's been talking about some case files you might be able to help with.”
“Thank you,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.
You heard the phone switch hands, and then you heard movement until the line went quieter, and Spencer's voice popped into your ear.
“Y/N?”
“I miss you,” you sighed before you could say anything else, fingers sliding between your thighs before you could think to stop yourself.
“I miss you, too,” he whispered hesitantly, but you heard the smile in his voice as he answered.
“You're working so late tonight, I'd hoped…” you trailed off, feeling your skin heat as your free hands lipped into your underwear and you touched yourself for real this time.
“We think he's working under the same MO as the Night Stalker, like a copycat, so we're keeping to late hours. What's that sound?”
“Nothing,” you said, giving your lie away almost immediately with a moan.
“Are you… Y/N, are you touching yourself?” He asked, already knowing the answer.
“I told you I missed you. It's been a month since you've touched me, someone has to do it-”
“Stop it.”
His words were blunt, and there was no hint of excitement in them, no telling if he was saying this so he could play a part in your unravelling.
“What?”
“Stop touching yourself. Y/N, you are not allowed to touch yourself.”
“Not-? Spencer, what the fuck!” You exploded, sitting up from your comfortable position on the bed, set alight in indignance.
“I'm the only one that gets to touch you like that, you're not allowed to cum unless I'm there,” he ground out, and just as you heard the smile in his voice earlier, you heard the frustration and arousal now.
“Well, Spencer, if you'd have brought me along on this case instead of leaving me here, maybe you'd get a say in who gets to make me cum.”
“Y/N, you're injured, and you haven't been cleared to fly. A doctor needs to-”
“You're a doctor. Technically. You could sign off on me. You could've had me right there in your bed tonight, but no.”
He scoffed down the line, and you saw his face flash so vividly in your head that it pissed you off. He was hotter when he was angry.
“Nice try. I tried that myself once, but it doesn't work. Now go to sleep and get some rest.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he hung up. His words lit a fire in the pit of your stomach, and you threw the phone down in frustration.
He wasn't listening again, and you were sick of it, and you we're sick of pushing paper at a cubical when you should've been out in the field doing your actual job. You were sick of being celibate and at home alone, when you should've been in a dark corner somewhere letting your boss use your body, letting him pin you to the wall and work out his frustrations.
You should've had your lips wrapped around his cock, you should've had his hands buried in your cunt, slapping your ass, his teeth teasing your nipples, something.
Instead, you had your phone camera and a bed, and a personal vendetta against the word 'no' coming from Spencer Reid's mouth. If he wanted you to stop touching yourself, he'd better get his ass home and make you.
Shedding your clothes, you set up your camera and began your week long crusade.
The first video received a response in the form of a call you let go straight to voice mail as you recorded the second one.
He didn't call again after that, but you knew he watched each and every video you sent.
You knew he watched the video of you fucking yourself on a wall mounted dildo in the shower. You wondered if he let him imagine it was him, taking his cock in hand in the morning as he washed and prepared himself for the day.
You knew he watched the video of you playing with your boobs alone in the elevator at work after hours. You wondered if he was still working late when he saw that one, or if, like last time, maybe Luke had grabbed his phone first and seen it before him. .
You knew he watched the video you shot in his apartment. It wasn't that hard to get into, knowing exactly where the spare key was hidden and letting yourself in comfortably. You let yourself dress in one of his shirts and set the camera up, pushing a bullet vibe inside yourself, and turning on the camera, playing with the hem of the shirt and the sheets below until you finally flashed the camera and him the sight of your wet cunt.
You filmed a few videos there, fingering yourself, spreading yourself so he could see just how far you'd opened yourself up for him, sinking down on to progressively bigger silicone cocks and mumbling his name over and over again.
You knew he watched every video, even though you'd sent ten over the space of an evening. You knew he was likely somewhere stroking his large, hot cock, wishing he was buried deep in you, but too stubborn to let you know that now.
The day after the case ended, you knew that his return meant punishment, but you couldn't stop yourself.
An hour before the teams expected arrival time, you excused yourself to Spencer's office. The first time he'd fucked you had been in there. He'd pushed you over his lap and slapped some sense into you, spanking you until you were a drippy mess waiting for his cock to enter you sharp and fast.
You'd since sucked his cock under the desk more times than you could count, and the view from the window was more than familiar to you as you enjoyed being pushed up against it as he took you from behind, the both of you revelling in the fact that anyone could see you defiling the building together.
With half an hour to spare before he returned and ended your fun and games, you mounted the arm of his couch and began rubbing yourself against it. You rocked your hips slowly back and forth against it - as horny as you were, it was still embarrassing to be so horny you'd resulted to humping pieces of furniture to meet your needs.
You'd thought about getting drunk and finding a random dick to take home with you, but it didn't interest you half so much as fucking with Spencer Reid did. You'd never had the talk about exclusivity, but you knew just as well as he did that you were locked in. He was your boyfriend, whether he realised it or not.
And now, you simply needed his cock so badly, nothing else would do. The closest you could get was a piece of furniture he'd fucked you on before.
You slipped your panties off quickly as your timer sounded a ten minute warning, knowing his plane would be landing any second now. You'd factored in the walk from the jet to the office, praying to the gods above that he took the initiative to get ahead on paperwork instead of going straight home.
You rocked back and forth on the arm of the couch until his door opened narrowly and he let himself in, just as your clit rubbed the corner of the couch and you moaned out gloriously.
“Y/N,” he hissed as he slammed the door shut. You didn't stop even as he crossed the room and grabbed your hips, instead lunging for his lips and meeting them with your own.
Your tongue clashed with him for the first time in a lifetime, and you whimpered at how good he still felt pressed up against you. His chest was a solid shield, and your puffy nipples pushed up against it, rubbing deliciously with each grind. His hands were large, his fingers long as they clawed themselves around your hips and drew you up.
“You just can't follow orders, can you?” He asked between kisses, between breaths where you weren't sure if he'd slap you or shove his fingers down your throat. “I should fire you,” he whispered as he reluctantly pulled away.
“But Spencer,” you said, gasping jokingly as you pawed at the front of his pants. “Who would you fuck on cases then? Who would be your controversially young fuck doll?”
You meant it to be a joke, but the slap he delivered to your ass made you think twice as you clapped a hand over your mouth.
His hands roughly pulled you into him again, and you were unable to rise up enough again before he hit you again. You jilted forwards with a little moan and just gave in to the sensation, pressing your face into the pillows as your hips rose.
“You're acting like such a desperate little slut, I don't think you deserve to even lick my cock. Fuck, I don't even think you deserve to lick my shoe,” his words cut deep as you realised how angry he was, his fingers tangling in your hair he yanked you upwards.
“Wait, please - Spencer, please, I need-”
“Need what? You need to suck cock? You need to put yourself on display in a public place? Need everyone around you to know just what it is we do when we're alone?” With each question, he worked on bruising your ass cheeks harder, until he finally pushed you to the floor, and you sank down, automatically spreading your legs for him.
“Pathetic. You don't deserve this cock, baby.”
“No!” You cried out, not willing to accept that outcome at all as you panicked. “I'll do anything, please, Spencer, I'll do anything!”
You whimpered and cried out in real frustration and fear, knowing that he absolutely would kick you out if you didn't act fast. Spencer may have been fine with you taking control some days, but this obviously wasn't one of them. You sat yourself on your knees and clasped your hands together, attempting to seem half the serious devotee and half the irresistible vixen whose chest was accentuated by the movement.
“Okay. Show me just how much of a desperate slut you are,” he said, lifting his foot from the ground and nudging it between your thighs.
Reluctantly, you widened your stance, spreading apart just enough for him to notch his shoe against your clothed pussy.
“Ride my shoe, Y/N. You're such a good little boot-licker. It shouldn't be a problem, right?” As if to answer your own question for you, he bobbed his knee gently, and your clit ground into the edge of his shoelaces, causing a sharp, fast burst of pleasure to spark through you.
You still were too shocked to answer, but he smoothed your hair from your eyes as he continued to bounce his foot, and you left all of your concerns behind, slowly grinding down.
“What a dirty little slut, I didn't think you'd actually do it.”
Wrapping your arms around his leg, you pressed your hips up and down hesitantly, looking into his eyes as your mouth dropped open in a silent moan.
“That's it, good girl,” he said, letting his leg go still as you did all the work, shaking your hips back and forth on his shoe as you gave him pleading looks, unable to form words for the overwhelming shame and embarrassment.
“You look like a puppy,” he blurted out, grabbing a handful of hair and pulling it back, hard, exposing your throat to him as he watched you with curious eyes. “Like one of those puppies who gets so excited to see you, she starts humping you. So fucking horny and desperate. You wouldn't even care who was in the room with us, right now, would you? You'd just keep going until yiu came.”
You gasped as he slapped your face, tongue falling out of your mouth as he inspected his little play puppy. He smiled, as if happy with your reactions, and leant back on the sofa, releasing your hair from his grip as you continued to struggle in vain toward your orgasm.
It was another two or three seconds before you realised he was pulling his hard cock from his pants, and another moment or two before he slid his hands back into your hair and guided your dumb, stupid, wet mouth over the top of his cock quickly.
You let him move your head just how he liked, let him push you down almost farther than you thought you could go. You ground your bare clit down into his shoe as you deepened your breaths, relaxing your body as you took inch after inch of his cock down your throat.
His hands were wound so tight in your hair that there wasn't space to move. You gagged, once and twice, but he held you in place still, enjoying the spit that spluttered around the base of his cock, the spasms of your contracting throat against the tip and length of his cock. You breathed deeply, ignoring the feeling of his pubic hair tickling your nose, scratching your cheek as you flattened out your tongue under his cock. You wished he would move, wished he would give you the space you needed to cum faster.
The desperation of the last few months built up and built up, and you knew that you were close to cumming, your hips rocking out of tempo now, crashing into his foot wildly, ass shaking as you felt his shoelaces rubbing uncomfortably against your thighs.
“God, what a pathetic little bitch, are you going to cum? Cum on my shoe, whore, show me how fucking desperate you are.”
You felt the exact moment your body convulsed against him, you knew the exact movement that made you cum, because you felt the flood of moisture pool underneath you as you squirted all over his floor. You made a note of reminding him to replace the rug before Emily returned.
Your whole body shook as you sat in the pool of your own cum, but he refused to let you pull away.
“Has my little puppy made a mess? What a shame. You can't stop yet, though.”
His grip on your face somehow became stronger, though not unpleasant, as he pulled your head up the length of his cock. You spluttered slightly, feeling the tension slip out of you as he emptied your throat. You didn't have more than a second to react before he quickly snapped your head back down over his cock, down to the base of his dick.
“Keep up, Y/N, this is what you wanted, remember.”
You choked on his cock, and he smiled down at you, taking your gags for nods as he proceeded to fuck your throat, deep and hard.
“So wet and warm for me, like a perfect little pet,” he said, hips already lifting off the couch as he tried to sink deeper into you.
You knew from experience that he'd soon grow tired of the limits of your mouth. He liked to hear you. He liked to see you drooling rather than feel it on his skin. As much as he could force his cock down your throat - and you deeply enjoyed when he did - he could get deeper if he sank into your pussy and you both knew it.
This part was just to lube his cock up, nice and wet, until he could take you nice and quick without having to touch your pussy. He needed you nice and wet and ready for him, especially on days like today where you'd been nothing but a cock tease in need of a harsh fucking. You deserved nothing more.
As predicted, he pulled your head off his cock after a few seconds and hauled you to your feet. You tried to climb onto him, to grip his cock in your hand and just sink down where you belonged, but he stood, too, lifting you up with him.
“Window,” he said, and you knew he must be close if he was ordering you around one word at a time. You nodded, but he kept his hands on you, moving you to the window quickly.
You knew he'd bend you over, take you against the outdoor window, whispering in your ear that anyone outside could see you if they just looked up. Instead, this time, he moved you to the opposite side of the office. The window he pressed you against was the one overlooking your desks, the one where, should he happen to open the blinds, every member of your team would be able to look up and watch you take his dick.
“Everyone left,” he whispered quickly as he shifted the blinds up an inch so you could see.
You breathed a sigh of relief noting that it was as empty as he claimed, but it didn't last long as he gently pressed his cock into your cunt, finally filling you how you'd needed to be filled for the last 60 days.
“Fuck, t-thank you, sir!”
All thoughts about the office below faded as he lifted your leg in his hand and let it rest on the edge of the window, pushing your face against the cold glass. Your office may have been empty, but that wasn't to say that there wasn't someone working late in the other departments, a janitor happening to pass through.
You knew, but you didn't care as you begged him to fill you up more and more.
“Just like that, just like that, yes!!! Fuck yes, Spencer I missed this, I missed you. Missed you so much,” you moaned as your hands slipped down the glass, already fogged with condensation, your hot breath hitting the cold glass.
“Needed this? You've been fucking yourself nightly for the last week. You didn't need this like I needed this,” he moaned, biting into your neck with a sharp kiss as you moaned loudly for him.
“Two m-months. You haven't fucked me for two months, what else was I supposed to do?”
He groaned in your ear again, reaching a hand around you and slapping your clit as he formulated an answer.
“Rest, you were supposed to rest,” he said, thrusts speeding up as your cunt gripped him tighter and tighter the closer you got to your second orgasm.
He groaned and pressed your face into the glass, holding you there and screwing his eyes shut as you both chased release.
“I didn't want to rest, I w-wanted to be by your side.”
His head rested against your shoulder as he felt the last waves of pleasure race towards him. His hand pushed down to your clit and rubbed you, sending you right over the edge with him as he filled you with his cum.
Neither of you could stay upright, collapsing down to the floor in a heap. Usually when he came inside you, he waited a few moments to pull out so he didn't make so much mess when he did. But in his exhaustion, in your shared bliss of finally reaching that precipice after so long, he slipped out early, as cum was still shooting from him.
You heaped together on the floor, chests heaving as you lay on top of him, your peace only broken by a single thought.
“We..-’ you gasped, breathing unsteady. “We need to deep clean this office before Emily comes back.”
He looked down at you, a look so serious and shocked you wondered if he was angry. And then he laughed. Short and soft, he giggled, and you couldn't help but join in, wrapping your arms around your stomach as it began to hurt, chest heaving from the pain of all your joy.
He sat up and gave you a hand up as well as you surveyed the damage.
“The rug has to go,” you said, feeling hot and embarrassed as you noticed the new wet stain on the near offensive fluffy thing.
“We should probably get some new throw pillows, too,” he remarked, and you nodded with a grimace. You made to stand up, but your legs felt weak, and you wobbled, but he was there to catch you, as he stood.
"Maybe just a new couch," you muttered, flushed with heat as you remembered how you'd humped the arm rest not even twenty minutes ago.
He closed the blinds before moving back to the couch and sitting you down on his lap once again, such a familiar place for you to be these days.
“You….” He started, worrying g his bottom lip with his teeth. “You really missed me?”
You startled, taken aback by the question. You thought the videos had made it clear, let alone the last half hour of intimacy.
“I… Yes, Spencer. I missed you a lot. I always miss you.”
“You… you do?”
You nodded again and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear.
“Y/N, when I am no longer your boss, in approximately a weeks time, would you possibly consider being my girlfriend?”
For the second time in the last two minutes, the man had you floored. And perhaps a little bit angry.
“I'm not… I'm not your girlfriend now?”
“Hmm? Oh, I-”
“Because I already told my friends about you, and I was definitely saying the word boyfriend, but if that's not what this is, I can correc-”
You saw the panicked look in his eye as he pulled you in for one last kiss.
“That's what this is!” he said frantically, cutting you off when you opened your mouth with another kiss. “I thought you wouldn't think that this was- no!” He kissed you again as you tried again to speak.
“Listen to me! I'm o-older than you, I thought I had to ask still. Do people not ask anymore?” He kissed you before you could answer.
“Rhetorical question.”
“I love yo-” you attempted to confess, but his lips covered yours swiftly, even as his eyes opened wide when he pulled away.
“Wait, no, say that again,” he begged, eyes weak and shiny and absolutely endearingly pathetic.
You shook your head and sealed your lips, miming, zipping them shut and throwing away the key.
“Y/N! Tell me again, tell me you love me again,” he said, kissing each of your cheeks. You poked his chest hard, and he kissed you once more.
“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered, and kissed you again, trying to draw from your lips the words he had cut off earlier, losing himself in the pleasure of the moment as you sat together in the dark office, totally enamoured with one another.
Summary: Spencer comes to terms with your abduction.
Warnings: ANGST, Suicidal ideation, kidnapping, mentions of fetal abduction and murder of pregnant women, descriptions of abuse, descriptions of prenatal care, typical case details. Spencer is depressed.
A/N: I'm sorry this chapter is a day late, I literally saw God this weekend (I saw Taemin perform live), and really, all that's been on my mind is how God is Good (Taemin is hot), and so I haven't been able to write anything as depressing as this chapter. I hope you enjoy (?) it anyway~♡
Masterlist || tags are currently broken, I'm sorry ♡
Eight days. It had been eight days since Spencer had last seen you. Eight days since he'd screwed up his one job so massively that he'd lost you.
He'd lost people before. He'd lost people on cases. Victims, unsubs, bystanders, and family members who didn't stand a chance at recovering from their own loss. He'd lost Maeve, which was a little too similar to his current circumstances to think about too hard. He'd been losing his mother since he was born, and he'd really lost her again a few months ago. He'd lost Gideon. He'd lost Elle, too, before that. He'd lost Emily, and though she'd come back too, it wasn't the same. He'd lost Morgan, and then Hotch. He'd lost Alex Blake.
He'd lost nearly everyone in his life. Some of them had come back, most of them hadn't.
He'd thought himself immune to the pain of losing someone at last.
He'd certainly lost enough of himself in prison.
It may have only been 84 days, but whatever was left in him of hope before was gone. He'd emerged completely empty.
He supposed that's why he'd accepted the role at the university. There was nothing left for him to give to the BAU, but he couldn't be the one to leave.
As it was, he'd already been unsettled enough by leaving you behind when he'd finished up his time there.
It felt weird to him, saying goodbye. Not that he'd actually said goodbye. He'd kissed your forehead as he slipped out of your bed, sure, but you'd been neither conscious, nor fond of him in anyway. It was a parting gesture just for him and he hadn't been quite sure why he'd done it.
It was just a gesture and one he'd repeated multiple times after getting you back. You didn't know, of course. How could you?
He'd either woken up before you and kissed your forehead, or climbed into bed beside you late at night and greeted you then.
You'd lain side by side, drifting to sleep slowly, when he realized it had become a daily habit.
He hadn't any idea of what he'd do when you left.
And now you had. And it was his fault.
In the eight days since you'd been kidnapped, Spencer had come to terms with a few facts.
He knew 64,956 women were currently declared missing in the United States. He knew that 77% of adults reported missing were found in 24 hours. You weren't. He knew 4% were found in 48 hours. You weren't. Only 3% were usually missing still after a week.
You were somehow in that small minority, even though there was an entire team of FBI agents working around the clock to find you.
He'd had faith in his coworkers before. Before, he'd begged for their help, and they'd succeeded in 24 hours, even if the outcome wasn't preferable.
This time, he didn't beg. He had no faith. He just hoped to be present with a gun, loaded with two bullets, if this time went the way of the last.
On the eighth day after your abduction, Spencer finally returned home.
The damage from your abduction was still apparent.
Not that your captor had left many clues. In fact, they'd left none. Not even a fingerprint or a good angle on the CCTV. But he hadn't taken returning to an empty apartment well.
He slashed through the crime scene tape quickly, letting in hang in the doorway as he entered. The bookshelves he'd attacked were limping, leaning on each other for support after he'd ripped books off so violently he'd set them askew.
He'd kicked and ripped and punched the wall so hard he'd needed stitches that he'd absolutely refused to get.
He'd cried and sobbed into his bloodied and bruised hands until Emily had arrived, and then he'd cried some more, leaning on his friend, his sister, for her support.
Returning now, there wasn't a single tear left.
In the hospital, they'd addressed his flesh wounds, but the emotional ones would never hear.
You were gone. And now there was only a 3% chance he'd ever see you again.
Emily hadn't allowed him to stick around to make their jobs harder. She's placed him on house arrest - funnily enough, her house, where you should've been if he wasn't such a selfish ass - and assigned a watch.
She’d said it was for protection, but what she'd meant was it was to protect him from himself.
The rest of the team had avoided the topic entirely. They didn't know how to deal with whatever stage of grief he was going through. Many of them had comforted him the first time. They didn't know how to do it a second. They didn't know if they could.
After eight days, Spencer had left Emily’s apartment. He'd dodged the Agent she'd stationed alongside him, got into a taxi, and gone home.
Surveying the damage, he was surprised how deep the hurt had already cut to not feel much anymore.
He looked at the books splayed on the floor. It was a title that you'd been reading that week. One he remembered you using at the office, one that had been on both of your courses reading lists. He picked each of them up and put them back on the shelf. He righted each shelf and organised them neatly, how he thought you'd like them.
He picked pillows up and rearranged them. He vacuumed the debris from the floor, the thin layer of dust that had gathered since he'd left, the splinters pf bookcase that had crumbled off, the shards of wall that were speckled with his blood.
He wept the entire time, though silent, until there were no tears left to cry.
Then he'd come across a tiny package underneath his coffee table, a single corner of plastic peaking out, begging for attention.
He'd picked it up and wept again as he found depths of sadness to reach further down than what he'd assumed to be rock bottom.
Aa he lay in a pool of his own despair, a new, haunting fact crashed from his brain to his heart. Since 1987, there had been 21 foetal abductions in the USA. 19 of them had ended in homicide, with the mother dying.
You made 22.
In the two months since you'd been abducted, you'd learned three things.
The first was that you absolutely loved Spencer Reid. You'd spent enough time sitting introspectively about everything in your life to realize you had to stop being so stubborn and admit just that. You'd been about there before all of this, but now you knew for sure.
You should be cursing the man that inspired your horror show of a life, after all. But instead, you thought about him and held back tears.
She gave you updates these days, testing your reactions to his name, waiting to see you crack, to see you cry, and sob and break down completely.
Today, Spencer had been to see his mother, she said. He'd broken down in her arms and caused her to have an episode. She'd hit him so hard, his face had already been bruised by the time she saw him.
The second thing you knew was that your baby was going to be born healthy. You had no plans of having a home birth, but now, at seven months pregnant, and large enough that you almost thought about doing your conception math again, you knew you were on track for giving birth in the room you'd been in for the last 58 days.
You hadn't counted.
She’d been good enough to tell you the date, the day, and her plans every morning when she visited you. She checked your vitals, your blood pressure, the position of the baby, your temperature, your heart rate, and recorded everything in her chart. She asked you how the pregnancy was going, almost as if she was the nurse she'd been training to be.
Her bedside manner was so good some days. You forgot entirely that you were tied down to the bed, ankle clamped down.
She let you walk for an hour a day, but recommended bedrest after that for health reasons. You didn't complain or talk back because she didn't like that.
She let you read, and she was even curious about your reading, asking you questions and taking notes as if this were just part of her regular college schedule, an office hour that had taken over her life.
You shuddered sometimes as she stared up at you with those big eyes, so wide, and young, and naive, and full of hatred, and evil, and you wanted to claw them out and scream for help, and stab her with the pencil she wrote notes with, and stab, and stab, and stab, and-
The third thing you knew was that you'd never hold your baby in your arms because you'd be dead moments after they breathed their first breath.
You knew, because she had told you as much everyday since you'd woken up.
In two months, Spencer had become more manic and self-destructive than he'd ever been in his entire life.
His world centred around you, and finding you, even as his 3% slipped to 1%, slipped to 0.1%, and he knew deep inside that he'd never see you again.
He hadn't returned to the BAU but had instead turned his home into an investigation room, emptying the walls so he could pin up information, evidence, pictures of you, everything he could find. It wasn't that he'd regained hope, but he'd grown so desperate that he suddenly gripped hard onto the only slither of it that he had left and refused to drop it. He was a dog that didn't know the game of fetch only conti he'd if he dropped the ball. His life would not go on without you.
So he searched. He knew how far along you were. He knew how far along a woman had to be for a c section, professionally performed or not.
He barricaded himself into his house and paced for days as his friends pounded down his door. He let none in. He didn't go out. He wasn't sure what he ate, or drank, or if he slept, but he knew he paced, and he thought, and he came up with theories.
After two months, Emily was tired of knocking.
“Spencer Reid, I am coming in,” she shouted from behind the door.
He usually ignored her. She couldn't pass the bookshelves he'd moved in front of the door anyway, even if his superintendent had given her a key.
This time though, he heard a banging, a creak and a crash as the bookshelves went down and Emily, who had left him and returned, made her way inside his apartment.
“You barricaded the door?” she said, looking at him.
He took a shaky breath and tried to answer as she surveyed his apartment, the mess of papers, books, string on the wall. He saw her stare down at the pile of sheets on the floor where he'd been sleeping, the bag of your things he had dragged to be closer to him.
He saw her look at the baby shoes, and baby grows he'd laid out neatly on the floor, and he saw the pitying look she turned on him.
“She's pregnant,” he finally said out loud, though you must've been 7 months along by then. “I'm going to be a father.”
“Spencer,” Emily said, grasping his hand, voice cracking from the strain of emotion that coated her tongue, making her voice thick. “You would've been an amazing father.”
“No. No-” he said, breaking away and moving back to his wall. “No past tense, I won't let you… I won't let you give up on them.”
“It's been two months.”
“So she's only seven months pregnant. I have two more months to find her, Emily. Two more. At least allow me that.”
The tears in his eyes streamed freely now as she nodded.
“We will…. you know we'll help you. We'll do everything we can, so come to the office.”
He didn't want to give up his space. His reminders of you, the baby grows, the information he'd gathered.
Equally, he didn't like Emily being in this space. She thought you were already dead, and he couldn't even look her in the eye.
Reluctantly, he nodded, lifting himself up on legs weakened by insurmountable grief, and he followed her to Quantico.
By the end of your third trimester, you wondered how you could ever have gotten so big. When you gave birth, the child inside of you would only be the size of a small pumpkin. You felt like you'd swallowed five regular size pumpkins whole, and you felt you were still expanding.
The point worried her. She'd broken two glasses in tantrums this last week alone, measuring you every day.
The closer you got to birth, the more agitated she grew.
“This demon inside of you is going to kill you. I won't even have to do it myself,” she'd whispered to herself, or to you, as she took your vitals that morning.
“Please don't say that.”
“Why not? You're a whore, and you're going to give birth to a devil. You have seduced my soul mate, because you are a jezebel and the Lord is punishing you.”
You'd needed all the strength you could get for these conversations. Even one tear, and she'd erupt and put a knife at your neck. With only a few weeks left, there was no saying whether she'd speed her plan along.
“I did not seduce your soul mate,” you said as calmly as you could muster, taking deep breaths, hoping that she would mirror them and calm down.
“Do we have to watch the fucking video again?” she spat at you, stomping around to the side of your bed and pulling out her phone. She queued up the video quickly and you averted your eyes.
She turned them back quickly, holding your head in place as she forced you to watch your own office space. She showed you the videos of you and Spencer talking, teasing each other. She showed you the video of you insisting you were not attractive to him. She showed you the video of Spencer fucking you on the sofa, though she screamed and cut her fingernails into her skin the entire way through.
She even showed you the video of her attempting to seduce Spencer during their office hour. It was the first video in her collection, the first time she'd set up the camera. She used your entrance as proof that you were breaking her apart from her soul mate. From Spencer.
You were a whore who had thrown herself at him in anyway you could, and you had trapped him with a baby.
She was going to free him from all responsibility so he could be with her.
“My baby will be your devil,” she said as the video ended, and you forced your heart to settle.
“It is not your baby.”
“Spencer won't know that. He doesn't know it's your baby either, and who are the authorities going to believe when I show up with his child. One paternity test later, and I'll have him, and we can be a happy family together, and we can live happily. I'll take in your devil and raise it as my own, and we'll forget about the whore who almost ruined it all.”
The psychosis was so clearly written on her face, you were surprised no one had caught onto her state yet. She was devolving. She'd been calm, and contemplative the first week. She'd laid out her plans still, her insane plans, and seemed somewhat coherent.
Then she'd began rambling about the devil and soul mates, and you'd pitied her, even in your fear.
Now you were just glad she counted your office tryst as your conception date, and you'd never corrected her.
She still believed there was a month left until your death. You knew it was days.
You just prayed your baby could buy you some time.
“Professor?” she said as she carried away the tray of items she'd checked your vitals with
“Yes.”
“You are not in love with Spencer Reid,” she said, as if trying to convince you.
“No,” you said, trying to convince yourself though it was hopeless. “I am not in love with Spencer Reid.”
The first lead in the case came on your due date. Patient confidentiality was, happily, overlooked by a few doctors when he pressed the issue, needing to know until when he was counting down.
He'd done the rough math himself, but he needed a professional opinion.
The lead came in the form of an email. The university was cleaning out your office to make way for a new professor, despite his insistence that you'd return, and they needed him to collect things.
And though he knew you'd be giving birth that day, and he had run out of time, something compelled him to go and do this menial task on today of all days.
Luke had joined him, and then so had JJ and Emily, and Penelope and Tara. Rossi had even arrived to watch you pile books into boxes that were supposed to have lived on these shelves for a long career. Everyone in the room was so busy watching him, waiting for him to crack, that it had to be him to find it.
At first, he thought it was a hole in the couch. It was so dark and black, its curved corners giving the illusion of introversion. Then he'd touched it and felt the rough bump.
“Penelope, here, now,” he breathed out, gasping for air as he finally pulled the tiny spy camera free and thrust it into his friends hands.
He had a lead. He had you now.
The first hour of labour was inconvenient only because you weren't alone. She'd been tending to you all morning, fussing over your food, trying to maintain the right amount of prenatal vitamins as she usually did, but she'd ran out of two bottles, and the pharmacy wasn't open.
You sat still and uncomfortable, trying to not even flinch as your water broke, too afraid of death to be thinking about the life you were bringing into this world.
The second hour ticked by much the same until she left.
The third came, and you ceased your screams of pain, even as your hands bore holes into your sheets. She returned, and you knew there wasn't much longer until she knew.
By hour four, she had your legs spread and was watching you deliver your baby, and you knew the same blade that would sever your umbilical cord would also end your life.
By hour five, you were so delirious with pain that you thought you saw Spencer. You heard his voice cooing to you as you pushed. You felt his hands wipe away your sweat, smooth the hair from your eyes. You heard his voice announce your daughters birth, and you felt his lips against your skin as you finally gave up fighting and drifted into oblivion.
