the man behind the glass
spencer watches you touch yourself through a surveillance feed. he gives in to the urge to do the same
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pairing: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, afab reader, perv!reid voyeurism, masturbation (m), masturbation (f), surveillance kink, fucked up power dynamics, unethical conduct, dubiously consensual context, reader is a prisoner bc she girl bossed too hard and hacked spencer’s systems, obsessive themes, post-orgasm guilt, morally gray spencer reid, dark themes, shy reader is ooc wc: 1.6k
Spencer Reid stands alone in the surveillance chamber. Though to use the word stand feels insufficient.
It’s more akin to rooted. He’s sure something had grown through his feet and latched to the cement, tethered to the sound of the servers and electric breath of the monitors.
He really, truly hadn’t meant to stay this long and he repeated that lie like a mantra, as though repetition might transmute it into truth.
But the hours had collapsed into a thick syrup of static and blue-glow, stretching and shrinking in ways that made time unreliable.
You had invaded his mind. You who hacked into the ministry of intelligence’s system, into his system.
It was a flawless breach. And that, somehow, had offended him more than the act itself.
No one got that far without catching his attention. And he wanted to see the face of the person who thought they could out-think him.
He wanted to destroy them. Or, at the very least, arrest them.
And when he did… he stopped being angry. Because you didn’t fit the image of a hacker. You fit the image of a fucking problem. A beautiful one. And he’s always been drawn to those.
He lowers himself into the chair before the monitors, its plastic frame offering no illusion of comfort, only a screech of protest and the stab of hard edges against muscle.
Good. Let it hurt. Let it bruise. Maybe then he’d stop thinking.
But the pain does nothing to silence the mess between his ears.
Calloused palms drag down the line of his trousers before stilling on his knees. Twitching. Moving again. It was like trying to plug a leak with damp paper.
On the screen, you turn over on the cot again. A slow and anxious coil that peeled the blanket from your hip to reveal that your standard-issue shirt had ridden up baring a sliver of skin across your midsection.
Your left hand moves then, fingers skimming your sternum, then to the plane of your stomach before skating lower, hovering just above your waistband.
Spencer is sure he can feel the blood rush to his ears. It makes him dizzy.
Oh. You aren’t asleep. You’re touching yourself.
His body answers that call without input, cock hardening to prod against the confines of his slacks. He hates that part the most. The lack of deliberation. How out of control he suddenly feels.
He can’t see everything he’d like to, the camera angle cuts him off at the most crucial juncture, but it hardly mattered.
The tightening of your thighs fill in the gaps. So does the movement of your wrist.
From a cognitive standpoint, the lack of visual confirmation should have created distance, allowed uncertainty.
Instead, it does the opposite. Ambiguity forcing emergent. His mind taking the abscene as an invitation and supplying the rest.
This was the moment. The clean exit. He identifies it instantly, the same way he identifies pressure points in regimes and fault lines in men who thought themselves immune.
Stand up. Leave. Terminate the feed. That’s what he needs to do.
Because Spencer Reid does not do reckless things. That was a fact, corroborated by years of spotless internal reviews and a reputation that bordered on asceticism.
He had charted the psychology of power abuse across continents, watched the same story repeat under different flags and languages. It always began like this. Rationalization. The insistence that this was different.
And it wasn’t. He knew that too. This was a hard turn. A decision.
He makes the wrong one anyway, hand dropping to palm himself through his pants.
The irony didn’t escape him. The expert, finally inserting himself into his own cautionary tale.
He hisses under his breath as the contact detonates through him. Pleasure seems to flare so fast it feels violent. Most things in his life are.
Muscle overrules intellect here, thighs scooting further down the chair as he grits his teeth.
He’s disgusting. Worthless. A disgrace to his country.
To push these thoughts away, he does what he does best — searches for academic distance, for language that could sterilize the act.
Pressure release. Somatic regulation. Stress mitigation.
None of it held. Not that he expected it to.
“Fuck,” slips out as he squeezes his eye shut. He’s fully conscious of how transparent he is, and how little it matters now that his body has committed.
He watches as you ease your pants down inch by inch until they collapse around your knees, rendered useless and forgotten.
What remains, the thin barrier of your underwear, is already darkened at the center. Spencer’s mouth floods at the sight, tongue pressing against his teeth like he wants out.
You aren’t polished by any means. Hips bearing stretch marks, silvery seams where your body has expanded and settled and lived. Places where you aren’t smooth or symmetrical or curated for consumption.
But he wants to do just that — consume. He wants his mouth there, wants to learn you with it, to drag his tongue along every uneven spot like he was memorizing terrain.
He bets you’d taste sweet. Knows it with every fiber of his very being.
And he barley even fucking knows you. Limited to interactions in interrogation rooms with brutal lighting, and you leaning forward in the chair, a fetal thing, spitting curses and saliva alike, trying your hardest to rake your nails down his face.
He remembers how the guard hauled you back and he also remembers thinking, dimly, that it was a shame you hadn’t reached him.
He would have quite liked the marks of you scarring him for eternity.
Spencer reaches for his zipper before pausing, eyes flicking to the locked door like it might suddenly grow a conscience and open itself out of spite.
It didn’t. The room stays sealed and complicit.
So he finishes the motion, allowing his length to spring free as he spits into his palm.
He imagines your fiery spit instead, imagines you kneeling before him, imagines your mouth shaping around him instead of this ugly substitute.
It’s these thoughts that guide him to wrap a hand around himself. His cock flushed deep red with veins standing at attention, puffy and angry, giving the illusion he’s overfilled.
He imagines he is, that if he doesn’t move quickly enough he might burst.
You don’t stop. You must know that there’s a slight chance someone could be watching, the cameras in each corner not necessarily hidden.
But maybe that’s alluded you or maybe you simply don’t care, egged on by fourteen days of pent up desire.
If anything, your movements seem to grow more assured, pointer and middle finger working to massage at your clit through your green underwear.
His new favorite color.
He has a sickly urge to take control. Not out of kindness or even curiosity, but because he thinks that your body could be capable of so much more if guided properly.
If you had someone as dedicated as him to attend to you. He pictures making you come once, then twice, then three times, the until you were writhing and pushing against him, begging him to stop.
He can feel his breathing start to roughen, chest rising too fast and shallow, as if his body is sprinting despite the fact he’s sitting still.
He drags his thumb wetly over his throbbing tip, bracing against the urge to outright moan.
Your fingers suddenly hook into the waistband of those same green panties and pull down.
His muscles lock, every nerve practically screaming as the footage finally gives him the view he’s been waiting for. It’s distorted by surveillance static, but it’s enough. More than enough.
He’s a dog in heat.
You’re bare now. Completely open. Pussy gleaming with slick smeared between your thighs, leaking down soft skin.
His gasping breath breaks on a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a laugh.
Shit. He’s never see a cunt so delectable to look at. Ruinously so.
He desperately, now more than ever, wants a reality where you’re beneath him, responding to him, where he can slide his cock inside you and stay there.
He wants to hear you say his name, to whimper it, to scream it.
Need crests fast inside him, an all-burning sensation that feels like walking bare foot on burning asphalt.
He wishes he could hear you, wishes he could hear the sweet sound you make as you push two fingers inside yourself.
You pump steadily, wrist flexing, and Spencer’s own hand stutters around his length for a half second before locking into rhythm again, trying — fighting — to sync with your pace.
It’s a hard thing to do because you’re so sloppy with it, twitching against the cot, rutting down on yourself with no real goal. Other than the one that involves you releasing weeks of unreleased sexual tension.
How cruel must he be to never had pictured what that must feel like. He fists himself nearly every night, lately to the imagine of you.
You poor thing being deprived of one of the human’s most basic instinct.
He’ll make it up to you one day, he’ll make sure of it.
His hips buck against his hand. He’s so close it physically fucking hurts. But he wants to watch you fall apart first. He needs it.
And when you finally do, he finds himself praising to a god he surely doesn’t believe in.
Your back arches off the cot, a sharp intake of breath tearing through your chest like it’s been knocked loose. A stray tear kisses the right side of your cheek as your thighs tremble and release.
Whatever sound you make is smothered by the feed. And as much as he wants to hear it, he feels it all the same, as if he reverberates inside him.
And then he’s gone too.
His orgasm crashing through him like a dam breaking loose, all pressure and flood and overwhelm, thick of cum soiling his hands, the floor, his pants.
Spencer’s body slumps back into the chair, oxygen suddenly feeling harder to pull in and push out as the sensation drains away. It leaves him feeling hollowed out.
His hand feels foreign now and he drops it into his lap like it belongs to someone else.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Jesus Christ, he thinks. What the hell did I just do?
He doesn’t have time to examine his more-than-questionable actions too closely because suddenly you’re opening your eyes again, sitting up.
Slow and serpentine. And then you smile.
You roll onto your back, legs still parted, and tilt your head toward the nearest corner where the camera’s light surely flickers on and off.
“Hope you enjoyed the show, Doctor,” you say. “The next one won’t be free.”
this fic was part of my 6k celebration: maria's internal affairs
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