If you’re looking for high-quality literature, you might be in the wrong place—but if you’re looking for heart-shattering angst and shameless smut, you’ve found home.
I’m not a professional by any means; I just have a lot of feelings and a keyboard. Most of my energy is currently hyper-fixated on Spencer Reid (because who doesn't want to see that man go through it?), so expect plenty of Criminal Minds content. I do occasionally wander into other fandoms when the inspiration hits, though.
What to Expect:
The Angst: Emotional damage is my specialty. If I’m not crying while writing it, I’m not doing it right.
The Smut: Exactly what it says on the tin. Check the tags on individual posts for specific tropes and warnings.
The Vibe: Unfiltered, unpolished, and mostly written at 2 AM.
Note: Please read the tags before diving in! My work is intended for 18+ audiences due to adult themes.
Thanks for stopping by. I hope you enjoy the brain rot as much as I do!
The 'sub manipulation' fic you wrote was genuinely pure perfection!!!
Do you think you can write another one like that??!🫣
The Calculus of Control
Synopsis: In the quiet, dim expanse of the BAU bullpen long after hours, a subtle game of psychological chess reaches its breaking point. A quiet but highly manipulative researcher decides to test the boundaries of Dr. Spencer Reid, deliberately using tactical proximity and sharp psychological barbs to provoke the usually passive, intellectual profiler. But underestimating Reid's baseline proves to be a volatile mistake. When the words push too deep, Spencer shatters his usual academic detachment, completely reversing the power dynamic. What follows is a intense, unyielding reclamation of control on a heavy oak desk, leaving the researcher entirely at the mercy of the dominant force they worked so hard to unleash.
The heavy scent of old paper and lukewarm coffee usually anchored Spencer. But tonight, in the quiet, dim expanse of the bullpen long after the rest of the team had cleared out, the atmosphere felt entirely different. Heavy. Deliberate.
He was hunched over a stack of geographic profiles, his long fingers rapidly flipping through pages, lips moving slightly as he read. You sat at the desk across from him, supposedly filing reports, but your gaze had been fixed on him for the last twenty minutes.
You knew exactly how Spencer worked. You understood the precise rhythm of his micro-expressions, the way his social anxiety made him yield in casual conversations, and how he instinctively took up less space when he was overwhelmed. You also knew exactly how to shift that baseline. It was a slow, quiet calculus.
"Spencer," you murmured, your voice cutting softly through the scratch of his pen.
He blinked, pulling his eyes from the file, looking up with that familiar, slightly startled innocence. "Yeah? Everything okay?"
"I'm stuck on this victimology report," you said, closing your folder with a soft, definitive *thud*. You stood up, walking around the desk with slow, unhurried steps until you were standing right beside his chair. "The killer is hyper-dominant, but the presentation seems almost... performative. I wanted to get your perspective."
"Oh." Spencer immediately sat up straighter, his academic comfort zone instantly engaging. "Well, true dominance in psychological profiling usually isn't performative. It’s an inherent need for control that manifests in—"
"Like this?" you interrupted softly.
Before he could finish his sentence, you stepped closer, resting your hip against the edge of his desk. You leaned down, bracing your hand on the armrest of his chair, trapping him slightly. You kept your movements deliberate, your expression completely calm, your eyes locked onto his.
Spencer choked on his next word, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. The proximity was sudden. His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "Uh, no, that's—that's more about physical boundary disruption, which can be a tactical choice to induce a state of cognitive vulnerability—"
"Is it working?" you whispered, tilting your head. You reached out, your fingers lightly tracing the sharp line of his jaw, your thumb brushing just below his lower lip. You kept your touch gentle, but your posture was entirely commanding. You were dictating the space, the air, the tension. "Are you feeling vulnerable, Spencer?"
His breath hitched. He didn't pull away from your hand, but his fingers gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles turned white. He was letting you do it. He was letting you dictate the rhythm, just like he always did when things caught him off guard. He was yielding.
And you were tired of him yielding.
"You're doing it again," you said, your voice dropping an octave, losing its warmth and replacing it with a quiet, challenging edge. You pulled your hand back just out of his reach.
Spencer blinked, looking slightly dazed, his voice a little breathless. "Doing what?"
"Letting me take it," you said, stepping back just an inch, a subtle withdrawal designed to make him feel the sudden lack of your warmth. "You analyze every predator, every power dynamic, every shadow in the human mind. But here? With me? You just sit there. You let me crowd your space. You let me touch you. You wait for me to make the rules."
Spencer’s eyes darkened slightly, a flicker of something raw and sharp cutting through his usual academic demeanor. "I don't... I don't want to cross a line with you. I'm trying to be respectful."
"It's not respectful if it's passive, Spencer," you murmured, leaning in again, your breath brushing his ear, poking at the exact bruise you wanted to inflame. "You're a federal agent. You know exactly how to command a room when you want to. But you're being weak right now. You're letting a quiet little researcher dictate exactly what we're doing."
That did it.
The word *weak* hit him like a physical spark. The soft, compliant, slightly flustered profiler vanished in a fraction of a second. Spencer’s jaw clenched, a muscle leaping in his cheek. The intellectual detachment shattered, replaced by a sudden, heavy intensity that made the air between you turn electric.
Before you could even register the shift, Spencer’s hand shot out. His long, strong fingers wrapped around your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute—an unyielding, iron band that completely halted your movement.
You didn't flinch. Instead, a small, dark satisfaction curled in your chest. *There he is.*
"I am not weak," Spencer said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register you rarely heard him use. It wasn't his fast, nervous ramble; it was slow, deliberate, and entirely authoritative.
"Prove it," you whispered, deliberately testing the grip on your wrist, pulling back just enough to see what he would do.
Spencer didn't just hold on; he used your own momentum against you. With a sudden, powerful surge, he stood up from his chair. Because of his height, he completely towered over you, instantly reversing the dynamic. He stepped forward, forcing you backward until the small of your back hit the edge of the heavy oak desk behind you.
He didn't stop there. He crowded into your space, his chest nearly brushing yours, trapping you between his lean, solid frame and the hard wood of the desk. He pinned your wrist flat against the desk surface, his large hand completely covering yours, pressing down until you couldn't move it an inch.
"You think you're being clever," Spencer murmured, leaning down so his face was inches from yours. His eyes were wide, dark, and completely focused on you, stripped of any hesitation or anxiety. "You think because you're quiet, and because you watch me, that you know exactly which strings to pull to get a reaction."
Your breath hitched, your heart hammering against your ribs. The sheer physical presence of him up close was intoxicating. This was exactly what you wanted. You tried to tilt your chin up, to maintain that smirk, to keep up the illusion of control. "Maybe I do."
"No," Spencer said, his voice a low, commanding rumble against your lips. He braced his free hand on the desk right next to your hip, leaning his weight into it, effectively locking you down. "You don't. You wanted to see what happens when I stop being passive? You wanted to see what happens when I take the lead?"
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice sending a violent shiver down your spine.
"Be very careful what you ask for," Spencer whispered, his fingers tightening around your wrist, his entire demeanor shifting into something deeply dominant, possessive, and entirely unyielding. "Because now that you've handed me the control, I'm not giving it back."
The scrape of Spencer’s belt buckle against the edge of the desk was a sharp, metallic sound in the quiet room. He didn’t give you room to breathe, let alone recover your footing in the dynamic you had so carefully engineered.
You tried to shift, a instinctual reaction to the sudden weight of his body pressing yours back against the wood, but his grip on your wrist tightened just enough to anchor you. He looked down at you, his gaze sweeping over your face, analyzing your sudden breathlessness with the clinical precision of a profiler—and the dark satisfaction of a man who knew he had just rewritten the rules.
"Your heart rate is elevated," Spencer murmured, his voice a low, rough vibration near your jaw. "Pupils dilated. Peripheral vascular constriction. You aren't calculating your next move anymore, are you?"
"Spencer—" Your voice lacked its previous, smooth cadence. It sounded breathless. Fragile.
"You wanted this," he reminded you, his tone devoid of his usual academic gentleness. It was a flat statement of fact. He let go of your wrist, but before you could draw it back, his hand moved to the nape of your neck, his long fingers tangling into your hair with a firm, possessive grip that forced you to keep your chin tilted up. "You spent weeks watching me, orchestrating little moments, pushing just enough to see where the break or the bend would happen. Did you think I didn't notice?"
The revelation sent a spike of heat straight to your core. He had known.
"You're smart," Spencer continued, leaning down until his lips brushed yours with every word, teasingly close but withholding the actual contact. "But you underestimated the baseline. You thought control was something you could give and take at your leisure."
He shifted his weight, his thigh crowding between yours, forcing them apart as he pressed deeper against the desk. The sheer, solid mass of him was overwhelming. Spencer was always perceived as lean, almost fragile in the field, but pinned beneath him like this, there was nothing soft about him. His chest was broad, his frame unyielding, and the heat radiating off him was stifling.
"Please," the word slipped out before you could filter it, a quiet, desperate sound that completely stripped away your manipulative veneer.
Spencer’s eyes darkened further at the sound, a flicker of something intensely primal crossing his features. "Please what?" he demanded softly, his thumb rubbing a firm circle into the sensitive skin behind your ear, keeping you entirely captive. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do with you."
"Kiss me," you whispered, your fingers curling into the fabric of his vest, pulling him closer because the distance he was maintaining was becoming a exquisite torture. "Spencer, kiss me."
"Say my name again," he commanded, his breath hot against your mouth. "Without the game. Just the truth."
"Spencer. Please."
He didn't give you another second to beg. Spencer brought his mouth down on yours with a sudden, bruising force that entirely obliterated any lingering thoughts of control. It wasn't the tentative, gentle kiss of a shy coworker; it was demanding, deep, and thoroughly possessive. His tongue parted your lips with a heavy, authoritative pressure, claiming your mouth entirely.
A soft gasp escaped you into the kiss, your hands moving up his chest to grip at his shoulders just to stay grounded as the room seemed to spin. He tasted like the bitter coffee he’d been drinking all night, hot and intoxicating.
Without breaking the kiss, Spencer’s free hand slid down from the desk, his palm flat against your waist, gripping the fabric of your shirt and pulling your hips flush against his. The friction was sudden and intense, making a low whine catch in the back of your throat. He drank the sound in, his grip on your hair tightening slightly to angle your head, deepening the kiss until your knees felt weak.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his breaths were coming as raggedly as yours. His lips were slick and darkened, his gaze fixed on your mouth with an intensity that made you tremble.
"We're still in the bullpen," Spencer whispered against your skin, his lips tracing a burning path down the column of your neck, his teeth nipping lightly at the sensitive pulse point right beneath your jaw. You arched into the touch, a soft cry catching in your throat as his hand slid under the hem of your shirt, his warm palm making direct contact with the bare skin of your waist.
"Spencer, the doors are locked," you choked out, your fingers tightening in his curls, pulling him back up to look at you. "Nobody is coming back tonight."
A slow, dangerously handsome smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—a look you had never seen on him before, Born entirely of the dominance you had provoked.
"Good," Spencer murmured, his hand sliding up your ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your underwear, making you gasp. He leaned his forehead against yours, his voice a dark, promise-filled rumble. "Because I'm going to take my time showing you exactly how much control you've lost."
Spencer didn’t give you a chance to process the threat before his hand slid further up your ribs, his fingers anchoring firmly around your waist to lift you. With one smooth, deliberate motion, he hoisted you backward, clearing a swath of paperwork with his arm as he sat you directly onto the edge of the heavy desk.
The cold wood against the back of your thighs was a sharp contrast to the scorching heat of his body. Before you could even adjust to the new height, Spencer stepped directly into the space between your knees, his thighs locking you in place. He leaned over you, his long frame cast in deep shadow from the single desk lamp, looking down with a dark, heavy focus.
"Hand," he commanded softly, holding out his palm.
You blinked, momentarily dazed by the sudden shift in position, your breath hitching. "What?"
"Give me your hand," he repeated, his tone entirely level, carrying the quiet authority of someone who wasn't used to being questioned.
You slowly lifted your right hand, your fingers trembling slightly. Spencer caught your wrist immediately. He didn't slam it down this time; instead, he brought it up to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over your racing pulse. The contrast of his soft lips against the frantic thrumming of your blood made a soft shudder run down your spine.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he guided your hand down to his chest, pressing your palm flat against his vest, right over his heart. It was hammering just as wildly as yours, a rapid, frantic rhythm that betrayed the intense desire hidden behind his controlled expression.
"You wanted to see what happens when I take the lead," Spencer murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that sent a thrill straight to your core. His free hand slid down to your knee, his fingers hooking under the hem of your skirt, slowly tracing a line up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "It means you don't move unless I tell you to. It means you don't touch me unless I ask. Understand?"
A heavy, thick ache settled in your lower stomach as his fingers climbed higher, his thumb brushing against the edge of your underwear. You nodded desperately, your voice caught in your throat.
"I need to hear it," he prompted, his fingers pausing just at the lace, withholding the touch you were silently begging for. He tilted his head, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Verbal confirmation."
"I understand," you breathed, your hips instinctively tilting upward, trying to close the agonizingly small distance between his hand and your core.
"Good."
Spencer didn't wait. He leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his hand slid beneath the fabric of your underwear. His long fingers found you completely slick and aching for him, and a low, ragged groan escaped his throat at the discovery. He pressed two fingers into you, finding a deep, possessive rhythm that immediately had your fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt.
"Spencer—ah—" You arched off the desk, your head dropping back as a sharp wave of pleasure rippled through you. The desk creaked slightly under the sudden movement, but Spencer didn't care. He used his weight to pin you down, his mouth catching yours again in a deep, bruising kiss that drowned out your quiet cries.
His fingers worked inside you with a surprising, relentless friction, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at your center and pressing down firmly. The sensation was overwhelming. He was moving faster now, his breaths coming in harsh, uneven gasps against your mouth, his entire body rigid with the effort of holding back his own release.
"Look at me," Spencer choked out, pulling back from the kiss just enough to see your face. His curls were messy, falling into his eyes, and his cheeks were flushed dark with heat. "Look at me while I do this."
You forced your heavy eyelids open, your vision slightly blurred as you stared up at him. The sheer intensity in his dark eyes was paralyzing. He was entirely focused on you, reading every micro-expression, every hitch in your breath, tailoring his movements to push you closer and closer to the edge.
"You're completely mine right now," he whispered, his thumb applying a sudden, heavy pressure that made your entire body go taut. "Say it."
"Yours," you cried out, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him down as the first wave of the orgasm hit you. "Spencer, *please*, I'm—"
"I know," he muttered against your lips, his fingers driving deep one last time, holding you firmly against him as your body violently convulsed around his hand.
You rode out the crest of the climax, your breaths coming in ragged, sobbing gasps as Spencer held you close, his chest heaving against yours. He let you recover for only a fraction of a second, his fingers slowly withdrawing, slick and warm, before his hand moved back up to your waist, his grip tightening until it almost bruised.
The heat radiating from him hadn't dissipated; if anything, it had grown heavier. He looked down at you, his gaze dark, heavy, and completely unsatisfied.
Slowly, Spencer reached down, his fingers catching the buckle of his belt and undoing it with a sharp, definitive click. He looked down at you, a dangerous, unyielding expression settling over his features.
"We aren't finished," he whispered, his voice thick with a promise that made a fresh wave of heat bloom in your chest. "Not even close."
The metallic rattle of his belt slipping through the loops sounded incredibly loud in the empty bullpen. Spencer didn’t look away from you for a single second as he shoved his trousers and boxers down, his gaze fixed on your face, watching the realization of what was about to happen hit you.
He didn't hesitate. He stepped even closer, his hips pressing against the edge of the desk, his rigid length brushing against your thigh. The sheer size and heat of him made your breath catch in your throat. You were completely open to him, your skirt pushed up to your waist, your thighs spread wide around his lean hips.
"Hold onto the desk," Spencer commanded, his voice a low, rough growl.
When you didn't move fast enough, still dazed from the aftershocks of your climax, he took your hands and guided them to the heavy oak edges of the desk. "Hold on. Don't let go."
You gripped the wood, your knuckles turning white as he leaned over you, his large frame completely blocking out the rest of the room. Spencer reached down, his fingers guiding himself to your entrance. You were completely soaked, trembling, and entirely ready for him.
With one slow, heavy surge, Spencer drove himself deep inside you.
A choked, breathless cry escaped your lips, your back arching off the desk as your body stretched to accommodate the thick, unyielding length of him. He filled you completely, stretching you so intensely that a dizzying wave of pure pleasure rushed straight to your head.
Spencer groaned, a deep, primal sound that vibrated right against your chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He stayed perfectly still for a long moment, his entire body rigid, his muscles straining as he fought for control. The internal heat of your body squeezing tightly around him was almost enough to break him right then and there.
"Spencer," you whined, your hips instinctively twitching, silently begging him to move.
"Shh," he gasped against your skin, his teeth lightly grazing your collarbone, sending a sharp shiver down your spine. "Don't move. Just... give me a second."
When he finally lifted his head, his dark eyes were completely wild, stripped of any academic detachment. The quiet, shy profiler was entirely gone. He gripped your hips with an iron hold, his fingers digging into your skin to anchor you, and began to pull back.
He withdrew until he was almost entirely out, making you whimper at the sudden loss, before driving back in with a heavy, merciless thrust.
The impact made the heavy desk slide a fraction of an inch across the linoleum floor. Spencer didn't care. He locked into a relentless, driving rhythm, his thrusts deep, hard, and thoroughly possessive. Every time he slammed into you, a soft, breathless gasp was forced from your lungs, the sound echoing in the dark, quiet room.
"You wanted to see me like this," Spencer muttered, his voice ragged and breathless as he picked up the pace, his chest heaving against yours. The friction was unbearable, a blinding white heat building in your lower stomach all over again. "You pushed... and you pushed... because you thought you could handle it."
"I can," you choked out, trying to tilt your hips to meet him, trying to regain even a shred of your previous bravado.
Spencer let out a low, dark laugh, a sound that made your core clench tight around him. "No, you can't."
To prove his point, he suddenly shifted his grip, reaching down to hook his arms underneath your knees, lifting your legs and pinning them high against his shoulders. The change in angle forced him even deeper inside you, hitting a sensitive spot that made your vision instantly blur.
"Spencer! Ah!" You screamed his name, the sound muffled as he brought his mouth down on yours, drowning out your cries with a deep, bruising kiss.
He was completely relentless now, his hips slamming into yours with a frantic, desperate speed. He was losing his grip on his own control, his breaths coming in harsh, ragged sobs against your mouth. The sheer physical power of his movements was overwhelming, completely mastering your body, dictating every sensation, every wave of pleasure that crashed over you.
You were entirely at his mercy, clinging to his broad shoulders as the world narrowed down to the white-hot friction between your thighs and the desperate, possessive rhythm of his body.
"Spencer, I'm going to—I'm close—" you cried out into the kiss, your body tightening, the tension winding up to an unbearable pitch.
"Come for me," he ordered against your lips, his thrusts becoming short, hard, and frantic, driving you mercilessly over the edge. "Do it now."
With a sharp cry, your walls convulsed around him in a violent, crushing orgasm. The intense friction and the tight, rhythmic squeezing of your climax shattered whatever lingering control Spencer had left. He let out a loud, ragged groan, his eyes snapping shut as he drove himself deep into you one last time.
His body went completely rigid, his muscles locking up as he spilled himself deep inside you, his hips trembling violently against yours as he rode out his own powerful release.
For a long time, the only sound in the bullpen was the heavy, frantic breathing of the two of you. Spencer slowly lowered your legs, his body still heavy and warm as he leaned his forehead against your shoulder, chest heaving.
He didn't pull out immediately, keeping you filled and pinned beneath him as the room slowly stopped spinning. Slowly, he lifted his head, looking down at your flushed, dazed expression with a quiet, dominant satisfaction. He reached up, his long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your damp forehead.
"Next time," Spencer whispered, his voice still low and gravelly, carrying a promise that made your core twitch all over again, "don't play games with me unless you're ready for the consequences."
at the mercy of the dominant force they worked so hard to unleash.
Synopsis: After a long, violent night in the woods, Toby returns to the only place that offers him a reprieve from the static in his head. Seeking a way to ground himself and drown out the sensory chaos of his life as a proxy, he turns to you for a physical intensity that only skin-to-skin contact can provide. It’s messy, frantic, and raw—a desperate attempt to feel something human amidst the madness.
Trigger Warnings: Rough sexual content, blunt force/bruising, depictions of involuntary tics/spasms, scarring, and themes of sensory
Word Count: 500~✏ (Short Shot)
The static in the air wasn't just coming from the woods tonight; it was humming right under Toby’s skin.
He stood in the doorway of your room, his frame silhouetted by the dim hallway light. The orange goggles were pushed up onto his forehead, and his mouth guard hung loosely around his neck, revealing the jagged, scarred tear in his cheek. His shins were bruised, and his knuckles were scraped raw, but his eyes—wide, dark, and flickering with an intensity that bordered on manic—were fixed entirely on you.
"Y-You’re still awake," he murmured, his voice cracking with a sharp tic that sent his head jerking to the left.
"Waiting for you," you replied softly, sitting up in bed.
He crossed the room in three strides, the floorboards groaning under his combat boots. He didn't stop until he was looming over you, the scent of pine needles, metallic blood, and cold rain clinging to his hoodie. He looked like a frayed wire ready to snap, his fingers twitching rhythmically against his thighs.
"I can't... I can't stay still," he confessed, another jerk of his shoulder rattling his frame. "Everything f-feels too loud. Too much."
You reached out, your fingers brushing against the hem of his sweatshirt. "Then let it out here, Toby."
He didn't need a second invitation. He crawled onto the mattress, his movements awkward but frantic. He pinned you back against the pillows, his weight a grounding pressure that he desperately needed. Because he couldn't feel physical pain the way others did, he craved the intensity of contact—the friction, the heat, the sheer force of being near someone.
His hands, cold from the night air, slid under your shirt, gripping your waist with a bruising strength. He didn't know his own power, but you didn't mind. You pulled him down, your lips meeting his in a messy, desperate collision.
He tasted like iron and peppermint. His tongue was insistent, hungry, clashing against yours with a lack of finesse that was made up for by raw, unadulterated need. A sharp click sounded in his neck as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss until you were both gasping for air.
"S-Slow down," you whispered against his scarred cheek.
"C-Can't," he hissed, his breath hitching. He began to tug at his clothes, his movements jerky and impatient. When his hoodie was finally tossed aside, the sight of his pale, scarred torso in the moonlight was breathtaking. He looked like a map of every battle he’d ever fought.
He stripped you with the same frantic energy, his eyes scanning every inch of your skin as if he were memorizing a sanctuary. When he finally pressed himself against you, skin-to-skin, a long, low shuddering breath escaped him. The tics didn't stop—they never truly did—but they softened, turning into small, rhythmic tremors as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
"I feel... I feel you," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin.
He moved between your legs, his hands shaking as he guided himself into you. The first thrust was blunt and hard, forcing a cry from your throat that he caught with his mouth. He wasn't gentle; he didn't know how to be. He moved with a feverish pace, his body snapping and twitching in a chaotic rhythm that forced you to find your own balance within his storm.
Every time his muscles locked or his head jerked, it sent a new vibration through the connection, an electric friction that pushed you closer to the edge. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to feel the full weight of the monster and the boy at the same time.
Toby’s eyes were blown wide, focusing on your face with a terrifying clarity. He watched your expression crumble, his own breath coming in ragged, whistling hitches. The static in his head was fading, replaced by the sound of your heartbeat and the wet slap of skin against skin.
"Y/N... Y-Y/N," he stuttered, his grip on your wrists tightening until it likely left marks.
He hit your center with a final, jarring thrust, his body stiffening as a violent tremor racked his spine. He cried out, a sound that was half-sob and half-triumph, spilling himself into you as his forehead dropped onto your shoulder.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized thrum of your breathing. Toby didn't pull away. He stayed heavy and warm on top of you, his cheek resting against yours. The tics had settled into a faint, occasional pulse in his jaw.
In the dark, for the first time all night, he was finally still.
A/N: A Little Lifeish Update
Hey everyone! I’ve been living in the world of Criminal Minds for a long time now (and don’t worry, I’m definitely not done with my Spencer Reid fics or my previous projects!), but I’ve been feeling the itch to branch out. I want to start expanding my writing into different fandoms and exploring some darker, grittier territories—like the Creepypasta universe.
I’m still working on my ongoing stories, but expect to see some variety on this page as I play around with new characters and dynamics. Thanks for sticking with me while I dive into some new hauntings!
Synopsis: When a highly organized, black-market intelligence network begins systematically eliminating high-ranking military officials on US soil, the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit is forced into an unprecedented joint operation with the British Special Air Service’s elite Task Force 141. As a senior intelligence liaison, you find yourself caught directly in the crosshairs of the threat—and the intense, clashing focus of two entirely different worlds. Dr. Spencer Reid uses his hyper-analytical genius to map the psychology of the threat, while Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley provides lethal, off-the-grid tactical security. Sheltered in a secure, subterranean records room and later a remote Virginia safehouse, the high-stakes adrenaline of survival quickly morphs into an intense, dark, and possessive dynamic. Bound by a mutual need to protect you, the profiler and the mercenary realize they aren't willing to step aside for one another—choosing instead to share you completely, combining cerebral obsession with primal, protective dominance.
Trigger Warnings: Dubious Consent, Elements of Somnophilia, Overstimulation, Violence & Threat, Rough Handling, Marking, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Threesome (MFM sharing)
Word Count: 4k~ ✏
The rain in Washington, D.C., fell in a relentless, gray sheet, blurring the sharp edges of the federal buildings and slicking the asphalt outside the FBI Academy at Quantico. Inside the dimly lit, subterranean records room of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of old paper, ozone from a humming copy machine, and an undercurrent of unspoken tension.
The bridge between two entirely disparate worlds had been built out of necessity. A series of highly organized, brutal assassinations targeting high-ranking military officials on US soil had forced an unprecedented joint operation. The FBI’s elite behavioral profilers were paired with a black-ops detachment of the British Special Air Service—specifically, Task Force 141.
You sat at the center of this collision, a senior intelligence liaison caught between the cerebral brilliance of Dr. Spencer Reid and the lethal, imposing presence of Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley.
"The geographical distribution of the kills doesn't align with a standard mercenary cell," Spencer murmured, his voice a low, melodic cadence that usually calmed a room. He was pacing, a thick case file cradled in one arm while his free hand gesticulated wildly. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing pale, slender forearms, and his hair was beautifully disheveled from where he’d been running his fingers through it for hours. "It’s a deliberate pattern of misdirection. If you calculate the regression to the mean based on the victims' last known coordinates, the nexus isn't a place. It's a person. They're hunting *around* a specific asset."
"They're hunting her," a deep, gravelly voice cut through the academic theory.
Ghost leaned against the heavy steel doorframe, shadows clinging to his massive frame. He wore his tactical gear stripped down to a black combat shirt that strained against the immense breadth of his shoulders and chest. The infamous skull mask covered his face, leaving only his intense, dark eyes visible beneath a hood. He possessed an aura of pure, unadulterated danger that contrasted sharply with Spencer’s soft, intellectual energy. Yet, over the last three weeks of the investigation, an strange, intense dynamic had forged between the three of you—a coiled spring of mutual attraction that none of you could ignore any longer.
"Simon is right," you said softly, rubbing your temples. "The security breach at the safehouse confirms it. I'm the common denominator."
Spencer stopped pacing, his brown eyes wide with a mixture of analytical panic and profound protectiveness. He stepped toward your desk, his long fingers pressing into the wood as he leaned down. "Which means keeping you in a standard federal facility is a liability. The bureau is compromised. The safest place for you is off the grid entirely."
"Already taken care of," Ghost rumbled, his heavy boots thudding against the linoleum as he closed the distance. He stood right behind Spencer, creating a wall of muscle and Kevlar that effectively trapped you at the desk. "Got a safe site booked under a dead man's name. But we aren't moving until dark. Right now, we lock this room down."
The air grew heavy, thick with sudden, combustible heat. Look at the two of them—one a genius who mapped the human mind, the other a specter who mastered the art of ending life—both looking at you with an identical, burning hunger.
"Lock it," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Ghost didn't hesitate. He reached behind him, turning the heavy deadbolt on the reinforced door with a definitive *click*, before pulling the blinds shut on the interior window. The room was plunged into a shadowed, intimate twilight.
Spencer swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. The profiler in him was hyper-aware of the shift in the room's psychology, but the man in him was entirely consumed by the sight of you flushed and breathless. "Statistically speaking," Spencer breathed, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped closer, his thigh brushing against your knees, "the adrenaline response to mortal peril frequently manifests as a heightened libido. It’s an evolutionary mechanism to ensure the survival of the species."
"Shut up, love," Ghost growled softly, though there was no heat in it. He reached up, his large, gloved hands grasping the hem of his skull mask. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled it up and over his head, tossing it onto a stack of files.
Simon’s face was ruggedly handsome, marred by pale scars and framed by short, sandy hair, his gaze fierce and possessive. He stepped up right beside Spencer. The contrast was staggering—Spencer, tall, lean, and trembling with intellectual intensity; Simon, a mountain of raw, lethal power.
"We’ve been watching you for weeks," Simon murmured, his large hand coming down to cup the back of your neck, his thumb wiping across your lower lip. "Both of us. Driven us half mad watching you run yourself ragged."
"We agreed," Spencer added, his voice shaking slightly as he reached out, his long, delicate fingers tracing down your collarbone, slipping beneath the edge of your shirt. "Neither of us is willing to step aside. And we know you want this. Your respiration rate increased by twenty percent the moment Simon locked that door, and your pupils are significantly dilated."
"Spencer," you gasped, a shiver running down your spine as his fingers found your skin, surprisingly warm and electric.
"Let the boy speak his facts," Simon chuckled, a low, vibration that you felt in your chest. "But let me handle the rest."
Simon gripped the edge of your desk and, with a single, effortless lift, hoisted you onto the polished wood, scattering a few loose papers to the floor. You parted your legs instinctively, and Simon stepped right into the cradle of your thighs, his heavy combat trousers rubbing against your bare skin if your skirt was pushed up, or pressing firmly against your jeans. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scraping delightfully against your sensitive skin as he bit softly at your pulse point.
A whimper escaped your lips, and Spencer groaned at the sound. The lanky agent moved to your side, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, his touch frantic yet reverent.
"Please," you breathed, caught between the twin storms of their attention.
"You're so beautiful," Spencer whispered, leaning down to press his lips to yours. His kiss was sweet at first, hesitant, but as you opened your mouth to him, he poured all of his pent-up, analytical obsession into it, his tongue tangling with yours in a deep, desperate rhythm.
At the same time, Simon’s large hands were busy. He unbuckled his tactical belt, dropping it to the floor with a heavy thud, before his fingers found the button of your pants. With practiced efficiency, he stripped your lower layers down, exposing you to the cool air of the records room, only for that coolness to be instantly replaced by the heat of his gaze.
Simon looked down at you, his eyes dark with unbridled lust. "Look at her, Spencer," he muttered. "Fucking perfect."
Spencer broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his cheeks flushed a brilliant crimson as his eyes followed Simon's gaze. He reached down, his long fingers gently touching the damp warmth between your thighs. You arched into his touch with a sharp cry, your fingers tangling in the soft fabric of Spencer’s vest.
"You're so responsive," Spencer choked out, his thumb finding your sensitive core, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. "The nerve endings here are... god, you're so wet for us."
Simon didn't waste any more time. He freed his own length—thick, heavy, and fully aroused. He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his shaft pressing against Spencer's slick fingers. Simon looked up, meeting your eyes, his gaze locking you in place.
"Hold onto the doctor, love," Simon warned, his voice a gravelly command. "I'm not going easy."
He pushed forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, unyielding stroke. Your eyes flew open, a loud scream of pure pleasure tearing from your throat, only to be muffled as Spencer immediately pressed his mouth back to yours, catching the sound. Simon filled you completely, stretching you to your absolute limit, his thick hips slamming against the desk with a heavy, rhythmic cadence.
You clung to Spencer like a lifeline, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, your legs wrapping around Simon’s broad waist to pull him deeper. Simon groaned, a feral, animalistic sound, his hands gripping your hips so tightly they would surely leave bruises. He began to move in earnest, heavy, driving thrusts that rocked the entire desk.
Spencer withdrew from the kiss, panting, his face inches from yours. He watched Simon slide in and out of you, completely transfixed by the sight. The voyeuristic thrill, combined with the friction of your bodies, had Spencer completely undone. He reached down, freeing himself from his slacks, his hand working his own length with a fast, desperate motion.
"Spencer," you whimpered, reaching out a hand to him.
He took your hand, kissing your knuckles, before leaning down to suckle at your breast through your shirt, his teeth grazing your nipple through the damp fabric. The dual stimulation—Simon’s punishing, deep thrusts from below and Spencer’s worshipful, desperate touch above—sent you spiraling toward the edge.
"I'm close," you cried out, your head tossing back against the stacks of files behind you. "Simon, please—"
"Go on then, sweetheart," Simon growled, his pace turning frantic, brutal, his chest sweating against yours as he drove himself into you over and over. "Take it from us. Let it go."
Spencer’s thumb pressed hard against your clitoris, perfectly timing his movements with Simon's heavy thrusts. The synchronization of the two men—one operating on pure primal instinct, the other on an intuitive understanding of your body's responses—was too much to bear.
Your vision went white as a violent, shattering orgasm gripped your entire body. Your walls clamped down fiercely around Simon's length. Simon let out a loud, ragged roar, driving deep inside you one last time as he came, his hot seed flooding your core.
The sight of you crying out in ecstasy, combined with the pulsing contractions of your release around Simon, pushed Spencer over the precipice. With a low, breathless groan, Spencer came, his semen spurting across your lower stomach and thighs, his body trembling violently as he collapsed against your shoulder.
The room fell silent, save for the heavy, synchronized panting of the three of you.
Simon stayed buried inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot against your lips. He slowly pulled out, a soft sigh escaping you at the loss, and reached for a box of tissues on the desk to gently clean the mixture of their fluids from your skin.
Spencer remained wrapped around you, his arms holding you tight, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He kissed your cheek, his touch tender and fiercely protective.
"According to the data," Spencer whispered into your hair, a small, breathless smile tugging at his lips, "this significantly increases our bonding hormones. Oxytocin levels are at an all-time high."
Simon let out a low, rough laugh, pulling his mask back over his face but leaving it bunched up at his chin. He wrapped his massive arms around both you and Spencer, holding you secure in the quiet safety of the shadows.
"Shut up, Spencer," Simon murmured, kissing the top of your head. "But you're not wrong. She's ours now. And nobody touches what's ours."
✧✦✧
The rain outside had stopped, replaced by the suffocating, heavy heat of a midnight fog that rolled off the Potomac, pressing thick against the frosted windows of the secure safehouse. Ghost’s "dead man’s name" property was a secluded, concrete-reinforced cabin tucked deep into the Virginia woods—far outside the jurisdiction of a compromised Bureau, and completely off the grid of any digital grid the SAS or the FBI monitored.
Inside, the only illumination came from the amber glow of a dying hearth and the stark, blue-white light of Spencer’s laptop screen resting on a wooden dining table.
You sat on the edge of a heavy leather sofa, wrapped in an oversized flannel shirt that smelled of Simon’s cedarwood soap, watching the two men transition from the high-stakes adrenaline of the federal records room to the quiet, hyper-vigilant domesticity of a safe site. The transition hadn't cooled the air between you; if anything, the confined space had compressed the tension, turning it volatile again.
Spencer was still hyper-fixated, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he cross-referenced encrypted satellite data from the Task Force 141 servers with local traffic cameras. His hair was completely wild now, damp from the sprint through the rain from the SUV to the porch, and his tie had been completely discarded, the first three buttons of his dress shirt undone to reveal the pale, elegant slope of his collarbones.
"The statistical probability of them locating this specific coordinate within the next forty-eight hours is less than zero-point-three percent," Spencer muttered, his eyes tracking lines of code reflecting in his iris. "But my amygdala is still firing at an elevated baseline. The cognitive dissonance between knowing we are secure and *feeling* the residual threat is... it’s making it difficult to process the data logically."
A heavy, gloved hand descended onto Spencer’s shoulder, forcing the young profiler to freeze.
Simon stood behind him, having finally stripped off his plate carrier and tactical vest. He wore only a tight, ribbed black tank top that showcased the brutal symmetry of his scarred shoulders, his thick biceps mapping a lifetime of violence. The skull mask was gone, replaced by his black combat balaclava—the eyeholes framing those piercing, dark irises that looked completely black in the dim room.
"You're spinning your wheels, doctor," Simon rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that resonated through the floorboards. "The perimeter is locked. Sensors are live. Your brain’s done its job. Now shut it down before you break it."
Spencer let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders dropping under the weight of Simon's hand. He closed the laptop with a soft click, the room instantly plunging into the warm, flickering shadows of the fireplace. "You're right. The physiological exhaustion will begin to impair my cognitive faculties soon anyway."
"Good boy," Simon murmured. But his eyes weren't on Spencer anymore. They had shifted across the dark room, locking onto you where you sat on the couch.
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the explicit memory of what had happened on that mahogany desk hours prior. The temporary release hadn't satisfied them; it had merely introduced them to the addictive reality of sharing you, of combining their antithetical natures to completely consume you.
Spencer turned in his chair, his gaze following Simon's. When he saw you—flushed, swathed in Simon's clothes, your bare legs curled beneath you—his breath caught audibly. "Oxytocin remains elevated for up to thirty-six hours post-coitus," Spencer whispered, his voice suddenly thick, losing its academic clinicality and replacing it with raw, unadulterated desire. "But dopamine... dopamine demands a repeat stimulus to achieve the same neurological threshold."
"Enough talk," Simon growled gently. He didn't walk toward you; he reached down, grabbing Spencer by the front of his unbuttoned shirt, and hauled the taller, leaner man to his feet with effortless strength. He didn't push him away—he pushed him *toward* you. "Go on, then. You've been staring at her assets all evening while pretending to read those numbers."
Spencer didn't protest. A dark, intense flush climbed up his neck as he stepped toward the sofa. He dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor right in front of you, his long legs framing your knees. He looked up through his long eyelashes, his brown eyes wide, dark, and utterly consumed.
"May I?" Spencer breathed, his hands hovering just above your bare ankles.
"Yes, Spencer," you whispered, your heart instantly leaping into your throat.
His fingers clamped around your skin—warm, trembling slightly with a terrifying intensity. He slid his hands up the calves of your legs, parting your knees slowly, deliberately, until you were open to him. He leaned forward, burying his face in the soft fabric of the shirt between your thighs, inhaling deeply. A soft, desperate groan escaped his lips. "You smell like him. You smell like me. It’s an intoxicating olfactory overload."
Before you could answer, the couch shifted violently. Simon had moved with the silent, terrifying speed of a predator, looming over the back of the sofa. His massive, scarred arms came over your shoulders from behind, his large, gloved hands gripping your chin, tilting your head backward so you were forced to look up at him upside down.
"Look at him worshiping you, love," Simon whispered against your lips, his hot breath smelling of mint and tobacco. "Driven the lad completely mental, haven't you?"
Simon leaned over the back of the seat, his mouth crashing down onto yours in a brutal, bruising kiss that tasted of pure possessiveness. His tongue surged into your mouth, dominant and demanding, while his gloved thumb rubbed hard against your lower lip, stretching your mouth open wider to take him in.
Below you, Spencer let out a ragged breath at the sight. The submissive, intellectual boy vanished, replaced by the desperate man who had spent years analyzing the dark, hidden impulses of human nature. He reached up, unbuttoning the flannel shirt with frantic efficiency, exposing your chest to the firelight. His long fingers gripped your breasts, squeezing them firmly, his thumbs brushing over your aching nipples until you were whimpering through Simon’s deep kiss.
"Simon," Spencer choked out, breaking away from your skin for a fraction of a second. "Simon, I need... I need to feel her."
Simon broke the kiss, a dark, wicked smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth visible through the cut of his balaclava. He released your chin, vaulting over the back of the sofa with a fluid, terrifying grace that didn't suit a man of his size. He grabbed you by the waist, hoisting you effortlessly off the cushions and dragging you down to the floor with Spencer.
The floorboards were hard, but Simon pulled a heavy tactical wool blanket from the back of the couch, throwing it down beneath you before pinning you to it with the sheer weight of his upper body.
"Take your clothes off, doctor," Simon commanded, his voice a low, military rasp as he pinned your wrists above your head with a single hand. "I want her looking at you while I take her from behind."
Spencer’s eyes went completely wild. He stood up, his hands shaking so violently he nearly tore the buttons from his dress shirt as he ripped it off, exposing his lean, pale chest, defined by wiry muscle. He kicked off his slacks and shoes, standing completely naked in the firelight—already fully, aggressively erect, his length glistening in the amber glow.
He dropped back down to his knees in front of your face, his breathing shallow and erratic.
Simon flipped you over onto your stomach in one smooth motion, propping your hips up on your knees. The exposure was absolute. You looked up from the floor, your cheek pressed against the wool blanket, right into Spencer's desperate, heated gaze.
"Look at me, y/n," Spencer whispered, his hands coming out to frame your face, his long fingers anchoring you to him. "Focus on me."
From behind, you felt the terrifying, massive heat of Simon pressing against your back. He didn't use oil; he didn't need to. He used his thick, gloved hand to smear the abundant, slick moisture you were already producing from Spencer's touch all over your opening. The blunt, heavy head of his shaft pressed hard against your entrance, stretching you before he even pushed inside.
"You're so tight, love," Simon growled into your ear, his teeth biting down hard on the sensitive muscle where your neck met your shoulder. "Gonna break you in properly tonight."
With a brutal, heavy surge of his hips, Simon buried himself inside you to the absolute hilt.
A sharp, breathless scream tore from your throat, but Spencer instantly leaned down, catching the sound in his own mouth. He kissed you with a frantic, unhinged hunger, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth in perfect synchronization with the thick, punishing rhythm Simon began to establish behind you.
The sensation was overwhelming—a complete sensory overload. Simon was a machine, his heavy, scarred thighs slamming against your buttocks with a wet, rhythmic slaps that echoed through the quiet cabin. Every thrust hit your G-spot with unerring accuracy, tilting your pelvis up and forcing you deeper onto his length.
Above you, Spencer was unraveling. He pulled back from the kiss, his eyes locked onto the point of impact where Simon’s dark, shadowed groin met your pale, flush skin. The visual stimulus was too much for his hyper-analytical mind to process without breaking. He reached down, his hand wrapping around his own throbbing length, stroking himself in fast, desperate friction right over your face.
"The psychological profile of this... of us," Spencer gasped, his voice breaking as a tear of pure pleasure leaked from his eye, "it defies every normative social construct. I am completely... completely dependent on this. On you."
"Fucking right you are," Simon roared from behind you, his hands wrapping around your waist, his grip so fierce it dug into your hip bones. He shifted his angle, driving upward, his pace turning into something frantic and violent, the pure mercenary instinct taking over. "Hold her, Spencer! Don't let her move!"
Spencer leaned down, his pale chest pressing against your face and shoulders, his arms wrapping around your torso to lock you down against the floor. He was crying out now, his own hips twitching in phantom rhythm with Simon's.
You were caught in the middle of a beautiful, terrifying vise. The friction of Simon’s thick, unyielding stretch within you, combined with the weight of Spencer’s body crushing you from above, pushed you past the point of no return. Your vision began to spark with white stars, the heat in your lower stomach tightening into an unbearable, coiled spring.
"Simon! Spencer! I'm going to—"
"Do it," Simon commanded, his voice a guttural, feral growl against your neck. "Take it, love. Let me feel it."
Your walls clamped down like a vice, a violent, full-body orgasm ripping through you that made your legs shake uncontrollably.
The sudden, crushing constriction of your release was the final trigger. Simon let out a low, animalistic grunt, his entire body locking up as he drove himself into you one last, deep time, his hot, heavy semen erupting inside your womb in thick, pulsing waves that filled you to overflowing.
At the exact same moment, Spencer let out a loud, high-pitched gasp, his body shuddering violently as he came, his thick, white seed spurting across your chest, your neck, and your face, painting you in the firelight. He collapsed entirely on top of you, his face buried in your neck, his chest heaving as he sobbed for air.
The room returned to the quiet ticking of the clock and the crackle of the hearth.
Simon didn't pull out immediately. He collapsed over your back, his massive weight a comforting, protective shield that kept the cold air of the room away from your sweat-slicked skin. He pulled his balaclava up past his nose, kissing the bruised skin of your shoulder with unexpected tenderness.
Spencer was still trembling against your front, his fingers weakly tangling in your hair. "The neurological cool-down period," he murmured into your skin, his voice completely spent, a soft, exhausted chuckle in his throat. "It’s going to take... a very long time."
Simon let out a low, rough chuckle, his heavy arm wrapping around both you and the doctor, pinning you both to the floor in a possessive, unbreakable hold.
"Good," Simon growled softly, closing his eyes against your skin. "We aren't going anywhere."
Author’s Note:
Honestly, this was such a blast to write! I love taking characters from completely different universes and figuring out the exact puzzle pieces needed to make their worlds collide seamlessly. Setting this up as a high-stakes, high-stress joint operation felt like the perfect bridge to get Spencer and Ghost into the same room. What I loved most was expanding on how their personalities would actually interact and bounce off each other in this kind of intense environment. You have Spencer, who is analyzing every single micro-expression and breaking down the psychology of the moment, and then Ghost, who operates on pure, lethal instinct and protective dominance. Putting them together to share the reader allowed for such a fun contrast between cerebral obsession and raw, primal energy. I really wanted to explore how those two polar opposites would feed into each other's intensity, and I’m so happy with how their dynamic turned out in these chapters!
Let me know what you guys thought of this crossover!
Ok, guys, I have a crazy idea, but what if I put Simon ghost Riley (from COD) in a fanfic with Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds). Would that be something you guys are interested in reading?
Omg absolutely omg, that would be such an interesting character dynamic!
Lol no, the fuck? Those are 2 different fandom that would never work together.
Synopsis: The weight of the Gold Star case and the mounting pressure from the Deputy Director have pushed Emily Prentiss to her limit. Seeking a momentary escape from the grim reality of the BAU, she finds solace behind the closed doors of her office with the only person who can ground her. As the lines between Section Chief and lover blur, Emily sheds her professional armor to take full command in a different way. In the quiet shadows of the bullpen, she guides her partner through a night of intense, authoritative passion, eventually leading them both into a soft, protective headspace where the horrors of the job can finally be forgotten.
Trigger Warnings: Power Dynamics, Age Gap, Mild Sensory Deprivation/Restraint, F/F, Office Sex, Overstimulation, Established Feelings, Smut, Grinding
Word Count: 3k~ ✏
The air in the BAU bullpen was thick with the hum of the HVAC system and the soft clicking of keys, but inside Emily’s office, the atmosphere was entirely different. The door was closed, the blinds half-turned, and the weight of the Gold Star case felt miles away, even if the files were still spread across her desk.
Emily leaned back in her chair, her eyes tracing your form as you sat on the edge of her mahogany desk. The stress of being Section Chief had sharpened her edges, making her more commanding, more desperate for the moments of quiet she only found with you.
"You look exhausted, Prentiss," you murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray dark strand of hair behind her ear.
She didn't lean away; instead, she tilted her head into your touch, her hand coming up to catch your wrist. "It's been a long day. A long year." Her voice was low, a rasp that sent a familiar shiver down your spine. "I don't want to talk about the Deputy Director. I don't want to talk about Elias Voit."
She pulled your hand down, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm before looking up at you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "I just want you."
You slid off the desk, moving to stand between her legs. Emily didn't hesitate, her hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips, pulling you flush against the seat of her chair. The friction of your slacks against hers was a spark to a fuse.
"Then stop talking," you whispered, leaning down until your lips were hovering just an inch from hers.
Emily groaned, a deep, primal sound, and bridged the gap. The kiss was desperate and demanding, tasting of coffee and the sharp peppermint she used to stay awake. Her tongue swept against yours, claiming you with the authority she wore like armor all day, but here, it was fueled by a hunger she only let you see.
Her hands wandered, one fisting in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the sensitive line of your throat. She attacked the skin there, her teeth grazing your pulse point until you were gasping her name into the quiet room.
"Emily—right here?"
She pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, her gaze dark and blown out. "The team is gone for the night. And I'm the boss."
She stood up, the chair rolling back with a sharp click against the floor. In one swift movement, she cleared a space on the desk, sweeping a stack of reports aside. She lifted you easily, seating you on the cleared wood and stepping between your knees, her hands already working at the buttons of your shirt with a focused, frantic energy.
"Tonight," she breathed against your collarbone, "there are no cases. Just this."
The shift in Emily is immediate. The exhaustion that usually hangs heavy on her shoulders during the work day vanishes, replaced by a terrifyingly calm, focused intent. She doesn't just look at you; she observes you, her dark eyes tracking the way your pulse jumps in your neck.
She doesn't move fast. She moves with the steady, unshakeable confidence of someone who has spent decades in rooms full of dangerous people and always came out on top.
"Come here," she says. It isn't a suggestion. It’s a low, velvet command that leaves no room for hesitation.
When you reach her, she doesn't pull you into a frantic embrace. Instead, she places a hand firmly on the back of your neck, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw. She tilts your head up, forcing you to meet her gaze. There’s a faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips—the look of a woman who knows exactly how much power she holds over you.
"You've been hovering all evening," she murmurs, her voice dropping into that rich, authoritative register. "Fidgeting. Looking for attention."
She steps closer, invading your personal space until you’re backed against the bookshelf, the scent of her expensive perfume and woodsmoke surrounding you. She leans in, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
"You need to learn how to ask properly, don't you?"
Her hand slides from your neck to your shoulder, pushing just enough to let you know she isn't letting go. Emily isn't interested in a frantic scramble; she wants to take her time with you. She wants to see you unravel under the weight of her experience.
"Take a deep breath for me," she commands, her other hand coming up to rest flat against your chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of your heart. "I’ve got you. But tonight, you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?"
Emily’s hand remains firm against your chest, the steady pressure grounding you even as your head swims. She watches the way your chest heaves beneath her palm, a ghost of a smile touching her lips at the sheer helplessness of your reaction. To the rest of the world, she is the stoic Section Chief, the woman who stares down killers without blinking, but here, in the shadows of her office, she is something far more intoxicating.
"Good girl," she purrs, the praise hitting you with more force than any reprimand ever could.
She moves her hand from your chest, her fingers trailing upward to catch your chin, tilting your face back further. The age gap between you has never felt more prominent than it does in this moment—not as a barrier, but as a throne she sits upon. She has lived, she has learned, and she knows exactly how to dismantle your composure with a single look.
"You spend so much time taking care of things out there," she whispers, her gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes. "But in here, you don't have to think. You don't have to decide. You just have to listen to me."
She reaches out with her free hand, her fingers curling around the edge of the bookshelf behind you, effectively boxing you in. The height difference, the set of her shoulders, the sheer gravity of her presence—it all serves to make you feel small in the best possible way. She leans in closer, the tip of her nose brushing against yours, her breath warm and steady.
"I can see how much you want to please me," she says, her voice a low vibration that echoes in your bones. "I can see it in the way you're shaking. It’s endearing, really. But I need you to stay still. Can you do that for me?"
She doesn't wait for a verbal answer; she reads the frantic nod of your head. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches down and takes your hands, bringing them behind your back. She holds both of your wrists in one of her grips, pinning them against the wood of the bookshelf. The move is effortless, a display of strength that feels as natural as breathing to her.
"There," she murmurs, stepping so close that the fabric of her tailored blazer brushes against you. "Now you’re exactly where I want you. Nowhere to go, and nothing to do but feel what I'm about to do to you."
She leans down, her lips finding the soft, sensitive spot just below your ear. She doesn't kiss it—not yet. She just breathes there, letting the anticipation build until you’re whimpering into the silence.
"I've been thinking about this all through the briefing," she confesses, her teeth grazing your earlobe. "Watching you bite your lip, watching you shift in your seat. You've been a very distracting girl today. And I think it's time we addressed that behavior, don't you?"
Emily doesn't let go of your wrists. Instead, she tightens her grip just enough to remind you who is in control, her knuckles grazing the small of your back. She pulls back just an inch, looking down at you with a heavy-lidded gaze that feels like a physical weight.
"Look at me," she commands, and you find yourself obeying before the sentence is even finished.
She lets out a soft, satisfied hum at your quick compliance. "That’s it. Focus on me. I know your mind is racing, trying to get ahead of yourself, but I want you right here. In this second."
She releases your chin, her hand traveling downward with agonizing slowness. Her fingers trail over the column of your throat, tracing the erratic beat of your pulse, before moving to the first button of your shirt. She doesn't undo it. She simply rests her thumb against the fabric, feeling the heat radiating from your skin.
"You're so reactive," she observes, her voice dropping an octave, sounding more like a confession than a critique. "Every time I touch you, you jump. It makes me wonder just how much more you can take before you completely come apart for me."
She finally twists the first button through its hole, then the second, her eyes never leaving yours. The cool air of the office hits your skin, a sharp contrast to the radiating warmth of her body. She leans in again, her forehead resting against yours, her voice a mere ghost of a sound against your lips.
"I’m going to take my time," she breathes, the promise hanging heavy in the air. "I’m going to show you exactly what happens when you have my undivided attention. And you’re going to stay perfectly still and take every bit of it, because I told you to. Isn't that right?"
She waits, forcing you to find your voice, demanding that verbal acknowledgment of her authority before she takes things a single step further.
Your voice catches in your throat, a quiet, breathless "Yes, Emily," finally breaking through.
A small, triumphant smirk curls her lips. "Good," she whispers.
Still holding your wrists pinned firmly against the bookshelf with one hand, Emily uses her free hand to trace the line of your hip. The movement is slow, deliberate, and heavy with intent. She watches your face, memorizing every flicker of desire and every sharp intake of breath as her hand slides lower, disappearing beneath the hem of your skirt.
The contact of her palm against your bare thigh is electric. Her skin is warm, her touch possessing a clinical precision that quickly melts into something far more predatory. She doesn’t rush; she lets her fingers graze upward, tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh with agonizing patience.
"You're so tense," she murmurs, leaning in until her lips are brushed against yours, sharing the same air. "Relax for me. Let me feel how much you've been wanting this."
As her fingers move higher, finding the lace of your underwear, she applies a firm, steady pressure that makes your knees buckle. If she weren't holding you up, you’d slide right to the floor, but Emily’s grip on your wrists is unyielding. She is your only anchor.
"Stay still," she reminds you, her voice a low, warning vibration. "I didn't give you permission to move."
She finds your center, her fingers hooking into the silk and moving it aside with a practiced ease. When she finally makes contact, she lets out a sharp, satisfied exhale. You're slick and ready, a silent testament to how effectively her words have been working on you all evening.
"Oh, sweetheart," she breathes, her eyes darkening as she begins a slow, rhythmic motion. "You’re practically aching for me, aren't you?"
She watches you unravel, her thumb finding your most sensitive point and circling it with a ruthless, steady pressure. She doesn't let you look away, her gaze pinning you just as effectively as her hand, forcing you to endure the mounting pleasure under her expert, commanding touch.
The moment Emily’s thumb finds that rhythm, something in your mind finally snaps—the stress of the job, the weight of the world, and even the ability to form words simply dissolve. Your head falls back against the bookshelf with a soft thud, and your eyes go wide and glassy, fixed on the ceiling as you drift into that hazy, quiet space where only her touch exists.
Emily notices the shift immediately. She’s spent her life reading people, and she sees the exact second you drop into headspace for her. Her expression softens, but the dominance in her gaze only deepens, turning into something fiercely protective.
"There she is," Emily coos, her voice dropping into a honey-thick, maternal register that makes your heart swell. "There's my sweet girl."
She releases your wrists—knowing you’re too far gone to move anyway—and cups your face with both hands, forcing you to look at her. You look up at her through your lashes, your bottom lip trembling, your mind feeling small and soft and desperate for her approval. You let out a tiny, involuntary sound, a high-pitched whimper that sounds more like a kitten than a woman.
"Shh, I've got you," she murmurs, leaning in to press a firm, grounding kiss to your forehead. "You've worked so hard, haven't you? So much responsibility. But not right now. Right now, you’re just mine."
She slides her hand back under your skirt, her movements becoming even more deliberate, more possessive. She doesn't just want to make you come; she wants to claim every part of your consciousness. Her fingers work with a slow, heavy friction that makes you whine and try to nuzzle into her palm.
"You like being my good little kitten, don't you?" she whispers, her teeth grazing your ear as her pace quickens just a fraction. "Stay right there for me. Stay soft. Just feel how much I’m taking care of you."
You can't do anything but lean into her, your hands coming up to weakly clutch at the lapels of her blazer, seeking the familiar scent of her. The world outside the office—the cases, the BAU, the noise—doesn't exist anymore. There is only the heat of Emily’s body, the commanding weight of her voice, and the overwhelming, beautiful simplicity of belonging entirely to her.
Emily’s eyes lock onto yours, seeing that glazed, blissful surrender. She recognizes that you’re no longer a Section Chief’s partner or an agent—you’re just hers, small and needing. She lets out a low, breathy laugh, her thumb never stopping its agonizingly perfect rhythm against you.
"You’re so good for me," she whispers, her voice thick with a mix of pride and hunger.
She hooks her arms under your knees, lifting you effortlessly from the floor. You instinctively wrap your legs around her waist, your fingers tangling in the dark silk of her hair as you bury your face in the crook of her neck. She carries you the short distance to the leather sofa, laying you back against the cool cushions, though she never breaks the physical connection.
Emily looms over you, her presence eclipsing the dim light of the office. She reaches down, unfastening her blazer and tossing it onto the floor, followed quickly by the rest of her layers until she is as bare and vulnerable as you are. The sight of her—strong, elegant, and entirely focused on you—makes your breath hitch.
"I’m going to take care of you now," she promises, her voice a velvety rumble.
She moves between your legs, her hands sliding up to pin your wrists above your head once more, though this time she laces her fingers with yours. As she settles her weight against you, the friction of skin-on-skin sends a jolt through your entire body. She doesn't rush into the act; she watches your pupils dilate, savoring the way you arch up to meet her.
When she finally pushes inside, it’s a slow, deep invasion that draws a long, broken keen from your throat. Emily groans, her forehead dropping against yours as she begins to move. Her pace is steady and authoritative, a physical manifestation of the control she’s exerted all night. Every thrust is deep and deliberate, designed to keep you right on that edge where thought is impossible.
"Look at me, kitten," she pants, her eyes searching yours. "Stay with me."
You're lost in the rhythm, your body responding to her every command. The office is silent save for the sound of your joined breathing and the soft creak of the leather. Emily’s movements become more urgent, her composure finally fraying as she feels you tightening around her. She releases your hands to pull you flush against her, her teeth grazing your shoulder as she drives you both toward the cliff’s edge.
"That's it," she gasps, her voice breaking. "Go for me. Give it all to me."
The climax hits you in waves, a total white-out that leaves you sobbing her name into her skin. Emily follows a heartbeat later, her body shuddering as she holds you tight, shielding you from the rest of the world in the safety of her arms.
The cool linoleum of the office floor is a sharp, grounding shock against your back for only a second before the heat of the moment takes over again. Emily doesn't let the fire die down. She settles onto the floor, sitting back on her heels and pulling you into her lap.
You’re completely unraveled now, your mind hazy and focused entirely on the friction and the woman holding you. You move with a newfound, desperate hunger, straddling her hips. The "kitten" from before has been replaced by something much more feral—a raw, needy heat that makes you whimper as you search for her lips.
"So impatient," Emily murmurs, though her own breath is hitching. She reaches up, her large hands finding your waist and guiding you, her thumbs digging into your hips to steady your frantic movements. "Slow down, sweetheart. I've got you."
But you can't slow down. You sink onto her, a broken gasp escaping you as you finally find that perfect, deep connection. Your head falls onto her shoulder, your fingers clutching at her bare back, nails digging in just enough to draw a low, appreciative growl from her chest.
Emily shifts, her legs spreading to give you more room, her hands moving from your hips to your back, pulling you flush against her. She starts to meet your pace, her hips bucking upward to meet every one of your downward descents. The sound of skin meeting skin and your own ragged moans fill the small office, echoing off the bookshelves.
"That's it," Emily pants into your ear, her voice a rough, commanding rasp. "Take what you need. Show me how much you want it."
She’s watching you now, her head tilted back against the side of the sofa, watching the way your body arches and the way your eyes roll back in sheer, unadulterated pleasure. She looks every bit the experienced, older woman—composed even in her own arousal, focused entirely on the way you’re falling apart on top of her.
The friction is building, the heat between you becoming almost unbearable. You’re riding the wave of her strength, your movements becoming faster, more desperate, as you chase that second peak.
"Emily, please—" you sob out, your forehead pressed against hers.
"I've got you, baby," she whispers, her hands sliding down to grip your thighs, holding you in place as she delivers a final, powerful series of thrusts. "Right there. Give it all to me. Everything."
You collapse against her as the world shatters again, your body trembling with the force of it. Emily holds you tight, her own release racking her frame as she pulls you into the safety of her embrace, the two of you tangled together on the office floor in the heavy, satisfied silence that follows.
The heavy, frantic energy of the office finally began to settle, replaced by the soft, rhythmic sound of your shared breathing. The cool air felt like a benediction against your flushed skin.
Emily didn't move to get up or reach for her clothes. Instead, she shifted on the floor, pulling you fully into her lap so your head rested against her chest. Her heart was still hammering a fast tempo against your ear, a comforting reminder that you moved her just as much as she moved you.
"Easy, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice back to that rich, steady velvet. "I've got you. Just breathe."
She reached out, her fingers searching through the pile of discarded clothes until she found her soft cashmere cardigan. She draped it over your shivering shoulders, tucking the fabric around you with a tenderness that felt like a physical embrace. Her touch was different now—no longer demanding, but infinitely careful, like she was handling something precious.
She began to run her fingers through your hair, untangling the knots your frantic movements had created. Her touch was grounding, pulling you slowly back from the hazy clouds of your headspace.
"You were so good for me tonight," she whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. "Thank you for trusting me."
You let out a long, shaky sigh, nuzzling deeper into the crook of her neck. The Section Chief, the warrior, the legend—she was all of those things out there. But here, in the quiet aftermath, she was just Emily. She was the woman who knew exactly how you liked your coffee, the woman who kept a spare blanket in her desk just for you, and the woman who held you as if you were the center of her universe.
"Stay right here for a minute," she said, her arms tightening around you protectively. "The world can wait. Voit, the Bureau, the cases... they aren't allowed in this room tonight."
She tilted your chin up, her thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. Her eyes were warm, filled with a soft, glowing affection that made your chest ache. She leaned down and kissed you—not with the fire of before, but with a slow, sweet promise.
"Let’s go home," she whispered against your lips. "I’ll make us some tea, and we can just... be. How does that sound?"
You couldn't find the words, so you just nodded, closing your eyes and soaking in the safety of her arms. Out there, the world was loud and dangerous, but in here, wrapped in Emily's scent and her quiet strength, everything was finally, perfectly still.
Synopsis: The BAU is quiet, the bullpen is empty, and the case files are stacking up higher than Emily’s patience. When you stop by her office to drag her away from her desk, you find that the "distraction" she’s been fighting all week is finally winning. What starts as a push to get her to go home turns into a high-tension encounter against the mahogany of her desk, proving that some profiles are best handled behind locked doors.
Trigger Warnings: smut, f/f, office sex, desk sex, praise, fingering, oral (f/f), overstimulation, established feelings, professional vs private, biting & marking, no penetrative tools (hand/mouth only), implied light bondage (pinning hands)
Word Count: 2k~ ✏
The office was dimly lit, the only light coming from the amber glow of the desk lamp and the soft hum of the bullpen outside, mostly empty at this hour. Emily sat hunched over a stack of files, her brow furrowed in that focused, intense way that always made your chest tighten.
You leaned against the doorframe, watching her for a moment before knocking softly. "You know the case isn't going anywhere if you leave it until tomorrow, Emily."
She looked up, a tired but genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I could say the same to you. What are you still doing here?"
"I couldn't leave you here alone," you said, walking toward her. As you reached her desk, you let your hand rest on her shoulder, the heat of your palm seep through the fabric of her blazer.
Emily leaned back into your touch, closing her eyes for a brief second. "You're a distraction," she murmured, though her voice lacked any real bite.
"Am I?" You moved your hand to her neck, your thumb grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear. You felt her breath hitch, and the air between you suddenly felt charged, heavy with the unspoken tension that had been building for months.
She stood up slowly, her dark eyes locking onto yours. The professional facade she maintained so carefully was beginning to crack, replaced by a raw, hungry look that sent a shiver down your spine. "You have no idea," she whispered.
She stepped closer, closing the distance until you could smell the faint scent of her perfume—sandalwood and something sharp, like rain. Before you could say another word, her hand was behind your head, pulling you into a kiss that was anything but hesitant. It was firm, demanding, and tasted of coffee and desperate longing.
You surged against her, your hands finding the hem of her shirt, tugging it free from her slacks. Emily groaned into the kiss, her own hands moving to your waist, pulling you flush against her. The desk behind her was forgotten, the files scattered as she hiked you up onto the edge of the mahogany surface.
The cool wood was a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from her. Her lips left yours to trail a path down your jawline, biting softly at the pulse point in your neck. "Emily," you gasped, your fingers tangling in her dark hair.
"I've wanted to do this since the moment you walked into the BAU," she breathed against your skin, her voice low and raspy.
She pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, her hands moving to the buttons of your blouse with practiced efficiency. Every brush of her knuckles against your skin felt like an electric shock. When the fabric finally fell away, the look of pure admiration on her face made you feel more seen than you ever had before.
The bullpen was silent, the rest of the world falling away until it was just the two of you, lost in the shadows of the office and the heat of a fire that had finally been allowed to burn.
Emily’s hands were steady but urgent, sliding beneath the lace of your bra to cup your breasts, her thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles that made your toes curl. You arched your back, a low whine escaping your throat as she caught your lower lip between her teeth, muffling the sound with another deep, searing kiss.
"Still a distraction?" you managed to breathe out, your voice trembling.
"The best kind," she murmured, her gaze dropping to where her hands were working. She made quick work of your belt, the metallic click of the buckle sounding impossibly loud in the quiet room. She didn’t look away as she eased your slacks down your hips, her palms grazing the sensitive skin of your thighs.
She stepped between your legs, forcing them wider apart as you sat on the edge of the desk. The friction of her tactical trousers against your bare skin was a rough, grounding sensation. Emily reached out, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear, hovering there for a heartbeat.
"Tell me what you want," she commanded softly, her voice thick with an authority that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
"You," you whispered, reaching out to pull her closer by the lapels of her blazer. "I want you, Emily. Now."
She didn't need to be told twice. She knelt between your knees, her dark hair falling forward to shroud her face as she leaned in. When her tongue first made contact, you cried out, your fingers digging into the wood of the desk behind you. She was methodical, finding your rhythm with the same precision she used to profile a suspect, but there was a fierce, protective heat in the way she held you.
You were shaking, your head falling back as the tension coiled tighter and tighter. Emily’s hands moved up to grip your hips, anchoring you as she increased the pace, her breath hot against you. The world narrowed down to the sensation of her mouth and the frantic beat of your own heart.
"Emily, wait—I'm—"
"I've got you," she promised, looking up just long enough to see the sheer bliss on your face before she pushed you over the edge.
The release hit you in waves, sharp and overwhelming. You gasped her name, your body shuddering as you clung to her shoulders for support. She held you through it, pressing her forehead against your stomach until your breathing slowed and the room stopped spinning.
When she finally stood, she looked beautifully disheveled—hair messy, lips swollen, and a dark, satisfied smolder in her eyes. She leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Now," she whispered, a predatory smirk tugging at her mouth. "About that paperwork..."
You didn't give her a chance to step away. Reaching out, you hooked your fingers into her belt loops and hauled her back into the space between your thighs. "The paperwork can wait," you countered, your voice still a bit breathless. "I'm not finished with you yet."
Emily’s smirk deepened, that dangerous, knowing glint returning to her eyes. She reached up, slowly undoing her tie and tossing it onto the chair behind her. The blazer followed, discarded carelessly over a stack of cold cases. As she began unbuttoning her dress shirt, she never broke eye contact, watching the way your breath hitched with every inch of skin she revealed.
"I was hoping you'd say that," she confessed, her voice dropping an octave.
She leaned over you, her palms flat on the desk on either side of your hips, trapping you. The heat radiating from her was intense, a physical weight that pressed against you. You reached up, sliding your hands inside her half-open shirt, your palms gliding over the toned muscles of her stomach and up to the silk of her camisole.
Emily groaned, a low, vibration that you felt in your own chest. She captured your lips again, but this time the kiss wasn't just urgent—it was possessive. She tasted like the lingering traces of your own skin and the sharp, addictive spark of adrenaline.
Her hands moved from the desk to the back of your thighs, lifting you slightly to pull you even closer until there wasn't a breath of air between you. You wrapped your legs around her waist, pulling her firmly against the center of your heat. The friction was a promise, a slow-burn torture that had you both reaching for more.
"The door," you managed to gasp out against her neck, your teeth grazing her collarbone. "Is it locked?"
"Since the moment you walked in," Emily whispered, her hands sliding down to the zipper of her own trousers. "I don't leave things like that to chance."
She moved with a fluid, lethal grace, stripping out of the rest of her clothes until she was as bare and vulnerable as you were. When she pressed back against you, skin-to-skin, the sensation was electric. She was all lean muscle and soft curves, a perfect fit against your own body.
Emily’s hands found yours, interlacing her fingers with yours and pinning them to the desk behind you. She leaned in, her lips hovering just inches from yours. "Focus on me," she commanded, her gaze burning into yours. "Just me."
And as she moved against you, driving you toward a second, even more explosive peak, the office, the BAU, and the rest of the world ceased to exist. There was only the rhythm of her body, the scent of sandalwood, and the weight of Emily Prentiss finally, completely, yours.
The intensity in the room was stifling, the air thick with the scent of Emily’s perfume and the salt of shared heat. Her movements were deliberate, each slide of her hips against yours a calculated strike against your remaining self-control. She watched your face with a profiler’s intensity, cataloging every hitch in your breath and every flutter of your eyelids.
"You're shaking," she noted, her voice a low, dark velvet. She released one of your hands, trailing her fingers from your wrist up to your shoulder, then down to trace the line of your collarbone.
"You're doing it on purpose," you choked out, your head thumping back against the desk as she shifted her weight, finding that perfect, agonizing friction again.
"Maybe," she whispered, leaning down to catch your earlobe between her teeth. "I like seeing you like this. Undone. No walls, no BAU, just... this."
She let go of your other hand, her palms sliding down your sides to grip the undersides of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against her. The contact was electric, a grounding force in the middle of the storm. You reached for her, your hands wandering over the smooth skin of her back, your nails grazing the dip of her spine.
The rhythm accelerated, a frantic, desperate pace that left you both gasping. Emily’s composure was finally, truly gone; her eyes were blown wide and dark, her focus entirely narrowed down to the point where your bodies met. She buried her face in the crook of your neck, her breath hot and ragged against your skin as the coil of tension snapped.
You cried out, the sound muffled by her shoulder as the second wave of pleasure crashed over you, more violent and all-consuming than the first. Emily followed a second later, a low, guttural sound escaping her as she collapsed against you, her heart racing a frantic staccato against your own.
For a long time, the only sound in the office was the heavy, synchronized thrum of your breathing. Emily didn't pull away; she stayed there, wrapped in your arms, her face still tucked against your neck. She pressed a lingering, quiet kiss to the pulse point that was slowly beginning to steady.
"We are definitely going to have to wipe down this desk," she murmured, a trace of her usual dry wit returning to her voice, though it was still heavy with exhaustion.
You let out a shaky, genuine laugh, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on her shoulder. "Is that the official BAU protocol, Agent Prentiss?"
She lifted her head, looking at you with a softness she rarely showed anyone else. She brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, her gaze lingering on your lips. "For this? I think we can write our own rules."
Synopsis: Seeking attention after a long briefing, you push Spencer Reid’s buttons until his legendary patience finally snaps. The BAU’s resident genius decides that your "bratty" behavior requires a direct intervention. By trading his books for a dark, authoritative edge, Spencer pins you to a filing cabinet to conduct a lesson in sensory overstimulation. He demands your absolute stillness and focus, proving that while he may be a man of science, he knows exactly how to manipulate the variables of your pleasure until you’re thoroughly tamed.
Trigger Warnings: Workplace Sexual Misconduct, Sexual Dynamics & Power Play, Brat Taming, Consensual Dominance/Submission, Verbal Degradation/Praise, Restraint & Command, Physical Manhandling, Restricted Movement, Overstimulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Clinical/Objectifying Language
Word Count: 2k~ ✏
The quiet of the BAU was different tonight—sharper, heavier. Spencer hadn’t said a word since you’d spent the entire briefing making eyes at Derek and "accidentally" kicking Spencer’s shin under the conference table. You’d been pushing his buttons for six hours, testing the limits of that legendary patience just to see the muscle in his jaw twitch.
Now, the office door didn't just close; it clicked with a finality that made the hair on your arms stand up.
"You had a lot to say in the round-table room," Spencer said, his voice dangerously level. He didn't look at you as he set his satchel down. He looked at the stack of files on his desk. "Calculated disruptions. A 40% increase in tangential comments compared to your baseline."
"Maybe I was just bored, Spencer," you hummed, leaning back against the door, crossing your arms. "All those big words... it gets a little dry."
He turned then. The "boy wonder" was gone. In his place was a man who spent his life studying the darkest impulses of humanity, and right now, his eyes were tracking you like you were the only target in the room.
"Boredom is a lack of stimulation," he murmured, walking toward you with a slow, predatory gait. "If you wanted my attention so badly, you should have just asked. Instead, you decided to be difficult."
He stopped inches from you, his shadow towering over you. "I think we need to recalibrate your focus."
Before you could offer a witty retort, his hands were on your waist, lifting you with a sudden, jarring strength and depositing you onto the edge of the high filing cabinet. Your legs dangled, and for the first time all night, you felt small.
"Spencer—"
"I didn't tell you to speak," he snapped, his voice a low vibration. He stepped between your knees, his hands gripping the metal drawers on either side of your hips, trapping you. "You’ve spent all day acting like a brat because you know I’m soft with you. You think my intellect makes me passive."
He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his breath hot against your lips. "You’re wrong. Negatively reinforcing my patience has consequences."
He reached down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your slacks and tugging, hard. The sudden friction made you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.
"I’m going to give you all the stimulation you were looking for," he whispered, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "But you’re going to stay perfectly still. No fidgeting. No talking. If you break focus once, we start over. Do you understand?"
You nodded frantically, your bravado vanishing into a pool of heat between your thighs.
"Use your words," he prompted, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves through your clothes and pressing down with punishing precision.
"Yes," you choked out, arching into his touch. "Yes, Spencer."
"Good girl," he murmured, his eyes darkening with a flash of triumph. "Let's see how long that focus lasts."
Spencer’s hand didn't move. He kept that steady, punishing pressure right where you needed it most, his thumb circling in a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm. He watched your face with the clinical intensity of a profiler, noting the way your pupils blown wide and the hitch in your ragged breathing.
"You're already losing focus," he murmured, his voice a low, melodic vibration that seemed to settle right in your bones. "Your heart rate is approximately 115 beats per minute. Peripheral vasodilation is increasing. You’re agitated."
The friction of his thumb through the fabric was maddening. It was a dull ache that demanded more, and instinctively, your thighs began to slide together, seeking to crush that sensation, to find the friction you were dying for. A small, pathetic whine broke from your throat, echoing in the quiet office.
Spencer’s expression shifted—a flash of dark authority crossing his features. He stepped closer, his chest pinning your shoulders against the cold metal of the filing cabinet, and used his free hand to firmly force your knees apart.
"I told you to stay still," he reprimanded, his voice dropping to a gravelly silk. "If you rub your legs together again, I’m taking my hand away entirely. Do you want that?"
"No," you gasped, your head hitting the cabinet with a soft thud as you fought the urge to squirm. "No, please, Spencer."
"Then endure it," he commanded.
He didn't speed up. He kept the pace agonizingly slow, his fingers hooking into the lace of your underwear to find direct, damp skin. The first touch of his cool skin against your heat made your back arch off the metal, another broken whine spilling out. You were shaking now, your muscles jumping with the effort of remaining still while he dismantled your composure.
"You’re so sensitive," he whispered, leaning down to press his lips against the pulse jumping in your neck. "Is this enough stimulation for you? Or do you still feel the need to kick me under the table?"
You couldn't even form a coherent thought, let alone a witty reply. Your hands were knotted in the sleeves of his cardigan, knuckles white, as you tried to anchor yourself. Every time you tried to close your legs, he was there, a physical barrier of lean muscle and unwavering intent.
"Spencer, please," you sobbed out, the friction finally pushing you toward a precipice you couldn't see over. "I can't... I can't stay still."
"You can," he countered, his fingers suddenly slick and moving with a new, frantic precision that hit every nerve ending at once. "You’re going to stay perfectly still while I make you come, and you’re going to look me in the eye while it happens. That’s your only job."
The intensity in his gaze was more overwhelming than the touch. He was forcing you to be present, to feel every micro-movement of his hand, until the world narrowed down to the cold metal at your back and the heat of the man who finally had you exactly where he wanted you.
"Look at me," he commanded again, his voice dropping to a gravelly low that vibrated through the metal cabinet behind you.
You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. Spencer looked possessed—a brilliant, terrifying focus that stripped away your ability to hide. Every time your hips hitched upward, seeking more, he pressed his palm flat against your stomach, anchoring you down.
"Don't move," he whispered, his fingers curling and dragging against you with agonizing precision. "Stay right there."
The friction was building into a white-hot spark, a localized storm that threatened to pull your entire body into its center. Your breath was coming in short, high-pitched hitches, and your thighs were trembling so violently they were practically humming against his sides. You were right on the edge, the pressure behind your eyes making the fluorescent lights above bleed into halos.
"Spencer, I'm... I'm going to—"
"I know," he murmured, his thumb catching the very top of your heat and pinning it with a sudden, sharp pressure. "Do it. But don't you dare look away."
The world fractured. Your climax hit with the force of a physical blow, a rhythmic pulsing that had you gasping for air you couldn't find. You tried to curl into yourself, to hide from the sheer intensity of it, but his hands were like iron—one on your waist, the other still moving, still driving the sensation deeper until you were crying out his name into the empty bullpen.
You were sobbing his name, your fingers digging into the wool of his cardigan, as the waves finally began to recede, leaving you limp and boneless.
Spencer didn't pull away immediately. He kept his hand there, feeling the fading aftershocks of your release, his own breathing finally breaking its rhythmic control. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, his chest heaving.
"Statistical outlier," he panted, a ghost of a smirk finally touching his lips. "I’ve never seen a physiological response that sustained."
You let out a weak, shaky laugh, your head lolling back against the filing cabinet. "You... you’re a menace, Reid."
"And you," he said, reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his touch suddenly incredibly gentle, "were a very good girl. I think your focus has been sufficiently recalibrated."
He leaned in, giving you one last, lingering kiss that tasted of salt and triumph, before stepping back to help you down. As your feet hit the floor, your knees buckled slightly, and he caught you with a soft chuckle.
"Careful," he teased, his eyes bright with that familiar, genius spark. "We still have three more folders to get through before we can go home."
You stared at him, incredulous, your legs still feeling like jelly. "You’re joking. You expect me to look at spreadsheets after that?"
Spencer didn’t answer with words. Instead, he reached for his glasses, sliding them back onto the bridge of his nose with a clinical grace that made your heart skip. The transformation was instantaneous—the dominant, focused man who had just dismantled your composure was replaced by the BAU’s resident genius, though the slight flush on his high cheekbones gave him away.
"Actually," he said, his voice regaining that rhythmic, professorial clip, "the post-coital release of oxytocin and dopamine typically leads to a period of enhanced cognitive relaxation. Theoretically, your brain is in the perfect state for data entry."
He moved back to his desk, pulling out the chair for you in a gesture that was both gentlemanly and a clear instruction.
"Spencer," you whined, the sound small and lingering from the 'brat' he'd just tamed.
He paused, his hand resting on the back of the chair. He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, his gaze dropping to your swollen lips before snapping back to your eyes. "If we finish the geographic profile for the Des Moines case now, we don't have to come in at 6:00 AM on Monday. Which means..." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, private murmur. "We can spend all of Sunday in bed. No files. No statistics. Just me, applying everything I know about your 'baseline' until you can't remember your own name."
The sheer promise in his tone hit you like a physical weight. You swallowed hard, your resolve crumbling.
"Fine," you muttered, sliding into the chair. "But if I fall asleep on the COG-MAP files, it's your fault."
Spencer leaned over your shoulder, his chest brushing your back as he reached for a highlighter. The scent of him—soap, old paper, and the lingering musk of what you’d just done—was intoxicating.
"I'll keep you awake," he promised, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he dropped a heavy file in front of you. "I have several high-protein snacks in my satchel, and if that fails, I’m sure I can find... other ways to stimulate your nervous system."
You picked up a pen, your hand still trembling slightly. "You're a monster, Reid."
"I'm a man of science," he corrected, a small, triumphant smile playing on his lips as he sat down at his own desk across from you. "And right now, the data suggests we have work to do."
For the next two hours, the only sounds in the bullpen were the scratching of pens, the flipping of pages, and the occasional, heavy silence when your eyes would meet across the desks—a silent, simmering promise of exactly what Sunday morning was going to look like.
Synopsis: Late nights at the BAU take a turn when a weary Spencer Reid is lured away from his case files. What starts as a frantic, desk-side release shifts into a deliberate lesson in power, as you take charge and force the BAU’s resident genius to abandon his logic for pure, sensory overstimulation. (Smut Blurb)
Trigger Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Power Dynamics, Themes of praise/command, light restraint (holding arms), and "taking charge", Workplace Impropriety, (the BAU bullpen/office), Mildly suggestive and explicit dialogue, Overstimulation, Sensory Deprivation, Female Dominance, Somnophilia
Word Count: 2k~✏
The bullpen was nearly empty, the fluorescent lights humming in the silence of a Saturday night. Spencer was buried behind a literal wall of case files, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he muttered a stream of statistics about geographic profiling.
You didn’t say a word. You just walked up behind him and rested your hands on his shoulders. He jumped slightly, but then he melted, a soft sigh escaping him that sounded far more exhausted than he’d ever admit to Strauss.
"Spencer," you whispered, leaning down so your lips brushed the shell of his ear. "The unsub is caught. The paperwork can wait until Monday. Let's go home."
He turned in his chair, looking up at you with those hazel eyes that always seemed to see right through everything. "I just have three more files to cross-reference—"
You cut him off by sliding into his lap. The air left his lungs in a sharp puff. His hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his long fingers splaying over your hips. The friction of your jeans against his slacks was immediate, and his pupils dilated until the honey-gold of his irises was just a thin ring.
"Is this a distraction technique?" he breathed, his voice dropping an octave. "Because according to a 2014 study on cognitive focus, physical arousal actually—"
"Spencer." You nipped at his jawline. "Shut up."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Right. Shutting up."
He didn't wait for a second invitation. Spencer might be a genius, but in moments like this, he was all instinct. He stood up, lifting you effortlessly and pinning you against the edge of his heavy oak desk. Files scattered, sliding to the floor in a mess of manila, but neither of you cared.
His mouth crashed against yours—not the soft, tentative kiss of a first date, but something hungry and demanding. His tongue tasted like lukewarm coffee and desperation. One of his hands tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, exposing the line of your throat to his teeth.
"I've been thinking about this since the briefing in Seattle," he groaned against your skin. His hands were everywhere now, frantic but precise. He fumbled with the button of your jeans, his breath hitching when he finally found skin.
"You're so analytical," you gasped, arching into him as his fingers found your heat, damp and ready through your lace. "Prove it."
A low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest—a sound most people would never believe came from the "boy wonder." He leaned in close, his lips hovering an inch from yours, his gaze intense enough to burn.
"I’ve memorized every curve of your body, every sound you make when I touch you," he whispered, his thumb tracing the seam of your entrance. "I don't need a profile to know exactly how to make you lose your mind."
He hoisted your legs around his waist, pulling you flush against the hard length of him, and for once, Spencer Reid wasn't thinking at all. He was just feeling.
The sharp click of the office door locking echoed through the empty bullpen, a final barrier between his intellect and his impulses. Spencer didn't waste a second. He crowded back into your space, his hands sliding under your shirt to find the bare skin of your back, his touch searing.
"Spencer," you gasped, your fingers knotting into his soft curls, pulling him closer.
He didn't just kiss you; he devoured you. There was a frantic, brilliant energy to the way he moved—the same way he tackled a complex code, but this time, the variable was the way you arched against him. He hiked your legs higher, his trousers rough against your inner thighs, as he found the zipper of his slacks with a hand that trembled only slightly.
When he finally freed himself, the sight of him—hard and reaching for you amidst the stacks of FBI profiles—made your breath hitch. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours for a fleeting second, his breathing ragged.
"Statistically," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a raw, uncharacteristic edge, "I shouldn't be able to want someone this much. It defies every logical baseline."
"Then stop being logical," you countered, sliding your hands down to guide him.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that started in his chest, and pushed forward. He entered you in one smooth, devastating thrust that pinned you harder against the desk. You cried out, the sound muffled against the column of his neck, as your body stretched to accommodate him.
Spencer froze for a heartbeat, his muscles cording in his arms as he held himself over you, eyes squeezed shut in a moment of pure, sensory overload.
"You're so tight," he choked out, his hips beginning to twitch in a rhythmic, desperate Need. "God, you're perfect."
He started to move—long, deliberate strokes that hit every nerve ending with surgical precision. He wasn't the shy genius in this light; he was a man who knew exactly how to dismantle your composure. Every time he pulled back, he'd stall for a fraction of a second, letting the tension build until you were begging, your heels digging into the small of his back.
"Please, Spencer... faster."
He obeyed, his pace turning frantic, the desk creaking under the rhythmic weight of your bodies. His glasses were long gone, abandoned among the files, and his hair was a wild mess as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. The friction was a wildfire, and as he hit that specific, sensitive spot deep inside you, your vision blurred.
You felt the first wave of your release ripple through you, your internal muscles clenching around him. The sensation broke his last thread of control. Spencer let out a broken, choked-off shout, his pace becoming a blurred friction as he followed you over the edge, spilling into the protection he’d scrambled to put on, his entire frame shuddering with the force of it.
He collapsed against you, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. For a long time, the only sound in the BAU was the heavy, synchronized thrum of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.
Slowly, Spencer lifted his head, a dazed, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"I think," he murmured, his voice returning to its usual gentle cadence, "that was significantly more productive than the paperwork."
Spencer was still catching his breath, his forehead resting against yours, when you felt the shift in power. He was soft and pliable in the aftermath, his guard completely dropped. You didn't give him a chance to recover.
With a firm shove against his chest, you forced him back into his heavy swivel chair. He let out a small, confused huff as he landed, his long limbs tangling momentarily before you straddled him again—this time, with your knees firmly planted on either side of his hips, pinning him down.
"Round two, Doctor," you murmured, reaching out to tilt his chin up. "And this time, you’re following my lead."
Spencer’s eyes went wide, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "I—logistically speaking, the refractory period for a male of my age usually lasts anywhere from—"
You silenced him by leaning forward and catching his lower lip between your teeth, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp. Your hands slid down, deftly undoing the rest of his buttons until his dress shirt hung open, exposing the pale, lean muscle of his chest.
"I don't care about the statistics," you whispered against his skin, tracing the line of his collarbone with your tongue. "I want to see if that genius brain of yours can handle not being in control."
He swallowed hard, his hands hovering uncertainly before settling on your waist. You slapped them away gently. "Hands on the armrests, Spencer. Don't move until I tell you to."
A spark of something dark and hungry lit up his gaze. He obeyed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the leather of the chair. You took your time, dragging your bodice against his chest, feeling his heartbeat accelerate until it was a frantic drumming.
You reached down, your fingers light and teasing as you toyed with him, finding him already stirring again despite his "logistics." When you finally guided him back inside, you did it slowly, inch by excruciating inch, watching his head fall back against the headrest. His jaw was clenched so tight the bone stood out, and a low, broken whine vibrated in his throat.
"You like that?" you asked, beginning to move in a slow, grinding circle that forced a choked sound from his lips.
"Yes," he gasped, his eyes squeezed shut. "God, yes. Please..."
"Please what?" You stopped moving entirely, hovering just at the peak of the sensation.
Spencer’s hips bucked instinctively, trying to close the gap, but you held him down with your weight. He looked up at you, his hair a wild halo, his expression one of pure, unadulterated longing.
"Please don't stop," he rasped, his voice cracking. "I'll do whatever you want. Just... finish what you started."
You smiled, a slow, predatory thing, and leaned down to whisper a command in his ear that made his entire body go rigid with heat. As you picked up the pace, the only sound in the dark office was the frantic rhythm of your skin meeting his and the soft, repetitive click of the chair’s wheels against the floor—a steady beat to the most beautiful chaos Spencer Reid had ever analyzed.
The rhythm of the swivel chair became a metronome for the tension building between you. Every time you sank down, the leather creaked, punctuating the jagged sound of Spencer’s breathing. He was gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles were ghostly white, his long legs twitching as he fought the urge to thrust back against you.
"Look at me, Spencer," you commanded, your voice low and steady despite the heat pooling in your own gut.
He opened his eyes, and they were dark with a haze of sheer, unadulterated wanting. He looked wrecked—his tie discarded on the carpet, his hair a wild mess, and his chest heaving.
"You're... you're doing this on purpose," he managed to choke out, his voice cracking as you shifted your weight, grinding slowly against him in a way that made his hips jerk reflexively. "The sensory... the sensory input is... it's overwhelming my prefrontal cortex."
"Good," you whispered, leaning down to trail your tongue along the pulse point in his neck. "Stop thinking. Just feel."
You picked up the pace, moving with a fluid, relentless grace that had him biting his lip to keep from shouting. You could feel him pulsing inside you, harder and more desperate with every second. You reached back, bracing your hands on his knees for leverage, and began to move in fast, shallow increments that hit the very edge of his endurance.
Spencer’s composure finally snapped. One of his hands broke free from the armrest, flyng up to catch the back of your neck, pulling you down into a kiss that tasted like a fever dream. He wasn't asking anymore. His hips bucked up to meet yours, a frantic, rhythmic collision that sent sparks behind your eyelids.
"I can't—" he gasped into your mouth, his eyes rolling back. "I'm going to—"
"Go," you urged, your own climax beginning to crest, a tidal wave of heat crashing through your limbs. "Right now, Spencer."
He let out a broken, high-pitched moan, his body stiffening into a bow as he surged into you one last time. The force of it sent the swivel chair rolling back a few inches until it thudded against the edge of his desk. He went rigid, his fingers digging into your hips as he came, his breath hitching in a series of short, sobbing gasps.
You collapsed against him, your forehead resting on his shoulder, your own release leaving you shaky and lightheaded. The silence of the BAU returned, heavier than before, filled only with the scent of skin and the cooling air.
Spencer’s arms wound around you, pulling you tight against his chest. He was trembling, his heart racing at a pace that would have concerned him if he weren't so blissfully dazed. He pressed a lingering, shaky kiss to the side of your head.
"I think," he whispered, his voice raspy and exhausted, "that my previous assessment of the refractory period was... significantly flawed."
You let out a soft laugh, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. "Is that a professional opinion, Doctor?"
"No," he murmured, his grip tightening affectionately. "That was purely experimental data."
Synopsis: After profiling your attempts to "train" him into dominance, Spencer Reid flips the script. Recognizing your manipulation for what it is—a desire for his control—he bypasses your home and takes you to his apartment. There, he strips away your influence and replaces it with his own absolute authority, demanding total surrender and proving that the "Boy Wonder" is far more commanding than the man you tried to create.
Trigger Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Fingerplay, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex, Dominant/Submissive Dynamics, Begging and Pleading, Intense Pleasure Descriptions, Graphic Language
Word Count: 7k~ ✏
The bullpen of the BAU was a chaotic symphony of ringing phones and frantic typing, but for Spencer Reid, the newest addition to the team was the only variable he couldn't quite calculate.
You weren't aggressive. You weren't a "power player." In fact, you were soft-spoken, almost deferential, and yet, Spencer found himself reacting to you in ways that defied his usual logic.
It started during a morning briefing. You were sitting next to him, your shoulder just an inch from his. When Hotch asked for the geographic profile, you didn't jump in. Instead, you leaned toward Spencer, your voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"Spencer? You noticed the pattern in the disposal sites, right? I'm still learning the ropes... could you explain it to the group? I feel much more comfortable if you lead the way."
He blinked, his chest puffing out just a fraction. "Oh. Yes, of course."
As he spoke, he felt your gaze on him—not just watching, but admiring. It made his voice deeper, his posture straighter. You weren't just being shy; you were creating a pedestal and handing him the keys to it.
Two weeks in, the team was deep in a case in rural Ohio. The precinct was cramped, and the tension was high. You were looking over crime scene photos, biting your lip in a way that looked perfectly distressed.
"Spencer," you murmured, beckoning him over. "This image... it’s a bit much. Can you tell me what I should be looking for? I don't want to miss anything, and I trust your eyes more than mine."
He stepped up behind you. Normally, he’d keep a polite distance, but you stepped back just enough to close the gap. He could smell your perfume—vanilla and something sharp.
"Look at the ligatures," he said, his hand hovering near the small of your back to steady himself in the crowded room.
"I see," you breathed, leaning back into his space, your head tilting up to look at him. "You're so decisive. I think I need that right now. Everything feels so chaotic, but when you tell me what to do, it makes sense."
Spencer’s hand finally landed on your waist, a firm, grounding touch. He didn't even realize he was "taking charge." He just knew that you were looking to him for order, and he found he liked providing it.
The "manipulation"—if one could call it that—was seamless. You weren't tricking him into being mean; you were teaching him the weight of his own authority. You would "accidentally" leave your coffee cup just out of reach so he’d have to hand it to you, or you’d hesitate at a doorway until he placed a hand on your shoulder to guide you through.
By the end of the month, the "Boy Wonder" was gone, replaced by a man who walked with a new kind of gravity.
One evening, while finishing paperwork, the bullpen was empty. You were struggling with a jammed filing cabinet. Spencer didn't wait for you to ask. He walked over, his presence suddenly looming and heavy in the best way possible.
"Step aside," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.
You obeyed instantly, dropping your hands and looking up at him with wide, dark eyes. "Sorry. I'm not very good at this part."
He cleared the jam with a sharp tug, then turned to face you. He didn't move away. He stayed in your personal space, his height finally feeling like the advantage it was.
"You don't have to be good at everything," Spencer said, his voice dropping an octave, resonant and steady. "That’s what I’m here for. You just need to follow my lead, okay?"
You smiled, a small, secret thing. "Yes, Spencer. Whatever you say."
He felt a thrill of heat rush through him at your compliance. He didn't realize you had built this version of him, brick by brick. He just knew that when he told you what to do, the world felt right.
The shift happened during a late-night file review in the sub-basement archives. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and the hum of the HVAC system.
Spencer wasn’t just a genius; he was a profiler. While you had been busy conditioning his responses, he had been subconsciously mapping yours. The way you’d go still when he took up space. The way your pupils dilated when he used a lower register. He’d run the data, and the conclusion was a startling, electric realization: you weren't just submissive. You were curating him.
"The statistical probability of you being unable to open that heavy door earlier today was less than 4%," Spencer said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence.
He didn't look up from his files. You paused, your pen hovering over a report. "I'm sorry?"
"You lift weights three times a week. Your grip strength is well above the mean for your demographic," he continued, finally turning his chair to face you. He didn't look annoyed. He looked... focused. "You’ve been nudging me. Positioning me. You’ve been teaching me how you want to be handled."
The air in the room suddenly felt very thin. You opened your mouth to deflect, to offer another soft "I don't understand," but Spencer stood up. He didn't do it tentatively. He moved with a predatory grace you hadn't seen from him before.
He walked around the table, stopping just inches from you. He didn't touch you. Instead, he leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of your chair, effectively pinning you in place without a single finger on your skin.
"It was a clever bit of psychological framing," he whispered, his eyes scanning your face with a terrifying intensity. "And it worked. I’ve realized I quite like the feeling of you deferring to me. But here’s the thing about a dynamic like this..."
He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.
"If you're going to give me the lead, you don't get to keep your hand on the wheel. From now on, you don't have to 'manipulate' me into taking charge. I’m just going to take it."
He reached out then, his long fingers hooking under your chin, tilting your head up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. Gone was the shy, stuttering academic. In his place was the man who understood the darkest corners of the human mind—and exactly how to control them.
"When we’re on the clock, you’ll follow my directives without the theatrics," he said, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, a possessive, heavy pressure. "And when we’re off the clock... well, I have a few ideas about what 'teaching' looks like from my perspective."
He let go, but the weight of his presence remained, more suffocating and exhilarating than any of the "lessons" you’d staged.
"Go get your coat," he commanded, already turning back to his bag. "I’m taking you home. And you're going to sit in the passenger seat and stay quiet while I think about exactly what I’m going to do with you tomorrow."
You sat there for a moment, stunned. You had wanted a lion, but you hadn't realized he’d been hiding one behind his sweater vests all along.
"I said," Spencer’s voice rang out, sharper this time, "get your coat."
"Yes, Spencer," you breathed, the words coming out more genuinely than they ever had before.
The drive to his apartment was a study in controlled silence. Spencer didn’t turn on the radio; he didn't fill the space with his usual rapid-fire trivia. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting firmly on the gear shift, his knuckles occasionally brushing your knee in a way that felt entirely intentional.
When he bypassed the turn for your neighborhood, you didn't say a word. You simply watched the streetlights flicker across his sharp profile. You had wanted him to take the lead, and now that he was, the sheer gravity of his focus was more intoxicating than you’d imagined.
He parked the car, killed the engine, and finally turned to look at you. The shadows of the parking garage made his hazel eyes look dark, nearly black.
"I didn't think I needed to clarify," he said, his voice calm but absolute. "You aren't going to your place tonight. You're staying with me."
Inside his apartment, the door had barely clicked shut before the atmosphere shifted. Spencer didn't even take off his satchel. He stood in the narrow entryway, watching as you took in the stacks of books and the dim, warm lighting of his home.
"You've spent weeks meticulously crafting a version of me that suits your needs," he started, stepping into your space until your back hit the door. He placed a hand on the wood right next to your head. "It was an impressive display of behavioral conditioning. But you forgot one thing."
He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, forcing you to focus on nothing but him.
"I’m a profiler. I don't just see the behavior; I see the intent. You want to be managed? You want someone to provide the structure you lack? Fine."
His hand moved from the door to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. It wasn't rough, but it was possessive—a claim being staked in real-time.
"Tonight, and for as long as I decide this lasts, there is no more 'guiding' me," he murmured. "You’re going to spend the night with me, and you’re going to do it however I want. If I tell you to sit, you sit. If I tell you to be still, you don't move a muscle unless I give you leave."
He felt the hitch in your breath, the way your body betrayed its excitement at his sudden, clinical dominance.
"I have a very specific set of expectations for how this night is going to go," Spencer continued, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. "And for once, you don't have to think. You don't have to plan. You just have to belong to me. Do you understand?"
The "yes" that left your lips was barely a whisper, a total surrender to the man you had unleashed.
"Good," he said, a ghost of a smirk finally appearing—the look of a man who had solved the puzzle and liked the prize. "Now, go into the bedroom. Take off your shoes and wait for me on the edge of the bed. Don't touch anything else until I come in."
You kneel at the edge of Spencer's bed, your heart pounding with anticipation and a mix of fear. The room is dimly lit, casting long shadows that dance across the walls. You hear the soft click of the door as Spencer enters, his footsteps deliberate and measured. He pauses, taking in the scene before him, his eyes lingering on your position, your back arched slightly, your body poised and ready.
Spencer didn’t just walk into a room; he reclaimed it. He leaned against the doorframe for a heartbeat before closing the distance, his movements carrying that effortless, predatory grace that usually meant he was three steps ahead of everyone else.
He stopped just close enough to be an intrusion, looking down with a sharp, expectant intensity. "You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet," he said, his voice dropping into a low, rhythmic hum that was more observation than question. "Usually, that means you’ve either solved a problem I didn't know we had—or you've caused a new one."
I didn't look up, but I could feel the heat climbing my neck. "The second one," I admitted, the words coming out a little thinner than I intended. "I definitely made a mess of things."
He reaches out, his fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, sending shivers down your spine. "And what should I do about that?" he asks, his voice a seductive whisper. "Should I punish you, or should I reward you?"
Your body trembles with desire, and you bite your lip, trying to keep your composure. "Whatever you think is best, Spencer."
He smiles, a wicked curve of his lips that promises both pleasure and pain. "I think," he says, his fingers now trailing down your neck, "that I should inspect the damage first."
He moves behind you, his hands sliding down your back, his touch firm yet gentle. You feel his breath on your ear, his words a soft caress. "You've been a very bad girl, haven't you?"
You nod again, your voice barely a whisper. "Yes, Spencer."
His hands continue their exploration, moving lower, teasing the curve of your ass. He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "Tell me why I should fuck you," he whispers, his voice a low growl. "Convince me."
You take a deep breath, your mind racing as you try to formulate a response. "Because," you begin, your voice steadying, "I need you. I crave your touch, your control. I want to feel you inside me, to know that I belong to you."
Spencer chuckles, a low, throaty sound. "That's a start," he says, his hands moving to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. "But I want more. Tell me how much you need it. Tell me how much you want to please me."
You turn to face him, your eyes meeting his, your expression pleading. "I need it more than anything, Spencer. I want to please you, to make you proud. I want to be yours, completely and utterly."
He studies you for a moment, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to gauge your sincerity. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reaches down, his fingers finding the hem of your dress. He lifts it slowly, revealing your thighs, your hips, and finally, your most intimate place.
His eyes darken with desire as he takes in the sight, his fingers brushing lightly against your flesh. "So wet," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "So ready."
You gasp as he slides a finger inside you, his touch expert, his movements slow and teasing. He watches your face, his eyes never leaving yours as he explores you, his finger curling inside you, hitting all the right spots.
"You're so tight," he whispers, his voice a low growl. "So perfect."
You moan, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his finger. "Please, Spencer," you beg, your voice a desperate plea. "Please, I need more."
He smiles, a wicked, knowing smile. "Not yet," he says, his finger slipping out of you, leaving you aching and wanting. "First, you need to convince me. Tell me why I should give you what you want."
You take a deep breath, your mind racing as you try to find the words. "Because," you begin, your voice steady and sure, "I am yours, completely and utterly. I will do anything to please you, to make you happy. I want to be your good girl, your perfect girl. I want to be the one who makes you proud."
Spencer studies you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he leans down, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss. "Very well," he murmurs against your lips. "You've convinced me."
And with that, he begins to unbutton his shirt, his eyes never leaving yours, his promise of pleasure and pain hanging heavy in the air.
As Spencer unbuttons his shirt, his eyes never leaving yours, you can see a hint of softness in his gaze, a flicker of tenderness amidst the intense desire. He pulls you close, his arms wrapping around you, his lips capturing yours in a deep, passionate kiss.
You melt into him, your body molding against his, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair. His kiss is gentle yet firm, a promise of the pleasure to come. You can feel his heart beating against your chest, steady and strong, and you know that in this moment, you are his, completely and utterly.
He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "You're mine," he whispers, his voice a soft caress. "And I'm going to take such good care of you."
You smile, a soft, loving smile, your eyes shining with unshed tears. "I know," you whisper back. "I trust you, Spencer. I trust you completely."
He nods, a slow, gentle nod, his thumbs brushing away the tears that spill over your lashes. "Good girl," he murmurs, his voice a soft, approving whisper. "You're my good girl."
But then, just as quickly as the tenderness appeared, it's gone, replaced by the harsh, demanding desire that you've come to crave. Spencer's hands tighten on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, his grip possessive and claiming.
"You want to please me, don't you?" he asks, his voice a low, demanding growl. "You want to be my good girl, my perfect girl?"
You nod, your breath catching in your throat. "Yes, Spencer. More than anything."
He smiles, a wicked, knowing smile, his eyes dark with desire. "Then show me," he demands, his voice a harsh, commanding whisper. "Show me how much you want it. Show me how much you want to please me."
And with that, he spins you around, his hands pushing you down onto the bed, your ass lifted high in the air. He stands behind you, his presence commanding, his gaze intense.
"Stay still," he orders, his voice a harsh, demanding growl. "Don't move a muscle. This is your punishment, your reward. And you're going to take it like a good girl."
You nod, your body trembling with anticipation and desire. You stay still, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, your body aching with need. And as Spencer's hands move to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, you know that you are his, completely and utterly, and that he is going to take such good care of you.
As you continue to lick Spencer's cock, your tongue moving slowly from the base to the tip, you feel a strange, intense sensation building in your mouth, your throat, your entire body. It's a feeling of intense pleasure, a need to have him fill you, to taste him, to savor him completely.
You moan, the sound vibrating against his cock, your eyes never leaving his. Spencer groans, his hips jerking slightly, his hands reaching down to tangle in your hair, his grip firm and possessive.
"Fuck, you're good at that," he murmurs, his voice a low, approving growl. "Keep going. Don't stop."
You obey, your tongue moving faster now, your mouth watering, your body aching with need. You take him deeper, your lips stretching around his cock, your throat relaxing to take him in.
Spencer's grip tightens in your hair, his hips moving in time with your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat. You gag slightly, your eyes watering, but you don't stop, you don't pull away. You want this, you need this.
"Fuck, you're so good," Spencer groans, his voice a low, desperate growl. "You're so fucking perfect."
You pull back slightly, your lips releasing his cock with a pop, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Spencer," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse with desire. "I... I think I have an oral fixation."
He looks down at you, his eyes dark with desire, a wicked, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Is that so?" he asks, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "And what does that mean, exactly?"
You lick your lips, your eyes never leaving his. "It means," you begin, your voice steady and sure, "that I need to have you in my mouth. I need to taste you, to savor you. I need to please you, to make you happy."
Spencer chuckles, a low, throaty sound. "Well, well," he murmurs, his hands reaching down to cup your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. "It seems you've found your true calling, my dear."
You nod, a slow, determined nod, your eyes shining with unshed tears. "Yes, Spencer. I have. And I want to be your good girl, your perfect girl. I want to be the one who makes you proud."
He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he leans down, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss.
"Very well," he murmurs against your lips. "You've convinced me. You're mine, completely and utterly. And I'm going to take such good care of you."
And with that, he pulls you to your feet, his hands moving to your ass, his fingers digging into your flesh. He lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms wrapping around his neck.
"Hold on tight," he orders, his voice a low, demanding growl. "Because I'm going to fuck your mouth like you've never been fucked before."
You nod, your body trembling with anticipation and desire, your eyes shining with unshed tears. And as Spencer carries you to the bed, his cock already hard and ready, you know that you are his, completely and utterly, and that he is going to take such good care of you.
Spencer carries you to the bed, his movements strong and sure, his eyes never leaving yours. He lays you down gently, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, your body molding against his.
He leans down, his lips capturing yours in a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lips. You moan into his kiss, your body arching against his, your hips moving in a slow, sensual rhythm.
Spencer pulls back slightly, his breath mingling with yours, his eyes dark with desire. "You want me to fuck your mouth, don't you?" he asks, his voice a low, demanding growl. "You want to please me, to make me happy?"
You nod, your breath catching in your throat, your body trembling with anticipation. "Yes, Spencer. More than anything."
He smiles, a wicked, knowing smile, his hands moving to your shoulders, pushing you down onto the bed. "Then show me," he orders, his voice a harsh, commanding whisper. "Show me how much you want it. Show me how much you want to please me."
You obey, your hands reaching for his cock, your lips parting, your eyes locked on his. But Spencer has other plans. He moves down your body, his lips tracing a path down your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his tongue swirling around your nipples, his teeth nipping at your flesh.
You gasp, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving restlessly against the mattress. Spencer continues his exploration, his lips moving lower, his tongue tracing patterns on your stomach, your hips, your thighs.
He reaches your entrance, his breath hot against your flesh, his eyes locked on yours. You whimper, your body trembling with need, your hips lifting slightly, seeking his touch.
Spencer chuckles, a low, throaty sound, his hands moving to your hips, holding you still. "Not yet, my dear," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "First, you need to beg me. Beg me to eat your pussy like the good girl you are."
You look up at him, your eyes wide with a mix of desire and uncertainty, your body aching with need. "Please, Spencer," you whisper, your voice a desperate plea. "Please, I need you. I need you to eat me out. I need to feel your tongue on me, your mouth on me. Please, I'm begging you."
Spencer studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he leans down, his lips capturing your clit in a searing kiss, his tongue swirling around it, his teeth nipping at it.
You cry out, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his tongue, your hands reaching down to tangle in his hair. Spencer continues his assault, his tongue moving lower, exploring your folds, your entrance, his fingers joining in, sliding inside you, curling to hit all the right spots.
"You taste so good," he murmurs against your flesh, his voice a low, approving growl. "So fucking perfect."
You moan, your body trembling with pleasure, your hips moving in time with his tongue, his fingers. "Spencer," you gasp, your voice a desperate plea. "Please, don't stop. I need you. I need you so much."
He chuckles, a low, throaty sound, his tongue moving faster now, his fingers curling deeper, hitting all the right spots. "I won't stop, my dear," he promises, his voice a low, demanding growl. "I'm going to make you come so hard, you'll see stars. And then, and only then, will I fuck your mouth like you've never been fucked before."
And with that promise hanging heavy in the air, Spencer continues his assault, his tongue, his fingers, his mouth, driving you higher and higher, your body trembling with pleasure, your mind spinning with desire, your heart belonging to him, completely and utterly.
As Spencer's tongue and fingers work their magic, you feel your body building towards an explosive release. The sensations are overwhelming, your nerves alight with pleasure, your mind focused solely on the incredible feelings he's eliciting from you. You can feel the pressure building, your muscles tensing, and your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Spencer senses your impending climax and intensifies his efforts, his tongue swirling faster, his fingers curling deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you that sends shivers down your spine. You can feel the world around you fading away, your entire existence narrowing down to the point where his mouth meets your flesh.
"Spencer," you cry out, your voice a desperate, pleading moan. "I'm so close. Please, don't stop. I need to come. I need to come so badly."
He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire and a wicked smile playing on his lips. "Come for me, my dear," he murmurs, his voice a low, commanding growl. "Let me feel you come all over my face. Show me how much you need it."
His words push you over the edge, your body convulsing with pleasure as you reach your climax. You cry out, your voice a mix of ecstasy and relief, your hips bucking against his mouth, your hands gripping his hair tightly. Waves of pleasure crash over you, each one more intense than the last, leaving you breathless and trembling.
Spencer continues to lap at you gently, his tongue soothing your sensitive flesh as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm. He slowly pulls back, his lips brushing against your inner thighs, his hands moving to your hips, holding you gently.
You look down at him, your eyes glazed with pleasure, your body still trembling with the aftershocks. "Spencer," you whisper, your voice hoarse with desire. "That was... incredible."
He smiles, a soft, satisfied smile, his thumbs brushing against your hips. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, my dear," he murmurs, his voice a low, approving whisper. "But we're not done yet. You still owe me that mouth of yours."
You nod, a slow, determined nod, your eyes shining with renewed desire. "Yes, Spencer," you whisper, your voice steady and sure. "I'm yours. Completely and utterly."
He pulls you up, his hands moving to your shoulders, guiding you to your knees in front of him. You look up at him, your eyes locked on his, your lips parting, your tongue darting out to lick your lower lip.
Spencer takes his cock in his hand, stroking it slowly, his eyes dark with desire. "Open your mouth, my dear," he orders, his voice a low, demanding growl. "And show me how much you want to please me."
You obey, your lips parting, your tongue flicking out to lick the head of his cock, your eyes never leaving his. Spencer groans, his hips jerking slightly, his hand fisting in your hair, his grip firm and possessive.
"You're so good at that," he murmurs, his voice a low, approving growl. "So fucking perfect."
You take him deeper, your lips stretching around his cock, your throat relaxing to take him in. Spencer's grip tightens in your hair, his hips moving in time with your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat. You gag slightly, your eyes watering, but you don't stop, you don't pull away. You want this, you need this.
Spencer's movements become more urgent, his hips thrusting faster, his cock sliding deeper into your throat. You can feel him hitting the back of your throat, your gag reflex kicking in, but you push through, your body aching with need, your mind focused solely on pleasing him.
"You're so fucking good," Spencer groans, his voice a low, desperate growl. "So perfect. I'm going to come in your mouth, my dear. I'm going to fill you up and you're going to swallow every last drop. Understand?"
You nod, your eyes watering, your throat constricting around his cock, your hands reaching up to grip his thighs, your nails digging into his flesh. Spencer groans, his body tensing, his cock swelling in your mouth.
"Fuck, yes," he groans, his voice a low, desperate growl. "Here it comes, my dear. Swallow it all."
With a final thrust, Spencer comes, his cock pulsing in your mouth, his hot seed spilling down your throat. You swallow eagerly, your throat working to take it all, your eyes locked on his, your body trembling with pleasure.
Spencer pulls back slightly, his cock slipping from your mouth with a pop, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He looks down at you, his eyes dark with desire and a soft, satisfied smile playing on his lips.
"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice a low, approving whisper. "You've pleased me so much. I'm so proud of you."
You look up at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears, your body trembling with pleasure and satisfaction. "Thank you, Spencer," you whisper, your voice hoarse with emotion. "Thank you for taking such good care of me."
And as you rest your head against his thigh, his hand gently stroking your hair, you know that you are his, completely and utterly, and that he will always take such good care of you.
Spencer continues to stroke your hair gently, his touch soothing and comforting. You rest your head against his thigh, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your pleasure, your mind drifting in a haze of satisfaction and contentment.
After a few moments of silence, Spencer speaks, his voice a low, soft murmur. "You know, my dear, you've done exceptionally well today. You've shown such dedication and eagerness to please. It's... admirable."
You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, a soft smile playing on your lips. "Thank you, Spencer. It means a lot to hear you say that. I just want to be the best for you, to make you happy and proud."
He nods, a slow, thoughtful nod, his eyes searching yours. "And you have. But I have a feeling there's more to explore, more to discover about your desires and needs. Would you like that? To explore further?"
You take a deep breath, considering his words, your heart racing with a mix of excitement and anticipation. "Yes, Spencer. I would. I want to learn everything, to experience everything with you. I trust you completely."
Spencer smiles, a wicked, knowing smile, his eyes darkening with renewed desire. "Good. Because I have a few more ideas in mind. But first, let's take a moment to recover, shall we?"
You nod, a slow, agreeable nod, your body relaxing against him. Spencer lies down beside you, pulling you into his arms, his body warm and comforting against yours. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, your fingers tracing patterns on his skin.
As you lie there, your mind drifts, thinking about the incredible experiences you've shared, the intense pleasure, the deep connection. You feel a sense of contentment and fulfillment, knowing that you've pleased him, that you've made him proud.
After a while, Spencer stirs, his arms tightening around you. "Feeling better, my dear?" he asks, his voice a low, soft murmur.
You nod, a slow, satisfied nod, your eyes meeting his. "Yes, Spencer. Much better. Thank you."
He smiles, a soft, tender smile, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "You're welcome. Now, are you ready for more? Ready to explore further?"
You take a deep breath, your heart racing with excitement and anticipation. "Yes, Spencer. I'm ready. Show me what else you have in mind."
Spencer chuckles, a low, throaty sound, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you closer. "Very well. But first, I want to hear you beg again. Beg me to touch you, to explore you, to make you feel things you've never felt before."
You look up at him, your eyes wide with desire and a mix of uncertainty, your body aching with need. "Please, Spencer," you whisper, your voice a desperate plea. "Please, touch me. Explore me. Make me feel things I've never felt before. I need you. I need you so much."
He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he leans down, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss, his hands moving to explore your body, his touch firm yet gentle, his promise of pleasure and discovery hanging heavy in the air.
As his hands roam over your body, his lips trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, you know that you are his, completely and utterly, and that he is going to take such good care of you, guiding you through new experiences, new pleasures, new discoveries. And you can't wait to see what comes next.
Spencer's hands and lips continue their exploration, each touch sending shivers down your spine, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You arch into his touch, your body responding eagerly, your mind focused solely on the incredible sensations he's eliciting.
He moves lower, his lips tracing a path down your stomach, his tongue swirling in your belly button, his hands gripping your hips firmly. You gasp, your body trembling with anticipation, your hips lifting slightly, seeking his touch.
Spencer chuckles, a low, throaty sound, his breath hot against your flesh. "Patience, my dear," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "We have all night. And I plan to explore every inch of you."
You whimper, your body aching with need, your mind spinning with desire. "Spencer, please," you beg, your voice a desperate plea. "I need you. I need you to touch me, to explore me. I can't wait any longer."
He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire, a wicked, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Very well. But first, you need to tell me what you want. What do you want me to do to you? What do you want to explore?"
You take a deep breath, your mind racing, your body trembling with anticipation. "I want... I want you to touch me everywhere," you whisper, your voice hoarse with desire. "I want you to explore my body, to discover all my sensitive spots, to make me feel things I've never felt before. I want to learn, to experience, to please you."
Spencer nods, a slow, approving nod, his hands moving to your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Good girl," he murmurs, his voice a low, approving growl. "I'm going to do just that. And you're going to tell me how it feels, how much you like it, how much you want more. Understand?"
You nod, a slow, determined nod, your eyes shining with unshed tears, your body trembling with anticipation. "Yes, Spencer. I understand. I'll tell you everything. I promise."
He smiles, a wicked, knowing smile, his hands moving to your inner thighs, his fingers brushing against your sensitive flesh. You gasp, your body arching into his touch, your hips lifting slightly, seeking more.
Spencer continues his exploration, his fingers moving higher, his touch gentle yet firm, his eyes locked on yours, gauging your reactions, your responses. He reaches your entrance, his fingers brushing against your folds, your clit, his touch sending jolts of pleasure through your body.
"You're so wet, my dear," he murmurs, his voice a low, approving growl. "So ready for me. Tell me how it feels."
You gasp, your body trembling with pleasure, your eyes locked on his. "It feels... incredible," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse with desire. "Your touch is like fire, burning me up from the inside out. I need more, Spencer. I need you to explore deeper, to make me feel more."
He nods, a slow, approving nod, his fingers moving lower, sliding inside you, curling to hit all the right spots. You cry out, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers, your hands reaching down to tangle in his hair.
"Spencer," you gasp, your voice a desperate plea. "Please, don't stop. I need you. I need you so much."
He chuckles, a low, throaty sound, his fingers moving faster now, his thumb circling your clit, his mouth capturing your nipple, his teeth nipping at your flesh. You can feel the pressure building, your body tensing, your mind spinning with pleasure.
"You're so close, my dear," Spencer murmurs against your flesh, his voice a low, demanding growl. "I can feel it. You're going to come so hard for me. And when you do, you're going to scream my name. Understand?"
You nod, your body trembling with anticipation, your eyes locked on his, your voice a desperate plea. "Yes, Spencer. I understand. I'll scream your name. I promise."
And with that promise hanging heavy in the air, Spencer intensifies his efforts, his fingers, his mouth, his body driving you higher and higher, your pleasure building to a crescendo, your body trembling on the edge of release.
"You're so perfect," Spencer groans, his voice a low, desperate growl. "So fucking perfect. Come for me, my dear. Let me feel you come all over my fingers. Scream my name."
And with a final thrust of his fingers, a final swirl of his tongue, you come undone, your body convulsing with pleasure, your voice crying out his name, your mind spinning with ecstasy, your heart belonging to him, completely and utterly.
As the waves of your orgasm subside, your body still trembling with aftershocks, Spencer pulls his fingers from you, his eyes dark with desire and a wicked, knowing smile playing on his lips. He brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.
"You taste so fucking good, my dear," he murmurs, his voice a low, approving growl. "I could eat you out all night. But I have other plans for you."
You look up at him, your eyes wide with anticipation, your body aching with need, your voice a desperate plea. "Spencer, please. I need you. I need you inside me. I need you to fuck me."
He chuckles, a low, throaty sound, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you closer. "And I plan to, my dear. But first, you need to beg me. Beg me to fuck you, to make you mine, to fill you up completely."
You nod, a slow, determined nod, your eyes shining with unshed tears, your body trembling with anticipation. "Please, Spencer," you whisper, your voice hoarse with desire. "Please, fuck me. Make me yours. Fill me up completely. I need you so much. I need you inside me, stretching me, claiming me. Please, I'm begging you."
Spencer studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he positions himself between your thighs, his cock hard and ready, the head brushing against your entrance.
"You're so wet, my dear," he murmurs, his voice a low, approving growl. "So ready for me. Tell me how much you want it. Tell me how much you need me to fuck you."
You gasp, your body arching into his touch, your hips lifting slightly, seeking his cock. "I want it so much, Spencer," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse with desire. "I need you to fuck me. I need you to stretch me, to fill me up, to make me yours completely. Please, don't make me wait any longer."
He nods, a slow, approving nod, his hands gripping your hips firmly, his cock poised at your entrance. "Very well, my dear. Hold on tight. Because I'm going to fuck you so hard, you'll see stars."
And with that promise hanging heavy in the air, Spencer thrusts into you, his cock sliding deep, filling you completely, stretching you, claiming you. You cry out, your voice a mix of pleasure and relief, your body arching into his, your hips moving in time with his thrusts.
Spencer sets a punishing pace, his hips moving fast and hard, his cock hitting all the right spots, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, your body molding against his, your mind focused solely on the incredible sensations he's eliciting.
"You're so tight, my dear," Spencer groans, his voice a low, desperate growl. "So perfect. You feel so fucking good around my cock. I'm not going to last long."
You gasp, your body trembling with pleasure, your eyes locked on his, your voice a desperate plea. "Spencer, please. Don't stop. I need you. I need you to come inside me. I need to feel you fill me up completely."
He nods, a slow, determined nod, his movements becoming more urgent, his hips thrusting faster, his cock sliding deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you that sends shivers down your spine.
"You're so close, my dear," Spencer groans, his voice a low, demanding growl. "I can feel it. You're going to come so hard for me. And when you do, you're going to milk my cock dry. Understand?"
You nod, your body trembling with anticipation, your eyes locked on his, your voice a desperate plea. "Yes, Spencer. I understand. I'll milk your cock dry. I promise."
And with a final, deep thrust, Spencer comes, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you, his hot seed spilling deep, filling you up completely. You cry out, your own orgasm crashing over you, your body convulsing with pleasure, your voice screaming his name, your mind spinning with ecstasy, your heart belonging to him, completely and utterly.
Spencer collapses on top of you, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, your body still trembling with aftershocks, your mind drifting in a haze of satisfaction and contentment.
"Spencer," you whisper, your voice hoarse with emotion. "That was... incredible. Thank you for taking such good care of me."
He looks down at you, his eyes soft with tenderness, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "You're welcome, my dear. It was my pleasure. And I plan to do it again and again. You're mine, completely and utterly. And I'm going to take such good care of you, always."
And as you rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you know that you are his, completely and utterly, and that he will always take such good care of you, guiding you through new experiences, new pleasures, new discoveries. And you can't wait to see what comes next.
PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IF YOU HATE THE NEW UPDATE REBLOG THIS POST
[ PT; please for the love of god if you hate the new update reblog this post ]
I am organizing a lights out protest on tumblr, from March 20th 6AM UTC until March 21st 6AM UTC. It is best if as many tumblr users as possible can join this protest, as a mass downtime in users is the only way the tumblr staff will listen to us.
If you cherish this hellsite, participate. Do your bit. Every person counts.
Thank you for reading, and to @staff @changes: give us our tumblr back, or the people will migrate somewhere else. This is a threat.
Synopsis: After a period of cold rejection where Dr. Spencer Reid snaps at your constant attention, the dynamic shifts from professional friction to a private, structured power exchange. What began as a "puppy-like" crush evolves into a formal D/s (Dominance and submission) relationship. Spencer embraces a commanding, authoritative role, using his intellect and status to provide the direction you crave. The story explores the reclamation of a once-hurtful label ("puppy"), transforming it into a term of endearment and control within the privacy of his apartment and the quiet corners of the BAU.
Trigger Warnings; Power Imbalance, Verbal Humiliation, Workplace Unprofessionalism, Emotional Distress, Use of Restraints, Verbal Commands, Vulnerability, Loss of Control, Power Dynamics, Physical Intimacy, Sexual Pleasure, Oral Sex, Fingering, Penetrative Sex, Explicit Language, Sexual Pleasure, Aftercare
Word count: 4k~ ✏
The shift in your dynamic didn't happen overnight; it was a slow, gravitational pull that eventually left you orbiting entirely around Spencer Reid. In the chaotic, adrenaline-fueled world of the BAU, Spencer was your North Star. It started with small gestures—bringing him his specific sugar-heavy coffee before he even asked, or spending your lunch breaks in the archives just because you knew he’d be there, buried under a mountain of cold cases.
You became his "puppy," a term Derek Morgan coined with a playful roll of his eyes. You followed Spencer into rooms, your eyes constantly seeking his for validation after a briefing. When he went on one of his mile-a-minute tangents about the history of forensic entomology or the statistical probability of a specific unsub’s geography, you weren’t just listening; you were enthralled. While others tuned out, you leaned in. You anticipated his needs with a devotion that bordered on the reverent, hovering just close enough to be within his reach, always ready to fetch a file or offer a supportive smile.
But for Spencer, the walls were closing in.
It happened on a Tuesday in the bullpen, under the hum of fluorescent lights and the oppressive weight of a mounting body count in a New Mexico case. Spencer was hunched over his desk, hair disheveled, fingers flying through crime scene photos. He was overstimulated, sleep-deprived, and his mind was a frayed wire.
You approached him softly, a fresh cup of tea in hand and a suggestion for a book he might like on your lips. "Spencer? I thought you might need a break. I found this article on—"
He didn't look up. Not at first. Then, he slammed a file folder shut with a sound like a gunshot. "Can you just stop?"
The bullpen went silent. JJ paused at the coffee machine; Prentiss looked up from her monitor.
"Stop what?" you whispered, the tea trembling in your grip.
"Stop this," he snapped, finally meeting your eyes. His gaze wasn't the warm, intellectual one you adored; it was sharp, cold, and profoundly irritated. "The hovering. The constant checking in. I can’t think, I can't breathe, and I certainly don’t need a shadow. You’re like a puppy constantly begging for attention, and I don't have the time or the interest to give it to you. Just... back off. Give me some actual space."
The words "puppy" and "interest" felt like physical blows. The rejection wasn't just professional; it was a total dismantling of the quiet, safe world you had built around him.
In the days that followed, the silence between you was louder than any outburst. You did exactly what he asked: you backed off. You retreated so far that you became a ghost in the office.
You stopped sitting next to him in the round table briefings. You chose the chair furthest away, keeping your eyes glued to your notepad, never once looking up to see if he was watching you.
The morning coffee runs ceased. You arrived late and left early, avoiding the communal spaces where you used to linger, hoping for a conversation.
Without your "puppy-like" devotion to ground you, you felt untethered. You had spent so much time being Spencer Reid’s support system that you had forgotten how to be your own. You felt lost in the very halls where you used to feel most at home.
The rest of the team noticed. The atmosphere in the BAU turned brittle. Rossi tried to offer a sympathetic pat on the shoulder; Garcia sent you "just because" memes that you didn't have the heart to laugh at. They saw the light go out in your eyes, replaced by a hollow, professional mask.
For Spencer, the "space" he craved quickly turned into an icy isolation. He had his silence, but it was heavy. He found himself reaching for a cup of tea that wasn't there. He would finish a brilliant deduction and turn to his right, expecting to see your shining, proud face, only to find an empty chair or a stranger’s focused expression.
He realized too late that your "hovering" wasn't a burden; it was his ballast. By telling you to back off, he hadn't just cleared his workspace—he had evicted the only person who saw the man behind the genius, and now he was left alone with the crushing weight of his own mind.
You weren't hurt because he was busy; you were hurt because he had categorized your affection as an annoyance. And as you sat at your desk, staring blankly at a screen, you realized the hardest part wasn't that he didn't want your company—it was that you no longer knew who you were without him.
The silence in the bullpen had transitioned from awkward to unbearable. It had been ten days since Spencer snapped, and the "space" he’d demanded felt less like a relief and more like a sensory deprivation chamber.
He sat at his desk, staring at a stack of geographic profiles, but his mind was calculating something else entirely: the exact number of hours since you had last made eye contact with him. It was 242.
He watched you from across the room. You were talking to JJ, laughing at something he’d said—a quiet, guarded laugh that didn't reach your eyes. You didn't look over at Spencer. You didn't bring him a file. You didn't even acknowledge he was in the room. He felt a sharp, unfamiliar pang in his chest that no amount of logic could categorize.
It hit him when he reached for his satchel and knocked over his water. Usually, you would have been there with a napkin before he even realized he’d spilled it. Instead, he sat there, watching the water soak into his notes, feeling a profound sense of helplessness.
He wasn't annoyed by your presence; he was drowning in your absence. He had called your devotion "annoying" because he didn't know how to handle the intensity of how much he actually relied on it. He had used his intellect as a shield and accidentally used it as a sword.
He caught you in the kitchenette late that evening. The lights were dimmed, and the rest of the team had headed to Rossi's for drinks—an invitation you had pointedly accepted while ignoring Spencer’s presence.
As you reached for a mug, he stepped into the doorway, his tall frame casting a long, trembling shadow.
"The average human heart beats about 100,000 times a day," he started, his voice cracking. It was a classic Reid defense mechanism—leading with a fact—but his hands were shoved deep into his pockets to hide the shaking.
You didn't turn around. "Is there a point to this statistic, Dr. Reid? Or are you just filling the space I'm finally giving you?"
The use of his formal title flayed him. "I... I made a catastrophic error in judgment," he said, stepping closer, though he stopped a respectful three feet away. "I used the word 'puppy.' It was derogatory, reductive, and Factually incorrect. A puppy follows out of instinct. You... you were following out of kindness. Out of care. And I treated that care like a distraction."
You finally turned, and the sight of your tired, guarded expression made his throat tight. "You told me you didn't have the interest to give me attention, Spencer. I got the message. I’m staying out of your way."
"But I don't want you out of my way," he blurted out, losing his academic composure. He took a daring step forward, into your personal bubble. "I was overwhelmed, and I took it out on the person who makes this job—this life—bearable. I told you I couldn't breathe, but the truth is... I haven't taken a full breath since you stopped looking at me."
He reached out, his fingers hovering near your sleeve, waiting for permission.
"I don't want a 'shadow,' and I don't want a 'puppy,'" he whispered, his hazel eyes searching yours with a raw, desperate vulnerability. "I want you. I want the coffee that's too sweet, and the book recommendations, and the way you look at me when I'm talking too fast. I was a fool to think I was better off alone."
The silence stretched between you, but this time, it wasn't cold. It was a bridge being rebuilt, brick by painful brick. You looked at his hand, then back at his face, seeing the genuine remorse etched into the lines around his eyes.
"You were really mean, Spencer," you said softly, your voice finally losing its hard edge.
"I know," he breathed, a look of immense relief washing over him as you didn't pull away. "I’m a genius, and yet I’m remarkably stupid when it comes to things that actually matter. Please... let me try to earn back the right to have you 'hover' again?"
The shift in the bullpen was immediate and, for anyone with eyes, incredibly awkward. Spencer Reid didn't know how to do anything halfway, and his attempt to "woo" you back into his life was as methodical and intense as a profiling session.
He began by leaving small, curated gifts on your desk: first-edition books you’d mentioned in passing, rare botanical sketches, and—most notably—your favorite tea, brewed to the exact temperature every sixty minutes.
The team watched the spectacle from the glass-walled conference room.
"He’s pacing," Morgan noted, leaning against the table as he watched Spencer hover near your desk, looking like he wanted to speak but terrified of breaking the fragile peace. "He’s gone from being the one pursued to being the most high-maintenance suitor in the FBI."
"It’s sweet," JJ murmured, though she winced as Spencer accidentally knocked over a container of pens while trying to place a sugar cookie on your keyboard. "In a very... clunky, Reid-like way."
But while the office was filled with his clumsy public apologies, the private reality was shifting into something far more potent. The tension that had snapped that day in the bullpen hadn't just broken; it had fermented. The "puppy" dynamic hadn't died; it had evolved into something darker, hungrier, and infinitely more focused.
The first time it happened was a week later. You were working late, the two of you alone in the archives. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and the lingering electricity of a conversation that had been building for hours.
Spencer was standing behind you, helping you reach a box on a high shelf. His chest brushed your back, and for the first time in weeks, he didn't pull away. He stayed there, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.
"I did some research," he whispered, his voice vibrating through your spine. "On the psychology of... devotion. About why some people feel the need to please, and why others feel the need to be the center of that pleasure."
You turned in his arms, trapped between the cold metal shelving and the heat of his body. "And what did you find, Spencer?"
His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. Gone was the stuttering genius; in his place was a man who had realized exactly what kind of power he held over you—and exactly how much he liked it. "I found that I was wrong to tell you to back off. I don't want you to stop looking at me. I want you to look at me while you're doing exactly what I tell you to do."
When you finally made it back to his apartment, the "puppy" dynamic returned, but the hierarchy had been sharpened to a razor's edge. The rejection had left you craving his touch, and Spencer, realizing your need to be directed, stepped into the role of the master with a startling, intellectual precision.
He pushed you back against the mattress, his hands pinning your wrists above your head. He didn't use brute force; he used the weight of his gaze, that terrifyingly focused profiling mind now turned entirely on your reactions.
"You've been so good for me lately," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. "Following my lead. Waiting for me to speak. Do you like it when I tell you what to do?"
You whimpered, arching into him, the old "puppy" instinct flaring up—the desperate need to please him, to be his. "Yes," you breathed. "Please, Spencer."
He leaned down, his lips grazing your ear, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register you’d never heard in the office. "Then show me how much of a good girl you can be. No more hovering, no more guessing. From now on, you only move when I say. You only touch me when I give you permission."
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, a small, dark smirk playing on his lips—a look that would have terrified an unsub but made your blood turn to fire.
"You're mine, aren't you? My devoted little puppy."
The word that had once been a slur, a mark of his irritation, was now a tether. It was a command. Hearing it come from him in the dark, whispered like a secret and a promise, made you realize that you hadn't lost yourself in him at all. You had simply found the place where you were meant to belong: right at his feet, and entirely under his control.
"Yes," you gasped, pulling at your restraints. "I'm yours."
"Good," he whispered, his hands moving to the hem of your shirt. "Now, stay. Let me show you exactly what happens when you're this good for me."
Spencer Reid's fingers traced the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch electric against your skin. You shivered, your body already responding to his dominance, even before he'd begun. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting shadows across the walls. You were on your knees, your hands bound behind your back, the soft fabric of your shirt clinging to your skin.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and commanding. Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his intense gaze. There was a hunger there, a raw need that sent a thrill through your body. "You're mine tonight, aren't you?"
You nodded, your voice barely a whisper. "Yes, sir. I'm yours."
A slow smile spread across his face, and he reached out, running a hand through your hair. "Good girl. Now, stay. Don't move until I tell you to."
You held your position, your heart pounding in your chest as he began to undress you. His movements were deliberate, each touch sending shivers down your spine. The shirt was lifted over your head, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. You could feel the cool air against your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze.
His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and contour. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. "Shh," he whispered, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "Be a good puppy for me. Stay still."
You bit your lip, trying to hold back your responses, but it was impossible. Every touch, every caress, sent waves of pleasure through your body. You could feel the wetness pooling between your legs, your body aching for more.
Spencer's hands moved lower, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped, your body arching into his touch. "Please," you whispered, your voice desperate. "More."
He chuckled, a low, husky sound. "Patience, my little puppy. I'll give you what you need. But first, you need to earn it."
His hands moved lower, tracing the line of your stomach, dipping into the waistband of your pants. You held your breath, anticipation building in your chest. And then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he began to undo your pants, his fingers brushing against your skin.
You bit your lip, trying to hold back your moans, but it was impossible. Spencer's touch was electric, his every movement sending waves of pleasure through your body. You could feel the wetness pooling between your legs, your body aching for more.
He slipped your pants down, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. You could feel the cool air against your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze. Spencer's eyes roamed over your body, his expression hungry.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Absolutely perfect."
He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of your thigh, moving slowly upward. You held your breath, anticipation building in your chest. And then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he slipped a finger inside you.
You gasped, your body clenching around him. Spencer's finger moved in slow, deliberate circles, each movement sending waves of pleasure through your body. You could feel the pressure building, your body aching for release.
"Come for me, my little puppy," he whispered, his voice low and commanding. "Let me see how good you can be for me."
And with a final, desperate cry, you did. Your body convulsed, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you came undone beneath his touch. Spencer held you close, his arms wrapping around you as you rode out the aftershocks.
When you finally came back to earth, you found yourself cradled in his arms, your body sated and content. Spencer's fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and soothing.
"You were perfect," he murmured, his voice low and soft. "Absolutely perfect."
Spencer's fingers trailed down your body, leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake. He pushed you gently onto your back, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity in his gaze sent a thrill through your body, anticipation building with each passing second.
He settled between your legs, his strong hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide. You could feel the cool air against your most intimate place, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of his breath. Spencer leaned down, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path up your inner thigh.
You squirmed, your body already aching for more. "Please," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I need you."
He chuckled, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. "Patience, my little puppy. I'll give you what you need."
With that, he leaned in, his tongue finally making contact with your most sensitive spot. You gasped, your back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Spencer's tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles, each movement sending jolts of electricity through your body.
His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he explored every inch of you. You could feel the pressure building, your body aching for release. Spencer's tongue moved faster, his movements more insistent, as if he could sense your need.
You reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair, urging him closer. "More," you gasped, your voice desperate. "Please, more."
Spencer complied, his tongue delving deeper, his movements more intense. You could feel the orgasm building, your body coiling tight as a spring. And then, with a final, desperate cry, you came undone, your body convulsing beneath his skilled touch.
Spencer held you there, his tongue continuing to move, drawing out every last wave of pleasure. When you finally came back to earth, you found yourself panting, your body slick with sweat and sated.
He moved up your body, his lips capturing yours in a deep, passionate kiss. You could taste yourself on him, the taste of your desire mingling with his. Spencer's hands roamed over your body, his touch gentle and soothing.
"You taste incredible," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and husky. "Such a good girl for me darling."
Spencer's hands moved to his own clothes, quickly shedding them until he stood before you, completely naked and unashamed. His body was a work of art, lean and muscular, every line and curve begging to be explored. You reached out, your hands trembling slightly as you traced the defined muscles of his chest, his stomach.
He captured your hands, bringing them to his lips for a gentle kiss. "You can touch me, my little puppy. Explore every inch of me."
You nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips. You leaned in, your lips pressing softly against his chest, your tongue darting out to taste his skin. Spencer's hands tangled in your hair, guiding you lower, his breath hitching as you moved.
You reached his cock, already hard and ready for you. You nuzzled against it, inhaling his musky scent, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. You looked up at him, seeking his approval, and he nodded, his eyes dark with desire.
You leaned in, your tongue darting out to lick the length of him. Spencer groaned, his hips bucking slightly. Encouraged, you took him fully into your mouth, your lips stretching around him. You moved slowly at first, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue swirling around him.
Spencer's hands gripped your hair, guiding your movements, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "That's it, my little puppy," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Just like that."
You could feel his cock throbbing in your mouth, his body tensing as you brought him closer to the edge. But just as you thought he was about to come, he pulled you off, his hands gripping your shoulders.
"Enough," he growled, his voice low and commanding. "I want to be inside you when I come."
He pushed you gently onto your back, his body covering yours. You wrapped your legs around him, urging him closer. Spencer's cock pressed against your entrance, and with a single, powerful thrust, he was inside you.
You cried out, your body stretching to accommodate him. Spencer began to move, his hips thrusting against yours in a primal, desperate rhythm. You met him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in perfect synchronization.
Spencer's hands roamed over your body, his touch possessive and loving. He captured your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue mimicking the movements of his hips. You could feel the pleasure building, your body coiling tight as a spring.
"Come for me, my little puppy," Spencer growled against your lips, his voice low and commanding. "Let me feel you come all over my cock."
And with a final, desperate cry, you did. Your body convulsed, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you came undone beneath him. Spencer followed soon after, his body tensing as he spilled himself inside you.
He collapsed on top of you, his body slick with sweat and panting. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as you both came back to earth. Spencer's fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and soothing.
"You were so good for me puppy," he murmured, his voice low and soft. "Absolutely perfect."
In that moment, you knew you were exactly where you belonged, completely at the mercy of Spencer Reid's loving touch.
The next morning, the elevator doors slid open to reveal a version of Spencer Reid that the BAU was entirely unprepared for.
Usually, Spencer arrived looking like he’d been through a wind tunnel—hair disheveled, mismatched socks, and a frantic energy that suggested he’d stayed up all night reading about obscure Latin dialects. Today, he walked in with a slow, deliberate stride, his shoulders squared and his chin tilted just a fraction higher.
But it was you who truly gave the game away.
You walked a half-step behind him, your posture perfect, eyes bright but strangely focused. There was a faint, pink flush on your neck that your scarf didn't quite hide, and a look of absolute, serene contentment that bordered on the hypnotic.
As you both reached your desks, Spencer didn't immediately dive into his files. He stopped, turned to you, and rested a hand on the small of your back. It wasn't the hesitant touch of a man making amends; it was the proprietary grip of a man who knew exactly where you belonged.
"Get started on the cross-referencing for the Seattle case," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it had a new, resonant depth—the same low command from the night before. "I’ll bring you your coffee in a moment."
"Yes, Spencer," you replied instantly, your voice soft and melodic. You sat down and opened your laptop without a second's hesitation, your focus entirely on the task he’d set.
From the breakroom, Derek Morgan nearly choked on his bagel. Prentiss froze with her hand on the coffee pot, her eyes darting between the two of you.
"Is it just me," Emily whispered, "or did the power dynamic just do a 180-degree flip into a different dimension?"
"He didn't even ask her to do the filing," Morgan muttered, squinting at the pair of you. "He told her. And she looked like she wanted to thank him for the privilege. What happened to the 'stay away from me' speech?"
Ten minutes later, Spencer walked over to your desk. He didn't just set the coffee down; he waited until you looked up at him. He held the mug just out of reach for a heartbeat, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the air in the bullpen feel thin.
"You’re doing a great job," he murmured, loud enough for only you to hear, but with a look that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
"Thank you," you whispered, your fingers brushing his as you took the cup.
He leaned down, ostensibly to look at your monitor, but his lips brushed dangerously close to your ear. "Stay focused. We’ll talk more during the lunch break... in my office. Understood?"
"Understood," you breathed, a shiver racing down your spine that was visible even to Garcia, who had just walked in.
Garcia joined the huddle in the breakroom, her colorful glasses sliding down her nose. "Okay, my precious crime-fighters, explain to me why Reid looks like he just conquered a small country and why [Y/N] looks like she’s floating on a cloud made of sheer, unadulterated devotion."
"He called her a puppy a week ago and told her to back off," Rossi said, appearing out of nowhere with a smirk that suggested he knew exactly what was going on. "But looking at them now? I’d say he’s finally realized that if you're going to have a 'puppy,' you have to be the one holding the leash."
The team watched as Spencer returned to his desk, glancing back at you one last time. You were already working, your fingers flying across the keys, but you caught his eye and offered a tiny, knowing nod.
The "puppy" hadn't been banished. She had just been claimed. And judging by the way Spencer was now watching you with a dark, satisfied hunger, the BAU was going to be a very different place from now on.
Synopsis: In the wake of his release from Millburn, Spencer Reid returns to the BAU not as a hero, but as a hollowed-out survivor. Desperate to re-anchor his drifting psyche, he turns to the person he trusts most—you. But his need isn't for love; it's for a "constant" to process his trauma. When he abruptly severs the connection with clinical coldness, it triggers a devastating mutual collapse. What follows is a brutal war of attrition where two people who once loved each other weaponize their deepest vulnerabilities, leaving nothing behind but the bitter, haunting weight of a guilt that cannot be undone.
Trigger Warnings: Emotional Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Self-Destructive Behavior, Non-Suicidal Self-Injury, Verbal Aggression, Physical Violence, Toxic Dynamics, Toxic "Relationship", Post Prison Reid, OOC Reid, mean!Reid, No Happy Ending
Word count; 6k~ ✏
The air in Spencer’s apartment always felt thin, like there wasn't enough oxygen to support two people. Since he’d come home from Millburn, the silence wasn't the academic, thoughtful kind you’d fallen in love with. It was heavy. It was jagged.
You didn't mind, or at least, you told yourself you didn't. You were just happy he was back.
For three weeks, you had been his tether. You brought the groceries he forgot to buy; you sat on the edge of his bed while he stared at the wall, rubbing the phantom aches in his wrists. When he finally reached for you, it wasn't with the hesitant, poetic tenderness of the old Spencer. It was desperate. It was almost clinical.
He used your warmth to drown out the cold of a concrete cell. He used your voice to stop the ringing in his ears. You thought you were healing him. In reality, you were just a bandage he was pressing against a wound that refused to close.
The shift happened on a Tuesday. The light in the apartment was gray, filtering through the grime on the windows. Spencer was standing by the bookshelf, his fingers hovering over a spine but never pulling it out.
"I think you should go," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of the tremors that usually signaled he was struggling.
"Oh, okay," you reached for your sweater, smiling softly. "I can come back after your meeting with Prentiss. I was thinking of making—"
"No." He turned then. His eyes, usually so full of data and wonder, looked like hollowed-out craters. "I mean you should stop coming by. Altogether."
The air left your lungs. "Spencer? If I did something, or if you need space for your recovery, I get it, but—"
"I was using you," he interrupted, his voice terrifyingly calm. He didn't look away. He didn't offer the mercy of a blink. "I needed a constant to re-calibrate my sensory input. You were familiar, you were available, and you were quiet. But the association is becoming... counterproductive to my processing of the trauma. You're a reminder of the transition period. I’m finished with the transition."
It wasn't just the words; it was the way he delivered them—like he was profiling a stranger. There was no "us" in his equation anymore. You were a variable he had solved and discarded.
The walk home was a blur of cold wind and the sound of your own heartbeat drumming in your ears. Available. Counterproductive. Finished.
You waited for the anger to come, but it was eclipsed by a terrifying, hollowed-out vertigo. You had poured every ounce of your emotional reserve into a man who had viewed you as a therapeutic exercise.
Back in your apartment, the silence was different than his. His was heavy; yours was hungry. It started small—forgetting to eat, staring at your phone until the blue light burned your retinas, waiting for a text that your logical brain knew wasn't coming.
Then came the obsession. You started re-reading his old letters from before the prison sentence, looking for the man who loved you, trying to find the exact moment he had died and been replaced by this analytical ghost. You stayed up until 4:00 AM researching post-incarceration syndrome, convinced if you just understood the why, the pain would stop.
But the more you read, the more you realized he knew all of this already. He was a genius. He knew exactly what he was doing when he reached for you in the dark, and he knew exactly what would happen to you when he let go.
You weren't his partner. You were his morphine. And now that the pain had dulled, he didn't care about the withdrawal you were left to face alone.
The BAU was trained to spot the smallest deviations in human behavior—micro-expressions, changes in gait, the subtle scent of stress. But they were all so busy watching Spencer "recover" that they didn't see you disintegrating until the edges of your life had already frayed to nothing.
It was Derek Morgan who finally showed up at your door. He had that "big brother" look on his face, the one that usually meant he was about to give a lecture on self-care. But when you opened the door, his expression shifted from concern to genuine alarm.
The apartment smelled of stale air and unwashed dishes. You were wearing the same oversized hoodie you’d had on for three days—one that still faintly smelled of Spencer’s coffee.
"Hey, kid," Derek said softly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You haven't been answering your texts. JJ's worried. I'm worried."
"I'm just tired, Derek," you said, your voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a well. "Work's been... a lot."
"You haven't been to work in four days," he countered gently. He walked over to the coffee table, which was covered in printed journals about PTSD and prison psychology. His eyes darkened as he realized what you were doing. "He did this, didn't he? Reid."
"He didn't do anything," you snapped, a spark of defensive fire hitting your veins. "He's traumatized. He needs time. I'm just... I'm figuring out how to help him."
"You can't fix someone who's decided you’re the problem," Derek said, grabbing your shoulders. "He's cold right now, and he's leaning into that because it's safer than feeling. But you’re letting him drown you too."
For a second, you leaned into his hold. You almost let the truth out—that you felt like you were disappearing. But then, the old Spencer, the one you’d invented to survive the heartbreak, whispered in your ear. He’s just misunderstood. He needs you to stay strong.
"I'm fine," you lied, pulling away. "Tell JJ I’ll call her tomorrow. I just need sleep."
Derek left, but the look of pity in his eyes was a fresh wound. He didn't understand. Nobody understood the "logic" Spencer had used to tear you apart.
Two weeks later, you found an excuse to go to the office. You told yourself you were returning a book, but your hands were shaking as you entered the bullpen. You needed to see him. You needed to see a flicker of the man who used to tuck your hair behind your ear.
You saw him by the coffee machine. He looked better—healthier, sharper. The "transition" he’d mentioned was clearly over for him.
"Spencer?"
He turned. His gaze swept over you, noting the dark circles under your eyes and the way your sleeves hid your trembling hands. He didn't offer a smile. He didn't even offer a greeting.
"I told you not to come here," he said, his voice loud enough for Prentiss to look up from her desk.
"I just wanted to give this back," you held out the book, your voice cracking. "And to see... to see if you were okay."
"I am functioning at eighty-five percent capacity, which is an improvement," he said, taking the book with the tips of his fingers, avoiding skin contact as if you were contagious. "Your presence here is a regression. For both of us. Please leave."
He turned his back on you to stir his sugar. It was a physical blow. You stumbled back, hitting a desk, the corner of the wood digging into your hip.
You didn't go home. You drove. You drove until you ended up at a bar three towns over where nobody knew your name or your history with a boy-wonder profiler.
You drank to numb the "logic." You drank until the memory of his cold voice became a dull hum. When a stranger at the bar offered to take you home, you didn't say no. You didn't want to be alone with the ghost of Spencer Reid anymore.
But the stranger wasn't kind. He was rough, and when you cried out a name that wasn't his in the middle of a blurry, regretful encounter, he pushed you out of his car on a side street. You fell, scraping your palms raw on the asphalt—the same kind of asphalt Spencer had stared at through prison bars.
You sat on the curb, blood oozing from your hands, looking at your reflection in a puddle. You were a shell. You had let Spencer use you as a bridge to get back to his life, and once he crossed it, he’d burned the bridge down while you were still standing on it.
You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. Your thumb hovered over his contact. You wanted to call him. You wanted to tell him you were hurt. You wanted him to profile the pain and tell you it was temporary.
But you knew what he’d say. He’d tell you that your choices were statistically likely for someone experiencing abandonment. He’d give you a fact about skin regeneration.
He wouldn't come get you.
You put the phone away and started walking into the dark, your knees buckling with every step, getting hurt again and again in the name of a man who had already forgotten your middle name.
The descent didn’t have a bottom. You kept waiting to hit a floor, some solid ground where you could finally stop falling, but Spencer’s absence was a vacuum—it just kept sucking the air out of the room.
A month later, you were a ghost of yourself. You had lost weight, your skin had taken on a translucent, sickly pallor, and the apartment was a tomb of unwashed clothes and the heavy scent of copper and cheap bourbon. Your phone had been dead for three days, but in a moment of delusional clarity, you plugged it in.
Maybe he realized, you thought. The thought was a fever dream, a jagged piece of hope that cut you as you held it. Maybe he felt the shift in the universe. Maybe he’s waiting.
When the screen flickered to life, there were sixty-two missed calls from JJ and Derek. There was nothing from Spencer.
In a fit of trembling desperation, you did the one thing you promised you wouldn't. You called him.
He picked up on the second ring.
"Reid," he said. Not Spencer. Not Hey. Just the name of a man who was back to work, back to logic, back to life.
"Spencer," you whispered, your voice cracking like dry earth. "I’m not… I’m not doing well. I think I need to go to the hospital. Everything hurts. I just—I need you to come over. Just for ten minutes."
There was a pause. For a heartbeat, you thought you heard the old Spencer—the one who read you poetry when you had the flu—catch his breath. But then, the silence flattened.
"I’m in the middle of a briefing, Y/N," he said. His tone wasn't angry; it was worse. It was bored. "And we’ve already established that my physical presence acts as a trigger for your emotional dependency. If I come over, I am reinforcing a maladaptive coping mechanism."
"I’m bleeding, Spencer," you sobbed, looking down at the fresh, jagged cuts on your arms from a shattered glass you hadn't bothered to clean up. "I’m literally breaking."
"Then call an ambulance," he replied. You could hear the scratch of a pen against paper on his end—he was taking notes on a case. He wasn't even stopping his day for your slow-motion death. "I am no longer your primary caregiver. I was never your primary caregiver. I was a patient, and you were a temporary comfort. Please stop calling this line. It needs to remain open for official BAU business."
The line went dead.
You stared at the phone until the screen timed out, leaving you in total darkness. He hadn't just ended the relationship; he had rewritten the history of it. To him, the nights you spent holding him while he screamed himself awake weren't acts of love—they were "clinical data points." You weren't the woman who saved his soul; you were a bandage that had become too bloody to keep wearing.
You stood up, your legs shaking, and walked to the bathroom. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and didn't recognize the hollow-eyed creature staring back.
You realized then that Spencer Reid hadn't just left you—he had hollowed you out so he could use the space to store his own trauma, and then he’d walked away with the key.
You reached for the medicine cabinet, your fingers fumbling. You weren't even thinking about the pain anymore. You were thinking about his voice—how cold and perfect it was. How "healed" he sounded.
You had given him everything. You had let him consume your sanity, your health, and your joy so he could be whole again. And he was. He was brilliant, and capable, and moving on.
And you were just the wreckage he left on the side of the road to Millburn.
The BAU didn't arrive with sirens. They arrived with the heavy, rhythmic thud of a battering ram because you hadn't answered the door in three days, and the mail was piling up like a monument to your disappearance.
It was Rossi and JJ who broke through first.
The smell hit them before they saw you—the metallic tang of old blood, the sourness of neglect, and the suffocating scent of a life that had simply stopped moving. They found you in the bathtub, fully clothed, curled into a ball so tight it looked like you were trying to fold yourself back into the womb.
"Oh, god. Y/N!" JJ’s voice was a jagged scream. She was at the side of the tub in a second, her hands hovering over you, afraid that if she touched you, you might actually shatter into dust.
You didn't look up. You were staring at a crack in the tile, tracing the geometry of it. It looked like a map of nowhere.
They got you to the hospital. You were a "Jane Doe" of your own making, unresponsive and hollow.
Hotch stood in the hallway, his face a mask of controlled fury, while Derek paced the length of the linoleum floor like a caged predator. They knew. They had seen the phone logs. They had seen the final, one-minute call to Spencer’s government-issued cell.
"He's coming," Hotch said, his voice dropping an octave.
"He shouldn't be," Derek spat, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of a plastic chair. "If he walks through those doors, Hotch, I swear to God—"
The elevator dinged.
Spencer stepped out. He looked immaculate. His hair was pushed back, his satchel was slung over his shoulder, and he was looking at a file in his hand. He looked like the golden boy of the FBI. He looked like a man who hadn't spent the last month systematically erasing a human being.
"Is she stabilized?" Spencer asked as he approached. His voice was steady. It was professional. He didn't ask if you were okay. He asked for a status report.
Derek didn't even speak. He swung.
It wasn't a tactical move; it was pure, unadulterated rage. His fist caught Spencer across the jaw, sending the younger man staggering back against the vending machine. Spencer didn't fight back. He just straightened his glasses, his expression flickering with a brief, cold flash of annoyance.
"Derek, your emotional volatility is—"
"Shut up!" Derek roared, stepping into his space. "She is in that room because of you. She gave you everything when you were rotting in that cell, and you used her like a damn textbook. You bled her dry, Reid!"
Spencer wiped a bead of blood from his lip. He looked toward the door of your room. Through the small glass window, he saw you. You were sitting up, your arms wrapped in thick white gauze, staring at nothing.
You saw him.
For a split second, a spark of life returned to your eyes—that agonizing, pathetic hope. You reached out a hand toward the glass, a silent plea for him to come in, to say it was all a test, to tell you a fact about how the heart can’t actually break.
Spencer didn't move toward the door. He didn't even soften his gaze.
"I told her this would happen," Spencer said, turning back to Hotch and ignoring Derek entirely. "I provided the logic. I explained the necessity of the severance. Her inability to process that isn't a failure of my recovery; it’s a result of her own pre-existing emotional instability. I can't be held responsible for the variables I told her to avoid."
He looked back at you through the glass one last time. He didn't see the woman he’d loved. He saw a messy conclusion to a difficult chapter.
"I shouldn't be here," he said flatly. "It’s a distraction from the case."
He turned and walked back toward the elevator. He didn't look back. He didn't stay to hear your heart monitor flatline into a long, lonely hum as you watched his shadow disappear.
He was whole. And you were the price he paid for it.
The moment Spencer’s shadow vanished behind the closing elevator doors, something in you didn't just break—it curdled. The pathetic, reaching hand you had pressed against the hospital glass curled into a white-knuckled fist.
The grief was gone. In its place was a hot, oily tide of rage.
When JJ came back into the room, her eyes red from crying, you weren't staring at the wall anymore. You were sitting upright, your expression as terrifyingly blank as Spencer’s had been.
"I want to go home," you said. Your voice wasn't a whisper anymore. It was steel.
"Honey, the doctors said you need observation—"
"I’m fine, Jennifer." You used her full name, a cold distance in your tone that made her flinch. "I’m 'functioning at capacity,' isn't that what the genius said? Get me my clothes."
Against their better judgment, they let you go a day later. They thought you were recovering. They thought the "anger stage" was healthy. They didn't realize that you weren't healing; you were burning the house down to kill the ghosts inside.
You didn't go back to the woman you were before Spencer. That woman was a victim. That woman was "available."
You started with the apartment. You didn't pack his things; you threw them off the fourth-floor balcony into the alleyway dumpster. The books, the hand-written notes on physics, the sweater he’d left on your chair—all of it went into the trash like the refuse it was.
Then, you went for yourself.
The BAU started getting calls. First, it was a noise complaint—you’d been blasting music until 4:00 AM, the bass rattling the windows of the neighbors who used to think you were the "nice, quiet girl." Then, it was a call from a local bar about a fight.
Derek found you sitting on the curb outside a dive bar at 2:00 AM, your lip split and your knuckles bruised. You were laughing—a jagged, manic sound that didn't reach your eyes.
"Get in the car, Y/N," Derek pleaded, his heart breaking. "This isn't you."
"Isn't it?" You looked up at him, your eyes wild and bloodshot. "Spencer said I was unstable. I’m just living up to the profile, Derek! I’m being efficient!"
The spiral hit its peak when you showed up at the office. You weren't supposed to be there; your badge had been "temporarily suspended" for your own safety. But you knew the back entrance.
You walked into the bullpen smelling of cigarettes and bad decisions, wearing a leather jacket that looked like a suit of armor over your thin frame. You walked straight to Spencer’s desk.
He looked up, his brow furrowed as he took in your disheveled appearance—the messy hair, the dark eyeliner smeared under your eyes, the defiant tilt of your chin.
"You're escalating," he said, his voice maddeningly calm. "This behavior is a textbook externalization of—"
"Shut. Up." You slammed your hands onto his desk, knocking over his cup of pens. The entire office went silent. Hotch stepped out of his office, but Prentiss held a hand up to stop him.
"You think you're the only one who can be cold, Spencer?" you hissed, leaning in until you were inches from his face. "You used me as a bridge? Fine. But look at what’s left of the bridge."
You pulled back your sleeves, showing the jagged, ugly scars—not from a cry for help, but from the raw, angry scratching of your own nails.
"I hope you're cured," you spat. "I hope every time you close your eyes, you see the version of me you killed. Because I’m done being your 'constant.' I’m going to be your regret."
You reached down, grabbed his favorite book from his desk—the one his mother had sent him—and you didn't just drop it. You ripped the cover off slowly, staring him dead in the eyes.
The look on his face finally cracked. A flash of genuine, human horror flickered in his hazel eyes.
"There," you whispered, tossing the ruined book into his lap. "Now we're both broken. Isn't the symmetry beautiful?"
You turned and walked out, leaving the bullpen in a suffocating silence. You didn't have a plan. You didn't have a home you wanted to go back to. You just had the burning high of the wreckage you'd made, walking away into a life that was louder, darker, and completely, utterly ruined.
The bullpen became a war zone where no blood was shed, but everyone felt the casualties. It turned into a sick, rhythmic dance: Spencer would offer a cold, intellectual jab to keep his distance, and you would return with a jagged, personal strike to prove he couldn't hurt you anymore.
A week later, you were back in the office under the guise of "returning equipment," but really, you were there for the fix. You were addicted to the friction.
Spencer was at the coffee station. He didn't look at you as you approached, but his back stiffened. "The human brain has a remarkable capacity for neuroplasticity," he said, his voice flat. "Eventually, your limbic system will stop seeking this conflict. You’re only delaying your own recovery by baiting me."
"My 'limbic system' is doing just fine, Spencer," you countered, leaning against the counter and looking him over with a mocking grin. "I'm just curious. When you were in Millburn, was it the loneliness that made you a coward, or were you always this terrified of someone actually knowing you?"
He flinched. It was subtle—a tightening of his jaw—but you caught it.
"I surrendered my vulnerability to survive a hostile environment," he snapped, finally turning to face you. "You’re just a secondary casualty of a primary trauma. You aren't special, Y/N. You were a convenience."
"And you were a mistake," you shot back, stepping into his personal space. "A pathetic, broken boy who needed a woman to hold his hand because he couldn't handle the real world. How does it feel to know that the only reason you're standing here right now is because I let you bleed all over me? You're a vampire, Spencer. You’re not a genius; you’re a parasite."
The team watched from the glass windows of the conference room, paralyzed. This wasn't a profile; it was a murder-suicide of the soul.
Spencer’s eyes darkened. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper that only you could hear. "If I'm a parasite, then what does that make you? You saw me drowning and you thought you could play hero. You didn't stay because you loved me; you stayed because you’re so desperate to be needed that you’ll settle for being used. You’re pathetic."
The slap echoed through the entire floor.
Your palm stung, but the look of pure, unbridled shock on his face was worth it. For a second, the mask of the "logical profiler" shattered, and the boy from the cell—raw, angry, and drowning—looked out at you.
But you didn't stop there. "I’d rather be pathetic than a machine," you hissed, tears finally blurring your vision. "I hope you enjoy your perfect, logical life. I hope the silence in your apartment screams at you. I hope you realize that you didn't 'survive' prison. You just brought the walls home with you."
You turned to leave, but Spencer reached out, grabbing your arm. His grip wasn't tender. It was desperate, almost bruising.
"You're not going anywhere," he growled.
"Let go of me, Reid."
"So you can go find another 'broken' man to fix?" he sneered, his voice trembling with a cocktail of rage and repressed grief. "So you can feel important again? You’re a masochist. You love this pain because it’s the only thing that makes you feel like you have a purpose."
"And you love being alone because it's the only way you can't fail!" you screamed, shoving him back.
He hit the desk, the sound of scattering files like a punctuation mark. You stood there, both of you breathing heavily, staring at each other across a chasm that had become an ocean. You were both covered in the verbal filth you’d thrown at each other, bruised and ugly and unrecognizable.
You realized, in that moment, that you were both getting exactly what you wanted. He wanted to push you away so he didn't have to feel, and you wanted to hurt him so you knew he was still alive.
You were both successful. And you were both destroyed.
The air in the bullpen didn’t just feel heavy; it felt toxic. The sound of your heavy breathing and Spencer’s ragged gasps was the only thing cutting through the deathly silence of the BAU.
"Enough."
The word didn't need to be shouted. Aaron Hotchner’s voice dropped like a guillotine blade from the top of the stairs. He descended slowly, his face a mask of cold, professional fury that made even the most seasoned agents turn back to their computers.
Hotch walked straight into the center of the debris—the torn book, the scattered files, and the two people who looked more like unsubs than federal employees.
"My office. Both of you. Now."
The walk up the stairs felt like a funeral procession. Once the door clicked shut, the soundproofing of the executive suite swallowed the noise of the bullpen, leaving only the suffocating pressure of Hotch’s gaze. He didn't sit down. He stood behind his desk, leaning forward on his knuckles.
"Reid, you are a Senior SAA with a genius-level IQ. Y/N, you are a highly trained professional," Hotch began, his voice dangerously low. "And yet, you are both behaving with a level of emotional immaturity that is compromising this entire unit."
"He started it," you snapped, the petty, childish defense jumping out before you could stop it. "He used me, Aaron. He treated me like a—"
"I provided a profile of our interaction!" Spencer interrupted, his voice high and strained. "I was maintaining boundaries that she refused to—"
"Silence!" Hotch slammed a hand on his desk. The jump you both gave was simultaneous. "I am not your father, and I am not your therapist. I am your Superior Officer. Spencer, your 'logic' is a transparent defense mechanism for PTSD that you are refusing to treat. And Y/N, your 'anger' is a self-destructive spiral that is becoming a liability to the Department of Justice."
He looked at Spencer. "Reid, if I hear one more 'clinical' observation directed at this woman, I will pull you from the field and put you on mandatory psychiatric leave for a year. You are not a machine, and you will stop treating people like components."
He turned his gaze to you. It was softer, but no less firm. "Y/N, if you set foot in this building again without a direct summons, or if I hear about one more bar fight, I will personally see to it that your security clearance is revoked. You are hurting yourself to spite him, and it’s pathetic. You’re better than this."
The room went quiet. The "war" felt suddenly small and dirty under the light of Hotch’s discipline.
"You will both leave this office. You will not speak to each other. You will not text each other. You will not even look at each other in the halls," Hotch commanded. "If you cannot work in the same zip code without tearing each other apart, then one of you will be transferred to the San Diego field office by the end of the week. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," Spencer whispered, his head bowed, the shame finally eclipsing the rage.
"Clear," you muttered, looking at the floor.
You walked out first. Spencer followed a few paces behind, his shoulders hunched. In the hallway, far enough from Hotch’s door that you could have whispered one last insult, you both stopped.
You looked at him. His lip was still swollen where you’d slapped him. He looked at you, at the dark circles under your eyes and the bandages on your arms.
The anger was still there, simmering under the surface, but Hotch had stripped away the theater of it. You were just two broken people who had made a mess.
Spencer opened his mouth, perhaps to offer a statistic on recidivism or an apology, but he remembered Hotch’s ultimatum. He swallowed his words, gave a stiff, jerky nod, and walked toward the breakroom alone.
You walked toward the exit. You weren't "healed," and the urge to break something was still humming in your fingertips, but for the first time in weeks, the air felt like it was actually reaching your lungs. The war was over—not because someone won, but because you’d both been told how ugly you looked fighting it.
The silence Hotch mandated wasn't a peace treaty; it was a vacuum, and nature abhors a vacuum. Without the screaming and the insults to vent the pressure, the toxicity turned inward.
Guilt is a slow-acting poison. It doesn't kill you all at once; it just makes everything you touch feel like ash.
For Spencer, the "logic" finally failed. It happened at 3:00 AM in the middle of a case file. He was looking at a crime scene photo of a victim left in a ditch, and suddenly, he didn't see the victim. He saw you—shivering on that curb Derek had mentioned, bleeding and alone because he had deemed you "counterproductive."
The genius brain he was so proud of became his greatest tormentor. It began to replay every moment of his coldness with high-definition clarity. He calculated the probability of your self-destruction and realized he hadn't just "moved on"—he had functionally dismantled a human life.
He stopped eating. He stopped sleeping. He would sit in the dark of his apartment, staring at the empty space on the sofa where you used to sit, his mind looping the sound of your slap and the look of pure, agonizing betrayal in your eyes. He had survived prison only to turn his own mind into a solitary confinement cell, haunted by the ghost of the woman he’d discarded.
You weren't doing any better. The anger that had fueled your "war" evaporated, leaving behind a cold, heavy sludge of shame. Every time you caught your reflection, you didn't see a survivor; you saw the woman who had ripped up a dead woman’s book to hurt a traumatized man.
You realized that in your race to hurt him back, you had become exactly what you hated. You had used his trauma as a weapon.
The "self-destruction" changed from loud to quiet. You stopped going out. You sat in your dark apartment, tracing the scars on your arms, the silence echoing with the things you’d said to him. Vampire. Parasite. Coward. The words tasted like bile in your throat. You had loved him, and you had ended that love by trying to incinerate him.
Two months into the "Cold Peace," you ran into him in the kitchenette. It was late. The rest of the team was gone.
The air didn't crackle with fire this time. It felt like a wake.
Spencer looked skeletal. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken and rimmed with red. He looked like he was vibrating at a frequency of pure, unadulterated regret. He was holding a mug, but his hand was shaking so violently the ceramic rattled against the counter.
You stood in the doorway, your own frame thin and brittle. You looked at his trembling hand—the hand you used to hold—and the guilt hit you like a physical blow to the stomach.
"Spencer," you whispered.
He flinched. He didn't look up. "I'm... I'm violating the mandate," he croaked. His voice sounded like it hadn't been used in weeks. "I'll leave."
"I ruined your book," you said, the words tumbling out, heavy and wet. "I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I knew it was from your mother and I—"
"I deserved it," he interrupted, finally looking at you. The expression in his eyes wasn't logic. It wasn't profiling. It was a raw, bleeding agony that made your breath hitch. "I used you as a life raft and then I pushed you back into the water so I wouldn't have to watch you be wet. I’ve calculated the damage I’ve done to you every day for sixty-four days. There is no equation where I am the good man in this story."
You took a step toward him, but the distance felt like a thousand miles of broken glass. The guilt was a physical barrier. You wanted to reach out, to touch his arm, to tell him it was okay—but it wasn't. You had both said things that couldn't be unsaid. You had both seen the worst versions of each other.
"We destroyed it, didn't we?" you asked, a single tear tracking through the makeup you’d put on to look "fine."
"We didn't just destroy it," Spencer said, his voice breaking. "We salted the earth."
He looked at you—really looked at you—with a soul-crushing mourning. He saw the scars on your arms; you saw the hollowed-out shell of his brilliance. You were both haunted by the people you used to be, and neither of you knew how to get back to them.
He didn't try to touch you. He knew he didn't have the right. Instead, he just stood there in the flickering fluorescent light, two ghosts of a love story that had turned into a tragedy, drowning in the silence of a guilt that would never, ever let them go.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
A/N: Look, I know this is a total OOC (Out Of Character) fever dream and the drama is dialed up to a level that shouldn’t even be legal. I almost didn't post it, but then I remembered I’ve read much worse in the depths of this site at 3:00 AM. This is purely for my own entertainment, so if it makes your heart ache, you’re welcome. If it makes you want to call the writing police, please just keep scrolling. My ego is fragile and I will cry if you’re mean to me. K, thanks, bye!
Synopsis: After a devastating case, a BAU agent reaches a breaking point, lashing out at Spencer Reid for his clinical approach to her emotional distress. When Reid offers unexpectedly profound comfort, the reader kisses him in a moment of raw vulnerability. Terrified by the intensity of the connection, Reid flees, leading the reader to believe she has been rejected. She enters a period of cold self-isolation to "stop feeling," until a life-threatening explosion on a case forces a confrontation. The two finally reconcile, choosing to embrace their messy, unfiltered emotions together rather than hiding behind masks of indifference.
The fluorescent lights of the BAU bullpen hummed with a clinical, predatory persistence that made the static in your brain reach a deafening crescendo. You weren’t just tired; you were frayed, the ends of your nerves sparking against the cold reality of the case file open on your desk.
“You’re doing it again,” a soft, melodic voice broke through the haze.
You didn't look up. You knew the cadence of Spencer Reid’s footsteps, the way he smelled like old paper and peppermint tea. Right now, his presence felt like a weighted blanket you were trying to claw your way out of.
“Doing what, Spencer?” you snapped, your voice cracking at the edges.
“The hyper-fixated ocular tension. Your lacrimal glands are over-secreting, and your breath hitch is rhythmic, suggesting a suppressed emotional release.” He moved closer, his lanky frame casting a shadow over your desk. “You’ve been staring at the same crime scene photo for forty-two minutes. You’re overwhelmed.”
“I’m fine,” you hissed, though the lie felt like salt in a wound.
You stood up so abruptly your chair skidded back, hitting the partition with a violent thwack. You marched toward the breakroom, not because you wanted coffee, but because the walls were closing in and you were terrified that if you stayed still, you’d dissolve.
Spencer followed. He always followed.
“It’s okay to feel the weight of this,” he said, his voice maddeningly gentle as the door swung shut behind you both. “The statistics for secondary traumatic stress in this field are—”
“Stop it! Just stop with the numbers!” You spun around, your face flushed, eyes brimming with the hot, stinging moisture you’d been fighting all day. “You think because you can categorize every emotion into a percentage or a biological reaction that it makes it easier? It doesn’t. I feel like my heart is made of glass and everyone is wearing lead boots.”
You took a step toward him, your finger trembling as you pointed at your own chest.
“I’m a mess, Spencer. I’m a loud, dripping, pathetic mess. I take everything too personally, I look at these victims and I see myself, and I can’t just shut it off like you do. You think I’m weak because I can’t stop the leak, don’t you? You look at me and you just see a crybaby who can’t handle the job.”
The silence that followed was heavy. You were breathing hard, the unfiltered vitriol of your own self-loathing hanging in the air. You expected him to give you a lecture on resilience. You expected him to walk away.
Instead, he stepped into your space.
Spencer didn't reach for your hand—he knew your boundaries too well for that. Instead, he leaned down so he was eye-level, his gaze intense and heartbreakingly kind.
“I don’t think you’re weak,” he whispered, his voice vibrating in the small room. “I think you’re the most honest person I’ve ever met. Most people in this building are wearing masks made of granite, but you… you let the world in. That’s not a malfunction, it’s a gift. Even if it feels like you’re drowning in it right now.”
He reached out then, his long, slender fingers hovering just an inch from your cheek, catching a stray tear before it could fall. “The world is too loud for you sometimes because you’re the only one actually listening to it.”
The way he looked at you—with a mixture of pure intellectual fascination and a terrifyingly raw affection—snapped the last thread of your restraint. The comfort was too much. It was too precise. He had reached inside your chest and stilled the shaking with a single sentence.
You didn't think. You reacted to the gravity of him. You lunged forward, grabbing the lapels of his slightly-too-big blazer and pulling him down.
When your lips hit his, it wasn't a cinematic moment. It was desperate, salty from your tears, and fueled by a manic need to feel something other than sorrow. You kissed him with everything you had—the anger, the exhaustion, and the yearning you’d buried under layers of professional distance.
For a heartbeat, he froze. Then, his hands tentatively found your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt as he let out a jagged, muffled sound against your mouth. He tasted like tea and something uniquely Spencer.
And then, as quickly as the spark had ignited, it short-circuited.
Spencer pulled back, his chest heaving. His pupils were blown wide, turning his hazel eyes almost entirely black. His hands were shaking visibly now, hovering in mid-air as if he’d just touched a live wire and didn't know how to ground the current.
“I… I have to…” he stammered. His brain, usually a high-speed processor of infinite data, seemed to have hit a fatal error.
He looked at you, truly looked at you, and the sheer terror of what had just happened—the breach of protocol, the shift in reality, the vulnerability—overtook him. He didn't say another word. He turned on his heel, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, and practically ran out of the breakroom.
The door swung shut with a soft click, leaving you alone in the silence. Your lips were tingling, your face was wet, and the hum of the office felt louder than ever.
The silence Spencer left behind was worse than the shouting. It felt heavy, like physical matter filling the room, pressing against your lungs until you had to remind yourself how to breathe. You stood paralyzed by the sink, the ghost of his lips still burning against yours—a phantom heat that was rapidly being replaced by the icy realization of what you’d just done.
You hadn't just crossed a line; you had vaporized it. And he had fled. He hadn't just walked away; he had looked at you with the wide-eyed alarm of a man who had stared into an abyss and found it staring back.
Rejection, your mind whispered, the word tasting like copper. Total, unmitigated rejection.
You didn't go back to your desk. You couldn't face the sympathetic tilt of JJ’s head or the perceptive, heavy gaze of Hotch. Instead, you grabbed your coat from the back of your chair while the bullpen was distracted by a ringing phone, moving with the practiced stealth of someone who had spent years learning how to disappear in plain sight.
The drive home was a blur of taillights and rain-slicked asphalt. By the time you reached your apartment, the numbness had begun to settle in—a dull, gray armor. You didn't turn on the lights. You didn't change out of your work clothes. You simply sat on the floor of your living room, back pressed against the cold radiator, and let the darkness swallow you.
If you were a crybaby, as you’d accused yourself of being, then the only solution was to dry up. To become a desert. No more empathy, no more leaking emotions, no more Spencer Reid.
The next three days were a masterclass in professional isolation. You arrived at the office before sunrise and left long after the cleaning crew had started their rounds. When you were forced to be in the same room as the team, you became a ghost.
The team noticed. Morgan tried to crack a joke during a briefing, his eyes searching yours for the usual spark of wit, but you only stared at the file in front of you, your face a mask of polished stone. Prentiss lingered by your desk twice, offering coffee you didn’t take and conversation you didn’t join.
But it was Spencer’s absence within the room that hurt the most. He was there, of course, but he was as silent as you were. Every time he tried to clear his throat—the tell-tale sign he was about to offer a fact, a bridge, an olive branch—you would stand up and leave the room to "check the fax machine" or "consult with forensics."
You were starving yourself of feeling because feeling had become synonymous with humiliation.
Late on the third night, the bullpen was empty except for the two of you. You were typing a report with mechanical precision, your fingers hitting the keys with a rhythmic, aggressive snap.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him. He was standing by his desk, clutching a stack of books to his chest like a shield. He took a hesitant step toward you, his shadow stretching long across the floor.
"I... I’ve been reading about the neurobiology of impulsive stress responses," he started, his voice barely a whisper, thin and fragile. "In relation to... to what happened in the breakroom."
You didn't look up. You couldn't. If you looked at him, the armor would crack, and the salt would start flowing again. You felt the familiar sting in your eyes—the "leak" you hated so much—and you clamped down on it with a Ferocity that made your jaw ache.
"There's nothing to discuss, Spencer," you said, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears—flat, hollow, and utterly dead. "It was a lapse in judgment. I was overwhelmed, and I used you as an outlet. It won't happen again."
The silence that followed was agonizing. You could hear him breathing, a soft, hitching sound that mirrored the very thing he had pointed out days ago.
"An outlet?" he repeated, the words sounding like they hurt him.
"I'm fine now," you lied, finally looking up. You didn't see the boy you loved; you forced yourself to see a coworker. You made your eyes go blank, turning yourself into the very thing you once feared: a person wearing a mask made of granite. "I'm not that person anymore. I’m not crying. See?"
You gave him a smile that didn't reach your eyes—a jagged, porcelain thing. Spencer flinched as if you’d slapped him. He opened his mouth to speak, but you simply turned back to your computer, the blue light of the screen reflecting in your cold, dry eyes.
You had successfully stopped the tears. But as you watched his slumped shoulders retreat into the shadows of the hallway, you realized you had also stopped your heart.
The case was a descent into a specific kind of hell—a serial arsonist in the outskirts of Virginia who targeted abandoned structures, turning hollowed-out homes into pyres. The air at the scene was thick with the scent of charred pine and the chemical tang of accelerant, a smell that clung to your skin like a second, filthier layer of clothes.
You were stationed at the perimeter of a collapsing Victorian house, the "hot zone" still smoldering behind the yellow tape. You worked with a frantic, mechanical energy, documenting debris while refusing to acknowledge the man standing five feet away. Spencer was there, his brow furrowed as he analyzed the burn patterns, but the air between you was a physical barrier—a wall of pressurized glass that neither of you dared to touch.
Then, the world tilted.
A sudden, structural groan echoed from the belly of the house. Before the local fire marshal could even shout a warning, a secondary explosion—likely a pocket of trapped gas—ripped through the floorboards. The shockwave knocked you backward, your heels catching on a jagged piece of timber.
You didn't fall. You were caught.
Spencer’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you hard against his chest as he pivoted, using his own body to shield you from the spray of ash and heat. The impact was jarring, the air being knocked out of your lungs as you both hit the dirt. For a few seconds, the world was nothing but the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears and the frantic, staccato thud of Spencer’s heart against your shoulder blade.
"Are you hurt? Tell me you're not hurt," he gasped, his voice raw and stripped of its usual academic cadence. He didn't let go. His hands were gripping your jacket with a white-knuckled intensity, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
You tried to push him away. You tried to summon the cold, robotic indifference that had been your sanctuary for the last week. "I'm fine, Reid. Let go. Get off of me."
"No," he snarled. It was a sound so uncharacteristic of him—so primal—that it froze the breath in your throat. He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight wrecked you. His face was streaked with soot, his hair a wild mess, and his eyes were swimming with a terror that had nothing to do with the fire.
"You're not fine," he yelled, the sound echoing off the charred ruins. "You’ve been walking around like a corpse for days. You’ve turned yourself into a vacuum, and it’s killing me! Do you think I left because I didn't want you? Do you think I’m that much of a fool?"
The dam didn't just leak; it burst. The hot, stinging tears you had spent a week strangling came flooding back, carving tracks through the ash on your cheeks. You began to sob—ugly, heaving sounds that tore out of your chest like shards of glass.
"You ran!" you screamed back, hitting his chest with your fist, though there was no strength behind it. "I gave you everything, I showed you the mess, and you looked at me like I was a monster! You left me standing there like a crybaby who didn't know any better!"
Spencer grabbed your wrists, pinning them gently but firmly against the earth. He was shaking harder than you were.
"I ran because I didn't know how to contain it!" he cried, his voice breaking. "I have spent my entire life being the smartest person in the room, but when you kissed me, I couldn't calculate the variables. My brain went dark. I didn't leave because I was repulsed; I left because I was terrified that if I stayed, I would never be able to let you go. I’m not built for this, the way you are. I’m not brave enough to feel things as loudly as you do."
He leaned in, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. Your tears were mingling now, the salt and the soot creating a blurred reality where the "stone-cold" version of you no longer existed.
"I didn't want a mask," he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "I wanted the girl who cries at the crime scenes. I wanted the person who actually cares. Please... don't turn into us. Don't go cold. I can't find my way back if you're not the light."
You let out a broken, watery laugh, your fingers finally uncurling to grip the front of his shirt. The isolation was gone, replaced by the terrifying, beautiful heat of being seen.
"I'm a mess, Spencer," you choked out, closing your eyes.
"I know," he breathed, his lips brushing yours with a tentative, aching softness that promised he wasn't going anywhere this time. "And I have a photographic memory. I intend to remember every single bit of it."
The cabin of the Gulfstream was quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the engines cutting through the night sky. Usually, this was the time for paperwork or the hollow silence of exhaustion, but tonight, the atmosphere was different. The air didn’t feel heavy anymore; it felt charged, like the stillness after a massive thunderstorm.
You were tucked into one of the leather seats, a thin BAU-issued blanket pulled up to your chin. Your eyes were closed, but you weren't sleeping. You were acutely aware of the weight of the person sitting in the seat directly across from you.
Across the aisle, the rest of the team was settling in. Hotch was focused on his tablet, but his eyes flickered up, tracking the movement of a certain young genius.
Spencer wasn't reading. For the first time in the history of the behavioral analysis unit, Spencer Reid had a book open on his lap and hadn't turned a single page in twenty minutes. Instead, he was leaning forward, his long fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, his gaze fixed entirely on you.
Every few seconds, he would reach out—a micro-movement, almost imperceptible—before pulling back, as if he were checking to see if the glass wall was truly gone.
“Reid,” Morgan’s voice boomed softly from the back of the plane. “You’re burning a hole in her. Give the girl some air.”
Spencer jumped, his face flushing a deep, vivid crimson. “I’m not… the rate of cellular recovery after smoke inhalation requires constant monitoring for potential delayed respiratory distress.”
“Uh-huh,” Prentiss chimed in, leaning back with a smirk as she exchanged a knowing look with JJ. “Is that why you’re holding her hand under the blanket?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Spencer froze. You didn't move, but a small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
Slowly, you reached out from beneath the fabric and tangled your fingers with his, right there in the open. His hand was warm, steady, and held onto yours like a lifeline. You finally opened your eyes, meeting Spencer's wide, nervous gaze.
“He’s just making sure I don’t turn back into an ice cube,” you said, your voice still a little raspy from the smoke and the crying, but clearer than it had been in weeks.
Spencer didn't look away this time. He didn't flee. He squeezed your hand, his shoulders finally dropping from their permanent defensive hunch.
“Actually,” Spencer corrected, his voice regaining that familiar, pedantic spark, though it was softened by an unmistakable tenderness. “The thermal conductivity of human contact is the most efficient way to regulate emotional homeostasis. It would be scientifically irresponsible to stop now.”
JJ smiled, shaking her head as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Glad to have you back, guys. Both of you.”
The "weather" had officially broken. The cold, sterile isolation of the last week had been replaced by something messy, complicated, and incredibly loud. You were still a "crybaby"—you still felt too much, and the job was still going to break your heart a dozen more times—but as Spencer leaned over to clumsily kiss your forehead in front of the entire team, you realized you didn't have to leak alone.
Synopsis: In the high-pressure world of the BAU, love is often treated as a liability—something Spencer Reid has quantified through logic and statistics to keep himself safe. When he inadvertently rejects the person he cares for most by categorizing their bond as a "platonic constant" to avoid the "noise" of a real relationship, he leaves her emotionally shattered. What follows is a painful journey through misunderstanding and isolation, as one woman tries to disappear to protect the man she loves from her own heartbreak, only for a brilliant genius to realize that some things are more important than being right.
Content Warnings: Emotional Distress, Heavy themes of unrequited love and perceived rejection, Depressive Symptoms, Descriptions of a severe emotional breakdown, sobbing, and feelings of worthlessness, Self-Isolation, Anxiety Physical manifestations of anxiety, including shaking and hyperventilation, Miscommunication
Word count: 5k~ ✏
The thing about being in love with a genius is that you expect them to know everything—including how you feel. But Spencer Reid, for all his knowledge of micro-expressions and human behavior, can be remarkably blind when the subject is you.
Here is a short scenario of that "wound" opening up.
The Setting: 11:42 PM
The bullpen was empty except for the two of you. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a sterile glow over the stacks of files. You had spent the last three hours "helping" him cross-reference geographical profiles, but really, you were just waiting for a moment that felt right.
"Spencer?" you murmured, your heart doing a nervous gallop against your ribs.
"Did you find a discrepancy in the transit maps?" He didn't look up, his pen moving in a blur of ink.
"No, it’s not the case. I just... I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day. About the statistical probability of finding someone who truly understands you." You took a breath, stepping into his personal space. "I think I’ve found that. With you."
Spencer finally paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He looked up, his hazel eyes bright with intellectual interest, but entirely devoid of the romantic realization you were praying for.
"Oh! You mean our friendship," he said, a small, genuine smile breaking across his face. "I agree. In fact, based on the sheer volume of shared interests and the baseline of trust we’ve established over the last three years, our platonic compatibility is in the 98th percentile. It’s a remarkable anomaly, really."
He chuckled softly, tapping his temple.
"I was actually telling Garcia earlier that I don't think I could handle a romantic entanglement right now—the cognitive load is too high, and the divorce rates for law enforcement are staggering. But having a 'constant' like you? It’s the only thing keeping me sane."
The words hit you like a physical weight, knocking the air out of your lungs.
To him, he was paying you the highest compliment—calling you his "constant."
He had just preemptively shut a door you were halfway through opening.
He wasn't even trying to let you down easy; he didn't think there was anything to let down.
"Right," you choked out, the back of your throat stinging. "98th percentile. That’s... that’s a lot."
"Is something wrong?" He tilted his head, finally noticing the shift in your energy. "Your pupils are dilated and your breathing has shifted to shallow thoracic movements. Are you having an allergic reaction to the takeout?"
"I’m fine, Spencer," you said, quickly gathering your coat. The rejection felt like a serrated edge because it was so innocent. He wasn't being cruel; he just couldn't see you the way you saw him. "I just realized I left my stove on. I have to go."
"But the stove is an induction cooktop, you told me that last month, the risk of fire is—"
"Goodnight, Spencer."
You walked away before he could finish the sentence, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the bullpen, looking confused at the empty space where you had been. He didn't realize that in his attempt to quantify your value, he’d accidentally broken your heart.
The elevator doors hadn't even fully closed before the first sob ripped out of your chest. It was a jagged, ugly sound that echoed in the small steel box.
You didn't go to your car. You knew you weren't steady enough to drive. Instead, you stumbled into the darkened breakroom on the floor below, collapsed onto the linoleum floor behind the snack machine, and finally let the dam break.
This wasn't just about tonight. It was the weight of every lingering look you’d misinterpreted, every "scientific" late-night conversation you thought meant something more, and the crushing exhaustion of loving someone who analyzed the world but couldn't see you.
Your chest felt tight, like your ribs were collapsing inward. You curled into a ball, tucking your face into your knees to muffle the sound of your crying. You were shaking so hard your teeth rattled—a cold, shock-like chill that no coat could fix.
His voice kept playing in your head on a loop: “Our platonic compatibility... the cognitive load is too high...” It was the clinical nature of it that hurt the most. He had categorized you as a "constant"—a fixed point in his life that didn't require effort or evolution.
You felt a profound sense of humiliation. You had stood there, vulnerable and trembling, and he had responded with a math problem.
The door creaked open. You tried to choke back a sob, holding your breath until your lungs burned, but a hiccup gave you away.
"Hey, kid? I thought I saw you—"
It was Derek Morgan. He stopped dead, the light from the hallway catching the silhouette of you crumpled on the floor. He didn't ask if you were okay; the state of you made the answer obvious. He was across the room in two strides, dropping to his knees beside you.
"Whoa, whoa. Talk to me," he whispered, his hand hovering over your shoulder, wary of startling you. "Is it the case? Did something happen?"
"He doesn't... he doesn't even know," you gasped out, the words barely intelligible through the hyperventilation. "He just... he mapped it out, Derek. He turned me into a statistic. He’s never going to see me."
Morgan’s face softened, his jaw tightening as he put the pieces together. He’d seen the way you looked at Reid for months. He’d probably been waiting for this collision, but he hadn't expected the impact to be this devastating.
"Reid," Morgan breathed, a flash of frustration crossing his features. "That brilliant, idiot boy."
He reached out and pulled you into a firm, grounding hug. You buried your face in his leather jacket, soaking the material with tears you’d been holding back for years. You weren't just crying because he said no; you were crying because for Spencer Reid, there wasn't even a "no" to give. You weren't even on the map.
"I can't go back in there," you whispered into the dark. "I can't look at him tomorrow. I can't be his 'constant' anymore."
"I know," Morgan said, rubbing your back as the tremors finally began to subside into a hollow, exhausted numbness. "I know. But you’re not going back in there tonight. I’m taking you home."
The drive home was a blur of streetlights and Derek’s quiet, concerned glances. He had offered to stay, to make coffee, to sit on the sofa until you fell asleep, but the shame was a living thing in your chest. You had insisted you were fine, pushing him away with a fragile, watery smile until he finally relented.
But the moment the deadbolt clicked into place, the silence of your apartment hit you like a physical blow.
Usually, your apartment was your sanctuary. Tonight, it felt like a cage. Every corner of the room held a ghost of him:
There was the copy of The Narrative of John Smith he’d lent you, filled with his tiny, frantic marginalia.
A stack of crossword puzzles you’d started together, the ones he finished in three minutes flat while explaining the etymology of "synecdoche."
Without his constant stream of facts and statistics, the quiet was deafening. It reminded you that while he was your world, you were simply a high-percentile data point in his.
You didn't turn on the lights. You didn't even take off your coat. You just slumped against the front door and slid down to the floor, the cold wood pressing against your back.
This was the "worst" part—the hollow aftershock. The initial explosion of grief at the office had been loud and frantic, but this was a deep, soul-deep ache. You realized that you weren't just mourning a relationship that never happened; you were mourning the loss of your comfort zone. How could you go back to being his "constant" when every time he looked at you, you’d be reminded that he’d already calculated your worth and filed you away under Platonic?
Your phone buzzed in your pocket. A text.
Spencer: I forgot to mention—the reason the 98th percentile is so significant is because it suggests a rare level of neurological synchrony. I really value that we don't have the "noise" of a traditional relationship. Get some sleep!
The "noise."
Your heart, your longing, your desperate need to be touched by him—to him, it was just noise. You let the phone slip from your hand, the screen glowing against the floorboards like a mocking eye.
You curled onto your side on the rug, the darkness of the apartment swallowing you whole. You started to shake again, but there was no Derek there to hold you steady this time. You gripped your own arms, trying to provide your own warmth, but you felt transparent.
The realization settled into your bones: he hadn't just rejected your love; he had unintentionally invalidated your entire shared history. He was sleeping soundly, likely satisfied with his "logical" assessment of your bond, while you were a wreck on the floor, wondering how you were supposed to show up to work at 8:00 AM and pretend your heart wasn't in pieces.
The fluorescent lights of the BAU always felt a bit like a spotlight, but today they felt like a scalpel. You had spent forty minutes in front of your vanity mirror using cold spoons and heavy concealer to hide the evidence of your night on the floor, but you couldn't hide the hollow look in your eyes.
You walked in at 8:02 AM, your movements stiff, your gaze fixed firmly on your desk. You didn't look toward the coffee pot. You didn't look toward his desk.
"Morning," you muttered as you sat down, immediately clicking open a file. Your hands were trembling, so you gripped the edge of your desk until your knuckles turned white.
"Good morning!"
The voice was bright, energetic, and devastatingly familiar. Spencer appeared at your shoulder, a paper cup in each hand. He set a tea in front of you—the exact blend you liked, steeped for exactly four minutes.
"I noticed you were three minutes later than your average arrival time, which I assumed was due to the rain-slicked roads affecting the coefficient of friction for your tires," he said, leaning against your desk. He looked refreshed. He looked fine. "I also wanted to follow up on my text. I found a paper on the neurobiology of 'constants' in high-stress environments. It’s fascinating how—"
You didn't look up. You couldn't. If you looked at him, the concealer wouldn't hold.
"Spencer, I’m really busy," you said, your voice paper-thin. "The Chicago PD just sent over the ballistics report."
He paused, his head tilting in that bird-like way he did when he was processing a puzzle. "You haven't touched your tea. The optimal drinking temperature for black tea is 140°F, and you're losing approximately two degrees per minute in this climate-controlled—"
"I don't want the tea, Spencer."
The sharpness in your voice was like a physical slap. The bullpen went quiet. From across the room, you felt Morgan’s eyes on you, heavy with protective concern, and Prentiss’s gaze, sharp and knowing.
Spencer blinked, his expression faltering into something small and wounded. "Oh. I... I'm sorry. I thought the routine was helpful for your morning dopamine regulation."
He stood there for a moment, hovering, waiting for the "usual" you to come back—the you that would laugh at his statistics or challenge his facts. But that version of you was gone, buried under the weight of the "noise" he didn't want.
You stared at the words in the file, but they were just black blurs. You felt a tear threaten to spill, and you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper. The sadness wasn't a sharp pain anymore; it was a vast, cold ocean that was slowly filling your lungs. You realized that being near him was no longer a comfort. It was a chore. It was a haunting.
"I'll... I'll just go," Spencer whispered, his voice losing its academic confidence. He retreated to his desk, looking confused, like a child who had followed all the rules of a game only to find out the rules had changed overnight.
Across the bullpen, Morgan stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He didn't look at you; he looked straight at the back of Reid’s messy hair, his expression darkening.
The guilt followed the snap almost instantly, a cold wave of regret that felt even worse than the sadness. You watched him walk away—shoulders slightly hunched, his long fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sweater—and you felt like a monster.
He didn't know. That was the tragedy of Spencer Reid. He wasn't being cruel; he was being Spencer. And you had just snarled at the only person who spent his morning calculating the "optimal drinking temperature" of your tea just to make you smile.
Ten minutes later, the silence between your desks felt like an electrified fence. You couldn't take it. You stood up, your legs feeling like lead, and walked over to his desk.
"Spencer?" you whispered, your voice thick with the remnants of last night’s tears.
He flinched. It wasn't a large movement, but it was a visible one. He didn't look up from his book; instead, he buried his nose deeper into the pages, his body tensing as if he were bracing for another impact.
"Spencer, I’m sorry," you said, reaching out a hand toward his arm. "I shouldn't have snapped. I’m just... I didn't sleep well, and I—"
Before your fingers could even brush the sleeve of his cardigan, he recoiled. He pulled his chair back abruptly, the wheels screeching against the floor, creating a physical gap of three feet between you.
"It’s fine," he said quickly, his voice high and clipped. He finally looked at you, but he wasn't looking at you—he was looking at your forehead, avoiding your eyes entirely. "Your irritability is a logical byproduct of sleep deprivation and fluctuating cortisol levels. I shouldn't have intruded on your workspace. It was an inefficient use of time."
"Spencer, look at me," you pleaded, your heart breaking all over again.
"I actually have to go to the archives," he blurted out, standing up so fast he nearly knocked his stack of books over. He began gathering his things with trembling hands, moving with a frantic, desperate energy. "The, uh, the thermal imaging reports from the 2004 case need to be re-indexed. It’s a solo task. Very quiet. No... no noise."
He used your own word against himself. He wasn't being petty; he was protecting himself. To him, you were a "constant" that had suddenly become unpredictable and volatile. He was treating you like a dangerous variable he didn't know how to solve.
He practically ran toward the elevator, his head down, his satchel bouncing against his hip. He didn't look back.
You stood in the middle of the bullpen, your hand still hovering in the empty air where he had been. You had tried to fix the bridge, but he was so scared of the fire that he had burned the rest of it down himself.
The message was loud and clear: You had lost the right to be close to him. By trying to love him, you had made yourself a stranger. By snapping at him, you had made yourself a threat. Now, you weren't just the girl he didn't love—you were the person he was afraid to talk to.
You sank into his empty chair, the scent of his old books and stale coffee clinging to the air, and realized that this was the loneliest you had ever been in your entire life.
The guilt was a physical weight, heavier and more suffocating than the rejection itself. Watching him practically flee from your presence—seeing that brilliant, gentle man treat you like a source of impending pain—convinced you of a new, devastating truth: You were a "toxic variable" in his carefully ordered life.
You didn't just want to hide; you wanted to erase the version of yourself that had made him flinch.
For the next three days, you became a ghost within the BAU. You mastered the art of being present without being there.
You moved your laptop to a small, cramped carrel in the back of the library or stayed in the breakroom under the guise of "organizing files."
You stopped contributing to the banter during case briefings. When Spencer spoke, you kept your eyes glued to your notepad, scribbling nonsense just to avoid the chance of your gaze meeting his and seeing that flicker of apprehension again.
When the team went to lunch, you claimed you’d already eaten. When Garcia tried to pull you into a hug, you stepped back, citing a "scratchy throat."
You weren't just protecting yourself anymore; you were protecting him from you.
From his desk, Spencer was spiraling in a different way. He didn't understand why the "constant" had vanished. He kept glancing at your empty chair, his brow furrowed, his fingers tapping out a restless, rhythmic pattern on his thigh. To him, your isolation was a puzzle with a missing piece. He thought he had failed a social metric so badly that you could no longer tolerate his presence.
One afternoon, you were in the kitchenette, staring blankly at the microwave as it spun. You heard the door swing open and the familiar, uneven gait of his footsteps.
Your instinct was to run. You immediately gripped your mug and turned to leave, head down.
"I checked the air quality index for the building," Spencer said softly, his voice echoing in the small room. He was standing by the door, blocking your exit—not intentionally, but his lanky frame took up just enough space to make leaving impossible without brushing past him. "I thought... perhaps there was a localized irritant causing your withdrawal. Or perhaps a viral load with an unusually long incubation period."
You couldn't look up. "I'm fine, Spencer. I’m just busy."
"You’ve been 'busy' for seventy-two hours," he countered, his voice trembling slightly. "Statistically, even the most demanding caseload allows for 4.5 minutes of social interaction per hour. You’ve had zero. Did I... did I do something to move our compatibility into a lower percentile?"
The sheer vulnerability in his voice made your eyes sting. He was so worried about his "percentiles" and he didn't realize that you were dying inside because you loved him too much to be near him.
"You didn't do anything," you whispered, finally looking at him. But the look wasn't one of affection; it was one of profound, weary sadness. "That’s the problem, Spencer. You didn't do anything at all. And I... I can't be around you right now without feeling like I’m breaking something."
Before he could process the word breaking, before he could ask for a definition or a derivation, you ducked under his arm and hurried down the hall.
You locked yourself in a bathroom stall and leaned your forehead against the cold metal door. You had tried to isolate to keep from hurting him, but you realized that in the process, you were both starving.
The bullpen was quiet, the air heavy with the kind of tension that usually precedes a breakthrough on a case—except this time, the victim was sitting at his own desk, staring at a crime scene photo he hadn’t turned over in twenty minutes.
Derek Morgan didn't use his "FBI voice." He didn't use his "big brother" voice either. He used the voice he saved for people standing on the edge of a ledge.
"Reid. Breakroom. Now."
Spencer followed him like a confused puppy, his long limbs awkward and jerky. As soon as the door swung shut, Morgan turned on him. He didn't yell; he just looked at Reid with a mixture of pity and frustration that made the younger man shrink.
"I don't understand," Spencer started, his words tumbling out at 250 words per minute. "I’ve analyzed the shift in her behavior. I’ve looked at the environmental factors, the stress of the last case, the—"
"Stop it, Spencer," Morgan snapped, holding up a hand. "Stop the math. Stop the statistics. You’re looking at everything except the person standing right in front of you."
"She’s isolating," Spencer whispered, his hands knotting together. "She’s avoiding me because I’m... I’m a stressor. I made her snap. I’ve reached a point of diminishing returns in our relationship and she—"
"She’s in love with you, you genius idiot!"
The silence that followed was deafening. Spencer’s mouth stayed open, a half-formed syllable dying on his tongue. He blinked, once, twice, his brain clearly trying to re-catalog every interaction from the last three years through this new, terrifying lens.
"That's... that's not possible," Spencer finally choked out. "The probability—"
"The probability is 100%, Reid! Look at the 'noise' you told her you didn't want. That 'noise' was her heart. You told her—to her face—that you didn't want a 'traditional relationship' because the 'cognitive load' was too high. You didn't just reject her; you told her that loving you was a burden you weren't willing to carry."
Spencer’s face went ghost-white. He slumped against the counter, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He remembered the tea. He remembered her red-rimmed eyes. He remembered the way she flinched when he tried to use logic to explain her pain.
"I told her... I told her she was a constant," Spencer breathed, his voice breaking. "I thought it was a compliment. I thought I was telling her she was the only thing I could depend on."
"You told her she was a fixture, Reid. Like a chair. Or a lamp," Morgan said, his voice softening just a fraction. "And now she’s hiding in corners and crying in the dark because she thinks she’s a 'horrible person' for wanting more than that from you. She’s trying to disappear so she doesn't 'bother' you with her feelings anymore."
Spencer looked at the door, his eyes wide with a sudden, sharp panic. He thought of you sitting in that cramped carrel in the library, making yourself small, starving yourself of his company because you thought you were the problem.
"I hurt her," Spencer whispered. It wasn't a deduction. It was a confession. "I’ve been analyzing her micro-expressions for years and I missed the most important one because I was too afraid to look for it."
He didn't wait for Morgan to respond. He spun around, nearly tripping over his own feet, and bolted for the door.
He found you in the very back of the archives, tucked into a corner where the motion-sensor lights had already flickered off. You were sitting on a footstool, your head resting against a stack of dusty cold-case boxes. You looked small. You looked extinguished.
The lights hummed to life as he approached, but you didn't look up. You didn't want to see the confusion or the clinical concern in his eyes.
"I'm almost done re-indexing, Spencer," you said, your voice thick and exhausted. "You don't have to be in here. I'm staying out of your way."
He didn't reply with a fact. He didn't cite a study on the efficiency of archive filing. Instead, he did something he almost never did: he sat on the floor, right at your feet, making himself lower than you.
"I'm not a very good observer," he started. His voice was raw, stripped of its usual academic cadence. "I tell people I am. I have the credentials. But I spent so much time looking at the patterns of your behavior that I completely ignored the person behind them."
You finally looked down at him. His hair was a mess where he’d been running his hands through it, and for the first time, his eyes weren't searching for data. They were just searching for you.
"Morgan told me," he whispered. "He told me that I... I called your love 'noise.' And I haven't been able to breathe since he said it."
You tried to pull away, your heart jumping in that painful, jagged way again. "He shouldn't have said anything. I was handling it. I was making sure you were comfortable—"
"I don't want to be comfortable!" Spencer burst out, the sudden volume making you flinch. He immediately reached out, and this time, when you pulled back, he didn't recoil. He stayed there, his hand open and pleading in the air between you.
"I’m scared," he admitted, his lip trembling. "I’m scared of the 'staggering divorce rates' and the 'cognitive load' because I don't know how to be a person that someone like you loves. I know how to be a genius. I know how to be a profiler. But I don't know how to be... a partner. I thought if I kept you as a 'constant,' I could keep you forever without ever having to risk losing you to a mistake I made."
He took a shaky breath, finally closing the gap and resting his hand gently over yours. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the coldness you’d been feeling for days.
"But I realize now that by trying to avoid the risk of losing you, I’ve already lost you. I’ve made you feel like you’re something to be managed instead of something to be cherished."
The "horrible person" feeling you’d been carrying started to dissolve, replaced by a devastating ache for the man in front of you. He wasn't rejecting you; he was terrified of his own inadequacy.
"You're not a statistic," he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "You're the only thing in my life that I haven't tried to memorize, because I wanted to be surprised by you every single day. I just didn't tell you. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you."
He looked up at you, his hazel eyes wet and desperate. "Please stop hiding from me. I’d rather have the 'noise.' I’d rather have all the chaos and the risk and the heartbreak of a 'traditional relationship' than spend another minute in a room where you’re trying to make yourself invisible."
You didn't answer with words. You leaned down, pressing your forehead against his. You heard him let out a long, shuddering breath—the sound of a man who had finally stopped calculating and started feeling.
The transition from "constants" to something more was not a seamless formula. It was messy, it was loud, and for the first time in your life, it was exactly what you needed.
A few weeks later, the atmosphere in the bullpen had shifted. The cold, sterile tension was gone, replaced by something softer. Spencer no longer hovered at the edge of your desk with tea; he sat on the edge of your desk, his knee occasionally brushing yours as he spoke. He was still Spencer—he still talked too fast and forgot to blink when he was excited—but there was a new intentionality in the way he looked at you. He was no longer looking for data; he was looking for you.
"I've been reading about the chemical composition of lavender," he said one evening as you both walked toward the elevators. "It's supposed to aid in deep REM sleep. I noticed your caffeine intake has decreased by 20% this week, which suggests you're resting better."
You smiled, reaching out to catch his hand. His fingers tangled with yours instantly, a reflex he had developed the moment you’d given him permission to touch you. "I am, Spencer. Thank you."
He led you not to the subway, but to a small, quiet park a few blocks from the Hoover Building. The city was loud—sirens in the distance, the hum of traffic, the chatter of people passing by.
"Is the noise okay?" he asked, his voice low. He looked at the bustling street and then back at you, a flicker of that old nervousness in his eyes. "I know I said I didn't want it. But I realized... the silence without you was actually much louder."
"The noise is perfect," you whispered.
He pulled you to a stop under a budding maple tree. The lights of the city reflected in his eyes, making him look less like a distant genius and more like a man who had finally found his way home.
Spencer leaned in, hesitating for just a fraction of a second—a final calculation—before he pressed his lips to yours. It wasn't a clinical kiss. It was clumsy and sweet and smelled like old books and peppermint. It was the sound of a 98th percentile compatibility finally becoming a 100% reality.
When he pulled back, he was flushed, a bright, genuine grin stretching across his face.
"Technically," he whispered against your forehead, "the oxytocin release from a kiss of that duration should sustain a sense of well-being for at least several hours. But I think, in this specific case, the effects might be permanent."
You laughed, pulling him closer, the wound from that night in the bullpen finally, fully healed. "No more statistics, Spencer."
"No more statistics," he agreed, squeezing your hand. "Just us."
The cool night air of the park was perfect, but for two members of the BAU, the view from a black SUV parked haphazardly across the street was even better.
Inside the car, Penelope Garcia was practically vibrating, her colorful glasses sliding down her nose as she pressed her face against the window. Next to her, Derek leaned against the steering wheel, a smug, satisfied grin playing on his lips.
"Oh! Oh, look! He’s doing the hand thing!" Garcia squealed, her voice a hushed, frantic whisper. "He’s doing the 'I’m-nervously-fidgeting-but-I’m-going-in-for-the-kill' hand thing!"
"Babygirl, if you fog up that glass any more, we won't see anything," Morgan chuckled, though he didn't pull her away. He adjusted the side mirror to get a clearer angle of the maple tree. "I told you. All that kid needed was a little bit of 'tough love' and a reality check."
"You called him a genius idiot, Derek! That’s not tough love, that’s just factual!" Garcia gasped as she saw Spencer lean in. "Wait—is it happening? Is it? My eyes are watering, I can’t blink—"
In the park, Spencer had just pulled back from the kiss, his forehead still resting against yours. He was smiling—a real, dizzying smile—until his gaze drifted past your shoulder. His eyes narrowed, his head tilting in that sharp, analytical way that usually meant he’d spotted a piece of evidence.
"What is it?" you whispered, still a little breathless.
"Based on the tinted windows, the government-issue plates, and the fact that I can see a pair of glittery cat-ear headbands reflected in the windshield..." Spencer sighed, though he didn't let go of your waist. "We are currently being surveilled by 28% of our team."
You turned just in time to see the SUV’s headlights flash accidentally.
"Abort! Abort mission!" Garcia’s muffled voice echoed across the quiet street.
The engine roared to life, and the SUV peeled away from the curb with unnecessary drama. As it sped past, you caught a glimpse of Morgan giving a quick, triumphant thumbs-up through the driver's side window, while Garcia blew frantic kisses until they disappeared around the corner.
Spencer looked down at you, huffing a soft laugh that vibrated in his chest. "I should probably file a formal complaint about the invasion of privacy."
"You could," you teased, looping your arms around his neck. "Or you could just ignore the noise."
Spencer’s expression softened, his arms tightening around you as he pulled you back in. "I think," he murmured, "I'm finally getting the hang of ignoring the noise."
Synopsis: After a clumsy start involving misplaced rose petals and nervous ramblings about the physics of light, the tension between you and Spencer finally breaks. What began as an awkward Valentine's dinner on the floor transitions into a heated, intimate encounter as Spencer sets aside his logic for pure chemistry, leaving the lavender lingerie—and his inhibitions—behind.
Trigger Warnings: Fingering, Penetrative sex, Sensual touching, Erotic kissing, Lingerie removal, Emotional vulnerability, Erotic science metaphors, Orgasm descriptions, Romantic gestures, Explicit sexual content, Consensual sex scenes, Valentine's Day sex
MDNI Word count: 2k~✏
The smell of vanilla-scented candles was starting to become a bit much—mostly because you’d been pacing the bedroom for twenty minutes, trying to decide if the "seductive" vibe you’d planned was romantic or just a recipe for a panic attack.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. The lavender baby doll lingerie was delicate and soft, but you felt exposed, like a deer in lacy headlights. You’d scattered rose petals across the duvet with the precision of a crime scene investigator, and now you were worried they just looked like a mess Spencer would feel the need to vacuum.
Then, you heard the click of the front door.
"Y/N? I’m home! I... I have the—oh, wow."
Spencer stopped in the doorway. He was still wearing his satchel, a slightly wilted bouquet of wildflowers in one hand and a paper bag that smelled faintly of Thai takeout in the other. His eyes widened, darting from the candles to the bed, and finally to you.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You’re wearing... lavender. Did you know that in the Victorian era, lavender was often used to represent devotion, but also sometimes distrust? Not that I distrust you! I mean, it’s a very soothing wavelength on the visible spectrum. 400-450 nanometers, actually."
You let out a shaky breath, your hands fidgeting with the hem of the sheer fabric. "Spencer, you’re rambling."
"Right. Sorry. It’s just... you look incredible," he whispered, finally stepping into the room. He set the flowers and the takeout on the nightstand, nearly knocking over a candle in the process. "And the petals. Rosa damascena? Or perhaps a hybrid tea rose?"
"I don't know, Spencer," you admitted, a small laugh breaking through your nerves. "I just bought them at the grocery store. I wanted tonight to be... special. But now I feel like I’m auditioning for a movie I’m not cool enough to be in."
Spencer kicked off his shoes, looking equally flustered. "If it makes you feel better, I spent forty-five minutes in the card aisle trying to find one that wasn't statistically inaccurate about the 'size' of one's love. Love is an emotion, it doesn't have a volume or mass."
He walked over to you, his movements cautious. He didn't quite know where to put his hands, so he settled for gently taking yours. His palms were a little sweaty, which was oddly comforting—he was just as terrified as you were.
"Are we supposed to... start now?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
Spencer looked at the bed, then back at you. "The takeout is getting cold. But the candles are at their peak burn rate. It’s a bit of a logistical dilemma. If we eat first, we might feel sluggish. If we don’t, my blood sugar might drop and I’ll get a headache, which isn't very 'Valentine-sy.'"
You snorted, the tension finally breaking. "You’re a genius, Reid. Figure out the optimal path for us."
He smiled, that shy, lopsided grin that always made your heart do a somersault. "I think... I think we should blow out the candles before we burn the apartment down, eat the Pad Thai on the floor so we don't mess up the rose petals, and then I can tell you all the reasons why lavender is officially my new favorite color."
Twenty minutes later, the "seductive" atmosphere had evolved. You were sitting on the rug in your expensive lingerie, wrapped in Spencer’s oversized cardigan, sharing noodles while he explained the history of Saint Valentine.
It wasn't a movie scene. It was clumsy, the lighting was dim, and there was a stray rose petal in the peanut sauce.
"Y/N?" he said, pausing mid-sentence.
"Yeah?"
"I really like the lavender." He reached out, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. "And I really like you. Even if we’re both bad at being 'smooth.'"
"We’re the worst at it," you agreed, leaning into his touch. "But I think we're doing okay."
The Pad Thai was forgotten, the container pushed aside as the air in the room shifted. The nervous chatter about history and wavelengths died down, replaced by a heavy, magnetic pull that always seemed to exist between you—even when you were both too shy to acknowledge it.
Spencer set his chopsticks down, his long fingers trembling just slightly. He reached out, his hand sliding from your cheek down to the delicate strap of the lavender baby doll. His touch was light, tentative, as if he were afraid you might disappear if he gripped too firmly.
"Statistically," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, "physical touch is known to reduce cortisol levels and increase oxytocin. But I don't think a study could ever properly quantify how... how much I’ve wanted to touch you tonight."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. You could smell the faint scent of old books and peppermint on him, a scent that had become your favorite anchor. When he finally kissed you, it wasn't the awkward peck of a first date; it was deep, searching, and surprisingly confident.
Spencer’s hands found your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your skin and his button-down shirt. He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against your lips, "The bed?"
You nodded, your breath hitching. He stood, pulling you up with him, and guided you toward the rose-covered duvet. As you lay back, the petals crunched softly beneath you, releasing a faint, sweet aroma that mingled with the heat rising between the two of you.
Spencer hovered over you, his knees flanking your hips. He looked down at you, his eyes dark with a mix of adoration and raw hunger that he usually kept buried under layers of logic. The soft glow of the remaining candles caught the gold in his hair and the intensity in his gaze.
"You look..." He swallowed, his hands skimming up your thighs, bunching the sheer lavender fabric upward. "You look breathtaking, Y/N. I've spent the last three hours trying to calculate the best way to tell you that, but I think I’m done talking."
He leaned down, his lips trailing a path from your jawline to the sensitive dip of your collarbone. One hand reached back to undo his tie, tossing it somewhere toward the floor, while the other stayed firmly planted against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.
The nervousness was gone, replaced by a feverish need to explore every inch of the "soothing wavelength" he’d been rambling about earlier. As his hand moved to the hem of the lingerie, his breath hot against your skin, you realized that while Spencer Reid might be a man of science, what was happening now was pure, unadulterated chemistry.
His fingers traced the delicate lace at the edge of the lingerie, sending shivers down your spine. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, his heartbeat syncing with yours in a rhythmic dance. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in this moment of intimate discovery.
"Spencer," you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he heard it. He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart race. There was a question in his gaze, a silent plea for permission to continue.
You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips, and he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve and contour, as if committing them to memory. The lavender fabric of your lingerie rustled softly as he slowly lifted it over your head, his eyes never leaving yours.
He took a step back, his gaze roving over your body, appreciating every inch of you. "You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Like a perfectly calculated equation, everything in its right place."
You reached out, pulling him closer, your hands finding their way under his shirt, feeling the firm muscles of his back. He shivered at your touch, his breath hitching slightly. His hands found their way to your waist, his thumbs tracing small circles on your skin, sending waves of pleasure through you.
His body covered yours, his weight a comforting pressure. You could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, against your chest. His hands continued their exploration, tracing patterns on your skin, making you arch into his touch.
"You're driving me crazy," you whispered, your voice breathless with desire. "I can't think straight when you touch me like this."
He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Good," he said, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind your ear. "Because I don't want you to think. I want you to feel. Feel how much I want you."
His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the swell of your thigh. You gasped as his fingers found their way between your legs, stroking you gently, building a fire within you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more.
He obliged, his fingers moving faster, his thumb finding your clit, circling it in a rhythm that had you crying out his name. You could feel the pressure building, your body tensing as you neared the edge.
"Spencer," you gasped, your nails digging into his back. "I'm close. So close."
He increased the pressure, his fingers moving faster, his thumb circling your clit in a relentless rhythm. You cried out, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over you. He captured your cries with his mouth, his kiss deep and consuming.
As you came down from your high, he pulled back, his eyes dark with desire. He quickly shed his clothes, his body hard and ready. He settled between your legs, his cock pressing against your entrance. You wrapped your legs around him, urging him on.
He entered you slowly, filling you inch by inch, his eyes never leaving yours. You gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him. He began to move, his hips thrusting in a steady rhythm, his cock hitting all the right spots.
"You feel incredible," he murmured, his voice strained with effort. "So tight. So wet."
You met his thrusts, your hips moving in sync with his, your bodies slapping together in a primal dance. The room filled with the sounds of your pleasure, your moans and gasps mixing with his grunts and groans.
He reached between you, his fingers finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. You cried out, your body tensing as another orgasm built within you. He increased his pace, his hips moving faster, his cock hitting deeper.
"You're so beautiful when you come," he said, his voice low and husky. "I want to see you come undone."
His words pushed you over the edge, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over you. You cried out his name, your nails digging into his back as you rode out your orgasm.
He followed soon after, his body tensing, his cock pulsing as he came inside you. He collapsed on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, your heart full.
As you lay there, your bodies entwined, you realized that this was more than just chemistry. It was a connection, a bond that transcended science and logic. It was love, pure and simple.
Spencer pulled back, his eyes soft as he looked at you. "Happy Valentine's Day," he said, a small smile playing on his lips.
You smiled back, your heart swelling with love. "Happy Valentine's Day, Spencer. I love you."
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, tender kiss. "I love you too," he murmured against your lips. "Always."
And in that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges the future held, you would face them together. Because you were more than just partners in science. You were partners in life, in love, and in everything in between.
