People with this kind of personality tend to be introverted, idealistic, creative, and driven by high values. INFPs want to make the world a better place and are interested in how they can best help others. They also strive to gain a greater understanding of themselves and how they fit into the world.
summary: a wrong assumption lands you in a holding cell, and you come face to face with the one man you didn't read right
includes: smut (MDNI), technically has a plot but not really, no use of y/n, dom!spencer, reader giving brat/switch energy (me again?), power imbalance, reader was arrested (but like it wasn't her fault tho), unresolved feelings, mutual frustration, teasing leads to escalation, car sex, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink hehehe, power and control dynamics, professional lines getting absolutely obliterated, morally gray behavior, not enemies or lovers but a third (worse) thing, technically he's at work but once again... priorities
The room is uncomfortable.
The metal of the bench bites through the thin layer of your stockings. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, one bulb flickering every so often. No velvet. No shadows. No places to hide.
You sit with your arms crossed, spine pressed back against the wall like you’re daring it to push first.
You're freezing.
You're still in your “uniform”—lace, straps, barely-there fabric that was never meant for fluorescent lighting or cold metal benches. The stockings are slightly torn at the knee, a ladder running just enough to catch your eye every time you shift. Your heels are gone, lost somewhere between the squad car and booking, leaving your feet flat against the floor.
Disgusting.
One of the deputies had muttered something about “a statement” before disappearing.
You haven’t been told anything since.
Typical.
Your jaw tightens as you replay it again—his hand, the way it grabbed, entitled and careless. The slap that followed, sharp enough to turn heads. The way his expression twisted after, ego bruised deeper than his cheek.
Assault, he’d said.
Like you were the problem.
You huff under your breath, shifting slightly on the bench, the movement making your left stocking slide down your thigh slightly. You tug it back up without thinking, irritation prickling under your skin like static.
“Comfortable?”
The voice cuts through the room cleanly.
You look up prepared to snap at another officer, then freeze when you see him.
For a second, your brain doesn’t quite catch up. It’s like seeing him out of context has knocked something loose. No low lighting. No quiet room. No heat curling between you.
Just Spencer.
Your lips part before you can stop yourself. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
It’s the lighting, you think distantly. That’s what makes it feel wrong. He doesn’t belong under fluorescent buzz and chipped paint, doesn’t fit between scuffed floors and holding cells. The last time you saw him, everything had been gold and shadow and heat—something soft-edged and dangerous.
This is… sharp. Real.
And it’s been weeks.
Not a few days. Not a blur you could brush off as a one-night lapse in judgment.
Weeks.
Long enough for him to settle into memory instead of expectation. Long enough that you stopped glancing at the door during shifts. Long enough that “later” started to feel like a lie you told yourself.
And yet—
Here he is.
Your gaze drags over him, slower this time, taking him in properly. He's wearing a button-down, sleeves neatly cuffed, a sweater vest pulled over it like something out of a lecture hall, tie slightly loosened at the collar. Dress pants, leather shoes, windbreaker folded over his arm. He looks basically the same as he did that night at your club.
One corner of his mouth lifts—not amusement, not quite—but something close. “Nice to see you again, too.”
You let out a short breath through your nose, still staring at him like if you look long enough he might glitch out of existence.
“Don’t tell me this is your usual hangout,” you mutter, shifting on the bench. “What are you doing here—are you like… what, an office assistant or something?”
It’s meant to be dismissive. A little sharp. Something to take the edge off the way your pulse picked up the second you recognized him.
Spencer’s brow lifts slightly, like he’s filing the comment away for later.
“Office assistant,” he repeats, almost tasting the words. Then, dry, “That’s new.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “You’ve got the whole academic thing going on,” you add, gesturing vaguely at his outfit. “Thought maybe you alphabetize reports or something.”
“I don’t,” he says simply. “I was called in.”
“Called in,” you echo slowly. “To…?”
"Your case was flagged."
You just stare at him."I don't know what that means.”
Spencer shifts his arm slightly, a small, careful motion—like he’s not trying to draw attention, but refusing to hide it any longer.
The windbreaker slips down his forearm.
And there it is.
A badge. And a holstered weapon at his hip.
Your brain takes a second too long to process it.
Not because you don’t see it. Because you do. Very clearly.
Your gaze drops again, slower this time, like if you look at it from a different angle it’ll turn back into something normal. Something explainable. Something that fits the version of him you’ve been carrying around in your head for weeks.
It doesn’t.
He's an officer. You flirted with an officer. You were fingered by an officer.
“I… honestly thought you were, like, a doctor or something before,” you admit.
“I am, technically,” he says. “Doctor Spencer Reid. I’m part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. I was investigating your club the night we met.”
Silence snaps into place. It’s not loud. It’s worse than loud.
You let out a short laugh that doesn’t have any humor in it. “Oh? You mean the night you fing—?”
“I’m not here to discuss that,” he says evenly.
Your head tilts. Something in your chest tightens, hot and ugly.
“Right,” you say slowly. “Of course you’re not.”
You look away from him then, just for a second, because if you keep looking you might do something stupid like remember the way his hands felt instead of the badge you just saw.
The fluorescent light buzzes overhead like it’s laughing at you.
When you speak again, your voice is quieter. Worse somehow.
“So let me get this straight,” you say. “You walk into my workplace undercover, you let me flirt with you, you let me think you’re just some random guy, you don’t tell me you’re FBI, and then I get hauled in here because some cop groped me. And my case was flagged because, what, I work at the club you're investigating?”
“Yes, that exactly,” he says. “I have some questions to ask you. I'm here to take you to Quantico.”
“Quantico,” you repeat flatly.
Spencer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften it. Just holds your gaze like he’s waiting for you to catch up to a reality he’s already standing in.
You exhale through your nose, sharp. Annoyed. A little stunned. A lot of both.
You push yourself off the bench.
The metal complains under your shift in weight, cold peeling away from your thighs as you stand. The windbreaker slides again, too big, too useless, and you tug it down out of pure spite more than modesty.
“Alright,” you say, like you’re agreeing to a schedule change instead of your entire life tilting sideways. “Let’s go then.”
Spencer’s gaze drops as you step forward. His expression shifts. “Where are your shoes?”
You glance down at your own feet like you’ve forgotten they belong to you at all. Bare against the cold floor, toes curling slightly as if that might somehow fix the situation.
For a second, you just stare. Then you shrug.
“I don’t know.”
It comes out simple. Almost bored. Like you’re talking about a missing pen instead of your entire dignity.
Spencer doesn’t respond immediately.
That’s worse.
He looks past the bars, briefly, toward the hallway where the deputies had brought you in. His jaw tightens by a fraction, so small you almost miss it.
Then his attention comes back to you.
Still calm. Still composed. But sharper now.
“Did they remove them when you were booked?”
You lean your weight onto one hip, arms folding again like you can physically hold yourself together through sheer irritation.
“I guess?” you say. “Everything happened kind of fast.”
A beat.
Another.
His eyes flick down again, slower this time, taking inventory without lingering where it doesn’t belong. Stockings. Torn knee. Bare feet on institutional tile.
Then back to your face.
“I brought this for you,” he says, holding out the windbreaker tucked over his arm.
You glance down at it like it might’ve grown teeth since you last looked at it. “I didn’t ask for it.”
“I know.”
That, somehow, makes you bristle more.
You shift your weight, arms still folded tight across your chest like you can physically out-stubborn the situation. “I don’t want it.”
Spencer doesn’t react right away. He just looks at you.
Not the kind of look that slides over skin or lingers in the wrong places. Something steadier. He’s not evaluating your body, your outfit, your attitude.
He’s waiting you out. Like he has time.
The silence stretches.
Fluorescent light hums. Somewhere down the hallway, a radio crackles and dies again.
You tilt your chin slightly, daring him to break first.
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
Your jaw tightens. “Are you always this annoying when you’re working?”
“I’m not being annoying,” he says calmly. “I’m being patient.”
“Same thing.”
A faint flicker crosses his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the idea of one, carefully restrained.
Then he lifts the windbreaker slightly.
“I brought it because it’s cold,” he says. “And you’re clearly underdressed.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Spencer doesn’t even blink at your tone.
It’s almost worse that he doesn’t. Like you’re the only one in the room reacting to anything at all.
His grip tightens slightly on the windbreaker, just enough to crease the fabric.
“It means,” he says evenly, “stop being difficult and put on the jacket so I can get you out of this damn holding cell and out of being arrested for an act of self-defense.”
The words land clean. Too clean.
Like he’s already said them in his head a dozen times before ever walking in here.
You stare at him. Then at the jacket. Then back at him again, incredulous.
“Self-defense,” you repeat slowly, like the concept itself is insulting. “So you do know what happened.”
“I do,” he says.
“And I’m still in here.”
“You don't have to be.”
Your jaw tightens. You hate that your body is cold enough to make this even remotely persuasive. You hate more that he noticed before you even said anything.
With a sharp, irritated exhale, you snatch it from him.
“Fine,” you mutter. “Happy?”
“I will be when you’re warm,” he replies.
That earns him a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass.
You turn your back to him just enough to shrug into it, the oversized fabric swallowing your arms first, then your shoulders. It smells like him in a way that’s annoyingly subtle—like sage and old books, something that makes your brain misfire for half a second before you can stop it.
You refuse to acknowledge that.
Absolutely refuse.
You adjust it roughly, yanking it the rest of the way on like it’s guilty of something. It hangs long, brushing mid-thigh, covering more than you expected and somehow still not enough.
Spencer watches the whole thing without comment.
When you finish, you cross your arms immediately over your chest.
“I’m not zipping it,” you say.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
You narrow your eyes. “Good.”
The hallway is worse than the cell. Too bright, too open, too aware. Everything echoes here—your heels would’ve clicked if you had them, but now it’s just the soft, slightly uneven sound of your bare feet against the floor.
You reach the front desk. The officer there straightens slightly when he sees Spencer, posture shifting into something more attentive.
“Doctor Reid,” he says.
“Is she cleared for release into federal custody?” Spencer asks.
The words are calm. Professional.
A pause. A glance at you. Then back to him. “Yeah. She’s yours.”
Yours.
You hate the way that lands in your chest, like it shouldn’t fit there but does anyway.
Spencer doesn’t react to it. Just nods once. “And her personal effects?”
The officer doesn’t answer right away—just blinks, like he’s been pulled out of autopilot.
“Oh—right. Yeah. I’ll grab it.”
He disappears down the hall with a kind of hurried eagerness that wasn’t there a second ago, like Spencer’s presence alone rewrote the tempo of the room.
When he comes back a moment later, he's carrying a clear evidence bag, the plastic crinkling softly with each step. “Here we go,” he says, holding it out toward Spencer first, then adjusting mid-motion and offering it to you instead.
Inside: your shoes, slightly scuffed. A thick wad of cash, folded tight with a rubber band. Your lipstick, cap a little loose like you’d shoved it in a hurry.
You take it without a word. The plastic is cold in your hands.
“Sign here,” the officer adds, sliding a clipboard across the counter.
You shift the bag to one hand, scribbling your name with the other. It’s messier than usual. You don’t care.
“Thanks,” you mutter, already stepping back.
You don’t bother stepping aside.
You just hook your fingers into the straps of your heels, lift your foot slightly off the ground, and slide them on—one, then the other. Smooth. Balanced. Like you’ve done it a thousand times without thinking.
Because you have.
The leather settles against your skin like something familiar, something that belongs to you in a way none of this does. The extra height shifts your posture instantly—shoulders back, chin up, weight redistributing like a switch flipping back into place.
Armor, in its own way.
When your heel clicks softly against the floor again, you straighten fully.
Better.
You adjust the windbreaker once more, tugging it into place like you’re negotiating with it instead of wearing it, then glance up at him.
“Happy now?” you ask, tone dry.
Spencer’s gaze lingers for half a second—taking in the shift, the regained composure, the way you’ve rebuilt yourself piece by piece in under ten seconds.
Then he nods once. “That’s more practical.”
“Thrilling answer,” you mutter.
He doesn’t rise to it. Of course he doesn’t.
Instead, he gestures subtly toward the exit. “We should go.”
Outside, the air hits different. Cooler. Cleaner. Real in a way the station wasn’t.
It slips under the edges of the windbreaker, brushes your bare thighs, makes you more aware of your body than you’d like to be. The night is quieter here, stretched thin beneath a half-moon that hangs low and watchful above the parking lot.
Spencer walks beside you without touching you.
Not guiding. Not hovering. Just… there.
It’s strange. After everything, you almost expect his hand at your elbow, his voice telling you where to go next. But he doesn’t. He lets you walk at your own pace, heels clicking steadily against the pavement, each step grounding you back into something familiar.
Then you see it.
All black. Clean lines. Government-issued, but polished enough to feel intentional.
He steps ahead of you just slightly, reaching for the passenger door and pulling it open.
You pause, one brow lifting as you glance between him and the SUV.
“Fancy,” you say, the word dipped in sarcasm, like you’re testing how it sounds in your mouth.
Spencer doesn’t take the bait. He just stands there, one hand on the door, waiting.
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, like maybe you can force a reaction out of him through sheer stubbornness.
Nothing.
Your lips press together, something like a huff slipping through your nose before you slide into the seat.
The leather is cold. Smooth. Too nice for the kind of night you just had. He shuts the door behind you with a quiet, solid click.
A moment later, the driver’s side opens. Closes. The engine turns over, low and steady, like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
Figures.
The ride is quiet.
You sit with your arms crossed, angled slightly toward the window, watching the world slip by in streaks of dim streetlights and empty roads. The half-moon follows, or maybe you’re following it—hard to tell.
Your reflection stares back at you faintly in the glass.
Windbreaker too big. Hair slightly out of place. Lipstick faded at the edges.
You look… off.
Not wrong. Just… not put together the way you like.
You hate that he saw you like that. You hate more that he didn’t say anything about it.
The silence stretches.
Five minutes. Maybe ten.
You lose count somewhere between one streetlight and the next.
Spencer’s voice finally cuts through the quiet, measured but softer than before.
“You seem upset.”
You don’t turn right away.
You let the words sit there for a second, like you’re deciding whether they even deserve a response. Then your eyes flick toward him, flat, unimpressed.
“I am,” you say. “Thanks for noticing.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Can I ask why you're taking me to Quantico?”
“You owe me.”
The words land cleanly. Like a fact. Like something already filed away in his head.
You blink once, then turn toward him slowly.
“Oh, I owe you now?” you repeat, voice raising in disbelief.“Do you think you did me some amazing favor?”
His brow lifts slightly, like he’s genuinely trying to understand where you’ve lost him.
“Uh—yes,” he says.
That gets a sharp laugh out of you. Not warm. Not amused. Something edged.
“Of course an FBI agent would think he did me a favor,” you say, leaning back into the seat. “By, what? Taking advantage of me while I was at work?”
Spencer’s hands tighten on the wheel.
“What? No.” The words come out too fast for his usual control, clipped by something sharper underneath. “I got you out of an assault on an officer charge.”
You tilt your head, watching him now like he’s suddenly more interesting than the road.
“Wow, thanks,” you say slowly. Then you glance at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you want in return? A blowjob?”
The SUV swerves half a fraction before Spencer corrects it immediately. His head snaps toward you.
“Could you stop being so dramatic?” he says, incredulous. “I want information.”
“Information.”
“Yes.”
You study him for a moment. His jaw is set, his attention never fully leaving the road—even when he’s speaking to you, like control is something he refuses to loosen even for a second.
“And if I don’t have any?” you ask.
Spencer’s gaze flicks to you briefly. Then back forward.
“Then after the interview, I’ll take you home,” he says, voice leveling out again, “Your home.”
Your lips twitch before you can stop them.
“Generous,” you murmur.
The silence in the SUV thickens after that, like the air itself has decided to stop pretending this is professional.
Outside, the road unspools in pale ribbons of streetlight. Inside, everything feels too contained. Too aware. The kind of quiet that starts listening back.
You shift slightly in the seat, one leg crossing over the other with slow intention, the hem of the windbreaker sliding higher up your thigh again. You don’t fix it this time.
His eyes stay forward, hands steady on the wheel, but there’s a subtle tightening in his grip. A small betrayal of composure.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says after a beat.
You hum lightly. “Doing what?”
“That.”
You glance at him, feigning innocence. “I’m sitting?”
His jaw ticks once, barely there. “Adjusting your posture.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “And the jacket.”
A soft smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “Maybe I’m just cold.”
“You’re not cold.”
That lands sharper than it should.
“And you're not telling me the full truth.”
He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s complicated.”
You laugh under your breath. “That’s FBI for ‘I don’t want to explain it.’”
Spencer glances at you, quick and sharp this time. “It means there’s an ongoing investigation, and you’re connected to it whether you like it or not.”
“Charming,” you say. “So you show up, you take me out of a holding cell, you put me in your car, and suddenly I’m what… evidence?”
“You’re not evidence,” he says immediately.
The speed of it catches you slightly off guard.
You watch him for a second longer. “Then what am I?”
“A lead.”
You lean back into the seat, letting that settle.
“A lead,” you repeat slowly. “That sounds less flattering than I think you meant it to.”
“It’s not about flattery.”
“No,” you agree softly. “It never is with you, is it?”
That earns you a glance. Longer this time. A little less controlled.
“You’re upset,” he says again, like he’s circling the same conclusion from a different angle.
You sigh, tipping your head back against the seat. “Observant again. Give the man a medal.”
“Is it because I didn’t come back?”
You blink once.
Then again.
Your first instinct is to laugh it off. To turn it into something sharp, something light, something that doesn’t stick to your ribs on impact.
“Not everything is about you,” you snap.
The words land sharp, like you meant them to cut and not just deflect. The inside of the SUV feels smaller immediately, air tightening in a way that has nothing to do with physics and everything to do with him suddenly going very still beside you.
Spencer doesn’t answer. No correction. No rebuttal. No gentle unpacking of your tone.
Just silence. Spreading over the next minute.
Until, finally, you give up.
A small, irritated exhale slips out of you as you lean back harder into the seat, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended you.
“Fine,” you snap, the word sharper than you intend. “Yes.”
Spencer glances at you—too long, just a fraction past what’s safe—and then forces his attention back to the road. The car stays steady anyway.
“What can I do,” he asks quietly, “to make up for it?”
You stare at him for a moment.
At the way his hands are still fixed at ten and two, knuckles just a shade too tight against the wheel. At the way his jaw has that quiet tension in it again, like he’s holding himself in place piece by piece. At the way he asked that—what can I do—like he actually meant it.
Like he doesn’t already regret it.
So, naturally, you go for the worst possible answer.
Your lips curve, slow and deliberate, something sharp-edged and a little reckless. “Let me give you that blowjob.”
Spencer doesn’t even blink.
“I’m getting the impression,” he says, eyes fixed on the road ahead, “that you’re used to getting what you want by saying things like that.”
The response lands softer than a rejection—and somehow cuts deeper for it.
Your smile falters.
Just for a second.
You recover quickly, of course. You always do. Your chin tilts, your expression sliding back into something sharper, more practiced.
“Is that a no?” you ask innocently, batting your lashes.
Spencer doesn’t answer.
Not a word. Not even a glance.
It’s almost impressive, the way he just… absorbs it. Like you tossed something sharp at him and he decided it wasn’t worth catching.
Your smile lingers anyway, a little tighter now, a little more deliberate.
Fine.
You shift in your seat, slow, testing. Then you lean toward him.
Not all the way. Just enough that your shoulder angles in his direction, your body turning slightly, like curiosity instead of intent.
Nothing.
His eyes stay on the road. Hands steady. Posture unchanged.
If anything, he looks more focused.
Your tongue presses briefly against the inside of your cheek.
Alright.
You move closer.
The seat creaks faintly under the shift, your thigh brushing the center console this time, your space bleeding into his. The windbreaker slips again, fabric dragging higher, exposing more skin than it covers. The seatbelt tugs against your shoulder, resisting the movement like it knows better. Your breath is closer now, your presence impossible to ignore.
And still—
Nothing.
Something in your chest tightens. Annoyance. Challenge. Something sharper hiding underneath both.
So you push.
Slowly, deliberately, you lift your hand. You don’t rush it. Don’t make it sudden. You let it happen in stages.
Your palm settles against his thigh. Warm through the fabric of his slacks. Solid. Real.
His leg goes rigid under your hand, the muscle locking like a reflex he refuses to follow through on.
You shift your wrist just slightly, letting your touch travel higher along his thigh. Not rushing. Not forcing. Just testing the line he’s drawn like you’re seeing how much ink will smudge before the page gives out.
Still no glance your way.
You tilt your head, watching him from the corner of your eye like this is all still a game you’re meant to win.
“Still focused on the road?” you murmur softly.
His jaw tightens.
“Yes,” he says, clipped. Controlled.
It makes something in you flare hotter. Your hand continues upward.
The car feels smaller with every inch. The space between you and him no longer behaves like space at all. It behaves like pressure.
Your fingertips brush him through the fabric again, firmer this time, and that’s when everything changes.
Spencer inhales sharply through his teeth.
A clean break in his composure.
His grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening in an instant. The car stays steady, but only because he forces it to.
“You’re going to get us killed,” he says, voice lower now, rougher at the edges.
“Seems dramatic,” you tease. “Do you want me to stop?”
Spencer goes very still. His eyes stay on the road. Hands locked at ten and two. Jaw set like he’s holding something back by force alone.
Then, quieter than before, he says, “No.”
The smile on your face is immediate.
You don't wait for permission or a second warning; your hands move with practiced efficiency, undoing his belt with a metallic click that sounds deafening in the quiet cabin. You tug his fly down and reach in to pull him free without a hint of hesitation.
You waste no time on theatrics or teasing. You unbuckle your seatbelt, lean over the center console, and take him into your mouth in one smooth, deliberate motion. The heat of him against your tongue is immediate and overwhelming, and you hear the air leave his lungs in a harsh, stuttering gasp.
"Fuck—"
The curse is barely out before the SUV lurches to the right.
The vehicle grinds to a halt on the shoulder of the road, throwing you forward slightly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you moan around him, the vibration drawing a ragged sound from deep in his chest that is half-groan, half-desperate warning.
His hand is in your hair immediately, fingers tangling into the strands.
You don’t let up. If anything, the sudden stop and his reaction just spur you on.
You flatten your tongue against the underside of him, dragging it up slowly, deliberately, relishing the weight of him on your tongue before taking him deep again.
His hips jerk involuntarily, followed by a ragged groan. It’s a raw, unfiltered noise—completely different from the composed, clinical agent persona he’s been projecting.
You hum around him again, a low, satisfied sound, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair to the point of pain.
He’s trying to hold back, trying to keep some modicum of control, but the way his breathing has turned into shallow, desperate hitches tells you he’s already losing the battle.
You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue over the head, teasing the sensitive slit before sinking down again.
The response is immediate—his head falls back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as a string of curses escapes his lips, quiet and harsh in the confined space.
It’s intoxicating, him coming undone like this, stripped of his composure and reduced to nothing but sensation.
You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, and listen to the way his breath catches, the wet heat of your mouth drowning out everything else.
You can feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his entire body is drawn tight like a bowstring. You double your efforts, bobbing your head faster, letting your teeth graze him just enough to elicit a sharp hiss.
The sounds he's making now are unrestrained—broken moans and harsh exhales that he can't seem to swallow, and you know you've won.
The rush of power is intoxicating—a heady, electric surge that makes your blood hum. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, ready to push him right over that edge, ready to finally crack him wide open.
But then his hand in your hair changes.
It stops cradling the back of your head and tightens—sharp, sudden, insistent. The sting radiates across your scalp, enough to make your eyes water, just enough to make you freeze.
"Stop," he breathes out, the word ragged but absolute.
He doesn't give you a chance to argue or tease, just applies firm, upward pressure with his fist tangled in your hair. The message is clear, stripping away the power play in an instant and replacing it with an undeniable command.
You pull back, the suction breaking with a loud, wet pop that seems obscenely loud in the sudden, heavy stillness of the car.
You sit up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your breathing uneven. You look at him, expecting to see bliss or surrender, but what you find is even better.
He’s wrecked—face flushed, chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy.
"Get in the back," he says, his voice rough, stripping away the last veneer of the composed FBI agent.
You blink, stunned for half a second by the sheer authority in his tone. It’s not a request. It’s a command.
Your heart hammers against your ribs as you scramble to obey, clambering over the center console with clumsy haste.
You barely have time to find your balance before Spencer is there, crowding into the space after you with a frantic lack of grace that makes your breath catch.
He doesn't give you a moment to recover or to regain the upper hand—his hands are on you immediately, gripping your hips to pull you flush against him while his knees hit the floor mats with a dull thud.
The windbreaker is shoved off your shoulders without ceremony, left to pool forgotten on the seat as he looms over you, his gaze dark and heavy enough to pin you in place without him even touching you.
He kisses you then, and it’s nothing like the careful, composed man you’ve been dealing with all night. It’s messy and desperate, teeth clicking together as he pours every ounce of his fractured control into the slide of his mouth against yours.
One hand tangles back into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slides down your body, skimming over your waist to grab the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up and over his hip.
The movement presses him flush against your core, the rough fabric of his slacks and your torn stockings dragging together in a way that makes you gasp into his mouth.
"God," he mutters against your lips, the word muffled and wrecked. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“No idea,” you gasp against his mouth, the words breathless and ragged. “Show me.”
He lets out a low, ragged groan that vibrates against your mouth, pure frustration finally snapping its leash. There’s no hesitation left in him, no careful testing of the waters.
His hand slides from your hip and dips straight under the lace covering you.
He doesn’t give you a second to adjust, to breathe, to regain any semblance of the upper hand you thought you held. His fingers slide up the inside of your thigh, blunt and demanding, tracing the wet heat there with a kind of intent focus that feels more like an interrogation than foreplay.
When he finally pushes two fingers inside you, it’s sudden and unrelenting, forcing a cry out of you that he swallows immediately with his mouth, kissing you deeply to stifle the sound.
The angle is awkward, the space too cramped, but he makes it work with a desperate kind of efficiency.
He curls his fingers, and you shudder violently, your head falling back against the headrest.
The heel of his hand presses firmly against your clit, grinding down in a way that makes your vision go white at the edges. You gasp, your hips bucking up against him involuntarily, desperate for more friction, more anything to ease the ache he’s building inside you.
He slows his pace—just enough to be tormenting—dragging his fingers out almost to the knuckle before pumping them back in, slow and deliberate.
He pulls his mouth back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your lips, his voice a low, rough scrape that sounds more like a challenge than a question.
"Did you miss this?"
He punctuates the question with a deliberate curl of his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body jerk. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and heavy, drinking in every gasp and tremor like data he needs to collect.
"Is this what you’ve been thinking of all night?" he murmurs, his tone shifting, dropping into something lower, almost mocking. "While you were dancing on that stage? While you were in that holding cell? Is this the scenario you were hoping for when you decided to test my limits in the front seat?”
"Fuck you," you gasp, the words scraping out of your throat, jagged and breathless. You try to inject it with venom, try to make it sound like an insult, but it comes out wrecked—punctuated by a sharp cry as his fingers crook inside you again.
His mouth ticks up at the corner. It’s not a kind smile—it’s sharp, knowing, and entirely too pleased with himself. "So close to asking for what you want."
A high, broken noise tears out of your throat as his fingers curl again.
Your hips jerk up off the seat, chasing the friction, chasing the pressure, your body entirely betraying the sharp retort dying on your tongue. The heel of his hand grinds down against your clit in slow, deliberate circles that are just shy of enough, keeping you suspended on that agonizing edge where every nerve ending feels raw and exposed.
"God," you gasp, your head falling back against the headrest, your eyes squeezing shut as your hands fist desperately in the fabric of his shirt. "Please—"
"Please what?" he asks. He doesn't stop the movement of his wrist, but he slows it, dragging his fingers against that sensitive spot with maddening precision until your thighs are trembling around his hand. "You’re a smart girl. You know how to use your words. Ask me for what you want."
"Fuck me," you breathe out, the words ragged and scraped raw from your throat. It’s not a request; it’s a demand, a desperate, breathless command born of frustration and a need so deep it feels like it’s eating you alive from the inside out. "Hell, Spencer, just fuck me."
The composure he’d been clinging to shatters instantly. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't tease—he just moves with a sudden, frantic efficiency. He grips himself, lines up, and pushes into you in one hard, deep thrust that punches the air out of your lungs.
The stretch is sudden, a sharp, stinging burn that fades immediately into a deep, overwhelming ache. You cry out, your head falling back against the leather as your body struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion.
It’s too much, too fast, and for a second, you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but cling to his shoulders and ride out the shock of it.
Spencer stills.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and hot against your skin, but he doesn't move. He holds himself there, giving you a moment to catch up, his hand shifting from your hip to cradle the back of your head almost gently.
"Need you to breathe for me, sweetheart." His hand strokes through your hair, soothing where his grip had been demanding only moments before, the contrast making your head spin.
Slowly, almost agonizingly, he starts to move. He pulls back just an inch, then presses forward again, testing your give, watching your face with an intensity that feels like he’s cataloging your every reaction.
"That's it," he breathes, his voice dropping into a warm, approving tone that makes your chest tighten. "You take it so well. Look at you, being so good for me now." He rocks deeper, the slow drag forcing a broken whimper from your lips, and he rewards you with another kiss, this one lingering and impossibly tender. "So beautiful when you let go."
The deliberate pace is a torture of its own design. He keeps his thrusts measured and deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, but he never rushes, never lets the rhythm fracture into something messy. He’s holding all the strings, orchestrating every gasp and shudder with a terrifying, gentle precision.
When your nails dig into his shoulders, desperate for more friction, he just captures your mouth in a kiss that swallows the sound, murmuring, "I know, I know. You can handle it. You're doing so good, just a little more for me, okay?"
He shifts the angle of his hips slightly, grinding into you rather than thrusting, and the change in pressure makes your back arch off the seat. A breathless moan tears from your throat, and instead of silencing you, he catches your earlobe between his teeth, nipping gently before soothing the sting with his tongue.
"Perfect," he breathes, the word sinking into your skin like a brand. "Look at you—so beautiful. Not arguing, not fighting me. Just taking exactly what I give you."
The praise wraps around your senses, warm and dizzying, effectively blurring the sharp edges of your own defiance until there's nothing left but the friction of his body against yours and the overwhelming need to please him. Every time your internal muscles flutter around him, he lets out a low, hum of approval, rewarding your surrender with deeper, harder strokes that make it impossible to think.
The coil inside you tightens to a breaking point, a trembling inevitability that steals the air from your lungs. "Spencer, please," you gasp, the words tumbling out without permission, stripped of any demand and left as pure, desperate pleading. "I need—"
"I know," he cuts in softly, not unkindly, but with that same quiet authority that makes your bones feel like water. "I've got you. Let go for me." His rhythm never falters, driving into you with a deep, rolling precision that feels less like he's chasing his own end and more like he's guiding you inevitably toward yours. "Come on, sweetheart. Be good and let me feel you."
The command snaps the last thread of your control.
The pleasure crests and breaks, a white-hot wave that tears the air from your lungs. Your body seizes, back bowing off the seat, and in that moment of absolute unraveling, your legs clamp around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him impossibly deeper.
It’s the involuntary lock of your thighs around his hips that finally does something.
His rhythm—which has been so measured, so controlled, so agonizingly perfect—stutters. A sharp, ragged gasp tears from his throat, his composure fracturing instantly under the sudden, tight heat of your release. He tries to hold back, you can feel the way his muscles lock up, the strain radiating through his shoulders as he fights to keep from taking you too hard, but it's a losing battle with you.
"Spencer, please—don't hold back," you gasp, your voice wrecked and trembling, barely recognizable as your own. The desperation claws at your throat, making each plea jagged and raw. "Fuck me like you mean it, let go—please, I can take it, I promise, just let go for me."
The words seem to snap the last tether of his restraint. A low, guttural sound tears from his chest, something between a groan and a growl, and the careful, measured rhythm shatters entirely. He pulls back, hands gripping your hips with an almost bruising force, and then drives into you with a deep, punishing thrust that knocks the air out of your lungs.
The control is gone, replaced by a frantic, desperate rhythm as he finally takes exactly what he needs. He fucks you into the seat with hard, relentless strokes, the leather creaking beneath you, the world narrowing down to the friction and the heat and the overwhelming feel of him losing himself inside you. "You feel so good," he grits out, his voice ragged and breathless, dropping the praise into your ear like a confession. "Taking me so well—god, I'm gonna—"
It’s not a graceful ending. It’s a chaotic, messy collision, the last of his discipline dissolving entirely under the force of his release. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, broken shout that he tries unsuccessfully to muffle against your jaw, his whole body seizing up as he spills inside you.
The rhythm fractures into short, shallow jolts, his grip on your hips turning desperate and bruising as he rides out the shockwaves, anchoring himself to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from flying apart.
For a long moment, the only sound in the car is the harsh, uneven synchrony of your breathing, the air thick and humid with the scent of sex and heat.
Spencer collapses against you, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his weight solid and grounding. You can feel the frantic thud of his heart against your ribs, beating a frantic rhythm that matches your own. His hands slowly loosen their hold, one coming up to cradle the back of your head again, with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
Gradually, the reality of the cramped backseat starts to intrude—the awkward angle of your legs, the leather sticking to the cooling sweat on your skin.
He shifts slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the pulse point below your ear before pulling back just enough to look at you. The dark intensity is gone from his eyes, replaced by a soft, slightly unfocused haziness that makes him look younger, stripped of his defenses.
He reaches out, tucking a strand of sweat-dampened hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. "You okay?" he asks softly, his voice raspy and wrecked, sounding less like a question and more like a need to reassure himself.
A breathless laugh escapes you, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, light and dizzying. "Yeah," you manage, your voice sounding scratchy and used. "I'm... I'm good. So good."
Spencer huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, the vibration humming through you both, before he pulls away.
He shifts carefully, bracing one hand beside your head so he doesn’t crush you with his weight, his other hand already moving with quiet purpose.
You feel it before you fully register what he’s doing.
The brush of his fingers at your hip. The gentle tug of lace back into place where it’s twisted wrong. The slow, deliberate smoothing of fabric over your thigh, thumb grazing just a second longer than necessary before moving on.
Just like before. Like this is just… something he does, putting you back together.
You watch him as he works, your head still tipped back against the seat, your body loose and heavy in a way you’re not used to. He doesn’t look at you right away. His attention stays on his hands, on the small, precise adjustments—fixing a strap, pulling the windbreaker back up over your shoulders, tugging it closed just enough to cover you.
“I'm sorry,” he says once he's done. “For not coming back.”
You look at him properly now, and it’s disorienting in a way that has nothing to do with what just happened in the backseat. His hair is a mess, his tie half undone, his lips still flushed, but his eyes are steady.
Too steady.
“I meant to,” he continues, voice low, rough around the edges but controlled in a way that feels deliberate. “That night wasn’t… it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I was there to work. I shouldn’t have—”
“You did,” you cut in.
He stops.
You swallow, your throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with earlier.
“You did,” you repeat, softer this time. “And then you just… disappeared.”
There’s no bite in it now. No edge to hide behind.
Spencer’s jaw tightens slightly, like he’s absorbing that instead of arguing it.
“I know,” he says. “And I should have handled it differently.”
A humorless breath leaves you, something that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t quite make it.
“That’s one way to put it.”
The words hang there for a second, not sharp enough to cut, not soft enough to soothe. Just… there. Like something set down between you that neither of you feels like picking back up.
Spencer watches you for half a beat longer, like he might say something else. Like there’s a version of this conversation where he explains, where he untangles all the threads he left knotted.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he exhales quietly, the sound controlled, deliberate. A reset.
“We should get going,” he says, voice steadier now, slipping back into something more structured, more familiar. “We’ve been here longer than I planned.”
You blink at him, the shift almost jarring in its normalcy. “You’ve got a curfew?”
“Not exactly,” he replies, already reaching for the door, pushing himself back toward the front seat with a kind of quiet efficiency. “But my team will start asking questions if I’m gone much longer.”
You sit up slowly, adjusting the windbreaker around yourself again, fingers smoothing the fabric like it matters more than it does.
You sit there a second longer after he moves, the backseat still warm, still holding the ghost of everything that just happened like it doesn’t quite know how to let go.
The door opens. Shuts. The soft thud feels louder than it should.
Then the faint shift of weight as Spencer settles back into the driver’s seat. Fabric rustling. The quiet click of his seatbelt. The small, controlled exhale he gives like he’s putting himself back into a shape he recognizes.
You don’t follow.
You could. It would be easy. Slide forward, reclaim the passenger seat, rebuild that thin line of normalcy he’s clearly trying to restore.
But you don’t.
Instead, you lean back into the leather, one leg stretching out across the seat, the other bent slightly, your heel tapping once against the floor before going still.
Spencer doesn’t look at you directly. Just a flick of his eyes, quick and measured, through the rear view.
summary: you're good at reading the men in the room, telling who is easy prey and who isn't. this time, your assumptions are off, but you're never one to pass on a little fun
includes: no use of y/n, smut (MDNI), soft dom!spencer, reader lowkey giving switch energy (is that just me? idk), club setting, fingering (f receiving), mutual teasing... mutual undoing, technically you're at work but like... priorities
based on the above gif by @reidgif, requested by @esote-rika i hope you like it!!
The lounge is low-lit, gold lamps spilling lazy light across velvet and smoke. You’ve been in this job long enough to spot the types—suits who think money is power, bachelors with grabby hands, couples testing boundaries. You move between tables with a practiced smile, already knowing which men will melt, which will leer, which will pay too much for too little.
And then there’s him.
He sits apart from the crowd, posture too perfect for the velvet chair. He doesn’t sip a drink or pretend to watch the stage. He just studies, eyes steady behind long lashes. You decide he’ll be your fun for the night—easy prey.
You saunter up, hips swaying with the kind of confidence that always earns attention, though his eyes are already on you. You stop near his chair, lean just close enough that the lamplight paints your skin in gold, and tilt your head.
“What’s your name?” you ask, voice syrupy-smooth.
For a moment, he hesitates. His lips part, then press together again like he’s weighing the consequences of answering. Finally, he says, “Spencer.”
The name fits him—precise, deliberate. You let it roll around your tongue like a secret as you perch on the arm of his chair, legs crossing slow, deliberate. From here, you can feel the heat radiating off him, though he doesn’t flinch.
“You don’t look the type to be here,” you murmur, fingertips skimming the gaudy fabric of his chair before brushing, ever so slightly, against his shoulder.
He glances up at you, the barest flicker of amusement breaking his otherwise still expression. “And what type is that?”
“The kind that blushes when a girl sits too close,” you tease, leaning in until your perfume lingers between you. “The kind that doesn’t know where to put his hands.”
For just a second, you think you’ve caught him—his throat bobs, his lashes flutter in a blink too slow to hide—but then he exhales, steady as stone.
“Maybe I’m just good at pretending,” he says softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
You smile at his words, unexpected warmth tugging at the corner of your mouth. Pleased, maybe, that he isn’t crumbling under your touch, that he isn’t one of the usual types who fold in seconds.
You hum, a low sound in your throat, as your fingers dip down to his tie. The fabric is cool beneath your touch, smooth as you trace the neat line downward, just brushing against his shirt buttons. His pulse is steady—annoyingly steady—underneath all that composure.
“So you’re pretending,” you say, your voice lilting, playful. “What’s the act, then? The quiet intellectual in the corner? The mysterious stranger no one can read?”
Spencer’s gaze flicks to your hand, following the lazy drag of your fingers, then rises back to meet your eyes. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t stop you. “I don’t have to pretend to be mysterious,” he says simply. “That’s just your projection.”
Your lips part, ready to toss back another teasing line, but it stalls on your tongue. Because he isn’t wrong—and you don’t like the way it feels when he turns your own game back on you so neatly.
“And what is it you think I’m projecting?” you ask, chin tilted, a smile sharp enough to hide the sudden hitch in your chest.
His mouth curves—almost a smirk, but not quite. Controlled. Careful. “That you came over here because you wanted to fluster me. And now you’re not sure if you want to keep trying… or if you want to find out what happens when you fail.”
The words hum against your skin, low and devastating. You hadn’t planned for this. For him. For the way his voice slips under your defenses like silk and steel at once.
And suddenly, you’re not sure if this is still just the job.
You laugh softly, covering the way his words nip at your pride. “Confident,” you say, dragging a nail lightly down the length of his tie. “I like that.”
His eyes follow the motion but his body doesn’t shift, his posture as perfect as it was when you first spotted him. It unsettles you. Most men lean forward, eager. He doesn’t. He just sits there, letting you close the distance, letting you think you’re leading.
“So tell me, Spencer…” You let the syllables linger, honey-slow. “Do you want a private dance?”
This time, there’s the faintest pause. Not long enough to read as hesitation, not long enough to satisfy your need to see him flustered—but it’s there. A beat where you think you might’ve cracked the shell.
Then he exhales, steady again. “I’m not here for that,” he says, voice level, low. “I’m here on business.”
You arch a brow, lips curving in a smile meant to tease, even as your fingers tug idly at the edge of his tie.
“Business?” The word drips with mockery, but he doesn’t bite.
You arch a brow, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, the silence stretches, humming between you like static. Finally, you shift where you sit on the arm of his chair, the motion smooth, practiced. Your legs slip over his thighs, draped across him like an offering.
He shifts immediately to accommodate you—so natural, so instinctive it’s almost disarming. His hand doesn’t move, his posture doesn’t falter, but his body adjusts all the same, like he’d expected it.
You wait for the tell. For his eyes to flicker downward, for his gaze to skim bare skin, linger where it shouldn’t. That’s what they all do, in the end. That’s what you count on.
But Spencer doesn’t.
His eyes stay fixed on your face, unwavering, sharp in the low light. It’s not nerves, not shyness. It’s control. And it rattles you, because you can’t tell if it’s intentional restraint or something deeper, something he’s holding back just to see how long it takes you to notice.
“Come on, Spencer,” you tease, your voice dropping into a low purr. “Give me something to work with.”
Nothing. Not a twitch, not a tell. His gaze stays locked on yours, unflinching, and the silence drapes over your shoulders heavier than velvet.
You tilt your head, lips curving with feigned exasperation. “Can’t you tell I’m desperate here?”
That earns you the smallest reaction—a flicker at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of a smile tugging before he reins it back. His eyes dip then, finally, sliding down to the smooth line of your legs sprawled across his lap. But the movement isn’t hungry or careless. It’s precise. Deliberate. He lets you see it, lets you know he’s looking only because he’s chosen to.
When his eyes rise back to yours, his voice is velvet-low, steady as a knife balanced on a fingertip. “You don’t seem very desperate at all.”
The words catch you off guard, tugging a breath from your throat you hadn’t meant to give away. You can't tell if he's teasing or simply telling the truth.
You lean forward, closing the space until your lips hover just above his ear. Your voice dips softer, silkier, meant only for him. “Do I have to beg?”
His brows tick upward, the barest flicker of surprise, but he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just holds that maddeningly steady gaze.
So you shift tactics. Flutter your lashes, tilt your chin down, let your mouth soften around the word. “Please.”
It lands between you like a spark. For the first time, his composure falters—not much, not enough to satisfy the craving you’ve been nursing all night—but enough. He exhales sharply, a huff of air that could be a laugh, could be surrender.
“Alright,” he says finally, quiet but decisive. “Private room.”
The victory tastes sweeter than champagne. You smile slow, triumphant, and slip gracefully off the arm of his chair. Your hand brushes his tie one last time before you rise to your feet, letting the touch linger as a promise.
“Follow me, then,” you murmur, hips swaying as you lead the way through the haze of smoke and low light. You don’t have to look back to know he’s watching—you can feel it, steady and unshaken, like he’s already planned every step of this game.
And still, the thrill buzzes through you. Because for all his restraint, for all his control, he said yes.
The private rooms are quieter, tucked away from the bass and smoke of the lounge. The walls are padded in dark velvet, the air scented faintly of expensive liquor and too much perfume. It feels smaller here, more intimate—just the two of you and the hum of your own heartbeat.
You gesture toward the couch in the center, plush and gaudy, and glance at him over your shoulder. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He doesn’t move right away. He studies the room first, gaze flicking across every detail like he’s cataloging it, committing it all to memory. Only then does he sit—perfect posture, long legs spreading just enough to take up space without apology.
You slip into the role as easily as a second skin, swaying closer, letting your hands trail along your thighs, your waist, your curves. But the usual rhythm feels off. Wrong. Because Spencer doesn’t drink you in the way the others do—his eyes don’t wander, don’t flicker greedily from skin to silk.
He watches your face. Only your face.
You circle him slowly, brushing your fingers along the back of his chair, your breath ghosting over his shoulder. “You’re supposed to enjoy yourself, you know,” you tease, though it comes out thinner than you intend. “That’s the whole point.”
His lips twitch, a flash of amusement before it steadies again. “Maybe I’m already enjoying myself,” he says softly.
The words graze your skin like a touch. You falter for half a step, then recover, sliding onto his lap in one smooth motion. Your knees bracket his hips, your hands braced lightly on his shoulders. You lean close enough that your hair brushes his cheek, your smile wicked. “Then prove it.”
For the first time, his composure shifts. Not much, not enough to strip him of control—but enough. His hands lift, slow, deliberate, settling at your waist. Not pulling, not groping. Just holding. His thumbs press in, a subtle anchor that steadies you, grounds you.
He leans in, his voice barely above a whisper, curling into your ear like smoke. “You begged me to come back here.”
You shift against him, a practiced arch of your spine, but it feels different under his hands. They’re steady, almost clinical, but not cold. Like he’s letting you move while reminding you that he’s the one keeping you there.
“Begged is a strong word,” you murmur, tilting your head just enough to meet his eyes again.
“Not really,” he says, voice low, deliberate. “You said please.”
Heat flickers in your chest—annoyance or excitement, you can’t tell. You flutter your lashes, leaning close enough your lips nearly brush his jaw. “And you finally said yes. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”
His mouth curves, faint but sharp, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I said yes to a dance.”
Your fingers toy with the knot of his tie, tugging it just enough to feel resistance. “Then maybe you should stop analyzing me and enjoy the performance.”
Spencer’s eyes dip—not low, not hungry, but just to your lips. Intentional, precise. His gaze drags back up, pinning you in place. “Maybe I already am.”
Something in your stomach twists, unsteady, because it feels less like you’re leading him through a dance and more like he’s letting you perform just to see what you’ll do next.
You roll your hips once more, testing him, daring him to show something—anything—that betrays the perfect stillness he’s been keeping.
“What does it take,” you murmur, your breath skating over his jaw, “to make you lose that careful composure? To lose control?”
The question hangs heavy, molten. His thumbs shift at your waist—barely, almost imperceptible—but you feel it like a spark.
Then he smiles. Just a sliver, crooked enough to make your pulse skip. “I could ask you the same.”
Your laugh catches low in your throat, more breath than sound. “I like to be in control,” you murmur, the words drawn out like a tease, meant to sound effortless.
But Spencer tilts his head, studying you like he’s peeling back layers. “Do you?”
It shouldn’t rattle you. Shouldn’t make the words stick somewhere between your chest and your tongue. But it does. Because there’s something in the way he asks—not mocking, not disbelieving, but testing. Measuring.
You hesitate. Just long enough. The silence stretches, and you realize that in not answering, you’ve already given him the truth.
His lips curve, faint and knowing, before he exhales. “Come here.”
The command is quiet. Unadorned. And still, it pulls you forward before you’ve thought it through. You lean in, close enough to catch the faintest trace of his cologne, warm and subtle against the musk of the room.
Then his mouth finds yours.
It’s nothing like you expect—not controlled, not calculated. The kiss is messy, heated, a rush of want that crashes through all his composure. His hand slides up your back, pulling you closer with sudden, startling urgency, and you nearly melt, losing the careful rhythm you’d built.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, grasping, as his tongue parts your lips and claims, demands. The air between you disappears, and the taste of him fills you—clean, warm, and dizzying.
His thumbs move along your hips in slow circles, mapping you with a touch that is intimate and deliberate. He keeps you anchored while his other hand slides up, fingers threading into your hair at the nape of your neck.
“You taste different than I expected,” he says against your mouth, a private confession. His lips find yours again, this time deeper, and the kiss is a study in contrast—feral and gentle at once, practiced restraint cracking open into heat. You answer with the same small ferocity, letting yourself fall into the rough poetry of it.
When you try to shift, to grind that practiced sway that usually gets hearts and bills to flip, he catches your chin with a finger and lifts your face so you have to meet him fully. The motion is slow, ceremonial—his soft-dom signature. “Look at me,” he breathes. You obey. You see the intelligence there, the attention that catalogues every shiver and every breath. It’s not objectifying; it’s focused care.
“Tell me,” he whispers, thumb tracing the hollow just above your collarbone, “what do you want right now?” His voice is low, coaxing, but there’s no hurry. He is giving you the space to say yes—or not—while owning the room with the way he waits.
You could lie. You’ve lied before to get tips, to keep distance, to play a role. But this—this isn’t the club anymore. The velvet walls absorb the bass; the world narrows until it’s his voice and the heat between your bodies. You let honesty slide out on a breath. “More,” you say, small and reckless.
A faint, almost approving smile ghosts his mouth. He doesn’t push; he negotiates with touch. He rises, careful, palms still steady at your waist, and guides you back until the couch swallows you both. He props one knee beside you, anchoring himself, the small movements precise as a scientist charting an experiment. Everything about him is calibrated—gentle pressure, timed releases, the artful pause that makes the next touch mean more.
His lips brush yours once more, softer this time, and then trail down, grazing the corner of your jaw, the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. You gasp before you can catch it, and his mouth curves faintly against your throat, satisfied.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice low, soothing. “I want every sound.”
The lace of your bodice catches his gaze only for a heartbeat before it returns to your face, as if he’s cataloging but refusing to indulge too quickly. His hand slides up the line of your fishnets, fingertips dragging across garter straps, the lace of your panties, until he presses the heel of his palm against your cunt. The pressure is steady, teasing, enough to make your hips jerk.
“You’re soaked already,” he murmurs, and it’s not a question—it’s fact, observed like data. His thumb strokes lazily over the damp patch, circling right where you need him. “All from a kiss.”
Your laugh shatters into a gasp when he pushes the lace aside, sliding two fingers through your slick folds. He groans softly at the feel, as if he wasn’t expecting you to be this ready. “Christ. You’re dripping for me.”
Then he sinks inside. Slow, unhurried, stretching you around the length of his fingers. His palm grinds against your clit as his knuckles curl, and the sound you make borders on desperate.
“Eyes on me,” Spencer says, voice low, coaxing but firm. His free hand catches your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as his fingers fuck into you, curling just right, hitting that spot with clinical precision. “I want to see you when it hits.”
You try—you really do—but your lashes flutter, mouth parting on broken whimpers as he builds you up. The fishnets bite into the backs of your thighs as you arch, his hand anchoring you at the waist. Every drag of his fingers is measured, perfect, relentless.
“Good girl,” he whispers when you finally meet his gaze again. His mouth curves into the faintest smirk. “Look how well you take me. Tight and perfect around my fingers.”
Your hips grind into his palm, chasing the pressure on your clit. “Spencer—”
“That’s it,” he says, cutting you off with a kiss, messy and heated, tongue sliding against yours while his fingers curl harder, faster. He swallows your moans, his breath hot against your lips as he fucks you through each wave of tension building in your belly.
You break the kiss with a cry when his thumb circles your clit, merciless now, slick from your arousal. “Please—fuck, please, don’t stop.”
His voice is velvet, dangerous in its calm. “Do you want to come for me?”
“Yes—yes, God, yes—” The words detonate in your chest, scattering what little control you had left. Your thighs tremble around his wrist, nails raking his shoulders. “Please, Spencer. N-need it.”
That earns you a satisfied hum, almost approving, and his pace sharpens—fingers curling deeper, thumb rubbing harder, until your back bows off the couch.
“Come for me,” he breathes against your ear, the command shivering straight through you.
You shatter, clenching tight around his fingers, a choked cry tearing from your throat. The orgasm rips through you fast and hard, your body convulsing under his control, every nerve lit up.
He doesn’t stop. His fingers keep working you, thrusting and curling, drawing every aftershock until you’re shaking, gasping, pushing weakly at his shoulders.
“Too much?” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. He slows, not stopping completely, coaxing you down from the peak with gentle strokes. “Or can you give me more?”
Your gaze slips from his tie down to the gleam of his watch where his wrist braces against the chair. The hour makes your chest tighten—you’re still on the clock, technically—but your laugh comes out breathy, shaky, curling right up into the space between his mouth and yours.
“As much as I’d love to keep this going,” you murmur, lashes brushing down before you dare look at him again, “I am technically at work.”
The words are a tease, but your body doesn’t move away. Your heel presses into the floor, hips shifting ever so slightly beneath him, and you feel the way his arm stiffens, steadying himself instead of giving in.
Your fingers trail up his chest, slow and deliberate, until they catch on the lapel of his jacket. “If you wanted more of me, though…” you breathe, tilting your head so your perfume coils between you, “…I wouldn't mind continuing off the clock.”
Your voice is hushed but daring, like you’ve just slid a secret into his pocket.
For the first time, he laughs—quiet, quick, almost surprised. The sound breaks through his composure more than anything else has tonight. A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth before he leans down and kisses you again, firm and warm, as if to mark the words you’ve just given him.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t let go of you right away. Instead, his hand skims down your ribs, slow and careful, before settling back at your waist. Then, almost clinically precise, he starts smoothing your hair back into place, straightening the strap that’s shifted on your shoulder, brushing his thumb across your swollen lower lip to wipe away the faintest smudge of gloss.
It’s oddly tender—an undoing of the chaos he just drew out of you. “You should go,” he murmurs, though his thumb lingers at your jaw a beat too long. “Before someone comes looking.”
He helps you sit up, fingers brushing wrinkles from your outfit like it’s second nature, every movement neat and meticulous. You catch him glancing once more at his watch, then back at you, eyes sharper than they should be after what just happened.
“Later,” you whisper, half-question, half-promise.
i wouldn't fall for someone i thought couldn't misbehave
Spencer Reid intercepts one of your kills, leading to a late-night surprise visit in his apartment.
Pairing: afab!unsub!reader x unsub!Spencer
Contents: smut, 2.6k words, DDDNE, brief blood play, they threaten each other with a gun, post prison unsub!Spencer, unsub!reader, brief mentions of violence, fingering, hand job, unprotected penetrative sex.
Notes: Combined this request with this, although I took some liberties. This is not part of the Marionette, Unbound series, but it is post prison Spencer–turned unsub. The plot is mostly vibes, please don’t look too deeply into it.
He meets you officially, for the first time, in a museum. Of course it’s a museum, like some fucked up cliche. Life has been known to play games with him. Attending an exhibit on Renaissance anatomical sketches—the artistry of dissection—where he senses your presence like it’s in his blood, instinct sharpened by years of both survival and training.
Four feet to his left, there you are, studying a rendering of a heart. He inches closer, casual and aloof, wondering if his eventual proximity will get a reaction.
You remain calm. A beat passes. Two, and then,
“You’re standing too close.”
Spencer tilts his head, but refuses to turn and look. “The average personal space boundary in North America between two adults having a conversation is approximately eighteen inches. I’m at twenty-seven.”
“Maybe between friends.” From his periphery, your lips lift into a ghost of a smile. “We’re strangers.”
“Are we?” He holds out a wooden chess piece–a pawn, common and nondescript, if it isn’t for the four tipped star engraved at the bottom. You’d left it in the hands of the last victim. Gloating. A signal, telling him I was here first, you’re too slow. He has two others hidden in a hollow book, from the two other times you’d been faster than him.
Spencer knows what trophies mean, has spent years learning and studying the type of individual sick enough to collect them. Told himself once he started taking matters into his own hands that he'd never imitate that. Wouldn't keep mementos and collect them, foolishly believing it would set him apart from the rest.
Somehow, when it comes to your tokens, he tells himself they don't count.
You turn then, finally, eyes exaggerated and wide to convey innocence, but he sees the sharpness twinkling just beneath the surface.
He waits for you to deny. To call him crazy. Threaten to call security. He hopes, for a singular moment, to see a flicker of panic, any hint of fear. Anger at being bested—he did find you, after all, no matter how embarrassing the resources he'd had to use.
Instead, you smile. "I see you got my gift."
“You’re escalating,” he says simply.
"Oh? And what makes you say that?"
"The overkill from the last victim."
"I'm offended you're calling that an escalation, I did that for you." you bat your lashes at him, sweet as honey. "Mister…?"
"Spencer Reid." he reliquishes his name without hesitation. After all, he knows nearly everything about you at this point. It only seems fair.
"Spencer Reid." you repeat, lips curling as you introduce yourself.
"I know."
"So you've looked into me."
"As I'm sure you've done with me."
You laugh, light and airy. To onlookers, the two of you must seem like you're flirting. Maybe you are. He certainly gets a reaction from that laugh, like something pulling in his stomach.
"But I didn't get as far as your name." you say finally, smirking at him.
They stand there, two ghosts in a building dedicated to preserved bodies.
“You’re going to get caught,” Spencer murmurs, slipping the pawn back in his pocket.
"Why? Are you turning me in?"
He shakes his head. "You're growing reckless. People are onto you."
"There's an easy fix to that—I'll pin it on you."
Something in him flashes, quick as a whip, memories of prison. Of Cat Adams. His posture straightens, carefully neutral and forcefully serene, but you catch it. The shift, the discomfort. You've hit a nerve.
"Ah," you smirk, "Touchy subject?"
He doesn't answer, lets you mull over and make whatever conclusions you wished. Despite the years, the framed murder still makes his jaw tick.
You step back, clearly pleased. "I won't get caught, Spencer Reid. If you aren't fast enough to keep up with me, then I doubt they will." You brush past his shoulder as you walk away, smelling of camellias and, if you lingered too close, the underlying rust of blood.
—
Six months. Two more kills, both of whom you got to before he does. Spencer isn't that miffed anymore, finds himself chuckling when he finds the crime scene and rummages for the chess piece he knows is waiting for him.
He can't quite decide if this twisting of your paths is fate, or coincedence, or something you'd orchestrated without his knowledge. At some point, his work must have reached you—he had been targetting the same type of men you had. Rich, lonely men who abuse their money and influence, but irrelevant enough to avoid suspicion.
Spencer still remembers the first time he'd found his target already dead. You'd used poison then. Left the chess piece for him. That pawn is the only confirmation of your presence—you never use the same method twice. You're smart, effective, but you're growing bold. Showing off. Bleeding out victims, leaving more mementos that investigators could potentially trace back to you.
Thus, his planning shifts from getting to the targets before you out of the spirit of competition, to getting there to make sure he kills them first and somehow cease your streak.
So far, he's been unsuccessful.
Until today. He's let the last two victims go, a necessary sacrifice to his ego, in order to study your habits.
You blend in. That's your advantage. Beautiful in that nondescript way, adjusting your appearance to fit the setting, that's how you're able to slip in and out of situations.
His advantage is this: he's trained to catch people like you. By tracking your patterns, he comes to the conclusion that you'll be at a gala that Trevor Parker is attending. He doesn't know what your disguise will be, only that he wants to get to this target before you.
So he attends. Dons a pressed shirt and tie, mingles with the crowd, disappearing under the revered title of Doctor Spencer Reid abd pretending everything is all right.
He tries to scope the crowd for you, to no avail. Once the night slows, and Trevor Parker leaves, Spencer tails him discreetly, wondering when you'll show up.
You don't.
Or, you do. But only when he's in the comfort of his own home, stumbling his way to the bathroom. Trevor Parker had been surprisingly stubborn, forcing Spencer closer. He'd planned a quick slit to the throat, but Trevor Parker's life ended with multiple stab wounds, bleeding on his bedroom floor.
"You're hurt."
Spencer jumps, gun immediately drawn, cocked and ready. You laugh, perched on his window sill—is that how you got in?—dressed in the pressed black uniform that the servers from the gala had been wearing. So that's why he couldn't find you within the guests.
"I'm not." he says, gun still held up, "This is all his."
You raise your hands in defeat, head tilted to the side. "You sure?"
Spencer watches you take a step, and then another, keeping his gun in the air. You stop only when the barrel hits your chest, eyes softening in the dim room.
"Let me see."
"I told you, I'm not hurt." Spencer says, eyes dragging over your form. He debates for a moment, before finally lowering his weapon. "You were there. You didn't kill him, but you were there. You would've."
"I would've." you admit, taking another step forward now that his defence has lowered. The smell of camellias and blood fill his apartment, heady, slick and addictive.
"But?"
"But I wanted to see what you'd do instead." you grin, sharp with condescension. "You made a mess, doctor. Next time, maybe leave the dirty work to me."
He huffs, embarrassment blooming in his chest from being chastised and something more primal clawing up his gut from your proximity.
"I wasn't expecting him to be so strong even while drunk." Spencer admits.
"Your first mistake was taking him face to face and waiting until he's home."
"How would you have done it?"
"Poison. Administered during the gala, so everyone is a suspect."
Spencer shakes his head. "That would've made a spectacle. I was right to intercept."
"Intercept me?" your eyes flash in the dark. A low, mocking laugh spills from your lips. "Oh, Spencer Reid, do you think yourself my savior? Look at you."
"He's dead, and I left no trace. You would've done something stupid, like leave another pawn on the crime scene."
"Mhm, and imagine what they'd think when the investigators find your suspicious collection of pawns engraved with a four tipped star."
At that, Spencer backs away again. Gun drawn, leveled at your chest.
You laugh. "Relax, that was hypothetical. And it's not nice to point a gun at an unarmed lady."
"What do you want? Why are you here? To gloat and tell me you'd do a better job?" he says, voice dangerously calm, "You already did that."
Your smile melts, turns syrupy. "I did. Why do you have a gun pointed at me? I told you I'm unarmed."
"Forgive me, but I don't trust that."
"Oh, then allow me to prove it."
Before he can blink, you're already unbuttoning your blouse, revealing bare skin, the lace of your bra. The shirt falls to the floor, and you make a show of turning around. "See? No hidden guns. Or do you want me to strip naked just to be—"
He silences you with a kiss, blood stirring hot and insistent in his veins. You laugh into his mouth, arms wrapping tight around his neck and tugging him to the floor. He follows, hisses when you bite at his lower lip so hard the metallic taste laves over his tongue.
You giggle, lapping up the trickling blood eagerly, hands traveling down to unbutton his pants.
Spencer groans, cock stirring from the high of the kill, your pliant body beneath his, squirming and arching into his with a softness he hasn't felt in a while. A softness he didn't think possible, not from you. Your cold hands shoving past his boxers to squeeze and stroke over his cock.
He feels another nip, lip you're trying to get more blood from his lips, and he pulls back, large hands framing your face. He gets a good look at you then, the feral grin stretching your lips, his blood smeared over them. The soft pad of his thumb presses into the plush.
Your mouth parts, sucking the digit between them. A hum vibrates around his thumb as your tongue swirls over each crevice.
His spine tingles when he realizes you're licking Trevor Parker's dried blood off. Everything is forgotten with that realization, only heat and desire and you, right there, on his floor.
"Fuck," Spencer hisses. His thumb slips out, now clean, and he replaces them with his index and middle finger, watching you suck them clean with undivided intensity. Your hand on his cock moves faster, trying to find a sloppy rhythm to sync with how his hips are rutting forward.
He groans, his body shuddering into yours, pressing you into the carpet. One arm braced by your head, the other slides his fingers out of your lips to undo your pants, tugging them down just enough to slip his fingers, still slick and slippery with your saliva, into the throbbing heat of your cunt. Soft, warm walls accept those digits, clench around them when he curls up.
Spencer pumps those fingers in and out of your cunt, making sure to hit that spongy part that has you baring your neck to him. He bends to kiss at that stretch of skin, licking and biting, wondering if he's got it in him to break your skin the way you did his.
"Oh," you sigh, leaning back on one elbow. You continue stroking his cock with one hand, spreading slick precum all down the shaft. His legs shimmy clumsily to ease the rest of his pants off.
As if you've read his mind, you tug your own bottoms off, knees knocking accidentally into his side, until finally, you've freed yourself from the confines of your clothes and are able to wrap your legs around his waist. Moving as one now, Spencer slides his fingers out with a wet pop, smearing the slickness against your lips.
You laugh, and he swears the world tilts.
Another shift, hands arranging thighs, spreading you open, and then, finally, a push. Into your heat, stretching the entrance slowly. His cock glides in with ease once your body accepts the broad tip, bottoming out in one thrust.
Your elbow buckles. Land flat on the floor. He moves one hand to the back of your had, eases it up and cradles it like you're precious, just so you aren't lying straight on the hardwood floor.
"This what you wanted?" he groans, thrusting shallowly. "What you came for?"
"Mhm," you moan, dragging him down for another kiss. Your tongue laves over his bleeding lip insistently, shamelessly. He moves in earnest now. Sharp, quick thrusts of his hips, ones that make your nails dig into his scalp until he's hissing, until he's convinced you're still trying to draw blood.
He pulls almost all the way out and slams roughly in retaliation.
"Fuck!"
"That's it." he pants, repeating the action, watching your face twist, sweat slick and pretty in the darkness, as he pounds into your cunt. "Let me hear you."
You lean into it with glee, moaning and cursing into the dark room. His name, pleas to go harder, please, yes right there, over and over until he's fucking you hard and fast, your slick bodies inching slowly across the floor from the impact. You take all of it with glee, walls fluttering around his length, soft and perfect.
"I'm—ah—close, please, I'm so close!"
"Yeah?" he hikes your leg higher over his waist, before rubbing quick circles over your sensitive bud with his thumb. He feels it before you could even make a sound, the sudden tightness, the rush of wetness pulsing around his cock. Your face scrunches, pleasure thrumming all through your body and making you squirm. Beautiful.
Spencer gasps, eyes clenched tight as he fucks you through your orgasm and chases his own.
And then—
The click of a gun.
"Get off."
His eyes fly open, disoriented and dazed, meeting your blissed out gaze beneath him. At his temple, the cold press of the barrel. His gun, discarded carelessly when you both fell to the floor, now in your hands. His gun which he'd tried to use to physically keep you away, now aimed at his own head.
Spencer blinks. Pulls out of you carefully, panting, clearing his throat. Stands up, slow and steady, unsure about everything.
You grin, bright and sweet. Keep the gun trained at him while you tug your pants back on, not bothering with your panties. Your shirt is askew, only half buttoned.
"I came here to tell you to never steal my target again." you say, stepping backward, moving toward the window where he assumes you'd used to break in the first time. "Or I won't hesitate to pull this trigger."
Spencer watches you, half undressed, his cock still twitching and erect. He nods, once. "I won't interfere again."
You grin. Set his gun down on a nearby desk, before pushing his window open.
"Good. You do that." you duck and slip out through the small space. "Oh, and thanks for the orgasm. We should do that again sometime."
You're gone without another glance. Spencer stands there, covered in dried blood, his ears ringing. A million things run through his head. He needs better security. Take a shower. Burn these clothes.
But first, he wraps his fist around his weeping, needy cock and recalls the look on your face when you came apart.
part of my BLOODY VALENTINE MARATHON | Main masterlist.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Forensic Researcher!Female!Reader
Word Count: ~2.1k
Warnings: just a lot of fluff
Summary: Spencer accidentally sends an email to the wrong person, but it’s not a mistake when you give him insight into the case he’s actively working on. From there, you and Spencer engage in an online friendship that turns into more when you finally meet face-to-face.
Square Filled: blind date for 2023 @criminalmindsbingo (previously @spencerreidbingo)
Author’s Note: Any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3
x
The second floor of the FBI isn’t as glamorous as the BAU’s floor, but you like your little corner of nowhere. That’s not to say you’d rather be here above anywhere else. No, you wish you were part of the BAU. You’ve admired what they do since joining the FBI, and you’ve been studying your ass off with practice tests and classes to get what’s necessary to join the team.
In the meantime, you’ll bide your time by working as a Forensics Researcher. You specialize in improvising techniques in DNA analysis, examining weapons and other evidence, and analyzing handwriting. Just to name a few.
Some of your coworkers are already in when you arrive, and you greet them with smiles on the way to your desk. After getting settled in for the morning, you log into your computer and open your email. By passing the normal shit you get every day, you notice an email that’s from someone you don’t know. He works in this building, but not on this floor.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Y/N,
Can you send over the paperwork from the Anderson case? I need to add it to the case file by the end of the day. Also, can you tell me what you think about these photos? I’d really appreciate your input. We think this unsub is disorganized, antisocial, and without a job.
Sincerely,
Dr. Spencer Reid
Spencer Reid. He’s part of the BAU, but you have no clue what he’s talking about. Attached to the email is a bunch of photos of crime scenes that you’re pretty sure aren’t meant for you. He must have intended to send this to someone with the same name as you. At least, you hope that’s the case. You’ve never met anyone from the BAU team except for Hotch and Penelope.
Should you reply to this? You have enough knowledge on forensics to be able to give him what he’s asking you, but will you get in trouble? Maybe this is your in. Maybe this is how you prove that you’re BAU material.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you study the crime scene photos and type out a reply.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Spencer,
I believe this email was sent to the wrong person. Unfortunately, I am unable to send you the documents you requested.
If I may, and I hope I’m not overstepping, but I believe I can provide some insight into the crime scene photos.
I don’t believe the unsub is disorganized at all. In fact, I think he’s trying to throw you off by pretending to be. Look at the cuts made on the victim’s body. They look jagged and rushed at first glance, but the cuts are clean. The cuts look like the unsub intentionally tried to make them look jagged.
Also, I don’t believe that he’s antisocial or unemployed. In the background of the bedroom, there is a stack of papers next to a stack of books. Books that are textbooks. Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t keep textbooks lying around unless I’m studying them. I made the picture clearer, and the top page of the stack is an essay on medicine. Again, I don’t keep essays around unless I’ve written them for a class.
As for him being antisocial, he might have trouble making new connections, but he’s very smart. He’s very organized, and he knows enough not to let something as being antisocial tip anyone off.
Please let me know if I can be of further use,
Y/N
Spencer is about to log off his computer and join the team in the briefing room when he gets a response from Y/N. His eyes widen when he realizes he sent it to the wrong person, but the shock melts when he reads further.
How can he be so stupid? You’re absolutely right. The missing piece finally clicks in his mind, making him see the entire puzzle. He quickly sends the first email to the right person without the crime scene photos, and he rushes to the briefing room.
“I think we have this unsub all wrong,” he announces to his team.
Spencer goes over what you said in your email, and the team agrees that it’s what they’ve been missing. They now have a better profile of the unsub that they can work with.
Since sending that reply, you’ve been waiting for an email back. Hours pass without one, and you worry that you’ve crossed the line by stepping into something you have no business being in. Fuck, I’m going to get fired, and I will never be on the BAU team. I’m going to have to go back to college for a new degree, and I won’t ever be half as happy as I am now. Stupid, Y/N, stu—
Your computer dings with a new email, stopping your thoughts from running into each other.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Y/N,
Thank you for your insight. You didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate it. If you’re curious, your thoughts are exactly what we needed to move the case along.
As a forensic researcher, you know quite a bit about profiling.
Sincerely,
Dr. Spencer Reid
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Spencer,
As much as I love being a forensic researcher, my dream is to be on the BAU team. I went to college for both degrees at the same time. To be honest, I’ve studied the cases your team has solved just to get some practice on building a profile.
Y/N
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
If you continue down this road, I’d say you have a pretty good shot of joining this team in the future.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
A compliment? I might swoon. I’ve read about the members on the team, and you stuck out to me the most. I’m impressed with what you’ve accomplished so far.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Well, I do have an IQ of 187. I am a certified genius.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
I was going to comment on how cocky you just sounded, but if I had your IQ, I’d be doing the same thing. What drew you to the BAU?
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
All I want to do is help people. I want to be able to bring people to justice for their crimes, and I want to rid the world of criminals. Logically, I know it’s impossible, but that won’t stop me from trying. It doesn’t hurt that I’m smarter than most.
His responses make you smile. Throughout the day, you two talk through emails, just getting to know each other through your passions and goals in life. Emily and JJ notice that Spencer is clinging to his computer more than normal. He’s either doing extensive research or he's filling out documents for a case file.
Emily and JJ frown at each other. Spencer doesn't use the computer for either of those things. He prefers to read books and newspapers for research, and he handwrites all of his documents.
“Hey, what are you doing?” JJ asks when they approach his desk.
“What?” Spencer quickly closes out of his email. “Nothing.”
“Why so secretive?” Emily chuckles.
“I’m not being secretive.”
“Yes, you are. You’re never on your computer for long. Who are you emailing?”
JJ and Emily are only going to keep hounding him with questions if he doesn’t answer them. “Fine. I didn’t come up with that realization on my own this morning. I sent an email to the wrong person with the crime scene photos attached to it. She’s the one who came up with the unsub pretending to be disorganized to throw us off. I’ve been emailing with her back and forth.”
“That’s so cute,” JJ smiles.
“We totally need to set him up,” Emily gasps.
“This is why I don’t tell you guys anything.”
“We’re teasing,” JJ smirks. “We’ll let you get back to it, then.”
Spencer waits until they’re gone to pull his email back up and resume talking to you. This goes on for days. Spencer is glued to his computer whenever he can, seeking out emails from you. JJ and Emily watch from the shadows, placing bets on when Spencer will have the courage to go down to the 2nd floor to talk to you in person.
Spencer and the team are called away on a case halfway across the country, but that doesn’t stop the emails from transpiring.
A few weeks go by when Spencer has a moment at his desk. His hands shake nervously as he types the email. So far, emails have been pretty tame, but you’ve amped up the flirting a bit, and he’s not sure how to go about this. He’s never flirted with anyone before.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
How was your weekend? Were you able to get that stuff moved out of your house? My offer still stands to help if you need it.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Spencer, the first time you come to my house won’t be because I need your help moving boxes.
Spencer frowns as he rereads your email.
“She’s flirting with you,” JJ says close to Spencer’s ear.
He jumps out of his skin and rears back. “What? Why would you do that to me?”
JJ laughs and steps back from him. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Flirt back.”
Shame shadows over Spencer’s face. “What should I say? I’m not very good at it.”
“Here, let me.” Spencer moves out of the way so that JJ can type a response. Once she’s done, she steps back again. “What do you think?”
Spencer presses send before he can talk himself out of it.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Bold assumption. Are you inviting me to your house? I can think of a few things better than moving boxes.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Is that right? Well, I guess you’ll have to come over and find out. Consider this your formal invite.
Spencer smiles widely at your email. “She wants me to come over.”
“Shouldn’t you go down there and talk to her in person? Or do you plan on talking to her through email the whole time?” Spencer stiffens, and JJ immediately notices. “What’s that for?”
“I don’t know what she looks like.”
“You don’t know what she looks like?” JJ asks in shock. “Aren’t you curious?”
“I don’t have to know what she looks like to know she’s already the most beautiful girl in the world.”
“Spencer, you should go down there, find her, and ask her out. She clearly likes you.”
Spencer perks up a bit. “You think so?”
“Yes,” she chuckles.
Spencer logs off his computer and stands up. JJ watches with a smile as he half-jogs over to the elevators. Spencer doesn’t know what you look like, and he’s kind of nervous to ask around for you. What if he asks you where you are?
The second floor is just as busy as the sixth floor, and he studies everyone in the room. No one looks in his direction, even as they pass by him. Would you have looked up his name and picture in the directory? What if you’re disappointed?
Spencer walks further into the room and kind of slowly hugs the wall. He walks closer to a cluster of cubicles, and he can hear laughter coming from the other side of it. The laughter warms his skin as if he’s standing out in the sun. That laugh brings a smile to his face because whoever laughed gives a quiet snort at the end.
That’s you. He already knows.
He walks around the cubicles and stops short when he sees the owner of that infectious laugh. Damn it. She’s gorgeous. He never looked you up, but he knows this woman is you. Everything about you is better than anything he could ever imagine. He looks down and smooths down his tie, suddenly super nervous. What if you don’t like him?
“We’ll have to get together this weekend. I gotta get back to work. See you, Y/N!”
“See ya!” Okay, now he knows this is you. He nervously clears his throat and steps up to your cubicle. Her eyes are even more gorgeous up close. “Hi, can I help you?”
“Um… I’m Spencer…” Immediately, your features soften. “Spencer Reid.”
“Spencer,” you whisper. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. I have never seen brown eyes that bright before. You stand as you try to fight the blush you know wants to come. “Hi. I’m Y/N.”
“I know,” he smiles.
Fuck, even his smile is gorgeous. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see if that invitation was good enough in person.”
You grin and bite your lower lip. “Yeah, it is.”
“I’m free this Friday if you want to get some coffee or something.”
Something mischievous glints in your eyes. “Or something.”
You can’t ignore the zing between you two. Knowing that Spencer is on the BAU team gives you one more reason to fight for a spot by his side.
x
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summary: you have to go undercover as your rival’s girlfriend.
relationship: spencer reid x rival!fem!reader
genre: smut - MDNI!
word count: 6.3k
tags: definitely unrealistic undercover proceedings, banter about virginity & sex, idiots in love, dom!spencer, sub!reader, explicit sexual content - MDNI!, kissing, making out, oral (reader receiving), degradation ? (dumbification of reader), edging, thick fucking, more edging, implication of further intimacy
author’s note: feeding into the post-prison dom!spencer delusions here even though i am a firm sub believer… hope y’all enjoy these freaks
based on requests one & two
If it were up to you, you’d be on an actual date tonight. Unfortunately for you, being a member of the BAU entails surrendering control of your schedule; day in and day out, you’re forced to drop everything at a moment’s notice to pursue a case. While you love your job and being on-call is rarely more than a nuisance, it’s turned into quite the headache tonight, namely because you’re currently undercover with your least favorite teammate.
Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. You don’t actually dislike Spencer Reid—quite the opposite, actually. He’s more of a frenemy than an outright nemesis, and you genuinely find engaging in sharp-tongued banter with him to be quite entertaining.
Your rivalry started practically the minute you joined the BAU; the day you arrived, you had proudly announced that your favorite book was some shitty, slutty romance novel. You had seen the stack of Penguin classics on Spencer’s desk and plucked the arbitrary title from the depths of your mind solely because you knew a fan of real literature would be insulted by your choice. Of course, he had fallen for it. You were one hundred percent bullshitting him, yet he took personal offense to your self-proclaimed favorite. Predictably, he’s been determined to prove his intellectual superiority ever since, and your apparent indifference while he does so grates his nerves to no end. Honestly, you find it hilarious that you’ve been on the team for nearly a year at this point, and he still insists that your “childish preferences are a reflection of your greater incompetence.”
Just the thought of him saying so has you threatening to giggle.
“Here.” Spencer’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You tear your eyes from their absentminded stare as he slaps a tall glass onto the table, a rivulet of clear liquid dribbling over the lip. Your brow furrows as you assess the cup with an unimpressed glare.
“What the hell is this?” you ask as Spencer slides into the booth. He opts to sit on the same side as you, trapping you between him and the wall, sliding the glass closer to you. You lean forward, cautiously sniffing its contents.
“Sprite,” he answers, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, relax.”
“Excuse me,” you retort sharply, lifting the glass to your lips and taking a dainty sip. The soda fizzes pleasantly as you swallow, warmth sliding down your throat. You shoot a sidelong glance at Spencer and murmur, “I wouldn’t put it past you to get me drunk so you can take all the credit when we catch this guy.”
The rest of the team is stationed outside, ready to intervene once the unsub arrives. He’s a sexual sadist who’s been targeting women in the area. More specifically, women he deems guilty of infidelity. It’s an easy enough setup; fawn all over Spencer before approaching the unsub, and you’re sure to piss him off. The most fallible aspect of the plan isn’t even luring the unsub outside; it’s playing a convincing couple. While you find Spencer ridiculously attractive, it’s become second nature at this point to tease him until he’s red in the face—from either embarrassment or blatant irritation.
Spencer snorts. “I don’t need to get you drunk to do that.”
According to Garcia, the unsub is en route to the bar, but won’t arrive for another several minutes. Essentially, this information translates to: you still have a few minutes to go tête à tête without having to monitor your facial expressions. You say pointedly, “So you admit that you’d step on everyone on your way to the top?” You offer Spencer a smug smirk over the lip of your glass.
“Not everyone, just you,” he replies flatly. You huff with amusement, gaping at him with faux indignance.
“Aw, is that any way to talk to the only girlfriend you’ll ever have?” you coo, a disappointed pout downturning your lips.
“Fake girlfriend,” Spencer tersely responds, as if the thought of verifiably dating you horrifies him. A glint of mischief flits in his eyes as he mocks, “Or are you so obsessed with me that you forgot?”
“You’re not my type,” you lie easily. The two of you have fallen into this sort of flirtatious teasing so many times, you’ve almost convinced yourself that you’re telling the truth. Almost.
Spencer sighs dramatically, his lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Well, that’s a relief.”
“Yes, your virginity lives to see another day,” you deadpan. Blinking harshly at him, you add, “Phew.”
Narrowing his eyes, his smile looks downright feline. “At least look like you’re enjoying yourself while you spit unoriginal insults at me.”
“I am enjoying myself,” you boast gleefully. “It’s actually pretty cathartic to—”
“Shut up and get your ass over here,” Spencer whispers, words laced with a frantic yet insistent energy.
“I beg your—” you scoff, but before you can finish vocalizing your thought, he’s grabbing you by the hips and planting you firmly in his lap. Not only are you in his lap—you’re straddling it. Your dress is riding up your thighs, and you’re very thankful that you had the foresight to wear some spandex shorts beneath the skirt. You gape at him, simultaneously shocked and turned on by how easily he’s thrown you over his thighs.
The movement jostled a curl from behind your ear, and Spencer reaches up to tenderly tuck the hair back into place. With one hand cupping the back of your neck and the other gripping your hip, he leans toward you. Your breath hitches, and for a brief moment, you allow yourself to indulge in the delusion that this is real. Spencer angles his lips toward your ear and murmurs, “He’s here. Just do your job.”
His words course through your veins like icy water, effectively cooling the heat in your core. Refusing to let any disappointment show, you plaster on a joyous smile, which isn’t all that much of a challenge when the hottest man you know is smirking at you like you’re the prettiest little thing he’s ever seen.
“Bossy,” you tease through your teeth. Your hands lift to his shoulders, fingers fiddling with the collar of his dress shirt. Just playing the part, you tell yourself. Another plus of those spandex? He can’t tell how wet you’re getting. Weakly, you taunt, “Admit it, you just wanted an excuse to put me in your lap.”
“You are so—”
“Lovely?” you interrupt, injecting as much sweetness into your smile as possible. Spencer squints at you, and you sigh, “Come on. If you’re gonna manhandle me like a caveman, the least you can do is call me pretty or something. I get enough denigration from you on a daily basis.”
Your hands fall to his chest. You try to make the motions appear absentminded, like you’ve touched him a thousand times, but you’re relishing the feeling. On one hand, you’re tempted to look over your shoulder, curious if the unsub is buying your little show, but on the other, you’d like to pretend that it’s just the two of you here.
“You poor thing,” Spencer croons, his hand trailing from the back of your neck to cup your jawline. “Fragile ego?”
You laugh like he’s just referenced some kind of inside joke as opposed to insulting you, exaggerating your amusement for anyone who’s watching. You sigh, meeting his eyes as you answer, “Aw, it’s so cute how you think your words have any power over me.”
“If they don’t, what do you need the praise for?” Spencer quickly retorts.
“Because your job tonight is to be a convincing boyfriend, and right now, you’re not making me wanna date you,” you chide quietly. In a combination of self-indulgence and an attempt to get under Spencer’s skin, you lean closer. With the way Spencer’s thumb has been stroking your cheek, it probably appears to anyone watching that he’s preparing to kiss you. Your eyes flit between his as you tut in mock disappointment, “We might have to break up.”
You don’t miss the strain in his eyes, the way he appears to be refraining from looking at your lips. Then again, he can probably still see them in his periphery. Your own gaze falls to his mouth as the corners of his lips twitch into a small smile. “Are you saying you normally wanna date me?”
“Only in your most unrealistic, most horny dreams, Reid,” you purr, lying straight through your teeth. You sit back in his lap, finding the position quite comfortable. His hand falls away from your face, settling back on your hip.
Spencer rolls his eyes, though there’s a fondness in the motion that only comes from months of familiar bickering. “So charming.” His voice is flat—unimpressed—but there’s a gravely quality to his low tone that has your stomach pitching as if he had sounded even the slightest bit flirtatious.
“I know,” you hum. “Must be why I’m the star of all your fantasies.”
Spencer barks out a laugh at that. The sound is sharp, edged with surprise; almost like you’ve struck a chord, appealed to some truth he’s not yet willing to admit. He huffs, “You seem awfully interested in my fantasies for someone who says I’m not their type.”
“I’m just worried about your health,” you assure him, voice dripping with feigned concern. “All that pent-up sexual frustration cannot be good for you.”
“Neither is being stuck on a case with you,” Spencer quips, though he doesn’t really sound that broken up about it.
“So you admit that you’re sexually—”
“Just go talk to him,” he interrupts, unwilling to concede your point.
“Yes, sir,” you oblige, softly patting his chest before you slide off his lap, heels practically sticking to the dirty bar floor. Before Spencer can offer a witty retort, you amend, “Oh, sorry. I’ll try to keep things vanilla for your sensitive soul.” Blowing him a kiss, you mouth, “Later, loser.”
Spencer looks like he might try to fit in a final word, but he clamps his mouth shut and you look away, focusing on the objective ahead of you.
You’ve just emerged from your hotel suite’s bathroom when a firm knock sounds on your door. Instinctively, your gaze shoots to the clock on the nightstand; its bright red digits confirm your suspicions. It’s late, late enough that there’s no reasonable explanation for someone to be bothering you.
You’re exhausted after this evening’s events. Between the emotional turmoil of being around Spencer—of sitting in his lap, for Christ’s sake—and the stress of closing a case, you’re determined to sleep for at least the next ten hours. It’s no surprise when your voice comes out as a disappointed groan. “Who is it?”
“Open the door and find out, smartass,” Spencer retorts, the amusement in his tone evident even from the other side of the door.
“Tempting, but I think I’ll just keep pricking your voodoo doll,” you quip. You’re debating just flopping into bed and ignoring him; you’re so exhausted, even incessant knocking probably wouldn’t keep you from a heavy slumber, at this point. Yet, that stupid little sliver of your mind—the horny part, that is—wants to see him.
“Funny,” he says flatly.
“Maybe, but the chest pain you’re about to feel isn’t.” You’ve never given much thought to voodoo, but there’s something tantalizing about the thought of stabbing a little needle right through Spencer’s plush heart after his aggravating behavior earlier. You huff to yourself.
“Open the door,” he commands, sounding wholly unimpressed by your witticism.
Relenting with a dramatic sigh, you pad across the drab carpet and unlock your door. As soon as Spencer catches sight of you, his eyes are trailing down your body, seemingly admiring the oversized t-shirt and baggy shorts currently serving as your pajamas. You wouldn’t think that there would be much of interest to admire, but Spencer’s gaze lingers on your bare legs just the same.
“It’s late,” you mutter, pretending for all the world like you’re not also drinking in his appearance. Since you last saw him, he’s changed into loungewear of his own—a worn tee and flannel pants. Clearing your suddenly dry throat, you arch a brow and ask, “Shouldn’t you be jerking off?”
Spencer’s gaze snaps back to your face, and he shoots you a withering glare. “You’re exhausting. Don’t you ever get tired of yourself?”
Not dignifying his snippiness with a response, you taunt, “If you came here to steal some panties, I’d rather you just be honest.” You look over your shoulder, gesturing vaguely to your neatly-packed suitcase, propped in the corner of the room. “See, ‘cause I have this lace pair I really don’t—”
“Shut up. For once, stop talking.” Spencer steps into your room, crowding you against the door as it clicks shut behind you. You tilt your head to look up at him as he murmurs, “You think you’re so smart, huh? You think you have me all figured out?” He pauses, and you’re tempted to cut in with a sharp retort, but then he’s diving back into his rant. “Well, you’re a shittier profiler than you think. All this talk about me being a virgin, all this teasing me about being sexually frustrated—” he jabs a finger into his chest, and then redirects his pointing to you, “—when you’re the one who was about to get yourself off thinking about me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you chide, scrunching your nose in distaste as if the thought has never crossed your mind. You fold your arms across your chest, elbow almost poking him in the process with how close he’s hovering. “Why are you here, Reid?”
“I thought I’d offer you some help,” he says simply, not bothering to be remotely subtle as he ogles your chest, crossed arms pushing your breasts together, even under your loose shirt.
“With what?” you ask, though you’re sure you know what he’s implying. With a mock gasp, you joke, “Oh. Cute. No. I don’t do that kind of charity work.”
Spencer’s eyes drag up the column of your throat, landing back on your face after a tense moment. He shrugs and takes a step back, moving like he’s waiting for you to step away from the door so he can leave. “Suit yourself.”
“You idiot,” you scowl. “You think you can just show up at my door and I’ll drop my pants? You think I’m some kind of slut?”
“No, but I do think you’re desperate,” he replies instantly.
“Wow,” you scoff. “You sure know how to charm a lady.”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong,” Spencer challenges. You roll your eyes at his self-assured tone, leveling him with an annoyed look.
“You’re wrong,” you state, heat creeping up your neck at the realization that it’s more difficult to lie to him than usual.
Perhaps you’re just tired of lying to yourself.
The corners of Spencer’s lips twitch into an irritatingly charming smirk. He croons, “That was a good try, but I said my eyes, not my lips.”
“Fuck you,” you hiss.
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he replies smoothly.
“You’re goddamn annoying,” you complain, uncrossing your arms and grabbing the door handle. Admittedly, your heart’s not completely into the notion of kicking him out, but you’ll do it to avoid him having the upper hand. “How about instead of assuming I’m so obsessed with you, you ask yourself this: why would anyone want to be with someone who’s so abrasive, and haughty, and authoritarian—”
“Because you like when I’m authoritarian,” Spencer confidently interrupts. For a moment, he waits for a response, likely expecting you to counter his statement with a petty argument. When you remain silent, glowering at him—though it’s unclear whether you’re more pissed at him or yourself—he sighs and says, “Fine, you don’t wanna admit it? I can go first. I’ve been crazy about you for a long time. The only reason I put up with your ginormous goddamn attitude is because I can’t stop thinking about kissing you to make you shut up.” Your stomach drops at his confession, a flicker of heat sparking in your abdomen. It’s been obvious that the two of you have been dancing around these feelings for some time now, but to hear him say so has your insides twisting with desire. “You think I’m abrasive? Well, I’m not the one constantly degrading you because I’m too much of a coward to admit that I actually like you.”
Damn. It doesn’t necessarily feel good to be called out so explicitly, but he’s not wrong, per se. You have been a bit of a coward, using humor as a defense mechanism when you’ve been sure that Spencer would reject you if you made your interest overt.
“That’s some grand speech for a hookup,” you mumble, still unwilling to drop your bravado.
“I don’t just want a hookup, but I’ll settle if that’s what you’re into,” Spencer admits. His face is, shockingly, a mask of cool indifference; while it’s usually so easy to fluster him, to get under his skin, he seems perfectly comfortable right now, like he hasn’t just been utterly vulnerable with you. Oh, how the tables have turned.
“Isn’t it kind of backwards to fuck and then go out to dinner?” you question pointedly, quirking a brow.
“I did take you out for drinks earlier,” Spencer responds easily. At this point, you’re still cornered against the door, and you lean against the wood for support. After all, his confession has you slightly winded, and you don’t trust your wobbly legs to keep you upright all on their own.
“For a job,” you argue.
“Semantics,” he says dismissively.
“I knew you liked me,” you answer, speaking more to yourself than to him.
“And I knew you were massively overcompensating with all your teasing,” he replies, his unimpressed expression morphing into that familiar, smug countenance.
“Teasing?” you repeat, brow furrowing as you innocently pout. “I’m not a tease.”
Spencer takes a step closer once more, towering over you. He huffs with amusement, and his breath puffs across your face. Cracking an amused smile, he goads, “Prove it.”
You cock your head. “Aren’t you gonna make me, Spence?”
The bright grin drops off his face as he solemnly responds, “Only if you call me ‘sir’ again.”
Your heart stutters. You have half a mind to laugh, to write off what he’s just said as sarcasm, but something in his dark eyes gives you pause. “Oh,” you gasp, “are you serious?”
He breaks character, devolving into a low chuckle. “Fuck no.”
Without further ado, his hands are cupping your jaw, and he’s tilting your face toward his. Your arms have been hanging limply at your sides since you uncrossed them, but they instinctively loop over his shoulders as he pulls you into a deep kiss. His movements are fiery and tender all at once, like he’s been fantasizing about this moment for far too long, but doesn’t want to rush things. His lips insistently press against yours, mouth moving in an expert rhythm.
His fingers trail your throat, falling to the nape of your neck as he pulls you impossibly closer. His thumbs are pressed against your pulse point, and you’re vaguely aware that he knows how rapidly your heart is racing—how affected you are by his touch. The thought should embarrass you, but you’re too delighted by the feel of his body molding to the contours of your own to think twice about it.
While he had initially inched you closer to him, he’s now backing you against the door, seeking leverage as he continues to ravish you. Before you hit the wood, one of his hands tangles in your hair, simultaneously protecting your head from a blow while he holds you in place. The duality of his intentions—the combined need to protect you and consume you—doesn’t go unnoticed as you continue to reciprocate his kiss.
Eventually, Spencer’s lips part from yours, and a breathy sigh escapes your lips before you can contain it. As he works to catch his own breath, he mutters, “You know, there’s something you said earlier that I can’t stop thinking about.”
“I know, I’m hilarious,” you smirk, somehow able to feign confidence while your head is spinning, dizzy with the thought of surrendering control to him. “What in particular amused you?”
“How wrong you are about me,” he answers, busying himself with peppering kisses across your jaw and down your neck. Between pecks, he clarifies, “How you think I’m… vanilla?”
“You didn’t come here to ask me to join some sort of BDSM cult, did you?” you attempt to tease, but your voice comes out breathy and very blatantly aroused.
“No, nothing like that,” he replies, huffing against your throat. Lifting his head to shoot you an amused glance, he teases, “Why? Would that interest you?”
“That’s a good question,” you shamelessly admit, unable to deny your fascination with the idea.
“Huh,” Spencer hums, ducking his head again to continue laving at the junction of your neck and shoulder. He starts to lightly suck at the sensitive skin, and the pleasurable sting is enough to make you gasp, your grip tightening on his shoulders.
“Is Twenty Questions your idea of foreplay or something?” you joke half-heartedly, cheeks burning as your arousal builds. With a mildly embarrassing whine in your tone, you complain, “I thought you said you wanted to help.”
“Oh, I do,” Spencer promises, lifting his head to assess you through half-lidded eyes. “I was just curious.” His gaze falls to your shirt, the material practically swallowing you. He drags a finger across the embroidery right above your sternum, smiling delightedly to himself. “This is cute.”
“I feel like you’re stalling. Trying to prepare a good line, are we?” you taunt, though your chest is rapidly rising and falling beneath his touch. You’re not fooling anyone, and you know it, but you’re stubborn as all hell.
“Not at all,” Spencer denies with a minute shake of his head. His curls flop around, and you’re struck with an overwhelming temptation to run a hand through them. At the rate things are going, though, you’re guessing you have a good chance of doing so by the time the night’s over. “It looks good on you. Of course, it would look better on the floor, though.”
“There it is,” you say flatly, pretending like his words don’t have you wanting to strip naked right then and there. Spencer hums knowingly, stepping away from you. Immediately, you crave his proximity, missing the warmth of his body against yours.
He nods over his shoulder, gesturing to your bed. “Go sit down.”
Your mind fumbles to produce a witty response. You should tell him not to boss you around, that you won’t listen to any man, that he can go to hell, but…
Your feet carry you across the room, and you’re plopping down on the edge of the bed. You watch him expectantly; he hovers by the door for a mere second before following you, stopping right in front of you. Your knees are tightly pressed together, and your hands are clasped in your lap as you look up at him. The air feels dense with tension. Despite having already kissed him, you want so much more, that the desire threatens to suffocate you.
“I don’t want to fuck you,” Spencer murmurs, and you practically hear a record scratch echo through the room. Your immense disappointment must show on your face, because he quickly amends, “I don’t want to fuck you tonight. But I do want to make you feel good.”
One of his hands falls to your knee, gently coaxing your legs apart. He steps closer, slotting himself between your legs. You swallow thickly as you silently watch him, as his slender fingers drag up your barely-covered thighs and begin fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
“I’m gonna take this off now,” he declares in a low voice. Despite his commanding tone, his brows lift in a concerned expression, seeking your agreement. “Okay?”
Your heart lurches at the realization that you’re about to be half-naked in front of him, yet the thought is exceedingly exhilarating. You feel kind of pathetic for bowing to his whims so easily, but his promise has you slowly nodding your consent.
He lifts your shirt, slowly revealing your bare skin. You’re so absurdly turned on by this entire ordeal that even the tiniest shift of fabric against your chest has your nipples hardening. Naturally, Spencer’s gaze flits to your breasts, his pupils blowing wide at the sight.
Then, he kneels between your legs, his hands settling on your waist. More specifically, the waistband of your shorts. You sit back on the heels of your palms, lifting your hips for him before he even has to ask—or tell. While he had removed your shirt with a languid fluidity, he wastes no time tugging both your shorts and your underwear down your legs.
Your cheeks flush with heat once you’re bare before him. He takes a generous moment to stare at your glistening folds before dragging his attention back to your face. Seeing your evident embarrassment, he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of one thigh. The sensitive skin prickles under his touch.
His strong hands grip your hips, digging into the flesh as he guides you closer to the edge of the mattress. Once he’s satisfied with your position, he returns his focus back to the junction of your thighs.
He inches closer, nipping at the skin just beside your core. You jump at the sensation, but quickly relax as he soothes the spot with his tongue. He seems like he’s debating teasing you further, but he takes one look at your glistening folds, and he’s lapping at your arousal, dragging his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one smooth motion. You jolt, a hand instinctively clutching his hair for leverage as he starts to devour you.
His tongue swirls your clit, a light stimulation that sends electricity coursing through your abdomen. As a pleasured sigh escapes you, Spencer encircles your clit with his mouth, sucking on the sensitive bud.
His hands, which had been resting on your hips, keeping your legs spread for him, start to wander. One hand travels up your waist, cupping your tit and squeezing gently. You think you may come just from his ministrations thus far, but then his other hand snakes between your legs, and your heart skips a beat.
Collecting your arousal on his fingers, he prods at your entrance. It doesn’t take much effort to slip one digit into your sopping pussy; it quickly sinks inside of you, and you moan at the drag of his finger inside of you. He hums his approval against your clit, and the vibration only furthers your pleasure.
He crooks his finger against a spongy spot deep within you at the same time as his other hand toys with your nipple, the pinch going straight to your core. You feel yourself growing wetter around Spencer’s finger, and he must notice, too, because he carefully inches another one inside of you. While his fingers are slim, they’re still thicker than yours, and there’s a dull ache as he stretches you open. You try not to think about how many times he must have done this with other women in order to know just how long to give you to adjust to the feeling. After a short time, he crooks his fingers and begins pumping them in and out of your pussy, hand moving in time with his mouth.
You mewl, a pathetic little whimper that has him huffing against your core. You would be indignant at his response if you weren’t so fucking lost in arousal right now. Your thighs begin to tremble as he continues to lick and suck and fuck you open; his hand that had been fondling your breast moves to grip your thigh, holding you in place.
You moan, your breaths devolving into shaky little pants. You’re helplessly gasping and whining as Spencer expertly works you toward your climax.
“Spence, fuck—” you cry, stomach tightening as you race toward release. He’s unrelenting, mouth practically attached to your pussy.
Like a taut rubber band, the pressure in your core threatens to snap. You’re so close that tears are starting to burn in your eyes as you approach that intense pleasure. Your body tingles with the anticipation of it, but right when you feel yourself creeping over the edge, Spencer pulls back.
Cool air hits your core like a bucket of water dousing an inferno. Your hazy eyes snap to his as he retracts his fingers from inside of you.
“N-no,” you whine, voice no more than a breath.
He sits back on his heels before rising from the floor, looking down at you with a devious glint in his eyes. Your mind runs through a list of the most insulting expletives you can conjure, and you’re about to unleash a snappy complaint when you stop yourself.
As promised, he had made you feel good—better than good. Fucking incredible. You’ll be damned if you ruin this for yourself by telling him off. You can handle a little bit of edging. It’s not ideal, but you can play this game how he clearly wants you to.
“P-please,” you beg.
“Aw, you sound so sweet,” Spencer coos, settling onto the mattress. You glower at his mocking tone, but your face is bright red with a combination of arousal and… something at his demeaning statement. He cracks a cheeky grin, tapping the tip of your nose as he says, “Don’t be embarrassed, baby. Please what?”
You grit your teeth, admitting, “I want… more.”
“Yeah?” he asks. Surely, he’s just feeling cocky and wants to hear once more how badly you want him. Asshole.
“Mhm,” you nod weakly.
Spencer leans toward you, brushing a sweaty strand of hair away from your ear as he murmurs, “Then stand up for me.”
Your brow furrows in confusion at his command. You’re not sure what to expect next, but you’re far too invested in the situation to refuse. You oblige, shakily rising from your seat and angling your body toward him, awaiting further instruction.
Spencer pats his clothed thigh and purrs, “Sit right here.”
You blink harshly, wondering what sort of gratification he would possibly get from you doing so. You’re positively soaked, and you would only ruin his pants. You try to vocalize this thought, yet all that comes out is a soft, “But…”
“What? You don’t wanna make a mess?” he croons, clearly reveling in your suddenly shy demeanor. You jerkily shake your head, but your gaze darts to his lap, to his spread legs. He waits until your focus returns to his face before asking, “Even if I want you to?”
You consider this for a moment. It would be super hot. “Well…”
“Oh, come on,” he coaxes. “Be good.”
You had told him earlier tonight that you didn’t like constantly being teased by him, but there’s something so attractive about his mock praise in this context that has you wanting to do whatever he asks. So, after a minuscule internal debate, you step toward him, sinking onto his thigh. His hands immediately fall to your hips, holding you in place as you straddle his leg.
He’s gotten you so damn worked up that the mere feeling of his flannel pants pressing against your clit has you holding back a shiver. You’re desperate for friction, but you’re well aware that doing this means that things will change between you—more than they already have, that is—and that you can never go back.
“Atta girl,” Spencer praises, thumbs brushing against your bare hips. His fingers are dangerously close to kneading your ass, and you would almost prefer if he would start guiding your movements. Yet, he’s looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to make a move. “What?”
“‘S embarrassing,” you complain in a small whisper, unable to stop a dismayed pout from crossing your face. He grins in response, clearly enjoying finally having reduced you from a confident brat to a submissive little lamb.
“Aw, don’t be embarrassed,” he tuts. “You wanna come, don’t you?”
“Mhm,” you hum reluctantly.
“Pretty girl, all you have to do is roll your hips,” he says, patting them in encouragement. As desperate as you are to feel some release, there’s something vaguely humiliating about getting yourself off in front of him. Your embarrassment is only heightened when he teasingly instructs, “C’mon, put on a little show for me.”
You scowl at him, narrowing your eyes at the humorous lilt in his voice. To spite him—or perhaps to tease yourself—you shift forward slightly, dragging your core along his thigh. You had meant the motion to be a stubborn display, to appear like you’re not as helplessly interested in him as you are, but the friction is delicious, and the tension in your body starts to melt away.
“That’s it. Just like that,” Spencer murmurs, gripping your hips tighter as you resign yourself to grinding against his leg. “That feel good?”
“Mhm,” you confirm, quickly losing yourself in the sensation of rocking against him. Once more, your clit catches on the fabric of his pants, and you bite your lip to suppress a satisfied groan.
“You’re so cute, getting all worked up like this,” he praises, and his words resonate deep in your stomach, adding to the building tension there.
He had brought you so close to orgasm moments ago that it’s not long at all before you’re rutting in his lap with fervor, abdomen tightly coiled with your impending climax. Once more, little whimpers and moans tumble from your lips, and their increased volume indicates that you’re close to coming.
“Stop,” Spencer commands, his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you in place. He’s not gripping you tight enough to truly prevent you from continuing to grind on him, but that submissive part of your brain obediently freezes.
“No, Spence, please—” you whine.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he promises, lifting one hand to card his fingers through your damp hair. He meets your gaze with dark, lust-filled eyes. “Just for a second, alright?”
“Mm, wanna…” you whimper.
“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, smoothing your tousled hair.
“Please, can I…?” you plead.
“You gonna make yourself come all over my thigh?” he asks, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. You hang your head, panting at the sight of his clothed erection just inches away from the mess you’ve made on his thigh.
“Mhm,” you hum.
“Go ahead,” he permits, loosening his hold on your hips just enough so that you can move freely again.
“Thank you…” you breathe, instantly returning to your desperate pace. As you continue to rut against him, dragging your pussy along his thigh, he grips your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, and you can taste your arousal on his lips.
You’re so worked up, you think you may sob as your orgasm begins to wash over you in an all-consuming wave. You unseal your lips from his, huffing against his mouth, “God, ‘m gonna… ah….”
“I got you,” he assures you. “Go ahead, baby.”
“Mm… ah…” you moan, riding his thigh for all you’re worth. Mercifully, you finally come, and the sensation causes your vision to dance with dark spots and your body to erupt in a pleasant tingle. You yelp, biting your lip to hold back a scream. All of Spencer’s teasing has only ensured that when you finally reach the precipice, you have the most intense orgasm of your life.
Your hips still to a halt as you tremble on top of him. You’re left feeling absolutely boneless, a satisfying warmth blooming in your abdomen. As you puff and gasp for air, Spencer peppers your face with tender kisses.
“So good,” he murmurs. “You’re so good.”
For a moment, you allow yourself to be the recipient of his unadulterated affection. Once the initial wave of bliss passes, however, the reality of the situation comes crashing down on you, and you bury your face in your hands.
“Oh God,” you groan. “Oh my God, that was so embarrassing.”
“If by ‘embarrassing’, you mean ridiculously fucking hot,” Spencer quips. When a moment passes and you still haven’t met his eyes, he starts pressing a kiss to each knuckle on your fingers. His gentle touch is enough to have you lowering your hands and glancing at him with a worried look.
“There was one thing you were right about earlier, by the way,” he notes.
“Yeah?” you ask nervously. “What’s that?”
“This is like my horny dreams,” he replies lightheartedly, though his expression suggests that he is anything but joking.
You huff, smiling sheepishly as you mutter, “Fuck off.”
“What?” he squawks, slapping a hand to his chest in an offended gesture. “I mean, sure, I can go handle this myself, but I’d much rather stay.” His gaze falls to the tent in his pants, and then he looks up at you through his lashes, a hopeful sparkle in his eyes.
“You’re not invited,” you decree, clambering off his lap and standing up.
“Aw. Shame,” he tuts, clearly unconvinced. Then, seeking clarification, he meekly asks, “Really?”
Echoing his words from earlier, you declare, “Fuck no,” before mimicking his actions and moving to kneel before him.
The two of you have quite the night ahead of you, but you’re going to make the most of it. After all, it’s been a long time coming.
Being an FBI agent was already time consuming, being a busy female FBI agent with a pretty face? Didn't make finding a partner any easier. Question was, were you really busy or were you waiting for the right man?
wc: 4.8k
tags: fluff! slightly suggestive (?)
author's note: i was so excited to finally attempt this idea, hopefully i executed it well!
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Maintaining a dating life was hard while being an FBI agent. Being an FBI agent and female? Dates could become very entertaining once you revealed your job of choice. Most men were arrogant or didn’t believe you until you pulled the badge out of your purse. Other men were very opinionated at the fact that a woman of all people would be able to join the FBI. All this meant that majority of dates fell flat, and you didn’t even concern yourself about the comments they spilled at the dinner table. You enjoyed your job, you enjoyed helping people, why should it matter what a man who worked in a cubicle crunching numbers said?
Penelope, with the help of Emily, liked to sign you up for dating websites, sometimes with or without your knowledge. Which meant that occasionally after a long day, they’d be pushing you out the door while telling you all about this ‘great guy’ they knew who was waiting to meet you at a restaurant near by. Now, you were far from desperate for a boyfriend, clearly you were doing fine getting by on your own. Yet, you recognized the way men looked at you, even during cases, no matter what area of the country you were in, a man would always come up to you with a trashy pick up line or an outright vulgar comment.
You were no celebrity, but you were quite the eyesore for someone who belonged to a group of the FBI. But, your job was more important than your dating life, clearly having no time for it anyhow. The rest of the team knew how hardworking you were, always staying later in the office filling in reports or working hard to add more to profiles. So, when they suggested to get drinks on a Friday night, you thought twice about your answer.
“Come on, one drink is not going to kill you,” Emily nudged as she sat on the edge of your desk, looking down at the way you typed quickly, your eyes still on the computer screen. “Well, that date that you and Pen sent me on last night did, I need to catch up on what I missed” the constant clacking keyboard at high speed making her ears ring.
She sighed as she looked around the office, “Even Hotch is joining us tonight, he knows we all deserve a break after that last case” she said in a persuasive tone, almost trying to inflict some fear of missing out in you. Your typing stopped abruptly, now swivelling your chair towards where she sat. “Fine, one night only” you gave in once you saw her pleading eyes, she would have persisted even if you hadn’t agreed. A smile grew on her face immediately, already on her way to go tell the rest of the team you would be joining.
Once work was officially over, you hesitantly got up from your desk and closed your computer, wanting nothing more to stay back and continue. After grabbing your coat and purse, you made your way to the glass doors of the BAU. Half the team were already standing there, laughing away at something said between Penelope and Morgan. “And there she is, the busiest lady of the century” Emily bumped your shoulder, to which you rolled your eyes at the comment. “Sorry for wanting to get my work done in advance guys” a small smirk made its way onto your face.
“She’s not wrong,” Spencer began as he came up behind you, finally arriving to the group. “Technically, it’s better to finish everything first so while you’re out, your brain focuses less on what still waits for you once you return” he explained, gesturing with his hands as he spoke to which you allowed your eyes to linger on the movement. The whole group was stifling their laughs behind your back, “Exactly, thank you for understanding, Spencer” you threw a smile his way, turning around to the rest of the group once more. “Now, where’s boss one and two?” you joked with a hand on your hip.
As if they heard your question, the two finally appeared, hesitancy written all over Hotchner’s face meanwhile Rossi looked excited to talk over drinks. Finally, you made your way down the building and down the street to the local bar. You were one of the firsts in the booth, sitting in the middle with Spencer squished beside you. “Sorry, Penelope’s a little pushy” you whispered in his ear, the amount of noise around the two of you increasing. He watched the way you place your hand delicately on his arm as you continued speaking in whispers. “What do you want to drink?” You leaned back now, looking for his reaction to your question. His brows furrowed, eyes averted from your face to which you took as deep in thought.
Yet, the dim lighting was helping his case, the heat rising from his chest and up his neck at the way your hot breath had fanned his ear. He now approached you slowly, steadying himself by placing his hand on the edge of the table, bringing his own mouth to your ear, “What are you having?” You leaned back, yourself now deep in thought, you hadn’t even thought that far, your mind still on the documents that waited on your desk. “I think I’m just going to have a margarita,” your hand still rested on his arm as you answered his question straight into his ear.
The rest of the team busy, Penelope joking about doing body shots off of Morgan, JJ waiting to go ask the bartender the order, and the rest trying to convince Penelope to not do body shots off of Morgan. “I think I’ll just have a club soda,” Spencer approached you once more, knuckles white as he gripped the table, voice practically quivering at the continuous warm breath tickling his neck.
You backed away for the last time, a smile resting on your face as your glance went from him to JJ across the table. Raising slightly, now leaning over the bar’s table, your voice louder than the other conversations below you, “a margarita and a club soda!” JJ gave you a nod, walking off to the bartender to give him the table’s order.
The team now turned to you, Penelope giving you a knowing smirk with Morgan’s arm over her shoulder.“So, how was last night’s date?” She raised her eyebrows suggestively, to which you deadpanned at. “You’re not serious, that man didn’t even last through dinner! He asked me what I do for a living, I told him I work for a unit in the FBI, he thought I was trying to gaslight him.” Your brows furrowing the more you spoke, not wanting to willingly recall the previous night. “Really…?” Her face fell slightly at your words, she truly thought she had found you a good match.
Spencer beside you now speaking with Hotchner on something work related, ever the over worker, just like yourself. You held an ear out for the conversation, more interesting to you than the men who constantly thought your choice of a job was unsuitable for a woman with your looks. “Anywho, truly stop signing me up for blind dates because if one other man takes up my precious work time, I might have to set fire to your precious computer room, thanks Pen!” She gasped playfully, knowing there’s no real malice behind your words.
Thankfully for you, the drinks arrived and you were quick to grab yours. You weren’t an alcohol enjoyer usually, but a few drinks after back to back stressful cases did aid in soothing the mind. But, after shooting down a couple of margaritas, you somehow found yourself on the dance floor of the bar with the ladies of the team.
“God, do I love this song!” You said a little too excited as you swayed your hips, hitting every beat to the typical 2000s song that played through the speakers. Dancing in somewhat unison, Morgan was watching from the table with a grin growing on his face. Rossi and Hotch paying less attention, nothing new from you ladies, but would still claim responsibility over all of you like the good father figures they were. Spencer couldn’t keep his eyes off you even if he tried. And oh, did he. Morgan caught this, a deep chuckle erupted from his chest at how lovestruck Spencer seemed as he watched the way you moved.
He couldn’t even recognize the tense woman who was either always glued to her office chair or with files fused in her hand as she now danced with her hair down. Mouth slightly agape as if he couldn’t believe the sight, Morgan scooted closer to Spencer, “you’re staring” he teased as he set down his half empty glass. As if he snapped Spencer out of his gaze, he jumped slightly at the sound of the voice beside him. Red ears gave him away, clearly he had been caught as if he thought he wasn’t being obvious.
“Whoever ends up with that one is a lucky man,” Morgan continued almost to get more of a response out of the man sitting next to him. “If only she’d take the time to really find a guy, she’s always working late. It’s like that cubicle is her second home.” He took a swig of his drink, watching the way Spencer seemed to want to speak up on your behalf, almost as if to say “what’s so wrong with being dedicated to your work?” Morgan knew Spencer well enough to know he thought of you as highly intelligent and responsible.
Out of the group, you always gravitated towards the so-called ‘pretty boy’ of their team. Almost two peas in a pod, you constantly had both your noses buried in files, and got along splendidly as he had observed from the way you spoke together during the plane rides to cases in other states. Penelope and Emily seemed to be in the dark about how he felt about you, Morgan keeping his observations to himself. He would’ve like to tease Spencer more about it, having the whole team pestering him to the point where he would have had enough and out right tell you how he felt.
“Now, Penelope seems to think she’s uninterested in dating, but from what I’ve seen, that girl’s waiting for the right man to come along” Spencer caught the glimmer in Morgan’s eye, almost as if to hint at something the former didn’t know. He cleared his throat, looking into his own glass of clear liquid, gulping at the thoughts that roamed in his brain unwillingly.
Did he wish he had a chance with you? Of course, you were truly a sight for sore eyes and you were such a joy to be around once he finally got past your shyness. He enjoyed nothing more than your talks in the early morning when the office was still somewhat empty, handing over a cup of coffee just the way you liked it that he happened to have time to pick up.
You were always thankful for how observant he was with you. He knew you through and through, the way you took your coffee, the snacks you liked from the vending machine and how you constantly had your files organized in alphabetical order, even as they laid on your desk waiting to be reviewed.
So, now as he sat in the bar’s booth looking at the way you enjoyed yourself on the dance floor. Hair flying free, hips swaying, drink still in hand and raised high as you dipped slightly in your kitten heels, he had never seen a more beautiful sight. The song ended too quickly much to his chagrin, now making room for you to sit back down next to him as you approached the table. A stumble in your step and giggles pouring out of your lips indicated the amount of alcohol you had that night, much more than your typical dosage.
“God, that was so much fun!” You exclaimed, setting your empty glass down on the table a little too hard. The other ladies also seemed a little dazed, leaning on one another as you now leaned your body towards Spencer. “Why can’t more men take me out dancing? Now, this is my kind of date” you complained in Penelope’s direction which she answered in a cackle, setting you off to laugh alongside her.
He welcomed the warmth that was now rubbing up against him, the scent of your shampoo still lingering. Hotchner and Rossi had already left due to the late hour, the booth now containing more room than there was initially. Yet, you still kept yourself close to Spencer, like two magnets. Or at least that was what Morgan was thinking as he watched the sight before his eyes. Spencer wanting nothing more than to evaporate into thin air at that very moment due to the way Morgan was staring, almost as if to say “see? she wants you pretty boy.” Which meant nothing to him because you were drunk and clearly not in the right state of mind to be intentionally leaning up against him.
And now somehow, you ended up in the passenger seat of Spencer’s car. The radio was playing low, some classical music that must have been coming from a CD he inserted earlier in the day. Almost acting as an anchor for him to keep his head steady on his shoulders and not look at you beside him. As he got in the car earlier, he watched the way the moonlight shined on your face, the way your lips glistened due to the copious amount of chapstick you consistently applied, even while drunk.
The peak of the song brought him back to the road, he was still in the midst of driving after all. It’s not the first time he had brought you back, the last time after a long case trip where you had forgotten your car keys in the already locked office. You brought him back to the moment as you finally spoke up, the sounds of your shifting in the seat alerting him that you were in fact not sleeping.
“Men truly suck, you know?” Your words were slurred slightly, head leaning against the rest looking in his direction. Your eyes trailed along his profile, from his forehead to the slope of his nose, to his lip until the tip of his chin. Until now, you never really allowed yourself to look at him so directly. He didn’t answer your question, almost sounding rhetorical because he already knew the answer. Yes.
“Even the ones that I like,” you paused for a beat, taking a large breath “they don’t notice that I like them and you would think they would, right? I mean look at me,” you huffed. He was clearly trying not to. Especially with how you were now crossing your arms over your chest, accentuating your figure and the curve of your breasts in your tight office blouse even in the dim lighting of the night. He cleared his throat, eyes darting back to what mattered. Driving. The road.
You continued to ramble, ignorant to the thoughts swirling in his mind, “but he’s so completely oblivious and I’m tired of it” And he paused at your use of a pronoun, luckily arriving at a stop sign. The street was deserted, so he stayed a second longer than he needed to.
“I didn’t know you had your eye on someone,” he gulped, swallowing his feelings down. Even if it was obvious through the tone of his voice, you clearly didn’t acknowledge it in your drunken state. Of course you had found someone you liked. Penelope and Emily with their never ending blind dates were bound to work one day. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, reminding him back to how he gripped the table in the bar, ensuring to not lay a hand on you like you had him. He still can feel the ghost of a touch on his arm, the way your hot breath tickled his neck as you whispered ever so gently.
Sadly, he didn’t get an answer in response because he had now arrived at your front door. He quickly parked then ran across to open your door, wanting to help you up out of the passenger seat safely. At all the thoughts that swarmed his head, he attempted to shake them away. He didn’t get jealous. He was calm and cool-headed. As he grabbed your wrists, he pulled you up and out of the car. Took you a few seconds to balance onto your feet, still wobbling as he closed the car door behind you. “Where are your keys?” He asked as he kept a close arm on the middle of your back faintly.
You suddenly lifted your arms after walking up the front steps of your home. “Search me” he recognized the tone in your voice. You were teasing him even in your drunken stupor. “Real funny,” your actions enabling a smirk on his face, now illuminated by your porch light. You fluttered your arms, yet he watched the look on your own face. The playful smile that rested on your lips matched the arch of your brow.
He saw you in such a different light earlier, carefree and nowhere near like the overworking girl in the cubicle next to him. But now, at the sight of you being playful with a hint of vulnerability to your actions, he liked this version the most. Clearly showing signs of trust towards him, you wanted him to take the time to search you. He couldn’t tell if you would do this with anyone else, and he knows he’ll never know the answer to that question either.
Yet, he followed your instructions regardless, delicate hands passing down your arms through the pockets of your coat. The action itself bringing him closer to you, now looming over you as his fingers dug through the pockets, eyes staring into yours making the process seem more intimate than it truly was.
Before he knew it, you leaned forward just barely and he couldn’t tell if it was due to the moment or the fact that you were still off balance. Yet, he still wouldn’t allow himself for this to be the moment where he met your lips for the first time. He would feel as though he took advantage of you, despite you being the one to approach him first. He just couldn’t do that to you.
He backed away, hands now resting on your shoulders to stop your action before you regretted it the next morning. Well, that’s if you’d even remember tonight. You narrowed your eyes at the action, not really having any awareness of what you’re doing in the current moment. “Did you find my keys?” You mumbled, body leaning against the hold he continued to have on you. Freeing one hand, he jingled the keys in front of you with the other, a tight-lipped smile on his face.
He opened your front door, leading you inside safely and then up to your bed. You practically dived into the mess of sheets, heels falling off as you kicked your legs in a childish manner. Spencer had never truly entered your room. Sure, he’s been to your house when you hosted for the group every so often.
You were busy, but you never seemed too busy for your fellow teammates. Somehow always making time to invite them over for holidays, yet still grumbled about all the work the following week would present you with at the dinner table.
He admired the paintings hung on your wall, he didn’t peg you for the art collector type. The faint glow of your bedside lamp illuminated your already sleeping figure, he stared at the way your hair spread across the pillow. Tucking your legs underneath your covers, he then closed the light and stood there for a moment.
Almost as if a thought that he didn’t want to follow through with had occurred in his mind, he quickly glanced away from you. He made his way downstairs and locked the door behind him, driving away with warmth spreading through his chest as he relived the moments of tonight.
The next morning was extremely unpleasant. The drive to the BAU was filled with traffic, the pounding headache had lasted throughout the entire ride, and the sun was too bright for a morning like the one you were having. Grumbling to yourself as you walked to your cubicle, for once you were annoyed with the amount of work that rested on your desk. The other girls of the group were in the kitchen, you could hear the collective groaning from where you put your bag down.
“Great, so it’s not just me who feels like exploding?” You voiced as you rubbed your forehead, your free hand grabbing your mug from the cupboard to finally have your morning coffee. In unison, you all winced at how loud the cupboard closed. Morgan walked over from behind, a large grin on his face like he just won the prized pony.
Penelope groaned, “it’s not funny, mister” then took a sip of her coffee. “Oh, but it is babygirl, you should’ve seen you ladies dancing last night” a chuckle left his lips as he held his own warm mug in his hands. Your eyes widened, “there’s no way that’s true…” you stated as you poured milk into your coffee, the dark turning a now milky brown. He gave you a curt nod, that smug smile still on his face.
“Please tell me we didn’t do anything embarrassing…” you lamented, your head down in defeat as you awaited to hear what he had to say. “You girls were wild, dancing on tables, twirling around with your fruity drinks in your hands, it was a crazy sight” he began as Spencer approached. You looked over to him now, eyes practically pleading. “Please tell me what he just said isn’t true,” to which Morgan gave Spencer a little nudge.
“It isn’t true, but there was a lot of dancing involved” he answered with his hands in his pockets, unsure why Morgan was now giving him a look. Emily sighed like her dignity was saved, hand on her chest as she held a relieved look on her face. With your mug in hand, you walked over to your cubicle, not wanted to hear more about what happened the previous night.
Spencer eventually arrived back to his own desk which was situated beside yours, his own steaming mug resting on a coaster. Instead of sitting down and getting back to work, he came to stand next to you. “You stated that you were sick of men,” he began which startled you, still not fully there mentally.
“Excuse me?” You raised your brows, not understanding where this was coming from. Not that the words he uttered were shocking, but more the lack of context at his remark. He nervously crossed his arms in front of his chest. “When I drove you home, but the whole night if I’m being honest” he continued, finally clueing you into what transpired last night.
You shook your head, “wait- you drove me home last night?” the grip on your mug tightening as you furrowed your brows. His eyes widened, you really didn’t remember much from the previous night. “Oh… yeah you said something about some guy you had your eye on not noticing your advances” he paused for a second, almost trying to recall your exact words as if he didn’t have an eidetic memory. “You said that even the ones you want to notice you don’t, you seemed pretty bummed… despite being obviously pretty buzzed.”
You groaned, head hitting the back of your chair as you looked up to the dull ceiling. “Yeah… well, I guess that’s just men” the sigh that left you was one of frustration, he watched the way you seemed to be in surrender. “I have no doubt someone will eventually be the right guy, you’re just too good for all of us” he had let out a small laugh, nervous but coming off as dry. Your eyes trailed to his face, the anxious expression that was written all over it as you studied his features.
Suddenly, you remembered doing the same action the night before in the passenger seat of his car. “I didn’t know you had your eye on someone,” the words now ringing in your head. Had he truly not noticed the way you acted around him? Sure, you weren’t all over him at every given moment. But he must have noticed how different you were around him than around the others, right?
He continued to talk about the conversations that transpired in the bar’s booth, but you began to tune him out as your eyes narrowed. You followed his movements, the way his hands mimicked the words he was saying, and the tilt of his head as he spoke. You gulped, just now getting another flashback to the way his hands searched your jacket prompted by you even though you would never be that forward in a million years.
You always had the mindset of work coming first. If there was free time, there was more work to be done, even if that was outside of the office. So, when Penelope and Emily first approached you with a blind date you begrudgingly gave it a try, already having it in your mind that it was a waste of time. And you were right. But not only because the man was as dull as they came, but you already had your heart set on someone who understood the workload and stress of the job.
Never having the courage to act on it though, the brief moments of your racing heart was the only thing you allowed yourself to enjoy in your few moments of break. You never permitted yourself to more than just those few fleeting seconds, was that why he never noticed? It was an unconventional way, you knew that. But, you had hoped it would seem a little more noticeable than it actually was.
“Spencer,” you spoke up, stopping him mid sentence. You mustered up the courage to put a hand on his where he sat on the edge of your desk. “You know,” you began, slightly tremble in your voice despite the extreme amount of confidence flowing through your system at the very moment. “For you, I’m never busy” you looked up into his eyes, searching for an understanding to what you’re attempting to say. “You’re the exception from my own rules, got it?” The slight tilt of your head is when it finally clicked in his head, almost as if it put an emphasis on your words.
Were you actually trying to let him know that you’d rather be with him over engulfing yourself in the multiple files that scattered your desk? Hinting that you would leave the busy life you’ve built for yourself to spend time with him? He searched your eyes, noticing the way your brows furrowed and the small smile that appeared on your face as he explored your features. It was like deciphering a code of some sort, trying to understand the meaning behind your wording.
You weren’t one to be outright bold, he knew that. He knew you. Your advances for anything were timid and reserved, just like yourself. So, now that he cracked the code of you, what was he going to respond? He wanted it to be obvious to you in a way that only the two of you would understand.
“You’re willing to accommodate for me?” A smirk made its way onto his face, accentuating the weight of his words. The smile on your lips grew at his comprehension. Now placing your hand in his, the same one from moments before, he intertwined your fingers discreetly. “Well, I’m glad you can make room for me in your busy schedule” he voiced, his thumb caressing the back of your hand as if it was already second nature.
You gulped at the gesture, never allowing yourself to feel more than this. Sure, you’ve dreamed of it, but only during the allotted hour of break you had scheduled daily during work. Now, those fantasies can be a reality with him at your side, maybe eventually slowly shedding that constantly occupied mindset as time passes on.
“Now, I need you to tell me what other stupid things I did last night” you leaned back into your chair as you continued to share warmth through your intertwined hands. “You sure you have time?” His own face now concerned, you had just sat down to begin the day. You shrugged, “I’ve got time” your smile now beaming in his direction, allowing yourself to relax and be in the moment. Those color coded files can wait another fifteen minutes.
Spencer wants to sell the most cookies for his daughters troop cause its for a good cause!! and cause hes slightly competitive and he knows just who to haggle :D
Patreon members had early access to this post,theres also 50+ illustrations over there and a poll that's currently out for the next artwork 👀
summary: spencer accidentally let it slip that he has a wife, but he thought that they knew
The bullpen is louder than usual.
A case just closed — messy, exhausting, emotionally draining — but closed. And that always brings a certain kind of restless energy to the team.
“Alright,” Derek announces, spinning slightly in his chair. “We deserve a drink. Real one. Not whatever’s been fermenting in the break room coffee pot.”
Emily snorts. “Seconded.”
“Thirded,” JJ adds, already grabbing her bag.
Spencer doesn’t look up at first. He’s reorganizing his go-bag with that meticulous focus he gets when he’s trying to decompress.
Hotch gives a small nod. “One hour. Then home.”
Morgan leans back in his chair and eyes Spencer. “You in, Pretty Boy?”
Spencer finally looks up, blinking like he just remembered he’s in a room full of people.
“Oh, um.” He glances at his watch. “I actually should probably head home.”
Morgan frowns dramatically. “Since when do you skip celebratory drinks?”
Spencer shrugs. Casual, almost too casual.
“My wife doesn’t love when I get back too late after a case. It messes with our routine.”
Silence.
Not the normal end-of-shift shuffle silence.
The kind where the air changes.
Emily freezes mid-zip of her purse. JJ slowly turns around. Morgan’s smile drops.
“…Your what?” he asks carefully.
Spencer blinks at him, “My wife.”
Morgan stands up fully now. “Your what?”
Spencer looks genuinely confused. “My wife? Why are you repeating it like that?”
“Reid,” Emily says slowly, “you don’t have a wife.”
Spencer stares at her, “Yes, I do.”
JJ’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when?”
Spencer’s forehead creases like they’re the ones being ridiculous, “Since 2012.”
Morgan’s mouth actually falls open. “Two thousand and— Reid that was years ago.”
“Yes,” Spencer says patiently. “That’s generally how time works.”
“Spencer,” JJ says gently, “we would know if you were married.”
Spencer’s lips press together in mild disbelief, “I assumed you did know.”
“How?” Morgan practically shouts.
Spencer gestures vaguely. “I wear a ring?”
All of them look down. He does. A simple silver band. Always has. They just never clocked it. It blended in with his watch and the ink stains and the everything else that is Spencer Reid.
Emily steps closer. “You’re serious.”
Spencer exhales softly. “Of course I’m serious. Why would I joke about that?”
Morgan runs a hand over his head. “Okay, okay. Hold up. You’re married. To who?”
Emily crosses her arms. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been married for over a decade and we’ve never met her?”
Spencer blinks. “Well… yes.”
Morgan points at him. “That’s insane.”
Spencer looks offended. “It’s not insane.”
“It’s a little insane,” JJ says gently.
Spencer shakes his head, standing now, suddenly protective in a way they’ve never seen before.
“She’s not a secret,” he insists. “I just… I don’t bring her into this.”
Morgan narrows his eyes. “Why not?”
Spencer goes quiet for a moment.
And when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Not defensive anymore. Just honest.
“Because this job takes things.”
The room stills.
“She met me when I was just starting at the BAU. Before any of the… really bad stuff.” He swallows. “She’s seen what this job does. To all of us.”
Emily’s expression softens.
Spencer continues.
“She was there when I couldn’t sleep after my first execution-style case. She sat with me and read out loud because I couldn’t get the images out of my head.”
JJ’s eyes glisten.
“She was there when my mom’s condition got worse. When I didn’t know how to handle it. She learned about schizophrenia just so she could understand what I grew up with.”
Morgan shifts, quieter now.
“And when I—”
Spencer stops.
The prison memory hangs heavy in the air without him even saying it.
His jaw tightens.
“When I was in prison,” he finishes softly, “she visited every week. Even when I told her not to.”
Emily inhales slowly.
Spencer’s voice steadies, “She wrote to me every day. She memorized the visitor protocols. She advocated for me when no one else could. She never once doubted that I’d come home.”
Morgan’s teasing expression is completely gone now.
“She kept our apartment exactly the same,” Spencer continues, almost like he’s replaying it in his mind. “She said she didn’t want me walking into something unfamiliar.”
JJ wipes at her eye discreetly.
Spencer looks down at his ring, “She’s been there for every version of me. The anxious twenty-something. The grieving son. The addict. The inmate. The profiler who can’t always leave work at work.”
His lips twitch faintly, “She’s the only constant I’ve ever had.”
The room is completely silent.
Morgan finally speaks, softer than they’ve ever heard him.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Spencer hesitates, “Because this job makes enemies,” he says quietly. “And I could never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me.”
That lands harder than expected.
Hotch nods once. He understands that logic more than anyone.
Emily steps forward slightly. “So you just… what? Go home every night and we never knew?”
Spencer gives a small shrug, “Yes.”
Morgan exhales slowly. “Reid, that’s not something small.”
Spencer tilts his head, “It’s not small to me.”
There’s no arrogance in it. Just certainty.
“She makes me dinner when I forget to eat. She leaves sticky notes in my books when she knows I’ll be stressed. She reminds me that I’m more than my IQ and my trauma.”
His voice softens again, “She married me when I was still figuring out how to exist in the world. That’s not small.”
JJ smiles through tears. “Does she know what you do?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s okay with it?”
Spencer nods, “She worries. But she says she’d rather love me in a dangerous world than not love me at all.”
Morgan shakes his head slowly, “Reid, that’s real.”
Spencer frowns slightly. “Of course it’s real.”
Emily laughs weakly. “We just didn’t know you had that.”
Spencer looks genuinely confused again.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
And there it is, the quiet confidence.
He doesn’t see himself as someone unworthy of love because someone has loved him consistently for years.
Morgan finally smirks faintly. “Alright, so when are we meeting her?”
— Spencer Reid by no means is a morning person, so when you are determined to abandon the comfort of the bed and start the day earlier, he isn't very happy about it
pairing: spencer reid x reader
warnings: none, fluff wc:368
Spencer's breath ghosted over the sensative skin of your neck, and as tempting as it was to cave in to the pleading of his soft brown eyes, you lightly swatted his shoulder mumbling a quiet protest.
The grey-ish green blanket slid down as he rolled onto his side of the bed, grumbling under his breath—not actually annoyned, but rather to make his discontentment with your decisions known.
"Just five more minutes," he whined, looking up at you with the best puppy-dog eyes he could master at such an ungodly hour/through a thick fog of sleep.
"Nope," you chuckled, playfully pinching his side. Spencer bucked away with a startled laugh, but before you could go in for more, his hand shot out. His fingers clamped around your wrist, yanking you flush against him.
"No—" you protested, feet kicking as you tried to wiggle out of his reach. It was no use, you were alredy a tangled mess. With your back pressed to his chest, his arms locked you and a leg hooked over your hip—you were trapped. "No, Spence—"
"Hey," he hummed, seemingly unfazed by your whining. His lips trailed down the side of your face, peppering your skin with soft, lazily kisses. Any protest you could possibly have died in your throat. You made another weak attempt to break free, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he won just yet.
But the way you melted further into him with every gentle press of his lips was a clear giveaway.
You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes, but when you muttured a quiet "Hey," under you breath, any trace of real annoynce had already vanished—not that there was much to begin with.
"Five more minutes," Spencer pleaded in such a sweet tone of voice, you stood no chance. With a groan so heavy one could think think you were making a great sacrifice, you slumped back against him, tugging the duvet higher around you both.
"Just five more," you warned, but your eyelids were already growing heavier.
"Mhm," his nose brushed against your hair, inhaling the sweet strawberry scent of your shampoo as he tried to suspend a smirk. "that's all I'm asking for."
a/n: this is @mariposayl’s coffee order for my 100 follower special and i looooove!!! tysm for the request!! your receipt is at the bottom :))
summary: you want spencer to show you how much he wants you, and accidentally push it too far.
content warnings: spencer reid x fem!reader, drinking, alcohol, intoxication, reader is kinda flirting on purpose, jealousyyyy, maybe a lil eensy weensy suggestive at the end if you squint
Spencer Reid does not get jealous. Like, ever.
For a long time, it hadn’t bothered you. In fact, it was the opposite— you spent time bragging to your friends about how he wasn’t controlling like most men, how he didn’t care what you wore or who you went out with. It was freeing. It was healthy.
Recently, however, Spencer had become a lot busier. Cases were constantly stealing him away from you. His phone ringing had become regular background noise to your time spent together. He wasn’t necessarily distant, but less time together sure made it feel that way.
When he invited you out to drinks with the team one night, you happily accepted. You enjoyed his coworkers, and his company. You put on one of your favorite outfits, the kind that always got you compliments from the drunk girls in the bathroom.
“You look great,” Spencer smiled when you greeted him at the door.
“Thanks!” You grinned, giving a little twirl so he could appreciate the whole outfit.
He drove you to the bar, asking about your day on the ride there. He likely wouldn’t be drinking, so he always offered to serve as a designated driver for you.
His teammates greeted you as you arrived. They appeared to have started without the both of you, with Garcia nearly knocking you over as she ran to embrace you.
“Hello, my darling angel!” She gushed, pulling you into a hug once she got her footing back. “Oh, I have missed you! I’m so glad you’re hanging out with us tonight!”
“I missed you guys too.” You laughed. “I’m gonna grab a drink.”
“Oh, we already ordered you one!” Garcia smiled, pulling you over to the table with Spencer in tow. “You ordered it last time and said you loved it, so I figured we’d start you off!”
“You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.” You took your seat, taking a sip of your drink.
It was easy to lose track of time when talking to them, and before you knew it, Emily was presenting you with a tray of shots.
“Whoa, what is this?” You asked, eyeing the liquid warily.
“Tequila.” Emily said with terrifying calm.
“Oh, I don’t do tequila.” You waved a hand in dismissal.
“You do tonight!” She placed a shot in front of everyone (including you), and with a quick clink and a “cheers” from the group, you knocked back the burning liquid.
“Ugh,” you groaned after, wiping your mouth. “I’m definitely going to feel this tomorrow.”
“Good thing it’s Saturday.” Morgan replied, grinning.
A few more drinks (and potentially a few shots) later, you were really feeling it. Enough that when a really good song came on and Garcia gasped, you followed her to the dance floor with little to no hesitation.
You look over your shoulder as you go, wanting to shoot a smile at your boyfriend. He isn’t even watching you walk away. Rather, he seems deeply absorbed in a conversation with Rossi.
You feel the ghost of a frown cross your face. You felt really pretty tonight. You had done your makeup, fixed your hair up. Not wanting to look like you were trying too hard but still feeling beautiful. Spencer just seemed… comfortable. Like he was too used to you.
That’s probably why when a man sidled up beside you on the dance floor, you didn’t move away.
You were watching Emily and Garcia belt the lyrics of the newest song and dance at each other, throwing your head back in laughter when you noticed him. Not touching you, just standing beside you. Casual. Friendly.
“You’re way too pretty to be standing on the edge.” He says offhandedly.
You still for a moment. But you’re just warm enough from the tequila, and Spencer still isn’t looking at you, and for once, just for a second, you feel admired. Pretty.
“Is that so?” You respond, your words slurring just slightly.
He grins. Not sleazy. Just… interested. “Definitely.”
Spencer isn’t watching at first. He’s still deep in a one-sided conversation about the effects of alcohol on the autonomic nervous system when Morgan nudges him. “Uh, Reid.”
Spencer looks up.
He sees you, looking radiant as ever, laughing and smiling at another man on the dance floor. He watches you push your hair back.
He watches.
Because he trusts you. He’s waiting for you to shut it down. But after the third time the man leans in just a little too close to shout over the music and you let him, he feels heat flare in his gut.
His eyes never leave you the entire time he’s walking over. You turn over your shoulder mid-laugh and see him, and your smile drops.
He settles a hand on your waist. “She’s with me.”
You can feel how bluntly he says it. He can’t even be angry with the guy. You never told him otherwise.
“Sorry, man. Didn’t know.” The guy backs off.
You can’t exactly read his expression. Is he angry? Disappointed? Annoyed?
“I think you’ve had enough. We should get you home.” He says, his voice steady. Neutral.
You don’t object. You feel shame forming deep in the pit of your stomach.
You wave a quick goodbye to his coworkers, forcing a small smile as you walk out into the cool night air. You keep looking at Spencer, trying to gauge him. You can’t.
The drive home is miserable. You feel bad. Spencer isn’t talking, which is unusual for him. The road is blurry and your body feels like it’s suspended in the air when you hit bumps in the road, the alcohol weighing on you in the stillness.
Spencer walks you to your door, ever the gentleman. You pause with your hand on the doorknob, turning to look up at him. “Spence…”
He finally looks at you, and now you can see it. He’s hurt.
“Go inside. Get some rest. We can talk when you’re sober.”
“Spencer.”
“Don’t.” There’s a sharpness in his voice that makes you pull back a little.
You blink at him. The alcohol makes everything slower, heavier, but not enough to dull the look on his face.
“You’re mad at me,” you say quietly.
“I’m not mad.” Too quick.
You swallow. “Then what are you?”
He exhales through his nose. Looks away. Looks back at you.
“You didn’t tell him.”
The words are simple. Controlled. That’s what makes them land so hard.
“I—” You frown. “I was going to.”
“But you didn’t.”
The silence between you stretches.
You hate that he’s being calm. You almost wish he would yell. This careful precision feels worse.
“It was just talking,” you say. Defensive now. “He didn’t even—”
“He was flirting with you.”
Your breath catches.
Spencer steps back half an inch, like even standing close to you right now is too much.
“I waited,” he says quietly. “I didn’t interrupt. I trusted that you would handle it.”
“I didn’t do anything,” you insist. And you didn’t. You know you didn’t.
He nods once. “I know.”
That’s the worst part. He believes you.
“I just… don’t understand why you let him think he had a chance.” He pauses, and you can see something flicker underneath the disappointment. “Did you want him to?”
There it is.
Not jealousy. Confusion. Hurt.
“No.” You say quietly.
“Then why?”
The alcohol loosens your tongue before your pride can stop you.
“Because you never care.”
The words hang between you.
Spencer stills completely. “What?”
“You never care,” you repeat, softer now, tears threatening for reasons you don’t fully understand. “You never get jealous. You never look at me like you’re afraid someone might take me.”
His jaw tightens. “I trust you.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “I know that. And I love that about you. But sometimes I want you to—” You stop, frustrated. “I don’t know. Want me.”
The vulnerability sobers you more than the cold air.
“You barely looked at me tonight.” You continue, voice trembling. “And I just… I felt invisible.”
The hurt on his face shifts into something deeper. Realization. Guilt.
“You think I don’t want you?” His voice is lower now. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just… raw.
You shake your head helplessly. “I don’t know what you feel anymore. You’re always gone. Your phone is always ringing. I feel like I’m just… slotted in when there’s space.”
Spencer runs a hand through his hair— a tell. He’s unraveling.
“I know I’ve been really busy at work,” he admits quietly. “And I thought bringing you tonight was me choosing you. I thought being there was enough.”
“It was,” you say quickly. “I just… I wanted you to look at me like you couldn’t stand the idea of someone else touching me.”
There’s a long silence. You’re suddenly all too aware that you’re having this conversation outside your door, where others could hear. You have goosebumps from the cool air.
“You think I could stand it?” His voice cracks just slightly. “You have no idea how difficult it was to stay at that table.”
Your breath stutters.
“I didn’t want to be possessive,” he continues. “I didn’t want to embarrass you. I didn’t want to be the kind of man who assumes you need defending.”
“I don’t,” you say immediately.
“I know,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.”
The air shifts. It’s less tense now. More… charged.
He steps closer. “I don’t get jealous because I respect you. Because I trust you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel when someone looks at you like that.”
Your heart is pounding.
“I waited for you to shut it down,” he says quietly. “And when you didn’t, I started wondering why.”
You think somewhere in the back of your head, through the thick fog, that you may just be the worst girlfriend there ever was.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. And you mean it. Not because you danced. Not because you spoke to someone. But because you underestimated how much he feels.
He studies your face for a long moment.
“I love you. But I wish you would’ve just told me you’ve been feeling neglected.”
You chew your lip. “I just needed to know you still—”
He steps into you fully now. Hands finding your waist again. Firmer than before. Not angry. Grounded.
“And for the record,” he adds, thumb pressing into your hip slightly, “if he had touched you, I would not have stayed calm.”
Your stomach flips.
You pull back just enough to look at him. “That almost sounds like jealousy.”
He huffs the faintest laugh.
“It’s not jealousy,” he says. “It’s that I am very aware of what I have.” A pause. “And I don’t take that lightly.”
He kisses your forehead first. Gentle.
Then your mouth— slower, deeper, and very, very intentional.
Not to prove anything.
Just to remind you.
And when he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours.
“I’m sorry I made you feel unwanted.” He murmurs.
“I’m sorry I didn’t shut that guy down.” You reply.
You grin in spite of yourself, the heaviness lifting.
“Now, let’s get you in bed. You are going to need some rest and recovery from all that tequila.” He reaches around you, opening the door and ushering you inside.
Relationships: Spencer Reid x fem!reader (JJ’s assistant & fan of Doctor Who)
Summary: You adopt a new pet, and Spencer doesn't react as he should.
I planned a simple second part… But when I saw anthrax episode I couldn't not write about it
I don’t remember if it happened in one day or several days… I wrote it like everything happens in one day.
/!\ season 4 anthrax episode spoilers
Since you work in the FBI, you learned, saw, and experienced a lot. BAU is an interesting place to work, but you’re always afraid to do something wrong when you speak to a profiler. That’s why you’re glad to work mainly for JJ. She is nice and organised. Penelope is also one of your closest colleagues. The next day she knew you were a Doctor Who fan, your desk was full of blue pens, blue notebooks, blue erasers... It’s simple: everything was blue. Even Spencer was jealous enough to steal some of them.
You usually like spending time with both of them in the coffee corner, but this morning is different. This morning is an interrogation.
“Are you sure? It looks like dates for me,” JJ says with a smile as she pours herself some coffee.
“Not they’re not,” you sigh, waiting for your turn for a coffee. “Spending time with a man is not always a date.”
“Spending time alone with a man out of the office is a date, love,” Penelope starts, sipping her coffee, her eyes staring at you behind her pink glasses. “And you weren't even outside. You were at his place!”
“Oh!” JJ can only say, trying to catch up all the news about you and Spencer, before you speak again.
“We just watch TV and order food. And as most of the time I fall asleep on his couch, we have breakfast together. That's all! It’s more a pyjama party than a date.”
You don’t notice JJ and Penelope’s surprised eyes as you eventually pour yourself a coffee. It's so obvious to them what's going on between you and Spencer that they don't even know where to start. And yet, they're the only non-profilers on the team!
“I don’t even know why we are talking about that. It’s not the first Friday I’ve spent at his place,” you say, shrugging.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Penelope hurries to say, grabbing your arms gently just before you leave. “How many times have you stayed at his place?”
“I don’t know,” you start, searching for a way to escape this conversation. “I honestly don’t know. Anyway, if you won’t let me go to work, you have to explain it to my boss.”
Although JJ terribly wants to continue this conversation, there is a lot of work to be done and she needs you. A single glance at Penelope makes her realise that she has to let you go. With a sad pout and a “I'm not done with you yet!”, she lets you go and leaves before you even do.
As JJ and you’re about to leave the corner, Spencer enters, as if he was waiting for you to leave. Honestly, it wouldn’t be a surprise since your last conversation. He walks next to you, smiling awkwardly without a word. You do the same while JJ looks at both of you. No need to be a profiler to know you both seem not to be on good terms since last week-end…
.
Last Friday evening, like practically every Friday evening, you were at Spencer’s place. It had become a habit since the first evening you spent with him when you lost your pet. With a long series like Doctor Who, you always have something to watch, and with a man like Spencer Reid, you always have something to discuss.
Except that last Friday didn't go as you planned. Well, you watched TV with Chinese food until you fell asleep as usual. Yet, the morning was different.
“Next time, I should make breakfast for you,” you laughed as you ate a pancake he made while you were in the shower. “I rarely cook in the morning, but I can't make an exception for you.”
Learning almost every day from your face’s expressions to better understand when you are being sincere or when you are joking, Spencer easily understands you were sincere in your last sentence, and he was really happy to hear it.
“Oh! I’d be happy to taste your cooking. What would you cook?” he asked after he almost said “I thought you'd never ask” but didn't dare to say it.
“I don't know. I usually eat anything I find in my kitchen,” you replied. “. I have to think about it”
Since you took your shower, you avoided his eyes. It’s a shame because he was close to you and you could enjoy his beautiful eyes easily. Spencer noticed it, the avoidance not his beautiful eyes obviously, but he didn't want to force you to say something you don't want to say. So he waited.
As you were eating your third pancake, you slowly put down your fork and knife. Inhale. Exhale. It shouldn't be that complicated to talk with him! This man makes you so nervous! The way he explains anything and everything makes you silently listen to him. The way he puts his hair behind his ear makes you stop everything you were doing. The way he smiles when he looks at you from his desk makes you forget what you were working on. And the way he looked at you now made you so shy that you almost forgot what you had planned to ask him for days.
“Hm, Spencer, if you're free next Saturday, and I hope no case, do you want to come with me to an animal shelter to adopt a new pet? There's no obligation! It's just that, um, I thought you might want to come with me,” you eventually said, almost breathless by the quickness of your words.
“Already?” he asked, confused.
The word escaped his mouth faster than he thought, and he regretted it immediately. He was surprised. He thought you would wait a little longer. He was sure you would eventually adopt a new pet. You can’t live without them. But deep in his heart, he hoped you would rather spend time with him a little longer than adopting a new pet. As soon as you’d have a new pet, he was sure you’d stop spending Friday evening with him. Before losing your pet you were always in a hurry to come home just for them…
The only word that Spencer said was echoing in your head. Among all the people you knew, you thought he was the one who would understand you. But it seemed that he wasn't.
After a little throat clearing, you stood up, and Spencer did the same by reflex, shaking his hands in panic.
“I didn’t mean! I-I-” he could only say.
“It’s ok. I understand. I know it’s quick, but, hm. You know what, forget it. I, hm, I need to go home,” you cut him off, not even finding a good excuse to leave.
Spencer tried to speak to you, but you left too fast. Your bag was already done and you knew his place very well so after a quick “Thank you for the evening and breakfast,” you left without looking at him.
.
Since that morning, you don’t dare to speak or text him ; he doesn't seem to want to do it either. So you work like you used to before being his friend. It’s weird. It’s childish. It’s hard. It’s painful… At least, since you went to the shelter you’re not alone when you go home. You're busy enough not to think about him until you see him again the next day at work.
Of course, the profilers’ team, well the entire floor, understood something was wrong between you two, but only Penelope and JJ try to help you, despite telling them you don’t need it. It’s just a simple quarrel, right?
Yet, a few weeks have passed since that famous morning without speaking with Reid except for work, and one sunny morning, as you're thinking about getting a coffee and putting your bag down on your desk, you sense that the atmosphere on the floor is completely different from usual. Well, you already felt it from the moment you stepped into the building, but here people who are strangers to this floor, and even to this institution, are gathered here and there. You have no idea what's going on, so you sit down and wait for your computer to boot up so you can check your email.
Obviously, JJ has already sent you a large number of form requests. You don’t ask for an explanation, you immediately do your job. JJ is not the only one who sends you requests. Honestly, you've never had so much.
After a moment, Hotch stands up in front of his office and informs all the staff on the floor of the situation : Anthrax and the inability to communicate with the outside world about it.
Alone at your desk, you feel distraught. No need to search for Reid, you know he is already out. Immediately, you receive a message from Penelope trying to reassure you, confirming you that the team is on the case. You look at JJ, who is already on the verge of breaking down and calling Will and Henry.
The day continues, form requests from everyone comes to your mailbox. Lunch is served to every desk so you don’t lose time or be tempted to speak to anyone outside. After going to get another coffee, not knowing how many you've had today, you sit down in your chair, sighing discreetly. Then, you notice a new phone message. You need to read it three times to be sure of what you see.
Spencer: “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry, we’ll catch him. No matter what anyone tells you, stay safe in the building.”
You stupidly look at your phone for so long that a dozen requests are already waiting for you. You stupidly don’t know what to answer. At some point you notice that the message is one hour old. You feel even more stupid…
Once all the form requests are done, you decide it’s time to take a break. Knowing you’re not allowed to go to Penelope cave when she is working on a case, you usually let her alone. But today is different. You’re a part of the case as everyone is. So you take your cold coffee and go to join her.
The sweet smell of Penelope cave always comforts you. A mix of perfume, cakes and candies. Her door is always closed, but this time it’s ajar. You knock on it discreetly anyway, but she seems so focused on her job that she didn’t hear you. It’s only when you put a coffee mug you have brought for her, that she turns toward you.
Penelope is a very sensitive woman, yes, but you rarely saw her like that. Her cheeks are so wet that you don’t even know what to do.
“What happened? Do you need something?” you quickly ask as you sit on a chair next to her.
“Y-you don’t know? Oh no. I'm the one who has to tell you?” she panics, looking between her screen and you several times. “Reid is. I-I mean. Oh my god! Morgan is with him but- Oh my god!”
“Breathe slowly, Penelope. Breathe slowly. What happened?” you try to calm her while your eyes are already stinging.
Then, Morgan calls her, asking for research, then Hotch. When you joined her, she closed the door and put all sound on speaker, leaving only her micro with her.
It’s only after the two calls that she explains Reid’s situation to you. You’re glad you’re sitting already. Penelope gives you time to think and accept the news while she does the researches they have asked for.
At some point, Penelope's researches are done and she can breathe. She easily guesses why you’re staying with her, and she tries to comfort you as much as she can.
Since you found out about Reid, you've replied to him but he didn’t text you back. That's not surprising given the situation. You don't blame him, of course, he clearly has other things to do than reply to you.
It's hard to keep track of time in her office, so after a while, you decide to go to the bathroom and bring back coffee and cakes for both of you. You are very well aware of the mountain of requests waiting for you at your desk, but right now you don't care.
When you come back, the door is still ajar like you left it. It’s easier with two coffee mugs. Focused on holding the mugs carefully, you realise Reid is speaking only when you put them on Penelope's desk. You missed hearing him…
“And Mom, I know you know it but I love you. Hm, I don’t really know how to end this message, but I’m sure you understand what I meant.”
Penelope is crying so much that she can barely speak. It gets worse when she sees you sitting back next to her. It takes you time to understand his words and what they mean.
“Penelope?” Reid asks, breathless. “Are you still here?”
“Y-yeah. I promise to send it to your mom if–” she tries to say. “D-Do you need anything else Reid?”
“Yes. Hm, another message, please. For Y/N,” he requests shyly. “Send her only if I’m, hm, not here anymore. Ok? Like my mom.”
“Ok… It's recording,” she affirms, looking at you, her cheeks impossibly wet.
“Hi, Y/N. Hm, if you have this message, I guess I’m not here anymore. First, I wanted to tell you I’m sorry about that morning. I-I panicked and my answer was the worst. I was surprised, but the truth is I was–I’m jealous of your pet. It’s childish, stupid, and selfish, I know. I just wanted to spend every Friday evening with you. Hm, not only Friday if you want to tell the truth. Oh I’m so stupid, I should have told you everything from the start and I’m here, suffocating…”
He coughs several times, trying to catch his breath. After a clearing throat, he continues more calmly.
“What I wanted to say is that I love you. I truly love you… I loved every time we spent together, and I wish I’d have some more… I– Oh sorry, Morgan calls me. We can stop here Penelope. Thank you very much for that.”
Reid took his time speaking, coughing a few times before cutting the message short. Whether it's you or Penelope, you're both speechless after what you've just heard. Under other circumstances, you would have laughed and jumped for joy, but now you can barely breathe.
Penelope tries to speak but anything she could say would comfort you. You need to get out of her office, but you still can’t go out, so you only walk to your desk. Penelope lets you go and JJ looks at you from the meeting room, understanding you know about Reid now.
It’s not the time or the place to break down so, as if nothing happened, you sit on your chair and open your mailbox. At least, now you have something to take your mind off Reid…
.
Minutes feel like hours, and hours like days. When the unsub is caught, it’s easy to guess. Everyone is smiling, celebrating, or calling their family.
You already called a friend earlier, telling her you have too much work to do and you don’t know when you’d go home. And of course, you tried to call Reid, but he didn’t answer. Understandable, but still worrying.
A light hand on your shoulder made you jump while you were finishing your last request. JJ is smiling at you, her bag on her shoulder, ready to go home.
“He is fine. Morgan has just told us he will make it. He is waiting for him to wake up at the hospital,” she explains, taking her hand back. “You can go home now.”
“I see, thank you for telling me. Can I go see him? Hm, am I allowed?” you ask, your voice hard to find after not having used it for a long time.
“Of course, you are.”
Once JJ tells you all the details, you run to your car. Having left later than usual, you are surprised to see the traffic flowing smoothly. Are you ready to see him? What will you say to him first when you see him?
.
Hospitals aren't your thing, but that's the case for everyone, isn't it? His chamber is easy to find after you ask for him. Reid is already awake, speaking with Morgan sitting on a chair next to his bed. He looks weak and tired ; well, like someone who almost died.
Yet, they look like they are having fun, laughing about something you can’t hear from where you are. Standing far enough away so that his door doesn't open automatically, you hesitate, but as it’s a transparent door, they both eventually notice you.
Reid loses his smile when he sees you, you’re holding your bag strongly and staring at him. He knows you're really close to bursting into tears. You've only cried a very few times in front of him, but he knows how to recognize the signs. As for Morgan, he keeps his smile as he raises up.
“Queen of forms…” he says, the tone of his voice sounding like a reverence, as the door opens. “I have to go. Can you take care of him instead of me?”
“Oh, I didn’t know you had to go–” Reid starts but nobody listens to him.
One only nod from you makes Morgan chuckle. Without waiting, he takes his things before walking closer to Reid to tell him to rest and go back to work only when he can.
Once Morgan is gone, you still hesitate to enter the room. You’re stupidly standing in front of the open door. It’s only when Reid timidly calls you by your first name that you dare to join him.
Up close, he looks even worse, laying down on a medical bed, wearing only a hospital gown. His pale complexion accentuates his dark circles. You put your bag on a chair and walk to the bed. It’s very hard not to cry, but you want to talk first.
“Are you hurt? Do you need me to call someone?” you firstly ask, looking at his body more than himself.
“No. I’m fine. To tell the truth, they give me so many medicines that it’s hard to stay awake,” he explains, looking you in the eyes.
“Oh, I see. Good thing. I-I mean–”
When you hear him laughing at your panic, you can’t help but smile. And then you burst into tears, trying to speak at the same time.
“I was so scared! Only Penelope told me about you! I was so scared we would end with this stupid quarrel… I-I’m sorry. I–” you try to say until he takes your hand.
“I’m fine, and I was scared too,” he says, unable to hide his smile despite what happened to him today.
His smile is the total opposite of your condition. He knows that when you start crying, it’s impossible to stop you, so he waits until you calm down to talk again.
“We’ll talk about this another day, okay?” he asks, stroking your hand without even noticing it, looking at you with puppy eyes.
“Whatever you want. You need to rest anyway. Are you sure you don’t need something?” you answer, wiping your eyes away with your free hand.
“Hm, jello?” he tries.
“Jello?” you chuckle. “Ok. I’ll be quick. Stay here.”
Glad to find you back, smiling and joking, he looks at you leaving his chamber with the biggest smile he ever had, hoping that no nurse will come and take his temperature now, with his red cheeks burning his face.
That day, you stayed with him for hours, talking about anything and everything, except your recent visit to the shelter. Then, you visit him almost everyday after work, it’s on the way home anyway.
.
Being a doctor has a lot of privileges, and leaving the hospital earlier seems to be one of them. Reid could go home only a week after he almost died. It should be forbidden. You were against it, but as you’re not a doctor, nobody listened to you.
An ambulance could have brought Reid home, but since you proposed yourself, he accepted. He wants to make up for lost time as much as possible. So the next Friday, you take the afternoon off and help him.
As soon as you park, you take his bags, even though he grumbles “I can carry my bags, you know!”. His place is still the same. Same mess, same smell of books and coffee. You haven't been here for weeks and you've missed it desperately.
While Spencer is serving two glasses of water, you put his bags next to the couch, then join him.
“I was thinking, hm, would you stay here a little?” Spencer starts in a hesitating tone. “You can leave whenever you want if you need it, but it’s still early. Earlier than if you had left work.”
“I was thinking the same,” you confess, smiling to your glass until you raise your eyes toward him. “But first we need to talk.”
Both agree, you both end up on the couch. Spencer explains the same thing he said in the message you heard with Penelope, except the part about his feeling, and you tell him how hurt you were and apologize about your excessive reaction.
At some point, you are speaking friendly like before. The last thing you hesitate to tell is the message he left for you. You shouldn’t have heard it. You don’t want Penelope to be in trouble. And, yes, honestly you’re scared to speak about it.
“Don’t you need to go home?” Spencer asks eventually when the sun begins to set. “I mean I don’t tell you to leave. I just–”
“It’s ok, Spencer. I get it,” you laugh. “And no, it’s fine. Actually, I was about to ask if you wanted to order something. I'm starting to get hungry.”
Spencer immediately frowns, trying to understand you, but fails. After taking your phone from your pocket, you search for the cutest photos of your pets and show them to him.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you but a friend is going to come over to my place while I'm here. It’s fine for tonight. So, look at my babies! They are so cute! I wanted a female, but those two brothers jumped on me as soon as they saw me,” you start explaining, showing all the photos you took during the last weeks. “They’re adorables! I couldn’t leave the shelter without them, and they’re inseparable so I have no choice but to take them both. And once I was home, they played a lot together. I can leave them alone more than [your former pet’s name]. So, I thought I could still spend my Fridays’ nights here after quickly stopping by my place. Almost like before, you know. What do you think?”
For the first time of his life, Spencer is speechless after a question. He absolutely understands everything you said, but he is blinking with his mouth slightly open, licking his lips sometimes. Waiting for an answer, you slowly put your phone on the coffee table next to the couch.
Apart from his mother, no one has done so much for him. He doesn't know how to react. Well, he really wants to do something, but he's not sure you would agree.
It’s only when Spencer feels your hand squeezing his that he comes back to his senses. At first, he raises his free hand slowly in your face’s direction, then when you tilt your head to meet his hand sooner, he loses all his hesitations. His lips meet yours in no time.
You dreamt about this so many times that you return his kiss naturally. Yet, it feels so much better than your dreams. Softer, sweeter, warmer.
While it starts tenderly, it quickly becomes passionate and breathless. One hand in his soft hair, the other still squeezing his, you enjoy every second of it, as if you'd wake up from dreaming anytime. As for Spencer, as soon as you kiss him back, the hand on your cheek becomes firmer, afraid you would run away anytime. He takes it upon himself not to make you lie down on the cushions behind you, but it's hard to resist.
At some point, you stop the kiss slowly. Moving back far enough to see him, he seems lost in your gaze, waiting for an explanation.
“We should stop…” you murmur even though you want the opposite.
“Oh. Hm. I see. Oh no, consent first! I-I'm sorry! I didn't even ask!” he starts to panic but you stop him quickly.
“No no no ! It's not that! I was–I absolutely consent, but you can't breathe… I mean, you just got out of the hospital. You should rest… And not kissing me like that…”
The last sentence was impossible to say by looking at him at the same time. You look at your hand still in his. Have you ever been this hot in your life? You're sure to be red from head to toe.
Speaking of hand, his fingers are caressing your cheeks tenderly now. Taking your courage in both hands, you eventually look at him. He is still quiet, waiting for more explanation while you thought it was enough. How can he be so attractive after spending a week in the hospital?
“You should rest, Spencer. But I can stay for dinner if you need,” you suggest, smiling shyly.
“Yes, I need you!” he hurries to say a little too loud with a smile.
Both smiling, you eventually take the hand on your cheek and gather his both hands together. You still have something to tell him before it's too late.
“Before ordering food, I need to tell you something,” you start, avoiding his eyes. “Hm, I don’t know how to begin…”
While you search for the best words, Spencer's mind tries to find the rest of your sentence itself, and it's no good for his self-esteem.
“You have a boyfriend,” he affirms since you still haven't talked.
“What? No!” you quickly exclaim.
“You regret the kiss…” he continues, his face more and more shocked as if he doesn't hear you.
“Absolutely not! Do you… regret it?” you ask despite being afraid of his answer.
“No! I loved it! I can't wait to kiss you again! If you didn't stop me, I…” he panics until you squeeze his hands again. “Oh, you don't like Doctor Who and you don't dare to tell me.”
“Can you stop for two seconds Doctor Reid Spencer? I'm wearing your Doctor Who t-shirt under my jacket right now! I just wanted to tell you that I heard the message you asked Penelope to record when you were locked in the room with the Anthrax. I just arrived just before you asked Penelope. I didn't mean to listen to it, but I couldn’t leave! I was so afraid of losing you! I–I…”
“It’s fine. I understand. I'm here, and alive,” he softly says, stopping you to remember painful memories. “And it's okay if you heard it. It was for you actually. So, alright, hm, you know how I feel about you, hm? Well, I didn't plan to tell you this right away… I'd understand if you–”
“I love you too…”
It was a murmur but Spencer heard it. Oh yes, he did. He heard it very well. No place for doubt. He is so overwhelmed with joy that he doesn't know what to do right now. Yet, he finally remembers how to speak.
“Can I kiss you? I promise to breathe!”
How could you resist before his cute, ecstatic tone? You move so fast that your lips find his before he can see it. Of course, Spencer returns your kiss in no time. For your second kiss, you both take your time, enjoying every second of the kiss. Yet, as promised, Spencer reluctantly stops the kiss, breathing with difficulty.
“I think I’ll also need you for breakfast,” he tries, hoping you will understand what he meant.
“About this, I was thinking. Do you want to go to my place for breakfast? I have everything to make breakfast for a hungry hobbit! And you can meet the new boys…”
You weren’t sure if he’d accept, but after a soft kiss he says, “I can wait for tomorrow.” With a big smile, you kiss him again. Dinner can wait a little, right?
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