spencer reid noticing a few grey hairs after prison…….. and being insecure about going grey at thirty five…….and getting so so flustered when you tell him you think it’s hot…..uh huh, uh huh…..
summary : conversations are happening over breakfast, and then dinner.
wc : 9k
tags/warning : enemies to enemies with benefits, pornwithplot (but no porn yet next chapter i promise lol), coworkers, fast burn?, virgin!spencer, experienced!reader, male masturbation, coming in pantssss, pervy!spencer, spit 🤤, lots and lots and lots of talking about sex, lowkey a moment of sweetness between them
a/n : this fic is shooting itself out of my brain at break neck speeds, i have no control over spencers actions at this point he has become his own person doing whatever he pleases
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Sleep was impossible for him after your interaction at the bar.
How was he supposed to sleep with your threat looming over him? For all he knew, you had already called Hotch and convinced him that he was some sick pervert who couldn’t be trusted around the women of the office.
Instead of sleeping he did the next best thing.
He returned to his bed and thought about you in that shirt.
One hand wrapped around his dick with the other wrapped tightly around his throat.
Thinking about how you sneered at him and called him a creep.
Pushing his head back against the pillow, squirming like it’s you holding his neck. Squeezing hard. You would squeeze too hard, you would want it to hurt. You would call him a creep, disgusting, a freak.
His groan comes out as a strangled whine as he runs his thumb across his leaking tip.
He recalls how the black fabric clung to your waist, cinched just above your belly button. Revealing that thin strip of flesh around your midsection, your skin looked so soft and smooth, what he wouldn’t give to run his fingers across your waist.
He’s snapped out of his self-gratification by the sound of his phone. Whining at the interruption.
He had your contact saved under your full name, first, middle, and last, just like everyone else's in his phone. As if you knew what he was doing, there you were.
He answers without a second thought, he couldn’t possibly dig himself into a deeper hole. Maybe you want to give him a chance to explain himself, maybe you want to blackmail him, maybe you got too drunk and you need someone to drive you home, who cares, anything is better than nothing.
“Hello?” He has enough courtesy to stop stroking himself as he brings the phone to his ear. Glancing at the alarm clock beside him, when did it get so late?
“Whatcha doing?” He can tell immediately based on your slurred speech that you’re drunk, and based on the obnoxious slurping you’re still actively drinking.
“What?” It’s all he can say as his cock twitches at the sound of your voice, like a dog hearing its favorite word.
“You sound… sweaty.” Your voice trails off into a fit of giggles, he doesn’t hear anything in the background so you must have left the bar but he’s desperate to avoid addressing his sweating.
“Are you still at Betty’s? Do you need me to come get you?” He isn’t sure why you called him, you’re drunk enough that you probably just did it by accident.
“No- no, I’m home.” You’re still giggling, the sound makes his cheeks burn. Contrary to what everyone on the team thinks, he actually enjoys the sound of your laughter, he just likes it less when you’re laughing at him.
“Are you okay?” He softens his voice, he’s a little worried that you’re too drunk. Even if you’re safe at home, what if you brought someone home with you and they’re over there taking advantage of you? Or what if you invited someone over for drinks and they slipped you something?
“No, Doctor Reid. I’m not.” You drag out his name, he can picture the way you flick your tongue when you use his title. It makes him sit up straight.
“Do you need help?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay…?” Then why did you call him?
“Okay.” Your voice pitches up in that overly sweet way as you mock him.
“You’re drunk.” He’s stating the obvious but he feels like one of you should address it.
“Don’t worry Doctor, I waited until I was safe at home to indulge.”
“Are you alone?” He can’t imagine you left the bar empty handed looking the way you did. You could have taken any of those losers home.
Any of those losers but him.
“All alone.” He can’t help the sigh of relief that he lets out. “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend? We’ve got four more days to get through.”
“There’s a chess tournament livestreaming Friday night that I was hoping to catch.” It’s true, there’s no reason to make up an active weekend full of plans. He’ll watch the chess tournament and spend the rest of the weekend with his dick in his hand scrolling through your Instagram. It’s the only time he actively indulges in social media usage.
“That’s it?”
“Not all of us are on the prowl at bars every night." He can’t help himself as he snaps back at you, you started it with your tone anyway.
“You’re so judgemental, and- and rude.” You stutter through your sentence, he can imagine the way your lips curl back as you say it.
“Why exactly did you call me?” He finally asks the question he’s dying to know the answer to.
You’re quiet for a moment before you clear your throat.
“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?”
“Why?” This has to be a trap.
“Maybe we can sit and talk for a few minutes, and really get to the root of our problems.” Definitely a trap.
“Really?” He makes his skepticism clear.
“No, not really. But I’ll make it worth your while.” This phone call is harmless but he absolutely should not subject himself to one on one time with you. What’s your angle here?
“Why would I want to spend my day off being berated by you?”
“I told you, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Goodnight.” He needs this conversation to end while you’re still on mostly good terms.
Before one of you ruins it with something too mean.
“Spencer.” The world around him stops when you whine. His hand involuntarily squeezes around the base of his cock, he’s going to spend the next several hours repeating that whine over and over again in his head.
“Fine, how will you make it worth my while? Contrary to what you believe, I don't enjoy your constant verbal abuse.” He swallows, fighting the urge to start fucking his hand again. At the very least he should wait until you hang up.
“I’ll wear the shirt again, the one I wore tonight.” He sucks in a sharp breath, holding it trapped in his lungs as he flashes through the mental images he’s branded into his brain of the shirt. Involuntarily flexing his hand around his cock again.
“What time are we meeting?” His resolve is thrown out the window immediately at the thought of getting to see you wearing it again. He doesn’t even care if this is a trap at this point.
“You choose, text me a place and a time and I’ll see you there.”
“What? Why do I have to-” He starts but you interrupt him.
“Goodnight Doctor Reid.” And just like that the phone clicks.
With his free hand he types out a place that he likes that isn’t too far from you, all the while his other hand has already started stroking his aching cock again.
White Rabbit Diner, 10:30 a.m.
He tosses his phone towards his nightstand as he rolls over, burying his face in his pillow as he arches his hips, fucking down and into his hand as he recalls the exact way you whined out his name.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
You should have texted him and cancelled.
It would have been so easy to blame everything on your intoxication but for some reason you couldn’t. It’s eating you up inside, Emily’s words are driving you fucking crazy.
There’s no reason to be nervous, yet you still gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles were white on the drive here. You have the upper hand here, you have all the power and he’s still just Spencer.
He’s still annoying, bratty, creepy, Spencer.
And until you prove anything Emily claimed, you shouldn’t act otherwise.
Scratch that.
You shouldn’t act at all, you should just get the information you want and learn to live with it. You just want to know, there’s nothing wrong with knowing.
You’re in a rut. You don’t know what you want anymore and Emily threw a firecracker into your already confused brain. Now you’re scrambled, maybe having an adult conversation about adult topics with an adult will fix you. You don’t actually want to fuck him. You just want to know that someone wants you, it’ll help you get your mojo back, that’s all this is.
True to your word you’re wearing the same shirt you wore last night, paired with a baggy pair of sweatpants this time. You don’t want to look like you’re trying to impress him, quite the opposite actually. You want to prove Emily wrong, if he’s obsessed he’ll be obsessed even if you look like this.
You hold the strap of your purse tightly as you approach the entrance, a coping mechanism to try and soothe your nerves as you scan the inside of the empty restaurant. Only one booth is occupied.
Of course he’s already here.
You’re ten minutes early and he’s already on his second cup of coffee.
When you start towards him he looks up, to no one's surprise his eyes linger too long on your chest before he meets your eyes. Neither one of you smiles or waves.
There are no words exchanged between the two of you as you take a seat on the opposite side of the booth.
He really is doing his best to look at your face. It looks as though it physically pains him to not look down but he gives it his best effort as he chews his lip. You want to keep him on the edge of his seat for a little while longer, so you take this as an opportunity to look him over.
He’s dressed like he would be for a day in the office, of course. At this point you’re certain he doesn’t own casual clothes, his closet must just be a never ending supply of dress shirts and sweater vests.
And he looks tired, even more so than he normally does.
Good.
You’re glad he didn’t sleep well after whatever the fuck yesterday was. You hope he had a long night spent fretting over this whole situation. You spent your night and morning coming up with a game plan.
You’re gonna feel things out, do a few “experiments” to test Emily’s theory, and that’s it. At the end of the day he’s still him and you’re still you.
You just need to know.
That’s all.
You just need to remind yourself that you have all the control here, he isn’t going to run and tell Hotch anything you say because he doesn’t want you to do the same thing.
“When was the last time you had sex?” No reason to beat around the bush, you know this conversation is going to be uncomfortable for him.
He chokes on his coffee, grabbing a napkin he dabs at his chin.
“What kind of question is that? Why does every conversation with you have to be about sex? It’s ten in the morning, what is wrong with you?” It’s ten in the morning and his voice is already high pitched in a way that normally takes hours of teasing for you to achieve.
“We’re here because I want to talk about sex.”
“Well I don’t want to, and if that’s all you want to do then I’ll just leave.” He starts to slide out of the booth but you reach across the table, grabbing his arm.
“If you stay I’ll forget everything that happened yesterday.”
He shakes you off as he sits back down.
“I told you, I’m not scared of you and I didn’t do anything wrong. Going to a bar isn’t a crime.” Based on the way he crosses his arms defensively while his jaw ticks you know that he is in fact scared.
“That’s fine and you’re welcome to go if that’s the case.”
He should know you’re telling the truth, your whole job is knowing.
“You swear you won’t tell anyone if I stay?“ He speaks softer now, less defensively.
“If you have breakfast with me and answer my questions I promise I’ll forget everything, I won’t coyly tease you about it, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be like it never happened.”
He buries his face in both of his hands for a moment before dragging his fingers through his hair as he sighs. He always does that when he’s stressed, it’s why his hair is always a mess.
“Okay, sure, fine. But I need collateral.” You knew he’d agree/
“Collateral?”
“Yeah, you have to give me something, or- or tell me something in exchange. I’m not just gonna tell you my embarrassing secrets without something in return, otherwise you could just go and tell everyone everything I’ve told you and that I was at the bar.”
“Fine, we can go back and forth, any questions at all, and you have to tell the truth, I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“And I’ll know the same.” He says it like he says most things, smugly, despite the way his leg bounces nervously under the table.
“And obviously all of this never leaves this table. If you even tell anyone we had breakfast I will deny it.”
“Obviously. A mutual agreement of trust.”
“Agreed.” You hold your hand out, out of habit, and much to your surprise he shakes it. “I thought you didn't shake hands?”
“Is that your first question?”
“No, when was the last time you had sex?” You’re itching for the answer, if it’s been a while he’s more likely to cooperate. The more desperate he is the easier it’ll be to get him to talk. You know how to play this game, if you want him to cooperate all you have to do is just your chest out and pout.
“With Lila Archer, two years ago.” His eyes dart away from you down towards his coffee, his pinky twitches around his mug.
Fucker.
“Are you seriously already lying to me?” You throw a sugar packet at him, he doesn’t so much as flinch as it hits him in the chest. You both watch as it falls under the table.
“We already established that I don’t need to be doing this at all, why does it matter if I lie? This is just a stupid game, I gave you an answer. Let's just be happy about that.” He mumbles, always with the mumbling.
You’re about to stick the end of his tie in his coffee when a pretty older woman in an apron smiles as she approaches the table.
“How are the two of you doin’? You look like you’re havin’ the sweetest mornin’.” She has an adorable tooth gap and a voice like honey but he doesn’t even look up at her, with you distracted he doesn’t tear his eyes off your tits.
“We’re doing so great! We were just talking about the funniest thing that happened last night over at Betty’s, have you ever been?” You flash her a grin as you kick Spencer under the table, finally he looks up at her, just for a second before he looks back at you.
“I haven’t but I’ve heard good things from a couple’a girlfriends of mine. How was it?” She pulls a pencil out of her apron pocket.
“Oh it was so great, we actually work together and ran into each other there completely by accident,” You point at Spencer as he glares at you. “do you wanna tell her what happened, Reid?” You turn your smile from her to him as his lips settle into a sulk.
“You know what, it’s a long story and we don’t want to bother you but I think my friend and I are ready to order.” He speaks in a controlled and calm tone, despite his expression. He closes the menu in front of him, handing it to her. “I’ll have the un-birthday breakfast and she’ll have an order of chocolate chip pancakes with a seasonal fruit assortment.” You open your mouth to object but he just carries on speaking. “Could she also get a coffee and some water, and a cup of flavored creamer please, vanilla or mocha are fine, thank you.” He takes your menu before you can say anything, giving your server a tightlipped smile as he hands yours to her as well before she finishes scribbling in her notepad, turning on her heels and disappearing back into the kitchen. Once she’s out of sight he sighs. “Okay, fine, I won’t lie, let’s start over.” He’s pouting as he takes a sip of his water.
“How do you know my breakfast order?” You sit up a little straighter as you squint at him, studying his mannerisms.
“You like sweet things for breakfast, you usually opt for a donut or a pastry over a breakfast sandwich. When there are donuts in the bullpen you always take a chocolate one, and you circled your finger across the seasonal fruit option at least four times when you were looking over the menu.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe he does spend a lot of time staring at you specifically, you seriously doubt anyone else on the team would know your breakfast order.
“I- wow, I don’t even know what to say to-” You really don’t, you normally have a snarky quip to throw back in his face but this is uncharted territory.
“When was the last time you had sex?” You don’t have time to think of something to say, he beats you to it.
“What?”
“You asked your question, and I answered, now it’s your turn, that was the deal.”
“Two months ago.” You speak without another thought, if you tell the truth he’s more likely to as well. The second you say it he’s suspicious. He tilts his head like he does when he’s watching an unsub from behind the glass.
“How is that possible? You said just last week that you… hooked up-” He says it like it’s a phrase in another language, completely foreign to him. “-with some vet tech?”
“I was lying. I haven’t had sex in two months.” You shrug, you aren’t exhibiting any signs of lying and he knows it. You're telling the truth.
“Why even bother telling everyone-” You hold a finger up in front of his face.
“It’s not your turn. When was the last time you had sex? And don’t lie.” You put on the most serious face you can muster given how ridiculous this conversation is.
“It’s been…” He mumbles something, reaching for another sugar packet, emptying the contents into his coffee.
“If you keep mumbling I’m going to pour your coffee into your lap.” As you reach for his mug he pulls it back.
“I suppose technically I haven’t.” The words tumble out of his mouth in quick succession as his eyebrows furrow.
“Haven’t what?” You draw your hand back.
“That was your turn, you already set a precedent that there are no follow up questions.” He takes a long sip of his coffee, refusing to look at you as you stare at him.
Oh.
He hasn’t.
“Why are you lying to everyone about having sex?” He sets his mug down a little too hard, the table shakes as your server reappears, offering a smile as she silently sets down your coffee, a small silver pitcher of creamer, and a glass of water before disappearing again.
You have to clear your throat as you try to collect yourself.
He’s twenty five, and despite how annoying he is you can’t deny that he is sort of attractive. If you’re into librarians, or guys who don’t know how to style their hair. You’re certain he could pick someone up at a bar if he tried.
“I umm- I guess I just didn’t want to make a big deal about it when I stopped having sex.” Your brows are drawn together in a sharp motion as you continue to try and make sense of this. “Is this a voluntary celibacy?”
“Absolutely not.” His jaw ticks, just a little bit, his hands are in his lap but if you had to guess you’d say his nails are digging into his palms.
Something must be wrong with him, aside from the obvious.
You might not like him but you aren’t blind. Underneath his terrible haircut he has an objectively nice looking face. Sharp jaw, strong chin, pretty round lips…
It just doesn’t make sense.
“Why are we here?” He doesn’t mumble but he does whisper.
“I told you, I wanted to talk.” You pour your creamer into your coffee, trying to keep your tone light.
“I get that part but why? We’ve never hung out before, you ignore me at after work functions, and you obviously don’t like me. You make a conscious effort to let everyone know you don’t like me. I just don’t understand why you’d want to spend one of your rare days off bickering with me.” The look of concentration on his face tells you he’s genuinely struggling to understand your motive.
You’re struggling with that yourself right now.
You don’t want to lie. But you also don’t want to outright say, “because I want to see if you’re hot for me.” Because you aren’t really sure why it’s so important for you to know that in the first place.
“I- I don’t know.” Is finally the answer you settle on.
“Are we allowed to give super vague responses that don’t actually answer anything?” He almost smiles as he says it, it helps you relax again.
“How about we each get a pass?”
“Well that’s not fair, I would have used mine if I knew that was an option.” You love that tone of voice, argumentative and louder, more confident but without the seriousness that was starting to settle onto your conversation.
“Well now it is, and I pass, you get one too.”
“Fine, why did you stop having sex? At one point I assume you really were taking men home while you were out with Emily, otherwise you wouldn’t have earned your nickname. So, you stopped two months ago, why?”
Now you wish you hadn't used your pass.
“I just… needed a change. I wasn’t satisfied by the-” You struggle to find the words to accurately explain the feeling. Once again, you don’t want to lie but you aren’t entirely sure of the answer. “I… stopped having fun. So there really wasn’t a reason to keep doing it if I wasn’t having a good time.”
It’s objectively true.
You don’t mention that you stopped feeling the spark you used to get. You don’t feel that pang of arousal in your stomach when you’re with a partner anymore.
You stopped getting butterflies.
He nods, both of you taking long sips of your water and sitting in silence as you hear the kitchen door swing open, both of your breakfasts are brought out. You’re thrilled to have a reason to sit and think, even if it’s just for a moment as you cut up your pancakes.
“Why haven’t you just gotten it over with? You’ve had options, I’ve been on cases with you where women are giving you the time of day.” You wave your fork in his direction before sticking it into a strawberry.
“I have standards, you know. Just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I want to stick it into the first person that offers.” There’s a harsh snap to his voice that is reserved just for you, familiar and engaging as he takes a bite of his eggs.
“I’m not saying you should fuck anything with a pulse, I’m saying that there have been plenty of pretty, nice women, who I’ve seen hit on you.”
“I’m fully aware of that, but I wasn’t interested in them.”
“Why not? You clearly don’t want to be a virgin, so why not just get it over with?” You reach across the table for the syrup, coating your pancakes.
“Like I said, I have standards. I might be a virgin-” He whispers it, looking over his shoulder as if the diner isn’t still empty. “But I know what I like and what I want.”
“Hmm.” You hum around a bite of your pancakes. Fuck this place has good food, you’re gonna have to come back here.
“You asked two questions so now I get two. What is fun to you?” He tilts his head to the side, with an air of confidence you don’t normally see from him when sex is the subject matter.
“Hmm?” You hum around your fork.
“You said you stopped having fun, what’s fun? Shouldn’t all sex be fun?”
Oh you sweet summer child.
“What’s the second question?”
“Depends on your answer.” One good thing about Spencer is how engaged he is in every conversation he has.
“I like to try new things.” You tilt your head a bit to the side.
“Like what?”
“You’ll need to be more specific if you want a specific answer.” You love the way he hangs off your every word.
“What was something fun you wanted to do, that one of your partners turned down?” The smile you get from him as he says it is unlike anything you’re used to from him. You like this side of Spencer, you much prefer this Spencer.
This is like chess with him but better because you actually stand a chance of beating him.
This conversation just got fun. Any dread you felt when you first arrived is gone.
“I wanted him to beg for it.” When you see your server step out of the kitchen you smile and wave at her as she heads in your direction to refill your coffees. “I wanted him to ask nicely, and use his manners. He didn’t want to, he puffed out his chest like the big strong man he thought he was and told me that he doesn’t do that, because he expects it. So I kindly asked him to leave.” You continue to speak as she fills both your mugs. “Thank you.” You give her another big smile as she leaves.
“And what do you expect? What requirements do your partners have to meet?” He doesn’t seem to even notice that she came and went, he’s too focused on you now.
“My standards are high these days, begging is obviously the bare minimum, which is probably why it’s been two months.” You pick up your mug, feeling the warmth beneath your fingertips. “It’s important to me that my partners feel grateful when they’re with me.”
“Doesn’t seem like you’re asking for too much.” It’s your turn to almost spit your coffee out as he says it so casually.
Clearing your throat you set the mug back down.
“I expect devotion.”
“And what do these men get in return?” He’s like an interviewer. His questions come quickly, as if he has them written down.
“That would be your third question, Doctor.”
“I’m trading in my pass for an extra question, since we’re allowed to make up rules whenever we want.”
You pause for a moment, trying to meet his gaze as he avoids yours.
“They get me.” You smile as he raises an eyebrow, his eyes are still down on the swirling of his coffee.
Oh, you could absolutely pull the trigger on this if you want to.
That’s the question you need to ask yourself. Do you want to? If you look at this as an abstract concept where he’s just a guy in this diner and not Spencer, he’s the perfect choice.
And Emily’s right, he doesn’t even know it. You’ve never properly looked at his body language but he leans into every word that falls from your lips. He isn’t so brazenly staring at your chest today but he certainly steals glances. Even if parts of him hate you, that’s fine, parts of you hate him. But there’s an undeniable fascination for you that you’d never noticed before today.
What’s the worst that could happen?
“My turn. Do I live up to the high standards of Dr. Spencer Reid? Would you have sex with me?”
“Now you’re just being mean.” His confident tone falters a bit as he continues to stare down, tucking his hair behind his ears.
You can’t exactly blame him for that reaction, You’ve spent the last year teasing him relentlessly. You’ve taken every opportunity handed to you to embarrass him, after the first month you stopped with the pleasantries. What reason would he have to assume this was anything but a cruel joke.
You grab his mug, pulling it across the table so it’s in front of you. You take a handful of sugar packets as well, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“Remind me, how many sugars do you take in your coffee?”
“Six, I can do it myself.” Jesus, he likes his sugar. He starts to reach towards you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You just click your tongue in response.
“No, no I’ve got it.” One by one you rip open each packet, when you empty the sixth one you look up to find he’s watching you closely. You lean over the mug, your tongue poking out from between your teeth as you spit into his coffee before you slide it back over to him.
“Come on, seriously-”
You shake your head as he starts, effectively shutting him up.
“It’s still my turn, would you have sex with me if you could? Since you’ve played so nicely I won’t even make you say it out loud if it’s too embarrassing. You can just enjoy your coffee and I’ll know the answer.” Your tone is still teasing but you look at him with a fondness that is unfamiliar to him.
He stares down into his coffee, his cheeks are red, and that squiggly little vein on his temple looks like it’s about to pop.
Okay maybe this was a step too far.
But you seriously doubt you misread this situation, your entire job is to read situations.
You watch with bated breath as he hesitantly lifts his mug. And just like that, the biggest germaphobe you know takes a long sip of his coffee. You can’t help the smile that plays on your lips.
“What about you?” He mumbles, staring down like he doesn’t want to see your reaction.
Hook, line, and sinker.
You take your mug, holding it out towards him, his eyes look like they might pop out of his head.
“Go ahead.” Your smile only grows as he chews his lip.
Tentatively, he leans forward, his every move is unsure but he spits into your cup, finally looking you in the eye. You don’t break eye contact as you take a sip of your coffee.
He looks enamoured by you.
“You know… I’ve been thinking, I think that our work is being affected by our antagonistic relationship. Hotch is always telling me that I should be nicer to you. And I don’t know about you but I know that my current lack of… sexual fulfillment has made me irritable and distracted. Has it made you feel that way?” You brush the tip of your shoe against his ankle, immediately he jolts up, his knees hitting the table.
“Why are you doing this to me?” You can feel his leg bouncing under the table again as he groans, taking another sip of his coffee, as if more caffeine is going to soothe his nerves.
“It isn’t your turn.” You click your tongue.
“Fine.” He grumbles. “I don’t let this kind of thing get in the way of my work.” His fingers flex around his mug. “Can we just be done with this game?”
“I want one more question.”
“Better make it a good one.”
You intend to.
“Do you beg when you want something?” You figure you’ll floor him with that one.
He catches you off guard with an immediate whispered response.
“Only if I want it badly enough.” This conversation has been full of surprises.
“Your turn.”
“If I were to beg, would I get what I want?” There’s no confidence behind his voice anymore, he doesn’t even try to sound sure of himself.
Emily was absolutely right in every regard. He’s perfect. You don’t bother concealing the wild grin that you know is creeping across your face.
“If you want it badly enough.”
He takes in a shuddering breath, his lips parting slightly as he stares at you. He looks like he’s still waiting for you to pull the rug out from under him.
“You said you don’t have any plans for the rest of the weekend right? Other than your chess thing?”
“My schedule is empty.” He says it just like the eager puppy Emily claimed he was, his tail might as well be wagging for a treat.
And it’s only Thursday.
This might be the best long weekend Hotch has ever forced you to take.
“You know, I get a little nervous with the maintenance people coming over when I’m home alone. Would you want to come over tonight and maybe stay for the weekend? I could order us a pizza.”
“You hate red sauce.” He says it like he’s found the missing piece of a puzzle, like this is a break in the case that proves this is all some big plot against him.
“Why do you know that?” He shrugs as you roll your eyes. “I don’t like certain red sauce pastas, I like it a specific way. I still like pizza.”
“Okay.” He nods, and a part of you knows he’s cataloging that information away somewhere in a mental folder with your name on it.
“And you understand why you’re coming over?” You say it slowly, nodding as you do.
“I assume when I get there you’ll have a bunch of your friends over so they can point and laugh at me for thinking this was actually happening.” His tone is only half joking.
“This is gonna be a lot of fun if that’s the mindset you’re in.”
“I’m not sure what other mindset I could be in right now, this has all been very… confusing.” And no one hates to be confused as much as Spencer does.
“What do you think the chances are that this is real? You have a statistic for everything.”
“I’d say about five percent.”
“That’s higher than I expected.” You bump his leg with your shoe again, he flinches but he stays in his seat.
“As unlikely as all of this is, I don’t think you lied to me at all. I think that you’re lonely, and unsatisfied. And that might just be enough for you to settle on a sure thing.”
Lonely and unsatisfied.
No reason to deny that, you wouldn’t still be here if that wasn’t the case.
“You’re a sure thing? Even with five percent odds?” Your smile only grows. A sure thing.
“I’m a sure thing with one percent odds.”
“So you’ll come over?”
He chews on his lip as he nods.
You eat the rest of your breakfast in silence, he seems to be lost in thought and you don’t want to say anything that’ll make him change his mind.
When your server returns you reach for your wallet but before you can he hands her some cash, telling her to keep the change. You don’t object, you just stare at him.
“Thank you.” Your smile never falters as you finish your coffee.
“You’re welcome.”
“Are you ready to go?”
“Mhmm.” He hums and as he stands you join him, following him out to the parking lot. He walks you to your car, watching you lean against the driver side door. You take a moment to look him up and down.
You immediately find yourself staring at the tent in his pants. Good lord he’s like a teenager. You can’t remember the last time you were able to get a guy this worked up just with a conversation.
“Jesus, are you okay to drive like that?” You flick your eyes downwards.
“Shut up.” He gets so red so easily, you can’t wait to find out how low that red goes.
“Seriously, are you sure that isn’t like, distracted driving?”
“It’s human nature, if you spend an hour throwing yourself at me I’m going to have a physical reaction.”
“And throwing myself at you? That seems like a bit of an exaggeration.”
“If you say so.” He fidgets with his car keys.
“Does six thirty work for you?”
“Six thirty is perfect.” Something tells you any time you offered would have been perfect.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
He feels like he might pass out.
What the fuck just happened?
Once your car is pulled out of the parking lot he palms himself through his slacks, hissing as he finally relieves a bit of the pressure that’s been building for the last hour.
Is it possible that you killed him at the bar last night and this is all some fantasy he’s having as he bleeds out on the floor?
He still isn’t convinced that this isn’t just some kind of joke.
You can have your pick of any guy.
You’ve had your pick, and he’s heard the descriptions of these men, they aren’t like him. They aren’t lanky, greasy, guys who can’t last more than thirty seconds.
He doesn’t really care if it is a joke at this point, if it’s a joke he might as well get what he can out of it, maybe he’ll get to see you with your shirt off before you laugh in his face and send him packing.
The parking lot is empty, it’s a Thursday before noon in the middle of nowhere.
He should wait until he’s home.
But you were true to your word, and you wore that shirt again.
He has to stop at the drugstore before he heads home. He’s never done anything like this before but he’s pretty sure the guy is supposed to bring the condoms.
He can’t go to the store like this.
The smart thing to do would be to just handle it here.
He doesn’t bother unbuttoning his pants, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even get that far.
Pressing his palm against the bulge in his pants he imagines it’s you, in the diner, brushing your foot up against him. He would have told you every single embarrassing secret he had if you’d have slid your foot up the length of his pants and pressed down.
He’s practically drooling at the thought of being in your apartment. It’ll smell like you, he’ll be alone with you. And god willing, you’re going to touch him.
He feels like he won the lottery.
He got caught following you to leer and you and he’s being rewarded with the possibility of finally losing his virginity to the hottest person he’s ever met.
With a whimper he rests his head on the top of his steering wheel as he makes a mess out of the inside of his pants.
Hopefully you aren’t depending on him to last any longer than it takes for him to get inside of you.
He’s glad he wore dark colored slacks. With a turn of his key he starts his car.
For the first time in his life he’s going to buy condoms.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
The knock on your door makes you jump.
Shooting a glance towards your clock tells you that it’s only five minutes after six.
Yet there he is when you open the door.
Thankfully you spent the day cleaning and picked up the pizza a few minutes ago.
“I thought we said six thirty?” You don’t bother greeting him, you’re already irritated enough by the fact that he’s in the same clothes and you’re in your PJs.
“On time is late, early is on time.” He is quite possibly the lamest person you’ve ever met.
“Twenty five minutes early is early. Sounds to me like maybe you just couldn’t wait.” You grab his arm, pulling him into your apartment. He’s still in a brown blazer and a dress shirt with a fucking tie, who dresses like this for a hookup? “Are you seriously still dressed like that? “Go change, I can’t have a conversation with you like this.”
“How else would I be dressed?” Thank god he has a backpack with him.
“I hope to god you brought something other than business attire. Put on some pajamas or something.” You point him towards the bathroom as you split off towards the kitchen to grab plates.
You quickly sort yourself out in the reflection of your microwave. You kept it casual, you’d hoped he would too but that was clearly wishful thinking. Your favorite pajama pants with Snoopy on them and a tanktop. Simple, classic, easy enough to take off. Not so obviously revealing that you can’t sit and have a conversation with him before you do whatever it is that the two of you are about to do.
You straighten up at the sound of the bathroom door opening.
Returning to the living room you watch as he sets his sneakers down by the door. He stands straight, holding his arms tightly to his body like he’s worried about taking up any space.
You can work with this.
Especially with him dressed like that.
He’s got a black caltech shirt on with a pair of grey sweats, and of course, his mismatched socks. He’s always got so many layers on at work, it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him in just a t-shirt and you’re liking what you see.
He almost looks like a normal person now.
Okay.
Time to rip off the band-aid. This shouldn’t be so hard, you both know why you’re here, you’ve already had one awkward conversation, what’s one more?
You sit on the couch, patting the spot next to you as you open the pizza box on your coffee table. As he sits beside you, you set a slice on a plate before handing it to him. Doing the same for yourself.
“I think we need to lay down some ground rules before anything happens here.” Your voice cracks a little as you clear your throat. Jesus, pull it together.
“I completely agree.” Thank god he sounds nervous too.
You shouldn’t be nervous, you do this all the time.
“Let’s start with the obvious, you can’t tell anyone about this. If you did I would vehemently deny it and of course whatever was happening between us would stop.” This can’t ever get out. Emily and Derek would never let you live it down.
“Obviously.” He rolls his eyes as he takes a bite.
“No offense intended, it’s not a personal thing, it’s a professional thing, for the sake of my career and yours.”
“Sure.”
“Did you bring condoms?”
He nods, unzipping his backpack he hands you a Trojan value pack, there’s four different options.
“Forty condoms?” You stifle a laugh as you pass the box back to him. His cheeks burn red, making him blush might be your new favorite thing to do.
“I wasn’t sure what your preference was or how many was normal. And I didn’t want to run out.”
“Run out!” You set your plate down as you laugh, you're too nervous to eat.
“I don’t know how many is normal!” You can’t blame him, he really doesn’t know any better.
“That’s fine, you know what, forty is fine. You don’t have to use them if you don’t want to anyway. I’m on birth control and I got tested a month ago. And I know you obviously don’t have anything.” The second you say it the condoms go back in the bag.
“Anything else?” He cocks an eyebrow at you.
“As far as commitment goes there is none. If either of us decides we’re done then we’re done.”
“Sounds about right for you.” He scoffs.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re scared of commitment, everyone knows it.”
“Not wanting commitment in a fuck buddy scenario is not the same as being scared of commitment.” This isn’t an argument you want to have right now because he is technically right.
“Anything else?”
“No, your turn.” You grumble.
“I don’t want you seeing other guys while we’re doing this.” Of course mr. commitment doesn’t want you seeing anyone else.
“I will not engage in sexual activities with others but I’ll still have to flirt with guys when I go out with Emily.”
He frowns.
“We can work out the logistics of that later.”
“Whatever, sure.” Another argument you don’t want to have right now.
“I’d like for us to be honest with each other, even if it’s uncomfortable.”
“Give me an example.”
“Like if I asked you about how many people you’ve slept with.”
“Does that matter?” You lean away from him as you cross your arms over your chest.
“Not at all, I’m just curious. And you don’t have to answer, I just ask that if you do that you don’t lie.” You drop your guard a bit at that, he seems genuine.
“Around twenty, maybe twenty five.” You don’t know the exact amount but that sounds right.
“That’s it?” The ever distrustful Spencer Reid.
“Tales of my sexual exploits have been greatly exaggerated.” You lean back against the couch, sighing.
“I’ll also obviously answer any questions you might have with complete honesty as well.”
You're eager to test the extent of that honesty.
“Do you ever think about me when you jerk off?” You sit back up, smirking at him.
“Usually.” He shrugs, reaching into his backpack he grabs a glasses case, he must have taken out his contacts in the bathroom. You watch as he puts on a pair of horn rimmed glasses.
That changes things.
This must be how he feels when you wear a low cut shirt.
He blinks, adjusting to them. You tilt your head, holding your breath as you stare at him. They sit so nicely, high on his nose. Something about the round frames accentuate the sharp features of his face. The thick tops of them stand out against his pale skin. You’re slowly getting the sexy librarian appeal.
Oh my god, pull it together.
“How often?” You cough the words out, trying to regain the air of confidence you had when you asked the question.
“Twice a day.” He answers much more comfortably than he did in the diner. He doesn’t twitch, he’s found a sense of calm here.
“You jerk off twice a day?” You squeak out.
“I jerk off while thinking about you twice a day.”
“Wow.” You wanted someone obsessed, you aren’t going to find anything better than this.
“Oh I know. You’ve become a real problem for me.”
“How do you want to do this? It’s your first time, it should be special.” As much as you’d love to tear into him right now and find out what makes him tick, that isn’t what tonight's about. You’ll have plenty of time for that later.
“I could care less so long as it happens, I feel like I’ve dug myself into a pretty embarrassing hole if I’ve come all this way and said all these things just to not have sex.” He scratches the back of his neck as he gives you a sheepish smile.
“I know a part of you still thinks this is some evil plot on my end of things but I promise I’m not joking.”
“I’ll believe it when you actually start touching me.”
You’re suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you’re sitting rather far away. You’ve both retreated to the furthest edges of the couch.
You set your plate down, taking his and doing the same before you scoot over. You pull him closer as you throw your legs over his lap.
“Believe it yet?” You speak softer now that you’re right next to each other.
“I’m starting to. What are your limits? What do you want to avoid?” He keeps his tone sarcastic but this close to him you can see the way his blush creeps down his neck and under the collar of his shirt.
“I don’t think there’s anything.” You’re practically whispering now, you’re so close to him.
“That seems a little extreme.” His brows furrow.
“If you do something I don’t like you’ll know. We can settle on a safeword but I’m also very comfortable simply telling you to stop if I don’t like something.”
“So… anything’s on the table.”
That’s the goal.
“Anything you can think up in that big, perverted brain of yours. We can do whatever you want.”
He swallows loudly. His hands rest awkwardly at his sides, usually in this position the guy would touch you but not him. He doesn’t even know that’s an option.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” You’re trying to think of ways to make him more comfortable but you’re coming up empty. Should you offer him a book to consume? He isn’t like your usual partners, normally you’d put on a movie or a show to pretend to watch before you get started.
“I’d rather not.” He stammers, his fingers tap against your ankle rhythmically.
“What do you want to do then?”
“You can’t seriously be asking me that right now.”
“Well I don’t know, I don’t want to overwhelm you or anything, I figured you’d want to be eased into this.”
“We can do whatever I want, that’s what you just said, right? Because if that’s the case then I’m certainly not going to start by watching a movie.”
“It helps to set the mood.” You roll your eyes.
“My mood doesn’t really need any further setting. Does yours?”
Nope.
“Do you want me to take the lead?” You give him a genuine smile, not your usual predatory grin.
“I will do literally anything you ask me to do right now.”
Perfect, perfect Spencer. He is exactly what you needed to end your dry spell.
“Why don’t we start by going to my room.” You stand, holding your hand out to him. It’s quite possibly the first kind gesture you’ve ever made towards him.
He nods as he takes your hand, letting you guide him down the hall and into your room. You take a seat on the bed but he doesn’t follow. Instead he stands in the doorway, robotic in the way he examines every detail.
“You have more stuffed animals than I thought you would.” It’s the first thing he says once he steps into the room.
“How many did you think I’d have?”
“None.”
You’ve got a lot more than that, a mess of them are strewn about your bed, you’ve got a few on your nightstand as well as a net mounted to the wall that holds a pile. It crosses your mind to be embarrassed about it but you’ve never let it bother you before, why would you start now. You kick most of them off the bed as you lay back against the pile of pillows against your headboard.
You don’t want to rush him, tonight isn’t about you, even if you have big plans for him in the future. Right now you want him to be comfortable and happy.
He takes a hesitant step forward, not towards you, just further into the room. He faces away from you as he stares at your walls and shelves. You have photos with friends, and a few little paintings you found at thrift stores. His eyes linger on a picture of you, Emily, and Derek, out at the bar.
Eventually he turns to your bookshelf.
Whenever he’s reading he gets that look in his eyes, like he’s devouring the words rather than reading them.
“Have you read all of these?” He murmurs.
“Most of them, everything on the bottom shelf is stuff I still need to get to.”
“I haven’t heard of most of these.” His fingers linger over Ice Planet Barbarians.
“I would be concerned if you had.”
He nods, turning to you at last as he steps forward, running his fingers across your comforter.
“I always imagined your room being… scarier.” The fact that he imagined it at all only serves to sustain your smile.
“Scarier?”
“Black and red, chains and whips.” Your room is a lot of things, but it isn’t dark and scary. Your sheets are a patchwork mix of colors, your walls are painted a soft green.
“You imagined my room like a dungeon?” You cock an eyebrow at him.
“Something like that.” He sits, facing you, the bed gently sinking against his weight.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this? You seem a little on edge. We can do something else for a few minutes if that’ll help.” You’re a little worried he’s about to turn tail and run based on the way he’s eyeing your door.
“I’m ready, I just…” He stares at his hands, a look of concern that you’re all too familiar with after a year spent working together flashes across his face. “I’m a little worried this is all some kind of prank. That Emily and Derek are gonna jump out and laugh at me for thinking that this was ever really happening.”
“Emily and Derek aren’t even in the state, Reid.” You reach out, touching his arm, a zap of static electricity makes you flinch before you rest your hand on his forearm.
“I thought of that too, and then I thought about you going in on Monday and telling everyone everything. I can see it now, Derek will ask you how your weekend was and you’ll give everyone a theatrical retelling of how you tricked poor Spencer into coming over to your house. You got him to spill his guts and then you got him to strip down to his underwear before you kicked him out.” His voice sounds so small when he says it.
“You really think I would do that to you?” You didn’t know it was possible for you to feel bad for the boy genius but right now you do. You’ve seen him as Hotch’s spoiled prodigy for a long time but right now he’s… vulnerable.
He scoffs.
“You know, when I was in high school, there was a girl I liked. She asked me to meet her at the football field, she wasn’t like the other kids, she was nice to me, and I liked her, and she was the prettiest girl in school, how could I turn that down?” You’ve heard lots of Spencer’s stories, directly from him, in passing, or from the rest of the team, but you’ve never heard this one. “I couldn’t believe she was actually there when I got there. I was even more surprised that the entire football team was there.” He doesn’t look at you, instead he looks straight past your head to the wall behind you. “They stripped me down and tied me to the goal post. I begged them to stop and not one of them listened to me, no one helped me. Even after everyone left, no one ever felt bad and came back for me, I had to get out myself.”
His gaze is unfocused as you give him a look that could only be described as pity.
“I thought you graduated high school when you were twelve?” You whisper, it’s the first time you’ve ever wanted him to correct you, instead he gives you a sad smile.
“Youngest in my class.”
You feel a fondness for him that you haven’t previously. Here, in the dim light of your room, dressed in normal clothes, picking at his nails, he becomes someone different from the man you see in the office everyday. That man quite literally knows everything, the man in your bed right now knows nothing.
“Come here.” You lean forward, pulling him close so he’s kneeling on top of you.
“Are you gonna make me beg for it?” You know without a shadow of a doubt that he would if you wanted him to.
“Not this time.” You tangle your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. “Let me know if you want to stop.” You murmur as you pull him closer.
“If I ask you to stop, something has gone seriously wrong.”
Much to your surprise he’s the one to close the distance between you, there isn’t any indecisiveness in his actions now as his lips press into yours. Warm and soft, and tasting like coffee with too much sugar.
And for the first time in months you get butterflies, low in your stomach, in a place that you thought might be broken inside you. You feel a fluttering as his hands hold your hips with a tightness that tells you he’s worried you might disappear.
You’d convinced yourself you might not ever feel like that again.
Thank god Spencer Reid loves to prove you wrong.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
a/n : i plan on doing things to spencer reid in the next chapter that he has never even heard of. anyways, sorry for teasing y'all for one more chapter before they doink lol
i don't have a tag list but you can follow @holymolynotifications for fic updates!!
if you wish to further support me i have a kofi! ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
SUMMARY: interrupting spencer's sleep by asking for sex takes a turn when he gives you exactly what you want in the worst (best) ways possible.
GENRE: smut (MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 6.2k
TAGS: reader is an unsub | bratty!reader, dom!spencer, rough sex, dubcon elements (coercion, repeated use of "no" and "stop" etc), sadomasochism, major breeding kink, major condescension, oral (m receiving), throat fucking, cum swallowing, face slapping, orgasm denial, begging, protected p in v unfortunately, doggy style, spanking, hair pulling, crying, verbal degradation, but also aftercare (if you squint), not proofread
NOTES: hi guys i have no explanation for this; it's pure filth. i don't even like this, but i hope you will <3
⤷ UNSUB!READER MASTERLIST ᝰ.ᐟ
SCHADENFREUDE: the experience of pleasure, joy, or self-satisfaction that comes from learning of the troubles, failures, pain, suffering, or humiliation of another.
Spencer's bed might just be your favourite place in the whole world; his sheets are soft, linen, always freshly washed, and you're positive he must have stuffed his mattress with clouds it's so comfortable. You could lay there for hours, days, weeks, without moving a muscle, and you'd be completely, utterly at peace.
He's there, too: trying to sleep as you pester him well into the night, muttering repeatedly about how he will kick you out if you don't cease your constant chatter, looking like an angel sent from Heaven under the moonlight. A Renaissance painting you get to admire for hours on end.
That's just a bonus; you're really only here for the bed.
Or that's what you tell him, not that he believes you in the slightest. He knows you're here with some ulterior motive, you always are, but he's desperately hoping that just this once you might be gracious enough to let him sleep.
But grace isn't something you've shown in the past, so why would you start now? Sure, Spencer might have work tomorrow (today, technically), but you're bored—and that takes precedent here; everyone knows what happens when a serial killer is left to their own devices for too long.
Of course, you don't pose much of a threat to anyone, not anymore; you're retired, non-practicing. You wouldn't hurt a fly if it landed in your cereal. As far as serial killers go, you're harmless. An innocent deer whose coat just happens to be covered in blood that'll never quite wash off.
You aren't going to kill anyone, even if boredom is killing you, but would Spencer really be willing to take that risk?
The answer thus far has been no. Your capacity to cause harm, in his eyes, far outweighs your promise to stop killing, no matter how many times you tell him you've "changed". He lets you weaponise his distrust only because he has to, because he can't run the risk of trusting you, your word, no matter how badly he may want to.
This is how you managed to take him ballroom dancing, and how you're planning on convincing him to take time off work for a bloody "couple's trip" to New York, and all the other things you've done together. Things that he never would have agreed to if it weren't for the looming threat of you going off the rails. It's a pretty foolproof method, if you do say so yourself.
So when you tug at the collar of his shirt to press a kiss to his shoulder, murmuring into his skin how bored you are, he begrudgingly gives you his full attention.
"There are more books in this apartment than there are—"
"In most bookstores," you say, finishing his sentence for him with a sly smile. "I know."
He gives you a light nudge with his elbow. "Then go find something to read."
He makes a half-hearted attempt at turning away, but you grab his arm and pull him back to you. "Not that kind of bored."
Sighing, he meets your gaze with this cool, thoroughly unamused look. "I can't help you with that."
"Yes, you can," you argue, smiling your sweetest smile.
But your charm is lost on him, and all he gives you is a one-word response.
"Can't."
Your smile vanishes, replaced by a pout—an adorable one, in your opinion—that should be enough to move mountains, but Spencer remains unfazed.
"It's 1AM," he mutters.
"Meaning the night is still young."
"Meaning I need to sleep," he counters, scooting away from you. "Some of us have jobs."
You follow him, persistent. "You can sleep later."
"I would much rather sleep now."
He reaches out to push him away, but you catch his wrist and tilt your head to the side with the softest, most disgusting puppy-dog eyed expression you can muster. "So you don't want to fuck me?"
"I don't— that's not—" He jerks his hand back, sputtering as heat creeps into his cheeks. "…I don't want to have sex with you right now. Not if it means sacrificing my sleep."
"Wow." You drag the word out, placing your hand on your chest in a mock show of offence. "I'm hurt."
"Uh huh."
Having had enough of your dramatics, Spencer turns onto his side and, this time, you don't try to stop him. You just wait, patiently, for him to speak up again, because you know he will; he can't resist arguing with you, even when he knows it'll only make things worse for him.
You're sure he can feel your eyes on him, anyway, burning holes into the back of his head. He can't sleep (or relax at all, apparently) when you're watching him and, consequently, he'll usually banish you to the living room when he wants to get some rest. But he hasn't done that yet, which you interpret as a good sign.
After a few moments, he can't help but speak up.
"You can always use your hands, if you’re desperate."
"Right here?" you ask.
"In the bathroom, preferably."
"And what about you?" You inch closer to him and lean down to murmur into his ear, "You wouldn't benefit from blowing off some steam before work?"
A shudder runs through him as your breath hits his skin, but he swats your face away all the same. "I'd benefit from sleeping," he mutters.
"Mhm." You hum in response, refusing to give up as you trace your fingers along the stretched-out collar of his pyjama shirt. You pull on it, gently, and press your lips to that spot between his neck and shoulder that you know is sensitive. "You're so tense, though."
"Maybe because there's a serial killer in my bed trying to—" His breath catches as your teeth graze his skin. "…seduce me."
"This isn't seduction," you murmur, pressing your face to the crook of his neck.
"It's starting to feel like it," he says stiffly.
You lift your head to peer over at him. His flushed cheeks. His closed eyes. "Is it working?"
"No."
There's a weakness behind the resolve he speaks with, barely noticeable, like he might not mean what he's saying but is also dangerously close to kicking you out (of the bed, if you're lucky; of the apartment, if you're not). Whether he means it or not, you're pushing the limit—that much is obvious.
So, with a defeated sigh, you pull back, already mentally scanning his bookshelves for an interesting read.
But you're barely three feet from him when he grabs your arm, holding it firm. He turns over to face you, and he gives your arm a gentle tug. An invitation.
You let him pull you in, settling down beside him as he drapes his arm over your waist. He's cuddling you, but he's leaving just enough room to allow himself plausible deniability; "we aren't cuddling", he'll say, "we're just lying together—look, we're barely even touching".
You meet his gaze in the dark. The moonlight seeping in through the blinds casts his face in shadow, but it illuminates your own. You want him to pull you closer, but he doesn't.
He doesn't do anything; he just watches you, studying you or, if you want to be delusional, admiring you with this fond, sleepy look that you can just about make out through the shadows. Heavy eyelids, relaxed brows, the picture of perfection.
"We could make it quick," you broach, smiling.
Spencer scoffs. He shakes his head, nuzzles the pillow as he groans in quiet, steadily simmering frustration.
"Okay, maybe not quick, but…" you inch yourself closer, reaching up to cup his cheek. "We can optimise it? You're all about efficiency, right?"
He huffs, sounding almost amused by your offer, but he still shakes his head. "And how, exactly, would we do that? You and I both know that your libido is obnoxious—"
"We could forgo the condoms," you suggest, cutting him off. "That'll save about…fifteen seconds per round."
"No."
There's no weakness behind the word, this time, but his firm tone isn't enough to scare you off.
"It adds up, you know."
"No," he repeats. "How many times are we going to have this conversation?"
"Until you admit that I'm right."
"Oh, you're right?"
"The condoms serve no purpose." You're a broken record, at this point, repeating variations of the same sentiment only to be met with the same response: no, no, and no. If you're starting to sound a little exasperated, it's because you are. But, even so, you persist. "We're both clean, and I know you only insist on using them to spite me," you say, trying to bite back any frustration threatening to taint your voice. You take a deep breath, watching as Spencer's expression hardens further, before bravely continuing, "I can buy plan B. I can go on birth control, if that's what you want—but we both know it isn't."
Spencer's fingers twitch against your waist, and he shifts in the bed. He starts pulling away, as though distancing himself from you physically will make what you're saying any less true.
"You don't want me on birth control, Spence." You prop yourself up on your elbow, lowering your tone to something seductive, almost sinister. "You want the risk."
"That's enough," he says. He turns onto his back, fixes his gaze on the ceiling as you roll your eyes.
"Honestly, I don't see the point in depriving yourself of something you clearly want, especially when I want it, too."
"You don't know what I want."
You purse your lips, letting the silence sit for a moment before you move closer to him. "I know you want kids," you say.
He doesn't respond to that. He just keeps staring at the ceiling, and you can see his jaw muscles working, clenching and unclenching, in the low light.
"Little geniuses running around, wreaking havoc…top of all their classes, just like daddy." You continue your assault in the softest, most sympathetic tone you can manage. Your voice turns to honey as you speak. "I could give you that, Spence. We'd have cute kids, don't you think?"
You feel him tense as you brush your fingerprints against his chest. Feel the way he stops breathing entirely as you skim along the fabric of his pyjama shirt and work your way down, slowly, to the waistband of his pants.
"You could put a baby in me right now," you murmur. "You just have to let go…give in…"
Your fingers barely dip under his pants before the tension snaps. He shoves you, hard, and sends you tumbling backward. Your back hits the mattress, and you're left slightly winded.
"You're sick," he spits.
You make no effort to get up, but you do shoot him a smile as you say, "I'm honest."
"You are sick. Why would I— no, I'm not doing this."
With a huff, he gets out of bed. You watch as he heads for the door (to go where, you aren't sure), and he looks, for a moment, like he might actually storm out, leave you all alone in his apartment. The thought leaves you slightly nauseous.
But then he turns back to you with a scowl. "Why the fuck would I want to— …have children with a serial killer?"
He's trying so hard to keep his voice down. It's a shame, really, that he has neighbours on all sides—neighbours that respect him, that he respects—because you want nothing more than to see him lose his temper. You'd kill for it. Not literally, of course; you don't do that anymore.
You sit up, eyeing him curiously as you say, "I don't know, Spencer, why would you?"
"I don't."
You nod along with his declaration. The gesture's overly animated, exaggerated in a way that tells him you don't believe a word of what he says, and by the sour expression on his face it's clear he would have preferred it if you had just laughed in his face.
The sheets rustle as you shift, perching yourself on the edge of the bed, eyes wide with an unapologetic amusement. You shrug and click your tongue as you breathe out a wistful sigh. "So those…dreams you had, I guess they meant nothing—"
Spencer crosses the room in an instant and, before you can finish your sentence, he's grabbing your jaw with such force it makes you gasp. You can feel his nails digging into your skin as he looms over you, angling your fact up to meet his cold gaze. The moon serves as a backlight, casting his tall frame in a harsh shadow.
"You don't get to use that against me," he says, voice unnaturally quiet. Calm. It's a warning, one that you'd probably heed with some semblance of seriousness if this weren't so fun.
"So I'm just supposed to pretend you weren't dreaming about having a family with me?" you ask, pushing the conversation (the argument, really) that little bit further. "It's a pretty difficult thing to overlook, Spence."
The fact that his face is obscured does very little to hide the way your words leave him seething. You can feel it in the tremble of his fingers, as though he's fighting an itch. A violent one.
God, what if he hits you? Now that would be fun.
"You never know when to stop, do you?" he asks softly.
"All I've done is state facts—"
"All you've done is piss me off."
You flinch when he moves, expecting—hoping—that his hand will meet your cheek, leave you with a mark that'll still be there in the morning, but it doesn't.
"And you know what? It worked." He tightens his grip on your face and, instead of hitting you, he starts tugging at the drawstring of his pyjama pants. "Congratulations, Love, you did it."
You aren't sure there's much of a connotation between pissed off and rock hard, but you make no attempt to argue with him, not when he's standing right in front of you like this, pants around his ankles, cock so close you'd barely have to move to get a taste.
"You want it?" His voice takes on a gentle, almost soothing tone as he brushes your hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear. "You want this cock, right? That's why you're being such a brat?"
You couldn't make your answer more obvious if you tried; you're staring, wide-eyed, lips parted like you're about to start fucking drooling over the sight of him. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your gaze before saying with a smirk, "I'm actually just doing it for fun—"
The yelp that escapes you when he pulls your hair doesn't sound like you at all, but the moan that follows when he presses your face to his crotch does. His fingers curl in your hair, and you feel him tense slightly as you nuzzle him, breathing him in with an open mouth. You try to touch him, but he swats your hand away before tearing you from him completely.
"A yes would suffice," he says.
The pain of his iron grip makes you wince, and you can feel yourself already beginning to grow smaller, quieter, as you look up at him and say, "…yes."
With his free hand, Spencer cups your cheek. The tender brush of his thumb against your skin clashes with the discomfort of him pulling your hair. "Where do you want it?"
"Oh, come on."
All he does in response is tilt his head to the side; clearly, your whining has no effect on him. His patient silence, however, is enough to drive you crazy.
There's a burning in your core. It's been there all night, started as embers, and has since sparked into a blaze that's steadily breaking you down, making you desperate. And his touch, your position, it's only fuelling the fire.
"…I want it inside me," you mutter. You're clenching your thighs, trying to stifle the burning. "My pussy. Nowhere else."
Spencer hums, thoughtfully, in response. His fingers trace the edge of your cheekbone, trailing slowly down to your jaw where he angles your head up that little bit further and asks, in an agonisingly gentle tone, "You think you deserve that?"
You laugh, but even that sounds desperate now. You've lost your edge. "You're kidding, right?"
"Oh, I'm serious," he says, keeping his voice smooth and low. "All that back talk, all that…relentless pestering, you think I should let you have your way after that?"
You open your mouth to retort, but your words fail you. There's a sinking feeling in your stomach now, and it worsens with each second that passes once you realise his game. A small, pleading smile creeps up your face.
"If it's an apology you want, then—"
"I don't want an apology," he says, cutting you off, "we both know you wouldn't mean a word of it. No, I'm done playing your games, Love." Releasing his grip on your hair, his hand moves to cradle the back of your head. "I think it's time someone put you in your place."
Despite his serious tone, you can't help but find humour in his words. "Like you? Come on, Spence, you're too spineless to—"
You never manage to finish that sentence on account of Spencer's cock pressing against your lips. You clench your teeth, shaking your head as you feebly attempt to deny him access, but his hand is quick to grasp your jaw, fingers pushing into the hollows of your cheeks as he forcibly coaxes your mouth open.
He shushes your protesting whines, telling you to "just take it, that's it" as he eases his cock into the warmth of your mouth. His gentle words disable whatever fight you had left, and you yield to him, taking him almost to the base as he strokes your hair, whispering soothing praises ("Good girl, there we go."), and you think, foolishly, that you're past the worst of it, until you feel his fingers curl into your hair.
Spencer's been rough with you before, you encourage it, but none of your past encounters compare to the harshness with which he abuses your throat. The moment you stop resisting, all of his gentleness vanishes; he holds you by your hair and thrusts into your mouth with no regard for your comfort, or the tears that well in your eyes, or the way you gag with every violent jerk of his hips.
You reach blindly for something to hold onto, and your hands settle on the backs of his thighs. Trembling fingers anchor themselves in his skin, not caring for the marks (or cuts; you're pretty sure your nails are doing some damage) they'll be leaving behind as he fucks your throat so hard the lack of oxygen is starting to make you dizzy.
It's not until he pulls out that you realise you're crying. You cough and sputter, tears streaming down your face as he holds you up by your hair, and you can't help but sniffle pathetically as he wipes the drool from your mouth.
"What's wrong?" he asks softly, pouting. He presses his thumb to the plush of your lower lip, pulls it down to reveal your teeth. "You don't like it?"
You're babbling without thinking, shaking your head and mumbling feverish nos and pleases until the words lose their meaning, silenced only by the force of his palm as it strikes your cheek.
The contact rips and involuntary sob from your throat, and you choke on the broken sound as the stinging quickly settles, deepening into an intense, burning ache. Just when you think you might catch your breath, he's guiding your mouth back to his cock—and this time, you don't try to put up a fight.
There's a warmth accumulating under your thighs, seeping into the sheets as he uses your throat like a toy. He's panting above you, cursing under his breath; occasionally he'll mutter some comment about your pretty mouth, how it's better when it's occupied as he buries himself so deep your nose meets the warm skin of his abdomen and you start to choke. You'll tap his thigh, frantic, and he'll hold you there until you see stars before letting go.
You know he's close when he starts whimpering. His rhythm starts to falter, his fingers tremble, and his breathing comes in uneven gasps as he tries to cling to the remnants of his composure.
"Fuck…" He throws his head back, keeping a tight grip on your hair as he bobs you up and down on his cock. The shift in his pace allows you room to breathe, to think, to actually try to suck him off instead of just sitting there.
And the second you do, he starts to come apart.
"Shit…I'm—" He hums, stifling a moan as you look up at him, meeting his gaze through tears.
You feel his cock twitch against your tongue, and you whimper around it—and that is what sends him over the edge.
"Oh, fuck….God," he whines as he finishes, painting your tongue with his release before gently easing you off of his cock. "Don't you dare swallow," he hisses, legs shaking slightly as he crouches down to be at your eye level. "Don't— shh…just keep it there, that's it. You said you wanted me to come in you, right? Then you better savour it, hadn't you?"
Tender hands cup your cheeks as you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn't wipe your tears, or your drool, or try to soothe the flush that's burning you from the inside out; he just watches you, a calm satisfaction in his brown eyes as he murmurs, "Oh, poor baby…"
After giving your sore cheek a light tap, he rejoins you on the bed and gently coaxes you into his lap, ensuring his hands sit secured on your waist as you straddle him, sniffling. You try to lean on him, to hide away in the crook of his neck, but he holds you back. Returning his hands to your face, he dons a mocking pout as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
"That wasn't very nice of me, was it?" he asks, keeping his tone painfully kind as he holds you. "See what happens? If you hadn't pushed so hard, I wouldn't have done it. Shh…"
One hand drops to your thigh, slips up under the hem of your shirt (his shirt; you don't wear much of your own clothes when you're here). He presses his palm to your lower stomach, and the contact alone is enough to make you whine as he studies you with this cool, almost analytical look.
You aren't wearing panties (why would you be?), so when his fingers dip between your thighs there's no questioning how wet you are. You're dripping, and with every moment you spend like this, holding his salty release in your mouth, your need only worsens.
And that need drives you to lift your hips in a feeble, uncoordinated attempt to get to his cock—he's soft, sure, but you're sure you'd be able to get him going again, if he let you—but, before you can try anything, he cups your leaking cunt with his hand, creating a barrier between you and what you want most.
All you can do is whimper and grind pitifully against his palm, soaking his hand as you try to convey, without words, just how badly you need him. As though, if you're lucky, he might give in.
But he doesn't. He lets his gaze trail lazily up your body—your bare legs, his hand between your thighs, you in his clothes—before settling on your face, and he raises an eyebrow. "Is that the best you can do?" he asks, leaning in close. The sound of his voice, that disconcerting mix of mockery and softness, makes your stomach churn. "Just hump my hand and make stupid little noises. What happened, Love? Tell me…" He brushes his nose against your own before clicking his tongue. "Oh, right, your mouth is full. Sorry about that. Go on, swallow for me…"
You do as he says without question, swallowing his seed until only the aftertaste remains, and your obedience earns a smile.
"Open your mouth," he says. "There we go…"
As you part your lips, Spencer sets his thumb on your bottom teeth, holding your mouth open so he can inspect it thoroughly.
"I can't see too well in the dark," he murmurs, "but your throat is probably bruised. Did it hurt to swallow?"
"Uh huh…"
God, you sound like your throat's bruised. Your voice comes out raw and shaky. Pathetic.
"Good."
He catches your open mouth in a kiss, and you go so weak you almost collapse against him. You grasp his shoulders, steadying yourself as he breathes new life into you, but your composure fast unravels as his fingers tease your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make you whine into his mouth.
"Spence," you breathe, tearing away from him before you lose yourself, "please…pleasepleaseplease…"
"Please what?"
"Fuck me." there's no sugarcoating your request, not now. "Please, Spence, I can't do this…"
Spencer purses his lips for a moment, leaning back as his fingers continue their slow teasing. "I think you're doing just fine," he says, shrugging. "I'd even go as far as to say you're doing really well."
That tone. The mocking praise. You're going insane, you're sure of it.
"No. No—" A sharp gasp cuts through you as he rubs the ball of his hand against your clit. "Spencerr…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…please, just— fuck…"
Seeing you starting to lose it, Spencer bows his head, hiding his smile as presses his lips to the side of your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the sensitive skin. "What are you sorry for, honey?"
"God…if— if you want information, I'll give it to you," you whisper, frantic. Your hips buck against his hand, desperate for more of him. "You want the location of a body? Two? I'll tell you; I promise. I'll— I'll tell you anything, Spence…anything you want—"
"I asked you a question," he says, keeping his tone light as he cuts you off. He lets his mouth linger on your neck for a moment longer before he raises his head to look at you. "What are you sorry for, hm? You do know what you're apologising for, right?"
"I do…I do…"
"Uh huh. Then tell me."
"I-I was being annoying, and pushy…and I crossed a line, mentioning kids," you explain, nodding anxiously. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Spence. I-I won't do it again…promise."
Spencer nods along with you, pursing his lips in thought. "Wow," he murmurs, "you almost sound like you mean it."
"I do," you say, trying (and failing) to keep your voice firm despite your trembling.
"Yeah? You're sorry?"
"'m sorry…"
To your surprise, Spencer looks disappointed.
His gaze drops once more to his hand between your legs, and you swear you see him frown. "Hm. That's a shame, really…I quite like this; punishing you, letting you make a mess of yourself…" he gathers your arousal on his fingers, drawing out a low whine before bringing those fingers to your mouth. The taste of yourself mixed with the aftertaste of him makes your fucking head spin.
And then you feel the tip of his cock part your slick folds. It brushes your clit, and you almost come apart right there.
"I like you like this," he continues, talking over your incessant whimpers, "all desperate and stupid, such a change from your usual self…I could do this all day long."
The mere suggestion is enough to make you sob around his fingers; or maybe it's the way the head of his cock keeps nudging your entrance, leaving you clenching around nothing, like your body is trying to suck him in.
"…but you really want this, don't you?" he asks.
"Mhm…" You're humming along in agreement before you can form a meaningful response. Your brain's working at a third of its regular speed, your words are scattered across space, maybe time, too. Even as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, every sentence you reach for disintegrates before you can speak it.
But if you've ever had a chance to win him over, to win this stubborn little war you've been fighting for months now, then this is it. Maybe you don't need to think in order to convince him, maybe well-formed sentences and snarky arguments haven't been working in your favour at all; maybe you just need to be desperate. As desperate as possible. Throw everything you have at him and pray that you hit a soft spot.
"You do, too, don't you?" you ask, making yourself sound as helpless as possible. "Please, Spence— angel, tell me you want this…"
A slight twitch of his brows tells you he likes the nickname; even if your efforts are in vain, you can still file that little fact away for later.
"I'm sorry for being such a pain, I really am. I just like you…so fucking much, and— and I don't know what to do with it sometimes…but come on, angel, please…" You touch your forehead to his, cupping his cheeks with trembling hands. "I need you inside me, no condom, just this once," you murmur, giving a tentative rock of your hips, watching the way he shudders as you grind against his length. "I…I wanna feel you…wanna be yours, please…"
Spencer is sweating. You feel his cock jump, straining against you, and you watch the way he bites the inside of his cheek. Tilting your head, you try to kiss him, but he dodges.
He purses his lips tight as his gaze drops to his hips, to the way his cock is so perfectly lined up with your entrance—and you're soaked, it would be so easy to just…
Leaning back, he gestures to the pillows and sighs. "Go. Face down, ass up."
His mutterings sound almost reluctant, but all you hear is a victory. Refusing to give him time to change his mind, you don't hesitate to climb off of him and settle into position like a well-trained dog: chin resting on your forearms, back arched, sodden pussy on display for him.
You can hear him shifting, hear the faint rustle of bedsheets as he comes up behind you, and the seconds seem to drag on for eternity. Each one seems longer than the last, making you stew in your anticipation until it's almost unbearable.
But then you hear something you don't expect; the last thing you want to hear.
A poorly stifled rip. The crinkle of latex.
The sound hits harder than the slap you took from him just moments ago, breaking you free from your mindless obedience as you realise, to your horror, what he's doing.
"No. Nonono—"
You try to move, to get away, but Spencer's grabbing your hips, fingers digging into the skin as he sinks into you with one brutal thrust. The pain makes you see static, but it doesn't hurt half as much as the betrayal.
You really thought you'd won. That it was that easy.
How stupid.
Tears stream down your face, your body struggling to adjust to the sudden intrusion as he stuffs you so full you swear you can feel him in your stomach. An awful noise escapes you, half moan, half cry, as you desperately shake your head, and it isn't until you hear your own voice that you realise you're pleading with him; strings of broken nos and stops are tumbling from your lips like despairing prayers.
But your God is cruel, and your prayers go ignored. Maybe he rejoices in them, you don't know.
Unfortunately, you're loud. Much too loud for the thin walls of his apartment. So he does what little he can and shoves your face into the pillow, forcing you to bite the soft fabric and muffle your cries, leaving only the creak of the bed, and the sound of skin against skin as he ruts into you.
"You didn't think I'd actually let you have your way, did you?"
His voice above you is oddly quiet, almost tender in a way that entirely contradicts the way he's treating you. And, as soon as he finishes speaking, he's yanking you up by your hair, letting you gasp and whine before his hand finds your throat.
He brings you closer, close enough to nip at your ear as he murmurs, "And if you really like me that much, you should be grateful that I'm doing this at all. I could've easily thrown you out on the street like the…fucking vermin you are."
Soft lips press a kiss to the side of your neck before he throws you back down and continues at his unforgiving pace. All you can do is cry into the pillow, choking out the occasional plea for him to stop, or to slow down, even though you know he isn't going to listen.
"You're quite the…actor, aren't you?" he asks, breathing growing ragged under the strain of his movements. "That apology of yours…you almost had me— fuck…you almost had me convinced…I'm sorry, Spence. I wanna be yours, Spence…sounding so damn helpless…and now you're actually helpless, aren't you? How's it feel?"
"P-please— Spence, I can'tt…I can't t-take it—"
"Yes, you can…you wanna be mine, right?" He slips a hand down to your ass, gives it a firm squeeze before pulling back and spanking it hard, relishing the way you cry out beneath him. "Then be good for me…and take it."
Before the stinging can subside, he gives your ass another forceful spank before gripping your hips once more, keeping you steady as he fucks you. The pain shoots through you like a flash of lightning, and it goes straight to your head, turns your brain to putty.
You mindlessly try to back up against him, meet his thrusts and bring yourself over the edge, but you're sloppy. You've no rhythm, not when you're like this, and all it does is make Spencer's grip that much tighter as he holds you in place.
"And don't you even think about coming," he hisses. "You don't deserve that, so just—"
"Please—"
"Just shut up." He holds you down as you try, weakly, to raise your head. "And let me fuck you."
Your pleas devolve into senseless moans as the last of your resolve crumbles, and you give in to him, letting the pillow absorb your obscene noises as Spencer thrusts into you so hard you think you start to think you'll pass out before he's through with you.
The rest of your body goes limp as your thighs strain and tremble, muscles growing tighter with each cruel jerk of his hips. Your core is on fire, desperate for a release that he won't allow you, and one that you no longer have the willpower to pursue yourself.
"You…are so fucking pretty like this. God, take me so well— fuck…" His breath stutters as his hips falter, and he forces his next words out through a groan. "…feels so good to use you—"
To use you.
To use you, like you've been using him. This isn't just revenge, or punishment, for just being a nuisance, for poking sore spots in his psyche by mentioning kids; this is revenge for everything, for the months (almost a year now) of hell you've put him through. It's only fair, in a sense, that you lay down for him as he has, time and again, for you; it's Newton's third law, and this is just the beginning.
He almost collapses on top of you when he finishes. Barely able to hold himself up, he pants against your neck, hot breath fanning over sweat slick skin as he tries to regain his composure.
You're incoherent, barely aware of the world around you, or of the way you let out a shameless, broken whine when he pulls out.
The bed creaks as he gets up to dispose of the godforsaken condom, then groans as he settles back down beside you. His fingers skim, touch feather-light, along your spine over the sodden fabric of your shirt, and all you can muster in response is a defeated little whimper.
He doesn't speak; he just gently coaxes you into his arms, brings your head to his chest, smooths out your hair as you both just breathe. When you sniffle, he shushes you, wipes still-wet tears from your cheeks.
Once you've found the strength to speak, you insult him. Whinge about how mean he was, how you're barely going to be able to talk, let alone walk, tomorrow.
Spencer listens to your shaky complaints with a smile, nodding along thoughtfully, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head before murmuring, "It wasn't anything you didn't deserve."
SUMMARY: interrupting spencer's sleep by asking for sex takes a turn when he gives you exactly what you want in the worst (best) ways possible.
GENRE: smut (MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 6.2k
TAGS: reader is an unsub | bratty!reader, dom!spencer, rough sex, dubcon elements (coercion, repeated use of "no" and "stop" etc), sadomasochism, major breeding kink, major condescension, oral (m receiving), throat fucking, cum swallowing, face slapping, orgasm denial, begging, protected p in v unfortunately, doggy style, spanking, hair pulling, crying, verbal degradation, but also aftercare (if you squint), not proofread
NOTES: hi guys i have no explanation for this; it's pure filth. i don't even like this, but i hope you will <3
⤷ UNSUB!READER MASTERLIST ᝰ.ᐟ
Schadenfreude: the experience of pleasure, joy, or self-satisfaction that comes from learning of the troubles, failures, pain, suffering, or humiliation of another.
Spencer's bed might just be your favourite place in the whole world; his sheets are soft, linen, always freshly washed, and you're positive he must have stuffed his mattress with clouds it's so comfortable. You could lay there for hours, days, weeks, without moving a muscle, and you'd be completely, utterly at peace.
He's there, too: trying to sleep as you pester him well into the night, muttering repeatedly about how he will kick you out if you don't cease your constant chatter, looking like an angel sent from Heaven under the moonlight. A Renaissance painting you get to admire for hours on end.
That's just a bonus; you're really only here for the bed.
Or that's what you tell him, not that he believes you in the slightest. He knows you're here with some ulterior motive, you always are, but he's desperately hoping that just this once you might be gracious enough to let him sleep.
But grace isn't something you've shown in the past, so why would you start now? Sure, Spencer might have work tomorrow (today, technically), but you're bored—and that takes precedent here; everyone knows what happens when a serial killer is left to their own devices for too long.
Of course, you don't pose much of a threat to anyone, not anymore; you're retired, non-practicing. You wouldn't hurt a fly if it landed in your cereal. As far as serial killers go, you're harmless. An innocent deer whose coat just happens to be covered in blood that'll never quite wash off.
You aren't going to kill anyone, even if boredom is killing you, but would Spencer really be willing to take that risk?
The answer thus far has been no. Your capacity to cause harm, in his eyes, far outweighs your promise to stop killing, no matter how many times you tell him you've "changed". He lets you weaponise his distrust only because he has to, because he can't run the risk of trusting you, your word, no matter how badly he may want to.
This is how you managed to take him ballroom dancing, and how you're planning on convincing him to take time off work for a bloody "couple's trip" to New York, and all the other things you've done together. Things that he never would have agreed to if it weren't for the looming threat of you going off the rails. It's a pretty foolproof method, if you do say so yourself.
So when you tug at the collar of his shirt to press a kiss to his shoulder, murmuring into his skin how bored you are, he begrudgingly gives you his full attention.
"There are more books in this apartment than there are—"
"In most bookstores," you say, finishing his sentence for him with a sly smile. "I know."
He gives you a light nudge with his elbow. "Then go find something to read."
He makes a half-hearted attempt at turning away, but you grab his arm and pull him back to you. "Not that kind of bored."
Sighing, he meets your gaze with this cool, thoroughly unamused look. "I can't help you with that."
"Yes, you can," you argue, smiling your sweetest smile.
But your charm is lost on him, and all he gives you is a one-word response.
"Can't."
Your smile vanishes, replaced by a pout—an adorable one, in your opinion—that should be enough to move mountains, but Spencer remains unfazed.
"It's 1AM," he mutters.
"Meaning the night is still young."
"Meaning I need to sleep," he counters, scooting away from you. "Some of us have jobs."
You follow him, persistent. "You can sleep later."
"I would much rather sleep now."
He reaches out to push him away, but you catch his wrist and tilt your head to the side with the softest, most disgusting puppy-dog eyed expression you can muster. "So you don't want to fuck me?"
"I don't— that's not—" He jerks his hand back, sputtering as heat creeps into his cheeks. "…I don't want to have sex with you right now. Not if it means sacrificing my sleep."
"Wow." You drag the word out, placing your hand on your chest in a mock show of offence. "I'm hurt."
"Uh huh."
Having had enough of your dramatics, Spencer turns onto his side and, this time, you don't try to stop him. You just wait, patiently, for him to speak up again, because you know he will; he can't resist arguing with you, even when he knows it'll only make things worse for him.
You're sure he can feel your eyes on him, anyway, burning holes into the back of his head. He can't sleep (or relax at all, apparently) when you're watching him and, consequently, he'll usually banish you to the living room when he wants to get some rest. But he hasn't done that yet, which you interpret as a good sign.
After a few moments, he can't help but speak up.
"You can always use your hands, if you’re desperate."
"Right here?" you ask.
"In the bathroom, preferably."
"And what about you?" You inch closer to him and lean down to murmur into his ear, "You wouldn't benefit from blowing off some steam before work?"
A shudder runs through him as your breath hits his skin, but he swats your face away all the same. "I'd benefit from sleeping," he mutters.
"Mhm." You hum in response, refusing to give up as you trace your fingers along the stretched-out collar of his pyjama shirt. You pull on it, gently, and press your lips to that spot between his neck and shoulder that you know is sensitive. "You're so tense, though."
"Maybe because there's a serial killer in my bed trying to—" His breath catches as your teeth graze his skin. "…seduce me."
"This isn't seduction," you murmur, pressing your face to the crook of his neck.
"It's starting to feel like it," he says stiffly.
You lift your head to peer over at him. His flushed cheeks. His closed eyes. "Is it working?"
"No."
There's a weakness behind the resolve he speaks with, barely noticeable, like he might not mean what he's saying but is also dangerously close to kicking you out (of the bed, if you're lucky; of the apartment, if you're not). Whether he means it or not, you're pushing the limit—that much is obvious.
So, with a defeated sigh, you pull back, already mentally scanning his bookshelves for an interesting read.
But you're barely three feet from him when he grabs your arm, holding it firm. He turns over to face you, and he gives your arm a gentle tug. An invitation.
You let him pull you in, settling down beside him as he drapes his arm over your waist. He's cuddling you, but he's leaving just enough room to allow himself plausible deniability; "we aren't cuddling", he'll say, "we're just lying together—look, we're barely even touching".
You meet his gaze in the dark. The moonlight seeping in through the blinds casts his face in shadow, but it illuminates your own. You want him to pull you closer, but he doesn't.
He doesn't do anything; he just watches you, studying you or, if you want to be delusional, admiring you with this fond, sleepy look that you can just about make out through the shadows. Heavy eyelids, relaxed brows, the picture of perfection.
"We could make it quick," you broach, smiling.
Spencer scoffs. He shakes his head, nuzzles the pillow as he groans in quiet, steadily simmering frustration.
"Okay, maybe not quick, but…" you inch yourself closer, reaching up to cup his cheek. "We can optimise it? You're all about efficiency, right?"
He huffs, sounding almost amused by your offer, but he still shakes his head. "And how, exactly, would we do that? You and I both know that your libido is obnoxious—"
"We could forgo the condoms," you suggest, cutting him off. "That'll save about…fifteen seconds per round."
"No."
There's no weakness behind the word, this time, but his firm tone isn't enough to scare you off.
"It adds up, you know."
"No," he repeats. "How many times are we going to have this conversation?"
"Until you admit that I'm right."
"Oh, you're right?"
"The condoms serve no purpose." You're a broken record, at this point, repeating variations of the same sentiment only to be met with the same response: no, no, and no. If you're starting to sound a little exasperated, it's because you are. But, even so, you persist. "We're both clean, and I know you only insist on using them to spite me," you say, trying to bite back any frustration threatening to taint your voice. You take a deep breath, watching as Spencer's expression hardens further, before bravely continuing, "I can buy plan B. I can go on birth control, if that's what you want—but we both know it isn't."
Spencer's fingers twitch against your waist, and he shifts in the bed. He starts pulling away, as though distancing himself from you physically will make what you're saying any less true.
"You don't want me on birth control, Spence." You prop yourself up on your elbow, lowering your tone to something seductive, almost sinister. "You want the risk."
"That's enough," he says. He turns onto his back, fixes his gaze on the ceiling as you roll your eyes.
"Honestly, I don't see the point in depriving yourself of something you clearly want, especially when I want it, too."
"You don't know what I want."
You purse your lips, letting the silence sit for a moment before you move closer to him. "I know you want kids," you say.
He doesn't respond to that. He just keeps staring at the ceiling, and you can see his jaw muscles working, clenching and unclenching, in the low light.
"Little geniuses running around, wreaking havoc…top of all their classes, just like daddy." You continue your assault in the softest, most sympathetic tone you can manage. Your voice turns to honey as you speak. "I could give you that, Spence. We'd have cute kids, don't you think?"
You feel him tense as you brush your fingerprints against his chest. Feel the way he stops breathing entirely as you skim along the fabric of his pyjama shirt and work your way down, slowly, to the waistband of his pants.
"You could put a baby in me right now," you murmur. "You just have to let go…give in…"
Your fingers barely dip under his pants before the tension snaps. He shoves you, hard, and sends you tumbling backward. Your back hits the mattress, and you're left slightly winded.
"You're sick," he spits.
You make no effort to get up, but you do shoot him a smile as you say, "I'm honest."
"You are sick. Why would I— no, I'm not doing this."
With a huff, he gets out of bed. You watch as he heads for the door (to go where, you aren't sure), and he looks, for a moment, like he might actually storm out, leave you all alone in his apartment. The thought leaves you slightly nauseous.
But then he turns back to you with a scowl. "Why the fuck would I want to— …have children with a serial killer?"
He's trying so hard to keep his voice down. It's a shame, really, that he has neighbours on all sides—neighbours that respect him, that he respects—because you want nothing more than to see him lose his temper. You'd kill for it. Not literally, of course; you don't do that anymore.
You sit up, eyeing him curiously as you say, "I don't know, Spencer, why would you?"
"I don't."
You nod along with his declaration. The gesture's overly animated, exaggerated in a way that tells him you don't believe a word of what he says, and by the sour expression on his face it's clear he would have preferred it if you had just laughed in his face.
The sheets rustle as you shift, perching yourself on the edge of the bed, eyes wide with an unapologetic amusement. You shrug and click your tongue as you breathe out a wistful sigh. "So those…dreams you had, I guess they meant nothing—"
Spencer crosses the room in an instant and, before you can finish your sentence, he's grabbing your jaw with such force it makes you gasp. You can feel his nails digging into your skin as he looms over you, angling your fact up to meet his cold gaze. The moon serves as a backlight, casting his tall frame in a harsh shadow.
"You don't get to use that against me," he says, voice unnaturally quiet. Calm. It's a warning, one that you'd probably heed with some semblance of seriousness if this weren't so fun.
"So I'm just supposed to pretend you weren't dreaming about having a family with me?" you ask, pushing the conversation (the argument, really) that little bit further. "It's a pretty difficult thing to overlook, Spence."
The fact that his face is obscured does very little to hide the way your words leave him seething. You can feel it in the tremble of his fingers, as though he's fighting an itch. A violent one.
God, what if he hits you? Now that would be fun.
"You never know when to stop, do you?" he asks softly.
"All I've done is state facts—"
"All you've done is piss me off."
You flinch when he moves, expecting—hoping—that his hand will meet your cheek, leave you with a mark that'll still be there in the morning, but it doesn't.
"And you know what? It worked." He tightens his grip on your face and, instead of hitting you, he starts tugging at the drawstring of his pyjama pants. "Congratulations, Love, you did it."
You aren't sure there's much of a connotation between pissed off and rock hard, but you make no attempt to argue with him, not when he's standing right in front of you like this, pants around his ankles, cock so close you'd barely have to move to get a taste.
"You want it?" His voice takes on a gentle, almost soothing tone as he brushes your hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear. "You want this cock, right? That's why you're being such a brat?"
You couldn't make your answer more obvious if you tried; you're staring, wide-eyed, lips parted like you're about to start fucking drooling over the sight of him. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your gaze before saying with a smirk, "I'm actually just doing it for fun—"
The yelp that escapes you when he pulls your hair doesn't sound like you at all, but the moan that follows when he presses your face to his crotch does. His fingers curl in your hair, and you feel him tense slightly as you nuzzle him, breathing him in with an open mouth. You try to touch him, but he swats your hand away before tearing you from him completely.
"A yes would suffice," he says.
The pain of his iron grip makes you wince, and you can feel yourself already beginning to grow smaller, quieter, as you look up at him and say, "…yes."
With his free hand, Spencer cups your cheek. The tender brush of his thumb against your skin clashes with the discomfort of him pulling your hair. "Where do you want it?"
"Oh, come on."
All he does in response is tilt his head to the side; clearly, your whining has no effect on him. His patient silence, however, is enough to drive you crazy.
There's a burning in your core. It's been there all night, started as embers, and has since sparked into a blaze that's steadily breaking you down, making you desperate. And his touch, your position, it's only fuelling the fire.
"…I want it inside me," you mutter. You're clenching your thighs, trying to stifle the burning. "My pussy. Nowhere else."
Spencer hums, thoughtfully, in response. His fingers trace the edge of your cheekbone, trailing slowly down to your jaw where he angles your head up that little bit further and asks, in an agonisingly gentle tone, "You think you deserve that?"
You laugh, but even that sounds desperate now. You've lost your edge. "You're kidding, right?"
"Oh, I'm serious," he says, keeping his voice smooth and low. "All that back talk, all that…relentless pestering, you think I should let you have your way after that?"
You open your mouth to retort, but your words fail you. There's a sinking feeling in your stomach now, and it worsens with each second that passes once you realise his game. A small, pleading smile creeps up your face.
"If it's an apology you want, then—"
"I don't want an apology," he says, cutting you off, "we both know you wouldn't mean a word of it. No, I'm done playing your games, Love." Releasing his grip on your hair, his hand moves to cradle the back of your head. "I think it's time someone put you in your place."
Despite his serious tone, you can't help but find humour in his words. "Like you? Come on, Spence, you're too spineless to—"
You never manage to finish that sentence on account of Spencer's cock pressing against your lips. You clench your teeth, shaking your head as you feebly attempt to deny him access, but his hand is quick to grasp your jaw, fingers pushing into the hollows of your cheeks as he forcibly coaxes your mouth open.
He shushes your protesting whines, telling you to "just take it, that's it" as he eases his cock into the warmth of your mouth. His gentle words disable whatever fight you had left, and you yield to him, taking him almost to the base as he strokes your hair, whispering soothing praises ("Good girl, there we go."), and you think, foolishly, that you're past the worst of it, until you feel his fingers curl into your hair.
Spencer's been rough with you before, you encourage it, but none of your past encounters compare to the harshness with which he abuses your throat. The moment you stop resisting, all of his gentleness vanishes; he holds you by your hair and thrusts into your mouth with no regard for your comfort, or the tears that well in your eyes, or the way you gag with every violent jerk of his hips.
You reach blindly for something to hold onto, and your hands settle on the backs of his thighs. Trembling fingers anchor themselves in his skin, not caring for the marks (or cuts; you're pretty sure your nails are doing some damage) they'll be leaving behind as he fucks your throat so hard the lack of oxygen is starting to make you dizzy.
It's not until he pulls out that you realise you're crying. You cough and sputter, tears streaming down your face as he holds you up by your hair, and you can't help but sniffle pathetically as he wipes the drool from your mouth.
"What's wrong?" he asks softly, pouting. He presses his thumb to the plush of your lower lip, pulls it down to reveal your teeth. "You don't like it?"
You're babbling without thinking, shaking your head and mumbling feverish nos and pleases until the words lose their meaning, silenced only by the force of his palm as it strikes your cheek.
The contact rips and involuntary sob from your throat, and you choke on the broken sound as the stinging quickly settles, deepening into an intense, burning ache. Just when you think you might catch your breath, he's guiding your mouth back to his cock—and this time, you don't try to put up a fight.
There's a warmth accumulating under your thighs, seeping into the sheets as he uses your throat like a toy. He's panting above you, cursing under his breath; occasionally he'll mutter some comment about your pretty mouth, how it's better when it's occupied as he buries himself so deep your nose meets the warm skin of his abdomen and you start to choke. You'll tap his thigh, frantic, and he'll hold you there until you see stars before letting go.
You know he's close when he starts whimpering. His rhythm starts to falter, his fingers tremble, and his breathing comes in uneven gasps as he tries to cling to the remnants of his composure.
"Fuck…" He throws his head back, keeping a tight grip on your hair as he bobs you up and down on his cock. The shift in his pace allows you room to breathe, to think, to actually try to suck him off instead of just sitting there.
And the second you do, he starts to come apart.
"Shit…I'm—" He hums, stifling a moan as you look up at him, meeting his gaze through tears.
You feel his cock twitch against your tongue, and you whimper around it—and that is what sends him over the edge.
"Oh, fuck….God," he whines as he finishes, painting your tongue with his release before gently easing you off of his cock. "Don't you dare swallow," he hisses, legs shaking slightly as he crouches down to be at your eye level. "Don't— shh…just keep it there, that's it. You said you wanted me to come in you, right? Then you better savour it, hadn't you?"
Tender hands cup your cheeks as you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn't wipe your tears, or your drool, or try to soothe the flush that's burning you from the inside out; he just watches you, a calm satisfaction in his brown eyes as he murmurs, "Oh, poor baby…"
After giving your sore cheek a light tap, he rejoins you on the bed and gently coaxes you into his lap, ensuring his hands sit secured on your waist as you straddle him, sniffling. You try to lean on him, to hide away in the crook of his neck, but he holds you back. Returning his hands to your face, he dons a mocking pout as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
"That wasn't very nice of me, was it?" he asks, keeping his tone painfully kind as he holds you. "See what happens? If you hadn't pushed so hard, I wouldn't have done it. Shh…"
One hand drops to your thigh, slips up under the hem of your shirt (his shirt; you don't wear much of your own clothes when you're here). He presses his palm to your lower stomach, and the contact alone is enough to make you whine as he studies you with this cool, almost analytical look.
You aren't wearing panties (why would you be?), so when his fingers dip between your thighs there's no questioning how wet you are. You're dripping, and with every moment you spend like this, holding his salty release in your mouth, your need only worsens.
And that need drives you to lift your hips in a feeble, uncoordinated attempt to get to his cock—he's soft, sure, but you're sure you'd be able to get him going again, if he let you—but, before you can try anything, he cups your leaking cunt with his hand, creating a barrier between you and what you want most.
All you can do is whimper and grind pitifully against his palm, soaking his hand as you try to convey, without words, just how badly you need him. As though, if you're lucky, he might give in.
But he doesn't. He lets his gaze trail lazily up your body—your bare legs, his hand between your thighs, you in his clothes—before settling on your face, and he raises an eyebrow. "Is that the best you can do?" he asks, leaning in close. The sound of his voice, that disconcerting mix of mockery and softness, makes your stomach churn. "Just hump my hand and make stupid little noises. What happened, Love? Tell me…" He brushes his nose against your own before clicking his tongue. "Oh, right, your mouth is full. Sorry about that. Go on, swallow for me…"
You do as he says without question, swallowing his seed until only the aftertaste remains, and your obedience earns a smile.
"Open your mouth," he says. "There we go…"
As you part your lips, Spencer sets his thumb on your bottom teeth, holding your mouth open so he can inspect it thoroughly.
"I can't see too well in the dark," he murmurs, "but your throat is probably bruised. Did it hurt to swallow?"
"Uh huh…"
God, you sound like your throat's bruised. Your voice comes out raw and shaky. Pathetic.
"Good."
He catches your open mouth in a kiss, and you go so weak you almost collapse against him. You grasp his shoulders, steadying yourself as he breathes new life into you, but your composure fast unravels as his fingers tease your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make you whine into his mouth.
"Spence," you breathe, tearing away from him before you lose yourself, "please…pleasepleaseplease…"
"Please what?"
"Fuck me." there's no sugarcoating your request, not now. "Please, Spence, I can't do this…"
Spencer purses his lips for a moment, leaning back as his fingers continue their slow teasing. "I think you're doing just fine," he says, shrugging. "I'd even go as far as to say you're doing really well."
That tone. The mocking praise. You're going insane, you're sure of it.
"No. No—" A sharp gasp cuts through you as he rubs the ball of his hand against your clit. "Spencerr…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…please, just— fuck…"
Seeing you starting to lose it, Spencer bows his head, hiding his smile as presses his lips to the side of your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the sensitive skin. "What are you sorry for, honey?"
"God…if— if you want information, I'll give it to you," you whisper, frantic. Your hips buck against his hand, desperate for more of him. "You want the location of a body? Two? I'll tell you; I promise. I'll— I'll tell you anything, Spence…anything you want—"
"I asked you a question," he says, keeping his tone light as he cuts you off. He lets his mouth linger on your neck for a moment longer before he raises his head to look at you. "What are you sorry for, hm? You do know what you're apologising for, right?"
"I do…I do…"
"Uh huh. Then tell me."
"I-I was being annoying, and pushy…and I crossed a line, mentioning kids," you explain, nodding anxiously. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Spence. I-I won't do it again…promise."
Spencer nods along with you, pursing his lips in thought. "Wow," he murmurs, "you almost sound like you mean it."
"I do," you say, trying (and failing) to keep your voice firm despite your trembling.
"Yeah? You're sorry?"
"'m sorry…"
To your surprise, Spencer looks disappointed.
His gaze drops once more to his hand between your legs, and you swear you see him frown. "Hm. That's a shame, really…I quite like this; punishing you, letting you make a mess of yourself…" he gathers your arousal on his fingers, drawing out a low whine before bringing those fingers to your mouth. The taste of yourself mixed with the aftertaste of him makes your fucking head spin.
And then you feel the tip of his cock part your slick folds. It brushes your clit, and you almost come apart right there.
"I like you like this," he continues, talking over your incessant whimpers, "all desperate and stupid, such a change from your usual self…I could do this all day long."
The mere suggestion is enough to make you sob around his fingers; or maybe it's the way the head of his cock keeps nudging your entrance, leaving you clenching around nothing, like your body is trying to suck him in.
"…but you really want this, don't you?" he asks.
"Mhm…" You're humming along in agreement before you can form a meaningful response. Your brain's working at a third of its regular speed, your words are scattered across space, maybe time, too. Even as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, every sentence you reach for disintegrates before you can speak it.
But if you've ever had a chance to win him over, to win this stubborn little war you've been fighting for months now, then this is it. Maybe you don't need to think in order to convince him, maybe well-formed sentences and snarky arguments haven't been working in your favour at all; maybe you just need to be desperate. As desperate as possible. Throw everything you have at him and pray that you hit a soft spot.
"You do, too, don't you?" you ask, making yourself sound as helpless as possible. "Please, Spence— angel, tell me you want this…"
A slight twitch of his brows tells you he likes the nickname; even if your efforts are in vain, you can still file that little fact away for later.
"I'm sorry for being such a pain, I really am. I just like you…so fucking much, and— and I don't know what to do with it sometimes…but come on, angel, please…" You touch your forehead to his, cupping his cheeks with trembling hands. "I need you inside me, no condom, just this once," you murmur, giving a tentative rock of your hips, watching the way he shudders as you grind against his length. "I…I wanna feel you…wanna be yours, please…"
Spencer is sweating. You feel his cock jump, straining against you, and you watch the way he bites the inside of his cheek. Tilting your head, you try to kiss him, but he dodges.
He purses his lips tight as his gaze drops to his hips, to the way his cock is so perfectly lined up with your entrance—and you're soaked, it would be so easy to just…
Leaning back, he gestures to the pillows and sighs. "Go. Face down, ass up."
His mutterings sound almost reluctant, but all you hear is a victory. Refusing to give him time to change his mind, you don't hesitate to climb off of him and settle into position like a well-trained dog: chin resting on your forearms, back arched, sodden pussy on display for him.
You can hear him shifting, hear the faint rustle of bedsheets as he comes up behind you, and the seconds seem to drag on for eternity. Each one seems longer than the last, making you stew in your anticipation until it's almost unbearable.
But then you hear something you don't expect; the last thing you want to hear.
A poorly stifled rip. The crinkle of latex.
The sound hits harder than the slap you took from him just moments ago, breaking you free from your mindless obedience as you realise, to your horror, what he's doing.
"No. Nonono—"
You try to move, to get away, but Spencer's grabbing your hips, fingers digging into the skin as he sinks into you with one brutal thrust. The pain makes you see static, but it doesn't hurt half as much as the betrayal.
You really thought you'd won. That it was that easy.
How stupid.
Tears stream down your face, your body struggling to adjust to the sudden intrusion as he stuffs you so full you swear you can feel him in your stomach. An awful noise escapes you, half moan, half cry, as you desperately shake your head, and it isn't until you hear your own voice that you realise you're pleading with him; strings of broken nos and stops are tumbling from your lips like despairing prayers.
But your God is cruel, and your prayers go ignored. Maybe he rejoices in them, you don't know.
Unfortunately, you're loud. Much too loud for the thin walls of his apartment. So he does what little he can and shoves your face into the pillow, forcing you to bite the soft fabric and muffle your cries, leaving only the creak of the bed, and the sound of skin against skin as he ruts into you.
"You didn't think I'd actually let you have your way, did you?"
His voice above you is oddly quiet, almost tender in a way that entirely contradicts the way he's treating you. And, as soon as he finishes speaking, he's yanking you up by your hair, letting you gasp and whine before his hand finds your throat.
He brings you closer, close enough to nip at your ear as he murmurs, "And if you really like me that much, you should be grateful that I'm doing this at all. I could've easily thrown you out on the street like the…fucking vermin you are."
Soft lips press a kiss to the side of your neck before he throws you back down and continues at his unforgiving pace. All you can do is cry into the pillow, choking out the occasional plea for him to stop, or to slow down, even though you know he isn't going to listen.
"You're quite the…actor, aren't you?" he asks, breathing growing ragged under the strain of his movements. "That apology of yours…you almost had me— fuck…you almost had me convinced…I'm sorry, Spence. I wanna be yours, Spence…sounding so damn helpless…and now you're actually helpless, aren't you? How's it feel?"
"P-please— Spence, I can'tt…I can't t-take it—"
"Yes, you can…you wanna be mine, right?" He slips a hand down to your ass, gives it a firm squeeze before pulling back and spanking it hard, relishing the way you cry out beneath him. "Then be good for me…and take it."
Before the stinging can subside, he gives your ass another forceful spank before gripping your hips once more, keeping you steady as he fucks you. The pain shoots through you like a flash of lightning, and it goes straight to your head, turns your brain to putty.
You mindlessly try to back up against him, meet his thrusts and bring yourself over the edge, but you're sloppy. You've no rhythm, not when you're like this, and all it does is make Spencer's grip that much tighter as he holds you in place.
"And don't you even think about coming," he hisses. "You don't deserve that, so just—"
"Please—"
"Just shut up." He holds you down as you try, weakly, to raise your head. "And let me fuck you."
Your pleas devolve into senseless moans as the last of your resolve crumbles, and you give in to him, letting the pillow absorb your obscene noises as Spencer thrusts into you so hard you think you start to think you'll pass out before he's through with you.
The rest of your body goes limp as your thighs strain and tremble, muscles growing tighter with each cruel jerk of his hips. Your core is on fire, desperate for a release that he won't allow you, and one that you no longer have the willpower to pursue yourself.
"You…are so fucking pretty like this. God, take me so well— fuck…" His breath stutters as his hips falter, and he forces his next words out through a groan. "…feels so good to use you—"
To use you.
To use you, like you've been using him. This isn't just revenge, or punishment, for just being a nuisance, for poking sore spots in his psyche by mentioning kids; this is revenge for everything, for the months (almost a year now) of hell you've put him through. It's only fair, in a sense, that you lay down for him as he has, time and again, for you; it's Newton's third law, and this is just the beginning.
He almost collapses on top of you when he finishes. Barely able to hold himself up, he pants against your neck, hot breath fanning over sweat slick skin as he tries to regain his composure.
You're incoherent, barely aware of the world around you, or of the way you let out a shameless, broken whine when he pulls out.
The bed creaks as he gets up to dispose of the godforsaken condom, then groans as he settles back down beside you. His fingers skim, touch feather-light, along your spine over the sodden fabric of your shirt, and all you can muster in response is a defeated little whimper.
He doesn't speak; he just gently coaxes you into his arms, brings your head to his chest, smooths out your hair as you both just breathe. When you sniffle, he shushes you, wipes still-wet tears from your cheeks.
Once you've found the strength to speak, you insult him. Whinge about how mean he was, how you're barely going to be able to talk, let alone walk, tomorrow.
Spencer listens to your shaky complaints with a smile, nodding along thoughtfully, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head before murmuring, "It wasn't anything you didn't deserve."
spencer reid x f!reader
(she/her pronouns used for reader-insert)
18+ smut
wc: 4.2k
my mastertag & my ao3
She and Spencer are the last to arrive at the hotel, so they’re informed of the limited number of rooms and are handed keycards by the young concierge running the front desk.
They get along fine; she’s sure it won’t be too difficult to have to sleep in the same room for a few days, until she looks at him and sees him gulping and asking, “There really aren't any rooms left?”
She tries to mask her hurt as the boy running the desk repeats his explanation of the local event in town that has booked them solid.
She’s always found Spencer attractive, literally since her first day, but he’s pretty closed off when she tries to talk to him about anything that’s not work-related, so she’s taken that as a hint that he doesn’t feel the same way. He won’t even be alone in the same room as her, always finding excuses to go elsewhere.
When they get to the room, she’s relieved for both of their sakes that there are two queen beds and that they won’t have to share. As much as she would love to be cuddled up to him all night, she knows that he’d probably rather sleep on the floor.
He places his bag on the bed closest to the door (such a gentleman, she can’t help but think), so she places hers on the other, before turning on the lamp between the beds.
She asks him if it’s okay if she takes the first shower, and he nods, “Yeah, of course.”
It’s then that she realizes her mistake. She only has one real pair of pajamas in her bag, and it’s a thin, silky set with laced edges. She has a few oversized T-shirts that she could sleep in, but she normally only wears underwear with them, and she doesn’t want to completely traumatize Spencer.
She finally just grabs the matching tank top and shorts along with her toiletry bag and glances up to give Spencer a small and polite smile. He’s sitting criss-crossed on his bed with a book in his lap. He’s already looking at her with a crease between his eyebrows, which surprises her.
“You okay?” he asks, with a slight tilt to his head.
Sometimes she hates being surrounded by profilers all of the time. Of course, he could basically smell her internal pajama dilemma.
“No, yeah, all good. I’m just gonna…” She points to the bathroom and rushes inside.
She leans against the door and huffs out a breath while shaking her head. It’s just pajamas, she thinks. He might even be asleep by the time she gets out, anyway. They had a long day and will have to wake up early tomorrow to have an even longer one.
She gets through her shower and skincare routine efficiently and mindlessly. She slips into the set and takes a deep breath before braving the room again.
She rarely even thinks about her piercings. She’s had them for so long that they rarely cross her mind. She does check her reflection after putting the tank on, and she can’t see any sign of them through the fogged mirror.
What she doesn’t think about or account for is that the warm air of the bathroom had softened her breasts, so when she enters the cool air of the room, her nipples harden, and the thin barbells are on full display through her tank top.
Spencer’s head perks up at the sound of the door opening, and his eyes widen so far that she’s afraid they’ll swallow his eyebrows.
“Oh…” he breathes out.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I wasn’t exactly planning on having to share a room with anyone.” She tries to wave him off. She’s already thinking about running to a store tomorrow to get literally anything else to sleep in.
“No…um… I-it’s okay! You…um…look nice.” His awkward tone and stuttering are making her feel so guilty. She really didn’t want this to be a big deal. She glances up at him to genuinely apologize and to explain herself when she sees his eyes locked on her chest.
She follows his eyeline and is greeted with the sight of her own nipple piercings poking through the tank top.
“Oh fuck!” She quickly turns around and crosses her arms over her breasts.
“Shit, Spencer, I’m so sorry. Really, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I can go ask JJ and Emily if I can sleep in their room. Fuck, I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay… I’m not uncomfortable,” he whispers, and she glances over her shoulder to see him pulling at the crotch of his dress pants.
Oh, he is uncomfortable, but not in the way that she had thought. Should she ignore it for the sake of professionalism? Part of her wants to tease him about it, but she knows he’s sensitive and she doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.
She sits on the edge of the bed with her back to him and tilts her head up towards the ceiling. She barely knows how to navigate normal conversations with him, let alone something like this. She feels like she’s being punished by some higher power. For what, exactly? She has no idea.
She feels the bed shift beside her, so she peeks over to see Spencer sitting next to her, eyes focused on the floor, with a grey hoodie in his hands.
“Here, um, you can wear this… if you want to.” He holds it out to her.
“Thanks,” she whispers and takes it from his hands. She pulls it over her head and down her body, pulling at the sleeves to cover her hands.
“How do I look? Better?” she jokes, meeting his eyes now. She’s peering at him through her eyelashes, and his breath gets caught in his throat at the sight of her. Her damp hair is still tucked inside the neck of the sweater. He wants to reach over and fix it for her, but refrains. His fingers are twitching in his lap with the desire, however.
“Beautiful, you always do,” He murmurs. Pink blooms in his cheeks, spreading down to his neck. He already feels guilty for making things awkward and is internally kicking himself for making things worse by saying that.
She’s speechless at his admission, mouth falling open and then promptly shutting again.
He quickly rises from her bed, beelining for his pile of pajamas and toiletry bag. Of course, he has the most normal pair of pajamas on earth: flannel printed pants and a T-shirt.
“Sorry, uh, I need to shower too… So I’m going to do that… now.” He nods, his face fading from pink to red. He’s holding his belongings in front of his crotch.
She tries to ignore the way her heart flutters at the fact that he is still so considerate of her comfort while dealing with his own issue. Not that she thought Spencer would take advantage of her, but he wouldn’t have been the first man to put his own needs before hers.
She can feel the weight of her crush on him growing in her chest.
She smiles and nods at him, and he scurries into the bathroom.
As he showers, she lotions her legs and braids her hair, before settling underneath the duvet. Staring at the ceiling, she nuzzles her nose into his sweatshirt and feels pleasantly lightheaded as she inhales the sweet aroma of his cologne and detergent. She hopes he doesn’t ask for it back and wonders if she could find out which cologne he uses so she can replace the scent when it starts to fade.
When he exits the bathroom, he’s quick to turn off the light so as not to bother her with the bright glare. She can smell his evergreen body wash as he crosses the room. His hair is damp, and his pajama pants are set low on his hips. As she tries to subtly scan his body, she’s startled to meet his eyes as hers ascend.
Her cheeks feel warm as she pulls at the blanket and stutters, “Um… Cute pajamas.”
Spencer chuckles and ducks his head, “Thanks.”
After carefully folding his worn clothes from the day, he sets them carefully on top of the dresser. He pulls back the blankets on his bed, relaxes into the sheets, then scoots closer to her to be able to reach the lamp between them. He politely asks, “Is it okay if I turn this off?”
She turns on her side to face him, both hands tucked under her cheek, and nods with a small smile. “Yeah. Goodnight, Spence.”
He clicks the switch off as he softly replies, “Goodnight. Sweet dreams.”
She feels a smile turn her lips upward at his sincerity and sweetness before she whispers back, “Sweet dreams.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
She doesn’t remember falling asleep when she wakes up overheated a few hours later. Sitting up in bed, she pulls off Spencer’s hoodie and flings her legs over the side to quickly use the bathroom.
That’s when she hears a quiet whimper coming from Spencer. She rubs her eyes and blinks a few times in an attempt to make them focus in the dark room, staring intensely at his bed. He’s asleep on his stomach, emitting a few more noises as his hips adjust on the mattress. For a moment, she thinks he’s having a bad dream.
If it wasn’t for the steady creaking of a spring in the mattress underneath him, and the rhythmic tapping of the headboard against the wall, that is. Her lips fall open as she realizes what he’s doing.
His whimpers cascade into moans, and she decides to scamper into the bathroom, hoping to give him some privacy and planning to spend enough time in there for him to… finish. Just before her hand touches the handle, she hears him mumble her name.
Quickly turning around, her eyes widen, thinking he’s woken up. He hasn’t. Her eyes find him in the same position as before, and more moans and groans fall from his mouth. It’s the middle of the night, and she’s not thinking straight. Maybe she imagined it? He couldn’t possibly be having a wet dream about–
He moans her name again.
What the fuck is she supposed to do? She could wake him up, but she doesn’t want to embarrass him. The longer she thinks about it, her bathroom plan is pretty shit, as well. Assuming he wakes up after he cums, he’ll need to use it to clean himself up. Maybe she should just go back to bed and pretend like this never happened?
He turns over onto his back, and she can see the flushed, leaking tip of his cock peeking through the top of his waistband. She’s frozen in place as she watches his hips shift upward, seeking friction in the air. Unconsciously, she licks her lips at the sight of him.
She simultaneously feels bad for him and grateful that his actions have stopped.
He’s still lightly whining and whimpering as she finally turns the handle to the bathroom door and slips inside.
Flicking on the light, she squints her eyes at the bright intrusion. She quickly uses the toilet and huffs at her rumpled reflection as she washes her hands. Her hair is both frizzy and flat, and her face is flushed and frantic.
Her mind is absolutely reeling; she feels so overwhelmed. Does Spencer not hate her? Maybe his brain just couldn’t help itself after the eyeful he got earlier. He’s just a horny man, and she’s just a nearby woman, she’s sure.
As she flicks the light back off and pulls the door open, she’s shocked to see that the lamp has been turned back on in the room. She peeks her head through the door and finds Spencer sitting up in his bed with his head in his hands. As the door clicks shut behind her, he shifts his hands to look at her with a horrified expression. She gives him an awkward, closed-lip smile as she stands with her back to the door.
He mumbles, “Did I wake you up?” and avoids eye contact.
She chews on her bottom lip. “No. Not technically… I woke up because I was too hot– Overheated, I mean.”
Spencer nods mindlessly. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He finally looks at her, then, with a pointed look, “You know what.”
She exhales amusedly and nods, glancing around the room, not sure what to do. She finally steps away from the bathroom door, walking towards the gap between their beds. Pointing at the edge of his, she asks, “Can I sit?”
Nodding, he scoots over to make room for her before she perches on his mattress. He’s fiddling with his hands and digging under his fingernails, cheeks red and hair ruffled.
“I’m not upset with you or anything.” She starts.
His eyebrows are scrunched as he questions her, “Really?”
She sets a hand on his leg, over the blanket, and his muscles tense. “Yes, really. I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”
His eyes widen with pure fear, “How’d you know–”
“You said my name.” She informs him with an empathetic smirk.
He groans and covers his face again, sinking against the headboard. She gently squeezes his calf, “Spencer, it’s okay. I feel… that way… about you, too. I thought you hated me, or something, though.”
He sarcastically snorts, “Well, obviously not…” Lowering his hands, he feebly adds, “I couldn’t be around you.” She flinches. “I mean, I-I couldn’t think straight with you near me. I still can’t…”
She nods in understanding, pursing her lips for a moment as she thinks. Pointing to his waist, she asks, “Did you…?”
His face blushes even more, red painting his cheeks and ears. “Did I what?”
With a smirk, she clarifies, “Did you cum?” He shakes his head no. “Do you want to?”
He inhales so abruptly and sharply that he chokes and coughs before apprehensively nodding. She bites her lip as she rises from his mattress, facing him as she pulls her tank top up and off her body. His eyes glue to her breasts, to the silver barbells pierced through her nipples, and he softly whines while tilting his head against the headboard. She pulls her shorts down, next – revealing her bare pussy for him.
His eyes dart all over her body, always returning to her breasts, as he palms himself through his pants. Kneeling on the bed, she pulls the blanket away from his body. She looks at him expectantly, and he suspends his actions. She wordlessly glances down at his crotch, and he scrambles to pull his pants and underwear down, kicking them off his ankles as his flushed cock curves up against his stomach.
With a pleased grin, she gets on the bed and settles on his thighs. Spencer is clenching the sheets, white-knuckled, tense, and is barely breathing. Wrapping a hand around his length, he squeezes his eyes closed, and his head thuds against the headboard, “Fuck–”
With her other hand, she tugs on the hem of his T-shirt. Voice low, she asks, “Can you take this off, too?”
Jerkily nodding, he pulls the garment off and tosses it to the floor. He’s flushed down to his chest as she marvels at his body, trailing a hand down his freckled torso. Leaning forward, she kisses at his neck and whispers, “You are very pretty.”
He’s still dreaming, right? There’s no way this is real. There’s no way she’s–
Her piercings glisten even in the low light that the lamp provides. The weight of her on his thighs feels real, her hand on his dick feels real, this has to be real.
His silence sends a jolt of panic through her, so she pulls back from his neck and loosens her grip around him. “Is this okay?”
He nods enthusiastically, “Yes. Yes. Please.”
She lightly laughs and raises both hands to his face, swiping his hair to the sides. Placing his hands on her hips, he pulls her closer until he can feel her warm slick on his cock. Slightly ducking his head, he crashes his lips to hers, his grip tightening as their tongues connect and glide together.
He whimpers as she rolls her hips against him. The pressure is relieving, but it’s still not enough. Their lips are shiny as they pull away from the kiss, and his eyes flicker between her breasts and where their bodies meet. She reaches for his hands and moves them up to her tits, encouraging him to touch and play with them.
Gently squeezing, he rubs his thumbs over her pierced nipples. “Did they hurt?”
She chuckles, “Yes, but not anymore. You can do whatever you want–”
Dipping down, he takes one in his mouth, running his tongue over the cold metal. She sighs and tilts her head back, continuing her grinding against him. He sucks and licks and runs his teeth over her nipple, revelling in the feeling of the barbell in his mouth. After leaving it sufficiently wet and shiny with his spit, he leaves a mark on the top of her breast before switching to the other one.
Shifting his hands on her body, he squeezes her hips with one and places the other on the back of her head, before swiftly flipping them so he’s hovering over her. Her legs wrap around his waist, and a small squeal escapes her as he lands on top of her.
Chuckling, he lowers his head to her neck and whispers, “Shhh, we have to be quiet.”
As he sucks more marks along her collarbones, she tangles her fingers in the back of his hair, lowly whining and sultrily asking, “Are you gonna make me?”
He lifts his head from the junction of her neck – eyes dark with desire and pupils expanded. Crashing his lips to hers, he immediately deepens their kiss, muffling her noises. He trails a hand down her body – taking the time to squeeze and twist her nipples some more until she’s whimpering and jutting her hips against his. As he continues his descent, his fingers skim down her side until he reaches her thigh. He holds her there as their mouths persist, grinding his dick against her. The underside of him slides against her clit with ease.
After a particularly bold contact of their centers, she whimpers, “Please,” into his mouth.
He shifts his hand over to her cunt, sliding his fingers through her slick folds, and moans into her neck, “You’re so wet.”
“I need you,” She whispers in response, making his cock twitch against her stomach. He’s certainly the largest partner she’s ever been with, the tip of him reaching past her belly button. She clenches around nothing and wonders dumbly how he’ll even fit inside of her.
As he pushes a finger inside her entrance, they moan in tandem at the feeling. She thrusts against him, needing more, more, more. His forehead falls to her shoulder as he plunges his finger in and out of her, gently kissing her skin as he pushes a second one inside of her. The metal in her nipples grazes his chest and feels cool against his warm skin.
She’s whining and twisting her body under him, losing patience with each thrust and crook of his hand.
Spencer murmurs, “I know, baby. Just one more,” as he stretches her with a third finger, and her nails pierce the skin at his lower back. She appreciates his consideration and thoroughness in preparing her, but her veins are buzzing with anticipation, and she feels dizzy with it.
Removing his fingers, she whines at the loss. He promptly pops his fingers into his mouth, eyes rolling back as he tastes her on them. “You taste so good,” he tells her, and they both think about future endeavors where he can bury his head between her thighs.
It’s then, as Spencer adjusts himself between her legs, one hand around his cock and the other on her hip, that his horny brain remembers something important. “Fuck– I don’t have a condom.”
She rolls her eyes and scoffs, “Oh my god, I don’t care. Just get inside me.”
“But what about– I know I’m good, but–”
“Spencer. I don’t have any STDs, and I’m on the pill. Please, fuck me.”
He nods, mutters, “Right– Good– Okay,” as he lines himself up with her entrance. He slides his tip through her folds a few times, and she groans as her palms span over his ass, pulling him towards her.
“Stop teasing me,” she whines.
He bites his lower lip. “I’m sorry. You’re just so beautiful.”
Finally pushing inside of her, the thick stretch of his tip has her leaning her head back and moaning loudly, too loudly for the thin walls of the hotel. Spencer gently grabs her jaw and presses his lips to hers as he continues driving himself inside of her – they both moan into each other's mouths.
As his cock buries the rest of the way inside of her, their pelvis’ slotting together like puzzle pieces, nobody has ever made her feel so full or been so deep inside of her before. She whimpers at the pressure in her stomach and is certain he’s pressing on her cervix.
Pulling back from their kiss, he tenderly brushes her hair away from her face and carefully watches her face as he pulls back a few inches and slowly presses back in. Her eyes squeeze shut as her nails dig into his back, “Fuck, Spence. You’re huge.”
He winces, “I-I know, I’m sorry.”
She laughs incredulously, and he feels it vibrate against his chest and around his dick, “Definitely don’t be sorry.” Interlocking her ankles behind his back, she shifts her hips upward, opening herself up for him even further. “C’mon, baby. Fuck me.”
Spencer nods, “Yes, okay.” Tentatively thrusting in and out of her, he groans and rests his forehead against hers, murmuring, “You feel so good.”
She matches his thrusts with upturns of her hips. They moan and whimper against each other's lips, too blissed out to kiss properly.
As he gets more confident and exact with his pace, she reaches between their bodies to touch herself, but he grabs her hand and intertwines their fingers, before using his other hand to rub steady circles over her clit. She clenches around him as their rhythm harmonizes, and he grunts in response. “I- Fuck– I’m getting close. I’m sorry.”
His eyes slide down to her breasts, and he’s enamored by how they jiggle and shift with each thrust. He sees her free hand moving to her tit and emits a protesting noise as he realizes he can’t reach her there without neglecting her elsewhere.
A tightness blooms in her lower belly, and her veins run cold underneath her hot skin. Deeply moaning, her legs tighten around his waist as she chases her climax. “‘m close, baby,” she tells him, and he curses as he watches her – as he watches what he’s done to her.
Going rigid underneath him, her walls pulse and flutter around him, and he can’t hold himself back anymore. “I’m gonna– Where do I– Can I–”
“Inside, inside, please,” she begs.
Spilling inside of her with a strangled grunt, he squeezes her hand as the aftershocks roll through him. Spencer collapses on top of her, his head settling between her breasts as he gasps for air. It doesn’t take him long to realize he’s crushing her hand and her body with his weight, so he loosens his grip and goes to shift off of her, but she holds him in place with a hand on the back of his head, “No, stay. Please.”
They lay in a comfortable silence, the only noise being their steady breathing. The more time that passes, the more she worries about whether this was a mistake. Their dynamic was already fragile; what if doing this together shattered everything?
Spencer seems to be able to hear her thinking and softly asks, “Are you okay?”
“Mhm,” she hums, but it comes out cracked.
He can hear her heartbeat quicken, and he wonders if she can feel his, too. “Do you regret it?”
She shakes her head. “No, do you?”
He shifts his head to look up at her, and her nerves soften as she looks into his sincere eyes. “No. I would like to take you on a date, though. I should’ve asked you a while ago.”
Smoothing his hair, she smiles. “I would love that.”
His eyes widen and brighten. “Really?”
She nods, then swallows. “Sorry if I’m being weird. I still can’t believe you don’t hate me.”
His shoulders drop, and he frowns. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I hate that I did.”
She shrugs and whispers, “It’s okay. I’m glad that you don’t.”
Chuckling and nodding, he scoots up her body and hovers his lips over hers. He whispers, “Can I kiss you?” and she giggles before leaning in and closing the gap between them.
Their dynamic has definitely changed, but hopefully for the better.
The next day, their eyes meet across the crowded precinct, and he doesn’t immediately look away like he did before. He stands next to her, elbows brushing, as the team converses. Morgan sends them shocked and incredulous glances, but they ignore him.
old draft i found in my notes app and finished up! idk if i'm in a rut or what but i hate everything i've written lately lol pls be gentle
-- In which reader wonders if there is something more to this life when Spencer makes her come.
I don't know what else to say other than that.
word count: 2.3k
tags: Spencer Reid x Reader, female reader, reader has a vagina, some talk about God and disbelief (reader is atheist), talk about reaching Nirvana, SMUT!, um fingering, fingers in mouth, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, reader is DESPERATE, one singular use of good girl (had to), one use of honey as a pet name, spencer takes control but he's not like insane about it, fear of vulnerability
a/n: this IS smut but it's mostly a reflection on vulnerability and fear of it so don't expect to jack off to this unless you get off to freudian theories
You have never gotten over the adolescent desire to run from intimacy.
Were you ever to confess this to Spencer (though you believe you don't have to, from the gentle way he seems to handle you) you think he'd spout something Freudian, and though he tells you he disregards and discredits the man, psychoanalyze you in the lens of the genital stage, failure to thrive, and so forth. Of course, he'd mostly be kidding, in a way that's too far above your IQ level for you to grasp.
In truth, your fear is as human as you are --vulnerability. The idea of shedding yourself in front of another, turning belly up and giving him the knife. It sickens. It deranges. Potentially, it degrades.
Which is why it's a struggle to surrender to the mounting pleasure between your legs.
Before this night you could never have imagined how Spencer could be in bed. Of course you did imagine it. Long, lonely nights, where the only touch you felt was your own and you ended feeling more dejected than when you began. You'd ponder on the stupidity of it all. Feelings, love, lust.
You're glad you didn't listen to your infantile fears.
You're grateful your shaky confidence urged you to finally ask him out for a drink (though, too late, you remembered he strays from alcohol, a fact he only felt keen to remind you of once you found purchase at the bar. He settled for a shirley temple; you, a cider. You felt foolish, and you're sure the loosening of your inhibitions isn't helping you much.)
But now his fingers arch, drawn like a magnet to that spot deep inside of you, and you can't bring yourself to care. You stifle a small whimper, magma spreading through your core, stars tingling in your fingertips as he works you in a way nobody else has been able to. Your thighs clench around his hand -- holding him in, keeping him out. He coaxes them back open with a self assured tap to your knee.
"Feel good?"
You only manage a small nod, breath catching against the shell of his ear. Any words you have have been melted, diluted, the alcohol working to keep you buzzing. You're not distinctly spiritual, but it's in moments like this you wonder if there is a God. You don't understand how humans contrived to create something so wonderful. You believe only the existence of a God can explain the way you feel. Maybe not even him. Maybe only Spencer.
"Need words, please." He hums, lips catching the underside of your chin. You hear the smugness in his voice and you want to hit him, fists balling in the sheets beneath you.
You're scared to speak. Scared that all that will slip past your lips is an earnest declaration of love, one derived slowly from the feeling he has created within you in this moment. You allow yourself a strangled, mewling "good," hips writhing up pathetically against his hand in search of more.
"Good?" He echos, voice teasing with mock disappointment. He brings his palm down harder anyway. For as much as he tries he can't seem to deny you. His generosity only serves to make you greedier. "Just good?"
"Spencer." You whimper, pleading. For more. For less. For anything he will give you.
"Hm?" His nonchalance is feigned as he adds a third finger, reveling in the way you sigh at the stretch, arching into him. "What do you want?"
The laugh you let out is strangled, and bemused.
You're sure your nails have left crescents on his back; you're sure you'll be apologizing for it later.
Right now, you don't care for much of anything.
You'd beg if he asked you to. The thought is thrilling as much as it is horrifying.
"Anything." You cringe at the desperation in your voice, moreso at the fact you mean it. You think you may be a vile woman. Preaching feminism, yet brought to begging by a man. His fingers are making you weak and you do nothing to stop it. You lay there as he unravels you, picks you apart at his leisure.
"Anything?" He echoes. You feel his amused grin against your cheek bone as he presses a gentle kiss against the corner of your mouth, far too soft for the moment. "I never knew you to be somebody who'd do anything."
"Reid." Your voice is sterner, now. Desperate.
"Oh, I'm Reid, now?" He jokes, hand moving up to cup your face tenderly as he slows the thrusts of his fingers, keeping you on a perpetual edge, an orgasmic purgatory.
"You're whatever gets me to come quickest." You mumble, impatience stewing in your bones. He laughs and it's like seeing the sun, bright and warm and comforting. His thumb runs over your lip and, on instinct, you take it into your mouth. You think you may not mind if you are vile. It got you here.
You watch as his eyes darken slightly, filling with a desire that makes your insides melt. Your tongue runs over the pad of his thumb and he presses down slightly, testing. You can't help but grin.
"Can I fuck you?"
You choke out a startled laugh, but it's cut short when he applies more pressure between your legs. Your breath catches. "I didn't know you used such crude language."
"I'm trying to be more direct." Is his only answer, hand still tracing patterns on your face, gaze still steady and sure. You look down and you see, for the first time, how hard he is -- straining through his pants.
"Oh." You whisper, cheeks flushing at the sight.
"What?" He asks, brow furrowing as he follows your gaze.
"I just didn't realize..."
"You didn't realize I was turned on?" His lips curl in a teasing half smile, but you can see the restraint behind it.
"I guess I didn't consider it." You confess, equally ashamed and abashed. "Sorry."
"Don't be. You were... distracted."
"I'm still distracted."
"Yeah. I know." Warm. Soft.
You let out a pitiful, sudden whine as his fingers resume their pace, limbs growing heavy with want. "I thought --" your words are cut off by a whimper and you have to bite your fist to keep yourself from crying out. "You don't have to keep going."
"I do." The sureness in his voice stills you, the way his face settles in concentration. His dedication stifles you. You let loose another moan.
"Really. Really. It's... please, Spencer." He digs his fingers in deep, drawing forth a shaky whimper from you that you're sure you'll never be able to make again. "I want to fuck you." Your words are pathetic. Pitiful. You want to feel embarrassed. Embarrassed that you're so turned on. Embarrassed that it's all for a man. The only thing you feel is want.
"We will, I promise." His breathing is heavier as he holds back his own want. "I just want to take care of you, first."
The coil in your body builds, drawing forth your innermost self, laying it out in front of him. You want to shrink, burrow into the blankets. Doing so would sever the connection, disrupt the pleasure. You can't fathom that reality. You stay open.
"You don't have to." You say, voice quiet, and needy, soft in a way you didn't know it could get.
"I do." He insists, pressing another kiss to your hairline. "I don't know how long l'll be able to last. I want you to feel good."
It hits like a wave of ultraviolet, permeating your muscles with purples and reds and oranges. You grab his wrist for stability, but it's otherworldly. Inhuman. Your eyes glaze over and your mind fogs. In that moment of nothingness -- the moment between pleasure and haze, you know what it means to be human. What it means to surrender to another, to put your most vulnerable parts into their hands and beg. The feeling crushes you entirely. You feel an idiot for having ever thought you could have avoided this.
It is the sound of your name on his lips that drags you out of the static, voice gentle against your ear. "You okay?" The hum you offer in return is paired with bleary bliss, a smile you can't seem to repress even if it does bring with it a flush down your neck.
"Yeah." You don't think you could hide the fondness in your voice if you tried. Endearment seeps from every crevice of your body. His eyes go soft when he notices your atypical warmth, hand brushing back the flyaways from your forehead.
"Yeah?" He echoes, voice equally fond.
You nod, nuzzling up against his palm. He plants a kiss on your cheek, harder than it needs to be, and you remember his need. His want.
"You still okay for me to...?"
You're probably overeager, but you don't care. All you do is sink back into the bed beneath you, opening yourself up to the man above you. He's haloed by the light of your apartment. It's the first time you've ever seen a man become an angel.
When he presses against you the sigh you let out is content. You can't bother to be embarrassed about it. You feel him press into you and you see stars.
What was that word? Degrading?
Because your instincts feel carnal? Animalistic?
Because you're splayed before him, raw, naked, breathless? Is there anything less human, than a vulnerability such as that? Is there anything less intrinsic?
There is no degradation in this act. To assume so is an insult to the Earth itself, to every living being that rests upon it. Spencer lets out a whimper in your ear and you're sure you know how Eve felt.
You would sacrifice Eden if it meant you could feel this again.
You're sure you're not that important. You're sure this moment in time is asinine. Right now, though, it feels like the world.
His hand grips your wrist lightly as he tentatively pins your hand above your head, a tenuous act, as if he may break you in the movement. There's enough pressure that you feel your own heartbeat hammering against his thumb. In the moment, you share a pulse.
He grows firmer when you arch against him, truer in his movements. Your last orgasm has made you floaty, and you don't mind if you come, but he's close -- so close -- and you think it may be impossible not to. You hear him talking but it's distant, and it's all you can do to hang on to him in this moment.
"I think about this all the time." His voice breaks as his free hand grips your hip. You're sure you'll have a bruise there tomorrow. You pray it never goes away.
"Yeah?" The hope in your voice is naive, yet you can't bring yourself to hide it.
"Oh, god. Yeah. Yeah." He assures, punctuating his words with a particularly deep thrust that makes you whimper. "All the time, honey. Really."
The use of endearment softens you further. You wouldn't be surprised if you're ruined for all others, shaped to him forever. When your nose buries against the crook of his neck you pray he can read your thoughts through the proximity.
His hand moves to your lower back, drawing you closer, and it's like the world is ending. You've been swallowed whole, consumed by a level of desire you were unaware you could possess. You tense around him and he knows you're close.
"Spence." The voice that comes out of you is unrecognizable, drawn forth only ever by this man, by this moment. He knows what you need.
His hand draws you closer and he mumbles a gentle, strained "I know" against your ear.
"Together, okay? Can you do that?"
"Uh huh."
His hand moves down to touch you and you wonder if you'll make it out of this alive.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You echo, tilting up against him.
"Good girl."
Everything comes crashing down.
You're not sure what sound you let out. You're not sure you care. You're detached from the mortal world when your second orgasm hits. The stars you saw when he entered you take shape and you realize they weren't stars at all, but planets, suns, galaxies. You aren't sure if you're breathing, but you don't think you need to. You've ascended the mortal plane, reached transcendence. Nirvana.
You travel through time and space and come back to him.
Still on top of you, he fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand, slipping them on before drawing his eyes up and down your body. His smile is self assured. This time you can't be mad at him for it.
"Hi." Is all you can think to say, still fuzzy from your visit to the astral plane.
"Hi." He responds, amused, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against the tip of your nose, then your lips. "Okay?"
"Okay." Your voice aches with fondness. When his eyes don't leave your face you huff a nervous laugh. "What?"
"I need to get contacts."
"Why?"
"I want to be able to see, next time."
You grin, amused. “Next time?”
“Yeah. Next time.”
“You make it sound very simple.
“It is very simple.”
You wonder. Maybe to him, it is. Maybe to him, this wasn't otherworldly. He didn't visit the other side. He didn't come out changed. He is not ruined for others.
He frowns with worry. “Unless you don't want a next time?”
You're quick to dissuade his fears, hand sluggish as it runs through his hair. “No. No, I do. Really.”
“Okay.” He leans down to press another kiss to your cheek, forever caring. “Water?” He mumbles against your skin.
You hum a “please” and watch as he leaves you, alone in your bubble of ascension. Still, you hope he doesn't notice your excitement at the prospect of a next time.
spencer reid x pre-school teacher!reader
description: the fbi visits your classroom for the day and your students are very interested
wc: 1.2k
Preschool mornings have chaotic energy. It's a hustle of finger paint, missing shoes, and fifteen 4 year olds trying to talk at the same time.
You get used to mess, being a preschool teacher. But today, the energy in the room shifts completely when the heavy wooden door swings open, and a tall man in a slightly rumpled suit steps inside.
He looks entirely out of place among the mini plastic chairs and colored alphabet rugs. He's clutching a leather satchel and his hazel eyes wide as he takes in the vibrant noisy room. Behind him stands Penelope Garcia, beaming in a bright green blazer, practically buzzing with excitement.
"Hi, everyone!" Garcia sings out, waving out her hands enthusiastically. "We're from the FBI!" A collective "ooooh" from the kids makes you smile.
You stand up, brushing a stray speck of yellow glitter off your dress, and smile. "Welcome! Class, this is Miss Garcia and Special Agent Reid. They're here for Career Day to tell us how they help keep people safe."
Spencer clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks down at a stack of flashcards in his hand. "Uh, actually, Miss Garcia is a Technical Analyst, not a field agent. And my title is Supervisory Special Agent, though-"
"He's a super-brain spy, kids," Garcia cuts in smoothly, throwing an affectionate arm around Spencer's shoulders. "And he's very excited to be here."
Spencer flushes, his eyes darting to you. "Uh.. yes. I brought visual aids."
You can't help the soft laugh that escapes you. "Well, Agent Reid, the floor is yours. Why don't you sit right here?" You gesture to the only available seat near the font - a bright yellow plastic chair.
Spencer stares at the tiny chair for a long second. You can practically see his brain calculating how his six foot one frame is going to fit. With extreme care, he folds his long legs and you bring a fist against your mouth to prevent from spilling out a laugh.
A little boy named Clyde scoots closer to him. "Mister policeman," You're quick to gently remind your students to call adults using their appropriate title names.
"Clyde, his name is Agent Reid, I think he would rather be called that." You bend down to meet his height. Spencer's hand touches your shoulder and it startles you a bit.
"I'm so sorry for scaring you, but it's totally fine," he says your name, keeping his stare on you for a bit before Penelope clears her throat. You stand up and move to the side to let him guide the class.
"Go ahead, Clyde." Spencer smiles at him, his hands clasped together as he leaned towards him. You were certain he was going to fall off the tiny chair if he moved even a little bit closer.
"What does FBI mean?" His little hands going up to his face, squishing his cheeks upwards that made it more chubby than it actually is. "FBI means the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was actually founded in 1908 by Attorney General Charles Bonaparte. What's more interesting is he was the grandnephew of Napoleon. Bonaparte."
You intervene gently, hoping you weren't being rude to interrupt his question and answering moment. You offer Spencer a sympathetic smile before talking to him. "They might want to hear a little bit about what you do everyday, Spencer. In kids terms, just to make it easier for them to understand."
Spencer blinks, his eyes locking onto yours. The look of panic from his furrowed eyebrows melts into something softer at your comforting tone. He swallows hard and nods.
He puts his flashcards away in his satchel. "Well, my job is like solving a big puzzle. Imagine you come into the classroom and someone took the goldfish crackers. I look at the clues left behind, it could be crumbs on the table or a footprint in the sandbox. To figure out who took it, I use my brain to help people who are lost or scared."
A little girl with pigtails raised her hand. "Mister policeman, do you have a badge?"
"I do." Spencer carefully pulls his FBI credentials from his jacket pocket, holding it out. A dozen tiny hands instantly reach out to poke the gold seal. He doesn't pull away, instead a smile forms on his face as he watches their eyes light up with wonder and excitement.
"Do you a carry a juice box in your bag?" another child asks, pointing to his satchel. "No, mostly books and case files," Spencer replies, his voice drops to a gentle tone he gets when he's comfortable. "But did you know that reading books actually changes the way your brain works? It creates new pathways, which makes you better at solving puzzles."
For the next twenty minutes, Spencer completely captivates the room. He manages to explain behavioral analysis through the lens of sharing toys and understanding feelings. Garcia watches from the back, leaning against the cubbies with a soft, knowing smirk on her face as she looks between you and Spencer.
When it's time for them to go, the children groan in unison. "Alright, friends, let's give a big thanks to Agent Reid and Miss Garcia," you lead, and the classroom erupts into a chorus of high-pitched thank yous.
"Thank you Mister Policeman and Miss Garcia!" Even though you said 'Agent Reid', they still called him that.
Spencer awkwardly but carefully lifts himself out of the tiny chair, smoothing down his tie. Garcia gives you a quick, warm hug. "You are an angel for handling this many tiny humans daily. I'm leaving Spencer's card on your desk. For.. legal verification of our visit. Obviously." She winks, entirely unsubtle, and heads for the door.
He stands still behind you, his satchel slung over his shoulder. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit you've quickly learned to recognize.
"You were amazing with them," you say, stepping closer to him. "Not many people can switch from serial killer statistics to a goldfish cracker concept that quickly."
Spencer's cheeks turn red again, a soft smile turns up at his lips. "Thank you. I was significantly more intimidated by them. They're unpredictable, but you're incredible at what you do. The patience and emotional intelligence required to manage a classroom of this development stage is amazing."
'Well, it helps when I have FBI agents dropping by to assist," you tease softly. Spencer's breath catches slightly, his eyes dropping to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. "I, uh.. Garcia wasn't lying about the card. It has my personal cell phone number on the back. In case you have any follow up questions about federal law enforcement or... anything else."
"I might just have a few questions." you give him a warm smile. He gives you a small smile, his dimples showing. "I look forward to answering them."
With one last look, he turns and walks out the door, tripping slightly over a plastic building block on his way out. He recovers with a quick embarrassed wave. You watch him go, walking back to your desk to put away the card in your purse and heading towards the front of the classroom to see your kids giving you cheeky smiles.
spencer reid x pre-school teacher!reader
description: the fbi visits your classroom for the day and your students are very interested
wc: 1.2k
Preschool mornings have chaotic energy. It's a hustle of finger paint, missing shoes, and fifteen 4 year olds trying to talk at the same time.
You get used to mess, being a preschool teacher. But today, the energy in the room shifts completely when the heavy wooden door swings open, and a tall man in a slightly rumpled suit steps inside.
He looks entirely out of place among the mini plastic chairs and colored alphabet rugs. He's clutching a leather satchel and his hazel eyes wide as he takes in the vibrant noisy room. Behind him stands Penelope Garcia, beaming in a bright green blazer, practically buzzing with excitement.
"Hi, everyone!" Garcia sings out, waving out her hands enthusiastically. "We're from the FBI!" A collective "ooooh" from the kids makes you smile.
You stand up, brushing a stray speck of yellow glitter off your dress, and smile. "Welcome! Class, this is Miss Garcia and Special Agent Reid. They're here for Career Day to tell us how they help keep people safe."
Spencer clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks down at a stack of flashcards in his hand. "Uh, actually, Miss Garcia is a Technical Analyst, not a field agent. And my title is Supervisory Special Agent, though-"
"He's a super-brain spy, kids," Garcia cuts in smoothly, throwing an affectionate arm around Spencer's shoulders. "And he's very excited to be here."
Spencer flushes, his eyes darting to you. "Uh.. yes. I brought visual aids."
You can't help the soft laugh that escapes you. "Well, Agent Reid, the floor is yours. Why don't you sit right here?" You gesture to the only available seat near the font - a bright yellow plastic chair.
Spencer stares at the tiny chair for a long second. You can practically see his brain calculating how his six foot one frame is going to fit. With extreme care, he folds his long legs and you bring a fist against your mouth to prevent from spilling out a laugh.
A little boy named Clyde scoots closer to him. "Mister policeman," You're quick to gently remind your students to call adults using their appropriate title names.
"Clyde, his name is Agent Reid, I think he would rather be called that." You bend down to meet his height. Spencer's hand touches your shoulder and it startles you a bit.
"I'm so sorry for scaring you, but it's totally fine," he says your name, keeping his stare on you for a bit before Penelope clears her throat. You stand up and move to the side to let him guide the class.
"Go ahead, Clyde." Spencer smiles at him, his hands clasped together as he leaned towards him. You were certain he was going to fall off the tiny chair if he moved even a little bit closer.
"What does FBI mean?" His little hands going up to his face, squishing his cheeks upwards that made it more chubby than it actually is. "FBI means the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was actually founded in 1908 by Attorney General Charles Bonaparte. What's more interesting is he was the grandnephew of Napoleon. Bonaparte."
You intervene gently, hoping you weren't being rude to interrupt his question and answering moment. You offer Spencer a sympathetic smile before talking to him. "They might want to hear a little bit about what you do everyday, Spencer. In kids terms, just to make it easier for them to understand."
Spencer blinks, his eyes locking onto yours. The look of panic from his furrowed eyebrows melts into something softer at your comforting tone. He swallows hard and nods.
He puts his flashcards away in his satchel. "Well, my job is like solving a big puzzle. Imagine you come into the classroom and someone took the goldfish crackers. I look at the clues left behind, it could be crumbs on the table or a footprint in the sandbox. To figure out who took it, I use my brain to help people who are lost or scared."
A little girl with pigtails raised her hand. "Mister policeman, do you have a badge?"
"I do." Spencer carefully pulls his FBI credentials from his jacket pocket, holding it out. A dozen tiny hands instantly reach out to poke the gold seal. He doesn't pull away, instead a smile forms on his face as he watches their eyes light up with wonder and excitement.
"Do you a carry a juice box in your bag?" another child asks, pointing to his satchel. "No, mostly books and case files," Spencer replies, his voice drops to a gentle tone he gets when he's comfortable. "But did you know that reading books actually changes the way your brain works? It creates new pathways, which makes you better at solving puzzles."
For the next twenty minutes, Spencer completely captivates the room. He manages to explain behavioral analysis through the lens of sharing toys and understanding feelings. Garcia watches from the back, leaning against the cubbies with a soft, knowing smirk on her face as she looks between you and Spencer.
When it's time for them to go, the children groan in unison. "Alright, friends, let's give a big thanks to Agent Reid and Miss Garcia," you lead, and the classroom erupts into a chorus of high-pitched thank yous.
"Thank you Mister Policeman and Miss Garcia!" Even though you said 'Agent Reid', they still called him that.
Spencer awkwardly but carefully lifts himself out of the tiny chair, smoothing down his tie. Garcia gives you a quick, warm hug. "You are an angel for handling this many tiny humans daily. I'm leaving Spencer's card on your desk. For.. legal verification of our visit. Obviously." She winks, entirely unsubtle, and heads for the door.
He stands still behind you, his satchel slung over his shoulder. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit you've quickly learned to recognize.
"You were amazing with them," you say, stepping closer to him. "Not many people can switch from serial killer statistics to a goldfish cracker concept that quickly."
Spencer's cheeks turn red again, a soft smile turns up at his lips. "Thank you. I was significantly more intimidated by them. They're unpredictable, but you're incredible at what you do. The patience and emotional intelligence required to manage a classroom of this development stage is amazing."
'Well, it helps when I have FBI agents dropping by to assist," you tease softly. Spencer's breath catches slightly, his eyes dropping to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. "I, uh.. Garcia wasn't lying about the card. It has my personal cell phone number on the back. In case you have any follow up questions about federal law enforcement or... anything else."
"I might just have a few questions." you give him a warm smile. He gives you a small smile, his dimples showing. "I look forward to answering them."
With one last look, he turns and walks out the door, tripping slightly over a plastic building block on his way out. He recovers with a quick embarrassed wave. You watch him go, walking back to your desk to put away the card in your purse and heading towards the front of the classroom to see your kids giving you cheeky smiles.
spencer reid x pre-school teacher!reader
description: the fbi visits your classroom for the day and your students are very interested
wc: 1.2k
Preschool mornings have chaotic energy. It's a hustle of finger paint, missing shoes, and fifteen 4 year olds trying to talk at the same time.
You get used to mess, being a preschool teacher. But today, the energy in the room shifts completely when the heavy wooden door swings open, and a tall man in a slightly rumpled suit steps inside.
He looks entirely out of place among the mini plastic chairs and colored alphabet rugs. He's clutching a leather satchel and his hazel eyes wide as he takes in the vibrant noisy room. Behind him stands Penelope Garcia, beaming in a bright green blazer, practically buzzing with excitement.
"Hi, everyone!" Garcia sings out, waving out her hands enthusiastically. "We're from the FBI!" A collective "ooooh" from the kids makes you smile.
You stand up, brushing a stray speck of yellow glitter off your dress, and smile. "Welcome! Class, this is Miss Garcia and Special Agent Reid. They're here for Career Day to tell us how they help keep people safe."
Spencer clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks down at a stack of flashcards in his hand. "Uh, actually, Miss Garcia is a Technical Analyst, not a field agent. And my title is Supervisory Special Agent, though-"
"He's a super-brain spy, kids," Garcia cuts in smoothly, throwing an affectionate arm around Spencer's shoulders. "And he's very excited to be here."
Spencer flushes, his eyes darting to you. "Uh.. yes. I brought visual aids."
You can't help the soft laugh that escapes you. "Well, Agent Reid, the floor is yours. Why don't you sit right here?" You gesture to the only available seat near the font - a bright yellow plastic chair.
Spencer stares at the tiny chair for a long second. You can practically see his brain calculating how his six foot one frame is going to fit. With extreme care, he folds his long legs and you bring a fist against your mouth to prevent from spilling out a laugh.
A little boy named Clyde scoots closer to him. "Mister policeman," You're quick to gently remind your students to call adults using their appropriate title names.
"Clyde, his name is Agent Reid, I think he would rather be called that." You bend down to meet his height. Spencer's hand touches your shoulder and it startles you a bit.
"I'm so sorry for scaring you, but it's totally fine," he says your name, keeping his stare on you for a bit before Penelope clears her throat. You stand up and move to the side to let him guide the class.
"Go ahead, Clyde." Spencer smiles at him, his hands clasped together as he leaned towards him. You were certain he was going to fall off the tiny chair if he moved even a little bit closer.
"What does FBI mean?" His little hands going up to his face, squishing his cheeks upwards that made it more chubby than it actually is. "FBI means the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was actually founded in 1908 by Attorney General Charles Bonaparte. What's more interesting is he was the grandnephew of Napoleon. Bonaparte."
You intervene gently, hoping you weren't being rude to interrupt his question and answering moment. You offer Spencer a sympathetic smile before talking to him. "They might want to hear a little bit about what you do everyday, Spencer. In kids terms, just to make it easier for them to understand."
Spencer blinks, his eyes locking onto yours. The look of panic from his furrowed eyebrows melts into something softer at your comforting tone. He swallows hard and nods.
He puts his flashcards away in his satchel. "Well, my job is like solving a big puzzle. Imagine you come into the classroom and someone took the goldfish crackers. I look at the clues left behind, it could be crumbs on the table or a footprint in the sandbox. To figure out who took it, I use my brain to help people who are lost or scared."
A little girl with pigtails raised her hand. "Mister policeman, do you have a badge?"
"I do." Spencer carefully pulls his FBI credentials from his jacket pocket, holding it out. A dozen tiny hands instantly reach out to poke the gold seal. He doesn't pull away, instead a smile forms on his face as he watches their eyes light up with wonder and excitement.
"Do you a carry a juice box in your bag?" another child asks, pointing to his satchel. "No, mostly books and case files," Spencer replies, his voice drops to a gentle tone he gets when he's comfortable. "But did you know that reading books actually changes the way your brain works? It creates new pathways, which makes you better at solving puzzles."
For the next twenty minutes, Spencer completely captivates the room. He manages to explain behavioral analysis through the lens of sharing toys and understanding feelings. Garcia watches from the back, leaning against the cubbies with a soft, knowing smirk on her face as she looks between you and Spencer.
When it's time for them to go, the children groan in unison. "Alright, friends, let's give a big thanks to Agent Reid and Miss Garcia," you lead, and the classroom erupts into a chorus of high-pitched thank yous.
"Thank you Mister Policeman and Miss Garcia!" Even though you said 'Agent Reid', they still called him that.
Spencer awkwardly but carefully lifts himself out of the tiny chair, smoothing down his tie. Garcia gives you a quick, warm hug. "You are an angel for handling this many tiny humans daily. I'm leaving Spencer's card on your desk. For.. legal verification of our visit. Obviously." She winks, entirely unsubtle, and heads for the door.
He stands still behind you, his satchel slung over his shoulder. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit you've quickly learned to recognize.
"You were amazing with them," you say, stepping closer to him. "Not many people can switch from serial killer statistics to a goldfish cracker concept that quickly."
Spencer's cheeks turn red again, a soft smile turns up at his lips. "Thank you. I was significantly more intimidated by them. They're unpredictable, but you're incredible at what you do. The patience and emotional intelligence required to manage a classroom of this development stage is amazing."
'Well, it helps when I have FBI agents dropping by to assist," you tease softly. Spencer's breath catches slightly, his eyes dropping to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. "I, uh.. Garcia wasn't lying about the card. It has my personal cell phone number on the back. In case you have any follow up questions about federal law enforcement or... anything else."
"I might just have a few questions." you give him a warm smile. He gives you a small smile, his dimples showing. "I look forward to answering them."
With one last look, he turns and walks out the door, tripping slightly over a plastic building block on his way out. He recovers with a quick embarrassed wave. You watch him go, walking back to your desk to put away the card in your purse and heading towards the front of the classroom to see your kids giving you cheeky smiles.
I'VE NEVER BEEN A NATURAL ── .✦liaison!prentiss!reader x spencer reid
summary: Your first month working with your older sister's team goes about as well as you expected—there's betrayal in their eyes, professional stolidity in yours, and a gaping Emily Prentiss shaped hole you'll never fill.
contents: 4.2k words, fem!reader, you are Emily Prentiss' baby sister, hints of mommy issues, no physical descriptors or use of y/n, you're like old money prissy vibes though, suspicious and distrusting reader, Erin Strauss cameo, intro fic.
a/n: WELCOME TO LIAISON!PRENTISS!READER!!!! sorry it took so long I was turning this fic over and over and over until I finally decided ENOUGGHHHH just post it. Nothing really happens, they barely even interact sorry about that lol. I just needed to get it out otherwise it's going to rot forever in my drafts. Next fic is outlined though and it's got more action and rivalry I promise. gif by @reidgif
series masterlist
The bullpen is quiet when you enter. Your heels—four inch stilettos beause you have standards, of course—echo off the linoleum floors before tapering off into a dull silence when you stop in the middle of the empty room, head swiveling from one end to the other.
Your previous assessment turns out to be wrong—the bullpen is empty.
It isn't that you're expecting fanfare when you arrive, but total solitude feels too pointed. A planned statement without a single word uttered.
Elizabeth Prentiss had it drilled in your head that clothes and grooming are the first things people notice about someone, the first shot at making an impression and controlling people's perceptions. It's a lesson you've taken to heart. Not a single hair out of place, shoes gleaming, makeup minimal. Every single inch of you screams effort and maintenance. You are burnished stone, shiny and always ready to face a crowd.
It's all a little embarrassing to be dressed to the nines, and have no audience.
You glance at your phone. Check the date, the time—all correct. You're here earlier than required, but not enough to enter a room without a single soul to greet you. You resist the urge to frown, though the suspicion keeps ringing in your ear. This isn't worth getting wrinkles over, not yet. One phone call to the Section Chief should clarify this—though you think it's way too early in the day to be dealing with Erin Strauss, and you loathe the thought of seeming incompetent—so you swipe through your contacts for her number.
"Oh my gosh, you're here!" a voice comes from your right, too bright and loud for such an hour. "I mean, they said we're getting a transfer, but you're a little early and–oh, this must be so confusing. Hi, I'm Penelope Garcia."
Thank god. You do not want to call Erin first thing in the morning like some sort of lost child seeking comfort from a parent.
A flurry of colors enter your peripheral, and you pocket your phone as you turn. Penelope Garcia. She's tall, click clacking in her stilettos—a vivid pink that matches her lips, quite a stark contrast to your sleek navy ones—and wearing an outfit that would probably get a memo if she didn't work in a department that tends to bypass the smaller bureaucratic rules.
"Hi, Penelope." you muster up some warmth and smile back at your savior. "I can see why the BAU needed me to transfer this year." you gesture around the empty room.
She laughs, and the expression seems to complete her entire look. Vivacious and bright, like sunshine slanting through windows in the spring.
"Oh, you have jokes. We're gonna get along very well. No, the team flew to Colorado last night on an active case."
"I wasn't informed of that."
"I'm sorry, that was supposed to be my job, but it slipped my mind with everything else happening." she ushers you to the staircase, talking a mile a minute. "You get your own office, of course, as the new liaison. It hasn't been cleaned out since JJ became an official profiler— both Hotch and I have our own offices—we filled in the position for time being, but Hotch wants to be more present for his son, and I really can't do it anymore, not with the other tech analyst stuff. So now you're here! We'll have to get the name on this nameplate replaced, of course, and oh my god I totally haven't let you introduce yourself yet."
Your smile falters slightly, but Penelope is too busy rattling the old doorknob to notice. Introductions. Yes. Normally, you carry your name like an honor, volunteer those facts with pride, but the circumstances here are… complicated.
"Don't tell anyone, but I was trying to open your file, but you're like, super secret for some reason. Usually Agent Strauss tells us who the new agent is, but for you it's all sealed." she adds.
For good reason. The door finally opens, releasing a muted scent of must and old paper. Your nose wrinkles in disgust, but you follow Penelope inside without complaint. It's dark and moody, even after she flicks on the light, filled with boxes of old files, probably archival cases. Jennifer Jareau's nameplate sits on the table, covered with a thin layer of dust, and you get an odd sense of intrusion.
You shouldn't be here. You don't belong here. Emily kept it secret from you for a reason and you should keep it that way.
"So, mystery agent, to what name are we changing the sign outside?"
It's almost cartoonish, the consecutive expressions on her face once you finally say your name. Once she catches that damning word—Prentiss. It's a gradual shift, a slow blink of incomprehension, before the similarity registers, her pretty eyes widening in realization. And then, confusion. It would've been funny if you weren't on the receiving end of it.
Penelope Garcia wears every emotion clear as perfectly polished glass. You file that thought away for later.
"Yes, that Prentiss."
You're prepared for it. Have a script memorized for any questions. It doesn't even offend you when Penelope laughs, disbelieving and shrill.
"She never told us she had a… a sister?"
"Emily does have a habit of keeping secrets, doesn't she?" you say lightly, a feeble attempt at humor even though the words feel like nettles clawing up your throat.
Penelope blanches, deflates, and it's an interesting thing to witness, like watching the sun get blocked by a large cloud in real time and feeling the subsequent shade. She flounders, hands waving vaguely by her side, clearly unsure of what to do, how to handle this information that's been unceremoniously dumped upon her.
"How… why?" She finally manages, a fragile whisper drifting in that dusty room. "Who else knows?"
You blink, considering. The answers to that lies with Emily, but you can make guesses. And Penelope's line of questions isn't outright hostile, which is good. You can work with curiosity. That's easy to win over, though no less dangerous. Penelope isn't all cotton candy and rainbows, of that you're certain.
"She's the only person who can answer that." You shrug, and your smile is only slightly strained. "I think Agent Hotchner knows, but I'm not sure and he's not here to confirm."
Penelope nods, taking it all in with a crease between her perfectly plucked brows. "That's… right, of course. Um, so this is your office and—"
She's cut off by a phone call, the identical tune that's programmed into every federal-issued phone. You both reach into your pockets in unison, but it's Penelope who has to answer.
"Garcia… Yes sir," she smiles apologetically and angles her body away.
For the second time today, you feel like you're intruding. Almost like a kid playing dress up, strategically choosing an outfit that excudes confidence and respectability, only for everything to be too big. You smooth your hands over your blazer to reassure yourself it's not the case. It's tailored to perfection, hugging the curve of your waist and flaring slightly at the hips, snug without being inappropriate.
Still, your stomach turns as Garcia murmurs into her phone. You swivel, focusing your attention to the table, running your fingers over the files stacked on a neat pile and pretend not to hear. Penelope's voice is lowered, but she doesn't leave the room, so you really can't be faulted if you catch snippets—murmurs of she just arrived and I'll send it as soon as I can.
"Duty calls?" you say after she says goodbye, glancing over your shoulder.
Penelope nods. "Yes. Unfortunately. But Hotch says you can shadow me while they're gone. I can brief you on the case, if you want?"
Shadowing someone when you're a fully competent agent with a long list of credentials should feel like an insult, a slight to your skills. Maybe if it came from someone else, it would land that way, but Penelope just sounds genuine and slightly nervous.
So you nod. "Lead the way."
You did not expect to spend your first few days in solitude, nor did you expect to be summoned by the Section Chief not even a week into your transfer, yet here you are.
Erin Strauss' office is almost identical to your mother's. Well lit and perfectly kept, with a shelf of impressive books just behind the expensive reclining chair. Credentials framed and hanging proudly on the walls. Upon her desk lays a nameplate bearing her name and title, a telephone, and a neat stack of folders perfectly aligned. A cursory glance tells you nothing of her life outside the Bureau, no pictures of her family, of friends, none of the colorful trinkets that litter Penelope Garcia's office.
Impersonal. Perfectly contained and professional, just like your mother's.
It makes you feel even more on edge.
Your mother's offices, whether it's stationed at home, or across Europe, or the Middle East, were always a place to keep your guard up. There is no telling what invisible flaw will catch Elizabeth Prentiss' keen eyes, or earn her clipped, mildly disproving tone of voice. The Section Chief's office carries the same atmosphere.
In that regard, you feel like you've been trained all your life to face the likes of Erin Strauss.
Poised in your pantsuit and heels, you face her like she's another journalist asking for a statement. Polite neutrality, lips curled in the lightest hint of a smile.
"How are you finding the BAU, Agent Prentiss?" If the familiarity of the name bears any ill feeling, Erin Strauss doesn't show it.
"Well enough, there's really nothing of note so far."
She tilts her head, waiting for more.
"Ma'am, my transfer occurred while they're all on an active case in Colorado. There's not much else to tell you, unless you want to hear about how I've spent the last three days cleaning out Agent Jareau's old office."
Her lips thin, unamused. "I would have hoped you'd made yourself more useful. Your last unit chief sung praises about your initiative."
"I've helped Penelope Garcia contain the online panic, and looked through Facebook—"
"Facebook?"
"Part of the background check." You smile. "I've been helping the team from behind the scenes as much as I can, which is ironic considering my job is to be their public facing representative."
Her shoulders draw back, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it. You always do. Noticing these things come like breathing to you by now. You do not know the section chief well enough to put a name to this shift, but your instincts, honed by years of people watching, tell you Erin Strauss is an administrative agent first and foremost.
Read: she values agents who will play along, who move within the red tape.
Meaning, that straightening of her posture is her offense materializing, and she thinks your comment, no matter how carefully worded it may be, isn't as innocuous as you'd tried to make it sound.
"But I'm learning a lot of valuable insights from Agent Garcia." you add quickly, hoping the save is satisfactory.
"Such as?"
Such as they don't trust you. At all. At least, the few agents who know of your existence—Hotch, who you've only talked to on the phone, and Garcia, who is kind but acts skittish when there are lulls in the case and she's forced to socialize with you. You can't blame either of them, considering your identity, and the circumstances of your abrupt transfer. Fuck's sake, who assigns a new agent to a team while they are in an entirely different state?
None of this had been your fault. You've been caught by the red tape too—you'd requested this transfer last year, when Emily still worked with the team, but for whatever reason, they delayed and kept you stuck in the California office. Your mother had warned you about that—she had less sway in the west coast—but at the time, all you had wanted was to get as far away from the Prentiss legacy as you can.
But the BAU is too busy to care about specifics. And even if they weren't, you know the wound is still too fresh. Emily coming and going—dying, but surprise! not really— carrying secrets the whole time.
Terrorists. Espionage. You.
No, you definitely don't blame the team for their distrust.
But Section Chief Strauss is looking for an answer, and that feels too personal to divulge.
"Such as the growing degree of these new social media websites in relation to serial killing. Platforms like Facebook and Twitter make it easier to map victimology, track social circles and routines. So many people volunteer the information online, in ways that would take investigators week to uncover decades ago." you reply instead, deliberately keeping the topic about work.
"That can't be all you're learning from this."
You resist the urge to sigh. "Not necessarily, but a victim's social media presence offers access to a lot of things. I'm not learning anything necessarily; I'm helping out. Garcia's workload is only going to increase with all these new websites, after all."
"Interesting." But Erin Strauss sounds the complete opposite of interested. The word slips out absentminded. Unimpressed.
Your ears prick at that sound. The slow drag of syllables, the flat tone. You've heard it one too many times; in your world, it indicates the beginning of criticism. What you could improve, how poorly you're doing. For a fleeting moment, Erin Strauss morphs into your mom and suddenly you're sixteen and sobbing from anxiety.
You blink. Clear your throat. The woman in front of you is not your mother, and you fixate on the graying strands of Strauss' hair, silver melting into blonde, to keep your focus.
She's waiting for something; people in positions like to do this—drop hints, let the silence stew until it grows so unbearable the subordinate slips. Talks without an objective and stumbles into whatever is needed from them. A secret? A confession, maybe?
You can tell Erin Strauss is good at this game. Has the patience and cool authority to circle around it, stare you down for hours, if necessary. Unfortunately for her, your job is quite literally meant for this.
"Very interesting indeed, ma'am." You smile, syrupy and bright.
She gives up. "Has anyone mentioned Agent Prentiss?"
Ah. A name, then, and perhaps a story attached. No matter where you go, Prentiss carries a significance.
Your smile doesn't waver, though your brows furrow innocently, projecting a sense of confusion. You aren't above taking advantage of these social dynamics; Director Strauss clearly relishes in her power, though she would never flex it explicitly.
"Nothing beyond the usual surprise, though I must reiterate they're on an active case, and I haven't met the rest of the BAU yet. Besides, Emily has transferred, I don't understand why she's relevant to my work with this team." You say, blinking like a helpless baby deer.
She makes a sound that's half sigh, half groan. Director Strauss' next words are careful, but impatient, as if she's speaking to a dolt. "She's relevant because this unit has experienced difficulties regarding… personal loyalties."
There it is. It is easy to ignore the borderline patronizing tone that colors her voice when she plays right into your hand and reveals information like this. Personal loyalties? What on earth could that mean? Beyond what happened with Doyle, had Emily done anything else? Had the other members?
"And you're making sure I won't become another one?"
Strauss says nothing, but that's answer enough. So this team is loyal, perhaps to a fault, but Strauss isn't just worried about that—she wants to information. About the team. Perhaps from a fresh set of eyes.
You could almost respect it, if she'd say it outright.
"By all means, ma'am, be blunt and tell me what exactly you're looking for so I can give you better answers the next time you decide to check in." you say.
Erin Strauss looks caught, both by your audacity, and the unexpected call out. Her mouth parts, then clamps shut, a little like a fish, before her gaze sharpens like steel.
"I am not looking for anything."
"My apologies, then. For a moment, I was worried you got the wrong sister. Emily's the one trained in espionage, not me."
You wait for the subsequent chill, for the air to grow cold. Instead, Erin Strauss huffs, frustrated but… amused.
"You're just like you're sister."
You bite back a smile. Better Emily than your mother.
"Most people seem to mean that as a criticism."
For the first time since entering the office, Strauss' mouth twitches into something resembling a smile. "Merely an observation. And maybe a warning—your name inevitably carries assumptions, agent. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost."
The team does their best to welcome you, considering the circumstances. At their arrival, there's confusion and betrayal stitched into their very being, stiffening their handshakes and freezing their cheeks so their smiles never quite reach their eyes. It's all so awkward you find yourself thinking Strauss is wrong—your family name isn't making them embrace you. It's acting more like a wall, involuntarily erected and keeping you away from certain members of the team.
Alex Blake has it easy. She receives you with open arms, aware of the history but detached enough to evade the awkwardness. She's kind and warm, but is close enough to your mother in age that you're always half expecting some form of criticism to fall from her lips whenever she asks your opinion over something—usually language related, her field of expertise. Nothing ever does; in fact, she seems eager to know your thoughts, engages in your ideas with genuine curiosity. It always takes you by surprise. You are always braced for the ball to drop, ramrod straight and perfectly polished, just in case her eyes wander to your hair, or a smudge in your make up.
David Rossi just seems happy you know they have a new liaison. Told you that job drove poor Garcia to tears, like he's warning you about the horrors you're about to face. Once in a while, a syllable slips and you know Emily's name was at the tip of his tongue. Instead, he shifts and calls you kid like you're 23 and green, instead of someone with years of experience under your belt. Somehow, the word never drips with condescension, and the familiarity with which he says it tells you he probably called your sister the same thing. At some point, you begin to welcome it.
With Derek Morgan, things get a little complicated. He looks at you like he's looking for traces of Emily, but he's not sure if he actually wants to find them. Some days, it seems like the similarities—your manner of speaking, the sharp intellect, the obvious rich kid background—gives him relief. Even brings a fond smile on that handsome face, however reluctant it may be. Other days, he can't look you in the eye, choosing to address the files in front of him instead of you, as if even a glance is risky. Part of you understands; your presence is not only new, it is secrecy personified. Emily's mysterious past made even worse. You don't push. You value workplace dynamics over being fully accepted, and if this is the inch he's willing to give, then you'll be content. For now.
And your predecessor. JJ, trained in communications and appearances, and you can tell she was good at her job because you can't quite get a read on her. She spent an entire year fooling her teammates, so every interaction with her is tainted with layers of this knowledge. You never know if anything she says is genuine. Or perhaps it's your resentment manifesting as distrust. She knew your sister was alive. If her feelings mirror yours—after all, Emily trusted JJ with her "death," but still kept her little sister a secret—she doesn't show any hint of it. Every interaction with JJ is warm, if a little awkward, and you can never tell if it's because she's smoothed over the rough edges, or if they were never there to begin with. Maybe the problem lies only with you.
Spencer Reid doesn't have a social life. At least, that's what you've concluded from the short amount of time you've spent here. He stays in the bullpen almost as late as you do, but somehow manages to avoid you entirely. It's easy to do, considering you spend the evenings holed up in the liaison's office, and he's always bent over paperwork—Rossi's and Morgan's, never his own. According to Penelope, it's a playful arrangement between them, though Spencer never tells you about it. Never tells you anything, really. He doesn't talk to you unless it's directly related to the job, so everything you know about Spencer is from observation. Gangly and smart—the type to make you know it, too, with his constant statistical tangent and information dumps, aka unbearable. Currently, his avoidance means you've never had to be on the receiving end of his rambles, of which you are thankful.
"How were your first three weeks so far?" Aaron Hotchner's office is surprisingly more homey than the Section Chief's had been—pictures of his son on the desk, a couple more family pictures displayed proudly on the shelf behind him. Ironically, it feels more imposing, but that might have more to do with Hotch's presence than the decor.
If you opened the dictionary and looked for the word 'impassive' you're almost certain a picture of Hotch is provided there instead of a linguistic definition. But maybe you just haven't learned to read him yet. That'll come with time. So far, he's made no mention of Emily, but talked about your mother, which is so much more embarrassing. It seems like you're stuck chasing away the shadows of two impressive women before you, and doomed to fail no matter what you do.
"It's been going well, sir. I think I'm adjusting to your team's rhythm."
"Our."
"Sorry?"
"Our," Hotch looks up from the file. His eyes are pitch black, but warm. "You're part of this team now too."
"Right. I'm adjusting to our team's rhythm." When you smile, it's not forced. Hotch is perhaps the last person you expected to accept you explicitly, but the relief it carries breaks past your usual politeness. Still, Erin Strauss' voice lingers in the back of your head like a broken record. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost. Any efforts to silence it is futile.
Your new chief responds with a friendly nod.
"And yes, I'm inclined to agree. The request for your own nameplate should come in today." Hotch says, thumbing through a file one his desk. "Along with that, I think you're ready to take over fielding the cases on your own."
You blink; the only reaction you allow yourself to express. He and Garcia had been easing you into the job, allowing you to handle the older cases—closed ones, some needing follow ups and check ins—while they taught you the ins and outs of going through the newer reports that come in. What you need to look out for—not just victimology, but time frames and geographic patterns. Cases involving children get prioritized, but only if there's an existing pattern, otherwise they get redirected to ViCAP. While it's true that you've slipped into the team's rhythm near seamlessly, you hadn't expected them to give you full reign after only a couple of weeks.
"If you're certain, sir, then I would be more than willing to do it." Your back straightens even more, if that's possible.
"I am. Your work prior to this unit has been exemplary, and I'm allowed to overrule the probation period on account of the skills you've shown. And you've been doing a good job, agent, I see no reason to keep you under our supervision."
You nod, "Thank you sir. Honestly, I was beginning to think Garcia was going to lock me in her techno cave to start organizing her glitter pen collection."
Hotch's mouth curls up for a fleeting second, but vanishes before it becomes a full smile. "Garcia knows not to waste your skills on her collection, as expansive as it is."
A stack of files slide towards you, teethering comically from the action. "I trust that you'll choose with vigilance and care. It's easy to get overwhelmed by the cases that come in, but quantity does not always dictate urgency."
"That's noted, sir." With a last nod, you rise and step out of his office. Your heart pounds, but you're unsure if it's from nerves or excitement. Likely both. Likely both, and then some. Because as you leave Hotch's office, you catch Spencer and JJ, heads bent together like they're sharing a conspiracy, take one glance at you and jump apart.
Your smile is plastic. Erin Strauss' words ring in your head, louder this time, as you lock yourself in your office.
series masterlist.
pls comment and reblog if you liked it!!! ily thank you so much for reading!
pick your poison, babe (i'm poison either way) - chapter two
MASTERLIST
ao3 link <---
Summary: spencer finally finds out why he has been feeling so weary. later, he and the team go out and the threat might be closer than he could've ever imagined.
Tags: unsub!original character, enemies to lovers, serial killers, dubious morality, angst, violence, fighting, (light) blood kink, smut, hate sex, humor, enemies with benefits, canon-typical violence, love/hate, s4!spencer reid, oc is kinda insane and kind of a stalker but spencer is into it, fluff, forbidden romance, tbd...
chapter trigger warnings: implied blood kink
words: 5.6k
Chapter two: Sink your fangs in (like a vampire)
Spencer slammed his door shut with a sigh.
It hadn't necessarily been a busy day, but the coffee could only push him through for so long. He hadn’t slept properly in days. At least, he’d have two straight days off, a rare occurrence. He’d spend them all sleeping, that was sure.
A pinging noise rang throughout the apartment. He took out his phone from his bag, dropping the latter on the couch. He let himself fall into the couch, one hand towards his tie to loosen it while the other opened his phone. As soon as he read it his hand at his tie paused.
Unknown: One would think you’re ignoring me.
Spencer stared at his phone, eyes studying the unknown number. He blinked at it a few times, trying to pull together anything that would make it make sense. They definitely had the wrong number, right? Yet, he recognised it, the same number that left him one missed call that morning.
He loosened his tie, both hands moving down to grasp the phone properly and to reply. Was that even the right thing to do? Better question was why wouldn’t it be?
Spencer: Hello, goodnight. I believe you’ve got the wrong person as I do not recognise this number. In fact, this phone belongs to Spencer Reid, not sure who you’ve got me mistaken for. Rest of a good night and I hope you find who you seek.
Spencer reread his message various times after he hit send. The more he did, the more drowsy he got. He wasn't one to worry about text messages, certainly not one to stare at it as he ran through every possible interpretation. Was it too much? Too dramatic? Should he have even replied? Oh, God, why did he say his name? He was an FBI agent, he knew how dangerous that could be.
He was about to shut off his phone until a message instantly popped up, as if the person had been staring and awaiting his reply all along.
Unknown: Spencer Reid? I love that name.
That was definitely not a normal reply. It was quite creepy even, possibly concerning considering his job status. He was about 65% sure that it could be a criminal who got hold of his contact. Not that he was sure how they did that. He knew the right thing to do was to bring it up at work, hand his phone in so they could trace whoever sent the message. Still, he had two days off and if he went back the next day he wouldn’t be going back anytime soon. Not while he was being actively targeted. God, he was tired; he felt his eyes nearly drift shut as he stared.
Being too sleep deprived to properly take in all the options (that should’ve probably been considered in group, not all by himself) was a good enough reason for his next actions.
Spencer: Do you, now? And, what’s your name?
Unknown: That doesn’t seem to be an appropriate reply from an FBI agent, is it now?
Spencer shut off his phone, letting out a shaky breath. Ok, so they knew what his job was. They definitely knew him. Yet, he didn’t know them. There was a familiar chill creeping up his bones, one he had to stomach down often given his job. Maybe that’s why the whole situation got dismissed as less dangerous than it truly was for the rational part of his brain. His nervous system showed him danger yet his very tired brain told him all was fine. He wanted to enjoy his days off.
He was opening his phone again just a few moments later.
Spencer: How would you know if it’s appropriate or not?
Unknown: You’re not going to question how I know who you are?
Unknown: Or are you already on your way to your friends over at the BAU?
Unknown: Also, if you’re curious, my dad was a cop.
Spencer: And, what do I have to do with that? Are you certain I am who you want to be talking to right now?
They sounded way too relaxed, as if chatting with a friend. There was no way a normal person was behind that number.
Unknown: Don’t be mean :(
Spencer: I am not. I literally don’t know who you are.
Unknown: I suppose that’s fair…
Unknown: You know what? You’re most likely tired, that’s why you’re being so unpleasant. I’ll leave you alone.
He shut down his phone. He needed to stop texting back, he was only making it worse being rational against someone who clearly wasn’t. Which didn't make sense since his job included intensive training on how to deescalate all sorts of situations, deal with all sorts of people.
Spencer: I'd appreciate that, yes.
They didn't reply back.
And Spencer did the most contraproductive thing he could've done.
He went to sleep.
Everyone (minus Hotch and Rossi) had time off the next night, such a rare occurrence it could be counted as a miracle. They somehow convinced Spencer to go with them to some bar. They insisted he needed it, yet if someone was tired did they really need to stay up all night, possibly getting wasted? Didn't seem like a logical conclusion to that string of thought. Truth be spoken, he also needed time off, time away from it all, away from the creepy messages on his phone.
As it was, whoever they were, they hadn’t messaged him all day. Not since they had told him to go to sleep ― and he oddly had. He didn’t want to think about that. The blasting noise from the bar’s speakers accompanied with the rapid movements of some people dancing allowed him to do exactly that.
It looked more like a club than a bar, in fact. The definitions passed loosely through his brain. Bars seemed to be more towards conversing and sitting as you drank while clubs were more for dancing and getting blasted by blinding lights. The place seemed to be a mixture of the two without the lights, thankfully for Spencer.
“Alright, man, for every shot you have, I’ll have two,” Derek said, smirk on his face.
Spencer slipped away from his head to stare at him. It had to be a joke, no way he’d think that’d actually happen. “So, if I have none, you won’t drink either?”
He smacked his shoulder. “C’mon, don’t be such a bore, pretty boy.”
JJ scoffed. “Don’t peer pressure him. Besides, you’ve drunk more than all of us combined.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, starting from now.”
Garcia sipped on her drink as she rolled her eyes.
“Man, I just think you need to relax. You’re so uptight, more than usual.”
Spencer couldn’t help the smile that broke out. It wasn’t a wrong observation, but being at a bar was only making it worse, not better. “I don’t think you and I have the same definition of relaxing. In fact, alcohol may lead to an initial relaxation sensation as it serves as a depressant, but as the alcohol is metabolized it can then lead to more anxiety and stress. It even disrupts your sleep.”
He raised his eyebrows at him. “C'mon, guys, y'all agree, right? He needs to relax.”
They mostly all chuckled at Derek. Spencer didn’t understand why, he wasn’t wrong.
“Maybe this isn’t his preferred setting to relax, though,” Garcia commented. Spencer gestured at her, not even saying anything.
Derek looked down at his drink with a sigh. He knew Morgan was trying to cheer him up in the way he knew worked for him, it was somewhat thoughtful even, made him feel bad for rejecting it. Why didn’t he do it once? It couldn’t be that bad, right? He had the next day still to get over his incoming headache.
Spencer slapped his hands on the table. “You know what?”
Everyone looked at him expectantly.
“I’ll do it, I’ll drink.”
“No way that actually worked,” Emily muttered.
“Nah, he’s playing with me,” Derek replied, shaking his head.
Yeah, he had no idea why, but he did feel like drinking for some reason. He knew it was a bad idea since he was still exhausted from the many days without time off, but it would offer momentary relaxation before the bad effects came in. “Let’s do it,” he announced, raising himself from the table.
“Oh, shit, really?” Derek widened his eyes as he also got up, nearly stumbling away from the table.
They sat at the bar, both with a cup of whiskey in front of them. Derek didn’t actually ask for double of what he was drinking and Spencer didn’t want him to either, he’d leave the bar with alcohol poisoning. That wouldn’t be fun for anyone.
“Have you been getting it?”
Spencer nearly choked on his own drink, making it all slide down his throat and burn on its way down. He coughed slightly as he downed it all. “What?”
“Y’know, getting it?”
“Putting more emphasis in the word won’t—”
“You’re at a bar, it’s the perfect place to get some.”
Spencer’s lips parted as he fully internalized what he was telling him. Why was he saying that? Was he actually drunk? “I don’t think so.”
“Everyone’s here to get laid, you should take your chances.”
“I mean, I…” he trailed off. That was true, but Spencer didn’t need to get anything, he was fine. He knew a couple of hours reading a book would reset his brain back to normal. Nothing else did such a good job as that. “I don’t think there’s any… chances to… take.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Even if I, hypothetically speaking, wanted to take my chances, there’s no one here who would be interested.”
“C’mon, pretty boy, I don’t call you that as an insult, you do know you’re highly attractive. And you’re really fucking smart too. There’s many girls who’d want a bite of ya.”
He pressed his eyes shut, face wrinkling. “Oh my God, never say that again.”
“I mean it, man, there’s like three girls who’ve stared at you tonight.”
He widened his eyes, head raising. Was he playing with him? If he was the way he seemed so eager to check it was quite embarrassing. “What? Are you serious?”
“Yeah, there’s one staring at this very moment.”
“Where?”
Derek raised his cup to his lips, head tilting towards someplace to Spencer's left at the seats of the bar.
Spencer looked in the direction Derek had gestured at, to the far end of the stool seats. There it was, a girl sitting down by herself, staring down at her own drink. Spencer wasn’t one to look or to stare, yet the bright blonde hair and sharp dark eyes weren’t ones to be easily missed or dismissed. There was no way a girl like that had been staring at him the whole night.
She was way too pretty.
The girl glanced back as soon as she saw them both looking. She sent him a small smile, raising her cup to her lips. He looked back at Derek, cheeks tainted, but gladly not too noticeable under the dim light. “That’s not a girl that’d be interested in the type of things I’m into.”
“Who cares about that? At least you could get laid.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” he whined.
He got off the barstool. “Look, I’ll leave and you stay here. She looks like an approacher.”
Spencer scoffed. “Derek, don’t leave me here. Weren’t we drinking together?”
“I’ve already drunk enough,” he said as he slipped away towards the table.
Spencer noticed he said something to the others who raised their eyebrows as they looked over at him. He snapped his head forward again. He didn't know his cheeks could get impossibly hotter.
He should just go over to the table, maybe smack Derek — though, he wouldn’t like to be smacked back, he’d certainly hurt him. He downed his drink, ready to slide off his seat to leave, but a voice came from behind him.
“Hey.”
He looked back. His words were caught on his throat.
She had a short red dress, thin straps at the shoulders. It pressed tight into her frame, but loosened up at the seams. She carried herself with confidence in it, red lipstick matching the exact same shade of the dress.
Spencer didn’t think his brain could ever get overloaded, but it sure felt like it. He had no idea what to do as the girl sat down next to him. It wasn’t foreign to him being bad when it came to socialising, it all made complete sense given how much he had skipped ahead of all the people his age. He didn’t have the time to develop all the necessary skills one did when they were a teen; he was just starting to feel it all come together… at 27. Anything outside of his job he didn’t feel good enough at. Talking could be part of being an FBI agent, but never in a way that meant much to his personal life. He felt stuck, the heat from the body next to him paralysing him.
“Did you not want me to talk to you?”
It had been too many seconds where he stood there like a deer in headlights. So embarrassing. “Yes — I mean, no, I did want you to. I just don’t…” he loosely gestured between them, “get this a lot — or at all, y’know?”
“I suppose guys aren’t approached by women too often, are they?”
He had been stuttering like an idiot and yet she talked to him as if he made complete sense. He didn’t think it over too much — not only because the circuits of his brain had burned out, but also because she had really pretty brown eyes. She looked so steadily at him while his moved all over the place. “Yeah… I guess not.”
“Well, I was staring at you — maybe rudely so — because you looked just so damn cute.” She let out a small chuckle.
Spencer also chuckled with her, he couldn’t help it. She had an infectious smile. “Sure.”
“You don’t believe that you’re cute?”
“I-I don’t know. I just don’t believe that’s enough of a reason to approach someone, is it?”
The girl bit down on her lower lip, seemingly thinking over what he said. “Not if you’re a respectable person, maybe. Most people here would approach anyone they’re mildly attracted to for a good night — or what they assume would be a good night.”
If she was approaching him for a one night stand or something, it just wouldn’t happen regardless, so it made him feel less nervous. He wasn’t interested in that, even if she was gorgeous. The thought of it made him feel too uncomfortable to stomach down. “Is that why you’re here, then?”
“Well, no, I said you’re cute. I didn’t say I wanna sleep with you.” He knew she was just being funny, she definitely intended to.
“Good, ‘cause I… don’t do that.” Why did he sound like such a loser?
“Oh, I mean, I didn’t think that, don’t worry. You don’t look like you do.”
Was it an insult when it was simply the truth? “I know.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think that’s bad. Actually, that’s why I even had the courage to come here.” She didn’t look like she needed courage to do much, she seemed so relaxed talking to him. Not that he knew anything about her.
“I suppose this is quite random now, but what’s your name?”
She seemed surprised at his question which didn’t make much sense. It was a perfectly normal question to ask. “Oh…” She looked down at her hands, folded neatly on the bar. “It’s, umm, Francis.” She looked back at him, regaining her confidence. “Francis Rose.”
“Pretty name,” he commented. He tried not to overthink it, it wasn’t good to profile normal people.
She laughed, as if not expecting him to say that. “It’s prettier on paper, truly.”
“I believe you. Can I ask you something?” Don’t act like an FBI agent.
“Sure.”
“Why did you hesitate?”
She didn’t falter that time; she laughed. “Right, yeah, umm, it’s just that it’s not really my name, but it’s what people call me.”
If it was what people called her, she’d be used to it, no? “Why not give your real name?”
“I don’t like it, or I suppose I don’t like hearing people say it.”
He nodded. He could understand that. It seemed to be laced with something complicated, though, something he probably would never understand as he’d likely never see her again.
“Enough with that lame stuff. Can I guess yours?” she suggested.
“My what? My name?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure, why not?”
She jumped in her seat in joy, hands clapping together. “Oh, nice,” she chirped. “Alright, let me focus.” Francis stared at his face harder than she had before, eyes slightly squinting.
“Are you trying to read my mind?”
“Yeah, I’m a psychic,” she replied.
Spencer chortled.
“Don’t laugh, I’m serious.”
“You can be serious, but it won’t make me—”
She slapped his arm. “Shut up or I won’t be able to guess.”
He glanced down at the spot she had hit. God, why had it felt so nice having her touch him, she was a stranger. He wasn’t into strangers.
“Hmm, alright, my signals are a bit off with all this noise, y’know.” She stretched her lower lip down, face twisting into a tentative expression. “Are you perhaps a Jack?”
He shook his head.
“Alright, alright, maybe that was your grandfather’s name, my bad.”
Spencer tried not to grin. Was she actually serious with the psychic thing or was she just playing around? It was hard to read her, she could make such a serious expression while saying such insane things. “I don’t think so.”
She rolled her eyes. “It was definitely someone close to you — but, anyway, is it David?”
It was hard not to think about the letter that was sent to them a few days ago. But, it was just a stupid coincidence.
Francis furrowed her eyebrows, head tilting as she stared at him. “Are you alright?” She widened her eyes. “Are you shocked because I got it?”
“No, no, it’s just — nevermind, it’s wrong again.”
“Ugh, I’m really not selling this psychic thing, am I?”
Spencer shook his head with an exhale.
“Alright, just tell me your name then.”
“It’s Spencer.”
“Oh, such a pretty name as well. I love it.”
Just like the David thing, the message he had been sent to him the day before flashes into his vision. It was a coincidence, God, why was it all clouding his mind. He needed to focus on the nice girl talking to him, not his work matters or… whatever that text was. He had complimented her name, she was just retributing the favor. “Thank you.”
Before he could overthink it any further, she was speaking again. “You wanna go outside? I need a smoke and I’d rather not go alone. Y’know, Spencer?”
Spencer glanced back at the table of his friends. Weren’t they supposed to be spending time together, time off work? It didn’t matter, they were probably all amused, laughing between themselves at the fact they saw Spencer talk to a girl. Besides, if he went outside with her she’d be more safe than going alone.
“I understand if you don’t.”
“No, it’s alright. I’ll accompany you.”
She gave him a smile. “Are you sure? Don’t want to steal you from your friends.”
Spencer smiled back, nodding as he fought the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re not, don’t worry. And… I doubt they care.”
Her hand wrapped around his wrist as she pulled him through the sweaty bodies on the floor. He glanced over at the table of his friends for long enough to see them smirking, Derek winking at him with a wave. Spencer felt the warm spread on his cheeks.
He snapped his gaze back towards the path he walked, focusing on the back of Francis’ head. She had seemed a natural blonde before, but from the back he could see some darker hairs that hadn’t been colored. Maybe he hadn’t noticed because of the dim lighting or the weird conversation.
As they stepped outside none of it really mattered. There were some people around smoking; the smell made Spencer cough as it infiltrated his nostrils. Francis didn’t seem too bothered — it made sense since she smoked — she turned back towards him, smiling as she grabbed his other hand as well. “Now I can finally sink my fangs in.”
Spencer scoffed. The way she had said it was so adorable, even if it sounded real cheesy. “Like a vampire?”
She nodded, leaning in closer.
He let go of her, pushing her hands away. “Weren’t you, umm, going to smoke?”
Francis glanced down at their broken touch, lips wavering slightly. “Y’know, Spencer, any good samaritan would’ve told me that’s bad for me, not remind me.”
“It’s what you came out here for. I know me telling you smoking is bad won’t change a thing.”
She sighed, starting to turn away. “You’re so smart.”
Spencer followed her towards the alley between the bar and another building. “Actually, I have an IQ of 187.”
She glanced back, eyebrows furrowed. “What are you doin’ in a bar, then? Aren’t you supposed to be solving quantum physics equations?”
“Not exactly my line of work, though I’d probably be good at it had I taken interest in Physics.”
Francis turned around, fingers twiddling with the strap of her bag as she straightened her back. “What is your line of work?”
Spencer stopped in his tracks.
Something about it felt wrong, the way she eyed him with a different interest than before. No longer warming smiles, but hard set eyes as her lips tightened. There was some anxiety to her — but not because she was scared — because she was so restless, so reckless. She rocked her feet as she waited for his answer, as if she’d genuinely sink her teeth in at any given moment.
“What is yours?” he asked; he could hear some hesitation in his voice. He didn’t understand what was happening, but some hidden part of him did.
She tilted her head. “Shouldn’t I be the one who’s scared of standing alone with a stranger in some alley?”
“You’ve got no reason to be scared. I don’t look like a threat, nor am I coming on to you.”
She stepped closer to him, her hand coming up to rest on his chest. “If I may be crude, I do wish you were coming on to me.” She slid it up towards the back of his head, fingers sliding through the strands of his hair.
Spencer twitched, breath itching at her touch. “I don’t…”
“Right, you’re not into that?”
He shook his head.
“What are you into, then?”
“I…” he trailed off as she pressed up against him, “I don’t know — nothing?”
Francis let out a hum. Her eyes were at her own hand, at his mouth and neck. She might genuinely be a vampire, after all. “You’re cute.” She pushed him backward until his back pressed against the wall.
He gasped at the force of the movement. It wasn’t as if he had never been with anyone before, as if he had never been entranced in that flirtatious flow. But, no girl had ever pressed him up against a wall so harshly, her fingers grasping his hair harshly with the confidence he’d like it. Not even he knew he was so into it, and somehow she did.
He felt a river rush of motivation, tingles at his fingerprints making him wish to grasp her just as tight as she was grasping him. His hands pressed into fists at his side. She was obviously interested, she most likely wished he grabbed her with the same force, pressed her back into the wall next to him. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, it was something that had never crossed his mind.
“Do you… Do you want to kiss me?” he asked.
She trailed her hand from the back of his head towards his neck, where her thin yet slender fingers wrapped around his neck, adding no pressure to it. “Are you so inexperienced you can’t tell the signs?” Her eyes slid up towards his, looking at him through her lashes.
Why was he pretending to be above it all? Fuck it.
Spencer raised his twitching right hand towards her face so he could pull her closer.
He pressed his lips to hers as if it was something he did every night, as if she was simply another notch on his belt and not a singularity. Everything he thought he knew about himself ceased to have meaning the moment her lips slid so perfectly against his. For him, there was some insecurity behind it all. On the other hand, she had surely kissed many people before, she did it all with such precision.
Their lips scraped together, too dry for the harsh movements. Her hand slid from his neck towards his shoulder to grasp at him as she pulled him closer. His left hand went down to her waist, pushing her to be flush with his body, while the other grasped at her hair the same way she had grasped his.
He took charge of the kiss as if he had wanted it for a long time. God, nothing made sense with that Francis girl. He slid his tongue into her mouth, brushing against hers. She moaned in surprise against his mouth, eagerly pushing her tongue into his mouth as retribution. He was getting pulled into and out of the movement, no thoughts running through his brain and then a sudden awareness of what he was doing.
He knew this girl for only 15 minutes, 20 at best, and yet they were kissing in ways he had never kissed anyone before. Was that the appeal of one night stands — not that it was one, God, no.
Her teeth at his lower lip pushed him towards the brainless side. He gasped as she sucked his lip into her mouth. She pulled back, moving down towards his neck. He jolted backwards as her lips planted on him, tongue licking at his neck. She only pushed him closer, teeth scraping at his neck.
She pulled back slightly, a string of spit snapping against his skin. “Wouldn’t it be funny if I was an actual vampire?”
“Vampires aren’t real,” he replied, for some reason. He knew she was being playful, but he still tried to contain himself, be a straight edge even when it had already been proven he wasn’t.
Francis laughed, the air hitting his wet neck, making him shiver. It felt like ants crawling on the inside of his skin. As she pulled back, he raised his hand, sleeve of his shirt wiping at where she had licked.
She eyed the movement with amusement. “That’s such an asshole thing to do.”
“I — I’m sorry, it’s not like that — I just don’t —”
She silenced him with a kiss, her tongue parting his lips. He couldn’t help the groan that left his mouth, leaving him off guard. Her hand was at his hair again and he noticed his hadn’t yet left hers, he still held her tight, even tighter as they kissed. She grasped tight, more than before, it slid over the edge, no longer bordering between pleasure and pain. But, he didn’t dislike it.
A sharp sting, made him jolt again, hands tightening at her waist and hair which seemed to have encouraged her. She bit harder on his bottom lip, certainly breaking the skin. Her lips were no longer soft, they scraped and pushed as she dug hard into his lips. “Ow,” he let out.
Which should’ve been enough for any reasonable person to stop. Yet, she then sucked on his lower lip, hard, meaning to bruise further. Spencer could feel and taste the new found wetness as the blood pooled into his mouth and into hers.
He pushed against her shoulders and she fully pulled back when forced to. “That hurt.” He brought his hand towards his mouth to sooth the cut, it warmed up as it swelled.
She didn’t look apologetic. She stared at him in a way that sent a chill down his back, not the good kind. Her eyes had such a pretty shine under the moonlight, lips glistened with saliva and blood. Even if it all should’ve felt creepy, he felt his pants getting tighter. He hadn’t even been thinking about that, could she feel him before?
The longer she stayed silent, the harder his heart beat. He gulped. “Francis? Are you alright?”
Francis.
Francis Rose.
There was something about it.
He couldn’t yet figure out what.
She licked her lips that were still stained. “Oh, yeah, I suppose I’m sorry. I just got carried away.” She chuckled. “God, if I must admit this is too exciting. I’m not usually this way, so eager, but I’ve been watching you for way too long.”
“Watching me? What the —”
She smacked her hand over his lips. “Don’t curse, you don’t look the type.”
Spencer pushed her further back, pushing her hand away from his mouth.
Francis let out a sharp laugh, stumbling further back away from him as she held her hands up. “Chill. I mean, I thought you liked my touch on you. You sure seemed to two minutes ago.”
He gulped. “What are you even — Who are you?” His voice was too calm for the situation at hand. He knew had it been a man his reaction wouldn’t have been the same. She likely knew it too, it probably was the reason why she looked at him with such amusement.
“Who do you think I am, Reid?”
He hadn’t told her his last name which meant she had already known it. “How do you know my name?”
She shrugged.
Spencer stepped closer to her, she didn’t seem like she cared. “How do you know my freaking name, Francis?”
Francis Rose.
‘It’s what people call me’.
‘It’s prettier on paper.’
The David mention as if specifically to mess with his head.
“Why would you…” he trailed off. “Why would you approach me?”
“I don’t know. You didn’t mind my texts so I wondered if you minded me in person.” She smiled at him. “I suppose you don’t.”
He wasn’t sure if he hadn’t yet noticed or if he wasn’t allowing himself to connect the dots until it was shoved in his face. She held herself exactly as one would expect. Someone who had gotten away with many murders, someone who carved her own initials in parts of bodies as if to claim them, to claim the end of their lives. None of it was a surprise, there had been pretty and confident murderers before. Most of the serial killers craved the spotlight even if they couldn’t shine under it for too long, even if not to be loved. She fit the expectations, she was easy to profile.
However, she seemed too young to be a highly sought after serial killer, and a great one at that. She had held a normal conversation with him inside the bar just minutes before, she seemed genuinely scared to walk outside by herself. All of it made sense and didn’t at the same time.
“Is this about me or do you want me to send a message?” Would she hurt him out there? At any small scream people would run over, she knew that. He could also just grab her and yell at someone to call the other agents, she’d be brought in for questioning in less than 30 minutes. Why wasn’t he doing that? Maybe the fact he was still hard from their kiss had something to do with it.
“No, they saw you with me. I don’t want them to know my appearance.”
“So, you just wanted, what? To kiss me?”
“No, I wanted to meet you.”
Spencer shook his head. She was insane, right? There wasn’t an explanation to most of what she was doing and she looked too calm for someone standing in front of an FBI agent. The dichotomy meant insanity. “Right.”
She eyed him again, up and down as if he was a prize. “I suppose I should leave before you’re off this haze.”
Spencer could only blink at her. “You should, yeah.”
Francis smiled at him. “Well, nice to meet you. See you soon?”
He looked down as she stepped away.
Maybe if he wished hard enough he could just wake up from whatever nightmare that was. He slid his hands into his hair, grasping at the strands. That only reminded him of how she was touching it before and how much he had liked it — the touch of a serial killer. He let go in a heartbeat.
Spencer reached into his pocket, taking out his phone, hand trembling as he held it. He could still see her walking away, he could call someone on her, have her locked, right? He stared down at his phone, his dark reflection on the black screen, his messy hair and swollen lip. It would look even worse during the daylight.
He glanced up and she had disappeared from his eyesight. He took it as an excuse.
He closed his eyes deep shut, yet all he could see was her dress, the shade, the way it sat at the top of her thighs. The same shade of her lipstick must be all over his lips, mixed with the shade of his blood. He opened them again, letting out a shaky breath.
Summary: You surprise Spencer about your pregnancy, only to find out he already knew.
There's no description of reader's body type, weight, skin color or hair.
The plan had been perfect.
You'd bought the tiny pair of socks weeks ago, hiding them in the back of your dresser drawer every time Spencer walked into the room. You'd rehearsed what you were going to say at least a hundred times.
Tonight was supposed to be the night. Spencer just got back from a trip to Ohio, one that'd taken him away from Virginia for over two weeks. You couldn't keep this secret for much longer. Your belly was starting to grow, and who knows how noticable it will be when Spencer comes back from his next case.
Spencer was working late on paperwork at the dining room table, glasses sliding down his nose as he typed away on his laptop. You stood in the hallway clutching a small white gift bag, your heart pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it from across the apartment.
"Spence? Do you have a minute, baby?" You ask softly while peering into the room, bag hidden behind your back.
"Hm? Yeah, what's up?" he answered without looking up.
"I got you something." You say stepping into the room and pulling the bag from behind you.
That made him glance up. His brows furrowed a bit in confusion. "A gift? It's not my birthday."
You smiled nervously. "Just open it."
He looked immediately suspicious. "You've been smiling like that for three days."
"I have not." You tried to suppress your grin.
"You have." He chuckled.
"I haven't!"
"You absolutely have."
You rolled your eyes and shoved the bag into his hands. "Just open it, Spence."
Spencer laughed softly and pulled out the tissue paper covering his surprise. Then he froze as his eyes landed on the bottom of the bag. He pulled out the pair of tiny white socks. They looked ridiculously small in his hands as he cupped them tenderly.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, his is eyes lifted slowly to yours.
You felt tears already threatening. "Surprise?"
The biggest smile you'd ever seen spread across his face. "I knew it."
You blinked and your jaw dropped. "Wait."
Spencer started laughing.
"Wait!" you repeated. "How did you already know? I've been so careful, so I could surprise you!"
"I suspected." Spencer holds your gaze.
"Spencer!"
"I'm serious."
"No! No, absolutely not. There is no way you knew." You shook your head.
"I didn't know for certain," he corrected. "I suspected."
You crossed your arms. " What? How long?"
Spencer looked almost sheepish. "About a month."
"A MONTH?!" You gasped. You couldn't believe this.
"You started drinking ginger tea every morning." Spencer pointed to the pack of ginger tea packets on the kitchen counter.
"That's not evidence!" You argued.
"You hate ginger."
"I could've changed my mind!"
He gave you an 'are you serious' look. "I very clearly remember you telling me you'd rather swallow tea made from boiled rusted nail water than eat anything with ginger."
"Okay, fair." You grumbled.
He stood from his chair and walked over to you, pulling you into his arms. His touch was warm against your skin.
"You were also nauseous every morning for almost two weeks. That's when I really started wondering if you were okay." He mumbled into your temple.
"Lots of things cause nausea." You pointed out.
"You cried because a dog in a commercial learned how to sit."
Your face burned. "That dog worked really hard."
Spencer laughed. "You've also been taking naps."
"I take naps."
"You've never voluntarily taken naps."
"...Okay."
"And-"
"There's more?!" You turned to look him in the eye. Sometimes you forgot how observant he was.
"There was the day you almost bought prenatal vitamins before realizing I was standing next to you."
Your mouth fell open. "I thought you didn't see that!"
"I notice everything about you. I love you, and I want to know everything that's going on with you."
You groaned and buried your face in your hands. "I spent weeks planning this surprise."
"It was still a surprise. I mean, I wasn't sure. You confirmed it for me." Spencer gently rubs soothing circles into your shoulders. "I knew something was different. I had a theory. But I wasn't going to say anything until you were ready."
Your chest squeezed.
Spencer reached for your hands.
Suddenly the tears you'd been holding back spilled over.
His smile immediately disappeared when he noticed. "Oh no."
You laughed through the tears. "It's happy crying."
"Statistically speaking, people say that right before more crying."
You nodded. "Accurate. I definitely feel more tears coming. "
Spencer gently wiped a tear from your cheek. "You're really pregnant?"
The wonder in his voice made your heart ache. You nodded. "Yeah."
For the first time all evening, he looked genuinely overwhelmed. His eyes became glassy. "You are."
"I am." You grinned slightly. These hormones were seriously throwing you all over the place.
"We're having a baby... I'm having a baby with my best friend." Spencer whispered. A disbelieving laugh escaped him. He seemed a bit shocked. "We're having a baby."
You laughed too. "That's generally how pregnancy works, yes."
Spencer wrapped his arms around you so quickly you nearly stumbled.
The hug was tight, like he couldn't quite believe you or this moment was real. You felt him press his face into your hair. "I've been reading parenting books."
You pulled back. "You WHAT?"
His ears turned pink. "Only six."
"ONLY SIX?"
"I wanted to be prepared."
"You thought I was pregnant and immediately started studying?" You were in disbelief. Of course Spencer would immediately hit the books.
"That's usually how I handle things."
You couldn't stop laughing. "You're unbelievable."
"I know."
"What if I hadn't been pregnant? You would've been wasting your time."
Spencer shook his head. "First of all, learning, no matter the subject, is never a waste of time. Second of all, if you hadn't been pregnant now, I'd be helping prepare for the future when we did get pregnant."
His hand settled gently against your stomach. The gesture was tentative, almost reverent. Neither of you could feel anything yet. It was far too early.
But his eyes softened anyway. "You know," he murmured, "our kid is going to be smarter than both of us."
You snorted. "That's terrifying." You imagined having a tiny genius child running around the house.
"Very."
"Absolutely dangerous."
"Society may not survive."
You laughed as he kissed your forehead. Then he kissed your nose, your cheeks and lips. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. "I can't wait to meet them."
The emotion in his voice nearly made you cry again.
Spencer noticed immediately. "Oh no."
"It's happening again."
"The crying?"
"The crying."
He sighed dramatically and pulled you back into his arms. "Okay."
"What?"
"I'll go get tissues."
You laughed through your tears. "Good plan."
And as Spencer held you against his chest, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, he thought that for once in his life, knowing the answer beforehand hadn't made the surprise any less wonderful.
summary : spencer is on the hunt for a book that might help him crack a case. despite the heatwave, he'd walk through the whole city to get a very special bookstore owner's attention
word count : 1.8k
pairings : early seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader (meet cute)
notes : dual pov, inspired by s2ep8 "empty planet", where the unsub uses a sci-fi book as a prophecy. the heatwave is just self indulgent, and my swet glasses!reid is a sweaty and blushing mess
it was a hot day in seattle.
afternoons in late june felt inexplicably long, as if time was enjoying making spencer suffer from boredom during such cases. the sweat clinging to his skin, thepowerful burn of the sunlight on the almost melting concrete, it all made him wish he could be anywhere but here on a crime scene.
most people were busy welcoming the summer season. on this day of summer solstice, walking around the public garden or enjoying a picnic by the water, life seemed to have taken on a slow rhythm timed by the need for rest and relaxation.
no one could've possibly guessed the city was under a bomb threat.
back at the police department, when the team gathered around the makeshift conference room with no AC, he swore he could feel his braincells decompose. there was no way he was making it to the end of the day in that lifesize oven.
this is why he practially jumped up when hotch sent him on the hunt for a particular book. some obscure science fiction novel he must've mumbled about in a heat caused haze.
at least he got to be outside.
the first bookstore he saw was the one that caught his eye.
a few blocks near the park, between a coffee shop and a vintage store, was a ridiculously old building that looked straight out of an animated movie. the bricks were cream colored, hidden behind leaves of ivy and numerous flower pots that were somehow surviving the heatwave.
he was glad to have a reason to go in.
usually, he drove past bookstores and libraries he dreamed to visit in the black sedan, and could only promise himself he'd go once the case was over, which almost never happened.
the little bell above the wooden door made a clear noise when he pushed it open, stepping into the cozy atmoshpere. the first thing that hit him was the freshness of the air - slightly smelling of the distinct scent of books he loves so much, and a hint of something sweeter.
lavender, maybe. he too, a look around.
it wasn't too vast of a space, but the aisles weren't narrow either. rather welcoming, inviting, books on the shelves stacked just right in a way that scratched his neurodivergent brain.
naturally, he felt compelled to profile the person who owned the place.
his eyes roamed over the titles of the books as he took a couple of steps further. the titles were highlighted by the giant windows, that bathed the store in sunlight. yet, the temperature was more than delightful.
"looking for anything in particular ?"
someone said right behing him.
it took him a moment to realize the saccharine words were destined to him. he was the only one to be book shopping of all things, on this blazing day.
"i'm just looking around, thank y-" he turned to face her and gesture the shelf in front of him - the book he was searching for on full display - but froze.
she was beautiful, the girl standing before him.
suddenly, the outside heat felt like nothing compred to the one spreading on his cheeks, shades of pink matching those of her flowy sundress. it almost reached the floor, cascading down your hips where the fabric hugged her skin.
staring, he was staring. get a grip, reid.
"yes, actually." the lie came out smoother than intended. good, a semblance of dignity in front of such an ethereal presence was all he hoped for. "is that... the fiction aisle ?"
"yes, all the way to that shelf over there" she pointed to the opposite side, her smile rather amused than anything.
real smart, genius.
for someone who was searching for a book, he didn't make it sound like he even knew how to read. the sign just above his head listed the different sections of the bookstore, how pathetic.
she added kindly, her hand smoothing the fabric of the dress - the dress of the undoing. "but we also have a vast selection of non-fiction books over there, and a little cafe area"
"o-okay."
"if you need something fresh to cool down, or..." she shrugged, and it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. kindness radiated out of her so easily, he wanted to say yes desperately.
or at least to say something, anything.
but on top of forgetting how to read, he'd also seemed to have lost his speaking abilities.
so he did what perhaps was the most insensitive thing to do and grabbed the book from the shelf, muttering something along the lines of a poorly enunciated thank you before heading to the checkout.
sliding behind the counter, their fingers brushed when she took it from him gently, giving him the change in return.
"you'll like it," she spoke, carefully placing it in a brown paper bag. "it's not my favorite genre, but the plot unfolds pretty nicely."
he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and manages to say.
"not mine either, really. it's for scientific purposes, but i usually stick to classics or true crime novels"
"me too !!" she says enthusiastically.
as he took the bag from her, it appeared to him that small talk might be the closest thing he'd ever get from her, and suddenly regreted the way he dismissed her out of nervousness.
"this place is nice,"
she looks up, smiling at the compliment. not bad, he thinks, does he sound too eager ?
"thanks you, i’ve been working here for a while... not alone, usually, but it’s hard to attract people with that heat”
“not for you,” he answers, instantly biting his lip.
“what ?”
attract as in interest, in books. shoot, the haze in his mind was completely unlike anything he’d ever experienced and made him stupid.
“i mean, uh… you’re great. a great salesperson, basically. you’ve got the social cues down”
she let out a genuine chuckle, closing the cash register as the coins clinked.
“don’t you ?”
“no, not really…" he hints at in a bashful tone, slightly shifting positions to lean against the counter in an attempt to appear nonchalant.
the rays of the sun are filtering through the glass, hues of gold spreading around her, reminding him of an angel's halo. bright is the smile she gives him, the magnetic field around her promting him to get closer, closer.
"there's nothing wrong with choosing books over people, trust me" she says as she hands him the bag.
"less disappointing"
he nods, brain too focused on how they almost touched for the second time today. outside, the hot weather is almost nagging him, knowing he'll have to rush back to the police station. spend his day locked in yet another enclosed office, bathing in the discomfort of his own sweat and loneliness.
but he should be getting going.
so, reluctantly, he disappears with an ironic sound of the silver bell as the door closes.
every step he takes is unsure and reluctant, as if his body contemplated betraying him by turning back around. the urge was too strong, similar to the desire he felt to be near you, the scent of sugar and roses you emanated.
except the bell rings not too long later.
you had barely found the time to catch your breath - that had been taken away by the handsome boy on aisle three earlier this morning, the only person in the whole town who’d actually thought it would be smart to come here today of all days - that the sharp sound was heard again, pulling you out of your daydreams.
rays of sunlight hit your eyes, his figure appearing like a mirage in the light.
“you’re back,” you exhaled breathlessly.
quickly, you got up from the shelf you were rearranging. kids picture books, sorted by themes instead of colours.
“i’m back,” he said at the same time.
your brows met halfway, nerves wracking. surely, you couldn’t have spent so much time reading under your breath, nostalgic about your favourite childhood book.
a gasp escaped from your lips.
“you didn’t like the book ? no. it was the wrong one ? what’s wrong ? i forgot the change ?”
shy stranger chuckled again, a sound you couldn’t get enough of. “no, it was the right book and you got everything right.”
“then what ?”
frankly, you could’ve forgotten a dollar or two. it happened often when your preference for literature over maths showed. or when a handsome client with eyes of gold showed up.
“actually… i finished it.”
somehow, he looked bashful.
like it was a truth he hated to admit, disguising the unique parts of him under a joking tone he didn’t quite master. crossing the store to approach you tentatively as if you were in the middle of something, his eyes never left yours.
“the book ?”
“yes, the book.”
stupid question. and incredibly intelligent man, or so it seemed.
his mouth opened once before he spoke, gathering the whirlwind of thoughts as they rushed through his mind.
“twenty thousand words per minute. that’s my usual reading speed,” he explains, like it’s the most natural thing ever.”
“if you minimise factors such as the environment or time of the day. usually, my brain is more active in the early morning.”
you nod along.
“so,” in an attempt to understand, you put your hands on your hips. the little dimple on your right cheek is probably showing, you think. it always does when you’re intrigued.
he almost stares, you notice before he says again.
“so, i was wondering if you had any recommendations. you said classics, right ?”
classics.
jane austen, dostoevsky, maybe some hugo or brontë. the energy he brought felt like a calm breeze, a yearning soul perhaps. looking at his hazel eyes and tall frame felt like discovering a puzzle part you didn't know was missing.
oh, you had plenty of suggestions for him. questions too popped up in your mind as he leaned against the shelf, tilting his head in silent obsrvation.
caramel curls were sticking to his temples, rebelling from the way they'd carefully been pushed back earlier.
he took the silence as an opportunity to ask, round eyes pleaing. "you said something about fresh drinks ?"
the world seemed to stop when you giggled, his inner thermostat skyrocketing.
that's what it was.
it was the expression on your face he wanted to decipher.
your thoughts that he truly wanted to read.
"sure, i'll get you some iced tea" flowing dress creating a delicate movement at every step, you made your way to the coffee station.
"right, i'll just... wait here"
books, fresh air, you. eveerything here seemed perfect, he never wanted to leave, followed you after a couple of seconds as if a magnetic force had pushed him to.
the rest would just have to wait.
౨ৎ if you liked this, try reading you're in my way now
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