technically my side blog… shows up as @spenceloria-alt when i fb!
ceo of kicked puppy bf spence. loria. she/her. twenty. bisexual. biracial. lover of all things cute and pink. moa. dive. mitski fangirl. in the pitt. extremely criminal minds pilled, i fear i am a chronic rewatcher.
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➜ this blog contains sexual content, and occasionally explores darker themes!! (18+)
asks are always open, fic requests will likely only be used as a guided inspiration of sorts… my bad
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KINKTOBER ꩜ NEIGHBOUR!READER MLIST
meet neighbour!reader shes my baby… please treat her kindly world!
taken anons ! 🧸, 🦇,🧁…
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HARD NO >.< ... scat, ingesting urine, male reader, masc reader, character x character, illegal age gap, slave, pregnancy, major gore, major character death, baddd angst (can u tell i hate writing sad stuff…), suicide, noncon, daddy kink…, period sex, a/b/o
check out the masterlist for more! spencer requests welcome
summary: you’re just like many other college students with a crush on your criminology professor, spencer reid. sweet, handsome, oblivious spencer reid. except you were never one to ogle from afar. you were determined to be the one to seduce him.
tags and warnings: smut, no use of y/n, sub!spencer reid x dom!reader, afab!reader, pretty mean dom reader, professor x student, slight dubcon, dynamic implies age gap but not specified, masturbation (reader), implied fingering during masturbation, reader is a nasty gal!, reader wears a very mini skirt at one point, reader gets off on shaming spencer, p in v sex, oral (fem receiving), cowgirl position riding, face sitting (fem), slight blackmail for a moment, creampie, mentions of pregnancy but no preg bc WE DON’T DO THAT HERE, author is waaay into foreplay, most of spencer’s rambling is random stringed-together criminology jargon as i pretend to know what im talking about
a/n: original thought for this fic. this is like if a smut fic was very silly. reader wants that cookie baaaad. this is a very small concept that stretched into a big long fic i hope no one gets bored. also IF YOU’RE READING THIS GET IN MY INBOX!!! I AM WILLING TO TAKE REQUESTS!!! I WANT SPENCER IDEAS, EVEN FLUFFY ONES!!!!
It was certainly hard to focus when in the class of Professor Reid. Almost every seat in the front row was taken up by a girl twirling her hair or chewing on her pen. Or both. And you really couldn’t say you were any better.
Spencer stood at the front of the lecture hall, adjusting his glasses with one hand while holding a stack of papers in the other.
He didn’t mean to be distracting, but he so very was. Tall, lanky, always dressed neatly in button-ups and vests, and his intelligence just radiated from him. And when he was teaching, his voice gained such weight and precision it was impossible for the attention of the room not to be drawn.
He was certainly handsome. And it was sweet of him to pretend he didn’t know it.
You couldn’t blame the ogling women. You'd be lying if you said you weren't taking this class at least partially for Reid. You sat near the middle, your notebook open but mostly blank. You’d spent the last ten minutes sketching tiny hearts in the margins instead of taking notes. you were listening. You just… liked looking at him, too. The way his hair fell slightly over his forehead when he leaned forward onto his desk, how he bit his lip when concentrating, how soft-spoken yet assured he sounded. It was all kind of unfairly attractive for a professor who probably didn’t even realize half these girls were here for him and not criminology.
But you were a woman of drive. A woman of initiative. And a woman of... well, perverse sexual desires, honestly. And Professor Spencer Reid would see that soon enough.
You pretended it was a coincidence that you’d arrived earlier than could possibly be accidental.
And it was a coincidence, technically. A class of yours prior had been canceled last minute, and now roaming the halls of the building, the open door to Spencer’s hall was just too inviting to possibly ignore.
You hadn’t planned to show up an hour early just to secure a good seat. But now here you were, walking in at 8:05 AM for a class that started at 9, eyes roaming over the empty front row with a giddy greed.
Part of you had hoped to spare just an extra minute with the handsome professor before his lecture began. But much to your pleasant surprise, he wasn’t one to arrive two minutes before class was to begin like your other professors. As you stand in the door, Reid stares back at you with brown eyes like saucers, mid-scribble on the board, slightly alarmed to see someone so early.
His hair was unruly. The eyebags under his eyes, not dark enough to be troubling, but just enough to make you wonder if he had spent more than a few hours resting.
Spencer straightened up quickly and nearly knocked over the empty coffee cup on his desk. He clears his throat, and gives her a stiff wave. “Oh! Uh… good morning.”
You clear your throat and shift your bag on your shoulder, moving to secure a front row seat. “…First one, huh?” you say, like it’d been accidental.
Spencer nodded, still slightly flustered by your presence. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re… pretty early! 53 minutes early, actually.”
He turned back to the board and picked up his marker again, but didn’t resume writing just yet. Just stood there shifting it in his grip awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that someone was watching him work.
He slowly turns back around. “Did you… uh… have a question? Or something I can help you with?”
It makes you a little giddy inside that he was talking to you directly now. Like being alone with a celebrity. It was quite invigorating to have a crush.
“Oh,” you wave your hand, settling into your chair. “Nope. No questions here.”
He stares at your for a moment, eyes just subtly roaming over your figure. “…Cool,” he said lamely, then turned back to the board and started writing again, a subheading to yesterday’s lecture notes.
Crossing your leg over the other, you tap your fingers on your knees. You sit front and center, watching Spencer like he’s on display. The silence is a little uncomfortable, the only sound in the room the squeaking of the marker as his hand flies across the board, but you didn’t care. You were too busy getting an eyeful of his derriere each time his blazer rode up with his arm.
Eyes still fixed on the prize, you muse, “You like to be early too, huh?”
Spencer nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I like to get everything set up before class starts. Y’know… organize the slides, make sure the projector’s working,” He gestures vaguely to the ceiling. “Helps to not feel, uh, overwhelmed, actually.”
“Ah. A lot to do, I imagine.”
“Mhm!” he hummed in agreement, scribbling more notes on the board, something about a list of common stress triggers in violent offenders.
“Anything I can help with, sir?”
He turns slowly, marker in hand. “Uh… no? I mean, I’m good.” He smiled awkwardly, then immediately went back to writing before the conversation could continue further.
Your face falls. The slight sting of embarrassment makes you grimace behind his back. “Not even get you another coffee? …You look like you need it, sir.”
At that, Spencer considers. “…Actually,” he said slowly, “that would be really nice.”
You pop up from your chair like a spring. Spencer is slightly startled. “I, uh, take it with a lot of sugar!” He calls as he watches you move to the door, then retracts it as soon as he feels too demanding. “Actually, just— just bring the sugar here, I’ve got it.”
“Aye, aye, professor.”
Five minutes later, you returned, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a generous amount of sugar packets between your teeth.
You climb up the steps to the stage, for the first time being on the same level as your professor. And just a few feet away at that. You bite your cheek.
He carefully takes the cup with a tiny, grateful smile, but hardly makes eye contact with you, much to your dismay. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”
He immediately ripped open three sugar packets, dumping them in at once. He stirred it with a spoon from his desk, watching the swirl of cream and sugar mix. When he finally sipped it… perfect. Strong. Sweet. Just how he liked it.
Still not looking at you directly, too aware that you were just standing there watching him oddly, he gave another quiet thanks.
You were lingering a little longer than necessary if you were being honest, eyes following the way his throat bobs as he swallows another gulp of the coffee.
Spencer stares at you awkwardly. You give a sheepish grin as you catch yourself. “Sorry! I’m not, uh,” you bite your lip, humming, “bothering you or anything by being here so early?”
“Oh, no! No, it’s— it’s fine,” he said quickly, setting the coffee down. He fidgeted with his cufflinks and finally looked at you properly for the first time since you arrived. Maybe you were obsessed and ready to froth at the mouth over scraps, but something about the eye contact felt intimate. “It was really thoughtful of you,” he says again, gesturing to the coffee. “Besides, your performance in this class is excellent, might I say,” he compliments.
You suppress a grin. Score. You knew furiously scribbling down those notes as your head spun from all the criminology jargon, studying all night until you could recite the pages back to him was all worth it just for that tiny compliment.
“—So I don’t think you’re in any need of extra help outside of class,” he continues, smiling with a nod, “Therefore you’re… more than welcome to come in right at the time of the lecture. Don’t feel like you need to arrive early or anything.”
You deflate a little at that.
Goodness, you hadn’t even considered that. A little private tutor session? Just you and Professor Reid? Goddamn it, none of it was worth it at all. You should’ve been failing.
Spencer seemed to notice the shift in your expression, how your smile faded. Whoops. You forgot to be subtle.
He backtracks quickly, “I mean… unless you wanted extra help?” He offers, raising his eyebrows slightly.
“Always more to learn!” You smile brightly, voice a little too chipper.
Spencer’s eyes brightened at your enthusiasm. “Okay! Cool,” he nods. “If you want, you can come by my office after class? I can go over some advanced profiling techniques for crime assessment and inputs.”
You struggle to keep the fireworks booming in your body from exploding out of your mouth. God, he had no idea. “Yes! Y-yes. yeah,” you nod rapidly. “Sounds great.”
He smiled, a genuine one that made her insides clench. “Awesome! My office is 208B,” he said, pointing down the hall with his thumb. “I’m usually there until around five?”
With a final nod, Spencer turns to organize some papers. You see the opportunity and seize it.
Leaning on his desk, you ask casually, “Ah, five, huh? Gotta… get home to the wife?”
His eyes snap back to yours, confused and startled.
“Oh! N-No, no, I’m not married.”
“Whaaat? Get outta here. Not even a girlfriend?”
He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then looks down at his papers, suddenly very interested in alphabetizing them. “…Nope.” Why was this conversation happening?
Meanwhile, you could practically fall over and die. “Wow. That’s… yeah, that’s crazy.”
He opens his mouth with the strange need to defend himself. “I… I mean… I just haven’t—” He cleared his throat and gestured stiffly to the board. “Anyway! Should probably finish this, uh, lecture prep.”
“Right, right! No, of course.” You shuffle away, moving to the steps to make your way off the stage. But you halt, pivoting on your heel. “…Aaanything else I can help you with?”
Spencer thinks. The room was quiet, the air thick with the smell of coffee and faint scent of whiteboard markers. He turns to spare you a glance, and realizes you seemed… eager to help.
“…You could hand me those slides?” He asked, pointing to a stack of pages on the side table that needed sorting into order.
“Hah, fuck…”
Laying back on your bed in your vacant dormitory, you let the back of your head hit the mattress again. Hair tussled, cheeks warm, a layer of sweat on your body.
As your fingers work between your legs, the only thought in your mind was your handsome professor. The thought of his lips greedily sucking your heat, dark locks falling over your thighs, as those long, wiry fingers work in and out of your cunt. The fantasy played out vividly in your mind, every detail sharp. His wide brown eyes shining with tears, his erection straining against those stiff pants he insisted on wearing to each class. His lips would be swollen and glistening from lapping and suckling. How sweet he’d sound, you think, with his moans muffled into your pussy as you grind against his face.
You fantasized about your Professor more often than you were ready to admit. When you were sure you were alone, the words “professor”, “teacher”, or “college” found itself in your laptop’s search bar frequently, often accompanied by your fist down your panties.
It certainly wasn’t the one fantasy you had. Gripping his wrists like a vice, fucking yourself on his dick while he could only watch helplessly— that was another contender. God, the sound he’d make if you yanked his hair just right. Or clamping a hand over his mouth as he sat between your legs, your fist working his cock faster than he could possibly keep up with. How flustered he’d be, stammering something sweet and nervous between kisses.
You thought of stuffing that tie in his mouth, of tugging that unruly hair, of bending him over your knee, of—
You lay back on your mattress, panting and flushed with a sheen of sweat, basking in the afterglow with your nerves still buzzing.
You hadn’t meant to get that carried away, but once you started thinking about him like that… it was impossible to stop.
You kicked your legs in the air, letting a breathless giggle escape you, the excitement of seeing him again so soon enough to send another rush of arousal through you.
You’ll admit, you were a little disappointed with the result of the small tutor session, none of the fantasies exactly coming to life.
“Well, I gotta say, I think you’re keeping up incredibly well,” Spencer flips a page in a file as he sits in his office chair across from you. “You’re remarkably competent. I mean, I don’t think you’re in need of any help outside of my class at all.”
You sat stiffly in the chair across from his desk, knees pressed together.
Remarkably competent. Keeping up well. That was… great. But also so boring. You wanted him to say something like “you’re stunning,” “I think about you constantly,” “let me kiss you.” But instead, it looked like you were losing the opportunity for these sessions.
“It’s… nice,” he says, looking up at you properly now, “to have someone actually enrolled who cares about the subject. It’s funny, did you know you’re just about one of the only students of mine actually registered?” He laughs lightly. God, you would eat him alive. “Turns out, most of the people I get in my lectures are only auditing, it’s… it’s a little disappointing, actually.”
“Yeah, I know,” you nod casually, far less oblivious as to the reason for that.
Spencer pauses, sensing something. “You… do?”
“Yeah,” you shrug.
“Oh!” He glances off to the side for a moment. “Well, it’s, uh… kinda weird, right?”
“I mean… have you noticed it’s only the girl students doing the auditing?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “…Yeah,” he says slowly, “I guess I have.”
With a slow, strange shock, you realize. “Oh, you actually don’t know.”
Spencer’s face scrunches slightly. “Don’t know… what?”
“Uh, well. They audit the class for you, sir.”
His lips part slightly. He blinks at her for a moment in surprise. “For me?”
“Yeah. Like… they think you’re cute.”
The color drains from Spencer’s face, then floods back in a rush of red.
“Oh,” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “Oh.”
“Mhm. Kind of flattering, no?”
Spencer is already not handling this well. His fingers tap nervously against the file on his desk. He can’t look at you. His eyes keep darting to the ceiling, then back down.
“It’s… um,” he stammers, “I mean… I don’t— I never considered that.”
He was so oblivious. Painfully so. “Yeah.” You fiddle with your pencil and decide to test the waters. “You could, like… fix your whole ‘single’ problem with just about any one of them.”
Spencer looks mildly horrified by the idea. “I don’t—” he starts, then stops, “I mean… I could, but I wouldn’t want to.” His nose scrunches slightly.
“You wouldn’t?” you ask quickly.
“No,” he says automatically. Then he suddenly gets a little shier. “I mean… it’s not appropriate. I’m their professor.”
“Oh,” you say softly. “So it’s a moral thing.”
He nods, happy to be understood. “Yeah, professional boundaries, and all that. It just… wouldn’t be right.”
“Yeah, but you’ve never liked something that’s wrong?”
Spencer frowns. That was a very specific question. He shifts in his seat, suddenly feeling very warm under his button-up. “…No? Not like that?”
“No?”
“I mean…” he swallows hard, “not in a way that would ever matter.” This conversation had suddenly veered very personal before Spencer had even realized.
You’re leaning closer across the desk than he remembers you were five minutes ago. “So, if you did, hypothetically, happen to like one of those students, you wouldn’t date them?”
Spencer’s hands clench slightly in his lap.
“…No,” he says quietly, but there's a strange waver in his voice.
The sly tease flies out of your mouth before you can help it, “…Are you considering it now, Professor?”
“I’m not—!” he starts, defensive. His eyes flicker to yours for half a second before darting away again.
Got him.
After letting the silence linger for just another tense second longer, you stand abruptly. Your chair screeches against the floor, and Spencer nearly jumps out of his seat at the sudden movement. Slapping laptop down and sliding it under your arm, you flash him a smile. “Much to think about!”
“Uh— wait,” he blurts, standing too. “M-Miss—!”
But you were already halfway to the door, bag tucked under your arm. “See you in class, sir!” you call over your shoulder.
The door clicks shut. Spencer stands there, frozen in the middle of his office, staring at where you’d just been.
His palms are sweaty.
He slowly sinks back into his chair and stares blankly at his desk.
What just happened?
A few days later, he’s a little startled the by the sound of a cup enthusiastically landing on his desk.
His eyes trail up the arm attached until he meets your sparkling eyes, and he immediately relaxes. “Morning!” You chirp.
This had become routine between the two of you now. Every morning you’d show up, steaming cup in hand, sugars and all.
“Ah, my prized student,” he says back warmly, and accepts the cup with both hands.
“Oh! Will that graduate to favorite student if I keep bringing you these coffees?”
Spencer’s lips twitch into a smile, his lips around the rim of the cup. “You’re already my favorite,” he admits without thinking. After a moment, he seems to catch on to his own words, and suddenly backpedales. “I mean— not in a weird way! Just… you bring me coffee.”
The smile on your face is downright perverted. “And sugar,” you remind him.
“And sugar,” he echoes, smiling shyly. He rips open four packets of sugar and dumps them in one heap.
You tap your nails against his desk idly and muse, “Y’know, I was studying for your class last night when I realized, I think I’ve finally found something I’m stumped on.”
Spencer perks up. “Oh! Okay, what is it?”
“Geographical profiling. Don’t understand it a lick.”
He brightens. “Ah, that’s actually really fascinating!” He says, setting his coffee aside. “What is it specifically you’re struggling with? Are you struggling with the mathematical algorithms or more the theoretical framework?”
You wave a hand. “All of it,” you lie, miming something flying over your head. “Whoosh.”
Spencer quiets for just a fraction longer than normal. All of it? That… seemed extreme for someone who had been acing tests so far. But he plays along. “Okay, well… let’s start at the beginning—”
“—After class, right? In your office?” You interrupt him eagerly.
“Oh! Uh, yeah,” he nods. “Sure. After class.”
“Wonderful. Wouldn’t wanna distract my mind before your lecture today, y’know?” You tap your index finger against your temple and smile at him warmly. Shifting your bag on your shoulder, you begin to walk to secure your front row seat.
But the moment you step out of the way of the desk, Spencer’s gaze drops before he can stop it. His eyes can’t help but roam over your lower half. Specifically your legs. Practically the entire expanse of your legs, in fact. You were wearing just about the shortest skirt he thinks he’s ever laid eyes on. A skirt that if it was even an inch shorter, there’d be a problem.
His brain short-circuits for a solid two seconds, long enough that the coffee cup tilts dangerously in hand. Then he chases himself away, his throat tight, awkwardly adjusting his tie. He busies himself with pretending to organize files that don’t need organizing.
As you shuffle down the steps, you call over to him, “Don’t you just hate when your mind’s distracted?” You don't dare peek at him over your shoulder, fearing he’d see the coy smile plastered on your face.
Spencer swallows hard. “Yeah,” he croaks out, “Hate it.”
That lecture is practically public humiliation for Professor Reid.
He stands at the front of the class as usual, his voice echoing across the hall as he speaks, gesturing with his hands for emphasis. But his fingers keep twitching. In minute and a half intervals— because yeah, you were counting— his eyes accidentally flick down to you, front row center, legs crossed primly.
He’s usually quite a smooth lecturer. Articulate. Confident. Lost in the thrill of sharing his knowledge. But today, he keeps stumbling over words, noticeably missing transitions between points, and a few of the students are beginning to exchange glances. Since when did Professor Reid lose track of his lectures?
Meanwhile, you’re watching it all unfold smugly from your seat. Your eyes haven’t left your dear professor since this class began. Which wasn’t out of the ordinary. After all, everyone in the class had their gaze on him. But Spencer’s only painfully aware of one.
You notice the way he begins to subtly avoid looking in your general direction. Each time he glances up to check for engagement, his eyes skip a whole section of students like there was a bubble around you.
He discreetly wipes his perspiring palms on his pants.
Unhappy with the lack of attention, you shift in your chair. Under the guise of getting more comfortable, you sink in your spot, legs uncrossing, your mini-est skirt in the world at risk of riding up with any strong movement. You casually lean back, stretching one leg out just a little further, the fabric of your skirt rising up just an inch.
Your shoe taps against the floor like a quiet Yoo-hoo, over here. And when you’re certain he’s looking your way again, albeit in his peripheral, and with the slowest, softest, subtlest movement you can manage, you idly flex your legs open and shut, open and shut. His throat bobs, and your lips curl.
You keep the motion slow, almost lazy, like you weren't even aware of it. Just tiny, imperceivable movements. Rhythmic, absentminded. The way one taps their fingers or twirls a strand of hair. But it might as well have been a flashing neon sign saying Look at me, with your thighs tensing under the thin material of your skirt over and over before relaxing again.
Each time your legs spread, if Spencer looked close enough, he’d catch the color of your thong.
He grips the edge of his podium, knuckles whitening. The lecture drags on, every second an eternity. He finishes his last point five minutes early, voice trailing off awkwardly. “…And that’s— that’s all for today.”
A beat of silence. The students blink at each other. Each person shuffles out quickly, confused by the abrupt ending, but not exactly complaining. Spencer just wanted it to end.
You take your sweet time packing up. Slinging your bag over one shoulder, then pausing to yawn, arms high above your head in a long stretch that makes your shirt rise up at the waist.
Spencer watches, against his will, as your shirt lifts just enough to reveal a sliver of skin, then as you reach higher, pulling your muscles in a different angle, and this time your back arches slightly.
He’s speechless atop the stage.
Frustratingly, you don’t spare him a glance as you file out alongside the other students that trickle through the door. “Bye, Professor,” he hears your voice above the rest.
“Bye,” Spencer mumbles back, robotic.
The second the door clicks shut behind you, he exhales like he’d been holding his breath the entire lecture. Miserably, he drops to his chair and presses both palms into his eyes.
What was wrong with him?
A light knock comes to his office door, and Spencer’s head jerks up. That's you.
He clears his throat. “Come in!” he calls.
In comes you, with the brightest smile, one he can hardly tear his eyes from. “Hi, Professor!” You chirp.
“Hi,” he says back, softer than intended. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit down, whenever you’re ready.” His hands are folded neatly in front of him. A professional, composed posture. But his heart isn’t listening.
Spencer notices the absence of the skirt immediately, the expanse of your legs hidden from view again. But why was he looking? Was he hoping you hadn’t changed?
You plop down in your seat across from him with a bounce. After light conversation and a moment to get settled, he grabs a folder labeled Geographical Profiling and cracks open a textbook. “So,” Spencer begins, flipping open the folder. “Geographical profiling is basically a way to predict where a serial offender might strike next based on their previous crime scenes.” He pulls out a map, already marked with locations. “It uses statistical analysis and spatial patterns—”
“—Can I come over to your side?”
Spencer stops, staring at you a little oddly.
You shrug a shoulder. “I just think I’d get it better looking at it from your angle.”
“Oh! Yeah, for sure,” he says, scooting his chair over to make space.
You stand and circle around the desk, dragging the chair behind you. As you sit down with your shoulders just barely brushing his, the smell of your perfume engulfs him. Pleasant, not too overwhelming. Girly in a way that made him nervous. He clears his throat, “Where— where were we?”
Refocusing on the map, his steady, academic tone returns easily. “So we’re looking at these crime scenes here and here—” His finger taps two dots on the paper.
As he talks, you lean closer to the paper. Which naturally results in you leaning closer to Spencer. Your arms brush at some point with featherlight contact.
He doesn’t react. Instead, he keeps pointing at the map, voice even despite his body temperature suddenly rising. “…And based on this pattern,” he continues, “the offender likely lives somewhere along this radius.”
Abruptly, you turn to open a drawer on his desk. You scan the contents inside, then move to the next.
“Uh…” he starts, watching you with bewilderment.
“Looking for a pencil.”
“Ah!” He fumbles in his own pocket and pulls out a clicky ballpoint. “Here,” he says, offering it to you. “You can use mine.”
“Ohh, your’s huh? I’m flattered. Promise not to chew on it.” You wink.
Spencer’s lips twitch. He watches as you take the pen, your fingers brushing. On purpose? Or was that just wishful thinking?
“Y-yeah, for sure. Just, um… just ask me next time, okay? I’d prefer it if you didn’t dig through my drawers.”
“Ah, I see,” you chuckle behind your lips.
“…See what?”
“I dunno. You hiding something dirty in there, Professor?”
Spencer’s face is mortified. “W-what? No!” He sputters, voice cracking slightly. “It’s just… paperwork! Notes. Th— that I’d prefer to keep organized.”
You bite back your grin. “You don’t have to be shy about it!”
“I-I’m not shy! There’s nothing to be shy about!” Spencer insists, a little too loudly.
He clears his throat awkwardly and tries to turn back to work like nothing happened. The paper and textbook stare back at him, completely uninteresting now. All he could focus on was how close you still were. How your perfume kept wafting over every time you moved. “So… statistically speaking, the offender likely lives within a three-mile radius of these clustered crime scenes.”
You nod along, but you're not really listening. You’re still watching him. The way his brow furrows when he concentrates, how his fingers tap the paper absentmindedly.
Spencer feels a poke on his shoulder.
“Hey.”
He turns his head sharply, eyes wide. “…Yeah?”
There’s a heartbeat of silence where you just stare into each other's eyes, your faces far too close. And for a moment, Spencer thinks this was going in a very different direction.
Then you smile. Soft, playful. “You talk with your hands a lot,” you observe casually. “I like it.”
“Oh,” is all he says at first. “Thanks?”
“Yeah, you’ve got good hands, you know?”
“Uh… yeah, thanks,” he mumbles again, voice weirdly small. “You too? I think?”
“Yeah? Mine?”
“Yeah, your—” Spencer gestures vaguely to your hands. They were nice. Soft-looking, well-manicured. Holdable. “I mean… they look… clean?”
“Hm. Clean.” You examine your own hands, spreading out your fingers and flipping them back and forth. You seemingly nod in agreement. “Don’t like to be messy, Professor?”
Spencer shakes his head quickly. “No, I hate messes,” he admits. “Germaphobe, honestly. The sheer amount of pathogens passed in a handshake alone is staggering, actually.”
“Really? What about… in a kiss? Now that’s gotta be dirtier.”
“Actually,” he says immediately, leaning forward slightly, “saliva contains millions of bacteria. Some studies estimate that a single kiss transfers 80 million microorganisms between people.” His voice gains the same weight you recognize from his lectures. “And it’s not just bacterial exchange either! There’s enzymatic activity too…”
Spencer’s scientific rambling slowly trails off mid-sentence as he takes notice, finally, of where your gaze is locked. His lips. His brain also finally acknowledges the warmth of your thigh deliberately pressed against his through the fabric of his pants, and he feels something stirring in his lower half he’d really rather ignore.
As Spencer’s mouth goes dry, a slow, wicked grin spreads on your face. “Sorry, I’m getting you all distracted again, aren’t I?”
He squirms slightly in his seat. “Y-yeah, a little.”
You nod to the paper. “You wanna… go back to telling me about geographical profiling?”
What was this, the third time now he’s had to begin again?
“Yeah. So… like I was saying, the offender’s most likely residence is here—”
For a while, you seem, to him, to be listening well. You occasionally nod, ask a question here and there to keep him talking. But your attention once again is curved by the handsome man sitting not even an inch away. And as he talked, the gears in your mind were turning.
You knew what came next. The big part. The one you’d actually practiced a humiliating amount of times. You squeeze your thighs together, your skin prickling with the thrill running through you.
Spencer doesn’t notice your distraction, too focused on explaining the logistics of distance decay. “And based on these crime scene locations,” he says, “we can calculate the mean center, which is essentially how all these points would balance if we put them on a scale.”
“Hm. Yeah, I just feel like I would see it better from your angle.”
Spencer stops as you interrupt him for the nth time. There’s no space left to scoot closer, but he still shifts a little— an instinctive, subconscious lean toward you. His shoulder is pressed flush against yours now. “Yeah… okay,” he murmurs, tilting the map slightly so you could see better, the proximity making his pulse erratic again.
You shiver a little at the closeness, subtly biting your lip. It practically takes all of your self-control to shake your head. “No, no, now you can’t see it.”
Spencer huffs a tiny, almost-laugh. “I assure you, I can see it. Not to worry. Besides, you should really be the one looking—”
“May I?”
“…May you what?”
“Move to a better angle for both of us, obviously.”
“Oh, right! Right,” Spencer scoots his chair back a generous amount to give you room, a little sheepish about having moved closer to you in the first place.
But you don't even acknowledge this. You rise from your chair smoothly, casually adjusting your clothes. Then, much to Spencer’s surprise, you lay a hand on his shoulder and move to stand between his legs, lording over him. He was suddenly at a disadvantage, looking up at you with eyes wide as saucers and watching your every move like a frightened animal.
You lock eyes with Spencer as you slide your arm around his neck. You feel the tenseness in his body, each muscle taut with anticipation. With a jut of your knee, you spread his legs and calmly perch yourself atop his thigh, effectively sitting in his lap. He nearly jumps back in shock, but pinned under your weight, he doesn’t have far to go. His body is stiff as a robot’s, so you take it upon yourself to grab his arm and effortlessly maneuver it until it’s wrapped comfortably around your waist, pressing his palm flat against your hip.
Spencer looks as though he’s been electrocuted. He’s completely paralyzed. You were in his lap. Your weight settled against him, your warmth seeping through his clothes. For a moment, he wonders if he’s just died.
“…What? You said I could.”
Spencer’s lips parted, but no sound came out. When his brain finally rebooted, all it could manage was a weak “I—I didn’t—”
You could somehow feel his heartbeat, wild and frantic, from where you sat on his knee. The rapid thump-thump of his pulse circulating through every vein like a trapped bird. Spencer could feel it too, betraying every ounce of panic and… something else he didn’t want to name. His fingers finally twitched slightly where they rested against your hip, like testing you were really there under his palm.
“Well, go on,” you feigned innocence, patting his shoulder twice. “Keep talking.”
Spencer’s mouth opened. Nothing. All he could focus on was the girl in his lap, your scent, your warmth, the soft fabric of your shirt under his palm. “…I,” he started, then stopped.
Poor guy. You suppose you should give him some help after being so cruel. “What’s that one mean?” you ask, pointing to a diagram in the open textbook.
Spencer’s gaze followed your finger to the diagram. He swallows hard. “That one,” he starts slowly, voice slightly higher than usual, “shows how crime scenes cluster around the mean center based on statistical dispersion.”
“Oh, I see. So what else do you have to teach me?”
Not this. He wasn’t qualified for whatever this was.
But his mouth moved anyway, defaulting to academia, his safety. “Uh… there’s also the concept of hotspot analysis, which uses kernel density estimation to identify high-crime areas—”
You weren't listening. Obviously. You watch his lips move as he rambles, gently trailing a manicured nail down his scruffy cheek, which briefly makes Spencer stutter.
“…And— and the—” He takes a shuddering breath. “…the algorithm accounts for temporal decay too, which means crimes are more likely to occur closer in time to previous events than further away. Th— there’s an equation for it, but I can’t… really remember right now.”
“Oh, dear, am I distracting you again Professor?”
“…A little!” he squeaks, a tight, bashful smile on his face.
“I was starting to think you never forgot anything.”
“I don’t, I— I just… I’ve never been distracted like this before.” It was true he had an eidetic memory. Something he was keen to remind everybody of. But right now, he was sure he couldn’t recall his own phone number if someone asked him.
“Never had a student on your knee?”
The way you phrased it, like this was normal, almost made him laugh at the absurdity. “N-no, no, never.”
“Well. Don’t let me distract you. Just trying to learn.”
You lean into his side almost affectionately as he talks, your nose brushing against his cheek. Spencer swallows hard. He falters, just barely, but it was enough to make his next sentence waver. “…and the weight is inversely proportional to distance from the epicenter, meaning closer crimes have higher influence on predicting future locations…”
You blow once on his ear.
Spencer jumps, his arm tightening around you involuntarily and his head tilted away from the sudden puff of air. He whispered-shouts your name, scandalized.
You snort. “Oops.”
“You’re— you’re messing with me,” he accuses, voice low but tinged with something begrudgingly playful.
“Who, me?” You bat your lashes.
A tiny, disbelieving laugh leaves his lips, nearly a scoff. “Yes,” he says, “You!”
You giggle, and Spencer feels some part of his brain turn mushy at the sound. “Okay, okay! Sorry, Professor. I’ll behave.”
He exhaled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured genuinely. “…So if we apply this methodology to an actual case,” he said, pointing at a crime scene map on the textbook page.
Before he can say much, he feels the lightest press of lips to his stubbly cheek, and his words quickly fade into an unintelligible, flustered mumble.
“W-we can predict with… um… reasonable accuracy where... mm…”
“Can’t hear you when you mumble, sir. How am I supposed to learn?” You nose his cheek.
He tried again, louder this time, “I said we can predict future crime locations with statistical modeling!”
God, this was torture.
“You’re getting kinda sweaty.”
“It’s— it’s hot in here,” he lied weakly, tugging at his cardigan.
“You can take that off,” you gesture to the sweater. “You don’t have to be professional with me.”
He laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, I… think I stopped being professional with you the moment I let you sit on my knee.”
You pull at his cardigan. “Take it off,” you whine.
“No! No,” Spencer grasps your wrists, his grip firm. He says your name in a scolding tone. “We’re still… on campus. I can’t just—”
“What, taking off a sweater isn’t allowed on campus?”
He exhaled through his nose. “I just… don’t feel comfortable, that’s all.”
“What, are you thinking of something gross?”
“No!” He blurts. “I just—I mean—I’m not—” He flounders for words, horrified by the accusation.
You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing. You double over slightly, still perched on his knee, shoulders shaking, and Spencer’s chest does a weird little squeeze. He didn’t know whether to be offended or charmed, but his frown softened into something almost shy.
Your laughter ends with one sweet sigh, and with your hand on his cheek, you lean in to press a chaste kiss to his temple. Grinning against his skin, you murmur, “Wanna know something?”
“…Yeah?” He whispers back, voice small and uncertain.
“I know this is turning you on.”
Spencer’s red down to his chest now. He sputters, “Wh— I— that’s not—”
“Mhm. Wanna hear what else I know?” You tilt his head up to peck his cheek twice. “I know you were staring at me in that skirt.”
Spencer couldn’t even form a coherent response to that.
“What were you thinking about? My legs? My ass? ‘Cause I’d say that’s pretty dirty, Professor.”
“No!” he whispers harshly, eyes wide. He squirms in his seat like he wants to escape. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—” His hand tightens slightly where it rests on your waist.
“So you were!” You giggle, pulling back from him and cupping his face in your hands. “C’mon, look at you. What happened to those… professional boundaries you were so worried about?”
Spencer’s expression twisted with shame and flustered panic. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a tiny voice, “You just… ruined them.”
“Oh, I did, huh? So it’s my fault? It’s my fault you were staring at me?”
Alarmed, he shook his head violently. “No! No, that’s not— I didn’t mean it like that, I-I meant it like—”
“Guess it’s just my fault you’re having all these perverted thoughts about your favorite student.”
“They’re not—” His chest rises and falls as he pants with desperate frustration. “I don’t have perverted thoughts!” he protests, voice pitching higher.
You laugh cruelly, “You do! Who knew? Professor Reid’s a big pervert who stares at the girls in his class.”
You shift in his lap, moving until your front is squished up against his, thighs clamped on either side of his legs, your hips putting unfortunate pressure on his pelvis.
Spencer presses himself as far back as he could in his chair, eyes darting everywhere except your face. “I-I’m not! No! No, it’s not like that!” His hands hovered in the air like he was trying to surrender. Every nerve in his body was screaming this is wrong, this is wrong, but his traitorous cock pulsed anyway.
“Gross. I can feel your dick getting hard.”
Mortification crashed over him like a tidal wave. “It’s not— I can’t help that!”
“What, are you turned on by this or something?”
Spencer just squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed, grip tight on the armrests of his chair. His silence was answer enough.
“Pervert,” You hiss.
His face burns a deep, humiliated crimson. “I’m not… I’m not a pervert, okay?” He whispered, voice trembling with shame and genuine distress.
You dip down slowly, lowering your forehead to his, your breath on his lips. “Then why do you wanna fuck me?”
Finally, reality laid bare. And with the arousal very clearly straining against his pants, Spencer sees the uselessness in denying it, though his lips still part reflexively. For a heartbeat or two, you stayed like that, faces touching, breaths mingling. Then at last, he moves, and slowly he presses his lips to yours in the softest, most unsure kiss of his life.
At first, you don’t seem to reciprocate. Your lips stay upsettingly still, he’s not even sure your eyes are closed. Spencer whines slightly in his mouth in embarrassment. The moment his lips shy away from yours more than an inch, however, your grip suddenly winds into his hair. With an abrupt and furious force, you tug him back, teeth nearly colliding as you devour his mouth. Instantly, he melts back into your taste, completely unprepared for the intensity but his body responding instinctively. His hands fly back to your waist and his lips clumsily attempt to keep up with your hungry movements as he drowns in you.
One hand slides up your back while the other grips your waist tighter. He makes a small, needy noise against your mouth. You kiss him like you’ve been starving for it. like this was inevitable, like Spencer had been yours all along. You bite his lower lip gently before diving back in, tongue sliding against his with a hunger that leaves him breathless. He clutches you closer, fingers twisting into the fabric of your shirt.
Time seems to blur as the world narrows. The chair creaks under your combined weight as you shift atop him, pressing yourself even closer. Your thighs tightening around his hips, your body molding against him, beginning to grind over his erection.
Spencer groans into the kiss, his palms sliding down to grip your thighs. Your hips move against his with deliberate pressure, rolling down in slow, smooth circles just to feel him twitch. He breathes raggedly through his nose, trying to force himself up to meet your body every time it rises off of him just to grind back down.
“You’re stupidly hard,” you growl the moment you part for air.
Spencer looks up at you through his lashes with a dazed expression. His lips are kiss-swollen, his face flushed, and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. “S-sorry,” he breathes out automatically.
“I haven’t even fucking done anything to you,” you smile wickedly. “I kissed you and you’re throbbing.”
Spencer nods frantically, his cheeks burning with humiliation and arousal. “You’re… really pretty,” he blurts out suddenly.
The compliment elicits some kind of reaction from you, something he can’t quite place. You smirk again, eyes briefly rolling back like he’d touched you. You hum in satisfaction. “I’ve waited so fucking long to hear you say that.”
Spencer’s chest swells with something warm. His heart pounds harder. He wants to say more now, clumsy and sweet things that aren’t usually his style.
“You want me to touch you?” you coos condescendingly in a way that makes him dizzy, cupping his face. “Yeah? You want my pussy? Want me to suck your filthy cock?” you say crudely.
He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know what the right answer is. Instead, his eyes dart down to your lips again, then lower, just for a split second, before snapping back up in panic.
“Answer me, Professor.”
“…Yes, y-yeah,” he finally squeaks out, the words so quiet it’s barely audible. Then he adds in a slightly louder whisper: “Please.”
“Yeah? Just like this?” One of your hands slides down to press against the front of his pants, right where he’s straining. He strains to not buck into your palm like a virgin.
His breath comes out in short, shaky puffs. He nods rapidly. “Yeah. Yeah, uh-huh. Like that.”
You rip your hand away suddenly like you’d been burned. In an instant, his collar is wrapped in your fist as you slide off his lap and yank him to his feet. He stumbles after you, wide eyed and bewildered. Spencer barely has time to process what’s happening before he’s being whirled around, practically manhandled, and he finds you both have swapped places. You seat yourself lazily in his chair and tugs him down with you, down until his knees hit the floor of his office, until his head is hovering between your thighs.
“Wha—?”
“Earn it.”
Spencer’s brain is scrambling. He stares at your spread legs and closes his jaw. He swallows hard. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do with them. He’s never done this before. But the thought of touching you, tasting you, it sends a thrill through him that overrides his nervousness.
You casually undo the button of your pants, stripping them from your legs and kicking them off carelessly with effortless confidence. Spencer watches, mesmerized. Without a word, you sling one leg until your ankle rests over his shoulder, the other sitting on his thigh.
Now here you are, half-naked in his chair while he kneels like a supplicant, and the view is unreal.
He’s suddenly hyper-aware of every detail. The warmth radiating from between your thighs, the faint scent that makes his stomach flip. His hands finally move, trembling as they reach for the hem of your fine, lacy panties— specifically chosen, to be sure. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slowly peels them down.
The lace slides down your legs easily, unveiling your cunt. Spencer’s not sure he’s seen a woman like this up close before, not in person. Not like this. His face burns as he stares for half a second too long. With tentative, almost reverent hands, Spencer leans forward and presses a single, feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. It’s not where you want him, but he needs a moment to steel himself.
His lips are soft. Nervous. The kiss is chaste, too innocent for what you want, but the warmth of his lips against your skin still sends a little shiver through you. You tilt your hips slightly, nudging his back with your heel. “Don’t be shy. Lick it.”
His face is inches from you, so close he can feel the heat.
He swallows hard, then slowly, painfully slowly, he leans in and drags his tongue over you in one experimental stroke. The taste is new. Sweet, musky. Spencer does it again, a little bolder this time, his tongue moving with cautious curiosity as he explores the soft folds of you, his hands gripping your thighs to steady himself.
You inhale sharply through your nose, threading your fingers into his hair to guide him. “Fuck, yes,” you grin.
The praise shoots straight to his loins.
He redoubles his efforts, following the gentle tug of your fingers in his hair. He presses a few open-mouthed kisses before finally sealing his lips around your folds and sucking gently. His tongue flicks experimentally over your clit before he laps at it properly.
Your back arches slightly, letting airy moans slip. Spencer might be a virgin at this, but he’s a smart boy. He adapts fast. His tongue works in small circles now, swirling the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pressing him closer, not that he even needs encouragement.
Spencer loses himself in the rhythm. Licking, sucking, following whatever makes you gasp. He drags his teeth very lightly over your clit before soothing it with a long swipe of his tongue. Fuck, he likes this. So much. He moans mindlessly into your cunt, the vibration of which travels through your body, making your hips jerk up into his mouth.
Spencer’s arousal is obvious, the bulge in his pants twitches with practically every movement. He’s so turned on by this, by the way you react to him, that it almost hurts.
You spread your legs further, pushing his head and shamelessly grinding up into his mouth. You laugh breathlessly, then let your head fall back in a moan.
He loves this. He lets you use him, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, helping guide your movements as he devours you with messy enthusiasm.
The office is quiet except for the wet sounds of his mouth on you and your hitched breathing. Spencer’s lips are glistening, his cheeks flushed. He can feel himself getting dizzy from the scent of you, from how good you taste. Each moan he pulls from you goes straight to his cock, aching in its confinement.
Spencer has no idea how hot he looks right now. Wild hair, flushed face, lips slick with you. But you know. You’ve been fantasizing about this for months now, him between your legs, his clever mouth working on you like this. And reality is so much better than any daydream you ever had. Months of imagining this, and Spencer is even better than any late night, desperation-fueled fantasy. His lips are so soft, his tongue so eager, like he genuinely wants to please you. It’s intoxicating.
A particularly good flick makes you gasp “Fuck!” You gasp.
Spencer has lost track of time, only aware of the warmth between your thighs, the way you squirm and moan above him.
Your fingers twist tighter in his hair, and you start rocking against his mouth faster. The realization that you’re close makes Spencer’s stomach flip with excitement. He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he doubles down with a greedy sort of focus, his tongue moving with more purpose.
Your thighs flex, hips jutting erratically as you near the edge. Spencer’s own body is strung tight, his cock leaking, his pants sticky, but he ignores it. All that matters is you and the way your breathing turns ragged, the cries escaping your lips. He wants to taste it when you cum.
Your back arches off the chair, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head as you cum with a sharp cry. He keeps going gently through your orgasm.
The aftershocks ripple through you in small twitches and soft gasps, and Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels. His lips are wet. His face is a mess.
When the last waves of pleasure subside, you slump bonelessly in the chair. Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels.
You exhale shakily, blinking down at Spencer, still between your legs, his lips wet and swollen. The rest of him disheveled. You laugh breathlessly at his ruined and endlessly attractive state.
Spencer wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still a little dazed, but your laugh makes him smile faintly. He’s never felt so satisfied, and he didn’t even get off.
“Did I…” he pants, “did I do okay?”
Through the bliss, you shrug, teasing him. “Took you long enough, didn’t it?”
Spencer’s face falls slightly. “It was my first time,” he mumbles defensively, a little hurt.
“Still,” You groan as you fix your posture, sitting up in the chair, “coulda figured out geographical profiling while you were trying to figure out what to do with your tongue.”
His lips purse, embarrassed. He stares up at you from the floor with unintentional puppy dog eyes. “I-I was trying…” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
From your elevated position, your eyes catch his cock is still straining in his pants. “Get on the floor, professor,” You push him back with a heel against his shoulder.
“Okay!” Spencer goes down without resistance, lying flat on his back now. He watches you from the floor, wide-eyed and waiting.
You slide out of the chair and drop to the floor, crawling atop him. You pop open the top button of his shirt. “Lie there and let me use your cock, or I’ll tell everyone Professor Reid licked his student’s cunt.”
Blackmail? His brain jumps back and forth between panic and pathetic arousal. “…Okay,” He nods quickly, hands hovering uselessly in surrender. “Okay, do whatever you want. Just… just don’t tell anyone, okay?”
She smiles in satisfaction. “So you know this is wrong.”
He swallows. Yes, it was wrong. It was all wrong. But it also felt so, so right, and he wanted this too badly to stop now. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I know.”
“Then you admit it, huh?” Your fingers suddenly grip his collar, undoing the knot of his tie. “You admit you’re a pervert?”
“…I’m not a pervert,” He says resolutely.
“Right.” His tie freed, You bunch it into a ball in your fist. “Then you’re not gonna, like… cum or something, right? ‘Cause that’d be pretty bad for your case.”
Yes. “…Nope.”
“Oh, good!” You grin, “Now we don’t have to worry about a condom!”
He opens his mouth to protest, and you swoops in to take the opportunity to stuff his tie between his jaw, effectively gagging him.
His muffled sound of surprise barely escapes. Panic spikes in his chest, but it’s too late. You're already moving, and Spencer can only lie there helplessly as you unzip his pants with a hungry gleam in your eye.
His cock springs free, hard and aching, and completely at your mercy. Spencer’s eyes are huge behind the gag. “Careful,” You whisper dangerously as you hover over his dripping cock, “don’t wanna get your student pregnant.”
Spencer whimpers nervously.
You don't tease. No, you waste no time. In one smooth motion, you sink yourself down onto him. Spencer’s body goes taut, a choked noise escaping around his tie. It’s too much. You're tight and warm and he wasn’t ready for this at all.
You bite back a groan as you sheath the entirety of his length, every inch swallowed. “Fuck, this all for me?” You laugh mockingly, “Look at you, oh, you’re so fucking hard. It’s pathetic.”
Spencer lets out a muffled, shameful whine. His hands finally move, clutching at your hips like he doesn’t know where else to put them. You allow it, if only because the touch of his hands still sends a thrill through your body. “Poor thing… if only your body were half obedient as your mouth. Must be so frustrated.”
Spencer is frustrated. Frustrated that he can’t kiss you, frustrated that you’re talking like this, frustrated you’re not moving. He squeezes your hips gently, begging without words as he squirms under you. Move. Please.
You admire the way his cock bulges slightly in your tummy. “What? Huh? I can’t hear you under there."
Spencer makes a muffled noise, a furious cry, and rolls his hips upward, trying to show you what he wants.
You gasp slightly at the movement, laughing under your breath. “Aww, are we getting impatient?”
Spencer nods rapidly. His hands slide up your sides, then back down to grip your ass this time. He’s already breathless.
“You want me to fuck you so bad it makes you look like a virgin.”
Spencer just nods again, his saliva soaking the tie.
“Last I checked, dildo’s don’t whine.” Finally, mercifully, you slide yourself back up to his tip, cock almost slipping out. “I’m gonna ruin you,” you purr, “and you’re gonna thank me for it. Won’t you?”
Spencer moans as he nods frantically, like a bobblehead.
The slow drag of you taking him back in makes his toes curl, the sensation electric. It’s so good he almost forgets to breathe. The stretch is perfect, the heat maddening. But the slow, careful movements as you adjust don’t last long. You grip the collar of his shirt for stability as you begin to move yourself faster, then faster, immediately setting an unforgiving pace.
Spencer’s entire body convulses with pleasure. Each sharp bounce of your hips punches the air from his lungs. His hands scramble to hold onto your waist, fingers digging in as you ride him hard. Muffled moans spill out continuously from behind the fabric in his jaw as his vision blurs at the edges. His stomach tightens, his thighs tremble.
The pace is relentless and purposeful. It sends a message. That you’re taking what you want from him, and Spencer is just along for the ride.
Through your own bliss, you laugh at his state. “Oh, you are gone.”
The laugh vibrates through him and sends another wave of pleasure down his spine. His hips twitch up weakly to meet yours with every bounce.
You lean forward, pressing your chest against his, the pace never faltering. You bring your lips to his ear, your breath against his skin. “Gonna make you cum so hard you’ll show me what a whore you are.”
The words send a shiver down his spine, and he clenches his eyes shut. So vulgar, so degrading, and yet Spencer’s cock throbs at the sound of them.
The pace doesn’t slow for a second. If anything, it gets harder, more punishing. Spencer’s muscles tense, his orgasm already building fast, and he knows he’s not gonna last. He moans and whines girlishly as he starts to writhe beneath you.
“Oh, poor baby,” you mock, “I thought you… mmm, said you weren’t gonna cum in me. Fuck. Don’t tell me I’ve got a little liar.”
His entire body is tensing, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts out his nose, but he shakes his head violently.
“Oh, so close. So close, aren’t you? I know. I know, and you don’t wanna cum. Don’t wanna get me pregnant, do you? Fuck, I bet you’d lose your job.”
He tries to hold back, biting down onto his tie. It’s agony trying to hold back. His balls are tight, his cock pulsing with every bounce of your hips. The threat of consequences makes it worse. He can’t cum, he really can’t, but you're making it impossible. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes from desperation.
“Too bad,” You hiss, leaning down again to whisper in his ear like a devil on his shoulder. “C’mon, just cum for me. C’mon, who cares? Who cares I’m your student? Make me drip with you.”
He tries to shake his head, but Spencer’s body betrays him. With a silent, shuddering convulsion, his orgasm rips through him. Even through the gag, his choked moans escape as he cums inside you, pulse after pulse filling you as pleasure tears through his entire being.
You let out an airy, girly moan and laugh at him, giddy and triumphant.
Spencer goes limp underneath you. He breathes heavily through his nose, still whining and squirming. After a while, his eyes flutter open as he weakly lifts his head. He stares at where you’re connected with horror, the haze fading and the clarity hitting him.
You notice. “You wanna see?”
Spencer nods rapidly.
You lift yourself from his softening cock, the globs of his release sliding down his length. You're dripping with him. His cum, so much of it, leaking down his own cock and dripping from your thighs.
The sight makes him nauseous. His chest rises and falls rapidly in panic. His eyes are blown open wide and searching yours for an answer.
Finally satisfied, you end the game. “I’m on the pill.”
Spencer's entire body sags with instant relief.
You chuckle, then grasp his cock from between your thighs, realigning it with your dripping entrance.
Again? His cock is sensitive, overspent, he’s still coming down from the high of his last orgasm. But you don't seem to care, just guiding his half-hard cock back inside without hesitation.
The moment you push yourself back down, it’s too much. Too sensitive. The oversensitivity makes his writhe involuntarily, a whimper escaping around his gag. He doesn’t know if he can go again, but you clearly expect him to try.
You don't give him time to adjust. You start moving immediately, rolling your hips in slow circles. His body responds despite itself, his cock stirring back to life, slowly hardening again inside you.
Spencer’s hands clutch at the carpet beneath him helplessly. It shouldn’t feel good. It hurts. But the sensation is undeniable, and his hips give tiny little involuntary thrusts upward.
You lean down, finally pulling the gag out of his mouth. “There we go,” You murmur, then kiss him, deeply this time.
Your lips are warm, your tongue sliding against his as you start to ride him again. To Spencer, it feels intimate. He hums into your mouth, kissing you softly. But it doesn’t take long before your pace stops being gentle.
You’re using him. Using his cock like a dildo, and something about it is dizzying. His hands find your waist again, gripping tight as you pick up speed, chasing your own pleasure now. He just lies there, letting you take what you want from his body.
The kiss breaks as you focus on riding him harder, faster. Spencer’s head lolls back against the floor. He’s just a thing to you right now— a toy, a tool. He’s much comparable to a ragdoll. He watches you from the floor as you use him, gritting your teeth and moaning.
You’re riding him erratically, moving yourself and his dick whichever way hits that spot inside you best. He watches your face, the way your brows furrow, how you bite your lip, and decides it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Even as a ragdoll, he can appreciate that.
Your moans get louder, coming out in shorter, clipped bursts. You're close. Spencer feels it, the way your thighs tense around him, how you grind down with purpose now. He stays perfectly still, letting your chase that high on top of him.
A sharp cry escapes you as your body locks up, and he feels the sudden tight clench around him. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you ride out the waves of pleasure.
When it’s over, you huff once, then slump forward, forehead pressed to his chest, and just breathe for a moment.
Spencer stays still, one hand hesitantly rubbing your back.
After a beat, You grab his face with a ferocity and force your lips back to his. With a dazed expression, Spencer eagerly accepts.
The kiss is messy and sloppy. Your post-orgasm haze mixes with any lingering adrenaline. And Spencer kisses back like he’s starving for it, his hands sliding up to cradle your face.
But you slip out of his grasp all too soon, and Spencer whines. Sliding yourself off his cock with a groan, you suddenly reach up to grip his hair, tilting his head back. “Open your mouth,” you command.
Albeit a bit confused, he obeys, lips parting. His heart is still racing, his body humming from everything that just happened.
You crawl up his body like a predator, and Spencer realizes with dizzying clarity, you want to straddle his face. And some part of him gets a thrill that he did it well enough the first time you would demand it again.
You don't have to guide him. He’s ready, eager even, holding out his hands to steady you. His palms slide up your thighs, and he tilts his head just right, lips parted expectantly. Please. That’s what the look in his eyes says.
You lower yourself onto his mouth with zero hesitation. Spencer inhales sharply through his nose, your scent is everywhere, before his lips press even against you.
This time, he doesn’t bother with the coquettish hesitation. He dives in. Immediately, he tastes himself on your tongue, the flavor of which strange, salty and musky. But he doesn’t mind. Spencer laps at you contentedly, his tongue exploring with more confidence than before, licking and sucking and kissing.
You inhale sharply through your teeth, your fist gripping his hair. You shudder atop him, your thighs squeezing around his head. “Oh my god,” You breathe out, genuinely surprised. His tongue is moving just right, his pressure is perfect. Your hips start rolling against his mouth, chasing the pleasure.
Spencer, for his part, is fully immersed, licking and kissing like he’s worshipping you. His cheeks and nose are damp with your arousal.
Your back arches into him as you practically ride his face, greedily taking everything his mouth has to offer. He holds your thighs steady, letting you grind against his lips, his tongue working tirelessly to give you exactly what you want.
You're close again, sooner than last time. Breathing raggedly, your grip on his hair tightens as you chase that second high.
Spencer can feel it, the way your body tenses, the tiny trembles in your thighs. A high, broken moan tears from your throat and you shake, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head. He keeps his tongue right where he is, letting it happen, letting you ride out the waves on his mouth.
You finally lift yourself from his mouth, taking the heat of your cunt with you. Spencer helps you crawl back to his lap as he catches his breath. He pulls your limp body gently into his arms. He can’t help but cradle you against his chest. It felt like the right thing to do. You slump against him without a complaint.
You’re both a mess. Sweaty, sticky, and exhausted, the smell of sex thick in the air.
You both lie there, boneless. The floor doesn’t make for the most comfortable spot to lie, but neither could especially move if they tried. The cool air conditioning, at least, is pleasant against their overheated skin.
Spencer exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “So, uh… what… what now?”
Your breath is still coming out in puffs. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”
Spencer purses his lips, suddenly nervous. He swallows. “…Are we… um… gonna talk about what just happened?”
You lie there wordlessly for a moment. “…I dunno. I didn’t really plan this far.”
Spencer nods slowly. Silence stretches between them, heavy and awkward. Then he suddenly frowns in thought. “You… you planned this?”
“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to fuck your brains out since I found out you weren’t another old, boring professor.”
Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. His cheeks flush again. “Oh.”
“Yeah, I mean… shit, everybody does. I just did it first. I tried to tell you.”
“Yeah, I, uh… thought you meant— well…” He thinks back to your conversation in his office, about the female students in his class, auditing only because they intended to spend the class ogling him instead of listening. “I assumed the fact that you were enrolled meant you… didn’t share the sentiment.”
“What, sitting in your lap wasn’t enough of a hint?”
“W-well, I think it hit me by that point, actually!”
You drop your head in exasperation with the knowledge that all of your flirting, this entire time, flew under his radar. Jesus, it was a miracle you’d gotten to this point at all.
You exhale theatrically, reaching up to pat his cheek. “You’re very dense. It’s very charming.”
He smiles, small and shy. “Thank you?”
You just hum. The both of you are silent again, slumped against each other. The clock ticks in his room, the AC rattles.
Spencer idly taps his fingers against your back, still staring at the ceiling. “Did you, uh… wanna… get coffee sometime? Or something?”
A lazy grin spreads across your face, Spencer feels it against his skin. “God, I could fuck you again.”
random spencer thought again… but he would be the goofiest looking guy on the beach like. yes we know he hates it cuz germs or whatevs.. but listen!!! this man would be a chronic over-packer, have a comically large wide brimmed hat, sunscreen smothered on his nose… FUNKY SWIMMING TRUNKS WITH A BAGGY TSHIRT!!! FUCKKK I NEED HIM!!! probably stays out of the water and reads the entire time. would absolutely drag you back to shore to reapply sunscreen on a timed schedule. absolutely packs the best beach snacks…
weird thought but spencer would genuinely be the best boyfriend ever like i feel like he would have that domestic shit down. that man could perfectly organize an overpacked fridge without breaking a sweat.
if its not too much to offer, ever thought of maybe. maybe putting lingerie on Spencer. and maybe. maybe dumbification. something something cockring. WAIT WHO SAID THAT😰😰😰😰
hed discover something about himself and wake up questioning his whole life tbh. but you'd be there to comfort him 😇 very nice
hello anon😇😇😇 i’m doing well how are you!! (literally ten months later…) finally going through some old asks bc wdym this is from october??? i'm so evil. cruel, really. i'm so sorry trust i'll make it up to you guys... thank you for this ask anon i love seeing freaks like me on the prowl.
thinking about slowly introducing more feminine treatment towards spencer!!! maybe your relationship is somewhat fresh? or maybe you're just too shy to admit what you really want outright!! but spence is so ridiculously into it... fem oriented praises! telling him how pretty he is all the time, stroking his pink dusted cheeks and running your fingers through his long curls!!! calling him "princess" in a tone so teasing it feels verrryyy intentional and less like playful banter.
i like to think that spencer's comfort in his feminity is crucial to his character—like such delicate treatment would be incredibly welcomed!! and obviously if you asked to practice a makeup look on him??? he would absolutely be down! pretty sparkling glitter decorating his hazel eyes ++ smudged lip gloss because you simply could not keep your hands to yourself... leading to leaking mascara and oh—look! you're giving him the messiest head of his life while thick black globs are dripping down his cheeks (he's such a cryer FUCKKK) little kitten licks darting across his rosy sensitive tip before you take as much of his length as you can into your mouth... soft gags breaking through the obscene wet plaps that echo off the walls... he's finished. he can feel his ghost escaping with every whine that you force past his lips…
andandand spencer in lingerie is perfect in itself... but i'm thinking abt missionary where you're alternating from sweet praises and condescending words of degradation!!! while you're also all dressed up!!! spencer has gone absolutely stupid, just staring at the way your tits bounce adorned in pretty lace:(( i feel like he'd only be comfortable wearing something simple like garters or idk?? because trust those sheer materials can be incredibly overstimulating but!!! i digress!!! he looks beautiful nonetheless… pace getting all messy and uncorrdinated as he chases his peak... and taunting him a little to egg him on!!! "come on pretty boy, can't you make me feel good? hmm? can you fuck me right, puppy?" and he's actually gone dumb. where is he? what time is it? why can't he think about anything other than youyouyou and how good your perfect pussy makes him feel... you manage to slow his brain to a concerning pace, usually his mind is working overtime—the white static that he's met with is completely foreign, an unkown result thats only favourable when you're mixed into the equation. "are you still with me pup? too much of a stupid boy to keep up?"
++ with the addition of a cockring? he might as well start digging his own grave. he's already extremely sensitive as it is, and now, with restricted blood flow and you whispering something along the lines of "got to keep you nice and hard for me so i can use you properly" as you ride him so hard he's seeing stars. mind blank. grabbing at bits of the frilly fabric that pool around your hips in a desprate attempt to ground himself because he is sure he's died and his soul is trying to escape his body (he would never let anything take him away from you...)
spencer waking up with sore skin, burning eyes, and a map of purple splotches spanning from his neck all the way down to the tufts of hair that trail down his belly button... he's sure he'll never be the same.
but anywayanyway this concept has honestly corrupted me justttt a tiny little bit recently. like ok we been knowing i like guys who look like girls...so maybe this isn't really that much of a surprise!🫣 what can i say? if i like pink and lace, then my man should too... its just balance guys! lowk what is this even called bc i may or may not be developing a kink... what! ok bye love you hahaha
Js had a horrible realisation that Spencer Reid likes Halloween because it’s the only holiday he can really enjoy. You spend Christmas with family. Father’s Day is pointless because his dad left him. Mother’s Day is bittersweet because of his mom’s condition. Valentines is traumatic because of Maeve. Almost all holidays require having someone to spend them with. As a kid Spencer could trick or treat on his own. As an adult he can answer the door. It’s the only holiday he’s not alone for. Oh goddddddd oh goddd. From what I remember at some point in the show we see a photo of Spencer and his parents at Christmas, so we know before Diana became more unstable and before his dad left, Spencer did have a taste of a ‘normal’ family holiday. His eidetic memory means he probably remembers every card he sent and received for those holidays. Ok I have to stop now I’m upsetting myself
in which: you thought you'd grown to understand your boyfriend inside and out. yet after two months of dating, you just aren't sure why he has no interest in sleeping with you.
spencer reid x neighbour!reader
warnings: smut, hurt/comfort! part of my neighbour!reader universe, mentions of cat adams and s/a, established relationship, fem!reader, late seasons spencer, insecure reader + spencer, lots of self loathing tbh, unspecified age gap, mentions of spencer's experiences in prison, tears and sadness and doom (hooray!), cute domesticity that gets tainted by both parties (horny freaks! just fuck it out😭😭), masturbation (both m and f… separately), vibrator use (f), spencer reid is honestly a pervert, not panty stuff but not not panty stuff, um premature ejactulation NOT SORRY👀👀, cumming in pants! awesome!, auditory voyeurism..., back rubbing! massaging! spencer’s hands!, prolonged flashing? spencer is a pathetic man around a pretty pair of tits…, important conversations regarding healthy relationships!!! communication! and the lack of it!, no use of y/n!
wc: 7.1k
now playing: sabrina carpenter - my man on willpower
post prison spence deserves the entire world and our lovely neighbour!reader will absolutely provide it for him! ++ this fic came to me in a dream and i actually love it so i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing!
masterlist ♡ meet the reader
(my man’s in touch with his emotions / my man won’t touch me with a twenty foot pole)
you were always over confident in your self restraint. you gave yourself far too much credit.
you truly thought you were smart enough to not allow spencer reid to loiter in your apartment.
especially not when you were running on fumes with a to-do list a mile long and a nauseating work event peering over your shoulder.
apparently, you were wrong. blame it on the puppy dog eyes and not your severe lack of better judgement when it came to your boyfriend.
after reluctantly letting him through your front door and explaining how paralyzingly busy you were, he kissed you like he missed you, as he so often did, and successfully disarmed the drowning overflow of anxiety spilling from your brain.
maybe having him over wasn’t exactly a bad thing.
he helped you relax in the form of kissing you until you couldn’t breathe. standard practice for him, really. and somehow thirty minutes had elapsed and you had somehow materialized into your bedroom–now straddling his lap on your bed, late, and rethinking the stability of steady income and appearances, in favour of sucking spencer reid’s pretty little face off until he was a mess of purple splotches and swollen lips.
you would’ve–if he let you. you would’ve been peeling off your top in his lap instead of by your lonesome in your bathroom, if he let you.
but of course, despite claiming not to be, spencer reid was a tease who worked you up and then forced you to well, work.
all in good conscience he says, you can’t afford to miss it he says, i’ll be here when you get back he says.
you wished he was saying less and touching you more, yet as it goes, that was not the case, and you were once again left blue balled by your ever loving boyfriend.
though thankfully, you didn’t go down without a fight, or rather, without punishing him in return. spencer would’ve fed mushu and folded your laundry without your insistence that he do so, but you led yourself to believe that he was just as annoyed at the task as you currently were. balance. a true 50/50 relationship.
you were tortured. getting ready for a night filled with fake smiles, and people you hated for the sake of god knows what, at a horrible venue, with portion sizes that would have spencer pulling into a drive-thru once he picked you up, was absolutely not something that filled you with joy.
you considered yourself less than gracious for the opportunity, and would’ve much rather played hooky and tangled yourself into your pink sheets, naked with your naked boyfriend, happily practicing the basis of human nature recreationally. sex.
yet, you had even been deprived of that. you didn’t exactly take spencer for some sort of nympho, but you’d assumed his libido wouldn’t have allowed him to kiss you with such fervour and then proceed to innocently peck your nose and drag you off of his lap instead of into his bed.
did he have an aversion to sex in general? were you the problem? did he just not want to fuck you?
spencer was, by far the best man you’ve dated. the kindest, the one who truly cared for you the most. but he was also the only man you’ve ever dated who hadn’t made any moves on sleeping with you.
spencer had an exceptionally intelligent brain. it was beautiful, it was part of why you loved him, yet it was still the brain of a man. and you were concerned as to why he spent so much time thinking with it instead of with well, something else.
a knock on your on-suite bathroom’s door startled you out of that spiraling tangent and back into a reality where you were still late and still in only your bra.
“i have a feeling you were looking for these?”
spencer always brought you back to your feet when your worries were throwing you out of your own control. god you hated him. you loved him.
you cracked open the door separating your partially undressed body to your boyfriend’s fully clothed one, and watched as his bashful expression averted his eyes and instead ushered his hands towards you, hands which held the outfit you’d planned for the night, which had been sitting on your dresser.
spencer once again offered you a small salvation, and you were unbelievably glad he hadn’t questioned what you’d been doing for the past three minutes with nothing to change into. generous in ways you didn’t deserve.
“right. thank you. um,”
your gaze drifted to the laundry spencer had folded with military precision on your wrinkled sheets. sheets that had become wrinkled because of him. sheets that you had just washed but would gladly dirty if it meant you could fuck him in them.
the flame in your stomach re-ignited as you felt heat creep up the back of your neck, filling every crevice of your face until it forced you into an awkward smile. did he have any idea that you were fantasizing about devouring him, or did he find your constipated expression endearing?
“would you mind putting the laundry away as well? and fixing up my bed a bit? if that's okay?”
all the demanding tone that had filled your throat mere minutes before dissipated, as spencer had reduced you to mush by the heinous act of simply being himself. you were a pitifully horny excuse for a woman.
“you got it.”
spencer handed you your clothes and gently closed the door, now happily busying himself with the simple task of cleaning up for you.
normally, a man that had graced your past dating history would complain about such tasks. normally, you wouldn’t be changing in the privacy of a second room. normally, you would have tumbled out of the door with your makeup half done and your hair a mess because said tasks were completed half-assed and had to be onced over by you. normally, a relationship would only bring a constant state of feeling as though you were taking care of an incompetent child, who couldn’t understand the purpose of caring for another without expecting something in return.
spencer reid was everything but normal. and you adored him for it.
something as trivial as sex didn’t really matter when a man like spencer loved you, right?
not when you had to cover the soft break in your voice with a cough when he returned to the bathroom door–knocking first, of course, to hand you your designated “going out” jewelry when you hadn’t even asked him to.
he was so sweet he almost made you cry off your mascara, curled up on the cool tiled floor of your bathroom. over a pair of earrings.
if spencer only wanted to kiss you, you were fine with it.
you could take care of yourself in other ways.
said ways made themselves abundantly clear nearly two days later, after spencer had taken care of your far-past-tipsy self post work event, where you had taken the liberty of indulging in one too many glasses of complimentary champagne.
now, as the clock beside your bed flashed too bright numbers in your face, confirming it was far too late in the night for you to be awake, you thought about him as you rolled over for the umpteenth time in a measly matter of minutes.
he’d stroked the soft curls of your hair with the sort of reverence that would’ve made your knees buckle had you not been so inebriated and girlishly ecstatic to see him.
he’d kissed both of your cheeks and returned every “i love you” with just as much genuine certainty as the last. because he was perfect.
he’d cleaned you up. washing your face, fussing over you as he helped you brush your teeth, handed you your comfiest pair of pajamas and turned around so you could change into them, because he respected your space and privacy even when your drunken lack of cognition was unable to uphold it.
and of course, because he wanted to kill your now sober self, you recalled how he then proceeded to help you get your tank top on straight after your drunken self had gotten all tangled up. you were a mess in every sense and he tucked frizzed locks behind your ear and kissed your forehead despite yourself, like it didn’t matter.
now, with a completely dissipated hangover (thanks to a certain someone insuring you drank almost copious amounts of water, while leaving two advil on your bedside table) you were left unbelievably, and irrevocably horny. as it often went.
you’d woken up to a cold bed and even colder messages. a local case and an incredibly busy boyfriend. spent your day stupidly sad, as if your entire life revolved around him, and now you lay awake. and thinking of him so late at night–or at this point, early in the morning. this never did you any good.
the conclusion you came to was more indulgent than anything. less than forty-eight hours and you couldn’t bear it (pathetic!). you were sure tiring yourself out another way would lull you to sleep when soft forehead kisses and backrubs couldn’t.
such thoughts only made you more ridden with guilt. as if masturbation (while thinking of him, for that matter), was the only way you were able to satisfy a gluttonous hunger and offer yourself rest sans spencer reid.
you didn’t allow yourself to dwell on it, one track mind already sending your holy hands crawling between your legs.
the same could not be said for your tragic, tortured boyfriend.
poor spencer had gotten home late, not wanting to wake you with a text, he’d landed on going over for breakfast in the morning. he’d find a way of making it up to you, he always did.
and now the universe had found a way to pay any of his misdoings back to him, tenfold.
the walls separating your apartments were thin, the two of you were more than well aware of this–a past you having been the cause of many sleepless nights for spencer. it was how you first met, now a silly little love story to be told with shining eyes and full hearts.
the flimsy, un-soundproofed structures dividing your homes had become such an insignificant issue it was never even thought of. practically all of your free time was now spent together, and any noise was welcomed as a soft comfort of connection.
and now horror had come back to bite him. because spencer reid sat painfully awake in his favourite reading nook, listening in on none other than your moans.
you were dating, you took pleasure in calling yourself his and vice versa, but it was still wrong, a cruel invasion of privacy, destroying any semblance of respect he harbored for you (which was most definitely saying something), but spencer could not find the strength to tune your sweet sounds out. they were too beautiful. he absolutely did not deserve you.
no, spencer did not carry the power to not eavesdrop on his girlfriend masturbating. it was far too difficult for him to withstand, his mind folded embarrassingly easily when it came to you, he always did, especially when he could picture you oh-so perfectly.
he’d first seen about two days ago, he couldn’t manage to muster up the exact amount of elapsed time, which only spoke to how greatly you affected him. a completely useless mess of a genius. he couldn’t even remember the details of the case that had dragged him away from your drunken bedside. just you. you you you.
he’d been putting your laundry away while you got yourself all dolled up for what–according to you, scarcely deserved your beauty. such a routine would have been completely innocent and disgustingly domestic had it not been for the fact that he had soiled the light of that memory with the distraction of your… undergarments.
there was most definitely no saving him now. spencer reid was a pervert. through and through.
he swore he had never meant to think of them, or of you that way, but holding silken fabrics and pretty lace of which he knew had adorned your most intimate parts was not shy of sexual for spencer. and while unbeknownst to you, his arousal was quite easy to earn when you were mixed into the equation.
he was turned on by practically anything regarding you. his blessing and his curse.
he’d only folded them, then put them away as per your instruction. he absolutely did not steal anything, despite the incessant, disgusting voice in his brain that practically screamed at him to do so. because he was seemingly unable to do anything involving his girlfriend without his thoughts ruining it.
without him ruining it.
and when he finally managed to cool himself down and shoo away his dark thoughts? one brush of his organizing hand revealed something that made every synapse in his brain misfire. pink silicone slithered into his view. his feigned innocence in an attempt to recover some sort of decorum, now reduced to prey which fell for a serpent's trap.
a vibrator.
his skin burnt up with a ferocious shade of red as he hurried to put away the rest of your intimates and slam your dresser drawer shut. yet his speed was no match for the guilt as blood travelled down, until he couldn’t think straight and the heat in his skin wasn’t the only thing that was rising.
he wasn’t surprised, no, obviously such items were exceedingly normal despite the embarrassment of societal taboo regarding sexual pleasure. it was the confirmation that you in fact, also harboured sexual desires that got to him. that was now real, and completely unignorable.
he wasn’t stupid, he felt the disappointment seeping through your skin each time he held your hips still, the small sigh when your attempt to chase his lips was futile, he was aware of what he was depriving you of, but he hadn’t found the courage to speak of it, to actually tell you what was going on inside the brain that you constantly praised him for, instead opting to completely ice you out regarding anything intimately physical.
because he was scared.
he was cruel.
were you this worked up because of him?
guilt seeped through the cracks of his daze as his right hand traveled the wide valley between his spread thighs. his eyes were glossed over, body moving in a sinfully practiced familiarity rather than under the control of his better judgement.
his fingers faltered at his belt. this was wrong on so many levels, something he would never manage to come back from, he’d swim too far and drown in his own self disgust. he wasn’t able to bring himself to speak to you about what had caused him to hold himself back, but was completely fine indulging in his own pleasure. pathetic.
had he really changed in the ways his mind had convinced him of? would he never regain the innocence of who he used to be?
a particularly loud moan snapped him out of his own head, a thick fog clearing out as you dragged him from the deep end, saving him as you always did.
you. he could picture you now, panties soaked and sticky with the evidence of your unholy arousal, hot pink tip of your toy making a mess of your swollen clit. you were pretty, he didn’t have to see you to know so. his pretty girl with a pretty mess between her thighs.
he should be the one pressing such unrelenting vibrations against your core, soaking up every praise that left your perfect lips. you would tell him how good he was through broken breaths. he knew that.
“fuck! spence–”
it was like you could hear his thoughts as clearly as he could hear you. you said his name. you were sleepless thinking about him. worked up thinking about him.
spence. spencer spencer spencer. he would die a thousand deaths, bleed at your unyielding hand, just to hear you moan his name again.
what was wrong with him.
he hadn’t even realized he’d began palming himself through his trousers until he was too far gone to stop. was it better because he was demonstrating some sort of control by not stroking himself fully? or was it simply more wretched that he managed to get off through such light touches by completely tainting your glowing image.
he landed on the latter, as his self loathing would not allow him to think highly of himself in such a pivotally low moment. but his greed was too strong, festering until it consumed him. he hung onto every sound that passed your lips, small praises as you thought of him. soft whimpers a harmony of your pleasure, and his misdoings.
he was a horrible boyfriend, as he feared he would be.
which was exactly why his palm didn’t stop its cruel pace against the growing flame in his core.
his hand moved with an uncoordinated velocity saved only for the desperation of you, chasing a high where you were at the peak.
your sounds never faltered, the comfort of letting go, of foolishly thinking you were in the clear to let two months of built up tension escape through your spent throat. spencer hated himself for getting off on the fact that you had no idea he could hear you, that you truly didn’t know he was aware of how badly you wanted him, that he felt the same, if not more in return.
revolting. anyone would be revolted if they knew, if they could see what he saw, hear what he heard, if his vile actions were to ever be exposed he was sure he would curl up and die, unable to face the extent of his shame. or maybe he was so unworth saving that the humiliation would only push him further.
he hadn’t any way of knowing, because this moment, not unlike many other thoughts, would end up locked in an impenetrable vault where anything undeserving lurked, each disgusted in their own likeness. it was suffocating. he wasn’t sure where else to keep them.
it was almost ironic that his own self disgust sent him barrelling over the edge, so quickly he had no way of stopping its path. he couldn’t keep breathing, he had to rip his teeth into his bottom lip in order to not make a sound, he was loud, he knew so, had been told so in the past. louder than you were, yet he suppressed it because something had told him that he had to, that he’d changed.
spencer sat in the shame of sticky soiled slacks, with the taste of iron on his tongue as he listened to you finish with a squeal of his name.
spencer had thought he would become distant, he laid awake, now to silence as he watched wisps of sun dance across his ceiling through the gaps in his curtains, and felt you in every fleeting moment of warmth they provided. he knew he would implode from the lack of you, even if every moment felt like he was stealing what he would never have the grace of deserving.
spencer reid, was in his own eyes, more selfish than what he knew to do with.
things felt simpler in the time before, when he first realized he liked you. when he spent his time dreaming up little what-ifs. when every miniscule queue, every blink, every breath, felt like he was grasping at air searching for even a hint of love, love for him.
now he knew that you loved him. and knowing should’ve been enough. more than enough. selfish. he felt he was being selfish.
selfish because he wouldn’t–couldn’t–tell you what was wrong with him. he wanted you to keep him. he didn’t want to give you an out because what he wanted more than anything was for you to stay. selfish.
so selfish that he blinked and he was outside your door. he’d changed since the mess of prior… events. he’d cleaned up. something in him wanted to be pretty, for you. to feel like he wasn’t lying about who he’d become.
selfishness reared its ugly head and formed itself as a desperate knock turned crashing of lips. the swapping of spit, as if transferring just a bit of you, your bacteria, your soul, your anything, could fight whatever infected him. fix him. he believed you were pure enough to do so.
“spencer?–when did you get back?–”
he tried to let you speak, he swore it. pulling away because you deserved to be heard, because he wanted to listen. yet he dove back in because he could feel the rot writhing back every second he was away from your skin.
his mouth melded with yours as if it were meant to be, and he let himself believe it was, before pulling away to mutter a useless string of apologies. you weren’t here to save him, but he’d keep crawling back like you had the power to.
“spencer–”
he wouldn’t let you finish, lips already back on yours because he couldn’t breathe on his own, contrasting how his anatomy actually functioned, you rewired him completely. he backed you into a wall, hard, without meaning to, hands too busy cupping your perfectly warm cheeks, body too busy pressing into yours, mind too busy being full of you. he wouldn’t have noticed your discomfort if not for the small wince you kissed into his lips.
the drop in his chest settled like an anchor in his stomach as he pulled off of you so quickly he surely gave himself whiplash, hands empty, body cold.
“did i hurt you? i’m so sorry–i–”
he couldn’t even find the words if he tried. the vast library of knowledge that was his brain rendered completely useless. he was only thinking of himself. what he thought he’d done. aggressive, violent, unpredictable. he felt like he was once again looking over his shoulder when he was only looking at you.
“what? no–i just slept weird the other night and have a kink in my back, it’ll pass… are you okay?”
you missed him. you wanted to simply hold him, wrap your arms around him and rock back and forth like a calm ship at sea. a soothing rhythm. though, you weren’t sure if he’d accept your touch if you tried. you’d never seen him so scared.
all he wanted was to feel you. and when your hand tentatively met the flesh of his cheek, he melted into it so quickly it was hard to keep the threatening tears in his eyes at bay. you were too good to him. you were perfect.
“when you were drunk?”
he was asking about your sleep. something that felt extraordinarily minor in this current moment. you were far more occupied with his sporadically odd behavior and concerned with the fact that he was ignoring it. his touch was always welcome, but spencer had a way of pushing his needs aside, and his actions felt weirdly forced in a way you weren’t familiar with. his affection typically felt more natural.
“yes i guess so, i kind of woke up sort of folded in half–i guess? i’m fine now,”
you made a small gesture with your hands, demonstrating the pretzel shape that had haunted your drunken dreams and left you with a deadly case of neck stiffness. entirely untreatable. fatal, judging from spencers abhorrent expression.
hypocrite. this was a moment that required your concern for him. something that he did not offer up lightly.
“so… when did you get back? how was the case? have you eaten?”
the strategy of bombarding him with so many questions that he was actually forced to answer at least one had yet to be patched (small wins), and spencer smiled as his hand stroked short circles at the small of your back.
his touch was soft, skilled yet still delicate, as if you were something fragile and would shatter under the lightest impact. but not in a way that ever made you feel small. just, wanted.
he was so gentle with you now, the striking jump leaving you dizzy when his taste was still prickling on your lips.
“everything went fine, don’t worry–it was local–but you know that…”
he was doing everything not to lie to you and still failed.
“i got in about an hour ago, i didn’t want to wake you i guess–sorry… let me help with your back and then i’ll make us something to eat? yeah?”
not exactly the truths you deserved. anything to deter from the fact that he had definitely been home for hours and definitely knew how much you missed him.
“you didn’t want to wake me at nine o'clock on a sunday?”
your brow curved, spencer’s brain perceived that as an obvious message for something along the lines of i know you’re a pervert and now you have to explain yourself in excruciating detail you disgusting dog when he really knew you had only meant it as a tease.
“yes… you like to sleep in.”
how had he circled the conversation back to you again?
“you didn’t want to wake me with a text… so you waited around for an hour and showed up at my door…”
it could be believable, he hoped. there truly was zero method to spencer’s madness over you. nothing had to make sense. it just was. he’d hoped you’d buy it so he would not be sent to the pound with his tail between his legs.
“exactly. i just missed you too much. needed to see you.”
he used his stupid looming-over-you-turned-bending to shove his nose into the crook of your neck and then proceeded to nuzzle himself in the warmth there as a means of disarming you. don’t be fooled by the shine in his eye and the way his arms wrapped your shoulders, he was evil.
you mumbled a curt missed you too into his hair because it worked. you were easy.
“let me fix it now?”
you could feel his teeth against your skin as he spoke, his breath sweltering against your already hot flesh. was this a practice of persuasion? some sort of profiling technique, making you malleable enough to blindly follow what he says without so much of a second thought?
“hmm? fix what?”
you ran your fingers through his messy chestnut hair, two could play at that game, spencer. you could even out the playing field. you scratched his scalp ever so slightly, tips of your fingers worshiping, lulling, until he was just as dazed as you.
he was easy too.
“lemme rub your back for you. get the knot out of your shoulders… please it’ll feel so nice.”
and, fifteen minutes later your face was buried into the same pillow you’d gripped only hours before when you were… thinking of him.
your top half was bare (because spencer swore it was better that way) and you didn’t have it in you to argue with science, or the fact that he had asked you to take your top off in the first place. a simply demure woman.
shirtless face down while spencer’s left thigh cut into the curve of your right ass cheek. he was bony. long a spiraling and so devastatingly climbable and– if this was a ploy to take your mind off the insignificant sting in your shoulder, by making you ridiculously horny, it was absolutely working.
if he moved a good four inches left you were sure you could make something else bony.
you moaned when his thumb dragged over the harsh blade of your shoulder. he was really, really good with his hands. what wasn’t he good at?
the cool metal of the watch he hadn’t removed was a striking temperature against the burning heat of your back, which had been lathered in some warm essential moisturizing oil you rarely touched, that he’d found in the mess of products in your bathroom. because lubrication was important (was everything he said sexual or had your brain already melted?)
his hands were big as they were long. sheer size most definitely spanning across the width of your face with ease, and currently covering large sections of your skin with ease. he practically kneaded your flesh like dough, following a strict stress reducing pattern he’d undoubtedly studied.
if he went just a little bit lower his hands would be on your ass. that was honestly what was keeping the fire between your thighs ablaze. that and his scent. and his voice. and him… come to think of it, spencer had never really touched you there, his hands always seeming to stop just a touch too low on your waist, yet still remaining too high to actually make themselves useful.
maybe he just wasn’t an ass guy.
actually. you’d caught him staring in the reflections of full length mirrors far more than once. you’d spared him his dignity when your eyes had met. you regretted it now as he drained what felt like years of weight off of your shoulders, and sent every electric shock straight to your cunt because he was incapable of achieving perfect domestic boyfriend status without turning you on.
but that was as much your fault as it was his.
back to his hands though. they were good. great even. gold star worthy (you knew he had a praise kink, and you’d use it against him if he wasn’t literally against you… you should be stronger than this.)
his deft fingers traced little beauty marks and blemishes you hardly recognized the existence of. you knew every pattern he found in your skin would be catalogued in the files of his brain, most definitely in his favourites folder.
“feels good, spence.”
that was practically the first time you’d spoken to him since he’d started. you hadn’t even recognized the sound of your own voice. was that even you?
he’d sort of expected you to instruct him where to touch, how much pressure to apply, how fast, how slow. you were demanding (lovingly) and he liked when you told him what to do.
weirdly enough you remained relatively silent throughout the whole process (minus every little open mouthed sigh that was muffled against the growing pile of drool under your chin.)
he had reduced your brain to slop, absolute mush, only senses remaining revolved solely around him and his touch and how you were clenching around nothing and–
“yeah? that’s good. told you, angel.”
why were you worried again? you could’ve sworn you were worried about something.
right. he was acting weird. and also you wanted to fuck him. like right now.
spencer had stopped his endlessly strung together tangent regarding the benefits of back massages, and how they lowered stress and released endorphins and yada yada sexy science crap, loosening tight muscles (could’ve spent his time loosening something tighter) and all of the sudden you were begging him to continue talking.
was it possible to reach climax via posture correction and induced blood circulation? it was, right?
all he could make out were quite little whines which he had assumed were an okay to continue his ministrations. little whines that were definitely not you pleading with him to never stop talking.
wow, covering up an all consuming guilt with a hands-on anatomy lesson for your girlfriend surely proved itself a great diversion technique. way to go spencer!
and then you started rolling over and his brain literally stopped working.
spencer had been compared to a deer before, something about his lanky clumsiness and beautiful big brown eyes (your words, not his.)
and now said comparison was proving itself undyingly correct as he stared at your chest like your pretty nipples, which now consumed the entirety of his view and thoughts, were the headlights of the most beautiful semi truck he’d ever seen.
spencer was lucky that thought was not one that ever left his mind. for the sake of his integrity and your confidence. don’t worry, every girl dreamed of being compared to a gigantic immovable force!
and oh look–he's dead. roadkill flat against the highway. he’d wear the tiremarks like a badge of honour, he’d proudly tell the whole world that his girlfriend’s stunning tits had actually killed him.
he absolutely did not register how stupid he appeared in the moment, or how his jaw had slacked, his mouth was agape, or how you’d said his name.
somewhere between the unheard begs and unchecked pulses between your thighs, you’d had enough. suddenly recalling that all confrontations were short-lived and you were exceptionally good at getting what you needed. (and there was also the months of becoming increasingly insecure about your sex appeal, which probably also contributed something.)
so you flashed him–exposed yourself to him? whatever it was, it obviously caught his attention. seems not every plan had to be meticulously thought through!
“spencer.”
your voice of his name fell on completely deaf ears.
his gaze followed your chest as you sat up, your face was level with the mid section of his frame, and his neck was cranked in a position that most definitely violated his previous lecture regarding the correlation between postural habits and back pain. he did not care. nor did he bother to notice the discomfort in his neck.
your eyes were only slightly, embarrassingly teary, from the sexual frustration or from genuine hurt, you truly didn’t know. but you would simply not allow yourself to reach the low of getting off to a massage because you had literally nothing else to work with.
“are you attracted to me, spencer?”
he wouldn’t have heard your words had they not been so paralyzing. he was both confused and growing red eared (and hard) from his perversion.
before his loose, stupid lips could jumble together a useless string of yes of course, why wouldn’t i be? you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever laid eyes on–you saved him from mortification.
“like physically… sexually. like do i even turn you on?”
the words would’ve landed pervertedly condescending (because he was disgusting) if he hadn’t caught the break in your voice. suddenly his melted brain reformed and flipped the profiling-my-girlfriend switch on. his mind immediately darted to the unsteady beat of your chest and your averting gaze and the way your shoulders collapsed in on yourself and oh god.
he was a horrible boyfriend.
“of course you do–i don’t even… i couldn’t put it into words–what you do to me.”
your scoff came off more as more of a wounded cry than anything. frail and caught in a cruel trap that was your mind and his disregarding actions.
“really? because–well i told myself i was okay with it... but i’m not. i can’t handle being undesirable and i need you so badly and i just don’t understand why you won’t–”
you stopped yourself because you were sure you would’ve literally choked on your own words had you not, and spencer only looked at you like you were all delicate and preciously pitiful until all that you felt was guilt. because how could you ever question his love when he looked at you like that?
i can’t handle being undesirable.
he could live a hundred lives being the best possible version of himself and still remain undeserving of you. undesirable. you were the first thing that he thought of when he woke up and the last thing when he drifted to sleep. he saw you everywhere. in everything.
his entire team knew practically every little detail about you. from the way you scrunched your nose when you read to how you always leaned into him while you slept. all he did was desire you.
he fell to his knees–albeit awkwardly, as if your words had literally stabbed him in the chest, he believed they did. he had said he would bleed for you.
and because he never learnt to articulate his emotions properly, his mouth started moving before his brain could stop it.
“i heard you last night.”
your eyes went unimaginably wide in horror. you spill your guts out to a man and he decides to leave you on the side of the road instead of stitching you up. great.
“and i lied about it because. well because i didn’t want you to know how much it affected me. and–and i know how disgusting it is and i’m so unbelievably guilty at how much i… like it. and i swear. i swear i was going to stop and then you said my name and i just–couldn’t keep my hands off–and i know it’s disgusting and i understand if you want to scream at me… or–or hit me or run away–or even hate me.”
oh.
“you touched yourself to… the sound of me touching myself to you…”
spencer ran a hand through the mess of his hair and squeezed his eyes shut, tightly, fingers pressing into his covered corneas so hard that he prayed he would do irreversible damage to his vision, and would not have to face your repulsed expression.
“yes. i’m sorry.”
spencer spared himself a glance at you, remembered your tits were out and now quite literally in his face, and closed his eyes again.
“then why won’t you… have sex with me?”
“because… i’m scared,”
he breathed hard, making preparations to finally reveal a reality he’d completely hidden from you. from the fear that he was too much, held too much baggage and was too insecure and had too many deep rooted issues to ever truly love.
and with how he’d changed. how he wanted to preserve a version of himself that no longer existed because he couldn’t bear to accept that he had changed into something festering with an unrestorable rot.
that terrified him far more than any dirty confession could ever manage to.
“because. a lot has happened to me. because a lot of bad things have happened to me. I’ve become… bad. and i’m scared that if i indulge in you, i’ll only confirm that i’ve been lost for good. i’m scared i’ll hurt you.”
he hadn’t realized he was crying until your soft hands cleared the blurred lines of his vision and pulled him close to you. his face found the crook of your neck like it always did and you soothed him by carding your fingers through his perfectly tangled hair.
he looked up at you as you cradled his face in your palms.
“there was this unsub. and she–she did things… took advantage of me to gain a psychological upper hand, to hold something over my head. and i did time. because of her. and she made me feel–i had never felt so angry–or violent or… the things i did inside. they’re unfathomable. and when i got out… all i wanted–i wanted to hurt her. i did. she ruined me and now i’m this disgusting visicious–thing that i don’t even recongize. and if i ever hurt you i could never forgive myself–because you are the only good thing in my life and i will never be worthy of having you. i shouldn’t have lied. i should’ve told you what i really was instead of tricking you into loving me. i’m so sorry.”
it was almost too much to process–it practically hit you in the face and stole the air from your lungs. because your boyfriend just spilled a lifetime of traumatic experiences and you were shirtless questioning why he wouldn’t sleep with you.
above all, your heart ached for him in ways you never knew were possible.
“spencer,”
his eyes were searching yours for the inevitable look of shame, disdain, the words of contempt that he knew were tragically bound to spill from your untainted lips.
but none of that came. you only held him closer.
“you’ve spent months showing me exactly who you are. and i will do anything to prove how beautifully kind, and sweet–and gentle you truly are.”
spencer had taught you the importance actions held above all. behaviour spoke louder than anything. there was nothing he could tell you that could ever deter you from his light. not even for a second.
you had never known someone like him. never been graced with something so pure and heavenly. perfect in every nook of imperfection. your love was so undyingly devout you weren’t sure how you would ever be capable of forming it into words.
“i’m sorry if i ever made you felt like your experiences made you less than–and i’ll do anything to show you how much my love transcends anything–everything… spencer you could never. and i mean never scare me away. you’re stuck with me.”
he’d spent so long being terrified of who he’d become, living in a body he couldn’t recognize, that he’d lost sight of the fact that he was still himself.
you’d help him find himself again. because you cared. because you loved him. because he deserved it.
he shied away from you again, the soft curve of his nose meeting the skin of your collar bone. his favourite hiding place. you could feel his smile, the sun peeking out from behind a cloudy sky.
“hey… let me see you.”
you chuckled, watching as he blinked back the last of tears that prickled the sensitive skin surrounding the warm gold of his eyes.
“only if you’re okay with it–ready i mean, i want you to tell me everything. i want to be here for you, spence.”
you watched as his rosy cherub cheeks perked, his lips curved into the most tenderly compassionate smile you ever had the honour of being familiar with as he nodded.
“i think i’d like that.”
you pressed him closer to your bare skin, in the sense of shared proximity and loving intimacy, dragging his willing form up until you pressed a delicate kiss against his lips.
“great! um… would you mind grabbing my shirt now–”
spencer snorted as he rose from your carpeted floor and fetched the garment that had previously been folded with a now practiced precision (because of course he folded it!)
his new found confidence had him feeling rather risqué, and he teased you by pulling it closer to his chest.
“how about we have this conversation under the condition that i get to worship the beauty of your skin beforehand?”
you only rolled your eyes and raised your arms so he could pull the fabric back over your body.
“maybe next time.”
because there absolutely would be a next time.
i remembered that neighbour reader loves sabrina and boom this fic was born! also… i was squealing writing this because!!!! them!!! i love them together so much im sick! yes i skipped far into their established relationship future, and yes, don’t worry, i will absolutely be back tracking!!! i just like needed to write this. ok i love you all!! thank you so much for reading🤍🤍 please reblog if you enjoyed! ^_^
So was it casual when JJ was being tortured and imagined Emily saving her and then Emily immediately responding to the call when hearing JJ was in danger... oh it was casual? Fuck this
hey i hate editing my master list so i really shouldnt be complaining, but have you ever tried to read ur master list on dark mode? illegible. love ur fics tho!
lmfao trust you are not the first person to tell me this… im lowk super negligent in taking dark mode into account when i choose the themes/colours of anything, bc i use tumblr for fics and i literally cannot read white on black😅😅 esp wout my glasses😭😭😭
im also really lazy… maybe i’ll change it soon cuz i feel bad.. its the spencer masterlist specifically right??
