Spencer's eyes roll back as you move against him, hips rotating, lifting off him and sinking back down at a pace that is criminally slow, and so, so delicious. There are nights where Spencer must have you, nights where you're pulled together like magnets, taking what you need without a single thought. Then there are nights like this one. The sun is setting outside the window, the room is pleasantly warm, all heat generated by the connection of your bodies. His hands never leaving your skin, roaming the peaks and valleys of your body like a sensory dream. If he really, really focuses through the fog of pleasure radiating through his abdomen, he can feel the stretch mark at your side, the pad of his thumb moving back and forth across it. You're so perfect to him, he lets out a soft moan at the thought alone. Adoration sets his heart alight, and he becomes tender so quickly that he tugs at your arm gently, prompting you down for a kiss. When your chest presses against his, he relishes in the warmth, taking the new angle in stride as he plants his feet on the mattress and begins thrusting into you, deep and slow. The sound you make makes his chest feel warm, makes him let out a soft, breathy chuckle as a smile graces his lips. His eyes are half lidded, and so are yours, cheeks reddened, face covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He knows you don't like how you flush, but he loves it. Physical evidence of your arousal, of what he is doing to you. When his lips meet yours, he gently bites at your lower lip, and it prompts you to kiss him harder, forcing his head back down against the pillow. He could do this forever. Cock sliding in and out of you, pleasure thrumming mutually between you both, unrushed and full of love.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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heyy! first off, i wanna start by saying your writing is amazing and i looove the way you write spence🩷
i want to make a request that might be very triggering and if it is too much, please feel free to ignore this. but if there is any way you can write about the reader dealing with an0rexia or being in recovery(which is hard asf) and spence being all suportive and caring and loving, i would be grateful!!🫶🏻⭐️ thank you sm
pairing = boyfriend!reid + fem!reader
warning = anorexia, eating-disorder recovery, emotional distress, and difficult recovery days. These themes are discussed but are NOT described graphically or in detail. Please take care of yourself while reading and skip this story if these topics may be difficult for you
She didn’t realise how tightly she was holding onto Spencer until he gently stroking her arm up and down soothingly.
Her fingers were twisted into the sleeve of his sweater, knuckles pale from how hard she’d been gripping it.
She loosened them immediately.
“Sorry.”
Spencer’s eyebrows drew together.
“Why are you apologising?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at her for another second, then quietly held his arm out, lying down on the couch now.
She hesitated.
“Come here.”
Something about the softness of his voice made her stop fighting herself.
She moved closer.
Spencer shifted on the couch, making room for her until she could tuck herself against his side. He pulled the blanket around her shoulders again, making sure it covered her properly before resting his hand gently against her upper arm.
She leaned into him almost immediately, snuggling into her boyfriend's neck.
It was embarrassing, how much she wanted to be held on days like this.
How much she wanted someone else to carry the weight for a few minutes.
But Spencer didn’t make her feel embarrassing. He simply stayed.
Her cheek pressed against his shoulder, and after a moment his hand began moving slowly up and down her back.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing expectant.
Just there.
She breathed shakily.
“It’s really bad today.”
Spencer’s hand paused for half a second.
“Anorexia?”
She nodded.
He didn’t look surprised. He knew.
He’d watched her work so hard through recovery. He’d seen the good days and the days when everything seemed to become difficult again.
She swallowed.
“I thought I was doing better.”
“You are baby.”
She frowned.
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“I know.”
This time, when he said it, it wasn’t dismissive.
His hand continued moving gently over her back.
“You can be doing better and still have awful days like this.”
She stared at the floor.
“I hate that... I don’t want to have to fight with my own head all the time.” She pressed herself closer, hiding her face against his shoulder.
Spencer immediately tightened his arm around her.
“Hey.”
She shook her head.
“Hey,” he repeated, quieter.
She finally looked at him.
“You don’t have to hide from me.”
Her mouth trembled.
“I’m being stupid.”
“No.”
“I’m being difficult.”
“No. You’re struggling.”
He said it so simply that she went quiet.
Spencer brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb.
“You don’t have to make yourself easier to be around just because you’re having a bad day.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
“You don’t get tired of me?”
“No.”
“Even when I’m like this?”
“Especially when you’re like this.”
Her expression crumpled.
Her arms went around his middle, holding onto him tightly, and he wrapped both arms around her in return. He rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head.
She cried quietly.
He didn’t tell her to stop.
He didn’t tell her everything would be fine.
He just held her.
Every now and then, his hand moved over her back in slow, reassuring circles.
“I’m sorry.." she whispered eventually.
“You’ve said that already and I still don’t want you to apologise.”
She sniffled.
“Why?”
“Because you haven’t done anything wrong.”
She didn’t answer.
Spencer gave her a small squeeze.
“You’re allowed to have a hard day.”
Another squeeze.
“You’re allowed to be tired.”
His voice became softer.
“And you’re allowed to need someone.”
She closed her eyes.
“Can I need you?”
“Yeah.”
The answer came without hesitation.
“Of course you can.”
She held him tighter.
“Can you stay?”
“I’m staying.”
“For a while?”
“For as long as you want.”
She finally relaxed against him.
Spencer reached for the remote with one hand, keeping the other around her.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He kisses your forehead.
After a few minutes of silence you speak up again, "Can we watch something stupid?”
“Absolutely.”
“Something where I don’t have to think.”
“I have several options.”
She lifted her head slightly.
“Nothing educational.”
He looked offended.
“I wasn’t going to suggest anything educational.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“…Maybe.”
A tiny smile appeared on her face.
“There you are,” he murmured, his face moving closer to yours. His nose now touching yours.
“What?” Your smile at him gets bigger.
“Nothing.”
She leans in, giving him a peck on the lips before turning around on the couch facing the tv. Her back against his chest, his arms around her body.
The film started.
It was terrible.
Within five minutes, Spencer was quietly complaining about the plot.
Within ten, she was telling him to shut up.
Within fifteen, she was laughing.
Not properly.
Not yet.
But enough.
Spencer glanced down at her and smiled to himself.
He didn’t need her to suddenly feel better.
He didn’t need to make the anorexia disappear for her.
He just wanted her to know that she didn’t have to face the difficult moments by herself.
And when she reached for his hand beneath the blanket, he gave it to her without a second thought.
She held on, falling asleep in his arms.
A/N = I'm not the most educated on disorders such as anorexia so I hope I was able to somewhat replicate a similar situation to what you had in mind! Thanks for the request. 🫶
heyy! first off, i wanna start by saying your writing is amazing and i looove the way you write spence🩷
i want to make a request that might be very triggering and if it is too much, please feel free to ignore this. but if there is any way you can write about the reader dealing with an0rexia or being in recovery(which is hard asf) and spence being all suportive and caring and loving, i would be grateful!!🫶🏻⭐️ thank you sm
pairing = boyfriend!reid + fem!reader
warning = anorexia, eating-disorder recovery, emotional distress, and difficult recovery days. These themes are discussed but are NOT described graphically or in detail. Please take care of yourself while reading and skip this story if these topics may be difficult for you
She didn’t realise how tightly she was holding onto Spencer until he gently stroking her arm up and down soothingly.
Her fingers were twisted into the sleeve of his sweater, knuckles pale from how hard she’d been gripping it.
She loosened them immediately.
“Sorry.”
Spencer’s eyebrows drew together.
“Why are you apologising?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at her for another second, then quietly held his arm out, lying down on the couch now.
She hesitated.
“Come here.”
Something about the softness of his voice made her stop fighting herself.
She moved closer.
Spencer shifted on the couch, making room for her until she could tuck herself against his side. He pulled the blanket around her shoulders again, making sure it covered her properly before resting his hand gently against her upper arm.
She leaned into him almost immediately, snuggling into her boyfriend's neck.
It was embarrassing, how much she wanted to be held on days like this.
How much she wanted someone else to carry the weight for a few minutes.
But Spencer didn’t make her feel embarrassing. He simply stayed.
Her cheek pressed against his shoulder, and after a moment his hand began moving slowly up and down her back.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing expectant.
Just there.
She breathed shakily.
“It’s really bad today.”
Spencer’s hand paused for half a second.
“Anorexia?”
She nodded.
He didn’t look surprised. He knew.
He’d watched her work so hard through recovery. He’d seen the good days and the days when everything seemed to become difficult again.
She swallowed.
“I thought I was doing better.”
“You are baby.”
She frowned.
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“I know.”
This time, when he said it, it wasn’t dismissive.
His hand continued moving gently over her back.
“You can be doing better and still have awful days like this.”
She stared at the floor.
“I hate that... I don’t want to have to fight with my own head all the time.” She pressed herself closer, hiding her face against his shoulder.
Spencer immediately tightened his arm around her.
“Hey.”
She shook her head.
“Hey,” he repeated, quieter.
She finally looked at him.
“You don’t have to hide from me.”
Her mouth trembled.
“I’m being stupid.”
“No.”
“I’m being difficult.”
“No. You’re struggling.”
He said it so simply that she went quiet.
Spencer brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb.
“You don’t have to make yourself easier to be around just because you’re having a bad day.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
“You don’t get tired of me?”
“No.”
“Even when I’m like this?”
“Especially when you’re like this.”
Her expression crumpled.
Her arms went around his middle, holding onto him tightly, and he wrapped both arms around her in return. He rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head.
She cried quietly.
He didn’t tell her to stop.
He didn’t tell her everything would be fine.
He just held her.
Every now and then, his hand moved over her back in slow, reassuring circles.
“I’m sorry.." she whispered eventually.
“You’ve said that already and I still don’t want you to apologise.”
She sniffled.
“Why?”
“Because you haven’t done anything wrong.”
She didn’t answer.
Spencer gave her a small squeeze.
“You’re allowed to have a hard day.”
Another squeeze.
“You’re allowed to be tired.”
His voice became softer.
“And you’re allowed to need someone.”
She closed her eyes.
“Can I need you?”
“Yeah.”
The answer came without hesitation.
“Of course you can.”
She held him tighter.
“Can you stay?”
“I’m staying.”
“For a while?”
“For as long as you want.”
She finally relaxed against him.
Spencer reached for the remote with one hand, keeping the other around her.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He kisses your forehead.
After a few minutes of silence you speak up again, "Can we watch something stupid?”
“Absolutely.”
“Something where I don’t have to think.”
“I have several options.”
She lifted her head slightly.
“Nothing educational.”
He looked offended.
“I wasn’t going to suggest anything educational.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“…Maybe.”
A tiny smile appeared on her face.
“There you are,” he murmured, his face moving closer to yours. His nose now touching yours.
“What?” Your smile at him gets bigger.
“Nothing.”
She leans in, giving him a peck on the lips before turning around on the couch facing the tv. Her back against his chest, his arms around her body.
The film started.
It was terrible.
Within five minutes, Spencer was quietly complaining about the plot.
Within ten, she was telling him to shut up.
Within fifteen, she was laughing.
Not properly.
Not yet.
But enough.
Spencer glanced down at her and smiled to himself.
He didn’t need her to suddenly feel better.
He didn’t need to make the anorexia disappear for her.
He just wanted her to know that she didn’t have to face the difficult moments by herself.
And when she reached for his hand beneath the blanket, he gave it to her without a second thought.
She held on, falling asleep in his arms.
A/N = I'm not the most educated on disorders such as anorexia so I hope I was able to somewhat replicate a similar situation to what you had in mind! Thanks for the request. 🫶
genre. colleagues to lovers, late-night tension, heavy teasing, possessive romance, high intimacy
warnings. heavy physical touching over clothing, explicit sensuality, alcohol consumption, heavy teasing, physical proximity.
word count. ~2k
a/n. no heavy smut i lazy
summary.
After wrapping up a grueling, two-week case in Chicago, the BAU team gathers at a quiet dive bar to unwind. As the night winds down and everyone departs, you're left alone with Spencer Reid. Knowing his apartment is a forty-minute cab ride away, and yours is just two blocks down, you offer him your spare room. But once inside, your bold, uninhibited teasing pushes the brilliant, guarded agent to his absolute limit.
The dim, amber glow of the corner booth at Joey’s felt like the safest place on earth after two weeks of relentless geographic profiling and grueling sleepless nights in Chicago.
The BAU team was sprawled across the red leather seats, the table littered with empty beer bottles, whiskey tumblers, and half-eaten baskets of fries. Hotch had already slipped out quietly an hour ago after settling the tab, and JJ and Garcia were currently giggling near the jukebox, debating over what nineties song to play next.
Across the booth from you, Spencer was sitting back, holding a bottle of ginger ale between his long, slender fingers. He was wearing his usual button-down and thin tie, though his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing his lean forearms. The dark circles under his warm brown eyes were softening under the influence of good company and the heavy relief of a solved case.
"I'm telling you, Reid," Morgan barked out a laugh, slinging an arm around the back of the booth as he stood up to leave. "If you spend one more weekend reading about nineteenth-century whatever the hell law, I’m personally revoking your FBI credentials."
"It's actually a fascinating breakdown of international trade precedents, Derek," Spencer replied automatically, his voice quiet, a subtle, charming smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "And it’s relevant to modern jurisdictional conflicts."
"You're hopeless, pretty boy," Morgan chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on Spencer’s broad shoulder before looking over at you. "Look after him, yeah? Don't let him lecture the bartender to death."
"I'll keep him in check, Derek," you hummed, taking a lingering sip of your gin and tonic, your eyes locked onto Spencer’s face over the rim of your glass.
Within twenty minutes, JJ, Garcia, and Emily had hailed a cab together, leaving just you and Spencer sitting alone at the back table. The quiet hum of the bar jukebox faded into the background as the crowd thinned out.
"You should get some sleep, Spencer," you murmured softly, setting your glass down. "You look exhausted."
"I'm fine," Spencer said softly, his dark eyes shifting to meet yours, lingering on your lips for a second before jumping back to your eyes. "My... nervous system is still processing the adrenaline dump from the final arrest. Cortisol levels take approximately four to six hours to baseline after high-stress scenarios."
"Right. Which is why you shouldn't sit in a cab for forty minutes to get back to your place," you said, leaning across the small wooden table, bringing yourself into his line of sight. "My apartment is literally two blocks down. I have a guest bed with clean sheets. Come sleep at mines, Reid."
Spencer blinked, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, taking in your flushed cheeks, the slight sway of your shoulders, and the uninhibited, confident gleam in your eyes.
"I... I wouldn't want to intrude," Spencer stammered slightly, his fingers tightening around his bottle.
"You're not intruding," you murmured, reaching across the table and sliding your palm flat over his long, warm hand. "I'm ordering you to come home with me, Agent. Case closed."
The cool midnight air hit both of you as you stepped out of the bar, walking shoulder-to-shoulder down the quiet brick sidewalk. The alcohol hummed warmly in your blood, loosening every filter you usually kept tightly locked around the brilliant, gorgeous man walking beside you.
Inside your apartment, the atmosphere was warm, smelling faintly of lavender and vanilla. You kicked off your heels right at the front door, leaving you significantly shorter than Spencer as he stepped inside, nervously looking around the living room as if he were entering an unknown crime scene.
"You can put your jacket over there," you said, walking past him into the kitchen to pour two glasses of water.
Spencer carefully slipped off his grey blazer, draping it over the back of an armchair. He loosened his tie with long, nimble fingers, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt, revealing the pale, smooth skin of his throat and collarbone.
You walked back into the living room, handing him a glass of water. When he reached out to take it, you didn't let go of the glass immediately. Instead, you stepped directly into his personal space, your chest nearly brushing his chest, forcing him to look down into your eyes.
"You know, Reid," you purred softly, your voice dropping an octave as you let your free hand slowly rest flat against his ribs, feeling the steady, rapid thud of his heartbeat through his shirt. "You were brilliant today. The way you mapped those transit routes... it was intoxicating."
Spencer froze, his breath catching audibly in his throat. He stared down at you, his pupils dilating until the warm honey of his irises was almost completely consumed by black.
"I... it was just standard spatial-temporal analysis," Spencer rasped out, his voice thick and uneven. He didn't pull away. In fact, his fingers twitched against the glass, his whole body turning rigid under the sudden, electric heat of your palm against his chest.
"It wasn't standard," you hummed softly, taking the water glass from his hands and setting it on the side table without taking your eyes off him.
You stepped back in, sliding both of your hands up the front of his dress shirt, your nails dragging lightly against the fabric, feeling the hard, lean muscle beneath. You reached his neck, your fingers slowly unknotting his tie completely, pulling the strip of silk free and letting it fall to the floor.
"What are you doing?" Spencer whispered, his hands hovering nervously near your waist, desperate to touch you but paralyzed by his own deep-rooted restraint.
"I'm taking care of you," you murmured, stepping so close your thighs brushed against his. You reached up, resting your hands flat against his cheeks, forcing his face down until his lips were inches from yours. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, hear the ragged, uneven cadence of his breath. "Unless you want me to stop?"
"No..." Spencer swallowed hard, his hands finally dropping down to grip your hips, his thick fingers biting firmly into your waist through your clothes. His dark eyes flicked wildly between your eyes and your mouth. "...don't stop."
You let out a low, teasing hum, leaning in until your lips brushed against his jawline, pressing a warm, lingering kiss right beneath his ear. You felt him shudder violently under your touch, a low, guttural gasp escaping his chest as his hands tightened around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his.
"You've been looking at me like that all night, Spencer," you whispered against his neck, your tongue lightly tracing the hot skin behind his earlobe before you bit down gently, making him groan aloud. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
"I couldn't help it," Spencer rasped, his voice rough, stripped completely of his usual articulate composure. He tilted his head back, giving you better access, his grip on your hips growing almost possessive as he pressed himself firmer against you. "You were... you were distracting me all night."
"Good," you murmured, sliding your hands down his broad back, digging your fingers into the fabric of his shirt as you pulled yourself up on your toes.
You captured his mouth in a slow, deep, devastating kiss.
Spencer made a soft, wrecked sound in the back of his throat, his hands sliding up from your waist to wrap around your back, pulling you completely against him as his mouth opened beneath yours. The kiss was hot, urgent, and heavy with years of unspoken, buried desire. He kissed like he thought, intensely, thoroughly, consuming every breath you had to offer.
You broke the kiss just enough to draw breath, your lips resting against his as you slid one hand down the front of his body, your palm trailing down his flat stomach, lingering dangerously over the buckle of his belt.
Spencer’s eyes snapped open, blazing with a dark, primal heat that made your knees go completely weak. He grabbed your wrist, his fingers firm and trembling against your skin, holding your hand just an inch above his belt.
"If you do that," Spencer growled low, his chest heaving against yours, his voice dropping into a dark, heavy register you had never heard from him before, "I'm not going to make it to the guest room."
You smirked up at him, shifting your hips slightly against his, letting him feel every bit of how much you wanted him. "Who said I wanted you in the guest room, Dr. Reid?"
Spencer didn't say another word. His restraint snapped completely.
He lifted you effortlessly, his hands sliding under your thighs as you wrapped your legs securely around his waist. He backed you straight against the living room wall, his mouth locking onto yours with an intense, possessive hunger, his hands gripping your thighs tight as he carried you straight toward your bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.
Spencer Reid who realises that you really, really like it when he rambles
warnings: SMUT - MDNI, p in v, oral m!receiving, no mention of protection, reader loves her hot nerd boyfriend
Live On Air is broadcasting all week long! Requests are still open. For more information and more stories, click here! 📺
Spencer notices everything.
It’s simply the way his mind works. He’s spent the better part of the last decade training himself to pick up on the little things and it’s made him very good at what he does.
But when it comes to women, there are still plenty of things that he doesn’t pick up on.
Especially when it’s late in the evening and he’s over at your place, the two of you watching some medical drama with far too many inaccuracies for him to ignore.
He’s on what feels like his twentieth “That’s actually…” of the episode but you couldn’t tell anyone what he had been saying, even if they held a gun to your head.
There’s just something so effortlessly sexy in the way that he can correct the logistics of an on-screen surgery without even a stutter. Or how he’ll tut to himself whenever they recite a made up illness to up the stakes.
A big brain has always been your weakness. And your pupils are blown wide as you stare — not at the tv, but at him.
And Spencer doesn’t even notice. Not when you trail your fingertips over his thigh or even when you absentmindedly press a kiss to his shoulder.
He might glance over at you, but he gives you no more than a second’s notice, before he’s turning back to the screen as he huffs, “And the craziest thing is that they have researchers for this kind of thing but…”
It isn’t until you’ve managed to creep into his lap that Spencer looks at you fully, cupping your cheek, “You seem… are you okay? Am I talking too much?”
His eyes flick down to where you’re pressed against him, then back up to your face.
You shake your head, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, “Mm-mm. Keep talking.”
Something about the way you say it makes him swallow. Hard. So he does keep talking. And he doesn’t get more than a few sentences out before you’re kissing him, grinding down against his slacks.
His words are coming out stuttered now because this was not the evening he thought he’d be having when you suggested a cosy night in.
He tilts his head back against the couch, muttering a quiet, “Oh my God.” under his breath.
But the second he’s stopped rambling, you stop grinding and he’s whimpering and you just smile sweetly at him until something in his brain clicks.
The talking.
And suddenly he’s racking his brain for every other time you’ve reacted like this and kicking himself for not noticing sooner when you’d drooled over his cock the night he’d helped you finish up your dissertation or how fast you’d pulled him into a supply closet when you’d come back from sick leave to find out Spencer had finished up all your reporting for you.
And for once, boy genius, Spencer Reid feels like the stupidest man alive and now he just won’t shut up.
Not when you’re kneeled on the floor between his legs, eyes locked onto him as you wrap your lips around the head of his leaking cock. Nor when you’re on top of him, tits bouncing and sweat gathering along your skin as you ride him with more fervour than he’s ever seen. He’s reeling off every little fact he can think of to get you off on his brain.
One thing is clear, Spencer Reid is not going to be shutting up anytime soon.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
we don't need to close our eyes in the dark at all
in which: spencer has concerns regarding the eyes of a certain fluffy audience.
spencer reid x fem!reader
warnings: suggestive, fluff, kissing!!, lots of teasing, spencer does not like the idea of cucking your stuffed animals, tiniest bit of fondling, fade to black smut, long haired spencer!!!, nerdy collector spencer, reader has a tv in her room #fortheplot, no use of y/n
wc: 1.4k
gif: @reidgif
now playing: cigarettes after sex - silver sable
spencer reid masterlist
(stay with me now, i don't wanna be lonely / know how you feel by the way that you hold me)
at this point, putting anything on the tv felt redundant. you and spencer had a bad habit of abandoning whatever you finally decided on after thirty minutes anyway–your habit of spending fifteen minutes arguing whether or not you want to hear spencer recite something you’ve both already seen multiple times, had wormed its way into becoming a strange ritual of sorts.
maybe the background sound was comforting, in a white noise, keeping the atmosphere alive, type of way. or maybe you both just needed some sort of innocent excuse, a cover up for your cuddles before your wandering hands inevitably fell from the dark curls of his hair to the milky skin of his waist.
the are you still watching? screen was usually present in all its knowing glory, blaring like some sort of evidence, proof that you in fact, got distracted just a little bit too easily. it wasn’t like you could be blamed, having a pretty boyfriend was tough.
sleepovers had become your absolute favourite dates. sure, going out on dinner dates was nice, but was there really a point if spencer would end up in your bed by the end of the night, or vice versa?
you could eat whatever you wanted, watch whatever you wanted–braless, for that matter, and you could kiss him at any given time, without any of his squirming due to an awkwardly persistent aversion to public displays of affection.
for a lack of a better word, sleepovers were absolute perfection.
especially when you were in spencer’s lap.
your hands laced into his hair, gripping tight at the base of his scalp in that soft, tingly way that made his lips tremble in yours. with every gentle whine, you only pushed against him harder, deeper, as if you could somehow completely envelope him, slip inside him as he did to you.
his hands moved from your waist, to lower, squeezing everything he could fit in his hands, as if he had the whole world there, taking and taking until there was nothing left. he loved your pajama shorts because they were soft, texture forgiving against his sensitive palms when he rubbed slow circles against your ass–and because it was very easy to slip sneaky fingers under the fabric.
you separated from his flushed skin only to start pulling your cotton shirt over your head. typically, you made a show out of it, teasing as you dragged the material slowly against your burning skin, and spencer wouldn’t dare take his eyes off of you.
but right now, his mind seemed to be somewhere else.
you turned around to follow his gaze, eyes landing on the medical drama flashing across your tv screen. there was no way he was so worked up on inaccuracies and hipaa violations, that he wasn’t paying attention to the pair of tits that were practically in his face.
“we shouldn’t be doing this while they’re watching.”
you almost laughed as you cupped spencer’s rosy cheek in your gentle hand.
“spence, the doctors on this show spend half of their time fucking anyway, i don’t think they’ll mind.”
he shook his head slowly, eyes darting up to yours to wordlessly judge the crudeness of your reply (he loved it,) before nodding in the direction of something else behind you.
“no–not them, them.”
you followed his gaze for a second time, now landing on the sweet collection of stuffed animals sitting kindly at the foot of your bed.
“you can’t be serious.”
“i am!”
spencer sat up straighter, forcing you to stiffen and adjust yourself on his thighs, in turn, pulling you off of his core and ripping away any friction. you weren’t too keen on the position change.
“you don’t want to have sex with me because my teddy bears are watching?”
he nodded yes once, then no, then yes again, and ran his fingers through his long hair while sighing.
“i don’t appreciate the feeling of having extra eyes on me… yours are enough.”
you really laughed this time, letting your forehead fall into the curve of his stiff shoulder as yours heaved with every giggle that escaped your chest. he was hilarious.
“it’s never bothered you before!”
“that was when the lights were off.”
who knew that the warm candles you’d lit to set the mood would backfire, not by setting anything ablaze, but because the ambient lighting was simply too bright?
“ok then, i’ll go blow out the candles.”
he shook his head as you lifted your face from its hiding place against his skin,
“it’s no use now… i already know they’ll be watching…”
you slapped his chest playfully, messing with the wrinkled collar of his patterned pajama set.
“i’m starting to think you're coming up with excuses to not sleep with me, spence.”
he looked at you like the mere idea was the biggest possible offense, wrapping his arms around your navel as he rested his chin on your chest–which would’ve been bare had he not paused your activities for a voyeuristic epiphany regarding your assembly of stuffed toys.
“it just… it feels cruel, like we're tainting something pure, corrupting it.”
you wouldn’t tell him, to allow hi to spare some semblance of peace of mind, but mr snuffles and friends had long been corrupted. but his concerns, albeit annoying, were sweet.
“i’m sensing a double standard here.”
“really? how so?”
sometimes with his cadence, it was almost hard to tell if he was genuinely questioning something, or just playing along with your teasing. either way, you liked to believe he was always at least somewhat authentically concerned.
“your toys always watch us at your place… i swear that box thingy only lights up when i take my top off.”
“they aren’t toys. they’re collectable figures! and the tardis is motion censored!”
his voiced raised a few pitches, getting defensive as you pulled him down onto your floral patterned sheets. tangled in a yarn ball of limbs, you turned to face him, noses brushing as he face heated in adorable frustration.
“you’re such a nerd.”
you teased him as you brushed loose strands of his chestnut hair behind his ears. it somehow felt softer when you were laying like this, the same way his eyes felt impossibly rounder, like a thick pool of warm gold.
“what does that make you, a nerd lover?”
“nope. i’m only with you because you’re tall and pretty.”
spencer scoffed in mock offense and rolled over, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing. you couldn’t see his face anymore, but you knew he was wearing that stupid little cheeky smirk as he so often did.
you flopped yourself over his side, going limp against his torso,
“spenceee i’m only kidding.”
you moved up his body until your lips found the delicate skin of his neck, peppering kisses there until his grumpy facade crumbled into a fit of giggles. your kisses made their way up to his cheeks, spanning the width of his face and then moving onto his forehead, leaving no territory uncharted.
“how about we compromise, hmm? you can help me flip all of my stuffies over so they can’t watch us.”
he hummed as if he was mulling it over, interlocking his nimble fingers with yours, sheer size easily enveloping them.
“wouldn’t they still be able to hear us?”
if you weren’t entirely obsessed with how loud he was, you’d tell him he’d just have to be quiet.
“do you want me to fuck you or not?”
spencer only chuckled as he caught your lips in a quick, chaste kiss, completely contrasting your words and his current mindset. he then grabbed a pink unicorn plush, lovingly named admiral sparkles, and turned her head so she was facing the wall, front row seat view of the two of you now completely obscured.
“this is going to take a while if i’m doing it all by myself.”
you smiled as you leaned over, pressing a kiss onto the beauty mark adorning his jaw, before grabbing a pink bunny plush and flipping it around as well.
with the way spencers hands slithers around your waist, pawing at the hem of your thin shorts, you weren’t sure if you’d get the chance to blind the rest of your audience before he was on top of you.
stayed up way too late and wrote this in one sitting… but shes short and sweet and cute i think!! trust i’ll get to work on neglected teased wips eventually! for now i hope you enjoyed this fic that not a soul asked for😇😇
Summary: After a case gone wrong, you learn the hard way that yours and Spencer's superpower isn't so super. A fact you'd come to accept if it didn't continue to torment you both.
Tags: the angst is heavy here (I promis I kissed the brick first), mention of kidnapping, all the regular Criminal Minds tw, reader is going through it, Spencer is in denial, workplace romance, they're both oblivious, reader is down bad (aren't we all), idiots in love, friends to lovers.
w/c: 4.0K
Notes: Here is the long-awaited pt.2 of In Sync. Thank you, everyone, for all the support and lovely comments; trust me, I read them all. I genuinely didn't think In Sync would receive any attention, so thank you sm. If you enjoy pls interact; it's greatly appreciated (pls lets bring back old fandom culture)
Thank you to my lovely PickleDick (this is a joke name lmao) for beta-reading @imustembracemymistakes
The concrete was cold, pressing into your tear-soaked cheeks, eyes puffy and red from crying.
You looked pathetic.
Salty tears continued to run down your face as you heaved in the far right corner of the room, the corner that had become your default resting place over the last few hours. Lying on the floor like a rag doll, time a fragmented concept to you, the same as sleep. The unsub's random appearances were frequent enough to disturb any hope of sleep you had, storming in only to drag you around and torment you, recording his crimes to add to his collection.
Cigarette burns littered your upper arms, complementing the purple and red hand marks around your neck, merging all into one cacophony of brutality.
You, and your body the unwilling participant in it all.
It was becoming a routine: once he left, you pulled yourself on your hands and knees to the corner of the box you called a prison in some desperate attempt to console yourself. The only true comfort it brought was the knowledge that it was the furthest away from the camera. You didn't want the team to see you like this … you couldn't stomach it.
Especially Spencer.
Poor, sweet Spencer.
In a last-ditch attempt to get any semblance of rest, you let yourself curl into a ball and lie on the floor. Closing your eyes for a moment, exhaustion washing over your limbs. Your good hand, or rather unrestrained hand, tangled into your hair, nails scratching gently along your scalp. Maybe if you just forgot for a moment that your nails were caked with grime and blood, that your whole body ached and shivered, you could sleep for a moment.
Pathetically, you imagined it was Spencer's hands running through your increasingly tangled hair, gently lulling you to sleep in his cozy apartment. The one that smelled of old books and cinnamon, with the ridiculously comfy couch that he insisted wasn't good for sleeping on. Something- something, lack of proper spinal support. You always secretly hoped it was because he wanted you in his bed, deep down somewhere in your gut and more realistically loins.
He was always so gentle with you, sickly sweet and attentive. His stupidly good profiling skills and equally skilled, veiny hands.
God, you were disgusting. Why was captivity doing this to you? Why were you enjoying this?
Your cuffed hand pulled painfully, shattering your daydream and dragging you back to reality. Desperate, cold and alone.
You just hope the team finds you sooner rather than later. You’d haunt these idiots for the rest of your undead life if you're dragged out of here in a body bag.
Eight hours… it had been eight hours since you were taken, and with each agonizing moment that passed, Spencer was increasingly becoming restless. Worse than before- at least, if that was even a measure considering his state since they reported you missing.
Morgan, arms crossed over his chest as he half-leaned on the edge of a desk, watched Spencer from afar. He was almost scared to approach the boy, unsure if his presence would be comforting or send him deeper into his profiling spiral. Just as Hotch’s well-intentioned “maybe you should take a step back” had half an hour earlier.
Leading the team to their current predicament: a sleep-deprived Spencer, pacing around the conference room, talking to himself.
Tilting his head to get a better view of the boy through the glass windows that made up the outer-facing wall of the room, Morgan finally voiced what everyone was thinking. “He's gonna drive himself into a wall and burn out.” Despite the enjoyment Derek got from seeing Reid all flustered, this was just painful. He too was missing your presence.
You were like a sister to him, and he was more than ready to beat this unsub half to death when the team finally caught the bastard. But seeing Spencer like this, so frantic and out of his element, it almost scared him more.
He already lost you; he didn't need to lose Spencer too.
JJ, holding a pile of villain folders stacked in her hands, rounded the corner. “He's on what, his fifth cup of coffee?”
“Great, so he's running frantic on a sugar high,” Emily piped up from where she sat across Morgan, eyes still trained on the papers in front of her, scribbling notes in the margins.
“I'm worried for him; I've never seen him act this way. And with the shit we've been through the last few years, that terrifies me.” Morgan hesitated as he spoke.
“I mean, I can understand why, ” Emily paused. “The two were practically attached at the hip; it's as if he lost his other half. If anything, he's strangely put together.” She shrugged, looking over at Morgan and the look of disbelief that crossed his face.
Pointing to the conference room, “That looks put together to you, Prentiss?”
Exasperated, she slammed her open palms on the hardwood table. Emily huffed out. “Morgan, he watched the footage with Garcia. I think he's compartmentalizing it pretty well.”
“He's not compartmentalizing nothing right now; he's throwing himself into work so as not to confront that reality of the situation.” Morgan didn't realize it in the moment that he was yelling and that the entire bullpen was watching his and Emily’s exchange.
But as he looked around, reality hit him so hard in the face; they weren't watching the yelling match, they were watching Spencer stand in the middle of the room. An ugly expression crossed the boy's face as he bit his lower lip not to let it tremble.
Emily’s reply dried in her mouth as she too saw Spencer, choosing the smart approach and shutting her mouth before she could do any more damage.
The silence that stretched in the room was suffocating; the tension hummed for a second too long before Morgan jumped in to do damage control.
“Reid, that's not what I meant.” It was the same voice he used to talk to victims’ families, calm, controlled, too professional to leave any room for real empathy.
A curt nod of his head was all Spencer could muster up before storming away, he had no energy left to scream and yell. The coffee he kept drinking wasn't sweet anymore, the office was no longer the cozy and controlled chaos he'd come to call home.
His world that was once so bright and filled with colour had become void, and he knew why.
Spencer wasn't one to gloat, but he was often the smartest person in almost every room he walked into; he was also a formidable profiler. And just like every profiler before him, he too couldn't help but fall into the trap of picking apart his own behaviour. Hyper aware of all the inconsistent justifications he gave himself when it came to you, you were his exception in everything.
His social anxieties, his distaste for handshakes or any physical touch. The stupid scratchy material he hated but you loved, so he kept a blanket made of it in his apartment anyway. All the coffee shops he took you to because he knew you loved trying new things, just to order the same drink. Every book he lied about reading so he could watch your face light up telling him about it. Every game of poker he let you win to feel better so you'd continue to play with him.
All the nights he insisted you stay at his place because he selfishly couldn't let you go.
Dragging you to sleep in his bed and not the couch because greedily he wanted to watch your delicate sleeping form as the moonlight seeped through his curtains and over your face. Capturing the fleeting moment in his memory as you rested and Spencer watched on, feeling like the biggest pervert in the world.
It was you who made him squirm, you who made him feel crazy at times. You, always you.
His whole world.
And it was you, with all his intelligence, that he failed to protect.
You were gonna kill someone, or maybe yourself; you weren't sure yet, but every time the unsub or rather Jonathan, as you learned, came back, you considered it.
Gritting your teeth, you refused to give him the satisfaction of your screams. He had your jaw in his hand so tight it was gonna leave bruises, again. Pushing the back of your head further into the concrete wall of your prison, yelling something incorrect about leaving him. Crushing you, further and further. You couldn't move. God, why couldn't you just pull your hand free?
Your neck was straining in the awkward position, leaving your throat completely exposed and vulnerable. Blood-crushed nails scraping at the stone wall, your animal instincts the only thing driving you at this point. Pull your hand from behind your back, you screamed in your own hollow mind, pain filling your temples as it pooled behind your eyes. The pressure building as you wracked your sleep-deprived brain for something coherent; something real.
You needed space.
To breathe.
Anything.
Just to get away.
Kicking your legs up was doing nothing to deter him; it egged him on further until you finally landed the side of your foot into his ribcage with a desperate half-cry.
With a grunt, he threw your head back, letting go as he did, walking far enough away to pace around. The room swam for a moment as you stayed there, crumbled against the wall, your shaky hand pressing into the concrete for support as you waited for your vision to clear.
The thought hit you before you could catch your breath: you could hear him, but you couldn't see him.
Your faltering vision serves as an echo chamber for your laboured breaths, thoughts racing.
Fuck, you couldn't see. You needed to see. You could hear him moving. Closer.
Muttering to himself, once again walking in rushed circles. “You listen, you're supposed to listen. Listen.” Each repetition, slowly transforming into a mantra. His tone evolving into something more aggressive until he was straight out yelling. Flinching, you cowered to the floor, cradling your head.
You couldn't stay still; that was a death sentence. Pull yourself together, you were an FBI agent for crying out loud. Feeling out the ground directly in front of you as you hesitantly crawled along the wall, one hand in front of the other, gently tapping the ground to navigate. Relying on your non-compromised senses and the hope that Jonathan would stay distracted with whatever psychotic break he was going through right now.
With each small step you shuffled forward, crawling on your hands and knees. For a split second you almost celebrated, cried, screamed; you didn't know anymore. The breath you didn't realize you were holding escaped your lips, until the deafening crackle of the cuffs rang out in the room and you were plunged into ice.
No, no please no.
Your nails dug into the floor like it was the concrete's personal fault you were here. You tried to run, pulling yourself onto your feet. The hazy world fell around you in waves, the handcuff still around your wrist mocking your futile attempt.
From the weight of his steps alone, you could hear the man barreling towards you. “Listen, you listen!"
Barely recognizing your own voice, you croaked out, “I'm sorry, Jonathan. You're right, I didn't listen.” The words came out in fractured gasps as you fought him; the second apology you had on the tip of your tongue faltering when he slammed you back against the wall. Your nails dug into the meaty parts of his palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake as he planted one hand on either shoulder.
You pitied the poor woman you were meant to replace. You'd been a profiler long enough, you knew it was a woman. It wasn't even a question anymore.
You gagged on the stale air of the room, the ceiling was coming back into focus. You breathed, again and again; another greedy gulp. Blinking once, then twice, your vision clearing.
“I’m sorry for not listening, I really am. I'll listen, just stop." Your eyes closed, bracing for another hit that didn't come. Slowly you glanced up, only to find him huffing in your face, fuzzy behind the eyes in a trance-like state.
“You'll listen.” It almost sounded like he was asking a question.
“Yes, yes, I'm listening, see.”
Nodding, his grip loosened, backing away enough for you to breathe in your own air. Another breath of silence stretched, and he let go completely, heading for the door without so much as a look back.
The sound of the heavy metal door shut behind him, and your eyes found the camera involuntarily. You tried your best to ignore it or hide from it entirely, but now you had no choice. You knew how these kinds of cases ended; you knew the progressions, he was already spiralling, becoming more frantic and risky.
After hour eleven, the exhaustion finally caught up to Spencer, and he begrudgingly took a break from the case. The team had made some progress using the previous kills to narrow down the unsub's comfort zone, but they still had no way of narrowing down your location. The unsub was obviously operating out of a house; he had to be. He would need the space and privacy to set up and record his crimes, and since he was torturing his victims, it had to be remote enough for no one to hear.
The thoughts rushed through Spencer's head as he made his way into his apartment, keys tossed somewhere on the mahogany coffee table as he dropped his messenger bag. The worn leather thumped onto the ground, slouched beside another bag he was too tired to remember he put there. Spencer rubbed his eyes, a migraine steadily building behind his tired sockets, slumping onto his couch with a huff.
He knew Hotch was right; he needed to take a break. More realistically, take a step back from the case entirely, it was all getting too personal for him.
The only problem was that he couldn't bring himself to.
Each time he closed his eyes, he saw your scared expression, your face as your lips trembled, hurt, alone, terrified. He couldn't rest knowing you were still in danger, all the while he lounged around feeling sorry for himself. The guilt was eating him alive. Driving him up the wall, settling into an abhorred amalgamation of vile emotions Spencer couldn't identify.
Like now, as he lay face-first on a couch cushion in his apartment, the apartment you loved so much, on the couch you spent so many nights curled up with a book from his collection.
His own subconscious was torturing him at this point. And honestly, the more he thought about it, the more it dawned on him that maybe the team wasn't crazy in thinking you two should date. Albeit Morgan and Garcia’s effort in getting you two to go on dates was invasive; he would never admit it to their faces, but he was starting to see their point.
His every waking thought revolved around you; you were his sun, the dominant force he orbited helplessly around.
It was only in your absence that he saw how cold it could be.
The pressure pooling behind his eyes was becoming painful. Spencer begrudgingly dragged himself from the couch and to the little medicine drawer he kept next to his cutlery. Digging through its contents to find the little greenish bottle of migraine pills he had on hand, followed swiftly by a gulp of water.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the pills, leaning against the counter, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He stared off, his gaze trailing back to his living room and the couch that held so many memories and movie nights. Memories of you he wished wouldn't be buried under the new image of your scared face pleading for help. For a moment, his eyes drifted to his work bag and the files he knew he should have left at the office inside, but slowly his eyes paused on the other bag beside it.
It was a small leather tote he was certain didn't belong to him. Aside from the fact that he knew exactly what was in his apartment, the cherry keychain on the bag gave it away.
In a few strides, Spencer crossed the room, picking the bag up off the floor, inspecting it. As Spencer pulled the tote open, familiarity washed over him; it was your bag.
Inside was a pair of pyjamas, a bag of toiletries, jeans, a sweater…
It was one of your spare to-go bags; after the second night you crashed at his place, you had brought a bag. Insisting it would be easier to head straight to work from his appointment rather than going back to your own. Spencer was grinning like an idiot the rest of the day after; he remembered because Morgan made it a point to comment on it.
Holding the knit sweater in between his fingers, he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember anything but your scared expression carved into his memory.
Any other memory would do, literally anything.
Like the time when he wore his glasses, so absorbed in what he was doing he barely registered them sliding down his face until your soft, nimble fingers pushed them up onto the bridge of his nose. He sat there for a good five minutes completely forgetting how to function, his brain drawing a blank for the first time in his life. He flushed so hard he turned red, not the usual tips of his ears but his whole face. You and JJ had burst out laughing, and Garcia called him tomato boy the rest of the day.
Before he realized what he was doing, Spencer brought the soft fabric up to his nose, burning his face into it, taking in your lingering smell. Your sweet perfume mixed with just the naturally intoxicating smell of your skin.
It still smelled like you, and with another deep inhale, Spencer froze.
You had managed to finally get some sleep, the dark circles under your eyes becoming a little less unsightly. Rather than waking up refreshed or with a clearer mind, a pit settled in your stomach; you were gonna be sick.
You hadn't seen Jonathan in a while, which was a break from his typical routine. Once again, a blaring neon sign that he was starting to get sloppy. After napping, you weren't entirely sure if your concept of time was still reliable. If you were to guess, it had to have been a few hours at least; a few hours with still no sight of your tormentor.
You felt strange, not quite sure what to do with yourself as dizzying nausea settled over you. The only indicator that time was real and you weren't hallucinating or dead was the little red dot flashing on the camera.
One, then twice. Again and again; counting each second as the footage kept rolling.
The hushed words fell from your lips in whispers:
“One,”
“Two.”
Blinking for a moment, you missed one, forcing yourself to start over as you drifted further into nothingness. With the sudden abundance of time, you couldn't help but let your mind wander: to the team, the outside world, Spencer’s awkward smile.
All pressing and very important thoughts when you've been kidnapped.
Depressingly enough, you laughed at your own joke. The chuckle filled the suffocating silence of the room, the almost painful rasp of your strained vocal cords settling in the air. For a moment, the realization knocked you back into reality, and hard. Your hands wandered up the side of your face, feeling the once soft skin under your fingertips. The slight pressure mapped out every bruise and gash on your face; the pain was intoxicating.
What did you even look like anymore?
Dishevelled, sure. You knew you had bruises and a variety of other injuries— you felt them, but seeing it, genuinely perceiving the damage. That thought crashed through you, and you almost felt angry.
You had spent so long in fight or flight; you almost forgot about the outside world and the after of it all. You could tell you were changing, as you sat applying intentional pressure to your own open wounds just to feel something. Rocking yourself, knees to your chest as you tried to laugh it off.
Would you be able to go back to the team? Act like everything is normal, completely block out what happened? You saw what happened to Elle.
You didn't want to lose the team; they were your family, you loved them.
Suddenly you wished for Jonathan to come back, to beat you and drag you around; at least you could rationalize the pain of a physical wound.
Feel it, treat it, watch it heal.
If it was his hands causing the damage, it wouldn't be as bad, right? Better than your own, than the thoughts that started to consume you when you were alone for too long. Because no one could save you from your own mind or the endless depth of your lonely thoughts. Dragging you deeper into the abyss, staring straight back into you.
Emily was relieved that Hotch finally got through to Spencer. Just like Morgan had said, the kid was burning himself out and would crash sooner rather than later. The team didn't need an Icarus on their hands; a burnt-out profiler helped no one.
Prentiss hovered over the coffee pot as she waited for it to brew, her right hand tapping the opposite arm as they sat crossed. In the corner of her eyes, she spotted Morgan as he joined her in the break room, his eyebrows etched with worry. Concern, maybe.
“What's wrong?” Emily's tapping stopped as she glanced over Morgan, his shoulder drawn stiff and his usual air of confidence dulled.
“Hm, nothing.”
“You have that look.”
With an exasperated huff, Morgan let out, “You're losing me, Prentiss.”
Gesturing vaguely to her own eyebrows, Morgan's jaw tightened as Emily drew an exaggerated circle with her pointer finger around her face.
“What happened to no profiling each other?” He quipped, his signature smirk finding his way to his face once more.
“It's not profiling if it's an observation.”
“Oh, so now you got jokes.”
In the distance of the bullpen, the two heard a commotion followed by Rossi’s voice calling Reid’s name. Quickly exchanging confused expressions, the coffee long forgotten as they headed towards the sounds of a frazzled Spencer.
“Kid, slow down, I have no idea what you're saying.” With a hand on either one of Spencer's shoulders, Rossi held the boy in place. Reid looked almost manic as he kept talking, stumbling over his own words, waving around what appeared to be a sweater in a clear plastic bag. The increasing volume of the bullpen drew Hotch from his office, JJ following in step behind him.
“I found this in my apartment. It's hers. She was there the night before the raid.”
“Whoa, pretty boy, take a breath,” Morgan chimed in, patting Spencer on the back in an attempt to be comforting.
Emily watched as Hotch’s eyebrows drew together, his expression guarded as Reid continued to ramble.
“It still smells like her. We could use it to track her, track her scent.” In one long breath, Spencer huffed out his final words and the room quieted for a moment. Incisively, the team looked over to Hotch.
“I'll call in the search dogs. Reid, go help Garcia- everyone else with me.” Without missing a beat, the team leader pulled out his phone in a swift motion.
Just like that, the bullpen was plunged back into chaos. This time, however, the flicker of hope settled comfortably within the buzz of the room.
tags: MDNI smut, fem!reader, piv (from da backkk), oral (m!receiving), cute sickening stuff, porn little plot (i wish there was more plot tbh)
a/n: what is up siriuslylantsov nation. long time no see… i'm not entirely sure if i like this but i haven't posted in ages and wanted to do something. im also rewatching cm rn so spencers being extra annoying on da brain. this is genuinely from last april but i rewrote most of it so its new #ToMe anywhoooo lmk how you like it and happy reading!!
wc: 2.7k
you’ve never seen him this well rested before. spencer reid devoid of the perpetual dark circles that reside under his eyes, it's a wonder. especially because you slept so late last night. you’ve never had an excuse to let your eyes linger on his features for longer than deemed necessary. but now. you can see him so much better in the morning light, the low curve of his nose, the timid purse of his lips. he's beautiful.
you allow a little pride to bloom under your chin at the thought of you putting spencer to ease and take it as the universe's sign to tuck yourself over his heart. his chest under your cheek is warm, the kind that makes you want to press closer and stay there, wrap your arms around tighter and squeeze. spencer moves before you have the chance.
first, a startled register of his environment and then, a confused glance at the very naked girl draped over his body. his arms come up, hovering, sputtering, and then politely putting his palms over your shoulders. nudging you to look up at him.
jesus christ, those eyes.
“hi.”
so quiet. “hey, handsome.”
he lets out a long, contemplative sigh, thinking, thinking, thinking. when does this guy ever stop thinking? “we kissed,” he says it like a fact, but with questioning lilt that makes it sound otherwise.
you prop an elbow on the bed, joint wedged into the space above his shoulder so you can see him better. the blanket keeping you decent slips a bit and spencer unconsciously tucks it more securely under your arm. you catalogue that for later.
“we did a lot more than that. forgive me for being untoward but we fucked,” you clarify, innocent with your chin in the heel of your palm.
spencer groans, he groans! “don't be crude.”
“we're naked.”
“i know that,” he murmurs, disgruntled, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to your jaw and falling back into the pillow. you sport an amused little smile when you see the pout on his lips.
you slept with spencer reid.
your coworker, your friend, the man you’d been terribly smitten with for who knows how long (7 months and 3 days.)
spencer reid who lingered by your side for hours last night, unassuming, unbothered, who smiled softly at your wine induced flush whenever he’d lean in to hear you better, who sat with you while you tipped your chin up at the sky to point out stars and asked him to name them, who pressed a sobering kiss to your lips in rossi's backyard after a clumsily delivered compliment.
you’re so pretty.
your response is a blur, forgotten, but you do remember how he drove you home with his hand idly playing with your fingers over the center console. how he tried but inevitably failed to be a gentleman as you led him up to your apartment, shared, hushed giggles echoing down the hallway and quite gracefully falling into bed leaving a very telling breadcrumb trail of clothes.
and now, half a second of thought passes on whether you should ask him or surprise him. the latter wins and you dip down and kiss the corner of his mouth. you’re not evil, he deserves some warning before you really plant one on him. he wastes no time, bringing his lips to yours with those big hands cradling your face.
his lips press against yours gingerly in a sweet, lingering kiss, followed by another and another. mouth slotted over yours, like perfect puzzle pieces, his tongue traces the seam of your lips and you grant him entrance, letting him gently lick into your mouth. you let out a small, needy sound at the warmth of his tongue against yours, melting into him. it makes him chuckle quietly.
“spence,” you gasp against his lips.
a subtle shudder makes its way down his spine at the desperation in your voice, the same need slowly fogging up his own brain, remnants of last night catching up.
“i know, angel,” he cups your neck, what is happening?
“can i admit something?”
spencer smiles at you, boyish and stupid spread across his face, “please do.”
“you kiss nice, had i known you were this good of a kisser i would’ve done it ages ago,” you mumble, forcing words out to keep a sliver of your dignity.
he laughs again, a small pleased sound that makes you feel good. “you do too. you are wildly better than anything i have ever imagined–”
“you’ve imagined me?” you turn timid in a way that you hate but spencer kisses you and it melts away.
“of course i have. you’re wonderful.”
spencer pulls your leg over his and sits the two of you up, thighs bracketing his hips. the blanket falls unabashedly into the space between your bodies, pooled dangerously low over his lap. you thank whatever god there is for the enticing view of the scattering of light hair that trails beneath the covers.
you’re surprised with the ease in which spencer's hands drag down your sides, like he's done it a million times before. he pushes the pads of his thumbs into the area above your hipbone like he knows you’ll twitch when he does, and you do. damn his eidetic memory and damn his perfect mouth when he attaches his lips to your jaw, angling you as he lightly works the skin. he's careful enough not to leave a mark somewhere visible but it doesn't stop him from reminding himself he can do it elsewhere, somewhere more concealed.
“pretty girl,” he coos, kissing over your pulse point, below your ear, “lay back, please.” please. he murmurs against your skin, nodding behind you. he pecks your cheek, rather sweetly considering your state of undress and swiftly returns to your neck like he can’t believe he pulled away.
now wait.
you forget about your own hands through all of this, hanging limply over his right shoulder and heavy by your side. you thread your fingers into his hair and path something more devious for the other. spencer jolts when your fingertips graze over his cock, you’d think he’d expect it but he reacts like it's completely sudden. it scares you momentarily, were you too forward? but then he looks at you with something beggy and glazed over in his eyes and it motivates you to ease the shelter of the blanket fully off, baring him.
spencer pinks, tips of his ears to the top of his chest. you inch off his lap and sit in front of him. you watch the features in his face twist into realisation and cut him off before he can say something polite, "i wanna taste you, spence.”
you’ve stunned spencer reid. for the first time in his fucking life he doesn’t know what to say. so he pushes out a, “yeah? fuck, okay. yeah.” an embarrassing stutter of words but it's enough to reassure you.
a firm finger pokes him square in the chest, not so hard that it hurts but enough to have him lean back against the headboard. he follows dutifully, letting the pillows take him, allowing him some semblance of solid ground beneath him. because he's convinced he might pass out at the sight of you settling between his outstretched legs, looking sinfully unaware of just how much you affect him.
although the effect itself becomes glaringly obvious when his cock twitches, two pairs of eyes darting down immediately. you can't tell if he's bigger than what you remember from last night, but you do know that you want him in your mouth immediately.
your head dips down, a slow hand curling around the base of his length, guiding it to your lips. the head, flushed and red, meets soft and plush, a light kiss against him. and spencer thinks he might die. your lips part, taking the tip into your mouth, tongue laving against his slit. your eyes flutter shut when a bead of precum settles over your tastebuds, slightly salty. you glide down, the weight of him in your mouth is deliriously good.
at some point between drawing back and swirling your tongue around his tip, spencer tangles his hands in your hair. fingertips soft over your scalp, he doesn't push, just holds you. your head bobs down again, forming a steady rhythm. your eyes start to water when he nudges at the back of your throat, breath faltering as the hair low on his stomach begins to tickle your nose. he immediately pulls you off with a gentle hand fixed to your jaw.
“you don’t have to do it all.” the concern in his eyes is sickening as he wipes off the saliva smeared to the corner of your mouth. you smile at him, a little sheepish, tilting into his palm. “i know.”
you press a kiss to his wrist and return to the task at hand, cock standing proud over his abdomen and possibly redder than when you left it. you lean down, letting a little dribble of spit fall from your lips to his length. decidedly, you wrap your fingers around him, letting the saliva act as a lubricant. you press a thumb to a vein running along the side of his cock, tracing it with every up and down of your hand. he lets out a shuddering exhale in response.
you hope the look you give him is sultry at best, you don't know that his vision is starting to blur at the corners when your head dips down again. only to mouth at the tip this time, a sloppy makeout around the flushed head as your hand continues to work at the rest of him.
“god, angel. you’re so-” he cuts himself off with a moan when your wrist twists. “so good at that.”
you let the words get to your head, a burning heat that creeps up your neck. emboldened, you take more of him into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you go. spencer can't help the way his hips buck up and you almost gag again. you pull off with a breathless giggle, wiping your mouth while spencer regards you with that same sickening concern, except now there's guilt in his comforting touch when he inspects your face. he doesn’t find this funny at all.
you hold his wrist as you laugh again and put on your most reassuring voice, "i'm okay.”
a skeptical purse of his lips. you gravitate forward, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “i promise,” you whisper, followed by a nip at his skin. it elicits a gasped sound from the depths of his chest.
he pulls you into a kiss, relishing in the ever so slight taste of him on your lips as he turns the two of you around, you let him lay you down this time. the moment feels kismet when his fingers trail lower. one hand keeping him propped up and the other parting your folds. you're unbelievably wet, the lingering effects of last night and spencer on your tongue leaving you as much.
“oh, spencer.” your hips rise to his touch when he dips a finger into your entrance and he's immediately determined to make you say his name like that again. the way you gush around him as his finger curls up allows him to add another one to the mix. you think he’s ruined you forever with how fast the peak builds, a heavy, honey-like pressure pushing down on your stomach as his fingers move, relentless between your thighs. you stop him before he can put his thumb to your clit with an urgent gasp, knowing that if you come now you won’t be able to keep going, “fuck me.” swallow, “please.”
spencer pulls his fingers out, kissing your chin when your head tips back at the emptiness. he can't help the tug at the corner of his lips, eyes possibly filled with too much affection when your thighs give a needy squeeze around his hips. “i got you,” he whispers, pulling you closer with two firm hands at your hips.
he pushes in, and it's an easy fit, you’ve been ready for what feels like forever. but where he lacks in overwhelming thickness he makes up for in length so it truly just keeps going. your hands brace at his side when he finally bottoms out. “i swear you weren’t this big,” you huff against his shoulder, almost exasperated.
spencer laughs, though it skirts the edge of something aching, “ha-ah, you’re boosting my ego, sweetheart.”
“good,” you hum, eyebrows pinching when he begins to move. your walls flutter around him, adjusting, you don’t know how you took it last night without his rearranging you from the inside out. “you’re so- feels so good, spence.”
he whines into your neck, the speed of his hips increasing with every subsequent clench around his cock, he doesn’t know if he can handle this much praise. lewd noises fill the room, moans and flush inducing wet squelches echoing off the walls and forming into something tangible between your bodies. it's not enough, something's missing, you need him even closer.
“baby, wait. flip me over.”
baby.
he hesitates before turning your body under his. upon re-entering you, it all clicks into place. you melt in satisfaction, cheek smushed against the pillow with your mouth stupidly hanging open. he gives an experimental roll of his hips, slow and deliberate, hitting places you never deemed possible.
“there?” he asks when you simultaneously mumble an incoherent y-uhuh, there, he lays over you and starts fucking you into the sheets.
his chest molds perfectly to your back, head fitted somewhere between your shoulders with his lips attached to the nape of your neck. he murmurs things, things you can't possibly comprehend with how deep he is, you swear you could feel him in your throat. your hips push back, meeting his thrusts with every persistent plap. sweat blooms. a light sheen everywhere your skin touches him, you feel warm all over. you feel him all over. spencer. spencer. spencer.
spencer snakes a hand under your body with an unwitting amount of familiarity when he starts rubbing circles into your clit
you feel it again, pulsing, a pleasant ringing in your ears that drowns everything out except his voice. “gonna cum for me again? huh, angel? just like last night?” quiet encouragement, awe, tinged with a bit of condescension, it sends sparks down your spine, setting off fireworks between your legs.
your head tips over to his arm, where it's planted beside you on the pillow, to sink teeth into flesh. canines dig into muscle, and if you were any more coherent, you would’ve drawn blood. your scream muffles against him, legs twitching out and shaking under his body, spencer blankets you with a heavy grounding pressure as your orgasm crests. his lips press to your cheek when you look over your shoulder at him, eyebrows imploringly upturned, he follows right after you and he is beautiful.
he slumps, heavy. but the good kind. you welcome the pressure and the closeness for a minute while your breathing evens out. in and out.
“i need to pee, reid."
“oh please, don't call me that when i'm still inside you.”
you laugh into the pillow, shoulders shaking while he pulls out. funny boy. you pull a shirt over your head and watch as spencer stumbles trying to put on his underwear. he trails behind you quietly as you walk into the attached bathroom and pretend to ignore the pout he tries to hide when you close the door.
you feel a little stupid talking to him from the toilet but it makes it somewhat easier to ask him. “can we do this again?” your voice muffles through the wood.
he squeaks something panicked, “i don’t know if i can–”
you push an amused smile into your knuckles, “not now, spencer. at some point, in the near future.”
“yeah?” he asks, sickeningly hopeful. “would you let me take you to dinner first? preferably not at rossi’s house?”
spencer hears the flush and then the door clicks open. you have your hands joined behind your back, he takes a step forward.
“i’d really like that.”
you’ve got an expression on your face that doesn’t warrant a confirmation, still, spencer asks. “yeah?”
you lean forward and kiss him, a few seconds too long. “it’s a date.”
genre. smut, jealousy, possessive spencer, dark romance, after-case post-bar
warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, light overstimulation, praise, possessive behavior, biting/marking, oral sex (receiving).
word count. ~900
summary.
After watching a local detective spend all evening leaning just a little too close to you at the post-case bar, Spencer’s quiet jealousy finally boils over the second the door to his apartment closes behind you.
The local detective had been leaning into your personal space for over forty minutes.
It was the usual post-case wrap-up at a quiet dive bar near the precinct. Hotch was at a booth discussing paperwork, Morgan was by the jukebox, and you were stuck at the counter trying to be polite while the local cop repeatedly touched your elbow, laughing a little too loudly at every casual sentence you uttered.
You hadn't noticed Spencer watching from the corner stool. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, his knuckles pale, hazel eyes fixed onto the exact spot where the detective’s hand kept brushing against your arm.
He hadn't said a word all night. But the moment you both stepped off the elevator and into his apartment, the silence snapped.
The heavy front door had barely clicked shut before Spencer’s hand closed firmly around your wrist. In one smooth, unexpected motion, he pulled you back against his chest, his other hand coming around to grip your hip, pinning you flush against the wood of the front door.
"Spencer?" you gasped, your breath catching at the sudden intensity in his frame.
"He touched you four times," Spencer murmured against the side of your neck, his voice dropping into that dark, quiet register that set your blood on fire. "He leaned in closer than eighteen inches, which is universally recognized as the boundary for intimate space, and you let him."
A thrilled shiver ran down your spine. "He was just being friendly- "
"He was looking at you like he owned you," Spencer cut in, his thumb digging possessively into the curve of your waist through your shirt. "And it was driving me out of my mind."
Before you could respond, his mouth covered yours in a deep, bruising kiss. There was no hesitation, no shy warmth. He crowded you against the door, his tongue sliding against yours with a raw, demanding hunger that made your knees go weak. You reached up, your fingers tangling into his messy dark hair, pulling him closer as a quiet whimper escaped your throat.
"I need you to remind me," Spencer panted against your lips, pulling back just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and blown wide behind his glasses. "I need you to tell me who you belong to."
"You," you breathed without hesitation, your hips instinctively shifting against his growing hardness beneath his trousers. "Only you, Spencer."
A low groan escaped him. He reached down, unbuttoning your trousers with swift, impatient fingers and pushing them down your legs along with your underwear. He didn't bother taking off his own suit jacket, just dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, his long hands gripping your thighs to spread you wide.
"Look at you," Spencer growled softly, his thumb sweeping over your damp, warm slit, gathering your slickness. "So wet for me after letting another man flirt with you all night."
"Spencer, please- "
He didn't make you wait. Spencer buried his face against your core, his tongue sliding straight up your center with a firm, relentless stroke that made your head slam back against the door. You let out a high, sharp gasp, your fingers clutching tightly at his shoulders for balance.
He ate you out with an uncharacteristic, possessive ferocity. His tongue worked over your clit in tight, demanding circles, sucking the sensitive bud firmly into his mouth while two of his long fingers slid deep inside you.
"Ah! Spencer, wait- " you whined, your hips bucking helplessly against his mouth. "It's too much- "
"No," he commanded softly against your wet skin, his fingers pumping inside you in a steady, deliberate rhythm. "Stay right here. Take every second of it."
The contrast between his sharp, brilliant mind and this raw, physical dominance overwhelmed you completely.
Every deep stroke of his tongue felt like a mark of ownership, claiming every inch of your body until you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't remember anything other than the feel of Spencer between your legs.
"Tell me again," Spencer murmured, pausing for just a second to look up at you with slick lips and dark eyes. "Whose are you?"
"Yours," you sobbed softly, your knuckles white as you gripped his collar. "God, Spencer, I'm all yours- "
That was all he needed to hear. Spencer plunged his fingers back inside you while his thumb clamped down hard on your clit.
The pleasure hit you like a wave, crashing over your nervous system so fast it tore a loud, breathless scream from your throat. Your inner walls clamped down tight around his fingers, your entire body trembling violently as your orgasm ripped through you. Spencer held you firm against the door, catching every drop of your release, kissing your inner thighs as you slowly came down from the peak.
He slowly stood up, pulling you up into his arms and lifting you easily against his chest.
His glasses were slightly crooked, his breath coming in hot, shallow hitches against your ear as he carried you toward the bedroom.
"Good," Spencer whispered, his lips pressing a possessive, lingering bite against the crook of your neck, right where everyone at the precinct would be able to see it tomorrow. "Don't ever make me share you again."
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Spencer Reid who, obviously, has mommy issues. he loves his mum. and he was very good at taking care of her. so good, in fact, that he felt more like her dad than her son. but it’s okay, really, because he never really felt like a kid anyway. he’s always been far too clever to need anyone to take care of him.
Spencer Reid who never ever complains. not when people forget his birthday, not when they invade his personal space or insult him. not when they assume he’s socially incompetent because of his IQ. and he can be, sometimes. but he does know when people are laughing at his expense. but it doesn’t bother him. at least people are enjoying themselves.
Spencer Reid who always remembers birthdays. what to get people, if he should avoid bringing it up in the office to dave their embarrassment, where they keep the candles in the small kitchenette at the BAU.
Spencer Reid who never gets a please or a thank you. but it’s okay! really! it’s not like he does all these things for other people so he’ll get praised, right? even if he did, it’s not like he gets any, anyway. it would be nice, though, to get a little recognition. would it be so hard to say thank you? would it kill these people, people he considers to be his friends, to compliment him instead of ‘jokingly’ insult him?
Spencer Reid, who just about melts into a puddle the first time you compliment him. you’re a new recruit, young and sweet and unable to stop yourself from fawning over how smart he is, how nice he is, how much you admire him. you’re a constant blushing, hair twirling mess. and it makes him feel… weird. bigger? smarter?
Spencer Reid, who starts showing off a little bit, for your sake. maybe a little for his own, too. he starts wearing his glasses again, once you comment that you think he looks ‘pretty’ in them. he preens when you touch him, because you do it so casually. like it’s no big deal to brush the tips of your fingers on his arm, to cling to him when post-case drinks with the team leaves you tipsy and giggling, to lead him around clutching his hand in yours, your palm so warm against his.
Spencer Reid, who doesn’t know what to do with all of this. because surely, surely you don’t actually mean anything by it. maybe he should just take what he can get, enjoy what attention you grace him with. but it makes him feel… dirty. because he gets so much more out of this than you do. you don’t know what you do to him. what he wants to do to you.
Spencer Reid, who struggles not to cry the first time you fuck. his nails dig into your plush hips, holding you impossibly closer, desperate to have every inch of your skin pressed to his. he’s just so overwhelmed with it all. because you’re there. you’re right there, and you see him. see the way he makes himself smaller for the benefit of others. and you don’t leave him. you stay, right there, in that moment, with him. and just this once, he’s the one being looked after.
Summary: For years, Spencer Reid has kept his feelings for his best friend locked away, certain she would never feel the same way. But Spencer, ever the profiler, can't stop noticing certain patterns in her behaviour. The data is right there in front of him, he's just too afraid to trust it. What happens when he can't ignore the evidence anymore?
Genre: Smut (and some fluff. But mostly smutty smut.) 18+ mdni
Word count: 7000
Warnings: Idiots in love trope, no use of 'y/n', oral (m & f receiving), fingering, protected p-in-v (we are sensible), aftercare, use of pet names ('angel' and 'sweet girl'). This is porn with minimal plot. (Let me know if there's anything I've missed).
A/n: Thank you to everyone who read my last (first) fic, I wasn't expecting that many people to even notice it, so all the notes meant a lot. This one has been sat in my drafts for so long, every time I read it I change something, so I think it's finally time to put it out there into the universe before I drive myself insane. I have a few other drafts/ stories on the go, but my requests are open if anyone would like to send me any of their ideas.
This one is very self-serving - I get off on giving late-seasons Spencer Reid a happy ending. He deserved so much more. Anyway, happy reading my loves.
(Divider by @strangergraphics)
Spencer looked up at you from across the room. You were at your desk, staring at the same paragraph of a consult report you'd been trying to finish for the last hour. Your eyes kept drifting, your mind wandering.
He'd been doing that more often lately. Watching. Not the clinical way a profiler watched a suspect, more like an astronomer studying a newly discovered star, trying to make sense of something that had rearranged the shape of his universe. You hadn't noticed, of course.
Across the bullpen, Spencer Reid sat at his desk. He'd been fidgeting all afternoon. More than usual. His pen tapped against his legal pad in rhythms you'd learned to read over four years of friendship. Morse code for anxiety, for something tugging at his brain that he couldn't quite articulate.
You knew him, maybe better than anyone.
What you didn't know, what you couldn't have known, was that Spencer had spent the last three weeks cataloguing data points. Not for a case. For you.
Your head tilted slightly as you read, and your right hand moved to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was automatic, unconscious, and Spencer had seen you do it thousands of times. But now he let himself notice the shape of your ear, the way your fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary, the way your lips parted just slightly as you reached the end of a paragraph.
He looked down at his own hands. They were trembling. His heart rate (he'd counted) was sitting at a steady ninety-four beats per minute, which was textbook sympathetic nervous system activation. This had been building for weeks, ever since he'd started letting himself catalogue the evidence instead of dismissing it.
The pupils. That was the one he couldn't explain away. Three days ago, you'd brought him coffee during a briefing. When you handed it to him, your fingers had brushed his, and your eyes had met his for exactly two-point-three seconds. He'd counted. And in those two-point-three seconds, your pupils had dilated. Not dramatically, but enough. Enough that someone trained to notice micro-expressions would catch it.
Spencer had caught it.
And then he'd spent the next seventy-two hours constructing and deconstructing arguments for why it might not mean what he desperately wanted it to mean. Maybe the lighting had shifted. Maybe you were experiencing an adrenaline spike from the case. Maybe he was projecting, imposing his own inconvenient, persistent, all-consuming feelings onto perfectly platonic physiological responses.
He was good at that. Convincing himself he was wrong. He'd had years of practice.
But the pupils weren't the only data point.
Your proximity. In any room you always found yourself close to him. Like the way you'd leaned into his shoulder on the jet last Tuesday, your breath evening out as you drifted off, your body choosing him over the empty seat across the aisle.
There was the way you mirrored his body language. When he leaned forward at the conference room table, you leaned forward. When he crossed his arms, you crossed yours beat later. When he took a sip of coffee, you reached for your own mug. Mirroring was a subconscious indicator of rapport - every profiler knew that - but you did it with him specifically. Consistently. Exclusively.
There was the way you reached for him when you were uncomfortable. A hand on his arm during difficult briefings. A shoulder pressed against his in the elevator after a bad case.
There was the way you called him. Not Garcia, not JJ, not Emily. *Him*. When your car had broken down at two in the morning, you'd called him. When you couldn't sleep because a case had wormed its way into your subconscious, you called him. He always answered. Even at 2am. Even when he was busy. Exhausted. It didn't matter. And when your voice cracked on the other end, something in his chest pulled tight with the need to fix it, to be whatever you needed him to be.
You'd done the same for him, of course. After prison, when sleep became something to fear, when closing his eyes meant being dragged back into that cell, you'd slept beside him. Held him. Your body warm and solid and real against his, anchoring him to a world that didn't always feel worth staying in. With your hand on his chest and your breath steady against his shoulder, he'd found something that felt almost like safety.
It would have been so easy to kiss you then. In the dark, with your body curled against his and your hair smelling like roses and your fingers tracing unconscious patterns on his shirt.
He hadn't.
Because what if he was wrong? What if the thing he saw in your eyes was just friendship? Deep and genuine and real, but friendship nonetheless? What if kissing you meant losing you? He couldn't lose you. He'd lost too much already. His mother, in a way. Maeve. The years the FBI had taken from him. Pieces of himself he wasn't sure he'd ever get back.
But the evidence was mounting. The data was irrefutable. And utterly terrifying.
Spencer closed his file and stood. His chair scraped against the floor, and you looked up from your report. Your lips curved into the small smile you reserved just for him, the one that made his chest ache.
"Hey," he said, crossing the distance between your desks. His satchel hung from his shoulder, and he kept his hands in his pockets. Casual. Like his heart wasn't hammering against his sternum.
"Hey Spence. Everything okay?"
Spencer blinked. "Yes. I mean... Yes. Everything's fine. I was just thinking."
"About?"
About the way your voice softens when you say my name. About the statistical improbability that you could ever feel the same way I do. About how I've memorised the exact shade of your eyes and I'm terrified that telling you the truth might mean I never get to see them again.
"Case," he said.
Your eyebrow lifted. "Which case?"
"The..." He scrambled for something plausible. "The Albuquerque arson case. The accelerant pattern doesn't match the profile."
"We closed that case three weeks ago."
Spencer ran a hand through his hair. "I know. I just... I can't stop thinking about it."
The lie felt flimsy, and he could tell you didn't buy it. Your head tilted and your eyes searched his face.
"Spence." Your voice dropped, quiet enough that no one else in the bullpen would hear. "Talk to me."
And there it was. The opening. The opportunity he'd been waiting for. The moment he'd rehearsed a hundred times in his head, always with a different outcome. Sometimes you smiled and kissed him. Sometimes you looked at him with pity and gently explained that you didn't feel that way. Sometimes you just walked away.
He could let the moment pass. He could make a joke, deflect, retreat to the safety of statistics and comfortable silence. He could bury his feelings so deep that even he forgot they were there.
But the pupils. The mirroring. The way you'd held him through the worst nights of his life and never once made him feel broken.
The evidence was there.
And Spencer Reid had never been able to ignore evidence.
"Can we… I need to talk to you. Not here."
Your brow furrowed. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Yes. I just - " He swallowed. "My place? Or yours. Either. Whatever you prefer."
Something in his voice. A tremor beneath the words. You'd heard it before - in the weeks after Millburn, when he'd wake up gasping and you'd be there, already reaching for him in the dark. But this wasn't that. This was different.
"My place," you said, saving your file and shutting down your computer. "Let me grab my coat."
The drive took fourteen minutes. Spencer counted.
He counted because it gave his brain something to do other than imagining every single way this conversation could go wrong, every possible sentence he could fumble, every micro-expression that might cross your face when you realised what he was trying to say. Every way you could let him down. When you finally pulled up outside your building, Spencer followed you inside without a word. The latch of your apartment door clicked into place behind you. Final. Irrevocable. A quiet, ordinary sound that, to Spencer, felt like a point of no return.
Your apartment was warm and cosy. Books stacked on every available surface. A record player sat by the window, a stack of well-worn vinyl leaning against its stand. And there, stuck to your fridge, a photo of the team. Worn soft at the edges like you'd looked at it more than once. He stood in the middle of your living room, hands still buried in his pockets, shoulders tight.
"Spence." You hung your coat on the hook by the door and turned to face him. "You're scaring me a little."
"Don't be scared. Everything's fine. I just need to... I need to talk to you about something."
He pulled his hands from his pockets and gestured toward the couch. "Can we sit?" You nodded and settled into your usual corner, tucking your legs beneath you. He sat, but not close. A careful foot of distance between you. Unusual. Spencer turned to face your direction, but his eyes remained fixed on the floor. This was it. It was now or never.
"I've been observing something," he started, and the words came out stilted, rehearsed. Like he'd been practicing them in his head for days. "Patterns. Behavioral patterns. Specific to you. And me. Us."
Your breath caught. He heard it - the slight hitch, the way your chest stuttered. "Spencer."
"Just - let me finish. Please. If I don't get this out I'm going to lose my nerve."
He took a breath. Rapid. Shallow. "Your pupils dilate when you look at me. I've measured, I have three weeks of data. Not consistently, but with a correlation coefficient that's statistically significant."
You didn't say anything.
"You mirror my body language," he continued, the words coming faster now, tumbling out like he was reciting a paper from memory. "Crossing your arms when I cross mine, leaning forward when I lean forward, even adjusting your breathing rate to match mine, which is a phenomenon called interpersonal synchrony and it's been well-documented in dyads who share a close emotional bond but it's typically most pronounced in..." He stopped. Swallowed. "In romantic partnerships."
Your lips parted. Said nothing.
"You reach for me," he said, and the words caught in his throat. "Instinctively. When you're uncomfortable. When you're scared. When you're upset. You reach for me. When we're in a room together, you position yourself within arm's reach of me regardless of the spatial configuration. Your body orients toward mine. Your feet point at me when we're talking. You find reasons to touch me - my shoulder, my wrist, your knee against mine. You're not… you don't do that with anyone else. I've checked."
Your mouth opened. Closed. You stayed quiet.
"And at first, I dismissed it. All of it. Because it didn't make sense. I know correlation doesn't equal causation. I know there could be other explanations, I've considered all of them. I thought, there's no way. I'm projecting. I want it to be true so badly that I'm manufacturing evidence to support a conclusion I've already drawn. That's confirmation bias. It's a classic cognitive error."
He paused. You still hadn't moved.
But the pupil dilation," he broke off and looked at you. Finally. His eyes, those impossible hazel eyes, held yours with an intensity that stole your breath. "It's a physiological response mediated by the autonomic nervous system. You can't fake it. And your pupils dilate for me."
The silence that followed was deafening. Spencer's heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his temples. His hands were trembling. You watched him notice you notice, and he folded them together in his lap, knuckles whitening. Then he turned to face you fully, and though his hands still shook, he didn't try to hide it anymore. "I'm terrified that saying what I'm about to say might ruin everything. But I can't... I can't ignore the evidence anymore." He braced himself. "I'm in love with you," he said. "I have been. For a while. A long while. I don't know exactly when it started, but I know that when I was in that cell, when I couldn't think of anything worth surviving for, I thought of you. I thought of your laugh. Your smile. The way you ask me questions when I'm rambling about something no one else cares about. The way you make me feel like my brain isn't something to tolerate but something to..." His voice broke again. He pressed his lips together, composing himself. "Something to celebrate. And I know... I know that the probability of someone like you having feelings for someone like me is statistically very low. I know I've never been the person people choose. I know I'm broken in ways that might never fully heal."
You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but watch him unravel before you, this brilliant, beautiful man who had no idea how completely he owned you.
"I'm a profiler," he said, quieter now. "And I see things. I see how you look at me. And as improbable as it might seem, every piece of evidence I have suggests you might feel the same way. I need to know if the data means what I think it means. Because if it doesn't, if I'm wrong, I need to find a way to be okay with that. I need to find a way to keep being your friend without this - this hope - eating me alive." His voice dropped to something raw and unguarded. "So I guess my question is," he said, rough, scraped bare, "am I wrong? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm reading into things that aren't there, and I'll stop. I'll never bring it up again. We can pretend this conversation never happened, and I'll be fine. *We'll* be fine. I just need to know, because I can't keep - " His voice broke. "I can't keep hoping for something that might not exist."
The tears spilled over. One traced a path down your cheek, and Spencer's fingers twitched with the urge to brush it away. "Do you have feelings for me?"
For a long moment, you didn't speak. Couldn’t.
Spencer counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. His heart pounded hard enough to shake his ribs, and his palms were sweating, and he was already mentally preparing himself for the rejection, already constructing the argument for why this didn't have to change anything, already drafting the apology.
Your hand found his cheek, warm and stubbled and so familiar. His breath caught. His eyes - wide, terrified, hopeful - searched your face like he was memorising it for the last time.
"Yes" you said, a smile appearing on your face despite the tears that were still falling. Despite the evidence, to hear you say it out loud... he didn't believe what he was hearing.
He blinked. "You do?"
"I've been in love with you for years, Spencer. Years." A laugh bubbled up from your chest, wet and disbelieving. "I thought you didn't see me like that. I thought I was just your friend. Your safe person. And that was enough. God, that was more than enough, just being in your life. But I never let myself hope for more."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I was scared." He laughed, and the sound was shaky and raw and more honest than anything he'd said in years. "I'm still scared. Terrified, actually. Because if this goes wrong, if I mess this up, I lose the most important relationship in my life. I lose you. And I can't... I can't lose you."
"You're not going to lose me." You reached for his hand. "Spencer, you're never going to lose me. You're the best thing in my life."
The world stopped. Spencer couldn't speak. His throat had closed up, and his eyes were stinging, and everything he wanted to say felt too big for words.
So he kissed you instead.
It wasn't calculated. It wasn't one of the forty-seven scenarios he'd run in his head. It was gentle at first. Tentative. His lips pressed to yours with a reverence that made your chest ache. His hands were on your cheeks, cradling your face like you were something precious.
Your hand came up to cup his jaw, and you kissed him back.
The confirmation that you wanted this - that you wanted *him* - broke something open inside Spencer's chest.
He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding into your hair, the other finding your waist. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between your bodies and he could feel the hammering of your heart against his chest.
*Matching rhythm,* he thought distantly. *Our hearts are beating in matching rhythm.*
You pulled back first, gasping for breath, and Spencer's forehead dropped to rest against yours.
"Hi," you whispered, and your smile was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Hi," he whispered back.
You kissed him again, harder, and the sound he made - a small, broken thing from the back of his throat - ignited something in your belly. This time, there was nothing gentle about it. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt. His hands slid down to your hips and gripped, anchoring you to him. The kiss deepened. Opened. His tongue brushed your lower lip, a question, and you answered by pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left to close.
Somehow, you ended up in his lap. Straddling him on your couch, knees bracketing his hips, your hands fisted in his hair. His mouth was everywhere - your lips, the corner of your jaw, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss a discovery. Each gasp a confession.
"Wait," he breathed against your collarbone. "Wait, wait."
You stilled immediately. Your hands loosened in his hair. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. No, nothing's wrong, that's - everything's right. That's the problem. I just need to know." He lifted his head and met your eyes. His pupils were blown wide, dark swallowing hazel. "Are you sure? Are you sure about this? About me? Because if we do this, if we - there's no going back. I can't - I can't lose you. Not you. Anyone else, but not you."
Your heart cracked open. Right down the middle. You cupped his face in both hands and held his gaze.
"I have never been more sure of anything in my life," you said, and you said it slowly, deliberately, so he could profile every microexpression, every involuntary tell that proved you meant it.
"If we do this, I can't - I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I don't want casual. I want... I need something real in my life."
"I want the same thing. I want you. All of you. Everything. The parts you think are broken and the parts you think are too much and every single thing in between. I want all of it, Spencer. I love you."
He kissed you again, slower this time. Deeper. His teeth caught your lower lip, drawing a soft whimper from your throat, and the sound sent a rush of heat spiralling through his veins.
"Then we're not doing this on the couch," he murmured.
Before you could respond, he bent down and scooped you into his arms.
You made a startled sound, your arms wrapping around his neck. "Spencer!"
You laughed, and the sound was bright and surprised and so lovely that Spencer felt his chest ache with it. He'd made you laugh. He'd kissed you and you'd kissed him back and now he was carrying you to your bedroom, and this was his life. This was actually his life.
He carried you down the hallway toward your bedroom, and the movement, the easy strength of it, sent heat pooling low in your belly. Spencer - lanky, bookish Spencer, who got winded walking up three flights of stairs - was carrying you to bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He laid you on the bed gently. Reverently. The mattress dipped under your weight.
He lowered himself onto the bed, his body covering yours, his weight braced on his forearms. Your legs parted to accommodate him, and the fit was perfect; your hips aligned, your chests pressed together.
Spencer looked at you. Your lips were swollen. Your cheeks were flushed. Your pupils were blown wide, and he didn't need a textbook to tell him what that meant.
"You're beautiful," he said, and the words came out reverent. Worshipful. "You're so beautiful. I've always thought so. Even before - I've always thought so."
You reached for him. Your fingers found the hem of his sweater and brushed the warm skin of his stomach underneath. He shivered. A full-body tremor that you felt through the mattress.
"Can I?" you asked.
He nodded, and you pulled the sweater up. He raised his arms to help you, and the fabric slid over his head and fell somewhere on the floor. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you smiled at the sight of him - flushed, disheveled, and entirely undone.
Your turn.
He undressed you slowly.
Piece by piece. Button by button. And he let himself savor every inch of skin he uncovered. The curve of your shoulder. The hollow of your throat. The way your breath caught when his knuckles brushed your collarbone.
The last button slipped free, he pushed the fabric aside and the blouse joined his sweater, discarded somewhere on the floor.
He finished undressing you with the same deliberate care, mapping your body with his hands and his mouth.
When the last piece of fabric was stripped away and you were bare beneath him, he looked at you and he made a sound. Low. Almost pained.
"_Wow._"
His pants and boxers were next. You undressed him carefully, pressing kisses to each new inch of skin revealed - his narrow chest, the jut of his hipbone, the pale stretch of his thigh. He was trembling by the time you were done. So were you.
Naked together. Nothing between you. The air was cool and his skin was hot and when he settled beside you on the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, you turned toward him on instinct.
His hands found your breasts. Palms first, cupping the weight of them, and you exhaled sharply at the contact. Then his thumbs circled your nipples, and you arched into his touch. He catalogued your responses - the way your breath caught when he applied pressure, the way your hips shifted when he rolled a nipple between thumb and forefinger, the way your mouth fell open when he bent his head and took one peak into his mouth.
"Oh," you gasped.
He worked your breasts with his mouth and his hands, switching sides, learning what made you gasp and what made you moan and what made you fist your hands in the sheets. The flat of his tongue. The edge of his teeth. The gentle suction that made your back bow off the mattress.
"Spence, oh my God."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close, and he let himself get lost in the taste of your skin, the sounds you made, the way your body arched into his touch.
His mouth found yours again. Different now. Hungrier. The gentle reverence was still there, an undercurrent, but layered over it was something more urgent, more desperate.
His hand slid lower. Over your stomach. Down to the junction of your thighs.
"Can I?" Another question. Always checking. Always making sure.
"Yes. Yes."
You gasped as his fingers finally, finally slipped between your legs. You were wet. So wet. His fingers slipped through your folds and you shuddered, a full-body tremor that he felt in his own bones.
"You're so - " He didn't finish the sentence. Couldn't, apparently. His vocabulary abandoned him entirely as his fingers explored you. Slow. So agonisingly slow. His index finger traced the outline of your clit, so gently it was barely there.. Your hips bucked involuntarily, and you made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a curse.
"I've got you," he said. "I've got you.
He applied more pressure now. Circled his finger, slow and deliberate, working you higher, higher, until you were trembling beneath him.
"I want - " you started, but the words dissolved into a moan as he applied slightly more pressure.
"What do you want?"
"More," you whispered. "Please."
The please nearly undid him.
He gave you more.
He pressed two fingers against your entrance, sliding in with an ease that made both of you groan. His thumb found your clit at the same time and began drawing circles while his fingers curled inside you, searching.
When he found the spot - that rough patch of tissue on your anterior wall - your whole body jolted. "There," you gasped. "Right there. Oh god, Spencer, right there."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He hit it again. And again. Over and over.
His fingers worked you with almost surgical precision while his thumb continued its maddening pattern.
"It's _too_ good. It's... I need... faster. Please."
He adjusted immediately. His fingers quickened, his thumb pressed harder, and the pleasure sharpened into something almost unbearable.
You were babbling now, words dissolving into sounds, your hands fisted in the sheets and your head thrown back.
He lowered his mouth to your breast again, sucking in rhythm with his fingers, and you screamed.
"I'm going to - " you started.
He pulled his fingers out.
You made a sound of pure frustration, and Spencer laughed - a low, dark sound he hadn't known he was capable of making.
"Not yet."
The kiss he pressed to your lips was brief. Then he kissed your chin. Your throat. Your sternum. The soft skin of your stomach. Your hipbone. Lower. Lower. Until his breath ghosted hot on your inner thigh.
His mouth found your clit and you bucked against him.
His tongue was flat and hot and when it dragged over your clit, your vision whited out. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping, anchoring. He hummed against you, and the vibration pushed you even higher.
He slid two fingers inside you while his mouth worked your clit, and this time he didn't hold back. His fingers curled, found that rough patch of tissue, and pressed. Over and over. With the same surgical precision he'd used moments ago only faster now, harder, more insistent. The rhythm building toward something that had your thighs trembling and your breath coming in ragged gasps.
The dual stimulation was overwhelming. His fingers inside you, precise and relentless. His mouth on your clit, soft and slick and perfect.
He sucked, gently at first, and your thighs clamped around his head.
"Right there, right there, oh my God, Spencer, right there - "
He didn't stop. Didn't pause. His free hand pressed your thigh back, holding you open for him, and he sucked harder.
You broke.
Your orgasm hit you hard. It was an implosion. A collapse inward. Your body folded around the pleasure, every muscle clenching and unclenching in rhythm, and you cried out something that sounded like his name.
He worked you through it, gentler now, softer, until your body went limp beneath his hands. Then he pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh and looked up at you.
His lips were swollen. His eyes were bright and awed and a little bit smug. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, and your eyes were glassy and distant and so, so beautiful.
You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe. You reached for him blindly, and he understood. He crawled up your body, arms bracketing your shoulders, and let you pull him down into a kiss.
"Are you okay?" he murmured against your mouth.
You blinked. Focused on his face. And then you smiled. "Yeah. Yes. That was..." You laughed, breathless and giddy. "That was intense."
He smiled at you. "Good." Then he fell quiet, eyes locked on yours, like he couldn't bring himself to look away.
You kissed him again, deeper, and felt his erection heavy against your thigh. Hard and hot and leaking. "Your turn."
He pulled back slightly, brow furrowing. "You don't have to. If you're tired or sensitive or... "
When you wrapped your fingers around him, he made a sound you'd never heard from him before - a broken, desperate whimper.
"You're..." he started, and then your thumb swiped across the head of his cock, collecting the bead of moisture there, and he forgot the rest of the sentence.
"I'm what?" You looked up at him through your lashes, eyes sparkling with mischief and wonder.
"Perfect," he managed. "You're perfect."
You pushed at his shoulder. He let you roll him onto his back, his head finding your pillow, his hair fanning out in a messy halo.
You took your time. The same deliberate reverence he'd shown you. Your lips traced the line of his sternum, the dip of his navel.
"You're beautiful," you said as you kissed down his body. "I don't know if anyone tells you that enough. But you are."
Spencer's throat tightened. "No one tells me that."
"Then I'm going to tell you every day." You pressed a kiss to his hipbone. "Every single day." Another kiss, lower. "Until you believe it."
You kissed the inside of his thigh and he shuddered, his hands fisting in the sheets.
Your hand wrapped around the base of his cock. The contact made him gasp, his hips jerking involuntarily, and you tightened your grip in response.
You stroked him slowly. Once. Twice. Learning the shape of him, the weight of him in your palm.
"You're... that's... *oh.*"
You traced the ridge of his frenulum, slow and deliberate, and his hips jerked off the bed. You pressed a hand to his stomach, holding him still.
"Be patient," you murmured against his skin.
"I've been patient for four years," he gritted out. "I'm at capacity."
You laughed - couldn't help it - and took him into your mouth.
The sound he made was inhuman. Your name, half-sob, half-prayer. His hand flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding. Anchoring. You worked him slowly, learning his shape the way he'd learned yours. Your tongue traced the ridge of his frenulum and he gasped.
"Oh."
You did it again. Slower. Your tongue flat and warm, tracing the ridge of the glans, probing the sensitive spot just beneath the head. His hands fisted in the sheets. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts.
"You like that?"
"Yes. Please. Keep... keep doing that."
You did. You took him into your mouth, inch by agonising inch, your lips stretched around his girth, your tongue pressing against the underside of his shaft. The wet heat of your mouth was overwhelming. The suction. The rhythm. The way you hollowed your cheeks and pulled back, only to sink down again, deeper this time, until the head of his cock nudged the back of your throat.
"Oh my God," he breathed.
You hummed around him. The vibration traveled through his entire body, and his hips bucked before he could stop them, and you made a small choking sound and pulled back.
"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to - "
"It's fine." You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and your smile was absolutely devastating.
Then you took him back into your mouth, and Spencer stopped being able to form coherent sentences. Your hand worked the base of his shaft while your mouth focused on the head, sucking and drawing patterns with your tongue. Then you pulled back and pressed the flat of your tongue against his frenulum, and he saw stars.
"Fuck. Fuck."
Your thumb found the sensitive spot. Rubbed small circles over it. Your tongue traced down his shaft, lower, until your lips were pressed against his balls, and the dual sensation - your hand on his cock, your mouth on his sac - made his vision blur at the edges.
"I'm - I'm close." he managed. "If you don't stop, I'm going to come. And I really, *really* want to be inside you when that happens."
You lifted your head. Met his eyes. His pupils were so dilated they'd almost swallowed the hazel entirely.
You kissed the head of his cock once, and pulled off immediately. His cock throbbed at the loss of contact, and he made a sound that might have been a whimper.
"Condom," you said. "Nightstand drawer."
He fumbled for it while you watched, chest heaving, skin flushed. His fingers were less steady than usual - he dropped the foil packet twice before tearing it open with his teeth, which stirred something in your chest. You took it from him and rolled it down his length, slow, deliberate, watching his face contort with the effort of holding still.
"Okay," you breathed. "Okay."
You swung your leg over his hips. His hands found your waist, steadying you, and his eyes never left yours as you positioned yourself above him.
The first press of him against your entrance made you both freeze. Eye contact. Held. Suspended.
You sank down slowly.
The first inch stole his breath. The second made him groan. He filled you inch by inch, and you watched his face as you took him in; the way his jaw went slack, the way his pupils blew even wider.
"Oh my God," he whispered.
"Yeah," you agreed, your voice thin and reedy. "Yeah."
The stretch was incredible. He could see it on your face; the way your lips parted, the way your brow furrowed. He could feel it in the way you clenched around him, tight and hot and perfect.
Then you bottomed out. He was fully inside you. And for a moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just _felt_.
"Are you okay?" he managed.
"Yes." The word was breathless.
You stayed like that for a moment, both of you adjusting, both of you trembling. Then your hips began to move. Slowly at first. A grinding motion that had you both gasping. His hands found your hips, steadying you.
"You feel - " He couldn't finish. Had to swallow. Tried again. "You feel _amazing_."
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and began to move. Up and down. A slow, rolling rhythm. His cock dragged against your inner walls with every stroke.
"Oh my god," you breathed. "Spencer, you feel - "
"I know. So do you. You feel - I can't even - you're incredible."
You lifted your hips and sank back down. Lifted and sank. The angle, the depth, the fullness - it was everything. It was too much and not enough and exactly right all at once.
His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. "You're so beautiful," he said again, because he couldn't stop saying it. "So, so beautiful. I've wanted this for so long. I've wanted you for so long."
"I'm here." You leaned down to press your forehead to his.
Tears pricked your eyes. You blinked them away, leaned down, kissed him hard. He kissed you back, one hand still cradling your face, the other sliding down to your hip to guide your movements.
You rode him like that - foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, eyes locked - until your thighs burned. Until his breathing went ragged and his grip went bruising and you could feel him straining toward the edge.
"Lie down, angel," he whispered.
The endearment slipped out before he could stop it, but your eyes went wide and soft.
You smiled and slid off him. He followed you immediately, rolling you onto your back, settling between your thighs. Your arms reached for him as his cock found your entrance again, and he pushed in with one smooth stroke.
"Yes," you hissed. You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him deeper, closer, _more_.
He started thrusting. Slowly at first - savoring every sensation, cataloguing every response. But his control was fraying, and your legs were tightening around him, and the sounds you were making were driving him out of his mind.
He built speed.
He set a pace that was almost punishing. Fast. Deep. His hips snapped against yours and the sound of it - wet and rhythmic and obscene - filled the room. His chest pressed against yours. His breath was hot against your ear.
He angled his hips, searching for that spot he'd found with his fingers, and when you gasped - loud and sharp - he knew he'd found it again.
Then his hand was between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
The dual stimulation. Again. But different this time - sharper, more urgent, his cock inside you and his thumb on your clit and his voice in your ear.
You were begging now.
"Oh god - Spencer - don't stop - please don't stop, it feels so good, I'm so close - "
"I won't stop." His voice was wrecked. "I've got you, sweet girl. I've got you. Let go for me."
You did.
Your orgasm hit like a detonation.
It was bigger than the first one. Deeper. Your vision went white, then black, then exploded into stars. Your body arched off the bed and locked there, every muscle seized, every nerve firing. You might have screamed. You might have said his name. You didn't know. You didn't know anything except the pleasure, rolling through you in waves that crashed and retreated and crashed again.
Somewhere in the haze, you felt him follow.
His release slammed into him with the force of a freight train. He buried himself deep and came with a moan that was almost a sob, groaning your name into your throat. His face pressed into the curve of your neck, his body shaking against yours. His grip on your hip tightened almost to the point of pain.
And then stillness. Silence.
You didn't know how long you stayed like that - bodies tangled, breath ragged, hearts pounding in matching rhythm.
His weight was warm and solid on top of you, and you didn't want him to move. Ever.
Eventually, he became aware of your hand stroking his hair. Of your lips pressing soft kisses to his temple, his cheek, his jaw.
He lifted his head. Looked at you with something like wonder, something like disbelief.
Then he kissed you. Your forehead. Your eyelids. The tip of your nose. Both cheekbones. Your chin. Your lips. Every inch of your face, pressed with soft, reverent kisses that made your throat tight and your eyes sting. You smiled beneath his lips, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Eventually - reluctantly - he pulled out and rolled onto his back. His hand found yours immediately, lacing your fingers together. He laid there for a while, just breathing, before he lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
"I'll be right back," he whispered.
He disappeared into your bathroom. You heard water running. Cabinets opening and closing. His soft footsteps returning. And then a warm washcloth, gentle between your thighs. You watched him with heavy-lidded eyes as he cleaned you up. Gentle strokes. Careful hands. The same reverence from before.
When he was done, he tossed the washcloth towards the hamper and climbed back into bed beside you. His arms wrapped around you, your head found the hollow of his shoulder and your hand splayed across his chest. His fingers traced absent patterns on your upper arm.
"You should go pee," he said. "To avoid a UTI. The risk of urinary tract infections after intercourse increases by approximately 50 percent. Postcoital urination reduces the risk by - "
You burst out laughing. "There's my nerd."
He smiled. You felt it against your hair. "I'm serious. The urethra is in close proximity to multiple bacterial sources and during intercourse those bacteria can be - "
"I'm going. I'm going." You pushed yourself up, still laughing, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Don't go anywhere."
"Unlikely."
You padded to the bathroom. When you returned, he was still there. Still in your bed. Still looking at you with that expression - like he couldn't quite believe you were real.
You climbed in beside him and he pulled you close immediately, his arms wrapping around you like he'd been doing it for years. Like he'd never let go.
"I love you," he whispered into the darkness. "I've been telling you I love you for years in the only way I knew how. Every word. Every look."
"I love you too, Spence."
His arms tightened. His lips pressed to your forehead.
"Goodnight, my angel."
You felt his breathing slow, felt his body relax against yours — the tension he'd carried for months, years, finally bleeding away. Your eyes grew heavy, your limbs warm, and all you could think was how much you loved him. How much you'd always loved him. How ridiculous it was, that you'd both spent so long terrified of something that felt this right.
Sleep came quickly. The last thing you were aware of before you were pulled under was the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, and the weight of his arm, warm around your waist.
synopsis: after seven years of friendship, spencer finally introduces you to his team. unfortunately, they're all very good at their jobs.
word count: 4.5k
content: no use of y/n, friends to lovers, mutual pining, everyone knows but them, seven years of accidental courtship, the BAU drawing one very reasonable conclusion, alcohol consumption, fluff
Spencer changes his mind about bringing you somewhere between ringing the bell and Rossi opening the front door.
“We can still leave,” he says, leaning closer and lowering his voice as though someone might overhear him, despite the empty porch.
“You spent three weeks convincing me to come.”
“I know.” He glances towards the house, and you watch the implications of what he’s done catch up with him. “I may not have thought this through.”
You follow his gaze to the nearest window. The curtain falls back into place with such violent innocence that you can practically hear Penelope Garcia denying everything from the other side.
“She’s been waiting there?”
“Possibly.”
“How long?”
Spencer glances at his watch. “We’ve only been here for forty-three seconds.”
“And she’s already frightened you into retreat.”
“I’m not frightened.” His mouth pulls to one side, though his eyes stray to the curtain again. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
You look back at him. He’s dressed slightly better than the occasion requires, which is normal enough that you noticed only in passing when he arrived at your flat. His tie is patterned but subdued, and his hair keeps falling forwards no matter how often he pushes it away. His coat is still unbuttoned despite the January cold; he began telling you about Rossi’s cooking before you made it out of your building and apparently forgot there were buttons involved.
The knot of his tie has worked its way a little to the left. You reach up to straighten it. “I’m comfortable.”
His attention drops to your hands. “You’re cold.”
“I’m standing outside in January.”
“You loosened the scarf.”
“It made me look like I was being strangled by a blanket.”
“It’s cashmere.”
You glance down at the loosened scarf. “I know. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t aggressive.”
Spencer’s smile spreads slowly, warm and crooked and bright enough to make you forget the weather for a second. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“You understood me.”
“I usually do.”
The door opens before you can answer. Rossi takes in the two of you on his porch — your fingers still resting against Spencer’s tie, Spencer standing close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushes yours — and lets his eyes linger on your hand before returning to Reid.
“Reid.” He steps aside. “And you must be the woman who stole his seat.”
You turn on Spencer. “You told him that?”
“It’s how we met.”
“That’s not how we met.”
Rossi accepts your coat. You unwind the scarf and hold it out without looking; Spencer takes it automatically, hanging it beside your coat while he continues to regard you with the stubborn composure of someone who possesses an eidetic memory and has appointed himself sole custodian of the past.
“There was a programme on the chair,” he says.
“There was rubbish on the chair.”
“It was the programme for the lecture.”
“Which had already started.”
“That doesn’t make it rubbish.”
Rossi closes the door behind you. “You can argue the case over dinner. I’ve heard Reid’s testimony several times.”
You follow him into the hall, looking sideways at Spencer. “How many times have you told this story?”
“It comes up more often than you’d think.”
Before you can ask how a disagreement over auditorium seating could possibly come up at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, someone makes a small, delighted noise at the end of the hallway.
Garcia appears in a sweep of colour, bracelets and barely restrained curiosity. “You’re real.”
“Garcia,” Spencer warns.
“I never suggested she wasn’t.” She reaches you and takes both your hands, looking you over with such open pleasure that it’s impossible to feel inspected. “I’m Penelope. I have been waiting so patiently to meet you that I think I deserve official recognition from the Bureau.”
“You sent me four messages this afternoon,” Spencer says.
Garcia dismisses this with a flick of her bracelets. “And every one of them was supportive.”
“One of them was nine exclamation marks.”
She hugs you before you have decided whether handshakes are still an option. Over her shoulder, you find Spencer watching you, ready to intervene and relieved when he sees he doesn’t have to. He knows you have never enjoyed entering a room full of strangers. He also knows that Garcia has rendered strangers impossible within thirty seconds.
Morgan comes around the corner carrying two bottles of wine. “So this is who’s been taking up all your Thursdays.”
Spencer’s head turns. “She doesn’t take them up.”
“You make that sound worse,” you tell him.
“I mean, I choose to spend them with you.”
Morgan’s eyebrows rise. “And disappear before anyone can give you another file.”
Spencer has already turned back to you, taking the bag from your shoulder before you have to hitch it back into place.
“I leave work at a reasonable time on Thursdays,” he adds. “That isn’t disappearing.”
“You texted me from the lift last week saying, ‘I escaped.’”
“They’d already given me three,” he says, as though this settles the choice of verb.
Morgan studies the two of you for another second, then gives you a slow nod. “You’re going to fit in fine.”
The rest of the introductions happen in Rossi’s living room, where the fire is lit and every available surface has acquired either a glass or a plate. JJ greets you with an easy warmth that eases the last of your nerves. Hotch is more reserved, although the handshake he offers comes with a sincere, “It’s good to finally meet you.”
Between the BAU’s cases and your own habit of declining invitations to crowded gatherings, finally becomes the common thread of the evening. Oddly, the feeling is mutual. Spencer has been talking about his team for seven years, long enough that you sometimes forget you’ve never actually met any of them. Tara, seated on the arm of a chair, tells you that she has only known Spencer for a few months and has somehow still heard enough about you to recognise your name immediately.
You look at him. “What have you been telling these people?”
“Not much.”
Morgan sets the wine beside Rossi’s decanter. “He brings you up more than he thinks he does.”
“Only when something reminds me of her,” Spencer says.
“So whenever anyone sits in a chair,” you say.
“Only if they sit in my seat.”
“That wasn’t your seat.”
Tara looks between you. “I’m beginning to see how you two have kept an argument about a chair going for seven years.”
“Seven years, two months and six days,” Spencer corrects.
You’re accustomed to this. Spencer remembers the first time you met, the first film you watched together and the day you discovered the little bookshop that now holds a hard-won place in your Thursday routine. He remembers what you ordered the first time you dragged him to your favourite café and exactly which joke made you choke on it. None of it has ever seemed remarkable when it’s simply the way his mind works and the shape your life has taken around his. Across the room, JJ’s gaze rests on him for a moment before returning to you.
“That’s Spencer,” you say, because it is.
“It is,” JJ agrees, a small smile tucked into the words, and Rossi calls everyone to the table before you can work out what she finds funny.
He has prepared enough food for twice as many people and accepts praise as his due. The conversation moves easily around you, propelled by the overlapping stories of people who spend too much time together. Morgan disputes Rossi’s version of an arrest in Baltimore; JJ supplies the part both men have omitted. Tara waits until they have nearly finished before revealing that Garcia showed her the security footage and neither account is accurate.
At the head of the table, Hotch listens with the patience of a man who has long since accepted that authority has limits.
As everyone gathers around the table, Spencer rests a hand on the back of an empty chair. You slip into it without either of you acknowledging the gesture, and he takes the seat to your right, tucking your bag safely beside his feet.
The conversation follows everyone to the table, breaking and reforming as chairs are pulled in and Rossi begins sending dishes around. When the bread reaches Spencer, he selects the darker end piece before handing you the basket. He’s looking down at his plate, but you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You dig beneath the slices for the remaining end and set it on your plate.
“Did you just take that?”
He arranges his face into innocence. “Take what?”
“You know I like the end.”
“There are two ends.”
“You took the better one.”
“They’re structurally identical.”
“They absolutely are not.”
He lets you make your case, then exchanges his piece for the one on your plate with the ease of a ritual completed many times before. You tear the bread in half and put half back on his plate, which is when you notice Tara watching from across the table, amusement gathering at one corner of her mouth.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing.” She reaches for her wine. “I’m learning.”
Spencer leans nearer to you. “About bread?”
You give him a look and take a bite. He glances across at Tara, clearly tempted to investigate.
“Don’t make the face,” you warn.
“What face?”
“The one you make before asking a question that adds twenty minutes to a conversation.”
Spencer turns to you, brow furrowed and mouth pulled into a small, dubious line. “I don’t have a face for that.”
“You do,” JJ says from his other side.
Morgan points his fork at her. “He definitely does.”
Spencer appeals to Hotch, who takes a measured drink of wine. “You do.”
The table breaks into laughter, Spencer along with it. His head tips back, his eyes close, and the smile opens across his face without the flicker of self-consciousness that sometimes follows when he realises a room is watching him. You know the quieter laugh he uses when he’s trying not to encourage you, the startled one that escapes when you catch him off guard, the breathless, helpless version that makes him fold forwards and hide his face. This one is easy and bright. He looks happy.
You are still watching when he turns back. The laughter remains in his eyes as his expression shifts into a question, and only then do you notice the small streak of sauce near the corner of his mouth.
“Hold still.” You wipe it away with your thumb before it occurs to you that a napkin would have done the job just as well.
His lips part at the touch. For a second, the noise of the table seems to move around the two of you, then you drop your hand and reach for your glass. By the time Spencer does the same, Morgan has turned the conversation towards Rossi’s wine.
Later, once the plates have been cleared and Rossi produces a tiramisu large enough to require architectural planning, Garcia asks how you and Spencer became friends after what she calls the Auditorium Incident.
“She followed me outside,” Spencer says.
“You followed me.” You turn towards him, eyebrows raised at the version of events he has chosen to present. “Apparently handing me a pen and saying ‘Here’ was supposed to communicate a short-term loan.”
“I thought it was obvious.”
Morgan rests an elbow on the table. “Was this at least a good pen?”
“No. It leaked all over my hand.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell her when she walked away.”
JJ glances between you. “So you followed a woman out of a lecture hall over a defective pen?”
“I didn’t follow her,” Spencer says, a little too quickly. “She was walking towards the Metro.”
“I was walking towards coffee. He spent three blocks correcting a route I wasn’t taking.”
Garcia presses both hands to her heart. “And he came with you.”
“It had started raining,” Spencer says.
JJ looks at him. “You hate coffee shops.”
“They’re usually loud.”
“That one was,” you say. “You stayed after the rain stopped anyway.”
He looks at you, momentarily caught without a correction. His knee has rested against yours beneath the table for most of the conversation, warm and solid through two layers of clothing. “You were interesting.”
The answer is simple, offered without embarrassment. Before you can decide what to do with it, Rossi cuts into the tiramisu. “And the rest is seven years, two months and six days of arguing.”
“We don’t always argue,” Spencer says.
“You called me at midnight last week because my bookshelf leans.”
“It leans towards your bed.”
“Protectively.”
He gives you a long, suffering look. “It’s going to fall on you.”
Hotch hides a smile behind his wine. “He may have a point.”
“Thank you,” Spencer says, vindicated, and you promise the table that when he appears at your flat with a spirit level, they are all invited to help him.
The evening loosens after dessert. Rossi opens another bottle of wine, Morgan finds music, and people drift between the living room and kitchen as the conversation divides into smaller pieces. You spend a while talking to JJ and Tara near the fire. Spencer is pulled into a discussion with Hotch on the other side of the room, but his attention returns to you often enough that you begin to anticipate it. You look up, and his eyes are already there.
He never stares. His gaze finds yours, checks, and returns to the conversation. When Garcia drops onto the sofa beside you with enough force to send your glass wobbling, his hand lifts from across the room before you catch it yourself.
You raise the rescued glass in his direction. He smiles, lets his hand fall and turns back to Hotch.
Between the fire and the overlapping voices, the room soon grows too warm. You finish what remains in your glass, leave it on the side table beside Garcia and slip through the doors onto the back terrace. At the stone railing, you draw one full breath of cold air before the door opens behind you.
“You’re going to say you told me so,” you say.
Spencer settles your coat over your shoulders. “I was going to ask why you came outside without this.” He draws the fabric closed at your throat, making sure your hair stays clear of the collar.
“Same sentiment.”
“Not exactly.”
You turn before he has taken his hands away, leaving the two of you close enough that his hands slide down to your elbows instead. Through the glass doors, Garcia is looking directly at you. Morgan comes up beside her, follows her gaze and says something you can’t hear.
“What are they doing?”
Spencer glances over his shoulder. Both of them disappear from the window.
“I don’t know.”
“They’re very strange.”
“They like you.”
His certainty draws your attention back to him. “They’ve known me for three hours.” You reconsider this, glancing towards the living room. “Then again, Garcia gave me copies of your childhood photographs.”
Spencer’s eyebrows lift. “She gave you copies?”
“And made me promise Morgan would never see them. You were very serious about that chess trophy.”
Spencer smiles, small and pleased. “That means she trusts you.”
You laugh, and his thumbs shift against the sleeves of your coat. The movement is small, nearly absent-minded. You have held his hand through turbulence, hooked an arm through his in crowded streets and fallen asleep against his shoulder during films neither of you remembers finishing. This belongs to the same familiar language, a touch whose meaning has never required either of you to stop and examine it.
You rest your hands against the front of his jacket. “I like them too.”
The line of his shoulders softens. “I knew you would.”
“Even Morgan.”
“That’s premature.”
The door opens, and Morgan sticks his head outside. “We can hear you, genius.”
Spencer looks back at him without removing his hands from your arms. “She said she likes you.”
“I heard the rest too.” Morgan gives you a wounded look before retreating inside.
Spencer’s grin is immediate and entirely unrepentant. It stays with him as you go back indoors together, his hand resting lightly between your shoulder blades. Once the doors close, he eases the coat from your shoulders before the heat can become uncomfortable and carries it back to the hall.
It’s close to midnight when people begin leaving. Hotch goes first, followed shortly by JJ. Morgan hugs you and tells you to come back even if Reid doesn’t, Garcia informs him that threatening a guest is poor etiquette and then hugs you twice as hard. By the time Tara finds her coat, Spencer is helping Rossi carry glasses into the kitchen, although the discussion drifting down the hallway suggests that helping involves an argument about the safest way to store crystal.
“It was lovely meeting you,” Tara says. She loops her scarf around her neck, then glances towards the kitchen with affectionate amusement. “I understand now why he keeps disappearing on Thursdays.”
“He’ll be pleased you believe it counts as disappearing.”
“I’m sure he’ll explain the distinction to me at length on Monday.” She reaches for the door, then pauses. “I’ll admit, I was confused at first. Reid talks about you all the time, but he never mentioned you were his girlfriend.”
The word is gentle, tossed into the conversation without any reason to be careful with it.
“His girlfriend?”
Tara looks back at you. The realisation reaches her a moment later. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought the two of you were together.”
Behind her, Garcia stops rearranging the bracelets on her wrist.
“No.” The answer comes automatically. It is a simple fact. You and Spencer have never crossed that line or even discussed it. The rest ought to follow just as easily. Instead, we’re just friends catches somewhere behind your teeth, suddenly too small to account for seven years of Thursdays and everything the others have been watching all evening. The evening begins moving through your mind again, Rossi opening the door to find your hand on Spencer’s tie, Morgan’s eyebrows when he said Spencer chose to spend Thursdays with you, JJ’s quiet smile, Tara watching the bread pass between your plates, Garcia and Morgan vanishing from the terrace window. “It’s not like that. We’re not—”
“You ready?”
Spencer comes down the hallway with your bag in one hand. His attention passes from your face to Tara’s and then to Garcia, who has become far too interested in her bracelets.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Tara says, recovering first. “I was saying goodnight.”
You can’t find the end of the sentence you were saying. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
He holds your coat while you slip your arms into it and frees your hair from beneath the collar with practised fingers. The touch is the same one you have barely noticed a hundred times. Now the word girlfriend seems to catch against it.
Rossi appears at the end of the hallway. He surveys Tara, whose hand is still on the door, Garcia valiantly looking elsewhere and Spencer adjusting your scarf. “Goodnight,” he says, much too entertained for someone who can’t possibly know what has just happened.
By the time the two of you reach the Metro, Spencer has filled the walk with an account of Rossi insisting tiramisu can’t be made properly without alcohol. He talks while you wait on the platform and keeps going once you’re inside the carriage. The earliest known versions of the dessert lead to the disputed origins of ladyfingers, which somehow bring him back to the argument about stacking Rossi’s crystal.
Usually, you interrupt. You ask questions, argue over details or tug him back to the original point when one tangent begins producing another. Tonight, you watch his reflection in the darkened window while he talks. His curls have grown increasingly disordered over the course of the evening, and one falls across his forehead whenever he turns towards you. Interest animates his whole face — his eyes brighten, his hands move with the rhythm of his words, and every trace of fatigue leaves him for as long as the thought holds him.
You know all of this because you have always known him. What it does to you when he turns that attention on you is hardly new; the part you have never allowed yourself to question is what any of it means from his side. A room full of profilers watched the two of you for a few hours and assumed they already knew. Tara gave that assumption a name, and now every small, familiar thing seems to return carrying the possibility with it.
When the train lurches around a curve, Spencer’s hand closes lightly around your forearm. He releases you once you are steady, still talking. You feel the place his fingers were long after the warmth is gone.
Outside the station, the pavement is damp from an earlier rain, catching the streetlights in long, blurred reflections. Spencer slows his stride to yours without acknowledging the adjustment. He has glanced at you more than once since the train pulled away, waiting at the end of a sentence as though he expects you to tug the conversation elsewhere, and each time he has gone on when you don’t. You’re only a few blocks from home when his explanation of why Rossi’s crystal glasses should never be stacked trails off.
“Everything okay?” His words soften as he studies your face. “You’ve been unusually quiet.”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets you have the answer. You make it another half-block before a disbelieving laugh slips out.
“What?”
You shake your head. “Did you know Tara thought we were dating?”
A smile begins at one corner of his mouth. “What?”
“Yeah.” Saying it aloud makes you unexpectedly shy. You push your hands deeper into your coat pockets. “Apparently everyone did.”
You expect him to laugh. You expect him to question the team’s observational abilities or reconstruct the evidence that led them there. Instead, the smile falters as something you cannot read moves through his expression, and for the first time all evening Spencer has nothing to say.
At the corner, he waits for the light with his hands in his coat pockets and his shoulders drawn in against the cold. The unfinished explanation about Rossi’s glasses hangs somewhere behind you.
“Spence?” You bump your arm against his. “Got really quiet there for a minute.”
He looks at you, then towards the signal as it changes. “Did you correct her?”
You start across the street beside him. “I tried. Then you came over.”
“What were you going to say?”
“That it wasn’t like that. That we weren’t…”
“Dating,” he supplies.
“Right.”
He nods, but the silence returns. You reach the other pavement and stop. Spencer takes one more step before noticing you are no longer beside him.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re being strange.”
“I’m not.”
“You abandoned a fact halfway through.”
“I can finish it.”
“I don’t want to hear about the glasses anymore.”
His eyebrows lift. “Then why did you bring them up?”
“Spencer.”
He goes still. For a moment he simply looks at you, his hair untidy from the wind, a nervous half-smile appearing and disappearing at the corner of his mouth. When he speaks, each word sounds measured.
“I didn’t realise it was that obvious.”
Your pulse stumbles. “What was?”
He doesn’t answer with words. His gaze holds yours, open enough that you can see the question he’s too careful to ask and the truth he has already let escape.
“Oh,” you say. Everything you have been turning over since Rossi’s house settles into place at once. Spencer is still watching you with nervous hope, and Tara’s mistake no longer feels entirely like one.
Spencer glances down at the wet pavement, then back at you, waiting.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says quietly, holding your gaze this time.
For several seconds, all you can do is stare at him. “Spencer, I rearranged my entire week so I could keep Thursdays free for you.”
He blinks. “You said Thursday was convenient.”
“It’s convenient. I made it convenient.”
“For me?” he asks, still sounding uncertain enough to make you want to shake him.
You let out a breath and catch the lapels of his coat. “Yes. For you.”
Then you pull him down and kiss him.
The first touch of your mouth to his goes awry only because Spencer inhales at exactly the wrong moment. His body stills beneath your hands. You feel the startled warmth of his breath, the edge of his lower lip and the smallest movement as he begins to respond — just before nerves get the better of you and you draw back.
His eyes stay closed for another second. When they open, he stares at you, lips parted.
“Because I wanted Thursdays with you,” you say, still holding his coat. “And because I think I’ve wanted to do that for longer than I realised.”
His gaze searches your face. “You’ve wanted this too?”
“Yes, Spence.”
Relief breaks across his face as one of his hands finds your waist, tentative only until you lean into it.
“Then why did you stop?” he asks.
A nervous laugh slips out. “You went completely still.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me.” His fingers curl into your coat and bring you a little closer. “I am now.”
You kiss him again.
This time Spencer meets you halfway. One hand settles against the side of your neck, his thumb fitting beneath your jaw, while the other draws you in at the waist. He kisses you slowly at first, learning the angle, and then with an eagerness that makes you smile against his mouth. His answering laugh is breathless, one you have never heard before and already know you will want to hear again.
When the cold finally makes itself impossible to ignore, you part only far enough to breathe. Spencer’s forehead rests against yours, his breath still unsteady.
“Garcia is going to be unbearable,” you whisper.
“She’s going to say she knew.”
“She did know.”
Spencer closes his eyes. “Please don’t tell her that.”
You laugh and smooth the curl the wind has dropped between his eyebrows. He catches your hand as you lower it, keeping your fingers curled inside his.
“Are Thursdays still mine?” he asks.
“They’re still yours.”
He keeps hold of your hand as you begin walking again, his thumb moving over your knuckles while his shoulder keeps brushing yours. He makes it almost half a block before speaking.
“Friday,” he says.
“What about it?”
“Are you free?”
“No.”
His disappointment is immediate. “Oh.”
You let him endure it until you reach the next streetlight. “But I can move things.”
Wrote before about Spencer being the same to the world but different with you-- but after prison, he's new to the world, but the same to you.
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angst, in my prison feels rn, Spencer's insecurities and traumas, i think I understand how it all happened but I haven't watched it so I can be very wrong idk, we're going off my deduction that cat has the most to do with it idk, if(when) I'm wrong lemme know, it won't change this but it may change future fics ! Um but if thats not how it goes let's just pretend for this one, AU; catification, thankies. The lawyering is definitely not gonna be accurate shhhh, but it's also not done with a lot of detail so don't worry about it. long as fuck this has been brewing in the list since I found out about prison. Was even supposed to be longer bc I had a smut idea tied in but I don't feel like writing smut lately so we can do that later
Over 3,000 words (?)
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"Stay awake a little longer, please?" He gravels, hand on your cheek, thumb fanned by your slowly fluttering lashes. His honey brown eyes are crystalline tonight, a window into everything he's seen in the last few months like an aquarium of the creatures in the depths of the sea.
"I'm trying," you exhale beyond a dizzy, sleepless grin, "But I don't know how much longer I can last."
"Just a little bit-- five more minutes?" Your lips curl further.
"That's what you said ten minutes ago." His calloused thumb runs down your cheek again, in the same cyclical pattern its kept for hours now.
"I'm just not ready to stop being here with you... I missed you." He says it with the same tone as he's always used when coming back from a week-long work trip, not the months of separation, fear, injury, and uncertainty that you'd ever have him like this again. Home. Just a foot away, his hand, the one not busy with savoring the lack of glass holding him from you, squished in your fists in a way you're worried might leave a bruise, but you can't manage to loosen your grip.
"I haven't slept since they told me," you barely utter, "I was too excited, and then I spent like two hours, while I waited for the call to come get you, just cleaning everything up so you'd come home to everything just how you like it." As your eyes weigh again, he breathes soft and slow.
"I'm just glad to be back home with you." His hand leaves your face, cold without his touch, to wrap over your still firm grasp on him. "Goodnight."
Your eyes fly open, heart racing with the realization that you get to wake to him laying beside you. He's laid facing the other direction, but it might be better that way, seeing his face first thing after waking up might send you into cardiac arrest. His body rises and sinks with perfectly steady breaths. The best sleep he's gotten since the last time he laid in this bed. Cast in the lamplight neither of you had the will to extinguish, his usual night light unused on top of the dresser. The covers are pulled all the way up under his chin, his hair splayed over the pillow that you'd clutched to sleep for a hundred days, his slippers are back at the side of the bed, because he's back in it. It still doesn't feel real. If you have to go back to sleep to keep this dream going, you'll sleep forever.
When you wake again, he is gone. The covers across from you are smooth, the pillow plump, nothing on his nightstand. You shoot up just as your stomach drops, your heart pounds, your sanity feels like it's cracking-- until you hear the coffee machine bubbling.
As quick as you can, you get out of bed, and rush down the hall to find Spencer sinking into the sofa with a steaming mug and a few books. Though you could hear him before, the sight allows you to breathe. When his eyes meet yours, you can tell he feels the same. His back straightens, and he sets his things on the table, with unbreaking eye contact as you walk toward him.
"You scared me," you chuckle. His eyes falter, but his hands raise to yours.
"I'm sorry, you just-- you looked like you were sleeping really well, I didn't wanna ruin it." His thumbs trace your knuckles, eyes beneath knitted brows stuck on the rug under your feet.
"You couldn't ruin anything." The whole conversation is whispered, like you're both too scared to speak aloud, like the vibration of your natural voices would shatter the illusion, or like someone might be listening, waiting to come in and break it by hand. "Except crime dramas, and some sci-fi."
When he looks up, it takes no effort to find your gaze again. He places your hands beneath his jaw, to sip in the sight of you, just starting to venture outside your eyes, afraid that if he fully drinks you in, you'll be gone.
"You're safe here," you blurt in a soft exhale, "...I love you." His face is covered in short hairs, a couple new lines and fading scars, but his eyes are just as vast and loving, full of stars, hopeful in spite of it all.
After a long moment, his hands leave your wrists, to trail slowly around your waist like he has to sneak to touch you. Finally wrapped around you for the first time since you held him when you picked him up, he clutches tight, cheek pressed against your stomach, listening to the sounds of your body that he'd missed for such a technically short eternity. The quiet work of the smooth muscles in your diaphragm, digestive system, circulation, now loud with his ear right against you, scored by your heartbeat, warm and steady. His eyes are wide open, staring through a wall some feet away.
You hesitate before asking, but there isn't a better way, and may not be a better time, "Are you okay?"
His breathing pauses.
"I want to say I will be."
Your own lungs stilt. The only response you can give is pushing your fingers into his hair. It's just as soft as it used to be, if a bit drier at the ends. In a moment, his nose slots against your sternum, eyes shut. Millimetre by millimetre, his arms fall down your body, until his fingertips hang from your loose waistband.
His head finally raises again, eyes wide as ever, shimmering with something resembling innocent hope.
"I'll need to go back whenever you're alright with that, I didn't actually get my mom her..." he sighs. Your heart skips like a scratched record at the thought. You could never hope to stop him, though, he'd given you a thousand reasons before leaving the first time, not the least of which simply being, it's his mom. He'll always do anything for her. Except move back home.
"Just-- let me go with you next time? Please? We'll call it a vacation?" He nods, blinking slow like a cat. "And you'll text me updates when you go so I know you're still safe, with your location sharing on, and- whatever else you can think of to protect yourself." He nods again.
"Whatever you need."
Spencer usually has a paperback with him on any train ride, something to zip through in the few minutes between stations, but not today. His face is flat, eyes flicking around the car, hands atop his lap like they're ready to move at any moment.
"Forgot your book?" You smile, thinking you've caught him in a mistake, a slip of his mind that only happens as often as a blue moon.
He shakes his head briefly, "No."
Lately, when you've left the house, his usual, though atypical, verbose nature hasn't shown. He's more still than you remember him, more stoic, keeping his thoughts inside instead of pouring out obscure knowledge about everything he lays his eyes on. You used to think he only did it to impress you, cerebral peacocking to replace the poorly-planned physical feats of other men's employ.
"You can tell me anything," you pipe quietly, below earshot of the other riders.
"You don't..." His lips hardly move, also only speaking for you to hear, "you don't need to know all the details, it's okay, we don't have to think about any of it."
"You'll have to go to court, though, won't you? To testify? And I'll be there in the... The gallery, so I'll at least hear what the lawyers ask about." It's as if he truly forgot that part. His already still body turns statuesque. His head shakes.
"You don't need to be there, you don't deserve to have all that stuff on your mind." Your head tilts further into his space, a privilege of closeness that few people get.
"You never had that choice." His hand leaves his own knee to jump to yours, a simple weight on you.
"But I can make the choice to not put that on you," he pushes back.
"So then it's on you alone, what's the point of me being here if I can't help you carry things like that?" You hit the conversation back along with the racquet, clattering under the screeching steel wheels and the squeak of the doors sliding open. As someone pushes past all the other passengers, Spencer's eyes narrow to a chilling glare.
When the doors close again, he finally replies again, "Then you'll hear it in the courtroom."
That night, back in the safety of his apartment, away from prying eyes, Spencer sits curled up in an armchair, knitting needles in hand, working quickly even with his somewhat clumsy fingers. Orchestral strings sing out from the record player in the corner, softly sinking into the rug. His glasses hang from his nose, an old T-shirt hangs off his frame, flannel pants swallow some of the yarn in their folds.
"What are you making?" You settle lightly onto the couch, leaning against the arm rest for a peek at his new project, a shade between purple and burgundy. His lip quirks.
"I don't know, I just needed something to do with my hands... Do you want a new scarf?" His eyes fly from his work toward you, expansive, almost childlike. You smile, as easily as an autumn breeze that carries crisp leaves and the smell of cinnamon.
"I'd love one." He smiles back, before his head turns back down to the work in his lap, when he abruptly slides out the needles and starts rigging at the yarn, unraveling all the rows he's already finished.
"Now I know what I'm aiming for," he mutters to himself. He makes quick work of casting on, and quicker work of the first few rows, following a pattern stored away in his head for empty, easy nights like this.
After the initial hustle of the public gallery filling up, the room falls silent for the judge's entrance, then another bustle as the jury is led into their seats, stiff chairs that they've already spent a day in, and will spend many more. Spencer had warned you of that much, even just staying for his testimony until the judge breaks for recess will take hours, you'll be stuck in the courtroom likely long after he's dismissed, and you'll hear more than you'll want to. Luckily, he would be up first thing after all the formalities of a new court day.
Your stomach churns at the sight of just the back of the defendant, black hair tied back, hanging over a shirt that bares the wrinkles of the briefcase it would have been brought to her in.
"Defendants' lawyers often bring in more formal-looking clothes, since a jumpsuit can breed prejudice in a jury," Spencer had once told you whole watching a movie. You didn't think it might actually be pertinent information in your life before you saw him in this very courthouse in a spot just like the one she sits in, in the same suit he's wearing in the hall right now. The jury has yet to decide, but you already know her fate, even if you don't yet know the details of what's bringing her to it.
Your eyes dart to the back of the room as soon as the district attorney starts their, "The prosecution calls..." Within a moment, he's led by the bailiff to the witness stand, to be sworn in on a Bible you know he doesn't fully believe in. He glances at you for a split millisecond before his attention becomes fixed on the lawyer, not to leave until he's done explaining every minute detail of his relationship to her, every mistake, every hurt, every reason you had to be without him for so long.
He answers each question clearly, confidently, the opposite of the attitude he had last time he was on the stand, when he was exhausted, uncertain, scared. His voice projects out to the jury, aided to the gallery by the small microphone in front of him. It's like he's back in an element, back where he should be, an advisor and a witness rather than the accused. Your stomach tangles more with every word he speaks, and more again with every move she makes to whisper or scribble a note to her lawyers.
The weight in your gut turns with the flick of his eyes toward you as the defense lawyer approaches him. You try to breathe, the man is doing one of the most important jobs in the system, you can't blame him for what she did, the last defense lawyer you'd seen was your lifeline until the final judgement.
He starts with standard clarifications, elaborations, none of it really helping her at all. Spencer's a bad witness to poke holes in, with his near-perfect memory and expertise in the field, he knows exactly what needs to be said and how, to make sure the jury understands everything exactly as he does. The man has to pivot in some way, at some point.
"Now, Dr. Reid, I'm sorry if this feels like overstepping-- though, of course, you have enough experience to be prepared for these things-- but you don't seem too terribly affected by all of these events, which you claim to be caused by the defendant just over there, is there a reason you seem so... Aloof?"
The facade in his eyes cracks, particularly obvious in the way his pupils search for you. He clears his throat.
His voice softens for the first time all day, almost grating, "I'm trying very hard to be clear in my testimony." The knot in your stomach shoots to strangle in your throat.
Your lifeline now is that her lawyers had decided that it would be in her best interest to not get on the stand.
You had to fester in it for hours on end, stuck on a wooden bench with no way out, nothing to occupy your anxious hands, nowhere to go if the nausea won out, no way to go after Spencer once the judge determined they'd wrung their use out of him. His steps burned against the tiled floor, seemingly a mile ahead of the bailiff leading him back out, face turning rosy, brow tight, just as his jaw, which looked like it might pop. Like a completely different man than the one you know.
And he has to sit out there waiting for you until the judge calls for a lunch recess. And you have to stay here.
As soon as the words are formed in the judge's mind, before the gavel can even call attention, you're the first one out the door, searching the halls for him, before digging in your purse to turn your phone back on to find him. You realize you're already panting, stomach still in knots as you wait for your phone to boot back up.
"Went outside, I couldn't wait in there any longer, I'm sorry, let me know when you get this," he texted an hour after his dismissal.
You rush out, down the steps, head on a swivel in search of him.
A small, grassy knoll with a young birch tree provides shade for his hunched body, blazer laid over his lap, tie swishing between his hands. A breeze hits the nauseous sweat gathered on your forehead.
"Hey," you start, just to warn him of your presence, "You okay?" The grass crumples under your knees. He huffs, and quickly wraps his tie into a spiral.
"She's not the only one... Not in this case, not in any of her charges... There will always be more... Even when I was in prison, I thought there was someone who really wanted to help me, but he- he was just using me... And-- every other time," his head shakes, "I keep trusting people." You take his hand, he matches your grip.
"You have to, and you can't help it anyway, you're an optimist, you've seen the worst of the world and you- you still know there's good in it-- I love that about you." He glances up from the blades of grass for a long second.
"I know." He adjusts his grasp on your hand to tighten it. "I spend a lot of time, especially when I was- when I had nothing better to do, just thinking of all the reasons why you like me." For a moment, the courthouse no longer exists. You scooch in a bit closer.
"What could you come up with?" The corner of his lip twitches as he glances up again.
"I think you actually like the fact that I'm smart, not just in ways that benefit you, you just actually seem interested when I talk, and--" he chuckles, "When you aren't, you always ask if I can tell you about it later, as if it'll be interesting if I just wait a few hours."
You laugh lightly in return, "It works! Sometimes I'm just tired or hungry and I just need some quiet for a minute, but you're always interesting, because you always care." His head sinks back to where it was before you came to kneel beside him, but with a nearly dopey smile instead of a hallowed thousand-yard stare. "You know you can trust me, right? I'd never try to hurt you, and I trust you more than anyone." The smile sinks slightly. He breathes, and looks to your knitted fingers, before back up to your eyes.
"I know."
With his blazer, vest, and tie left in the car, you reach across the table to unbutton his stiff collar, though he pretends to fight it. The space is all brand new, freshly upholstered seating, polished floorboards, perfectly chrome cutlery. You can almost still smell the paint on the wall.
"I wanted to wait to come here until you got back, but last month-- I was having a really bad day, and I thought maybe you wouldn't, so I-- they have really good bread here." The dim, atmospheric light swinging over the table shines off the face of his watch.
"What do they actually serve though?" He props onto his elbows, leaning in. Whenever you know something he doesn't, he seems enamored by the opportunity.
"I got pasta, the fettuccine alfredo, I needed something rich and not amazingly nutritious-- but they have salads, and soups, and sandwiches, all kinds of stuff-- oh! And I got their vanilla bean cake, it was so good, too! But they have other desserts that I wanna try one day, also." He watches anytime you ramble with wide swirls of honey, amber, maple, and heartache. Overwhelming vibrancy and smoke. You have to look away, and in your glance out a window, a random thoughts pops up. "Why didn't you ever tell me you have a keyboard?" His posture pulls back and his head cocks, along with an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
"You have a keyboard! I found it buried in that closet in your office-- I didn't even know you played!" The tips of his ears turn pink.
"I- I never got that good at it," he shrugs, looking down at the table, brushing off his own abilities like he always does, because if he actually recognized them, he'd be too big for any room.
"But you never even told me you tried! I wanna hear you play," you pout exaggeratedly, "even if you're bad at it." His flush spreads to his cheeks, but he's saved from any further embarrassment by the waiter bringing their fluffy, warm bread, and menus. In an instant, his blush is gone, and his smile drops into something more fitting to offer a stranger, voice dropping into something more cavernous. Something new.
"Rubinstein went on a three-year long concert tour when he was just eleven years old, across Europe under Aleksandr Villoing," Spencer goes on as his fingers locate the next keys. "This piece--Melody in F-- is really good for me to play, because it's not about technical ability, and it's supposed to be slow, to let the melody shine, as the name would suggest."
You watch from his desk chair, hypnotized by the movements of his slender digits, and the focus on his brow as he tries to maneuver them in the right rhythm. Those fingers, though sometimes stilted and awkward, also have their moments of full fluidity, like when he uses his mastery in sleight of hand, or demonstrates his love and trust in smooth circles all down your body.
"He founded, and directed the St. Petersburg conservatory for many years, on and off... Tchaikovsky studied there for three years." Another sweetly high note ends his sentence and breaks his distraction with talking. "There was, um, there was this case years ago, this little boy was sort of attached, and he struggled to communicate, especially with strangers... But he loved the piano, and he kind of invited me to sit and try it with him... It felt really special."
And that's the thing Spencer is, above anything else. Special. The only person like him in your life. A man who never connected with the kids his age, but got to connect with a kid just like that as an adult, where so many grow up and forget what it was like to be small and curious and kind. He was the same ten-year-old prodigy as the composer, pushed into greatness by people who didn't really care what it meant for them. And it's gotten him hurt a million times. More, probably. He could probably even tell you the exact number. But still can't see all the warning signs.
"I had no idea about everything that happened," you blurt, finally letting go of the urge to make it better with a band-aid and a hug. He holds a low note long after he's supposed to.
"I... I wanted to keep it away from what we have." Your stomach bubbles with everything you heard in the morning.
"But it's in you... And it's so recent... I really do want to know that stuff Spencer, I can't treat you right if I don't know." You roll the chair forward, fighting the hairs stuck in one of the wheels. He takes his hands away from the keys to sit stiffly in his lap.
"You treat me fine," he says out loud, but mutters far beneath his breath, "better than I deserve." A small crease sits at the corner of his eyes, and a rectangular valley between his dark brows.
"But I don't want to do something that hurts you and I have no idea! Like I-- I didn't know--" you huff, "You've told me other things that have made me careful with touching you, but this, just, feels different." Your shoulders draw forward, down, chest heaving though you've been sitting still for half an hour.
"I don't even know that it really happened," he offers.
"Does that really help?" He sighs, and looks back at the keyboard, before reaching to turn it back off. He shifts in his seat to face you, and grabs the arm of your chair to pull you nearer. "I just want to do whatever I can to let you feel safe."
"I do," he says, though his still down-turned gaze isn't the least bit convincing. "You've never made me feel unsafe," he continues with more conviction, "you've understood my... specificities even before I tell you why they're there, and you're always careful with me, even when you're pretending not to be, and you stuck with me during one of the hardest periods of my life." His palms spread over your hands. "I don't shake hands and I don't love to share food and I'm bad at talking to people, especially about my feelings, and I didn't know if I would ever want to get married, but the whole time I was in there I thought about the chapel room with it's bolted down benches and a copy of every major religious text but a statue of the crucifixion hanging above the door-- because I wanted to be with you and touch you and really talk to you again without anyone supervising it... I know I could tell you anything, but a lot of times you make me forget everything until we stop talking."
You pull one hand away from his encompassing ones, to brush as gently as you can into his hair.
His jaw rushes forward until it stops a single quectometre from meeting your lips. You wait for something, words, escalation of touch, retreat, but he stays still. Warmth with the undernote of vanilla blooms over your skin from his slightly parted lips. When you finally tilt up the slightest bit, you're pulled into a kiss, Spencer moving in exactly the same soothing tempo as the orchestration.
Spencer huffs as he reenters the office lobby, sweat soaked through the back of his shirt, wiping away the water from his raw fingers after scrubbing until every trace of grease was eliminated. He digs into his bag, past the few belongings he'd retrieved from his desk drawers, to find his phone. Each button beeps and clicks as he dials your number, the keys worn after so many years of service.
"I thought you were headed out?" JJ interrogates, her short heels a beat on the tiles, Emily's shoes shortly in pursuit.
"I was, but the Volvo won't start, it's been too long since I drove it, maybe the gas lines or something, I'm gonna call a tow, you guys don't have to worry about it-- we'll talk later about- all this," he looks around the glimmering lobby, the exact same as it's been since he first stepped in over a decade ago. Stagnant while the people working in it are thrown from trauma to trauma, win to win, one life suddenly cut into a completely new one. His colleagues have claimed that they'd understand if he quits, but it doesn't feel truly honest.
But being back here brings bile to his throat.
But he can't imagine his life without this career.
"You drove?" Emily questions, "I thought you always take the train, I've never understood how you get in on time." The dial tone keeps humming in his ear.
"It was supposed to save time, I have dinner plans, obviously didn't work out though."
Finally, his furrowed brow relaxes, and it's as if a cool breeze washes over him when he hears your, "Hey, everything okay?"
Emily squints at him, and the sudden click out of the stress he'd just been exuding.
JJ sees the same thing, the slight shift of his foot to angle him a few degrees further away, the way his head tilts to hear you better, the lift of his tone that clearly isn't coming from speaking to a mechanic.
"It's alright, the car broke down, I knew I should've checked on everything before driving it again, but I wanted to get back to help you cook so I just hopped in-- but maybe we could save the stir fry for tomorrow night and just get delivery or something?" Though he's leaning to his toes, always anxious you'll be disappointed or upset, the warmth of your smile radiates through the speaker.
"Is this a ploy because you don't want my stir fry?"
Both the women standing by are taken back by the giggle that leaves him.
"No, I'm gonna call a tow truck, so over these next couple days I'm gonna have to get in and try to figure out what's going on, try and put my engineering degree to any kind of use-- not that there's actually much correlation there, but-- I'll try."
The only times they've ever seen him interact with you were when you were at his court dates, and when you picked him up after release. Never a conversation like this, simple and playful, unguarded, looking around the room vacantly instead of searching for some kind of threat.
"Just make sure you don't call that guy we got when my car crapped out driving home from the airport, he was rude." His head shakes as if you can see it.
"The Tow King? I'm never hiring him again, but I'd put his behavior more at creepy than rude, trying to flirt with you, badly-- and that's saying something from me--"
You giggle as you pick up the basket of laundry you've been folding since before he called, remembering Spencer's floundering attempts at letting you know he was interested. The way he flubbed his own name when you'd asked it, and spent entirely too long trying to explain his career and degrees and relationship history. The time he tried to wink at you from across a room but ended up with a full face scrunch. It worked out in his favor.
"I left a review on Yelp and the Better Business Bureau afterward, I didn't like that he would act like that to someone in a crisis situation, I can't imagine how he acts when someone's alone on the side of the highway... criminologist Michael Arntfield listed automobile upholsterer and truck driver as common professions among serial killers."
"Mm-hm, well you can't leave out how you stood up to him in person, too, before that I didn't really believe you had it in you," you laugh again at the memory of your friend asking if he subsists on photosynthesis. You still aren't sure if sunlight isn't a major portion of his diet, just sugar and chlorophyll.
On Spencer's end, his head drops, along with his tone, back into the one that JJ and Emily have heard the entire time he's been here.
"I'll always try to protect you."
"I know, baby," you drop the basket at the foot of the bed and tug open a drawer in the dresser. "Do you wanna get pizza, or sandwiches, or... What sounds good tonight?" You change the subject before it can become too sappy while 45 minutes apart.
He hums, torn between telling you to pick and thinking up something he hasn't had since crossing the border. "You remember that place we went once, and you got kinda drunk, with the appetizer flight? The mozzarella sticks, guacamole, all the fried stuff, but also balanced with the starter salad-- And the flatbread pizzas? You have an hour to get ready and then we'll go there?"
You huff, "That was, like, years ago! Yeah, we'll- we'll go there, and I'll try to drink a little less this time, because that night is, uh, a little blurry, I remember you looked really good in their lights though."
The women still watching him are now wishing they had as good a memory as him, to be able to recall if they've ever seen his cheeks flush that quickly and that brightly ever before. Emily faintly recalls when the topic of weekend plans came up and Spencer got shy, instead of blathering on about chess championships or code-athons. JJ is brought back to a time she was in a panic for a sitter, and even her last resort fell through when Spencer couldn't find a real word to formulate his excuse, which is now clear. It's rare to see him get any compliment, it's unseen that it would come from someone that makes him react like this.
Your mouth waters as the platter full of deep-fried goodies is slid between you and Spencer, cheese bubbling, guacamole aroma wafting around with the swirling steam. Spencer unrolls his silverware while you dive right in with your fingers, never as cautious as him with grease or germs or dirt. It's weird to admire something about you that terrifies him so much. But he'll watch you touch a door handle or eat finger foods or fix your shoelaces, and still let you caress his cheek while you distract him from his crawling skin with a sweet kiss.
As if it's casual, he pipes after swallowing a piece of onion ring, "Do you think I should keep my job, as it is?" Your eyes widen, and you swallow your mouthful of fried cheese.
"I don't think that's up to me, my love," you stilt, pawing at your face with a napkin, to remove the oil from this solemn conversation. He shrugs, stabbing into the small plate of salad between the platter of junk and his sugar-filled soda.
"But if it was? I mean, I was kind of thinking I might at least ask to... I don't know, not work in the field anymore? Like-- like how Garcia works, just in the bureau office, doing research, no more last minute, late night flights, no more... Worrying about when, or if, I'll come home." As he turns the conversation back to you, his eyes are glued to the table, clearly trying to act cool about the question, like it isn't the product of a quiet identity crisis bubbling inside himself. You blink, still clutching the napkin.
"I, um, I've never seen you put your safety above anything..."
His lips tighten, "It is kind of... selfish, isn't it?" The fork clinks in the dish of lettuce.
"Spencer," you nearly groan, "you don't have a selfish cell in your body, what do you want?" Though your eyes are now glued to him, ignoring anyone or anything else in the restaurant, his are stuck in the grain of the wooden table.
After a long pause, filled with clinking of other's silverware, boisterous laughter from the tipsy group a few booths down, and not one blink between the two of you, Spencer finally huffs.
"I want to come home to you."
You breathe slowly, "Does that affect your decision?"
He sets the fork down onto his plate, before the heel of his hand slides across the table until it hits your knuckles. His hands are always warm, even when the rest of him isn't, when his mind is cold and stuck. His fingers wrap around your palm, tight, but with enough room for you to reciprocate the pressure at your own pace. With the contact, his face relaxes into something smoother, something revelatory.
ᨒ↟ ⋆｡° This is part three (and final) of do you want me to teach you? previous part
Pairing: s2!Spencer Reid x f!reader
Summary: Prolonging and pushing down the words 'I love you' has been going successfully until you end up with Spencer on the side of a secluded road, in the middle of the most forested state, stuck with an unmoving car. Words spill and touch burns; love is shared, and intimacy is treasured.
Warnings/tags: 18+ smut, fluff and some slight angst!! p in v, inexperienced Spencer, vaginal sex, riding, Spencer is pathetic, praise kink, first time sex, one mention of v0mit, description of a crime scene, vaginal fingering, experienced reader, hand job, Spencer cums in his pants, mutal pining, clothed grinding, pussy play, he steals ur panties, creampie (hehe), reader is on birth control, making out, love confessions, sweetness, kissing, oral (f!receiving), yearning, semi public sex, swallowing the lump in your throat.
Word count: 8.2k
Author notes:
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ i hope you all love this fic. this is unfortunately the last of this little 'do you want me to teach you?' trilogy. i have really enjoyed making this small series and am so grateful for the love, but since this all started from a one-shot i didn't plan to follow on with i don't have much connection with the character, which is quite peeving, and that is why this won't be continuing!!
im so sorry i have been gone for so long; life has been hectic, and love has been shit! i have returned, though and am coming in hard because my new series is currently brewing! -> soft ruin
if you like or perhaps even loved this fic please do reblog, it helps the author out so much and reblogging is the way we grow!
⟶ masterlist
“I think we should start considering two unsubs”, you suggest as your fingers pull the car door handle.
“Yeah, but I don't necessarily believe there is enough evidence towards that”, Spencer ponders, shaking his head slightly. He ducks his head due to his height, his slicked brown hair only just brushing the top of the door frame as he gets in the car. “Forensic evidence-wise, there is nothing to prove that theory, and only one out of the five crime scenes displays rage.”
The sound of tweeting blackbirds stops just as both car doors close, silence enveloping the space as the seatbelts click into place. Sunrise flickers through the dark, greying clouds, dancing on the windshield, soft splats of rain following.
The weather feels like a taunt after the sight you had just witnessed, a mocking in disguise. A seemingly loving couple's bodies lie not even twenty feet away in their own front yard, surrounded by detectives and crime scene tape. The fifth couple in two weeks.Ten dead bodies.
But the sun doesn’t stop shining, and the wind doesn't halt its whispers for anyone, no matter how brutal the mess is.
“Spencer, the brutality is significantly different from the others; the placement of the bodies for the other crime scenes shows remorse, and this one-” you glimpse outside your rain-splattered side window to where the bodies are being zipped up in body bags “this one shows pure anger, hatred even.”
You look back over to Spencer, his own eyes observing the crime scene past your shoulder. You can identify the cogs turning behind his stare, his brows furrowing as he flits his gaze back towards you.
“This couple may mean something more to him; he personally knew them and had a grudge over past or present problems. It explains the anger. The other victims were placed where they were through guilt because he didn’t know them; they were picked at random, by opportunity.”
Bitter blood slides over your tongue; you hadn’t realised you had been biting it so hard. You got used to the sight of dead bodies, however dismembered and unrecognisable, but it still made your stomach churn and twist.
“You okay?”
The soft worry in his voice shakes you out of your head; blood didn’t seem so potent when his gaze was on you.
“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay; it's just that the other scenes were- mild, I suppose. I could still see their faces and the colour of their skin, so I had it wired that this one would be the same. Two punctures through the chest. Not body parts all over the local park.”
You breathe out, attempting to exhale all the tension wound tight in your body. Hoping to wipe away the sight of pooled blood and cut tendons. You didn’t like your emotions on display, didn’t like how, after years in the job, it still rose up your throat when you couldn’t tell who someone was, but you could tell what part of their body you were looking at.
“Do you want me to drive?” his voice is so tender you could kiss him. Would kiss him if you understood anything about what was going on between you.
“No, I got it. Honestly.”
Twisting the keys in the ignition, the engine rumbles. You cut a quick glance to the left of you, where Hotch and Gideon are exchanging information with the head detective, and then you press your foot down; the car rolling forward.
The rain turns angry quickly, thundering down unapologetically against the car instead of the previous soft pitter-patter. The forest trees grow taller the closer you get to the police station, creating walls of evergreen around the seemingly never-ending secluded road.
The wipers squeak as they move across the windshield, trying desperately to remove the clear raindrops that blur the view. The road is silent, no cars behind or coming the other way and nothing but thick trees for miles. The dark clouds above make it seem like something out of a movie.
Ironic really.
Driving in an FBI-issued Chevrolet in the most forested state in the US whilst it’s pissing it down with Spencer sitting next to you. It is harder than you admit to yourself, sitting next to him on a daily basis like you didn’t know the pressure of his kiss.
What a fucked up movie scene this would be.
“You know, nearly ninety per cent of Maine is forest, seventeen point six million acres of trees”, Spencer mutters matter-of-factly, breaking the silence within the car.
Your eyes peel away from the road for a split second, catching sight of Spencer's side profile. His focus is on the dense forest passing by; his glasses reflect the greenery glistening and shaking.
“Lots of forest”, you respond, your attention back on the road.
Your heart feels too tender near him, squishy as if it wants to be moulded by his delicate hands. You swallow your own words every time he gets too close, bite your cheeks when you catch ‘that look’ from him and zip yourself up when you find yourself thinking too much about how bad you want to scribble the word lesson from his vocabulary.
Maybe this was too far gone. Maybe you were silently falling in love with him, whilst he just thought it was all a lesson. It had started out as a lesson, but not so much anymore.
That morning three weeks ago, when your mouth was on him, felt like you were both waiting for something more. You had tightened up his tie, and he had passed you your jacket like you were practising for next time, as though next time wouldn't be underlined as a teaching.
The next time had yet to come, as much as you wanted it to.
“I think we should talk ab-” he starts.
Was he thinking the same thing?
Loud metallic clanking pauses Spencer's words; the SUV starts jerking slightly, rocking you in your seat. Your hands tighten around the wheel, and your foot presses off the accelerator slightly in an attempt to gain control of the vehicle. Gravel crunches like loud cries under the tyres as you steer the car over to the side of the road.
You only breathe properly after the car is stopped and the keys are twisted. Peering out of the window, you look around to see if any cars are close by, but you assume everyone is tucked under their blankets at six am and therefore no help in this little predicament.
“Did we just break down?” Spencer asks, furrowing his brows: such an unusual thing, a question falling from the lips of the man who knows everything.
This is the last thing you need when you and Spencer are vitally needed on this case and at the police station in approximately… twenty minutes.
The police station that was more than five miles away.
Twisting the keys again only has the engine sputtering like it is trying its hardest to do something, but failing miserably. You don’t think rubbing the wheel and giving it soft motivating words is the cure; you damn sure would rather do that than step foot in the pouring rain.
“I think so, yeah”, you hesitate, letting out a frustrated groan, running your hands down your face before pressing the button that pops the hood.
The rain is cold, sending a shivering chill down your spine as you step out of the car and close the door. The sweater hugging your body does nothing to stop the pounding rain from seeping against your skin. Not even a second outside, vulnerable to the elements, and you already feel soaked through to the bone.
Propping the hood up, you move your face closer to the inside of the car. Were you meant to know what you were looking at? Nothing was smoking, rattling or doing anything obvious; you're pretty sure the engine is still intact.
“Spencer!” you call for him, the rain getting louder around you.
The passenger door opens and closes, and Spencer's tall frame waddles over; his arms crossed over his head, yet not doing the best job of keeping the rain away. Droplets roll down his face, dripping from his lashes and sliding down the tip of his nose. You pass him a look that says ‘Do you know what the fuck I'm looking at?’
He squints his eyes, a small wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “What?”
You lift a teasing eyebrow at his confusion “I thought you had a degree in engineering?”
“I do”
You huff out a short laugh and smile at the ridiculousness of it all “Does that not include cars?”
“I could tell you what everything is but not the problem; I'm not really good with mechanical knowledge”, he bites his bottom lip as he studies the engine bay like he’s guilty of his lack of knowledge, uncomfortable with the idea of not having an answer to something.
He looks back over to you, his lips twitching up in an amused smile. You wonder if you have the same effect on him as he does on you, a bad day that turns good just from the sight of him. But you particularly don’t see how looking like a wet rat would cheer him up.
“We are stranded in the middle of Maine with an unusable car”, you point out the obvious. The laughable reality of your situation.
You find your own mouth twitching, unable to stop the entertained smile from painting your lips. This shouldn’t be as funny as it is; there is a serial killer on the loose, one you and Spencer are meant to help catch, and then fate fucked you sideways.
Hell, maybe you were going crazy.
“Maybe we should call roadside assistance?” you recommend, gripping the hood of the car and slamming it back down.
Spencer shakes his head. “Roadside assistance would take up to three hours in this part of the state. It’s best if we call Hotch and see if we could get someone to come up and drive us to the station.”
Your eyes widen at his words: “Three hours?”
He presses his lips together and nods before speaking, “Indeed.”
Stepping into the middle of the empty road, you look around for any sign of nearby civilisation, hoping on a slim chance that lightbulbs will appear above your head.
None.
Spencer is already on the phone as you walk back to the SUV, your shoes squelching with every step. You feel like a teabag that has soaked in water for too long. His back leans on the car as he speaks into the phone, the wind whipping his hair out of place and leaving strands hanging in front of his eyes.
Branches sway, talking to one another as though they already knew more than most. Funny how trees are better communicators than half of the human population, better than yourself.
You stand in front of him, not too close but close enough to hear Aaron's rough voice through the phone speaker. Spencer watches your movements, the way you fiddle with your beaded bracelet like it grounds you, as though you're battling an emotion without a name.
“Hotch says Morgan will be here in approximately half an hour” he slides his phone back in his pocket.
Half an hour? The meeting with the local PD will be over by then, and there won’t be much to say that hasn’t already been said.
“How does he know where we are?” you question, confused. You were well aware of what road you were on, and the vague vicinity of the nearest town, but this road went on for miles and miles, up and down hills and into the deepest forests.
Spencer absentmindedly taps the black steel of the car, his finger drumming on the door. The weather's assault on the gravel road and the overbearing pine trees drown out any sounds his fingertips might be making.
“I guessed the coordinates”
You were too stunned to speak for a good while; you felt your eyebrows raise in response to his words. “You guessed the coordinates?”
He nods, a small smile on his lips. In half an hour, you would either thank him for his smarts or tease him profusely about sending Derek in a completely different direction.
His small smile, despite being in the middle of nowhere, soaked through, does something to your insides. Your traitorous heart beats against your ribs, starved for something it wasn’t promised. His glasses are spotted with water droplets, and in defiance of his vision being blurred, he looks at you like you're the answer to everything.
You're not sure what you have done to earn it.
This is the first time in three weeks, two days and twenty-three hours that you have both been alone together. Three weeks, two days and twenty-three hours since you both walked out of his apartment together and had a silent agreement that what had happened that morning and the night before was more than a lesson. Something that involved feelings. Something hard to walk away from.
He is an amazing friend and co-worker, but you always carried something more that was only reserved for him. You should have known the moment you sent that drunk text that the outcome was never going to be stuffing your feelings down and sucking his cock like you didn’t want to get on your knees and beg him to love you.
“I think we should talk” Your voice doesn’t flatter or waver, even as you feel the heat rising to your cheeks. It is a conversation that needs to be had, and you needed to tell your little love-bug heart that it would be all okay, no matter the outcome.
His throat bobs, but he seems to understand.
Neither of you mention the cosy warmth waiting inside the car, the solace of being in a dry space. The rain continues to batter both of you, the wind whipping your hair and the musky wet soil scent filling your nose. It would be much more comfortable talking inside, but the conversation wasn’t meant to be comfortable anyway.
Love wasn’t always meant to be sheltered and hidden; it was meant to be uncovered and bared out in the open, to spread like wildfire.
“What are we?” you ask softly, the wind carrying your words.
“I'm not quite sure”, he answers, half to himself. The tip of his nose is flushed pink, eyes half-lidded as he holds eye contact with you.
Heated tension passes between you both; your heart does funny things and beats like a door knock so relentlessly you wonder if it interrupts the silence within you a couple of times. Your legs feel like noodles, and your chest feels as though it's chained with bolts and screws.
“I like you”, you breathe out, admitting to the biting words.
You were the one who told Spencer you wanted to teach him how to make a woman feel good; you were the one who gave him instructions as he feasted between your legs; you were the one who looked up with fire in your eyes as he came in your mouth with pathetic whimpers.
So why the fuck were you so nervous?
“I- I like you too” his voice is stuttered and quiet, as innocent as the first time you kissed him.
He liked you.
You had considered yourself crazy for a while after leaving his apartment those few days ago. Life went by like normal, cases, files and daily routine, and yet it wasn’t the same. You had convinced yourself that maybe Spencer still thought of you in a friendly way despite it all, that he was able to go back to normalcy because it didn’t affect him the way it did you.
But outside of all the sexual encounters that night and morning, he had held you, kissed you, and called you things that ‘just friends’ would never say to each other. You suspected it was more, always did, but to hear Spencer confirm that almost has you falling to your knees in relief.
It only takes a couple of steps, your feet feeling lighter than earlier, and your mouth is upon his.
He stills for a second before his mouth responds to yours, a small sigh leaving his soft lips.
He tastes just the same as before, the sweet coffee you had dreams about mixed with potent desperation. Your hands put faint pressure on his chest, pushing his back against the side of the wet car.
The kiss is much more hungry and meaningful than the others you shared with him before. His hands come to your cheeks, holding them and pulling you deeper like he is scared you will slip away.
He moves his tongue against yours painfully slow, memorising the taste and feel of your lips with every sacred second.
In spite of the cold weather closing around you and your clammy skin, your body starts to heat up, flames lighting up in the most vulnerable places. You softly moan into the kiss, letting your body fall into his.
Pulling back slightly, your lips hovering over his, you start unbuttoning the top of his wet cardigan.
“We” kiss “are” kiss “in” kiss “public”, he mutters against your lips, all too aware of being on the side of the road.
It had been almost ten minutes since you broke down, and still not a single car was in sight; it was far too early, and the weather was far too bad for anyone to be on the road. But you look up at him anyway, recognising his hesitation.
“It’s half six in the morning.”
“The average population wake up around six; it's a work day, and this road goes into the main city”, he stammers quietly, his eyes on your lips as he speaks.
“What? Do you want to stop?” you say teasingly, continuing to unbutton his top.
He scrunches his eyes like that's the most ridiculous thing you could say in that moment. “No- no, I don’t want to stop.”
He was right, though; it would probably take only a couple of minutes for cars to start driving through this road regularly. You wanted nothing more than to bend over the hood and let him take you, but being fired for public indecency as an FBI agent wasn't on your agenda.
You roll your bottom lip against your teeth and look behind him, through the window and to the interior of the vehicle. The FBI-issued SUV was bigger than most cars, enough room to do … activities, activities that definitely shouldn’t be done in a car owned by the FBI.
“Get in the car”
“That’s still illegal, you know” he swallows and surveys the road behind you.
“It's raining; the windows will steam” You tilt your head to look at him, neediness reflected in your eyes.
“So?”
“So don’t get caught”, you respond, smirking.
He contemplates it for a while, his cheeks flushed bright red, battling between sensibility and desire. He looks off to the side and shakes his head slightly, a small nervous smirk tugging his lips.
Your eyebrows are raised slightly, waiting for verbal agreement that you could open the car door and let him fall apart under your touch. He looks back at you, his expression leering and hungry, and you understand instantly. You feel your panties dampen even more, dripping with something that isn’t just rainwater.
You back up, your chest leaving his, and he steps away from the car door so you can reach forward and grip the cold black metal of the handle.
The inside of the vehicle is far warmer than outside, and the air is thick with leather and something fresh that has you wondering why you didn’t get out of the rain sooner.
You crawl across the black leather seats and then turn around, leaning your back against the inside of the car door. Spencer runs his hand through his wet hair, slicking back the loose strands and looking around the forest as though he expects there to be an entity watching, ready to report every sin soon to be committed.
He shuffles into the car, soaking the seats under his knees and closes the door behind him. Hard slaps of rain hit the outside of the car, and the gloomy lighting sets the ambience, highlighting the passion and longing thrumming between you.
Scooting down, you lie your back flat against the seats. One of your legs hangs off the side, opening them, inviting Spencer to take what his strained pants said he so desperately needed.
His mouth is slightly parted, breathing deeply, his brain short-circuiting from the pure sight of you lying before him in such a foolhardy manner. This was wrong on so many levels: in the back of an FBI car, about to touch his co-worker on the side of a soon-to-be busy road, with his cock throbbing.
“We’re getting the car wet”, he mumbles.
“Taking our clothes off probably helps with that”, you whisper, smiling at his flustered state.
His eyes run down your clothed body, probably remembering the way your soft skin felt under his hands, how the sweet spot between your legs had him completely pussy drunk.
Spencer nervously leans over you, his trembling hand coming to the side of your head. You drink in his dark gaze that doesn’t break away, not even for a second, as though he wants to swim in whatever it is that he finds behind your eyes.
“We have twenty minutes”, you whisper, reaching up to tug on his plaid tie.
A deep moan leaves his mouth as your lips crash into his like a tidal wave, a beautiful impact. The hand beside your head squeezes into a fist, a sign that he’s falling apart inside, melting into everything his pleasure sinks its teeth into.
Your gun clanks on the floor, falling from its holster. Thank fuck the safety is on.
The front of his grey tailored chinos strains, a tent of arousal evident. Your breath hitches in anticipation; there hasn’t been a day that has gone by recently where you haven’t found yourself cutting glances at his crotch, remembering it twitching against your mouth.
Sitting on his knees, he slides your Converse flats off, water dripping onto the car mats, and then brings his finger to your belt loops. The belt hits the floor with a soft thud. One less restriction, one step closer.
“Can I? Am I allowed to- is this what you want?” he asks, his voice low and rough. His timid eyes look at you through thick lashes, his eyebrows slightly raised as if it physically pains him to have a layer of clothes keeping you from him.
“Do you want it too?”
He nods a few times, emphasising the point that he really did want this.
Warm morning sunlight peeks through a dark cloud for a split second, illuminating Spencer's red cheeks. So handsome, so perfect in more ways than one, he was like falling into a comfortable mattress after a long day.
You more than liked him.
Much more.
The button on your trousers pops, and the wet fabric that is practically stuck to you slides down your legs like a snake shedding its skin. Rough knuckles graze the outside of your thighs as he strips you, bringing your panties with it.
“I missed you”, he whispers, barely audible.
He missed you like this; missed being able to touch you and kiss you and share intimate moments. His firsts.
“I missed you too, Spence” Your voice is rougher than you expect, want shown through the barely controlled rasp.
Your lips find each other again, his hand trailing down your sweater and teasingly tracing the inside of your thighs. You instinctively open them wider, watching Spencer's throat bob as his eyes land on the wet arousal dripping from your entrance.
“I would have shaved if I ha-” you start.
“No, it’s okay”, he shakes his head. Slowly, he traces a finger through the wiry hair, tranced “I like it; it makes you more you.”
Reassurance trickles through you, a soft smile planting itself on your lips.
Despite his germaphobe tendencies, he would gladly be up for burying his nose in the hair between your thighs.
Interesting.
A hitched breath leaves the confines of your throat as his finger delves deeper, running his fingertip through your wet folds. Your legs twitch at the sensation, your body chasing the feeling even more.
Spencer's jaw is tight as he watches his own movements, admiring the wetness collecting on his digit. Your eyes don’t leave his face, tracing all the hard edges and curves, memorising the desire written behind his fixed gaze. You want every cell, nerve and bone in your body aware that this is Spencer eliciting pleasure in the deepest parts of you.
No one else.
Warm walls tighten around his finger as he presses it into your entrance, your pussy practically beconing, sucking him closer. The heavy breathing from both of you is accompanied by the lewd squelch your wetness admits with every drag of his finger.
He leans over you again, his attention back on your face, watching the whimpers leave your parted mouth. His uneven breathing fans over your cheek like long-lost words finally reaching your ears.
“Off, take it off” Your hand wraps around the bottom of his top.
Pulling back, his finger leaves your aching walls to finish undoing the buttons of his cardigan you had attempted to tear off of him before. The grey cardigan hits the pile of your clothes with a wet smack, and then next comes the tie and blue striped polo shirt.
He’s more timid with his shirt off, his pale, slim body on display for your hungry eyes. A pathetic gasp rips from his mouth as your fingertips find the muscles of his abdomen. Holding eye contact, your palm traces the V-line poking from his trousers and up, up to one of the pale pink circles on his chest.
“I've wanted you for so long”, you whisper, your thumb feather-touching the soft skin of his nipple.
“I wanted- want you too. For so long,” his voice hesitates and stammers.
“At first I just wanted to teach you, for you to fuck me” Your finger moves from his chest and down, tracing a horizontal line across the waistband of his boxers peaking through. “But then I got greedy.”
Your grip comes around his free hand, and you guide it back down to where you need it the most. Two of his fingers collect your slick before prodding your entrance, slowly stretching the begging muscle.
“How?” he asks, helplessly intrigued.
“For you. I got greedy for you,” you whisper against his mouth.
His breath hitches, his forehead moving to press against your neck like he needs something stable to hold onto. Your words knock him off balance, his fingers stilling inside.
He doesn’t hesitate to catch your lips in a greedy kiss as soon as he moves back from your neck. Fingers trailing lower, your palm teasingly cups the bulge in his trousers, and his hips move forward, applying pressure.
“You're perfect,” he rasps between kisses " You're so perfect.”
Everything was on fire, lips tingling against his, pussy throbbing as his fingers move again, hand desperate for skin on skin. His words and touch adding fuel to the fire, accelerant to make the flames burn brighter and hotter.
Want fills you like potent liquor. You needed him so bad, needed to have him begging and whimpering under you, confessing all the things he was holding onto.
The downpour continues from outside, thumping against the metal roof like it were cheering you both on, just as eager to watch as your insides were to feel it. Steam covers the windows, shying the outside away, covering the gods above from the worship happening inside, the distant sound of cars only a mere thought.
Soft sounds slip from your mouth as he scoots down the black leather seats, his trousers smearing rainwater across the fabric. His fingers stop their thrusting, instead replacing it with a warm, sloppy kiss.
The feeling is electric; it has your back arching and fingernails gripping the seat so hard you're positive they leave deep crescent moons. His tongue slides across your folds, running a wet line from entrance to clit, not missing a drip of salty arousal.
He had obviously learnt from last time, reading books, blogs, whatever you didn’t care about, but they had worked. The way his tongue worked was almost expert-level. His mouth wraps around your pulsing clit, sucking and licking like you were his only salvation in this damned world.
If it wasn’t for his shaking hands grasping your thighs and the ragged breathing every time he took a gulp of air, you would have assumed he had gotten over his nerves, swallowed them as he took your pussy into his mouth.
Tilting your head to the right in your pleasure daze, through half-lidded eyes, you notice the dashboard clock between the front seats.
Dammit.
You would gladly spend hours lying down like this, the rain creating harmony whilst the smell of sweat and musk sticks in the air, but Derek was going to be here in a matter of minutes, and the only thing you really needed, you hadn't got yet.
“Spence”, you grab his attention, his puppy eyes looking up through your legs.
Fingers threading through his hair, you pull the brunette strands enough for him to know where you want him. His body covers you again, tongue intertwining, passing on the salty taste of yourself.
“I need you inside me”, you beg, too aware of the seconds going by.
He searches your face “But I-” he swallows, “I haven’t made you climax”
“I can come once I have you in me. Spencer, please, we only have ten minutes.”
Your hands start on his belt, fitting between your close bodies to take off his gun and holster and pull the leather belt from the loops. Every ticking second without his cock in you felt like agony, something you couldn’t prolong.
He huffs out a short, nervous laugh as he watches your hands continue their task “I don’t know how to- I- this is my first”
“I know. I’ll make it good”
“What if you don’t finish?”
That was perhaps the stupidest thing that ever came out of his sweet mouth.
“I will, baby, trust me, I will” A smile plays on your lips, admiring his concern for you despite it being his first time. Gently pushing his chest, he leans back against the seat. “Just let me take control, okay?”
He falls under your command like a puppy on a leash, eyes wide as he watches you sit up and throw a leg over his lap. His desire is indisputable with the way his bulge is hungrily pressing against your core.
“Last time - last time you were over, you forgot” His voice wavers as your lips trail up the side of his neck, “forgot your underwear.”
Spencer's hands come to your waist, and in response, you playfully roll your hips down on him. A pretty moan slips from his mouth, his hands gripping your body tighter.
Hips moving on their own accord, you hold the back of Spencer's neck and delight in the facial expressions that come across his appearance. His head is lolled back against the seat, cheeks bright red and eyes half-lidded as though he had trouble comprehending his thought process.
Your sensitive clit rubs against the damp fabric of his chinos, and each spark of friction shakes your legs. “I know”
“You did it on purpose”, he mutters, “because of what- mh -what you said.”
Pride fills you. He was finally going to mention it, the little surprise you left on his kitchen counter, pretty white lace he couldn’t get enough of last time his mouth was on you.
“Mh? What did I say?”
His cheeks flush a shade darker.
“Men use it for pleasurable purposes; it heightens the testosterone and dopamine chemicals and-” his voice gets a pitch higher, and he squeezes his eyes shut, “- I looked it up. Just- I- you told me to wrap it around myself…my cock.”
Your own breath hitches with his dirty words. Spencer mentioned sexual organs at work with a firm voice, in a professional manner, but you had never heard him say it this way, desperate. It feels wrong, unheard of, to witness such a thing, but it felt wrong in the best way.
“Your what?” You push him to repeat it, teasing him in a playful voice.
“My- my cock” His voice is whiny, having given up with any form of trying to piece back the intelligible parts of his mind.
“And did you do it?”
“I.. I did just- please, please keep going,” his hips buck up as a follow-on to his words, his tone showing just how desperate he really was.
Hooking a finger under his chin, you tilt his face up and hold eye contact as you press your hips harder and rock with more rhythm. The grinding has your own mind covered in fog, mouth open on silent gasps.
“Did you cum all over my panties?”
“All over, all over I swe-” a stuttered hiss cuts him off. His fingernails dig into the soft flesh of your ass, hips stuttering as you continue rocking on him. Only when you notice a single tear sliding down his cheek do you stop your movements.
Smug realisation hits you, “Spencer- did you just-?”
You just made Spencer Reid cum in his pants with only a few hip rolls.
To be honest, it wasn't all that surprising. Are you shocked that it happened so quickly? Yes, but with little to no experience, he was bound to bust a load that easily, without being touched. But fuck, did he look so attractive doing so, his eyes blown wide as if he himself was stunned by his body's surrender.
“Shut up- shut up; that’s so embarrassing”, he winces after catching his breath.
It was one of, if not the most attractive thing you had ever witnessed.
“It’s not”, you scoff, a light-hearted laugh, and lean your forehead against his sweaty one. “But I need you to get hard again.”
You could practically imagine the clock, counting down the seconds left until Derek's fist would rasp against the steamed window. You didn’t want to leave, didn’t want the rain to stop pattering against the car like fingertips, didn’t want the smell of sex to disperse when the door opened, and most of all you didn’t want to go until you spilt the words tangled up in your heart, the fact that maybe like wasn’t the right word.
“For the average male in his early twenties it can take anywhere from fifte-”
“I know”, you whisper, moving your hips up and hands down to his half-zipped trousers.
Despite the facts, as soon as your painted nails skim his striped boxers, his cock stirs. The wet fabric of his boxers pulls tighter, outlining the shape of his growing hardness.
As soon as you shimmy his trousers and boxers down below his thighs, his flushed cock bounces out, already swelling by the second from just a simple graze of your skin. The sight of his earlier release coating his tip has a whimper slipping from your lips.
“I don’t have a condom”, he stammers, his voice small.
The smallness of his voice stills the air around you, the heat seizing for a split second. You search his eyes, searching for anything hinting at uncertainty.
“I'm on the pill”, you reassure him softly, speaking with confidence in hopes of flushing out any worries he might have “Is that okay? Do you want to stop?”
His eyebrows pinch upwards, his gentle gaze reminding you that this wasn’t the making of lust but blooming love, feelings that had only recently started kicking up the dirt.
“It’s okay; I want this”, he whispers, warm breath tickling your lips “Please.”
The ‘please’ is all you need; an insatiable covet swarms around the deepest parts of you, filling up your soul and heart after so long of hiding itself. Spitting onto your hand, you slick up the head of his cock, eliciting a gasp from Spencer's full lips.
Slowly, you sink down on him, your hand gripping his base to help position him. Over the pitter-patter of the rain, Spencer's soft breaths bless your ears with every inch of him that slides into your pussy.
Once fully seated on him, his throbbing length filling you, your forehead meets his. Spencer's hands grip tightly on the plush skin of your hips, his breath coming out choppy as though he is focusing on everything holding him together; he hadn’t been expecting to feel this much.
“Does that feel good?” he breathes out after gaining some composure.
“I haven’t moved yet, Spence”, you chuckle breathlessly.
“I know- I know”, he says, well aware of the fact that, yes, you haven’t moved and he already feels close to the edge, “but still-.”
“So good”, you promise.
The truth of this all hasn’t bypassed you; this is really happening. Spencer Reid's cock is throbbing inside your warm heat, and chasing release is the last thing on your mind with the way his eyes are looking up at you through his misted lenses, with that sparkle in his gaze that speaks more than an orgasm could.
“You're beautiful” slips from his mouth like a prayer, akin to saying amen.
You never fell for people's compliments; it was always said like a vow, but it was only ever personal opinion. Pretty some days, ugly the next. But for the first time in forever, you believed it, believed him.
You are beautiful.
“I'm surprised you can even see me”, you tease, unhooking his fogged-up glasses from behind his ears and setting them on the console. An admiring smile grazes your face, the clear sight of Spencer's deep brown eyes furrowing in pleasure enough to spur a physical reaction within you.
Twitching your hips up a little, his mouth falls open, caught on a low whimper. His hands grip tighter, palming your soft skin.
Spencer looks like a poor, needy puppy, his wet hair tousled from the mixture of the rain and your hands, his cheeks and nose florid, his half-lidded gaze looking up at you, begging for what was already his.
You start slowly moving your body against his, your legs and hips working together in tandem, making the most of the time that was slowly slipping through your fingers. The noise of soft skin slapping, friction between damp bodies and various moans, whimpers and gasps fills the warm, thick air.
Spencer's palm comes to the back of your tilted neck, your eyes closed and head thrown back. “Look at me”, he asks softly, applying slight pressure to your neck, encouraging your eyes to meet his yet again.
He moulds your pussy with his length like it's his to worship.
The breath shared between you grows hot, so dense it feels like swallowing steam. Your eyes don’t waver, never breaking away from tracking his face even when your hips fall back down on him and his cock easily hits that spongy spot so deep inside it feels like redefining heaven.
When your thighs start to shake, stuttering your movements, Spencer catches on. Timid hands slide up from your hips and across the curve of your waist, holding tight and guiding your movements.
Your body leans against his, his bare chest pressing against your damp shirt plastered to your moist skin like wet paper. His lips catch yours, pulling apart on gasps but never too far, always hovering like you could be taken at any moment, vigilant that the clock would stop.
“I want you to be mine”, he whispers, voice wavering, “I-I want this forever.”
You swear your heart stops for more than three beats; you almost pinch yourself to assure yourself it's real, that this wasn’t just some made-up fantasy your mind cruelly shaped.
“I want that too”
You had wanted it before you even knew it.
Wanted him before his lips blessed yours.
Spencer sweetly smiles at your words, hips following yours, lifting up to chase the release on the tip of his tongue. Slowing your hips, your own stomach starts to tighten, your body quivering over his.
You wouldn’t normally cum so quick, so easily, but the fact that it’s Spencer, that this need and yearning for him have been dragged out for so long, makes it hard not to come apart so fleetly.
“Clo-close?” He asks, breathing out all the words he can manage, a feeble one.
“Mhm”, you mumble against his lips, speech shutting you out too.
The slick drag of his cock inside you is consuming, your so drunk on the glint in his eyes and the hot breath running fingertips down your throat you hardly notice how busy the road has gotten. The sound of tyres against wet gravel is the last thing on your mind, only a distant hum.
Taking note of your reactions, inside and out, he moves his hips accordingly and learns exactly what has your body arching above him, what pulls dirty noises from your throat. He’s a quick learner, despite being hammered by the new feeling of a wet pussy around him; he has control of his motions, knowing to hold back and cherish the moment.
His lips meet yours again, exchanging hot gasps down your throat, tangling his tongue with yours like a future promise.
A hot golden heat sizzles deeply inside of you and then spits like hot oil, your orgasm crashing through you. The pleasure taking over you manipulates your whole body, your wet walls tightening around Spencer's cock, legs shaking and back arching. Spencer pants at the tightness strangling his cock, his own release teetering on the edge of undoing.
“Can I do it inside, please?” he strangles out, holding himself back with a struggle. The weak, pathetic ‘please’ erases any logical thoughts on the time or clean up; you nod without question.
Spencer resorts to bucking his hips up since your legs stopped being useful the moment you came. Fucking into you from below, his tip bruises your throbbing oversensitive g-spot, riding out your orgasm whilst brinking his.
Your stomach tightens and twists, your orgasm still rocking through you, being dragged out with every thrust of his cock. The euphoria is compelling, your brain erased of any thoughts but the moment before you.
“Cumming- cumming- oh god”, he hisses out and then bites his lip hard, his eyes widening solid on you. His face twists as he spills inside of you, his hips stuttering, creating the most beautiful sight.
“I love you”, you confess as though it’s a sin. Tones of pressure, old and new slides of your chest, the confession leaving you lighter than before.
It's all real, too real.
Lately, time had been spent belittling your own emotions, downgrading them and pushing them down because it was unprofessional or overwhelming, just plain scary to feel something this strong. You had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that it wasn’t normal to crave the next sexual meeting with your coworker; it wasn’t usual to get butterflies when he glanced your way, and it definitely wasn’t casual that he was your last thought before falling asleep and first thought waking up.
But it was out now, said to his pleasure-ridden face.
And you don’t regret it, especially when his next words are spoken so strongly; it leaves no doubt he feels the same.
“I love you too, I love- love you so much”, he breathes out, slowing his hips, his cock spent inside you.
His eyes soften and fill with the first sight of love, ripping the mask away and exposing how vulnerable he truly felt around you. His lips come to you, leaning forward and kissing so sweetly, kissing with a type of adoration he didn’t possess before.
The kissing lasts longer than it should, the surroundings only remembered when the close sound of tyres moving over pebbles reaches your ears.
Oh fuck
Senses come back to both of you: the tickle of the trickling pearl white dripping from your entrance and down Spencer's thighs, how the sun shining in from outside was much brighter than you remembered, combined with the fact that rain was no longer falling from the sky and that the crunch of a close vehicle was a ticking time bomb.
It was unrealistic thinking you would have more time, hoping there was traffic or a closed road that would prolong this beautiful moment.
“Fuck, I think Derek is here” You curse yourself for not being more mindful of the time.
Spencer seems to realise too, his grip on your hips loosening and his head tilting to the side, confirming the outline of the SUV through the fogged (thankfully) windows.
“Oh, um, how- how are you going to move?”
Looking down at his release covering your conjoinment, you ask yourself the same question.
“Carefully?” you wince, knowing however careful you still had to do it quickly.
Lifting your hips, he slides out of you with a wet pop, followed by the obscene sight of his cum leaking from between your thighs. You don’t have time to question the state of the car nor how you were going to slide on wet clothes because all you know is that if you both don’t get decent within the next few minutes you would scar Derek for life.
You climb off Spencer's lap, collect your panties from the floor, but pause when you feel Spencer's heated gaze on them, watching you whilst pulling up his boxers and trousers.
“You want them?” you ask, catching his thoughts.
His eyes go wide, and his cheeks flush a darker colour; you don’t know why he is so surprised you caught him in the act; it’s not like you read people's emotions for a living.
“Is that okay?”
You nod and shove them in his capri pants without a regard.
Sliding on wet trousers has to be up there as one of the most uncomfortable things in human existence, violated by your own clothes all because you dare get them damp.
There's a knock on the window as you do up your top button, rushing to look presentable.
“You guys decent in there?” Derek asks, a teasing tone laced in his voice.
Of course.
You neglect the idea of sliding on your dripping socks and instead stuff them in your pockets whilst pulling on your shoes. Spencer finishes adjusting his tie when Morgan tries pulling at the locked handle.
“Wait, wait!” Spencer raises his voice.
Spencer rakes over your face and body with marvelment and happy disbelief before opening the door with the conclusion that you both look somewhat decent.
It was obvious anyway; Derek had noticed the heated glances you had been giving Spencer way before this happened, teasing you both about it, so it was inevitable he would clock what was going on soon enough.
Although you hadn't been expecting this to be the way he found out.
Once both of you get out of the car, you come face to face with a smirking Derek leaning against his SUV. He raises his brows at the sight of you both, damp clothes stuck to your bodies, hair messed up, Spencer's tie not even looking like a tie anymore.
“You get a bit wet?”
“Shut up”, you bite back, embarrassed he saw you in such a sight. If only he knew Spencer was dripping down your thigh.
“Hey, I'm just saying you both look a little wind-swept”, Derek chuckles, holding his hands up playfully.
°‧🌱⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The back of the SUV is warm and relaxing, filled with comforting silence when Derek isn’t yapping about ‘Spencer, my man, no longer a virgin, huh?’ from the driver's seat. It took a while for him to stay quiet; half the car ride had been him asking teasing questions, but when he peeked at the rearview mirror and noticed you subtly joining fingers with Spencer in the back seat, he decided to keep his mouth shut.
The air is different around Spencer, a quiet ease that has your heart beating with content and your stomach swarming in happiness. You send each other small signals, whether it be a short soft glance or squeezing each other's hands three times.
This change in relationship has gone quicker than you anticipated. Two weeks ago, when your hands and mouths explored each other, you had been thinking it would be no less than a year until the word love would fall from your mouth or Spencer's.
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── .⟢ "...if your calling me's a mistake, then tell me why we're both still on the line?"
In a desperate attempt to regain control over his life post-prison, Spencer Reid enters a "no strings attached" arrangement with a younger woman. Unfortunately, keeping things casual is a skill he has yet to master.
GENRE: smut, angst (MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 6.5k
TAGS: fem!reader, post-prison!dom!spencer, age gap (23 & 35), daddy kink, protected p in v, doggy style, fingering, multiple orgasms, sex as a coping mechanism, crying after sex, pet names (angel), situationship that runs on existential dread and a deep-rooted fear of being Unloveable, guilt galore, they're in love but won't admit it, spencer's an avoidant king, title from a los campesinos! song
NOTES: he’s old! he’s miserable! he’s fucking a woman twelve years younger than him! godspeed, spencer reid.
Spencer makes mistakes. There isn't a person on earth who doesn't. It's an integral part of being human, the capacity for error; you will inevitably mess up, be it a small misstep, or…worse.
Don't be mistaken (no pun intended), Spencer's tried quite ardently to prove himself the exception to this rule, but his efforts all but backfired; it seemed that the more he tried to perfect his existence, the more mistakes he wound up making. In an attempt to make himself smaller, less bothersome, he inadvertently became a bigger problem.
The team like to think he's sagacious, especially as he's gotten older. They aren't exactly wrong; his experience has sharpened his senses, allowed him to become a better profiler, he'll never deny that. But being a better profiler doesn't always equate to being a better person. That's something his predecessors have proven time and time again, and it's something he is now perpetuating. When Penelope compares him to Gideon, she means it in an endearing sense ("Oh, they grow up so fast", "You're just like daddy"), but Spencer has always seen it as a personal failure.
Trauma changes people, ergo this job changes people, and in his time at the BAU Spencer Reid has endured worse than the rest of his team combined (factually, this isn't true, but it's how he feels; Emily and co have never had to serve three shitty months in prison).
Long story short, Spencer is lost, and he might possibly be going through some kind of early-onset, stress-induced midlife crisis, but his experiences haven't made him senseless. Sure, he makes mistakes, but you'd be hard-pressed to find him making the same one twice.
Unfortunately, as with any standard, there's an exception.
You.
You're the flaw in his programming. The anomaly that keeps him guilty. The mistake that he just keeps making, no matter how many times he tries to stop.
You were the girl in the library, the one he had no intention of flirting with. Not until he was at your side, cracking poor jokes about long-dead authors you'd likely never heard of. It was out of his control, as though his mouth had developed a mind of its own, and a remarkably stupid one at that.
It wasn't a conscious choice to stop and talk to you, nor was complimenting your outfit, nor asking for your number—it all just happened. To say that Spencer had approached you with a plan of action, a grand scheme to get you into his life, into his bed, would be giving him far too much credit.
—
You were too young, for one, or he was too old. He certainly felt too old, but feelings aren't much of a reliable metric, especially not his own.
Thirty-five isn't old, anyway, objectively speaking. It isn't exactly young (he let go of his young adult title when he turned thirty), but it certainly isn't old. If thirty-five is old, then what's forty? Fifty?
But what's thirty-five compared to twenty-three, if not old? What's a man with enough baggage to sink a ship compared to a wide-eyed woman twelve years his junior if not painfully, undeniably old?
The guilt he feels from being with you is the kind that sits behind his ribs, pushes up against them when he's desperately chasing sleep, builds and builds until he's sure the bones'll crack under the pressure. It'll shrink during the day, when he can distract himself with work, but it'll leave him with this hollow feeling. An ache that he can never quite give words to. One that, ironically, only you seem to be able to ease.
But it's only a temporary fix. Being with you alleviates the ache, but it exacerbates the guilt. Leaves him feeling worse. Needing more.
It's a paradoxical craving. A torturous feedback loop. An addiction, in layman's terms. One of those lovely self-destructive spirals that won't let up until you hit rock bottom.
You'd think he'd know better by now; he's been through this before, seen the seven wonders of the addiction world, yet he made no effort to stop himself from falling back into old habits.
He'd argue that it's different this time; he isn't using, you're not a narcotic, this isn't going to kill him, but he knows that's no excuse for what he's doing. He may be on a different branch of the path, but he's still using.
He's using you, and you're letting him. Sometimes it's that fact that bothers him more than anything else.
You've no business with him, really. You're young, ambitious, attractive; you could have anything you wanted, but you choose him, repeatedly.
There's a part of him that resents you for it, and it's at a constant war with the part of him that so adores the attention you give him.
He's projecting, he knows he is, but he truly doesn't understand how you can waste so much of your time, and your youth—things that have such an impossible value to them—on him, when you could be with someone better. Someone who isn't as damaged. Someone who can stomach something more than just casual sex.
The sex is another prison thing (he's dubbed every uncharacteristic behaviour that's emerged following his time at Millburn a "prison thing"). Meaningless sex was never something he was interested in before his arrest; he valued emotional connection above all else, and he had found it, briefly, before it was torn from him. Spencer's desire for intimacy, be it emotional or physical, died with Maeve. He was fine with that.
But his three months at Millburn left him with an acute, sickening awareness of his own mortality. Time was something he was already used to feeling slip through his fingers, no matter how hard he tried to hold on to it, but prison took his pre-existing anxieties and multiplied them tenfold. Twisted them into something that bordered almost on obsession.
Somewhere along the line, sex stopped being so sacred. He no longer saw the point in treating it as such; a lifetime of saving himself had earned him nothing and, with his emancipation affording him a second chance at life, he wasn't going to take what time he had remaining for granted.
So yeah, maybe he was desperate, but who could blame him? Anyone would be if they had as little relationship experience—as little life experience—as he did, especially at his age.
And there you were, over a decade younger than him with ten times the life lived, a poignant reflection of the very youth he felt he had wasted. He was jealous of you, the same way he was jealous of anyone—anything—that wasn't himself. He'd envy the birds for their wings, the insects for their inability to form conscious thoughts, and you for…everything.
You think he's a bitter old man, and he supposes you're right; his jokes are sardonic, his attitude is dry, and apparently he had a major case of "resting bitch face" (your words, not his. He prefers to call it his "resting thinking face"). He hasn't given you reason to believe he's anything other than a morose pessimist, a ghostly shell of someone you never had the privilege of knowing.
Prison soured his temperament, cracked his ribs and stuffed his gaping chest cavity with rocks, sharp-edged and saturated with all the nasty feelings he refuses to put a name to, because then they'd be real and he'd have to face them head-on and he really, really doesn't want to do that.
He wonders sometimes if you'd still like him, had you met him last year, or if it was all of that nastiness in him that drew you in. Maybe you're attracted to baggage. It's not like he'd be able to judge you for it, if you were; your entire relationship is built on Spencer's need to expel his frustrations, and the masochistic enjoyment you get out of bearing the brunt of it all.
It isn't the healthiest foundation, he'll never try to claim otherwise, but it's something. And that's all he needs right now. All he can handle.
—
He only calls you when times get hard (which sounds like a decent plan, except times are always hard); he'll dial your number like a prayer, hold his breath whilst the phone rings, ask if you're busy like a dog begging for treats.
Without fail, you'll say no, you're not busy. You'll keep up the lie even when he can hear the club music and the chatter in the background, and you'll always be back at your apartment by the time he arrives.
Like tonight, when you were out with friends, enjoying the freedom of your early twenties, but you were still there in time to let him in.
He doesn't know how you manage it, and he never asks—it's one of those things you've conveniently left unaddressed, for both his benefit and yours. If he were to question it, you'd be forced to admit to caring about him more than you let on. The carefully maintained illusion of casualness would be shattered, and Spencer doesn't have the strength to bear the weight of the truth. He isn't sure you do, either.
The first thing he sees when you answer the door is your dress. Tight, black, clearly something you didn't have the time to change out of before he arrived; you don't dress up, not for him. But today, by total coincidence, you are: your hair is styled, your makeup is perfect. You look like something straight out of a dream. Straight out of his dreams, the few he has nowadays.
He's staring. You're smiling. You both know, yet neither of you comment on it. You let him in without a word, and the silence persists for as long as it takes you to close the door.
You're moaning after that. Back pressed up against the wall, fingers tangled in his hair as he kisses you senseless. His hands map your body like he doesn't already have it memorised, hikes up your dress as he tells you just how pretty you look. You respond by hooking your leg over his, canting your hips so there's no questioning what you want.
The break in the kiss arrives sooner than either of you would have hoped, punctuated with a potent wet sound, shallow breaths, and a saliva string that refuses to break.
His lips venture to the side of your neck, just below your jaw, and he breathes in your perfume as his palms trace the soft curves of your exposed thighs. He pulls you in by your hips, pressing them against his as he whispers a muffled "I missed you" into your skin, words unapologetically earnest. Almost delicate.
Your response comes in the form of a sigh—light and breathy, simmering with need—as you lean your head back, allowing him better access to your neck. "You saw me last…week— God…"
Two fingers press up against your panties, massaging your clit through the already sodden fabric as he brings his lips to your ear, and you can't help the little yelp that escapes you when his teeth nip at your lobe.
"Still too long," he murmurs, breath hot against your skin as he nudges the shell of your ear with his nose, and he can feel the way he makes your knees go weak. "You have no idea how badly I've needed this. Needed you."
"Mm…" You're rocking your hips now, grinding against his fingers as you turn your face to meet his gaze, and fuck, the way you look up at him with this kind of quiet, tempered reverence, like he hung the very stars visible through your window, is unlike anything he's ever seen. "Rough week?"
He leans down to kiss your lips, once, twice, before softly answering, "Something like that."
You nod along with his words slowly, almost thoughtfully, and trail your hands down his chest, over the freshly pressed fabric of his shirt. "Want me to make you feel better?"
As tempting an offer as it is, Spencer shakes his head. He catches both of your wrists with one strong hand, preventing you from advancing any further, and brings his lips to your forehead. "Not tonight," he says. "I don't want you to do anything."
"But—"
"Shh." He cuts you off with another kiss, fingers dipping under the elastic of your panties. "Just let me make you feel good, okay?"
Whatever protests you have lined up ("That's not fair", "What about you?") are silenced by the feel of his calloused fingers parting your slick folds. He keeps his touch light and slow, and you respond with a petulant whine; he knows what you want, what you can handle, yet he insists on being a tease.
His gaze doesn't stray from your face, and when you try to look away he's quick to grasp your chin so he can continue studying you, watching the twitches in your expression as he circles your entrance. The pressure, however gentle, seems enough to drive you mad.
The pad of his thumb brushes your lower lip, sinks into the plush as he tilts your head up. "Is that what you want, angel?"
"Spencer…"
"Hm?"
He raises an eyebrow as his name leaves your lips, and he shakes his head before leaning down to kiss your cheek.
"Not Spencer," he says softly. "Try again for me."
You roll your hips against his hand, shameless in your desire for more of him as you correct yourself with a smile and murmur, "…Daddy."
He has to bite his lip, withhold a guttural groan, like the sound of your voice alone is threatening to finish him off. "There we go," he says, maintaining that calm, measured tone as he trails his lips along your jaw. "You want Daddy to take care of you, hm?"
If this weren't your established dynamic, Spencer would be on his knees. The look on your face as you nod along with his words, whispering "yes, please", could bring down mountains, part seas, he's sure of it.
And God, the way you moan for him when he finally gives you what you want leaves him feeling lightheaded; it's paradisal, far too good to be true. He's never been a religious man (he's too logical, too ruined), but the electricity that surges through him when he has you like his is almost enough to drive him to worship. Like he could find God in you, if he only allowed himself to take that plunge.
Your fingers are in his hair, bringing his face to your neck as you rock your hips, desperate for him to take you further, and you're clenching, walls fluttering around his slender digits, like you're trying to suck him in. His teeth graze the delicate skin of your neck, and you let out this unholy whine that goes straight to his groin, almost shatters his composure entirely—all soft and needy and perfect, just aching to be taken care of.
Every curse that falls from your lips feels like some depraved reward as Spencer pumps his fingers with calculated precision, working you like it's second nature; he knows exactly what to do, what pace you love, what angles drive you crazy. He's perfectly tuned to your body, yet it never feels mechanical or boring—God knows it could never be boring, not with you. Spencer gets off on your pleasure almost as much as you do, the times he's finished untouched are proof of that.
He's determined to not let tonight add to his tally of premature finishes; as much as you enjoy knowing what you do to him, he would much rather make it to the main event, take his time, finish in you, or on you—or both, if he's feeling particularly greedy.
But it's hard, in a number of ways, to keep his composure when you're like this, and by the time you're teetering on the brink of your first orgasm, he's half-convinced he'll follow suit, that this will be another instance of him being too into you for his own good.
He used to blame this little problem of his on prison, and on the life he led before it; he'd argue that his years of minimal sexual experience, of being married to his job, made him overly sensitive, too starved of touch to last as long as he wanted to. And maybe that was the case, at the time, but now it's something else entirely.
Now it's just you.
He's found his weakness in you; one he never knew existed at all.
Spencer's had crushes in the past. He's been in love. He knows how it feels to be so struck by someone he forgets his own name, but this…this is different.
This isn't anything he's felt before, and he's spent every day since meeting you wondering how he had lived so long without it.
It's a feeling he'll be sure to bury once he's left your apartment; the weight of this rotten infatuation isn't something he has any use for when he's away from you, it'll only cause him pain.
But, for now, he lets it overcome him. Face pressed to your neck, he inhales your scent as he curls his fingers, guides you over the edge in a matter of seconds—and he has to close his eyes, bite his lip, to prevent himself from coming apart, too.
When you slump back against the wall, he sets his free hand on your waist, keeping you grounded as he eases his other hand out from between your trembling thighs. He brings his slick fingers to his lips, sucks them clean as you watch in a breathless haze, expression coloured with all shades of lust—and, looking past it, adoration. Spencer would be lying if he said it didn't make him feel a little smug, knowing that you're as besotted with him as he is with you.
He wastes no time before he's picking you up, hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs, gripping the soft skin tight as you yelp in surprise.
"It's okay," he murmurs, "I've got you."
You press your face to his neck, eyes shut tight. "You're supposed to warn me."
"And you're supposed to trust me," he counters, craning to press a kiss to the top of your head before moving to the bedroom. "I'm not going to drop you, angel, I promise— whoops!"
The way you squeal as he dips forward, pretending to lose his grip, has him cackling—full-volume, loud and whole in a way he hasn't laughed in a long time. You kick your feet in protest, heels coming loose and clattering to the floor as you whinge about how you "hate him".
"Hate me?" Spencer parrots the notion with a grin as he sets you down on the bed. He hurries to take off his shoes before joining you, mattress sinking under your combined weight as he settles between your legs. "You hate me?"
Your response, no doubt full of snark and sarcasm, is quelled by the quiet, distinct sound of a zipper. Spencer's undoing the back of your dress, exposing your skin to the warm bedroom air as he awaits your answer with patience, but you bite your tongue, and you turn your face away to avoid his perceptive gaze.
His mouth finds your collarbone, trails slow, sensual kisses along your skin whilst his hands skim over your sides, wandering down to the bottom of your dress. You lift your hips without needing to be asked, inviting him to take it off. But he doesn't.
Instead, he raises his head, brown eyes searching your face for an answer he already knows—he's just buying time to look at you; to admire how gorgeous you look in this light, soiled with the need that palpates between you.
"You hate me?" he repeats. Softer, this time.
He wants you to look at him. Not out of his desire for dominance, though it's certainly there, but because he wants you to see the way he's looking at you. He needs you, in that moment, to see him, and all the things he can't say.
But when you do meet his gaze, he regrets it almost instantly.
"…no," you breathe.
Spencer can hardly hear you over the blood rushing in his ears. The seizing of his nerves as that familiar pang strikes him right in his gut. All of his lust turns cold, bitten by the frost of a split-second nervous response.
And the thought of you seeing him, really seeing him, is terrifying. More than anything he sees on the job. More than prison.
He fidgets with the fabric of your dress, trying to kill the urge to pull away before it overwhelms him and grappling, stupidly, with the thought that you should hate him; that you would hate him, if you knew him.
You see it, he knows you do. The way his mind turns into a war zone the second the fog clears. He's waiting for you to speak up, to ask if he's okay, to smother him with concern he doesn't deserve, but you don't. You just wait. Quiet. Patient. Beautiful.
"…I don't hate you."
It's entirely likely that he's imagining things, clinging to whatever false hope he can find, but your words, as soft spoken as they are, are laced with something meaningful. A promise, maybe. Is he selfish for thinking that way? Stupid?
You've always been careful not to veer too close to the sensitive parts of him. The volatile, unhealed parts. You don't acknowledge the unease that runs through his veins, not outright; that would only do more harm than good.
It's as much a part of him as his red blood cells and his platelets, that constant, thrumming discomfort. The fraught static that's been there all his life, crackling around the edges of his vision. Building and dissipating, never truly going away.
He's scared.
He doesn't remember a time where he hasn't been.
So when he kisses you, it's desperate. Unapologetically so, like he's trying to expel it all before it kills him. Poorly coordinated. All teeth and tongue and a breath he doesn't even realise he's holding until he's gasping into your mouth, grasping at your dress like he's seconds away from tearing it from your body.
It's equivalent to screaming into the void, he supposes; pouring his feelings, his frustrations, into something that accepts them so willingly. And it's another thing he'll regret once he leaves, as he always does.
He tugs your dress off and tosses it aside, and he's on you again before it hits the floor. On your neck, your shoulders, your chest. Every inch of skin that isn't covered, claimed by his demanding mouth.
Your bra is the next to go. Discarded, replaced by large hands that suit you so much better than any lace. His tongue dips between your tits, leaves a glossy trail of saliva in its wake as you shudder under the intensity of his affections.
"God…" he groans into your skin, lips pressed to your left breast like he's speaking directly to your heart. "I missed you."
"You said that already."
You're smiling. Laughing, almost. He can hear it in your voice; your words have this warmth to them, one that settles in his stomach, makes him feel as though he's floating on air. He doesn't dare steal another glimpse of your face; he'd never be able to look away, if he did.
"And?" His hands drop to your hips, and he pulls you forward until you're lying flat on your back. He takes your leg, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee as he says, "I mean it."
"Uh huh." He can feel your eyes on him. The weight of your gaze burns. "Careful, I might start thinking you like me."
He looks at you then. He can't help it. That smile makes him queasy, but not in a bad way (which is weird, because he isn't sure such a thing as "good nausea" exists; maybe he's the first to discover it).
He feels very much like a deer in headlights when he's caught in your line of sight like this. That kind of vulnerability isn't something he's felt in years, but that, too, isn't necessarily a bad thing.
Lips now pressed to your thigh, he lets out a soft scoff. "Like you?" he asks, barely suppressing a smile of his own now. "What gave you that impression?"
"Oh, I don't know." You reach for his tie, giving it a gentle tug as you pull him closer. "Just a…hunch, I guess."
As he leans over you, he tilts his head to the side, eyebrow raised. "A hunch?"
"Are you going to keep repeating everything I say as a question?" you ask. "It feels a little patronising."
"Patronising?"
"Oh my God—"
He cuts you off with a kiss, cradling the back of your head as you work on loosening his tie. You hook your legs over his waist, and he feels you cross your ankles to prevent him from scurrying away—as if he'd ever dream of it.
"You missed me, too," he murmurs, grinning against your lips.
All you give him in response is a low hum. Your hands tremble slightly, impatience curdling with adrenaline, as you fumble with the buttons of his shirt.
Tutting, he breaks the kiss, and as he pulls away he catches your wrists once more.
"Say it," he says, taking on a firmer tone as he looks down at you.
Biting your lip, you cast your gaze to the side, playing coy for as long as you can stomach before you quietly admit, "I missed you."
Whether you mean it or not doesn't matter (of course, he hopes you do); it elicits the same response either way. Spencer latches onto your jaw, releases your wrists, lets you remove his shirt as he tries to swallow the urge to bite, to leave marks on the sensitive skin—symbols of ownership that no amount of makeup would be able to cover up. But that would be reckless, if not a little cruel, so he just settles for kisses. Possessive ones, simmering with the desire for something more, something real, be it hickeys or…more.
"Oh, I know, angel." His voice softens, but the words remain hot against your skin as he nips at your neck. "You missed your daddy, didn't you?"
You answer with an eager nod, nudging his belt with the heel of your foot as you grow increasingly desperate. "Please…"
Spencer lifts his head, brows raised like he doesn't understand what you're asking of him. "Please what?"
"You said you'd take care of me," you say.
"Is that not what I’m doing?"
His faux display of cluelessness does not amuse you as it does him. You're pouting now, fingers tangled in his hair as you try your best to withhold a smile. "You're gonna make me ask?"
"I believe communication is an important—"
"I need you to fuck me," you interrupt.
Need.
How many times has he told himself that's all this is? Base need. A carnal void that needs filling. Nothing more.
There's so much certainty behind your words, like you're stating scientific fact. You need this, the same way you need food and water.
You need him.
That isn't what you said, but it's what he hears. And it sends him fucking reeling.
"…that's not very polite."
He has to force the words out around the lump in his throat, around his own need that's scorching his insides. Singing every nerve, every cell, until the only thing his debauched body can process is you. Your legs around his waist. Your hands in his hair. Your perfume mixed with the stench of sweat. Yours, and his.
And then you go in for the kill. Tilt your head to the side. Bat your eyelashes. Like you don't already have him wrapped around your finger.
"Please."
…and that's good enough for him.
He springs into action without thinking. Deft fingers unbuckle his belt as he sits up, and he ignores your whines as he untangles himself from you. He sheds his trousers, his underwear, and casts them aside with a warrior's confidence, only to pick them back up again when he realises he forgot the condom in his pocket (but come on, no one's perfect).
When he rejoins you on the bed, he wastes no time in getting you into position. He flips you onto your front, manipulates your body like a doll's, and you let him; face pressed to the mattress, knees folded, ass in the air right where he wants it. The stitching pops and tears as he tugs at your panties, and the head of his cock is pressed snug against your entrance before you can get a word in—and by that point all you can manage is a low, anticipatory moan and an impatient wiggle of your hips.
"Oh, fuck—"
There's something holy in the way you curse in unison as he sinks into you; your words muffled by your hands, his grunted through his teeth as he channels his focus into not finishing too soon. But you're clamping down on every inch like you'll never let him go, and he has to close his eyes, dig his teeth into the inside of his cheek, to keep himself in check.
He bottoms out with a whimper, fingers pressing into the soft plush of your hips, oblivious to the bruises he'll leave behind as he tries to steady himself. He allows both of you some much needed time to breathe, enough time to press his lips to your shoulder, ask in a whisper if you're "doing okay?" before he goes any further. Your response is physical; a shift of your hips, making you both moan as you take him that little bit deeper.
"Shit…feel that?" He trails a hand down to your lower stomach, presses his palm flat against the skin before giving a tentative roll of his hips, and he isn't sure what he gets off on more; the fact that he's buried so deep inside of you he can feel the slight bulge when he moves, or the noise that escapes you when he presses a little firmer. It's animal. "You feel how fucking deep I am?"
He punctuates the question with a thrust, one that pulls another filthy moan from your lips, and another, and another, as he settles into a rhythm, making sure he hits that sweet spot each time he pushes into you.
Keeping one hand anchored on your hip, he runs his fingers across the expanse of your arched back, drags his nails across the soft skin, makes you whine into the mattress as he marks you up. You'll no doubt complain about the red lines that bloom in his wake, how they'll get in the way of any backless outfit you have planned, but Spencer thinks they're beautiful. In fact, if he were any more wicked, he'd scratch his initials into your skin and tell you to wear those clothes anyway—that way, when you go out to all those clubs and bars, there'd be no doubt about who you really belonged to.
Ragged breaths and the hypnotic sound of skin against skin fill your dimly lit bedroom as Spencer's hand slips down the side of your neck. He grasps your jaw from behind, encourages you to lift your head so he can better hear how he's ruining you, and God, it's intoxicating.
He'll ride this high for the rest of the week, when he isn't letting the guilt churn in his stomach, safe in the knowledge that he'll always have some semblance of purpose, even if it's just in bed. After all, it's better than nothing, especially when his life has felt so…devoid of it. Purpose. Meaning.
It's weird, if not downright depressing, but in the time that has passed since prison (since well before then, if he's being honest), the only time Spencer has felt any semblance of peace has been with you. Using you. Partaking in this obscene give-and-take. Leaving claw marks in something that isn't his.
It's catharsis. It's a backwards cleansing for all of his foulness. A perverse ritual to satiate his desperate need for control. It was a quick fix, uncharacteristically selfish because he felt he had earned the right to be. It was superficial, and it was simple.
He isn't sure when it stopped being simple. If it ever was to begin with.
You're grasping at the sheets, arching your back and calling him Daddy through sinful, broken moans, on the cusp of another orgasm, and all he can think about is how much he likes you. It's pathetic. Worse than that, it's dangerous.
"Fuck…"
But he can't help it.
"Come here…let me see you."
He flips you onto your back, holds you by your jaw so you've no choice but to look at him as he fucks you. Your leg over his shoulder, knee pressed almost to your chest. Teary-eyed and drooling, looking like everything he's ever dared to want.
It doesn't take much from there to push you over the edge—a little pressure on your stomach, his breath hot on your face—and as your body contracts around him Spencer finally reaches the end of his rope. His vision blurs, and he gives a few more weak thrusts before he collapses on top of you, reduced to little more than a sack of leaden limbs and shaky breaths.
Moments pass before he's able to process the wetness on his cheeks, the two narrow rivers finding the path of least resistance through his stubble, and it takes even longer for him to process what really should be obvious: he's crying. Face buried in your neck, probably crushing you under the weight of his trembling body, and crying.
That kind of realisation should be enough to snap him out of it. He should have the sense to pull it together before he humiliates himself in your arms, but he doesn't. Something has messed with his brain chemistry, be it his heightened emotional state, or the adrenaline crash, or whatever else, and Spencer is helpless against it.
Even his efforts to stay quiet are thwarted by a rogue sniffle, wet and pathetic and full of all the things he doesn't want you to know. But as he lays there holding his breath, heart hammering against his ribs, dreading your reaction to his wretched state, all he feels is a hand gently smoothing out his hair. And that, as innocuous as it is, is almost enough to break him completely.
He counts each steady beat of your heart, matches the rise and fall of your chest until he can breathe on his own again. Your warmth seeps into him, keeping him grounded with unspoken promises—and a silent invitation, equal parts irresistible and impossible.
The only thing more powerful than Spencer's desire to stay is the is the crushing feeling that he has to leave. That to stay would be to open doors he'd never be able to close again; to nail himself to a cross for you to watch. To judge. Or maybe, if you're a fool, to love, even though it would be wasted on him.
So he forces himself up, excuses himself to your bathroom, and disappears before you can call out after him. He finds comfort in the cool ceramic of your sink, so different to the warmth of your pliant skin, and safer. So, so much safer.
He splashes his face with cold water and forces himself to think of anything but you, lying in that bed, alone with no one to keep you warm. He reviews cases in his mind, avoids his gaze in the mirror as he mops himself up with one of your soft towels.
The knock comes eight minutes into his self-imposed solitary confinement. The door isn't locked, so you push it open when he tries to ignore you.
You're already in your pyjamas, Spencer's clothes clutched to your chest. The weak smile you offer falters when he refuses to look you in the eye, and you hand over his crumpled clothes without a word, opting instead to chew and choke on the dense silence as he gets changed.
His movements are mechanical. Shirt, boxers, slacks, shoes. He stuffs his tie into his pocket, and half of it comes spilling right back out, dangles from his hips like his own scarlet letter, and he's mumbling his half-hearted goodbyes before he can dare to have second thoughts.
"I—"
He has one foot out the door when you speak up. You've followed him back into the living room, arms crossed in a poor show of confidence that starts to waver as soon as he meets your gaze.
"You'd, um—" You clear your throat, shrugging as you don an ironic smile. "You'd tell me if this was…it, right?"
Spencer blinks at you, bewildered, but you barely allow him to take a breath before you continue.
"I know I sound stupid, asking that. But…I'm kind of sensing something here, maybe? And I—" You sigh, but your smile remains intact. "I'd just prefer it if you told me outright, that way I won't waste my time, you know…sitting by the phone. Waiting on a call that'll never come."
What isn't betrayed in your expression is visible elsewhere; your eyes, the drumming of your fingers against your arms, the tension in your shoulders that makes you look cold even though your thermostat is always turned up. As far as facades go, though, you've got a pretty decent one; anyone who wasn't a profiler might think your nonchalance was genuine. But Spencer knows an illusion when he sees one, he's spent too long wrapped up in ones of his own not to.
So, when he does eventually speak up, he does so earnestly. He studies your face, your smudged mascara, the desperation hiding behind those sharp eyes, and he tries to swallow all of the undesirable notions clawing at his throat when he says, "I'll call you."
His words barely penetrate your smile. It thins, struggles, but its cynicism persists. You don't believe him.
"Tomorrow?" he adds, letting a small, reassuring smile of his own cross his face.
After scrutinising him for a moment longer, your shoulders drop, and you concede. "Sure. Sure."
Spencer nods, and he takes an instinctive step forward before thinking better of it; nothing good could come from kissing you goodbye, not tonight.
So, with nothing left to do, he flashes you one last parting smile, repeating "I'll call you tomorrow" before stepping out into the hall.
But not even he can be entirely certain he's telling the truth.
when your love progresses to something more physical, spencer is inexperienced but he is not naive. he has read, watched, and heard enough to piece together what he is supposed to do when your hands drift over the buckle of his belt.
your nerd absolutely stammers when he tells you he hasn't had the opportunity to do... 'this' before, drawn back into your kisses before he has the chance for embarassment to take him over entirely.
the first time you sleep together, he barely lasts a couple of minutes. he is whimpering and apologising, sorry babbling from his tongue in between rushed self-depreciation, pleading eyes unable to decide if he should look at you or anywhere besides, tears of frustration threatening his lashline. it was nothing a kiss to the tip of his nose didn't solve, with a soft offer of helping you in another way earning you an eager, desperate nod.
he values being fed infomation, however. anything you give him – pointers, whimpers of appreciation, soft moans and sighs of his name, anything that tells him what you enjoy is catalogued away, saved for later, repeated and perfected with every round, each night (and morning) spent tangled together.
spencer prefers any position where he can see your face. it isn't some odd profiler trait, as he has had to assure you – he is not trying to read your reactions (most of the time), but he does like to see them. to watch the way your eyes roll or flutter, or the tug of your lip between your teeth.
he also loves to be able to kiss you – to capture your lips with his and swallow your sighs and gasps, to feel the hum of your groans against his tongue as you unravel above or below him, his brow furrowed with the concentration of driving his hips into you.
speaking of above him, the moment you straddle him, he is a complacent mess. his hands are roaming every inch of available skin, fussing over your hips and thighs, trailing along the curve of your stomach and chest, settling against your waist. he is fighting to keep his eyes open to watch the way you grind against him and bounce in his lap.
as a serial fidgeter, his fingers almost never tire. it's a true blessing, the way his fingers can circle at the ridges of your clit for what feels like hours without relenting. the dextrous length of them dipping and curling into you intently, finding your sweet spots perfectly and using them to his full advantage.
there are very few sights prettier than when he lifts his head from between your thighs, his chin smeared with your slick, cheeks flushed, lips plump from the effort of suckling your clit and lapping at your mess, his wet fingers squeezing at the plush of your thigh as he asks if 'that was alright?'
verbal by nature, spencer is not quiet in bed. if he is not whimpering, voice cracking with the feeling of you squeezing him, then he is seeking reassurance. the boy thrives on praise – he's asking if something feels good, muttering about how perfect you feel, how lucky he is, repeating how he loves you like a litany. he just wants to do well for you.
similarly, don't expect sex without statistics. little distracts this man from his facts, and while his mind might be blank enough in the moment, the minutes following are fraught with them. when you're pulled into his chest, or you lay panting beside him in his sheets, there will be a line about how cunnilingus can improve emotional wellbeing for both participants, or the 'chemical cocktail' released by climax.
aftercare is a big deal for him. he is fastidious, pressing a cloth between your legs gently, urging you up on shaky legs to pee so you do not risk a uti, kissing over any marks left when his better senses abandoned him. cuddling after is a non-negotiable.
for this reason, spencer will almost never indulge in sex unless in one of your apartments. his love for you is a very private thing. he protects it intently, so quick hook ups in office bathrooms or the backs of cars is a no-go for him. he needs to feel loved, and needs you to feel loved in return. the bedroom (or a sofa) is the best place for this.
all in all, spencer gets off on your pleasure. as his stamina improves, he cannot finish unless you do, pleading with you softly to let him hear you, let him see you unravel for him, 'please'. quick or slow, hard or gentle, every time is another excuse to show you he adores you.
