cuzxai

[cuzxai]

come back!

naw

[cuzxai]

well thats it for my run on tumblr, bye yall 😂

[cuzxai]

all i want is you - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: whys spence lowkey a creeeeeeep and why does the reader not care and stull fucc him afterrrrrrrrrr (i need him to be obsessed with me like this) also sorry this is long as hell for no reason

You don’t know when it started. At least, you don’t want to know. For months, Spencer Reid has been a part of your life—steadfast, dependable, steady in ways you never thought you’d rely on anyone. But somewhere in the quiet moments, the long nights spent working cases, something shifted. You were just part of the team. He was just Spencer—the quiet genius with the messy hair, the awkward charm that crept up on you in the form of shy smiles and brilliant insights. But then came the little things. It started with the way he always seemed to appear at the right moment. When you spilled coffee on your blouse, there he was, awkwardly offering his jacket to cover the stain, his fingers brushing your wrist as you accepted it. When you were tired, zoning out in the break room, Spencer would hand you an energy drink, not saying a word, just a soft glance of concern before he retreated again into his world.

The team had begun to notice it too, the way his attention lingered just a fraction longer when you spoke, how his gaze followed you across the room, how he always seemed to stand a little closer than necessary when you were huddled together around a case file. But it was subtle enough to pass as nothing—nothing but friendship, nothing but the professional camaraderie that comes with spending every waking moment together in the intense, fast-paced world of criminal profiling. You didn’t realize how often you caught him looking at you until you found yourself seeking it out. The quiet moments when he didn’t speak but his eyes would flicker over your face, as though memorizing the curve of your cheek or the way your lips pressed together when you were deep in thought.

It was unsettling at first. But you didn’t think much of it. Maybe it was just Spencer. He was always a little… off-kilter. Not like the rest of the team. Not like Morgan who was so effortlessly confident and always seemed to be the center of attention. Or like Hotch— preserved and quiet, in a scary way. But then it got worse. Or maybe it got better. You didn’t know which.

Spencer started showing up in places he didn’t need to be. You’d be sitting alone at your desk late at night, the office empty except for you and the hum of the fluorescent lights above and then suddenly, he’d be there—just standing, watching you with a look you couldn’t place. At first you’d smile and offer a light comment but his response was always quiet, as if his mind was somewhere else. His eyes would flicker to your face for a moment before he’d shake his head and start speaking, his voice low and urgent.

“I just thought you might need… someone.”

You didn’t question it. Then came the day you found yourself watching him too. It was a case, one of those long, brutal ones that never quite let you go. The team was scattered throughout the station, analyzing evidence, talking to witnesses. Spencer was in the corner, hunched over a pile of files, his brow furrowed in concentration. But his attention wasn’t really on the case. You noticed it then—his gaze was following you again. This time you were aware of it. You could feel it, like a pull at the center of your chest.

You pretended to be absorbed in your own work but your eyes kept flickering over to him, catching the way his head tilted just slightly, the way his fingers drummed absently against the table as he stared at you. The team noticed it too. You could tell by the way Morgan and JJ exchanged knowing glances, the way Hotch’s eyes narrowed when Spencer seemed to hang on your every word, even when it wasn’t his turn to speak. It wasn’t anything overt. There were no blatant looks of lust or longing. It wasn’t that obvious. But it was there. The tension, the energy that seemed to build every time he was near you. It wasn’t just friendship. It wasn’t even just protectiveness. It was something deeper. Something unspoken.

And then there were the moments you tried to push it away, to focus on the case, on the mission at hand. Spencer, ever the professional, never mentioned it. But he was always there. Watching. You caught him once, late in the evening, standing just outside your office door, watching you as you spoke to Derek. At first you were too caught up in the conversation—but when you looked up, his eyes were fixed on you. And the look he gave you… it wasn’t one of simple concern or curiosity. It was possessive, possessive in a way that made something stir in the pit of your stomach. It unsettled you.

The next time you walked through the bullpen, you caught him staring again. His head was tilted slightly, eyes dark, his lips parted just enough to show a hint of his thoughts. You had no idea what he was thinking but the way he looked at you made your skin crawl in the best possible way. It wasn’t until the case was over, until the files were packed away, the suspects apprehended that you realized just how much Spencer had gotten under your skin. And it wasn’t the things he said. It was the things he never said. The way his silence weighed on you like a thousand unspoken words.

The team left for the night but you stayed behind to finish up the last of your notes. Spencer as always, lingered. But tonight he didn’t retreat to the corner. He stayed just a few feet away from you, eyes never leaving your face. When you laughed, an easy sound shared with Morgan across the room, Spencer’s eyes darkened. You caught the way his jaw clenched, the way his hand tightened on the edge of the table. He looked as though the sound of your laughter had physically hurt him, but he didn’t say anything. Not then.

Instead, he stayed in his corner, watching you laugh, watching you with someone else. And in that moment, it shattered something inside him—something quiet and desperate, something he hadn’t yet been able to name. He wasn’t just watching you anymore. Spencer was obsessed. But you couldn’t see it yet. You don’t see it coming—how cold he goes.

It’s not just the way Spencer watches you—though that’s changed too. It’s the weight of his presence when he’s not speaking, the way his attention clings to you even when his hands are busy with case files or his mouth is full of facts. His stillness means more now. When you’re near, he holds himself tight, like if he relaxes for even a second, something might slip out. Something dangerous. Something real.

The others notice before you do. Maybe because you’ve grown used to him always being nearby. Always looking. Always ready. You don’t realize how unusual it is until Morgan teases him in the briefing room.

“You profiling her now, pretty boy?” he says, leaning back in his chair with that shit-eating grin he saves for moments like this.

Spencer’s head snaps up from the paperwork in his lap. “What?”

Morgan gestures with his chin, nodding in your direction. “You keep staring at her like she’s gonna disappear. You okay?”

You glance over in time to see Spencer’s cheeks flush. His hands twitch, eyes darting between you and Morgan like he’s trying to find a safe place to land. There isn’t one.

“I wasn’t—I was just—” He fumbles for a moment. “She had ink on her face.”

It’s a bad lie. Emily snorts into her coffee. Morgan just raises his eyebrows, clearly enjoying the show.

“Right,” Morgan drawls. “Ink. That’s what we’re going with?”

You blink at Spencer, who refuses to meet your gaze now. His ears are pink. His fingers are fidgeting with his pen. There is no ink on your face. You laugh it off. The room moves on. But something about the moment lingers. And then it keeps happening. The presence of him. Always him. Too many times to be coincidence. He’s always the first one at your side when the unsub’s behavior upsets you. Always the one offering water when your hands are shaking. Always the one stepping in to give your profile when you falter, even before you’ve said a word.

And when you look up—whether it’s from across the conference table, or from behind a two-way mirror, or at a crime scene where you’re trying not to cry—he’s already watching you. Eyes soft. Mouth parted. Like he’s waiting for something. You start to wonder if you’re imagining it.

Until Emily corners him in the hallway. You’re on your way to grab coffee when you pause outside the kitchenette and hear her voice—low, calm, careful in that way Emily gets when she knows something. “You need to get a handle on it, Reid.”

There’s a pause. Then Spencer, voice thin and tight, “Get a handle on what?”

“You know what.” A quiet sip of coffee. “It’s not just obvious—it’s loud. And if you’re not careful, it’s going to stop being cute.”

Your stomach flips. Finally, Spencer says softly, “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

Emily doesn’t answer. Her footsteps retreat down the hall. You wait a few more seconds, heart pounding then step away like you heard nothing at all.

It’s a few days later when you finally confront him. It’s late. The jet is quiet, humming softly in the air around you. The team is scattered—JJ asleep with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Morgan dozing with headphones in, Rossi flipping through a novel. You’re sitting near the back, feet curled under you, watching clouds streak by through the window. Spencer’s across from you, notebook in his lap, but he hasn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. He’s looking at you again. You don’t let him pretend.

“Why are you always around lately?”

His eyes snap up to meet yours. Wide, startled. Like you’ve struck him across the face. “I—what?” he stammers.

You tilt your head. Keep your voice light. “You’re always next to me. Always watching me. Always… there. It’s not bad. I just—” You pause. “I’m starting to wonder if I should be worried.”

He shakes his head too quickly. “No. No, it’s not—I didn’t mean—” He swallows hard. His hands are clenched tight around the edge of the notebook. “I just… I like talking to you,” he says eventually, barely above a whisper. “You’re easy to talk to.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You haven’t been talking to me much lately, Spencer. You’ve mostly just been watching.”

His lips part. He tries to say something and fails. You see it happen in real time—the way his throat bobs, the way his eyes dart away, how his fingers twitch and his breath catches and something in him fractures. “W-what, I just—” He breaks off again. Tries to recover. “You’re my friend.”

You don’t respond. You just watch him. He looks like he might crawl out of his own skin. You lean back slowly, watching the way he tenses when you move. The way his eyes follow your fingers when you adjust your jacket. How his jaw locks when your ankle brushes his leg. It all clicks, sharper now than ever before. You realize: he can’t look away. The silence stretches again, tighter than before.

“…I’m not trying to be weird,” he says softly, almost too soft to hear. “I just—I feel better when you’re nearby.”

You want to say something. You don’t know what. Your throat feels tight. You look at him. How his hands are trembling slightly, how his mouth is pulled tight at the corners. Like he’s holding something back with every part of his body. Like something inside him is screaming and he’s swallowing it down with sheer will. And then he looks up at you and for just a second you finally see it. Quiet, buried, simmering just beneath the surface. It’s been there for a long time.

You inhale once, deeply. Try to smile. “Okay.”

Spencer’s brows draw together. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you say again. “Just… don’t lie to me about it next time.”

You stand up and walk toward the front of the jet. Spencer stays frozen in place, notebook forgotten in his lap, eyes locked on the seat you just left—like he’s still trying to catch his breath. After that night on the jet, you expect something to shift. A conversation maybe. A moment where he pulls you aside to explain himself, to fill in the blanks. But it doesn’t come. Instead, Spencer pulls away.

At first it’s subtle. He starts sitting further from you at the round table. Stops bringing you coffee in the mornings. Doesn’t text you updates on cases unless it’s strictly necessary. You try not to notice. Maybe you’re overthinking. Maybe he’s busy. But it gets worse. He avoids eye contact. Leaves rooms when you walk in. Brushes past you in hallways like you’re not even there. You send him a meme one night—some stupid article about an antique book auction, the kind of thing he always loves and it stays on “read” for twelve hours before he likes it with a thumbs-up and nothing else.

You think back to the way he looked at you on the jet, like he’d broken something in himself just by being honest. Like telling you the truth had ruined whatever fragile tether he’d been clinging to. Maybe it did. Because now it’s like he’s trying to erase the version of himself you saw that night. And it’s making you crazy.

And of course the team notices too. It’s impossible not to, the way he closes off around you. Emily doesn’t say anything directly but you catch her watching you more than usual—curious, almost cautious. JJ asks if everything’s okay between you two. You lie. Hotch doesn’t say a word but when Spencer fumbles during a briefing—loses his train of thought, goes quiet—Hotch levels him with a look sharp enough to draw blood.

Morgan, though. Morgan calls him on it. You walk into the break room mid-conversation. Spencer is at the counter, nervously stirring his coffee even though it’s already mixed. Morgan’s leaning against the sink, arms crossed, expression tight. “You know I like you, man,” Morgan says. “But this thing with her? You’re acting like a goddamn ghost. Either talk to her or figure your shit out.”

Spencer’s voice is barely audible. “It’s not that simple.”

“Doesn’t have to be this complicated either. She’s not blind, Reid. You think she hasn’t noticed?”

You freeze. Spencer must see you out of the corner of his eye, because his shoulders go rigid. He doesn’t turn.

Morgan sighs. “Look, I’m just saying—don’t let something good rot just because you’re scared of it.”

You back out of the room before they realize you’ve heard. And a few days later, you give in. You go to his apartment. It’s impulsive, yeah—but you’re tired of waiting. Tired of pretending you don’t feel the shift between you, that it doesn’t matter. You need to hear it from him.

Spencer opens the door like he’s just been hit. He doesn’t ask why you’re there. Just stands in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth parted like he forgot how to speak. You look at him and realize he looks like shit. His hair’s a mess. His shirt is wrinkled. There are dark shadows under his eyes and the apartment behind him looks untouched, like he hasn’t been living in it so much as existing in it.

“Can I come in?” you ask softly.

He hesitates. Then steps aside. You sit on his couch as he paces. You wait and he doesn’t talk.Finally you speak, “Why are you avoiding me?”

He flinches. Like you stabbed him. “I’m not,” he lies, badly.

You stare. He rakes a hand through his hair, starts pacing faster. “I just—I thought maybe it would be easier. If I… created some space. After what I said. After how I’ve been acting.”

You tilt your head. “And how have you been acting?”

He stops to look at you and something in him breaks. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says.

The room goes silent. You just stare as he keeps going.

“I’ve tried to stop. God, I’ve tried. I’ve read studies on compulsive thought, on emotional fixation, on cognitive behavioral therapy and none of it—none of it works.”

His hands are shaking now. His voice is high and desperate and nothing like the quiet man you usually know. “I think about you all the time. When I wake up. When I go to sleep. When I’m supposed to be working. I find excuses to walk past your desk. I memorize the way you laugh. I—” He swallows. “I’ve replayed every conversation we’ve had more times than I can count. I know your coffee order, your favorite pen, the way you write your E’s with that little hook at the top. I—”

You blink hard— he’s unraveling in front of you, rambling.

“I didn’t mean to get like this. I just—at first, it was harmless. You were nice to me. You listened. You asked me questions about books no one else cared about. And then suddenly, you were important. Like… vital. Like if you weren’t there, the whole day felt wrong.” He laughs, but it’s hollow. “I started counting how many hours you spent with me versus the rest of the team. It didn’t feel like enough. It still doesn’t. I dream about you. I’ve imagined—God, I’ve imagined so many scenarios where I say something or you say something, or we just…”

He cuts off. Breathing hard. “I sound insane,” he whispers.

You’re still staring at him, your throat is tight, your fingers are cold.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know I shouldn’t say any of this. I know it’s not fair to put it on you. I just—”

“Spence,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks at you like you’ve asked him to solve the riddle of the universe.“Because it’s too much. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve someone obsessing over you like—like a fucking stalker—”

“You’re not a stalker,” you say sharply.

He freezes. You run a hand through your hair, exhale shakily. “You’re just… overwhelmed. You care. Too much maybe but not in a bad way.”

He doesn’t move. You meet his eyes. “How long has it been like this?”

“Months.”

You exhale again. “Jesus.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t need you to say anything.”

“I—” You hesitate. Then laugh softly, disbelieving. “This is a lot. I’m honestly kind of shocked. You’ve been this close to me for months and I had no idea.”

Spencer lowers his head. “I tried to hide it.”

“Yeah, well. You’re not great at that anymore.” You sit with the silence for a moment. Then because you’re not sure how else to ground yourself, you say, “I didn’t think you felt that way. I thought you were just being… Spencer. You know. Thoughtful, sweet, quiet.”

He flinches. “I wasn’t being sweet. I was— am obsessed.”

“You can be both.” You tilt your head. “I don’t know how to feel about all of this,” you admit. “I’m overwhelmed. It’s crazy. But…”

Spencer holds his breath.

“…I do have a crush on you.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares like he’s not sure he heard you right. You nod, slowly. “I don’t know what to do with all this yet. But I wanted you to know that part. That it’s not just you.”

Spencer sinks onto the couch beside you like his legs gave out. You sit in silence. Both breathing like the wind just got knocked out of you. Nothing is solved. But something is very much beginning. Spencer’s still staring at you, his face flushed with disbelief. His lips move but no words come out and for a moment, it feels like you’ve broken him.

“I—” His voice cracks, and he starts pacing again. “I never thought—this isn’t something I can just… you don’t—God, you don’t understand how long I’ve—how much I’ve—”

He’s rambling, stumbling over his words like he’s trying to make sense of something he’s only just realized. And it’s a bit too much. You’re overwhelmed by the intensity of his reaction, the vulnerability in his voice, the way his eyes are burning with something dangerous. You never thought it would get to this point—this level of intensity.

“Spence—” you start, trying to find the words to calm him down.

But he keeps going, voice rising with every sentence, “I’ve tried—God, I’ve tried to hide it but it’s been too long. I—I don’t know what to do with this, with you, with how much I—”

You can’t take it. Not anymore. Before he can go any further, you move forward and pull him into a kiss. His lips are soft and surprised at first but he’s quick to respond. The kiss deepens almost immediately, his hands coming to your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you. You feel his desperation in the way his fingers dig into your skin. His mouth moves against yours, hungry and frantic as if he’s trying to swallow the confession, trying to make it real—make it something tangible.

You break the kiss just for a second, your breath coming in shallow pants. “Stop talking,” you say, your voice shaky.

Spencer’s eyes are wide, pupils blown, his breathing uneven. He’s standing there, frozen for a split second, before he surges forward again, crashing his lips to yours with all the intensity he’s been holding back. His hands roam up your back, pulling you close, and you let him, feeling the heat between you grow exponentially. Every movement is deliberate, possessive. He’s claiming you—marking you as his in a way that makes your heart race. The tension in the room is palpable, thick with everything that’s been unsaid.

He pushes you gently but firmly against the armrest of the couch, his body pressing against yours as he grinds down, a low growl escaping his throat when you gasp against him. His mouth leaves yours only to trace a path down your neck, the softness of his lips contrasting with the harshness of his grip.

“God, I’ve wanted this… wanted you,” Spencer murmurs against your skin. He pulls back for a moment, his gaze heavy, almost possessive, as if trying to make sure you’re still there, still his. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be like this. But I—”

You grab his face, forcing him to look at you again. “Spence,” you whisper, your hands trembling as you brush his hair back. “You’ve wanted me. You’ve wanted this. We want this.”

He exhales a shuddering breath, his eyes flickering with uncertainty but it’s quickly replaced by a surge of need. He presses his lips to yours again, kissing you harder this time, his hands moving feverishly to undress you. There’s no hesitation in him now—just urgency. You feel him against you, his hard chest pressing into yours as he pulls your shirt off in one swift motion. The hunger in his touch is intoxicating, and the way his hands move over your skin is almost worshipful, like he’s afraid to let go. His lips follow every inch of your exposed skin, leaving fire in their wake.

“Let me,” he whispers, his voice rough and low as he slides his hands down your sides, tugging at your jeans. “Please, let me take care of you.”

You nod, caught up in the intensity of it all. He’s not the Spencer you’re used to—the gentle, quiet genius. He’s someone else now, someone darker, and the way he’s looking at you now makes something inside you tremble. He pushes your jeans down your legs, throwing them somewhere behind him before his lips find yours again, insistent and hungry. His hands slide up your thighs, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin there, making you shiver.

“God, you’re perfect,” Spencer murmurs against your lips. “So perfect. I need you… so much.”

You can’t stop the way your body responds, aching for him. He kisses you again, deeper this time and the way his tongue slips against yours sends a shock of heat through your entire body. He leans back slightly, looking at you as if he’s memorizing every detail—your flushed skin, your half-lidded eyes, the way you’re trembling under his touch. “You want this too, don’t you?” he breathes.

You can’t form words. You only nod, your hands reaching for him desperately, tugging him back down to kiss you. And when his lips leave yours again, trailing kisses along your jaw and down your neck, you almost lose your mind. His hands finally move lower and you gasp when you feel his fingers slide beneath the waistband of your panties, teasing you. Spencer is careful but the possessiveness in his touch is undeniable. His fingers slip lower, brushing against you in a way that makes you moan before you even realize it. Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers slide inside, his movements slow, deliberate—making you ache for more. His lips are on yours again, kissing you deeply as he works you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. But just when you think you might break, he pulls away— leaving you gasping for air. He looks down at you, his expression one of tortured need, and his voice is raw when he speaks again.

“Say it,” he demands, his eyes boring into you. “Tell me you want me.”

You don’t hesitate. “I want you, Spence. I want you so much.”

And that’s all he needs. Spencer doesn’t even seem to register that you’ve said it. Not at first. His mouth is still open slightly, his breath stuttering as though you’ve knocked something loose in his chest. The moment stretches long—his hands twitching where they hold you, his eyes searching yours like he can’t quite believe what he heard. But then you kiss him again. You lean in and do it before he can speak, before he can unravel into one of his frantic, whispered spirals. You cut him off with your lips, slow and certain and the second your mouth meets his again, something in him snaps.

He groans softly, a sound he tries to swallow but can’t and then his hands are on you—palming your waist, sliding beneath your shirt, desperate to feel more. He pulls away for just a moment to tug your clothes off, muttering soft apologies as his fingers fumble with your waistband, his own breath catching when you help him, stripping him down with the same kind of frantic purpose. When you’re both finally bare, he still doesn’t rush. He just stares.

“God,” he breathes, touching your face. “You’re so…”

He doesn’t even finish the thought. His lips are back on yours. Hungry, open-mouthed and messy. He kisses like he thinks he might never get the chance again. Like he’s waited so long he forgot what it might feel like. You gasp as his hand finds its way between your legs, fingers slipping through slick heat. He groans against your mouth.

“Do you know what this does to me?” he whispers, fingers gliding through you slowly, purposefully. “You’re soaked and I haven’t even done anything.”

“You’re doing enough,” you manage, hips lifting into his touch. “Don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” he murmurs. “Not ever.”

And when he finally lines himself up, nudging into you with a slow, aching push, your body stretches around him, and both of you go still. He doesn’t move. Just stays there, fully inside you, trembling slightly as he braces himself on shaking arms.

“You feel…” His voice is barely a breath. “You feel unreal.”

Your fingers slide up his back, over the tension in his shoulders, pulling him down so your foreheads touch. “Then keep going,” you whisper. “Make it real.”

Spencer pulls out just a few inches and pushes back in, slow and steady, dragging his hips against yours like he’s savoring every inch. And he keeps that rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that never quite pick up speed. It’s not teasing. It’s not restraint. It’s something else entirely—devotion, maybe. Obsession. He watches your face with open desperation, like he’s trying to memorize every twitch of pleasure he causes. His hands move constantly. One cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he kisses you again. The other grips your thigh, pulling your leg around his waist so he can press even deeper, groaning softly as he does.

You moan against his mouth, fingers digging into his hair. “Spence—”

“I know,” he says, panting. “I know.”

He rocks into you over and over again, never faster, never harder—just more. More depth. More heat. More of his body against yours. You feel him everywhere, all of him, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours, his lips roaming down your neck, your shoulder, your chest.

He whispers everything he’s never said aloud, “I think about you constantly. I can’t sleep when I don’t know where you are. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

And it’s too much but you don’t want him to stop. You don’t want it to end. Your bodies roll together in waves, slow and molten, dragging pleasure out like a thread neither of you wants to cut. You feel the tension building in your core, slow and warm but never tipping. Spencer seems to sense it too—his pace remains steady but the way he holds you tightens, the way he kisses you turns messy and hungry. Still no urgency. Just need.

When your legs tremble around him, he slows even more, nearly stopping, breathing hard against your skin. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “I want to stay here. Like this. As long as you’ll let me.”

You kiss him again, open and soft and a little breathless. “Then don’t stop.”

So he doesn’t. Time slips sideways. You lose track of how long it’s been. His hips move in an unchanging rhythm, not quite gentle, not quite rough. It’s not about the destination anymore. It’s about the want. About never having to stop wanting. You’re not even sure if your body can come like this—so slowly, so achingly full but you don’t care. You just hold him tighter. You keep kissing his mouth and his neck and the part of his shoulder that tenses every time he rolls his hips. And you whisper back everything you’re finally ready to say. He doesn’t stop. Not even when his arms start to tremble from the effort. Not when his voice goes hoarse from the dirty things he whispers into your mouth, your neck, your chest. Not when your skin slicks with sweat and your lips are swollen from how many times he’s kissed you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

Time slips sideways—you’re not sure how long he’s been inside you, fucking you slow then fast then slow again like he’s chasing something. Something he can’t quite reach. But you feel it now. In the way his rhythm falters. In the heat rolling off his body. In the quiet, gasping noises he’s trying to smother into your shoulder.

“Spence,” you whisper, nails digging into his back. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

He lets out a broken sound. “Y-yeah. I’m—fuck, I’m so close. I didn’t want to yet. I wanted to wait.”

“For what?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

“For you,” he breathes. “Always you.”

You cup his face and pull him up to look at you. His eyes are wild—dilated and glazed and so, so tender. You’ve never seen him like this. You don’t think anyone has. And you don’t want him to hold back anymore.

“Come inside me.”

Spencer freezes. His eyes go wide, lips parting in a stuttered gasp. “W-what?”

You stroke his cheek, pull him even closer. “I want you to. Please.”

His whole body shudders, a sound slipping from his throat that’s somewhere between a moan and a whimper. He buries his face in your neck, groaning into your skin like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

“You don’t—you really want me to—” he’s panting, the last of his restraint splintering into nothing. “God, baby—fuck—you’re gonna ruin me.”

And then he lets go. His hips slam into you one last time, deep and hard and he spills inside you with a groan so guttural it sounds pulled from his spine. His whole body collapses over yours, trembling with the force of it—his arms locked around you, mouth pressed to your neck, saying your name over and over like a prayer. You wrap yourself around him and hold him through it—his weight, his shaking, the wet warmth of him inside you. Neither of you speaks for a long time.

Finally, he lifts his head—just enough to look down at you. His voice is quiet. Raw. “Was that okay?”

You nod, stroking his damp hair back from his forehead. “That was more than okay.”

He leans in and kisses you again—soft this time, slow. Almost reverent. “Thank you,” he whispers.

You laugh a little. “For what?”

“For letting me have you like this.”

[cuzxai]

hold me under - sfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: basically S1 EP18 pool scene but VERY different circumstances

The case had been brutal—twelve days of desert heat, dead ends and staring at evidence boards until your eyes blurred. By the end, everyone was short-tempered and strung out. So when Hotch muttered something about “taking a few days off before heading back to Quantico” and Rossi offered up an Airbnb he “just happened to have points for,” the team had already started packing before Hotch even finished his sentence.

You don’t usually like to admit when you’re exhausted, but this time? You were wrecked. So the sight of the house—a sleek, modern thing carved into the California hills, all stone and glass and warm, flickering patio lights—hits you like a goddamn blessing.

“Okay, this is what I’m talking about,” Emily whistles, rolling her suitcase up the walkway. “Rossi, if this is what ‘retirement prep’ looks like then I volunteer to help you practice.”

“I’m practicing with whiskey and not being shot at,” he says. “The house is a bonus.”

Garcia is already filming with her phone, narrating like she’s on HGTV, and Morgan is arguing with JJ about who gets the room with the balcony. You wander inside, kicking your shoes off at the door. The floors are smooth wood, cool under your feet. The open kitchen gleams. The living room is sunken, with oversized couches and a fireplace you’re sure no one will use. The back doors open onto a deck that looks like a dream: soft white lights strung between posts, lounge chairs everywhere, an infinity-edge pool glowing soft blue under the darkening sky. You’re in the bathroom and out of your jeans in ten seconds flat, stripping down to your bikini and diving in with a laugh that feels like exhale.

For once, no blood, no briefing rooms. Just the sound of Emily’s music echoing off stone and water. You float, weightless, arms outstretched. Somewhere behind you, a screen door creaks open. And like fucking clockwork—Spencer Reid’s voice cuts through.

“I read a study once that found that water has a measurable psychological effect on the brain. Seeing it, being near it—it increases serotonin production and reduces cortisol. It’s called the Blue Mind theory.”

You smile with your eyes closed. “Are you telling me I’m scientifically happier right now?”

His voice gets closer. “Technically, yes.”

You open your eyes and squint toward the sound. Spencer stands barefoot on the edge of the deck, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his button-down rolled at the elbows. The light catches the curve of his jaw. He’s watching you, book tucked under his arm, like he’s thinking about joining you but doesn’t know how. “Come in,” you call, playful. “Doctor’s orders.”

He blinks. “I didn’t mean—”

“Spencer,” you cut him off with a grin. “Have you ever done something spontaneous?”

“I—I think so?”

“You think so.” You paddle closer, resting your arms on the edge of the pool. “Get in.”

His mouth opens. Closes. You watch him fluster—eyes darting to your shoulder, your collarbone, the drops of water sliding down your chest and then skyrocket right back to your face, red to the roots. He clears his throat. “I—I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

You smirk. “Skinny dipping won’t hurt a soul.”

His eyes go huge and for a second, he actually looks like he might step out of his comfort zone and into the water. But then of course Derek comes crashing out of the house behind him, cracking a beer. “Reid! You actually thinking about swimming? Told you come pick your room man.” Spencer stiffens. You push back from the ledge with a small sigh. Another time, maybe later. You’re still dripping when you drop your bag in the last room at the end of the hall. No one claimed it, probably because it doesn’t have a balcony or a view. You don’t care. It’s private, sheets are soft and it’s right across from Spencer’s. You don’t plan that, obviously. That would be insane.

“Nice ink.” You twist to find Emily in the doorway, eyes locked on your back. You forgot you were still in your bikini top—the one that leaves the black inked linework of a bird across your shoulder blades on full display.

“That new?” she asks, stepping in and dropping onto your bed.

You shrug. “Around 4 months ago.”

“It’s hot.”

“Thank you, Em. I know you have some, too.”

“Just one,” she states with a grin. “It’s small.”

You pull on a T-shirt, ruffling your damp hair. Emily’s watching you with that look—half mischief, half knowing. “What,” you ask.

“You and Reid.”

You snort. “There is no ‘me and Reid.’”

“Right,” she says slowly. “Except for the part where you’ve been roomed together on the last four cases, you always steal his fries, always sit next to him on the jet, always actually listening whenever he goes on a tangent about something nobody knows about and get that look whenever he talks about statistics like it’s foreplay.”

You freeze. “I do not—”

Emily raises a brow.

“…Okay,” you admit, flopping down beside her. “I might have a tiny thing for him.”

“Babe,” she says, laughing, “it’s not tiny and it’s not one-sided.”

You turn your head. “What?”

“Please. He practically short-circuits every time you touch him. Did you see his face when you came out of the pool? I thought he was gonna combust.”

You smile then frown slightly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not his type.”

Emily rolls onto her side, eyes narrowing. “You’re exactly what he needs.”

Later Garcia and Rossi are mixing margaritas like they’re on spring break. JJ and Morgan are talking about God knows what. Hotch is trying not to smile at something Emily just whispered. Spencer’s nose is in a book again but he’s not turning the page. He’s watching you. You know he is. You pretend not to notice. Let him look. Your towel’s wrapped loose around your waist. Your bikini top’s still damp. You toss your head back laughing at something Morgan says and watch Spencer flinch like the sound hit him in the ribs. Emily catches your eye across the patio.

The night had dulled to a hush. The pool glowed soft blue under string lights that hung like sleepy fireflies overhead. You sat alone at the edge, legs dangling into the water, hair still wet from earlier, bathing suit clinging lightly to your skin. Inside, the rest of the team had long since drifted upstairs—one by one, tapping out with yawns and stretches and wine-heavy smiles. The party had burned hot and fast. Late arrival, early exhaustion. Travel days were like that. But you stayed. Alone. Content in the hum of silence, in the warmth of the night on your skin, in the little flickering waves dancing around your calves.

“Didn’t think anyone would still be out here,” came a voice. Quiet. Familiar.

You turned. Spencer stood just past the patio door, barefoot, book in one hand, other tucked nervously into the pocket of his sleep pants. His curls were slightly messy—bedhead already threatening and his Henley clung delicately to his thin frame. Lit from behind, he looked softer than usual. Less clinical. Less BAU. More him.

You smiled, easy. “Didn’t think you would be.”

He shrugged and stepped closer, like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome. “It’s quieter now.”

“Exactly why I stayed.”

Spencer settled onto a lounge chair near you, long legs folding awkwardly beneath him. “I’m not great with… noise.”

You kicked gently at the water, ripples spreading out. “I am but only when it’s not pretending to be something it isn’t. Loud silence is worse.”

He glanced up from his book, brow furrowing in that thoughtful way he did when he was processing you. “What does that mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched the water, the stars, the long reflection of string lights over the pool like stretched pearls. “I think people misunderstand me a lot,” you finally said. “They hear my voice or see my tattoos or the way I talk and they think I’m a certain kind of girl.”

Spencer’s gaze didn’t leave you. His book remained untouched. “I’m loud,” you continued. “I flirt. I drink. I’m not ‘quietly mysterious’ or… composed like JJ or Emily. I get messy. I feel things too big. People think that means I’m not serious. Or not smart. Or that I couldn’t possibly be worth—” You stopped yourself. Laughed under your breath. “Anyway.”

His voice was low. “They’re wrong.”

You looked up. His expression was open, gentle in the way only he could be. No judgment. Just understanding, deep and vast and devastating. “They’ve always been wrong about me, too,” he added. “I talked too much. Or not enough. I knew too many things but none of the right ones. I didn’t know how to be normal.”

You tilted your head. “You ever wish you were?”

He hesitated. Then shook his head. “Not when I’m around people who actually see me.”

Your stomach flipped. You didn’t look away. “Do I?”

Spencer blinked. His lips parted, and for a heartbeat you swore he might say something dangerous. Then he quietly said, “You do.”

A silence settled. Not awkward. Not anymore. Just charged. You rolled your shoulders back. “Still haven’t seen you in the pool.”

He looked down at the water like it had personally offended him. “I’m not a great swimmer.”

“It’s not about swimming,” you teased. “It’s about experiencing.”

“Experiencing…?”

You kicked water at him. “Fun, Spence. Wet, spontaneous fun.”

He made a face. “That sounds terrifying.”

You laughed, standing slowly. The water dripped off your thighs, gliding over the glint of your belly button ring and the ink on your back. You swam to the center of the pool and flipped to float on your back, face to the stars. “You’re missing out,” you called, voice echoing in the quiet.

“I don’t have a suit,” he replied.

“I mean I barely do, mine is lingerie-adjacent at best.”

He paused, “I… noticed.”

You almost choked. “Dr. Reid. Did you just flirt with me?”

“I don’t—I wasn’t. I just—” He made a strangled sound. “It was an observation.”

You swam closer to the edge. He sat with his book on his lap now, red-faced, pretending to read. He looked so painfully kissable like that—knees tucked up, fingers curling the edge of the page, doing everything in his power to pretend he wasn’t watching your every move. You pulled yourself up a little, resting your arms on the edge, chin propped on your forearms. Water trickled down your cheeks. “Okay, well. You don’t have to get in. But will you help me out?”

He looked instantly concerned. “Did you hurt something?”

You grinned. “Just need a hand.”

He stood quickly, the book falling to the chair. His fingers reached out, tentative. And when he bent down to grab your hands you yanked. The splash was spectacular. He hit the water with a shout, arms flailing, legs scrambling. You backed away just in time to avoid the full brunt of the wave, but not enough to miss the way his shirt clung instantly to his chest, dark and dripping. He surfaced, gasping. “You pulled me in!”

You grinned. “You needed it.”

Spencer wiped his face, sputtering—but then he laughed. Really laughed. And it was beautiful. Sharp and unguarded and boyish in a way that made your chest ache. “You’re—” he started, but didn’t finish. Just floated for a second, blinking at you. And then something shifted. His laughter faded. His eyes fell to your mouth. You stood just inches away now. Chest to chest. Water slick between you. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. You leaned in. And kissed him. At first he froze. Not out of resistance but like someone who had dreamed of a moment so long he didn’t know what to do once it arrived. But then his hands were on you—shaky, reverent, sliding up your arms, then your neck. His mouth opened under yours, tentative at first, then hungry. Your fingers dove into his hair, soaking wet and soft as silk. He moaned and kissed you deeper, backing up until his spine hit the pool wall. Your body followed. Fit against him like you’d been carved to. He wasn’t smooth. He wasn’t practiced. He was real. All mouth and breath and aching honesty, hands gripping your waist like he thought you might vanish. You kissed him harder and let yourself melt against him. Let him have you here and now, just like this.

[cuzxai]

I’m obsessed with your work 😩

Is it possible for me to request the filthiest sluttiest smut with Spencer talking you through it? Maybe you’re shy about asking him to try new things in bed?

It can be any scenario, just a lot of dirty talk, you know Spencer is a yapper anyway ❤️‍🔥

Thank youuuuu!

full of you - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: lately i havent been good with the filthy stuff, please i tried— i really tried. soft girl at heart. small warning but if anyone has an issue with sleep sex, just scroll💔

Spencer doesn’t really sleep after cases, you’ve learned that by now.

Even when he’s stretched out beside you. He’s quiet and still, you can tell he’s not truly gone. His breath doesn’t settle the same way, his fingers twitch every so often— reaching for something that isn’t there. Tonight’s no different. You’re curled against him in his bed, the blankets tangled from the way you pulled at them earlier. Sex-dazed and too warm from his hands on your skin. And even now, way later— you feel the heat of it clinging to you. His hand rests on the back of your thigh. Not moving but there in its comfortable presence. The case ended earlier that afternoon. It hadn’t been the worst kind but there was a kid involved. That always gets him in a specific way. He hadn’t said much at dinner nor did he needed to. You’d just slipped your fingers between his under the table and let your knee press into his, steady as you could.

You reach down now and brush your fingertips across his wrist. His pulse is steady, Soothing. “You’re still awake,” you murmur.

He hums, just a soft sound against your shoulder. “So are you.”

“Barely,” you admit. “I think your mattress is trying to swallow me.”

He shifts a little to face you, voice quieter. “I can stop buying books and start saving for a new one.”

You laugh into the crook of your arm. “You won’t.”

“No,” he agrees. “I won’t.”

You smile in the dark, letting the quiet settle again. There’s something special about this part of the night. After everything’s been said. After all the armor has dropped. You’re bare in more than the physical sense— no barriers, no pretending. Just the two of you in the hush of late hours, breath mingling, limbs twined. And despite everything, there’s something sitting on your tongue. You’ve been thinking about it for days now. Maybe longer. It started with a dream— hot, desperate, confusing and it lodged itself in your mind like a splinter. You haven’t been able to shake it. You’ve imagined saying it to him. A dozen different ways. A dozen different times. But with your skin still tingling faintly from the way he touched you earlier, you feel bolder. The words hover on the edge of your lips like they might slip out without you meaning to.

Spencer’s fingers trace soft circles against your thigh. “You’re thinking hard.”

You let out a low breath. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me.” He pauses. “You don’t have to say anything but I’m listening if you want to.”

You swallow. It’s not a matter of wanting to. It’s the fear of what he’ll think once he hears it. Still you press your cheek to his chest and whisper, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

His hand stills, giving you his full attention. “Okay.”

“It’s a little…” You groan, half-laughing into his skin. “I don’t even know how to say it.” Spencer doesn’t push. Just waits all patient and steady. He always gives you space to get there on your own. “It’s not bad,” you say quickly. “It’s not— I mean, it’s not something I’d need or expect or anything and you can say no.”

His fingers start moving again—reassuring, not prodding. “You’re safe. I’d never judge you.”

You nod against him. “Okay. Just… okay.” Another breath. Then so soft you’re not sure you mean to say it, “I had this dream. About you— us.”

You feel his smile against your hair. “Was I wearing the scarf again?”

You snort. “No, not that one.” You take a breath. “You were inside me. I was asleep at first but you were there. Like—I guess the idea is… you woke me up by being in me.”

There’s a pause. A soft silence, not an awkward one. “And you liked it?” he asks gently.

You nod. “I think so. I keep thinking about it but I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because… I don’t know. It feels like the kind of thing I’m supposed to be embarrassed about.” You hesitate. “Isn’t that kind of weird?”

Spencer lifts his head enough to kiss your forehead, then rests his chin against your temple. “No,” he says firmly. “Not weird. Intimate, maybe but not weird.”

“You really don’t think so?”

“I think you’re the person I love most in the world,” he says, voice warm. “And if you trust me enough to say that out loud, the least I can do is treat it with the respect it deserves.” Your throat tightens at his words. “Besides,” he adds, a little quieter, “you might be surprised how much I like the idea.”

You blink. “Wait. Really?”

He laughs softly. “I mean… yeah. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about before but waking up with you like that? Being that close? That connected? That sounds… kind of incredible.”

You shift to look at him, uncertain but hopeful. “You don’t think it’d be too much?”

Spencer brushes his fingers along your cheekbone. “You’d still be able to say no. You’d still be you. I wouldn’t do anything unless you were okay with it. I promise.”

“I know.” You take his hand and press it to your chest. “That’s why I thought maybe I could tell you.”

His eyes soften. “What made you think of it?”

“I think I just wanted to feel like you wanted me that much. Even when I wasn’t all done up or trying or… anything. Just… me. Sleepy. Barely awake. And you’d still want me.”

Spencer kisses you— slow, grounding. “I always want you.”

You yawn then smile, curling against him again. “I don’t expect it,” you say, half-asleep. “I just wanted you to know.”

“I’m glad you told me,” he whispers. “We don’t have to do anything. Not unless you’re sure.”

You nod against his chest. “I know. But… maybe one day.”

He kisses your hair again, one hand cradling your hip. His voice is quiet, almost like a secret. “One day,” he says. “Only if you want to.”

He doesn’t rush. He could’ve. There were moments he almost did. Moments in the quiet of the past week where you’d fallen asleep with your leg tangled over his or stepped out of the shower with your skin still damp and sweet, wrapped in one of his towels, looking up at him like you forgot what you’d said. He remembered every word. Every breath. The way your voice went quiet when you told him you might like waking up to him already inside you. Like it was a fantasy you weren’t sure you were allowed to say out loud.

He hasn’t touched himself in days. He wanted this to be more than a reaction. Not a hungry impulse. Not something quick and shameful. He wanted it to be real. So when you fall asleep early on Friday night, curled under his sheets in one of his soft old shirts, he doesn’t act on it right away. You’re worn out. That much is obvious. You didn’t even finish your dinner, just sighed and curled into his chest, mumbling something about being overstimulated by the week. You barely kissed him goodnight. No performance. No prelude. You’re just tired. Spencer brushes your damp hair back from your forehead. Kisses the space between your brows. Watches your eyes flutter beneath closed lids. He doesn’t move for a long time. He lays there beside you, motionless, listening to the rhythm of your breath. The silence between each inhale. The way your body curls into his without prompting. You smell like citrus and honey and something raw, something soft. Like skin after sleep. He’s hard. He has been since the moment you sighed his name and tucked yourself under his chin. But that’s not the point. Not tonight. He waits.

And when the city outside your window is finally quiet, when your breathing deepens and your body shifts even closer in sleep, that’s when he moves. Slowly. Gently. His palm coasts over your side, down the line of your hip, thumb brushing against your bare thigh. The shirt has ridden up around your waist. There’s nothing underneath. He exhales. His whole body trembles with it. Spencer shifts behind you—carefully, reverently— and pushes the covers down to his waist. He presses one hand flat to the mattress, steadying himself, the other resting lightly on your hip. Just to hold. He grinds against the curve of your ass once— slow, cautious. Testing. Your breath stutters. But you don’t wake. So he lines himself up. He doesn’t use his hand to guide. Doesn’t need to. You’re already soft, already open. He pushes forward with the gentlest roll of his hips and you give under him like you were made for this— like your body never forgot what it said yes to. The stretch is slow, careful. So damn slow it feels like prayer. Spencer’s mouth falls open. His forehead presses into the back of your shoulder, and he almost gasps out loud. He’s inside you fully.

You don’t stir, not all the way. Just a twitch in your fingers, a faint shift of your spine as he bottoms out and stills. He bites back a groan. This is what you asked for. He doesn’t move or— he can’t. You’re so warm around him, so wet, so snug it borders on unbearable. He feels like if he even breathes wrong, it’ll be over too soon. He’s waited a week. He can wait a little longer. So he just stays. Buried inside you. Letting the warmth of your body surround him. He kisses the back of your neck, then your shoulder. One arm wraps around your middle. The other presses beneath the pillow where your hand is curled. Spencer closes his eyes and waits.

You don’t dream but you know you’re not fully asleep anymore. Something is different. Your breath catches in your chest before your mind can form the why of it. Your thighs are already warm, your skin flushed. You feel held and heavy and anchored. You twitch in your sleep and a wave of sensation floods you. Too deep. Too much. You freeze. And then you feel it—him—pressing inside you, slow and solid and real. Your eyes blink open, dazed. But it’s not a bad feeling. It’s thick and full. Like you’re already mid-dream, like your body got there before your brain. You shift slightly and he groans.

“You’re awake,” he whispers. His voice is rough and frayed. So unlike how he normally sounds that it sends a flush down your neck. You don’t speak yet. You’re trying to process what’s real. His breath fans against your skin. You can feel his chest shaking where it’s pressed to your back. “I couldn’t wait anymore,” he says, like an apology. “You looked so perfect.” You close your eyes again, moaning low. The sound of your own voice makes your chest ache. He hasn’t moved. He’s just inside you, so deep you feel dizzy.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

You nod before you can speak. Then you whisper, “Don’t stop.”

His breath shudders. “I’m not moving,” he says, “not yet. You were so asleep. I wanted to feel you before you even knew it was happening.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “I needed to know what it felt like to be part of your first breath.”

You whimper. He’s still trembling behind you, one hand firm around your waist, the other reaching up to brush your hair off your neck. You reach back for him—grab at his thigh, his hip, anything. But when you can’t find purchase, you just arch your hips back while whimpering, “Spencer—move, please—” He stills. Then groans deep in his throat, barely holding it in. Your voice is raw. Wrecked. Like you’ve been wanting this longer than you even knew. “Please,” you whisper again, helpless. “Want you to move.”

You don’t need to say it twice. Your hips jerk up into him the moment he moves. Just a little. Not fast. Not harsh. Slow, steady. His body tenses with the shift, a rough groan caught deep in his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice thick and ragged, “You feel so good like this. So full…”

You shiver, curling your fingers into the sheets, nails digging in as he starts to rock forward inch by inch bottoming out with each roll of his hips. His hand slides down to cup your cheek, thumb tracing lazy, trembling circles over your skin.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers. “So warm… so soft…”

Your chest tightens, your breath catching in a sudden hiccup as he pulls out just a fraction then pushes all the way back in again, slow and deliberate, making your body sing in response.“Spencer,” you whimper, voice barely more than a broken sigh, “Please… don’t stop.”

His breath hitches. You feel him press a little harder, tilt his hips and you know he’s chasing that feeling. The one that curls like fire in your belly and spreads out into your thighs, making everything go soft and wild. “Damn, you’re so tight,” he groans. “I can’t get enough of you.” You arch into him, desperate for more, needing to feel him deeper, to never lose this closeness. “Tell me what you want,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear, voice low and rough like gravel.

You try but it catches in your throat. Instead, your fingers wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him flush against you. “Spencer,” you gasp, “Please…” The sound is barely a whisper but it’s enough.

He groans and starts moving with more urgency. He’s not rough but not gentle either — like he’s trying to hold himself back from breaking. His hips roll into yours, slow but steady, a rhythm that sends heat flooding through your veins. You moan, the sound raw and needy.“God, you sound so good,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “So fucking beautiful.”

You can’t stop yourself — your hands run down his back, over his waist, desperate to hold on as his movements deepen. “Spencer, please,” you whimper, “I need you…”

He grunts, letting go of the last scraps of control. “You have me,” he pants, voice thick, “I want to hear you, baby.”

Your nails dig into his skin, your hips rising up to meet his every movement as your breath hitches in short, ragged bursts. The bed creaks beneath you both, your bodies slick with sweat and desire. He leans in, kissing the side of your neck, sucking a dark mark there and you cry out a needy, desperate sound that fills the quiet morning air.

“Fuck,” he moans, “So beautiful. So fucking perfect.” You’re trembling, caught between the ache in your hips and the fire burning low in your belly. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling it with slow, relentless pressure. “Can you tell me what you want?” he whispers, voice shaking.

You can’t form words—just moans, whimpers, gasps—but he understands. He presses closer, hips snapping forward in a pace that’s still patient but building, a promise that he’s not letting go. “C’mon, you can tell me,” he breathes, fingers moving faster now, “Tell me— fuck— you feel so good.”

Your hands find his face, pulling him down for a kiss that’s messy and desperate, tongues tangling, breaths colliding. You taste yourself on him and it makes you shiver. “Spencer…” you gasp, voice breaking, “Please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

He’s groaning now, every inch of his body straining toward you, a desperate hunger that matches your own. His hips roll faster, fingers circling your clit, and you feel the coil in your stomach tightening, winding closer to the edge.

“Moan for me,” he pants, voice raw. “I want to hear you.”

“Spencer…” you cry out, voice trembling, “I love you.”

He catches your gaze, eyes dark and wild, and whispers back, “I love you. So much.”

Your walls clench around him suddenly, a shockwave ripping through your body, and he groans deep in his chest. You tremble all breathless as he holds you tight, thrusting slow and deep, grounding you in every moment. His hand leaves your face to grip your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as your moans turn to gasps.

“Look at me,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “You’re mine.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks, overwhelmed by the heat and the feeling of being seen, held, loved. “Yours,” you repeat, desperate.

He kisses you one last time before burying his face in your neck, thrusting deeper and harder, pushing you over the edge together. You cry out, fingers tangling in his hair as your bodies move as one, lost in the messy, beautiful chaos of it all. The moment lingers like a slow-burning flame, both of you gasping and shuddering, clinging to each other.

[cuzxai]

what would they think - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: getting all touchy under the table while pretending you’re not about to ruin everything at a fancy event 😍👅😩

The hotel ballroom looked like it had been plucked out of a dream. Not your dream, necessarily—maybe something out of one of Rossi’s old money memories. Deep crimson curtains, floors that gleamed like polished onyx, walls lined with gold leaf and oil paintings too expensive to understand. The chandelier overhead glittered like a galaxy suspended in crystal. Live jazz drifted from a string quartet in the corner, elegant and unbothered. Even the waitstaff looked like they’d been trained by European royalty, gliding between tables with platters of rare wine and hors d’oeuvres you couldn’t pronounce.

You weren’t usually one for stuffy inter-agency functions but the BAU was getting recognition tonight and the invite had been too tempting to ignore. You knew the wine would flow, the compliments would too and more importantly—Spencer would be there in a suit. You spotted him before he spotted you. Across the ballroom, near the bar, laughing at something Garcia said. Slim-cut black tailored like sin, a soft dove-gray shirt underneath, the top two buttons undone like temptation itself. His curls were neatly pushed back but already starting to fall loose. The low light caught the sharp line of his jaw, and when he turned to look at something, his profile was so beautiful it almost knocked the air from your lungs. You crossed the room like you were pulled.

He saw you halfway there and froze. Smile faltering. Eyes catching on every part of you—hair, dress, legs, mouth. When you reached him, you were already smiling. “Criminally good,” you murmured, fingers brushing the knot of his tie.

He blinked. “What?”

“You,” you whispered, leaning close. “You look criminally good tonight.”

His breath hitched. Color bloomed on his cheeks. “That’s… an overstatement.”

You let your hand slide down his chest before stepping back. “Someone should cuff you.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered before quickly excusing himself to grab champagne. You felt his eyes on you the whole time you waited.

The team was scattered but within reach—Hotch and Rossi talking near the French doors, Morgan and JJ laughing over cocktails, Emily already on her second glass of something red and expensive-looking. Garcia was practically holding court at a nearby table, bathed in sequins and charm, her laughter rising above the music.

You stayed near Spencer. It just…happened that way. Maybe it was the wine or the lighting or the way he kept glancing at you like he couldn’t help himself. Every time he reached for his glass, your fingers brushed. Every time someone came by to greet him, they greeted you too. The two of you shared a plate of appetizers. Sat together during the award speeches. Found yourselves tucked into a corner booth when the team claimed a table. And not a single soul questioned it.

“Reid,” someone said as they passed. “You and your girlfriend look incredible tonight.”

He opened his mouth to correct them but you squeezed his knee under the table and the words died in his throat. He gave a small, dazed smile instead. You’d been drinking slowly. Pacing yourself. First a glass of red, then something floral Garcia handed you, and now, wine again—warm and dark and dangerously smooth. Spencer had kept pace without realizing it. He was flushed now, skin glowing beneath the collar of his shirt, tie loosened slightly. His knee was touching yours.

“Remind me why we’re not dating?” you asked, voice low.

He turned toward you, startled.

You swirled your wine. “Everyone already thinks we are. Wouldn’t be much of a jump.”

He watched you carefully. “You’ve been drinking.”

You leaned in, brushing your shoulder against his. “You’re avoiding the question.” His lips twitched. You tilted your head, eyes half-lidded, and for a moment, it was like the rest of the room dimmed. The quartet played something slow and sultry. The air grew heavier. His gaze dropped to your mouth and stayed there a second too long.

Emily plopped into the seat beside you, pulling you both back to reality. “You two look cozy,” she teased, clearly tipsy.

“Trying to keep him out of trouble,” you said sweetly, nudging Spencer’s thigh with your own.

Morgan wandered over with drinks and slung an arm around Reid’s shoulder. “Let me guess—she’s babysitting you?”

Spencer gave a tight smile, trying to shake him off. “I’m not even drunk.”

“You look drunk,” JJ said, sipping her third prosecco.

“He always looks like that around her,” Garcia added slyly from the next table.

Laughter bubbled around the group, light and affectionate. No one was being mean. They just…saw it. Whatever it was between you. Even if neither of you had ever named it. By the time dinner rolled around, you were full of wine and warmth. The food was fancy but forgettable. Spencer barely touched his entrée. You fed him bites off your plate, teasing him every time he leaned in to take one. You licked your fork after he used it. He stared.

“You gonna eat?” you asked innocently. He reached for his water instead.

The crowd around your table shifted throughout the evening—old colleagues dropping by, agents you’d worked with once or twice. Some of them tried to flirt with you. Spencer was polite but visibly displeased. He didn’t touch you but he might as well have—his leg was pressed against yours under the table and his hand was resting on the bench behind you, close enough to feel the heat of his skin. You kept drinking. Just enough to feel the fire creep into your blood. And as the hours slipped by, your gaze drifted more and more to the way his fingers gripped the stem of his glass. The way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. The little lines around his eyes when he smiled at something someone said. God, you wanted him badly. You wanted to make him lose his composure. Right here. Right now.

And that moment came just after ten. An older man—someone Spencer clearly respected—stopped by to say hello. The music had shifted to something smooth and jazzy again. Your shoes were off under the table. Your dress had hiked up just enough to let your thigh brush his. You were sitting so close now you could smell the sandalwood in his cologne. As the man leaned in to talk shop, you shifted slightly in your seat and let your hand drift under the table. Spencer kept talking. You flattened your palm against his thigh first, letting him feel the warmth of your touch. No movement. No pressure yet. He paused in the middle of a sentence. The man didn’t seem to notice but you did. The muscle in Spencer’s leg jumped under your hand. You started tracing soft circles. Featherlight strokes through his slacks.

He coughed. Tried to recover. “Sorry—dry throat.”

You bit back a smile.

“Something wrong, Dr. Reid?” the man asked, brow raised.

Spencer’s voice came out rougher than intended. “No, no. Just—bit warm in here.”

Your hand moved higher. Slowly. Just enough to brush along the line of his growing arousal. His breath caught, the sound quiet but unmistakable. His hand curled into a fist under the table. Your fingers hadn’t stopped moving. Spencer was struggling visibly and vocally— not to show it. He was still talking to the man beside your table, still answering some question about interdepartmental coordination or statistical models or whatever the hell it was but his cadence was fractured now. Not just hesitant—frayed. Pulled tight, unraveling by the second. You could feel him hard under your palm. Hot and twitching beneath the soft fabric of his slacks. His voice cracked again and again as you traced the shape of him, slow and deliberate, a featherlight tease that made him grind his teeth and shift his hips forward like he couldn’t help it. He still hadn’t looked at you and that made it worse. He was trying to behave. Trying to stay in character—Dr. Spencer Reid, genius profiler, model guest. But underneath the table, you had him begging in silence. His whole body thrummed with tension. His hand clenched on the edge of the table so hard his knuckles had gone white.

“Your girlfriend keeping you warm?” the man said with a chuckle, nodding toward you. Spencer’s voice caught entirely.

You just smiled, lips stained with wine. “He runs cold,” you offered sweetly. “I’m just helping.”

The man clapped him on the shoulder and moved on with a final toast in your direction. Once he was out of earshot, Spencer exhaled like he’d been underwater. His head dropped forward slightly, curls falling over his eyes. “You’re gonna make me lose it,” he whispered.

You tilted your head, brushing the backs of your knuckles along his cock. “Am I?”

His hand shot down and caught your wrist. Not rough or angry, just done. He turned to you slowly, eyes dark and desperate, voice like gravel. “Come with me. Now.”

You didn’t argue. Didn’t even pretend to resist. You were already warm between your legs, skin buzzing with wine and want. You slipped your shoes back on and followed him as he stood, slipping one hand behind your back like a guide—more possessive than protective. You were halfway across the ballroom before you remembered the others. Emily raised her eyebrows. Garcia winked. Morgan wolf-whistled low under his breath. But no one said anything. They knew.

Spencer led you down a hallway gilded in shadow, the music dimming behind you. His grip on your wrist didn’t loosen until he reached a door labeled Private and slipped inside, pulling you with him. It was some kind of coatroom, maybe, or a staff lounge—low lighting, a small plush bench, racks of unused winter jackets. The air was cool and smelled faintly of cedar and starch. The second the door clicked shut behind him, he pressed you against it. Not with force. With urgency. One hand braced beside your head. The other still wrapped around your wrist. He looked at you like he’d just been dragged out to sea—like you were the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Do you have any idea,” he whispered, “what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

You blinked up at him, lips parted. “Mm. I might.”

He leaned in until your foreheads touched, breathing hard. “You don’t.”

Your free hand curled in the front of his shirt, fisting the soft material. His cock was pressed against your hip now, fully hard and twitching and you rolled your hips gently up against it. His head dropped to your shoulder.

“You kept touching me,” he said, voice low, broken. “All through dinner. Every time I tried to talk to someone, you—God, you’re insane.”

You tilted your head, letting your mouth brush the shell of his ear. “I wanted to see how long you could keep it together.”

His hand released your wrist—only to slide up the bare skin of your thigh and underneath your dress.“I’m not keeping it together anymore.” And then his fingers were on you. Hot. Firm. Possessive. He cupped you over your panties, dragging a groan from your lips. You hadn’t even realized how wet you were until he pressed the heel of his palm against your cunt, grinding slow and hard.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, mouth brushing your jaw. “Fuck. I didn’t even touch you and you’re already—”

“I touched you,” you gasped, rocking into his hand. “You started it.”

“Baby,” he muttered. “You started it the second you said I looked criminally good.”

You laughed, breathless. “Well. You did.”

He shoved your panties aside. Two fingers slid into you, deep and slow, curling the moment they bottomed out. Your head hit the door behind you. His palm cradled your cunt like he’d been starving for it—like this was what he’d been craving all night, all week, always. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his shirt, moaning into his shoulder as he fucked you slow with his fingers. Deep and rhythmic. The soft, wet sounds of your cunt filled the room, filthy and perfect.

“You couldn’t wait, could you?” he murmured. “Had to feel me under the table. Had to get me hard in front of everyone.”

Your hips bucked. “Spence—”

“They all saw it,” he growled, curling his fingers deeper. “Morgan. JJ. Emily. They knew. You were teasing me, touching me—” You bit down on his shoulder, muffling a moan. “Say it,” he hissed, voice shaking. “Say you wanted them to see.”

“I—I didn’t care,” you whimpered. “I just wanted you. All night, Spence—fuck, your voice—your hands—your stupid wine glass, I couldn’t stop thinking about you—”

He kissed you then. Hard. Messy. Like he couldn’t take another second of not having your mouth on his. His fingers never stopped. You were grinding into his hand now, thighs shaking, slick dripping down onto his wrist. He swallowed every sound you made, kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His other hand slipped around the back of your neck, holding you steady as he fucked you open on his fingers, slow and deep and ruthless.

“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he whispered against your lips. “Drag you somewhere dark. Fuck you like you’re mine.”

“I am yours,” you gasped. “You know I am.”

He let out a broken noise—half groan, half whimper—and pressed his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers picked up pace. You were close now. He could feel it. You knew he could.

“You gonna come for me?” he asked, breathless. “You gonna make a mess on my hand?” You nodded, unable to speak. He kissed you again—quick, desperate. “Then be good,” he murmured. “Come for me, baby. Just like this.”

And you did. You came hard and fast, clenching around his fingers, mouth open in a silent cry against his neck. He fucked you through it, slow and steady, whispering your name into your hair as your body trembled and jerked against the door. When the aftershocks faded, he pulled his fingers out slowly and sucked them into his mouth. Tasting you. Groaning low in his throat. You nearly fell over.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “We’re not making it back to that table, are we?”

He smiled. “Not for a while.”

His hands are warm, steady on your waist, but his eyes—they’re wild. “Get on your knees,” he breathes, voice low and hoarse. “Now.”

You smile and drop slowly, the hem of your dress spilling around your legs as you sink to the floor. The marble is cold beneath your knees, but you don’t care. All you see is him—the way his chest is rising and falling, the flush climbing his throat, his trembling fingers already at his belt like he can’t stand another second of not being inside your mouth. You take over before he can fumble. “Let me.”

The belt comes loose with a soft snap. The button, then the zipper, then his slacks sliding down his hips—and he’s hard already. So hard, straining against the thin cotton of his briefs, the tip of his cock dark and wet with precum. You press a kiss against it, right through the fabric. He swears under his breath. You glance up, all big eyes and innocence. “You okay, Spence?”

His jaw tics. “Don’t fuck with me.”

You don’t. You tug his briefs down and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already twitching in anticipation. You wrap one hand around the base and lick a slow stripe up the length, tasting salt and skin, watching him fall apart above you. He braces one hand on the wall. The other fists in your hair. The second your mouth closes around the head of his cock, he moans—soft, broken, wrecked. And you haven’t even started. You suck him slow, letting your tongue swirl over the tip, savoring the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue. He’s perfect like this—hips twitching, thighs tensing, trying so hard to stay still. You don’t make it easy. Your hand strokes him where your mouth can’t reach, wrist twisting, wet and messy, while your lips slide deeper. Your eyes never leave his face. You want him unraveled. And you’re getting there.

“God,” he pants. “Jesus, your mouth—”

You moan softly, just so he can feel the vibration and he shudders. His grip tightens in your hair. He’s trying to guide you, trying to keep his control but you can feel the tension in his legs—how close he already is. Then you take him deeper. You flatten your tongue and push down, slow and steady, swallowing inch by inch until your nose is brushing his abdomen. His hips jerk forward on instinct and suddenly you’ve got him fully in your throat, choking slightly around him. Spencer loses it.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—”

He pulls back but you don’t let him. You moan again, pushing forward and the sound he makes is almost a sob. He rocks into your mouth. It’s instinctive—his hips bucking, slow and unsure at first, like he can’t believe he’s doing it. But the moment he feels your throat squeeze around him, the moment you moan again, desperate and soaked between your thighs. He starts fucking your mouth in earnest. Short, sharp thrusts. Not cruel or selfish. Just needy. Desperate. His hand is a vice in your hair now, guiding your rhythm, forcing your head to stay still while he slides in and out, grunting under his breath. You’re drooling, eyes watering, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth. But you don’t stop. You take it. You want it. He’s moaning, low and constant and you feel his thighs trembling on either side of you, every muscle in his body tight with effort.

“Look at me,” he growls. You do, tears smudging your mascara. Mouth stretched wide. Lips slick and swollen. And he’s so close. “God, you’re perfect,” he groans. “Fucking perfect—gonna come—gonna come, baby, fuck, don’t stop—”

You don’t. You keep sucking, keep moaning, your tongue fluttering against the underside of his cock as he fucks your throat in frantic, broken thrusts—he comes. He groans your name like a warning, head thrown back, thighs shaking as he spills down your throat, thick and hot and so much—you swallow it all without flinching, your hands digging into his hips to keep him steady. He pants above you, still rocking slightly, trying to come down. His grip on your hair loosens and he looks down at you. You’re a mess. Mascara running. Lips wet. Chin slick with spit. Your chest is heaving, your eyes still glassy and your thighs are pressed tight together because you’re still so turned on it hurts. He stares at you for a long, stunned second. You stand slowly. Fluid and confident. Your hand brushes his chest as you rise, your breath still catching from the strain. He blinks, dazed.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

Spencer laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Am I okay?”

You step in close. Run your fingers down his chest. Press your hips forward just enough for him to feel the heat of you through your dress. You whisper,“Please fuck me.” He freezes. You’re staring up at him, lips parted, eyes pleading. Still trembling from how badly you need it. He can see it all over you—your pulse fluttering, your thighs clenched, your lips still swollen from taking him so deep. He wants to. God, he wants to. But he pulls back.

“No,” he whispers.

Your brows lift in surprise. “No?”

“No.”

You blink. “Spence—”

His hands settle on your waist. Steady. Firm. In control. “Wait until the party’s over,” he says softly. “Then I’ll fuck you how you need.” You open your mouth to argue—but his gaze darkens and something about the command in his voice still makes you throb. “Understood?”

You nod slowly. He reaches up to wipe your lip with his thumb. Straightens your dress. Fixes his tie. Then he leans down and kisses your cheek.“You’re going to be so good for me.”

You swallow hard. He opens the door, checks the hallway, then nods for you to follow. You both step out into the corridor—eyes bright, hearts pounding, not one damn person the wiser. You return to the party like nothing happened. But your knees are sore. And your panties are ruined.

[cuzxai]

practice makes perfect - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: spencers having a hard time with a presentation hes supposed to give so you help him practice

Spencer’s pacing again. He’s been circling the coffee table for the past ten minutes, notecards fluttering in his hands like he’s afraid they might attack him. You watch from the bed, legs crossed, chin resting in your palm, your expression somewhere between amused and plotting.

“It’s not like I’m not prepared,” he says, for the third time. “It’s just—how do you summarize the Bureau’s mission statement, our collective efforts, the interdisciplinary dynamics of field and support units and touch on interdepartmental cohesion… all in six minutes?”

You blink. “Babe. That sentence alone was six minutes.”

He shoots you a look—half exhausted, half grateful you’re here. Always like that with Spencer. Like he’s constantly surprised someone can handle the speed of his mind and the softness of his heart at the same time.

You lean back into the pillows. “Come here.”

“I can’t, I’m—”

You raise an eyebrow. Spencer stops mid-panic and swallows. He knows that look.

“Bed,” you say simply. “Notecards. Bring them— even though you don’t need them. You have an eidetic memory remember?”

He hesitates. Only for a second. Then he’s obeying, knees hitting the mattress a little too fast, hands still trembling with nerves as he shuffles closer to you. You pull him gently between your legs, settle him against your chest, and reach around to take the notecards from his hand. Your other hand? Already sliding up under the hem of his T-shirt. He stiffens. “Wha—what are you doing?”

“Helping,” you say, voice low. “You’re overthinking. We’re gonna make this speech muscle memory.”

He tries to sit up but your hand pushes him gently back against you. The fingers under his shirt are already drawing lazy circles across his abdomen.

“You’re gonna recite it,” you murmur. “And every time you mess up, I’m gonna go a little faster.”

Spencer blinks. “Faster…?”

Your hand slides lower. His breath hitches. “Jerk you off, baby,” you whisper into his ear. “But you don’t come until you finish the whole thing. Clean. No mistakes.”

He makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a panic attack. You press a kiss to his temple.

“Start from the beginning.”

You feel the tension ripple through his body before he even opens his mouth. Spencer’s already flushed, his long fingers twitching nervously in his lap, chest rising and falling too fast. But he obeys. He always does when you use that voice. “The Behavioral Analysis Unit…” he begins, voice a little shaky, “…is a specialized sector of the FBI tasked with…” Your hand slides into his waistband. “…with, um… criminal pro…”

You wrap your hand around him. He’s half-hard already, nerves making everything hypersensitive. He gasps when you stroke once—slow, firm, just enough pressure to make him twitch.“Not what you wrote,” you murmur against his ear. “Try again.”

Spencer groans, head falling back against your shoulder. “Fuck, okay, okay…” He swallows.

“The Behavioral Analysis Unit is a specialized sector of the FBI tasked with investigating violent crimes through behavioral profiling and—” He says investigating instead of addressing. You catch it. So does he. “No—shit, I—”

You start stroking. Smooth. Steady. Relentless.

“Oh my God,” he gasps, hips jerking up into your hand without meaning to.

“Start over,” you whisper.

He’s already panting. You can feel the way his body’s fighting it—how he wants to focus but the pleasure is pulling him apart too fast. His voice wavers as he tries again, stumbling halfway through a sentence about interdepartmental cooperation. You pick up the pace.

“N-No, no, please, just give me a second.”

You don’t. You keep stroking—fast, slick, ruthless. His thighs are trembling slightly, his body arching softly as your hand works him. He sounds wrecked already. “Too fast,” he chokes out. “I can’t think—can’t say it right like this—”

“That’s the point,” you say sweetly. “Try again, baby.”

Your hand hasn’t stopped moving for a while. You’ve slowed down a few times, just to keep him dangling but you haven’t let go. He’s panting, flushed all the way down his neck, damp curls sticking to his forehead, fingers clutching the sheets like he’ll fall off the earth without them. And still, you say it, soft and cruel and patient, “Again.”

He lets out the most pathetic whimper you’ve ever heard. “Please…”

You hum. “I said again.”

“The Behavioral Analysis Unit…” He chokes on the first words like they’re smoke. “Is a specialized—ah—specialized sector of the FBI…”

You stroke him harder for a beat and he wants to scream into his own arm. You lean forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Specialized sector of the FBI what?”

“Tasked with—fuck—tasked with addressing violent crimes through—th-through behavioral profiling and investigative analysis—”

His voice cracks. You’re not sure if it’s from the pressure in his throat or the way your hand hasn’t given him a second of relief. His hips are stuttering—he’s trying not to thrust but it’s instinct, helpless like his body’s begging to finish even though his mind hasn’t earned it.

“Keep going,” you whisper. “You’re almost there.”

“I—I’m not—I c-can’t—”

“You can,” you say, tightening your grip just enough to make him sob. “You will. Now come on, pretty. Say it right.”

He starts again. From the top. This time he makes it through the entire first paragraph, stammering a few times but the words come out. He’s breathless by the end of it, tears standing in his lashes, lips parted and red. You slow down for just a second, easing the pressure to keep him teetering on that perfect edge.

“That was good,” you say softly. “Really good. You gonna finish the rest for me now?”

He nods frantically, his voice shaking with it. “Y-Yes. Please. Just—just don’t stop. Don’t stop touching me—”

You smile and kiss the side of his neck. “I can speed up?”

“If you do, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” you breathe into his ear, stroking him slow, torturous. “You’re so close. Just say the last part and you can come.” You shift your hand just slightly—just enough that he whines through his teeth and bucks against your palm. His thighs are shaking.

“The BAU’s continued success is due to… due to a collaborative structure that integrates—”

He stumbles. Says interdepartmental instead of interdisciplinary. You know he caught it because he gasps and grabs at your wrist like he’s trying to hold you back—trying to hold himself together. You go faster.

“No—n-no please, please. I’ll do it right this time, I promise—”

“Then do it right, Spencer,” you whisper right against the shell of his ear. “You’re so smart, baby. I know you can get it right. Just finish your speech. You wanna come, don’t you?” He whimpers. He’s almost crying now, you think—just a little. You don’t stop. You want the tears. He’s beautiful like this.

“The BAU’s—oh my God,—continued success is due to a collaborative structure that… that integrates behavioral science, field experience and… and… fuckfuckfuck I know this—”

“You do,” you coo, pumping him faster. “Say it.”

He sobs. It comes out with a shiver and a choke but he says it. “…and administrative strategy across a multidisciplinary framework…” you nod,“…with each unit drawing from shared resources to promote strategic coordination and—”

“Come on, baby. You’re right there—”

“—interagency efficiency,” he gasps.

And that’s it. You let him come. You don’t even have to say it. His whole body locks up in your arms, his hips jerking so hard he almost escapes your grip. He sobs as he spills over your hand, thighs trembling, voice cracking, crying your name like it’s the only thing he’s got left. You hold him the whole time, murmuring praise into his hair, kissing his neck while his body gives out and melts against you. When he finally comes down, he’s ruined—a flushed, sweaty mess curled against your chest, still twitching from aftershocks.

“…Did I say it right?” he whispers, hoarse.

You kiss his cheek, smiling. “You did good, baby.”

[cuzxai]

side effects - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!teader

a/n: youre exposed to sex pollen in the field. 5k words… im sorry😭

The warehouse had been cleared by the time you arrived—agents already sweeping for evidence, bodies already bagged, the sting of gunpowder still clinging to the humid air. You and Spencer were last to respond, mostly for paperwork and profiling, wrapping up what the rest of the team started. A simple cleanup, they said. Nothing dangerous.

No one had warned you about the broken vial in the corner. It was barely noticeable—just a cracked glass container, its liquid contents long evaporated into the air. You barely remembered brushing past the table it had been resting on but the chemical team flagged it almost immediately. “Unidentified compound,” they said. “Possibly synthetic. Possibly hormonal.”

They didn’t use the words sex pollen until they got the preliminary analysis back but the moment you heard the phrase, your stomach dropped. That shit never ended well in any field report. And by then, it was already too late.

“You’ll start feeling the effects within a few hours,” the hazmat technician told you, holding a clipboard and avoiding your eyes. “It’s uh… fast-acting. Intense. And it mimics extreme heat symptoms. We’re required to isolate anyone exposed. Just until it wears off.”

“Great,” you muttered. “So I get to sit in quarantine while my body tries to fuck itself.”

Beside you, Spencer shifted uncomfortably.“Someone will be assigned to supervise in case medical intervention is needed,” the tech added, flipping to the next page. “Or if symptoms become… unmanageable.” You didn’t ask what that meant.

You expected to be sent to some sterile room in Quantico. Instead, Spencer offered his apartment. Hotly. Quickly. The moment the idea was brought up, his hand was already half-raised and his voice had that eager, slightly-too-fast edge to it.

“I can do it,” he said. “We’re coworkers. I mean—we’re close. I know her. It’s better than sticking her in a glass box with strangers, right?”

You had no argument for that. Just heat blooming in your chest as you glanced at him—soft curls, worried eyes, fingers twitching by his side. They agreed. No one questioned it.

You’d been at his apartment for three hours. Three. The early onset effects were supposed to have hit by now. And sure, maybe your skin felt a little too warm under your shirt. Maybe you’d showered longer than usual, just to stand under something cool. But you didn’t feel crazy. Not like the stories went. No desperate writhing, no begging for touch, no burning arousal that left you breathless. You just felt… irritated. Restless.

Horny in a way that wasn’t quite urgent but definitely persistent. Like a low hum beneath your skin. A knot that wouldn’t untangle.

“I feel fine,” you said, for the third time. “You don’t need to babysit me, Spencer.”

From his kitchen, he raised a brow. “You’re quarantined for a reason.”

You flopped back onto his couch, groaning. “I could be home, in my own bed. But instead i’m rotting away in your living room.

“You’re not rotting.”

“You don’t know that.”

He leaned on the counter, glass of water in one hand, hair pushed back from his forehead. There was something almost amused about the way he looked at you—like he knew better but was letting you burn yourself out. “Do you want anything to eat?”

“Unless it’s a cure for vague, medically induced horniness, I’m not hungry.”

That earned a real smile. The faintest quirk at the edge of his lips. He set the glass down and crossed the room, arms folding in front of him, his frame tall and lean and calm as ever.

“You’re going to feel worse before it gets better,” he said gently. “The symptoms build.”

“And you are not helping,” you mumbled, thighs shifting where you sat.

He tilted his head. “How am I not helping?”

“Your voice is annoying,” you lied.

Spencer’s brows ticked up slightly. “That’s new.”

“Everything you say makes it worse.”

A beat passed. The air shifted. His mouth parted like he was going to speak—but he didn’t. Just studied you for a second. The flush rising in your cheeks. The way your arms crossed too tightly over your chest. And your thighs—pressing together. Trying to ease the ache building between them. The knot that was already tightening.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes.

Spencer’s smile twitched again.

“I’m not the one clenching my legs together every time I talk.”

You glared. “Fuck you.”

His voice dipped an octave. “That might actually help.”

Your breath hitched. His expression stayed soft, almost unreadable—but there was something behind it. Something careful. Curious. Watching you like a scientist, like a profiler, like a man trying to read something far more dangerous than a casefile.

“I’m kidding,” he said after a moment. “Mostly.”

“You’re such a dick.”

Spencer walked back to the kitchen but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder—sharp and deliberate. You could still feel it after he turned away. You shifted again on the couch. Your shirt clung to your skin. Everything tingled. Maybe you weren’t fine after all.

You wanted to pace the apartment like a caged animal, restless in a way that doesn’t feel like arousal—but it is. It’s in your skin, your breath, your nerves. It’s in how warm the couch feels under your thighs, how every fabric that brushes your body feels like too much and not enough all at once. You’re not squirming, not really. But your hips shift a lot. And Spencer sees it.

“You okay?” he asks again. He’s in the armchair across from you, nursing a tea he hasn’t taken a sip from in twenty minutes.

“I’m fine,” you bite back, the words sharp—not at him, not really. You’re just uncomfortable. Hot. Frustrated.

He watches you with that too-big brain of his, eyes sweeping your body like he’s reading symptoms off your skin. You’ve shed your jacket. Then your socks. You sat in a tank top. Now you’re curled into the corner of his couch, arms crossed under your chest, thighs clenched tight like a pressure valve.

You know he notices. Of course he does. You catch the flicker of his gaze down your body—quick, cautious, reverent. And when your hips shift again, slow and subtle against the cushion, you see him swallow.

“It’s warm in here,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, rubbing your palms down the sides of your thighs like it’ll help. “I feel… itchy. My skin’s buzzing.”

Spencer nods, slow. “That lines up with the early stages of arousal-inducing pheromone exposure. Symptoms are typically mild at first—”

“I know what the report said,” you interrupt, huffing a breath. “I was there. I read it. Twice.”

He doesn’t take it personally. “Just making sure you remember.”

You throw your head back with a groan, eyes squeezing shut. “I remember. I also remember it saying the effects can be psychosomatic, which means this might all be in my head. Which means you don’t have to babysit me like I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”

“No,” he says, firmer than before. “That’s not what psychosomatic means and you’re not leaving.”

You blink at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes. You’re not driving in this condition and we don’t know how your symptoms will progress. I’m not risking you being alone.”

There’s something final in the way he says it. Something that makes your stomach twist and not in a bad way. You press your thighs together tighter, annoyed by how easily that helps.

“…Your voice is different,” you murmur, surprised by the words as they come out. “When you talk like that.”

Spencer blinks. “Like what?”

“Like you’re in charge.”

He shifts in his seat. “I’m not trying to be in charge.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” you murmur, mouth dry. “I just said it’s different.”

Your heart thumps once, hard. You see the flicker in his jaw when you look at him again—his leg bouncing, his knuckles pale around his mug. He’s trying to be good. So good. But you’ve worked with him long enough to know the signs of when he’s not entirely in control of himself. And this is starting to look like that.

You lean your head back against the cushion and sigh through your teeth. “God, I feel like I’ve had five espressos and a daydream I can’t stop.”

“That… might actually be one of the effects,” he says, tugging at his collar.

“Oh my God, stop talking like a doctor Spencer.”

He shuts up. A beat passes. Then another. His eyes flicker toward you. You watch him over the edge of your arm.

“…Sorry,” you say, a little sheepish. “I’m just—I don’t know. I feel weird. And your voice is not helping.”

Spencer’s brows knit. “I am a doctor. And… my voice?”

“It’s just—it’s like everything you do feels hotter right now and I don’t know if that’s you or me or the pollen or what but—” You cut yourself off. “I think I’m going insane.”

His eyes stay locked on yours. You can see the moment something shifts in him.“…You pressed your thighs together when I told you no,” he says, so quietly it almost doesn’t register. “Didn’t think I noticed.”

Your lips part. You hadn’t expected him to say that. You hadn’t expected him to notice that, not out loud. And now it’s hanging there in the air like an admission. The tension between you thickens like syrup. And suddenly you realize you’ve stopped breathing. “I didn’t mean to,” you say.

Spencer hums, something low in his throat. He sets his mug down, eyes on you like you’re something fragile and glowing. “I don’t think you meant to feel like this either,” he murmurs. And you don’t know if he means aroused or frustrated or aching but he’s right. And it’s getting worse.

“You’re not touching yourself, are you?” he asks, a little hoarse now. “That’s what they said not to do. Until the effects pass.

Your whole body burns. “No,” you whisper.

“But you want to.” He says it like a statement. A soft, knowing one. Like he already has you figured out and doesn’t need you to say it.

Your voice comes out thin and barely audible: “Yeah.”

Another beat. Then quietly, almost tender— “Don’t.”

Your body shivers. He’s not even touching you and you can feel him. The weight of his voice. The way he’s watching you. The way your hips shift again, slower this time, like gravity is pulling you toward something.

“Spence…”

“Don’t,” he repeats, softer. “Not yet.”

Your thighs clench again. You can’t stop. Every word he says sinks straight into you. And you don’t even realize your nails are digging into the couch cushions until his eyes dip down to your hands.

“You’re not okay,” he says. “You just think you are.”

“I’m fine,” you whisper. Your voice breaks on it. You last all of five minutes.

Five minutes of shifting on the couch, of pressing your thighs together so tight they ache. Five minutes of trying to breathe normally, trying to ignore the slow, electric hum beneath your skin. Five minutes of Spencer watching you like he’s memorizing every twitch of discomfort, every unconscious move you make to relieve the pressure building between your legs. It’s unbearable. And it’s only getting worse.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” you blurt out, standing too fast.

Spencer raises a brow. He doesn’t argue but you can feel his eyes on your back as you walk away—fast, too fast. You don’t even turn on the water. Just lock the door, shove your pants down, and sit on the closed toilet lid with your head thrown back and your hand already between your legs.

You’re soaked. And it’s instant, the relief of pressure from finally touching yourself—but it’s not enough. Not even close. You rub slow and firm circles, breath catching, hips rocking with every pulse of heat that crashes over you. Your thighs shake. Your toes curl against the floor. You bite your lip to stay quiet but it only makes it worse. You try to speed up, fingers moving faster, sloppier. But no matter how close you get, it won’t happen.

Your breath is a mess. Your body is screaming for something it can’t reach, and it hits you: the report warned about this. That once the arousal sets in, your brain stops registering solo touch the same way. That you need external stimulation to reset the chemical overload.

And you’re not alone in the apartment. You don’t know you’re moaning until you hear it echo against the tile. And then you hear him on the other side of the door.

“Are you okay?”

Your heart stutters. “I’m—fuck. I’m fine.” The silence after that is so loud, you think maybe he’s walked away.

“You’re not fine.”

Your breath stutters again. “Spencer—“

“I can hear you.”

Shame burns hot across your face but your hand doesn’t stop moving. It can’t.

“You said you were fine but I know you aren’t,” he murmurs through the door.

“I’m sorry,” you say weakly.

“I’m not mad,” he says gently. “But I think you’re past the point of pretending you can do this alone.”

You don’t respond. Not with words. Your legs are trembling, your hand still moving between them but you already know it’s not going to work. You’re panting like you just ran a mile, back arching off the seat—and still nothing.

Another knock. Softer. “I can help,” Spencer says, voice low.

You should say no. You should tell him it’s the pollen talking. You should warn him that once this starts, it won’t stop. You want to tell him that it’ll ruin everything between you. But your hand’s already reaching for the lock.

You barely get your pants all the way back up when Spencer gently pushes the bathroom door open, his gaze dark and steady. You try to pull your sweater down over your thighs like it’ll hide anything—but it’s useless. He saw you. Heard you. And he knows.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it, fingers curling lightly around your wrist. You don’t even hesitate—you let him lead you out, your heart hammering against your ribs, your body so wound up it almost hurts.

Spencer leads you through the hallway, the short walk to his bedroom feeling longer than any distance you’ve ever traveled. His hand stays on you the whole time, thumb stroking slow circles against your wrist, soothing and claiming all at once. The bedroom door clicks shut behind you and then there’s nothing separating you from him. No reason to pretend, no rules, no shame. Just the gnawing, burning need.

Spencer tugs you toward him until your chest brushes his. His hands settle lightly on your hips, the heat of them sinking through the thin fabric of your clothes. His forehead drops to yours, breathing you in. “Been wanting to touch you all night,” he murmurs, his voice fraying at the edges. “You know that? Sat there watching you squirm, pretending you’re fine—” His hands trail down your sides until his fingers find the hem of your pants again. “—when you’re really falling apart.”

You let out a shaky exhale, grabbing at his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you standing. Your skin feels hot and tight, hypersensitive, desperate for something to soothe the ache. “I can’t—I can’t think straight,” you breathe out, pressing closer.

“I know.” He ducks his head to kiss along your jawline, slow and savoring like he’s tasting something he’s been denying himself for far too long. “You’re burning up. Need me to take care of you, huh?”

“Yes—” it leaves you before you can even think, a desperate little whine slipping from your lips. Your hips buck forward slightly, brushing against the hardness tenting his pants and the soft groan it pulls from him makes your knees go weak.

“You’re so wet already, aren’t you?” he whispers, one hand slipping between your bodies to cup you through your pants. The pressure makes you gasp, you press into his hand shamelessly. He chuckles low in his throat, all fond and wrecked at the same time. “Fuck, you’re dripping through your clothes.” You whimper, face going red. The humiliation burns but it’s nothing compared to the need clawing at you. Spencer gently nudges your chin up until you’re looking at him. His thumb traces your lower lip, slow and careful. “You gonna let me help you, baby?” You nod, already too wrecked to form words.

“That’s not good enough,” he breathes and suddenly you’re shoved back onto the bed, Spencer following you down until he’s hovering over you. “Say it. Tell me you need me.”

You squeeze your thighs together, your whole body pulsing with need. “I need you, Spencer. Please.” He grins and it’s all teeth and something dangerous glinting behind his eyes. Hungry and desperate to make you feel as good as he knows you deserve. “That’s my girl,” he mutters, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pants and dragging them down your thighs slow enough to make you whine. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Could spend hours between your legs…” His voice is nearly trembling with restraint, his hands splaying over your bare thighs like he’s grounding himself.

Once your pants and panties are gone, he spreads your legs open and just looks for a moment. “So fucking pretty.” His fingers ghost over your inner thighs, making you twitch and squirm. “Look how messy you are for me already. Been suffering all by yourself, haven’t you?” You nod again, hips jerking up slightly in search of more.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, leaning down to kiss just above your mound, maddeningly close but not close enough. “I’m gonna make you feel so good you won’t even remember your own name.” You whimper again, bucking your hips in a silent plea. Fianlly Spencer drags his tongue up your slit, slow and deliberate. You cry out, hands flying to his hair.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs against you, pressing a kiss to your clit that makes you jolt. “Gonna have you coming so many times you’ll forget how to say no.” You mewl, tugging at his hair and he chuckles breathlessly, wrapping his arms around your thighs to pin you down. “No running away,” he teases, voice warm and wrecked. He flattens his tongue against you again, licking a thick stripe up your cunt before swirling around your clit with infuriating precision. Your thighs tremble in his grip, your whole body arching off the bed.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he mutters between licks. “Could get drunk off you.” You can’t even form coherent words anymore—just high, broken moans spilling out of you as he eats you like he’s starving as if you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him. And god, you want it to last forever. Your hands fist in his hair, your hips grind against his mouth. He lets you—lets you use him, lets you fuck yourself on his tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

“You’re so good,” he murmurs against you, the vibration making your whole body shudder. You’re right there, right on the edge when he slips a finger inside you. He moves perfectly to hit that sweet spot that makes your whole body lock up. You moan his name, head tossing back against the pillows and Spencer just smiles against you, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

You’re right there, teetering on the edge. Your thighs quivering around Spencer’s head— when he suddenly pulls back. A broken whine tears from your throat, hips chasing him instinctively but he just chuckles. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers tighten around your thighs to hold you down.

“Not like this,” he pants with desperate eyes. “Wanna feel you come around my cock.” You barely manage a whimper of protest, your whole body screaming for release but then he’s shushing you, climbing up over you, nosing along your jaw. His hips grinding into yours and making you feel the thick, hard length of him through his sweats. “You can wait a little longer, can’t you, baby?” he murmurs, voice all syrup and sin. “Gonna make it so fucking good for you. Promise.”

You nod frantically, your hands sliding under his shirt. You’re clawing at the warm, solid planes of his stomach. Anything to get him closer, to get him inside you. “Please Spencer,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist like you could pull him in yourself. “I need you—need you so bad.” His breath shudders against your ear as he ruts against you as if he’s barely holding himself back.

“Fuck—” he groans, dragging his pants down just enough to free his cock, hot and heavy and leaking against your bare thigh. “You have no idea what you do to me. Gonna fill you up so good…you’ll forget anything else ever existed.”He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock sliding through your soaked folds—and it’s already almost too much, the anticipation, the need.

“You ready?” he rasps, his voice trembling with restraint.

“God, yes,” you sob, lifting your hips into him. Spencer smirks and starts pushing inside, slow and deep. Splitting you open perfectly as everything else disappears.

You barely have time to breathe before he’s moving, his palms hot and firm around your waist as he lifts you and nudges your hips back, steering you further up the bed like you’re something breakable—precious, even now. Even with the way both of you are trembling to touch, to fuck, to feel. Spencer’s lips brush against your ear as he leans over you and the heat of his breath sends a shudder tearing through your body.

“So tight,” he mutters roughly. His voice nearly unrecognizable, caught between a growl and a plea. “So perfect.” You can only nod, throat too dry to speak— heart pounding a riot against your ribs. You feel him shift behind you, the rustle of his own clothes joining yours in the scattered mess on the floor. You whimper and it makes him groan under his breath. You can feel the way he’s struggling to keep it together, the way his cock twitches inside of you, pulsing with need.

“Please,” you manage and Spencer rewards you by speeding up.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, like he can’t help but marvel at it. He leans down, mouth grazing your neck. It’s just above the frantic beat of your pulse. “Fuck— you need this, don’t you?” You nod frantically, back arching. You’re chasing the barest hint of him.

“I do,” you whine. Voice breaking with each thrust. “Need this— need you.”Your fingers clutch at the sheets, at anything you can grab as he fills you, thick and heavy and stretching you so perfectly you think you might actually cry. Spencer lets out low, guttural sounds. He’s burying his face against your shoulder as he seats himself fully inside you.

“Fuck,” he hisses, voice cracking. “It fits so good— made for me.” He pulls out slowly and the drag of him inside you rips a broken gasp from your throat. When he thrusts back in harder, it knocks the air right out of your lungs. Your body jolts, pleasure burning through you so hot and fast that your knees nearly buckle. He moving in long, grinding strokes. He’s dragging the thick head of his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. Just fast enough. Cruel, almost. Intentional. Controlled.

Every thrust is a brand, a mark he’s stamping deep into your body. “God, look at you,” Spencer pants against your ear. One hand slides down to press against your stomach, feeling the way he moves inside you. “Taking me so good. You can see it.”

You choke on a whine, barely able to form words. “Y-yeah. You’re so big. I need—”

“I know what you need,” he cuts you off, hips snapping a little harder, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. “You need me to fuck you until you can’t think about anything except how full you are. Hmm?” You nod desperately, hands gripping at him, at yourself, at the bed. Anything you can grab. Your whole body feels raw, wired so tight you think you might snap apart at the seams.

Spencer’s rhythm grows rougher, deeper, the slap of skin on skin filling the air along with the filthy sounds you’re both making—panting, moaning, gasping each other’s names like prayers. And through it all, Spencer keeps talking.

“Wanted you like this for so long,” he groans, voice wrecked. His hands are everywhere now—your hips, your waist, your shoulders—like he can’t touch enough of you at once. “Dreamed about it. Fucking you. Making you feel good.”

You’re barely holding on, your entire body trembling with the effort of staying right on that edge, right where he’s keeping you. When he pulls you up slightly, forcing your chest against his, it’s almost too much. One hand holds you up— the other finding your throat, squeezing softly.

“You’re gonna come when I tell you,” he breathes against your temple. “Okay?”You moan, you’re thrumming with need. There’s sweat slicking your skin. His hand slips from your neck inbetween your thighs, fingers teasing and circling just above where you need him most but not touching, not giving you that last push.

Spencer keeps fucking into you, deep and slow and deliberate. Grinding his hips in just the right way to make you sob. “You feel good?” he murmurs. “You’re dripping all over me. Making a mess.” You can’t think anymore. Can barely breathe. You’re nothing but sensation, tethered only by the sound of his voice, the relentless rhythm of his body inside yours. But still—you don’t come. Because Spencer hasn’t told you to. You want to be good for him. You want to give him everything. Even if it kills you.

Spencer’s thrusts start to falter—still deep, still good but messier now, losing that iron control he’d fought so hard to keep. His breath is ragged against your ear, every exhale a soft, desperate whimper that shoots straight through your blood.

“Spence,” you whisper, reaching back to touch his hip. You’re trying to steady him, to soothe him. “Let me— let me ride you.” He groans, low and broken like just the idea of it shatters whatever composure he had left.

“Please,” he rasps, nodding frantically, barely able to get the word out. “Okay— yes.” It’s clumsy, the two of you scrambling to reposition but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting closer, closer, closer. You straddle his lap, legs shaky from how much he’s already wrecked you but the second you sink down onto him again—God, he’s so deep—everything else fades away. Spencer’s head falls back against the mattress, a choked moan ripping from his throat. His hands find your thighs, clutching hard enough to bruise— like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You move slowly at first, savoring the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. The way his mouth falls open, eyes glassy and wide and so fucking gone beneath you. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he babbles, hips jerking up instinctively to meet your movements. “So tight, so good, you’re gonna make me come. I can’t—“

“You can,” your hands braced on his chest, feeling the frantic hammer of his heart under your palms. “You’re so deep.” And he whimpers. Actually whimpers, high and broken, thrusting up into you helplessly as you start to ride him harder. You roll your hips, grinding down just right and he loses it.

“Oh, fuck— gonna breed you.” The words tumble out of him in a stream of gasped, pleading sounds, almojst incoherent. His fingers dig into your thighs, dragging you down harder onto him. Trying to chase the friction, the heat. His pretty mouth falls open, desperate sounds spilling out with every thrust. Grunts and moans.

“Taking me so good,” he babbles. “So fucking pretty like this. So wet—feel so good around me—” You speed up, hips snapping faster. Riding him hard now, and you’re both falling apart. Spencer’s cock pulsing inside you so thick and hot you can feel him twitching already, right on the edge.

“You— ah— so good.” you pant, leaning down so your lips brush his jaw, your words a filthy little tease. “Gonna fill me up, Spence?” He gasps, the sound so wrecked it barely sounds human and his hands claw at your hips, yanking you down harder as he bucks up into you wildly now, rhythm lost completely.

“Please,” he groans, high and broken. “Yes— filling you all the way up.”

You nod, whispering, “I want it. Need it.” That’s all it takes. Spencer cries out desperately, jerking up into you for a few last times as he finally lets go. You feel it—the heat flooding inside you, the way he throbs and twitches with every pulse of pleasure. You ride him through it— triggering your own orgasm. It’s loud and messy. You’re slowing your movements just enough to make it last, to draw every last drop.

Spencer’s hands are digging where they hold you. His hips stutter weakly, his chest heaving like he’s been running for miles. When you finally collapse against his chest, both of you boneless and shaking and soaked in sweat— it’s like the entire world narrows to just this—his heartbeat pounding against your cheek, the wrecked little sounds he’s still making under his breath, the way his arms tighten around you like he can’t stand to let you go.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Just breathing. Just existing. Finally, Spencer’s hand lifts, trembling slightly, to run through your hair. “Holy shit,” he whispers hoarsely. His voice is wrecked, thin and scratchy like he’s been screaming for hours. “I—I think I saw God.” You huff a weak, breathless laugh against his skin.

“Good,” you whisper back. His arms wrap tighter around you, pulling you impossibly closer. And for the first time since this whole night started—you feel something other than desperation.

“Are you okay?” he asks, shifting enough to pull himself out of you— letting your guys’ mess to spill out all over him. You nod against him and he presses his chin to your forehead, breathing you in like he needs it. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs after a second, thumb brushing the side of your thigh.

“So are you,” you say, your voice soft.

He gives a weak, breathless laugh—a little hoarse thing that barely escapes his throat—and shifts you carefully off his lap, laying you back against the pillows. His hands never leave you. He tugs the comforter up over your bodies, his fingers smoothing the edges near your shoulders, almost absentmindedly like he’s on autopilot. Like he needs to be touching you, even if it’s just fixing the blanket.

He leans in, his nose brushing your temple. “You did so good,” he says quietly, almost a whisper. “You feel so good.”

You blink up at him, heart stuttering stupidly hard against your ribs. “You do,” you whisper back. Spencer’s mouth quirks into the faintest, most exhausted little smirk and for a second he just looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real. You reach for his hand under the blanket, threading your fingers through his. He lets out a soft, broken sound at that—almost like a whimper—and squeezes your hand tight, clutching it to his chest.

Neither of you says anything else. You don’t have to. He stays curled around you like that, close and warm and steady, until your heartbeat slows and your breath evens out. And even then, he doesn’t let go.

[cuzxai]

on surveillance - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: stuck in a car with horny spence 😩😩

The car is quiet. The kind of tense, pressurized silence that only builds after five hours of watching nothing happen. Just headlights in the dark, static voices on the comms and Spencer Reid slowly losing his fucking mind in the driver’s seat. You don’t say anything at first. You’re just sitting there, legs crossed, pinky tapping against your thigh like a metronome, pretending like you don’t know what you’re doing. Like you haven’t noticed the way his eyes keep flicking to your hand. Or the way he’s barely breathed in ten minutes.

“I’m gonna lose it,” he mutters eventually, under his breath. His jaw’s tight. His fingers curl around the steering wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality. “I swear to God.”

You arch a brow. “We’re working.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking at you sideways. “That’s the problem.”

Your fingers absentmindedly tug at the hem of your shirt, right where it meets your jeans. That’s all it takes. You don’t flinch when you feel his hand brush your thigh, just glance down as it drags from the steering wheel to your knee like he’s pretending to reach for something. Like there’s any other reason for him to touch you like this right now. His fingers trace up, slow and deliberate.

“Spence,” you murmur, not a warning—more like a prayer.

“We’re alone,” he says under his breath, eyes still forward. He’s not even looking at you. That’s the worst part. “They’re two cars down. They won’t see anything unless they’re trying to.”

“This is insane,” you whisper, breathless, even as his fingers find the button on your jeans.

“You think I care who sees me touch you like this?” he says without looking up, voice so low it makes your stomach flip. Your breath stutters when he slides his hand past the waistband of your underwear. Not slow. Not careful. Just needy.“Been watching you all night,” he murmurs, thumb dragging along your skin. “You think I didn’t notice every little thing that you do and it doesn’t turn me on?”

“Spence—”

His fingers slip inside you and your words break apart. His other hand stays on the wheel, steady as ever. Like he’s not spiraling. Like he’s not fingering you in the front seat of a Bureau SUV with three other agents within shouting distance.

“This is so risky,” you breathe, even as your hips lift toward his hand.

“This is your fault,” he says, finally turning to look at you. His eyes are blown, hair a mess, jaw clenched like he’s hanging by a thread. “You know you want this.” He curls his fingers just right and your head falls back against the seat. “And now you’re gonna sit there and take it.”

You bite down on a moan, fingers clutching at the console, your jeans shoved halfway down your thighs. He never stops watching you. Never pulls away. Just keeps his rhythm like he’s memorizing it. You’re seconds from coming undone when his voice drops even lower.

“Fuck. So tight for me, hmm?” he echoes, a mocking smile ghosting across his lips. “Feel you clenching around my fingers baby.”

[cuzxai]

who are you - sfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: :,)

He almost doesn’t recognize you. You’re older, of course—less eyeliner, more confidence. But it’s your laugh that catches him first, bright and familiar across the bookstore aisle. He turns too quickly, heart tripping over itself like it always did around you. And when your eyes land on his, the world tilts.

“Spencer?” you ask, tilting your head. “Spencer Reid?”

He hasn’t heard you say his name in years, not since the spring you stopped talking. It hadn’t been a fight, really. Just a slow drifting after some stupid misunderstanding that neither of you knew how to fix. And then high school ended, and the world got louder. He blinks, stunned and you laugh—soft and almost disbelieving.

“Oh my God. It is you.” You take a hesitant step closer, like you’re afraid if you move too fast, he might vanish.

It’s been over a decade. Twelve years since high school, since those strange, blurry afternoons in the library or under the bleachers or walking the long way home just to avoid the kids who thought Spencer Reid was fair game for cruelty. You never joined in. You never laughed at him or rolled your eyes when he started quoting things no one else cared about. You were the one who brought two lunches when you realized he never ate. You dyed the tips of your hair pink senior year and told him it was because you were “in a rebellion phase,” but he was the only one who knew you cried when your dad forgot your birthday. He still remembers the exact shade of your lip gloss—something vaguely cherry-flavored and always a little smudged at the corners.

He was too young for your grade, too smart for most things, and too awkward to ever say it, but you were his only friend. Maybe his first real one. And then one day… you stopped talking. It hadn’t been a big fight. Just a stupid moment—he can’t even remember what it was. A missed call, a misunderstood comment, a week where you seemed distant and he was too proud to ask why. Then you were gone, and he was alone again.

Now you’re standing in front of him, in a bookstore two cities away from where you grew up, looking at him like you’ve just seen a ghost you missed.

“You’re taller,” you say, still smiling.

He huffs a soft laugh. “You’re the same height.”

Your mouth drops open then curls. “Wow. Still snarky, huh?”

He holds back a smile, “Only with you.”

The words come too easily and something in your expression flickers—nostalgia, maybe. Regret. There’s a beat of quiet between you, stretched thin by the years, held together only by old memories and your voice in his head, the one he never quite forgot.

“I always wondered what happened to you,” you say. “After everything.”

“I went to college. And then—well. Work. You?”

You exhaled, “Life. It’s… weird, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You glance down at the book in his hands and then back up, hopeful. “Do you have time for coffee? Or is that weird?”

“It’s not weird,” he says immediately.

You smile again, softer now. “Okay.” And as you turn to walk beside him toward the café down the block, your shoulder just brushing his, he feels like seventeen again. Like maybe some things never really go away. Like maybe you were never really gone at all.

[cuzxai]

sanctified - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: lets pretend maeve lived and her and spencer were together and lets pretend this isnt super out of character for him and lets pretend that i domt feel immensely horrible for maeve in this :(

You don’t remember when it started—only that by the time you noticed, it was already too late. It was never sudden. It crept in, like a fog rolling over familiar streets. You were still walking the same path but something about it had shifted. A heaviness in the air. A quiet that made every breath feel like it might shatter something sacred. Maybe it was the way he always lingered when the rest of the team moved on—how Spencer would wait behind just a few seconds longer than necessary after a debriefing, watching you tuck your tablet away, his eyes soft but unreadable. Or maybe it was the nights. That’s probably the better place to start. Not the cases or the fleeting glances but the spaces in between—the moments no one saw.

The first night he came over, it was innocent. You’d both been exhausted. A draining case with three children in the hospital and a mountain of paperwork left to climb. He offered to drive you home, and you accepted. Somewhere between the tired conversation and the thrum of music low in the background, you’d asked him to come in for a drink.

“Tea,” you clarified quickly, suddenly nervous at your own offer.

But he just nodded, his smile almost amused. “I’d like that.”

It turned into hours. Tea became a shared bag of chips. Then laughter softly spilled into the cracks of the night until you were both blinking at the clock in disbelief.

“Shit,” you’d muttered, rubbing your eyes. “It’s almost two.”

“I should go,” he said but didn’t move.

You watched him over the rim of your mug. “You don’t have to.”

He stayed another hour. You pretended not to notice how close he sat. That night became the first of many. Too many. Nights where it was just easier to keep talking. Easier to let time slip away than say goodbye. It wasn’t always your place either. Sometimes he invited you over instead—books stacked like precarious towers around his living room, a quiet documentary playing on mute in the background.

You learned things about him you weren’t supposed to know. That he listens to jazz when he can’t sleep. That he prefers cloudy days to sunny ones because he doesn’t feel the pressure to be happy. That when he was twelve, he made his own flashcards out of index paper and color-coded every subject, not because he had to but because it made the world feel smaller. Manageable. You stored those pieces like smuggled treasure, unsure what to do with them and only knowing they mattered because they came from him.

It was around that time the sadness started to settle in your chest. Not because of anything he did. Not because of how he’d lean toward you without thinking or how his voice softened when he said your name. But because of the things he didn’t do. The lines he didn’t cross. The fact that when he left your apartment at three a.m., he always made sure to say, “Thanks for the tea.” Like that’s all it was. Like you hadn’t just handed him pieces of yourself and watched him tuck them carefully into the folds of his heart.

And of course, there was Maeve. He didn’t say her name often but it didn’t have to be said. You weren’t stupid. You could tell when he was distracted, when his phone would light up and his whole posture would shift. Sometimes he’d smile, distant and private and you’d excuse yourself to the kitchen for no reason at all—just to keep your back to him long enough to breathe through it.

He never saw that it hurt but the team did. It wasn’t all at once. It was in pieces, like puzzle edges lining up before anyone could name the picture. JJ was the first. She didn’t say anything at first but you caught her watching you sometimes during briefings, her gaze flicking between you and Spencer with that quiet, knowing look she wore when things were unraveling. Emily took longer. She teased you once in the bullpen, called you “Reid’s favorite” after he brought you coffee without asking how you took it. Morgan used to rib you all the time. “Someone’s got a crush,” he’d say with a grin and you’d roll your eyes, push him off and make some dry comment about fraternization rules. But then he stopped saying it. Stopped looking amused. Sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to ask if you were okay. No one ever said it out loud. They didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was louder than any conversation could be.

And now tonight, his name lights up your phone at nearly one in the morning. You stare at it like it might disappear. You don’t answer right away. Your thumb hovers. You bite your lip and close your eyes and think of all the reasons why this is a bad idea. But you answer anyway.

“Hey.” The line is quiet. You can hear his breathing, uneven. Something shifting in the background. You wait. “It’s late,” you say softly, voice caught somewhere between concern and something you can’t name. “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

Your chest caves in. That’s not a no. That’s not I’m fine. That’s I’m unraveling.

“What happened?” you ask.

There’s a long pause and then a soft, “We had a fight.”

Your throat tightens. “Maeve?”

A bitter laugh. “Yeah.”

You sit up straighter, pushing the covers back from your legs as if you might need to move, as if this could become something more urgent at any moment.

“What about?”

He hesitates, “She thinks I’m not… fully there. With her. That my head’s somewhere else. That I’m always halfway gone.” He exhales sharply. “And she’s not wrong.”

You close your eyes.

“She said there’s someone else,” he adds, quieter now. “I told her she was being paranoid. That I would never do that to her. But…” He stops. The silence stretches.

“But?” you whisper.

Another breath. “But I didn’t deny it the way I should have.”

You don’t know what to say. Your heart cracks in slow, aching silence. “I’m sorry,” you say and mean it. You’re sorry for a thousand things. Sorry for her. Sorry for yourself. Sorry for every second you let this become what it is.

“I just… I didn’t know who else to call,” he says again, and you realize he’s been crying.

“Hmm,” you whisper. “Come over?”

“Okay.”

The line clicks dead and you’re already climbing out of bed, wrapping a sweater around yourself like it might keep you from burning alive. Because you know what you’re doing. You know what this is. And you know that tonight, something is going to change. You don’t bother turning the lights on. When he knocks, it’s soft. Like he doesn’t want to wake something—or someone that shouldn’t know he’s here. You open the door. He’s standing there in a hoodie and jeans, damp from the mist in the air, hair curling at the ends, eyes rimmed red. Not from crying. But you can tell he tried to hold it in and you’re not sure that’s better.

You step aside wordlessly. He walks in. The door shuts behind him with a quiet click. You stay near it for a moment, your hand still on the knob, like part of you could pretend there’s a version of this where you don’t follow him in. Where he doesn’t come to you like this. Where you’re not both complicit in something you can’t even name yet. But you turn anyway. He hasn’t moved far. Just stands in the middle of your living room, his hands tucked into his sleeves like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says again, voice rough.

“You said that already,” you reply gently, crossing the room to him. “But I think you did.”

His eyes meet yours. And for a moment, you see everything you’ve been trying not to admit reflected back at you—longing, guilt, something mournful threaded through it all like a prayer left unanswered.

“Did you walk?” you ask because the silence is starting to drown you both.

He nods. “Needed air.”

You motion toward the couch. “Sit.”

He does. You disappear into the kitchen for a moment, just long enough to fill the kettle and set it on the stove. Tea is a routine. A safety net. It gives your hands something to do besides reaching for him. It gives your voice somewhere to land besides the hollow space between confessions. When you come back, he’s staring at his hands.

“She was crying,” he says, not looking up.

You sit beside him, careful to leave just enough space between you. Just enough to say I know. Just enough to say I’m sorry. Not enough to say stay.

“She said she doesn’t know who I am anymore,” he continues. “That I’m quieter. Distant. That I’ve been coming home but not really being there.”

You swallow hard. “And… do you think she’s right?”

“I keep trying to be everything she needs. I do. But it’s like—” He breaks off, frustrated. “It’s like I’m performing it now. Like I’m going through the motions and waiting for the part where I finally feel the way I used to.”

You breathe out slowly. “Love isn’t always a constant. It shifts. Flows. People change.”

“I don’t want it to be her fault. Or my fault.”

“It’s not.”

He finally looks at you. “Then whose is it?”

You want to say mine. Want to take the weight from him and claim it because maybe you deserve it. But you can’t. Because it’s not that simple and he’s not here for answers. He’s here because he’s tired. Because something inside him is unraveling and you’ve always made space for the frayed parts of him.

“You’ve been carrying too much alone,” you murmur. “That changes people.”

The kettle whistles, soft and shrill. Neither of you moves. His voice lowers. “Sometimes I think I come here because it’s the only place I can breathe.”

Your eyes sting.

“And I hate myself for it,” he adds, voice breaking. “Because she deserves that. She deserves to be the place I run to.”

You rise slowly, go to pour the tea so your shaking hands have purpose. When you return, you offer him a mug. He takes it, holding it like it might warm more than just his fingers. You sip yours quietly. Watch the steam curl. It’s minutes before either of you speaks again.

“She said there was someone else,” he says, not looking at you. “Not because she knew. Just… a feeling. I told her she was wrong.”

You hold your breath.

“I didn’t lie,” he adds. “Not exactly. But I didn’t argue the way I should’ve.”

You finally ask the question that’s been sitting in your throat for months. “Is there?”

The silence is deafening.

“There shouldn’t be.”

That’s not a no. He puts the tea down. And you both sit there, saying nothing. Letting the weight of that answer settle between you like dust on a forgotten shelf. It feels sacred. It feels sickening.

“You should go back to her,” you say, even though you don’t mean it. “Talk to her. Try.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. “She ended it.”

Your eyes widen and you shift, turning toward him. “I’m sorry. What do you need, Spence?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just… I couldn’t be alone. And with you it’s—”

“Easier?” you offer.

“Real.”

That breaks something open in you. He finally looks at you and his eyes are glassy. “Do you remember that night after the Boston case?” he asks. “You couldn’t sleep and we watched that terrible movie about the haunted mirror.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. You fell asleep halfway through.”

“I didn’t. I pretended.”

Your heart skips. He reaches up, touches the back of his neck like it burns. “I was afraid if I didn’t, I’d say something I couldn’t take back.”

You place your mug down beside his. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer but you know. The space between you shrinks. He’s still not touching you. But you can feel the pull, a trembling current strung between his fingers and your skin. It’s unbearable. And still you don’t move closer because this is the line and neither of you wants to be the first to cross it. But God you’re so close to giving in. You don’t remember leaning into him. Only that when your shoulder brushes his, neither of you moves away. There’s no flicker of surprise in his eyes. No startled flinch. Just the quiet exhale of someone who’s been holding their breath too long. The tea has gone cold. The clock ticks louder than it should. Spencer’s hand is resting on his knee, unmoving. Yours is close enough that if you just shifted your fingers slightly they’d touch. You don’t. You can’t. But your pinkie twitches once. A silent confession.

“I hate that I’m doing this,” he says suddenly, voice low and rough. “That I came here. That I made this your burden too.”

You want to say it’s not a burden. That you’d carry the weight of his hurt every day if it meant he’d never feel it alone. But you know how that would sound. Know how easily it could crack the silence wide open. So instead you whisper, “You didn’t make me feel anything I wasn’t already carrying.”

His jaw clenches. He stares at the bookshelf across the room like it might rescue him. You think he’s counting the spines. You think he’s building a wall in his head. You speak again, barely audible: “What are we doing?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

But he does and so do you. This isn’t a beginning. It’s not a betrayal. It’s not a confession. It’s the moment just before the fall, when you can still lie to yourself and pretend you haven’t already jumped.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he says. “She’s—she’s kind. Brilliant. Gentle. She deserves—”

“Someone who chooses her without hesitation,” you finish for him.

His face crumples. You reach for him without thinking. Your hand wraps around his forearm, warm and solid beneath your touch. He looks down at it like it’s something sacred. Like it’s the first real thing he’s felt all day.

“You need to sleep,” you say softly.

He nods, eyes still fixed on your fingers. You move and eventually you’re both in your bed. The lamp still on. The sheets a little messy. Neither of you speaks as you lie back against the pillows, still in the clothes you wore all day. He doesn’t reach for you. But he doesn’t turn away either. He lies there like someone waiting for absolution. Eyes open. Breath even. And you lie next to him like someone already damned. Minutes pass.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” he asks.

The question slices right through you.“No,” you say immediately, turning toward him. “Spencer. God, no.”

“I feel like one.”

You don’t say I do too. You don’t say Maybe we are. Instead you reach out and brush his knuckles with yours. A touch so faint it barely qualifies.

“I think we’ve both been trying so hard to do the right thing, we forgot what it feels like to want something.”

His breath stutters. “Do you?” he asks.

“Do I what?”

“Want something. Right now.”

You don’t answer because you do. You want the impossible. You want him to roll toward you and press his forehead to yours. You want him to say your name like it’s the only one he knows. You want to forget that there’s a woman crying in an empty apartment across the city, waiting for a call that won’t come. You want to pretend this moment exists in a vacuum, untouched by reality. You want to be selfish. Instead you whisper, “Goodnight, Spence.”

He turns his head slightly. Looks at you,“Goodnight.”

And for a while, the only sound is the quiet hum of the city outside and the steady, unbearable echo of everything that could have been—shouldn’t be but is. You don’t sleep. You don’t think he does either. But when the sun starts to rise, casting gold across the sheets, you’re still there. Still side by side. Still pretending this was nothing. You don’t know how long you lie there, eyes shut, heart thudding loud in your chest. You can feel him beside you—too close, too still. The air is thick with things unspoken, the room unbearably quiet. The sheets rustle once like the bed itself is reacting to the tension strung between you both.

He speaks first. “Are you awake?”

Your eyes open. You don’t answer. Just shift slightly, enough that your shoulder brushes his. It’s an answer on its own.

“I keep thinking I should leave,” he says, voice so low it barely disturbs the silence.

You turn your head toward him. “Then why haven’t you?”

He doesn’t respond. Outside, the city moves. A siren in the distance. The faint hiss of wind against the windows. But in here, it’s still just the two of you—suspended in a moment that should’ve passed long ago. When he rolls onto his side to face you, your breath catches. You mirror him, barely a foot apart now. You can see the sharp line of his jaw in the low light. The mess of curls at his temple. The way his eyes search yours like he’s hoping you’ll make this decision for him.

“We’re not doing anything,” you whisper. A lie that tastes bitter on your tongue.

“I know.”

But neither of you moves away. His fingers twitch against the mattress between you. Yours do too. You don’t touch yet. You feel it in the way your breath syncs. The way your mouth parts just slightly, like his name is resting there. The way he keeps looking at your lips.

“This isn’t fair,” he says.

“To who?”

“To her. To you. To me.”

You nod slowly. “No. It’s not.”

His voice tightens. “Then why does it feel like I’ve been waiting for this for months?”

That breaks you. You reach for him. Your hand finds his cheek, tentative and trembling. He doesn’t flinch. Just leans into it—barely but enough. His eyes flutter closed. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth.

He exhales shakily. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You can’t. Instead, your hand slides down slowly to rest against the side of his neck. His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. And then he kisses you. It’s soft at first. Barely a kiss at all. Just a brush of mouths, more breath than contact. But it’s enough to shatter whatever self-control either of you had left. He groans against you. It’s a sound of defeat, of hunger and pulls you closer. His hand grips your waist, dragging you across the sheets until your body is pressed to his, chest to chest, knees tangled, breath shared. Your fingers curl into his shirt. His mouth moves over yours again, slower this time. Reverent. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s apologizing with every press of his lips. You gasp when his hand finds the small of your back. When his thumb slides beneath the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t go further. Just touches skin like he needs the confirmation that you’re real.

You break the kiss, breathless. “Spence.”

“Don’t,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours. “Please. Don’t say my name like that unless you want me to ruin everything.”

“I think we already did.” His hand tightens at your waist.

You both freeze. For a second, there’s a chance to stop. And then it slips away. He kisses you again, harder now. More desperate. Like everything he’s buried is clawing to the surface all at once. Your hand slips into his hair and he groans into your mouth, deep and broken. You roll together in the sheets. He ends up on top of you, elbow braced beside your head, thigh pressing between yours. His hips settle low and you both gasp at the contact.

His voice is ragged. “We can’t. I—fuck, we can’t.”

“I know,” you whisper but your nails are digging into his back, your body arching into him like it doesn’t know.

“I can’t,” he says. “I love her.”

“I know,” you whisper again. “But you’re here.”

That’s all it takes. He kisses you like it’s killing him. Like you’re killing him. His hand slips under your shirt, up your ribs, slow and reverent. He doesn’t touch your breasts. Doesn’t grope or grab or take. He just lays his palm flat against your skin, over your heart, and breathes like he needs to remember what this feels like before it’s gone. You press your thigh up into him. He gasps, dropping his head to your shoulder. His hips jerk instinctually.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, like a prayer. “What are we doing?”

You don’t know. All you know is that his mouth is on your neck now, open and hot and desperate. That your shirt is halfway off. That his hand is trailing down your stomach like he wants to stop, but he won’t. You clutch at him. Breathe his name again. Softer this time. His fingers slide down. Under and between. He groans when he feels how wet you are through your underwear, his touch unsteady. You bite your lip, eyes squeezing shut.

“This isn’t happening,” he says.

But it is and you don’t stop him. You lift your hips slightly when his fingers push beneath the waistband of your underwear. His touch is tentative at first—like he’s afraid of what it means. Of what it confirms but you gasp when his knuckles brush your clit and it makes him curse softly into your skin. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard.

“God, I shouldn’t be doing this.” But his fingers slide lower. Part you gently. Find you wet and hot and aching. You choke out a sound you can’t contain and he swears again—this time more broken, more desperate.

“I’m sorry,” he says but he doesn’t pull away. His hand just trembles there, cupping you like you’re something fragile and holy.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely audible. “Please… don’t stop.”

You feel the shudder roll through him as he starts moving. One finger slipping inside you with a careful drag that makes your breath catch and your back arch. His lips brush your neck, the curve of your jaw then your collarbone. He kisses you like an apology. His other hand grips your hip to steady himself, to keep from shaking apart.

“You’re so—” He cuts himself off. Groans. “Jesus, you’re soft.”

You don’t know what to say. You’re too busy trying not to fall apart. Too consumed by the way his fingers move inside you—shallow at first, then deeper, curling just slightly. Like he’s learning you. Like he’s wanted to know this forever. You cling to his shoulders. He moans when your nails dig in, when your hips stutter up into his hand. He adds a second finger and legs tremble. You don’t speak. Neither does he. The silence is thicker now—hot with breath and tension and restraint. The only sounds are the wet, sinful drag of his fingers inside you and the soft whimper you bite back when his thumb brushes your clit.

“Don’t be quiet,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

Your throat works. “Spence—”

He kisses you, slow and deep while his fingers fuck you. You moan into his mouth, helpless and shaking and he groans in response like he can feel it all over.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You feel—fuck—you feel like everything I’ve been missing.”

You don’t ask if he means her. You don’t ask if he’ll leave after this. You just spread your legs wider and let him break you open. His pace stays slow. Intentional. Like he’s making himself memorize every reaction—every twitch of your thighs, every gasp you make, every time your breath stutters when his thumb circles just right.

“I didn’t come here for this,” he says, barely a whisper.

“I know.”

“I just wanted to talk.” He whispers, “Tell you I’m falling apart.” His fingers push deeper. Your eyes roll back. “And now I’m ruining you,” he breathes.

“You’re not.”

His mouth hovers over yours. “I will.”

But he slows. Slows until he’s barely moving, just the weight of his hand between your legs, his fingers resting inside you like a promise he can’t keep. You try to move your hips. He holds you still. Your breath hitches.

“Don’t,” he whispers, brushing your cheek. “Not yet.”

You stare up at him, eyes wide. Needy. Confused.

“I can’t let you come yet.” he says, voice breaking. Your heart punches your ribs. You nod but it feels like dying. He kisses your temple. Then your lips. Then slowly he eases his fingers out of you. You shudder, clenching around nothing, slick and aching and empty.

He groans when he sees it. “Fuck.”

You bite your lip to keep from begging. His fingers are wet when he pulls his hand away. He stares at them for a moment like he’s not sure if he’s horrified or in awe. You lie there, panting. Legs spread. Still trembling. He looks down at you—your flushed cheeks, your heaving chest, the way your underwear’s been tugged halfway down your thighs. Then he moves beside you again. Not touching. Not speaking. Just watching you. You feel his stare like a weight. Like heat. You don’t close your legs. You don’t pull your underwear back up. You just breathe. And he does too. Two bodies on the edge of ruin, still pretending there’s a way back. You lie there in the dark, still breathing hard. You can feel him thinking beside you. Like the thoughts are crawling over his skin. The weight of them. The shame. The wanting. You close your eyes. You feel him move—just slightly, just a shift of sheets and then his hand touches your hip again, light as breath. You open your eyes. He’s staring at you. There’s something in his face now—devastated or hollowed out. Like he’s already grieving something that hasn’t happened yet.

“I can’t stop thinking about how warm you were,” he says, voice low and raw. “Around my fingers.”

You don’t breathe.

“You clenched like you didn’t want to let me go.”

Your throat goes tight. You whisper, “I didn’t.”

He swallows. Then his hand moves. Trails down. Tugs your underwear the rest of the way off. You don’t stop him. You lift your hips silently and let him take it. He lets the fabric fall to the floor. Then he’s over you again, slow and tentative like he’s giving you time to push him away. You reach for his shirt instead, pushing it up. He helps you. You watch the lines of his chest appear in the dark—pale skin, lean muscle, a faint tremble in his arms. He presses his forehead to yours.

His mouth brushes yours, softer now. Less hungry. Like he’s afraid of what comes next. Then he shifts back. You hear the metal sound of his belt buckle. The slow drag of his zipper. Your breath catches. When you look down, his pants are halfway down his thighs and his boxers pushed low enough to free him. He’s hard and aching and when he moves over you again, you feel the weight of it drag across your thigh.

He groans, low in his throat. “Fuck. Are you sure?”

You nod, your hand finding his face.

“I should’ve stopped this hours ago,” he says.

You nod again. And then he’s kissing you, slow and deep, while his hand drags up your thigh to part your legs again. You let them fall open beneath him, your chest rising as his hips settle between yours. His cock nudges against you, not pressing in and the feel of it makes your entire body tense.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

Your hands grip his waist. He reaches between you, guiding himself. The head of his cock brushes your entrance and you both suck in a breath. He hesitates.

“Last chance,” he whispers.

You whisper, “Please.”

And then he pushes in. Slowly. Carefully. Your body stretches around him, and you feel it in every nerve, every inch of skin. He groans when he bottoms out, burying his face in your neck like he can’t stand the feeling of being inside you without breaking. You gasp. It’s overwhelming—everything. The weight of him. The heat. The stretch. The knowledge that this is him—Spencer. Your best friend. The man you shouldn’t have let through the door. The man you’ve wanted for months. You wrap your arms around his shoulders. He starts to move. Not fast. Not rough. Just steady, dragging his hips back and pressing forward again, slow enough that you feel every inch. You moan—quiet and wrecked and he kisses your cheek like he can’t stand to hear it.

“Don’t do that,” you whisper.

“Do what?”

“Look sorry.”

He breathes hard.

“Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

His hips falter. He looks at you—really looks—and for a second, you see everything in his face. Pain. Longing. Guilt. And something like love. He kisses you again. This time, it’s nothing like sorry. He kisses you again. Slower now. Less careful. His mouth parts yours like he’s tasting a secret he’s wanted for months. There’s no more hesitation. No more apologies. Just his cock buried deep inside you, his hand cupping your jaw, and the slick drag of his hips as he starts to move again. It’s devastating. The first few thrusts are slow but heavier than before—like he’s finally stopped pretending he can hold back. You feel the rhythm build, the heat spreading low in your belly again, the quiet desperation in the way your name catches on his tongue. Your hands roam his back, nails dragging down the curve of his spine. He moans into your mouth, fucking you deeper, and you swear the bed shifts with every grind of his hips. You feel full. Stretched. Claimed.

You breathe his name. “Spencer—”

He shudders. “Say it again,” he whispers.

“Spencer.”

He kisses you harder, hips stuttering like it does something to him—like hearing it out loud pulls him apart. “I’ve thought about this,” he pants. “Every time you looked at me like that—God, I wanted to know what your pussy felt like.”

Your breath catches.

“Say something,” he groans. “Tell me you wanted it too.”

“I did.” You drag your nails along his side. “I wanted it so bad I couldn’t sleep.”

He groans low in his throat. His hand slides under your thigh, hitching your leg up to his waist and the new angle makes you gasp—his cock presses deeper, perfect, right against the place that makes you see stars.

“There,” you whimper. “Right there—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He grinds into you with that exact pressure, again and again, his pace slow but relentless. You can hear how wet you are now, how every thrust sounds obscene in the quiet room. His skin is hot against yours, flushed and damp, and when he leans down to suck your nipple into his mouth, your back arches off the bed.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, mouth dragging hot over your chest. “You’re so tight. I can feel you squeezing me.”

You whine, overwhelmed. He fucks you deeper in response, his rhythm just a little faster now, his teeth grazing the swell of your breast as he sucks a bruise into your skin. You’re close again. You know it. And this time, you’re not going to stop.

“Please,” you gasp. “I need—Spencer—please—”

“Shhh.” He kisses your cheek, your mouth, your throat. “I’ve got you. You gonna come for me?”

You nod, nearly sobbing. “Yes—please.”

“Rub your clit,” he whispers. “I want to feel you while you do it.”

Your hand moves between you, fingers finding the slick bundle of nerves he left aching. You circle it fast, the way you know you need, and when he thrusts in again, your whole body clenches. The orgasm hits like a wave—sudden and devastating—your legs shaking, your cunt spasming around his cock. You cry out, half his name and half something wordless, and Spencer groans like he’s the one falling apart.

“Jesus—fuck—fuck—” His voice breaks. “That’s it. That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that—”

You barely come down before he’s slamming into you harder, chasing his own edge now. His thrusts lose rhythm, grow messier, deeper. His hand fists in the sheet beside your head. He’s close.

“Inside,” you gasp, dizzy from the high. “Come inside—please—”

He buries himself to the hilt and comes, body shaking above you, teeth sunk into your shoulder to stifle the noise. You feel it—hot and thick and pulsing—deep inside, and it makes your eyes roll back. He groans again, lower this time and collapses against you. Neither of you speaks for a long time. You just breathe. You’re still joined. His cock softening inside you, your thighs sticky with slick and come, your fingers tangled in his hair like if you let go, you’ll fall back into the real world too fast. Spencer presses his face to your neck. His breath is warm against your skin. His heartbeat is racing.

And when he finally lifts his head to look at you—eyes soft, mouth flushed—you don’t see regret anymore. You see the same thing in yourself. The silence stretches. Not awkward. Not yet. Just heavy—like everything in the room has slowed to match the weight of what’s between you. Spencer doesn’t move at first. His body’s still draped over yours, flushed and trembling, and you can feel his heart pounding where his chest rests against yours. Your fingers are still in his hair. You don’t remember threading them there, but you don’t pull away now. The room smells like sex and sweat and heat. You’re still joined. Still full of him. Still bare. It should feel like too much. Instead, it feels like air for the first time in weeks. When he finally shifts, it’s gentle. He rolls onto his side and brings you with him, guiding your head to his chest like he needs you there. His hand spreads low on your back, fingers splayed wide like he’s trying to cover as much of you as he can. He’s quiet, breathing slow, like he’s listening for something beneath your skin.

You don’t speak right away. It’s too fragile, too new and too fucked to name. You press your face into the curve of his collarbone and let the warmth settle. His other hand moves slowly up your spine, soothing. Anchoring. His lips brush your hair.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Yeah.”

He swallows hard. You feel the motion under your cheek. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have called you tonight.” he confesses.

“I’m glad you did.”

Silence again. You shift slightly, just enough for him to slip out of you. The loss is a dull ache. Your thighs are sticky, sore. You don’t care. You stay wrapped around him anyway.

He kisses your forehead. “You don’t regret it?” he asks.

You hesitate. But only for a second. “No.”

A quiet exhale leaves him, like your answer loosened something in his chest. He holds you tighter. “I don’t,” he says. “I should. I know I should. But I don’t.”

You nod against him, eyes burning. You don’t want to talk about Maeve. About what this means. About what it can’t mean. So you don’t. You lie there instead, tangled together in the dark, every inch of you humming with the imprint of him. His hand strokes slowly up and down your back, never stopping, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You tilt your head up. He looks down. There’s no guilt in his eyes. No apology. Just something raw and quiet and infinite. He kisses you again. It’s slower this time. Sweeter. Like it’s just for you. Like it doesn’t have to survive the daylight.

You whisper into his mouth, “Stay.”

His brows knit.

“I don’t mean forever,” you add. “Just… today.”

He nods once. “I was going to,” he says.

You reach for the blanket. He helps pull it over both of you, and when you curl back into him, his arms come around you without hesitation. You listen to his breathing until it slows, until his body goes heavy with sleep. You lie awake a while longer. You don’t think about the day. You don’t think about the mess. You just listen to the way he murmurs your name in his sleep like a prayer. Like it’s a sin he’s not done committing.

[cuzxai]

bruise theory - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: NOT FINISHED and will never be:( just posting cause i need to post, reid getting jealous over a necklace 🤔🤔🤔

The living room smells fresh and the faint scent of Spencer’s cologne, still clinging to the throw blanket you’re curled up in. You’re stretched sideways across the couch, one leg resting over his. With a rerun of some old documentary playing quietly in the background. It’s the kind of night you both pretend to be productive—laptops open, mugs half-full but really, you’re just winding down from another chaotic week, letting the silence hum comfortably between you.

Spencer’s reading. Not just reading—annotating, muttering little facts under his breath, occasionally tapping his pen against his knee in that way that makes you look over every time. And every time, he doesn’t notice. Or he does and he’s pretending not to. You rest your head on the back of the couch and let out a quiet sigh. “You know, normal people don’t read scientific journals to relax.”

“Normal people have worse coping mechanisms,” he says without looking up.

You hum. “Touché.”

He glances over his glasses at you, eyes crinkling a little. “What were you even doing before I roped you into this?”

You gesture vaguely toward your phone. “Scrolling. Reading. Thinking about sleep.”

��At 9:58 p.m.?” he says, almost amused.

“I had a long day.”

He closes his notebook and finally looks at you properly. “You didn’t say much about it.”

You shrug. “Not much to say. I was in meetings all morning, then I came home and watched you pace around while talking to Hotch on speakerphone for two hours. I think that counts as an experience.”

He smiles softly. “Sorry. You could’ve told me to shut up.”

“And miss your weird little crime rants? Never.”

He shifts closer on the couch, just a little. “You know, you really should be nicer to the person who does your laundry.”

“You literally folded half a sock and gave up.” He laughs in a low tone that makes your stomach flip a little. You love that sound. Love when it’s just you and him, no cases, no profiling, no bloodstained files. Just this—warm light, quiet room, soft clothes and softer touches. You nudge your foot against his thigh.

“What’s that thing you were reading?”

He lifts the notebook again and flips to the page. “It’s a piece on cortisol regulation during chronic sleep deprivation. They’re arguing that the neurological impact is—”

You groan and toss your head back. “You asked what I did today and now you’re punishing me with your answer.”

“I’m educating you,” he protests, mock-serious.

“You’re boring me.”

“You love it.”

You grin at his words. “Maybe.” But then he lunges—quick, too quick. He tosses the notebook to the side and pins you with a grin, hands finding your sides as he starts tickling. You shriek, laugh and squirm away but he’s persistent. “Spencer—stop—”

“You shouldn’t provoke an academic,” he says, fingers digging just under your ribs. “We’re emotionally unstable.”

“You’re the worst—”

“You love it.” You’re laughing too hard to respond. He’s leaning over you now, grinning like he’s won, hair a little messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. You reach up in retaliation, fingers in his hair, tugging playfully. He stills instantly—his breath hitches, just slightly, and his eyes flick down to your mouth. The moment shifts.

“Truce?” you whisper. He nods slowly. “Truce.”You tug him forward by the hoodie strings and kiss him. Lazy, warm and familiar. The kind of kiss that comes with history. His hands slide under your shirt, palms resting lightly on your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin. You melt into it. Every time you kiss like this, it feels like time stops. Like nothing exists outside the living room, the couch, his mouth on yours.

He pulls back for a breath, and something shifts in his expression. His eyes narrow slightly.

“What?” you ask, still half-dazed. He brings a hand up, fingers ghosting over the side of your neck. His thumb brushes something there, careful. The mood dips—he’s frowning now, inspecting you like a crime scene. He lingers on a spot you hadn’t even noticed, his touch no longer soft—curious but tense. “What’s that?” he murmurs.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“That,” he says, a little firmer now. “On your neck.” Your fingers brush over the same spot.

“Oh. It’s probably from my necklace—I was messing with it earlier and the clasp scratches sometimes. It’s not what you think.”

His eyes stay locked on it but he doesn’t say anything right away. Then quieter but sharp enough to cut, “Who gave you that?”

Your breath catches. “Spence—no one. I just told you—”

“I’m not accusing you,” he says, though he really is, though he wishes he had a better reason to. “It’s just… it’s not from me.”

You sit up a little straighter, eyes meeting his. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I know,” he says instantly. But he’s still staring, thumb pressing a little harder into the faint red mark like he’s trying to erase it. Or brand over it with his own. “It’s just—” His voice dips, quiet but pointed.

“That shouldn’t be there.” He leans in, close enough that you feel the heat of him against your skin. His mouth hovers by your ear as his hand traces a slow, deliberate path down your throat.“I should fix it.”

His voice is quieter now, but the low heat in it makes your skin prickle. “Take off your shirt.” You hesitate, heart climbing into your throat because it’s not a request and it’s not like him—not usually.

“Spencer…”

“I said take it off.” He’s sitting up straighter now. Still calm, still deadly soft. But the storm in his eyes is obvious, burning through you. “If you’re so sure it’s nothing, then show me.” Your fingers fumble with the hem of your tank top. The room feels ten degrees hotter as you pull it over your head, hair messy from the motion. You’re bare except for your bra and his gaze dips to the spot on your neck again. He leans in, one hand sliding around your back, the other brushing your hair aside. His thumb ghosts over the colored, slightly raised mark. “This,” he murmurs, “isn’t mine.”

“You’re being ridiculous—” He cuts you off by tugging you forward by the waist until you’re straddling him, your knees sinking into the couch cushions. His mouth is right at your ear.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” you whisper. “It’s—Spencer, it’s literally from a necklace. I wore the one with the thin gold chain yesterday. You know the one—”

He cuts you off, “I know what I didn’t do,” he says sharply, his fingers gripping tighter around your waist. “And I know what I should do.”You let out a shaky breath, hands braced on his shoulders.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to fix it,” he says, tilting his head, already leaning forward. “I’m going to make it obvious that no one else gets to touch you. Not even by accident. Understand?” You don’t respond fast enough. “Use your words.”

You nod, barely find your voice. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Good,” he mutters. “Because I’m going to cover you with marks that are mine. And you’re going to sit still and take it.” He starts slow. A kiss just below your jawline, soft and warm. Then one lower, a bit rougher. And lower. A bite. A suck. You can feel it blooming under your skin already, the pressure and the heat of it. And he keeps going. “You’re going to look in the mirror tomorrow and remember who this body belongs to,” he murmurs between kisses, one hand sliding up your spine and the other gripping your thigh to pull you closer. Another hickey. Right above your collarbone. “You’re mine,” he says, like a thesis. “You think someone else can fuck you the way I do?”

You shake your head, already pliant against him. “No,” you whisper.

“No what?”

“No one else can.” He pulls back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, hair falling into his face, lips slightly parted. He huffs a soft laugh, one hand threading into your hair. You barely have time to breathe before he’s pushing inside you—slow at first, thick and steady, inch by inch until you’re arching into him, gasping his name like a prayer. Your hands clutch at his back, nails dragging down skin, trying to anchor yourself to something solid.

Spencer groans, deep and ragged, forehead pressing to yours as he bottoms out. “Fuck, baby…” His hips are still, just for a moment. Letting you feel it. Letting the weight of it sink in.

“How are you still this tight for me?” he murmurs, like he’s baffled— like he’s never going to get used to this. “Every time—every fucking time.” You whimper, clenching around him and he laughs—quiet and breathless. Then he pulls back and slams back in, sharp and deliberate. He’s knocking the air from your lungs.

“You feel that?” His voice is low, right at your ear. “That stretch? That’s what it feels like to be ruined. To be owned.”

He finds a rhythm—slow and punishing, deep and pointed. Not for speed, not yet. Just for control. Just so you know who you belong to.

“Keep your legs open,” he growls when they try to close around him. “You take everything I give you.” You cry out and he catches your jaw with one hand, turning your face to look at him.

“Don’t look away.” His eyes burn. “You look at me when I’m fucking you.” You nod and he thrusts harder—deep enough to make your spine arch, deep enough that you swear you can feel him in your throat.

“God, you’re dripping for me.” He glances down, cock twitching inside you. “Making a mess on my cock like it’s all you know how to do.” He keeps talking, mouth pressed to your skin. To your neck, where the necklace mark used to be. He licks over the hickeys he made, one by one.

“Spence—”

“You think I didn’t notice the way that guy at the grocery store looked at you the other day? Think I didn’t see you smiling at him?” You blink up at him, breathless.

“That was nothing—”

“I know,” he cuts you off. “I know it was nothing. But this—” he thrusts harder, rougher “—this is everything.” You’re close. You know it. He knows it. He can feel the way your body tightens around him, how your legs start to shake. “That’s it,” he pants, snapping his hips forward. “Gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Gonna fall apart while I’m buried in you?” You nod helplessly, body already tipping over the edge. “Then fucking do it. Let me feel it.”

You cry out as the orgasm rips through you, your vision going white-hot at the edges. He doesn’t stop. Not even as you’re shaking beneath him, moaning his name into the warm air of your bedroom. Your nails are clawing at his back and he fucks you through it, groaning as you clench around him, soaking him. “Jesus, baby,” he grits. “Just like that. Keep going. Milk my cock.” You don’t stop. And neither does he.

[cuzxai]

say the word - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: my goshhh sub spence after being teased all day.

It started at work. You hadn’t meant for it to go this far. Not really. Just a little teasing—enough to get him flushed, maybe stumbling over a sentence or two. That was all you’d planned on. But Reid had this way of responding to you—tiny, almost imperceptible tells that made it way too tempting to keep pushing.

The first time was in the morning. You were sitting in the conference room, a fresh case file open in front of you. You let your hand brush his when you passed him a pen. Light. Barely there. You didn’t miss the way his fingers tensed around it. Didn’t miss the way he cleared his throat a little too sharply afterward, busying himself with flipping through the pages even though you both knew he wasn’t reading a word.

Then it was the way you kept looking at him during the meeting. Lazy and slow drags of your gaze over his body, lingering just a second too long when he wasn’t paying attention—only to flick up to his eyes when he finally caught you. He looked away so fast it almost made you laugh.

And lunch? That was worse. You shared a table with Emily and Derek, and Spencer sat beside you, careful as ever to leave a little polite distance. So you crossed your legs under the table, rubbing your leg up his own. You saw the way his eyes dropped—just for a second—then snapped back up like he was scolding himself. It was almost criminal, how much you loved it. How easy it was to wind him up, just a little. Reid, all nerves and restraint. Blushing down the collar of his sweater, fidgeting with his sleeves, tapping his fingers against his thigh like he didn’t know what to do with them. And the best part? He never said a word. He just took it.

By the time it hit mid-afternoon, you knew he was unraveling. He could barely sit still, couldn’t quite meet your eyes anymore, speaking faster than usual whenever Hotch called on him. You almost felt bad. Almost. But you knew he liked it. Knew he liked the way you played with him, teased him into this quietly desperate state where he couldn’t even hide it anymore. So when Hotch let you all go early—rare but not unheard of—you didn’t say much. Just caught Spencer’s gaze across the bullpen, let your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. You knew exactly what would happen. You knew he would rush home before you. You knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself.

You took your time leaving the building, pretending not to notice the way he practically bolted the moment he clocked out. You let yourself enjoy the ride home—windows cracked, music low, the faint buzz of anticipation building under your skin. When you finally unlocked the door to your shared apartment, it was almost too quiet inside. The living room was dark except for the faint glow of a lamp in the hallway. And when you stepped further in—There he was.

Spencer was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded tightly in his lap like he was forcing himself not to move.

His hair was a little messy, like he’d run his fingers through it a few too many times. His cheeks were flushed pink, and he looked up at you with these wide, pleading eyes that made your chest ache in the sweetest way.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just sat there, breathing shallowly like he was afraid one wrong move would shatter the fragile control he was clinging to. His fingers were digging into his thighs. His jaw was tight. You could tell he’d been sitting there for a while. Waiting for you. Fighting every instinct in his body to go to you instead of waiting for permission. And when you leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing your arms and tilting your head at him in a slow way— He broke.

His voice cracked low, almost inaudible,“Please touch me.”

You didn’t move right away. Didn’t answer him. Just let the words hang in the air, thick and trembling like a plucked wire between you. Spencer’s thighs twitched under his palms and you watched the way he sucked in a shaky breath, his eyes darting to yours then away again. So sweet. So desperate already. “Please,” he whispered again, softer this time.

You pushed off the doorframe slowly, every movement deliberate, predatory.

He tracked you like prey would a hunter. Wide-eyed, helpless, not even pretending he could resist you. Not tonight.

You stopped right in front of him, so close he had to tilt his head back to meet your eyes. He looked up at you like you were something holy, something he couldn’t survive without. You let the silence stretch a little longer. You’re savoring it, the way he sat there trembling with restraint. But finally, you brought your hand up— not to touch him, not yet— but to ghost your fingers along the soft waves falling over his forehead. Just barely grazing him. He shivered like you’d touched a live wire.

“You’re so good for me,” you murmured, voice low, coaxing. “You waited just for me.”

Spencer nodded quickly, his breath hitching. “Y-yeah. I did. I tried but…” He trailed off, shame flushing high up his throat.

“But what?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

He swallowed thickly, hips shifting like he couldn’t sit still. “I wanted to—wanted to touch myself. I almost did. But I didn’t. I waited. I was good.”

You smiled, slow and approving. You reached up to cup his cheek, brushing your thumb across the skin. He whimpered at even that lightest touch, like he was starving for it. So sensitive already.

“That’s good,” you said, letting the words drip off your tongue just to watch him shudder. “You waited for me. Just like you’re supposed to.” You trailed your hand down his neck, nails scratching just barely over his pulse point. It was hammering under his skin. He turned his head instinctively, trying to chase your touch. But you pulled back, making him whimper again— small and needy. You didn’t touch him where he wanted it. You let your hands skate over his shoulders, his chest, teasing at the edges of his sweater, never quite giving him what he needed. He was practically vibrating with tension, hips flexing helplessly like he couldn’t bear to sit still any longer.

“Please,” he gasped again, voice cracking wide open now.

“Please, I need— I need you, please touch me.” His hands gripped the bedsheets, white-knuckled like he was physically restraining himself from reaching out. You leaned down, brushing your lips just barely over his ear.

“You are so needy,” you whispered, loving the way he shivered all over, his breath stuttering out in a broken little moan. “All that teasing today got you worked up?” He nodded frantically, his whole body trembling with how much he wanted you. You straightened slowly, letting your fingertips finally ghost down his stomach and feeling the taut muscles jump under your hand. You could see the strain in him, the way he was trying so hard to be good and let you take the lead.

Your hand drifted lower, brushing over the bulge straining against the front of his slacks and he whined — a soft, desperate sound that barely even sounded like him anymore. You palmed him gently, not enough to give him real relief but enough to make him jolt under you. “Look at you,” you murmured, cupping him through the fabric. “So hard for me already. So desperate. Did you think about me all day, Spence?”

He nodded again, his mouth slack when you gave him the faintest squeeze.“Yeah. Couldn’t— couldn’t stop thinking about you.” You smiled sweetly and leaned down to kiss him. Slow. Deep. His hands flew up like he couldn’t help it anymore, grabbing at your hips, your waist, anything he could hold onto while you kissed him breathless. He moaned into your mouth, hips rocking up into your hand without even realizing it.

You broke the kiss, panting lightly against his lips. His eyes were blown wide with need, pupils huge. His cheeks flushed so dark it almost hurt to look at him. You stroked him a little harder through his pants now, making him arch into your touch as broken sounds spilled from his lips.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you whispered, nipping lightly at his jaw. “You gonna be good and let me make you feel good?”

“Yes,” he gasped, a helpless little cry. “I’ll be good, I swear. Just— just touch me. I need you so bad.”

You grinned against his skin, dragging your mouth down his neck, kissing and biting lightly at the flushed skin there.Your hand worked him a little faster, feeling him tremble. Hearing the soft, desperate whines he tried to muffle against your shoulder. Still not enough. Still making him wait. Because he was so pretty like this. You wanted to see him shake. You wanted to ruin him.

“Hands off,” you murmured against his skin, voice low and commanding.

He immediately let go of your waist, fisting the bedsheets instead like it physically hurt him not to touch you. You slid your hands slowly up his thighs, feeling the tremble in the muscles. He was trying so hard to be still, to be good for you. You loved him like this— pliant and obedient and absolutely desperate.

You palmed him again, firmer this time, and Spencer let out a broken little sound muffled against his own sleeve. He was soaked through already, dark stains spreading at the front of his slacks.

You smiled sweetly, running your fingers up to the button at his waistband. “So messy already,” you murmured, popping it open slowly. “You want me to take these off, baby?”

He nodded frantically, breathless.

“Yes I do— please.” You shushed him with a soft kiss to his hipbone, pulling the zipper down achingly slow. His cock strained against his boxers, thick and leaking— the fabric damp and clinging to every curve. You pulled his pants down to his knees, then tugged the boxers down just enough to free him. He hissed, hips jerking helplessly and his hands tightening in the sheets. You didn’t touch him yet. You just sat back on your heels and looked at him.

God, he was beautiful. Flushed and trembling and so hard he looked like it hurt. A bead of precum welled up at the tip, sliding slow and sticky down the shaft. You licked your lips, watching his breath stutter out at the sight. He was practically vibrating with tension, desperate for even the smallest touch. You leaned in, dragging your tongue slowly up the underside of him from base to tip, one slow lick. Spencer whimpered, hips jerking up before he caught himself. You smiled against him, wrapping your hand around the base to steady him.

“You’re doing so good,” you whispered against the head of his cock, feeling him twitch in your hand. “Just relax.” And then you took him into your mouth.

You let him feel every inch that your lips stretched tight, your tongue teasing under the sensitive head. He sobbed— a raw, broken sound that ripped out of his chest. His thighs trembled so violently you had to press your hands down on them to keep him still. You hollowed your cheeks around him, sucking slow and hard. Feeling the way his whole body shuddered under your touch.

“Oh god, please…”

You bobbed your head, slow and lazy. Dragging your mouth up and down him, savoring the way he fought to stay still. He was whimpering, barely coherent with little gasping sobs falling from his lips every time you took him deep.

You pulled back just enough to tease the tip with your tongue. You swirled slow circles around it, lapping up the sticky salt of him. He cried out, his whole body straining toward you like he couldn’t help it. You bob your head again, building a steady rhythm that had him sobbing underneath you. “I c-can’t—” he stammered, hips jerking up once before he caught himself. “Please— gonna— please let me—”

You pulled off with a filthy pop, letting his cock fall against his stomach. It was wet and angry-red and twitching. He sobbed at the loss, choking on the sound. You smiled, wiping the spit from your chin with the back of your hand.

“You don’t come yet,” you whispered, crawling him up the bed. “You know the rules, baby.”He nodded frantically, moving back for you. His cock throbbed against his stomach, leaking slick against his skin. You leaned over and kissed him, letting him taste himself on your tongue. He moaned brokenly into your mouth, hips twitching up into you helplessly. His whole body screaming for release he wasn’t allowed to have yet. When you pulled back, his lips were swollen and wet and his eyes wild. You dragged your nails down his chest, making him shudder and sat back to admire your work.

Spencer Reid— the smartest man you knew and probably in the world— reduced to a trembling, whimpering mess under your hands. And you hadn’t even fucked him yet. Not even close.

Your fingers pulled your own pants off as you watched him shiver in front of you. You threw them on the floor and moved up, straddling his waist. Letting your weight pressing lightly into him, your heat so close and yet completely out of reach. You knew he could feel the damp press of your panties against his skin— you knew it was driving him insane. You leaned in again, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear and letting your breath warm the flushed curve of it. “You’re doing so good, baby.” He whimpered softly. His hands were still clenched in the sheets, arms trembling with the effort to stay still.

“You wanna be even better for me?” you asked, kissing the corner of his jaw, dragging your lips teasingly down his neck.

He nodded like it was the only thing he knew how to do. “Y-yes. Anything. Anything you want,”

You smiled against his skin. You loved him like this— stripped raw, desperate, willing to hand over every inch of control just to please you. Slowly, you lifted your hips— letting his cock slap wetly against his stomach. He twitched under you, a helpless little jerk of his hips he couldn’t suppress. You clucked your tongue disapprovingly. “Careful,” you murmured, dragging your nails down his trembling stomach.

“Good boys know how to wait.”

Spencer whimpered again, nodding feverishly, trying to force himself back into stillness. You slid down his body, your nails scraping light trails over his skin. He flinched under every touch, every brush of your hair against his thighs, every teasing breath of yours against his cock.

When you reached for him again, you didn’t tease this time. You wrapped your hand firmly around the base of his cock, squeezing just enough to make him gasp— and then you shifted slightly, letting his cock press against the soaked gusset of your panties. He was so close, so agonizingly close. You dragged your soaked panties to the side, teasing him with the bare slick heat of your core against his leaking cock but still not taking him in. He choked on a sob, his whole body shaking with the effort to stay still. You leaned in again, whispering filth into his ear.

“You’re gonna be good for me, right?” you spoke softly, “You’re not gonna come until I tell you. You’re gonna let me use you.”

He nodded again. “Yes— I will, I will.”

You smiled and rocked your hips again, grinding your slick, soaked pussy over the length of his cock. He wailed, broken and desperate and so close he could barely think. But you didn’t let him slip over the edge.

One second Spencer was gasping under you, his flushed cock rutting helplessly against your soaked core and the next, you were guiding him to your entrance and sinking down hard. You both cried out at the contact. A tangled sound, raw and broken. He felt huge inside you, thick and hot and desperate, throbbing like a second heartbeat between your walls. You hadn’t let him finish once all night, you teased him all day and you could feel the evidence of it. The pulsing, the frantic twitch of his cock as you seated yourself fully on him. His head fell back against the pillows with a wrecked sob. He was trembling everywhere, his hands didn’t know where to go.

You rolled your hips once, experimenting. A slow, filthy grind that had him shifting under you. He was so close already— every inch of him screaming for release and you barely started moving. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, rocking your hips in lazy circles.

“Feel good, baby?” you whispered sweetly, breath ghosting across his mouth.

“Y-yeah,” he choked out, voice high but tired. “So good. S-so good. Please…”

You kissed him messy and hard, swallowing down every broken whimper he gave you as you started to ride him in earnest. Deep, grinding rolls of your hips that had your clit dragging against his pelvis, sending electric shocks of pleasure racing through your veins. You rode him like you had all the time in the world, like you didn’t care if he broke under you. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe you wanted him broken. Every grind of your hips had him moaning into you. He was making these tiny, desperate sounds with every movement. It was like he couldn’t even think anymore, like his body was stuck in a loop of mindless pleasure.

Your nails dug into his chest for leverage, dragging soft red lines down his flushed skin. The way his cock twitched helplessly inside you, the way he sobbed through clenched teeth every time you marked him up— he loved it.

You pulled back, watching him. His face was red, glazed with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead in messy strands. He looked like he’d been crying for hours. He looked beautiful.

“You’re gonna wait for me, right?” you panted, grinding down harder. Making his cock slide even deeper into your tight, wet heat. “You’re gonna wait till I cum.”

He agreed, a panting mess. “Yes, I’ll wait. I’ll wait, baby. Please— god… I’ll wait.”

You clenched down hard around him and he groaned, bucking his hips up. You slapped his thigh, a light sting. “No thrusting,” you hissed, grabbing his hips and pinning him to the mattress with your weight. “Stay still.”

He whimpered miserably but obeyed, his whole body trembling with the effort to stay locked down. You leaned in closer again, your voice low and cruel in his ear. “I’m using you right now,” you whispered, dragging your tongue along the shell of his ear. “My cock to ride. That’s all you are.”

He sobbed— actual broken, gasping sobs— his hands twisting the sheets into useless knots, his body shuddering under you. You grinned wickedly and sat up again. You rolled your hips hard and slow, grinding your clit against him, feeling that familiar coil start to tighten low in your belly. “Fuck,” you moaned, throwing your head back. He felt so good inside you. Large and pulsing helplessly with every slow drag of your pussy around him. Spencer was a wreck beneath you, his entire body slick and ready for release. His cock throbbed desperately, leaking pre-cum so freely it was making everything between you obscene. All messy and slippery and hot enough that you were sliding effortlessly up and down his length now.

You started riding him harder, faster, chasing your own release with ruthless determination. Your clit dragged over him perfectly with every grind, sparks shooting up your spine with every thrust. Spencer basically cried under you, so close to coming. But he held back. Because you told him to. Because he was so good for you.

You cried out, hips stuttering as you feel yourself tip closer and closer to the edge. Spencer whined, sensing it. He’s desperate to help, desperate to please you.

“Please,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Please cum. Please, I wanna feel you cum all over me.”

That was what did it. The sound of him begging for it. The image of his broken face under you, willing to do anything to make you feel good. You shattered around him with a cry. Grinding down hard as your orgasm ripped through you, hot and vicious and unstoppable. Your walls clenched around his cock so tight it made him moan but he didn’t move, didn’t thrust, didn’t dare break the rules.

You rode it out, grinding and gasping and moaning his name like a prayer. Your whole body was spasming against his. You could feel how close he was. So close, twitching violently inside you. On the absolute knife’s edge but you unfortunately he couldn’t have it. You collapsed against his chest, panting as your slick still dripping down over his cock, your body trembling from the force of your orgasm. Spencer whimpered brokenly under you, his cock still throbbing inside your soaked cunt, desperate for release. You smiled weakly against his neck, pressing a kiss to his damp skin. “Good,” you whispered. “You’re waiting. So good.”

And he nodded desperately— whispering a broken, “Anything for you.” Spencer was trembling beneath you, aching for permission— his flushed face twisted up in pure desperation, the tendons in his neck straining like he was fighting every instinct his body had.

You stroked his messy hair back from his forehead, smiling softly at how ruined he looked and how good he’d been for you. Still hard inside you, still leaking so much you were both soaked down to the sheets, still waiting for your word.

“Amazing,” you whispered, kissing his sweaty temple. “You did so good for me.”

He whimpered, his hand still twitching against the sheets like he didn’t know what to do with them. You shifted slowly, feeling the way his cock jerked inside you at the smallest movement. At how painfully ready he was. You pressed your forehead to his and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. “You wanna cum now, hmm?” you whispered, voice low and sweet and almost cruel in how gentle it was.

“Yes,” he sobbed immediately, voice cracking. “I’ve been s-so good for you, please let me cum—”

Your heart twisted with how earnest he was, how sweet and broken he sounded. He needed it— needed it like he needed air. “Okay, baby,” you whispered against his mouth. “You can cum for me. Fill me up, sweetheart. Wanna feel you let go.” You barely finished the sentence before he broke. A ragged, helpless cry tore out of him. It was loud and raw and utterly shattered. His hips finally snapped up into you, his whole body convulsing. You felt the first hot, desperate pulse of his release inside you. All thick and messy and endless as he sobbed through it, clinging to you like he thought he’d float away.

“That’s it,” you cooed, cradling his head, letting him rut helplessly into you, riding out the orgasm that had been bottled up inside him all night.

“That’s it, baby. Good boy. So good.”

He was still whimpering even as he came. With tiny, broken sounds, his thighs shaking softly. His hips stuttered and spasmed under you, fucking his cum deeper inside you with messy, frantic thrusts. It kept going— like all the teasing had pent up so much inside him he physically couldn’t stop. You let him, whispering soothing things in his ear, holding him tight, anchoring him as he emptied himself into you with desperate, shuddering cries. When he finally sagged back against the bed, spent and whimpering and completely wrecked, you kissed him gently— slow, soft, almost chaste.

“There you go,” you whispered.

“You did amazing. So good f’me.”

He made a tiny, broken noise in the back of his throat. His fingers clumsily tried to grab at you, too dazed to actually get a grip. You smiled and wrapped his arms around your waist yourself, letting him cling to you like a lifeline. You shifted carefully, pulling off of him with a soft and wet slide, making him whimper again at the loss. Everything spilled out all over him. You immediately moved to soothe him— kissing his forehead.

“Shhh,” you murmured, reaching down for the towel you’d left by the bed earlier. You cleaned him up gently, wiping the mess on him, being careful not to overstimulate his flushed and still hard cock. He let out a soft, broken whine when you touched him but relaxed again the second you kissed his temple and whispered sweet nothings into his hair. When you were done, you tossed the towel aside and pulled the covers up around both of you, settling him carefully against your chest.

Spencer curled into you immediately, pressing his face into the curve of your neck, his arms wrapping around you with surprising strength for how he was. You stroked his hair, combed your fingers through the damp, messy waves, kissed the crown of his head over and over.

“You were so good f’me,” you whispered against his skin. “Took it so well.”

He made a soft, happy noise against your throat. It was so quiet it was almost a purr. You held him like that for a long time— just breathing together, skin against skin, warmth sinking deep into your bones. Every few minutes he would nuzzle closer, whimper something soft and unintelligible and you’d shush him gently, soothing him back down. You didn’t rush him. Didn’t ask for anything more. You just let him be held, safe and loved and yours. Eventually, his breathing evened out, his muscles relaxing fully against you and you realized he’d finally drifted off— exhausted and blissed out and completely undone. You smiled to yourself, closing your own eyes.

[cuzxai]

wash it away - sfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: shower after a tough case!

The water is already running when you find him in the hotel bathroom, steam curling around the edges of the door like an invitation. Spencer doesn’t look at you when you step in. He’s standing under the spray, still in his boxers and FBI t-shirt, arms braced against the tile like he’s holding himself upright by sheer will.

You shut the door quietly. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t speak but you hear it in the way his breath hitches—he knows it’s you. Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt and peel it off. Your clothes hit the floor one by one, soft and damp with the weight of the day and when you step in behind him, the warmth of the water feels like it might crack you open.

“Spence,” you whisper, hands coming to his hips.

His breath catches again and after a moment, he leans back into you just a little. Enough. “I couldn’t save her,” he says, voice barely audible over the water. “She was just a kid.”

You press your forehead to his back, hold him tighter. “I know. I know, baby.”

There’s nothing to fix it. No statistic, no profile, no gentle rationalization. Just this. His skin against yours, the rhythmic patter of water, the ache you both carry in different places. He turns slowly, wet curls clinging to his face, eyes red but dry. “You okay?” he asks, like he didn’t just collapse into your arms.

You nod. “I am.”

He touches your cheek with careful fingers, thumb tracing under your eye like he’s trying to memorize the way you hurt. You guide him under the spray, let the water soak him through again. He watches you quietly as you lather your hands with shampoo, eyes soft as you reach up and gently massage it into his scalp. His lashes flutter. He sighs.

“Feels nice,” he murmurs, barely there.

“You deserve nice,” you say, rubbing gentle circles behind his ears. “Even after today.”

He cups your wrists when you rinse him off, as if to anchor himself to you. When he does the same for you—washing your hair, gliding soap down your arms like you’re made of glass—it’s like penance and worship wrapped into one. Neither of you speaks much after that. The words are all in your fingertips, in the way his palm rests over your heart, in the way you lean into his chest with your arms around his waist. Just holding. Just breathing. When the water finally turns cold, neither of you moves to shut it off. He kisses your temple, slow and soft.

“We’ll be okay,” he whispers, as if saying it makes it real. And maybe it does.

[cuzxai]

Hi. Can you please write a story where Spencer Reid is an unsub.? And he doesn't get caught, but he tells himself after a couple of years, like 20? Where is Reid the most wanted criminal? But no one knows when Reid is that Criminal.? He terrorizes everyone. And kills a lot of people? In all kinds of ways, but no one knows he's an Unsub?

hi so do you want a fic or like a series? if i ever write a series it most likely wont be off of a request because the lack of plot everyone gives in prompts, if i did make a series from a request itd be very short.

when i write this would you like me to literally just go through his head space and all the things that happen or like?? im sorry im a little slow, i feel dumb but the way you wrote it out i dont really understand it? (i mean this in the kindest way possible)

[cuzxai]

behind closed doors - suggestive

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: you and spence getting caught ALMOST in the act (god i love the coloring i made the picture)

Rossi only threw a party when something dramatic happened. A retirement, a promotion, once even a divorce but this one? This was his “we survived another goddamn year” celebration, complete with catered hors d’oeuvres and enough wine to knock out the entire Bureau. The man had taste, you’d give him that. His house, as always, looked like a catalog spread for Tuscan luxury: polished floors, oil paintings, dramatic lighting. You were somewhere between the foyer and the kitchen island, nursing a glass of sparkling water and trying not to look like you were waiting for someone. Because you weren’t. Not officially. Spencer hadn’t arrived yet.

The rest of the team was already mingling. JJ and Will were tucked into a corner with Garcia, who looked radiant in a sequined wrap dress and held a glass of something suspiciously neon. Emily was talking to one of Rossi’s old profiler friends while Morgan was at the bar charming the hell out of a woman who was definitely not in the FBI. You kept your cool. You were good at that. Trained for it. But your eyes flicked to the door every time it opened.

“Stop looking so nervous,” Emily said suddenly, drifting past you with her glass. “This isn’t a debrief. Drink more.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lied.

“Uh-huh.” She gave you a knowing look over her shoulder and vanished into the next conversation.

You weren’t nervous. You were just tense. You and Spencer had been doing this thing. This not-quite-official, definitely-against-Bureau-policy thing for almost six months. Meetings at his place. Late-night calls. “Accidental” lunch breaks taken at the same time. All of it lived in the shadows, and both of you liked it that way. Mostly. But tonight was the first time you’d be in the same space as him with everyone else since you’d started sleeping together. You hadn’t seen him all week. You didn’t know if he’d sneak you a look, a touch, anything. You didn’t even know what he was wearing. Then the door opened and you knew. Dark grey blazer. Rolled cuffs. His hair a little longer than usual, curling at the ends. You caught his eyes from across the room and your stomach dropped in the best possible way.

Spencer looked at you like he wanted to devour you. And no one else noticed.

He moved through the room in that awkward, polite way of his, nodding to a few people, lingering to greet Garcia with a quick hug but his gaze kept sliding back to you. You kept sipping your drink to avoid biting your lip. Ten minutes passed before he finally found his way to your side. Casual. Relaxed. Like he didn’t need to be next to you but it helped.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Hey yourself.” You didn’t look at him, just kept your focus on the charcuterie board like you were talking about cheese instead of actively trying not to remember the way he kissed when he was desperate. “Took you long enough.”

“There was traffic.”

“There’s never traffic in Quantico.”

He smiled. “Then maybe I was waiting for the right moment.” You did bite your lip that time.

There were too many people around to say anything else. You could feel the tension sparking between you like static electricity, flickering beneath your skin. He kept his distance but his arm brushed yours once, twice and you felt it all the way down your spine.

“So,” you said eventually, pretending to reach for a cracker. “You planning on behaving tonight?”

Spencer tilted his head. “Are you?” You almost choked.

Luckily, Morgan appeared beside you both, sipping a beer and already halfway into a grin. “Look at you two standing there like secret agents. Lighten up. It’s a party. Reid, you actually drink wine or just quote facts about it?”

“I prefer wine to beer,” Spencer said without missing a beat. “But Rossi has an open bar. I might try something new.”

“Oh god,” you muttered under your breath. “Somebody stop him.”

Morgan laughed and wandered off again. Spencer leaned closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

“You want to get out of here?”

Your pulse jumped. He wasn’t asking to leave the party. You glanced around. Emily was deep in conversation, Garcia and JJ were swapping stories, and Derek was already headed back to the living room. Nobody was watching. Nobody cared.

“Where?” you whispered.

“There’s a guest room upstairs,” he said. “Third door on the left.” You hesitated. Only for a second. But the way he looked at you—quiet, intense, wanting—it overruled every single warning bell in your head. You nodded once and stepped away from the table.

“Wait five minutes,” you said. “Then follow.”

Spencer didn’t smile, didn’t wink. Just tilted his head again and let you walk away. You took the stairs slowly, your pulse roaring in your ears. The upstairs hallway was quieter, dimly lit. You found the door—third on the left—and slipped inside. It was a cozy room. Rossi style, of course. Big bed. Window seat. A mirror. Dim lamplight casting gold across the walls. You didn’t touch anything, just stood there, waiting. Listening. One minute. Two. The door creaked open behind you. You turned and Spencer was already locking it. He didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room, calm and deliberate and kissed you like he hadn’t touched you in weeks. You made a soft sound, pressing into him, gripping his shirt and dragging him back until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You didn’t waste time. Neither of you did. You knew what this was.

Clothes half-on, mouths locked, hands everywhere. Spencer kissed you like he was making up for lost time, like he needed you to breathe. Your legs wrapped around him instinctively as he lowered you to the bed, and you couldn’t stop the noise that escaped your throat when he would grind against you.

“God,” he whispered against your neck. “You’re gonna be so good.”

You clung to him, burying your face in his shoulder. It was fast and hot and messy, the kind that came from too many nights of wanting and not being able to have. You bit your lip to stay quiet, nails digging into his back as he moved his fingers into the waistband of your pants. One of his hands pressed against your mouth. It was good. It was so damn good.

And then the door opened. You froze. Spencer froze.

“Yo—” Morgan’s voice rang out, then cut off with a sharp laugh. “Oh, shit. My bad!”

You couldn’t even look. You heard him snort, heard the unmistakable smugness in his tone.

“Reid getting play,” Derek said. “Did not see that coming.”

Then the door clicked shut. Silence. Spencer’s fingers were still inside you. His breath hitched, face buried in your neck. You lay there, stunned, blinking at the ceiling.

“…we’re never living that down,” you muttered.

Spencer just groaned.

[cuzxai]

oh my gosh

Room for three

Nobody knows about the contract you signed to be your boss’s sub until Spencer finds the document. Aaron proposes a deal in exchange for his silence.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 4.8k Content: threesome, sub/dom dynamic, female and male oral, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, creampie(s) a/n: kinktober in may because it’s @lavenderspence birthday who helped me brainstorm this fic months ago but hey it’s never too late so here is the long awaited fic that i’m dedicating to the birthday girl. ily<333

The wordless creed of submission was a scripture you could never decipher.

That is, until you met Aaron Hotchner. Five years of sterile professionalism, save for one fateful night with too high adrenaline and a sex drive you hadn’t even known you possessed. He’s disturbingly good at coaxing it too (pinning you against his office door, bending you over his desk, binding your wrists to the headrest in the back of his car), and soon a new normal of three sexy times a week for two breathless months doesn’t seem quite enough.

Surprising, for someone too independent to ever trust a man so completely. But twenty-four-seven isn’t ideal, was what he’d pointed out with a wry little smile when he realized there was no sign of jest as you offered — no, begged — to be cinched to his hip every single day. Tempting, but some ground rules still had to be laid down.

That’s when the negotiation starts.

Night after night you find yourselves talking, and suddenly your vocabulary is filled with terms you’d never imagined discussing outside bureau protocol. Hard limits and soft boundaries. Carefully planned visits. He even tested a few daring suggestions you’d never imagined yourself fantasizing about, intriguing you as much as they embarrass you.

Although mortification isn’t the problem. You’re a born profiler with an inconvenient instinct to study every new stimulus; curiosity is your ruin, so to speak. If shame were meant to deter you, it should’ve chosen a less enticing disguise.

Granted, you’re not exactly surprised when you slip into Aaron’s motel room and spot another presence waiting. You find Spencer like that, standing warily at the foot of the bed, looking strangely out of place despite the fact your knees had brushed in the SUV only an hour ago.

But your heart does a little somersault. A silly patter that spreads through your chest with the dizzy certainty that an idea you’ve only read in ink is about to be written in flesh.

The clause was tucked near the end of the contract — “the introduction of a third participant at the discretion of the primary.” You’d half-skimmed those last few pages, disbelief blurring the words when you couldn’t quite fathom that your fantasies had been printed and bound like actual paperwork.

It’s one thing to discuss it verbally, another thing entirely to see it embodied in your hands like an actual scripture.

“I just want you to feel safe,” Aaron had said, which struck you as almost redundant. You already felt safe without having these stipulations spelled out in twelve-point font. Still, you picked up the pen, humored his need for formalities, and wrote your name in deliberate strokes.

And with Spencer hovering a few unsure steps from the bed tonight, that small flourish of ink seems to glow on the page in your memory.

“You’re late,” Aaron greets from the other side of the room, and closes the space between you in three easy strides.

“Emily cornered me in the hallway," you say, meeting him halfway for a kiss before nudging back, a wry smile on your lips. “So I’m guessing he knows about us?”

His gaze flicks to Spencer before settling back on you. “He found our contract.”

Your brows curve into a frown. “You mean… he found the thing just lying around?”

“Not exactly." He gives a curt shake of his head. "It was on my desk. Didn’t think he’d come in without knocking.”

"Aaron."

“It was an oversight," he tries to defend himself. He spares you the detail that Spencer apparently read enough to memorize every clause and condition. You’re already eyeing him dubiously.

“And why is he here now?”

The same logic that led Aaron to keeping him here.

“For his silence.”

"You’re blackmailing him?”

The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Of course not. I’d call it leveraging a situation for mutual understanding."

“That is the prettiest way I’ve ever heard someone describe blackmail.”

A soft shuffle of shoes answers you from behind.

“It isn’t blackmail,” Spencer interjects. “He didn’t force me into anything. I wanted to understand what was going on and—” He falters at the subtle, expectant tilt of Aaron’s head, then clears his throat and finishes, “—and now I do.”

Aaron’s hand finds its way to your waist. “Are you okay with this?”

Are you?

You don’t answer immediately. It isn’t indecision that holds your tongue to the roof of your mouth, rather the slow crawl of anticipation that coils low in your belly. Skittering around your hips.

Oddly enough, the prospect doesn’t rattle you the way it once did when you first traced those lines in the contract. You’d just never thought the day would actually arrive, and certainly not today, with Spencer, of all people.

You can almost hear the flutter of his pulse from here, see the quiet calculations ticking behind lowered lashes as he tries to stand perfectly still. He’s cinched into his cardigan that's smoothed flat over narrow shoulders, and you’d be lying if you claimed you’d never wondered what hid beneath all those layers of neatly pressed wool.

Pure curiosity, you reason. Curiosity fed by the sparks you’ve caught in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking. A sweep of hazel that dips down your neckline, or by the restless twitch of his fingers whenever your perfume drifts too close. And you’ve idly speculated, maybe more than once, whether those fidgeting hands would feel rough on your skin or as soft as the flush rising in his cheeks.

You let the quiet stretch for one more heartbeat, watching his gaze snag on the top of your blouse before darting back up.

Heat coils languid and sweet inside you.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m okay. I think.”

“Need you to be sure, sweetheart.”

“I’m okay,” you repeat, trying to smooth out your voice. Maybe saying it once more will solidify your confidence. “I’m really okay.”

Aaron’s palm tightens at your waist. “Color?”

It takes you a while to understand what he means, but when you do, you feel the answer rise with the next breath you take.

“Green.”

“Good, if at any point it changes, you tell me.”

You give him a slight dip of your head.

"Reid, come here."

Spencer obeys before he seems aware he’s moving. One cautious step, then another, until you can feel the anxious energy rippling off him. He’s close enough now that the crease of your knee nearly grazes the front of his slacks. Close enough you can catch the soft quiver in his limbs.

Your own chest tightens at the sheer proximity, but whatever butterflies flit through you aren’t half as fierce as the ones etched across his tense shoulders and downturned gaze.

“Spence, it’s okay, you can touch me," you offer.

He curls his fingers into fists, chords of tendon shifting under skin gone too pale.

He’s overthinking, of course. Mental gears grinding loud enough to drown out his own pulse. It’s his nature to second-guess and dissect unfamiliar situations from every angle. He did it when he first spotted the contract on Aaron’s desk, when Aaron quietly invited him here, even when he agreed to come of his own free will. But standing in front of you knots those gears tighter.

Enumerate risks, assign probability, choose the safest option.

The safest option, though, he realizes, is the most dangerous one.

But the real danger isn’t the touch itself. It’s how a single brush of fingertips will shatter his neatly ordered rules.

Consent redraws the margins while he continues to study. You give him an expectant look, Aaron seals it with a nod, and suddenly the universe has shrunk to three conspirators orbiting a single point of contact.

So he closes the last inch between you. Pulls in the same measured breath he’s perfected on the firing line. One, two, three — on four his fingertips drift forward, brushing the sleeve of your blouse. The cotton vibrates under his knuckles, yet even through the fabric he can feel the pliant warmth of your skin. He coaxes higher along your arm, sliding past the cuff and onto the bare flesh of your shoulder.

You’re warmer here, silken, and the softness doubles when his hand cups the delicate column of your neck, thumb resting in the hollow below your jaw. Softest of all, though, is the sight that meets him when he finally lifts his gaze. Plump, glossy petals of dewy lips.

Gone is every ounce of hesitation.

He steel himself for the question hanging on his lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

Useless, of course, when you’re already leaning in.

So he does, carrying the bite of burnt motel coffee and a trace of whatever dessert he demolished tonight. You also catch the tang of his nerves on your tongue. He’s a jumble of sensations — confused, curious, ravenous, and that ripple of hunger makes itself known as he nudges his cock against your hip. The pressure loosens your knees, and just as you begin to sync with the eager pull of his mouth, another hard pressure claims the space behind.

Aaron’s obvious bulge slots perfectly between your ass, as well as the way his mouth latches along the spot where your pulse flutters the most.

It’s nearly impossible to keep your heartbeat steady when attention comes in perfect pairs.

Two mouths tracing heat.

Two cocks hemming you in.

Two sets of hands shaping your body — a pair cupping your breasts firmly, another holding your hip while the last hand dips over the fabric covering your mound.

It takes a drowsy, blinking inhale before you realize it’s Spencer coaxing pleasure through the damp cloth. A new type of pleasure that comes with new territory as his fingers slide in patient circles, translating curiosity into confidence with every slow stroke. It’s a novel kind of surrender that eclipses the rules you thought you understood with Aaron alone.

This is a submission refracted through two different types of needs. Circumstances might look like you’re completely helpless with two men manhandling you, but somehow you've never felt more powerful.

And that power consumes you, bleeding warmth into your skin until it feels like you’re burning from the inside out. Flooding every nerve, soaking through your pores until even the hum of the air conditioner feels weak against the sweat beading at the small of your back.

Aaron feels the tremor beneath his palm.

“Too hot?”

You manage a weak nod. “Mhm.”

He quickly moves to remedy it. He won’t have his sweet girl suffering for even a second longer than necessary. His fingers skim down your blouse, carefully slipping buttons through holes before Spencer’s eager hands join him — unhooking, unbuttoning, and sliding the rest of your clothes off until there’s nothing left between you and the open air.

Your lungs finally fill without the last scrap of fabric, though each inhale stays shallow. The stark contrast between your bare skin and the layers of their tailored shirts and pressed slacks only sharpens the ache gathering low in your belly. You’re so wound up that a slow, insistent throb of liquid seeps between the snug folds of your cunt.

Aaron is quick to notice, too. He’s already attuned to your body by now, the way gooseflesh ripples up your thighs the moment you try to squeeze them together for relief. Before you’ve even fully registered it, his arm loops around your waist, guiding you a step back toward the bed.

In one smooth pull you’re lifted, settled astride his lap. “I think we should show him how wet you are.”

You lean back, heart hammering in your chest.

In another life, shame would color your cheeks, but in this one, you’re too keenly aware of your own arousal as his hands hook under your thighs, spreading your legs apart.

Spencer falls to his knees. And wets his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the sheen glistening between your legs — pretty and glossy without a single touch from either of them, and he wonders how much more of a mess he can make of you. That thought sends two fingers pressing against the swollen outer lips, gently stretching them for a better view of your anatomy as he breathes in your musky scent.

God, you smell delicious.

He bets you taste just as good too.

As if drown to a magnetic pull, he leans in and lets the tip of his tongue flick against the tender spot of your clit.

You’re not sure if the gasp that escapes your lips is louder than the rush of blood pounding in your ears. Spencer hears it, feels it, and takes it as permission. He lingers, gently at first, tracing delicate circles that coax your clit into a throbbing fullness until the once shy nub swells under the next pass of his tongue.

The hammering behind your eyes barrels down your veins, skimming collarbones and ribcage, rushing through your gut before pooling right where his mouth is working. Broad laps that drag from your slick entrance to the tip. Sucks a plush fold of your labia into his mouth, testing delicate skin with gentle tugs.

Your next exhale comes out as a moan, and Aaron marvels at the sound. “Feels good?”

Good is an anemic word — barely a quarter of what’s sluicing through you when Spencer curls his tongue inside your tight walls. Pleasure radiates in hot pulses, and language dissolves on your tongue as your head lolls helplessly against Aaron’s shoulder.

He tries to press you again. Hooks a finger beneath your jaw to tilt your chin up, leaving a ghost of space that tempts you to close your mouth around him. He pulls away when you lean in.

“Good, sweetheart?”

He clearly wants an answer. So you give him one — stretch your voice into the space he’s carved for you.

“S’good.”

“Yeah?”

Your hips stutter into Spencer’s mouth. “Yes—yes. Good.”

You're finally rewarded with a kiss and a groan between your legs.

Shame really has nothing on you. Your body is on fire, and the only thing that matters is the taste of his lips plastered against yours while Spencer’s mouth devours you in greedy lungfuls. Drags his tongue slow and heavy across the entire span of your cunt as the faint rasp of his jaw scrapes against your inner thighs.

You’re hardly surprised by how your orgasm coils fast. Starts as a scatter of static in your toes, slithers up your calves and welds the muscles of your thighs as Spencer’s mouth seals around you, lips locking, tongue pressing. Instinct has your legs snapping shut around his head, but a low disapproving sound from Aaron vibrates on your mouth, cuts through your blinding haze.

“No, no—spread them open,” he tuts, prying your legs wider. “Let him take care of you.”

You can only whine in response.

Your thoughts knot and unravel in the same breath, slipping through your grasp the moment they begin to form. Words dissolve. Time warps. You're reduced to pure reaction — tiny, involuntary gasps that stutter out between parted lips. You can't keep still. Can't breathe deep. Every inhale shudders. Heat blooms at the base of your skull, racing along nerve paths until your toes curl in suspended air.

Then it hits again. But his mouth doesn’t stop the mess he's made of you. Slick glistens down his chin, streaking into the shallow hollows of his cheeks, pooling in the groove where his jaw meets his neck. He tilts his head, adjusting just enough to keep you pinned with legs spread wide and twitching as he slurps you up with intense hunger.

A keening cry rips free before you can swallow it.

Aaron notices it. Sees the way you nearly go cross-eyed towards the ceiling, jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose.

“Reid,” he warns.

Spencer barely blinks.

“Reid.”

His voice continues to fall on deaf ears.

“Reid.”

It isn’t until Aaron firmly pushes his head away that Spencer finally snaps out of it. His eyes dart up to meet Aaron’s, then to you, chest rising and falling as though suddenly realizing the state he’s left you in.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” there’s an edge of guilt in his voice. His gaze drops back to your swollen clit, overly sensitive from his relentless attention, and moves in to press a soft, almost apologetic kiss to it. “I’m sorry.”

Your hips jerk at the contact.

Aaron rests a hand over your thigh, “Let’s give her a minute.”

You finally manage to clamp your mouth shut.

It does seem wise to wait until your heartbeat evens out, let your pulse crawl back down from its wild pitch. Yet the space they leave empty aches just as sharply. All you can feel is emptiness and the gnawing urge to be filled, so you shift in Aaron’s lap, sliding forward until your hips brush the sharply pressed crease of his slacks.

“I’m fine,” you blurt out. “I can keep going.”

Aaron’s palm spans your stomach. “I don’t want to push you too far.”

“You're not,” you insist, and with desperation digging its claws way too deep in your chest, you add, “Please?"

His lips curl into a knowing smile. You're practically bleating, and he’s absolutely smitten. "You're begging already."

You are, and you'd gladly do it again. Say it sweeter, say it filthier. You’ve learned to like begging, learned how easy it sits on your tongue when it earns you that look.

"Need you, Aaron."

He looks absolutely pleased.

“You need me?" His gaze slips towards Spencer, still crouched between your thighs, wetting his lips. "Or do you need him?”

Your mouth opens before you can think—

“Need you both.”

Which, after years spent of working alongside them, is something you never expected to admit.

But the honesty on your tongue tastes absolutely sweet.

Everything then unravels in a blur of impatient hands. Buttons pop, zippers slip, fabric rustles to the floor in a blur of motion you’ll replay later but can’t quite track now. Your own senses tunnel to the snap of Spencer’s belt, the soft thud of Aaron’s shoes hitting carpet, the sigh of crisp cotton sliding from skin.

By the time the last scrap of fabric has hit the floor, you’re stretched on your side atop the cool sheets with Aaron’s solid heat pressed along your back. He braces your leg up, while the blunt crown of his cock teases the slick seam of your cunt. You’re already dripping, so incredibly wet that one firm push has the soft flesh of your hole bulging around his girth when he sinks all the way.

It doesn’t dull the shock of intrusion, though. Aaron is all all weight and pulsing veins, and no matter how many times he’s fucked you senseless, you never quite get used to how he stretches you open. The burn hits sharp, then dissolves into a syrupy ache you drink down willingly.

You also swallow around the thick head of Spencer’s cock pressing to your mouth, feeling the bitter tang dissolve on your tongue as he pauses to gauge your reaction. Your first instinct is disbelief. It boggles your mind how someone built so lanky and lithe can carry such surprising weight, but instead you let a tiny, encouraging nod.

It's all it takes for him to nudge forward.

He lets out a tiny gasp, hips stuttering as your warmth envelopes the only part your mouth can comfortably take. A shiver races through his frame, and before he can stop himself, one hand threads into your hair with a desperate grip. He’s trying so hard to be gentle, but his pelvis gives a needy push.

You choke around the force punching your throat.

Aaron immediately slows his own rhythm behind you. “Reid, control yourself,” he warns. “Won’t have you hurting her.”

You pull back just enough to steal a breath.

“No—” You swallow, eyes darting up to meet Spencer’s wide, worried gaze. “It’s okay. Do it again.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I like it,” you manage, and Aaron’s brows lift slightly. He’s never taken you too roughly. Binding you with his tie is an exercise in restraint, a blindfold a test of trust, and when it comes to edging, his patience is almost cruel in its tenderness. He likes to think his dominance is a careful thing.

But clearly he underestimated you. Especially when you lift your gaze to Spencer with glassy, luminous eyes.

“You can use my mouth,” you say softly, a little bashfully. “I want you to.”

The confession snaps something loose in Aaron. He grunts, hikes your leg higher and plunges into you with reckless speed. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he grits out. “Didn’t know you liked it so rough.”

Your clammy back slides against his chest every time he drives into you. “I-I did, you’re just a big softie.”

He gives you another grunt against your bare shoulder while Spencer tries to catch your attention again, brushing a damp strand of hair clinging to your cheek.

“Are you sure?”

You don’t think you’ve ever been this certain.

Confidence has never felt so visceral when you know what you want, and the idea someone as awkward as Spencer surrendering to hunger enough to use your mouth only slicks you further around Aaron’s cock.

So you tilt your head back shamelessly, tongue slipping out in a languid sweep over your lower lip.

And how can he possibly resist?

He wraps his hand around the back of your skull, palm splayed wide and fingers tangling in your hair as he thrusts forward. Sets a smooth languid pace, slow enough you can feel every rigid vein drag across your tongue. Most times he glides in with practiced care, more often than not, the bulbous tip of his cock bumps up against discomfort that lingers just the shy of pain.

Tears prick your lashes, a throbbing ache begins to set in your jaw, but you force your muscles to relax. Concentrate on the rush of air through your nose.

Inhale, exhale.

Gag.

Swallow.

Soft wiry curls brush the sensitive curve of your nose with each thrust as you continue to let him mold your throat into his own perfect fit. He fills your mouth with the same certainty Aaron fills your cunt, so that no inch of you remains untouched.

You’re a mess of body fluids. Spit runs from the corners of your mouth, sweat paints your bruising skin. But it’s your pussy that bears the most, swollen and slick beyond reason, you’re so thoroughly fucked that every plunge punches a shameless squelch into the air. Bounces off the faded wallpaper and the brittle plaster of an old building that has seen better days. Decades, even.

This place couldn’t be further from luxury. It’s a simple nondescript motel on the edge of this town that’s only available where the stench of cheap detergent and stale air barely masks the lingering scent of old cigarettes. Though the sagging mattress is more than enough to cradle you between two bodies in a sweaty, desperate mess.

And desperation thickens the air, thick as summer humidity. Aaron’s thrusts grow sloppy, grip bruising your skin as he pants against your ear, “Not gonna last long, sweetheart.”

You don’t think you’re going to last any longer either. Not when the sheer force of his pace makes it impossible to focus on anything else. It’s becoming too much, and Spencer seems to notice your fractured gasps muffled around his shaft. He looks at you through heavy lids and takes pity on your predicament, pulls himself out of your mouth and sits back on his heels.

You still catch the sight of him fisting his cock through the mist clouding your eyes, but even that melts away when Aaron’s lips find the shell of your ear, whispering all the filthy things that ruins what’s left of your fragile composure.

Always so good to me.

That’s it, taking me so well.

—my sweet, sweet girl.

But it isn’t until his voice drops lower that your body responds without permission.

“Gonna fill you up, yeah?” His teeth graze your earlobe. “You'll let me do that?”

Your cunt squeezes him so fiercely that he chokes on a grunt. Slides a heavy palm right at the supple flesh of your belly.

“Or you gonna let both of us fill you up?”

You feel your muscles tensing—

“Let him fuck my cum back into you?"

And moan unabashedly.

The sounds spilling from your throat hardly seem like your own. You try to marshal a proper syllable, but it simply melts on your tongue before it can crawl past your lips. What comes instead is an automatic stutter of nods, frantic little jerks of your head because he’s your boss, isn’t he? And good subordinates follow orders dutifully.

“That’s right,” Aaron croons. “Knew you’d take it. Such a good girl for me, aren't you?"

You nod even harder, grinding back against his ruthless thrusts while he keeps spinning those filthy words.

“Gonna be so full, sweetheart. Mess dripping out this pretty pussy."

The picture he paints is enough to tip you over the edge.

Pleasure snaps bright and violent. Your vision splinters into shards of glittering light as your cunt clamps down around him, walls fluttering in rapid spasms that slowly jerk his own release.

Aaron groans, fingers biting into the soft give of your skin while he keeps you chained. Holds you still as he floods your insides, heavy spurts that seem to pool deep in your belly before trickling down every fold of your flesh. Trickles weave along your swollen lips, mars the plush curve of your ass — stains your already wet thighs as he gently slips free.

You’re in no state to protest when he drags your limp body across tangled sheets. You don’t even have the strength to lift your head as he tucks you effortlessly under his chin, back to his chest, letting yourself dissolve between thick thighs. Your skin is burning fresh from the tremor clinging in your core.

Your lungs still stutter, but your pulse is clamoring for more.

Seldom have you seen Spencer move with such quiet certainty. He sinks to his knees between your quivering thighs, and the dim lamplight silvers the slick shine on his cock as he guides it through the creamy mess clinging to your folds. Quite repulsive, but nothing less than a wicked kind of fascination.

Clearly he sees the appeal — why else would he press the rounded crown against your hole, only to have you seize around him even after being stretched so thoroughly? Mesmerized is a better way to put it as he tries to rut deeper, and with every inch your pretty cunt swallows, he wonders why he’s wasted years fussing over germs when raw pleasure like this exists.

When you simply exist.

He lets out a pleased sigh when you finally stretch around him (takes a moment of more slow rocking and a hissed curse you’ve never heard from his lips) as your eyes hone in on the spot where your bodies merge. Hips flushed, pelvis snug, coarse hair pressed against your puffy clit, and you feel a stab of fullness that spirals straight into your spine.

It doesn’t take long for him to fuck you then.

Like a man possessed, too.

Your nails bite into Aaron’s thighs. Claws sinking into warm flesh as you brace yourself for every brutal thrust Spencer rams into you. The force sends your tits bouncing with each snap of his hips, and Aaron’s hands are there in an instant — rough palms claiming the soft weight, wicked thumbs skating over taut peaks. Rolls them between calloused fingers with just enough pressure to sting your eyes.

The rapture on your face is barely recognizable anymore. Pinched and overwhelmed, you don’t notice him abandoning your perky nipples to skim down your torso until the pruny pads of his fingertips find your soaking clit.

Your back arches off his chest.

“Fuuuck—” you wail, “gonna c-come.”

He can see that. It’s painfully, beautifully obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re right on the edge again for what must be the hundredth time tonight. And Aaron doesn’t think of himself as cruel. Far from it, really. But watching your body almost folded in half has him feeling absolutely wicked.

His voice is toothy sweet as he rubs firm circles against your poor, overstimulated clit. “I know, sweetheart. Gonna come again from being used?”

“Ah, ah—baby—p-please—”

“Gonna soak his cock for me? Show him how good my girl is?”

“Aaron—!”

“Mmm? What’s that?” He hums lazily. “You want me to stop?”

A desperate whine tears from your throat, and your shaking fingers clutch at the coarse hair on his forearm. His muscles flex beneath your grip, then loosen, then tighten. All it earns you is an amused laugh and an open-mouthed kiss to your cheek.

“Oh, my pretty girl. Greedy little thing can’t even decide, can you?”

“I— I can— I want—”

“Shh,” he soothes, though his touch only grows faster. Rubs your tight little bud as your hips buck shamelessly into the twofold stimulation. “No need to think, sweetheart, that’s my job. Yours is to take it, isn’t it?”

Your words slur into a quiet sob—

“You can take it, I know you can—yes—yes, that’s it, sweetie, give it to us. Come on, just like that—”

—before it blares into the stale air.

The back of your heels kick the mattress the moment you come around his word.

Spencer does too, lungs pummeled when your cunt squeeze around his length, gripping him like a steel vise.

He feels it all the way down to his bones, feels the ache radiating from his groin to his thighs and into the small of his back with every pulse of cum that hammers into you. His hips jerk in a frantic rhythm that no amount of bliss can slow, even when the swollen head of his cock nudges the soft resistance of your cervical lip, seeking a depth that simply doesn’t exist.

Still, he grinds deeper, crushing the distance until you’re stuffed full with an ironclad grip on your thighs.

“S-Spence…”

“A bit more,” he rasps. “Promise. Just a little more.”

That little fills you to the absolute brim.

It feels like his own pulse is tangled in the tight press of your walls.

And you’ve never known the smell of sex this strong. The air all but congeals when he finally pulls out, a slow, sticky slide that draws silken filaments of white from your used, swollen hole as three pairs of eyes lock onto the streak.

Yours is a little bleary. You can’t tell which milky ribbon belongs to whom, whose thick release is swirling with the gloss of your own slick, or which heartbeat drums the loudest in the tight space between your bodies. Breath, heat, and sweat fold together until the three of you feel like a single organism with too many limbs and just one shared lung.

Not that it matters. None of you seem particularly bothered by the lack of space. Aaron reclines against the creaky headboard, cradling most of your weight across his chest while Spencer draws lazy patterns over your sated thighs.

You don’t mind in the least. In fact, you bask in them both, drifting in the strange yet comforting irony that it took a misplaced contract for you to realize intimacy could be plural. You never expected it to multiply so neatly.

Some connections, it seems, don’t fit into singular terms at all.

Later that night, when the two men almost twice your size crowd you in the cramped bathroom, you realize your thoughts are already rewriting the contract. You wonder if Aaron would let you make a slight revision, scribble the third-participant clause into something more permanent.

You really hope he does.