autistic, 29, I write smut MDNI (pls read tags), chronically ill, blue-haired they/them may be subject to my other hyperfixations such as: MLP, Warrior Cats, alt music ect.
spencer reid who starts annotating the books he gifts you when he noticed how you'd read the books in his apartment that he annotated himself. spencer reid who reads for you some nights when you have trouble sleeping.
spencer reid who remembers almost everything for you. dinner reservations, important dates, doctors appointments, you name it.
spencer reid who does an unmeasurable amount of research on things he knows you like, just so he can talk to you about it and spew all the random knowledge he had aquired (all in the hopes of impressing you)
spencer reid who was so reserved at first that you thought he didn't even like you. he warmed up to you eventually, and it took him even longer to finally ask you out, but it was only thanks to penelope's insistence that you liked him as well.
spencer reid who is the most thoughtful person you've been with. he learns the way you like certain things like your coffee, for example, and caters to your liking because he likes seeing you smile when you take a sip, and it's exactly how you like it.
spencer reid who, despite his aversion to technology, tries to stay in contact with you when he's away on cases. he splurges on a new phone and regularly texts you (but he texts like an old man, let's be real)
summary - spencer opens up about having a future with you that he never imagined he would have.
word count - 1.1k
content warning - pure fluff, mentions of having kids in the future
The late morning sunlight drifted through the windows, casting long, golden shadows across the crisp, tangled sheets. The room was filled with the warm, quiet hush that always followed the intense passion. The sheets were low around your hips, the soft cotton still warm against your flushed and tender skin. Spencer lay on his side, his long arm draped over your waist, his fingers drawing idle patterns along the curve of your spine, his movements subconscious. Your head was tucked under his chin, your breath fanning across the sensitive skin of his neck, your forehead against his collarbone.
He was quiet, not in the way that he was usually quiet, this silence was something more profound. His mind was still spinning in its usual break-neck rapid speed, only this time he wasn’t filing through criminal profiles, statistical anomalies, or geographical mapping models. This time, he was thinking about dirt.
A small patch of earth far away from the BAU, the dark interrogation rooms, the air in the cabin of the jet, away from the spilled blood and broken spirits. Something that was rich enough to grow things, something that he could tend to, use his fingers for something gentle instead of wrapped around the trigger. Spencer never let himself dream of a life, something beyond cold probability. He knew the numbers like the back of his hand, the odds of passing on his mother’s illness, the average lifespan of an agent in a behavioral analysis unit, the mathematical improbability of finding someone who could see every broken, hyper-fixated piece of him and choose to stay anyway. He had calculated his future down to a lonely zero. He had accepted it.
Then he met you. Or rather, he bumped into you on a crisp autumn morning outside the library. There was never anyone there earlier than him, so when he had pushed open the heavy, oak double doors, and walked smack-bang into you, spilling your coffee onto the linoleum floor. Somewhere through panicked apologies and using his scarf to wipe the spilled drink from your shoes, he had offered to buy you a replacement. You hadn’t left his side since.
He shifted slightly, pressing his lips into the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your honey shampoo, the faint trace of sweat on your glistening skin, and something so comfortingly you underneath it all. He pictured a house, not a white brick, modern house, but an old, weathered cottage, somewhere deep in the countryside, surrounded by open air and trees that turned auburn when the weather turned. It would have a porch, something that wrapped around the side of the house, and a swing that creaked under his weight. He would spend his weekends with his long legs stretched out, reading his way through a stack of vintage paperbacks, with you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder and your hands curled around a steaming mug of tea.
A lump formed in his throat, the feeling not brought on by fear, but by something he never dared to allow himself before now. Hope.
He imagined a little girl with your laugh, or a boy who had a habit of talking too fast when he was excited. He saw them running down a long hallway lined with mis-matched bookshelves and family photos in clashing frames, barefoot with wild hair. He pictured teaching them to play chess in the kitchen, carefully explaining the opening moves while you watched from the doorway with that affectionate smile you always gave him when he got overly passionate. He imagined waking up in the middle of the night not to the jarring, dread-inducing ring of a bureau phone calling him to a crime scene, but to the gentle pitter-patter of small feet seeking comfort from a thunderstorm. He would protect them. He would protect you. He would spend every waking breath ensuring that the dark, jagged world he spent his days fighting never touched a single hair on any of your heads.
“Spence,” your voice was soft, bringing him back to the moment as you lifted your head out from where it had been tucked against his chest, your gaze meeting his in the dewy morning light. “You’re thinking.”
He smiled, his mouth curving softly as his fingers stilled against your lower back. “I am,” he replied simply, his fingers moving to gently brush a stray hair away from your face before brushing lightly down your cheek. “I’m calculating.”
“You always are,” a sleepy smile spread across your face. “What are the odds this time, Dr. Reid?”
He shifted, letting out a breathy laugh as he rolled onto his back to stare up at the dark beams of the ceiling, a quirk you noticed when he was saying something hard for him to admit, something he was terrified of being judged for. “I used to think a life, a real one, with a small house with too many books, kids who trailed mud in from the garden and waking up…” He swallowed, before turning to face you again, his eyes glistening in the early morning glow. “Waking up like this every morning for the rest of my life. I used to think it was an impossibility for me.” He admitted, his voice dropping into a confessional whisper. “I thought it wasn’t meant for me. But when I’m with you… I don’t care about the odds anymore. I just want to build that life with you.”
You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of his morning stubble under your palm. You kissed him softly, a slow, deep press of lips that tasted like promise and quiet mornings. When you pulled back, your eyes locked onto his, steady and full of an unwavering certainty that settled the restless, brilliant mind of Spencer Reid once and for all. “How many?” You asked softly.
Spencer shrugged, rolling to lay his arm over your waist again, his fingers resuming their lazy patterns across your spine. “One or two.” He murmured. “I wouldn’t want them to be lonely.”
“Of course not.” You smiled, resting your forehead against his. “And they could play chess together that way.”
He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his nose scrunching slightly. His heart bloomed at the display of you knowing him so well, that you knew what he was thinking without him having to verbalise it. “Yeah. Exactly.” He agreed, his voice gentle.
“Better get practicing then.” You murmured, ducking your head to press your lips against his neck.
“Again?” He chuckled softly, but the sigh that fell from his lips, and his hand curling around your hip let you know that he was more than happy to practice. As many times as you would like.
based on this request! sorry it took so long I was doing too much research into reverse engineering and data mining. I know it doesn't matter but it matters to me!
summary - Spencer Reid was used to being the baseline for intelligence, from childhood to his position in the BAU. Then you arrived, with your brain working in pure hyper-logical abstractions. Penelope has been counting down the days until you both admit your're not fighting. You're flirting. Apparantley, all it takes is being cooped up in your apartment tracing a serial stalker in the heat of the server towers to finally break you.
word count - 6k (elley stfu challenge)
content warnings - academic? rivals-lovers, bau tech analyst!reader, angst, smut, begging? kinda?, oral f!receiving, unprotected p in v, spencer is a love maker who eats. thats all i'll say.
Penelope Garcia’s office was a sanctuary of neon plushies, rainbow desk accessories, and the soothing hum of four custom-built tower rigs processing data at terrifying speeds. For anyone else, the room was a sensory overload, but for you, it was home. Joining the BAU’s technical analysis unit three years ago had meant stepping into an arena where lives hung on the speed of a keystroke, and in Penelope, you found both a mentor and a soulmate in mind and spirit. The BAU team had expected a clash, an argument over equipment or software systems. Instead, Penelope had wrapped you in an embrace that smelled of cookie-dough and felt like coming home. You two had forged an ironclad bond over midnight espresso runs, sharing secret encryption routines, and holding a joint, fiercely guarded reign over the FBI’s digital nervous system.
Where Penelope brought intuitive brilliance and unmatched data-mining flair, you brought high-level architecture, low-level reverse engineering, and a talent for dismantling complex malware that bordered on art. This wasn’t just a colleagues-getting-along scenario, Penelope became the person you could confide in, the person you could let your guard down around, letting her soft, bubbly personality shave inches off the walls you'd built up around yourself. She took you shopping, lunch dates, trips to the movies. Penelope Garcia was your best friend. Together, you were invincible. Except for one glaring, tall, brown-eyed variable in a sweater vest. Dr. Spencer Reid.
The rivalry hadn't been intentional, at least, not at first. Spencer was accustomed to being the indisputable intellect in every room he entered. With three doctorates, a speed-reading capability of twenty thousand words per minute, and an eidetic memory that cataloged everything from obscure 18th-century medical journals to micro-facial expressions, he was used to setting the baseline for intelligence.
Then you arrived.
While Spencer held absolute dominion over historical anomalies, chemical structures, and behavioral geography, your mind operated on a parallel level of pure, hyper-logical abstractions. You didn't just write code, you thought in logic gates, seeing the underlying lattice of human interactions mapped out like network protocols. The first time you casually corrected his offhand remark about quantum cryptography algorithms during a briefing, firing back with a precise mathematical proof before he could even blink, the air in the glass conference room had instantly turned electric. From that day on, an unwritten war of wits was declared. To the rest of the team, it looked like classic friction. Penelope would watch from behind her desk, wincing and giggling as the two of you traded sharp, lightning-fast banter over coffee in the breakroom. Spencer would tilt his chin, his long fingers fidgeting with his leather messenger bag strap, trying to maneuver you into a corner with obscure historical analogies. You would simply lean back, cross your arms, and dismantle his logic with a surgical, digital-age precision that left him momentarily speechless, his lips parting in startled frustration.
What nobody else saw, and what Spencer refused to admit even to himself, was how profoundly that frustration turned him inside out.
Spencer wasn't used to being challenged, and part of his defensive pride hated the way you could make his pulse spike with a single sarcastic counterpoint. But deeper down, in a place he barely dared to acknowledge, it was intoxicating. He found himself subtly lingering near your desk just to watch your fingers fly across a mechanical keyboard. He mesmerised himself with the sharp, focused gleam in your eyes when you solved a complex decryption puzzle. Your brilliance wasn't theoretical, it was exhilarating to witness. Watching your mind work gave him a physical rush that had heat building under his collar, making his tie feel entirely too tight. And you weren't immune, either. Behind your cool, unimpressed exterior, every glance from those intense, soulful brown eyes set your nerves on fire. You loved pushing his buttons precisely because making Dr. Spencer Reid lose his composure was the ultimate high.
–
"I'm just saying, the man has an internal motherboard that runs on being infuriating," you muttered, leaning back in the plush, velvet swivel chair Garcia had dragged into the office specifically for you. You spun a sleek silver flash drive between your knuckles with practiced agility, a nervous tic you’d picked up back when you were reverse-engineering black-hat malware in damp basement apartments.
Penelope wheeled her own chair over, a half-eaten strawberry donut held mid-air. Her cat-eye glasses slid down the bridge of her nose as she looked at you over the rims, her lips twitching with suppressed glee.
"Sweetheart, buttercup, my absolute favorite digital goddess... you are mistaking smugness for unmitigated panic," Penelope declared, pointing the donut at you for emphasis. "Spencer Reid has had a monopoly on being the smartest boy in the room since he was twelve years old. Then you stroll in here with your complete refusal to bow down to his historical digressions, and his brain literally short-circuits."
"He tried to lecture me on network topology during the briefing this morning, Pen," you sighed, running a hand over your face. "He brought up the historical invention of the ARPANET in 1969 to make a point about subverting firewall protocols. In 1969! I had to sit there and watch him tilt his chin up with that annoying little smirk he gets when he thinks he’s winning an argument."
"And what did you do?" Penelope asked, leaning in, her eyes wide with theatrical delight.
"I pulled up the target's routing table, bypassed the local node in four lines of Python script while he was mid-sentence, and asked him if 1969 had an answer for dynamic port-hopping."
Penelope gasped, clapping her hands together with a sound like a small firecracker. "Oh, you are beautiful. Please tell me he did the thing with his eyes."
You paused, the flash drive freezing between your fingers. "What thing?"
"The blink," Penelope said softly, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "The fast, double-blink where he swallows too hard, his collar suddenly looks two sizes too small, and he stares at your mouth for three full seconds like he’s trying to solve a calculus equation with his tongue."
A hot, prickling flush climbed up the back of your neck, spreading toward your ears. You swiveled your chair away, staring intently at the wall of live traffic monitors. "He does not do that."
"He does it every single time you open your mouth, honey-bee," Penelope countered gently, her tone shifting from playful to deeply perceptive. She reached out, resting a soft, ring-covered hand over your knuckles. "And you know what's even more interesting? You match his energy word for word. You don't just put him in his place, you light up like a flare the moment he challenges you. You two aren't fighting. You're flirting at two hundred gigabits per second."
"It's not flirting," you insisted, though your voice lacked conviction.
–
The rivalry reached its boiling point on a rainy Tuesday evening when a high-profile case hit a wall. A serial stalker targeting tech executives was utilising an old, custom-built UNIX command system wrapped in layered, air-gapped encryption. The unsub was taunting the BAU through local servers, and the timer was running out on his next victim.
"We need real-time decryption and behavioral profiling running side-by-side," Hotch announced in the bullpen, his tone clipped. "Garcia, stay on the local network tracing. Reid, take the raw server dumps and go with her. Work wherever you can set up a secure secondary node without office distractions."
Penelope shot you a wide-eyed look over her glasses that practically screamed good luck, but you merely gathered your hard drives and grabbed your coat.
"My place," you said coolly, glancing over at Spencer, who was nervously adjusting his shoulder strap. "I have a dual-fiber connection and an isolated sandbox environment set up in my study."
Spencer cleared his throat, his eyes darting to yours before instantly fixing on the floor. "That... Yeah. Yeah, okay."
–
Spencer stood at the threshold of your apartment, his long fingers fidgeting with the leather strap of his satchel as he peered around the space you occupied.. The orange glow of the setting sun peeked through the windowpanes of your apartment. The space was warm, dimly lit by amber floor lamps, lined with tall bookshelves, and anchored by a large oak desk boasting two high-resolution monitors. The scent of the lilies on your windowsill, old paper, and fresh-brewed dark roast coffee filled the air.
You brushed past him, the scent of your perfume infiltrating his senses, and headed towards the desk, kicking off your boots underneath the desk to reveal your mis-matched socks. One bright yellow with cartoon vegetables, the other a dark blue with little pigs wrapped in cosy blankets. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop the endearing smile that threatened to spread across his face, there was something so domestic about seeing you wearing Christmas socks in August. “Are you just gonna stand there?” You asked without turning, startling him out of his thoughts as he finally stepped over the doorway, closing the heavy door behind him. He unlaced his leather shoes, and set them neatly by the door, a stark difference to the way you had thrown yours haphazardly. He stepped through the apartment, his own mis-matched socks stepping quietly on the plush rug that lined your living area, and placed his hand on the back of one of the wooden dining chairs to pull it up next to yours.
He couldn't sit still. He had stripped off his sweater vest hours ago, rolling the sleeves of his striped button-down up to his elbows, revealing pale forearms. His tie was loosened at the neck, the top button undone, exposing the hollow of his throat.
Every time he walked past your chair, the hem of his trousers brushed the carpet, and the faint, woodsy scent of him washed over you, distracting you so intensely that you had to re-type the same block of code three times.
"The structural syntax of the unsub's third demand letter doesn't match a standard computer science background," Spencer said suddenly, his voice raspy from hours of disuse. He stopped right beside your desk, leaning one hand against the edge of the dark wood. "Look at the word choice here," he insisted, bending lower, his tone clipped and sharp. His head was right next to yours; a stray lock of his soft brown hair lightly brushed against your temple, making your blood boil and flash hot. "He uses archaic terms, 'transistor,' 'vacuum state.' It’s evocative of mid-20th-century physics engineering. He’s not a modern hacker. You're looking for a digital phantom when he's fundamentally an analog mind.”
His knuckles were brushed against the edge of your mousepad. He was so close you could feel the radiate heat of his body through your sweater.
"I am not looking for a phantom, Spencer. If he were purely analog, he wouldn't be using a zero-day exploit in a legacy kernel to bypass our secondary firewall.” You shoved yourself out of the chair, stepping directly into his personal space, chest to chest, refusing to yield an inch. "You just think you're so good at everything, don't you?"
Spencer's jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. His hazel eyes dilated, turning almost black under the ambient amber light. "I am stating statistical and linguistic facts-"
"No, you're trying to out-think a system you didn't build." you snapped, your breath coming fast and hot, your pulse hammering violently against your throat. "You walk in here with your three doctorates and your twenty thousand words per minute, and you assume that because you can memorise a library, nobody else can see the logic in front of them. You can't stand that there's a domain where you don't hold all the answers."
"That is wildly inaccurate.” Spencer argued, his voice clipped and calm. His breathing was heavy, erratic, his chest heaving under his unbuttoned shirt. "I don't care about being right. I care about the fact that every time I try to give you an analysis, you dismantle it just to prove you can. You push every single button I have.”
"Because you make it so easy." you shot back, tilting your head up, your face mere inches from his, adrenaline and raw, unadulterated attraction pouring through your veins like liquid fire. "You stand there looking down your nose at me, practically begging me to tear your logic apart."
"I am not looking down at you." his voice cracked with the sheer weight of restraint snapping in real-time. He paused, his pulse jumping in his throat as his eyes flicked between yours. "I'm not looking down at you," he repeated, his voice dropping into a harsh, ragged whisper that hit your lips like heat. "I am terrified of how brilliant you are. I lose my train of thought every time you walk into the bullpen. I spend half my briefings agonising over how to make you look at me the way you look at a problem you're about to solve. It drives me out of my mind."
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the lashing rain and the sound of both of your ragged, matching breaths.
"What?" you breathed out, your defensive wall fracturing in an instant, your heart thrashing against your ribs.
He stepped forward, his hands flying to cup your face, bringing his mouth to yours with a speed that shocked your nervous system. His palms were warm, his fingers wrapping around the back of your head, his thumbs flat against your cheeks. His lips were soft despite the intensity radiating off him, slotting between yours with a confidence you weren’t aware he possessed. For one protracted second, your body locked up, your brain struggling to process the shift from the argument, the search for an untraceable stalker, to the prickles at the back of your neck, and the hairs standing on end underneath his touch.
Then you moved, your arms wrapped around the back of his neck as your lips pushed back against his, inhaling deeply as your eyes closed. The warmth from his body intensified when he leaned his hips forward, pressing closer to you until there wasn’t an inch of space left, your hand twisting in his hair as your tongue traced his lower lip. One of his hands dropped to the small of your back, his long fingers pressing against the soft fabric of your shirt to hold you against him as his lips parted to let your tongue between them. His head spun at the taste of your tongue, the earthy taste of your coffee, the fresh mint of your gum, his tongue brushed against yours, every bump and ridge sending a shudder through his entire body. Just as a quiet, shaky moan escaped his throat, your hands landed firm against his chest, shoving him backwards until his hands were ripped from your body. He steadied himself on his feet as he looked at you, his eyes wide with bewilderment, the shock of the rejection making his body numb. “Wha-”
“We can’t do this,” you said, your own chest heaving as you curled your fingers into fists at your sides, begging them not to betray you by reaching for him again. “We’re working.” You stated, your eyes focusing on the wall of green text scrolling across your screen.
Spencer’s eyes didn’t leave your face, the flush creeping across your cheeks and neck, your widened pupils, your pulsing heartbeat in your throat. He swallowed thickly, slowly bending his knees and lowering himself onto the soft, green rug. Your eyes snapped back towards him at the movement, finding him on his knees, his wide, brown eyes locked onto you with a pleading expression that had your heart pounding behind your ribs as if it were about to leap out. “What are y-”
“Please,” his raspy voice cut your sentence short. The air left your lungs in a rapid rush that had your head dizzy. “... I have thought about this for years. Every time you correct me, every time you bite your lip when focusing on your screen, every time your fingers press on your keyboard, I have imagined them on me.” He whispered, his voice laced with desperation. His hand splayed across the plush fabric of the rug, every nerve ending in your body frantic with desire as he moved forward, crawling closer to you. “You said,” he continued as he reached the space just in front of you, his eyes never leaving yours. “That I think I’m good at everything.” His lips were inches from your stomach as he knelt back, his breath hot and sharp through the fabric of your shirt, sending a shiver up your spine as you looked down at him. “Please… let me show you… I’ll be good. I’ll be so, so good…”
“Spencer…” His name left your tongue breathily, his hands were balled into fists on his thighs, not touching you, not without permission. His brown eyes were blown wide, looking up into yours with a fiery heat that betrayed more than just lust. Spencer’s hands uncurled from where they had been tightly shut, lifting them towards you, slowly, gently, giving you the time to tell him to stop. When you didn’t, his palms pressed against the fabric of your shirt, the heat from his hands searing through the cotton. His thumbs pushed the fabric upwards to expose a sliver of skin above the waistband of your trousers, his breath coming rapidly through his nose in bursts that fanned across your skin. Goosebumps pimpled under his touch as your skin flushed. But his eyes stayed on yours as he brought his mouth to your stomach, pressing his lips just above the fabric of your trousers.
Spencer’s head spun as his thumbs pressed firmly into your hips, his lips mouthing at your skin as a soft whine escaped his throat. You moved your hand into his hair, the soft, dark strands tangling around your fingers as he left a trail of burning, fervent kisses across your lower stomach. The contact of your hand in his hair was the catalyst, his hands pressed against your hips until you took a step back, then another, before falling back onto the couch as he surged upwards. His hand cupped your neck as he brought his mouth back to yours pushing you back onto the couch as he settled his body over yours. The kiss was fuelled by his intense desperation as he pulled your thigh up around his hip. Your hands tangled in his hair, your lips moved against his frantically as his free hand moved under your shirt, the feeling of your soft skin under his fingertips sending sparks straight through his body.
His lips pulled away, his nose brushing your jaw as he moved them to your neck, his breath against your goose-pimpled skin sent a shiver down your spine, your back arching up to press your chest flush against his. Your hands moved to his tie, pulling the loose knot until it came undone as he continued his path of kisses down your neck. Your fingers clawed at the buttons of his shirt pulling them open with frenzied movements as his hand pushed your shirt up. Spencer pulled back long enough to strip the fabric from his shoulders as you sat up to discard your own shirt. His eyes dropped to your exposed chest, his irises tracing the white lace of your bra that framed your breasts, his breath caught audibly as his hand settled back on the curve of your waist, his thumb stroking against your ribs, just underneath the mesh panelling of your bra that wrapped around your torso.
Spencer leaned back over you, bringing his lips to yours as his hand settled gently over your breast, his thumb tracing the lace reverently. “Is this okay?” he asked, his voice a raspy, breathless whisper across your chest.
“Mhm,” you hummed, your fingers tracing the bare, soft skin of his shoulders gasping softly against his neck as he squeezed his hand into the plush of your breast and rolled his hips in a coordinated movement. Your nails scraped his smooth skin, pressing your lips against his neck, gasping as his fingers curled over the edge of the lace pulling it away from your skin as his lips trailed down towards your nipple. He squeezed again as his tongue brushed over the peaked bud, sucking it into his mouth with a soft groan. Your back arched as your fingers tangled in the back of his hair, his tongue flicking out to taste your sensitive skin. “Spence…”
“Can I?” he murmured, his lips trailing down your sternum, across the plane of your stomach, down towards the waistband of your pants. His trembling fingers pulling open the clasp as his eyes flicked up to yours searching for any sign of hesitance. You didn’t answer him verbally, just by lifting your hips up from the couch to give him the room to pull them down over your hips. The fabric dragged down your legs, Spencer’s hands were gentle as he undressed you, his hands dropping the fabric by the end of the couch before slipping down to kneel on the floor, pressing his lips to your inner thigh. With one hand on each of your thighs, he pushed gently, opening your legs to give him the space he needed. His tongue traced the flesh of your thigh as he made his way upwards, his fingers caught the hem of your underwear, lifting the fabric away and pushing it to the side. His breath caught as his eyes flicked to the sight of your glistening pussy, letting an involuntary moan escape his lips as his middle finger traced from your entrance up to your clit, growing slick with your arousal as he moved. The pad of his finger delicately circled the sensitive bud, clouding your thoughts with nothing but the feeling. His lips pressed against your inner thigh as he watched his finger move, feeling the tremors against his mouth, his breath fanning hot and ragged against your skin.
Spencer finally leaned in, his finger moving back down towards your entrance as his lips parted around your clit, closing in a soft kiss. Your eyes closed, a breathy moan leaving your lips as his finger slid inside you, turning his wrist perfectly to find the spot that made your back arch when he curled the digit. Your fingers wrapped around his hair, holding tightly as his tongue dragged over your clit, humming as the taste of you filled his mouth. The sound vibrated through your core, your stomach clenching as his other hand wrapped around your hip firmly, not pinning you down but holding you, his thumb brushing over your hipbone as his tongue flicked against your clit. “Oh, fuck… Spence-” You breathed as his finger and tongue co-ordinated in a way that had your thighs shuddering and your chest heaving.
“That okay?” He hummed against you, barely pulling back from you before leaning back in like a starving man, taking your arching back and fingers curling tighter in his hair as his answer. He flattened his tongue against you, bucking his own hips into the edge of the couch, his cock straining hard against his briefs. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes closed as he focused on you, needing to make you feel good, bring you as much pleasure as he could, his own desires secondary in his mind. His chin was soaked, his saliva mixed with the wetness of your arousal dripped from his face as he sucked your clit gently, his finger moving at a faster pace, not overwhelming, but just enough to have trails of fire burning up your thighs, your stomach clenching.
“Spencer-...” His name, breathy, whispered and shaky as it fell from your lips, went straight down to his cock, the length twitching against the fabric. He moaned in response, his thumb pressing against your hip as you tugged his hair. “Spencer-” you repeated. This time, his eyes let yours, his pupils blown so wide there was barely any of the hazel irises left. “Come here…”
He paused, leaning back slightly, anxiety rocketing through his brain as he ran through all the possibilities of what you were about to say. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked quietly, withdrawing his finger from you and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What?- No, I just want you to fuck me now.” You answered, untangling your fingers from his hair to wrap the side of his neck, your thumb pressing against the jumping pulse under his skin. Spencer didn’t need to be told twice, he practically leaped up, shoving his pants down his legs, and kicking them behind him as he leaned down over you, his mouth finding yours needily, giving you the taste of yourself on his tongue. Your hands smoothed over his shoulders as he planted his hand on the arm of the couch behind your head. You caught his free hand, bringing it between your mouths to press your tongue against his palm, dragging it up towards his fingers, leaving behind a trail of spit. He watched, his chest heaving, his eyes bulging as the sensation of your warm tongue made him gasp, his eyes flicked back up to you as you let go, and he wrapped his slick fingers around his cock.
His wrist moved in slow movements, working himself until the slick of your spit coated his length. His lips parted, keeping his gaze on your face as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, rolling his hips forwards gradually as he sunk into you. Your nails pressed into his shoulders as the length of his cock stretched you, gasping as his hips met yours. His eyes flicked between yours, searching for any sign of discomfort, when he found none, he let himself moan softly, the sensation of your warm, tight heat around him had his blood roaring in his ears. Spencer leaned down until his lips barely grazed yours, his heavy breaths mingling with yours as he pulled his hips back before rolling forwards again, setting a slow pace, every movement deliberate.
Your eyes opened to meet his eyes, the glow of the monitors and the orange lamps cast soft shadows across his face, the deep amber hue glimmering in the soft light. You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek as you moaned, his chest pressed right against yours, sweat glistening his shoulders and forehead as he continued his pace. A strand of his hair fell forwards, tickling your nose as the heat in the living room started to fog the windows. Your fingers brushed it back behind his ear, the tender touch forcing a breathy laugh from his lips. “Thanks,” he whispered.
You pulled his mouth back down against yours, slotting your lips between his, a low moan ripping from your throat as his cock settled deep inside you. His eyebrows furrowed as he kissed you, your fingernails scraped across his shoulders before pushing up into the back of his hair, your leg hooking over his hip. The angle allowed him to push deeper, tearing a groan from his throat as his skin slid against yours. Spencer’s chest heaved as your body clenched around him, the desperate pull of your hands in his hair, and your leg over his hip keeping him inside you like you were drowning in this moment just as much as he was. His fingers curled around the edge of the couch, his knuckles turning white as he struggled to keep his composure, the feeling of you fluttering around him had him seconds away from shattering.
“Fuck, Spence-” You moaned against his lips your back arching, pressing your sweat-slicked chest against his as your stomach clenched. Your brows furrowed as the coil in your core began to unwind, your thighs trembled around his hips, your fingers tugged his hair as you cried out in pleasure, the shockwaves of your orgasm rippling through your body like scorching waves. Spencer whimpered at the feeling, all the muscles in his body locking up as his vision blurred, the sight of you with your head thrown back, the moans falling from your lips, the fluttering around his cock was too much for him to hold on. His resolve shattered, his stomach tensing as your name fell from his lips in a breathy, desperate moan, his release flooding into you deep as he stilled his hips.
Your chest heaved, your fingers uncurled from his hair, releasing the pressure that had been tugging at the brown curls, and came to rest on his shoulders. “Are you okay?” He asked softly, swallowing harshly before opening his eyes to look down at you.
“More than.” You murmured. A slow smile spread across his lips as he leaned down to kiss you again. You inhaled sharply as his lips met yours, your hand sliding up his shoulder to rest on his neck as you moved your lips against his. He pulled back and settled onto you, your skin was slick with sweat, every nerve ending hummed with a delicious, thrumming ache, and your heart was still trying to find its normal rhythm against the rapid, steady thud of his chest against yours.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck as your fingers traced slow, aimless, almost hypnotic patterns over the damp skin of his spine.
"Spencer," you murmured, your voice a gravelly, exhausted rasp as your fingers tangled into the damp brown curls at the back of his neck. "Your hair is soaking wet."
"So is yours," he whispered, shifting slightly. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, hovering right over you. His hazel eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and stripped of his usual intellectual guard, leaving behind a soft intensity that made your breath hitch all over again. He looked down at you, his gaze roaming over your flushed face, his thumb coming up to gently brush a stray, sweat-damp strand of hair away from your forehead. "I... I don't think I've ever lost control like that in my entire life."
"Is the resident genius admitting he lost control?" you teased, though your voice lacked any real bite, your hand sliding down to rest over his damp shoulder blade.
"Completely," Spencer murmured, leaning down to press a soft, slow, lingering kiss to your lips. "And if you bring up statistical averages right now, I might-"
The sharp, high-pitched ring of your cell phone shattered the quiet.
It rang from the dark oak desk across the room, the bright screen lighting up the darkened study, casting sharp white reflections across the floorboards. Both of you froze. Spencer’s head snapped toward the phone, his body instantly tensing over yours. "Is that..."
"It's either Hotch or Garcia," you whispered, sudden panic lacing your voice as the reality of the ongoing case rushed back into the room.
"We left the active trace script running on the secondary sandbox," Spencer said, his analytical mind kicking back into gear with startling speed, even as he lay completely naked on top of you. "If the unsub hit the honeypot node, the system would automatically ping Garcia's main terminal at Quantico."
"We need to answer it," you said, squeezing his shoulder. "Get up."
"Wait- no, don't move," Spencer muttered, his face flushing dark pink as he suddenly realised the physical logistics of the situation. He scrambled back slightly, his long limbs tangling briefly in his discarded trousers on the floor before he managed to untangle himself.
You sat up laughing under your breath at the sheer chaos of it, pulling a throw blanket off the back of the sofa and wrapping it around your chest as you hurried bare-foot across the cool hardwood floor to the ringing phone on the desk. You grabbed it, swallowed hard to clear the scratchiness from your throat, and tapped the answer button.
"Hey, Pen," you said, trying for a tone of professional, crisp efficiency and failing slightly as you leaned against the edge of the desk.
On the other end, the familiar hum of Penelope Garcia’s command station came through the speaker, accompanied by the furious clicking of her keyboard.
"Hey, star shine! Sorry to interrupt the late-night hacker cave vibe," Penelope sang out, though there was a tight edge of stress under her words. "I just got a ping on the encrypted backup channel. The honeypot node you guys set up just caught a trace back to a physical server exchange in Arlington! Did your local script pull the MAC address yet?"
Spencer was suddenly right behind you, completely naked, his hair a mess, sliding his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. He leaned his chin over your blanket-covered shoulder to look at the monitor, his chest pressing against your back as his long arm reached past you to grab the mouse.
You pulled the phone slightly away from your mouth, shooting him a wide-eyed glare that silently yelled stay still.
"Yeah- yeah, Pen," you stammered into the receiver, your heart hammering against your ribs as Spencer’s fingers flew over your mechanical keyboard, pulling up the raw log files. "We... We isolated the exchange loop a little while ago. We were just... verifying the data payload."
"Verifying?" Penelope paused, the keyboard clicking stopping abruptly on her end. Her tone shifted from frantic tech-geek to hyper-perceptive best friend in a fraction of a second. "Why do you sound like you just ran a marathon up three flights of stairs?"
"I don't," you said quickly, pressing your lips together as Spencer leaned even closer, his warm breath fanning across your ear as he typed a single-line terminal command. "It’s just humid in here. The server towers are putting off a lot of heat."
"A lot of heat, huh?" Penelope mused, her voice dropping an octave into pure suspicion. "Is Boy Wonder still there with you?"
Right on cue, Spencer leaned his head down, speaking directly into the microphone of your phone while staring straight at the monitor screen, "Garcia, tell Hotch the target IP is pinned to a physical relay on 4th and Elm. The unsub is using an analog tap on the mainframe."
Silence stretched over the line for two long, agonising seconds.
"Reid?" Penelope said slowly, her brain visibly connecting the dots through the phone speaker. "Why does your voice sound... low? And why are you breathing into her ear?"
Spencer blinked, his mouth opening slightly as he suddenly realised how intimate his positioning sounded. The deep flush returned to his cheeks instantly, spreading down his neck and chest. He looked at you, his brown eyes wide with sudden, sheepish panic.
"I'm... I'm standing next to her, Garcia," Spencer offered lamely, his voice squeaking slightly on the last word.
On the other end of the line, Penelope let out a low, slow gasp that vibrated through the speaker. "Oh. My. God."
"Pen, don't-" you started.
"You two broke the sandbox!" Penelope squealed, a sound of unadulterated triumph bursting through the speaker so loudly Spencer flinched. "I knew it! The hostility! The subverted firewalls! The sexual tension gridlock! Oh, I am hanging up right now before Hotch walks into my office, but I demand a full, unedited system report the moment you two walk into the bullpen tomorrow!"
The line went dead.
You held the silent phone for a second, before slowly turning around in the blanket to face Spencer. He was standing there in nothing but his glasses, his hair sticking up in three different directions, looking equal parts terrified, embarrassed, and completely unbothered by the fact that he was naked. "Do you think she's going to tell the team?" Spencer asked softly, adjusting his glasses with one finger.
"Penelope? No," you smiled, stepping closer to him and wrapping your free arm around his neck, pulling him down toward you. "She's just going to gloat about being right for the next six months."
Spencer let out a quiet, rumbling laugh, his arms wrapping tightly around you, pulling you back against his bare chest. "Well... technically, her predictive behavioral algorithm on our dynamic was statistically accurate-"
"Shut up, Spence," you whispered against his mouth, and kissed him again.
The BAU team from like seasons 3-8 deserved to have happy endings and see each others' milestones. Weddings, relationships, birthdays, retirements, kids, new houses. None of this "barely hearing from them" or "yea they just left idk" no. They were found family and deserved the world.
Summary: Spencer hasn’t had a crush of this magnitude in a while and he’s forgotten how to act. He just can’t keep it together. IQ of 187? Try 60, when you’re in the vicinity. What will happen when his antics leave him stuck with you at Quantico during a case? Silly boy.
Pairing: Perv!Spencer x Fem!Tech Analyst! Reader
Word Count: 4.2K
Now Playing: Picture You- Chappel Roan
Tags/Warnings: MDNI, porn WITH plot, cannon-typical case mentions, sexual content, no use of y/n, Spencer is both pathetic and hopelessly horny/down bad, some mild creepiness on his part, smut, male anatomy described, blow-jobs, reader has at least 1 tattoo, sex-positive reader, blood mentioned, male arousal described, autistic meltdown implied, start of an HR nightmare,
Notes: This was the result of a poll I did and I don't have solid plans for a sequel, I could make this a series or leave it as is. I do have lots of ideas for early seasons sub!reid with hints of pathetic obsession. #sub!reidagenda. Please reblog/like if you enjoy this!
Obsessed was putting it lightly.
Spencer Reid had never experienced the level of mesmerised he was by you. In his 26 years alive, he hadn’t come close.
It was a Wednesday morning, he was supposed to be reading a case file following a usual briefing. But instead, he was opening his phone under the desk, re reading texts from you. His fingers drummed a beat to each word he read, counting how many times you'd replied to him.
Nothing serious, they were mostly about whether he wanted a coffee on the way into the office. And they were in a group chat, not even a single thread. It took a lot of rapid button-pressing to find your responses. Even so, he had to hide a smile. The idea you were addressing him at all was enough to make him forget the rest of the room.
“I want us to have a preliminary understanding of this case before wheels up in an hour, alright?” Hotch's voice sounded in the bullpen, jolting Reid from his memorizing. No one seemed to notice him clicking the screen off and flipping the phone shut.
“Bit of a graphic one isn’t it, unfortunate for my computer screen and the victims, my fine furry friends.” Penelope came in and started handing out pictures. Spencer wasn't paying attention and nearly fumbled the stack.
“I'll just put them here, for your viewing displeasure.” She patted Reid's hand and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
“What, not the tech analyst you expected?” Garcia gave a snort, noticing Reid’s eyes drifting towards the door. Hoping, searching, not for that coffee, but for you.
“No it's not-she was bringing in coffee, that's all. She promised me a frappe.”
“Ohh is your pretty mouth too good for our burnt bean water?” That was Morgan now, of course he had closely followed Garcia. The agent was cradling a steaming coffee cup in a Quantico branded mug.
“I know statistically the more we burn the coffee, the less caffeine it has. Simple science, that's all.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. The problem was that his cardigan over his chair still smelled like your perfume. Sweet and cloying, like cherry mixed with jasmine, it stuck to his nostrils insistently, pulling him back to the time yesterday when you'd brushed into him by accident. That was all it had taken, the briefest touch. He already was absorbed in your every move. Ever since you started here 2 months ago, he has been a man possessed.
"I think you just wanna see the new girl, you don't even care about a fru-fru frappe."
"I resent that!" He protested as the door to the office opened, making him jump. It was just Emily, her face contorted in concentration as she held a file in front of her and walked at the same time. Reid went back to focusing on the clock on his desk, counting seconds under his breath.
In his desk, he had a small box of cookies, from the bakery near his apartment. He’d “accidently” overheard you telling Garcia how much you missed the ones from back home in New Jersey and had spent the night researching. Who knew there were so many types of cookies?
When he’d called the bakery, he’d agreed to pay double for a custom order of butter-based sandwich cookies filled with chocolate and raspberry. They were what most forums and locals online said were common in the area you were from. It made sense, he’d pay you back for the frappe and subtly hand over the cookies. No one had to really see, and they’d all go back to work.
Trying to distract his brain away from the perfumed cardigan, he spun in his chair and glanced towards Garcia’s office, the one you were frequenting while you worked beside her. It was wishful thinking, maybe you’d stop there first and he could sneak a look at your butt. Or the shoes you had on that day. Or he could help you with the drinks, that was useful, right? Anything to make your day easier.
The moment never came. In the rush, Reid assumed the coffees had been left in the kitchen fridge or forgotten about entirely. Sulking, he scrambled to gather his briefcase and left the cardigan, willing to be cold if it brought his brain back from the haze he was in.
“We have six possible victims and the coroner has to get back to us about the others.” That was Rossi, gathering his ducks in a row as he put on his coat.
“Others? Possible?” Emily inquired, speed-walking to keep up with Hotch as the team convened towards the airstrip.
“Yes, well if I may, I think Rossi means those pictures Garcia gave us, we can’t be sure which parts belong to who.” You spoke with careful confidence, not wanting to undermine either agent. More files with photos were in a black briefcase you carried.
“You’re referring to the fact that this unsub is keeping trophies, right? And as a forensic countermeasure, is washing the body parts in acid before shipping them to the authorities.” Reid gestured with his hands as he spoke and walked, his briefcase swinging sideways. It was hard to concentrate when a strand of your hair had come loose from your ponytail.
“So u-u-mm, these pictures, is Garcia nearly-” Clunk. Spencer had over-corrected for his staring and slammed square into the wall while the others turned the corner. You were the closest to him and rushed back to see if he was ok. He wasn’t.
“Did the wall jump out or did you forget it exists?” Smiling, you held out a hand to help him up. When he grabbed it, he put a lot of body weight into it and dug his nails in, one eye half closed.
“I think I banged my temple, I should really get some ice before the inflammatory response sets in.”
“Oh damn, let me see?” Putting down your own brief case, you reached up to push Reid’s hair out of his face, revealing an abrasion right near his left eye as well as a black and blue background forming under it. Any closer, and he’d have bruised his eye socket.
He couldn’t keep still, reacting as if your touch sent electricity through him, causing him to stumble backwards. The idea of anyone touching him unexpectedly was enough to cause panic, but this had him internally boiling over. He could feel his ears burning, his hand tingling where you’d let him grip just seconds ago. The boy had no idea he’d even cut his face. Hotch noticed you both missing and hurried back, his shoes clipping in irritation.
“What part of leaving did you miss? Are you ok or do I need to leave you here?” The BAU head caught the situation just as Reid was recoiling, making his injury look far worse.
“He hit his head, I’m not sure how hard?” Your brow furrowed watching the doctor stumble. Hotch sighed heavily and checked his watch.
“We have to be leaving for Minneapolis now, do you mind taking him back to medical and then you and Garcia can have him stay in the analyst room? The three of you can continue to help remotely.” It was like being asked to take a classmate to the nurses office before a field trip. But you didn’t protest, Hotch seemed fair in his decisions so far.
“What, are you going to make me stay behind while everyone else goes? That’s humiliating!” Reid groaned and went to put his hand to his head, only to wince in pain.
“Garcia and her new trainee won’t mind the company, will you?” Hotch asked hurriedly, gesturing to the landing strip where the plane had started up.
“Nope, not at all, we can let you know if he goes home of course.” You answered immediately. Suddenly Reid shut up, playing with his tie.
“I won’t. I mean. It won’t be necessary to go home, Sir.” The man choked out once he realised you weren't getting on the plane either. Had his thoughts drifted to leaning against you on the way home, while everyone slept? Absolutely. Had they even drifted to how large the bathroom was and if it could mathematically hold the both of you with him on his knees and his fingers inside-" Maybe. But for now, a warmth settled over him at the idea of spending a bit of time with you.
“Good, speak to you soon.” The chief high-tailed it to the plane, leaving you two alone.
After obtaining ice, ibuprofen, and a small gauze, Spencer was lounging in a spare computer chair while you and Garcia worked on the multiple screens she had. He had a bit of a problem though, all of his focus on the case had left the building. He’d memorised the brand of tea you’d brewed, seen you put your hair down and then back up again twice, noticed what types of pens you preferred to chew, and couldn’t hold himself together.
The entire ordeal of being in a dark room with you wasn’t immediately turning him on, but it wasn’t making thoughts of what it felt like to be turned on by you inaccessible. He knew your hands were soft, how would they feel tracing the waistband of his pants, dragging his shirt off his shoulders, gripping his hair while he kissed you with his tongue. It was intoxicating a thought for a man who hadn't been kissed in years.
He swore his head still burned from your touch and not the cut, calling the memory of your features so close to his to the forefront. Putting a hand under his chin, he stared at a neon string of lights on the wall and started tracing your lips in his mind.
He had to do something. You were so close to his thigh, your skirt brushing his leg, as Garcia went through the new evidence the coroner had sent over on the screen.
It should’ve disgusted him, body parts strewn in boxes all over the document, but he wasn’t even looking. He was staring at a hint of a tattoo through your tights, trying to see how far up it went. Reid inched closer towards the edge of his chair, sitting forward so there was less space between you both. It was purely curiosity, he had to investigate your tattoo size or it would keep him up at night. Leaning more, then tilting his head to watch you talk instead, he could feel his mouth going dry just smelling your perfume again.
“So that’s what’s going on!” The moment hit and you gestured excitedly, stepping back to hurry out of the area you were trapped in between Reid and Garcia. As you did, you spun Reid in his chair a bit, the side of your leg hitting his criss-crossed limbs. His eyes went wide and he jolted up.
“I-I that’s great."
"Do you even know what she's talking about, because I couldn't stand to stare at that screen much longer." Penelope was subtly throwing him a bone but he was oblivious.
"I have to go get some water.”
“Here.”
Garcia produced a bottle from an under desk mini-fridge and handed it to him. He reached out and dropped it in his own lap, only making a growing problem worse. Trying to refrain from causing a scene, Reid opened the water bottle and undid his pretzel sitting, putting both feet firmly on the floor and closing his legs. It seemed to work until he tried to drink from the bottle, sputtering all over himself when you came up behind him.
“Isn’t it cozy in here? Almost makes the rest of it bearable.” You spun his chair a bit to turn back towards the case evidence, accidentally brushing the back of his neck.
“Did you just whine? I thought you were used to this creepy-crawly stuff by now, what gives?” Garcia asked. She missed nothing, shooting an annoyed look at Spencer through narrowed eyes. You swore whatever noise he’d made had been more of a..whimper?
“Wait did I hurt you, is your neck hurt too, from earlier?” Concern laced your tone, causing you to kneel down to eye level with Reid. You saw the water droplets dripping down his mouth, his pupils blown out, one hand pushing his hair out of his face before it got wet. You had to hold in a laugh, he looked pathetic.
“No, no, this water is just…really cold.” He squeaked out, curling into the chair. Penelope looked over just long enough to snicker a bit.
“You two having fun over there?”
“I think Reid needs a towel.”
“I'm fine-e, really.” Starting to wipe his face with his sleeve, he sat up, revealing his cheeks down to his collar had turned crimson.
“I'm going to turn back around now, and you two better not canoodle in my office. That's what supply closets are for.” Raising a tentative eyebrow, Garcia patted you on the forearm and stared Reid down as he still struggled to speak.
“Professionalism, I promise.” Fixing your mentor with a solemn look and nodding, you ignored Reid’s state of being to look back at the computer.
Without getting up, Spencer started rolling his chair towards the door using his feet. He had to get out of this tiny office before the idea of being touched by you in the dark closed in on him entirely. His khaki slacks were tightening in an area so quickly that if he stood up, he'd embarrass himself irrevocably. The chair wheels squealed and the chair hit the door as he reached it. Luckily, someone from the team had called, creating background noise.
“And how's boy genius and his not-concussion doing?” It was Morgan. Shit. He'd ask to speak to him in a second. Scrambling, Spencer pushed the door handle down and got out so fast he heard the door knock the chair back as it closed.
Confused, you tried to call out to him. No answer.
“He's in the bathroom, but I think he's gonna be just fine.”
Spencer had made it to the bathroom quick enough so no one could make small talk with him on the way there. Now, he was in the single stall, facing a choice. If he controlled his breathing enough maybe this would pass. But he'd been trying to do box breaths for the last three minutes and it hadn't lessened the tent in his pants. He felt disgusting, this hadn't happened since he was in high school and surrounded by girls years older who took pity on him.
You were just a typical trainee, just someone passing through Quantico who would inevitably be moved to a field office in a few months. Months. He didn't think he could handle months more of this.
Every single time you walked into a room, his focus was zeroed in on you.
He knew the average adult experienced five crushes on average during any given seven month period. He also knew only 15% of those crushes resulted in a tangible relationship. Statistically speaking, he didn't have a chance.
And neither did the rest of his work day if he stayed here much longer. Wringing his hands, Spencer started to undo his belt, hoping to just reposition himself so the aching need faded. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and put his hands below his waistband, trying to readjust. The simple brush of his hand had him biting his lip as his brain drifted to how soft your skin had felt on his.
As soon as he felt his own hand brush the tip of his cock his body went rigid. He closed his eyes and moved his grip slowly along the length of it, imagining it were yours instead. He stroked himself slowly, thoughtfully, remembering the smell of your perfume, the way your eyes looked up at him; completely forgetting the fact that he was currently hiding in the work bathroom. Right as he was really getting into it, picturing your mouth wrapped around the tip, a knock came at the door.
“Reid, are you in there? It's been a while and Garcia wanted me to check on you.” You went to open the door before realising that may be an invasion of privacy.
“Huh?” The answer was barely audible.
“Hello?” You knocked again.
“Yes?”
“Can I come in?”
“Uh.” Blinking, he looked down at himself, at the way his cock was dripping with precum. You were the last person he needed to see in this state.
“No? Yes.” He couldn't string words together.
“Ok, coming in.”
He was frantically buttoning his pants, but the bulge was still very apparent, you looked up at his flushed face and the puzzle pieces snapped together.
“Oh, did I interrupt you?” You smirked up at him, unbuttoning the top button of your shirt, taking a step closer to him. Seeing him flustered with his shirt bunched up and his messy hair ignited a fire in you that you had had no intention of stoking today.
“Can I help?” The way you ask was phrased less as a question and more of a statement. You kneel down in front of him, giving him a moment to back away from you. When he doesn’t, you proceed to unbutton his slacks.
“You don't have to.” It came out a high-pitched squeak.
“What if I want to?” Your tone dripped in practiced sweetness as you worked down his pants further, revealing his cock.
Slightly shocked at its size, you looked up at him with a devious smile before taking him in your hands, using both hands to stroke as you work his tip in your mouth. His reaction was a satisfying, pathetic whimper, running his long fingers through your hair, tilting his head back and letting out another little moan as you took as much of him as you could in. You sucked and stroked until he was moaning in little out breaths, clearly enjoying himself.
When his hands grip your hair harder, you pull your mouth off of him, letting the suction release with a pop. Looking up at him, you take in the sight of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Biting your lip and dragging your nails up his stomach, you let them dig in a little as you pull them back down, leaving a trail of red raised skin.
“Wow, pretty boy, I knew you'd do so well, look at you.” Amid heavy breathing, Spencer complied and glanced at himself in the mirror. He'd never done this, given in so quickly, and never at work. It was a rush of both terror and heady pleasure, making him grip the sink to stay grounded.
“You're incredible.” Was the only response he could choke out.
“No, that's you, silly. Bet you didn’t expect your day to go this way,” You say coyly, bringing one hand down to his balls, massaging them as you take his cock back into your mouth. The way he’s twitching in your mouth tells you that he will be finishing sooner than you’d hoped. You keep going though, feeling his abdomen tighten as he is about release. Quickly, you pull off of him, letting his cum land all over your face.
You chuckle to yourself, “That was quick, wasn’t it.”
Though he says nothing in return, when you look up at him, you can see tears in his eyes; his face red with embarrassment from how quickly he came. He tucks his half hard cock back into his pants, buttoning them, avoiding eye contact with you, mumbling something inaudible. He knows that if he looks at your face covered in his cum, he won't be able to hold himself together, panic is imminent. He was putty in your hands from this moment on and the reality hadn't set in yet.
He gave up on perfection and fully redressed, pulling his sweater vest down as far as it could go.
“I'm going to go clean up at the sink, take your time and leave after me. Please.” You insisted as you grabbed a handful of paper towels and walked out of the stall.
Going over to the sink, Spencer ran the water icy cold and let it hit his hands and wrists while his forehead rested against the mirror.
“Shit.” The area he'd run into the wall started throbbing upon contact with the mirror, making his eyes water. The mix of sensations crashed over his nervous system in a wave. Leaning against the wall by the sink, he allowed himself to slump to the floor. Usually, the very fact his clothes touched something in the bathroom would be grounds for changing into the ones in his go bag. But right now, the cold tile was giving him so much relief it overrode his instincts.
Spencer ran a hand over the grooves in the wall, counting the lines of grout as he did. 1,2,3,4…13…26. He reached the ceiling and the light made him squint. Today was exhausting. And he was still a bit hard, unfortunately. Biting down on his tongue until he tasted blood, Spencer tried to stand again, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.
He gave up on perfection and redressed, pulling his sweater vest down as far as it could go. Going over to the sink, he ran the water icy cold and let it hit his hands and wrists while his forehead rested against the mirror.
“Shit.” The area he'd run into the wall started throbbing upon contact with the mirror, making his eyes water. The mix of sensations crashed over his nervous system in a wave. Leaning against the wall by the sink, he allowed himself to slump to the floor. Usually, the very fact his clothes touched something in the bathroom would be grounds for changing into the ones in his go bag. But right now, the cold tile was giving him so much relief it overrode his instincts.
Spencer ran a hand over the grooves in the wall, counting the lines of grout as he did. 1,2,3,4…13…26. He reached the ceiling and the light made him squint. Today was exhausting. And he was still a bit hard, unfortunately. Biting down on his tongue until he tasted blood, Spencer tried to stand again, but was interrupted by another knock on the door.
“Reid, are you in there? It's Garcia, I just wanted to check on you.” She knocked softer this time and waited for a response. Reid was frantically trying to find words.
“Just a sec!”
“Okay, but I left my computer unattended!” Controlling his breathing, he opened the door. He nearly started hyperventilating again when he saw not only Penelope, but your smiling face, your hand waving to him.
“Is every case you work this chaotic?” You asked sweetly, drinking in the pink on his cheeks.
“Only on days that end in ‘y’,” Garcia offered, leading everyone back to their office.
The rest of the day was agonizingly slow for Reid and amusing for you as you watched him try to use that well-endowed brain of his.
When you went to leave, he called after you.
“I uh. I have something for you.”
“You do?”
“I know this sounds silly but, I got you cookies. They're at my desk.”
“Why?”
“You said you wanted some, the other day, with the rest of the team?”
“You remembered?” You were more shocked he'd been listening so closely.
“I don't really forget…much.” His hands were shaking as he opened the drawer to his desk. If he could just stay composed long enough to grab the cookies, he'd be home free.
“That’s so thoughtful!”
“I umm, I think a lot so I think that’s a good thing?”
“Of course it is, Reid.”
“Spencer is fine.”
“Well Spencer, thanks in advance. Also, you should keep your hair parted like that, it looks cute.” You two walked away from the bullpen but your compliment stopped the agent on his heels.
“You think I'm cute? Well, statistically, cuteness aggression is an evolutionary response so we don't-”
“Not aggressive, just cute.” You smiled and shook your head, trying to cut him off before he talked himself into a circle.
“Oh. Oh I see.”
“Do you think we can see how cute we are when we're not on the clock?” You stood on tiptoe to ask him quietly, your breath hot in his ear.
“Hypothetically!” His response was so high pitched it almost didn't form a word.
“Great! See you in…” Glancing at the clock. “10 minutes.”
“See you then!” Spencer rushed did a little sprint to his desk to grab the rest of his things he'd forgotten, making you laugh.
As he finally left, he ran his hands through his hair, then recalled how you'd just said you liked it. There was no way he'd make it through the evening if you really did like him. Earlier had been the smallest taste of just how intoxicating this could be. Surely someone like him didn't get that lucky again? He made a mental note to refresh himself on the Bureau's anti-fraternization guidelines, just in case, as he sped ahead to hold the elevator door open for you.
in another universe, spencer grows up in a home filled with laughter instead of loneliness. his mom is healthy, his dad never walks away and being a genius doesn’t make him an outsider. he spends his childhood collecting scraped knees, treasured toys and happy memories with friends instead of growing up far too fast with only books to keep him company.
