#missarchive | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

missarchive · 3 months ago

Text

american jesus ☆

spencer reid

part one part two part three part four

summary; What starts as a seemingly innocent exchange quickly escalates into a game of trust, control, and desire. Spencer offers you more than just financial stability; he gives you attention, adoration, and a connection so intimate it leaves you breathless. From whispered words over the phone to moments of vulnerability, he knows exactly how to unravel you, guiding you to discover sides of yourself you never knew existed.

But with every dollar he deposits into your account and every command that leaves his lips, the boundaries between professionalism and pleasure blur. As you dive deeper into this intoxicating arrangement, you can’t help but wonder: are you just another outlet for his control, or has this brilliant man fallen for you just as deeply as you’ve begun to fall for him?

cw; +18 minors dni, masturbation (f), hints at masturbation (m), nudes, spencer calls reader "little girl" once, phone sex, sugar baby/daddy dynamics, inexperienced reader, pleasure dom spencer, fingering, dirty talk

an; this is the first part in my new series! as always, feedback is greatly appreciated. P.s. this is written with jesus reid in mind <3 xoxo

The idea had been absurd from the beginning—a drunken suggestion tossed out during a late-night study break, your friend’s cheeks flushed from the cheap wine you’d both been sipping.

“You should totally do it,” she’d said, her voice a mix of mischief and daring as she scrolled through her phone. “It’s not like you have to… do anything. Just talk. Flirt a little. Get someone to pay for your coffee—or your rent. What’s the harm?”

You’d laughed it off then, brushing aside her suggestion with a half-hearted joke about the kind of people who used those sites. But now, with your landlord’s polite but insistent emails piling up, along with the crushing weight of tuition bills and credit card debt, her words didn’t seem so laughable.

Desperation, you’d learned, had a way of reshaping your boundaries.

So, against every instinct that told you to slam the laptop shut and find another way, you clicked the link she’d jokingly sent that night.

The homepage was a garish blend of pink and gold, its polished glamour doing little to mask the transactional nature of it all. The tagline—"Where connections are made"—was a cruel euphemism for what this really was: a marketplace. A place where companionship, or at least the illusion of it, had a price tag.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time before you finally typed in a username: laceandliterature.

The flood of messages came almost instantly.

@ hungandrich; Hey, beautiful 😘

@ olderseekingyounger; I can show you the world 🌍💎

@ MrNaughty4U; $5k a week to be my princess. No strings attached 💵

It was overwhelming, a cascade of propositions ranging from saccharine to predatory. Some were masked in politeness, others made no effort to conceal their intentions. Your stomach churned as you skimmed through them, the realisation sinking in that you were just another product on a shelf.

And then, just as you were about to close the browser and pretend this had never happened, a new message pinged.

It was short, direct—refreshingly so:

[new chat from: @ thefourthdoctor]

@ thefourthdoctor; Intriguing profile. Shall we talk?

No emojis, no extravagant promises. Just a simple, confident statement.

You hesitated, your heart racing as you clicked on the profile. The picture was blurry, as if taken in haste, but it revealed enough: dark, wavy hair that framed sharp, intelligent eyes behind a pair of glasses. His bio was sparse but intriguing, mentioning books, travel, and a keen interest in "meaningful conversations."

Something about it—about him—felt different. Not just the lack of overtly transactional language, but the quiet assurance in his words.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

This was a bad idea. You knew it was a bad idea. But against your better judgment, you typed out a response.

@ laceandliterature; I suppose that depends on what you want to talk about.

The reply came almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting.

@ thefourthdoctor; Anything but the obvious.

The words were simple, but the subtext was unmistakable: he wasn’t here for what everyone else seemed to want. Or maybe he was just better at hiding it. No sleazy innuendos. No dick pics. No hollow promises of private jets or weekend getaways. Not even the tired clichés of "Hey, gorgeous" or “What’s your body count?”—just a question.

It was startling in its simplicity, almost disarming. And for that exact reason, it made you pause. The absence of the usual vulgarity felt almost like a trick, a trap designed to lure you into a false sense of security. You had learned the hard way to be cautious online. Yet, despite yourself, you couldn’t help but be intrigued.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as you glanced at his username again.

A click brought up his profile, your curiosity outweighing your skepticism. The photo was blurry, clearly taken without much thought to lighting or angles. It wasn’t like the polished, professional headshots some of the other profiles sported. Still, you could make out the basics: slightly messy, long curly dark hair, intelligent eyes framed by glasses, and an awkward sort of handsomeness that felt... real.

The bio was brief—almost frustratingly so.

"Bibliophile. Traveler. Interested in meaningful conversations and unconventional connections."

It lacked the arrogance and ostentation of the others you’d scrolled past, the ones who listed their wealth or their penchant for “petite brunettes.” Instead, it was vague, yet oddly specific in its sincerity.

Your chest tightened, a strange mix of apprehension and curiosity tugging at you. Was this calculated, or was it simply honest? And why did it feel more dangerous than the others?

Still, you typed.

Your heartbeat quickened as you debated your next move. The smart thing would be to leave it at that, maybe even block him. After all, you weren’t here for emotional entanglements. This was supposed to be transactional—a simple trade: your time and charm for their money and attention. A means to an end.

Yet, against your better judgment, you stayed.

@ laceandliterature; The obvious is easier to avoid than you think, but meaningful conversations? That’s a tall order here.

There was a long pause, long enough that you started to wonder if you’d misjudged him. But then, the reply came:

@ thefourthdoctor; It depends on who you’re talking to.

You stared at the screen, the simplicity of his words sending a ripple of unease through you. There was no bravado, no performance. He was direct, confident, and—most dangerously—intriguing.

The seconds stretched into minutes as you debated what to say next. This was different from the other messages. He wasn’t dangling wealth in front of you like a shiny object or trying to buy your interest with empty promises.

And yet, the very absence of those things made you wonder what he wanted. Because he wanted something—everyone on this site did. That was the nature of it.

@ laceandliterature; Okay. What do you want to talk about?

His reply was immediate, as if he’d been waiting for you to ask:

@ thefourthdoctor; Tell me what brought you here.

The question hit like a dart, sharp and precise. Your stomach tightened as you read it again, the blunt honesty of it stripping away the thin veil you’d been hiding behind. No one had asked that before—not like this.

Most of the messages you’d received had operated on unspoken rules: you pretend this is normal, and they pretend they’re just being generous. But this man wasn’t pretending. He was asking you to be real in a space built on pretense.

And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you felt compelled to answer.

Your fingers trembled slightly over the keyboard. What could you even say? The truth? That you were drowning under the weight of your bills, your student loans, your own stubborn pride? That desperation had led you here, to a website where relationships had price tags and intimacy was commodified?

But what stopped you wasn’t the shame of your situation—it was him. The way he asked, as if the answer mattered. As if you mattered.

The tension in your chest twisted tighter as you typed.

@ laceandliterature; The same thing that brings everyone here, I suppose. Necessity.

You hit send before you could overthink it, before you could soften the edges of the truth. The reply came quickly.

@ thefourthdoctor; Necessity takes many forms. Which is yours?

You stared at the screen, his words pulling something loose inside you. This wasn’t idle curiosity. He was pushing you, peeling back the layers you hadn’t even realized you were wearing. And damn it, you wanted to push back.

@ laceandliterature; Does it matter?

You wrote, the edge in your tone slipping into the words.

The pause before his reply was longer this time, long enough to make you wonder if you’d misstepped. But then it came, and it was nothing you expected.

@ thefourthdoctor; It matters if you want it to.

The simplicity of his words sent a jolt through you, more potent than any overture of wealth or charm could have been. There was no condescension, no judgment. Just quiet, unnerving confidence.

You leaned back in your chair, running a hand through your hair. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. These conversations were supposed to be easy—shallow exchanges where you could slip into a version of yourself that didn’t feel the weight of real life pressing down on her. But with him, there was no slipping into anything.

He wasn’t letting you.

@ laceandliterature; What about you?

You typed, throwing the question back at him, daring him to offer you the same vulnerability he was asking of you.

@ laceandliterature; Why are you here?

His reply was immediate, almost as if he’d been expecting the question.

@ thefourthdoctor; Curiosity.

You frowned at the screen, the single word both frustrating and enticing. It was vague but deliberate, leaving just enough room for interpretation to keep you hooked.

@ laceandliterature; Curiosity about what?

The next message sent a shiver through you:

@ thefourthdoctor; You.

Your breath caught. One word, and yet it felt like he’d reached through the screen, pulling you closer, tethering you to him in a way that was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

You hesitated, the heat rising in your cheeks as you considered how to respond. This wasn’t the typical transactional banter you’d anticipated when you signed up. He wasn’t offering money or promises of luxury. He wasn’t trying to seduce you with extravagance. Instead, he was drawing you in with something far more dangerous: attention.

And the worst part? You wanted it.

@ laceandliterature; Careful. That kind of curiosity can be expensive.

This time, the pause felt deliberate, a beat of silence meant to let your words settle. When his reply came, it was sharp, confident, and devastatingly effective.

@ thefourthdoctor; I don’t mind paying for what I value. Isn’t that what this is about, anyway?

Your breath hitched, the implications of his words hitting you like a shockwave. This wasn’t flirtation—it was a proposition. But not the kind you’d grown to expect on this site. He wasn’t offering to buy your time or affection outright; he was telling you that he saw something in you worth pursuing.

And that made him infinitely more dangerous.

Your heart raced as you stared at the screen, torn between the instinct to pull back and the magnetic pull of his presence. This wasn’t just about money anymore. This was about control, power, the careful dance of who would give and who would take.

You sat frozen, his last message glowing on the screen like an unspoken dare.

"I don’t mind paying for what I value."

The words reverberated through you, sharp and calculated, leaving no room for misinterpretation. This wasn’t a line meant to charm or impress. It was a statement of intent—a declaration of control.

And it was working.

Your chest tightened as you typed, your fingers moving before your brain caught up.

@ laceandliterature; Value is subjective.

The moment you hit send, you regretted it. It felt flippant, like you were trying to undermine the weight of his words. But maybe that was exactly what you needed to do—to wrest back some semblance of control in this conversation that was starting to feel far too intimate.

The reply came after a pause that felt excruciatingly long:

@ thefourthdoctor; It is. But I’m a man who knows how to discern.

Your throat tightened, the confidence in his words striking a chord deep within you. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was setting the rules. And despite yourself, you found it maddeningly enticing.

@ laceandliterature; Discernment is rare here.

You replied, leaning into the dynamic, testing the boundaries of this strange connection.

His next message came faster this time, as if he’d been waiting for you to lean in:

@ thefourthdoctor; So is honesty. Tell me, how rare are you?

Your breath hitched, your cheeks flushing as you stared at the question. It wasn’t what you expected—not here, not from someone you’d never met. And yet, it was the kind of question you couldn’t dismiss with a coy quip or vague answer.

@ laceandliterature; Enough to know my worth.

You typed, surprising even yourself with the boldness of your response.

His reply came swiftly.

@ thefourthdoctor; Good. Then you’ll understand why I won’t insult you with empty offers. Tell me what you want.

Your pulse quickened. There it was—the shift you’d been waiting for, the moment the conversation turned from hypothetical to concrete. But this was different from the others. He wasn’t throwing numbers at you, wasn’t dangling luxury in front of you like bait. He was putting the power in your hands, asking you to decide the terms.

It was intoxicating. And terrifying.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind. What did you want? Money was the obvious answer—wasn’t it? That was why you were here in the first place. But now, with him, it didn’t feel so simple.

@ laceandliterature; That depends… What are you offering?

The pause before his response was agonizing, each second stretching longer than the last. And then it came:

@ thefourthdoctor; Time. Money. Attention. Answers, if you’re brave enough to ask the right questions.

Your breath caught, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy cloak. He wasn’t offering material things, at least not yet. He was offering something far more valuable—and far more dangerous.

You swallowed hard, your palms damp as you considered your next move. He’d shifted the power dynamic yet again, pulling you deeper into a game you weren’t entirely sure you knew how to play.

@ laceandliterature; And what do you want in return?

The question leaving you more vulnerable than you cared to admit.

His response was immediate, his words a quiet, commanding echo in your mind:

@ thefourthdoctor; Exactly what you’re willing to give me.

The simplicity of his answer hit you harder than any declaration of wealth or desire could have. It wasn’t just about money or power or control—it was about you. Your choices, your limits, your willingness to engage in this careful, intoxicating dance.

And that realisation sent a shiver down your spine.

For a moment, you stared at the screen, your pulse thrumming in your ears. You could walk away now. Close the laptop, block his profile, and pretend this never happened. But the truth was, you didn’t want to.

Because for the first time since you’d joined this site, you felt seen. Not as an object, not as a commodity, but as a person.

His words clung to you, each syllable daring you to define what you were prepared to offer. He was turning the mirror back on you, forcing you to confront not just the situation but yourself.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t playing by the rules you expected, and that made him unpredictable. Dangerous. But it also made him irresistible.

@ laceandliterature; That’s a clever way of saying nothing. Ambiguity suits you.

The reply came quickly, almost as if he’d anticipated your deflection.

@ thefourthdoctor; Clarity can be earned, if you’re willing to play the game.

Your breath hitched. There it was again—that quiet, assured confidence that pulled you in despite every warning bell ringing in your head. He wasn’t offering platitudes or empty promises. He was offering a challenge, one that was as maddening as it was magnetic.

@ laceandliterature; And what game is that?

The pause before his answer felt deliberate, a calculated silence that only heightened your anticipation. When his message finally appeared, it sent a shiver through you:

@ laceandliterature; The one we’re already playing. You just haven’t realised it yet.

Your pulse quickened, your palms damp as you stared at the screen. He was toying with you, but not in the way you’d experienced before. This wasn’t about cheap thrills or transparent power plays. This was about control—subtle, seductive, and entirely in his hands.

@ laceandliterature; I don’t recall agreeing to any rules.

The sharpness of your words masking the unease curling in your chest.

His reply was swift, the confidence in his words cutting through the haze of your thoughts:

@ thefourthdoctor; You didn’t have to. You agreed the moment you responded.

The audacity of his statement left you momentarily breathless. He was right, of course, and that infuriated you. But it also thrilled you in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

@ laceandliterature; You’re awfully sure of yourself

You shot back, your fingers trembling as you hit send. The response came almost immediately.

@ thefourthdoctor; Confidence is the privilege of knowing what you want. Do you?

Your chest tightened, his words striking a nerve you hadn’t expected. What did you want? It was supposed to be simple—a means to an end, a way to solve your financial problems without complicating your life. But now, with him, it felt far from simple.

You hesitated, your mind racing. This wasn’t like the other conversations you’d had on this site. He wasn’t just offering money or gifts; he was offering an exchange of a different kind. One that blurred the lines between power and vulnerability, control and surrender.

@ laceandliterature; I think you already know the answer.

@ thefourthdoctor; Good. Then we’re getting somewhere.

You exhaled sharply, the tension in your chest both exhilarating and suffocating. He had you cornered, and he knew it. But the worst part? You didn’t want to leave.

@ laceandliterature; And where exactly is that?

The question both a challenge and a plea. His response sent a chill down your spine.

@ thefourthdoctor; Where we figure out if you’re ready to trust me.

The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and inescapable. Trust. It was a loaded word, especially here, in a space where every interaction felt transactional. But with him, it didn’t feel like a demand—it felt like an invitation.

You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling as you typed your response:

@ laceandliterature; Trust is earned, Doctor. How do you plan on earning mine?

The pause before his reply was excruciating, every second stretching longer than the last. And then, finally, his message appeared.

@ thefourthdoctor; Patience. Honesty. And just enough mystery to keep you coming back.

Your breath caught, the sheer confidence of his words leaving you momentarily speechless. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was rewriting the rules, pulling you deeper into his orbit with every word.

And despite the warning bells ringing in your head, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting more.

@ laceandliterature; Then I suppose we’ll see how well you play.

@ thefourthdoctor; We already are.

The message lingered on the screen, a challenge and a promise all at once. And as you stared at it, your heart racing and your mind spinning, one thing became clear:

Here’s the continuation, intensifying the emotional and psychological stakes, as well as the power dynamics:

You could feel it in the way your heart raced, in the way your mind struggled to pull together coherent thoughts. It was maddening. Dangerous. And yet, some part of you craved the thrill of it.

@ laceandliterature; What makes you so sure of that?

@ thefourthdoctor; Because you’re still here.

Your lips parted in a soft exhale, the truth in his words sending a shiver down your spine. He was right—you were still here, still engaged, still drawn to him in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

@ laceandliterature; Maybe I’m just curious.

His response was immediate, his confidence unshaken.

@ thefourthdoctor; Curiosity is the first step to surrender. And you’re closer than you think.

Your pulse quickened, his words striking a nerve you hadn’t realized was exposed. Surrender. The word hung there, heavy and intoxicating, pulling you deeper into his web.

@ laceandliterature; Surrender isn’t in my vocabulary.

The sharpness of your reply more for your benefit than his.

@ thefourthdoctor; That’s because no one’s ever taught you how to do it properly.

The breath left your lungs in a quiet rush, your body betraying you with a thrill that raced down your spine. He wasn’t just confident—he was audacious, pushing boundaries you didn’t even know you had.

@ laceandliterature; And you think you’re the one to teach me?

@ thefourthdoctor; I know I am.

Your throat tightened, his certainty pulling you further into the undertow. There was no pretence with him, no fumbling for the right words to impress or seduce. He spoke with a quiet authority that was impossible to ignore—and even harder to resist.

@ laceandliterature; You’re awfully sure of yourself, Doctor.

You wrote, the name a deliberate choice, a way to remind yourself that he was still just a man on the other side of a screen.

But his next message stripped away any illusion of simplicity.

@ thefourthdoctor; Confidence is earned. You’ll see.

The promise in his words sent your mind reeling, the tension in your chest building with every passing second. He wasn’t offering wealth or gifts or superficial praise. He was offering himself—his attention, his intellect, his dominance—and it was unlike anything you’d ever encountered.

You leaned back in your chair, running a hand through your hair as you tried to steady your breathing. This wasn’t just a game anymore. It was a collision of wills, a power struggle where the stakes felt dangerously personal.

@ laceandliterature; And if I decide to stop playing?

His reply came slower this time, each word calculated, precise.

@ thefourthdoctor; Then I’ll let you go. But we both know you won’t.

Your breath caught, the quiet confidence in his message leaving you stunned. He wasn’t trying to trap you—he was daring you to walk away. And that made him even more dangerous.

@ laceandliterature; You seem very sure of my choices

@ thefourthdoctor; I’m sure of your curiosity. And that’s enough.

You stared at the screen, your heart pounding, your mind spinning. He was right—you were curious. About him, about this, about where it could lead. And that curiosity was already pulling you deeper, binding you to him in a way that felt both thrilling and terrifying.

And as you sat there, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, one thought echoed in your mind:

You weren’t just playing his game anymore.

You were losing.

His words were a masterstroke, the kind of deliberate confidence that didn’t demand submission but invited it, coaxed it out of you with unsettling precision. He wasn’t forcing you into anything. He didn’t have to.

You were leaning in all on your own.

@ laceandliterature; Curiosity is dangerous.

The words meant as both a warning and a defense. You weren’t sure if you were telling him or reminding yourself.

His reply came almost instantly, as if he’d anticipated your hesitation.

@ thefourthdoctor; It can be, in the wrong hands. But I think you know by now—I don’t intend to hurt you.

Your chest tightened, the unexpected gentleness in his response catching you off guard. It wasn’t a dismissal of your fears; it was an acknowledgment, a reassurance that felt disarmingly genuine.

@ laceandliterature; What do you intend to do, then?

The pause before his reply was deliberate, stretching just long enough to heighten the tension without breaking it.

@ thefourthdoctor; Challenge you. Teach you. Protect you, if you let me.

Your breath hitched, his words striking a chord deep within you. The power in his offer wasn’t in its force but in its certainty, its quiet promise of control without cruelty, dominance without destruction.

@ laceandliterature; That’s a tall order.

@ thefourthdoctor; I’ve never been afraid of a challenge.

The simplicity of his answer left you momentarily stunned. He wasn’t boasting, wasn’t trying to impress you. He was stating a fact, one that resonated with an authority you couldn’t ignore.

@ laceandliterature; And what do you get out of this?

@ thefourthdoctor; The pleasure of watching you grow. The satisfaction of knowing you’re safe. And maybe, if you’re willing, a connection worth more than either of us expected.

Your chest tightened, his words threading through the cracks in your defences with startling ease. He wasn’t just offering a transaction; he was offering something far deeper, something that terrified and intrigued you in equal measure.

@ laceandliterature; You make it sound so simple.

@ thefourthdoctor; It can be, if you trust me. But I won’t rush you. This is your choice.

Your breath caught, the weight of his words settling over you. He wasn’t demanding anything from you, wasn’t using manipulation or coercion. He was giving you the space to decide, to choose whether to step into the unknown or retreat to the safety of your walls.

@ laceandliterature; What if I don’t know how to trust someone like you?

@ thefourthdoctor; Then I’ll show you how, baby. Step by step. But only if you’re willing.

The kindness in his words was a stark contrast to the intensity of his presence, a reminder that his control wasn’t about overpowering you—it was about guiding you, supporting you, meeting you where you were and pulling you gently forward.

@ laceandliterature; And if I’m not?

@ thefourthdoctor; Then I’ll let you go. But I don’t think you want me to.

The truth in his words hit you like a jolt, your heart racing as you stared at the screen. He was right—you didn’t want to let him go. You didn’t want to retreat into the safety of solitude, not when he was offering something so intoxicatingly rare.

@ laceandliterature; You’re very sure of yourself

@ thefourthdoctor; I’m sure of you. And I’m willing to wait until you are too.

The words lingered on the screen, a challenge and a reassurance all at once. He wasn’t just pulling you into his world—he was offering to walk beside you, to guide you through the uncharted territory of trust and surrender.

And as you stared at his message, your pulse thrumming in your ears, one thing became abundantly clear. You wanted to see where this could lead.

Your fingers trembled as you typed your reply.

@ laceandliterature; I don’t know where this is going.

His response came swiftly, his dominance tempered by kindness:

@ thefourthdoctor; Then let me be the one to show you. One step at a time.

When the evening settled and the quiet of your room enveloped you, you found yourself sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone. His last message still lingered there:

"Then let me be the one to show you. One step at a time."

Trust. The word had seemed so monumental when he’d said it, and now it felt even heavier in the quiet intimacy of your room.

Your eyes wandered to the package on your desk, the one that had arrived just days ago. The lingerie you’d bought with the money he’d sent—not something you’d ever imagined doing, much less showing anyone. But his insistence had stayed with you.

"This is for you," he’d written. "Because you deserve to feel special."

You’d laughed at the time, unsure how to process the sincerity in his words. But now, with the soft lace spread out in front of you, you felt the weight of his kindness.

On impulse, you slipped it on, the delicate fabric hugging your body in a way that felt both indulgent and empowering. It wasn’t something you’d ever have bought for yourself, but now, wearing it, you understood the quiet confidence it offered.

You caught your reflection in the mirror, your cheeks flushing as you adjusted the straps. The blush-colored lace was intricate and feminine, the perfect balance of modesty and allure. You hesitated, biting your lip as your phone buzzed in your hand.

Finally, you snapped a photo—nothing overly revealing, just the curve of your body hinted at in the soft light, the lace framing your figure. It felt daring, intimate, and, most of all, you felt like his.

With a shaky breath, you typed a caption for the image.

@ laceandliterature; Thank you. I thought you should see where your funds are going.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, your heart racing as the message left your screen.

@ thefourthdoctor; You’re so beautiful, my little angel.

Your breath caught at the simplicity of his words. There was no embellishment, no flourish—just a quiet, sincere acknowledgment that made your chest tighten.

Another message followed, slower this time, as if he’d chosen each word carefully.

@ thefourthdoctor; Thank you for trusting me with this. How does it make you feel?

His question sent a ripple of warmth through you. He wasn’t just admiring you; he cared about how you felt, ensuring that this moment wasn’t just for him.

@ laceandliterature; It feels… different. In a good way.

The dots danced on the screen before his next message appeared.

@ thefourthdoctor; Good. That’s exactly how it should feel. You deserve to feel confident and cared for.

You smiled despite yourself, the warmth of his words cutting through the lingering nerves. He had a way of making you feel seen, like every action, every choice you made mattered to him.

@ laceandliterature; I wasn’t sure about sending it, I’ve never done anything like that before.

You admitted, your honesty surprising even you.

@ thefourthdoctor; You don’t need to worry. You’re safe with me. Always.

The reassurance in his words settled something deep inside you. He wasn’t just saying it—he meant it, every word carrying the weight of his sincerity.

Before you could respond, your phone vibrated in your hand, his name lighting up the screen. You hadn't expected him to call so soon, but the smile that spread across your face at the sight of his name felt entirely natural.

Your throat pinched, the air suddenly feeling all too warm. Neither of you had ever initiated a call before, what would he sound like? Deciding to push your nerves to the side, you answer the call.

"I was thinking you might not pick up for a moment there," his voice was low and smooth, a hint of amusement dancing through his words. "I hope you know this isn’t just about the photo. It’s about you. What you need, what you want. If you’re ever unsure, tell me. I’ll always listen."

"I guess I just couldn’t help myself," you teased, a slight blush creeping up your cheeks at the memory of how vulnerable you'd felt.

"Yeah? Am I living up to the expectation?" he murmured, and you could hear the laughter in his voice. It wasn’t a mocking sort of amusement, just a quiet acknowledgment that you both knew where this conversation was heading. And that, he hoped, neither one of you would shy away from it.

You laughed, a softness you'd never known you were capable of settling into your chest. There had been something so unexpectedly freeing about the experience—about wearing it made you flush with warmth.

“You could say that…”

“What were you hoping for, when you sent me that photo?”

The thought sent an immediate ache through your body, the suggestion of his touch, of the things he might do to you, sending a wave of desire through you. Your mind raced with images of “him” above you, of his hands pinning your wrists to the bed as he thrust into you. The thought was enough to make you flush, the ache of need between your legs becoming almost unbearable.

"Nothing.” You couldn’t even pretend to feign nonchalance when his words had been so unflinchingly honest, when the promise of what lay ahead was so tantalisingly clear.

"I’ll make it easier for you, then. What are you thinking about right now?" he said bluntly, his words sending a rush of heat through your entire body. There was nothing ambiguous or hesitant about his command; he wanted this, and he expected you to do it. "Tell me what you want, angel. I can give you that."

You twist the fabric hem of the lingerie around your fingers nervously, chewing at the dry skin on the edge of your lips. “I- I don’t know how to do this.”

He chuckles softly, voice still full of kindness. “Then you don’t have to do anything, let me do all the work, baby.”

You’re quiet for a moment, pondering your options. Before nodding to yourself, deciding you’d have to let go of your nerves for the time being if you wanted this to continue.

“Okay.” You whisper, almost inaudibly. He wouldn’t have been able to hear it if he’d not been paying such close attention.

You took a deep breath, feeling a surge of boldness. "I... I've always had this fantasy of being guided by a man... someone who knows what he wants and can show me new pleasures. I’ve never had that chance before… I was hoping maybe that could be you."

"Oh, angel, you have no idea how much I want to fulfil those desires," He purred. "I can be your guide, your teacher, and your lover all in one."

His words sent a jolt of electricity through your body, and you felt your core tighten with anticipation. "I... I think I'd like that very much."

"I want you to relax and get comfortable for me, can you do that, baby?. Dim the lights, light a candle, whatever you need to do."

Obeying his instructions, you lit a scented candle, filling the room with a soft, flickering glow and a hint of vanilla. You kicked off your shoes and slid under the covers, your heart pounding in your chest.

"That's it, sweet girl," He whispered. "Now, I want you to imagine my hands on your body, caressing your skin, exploring every inch of you. Feel my touch, soft and gentle, as I trace your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts."

As you listened, you closed your eyes, visualising his strong, masculine hands on your body. You imagined his fingers brushing against your sensitive nipples, causing them to harden in response. Soft whimpers escaping your lips as you reach up to cup your breasts, mimicking his touch.

"That's right, angel," he encouraged. "Touch yourself for me. Feel how soft you are, how sweet.”

Your fingers obeyed, teasing your nipples, rolling and tugging at the sensitive peaks. You arched your back, pressing your breasts into your palms, and let out a soft cry of pleasure.

"Do you like that, little girl?" He asked, his voice thick with desire. "I wish you could see what you do to me."

"Yes, Doctor," you breathed, your voice heavy with arousal. “It feels so good."

"Now, slide your hand down your stomach, past your navel, and into the heat between your thighs," he instructed, his voice a seductive command. "Feel how wet you are for me, how your body responds to my words."

Your hand trembled as you obeyed, slipping beneath the covers and finding your way to your core. Your fingers brushed against your wet folds, and you gasped at the sensation.

"Oh, god, baby. You're so wet, aren’t you? I can hear it," He growled. "Rub your fingers along your pussy, coat them with your sweetness.”

You did as he said, moaning as your fingers slipped into your tight cunt. You were so wet, so ready, and the sensation of filling yourself sent waves of pleasure through your body. Taking the phone down your body, you hold it in front of your dripping pussy. Your microphone picking up on the sounds as your fingers slip through your folds.

"What a noisy fucking pussy, that's it, that's my girl," he encouraged. "Fuck yourself with your fingers, slowly at first, imagine it's my cock inside you, claiming your tight little cunt."

Your fingers moved in and out, your pace increasing as your pleasure spiralled. You imagined Spencer's thick, hard length filling you, his powerful body driving into yours.

"Yeah, fuck yourself for me," he urged. "Let go, angel girl. Come for me, and let me hear your sweet cries."

Your fingers worked frantically, your body on the brink of ecstasy. His words, his deep, commanding voice, pushed you over the edge. With a cry of release, you climaxed, your body trembling as waves of pleasure washed over you.

"Oh, my sweet girl," he whispered, whispering soft praise over the phone, his voice filled with satisfaction. "That sounded like a lot, hm? You still with me, beautiful?."

"I know that wasn’t easy for you, but it was beautiful to hear." His voice was soft, filled with sincerity.

You lay there, breathless and sated, your body still humming with pleasure. "Y-yeah, m still here. Thank you."

"You did so good, such a well behaved girl. Check your phone for me, baby. Look what you did to me."

You froze for a moment, your mind struggling to process exactly what you were looking at. And then it registered—the smooth skin of his stomach, the slight curve of his hip. A moment later, you saw it; his cock, flushed pink tip, half-hard and resting against his stomach. A small pool of cum rested near his belly button.. You flushed all over at the thought, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the photo. There was something so undeniably intimate about the image; something that spoke to the fact that he'd been pleasuring himself while thinking of you.

With a final, breathless goodbye, you end the call. Your heart is still racing, your body tingling with the lingering aftershocks of pleasure. His voice still echoes in your ears, warm and commanding, and the weight of his presence seems to fill the room even though he's no longer on the line. You lean back against the soft cushions on your bed, eyes fluttering closed, letting the soft glow of the lamp wash over you.

You let out a slow exhale, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with the buzz still pulsing beneath your skin. There’s something thrilling, intoxicating about the way he’s able to draw you out, make you vulnerable and yet so sure of yourself all at once. But the moment feels almost too surreal, too indulgent, and you try to calm your racing thoughts when a ping breaks through the haze of your afterglow.

You glance down at your phone, blinking at the notification that has just popped up.

$500 has been deposited into your account.

-for my pretty girl

Your breath catches in your throat as your fingers instinctively swipe open the message. You freeze, your eyes scanning the details with a quickness that betrays your curiosity.

"Doctor Reid," it reads, alongside the substantial amount.

For a moment, time seems to stop, your gaze fixed on the screen as your pulse quickens once more. The money sits there, cool and impersonal, yet its presence is anything but. It’s a gesture—one that feels undeniably generous, but also loaded with unspoken meaning. This isn’t just a transaction. This is him, and everything that came with the promise of his control, his attention, his care.

You’ve known that he was willing to give, but this—this feels different. The amount is so much more than what you’d expected. What did he mean by it? What does he expect now?

You glance at the digits one more time, the weight of his name anchoring the moment. It feels strange to see it. So he was a doctor.

A tight knot forms in your chest, mixing nerves with something else—something like desire, maybe even gratitude. You bite your lip, unsure how to feel. It was just a phone call, just a moment of shared vulnerability between you. Yet the fact that he’s followed through with this kind of gesture makes everything feel so much more real, so much more complicated.

With a heavy sigh, you set your phone down and run your fingers through your hair, your mind racing as you try to reconcile the thrill of the moment with the heavy responsibility that now feels like it’s creeping in.

At least now you had his name, Doctor Reid.

next part

#missarchive #spencer reid x reader #bau x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds

1K notes · View notes

missarchive · 4 months ago

Text

guys my age - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

who? professor spencer reid x student fem!reader

category: slow burn, forbidden love.

content warnings: NSFW MDNI! age gap! (spencer is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s). dubious content. freakish obsessed reader, freakish obsessed spencer. dom!spencer, but reader is pretty controlling. borderline stalking. unprotected p in v. forbidden love. power dynamics. smut. spencer cums inside :]

word count: around 8k

a/n: hi all!! this is my first post, i used to write wayyy back in the day but after a long three years and finally finishing my degree, i now have all the time in the world to write again. feedback is greatly appreciated <3

The lecture hall was alive with murmurs, but you couldn’t hear them. All you could focus on was the moment that door would open, the instant he would walk in. Dr. Spencer Reid. His name consumed you, whispered endlessly in the back of your mind, an invocation that made your pulse quicken. You had done your research long before the semester began—his credentials, his publications, the infamous cases he’d worked. He wasn’t just brilliant. He was untouchable. But not to you.

You sat deliberately in the middle row, far enough back to observe him fully, close enough to feel like he was speaking directly to you. The moment he entered, time seemed to slow. His presence was overwhelming, his voice a melody that wrapped around you, dragging you under. Every movement he made—the way his fingers toyed with the edge of his lecture notes, the slight adjustment of his glasses—was a spectacle.

“Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Advanced Criminology. I’m Dr. Spencer Reid.” His voice was smooth and confident, with an underlying warmth that immediately put you at ease.

For the next hour, you sat transfixed as he delved into the complexities of criminal behavior, weaving together case studies and theories with an ease that only someone with his expertise could manage. He had a way of making even the most intricate concepts accessible, his passion for the subject evident in every word. By the end of the lecture, you were utterly captivated—not just by the material, but by the man who delivered it.

Perfectly ironed white shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms. The same black suit pants you’d seen countless times when you closed your eyes. Unruly curls lay in a perfect mess, somehow each strand just fit. His eyes held knowledge, they commanded attention. They looked at you with such an intensity, you wondered if he could see right through you. Sure, he wasn’t blind. Dr. Spencer Reid was a genius, after all. But, as he walks around his classic oak desk, fingers grazing against the wood as he leans up against it, you wonder if he knows the effect he has on you… On everyone.

Your old professor had resigned, much to your dismay. However, that was quickly resolved once you learnt of the new, much younger professor who was assigned to take his place. Spencer Reid, a name that seemed like a curse every time it was spoken. You’d just have to settle for admiring from afar, for now.

He was perfect. No, he was more than that. He was yours.

In those first weeks, it became routine to linger after class, pretending to ask questions about criminological theories when all you wanted was his attention. You started tracking his habits: the exact time he arrived on campus, where he grabbed his coffee, the path he took to his office. It wasn’t enough to listen to him during lectures. You needed to know him. Needed to understand every nuance of his life.

Your notebooks filled slowly. Not just with his words, but with sketches of his hands, his profile, even the way the light hit his hair during evening lectures. You memorized his mannerisms and read every book he recommended—not just to excel but to mirror his thoughts, to create a bond he couldn’t ignore.

Each interaction became a drug, a fleeting high that left you craving more. The way his eyes lingered on yours during class wasn’t a coincidence. You were sure of it. The moments his voice softened when addressing you were evidence of something deeper. He felt it too—he had to.

Dr. Reid, for his part, seemed to enjoy your curiosity. He would patiently answer your questions, occasionally sharing anecdotes from his time in the field. There was a depth to him that intrigued you, a sense of vulnerability hidden beneath his intellect. You couldn’t help but feel a growing admiration for him—one that you knew was dangerous to entertain.

It happened on a rainy Friday afternoon. You had stayed behind after class to discuss a particularly challenging case study, and the conversation had spilled into his office. The rain pattered against the window as you sat across from him, your notes spread out on the desk between you.

“I’m impressed with your analysis,” he said, his eyes meeting yours. “You have a natural aptitude for this field.”

The compliment sent a flush of warmth through you, but you quickly pushed it aside. “Thank you, Dr. Reid. That means a lot coming from you.”

For a moment, the air between you shifted, the professional boundary wavering ever so slightly. He seemed to sense it too, clearing his throat and looking away. “Well, uh, keep up the good work. I’m looking forward to seeing your perspective on the next assignment.”

As you gathered your things and prepared to leave, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something unspoken lingered between you. It was subtle, like the faintest trace of electricity in the air, but it was there. And it terrified you.

The weeks turned into months, and the connection between you and Dr. Reid continued to deepen. It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what you told yourself. You simply couldn’t help the way your conversations seemed to flow effortlessly or the way his insights resonated with you on a level that felt personal.

There were moments when you caught him watching you during lectures, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than necessary. And then there were the times when his praise felt almost... intimate, as if he saw something in you that went beyond your academic abilities.

You knew it was wrong. He was your professor, and the power dynamic alone made any kind of relationship inappropriate. But the more you tried to suppress your feelings, the stronger they seemed to grow. You found yourself yearning for his company, for the way his mind worked, for the rare glimpses of vulnerability he shared.

And you weren’t entirely sure he was immune to it, either.

It was during a late-night office visit that everything came to a head. You had been working on your final paper and were struggling with a particular section. Dr. Reid had offered to review it, and you had jumped at the chance, grateful for his guidance.

As you sat across from him, discussing your ideas, the tension that had been building between you finally reached its breaking point. There was a moment of silence as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching yours.

“You’re incredibly talented,” he said softly. “I hope you know that.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, and before you could stop yourself, you replied, “It’s easy to feel that way when someone like you believes in me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. He looked at you, his expression a mixture of conflict and longing. “This...” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “This can’t happen. I won’t elaborate further, but you’re a smart girl… I know you know what I'm talking about.”

You nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I know.”

But even as you said it, neither of you moved to leave. All you received was a curt nod. The pull between you was undeniable, and in that moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

The night of the gala was your chance. You spent hours perfecting your appearance, knowing he would notice you in a way he never had before. And when he did, when his eyes locked onto you with that unreadable expression, it was like the entire world fell away.

When he led you to the corner of the room, your heart pounded, not with fear, but with anticipation. His frustration, his struggle to maintain control, only proved how deeply you had affected him.

“What are you doing?” He demanded, his voice low and sharp.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Reid.”

His jaw clenched, his composure slipping. “You know exactly what I mean. You’ve been crossing lines all semester.”

You stepped closer, the scent of his cologne intoxicating. “And what if I have?”

His gaze burned into yours, his control fraying with each passing second. “This has to stop.” He said, though his tone lacked conviction.

But you knew better. You had studied him, unraveled him piece by piece. He wasn’t as strong as he pretended to be. And neither were you.

“Maybe I don’t want it to.” You whispered, your voice trembling with both fear and desire.

For a moment, his eyes softened, as if seeing the truth of your obsession for the first time. “Obsession is a dangerous game.” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You would burn the whole world down if it meant keeping him close.

The world outside of Dr. Reid’s orbit ceased to matter. Friends became an afterthought. Classes, even the ones you’d once excelled in, were nothing more than obligations. Every moment not spent in his presence felt wasted. His words were etched into your memory, his voice a constant echo in your mind.

You found excuses to linger near his office, pretending to read in the hallway or jotting down notes on topics that had long ceased to matter. Sometimes you’d see him through the small window of his door, head bowed over papers, fingers absently running through his tousled hair. Those moments were sacred.

And then there were the nights.

Your dreams became a battleground, the lines between fantasy and reality blurring. You would see him, hear him, feel the phantom weight of his gaze. Waking up was a cruel joke, pulling you from a world where he was already yours. More than once, you had the fleeting urge to knock on his door late at night, under the pretense of needing help.

But you stopped yourself. Barely.

For now.

When he praised you in class, it felt personal, intimate. You lived for those moments. The way he would say your name, how his eyes would flicker with something unreadable—those seconds were your lifeline. But it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. You needed more.

You started keeping track of the little details. The brand of pens he used. The scuff on his leather satchel. The faint hint of lavender in his cologne. You’d bought the same scent, spraying it on your pillow just to feel closer to him at night.

One evening, you followed him. It wasn’t intentional, not at first. He left the lecture hall as you lingered, and without thinking, you gathered your things and trailed behind him. He walked briskly, head down, weaving through the near-empty campus. You stayed far enough back to avoid suspicion but close enough to study him.

He stopped at the local bookstore, his long fingers running over the spines of books with a reverence that made your chest tighten. You hid behind a display, watching him as he browsed. When he left, you waited a few moments before approaching the same section. He had lingered near the true crime section, and you traced the path of his fingers, touching the same books he had touched.

It became a ritual after that. You discovered his favorite haunts: the coffee shop where he always ordered black coffee with two sugars, the quiet corner of the library where he would sometimes sit and read, the park where he walked on Sunday mornings. You were careful, meticulous, ensuring he never saw you. But you saw him.

Every time you caught a glimpse of him, it felt like a secret, a moment that belonged solely to you.

The gala had been your boldest move yet, and the way his gaze lingered on you that night had only fueled the fire. His warning echoed in your mind, but you dismissed it. He said you were crossing boundaries, but you knew better. He was simply scared. Scared of what this meant. Scared of what you meant.

You decided to leave him something. A token, something small enough to avoid suspicion but personal enough that he would know it was from you. A first edition of one of the books he had mentioned in class. You placed it on his desk after everyone had left, your heart racing as you imagined his reaction.

The next day, you waited, anticipation coiling in your stomach like a serpent. When he walked into class, the book was in his hand. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on you for a moment too long before he placed it in his bag without a word.

It was a victory.

But victories, you realized, were fleeting.

One evening, as you left the library, you spotted him walking toward his car. The parking lot was empty, save for the two of you, and for the first time, you didn’t bother to stay hidden. You followed him openly, your footsteps echoing against the pavement.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face you.

“Why are you following me?” He asked, his voice sharp but not unkind. His eyes held a mixture of curiosity and something darker, something you couldn’t quite place.

Your breath caught, but you forced a smile. “I wasn’t following you, Dr. Reid. I just happened to be walking this way.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “This isn’t the first time, is it?”

The accusation hung in the air, and for a moment, you thought about denying it. But then, something inside you snapped.

“No.” You admitted, your voice trembling. “It’s not.”

His expression shifted—confusion, disbelief, and something else flickered across his face. “Why?”

The word was a whisper, barely audible, but it was enough to unravel you.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep—I can’t focus on anything but you. You’re brilliant, and kind, and perfect, and I—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “This isn’t healthy.”

You took a step closer, desperation clawing at your chest. “But it’s real. You know it is. I see the way you look at me. Don’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”

He took a step back, shaking his head. “This has to end…now. Do you understand me?”

But you didn’t believe him. Not really. Because you had seen the way his hands trembled when you were near, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you. He was scared, yes, but not of you. He was scared of himself.

And that, you realized, was all the encouragement you needed.

Dr. Reid’s words echoed in your mind for days after the encounter in the parking lot. This has to end. But the way he said it, the way his voice wavered ever so slightly, betrayed him. It wasn’t conviction; it was fear. Fear of what you had awakened in him.

You were sure of it now. He wasn’t immune to you. Not entirely.

The proof came in small, fleeting moments—too subtle for anyone else to notice, but to you, they were glaring signs. The way his eyes lingered on you during lectures, his gaze softening before he quickly looked away. The way he adjusted his tie when you walked into the room, as if suddenly self-conscious. And then there were the compliments, so carefully worded that they might seem innocent to others, but to you, they felt personal. Intimate.

Still, he kept his distance. Even when you sought him out after class, he kept the conversations brief, his tone polite but clipped. It was maddening, the way he seemed to hold himself back.

But then, there were cracks.

One afternoon, you arrived at his office under the guise of needing help with a research topic. He hesitated before letting you in, his hand lingering on the doorknob as if debating whether this was a mistake.

Once inside, the air between you was charged. He sat across from you, his hands folded on the desk, but his gaze flickered to your lips more than once as you spoke.

When you handed him a stack of notes, your fingers brushed, and he pulled back quickly, too quickly.

“Sorry.” He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, leaning forward just enough to close the space between you. “It’s okay.”

For a moment, his composure faltered. His eyes locked onto yours, and the tension was unbearable. You could see it in his face—the war he was waging within himself.

Then, just as quickly, he stood, turning his back to you as he busied himself with a stack of papers on the shelf. “Your analysis is impressive,” he said, his tone suddenly distant. “You’re clearly passionate about the subject.”

The shift was jarring, but it only solidified your resolve. He wasn’t rejecting you. He was protecting himself.

That evening, you stayed late in the library, poring over the materials he had assigned. As you packed up to leave, you noticed a familiar figure in the far corner. He was seated at a table, his long fingers flipping through a thick volume, his expression distant.

You froze, your heart pounding. He hadn’t noticed you yet. For a moment, you considered leaving, but the pull was too strong.

You approached slowly, the sound of your footsteps drawing his attention. When he looked up, his eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unguarded crossing his face before he composed himself.

“Staying late?” He asked, his voice calm, but his fingers tightened on the edge of the book.

You nodded, setting your bag down on the table. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He gave a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I find the library... peaceful.”

“Me too.” You said softly, taking a seat across from him.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the unspoken tension that had been building for months. His eyes flicked to yours, then away, as if he couldn’t decide whether to meet your gaze or avoid it entirely.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “You should be careful, you know. Spending so much time in my office, lingering after class—it’s not... appropriate.”

Your heart twisted at the words, but his tone was anything but stern. It sounded like a warning, but it felt like a confession.

“Do you want me to stop?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked down at his hands, his fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to reach for something—or someone.

“It’s not about what I want.” He said finally, his voice strained.

But it was. You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his gaze lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking. He wanted you just as much as you wanted him. He was just better at pretending otherwise.

The next day, during his lecture, you felt his eyes on you more than usual. He paced the room as he spoke, his hands gesturing animatedly, but every so often, his gaze would drift to you, his words faltering for the briefest moment before he recovered.

It was intoxicating, knowing you could unravel him like this.

After class, as the other students filtered out, you stayed behind, your heart racing as you approached his desk.

“Dr. Reid,” you began, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you.

He looked up, his expression unreadable. “Yes?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words, but before you could speak, he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re relentless.” He said softly, almost to himself.

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

“I just want to understand you.” You said, stepping closer.

He shook his head, a faint, almost bitter smile playing on his lips. “You already understand too much.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you felt impossibly small, the air thick with tension. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fought to maintain control, but you also saw the flicker of something darker, something he couldn’t quite suppress.

And in that moment, you knew: this wasn’t over.

It was only just beginning.

It started innocently enough—at least, that’s what you told yourself.

The male student, a classmate you barely knew, had approached you after lecture to ask about the upcoming project. His name was Ethan, and while he was polite and charming, you couldn’t muster much interest in the conversation. Still, you smiled and nodded at his jokes, your polite laughter echoing in the near-empty hall.

Unbeknownst to you, Dr. Reid had lingered behind, tidying up his desk and organizing his papers. His sharp ears caught the sound of your laughter, a melody he had grown far too familiar with—and possessive of.

He looked up to see you standing near the doorway, your body language relaxed as Ethan leaned in slightly, his tone conspiratorial. Spencer’s grip on the edge of the desk tightened.

Ethan’s laugh was loud, too loud, as if he wanted to broadcast how much he enjoyed your company. Spencer’s jaw clenched. He knew this was ridiculous. He was your professor, and it wasn’t his place to interfere with your social life. But the sight of another man so close to you, taking liberties he couldn’t, made his blood boil.

When you glanced back into the classroom, likely to gather your things, your eyes met Spencer’s. For a fleeting moment, his mask slipped, and you saw something dark and raw flicker across his face. It was gone just as quickly, replaced by his usual calm demeanor, but the image stayed with you.

“Everything alright, Dr. Reid?” You asked, stepping inside and leaving Ethan to wait by the door.

Spencer straightened, clearing his throat. “Yes. Just... finishing up.”

Ethan peeked his head in. “Ready to go?” He asked, his tone casual but his presence invasive.

Spencer’s eyes darted to Ethan, then back to you. “You should be careful with your time,” he said, his voice quiet but pointed. “The project deadline isn’t as far off as it seems.”

You frowned, confused by the sudden shift in his tone. “I’ll make sure to stay on top of it.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, as if debating whether to say more. Instead, he turned his attention back to his desk, his movements stiff and deliberate.

The next few days were marked by a subtle shift in Spencer’s behavior. During lectures, his eyes seemed to find you more often, but they were no longer soft or conflicted. There was an intensity to his gaze now, a quiet possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine.

When Ethan approached you again after class, Spencer’s reaction was immediate.

“Miss L/N.” He called out, his voice carrying across the room.

You turned, surprised to see him still at his desk. “Yes, Dr. Reid?”

“Could you stay for a moment? I’d like to discuss your recent paper.”

Ethan hesitated, clearly waiting for you, but Spencer’s sharp gaze left no room for argument. “I won’t keep her long.” He said smoothly, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Ethan nodded reluctantly. “I’ll catch you later.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Spencer’s demeanor shifted. He stood, his tall frame looming as he approached you.

“Is he bothering you?” He asked, his tone casual but his eyes anything but.

“Ethan? No, not at all. Why would you think that?”

Spencer’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He seems... persistent. I just want to make sure you’re not feeling pressured.”

You couldn’t help but smile, amused by his sudden protectiveness. “I’m fine, Dr. Reid. Really.”

He nodded, but his expression didn’t soften. “Good. I’d hate to see someone distract you from your potential.”

The words were innocent enough, but the way he said them—the way his eyes lingered on yours—made your breath catch.

It wasn’t long before his jealousy became harder to hide.

During a group discussion, Ethan made a point of sitting next to you, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned over to share his notes. Spencer’s gaze locked onto the interaction, his hand tightening around the marker in his grip until his knuckles turned white.

When Ethan made a joke and you laughed, Spencer interrupted sharply. “Let’s stay on topic, please. This isn’t a social hour.”

The class fell silent, startled by his uncharacteristic tone. You glanced at him, surprised by the edge in his voice. He avoided your gaze, turning back to the whiteboard with rigid movements.

After class, as students filtered out, he called your name again.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, his voice softer now. “I was... out of line earlier.”

“It’s okay.” You replied, though you couldn’t hide your confusion.

He hesitated, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for something. “You have to understand,” he began, his voice dropping lower, “that I only want what’s best for you. Not everyone has your best interests at heart.”

“Are you talking about Ethan?”

Spencer’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer directly. “Just... be careful who you trust.”

The weight of his words hung heavy between you, and for the first time, you wondered if his concern was more than professional.

Later that evening, you found yourself thinking about him again, replaying the moments when his composure slipped, when his obsession peeked through the cracks. You didn’t know whether to be scared or thrilled.

But one thing was certain: Spencer Reid was unraveling, and you were the one pulling the thread.

The days that followed were an intricate dance of tension, each interaction with Dr. Reid pulling you closer to a dangerous edge. His jealousy, once simmering beneath the surface, began to bleed into every corner of your academic life, coloring the way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you, the way he made his presence impossible to ignore.

It started small.

Ethan asked you to partner up for a case study project, and though you agreed, the arrangement didn’t go unnoticed. During the next lecture, Spencer called on you repeatedly, his questions increasingly challenging, as if testing your limits. The rest of the class shifted uncomfortably, sensing the deliberate scrutiny, but you met his gaze head-on, refusing to falter.

Afterward, he lingered at the podium, watching as Ethan hovered near your seat, leaning down to talk to you. The sight made his stomach churn. He didn’t like how Ethan’s hand rested casually on the back of your chair, how his laughter seemed designed to draw your attention.

“Miss L/N, a word?” Spencer’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

“What’s this about?” You asked, crossing your arms.

He tilted his head, his gaze piercing. “I noticed you and Ethan are working together.”

“We are,” you said carefully. “Is there a problem?”

His jaw clenched. “No... as long as you’re confident he’ll contribute equally. He strikes me as the type to let others carry the weight of the work.”

You frowned. “That’s not fair. He’s been helpful so far.”

Spencer leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. “Helpful isn’t always the same as trustworthy. Just keep that in mind.”

You stared at him, the intensity in his tone sending a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t just warning you—he was staking a claim, subtle but unmistakable.

The breaking point came during a departmental mixer, an event meant to encourage networking among students and faculty.

You had hesitated to attend, but Ethan insisted, offering to walk you there. Spencer spotted you as soon as you entered, his sharp eyes narrowing when he saw Ethan’s hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd.

He approached you moments later, his movements precise and deliberate. “Miss L/N, a pleasure to see you here.”

“Dr. Reid.” You greeted, your smile nervous under the weight of his gaze.

“And Ethan,” Spencer added, his tone clipped. “Enjoying the event?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Ethan replied, oblivious to the tension. “I was just telling Y/N about a conference coming up in D.C. She’s thinking about attending.”

“Is she?” Spencer asked, his eyes locking on yours.

Ethan nodded. “I might go too. We could share accommodations to save on costs.”

The suggestion made Spencer’s blood run cold. His mind spiraled with images of you and Ethan alone, the boundaries he fought so hard to maintain crumbling under the weight of his jealousy.

“That won’t be necessary.” Spencer said abruptly.

Both you and Ethan blinked in surprise.

“I mean,” he added, forcing a smile, “it’s likely the university will have funding options available for individual accommodations. I’d be happy to look into it for you, Miss L/N.”

“Thank you, Dr. Reid.” You said slowly, sensing the undercurrent of his words.

Ethan opened his mouth to protest, but Spencer cut him off with a glance so sharp it left no room for argument.

Later that evening, Spencer’s restraint finally snapped.

You stayed behind after the mixer to gather your things, only to find him waiting for you outside the building. The night air was cool, but the tension between you burned hot.

“You didn’t have to wait.” You said, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“I wanted to.” He replied, his voice low and steady.

You walked in silence for a moment, the quiet punctuated by the rhythmic click of your heels against the pavement.

“Why do you do it?” He asked suddenly.

“Do what?”

“Let him follow you around like that. Laugh at his jokes. Entertain his attention.”

You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him. “Ethan’s my classmate. I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”

“It is my concern.” He said, stepping closer. “You don’t see the way he looks at you. The way he talks to you.”

“And how do you look at me, Dr. Reid?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, your voice trembling.

His breath hitched, his carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble. “You know how I look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve known all along.”

The admission hung in the air, dangerous and electrifying. You stared at him, your heart pounding as he took another step closer, his presence overwhelming.

“This can’t happen.” He said, though his words lacked conviction.

“Then why are you here?”

He didn’t answer, but the intensity in his gaze spoke volumes. His hand twitched at his side, as if he was fighting the urge to reach for you. The distance between you felt razor-thin, and for the first time, you wondered who would break first.

The silence stretched between you, taut and electrifying. Spencer’s jaw tightened, and his hand briefly raked through his hair—a telltale sign of his internal struggle. He was balancing on the edge of control, teetering between his professionalism and the unrelenting pull you had on him.

“You should go home.” He finally said, his voice low but strained, as if forcing the words out against his own desires.

You didn’t move. Instead, you tilted your head, studying him with a boldness that matched his intensity. “Is that what you want?”

His sharp intake of breath gave him away. “What I want doesn’t matter.” He said, but his eyes betrayed him, dark with longing.

You stepped closer, drawn to the crack in his carefully curated armor. “It matters to me.”

“Don’t.” He warned, but the word lacked strength, a faint plea wrapped in desperation.

You hesitated, caught between the thrill of provoking him and the awareness of the risk you were taking. Still, the magnetic pull between you was undeniable. “If you really wanted me to stop, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Spencer’s restraint snapped, just for a moment. He reached out, his hand hovering near your arm before he jerked it back as if burned. His expression twisted in frustration, his usual composure unraveling.

“You think this is a game?” He hissed, his voice harsh. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“I’m not the only one doing it,” you shot back, emboldened by the fire in his eyes. “You can’t stand it when anyone else gets too close to me. Admit it.”

His silence was deafening, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the faint twitch in his cheek.

“I see the way you look at me,” you continued, your voice softer now, almost coaxing. “It’s not just admiration, Dr. Reid. It’s something more.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He muttered, turning away, but you caught the tremble in his voice.

“Then prove me wrong.” You challenged.

Spencer turned back to you, and this time, there was no mistaking the raw emotion in his gaze. “You want the truth?” He said, his voice dangerously soft.

You nodded, your pulse quickening.

“I think about you more than I should. I notice every detail—every time you laugh, every time you tuck your hair behind your ear. And when I see him talking to you...” He broke off, shaking his head. “It takes everything in me not to...”

“Not to what?” You pressed, your heart pounding.

His lips parted, but he seemed to catch himself, stepping back as if the space between you might restore his self-control. “Not to cross a line I can’t uncross…” He finally said, his tone heavy with regret.

But the heat in his gaze told a different story—a story of a man on the verge of losing himself to the very thing he’d been trying to resist.

The tension between you didn’t dissipate. If anything, it grew, seeping into every interaction like an unstoppable tide.

In class, his gaze lingered on you longer than was appropriate, his voice faltering slightly when he called on you. During office hours, his questions delved deeper, as if searching for something he couldn’t articulate.

But it was during a casual seminar that the cracks in his professionalism began to widen.

You had arrived early, taking a seat in the front row. As you flipped through your notes, Spencer entered the room, his eyes immediately seeking you out. He paused, visibly unsettled, before making his way to the podium.

As other students filtered in, Ethan arrived and, to your surprise, took the seat beside you. He leaned in, his tone light and teasing as he made some comment about the seminar topic.

Spencer’s expression darkened. He began the session, but his usual measured tone was tinged with an edge that made the room feel heavier. His eyes kept drifting to where you sat, his words sharper whenever he addressed you or Ethan.

When the seminar ended, Spencer was quick to dismiss the class.

The classroom emptied, leaving the two of you alone. Spencer stood behind the podium, his hands gripping its edges.

“What was that?” He asked, his voice tight.

“What was what?” You replied, feigning innocence.

“You know exactly what I mean.” His gaze pinned you in place. “Him. Sitting next to you. Acting like he—” He broke off, shaking his head as if trying to compose himself.

“Acting like what?” You pressed, stepping closer.

“Like he has the right to your attention,” Spencer snapped, his professionalism unraveling further. “He doesn’t. Not the way I...”

He stopped himself, his chest rising and falling with restrained emotion.

“Not the way you what?” You asked softly, your voice carrying a mix of curiosity and challenge.

His eyes burned with an intensity that made your breath catch. For a moment, you thought he might close the distance between you, shattering the boundaries he’d been clinging to.

Instead, he exhaled shakily and stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “This needs to stop.” He muttered, though the words seemed directed more at himself than at you.

But even as he said it, the tension between you was palpable, an invisible thread pulling you closer despite the chaos it threatened to unleash.

The air between you felt suffocating, charged with a tension that had been building for weeks. Spencer stood before you, his normally composed demeanor unraveling with every passing second. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight as he tried to steady his breathing.

“I’ve tried,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve tried to keep this professional. To keep my distance. But you...” He looked at you then, his gaze piercing and raw. “You make it impossible.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of exhilaration and fear coursing through your veins. “What are you saying?” You asked, your voice trembling.

“I’m saying that I can’t pretend anymore,” he admitted, his voice low and filled with something dark and desperate. “Every time I see you with him, every time I see you smile at someone else... I can’t stand it.”

You took a step closer, emboldened by the vulnerability in his confession. “Then don’t pretend.”

Spencer’s eyes darkened, his restraint crumbling as he closed the distance between you in an instant. His hands cupped your face, his touch firm but reverent, as though he’d been starving for this moment.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me…” He murmured, his voice shaky with need.

“Then show me.” you whispered, your breath ghosting against his lips.

That was all it took. Spencer’s mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was as fierce as it was desperate. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as though he needed you to breathe. The kiss was everything—pent-up frustration, unspoken desire, and a need that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged. “This is wrong.” He muttered, though his hands still gripped your waist, unwilling to let you go.

“We don’t have to tell anyone.” You countered, your voice soft but insistent.

Spencer’s eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then his resolve broke entirely. His lips found yours again, this time slower, more deliberate. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a claiming, a declaration that you were his, consequences be damned.

Without a word, he guided you backward until you felt the edge of his desk against your hips. His hands roamed your sides, skimming over your curves with a possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he admitted between kisses, his voice hoarse. “How many nights I’ve stayed awake, thinking about you. How hard it’s been to stay professional when all I want is to make you mine.”

“Then stop holding back.” You urged, your fingers clutching at his shirt as though afraid he might pull away.

Spencer’s response was immediate. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto the desk with ease. His touch was everywhere—your hips, your back, your neck—each movement filled with a hunger that bordered on obsession.

“Tell me you want this.” He said, his voice low and commanding as his lips brushed against your ear.

“I want this,” you breathed, your hands tangling in his hair. “I want you.”

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense. “You have me,” he promised, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve always had me.”

In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There were no rules, no boundaries—only the two of you, finally giving in to the undeniable pull that had been drawing you together all along.

He is the first to break the silence, his voice low and husky.

"Tell me what you want."

You hesitate for a moment, the words stuck in your throat. Then, quietly, you say, "I want you, Spencer."

He moves closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "Tell me exactly what you want."

You swallow, feeling your heart rate quicken. "I want you to touch me, Spencer."

"Where do you want me to touch you?" He murmurs.

"Everywhere." You whisper, leaning into his touch.

He traces his fingers down your neck, his touch featherlight. "Here?"

You nod, your breath hitching as his fingers ghost over your collarbone.

He moves his hands down further, trailing his fingers across your chest. "I need words, sweet girl."

"Yes," You breathe, feeling your arousal growing.

He hums in approval, hands moving lower still, caressing the curve of your breasts. "And here?"

"Yes…" You repeat, arching into his touch.

He cups your breasts through your shirt, squeezing gently. "What about here?"

"Please…" You whimper, your voice barely audible.

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "What else do you want, Y/N? Tell me."

You can feel your face flushing, but you can't stop the words from tumbling out of your mouth. "I want you to take my clothes off, Spencer. I want you to touch me everywhere."

He lets out a soft groan, his hands moving to unbutton your shirt. "God, Y/N. I've wanted you for so long."

Your shirt falls to the floor, leaving you exposed. His eyes roam over your body, hungrily taking in every inch of bare skin.

"You're so fucking beautiful." He murmurs, his fingers tracing patterns across your stomach.

You gasp as he leans in and presses a kiss to your neck, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. His hands move lower, dipping below the waistband of your jeans.

"Spencer…" You moan, your hips bucking against his touch.

"Yeah, baby? What is it, sweet girl? Tell me what you need." He breathes, his fingers dancing along your inner thigh.

"I need you." You whimper, desperate for more contact.

He pulls away from you, his hands moving to undo his belt. He pulls his pants down, his hard cock springing free. Tip flushed pink, the same shade as his swollen kiss-bruised lips. He grabs your hips and lifts you onto the desk, his body pressed against yours.

"Is this what you want?" He asks, his voice rough with desire.

"Yes." You gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He pushes his cock against your entrance, his eyes locked on yours. "Say it, Y/N. Say you want me."

"I want you, Spencer." You moan, feeling him slide into you.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groans, thrusting into you. "You're so tight."

You cling to him, your nails digging into his back as he drives into you, again and again.

"Feels s’good." You babble, feeling the tip of his cock deep in your cervix, his hand coming down to rub calculated circles on your clit.

Spencer was a man of logic, of knowledge. But nothing could have prepared you for how skillful his hands could be in such a sinful context, hands you’d spent hours marking into the pages of your notebooks.

He fucks you harder, his pace frantic. "Such a pretty pussy, Y/N." He groans, dipping his head into your neck to nip at your skin.”My pretty pussy.” He delivers a quick slap to your pussy, sending a shock of pleasure through you, clit throbbing painfully.

"Oh, god, Spencer…" You cry, your orgasm quickly approaching, unable to stop it no matter how much you want to prolong the feeling.

“You wanna cum for me, baby? Cum all over my cock?” He stares down at you with a look you know will be ingrained in your mind for as long as you breathe.

It doesn’t take long before your orgasm crashes over you, pulsing through you in waves, back arching off the bed as you reach out for anything to ground yourself. Hands finding the back of his head, pulling him into your chest.

He follows soon after, his cock pulsing inside you as he empties himself into you, collapsing on top of you, his chest heaving.

You look up at him, your eyes bright with satisfaction. "Do you think it was worth it?"

He smiles, stroking your hair. "I’d do it all again if it meant I could have you this way just one more time."

The first rays of dawn filtered through the blinds of Spencer’s apartment, casting faint golden stripes across the room. You stirred slightly in his arms, your body cocooned in the warmth of his embrace. Spencer had always been a light sleeper, but he hadn’t moved all night. His arms remained securely around you, as if even in sleep, he was afraid to let go.

For a moment, the world was still, the only sound was the gentle hum of the city waking up outside. In the quiet, you allowed yourself to revel in the stolen tranquility. These moments were fleeting, precious—time you carved out in secret, hidden from the eyes of the world.

“You’re awake.” He murmured, his voice low and rough with sleep.

You tilted your head back to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “So are you.”

“I don’t think I slept much,” he admitted, his fingers brushing idly along your arm. “It’s hard to sleep when I know every moment with you has to be hidden.”

You frowned slightly, guilt tugging at you. “I hate it too,” you said softly. “I hate that we have to pretend in class, that I can’t just... be with you without worrying who might see.”

His hand tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. They were warm, but behind the softness lay a steel determination. “It’s not forever,” he promised. “The semester is almost over. Once you’re no longer my student, no one can question us. No one can tell me it’s wrong to feel this way about you.”

You leaned into his touch, comforted by his words but still anxious about the risks. “Do you ever think about what would happen if someone found out?”

“Every day,” he admitted without hesitation. “But I think about losing you more. And that’s a risk I can’t take.”

The weight of his confession settled over you, heavy and grounding. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “I’d risk it all for you, Spencer. You know that, right?”

He nodded, his expression softening as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I know. And I’d do the same for you. But until it’s safe, we have to be careful.”

The reminder of the outside world, of the boundaries you had to navigate, was sobering. Yet it didn’t dampen the connection between you. If anything, it strengthened your resolve.

Days in class were an intricate dance of restraint and subtlety. You sat in your usual spot, taking notes diligently as Spencer lectured at the front of the room. His demeanor was calm, professional, every word deliberate. To the untrained eye, he was simply your professor, and you, his attentive student.

But beneath the surface, every glance, every fleeting moment of eye contact held a world of unspoken words. When he paused to scan the room, his gaze lingered on you a fraction too long. When he walked past your desk, the faintest brush of his presence sent a shiver down your spine.

After class, you remained behind under the pretense of asking a question. The other students filed out, their chatter fading as the door closed behind them.

Spencer glanced at you, his professional mask slipping slightly as he leaned against the desk. “Is this about the assignment?” He asked, his tone neutral but his eyes betraying a flicker of warmth.

“No,” you admitted, lowering your voice. “I just... I wanted to see you.”

His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, and he nodded toward the door. “Wait for me outside. I’ll finish here and meet you in the library.”

The library had become your haven, a place where the world’s watchful eyes couldn’t reach you. Tucked away in the farthest corner, surrounded by shelves of dusty books, you found refuge in each other’s company.

Spencer sat across from you, his hand resting lightly over yours on the table. “You know,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the library, “this hiding... it’s maddening. But there’s something exhilarating about it too.”

You raised a brow, your lips quirking into a teasing smile. “Oh? Dr. Reid enjoys breaking the rules?”

A low chuckle escaped him, his fingers brushing against yours. “When it comes to you? I’ll break every rule there is.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, you simply looked at him, your heart swelling with a mix of love and longing. “One more month,” you whispered. “Then no more hiding.”

“One more month,” he echoed, his voice filled with quiet determination. “And then I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”

Until then, you would continue this delicate balancing act, cherishing the stolen moments and weathering the secrecy together. Because in the end, he was worth it. And you knew that no matter how many rules you had to break, how many boundaries you had to navigate, you would never let him go.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x reader #bau x reader #spencer reid smut x reader #missarchive

1K notes · View notes