oh and also more no boundaries spencer đđźđđź just re-read it and I need him so bad. like dial up the lack of boundaries, the possessiveness (from him) and you're cooking
not dating - spencer reid
summary: you and spencer were not dating. then why did you act like this?
wc: 2.1k+
cw: SMUT, possessive/jealous spence
Pt 2 to 'and they were roommates' but this could also be read as a standalone.
a/n: I HOPE THIS DID IT. like i totally see what you mean, i feel as though the last fic wasn't as non-boundaries as i was trying to emulate, so i hope this one was better. we're gonna get there no boundaries anon, don't worry
You and Spencer were not dating.
That was part of the promise that sleeping together would not affect your friendship. So instead, you continued living together as per usual, staying best friends. But there were signs that Spencer thought of you as more as a friend. For example, tonight. You had ever so sweetly asked Spencer if you could host a little party for your birthday and he had said yes, anything for you.
But now, Spencer had realised that the party was slightly bigger than just âlittleâ.
You were Spencerâs best friend; there was no one he loved more than you, but at the sight of some of your friends, he frowned. You were always mature and kind, but some of the people you shared classes with were seriously immature, and gave Spencer the impression that they were all frat boys when they they did their bachelors degree.
You were lost in the apartment, dancing to the music with a drink in hand. Spencer sat on the couch, watching as people danced around you, the conversation had by the two girls on the couch completely drowned out. Spencer crossed his arms over his chest, huffing slightly. He didnât like that your attention wasnât on him. Worse, he hated that your attention was on a tall, finance bro looking guy, so typically masculine with his hand resting on your hip as he moved his body with yours.
Spencer stood up, making his way onto the makeshift dance floor in the living room. Your eyes lit up as you spotted him on the dance floor and you immediately abandoned the man you were dancing with to greet him with a big hug. âHey Spence! Come meet my friend Denis!â Denis, Spencer thought. He had a finance bro name too. Spencer kept an arm around your waist as you dragged him over to meet your friend.
The two men introduced themselves with a solid handshake, and Spencer was glad to discover that Denis was shorter than him. âOh, youâre the FBI guy, right? The genius?â Spencer grinned, looking down at you and attempting to guise his arrogance by teasing you. âTalk about me much?â âCanât help myself, Spence.â
âLet me guess Denis," Spencer started. "Accounting and finance.â
âShit, you really are a genius! Howâd you know?â
âWell, the FBI doesnât just hire anyone.â Spencer replied with a wink, dragging you away from Denis and the busy crowd of dancing bodies. His smirk dropped when he turned away from Denis, rolling his eyes. It didn't take a genius to take a guess at Denis's major. Spencer kept guiding you across the apartment until he was playing with his keys to open the locked kitchen door. âThe kitchen, Spence? We have two bedrooms and this is what you choose?â Your roommate kicked the door shut, digging his head into the crook of your neck and whining softly at your words.
Giggling softly, you wrapped your arms over Spencerâs shoulders, a hand playing with the hair on the back of his neck. His hands tightened around your waist and he pushed you back until your hips hit the kitchen counter. Spencerâs front laid flat against yours and he deeply inhaled your perfumed scent as you held each other in the kitchen.
âYou sick of everyone?â Spencer nodded against the skin of your neck and you turned your head slightly to press a kiss to his head. Spencer dug his head out from your neck, glimpsing down towards your lips with a silent question. He leaned in closer, and you smiled softly, pressing your lips against his in a short kiss. âWhy donât you hide away in your room? No one will say anything.â
âI want to be close to you.â
âOh Spence, you know Iâm right here.â Spencerâs hands trailed underneath your shirt, cold against the warmth of your body. âHey, look at me.â Spencer abided to your request, lifting his eyes up to meet yours. âI promise when everyone leaves Iâll come to your room and cuddle.â Spencer licked his lips, staying silent for a long moment before finally nodding. âOkay.â
But Spencer didnât move away yet. âSpence?â âI-I donât want Denis to flirt with you.â
âIâll stay as far away from him as I can, okay?â Spencer looked back towards the kitchen door before turning back to you and dipping his head down to kiss you again, claiming your lips as his.
You and Spencer were not dating.
Even as he retreated into his room, locking the door behind him and you returned to your friends, you stayed away from a flirtatious Denis, just because you had promised him to. You knew Denis could have wooed you into bed, and you could have had an enjoyable night together, but you promised Spencer to return to him when the party was over to give him all the cuddles he could want.
Your friends asked you about him. Is he single? They questioned, because Spencer was undeniably an attractive man. And despite the raging jealousy you felt, you smiled with raised eyebrows, teasing them about their crush on him. But no, you told them, heâs not single. Because even though you weren't dating: Spencer was yours.
âAnyway heâs my best friend. Heâs off limits anyway.â And your friends had shared a look, asking what he had pulled you into the kitchen for. You didnât realise they had seen. âHe got overwhelmed by the crowd. Wanted to tell me heâd be going to his room.â
You and Spencer were not dating.
You shooed away the last of your crowd of friends through the gap in the open door, telling them you loved having them over, but Spencer didnât want anyone home past 1 am, hence the timing on the invitation.
Locking the door behind Amelia, who insisted for you to âHave fun with Spencerâ while winking at you. Of course she knew. Not because he was the person closest to you after Spencer, but because you were so obvious, and she had an eye for romance.
Knocking on Spencerâs door, it didnât even take him five seconds to open it for you. He smiled at you, contacts replaced by his thickly rimmed glasses, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. âI need to take my makeup off and change into pyjamas, but I just wanted to tell you everyoneâs gone.â Spencer nodded, following you out into the narrow hallway and towards your room.
His hands found home on your hips when you came to a stop in front of your bathroom mirror, reaching for your cotton pads and micellar water. Spencer pushed his front against your back, chin resting on your shoulder as he watched you take your makeup off. You grabbed your cleanser next, leaning over the sink as you watched away any last remnants of your makeup. Spencer was ready for you with some thick napkins instead of your face towel, dabbing gently at your face before you went in with moisturiser. "It's better than a towel," He'd say, "Since napkins are disposable, they won't gather bacteria like a towel. That would break you out."
âWant some?â Wordlessly, Spencer nodded, letting you spin in his arms to face him. You massaged the moisturiser into his skin, being carefully not to knock over his glasses. Spencer grabbed both your wrists, lowering your hands slightly so he could press kisses to your open palms.
You and Spencer were not dating.
He was welcome to stay in your bathroom though whilst you changed into your pyjamas. You lifted your dress over your head, stripping away your bra to throw a small tank top over your head. Spencer watched the exposed surface area of your body as you returned to your bedroom, fishing out large sweatpants before returning to the bathroom, still talking to Spencer as you let your panties slip down the expanse of your legs.
Tossing your clothes into your laundry basket, you hiked the sweatpants up your legs, humming attentively as Spencer gave you a break down on his opinions about each individual person who had been in your house just an hour ago.
You nodded, making a mental list of who you could never have over again. One that started with Denis, otherwise your best friend would go crazy.
âLetâs go to bed?â
You and Spencer were not dating.
But he guided you into his room anyway, and let you lay down on your preferred side of his bed, resting your head on the extra pillow he had just for you.
Spencer made himself comfortable against your back, light fingertips running alongside the dip of your waist. He pressed kisses to your shoulder, all the way up to your neck, where he had to move your hair to reach your skin.
You and Spencer were not dating.
His hand found the waistband of your sweatpants, licking his chapped lips before asking âCan I?â You hummed, lifting your hips up to make it easier for Spencer to drag your sweatpants down your legs. They stayed pooled around your ankles, but you had enough space to spread your legs for him as much as you could from your position on your side.
Spencer ran a hand up and down your thigh before ridding himself of the confines of his sweatpants. He brought a hand to his cock, stroking himself to make himself harder.
Changing your mind on the position, you flipped around on the bed so you could face Spencer, and he gasped at the sight of your low-cut tank top, exposing the sight of your tits to him, swollen from your compromising position on your side. Pushing away Spencerâs hand, you replaced it with your own, squeezing his shaft tightly. âOkay, okay, thatâs good!â Spencer gasped, long fingers wrapping around your wrist to stop your movements on his cock, which was becoming increasingly sensitive.
His free hand eased your leg up to rest on his hip, opening you up for him. He slid his hand down to touch you, his fingers travelling down your slit before returning upwards to rub little circles onto your clit. âNot surprised youâre already so wet. You get horny when you drink.â
âSpence! Thatâs mean.â
âItâs the truth.â
âWell, I could say the same for you.â
âThatâs no secret. But Iâm always horny for you.â
You and Spencer were not dating.
Spencer slid a finger into your entrance, causing you to gasp loudly, a hand coming up to clutch his bicep. Removing his hand from you, he slid the finger coated with your juices into his mouth, sucking on it gently. Your eyes were trained on his mouth as he did, and the second his finger was out of his mouth, your lips were on him, eagerly kissing him.
The man moaned quietly, a hand wrapping around his dick to bring it to your entrance, beginning to push it in mid-kiss. You whined loudly, breaking apart from the kiss to throw your head back, pushing your chest up. Spencerâs eyes widened at the sight of your chest so close to his face, so with a final thrust of his hips, filling you up completely, he moved his attention to your tits, pulling your shirt up to expose them to him.
Leaning down, Spencer captured a nipple between his lips, sucking gently on the bud. You gasped, bringing a hand up to lace in Spencerâs hair. Your hips began moving on their own accord, grinding against Spencer to feel every inch of his cock inside you. Spencer pulled his hips back slightly, moving them forward to push back into you.
The movements were lazy, your hips rolling to support his motions. Spencer moaned out your name, feeling his balls tighten with his approaching orgasm. He separated his mouth from your tits, bringing his lips to your neck, where he immediately began sucking hickeys onto your skin, dragging his teeth against your neck. You shuddered, arching your back when his fingertips connected to your clit, adding pressure onto the already sensitive area.
You could tell he was pulling out all the stops to try and make you cum with him, but it was still working.
You and Spencer were not dating.
But as you both orgasmed, crying out each otherâs names like a shared secret, Spencer couldnât stop the confession from tumbling out of his lips like a prayer. âI love you.â He cried, hips stuttering before stilling, emptying his load inside you. âFuck, I love you, I love you, I love you.â
You and Spencer were not dating.
When you came down from your high, you giggled softly, pressing a kiss to Spencerâs lips and mumbling âI love you too, Spence.â
You and Spencer were not dating.
But he still made sure you went to the bathroom and drank plenty of water to rehydrate yourself, before forcing you back into bed with him, where he held you as you slept in his arms. Like, really held you.
You and Spencer were not dating, but it was in that moment that Spencer decided he would ask you to become his. Officially.
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SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just⌠balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other theyâre in love).
ââââ 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???? itâs not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), cryingâ 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, heâs 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.
Youâre late today. Chicago, youâve 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 doesnât work.
Hereâs 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 wouldnât want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? Heâs also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.
The list stretches on.
But you and Spencer canât both be the brains of the team. Itâs unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why canât he justâ
Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Whyâ 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. âDonât,â you push, padding into the office, met with Spencerâs hardened gaze. âLate night.â
âWe havenât been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and youâve alreadyââ
âGet your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.â
âDid you take a break?â he asks, and you both know itâs not born from care. âMaybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isnât the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, letâs hope we donât find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotchââ
âHave I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?â that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you canât know, itâs not statistically possible that youâd be aware of Hankelâs lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes youâd be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.
âRight, umâ the case,â he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, itâs all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.
âThe case.â you agree.
Youâre attuned to each other, a psychological curse heâs forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. âLook at these markingsââ 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 thereâs an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you donât need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that heâs moved onto the nuances now.
Human sacrifice, itâs not the first time youâve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But itâs certainly the first time of its kind.
âTraces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.â 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.
Itâs 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 youâre higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. âRegina Horthorne,â the victim, âStraight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said⌠bacchanal?â
âHm. I donât know, maybe sheâs like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.â 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 heâs analysed you the way youâve analysed him. Itâs a futile question, of course he has.
Anything to gain the upper hand.
You continue, âMaybe theyâre sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.â
âIâm already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. Thereâs a high probability âtheyâ, the dominant unsub, wouldnât even look at me, andââ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.
âThereâs a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and youâre wasting time by insulting me?â Spencer isâŚ.. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. âThe BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.â
âOh, you wound me boy genius.â 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 goodsâ do you struggle to sleep like I do?
You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. Thereâs 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. âAre you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Donât worry, iâll let you take the credit for it. Iâm sure Gideon will be so impressed.â
Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.
The distance between you has become almost null. Itâs intimate, and heâs not sure how he feels about that. âIâm not bitter. And I donât care about the credit.â A lie. âUnlike you, I donât need to prove my worth to him.â
ââââââââââââ
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 thatâs installed into your mind the moment youâre employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. Youâre not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, thereâs no heroes in real life. Maybe itâs the sense of family, or maybe itâs just what everyone subconsciously fell into.
You canât understand why youâre so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakotaâ deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. âI assumed you two would get along,â Prentiss had statedâ but what does she know? Sheâs been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.
The hostility has mounted to new levels now.
Itâs hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that canât 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 youâre both stuck in this loop.
South Dakota, of course itâs 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.
Youâre 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. âI can do this myself. No offence,â full offence, âbut youâre unneeded right now. In general, really.â
You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He canât remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what heâd endure. Itâs still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.
âNo you canât,â you retort. Maybe itâs unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostilityâ people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps thereâs 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.
âYouâre just bitter that I know what Iâm doing. Youâre 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.â
Well thatâs certainly unlikely.
âI think,â 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 heâs 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?
âI think youâre insecureâ he continues, âbecause you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, youâre replaceable. Itâs why youâre so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You canât stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks Iâm better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.â
This is uncharted territory now. Itâs never been pushed to this extent. Itâs never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. Youâd 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 thatâs different from your own personal view of him.
Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.
Thereâs silence, and then heâs dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. âDid he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?â
Spencer falters.
Itâs a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that youâre right. Heâd 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 didnât 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.
Spencerâs eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.
âYou donât get to bring that into this.â He murmurs. âShut up.â
âYou started thisââ
âAre you 5?â he bites back, âI was making an observation.â
When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, youâre quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesnât get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps itâs perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe itâs all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.
âWhere are you going? You canât walk away from this one.â you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks thatâll stain and remind and then acheâ itâs repetitive now.
âI covered for your ass.â you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU couldâve lost your license, you still. Didnât. Say. Anything.
Itâs not like it took much effort to discern the truth.
âI also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.â youâre 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 didnât notice. Didnât 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 thatâs more than heâs 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 heâs stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like heâs Icarus and youâre the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if itâll seal his fate as foolish.
Itâs a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. Itâs 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 thatâs impossible to endure.
He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and heâs just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates youâ he hates you so much that sometimes he canât breathe when youâre around.
You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.
âI think Iâd rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.â he says, and he mightâve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.
The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like heâs trying to find an answer in response to it. Thereâs a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.
God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. Heâs 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.
âI wish you were being held hostage. Itâd be quieter,â you retort. Itâs muffled, and youâre 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 donât even realise are occurring.
You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isnât that what youâve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?
Itâs sick. Itâs sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How youâve 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 itâs there, and itâs pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. Heâs backed against the wall now, and he canât find it in him to complain.
âOf course it would be you,â he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; heâs well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesnât feel pure.
People like him donât 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 heâs almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.
But he canât. Because that isnât him when heâs with you. âAre you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, Iâd like to see you try.â
Admittedly, itâs not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, heâs 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 heâs crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.
âOnly person whoâs ever touched you, huh?â 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, itâs just you. Itâs 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 heâll inevitably regret. âPlease, I canât-â
Heâs supposed to hate this, hate you.
âCantâ canât take it. Oh,â he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but youâre gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.
âEyes on me, boy genius.â
He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like youâre artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once heâs had his fill.
âLetâs look at you. Hm?â you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and thereâs so many layers, and heâs acting coy now, as if he wasnât 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 isnât 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 didnât expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He canât fight your trailing gaze, and he doesnât want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this itâ raw uncut intimacy.
Youâre 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.
âMhh,â he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.
Heâs 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.
âYouâreâ oh.. youâre enjoying this far too much,â 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 canât process the shame thatâs bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and itâs not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.
âThat itâs. There you go. Thatâs my good boy.â
Spencer sobs.
âShh, shh, I know, I know, itâs a lot.â thereâs 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. Heâs not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that heâs 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, itâs what youâre both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But youâre not. That confuses him to no extent.
âI canâtâ cant, âm so close.â his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. Itâs not the most conventional âfirst timeâ, but he takes it regardless.
âYeah?â you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. âYou wanna cum for me, hm?â
âOh god,â he breaks, âYesâ yes, pleaseââ
You have no interest in denying him, not when heâs this destroyed from a mere hand-job. âGo on then. Just because you asked so nicely.â
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, itâs quiet, as if youâre both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.
âThis is, uhâ yeah.â he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, heâs starting to think youâre the personification of the serpent.
Or maybe itâs the other way around. He doesnât hold his own body to such pure standards. Heâs not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything heâs done to it.
âHey wait,â youâre not good at this whole âniceâ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds ofâŚ. youâre 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 canât quite understand.
âDonât make me chase you a second time, jesus.â You canât just leaveââ you exhale, breathe, in and out, âAre you okay?â
He stops. He stops because youâve 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 thatâs not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesnât matter, that the inevitable fallout wonât occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isnât right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.
âI donât know, im confusedââ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. âYeah, im uh⌠iâm fine. âI just need to leave, I have to-â he swallows. âI canât. Not right now, I need to doâ anything but this.â
He walks out on you and itâs fine.
ââââââââââââ
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. Itâs. Fine.
Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how youâve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if itâs ever going to be reversible.
When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. Youâre adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. Itâs late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldnât go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).
Everything is fine. To reiterate.
Itâs not.. Itâs not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. Heâs fairly certain he doesnât 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? Itâs exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldnât 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, heâs not. Because, sure, heâs sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But heâs intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and itâs making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he canât quite believe youâre tangible.
âYou look nice, I guess,â he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.
As if the âincidentâ (as heâs taken to calling it) didnât tilt his world on its axis.
âYou also look nice, I guess.â you retort, and itâs the best youâre 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?Youâre. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.
âWhat do you think?â you ask, âI might go as you for halloween, itâll definitely scare the kids.â
âThey make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, Iâd take that as a compliment,â
Itâs 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, exposingâ no.
He wants to say something about how ridiculous you lookâ but itâs hard to focus, youâre taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. Youâre malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which youâve already done to a painful extent).
âYou canât just touch my stuff.â he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.
âOh chill out, boy wonder. Itâs a pair of glasses,â 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. Thereâs 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, itâs a sight youâve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. âThere. Oh, were you just upset because you couldnât see me properly? Thatâs sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.â
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 itâs not good enough.
âYou,â he says between messy kisses, âNeed to keep your hands to yourself.â â okay, heâs 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. Youâre bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.
But now, thereâs no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god heâs tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).
The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. âThis canât keep happening,â he mumbles against your smeared lips.
âDo you remember last time?â you question. Itâs taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But youâre fairly certain this compromising position wouldnât 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 âdignifiedâ extent. âHad you just like this,â you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. âI bet youâd let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?â
And if he werenât so far gone, heâd protest, heâd tell you that no, this is wrong, because youâre so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldnât be him.
But you donât let good men rise, and thereâs something so enticing about the depths of hell. Heâs not sure heâs good anyway. Itâs a complex situation. âYouâre a sadist,â he murmurs, breathless, âI wouldnât.â
Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. Heâs nervous, âCould we, like⌠at least find a bathroom? Iâd take a bathroom, even though thereâs endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, iâll just payâ Anything. Iâll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, andââ
âFuck,â heâs never been the type to swear, âIâll do anything.â this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.
ââââââââââââ
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 youâre both inside your apartment, youâre clattering into things. âI love your eyes,â you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, âLove it when you cry for me.â
You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they mightâve 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!
âItâs an involuntary bodily response. Youâre a dacryphiliac.â he responds.
Thereâs 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.
Heâs reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.
âItâs not a fetish if I only feel it for youââ
Spencer breaks.
âNo-no-no,â he says, too loudly, âYou canât just- say those things. You canât tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. Youâre volatile. Destructive,â he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. Youâve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.
âWhy am⌠Why am I not scared?â he asks, âItâs not like I make you cryâŚâ
âBecause thereâs no reason to be scared.â you answer simply. And at surface level, itâs true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, youâve always trusted him. Itâs a coveted admission, considering youâre circumspect by nature.
You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. Heâs standing there, and youâre not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps youâve misplaced as enmity for so long.
âYou could make me cry,â you state, because if thereâs one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, itâs him. Itâs always going to be him.
Itâs a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.
âWhy would I want you to cry? Thatâsâ iâm not even sure how I would go about it.â
You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until youâre hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. âIt doesnât always have to be bad.â you explain, because heâs looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. âLast time,â those words still feel like poison, âWhen I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.â
Heâs staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.
Your hand catches his wrist, and then youâre hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. Heâs tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. âMake me cry, boy genius.â
You act like this is the most indecent thing heâs capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, itâs up there on his list, but admittedly he hasnât 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 heâs just groaning, cursing Gods he doesnât believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he wonât commit to.
Itâs blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if heâs worshiping something he canât 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 youâre 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 didnât 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 itâs not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when heâs 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, youâre ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head youâve received (though youâre sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but itâs wanting, in a way that makes you ache.
âOh oh, fuckâ fuckfuckfuck.â
You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, heâd 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 canât focus, canât think about anything when youâre reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?
He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, letâs 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 youâre making noises he hasnât heard before, sounds that could only be described as obsceneâ and his name, youâre moaning his name, and god, heâs certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.
Itâs when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.
Youâre messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but youâre gorgeous, and heâd do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that heâs given you. No one else.
âI love your face.â He says, a little bluntly. But itâs 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. Thatâs the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when youâve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. Itâs 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 youâve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, heâs an incriminating sight.
âLosing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.â you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. Itâs a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.
âIronic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.â he mutters.
Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and heâs lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because heâd let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way heâs never felt before. Youâre seeing him, seeing things he doesnât even know himself. But thereâs nowhere to hide, not while youâre slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that heâs unaccustomed to.
âI wonât go easy on you,â you assure. Even though thatâs technically a straight-faced lie. Of course itâll be more tender than anything else youâve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. Itâs 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.
âHands above your head,â you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. âThatâs goodâ good boy. Tell me if theyâre too tight,â you say, binding them with his discarded tie.
You stare, and itâs like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, heâd 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.
âToo tight? Iâve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.â he retorts before tugging at the restraints, âTighter.â
âDidnât realise you were so into thisââ
âNeither did I,â he scoffs, âIâve never done it before, obviously.â
âNow you have. Congrats, iâll give you a sticker once weâre done. Gold star, huh?â and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until youâre knotting it in place. Until heâs entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? Itâs hard to find fear when youâve covered him on the field for over a year (heâs prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).
âYes, thank you. Iâll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.â right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.
And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.
Ironically, thatâs exactly what he wants.
Youâre 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.
Youâre lethal, and heâs smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except heâs 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 heâs spilling blood, and itâs a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.
âSensitive.â you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way youâve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.
âAre you always like this?â you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. âPoor baby, so touch-starved.â
âI donât know if Iâd use the word sensitive.â he replies, âMore susceptible to the fact that youâre touching me, and that I havenât felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, itâs usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.â
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.
âOh youâre a soldier, you suffer so much.â you state, and itâs 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 youâre witnessing ascension.
Itâs 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 youâre certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe thereâs 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 itâs bad, even if itâs 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.
âStop mocking me.â he replies, itâs through laboured breath. âJust because I donât have your proclivity for taking hits doesnât mean I donât suffer.â
No oneâs ever touched him like this. No oneâs ever cared to try. Youâre his first.
âI know you suffer,â 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 shouldâve 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. Itâs not similar to before: it wonât end after heâs found his release, and itâs not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.
âAnd you know iâm always going to take the hits for you, regardless.â 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.
âOhââ he breathes out. Heâs fairly certain heâs supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then heâs retorting, âYou could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.â
Heâs 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 isnât worthy of being saved. Isnât worth the effort.
âShut the fuck up, Spencer.â you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.
âShitâ okay, okay,â he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but itâs just so good.
Heâs 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 doesnât even really touch himself. Thereâs been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But theyâre rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.
Heâs 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.
Heâs never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because heâd 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, heâd accept it, in its most primal form.
âYou get off on this,â he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.
âWell Iâd be pretty concerned if I wasnât getting off on this right nowââ
âNo,â he pushes, âYou like that iâm, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?â he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. âRuin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. Iâll only come back, iâve already done it once. Statistically, itâs going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.â
When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until youâre lining him up, until youâre sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.
âYouâre soââ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. âFuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?â
âYou.â he mutters, playing coy. âBut youâre a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..â
âI think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.â
âIt is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..â
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.
âBetter,â 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? Heâs swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.
You know him. The way you touch is like youâre searching for something. Anything about him. Itâs like youâre a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you mustâve found them, because youâre suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and itâs all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.
He tugs at his restraints, because he wonât go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows itâs fated that he will inevitably fall. âPleaseâplease untie me, just wanna hold your hand.â
And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until youâre breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. Itâs such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly youâre fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.
Itâs against your nature, but you canât help, canât refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. âYouâre doing so good fâme. Such a good boy,â
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. Thatâs the first thing he does once heâs 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 heâs sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until youâre on his lap, until youâre 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, heâd never be rough with you, heâs all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But itâs 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, itâs like heâs seeing god in the shape of your cupidâs bow.
âPlease, I needââ he stutters over his words, âIf you donât move, I swearââ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulderâ âI swear, Iâm gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you canât leave me like this, pleaseââ
âThe Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?â you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.
âNo. Iâm stating my rights,â he says, âTorture is prohibited.â
âIâm not torturing youââ
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.
âOhmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.â he whimpers.
Itâs indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices youâre certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, itâs new. Itâs your own first, and you canât 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 heâd thank you for it.
You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.
âPlease,â he whimpers againâ heâs too pretty to be asking so nicely. âI justâ I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that Iâm not even sure if my body can handle it.â
Itâs not dirty talk, itâs more like heâs 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.
Itâs a religious experience, like heâs about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. Heâs almost afraid to touch youâ to stain something divine, like youâre too much for him. But youâre not.
âI like this. Like you. Like you here. Youâre so good for me,â he murmurs, and itâs untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. âso good, so perfect, all I need, pleaseââ
âStop it.â you bite, preferring him defiant over thisâ because this opens up wounds you werenât even aware existed. âOh fuck, stop it.â
âSo good. Youâre so good,â he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.
âSays you.â
âSays me.â
You fuck him harder.
âOh,â is all he can pronounce, little ohâs every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until youâre bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.
And itâs not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. âIf being nice got me this, Iâd be so nice to you for the rest of my lifeââ
Another lie. But itâs 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 youâre clenching around him, and heâs there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and thereâs nothing but bliss.
âI hate you so much,â you say in the aftermath, and itâs closest youâve ever gotten to a confession of love.
He laughs, wipes away tears, âHate you more.â
âDonât leave this time.â he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, youâre both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.
âOh iâm going to be so mean tomorrow.â you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.
He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. âGod, is that a promise?â
Synopsis: Spencer joins the Mile High Club with your help.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader
Warnings: Handjobs, semi-public sex, they get caught (sort of?), soft sub!Spencer, soft dom!Reader, Spencer being a whimpering whining mess, facials, cum eating, established relationship, pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel, honey, good boy), literally so much praise, a little bit of crying from Spencer, like one (1) use of Y/N, slight dumbification, begging
Word count: 1.5K
Notes: My first Spencer fic wow!!!! Itâs been so long since Iâve written an actual fic, I missed it so much. Anyways I hope you all enjoy! For this I imagined like s1-s4 Spence but could technically be interpreted as any season
Cross-posted on A03.
Spencer Reid was not a bold man.
In fact, he would go as far to say he was the total opposite. At least, in his personal life he certainly was. He never made the first move, always waiting for that perfect time that never came.
He didnât like taking risks. Even calculated ones were too much for him sometimes. So he stayed in his little bubble of comfort and safety. He liked it there. Sure, it might make him the subject of a bit of teasing and he missed out on a few things, but at the end of the day he still liked it there.
Until he met you.
You were everything he wasnât. Outgoing, daring, bold. In some ways, you could even be described as a bit of an adrenaline junkie. Itâs 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.Â
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 wasnât 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 wasnât that you were trying to change him (you would never!), you were simply opening him up to things he wouldnât 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.Â
You were still wide awake. The rush of the case just closed still ran hot through your veins. Youâd 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 wasnât 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 Spencerâs 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. âSpence,â you crooned softly. âSpencer, wake up, baby.â Once Spencer actually fell asleep, he was a fairly light sleeper. It didnât take much before he was stirring awake with a quiet groan.
âWhat is it?â he asked, voice thick with sleep. His hands raised to rub at his eyes and you could only smile. âDid we land?â
âNo,â you said a little too quickly, âNo, I just..â You trailed off a little as your teeth sunk down on your bottom lip. âI had an idea.â 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 didnât 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 didnât 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.
âY/N-â he gasped. âWait, wait-â He took hold of your wrists, halting your movements. His eyebrows pinched together and his bottom lip jutted out ever so slightly. âWhat if we get caught?â
You grinned at him. âWell, I guess youâll just have to be quiet so we wonât.â 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.Â
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 Spencerâs knees buckled. Your pace was slow, almost languid, teasing.
âPlease,â Spencer whined. You grinned once more.
âPlease what?â 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. âYouâre so pretty, Spence..â
âPlease.â He wasnât even sure what he was begging for, pleasure clouding his usually bright mind. âPlease, please, pl-ease.â His voice cracked when you sped up, his head lulling back. âF-feels so good, oh god.â
You cooed at the state of him. âWhatâs wrong, sweetheart?â Faux pity coated your words, making Spencer whine again. âCome on, use your words, honey. I canât read minds.â 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.Â
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.
âAre you gonna cum?â 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. âGood boy,â 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 didnât waste a moment to resume your ministrations.
âLook at me, Spencer,â you commanded and he immediately followed the order. He nearly lost it at the sight of you on your knees before him. âGood boy, thatâs it..â You picked up the pace even further, hand almost a blur stroking him.
âIâm- Iâm gonna-â he stumbled over his words, unable to even form proper words as the pleasure grew. You shook your head.
âDo it, Spence,â you commanded again. âYou can do it. Cum all over my face, pretty boy.â And thatâs 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. âYou did such a good job, angel,â 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. âReid?â The call of your boyfriendâs name had you both glancing back to see Hotch awake in one of the jet chairs. âDonât do that againâ
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. âYes, sir,â Spencer said with a nod of his head.
You knew training someone like a dog wasn't the most ethical, but Spencer just makes it too easy to pass up.
Warnings: Sub Spencer, Mean reader, conditioning, forced orgasm, cumming in pants, dry orgasm, crying, begging, manipulation, ropes.Â
WC: 1.2K
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.Â
Throwing his head back and swallowing breathlessly, he looks to you and pleads.
âP-PleaseâStop. Can we stop, please?â
His rug burned wrists desperately trembling in their binds as he tries so hard to be good for you. Itâs wearing him down, youâve made him cum at least three times now simply by the snap of your fingers.Â
It wasnât this easy at first, and it didnât even register what you were doing when you finally gave him permission to cum and just so happened to snap at the same time.Â
No, it took a while. After the next few times, it confused him, he ignored it, but then it became an expectation to him.Â
Whenever your hand was tightly wound against the sensitive tip of his dripping cock, heâd look to you with those desperate pleading eyes before mustering up the courage to beg for release.Â
After heâd ask, he wouldnât wait for your call, no, instead heâd look down at wherever your free hand was.Â
As a man of extensive knowledge, especially to things pertaining something as simple as conditioning, Spencer knew these things worked.Â
He just hadnât even expected himself to be the lab rat in your little experiment.Â
But now, youâd find him adjusting just fine. At least to your standards.Â
As soon as he arrived home, you had dragged him to the garage. Heâd made no attempt to stop you, even as you sat him down on a cold metal chair.Â
He didnât even raise an eyebrow when you began to tie him to aforementioned chair.Â
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, youâd quickly snapped your fingers, the sound reverberating through the empty, cold garage.Â
Whatever word he tried to say had been quickly replaced with a weak whimper. You let out a small huff of amusement, youâd expected this.Â
The dull brown cotton of his slacks were out to get him, he was convinced. Youâd 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 couldnât help yourself.Â
âLook at you, making a mess so easily.â
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.Â
âI-Iâm sorry, couldnât help it.âÂ
Itâs recommended to ask for permission before you beg for forgiveness, but you made sure heâd never be able to attempt the former.Â
âTell me what you know about counterconditioning, Spence.â
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.Â
The brunet stumbles over his words at first, but answers nonetheless.Â
âI-Itâs a way to reverse the effects of classical conditioning, associating a set conditioned responseââ
You snap. He cums.
Spencer almost doubles over in shock as he shoots another load of sticky seed into his pants.Â
âWith another unâfuckâunconditioned stimulus.âÂ
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.Â
âAnd how would I do that, to stop this?â
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 heâs ever had.
âY-You could do thatââ His eyes flicker down to where youâre touching his cock âA-And stop snapping. E-Eventually there wonât be an association between the stimuli.âÂ
Spencer speaks with an urgency thatâs only found in those who know theyâre done for.Â
âBut you donât want that, do you?â
Your voice drips in a malicious seduction, tilting your head to the side as if to feign an innocence only he should have.Â
It doesnât 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.Â
So when you smile up at him, looking genuinely proud, it makes the ache worth it. He smiles back, albeit crooked and broken.Â
The moment doesnât last long, of course it doesnât. As soon as he saw you raise your hand and press your fingers together, his eyebrows wrung together and his thighs quickly shut.Â
It was fascinating, it was as if his body just couldnât 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.Â
Spencer throws his head back and lets out a strained moan, one that was full of pain and little pleasure.Â
It hurt so badly, and he could barely keep up. You were simply torturing him because you could.
âI-I canât, please.â
He begs, shaking his head when you stand up from your knelt position and look down on him like he was a filthy animal.Â
âIâve only touched you once, and here you are cumming without my permission three times. How selfish.â
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.Â
Youâre right, heâs failed you more times than acceptable. He should feel ashamed.
âI-I know, Iâm sorry. Please forgive me.â
Spencer practically sobs, his entire body trembles as it aches with the aftershocks of three forced orgasms.Â
A small huff expels from your nose and you shake your head. It was unfair, really, how easily manipulated he was.Â
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?Â
Youâve got your hand held up behind your back, he knows it. He knows you too well to ever even entertain the idea youâd ever listen to him, but heâs hopeless enough to try anyways.Â
A sob wrecks through his throat and he feels as though he can barely breathe.Â
âP-PleaseâStop. Can we stop, please? I-I canât do this anymore.âÂ
Itâs 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.Â
But he knew better, and he couldnât help himself as the hand behind your back echoed a snap right through his ears and out his length.Â
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.
His bodyâs given you everything it possibly can, and yet, you just canât help yourself.Â
C.W : gn!reader ; ma'am/sir title ; edging ; undefined public space
Cond. Notice : decided that I'm going to post whenever I have a horny thought AND have the will to write properly
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 pleaseâŚ" 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.
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I feel like Spencer would be big on praise, specially from reader- being the one to give it to him the most.
I like to think when they have sex, readerâs mostly on top of things. They whisper to sweet, sweet little Spencer while he moans out at the praise falling from your lips. How your hands hug his waist perfectly while you kiss the skin there, telling him just how beautiful his slutty little waist is.
Or when you take his cock into your mouth, how you look up at him with most enjoyment. How you kiss the tip, all the while letting Spencer know just how perfect his perfect little cock fit into your mouth.
Maybe itâs when heâs finally fucking you. How his face is buried into your shoulder while you tell him how much of an amazing job heâs doing..pressing spots only he can reach. How your hands always find his beautiful hair, letting him know just how much you loved the smell when heâs tucked into your shoulder..and how you liked to pull it.
Perhaps itâs when youâre both done and heâs cleaning you up that you whisper how much you love him, and how full you were and proud of it. How heâd blush and fidget around like he didnât blow into you before.
masterlist // join my taglist // The Fool: Symbol of New Beginnings
summary: as the first part of âthe fool: symbol of new beginningsâ, it starts off a series that depicts spencerâs increasing interest in those things he has been rejecting for so long. finding a safe space within his girlfriend, he allows himself to grow and expand his comfort zone.
couple: sub!spencer reid x fem reader
category: smut and fluff heheh :)
warnings: slight mentions of blood (just the word), tattoos, oral sex (male and female receiving), pain as a form of pleasure, the word "pandemic" is used, use of "mommy" đ
Word Count: 3.3k
***
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 wouldâve wanted, but he didnât want to get carried away either. He didnât 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 theyâre getting intimate.
Granted, they hadnât really gotten truly intimate yet. Attempting to respect each otherâs limits a little bit too much, to the point where they hadnât 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.
âAre uhâŚâ he coughed, failing to cover the neediness in his voice, âare they healed? Can I touch them?â his honey-dripped eyes met with hers, and he was locked. He couldnât look away.
She giggled, eyes trailing his own. âOf course, Spenceâ 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.
âY-Youâre so beautiful, Y/Nâ 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.
âOh!â she exclaimed, arching her back at the sudden cold as Spencer lapped her pussy experimentally, trying to figure out what feels best for her.
âIs that good?â he mumbled against her core as she squirmed at his touch. âMhmâ 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 âOâ 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.
âI wanna hear you, loveâ 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 couldnât 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 Spencerâs dream â to be etched onto her skin forever, not a second passing in which they werenât 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.
âDid you sleep well, baby?â 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.
âI did⌠How long have you been awake?â she asked, watching his cheeks turns a crimson red, spluttering half-words.
âI- uh.. No-Not long, maybe⌠30 minutes?â he finished, looking up at her. If she didnât 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.
âYou like my tattoos⌠Isnât that right, baby?â she said, almost mockingly, watching him nod eagerly.
âMhmm! Yeah, theyâre very prettyâ he trailed off, eyes trailing to look at her bare chest. âEyes on meâ she reprimanded him, watching as he didnât budge, instead his lips twitching into a repressed smile. She let out a chuckle.
âYou know what I mean!â he laughed with her, eyes meeting hers finally. âI did some of these myselfâŚâ she continued. âOf 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 itâs so much easier to have someone else taking care of these, but making them myself can be funâ 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 â 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.
âI want to get one done on my ankle. Would you like to come over and watch the process?â she didnât 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 couldnât care less about that. The outline of her nipples against the thin fabric hindered him from having any coherent thoughts.
She laughs. âWhatâs that?â she points at the surgical mask. He looks down, chuckling nervously.
âI 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 safeâ 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.
âThat isnât really necessary, Spence. Itâs not like were going through a pandemic, or something like in moviesâ she chuckles lightly. Heâs always been so careful when it comes to her. âPlus, I know you wouldnâtâve come if you were sickâ.
âActually, some studies show that we carry so much bacteria we could fill a large can of soupâŚâ he explained, hands putting his mask inside his bag before placing it carefully on the floor. He took off his coat and scarf, â⌠in fact, about three to five pounds of bacteria could be collected from any adultâ.
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.
âDoes it mean anything?â 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.
âYou are going to be my assistant today, okay? After sterilizing my gloves I canât touch anything else than the sterilized skin and machineâ 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.
âOf course! Anything you needâ 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 lizardsâ face, but somehow it looked perfect.
âItâs a character from a childrenâs bookâŚâ she started, eyes trailing over the skin. Her eyebrows were knitted together and her bottom lip was pulled between her teeth, â⌠their name is Rumple Buttercup. The book is about uhâŚâ she trails off, grabbing a tissue removing the extra ink and blood, ââŚthis 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!â her voice carries so much emotion, so much excitement, âbut 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.â
Sheâs going over the mouth as she continues speaking. âIâve 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 worldâ 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.
âSo, do they all have meanings?â he questions, pointing at her arms, which held a few tattoos.
She nodded, âI mean, some do and some donât. This one on my left arm, the Loki helmet, is cute. But I didnât really have a connection to it.â She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth again.
âBut itâs all safe, right?â he was now walking around her, looking at the tattoo from different angles, before looking at the materials. She chuckled lightly.
âYea, Spence. Itâs all safe. I take all precautions possible to ensure that nothing bad happensâ, she lifts her hand, leaving the pen on the machine, âtissueâ 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.
âDo you like it?â.
Spencer looked at the design wide-eyed, mouth agape. âOh my! Thatâs so cute!â he exclaimed. âDid it hurt a lot?â
âNot really, Spence. Itâs more of a pinch⌠Do you want one?â she laughed watching him look at her in disbelief.
âI can get one? Itâs so cute! Wait, does it hurt too much? I mean, I know it doesnât hurt you because youâre used to it, but will it hurt me? Is it totally safe? Not-Not that I donât trust you, Y/N. I trust you with my life. Oh, can I get the same one as you?â he asked question after question as she covered her tattoo in film, before getting up, giggling.
âIâll go get another set of suppliesâ.
**
It didnât 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 wasnât from the nerves.
His eyes are trailed on her concentrated face. This time she isnât 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.
âSpencer, be a good boy and stay still. I donât want to ruin your pretty skinâ, she watched him nod eagerly before resuming her work.
Her tits were brushing ever-so slightly against his leg, and he wouldâtâve even noticed if it werenât 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 â 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 couldnât open his eyes to look at her without cumming in his pants.
âOh, my love⌠Youâve worked yourself up to quite a state, huh?â she stood slightly, wanting to brush her fingers against his bottom lip. Instead, she brushed her own against his, teasingly.
âMhmmâ he whimpered, opening his eyes to look at her every move.
âWords, baby. You know thisâ she reprimanded him, looking into his honey-glazed ones.
âY-Yes Mommy, I haveâ 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.
âAfter covering and cleaning up your tattoo, weâll do something about your little problem. How does that sound?â she watched him falling apart slowly, desperate to release. But he knew better.
He gulped. âOkayâ he peeped. As Y/N cleaned him up, he knew that she was taking longer than usual. She was testing him â trying to get him to crack.
If thereâs 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.
âTake off your pants and spread your legs like a good boyâ she demanded, âand be careful. You canât do any strenuous activity for a week after getting the tattooâ 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. âThis is expensive equipment, Spencer. I canât have it lying aroundâ 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 couldnât wait to play with him.
She stood in front of him, hands on her hips as she stared him down.
âI worked very hard on your tattoo, babyâŚâ 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. ââŚwouldnât want your pretty ink to get ruined, would we?â she watched as he shook his head.
âUse your words, babyâ she said, not bothering to remove her thumb from his mouth. She watched him squirm for a minute.
âIâll be good, mommy. I promiseâ 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 âah ah ahâs when she started sucking on his head deeply, licking off the precum she was milking out of him. It wouldnât take him too long to cum.
His fingers reached to grab her hair, shakily pushing it out of her face.
âY-Youâre so beautiful, Y/Nâ 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.
Safly iâve got no new sub!spencer fics for you buuuuuut:
Imagine sub!spencer finding out he has a big fat breeding kink after you let him cum inside you for the first time and from then on heâs constantly begging you to let him fill you up
Or
When he cums inside you for the first time, heâs so overwhelmed and it feels so good that he gets overstimulated and has multiple orgasms. He cant stop whining and whimpering your name , his legs shaking
anon i fucking love you. like so much. cmere lemme smooch.
anyways - holy fuck. im a sucker for spence begging so this is so fucking hot. imagine rarely letting him actually come inside you just to torture him and teach him that he only gets to fill you up as a reward on days where hes a really good boy.
both of these concepts are absolutely amazing but good god the second one. the idea of spence being overstimulated literally makes me fucking feral. imagine all the little noises he would make and how pretty his face would look scrunched up in a mix of pleasure and slight pain-oh my god. and some tears streaming down his pretty face bc it just feels so good and his whole body would tremble