#sub spencer

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly. Mention of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

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Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

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Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

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Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

────────────

French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

You were everything he wasn’t. Outgoing, daring, bold. In some ways, you could even be described as a bit of an adrenaline junkie. It’s actually partly what led you to joining the FBI. You liked the thrill, the high stakes, the way it got your blood pumping when you had to chase down a criminal on the loose. 

You lived for taking risks. The idea of never truly knowing what might happen made your spine tingle, every one of your hairs stand on. There wasn’t a better feeling than feeling a little sick to your stomach with nerves and excitement for you.

It's an interesting dynamic you and Spencer had - he was all for playing it safe and keeping to himself, while you could be a wildcard. Spencer learned that very quickly after you two started dating. And while it wasn’t that you were trying to change him (you would never!), you were simply opening him up to things he wouldn’t have thought twice about.

Everyone else on the jet was fast asleep. Slumped over and curled up in positions that would certainly give them a knot in their neck later. Spencer had his head laid over your lap, curls sprawled across your thighs while you mindlessly twirled the strands around your fingers. 

You were still wide awake. The rush of the case just closed still ran hot through your veins. You’d most definitely crash later once in the sanctity of your apartment, but for now you were full of energy. You tried to distract yourself by staring out the jet window, watching the world go by, but it wasn’t working.

You glanced down at the pretty boy sprawled across you like a sleeping angel and a little thought popped into your head. You shifted in your seat, sitting up straighter, before you gently threaded your fingers into Spencer’s hair. Your nails scraped across his scalp and you almost swore you could have heard a little purr rumble in his chest.

You leaned over him, breathing slowly in vain attempt to settle your already racing heart. “Spence,” you crooned softly. “Spencer, wake up, baby.” Once Spencer actually fell asleep, he was a fairly light sleeper. It didn’t take much before he was stirring awake with a quiet groan.

“What is it?” he asked, voice thick with sleep. His hands raised to rub at his eyes and you could only smile. “Did we land?”

“No,” you said a little too quickly, “No, I just..” You trailed off a little as your teeth sunk down on your bottom lip. “I had an idea.” You stood to your feet and offered your hand out to him. He quirked an eyebrow, glancing between your face and outstretched hand, before slowly placing his in your grasp.

There was a little bit of a bounce in your steps as you led him in the direction of the bathroom and in that moment, Spencer regretted agreeing to whatever you were about to do. He squeezed your hand and you tossed  him a smile that reeked of mischief over your shoulder.

It was a tight squeeze once inside. Because, like most airplane bathrooms, it was meant to only fit one person at a time. That didn’t stop a lot of people, though. And you were one of them.

You crashed your lips against his the minute the door locked behind the two of you. It was hot, full of passion and lust as your hands roamed over his body. He whimpered softly against your lips before relaxing into the kiss. His hands were warm and broad against your body, sending shivers down your spine.

You didn’t waste time when you wanted something, and you wanted him right here and now. Your hands drifted until they hit their target - his belt. You broke for air, panting heavy and hard, as you tried to make quick work of shedding the layers between you and his dick.

“Y/N-” he gasped. “Wait, wait-” He took hold of your wrists, halting your movements. His eyebrows pinched together and his bottom lip jutted out ever so slightly. “What if we get caught?”

You grinned at him. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to be quiet so we won’t.” You knew just how much of a struggle it was for Spencer to keep himself under control when he was feeling good. The noise complaints from your neighbors were proof enough. 

Your hand dipped into his pants and underwear and you tried to suppress the smirk that threatened to spread over your face when you wrapped your fingers for his half-hard cock. He gasped, but quickly slapped a hand over his mouth when you shot him a look.

His eyes rolled back as you began to stroke along his length. Your thumb brushed over the tip, smearing the pre-cum gathering and Spencer’s knees buckled. Your pace was slow, almost languid, teasing.

“Please,” Spencer whined. You grinned once more.

“Please what?” you murmured. You leaned even closer to him, somehow, hovering over his lips. You were both breathing heavily and practically sharing breaths. You took a moment to look over his adorably flushed face. “You’re so pretty, Spence..”

“Please.” He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for, pleasure clouding his usually bright mind. “Please, please, pl-ease.” His voice cracked when you sped up, his head lulling back. “F-feels so good, oh god.”

You cooed at the state of him. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Faux pity coated your words, making Spencer whine again. “Come on, use your words, honey. I can’t read minds.” You snickered.

His hand jumped to grab your wrist, not to stop you, no. He was too far gone to stop you now. He simply held it there, keeping a tight grip on you as you jerked his cock. 

He looked like a total mess. An absolutely stunning mess, but a mess nonetheless. Curls sticking to his forehead and cheeks, plush lips parted in soft moans, eyes squeezed tight, face flushed shades of red. His hips arched into your touch, cock twitching in your hold.

“Are you gonna cum?” you asked and he nodded frantically. His lips twitched into a soft frown as tears began to well in his big brown eyes. God, he always the prettiest he was all dumb and fucked out. “Good boy,” you crooned at him.

You dropped down to your knees. You finally freed his dick from the confines of his underwear and he hissed at the feeling of the cold air. You didn’t waste a moment to resume your ministrations.

“Look at me, Spencer,” you commanded and he immediately followed the order. He nearly lost it at the sight of you on your knees before him. “Good boy, that’s it..” You picked up the pace even further, hand almost a blur stroking him.

“I’m- I’m gonna-” he stumbled over his words, unable to even form proper words as the pleasure grew. You shook your head.

“Do it, Spence,” you commanded again. “You can do it. Cum all over my face, pretty boy.” And that’s all it took for Spencer to tumble right over the edge. He tightened his grip on your wrist, back arching as he spilled over your face in thick spurts.

You worked him through his orgasm, stroking slow and gently, until he began to whine from overstimulation. You slowly rose to your feet and Spencer was already offering you paper towels to clean yourself. You ran a finger through one of the streaks of cum on your face and brought it to your lips, eyes fluttering shut and soft groans escaping you as you tasted him.

When you opened your eyes again, he was beet-red and looking oh-so shy and cute. You giggled. You gladly took the paper towels and began to wipe away the remnants of his cum.

You connected your lips in a chaste kiss when you were finished, making him blush even more. “You did such a good job, angel,” you praised before pressing another kiss to his lips. He tucked himself back into his jeans and buckled them back up. You entangled your fingers together, leading him out of the bathroom.

You made your way back to your seats, a sense of satisfaction settled in your chest. “Reid?” The call of your boyfriend’s name had you both glancing back to see Hotch awake in one of the jet chairs. “Don’t do that again”

Heat washed over both of your cheeks and you had to slap a hand over your mouth to hide the growing smile on your lips. “Yes, sir,” Spencer said with a nod of his head.

Training Spencer to cum on command was a labor of love. Having spent hours studying Pavlov and Skinner just to be able to make a  mess of your poor boyfriend on whim.

Spencer was almost unrecognizable, his face a deep shade of red and pink, slathered in a dripping layer of sweat, and a puddle of his own spend at his feet. 

Throwing his head back and swallowing breathlessly, he looks to you and pleads.

“P-Please—Stop. Can we stop, please?”

His rug burned wrists desperately trembling in their binds as he tries so hard to be good for you. It’s wearing him down, you’ve made him cum at least three times now simply by the snap of your fingers. 

It wasn’t this easy at first, and it didn’t even register what you were doing when you finally gave him permission to cum and just so happened to snap at the same time. 

No, it took a while. After the next few times, it confused him, he ignored it, but then it became an expectation to him. 

Whenever your hand was tightly wound against the sensitive tip of his dripping cock, he’d look to you with those desperate pleading eyes before mustering up the courage to beg for release. 

After he’d ask, he wouldn’t wait for your call, no, instead he’d look down at wherever your free hand was. 

As a man of extensive knowledge, especially to things pertaining something as simple as conditioning, Spencer knew these things worked. 

He just hadn’t even expected himself to be the lab rat in your little experiment. 

But now, you’d find him adjusting just fine. At least to your standards. 

As soon as he arrived home, you had dragged him to the garage. He’d made no attempt to stop you, even as you sat him down on a cold metal chair. 

He didn’t even raise an eyebrow when you began to tie him to aforementioned chair. 

Spencer knew better than to question you, and he knew better than to speak without being spoken to. So when he dared open his mouth to talk, you’d quickly snapped your fingers, the sound reverberating through the empty, cold garage. 

Whatever word he tried to say had been quickly replaced with a weak whimper. You let out a small huff of amusement, you’d expected this. 

The dull brown cotton of his slacks were out to get him, he was convinced. You’d had enough of an ego boost knowing he just came untouched, but as the light fabric began to darken as it soaked with semen, you just couldn’t help yourself. 

“Look at you, making a mess so easily.”

You almost scoff, your words taunting and mean.  This was your own doing, how could you possibly blame him for this? But you did anyways, and he hung his head in shame as he tried to ignore the sticky spend seeping into his briefs. 

“I-I’m sorry, couldn’t help it.” 

It’s recommended to ask for permission before you beg for forgiveness, but you made sure he’d never be able to attempt the former. 

“Tell me what you know about counterconditioning, Spence.”

You say as you crouch down in front of him, granting the littlest bit of kindness as you start to undress him and rid him of his soiled clothes. 

The brunet stumbles over his words at first, but answers nonetheless. 

“I-It’s a way to reverse the effects of classical conditioning, associating a set conditioned response—“

You snap. He cums.

Spencer almost doubles over in shock as he shoots another load of sticky seed into his pants. 

“With another un—fuck—unconditioned stimulus.” 

You nod as you pull his cum drenched briefs and pants down his legs, and look up to him with eyes that render him absolutely useless. 

“And how would I do that, to stop this?”

You emphasize your question with the swipe of your fingers across his slick covered tip. His thighs twitch around your head and he licks his lips, trying to take back what little composure he’s ever had.

“Y-You could do that–“ His eyes flicker down to where you’re touching his cock “A-And stop snapping. E-Eventually there won’t be an association between the stimuli.” 

Spencer speaks with an urgency that’s only found in those who know they’re done for. 

“But you don’t want that, do you?”

Your voice drips in a malicious seduction, tilting your head to the side as if to feign an innocence only he should have. 

It doesn’t take more than a second for him to shake his head. Even with his cock aching and his thighs sticky, his need to obey you was stronger than the pain of his self. 

So when you smile up at him, looking genuinely proud, it makes the ache worth it. He smiles back, albeit crooked and broken. 

The moment doesn’t last long, of course it doesn’t. As soon as he saw you raise your hand and press your fingers together, his eyebrows wrung together and his thighs quickly shut. 

It was fascinating, it was as if his body just couldn’t stop itself. Even as only a few spurts shot out of his throbbing cock. Thick white drops of cum dripped down the veiny shaft, falling all the day down his balls and onto the chair beneath him. 

Spencer throws his head back and lets out a strained moan, one that was full of pain and little pleasure. 

It hurt so badly, and he could barely keep up. You were simply torturing him because you could.

“I-I can’t, please.”

He begs, shaking his head when you stand up from your knelt position and look down on him like he was a filthy animal. 

“I’ve only touched you once, and here you are cumming without my permission three times. How selfish.”

You degrade him, reducing him to the villain in the scenario. Tears begin to stream down his face and he can feel his heart twisting in his chest. 

You’re right, he’s failed you more times than acceptable. He should feel ashamed.

“I-I know, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Spencer practically sobs, his entire body trembles as it aches with the aftershocks of three forced orgasms. 

A small huff expels from your nose and you shake your head. It was unfair, really, how easily manipulated he was. 

It was your fault after all, but what was it worth if not the satisfaction of reducing this know-it-all of a man down to desperate pleads and animal-esque behavior? 

You’ve got your hand held up behind your back, he knows it. He knows you too well to ever even entertain the idea you’d ever listen to him, but he’s hopeless enough to try anyways. 

A sob wrecks through his throat and he feels as though he can barely breathe. 

“P-Please—Stop. Can we stop, please? I-I can’t do this anymore.” 

It’s cruel, the way you laugh in his face as he drowns in his tears. How foolish of him to even ask.

Maybe you were being a touch too cruel, but it was all worth it the moment you saw genuine fear fill his eyes and the slight shake of his head as he begged you one last time to end it. 

But he knew better, and he couldn’t help himself as the hand behind your back echoed a snap right through his ears and out his length. 

You see the way his mouth drops open in a shrill cry, and relish in the sight of nothing coming out of his poor cock in a torturous dry orgasm.

While letting out breathy moans, he digs his face further into your neck. He can't bear to look you in the eye, especially after his pointless begging. You take upon this chance to lightly bite Spencer's neck, making his volume increase again.

Below, your hand works busily on his cock, keeping at the same quick rhythm continuously. That is until he whines into your ear to let him orgasm this time.

As you fasten your pace, his grip on you tightens. This pulls you further into him, despite him leaning most of his weight into you. You don't really mind, honestly. You're mainly focused on the delicious sounds leaving your man, as he struggles to keep his voice down.

"Ah, Ma'am/Sir, pl-please let me cu-" Spencer's murmuring voice is interrupted by yours.

"I know what you want dear, but do you really want to get my clothes dirty?" You ask. "I thought you wanted to be good for me."

Slightly pulling his head away, he stares into your eyes with bitten lips opening and closing to form the right words.

"I-I do want to be good, I wa-want to be so good for you, but please I can't do this, ple-ahh, mmm, please let me, oh, please please…" Spencer rambles on to the point where you almost feel bad for him.

Skimming your mouth over his throat, you think you're convinced till a particularly sharp whine brings you back to your original plan. He just sounds and looks too good in this position, you want to savour every moment of it.

So, your hand leaves his dick, and you pull back slightly to admire his state.

Spencer stares are you in dismay, no amount of begging is working. His dick hurts so bad, the feeling of an orgasm building up just brings him to the edge. All he needs is you to give him a push, but you keep denying it, while smiling at his scrunched face.

'I know you can do it dear, you can hold on for another one, right?" You say, while running your hands over his chest, slowly inching down again.

Nodding his head in reply, he whispers a quiet "yes", and arches himself to you. You wrap a hand around his dick again, and begin to work him up to another orgasm.

***

There is nobody more interesting than Spencer Reid.

Though the world is filled with cute nerds, there is nobody in the world that will ever intrigue her more than the pretty boy laying on top of her, kissing her neck and rutting against her thighs desperately. His lips engulfed her skin by bites, licking and sucking on the soft skin. The silky pajamas she was wearing felt so soft against her skin but did not provide as much friction as Spencer would’ve wanted, but he didn’t want to get carried away either. He didn’t want to give away so much of him this soon.

The few months they had been together, Spencer had tried incessantly to hide the… needier side of him, and Y/N had been trying, and failing, to make him open up.

Except for when they’re getting intimate.

Granted, they hadn’t really gotten truly intimate yet. Attempting to respect each other’s limits a little bit too much, to the point where they hadn’t even mentioned the idea of getting intimate.

His fingers reached down to grab the hem of her shirt, slowly, for the first time. She bit her lip while nodding, and that was all of the confirmation he needed to pull it up. As he revealed her skin to him for the first time, he saw the many ink drawings and intricate details that decorated her torso.

She had been worrying about what Spencer would think about her tattoos. The baby of the BAU, the prodigy of the FBI, the good boy could have some issues with tattoos. Perhaps he would go on and on about how people with tattoos, statistically, had more self-destructive behaviour, or are more prone to committing crimes. But her worries dissipated as he let out an involuntary whine at the drawings, rutting against her legs faster.

Interesting.

His lips were drawn directly to the drawings, though not kissing them directly.

“Are uh…” he coughed, failing to cover the neediness in his voice, “are they healed? Can I touch them?” his honey-dripped eyes met with hers, and he was locked. He couldn’t look away.

She giggled, eyes trailing his own. “Of course, Spence” her hand reached out to grab his hair, pulling him down to steal one more kiss from him before letting him discover her body. His fingers reached up to touch the tattoos hesitantly, feeling the slight bump in the skin on the more recent designs.

His fingers trailed around her skin ever-so-softly, and it made her body long for him even more. The softness, the care with which he touched her, almost spiritually, made goosebumps rise on her skin. Her body arched when his fingers reached up to trace her chest, circling around her nipple. He shuddered, overstimulated, lowering his lips slowly to meet her soft skin.

“Y-You’re so beautiful, Y/N” he whispered, kissing down her navel to her lower stomach, triggering butterflies to flutter to her chest. She looked down at him, lovingly. How did I get so lucky to get him, she thought.

He pulled down her panties slowly, his hooded eyes looking up for approval at Y/N. Her hair was sprayed around her face, framing it perfectly as she nodded. She looked like art.

He loved the small, delicate designs on her skin. But what got him at the edge of cumming in his pants is the thought of the pain. It made him intrigued. I made him want to know why she had so many of them - if there was something more to it.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, arching her back at the sudden cold as Spencer lapped her pussy experimentally, trying to figure out what feels best for her.

“Is that good?” he mumbled against her core as she squirmed at his touch. “Mhm” she mumbled softly before reaching up to bite her arm, trying to muffle her moans.

His tongue circled her clit, his lips engulfing it as he sucked and licked it simultaneously. He saw the way her mouth formed an ‘O’ before biting her own hand again. His hand reached up to her arm, pulling it away from her mouth. His eyes locked onto hers as she looked down questioningly.

“I wanna hear you, love” he said earnestly, before diving in again. His fingers reached up to help him get her to feel more, sinking his middle finger into it experimentally, curling it up trying to find her g-spot.

Her toes curled, thighs snapping around his head and fingers reaching to curl around her hair. She pulled his hair, making him moan against her core, in return making her arch her back, cumming suddenly at the overwhelming amount of feelings.

His arm splayed across her hips trying to keep her still as he eagerly licked every last drop of her release. Her body shook under his arm as she rode out her high, grinding her pussy against his mouth.

His lips trailed up her stomach and chest until they reached her cheeks, planting a kiss on each over, then her nose and, lastly, her lips, relishing her blissful giggles.

***

How did I ever manage to get such a beautiful woman?

The silk sheets glistened under the morning light, which highlighted her skin as he looked at her. His honey-glazed eyes, slightly tired from the time he had been concentrated on the beautiful designs, but he couldn’t stop looking at them. Even with an eidetic memory, he never wanted to forget the ink that was embedded in her skin forever. His lips skimmed over her skin ever-so-softly, as to not wake her.

Though tattoos are usually seen as an aggressive expression of art, they felt like caresses on her skin, marking it as she was touched by all which inspires her.

For an instance, jealousy filled his chest and limbs at the thought of them being able to fulfill Spencer’s dream – to be etched onto her skin forever, not a second passing in which they weren’t together. Being ink would be a small price to pay to spend eternity next to her.

The combing of her fingers through his hair startled him out of his daydream. She tilted his head up by his hair, making him look at her through his eyelashes. Her face was filled with bliss, humming at the beautiful sight.

“Did you sleep well, baby?” his voice was raspy and his eyes were hooded. She looked so beautiful. He was certain he would never have enough of her. She grinned.

“I did… How long have you been awake?” she asked, watching his cheeks turns a crimson red, spluttering half-words.

“I- uh.. No-Not long, maybe… 30 minutes?” he finished, looking up at her. If she didn’t know any better she would think that he was searching for her approval.

She hummed, stroking his cheek softly, watching him pulling his lower lip between his teeth, doe eyes trailed on her every move. She propped herself up, holding herself up by her elbows to get a better look on the pretty boy skimming his breath over her stomach.

“You like my tattoos… Isn’t that right, baby?” she said, almost mockingly, watching him nod eagerly.

“Mhmm! Yeah, they’re very pretty” he trailed off, eyes trailing to look at her bare chest. “Eyes on me” she reprimanded him, watching as he didn’t budge, instead his lips twitching into a repressed smile. She let out a chuckle.

“You know what I mean!” he laughed with her, eyes meeting hers finally. “I did some of these myself…” she continued. “Of course, those on my arms were made by professionals, but when I was younger I learned back home how to make them. That way I could make a little bit of money while still getting my degree. I usually go to a place in the city because it’s so much easier to have someone else taking care of these, but making them myself can be fun” she finished, smiling, watching him look up at her mesmerizingly.

What a pretty boy, she thought.

She saw just how consumed he was at the thought of her getting tattoos, and all she wanted to do was indulge him – to fuel his interest, his hunger, and any other feelings that might arise.

Y/N decided to throw Spencer the bait, hoping he would take it.

“I want to get one done on my ankle. Would you like to come over and watch the process?” she didn’t even finish her sentence when he started nodding eagerly.

This is going to be fun.

***

His fingers shook with anticipation as he knocked steadily on the door. The wooden plank separated him from his girlfriend, and he could only feel the need to knock again, instead refraining from doing so. He swayed, waiting for not more than 15 seconds, but felt like an eternity. His hands held his duffle bag and a surgical mask tightly.

The door opened suddenly, making him look up at the girl. The sweatpants he had forgotten once early in their relationship hung on her hips, and the white tank top which, frankly, was the best option when tattooing for mobility reasons, but he couldn’t care less about that. The outline of her nipples against the thin fabric hindered him from having any coherent thoughts.

She laughs. “What’s that?” she points at the surgical mask. He looks down, chuckling nervously.

“I uh… I know that open wounds s-such as tattoos need to be sterilized and protected from infection and I wanted to make sure you would be safe” he finished, smiling up at her.

She turns, walking him into her apartment. The table where they usually place popcorn during their movie nights had been moved, surrounding it with three tall chairs, one of which was filled with materials.

“That isn’t really necessary, Spence. It’s not like were going through a pandemic, or something like in movies” she chuckles lightly. He’s always been so careful when it comes to her. “Plus, I know you wouldn’t’ve come if you were sick”.

“Actually, some studies show that we carry so much bacteria we could fill a large can of soup…” he explained, hands putting his mask inside his bag before placing it carefully on the floor. He took off his coat and scarf, “… in fact, about three to five pounds of bacteria could be collected from any adult”.

He walked over to Y/N, who was placing the stencil carefully over her ankle, wetting it slightly. He watched her fingers working as she pulled the paper carefully, examining the design. The purple paint depicted some sort of lizard. His eyes were googly and there was a banana peel on his head.

“Does it mean anything?” he whispered, getting close to her. She smiled at him before looking down at the design, realizing how much she liked it. The ink and the machine were all prepped, so she placed her ankle on a stable chair, bending over it to see if she had enough mobility. She grabbed a pair of white gloves from a box, putting them on dexterously.

“You are going to be my assistant today, okay? After sterilizing my gloves I can’t touch anything else than the sterilized skin and machine” her hands moved to grab the alcohol, rubbing it on her gloved fingers before pouring some on a cotton ball and cleaning over the design again.

“Of course! Anything you need” he rushed, standing next to her ready, eagerly, not unlike a puppy waiting to go play with their owner.

The machine whirrs as she starts tattooing the eye, following the lines of the design. It was sightly separated from the lizards’ face, but somehow it looked perfect.

“It’s a character from a children’s book…” she started, eyes trailing over the skin. Her eyebrows were knitted together and her bottom lip was pulled between her teeth, “… their name is Rumple Buttercup. The book is about uh…” she trails off, grabbing a tissue removing the extra ink and blood, “…this character, who is a lizard, right? But everybody around him is human. He feels so lost and lonely that he moved to a drain under the town to hide from them. He thought he would be rejected!” her voice carries so much emotion, so much excitement, “but then, he finds that the people he thought would reject him try to support him, getting him out of the sewers and into the world.”

She’s going over the mouth as she continues speaking. “I’ve been wanting to get him tattooed for a long time. I wish everybody would allow themselves to get out of the sewers and fully enjoy the world” she finished, looking up at Spencer. His eyes were glossy and he bit his lip, looking back at the tattoo.

Her fingers continued working on the design.

“So, do they all have meanings?” he questions, pointing at her arms, which held a few tattoos.

She nodded, “I mean, some do and some don’t. This one on my left arm, the Loki helmet, is cute. But I didn’t really have a connection to it.” She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth again.

“But it’s all safe, right?” he was now walking around her, looking at the tattoo from different angles, before looking at the materials. She chuckled lightly.

“Yea, Spence. It’s all safe. I take all precautions possible to ensure that nothing bad happens”, she lifts her hand, leaving the pen on the machine, “tissue” she demanded, watching Spencer stumbling to get it to her as soon as possible. She held back a smile, cleaning the tattoo one last time.

“Do you like it?”.

Spencer looked at the design wide-eyed, mouth agape. “Oh my! That’s so cute!” he exclaimed. “Did it hurt a lot?”

“Not really, Spence. It’s more of a pinch… Do you want one?” she laughed watching him look at her in disbelief.

“I can get one? It’s so cute! Wait, does it hurt too much? I mean, I know it doesn’t hurt you because you’re used to it, but will it hurt me? Is it totally safe? Not-Not that I don’t trust you, Y/N. I trust you with my life. Oh, can I get the same one as you?” he asked question after question as she covered her tattoo in film, before getting up, giggling.

“I’ll go get another set of supplies”.

**

It didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Frankly, he had been nervous until the moment when Y/N had placed the pen on the skin, starting by the eye like she had done with hers. He meant it when he said he trusted her with his life. His heart rushed.

It wasn’t from the nerves.

His eyes are trailed on her concentrated face. This time she isn’t speaking, too scared of making a mistake or hurting the pretty boy squirming under her. Her lips are spread slightly, mirroring his own, and all he wants to do is reach out to kiss her.

“Spencer, be a good boy and stay still. I don’t want to ruin your pretty skin”, she watched him nod eagerly before resuming her work.

Her tits were brushing ever-so slightly against his leg, and he would’t’ve even noticed if it weren’t for the adrenaline that was rushing to his brain at the pain, which was somehow being registered as pleasure. His legs tensed slightly, and his eyes shut at the feeling. Her fingers were brushing against his ankle, her soft skin raising goosebumps wherever she touched.

His pants felt uncomfortably tight as he became incredibly hard. The dexterity with which she worked was similar to that which she always had when she brushed her finger down a page, skimming for information – which she had when her fingers grasped his cock, milking him so efficiently he could feel it right now. He heard the machine, which stopped whirring, but he couldn’t open his eyes to look at her without cumming in his pants.

“Oh, my love… You’ve worked yourself up to quite a state, huh?” she stood slightly, wanting to brush her fingers against his bottom lip. Instead, she brushed her own against his, teasingly.

“Mhmm” he whimpered, opening his eyes to look at her every move.

“Words, baby. You know this” she reprimanded him, looking into his honey-glazed ones.

“Y-Yes Mommy, I have” he whimpered pathetically, and she wantd to leave the tattoo like that, but she knew better.

She also wanted to see how good he could be for her.

“After covering and cleaning up your tattoo, we’ll do something about your little problem. How does that sound?” she watched him falling apart slowly, desperate to release. But he knew better.

He gulped. “Okay” he peeped. As Y/N cleaned him up, he knew that she was taking longer than usual. She was testing him – trying to get him to crack.

If there’s something Spencer had always succeeded at, thought, was tests.

Through whimpers over the sensitive skin, and tight eyes trying to control what he looked at instead of trailing his eyes on her tits, he managed to survive her test, leaving him panting, lips red and knuckes white.

“Take off your pants and spread your legs like a good boy” she demanded, “and be careful. You can’t do any strenuous activity for a week after getting the tattoo” she watched as he rushed out of his pants, his cock standing tall, flush against his lower stomach.

His jaw dropped when he saw that she stood up to clean up their surroundings. “This is expensive equipment, Spencer. I can’t have it lying around” she explained innocently, suppressing a smile at his face. His eyes were wide, pout prominent and knuckles turning white. Small, cute pants were being expelled through his warm lips.

Her legs were weak at the sight of Spencer getting so worked up over nothing. He was so responsive, and she couldn’t wait to play with him.

She stood in front of him, hands on her hips as she stared him down.

“I worked very hard on your tattoo, baby…” her now-bare thumb reaching up to brush over his bottom lip, feeling his breath on her hand. She pulled her thumb into his mouth, watching him suck on it. “…wouldn’t want your pretty ink to get ruined, would we?” she watched as he shook his head.

“Use your words, baby” she said, not bothering to remove her thumb from his mouth. She watched him squirm for a minute.

“I’ll be good, mommy. I promise” his eyes were hooded as he humiliatingly mumbled around her thumb.

She was satisfied.

Removing her thumb, she got on her knees in front of him, holding his cock. It was pressed flush against his stomach, the tip red and sensitive as she blew on it, making him whimper loudly. Soft outlines of veins decorated the sides. Her mouth watered.

She licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, relishing the way his thighs clenched tightly and he threw his head back, letting out little “ah ah ah”s when she started sucking on his head deeply, licking off the precum she was milking out of him. It wouldn’t take him too long to cum.

His fingers reached to grab her hair, shakily pushing it out of her face.

“Y-You’re so beautiful, Y/N” he whispered between whines, groaning as she responded by taking him in completely, the tip of his head hitting her throat repeatedly. She hummed in approval at his words, her own stomach clenching. She sped up, needing to watch him release. His small whimpers and her gags were the only thing that could be heard in the room, and still it was so overwhelming to Spencer. He came in her mouth, squirming and thrashing around as she milked his release, overstimulating him with her warm mouth.

She popped his cock out of her mouth, swallowing his release. She watched the pretty boy trying to catch his breath, looking down at her blissfully.

“So… you liked the pain?

**

did you like it? did you like that?