Pony

Fandoms I'll write for:

Criminal Minds

Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss, Spencer Reid

Bones

Lance Sweets & Angela Montenegro

Resident Evil

I've played all mainline games, so i'm willing to write about any protagonists. I will prioritize requests with Leon, Jill, Claire, Chris, or Ethan

Fire Emblem

Any three houses character but I will prioritize Dimitri, Edelgard, Felix, Sylvain, and Dorthea

Ace Attorney

Apollo Justice, Phoenix Wright, Miles Edgeworth, Franziska von Karma

Random Characters I love

Roy Mustang

Elle Greenaway is the first to notice the way your jaw drops the moment you see Spencer Reid wearing glasses.

She rolls her desk chair over to you, a knowing smile spreads across her face,“Hey, just so you know, I think you might have left your jaw on the floor.”

You turn to look at her, your cheeks immediately flushing.

"Huh?"

You do your best to play dumb, but your eyes betray you and follow Reid as he makes his way toward his desk.

“I mean, you’re undressing Reid with your eyes,” she gestures in his direction.

“No, I am not!” you whisper a little too loudly, drawing JJ’s attention from across the room.

“What are you not doing?”

“Nothing. I was doing nothing!” you say quickly, lowering your voice this time. You learned your lesson after last time.

Elle leans closer to JJ, putting on an exaggeratedly serious expression. “Our rookie here…” She pauses for dramatic effect, raising a hand to her mouth as though sharing a secret. “Was checking out Reid.”

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Really?”

She leans closer to Elle, and the two of them begin stage-whispering between themselves, occasionally glancing back at you with matching smiles just to watch you squirm.

“She totally was,” Elle whispers.

“But I thought rookie called Spencer dorky.” JJ dramatically covers her mouth, feigning shock.

“Yes, but she never said he wasn’t an attractive dork.” Elle throws you a teasing glance.

“Okay, you guys, stop teasing.” You wave your hands defensively. “I was just surprised by his new glasses. It's not like they make him look like less of a dork," you steal another glance at Reid. He's wearing a green sweater, and it looks like his hair hasn't been brushed in a few days. How could anyone possibly find him attractive?

"I think his glasses manage to make him look even more dorky.”

You try to sound convincing, but JJ and Elle simply roll their eyes.

The rest of the month is like psychological warfare. Every time Reid walks in the door, one of your coworkers shoots you a glance. You thought that FBI agents would be mature and professional, yeah right.

You know it's wrong to hope for a case. Cases usually mean some poor town or city is being terrorized by some crazed killer. But hearing Hotch say "Wheels up in six" would really get your mind off other things.

Fortunately for the safety of civilians, no cases come across JJ's desk, but unfortunately for you, it means you're stuck with your boring desk duties. Just you, your thoughts, and your incident report.

You try to focus on writing, but it's impossible. People think you like Reid? I mean, how could you be attracted to him? I mean, it was Reid, the same dork who on your first day refused to shake your hand, citing germs. It was slightly offensive; the guy acted like you'd never washed your hands in your whole life.

But he’s also the same guy who occasionally brings you your favourite coffee shop order, Horchata with whipped cream on top, even though he teases you that dairy isn’t nutritionally necessary. Like he’s one to talk. His coffee is like 70% sugar, 20% International Delight French Vanilla Creamer, and 10% coffee. Not that you pay close attention to his drinking habits!

You just can’t help but stare at Reid sometimes. He’s like a specimen that belongs in a museum. The irregular cadence of his voice, his expressive face, and the way his long, lithe fingers never quite stay still. And oh my God, his hands. Are hands supposed to be this attractive? You have to admit, you're starting to understand why other people might find him attractive.

Curse you, Elle and JJ for planting the idea in your head! It was only natural—at least, that was what you told yourself. You were just a victim of the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. That Thing that happens when something you just learned, or that someone pointed out to you, suddenly seems to pop up everywhere. That's the only reason why images of Reid float through your head and seem to multiply like weeds.

You nibble on the tip of your pen; your report has been shoved to the back of your very crowded mind. God, you need time to think. Maybe you should take an early lunch and go for a walk. Fresh air and sunshine would do wonders for your befuddled mind.

You try to silently sneak through the bullpen, but a familiar voice calls out to you.

"Hey, are you going for a walk?" Reid buttons his grey cardigan; it's 83 degrees outside. Does this man ever get hot?

"What if I was?" You feign nonchalance, casually walking towards the exit. You're praying he doesn't follow you. Being in close proximity to Spencer Reid is not what the doctor ordered.

Spencer cocks his head, and his glasses ever so slightly slide down the crook of his nose.

He gives you a lopsided smile, "Mind some company?"

You really want to say no, tell him that you're actually meeting someone, but you stare into his honey colored eyes, and suddenly your mouth goes dry. His glasses definitely have some mystical supernatural powers or something, because you've never been the type to get so weak in the knees before.

"Fine, but we're getting ice cream."

Obviously the walk does nothing to clear your head. Even the satisfying clack of your heels beneath the concrete doesn't alleviate your overloaded mind. What are you supposed to do when the person who has infiltrated your mind has also infiltrated your walk?

He's walking so close to you. Way too close to you. So close your hands are almost touching, so close you can smell him. God, he smells so good. Has he always smelled this good? He smells like curling up on the couch and reading on a warm summer day.

It doesn't take much convincing to get Reid to buy ice cream cones for the two of you. It’s so hot your ice cream melts almost instantly. You’re tantalized by the way his ice cream drips down his hand and onto his wrist. Then you watch the way he licks it off his hand. His tongue is so pink, and you wonder what else it could do.

You’re too busy blushing that you don’t realize Reid has started talking.

“Did you know that originally vanilla ice cream wa—”

“Reid, if you’re about to talk about how we used to eat ice cream flavoured by beaver ass, I want you to can it!” You shoot him a quick glare. Because of his facts, he’s already ruined pre-ground coffee beans, red lipstick, and perfume for you—you’ll be damned if he ruins ice cream too.

"Okay, I guess I’ll just be quiet then,” he murmurs. And you almost feel bad—almost.

As Reid is walking to the garbage can, a disgruntled office worker bumps into him, and his glasses fall off his face, landing on the ground with a hard thwack. The employee murmurs a half-assed apology and continues on his way. You resist the urge to smack him for his rude behaviour—is it still police brutality if you’re technically an FBI agent?

"Shit," Reid says, blindly groping at the ground. You're honestly afraid he's going to step on them.

"Wait, Reid , hold on!" You get on your hands and knees to help. "I see them." You scoop up his glasses and quickly do a cursory glance. Nothing looks broken or scratched, which is good. What if he had to stop wearing them?

"You're pretty blind, aren't you?" You place Reid's frames into his outstretched hands. Even though your physical contact is momentary, it makes your cheeks heat up. Damn you Elle and JJ for infiltrating your mind and filling it with pro-Reid propaganda.

"I have fairly extreme myopia." He says, answering your question.

"Pardon?"

"Myopia, more commonly known as nearsightedness."

"Ah, so like that's the one that snipers shouldn't have, right?"

"Yes, I would make an extremely poor sniper."

"Because you're nearsighted, or because you failed your firearms test?"

"Did Morgan tell you that?"

You giggle and make a shushing gesture toward your lips. "I was told by an anonymous source."

He rolls his eyes and wipes the lenses of his black and gold frames.

"So like, are glasses a new thing for you?"

"No, but my contacts manufacturer shut down, and the replacements are on back order. I should hopefully get my new ones soon."

That's unfortunate. You know that glasses are an inconvenience, especially in a job as physically demanding as this, but you will admit— those glasses make him look kind of like a sexy accountant. You know, if you find numbers and spreadsheets hot.

You get back to the bullpen, Reid never leaving your mind once. God, what is wrong with you?

Derek Morgan is a dead man.

It didn't take your other co-workers long to discover your attraction to Reid. Working with profilers sucks. They think they know everything and then they get so smug when they think they've uncovered a secret.

Of course you vehemently denied it any chance you could.

Garcia was helping you set up your new work computer. After a minor incident (you smashing your monitor after your PC deleted your incident report), you needed a new one.

"So you didn't like Reid until the glasses?"

She presses the power button and your monitor flashes back to life.

You scoff, "I don't even like Reid with the glasses."

Garcia nods, while typing something on your keyboard,"Mhmm, sure, keep lying to yourself. But I have to admit junior G-man looks good in the specs. Even I was like 'oh boy, mama likes' when I saw him in those frames."

You're about to tell her that this is becoming borderline inappropriate for work, but then Morgan butts in,"Rookie, be honest here, everyone thinks you're sweet on pretty boy."

Your eyes widen, "Morgan, with all due respect, shut the fuck up!" You hiss between clenched teeth. You really don't want to be discussing this, especially since Reid's desk is so close to yours. But Morgan digs in, "Okay, maybe you don't like him, but you must at least find him attractive. Maybe it's just a glasses fetish?"

If looks could kill, Derek Morgan would be six feet under. You're not sure where he found the audacity to say such a thing. You're allowed to be attracted to certain things without it becoming a fetish. Morgan acts like he doesn't have a thing for every big-busted woman he sees.

"Technically, Morgan," you say condescendingly, "A fetish is something someone needs to get their rocks off. And FYI, I've had a very fulfilling sex life with people who have 20/20 vision. So what I have… not a fetish." You raise your brows, shooting him a nasty scowl.

Morgan chuckles, "Okay, but you're admitting to having something for glasses." You glare at Morgan, grabbing a pencil and snapping it in half with a satisfying crunch, just to send a message. He just laughs harder.

"Fine, okay, I'm allowed to find things attractive without one, liking that person, two, without having a fetish!"

"Sure, whatever you say, fetish girl."

"Hey, maybe this is going too far." Garcia tries to intervene, but it's too late.

"Hey, Reid," Derek hollers across the office. "What's a person with a glasses fetish called?"

"That would be a spectaphile," Reid replied, his eyes don't leave the book he's reading.

Morgan leans in. "Well, you heard the man. Maybe we should call you spectaphile instead of rookie."

This earns Morgan a growl as you grab the nearest thing you can find—your computer mouse—and hurl it at Morgan, completely ignoring Garcia's cries to leave the innocent mouse alone. She acts like it's a real, live mouse.

Morgan dodges it with ease and bolts down the hall. You're almost certain you hear him cackling as he disappears around the corner.

You hesitantly glance over at Reid's desk. His face is flush, and he avoids eye contact with you. And you have the urge to kill Morgan all over again. Great, now Reid probably thinks you're hot and horny for his spectacles.

You stare at the now broken mouse in your hands and look at Garcia. "Hey, sorry about the mouse. But at least it wasn't the computer this time?" You offer her a guilty smile, and she storms off, murmuring something about how she can't deal with all this computer gore.

You add three tasks to your mental checklist:

Kill Morgan when he comes back

Make it up to Garcia in any way possible

Convince Reid you don't have a glasses fetish

You have a problem.

And no, it’s not just the fact that your former coworker, Elle, is suspected of murdering a prior unsub in cold blood. Honestly, in your opinion, the guy got what he deserved. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

Your team is full of lawful goods if you’ve ever seen them. They have this annoying habit of prioritizing legally right over morally right. Ugh.

No, your real problem is Emily Prentiss.

You don’t want to call her Elle’s replacement, but… she kind of is.

Unlike Elle, Prentiss has no problem asking uncomfortable questions. She doesn’t dance around a subject or wait for you to bring it up. She simply looks you dead in the eye and asks,

“So… what’s going on with you and Reid?”

Just like that.

You blink at her.

For a moment, your brain goes completely blank.

God, you miss Elle Greenaway.

She would’ve teased you mercilessly, sure, but she never cornered you like this. She never made you stop and actually stare your feelings straight in the face.

"Umm, nothing?"

She raises her perfectly groomed brow. "I've seen schoolgirl crushes less obvious than this. Rookie, you've gotta get a better poker face."

What kind of Jedi Mind tricks did they teach Prentiss at her last job? Accuse you, then berate you with a nickname to throw you off your game. You'd been on the team for a year now, and you still couldn't shed your former nickname.

"Stop calling me rookie. If anything, you're the rookie!"

She chuckles, "Yeah, but I've been part of the force for longer than you've been an adult."

Was that true? How old is she? Never mind, you need to clear something up.

"Listen, I don't know what you've heard, but there is nothing going on between me and Reid."

Emily nods along, and you’re grateful that she’s actually listening, unlike some people who just want to throw accusations at you (Derek Morgan).

“I don’t even like Reid. I think he’s an annoying little geek. And I don’t even find his fun facts that fun.”

Okay, that last part was a lie. You can always appreciate Spencer Reid’s fun facts (unless he’s ruining ice cream, coffee, or red lipstick). And maybe he’s not that annoying, at least not until you and he are actively bickering about a case.

But you have to show Prentiss that you're serious.

"That's unfortunate, because I think he likes you." She gives you a sad smile.

"Really?" You try to hide your curiosity, but like most profilers, you're nosy. It's kind of like an unspoken prerequisite for being a profiler.

"Yes, completely."

You have to sit back and think for a moment. What does this mean for you? Maybe pursuing Reid wouldn't be the worst Idea. Wait, what are you thinking? Oh my God, she's trying to use interrogation techniques on you. She's trying to trip you up. Well, you may be the newest Agent, but you're no spring chick.

"Prentiss, I see what you're doing, and I'm going to stop you there. I do not, nor will I ever, like Spencer Reid."

She just gives you a knowing smile.

You think you're in love with Spencer Reid.

Maybe it's the power of the placebo effect, but now he's all you can think about.

Somehow everything reminds you of Reid. You stroll past glasses displays and wonder what Reid would look like in them. You find yourself wandering through bookstores, running your hands up and down the spines and wonder how many of these books he's already read. Probably at least half the store's inventory.

Even at work, you're becoming hyper aware of him. Every time he enters the room, you're drawn to him. You find reasons to be closer to him, to talk to him. Lord knows you've sat and listened to him explain the game of chess just to be in his presence. Did any of the rules stick? Nope!

It's hell because you're still trying to keep your crush on the down low. You know that everyone on the team, sans Reid himself (thankfully), knows how you feel — even Hotch shoots you a knowing smile. But as long as you don't admit it to your crush, you won't have to hear the dreaded words "I told you so"

Right?

You'd rather be dead than have someone say that.

It takes all your willpower not to cry when Reid's contacts finally arrive. His glasses, his beautiful glasses, are left at home. They're probably so sad and confused.

It's not that he's now downright hideous without glasses; it's just that he's so, so delicious with those black and gold frames.

You think you're doing an excellent job of hiding your disappointment; you are a profiler after all. You have to have a face made of stone.

Derek had asked you if you still found Reid attractive without his spectacles; you just told him that you were going to report him to Strauss for harassment— that sure changed his tune.

As you're walking out of the bullpen’s door, you hear a familiar set of footprints behind you. Turning around, you find Reid following you.

"What's up?"

"Would you like to get coffee with me?"

"Umm, sure. But isn't it a little too late for caffeine?"

"I just thought that maybe we could do something?"

Oh God, Reid totally knows you like him. He's asking you out to reject you politely because, of course he is. Reid is a gentleman. A weird, socially awkward gentleman, but a gentleman nonetheless.

You know what you need to do: you need to reject his offer, go home, resign, maybe move countries. Canada seems nice enough—Colorful money, lots of geese.

"Sure, Reid, that would be nice." You smile at him.

Shit, what are you doing?

The coffee shop is like heaven on Earth. The sound of water steeping in kettles, beans being freshly ground, and the warm, comforting smell of coffee surround your senses and take away your inhibitions.

Reid both remembers your order and pays for it. You assume It's his last kind gesture before he flays you open, tears out your heart, and rips it to pieces. You need to solidify your defences.

"So I came here to ask you something," he smiles his awkward, crooked smile. if he weren't about to shatter your heart, you'd be tempted to trace your fingers over his soft, pink lips.

"Listen, I don't know what you've heard, but I don't like you." you blurt out— shit, did you just say that?

Spencer's face twists in confusion, and you realize you've just said something incredibly stupid.

"I mean I do. I find you extremely attractive." Words pour out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, "But it's not just because of your glasses."

Reid goes to speak, but you cut him off. "I'm not a sceptile or whatever it's called," You can't even bear to look at Reid's face. It feels like you bought a shovel just to dig your own grave"I don't have a glasses fetish!"

"What?"

"I'm not sexually attracted to you just because of your glasses. Morgan is a liar. I just think you're cute with them. It's not sexual!"

What are you saying, abort, abort mission!

"Umm, I gotta go, I think I left my oven on!"

You don't give Reid a chance to respond before you're out the cafe door. Your horchata is left behind along with any sense of self-respect you may have had.

You almost call in sick. If not for the insane amount of backlogged reports you have, you may have even faked your death. It took all your willpower not to start the immigration paperwork to move to Canada; you were thinking Toronto, close enough to home that you wouldn't get homesick, far enough from Reid so that you would never run into him. It was also outside of FBI jurisdiction, which meant you'd never have to see your former coworkers.

You trudge your way into the bullpen; an hour before work starts so you don't have to do your walk of shame by Reid (who comes in half an hour early). Has the bullpen always felt this oppressive and brutalist? Why are the walls that sad hospital shade of green? Leave it to the feds to somehow make a colour sad and boring.

You carefully shuffle towards your computer. If you look busy enough, hopefully people won't bother you.

You don't think Reid would tell anyone about your café catastrophe, but you're sure that a room filled with profilers could smell scandal or at least self-doubt a mile away.

Maybe if you type on your keyboard loudly enough, the clicks and clacks will drown out that little voice in your head telling you that your career and personal life probably won't recover from a fuck up this bad.

You try your best not to notice when Reid arrives at 8:00 on the dot, but after months of treating his arrival like the second coming, your head reflexively perks up.

God, he’s so cute. You want to run your fingers through his hair. He’s wearing a dorky little sweater vest and tie. His glasses are getting a little fogged up from the steam of his coffee cup.

Wait, glasses?

You try to subtly scan back up to his face. Perched on top of his nose is a familiar pair of gold-framed glasses.

What is happening?

Was he trying to fuck with you? Was this some kind of psychological warfare Reid was waging on you? Other than your freak out yesterday, what could you have done to warrant this?

Your eyes meet, and you want to die. He gives you a nervous smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You wonder if that smile is out of pity. You can’t tell if it would be a good or bad thing if he thought you’d lost your mind.

On one hand, you could plead insanity. Yesterday’s altercation happened while you weren’t in your right state of mind. But on the other hand, you’d probably lose your job if a coworker feared you weren’t mentally competent. Hmmm, lose your dignity or lose your job? Which one seems better? Maybe your old manager at McDonald's would hire you back?

You muster up your best half-convincing smile. Somehow being in an interrogation room with an unsub is a less daunting task.

You instantly regret it as he starts making his way towards you. Why is he coming so close?

You bolt up and out of your chair as quickly as possible, startling poor Reid, but maybe at this point, he's used to you acting strangely.

For the rest of the day, Reid keeps trying to talk with you. Trying to ask for your help with reports, which you both know is a lie. The only person more thorough than him with their reports is Hotch— and that's like half of his job. If Reid weren't a profiler, he'd make a kick-ass secretary.

For a genius, he's surprisingly inept. Doesn't he realize that you really don't want to talk?

After you're finished typing all of your reports, you take refuge in Garcia's den, the one place Spencer Reid never willingly enters. He says Garcia's potpourri makes his eyes itch and nose tickle. Maybe you should start carrying it around like a vampire hunter carries garlic.

One more hour before you can leave. It's the home stretch! Hopefully, over the weekend, Reid's eidetic memory will somehow be wiped. Maybe you can hire a hypnotherapist to break into his home and make him forget.

Why is he so hellbent on talking with you today? There's nothing to say, other than that you're very sorry and please don't report you to HR.

"Hey, can we talk?" A familiar voice asks.

Fuck it's Reid!

"Umm, I'm kind of very busy." You say, quickening your pace through the corridor. God, like one more hour and then you can go home.

"Busy with what? I've seen you make paper airplanes and fly them at Morgan for the past hour."

"Umm, I have to get more paper then?"

"From the supply closet?"

You purse your lips and nod, heading towards the room.

"Well, what a coincidence. That's where I'm headed as well." He says without missing a beat.

Shit!

"Umm, I can get whatever you need and bring it back for you?" You offer him a shaky smile.

"No, I'm looking for something specific. I guess we'll just have to go together." His grin almost looks like a smirk.

Well, you've done your best job to deny the inevitable, but short of faking your own death, this conversation was going to happen eventually.

You slog your way towards the supply closet. The metal handle feels cold on your skin . You turn the knob and mentally prepare yourself for whatever he's going to say.

The door creaks open, and you walk inside; your feet feel like lead. Spencer Reid has gotta be some kind of sadist; you wonder if he gets a kick out of watching you squirm.

You step into the room and feel Reid following behind you. The door clicks closed, and you take a deep breath. You see Spencer push in the lock.

"So we won't be interrupted." He explains; you just nod your head. God, just get this over with.

"You've been avoiding me all day," he huffs and crosses his arms. He looks more like a pouty child than a genius profiler.

"No, I haven't," you feebly deny his accusation.

"Yes, you have," he pouts again, "And after I went through the trouble of wearing my glasses for you."

“Reid, are you mocking me?”

“Is it not obvious what I’m doing?”

You scrunch your face. “No, not at all! Is it supposed to be?”

“I’m trying to tell you that I like you.”

“Wait, what?”

You’re sure you’re hearing things.

“You told me you didn’t like me, but then Morgan said you had a thing for my glasses, and you seemed disappointed when I wore my contacts, so I wore my glasses to express my interest in you.” He gives you an incredulous look.

“Okay? No one but you would think that way!” you try to explain.

“Okay, but now I’m asking you if you feel the same way.” He stares into your eyes but then quickly looks away. “But you’ve been ignoring me today, so I think I know the answer.” He hangs his head dejectedly. He looks like a kicked puppy, and you have such a soft spot for dogs.

You gently grab his hands, and he looks up at you with those intelligent honey coloured eyes. God, he looks so incredibly divine in those frames (not a fetish, you swear).

You place an experimental, chaste kiss on his lips. You feel him smiling as you pull back. You try to ignore the way it makes your stomach flip, and your legs clench.

"So do you reciprocate?" He asks shakily, slowly tracing circles on the back of your hand with his palm.

"Yeah," you whisper in his ear, delighting in the way his face turns a bright rosy pink.

Spencer goes to speak, but you cut him off with another kiss. This one is more confident. You take in his warmth and his scent. He feels both familiar and foreign at the same time.

You feel a moan vibrate from the depths of your mouth, and it sends a tightening sensation down between your legs. Your lips part, and the only thing left is a trail of saliva connecting the two of you.

You watch Reid's eyes go blank; you think he's rebooting. And then suddenly it's like a switch is flipped and Reid lets out a low growl as he pins you to the nearest wall.

"Reid?" You're taken aback; talk about a 180.

"Don't call me that," you feel his hot breath on your neck, "It's weird to hear you moan my last name."

Your mind short circuits. What else would you call him?

"Spencer?" The name feels foreign and strange on your tongue. All professional and personal boundaries are about to be crossed.

"Good girl," he nibbles on your earlobe, and you quiver in excitement.

Who knew shy, awkward Spencer Reid had a dominant side? Where did he learn this? Who did he learn this from? The idea of Spencer fucking anyone, especially anyone who wasn't you, filled your stomach with a sick sense of jealousy.

He slips his hand under your skirt and starts to rub circles over your fully clothed clit. You wonder if your arousal has soaked through your panties yet. Can Spencer feel how turned on you are?

"Are you still okay with this?" He asks, a blush on his face.

"Mmmh, yeah," you say breathlessly, "Is the door still locked?"

Spencer nods.

You have to admit, even though they're hot, Spencer's glasses are a hindrance to foreplay.

His whole head is submerged under your skirt. His tongue is lapping up ever inch of your wet, aroused pussy. But every so often you feel the warm touch of his metal glasses frame scraping against your sensitive areas.

Your hand grips the wall, and you find yourself focusing on the texture— it'scold and rough. If you didn't ground yourself, you're sure you would lose your mind to all this pleasure.

You hear him mutter and murmur praises; the vibration of his husky whispers sends shivers of pleasure through your spine. Spencer eats you out like it's the last meal he'll ever have.

"You're such a good girl," He chuckles and dips his strong fingers back into your warm entrance while his tongue continues to lick your ever-sensitive g-spot.

You're about to climax when Spencer jerks away, making you give a small, disapproving whine.

He emerges from your skirt, and his glasses are fogged up and covered in your arousal. He pulls out a glasses cloth and wipes off his lenses. Leave it to Spencer Reid to clean his glasses in the middle of foreplay. He wipes his fingers clean with the inner part of his sweater vest, and you secretly hope it leaves a stain— just so he'll remember this moment.

You swear that you've died and gone straight to heaven. Your legs are shaking, and to think, you haven't even reached the main event yet.

You're desperate to get fucked, but when you go to unzip his brown, corduroy pants, he gently swats your hand away.

"Did you ask me for permission?" His brows are raised, and his voice is stern.

"Permission," you scoff, "Who made you the boss?" you say belligerently. It's not exactly in your nature to beg and plead.

"Well, I just decided I should take charge," he says matter-of-factly.

You frown.,"I think we should have had a vote." You pout and cross your arms.

Spencer gives you a crooked smile, "But there's only two of us. Obviously the votes would be split down the middle."

"Oh no, whatever would we do?" You say in mock horror.

"Well, I have seniority over you."

"Oh, I see. So my superior at work is taking advantage of me." You send him a smirk.

"Is that what's happening? Well, I wouldn't want to take advantage," he dramatically starts to walk towards the door.

Great, he's called your bluff.

"No wait, please don't go!" You try not to sound desperate, but God, you need him badly.

He shoots you an unconvinced glance.

"Please Spencer," you say in your sweetest voice, "Please just let me suck your cock, I'll be good. I promise!" You're not exactly lying, but you're not exactly telling the truth. You have very big plans for Spencer and not all of them involve being a good girl— it's just not your style.

Spencer turns towards you with a small, satisfied smirk that both arouses you and fills your belly with a competitive fire. He wants to play dirty, make you beg? Two can play that game.

You kiss him with a fervour you didn't know you had in you, and he whimpers. It's almost laughable. Even when he's trying to be dominant, his docile nature still pokes through.

You rub against the tent in his pants and try not to laugh at how flushed his face is getting just from a little bit of physical contact.

"Awww," you coo. "What happened? All it takes is a pretty girl grinding on your cock, and you lose all your composure?" You languidly stroke his hard cock through his pants, not bothering to hide the smirk. "Thought you were my superior?"

You watch Spencer's face oscillate between bliss and irritation.

"Who said I'm losing my composure?" he huffs.

"I think you are, though? If I'm remembering right, I remember you sounding

like..." You pitch your voice into a high-pitched whine, mimicking him. "Like this."

His face turns red, and then he scowls, "That is not what I sound like!"

"Mmm, sure, sure…" You giggle, relishing in the reaction you get out of him. It gives you a head rush that you're not sure could be topped by anything else— maybe an orgasm?

You take your sweet time unzipping his pants and rubbing his clothed erection. Everytime he makes a noise you pull your hand back. This push and pull lasts for a few minutes before he growls and shoves your hand away, freeing his hard cock from his pants— you stifle a surprised squeak when you see it. It's gorgeous, and never in a million years have you seen something so mind blowing.

It's so ungodly attractive. It's the perfect amount of length and girth. With a pretty, pink tip and a prominent vein running down it. You're soaked at the thought of what it would feel like in your mouth.

"You're taking too long." He says, stroking his hard cock. You watch as his long fingers wrap around his thick shaft as he pumps his hand up and down. It's hypnotizing.

You tear your eyes away from his dick. "Weren't you the one who told me I should be more patient?" You pout.

"That was about work; this is purely about pleasure." He huffs, "Now be a good girl, get on your knees and suck."

You scowl at him, and he stares right back. It's hard to take him seriously. It's Spencer after all. He seems like the type to cover his eyes when people kiss on TV. It's especially hard to take him seriously because despite his best efforts to clean them, his glasses lenses are still smudged from your arousal.

You wait for a moment, testing him, teasing him.

"I said," he grits out "get on your knees and suck." for a split second you can see a look of worry on his face. You know that he thinks he's gone too far.

"Or else what?" You ask, a glint of mischief in your eyes.

With that, he gently grabs your hair and makes you submit. Your knees hit the cool, hard tile and you hope they don't bruise from the force.

You look up through your lashes at Spencer, and you can tell he's anticipating the feeling of your mouth on his cock.

You pause for a second. You're torn between teasing Spencer or pleasing him, so you decide to do both.

You tenderly grab his cock. It's warm and velvety in your hands. You circle around the head, smudging the bead of precum with your thumb. Then you slowly move your hand down the length of his member until you reach the base. You find yourself tugging gently on his pubic hair with one hand and fondling his balls with the other.

You look up and meet Spencer's gaze. A faint glare catches on his glasses, obscuring his eyes just enough that it's hard to tell where he's looking. Behind the lenses, though, you can make out the way his pupils are blown out, and his normally hazel irises turned a warm amber beneath the cool LED lights.

You know it's mean to tease Spencer, especially after he basically worshiped your clit with his mouth, but you'd argue that he's the one who started it.

You savour the shudders and moans you coax out of his mouth. You're almost getting high off the power your slow, languid touch has on him.

"You're a tease, you know that?" He huffs.

You just give him a devilish smirk. Cautiously hovering your mouth over his hard cock. You give its head a cautionary lick, drinking down Spencer's delicious whines.

You explore every inch of his cock with your tongue, delighting in the way his body shakes when you run up and down his prominent vein.

The most lewd suckling sounds come from your mouth as you suck on his tip. The taste of salty pre-cum coats your tongue. Spit dribbles out of the corner of your mouth. You see your reflection in his glasses, and you look absolutely debauched.

"Please, please, please let me fuck you—" he begs; any semblance of his bossiness has been wiped away by the heat of your tongue.

"Mmm, maybe. You've kind of been bad though." You tilt your head up to look at him. His face is so impossibly red you think he may combust.

"But I was good!" He whines, "Didn't I make you feel good?"

You pucker your lips. "Yeah, but then you tried to make me beg for you. I'm not a dog."

Spencer looks like he might cry; you try to ignore that guilty feeling in your gut. If he can dish it out, he can take it.

You stand up, dropping his cock with your hand, using it instead to wipe the saliva off the corner of your mouth. He whimpers, and you smirk. You have the perfect plan.

"Hey, give those back!" Spencer says as you snatch his glasses from off his face.

"You don't need them to fuck me, do you?" You say with a grin, "Make me cum and I'll give them back."

"But where?" he whines

"Aren't you the genius? Figure something out."

"Umm, okay…" he says shakily, "put your back towards me and put your hands against the wall."

You oblige, carefully hooking his glasses' arms against the top of your shirt before leaning forward against the wall.

You feel him hitch up your skirt, making sure you're at the proper angle for him to fuck you. Then you hear him spit; you turn your head and watch him rub his cock. The look on his face makes you want to cum on the spot.

He lets out such breathy moans you think you might go limp and pass out.

"Are you gonna fuck me or not?" You ask impatiently. Feels like Spencer is focusing more on jerking off than on you.

"I'm just trying to prepare," he murmurs.

"Mentally or physically," you tease.

"Umm, both?" He says shakily.

"What happened to the confident guy from a few minutes ago?"

"You…" he pauses, "You happened. I can't think straight with you. Every time I think I'm ahead, you pull in front." He pouts.

You just laugh.

The feeling of your body stretching for his cock makes you euphoric. You let out the most indecent moan, and Spencer has to remind you that you two are currently fucking in the supply closet. You tell him it's not a very busy hallway and to just keep fucking you.

It's a shame that he's doing you from behind. There's nothing you want more than to watch the way his slick cock enters and exits your pussy.

His hands explore every inch of your body, especially taking their time to fondle your breasts. Spencer snakes his hand up your shirt, and his fingers ghost your erect nipple. You bite back a moan, and he gives an experimental pinch. You let out a breathy cry.

After he's satisfied with playing with your breasts, his one hand rests on the wall, stabilizing himself for every thrust he takes. The other hand ends up wrapped up in your hair. He squeezes his hand slowly, and you cry out.

It's almost embarrassing to let him see you so vulnerable. But something about Spencer Reid makes you drop your guard.

He continues to fuck you against the wall, and you wonder if the people in the next room can hear the slamming of his cock into your sopping wet pussy. You hope not. That would be an awkward conversation with HR.

His hand has made its way from your hair and back onto your clit. Drawing feather-light circles onto the tender mound of flesh. You're so lightheaded you want to cry.

Finally, Spencer's thrusts get more and more sloppy. You can tell he's about to reach his climax.

"You're doing so—" you go to catch your breath. "So well Spence—" you praise him.

Suddenly, with a moan, he jerks out of your pussy.

"Shit," he hisses, but it's too late. Your skirt is covered in ropes of Spencer's thick, white cum.

"I am so sorry," he says, removing his knit vest and beginning to hastily dab your skirt clean.

You groan, first he doesn't make you cum, then he makes a mess of your outfit. He's very lucky you have a soft spot for him.

"Whatever, it's fine." You huff, "Just make me cum, and we'll call it even."

Spencer swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"Umm... could I get my glasses back?" he asks. "I'd kind of like to see."

"I told you you'd get them back after you make me cum."

"Please,"he gives you a small smile. "I just want to see your face while I do it. It's so pretty."

You hesitate for a moment before relenting. Spencer has been so good. Maybe he deserves to watch you cum.

It doesn't take his dexterous fingers very long to make you finish. It feels like shockwaves ripple through your body, making your already weak legs buckle under the euphoria.

You want nothing more than to snuggle up beside him and draw patterns on his chest, but unfortunately for you, you still have half an hour of work left. You settle for running your fingers through his curls and telling him that he did such a good job. You'll write him an IOU for aftercare.

You tie your sweater around your waist, hoping that it’s inconspicuous enough to hide the stain. You swear, if Spencer ruined your skirt…

“Well, it’s protein-based, so you’ll need an enzyme-based detergent to remove it. I have one that I can bring over tonight.”

You think his offer may have been a ploy to see you after work, not that you’re complaining.

You casually stroll out of the supply room; Spencer and you agreeded that it would be easier to put two and two together if you arrive at the same time.

You try not to do the walk of shame back to the bullpen, but you’re pretty sure your dishevelled appearance and thirty-minute absence tell people all they need to know.

And when Spencer slinks back to his desk, equally dishevelled, you're sure people can understand what took place.

If any of your coworkers notice your appearance or the imprints of the tiles on your knees, they’re professional enough not to mention it.

That is, until you hear Morgan whisper to Prentiss, “I told you that they weren’t just doing a supply run.”

“Still think you don’t have a glasses fetish, Rookie?” Morgan whispers to you.

You glance at Spencer and give a smile; his face is still. Spencer glances back and then shyly looks away. You think you feel your heart flutter.

You sigh. “Maybe it was never about the glasses.”

Morgan smirks.

“Are you sure?”

You roll your eyes.

“Maybe they just helped me to see more clearly that I liked the dork wearing them.”