DISCLAIMER: DO NOT repost ANY of the content being posted in this account without credits, DO NOT claim it as yours and therefore DO NOT feed any AI tool with my writing content. All the content being posted here belongs to me.
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
write whatever is interesting to you, even if it won’t be interesting to anyone else
appreciate kudos when they come, but don’t expect them
appreciate comments when they come, but don’t expect them
if you wish you could just write that one scene you have in your head, do that. you don’t need to create a 30K backstory for it first.
embrace one shots
embrace drabbles
embrace writing your story out of order
rough drafts are meant to be rough. if you can’t think of a word, put in a placeholder for it and keep going.
try not to get stuck on the little things
it’s okay if your readers can’t see the picture inside of your head
some people work well when they have a posting schedule. some people work well when they don’t. it’s okay if you don’t know which kind of person you are, and it’s okay if the type of person you are changes over time.
if a rule you created for yourself isn’t working for you, get rid of that rule.
make fandom friends. even if they don’t read your fic, they’ll cheer you on while you write it.
cheer on other writers you know. you’ll be cheering yourself at the same time.
no trope or genre is better or worse than another one. they all just appeal to different audiences.
quality and popularity are not the same thing, although they do sometimes overlap
numbers and statistics will never tell you whether or not you’re a good writer. they will never tell you how valuable you are as a person.
you belong in fandom if you want to be there
you’re a writer as soon as you start writing things
writing and posting are two different things. your story is still worth writing, even if you never plan to share it
you don’t need to apologize for what you write or what you post.
don’t worry about taking up too much space. the internet doesn’t have a maximum size.
keep your readers in mind when you’re tagging your content. how could they search for your fic? if you use a tag, will be a reader who loves that tag be satisfied with how much it appears in your story?
if you have a relationship in your fic that plays a minor role, tag it in the Additional Tags section instead of the Relationship section so that people who love that ship don’t get their hopes up
be cautious when looking at bookmarks on your fic. they aren’t “extra comments.” that’s a space where readers make notes for themselves and each other, not for authors.
you don’t need to know everything about canon before you start writing fic
you don’t need to read fic in the same fandoms you write for
you don’t need to read fic at all in order to write it
love your work because sometimes you’re the only one who will - and that’s okay
if your hobby starts feeling like a job, you might need to take a break before you get burnt out
if you get stuck on a story, you can always start a new one
if you fall out of love with a story, you can always stop writing it. if you’re worried about your readers, you can always give them a bullet point summary of where you were planning to go with thing. for a lot of people, that’s satisfying and provides closure
if you get hate, report it
use the tools at your disposal to block hate before it can come in (limiting or turning off comments, limiting or turning off asks, blocking users, etc)
try replying to comments sometimes. it can be a lovely way to make fandom friends
don’t be afraid to reblog your own writing posts.
if you get stuck on your summary, just write 1) who the story is about 2) what they are doing and 3) what problem gets in their way
notice when your writing makes you smile. that moment is a gift. enjoy it.
notice when your writing makes you cry. that moment is a gift, too.
even if you’re disappointed in how your story turned out, there’s something in there that’s fantastic. find that thing and focus on it and feel proud.
some ideas are ones you want to write. some are ones you want to read. if you ever have too many ideas to deal with at once, give some of the latter ones away to someone else.
sometimes the things you write will be really personal. be careful about putting them where other people can comment. they won’t know how personal it is for you, and you need to remember that comments aren’t about you, they’re about the story.
remember that you can write series as well as stories. if the story is done but you still have passion or ideas, start a new one in the same universe.
enjoy the satisfaction of finishing a story. savour it. bask in it a little while.
don’t feel guilty about abandoning a story. not every story gets finished, and that’s okay
you can have separate accounts for different fandoms. you can have one account with a million fandoms in it. do whatever works for you.
sometimes writing is more important than sleep - but only sometimes
it doesn’t matter if that story has been written before by someone else. it doesn’t matter if it was written by you. write it again.
only follow the advice that makes sense to you. the rest isn’t important.
we're just dogs
we play, and we paw
and we eat only raw
⊹ ࣪ ˖ᯓ IT'S DOG EAT DOG EAT DOG.
SUMMARY : spencer tends to his morning wood, serenaded by sultry praises and the spray of a hot shower. is it getting steamy in here?
PAIRING : sub!spencer reid x fem!dom!reader
GENRE : smut (MDNI) | WORD COUNT : 3.1k
TAGS : m masturbation, m orgasm, spencer "good boy" reid, showering together, hints of reader being insecure, lots and lots of body worship, spencer is literally obsessed with her, FINGER SUCKING, dog imagery/themes, one use of "puppy", title from a blythe davis song
NOTES : my puppy boy spencer agenda spilled into this fic a little. i'm not sorry.
"Anywhere but my face."
…is not something you thought you'd ever say at 7am on a Tuesday, adorned with a mighty bed head and a pair of crumpled pyjamas, but isn't the beauty of life in it's unending surprises?
You're eye-level with the tent in your boyfriends plaid pants, playing with the frayed drawstring like a cat with it's favourite toy and waiting, patiently, for him to make his move; to do anything, really, other than stand there gawking at you like you've just floated down from heaven. He looks positively dumbstruck, all flushed cheeks and big brown puppy eyes, mussed hair framing his face, so effortlessly gorgeous it's genuinely starting to irritate you.
You must look like a corpse, next to him; it's a wonder he doesn't shit the bed when he wakes up beside you each morning.
But Spencer Reid has looked at you the same way since the day you met; like he worships you.
It was disconcerting at first, but you grew used to it. In all fairness, it wasn't like you had much choice, not when he insisted on lingering at the peripheral of your life, buying your coffees and walking you to your office even though it was two floors up from the BAU and totally, definitely not stalking you. (You called him out on it once. He almost cried, but he backed off. Kept his distance until you realised you actually missed having him around, and the rest is history. You still debate what you'll tell your grandkids when they ask how you met; whether you'll stick with the facts or try to paint Grandpa Reid in a less…unconventional light, if such a thing is even possible.)
It still gets you, every now and then. Especially in the early mornings when you feel like you've been dragged backwards through a bush and he looks like sleeping fucking beauty, and he looks at you like he's ready to drop to his knees and kiss your feet. You aren't sure what you did to be loved so fervently; maybe you were a saint in a past life, or something.
"I-I'd rather not get it on your clothes, either," he says, smiling that stupid, sheepish little smile that always makes him look a little fearful, like you might jump up and bite him.
If he thinks he can fool you with his politeness, he's wrong.
"If you want me to take my shirt off, Spence, you need to ask."
His brows shoot up like you've just accused him of murder. This weak, almost painful sounding scoff forces its way out of him as heat rushes to his cheeks, and he looks around the room in disbelief, as though his neatly put away Doctor Who slippers may come alive and back him up. He seems offended when they don't.
"Spencer."
"Semen contains acids that can stain or discolour fabrics," he says quickly, "I'm just, um, looking out for your shirt. It's a nice shirt. I wouldn't want to ruin it."
You nod along with his explanation, lips pressed into a thin line. It's incredible, really, how he can turn a two minute sexual encounter into a ten minute debate.
"So, if you could please remove your shirt so we can keep it out of harm's way, then— what are you doing?"
"My knees hurt," you mutter.
Immediately, Spencer's helping you to your feet. "You should sit on the bed," he offers. "Or you could kneel on a pillow, if—"
"Yeah, I have a better idea."
You lead him into the bathroom by the drawstring of his pyjama pants, ignoring how he stammers as you drag him away. By the time you let go, the knot has unravelled, and his pants drop to his ankles in one smooth, almost comical motion. Spencer doesn't try to hold them up; he just stands there, half-naked, almost as bewildered as he is hard.
"…what are we doing?"
He sounds almost hesitant to ask, like your answer will yield something sinister; maybe you keep a butcher knife behind the mirror, or maybe you'll just give him a good old fashioned swirly.
"Take your shirt off," you instruct, leaning over to turn on the shower, "unless you want it to get wet."
Your non-answer does nothing to clear up his confusion, but Spencer removes his shirt anyway and places it, alongside his pants, in the laundry basket. Neatly folded, right on top of your crumpled clothes from yesterday.
Before he can pester you with any more questions, you take his wrists and guide his hesitant hands down, slowly, to the hem of your shirt. He holds your waist, studying your expression with wide eyes as he pushes the soft fabric up with his thumbs, just enough to expose a sliver of tummy.
"You want me to take it off?" he asks quietly. His words are tinged with disbelief, as though you're bestowing some lavish gift upon him—as though he hasn't seen you naked hundreds of times already.
"You just listed a million reasons why I should," you mutter. "But no, Spence, I just want you to touch it."
Disappointment flickers across his face before he realises you're being sarcastic, and then he huffs. "I listed one reason," he says, lifting your shirt a little further, up to your ribs, "and I was making a valid point. Semen stains are—"
"I've heard enough about semen stains, 'kay?" You pinch his side; he yelps like a kicked puppy. "Shirt. Now."
He doesn't try to bicker with you further, not when you're standing there telling him to undress you.
Carefully, he slips your shirt off over your head, exposing your skin—you—to the rapidly warming bathroom air.
His face is obscured by fabric for barely a second, but when you see him again his demeanour has transformed completely.
His throat bobs, and his tongue pokes out to wet his lips as he takes you in. He's staring, utterly transfixed, at your body. Chest, stomach, hips, all of it. Honestly, by the look on his dumb face you'd think he was seeing God (if God happened to give him a massive erection).
It makes your skin crawl a little, being stared at like this, and you have to fight the instinctual urge to cover yourself under the weight of his adoring gaze. He's studying you like you're a work of art, mouth agape like he's seeing you for the first time. It makes you want to slap him, just a bit.
"…wow."
You scoff and force yourself to look away before you burst into flames. Seriously, it's like he's trying to freak you out.
Spencer's standing with your shirt balled up in his hands, squeezing it like a stress ball, too hypnotised to notice the discomfort simmering deep in your bones. Or maybe he does notice, and that's why he does it; maybe this is some fucked up kind of exposure therapy for your ridiculous fear of being perceived.
"You're so—"
You put an end to his incessant gawking by pulling him into a kiss, and he turns to putty in your hands. He moans against your lips, letting your shirt fall to the floor so he can hold your face, pull you closer, and you let him. Keeping one hand anchored in his hair, you shimmy out of your panties, leaving them discarded on the bathroom floor as you step backwards, dragging him with you.
Without breaking the kiss, the two of you stumble into the shower. Your back meets the wall; the feel of the cold tile against your skin makes you gasp, and the warm intrusion of Spencer's tongue in your mouth makes you moan. How he can go from awkward and nervous to bold and hungry in a matter of seconds is beyond you, but you'll never complain—maybe it's all the steam.
"Mm…" You pull away, hold him by his jaw as he tries to chase your lips. "You were saying?"
His hair is already drenched. Some strands stick like glue to his forehead, others develop a slight curl, finding their freedom under the spray. He wipes the water from his face but doesn't move out from under the shower head, so he has to do it again; push the droplets from his cheeks like a weaker, wetter Sisyphus. They bead on his eyelashes. Glisten like fresh tears.
"Beautiful," he says, breathless. "You're so beautiful."
He repeats this notion, and variations of it ("Pretty. God, so pretty. My pretty girl. My girl. My—"), until the words slur into melody, too drunk on that steam-kindled reverence for the rules of language to apply. He gets his point across, anyway; both through his fervent praise, and through the firm press of his hips against your stomach.
That sweet voice muffles as he brings his lips to your neck, but his ramblings do not cease. Vibrations send a shiver down your spine, laced with need and half-facts about attraction and all the parts of the brain that contribute to it. You stop listening after "ventral tegmental area"; he stops trying to explain once he reaches "nucleus accumbens" and instead reverts to his mantra of compliments, which are quickly becoming as irritating as they are superficial.
He always does this; gets ahead of himself, allows that oh so brilliant brain of his to be reduced to mush. His cerebrum shuts down, his frontal lobe goes to sleep; he stops thinking, and starts feeling. And a Spencer Reid driven by nothing but instinct and carnal desire is hardly a Spencer Reid at all; he's a dog, untrained, experiencing his first rut. All slobber and whines, humping anything that moves like he'll die if he doesn't.
"Spence."
Your voice clashes with his songs of praise; threatens to disprove them all with a single, disgruntled utterance, filled with a sigh that speaks far more of boredom than it does of pleasure.
"Spencer."
Again. Firmer. Harsher. Accompanied by a rough tug on sodden chestnut strands and a yelp that reeks of helpless desire. His gaze locks onto yours through the steam as his still parted lips mouth a single, innocent word; "What?"
You feel like an ass. One "bah humbug" away from donning the nightcap and gown and taking up the mantle of the modern day Scrooge, world's worst girlfriend. Spencer's pretty girl is a buzzkill, too high strung to relinquish herself to feeling. Too self-conscious.
"Chill out," you mutter, deaf to the irony of your own words. "And stop— Spencer, stop grinding on me. You'll give me fucking carpet burn."
"But—"
"Please?"
Ice. Buckets of it. You'd think the shower had gone cold with how fast Spencer freezes up.
Bah fucking humbug.
"I'm sorry," he says. The apology practically leaps from his tongue. A knee-jerk reaction. A dog's guilty look. He doesn't even know he didn't do anything wrong.
I'm too much. You know what he's thinking without him needing to say it.
Slumping back against the wall, you expel your frustrations through a sigh as you cradle his face. A slight pinch, and his gaze finds yours once more, apologetic. You shake your head—a quick, subtle motion—and let him know, silently, that it isn't him you're frustrated with; it could never be him, not in a million years.
Your thumbs trace circles on his damp, heat-flushed skin, and you tilt your head to the side.
"You think I'm pretty?"
"Yes." He doesn't miss a beat. "Very pretty."
You nod along with his eager compliment, narrowing your eyes. "Is that all you can say?"
"…what do you mean—"
A hand slips down, grasps him by his jaw. Grip firm enough for the skin to blanch under your fingers. "I want you to be specific," you say, keeping your voice soft, barely audible over the sound of running water. "Showering me with basic compliments is sweet and all, but I know you can do better than that. You're supposed to be a smart guy, aren't you?"
"I—" Spencer clears his throat. "…I am a smart guy, yes."
You flash him a smile. Sickly sweet. Almost menacing. "Then act like it."
For a moment, he just stares at you, letting the water drip from his lashes as he studies you like you're some kind of puzzle. "You…you're asking me to—"
"Tell me what you like about me, and why you like it. In detail," you say, feeling your cheeks burn. "Can you do that?"
"Well, yes. But…"
"But?"
"I like everything about you."
You're going to kill him. Cuteness aggression will be a fair defence in court, right?
"Cute." You tighten your grip. His breath catches. "But I'm telling you to do something, Spence. Are you saying no to me?"
He shakes his head against your hand, frantic. "Nonono— I-I'm not saying no, I'd never say— I was just—"
You watch him, brows raised, as he stumbles over his words. His face grows redder, cheeks turning a painful looking shade of crimson, with each passing second until, like a car that can't quite get going, he gives up completely.
The silence stretches out for a moment, then two. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs pressing thoughtfully against the soft skin of your stomach.
"…I like your thighs," he eventually says.
You knew he'd start there.
"From a, um, biological standpoint…certain fat distribution patterns are subconsciously recognised as a sign of good health and fertility. Fuller thighs specifically are often indicative of a wider pelvic structure, which the human mind associates with, um, lower risks of complications during childbirth, but—"
He sighs, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.
"Personally…I like how nice they, um, feel…" His hand slips down to the back of your thigh, and he lifts it, gently. "…under my palms, and— and how gor-gorgeous they look when you— when you wear shorts or skirts— especially when you wear skirts. There's this one miniskirt—the burgundy one—that you wear sometimes, and I just…"
Your grip on his jaw loosens, and he slips free to press his face to your neck as his words fade into nothing; heavy breaths and an earnest, desperate hunger that seeps into your skin, saturates your every inch with a deep, weighted kind of satisfaction. It collects in your core, so pungent it almost makes you sick.
"…keep talking."
Spencer whines into your skin, cock straining against your stomach. His hips shift, a single, helpless thrust, as he whispers a quiet "please".
You take his hand, guide it down between your slick bodies. With your other hand, you pull his hair, forcing him to look at you as you repeat, in a firmer tone:
"Keep talking."
He looks like he might drop to his knees; you can't say you'd have any complaints, if he did. A strangled, needy little whimper escapes him as he wraps his fingers around his cock, and you hold him steady—one hand in his hair, the other cupping his cheek.
"I-I also…um. I like your hips and— and your ass…" He leans into your touch, nuzzling the palm of your hand as he bites his lip to suppress a groan. "A-attraction to those areas are again…influenced by biology—hips, especially. But, God…perfect. You're— have I ever told you how perfect you are?"
The room is starting to tilt, earth shifting to accommodate the electricity between you. Ricocheting from him to you, you to him, voltage doubling with each exchange.
"You have," you say. You're trying to keep the admiration, the weakness, out of your voice, but you're sure it shines through on your face; you're looking at him like he hung the fucking stars. It would be gross, cringe, if it weren't so—
"Perfect." He repeats the word again, voice trembling. "You're so…perfect. I-I don't know what I did to— mhh…"
Moans vibrate around your fingers as you push them into his open mouth, cutting his fluffy ramblings off at the root. He accepts them without complaint, swirling his tongue around your digits as he tugs on his cock, and watching you so intensely you feel you could melt under the heat of his gaze.
It takes a concentrated effort not to moan yourself as he sucks on your fingers. You pull him closer, touching his forehead to yours as you carefully withdraw your hand, smearing saliva across his lips, his chin, dragging it down to his neck.
"You're so fucking pretty…"
You echo his basic compliments without thought, hypocrisy lost on you, but Spencer doesn't seem to mind.
"…y-yeah?"
The word "pretty" goes straight to his head; you can see it rewiring his brain, short-circuiting, which doesn't make much sense because you know he's called pretty on regular basis—you've heard it.
But it's different, when it comes from you.
Everyone else? What they think isn't important to him. But you?
He needs to hear you say it again.
"Yeah," you murmur, matching his breathy, needy tone—mocking it. "You're my pretty boy, aren't you Spence?"
"Mhm…" He nods feverishly, flicking water onto your face like a badly trained pup. "I'm— I'm your pr-pretty boy…"
"God, and you're so good for me, aren't you? Yeah? You gonna finish for me, puppy? You gonna make a mess?"
He loses his words then, devolves into whimpers that grow louder as he fucks into his fist, pushing himself closer and closer to that edge, spurred on by the mere sight of you, by the steam and the spray clinging to your skin, the heat that's steadily dissolving the both of you, merging you into one.
You shift your hand, applying the slightest amount of pressure around his throat—and that's all it takes for him to come apart completely. His pretty moans fill the shower as he finishes on your stomach, collapsing against you like his very soul has left his body.
There isn't much you can do to support a man gone limp, not when he's so tall and slippery, so you just wrap your arms around his waist and pray he doesn't pull you down with him. He braces a trembling arm against the tile wall, just about keeping himself upright as he comes floating down from his high. His lips meet your cheek, and he whispers a weak "thank you".
Thank you. You didn't even touch him.
Spencer catches you rolling your eyes at his gratitude, but he just smiles and plants another kiss on your jaw before leaning down to nuzzle your neck.
And what he doesn't see—what he'll wish he had seen—is the smile that attacks your face right after. The same as his; raw and gooey, full of so much love it's almost disgusting.
"Come on," you groan, giving the back of his head a light pat. "We've gotta get ready for work—cold shower?"
He nods. You can feel him smiling against your skin. "Cold shower. Please."
psst...if you're interested at all in supporting me further, i have a ko-fi <3
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
i wish spencer reid was real so he could info dump about something to me right now. i think that would cure all of my mental illnesses. somebody prescribe me early seasons autistic spencer reid.
how bad it's that I don't have the will to write because I don't really see people liking what I write (I mean in big scale in my head if I'm not popular I'm not good and everyone is lying out of pity) and then I'm here months later and can't write shit
What helped me write trauma better is remembering that the nervous system learns predictions. If danger used to come after quiet, calm can feel threatening. If kindness used to come with a price, kindness can feel suspicious. So healing is not just “they know they’re safe now.” Healing is the slow, annoying, deeply unfair process of teaching the body that the old prediction is not always the present truth.
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
“You call us livestock, but you don’t treat us like livestock. You don’t make sure each of us has been fed, you don’t protect us from predators in the night, you don’t help deliver our young or tend to our ills. You’re not a farmer, you’re a parasite, and we will deal with you accordingly.”
Tags/Warning: spencer is kinda wrecked, in portuguese we say "tomou um chá de buceta", i can only describe as reader fucked him brainless and she didnt even do anything, poor communication, he has some weird tendencies, its like the first time he actually sees a woman, a little conversation that may trigger some of you(its about spelle), elle greenaway mention!, they also look like a high school drama, flashbacks from spencer pov at the end, english not my first language and i didnt review this at all.
Genre: SMUT! NSFW! MINOR DO NOT INTERACT PLEASE! also a little angst?
Summary: Spencer can't think after what happened at the road with you, he doesn't know what to do, because he really don't wanna admit he is kinda into it.
AO3.
Author's note: I HAVE MADE IT MY LOVES!! it sucks though, so please forgive me. i also decided to make it a third part so if you guys dont like this one i willl kill myself. jokes! haha (no), anyways i really kept qriting and forgot to stop! anyways i hope you guys like it !
Spencer was staring at the bonfire with empty eyes. His head was nowhere closer to the team talking and joking while roasting marshmallows.
You were sat on the opposite side of the bonfire, legs crossed while you listened to JJ talking about something related to Henry.
He kept remembering what happened at the road. God, he kept remembering all he wanted to do with you on that road. He would have done it, if it wasn't for the call and for the way you completed ignored him the moment they entered the cabin hours after that.
He couldn't stop thinking about what you have said, the reasons of your dislike towards him. He couldn't understand how you heard him talking about you that day. He could remember how pissed he was, he wasn't meaning any of it, he was just trying to… to forget the many chances he lost after Elle left.
He ran a hand through his hair, feeling uncomfortable. Elle was a sensible topic. She had been a lot of things to him while on the FBI, and then when she left, he felt like he had lost the only chance he had of liking someone. He had lost another part of himself.
He would never admit to himself the fact that at the time he had the biggest crush on her, no. But he couldn't deny that his younger version was naive and Elle was absolutely everything he thought he would want in someone.
Pretty hair, pretty smile, badass personality, confident, ambitious, charming… She was absolutely perfect in his eyes during that time. She would understand him and not judge him. Elle was the first person to say she was grateful for him being him, and the last time he had that feeling was in one of the only times his mother was medicated and not completely gone because of her mental illness.
Above all, she was one of his best friends. After Gideon left, each person who also left the team made the scar on his heart a little bigger, and he probably just felt worse when you entered the team. At the time Tobias Hankel had also happened, he wasn't so sure if all the things he said came from abstinence or being high on drugs.
Now he asked himself if he was right for hating you so much. If that wasn't just one of the many things that being an addicted and sour about his traumas made him.
"I'm going inside," he mumbled to no one in particular, standing up and walking back to the cabin while sighing heavily.
He put the ceramic mug on the kitchen counter, turning to the coffee machine. Yes, it was late as hell. Yes, he didn't give a shit about caffeine after 6 p.m.
The silence of the forest was welcome and hated somehow. He loved and hated silence. Spencer couldn't go through an uncomfortable silence without trying to fill with his voice and some useless fact, but he also would hardly be able to speak during some of his worst after case moments.
He mostly hated because it meant being alone, and alone means to deal with his own thoughts. His thoughts were covered in you.
Spencer Reid wouldn't be the type to hook up and sleep around like Derek was, but he definitely wished he was able to do that, he wished he had voted for the city hotel stay, he hoped he was in some bar, and he had alcohol to make him get lost and sleep earlier than everyone.
He considered himself a genius. The smartest man in most of the rooms he enters, but right now he couldn't stop thinking about the simple carnal act called sex.
Like a teenager in heat due stupid hormones.
"Fuck!" The voice made him jump out of his thoughts, turning around to find you, you had a grimace while you squeezed a hand around your feet.
"Damn," you grumbled, feeling the pain of hitting your toes on the corner of the coffee table. "Fuck me- Jesus Christ."
Spencer felt the familiar wish to strangle you. Why so many curse words? He never understood. He wasn't a saint and of course he swore, but you seemed to have a necessity of doing all the time. Maybe he had the necessity of shutting you up because everything you did affected him somehow.
When you looked up to find him there, you both stopped, staring at each other for what could have been long minutes, before you limped your way into the fridge, ignoring the fact his eyes were following you.
"Are you okay?" His voice was strained, he had barely talked since they arrived, and he wasn't exactly trying to fill anything.
Except the fact he did fill your insides with his tongue 6 hours ago.
Spencer shook his head, rubbing his temples with a hand, focusing on the coffee machine in front of him, instead of you. You didn't answer him anyway, ignoring his presence completely. Nothing new under the sun.
Which it didn't really help, his mind was a machine of memory capacity, he only needed one single glance to know everything about how you looked.
Summer dress, a V cut on the front that showed the middle of your chest.
And then it came back to him, the fact that your panties was still shoved on the inner pocket of his backpack. The ones he didn't even try to give you back, the ones he stole from you, before he ate you on top of the hood of a car he didn't own.
He didn't expect you to not be wearing one now — or he just really felt like hitting his head on the nearest wall, so he would stop thinking about the chance of you not wearing underwear — but he didn't find the moment or the courage to give it back to you. Maybe he never actually planned on giving it back.
The little piece of fabric, cotton with a comfy design, had a little bow on the front. A little bow making him feel harder under his stupid sweatpants.
"Can we-" he interrupted himself, taking a deep breath. "I have something… of yours. In my backpack."
"What?" You turned around, dropping a package of popsicles in the kitchen counter, probably for the team still outside. Right, they were there. And they were professional profiles that could feel something was wrong.
"There is something yours, in the bedroom," he commented, trying to make himself louder without giving you the chance to mock him for speak softly. His mind felt stretched, like a taut rope. His stomach was turning into burning lava, like he could throw up at any time. Out of embarrassment.
"It's obvious that my stuff are in the bedroom. We are being forced to share…" You answered nonchalantly, but Spencer did notice the tilt of your head as you pressed a package of frozen peas on your foot, while you sank into one of the high chairs of the counter.
"One of your things are in my stuff. My backpack, I mean." He tapped his fingers on the coffee machine, eyes narrowing like he was planning something again.
Maybe he could drown in the lake to end his suffering? The team would say suicide. He could write a note too.
"Okay, I will go grab it later." Your voice made him look up.
"You should grab it now," he insisted.
"I will not," you shot back, grabbing the popsicle package and leaving the peas behind. Spencer didn't get to open his mouth before you were out of the kitchen, completely gone in a blink of an eye. Stubbornly stomping out of his way, you left him there, lost again.
Night had settled down, the team was completely out in their bedrooms while you were still trying to sleep.
Spencer was nowhere to be seen, after that little talk in the kitchen you didn't go after him, much less he came after you. Your eyes blinked at the empty ceiling, rolling in the empty bed with nothing to do, you sat up.
Eyes squinting with the darkness of the room, you stretched your hand to turn the lamp on, filling the space with a yellowish glow that should be comforting. It was unsettling.
Your sight landed on the left side of the bedroom, in Spencer's duffle bag and backpack. He had fixed his clothes in the dresser's drawers, you had almost commented on how stupid it was to do that in a two days trip.
"One of your things are in my stuff. My backpack, I mean."
"Fuck me," you grumbled, tossing the covers aside when you stood up, dragging your feet to his side of the bedroom until kneeling by his backpack. Slowly pushing the zipper open, it revealed almost nothing. He had put his toiletry bag in the dresser, his phone was there — he barely used anyway — and something was filling the inner pocket on the side.
When you opened, the humid fabric of your panties — the one you thought had fall on the road or something — revealed themselves. Staring at it made you process the fact he had kept your panties since what happened a little harder.
You took a deep breath, not even mad would make sense for what you were feeling. Maybe dizzy. Horny?
"Nope. No. Thank you-" You clicked zipped the backpack again, pushing yourself up before you accidentally knocked over a stack of files he left on the small side table.
"At this point I should use my gun on myself." Your hands picked up the folders all at once, before you noticed a book — a journal — on the floor. It was his, the initials — S.R. — were the only thing on the corner of the cover.
But what actually caught your eye wasn't that, it was the note hanging from the top of it. A note with your name and credentials.
You pulled the paper, narrowing your eyes the moment you recognize the first page of your file from the FBI database.
Spencer was walking around the trail that lead through the sides of the forest from the cabin. He was not wearing proper shoes, and he could barely see if it wasn't for the tiny lamppost that would show up here and there through the path.
He was also not sure if he should be outside, but he couldn't bring himself to go to bed knowing he would need to sleep in the same bed as you. The weather was too hot for a late summer night, and he was sweating way too much for the wrong reasons.
He couldn't stop thinking about what happened, the mug of coffee he took didn't help his anxiety to settle, and the dialogue — if it could be called that — he had with you was not helping, either. He felt trapped inside of his own head, and the obsessive way he kept thinking about all the possibilities and outcomes made him feel uneasy on his own skin.
He could come up with something, he should have already come up with something by this point. Spencer's brain had the ability to process over 20,000 words per minute, and he couldn't come up with something to explain what happened between you and him? He couldn't explain why his mouth still felt tingly with how much you had bitten his lips, he couldn't explain why he couldn't even hit climax in the shower when he tried and just kept frustrating himself because he wanted you. He wanted to… to cum inside of you, he wanted to be so deep he couldn't see the difference between your body and his.
And he felt ever worse for thinking about it. God, he was turning into a complete pervert. He kept remembering that tiny tattoo in your chest, right between your breasts. He could imagine how your skin would taste and how vulnerable and sensitive you would be, while his tongue would be memorizing every inch of your skin.
Spencer stopped at some point, reaching a space where a little pond reveal itself, with a wood bench in front of it. He sat down, throwing his head back and trying to breathe slowly.
During moments of panic, the brain would go over the edge for the lack of oxygen. Oxygen meant thinking rationality, which he needed. A lot.
It was sex. It was just sex.
It was the only thing he never got himself pleased with.
He had sex before, of course. Meaningless hook-ups, drunk situations, that one forensic scientist during a case in Indianapolis.
All meaningless. All things he could remember but never feel anything about it. Sex was not good for him. He did for the urge of feeling normal.
Derek always came to work on Monday morning talking about some amazing, divine hook up he had. Emily commented with Garcia about boyfriends and girlfriends she had. Even JJ chimed into the conversation to talk about her sex life in her marriage.
And then he just watched. He never felt the need to have sex, never felt the same urge everyone had. He couldn't say he didn't masturbate but after one specific episode — one he pretended it didn't happen because it involved you and an erotic dream — he definitely didn't do as much as before.
Still, he couldn't take the sight of you in that damn car hood. He wished he could just stop with a button, like Emily would joke about him being robotic. He was not enough.
He opened his eyes, watching the stars in the sky. It was pretty, completely different from the city sky. Filled with spots of light, it wasn't so dark. But again, the sun was not there to stimulate any change in the color perception of his brain and eyes.
His neck turned, making him look at the path he had walked all the way here. It was not far away from the cabin, but before he could even think about coming back, your shape — he had memorized — appeared in the shadowy path.
He barely had sat up before he could notice how mad you looked.
"Why do you have my file?" Your voice cut through the forest silence like a sharp knife, and he could have felt worse if it wasn't for the warm feeling of you actually talking to him.
"What?" He schooled his face into a nonchalant confused look, blinking up at you. His eyes were dark under the barely there light, and you were now standing in front of him, standing while he still was sat.
"My file. You have a page of it." He jumped when you threw it in his lap, now turned into a ball of smashed paper.
He calmly took his hands out of the pocket of his jacket, slowly opening the paper until he could see the content — barely really, he already had decorated everything in there, he didn't need to read — before he looked up at you.
He looked awfully good for some reason. His hair was a mess of curls and waves, his skin was slightly blushed and his eyes… Spencer's eyes were criminal.
You hated that the thought even came up into your head, the anger in your chest turning into something else. Something hot pulling up on your lower stomach.
"Explain before I decide to wake up everyone and call Hotch." The threaten was not real, but Spencer didn't know, and you saw that he didn't read through your lie. But you were not going back without an explanation.
"I- it's not… mine." The audacity.
"You wanna tell me that it's not yours? Really? It was in your journal. I'm not fucking stupid."
"I didn't say you were," he defended.
"Okay, so you better tell me the truth before I drown you in that damn pond!" You warned, pointing at the pond behind you, not even a step away.
At that moment Spencer's mind was not processing the threat but actually noticing your outfit. You were wearing nothing else than a cream-colored camisole, with thin straps that fell from your shoulder due the aggressive movement. Your bottoms were loose fitting around your low hips, with only an elastic band.
The only detail that mostly called his attention — not that the almost transparent fabric didn't do enough to send him over the edge — was the chest area completely exposed, while the cut of the camisole could slide down and show your boobs at any giving moment. His hand could probably stretch the fabric, and he could have them in his mouth if he tried.
"For fucks sake, what are you staring at?!" The loud volume of your voice made him wake up from the trance, forcing him to shook his head.
"I… nothing. I was staring at nothing." His Adam's apple moved up and down with a dry swallow, making him wish a glass of water, or something else… "The… the paper is just… It's old. I don't know, I got a draft sheet in Garcia's office."
It was bullshit. It was such a stupid lie, he couldn't believe it was the only thing he could come up with. Yes, he had got the page in Garcia's office. No, it was not as a draft sheet and Garcia was not aware he even had that.
He had that page for years, it was clearly an old paper, but he took care of it like it meant something.
When Hotch announced Elle's leaving the team and the news about a new agent, he got restless, trying to found out who you were, what you looked like, what were your specialties and why would Hotch choose you.
He couldn't prevent himself from doing his own investigation with dirty moves, like the Garcia's office robbery part. And then he never got rid of the paper for some stupid reason he didn't even know.
"That's bullshit. I'm a profiler, you know? And probably a better liar than you, too."
"I'm not lying." He pressed his lips into a thin line, folding the paper and shoving down his pants pocket.
"And now you are trying to keep that? Do you really want me to drown you or something?" You stepped back, hoovering in front of his sitting figure. He couldn't stop himself from noticing how he could see your cleavage if you leaned down more. He wished you did.
He. Was. A. Pervert.
"I'm not trying to keep it, I'm just explaining I was not lying, and I will definitely throw this out. It's not like I care about your information."
"Of course not. Why would you care about my information? You don't, that's why you have a page of my file," you mocked with crossed arms and narrowed eyes.
"It's the first page, it's barely any information I could use. And, also, you could remember that everything I know about you is completely against my desire." He gestured with a hand.
"Will."
"What?" He stared back at you, lost on his own mistake. Was he going insane at this point? Because of his cock, of all things? He never believed the things people said about men being controlled by their own reproductive organ, but right now, he wasn't so sure.
"It's against your will. Not your desire," you corrected. "And you really expect me to believe that? You stole my panties, pervert."
Your finger met his forehead, pushing it back, with anger. You were not giving a shit anymore.
"I didn't steal your panties, and I'm not a pervert. I was actually trying to give them back when you ignored me. In the kitchen." He ignored the forehead push, trying to think of doing something else than kiss you.
"Yeah sure, because why couldn't you have done that at the car then? You wanted the team to hear about what happened? Pervert."
"Stop saying that word."
"I suppose you can't deal with the truth now, huh? So much for your title, and you can't even handle a little truth." At this point, he was sweating with lust and irritation, while you were having your sweet time to mock him.
"Just shut up."
"Oh threatening that again? Let me guess, your next move is a kiss?"
"You wish it was," he grumbled, before he stood and shoulder checked you.
Your balance was lost in a millisecond, making you want to scream for how stupid the idea of walking on slippers didn't occur to you. But above all, you wanted to scream at Spencer.
Spencer frozen mid-walk the moment he heard the splash of you hitting the water.
When he turned around you were butt deep into the pond, the water swirling around you with dirt. Your cream-coloured camisole turned into a complete see through, and yours eyes? If a look could kill…
He couldn't reach you before you started standing up by yourself. "I'm sorry I wasn't-"
"Don't fucking touch me, I swear to god," you hissed at him, standing up completely while his hands hovered around you. When you tried to fix your top, the fabric stuck to your skin like glue, perfect revealing the form of your boobs, and the way your nipples were hard because of the cold water. He looked away so he wouldn't start drooling.
"I wasn't… trying to make that happen." He closed his eyes, squeezing it tight while trying to control his breathing, "Take- take my jacket."
He stuttered while pulling the fabric off, stretching his hand out while holding it.
You looked at him, noticing the expression of pure nerves, watching his hand trembling while holding the jacket. And if you weren't completely insane by now, your eyes went lower and lower, noticing the loose t-shirt he wore and the sweatpants.
Dark-coloured sweatpants that had too little ability in hiding the volume of his boner.
"You got hard because of me falling into the water." You weren't asking to confirm, or trying to tease, the affirmation just came out, making him snap his neck to look at you, wide-eyed and all.
"What? No! I'm not-" He looked down, pulling his arm back and holding the jacket to hide his lap. "Why are you even looking at my- my lap?!"
"You made me fall into the water just because of your own pervert wishes and you wanna put me as the bad one for looking at your boner?" You weren't sure if you even were making sense. And now you were shaking with the cold water.
"I didn't make you fall on purpose, I literally just apologize for it!" He stepped closer, trying to not look so defensive while still holding the jacket in front of him. "Why do you keep trying to make me the villain?"
"I'm not making you the villain for saying the truth."
"You are trying to make me the villain, and you act like you didn't moan my name and almost begged for me to fuck you in a public road." There. He said it. He was getting tired of accumulating those thoughts in his head, and now he finally said it.
To your shock, you didn't have a comeback, staring at him with your mouth opening and closing.
"Just admit you want that again. You wouldn't come up wearing this- this stupid top, if you didn't know I would notice."
Maybe you had thought about changing and decided not to. Maybe.
"And what about you? You are acting like a lightning struck you or something."
"It may have! I don't fucking know thanks to you!" He exclaimed, running a hand through his hair before he dropped his head back, making you notice the veins on his neck.
You weren't the most smart person at the moment, and maybe being alone in your bed wasn't helping the current case when you told him. "We should have sex then."
Spencer neck almost got whiplash from how fast he looked at you.
"I'm not forgetting the fact you stole a page of my file. Or stole my panties." You lifted a finger. "But okay, we have sexual tension going on. Big deal. It's not like it never happened with the team."
"You're telling me that someone with the team had sex with another someone in the team? That's your argument?" He narrowed his eyes, ignoring the fact you stepped closer.
"Garcia and Derek are literally flirting and talking dirty through the phone every second of the day."
"They don't count."
"Are you seriously trying to make an excuse to deny the fact you want to fuck me? I'm literally offering you the meal, go and eat it."
That metaphor was awful because he automatically remembered how he went down on you, closing his eyes. His whole body was in pain due the constant tension on his shoulders.
"I hate you." He grumbled, covering his eyes with a hand.
"Okay, doc. You can go and keep denying it, while I will go back to the cabin and take a long shower."
The way you said "long shower", stretching the "long" word, made him shiver, making him imagine what would it be to have a shower with you. He was so screwed.
"You're welcome," you said for no particular reason, before you left the pond area and started walking back to the cabin.
Spencer had stayed outside for a while before he walked back to the cabin. The digital clock on the living room marked 2:34am, making him sigh to himself before he slowly found his way into the bedroom.
Barely seeing your form under the blankets in the shared bedroom, he padded his way into the bed, putting his jacket aside on the swing chair.
He wouldn't get any form of sleep tonight — or maybe for the rest of the month — which was extremely stressing already.
He laid down over the covers, staring at the ceiling of the room with a heavy chest, starting to feel the pounding is his head get harder to ignore.
"Are you awake?" His voice cut through the darkness of the room, it sounded tired and frustrated all at once.
"Mhm." Your mumbled sound made him turn his neck, looking at the back of your head, it took you a few seconds before you turned around to face him. You looked stressed.
"I…" he trailed off, the moment he took your appearance in.
Spencer thought you were pretty, even if you both hated each other. But after the road thing, his mind had turned against him, so right now, he thought you were perfect.
"I never apologized properly for what you told me."
"What?" You frowned, eyes blinking and trying to focus on his face. With that Spencer stretched a hand to turn the lamp on his side of the bed, pushing himself up against the headboard.
"When you got into the team I was angry at Elle leaving, and I couldn't do anything about it. I used you to project my fears of changing and my lack of courage towards what I felt… for her, at the time." He slowly let a deep breath out, resting his head against the headboard, he still couldn't look you in the eye.
"You liked Elle?" Your tone was sincere, not mocking him or anything, but actually trying to sound genuine. It did took you a lot of energy to not be snark.
"I did. I don't know. She was… she was special, but I'm not sure if I liked her, or I just wanted to like someone. But nothing never got to happen because she left, and you came into the team." He held his hands together between his thighs. "I don't know why I kissed you today. Yesterday, theoretically."
You looked up to watch him, noticing the angles of his face. It was probably the first time you two weren't jumping at each other's throat for more than 2 minutes — he had counted.
"I got that page of your file in Garcia's office. Before you got to be introduced to the team, I just wanted to know if I was able to find something to not like you. As in being a plausible thing to do. But you didn't have anything wrong so I just… kept." He sighed, lifting his eyebrows and massaging his temples, you propped yourself up in your elbow, keeping your eyes focused on him.
"You were mad I had a reason to not like you, while you didn't?" That question made him stop, lowering his hands. "Because I truly only didn't like you because of what you said. And then you were bitchy."
"I was not bitchy…" he grumbled but it was weak, and he knew he was bitchy. He was more than bitchy, he was annoying and egocentric around you. For no reason. Spencer actually blamed you for bringing the worst of him, because he never had to deal with this worst part if it wasn't for you. "Maybe I was bitchy."
"Maybe?" You teased while arching your eyebrows.
"Don't start." He glared at you sideways, taking a deep breath and leaning his head against the headboard. "I'm not telling you all this for you to pity me, or forgive me, or anything."
"I would never pity you." Your voice was firm and it made Spencer turn his head to look at you. His eyes were dark in the low light of the bedroom, and you noticed when he swallowed hard and looked away. "You make me feel a lot of things, doc, but pity ain't one of them."
"Whatever. I'm just… talking. Don't expect me to become friends with you. Or-"
"Or have sex. Okay, I get it, you don't wanna have sex anymore." You lifted one hand in defeat, rolling your eyes.
"I- it's not-" Spencer opened his mouth, and then closed with a click of his teeth, moving uncomfortably before he sighed. "I wasn't going to say that…"
You looked at him, arching your eyebrows.
"I tried to… I tried to 'release' myself, in the shower when we arrived and I couldn't do it." He was looking at the ceiling and his voice was groovy, trembling on the edges.
"You tried to cum and couldn't?"
"Why do you have to be so foul-mouthed?" He closed his eyes.
"So you can imagine how my mouth would look around your-" Spencer widened, his hand shooting up to cover your mouth.
It covered the lower half of your face, squeezing it a bit but not enough to hurt, while you just looked at him, mischief glowing in your eyes.
"You are insane." He closed his eyes, sighing before he dropped his hand, dragging it down your face but just until you prevented him from doing so.
You made sure to stare into his eyes when you lifted his hand back, guiding his thumb into your lips. "I'm not insane. You are just denying it."
Slowly, you took his thumb between your lips, pressing the digit against your tongue. Spencer felt his mouth drying up, making his breath hitch. His hand moved by itself, pushing him thumb deeper into your mouth until you hummed, making the vibration travel through his body.
He pulled his finger suddenly, grabbing your face and pulling you in.
His mouth dived into yours, his hands pulling you from your spot on the bed, like he was a magnet and you were his opposite, until you were straddling his lap. Spencer gripped your face, the many moving electric charges of yours and his atoms working to be glued together.
His tongue invading your mouth aggressively, just like your fights, and then his hands grabbed your ass possessively while grinding you against the bulge of his sweatpants.
You hissed against his mouth, hands gripping his hair and feeling the softness of it. His hands moved up to your torso, under your blouse, while his touch was lightning your body the same way gasoline would be lit by heat, his mouth pulled back to bite your neck, sucking the skin harder until it left a mark.
Who would have guessed that, a normal conversation, was all it took for you to end up making out with the annoying genius?
Your head was floating, his hands were so soft on your skin. The calluses of his fingers — from holding pens and writing a lot — scratching your back softly, pushing the fabric of your blouse until he pulled back to help you take it off.
He stripped you naked like you were made of delicate porcelain, his mouth took your skin like you were the finest wine he never got to taste.
His lips wrapped around the nipple of your breast, his tongue swirling around the soft bud the same way it did when he ate chocolate ice cream. Your hand cradled the back of his head, fingers running through soft waves, arching your back to give him access.
You moved your hips, rocking against the bulge of his pants like a maniac looking for release. Spencer moaned against your skin, because he could feel your humidity soaking through the fabric of your underwear.
His mouth bit down on your nip, making you hiss and pull the back of his hair. You looked down at him with a grimace.
"Did you just bit me?" You pulled his hair harder, forcing his mouth to open when he glared at you, squeezing your waist with his hands as warning.
"Don't pull my hair." He growled back, narrowing his eyes.
"Don't test me." You pulled harder, his head tilted back until he whimpered. That was surprisingly satisfying, making you smile. "Oh, so that's why? You like when I pull it."
Spencer's mouth was open, a soft moan leaving his lips when he felt the movement of your hips. Incisive, perfectly amount of pressure to make him almost reach orgasm.
"Don't tell me you are almost cumin in your pants." Your voice was whispered against his ear, making him shiver when he noticed you were definitely mocking him for the situation.
He couldn't speak back, his tongue was being bitten inside of his mouth so he wouldn't make louder noises and his brain was really turning into mush. His hands squeezed you harder but to bring you close, even if it hurt.
When you looked at him he was a complete mess, skin completely turned red like a tomato while his throat produced the best little sounds you ever heard. You weren't the type to take control, well, since the last time you had sex. Most of the guys weren't that willing to do anything that could turn into humiliation.
"Please, you-" Spencer moved his head, ignoring your grip on his hair, but you didn't stop him when his face was pressed against your neck, his mouth pressing sloppy kisses, begging for release. "I can't- Please-"
"Please what?" Your fingers run through his hair when your movements slowed down, making him complain against your neck. "Please what?"
He was forced to look at you, and how divine that sight was.
"I wanna…" His throat was dry, he seemed on edge and he was gone. "Can I fuck you? Please?"
Completely, totally, definitely gone.
You couldn't believe how fast he went from annoying little prick to a mess only after a minutes dry humping his pants. And you couldn't believe how long it took for you to find that out.
"Please…" He pressed his forehead against your neck again, his hands moving your hips while your name slurred out his lips. He wasn't trying to seek his release, but he was trying to make you feel the same desperation he was feeling. "I will do better than earlier, promise."
Sweet and submissive Spencer Walter Reid.
"Okay." His head tilted up the moment you said it. His eyes scanning you to see if you were teasing him again or something. It was like a button had been pushed in his head and now he turned into a stupid, desperate — slightly pervert — version of himself.
His hands barely made out of your waist before you stopped him.
"I can do it." You pushed back, sitting between his open legs. His eyes scanned every single inch of exposed skin, until it stopped right at the middle of your legs. His mouth was salivating all of the sudden, while watching you.
A finger running across the hem of your panties was all you did, going back and forth for while. "I really prefer cotton underwear than those sexy, lace pieces."
The comment made him swallow, looking up at your face for barely a second. His eyes were fixed in your hand, touching the area above your vulva, right at the border where that wet spot had went to.
"Cotton is proven to be the best option for underwear because it has natural fibers that are highly breathable and absorbent." His brain went on and off while he watched you palm yourself in front of him. "Let me touch you."
You arched one eyebrows. "Now you are giving orders? Who decided you could do that?"
Spencer looked up, almost like you had slapped his hand with a ruler like some old teacher. "Please?" His puppy eyes were glowing with the need. He wanted to feel your taste again, so bad. "I do as you want."
"Anything?"
His head turned to the side a bit. "Most things."
You could notice, he was submissive now, yet you were sure that he could flip off that little persona to something way dangerous. You couldn't say you liked or hated if he did it.
You pushed back on the mattress, giving him space to lay on his belly in front of you, his hands already cradling the side of your legs, trying to pull your underwear off.
"Nah-ah." You lifted a finger, saying no. "When I tell you can take my panties off, you will know."
God, when he looked up at you, it was clear he was really close on rebelling himself. After all, he had done this earlier, he had made you beg on top of that car roof.
His eyes didn't take long to pay attention to what mattered. His mouth getting close to the root of all his current problems. He pressed a kiss against the fabric, humming when he felt the wetness of your pussy, his tongue was out, pressing against the fabric to force friction.
You watched every second of it, your breath turning heavier with the stimulation he was provoking. Spencer wasn't dumb, he didn't want a fast release or a quickie that would end slightly too fast because of how he already was close. He wanted you to order him around, until he was — maybe — tired of waiting and took the control from you. Or maybe he expected you to give in willingly.
His eyes looked up, even if the position wasn't ideal and it made his neck hurt, he couldn't not look into your eyes, watching how your breathing turned shallow and quick.
The movement of his tongue became more precise, forcing you to almost ride his tongue through that horrific fabric — instantly regretted of your choice of keeping your panties on, but your ego wouldn't let you back down.
You laid back completely, hands finding it's way to his hair. "Good boy." You couldn't believe you were even saying that, and didn't have the time to process it when Spencer pressed his tongue harder, sucking with his mouth. He was eating that fabric, and you weren't sure he wasn't doing just to taste you better.
The heat started in your lower stomach, all noise becoming just a background sound you didn't care, your hips tilting up against his mouth.
You weren't admit you were kinda lost, but when Spencer tried to push the fabric aside, you didn't stop him, actually your hand guided his head back to you faster.
His mouth was so warm, so perfectly warm.
He didn't try to use his fingers, he could see you didn't need that when his tongue focused on your clit. Pressing, flicking, circling, you couldn't tell because your brain was now the one turning into mush.
Your own hand shot up to cover your mouth when the orgasm exploded behind your eyelids, making you see little spots of light, almost cursing Spencer for not stopping.
He really didn't want to, he could stay there — eating you out like a goddamn sex addict — for hours if you asked him to. He stopped when your legs were squeezing his head, slowly standing up.
He had a line of saliva running down his chin, lips glistening with your and his liquids. "Was it good?"
You felt like punching him when he asked that, because it was probably the best orgasm you ever had, and that son of a bitch knew it.
Spencer helped you sat up, guiding you back to the pillows on the right side of the bed. You could see he was not satisfied yet and still not pressuring you at all. His pants would reveal a wet spot if it wasn't for the dark fabric.
His hand fixed your hair, calmly running down your neck and collarbone. "Can I kiss you?"
"Why would I say no?" You arched your eyebrows.
He shrugged off, not answering before he actually kissed you, pushing his tongue into your mouth, making you feel the salty taste of your own self. It was embarrassing. It was electrifying.
Your hands move to his pants, pulling the knot of the elastic rope around his waist, trying to push it down, before Spencer pulled back. He had to stood up on the side of the bed, giving you the full sight of him undressing himself.
He wasn't jacked or anything like Morgan, but he was definitely leaner than you expected. Pale skin with freckles here and there, while his stomach had a trail of hair that leaded to his…
Your mouth was watering when he started pulling the sweatpants off, revealing more pale skin and the most attractive cock you ever saw.
It was pornographically accurate.
He was completely hard by now, the head glistening with pre cum, veins guiding all the way up and down making you bite your lip. If you had to, you would need to use your hands and mouth to take all of that.
When he moved to be on top of you again, holding his cock with one hand, Spencer looked at you with a smirk.
"You are really staring." He tilted his head to the side, trying to take his hair out of his eyes.
"What? Your cock is pornographic. Like straight up out of some Porn Hub video." You wanted to touch him, but suddenly you didn't know how to even ask.
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" He was between your legs, his hand pressing his length against your pussy, making you squirm a bit. "Because if it's… It's the first one you ever gave me."
He was really trying to mess with you while grinding his perfect cock against you? He was insane.
"I'm quite sure I complimented you before."
"Not even once. At least in front of me." His tip teased at your entrance, taking a pretty embarrassing sound out of you. He was smiling. "Can I fuck you?"
The question made you stop again, noticing how he was, at least, sincere when asking. "How?"
Your question caught him off guard for a moment. "I'm not going to be erratic. And I will start slowly because I don't know which… size… you are used to. I will watch your face to see if you are liking, and how much you need me to up the speed, and I will wait until I see your hands gripping your breasts desperately because that's what you do before you cum."
That answer was not what you expected. Not at all. You kinda expected some few words about him claiming he was good, but no. "I'm also clean and I know you are on birth control."
"You know?" Your eyebrows shot up to your hairline. Spencer shrugged.
"I saw the box in your toiletry bag." It was funny, he was talking the most nonsense at the moment weird hour ever and you were still dripping wet because of him. "Answer my question."
"Your question asking permission to fuck me?"
"Yes. Can I fuck you?"
You swallowed hard, nodding with your head.
"I need verbal consent." Spencer Reid was definitely testing your patience.
"Yes." You grabbed his shoulders. "Yes, Spencer you can fuck me."
His face did something weird you didn't understand, but you didn't have time to because you felt his head press against your entrance and it was more than enough to make you loose it.
He was exactly like he said, his hips didn't stutter once, controlling the movements so he wouldn't hurt you, not until your legs grabbed his hips and pulled him in.
You could swear he hit your cervix, because you definitely never felt that with other guys. As some type of warning, he bit your shoulder, groaning against you.
Your hands gripped his arms — weirdly strong because you always saw him as a twig — when he started moving. He was slow, yes. And deep. He was going to break your hips. Definitely.
You couldn't speak when his face hoovered above yours, mind too focused on whatever he was doing with your insides when his hand grabbed your hand, fingers gripping yours in a tight embrace by the side of your hair.
"You are so good-" He barely got that out, kissing you messily between the sounds of sweaty skin hitting against each other, the sloppy noises of your kisses and the encounter of your bodies making him flush even more.
One of his hand went behind your back, pulling you up before he turned around on his back, putting you on top. That angle made him go even deeper on you, forcing a loud moan out of your throat.
Spencer's hand covered your mouth, helping you lean on your knees before he started thrusting up with his hips. He was not letting you ride him, he just wanted to show you how much he could reach inside of you.
His free hand was against your lower stomach, his thumb teasing the swollen bud, forcing you to grab his wrist when you felt like it was too much, even if he didn't care to stop.
You pushed his hand off your mouth, diving for a kiss. You were pulling his hair, scratching his chest, everything you could to release the overwhelming sensation happening between your body and his.
Spencer kissed you back, wincing with the bites you left on his lips, the feeling of your nails dragging down his chest, making him gasp — not for pain, but for pleasure.
Your hand pushed the one he kept on your hip, forcing him to stop his own ministration to let you ride him, without him controlling the pace from underneath. His hand insisted on interviewing with yours, forcing you to lean on the sides of his head.
He was admiring you now, watching you reaching your orgasm with his body providing it. He noticed the movements turning erratic, he felt the moment your body tensed up and clenched around him, the moment your hand found your breast, making him stretch his neck to take the other on his mouth.
Your head exploded. More than the first and second time he had made you come in the last… 14 hours? You didn't know anymore because your head was completely out the current reality.
Spencer admired your face, the way your forehead scrunched and your lips parted with that divine sound he never thought he would hear you make.
With only that, he felt his body almost force his release, one hand gripping yours while the other squeezed your hip so tight, he was sure he would leave a mark.
Both of you stood there, in silence if it wasn't only for your heavy breathing. Your hand pulled away from his, and you didn't notice when his face made that same weird thing from before.
Your back rested against the mattress, and you felt relaxed.
Spencer turned his head, looking at you, his chest moving slowly now. If he had wake up yesterday, with the news of this whole… thing going on between you and him, he would have laughed and joked about jumping from the nearest window.
"I will go grab a towel," he mumbled, standing up before you could say something. Spencer grabbed his own boxers from the floor and put in one of the robes hanging on the wall of the bathroom. When he came back from the bathroom, he had a humid towel and a dry towel.
Your hands lifted you up over, sitting up when he sat down by your side of the bed.
"You are going to clean me, huh?" You didn't stop his hands from lifting your leg — too weak to move — cleaning the inner part of your thigh, he was careful when cleaning your pussy.
How fucking weird was to think that? Spencer Reid was cleaning his cum from your legs and you were not even mad about it.
When he was done, he took the towels back without saying anything.
Spencer couldn't be sure about what he was thinking right now. He stared at his reflex in the mirror.
His mouth was swollen and red, his chest — revealed by the open robe — was filled with red marks. Spots from your mouth and scratches from your nails.
Spencer needed a bath. A very long bath.
When you heard the water running inside of the bathroom door, your mind went all the places it shouldn't.
Spencer was your swear enemy — for lack of better word — for years now. Since you entered the BAU and you never really cared.
What happened today could not be repeated or ever talked about. Ever. God, Morgan wouldn't live down if he ever discovered. And thank god you were the only ones in the first floor of the house.
Spencer left the bathroom, wearing the same robe until he changed into sweatpants and a shirt, sitting down on the bed for a moment. Then he looked at you.
"What?" Your voice, in that nonchalant tone that made him get mad very easily, this time, only made him sulk a little more.
"You won't say this can't happen again?" His voice was almost whispered.
"You expect me to say the opposite?"
"I don't know." He laid down turning the lamp off before he turned on his side, his back to you. "Good night."
"Are you serious right now?" You looked at him, the attitude growing on you, ready to start a fight when he was just… ignoring you? "Answer me, damn it." You shoved his arm, forcing him to turn around and look at you in the dark. You couldn't see his eyes, but you knew he wasn't exactly happy.
"What do you want me to say? You will say this can't happen again and you will threaten me with something if I think about telling anyone. Lucky for you my only friends are the same you have and I wouldn't lose them over something that stupid."
"Oh so sleeping with me is stupid, huh?" You couldn't believe how ridiculous it came out.
Spencer huffed. "Are you really expecting me to think you wouldn't say for us to ignore this forever?"
"Well, I'm not expecting you to just ignore me!" Your voice was louder than expected, and the silence was even worse. "I just- We literally had sex and you just decided to ignore me completely. At least say something." You crossed your arms, sulking against the pillows, Spencer mimicked your position right after.
"If I say something you will mock me. And still, it's not like you would want to date me now." Oh shit. Spencer closed his eyes the moments the words came out. He wasn't expecting you to suddenly fall for him but the thought was definitely there.
He waited. Waited for you to yell or hit him but what he received was the shuffling of the sheets, and you standing up.
"You were right. We are never talking about this again. Ever." Your words were firm, but your voice lacked emotion, he didn't understand. How bad it was for him to just blurt out something stupid? You got mad because he suddenly suggested a relationship?
Well, considering everything it would make sense but at least you would fight him. Wouldn't you?
He just watched you leave the room, wearing your blouse and shorts he didn't see you putting on, carrying a pillow and nothing else when your silhouette disappeared after the door was closed.
His life couldn't get worse.
One week after the weekend with the team it did actually get worse.
If before you would make a snark comment every time he was in the room, today — Friday, not even half of the afternoon yet — Spencer was sure you were abducted and replaced by some alien.
He did not believe in abduction but he was hardly against the idea of life outside of Earth. The universe was vast, it was also easier to think that way than to try and understand your crazy behaviour.
The weekend you slept on the living room, and then Sunday was too crowded with the team and riding back home — which you did on the car with the girls, forcing him to share with Morgan.
It still didn't made sense when Monday morning you didn't even look at him.
Tuesday you ignored when he made a little comment, just to test you.
Wednesday they had a case and flew over to LA and you actually asked Hotch to go into the field and not stay and research with him — which you normally did and despised him in the process.
And Friday arrived, coming back from the case at the middle of the day did not give the team a day off, so of course everyone was finishing reports and signing paperwork.
You didn't even look at him. Or acknowledged his presence. Or complained when he kept using and reusing the alcohol gel bottle under his desk, with the smell of Aloe Vera you despised. Nothing. Not a single tilt of an eyebrow.
Spencer was sure his hatred for you was to hide his frustration on lost chances, yet now he thought he actually missed the banter and the fights. Probably the sex, too.
But mostly you. Your personality was the worst thing ever but he was still going insane over.
"Hey kid, let's go." Morgan suddenly tapped his shoulder, making Spencer wake up from the trance he got in. His eyes looked around the bullpen, noticing how everyone was already leaving. The clock marked 6pm sharp.
"Yeah. I'm going…" He frowned to himself while gathering his things, his satchel and his coat from the back of his chair. The elevator ride was silent from him, Morgan bragging about something he only answered with nods and short noises of agreement.
After Morgan left him alone to find his car in the parking lot, his eyes stopped the moment he saw you, typing frenetically on your phone. Spencer suddenly felt like he was a teenager again. Except for the fact he never lived his teenager years the way some people would.
"Something wrong?" His voice was sounding weirdly high pitched, making him grimace at the fact he was feeling nervous around you. Your body jerked up with the sudden voice, making you snap back to look at him.
If he wasn't sure of his heart beats he could believe you saw him as a ghost.
"Nothing." You said, clinically, coldly even.
You were nervous too.
"It looks like something is wrong." He insisted, stepping closer.
"Nothing is wrong. And it's none of your business."
"I'm not saying it's, I'm just worried-" He stopped. Worried? He was worried? He couldn't be worried. Not about you. He shouldn't be.
"My car battery stayed on the last 2 days and it's dead now." You quickly said. "I'm just waiting for the tow truck. Happy?"
He wanted to ask why you were so mean all of the sudden, but it was actually very normal on a daily basis. Except for the fact that you spend the last week ignoring his existence completely and that wasn't common, ironically.
"Do you want a ride home?" His mouth was moving without his brain acknowledging the words he was saying, because suddenly Spencer was not properly working in front of you, of all people. "I… came with my car so…"
"I don't need a ride home, I already called the mechanic."
"No mechanic will work at this hour without making you pay the doubled price for the service," he argued, tilting his head while glancing at your phone. "The mechanic didn't answer, did he?"
Your jaw clenched, forcing you to bite the inside of you cheek while looking directly at his shoulder, never his face. But it didn't help either, his shoulder — large but not big, he was tall and probably a inverted triangle figure? — made you remember the way your hands had squeezed and bite that same skin. Was he still with marks of that night like you? Or maybe he healed faster? You were still having to hide the hickeys he left on your neck.
"He will answer, so you can just leave me alone." You turned around, ignoring him completely.
"Why are you ignoring me?" If you weren't with your back turned to him, he would have probably saw your nose wrinkle with a grimace.
"Why would I not ignore you?" The question was not supposed to be said because you weren't supposed to talk with him. An agreement you made in your head after that little conversation post - sex during the weekend. But still, Spencer always had a nag to piss you off.
You still couldn't believe the fact he had talked about dating just because you had sex. Like what the hell?
"Because you never ignore me that way, and it's weird. Even the team noticed."
"No, they didn't." You turned to look at him, noticing the way he had stepped closer, so you had to step back, keeping safe distance, which he automatically noticed.
"They did. It's kinda hard not to, actually." He tilted his head, fidgeting his hands inside of the pockets of his coat. "Because you barely acknowledged my existence the whole week, and I at least, expected that you would just… ignore the weekend not… me."
"And why do you care anyway?"
"I don't know."
He didn't know, really. He was confused for the simple fact that he even cared to be confronting you that way. It was hard, in any other moment he would have enjoyed your ghosting— he couldn't believe he even used that word to describe it — and he would have been at piece.
"Why?" He repeated, stepping closer again until you stepped back, hitting one of the columns of the parking lot.
"What the hell did you expect me to do? You said it yourself, we weren't going to talk about it." You were nervous, the frown in your forehead was showing.
"Yes. Not talking about it doesn't mean ignoring me. I literally took a full pot of coffee and didn't refill and you didn't say anything. Which is insane, because you always say something when I do it. It pisses you off. I do it to piss you off." He explained, gesturing with his hand before he put it back on his pocket. "Ignoring me completely just gives the sign that you… you are affected by it."
"Okay, chill on that thought." You lifted your hand, almost defensive. "Don't start profiling me now. And me ignoring you doesn't mean I'm affected by anything."
"Kinda does." Spencer looked at you, reluctantly tilting his head because he thought he was right. You, of course, wasn't agreeing on that.
"Don't profile me," you repeat, firmly while narrowing your eyes at him.
Spencer opened and closed his mouth, sighing a bit when he tried to come up with something, before he could the lights of a tow truck showed on the entrance of the parking lot floor, making you enjoy the opportunity to stepped aside from the corner.
The car stopped, the door opening to reveal a very disheveled, slightly bald man with a beer belly that made Spencer's stomach churn. He was relieved that he didn't leave you alone with a stranger.
"Well, good evening." The man approached you, looking you up and down in that way that old men felt the need to do with people.
"Good evening, my car battery is dead and I thought you could maybe give a jump start?" You explained pointing at your car on the parking lot. The car looked at you, and then at the car and then at Spencer, standing behind you like a guard dog.
"I would need to take it to my garage. I don't have the tools here," the mechanic grumbled.
"You didn't bring the tools to give my car a jump start after I said it was a dead battery?" You arched your eyebrows, in the condescending tone Spencer knew as your patience running low and thin.
"Oh no." The mechanic shook his head. "I'm just the guy behind the wheel, I don't talk to anyone."
Oh great. Just perfect.
"Right." You rubbed your forehead. Calling another mechanic would take ages, and it was already passed 8 p.m. "How much it would be for you to take it back and I get my car fixed later tomorrow?"
The conversation took more than you expected, having to explain a thousand different times you did not want any other extra job done in your car, until the mechanic chilled and focused on towing your car into the truck.
And then 40 minutes later, you were still at the parking lot, and Spencer didn't move a step.
"Do you wanna a ride home?" He asked again. "I won't talk." He assured, before you denied or told him to fuck off.
You looked at the hour, and then at the fact you were tired and his car probably had a heater, and you really just wanted to go home and end the godforsaken week you were having.
"You better not," you murmured turning around to walk to his car, which he followed biting his lip to ignore the sudden movement of his facial muscles, trying to form a smile on his face.
Spencer's car was neatly organized, which didn't surprise you. He turned the engineer on, not saying a word while pulling out of the parking lot.
"My address is-"
"I know your address." He interrupted. "I know everyone's addresses in case Hotch needs it." He explained before you made some snark comment or maybe accused him of stalking.
You sighed, leaning back against the leather seat in silence. It was kinda consuming to be sitting in such a tiny space, all your thoughts crowding your head like a god damn storm. Your hand held on the seatbelt across your chest, looking at the window so you didn't have to see him in your peripheral vision.
Spencer on the other hand, was a mess of ticks. Tapping the steering wheel, moving his tongue out of his mouth to moisturize his lips. His mind was a mess of thoughts, wandering into memories he didn't want to think about.
One week after the weekend with the team it did actually get worse.
If before you would make a snark comment every time he was in the room, today — Friday, not even half of the afternoon yet — Spencer was sure you were abducted and replaced by some alien.
He did not believe in abduction but he was hardly against the idea of life outside of Earth. The universe was vast, it was also easier to think that way than to try and understand your crazy behaviour.
The weekend you slept on the living room, and then Sunday was too crowded with the team and riding back home — which you did on the car with the girls, forcing him to share with Morgan.
It still didn't made sense when Monday morning you didn't even look at him.
Tuesday you ignored when he made a little comment, just to test you.
Wednesday they had a case and flew over to LA and you actually asked Hotch to go into the field and not stay and research with him — which you normally did and despised him in the process.
And Friday arrived, coming back from the case at the middle of the day did not give the team a day off, so of course everyone was finishing reports and signing paperwork.
You didn't even look at him. Or acknowledged his presence. Or complained when he kept using and reusing the alcohol gel bottle under his desk, with the smell of Aloe Vera you despised. Nothing. Not a single tilt of an eyebrow.
Spencer was sure his hatred for you was to hide his frustration on lost chances, yet now he thought he actually missed the banter and the fights. Probably the sex, too.
But mostly you. Your personality was the worst thing ever but he was still going insane over.
"Hey kid, let's go." Morgan suddenly tapped his shoulder, making Spencer wake up from the trance he got in. His eyes looked around the bullpen, noticing how everyone was already leaving. The clock marked 6pm sharp.
"Yeah. I'm going…" He frowned to himself while gathering his things, his satchel and his coat from the back of his chair. The elevator ride was silent from him, Morgan bragging about something he only answered with nods and short noises of agreement.
After Morgan left him alone to find his car in the parking lot, his eyes stopped the moment he saw you, typing frenetically on your phone. Spencer suddenly felt like he was a teenager again. Except for the fact he never lived his teenager years the way some people would.
"Something wrong?" His voice was sounding weirdly high pitched, making him grimace at the fact he was feeling nervous around you. Your body jerked up with the sudden voice, making you snap back to look at him.
If he wasn't sure of his heart beats he could believe you saw him as a ghost.
"Nothing." You said, clinically, coldly even.
You were nervous too.
"It looks like something is wrong." He insisted, stepping closer.
"Nothing is wrong. And it's none of your business."
"I'm not saying it's, I'm just worried-" He stopped. Worried? He was worried? He couldn't be worried. Not about you. He shouldn't be.
"My car battery stayed on the last 2 days and it's dead now." You quickly said. "I'm just waiting for the tow truck. Happy?"
He wanted to ask why you were so mean all of the sudden, but it was actually very normal on a daily basis. Except for the fact that you spend the last week ignoring his existence completely and that wasn't common, ironically.
"Do you want a ride home?" His mouth was moving without his brain acknowledging the words he was saying, because suddenly Spencer was not properly working in front of you, of all people. "I… came with my car so…"
"I don't need a ride home, I already called the mechanic."
"No mechanic will work at this hour without making you pay the doubled price for the service," he argued, tilting his head while glancing at your phone. "The mechanic didn't answer, did he?"
Your jaw clenched, forcing you to bite the inside of you cheek while looking directly at his shoulder, never his face. But it didn't help either, his shoulder — large but not big, he was tall and probably a inverted triangle figure? — made you remember the way your hands had squeezed and bite that same skin. Was he still with marks of that night like you? Or maybe he healed faster? You were still having to hide the hickeys he left on your neck.
"He will answer, so you can just leave me alone." You turned around, ignoring him completely.
"Why are you ignoring me?" If you weren't with your back turned to him, he would have probably saw your nose wrinkle with a grimace.
"Why would I not ignore you?" The question was not supposed to be said because you weren't supposed to talk with him. An agreement you made in your head after that little conversation post - sex during the weekend. But still, Spencer always had a nag to piss you off.
You still couldn't believe the fact he had talked about dating just because you had sex. Like what the hell?
"Because you never ignore me that way, and it's weird. Even the team noticed."
"No, they didn't." You turned to look at him, noticing the way he had stepped closer, so you had to step back, keeping safe distance, which he automatically noticed.
"They did. It's kinda hard not to, actually." He tilted his head, fidgeting his hands inside of the pockets of his coat. "Because you barely acknowledged my existence the whole week, and I at least, expected that you would just… ignore the weekend not… me."
"And why do you care anyway?"
"I don't know."
He didn't know, really. He was confused for the simple fact that he even cared to be confronting you that way. It was hard, in any other moment he would have enjoyed your ghosting— he couldn't believe he even used that word to describe it — and he would have been at piece.
"Why?" He repeated, stepping closer again until you stepped back, hitting one of the columns of the parking lot.
"What the hell did you expect me to do? You said it yourself, we weren't going to talk about it." You were nervous, the frown in your forehead was showing.
"Yes. Not talking about it doesn't mean ignoring me. I literally took a full pot of coffee and didn't refill and you didn't say anything. Which is insane, because you always say something when I do it. It pisses you off. I do it to piss you off." He explained, gesturing with his hand before he put it back on his pocket. "Ignoring me completely just gives the sign that you… you are affected by it."
"Okay, chill on that thought." You lifted your hand, almost defensive. "Don't start profiling me now. And me ignoring you doesn't mean I'm affected by anything."
"Kinda does." Spencer looked at you, reluctantly tilting his head because he thought he was right. You, of course, wasn't agreeing on that.
"Don't profile me," you repeat, firmly while narrowing your eyes at him.
Spencer opened and closed his mouth, sighing a bit when he tried to come up with something, before he could the lights of a tow truck showed on the entrance of the parking lot floor, making you enjoy the opportunity to stepped aside from the corner.
The car stopped, the door opening to reveal a very disheveled, slightly bald man with a beer belly that made Spencer's stomach churn. He was relieved that he didn't leave you alone with a stranger.
"Well, good evening." The man approached you, looking you up and down in that way that old men felt the need to do with people.
"Good evening, my car battery is dead and I thought you could maybe give a jump start?" You explained pointing at your car on the parking lot. The car looked at you, and then at the car and then at Spencer, standing behind you like a guard dog.
"I would need to take it to my garage. I don't have the tools here," the mechanic grumbled.
"You didn't bring the tools to give my car a jump start after I said it was a dead battery?" You arched your eyebrows, in the condescending tone Spencer knew as your patience running low and thin.
"Oh no." The mechanic shook his head. "I'm just the guy behind the wheel, I don't talk to anyone."
Oh great. Just perfect.
"Right." You rubbed your forehead. Calling another mechanic would take ages, and it was already passed 8 p.m. "How much it would be for you to take it back and I get my car fixed later tomorrow?"
The conversation took more than you expected, having to explain a thousand different times you did not want any other extra job done in your car, until the mechanic chilled and focused on towing your car into the truck.
And then 40 minutes later, you were still at the parking lot, and Spencer didn't move a step.
"Do you wanna a ride home?" He asked again. "I won't talk." He assured, before you denied or told him to fuck off.
You looked at the hour, and then at the fact you were tired and his car probably had a heater, and you really just wanted to go home and end the godforsaken week you were having.
"You better not," you murmured turning around to walk to his car, which he followed biting his lip to ignore the sudden movement of his facial muscles, trying to form a smile on his face.
Spencer's car was neatly organized, which didn't surprise you. He turned the engineer on, not saying a word while pulling out of the parking lot.
"My address is-"
"I know your address." He interrupted. "I know everyone's addresses in case Hotch needs it." He explained before you made some snark comment or maybe accused him of stalking.
You sighed, leaning back against the leather seat in silence. It was kinda consuming to be sitting in such a tiny space, all your thoughts crowding your head like a god damn storm. Your hand held on the seatbelt across your chest, looking at the window so you didn't have to see him in your peripheral vision.
Spencer on the other hand, was a mess of ticks. Tapping the steering wheel, moving his tongue out of his mouth to moisturize his lips. His mind was a mess of thoughts, wandering into memories he didn't want to think about.
"Take it or leave it." You were smirking at Derek across the crowded table at the jet. It was one of the rides home, with an actual reason to be happy. The case was of a predator kidnapping kids for trafficking, and the team was able to actually track the unsub before they crossed the border.
Everyone had a reason to smile. Everyone was supposed to be in a good humour, but for some reason, Spencer Reid was not in a good mood.
Six months into your new job at the BAU, you were sure that man was everything that was wrong with society. Everyone would talk good about him, but you never saw any of the good.
It was weird. He was around your age, so when you got into the BAU, you expected to have some type of easier way to get close to him.
You couldn't be more wrong than ever. He was an awful human being.
Spencer would cut through your phrases, grumble little comments under his breath, ignore your insights mid briefing and still glare at you when you stole the last cup of coffee on the pot, without refiling. This, of course, was completely his fault. Your pettiness was only being shown because of his pettiness.
Spencer sat cross legged on the chair that was turned to your direction, — where you were playing poker with Derek since he decided to bet on winning — he only decided willingly to be this close around you when he was planning one of his little tantrums.
"Bold of you, when you are about to lose." His voice ringed in your ears like a fork scratching porcelain. You wrinkled your nose, your head turning slowly when you looked at him.
He had this whole nonchalant vibe going on, that you know it was a total act because Spencer Reid could never be nonchalant, before he looked up, arching his stupid eyebrows.
"I'm not losing." Spencer would have described your answer as a growl if you were related to any canine species, even though he just shrugged.
"Didn't say you were losing. I said you are about to lose. Which you are." He closed his book slowly, not minding to mark the pages, because could use his memory if he needed to go back there. He already had that book engraved in his brain, anyways. "Derek is about to get a full house in the next deal. And you would need at least 3 to finish your full house. Will lose a way or another."
Derek chucked on his side of the table, making you glare at him when he lifted his hands in surrender. You couldn't believe how Spencer was so… irritating all the time. The cards fell into the table, before you pushed the peanut piles — the only allowed coin for bets in the jet — to Morgan. "Whatever."
Spencer glanced sideways when you stood up, watching you walk to the opposite end of the jet and entering the bathroom.
"Man, you don't even try it." Derek, huffed, while organizing the cards, he looked at Spencer, who was giving him a puzzled look. "This whole act you give her. Why?"
"I'm not giving her anything." He grumbled, flipping the pen on his hand.
"Oh yeah, you are. Everyone is noticing. Is it a crush or something? Because you know, most of the times a boy is pissing off a girl…" Derek trailed off, giving Spencer one of his arched eyebrows look.
"That's not something proven by science. The concept of pissing someone off to show affection is rotted in misogyny and society values. If I was trying to show off a "crush", however I am not, I wouldn't do this way. And I don't need to explain my actions to you."
Derek watched him gesturing and whispering quickly, defensively explaining his actions.
"Sure, pretty boy. Whatever makes sense to you." Derek lifted his hands in defeat, not even trying to insist on explaining to Spencer why he was acting like a teenager.
Everyone in the team thought the same. Spencer was young, but completely inexperienced when it came to love. He never had the chance to go though the phases of annoying crushes in high school — of course not, he was 12 at the time he finished high school.
It would only make sense for him to act like a teenager towards you. You were pretty, his age and probably the first girl that ever got to actually try to have a conversation with him. Because when you got into the BAU you were actually trying to be nice to him… of course, just until he flipped on you and you lost any respect you ever had for him.
That also happened before he got sober, but he would never talk about it. You, clearly didn't know, because Spencer didn't act different with you. The team knew what he had been through, during that time, they also never tried to help him directly. It made his skin crawl and automatically blame you. They could only be too busy with you to pay attention to him.
"Can you open the door or…?" Spencer snapped out of his head when he heard your voice. His eyes found yours, noticing he had drive the whole way in silence, completely lost in thought.
"Oh- Yeah, sure." He mumbled before he pressed the unlock button on the car dashboard, winning a wrinkled nose from you. "Can I just…"
He trailed off, watching the moment you froze at the half open door. He could hear his own blood rushing through his body, the feeling he used to call anger when he was around you, taking space for something weird and uncanny.
But you didn't seem to care to acknowledge that with him, your body moving faster than your mind when you closed the door, not giving him a second chance to speak.
Spencer watched you walk up the front stairs of your building, opening and closing the doors, until you disappeared into the entrance hall. He fell back against his seat, closing his eyes for a moment.
summary : you return to work with spencer after your weekend together, hopefully he is super normal about your situationship!
wc : 9k
tags/warning : enemies to enemies with benefits, pornwithplot, coworkers, inexperienced!spencer, experienced!reader, oral f!receiving, more talking about sex, teasing, light exhibitionism, spencer is a shit, semi-public sex, more jerking off, reader is experiencing lots of complicated feelings rn, dom+sub undertones but there's no clear dom or sub they just keep going back and forth
a/n : oh my man i love him soooooo
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Spencer is insatiable.
Which is absolutely marvelous.
You honestly aren’t sure how you’re going to go back to one night stands after this little experiment, he’s perfect. He doesn’t get bored, all he wants to do is please you, you hardly have to lift a finger while he’s in your apartment.
And he’s funny.
Which is an earth shattering discovery. It isn’t always intentional but he always seems to find ways to make you laugh.
The problem is that you should have sent him home last night, or at the very least, this morning.
But he makes it so hard, because every thirty minutes he’s shoving his knees between your legs, or his hand between your legs, or his stupid perfect cock between your legs. And by the time he’s done you’ve forgotten all about telling him to leave.
Even worse, you aren’t even sure if you want him to leave.
It doesn’t matter what you want though, all you know is that you’re setting a precedent by letting him stay. This is all uncharted waters for you. You haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, and you have no desire to change that. You’ve also never had a consistent fuck buddy, you aren’t sure what the protocol is on essentially living together for four days.
You choose to indulge yourself just this once and let him stay, it’s only two more days. What’s the harm?
You spend most of Saturday on the couch, sitting in the dark, forcing him to watch your favorite movies in between rounds. He’s starting to get more comfortable in the non-sexual moments between you. At the very least he doesn’t flee to the other side of the couch, he sits beside you, never making the first move but he always sighs in relief when you touch him.
You’re sitting in silence, watching as the horror movie unfolds before you when he clears his throat.
“I want to try cunnilingus.” The way he says it makes you laugh, the proposition takes all of your attention away from the movie.
“Cunnilingus?”
“Oral sex performed on someone with a va-”
“I know what it is, Reid. I just don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say that word out loud.”
“What else am I supposed to call it?” He throws his hands up.
“Why don’t you ask me if you can eat my pussy.”
“Can I eat your pussy, please?” He rolls his eyes when he says it, he knows you won’t say no.
“Since you asked so nicely.” You twist your body so you're sitting with your back against the arm of the couch, your bare legs stretch across his lap, you’ve been in a shirt and panties for most of the day. “Do you know how to do it?”
“I don’t know why you keep asking me that, I’ve done more than enough research, and you seem to be plenty satisfied with my performance so far.” It’s your turn to roll your eyes as he shoves your legs apart.
“Brief me on your knowledge of cunnilingus, Dr. Reid. What have you learned from your hundreds of hours of dedicated porn watching?” He shifts forward, moving to lay on his stomach, his legs hang off the end of your couch.
“Under twenty percent of women can climax from solely vaginal stimulation, which makes sense, the clitoris has over ten thousand nerves, if the goal is an orgasm that’s where the focus needs to be. But many women enjoy dual stimulation and find that enhances the experience. With that information, combined with videos that I’ve watched I think I should be able to perform sufficiently."
You sit up on your elbows, looking down at him.
“How long does it take the average woman to achieve orgasm?” You like asking him questions, you never used to ask him anything unless you absolutely had to, but it’s better than just googling something because you get to watch the gears in his head turn.
“In this hypothetical situation let's say the focus is on the woman and the focus is on her, with a partner it’s around fifteen minutes." He never stares directly at you when he’s recalling information like this, it’s almost as if he’s somewhere else, retrieving it.
“What if she isn’t with a partner?”
“In cases of masturbation, it’s about eight minutes.”
“You are the strangest person I’ve ever met.” You don’t say it like it’s a bad thing, it isn’t.
He only shrugs in response, resting his head against your knee.
“How long do you think it will take you?” You grin when you ask, challenging him with an eyebrow raise.
“I’d like to aim for ten minutes. I like to think I’m more intelligent and more determined than the average male. That isn’t counting foreplay of course.”
“So, counting foreplay, maybe… twenty minutes?”
“Sure, that sounds about right.”
You look down at your phone for a moment, waiting for the time to change, when it does you smile at him.
“Okay, let’s see it then.” You say as you show him your phone.
7:26 p.m.
He wastes no time as he turns to kiss your thigh.
Slow and precise, and ever so gently, he kisses you just above the knee, moving further up with each kiss. Until he’s dragging his tongue through the crease between your thigh and pelvis. It makes your hips twitch, which he notices because he notices everything.
That little reaction is enough to have him licking and biting at the spot until you’re crying out and practically pushing him away. When that happens he simply moves to another spot, sucking the skin of your inner thigh into his mouth before sinking his teeth into you. Leaving an angry red mark that he quickly soothes with a drag of his tongue.
Someone in the movie screams and you flinch, without taking his eyes off of you he reaches towards the coffee table, feeling around as he sucks a dark mark into your flesh until he finds the remote, his finger slides to the top of the remote and the movie blinks off the screen, leaving you both in a darkness that is only broken up by the dim light coming from your bathroom down the hall.
“Did you know that sensory deprivation doesn’t actually enhance your other senses, especially in the short term but I figured it might set the-”
“Less talking, more touching.” You lift your hips, sliding your panties off.
“Yes ma’am.” He mumbles as he scootches forward, until you can feel his breath against your cunt. You're left in silence for a moment. You can’t see him but you’d be willing to bet money that he’s making his thinking face. Brows furrowed and lips a little pouty.
When he finally presses his mouth against your center it’s to plant a kiss against your clit.
You don’t get a lot of time to dwell on how strangely sweet it is because only a few short seconds later he slides his tongue between your folds, slow and sweet and a little unsure. He starts with small laps of his tongue before he buries his face between your legs, pressing himself deep into your skin as he maps out your cunt with his tongue.
The ever efficient Spencer Reid figures out what he’s doing pretty quickly. He doesn’t see your reaction but when he spreads your legs further with his hands and shoves his tongue into you your eyes roll into the back of your head as you groan.
“Oh my god.” You let out a strangled sound as he moves upward, finally dragging his tongue over your clit.
He does everything.
Starting slow, with his tongue flattened against you, then drawing lazy shapes, it almost feels like he’s spelling something with his tongue, quicker and quicker until the room is filled with the sloppy wet sounds of his mouth and your strained moans. His hands grip the back of your thighs, spreading you open as he hums against you, sending a jolt of vibration through your center.
Your fingers find his hair, tangling themselves in his locks. It takes a conscious effort to not pull hard as he licks from your entrance up to your clit before refocusing on your hole. The bridge of his nose rests against your clit as his tongue presses into you, his movements a little frantic as he groans into you.
“Spencer…” You squeeze your eyes shut as you inhale sharply. Trying to form a single thought right now is proving difficult, especially with his nose bumping against the single most sensitive part of your body as he tongue fucks you. “Spence, I’m-” Your grip tightens in his hair as you pull him up a bit, until his mouth is back on your clit. He consumes you as his tongue flicks across your bundle of nerves until you can hardly breathe.
You hate and love that he’s just as good at this as he thought he’d be. The pressure low in your stomach builds more and more as you struggle to find any words beyond his name and few curses.
Until you can’t say anything at all, you just moan until your thighs squeeze around his head and you come, he doesn’t let up for a single second as your head falls back and your entire body tightens and releases. As you come down off of your orgasm you have to push him off of you. Your cunt buzzes between your legs, overstimulated and hypersensitive. .
He reaches behind you, grabbing your phone as you fight to catch your breath. He taps the screen before turning it in your direction.
7:44
“Only took eighteen minutes.” You can’t see him in the darkness but you can hear his smile.
“Show-off.” You let out an airy laugh as he leans forward, lips catching yours as he swallows the sound.
He pushes your thighs up against your stomach, effectively folding you in half as he slots himself between your legs and pushing into you, something he’s able to do with relative ease now.
“Good job, pretty boy.” His hips stutter when you say it,
“Say it again, please.”
“Good job? I’d be happy to tell you how good of a job you’re doing, is that what you want to hear?”
“Mhmm.” He hums and you wrap your arms around his neck as you pull him closer to you.
“You did so good, Spencer. You made me feel so good.” It doesn’t take long after you whisper for him to whimper and finish inside of you, when he’s done you reach back, clicking a lamp on. He stays inside of you, wrapping himself around you as he lays on top of you. Eventually he turns his head to face you, a dopey smile on his face.
You’re waiting for him to say something snarky or obnoxious but he just grins at you.
And you smile at him, enjoying the sight of his pretty smile in the dim light of the living room.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Spencer enjoys going down on you more than any man you’ve ever met. You know he isn’t just doing it out of obligation because he doesn’t even seek out his own gratification afterwards half the time. (Although you’re pretty sure he’s come in his pants a few times.)
You’re so glad you didn’t send him home.
Although Sunday evening is its own harsh reality.
You suddenly find yourself hit with a wave of anxiety.
You’re going to have to do a damn good job acting like everything is normal if you don’t want the team to sniff out your new situation with Spencer.
He’s going through your bookshelf as you read a book you’ve been meaning to get to, he flips through your shelf, clearly unimpressed based on the dramatic scoffing he’s been doing.
Until he gets bored and gets into bed next to you.
“I don’t want to go back to work tomorrow.” He rolls over, facing you, and diverting your attention from your reading.
“Why not? You love work.” You set your book on the nightstand, he’s clearly demanding your attention, and you’ve got no reason not to give it to him.
“How does anyone get anything done? I mean seriously, how do you all not spend all day every day just doing… this?” He inches himself closer to you, his fingers play with the edge of the blanket.
“Fucking?”
He nods.
“I’m sure it doesn’t feel like it right now, but there are things more important than sex, like putting away bad guys.” You sit up a little straighter as his fingers drift up and down your stomach.
“I disagree, this-” His hand slips under the sheets, his fingers roughly sliding between your legs, as you hiss through your teeth. “is more important to me.”
“It’ll be even better after a long day of work, when you’ve had to wait for it.” You tilt your head to rest against his.
“I don’t want to wait.” How quickly he goes from demanding to whining.
“You’re so needy.”
“Do you want me to stop?” His eyes widen, almost daring you to act like you don’t want this.
You don’t have a response so you just stare for a moment blankly before you speak.
“You’re getting an attitude already. Should I be worried?”
“Can you blame me? I’m furious. I recently discovered that I’ve been willingly denying myself of life's greatest pleasures.” He sits up, pulling the blanket off of you as he slides between your legs, laying on his stomach as he stares up at you.
“You can’t act like this at work.” You grab him by the chin as he grins, you’ve seen him smile more this weekend than ever before.
“Obviously, you think I don’t know that? You care too much about what everyone thinks.”
“I do not care too much, I care a normal amount for someone who wants to keep her job.”
He scoffs in response, resting his cheek against your thigh.
“Hotch isn’t going to fire us for having consensual sex.” He mumbles.
“He isn’t going to fire you because you’re his golden boy.”
“Nothing bad would happen if people knew.”
“This is just sex, Reid. It’s fun and it’s easy, it doesn’t stay that way if people know about it. So, if you want this to keep happening, you’re going to behave.”
“And if I do, can we keep doing this?” His fingers dance along the edge of your panties as he rests his head against you.
“We can do every fucked up thing you can imagine if you keep this a secret.”
“You keep saying that but I feel like I can think up a few things that you might not want to do.” He stares at you with those big doe eyes.
It’s your turn to scoff at him.
“Like what?”
“Like… what if I wanted to tie you up?” He props himself up on his elbow as he rolls onto his side.
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“What if I wanted you to tie me up?”
“I’d be happy to.” You do your best to hide your excitement at the potential of that.
“What if I wanted to be… rough?” You laugh the moment he says it. It’s hard to imagine Reid holding it together long enough to be rough.
“I think I’ll be okay with that.”
“What about something like somnophilia? Or CNC?”
“I’m shocked you even know what that is.”
“I have access to the internet.” He rolls his eyes.
“I’d pay good money to see what your search history looks like.”
“BDSM?” It’s extremely jarring to hear these words coming from Reid’s mouth.
“I love it.” When you lean forward he rolls back onto his stomach, moving himself further between your legs, so his head is resting on your thigh.
“Roleplay?”
“I’m a wonderful actress, Dr. Reid.” Oh he likes that. You watch as his hips dip down, grinding against your mattress.
He’s quiet for a moment, staring at the ceiling as he thinks.
“What about anal?”
You gasp, putting your hand over your mouth.
“Spencer, watch your mouth.” You grin as he rolls his eyes.
“Is that a no?”
“Of course not, you can fuck my ass as long as I can fuck yours.” He cocks an eyebrow at you as you say it. “Enough hypotheticals, assume everything’s a yes. I want to hear more about your internet searches.”
“What about them?”
“You hate technology, you must be looking for something pretty important if it’s driving you to willingly use the internet for recreational purposes.” You run your fingers through his hair, playing with a stray curl.
“I’ve had a lot of free time, and nowhere to take out my sexual frustration.” He gives you a theatrical pout as you laugh.
“Clearly.”
There’s a moment of silence where you’re trying to think of what else you could ask him but he clears his throat before you can say anything to him. When you look down at him he looks a lot more serious than you feel.
“Can I ask you a question?” His voice is noticeably softer.
“Sure.”
“How long do you think we’ll do this for? Like how long will we be a thing?” He chews on his lip when he finishes speaking.
It’s a bad question.
It’s the kind of question that makes you feel itchy and wrong because it implies that this is a thing at all. You shouldn’t even humor this kind of question, you should tell him that this isn’t anything, it’s just two adults having fun and he’s ruining it.
That’s what you normally say to guys who ask for a second date.
But you agreed that this would be a long term thing.
Medium to long term.
“Until one of us gets bored. Or until one of us wants to stop.” You shrug, not looking at his reaction as you turn away from him. It’s a vague bullshit answer but you don’t have anything better to say.
“Are you feeling bored?” You despise the subtle hope in his voice that you’ll say no, that’s the downside with men who are eager, they want validation. And unfortunately for you, something about his desperate need for it is pulling on the heartstrings you thought you cut off years ago.
“No, Reid, I’m feeling rather entertained.” There’s another beat of silence before you speak again. “I just… You understand how important it is to me that no one finds out about this, right?”
“I do. As much as I think it doesn’t matter, I don’t want to do anything to potentially jeopardize your career.”
It frightens you that you don’t care that he stayed, that you sort of liked it. This is more than a one night stand, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted less than a boyfriend, and more than a one night stand. Maybe that’s what this is, and maybe that’s why you didn’t actually want him to leave.
“I… appreciate that. So you have to act exactly the same as you always do tomorrow.”
“I know, I know. I’ll be the same annoying, creepy Spencer I usually am.” He does a shitty job of mimicking your voice as he says it.
You want to tell him that you don’t think he’s that annoying anymore. And that you don’t mind the staring so much anymore either. Sadly that would just serve to lean into a narrative that you care how he feels at all. And that wouldn’t be fair to either of you.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
He wants to throw your alarm clock out the window.
Better yet, he wants to murder your alarm clock. He wants to murder your alarm clock so violently that he terrifies the local police department. He’s going to go on a spree and kill alarm clocks across Virginia, until the BAU has to get involved and figure out who is gutting all these alarm clocks.
Your alarm clock is signaling the end of the single greatest weekend of his life.
Your hair is a mess as you jolt up, and he loves it. He did that after all, his fingers were twisted in your hair, and you said his name so sweetly when he did it.
“Reid, up.” You grumble as your hands shake his shoulders.
“I’m awake.” He takes your hand as you slump back over onto him. He likes that you aren’t a morning person, it gives him more time to watch you as you rub your eyes and stretch.
“We’ve gotta get up,” You rest your head on his chest, making no effort to move as your fingers play with the fabric of his shirt. “you have to leave before me, you always get to work before me.”
“Okay.” It’s all he says in response. He doesn’t want to leave before you, he doesn’t want to leave at all. He wants to board up the door to your apartment so neither of you can ever leave again.
Your breathing steadies as your eyes flutter shut, your mouth just a little open as you breathe, he doesn’t dare move. He doesn’t care if you both don’t show up to work today, why would he? Maybe the team will find out, then you’ll realize no one cares. And then all he’ll have to do is figure out how to get you to stop being so scared of commitment.
How quickly his view of you has changed now that he’s spent just a little time with you, you aren’t entirely unpleasant.
You’re actually so pleasant that he’s decided he’s going to make this work. He’s quite fond of the view he has currently, you, with your hair everywhere, starting to snore on his chest.
He’s going to show you that this can work, he can tell that you don’t think it will. Your body language is so guarded, all the time, it must be exhausting.
Even as you sleep there’s still a defensive nature about your position, your slight pout, the way your shoulders tense. He’s about to reach out to try and smooth the line between your brows out but you shoot up again.
“Time to get up.” You actually manage to shamble out of bed this time and he knows the weekend is officially over.
It’s a frantic mess of a morning, he’s throwing things into his bag as he dresses himself. By the time he’s smoothed his hair out and gotten fully dressed for work you’re still staring at him like you’re only half awake.
You both stand in your bedroom, staring at each other, he’s got his backpack over one shoulder and his satchel over the other.
“Can I… nevermind.” He starts to speak but he’s quick to shut his mouth, there’s no reason to ruin things now.
You immediately cross your arms in front of your chest, staring at him expectantly.
“Oh come on, I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for so far, why would I start denying you now?” He sighs in relief when you step forward and rub his arm.
“That’s just not true, you’ve denied me several times.”
“I always give you what you want eventually.” You give his arm a squeeze as you smile. He wants to make you smile for the rest of his life.
“Can I take a pair of your panties?” He whispers the words quickly, hoping he isn’t about to overstep right at the end of the weekend.
“Sure.” You smile even harder and all he can do is stare slackjawed.
“Really?”
“Yeah, why not, I’m gonna go brush my teeth, just grab a pair from the drawer.” And just like that you disappear and he’s given free reign of your dresser. Five days ago he would have killed a man for a pair of your panties, now you’re just giving him one.
He knows exactly which ones he wants, you did laundry yesterday morning and when he slides open your drawer the pair of pink panties you wear every Monday is the first in the neat little organized row.
Pretty pink cotton panties with a little bow, a present just for him. He shoves them into his pocket, slamming the drawer shut. If he focuses on your underwear for too long he’s going to be hard the rest of the day and he really doesn’t need that considering how difficult today is already going to be.
When you return you’re half dressed, your fingers pop the buttons of your blouse into place as you kick off your pajama pants.
“You need to leave, like, right now. You need to clock in early, like you always do.” You grab him by the arm, dragging him through the apartment until you reach the door. He kneels, tying his converse as you check your hair in the hallway mirror. “Jesus I’m a mess,” You mumble as you pull it back with your hands, trying to find a style that works.
He doesn’t want to leave.
He wants to call in sick.
He wants you to call in sick.
And he wants to stay in this little apartment for the rest of his life.
But you’re fixing the buttons on your blouse, and turning to him to straighten his tie. For a second you just look up at him, your hand resting on his shoulder, your eyes flicker around his face and it almost seems like you’re leaning in.
He decides to push his luck.
“Could I kiss you?”
The flicker of your eyes towards the floor answers his question, you give him an apologetic smile.
He shouldn’t have asked.
“Spencer…”
“Nevermind, it was a stupid question.”
“It’s not a stupid question. This just… this isn’t that kind of thing.” You stand on your tip toes, giving him that sad smile as you hold his face and kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you at work, if you wanna hang out again text me later what nights this week work for you.”
Every night for the rest of his life, if you’d have him.
His cheeks burn a little red as he nods.
“See you at work.”
“Goodbye, Reid.”
And just like that he steps out of your apartment and you shut the door behind him.
For the first time in days he’s alone. Standing in the hallway outside your apartment, dressed for work as if his entire life didn’t change this weekend.
He runs his thumb over the little bow on the front of your panties as he grips the bunched up fabric in his pocket.
He’s only just gotten a taste for you and you’re already trying to slip through his fingers, he has no intention of letting that happen.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
You’re uncomfortable the second you step out of your apartment. You’re uncomfortable when you drive to work, and you’re uncomfortable when you step out into the bull pen and see the smiling faces of your coworkers.
Spencer managed to take the pair of panties that you specifically wear on Mondays. They aren’t even that sexy, they’re the most basic cotton pair of underwear you own, yet you couldn’t find them when you dug through your drawer this morning.
So you’re stuck wearing a purple thong that isn’t even that uncomfortable, it’s just not the comfortable pair you rely on on a Monday morning. It’s thrown you off of your rhythm. Even worse, you’re running ten minutes behind because you spent so long searching through your drawers.
Derek's sitting on your desk, grinning from ear to ear as he whispers something to Penelope, who seems to have gotten a little sunburn from their trip.
“Look who finally decided to show up.” He calls across the pen, prompting Emily to roll her chair over until you’ve got a small group waiting for you. “Must have been one hell of a weekend.”
“Traffic was a nightmare.”
“Weird, we take the same main road to get to work and I got here twenty minutes ago.” Good to see Reid is acting just as annoying as he always does, as irritating as it is right now, it’s also a bit of a relief to see no difference in his behavior.
“A lot can change in twenty minutes.” You grumble.
“Enough about the traffic, I want to hear about your weekend, I didn’t hear from you again after Wednesday night.” Emily rolls her seat over so it’s directly next to yours as you sit down.
Shit.
You should have planned for this, you have a story every Monday, you should have made something up on the car ride over. Especially because they’re all staring at you expectantly, even Reid, sitting back in his chair with his eyebrows raised.
And he’s wearing his glasses.
Why is he wearing his glasses, if it’s to torment you it’s working.
“I’m sorry to say I took a weekend off from maneating.” The second you say it Emily groans, letting her head fall backwards.
“I spent a weekend in the most boring place possible, praying, you’d have something exciting to tell me.” She gives you a dramatic pout. “The shirt seriously didn’t work?”
The shirt worked a little too well.
“I didn’t go out again, I decided I needed a couple days to just relax.” You scan their faces, they all seem to buy it, except for Spencer, who seems to be concentrating on a book. “I’m very excited to hear about how your trip to the sex island went.” You turn everyone's focus towards Penelope and Morgan as J.J. approaches.
Derek tells an animated story about ‘an unbelievable redhead’ and a rush of relief washes over you. Penelope’s cheeks turn a nice shade of pink as she talks about the sun and the sand, she allegedly came home with half her suitcase full of seashells. When the group disperses after Hotch walks past and clears his throat, Emily lingers.
“You really didn’t take anyone home with the perfect tits top?” She whispers, leaning in.
A part of you wants to tell her what happened.
She’s your best friend, you know she wouldn’t tell anybody.
“Guess it just wasn’t meant to be.” You give her half a smile as she taps her pen on your desk. “How was the retreat?”
“Boring. Relaxing, but boring. My mom signed us up for three yoga classes a day, I nearly killed her.” You laugh as she tells you stories about bland salads and funny sauna interactions until Hotch does another loop around the bullpen and glares at the two of you until she rolls herself back to her desk.
You finally get to focus on your work, but when you stare at your computer screen all you can think about is the way the lace digs into your hips. It’s the kind of thing that wouldn’t bother you on a Thursday or a Friday, when you had plans to hit the bar after work. But on a Monday you wanted stretched, reliable underwear. You still can’t believe that’s the pair he went with, you’re ninety percent sure they have a period stain on them.
You shift uncomfortably in your chair, you want to blame Spencer for this but he couldn't possibly have known the effect he’d have on you when he chose those panties.
Regardless, you can’t help but glare at him like he did it on purpose.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
He thought it would be harder to survive a day without sex after the weekend he just had but it’s been surprisingly easy so far.
His fingers play with the lace of your panties in his pocket while you squirm at your desk across from him, giving him something to focus on as he wonders which panties you wore instead of your pretty pink ones.
He intends to find out before the day is through.
At one point you lean forward, put your head in your hands and groan. He doesn’t dare react, who knew you were so set in your routine that something this small could throw a wrench into your day.
He couldn’t be happier.
He leaves you alone like he would on any other day. Typically he would spend Monday mornings trying to look down the front of your shirt, he doesn’t do any differently today.
When Hotch calls for a conference room meeting in ten you look about ready to kill someone.
“You look pretty uncomfortable for someone who supposedly spent all weekend relaxing.” He mumbles it, quiet enough for only you to hear.
You stare at him, your lips pull into a thin line he’s familiar with and your eyes squint just a fraction of an inch as you focus in on him. He’s seen that face a hundred times. It's the expression you make when you’re profiling someone.
“You wouldn’t happen to know why I’m so uncomfortable, would you?” You say it so quietly he has to read your lips to put the sentence together. When he smiles in response your eye twitches. “I don’t understand how you could have possibly known any of this.”
“You continue to severely underestimate the things that I do and do not know.” He returns his focus to his book.
“You're a dick.”
“Yup.”
“How did you even know?”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re a stalker, it’s actually a little concerning.”
“You like the power imbalance. You’re attracted to people who like you more than you like them.” He looks up from his book, making eye contact with you as he says it. “Do you want them back?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let’s trade.”
“What?”
“Let’s trade, you give me the ones you have on and I’ll give you these ones.” He nods down, gesturing towards the pocket his hand is currently in.
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m sorry then, I can’t help you. You said I could have a pair, it really wouldn’t be fair to make me give these up without something in exchange.”
“You can raid my drawer next time you come over.” He loves hearing you say there’s going to be a next time.
“I don’t want any of those, I want the ones you have on.”
“You don’t even know which ones I have on.”
It’s true, he doesn’t, but he could probably figure it out.
Looking you up and down he chews on his lip.
You were in a pastel bra this morning when you got dressed, periwinkle to be precise. You like to match, it’s another layer of your obsession with control. It would have looked cute with the pink, he looked through your drawer just this morning, it’s easy to recall the few pairs he flicked through.
You had other pink pairs but they were more of a hot pink, it would have clashed with the bra, unless you changed your bra. He tilts his head to the side, shamelessly staring at your chest. You’re in a white button up, he can see the faintest outline of the lace pattern on the underside of your breasts. It matches the lace pattern of the bra you wore this morning, and it would be obvious if you changed your bra to something bright, you’re definitely still in the periwinkle. So you’d have gone with another pastel to match. You had a baby blue thong with thin straps with a rose on the front and a lacy lavender thong with a butterfly pattern in your drawer this morning, both would look nice with your choice of bra but the lavender was closer to the front of the drawer.
“Purple, lace, butterflies.” He knows he’s dead on when your jaw drops.
“You’re insane.”
“I will only trade these for a pair that is purple and lacy.”
“Unbelieveable, those are my favorites, this is cruel.” You clearly aren’t that distraught because after a quick glance around the bull pen you lean forward in your seat, an imperceptible act if you aren’t paying attention. Fluidly, you reach down, seemingly to scratch your ankle. When you straighten back up you cock an eyebrow at him, holding something in your hand.
He doesn’t bother trying to hide it as he adjusts himself.
Right as you open your mouth Hotch’s voice rings out across the bull pen.
“Conference room, now.”
He doesn’t look your way as he stands but he can hear the squeaking wheel of your chair as you do the same.
As he makes his way across the floor you knock your shoulder against his before shoving something into his pocket, he has to fight the urge to grin as he tilts his head to look at your frowning face.
“There you go, maybe you can use it as a bookmark, can I have what you promised now?”
“Sure.” He whispers as he holds the conference room door open for you, simultaneously he presses the pink pair into your palm, you realize pretty quickly that you’re about to be stuck holding onto them for the rest of the meeting, as you move around the table he can see you stuff them into your bra. If looks could kill he’d be dead and you’d be arrested for murder.
“Dick.” You mouth the word at him as you take a seat at the conference table.
If you were willing to do this he’s pretty sure he can get away with a lot more.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
This might be a little bit of a problem.
Not the panties thing, you don’t mind not wearing panties at the meeting, your skirt is long enough that you aren’t in danger of flashing anybody. It’s more so the way your body is reacting.
You should be genuinely mad at him. You told him you didn’t want to mess around at work and he immediately started messing around at work.
But he’s right. You like that he likes you more than you like him.
You like it a lot.
You liked hearing him say it, you liked the way it sounded, and you like the way the knowledge feels in your brain. You keep quiet for most of the meeting, trying to not draw too much attention to yourself as you take notes.
J.J. hands out individual files as she speaks.
“We’ve got a serial arsonist in Aberdeen, South Dakota. The local fire department is begging for our help but the police are refusing to cooperate. I’ve been assured by the fire chief that we’ll be getting a call from the sheriff within the next forty eight hours and we’ll be invited out.” Everyone quietly flips through everything, it all looks pretty standard, you could write up a profile on this guy in your sleep.
It’s a younger male, likely in his mid to late twenties based on the level of impulsivity you’re seeing, none of his targets seem predetermined, it’s just whatever was convenient.
You’d be willing to guess that he set his first fire on accident, and he liked it so much he just couldn’t stop himself from escalating further and further.
He’s going to keep doing so until somebody stops him.
Everyone's lost in thought as Hotch clears his throat.
“I’d like everyone to stay by their phones tonight, the second we get approval from the local PD we’ll be in the air, is that understood?” Morgan groans, none of you like surprise late night takeoffs, but most of the group nods.
“Yes sir.” You stare at Spencer when you say it.
It’s a short and sweet meeting. You stay back for a few minutes with Emily, she has dinner plans tonight she’s really hoping she won’t have to cancel on. Eventually you disperse, she’s on her way to Penelope’s nook to see if she can get some names listed of people who were at the scene of each fire. You plan on doing some research on the selected locations for the rest of the day, specifically the first one.
It must have been one hell of a first fire to incite the wrath this guy is inflicting upon Aberdeen.
When you return to your desk after the meeting you find your notebook closed, with furrowed brows you sit, flipping back to the page you were on only to find a pink sticky note stuck to the middle of the page.
You squint at the mess of squiggles until you realize it’s a shitty doodle of two people sixty-nining, with scribbled text underneath it.
Have you ever tried this one?
Immediately, you snap the notebook shut.
You’d recognize the handwriting anywhere.
Spencer doesn’t so much as look up from his paperwork as you glare at him, he must feel your scalding gaze though because he’s smirking to himself.
This is a small, manageable problem, if you can take control of this situation and set some boundaries you can fix this before it becomes a serious issue.
You shove your notebook into a drawer before you storm off to the bathroom, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of watching you put on your panties at your desk. You’ve done enough damage today just by taking them off at all.
Your face flushes as you lock the bathroom door behind you, a confusing mix of emotions dance through your head. Irritation is at the front of things, followed by a little bit of confusion and something warmer.
This is not good.
You shouldn’t feel confused, you don’t like feeling confused. You should be irritated and nothing more. Staring at yourself in the mirror you see the woman you’ve fought tooth and nail to become. Put together, assertive, and fearless. The woman in the mirror is put together, she doesn’t look like the kind of person who slips her panties off at her desk just for the thrill of it.
Even if it’s the hottest thing that’s happened to you in a long time.
Pull yourself together.
When you leave the bathroom he’s miraculously there.
Of course, where else would he be if not constantly tormenting you.
Standing at the end of the hall, chatting with someone from another department. You storm over to him, grabbing his arm and dragging him down an empty hallway.
“We need to talk, now.” You grumble as he grins like an idiot, calling out a rushed goodbye to whoever he was speaking to. When you’re certain the coast is clear you shove him into a utility closet with an Authorized Personnel Only sign. He puts up no protest as you slam the door behind you.
“Hello.” He’s still smiling from ear to ear as you glare.
“Don’t hello, me.” You hiss.
“Why not? I’m just happy to see you.”
“You can’t act like this at work.”
“Why not, no one knows.”
“Our entire job is to know, if you start doing shit like this then they’re going to figure it out. We agreed we weren’t going to do shit like this.” You poke a finger into his chest as you say it.
“Exactly, our entire job is to know, so we know exactly how to act to keep them from finding out. Besides you started it, you took your panties off in the middle of the bullpen, you could have gone to the bathroom but you wanted to do it where everyone could see it.” You had expected the embarrassed, meek Reid you’re used to. When you lash out at him he typically gets quiet, even if he’s still snapping back at you, he shrinks down. Not anymore, apparently you woke up some sexual demon inside of him that has a serious attitude problem.
“Reid, I-” You’re going to kill him, maybe this was all a mistake.
“I think you like it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your breathing got heavier when you took your panties off, I could see the flush on your skin. You looked like you might start moaning during that team meeting. And you wouldn’t have done it in the first place if you didn’t want to, you had a perfectly good pair on, you did it because you wanted to.” Never once does he reciprocate the anger you’re showing him, he speaks calmly, as if he were discussing facts about a case.
“Reid-”
“I get it, you want to have the upper hand in this relationship, you’re a control freak, that’s fine. But I think that you like this, you like getting away with something.”
“You’re an idiot.” You start to move past him but he grabs your wrist.
“You like knowing that you’re smart enough to fool a room full of profilers. I get it, but you aren’t going to fool me. You’re probably wet right now just thinking about it.”
You actually gasp in earnest.
“Who taught you how to talk like that?” Your eyebrows furrow.
“Hundred of hours of dedicated porn watching, I also read about fifteen of your dirty books this weekend.” He shrugs.
“You’re insane.”
“There’s a really simple way to prove me wrong.” His fingers start to pull on the waistband of your skirt but you push his hands away, unfortunately if he checks between your legs all he’ll find is proof that he’s right. The last thing you need right now is for him to be any more amped up than he already is.
“This job is the most important thing in the world to me.” You whisper now.
“I feel the same way, thankfully, this closet has a lock on the inside.” He clicks it shut to prove his point. “It’s basically asking to be used for dirty secrets.”
“Reid, we aren’t doing this. We said no messing around at work, we can’t break that rule on day one.”
“Okay, then leave.” He takes a step back, unbuckling his own belt. “Besides those were your rules, not mine.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m waiting for you to leave so I can jerk off onto your panties.” He takes your purple thong out of his pocket as if to prove his point.
“Gross, Reid, what the hell has gotten into you?”
He looks offended that you’d even ask.
“You know exactly what's gotten into me, you spent a whole weekend begging me to be this, telling me you want someone as exciting as you are because men are so boring. I seem a lot more exciting than you right now. If you don’t want to utilize me that’s fine but I’m certainly not going to deny myself.” When you don’t say anything he cocks an eyebrow and abandons his belt, returning his focus to your skirt. “I heard a lot of woe is me this weekend from you about how no one is as fun as you are, or adventurous as you are. So far you are neither of those things.”
“Reid, I-” You don’t push him away as you try to form a response.
“If you aren’t going to tell me to stop I’d advise you to stop talking.” He kneels in front of you as he speaks, playing with the hem of your skirt, his knuckles brush up against your knees.
“Spencer, you’re being ridiculous, I mean seriously-”
“All you have to say is stop, I won’t be mad at you if that’s what you’re worried about. Just say stop, one word, and I’ll stop.”
He knows you won’t.
He shoves your skirt up towards your hips before throwing one of your legs over his shoulder so you’re forced up to tip toe on your one remaining planted foot.
“Reid-”
“S-T-O-P, do you know what that spells?” You scowl down at him, not humoring him with a response. “Either tell me to stop, or be quiet, I thought you didn’t want anyone to hear?”
When you don’t respond, that stupid smirk of his only grows.
“See, I knew you wanted this.”
“Shut up, or I’ll change my mind.”
“Go ahead, I’ll get off either way.”
“You’re disgu-” The words die in your throat as he hooks a finger around the crotch of your panties, pulling them to the side as he shoves his face between your legs.
He pulls back just long enough to take a breath and grin at you.
“I think my time is getting better, I can probably get you out of here in seven or so minutes. Maybe less if this is as hot for you as it is for me.” You grab him by the hair and push him back between your legs to shut him up.
He’s got your body down to a science.
With the hand that’s pulled your panties to the side he slips two fingers into you almost immediately. Your own hand flies to your mouth as you bite down onto the meat of your palm to suppress your moan.
Those two fingers do gods work as he angles them just so, and your vision goes blurry. He flattens his tongue against your clit as he pistons his fingers in and out of you. He’s a perfectly automated machine designed to get you off, that stupidly smart brain of his knows the pace, the depth, the patterns, everything it takes to drive you towards your orgasm.
At the sound of his belt you look down to find his free hand unbuttoning his pants, when he’s freed his cock he wastes no time as he starts to stroke himself. The sight alone makes your head spin as you whimper.
It’s too much at once, his unrelenting fingers inside of you, his tongue against your flesh, and the sight of him getting off on all of it sends you over the edge before you’re ready for it. The hand that isn’t twisted in his hair clamps over your mouth as a string of muffled curses leaves your throat. Your eyes flutter shut as you grind yourself down against his stupid smug face. Your stomach tightens as you clamp down on his fingers and come undone, his pace doesn’t let up for a second.
He keeps his face between your legs after you finish, his tongue laps at your entrance as he continues to fuck his hand. You don’t mind the slight overstimulation; the problem now is that he’s loud.
“Please-” He mumbles against your cunt.
“You need to be quiet Reid, I mean it.”
When he groans into your cunt you yank on his hair harder, hoping it’ll be enough to get him to shut up but it only serves to make him moan louder.
“Oh my god if you don’t shut up I will leave, I mean it.” Your threat does nothing to quiet him so you shove his face away as he whines, nimble fingers still wrapped around his cock as he stares up at you from where he kneels. You adjust your skirt, straightening it back into its proper place
“Are you really gonna go?” He looks like he might cry if you do.
“No, I'm waiting for you to finish.” When he starts to slide his free hand back up your leg you shake him off, clicking your tongue. “But you're done touching me, since you can’t control yourself.” He pouts as you shrug.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You said if I left you’d just jerk off anyway, so go ahead, finish yourself off.” You stare down at him, on his knees in front of you as you cross your arms in front of your chest.
You sort of hope he’ll show some remorse, a sign of regret for putting himself in this situation. At the very least you hope to see a bit of embarrassment but all you get is that handsome little half smile as he stares up at you, never breaking eye contact as he strokes himself.
It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for him to come, making a mess of the floor between your feet.
“You’re disgusting.” You don’t intend for it to sound so mean but you’re irritated with yourself right now for letting this happen at all.
“I’ll clean it up before I go.” He doesn’t sound bothered by your tone as he shoves himself back into his pants, grinning the entire time.
“You’re unbelievable.” You mumble as he stands.
“And you just can’t help yourself.”
“Stay in here for a few minutes after I leave, jackass.” You roll your eyes as you unlock the door and slip out, rushing back to the bathroom.
You sort yourself out quickly, straightening your clothes and smoothing your hair out as you glare at yourself in the mirror.
Pull yourself together for Christ's sake.
When you return to your desk he’s returned to his own, he glances up at you with a neutral expression before returning his focus to whatever he’s reading.
And for a few minutes everything is normal, as if nothing happened. When Derek starts a conversation with Emily on the other side of the bullpen Spencer breaks the silence.
“What are your plans for tonight?” He doesn’t look up from his book as he says it, it’s the perfect amount of uncaring. It’s exactly the kind of small talk he’d make on any other day.
He’s scarily good at this.
You should say that you’re busy, that you’re having dinner with Emily to catch up on the weekend.
Instead you look down at the sticky note in your notebook.
You have tried that one, and you like it, you’d like to try it again.
“I’m free.” You eventually reply after a long silence.
“Cool, me too.”
There’s another long beat of quiet between you as you type on your computer and he writes something down on a file, just two people working for the better part of an hour until he clears his throat.
“I’m gonna go make coffee, do you want some?” It’s the first time today that he’s loudly said something he normally wouldn’t say to you. It’s so inconsequential you know no one will notice, just a coworker offering their deskmate coffee.
“Sure.” You nod, returning your attention to your computer as he stands, He slides a face down sticky note across your desk as he walks past. You wait until he’s out of sight to flip it over.
It’s an address, presumably his.
And you smile.
You catch yourself immediately, slamming the little note into your notebook with the other one as you turn to see if he saw, thankfully he’s long gone.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Maybe this was a mistake, you’re starting to feel like you might have opened Pandora’s box with Reid. You’ve released a lot more than you originally expected.
Maybe it’s a good thing.
Maybe losing his v-card was exactly what he needed to get the confidence he suddenly seems to have. It might help him finally get a girlfriend.
He’s always been cocky, but this is different, he seems so sure of himself, so sure of you.
When he returns with two mugs, setting one down on your desk he returns to his reading without another glance in your direction.
Staring at your own mug it’s a light color, and it smells like your favorite flavoured creamer.
You need to see him tonight so you can discuss boundaries.
At least that’s what you tell yourself when you grab your go-bag on the way out of the office. It’s also what you tell yourself when you type his address into your phone and pull up the GPS. And it’s what you tell yourself when you knock on his door.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
i don't have a tag list but you can follow @holymolynotifications for updates!!
if you wish to further support me i have a kofi! ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
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
all i want for 2026 is that gigantic rancid AI bubble to finally burst in such a catastrophic way that the consequences will be so good and i'll never have to see another AI generated image ever again
synopsis: at your first sleepover at spencer’s apartment you find yourself being introduced to his most special friend- his childhood teddy bear.
pairing: spencer x gn reader
genre: fluff!
wc: 1.7k
notes/tags: new established relationship, cosy domestic spencer, had to rewatch the instincts & memoriam for literally the tiniest details ever (agony), little sad tidbits about his childhood with some canon and made up aspects :3 he loves his mother so much and hes so soft and sweet and cute and
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it rly helps promote the fic!
———————————🧸————————————
“Oh, could you grab my pyjamas please?” Spencer called from the bathroom through a mouthful of toothpaste. “In the drawer.”
“Sure.” You called back, a little giddy.
Things were still new between you and Spencer, with this being the first time you’d ever stayed the night. There was a buzz in the air, both of you excited like teenagers at a slumber party over popcorn on his sofa. You’d spent the evening watching movies, your legs slung over his lap and his hand cradling your knee, until you both began to feel your eyelids grow heavy. You’d shuffled into his bedroom, only for you to spark back to life once a realisation hit you. This was a whole new stage of domesticity for you both.
You’d parked yourself on the edge of his mattress, holding yourself back from swinging your legs as you bit back a grin. You’d been picturing him in his pyjamas, a soft shirt and baggy pants so different to the usual crisp ironed silhouette of his work clothes. You wondered what his hair looked like in the morning, tousled from his pillow as he tried to sleepily smooth it back. Butterflies danced in your stomach as you pictured waking up beside him, seeing his flushed cheeks and hearing his lazy morning rambles inches away from you as you lay anchored to his chest.
With a hop, you sprung up from the bed, practically skipping over to the drawers across the room. With a flourish you pulled one open, eager to see what he slept in. Oh, you sighed, wrong drawer. Your lips melted into a small smile as you took in a mountain of colourful socks, oddly unorganised compared to the rest of his bedroom. Stripes and polka dots in every colour piled on top of neons and silly cartoon pictures, a set of ‘days of the week’ socks each highlighting a different star in the Big Dipper catching your attention the most.
You were sliding the drawer closed when you caught a glimpse of something in the back, poking out between two pairs of dinosaur socks. Something brown and fluffy, two beady glass eyes staring up at you.
“Who’s your friend?” You asked, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. In your hands you held an old, well-loved teddy bear. Its fur was a little matted with age but still soft in its little brown curls, and on its chest sat an embroidered comet with its threads surprisingly still mostly in tact.
Spencer’s eyes widened in the mirror, his cheeks turning red almost instantly. “Where did you find that?” He tried to feign indifference, but his voice wavered.
“Stashed away in your sock drawer.” You turned the bear over in your hands so that he was looking at you. Were you just getting tired or did its eyes look sad? “What was it doing in there?”
“No idea.” He shrugged, moving to take it from you. “Must’ve forgotten he was there.”
Cocking a brow at him you hid the bear behind your back, trapping him between you and the doorframe and out of Spencer’s reach. “He?”
“It.” He corrected himself. You brought the bear forward, gazing down at his little face as Spencer brushed past you into the bedroom. His little glass eyes definitely looked sad.
“‘He’ implies an identity.” You said, following Spencer as he perched on the edge of the mattress. “He’s clearly important. Why were you hiding him from me?”
“I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to think I was-” he paused, brows creasing as he searched for the right word, “uncool.”
You smiled at him, a little loose and sappy. This was the man who first said hi by complimenting your edition of Great Expectations that he saw peeking out of your bag on the subway. The same man who called his mother before your first date to ask her what flowers he should bring you. He once took you to a chess tournament and commentated on every match with low whispers in your ear, sprinkling in a handful of sassy comments and tutting about moves he believed to be, what he called, ‘idiotic and completely incomprehensible’. ‘Uncool’ wasn’t even a word that came to mind.
“I think he’s very cool.” You shifted closer until your knees were touching, the bear resting in your lap as you toyed with him. “What’s his name?”
“Carl.” Spencer answered fondly, finally allowing a boyish grin to grace his face.
You nodded in recognition. “Sagan.” It made perfect sense. You recalled him telling you a childhood story about him making a salt model of the universe, intended as a birthday gift for his hero. You were pretty certain he could work Carl Sagan into any conversation given the opportunity.
“Well thank you for formally introducing us.” Propping the bear up with your hand, you tilted his head sadly to the side. “He must hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you.” Spencer frowned.
“Oh, I bet he does. I bet he was thinking who is this mean, mean person I’m being shoved into a dark, scary drawer for?” The bear’s head bobbed in your hand as you jostled him like a puppeteer until your boyfriend reached over, taking him from your hands. He was gentle, handling his little best friend with a carefulness you’d only ever seen reserved for you. His gaze was loving, suddenly belong to a much, much younger version of him.
“Yeah. I’m sorry about that, Carl.” He murmured, voice tender. His fingers hovered over his fur, the familiar softness transporting him somewhere else.
You’d never quite seen this look on his face before. Spencer was someone who often acted older than he was, desperate to be seen with the sense of maturity he thought he ought to carry. There were always cracks in his mask, of course, he was far too passionate about things to keep it hidden for long. Whenever he was rambling, especially about something- for lack of better words- nerdy, there was that twitch of his lips that often gave way to a bright grin, that little glimmer of excitement in his eyes as his words poured from his brain faster than his mouth could keep up. It was almost that look you saw on his face now, but quieter. Gentler.
“How long have you had him?” You asked softly as his fingers moved to trace the embroidery on the bear’s chest.
“Since I was eight. He was the only toy I kept when…” He trailed off, flashing you a small smile, weaker than the one he wore earlier, before continuing. “I never could outgrow him.”
“Who could? Look at his little face.” You cooed, staring at the bear’s glass eyes once more- significantly less sad-looking in Spencer’s hands. “Where’d he come from?”
“Science museum gift shop.” He chuckled, face lighting up at the memory. “My mom took me. They had an interactive astronomy exhibit I’d been desperate to go to- not that I said anything. She found a flyer for it in my room and for my birthday she surprised me. It’s one of my favourite memories with her. We didn’t get many days out like that.”
His voice trailed off, his thoughts going with it. The room you were both in disappeared before his eyes, rearranging itself into the bedroom of his younger years. Toys were a scarcity, limited to models he’d made himself. They’d been replaced long ago by notebooks, pages and pages of poems and songs copied out to calm his mother. He’d told you about it once briefly, how he did it to soothe her paranoia. There was no time for toys when he was growing up so fast, but still in his small hands he held Carl. When he was too fretful to fall asleep, his door cracked open enough to hear Diana down the hall, his bear stayed awake with him. When he came home from school late and the sky outside the window was black, he had someone to confide in.
It was less and less often that he got good days with his mother, but Carl served as a reminder for every single one, most of all that day at the museum.
“I guess you could say he’s my oldest friend.” Spencer smiled with an embarrassed laugh, clearing his throat as he tried to steady his expression.
“Well, I’m very honoured to finally meet him.” You reached out, shaking his little paw between your fingers. “I take it he doesn’t usually live in your sock drawer?”
“No, no- he takes the left side of my pillow usually. Sometimes he sits at my desk when I’m working.” He wrinkled his nose, debating whether he should say more. “He, uh. He sits on the other side of the board when I play chess by myself. He’s pretty good at it.”
You laughed, feeling your cheeks ache as you leaned into him and propped your head on his shoulder. You’d been prepared to see him in his pyjamas, you were working up to being prepared to sleep in the same bed. What you hadn’t been ready for was meeting your boyfriend’s teddy bear. If it was even possible you loved him even more now, heart swelling as you pictured him coming home to his little roommate. Did he talk to him about his day? Tuck him in before he left for a case? Does he miss him when he’s away?
“You know I have a childhood bear too?” You said, your voice lazy as your cheek melted into the fabric of his shirt. “You’ll have to bring Carl over sometime, we can have a double date.”
Spencer’s shoulder shook beneath you as he laughed. “Yeah, I think he would love that. It’s about time.”
He turned his head to look down at you, and you tried your best to meet his eyes from your perch. His face looked so soft, relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. He was always at his most beautiful like this, completely unguarded, the mask that etched a crease between his brows and a frown on his lips comfortably lifted and leaving him looking impossibly young. You lifted your head, pressing a gentle kiss to his warm, flushed cheek.
“I can’t wait.” You smiled, rising to your feet and extending a hand to him. “Now come on. I am desperate to see your pyjamas.”
“I still don’t understand your infatuation with this.” He sighed, shaking his head fondly. But still he took your hand, letting you pull him up before following you as you skipped over to the drawers once more.
