lotts

just to preface, george isn't proud of this.

he didn't plan or intend for this and all that mumbo jumbo, it just happened. like, seriously, the whole thing came out of nowhere and just crash banged into the middle of his usually normal, honestly kind of boring life.

all he had wanted to do this morning was do the normal gig at the cavern and move on with his night.

everything had gone as normal; he'd woken up, found that the newspaper had yet again written a piece about the band, had his breakfast, lounged about for the rest of the day until it was time to head down.

the gig went as planned, and he didn't get mauled by anybody so all in all it was a pretty good day.

it wasn't until after the gig when him and the boys were packing away their stuff that his world was tipped upside down.

as he was shutting his guitar case, he felt a presence in the doorway and instinctively turned his head.

and there you stood.

the light from the hallway behind you, once harsh and yellow, now seemed to form a halo behind you, making it seem like you were some kind of angel, sent purely for him.

and your face. oh my gosh, your face. in all his years of being, he can't imagine a face more beautiful that yours. the way your eyes sparkle, batting your eyelashes, with your hair framing your face so perfectly. he's about ready to propose marriage and carry you away to the chapel so he can make you his immediately.

his mind is completely boggled, and he's half convinced he might fall to his knees form how his legs have turned to jelly. he doesn't even care that you're a complete stranger and possibly some crazed superfan who managed to sneak into the back without anybody noticing.

all he can think about is your eyes and that hair and those lips, with that perfectly kissable cupids bow. he reevaluates any crushes he had in the past to recall if he had ever felt this way about someone before, and comes up short. his chest aches with this newfound, sudden affection he feels.

and then, all of his prayers are answered. you lips, perfect as they already are, spread into a full smile and he feels like he's just been shot by cupids arrow. everything feels like it's in slow motion. possibly the most beautiful girl on the planet is standing there, and she's smiling at him, and he feels like the most special man on the planet.

he can feel his pupils expand, his heart open, and suddenly birds are chirping and all atrocities in the world have ended.

and then paul pushes past him, and all of his joy dissolves.

he realises that he, stupidly, misunderstood the situation and really you were not looking at him, but rather paul, who was standing directly behind him. he deflates, and he wouldn't be surprised if he turned grey and a raincloud appeared above his head as he watches paul embrace you.

stupid paul.

the 'cute' beatle.

it makes him feel a little sick, then stupid.

"jesus. cheer up, buttercup." john's voice rings in his ear, forcing him out of his pity party. "can't be looking all solemn in front of a pretty girl."

meeting his eye, john realises that george isn't just in a grump, but that his heart was just torn out of his chest and stomped on a billion, jillion times in the span of about a minute. "ah," a smirk fills his face. "got your hopes up, eh?"

george wants to slap him, but he refrains.

he stays quiet as paul introduces you to the rest of the guys, and you smile like and angel and introduce yourself to each of them with a little wave and it makes his heart race in his chest like he's a schoolboy.

when you finally come to him, finally meet his eyes, he feels like if he opens his mouth he might explode or accidentally profess his love to you, or anything that disastrous. "hi," your voice is smooth and sweet like honey, and he wishes he could bottle the sound and listen to it forever.

he stands there for a few seconds, unable to speak, as you stare up at him with those expectant eyes. once he regains his ability to function like a regular human, he manages to peep out a little. "alright?"

you smile up at him, introducing yourself like you had with john and ringo, but all he can focus on is your eyes solely focused on him, the moment of your lips and the light flush of your cheeks. he wants to believe that it's because of him, and the guilt of it gnaws inside of him.

the pleasantries continue and george has to fight between his desire to memorise you and his fear of getting caught, his eyes flicking between you and a random spot on the wall. john smirks at it, and paul has no idea, smug with his arm thrown around your shoulders.

and its over as soon as it started. paul's guiding you out of the club, whilst george stands pathetically in the doorway, watching as you go, jealous of the arm around your shoulder like an immature child.

he has no right to feel jealous, you're not his.

he tries to convince himself that you must be annoying or rude or inconsiderate, but the concept of you being anything but perfect doesn't register.

so he stands there and watches as you're carted away from him, anticipating and dreading the next time he sees you. he can't imagine never seeing that face again, but he also fears what kind of stupid rubbish would come out of his mouth if he was made to speak to you. he assumes it would be just gibberish, but there's also a strong chance he'd just fall to his knees and beg you to be with him.

summary: spencer returns home in the middle of the night, exhausted beyond words and in dire need of a snack. who are you to turn him down?

genre: smut (MDNI) word count: 2.9k

tags: fem!reader, oral (f receiving), munch!spencer, fingering, kissing, spencer is a tease, yes of course he's wearing glasses, title from a hozier song, written in a morrisons car park, proofread (please hold your applause)

notes: on god he's devouring that shit like it's his last meal

Coming home late is an art that Spencer Reid has learned to master. He’s studied which floorboards creek, which ones groan, and which ones scream bloody murder at the slightest misstep. He’s learned how to unlock and open every door without making a sound. He’s adapted to staying light on his feet and traversing the apartment, soundlessly, in complete darkness. 

Every inch of this place is memorised; every sharp corner, every piece of furniture, every lip of every thick woollen rug that he once would trip over almost every day. He even knows where you are most likely to leave your belongings, and he accounts for them, whether they are there or not, as he goes about his silent routine.

✶ SUCH A GOOD BOY!

masterlist ⠀! ⠀ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. ✶

His love language is acts of service.

He read that somewhere—some stupid quiz you made him take一and he latched onto it like a lifeline because it made him sound normal.

See?

See??

He's not a freak, he just likes doing things for you. It's a legitimate psychological concept. It's on the internet, go look it up. It's real.

He loves it when you want something from him. He lives for it. Thrives on it. Gets dizzy with it the second you so much as look at an empty glass.

You barely have to open your mouth. You just shift on the couch and sigh and he's already upright, already halfway to the kitchen, already aching.

"Water? Snacks? A blanket? Your heating pad? Do you want the kitten mug or the big one? Do you—"

"Just water, baby."

Baby.

His knees almost buckle.

Focus.

Water. You need water. He can do that. He's getting you water. Look at him go一such a good boyfriend, so attentive, so caring, he's fucking nailing this.

He pours the water so carefully. No ice. You don't like it too cold, it hurts your teeth, and he remembered that because he remembers everything about you, every tiny preference, every little sound you make when you're happy.

Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

He hands you the glass with both hands like an offering at an altar. Bouncing a little on his heels. Doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until you take a sip and your throat moves and he's watching the little bob of it and his mouth is dry but that doesn't matter because—

He have to be patient.

Waiting.

Just waiting for it.

Come on. Come on. Say it. Say the words. Give him the thing. He needs it.

"Thank you, love."

Oh.

The words hit his brain like a shot of something warm and syrupy. Thank you. You thanked him. He did good. He did good and you noticed and you said thank you and now he's standing there with his heart doing backflips in his chest.

He wants more. He wants you to say it again. He wants you to pat his head and tell him he did such a good job, that he's so helpful, that you don't know what you'd do without him. He's practically vibrating with it, this desperate, aching need for your approval, and it's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic, he's a grown man getting high off a thank you like it's a line of coke—

Cute isn't he?

No.

No, he's not cute.

He's a dog. A mangy. panting. desperate dog who just got a pat on the head for fetching.

And he gets hard like a dog in heat too.

Always hard.

Always.

You could ask him to pass the salt and he'd have to adjust himself under the table.

You could ask him to zip up your dress and his hands would shake and he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled just to keep from moaning at the brush of his knuckles against your spine.

What a loser, right?

His dick twitches.

Jesus Christ.

He's hard again.

Weirdo.

Disgusting.

Pervert.

He hates himself. He hates himself so fucking much.

Why can't he be normal? Why can't his dick just stay soft like a regular boyfriend instead of twitching every time you say his name? You're gonna hate him, aren't you?

Oh god oh god oh god.

You're gonna find out. You're going to hate him. You're going to leave him. You think he's disgusting. You think he's a creep. You're gonna leave him. You're gonna walkout that door and he'll never feel your eyes on him again and he'll die, he'll actually just curl up on the floor and stop breathing because what's the point—

"Such a good boy."

Huh?

Good boy??

Him???

He freezes.

Did you just一did those words actually come out of your mouth? Good boy.

Good. Boy.

And you're smiling.

You look so beautiful when you smile. Your soft eyes and your softer lips and the way your cheek creases just a little and he wants to lick it, he wants to suck that smile right off your face and swallow it whole so it lives inside him forever—

Nope.

Nope nope nope.

He's so hard he could die on spot.

"Um... excuse me."

The words come out strangled. He's already backing away, hands positioned awkwardly in front of his crotch like a teenager caught watching porn.

Smooth.

Real smooth.

You probably think he's having digestive issues. That's fine. That's better than the truth.

He immediately bolts to the bathroom, lock clicking behind him.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

Okay. Okay, breathe. It's fine. Everything's fine.

You don't know. You didn't see. You're not going to leave him. He won't let you leave him anyway. He'll lock the doors and he'll nail the windows shut and he'll chain you to bed and he'll chop your pretty legs off if he has to—

no no no no no NO!!!

Don't think that. Don't you ever fucking think that about her. You sick fuck. How can you even imagine hurting her? Chopping off her perfect pretty legs? How dare you?? How fucking dare you???

If you do that you could never feel her thighs wrapped around your head while you suck on her clit. You'd never feel them tremble and clampagainst your ears while she moans your name. You'd never get to press your tongue inside her while her legs are draped over your shoulders, soft and warm and alive.

OH!!!

Okay that's better. He gets it now.

Yeah yeah yeah. See? He's not violent. He just panicked for a second. His brain does that sometimes一throws up these horrible, intrusive images that make him want to vomit but he'd never ever act on them!! He's not a monster!!! He's just... confused. Overwhelmed. He just loves you so much alright??? So much he'd unspool his own intestines into a leash if you asked him to walk himself—

Alright. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.

Deep breath.

Okay. Okay, he's fine. He's fine. Just rub one out quick and go back out there. You're waiting. He doesn't want to keep you waiting. That would make him a bad boyfriend, and he's not—he's a good boyfriend, he's so good, you just said so, and if you said so then it must be true—

Shut. Up.

Focus.

His hand is shaking as he pulls down his jeans. He's leaking already, a slick little pearl at the tip, and it smears across his palm when he grips himself. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

First—first, he needs something. Something to make it faster, make it pleasing, make it so he can walk out there and not immediately pop a boner again the second you breathe in his direction.

He opens the cabinet under the sink, behind the toilet paper, behind the bleach, where he hid it.

Your panties.

The ones you thought you lost in the laundry.

The lacy ones, light blue, a little damp in the center from a long day. He found them. He found them, okay? He didn't steal them. Fuck off. He found them. That's different. Stealing is a crime. Stealing is bad. He's not a bad person. He just... found them. On the laundry room floor. He was doing laundry like a good boyfriend, separating your underwears from the regulars because he read somewhere that youre supposed to do that, and they were just... there. In his hands. And then in his pocket. And now they're pressed against his face.

Fuuuck.

The smell hits him like a drug. Musky and sweet and so distinctly you that his knees give up. He inhales deep, pressing the soiled fabric to his nose and mouth, and his dick twitches so hard a bead of pre cum drips onto the bathroom tile.

He's disgusting. He's a creep. He's a freak and a weirdo and a pathetic little lapdog who gets hard from a thank you.

You'd hate him if you knew.

He hopes you never know.

He hopes you find out.

He hopes you walk in right now and see him—cock in hand, your panties stuffed in his mouth, tears streaming down his face—and he hopes you step closer. He hopes you laugh. He hopes you call him a disgusting little mutt and pat his head and tell him he's still your good boy.

Your good boy.

Yours.

He cums so hard he sees stars. Ropes of it, hot and thick, splattering his hand, the floor, the little bathroom rug. He bites down on the panties to muffle the sob that tears out of him, and for a long moment he just kneels there, trembling, fucked, still crying, still hard.

But it's fine.

Everything's fine.

He cleans up. Flushes everything. Hides the panties again and washes his hands twice. Splashes water on his face. Looks in the mirror. Practices his smile.

He looks normal.

He is normal.

He's a good boy.

Then he opens the bathroom door and smiles.

"You okay?" you ask, tilting your head.

And he could say it. He could confess. He could drop to his knees right now and tell you everything and beg for forgiveness or punishment or whatever you wanted to give him.

Instead he just nods. Crawls onto the couch beside you. Rests his head in your lap like the loyal dog he is.

"Just missed you," he mumbles into your thigh.

You stroke his hair.

He almost gets hard again.

He's so fucked up.

But you're still here. Still petting him. Still calling him yours.

So he must be doing something right.

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