Vicky

i owe you a black eye and two kisses tell me when you wanna come and get ‘em ੈ✩‧₊˚

[reidswife-x]

vicky | she/her | 19 | bi | ENTJ | ♐️ | not a native!

minors please block these tags: fic recs❤️‍🔥, ❤️‍🔥, 🖤

about me: depressed, funny, sarcastic, moody, chronically tired, coffee addict, european, loves spencer reid & women, always bored af, just here trying to cope & survive, stays up late, loves music, books, fanfics, insufferable at times but fun to be around, extroverted, brutally honest sagittarius, choleric temperament, loves wine, can be insensitive & sensitive, moody, lazy (or just depressed af) but needs to be busy all the time, unapologetic, freaked out, bold, confident unless too depressed, chronically tired…

current obsessions: criminal minds, the pitt, editing, reading fanfics

fav cm characters: spencer reid, elle greenaway, emily prentiss, jennifer jareau, penelope garcia, aaron hotchner, alex blake

fav shows: criminal minds, the pitt, the x files, the pitt, desperate housewives, sex and the city, pretty little liars, heated rivalry, wednesday, the hunting wives, bridgerton, gossip girl, 9-1-1, the vampire diaries

fav artists: nessa barrett, tate mcrae, lana del rey, ethel cain, hozier, deftones, olivia rodrigo, she wants revenge, fiona apple, taylor swift, noah kahan, sabrina carpenter, nine inch nails, erin lecount, arctic monkeys, gigi perez & more

fav things: dark red, music, photography, tv shows/series, movies, fanfics, cats, walks, traveling, going out, wine, coffee, energy drinks. books, shopping, fashion, smut, angst, makeup, skincare, dancing, having fun, going out. traveling, pinterest, tumblr, watching tiktok edits, enemies to lovers genre…

BEFORE U FOLLOW: if you are any type of a bigot like: tr*mp supporter, 🧊 supporter, racist, homophobic, transphobic, xenophobic, use religion as an excuse to be a bad person and a bigot and force it on other people etc. don’t interact with me nor follow me. it’s not a place for you and i hate you sm. let’s just be people and not judge. let’s just be good people and accept and respect each other pls

feel free to be mutuals and friends! talk to me!

links: tiktok | instagram | pinterest | storygraph

[the-korova]

Harry Potter is trending at #1 on tumblr so I thought I’d take the opportunity to say fuck JKR, fuck transphobes, fuck her stupid books, her theme park, her endless landfill fodder merch slop, and her fucking castle on a hill. Read another book yall!! Read another book!!!!!!!

[kosmogrl]

sorry I can’t hang out tonight. yeah I’m busy freaking out over things that might not even happen. yeah it’s gonna take a while

[reidswife-x]

day 3 on sertraline and i’m sooo tired of my libido being non existent like i just wanna read smut and actually feel something. if anyone here takes it, does it ever go back to normal? i’m losing my mind

[reidswife-x]

currently so nauseous and with a horrible headache. i can’t do this. i’m supposed to go on a trip with my bestie tmrw and i can’t wash my hair with this headache and paracetamol does nothing and i can’t fucking take ibuprofen which def would help. this is hell. if it doesn’t get better i will have to cancel even tho i wanna go soo bad

[stuckinapril]

you seem avoidant for a girl who’s so hungry to experience the full breadth of human connection

[reidswife-x]

day 3 on sertraline and i’m sooo tired of my libido being non existent like i just wanna read smut and actually feel something. if anyone here takes it, does it ever go back to normal? i’m losing my mind

[siriuslylantsov]

WHAT is that face someone stop him rn

[hodginspodgins]

[zmbiereid]

spencer reid loves having his face being sat on

[ttylluv]

she's teasing me

[jemilysversion]

No one has ever looked hotter.

[itzwillow]

Is this what you want? | Spencer Reid

ᨒ↟ ⋆｡° This is part three (and final) of do you want me to teach you? previous part

Pairing: s2!Spencer Reid x f!reader

Summary: Prolonging and pushing down the words 'I love you' has been going successfully until you end up with Spencer on the side of a secluded road, in the middle of the most forested state, stuck with an unmoving car. Words spill and touch burns; love is shared, and intimacy is treasured.

Warnings/tags: 18+ smut, fluff and some slight angst!! p in v, inexperienced Spencer, vaginal sex, riding, Spencer is pathetic, praise kink, first time sex, one mention of v0mit, description of a crime scene, vaginal fingering, experienced reader, hand job, Spencer cums in his pants, mutal pining, clothed grinding, pussy play, he steals ur panties, creampie (hehe), reader is on birth control, making out, love confessions, sweetness, kissing, oral (f!receiving), yearning, semi public sex, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Word count: 8.2k

Author notes:

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ i hope you all love this fic. this is unfortunately the last of this little 'do you want me to teach you?' trilogy. i have really enjoyed making this small series and am so grateful for the love, but since this all started from a one-shot i didn't plan to follow on with i don't have much connection with the character, which is quite peeving, and that is why this won't be continuing!!

im so sorry i have been gone for so long; life has been hectic, and love has been shit! i have returned, though and am coming in hard because my new series is currently brewing! -> soft ruin

if you like or perhaps even loved this fic please do reblog, it helps the author out so much and reblogging is the way we grow!

⟶ masterlist

“I think we should start considering two unsubs”, you suggest as your fingers pull the car door handle. 

“Yeah, but I don't necessarily believe there is enough evidence towards that”, Spencer ponders, shaking his head slightly. He ducks his head due to his height, his slicked brown hair only just brushing the top of the door frame as he gets in the car. “Forensic evidence-wise, there is nothing to prove that theory, and only one out of the five crime scenes displays rage.” 

The sound of tweeting blackbirds stops just as both car doors close, silence enveloping the space as the seatbelts click into place. Sunrise flickers through the dark, greying clouds, dancing on the windshield, soft splats of rain following. 

The weather feels like a taunt after the sight you had just witnessed, a mocking in disguise. A seemingly loving couple's bodies lie not even twenty feet away in their own front yard, surrounded by detectives and crime scene tape. The fifth couple in two weeks.Ten dead bodies. 

But the sun doesn’t stop shining, and the wind doesn't halt its whispers for anyone, no matter how brutal the mess is. 

“Spencer, the brutality is significantly different from the others; the placement of the bodies for the other crime scenes shows remorse, and this one-” you glimpse outside your rain-splattered side window to where the bodies are being zipped up in body bags “this one shows pure anger, hatred even.” 

You look back over to Spencer, his own eyes observing the crime scene past your shoulder. You can identify the cogs turning behind his stare, his brows furrowing as he flits his gaze back towards you. 

“This couple may mean something more to him; he personally knew them and had a grudge over past or present problems. It explains the anger. The other victims were placed where they were through guilt because he didn’t know them; they were picked at random, by opportunity.”  

Bitter blood slides over your tongue; you hadn’t realised you had been biting it so hard. You got used to the sight of dead bodies, however dismembered and unrecognisable, but it still made your stomach churn and twist. 

“You okay?” 

The soft worry in his voice shakes you out of your head; blood didn’t seem so potent when his gaze was on you. 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay; it's just that the other scenes were- mild, I suppose. I could still see their faces and the colour of their skin, so I had it wired that this one would be the same. Two punctures through the chest. Not body parts all over the local park.” 

You breathe out, attempting to exhale all the tension wound tight in your body. Hoping to wipe away the sight of pooled blood and cut tendons. You didn’t like your emotions on display, didn’t like how, after years in the job, it still rose up your throat when you couldn’t tell who someone was, but you could tell what part of their body you were looking at.

“Do you want me to drive?” his voice is so tender you could kiss him. Would kiss him if you understood anything about what was going on between you.

“No, I got it. Honestly.”

Twisting the keys in the ignition, the engine rumbles. You cut a quick glance to the left of you, where Hotch and Gideon are exchanging information with the head detective, and then you press your foot down; the car rolling forward. 

The rain turns angry quickly, thundering down unapologetically against the car instead of the previous soft pitter-patter. The forest trees grow taller the closer you get to the police station, creating walls of evergreen around the seemingly never-ending secluded road. 

The wipers squeak as they move across the windshield, trying desperately to remove the clear raindrops that blur the view. The road is silent, no cars behind or coming the other way and nothing but thick trees for miles. The dark clouds above make it seem like something out of a movie. 

Ironic really. 

Driving in an FBI-issued Chevrolet in the most forested state in the US whilst it’s pissing it down with Spencer sitting next to you. It is harder than you admit to yourself, sitting next to him on a daily basis like you didn’t know the pressure of his kiss.  

What a fucked up movie scene this would be. 

“You know, nearly ninety per cent of Maine is forest, seventeen point six million acres of trees”, Spencer mutters matter-of-factly, breaking the silence within the car. 

Your eyes peel away from the road for a split second, catching sight of Spencer's side profile. His focus is on the dense forest passing by; his glasses reflect the greenery glistening and shaking.

“Lots of forest”, you respond, your attention back on the road. 

Your heart feels too tender near him, squishy as if it wants to be moulded by his delicate hands. You swallow your own words every time he gets too close, bite your cheeks when you catch ‘that look’ from him and zip yourself up when you find yourself thinking too much about how bad you want to scribble the word lesson from his vocabulary. 

Maybe this was too far gone. Maybe you were silently falling in love with him, whilst he just thought it was all a lesson. It had started out as a lesson, but not so much anymore. 

That morning three weeks ago, when your mouth was on him, felt like you were both waiting for something more. You had tightened up his tie, and he had passed you your jacket like you were practising for next time, as though next time wouldn't be underlined as a teaching. 

The next time had yet to come, as much as you wanted it to. 

“I think we should talk ab-” he starts. 

Was he thinking the same thing? 

Loud metallic clanking pauses Spencer's words; the SUV starts jerking slightly, rocking you in your seat. Your hands tighten around the wheel, and your foot presses off the accelerator slightly in an attempt to gain control of the vehicle. Gravel crunches like loud cries under the tyres as you steer the car over to the side of the road. 

You only breathe properly after the car is stopped and the keys are twisted. Peering out of the window, you look around to see if any cars are close by, but you assume everyone is tucked under their blankets at six am and therefore no help in this little predicament. 

“Did we just break down?” Spencer asks, furrowing his brows: such an unusual thing, a question falling from the lips of the man who knows everything.  

This is the last thing you need when you and Spencer are vitally needed on this case and at the police station in approximately… twenty minutes. 

The police station that was more than five miles away. 

Twisting the keys again only has the engine sputtering like it is trying its hardest to do something, but failing miserably. You don’t think rubbing the wheel and giving it soft motivating words is the cure; you damn sure would rather do that than step foot in the pouring rain.  

“I think so, yeah”, you hesitate, letting out a frustrated groan, running your hands down your face before pressing the button that pops the hood. 

The rain is cold, sending a shivering chill down your spine as you step out of the car and close the door. The sweater hugging your body does nothing to stop the pounding rain from seeping against your skin. Not even a second outside, vulnerable to the elements, and you already feel soaked through to the bone. 

Propping the hood up, you move your face closer to the inside of the car. Were you meant to know what you were looking at? Nothing was smoking, rattling or doing anything obvious; you're pretty sure the engine is still intact. 

“Spencer!” you call for him, the rain getting louder around you. 

The passenger door opens and closes, and Spencer's tall frame waddles over; his arms crossed over his head, yet not doing the best job of keeping the rain away. Droplets roll down his face, dripping from his lashes and sliding down the tip of his nose. You pass him a look that says ‘Do you know what the fuck I'm looking at?’ 

He squints his eyes, a small wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “What?” 

You lift a teasing eyebrow at his confusion “I thought you had a degree in engineering?”

“I do” 

You huff out a short laugh and smile at the ridiculousness of it all “Does that not include cars?” 

“I could tell you what everything is but not the problem; I'm not really good with mechanical knowledge”, he bites his bottom lip as he studies the engine bay like he’s guilty of his lack of knowledge, uncomfortable with the idea of not having an answer to something. 

He looks back over to you, his lips twitching up in an amused smile. You wonder if you have the same effect on him as he does on you, a bad day that turns good just from the sight of him. But you particularly don’t see how looking like a wet rat would cheer him up. 

“We are stranded in the middle of Maine with an unusable car”, you point out the obvious. The laughable reality of your situation. 

You find your own mouth twitching, unable to stop the entertained smile from painting your lips. This shouldn’t be as funny as it is; there is a serial killer on the loose, one you and Spencer are meant to help catch, and then fate fucked you sideways. 

Hell, maybe you were going crazy. 

“Maybe we should call roadside assistance?” you recommend, gripping the hood of the car and slamming it back down. 

Spencer shakes his head. “Roadside assistance would take up to three hours in this part of the state. It’s best if we call Hotch and see if we could get someone to come up and drive us to the station.” 

Your eyes widen at his words: “Three hours?”

He presses his lips together and nods before speaking, “Indeed.” 

Stepping into the middle of the empty road, you look around for any sign of nearby civilisation, hoping on a slim chance that lightbulbs will appear above your head. 

None. 

Spencer is already on the phone as you walk back to the SUV, your shoes squelching with every step. You feel like a teabag that has soaked in water for too long. His back leans on the car as he speaks into the phone, the wind whipping his hair out of place and leaving strands hanging in front of his eyes. 

Branches sway, talking to one another as though they already knew more than most. Funny how trees are better communicators than half of the human population, better than yourself.  

You stand in front of him, not too close but close enough to hear Aaron's rough voice through the phone speaker. Spencer watches your movements, the way you fiddle with your beaded bracelet like it grounds you, as though you're battling an emotion without a name. 

“Hotch says Morgan will be here in approximately half an hour” he slides his phone back in his pocket. 

Half an hour? The meeting with the local PD will be over by then, and there won’t be much to say that hasn’t already been said.

“How does he know where we are?” you question, confused. You were well aware of what road you were on, and the vague vicinity of the nearest town, but this road went on for miles and miles, up and down hills and into the deepest forests. 

Spencer absentmindedly taps the black steel of the car, his finger drumming on the door. The weather's assault on the gravel road and the overbearing pine trees drown out any sounds his fingertips might be making. 

“I guessed the coordinates” 

You were too stunned to speak for a good while; you felt your eyebrows raise in response to his words. “You guessed the coordinates?” 

He nods, a small smile on his lips. In half an hour, you would either thank him for his smarts or tease him profusely about sending Derek in a completely different direction. 

His small smile, despite being in the middle of nowhere, soaked through, does something to your insides. Your traitorous heart beats against your ribs, starved for something it wasn’t promised. His glasses are spotted with water droplets, and in defiance of his vision being blurred, he looks at you like you're the answer to everything. 

You're not sure what you have done to earn it. 

This is the first time in three weeks, two days and twenty-three hours that you have both been alone together. Three weeks, two days and twenty-three hours since you both walked out of his apartment together and had a silent agreement that what had happened that morning and the night before was more than a lesson. Something that involved feelings. Something hard to walk away from. 

He is an amazing friend and co-worker, but you always carried something more that was only reserved for him. You should have known the moment you sent that drunk text that the outcome was never going to be stuffing your feelings down and sucking his cock like you didn’t want to get on your knees and beg him to love you.    

“I think we should talk” Your voice doesn’t flatter or waver, even as you feel the heat rising to your cheeks. It is a conversation that needs to be had, and you needed to tell your little love-bug heart that it would be all okay, no matter the outcome. 

His throat bobs, but he seems to understand.

Neither of you mention the cosy warmth waiting inside the car, the solace of being in a dry space. The rain continues to batter both of you, the wind whipping your hair and the musky wet soil scent filling your nose. It would be much more comfortable talking inside, but the conversation wasn’t meant to be comfortable anyway. 

Love wasn’t always meant to be sheltered and hidden; it was meant to be uncovered and bared out in the open, to spread like wildfire. 

“What are we?” you ask softly, the wind carrying your words. 

“I'm not quite sure”, he answers, half to himself. The tip of his nose is flushed pink, eyes half-lidded as he holds eye contact with you.   

Heated tension passes between you both; your heart does funny things and beats like a door knock so relentlessly you wonder if it interrupts the silence within you a couple of times. Your legs feel like noodles, and your chest feels as though it's chained with bolts and screws.

“I like you”, you breathe out, admitting to the biting words. 

You were the one who told Spencer you wanted to teach him how to make a woman feel good; you were the one who gave him instructions as he feasted between your legs; you were the one who looked up with fire in your eyes as he came in your mouth with pathetic whimpers. 

So why the fuck were you so nervous? 

“I- I like you too” his voice is stuttered and quiet, as innocent as the first time you kissed him.  

He liked you. 

You had considered yourself crazy for a while after leaving his apartment those few days ago. Life went by like normal, cases, files and daily routine, and yet it wasn’t the same. You had convinced yourself that maybe Spencer still thought of you in a friendly way despite it all, that he was able to go back to normalcy because it didn’t affect him the way it did you. 

But outside of all the sexual encounters that night and morning, he had held you, kissed you, and called you things that ‘just friends’ would never say to each other. You suspected it was more, always did, but to hear Spencer confirm that almost has you falling to your knees in relief. 

It only takes a couple of steps, your feet feeling lighter than earlier, and your mouth is upon his. 

He stills for a second before his mouth responds to yours, a small sigh leaving his soft lips.

He tastes just the same as before, the sweet coffee you had dreams about mixed with potent desperation. Your hands put faint pressure on his chest, pushing his back against the side of the wet car. 

The kiss is much more hungry and meaningful than the others you shared with him before. His hands come to your cheeks, holding them and pulling you deeper like he is scared you will slip away. 

He moves his tongue against yours painfully slow, memorising the taste and feel of your lips with every sacred second. 

In spite of the cold weather closing around you and your clammy skin, your body starts to heat up, flames lighting up in the most vulnerable places. You softly moan into the kiss, letting your body fall into his. 

Pulling back slightly, your lips hovering over his, you start unbuttoning the top of his wet cardigan. 

“We” kiss “are” kiss “in” kiss “public”, he mutters against your lips, all too aware of being on the side of the road. 

It had been almost ten minutes since you broke down, and still not a single car was in sight; it was far too early, and the weather was far too bad for anyone to be on the road. But you look up at him anyway, recognising his hesitation.

“It’s half six in the morning.” 

“The average population wake up around six; it's a work day, and this road goes into the main city”, he stammers quietly, his eyes on your lips as he speaks. 

“What? Do you want to stop?” you say teasingly, continuing to unbutton his top. 

He scrunches his eyes like that's the most ridiculous thing you could say in that moment. “No- no, I don’t want to stop.” 

He was right, though; it would probably take only a couple of minutes for cars to start driving through this road regularly. You wanted nothing more than to bend over the hood and let him take you, but being fired for public indecency as an FBI agent wasn't on your agenda. 

You roll your bottom lip against your teeth and look behind him, through the window and to the interior of the vehicle. The FBI-issued SUV was bigger than most cars, enough room to do … activities, activities that definitely shouldn’t be done in a car owned by the FBI. 

“Get in the car”

“That’s still illegal, you know” he swallows and surveys the road behind you. 

“It's raining; the windows will steam” You tilt your head to look at him, neediness reflected in your eyes. 

“So?” 

“So don’t get caught”, you respond, smirking. 

He contemplates it for a while, his cheeks flushed bright red, battling between sensibility and desire. He looks off to the side and shakes his head slightly, a small nervous smirk tugging his lips. 

Your eyebrows are raised slightly, waiting for verbal agreement that you could open the car door and let him fall apart under your touch. He looks back at you, his expression leering and hungry, and you understand instantly. You feel your panties dampen even more, dripping with something that isn’t just rainwater. 

You back up, your chest leaving his, and he steps away from the car door so you can reach forward and grip the cold black metal of the handle. 

The inside of the vehicle is far warmer than outside, and the air is thick with leather and something fresh that has you wondering why you didn’t get out of the rain sooner. 

You crawl across the black leather seats and then turn around, leaning your back against the inside of the car door. Spencer runs his hand through his wet hair, slicking back the loose strands and looking around the forest as though he expects there to be an entity watching, ready to report every sin soon to be committed. 

He shuffles into the car, soaking the seats under his knees and closes the door behind him. Hard slaps of rain hit the outside of the car, and the gloomy lighting sets the ambience, highlighting the passion and longing thrumming between you. 

Scooting down, you lie your back flat against the seats. One of your legs hangs off the side, opening them, inviting Spencer to take what his strained pants said he so desperately needed. 

His mouth is slightly parted, breathing deeply, his brain short-circuiting from the pure sight of you lying before him in such a foolhardy manner. This was wrong on so many levels: in the back of an FBI car, about to touch his co-worker on the side of a soon-to-be busy road, with his cock throbbing. 

“We’re getting the car wet”, he mumbles. 

“Taking our clothes off probably helps with that”, you whisper, smiling at his flustered state. 

His eyes run down your clothed body, probably remembering the way your soft skin felt under his hands, how the sweet spot between your legs had him completely pussy drunk. 

Spencer nervously leans over you, his trembling hand coming to the side of your head. You drink in his dark gaze that doesn’t break away, not even for a second, as though he wants to swim in whatever it is that he finds behind your eyes. 

“We have twenty minutes”, you whisper, reaching up to tug on his plaid tie. 

A deep moan leaves his mouth as your lips crash into his like a tidal wave, a beautiful impact. The hand beside your head squeezes into a fist, a sign that he’s falling apart inside, melting into everything his pleasure sinks its teeth into. 

Your gun clanks on the floor, falling from its holster. Thank fuck the safety is on. 

The front of his grey tailored chinos strains, a tent of arousal evident. Your breath hitches in anticipation; there hasn’t been a day that has gone by recently where you haven’t found yourself cutting glances at his crotch, remembering it twitching against your mouth. 

Sitting on his knees, he slides your Converse flats off, water dripping onto the car mats, and then brings his finger to your belt loops. The belt hits the floor with a soft thud. One less restriction, one step closer. 

“Can I? Am I allowed to- is this what you want?” he asks, his voice low and rough. His timid eyes look at you through thick lashes, his eyebrows slightly raised as if it physically pains him to have a layer of clothes keeping you from him. 

“Do you want it too?” 

He nods a few times, emphasising the point that he really did want this. 

Warm morning sunlight peeks through a dark cloud for a split second, illuminating Spencer's red cheeks. So handsome, so perfect in more ways than one, he was like falling into a comfortable mattress after a long day.  

You more than liked him. 

Much more. 

The button on your trousers pops, and the wet fabric that is practically stuck to you slides down your legs like a snake shedding its skin. Rough knuckles graze the outside of your thighs as he strips you, bringing your panties with it. 

“I missed you”, he whispers, barely audible. 

He missed you like this; missed being able to touch you and kiss you and share intimate moments. His firsts.  

“I missed you too, Spence”  Your voice is rougher than you expect, want shown through the barely controlled rasp. 

Your lips find each other again, his hand trailing down your sweater and teasingly tracing the inside of your thighs. You instinctively open them wider, watching Spencer's throat bob as his eyes land on the wet arousal dripping from your entrance. 

“I would have shaved if I ha-” you start. 

“No, it’s okay”, he shakes his head. Slowly, he traces a finger through the wiry hair, tranced “I like it; it makes you more you.” 

Reassurance trickles through you, a soft smile planting itself on your lips. 

Despite his germaphobe tendencies, he would gladly be up for burying his nose in the hair between your thighs.

Interesting. 

A hitched breath leaves the confines of your throat as his finger delves deeper, running his fingertip through your wet folds. Your legs twitch at the sensation, your body chasing the feeling even more. 

Spencer's jaw is tight as he watches his own movements, admiring the wetness collecting on his digit. Your eyes don’t leave his face, tracing all the hard edges and curves, memorising the desire written behind his fixed gaze. You want every cell, nerve and bone in your body aware that this is Spencer eliciting pleasure in the deepest parts of you. 

No one else. 

Warm walls tighten around his finger as he presses it into your entrance, your pussy practically beconing, sucking him closer. The heavy breathing from both of you is accompanied by the lewd squelch your wetness admits with every drag of his finger. 

He leans over you again, his attention back on your face, watching the whimpers leave your parted mouth. His uneven breathing fans over your cheek like long-lost words finally reaching your ears. 

“Off, take it off” Your hand wraps around the bottom of his top. 

Pulling back, his finger leaves your aching walls to finish undoing the buttons of his cardigan you had attempted to tear off of him before. The grey cardigan hits the pile of your clothes with a wet smack, and then next comes the tie and blue striped polo shirt. 

He’s more timid with his shirt off, his pale, slim body on display for your hungry eyes. A pathetic gasp rips from his mouth as your fingertips find the muscles of his abdomen. Holding eye contact, your palm traces the V-line poking from his trousers and up, up to one of the pale pink circles on his chest. 

“I've wanted you for so long”, you whisper, your thumb feather-touching the soft skin of his nipple. 

“I wanted- want you too. For so long,” his voice hesitates and stammers. 

“At first I just wanted to teach you, for you to fuck me” Your finger moves from his chest and down, tracing a horizontal line across the waistband of his boxers peaking through. “But then I got greedy.” 

Your grip comes around his free hand, and you guide it back down to where you need it the most. Two of his fingers collect your slick before prodding your entrance, slowly stretching the begging muscle. 

“How?” he asks, helplessly intrigued. 

“For you. I got greedy for you,” you whisper against his mouth. 

His breath hitches, his forehead moving to press against your neck like he needs something stable to hold onto. Your words knock him off balance, his fingers stilling inside. 

He doesn’t hesitate to catch your lips in a greedy kiss as soon as he moves back from your neck. Fingers trailing lower, your palm teasingly cups the bulge in his trousers, and his hips move forward, applying pressure. 

“You're perfect,” he rasps between kisses " You're so perfect.”

Everything was on fire, lips tingling against his, pussy throbbing as his fingers move again, hand desperate for skin on skin. His words and touch adding fuel to the fire, accelerant to make the flames burn brighter and hotter.

Want fills you like potent liquor. You needed him so bad, needed to have him begging and whimpering under you, confessing all the things he was holding onto. 

The downpour continues from outside, thumping against the metal roof like it were cheering you both on, just as eager to watch as your insides were to feel it. Steam covers the windows, shying the outside away, covering the gods above from the worship happening inside, the distant sound of cars only a mere thought. 

Soft sounds slip from your mouth as he scoots down the black leather seats, his trousers smearing rainwater across the fabric. His fingers stop their thrusting, instead replacing it with a warm, sloppy kiss. 

The feeling is electric; it has your back arching and fingernails gripping the seat so hard you're positive they leave deep crescent moons. His tongue slides across your folds, running a wet line from entrance to clit, not missing a drip of salty arousal. 

He had obviously learnt from last time, reading books, blogs, whatever you didn’t care about, but they had worked. The way his tongue worked was almost expert-level. His mouth wraps around your pulsing clit, sucking and licking like you were his only salvation in this damned world. 

If it wasn’t for his shaking hands grasping your thighs and the ragged breathing every time he took a gulp of air, you would have assumed he had gotten over his nerves, swallowed them as he took your pussy into his mouth. 

Tilting your head to the right in your pleasure daze, through half-lidded eyes, you notice the dashboard clock between the front seats. 

Dammit.

You would gladly spend hours lying down like this, the rain creating harmony whilst the smell of sweat and musk sticks in the air, but Derek was going to be here in a matter of minutes, and the only thing you really needed, you hadn't got yet.

“Spence”, you grab his attention, his puppy eyes looking up through your legs. 

Fingers threading through his hair, you pull the brunette strands enough for him to know where you want him. His body covers you again, tongue intertwining, passing on the salty taste of yourself.

“I need you inside me”, you beg, too aware of the seconds going by.    

He searches your face “But I-” he swallows, “I haven’t made you climax”

“I can come once I have you in me. Spencer, please, we only have ten minutes.” 

Your hands start on his belt, fitting between your close bodies to take off his gun and holster and pull the leather belt from the loops. Every ticking second without his cock in you felt like agony, something you couldn’t prolong.

He huffs out a short, nervous laugh as he watches your hands continue their task “I don’t know how to- I- this is my first” 

“I know. I’ll make it good”  

“What if you don’t finish?”

That was perhaps the stupidest thing that ever came out of his sweet mouth.   

“I will, baby, trust me, I will” A smile plays on your lips, admiring his concern for you despite it being his first time. Gently pushing his chest, he leans back against the seat. “Just let me take control, okay?” 

He falls under your command like a puppy on a leash, eyes wide as he watches you sit up and throw a leg over his lap. His desire is indisputable with the way his bulge is hungrily pressing against your core. 

“Last time - last time you were over, you forgot” His voice wavers as your lips trail up the side of his neck, “forgot your underwear.” 

Spencer's hands come to your waist, and in response, you playfully roll your hips down on him. A pretty moan slips from his mouth, his hands gripping your body tighter. 

Hips moving on their own accord, you hold the back of Spencer's neck and delight in the facial expressions that come across his appearance. His head is lolled back against the seat, cheeks bright red and eyes half-lidded as though he had trouble comprehending his thought process. 

Your sensitive clit rubs against the damp fabric of his chinos, and each spark of friction shakes your legs. “I know” 

“You did it on purpose”, he mutters, “because of what- mh -what you said.” 

Pride fills you. He was finally going to mention it, the little surprise you left on his kitchen counter, pretty white lace he couldn’t get enough of last time his mouth was on you. 

“Mh? What did I say?”

His cheeks flush a shade darker. 

“Men use it for pleasurable purposes; it heightens the testosterone and dopamine chemicals and-” his voice gets a pitch higher, and he squeezes his eyes shut, “- I looked it up. Just- I- you told me to wrap it around myself…my cock.” 

Your own breath hitches with his dirty words. Spencer mentioned sexual organs at work with a firm voice, in a professional manner, but you had never heard him say it this way, desperate. It feels wrong, unheard of, to witness such a thing, but it felt wrong in the best way. 

“Your what?” You push him to repeat it, teasing him in a playful voice. 

“My- my cock” His voice is whiny, having given up with any form of trying to piece back the intelligible parts of his mind. 

“And did you do it?” 

“I.. I did just- please, please keep going,” his hips buck up as a follow-on to his words, his tone showing just how desperate he really was. 

Hooking a finger under his chin, you tilt his face up and hold eye contact as you press your hips harder and rock with more rhythm. The grinding has your own mind covered in fog, mouth open on silent gasps. 

“Did you cum all over my panties?” 

“All over, all over I swe-” a stuttered hiss cuts him off. His fingernails dig into the soft flesh of your ass, hips stuttering as you continue rocking on him. Only when you notice a single tear sliding down his cheek do you stop your movements. 

Smug realisation hits you, “Spencer- did you just-?”   

You just made Spencer Reid cum in his pants with only a few hip rolls. 

To be honest, it wasn't all that surprising. Are you shocked that it happened so quickly? Yes, but with little to no experience, he was bound to bust a load that easily, without being touched. But fuck, did he look so attractive doing so, his eyes blown wide as if he himself was stunned by his body's surrender.    

“Shut up- shut up; that’s so embarrassing”, he winces after catching his breath.

It was one of, if not the most attractive thing you had ever witnessed.  

“It’s not”, you scoff, a light-hearted laugh, and lean your forehead against his sweaty one. “But I need you to get hard again.” 

You could practically imagine the clock, counting down the seconds left until Derek's fist would rasp against the steamed window. You didn’t want to leave, didn’t want the rain to stop pattering against the car like fingertips, didn’t want the smell of sex to disperse when the door opened, and most of all you didn’t want to go until you spilt the words tangled up in your heart, the fact that maybe like wasn’t the right word.

“For the average male in his early twenties it can take anywhere from fifte-” 

“I know”, you whisper, moving your hips up and hands down to his half-zipped trousers. 

Despite the facts, as soon as your painted nails skim his striped boxers, his cock stirs. The wet fabric of his boxers pulls tighter, outlining the shape of his growing hardness.

As soon as you shimmy his trousers and boxers down below his thighs, his flushed cock bounces out, already swelling by the second from just a simple graze of your skin. The sight of his earlier release coating his tip has a whimper slipping from your lips. 

“I don’t have a condom”, he stammers, his voice small. 

The smallness of his voice stills the air around you, the heat seizing for a split second. You search his eyes, searching for anything hinting at uncertainty. 

“I'm on the pill”, you reassure him softly, speaking with confidence in hopes of flushing out any worries he might have “Is that okay? Do you want to stop?” 

His eyebrows pinch upwards, his gentle gaze reminding you that this wasn’t the making of lust but blooming love, feelings that had only recently started kicking up the dirt. 

“It’s okay; I want this”, he whispers, warm breath tickling your lips “Please.” 

The ‘please’ is all you need; an insatiable covet swarms around the deepest parts of you, filling up your soul and heart after so long of hiding itself. Spitting onto your hand, you slick up the head of his cock, eliciting a gasp from Spencer's full lips. 

Slowly, you sink down on him, your hand gripping his base to help position him. Over the pitter-patter of the rain, Spencer's soft breaths bless your ears with every inch of him that slides into your pussy. 

Once fully seated on him, his throbbing length filling you, your forehead meets his. Spencer's hands grip tightly on the plush skin of your hips, his breath coming out choppy as though he is focusing on everything holding him together; he hadn’t been expecting to feel this much. 

“Does that feel good?” he breathes out after gaining some composure.  

“I haven’t moved yet, Spence”, you chuckle breathlessly. 

“I know- I know”, he says, well aware of the fact that, yes, you haven’t moved and he already feels close to the edge, “but still-.” 

“So good”, you promise. 

The truth of this all hasn’t bypassed you; this is really happening. Spencer Reid's cock is throbbing inside your warm heat, and chasing release is the last thing on your mind with the way his eyes are looking up at you through his misted lenses, with that sparkle in his gaze that speaks more than an orgasm could. 

“You're beautiful” slips from his mouth like a prayer, akin to saying amen.  

You never fell for people's compliments; it was always said like a vow, but it was only ever personal opinion. Pretty some days, ugly the next. But for the first time in forever, you believed it, believed him.

You are beautiful. 

“I'm surprised you can even see me”, you tease, unhooking his fogged-up glasses from behind his ears and setting them on the console. An admiring smile grazes your face, the clear sight of Spencer's deep brown eyes furrowing in pleasure enough to spur a physical reaction within you. 

Twitching your hips up a little, his mouth falls open, caught on a low whimper. His hands grip tighter, palming your soft skin. 

Spencer looks like a poor, needy puppy, his wet hair tousled from the mixture of the rain and your hands, his cheeks and nose florid, his half-lidded gaze looking up at you, begging for what was already his. 

You start slowly moving your body against his, your legs and hips working together in tandem, making the most of the time that was slowly slipping through your fingers. The noise of soft skin slapping, friction between damp bodies and various moans, whimpers and gasps fills the warm, thick air. 

Spencer's palm comes to the back of your tilted neck, your eyes closed and head thrown back. “Look at me”, he asks softly, applying slight pressure to your neck, encouraging your eyes to meet his yet again. 

He moulds your pussy with his length like it's his to worship.

The breath shared between you grows hot, so dense it feels like swallowing steam. Your eyes don’t waver, never breaking away from tracking his face even when your hips fall back down on him and his cock easily hits that spongy spot so deep inside it feels like redefining heaven. 

When your thighs start to shake, stuttering your movements, Spencer catches on. Timid hands slide up from your hips and across the curve of your waist, holding tight and guiding your movements.  

Your body leans against his, his bare chest pressing against your damp shirt plastered to your moist skin like wet paper. His lips catch yours, pulling apart on gasps but never too far, always hovering like you could be taken at any moment, vigilant that the clock would stop. 

“I want you to be mine”, he whispers, voice wavering, “I-I want this forever.” 

You swear your heart stops for more than three beats; you almost pinch yourself to assure yourself it's real, that this wasn’t just some made-up fantasy your mind cruelly shaped. 

“I want that too” 

You had wanted it before you even knew it. 

Wanted him before his lips blessed yours. 

Spencer sweetly smiles at your words, hips following yours, lifting up to chase the release on the tip of his tongue. Slowing your hips, your own stomach starts to tighten, your body quivering over his. 

You wouldn’t normally cum so quick, so easily, but the fact that it’s Spencer, that this need and yearning for him have been dragged out for so long, makes it hard not to come apart so fleetly.  

“Clo-close?” He asks, breathing out all the words he can manage, a feeble one. 

“Mhm”, you mumble against his lips, speech shutting you out too.  

The slick drag of his cock inside you is consuming, your so drunk on the glint in his eyes and the hot breath running fingertips down your throat you hardly notice how busy the road has gotten. The sound of tyres against wet gravel is the last thing on your mind, only a distant hum.

Taking note of your reactions, inside and out, he moves his hips accordingly and learns exactly what has your body arching above him, what pulls dirty noises from your throat. He’s a quick learner, despite being hammered by the new feeling of a wet pussy around him; he has control of his motions, knowing to hold back and cherish the moment.    

His lips meet yours again, exchanging hot gasps down your throat, tangling his tongue with yours like a future promise.  

A hot golden heat sizzles deeply inside of you and then spits like hot oil, your orgasm crashing through you. The pleasure taking over you manipulates your whole body, your wet walls tightening around Spencer's cock, legs shaking and back arching. Spencer pants at the tightness strangling his cock, his own release teetering on the edge of undoing. 

“Can I do it inside, please?” he strangles out, holding himself back with a struggle. The weak, pathetic ‘please’ erases any logical thoughts on the time or clean up; you nod without question. 

Spencer resorts to bucking his hips up since your legs stopped being useful the moment you came. Fucking into you from below, his tip bruises your throbbing oversensitive g-spot, riding out your orgasm whilst brinking his. 

Your stomach tightens and twists, your orgasm still rocking through you, being dragged out with every thrust of his cock. The euphoria is compelling, your brain erased of any thoughts but the moment before you.  

“Cumming- cumming- oh god”, he hisses out and then bites his lip hard, his eyes widening solid on you. His face twists as he spills inside of you, his hips stuttering, creating the most beautiful sight. 

“I love you”, you confess as though it’s a sin. Tones of pressure, old and new slides of your chest, the confession leaving you lighter than before. 

It's all real, too real. 

Lately, time had been spent belittling your own emotions, downgrading them and pushing them down because it was unprofessional or overwhelming, just plain scary to feel something this strong. You had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that it wasn’t normal to crave the next sexual meeting with your coworker; it wasn’t usual to get butterflies when he glanced your way, and it definitely wasn’t casual that he was your last thought before falling asleep and first thought waking up.  

But it was out now, said to his pleasure-ridden face.

And you don’t regret it, especially when his next words are spoken so strongly; it leaves no doubt he feels the same. 

“I love you too, I love- love you so much”, he breathes out, slowing his hips, his cock spent inside you. 

His eyes soften and fill with the first sight of love, ripping the mask away and exposing how vulnerable he truly felt around you. His lips come to you, leaning forward and kissing so sweetly, kissing with a type of adoration he didn’t possess before. 

The kissing lasts longer than it should, the surroundings only remembered when the close sound of tyres moving over pebbles reaches your ears.

Oh fuck

Senses come back to both of you: the tickle of the trickling pearl white dripping from your entrance and down Spencer's thighs, how the sun shining in from outside was much brighter than you remembered, combined with the fact that rain was no longer falling from the sky and that the crunch of a close vehicle was a ticking time bomb. 

It was unrealistic thinking you would have more time, hoping there was traffic or a closed road that would prolong this beautiful moment. 

“Fuck, I think Derek is here” You curse yourself for not being more mindful of the time. 

Spencer seems to realise too, his grip on your hips loosening and his head tilting to the side, confirming the outline of the SUV through the fogged (thankfully) windows. 

“Oh, um, how- how are you going to move?” 

Looking down at his release covering your conjoinment, you ask yourself the same question. 

“Carefully?” you wince, knowing however careful you still had to do it quickly. 

Lifting your hips, he slides out of you with a wet pop, followed by the obscene sight of his cum leaking from between your thighs. You don’t have time to question the state of the car nor how you were going to slide on wet clothes because all you know is that if you both don’t get decent within the next few minutes you would scar Derek for life. 

You climb off Spencer's lap, collect your panties from the floor, but pause when you feel Spencer's heated gaze on them, watching you whilst pulling up his boxers and trousers. 

“You want them?” you ask, catching his thoughts. 

His eyes go wide, and his cheeks flush a darker colour; you don’t know why he is so surprised you caught him in the act; it’s not like you read people's emotions for a living. 

“Is that okay?” 

You nod and shove them in his capri pants without a regard. 

Sliding on wet trousers has to be up there as one of the most uncomfortable things in human existence, violated by your own clothes all because you dare get them damp.  

There's a knock on the window as you do up your top button, rushing to look presentable.

“You guys decent in there?” Derek asks, a teasing tone laced in his voice. 

Of course.  

You neglect the idea of sliding on your dripping socks and instead stuff them in your pockets whilst pulling on your shoes. Spencer finishes adjusting his tie when Morgan tries pulling at the locked handle. 

“Wait, wait!” Spencer raises his voice. 

Spencer rakes over your face and body with marvelment and happy disbelief before opening the door with the conclusion that you both look somewhat decent. 

It was obvious anyway; Derek had noticed the heated glances you had been giving Spencer way before this happened, teasing you both about it, so it was inevitable he would clock what was going on soon enough. 

Although you hadn't been expecting this to be the way he found out. 

Once both of you get out of the car, you come face to face with a smirking Derek leaning against his SUV. He raises his brows at the sight of you both, damp clothes stuck to your bodies, hair messed up, Spencer's tie not even looking like a tie anymore. 

“You get a bit wet?” 

“Shut up”, you bite back, embarrassed he saw you in such a sight. If only he knew Spencer was dripping down your thigh. 

“Hey, I'm just saying you both look a little wind-swept”, Derek chuckles, holding his hands up playfully. 

                                                  °‧🌱⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The back of the SUV is warm and relaxing, filled with comforting silence when Derek isn’t yapping about ‘Spencer, my man, no longer a virgin, huh?’ from the driver's seat. It took a while for him to stay quiet; half the car ride had been him asking teasing questions, but when he peeked at the rearview mirror and noticed you subtly joining fingers with Spencer in the back seat, he decided to keep his mouth shut.

The air is different around Spencer, a quiet ease that has your heart beating with content and your stomach swarming in happiness. You send each other small signals, whether it be a short soft glance or squeezing each other's hands three times. 

This change in relationship has gone quicker than you anticipated. Two weeks ago, when your hands and mouths explored each other, you had been thinking it would be no less than a year until the word love would fall from your mouth or Spencer's. 

Oh, how wrong you had been.

tags:

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[whoswitchybabyanyway]

a good listener

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

word count: 7.5k (sorry? you're welcome?)

summary: spencer has always been an exceptional listener, but one whispered "please" makes him wonder what it might feel like if, just this once, you listened to him instead

includes: smut (MDNI), no use on y/n, soft dom/switch!spencer, established relationship, consensual power exchange, relationship dynamics, gentle dominance, praise, teasing, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, spanking, dirty talk, "good girl", little bit of begging, switch realization, aftercare, communication, consent, reassurance, fluff, romance, emotional intimacy, spencer being adorably flustered after making you see stars

a/n: hi everyone, I am alive and kicking still. though my brain has been kicking my ass the past couple weeks. thank you to the people who checked in on me, yall are too sweet 💕

based on this request

Spencer Reid is a good listener.

He always has been.

He listens when you spend twenty uninterrupted minutes telling him about your day, even if half of it is dedicated to a coworker you've never particularly liked and the other half is an animated retelling of something that happened in the grocery store. He listens when you launch into a scene-by-scene breakdown of whatever show you've become obsessed with this week, nodding along despite having absolutely no context because you're so excited that your words tumble over one another, and he knows you'll inevitably pause every few minutes to ask, "Are you even listening?"

He always is.

He listens when you tell him your coffee order has changed. When you mention, weeks in advance, that your favorite bookstore is getting a special edition release. When you absent-mindedly admit you haven't been sleeping well lately, only to discover a weighted blanket appearing on your bed a few days later because Spencer quietly researched the statistics on sleep quality before buying one.

He listens because that's how he loves.

It carries into every corner of your relationship without either of you ever really noticing.

He listens when you murmur, "Come here," from across the apartment, abandoning whatever article he's reading without a second thought because if you're asking for him, he'd always rather be where you are.

He listens when you tilt your chin up with that familiar smile and whisper, "Kiss me."

He listens when you laugh against his mouth and say "Slower." When you smile and tell him to keep going. When you breathe "Wait." When you say "Okay." When you say "Stop."

Every single time—without hesitation, without question—Spencer listens.

It isn't one-sided, not even close. If Spencer listens, you direct. It's simply how the two of you fit together. 

You don't really ask. You tell. You like taking the initiative. Spencer likes following it. The rhythm develops so naturally that it becomes as familiar as breathing, neither of you questioning it any more than you'd question why the sun rises every morning.

If anything, Spencer finds it comforting. He spends enough of his life making impossible decisions. Profiling killers. Choosing who goes through which door. Calculating risks that end in lives saved or lost. Here, with you, there are no impossible choices. You simply smile, hook a finger through one of his belt loops as you step through the front door, and say, "Bedroom."

He follows.

Because Spencer Reid is an exceptionally good listener.

Your fingers find the first button of his shirt before you've even cleared the hallway.

It's automatic—the way you reach for him, the way your hands know the geography of his chest better than he knows the layout of his own apartment. You walk backward, and Spencer follows, his steps careful and unhurried, watching your face as you glance up at him with a sly smile and batting lashes.

There's a faint flush across your cheeks that has nothing to do with embarrassment. Two glasses of wine at dinner—maybe three, if you count the sips you stole from Spencer's glass when he wasn't paying attention, which he absolutely noticed but chose not to mention because you'd looked so pleased with yourself. You're not drunk. Your wits are still comfortably intact, your words still coming out clear and deliberate. But there's a softness to you tonight, a looseness in your limbs and a brightness in your eyes that the wine has gently coaxed to the surface.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sink down with the grace of someone who's had just enough wine to move like water. Your fingers slide the open shirt from Spencer's shoulders, and it catches briefly on his elbows before you tug it away and toss it aside.

You don't stand on ceremony. You never do.

You lean back on your palms, then shift your weight and crawl backward across the bed, the hem of your dress dragging across the sheets as you go. The movement is unhurried, deliberate, your eyes never leaving his face as you settle against the pillows with the kind of easy confidence that Spencer has spent entire evenings trying to understand and never quite managed to replicate.

Spencer climbs onto the bed after you, one knee first, then the other, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moves forward. His hands find your legs before the rest of him catches up, palms settling against your ankles and sliding slowly upward along the bare skin of your shins.

The touch is warm and careful, his thumbs tracing idle patterns against your calves as he moves closer. His fingers skim past your knees, and he feels the slight hitch in your breathing when he reaches the softer skin of your thighs. His hands disappear beneath the hem of your dress, palms pressing flat against you as they continue their slow path upward, the fabric bunching around his wrists.

It's been weeks.

Not by choice. Not by any fault or failure. Just the ugly mathematics of conflicting schedules—late cases and early shifts that keep passing each other in the dark like ships. He comes home to the shape of you under the covers, already breathing slow and deep. You wake to a cold pillow and a cup of coffee he made for you before leaving.

But tonight, tonight he has you.

His lips find the inside of your knee first.

It's a soft press of warmth, almost chaste, the kind of absent kiss he might leave on your forehead on his way out the door in the morning. Except his mouth lingers, and his breath ghosts across your skin when he speaks.

"I've missed you."

The words vibrate against you, soft and unguarded, and your breath catches before you can stop it.

His mouth drifts higher. Another kiss, pressed to the tender skin of your inner thigh, his lips parting just enough against you that you feel the damp warmth of his breath. His hands tighten fractionally on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles against the fabric of your underwear.

"I've missed you so much." The confession comes out quieter, almost fragile, like it's been sitting in his chest for weeks and only now found its way out. He kisses the same spot again, then higher, his curls brushing against your thigh as he moves. "You're so pretty."

Your breathing stutters.

It's not something you decide to do. It just happens—the way your chest rises and falls losing its steady rhythm, catching somewhere between one inhale and the next. Your fingers curl into the sheets beneath your palms, bunching the cotton into loose fists as Spencer's mouth maps a slow, deliberate path along your thigh.

"You're so pretty," he says again, and this time the words press into the crease where your leg meets your hip, his lips dragging against skin that's grown impossibly warm. His voice has dropped into that low, unhurried register that he seems almost unaware of—the one that surfaces when he's focused entirely on you, when the analytical part of his brain finally, mercifully, goes quiet.

The sound you make in response is barely a sound at all.

A soft, broken thing—a whimper that catches in the back of your throat before it can become anything more substantial. Your hips shift on instinct, pressing toward the warmth of his mouth in a motion that bypasses every rational thought you've ever had. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, the cotton twisting beneath your palms as the ache of weeks without this—without him—pools low and insistent beneath his hands.

"Please."

The word falls out of you like something dislodged—unplanned, unmeasured, dragged up from somewhere deeper than thought. It's soft and breathy and barely audible, little more than a trembling exhale shaped into a single syllable. Your lips part around it without permission, your voice catching on the end of it so that the sound fractures into something almost helpless.

The sound... does something to him.

It happens fast—faster than he can catalogue, faster than his brain can dissect and shelve and rationalise. It hits somewhere beneath his ribs first, a sharp, electric jolt that drops low and heavy into his stomach, and then lower still. His cock twitches against the fabric of his pants, and his breath catches in a way that surprises him.

It isn't an instruction. It isn't a direction. It's a request—falling from your lips like you couldn't hold it back.

Spencer doesn't move.

He doesn't follow the cue. Doesn't respond to the request. Doesn't do what he's always done, which is listen, which is obey, which is give you whatever you ask for the moment you ask for it.

Instead, he stays exactly where he is—mouth hovering against the warm crease of your thigh, breath fanning slow and deliberate across damp skin.

His lips press into the same spot he'd just kissed, and he feels your whole body respond—a tremor that starts in your thighs and radiates outward, your breath going thin and unsteady above him.

He does it again.

Another kiss, slower this time. His mouth opens slightly against your skin, his tongue tracing a lazy, deliberate line along the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh before his lips close and pull gently. Not hard enough to mark. Just enough to feel. Just enough to make your fingers twist tighter in the sheets and your hips lift off the mattress in a silent, seeking motion that you can't seem to control.

You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a protest—breathless, incredulous, your head lifting from the pillow just enough to look down at him through half-lidded eyes.

"What the hell, Spence."

It comes out more whine than words, your voice thin and frayed at the edges in a way that would be embarrassing if you had the bandwidth to care about it. Your thighs press together instinctively, seeking friction that isn't there, and you feel the sharp spike of frustration needle through the haze of want when Spencer's hands hold your legs apart with a gentle, immovable certainty that you did not teach him.

"I want to hear you ask nicely."

The words leave his mouth before his brain fully registers them. They come out soft, unhurried, almost curious—like he's testing the weight of them on his tongue and finding he doesn't mind the taste.

He watches the shift in your expression. Your brows knit together first—confusion, maybe, or disbelief. Your lips part and then close again. Your eyes search his face for some sign that he's joking, some flicker of hesitation that would give you back the ground you've suddenly lost.

You scoff.

It's an automatic response, the kind of sound that usually precedes you taking charge. Your mouth opens, no doubt preparing to tell him exactly what to do and how to do it, and Spencer watches the words form behind your eyes before they ever reach your lips.

But they don't reach your lips.

Because Spencer's fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and the words dissolve into a sharp inhale.

He takes his time peeling the fabric down your legs.

There's no reason for it to take as long as it does. His fingers move with agonizing deliberation, hooking into the elastic at one hip and then the other, dragging the cotton down over the curve of your hips like it's delicate.

Your hips lift for him without thought. The fabric slides down your thighs, and Spencer's palms follow its descent—over your knees, along your shins. His thumbs press into the soft hollows behind your ankles as he eases the underwear free and drops it somewhere off the side of the bed without looking.

Then he settles between your legs. His mouth finds the inside of your thigh again, but it's different.

Before, he was meandering—an unhurried exploration, his lips wandering wherever instinct carried them. Now there's intention. A slow, deliberate trajectory that makes your pulse hammer in places you can feel but can't see.

He starts high on your inner thigh, close enough to where you need him that your breath stutters, but not close enough. The kiss is soft—barely a press of lips—and then he moves. Higher. Another kiss, slightly firmer, his mouth lingering against the sensitive skin long enough for warmth to bloom and settle.

You huff again, your head falling back against the pillow with a soft thud as the frustration coils tighter in your stomach. Your fingers abandon the sheets and find his hair instead—sliding into those soft, unruly curls and tugging with a desperation you don't bother to disguise.

Spencer hums against your thigh. The vibration travels through already-sensitive skin, and your hips buck upward without your permission—seeking, searching, a motion so involuntary it almost embarrasses you.

"Spence—" 

Spencer's response is to press one more kiss to the junction of your thigh. His lips are warm and deliberately unhurried, and you can feel the faint curve of a smile against your skin that makes you want to scream.

Then his mouth finally—finally—finds you.

The first stroke of his tongue is a slow, flat press from bottom to top that has your spine arching off the mattress and your fingers tightening in his hair.

But he doesn't stay where you need him.

His tongue traces upward, then drifts sideways—circling the edges of where you're desperate for him to be.

Your thighs press against the sides of his head and his hands respond instantly—palms sliding beneath you, fingers curling over your hips to hold you steady against the mattress.

"Ask me nicely."

It's not a command. Not really. It's barely above a murmur, the words pressed into your skin like a secret—like he's almost asking you for permission to ask this of you. His voice is warm and a little rough around the edges, and you can feel the vibration of it travel upward, settling somewhere deep in your stomach.

"Please, Spence."

His fingers tighten briefly on your thighs. "Tell me what you want."

Your fingers are still threaded through his hair, and you feel the shift of his breathing against you when you tug gently at the curls. "I want your mouth on me. Please.”

He doesn't say anything else. He dives in.

There's no other way to describe it—the way his mouth settles over you with a sudden, devastating purpose that steals the air from your lungs. His tongue presses flat and broad against you, dragging upward in one long, slow stroke that pulls a sound from your chest that you don't recognize.

Your back arches off the mattress. Your fingers seize in his hair—tight, tighter than you mean to—and Spencer groans against you in response. The vibration radiates inward, sinking into tissue that's already swollen and desperate, and your thighs clench around his head so hard you half-expect him to pull away.

He doesn't pull away.

He presses closer.

His hands slide beneath you, palms flattening against the small of your back as he pulls you toward his mouth. His tongue works in slow, focused strokes now—no longer teasing, just there, exactly where you need him, applied with a precision that shouldn't surprise you because this is Spencer, and Spencer has always been precise about everything, but somehow you hadn't expected precision like this.

His tongue finds a rhythm—deliberate and devastating in its consistency. Your hips roll against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and Spencer's hands tighten on you in response. Keeping you exactly where he wants you.

It's new. That's the thing that strikes you somewhere through the haze. The want in his grip. The quiet certainty in the way he holds you against him like he's decided this is where you belong and he has no intention of letting you move.

You've always been the one deciding where you belong. Spencer has always let you decide.

Every position, every pace, every whispered instruction—he's followed it with a devotion that made you feel untouchable. Cherished. In control.

Now his hands are holding your hips against the mattress like control is something he's not ready to give back, and the absence of it sends something electric spiraling through your chest.

His tongue shifts—flattening, then narrowing, tracing a path upward that makes your thighs tremble against his ears. He finds you with a focus that's almost clinical in its precision, except nothing about this feels clinical. Nothing about the warm, wet pressure of his mouth or the soft, greedy sounds he's making against you feels like anything other than Spencer discovering something new about himself and using your body to explore it.

Your hand flies to your mouth.

It's instinct—the desperate attempt to muffle the sound that's building in your throat, the one that's too loud, too much, too desperate for a weeknight in an apartment with neighbors on the other side of the wall. Your palm presses flat against your lips and your head turns into the pillow, breath escaping in sharp, fractured gasps between your fingers.

His hand leaves your hip without warning—one moment his palm is warm and steady against you, and the next his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth with a gentle firmness that makes your stomach drop.

"Wha—"

The word barely makes it out of you. It's less a question and more a sound—confusion and arousal tangled together into a single, breathless syllable that dissolves the moment Spencer's fingers guide your wrist down to the mattress beside your hip.

He pulls back just enough for you to feel the sudden, devastating absence of his mouth. The cool air hits wet skin and you shiver, your hips lifting off the mattress in an involuntary search for contact that isn't there anymore.

"Don't hold back."

The words are quiet. Almost gentle. They ghost across your skin like a warm exhale, and the juxtaposition of softness and command makes your brain short-circuit.

You don't have time to respond.

His mouth returns to you before you can blink. The sound that leaves you is obscene.

It's somewhere between a moan and a cry—your voice cracking open in a way you couldn't have controlled if you'd tried. Your head falls back against the pillow and your spine curves off the mattress, and Spencer makes a sound against you that you've never heard him make before. Low and satisfied. Almost like a purr.

His tongue shifts.

It dips lower, and the first experimental press inside you makes your whole body jerk. Spencer's hands are already there—palms pressing your hips flat, holding you open and still as his tongue works its way deeper.

He finds a rhythm quickly. Slow, deliberate thrusts that drag against walls of muscle and nerve endings you didn't realize could feel like this. His chin is wet, his breath coming hot and ragged through his nose, and every stroke of his tongue sends a fresh wave of heat rolling through your stomach.

His nose nudges against you with each thrust of his tongue—the bridge of it pressing flush against your clit in a steady, maddening friction that he seems entirely aware of. Each time his tongue pushes deeper, his nose drags upward. Each time he pulls back, it slides down. The rhythm is devastating, and the realization that he's calculated this—that some part of that brilliant, relentless mind has figured out exactly how to make you fall apart with maximum efficiency—sends a sharp spike of arousal through you so intense it borders on painful.

Your hands slam back into his hair.

"Spence—Spencer—"

Spencer doesn't stop.

If anything, your hands in his hair seem to sharpen something in him. His tongue thrusts deeper, the rhythm shifting—faster now. Hungrier. The wet sounds of his mouth against you fill the room in a way that would make you combust with embarrassment if you had a single functioning brain cell left, but you don't, because Spencer Reid's tongue is inside you and his nose is grinding against your clit and you're fairly certain you've forgotten your own name.

Your thighs are shaking. Your legs are clamped around Spencer's head so tight you can feel his curls pressed flat against your inner thighs. Your heels dig into his back, your ankles crossing behind him like your body is trying to hold him exactly where he is, and Spencer responds by groaning against you in a way that vibrates through your entire pelvis.

You're close. You can feel it building in the pit of your stomach, winding tighter with every thrust of his tongue, every drag of his nose. It's coiling hot and heavy at the base of your spine, and your hips have stopped following his rhythm entirely—they're rolling against his mouth in short, desperate circles that have nothing to do with finesse and everything to do with the fact that you're about to come apart and your body knows it even if your brain hasn't caught up.

Your orgasm hits you hard.

Your back bows off the mattress. Your fingers convulse in his hair, pulling hard enough that you'll feel guilty about it later, and your thighs clamp so tight around his head that for one hysterical moment you genuinely worry you might be hurting him.

He stays exactly where he is—mouth pressed against you, tongue working you through the waves of your orgasm with a gentleness that contradicts everything about the last several minutes. His hands smooth up from your hips to your waist, palms warm and steady against your trembling stomach as the aftershocks ripple through you in diminishing surges.

Your thighs unlock from around his head. Your fingers release his hair—though not entirely, some strands still tangled between your knuckles—and you feel the tension drain from your legs as they fall open against the mattress. Your breathing is ragged, your chest rising and falling in uneven intervals, and you can feel your heartbeat pulsing in places you didn't know had heartbeats.

Spencer presses one last, impossibly soft kiss against you. Then another. Each one lighter than the last, his lips barely grazing oversensitive skin until the touch is little more than a whisper.

He lifts his head, and the sight of him nearly undoes you all over again.

His chin is slick. His lips are swollen and pink, parted around uneven breaths. His curls are a disaster—mussed beyond recognition by your fingers, falling across his forehead in wild, chaotic strands that stick up at angles that defy physics. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, warm pink that spreads down his throat and disappears beneath the collar of his shirt.

He looks wrecked.

It's the word that surfaces through the fog of your afterglow—hazy and imprecise, but the closest thing to accurate your brain can produce. Spencer looks absolutely wrecked, and he hasn't even taken anything off yet.

His hands are still on your waist. His eyes find yours, and there's something in them you don't recognize—not quite confidence, not quite surprise, but something caught between the two.

He just smiles.

A wide, entirely pleased smile—the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and lifts his cheeks and transforms his whole face into something so openly, unguardedly happy that it almost looks like a different version of him. Unselfconscious. A little bit smug, like he's just solved something he didn't expect to solve, and the answer pleases him.

You let out a breathy giggle. Your head drops back against the pillow, and you stare at the ceiling while your body continues to tremble in tiny, residual waves.

"What is that face?"

"Nothing," he says, and his voice is rough in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just—" He stops. Swallows. His thumbs trace small, absent circles against your hipbones. "You look really pretty right now."

The laugh that escapes you is wet and breathless. "Spencer, I'm a mess."

"Exactly," he says softly. "A pretty mess."

You reach for him.

It's instinct—your hand lifting from the sheets, fingers stretching toward his chest with the automatic need to touch him, pull him down to you, take hold of whatever you can reach. You've been reaching for him all night, all your life together really.

Spencer catches your wrist. His thumb presses against the inside of your wrist, and you can feel him find your pulse. You're not sure if it's intentional or just Spencer, always cataloging data, always paying attention to the things nobody else thinks to measure.

"Stay still."

The words are soft. Almost tender. But there's something beneath them—something that wasn't there an hour ago. A thread of steadiness that winds through the syllables like he's not just asking you to stay still but telling you.

"Oh," you sigh, almost dazed. This is new. This is... nice.

Your wrist goes limp in his grip, surrendering to the novelty of it, the strange and electrifying sensation of Spencer Reid telling you to stay still and meaning it.

He releases your wrist slowly, his fingers trailing down your palm before letting go entirely. Then he sits back on his heels, and his hands move to the button of his own pants.

He doesn't look away from you.

His fingers work the button open. Then the zipper, drawn down tooth by tooth with the same deliberate patience he used on your underwear, and you realize with a lurch of your stomach that he's doing it on purpose—drawing it out, making you watch, making you wait.

You're not used to waiting.

Your tongue drags across your lower lip. Spencer's eyes track the motion, and something flickers in his expression—heat, maybe, or the quiet satisfaction of knowing he's the one making you restless for a change.

His thumbs hook into the waistband. The pants slide down. He kicks them off without ceremony, and then he's moving over you.

He settles between your thighs, and the first thing you feel is the heat of him.

No barriers. Nothing between you. Just skin against skin, the warm, solid weight of his body pressing against yours, and the startling intimacy of feeling him hard against your thigh. The contact pulls a sharp breath from your lungs—your body arching up against his before you can stop it, hips tilting seekingly, every nerve ending still raw and electric from your orgasm.

You almost expect him to just start. To take the momentum and run with it, the way anyone else might when the person beneath them is still trembling and slick and visibly, desperately ready.

But he doesn't.

Instead, Spencer lowers himself slowly—the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he brings his body down against yours, chest to chest, hip to hip. One hand plants beside your shoulder, his forearm taking some of his weight while the other hand finds the side of your face.

He kisses you the way he always kisses you—deeply, thoroughly, with the kind of whole-body commitment that makes you feel like the only person who has ever existed. His mouth opens against yours, and his tongue slides against your lower lip before slipping inside. His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head, tilting you just slightly so he can deepen the angle. His tongue sweeps against yours, slow and deliberate. 

You can taste yourself on him.

It's a thought that should embarrass you—or maybe it's the kind of thing that would embarrass someone else. But Spencer is kissing you like he has all the time in the world, like the fact that he's hard against your hip and you're still trembling beneath him is secondary to the simple, devastating act of kissing you properly, and the taste of yourself on his tongue just makes you melt further into the mattress.

Your hands find his shoulders. Your fingers curl into the tense muscle there, nails pressing crescents into his skin, and you feel the shudder that runs through him at the contact—a full-body tremor that starts in his shoulders and works its way down his spine.

"Spence," you mutter against his lips, the words half-lost in the seam of his mouth against yours. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders, your hips rolling up against his—searching, seeking, done waiting. "I want you to fuck me." Then, quieter—"Please."

The sound Spencer makes isn't quite a moan. It's lower than that, rougher, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest like a wire being drawn taut. His hips jerk against yours once, and then his forehead drops against your shoulder.

His breath is hot and uneven against your collarbone. 

"Tell me how you want it."

His voice is muffled against your shoulder, but you hear every word. Your brain is still fuzzy, still caught in the slow-spinning aftermath of your orgasm, and the question takes a moment to parse through the haze.

You swallow. "I want to see you."

He lifts his head from your shoulder. His eyes find yours.

"You want to see me," he repeats, like he's testing the words. Tasting them. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, and his gaze drops to your mouth, then lower—tracking the rise and fall of your chest, the way your body is already arching up toward him in unconscious invitation.

He sits up. Your hands slide from his shoulders, fingers dragging down his arms, reluctant to let go entirely.

Spencer's hands find your hip. Then your waist. His palm presses warm and firm against the side of your ribs, and his other hand slides beneath your top knee.

It's not rough, but there's a quiet authority in the way his hands guide your body. His palm shifts from your ribs to your hip, pressing with a steady, even pressure that rolls you onto your side. Your back stays flat against the mattress, shoulders pressing into the sheets, but your hips turn and your legs come together—one stacked atop the other, thighs pressed tight.

He adjusts the angle with a small, precise correction. His hand on your hip tilts you just slightly—barely a degree of difference—and then his fingers splay wide across the curve of your waist, holding you exactly where he's put you.

His other hand wraps around your top thigh, just above the knee, and he lifts it—just enough to open you, to create the space he needs. The shift is small, but the new angle changes everything. You feel the cool air against you for barely a second before the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance.

He doesn't thrust. He sinks. Slow, steady, inexorable pressure that makes your body open for him inch by inch, your breath stuttering out of you in fragmented, shaking exhales as he fills you.

He leans down, his body folding over you and his mouth finding yours before the rest of him has even settled. His lips brush against your lower lip first, a featherlight touch that makes you chase him, tilting your chin up to deepen the kiss.

Your arms wrap around him. Your hands find the warm plane of his back, palms pressing flat against his shoulder blades, and you feel the muscles there shift and flex as he holds himself above you.

He kisses you the way he always kisses you—like he's trying to tell you something his vocabulary can't quite articulate. His tongue slides against yours with a slow, deliberate sweep that makes your toes curl against the sheets, and the kiss deepens as his hips press the rest of the way forward.

He bottoms out with a groan.

You feel it everywhere—the sound traveling through his chest into yours, through his lips into yours, through the place where your bodies are joined and his hips are flush against the backs of your thighs. He's deep. Deeper than you expected from this angle, the tilt of your hips creating a tight, devastating channel that makes your breath catch audibly against his tongue.

He starts moving.

Not thrusting. Grinding is more accurate. Slow, rolling presses of his hips that keep him flush against you, each one sinking him impossibly deeper and dragging a low, broken sound from your throat that he catches with his mouth.

Spencer keeps the pace deliberate, measured, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it. His mouth moves against yours with the same lazy, devastating rhythm as his hips. His tongue keeps sliding slow against yours, pulling back just enough to catch your bottom lip between his teeth before sinking back in.

You try to move with him. Your hips shift, seeking more friction, searching for a faster pace, and Spencer's hand leaves your thigh to press flat against your hip—pinning you to the mattress.

"Ah," he murmurs against your mouth, and the sound is barely audible. A soft, breathy correction that vibrates against your lower lip. "Stay still for me."

Your body doesn't listen.

It's not deliberate—or maybe it is, maybe some part of you needs to know what happens if you don't obey. But your hips roll against his grip before the conscious part of your brain can intervene, chasing the friction, chasing the pace he's deliberately withholding. The movement is small, instinctive, your body seeking more of him the way it always has.

Spencer stops kissing you.

His mouth lifts from yours by a fraction of an inch. Barely enough space to exist between your lips, but you feel the absence like a withdrawal. 

His hand on your hip presses harder. Not enough to hurt, just a reminder. "I said stay still."

Your hips twitch again. You feel his fingers flex against your hip, and you know he felt it.

"Spencer—"

His hand leaves your hip. Then his hand connects with the curve of your ass.

The sound is sharper than you expected—a flat crack that rings through the bedroom and sends a jolt of electricity straight up your spine. The sting blooms warm and immediate across your skin, and your whole body seizes in response.

You clench around him.

Hard. Involuntary. Your inner walls clamp down on his cock so suddenly that Spencer's breath hitches—a sharp, strangled inhale against your mouth that tells you he felt it too. His hips stutter forward once, losing their careful rhythm for just a second before he steadies himself.

"Shit," he mutters. The word is barely a breath. His forehead drops to yours, and his eyes squeeze shut for a moment—a single, telling second of composure-gathering.

"Are you gonna stay put for me so I can fuck you or not?"

The question lands somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, like he can't quite reconcile the fact that you're still squirming beneath him with the fact that he just—he just smacked your ass—and the combination of those two realities is short-circuiting something in his brain.

You bite your lip.

Your teeth sink into the swollen flesh hard enough to leave an indent, and you nod.

Spencer watches you do it. His eyes drop to your mouth, tracking the way your teeth press into your bottom lip.

He rewards you with movement. His hips resume their slow, grinding rhythm, and the first press of his cock back into you draws a shuddering exhale from you.

But this time his hand stays on your ass.

His palm settles over the curve where the slight sting still hums—warm and broad and possessive. His fingers curl into the flesh, squeezing once, firm and deliberate.

It all makes you moan, loud enough that the neighbors definitely heard. But you can't seem to care anymore. 

Spencer kisses you deeper.

His mouth closes over yours, swallowing the whimpers and moans, pulling the sounds from your throat and into his chest like he needs them there.

"Good girl."

You feel him go still above you. His hips stop their slow grind. His hand on your ass goes rigid, fingers frozen mid-squeeze. Even his breathing catches, held behind his teeth like he's trying to decide whether to apologize, take it back, pretend it never happened—

Your walls clench around him, a sudden involuntary squeeze of you around his cock. His breath stutters out of him in a ragged exhale.

"Y-you liked that?"

You nod.

Your head moves in a jerky, desperate motion against the pillow—teeth still caught in your bottom lip, eyes wide and dark and imploring.

"Please," you whisper, and the word comes out wrecked. "Please just fuck me."

Something snaps.

He drives forward, hard and fast, and the force of it punches the air right out of your lungs. The rhythm he sets now is hungry, sharp—hips snapping against yours with a wet, rhythmic slap that echoes through the quiet room.

"God," he breathes. He braces one hand beside your head on the mattress, the other still gripping your ass, holding you in place for every thrust. "You feel... you feel so good."

"D-don't stop," you moan.

"I'm not stopping," he says, and the words come out rougher than anything you've heard from him tonight.

You feel him everywhere. Deep, impossibly deep, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur at the edges.

You're close.

It's building in the pit of your stomach—a tight, coiling pressure that radiates outward with every snap of his hips. Your nails drag down his back, leaving pink lines across his skin, and your legs tremble against his. The pleasure is cresting, fast and relentless, and you can feel yourself barreling toward the edge with a speed that makes your breath come in short, punched-out gasps.

"Spencer—" His name tears from your throat, ragged and raw. "I'm close. I'm so close—"

"That's it," Spencer says, and his voice is a wreck. His forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. "Let go. Come for me."

The words undo you.

Your back arches off the mattress, your nails biting into his shoulders hard, and a sound tears from your throat that you'll be embarrassed about later—a broken, sobbing moan that has no right coming out of your mouth but does anyway because Spencer Reid just told you to come and your body decided that was a command it was going to follow without debate.

You clench around him in wave after wave, your inner walls pulsing in rhythmic, helpless contractions that drag a sound from Spencer's chest that you've never heard before. Low. Guttural. Something between a groan and your name, fractured down the middle.

His rhythm stutters. His hips jerk forward once, twice, three times in quick, uneven thrusts that have nothing of his earlier patience. Then he buries himself deep, so deep it steals what little breath you have left, and his whole body goes rigid above you.

His mouth finds yours.

The kiss is messy and desperate and barely a kiss at all—more like his mouth pressing against yours because he needs somewhere to put the sound he's making, the low, broken groan that shudders through his chest and vibrates into yours. His jaw trembles against your chin. His breath comes in hot, ragged bursts against your lips, and you feel him pulse inside you.

His hips roll forward once more—a slow, involuntary press that drains the last of the tension from his body—and then he stills.

The next kiss is slow. Lazy. His tongue slides against yours with none of the urgency from before—just a gentle, unhurried drag that feels like sinking into warm water. His lips are swollen and soft, and he tastes like you and salt and the faintest trace of the coffee he drank hours ago, before any of this started.

You hum against his mouth. A small, satisfied sound that vibrates between you.

Spencer pulls back first. Not far—just enough to see you. His nose bumps against yours, and his breath is still coming in uneven, warm gusts that fan across your sweat-damp skin.

Your lips curve against his. Slow, uncoordinated, the kind of smile that forms when every muscle in your body has been reduced to something the consistency of warm honey.

"That was..." You pause. Your brain sifts through the remnants of your vocabulary, looking for something adequate, and comes up empty. "...new."

Spencer's thumb traces the line of your cheekbone. His eyes are still closed, his lashes dark against his flushed skin. "Is that a good thing?"

The question comes out quieter than he probably intended. His eyes open—hazel, soft, still a little glazed—and search your face. Like he's scanning for signs of regret he won't find.

You let out a breathless laugh. It's a weak thing, mostly air, but it carries.

"Well," you say, and the word stretches out long and lazy, your voice still raw, "it's definitely not bad."

Spencer huffs. It's almost a laugh. His forehead drops against your shoulder again, and you feel his lips press against the curve of your neck—not a kiss, exactly. More like he needs somewhere to rest his face while his heart rate comes back down to something that isn't indicative of a medical event.

"Sorry," he mutters. The word lands warm and muffled against your skin, his lips barely moving against the curve of your neck. "I should have—I didn't ask before I just—"

He stops. Swallows. You feel the motion against your throat.

"I didn't talk to you about any of that before doing it." His voice is careful now, measured in that way it gets when he's retracing his steps and finding all the places he thinks he went wrong. "The—asking you to stay still. And the..." He trails off. His fingers twitch against your hip, and you know he's thinking about the spank. "That's not something I should have just introduced without checking first. That was—I should have asked."

You let out a long, slow breath. Your hand lifts from his back and finds the messy landscape of his hair—curls damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in chaotic whorls that you've never seen quite this disheveled. Your fingers thread through them, gentle, unhurried, the way you've done a hundred times before on the couch, in the car, lying in bed on lazy Sundays.

"Spence." Your fingers keep moving through his curls, scratching gently against his scalp the way you know he likes, and you feel some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders. "I would've told you. You know that. If something didn't feel right, I'd have said so. I promise."

He nods against your neck. A small, tentative motion that you feel more than see—his chin dipping down and then rising again, the scratch of his stubble dragging against your skin.

But he doesn't lift his head. And his body is still holding a thread of tension that wasn't there before, a careful stillness in the way he's resting against you that tells you he's not quite done carrying it yet.

"Come here." Your hand slides from his hair to the side of his face. Your palm curves against his jaw, fingers settling into the warm space behind his ear where his pulse is still hammering, fast and unsteady. You lift his face from your neck. He comes willingly, letting you guide him up for a soft kiss.

Spencer's eyes close. His lashes brush against your cheek, and his breath comes out in a long, shuddering exhale.

You pull back just enough to look at him. "I love you," you say.

It comes out easy. Simple. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world, because it is.

"I love you too."

"And," you add, and your voice drops into something lighter, teasing, "the whole..." You gesture vaguely between the two of you with the hand not currently cradling his jaw. "Power shift thing. That was hot."

Spencer's eyebrows lift. A flush creeps up his neck, spreading across his cheeks in a slow, uneven bloom.

"It was?" The word comes out higher than he intended.

You laugh. The sound is loose and warm, shaking through your chest where it's still pressed against his. "Spencer, you literally made me—I mean, you saw what happened. I saw what happened. That was—" You shake your head, smile curving wide and helpless. "Yeah. It was hot."

Spencer's blush deepens. The pink spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. You watch him. This man—this beautiful, ridiculous, devastating man—still inside you, still pressed against you, still flushed and disheveled and glowing with the aftermath of what he just did to you, and he's blushing.

He smiles. "Okay. Okay. Good."

He pauses. His gaze drops to the space between you for a moment. Then his eyes find yours again, and the smile shifts into something quieter. A little crooked. A little pleased. 

"I'll keep that in mind." His thumb traces a slow circle against your hip. "It'd be nice to be the one in charge every so often."

You laugh and pull him down for another kiss. 

[reidrum]

i can do a lot with fifteen minutes

note: short n sweet deluxe dropped halfway through writing this and basically she wrote fifteen minutes for this fic specifically. user reidrum is feeling festive so we are pink today, happy valentine's day friends <3

summary: in which you and spencer don't make it out the door on date night

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, p in v sex, fingering, oral (m receiving), mirror usage, switch!spencer (shocking for me too), reader wears a dress and lingerie, fluff, hot losers in love, this is pure filth actually

wc: 3.8k

The green satin dress held against you in front of the mirror is beautiful, flattering. The modest length with light ruching accentuates your figure like an ethereal being. Fairy like, angel like as Spencer loves to liken you to. 

The red silk dress is dangerous. With a slit leaving little to imagination, the deep hue reflects off your skin like a siren waiting to trick the sorry sailor into submitting. It’s a weapon almost, and you’re not sure if you’re willing to wield it tonight on a small dinner date.

The question was whether you wanted to look dangerously alluring or divinely beautiful. Your head turns at the sound of footsteps and your breath hitches as you catch a glimpse of Spencer walking past the door dressed in dark slacks and a dark maroon button up, tie undone around his neck. Mismatched socks, of course. 

You go with the red one.

You remove it from the hanger and gently slip it over your body, sliding the straps over your shoulders and reaching back to pull the zipper up. Realizing the zipper is too high for you to do it on your own, you call in reinforcements.

“Spencer!” you call out, “Can you come help me zip up please?”

“Sure baby, give me one second!” he calls back from down the hall.

You cross an arm over your chest to hold the dress in place while you grab the necklace Spencer had gifted you earlier that day, twisting awkwardly to put it on but eventually successful. You bend back down to look for the matching earrings, digging through your drawers and jewelry dishes. Your fingers rummage through the mess and you finally find them, grinning at your small win before gasping in surprise at the hands that encircle your waist.

“Shit, Spence. You scared me.” you chuckle, straightening up to press against his chest with your back.

His hands roam around your lower waist while pressing and gripping in the places he knows so intimately, a chaste kiss to your shoulder, “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. You want me to zip it up now?”

You gently part from his arms and walk over to the mirror again, “Let me just adjust it first and then you can.” He nods and follows you, standing a few steps behind you as he watches you fix the straps and lay of the dress. Spencer can never get used to this part, he might never for as long as you allow him the grace of being in your life. You meet his eyes again in the mirror and smile softly, “Okay, can you?”

He returns your smile with pure affection and steps to be only an inch behind you, his proximity giving leeway to invasion by your perfume. The sweet smell surrounds every fiber of him and threatens to render him useless, but he perseveres and clears his throat in hopes of him tethering himself back down. He raises his fingers to your shoulders and ghosts along the curve until he reaches the nape of your neck. Your shiver doesn’t go unnoticed when Spencer tenderly brushes your hair to the side giving him clear access to the zipper.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You meet his eyes again through the mirror, one of his hands on your waist while the other is brushing your hair to one side. Your heart is beating rapidly, sensing the intense intimacy and energy radiating from the moment. With a shaky exhale you reply, “Yeah just, felt a breeze.”

He hums in acknowledgment and the corners of his lips twitch up in a knowing manner from behind you, completely aware you’re not able to see it. He moves his hand from his waist to hover at the base of the zipper near your lower back, his breath hitching as he spots your lace panties peeking out of the opening. His finger grazes the fabric unintentionally as he grips the zipper and begins to slowly pull it up. The small jump you give makes his hand return to your waist, holding you harder so you don’t move around.

The sound of the zipper winding up fills the silence in the room, the accidental brushes of his fingers against your bare skin sending electric shocks throughout your body. By the time he reaches the top his shaky breaths are hitting warm on your nape, making no move to back away. 

You smile, “Thank you.”

His hands don’t leave you, they return back to their rightful place encircled around you. “Is this a new dress?” he murmurs.

You wrap your own arms on top of his and lean back into him, a small smirk gracing your face as you sense the intention of your dress choice starting to settle. “Yeah, just got it on a whim. You like it?”

Spencer swallows, “I love it, I’ll buy you one of these in every color. It can be the only thing you ever wear.”

A giggle escapes you, and Spencer smiles widely. He looks at you again through the mirror and takes in your whole appearance. You’ve always had a natural beauty to you that Spencer admired and marveled at constantly, but when you got all dressed up? For him? There aren’t enough neurons in his brain that will ever make him understand how the Aphrodite reincarnate is in love with him. He thanks any and every god watching for blessing him in this way.

“You smell so good,” he groans, “You wash your hair? It’s so soft, I could nap in it. The necklace looks pretty on you, ‘m glad you like it. God, I love you so much.”

You laugh softly, tilting your head back into his neck and pressing a kiss to his lower jaw, “I love you too.” He returns a kiss to your cheek and lets his lips travel about your body like a map.

His lips trail the open skin of your shoulders, “You look,” kiss, “so beautiful,” kiss, “This color,” kiss, kiss, “Didn’t think I’d like red this much.” Kiss. Hold. Release.

“You should see what I have underneath.” your voice holds a teasing lilt.

Spencer freezes behind you, his resolve breaking and crumbling by the second. “Sweetheart, don’t tease me. We won’t make it out the door if you do.”

A few moments pause, then you speak barely above a whisper, “And what if I want that?”

He locks eyes with you again through the mirror, the silent communication between you both confirming you’re on the same page. The mischief floods his eyes. “Then you’ll get it.”

It was an unconscious decision to place the mirror in front of the bed—the only place where it fit logistically. But Spencer likes to think it was a subconscious decision in that you hoped one day it would serve its purpose in the way you wanted.

Which secretly may have been the way he wanted, but it’s a mutualistic win either way.

He releases you from his arm and walks back to sit on the edge of the bed. Before you can mourn the loss of his warmth he speaks with a low rasp, “Come here.”

You stare at him doe eyed, stunned into paralysis somehow. His smirk only grows wider when he realizes he’s slowly rendering you defenseless. He holds a hand out for you, “Just come here, baby. Want to show you something.”

The autopilot finally kicks in and you take a few steps closer to stand in front of him. Once you’re within reach he slides his hands up the sides of your waist, gently nudging you, “Turn around.”

Satisfied when you listen, his hands pull your hips down to perch you in his lap facing the mirror. He secures your waist with an arm and rubs the other over the expanse of your bare thighs. Your eyes flutter shut with the warm contact flushing through your skin, head falling to rest atop his given your slight height advantage whilst sat on his lap. The position gives him perfect access to the crevice of your neck allowing him to lean up and attach to the sensitive skin there, delicately suckling before moving up to the crest of your ear.

“You know, studies have shown that watching yourself be pleasured through a mirror has proven to be a more intense experience than normal.” 

He hooks his legs around your ankles and parts them open. You gasp at the sudden rush of cold air between your thighs, finding yourself unable to close them even if you tried. He gently grips your jaw and slowly turns your face to meet the mirror again.

“Look how pretty you are sitting on my lap, baby.” he coos, “All pliant and perfect. I could do whatever I want with you,” a soft whine leaves you, he chuckles, “Would you like that? Watch me let me have my way with you?”

“Spence,” you whisper, “I…”

His lips ghost your ear, “What is it, pretty girl? What do you need?”

You whimper as his fingers start to trace tantalizing circles up your legs into your upper thigh. 

“Can’t do anything if you don’t tell me. Be a good girl and use your words.”

You curse softly, “Fuck, W—Want you…to touch me…please.”

Spencer wickedly grins, “Such good manners,” His hand delves between your thighs and lightly traces the outline of your panties, “Want you to watch yourself while I touch you, okay?”

You nod, he stops. You panic, “Y—Yes, okay.”

He finally applies pressure to your core and you let out a shuddered breath, his finger dragging up and down and circling at the top creating a beautifully addicting friction. You moan softly and tilt your head back to rest on his shoulder and he tuts, “Eyes up, sweetheart.”

You’re about to protest when his finger hooks onto the side of your panties and settles between your folds, dipping down to swipe at your entrance and spreading the wetness all over you. A languish moan breaks from your throat as your eyes are fixated on the mirror, watching his hand work in between your legs. Spencer hasn’t taken his eyes off you either, though does he ever, equally entranced at the way you react to his ministrations.

He prods at your hole as you attempt to buck your hips up, his arm clamping you down and closer to him, “It’s okay, shh I got you. Always got you, yeah?” His finger finally slides inside you and you let out a deep groan feeling the motion of him slipping in and out of you so easily, “So wet, baby. Doesn’t take too much to get you like this, huh?”

“Spence…” you whine, “More,,,please.”

“I know, patience, pretty girl.” slyly slipping in a second finger, “Doing so good f’me, look how beautiful you are.”

You force your eyes back to the mirror and a fresh wave of intoxication invades you as you clock the heavy rise and fall of your chest, the lewd sound of his fingers working you to your peak. He was right, you looked hot. It’s like you’ve unlocked a new level of sensuality that you didn’t even know existed and seeing yourself in this way only adds to the building tension.

He speeds up ever so slightly and feels you clench irregularly around his fingers, he lets his thumb drag up to your clit and rub lazy circles around it. The moans fall out of you with no control anymore as you feel your peak approaching fast. Spencer whispers praises, coaxing you closer to the edge, “Look at yourself when you come.”

The dam breaks and gratification floods throughout your body, you watch yourself as you see it take a hold of you so carnally. His fingers don’t stop inside you, slowly working you through your orgasm watching alongside you in the mirror with awe. Eventually he removes himself from your core not breaking eye contact with you as he raises his fingers to your mouth, you opening up without hesitation and swirling your tongue around them. His breath stutters, he’s so in love with you it hurts.

You’re still deep in the haze of coming down from your high, waiting for your senses to calibrate and remember where you even are when the sound of a zipper pulls you back down instead.

“Spence?” you ask breathlessly.

He hums, “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Said I should see what you have underneath, just taking up your offer baby. That okay?” The zipper hits the base of your dress just at the crest of your panties, the rush of air invading your back.

It’s like a click goes off in your head as soon as you’ve fully calmed down and you remember what your initial plan for the night was. A slow grin crawls onto your face.

“More than okay, in fact let me show you.” You stand up slowly making a point to jut your hips back to him as you make a show of sliding the dress down your body.

Now, Spencer is very much used to feeling breathless around you. It’s basically a default setting for him at this point. But as you turn around to face him with the smugly innocent smile on your face and slowly sink to your knees before him clad in the lace set he so bravely thought he could handle with conviction, his heart makes a mockery of him by stopping in protest of the nerve he had.

The clinking of his belt draws his focus back to the moment as he watches you undo it with the button and zipper, nudging him to lift his hips so you can pull them down. He listens blindly like he’s trapped under a spell. The siren effect, the zealous sailor who believes himself to be strong enough to brave the seas for so long only to succumb to the temptations of the siren song.

He never stood a chance.

Your hand comes up to palm him through his boxers, licking your lips with a smirk as you trace over the wet patch. The alternating pressure causes Spencer’s breath to huff deeper, impatiently. He has to suppress a whine when your fingers finally reach his waistband and painstakingly peel it back to take him out.

It’s your turn to tut at him, “You were so talkative just now, don’t stop on my account.” Your thumb and pointer form a ring around him and you slowly drag it up and down his length, tightening around him at different points.

“Baby, don’t tease me please.” he begs.

“What, like you did? I’d never be so cruel, my love.” you say innocently. You lean down and lick a stripe on him from base to tip, letting your tongue swirl around the head. Choked gasps and curses fall from his lips as you sink your mouth down on him, taking him as far back as you can. He tries to feel a little bad as his hand flies to your hair, your beautifully done hair, but he can’t bring himself to care when he hits the back of your throat and you gag a little before pulling back slightly. His hands gather your hair in a makeshift ponytail and watches with bated breath as you bob your head up and down on him. His eyes wander up behind you, remembering the mirror and the sight staring back at him is so pornographically obscene the loud whimper leaves him without warning.

Much to his soft protests you remove your mouth from and continue to lazily stroke him. He pouts down at you, “Wh–Why’d you stop?”

With another kiss to his tip you rise to your full height and push him back to lie flat on the bed, his legs bent at the edge with the backs of his calves flush with the bed. “Because I want you to come inside me, is that okay?” you say with such blunt honesty it goes straight to his groin.

He swallows hard, “God, yeah sweet girl that’s okay. Come here.”

You move your hands to your back to remove your bra before Spencer protests again, “Wait, keep it on.” 

You raise your eyebrows before grinning widely, “Any other requests?”

“Kiss?”

Your eyes soften, climbing atop him to straddle him on each side of his hips. You cup his jaw gently and lean down pressing your lips gingerly to his, whispering a low “Love you” before pulling back all the way. Spencer gazes up at you like you hold the answers to everything in the universe, like you are the answer to everything in the universe. He would gladly spend the rest of his life searching for the unknown if it meant reaching you at the end of it all.

“Love you too.”

You hook a finger over your panties and drag it to the side and position yourself over him, teasing yourself with his tip before slowly starting to sink down on him. The joint whine from you both rings about the room as you bottom out above him, his hands flying to your hips to hold you in place. He breathes out heavily, trying to think about literally anything else besides how tight you feel wrapped around him, how hard he’s refraining from bucking his hips up into you, how the blissed out look on your face is enough to make him come on sight and he hasn’t even moved at all.

“Feel so full, Spence,” you raise your hips tentatively, “Need to move, please,”

Like he’d ever say no to you. “Okay baby, I got you,”

You start to move with fervor, Spencer’s hand glued to your waist guiding you as you set the pace. You place your hands on his chest to give yourself leverage as you bounce on his cock, lewd moans and curses mixing with the sounds of your bodies meeting and him moving in and out of you.

Spencer feels delirious, meeting your hips as they clamp down on him with his own thrusts. You attempt to quicken your pace, but your wobbly legs cause your hips to stutter irregularly. He senses your struggle and plants his feet on the bed and tugs you to lay on his chest.

“Hold on, okay?”

You hazily nod and let Spencer take over as he ruts up into you at a pace you can barely comprehend. His hands are pressed into your hips so hard you know it’s going to leave beautiful imprints. He groans when you clench around him tightly again, and it’s then you feel your second orgasm of the night approaching fast, “Spence… ‘m close.”

“It’s okay baby, I got you. You can let go.” he whispers.

The second wave of your climax hits you hard, effectively sending your mind in reeling circles before you land back down in his arms. He continues to chase his own high and spills into you a few seconds later, lazily thrusting you both as you ascend back down to this realm.

You lay limp over his body making no intention to move and Spencer going soft inside you. He smooths your hair back while pressing kisses to the crown of your head.

“You look like an angel,” he murmurs with a soft kiss to your nose, “You are an angel.”

A soft smile spreads on your face pressing into his neck with a laugh, “You always say that after.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You lift your head up a little to look into his hazel brown eyes and pepper kisses all over his face before landing soundly on his mouth. “I love you.”

“I love you, angel.”

“I don’t think we’re going to make our reservation anymore.” you sigh out and wrap your arms around his body, making yourself comfortable atop Spencer. He breathes out, “I already canceled it, don’t worry.”

“What? When did you do that?”

“When I realized you were wearing this dress I called them before I came in to help you.” he admits sheepishly.

You chuckle, “Lost before we even started, think that’s a new record for me.”

He flips you over with a yelp, “Think I need to redeem myself, don’t you think?”

“How do you suppose we do that?”

“I have a couple ideas.”

[marcidstars]

DOG EAT DOG (EAT DOG) ⋆˙⟡

we're just dogs we play, and we paw and we eat only raw ⊹ ࣪ ˖ᯓ IT'S DOG EAT DOG EAT DOG.

SUMMARY : spencer tends to his morning wood, serenaded by sultry praises and the spray of a hot shower. is it getting steamy in here?

PAIRING : sub!spencer reid x fem!dom!reader

GENRE : smut (MDNI) | WORD COUNT : 3.1k

TAGS : m masturbation, m orgasm, spencer "good boy" reid, showering together, hints of reader being insecure, lots and lots of body worship, spencer is literally obsessed with her, FINGER SUCKING, dog imagery/themes, one use of "puppy", title from a blythe davis song

NOTES : my puppy boy spencer agenda spilled into this fic a little. i'm not sorry.

"Anywhere but my face."

…is not something you thought you'd ever say at 7am on a Tuesday, adorned with a mighty bed head and a pair of crumpled pyjamas, but isn't the beauty of life in it's unending surprises?

You're eye-level with the tent in your boyfriends plaid pants, playing with the frayed drawstring like a cat with it's favourite toy and waiting, patiently, for him to make his move; to do anything, really, other than stand there gawking at you like you've just floated down from heaven. He looks positively dumbstruck, all flushed cheeks and big brown puppy eyes, mussed hair framing his face, so effortlessly gorgeous it's genuinely starting to irritate you. 

You must look like a corpse, next to him; it's a wonder he doesn't shit the bed when he wakes up beside you each morning.

But Spencer Reid has looked at you the same way since the day you met; like he worships you. 

It was disconcerting at first, but you grew used to it. In all fairness, it wasn't like you had much choice, not when he insisted on lingering at the peripheral of your life, buying your coffees and walking you to your office even though it was two floors up from the BAU and totally, definitely not stalking you. (You called him out on it once. He almost cried, but he backed off. Kept his distance until you realised you actually missed having him around, and the rest is history. You still debate what you'll tell your grandkids when they ask how you met; whether you'll stick with the facts or try to paint Grandpa Reid in a less…unconventional light, if such a thing is even possible.)

It still gets you, every now and then. Especially in the early mornings when you feel like you've been dragged backwards through a bush and he looks like sleeping fucking beauty, and he looks at you like he's ready to drop to his knees and kiss your feet. You aren't sure what you did to be loved so fervently; maybe you were a saint in a past life, or something.

"I-I'd rather not get it on your clothes, either," he says, smiling that stupid, sheepish little smile that always makes him look a little fearful, like you might jump up and bite him.

If he thinks he can fool you with his politeness, he's wrong. 

"If you want me to take my shirt off, Spence, you need to ask."

His brows shoot up like you've just accused him of murder. This weak, almost painful sounding scoff forces its way out of him as heat rushes to his cheeks, and he looks around the room in disbelief, as though his neatly put away Doctor Who slippers may come alive and back him up. He seems offended when they don't.

"Spencer."

"Semen contains acids that can stain or discolour fabrics," he says quickly, "I'm just, um, looking out for your shirt. It's a nice shirt. I wouldn't want to ruin it."

You nod along with his explanation, lips pressed into a thin line. It's incredible, really, how he can turn a two minute sexual encounter into a ten minute debate. 

"So, if you could please remove your shirt so we can keep it out of harm's way, then— what are you doing?"

"My knees hurt," you mutter.

Immediately, Spencer's helping you to your feet. "You should sit on the bed," he offers. "Or you could kneel on a pillow, if—"

"Yeah, I have a better idea."

You lead him into the bathroom by the drawstring of his pyjama pants, ignoring how he stammers as you drag him away. By the time you let go, the knot has unravelled, and his pants drop to his ankles in one smooth, almost comical motion. Spencer doesn't try to hold them up; he just stands there, half-naked, almost as bewildered as he is hard.

"…what are we doing?"

He sounds almost hesitant to ask, like your answer will yield something sinister; maybe you keep a butcher knife behind the mirror, or maybe you'll just give him a good old fashioned swirly. 

"Take your shirt off," you instruct, leaning over to turn on the shower, "unless you want it to get wet."

Your non-answer does nothing to clear up his confusion, but Spencer removes his shirt anyway and places it, alongside his pants, in the laundry basket. Neatly folded, right on top of your crumpled clothes from yesterday.

Before he can pester you with any more questions, you take his wrists and guide his hesitant hands down, slowly, to the hem of your shirt. He holds your waist, studying your expression with wide eyes as he pushes the soft fabric up with his thumbs, just enough to expose a sliver of tummy.

"You want me to take it off?" he asks quietly. His words are tinged with disbelief, as though you're bestowing some lavish gift upon him—as though he hasn't seen you naked hundreds of times already.

"You just listed a million reasons why I should," you mutter. "But no, Spence, I just want you to touch it."

Disappointment flickers across his face before he realises you're being sarcastic, and then he huffs. "I listed one reason," he says, lifting your shirt a little further, up to your ribs, "and I was making a valid point. Semen stains are—"

"I've heard enough about semen stains, 'kay?" You pinch his side; he yelps like a kicked puppy. "Shirt. Now."

He doesn't try to bicker with you further, not when you're standing there telling him to undress you. 

Carefully, he slips your shirt off over your head, exposing your skin—you—to the rapidly warming bathroom air. 

His face is obscured by fabric for barely a second, but when you see him again his demeanour has transformed completely. 

His throat bobs, and his tongue pokes out to wet his lips as he takes you in. He's staring, utterly transfixed, at your body. Chest, stomach, hips, all of it. Honestly, by the look on his dumb face you'd think he was seeing God (if God happened to give him a massive erection).

It makes your skin crawl a little, being stared at like this, and you have to fight the instinctual urge to cover yourself under the weight of his adoring gaze. He's studying you like you're a work of art, mouth agape like he's seeing you for the first time. It makes you want to slap him, just a bit.

"…wow."

You scoff and force yourself to look away before you burst into flames. Seriously, it's like he's trying to freak you out.

Spencer's standing with your shirt balled up in his hands, squeezing it like a stress ball, too hypnotised to notice the discomfort simmering deep in your bones. Or maybe he does notice, and that's why he does it; maybe this is some fucked up kind of exposure therapy for your ridiculous fear of being perceived.

"You're so—"

You put an end to his incessant gawking by pulling him into a kiss, and he turns to putty in your hands. He moans against your lips, letting your shirt fall to the floor so he can hold your face, pull you closer, and you let him. Keeping one hand anchored in his hair, you shimmy out of your panties, leaving them discarded on the bathroom floor as you step backwards, dragging him with you.

Without breaking the kiss, the two of you stumble into the shower. Your back meets the wall; the feel of the cold tile against your skin makes you gasp, and the warm intrusion of Spencer's tongue in your mouth makes you moan. How he can go from awkward and nervous to bold and hungry in a matter of seconds is beyond you, but you'll never complain—maybe it's all the steam. 

"Mm…" You pull away, hold him by his jaw as he tries to chase your lips. "You were saying?"

His hair is already drenched. Some strands stick like glue to his forehead, others develop a slight curl, finding their freedom under the spray. He wipes the water from his face but doesn't move out from under the shower head, so he has to do it again; push the droplets from his cheeks like a weaker, wetter Sisyphus. They bead on his eyelashes. Glisten like fresh tears.

"Beautiful," he says, breathless. "You're so beautiful."

He repeats this notion, and variations of it ("Pretty. God, so pretty. My pretty girl. My girl. My—"), until the words slur into melody, too drunk on that steam-kindled reverence for the rules of language to apply. He gets his point across, anyway; both through his fervent praise, and through the firm press of his hips against your stomach. 

That sweet voice muffles as he brings his lips to your neck, but his ramblings do not cease. Vibrations send a shiver down your spine, laced with need and half-facts about attraction and all the parts of the brain that contribute to it. You stop listening after "ventral tegmental area"; he stops trying to explain once he reaches "nucleus accumbens" and instead reverts to his mantra of compliments, which are quickly becoming as irritating as they are superficial.

He always does this; gets ahead of himself, allows that oh so brilliant brain of his to be reduced to mush. His cerebrum shuts down, his frontal lobe goes to sleep; he stops thinking, and starts feeling. And a Spencer Reid driven by nothing but instinct and carnal desire is hardly a Spencer Reid at all; he's a dog, untrained, experiencing his first rut. All slobber and whines, humping anything that moves like he'll die if he doesn't.

"Spence."

Your voice clashes with his songs of praise; threatens to disprove them all with a single, disgruntled utterance, filled with a sigh that speaks far more of boredom than it does of pleasure.

"Spencer."

Again. Firmer. Harsher. Accompanied by a rough tug on sodden chestnut strands and a yelp that reeks of helpless desire. His gaze locks onto yours through the steam as his still parted lips mouth a single, innocent word; "What?"

You feel like an ass. One "bah humbug" away from donning the nightcap and gown and taking up the mantle of the modern day Scrooge, world's worst girlfriend. Spencer's pretty girl is a buzzkill, too high strung to relinquish herself to feeling. Too self-conscious.

"Chill out," you mutter, deaf to the irony of your own words. "And stop— Spencer, stop grinding on me. You'll give me fucking carpet burn."

"But—"

"Please?"

Ice. Buckets of it. You'd think the shower had gone cold with how fast Spencer freezes up.

Bah fucking humbug. 

"I'm sorry," he says. The apology practically leaps from his tongue. A knee-jerk reaction. A dog's guilty look. He doesn't even know he didn't do anything wrong.

I'm too much. You know what he's thinking without him needing to say it. 

Slumping back against the wall, you expel your frustrations through a sigh as you cradle his face. A slight pinch, and his gaze finds yours once more, apologetic. You shake your head—a quick, subtle motion—and let him know, silently, that it isn't him you're frustrated with; it could never be him, not in a million years.

Your thumbs trace circles on his damp, heat-flushed skin, and you tilt your head to the side.

"You think I'm pretty?"

"Yes." He doesn't miss a beat. "Very pretty."

You nod along with his eager compliment, narrowing your eyes. "Is that all you can say?"

"…what do you mean—"

A hand slips down, grasps him by his jaw. Grip firm enough for the skin to blanch under your fingers. "I want you to be specific," you say, keeping your voice soft, barely audible over the sound of running water. "Showering me with basic compliments is sweet and all, but I know you can do better than that. You're supposed to be a smart guy, aren't you?"

"I—" Spencer clears his throat. "…I am a smart guy, yes."

You flash him a smile. Sickly sweet. Almost menacing. "Then act like it."

For a moment, he just stares at you, letting the water drip from his lashes as he studies you like you're some kind of puzzle. "You…you're asking me to—"

"Tell me what you like about me, and why you like it. In detail," you say, feeling your cheeks burn. "Can you do that?"

"Well, yes. But…"

"But?"

"I like everything about you."

You're going to kill him. Cuteness aggression will be a fair defence in court, right?

"Cute." You tighten your grip. His breath catches. "But I'm telling you to do something, Spence. Are you saying no to me?"

He shakes his head against your hand, frantic. "Nonono— I-I'm not saying no, I'd never say— I was just—"

You watch him, brows raised, as he stumbles over his words. His face grows redder, cheeks turning a painful looking shade of crimson, with each passing second until, like a car that can't quite get going, he gives up completely.

The silence stretches out for a moment, then two. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs pressing thoughtfully against the soft skin of your stomach. 

"…I like your thighs," he eventually says.

You knew he'd start there.

"From a, um, biological standpoint…certain fat distribution patterns are subconsciously recognised as a sign of good health and fertility. Fuller thighs specifically are often indicative of a wider pelvic structure, which the human mind associates with, um, lower risks of complications during childbirth, but—" 

He sighs, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

"Personally…I like how nice they, um, feel…" His hand slips down to the back of your thigh, and he lifts it, gently. "…under my palms, and— and how gor-gorgeous they look when you— when you wear shorts or skirts— especially when you wear skirts. There's this one miniskirt—the burgundy one—that you wear sometimes, and I just…"

Your grip on his jaw loosens, and he slips free to press his face to your neck as his words fade into nothing; heavy breaths and an earnest, desperate hunger that seeps into your skin, saturates your every inch with a deep, weighted kind of satisfaction. It collects in your core, so pungent it almost makes you sick.

"…keep talking."

Spencer whines into your skin, cock straining against your stomach. His hips shift, a single, helpless thrust, as he whispers a quiet "please".

You take his hand, guide it down between your slick bodies. With your other hand, you pull his hair, forcing him to look at you as you repeat, in a firmer tone:

"Keep talking."

He looks like he might drop to his knees; you can't say you'd have any complaints, if he did. A strangled, needy little whimper escapes him as he wraps his fingers around his cock, and you hold him steady—one hand in his hair, the other cupping his cheek.

"I-I also…um. I like your hips and— and your ass…" He leans into your touch, nuzzling the palm of your hand as he bites his lip to suppress a groan. "A-attraction to those areas are again…influenced by biology—hips, especially. But, God…perfect. You're— have I ever told you how perfect you are?"

The room is starting to tilt, earth shifting to accommodate the electricity between you. Ricocheting from him to you, you to him, voltage doubling with each exchange.

"You have," you say. You're trying to keep the admiration, the weakness, out of your voice, but you're sure it shines through on your face; you're looking at him like he hung the fucking stars. It would be gross, cringe, if it weren't so—

"Perfect." He repeats the word again, voice trembling. "You're so…perfect. I-I don't know what I did to— mhh…"

Moans vibrate around your fingers as you push them into his open mouth, cutting his fluffy ramblings off at the root. He accepts them without complaint, swirling his tongue around your digits as he tugs on his cock, and watching you so intensely you feel you could melt under the heat of his gaze. 

It takes a concentrated effort not to moan yourself as he sucks on your fingers. You pull him closer, touching his forehead to yours as you carefully withdraw your hand, smearing saliva across his lips, his chin, dragging it down to his neck.

"You're so fucking pretty…"

You echo his basic compliments without thought, hypocrisy lost on you, but Spencer doesn't seem to mind. 

"…y-yeah?"

The word "pretty" goes straight to his head; you can see it rewiring his brain, short-circuiting, which doesn't make much sense because you know he's called pretty on regular basis—you've heard it. 

But it's different, when it comes from you. 

Everyone else? What they think isn't important to him. But you?

He needs to hear you say it again.

"Yeah," you murmur, matching his breathy, needy tone—mocking it. "You're my pretty boy, aren't you Spence?"

"Mhm…" He nods feverishly, flicking water onto your face like a badly trained pup. "I'm— I'm your pr-pretty boy…"

"God, and you're so good for me, aren't you? Yeah? You gonna finish for me, puppy? You gonna make a mess?" 

He loses his words then, devolves into whimpers that grow louder as he fucks into his fist, pushing himself closer and closer to that edge, spurred on by the mere sight of you, by the steam and the spray clinging to your skin, the heat that's steadily dissolving the both of you, merging you into one.

You shift your hand, applying the slightest amount of pressure around his throat—and that's all it takes for him to come apart completely. His pretty moans fill the shower as he finishes on your stomach, collapsing against you like his very soul has left his body.

There isn't much you can do to support a man gone limp, not when he's so tall and slippery, so you just wrap your arms around his waist and pray he doesn't pull you down with him. He braces a trembling arm against the tile wall, just about keeping himself upright as he comes floating down from his high. His lips meet your cheek, and he whispers a weak "thank you". 

Thank you. You didn't even touch him.

Spencer catches you rolling your eyes at his gratitude, but he just smiles and plants another kiss on your jaw before leaning down to nuzzle your neck. 

And what he doesn't see—what he'll wish he had seen—is the smile that attacks your face right after. The same as his; raw and gooey, full of so much love it's almost disgusting.

"Come on," you groan, giving the back of his head a light pat. "We've gotta get ready for work—cold shower?"

He nods. You can feel him smiling against your skin. "Cold shower. Please." 

psst...if you're interested at all in supporting me further, i have a ko-fi <3

[winemilflover]

i’m confessing to crimes i didn’t even commit

[jemilygifs]

A.J. COOK AS JENNIFER JAREAU CRIMINAL MINDS: EVOLUTION — "The Brutal Man"