le 💋

Decision made, you opened the door slowly. You expected him to be asleep, but instead you were met with Spencer reading, his back resting against the backboard, the room only illuminated by the lamp in the corner of the room. 

He didn’t say anything, just watched as you walked to the stand at the end of the bed, his eyes greedily taking you in, sweeping up and down. 

You kept your eyes fixed on his as you slowly started to peel your top off your body over your head, throwing it on the ground with little regard. 

Spencer sat his book aside, his eyes never leaving yours as he sat up a little straighter. 

You tucked your thumbs under the waistband of your skirt, pulling it down antagonisingly slowly. Spencer swallowed and his eyes widened as it hit the floor with a small thump. 

Despite seeing you naked on numerous occasions, he never seemed to take it for granted. He always looked at you like it was the first time. 

You carried on until you were completely bare in front of him, taking your hairclip out to allow your hair to fall free. Spencer's hands flexed at his sides momentarily. 

You crawled towards him deliberately slowly, your hair falling over one shoulder.  His hand came up to touch your arm, you swatted it away. 

Leaning in close to his face, your lips inches away from his, you whispered. “Are you going to be good for me?” 

“Yes” he stammered out, voice thick and shaky. Nodding as he spoke. 

You loved when Spencer took the reins, when he pounded into you and made you cum over and over again, but it took little real investigation to know that this side was within him. You saw it in the way you would grip his hair, bite him, stick your thumb in his mouth. 

“Good boy” you say. “Lie flat” 

Spencer listened to your command with no obligation, sliding down the headboard and resting his head on his pillow. 

You made your way further up his body until your knees sat either side of his head, his hands automatically resting on your thighs. You put one hand on the headboard, the other threading through his hair. 

Spencer didn't hesitate. He surged upward, his tongue darting out to swipe a long, wet stroke all the way up to your clit. You gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his head firmly against you. 

He began to lap at you with a feverish pace, his tongue flat and broad, tasting every drop of your arousal. He groaned into your folds, the sound vibrating through your entire body, as he used his lips to suck your clit into his mouth, pulling and swirling it with a rhythmic intensity.

You arched your back, your hand gripping the headboard for leverage as he worked. He was thorough, his tongue flicking rapidly against your most sensitive spot while his hands squeezed your thighs, anchoring you to him. 

He was eating you like he were starving, his nose buried in your scent, making wet, sloppy sounds that filled the quiet room.

You could feel the tension building in your lower belly, the familiar coil of an orgasm tightening. As you felt the first wave of your climax hit, you pushed yourself down harder against his face, muffling his moans with your wetness. 

You shuddered, your internal muscles pulsing violently against his tongue as you came, a loud, unrestrained moan escaping your lips. Spencer didn't pull away. 

Even as you trembled, he continued to lick and suck, cleaning every drop of your come from your skin with a devotion that bordered on worship.

Once the tremors subsided, you slowly lifted yourself off him, leaving him breathless and glistening. You looked down at him, a smirk playing on your lips.

You reached your hand down between both your bodies to rub his cock through his boxers. He whined, leaning forward to try to kiss you. 

Tutting, you leaned back, sly smile on your face. “Nuh Uh” 

You slipped your fingers underneath his waistband and pulled them off quickly. Leaving his cock aching and twitching in the cool air. 

You watched him squirm beneath you, his hips twitching instinctively as you avoided the very thing he was craving. Every kiss you pressed into his inner thigh or the soft skin of his hip made him gasp, his breath hitching in a desperate rhythm. He was a taut string, vibrating with a need so intense it was almost tangible in the air between you.

Finally, you looked up at him, your eyes hooded, seeing the sheer agony of desire etched into his features. His cock was fully erect, a thick, pulsing vein running along the side, leaking a bead of pre-cum that glistened under the dim light of the lamp.

Without a word, you leaned in and swiped your tongue along the length of him, from the base all the way to the head, groaning at the taste of the salt and musk of him. 

Spencer let out a strangled moan, his head slamming back against the pillow, his fingers curling into the bedsheets.

You opened your mouth and took him in, sliding your lips over the head of his cock with a wet, sloppy sound. 

You didn't just suck; you focused your attention on the sensitive underside, the frenulum, flicking your tongue rapidly against the most nerve-dense part of him. 

You swirled your tongue around the rim, creating a vacuum of heat and moisture that made him shudder violently.

"Please," he whimpered, his voice a broken rasp.

You ignored his plea, increasing the pace. You took him deeper, your throat tightening around him, while your tongue continued to tease and lash at the underside of his shaft. 

Spencer was losing it. His thighs trembled, and his hips began to buck upward, driven by a primal urge to thrust into your mouth. But as soon as he moved too much, you paused, pulling back just an inch and giving him a warning look. 

He froze instantly, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and glazed. He stayed still, enduring the exquisite torture of your mouth, his hands gripping the comforter so hard his knuckles were white.

You went back to work, becoming even more precise, using your tongue to work in small, frantic circles on the underside, driving him closer and closer to the edge. He was twitching now, his entire body humming with tension, his breath coming in short and jagged. 

Just when he was teetering on the edge, you pulled back completely with a smirk. Releasing him with a soft, wet pop. 

Spencer's eyes remained completely screwed shut, his hips shifting and twitching, trying to fight back his orgasm. You had never thought he had looked more beautiful. You wanted to end his torture, but you didn’t. You both knew the end result would be better off if you prolonged. 

“You can only come when I tell you you can” You say as you straddle his lap, placing your hands flat against his chest. 

He whined at your words, but nodded anyway. You took his hands and placed them above his head.

“Don’t move your hands. If you do, I’ll have to punish you” 

The words that left your mouth surprised you. Being this horny apparently turned you into some sort of succubus. Perhaps your version of Spencer's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. 

You angled your hips just right, so his cock rested at your entrance. You pushed down until only his tip entered, leaving it inside for one brief moment to pull back. You repeated this process until Spencer was a blubbering mess beneath you, whining and twitching with impatience. 

His hands still remained above his head throughout it all, you rewarded his good behaviour with a kiss and finally sinking down all the way to the hilt. 

Your head lazily rolled all the way around as you groaned, feeling impossibly full from him. He was always the perfect fit, nothing could ever compare. Perhaps that was one of the reasons no matter what you said, there would never be a last time. 

You stayed still for a moment, savoring the friction and the sheer heat of his cock buried deep inside. Spencer let out a sound that was half-sob, half-groan, his chest heaving beneath your palms. His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide and glazed with a mixture of desperation and devotion. 

He looked like he was on the verge of shattering, his entire body vibrating with the effort of keeping his hands pinned above his head.

"You're so... fuck, you're so tight," he gasped, his voice trembling.

You smirked, leaning forward so your breasts brushed against his chest, your hair falling like a curtain around both your faces. "Am I, Spencer? Do I feel good?"

"Yes... please... god, yes," he whimpered, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch upward.

You didn't let him move. Instead, you gripped his shoulders, pinning him further into the mattress, and began to move. You started slow, lifting yourself just enough to let the head of his cock slip out before slamming back down, burying him to the hilt with a wet, slapping sound.

The rhythm was deliberate and punishing. You weren't just fucking him, you were claiming him, even if you had no right to do so. 

Every time you descended, you felt him pulse inside you, his cock swelling even further as he fought the urge to thrust back. You could feel the tension in his thighs, the way his abdominal muscles were locked tight, his body a coiled spring of pure sexual frustration.

"Keep those hands still, good boy," you whispered, your voice a low, sultry command.

You increased the pace, your movements becoming more frantic and primal. You began to grind your clit against the base of his shaft, seeking your own pleasure while driving him further into the red. 

Spencer was no longer just moaning, he was making guttural, animalistic sounds. He was right on the edge, his breathing coming in ragged, desperate hitches. You could feel him twitching inside you, the tell-tale signs that he was seconds away from blowing.

You felt your own orgasm building, a tight coil of heat in your belly that threatened to snap. You leaned down, biting his earlobe hard enough to make him yelp, your voice a commanding hiss.

"I can feel you, Spencer. I can feel how badly you want to cum for me."

"I do... I'm... I'm right there... please!" he begged, his voice breaking.

You paused abruptly, freezing your hips mid-stroke, leaving him suspended in the most agonizing moment of anticipation. You looked down at him, seeing the sheer desperation in his eyes, the way he was practically vibrating beneath you.

"Not yet," you whispered, a cruel, beautiful smile on your lips. "I didn't tell you that you could."

You shifted your weight, lifting your hips. You reached up, grabbing his wrists and dragging his hands down from above his head, guiding them with a firm grip until his palms were pressed flat against the underside of your thighs.

Slowly, you fell forward, pressing your chest flush against his, your skin slick with sweat and heat, feeling of his racing heart hammering against your own ribs. 

Spencer froze for a second, his breath hitching. He knew the rules, but the placement of his hands was an invitation he couldn't ignore. He began to move, his hips bucking upward in slow, agonizingly deliberate thrusts. 

Because he was already balanced on the edge of climax, he was moving with cautious, trembling precision, terrified that one too-deep plunge would shatter his control and send him over the edge.

You had planned this perfectly. By giving him the physical means to drive himself into you, you had increased his torture. Now, the responsibility of his restraint lay entirely in his own muscles, and you could feel him shaking under the pressure. 

He was no longer just a passive recipient of your pleasure; he was fighting his own body, struggling to maintain the pace you demanded while his cock pulsed violently inside your tight, wet walls.

"That's it," you whispered into the crook of his neck, your voice thick with desire. "Slow... just like that. Don't ruin this by rushing."

Spencer let out a broken sound, a whimpering groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, anchoring you to him as he pushed up again, the wet, squelching sound of your pussy gripping his shaft filling the air. He was gasping for air, his eyes squeezed shut in a mask of pure, concentrated ecstasy and desperation.

He was fighting for every second, his hips twitching with the instinctive urge to slam into you with everything he had, but he held back, terrified of the punishment—or the loss of your approval. You could feel the pre-cum leaking from him, lubricating the friction as he continued to grind upward.

You arched your back, grinding your clit hard against the base of his cock, your own climax beginning to ripple through you. You loved the way he was struggling, the way he was completely at your mercy even while he was the one doing the thrusting.

"You're doing so well, Spencer," you breathed, your voice a teasing caress. "So close... I can feel you trembling. Do you want to let go? Do you want to fill me up?"

"Please..." he sobbed, his voice barely a whisper, his hips giving a sudden, sharp jerk that nearly sent him over. "Please, I can't... I can't hold it..."

“Make me cum and you can,” 

Spencer gasped, the words barely leaving his lips before his restraint snapped.

The slow, agonizing torture was over. He clearly didn't care about the rules anymore; he didn't care about the permission he had been begging for. He must’ve been able feel the tremors racking your body, the way your internal muscles were beginning to squeeze his cock in rhythmic, desperate pulses. He knew you were right there, balanced on the same edge as he was, and the realization triggered something primal in him.

With a guttural groan, Spencer stopped the cautious movements. He gripped your thighs with bruising force, his fingers digging deep into your skin, and began to buck upward with violent, unrestrained power.

The change in pace was electric. The slow grinds were replaced by hard, slapping thrusts that drove his cock deep into you, bottoming out with a wet, heavy thud every single time.

He was fucking you with a desperate, starving intensity, his entire body shaking with the effort. He wasn't just seeking his own release anymore; he was hunting for yours. He drove himself into you harder and faster, his cock rubbing aggressively against your G-spot and grinding into your clit with every upward surge.

"Come for me," he groaned, his voice raw and commanding, a sudden flip in the power dynamic as he focused entirely on your pleasure. "Fuck, you're so tight... just come already!"

You let out a loud, piercing scream, your head falling into the crook of his neck as the friction became unbearable in the best way possible. The sheer force of his thrusts was overloading your senses, pushing you past the point of no return. 

Your walls clamped down on him, tightening around his shaft with violent contractions that nearly sent him over the edge instantly, but he pushed through it, determined to see you shatter first.

He hammered into you one last time, a deep, punishing plunge that just near hit your cervix, sending a massive electrical shock through your entire nervous system.

Your orgasm ripped through you in waves of blinding intensity, your pussy gripping his cock in a series of tight, rhythmic spasms that sucked him deeper into your heat. You collapsed against his chest, sobbing and shaking, your body vibrating with the aftershocks of a massive climax.

The moment you peaked, Spencer lost every shred of control he had left. The feeling of your orgasm clamping around him was the final straw. He let out a choked, animalistic sound and gave one final, powerful thrust, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go.

He stiffened, his back arching off the bed as he finally exploded. You could feel the hot, thick ropes of his cum pulsing violently inside you, filling you up with wave after wave heat. 

He groaned loudly, his eyes rolling back in his head as he spent himself completely, his cock throbbing inside you while he shuddered in the grip of a long-overdue, crashing release.

Re remained inside of you as you stayed laying on top of him, his hands tracing indistinct shapes on your back softly.

Spencer gently squeezed your behind, the touch was a stark contrast to the bruising grip he’d had on you just moments ago. You leaned up, your skin still flushed and humming, just enough to lock eyes with him.

His gaze was soft, the pupils still blown wide from the rush of endorphins, filled with a complicated devotion. He reached up, his fingers grazing your cheek with a lightness that felt almost sacred, and slowly pushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

In that quiet look, the realization hit you again.  He had systematically ruined every other man for you. No one else knew the exact rhythm of your body, the precise way to push you to the edge, or how to surrender to you so completely. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

The silence was broken by a voice that sounded frayed, barely a whisper.

“I can’t do this again,” he said quietly.

The words landed like a physical blow. For as long as this had been going on, it had always been you playing the part of the one trying to walk away, with Spencer simply agreeing, both of you knowing you were lying. 

You had spent months in a cycle of desperate returns, crawling back to each other the moment the distance became unbearable. Hearing him be the one to draw the line hurt deeply, a sharp ache in your chest that mirrored the fading throb of your orgasm.

But as you looked at him, the pain shifted into a sudden, crystalline clarity.

Slowly, you pulled away from him. The sudden absence of his heat, the loss of him filling you, left you feeling cold and exposed. 

You leaned back in, pressing your lips to his in the smallest of kisses. In any other context, it would have felt like a final goodbye, a closing of a chapter. But here, it felt like reassurance. It was a promise whispered without words.

You stood up and walked out of his room, the door clicking softly behind you.

As you moved down the hallway, the smile remained on your face.

Despite the finality in his tone, you knew Spencer better than he knew himself. He wasn't pushing you away because he wanted you gone; he was pushing you away because the hunger had evolved into something he could no longer control. 

He was terrified of that truth, you knew it was only a matter of time before he realized it too.

a.n I couldn't not write again for these two. There's something so sexy about everything left unspoken 🫦

TAGLIST: @sweet-t33a @unlikelylovebarbarian @cocoabears @cryingoblivioneden @haydenssweetheart @sabbiabbydabbywabbie @moonz33@throughmylifetimesiwatchtheworld @pinkpantheris

_____

Spencer’s birthday started the way all of his most enjoyable days did. Quietly, with too many books, and with you. 

You spent nearly two hours following him through the aisles of the big downtown bookstore he loved. He pulled out every single book that he thought you’d like and presented it to you like an offering.

“This one has the essay collection you mentioned last month,” he said, voice low so he wouldn’t disturb the quiet store. “And this poetry volume, the reviews say the imagery is exceptionally vivid. I thought… maybe you’d like it.”

You watched him add yet another book to the growing stack in his arms without even checking the price. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t calculate. Didn’t do that little mental math most people did when they bought things for someone else. He just got them. Because he thought you’d like them. Because it made him happy to get you things. 

The casual, effortless way he did it, like spending money on you was the most natural thing in the world, gave you a feeling you didn’t really expect it to.

He’s buying me things on his own birthday. 

By the time you reached the history section he was already carrying three books for you and one slim hardcover for himself that he kept trying to hide under the others. You caught him anyway. 

He blushed and muttered something about “supporting local authors” while you smiled and he added it to the stack. Every time his fingers brushed yours when he handed you another title, the heat under your skin climbed a little higher. You could feel it in your cheeks, in the way your pulse had started to pick up. 

Something about the quiet generosity of it, about Spencer Reid, who overthought everything, treating you like you were worth every dollar without a second though, was doing things to you that had nothing to do with books.

At the register he insisted on paying for everything. The cashier raised an eyebrow at the sheer number of titles, but Spencer just pushed his glasses up and handed over his card like it was the most natural thing in the world. You watched the soft, pleased look on his face as she bagged them. He looked happy. Really happy. And it was his birthday.

The second the bags were in your hands and you’d stepped away from the counter, the heat under your skin tipped over into something more.

You didn’t even make it out of the store.

You caught his wrist, pulling him between two tall shelves in the quiet back corner where the academic essays and dissertations were, aka, no foot traffic. You push him back against the shelf with both hands. His eyes go wide in confusion, his lips parting. You kissed him before he could ask what you were doing. 

You bring one hand to fist the front of his shirt and the other one comes up to pull him down by the back of his neck. He made a startled sound into your mouth that turned into a shaky moan as you pressed your body against his. His hands hovered near your waist for a second, like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you in public. 

You could feel him hardening against your hip. The silence of the bookstore, the possibility of someone rounding the corner at any second, the way he'd spent so much money on you without even blinking, and the feeling of his hands finally finding your waist, his fingers curling into your shirt as he kissed you back just as desperately, it all mixed together until you were left dizzy. 

Spencer broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against your mouth, voice already breathless.

“W-we shouldn’t. Someone could walk by. This is a public space and the probability of being observed is statistically higher than–”

You cut him off with another kiss, deeper this time, sucking lightly on his bottom lip. He whimpered softly and kissed you harder, one hand sliding up to cup the side of your neck like he couldn’t help himself.

When you finally let him breathe again his  glasses were slightly fogged.

“I’m serious,” he managed, even as his hips shifted forward against yours. “Public displays of intimacy have–” you kiss him again. “Have measurable social consequences and I really don’t want anyone to see you like this or–” another kiss. “Or me like this, I mean look at me, I’m already–”

You kissed the words right out of his mouth again. He groaned quietly, the sound vibrating against your lips, and his hands tightened on your waist. You could feel how hard he was getting, pressing insistently against your stomach through his slacks. He pulled back once more, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard.

“Y/N… this is a bookstore. There are cameras. And children. And… and I can’t believe how much I want you to keep kissing me right now even though every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea–”

You nipped at his lower lip and he made another soft, helpless sound. His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, pulling you closer even as he kept talking with a quiet, frantic, completely turned-on voice.

“Someone is going to know and I should care about that more than I currently do but your mouth feels so good and you smell so good and I–”

You kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, swallowing the rest of his anxious babbling until he was just melting against the bookshelves, soft little whimpers slipping out between every press of your lips. Then you pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were glassy, lips swollen, chest rising and falling too fast. He looked completely wrecked already and you hadn’t even touched him properly yet. You held his gaze as you slowly sank to your knees right there between the shelves. His breath caught. His hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Y/N…” he whispered, voice cracking. “We really, really shouldn’t.”

But he didn’t stop you.

You reached for his belt, fingers steady even as your own pulse hammered in your ears. The soft click of the buckle sounded far too loud in the quiet store. Spencer’s hands sat on your shoulders, trembling, like he wanted to pull you up and also desperately wanted you to keep going. You popped the button of his slacks, pulling the zipper down carefully, and eased them open, as if doing it faster would’ve made too loud of a sound. 

You looked up at him once more. His face was flushed deep pink all the way to the tips of his ears. Behind his glasses his eyes were wide and dark and a little panicked.

“Someone could come around the corner,” he whispered, even as his hips twitched forward the tiniest bit. “This is– this is so inappropriate. The risk is–”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down just far enough to free him. His cock sprang out, already fully hard, flushed a deep rosy color, the tip shiny with precum. It twitched in the cool air of the bookstore, threatening to drip. Spencer made a soft sound at the sudden exposure.

You wrapped your fingers loosely around the base, feeling the heat of him as he pulsed in your hand. You leaned in and dragged your tongue flat slowly up the underside, from the base all the way to the head. Spencer’s whole body jerked. A high, broken whimper escaped before he could bite it back. One of his hands finally settled in your hair, not pushing, just resting there like he needed the contact to stay upright.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “Your mouth–”

You took the head between your lips and sucked gently, swirling your tongue around the slit. More precum spilled onto your tongue immediately. His hips stuttered forward again as he clamped his free hand over his own mouth, trying to muffle the soft, continuous sounds that kept slipping out of him. 

You take him farther, into your mouth, letting your tongue press along the vein on the underside of his cock. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder as you pulled back, then sank down again, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm. Every time you took him deeper Spencer’s breathing hitched and another soft, desperate little noise broke past his hands.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, the curse soft and sounding like it surprised him. “Your mouth feels so good. I can’t–” he squeezes his eyes shut. But his hand in your hair tightened just a fraction, and his hips kept making helpless thrusts like he couldn’t stop himself.

You hummed around him, the vibration making his knees buckle for a second. He caught himself on the bookshelf behind him with a soft thud, the books shifting slightly. Another thick pulse of precum filled your mouth. You swallowed it and kept going, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm, one hand stroking what you couldn’t fit, the other braced on his trembling thigh.

Spencer was a mess above you. Continuous whimpers and little muffled moans kept falling out of him no matter how hard he tried to bite them back. His hand in your hair flexed and released, like he was fighting the urge to guide you. Every time you took him especially deep his hips jerked and a high, desperate sound escaped.

“Oh my god,” he whispered to himself, voice shaking. “i can’t believe– I should stop you but I-I don’t want you to s-stop. Please, please don’t stop.”

You didn’t.

You sucked him harder. His free hand came up to cover his mouth again, but the muffled whimpers still came through. His cock throbbed heavily on your tongue. His thighs shook under your palm. His breathing was ragged and uneven and getting louder. And louder. Too loud.

You take your mouth completely off of him, leaving his cock shiny, dripping, and twitching erratically in the open air. He made a wrecked, almost pained sound, his hips chasing your mouth for a second before he caught himself.

You looked up at him, lips still wet, and whispered, “We have to stop.”

He nodded frantically, looking devastated and desperate in equal measure. His cock was dark red and rock-hard, the head glistening, a thin string of saliva and precum still connecting it to your lower lip. You carefully tucked him back into his boxers, then into the waistband of his pants so the hard length was pressed up against his lower stomach, trapped and aching. He fixed his shirt with shaking hands, glasses completely fogged, and followed you out of the aisle like he was in a trance.

The walk back to the car was pure torture for him.

He stayed glued to your side, the hand carrying the bag of books constantly brushing yours, the other shoved deep in his pocket like he was trying to hide how uncomfortable he was. Every few steps he shifted his weight, jaw tight, soft little exhales leaving him whenever the fabric dragged against the sensitive head. You could still see his print straining against his slacks. By the time you reached the parking garage he looked miserable and desperate. 

And so. fucking. hot. 

The second the car doors shut he dropped his forehead against the steering wheel with a low, frustrated sound.

“This is so wrong,” he said, voice strained and quiet, “but I can’t wait until we’re back.”

You reached over and rested a hand high on his thigh, thumb brushing the tense muscle. “I can continue  here.”

His head snapped up so fast his glasses slipped. “B-but it’s daytime… there are people… cameras possibly…”

“Okay. And?”

He stared at you, torn. You could practically see the war happening behind his eyes: want versus propriety versus the very real ache between his legs. 

“Drive to the top of the garage,” you said softly. “We’ll be fine.”

He hesitated, breathing hard. You could see him calculating risk.

“…Or we can wait until we get back to your apartment,” you added, “but that’s like 45 minutes.”

Spencer made a low, almost pained sound and started the car. “I cannot believe I’m doing this.”

He drove up the ramps in the garage, all the way to the top. His knuckles were white from his grip on the wheel, his free hand gripping roughly on your thigh. There were only a few distant cars on the top floor, but they were empty. He could easily park all the way at the end, and everything would most likely be fine. 

He turns the engine off and just sits there, staring at the dashboard like it might give him permission. You put the center console up as he shifted to face you slightly. Your hands move to his pants, working to free him again.

He was still fully hard, or maybe again fully hard, it’s hard to tell. But based on the deep red color of his entire cock, you’re best guess would be still. The head was still shiny with precum that had soaked a small spot onto his boxers. You only have a second to admire him before he’s begging.

“Please, please, Y/N. Just–” he whined, voice cracking. “I need your mouth, I can’t, I’ve been hard since the bookstore and it hurts.”

You shut him up by leaning down and taking him into your mouth once again.

This time he didn’t even try to stay quiet.

The second your mouth closed around him a continuous stream of whimpers came out of him, mixed with low groans. His cock twitched hard against your tongue, already leaking more precum. You could taste how desperate he was. The skin was burning hot against your lips. 

God, he’s so needy like this.

His hand came up to gather your hair, holding it back in a loose ponytail so he could watch. At first the touch was tentative, just keeping the strands out of your face, fingers trembling slightly. Then, as you took him deeper and hollowed your cheeks, his fingers tightened experimentally. He started guiding your head with gentle, careful pulls, setting a rhythm that matched what he needed. Every time he tugged a little harder a louder moan escaped him, the sound raw and helpless in the quiet car.

“Fuck! Your mouth. Just like that. Please–”

You let him. You relaxed your jaw and let him use your mouth, let him pull your hair and rock up into it. His free hand gripped the edge of the seat so tightly his knuckles went white. You could feel his thigh trembling under your palm, the muscle jumping every time you took him especially deep.

“You’re so good at this,” he gasped, voice high and shaky. “You’re such a good girl for me, Y/N.”

The praise shot straight through you. Heat flooded your face and between your legs so fast it almost made you dizzy.

Good girl.

The way he said it made you moan around him. The vibration pulled another broken sound out of him. You sucked harder, taking him deeper, wanting more of that voice, more of that praise. Your own arousal was starting to ache between your thighs. Spencer could sense it. His hips stuttered and a wrecked sound tore out of him.

“Oh my god, You liked that,” he whispered, almost in awe. “You-you’re getting wet just from me calling you that, aren’t you?” 

You hummed around him, showing him that yes, you did like that, and you were in fact getting wet from him calling you that. His hand tightened in your hair, pulling just a little firmer, guiding you down farther until the head of his cock nudged the back of your throat. The stretch made your eyes water slightly. 

“Good girl. Just like that. Take it,” he groaned.

You did. You had no idea where he learned to talk like that, but you weren’t complaining. You let him fuck your mouth in short, careful thrusts, his hand controlling the pace while whimpers spilled out of him. His thighs trembled harder under your palm. His breathing was ragged and uneven, catching every time you swallowed around him. 

“I’m close.” He moaned. “I’m so close. Don’t stop, please. Don’t stop, Y/N.”

You didn’t. You let him use your mouth exactly how he needed, let him pull your hair and rock up into it until the overstimulation from having held it for so long started to hit him hard. His hips jerked unevenly. The first real tears slipped out from under his glasses and tracked down his flushed cheeks, not from pain, but from how overwhelmingly good it felt. His voice cracked into soft, whimpers that sounded almost like sobs.

“It’s so much. You’re so– please.” He chokes through a sob. You’re not sure he even knows what he’s begging for.

More tears followed, spilling freely now. His free hand came up to clumsily wipe at his face but only smeared them. He kept fucking your mouth in short, desperate thrusts, soft broken sounds leaving him with every movement, tears dripping down his cheeks and onto the collar of his shirt.

“Y/N I’m gonna– I can’t hold it–” he warned, only moments before cumming with a broken, overwhelmed sob of a moan. He pulsed hard against your tongue, spilling hot against the back of your throat. You swallowed around him as he kept whimpering and sobbing through it.

After he’s through it and you’ve swallowed one last time around him, you pull off, looking up at him smiling. He’s an absolute wreck above you, his face still red and his glasses fogged. He was still panting, and looking at you like you’d just rewritten his entire understanding of birthdays.

“Happy birthday,” you grin, wiping the corner of your mouth with your tongue.

Spencer made a weak, breathless sound that might have been a laugh, but was more likely a sob, and reached for you with both hands, pulling you as close as the car would allow. His cheeks were still damp. 

“Come here,” he whispered into your hair. “Please. Just…come here.”

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a/n: hi smut i felt bad for the last part being so dull so here is literally nothing but smut lolz. anyways come emp for this everyone i heart giving head but i deserve it too

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*~*~*

Rationally Spencer knows the police chief is trying to be nice. Irrationally it feels like this guy, who hasn’t stopped being offended since Spencer failed to shake his hand when they first met three days ago, is doing it deliberately just to humiliate him.

Walks into the precinct with his beard split in two by a smile, carrying heavy plastic bags of takeaway. “Y’all have been workin’ so hard,” he says, this drawl that gets heavier when he talks to any of them, so much more subtle when he’s bossing his own people around. “Bet those FBI brains don’t run on nothin’.”

Everyone else coos and smiles and practically jumps on the food like vultures - those FBI brains have been running on nothing for quite a few hours - while Spencer finishes the notes he’s making on the whiteboard so he can move on to something else after eating.

So he sees everyone else digging into the food, he knows what’s coming, and he wonders if he can just pretend he’s not hungry actually, but the smell of the food is making his stomach growl and JJ turns to look at him. “Come eat before it gets cold, Spence.”

Which seems irrelevant, the food will be cold before he gets it in his mouth regardless. And there's no way you won't laugh at him. 

Somehow, the thought of you seeing him unable to do something that seems like a basic skill to everyone else - something else he never learned how to do - is making him want to leave, go find a sandwich in a vending machine or whatever. It can only be better than this.

But there’s no getting out of it, by this point even Hotch is telling him to join them, and it almost but not quite feels like an order. Either way, Spencer sighs and comes to sit down in the only seat left around the large table, right next to you.

It might be an advantage, actually, he thinks, even if he’d prefer not to be this close to you, because it means he can turn away from you, engage himself in a conversation at the other end of the table, and then maybe you won’t be able to see him fumbling with his chopsticks as he struggles to eat so much as a piece of broccoli, never mind an actual noodle.

All he needs for his plan to succeed is for no-one else to point it out. 

Which means the plan is doomed to fail, of course.

“How have you still not figured that out, kid?” Derek asks, watching Spencer try and fail to move a few noodles from his takeaway box to his mouth. “I thought you were meant to be a genius."

“I am a genius,” he says, trying to get a different grip on the chopsticks, his body still turned away from yours. “This just isn’t a logical way to eat food.”

“I think you’ll find that 1.3 billion Chinese people would disagree with you there,” you say, and he turns his head to look at you. Which is a mistake, because it means he gets to see you skillfully pick up a mouthful of noodles and fried vegetables and shove them in your mouth, while you get a front row seat to him trying to wrap noodles around his chopsticks like spaghetti on a fork, and completely fail to make that work when it all wiggles off halfway to his mouth.

“The Japanese, too, probably,” JJ says, not at all helpfully. 

“Korea,” Derek adds.

“Both Koreas.” Hotch points at Derek with his chopsticks, then gets them back in his food.

“Yes, thank you,” Spencer says, hoping everyone will shut up now. He doesn’t need a list of all the countries that use chopsticks, he already knows. Because that’s the sort of thing his genius is good for.

You lean closer to him, your body actually pressed into him, and he shifts, trying to get away from your touch as you lean down, waving your container of food in the air as you dig through your handbag. When you sit back up, you drop something in his lap. You don’t say anything, just go back to eating.

He looks down and sees a small bag containing a set of single use cutlery. He frowns at it, picks up the bag and tears it open, pulling out the fork. Then he starts eating.

He sees you watching him from the corner of your eye but doesn’t acknowledge you.

“What do we say to the nice lady?” you ask finally, like he's a toddler. 

“Which nice lady?” he asks back, like he's a brat. The alternative is telling you he’s actually grateful and you should be careful or he might just think you were being nice to him. So, bratty it is.

“Hey!” JJ protests, throwing a wadded up napkin at him.

“Sorry,” he tells her. “Obviously I didn't mean you.” Then he turns to look at you and says nothing.

“I think the word you're looking for is ‘xièxiè’,” you tell him, still in that annoying borderline condescending tone. 

“Thank you,” he mutters.

“You’re welcome, Reid,” you say, mock polite. “Now don’t tell people I don’t do anything for you.”

He looks up and sees Derek rolling his eyes and grinning: clearly he’s getting some meaning from your words that he himself is missing. Spencer decides the safest response in that case is to say nothing because that’s better than saying something stupid without realising it.

When everyone is done eating and starts making moves to go back to work, he grabs your cardboard food container and chopsticks from you before you can get up, and puts them into the trash along with his own.

*~*~*

Spencer wasn’t paying attention to you as you were all leaving the local police station where the team is based for their current case, because he tries his best to not pay attention to you at any time, but hotel elevators are very confined spaces and it’s not as if he could insist on waiting for the next one instead of getting in with you without looking like a petulant child, and Spencer is quite adamant that everyone understands that you’re the immature one.

Which is why he spots the case folders sticking out of your bag and realises what you’re doing. So he does the only thing he can and follows you out of the elevator when it gets to your floor, ignoring the confused look JJ gives him as she walks out next to him.

“What’s that?” he asks you, grabbing you by the arm and then immediately releasing you when you look at his hand with a frown. He points at your bag in explanation. “Are you going to continue working on the case?”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees JJ looking between the two of you, probably deciding if she needs to mediate, but then she must decide she’s off the clock, because she just points a finger first at him and then at you. “8 o’clock. Be ready.”

“Yes, mom,” you say, and to Spencer you sound like a brat, but JJ just smiles like you said something cute.

“Spence?” JJ looks at him expectantly.

“Of course.” 

“Okay,” she  says, holding up both hands. “I’ve done all I can.” Then she walks down the hall and disappears into her room, the door clicking shut behind her.

“Goodnight, Reid,” you say, giving him a fake smile and turning to walk away.

“Are you going to continue working on the case?” he asks again, louder this time, following you.

“Why do you care?” You get out your key card and unlock the door to your room, then turn to look at him. 

“Because if you are, I should help you.” 

You snort and pull open the door. “What? Are you actually trying to be helpful or are you just worried I’ll find something you didn’t notice?”

“That seems unlikely,” he says dismissively, following you into your room uninvited. 

“You being helpful? I agree.”

“Hilarious.” 

“Thank you.” You throw him that fake smile again.

Without asking for permission, Spencer pulls the case files from your bag, trying to get an idea of what you think you’re going to find.

You kick off your shoes and then start unbuttoning your shirt. “Hey, Reid.” He looks up. “I’m going to change my clothes now.”

He frowns. “Go to the bathroom then.”

“This is my room,” you argue. “You go to the bathroom.”

Spencer shakes his head and turns back to your files. Thirty seconds later his view is obstructed by your shirt being thrown at him and landing on the papers he’s holding. When he looks up you’re unzipping your skirt, a challenging glint in your eyes as you look straight at him. At least you’re still wearing a top.

He clears his throat and turns his head away quickly, trying to look at anything but you as he scurries to the bathroom.

When he closes the door he hears you making a chicken noise. God, he truly loathes everything about you.

You take your time changing out of your work clothes and into something more comfortable. If Spencer Reid thinks he can just invade your room because he can’t handle the idea of you maybe being smarter than him about something, you’re going to make it as uncomfortable as you possibly can for him. Luckily making Spencer Reid uncomfortable isn’t the hardest job in the world.

You dig through your duffel bag, trying to find clothes that are inappropriate but not too inappropriate. In the end you settle on your sleep shorts, which are definitely short, and a boatneck tee that’s been in the bag ever since you couldn’t find your pajama top a month and a half ago. You consider taking off your bra but decide that’s going too far. At least with the boatneck he’ll get a good look at the pink straps, though.

Satisfied with your outfit, you settle on the bed and spread out the files in front of you, notepad and pen next to you, and then you wait.

Another five minutes go by and you’ve actually forgotten that Spencer is still there, caught up in the work, when he suddenly knocks on the bathroom door. Actually knocks. Jesus, what an idiot.

“Are you—um, are you done changing yet?”

“No, Reid. I’m still me. Sorry.”

His sigh is so loud you can hear it through the closed door. “I’m coming out now.”

“Congratulations,” you say flatly once he’s back in the room.

“What?” He frowns, looking at you, then quickly turns his eyes to the floor. You look entirely too casual and he can see far too much of your legs.

“On coming out. I’m flattered you chose to tell me first. Or does everyone else already know?”

He just shakes his head at you and steps out of his shoes before sitting down crosslegged at the foot of your bed, on the other side of the photographs you’ve got spread out on the blanket. “What are you thinking?”

You point at four of the photographs, one from each crime scene. “There’s something about these, I just can’t put my finger on it.”

He turns them so he can look at them right side up, licking his lips as he thinks. Annoyingly, he can’t even see that there’s something to see. But maybe you’re just yanking his chain? He pushes the photos back to you and picks up a different one.

An hour later, you’re still trying to find a pattern and Spencer is trying to convince you to brainstorm possible explanations for the choice of murder weapon instead. In an attempt to make you see reason, he launches into an explanation of the psychology behind using a long range weapon at close range.

“I have a question for you,” you say, disrupting his flow of words mid-sentence.

“What?” he asks, trying not to be annoyed at the interruption. If you actually want him to educate you then he should encourage that by being friendly. 

“Do you ever just shut up without being told to?” You smile, amused by your own joke. 

“Of course,” Spencer says, deciding that he's allowed to be openly annoyed with you now. “If I believe the person I'm talking to has something to say that's remotely worth hearing.”

“But how will you know if you never give them a chance to speak?”

“I’m basing my assumptions on past experience. This is not the first conversation we have had. Unfortunately.” He tacks on that last word although it feels unnecessary. You already know he thinks having to talk to you is unfortunate.

“But I could surprise you,” you say, smiling. It's not a friendly smile, though. It's the kind of smile that has alarm bells going off in his mind because you're up to something and there's no way to predict what it might be. 

“Many things you do surprise me, that's not the same as suggesting you'll suddenly have any useful insights.”

“Sure,” you agree with a roll of your eyes.

Spencer picks up his explanation from before, rewinding only far enough to restart the sentence you interrupted for no good reason. He doesn’t get far before you interrupt him again.

You lean forward, a hand on the bed in between the notes and photos to maintain your balance, and press your lips to his. Just a quick peck, the way his mother might kiss his forehead, except it feels nothing like that. Spencer freezes.

“Oh,” you say, smiling as you sit back. “That shuts you up. Good to know.”

He knows you’re mocking him, that he should make some disparaging remark, tell you you’re being inappropriate, this is not professional behaviour, but his mind is almost completely blank. The only thing he’s able to focus on is the ghost of the pressure of your lips.

“Reid?” You’re frowning, and he thinks you might sound a little worried.

Spencer looks at your lips, at the pink bra strap on your exposed shoulder that he has been fighting valiantly to ignore since he sat down, your bare legs. Then back at your lips. “Why did you do that?”

“It was an experiment,” you say. “You should appreciate that. You like to pretend you’re a scientist.”

“I am a scientist,” he says automatically. “I have PhD’s in—”

“Keep talking and I’ll kiss you again,” you warn him.

Which is a dilemma. Does he… want you to do that? Bizarrely, he thinks he might. His eyes follow the trail of your pink bra strap; your top is actually just a little bit see-through and he can see the faint pink shape of the rest of your bra underneath, the cups of it.

He swallows. “How long will I have to be quiet for in order to avoid that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, smiling easily. Clearly you’re finding this very funny. “I guess until I decide you’ve been quiet for long enough. Which won’t be until I’ve told you all about how once in a Physics class we were doing an experiment with—”

He can’t bear it. Whatever you’re about to say, he’s sure it’ll be a crime against all natural sciences. Also, your lips were so soft and your bra strap is so pink. He doesn’t even particularly like pink, but it really draws the eyes in. He leans forward, but unlike you he hasn’t actually thought it through so he doesn’t put out a hand to balance himself, which means when his lips crash into yours, he tumbles forward and pushes you back on the bed, him on top of you. Photos of crime scenes scatter to the floor, some by themselves and some because you push them.

He had just meant to give you a brief kiss, similar to the one you gave him, but then gravity - which is science, so there - messed with his plans and now suddenly his hands are in your hair and his tongue is pushing its way into your mouth and someone who sounds a lot like him moans when your lips part.

The feeling of your body underneath him is shocking. 

You’re soft and hard in such unexpected ways and he can feel your breasts against his chest and the way your legs part to let him settle between them, and your mouth that’s so warm and wet, and—he moans again, the sound wrapping itself around your tongue and he can feel his body reacting to all this stimuli. The constant stream of thoughts usually speeding through his brain is replaced by a strange buzz, he feels warm and cold all over at the same time, and in his pants an erection is growing with an urgency he’s not exactly used to, when normally all he has to look forward to is his own hand wrapped around it in a room where he only has himself for company.

You make a strangled sound and it takes longer than he’s comfortable with for his brain to register that it’s the bad kind of sound and then he pulls back, breath ragged and lips raw.

“Just,” you say, squirming underneath him to free your arms. He wonders if you’re about to slap him. “These are in the way.” You very carefully take off his glasses, fold them, and set them down on the bedside table.

He blinks, his eyes struggling to refocus, his mind trying to adjust to the fact that you didn’t actually stop him, and then you’re raising your head off the pillow and catching his lips again and he’s back to his mind going blank. 

Your hands, now free to roam over his body, tangle themselves in his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp in a way that makes him hum into your mouth, and then they travel down his back, headed for his ass but not quite able to reach it, the way his hips are lodged between your legs and he’s practically dryhumping the mattress at this point, mostly because it seems more polite than dryhumping you. Although he’s not sure why he’s worried about being polite when you never have.

But then you wrap your legs around his thighs, pushing him into yourself and he hunches his back, shifting so his erection is pressed directly against your centre and he breaks the kiss, a strangled groan leaving his body when your hands grab his ass and push him into you even more, as if you want him to thrust against you. 

If you had both been naked, you would have been… “Jeesus,” he hisses, his hips pumping uselessly into you as he buries his head in your neck. 

You moan, the sound right in his ear, and he actually bites your neck, desperate to do something to distract himself. It’s not a hard bite, and he quickly kisses the spot, licking it in apology, and you tilt your head away, giving him better access. 

He licks and sucks on your throat, then returns to kissing your mouth, then back to your throat, as if he can’t decide what he wants to do more, the way kissing you feels like your mouths are fucking but the absolutely filthy noises you make when he sucks on just the right spot on your throat.

He wants to be everywhere at once, doing everything at once.

And then your hands are between your bodies and you’re unbuttoning his slacks and he freezes.

“I—” he stutters, pushing himself up on his elbows and then his hands so he can see you. Somehow he feels like he should warn you that you’ll be the first person other than himself to put their hands there for a sexual reason. He’s not sure if it’s meant to be a confession or a warning, but for whatever reason, it feels important that you know. “I’ve never…” He trails off, not really sure how to phrase it.

You catch up pretty quickly, though, your brain probably less addled with sex hormones than his, since it’s been through all this before. “You’re a virgin?”

You sound so appalled he’s almost tempted to lie, pretend that’s not what he meant, but it seems pretty clear he wouldn’t get away with it. There’s no way he can feign having practical experience of any of this. “Well, yes, but—”

“Oh, nonono,” you cut him off, pushing him away slightly so you can move out from under him. “I am not taking your virginity, that is not happening, okay.”

“Why not?” Maybe not a question he should be asking, any reason is a valid reason, but the fact that he’s a virgin feels less valid than a lot of other reasons he can think of. And his whole body feels like it’s on fire and the only thing that’ll put out that fire is getting his hands and lips back on you.

“Because the first time you have sex, it should be with someone you actually like.”

Spencer sighs, rolling onto his back. He looks down at his erection, still straining painfully against his slacks like it’s actually an optimist despite everything ever, and folds both hands into fists with his arms bent up, thumbs digging into his shoulders to distract himself. Every instinct in his body that’s not focused on you wants him to just shove his hand down his pants and get this over with the way he’s used to. “Why?”

You look at him, incredulous. “Because otherwise you’ll regret it?” It’s a short sentence, but you feel a lot less sure about what you’re saying by the end of it. What do you know about what he will and won’t regret?

“Isn’t that my problem, though? How is it any of your concern?” He turns his head so he can look at you. The least you can do is be honest about why you won’t sleep with him, not try to wrap it up in concern for his feelings.

“Because I’ll be…” You trail off, considering the question. The truth is, you don’t want to be anyone’s regret, but you can’t really say that. Not to Spencer Reid, who definitely already regrets ever meeting you. And that feeling is extremely mutual, despite all current evidence to the contrary. 

This feels like a different kind of regret, though.

“It just is,” you say, firmly.

“But what if I tell you I won’t regret it?” Spencer can’t even see the line he crossed into pathetic territory, it’s so far behind him, but he can’t seem to stop pushing. It’s fine if you won’t sleep with him, obviously, but at least give him the satisfaction of feeling humiliated about the fact that the reason you won’t sleep with him is that no-one else ever has either.

You roll your eyes. “Of course you’re going to say that, Reid. You’re a guy and you’re horny, you’ll say anything.”

He looks at you blankly. “Not anything,” he argues.

“Okay, smartypants,” you say, your eyes straying to his actual pants. “So what wouldn’t you say?”

He resists the temptation to shield his crotch from your view with his hands. “If I told you that, then I would have said it, wouldn’t I?”

“Impressive mental capacity for someone with so little blood going to his brain,” you joke and he rolls his eyes right back at you. “I just want to know where the line is, it won’t count.”

“It won’t count?”

“No. I know you aren’t saying it to sleep with me, so it doesn’t count. I just want to know what you think is too desperate.”

He frowns, looking at you. You try not to stare at his lips as he works his mouth from one side to the other while he thinks it over. “Okay.”

You struggle very, very hard not to smile. This feels like the kind of win you shouldn’t celebrate too early in case he changes his mind.

“I wouldn’t say…” He licks his lips, thinking it over. “That you’re really pretty when you wear your hair up like you did today. Or… that when you kiss me I’m not sure I remember my own name, or that, that what you said in the briefing on Tuesday about the UnSub most likely being an oldest sibling was very insightful, or—”

You move before your brain can reboot itself and stop you, leaning closer to him until you can press your lips to his. He freezes for just a second, but then his hands go to your hair and he rolls onto his back again, pulling you with him as his mouth opens and his tongue presses against your lips. When they part and your tongue brushes against his, he moans just like the last time. Spencer Reid is really into french kissing. Who knew? You’re probably going to wish you didn’t the next time you’re bored in a briefing and looking for a distraction, and his lips will be right there for you to stare at and wonder what else that mouth can be made to do.

His hands travel down your back and he’s tugging at you, trying to pull you onto him, and you let him, helpfully climbing on top of him so you can straddle his hips, your core rubbing against his erection in a way that makes you think that although you’re absolutely drawing the line at popping Reid’s cherry, that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself. Because it’s been a while for you and the way his dick rubs against you feels better than it should be allowed to, what with it being attached to Spencer Reid.

The way he probably could have made you come before just from the dryhumping if you hadn’t gotten impatient and tried to move things along and get him even closer to your clit.

Whatever the reason is for him still being a virgin - and you could compile a list of very valid ones very quickly, mainly related to how unappealing his personality is and you understanding why women generally find that offputting - you’re finding that you actually kind of dig it. Which is sort of embarrassing, actually.

Just, his know-it-all attitude when it comes to, well, everything is gone, replaced by just pure lust. No thoughts. 

So his brain does have an off switch, it just never occurred to you it was connected to his dick. Maybe it should have, it’s not like that’s a uniquely Spencer Reid feature, he just always seemed different in some way.

In your mind he was more of a Ken doll, just a sexless walking encyclopedia. 

Except he’s not. Sexless or a Ken doll: both have been debunked pretty thoroughly by now, the way he’s practically salivating as he gropes your breast in a way that’s almost but not quite pleasurable and you’ll teach him how to do it better in a little bit, right now you’re just enjoying him enjoying himself. Which is not something you want to investigate too closely. 

Oh, yes, and the way you can feel the length of him through the layers of clothes. It seems incredibly unfair, but somehow you can tell already that his dick is going to be just as pretty as his face.

Your hand moves past the waistband of his slacks, your fingers wrapping themselves around him, and even through his boxers he can feel how warm your hand is, the pressure of each finger as you pump him slowly. Your hand is so much smaller than his own, the pressure so different, and he whines with the pleasure of it. 

“Yeah?” you ask, grinning, and when he nods quickly you lean down to kiss him again, your tongue moving in his mouth in a rhythm that matches your hand squeezing up and down his length. 

His hands are gripping the blanket underneath him as if he might float away if he lets go, and his tongue is busy rubbing against yours, and his brain is short circuiting, which is why he doesn’t manage to warn you to stop and give him a break because he’s too close and he needs a moment to review the periodic table or he’ll explode. Hydrogen. Hydrogen is first, right? A reactive nonmetal which bonds with oxygen to create water and oh thank god, you’re pulling your hand out of his pants, he can breathe again.

You pull away, your tongue out of his mouth and your lips separating from his, and his head and torso lift off the bed as he tries to chase you, but you keep moving until you’re sitting up, and then you reach down to pull your t-shirt off. You let it drop onto his face, obscuring his view of you. He shakes his head stupidly before realising that won’t be enough to get rid of it and quickly pulling it away with one hand while the other reaches blindly for your waist, your soft skin, and then both his hands settle on your hips.

His eyes travel up from your stupidly tiny shorts that make up part of a very thin barrier between your bodies where you’re settled right over his erection, run up your smooth stomach until they reach the pink bra that has been mocking him all evening. The bra is moving, and it takes him a second to realise that that’s because you’re unfastening it behind your back, and no sooner has he grasped that than you’re pulling it off and then he has an unobstructed view of your breasts, nipples slightly peaked.

His mouth falls open and he stares at you, a mumbled “oh,” escaping his lips.

You’re watching him with a slight smile, but there’s no cruelty to it, and then you gently take his hands from your hips and move them up so they can cup your breasts.

Spencer hisses, his hips stuttering, and then your hips roll against him and the friction it’s causing and the feeling of your breasts in his hands and the way your eyes close as you let your head fall back in pleasure before you look at him again, push him over the precipice he has been balanced on for what feels like an eternity. 

He thrusts helplessly upwards, hands squeezing your breasts desperately as if that might help him gain the control he needs except of course it doesn’t work that way at all, and he moans as he comes, the orgasm pulled out of him by your warm body pressed against him and the soft weight of your breasts and then he falls back on the bed, hands dropping to his sides. His semen, trapped in his boxers, is sticky and warm against his skin, and he feels his cheeks burning with mingled pleasure and embarrassment. 

It takes a moment for you to realise what happened, or maybe you’re just pretending, he isn’t sure, but then you look down at him with just the hint of a smile and eyes that are sparkling. “Boob man, huh?” you ask, scooting down his body slightly so you’re no longer pressing against his now flaccid dick.

Spencer groans. “I’m sorry.”

You brush your naked breasts lightly and that’s what makes him notice the red marks that are still visible from where he had what was apparently a too firm grip and his eyes widen and then close tightly. Clearly he should be apologising for that too, but he doesn’t have it in him to feel worse than he already does, his system flooded with dopamine and oxytocin. 

“Hey, Reid,” you say gently.

He reluctantly opens his eyes. 

“You okay?”

“No.” He knows he sounds like a stubborn child, he might actually even be pouting, but there you go. He is that pathetic and now you know, so what’s the point in pretending he isn’t?

You smile, leaning forward and caressing his cheek. He shakes his head, but then his eyes are drawn to your breasts, still just there, visible and within reach. Suddenly all he can think about is getting his mouth on them.

But then you move, crawling off him completely and picking your t-shirt back up, putting it on without bothering with your bra. He watches as your breasts disappear from view, unsucked and untasted. The peaks of your nipples are visible through the thin fabric.

“What’s wrong?”

He nearly tells you about wanting your breasts in his mouth but then he realises what you mean. “I—” There’s no way he can put the embarrassment he’s feeling into words, least of all to you, so instead he just shakes his head. “I should go. I need to… clean up.”

Your eyes stray to his crotch which is feeling cold and sticky and sad and he squirms. “I guess you do.”

He wants to be annoyed with you, tries very hard to summon up some anger, digs deeply for a reason any of this can be your fault, but he comes up empty. At most, he can blame you for being too hot, for feeling too good, and it’s not like he’s ever going to tell you any of that.

So instead, he worms his way out of your bed, trying not to notice the mess in his underwear, looking down his body only long enough to determine that it’s not visible to anyone he might meet as he makes his way from your room to his own, and then he walks to the door without looking at you.

“Hey Reid,” you say, and he turns to look at you.

“What?”

“Sleep tight,” you say, grinning, and then you pull up the hem of your t-shirt, flashing him.

He blinks, like an owl or maybe a camera shutter, you can’t quite decide. “You’re insane,” he says, and then he leaves your room.

You stand still for a moment, watching the door and wondering if he’s going to come back, but the hallway is quiet and eventually you go back to your bed and shuffle the paperwork that has fallen to the floor into a pile and drop it all on the desk. Then you crawl into bed, your head falling onto the pillow with a frustrated sigh.

The situation in your underwear might be less dire than what Spencer was dealing with, but there’s still a pool of wetness in the crotch of your panties and a frustrating tingle that has one of your hands travelling down your stomach and into your panties while the other hand finds your breast, squeezing with a pressure that’s gentler and more comfortable than Spencer’s but with a grip that feels too small all of a sudden. 

You coat your finger in your own slick and it finds your clit immediately, rubbing with determination as you seek your own release as quickly as possible. Your eyes fall closed and you turn your head, half-burying your face in a pillow you realise has been infused with an essence of Spencer, this strangely musky scent that feels much too familiar and nowhere near offputting enough.

The orgasm that washes over you is less satisfying than it should be, the sound of Spencer’s moans ringing in your ears and the pretty face he made when he came flashing before your eyes.

"Dr. Spencer Reid," your dad told you, "he's our expert on just about anything."

You looked over at him one more time, studying him. He was clearly focused on something, not noticing the conversation that was taking place right outside Hotch's office, above where he was reading a file at his desk.

"He looks way too young to be a Dr.," you thought out loud.

"He's your age actually," Hotch said, "has three doctorates, and just as many bachelor's."

To say your jaw was on the floor would be an understatement. How did someone who looked like they'd still be able to order off the kid's menu have several degrees?

"So what you're saying is I'm a lazy, good for nothing, idiotic, loser," you joked.

"I didn't say anything even close to that," he said, already knowing your teasing antics after years of being a victim of them.

"You implied it when you said he was my age."

"I only said he was your age because you said he looked too young to be a Dr."

"He does," you stated, your voice a little louder than intended, making a couple people's heads turn your way.

Once they looked away your dad spoke again.

"I have to get back to work, and you have a future to figure out," he told you.

You made a face at him, "Don't remind me," you said, having spent all week doing job interviews and using whatever connections you had made with people in college.

"I'll see you at home," your dad told you before retreating back into his office.

You knew your way out of the place, having been there multiple times before. As you walked between the desks in the bullpen you noticed a certain person's head lift up. You made eye contact before he swiftly turned away and you kept walking towards the glass door. You couldn't help but smile at the fact that he took a moment to notice you.

In that split second you took in his nerdy, yet cute, glasses that framed his face. Alongside his soft looking hair that sat perfectly, and his meek expression as he no doubt tried to analyze whatever he could about you in that moment.

That was the thing about profilers: they were always studying people by how they walked, or talked, or even breathed. He probably figured out something about you you wouldn't even have been able to figure out in the brief second he saw you.

Dr. Spencer Reid, you kept repeating to yourself. It was as if you were trying to engrain it into your brain so you wouldn't forget it. There was something about him you just needed to know.

You tried not to give into your urges. But after thinking about him on the drive home, then at dinner, then while you were trying to fill out a job application, and even as you were laying down in your comfy bed, you inevitably gave up. He was consuming your every thought and you eventually had to cave into the hunger.

You took out your laptop, quickly looking up his name. He had multiple doctorates, no doubt it'd be easy to find at least something about him.

What you found though was more than you expected. There were multiple of his papers, all of which you read through, hanging onto almost every detail. There were countless articles, some about him himself, and some about his work at the BAU.

You couldn't find any socials. You assumed he must've been very introverted by the way he looked and his lack of online presence. After doing a little bit of digging—which was actually at least two hours worth—you managed to find the social media of one Penelope Garcia. You knew she was the technical analyst for the BAU, and with her bubbly personality probably loved to make the fun occasional posts.

Lucky for you, one of those fun occasional posts included a picture of Spencer. He was taking a sip of coffee while Garcia must've sneakily taken the photo of him.

He looked quite cute when he had no clue anyone was looking. If you hadn't seen him with your own eyes you might've assumed he was something you made up.

To be fair, he didn't sound real on paper.

A genius. Correction, a cute genius. Who had multiple degrees in subjects you could barely wrap your head around, who was working a real job saving people. Not even to mention seemed shy, yet could no doubt probably talk your ear off with facts you never in a million years would've known.

He seemed like a guy you'd dream up after a horrific break up. Not someone that existed. And even crazier, was a possibility for you.

You flopped down onto your mattress, imagining it. He probably enjoyed trips to the bookstore, and small coffee shops, and walks in the middle of autumn as the crunchy orange leaves fell to the ground. He probably loved long talks, and you could imagine admiring him as he explained topics he was passionate about.

The more you imagined him the more he seemed like an angel on the walls of Versailles. Irrevocably beautiful, and impossible to ever even fathom wanting to look away from.

You fell asleep that night thinking and daydreaming of him, scheming up a plan to talk to him.

Luckily for you, that plan was able to be put into action only two weeks later. Your dad had offered to have lunch in his office again to make up for missing dinner due to a case. Normally you'd be sad he missed your original plan, but you couldn't have been happier now about it.

Your plan was exceedingly simple, only requiring the perfect timing. Your dad told you to arrive around one in the afternoon. You knew he had a meeting from noon till then, meaning there was a window in which you could arrive early and be unable to enter your dad's office. You decided to take advantage of this to try and talk to Spencer.

The only flaw was that you had no clue how you'd approach him. He knew you'd been to the BAU before, having seen you there, so you couldn't lie and say you were lost. He probably wouldn't approach you first, and you didn't want to interrupt him while working. You were going to have to go with the flow and hope for the best.

You walked out of the elevator, clipping on your visitor's pass. You opened up the glass door, taking in a deep breath before stepping in. You had arrived at 12:30, hoping that was enough time to run your scheme before your dad invited you in for lunch.

The bullpen was busy with agents doing paperwork, or talking to others about something work related. You stood in the middle of it pretending to check your watch as if having accidentally arrived just a little too early. You looked through your dad's window, seeing he in fact was in a meeting. You now just had to figure out how to make your way to the cute nerd's desk.

Divine forces must've been working with you that day as a familiar person headed towards you.

"And to what do we owe this visit?" Derek Morgan said, now standing in front of you.

"I was supposed to be having lunch with my dad, but I guess he's busy at the moment," you told him, unable to not notice the way a certain agent's ears seemed to prick up.

"Well I guess that means you're stuck with us."

"Last time that happened we broke a printer, and got banned from Garcia's lair," you reminded him.

"Which is why," he started to say, pointing at you and someone else behind you, "I'm putting you in capable hands."

If you could give up your first born to whatever was making you this lucky you would. You looked behind you as he pointed to Spencer who quickly ducked his head to avoid your gaze.

"So you're giving me a babysitter?" you teased.

"No, I'm introducing you to someone who hopefully won't help you cause property damage," he said, walking you closer to Spencer's desk.

"You say that as if you weren't the one to help me."

"Not the point."

Morgan walked up to Spencer's desk, gaining his attention. Spencer's eyes flicked between you and Morgan through his glasses.

"Pretty boy," he greeted, and you immediately knew he lived up to the nickname, "I don't suppose you've met Hotch's daughter."

"Uh, no," he replied, stammering as he stood up from his seat, "I didn't even know Hotch had a daughter to be fair."

He smoothed out his tie before giving you a small wave. You smiled at him, not expecting him to wave at you instead of shaking your hand.

"Boy genius doesn't do handshakes," Morgan told you.

You just nodded at him, waiting for Spencer to say something.

"It's nothing personal, it's just that with the number of pathogens passed through a handshake, it's actually safer to kiss," he rambled, his ears burning red.

"Interesting," you said, unable to help the smile on your face at his weird, yet fun fact. So far he was exactly as you had imagined him.

Morgan looked between you two for a moment. Sensing something he wasn't too sure what he was picking up on.

"Well, I'll leave you both to it," he said before turning around, leaving you with Spencer.

Your plan had worked way better than you ever expected it to. You introduced yourself to him as he did the same, even though you already knew who he was. You knew more about him then he probably assumed you had. He introduced himself as Dr. Reid, making it easier for you to bring up your next topic.

"Dr.?" you questioned, pretending to be shocked, "no offense but you look kind of young to be a Dr."

He looked down at the floor before speaking, "I get that a lot."

"Well what are you a Dr. in?"

"Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering," he answered, sitting back down in his chair.

You stole a chair from an empty desk, placing it in front of his desk. You leaned forward, resting your chin on your head, fully interested in whatever he had to say.

"And here I thought my master's was impressive," you teased.

"N-no, it is," he stumbled, "any academic achievement is impressive. Only about 34% percent of the adult population in the United States has a bachelor's as their highest level of education. A master's degree is even less, with only about 13% of the adult population having one as their highest level of education."

You nodded along as he spoke. You weren't surprised he new statistics that perfectly applied to the conversation off the top of his head.

"So I guess you're in the top .0001% with your three degrees."

"Technically, I have three more, but their only bachelor's."

You playfully rolled your eyes, "Yeah, their only bachelors who would count them," you joked.

He smiled at you, a real honest smile that you wanted to kiss off his face. Usually you weren't one to fall for someone so quickly, but there was something about him you couldn't shake away.

"I have an eidetic memory," he admitted, intriguing you even more, "so it just makes it easier for me I guess."

"So you're a genius basically."

He stumbled over his words, a faint blush appearing on his face, "I wouldn't call myself a genius."

You once again nodded, liking how flustered he got.

"Well genius," you said, using the nickname against him, only making him turn redder, "where'd you go to school?"

"I went to Caltech."

"Really? I can't imagine you in orange."

"I wouldn't say it's my color, but the school's pretty great."

"I'd assume they’re a lot better than just pretty great if their teaching geniuses there."

He shook his head, "I never said I was a genius."

You sat up in your chair a bit, leaning a bit closer, "Give me any evidence as to why you're not a genius and why I shouldn't call you genius."

Spencer sat there for a moment, opening and closing his mouth multiple times.

"Exactly," you said, "you are a genius."

Before he could respond the door to your dad's office opened. Your expression dropped a bit since that meant your conversation with Spencer was over. You were having fun teasing him for being so smart and watching him get all flustered.

Someone walked out of your dad's office, making their way down the steps as he noticed you. He waved you into his office. You looked back at Spencer wanting to accomplish one more thing before leaving.

"I had fun talking with you," you told him, hoping he'd pick up the hint.

"I did too."

"It'd be nice to finish our conversation another time."

He nodded, looking down again, too nervous to look at you.

"Yeah, if whenever you're back, I'd love to continue talking, you're nice to talk to."

"I was thinking more like when you're not working," you admitted, knowing he was too hopeless to get the hint.

"Oh," he said.

"I assume you like to read," you said, looking at the stack of books on his desk.

"Just a little bit," he joked, smiling up at you.

"Good," you said, grabbing a sticky note off his desk, writing your number on it, "give me a call sometime, I'd love to go to the bookstore with you sometime if you want."

He nodded, taking the piece of paper from you, "Okay," he mumbled.

You got up from your chair, putting it back before turning towards him, "Bye, genius."

"Bye," he uttered, his voice low, as if still nervous to talk to you.

You couldn't help but feel giddy with how well your conversation had gone. It also didn't help that you were going to see him outside of his job at some point. Even worse you kept daydreaming about him, and thinking about how you just might drop dead if he kissed you after your date to the bookstore.

taglist ask to be added or removed

The bullpen of the Behavioural Analysis Unit was usually a cacophony of controlled chaos, phones ringing endlessly, papers shuffling hurriedly. But the moment the latest victim’s photograph was handed to the team, the room fell dead silent. 

Spencer Reid dropped his pen. It rolled off the edge of the mahogany table, clattering against the linoleum floor, but he didn’t even blink. Your name barely pierced through the ringing in his ears as JJ announced it to the team, his fingers curled tighter around the photograph until his knuckles were white.

“... Twenty four. She was taken from her apartment parking lot in Alexandria late last night. If the unsub’s timeline holds, we have less than six hours before he-”

“Four hours.” Spencer interrupted. His voice was hoarse, but it cut through the room like glass, his eyes still didn’t lift. He stood so fast that his chair scraped violently against the floor. 

Hotch’s eyes locked onto him, “Reid, what do you mean?”

“The geographical distribution of the dump sites indicates a comfort zone with a radius of no more than twelve miles, but the escalation in his cooling off period suggests a severe increase in his disorganized erraticism," Spencer rambled, his eyes still locked onto your photograph, your smile, your bright eyes. “He isn’t going to keep her for twelve hours like the others. He’s spiraling. He’s going to kill her in four. Maybe less.” 

Gideon leaned forward, his dark eyes studying Spencer’s erratic pacing, the way he hadn’t looked away from the photograph in his hand once since JJ had given it to him. “How do you know her?” He asked in his calm, quiet tone.

Spencer’s chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, a shocked silence settling over the group as his eyes finally lifted to Gideon. 

“She’s… She was my girlfriend.” He said, the word sounding foreign yet heavy on his tongue. “In Vegas, before Caltech.”

A look exchanged throughout the room, one of understanding as Morgan stood, placing his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, he flinched gently under the touch, and lifted your photograph to look at your smile again. “You never…”

“We broke up because she was… she got into her dream program, I got into Caltech,” He swallowed, a hard lump forming in his throat. “I didn’t want to hold her back.”

Hotch caught up with Spencer as they walked towards the jet, a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. His face had drained of colour, pale and terrified. Hotch was trained to look for cracks, and right now, Spencer was fracturing right in front of him. 

“Reid,” his voice dropped to a low and steady tone. “If you’re too close to this, I need to know now. I can’t have you in the field if you’re compromised.”

“I’m not compromised.” Spencer shot back instantly, his voice rising a pitch, he looked around at the teammates ahead, his chest heaving. “I’m the only one who can do the probability modeling on this unsub’s geographic regression fast enough. I know her baseline behavior. I know how she reacts under stress, she’s highly resilient, she won't panic immediately, which means she might buy us time, but we don’t have time. If you sideline me, you’re losing thirty percent of your analytical speed!” 

Silence settled between them, Hotch held his gaze, Spencer’s chest heaving. “I won't miss anything.” He said, his voice cracking as his brows furrowed, almost pleading, “I promise you. I won’t miss a thing.” 

Hotch swallowed, before nodding once. “Okay.” He said calmly, patting Spencer’s shoulder before the two of them jogged to catch up to the others. 

Spencer’s fingers leafed through the crime scene photos, the photograph of you safely tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt. He was running numbers, calculating probabilities, mapping the unsub’s previous movements with frantic energy. 

“Reid, you need to take a breath,” Elle said gently, “We’re going to find her.”

“I can’t breathe, Elle,” Spencer said, his voice cracking as he looked up, his wide brown eyes swimming with a rare, raw terror. “Do you know what she did when I was twelve years old, and the kids at school zip-tied me to a goal post? She didn’t laugh. She sat on the grass next to me and read me The Count of Monte Cristo until the janitor came with a wire cutter. She saw me. Not a freak. Just me.” He gripped his hair, pulling slightly as if he could force his brain to work faster. “Now he has her. If she dies because I was too scared to-”

“Hey. Look at me.” Morgan said, leaning over the table to force Spencer’s eyes to him. “That is not going to happen. Focus. What is your brain telling you about this guy? Where is he keeping her?”

Spencer forced his eyes closed. He shut out the rumble of the engine, the flicking of pages and murmuring of agents, the phantom scent of your perfume and feel of your hair in his hands that always seemed to linger in his memories. 

Think.

“Police sent over the security footage from her apartment complex. The abduction took less than forty seconds. He was waiting for her.” Hotch said as he scanned the file in front of him, his eyes momentarily flicking to Spencer, his knee anxiously bouncing and his jaw tight as he stared out of the plane window.

“Did he target her specifically, or was it a crime of opportunity?” Morgan asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“Opportunity.” Spencer said, taking a deep breath in before turning to Morgan. “He doesn't know me, and he doesn’t know her. The previous three victims all shared the same physical profile and were taken from transit points within a three mile radius of the interstate ninety-five corridor. It’s random. It’s entirely random… The unsub uses a white van with rusted wheel wells,” Spencer murmured, his thoughts tumbling out. “The soil transfer on the victims shoes was rich in iron oxide.”

Hotch stared at Spencer for three long seconds, the tension in the plane palpable. Finally, he gave a single firm nod. “Alright, you stay on the geographical profiling, JJ, get on the phone with local field office and pull every traffic camera feed within five miles of her apartment. Gideon and I are going to her place to walk the scene.”

The air in the concrete cell grew colder as the afternoon bled into evening. 

Your head throbbed, a dull, agonizing pulse behind your eyes. You tried to shift your weight, but a sharp spike of pain in your ribs made you gasp, the sound muffled by the rough rope tied around your mouth. Through the high, barred slit near the ceiling, the weak Virginia sunlight was beginning to fade, casting skeletal shadows across the damp brick walls. Three hours. By your own estimate, you had been in this room for at least three hours. In the next room, the pacing had stopped, replaced by the heavy, dragging sound of metal scraping against concrete. You swallowed the dryness in your throat, forcing yourself to focus on the ceiling, on the rhythmic, maddening drip of water. One drip every four seconds, you calculated, your mind clinging to the structure of the math because it was the only thing keeping the terror from consuming you entirely. It was a habit you picked up years ago, from a boy who used to explain the mathematical probability of rain just to calm you down during summer thunderstorms in Nevada. 

“If you look at the cloud density and the barometric pressure, it’s actually a beautiful equation,” his voice echoed in your mind, so clear that it made your chest ache. 

Suddenly, the heavy wooden door to the kiln chamber creaked open. Your breath hitched, your eyes squeezed closed for a fraction of a second, then you forced them open, you wouldn’t let him see you vulnerable. He stepped into the room, large, imposing, with clothes stained with grease and dried mud, his eyes vacant and deeply bloodshot. He didn’t look angry, he looked frantic, his hands shaking as he carried a heavy roll of wire and a rusted iron pipe. His movements too fast, his breathing too shallow. He stopped in front of you, staring down with an unsettling, detached curiosity. He reached out, his dirty thumb tracing the line of your jaw, and you flinched away, your teeth clenching. “You aren’t screaming. Why aren’t you screaming?”

You glared at him through your tangled hair, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, but you kept your gaze steady. The man grunted, a dark, frustrated sound, and raised the heavy iron pipe. “We’ll have to fix that.”

“She lived alone, but she didn’t live isolated.” Gideon murmured, tracing his fingers along the edge of a neatly arranged bookshelf. “She was organised, careful, The neighbours said she kept to herself, but she was always polite. She moved here six months ago. Why Alexandria?”

“Maybe a fresh start.” Hotch suggested, stepping into the small hallway that led to the bedroom. “Had a break-up, fell out with a friend.” He theorised. The bedroom was modest. A neatly made bed, a dresser with a few framed photos of your family, a small writing desk near the window. Hotch approached the closet, pulling it open, while Gideon walked over to the bed. He knelt, his eyes catching on something tucked just beneath the dust ruffle. He reached under and pulled out a faded, purple cardboard shoebox. 

“Hotch.” Gideon called out softly.

Hotch turned, watching as Gideon sat on the edge of the mattress and removed the lid. Inside the box were dozens of envelopes, bundled neatly with a blue piece of twine. Gideon slid the top envelope out from under the string. The paper was slightly worn at the edges, handles many times. He turned it over, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read the postmark.

Pasadena, CA. October 2000

Then his gaze fell on the sender’s handwriting. It was incredibly precise, small and frantically slanted. “Reid.” Hotch murmured, stepping closer. It wasn’t a question. He recognised the erratic, rapid-fire flow of the penmanship instantly. Gideon untied the string and opened the most recent letter in the pile. It was dated nearly four years ago. He skimmed the page, his eyes softening as he read the dense paragraphs, a dizzying mix of complex astrophysical theories, ramblings about Caltech’s library, and, woven between the lines, a profound, aching vulnerability. 

…I tried to calculate the probability of us staying together despite the geographic distance, but the variables are too volatile. I don’t want to be the gravity that pulls you away from your own orbit. You deserve to fly. But please know that even if the universe expands forever, my coordinates will always find yours.

“She kept every single one of them.” Gideon said quietly, folding the paper back into its creases. “He stopped writing because he thought he was protecting her.” He paused as he looked at Hotch. “She moved here to be closer to him.” 

“But she never called him,” Hotch observed, his voice tinged with a rare touch of solemnity. “She wanted to see if he would reach out first.”

Before Gideon could reply, Hotch’s cell phone rang, cutting sharply through the quiet apartment. Hotch held the receiver to his ear. “Hotch.” 

On the other end, Morgan’s voice crackled through, thick with urgency. “Hotch, we have a location. Reid cracked the soil analysis. The iron oxide and calcium carbonate point to the old Lorton Brickworks kiln chambers, right off Interstate ninety-five. We’re five minutes out.”

“We’re on our way.” Hotch said, his eyes locking onto the purple shoebox. “We’ll meet you there.”

The sirens of the local police cruisers wailed in the distance, but the tactical team moved in absolute, synchronized silence. 

The old Lorton Brickworks loomed in the gray evening light, a crumbling monolith of rusted steel and decaying masonry. Heavy rain began to pelt the concrete as the SWAT team, flanked by Morgan, Elle, and a visibly trembling Spencer, stacked up against the primary entrance to the underground kilns.

“Breaching in three… two… one…”

The heavy iron door was blown open with a deafening metallic screech. Spencer didn’t wait. He pushed past the tactical shield, his flashlight beam slicing frantically through the darkness of the subterranean corridor, screaming your name into the abyss, his voice cracking with sheer desperation. The team swept through the chambers, the beams of their flashlights illuminating nothing but empty space, piles of discarded gravel, and decades of undisturbed dust. There were no chairs, no ropes. No signs of recent life.

“Clear!” a SWAT officer shouted.

“Clear!” another echoed from the back.

Spencer froze in the center of the main kiln chamber. He shone his flashlight at the ground. The dust on the concrete floor was thick, even, and completely undisturbed. No footprints.

“No.” Spencer murmured, his eyes wide and frantic. “No, no, no… this is wrong. This is all wrong.”

Morgan stopped at his side, his hand landing on his shoulder. “Reid, talk to me. What do you mean it’s wrong? The soil report-”

“The soil report in Sarah Jenkins’ shoes had calcium carbonate-” he paused, bending to run his fingers through the soil, “but the Lorton Clay Pit has a high concentration of alumina.” He rambled, his voice climbing to a panicked breathless pitch. He stared at his dirty fingers as if they held every answer he was looking for. “Aluminia is acidic. But the soil on Sarah’s shoes was alkaline. The calcium carbonate wasn’t from the clay itself… It was a shifting agent from limestone runoff. From the Occoquan River.”

He scrambled backward, pulling his folded paper maps from his pocket with shaking hands, tearing the edges. “The Occoquan Clay and Brick Manufactory,” Spencer gasped, a tear of pure horror spilling over his eyelashes. “It’s six miles south. It closed in ninety-four when the quarry flooded. It’s the exact same architectural layout, built by the same parent company, but the geological runoff is entirely different. I miscalculated the geographic regression because I assumed he was staying close to the interstate corridor, but he isn’t trying to stay near the highway, he's trying to stay near the water.”

Hotch and Gideon sprinted into the chamber, their faces grim. “Reid, what is it?” Hotch demanded.

Spencer looked up, his face entirely drained of colour. “We’re in the wrong place. He has her at the Occoquan facility. It’s twelve minutes from here.”

“How much time do we have left on your timeline, Reid?” Gideon asked, his voice steady but urgent.

Spencer looked at his watch. The ticking of the second hand felt like a physical hammer to his skull. “Eight minutes.” Spencer whispered, his chest heaving as he stared at Gideon. “In eight minutes, he kills her.”

Twelve minutes of driving had to be forced into six. The black SUV roared down the rain slicked, winding roads toward the Occoquan River, tires skimming over deep puddles. Inside, the silence was suffocating, punctuated only by the furious, rapid-fire tapping of Spencer's fingers against his knees. “Four minutes,” Spencer murmured, his eyes fixed on the dashboard clock. “We have four minutes.”

“I’m driving as fast as the road allows, Reid,” Morgan growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he navigated a sharp, blind curve.

“It’s not fast enough!” Spencer suddenly yelled, a rare, uncharacteristic burst of anger cracking through his panic. He slammed a hand onto the dashboard. “He’s going to kill her, Morgan! He’s going to kill her because I spent three years hiding from my own feelings in California!” 

No one in the car spoke. Elle reached forward from the backseat, gently squeezing Spencer’s shoulder, but he was too far gone to feel it, drowning in the mathematics of his own failures. Up ahead, through the heavy downpour, the dark outline of the Occoquan Clay and Brick Manufactory finally broke through the trees.

Inside the concrete kiln, the shadows had stretched so long that they swallowed the room. Your chest burned with every shallow breath. The pacing in the corridor had stopped. There was only the low, wet drag of boots stepping through the shallow puddles of groundwater on the brick floor. You pulled against your bonds, the harsh rope tearing through the skin of your wrists, but the knots were professional, unyielding. The heavy metal door of the chamber groaned on its hinges. The man stepped inside, carrying the same rusted iron pipe. The weapon scraped against the wet brick with a high pitched, metallic screech that made your stomach roll. “The water’s rising.” He muttered, his voice hollow and frantic. He looked up at the ceiling, then back at you. “They’re close. I can feel them. They’re trying to take you away from me, but I have to keep the sequence clean. Three, then four. It has to be complete.”

You didn’t close your eyes, staring straight at him, your jaw trembling but your gaze fierce. You thought of a boy under a starry Vegas sky. 

The pipe began its downward swing-

The SUV hadn’t even fully stopped before Spencer threw his door open. He hit the gravel running, his boots skidding as he sprinted toward the gaping, dark mouth of the Occoquan kiln entrance. “Reid! Wait for tactical!” Hotch’s voice echoed through the storm, but Spencer couldn’t hear him over the roaring of his own pulse.

Spencer burst into the cavernous, pitch-black underground network. His flashlight beam swept wildly over crumbling brick arches and deep, stagnant pools of flooded water. The labyrinth of identical corridors stretched out before him like a physical manifestation of his worst nightmare. He stopped, holding his breath, desperately trying to listen over the sound of the rain hammering the roof above. A muffled, metallic clang rang out from the deep left corridor. 

Spencer took off. He rounded a corner, his foot catching on a piece of debris, sending him crashing hard onto his shoulder against the wet brick wall. Pain shot through his arm, but he barely registered it. He scrambled back to his feet, throwing his weight against a rotting wooden door at the end of the hall. The door splintered inward. 

The beam of his flashlight caught the terrifying tableau in an instant, the unsub, the raised steel pipe, and you. Tied to a chair, eyes wide with terror.

“FBI! Hands where I can see them!” Spencer screamed, his voice raw, completely devoid of his usual restraint. 

The unsub swung around, his face twisting in rage as he charged at the lanky agent with the pipe. Spencer didn’t retreat. He didn’t wait for Morgan, or Hotch. With a desperate cry, he tackled the larger man, the two of them slamming violently into the muddy floor. The pipe clattered away into the dark as the unsub clawed at Spencer’s face, pinning him down, but Spencer fought back with an agonizing, furious strength, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs. Just as the unsub grabbed Spencer’s throat, Morgan and Hotch burst into the room. Morgan threw himself onto the suspect, ripping him off Spencer and slamming him face first into the wet brick to cuff him. 

Spencer lay on the ground for a fraction of a second, gasping for air, before scrambling on his hands and knees over to your chair. His hands shook violently as he pulled at the knot around your wrists. “I’m here, I- I’m here, I’ve got you.” He choked out as the knot came free. The moment your arms were free, you threw them around his neck. His hands moved to the rope at the back of your head and pulled, releasing the gag from your mouth as you collapsed against him, sending him back to the floor. “Spencer-” You sobbed, your voice a broken whisper against his ear. His long arms wrapped around you, burying his face in your wet hair as he cradled you in his lap, holding on so tightly it felt as if he were trying to pull you directly into his chest, away from the cold, away from the horror, away from the years you had spent apart. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes swimming with tears when you pulled back to look at him. They flicked over your face, the lines of grease and dirt where the unsub had touched you, the drip of blood from a cut above your eyebrow, the skin rubbed raw by the rope gag around your mouth. “I’m so sorry, I- I…” His hand moved from your head to your jaw, his thumb gently tracing your cheek. You leaned into his touch, a small, bruised smile pulling at your lips. “Are you okay?” 

Paramedics rushed in, sirens wailed in the distance. “Let’s get her to the ambulance, Reid.” Hotch said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let the EMTs look her over.” 

The back of the ambulance was relatively quiet, a stark contrast to the storm outside. The rain hammered a steady, muted rhythm against the metal roof. The doors were pulled shut, leaving the two of you in the warm, sterile glow of the interior lights. You sat on the gurney, a heavy, orange blanket dread over your shoulders. The paramedic had finished cleaning the cuts on your lip and eyebrow, and bandaging the raw, chafed skin of your wrists, leaving you with a small cup of water before stepping out to give you some space. Spencer stood just inside the doors, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. He had a white blanket wrapped around his own shoulders to combat the chill of his soaked clothes, his wet hair curling at the ends. He stared at his mismatched socks, suddenly feeling very vulnerable, and very lost. 

“Spence?” You said, your voice soft and scratchy. He looked up, his brown eyes wide as he walked over to the edge of the gurney, his movements hesitant, as if he were afraid to startle you if he moved too quickly. 

“Are you… are you okay?” He asked, gently settling next to you on the edge of the gurney. “The medical examiner- I mean, paramedic said your ribs are only bruised and not fractured, and your wrists…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to the white gauze wrapping your wrists. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I miscalculated the Lorton put. I should have realised the soil runoff variable sooner. I cost us twelve minutes. I almost-”

“Spencer.” You reached out, your bandaged hand cutting off his rambling as you gently took hold of his fingers. “You saved my life.” He let out a shaky breath, his fingers slowly curling around yours. “And with a hell of a tackle too.” You added, smiling gently. He looked down at your joined hands as he let out an exhale that could have been a laugh if not for the circumstances, and the dam finally broke.

“I was so scared.” He murmured, his voice cracking. “When JJ handed me your photo, my entire brain just… stopped. I’ve spent years training myself to be objective, to compartmentalise, to analyze everything through mathematical probability. But the moment I saw you, the math didn't work anymore. I couldn’t breathe.” He swallowed, eyes locked on the way your fingers slotted perfectly between his. “Gideon found the letters under your bed.” He confessed quietly, his eyes lifting to meet yours, swimming with tears. “He showed them to me while they were…” He gestured at your wrists with his free hand. “I… I stopped writing because I thought I was doing the logical thing. I thought I was saving you from having to choose between your dream and a boy who was too weird, too complicated, too… broken to keep up with you.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, but you didn’t look away. “Spence…” You whispered. “I moved here because I hoped that if I was close enough, maybe the universe would find a way to slide us back into the same orbit. But I was… I thought the letters stopped because you had moved on.”

“I could never move on from you.” He answered instantly, reaching up with his free hand, his long, slender fingers trembling as he gently brushed a damp strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was incredibly light, as if you were made of glass. “I love you. I never stopped, not for a single second.”

A soft smile broke through the pain on your face, watching as a tear finally fell over his lashes. “I never stopped either.” You whispered, watching his whole face soften, his shoulder turned as he moved to face you. He was still trembling slightly, the residual adrenaline of the rescue humming through his veins. He looked down at you, the shadows of the ambulance cast soft lines across your face, highlighting the dark bruise on your cheekbone, the spit on your lip. To anyone else, you looked battered, the victim of a terrible crime. But to Spencer, you were the same girl who had sat in the dusty desert grass, holding his hand when the rest of the world felt too loud.  There was no hesitation, no distance of four lost years, no unanswered letters between you anymore. Just the undeniable, magnetic pull that had always existed. 

His fingers gently cradled your jawline, so careful, his thumb lightly tracing just below the bruise on your cheek, treating you like something infinitely precious. When he leaned down, you met him halfway. 

The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if he was terrified of hurting you. He pressed his lips to yours with a quiet, aching reverence, a silent apology for every day he had spent letting the silence stretch between you. But as your hand moved to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, the hesitation dissolved. He let out a shaky, ragged sigh against your mouth, deepening the kiss. It was a chaotic rush of warmth, of relief, of a profound love that had survived years of distance and the brink of death. He pulled you closer, his other hand splaying flat against your back, holding you to him as if to convince himself that you were truly here, safe and alive. 

When you finally parted, neither of you moved away. Spencer rested his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling in the space. He smiled, a small, genuine expression that reached his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “My heart rate is currently one hundred and forty-two beats per minute,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion but carrying a hint of his familiar, nerdy charm. “Which is physiologically consistent with acute cardiovascular arousal, but I’m fairly certain ninety percent of it is just because of you.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your eyes shining with fresh tears as you pulled on the back of his neck again. “Shut up.”

“Okay.” He mumbled against you as you brought his lips back to yours.

It was certainly hard to focus when in the class of Professor Reid. Almost every seat in the front row was taken up by a girl twirling her hair or chewing on her pen. Or both. And you really couldn’t say you were any better.

Spencer stood at the front of the lecture hall, adjusting his glasses with one hand while holding a stack of papers in the other.

He didn’t mean to be distracting, but he so very was. Tall, lanky, always dressed neatly in button-ups and vests, and his intelligence just radiated from him. And when he was teaching, his voice gained such weight and precision it was impossible for the attention of the room not to be drawn.

He was certainly handsome. And it was sweet of him to pretend he didn’t know it.

You couldn’t blame the ogling women. You'd be lying if you said you weren't taking this class at least partially for Reid. You sat near the middle, your notebook open but mostly blank. You’d spent the last ten minutes sketching tiny hearts in the margins instead of taking notes. you were listening. You just… liked looking at him, too. The way his hair fell slightly over his forehead when he leaned forward onto his desk, how he bit his lip when concentrating, how soft-spoken yet assured he sounded. It was all kind of unfairly attractive for a professor who probably didn’t even realize half these girls were here for him and not criminology.

But you were a woman of drive. A woman of initiative. And a woman of... well, perverse sexual desires, honestly. And Professor Spencer Reid would see that soon enough.

You pretended it was a coincidence that you’d arrived earlier than could possibly be accidental.

And it was a coincidence, technically. A class of yours prior had been canceled last minute, and now roaming the halls of the building, the open door to Spencer’s hall was just too inviting to possibly ignore.

You hadn’t planned to show up an hour early just to secure a good seat. But now here you were, walking in at 8:05 AM for a class that started at 9, eyes roaming over the empty front row with a giddy greed.

Part of you had hoped to spare just an extra minute with the handsome professor before his lecture began. But much to your pleasant surprise, he wasn’t one to arrive two minutes before class was to begin like your other professors. As you stand in the door, Reid stares back at you with brown eyes like saucers, mid-scribble on the board, slightly alarmed to see someone so early.

His hair was unruly. The eyebags under his eyes, not dark enough to be troubling, but just enough to make you wonder if he had spent more than a few hours resting.

Spencer straightened up quickly and nearly knocked over the empty coffee cup on his desk. He clears his throat, and gives you a stiff wave. “Oh! Uh… good morning.”

You clear your throat and shift your bag on your shoulder, moving to secure a front row seat. “…First one, huh?” you say, like it’d been accidental.

Spencer nodded, still slightly flustered by your presence. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re… pretty early! 53 minutes early, actually.”

He turned back to the board and picked up his marker again, but didn’t resume writing just yet. Just stood there shifting it in his grip awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that someone was watching him work.

He slowly turns back around. “Did you… uh… have a question? Or something I can help you with?”

It makes you a little giddy inside that he was talking to you directly now. Like being alone with a celebrity. It was quite invigorating to have a crush.

“Oh,” you wave your hand, settling into your chair. “Nope. No questions here.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes just subtly roaming over your figure. “…Cool,” he said lamely, then turned back to the board and started writing again, a subheading to yesterday’s lecture notes.

Crossing your leg over the other, you tap your fingers on your knees. You sit front and center, watching Spencer like he’s on display. The silence is a little uncomfortable, the only sound in the room the squeaking of the marker as his hand flies across the board, but you didn’t care. You were too busy getting an eyeful of his derriere each time his blazer rode up with his arm.

Eyes still fixed on the prize, you muse, “You like to be early too, huh?”

Spencer nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I like to get everything set up before class starts. Y’know… organize the slides, make sure the projector’s working,” He gestures vaguely to the ceiling. “Helps to not feel, uh, overwhelmed, actually.”

“Ah. A lot to do, I imagine.”

“Mhm!” he hummed in agreement, scribbling more notes on the board, something about a list of common stress triggers in violent offenders.

“Anything I can help with, sir?”

He turns slowly, marker in hand. “Uh… no? I mean, I’m good.” He smiled awkwardly, then immediately went back to writing before the conversation could continue further.

Your face falls. The slight sting of embarrassment makes you grimace behind his back. “Not even get you another coffee? …You look like you need it, sir.”

At that, Spencer considers. “…Actually,” he said slowly, “that would be really nice.”

You pop up from your chair like a spring. Spencer is slightly startled. “I, uh, take it with a lot of sugar!” He calls as he watches you move to the door, then retracts it as soon as he feels too demanding. “Actually, just— just bring the sugar here, I’ve got it.”

“Aye, aye, professor.”

Five minutes later, you returned, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a generous amount of sugar packets between your teeth.

You climb up the steps to the stage, for the first time being on the same level as your professor. And just a few feet away at that. You bite your cheek.

He carefully takes the cup with a tiny, grateful smile, but hardly makes eye contact with you, much to your dismay. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”

He immediately ripped open three sugar packets, dumping them in at once. He stirred it with a spoon from his desk, watching the swirl of cream and sugar mix. When he finally sipped it… perfect. Strong. Sweet. Just how he liked it.

Still not looking at you directly, too aware that you were just standing there watching him oddly, he gave another quiet thanks.

You were lingering a little longer than necessary if you were being honest, eyes following the way his throat bobs as he swallows another gulp of the coffee.

Spencer stares at you awkwardly. You give a sheepish grin as you catch yourself. “Sorry! I’m not, uh,” you bite your lip, humming, “bothering you or anything by being here so early?”

“Oh, no! No, it’s— it’s fine,” he said quickly, setting the coffee down. He fidgeted with his cufflinks and finally looked at you properly for the first time since you arrived. Maybe you were obsessed and ready to froth at the mouth over scraps, but something about the eye contact felt intimate. “It was really thoughtful of you,” he says again, gesturing to the coffee. “Besides, your performance in this class is excellent, might I say,” he compliments.

You suppress a grin. Score. You knew furiously scribbling down those notes as your head spun from all the criminology jargon, studying all night until you could recite the pages back to him was all worth it just for that tiny compliment.

“—So I don’t think you’re in any need of extra help outside of class,” he continues, smiling with a nod, “Therefore you’re… more than welcome to come in right at the time of the lecture. Don’t feel like you need to arrive early or anything.”

You deflate a little at that.

Goodness, you hadn’t even considered that. A little private tutor session? Just you and Professor Reid? Goddamn it, none of it was worth it at all. You should’ve been failing.

Spencer seemed to notice the shift in your expression, how your smile faded. Whoops. You forgot to be subtle.

He backtracks quickly, “I mean… unless you wanted extra help?” He offers, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“Always more to learn!” You smile brightly, voice a little too chipper.

Spencer’s eyes brightened at your enthusiasm. “Okay! Cool,” he nods. “If you want, you can come by my office after class? I can go over some advanced profiling techniques for crime assessment and inputs.”

You struggle to keep the fireworks booming in your body from exploding out of your mouth. God, he had no idea. “Yes! Y-yes. yeah,” you nod rapidly. “Sounds great.”

He smiled, a genuine one that made her insides clench. “Awesome! My office is 208B,” he said, pointing down the hall with his thumb. “I’m usually there until around five?”

With a final nod, Spencer turns to organize some papers. You see the opportunity and seize it.

Leaning on his desk, you ask casually, “Ah, five, huh? Gotta… get home to the wife?”

His eyes snap back to yours, confused and startled.

“Oh! N-No, no, I’m not married.”

“Whaaat? Get outta here. Not even a girlfriend?”

He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then looks down at his papers, suddenly very interested in alphabetizing them. “…Nope.” Why was this conversation happening?

Meanwhile, you could practically fall over and die. “Wow. That’s… yeah, that’s crazy.”

He opens his mouth with the strange need to defend himself. “I… I mean… I just haven’t—” He cleared his throat and gestured stiffly to the board. “Anyway! Should probably finish this, uh, lecture prep.”

“Right, right! No, of course.” You shuffle away, moving to the steps to make your way off the stage. But you halt, pivoting on your heel. “…Aaanything else I can help you with?”

Spencer thinks. The room was quiet, the air thick with the smell of coffee and faint scent of whiteboard markers. He turns to spare you a glance, and realizes you seemed… eager to help.

“…You could hand me those slides?” He asked, pointing to a stack of pages on the side table that needed sorting into order.

“Hah, fuck…”

Laying back on your bed in your vacant dormitory, you let the back of your head hit the mattress again. Hair tussled, cheeks warm, a layer of sweat on your body.

As your fingers work between your legs, the only thought in your mind was your handsome professor. The thought of his lips greedily sucking your heat, dark locks falling over your thighs, as those long, wiry fingers work in and out of your cunt. The fantasy played out vividly in your mind, every detail sharp. His wide brown eyes shining with tears, his erection straining against those stiff pants he insisted on wearing to each class. His lips would be swollen and glistening from lapping and suckling. How sweet he’d sound, you think, with his moans muffled into your pussy as you grind against his face.

You fantasized about your Professor more often than you were ready to admit. When you were sure you were alone, the words “professor”, “teacher”, or “college” found itself in your laptop’s search bar frequently, often accompanied by your fist down your panties.

It certainly wasn’t the one fantasy you had. Gripping his wrists like a vice, fucking yourself on his dick while he could only watch helplessly— that was another contender. God, the sound he’d make if you yanked his hair just right. Or clamping a hand over his mouth as he sat between your legs, your fist working his cock faster than he could possibly keep up with. How flustered he’d be, stammering something sweet and nervous between kisses.

You thought of stuffing that tie in his mouth, of tugging that unruly hair, of bending him over your knee, of—

You lay back on your mattress, panting and flushed with a sheen of sweat, basking in the afterglow with your nerves still buzzing.

You hadn’t meant to get that carried away, but once you started thinking about him like that… it was impossible to stop.

You kicked your legs in the air, letting a breathless giggle escape you, the excitement of seeing him again so soon enough to send another rush of arousal through you.

You’ll admit, you were a little disappointed with the result of the small tutor session, none of the fantasies exactly coming to life.

“Well, I gotta say, I think you’re keeping up incredibly well,” Spencer flips a page in a file as he sits in his office chair across from you. “You’re remarkably competent. I mean, I don’t think you’re in need of any help outside of my class at all.”

You sat stiffly in the chair across from his desk, knees pressed together.

Remarkably competent. Keeping up well. That was… great. But also so boring. You wanted him to say something like “you’re stunning,” “I think about you constantly,” “let me kiss you.” But instead, it looked like you were losing the opportunity for these sessions.

“It’s… nice,” he says, looking up at you properly now, “to have someone actually enrolled who cares about the subject. It’s funny, did you know you’re just about one of the only students of mine actually registered?” He laughs lightly. God, you would eat him alive. “Turns out, most of the people I get in my lectures are only auditing, it’s… it’s a little disappointing, actually.”

“Yeah, I know,” you nod casually, far less oblivious as to the reason for that.

Spencer pauses, sensing something. “You… do?”

“Yeah,” you shrug.

“Oh!” He glances off to the side for a moment. “Well, it’s, uh… kinda weird, right?”

“I mean… have you noticed it’s only the girl students doing the auditing?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “…Yeah,” he says slowly, “I guess I have.”

With a slow, strange shock, you realize. “Oh, you actually don’t know.”

Spencer’s face scrunches slightly. “Don’t know… what?”

“Uh, well. They audit the class for you, sir.”

His lips part slightly. He blinks at her for a moment in surprise. “For me?”

“Yeah. Like… they think you’re cute.”

The color drains from Spencer’s face, then floods back in a rush of red.

“Oh,” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “Oh.”

“Mhm. Kind of flattering, no?”

Spencer is already not handling this well. His fingers tap nervously against the file on his desk. He can’t look at you. His eyes keep darting to the ceiling, then back down.

“It’s… um,” he stammers, “I mean… I don’t— I never considered that.”

He was so oblivious. Painfully so. “Yeah.” You fiddle with your pencil and decide to test the waters. “You could, like… fix your whole ‘single’ problem with just about any one of them.”

Spencer looks mildly horrified by the idea. “I don’t—” he starts, then stops, “I mean… I could, but I wouldn’t want to.” His nose scrunches slightly.

“You wouldn’t?” you ask quickly.

“No,” he says automatically. Then he suddenly gets a little shier. “I mean… it’s not appropriate. I’m their professor.”

“Oh,” you say softly. “So it’s a moral thing.”

He nods, happy to be understood. “Yeah, professional boundaries, and all that. It just… wouldn’t be right.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never liked something that’s wrong?”

Spencer frowns. That was a very specific question. He shifts in his seat, suddenly feeling very warm under his button-up. “…No? Not like that?”

“No?”

“I mean…” he swallows hard, “not in a way that would ever matter.” This conversation had suddenly veered very personal before Spencer had even realized.

You’re leaning closer across the desk than he remembers you were five minutes ago. “So, if you did, hypothetically, happen to like one of those students, you wouldn’t date them?”

Spencer’s hands clench slightly in his lap.

“…No,” he says quietly, but there's a strange waver in his voice.

The sly tease flies out of your mouth before you can help it, “…Are you considering it now, Professor?”

“I’m not—!” he starts, defensive. His eyes flicker to yours for half a second before darting away again.

Got him.

After letting the silence linger for just another tense second longer, you stand abruptly. Your chair screeches against the floor, and Spencer nearly jumps out of his seat at the sudden movement. Slapping laptop down and sliding it under your arm, you flash him a smile. “Much to think about!”

“Uh— wait,” he blurts, standing too. “M-Miss—!”

But you were already halfway to the door, bag tucked under your arm. “See you in class, sir!” you call over your shoulder.

The door clicks shut. Spencer stands there, frozen in the middle of his office, staring at where you’d just been.

His palms are sweaty.

He slowly sinks back into his chair and stares blankly at his desk.

What just happened?

A few days later, he’s a little startled the by the sound of a cup enthusiastically landing on his desk.

His eyes trail up the arm attached until he meets your sparkling eyes, and he immediately relaxes. “Morning!” You chirp.

This had become routine between the two of you now. Every morning you’d show up, steaming cup in hand, sugars and all.

“Ah, my prized student,” he says back warmly, and accepts the cup with both hands.

“Oh! Will that graduate to favorite student if I keep bringing you these coffees?”

Spencer’s lips twitch into a smile, his lips around the rim of the cup. “You’re already my favorite,” he admits without thinking. After a moment, he seems to catch on to his own words, and suddenly backpedales. “I mean— not in a weird way! Just… you bring me coffee.”

The smile on your face is downright perverted. “And sugar,” you remind him.

“And sugar,” he echoes, smiling shyly. He rips open four packets of sugar and dumps them in one heap.

You tap your nails against his desk idly and muse, “Y’know, I was studying for your class last night when I realized, I think I’ve finally found something I’m stumped on.”

Spencer perks up. “Oh! Okay, what is it?”

“Geographical profiling. Don’t understand it a lick.”

He brightens. “Ah, that’s actually really fascinating!” He says, setting his coffee aside. “What is it specifically you’re struggling with? Are you struggling with the mathematical algorithms or more the theoretical framework?”

You wave a hand. “All of it,” you lie, miming something flying over your head. “Whoosh.”

Spencer quiets for just a fraction longer than normal. All of it? That… seemed extreme for someone who had been acing tests so far. But he plays along. “Okay, well… let’s start at the beginning—”

“—After class, right? In your office?” You interrupt him eagerly.

“Oh! Uh, yeah,” he nods. “Sure. After class.”

“Wonderful. Wouldn’t wanna distract my mind before your lecture today, y’know?” You tap your index finger against your temple and smile at him warmly. Shifting your bag on your shoulder, you begin to walk to secure your front row seat.

But the moment you step out of the way of the desk, Spencer’s gaze drops before he can stop it. His eyes can’t help but roam over your lower half. Specifically your legs. Practically the entire expanse of your legs, in fact. You were wearing just about the shortest skirt he thinks he’s ever laid eyes on. A skirt that if it was even an inch shorter, there’d be a problem.

His brain short-circuits for a solid two seconds, long enough that the coffee cup tilts dangerously in hand. Then he chases himself away, his throat tight, awkwardly adjusting his tie. He busies himself with pretending to organize files that don’t need organizing.

As you shuffle down the steps, you call over to him, “Don’t you just hate when your mind’s distracted?” You don't dare peek at him over your shoulder, fearing he’d see the coy smile plastered on your face.

Spencer swallows hard. “Yeah,” he croaks out, “Hate it.”

That lecture is practically public humiliation for Professor Reid.

He stands at the front of the class as usual, his voice echoing across the hall as he speaks, gesturing with his hands for emphasis. But his fingers keep twitching. In minute and a half intervals— because yeah, you were counting— his eyes accidentally flick down to you, front row center, legs crossed primly.

He’s usually quite a smooth lecturer. Articulate. Confident. Lost in the thrill of sharing his knowledge. But today, he keeps stumbling over words, noticeably missing transitions between points, and a few of the students are beginning to exchange glances. Since when did Professor Reid lose track of his lectures?

Meanwhile, you’re watching it all unfold smugly from your seat. Your eyes haven’t left your dear professor since this class began. Which wasn’t out of the ordinary. After all, everyone in the class had their gaze on him. But Spencer’s only painfully aware of one.

You notice the way he begins to subtly avoid looking in your general direction. Each time he glances up to check for engagement, his eyes skip a whole section of students like there was a bubble around you.

He discreetly wipes his perspiring palms on his pants.

Unhappy with the lack of attention, you shift in your chair. Under the guise of getting more comfortable, you sink in your spot, legs uncrossing, your mini-est skirt in the world at risk of riding up with any strong movement. You casually lean back, stretching one leg out just a little further, the fabric of your skirt rising up just an inch.

Your shoe taps against the floor like a quiet Yoo-hoo, over here. And when you’re certain he’s looking your way again, albeit in his peripheral, and with the slowest, softest, subtlest movement you can manage, you idly flex your legs open and shut, open and shut. His throat bobs, and your lips curl.

You keep the motion slow, almost lazy, like you weren't even aware of it. Just tiny, imperceivable movements. Rhythmic, absentminded. The way one taps their fingers or twirls a strand of hair. But it might as well have been a flashing neon sign saying Look at me, with your thighs tensing under the thin material of your skirt over and over before relaxing again.

Each time your legs spread, if Spencer looked close enough, he’d catch the color of your thong.

He grips the edge of his podium, knuckles whitening. The lecture drags on, every second an eternity. He finishes his last point five minutes early, voice trailing off awkwardly. “…And that’s— that’s all for today.”

A beat of silence. The students blink at each other. Each person shuffles out quickly, confused by the abrupt ending, but not exactly complaining. Spencer just wanted it to end.

You take your sweet time packing up. Slinging your bag over one shoulder, then pausing to yawn, arms high above your head in a long stretch that makes your shirt rise up at the waist.

Spencer watches, against his will, as your shirt lifts just enough to reveal a sliver of skin, then as you reach higher, pulling your muscles in a different angle, and this time your back arches slightly.

He’s speechless atop the stage.

Frustratingly, you don’t spare him a glance as you file out alongside the other students that trickle through the door. “Bye, Professor,” he hears your voice above the rest.

“Bye,” Spencer mumbles back, robotic.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, he exhales like he’d been holding his breath the entire lecture. Miserably, he drops to his chair and presses both palms into his eyes.

What was wrong with him?

A light knock comes to his office door, and Spencer’s head jerks up. That's you.

He clears his throat. “Come in!” he calls.

In comes you, with the brightest smile, one he can hardly tear his eyes from. “Hi, Professor!” You chirp.

“Hi,” he says back, softer than intended. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit down, whenever you’re ready.” His hands are folded neatly in front of him. A professional, composed posture. But his heart isn’t listening.

Spencer notices the absence of the skirt immediately, the expanse of your legs hidden from view again. But why was he looking? Was he hoping you hadn’t changed?

You plop down in your seat across from him with a bounce. After light conversation and a moment to get settled, he grabs a folder labeled Geographical Profiling and cracks open a textbook. “So,” Spencer begins, flipping open the folder. “Geographical profiling is basically a way to predict where a serial offender might strike next based on their previous crime scenes.” He pulls out a map, already marked with locations. “It uses statistical analysis and spatial patterns—”

“—Can I come over to your side?”

Spencer stops, staring at you a little oddly.

You shrug a shoulder. “I just think I’d get it better looking at it from your angle.”

“Oh! Yeah, for sure,” he says, scooting his chair over to make space.

You stand and circle around the desk, dragging the chair behind you. As you sit down with your shoulders just barely brushing his, the smell of your perfume engulfs him. Pleasant, not too overwhelming. Girly in a way that made him nervous. He clears his throat, “Where— where were we?”

Refocusing on the map, his steady, academic tone returns easily. “So we’re looking at these crime scenes here and here—” His finger taps two dots on the paper.

As he talks, you lean closer to the paper. Which naturally results in you leaning closer to Spencer. Your arms brush at some point with featherlight contact.

He doesn’t react. Instead, he keeps pointing at the map, voice even despite his body temperature suddenly rising. “…And based on this pattern,” he continues, “the offender likely lives somewhere along this radius.”

Abruptly, you turn to open a drawer on his desk. You scan the contents inside, then move to the next.

“Uh…” he starts, watching you with bewilderment.

“Looking for a pencil.”

“Ah!” He fumbles in his own pocket and pulls out a clicky ballpoint. “Here,” he says, offering it to you. “You can use mine.”

“Ohh, your’s huh? I’m flattered. Promise not to chew on it.” You wink.

Spencer’s lips twitch. He watches as you take the pen, your fingers brushing. On purpose? Or was that just wishful thinking?

“Y-yeah, for sure. Just, um… just ask me next time, okay? I’d prefer it if you didn’t dig through my drawers.”

“Ah, I see,” you chuckle behind your lips.

“…See what?”

“I dunno. You hiding something dirty in there, Professor?”

Spencer’s face is mortified. “W-what? No!” He sputters, voice cracking slightly. “It’s just… paperwork! Notes. Th— that I’d prefer to keep organized.”

You bite back your grin. “You don’t have to be shy about it!”

“I-I’m not shy! There’s nothing to be shy about!” Spencer insists, a little too loudly.

He clears his throat awkwardly and tries to turn back to work like nothing happened. The paper and textbook stare back at him, completely uninteresting now. All he could focus on was how close you still were. How your perfume kept wafting over every time you moved. “So… statistically speaking, the offender likely lives within a three-mile radius of these clustered crime scenes.”

You nod along, but you're not really listening. You’re still watching him. The way his brow furrows when he concentrates, how his fingers tap the paper absentmindedly.

Spencer feels a poke on his shoulder.

“Hey.”

He turns his head sharply, eyes wide. “…Yeah?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence where you just stare into each other's eyes, your faces far too close. And for a moment, Spencer thinks this was going in a very different direction.

Then you smile. Soft, playful. “You talk with your hands a lot,” you observe casually. “I like it.”

“Oh,” is all he says at first. “Thanks?”

“Yeah, you’ve got good hands, you know?”

“Uh… yeah, thanks,” he mumbles again, voice weirdly small. “You too? I think?”

“Yeah? Mine?”

“Yeah, your—” Spencer gestures vaguely to your hands. They were nice. Soft-looking, well-manicured. Holdable. “I mean… they look… clean?”

“Hm. Clean.” You examine your own hands, spreading out your fingers and flipping them back and forth. You seemingly nod in agreement. “Don’t like to be messy, Professor?”

Spencer shakes his head quickly. “No, I hate messes,” he admits. “Germaphobe, honestly. The sheer amount of pathogens passed in a handshake alone is staggering, actually.”

“Really? What about… in a kiss? Now that’s gotta be dirtier.”

“Actually,” he says immediately, leaning forward slightly, “saliva contains millions of bacteria. Some studies estimate that a single kiss transfers 80 million microorganisms between people.” His voice gains the same weight you recognize from his lectures. “And it’s not just bacterial exchange either! There’s enzymatic activity too…”

Spencer’s scientific rambling slowly trails off mid-sentence as he takes notice, finally, of where your gaze is locked. His lips. His brain also finally acknowledges the warmth of your thigh deliberately pressed against his through the fabric of his pants, and he feels something stirring in his lower half he’d really rather ignore.

As Spencer’s mouth goes dry, a slow, wicked grin spreads on your face. “Sorry, I’m getting you all distracted again, aren’t I?”

He squirms slightly in his seat. “Y-yeah, a little.”

You nod to the paper. “You wanna… go back to telling me about geographical profiling?”

What was this, the third time now he’s had to begin again?

“Yeah. So… like I was saying, the offender’s most likely residence is here—”

For a while, you seem, to him, to be listening well. You occasionally nod, ask a question here and there to keep him talking. But your attention once again is curved by the handsome man sitting not even an inch away. And as he talked, the gears in your mind were turning.

You knew what came next. The big part. The one you’d actually practiced a humiliating amount of times. You squeeze your thighs together, your skin prickling with the thrill running through you.

Spencer doesn’t notice your distraction, too focused on explaining the logistics of distance decay. “And based on these crime scene locations,” he says, “we can calculate the mean center, which is essentially how all these points would balance if we put them on a scale.”

“Hm. Yeah, I just feel like I would see it better from your angle.”

Spencer stops as you interrupt him for the nth time. There’s no space left to scoot closer, but he still shifts a little— an instinctive, subconscious lean toward you. His shoulder is pressed flush against yours now. “Yeah… okay,” he murmurs, tilting the map slightly so you could see better, the proximity making his pulse erratic again.

You shiver a little at the closeness, subtly biting your lip. It practically takes all of your self-control to shake your head. “No, no, now you can’t see it.”

Spencer huffs a tiny, almost-laugh. “I assure you, I can see it. Not to worry. Besides, you should really be the one looking—”

“May I?”

“…May you what?”

“Move to a better angle for both of us, obviously.”

“Oh, right! Right,” Spencer scoots his chair back a generous amount to give you room, a little sheepish about having moved closer to you in the first place.

But you don't even acknowledge this. You rise from your chair smoothly, casually adjusting your clothes. Then, much to Spencer’s surprise, you lay a hand on his shoulder and move to stand between his legs, lording over him. He was suddenly at a disadvantage, looking up at you with eyes wide as saucers and watching your every move like a frightened animal.

You lock eyes with Spencer as you slide your arm around his neck. You feel the tenseness in his body, each muscle taut with anticipation. With a jut of your knee, you spread his legs and calmly perch yourself atop his thigh, effectively sitting in his lap. He nearly jumps back in shock, but pinned under your weight, he doesn’t have far to go. His body is stiff as a robot’s, so you take it upon yourself to grab his arm and effortlessly maneuver it until it’s wrapped comfortably around your waist, pressing his palm flat against your hip.

Spencer looks as though he’s been electrocuted. He’s completely paralyzed. You were in his lap. Your weight settled against him, your warmth seeping through his clothes. For a moment, he wonders if he’s just died.

“…What? You said I could.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but no sound came out. When his brain finally rebooted, all it could manage was a weak “I—I didn’t—”

You could somehow feel his heartbeat, wild and frantic, from where you sat on his knee. The rapid thump-thump of his pulse circulating through every vein like a trapped bird. Spencer could feel it too, betraying every ounce of panic and… something else he didn’t want to name. His fingers finally twitched slightly where they rested against your hip, like testing you were really there under his palm.

“Well, go on,” you feigned innocence, patting his shoulder twice. “Keep talking.”

Spencer’s mouth opened. Nothing. All he could focus on was the girl in his lap, your scent, your warmth, the soft fabric of your shirt under his palm. “…I,” he started, then stopped.

Poor guy. You suppose you should give him some help after being so cruel. “What’s that one mean?” you ask, pointing to a diagram in the open textbook.

Spencer’s gaze followed your finger to the diagram. He swallows hard. “That one,” he starts slowly, voice slightly higher than usual, “shows how crime scenes cluster around the mean center based on statistical dispersion.”

“Oh, I see. So what else do you have to teach me?”

Not this. He wasn’t qualified for whatever this was.

But his mouth moved anyway, defaulting to academia, his safety. “Uh… there’s also the concept of hotspot analysis, which uses kernel density estimation to identify high-crime areas—”

You weren't listening. Obviously. You watch his lips move as he rambles, gently trailing a manicured nail down his scruffy cheek, which briefly makes Spencer stutter.

“…And— and the—” He takes a shuddering breath. “…the algorithm accounts for temporal decay too, which means crimes are more likely to occur closer in time to previous events than further away. Th— there’s an equation for it, but I can’t… really remember right now.”

“Oh, dear, am I distracting you again Professor?”

“…A little!” he squeaks, a tight, bashful smile on his face.

“I was starting to think you never forgot anything.”

“I don’t, I— I just… I’ve never been distracted like this before.” It was true he had an eidetic memory. Something he was keen to remind everybody of. But right now, he was sure he couldn’t recall his own phone number if someone asked him.

“Never had a student on your knee?”

The way you phrased it, like this was normal, almost made him laugh at the absurdity. “N-no, no, never.”

“Well. Don’t let me distract you. Just trying to learn.”

You lean into his side almost affectionately as he talks, your nose brushing against his cheek. Spencer swallows hard. He falters, just barely, but it was enough to make his next sentence waver. “…and the weight is inversely proportional to distance from the epicenter, meaning closer crimes have higher influence on predicting future locations…”

You blow once on his ear.

Spencer jumps, his arm tightening around you involuntarily and his head tilted away from the sudden puff of air. He whispered-shouts your name, scandalized.

You snort. “Oops.”

“You’re— you’re messing with me,” he accuses, voice low but tinged with something begrudgingly playful.

“Who, me?” You bat your lashes.

A tiny, disbelieving laugh leaves his lips, nearly a scoff. “Yes,” he says, “You!”

You giggle, and Spencer feels some part of his brain turn mushy at the sound. “Okay, okay! Sorry, Professor. I’ll behave.”

He exhaled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured genuinely. “…So if we apply this methodology to an actual case,” he said, pointing at a crime scene map on the textbook page.

Before he can say much, he feels the lightest press of lips to his stubbly cheek, and his words quickly fade into an unintelligible, flustered mumble.

“W-we can predict with… um… reasonable accuracy where... mm…”

“Can’t hear you when you mumble, sir. How am I supposed to learn?” You nose his cheek.

He tried again, louder this time, “I said we can predict future crime locations with statistical modeling!”

God, this was torture.

“You’re getting kinda sweaty.”

“It’s— it’s hot in here,” he lied weakly, tugging at his cardigan.

“You can take that off,” you gesture to the sweater. “You don’t have to be professional with me.”

He laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, I… think I stopped being professional with you the moment I let you sit on my knee.”

You pull at his cardigan. “Take it off,” you whine.

“No! No,” Spencer grasps your wrists, his grip firm. He says your name in a scolding tone. “We’re still… on campus. I can’t just—”

“What, taking off a sweater isn’t allowed on campus?”

He exhaled through his nose. “I just… don’t feel comfortable, that’s all.”

“What, are you thinking of something gross?”

“No!” He blurts. “I just—I mean—I’m not—” He flounders for words, horrified by the accusation.

You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing. You double over slightly, still perched on his knee, shoulders shaking, and Spencer’s chest does a weird little squeeze. He didn’t know whether to be offended or charmed, but his frown softened into something almost shy.

Your laughter ends with one sweet sigh, and with your hand on his cheek, you lean in to press a chaste kiss to his temple. Grinning against his skin, you murmur, “Wanna know something?”

“…Yeah?” He whispers back, voice small and uncertain.

“I know this is turning you on.”

Spencer’s red down to his chest now. He sputters, “Wh— I— that’s not—”

“Mhm. Wanna hear what else I know?” You tilt his head up to peck his cheek twice. “I know you were staring at me in that skirt.”

Spencer couldn’t even form a coherent response to that.

“What were you thinking about? My legs? My ass? ‘Cause I’d say that’s pretty dirty, Professor.”

“No!” he whispers harshly, eyes wide. He squirms in his seat like he wants to escape. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—” His hand tightens slightly where it rests on your waist.

“So you were!” You giggle, pulling back from him and cupping his face in your hands. “C’mon, look at you. What happened to those… professional boundaries you were so worried about?”

Spencer’s expression twisted with shame and flustered panic. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a tiny voice, “You just… ruined them.”

“Oh, I did, huh? So it’s my fault? It’s my fault you were staring at me?”

Alarmed, he shook his head violently. “No! No, that’s not— I didn’t mean it like that, I-I meant it like—”

“Guess it’s just my fault you’re having all these perverted thoughts about your favorite student.”

“They’re not—” His chest rises and falls as he pants with desperate frustration. “I don’t have perverted thoughts!” he protests, voice pitching higher.

You laugh cruelly, “You do! Who knew? Professor Reid’s a big pervert who stares at the girls in his class.”

You shift in his lap, moving until your front is squished up against his, thighs clamped on either side of his legs, your hips putting unfortunate pressure on his pelvis.

Spencer presses himself as far back as he could in his chair, eyes darting everywhere except your face. “I-I’m not! No! No, it’s not like that!” His hands hovered in the air like he was trying to surrender. Every nerve in his body was screaming this is wrong, this is wrong, but his traitorous cock pulsed anyway.

“Gross. I can feel your dick getting hard.”

Mortification crashed over him like a tidal wave. “It’s not— I can’t help that!”

“What, are you turned on by this or something?”

Spencer just squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed, grip tight on the armrests of his chair. His silence was answer enough.

“Pervert,” You hiss.

His face burns a deep, humiliated crimson. “I’m not… I’m not a pervert, okay?” He whispered, voice trembling with shame and genuine distress.

You dip down slowly, lowering your forehead to his, your breath on his lips. “Then why do you wanna fuck me?”

Finally, reality laid bare. And with the arousal very clearly straining against his pants, Spencer sees the uselessness in denying it, though his lips still part reflexively. For a heartbeat or two, you stayed like that, faces touching, breaths mingling. Then at last, he moves, and slowly he presses his lips to yours in the softest, most unsure kiss of his life.

At first, you don’t seem to reciprocate. Your lips stay upsettingly still, he’s not even sure your eyes are closed. Spencer whines slightly in his mouth in embarrassment. The moment his lips shy away from yours more than an inch, however, your grip suddenly winds into his hair. With an abrupt and furious force, you tug him back, teeth nearly colliding as you devour his mouth. Instantly, he melts back into your taste, completely unprepared for the intensity but his body responding instinctively. His hands fly back to your waist and his lips clumsily attempt to keep up with your hungry movements as he drowns in you.

One hand slides up your back while the other grips your waist tighter. He makes a small, needy noise against your mouth. You kiss him like you’ve been starving for it. like this was inevitable, like Spencer had been yours all along. You bite his lower lip gently before diving back in, tongue sliding against his with a hunger that leaves him breathless. He clutches you closer, fingers twisting into the fabric of your shirt.

Time seems to blur as the world narrows. The chair creaks under your combined weight as you shift atop him, pressing yourself even closer. Your thighs tightening around his hips, your body molding against him, beginning to grind over his erection.

Spencer groans into the kiss, his palms sliding down to grip your thighs. Your hips move against his with deliberate pressure, rolling down in slow, smooth circles just to feel him twitch. He breathes raggedly through his nose, trying to force himself up to meet your body every time it rises off of him just to grind back down.

“You’re stupidly hard,” you growl the moment you part for air.

Spencer looks up at you through his lashes with a dazed expression. His lips are kiss-swollen, his face flushed, and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. “S-sorry,” he breathes out automatically.

“I haven’t even fucking done anything to you,” you smile wickedly. “I kissed you and you’re throbbing.”

Spencer nods frantically, his cheeks burning with humiliation and arousal. “You’re… really pretty,” he blurts out suddenly.

The compliment elicits some kind of reaction from you, something he can’t quite place. You smirk again, eyes briefly rolling back like he’d touched you. You hum in satisfaction. “I’ve waited so fucking long to hear you say that.”

Spencer’s chest swells with something warm. His heart pounds harder. He wants to say more now, clumsy and sweet things that aren’t usually his style.

“You want me to touch you?” you coos condescendingly in a way that makes him dizzy, cupping his face. “Yeah? You want my pussy? Want me to suck your filthy cock?” you say crudely.

He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know what the right answer is. Instead, his eyes dart down to your lips again, then lower, just for a split second, before snapping back up in panic.

“Answer me, Professor.”

“…Yes, y-yeah,” he finally squeaks out, the words so quiet it’s barely audible. Then he adds in a slightly louder whisper: “Please.”

“Yeah? Just like this?” One of your hands slides down to press against the front of his pants, right where he’s straining. He strains to not buck into your palm like a virgin.

His breath comes out in short, shaky puffs. He nods rapidly. “Yeah. Yeah, uh-huh. Like that.”

You rip your hand away suddenly like you’d been burned. In an instant, his collar is wrapped in your fist as you slide off his lap and yank him to his feet. He stumbles after you, wide eyed and bewildered. Spencer barely has time to process what’s happening before he’s being whirled around, practically manhandled, and he finds you both have swapped places. You seat yourself lazily in his chair and tugs him down with you, down until his knees hit the floor of his office, until his head is hovering between your thighs.

“Wha—?”

“Earn it.”

Spencer’s brain is scrambling. He stares at your spread legs and closes his jaw. He swallows hard. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do with them. He’s never done this before. But the thought of touching you, tasting you, it sends a thrill through him that overrides his nervousness.

You casually undo the button of your pants, stripping them from your legs and kicking them off carelessly with effortless confidence. Spencer watches, mesmerized. Without a word, you sling one leg until your ankle rests over his shoulder, the other sitting on his thigh.

Now here you are, half-naked in his chair while he kneels like a supplicant, and the view is unreal.

He’s suddenly hyper-aware of every detail. The warmth radiating from between your thighs, the faint scent that makes his stomach flip. His hands finally move, trembling as they reach for the hem of your fine, lacy panties— specifically chosen, to be sure. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slowly peels them down.

The lace slides down your legs easily, unveiling your cunt. Spencer’s not sure he’s seen a woman like this up close before, not in person. Not like this. His face burns as he stares for half a second too long. With tentative, almost reverent hands, Spencer leans forward and presses a single, feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. It’s not where you want him, but he needs a moment to steel himself.

His lips are soft. Nervous. The kiss is chaste, too innocent for what you want, but the warmth of his lips against your skin still sends a little shiver through you. You tilt your hips slightly, nudging his back with your heel. “Don’t be shy. Lick it.”

His face is inches from you, so close he can feel the heat.

He swallows hard, then slowly, painfully slowly, he leans in and drags his tongue over you in one experimental stroke. The taste is new. Sweet, musky. Spencer does it again, a little bolder this time, his tongue moving with cautious curiosity as he explores the soft folds of you, his hands gripping your thighs to steady himself.

You inhale sharply through your nose, threading your fingers into his hair to guide him. “Fuck, yes,” you grin.

The praise shoots straight to his loins.

He redoubles his efforts, following the gentle tug of your fingers in his hair. He presses a few open-mouthed kisses before finally sealing his lips around your folds and sucking gently. His tongue flicks experimentally over your clit before he laps at it properly.

Your back arches slightly, letting airy moans slip. Spencer might be a virgin at this, but he’s a smart boy. He adapts fast. His tongue works in small circles now, swirling the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pressing him closer, not that he even needs encouragement.

Spencer loses himself in the rhythm. Licking, sucking, following whatever makes you gasp. He drags his teeth very lightly over your clit before soothing it with a long swipe of his tongue. Fuck, he likes this. So much. He moans mindlessly into your cunt, the vibration of which travels through your body, making your hips jerk up into his mouth.

Spencer’s arousal is obvious, the bulge in his pants twitches with practically every movement. He’s so turned on by this, by the way you react to him, that it almost hurts.

You spread your legs further, pushing his head and shamelessly grinding up into his mouth. You laugh breathlessly, then let your head fall back in a moan.

He loves this. He lets you use him, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, helping guide your movements as he devours you with messy enthusiasm.

The office is quiet except for the wet sounds of his mouth on you and your hitched breathing. Spencer’s lips are glistening, his cheeks flushed. He can feel himself getting dizzy from the scent of you, from how good you taste. Each moan he pulls from you goes straight to his cock, aching in its confinement.

Spencer has no idea how hot he looks right now. Wild hair, flushed face, lips slick with you. But you know. You’ve been fantasizing about this for months now, him between your legs, his clever mouth working on you like this. And reality is so much better than any daydream you ever had. Months of imagining this, and Spencer is even better than any late night, desperation-fueled fantasy. His lips are so soft, his tongue so eager, like he genuinely wants to please you. It’s intoxicating.

A particularly good flick makes you gasp “Fuck!” You gasp.

Spencer has lost track of time, only aware of the warmth between your thighs, the way you squirm and moan above him.

Your fingers twist tighter in his hair, and you start rocking against his mouth faster. The realization that you’re close makes Spencer’s stomach flip with excitement. He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he doubles down with a greedy sort of focus, his tongue moving with more purpose.

Your thighs flex, hips jutting erratically as you near the edge. Spencer’s own body is strung tight, his cock leaking, his pants sticky, but he ignores it. All that matters is you and the way your breathing turns ragged, the cries escaping your lips. He wants to taste it when you cum.

Your back arches off the chair, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head as you cum with a sharp cry. He keeps going gently through your orgasm.

The aftershocks ripple through you in small twitches and soft gasps, and Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels. His lips are wet. His face is a mess.

When the last waves of pleasure subside, you slump bonelessly in the chair. Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels.

You exhale shakily, blinking down at Spencer, still between your legs, his lips wet and swollen. The rest of him disheveled. You laugh breathlessly at his ruined and endlessly attractive state.

Spencer wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still a little dazed, but your laugh makes him smile faintly. He’s never felt so satisfied, and he didn’t even get off.

“Did I…” he pants, “did I do okay?”

Through the bliss, you shrug, teasing him. “Took you long enough, didn’t it?”

Spencer’s face falls slightly. “It was my first time,” he mumbles defensively, a little hurt.

“Still,” You groan as you fix your posture, sitting up in the chair, “coulda figured out geographical profiling while you were trying to figure out what to do with your tongue.”

His lips purse, embarrassed. He stares up at you from the floor with unintentional puppy dog eyes. “I-I was trying…” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

From your elevated position, your eyes catch his cock is still straining in his pants. “Get on the floor, professor,” You push him back with a heel against his shoulder.

“Okay!” Spencer goes down without resistance, lying flat on his back now. He watches you from the floor, wide-eyed and waiting.

You slide out of the chair and drop to the floor, crawling atop him. You pop open the top button of his shirt. “Lie there and let me use your cock, or I’ll tell everyone Professor Reid licked his student’s cunt.”

Blackmail? His brain jumps back and forth between panic and pathetic arousal. “…Okay,” He nods quickly, hands hovering uselessly in surrender. “Okay, do whatever you want. Just… just don’t tell anyone, okay?”

She smiles in satisfaction. “So you know this is wrong.”

He swallows. Yes, it was wrong. It was all wrong. But it also felt so, so right, and he wanted this too badly to stop now. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I know.”

“Then you admit it, huh?” Your fingers suddenly grip his collar, undoing the knot of his tie. “You admit you’re a pervert?”

“…I’m not a pervert,” He says resolutely.

“Right.” His tie freed, You bunch it into a ball in your fist. “Then you’re not gonna, like… cum or something, right? ‘Cause that’d be pretty bad for your case.”

Yes. “…Nope.”

“Oh, good!” You grin, “Now we don’t have to worry about a condom!”

He opens his mouth to protest, and you swoops in to take the opportunity to stuff his tie between his jaw, effectively gagging him.

His muffled sound of surprise barely escapes. Panic spikes in his chest, but it’s too late. You're already moving, and Spencer can only lie there helplessly as you unzip his pants with a hungry gleam in your eye.

His cock springs free, hard and aching, and completely at your mercy. Spencer’s eyes are huge behind the gag. “Careful,” You whisper dangerously as you hover over his dripping cock, “don’t wanna get your student pregnant.”

Spencer whimpers nervously.

You don't tease. No, you waste no time. In one smooth motion, you sink yourself down onto him. Spencer’s body goes taut, a choked noise escaping around his tie. It’s too much. You're tight and warm and he wasn’t ready for this at all.

You bite back a groan as you sheath the entirety of his length, every inch swallowed. “Fuck, this all for me?” You laugh mockingly, “Look at you, oh, you’re so fucking hard. It’s pathetic.”

Spencer lets out a muffled, shameful whine. His hands finally move, clutching at your hips like he doesn’t know where else to put them. You allow it, if only because the touch of his hands still sends a thrill through your body. “Poor thing… if only your body were half obedient as your mouth. Must be so frustrated.”

Spencer is frustrated. Frustrated that he can’t kiss you, frustrated that you’re talking like this, frustrated you’re not moving. He squeezes your hips gently, begging without words as he squirms under you. Move. Please.

You admire the way his cock bulges slightly in your tummy. “What? Huh? I can’t hear you under there."

Spencer makes a muffled noise, a furious cry, and rolls his hips upward, trying to show you what he wants.

You gasp slightly at the movement, laughing under your breath. “Aww, are we getting impatient?”

Spencer nods rapidly. His hands slide up your sides, then back down to grip your ass this time. He’s already breathless.

“You want me to fuck you so bad it makes you look like a virgin.”

Spencer just nods again, his saliva soaking the tie.

“Last I checked, dildo’s don’t whine.” Finally, mercifully, you slide yourself back up to his tip, cock almost slipping out. “I’m gonna ruin you,” you purr, “and you’re gonna thank me for it. Won’t you?”

Spencer moans as he nods frantically, like a bobblehead.

The slow drag of you taking him back in makes his toes curl, the sensation electric. It’s so good he almost forgets to breathe. The stretch is perfect, the heat maddening. But the slow, careful movements as you adjust don’t last long. You grip the collar of his shirt for stability as you begin to move yourself faster, then faster, immediately setting an unforgiving pace.

Spencer’s entire body convulses with pleasure. Each sharp bounce of your hips punches the air from his lungs. His hands scramble to hold onto your waist, fingers digging in as you ride him hard. Muffled moans spill out continuously from behind the fabric in his jaw as his vision blurs at the edges. His stomach tightens, his thighs tremble.

The pace is relentless and purposeful. It sends a message. That you’re taking what you want from him, and Spencer is just along for the ride.

Through your own bliss, you laugh at his state. “Oh, you are gone.”

The laugh vibrates through him and sends another wave of pleasure down his spine. His hips twitch up weakly to meet yours with every bounce.

You lean forward, pressing your chest against his, the pace never faltering. You bring your lips to his ear, your breath against his skin. “Gonna make you cum so hard you’ll show me what a whore you are.”

The words send a shiver down his spine, and he clenches his eyes shut. So vulgar, so degrading, and yet Spencer’s cock throbs at the sound of them.

The pace doesn’t slow for a second. If anything, it gets harder, more punishing. Spencer’s muscles tense, his orgasm already building fast, and he knows he’s not gonna last. He moans and whines girlishly as he starts to writhe beneath you.

“Oh, poor baby,” you mock, “I thought you… mmm, said you weren’t gonna cum in me. Fuck. Don’t tell me I’ve got a little liar.”

His entire body is tensing, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts out his nose, but he shakes his head violently.

“Oh, so close. So close, aren’t you? I know. I know, and you don’t wanna cum. Don’t wanna get me pregnant, do you? Fuck, I bet you’d lose your job.”

He tries to hold back, biting down onto his tie. It’s agony trying to hold back. His balls are tight, his cock pulsing with every bounce of your hips. The threat of consequences makes it worse. He can’t cum, he really can’t, but you're making it impossible. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes from desperation.

“Too bad,” You hiss, leaning down again to whisper in his ear like a devil on his shoulder. “C’mon, just cum for me. C’mon, who cares? Who cares I’m your student? Make me drip with you.”

He tries to shake his head, but Spencer’s body betrays him. With a silent, shuddering convulsion, his orgasm rips through him. Even through the gag, his choked moans escape as he cums inside you, pulse after pulse filling you as pleasure tears through his entire being.

You let out an airy, girly moan and laugh at him, giddy and triumphant.

Spencer goes limp underneath you. He breathes heavily through his nose, still whining and squirming. After a while, his eyes flutter open as he weakly lifts his head. He stares at where you’re connected with horror, the haze fading and the clarity hitting him.

You notice. “You wanna see?”

Spencer nods rapidly.

You lift yourself from his softening cock, the globs of his release sliding down his length. You're dripping with him. His cum, so much of it, leaking down his own cock and dripping from your thighs.

The sight makes him nauseous. His chest rises and falls rapidly in panic. His eyes are blown open wide and searching yours for an answer.

Finally satisfied, you end the game. “I’m on the pill.”

Spencer's entire body sags with instant relief.

You chuckle, then grasp his cock from between your thighs, realigning it with your dripping entrance.

Again? His cock is sensitive, overspent, he’s still coming down from the high of his last orgasm. But you don't seem to care, just guiding his half-hard cock back inside without hesitation.

The moment you push yourself back down, it’s too much. Too sensitive. The oversensitivity makes his writhe involuntarily, a whimper escaping around his gag. He doesn’t know if he can go again, but you clearly expect him to try.

You don't give him time to adjust. You start moving immediately, rolling your hips in slow circles. His body responds despite itself, his cock stirring back to life, slowly hardening again inside you.

Spencer’s hands clutch at the carpet beneath him helplessly. It shouldn’t feel good. It hurts. But the sensation is undeniable, and his hips give tiny little involuntary thrusts upward.

You lean down, finally pulling the gag out of his mouth. “There we go,” You murmur, then kiss him, deeply this time.

Your lips are warm, your tongue sliding against his as you start to ride him again. To Spencer, it feels intimate. He hums into your mouth, kissing you softly. But it doesn’t take long before your pace stops being gentle.

You’re using him. Using his cock like a dildo, and something about it is dizzying. His hands find your waist again, gripping tight as you pick up speed, chasing your own pleasure now. He just lies there, letting you take what you want from his body.

The kiss breaks as you focus on riding him harder, faster. Spencer’s head lolls back against the floor. He’s just a thing to you right now— a toy, a tool. He’s much comparable to a ragdoll. He watches you from the floor as you use him, gritting your teeth and moaning.

You’re riding him erratically, moving yourself and his dick whichever way hits that spot inside you best. He watches your face, the way your brows furrow, how you bite your lip, and decides it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Even as a ragdoll, he can appreciate that.

Your moans get louder, coming out in shorter, clipped bursts. You're close. Spencer feels it, the way your thighs tense around him, how you grind down with purpose now. He stays perfectly still, letting your chase that high on top of him.

A sharp cry escapes you as your body locks up, and he feels the sudden tight clench around him. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

When it’s over, you huff once, then slump forward, forehead pressed to his chest, and just breathe for a moment.

Spencer stays still, one hand hesitantly rubbing your back.

After a beat, You grab his face with a ferocity and force your lips back to his. With a dazed expression, Spencer eagerly accepts.

The kiss is messy and sloppy. Your post-orgasm haze mixes with any lingering adrenaline. And Spencer kisses back like he’s starving for it, his hands sliding up to cradle your face.

But you slip out of his grasp all too soon, and Spencer whines. Sliding yourself off his cock with a groan, you suddenly reach up to grip his hair, tilting his head back. “Open your mouth,” you command.

Albeit a bit confused, he obeys, lips parting. His heart is still racing, his body humming from everything that just happened.

You crawl up his body like a predator, and Spencer realizes with dizzying clarity, you want to straddle his face. And some part of him gets a thrill that he did it well enough the first time you would demand it again.

You don't have to guide him. He’s ready, eager even, holding out his hands to steady you. His palms slide up your thighs, and he tilts his head just right, lips parted expectantly. Please. That’s what the look in his eyes says.

You lower yourself onto his mouth with zero hesitation. Spencer inhales sharply through his nose, your scent is everywhere, before his lips press even against you.

This time, he doesn’t bother with the coquettish hesitation. He dives in. Immediately, he tastes himself on your tongue, the flavor of which strange, salty and musky. But he doesn’t mind. Spencer laps at you contentedly, his tongue exploring with more confidence than before, licking and sucking and kissing.

You inhale sharply through your teeth, your fist gripping his hair. You shudder atop him, your thighs squeezing around his head. “Oh my god,” You breathe out, genuinely surprised. His tongue is moving just right, his pressure is perfect. Your hips start rolling against his mouth, chasing the pleasure.

Spencer, for his part, is fully immersed, licking and kissing like he’s worshipping you. His cheeks and nose are damp with your arousal.

Your back arches into him as you practically ride his face, greedily taking everything his mouth has to offer. He holds your thighs steady, letting you grind against his lips, his tongue working tirelessly to give you exactly what you want.

You're close again, sooner than last time. Breathing raggedly, your grip on his hair tightens as you chase that second high.

Spencer can feel it, the way your body tenses, the tiny trembles in your thighs. A high, broken moan tears from your throat and you shake, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head. He keeps his tongue right where he is, letting it happen, letting you ride out the waves on his mouth.

You finally lift yourself from his mouth, taking the heat of your cunt with you. Spencer helps you crawl back to his lap as he catches his breath. He pulls your limp body gently into his arms. He can’t help but cradle you against his chest. It felt like the right thing to do. You slump against him without a complaint.

You’re both a mess. Sweaty, sticky, and exhausted, the smell of sex thick in the air.

You both lie there, boneless. The floor doesn’t make for the most comfortable spot to lie, but neither could especially move if you tried. The cool air conditioning, at least, is pleasant against your overheated skin.

Spencer exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “So, uh… what… what now?”

Your breath is still coming out in puffs. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

Spencer purses his lips, suddenly nervous. He swallows. “…Are we… um… gonna talk about what just happened?”

You lie there wordlessly for a moment. “…I dunno. I didn’t really plan this far.”

Spencer nods slowly. Silence stretches between them, heavy and awkward. Then he suddenly frowns in thought. “You… you planned this?”

“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to fuck your brains out since I found out you weren’t another old, boring professor.”

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. His cheeks flush again. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I mean… shit, everybody does. I just did it first. I tried to tell you.”

“Yeah, I, uh… thought you meant— well…” He thinks back to your conversation in his office, about the female students in his class, auditing only because they intended to spend the class ogling him instead of listening. “I assumed the fact that you were enrolled meant you… didn’t share the sentiment.”

“What, sitting in your lap wasn’t enough of a hint?”

“W-well, I think it hit me by that point, actually!”

You drop your head in exasperation with the knowledge that all of your flirting, this entire time, flew under his radar. Jesus, it was a miracle you’d gotten to this point at all.

You exhale theatrically, reaching up to pat his cheek. “You’re very dense. It’s very charming.”

He smiles, small and shy. “Thank you?”

You just hum. The both of you are silent again, slumped against each other. The clock ticks in his room, the AC rattles.

Spencer idly taps his fingers against your back, still staring at the ceiling. “Did you, uh… wanna… get coffee sometime? Or something?”