reiderwriter

[reiderwriter]

Come Out On Top

Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Needing an extra helping hand, the BAU gets a transfer from another agency that seems to push every button Spencer has, until one day, she just doesn't anymore. Warnings: SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI, soft-dom!Spencer, miscommunication/ lack of communication, case details mentioned, sexual harassment of reader in one scene by an unsub, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, slight cumplay, slight angst, oral (m receiving), dry-humping, etc. A/N: This fic was supposed to be like 2k words, and now it is basically 8k because I am a sucker for useless plot and sex scenes that are longer than necessary, so without further ado, please enjoy <3 Oh and please let me know what you think in the comments and tags!

Masterlist

The Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI was used to many tense situations. Hostage situations, the first 24 hours of a kidnapping, international murders involving diplomats, and even mob-affiliated murders were easy to navigate compared to the absolute stalemate of the office. 

Spencer Reid, resident genius, had been less than pleased to find himself teamed up with a second genius for the few weeks that JJ was going to be gone on leave. That wasn’t exactly true, he’d felt indifferent about the ordeal at first. But then he’d met you. 

That wasn’t the stalemate though. 

As Derek Morgan walked into the office that morning, he noticed something had changed. Though Reid and his partner - you, freshly on loan from the CIA - had seemingly been sitting in the office for around an hour before his arrival time, you hadn’t yet begun insulting one another. 

“Did I miss something?” he asked Emily, throwing his back into his desk chair as the pair stared across the room, as if waiting for a bomb to go off any minute.

“They haven’t even looked at one another for the last half hour. Hotch is worried they’re finally at the end of the fuse and that we’re about to blow up,” she replied. 

“Let’s hope they last one more case then,” Rossi said, sneaking up on the two from the bottom of the stairs. Everyone in the office was so focused on what was not happening between the two geniuses that they had so far neglected a lot of work, a trend over the past weeks. 

As if queued by his senior, Hotch emerged from his office and called for his team's attention. “We have a case. Conference room, now” he said, catching the eye of Spencer and you first, holding it for a second longer there as if to say ‘Don’t pull anything stupid.’

While the rest of the members of the team took their time collecting things and getting ready to enter the office, you gathered everything you needed as quickly as possible, keeping your head down to avoid making eye contact with - well, with anyone. But specifically, with Spencer Reid. 

Thankfully, as a transfer from another agency, you didn’t exactly have the freedom to acquire much desk junk. Your files were perfectly organised and alphabetised on your desk, in separate file holders based on case, location, and level of completion. You had one small notepad on your desk, along with three 2B pencils, a ball point pen, an eraser, and a ruler. Your desktop was similarly organised, and over the course of the last two months at the BAU, you’d taken it upon yourself to streamline the online file organisation system as much as the files themselves allowed. 

Penelope Garcia could do with a computer things that you couldn’t even dream. She also, though, had been known on multiple occasions to name a file “FinishedFile_Real_Final_REALLYTHISTIME_3”

You mostly disagreed with the title of genius that had been placed on you by the BAU members at the beginning of your time there. You’d said a few words, and a raised eyebrow and a comparison was all that you needed to feel a burning resentment from a few paces away. 

You still felt Spencer’s burning gaze now, desperately ignoring it as you climbed the stairs and quickly took your temporary seat at the table. 

Once everyone gathered, Penelope began.

“This one is not pretty, but they rarely are, please view the pictures on your tablets, as I will not be showing that on the big screen when my lunch break is half an hour away-” 

You listened as well as you could to the case details, looking through the files yourself as the meeting continued. You were about to ship out anyway, and you’d learn the case details again when you got to wherever it was you were going. So your mind drifted. 

It would only be a week or so now before JJ returned, and you were glad though you’d never met her. Another agent had been in charge of preparing all your training and helping you find your role in the team, and Emily had filled in most of your gaps even though you were technically assigned to Doctor Spencer Reid. 

Spencer. 

You thought back to your first meeting with him, your first day at the FBI. You blamed a lack of sleep and a lack of understanding when it came to how you actually were meant to converse with coworkers for everything that happened that day. 

Your first sin, of course, was turning up late. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Excuse me, is this the Behavioral Analysis Unit? I was told that I would be meeting an Agent Reid here to begin my training,” you’d asked tentatively at the edge of the room, noting the large offices above your head and the crammed desks on the main floor. 

You wondered which one would be yours. 

“Doctor Reid?” the voice asked back, more startled than you, and you assumed that he was actually a regular worker. “Not Hotchner or Morgan? Rossi? Prentiss?” 

With every shake of your head, the man grew more astounded. 

“I’m surprised they’re letting him talk to people,” he mumbled under his breath, but it was something you heard nonetheless, and you grew apprehensive about this too good to be true job opportunity. 

“He’s probably at his desk,” the man shrugged, gesturing vaguely near the stairs, before walking away from you completely. You couldn’t even thank him. You wouldn’t have, to be clear, but now you could blame it on his own rudeness instead of yours. 

Luckily, the next person you asked for help was Emily Prentiss. 

“Oh yes, hi. Spencer just stepped out of the office for a minute, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” 

She showed you your desk, logged you into their system, paged Reid, and then let you have time to unpack your few belongings before Reid arrived. 

“You’re late,” was the first thing he’d said to you. “You were supposed to be here at 10:45. It’s 11:30.” 

He was panting slightly, as quietly as he could, hands on his hips as he looked down at you, towering as he was. 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the agent from the CIA? And you’re late.” 

A few people stood by to watch, suddenly needing to photocopy something urgently at the nearest printer, or to ask a colleague at a nearby desk a question. Or just a quick stretch. 

“No. No, I'm not,” you replied coolly. You realized quickly that wasn’t the best response, but before you could open your mouth to reply, you locked eyes with the man above you. 

It was like lightning. You saw the instant dislike in his eyes, and recognized it as a look you were probably making at the same time. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive. It was just the overwhelming sense of superiority that stunk on him at that second.

He thought he was right, and though he wasn’t, you disliked the overconfidence. 

“Doctor Reid, presumably?” you asked, and he nodded, and you stood, trying to squash the distance and superiority that height gave him. 

“Agent Prentiss tells me that you just got back from a case last night. You were in Puerto Rico for an assignment, correct?”

The man grimaced, and you returned it, noticing that even after standing up he had a handful of inches on you. Irksome. 

“You are still almost an hour late.”

“No, I’m 15 minutes early,” you said, grabbing his wrist and pulling it so you could see his watch. You smiled, and took a breath to relax. “Your clock is still set to Atlantic Standard Time. You’re running an hour ahead, Doctor.” 

A deep red spread across the tips of his ears, made only more notable by the way he ran his hands through his hair. You wondered if he’d recently had a large trim, but quickly shook the thought from your mind. You had a weakness for a man with long hair, and you didn’t even want to entertain the idea of this man being your ideal type for even a second longer. 

He composed himself, handed you some documents, and pointed you towards Hotchner’s office all before the blush could dissipate, but it was enough for the rumours. 

You had challenged the pet genius of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and come out on top (give or take a few inches). A rivalry had begun. 

Spencer had watched you walk up the steps while holding his breath. He wondered how still he would have to stand for his coworkers to forget he was there. You took five steps, and then turned around, satisfied that you were now finally above Spencer Reid.

“Doctor Reid?” you called out, knowing that once you dropped the gauntlet there was no way to pick it back up again. You may as well have fun with it. 

“I look forward to helping you out for the next few weeks. It seems as though you need it.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You mentally scolded yourself remembering that moment. 

It seems as though you need it, you thought. Really?

It had been satisfying at that moment, of course, but it had come back to haunt you weeks in. You’d found yourself in the midst of a challenge with the good doctor, of who could solve a case first. Mostly who could be the most helpful to the other. 

You’d reorganised all the files in the BAU’s folder (with permission), and he’d found crucial undigitalized documents that had helped solve a string of copy-cat murders in Chicago. 

You had connected the dots between a local kidnapping and a human-trafficking ring, and he had ever so graciously tracked down three cases in the FBI system that were unsolved but could now be definitively connected. 

You interviewed a possible suspect in a sexual sadism murder case leading to an admission of guilt and an arrest, he shot the guy when he’d pulled a knife on you as you were getting your handcuffs. 

You still weren’t entirely sure if he was aiming for you or not. 

For nearly two months, the BAU was reporting productivity hereto unknown. And you still made sure to talk to him primarily from higher ground. 

The problem with hating a coworker, though, was that he was always there. A further problem with your situation, too, was so was everyone else. 

“Are you listening?” a voice to your right asked, as you felt a nudge against your leg from the left. 

“Wheel’s up in 30,” Hotch said, keeping his eyes on you for a minute before flickering to Spencer. Your eyes were fixed forward, though, to where Reid was sitting, the direction of your nudge from earlier. 

He was ever so helpful. 

You realized that you’d done what you’d promised you wouldn’t do that day, which was look at him. You’d wondered if you could even go as far as to not acknowledge him, but realized that was likely too obvious. 

So now the eye-contact that you’d promised to prohibit was ruined, and you were stuck leveling a look across the table at his soft brown eyes. 

‘Soft?’ you scolded yourself, eyes twitching but not looking away, somewhat entranced. 

You felt other eyes on you as you kept your eyes locked with his, your coworkers trickling out of the room as you sat frozen. 

Slowly, eventually, Spencer pushed his chair back and slowly rose to a standing position. He was far enough away that you didn’t have to crane your neck, but close enough that you felt small just comparatively. 

“Don’t be late,” he whispered quickly as he walked past you and out of the door. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Most of the cases you’d worked together followed the same pattern. 

Aaron Hotchner wasn’t stupid, and he knew exactly how to push his team members to get the best results. Luckily, you and Spencer did most of the pushing for him. 

You’d been partnered up to explore crime scenes from that first day, where you’d taken a local arson case. 

“You don’t do field work with the CIA, correct?” Spencer had asked you as soon as the two of you were alone. It was like he was grilling a suspect instead of a coworker. 

“Not usually, though it was a part of my training.” 

He nodded and pulled on a pair of gloves, his shoes already covered to prevent crime scene contamination. You followed suit. 

“So what do you see?” He asked, wondering if you’d miss anything that he already knew. 

“I think we’re dealing with someone that knows fire department procedure, but not someone in the service themself.” 

He frowned at that, but asked you to elaborate. 

“The fire was started with an accelerant and a lighter found on the scene. But not a quick spreading or high burning one like gas. Nothing that could cause an explosion, or even a death.” 

“There was a death at the last fire, though,” he said, probing you again.

“Which would suggest that our unsub was progressing. If he meant to kill that victim, we could expect to have another body here, even more. Instead, we have a smaller fire than last time.” 

“Why don’t you think that this one just didn’t work? That he meant for this to be bigger but the fire department reacted quicker than he thought.” 

“Why do you keep referring to the unsub with male pronouns?” you asked. 

Smugly, he replied. “Statistically, men account for over 90% of known arson cases, that figure increasing when we take into account-”

“But the fire marshal for this building is a woman. The same woman who is a fire marshal for the last two fire locations.” 

With a jolt, Spencer took a step back, stared at you for a second, and immediately pulled his phone out to call Hotch.

Your consultations on that case ended quickly, but you’d been equally combative on cases across the country.

You didn’t bother trying to get along with him in front of local PDs or even suspects. It was almost a new interrogation technique. Putting the two of you in a room with an unsub, and seeing who had the most problems. 

Spencer had grown used to a certain level of comfort in the FBI, especially having been on the same team in the same role for so long. Of course he was challenged on his ideas regularly, but somehow when you did it, it was different.

It wasn’t exactly combative. You weren’t throwing around insults or threatening each other. It was more deeply heated debates, opinions thrown back and forth and a solid refusal to admit that either of you were wrong that caught you up. In conclusion you were both stubborn. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You somehow managed an entire flight without speaking to anyone, listening quietly while everyone else threw theories around. Everybody but Spencer. 

He had similarly holed himself up in a corner, almost as if the two of you had agreed to ignore each other, which was impossible because the two of you would agree on nothing. 

Quietly, your teammates placed bets on which of you would come out of this one triumphant. When it came to case wins, you were a week away from the end of the job and everything was tied up. 5-5. 

You knew about the bets because the jet wasn’t exactly big, and Morgan wasn’t exactly quiet about winning. You wondered if some of that natural arrogance had rubbed off on Spencer somewhere. He certainly looked up to the man. If it was arrogance he’d gotten from Morgan, it was his communication skills he’d gotten from Hotch. His cards were always close to his chest. You had no doubt that this team had raised him. This was his family, and you were the side character for a week or two; his problem to overcome. 

He’d certainly overcome you in the last case or two, though you’d done your best to forget as much of it as you could. 

Landing in Nevada, you ignored again that he was now on home turf. You ignored his coworkers asking after his mother, you ignored the prickling feeling of his eyes on you, you ignored the curiosity you had about his younger years, about discovering more about him, and climbed into the car, letting yourself be carried to your new precinct. 

Reaching the car before the others, you shut the door, shutting your eyes and allowing yourself a few minutes peace on the tarmac before the blurring voices got closer, became more distinct. The driver door opened first, and someone climbed in, but to your surprise, your door opened, too. 

You looked up at Spencer again, his head ducking down as he made to sit where you were. He looked surprised too for a minute. The seats in the car filled up, but you silently stared up at Spencer, wondering if this would start another argument, even if you were both past that now. Even if no one was paying attention to you anymore. 

Instead, he quietly reached over you, and clicked your seatbelt into place.

You could’ve sworn you felt a breath in your ear, the phantom of his lips against your skin. You could almost convince yourself that he had muttered an apology. 

You knew that he had nothing to apologize for in the end. The mistake was all yours to own. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

After 7 cases with the BAU, you thought you had settled in nicely. You were instrumental in solving cases, and had delivered a number of scathing set downs to Spencer Reid. They seemed like polite corrections to others, but to him, every time you talked was like you poking a knife in his side. 

He scowled at you and was sharp with his words. He enjoyed nothing more than poking back at you with his own taunts. 

You were on assignment at a prison, stuck together mid-week while you processed information and interviewed inmates that had finally agreed to be a part of BAU’s research files in return for leniency and better treatment inside. 

Due to your nagging and biting at each other, however, no other team member had wanted to go with the two of you. 

“I’m not a babysitter, Hotch,” Morgan had shook his head when asked, crying off with the blessed excuse of a court date. 

Rossi’s birthday was coming up, so he had his own inmates to prepare for. 

Emily was suddenly busy getting information from an Interpol contact she knew about an old case, and Hotch couldn’t leave the team behind in case an important case came in. 

Really, there was no one else to go with the two of you, and so the problem solved itself. 

If there was no one to accompany you, then no one would. 

It wasn’t as if you wouldn’t get the job done. Your constant squabbling on cases had increased productivity by around 150%. Not one member of the team had worked overtime since you’d begun your rivalry, the both of you willing to pick up extra slack in the team to prove yourselves more useful than the other. 

You were each given the file, a company card, specially prepared credentials, and a car key, and you were told to drive yourself to a prison one state over to get to work. 

“I’ll drive,” Spencer had said, grabbing your bag from your hand and packing it into the back with his own as you seethed quietly. It was fine. You didn’t like driving anyway, and you knew he didn’t either. 

You’d made your way practically silently along the highway, stopping off now and then to use amenities. You both took turns driving, reading the case files in the meantime until you finally arrived. 

It was when you finally arrived that you realised that you had overestimated yourself. 

You’d mainly worked behind the scenes during your cases up to that point, not interacting a lot with the unsubs apart from the one time one had almost made you a victim. You’d been somewhat more safe in the larger numbers of your team, not the only woman around, and almost protected by the experience of the other men.

This prison was different. 

Even as you were greeting the prison staff, you noticed the looks they were giving you, almost concerned and unsure. You wanted to prove yourself, but they looked at you as if you were the sacrificial virgin about to be given up to an angry god. You knew who you were about to talk to. You had read the file more than once, and, though it irked you, you were mainly just there to take notes and assist Spencer with his interview. 

You had instead found yourself the centre of attention for the prisoner. 

He had murdered and killed a number of women, violating them both before and after. It was a miscalculation to send you into that, and Hotch had later regretted the decision.

“Who is this? What a beautiful girl,” he had started, hands on the table, relaxed even though you noticed they were cuffed together by a somewhat relaxed set of chains. You had watched him walk in, noting the chains were wrapped around his ankles as well. 

The chains were attached to the table, the table was fastened to the floor, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Still, bile rose in your throat. 

“My name is Doctor Spencer Reid, this is my colleague, we’re here today from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct an interview-”

“What’s her name?” the prisoner asked, addressing Spencer but staring at you, his body still relaxed.

“We’re here from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct a research interview. Please state your name for the record.” 

He did so, irked slightly, but continued. “She’s pretty.”

Spencer brushed the man off, but he sat up a little straighter in his chair. The guards behind the prisoner moved toward the door and took their spot opposite the prisoner once again. You tried to relax as best you could, looking down at files and organizing your materials so you could avoid eye contact. You didn’t want to avoid eye contact, but there was no way you could look at the monster in front of you without flinching.

Spencer began asking questions, and though you had agreed to ask some yourself, Spencer quickly took charge of the situation, and you found yourself thankful that he wasn’t making you interact any more than you had to.

“Why isn’t she talking to me?” the prisoner asked again, pricking your ears with the desperation in his voice.

 “My colleague is just here to observe, she is not an interviewer and she isn’t qualified to ask questions.” 

“I want her to ask me questions,” the man pouted, almost childlike, as he slipped his hands off the desk, leaning back.

“No-”

“It’s okay,” you said quietly, cursing your voice for the rasp that came out. “I can take over a few questions from here.” 

You continued the interview for a few more questions, and part of you felt your confidence growing by the minute. He was responding well to you, you were doing well, you hadn’t stuttered once since your first line.

But just as you were about to ask for your final question, you felt a hand grip your wrist tightly, another wrapping around your eyes as you were quickly pulled from your seat and from the room entirely, Spencer leading you out as the guards began shouting orders at the prisoner inside the room.

“Spencer!” you gasped as he pulled you into a free space, not private but not anywhere near guards or prisoners. He released his hand from your eyes, but kept ahold on your wrist. 

“Are you okay?” he gasped, chest heaving with urgency, scanning your face for any signs of hurt or injury. 

“Yes? What happened, I was about to finish the last question. One more minute and I would’ve been done,” you groaned. You couldn’t help the annoyance in your voice. Even if you didn’t want to be in that room one more second, and that Spencer likely had a damn good reason for dragging you away. 

“He was… under the table, he had revealed himself, and he was about to-” he struggled to find the words as the situation dawned on you. “He was taking pleasure in talking about the past, and I just wanted to get you out of there. It doesn’t bode well to let them revel in their crimes.” 

“Oh,” you muttered, suddenly defeated. “Oh. Thank you?” 

You didn’t say much else, letting him lead you back to the guards areas, collecting your things to drive once more. 

You sat quiet and still in the passenger seat on the way back. It shouldn’t have been any different than the drive on the way there, still silent, but it was. 

Arriving back in Virginia, Spencer took mercy on you and drove you straight to your own house instead of making you drop the vehicle back at Quantico. You were a little blurry, even though you hadn’t slept, and didn’t even realize as he opened your car door and led you out. 

He carried your back, clutching your hand in his as he guided you to your door.

You vaguely heard him asking you for your key, and you pressed it into his hand. 

The next time you truly became conscious was when he was about to leave. 

“Can you… Could you just stay for a minute?” you said, taking a seat on your couch and looking up at him with pleading eyes. 

You didn’t want to beg him to stay. You didn’t want him looking down on you, pitying you again. But he sank down to his knees and rubbed a quiet thumb over your knuckles as you closed your eyes and let yourself relax on the couch, until you fell asleep. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When you reached your final crime scene as a member of the BAU, you were happy to find that this was as straightforward a case as you could get for your last. 

You’d heard stories about big cases, emotional ones, that had inspired members of the team in previous years to finally let go of the team, and you were thankful that you didn’t have to go out with a bang. 

You’d simply finish, and that would be that. You would wash your hands of Spencer Reid, and the team that was watching the both of you, confused. 

You worked on the case for the later hours of the day, going through old crime scene footage, Hotch and Prentiss heading out to a current one. You’d been stuck on file duty, working closely with Garcia on conference calls to get your job done. 

When you finally retired to your motel room, Spencer was waiting outside for you. 

Quietly, you let him in. 

You showered, you washed your hair and your body. You let the steam and heat from the shower wash away all the stress of the day. You left the shower, and he was still there even though his room was down the hall. 

He had already showered, having spent some time in the field earlier, returning before you. 

You finished and, wordlessly, tucked yourself into his side, already spread out on the bed. Without saying a word, you shut your eyes, feeling him wrap himself around you, and slept.

You weren’t sure why you let it happen. It wasn’t exactly the first time either. You just knew that, without talking, Spencer was comfortable and warm, and he made you feel safer. 

He’d found you in your room for the last three cases, sat by you for every case since that interview. Sometimes you just held hands, other times he held you against him. He hadn’t gone further than that, though you desperately wished he would. But you couldn’t say that to him, because that was the one unspoken rule. 

You didn’t communicate. 

When you did, it became a competition, and that wasn’t what these moments were for. 

You were quite impressed though, that none of your teammates had noticed so far. Spencer was always gone by 4am, and you’d had your own rooms on the last two cases, so there was no one monitoring his presence in his hotel rooms. Everyone thought you hated each other, though you awoke each day to him tearing himself away from you, a hard presence pushing subconsciously between your thighs as he dreamt of you before he came back to his senses.

You woke up aching for him, not platonically at all. 

You were using him like an emotional support toy, a child’s stuffed animal that you refused to part from, even if it was hideously past retirement, and you were old enough to comfort yourself. 

This was your last case with the BAU, and even though you hated Spencer Reid, you wanted him badly. 

The case continued in the morning, the way most cases had, and you found yourself more lethargic than usual. Your mood had taken a turn, just like your attitude to Reid had in the last few weeks, and you tried your best not to mourn the time you’d wasted being angry at him, for what could have been. 

Meanwhile, the other members of the BAU grew frustrated as well. There had been no leads on the case, no breakthroughs where there usually were. When working, you and Spencer had gravitated to opposite sides of any building or job. You were both working, both trying your best, but not challenging each other anymore.

You spent two weeks in that tiny precinct, avoiding one another in the day and gripping each other as close as you could at night until the case was finally finished. 

A slip up by the unsub had led your other teammates to an arrest. The both of you were left with a tied up score, your shared indifference to competition resolving itself. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

To say that you and Spencer had never conversed about your situation was technically false. 

The day after your interview, you’d woken up in bed, where Spencer had led you half asleep about an hour after you’d requested his continued presence. He was there beside you, still holding your hand, but softer in sleep.

Not that he’d been harsh on you at all the day before. 

As if he could feel his eyes on you, Spencer had woken. You thought about pretending to be asleep for a minute longer, to see what he would do. But exhaustion and curiosity kept your eyes open. 

“Good morning,” you whispered, letting your head rest comfortably next to his on the pillows, legs only just not touching. His hand squeezed yours once in greeting, still not detangling as he came to.

“Good morning,” he answered. “What time is it?” 

“6am. We have some time before we have to go to work.” 

He nodded and closed his eyes again for a moment, laying flat on his back and raising his other arm to cover his eyes, avoiding the light streaming through your windows.

You looked at him, almost overcome, and climbed over him, letting his hand fall as you laid your head on his chest and wrapped your arms around his neck. 

He moved slightly to accommodate you, hands startled for the moment, unsure of what to do before he rested them innocently on your back. 

“We should get up and go,” he whispered quietly, even as you shook your head and buried it in his neck now, his hands slipping lower as he petted your lower back.

“I don’t want to,” you said, moaning slightly. You didn’t know how true those words were until your words continued as your brain stopped. “I don’t want to fight with you. I want to stay like this. This is nice, and it’s comfortable.” 

Lifting your head, you searched his face to see how he reacted to your words. 

It was like he was troubled. 

“We still have to work,” he said, pushing a hair behind your ear as you  pouted. 

“I know,” you said.

“And you’re… you’re really not that comfortable with me at all. This is just-”

“I know,” you said. Before he said anything else, you leaned down and claimed his mouth. It was soft, a slight pressure. He could have missed it if you weren’t the only thing taking up space in his mind at that time. He was a genius, but at that moment he was a fool.

You pulled away, a little ashamed, as he broke eye contact and looked away. Understanding, you made to climb off of him, but he gripped your hips and made you stay. 

Still he said nothing, and so you waited, growing angry. Sitting up himself after a few minutes, Spencer pressed his lips to your cheek, as if placating a child, and then gently slid you off of his lap, and went on with his day. 

That was the end of your communication on the subject. But you’d felt him. 

You’d felt the way his hands had gripped your skin as if he didn’t want to let go. You’d felt his cock hard between his legs, desperate for release. You’d felt him stroke his hand across your arms as he had left your bed, denying himself of the pleasure you were begging him to take. 

You raged against him for the next two cases, growing angrier after he climbed back into your bed at night, especially when he refused to touch you as you wanted to be touched. He had told you no, out of some chivalric misunderstanding of your emotions. 

You knew about transference, and this may be that, but you made the decision to involve yourself with Spencer Reid the moment you’d begun hating him. You wanted him to comfort you, because you were so, so tired, and so was he, but he wouldn’t even do that. 

And so for your last case, you avoided him, defeated.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The entire team congratulated you as soon as you touched down from your final mission. It was almost as if you were retiring, leaving this place behind. 

You supposed they were just happy to be losing a member without a gunshot wound or a mental breakdown, or a forced transfer. 

Spencer stood off to the side, but when it came time to gather your things, he helped you pack up. 

He handed you your pencils as you carefully packed them into your box, he wiped the nonexistent dust from your monitor as you climbed under the desk to unplug your laptop. When everyone else left ahead of you, promising to meet you the following night for a goodbye meal, he carried your box out to your car, took your car keys and drove you home.

You weren’t sure what to say when you pulled up, so you climbed out of the car first, and moved to his side of the car, closing his door shut when he started to open it. Confused, he rolled down the window, as you leaned down over him and kissed him a second time.

This kiss was significantly heavier than your first. You gripped the back of his head to keep him from pulling away, though it seemed clear that he wouldn’t do that as he kissed back just as fiercely. You thought you would be locked there forever, desperately trying to take control of that second kiss, trying to communicate the months of shared frustration like it was another argument. 

You finally pulled away, but he grabbed and held your hand again as you both caught your breath, both neither in or out of the car.

“I just wanted… I think…” you gasped, brain muddled by the intensity of his stare, the sad look in his eyes. 

“Let me come in,” he asked, cutting you off. “Please.” 

You nodded and opened the door for him, silently closing it as you stared at one another. Feeling slightly ashamed, you looked down at the ground as you carried yourself to your door and then inside, the sound of his footsteps behind you enough to know that he was following. 

You opened the door, throwing your keys into the dish near your door, leaving it open so he could follow, all without looking back. 

You unlaced your shoes, taking them carefully off before making your way to the kitchen. You poured yourself a cup of water, drinking it carefully, as you heard the door shut carefully behind you. 

In another second, there were hands on your hips, encouraging you to turn, then encouraging you up onto the countertop of your kitchen. 

Spencer stood between your legs, and the few inches afforded you by the counters was enough to level your gazes. 

“Tell me what you want,” he said, hands on either side of your legs, refusing to touch you first.

Stubbornly, as if you couldn’t help it, you kept your mouth shut, just staring into his eyes defiantly. 

“Tell me what you want,” he said again, a little more forcefully, his brows slightly furrowing. “We don’t work together anymore, and enough time has passed since- since this started that I think we can finally have a clear conversation about this, but you need to tell me what you want before I take what I want.” 

“I was pretty clear about what I wanted. Before,” you said, raising a hand to his chest, unsure if you wanted to push him away or take a fishful of his shirt and pull him closer. 

“You weren’t clear, you haven’t ever been clear,” he said, a hand raking through his hair in frustration. 

“You weren’t exactly an open book either, Spencer.” 

“It’s- I couldn’t back then, it wouldn’t have been fair,” he said, a pang of regret straining his voice. 

“You can now,” you whispered, stroking a hand up and around his neck as he leaned closer. 

“For how long?” he asked, lips so close to yours they brushed your cheek with every murmur. 

You surged forward, unable to answer, pressing your legs around him and your lips against him as you pushed further and further into him. 

Every frustration with him came to the surface and you channeled it into your movements, matching his frustrated raking of your skin. His hands pushed eagerly into your soft flesh, pushing your shirt as far up as it could go before being hindered by your buttons. 

His teeth bit into your lip as you bickered in your touches, small whines and groans echoing through the tiny kitchen. 

He pulled you away, craning down over you as you both stumbled to the bedroom, neither willing to give up the ground you had conquered. 

His hands lifted up again, this time to rip your godforsaken shirt apart, the buttons too taxing now for him to focus on. Pushing you down against the bed, his hands found your breasts, cupping them entirely as he kissed down your naval, only coming away to rid himself of his own shirt. 

When his mouth found you again, it was lower, claiming a nipple in his mouth as you gripped your own bedsheets, each moan a plea to move faster. 

He instead took his time, a hand slid down from your chest to your underwear, leaving you clothed though wet from the anticipation. He stroked a single digit against your wet and aching clit, as if cooing at an apprehensive cat, slowly winding you up, up, up until you shuddered your pleasure. Only then did he kiss your lips again and slide his hands away.

You made to push your bottoms off, sure that now he would wish to enter you, but he grabbed and held your hands in place above your head. A small nudge had you falling to the floor, landing unceremoniously on your knees, as your hands stayed loosely pinned above you, held by a single hand. 

His cock bobbed in his pants, and slowly, working with one hand, he released it from its place. You needed no further instruction, licking up the underside of his shaft as it hit your face, before wrapping your lips around the tip and pushing it down your throat. 

You got three inches deep, slowly taking more so as not to gag, before coming back up for air. You alternated deeper and shallower strokes, making sure to watch his face as you pleasured him, looking up at his eyes as he came apart above you. He pushed one leg between your thighs as you continued to suck him, and you took the opportunity he gave freely, rubbing your clothed cunt against him like a bitch in heat. 

Before he could cum, he quickly pulled out, wrapping two hands warmly about you and pressing you into the bed again. 

He finally undressed you both, and, resting his forehead against your own, pushed into you. 

He surrounded you, keeping eye contact as he pushed himself all the way into your body, not stopping even as you moaned and clawed at his skin, desperate for the deep contact he was providing. 

“How long?” he asked again, holding himself still inside of you, teasing one nipple as he demanded an answer once more. “How long can I hold you like this? Just today? Until you find someone else? Until you move on and forget all about how comfortable this feels, how nice it is to have me next to you, inside you?”

It was all you could do to moan in answer, let alone give him the answer he wanted. 

He began with shallow pumps, eyes still locked with yours, even as yours squinted shut in pleasure, your body pulsing with the charge of electricity between you. 

“Don’t-” you cried, trying to answer as he pushed into you harder, deeper. 

“Good,” he said. “That’s a start, good girl.” 

“Don’t what? Don’t fuck you? Don’t cum inside you? Don’t claim you?”

“Don’t stop-” you gasped out as he began stroking a thumb against your clit, spitting on it as he did so, loosening you up as you began to shake again through another orgasm. 

Dropping your pinned hands, he gripped your knees and pressed them back, letting his cock sit shallowly in your cunt as he changed your angle. You didn’t argue, you couldn't as your arms stayed obediently above your head, exactly where you’d left them. 

He pushed in again, the new angle urging a string of curses to drop from your lips as he pressed in harder. He sped up, and you lost your breath so fast that all you could hear was the sounds of your bodies meeting, not even your heartbeat distracting you from listening to the sounds of your pleasure. 

You tightened around him, aroused by the simple sight of him as you tipped over the edge, and he fell with you. Gripping your knees tight and pushing his chest forward again so that the two of you were face to face again, he forced his cock as far inside you as it could go, and emptied himself. 

“How long do I have you?” Spencer asked again, his voice tight as he climbed towards his pleasure. “How long?”

“For as long as you want,” you gasped, watching his face fall apart above you, sweat trickling down his forehead, running down his chest and meeting the flash of hair where his body joined to yours. 

His forehead rested against yours as your legs stiffened, twitching with the aftershocks of your fucking. 

He peeled himself away, pulling slowly out, so as not to dirty your sheets with his semen, before dropping a kiss to your lips. 

“You’re mine,” he said, standing above you, organizing the pillows at the head of your bed as he propped you up. 

Instead of following his silent commands to lay and rest, you propped yourself up on your knees on the bed, wrapped your arms around his neck in a surprise attack, and dragged him back down with you. 

If you were to replace your work arguments with more stimulating activities, it only seemed right that you should come out on top once in a while, and on top is where you meant to be now. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A day later, when the weekend finally came and you had managed to stay off one another long enough to get ready and leave for your final meal with the BAU, you figured that by now, the team must have some clue of what was going on between the two of you. 

Quietly, you made a bet outside the restaurant, settled in the car you’d shared to the venue. 

“I think Hotch knew. He had to, to have sent us off together so many times,” Reid bargained

“I’ll take that bet. I think they all see you as a kid still though, or at least as someone a little… inexperienced.”

“And was I?” he asked, grabbing your hand in his and kissing it. 

“Hmm?”

“Inexperienced?” 

You thought for a second, trying not to flush with heat. 

“Are you asking me if I think you have been with other women before, Reid?” you asked, irked by just the suggestion, already possessive and territorial, even if this had only really started the day before.

“Jealous?” he smirked, and you scoffed, leaning into his ear and whispering something so that only he could hear it. 

“Let’s talk about that later at my place,” you said, gently leaning in to kiss his lips quickly, leaving him wanting. “Let’s see what you remember of those experiences after that.” 

When you entered the door together, you got a number of awkward looks from your teammates, all of whom thought it best that you didn’t sit together. 

But Spencer quietly took a chair out for you, and you thanked him with a smile, before he sat directly next to you, letting a hand rest on your thigh. 

With a curse, everyone on the team began taking out cast from their wallets, and handing it over to Rossi. 

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, even though it was pretty clear. 

“Three months, $400 worth of bets, and the only one I took part in was this: you two were definitely going to end up doing the Devil’s Tango.” 

You both looked at each other and laughed, even as the sounds of a lot of money changing hands soundtracked the moment. 

“When did you even make that wager? We knew about the other bets, but those were all on cases,” you asked, suddenly curious about when you’d started getting obvious about your affection for one another.

“Did you see Spencer heading to my room at the motel?” you asked, which led to a raised eyebrow.

“No, but you can regale us with that tale later. We made this bet on your first day. When you told Spencer you looked forward to helping him out, I knew it was a little friendlier than it needed to be, if you catch my drift.” 

With every shocked gaze on you, you had only a moment to feel shame before the table - or more realistically, Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia - erupted with questions. 

“Hotel rooms? You were boinking uglies on cases?” 

“This whole time? This entire time?”

“I thought she hated you kid, what gives?” 

[reiderwriter]

Masterlist PSA

You've probably noticed that there's a LOT missing from my Masterlist. I'm aiming to start fixing it this month, but I've had this account for about three years now, and between events, requests and regular fics I have A LOT of fics to put back on there.

That being said, if there's any particular way anyone recommends/ would like to see it organised, let me know, and I'll try and implement it!

Ty all <3

[reiderwriter]

Come Out On Top

Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Needing an extra helping hand, the BAU gets a transfer from another agency that seems to push every button Spencer has, until one day, she just doesn't anymore. Warnings: SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI, soft-dom!Spencer, miscommunication/ lack of communication, case details mentioned, sexual harassment of reader in one scene by an unsub, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, slight cumplay, slight angst, oral (m receiving), dry-humping, etc. A/N: This fic was supposed to be like 2k words, and now it is basically 8k because I am a sucker for useless plot and sex scenes that are longer than necessary, so without further ado, please enjoy <3 Oh and please let me know what you think in the comments and tags!

Masterlist

The Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI was used to many tense situations. Hostage situations, the first 24 hours of a kidnapping, international murders involving diplomats, and even mob-affiliated murders were easy to navigate compared to the absolute stalemate of the office. 

Spencer Reid, resident genius, had been less than pleased to find himself teamed up with a second genius for the few weeks that JJ was going to be gone on leave. That wasn’t exactly true, he’d felt indifferent about the ordeal at first. But then he’d met you. 

That wasn’t the stalemate though. 

As Derek Morgan walked into the office that morning, he noticed something had changed. Though Reid and his partner - you, freshly on loan from the CIA - had seemingly been sitting in the office for around an hour before his arrival time, you hadn’t yet begun insulting one another. 

“Did I miss something?” he asked Emily, throwing his back into his desk chair as the pair stared across the room, as if waiting for a bomb to go off any minute.

“They haven’t even looked at one another for the last half hour. Hotch is worried they’re finally at the end of the fuse and that we’re about to blow up,” she replied. 

“Let’s hope they last one more case then,” Rossi said, sneaking up on the two from the bottom of the stairs. Everyone in the office was so focused on what was not happening between the two geniuses that they had so far neglected a lot of work, a trend over the past weeks. 

As if queued by his senior, Hotch emerged from his office and called for his team's attention. “We have a case. Conference room, now” he said, catching the eye of Spencer and you first, holding it for a second longer there as if to say ‘Don’t pull anything stupid.’

While the rest of the members of the team took their time collecting things and getting ready to enter the office, you gathered everything you needed as quickly as possible, keeping your head down to avoid making eye contact with - well, with anyone. But specifically, with Spencer Reid. 

Thankfully, as a transfer from another agency, you didn’t exactly have the freedom to acquire much desk junk. Your files were perfectly organised and alphabetised on your desk, in separate file holders based on case, location, and level of completion. You had one small notepad on your desk, along with three 2B pencils, a ball point pen, an eraser, and a ruler. Your desktop was similarly organised, and over the course of the last two months at the BAU, you’d taken it upon yourself to streamline the online file organisation system as much as the files themselves allowed. 

Penelope Garcia could do with a computer things that you couldn’t even dream. She also, though, had been known on multiple occasions to name a file “FinishedFile_Real_Final_REALLYTHISTIME_3”

You mostly disagreed with the title of genius that had been placed on you by the BAU members at the beginning of your time there. You’d said a few words, and a raised eyebrow and a comparison was all that you needed to feel a burning resentment from a few paces away. 

You still felt Spencer’s burning gaze now, desperately ignoring it as you climbed the stairs and quickly took your temporary seat at the table. 

Once everyone gathered, Penelope began.

“This one is not pretty, but they rarely are, please view the pictures on your tablets, as I will not be showing that on the big screen when my lunch break is half an hour away-” 

You listened as well as you could to the case details, looking through the files yourself as the meeting continued. You were about to ship out anyway, and you’d learn the case details again when you got to wherever it was you were going. So your mind drifted. 

It would only be a week or so now before JJ returned, and you were glad though you’d never met her. Another agent had been in charge of preparing all your training and helping you find your role in the team, and Emily had filled in most of your gaps even though you were technically assigned to Doctor Spencer Reid. 

Spencer. 

You thought back to your first meeting with him, your first day at the FBI. You blamed a lack of sleep and a lack of understanding when it came to how you actually were meant to converse with coworkers for everything that happened that day. 

Your first sin, of course, was turning up late. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Excuse me, is this the Behavioral Analysis Unit? I was told that I would be meeting an Agent Reid here to begin my training,” you’d asked tentatively at the edge of the room, noting the large offices above your head and the crammed desks on the main floor. 

You wondered which one would be yours. 

“Doctor Reid?” the voice asked back, more startled than you, and you assumed that he was actually a regular worker. “Not Hotchner or Morgan? Rossi? Prentiss?” 

With every shake of your head, the man grew more astounded. 

“I’m surprised they’re letting him talk to people,” he mumbled under his breath, but it was something you heard nonetheless, and you grew apprehensive about this too good to be true job opportunity. 

“He’s probably at his desk,” the man shrugged, gesturing vaguely near the stairs, before walking away from you completely. You couldn’t even thank him. You wouldn’t have, to be clear, but now you could blame it on his own rudeness instead of yours. 

Luckily, the next person you asked for help was Emily Prentiss. 

“Oh yes, hi. Spencer just stepped out of the office for a minute, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” 

She showed you your desk, logged you into their system, paged Reid, and then let you have time to unpack your few belongings before Reid arrived. 

“You’re late,” was the first thing he’d said to you. “You were supposed to be here at 10:45. It’s 11:30.” 

He was panting slightly, as quietly as he could, hands on his hips as he looked down at you, towering as he was. 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the agent from the CIA? And you’re late.” 

A few people stood by to watch, suddenly needing to photocopy something urgently at the nearest printer, or to ask a colleague at a nearby desk a question. Or just a quick stretch. 

“No. No, I'm not,” you replied coolly. You realized quickly that wasn’t the best response, but before you could open your mouth to reply, you locked eyes with the man above you. 

It was like lightning. You saw the instant dislike in his eyes, and recognized it as a look you were probably making at the same time. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive. It was just the overwhelming sense of superiority that stunk on him at that second.

He thought he was right, and though he wasn’t, you disliked the overconfidence. 

“Doctor Reid, presumably?” you asked, and he nodded, and you stood, trying to squash the distance and superiority that height gave him. 

“Agent Prentiss tells me that you just got back from a case last night. You were in Puerto Rico for an assignment, correct?”

The man grimaced, and you returned it, noticing that even after standing up he had a handful of inches on you. Irksome. 

“You are still almost an hour late.”

“No, I’m 15 minutes early,” you said, grabbing his wrist and pulling it so you could see his watch. You smiled, and took a breath to relax. “Your clock is still set to Atlantic Standard Time. You’re running an hour ahead, Doctor.” 

A deep red spread across the tips of his ears, made only more notable by the way he ran his hands through his hair. You wondered if he’d recently had a large trim, but quickly shook the thought from your mind. You had a weakness for a man with long hair, and you didn’t even want to entertain the idea of this man being your ideal type for even a second longer. 

He composed himself, handed you some documents, and pointed you towards Hotchner’s office all before the blush could dissipate, but it was enough for the rumours. 

You had challenged the pet genius of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and come out on top (give or take a few inches). A rivalry had begun. 

Spencer had watched you walk up the steps while holding his breath. He wondered how still he would have to stand for his coworkers to forget he was there. You took five steps, and then turned around, satisfied that you were now finally above Spencer Reid.

“Doctor Reid?” you called out, knowing that once you dropped the gauntlet there was no way to pick it back up again. You may as well have fun with it. 

“I look forward to helping you out for the next few weeks. It seems as though you need it.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You mentally scolded yourself remembering that moment. 

It seems as though you need it, you thought. Really?

It had been satisfying at that moment, of course, but it had come back to haunt you weeks in. You’d found yourself in the midst of a challenge with the good doctor, of who could solve a case first. Mostly who could be the most helpful to the other. 

You’d reorganised all the files in the BAU’s folder (with permission), and he’d found crucial undigitalized documents that had helped solve a string of copy-cat murders in Chicago. 

You had connected the dots between a local kidnapping and a human-trafficking ring, and he had ever so graciously tracked down three cases in the FBI system that were unsolved but could now be definitively connected. 

You interviewed a possible suspect in a sexual sadism murder case leading to an admission of guilt and an arrest, he shot the guy when he’d pulled a knife on you as you were getting your handcuffs. 

You still weren’t entirely sure if he was aiming for you or not. 

For nearly two months, the BAU was reporting productivity hereto unknown. And you still made sure to talk to him primarily from higher ground. 

The problem with hating a coworker, though, was that he was always there. A further problem with your situation, too, was so was everyone else. 

“Are you listening?” a voice to your right asked, as you felt a nudge against your leg from the left. 

“Wheel’s up in 30,” Hotch said, keeping his eyes on you for a minute before flickering to Spencer. Your eyes were fixed forward, though, to where Reid was sitting, the direction of your nudge from earlier. 

He was ever so helpful. 

You realized that you’d done what you’d promised you wouldn’t do that day, which was look at him. You’d wondered if you could even go as far as to not acknowledge him, but realized that was likely too obvious. 

So now the eye-contact that you’d promised to prohibit was ruined, and you were stuck leveling a look across the table at his soft brown eyes. 

‘Soft?’ you scolded yourself, eyes twitching but not looking away, somewhat entranced. 

You felt other eyes on you as you kept your eyes locked with his, your coworkers trickling out of the room as you sat frozen. 

Slowly, eventually, Spencer pushed his chair back and slowly rose to a standing position. He was far enough away that you didn’t have to crane your neck, but close enough that you felt small just comparatively. 

“Don’t be late,” he whispered quickly as he walked past you and out of the door. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Most of the cases you’d worked together followed the same pattern. 

Aaron Hotchner wasn’t stupid, and he knew exactly how to push his team members to get the best results. Luckily, you and Spencer did most of the pushing for him. 

You’d been partnered up to explore crime scenes from that first day, where you’d taken a local arson case. 

“You don’t do field work with the CIA, correct?” Spencer had asked you as soon as the two of you were alone. It was like he was grilling a suspect instead of a coworker. 

“Not usually, though it was a part of my training.” 

He nodded and pulled on a pair of gloves, his shoes already covered to prevent crime scene contamination. You followed suit. 

“So what do you see?” He asked, wondering if you’d miss anything that he already knew. 

“I think we’re dealing with someone that knows fire department procedure, but not someone in the service themself.” 

He frowned at that, but asked you to elaborate. 

“The fire was started with an accelerant and a lighter found on the scene. But not a quick spreading or high burning one like gas. Nothing that could cause an explosion, or even a death.” 

“There was a death at the last fire, though,” he said, probing you again.

“Which would suggest that our unsub was progressing. If he meant to kill that victim, we could expect to have another body here, even more. Instead, we have a smaller fire than last time.” 

“Why don’t you think that this one just didn’t work? That he meant for this to be bigger but the fire department reacted quicker than he thought.” 

“Why do you keep referring to the unsub with male pronouns?” you asked. 

Smugly, he replied. “Statistically, men account for over 90% of known arson cases, that figure increasing when we take into account-”

“But the fire marshal for this building is a woman. The same woman who is a fire marshal for the last two fire locations.” 

With a jolt, Spencer took a step back, stared at you for a second, and immediately pulled his phone out to call Hotch.

Your consultations on that case ended quickly, but you’d been equally combative on cases across the country.

You didn’t bother trying to get along with him in front of local PDs or even suspects. It was almost a new interrogation technique. Putting the two of you in a room with an unsub, and seeing who had the most problems. 

Spencer had grown used to a certain level of comfort in the FBI, especially having been on the same team in the same role for so long. Of course he was challenged on his ideas regularly, but somehow when you did it, it was different.

It wasn’t exactly combative. You weren’t throwing around insults or threatening each other. It was more deeply heated debates, opinions thrown back and forth and a solid refusal to admit that either of you were wrong that caught you up. In conclusion you were both stubborn. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You somehow managed an entire flight without speaking to anyone, listening quietly while everyone else threw theories around. Everybody but Spencer. 

He had similarly holed himself up in a corner, almost as if the two of you had agreed to ignore each other, which was impossible because the two of you would agree on nothing. 

Quietly, your teammates placed bets on which of you would come out of this one triumphant. When it came to case wins, you were a week away from the end of the job and everything was tied up. 5-5. 

You knew about the bets because the jet wasn’t exactly big, and Morgan wasn’t exactly quiet about winning. You wondered if some of that natural arrogance had rubbed off on Spencer somewhere. He certainly looked up to the man. If it was arrogance he’d gotten from Morgan, it was his communication skills he’d gotten from Hotch. His cards were always close to his chest. You had no doubt that this team had raised him. This was his family, and you were the side character for a week or two; his problem to overcome. 

He’d certainly overcome you in the last case or two, though you’d done your best to forget as much of it as you could. 

Landing in Nevada, you ignored again that he was now on home turf. You ignored his coworkers asking after his mother, you ignored the prickling feeling of his eyes on you, you ignored the curiosity you had about his younger years, about discovering more about him, and climbed into the car, letting yourself be carried to your new precinct. 

Reaching the car before the others, you shut the door, shutting your eyes and allowing yourself a few minutes peace on the tarmac before the blurring voices got closer, became more distinct. The driver door opened first, and someone climbed in, but to your surprise, your door opened, too. 

You looked up at Spencer again, his head ducking down as he made to sit where you were. He looked surprised too for a minute. The seats in the car filled up, but you silently stared up at Spencer, wondering if this would start another argument, even if you were both past that now. Even if no one was paying attention to you anymore. 

Instead, he quietly reached over you, and clicked your seatbelt into place.

You could’ve sworn you felt a breath in your ear, the phantom of his lips against your skin. You could almost convince yourself that he had muttered an apology. 

You knew that he had nothing to apologize for in the end. The mistake was all yours to own. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

After 7 cases with the BAU, you thought you had settled in nicely. You were instrumental in solving cases, and had delivered a number of scathing set downs to Spencer Reid. They seemed like polite corrections to others, but to him, every time you talked was like you poking a knife in his side. 

He scowled at you and was sharp with his words. He enjoyed nothing more than poking back at you with his own taunts. 

You were on assignment at a prison, stuck together mid-week while you processed information and interviewed inmates that had finally agreed to be a part of BAU’s research files in return for leniency and better treatment inside. 

Due to your nagging and biting at each other, however, no other team member had wanted to go with the two of you. 

“I’m not a babysitter, Hotch,” Morgan had shook his head when asked, crying off with the blessed excuse of a court date. 

Rossi’s birthday was coming up, so he had his own inmates to prepare for. 

Emily was suddenly busy getting information from an Interpol contact she knew about an old case, and Hotch couldn’t leave the team behind in case an important case came in. 

Really, there was no one else to go with the two of you, and so the problem solved itself. 

If there was no one to accompany you, then no one would. 

It wasn’t as if you wouldn’t get the job done. Your constant squabbling on cases had increased productivity by around 150%. Not one member of the team had worked overtime since you’d begun your rivalry, the both of you willing to pick up extra slack in the team to prove yourselves more useful than the other. 

You were each given the file, a company card, specially prepared credentials, and a car key, and you were told to drive yourself to a prison one state over to get to work. 

“I’ll drive,” Spencer had said, grabbing your bag from your hand and packing it into the back with his own as you seethed quietly. It was fine. You didn’t like driving anyway, and you knew he didn’t either. 

You’d made your way practically silently along the highway, stopping off now and then to use amenities. You both took turns driving, reading the case files in the meantime until you finally arrived. 

It was when you finally arrived that you realised that you had overestimated yourself. 

You’d mainly worked behind the scenes during your cases up to that point, not interacting a lot with the unsubs apart from the one time one had almost made you a victim. You’d been somewhat more safe in the larger numbers of your team, not the only woman around, and almost protected by the experience of the other men.

This prison was different. 

Even as you were greeting the prison staff, you noticed the looks they were giving you, almost concerned and unsure. You wanted to prove yourself, but they looked at you as if you were the sacrificial virgin about to be given up to an angry god. You knew who you were about to talk to. You had read the file more than once, and, though it irked you, you were mainly just there to take notes and assist Spencer with his interview. 

You had instead found yourself the centre of attention for the prisoner. 

He had murdered and killed a number of women, violating them both before and after. It was a miscalculation to send you into that, and Hotch had later regretted the decision.

“Who is this? What a beautiful girl,” he had started, hands on the table, relaxed even though you noticed they were cuffed together by a somewhat relaxed set of chains. You had watched him walk in, noting the chains were wrapped around his ankles as well. 

The chains were attached to the table, the table was fastened to the floor, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Still, bile rose in your throat. 

“My name is Doctor Spencer Reid, this is my colleague, we’re here today from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct an interview-”

“What’s her name?” the prisoner asked, addressing Spencer but staring at you, his body still relaxed.

“We’re here from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct a research interview. Please state your name for the record.” 

He did so, irked slightly, but continued. “She’s pretty.”

Spencer brushed the man off, but he sat up a little straighter in his chair. The guards behind the prisoner moved toward the door and took their spot opposite the prisoner once again. You tried to relax as best you could, looking down at files and organizing your materials so you could avoid eye contact. You didn’t want to avoid eye contact, but there was no way you could look at the monster in front of you without flinching.

Spencer began asking questions, and though you had agreed to ask some yourself, Spencer quickly took charge of the situation, and you found yourself thankful that he wasn’t making you interact any more than you had to.

“Why isn’t she talking to me?” the prisoner asked again, pricking your ears with the desperation in his voice.

 “My colleague is just here to observe, she is not an interviewer and she isn’t qualified to ask questions.” 

“I want her to ask me questions,” the man pouted, almost childlike, as he slipped his hands off the desk, leaning back.

“No-”

“It’s okay,” you said quietly, cursing your voice for the rasp that came out. “I can take over a few questions from here.” 

You continued the interview for a few more questions, and part of you felt your confidence growing by the minute. He was responding well to you, you were doing well, you hadn’t stuttered once since your first line.

But just as you were about to ask for your final question, you felt a hand grip your wrist tightly, another wrapping around your eyes as you were quickly pulled from your seat and from the room entirely, Spencer leading you out as the guards began shouting orders at the prisoner inside the room.

“Spencer!” you gasped as he pulled you into a free space, not private but not anywhere near guards or prisoners. He released his hand from your eyes, but kept ahold on your wrist. 

“Are you okay?” he gasped, chest heaving with urgency, scanning your face for any signs of hurt or injury. 

“Yes? What happened, I was about to finish the last question. One more minute and I would’ve been done,” you groaned. You couldn’t help the annoyance in your voice. Even if you didn’t want to be in that room one more second, and that Spencer likely had a damn good reason for dragging you away. 

“He was… under the table, he had revealed himself, and he was about to-” he struggled to find the words as the situation dawned on you. “He was taking pleasure in talking about the past, and I just wanted to get you out of there. It doesn’t bode well to let them revel in their crimes.” 

“Oh,” you muttered, suddenly defeated. “Oh. Thank you?” 

You didn’t say much else, letting him lead you back to the guards areas, collecting your things to drive once more. 

You sat quiet and still in the passenger seat on the way back. It shouldn’t have been any different than the drive on the way there, still silent, but it was. 

Arriving back in Virginia, Spencer took mercy on you and drove you straight to your own house instead of making you drop the vehicle back at Quantico. You were a little blurry, even though you hadn’t slept, and didn’t even realize as he opened your car door and led you out. 

He carried your back, clutching your hand in his as he guided you to your door.

You vaguely heard him asking you for your key, and you pressed it into his hand. 

The next time you truly became conscious was when he was about to leave. 

“Can you… Could you just stay for a minute?” you said, taking a seat on your couch and looking up at him with pleading eyes. 

You didn’t want to beg him to stay. You didn’t want him looking down on you, pitying you again. But he sank down to his knees and rubbed a quiet thumb over your knuckles as you closed your eyes and let yourself relax on the couch, until you fell asleep. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When you reached your final crime scene as a member of the BAU, you were happy to find that this was as straightforward a case as you could get for your last. 

You’d heard stories about big cases, emotional ones, that had inspired members of the team in previous years to finally let go of the team, and you were thankful that you didn’t have to go out with a bang. 

You’d simply finish, and that would be that. You would wash your hands of Spencer Reid, and the team that was watching the both of you, confused. 

You worked on the case for the later hours of the day, going through old crime scene footage, Hotch and Prentiss heading out to a current one. You’d been stuck on file duty, working closely with Garcia on conference calls to get your job done. 

When you finally retired to your motel room, Spencer was waiting outside for you. 

Quietly, you let him in. 

You showered, you washed your hair and your body. You let the steam and heat from the shower wash away all the stress of the day. You left the shower, and he was still there even though his room was down the hall. 

He had already showered, having spent some time in the field earlier, returning before you. 

You finished and, wordlessly, tucked yourself into his side, already spread out on the bed. Without saying a word, you shut your eyes, feeling him wrap himself around you, and slept.

You weren’t sure why you let it happen. It wasn’t exactly the first time either. You just knew that, without talking, Spencer was comfortable and warm, and he made you feel safer. 

He’d found you in your room for the last three cases, sat by you for every case since that interview. Sometimes you just held hands, other times he held you against him. He hadn’t gone further than that, though you desperately wished he would. But you couldn’t say that to him, because that was the one unspoken rule. 

You didn’t communicate. 

When you did, it became a competition, and that wasn’t what these moments were for. 

You were quite impressed though, that none of your teammates had noticed so far. Spencer was always gone by 4am, and you’d had your own rooms on the last two cases, so there was no one monitoring his presence in his hotel rooms. Everyone thought you hated each other, though you awoke each day to him tearing himself away from you, a hard presence pushing subconsciously between your thighs as he dreamt of you before he came back to his senses.

You woke up aching for him, not platonically at all. 

You were using him like an emotional support toy, a child’s stuffed animal that you refused to part from, even if it was hideously past retirement, and you were old enough to comfort yourself. 

This was your last case with the BAU, and even though you hated Spencer Reid, you wanted him badly. 

The case continued in the morning, the way most cases had, and you found yourself more lethargic than usual. Your mood had taken a turn, just like your attitude to Reid had in the last few weeks, and you tried your best not to mourn the time you’d wasted being angry at him, for what could have been. 

Meanwhile, the other members of the BAU grew frustrated as well. There had been no leads on the case, no breakthroughs where there usually were. When working, you and Spencer had gravitated to opposite sides of any building or job. You were both working, both trying your best, but not challenging each other anymore.

You spent two weeks in that tiny precinct, avoiding one another in the day and gripping each other as close as you could at night until the case was finally finished. 

A slip up by the unsub had led your other teammates to an arrest. The both of you were left with a tied up score, your shared indifference to competition resolving itself. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

To say that you and Spencer had never conversed about your situation was technically false. 

The day after your interview, you’d woken up in bed, where Spencer had led you half asleep about an hour after you’d requested his continued presence. He was there beside you, still holding your hand, but softer in sleep.

Not that he’d been harsh on you at all the day before. 

As if he could feel his eyes on you, Spencer had woken. You thought about pretending to be asleep for a minute longer, to see what he would do. But exhaustion and curiosity kept your eyes open. 

“Good morning,” you whispered, letting your head rest comfortably next to his on the pillows, legs only just not touching. His hand squeezed yours once in greeting, still not detangling as he came to.

“Good morning,” he answered. “What time is it?” 

“6am. We have some time before we have to go to work.” 

He nodded and closed his eyes again for a moment, laying flat on his back and raising his other arm to cover his eyes, avoiding the light streaming through your windows.

You looked at him, almost overcome, and climbed over him, letting his hand fall as you laid your head on his chest and wrapped your arms around his neck. 

He moved slightly to accommodate you, hands startled for the moment, unsure of what to do before he rested them innocently on your back. 

“We should get up and go,” he whispered quietly, even as you shook your head and buried it in his neck now, his hands slipping lower as he petted your lower back.

“I don’t want to,” you said, moaning slightly. You didn’t know how true those words were until your words continued as your brain stopped. “I don’t want to fight with you. I want to stay like this. This is nice, and it’s comfortable.” 

Lifting your head, you searched his face to see how he reacted to your words. 

It was like he was troubled. 

“We still have to work,” he said, pushing a hair behind your ear as you  pouted. 

“I know,” you said.

“And you’re… you’re really not that comfortable with me at all. This is just-”

“I know,” you said. Before he said anything else, you leaned down and claimed his mouth. It was soft, a slight pressure. He could have missed it if you weren’t the only thing taking up space in his mind at that time. He was a genius, but at that moment he was a fool.

You pulled away, a little ashamed, as he broke eye contact and looked away. Understanding, you made to climb off of him, but he gripped your hips and made you stay. 

Still he said nothing, and so you waited, growing angry. Sitting up himself after a few minutes, Spencer pressed his lips to your cheek, as if placating a child, and then gently slid you off of his lap, and went on with his day. 

That was the end of your communication on the subject. But you’d felt him. 

You’d felt the way his hands had gripped your skin as if he didn’t want to let go. You’d felt his cock hard between his legs, desperate for release. You’d felt him stroke his hand across your arms as he had left your bed, denying himself of the pleasure you were begging him to take. 

You raged against him for the next two cases, growing angrier after he climbed back into your bed at night, especially when he refused to touch you as you wanted to be touched. He had told you no, out of some chivalric misunderstanding of your emotions. 

You knew about transference, and this may be that, but you made the decision to involve yourself with Spencer Reid the moment you’d begun hating him. You wanted him to comfort you, because you were so, so tired, and so was he, but he wouldn’t even do that. 

And so for your last case, you avoided him, defeated.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The entire team congratulated you as soon as you touched down from your final mission. It was almost as if you were retiring, leaving this place behind. 

You supposed they were just happy to be losing a member without a gunshot wound or a mental breakdown, or a forced transfer. 

Spencer stood off to the side, but when it came time to gather your things, he helped you pack up. 

He handed you your pencils as you carefully packed them into your box, he wiped the nonexistent dust from your monitor as you climbed under the desk to unplug your laptop. When everyone else left ahead of you, promising to meet you the following night for a goodbye meal, he carried your box out to your car, took your car keys and drove you home.

You weren’t sure what to say when you pulled up, so you climbed out of the car first, and moved to his side of the car, closing his door shut when he started to open it. Confused, he rolled down the window, as you leaned down over him and kissed him a second time.

This kiss was significantly heavier than your first. You gripped the back of his head to keep him from pulling away, though it seemed clear that he wouldn’t do that as he kissed back just as fiercely. You thought you would be locked there forever, desperately trying to take control of that second kiss, trying to communicate the months of shared frustration like it was another argument. 

You finally pulled away, but he grabbed and held your hand again as you both caught your breath, both neither in or out of the car.

“I just wanted… I think…” you gasped, brain muddled by the intensity of his stare, the sad look in his eyes. 

“Let me come in,” he asked, cutting you off. “Please.” 

You nodded and opened the door for him, silently closing it as you stared at one another. Feeling slightly ashamed, you looked down at the ground as you carried yourself to your door and then inside, the sound of his footsteps behind you enough to know that he was following. 

You opened the door, throwing your keys into the dish near your door, leaving it open so he could follow, all without looking back. 

You unlaced your shoes, taking them carefully off before making your way to the kitchen. You poured yourself a cup of water, drinking it carefully, as you heard the door shut carefully behind you. 

In another second, there were hands on your hips, encouraging you to turn, then encouraging you up onto the countertop of your kitchen. 

Spencer stood between your legs, and the few inches afforded you by the counters was enough to level your gazes. 

“Tell me what you want,” he said, hands on either side of your legs, refusing to touch you first.

Stubbornly, as if you couldn’t help it, you kept your mouth shut, just staring into his eyes defiantly. 

“Tell me what you want,” he said again, a little more forcefully, his brows slightly furrowing. “We don’t work together anymore, and enough time has passed since- since this started that I think we can finally have a clear conversation about this, but you need to tell me what you want before I take what I want.” 

“I was pretty clear about what I wanted. Before,” you said, raising a hand to his chest, unsure if you wanted to push him away or take a fishful of his shirt and pull him closer. 

“You weren’t clear, you haven’t ever been clear,” he said, a hand raking through his hair in frustration. 

“You weren’t exactly an open book either, Spencer.” 

“It’s- I couldn’t back then, it wouldn’t have been fair,” he said, a pang of regret straining his voice. 

“You can now,” you whispered, stroking a hand up and around his neck as he leaned closer. 

“For how long?” he asked, lips so close to yours they brushed your cheek with every murmur. 

You surged forward, unable to answer, pressing your legs around him and your lips against him as you pushed further and further into him. 

Every frustration with him came to the surface and you channeled it into your movements, matching his frustrated raking of your skin. His hands pushed eagerly into your soft flesh, pushing your shirt as far up as it could go before being hindered by your buttons. 

His teeth bit into your lip as you bickered in your touches, small whines and groans echoing through the tiny kitchen. 

He pulled you away, craning down over you as you both stumbled to the bedroom, neither willing to give up the ground you had conquered. 

His hands lifted up again, this time to rip your godforsaken shirt apart, the buttons too taxing now for him to focus on. Pushing you down against the bed, his hands found your breasts, cupping them entirely as he kissed down your naval, only coming away to rid himself of his own shirt. 

When his mouth found you again, it was lower, claiming a nipple in his mouth as you gripped your own bedsheets, each moan a plea to move faster. 

He instead took his time, a hand slid down from your chest to your underwear, leaving you clothed though wet from the anticipation. He stroked a single digit against your wet and aching clit, as if cooing at an apprehensive cat, slowly winding you up, up, up until you shuddered your pleasure. Only then did he kiss your lips again and slide his hands away.

You made to push your bottoms off, sure that now he would wish to enter you, but he grabbed and held your hands in place above your head. A small nudge had you falling to the floor, landing unceremoniously on your knees, as your hands stayed loosely pinned above you, held by a single hand. 

His cock bobbed in his pants, and slowly, working with one hand, he released it from its place. You needed no further instruction, licking up the underside of his shaft as it hit your face, before wrapping your lips around the tip and pushing it down your throat. 

You got three inches deep, slowly taking more so as not to gag, before coming back up for air. You alternated deeper and shallower strokes, making sure to watch his face as you pleasured him, looking up at his eyes as he came apart above you. He pushed one leg between your thighs as you continued to suck him, and you took the opportunity he gave freely, rubbing your clothed cunt against him like a bitch in heat. 

Before he could cum, he quickly pulled out, wrapping two hands warmly about you and pressing you into the bed again. 

He finally undressed you both, and, resting his forehead against your own, pushed into you. 

He surrounded you, keeping eye contact as he pushed himself all the way into your body, not stopping even as you moaned and clawed at his skin, desperate for the deep contact he was providing. 

“How long?” he asked again, holding himself still inside of you, teasing one nipple as he demanded an answer once more. “How long can I hold you like this? Just today? Until you find someone else? Until you move on and forget all about how comfortable this feels, how nice it is to have me next to you, inside you?”

It was all you could do to moan in answer, let alone give him the answer he wanted. 

He began with shallow pumps, eyes still locked with yours, even as yours squinted shut in pleasure, your body pulsing with the charge of electricity between you. 

“Don’t-” you cried, trying to answer as he pushed into you harder, deeper. 

“Good,” he said. “That’s a start, good girl.” 

“Don’t what? Don’t fuck you? Don’t cum inside you? Don’t claim you?”

“Don’t stop-” you gasped out as he began stroking a thumb against your clit, spitting on it as he did so, loosening you up as you began to shake again through another orgasm. 

Dropping your pinned hands, he gripped your knees and pressed them back, letting his cock sit shallowly in your cunt as he changed your angle. You didn’t argue, you couldn't as your arms stayed obediently above your head, exactly where you’d left them. 

He pushed in again, the new angle urging a string of curses to drop from your lips as he pressed in harder. He sped up, and you lost your breath so fast that all you could hear was the sounds of your bodies meeting, not even your heartbeat distracting you from listening to the sounds of your pleasure. 

You tightened around him, aroused by the simple sight of him as you tipped over the edge, and he fell with you. Gripping your knees tight and pushing his chest forward again so that the two of you were face to face again, he forced his cock as far inside you as it could go, and emptied himself. 

“How long do I have you?” Spencer asked again, his voice tight as he climbed towards his pleasure. “How long?”

“For as long as you want,” you gasped, watching his face fall apart above you, sweat trickling down his forehead, running down his chest and meeting the flash of hair where his body joined to yours. 

His forehead rested against yours as your legs stiffened, twitching with the aftershocks of your fucking. 

He peeled himself away, pulling slowly out, so as not to dirty your sheets with his semen, before dropping a kiss to your lips. 

“You’re mine,” he said, standing above you, organizing the pillows at the head of your bed as he propped you up. 

Instead of following his silent commands to lay and rest, you propped yourself up on your knees on the bed, wrapped your arms around his neck in a surprise attack, and dragged him back down with you. 

If you were to replace your work arguments with more stimulating activities, it only seemed right that you should come out on top once in a while, and on top is where you meant to be now. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A day later, when the weekend finally came and you had managed to stay off one another long enough to get ready and leave for your final meal with the BAU, you figured that by now, the team must have some clue of what was going on between the two of you. 

Quietly, you made a bet outside the restaurant, settled in the car you’d shared to the venue. 

“I think Hotch knew. He had to, to have sent us off together so many times,” Reid bargained

“I’ll take that bet. I think they all see you as a kid still though, or at least as someone a little… inexperienced.”

“And was I?” he asked, grabbing your hand in his and kissing it. 

“Hmm?”

“Inexperienced?” 

You thought for a second, trying not to flush with heat. 

“Are you asking me if I think you have been with other women before, Reid?” you asked, irked by just the suggestion, already possessive and territorial, even if this had only really started the day before.

“Jealous?” he smirked, and you scoffed, leaning into his ear and whispering something so that only he could hear it. 

“Let’s talk about that later at my place,” you said, gently leaning in to kiss his lips quickly, leaving him wanting. “Let’s see what you remember of those experiences after that.” 

When you entered the door together, you got a number of awkward looks from your teammates, all of whom thought it best that you didn’t sit together. 

But Spencer quietly took a chair out for you, and you thanked him with a smile, before he sat directly next to you, letting a hand rest on your thigh. 

With a curse, everyone on the team began taking out cast from their wallets, and handing it over to Rossi. 

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, even though it was pretty clear. 

“Three months, $400 worth of bets, and the only one I took part in was this: you two were definitely going to end up doing the Devil’s Tango.” 

You both looked at each other and laughed, even as the sounds of a lot of money changing hands soundtracked the moment. 

“When did you even make that wager? We knew about the other bets, but those were all on cases,” you asked, suddenly curious about when you’d started getting obvious about your affection for one another.

“Did you see Spencer heading to my room at the motel?” you asked, which led to a raised eyebrow.

“No, but you can regale us with that tale later. We made this bet on your first day. When you told Spencer you looked forward to helping him out, I knew it was a little friendlier than it needed to be, if you catch my drift.” 

With every shocked gaze on you, you had only a moment to feel shame before the table - or more realistically, Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia - erupted with questions. 

“Hotel rooms? You were boinking uglies on cases?” 

“This whole time? This entire time?”

“I thought she hated you kid, what gives?” 

[reiderwriter]

Hi!

For the requests I would love to read (if you’re inspired to write it of course) maybe an enemies-to lovers with Spencer.

Maybe Spencer and reader are both geniuses in the BAU and they’re always arguing or teasing each other because they’re both SO competitive, it comes to the point that the team is like “here we go again” every time they start an argument.

One random day the tension is just too much they kiss (or fuck) up to you.

I was thinking, even tho they argue a lot and are always teasing each other, Spencer secretly likes it, and teases reader just to get a reaction out of her lol

It can be fluff it can be smut, it can be fluff AND smut, is up to you and whatever you feel like writing, thank you so much!

-🍒

Hello Cherry anon!

I got a little (a lot) carried away writing something for this and somehow it is now 8k words whoops. Anyways, it's going to be the next thing I post, so if you see this reply, go check my account asap.

I'll link it here when it's up!! <3 Thank you for the request and the inspiration!

[reiderwriter]

hi kacie! just wanted to say i’m always rereading your spencer reid fics and series (every day lol ) and thinking of you. hope you’re doing okay. also any chance you’re planning on kinktober 2025? no pressure, just excited if you are 💛

Hi! I might do a modified kinktober with one or two fics per week this year, but probably not an entire month of fics! I'm really busy these days, so getting one out per week is a little difficult haha

I still very much want to do something to celebrate it though so I'll keep you updated!

[reiderwriter]

Hi! Alright. I've been here for a week, I think, and I'm absolutely in love with Spenser and your writing.

Can I please ask you something about awkward situations and like forced proximity? Like, accidently being in narrow places, at first ay least, then (we all know Reid Is SUCH a smart boy) Y/N and Spencer are in narrow places more and more often. And like... Not that they aren't down for it... But they're embarrassed as shit, and Y/N have a crush at Reid for a long time, and she hasn't been with anyone from the moment she's in BAU...

I just think about Spencer being all flustered and shy until he sees and finally understand her reactions and decide to like prove some of his theories.

It would be most appreciated for them to be embarrassed and shy but more then turned on and unable to hide that until in one of this places they like... snap into being closer.

Is that alright? I would very-very appreciate it if it's possible and if it's your cup of tea. I'm sorry if I make you uncomfortable, I just really appreciate your works!!! Thank you very much either way!!! ☺️

Hello hello! Tysm for the request, its posted now, you can see it here!

[reiderwriter]

Questionable Theories

Inspired by this request!

Summary: You end up in a couple of tight situations with Spencer, and he decides that the body language you're displaying is an obvious sign of claustrophobia rather than a desperately horrible case of sexual attraction.

Warnings: smut, 18+, shower sex, unprotected sex, sexual frustration, fingering, minimal foreplay etc.

Masterlist

Spencer Reid was a budding anthropologist.

To be clear, he was very much a physicist, a mathematician, an engineer, a Supervisory Special Agent, and many other things. But he reasoned that a Bachelor’s Degree in a subject only cleared him to be someone who dabbled in anthropology.

And anthropology told him that you were hiding something. He had studied human behavior for years, and he had some qualms about using his knowledge as a profiler against his friends and colleagues - it wasn’t nice to psychoanalyse each other, he had been told many a time - he felt that certain scientific observations needed some further study.

Take, for example, the observation of societal reactions to small or tight spaces. While Spencer knew for a fact that many people had a fear of small, enclosed spaces, also known as claustrophobia, he knew you were not one of those people.

And yet, here you were, squashed against his side in a packed elevator, displaying a heightened heart rate, higher body temperature, and flashes of discomfort only otherwise present in those with the fear.

You’d gotten onto the elevator happily enough, he’d noted. There was no trepidation or avoidance. You hadn’t once suggested taking the stairs instead. But on the second floor, a crowd of people had gotten in, and you’d been left pressed so tightly against Spencer’s chest that he could measure your pulse no problem.

Struggling to find something to comfort you in your distress, Spencer settled for a hand on your back, wrapping it around you to keep you from bumping into any more people. Morgan had already told him that elevator death statistics rarely comforted those stuck in and/or using them, and he didn’t want to alert the elevator full of FBI agents that you were in any form of distress.

Touching you, however, almost made it worse. He noted a second spike in your pulse, before you began measuring your breathing slightly more so it would calm down.

He wanted to help; he surely did, but there was only one more floor before you both reached the BAU, and before he could think of anything truly comforting to say, you’d pushed through the crowd of people and started walking to your desk as if nothing in the world was wrong.

He almost missed the beat of your heart as you walked away.

From that day on, Spencer made it his mission to figure out if you were struggling with claustrophobia or rather with something more akin to enochlophobia, a fear of crowds.

It was rather lucky then that after a few days again, you found yourselves both back in an elevator, though this one was much less crowded. Spencer was almost disappointed that he couldn’t test both variables at once to repeat the pattern of the first observation, but luck was on his side when, after all the other inhabitants of the elevator alighted on their work floors, the elevator decided to break down with only the two of you left on it.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you said, shutting your eyes in silent defeat as the elevator lights switched themselves off.

“I guess the power just went out,” Spencer said, moving a step or two closer to you to buzz the alarm, and noting the way you flattened your back against the wall to avoid him further.

After notifying the building maintenance again, he stopped and stayed near you.

“Statistically, this won’t take too long, the-”

“Spencer, if you start telling me facts about elevator breakdowns, I’m going to have a breakdown myself.”

Nodding quickly, he wisely shut his mouth, but he didn’t attempt to move back. As the next floor doors were pried open by firefighters a few moments later (the perks of a job at Quantico, expedited rescues), he stepped further into your personal space.

You couldn’t escape him without completely obviously swerving to the opposite side of the elevator, which might be dangerous considering the quick repair work that was happening on it, so you instead tried your best to hold your breath and die.

It was better than letting your mind run away with the thought - the tempting, very detailed, and somewhat scary thought - of Spencer pinning you against the wall and doing whatever the hell he wanted with your body.

There was a certain level of detail your mind went to after the boundary of personal space had been crossed, and unluckily for you, Spencer was crossing it a lot these days. You were left feeling absolutely, devastatingly horny, with an aftertaste of guilt from thinking these things about your coworker.

“Could you-” you coughed, trying to free your voice from any squeaks. “Could you step back a bit?”

The Spencer in your horny brain would’ve pinned your hands above your head and asked you if you really meant that, which of course you didn’t, you wanted to feel his hands all over you.

The real Spencer seemed to take this instead as confirmation of your fear, and backed up immediately, staying as still as a wildlife rescuer trying to calm a shaking abandoned puppy.

If only you were shaking in fear and not months of accidental sexual tension turned up to the max.

You were surprised that Spencer himself hadn’t noticed how you desired him carnally. You couldn’t hold his eye contact, and you wouldn’t even let yourself brush against him in fear that you would say something embarrassingly true. You thought these to be pretty easily defined as measures of one with unwanted sexual desires.

Spencer, however, went with enochlophobia.

“You two good down there?” Emily yelled from her perch on the floor just above you, comfortably situated between the firefighters who were currently putting a hold in the door to help you shimmy out of it.

“We need you two to get out of there quickly. We have a case in Atlanta. Wheels up in 30,” she said, reaching a hand down for your bags as the firefighters urged you to grab onto them so they could lift you.

A sudden wave of relief washed over you. Work! Real, true, and honest work to distract yourself with. A case where you could escape impure thoughts for the time being would be perfect.

You must’ve enjoyed the moment a second too long, though, as Spencer once again flooded your senses.

With a hand on your hip, chaste and purely platonic from anyone else's perspective, Spencer encouraged you forward, to meet the reach of the team of firefighters.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low and hot in your ear. He was probably giving himself a pat on the back for comforting you. “You’re doing great, just hang in there.”

Helping to send your bags up to Emily, he reached around you, his chest hitting your back, his entire body crowding yours once again near the edge of the space.

Every touch felt electric, and you wished to god it did not. You let the team of firefighters drag you out of the hole you were physically in, even as you sank further into the one you were in mentally.

After confirming his suspicions, Spencer took it upon himself to be your silent protector. If you’d had any clue that was what he was doing, you’d have definitely thought it cute.

Instead, you were just on edge whenever he so much as breathed in your direction.

He sat next to you on the jet, going so far as to ask you if you had any problem with turbulence even though you’d been working with him for the last year and he’d travelled in a plane with you. When he leaned over you to open the blinds to the window, you twitched away from his hand, so sure that it was about to land somewhere inappropriate.

He sat in the back of the van beside you when you landed, getting strange looks from every other member of the team because he was usually very serious about sitting front and centre. The stares only got more intense when he tried to put your seatbelt on for you.

“Spencer,” you whispered sharply as he stretched across you for the second time that day. “I’ve got it.”

He quickly retreated into his seat and even seemed a little disappointed in himself.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure why he was being so intense either. He’d found out about your so-called weakness, and it was like some part of him leaped into protector mode. He wanted to be closer, to study every reaction, to make things easier for you.

He really couldn’t help it when he volunteered to room with you.

With three rooms available with the company card, Rossi took the initiative and booked his own private suite, leaving Emily and JJ, Hotch and Morgan, and of course yourself and Spencer to cosy up in twin rooms.

“I’ll grab that,” Spencer said, grabbing your bag for you and climbing up the stairs, notably avoiding the elevator either out of deference to you, or because he was similarly freaked out about the morning’s elevator accident.

“Spencer, I’ve got it,” you sighed, half exasperated, half dreamy. But he was already out of sight and unlocking the door to your room, walking in to inspect it.

You trailed along quickly, noting that he’d stopped rather suddenly at the door.

“Oh,” he said, staring into the room and lowering the bags he’d commandeered to the floor.

Of course, you’d been left without a twin room. You’d been left a standard double. With, of course, a single double bed.

For Spencer, he saw this as a scientific chance to keep exploring his own theories. Was it all people you were uncomfortable with? Would the close proximity of sharing a space highlight any discomfort you had with people in general? Would you refuse the room entirely, and leave, or would you push yourself through it?

You similarly had many plaguing thoughts: how the fuck were you going to get through the night without an embarrassingly horny wet dream, or at least some kind of Nyquil to knock you out cold before you could harass the man any further?

Neither of you had the chance to discuss your new living arrangements, as you were quickly - blissfully - called into the precinct to begin your case.

Twelve hours of traipsing around crime scenes and pulling longer hours than you had in months - purposefully - you were almost glad to be heading back to sleep.

Not that you were looking forward to discussing the sleeping arrangements, but because you’d had a few more strange encounters with Spencer across the day that you absolutely needed to be unconscious to fully avoid.

First, he’d taken it upon himself to angle himself between you and any other detectives you met on the case, which actually hindered your chance to ask about evidence and the facts of the case for a few hours, until Hotch had sent Spencer on an errand.

When he’d come back, he’d pulled you aside to talk, which was normal enough, except he’d pulled you into a storage closet to talk, and though he kept the topic strictly on the case, your brain had overloaded the second he’d pressed his hand against the wall beside your head and you’d sprinted back out of the closet, avoiding eye contact with anyone who you thought may have witnessed the entire exchange.

And then he’d insisted - insisted - on driving you home alone, turning down all the offers from the local PD to get you an escort so you didn’t have to worry about the unfamiliar roads.

Spencer patted himself on the back for seeing to your needs so well.

You wanted nothing more than to fall straight into bed and never get back out again, dumping your bag, and walking straight into the attached bathroom, as you began to undress so you could take a shower.

“Don’t mind me,” Spencer said as you popped a second button, sending you jumping across the already very small room.

Leaving you stood there in shock, clutching your shirt to your chest, though you were still more or less covered, he reached around you and placed his toiletries on the counter, practically pinning you (once again) to the sink.

You weren’t cognizant of your brain making the decision, but you felt your hands pushing up against Spencer’s chest, and shoving just deliberately enough to pin him to the solid shower stall door, turning the tables on him.

“What are you doing, Spencer?” you asked, shocked both at how professional you sounded and that your hands had yet to travel from his chest to any other part of his body.

“I’m dropping my toiletries bag off,” he said, the picture of nonchalance.

“I was about to get in the shower. I told you as much before walking in here. I was undressing.”

“Yes, but-”

“You pulled me into a closet earlier, you acted strange in the elevator, frankly, you’ve been entirely too helpful today, and I know you’re a kind person, but Jesus Christ, Spencer, there’s only so much I can take!”

“I know,” he said soothingly, a soft smile playing on his lips, and if you weren’t so frustrated, you might have swooned at the way he looked at you.

“You know what?”

“That…that this is hard for you, right? It’s totally normal to-”

“Oh god,” you whispered. He knew.

“No, it’s okay, really, it happens to a lot of people, this kind of thing is just a natural part of society, and-”

“Spencer, for the love of god, please shut up!” you nearly screamed, trying your best to keep your shattered emotions in tow.

“I just want us to be able to communicate clearly about this,” he said, and with that, he raised a hand to your face, brushing a hair aside quickly and tucking it behind your ear.

No longer in control of your actions, you had no choice but to let your body push closer to his and join your lips to his, suffocating his helpful smile.

You felt his shock, but then you felt his hands grip you a little bit closer, pulling you into him and pressing his lips back into yours with the same pressure.

You gasped for air, but he pulled you in closer still, turning you around to press you against the shower door, nearly tripping inside as you tugged and pulled at one another, needing to be closer, to be close at once.

“Fuck, Spencer-” you said as you drew away, pressing kisses along his chin and down his neck as he held you propped up against the wall.

He had been incorrect, he had been absolutely incorrect in the best way, and now his cock was throbbing in his pants and you were wrapping your legs around him as you moaned into his ear with every kiss, and he was so happy that he was incorrect.

His hands fumbled against the buttons of your shirt as you similarly worked against the zipper of his pants, desperate to get him free, to feel him inside you. But you both absolutely refused to detach from one another, lips once again finding each other as you stumbled blindly around the shower stall.

Another stumble was all it took for the, luckily hot, water of the shower to pour down on you, and you detached quickly to rid yourselves of now wet clothing before colliding again.

It was quick - possibly the quickest you’d ever consummated a relationship - and near silent, no spoken communication besides moans and nods, and the fingers that had been desperately gripping your waist instead moving to spread your legs. He stroked along your clit as your hands found his cock, pumping it once, twice, and once again before you begged in a single desperate moan, and he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pressed himself in.

Blissful is how he would describe it. You were lost for words, so you wouldn’t be able to even come up with anything that could do it justice.

Neither of you lasted long, you from the months of pining, and Spencer because he’d been entirely overwhelmed in the last twenty minutes, and he usually liked time to prepare for these things.

He continued stroking you through your release, and you panted, holding yourself up against a wall as he pulled out and stroked himself to completion.

Silently, and rather awkwardly, you turned off the shower and stared at one another for a beat before you both wordlessly stepped out of the shower and got yourselves ready for sleep.

After redressing yourselves in dry nightwear, you both sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for the other to say something.

“Just… out of interest, you’re not.. Claustrophobic, are you?” Spencer asked.

“No, why?” you replied, almost confused, before he grabbed and kissed you again. A distraction from revealing his monumental fuck up.

“No reason,” he said, pushing you down into the bed and slowly pressing his lips to your skin again, having enough time now to truly think out how he could treat you well.

[reiderwriter]

How readers who don’t reblog like or show any other means of support on fluff pieces feel getting on here and complaining that there is no fluff

The amount of times I see people complaining about how much smut there is, I go onto their blog to see their reposting NOTHING but smut??? 🤨 it’s not exactly clicking…

BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE!! IF YOU WANT IT SO BAD, THEN WRITE IT YOURSELF

+ authors can write WHATEVER they want, smut angst, or fluff. And if they want to write nothing but smut, then let them! Especially when you don’t support their fluff pieces, why would they write it when nobody supports it?

[reiderwriter]

Part two is up now~♡

♡The Romantic Comedy ♡

Like any of the great creatives of our time, the reader has found themselves stuck in a writing slump to end all writing slumps. With a literary agent breathing down her neck, and an absolute refusal to download any dating apps, she stumbles upon one of the greatest untapped romantic resources of her lifetime: Spencer Reid.

Genre: Fluff, slow burn, eventual smut (I'm going to make you work for it though tee hee)

The Meet Cute

The Fake Relationship

The Enemies to Lovers

The Office Romance

The Roommate Special

The Long Distance Relationship

The Bed

The Forced Proximity

The Love Triangle

The Small Town

The Unresolved Sexual Tension

The One Night Stand

The Happily Ever After

A/N: I started writing one of my requests and it started looking more and more like a series instead of a standalone fic, so I hope you enjoy "The Romantic Comedy!" There's no strict upload schedule with this one, because like our self-insert reader, I too am plagued with a full-time job and writer's block 6/7 days a week. Nevertheless, I'm aiming for a chapter a week <3 I won't do a tag list for this one, but I will be reposting on @reiderslibrary so if you follow and turn on post notifs for that account you should get a notification every time a chapter drops. Or just... check in once a weekend!

[reiderwriter]

◇ The Fake Relationship ◇

Part two of The Romantic Comedy

Prev Chapter || Next Chapter

Summary: Realizing you've put your foot in your mouth, you desperately try to backtrack as Spencer desperately tries to help.

Warnings: fluff, future chapters will be 18+ though, reader is an erotica romance author, and is already thinking somewhat impurely about hands

A/N: This one was very trope-y and a bit cliché but we're finally through the set-up so now onto the more fun chapters next week! Let me know what you think in the comments!

Masterlist

Stepping back for a moment, you realized you’d finally reached peak exhaustion.

Neither your writing job nor your role on the BAU was a particularly restful career. You’d balanced week-long cases with midnight writing time, burning the candle at both ends.

Now whatever was left of your wits after expending your last half an hour writing was desperately clutching Spencer’s shirt, haunting the man with your desperation.

The emergency lights flicked on as you came back down to reality.

“Sorry!” You squeaked out, putting as much space between you as possible. Which admittedly wasn’t a whole lot.

“No…no. Not at all. What-”

“I should go,” you shouted again, fully aware you were at least thirty seconds from passing out from sheer embarrassment. You grabbed your bag quickly, hard shut down your computer, quickly saving your first chapter, and tried to run away.

Tried being the operative word.

“What do you need me for?” Spencer stepped in front of you again, steadying you with a hand by your elbow to make sure you couldn’t fully dodge him.

“It’s nothing. It’s a stupid idea really. Not appropriate.”

Not appropriate was exactly how you would describe the thoughts that popped into your head when he was straddling you earlier, too.

“In this scenario, I think I can define what is and isn’t inappropriate. Sit down and talk me through it,” he said gently, walking you back to your seat.

“Okay,” you nodded quickly, trying to avoid the many different scenes from books popping into your head as he pulled your chair out for you and sat you down.

“Your writing was good, Y/N. It’s for your book, right?”

“Yes,” you said, almost embarrassed to respond in more than one syllable. But Spencer let the silence rest and waited for you to do or say anything else, so you had to pull your big girl pants back up and communicate. Effectively.

“Yes. I have a book due to my editor in a couple of weeks - I signed a four book deal after my first one was modestly popular online. Social media really blew it up so they wanted to lock me in for a few books,” you started, sinking back into the chair as you explained the fluke that was your writing career.

“Anyway, I’ve been here for a while now so romance isn’t exactly on the brain. I haven’t written in months and so my editor… So I need to start writing.”

Spencer sat so silently, you’d be so sure he was asleep if his eyes weren’t locked directly on yours.

You were so used to Spencer fidgeting - moving, reading, playing with a pencil between his fingers, drinking coffee - that this sudden rush of attention wasn’t immediately comfortable. “Spencer, you’re staring.”

“Sorry, sorry. Um, so you just needed to find something to write?”

You nodded and continued again.

“Yeah, I needed to find something to write about. And I don’t really want to lean into the whole serial killer romance thing.”

Spencer nodded along with you, finally nodding and moving again, and you let out a sigh as you watched him think.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll help you.”

Surprised, you looked up, once again making almost uncomfortable eye contact with Spencer Reid. You wished, too, that you had a notebook at that very moment to help you remember the exact feeling of your heart beating out of your chest.

A scene where you jumped straight into his lap and started twirling your fingers through his hair came to mind. Focusing again, you pushed it away.

“Help me with what?”

“I’ll help you write your book.”

“Oh! Oh no…” you stood and grabbed your bag again. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Okay, great, glad we are in agreement. Now let’s never talk about this ever again.”

You stood and grabbed your bag, but a firm grip on your wrist tugged you right back down. Instead of your own chair though you found yourself in Spencer’s chair.

Or more realistically speaking, in Spencer’s lap.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you mumbled under your breath.

“I know I don’t have to help you, but I want to. It sounds interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Yes.”

“You have three PhDs, and a number of other accolades, an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory. Helping me write a romance novel that will be, at best, a good beach read, is interesting to you?”

Spencer seemed to consider for a moment, and then leaning in slightly, whispered his answer. “Yes.”

You would have shivered had your body had the energy for that.

“Sure, Spencer. Okay. And how exactly are you going to help me?”

He took another moment to think about his answer. You took that as your opportunity to leave, quickly jumping up again after a too comfortable moment in his arms, and quickly left the office.

For two days after you avoided even thinking about Spencer, or your book, or writing about Spencer in your book.

Two whole days. A wonderful weekend away from what was becoming a real puppy crush. You found yourself inexplicably looking up Spencer on any platform you thought he’d have a presence on (not a single social media but a number of child prodigy articles from newspapers in Nevada from a handful of years ago.)

Then you found yourself back at work, facing a stack of books and the most confrontational version of Spencer Reid you’d ever been acquainted with.

“The Love Hypothesis, The Spanish Love Deception, The Unhoneymooners, The Deal, The Kiss Quotient - did you know that fake relationships are often ranked as readers second favorite romance trope?”

“Spencer what are you- Spencer our coworkers will be here soon, put those away,” you gasped, quickly rushing to push each and every book into some nook or cranny of your desk.

“This is the FBI, Spencer, what has gotten into you?”

As you moved each book, you realised that, though they appeared to be new, there were cracks in each book's spine. There were some tabs sticking out randomly, the type you’d seen in Spencer’s paperwork before, and you found yourself almost more exasperated.

“You read them? All of them?”

“ I wanted to help,” he shrugged, taking a few out of your hands and stuffing them back in his satchel. “Besides, some of them were pretty good.”

“Okay. Okay, Spencer, since we’re both acting a little bit out of character today, I have to ask: why do you want to help me?”

Finally, the man fidgeted uncomfortably. He tugged at the collar of his shirt once, then twice and finally looked back at you.

“I want… I want to practice,” his voice was barely a whisper as the tips of his ears reddened. “There’s… there is a girl I like, and… I’m not exactly the most experienced at romance.”

You tried to stop yourself from feeling disappointed at his admission. Your sudden burst of interest in Spencer was only due to his helpfulness. It had been three days, it wasn’t enough for you to feel truly disappointed that nothing could start with him.

And he was your coworker, too, and that would be a nightmare. And you realized quickly that he was still talking, and you’d accidentally tuned him out for half a minute at the least.

“I read your books, too. The first two. They’re not exactly instructional guides I can follow, but it would be fun to get some ideas about y- about what girls like on dates. You know?”

Letting out a sigh, you sat down at your desk.

“So you want to do this?” you asked, holding up the nearest book to you.

“I want to do this.”

You nodded and thought it out for a second. You needed the help. You needed to write, and though apparently clueless about women, he was courteous and handsome, and most importantly consenting.

“Fine.”

“Fine? Really?”

“Don’t make me regret this, but yes. Let’s try it out.”

Spencer’s smile warmed your heart. It genuinely warmed your heart. Handsome men really needed to be stopped, you thought, nearly regretting your decision. But, as you had been before agreeing to many relationships with men before in the past, you were desperate.

“So we need to do the contract thing and the ground rules thing, and then-” Spencer started, flicking through one of the books for quotes and places to start.

“Vetoed and vetoed. We’re just doing research for a book, right Spencer? Why should we put rules down? We’re profilers. We know what is too far, and more importantly, we know how to communicate.”

Spencer nodded along with your points.

“Then, we should just shake on it?”

You hesitated for a second, thinking about where your mind would evidently go and thus had already gone if you got even a glimpse of his hands. You knew they were veiny.

“We can shake on it, sure.”

With that, his hand - yes, veiny - grabbed yours and you found yourself in an agreement of mutual destruction.

Spencer was going to help you write your book, and you were going to stop yourself from thinking about wrapping your legs around him until you were satisfied.

And with that you found yourself a fake boyfriend.

[reiderwriter]

Rumours

A/N: I'm back! I started this one literally in February and then got so distracted by my job I couldn't finish it. Employment is a curse.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Plot: Spencer is displeased about some rumours he hears about you around the office. Only the way he goes about confronting them is clumsy and downright maddening.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, misogyny, misunderstanding, Spencer is a dick for a while, violence (breaking glass etc.), penetrative sex, oral (F receiving), slapping, choking, anal fingering, general BDSM content, Dom!Spencer, sub!reader, breeding kink (tee hee), cock warming, almost exhibitionism?

Masterlist

It wasn't as if you'd made it your life's mission to be the most rumoured about person on your team at the FBI, but you weren't exactly doing anything to correct people's perception of you. Spencer may have been to jail, Emily may have faked her own death, and Luke's past was a big, fat question mark, but nothing caught the attention of the pencil pushers in the office than the string of broken hearts you'd ostensibly left behind you at Quantico.

At one point in time, you'd even promised yourself you wouldn't date anymore law enforcement officers, lawyers, detention officers or anyone even remotely adjacent, but life was short, and you had a decent appetite for a men with guns and badges. It was very convenient to say the least.

Convenient for everyone apart from Spencer Reid.

The FBI was a boys club, sure, but with all the women on your team, the most ridicule you got after a drunken escapade with a distant coworker was a few teasing remarks. The first few months on the team, you'd been able to date, fuck, and play freely without any judgement. And then Spencer Reid had come back from leave, and you suddenly began to doubt your bachelorette lifestyle.

Because fuck was he frustratingly territorial.

It wasn't as though he was interested in you. He was 13 years your senior, fresh from an FBI mandated leave of absence and false imprisonment, and absolutely used to being coddled by every member of the team. If the BAU was a family, he was absolutely the youngest child who'd returned home to find his parents had adopted a dog while he'd been gone to replace him with.

You were the dog.

Spencer took issue with your attitude, your work ethic, your professionally, and with the sheer amount of times he'd been approached by men asking for your number, home address, or if the rumors were true.

He was used to casual oversharing, of course, he'd worked with Penelope long enough to not be phased by much sexual talk. But everytime he stepped into the office - or specifically the offices male bathrooms - he'd end up stuck in the same conversational loop.

“I heard she can do this thing with her tongue…”

“... definitely likes it rough…”

“I could show her a good time…”

“....I'm definitely hitting that by the end of the year…”

He stewed in it for a few weeks before the cracks fully formed in his exterior professionalism. When he heard about how you'd definitely fucked every male member of your team, though, that's when he lost it.

“You need to be more careful,” he said one day, pulling you aside between cases in a rare private conversation.

“Oh, yeah, in the field I can definitely rush in-”

“No. You need to be more careful with men.”

The look on his face sent a flare of shame through your chest, as you found yourself suddenly out of your depth. You didn't know this man well enough for him to be giving you advice. Your body set to full alert, and your fight or flight was in full go, as he cornered you and continued.

“They talk about you in the bathrooms, and I would not like to repeat what they say, but-”

“I don't care what they say.”

“You should.”

You frowned again, as he continued, completely oblivious to your growing anger.

“You should, because now it's reflecting badly on the team, and-”

“The team? I'm sorry what had the team got to do with this?”

To his credit, Spencer at least managed to look uncomfortable after that. He was set on reprimanding you, fine, but you'd make sure he wouldn't try to get so personal again.

“They're saying that you've slept with a number of coworkers-”

“Why should I care if-”

“Including me.”

You managed a half laugh in his face as his frown deepened.

“Oh so this isn't about my reputation, it's about yours. I should be safer with men because I'm reflecting poorly on our golden boy?”

“That's not what I'm-”

“Don't worry, Spencer. I'm safe enough.”

You made sure to push past him as you walked away, and he'd not been quiet about his dislike of you ever since.

Every man on a case you interacted with got you a disapproving glare, a slight turned down lip, a questioning glance. It was like you were being watched constantly, and it felt horrendous.

It was almost worse when the knowing looks he sent you were spot on in their assumptions. If you spoke to a man you had been with, hooked up with, been on a date with, even simply flirted with for a while, you felt his eyes pricking you.

His gaze knew everything it needed to know, almost as if he'd been in the room watching you submit your body for pleasure.

You thought it would be better on cases, that he'd be focused on other things and not worry as much, but when your first case post-argument landed, it landed you uncomfortably close to your childhood home, and included a face from your past you'd hoped not to see again.

Having an ex boyfriend in the police department in the middle of nowhere Washington was helpful for the case, but on a personal level it sucked.

You managed five minutes of personal conversation before you felt his eyes on you.

“Beautiful, you're not paying attention to me anymore. And here I thought fate had sent you back into my life as a little gift for a job well done,” your ex had said, ducking in close to you at your makeshift desk but locking eyes with an approaching Spencer as he spoke.

“Y/N, can I have a word?” he asked, though his jaw was set, and his tone insistent.

“Professionally or privately?”

“Y/N,” he warned, his tone a bit lower as you rolled your eyes and stood, following him to a quiet interrogation room quickly.

“What's wrong with you this time?” you demand as soon as he has the door closed. “Panties in a twist?”

“We are on a case, Y/N. Please at least pretend to be a professional.”

“What? What am I doing that is so wrong?”

He fisted a hand in his hair quickly, closing his eyes as if it would drown out your arrogant tone.

“You can't be serious, Y/N, he was practically fucking you with his eyes in the middle of the precinct-”

“And that's a behaviour he needs to change, not me. What. Did. I. Do. Wrong?”

“What? What, you expect me to sit around here and wait for him to ask you if you can still do that thing with your tongue that makes him cum instantly? Want me to wait around for him to ask you if you're still as flexible as you were give years ago, while we have work to do?” He demanded, stepping so close you had to back up against the wall to avoid colliding with his incoming body.

“I bet you'd love to hear just about everything I can do Spencer, but if you're going to act like a jealous ass, maybe you should take a breather.”

“Jealous? You think I'm jealous?” he chuckled slightly, raising a hand slowly and pushing against the wall as he stepped, somehow, closet to you again.

“You're so obsessed with my personal life that-”

“Your personal life is not so personal when I have people asking me if I've also fucked you on a weekly basis-”

“You're being cruel. My sex life is none of your business, Spencer.”

“That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you. I'm glad we finally agree.”

He was so close you could practically taste his breath, and while your mind raged at his thoughtless words, your body wanted his to press his against it and say all of that one more time with his hand wrapped around your throat this time.

“Jackass,” you said, pushing against his chest and storming out of the room quickly, before you could make any other mistakes.

Part of you wanted to stick it to Spencer after that. Part of you wanted to do something to start an even bigger rumor, something to piss him off more, something that would get him angry and bring him closer to you somehow.

Another part aggravatingly agreed with him. Your behaviour, while nowhere near as promiscuous as half of the male staff, was judged twice as hard as anyone else's. You enjoyed sex, and you wanted to unashamedly keep enjoying sex, but every man you ran into recently had that look about them. Half judgement, half possession, like they were looking at goods to consume rather than a coworker. You weren't obtuse, but you'd allowed yourself to ignore it until Spencer made you face it, which only made you resent him more.

You stopped going on dates, stopped entertaining the men in the office when they flirted with you. You put your head down, and you worked, and it frustrated you to no end.

You ended up snappy in the office, short with every single coworker and not just Reid, who was also (inexplicably) short with you. You'd done what he'd asked, and he was still not satisfied.

Emily, sensing the tension, tried to ease the situation slightly, with a mandatory team dinner, volunteering Rossi for dinner duty.

“Welcome to Casa Del Rossi, keep your hands off the pasta until I serve it, and please do not ask about the wine unless you want to be talking about it all night.”

You felt slightly uncomfortable being forced to play happy families under the watchful eye of 5 profilers and an incredibly perceptive tech support girl, but you tried to be civil over dinner.

Until you couldn't be.

“So, Y/N, any dates recently?” Emily laughed over a sip of wine, genuinely curious about your sudden lack of suitors.

“No,” you said, locking eyes with Spencer, who rolled his eyes as he looked away.

“What, not even a single hinge match?” JJ added, and you suddenly regretted not telling any of your other coworkers the root of your tension with Reid, because they were happily digging your grave.

“Come on, we all love your stories, Y/N,” Penelope laughed, prodding you with a finger as you smiled feebly.

“No, not all of us do,” Spencer mumbled under his breath, still loud enough that the room fell silent.

“Relax, Doctor Reid, I'm not going to regale you with tales of my conquests.”

“Good, I get enough of that in the male bathrooms,” he said, standing up from the table and excusing himself.

You stared slack jawed at him as he walked away, simmering anger getting ready to explode. You stood as well, and followed him, aware of every set of eyes watching you intently as you searched for Spencer.

You found him in a spare room, following him in and closing the door behind you with a thud so he would know you were there.

“What the fuck is your problem, Spencer?”

“Oh, it was Doctor Reid earlier, but now we're friends, huh?” he said, not bothering to look at you as he picked up a book and sat in a chair at the edge of the room.

“You can't just disrespect me in front of the team like that, and… and what? Slink away to read?”

He looked up at you with an annoyed glance, and you almost lunged at him. You'd probably be able to gouge out an eye before he could react if you wanted.

“You know, when we first talked about this, I was seriously worried for you. The way those men talk about you-”

“How do they talk about me? What do they say about me specifically that's any worse than usual misogynistic bathroom talk, huh?”

You stepped closer, leaning over him and poking his chest. You wanted him to react, wanted him to get angry. You wanted a fight, not for him to walk away shaking his head in resignment.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes. I'm a big girl, tell me what's so bad that has you acting like such a spoiled brat.”

“Okay. Okay, fine.” Putting down the book, he looked up at you, locking eyes with you as he started.

“They talk about how well you take it. How much you love cock, and how if they got the chance they'd fill you up with so much cum you'd be leaking for days. Some of them even talk about using you as a human toilet.”

“They mostly talk about your body, about how flexible you are, about how flexible they'd force you to be, how-” he had to stop to look away, clear his throat and start again.

“Mostly they talk about your lips,” he said, finally risking a look down at them before dragging his eyes back up to your own.

“My lips?” you asked, mentally scolding yourself when you hear the breathy whisper you let out.

“They talk about your lips a lot. I'm sure you can imagine.”

You take a second to think about it, reeling at how close he was, how open he was being, how….

How turned on you were hearing these words fall from his mouth. Every sentence from his mouth felt like a confession.

“I don't believe them though,” he said finally.

“What?”

“I don't believe them. I don't believe you're as good as they say you are, as they're fantasising about you being.

Your mouth opened in shock, and the indignity of the accusation had your heart beating out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demanded, forcing him to meet your eyes again.

“You're not that good, Y/N. I'm sure of it.”

Quickly, you snaked your arm up and around his neck, grabbing him and pulling him down to meet your lips. You'd hoped to take him by surprise, to enter his mouth as he lost himself in the feel of you pressed against him. You'd hoped for the upper hand, until you realized you'd played right into his.

He kissed back immediately, hotly, insistently. His hands roamed your body for any hold of you they could find, settling on your waist and your ass as he pushed you back into the wall you stood in front of.

Frustrated by his attitude, you pushed back, twisting your bodies around until you'd switched positions, nails digging into the tender skin at his collarbone. You wanted to grab him hard enough to draw blood, you wanted to permanently scar him to remind him how good this felt.

He growled into the kiss, and you momentarily lost focus. He swung you around again, hands pushing your shirt up and roughly grabbing your boobs as he bit down on your lower lip.

With a moan, you hiked a leg up around his hips, rolling into him as he pinned you to the wall.

Your final act of defiance was pushing him away with all your strength.

Taken aback, he stumbled once or twice before hitting a dresser behind him. It shook, and with the tremors, the lamp that had been sat on it fell to the floor with a crash.

You stared at him panting as your coworkers ran to you both, opening the door with a loud bang as they assessed the situation.

You kept your eyes on him as Emily scolded you both, putting the two of you on BAU time out.

You quickly left the party after that, apologising to Rossi and tucking your tail firmly between your legs as you retreated.

Desk duty for the next two weeks was exactly the punishment you were expecting from Emily. Honestly it was what you deserved. If you couldn't play nice together, you weren't allowed to play at all.

You sat at your desk, and Spencer sat at his, and you were happy and content to ignore him for as long as physically possible.

Unfortunately, your sudden voluntary celibacy must have been driving you insane, because you couldn't stop picturing his hands on your waist, his hot lips tracing down your neck, your hips pushed so close you could practically feel his cock begging to be inside you.

Imagining.

You were sure your staring was making the man uncomfortable, or at the very least frustrated. You saw the vein in his neck jump out when he noticed you looking at him, but it didn't help too much to dispel the sudden and aggravating attraction you felt towards him.

You wanted to be angrier. Every interaction you entered needing to be angry.

Instead you found yourself somewhat softening based purely on lust, and it was eating you up.

You were not a pushover, and contrary to popular office belief, neither were you desperate or easy. One kiss with a coworker shouldn't have you trailing after him like a forlorn love struck child.

Spencer was definitely avoiding you though.

At first, he justified it to himself as giving you space, an apology of sorts after you'd been so brash before.

Then he came clean to his own conscious and realized he was afraid of another confrontation. Afraid was perhaps the wrong word, eagerly anticipating might be better, though when he tried to explain it to Penelope it didn't come out right at all.

“It's like- Okay, so we're like water and potassium, right?”

“You've lost me lover boy, I do computers not sciency science.”

“Potassium and water are both stable enough on their own. They do their job well, they work nicely.”

“Potassium is in potatoes, ergo they are in French fries. They work superbly.”

“Yes, but when you put potassium in water it has a tendency to catch on fire and explode.”

Penelope still looked at him confused, unsure what kind of avoidance excuse he was crafting in his mind.

“I'm potassium. She's water,” he said again to no avail.

“I need to avoid her so I don't explode.”

“What makes you think you're going to explode? Just talk to her nicely. Avoid topics you think are going to be more… reactive?”

Spencer just solemnly nodded and went back to avoidance.

He realized quickly that the only thing he'd ever talked to you about outside of working hours was your sex life, and that made him feel like both a creep and a pervert and also like he needed to take a long cold shower before quitting his job and moving into a cabin somewhere in the woods. But he wasn't Gideon, so he just suffered through it, leaving rooms you entered and ending work related conversations as quickly as possible, before his mouth could move quicker than his brain.

After a week of being swiftly dodged, you had the chance finally to corner him and you took it.

Watching as Spencer stood to get himself another coffee from the break room, you stood, grabbed your own mug and quietly followed him. You prayed to God that the room would be empty, but were quickly forsaken by the door when you heard two make voices inside.

“So Y/N, huh?” an unfamiliar voice asked, tone polite but playful.

“I've heard some stories about that one,” he chuckled, and even the sound of it set your hair on edge.

“She's a very hard worker,” Spencer simply answered, as you heard him preparing his own coffee.

“She certainly makes working hard,” the man slapped his back, taking a sip of coffee.

“I heard you two have been going at it in the office. Strange foreplay, but she must be into rough stuff like that, isn't that right?”

You'd heard enough men talking about you in your life to be used to it, but a flush of anger still ran through you at the man's insinuations. You almost walked in to embarrass the man when Spencer spoke up.

“I don't like your tone,” he said calmly, and continued quickly when the man tried to joke again. “I have been to prison, you work in white collar, let's see which of us comes out of the kitchen in better shape when you're done speaking.”

“You're fucking insane.”

“You're what, 35? From the looks of it, your marriage is over because you keep playing with your ring uncomfortably, probably because you're cheating, but you feel just guilty enough about it to worry about your kids. They lied by the way, your not the world's no. 1 dad. Even if such metrics could be determined, you'd rank low on the list. Is it their babysitter or their teacher you're sleeping with? Or your wife's sister, perhaps?”

“You're crossing a line, Dr Reid, I don't know how-”

“Well, I'm glad you seem to understand boundaries well enough. There are lines you cross, and ones you respect, and if I hear anything at all unprofessional from you about my coworker again, I will use the last six months of my experiences to make life difficult for you.”

You walked in quickly, hearing the change in Spencer's tone from casual to something more threatening, more desperate. The other man had two fistfuls of Spencer's shirt, though you didn't doubt Spencer would easily be able to floor the man.

“Good afternoon,” you said quickly, just loud enough to be heard above the thick tension filling the room. “I believe you were just leaving, right?”

You looked to the unfamiliar man, and the shame burned his face as you forced him out of the room. As soon as he was gone, you walked over to Spencer, finished making his coffee as he stood silently next to you, eyes refusing to meet yours.

You put the hot drink in his hand, smoothed his shirt out and whispered a quick thank you before retreating back to your desk.

After that, you didn't get closer.

You thought you would. You tried to follow him to the kitchen to actually have the talk you wanted in the days that followed, but you never quite managed it.

You'd just stand together in equitable silence making your coffees. Sometimes you'd talk about the weather. About the case. About things your coworkers did that you both found funny. About shows and books you both liked. About whatever random fact Spencer became enthusiastic about that day, or whatever noir movie he'd seen the previous day.

You didn't become closer, but you grew used to one another.

When the team finally came back, Emily patted herself on the back for a job well done for keeping the two of you grounded. You begrudgingly admitted to yourself that while Spencer lacked tact, you should've been more patient with him when he was asking you to be careful.

You'd heard him similarly chastising a handful of men since, always careful just to listen until he was done, and then clean up afterwards.

Spencer found his anger closer to the surface after prison than it had been before prison. Instead of sympathy or words, his fists always tightened into balls when anything displeased him. He wanted desperately to hit colleagues sometimes, and kept his breathing steady enough to reply with violent words rather than violent actions.

He couldn't blame his experiences in prison for everything, of course. Part of the blame was yours.

As much as he knew potassium and water weren't a safe combination, he found himself wanting to be dropped back into that pool once again. Looking at you was like setting himself on fire, remembering your bodies twinned together was like a little explosion.

He didn't know what brought him to your door, but he knew it was an inevitable reaction, one in a long chain.

“Spencer?” you asked, meeting him at your door, wrapped only in a loose robe and the too small, too flimsy sleep set you'd taken to sleeping in in the summer months.

“Hi,” he said, a little awkwardly, as if gaining the courage to knock on your door was the end of his plan, and he didn't know what the next steps were.

“Hey. Why are you…?” Here. Standing at your door looking so hot after you'd stayed obsessed with him for the last week.

“Why are you holding a bottle of wine?”

“Oh. Oh this. This is for you. To drink. Its for us to drink together, really, I… I wanted to apologise.”

You welcomed him in silently and quickly. Quickly still, you made your way to the kitchen, grabbed two glasses and a bottle opener and made your way back to your sofa where Spencer was standing awkwardly still.

“Please sit down,” you said, craning your neck to look up at him as he gently handed you the bottle. He nodded and sat down next to you, both too close and too far away at once. You'd thought of Spencer as more of a silent apologiser. You'd expected him to just be happy and friendly with you from here on out instead of directly acknowledging anything had happened. You'd seen him bottle up so many emotions, what was a little more shame and sympathy?

Now that he was in front of you, you didn't know what to do.

“So, um. I'm sorry.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

The tension in the air was thick as you turned to pour two glasses of wine, waiting for him to continue.

“Thank you,” he said taking the glass you offered him in two hands before glancing at it quickly and then downing it.

“When I got out of prison, I was in a bad shape, and that isn't an excuse, it's just a fact. My brain was in overdrive, and I was on guard around all… all men specifically. The things I heard in prison weren't good, nothing nice as said about women in prison, and when I got out, and I still heard those things…” He stopped and looked away, taking another deep breath.

“I was overstepping. I was being overprotective, and overfamiliar, and jealous-”

“Spencer, stop,” you said, putting your glass down, and smiling at him reassuringly.

“I appreciate your apology, but really it's fine. I came in while you were gone and getting back to schedule when your entire team dynamic is off is hard, so of course you were going to be on edge around me and a little bit jealous of my bond with the team but-”

“The team?” Spencer stammered quickly, cutting you off as you tried to reassure him.

“You were… jealous of my place in the group. I was an outsider who took your place and then you were just a little shorter with me than you would've been if we were introduced in normal circumstances.”

“No, Y/N… I- Did you think this whole time I was jealous of you?”

He said it in his softest voice which almost hurt a little bit more.

“Yes. That's how you were behaving, you were always annoyed and-”

“Jealous. Yes. Not of you, because of you.”

You felt every single place on your body where the material of your clothes were touching your body. The distance between the two of you, already small, felt smaller still, like you were tipping over an edge towards one another when in reality you were as solid as a statue in your seats.

“Y/N, I want you,” Spencer whispered, almost little bit ashamed, a little bit scared of his confession. It was the kind of voice criminals used when confessing, a voice that seemed ashamed of its own actions. “I listened to every single word men said about you, and I wanted to rip their tongues out and feed them back to them so they wouldn't have the chance to taste you again. So they couldn't torture me with their knowledge of you.”

He stood up abruptly and took a step back, placing his wine glass down on the table and pacing a few more steps away.

“Y/N, why did you have to kiss me?” He said, almost defeated. “Why did you have to kiss me and then push me away?”

You stared at him for a second, unsure whether he wanted a real answer or not, his eyes round with desperation, but face turned away slightly, as if he couldn't bare the answer.

“To shut you up,” you whispered. He nodded at your answer and took a deep breath.

“Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist-”

“Spencer? What-”

“I really believe he is Antichrist—I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do?”

“Spencer, what are you doing, why are you- are you quoting something at me.

“If you want me to stop, you know an effective solution,” he said, kneeling to the floor and looking up at you, continuing after a moments pause.

Quickly sinking to your knees as well, you grabbed the man by the collar and brought your lips to his.

As quietly desperate Spencer had been moments before, he took your kiss as an act of submission and countered quickly. You'd come to him, you'd listened to his request, and now he wasn't going to let you get the upper hand anymore.

Pulling you into his lap, his to guess pushed into your mouth as he wrapped your legs around him, guiding your cunt over his bulge as he kept up his attack against your tongue.

You fought back, trying to push him down to no luck. He caught your hands quickly, and standing up on his knees with one hand holding your ass in place, pinned you to the floor, arms held above your head in one large, strong, nearly painful grip.

Your body shook at the sudden motion, robe falling open and satin spilling over your body, revealing a single pink, perked up nipple that he eagerly latched onto.

You moaned at the contact of his hot tongue, the cold air hitting you at the exact moment his tongue dipped, as you held in a moan.

You couldn't hold in the second or third. By four you were practically humping up into the air to chase the sensations of his body pressed against your cunt.

“Spencer-” you moaned, cut off by a choke from your own throat as he roughly ripped down the other side of your shirt, harshly tugging at your other nipple with his fingers.

“If I had more time, I'd make you cum just from this. I'll spend hours edging your sore little nipples, just to make you happy,” he whispered, and you moaned as if it were your job, as if you were some cheap whore he was paying to abuse for the night.

“Good girl,” he said, tugging your underwear to the side and rubbing you slowly, coating his digits with your juices before pushing two fingers fully inside you quickly.

“No complaints. Take everything nicely.” he said, changing the angle of his hand as he began fucking you hard with just his hands.

“Fuck, Spencer, fuck- no, no, no, you have to stop! Fuck, I'll-”

He stopped just as instructed quickly, and you grabbed his hands to still his fingers, still inside of you.

“I need… shit I need hard nos's quickly Y/N. Tell me what I can and can't do.”

You gathered your breath enough to speak, but it was breathy, your breath still uneven, your legs still twitching as you lay on your back, cunt exposed to Spencer's greedy eyes. He drew small, gently circles on your clit with his thumb as you recovered.

“W-Why?” You managed to squeak out, cunt twitching at every accidental contact between you both.

“Because I'm either going to slap you to shut you up, or fuck your face, and I do believe in letting the lady decide.”

You couldn't help the scoff that came from your mouth, even though it was followed by another hitched breath and moan as you melted beneath him.

“You wouldn't do that, you're not the type.”

“What? What type am I not?”

“Slapping, spitting, demeaning. You're too… Spencer to do any of that,” you said, slowly raising your hips to fuck his fingers once again, pracitically begging him to keep us all his hard work.

Until he withdraws his hand and pulls you back into his lap, arms locking you in place on either sides of your waist.

“If I was anyone else,” he said slowly and deliberately, “Or if I was me and I possessed the ability to do any of that, would you consent to it?”

His words were a whisper, his fingers wet and hot on your nipples as he pulled, prodded, and played with them quietly.

“Well… you wouldn't-” you moaned at a sudden hard pinch, your hips jolting as he continued abusing your nipples.

“Everyone else has. Why can't I?”

“Spencer-” Another sharp pinch cut you off, forcing your eyes down to where he had a hand gently brushing against your chest, before sharply pinching it again.

“Hmm? What was that?”

“Spencer, p-please-”

You moan again as his other hand hooks around you to slide into your panties.

Pulls you fully onto his lap as he starts playing with your clit while tugging on your nipples, and he's waiting for you to give him permission to fuck you rougher.

“Can I do those things, Y/N?”

“Spencer….”

“Use your words to answer me, not your cunt. I know you're enjoying this.”

“Y-Yes.”

“Thank you,” he said, letting a hand trail up to your neck before kissing you gently on your lips again. The softness didn't last long as he picked up the pace with his other hand again, looming over you like a monster bent to its prey. His hand moved quickly, pushing in and out of you as you writhed on the floor, breaths shallow as he controlled where you went, where you looked, how you moved, and even how you breathed.

“S-Spencer,” you choked out, hands wrapping around his between your thighs, already twitching as your first orgasm hit you, twitching as he didn't slow down, moaning as you felt wetness seeping out of you in waves.

“Good girl. Good girl, you're doing so good for me. You want me to stop?” He asked.

“Yes, I can't- I can't do it anymore- nghhhh.”

“You can. Yes, you can, baby, you can. My little whore,” his voice was soft where his hands were hot, gripping your neck tighter as you focused only on breathing, legs shaking and twitching, squirming to get away even as you wished yourself to stay put.

“Good girl,” he said again, kissing you once again as his hand on your neck eased up. “One more time? One more right, baby?”

You nodded, not trusting yourself not to scream. With an open hand he slapped your face, just hard enough to draw a moan from your lips.

“Use your words, Y/N.”

“Y-Yes, I can do one more,” Ayou moaned, unsure if the stars you were seeing were from the harshness of the slap or the overstimulation. “Please.”

“Good manners,” he said, fingers slipping out of your cunt as you started to grind into him again, as soon as you said yes to another orgasm. “But I don't think I want you to cum yet.”

Lifting your hips, he urged you to turn over, pulling a pillow under your hips to help you lift them, still trembling as you were. A soft blanket was put under your head as he pushed your hips up, your shorts and panties pulled down and not just to the side now as he took all of you in.

“So drippy and wet, just for me…” he mused, probing a finger at your pussy again, laughing when you twitched at the contact.

“They say it tastes better than it feels you know,” he said pulling his phone out of his pocket before snapping a photo of your pussy, dripping and ready for him. “Look at it, what do you think?”

He thrusts the photo in your face as he pulled his dick out, letting it rub against the folds of your pussy as you moaned into defeat.

“Y/N, come on, what do you think? Do you taste better, or feel better?”

He propped up the phone in front of you and opened the camera, clicking record quickly as he slapped your ass.

“Answer me,” he insisted, cock head rubbing furiously against your clit now, fingers clamped down on a nipple, nails digging into your waist.

“Should I fuck you or eat that little cunt?”

“I- I don't know, Spencer, I don't know please-”

“Yes, you do. What should I do?”

You cried out in pleasure as you came again, the pressure on your clit too much too soon.

“F-fuck me,” you said, exhausted but still excited.

“Good girl,” he said again, withdrawing his touch before laying down under you and bringing your cunt to his mouth.

You tried to hold yourself up, but you couldn't as he licked and sucked and nudged at your clit with his nose. He'd ignored you, prolonged your torture, and decided he needed to decide for himself.

“Spencer…” you moaned, but it was weak. He chuckled into your cunt and you clamped your thighs around his face as far as you could, but he didn't relent.

Running a finger through your pussy to pick up your cum, he pushed a single digit into your asshole as you moaned slowly and weakly, face completely squished into the floor.

He pushed in and out slowly at first stretching your ass as you began riding his face, fucking against his to gue as you got closer and closer to release. The sooner you came now, the sooner he would release you.

But Spencer stilled your hips, and slowed his own movements to a few kisses here and there, letting one finger become two as he fucked your asshole. Eventually, all contact stopped with your cunt as you hungrily fucked his fingers, the stretch uncomfortable but good.

“Good girl, you like that? You like being my little anal slut? Good girl.”

The words hit hard, as you came on his face. He pulled his hands away and pushed you onto your back again, rising up to your fsve again.

“Open,” he said, and you obeyed letting him spit your own cum back into your mouth. His tongue connected with your own as you tasted yourself, hot and heavy on his lips.

As you kissed, he pushed your legs up, knees spread and with a single, hard, rough push, filled you with his cock.

You screamed in pleasure as he cooed into your ear. “I'm sorry baby, I couldn't help it. Your cunt looked too delicious, it was begging for my dick.”

Another slow pull out, and again he pushed in hard, stealing the breath from your lungs without even needing a hand on your neck.

Grabbing his phone, Spencer angled it towards where you were hungrily taking him in.

“This cunt is mine now, okay?”

You nodded, and he slapped you again.

“Words, Y/N, I need words. Tell me whose cunt this is.”

“Its yours, Spencer, all yours,” you moaned as he picked up his pace, lifting to his knees so he could drop it all into you.

“Shit, say more. Tell me what I can do to this pussy?”

“Abuse my pussy, Spencer. Stretch me out, slap me, keep me full, fuck I don't care, breed me,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around his neck as you lifted your chest up to his, thighs wrapped around his waist, ankles locked together behind him.

“You want me to cum in you? Want me to claim you so everyone can see?” He asked, nails digging into your thighs almost hard enough to draw blood.

“Yes!”

“Good…. fucking… slut,” he saif, and with a final thrust, he emptied his balls inside you.

You didn't move for a long time, catching your breath on the floor, a pile of limbs coated in sprsys of wetness and cum.

You started rubbing your cunt again first, as he joined in again with shallow thrusts, wincing and seething as he overstimulated himself.

You came quietly that last time and waited for him to pull out and clean you up.

He didn't. Keeping himself sheathed inside you, he awkwardly lifted the two of you to the couch and pulled your head down into his chest, letting you cockwarm him as your cum soaked into the material of the couch.

“Sleep for an hour or two. You'll wake up when it's time to go again.”

When you woke, it wasn't to Spencer starting again, but instead the ring of your phone. You tried to reach for it, to silence whatever alarm had decided to disturb you at that point, but Spencer was faster.

“Hello?” he said down the line, forgetting where he was for a second before you nestled into the crook of his neck again, fingers gently tracing his collarbone.

“Spencer?” Emily asked, confused and voice tired.

“Emily?” He asked. “We have a case?” He sat you up with him crasling you in his arms as you fully woke, your muscles objecting at this sudden movement. His cock stayed buried within you as you reoriented yourself.

“Uh, yeah. We've got an hour to get to the office and debrief, then were flying out- Spencer. This is Spencer?” she asked again, voice a muddle with confusion, tone rising by the second.

“Yes, Spencer. I'll be there.”

“And Y/N?” Emily asked. “I didn't dial the wrong number, Spencer, I have you all on speed dial. You're with Y/N?”

You sat bolt upright and took the phone from Spencer quickly, the shrill ringing of Emily's voice echoing down the line.

“We’ll be there,” you practically shouted. “We just drank together and-” you pulled the hair out of your face as you felt Spencer go rigid inside you again.

“A-and that's it. See you in an hour.”

Speedily you hung up, grabbed Spencer and pressed your lips to his again, pushing him down into the couch.

[reiderwriter]

Could I request a fluff/smut/ piece where OC is trying to work on a new book but just can't seem to find the motivation/inspiration/attention span and is stressed about it. Then enter Spencer who volunteers to help her out by acting out some scenes she is considering writing like maybe a cute date, or bedroom scene and also rewarding her focus in special ways? please?

Hey... so I kinda got carried away writing this so I turned it into a series of fics oops 👀 But you can find the first part here and I really, really, really hope you like it! <4

[reiderwriter]

♡ The Meet Cute ♡

Part 1 of The Romantic Comedy

Next Part

Like any of the great creatives of our time, the reader has found themselves stuck in a writing slump to end all writing slumps. With a literary agent breathing down her neck, and an absolute refusal to download any dating apps, she stumbles upon one of the greatest untapped romantic resources of her lifetime: Spencer Reid.

Warnings: Fluff/ none? Future smut, slow burn, slightly suggestive etc. Mentions of inappropriate age gap romance (not reader and Spencer).

A/N: Here's the first part! I got carried away with a request and decided to make it a full series, so we'll see how well I do with remembering to post ㅠㅠ everyone please send whatever the opposite of a writing block is my way, I wanna make it through this one fr

The view of a blank screen illuminating your dark apartment was one that you were beginning to grow immensely tired of. You’d tried typing out paragraphs, and then deleted them, and then simply tried to go with sentences, and those had ended up being deleted, too. By the time you’d tried to force yourself to type out a single word, you’d given up. 

“I can’t do it,” you’d cried into your coffee a week earlier, meeting with the literary agent you knew was absolutely tired of your shit by this point. 

“Okaaaayyy. What exactly is it that you can’t do exactly? Because if you say "write" you'd be absolutely incorrect.” 

“I can’t write.” 

Taking a long sip of her coffee and trying her best to subtly roll her eyes - subtlety was the one thing she hadn’t managed - you squared your shoulders and repeated yourself. 

“I really can’t write,” you moaned. “I’ve tried and tried and all that comes out is thriller, horror, death, gore - the worst parts of a Christie novel tied up into a neat little Doyle novel with a splash of whatever new mystery writers there are. It’s not my genre but I started my new job at the FBI and it’s all that’s on the mind.” 

You really loved your job. You didn’t enjoy that it was becoming your entire life, but you’d been warned multiple times from coworkers and acquaintances that it was a lot to handle. 

“So quit.”

“I can’t quit, I love my job.” 

“Then stop writing.”

“I can’t stop writing, I love writing.”

 You would’ve screamed out your frustrations, but the franchise coffee shop you were stuck in was currently filled with stressed students and drone-like salary workers just trying to replace the blood in their bodies with caffeine, and you didn’t quite like the idea of zombified masses coming towards you. 

“I can’t write, but I can’t stop writing, and I can’t quit my job.”

Nodding, your agent took another sip of her coffee, then set it down carefully and leaned into you across the table. 

“I’m sorry to ask this but… when was the last time you had sex?”

“Oh my god!” 

“It’s a valid question in this line. Your books have been marketed so far as spicy romances, I need to make sure you’re getting the best inspiration you can in order to write. If you’re in a dry-spell, it could explain your difficulty writing.” 

“But-” 

Your agent stood up, cutting you off quickly as she began to pack her things. 

“But nothing, girl. Get back on the apps and give me at least 10,000 words, a synopsis, and some buzz words this time next month. I believe in you.” 

You sighed and downed your coffee, melting further into the table before another stressed looking student asked you to vacate it so they could write an essay while aptly caffeinated.

Apps were off the table after a rough internet stalking case you’d worked on a few months prior, so you tried bars, but drinking alone was depressing and none of the men were inspiration-worthy.

Instead you’d tried a change of atmosphere. Your apartment was dark and dingy, and at least your desk at the BAU had a lamp. And the kitchen provided as much free coffee as you deemed healthy enough to drink. 

You stared again at a blank document before deciding you needed to resituate yourself into the world of your novels. 

You’d published three so far, under a quite popular and rather famous pen name. They were all connected but followed different couples among them. You sighed looking through their GoodReads pages, avoiding the reviews with a desperate zeal. You remembered the feeling of writing each one. The first you’d finished while in your final year at college. 

You’d been with your high school boyfriend still, so the novel had been a sentimental pile of shit about how love was forever. You’d luckily had it published weeks before he announced that he’d got his female roommate pregnant, so at least you got a paycheck out of that heartbreak. 

After college you’d taken a year out to work on yourself, which obviously meant you’d been unemployed and living on your book royalties and the remainder of your savings from college. When you started dating an older man who bought you dinner and not your fellow somewhat broke peers, you’d been absolutely inspired to write another book. 

That one hadn’t ended well either, after you’d met the man’s adult daughter. So adult that she was in fact older than you. You did some therapy after that one. 

Your third romance novel had seemingly come from nowhere, even if you’d been casually seeing a few people the year it came out. But you found that working towards a goal had made you infinitely inspired, and you were trying your best to get accepted into a role in the BAU that year. 

Any ex boyfriend claiming to be the inspiration for that one was dearly mistaken. That dreamy man was tough to attain, high maintenance, required multiple qualifications, and a certain level of… physical fitness only parallelled by the FBI. 

Now with all your goals met, and a further two books of the three book deal you’d signed with your publisher still unfulfilled, you were in a slump to end all slumps. 

You were still sitting at your desk feeling sorry for yourself when you felt someone breathing down your neck. 

“Burning the midnight oil?” Spencer asked, leaning over your desk and clutching his own free coffee in his hands. 

“You know you probably shouldn’t sneak up on someone with a gun and a licence.”

“If I also didn’t have a gun myself, that might be wise advice,” Spencer replied, pushing in closer to read your writing.

You closed the document a second too late. The damned man was like a super computer. 

“What is ‘The Boss Breakdown?’” he asked. 

“It’s a book I think,” was the best you could come up with as you closed the tab. Which only unfortunately brought up the work in progress document you’d been not-working on and making no progress in earlier. 

“Untitled Project 4?” Spencer asked again, as you willed yourself to spontaneously combust. 

“It’s what I’m calling my paperwork. You know, to get it done quicker?” You said, hastily closing this tab, too. Google chrome chose that moment exactly to end your social life at work forever as your idea document popped up behind that one. 

“Friends to lovers. Enemies to lovers. Roommates to lovers. Friends with-” 

“Okay, please stop! STOP!” You screamed, choosing to just turn off the monitor, standing quickly. 

Standing too quickly as your legs got caught in the cursed government assigned desk chair, you found yourself quickly tumbling to the floor. A hand reached out to grab you, but your incredible luck meant that the both of you dropped to the floor together. 

Spencer’s arm hit just above your head as he grimaced feeling the pain of the fall reverberate into his arm. His legs fell either side of yours as you finally opened your eyes. 

Hands interlocked, bodies pushed together on the floor, both panting from the sudden adrenaline of the fall, you found yourself in the perfect rom-com compromising position. 

“Sorry,” you whispered as Spencer hovered centimeters above you, eyes locked with yours.

“Anyone here?” the voice of the security guard called out into the office as you froze up. You weren’t sure if it was embarrassment or fear of being caught up in an office scandal that stopped the both of you from making your presence known. 

“Call themselves Supervisory Special Agents, and not one of them is special enough to supervise turning the lights off. Damn…” the officer muttered before entrenching the two of you in complete darkness.

Spencer stayed atop of you, as though it were the most comfortable place in the world. 

“So what was that all about?” He asked in another whisper, even though no one else was near. 

“It was nothing,” you whispered back, trying your best to figure out where every part of his body was in relation to yours in the shadows.

“It didn't look like nothing.”

“Oh yeah? What did it look like then?”

“It looked like a book.” 

“Well… ding ding ding we have a winner,” you said with a huff and tried to stand, only to be forced down again by an unseen hand. 

“Y/N. Are you that author?” Spencer asked? 

“What? No. What author? That author? Why would you ask that?” you practically vomited the words out, still trying and failing to wiggle yourself out from underneath the apparently very solidly built man. 

“You’re writing a book, right? I heard you on the phone with your literary agent a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

“You- what?”

“Rossi is an author too, you know.”

“Rossi writes non-fiction books about cases he has worked on. I write the book modern bodice-rippers. Not exactly the type of thing I want to tell the whole world, Spencer- would you move? God you are hard.” 

You couldn’t see the eyebrow raise, but you practically heard it. 

In a flash, something came to you. Whether it was the comment you made or a final willingness to listen, Spencer suddenly became easier to move as you jumped back up into your desk chair, turned on your monitor, and vomited up your brain onto the page. 

You felt Spencer once again at your back as you typed out every word that entered your brain, not stopping to edit or proofread once. It was messy, there was no plot, no character names, no visible progression so far, but there were words. 

There were finally words. 

After a solid thirty minutes of panting and the banging sounds of your fingers connecting with your keyboard, you finally pushed away from your desk and grasped at where Spencer, now illuminated by your monitor once again, stood. 

Grabbing his shirt between your hands and pulling him a step closer as you still sat, you practically screamed out your request.

“Spencer Reid, I need you.” 

[reiderwriter]

♡The Romantic Comedy ♡

Like any of the great creatives of our time, the reader has found themselves stuck in a writing slump to end all writing slumps. With a literary agent breathing down her neck, and an absolute refusal to download any dating apps, she stumbles upon one of the greatest untapped romantic resources of her lifetime: Spencer Reid.

Genre: Fluff, slow burn, eventual smut (I'm going to make you work for it though tee hee)

The Meet Cute

The Fake Relationship

The Enemies to Lovers

The Office Romance

The Roommate Special

The Long Distance Relationship

The Bed

The Forced Proximity

The Love Triangle

The Small Town

The Unresolved Sexual Tension

The One Night Stand

The Happily Ever After

A/N: I started writing one of my requests and it started looking more and more like a series instead of a standalone fic, so I hope you enjoy "The Romantic Comedy!" There's no strict upload schedule with this one, because like our self-insert reader, I too am plagued with a full-time job and writer's block 6/7 days a week. Nevertheless, I'm aiming for a chapter a week <3 I won't do a tag list for this one, but I will be reposting on @reiderslibrary so if you follow and turn on post notifs for that account you should get a notification every time a chapter drops. Or just... check in once a weekend!

[reiderwriter]

I just read The Rebound, pleeeeease part 2 😭

I was thinking about what I'd write for a part 2 but I have unfortunately 0 ideas for continuing this one as of now.... If i think of anything, I'll give it a try!

[reiderwriter]

me going 😞😞 bcs the rebound is all fluff and not angst or even hurt comfort like i thought it would be

(i WILL still read it tho i am a whore for your fics)

I'm sorry for the disappointment 🫡🫡 Let me warm up back into writing before I decide to start hurting people again lmao

[reiderwriter]

A Dream, A Kiss, A Wire

A (very late) submission for @imagining-in-the-margins Undercover challenge!!

Prompts: Character is surprised when their undercover partner is *very* good at pretending to be in love with them. “It’s just acting.” / “So you can make your heart race like that on command?”

Warnings: mentions of case details (bombing/ arson), mainly fluff

A/N: I don't know when the last time I posted fluff was, but I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you all enjoy it! I'm trying to post more regularly once a week now, so hopefully, I'll have something else for you next Sunday~

Masterlist

Two months of undercover work was probably standard in the FBI. You hadn't exactly been in the FBI that long, obviously, or in any job too long for that matter, being pretty fresh from a decade in academics, but you were a hard worker, and you got work done.

But your undercover work with the BAU wasn't exactly what you would call work.

You woke up in the morning, cooked breakfast for your fake husband, went to your pilates class with the other neighborhood wives, went to your fake job, and then went back to your fake home where you publicans flirted with your fake husband outside for an hour or two to make your real neighbors believe in your fake relationship.

So that hopefully, one of them would attempt to blow you up.

With three “accidental” house fires in the neighborhood in the last year, and insurance company who'd been investigating potential fraud in the area had tipped off the BAU of a possible undiscovered arsonist, though you'd quickly deduced as a team that your unsub was likely a bomber instead.

A few months of surveillance, and then the gradual introduction of pairs of agents into the neighborhood under heavy cover, and here you were.

Making your fake husband pancakes.

Spencer emerged into the kitchen to one of his favorite views in recent months. You'd been the first pair put in, the one most likely to get attention quickly, the team had said. He watched as you hummed along to the morning radio, stacking up piles of pancakes and dancing along as you cooked.

You looked happy.

The concept of pretending to be married hadn't sat well with Spencer at first. He was never the greatest actor, and his last attempt at cover with Cat Adams hadn't exactly lasted too long. He was two months in now, sure, but he owed most of that to you.

Every time he'd blundered, you'd been there to help him out.

You'd suggested working on the garden together at the weekend to show off your effective communication as a couple. He'd let you feed him strawberries and sprayed you with the water hose, causing a water fight the neighborhood kids had politely asked to be included in.

You'd also been the one to request weekly flower bouquets, preferable from the local florist, just so everyone could see how dedicated he was to his wife. You'd sneezed heavily into the first few bouquets, and he'd requested mainly tulips, roses, and carnations after that when your nose looked a little red.

You'd also been the one to hook your legs around his waist in the swimming pool in your back yard - in clear view of at least 5 neighbors houses - and angle your head just so, inspiring pats on the back from a few heavy handed husbands at the neighborhood barbecue the week after.

That was all to say, Spencer thought you were an incredible actor.

Until that morning, when you'd rolled over in the bed you shared after waking up and kissed him full on the lips as you groggily said good morning, before padding off to the bathroom to take your morning shower.

If Spencer hadn't been awake before then, he definitely was after. It was like every cell in his body jolted at the touch of your lips. You'd zapped him with a lightning bolt, then walked off so casually he didn't even have the time to question you.

By the time he stood to follow, the sounds of the shower were already pronounced alongside his own heartbeat.

It took the best part of the morning to remind himself that this was just work. You were just acting, and you'd gotten into the role.

“And don't forget to head to the dry cleaner today in your way home from work, I dropped off some summer dresses last week and your other work blazer and they called twice yesterday to say they were done-”

He listened to you happily telling him what to do as he ate his pancakes, responding where you wanted him to respond, and being a generally agreeing husband, all the while thinking about how your lips felt pressed against his.

He thought as well about the way your body felt against his. You'd been sharing a bed for two months, and obviously, you'd ended up tangled in one another more than once. He'd never let himself think about it as any more than an extension of work before that morning, though. Part of the cover.

And now he felt the contours of your body matched his in a way that made the tips of his ears pink.

His eyes - and attention - must've slipped away from where you thought they'd ought to briand you looked at him with a questioning glance.

“Spencer?”

“Hmm? Yes, dry cleaning and visit Tara at the bank. Anything else?” he asked, begging you to say nothing about where he'd just been caught looking.

“No. You got everything. Well, just make sure you wash up the breakfast pots on the way out, I'm leaving for pilates now.”

Without another word, Spencer watched you grab your car keys from the basket in the foyer, directly down the hall from his seat at your kitchen island, and felt a sense of dread.

He couldn't let you go again without asking you about the kiss, his body screamed at him, though his mind begged him to be rational.

His body seemed to win out rather quickly, as he called after you just as you opened the front door.

“Wait,” he said, jogging to catch up with you before he pulled you into his arms. The memory of the pool filled his thoughts to the point where he could almost smell the chlorine, the tips of his ears aflame with the sensation of your breath against his skin.

You tried to relax into his hug, knowing that a few of your neighbors were already outside, getting their cars ready to go to work. “Spencer,” you whispered, “What are you doing?”

His eyes flicked to your lips as he thought about just kissing you then and there. But the almost worried look on your face had him loosening his grip slightly, losing his resolve.

Luckily, the shame at his loss of self-control made his head drop slightly, just enough to catch the translucent wire centimetres from your foot glare in the sunlight.

At the worst possible time for Spencer Reid, you'd had your biggest break in the case in months.

...

A week later, you were you again and on the jet with colleagues you hadn't fully been able to interact with in months. Of course, you'd seen them all about the neighborhood, and you laughed and joked about it now that you were going back to your real lives.

“I swear to the almighty himself, if Joy ever suggests putting me in one of those old people's homes really, I want you to just take me out back and shoot me,” Rossi complained, swearing off slippers and bingo for the foreseeable future.

“You had company at least,” Luke muttered, having been confined to a small apartment on the upper side of the neighborhood that coincidentally housed all their surveillance equipment.

“Speaking of company, how was married life?” Emily joked, elbowing Spencer in the side from her seat next to him.

“It was… it was good,” he said, taking a sip of water from his bottle and avoiding all eye contact from everyone.

“Okay…. Y/N, what about you? What was Spencer like as a husband?”

You looked nervous as Spencer finally found it in himself to look at someone else again, desperately avoiding Emily's probing gaze.

“It was…. Nice. To switch off for a while. Not think too much, just…. Pretend?”

“Really? It was hard for me to get into character, and I lived alone. You and Spencer had to keep up a double act,” Luke laughed and shook his head, and Spencer found the ensuing silence more than a little awkward.

“I don't know, I just think it was kind of nice,” you said after too long of a pause. “Living with someone again. Less lonely, you know?”

Some sad smiles flicked your way in sympathy, then out the window, and you found yourself looking up at Spencer directly across from you and smiling shyly.

“Maybe I should start dating again,” you sighed under your breath when no one else was listening. But Spencer was listening. Spencer was always listening to you.

Two days in the office working late on paperwork and research was all Spencer could handle before he started asking questions.

Two hours into overtime, the moon was out, and the light in the office had dimmed just enough for the majority of the light in the room to be coming from your computer screen and desk lamp.

Spencer watched you casually, quick to look away any time you looked up at him, the feeling of his eyes burning into you, alerting you to his attention.

After a few minutes of looking up just as he looked away, you sighed in resignation and confronted him.

“What is it, Spencer?”

“Hmm? No, um… nothing,” he said, fumbling his pencil so it fell to the ground. He stood and retrieved it before hesitating and taking a step closer to your desk.

“You're really good at your undercover work, you know?” He said with a cute smile, leaning on the side of your desk as you looked up at him.

“What does that mean?” you asked, suddenly on edge. Spencer didn't usually pay you compliments, and you'd hoped to completely drop the topic of the cover completely after you'd landed and closed the case.

“I don't know, it's just… it seemed like you put a lot of yourself into it.”

“It was work. I put a lot of myself into everything I do. Work is included in that.”

“Work…” he said, nodding. He almost turned around and walked away. Almost.

“You kissed me that morning, you know?”

It didn't come out loud, but it resonated around the empty room anyway as you felt your heartbeat faster.

“You were awake?” You squeaked out before you could stop yourself, suddenly looking up Spencer with pleading eyes as you willed him to tell you he was joking.

“Yes, I was- hold on, you thought I was asleep? You kissed me because you thought I was asleep?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“It was just something… I didn't think, and-”

“Y/N, I kissed you back. Why did you think I was asleep?”

“Well, you didn't kiss back hard enough if I hardly noticed, did you?” you pouted, trying to go back to your work, but finding yourself with a brain so blank you couldn't even pretend to type. “I was acting, Spencer. I just.. got too into it, I suppose.”

“Y/N, look at me please,” Spencer pleaded, but you kept your head stubbornly turned away.

You felt his eyes on you, heard him take a step closer. Then another. You felt him loom over you, saw his hand come to rest beside yours on your desk.

Finally, you cracked.

“Spencer, I really don't think-” you stood and faced him, and immediately regretted both actions.

You'd shared a bed for two months, but this was definitely the closest you'd ever gotten. You could practically taste Spencer. You stood almost attached at the hip, his mouth not even inches from your own, but centimetres.

His forehead practically rest against your own, and he clutched your waist for balance, bringing you in closer.

You were stunned into silence, and when he grabbed your wrist in his hand and looked down at it in silence for a minute, you stood with baited breath for him to do something, anything else.

“The average resting heart rate for someone your age and activity level is around 75 beats per minute. I estimate yours is currently between 112 and 115. Are you acting now, too?”

You almost wanted to pull away and pout, but before you could do anything with your bottom lip, he'd claimed it with his own. His kiss was soft and delicate but intentional. His second was bolder, harder, and invasion of all your senses as he cupped your chin in his hand and lifted it just a little higher, pressing his tongue between your lips as he begged for permission.

A small moan granted him everything he wanted, as his hands sparked up your skin.

When he finally pulled away, not far enough to be out of your reach yet, your pants filled the air, syncopated as you breathed each other in and out.

“Let's keep acting. Just for now,” he gasped, whispering in your ear as he stroked your cheeks.

“Please,” he whispered as he once again claimed your lips.