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JEEEEESUSSSSSS CHRISTTTT

SPENCER REID x FEM!BSF!READER . ᵒ . ➛ TW explicit sexual content, masturbation, oral sex, penetrative sex, and multiple types of kink. power imbalance themes : consensual power exchange dynamics, including light dom/sub themes, edging and orgasm denial : mutual and solo edging, overstimulation, praise/degradation kink : praise kink throughout; consensual use of light degradation terms in later phases, possessiveness / obsession themes : includes possessive/obsessive language and behaviors, always consensual within the dynamic, cockwarming, public play and risk of discovery, use of sex toys (f!receiving and m!receiving ), tearful orgasms / crying, mentions of cum dripping, being filled, and staying filled, just lots and lots of cum talk lmao, possessive dirty talk : including possessive language and references to claiming, marking, and ownership ( all consensual )

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHORS NOTES this is only m-z, you can read a-l here. giggling, panting and crying the entire time i was writing lmao. that t section, had me blush frr. sorry it took so long also sorry it feel repetitive. you can read a-l here. unbeta'd :(

. ᵒ . ➛ WORD COUNT ~ 13.3k

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist | requested!!!

m is for motivation ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

you. always you.

spencer’s motivation is, without question, your pleasure—your safety, your comfort, your happiness, your orgasm, your emotional aftercare—the whole nine.

he doesn’t get off on just the act. he gets off on you getting off.

he’s a certified simp scientist™. and when it comes to you, he studies every breath, every whimper, every eye flutter like a living thesis on how best to unravel you.

he loves knowing he can make you come apart. that he gets to be the one to do it. that out of all the people in the world, you trusted him to see you like this, take care of you like this.

and once he starts? he gets addicted. to your sounds. to your reactions. to the way your body molds to his. to how your hands always grip at his curls when you’re close.

he’s insatiable, but not in a greedy way. he just… can’t get enough of you. rvery time he finishes, every time you collapse next to him with kiss-swollen lips and trembling thighs, he wants to do it again. to top the last time. to make you feel even better.

because if you let him? he’ll worship you until his last breath.

even at his most depraved and unhinged ( hi phase four) , his driving force is never just lust. it’s love, reverence, awe. like your body is a riddle and he’s the only one who can solve it.

spencer reid’s ultimate fantasy? your pleasure, your bliss, your complete unraveling—because of him. that’s the motivation. always has been. always will be.

n is for no ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

spencer’s not shy. not with you. not anymore.

he's willing to try almost anything once—experimenting, roleplaying, toys, edging, overstimulation, light bondage, even light breath play once he trusts the rhythm of your body.

he can dirty talk for days and get downright nasty with how he takes you apart. he’ll whisper filth into your ear and make you beg for more.

but the second you ask him to pretend not to love you? to pretend you've never met and has not memorized your everything ( in and out of the bedroom ).

that's his hard limit.

no pretend scenarios where you're just a fuck.

no roleplay where he's 'just using you.'

no pretending this doesn’t mean something.

because it does. always. being with you means something.

even when he’s got you crying on his cock or wrecking you from behind—he still loves you. still adores you. still cherishes the way your body trusts him.

the idea of being cold to you, even in character, even for 'fun,' makes him nauseous. that’s not who he is. not with you.

'i can be rough,' he’ll whisper, 'but i’ll never be cruel.'

no matter how filthy it gets ( and it gets filthy ), there’s always a thread of care—an undertone of reverence. even when he’s calling you a brat or a cockslut, it’s laced with admiration. even when he's punishing you, he’s watching your every micro expression for discomfort.

consent is king. communication is sacred. but love? love is the whole damn castle.

so no, he won’t roleplay being indifferent. he won’t degrade you for real. he won’t pretend he doesn't want to wake up next to you in the morning and kiss every inch of your body again and again and again.

because you're not just a body to him. you’re it. you’re everything.

o is for oral ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer fantasizing about going down on you.

he hasn’t yet. not even close. but, god, he wants to. he thinks about it constantly. like a sickness. like a loop he can’t get out of.

you're his best friend, and every time you pop a piece of candy into your mouth or lick whipped cream off your finger or bite your lip when you’re deep in thought, he spirals. because his brain goes to one place and one place only.

your legs over his shoulders. his tongue buried between your thighs. your hands in his hair.

he doesn’t just want to make you come. he wants to study you. devour you. learn exactly how to make you tremble. he wants to get drunk on the sound of you moaning his name while his mouth is absolutely drenched in you.

and what really drives him insane?

the thought that you have no idea what he’s thinking when you toss him that sweet little smile.

( spoiler alert : you do. )

he reads about the nerve endings in the clitoris. learns that it has 8,000 and files the number away like it’ll matter the first time he puts his mouth on you.

he doesn’t even touch himself to the thought most nights—he just sits in it. pathetically hard and aching. because he doesn’t feel like he deserves to imagine it… but he does anyway.

you’ve definitely teased him about it.

not overtly, not yet. but your gaze lingers. on his mouth. on his throat when he swallows. on the way he nervously licks his lips when you step closer than you should. he catches you looking—and when he does, he blushes so hard it stains the tips of his ears.

he’s not entirely sure if you want to suck his cock, or if he’s just hoping, praying, and or projecting. but the thought alone makes his stomach tighten and his cock twitch.

he imagines your eyes looking up at him from between his legs, your hands on his thighs, your tongue sliding over the head of his cock like you’ve been waiting for this for years.

you make him feel like he’s a little too big for your mouth on purpose—like you’d moan around him just to make him lose control.

and the guilt he feels when he comes to that image? disgusting and delicious. he’s convinced himself you’d never do it. that he’s not the kind of man who gets that from a woman like you. that is he is pervert for even imagining you in such a position.

but if you ever hinted at it? said something.

'bet you’d lose your mind if i got on my knees right now.'

he would black out. fully. just gone.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer hasn’t actually gone down on you yet—but he has dreamt about it. like, full rem cycle, night-sweat-inducing dreams. he wakes up hard and flushed and gasping, thighs clenched and sheets damp. in these dreams, you’re always sitting on his face. always.

and when he wakes up? his mouth is watering.

it’s gotten worse since the moment you straddled his lap during one of your teasing sessions—grinding slowly while whispering in his ear.

'bet that pretty mouth of yours could make me cry.'

you felt him groan beneath you. you felt him twitch. and you knew exactly what you were doing.

now, every time he looks at your thighs in the bullpen, or you lean forward in a skirt, or you yawn and stretch beside him on the jet? his tongue tingles with the ache to taste.

he's overthinking everything—how long he should stay between your legs the first time, whether you’d like soft licks or focused pressure, whether to pin your hips down or let you ride his tongue.

he’s so close to breaking, it’s laughable.

you haven’t done it yet either. but oh, you’ve talked about it.

you’ve whispered things during debriefs and on long car rides. teased him with comments.

'next time you wear that tie, i might just use it to keep your hands off my head.'

and the look he gave you after that? wrecked. glazed. like he was already spilling in his pants. you swear his breath hitched the first time you dragged your fingers over his belt buckle during a fake stretch. and when your hand accidentally brushed his zipper?

he nearly fucking cried.

he’s never had someone want to do that. never had someone look at him like you do—like he’s the kind of man worth getting on your knees for.

he doesn’t even know how to act when you mention it. he just stammers or blinks at you like you just fried his brain with a single sentence. but don’t let that fool you.

he wants it. bad.

and when you finally get your hands on him? you’ll feel it—how he twitches, how his whole body goes rigid, how his knees nearly buckle the first time you lick him like you’ve dreamed of it, too.

he’ll be so shy and undone the first time—trying to cover his moans, biting his knuckles—but you’ll hear it anyway.

and it’ll ruin you both.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

it finally happens. maybe not how either of you planned, but oh, it happens.

he’s gentle at first, almost reverent—spreading your thighs with shaky hands, kissing the inside of your knee like it’s sacred. you’re already wrecked from the tension, the build-up, the weeks of innuendo and dirty dreams and restless nights.

and the second he licks you?

gone.

you moan like you’ve never moaned before, and that sound breaks him.

he wraps his arms under your thighs to keep you open, palms spread wide and desperate. his tongue is slow, curious at first—testing what you like, what makes your hips jerk. but once he finds your rhythm?

he commits.

spencer learns fast—and now that he’s finally here, he’s not going anywhere.

he locks in, eyes glassy and wet with need, nose buried in your heat, tongue dragging over your clit like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

se moans into you, sloppy and guttural, because the taste of you is better than he imagined and now he’s addicted. every time you whimper his name? his hips grind into the mattress. every time your thighs squeeze his head? he just grips harder, deeper, groaning like a man possessed.

when you finish, you cry out, legs trembling, fingers yanking his hair, and spencer rides the waves like a man at sea.

and when you try to stop him after?

'spence, oh my god, i can’t—' he whimpers, 'please, i need this, please.'

because he's not done yet.

spencer is much more vocal now. still shy, still a little breathless—but gone is the awkward fumbling. gone is the self-doubt. now, he’s so into it, it’s hotter than hell.

his reactions are so intense it’s almost unfair. the first time you drop to your knees without asking, he says your name like a prayer. the first time you lick the underside of his cock? his hips jump. the first time you take him all the way down?

he gasps—eyes wide, lips parted, gone.

he tries to hold back, tries not to buck into your mouth—but his hands are twitching at his sides, grabbing the sheets, and eventually? he gives in, he had no choice. fingers tangled in your hair, hips lifting just slightly, and a breathless.

'f-fuck, please don’t stop—'

he’s just as desperate for you as you are for him and when you pull off just to tease him? give him a smug little smile and a kiss to the tip?

'oh my god,' he groans, head falling back.

he’s still so sensitive, still gets overwhelmed—but now, he loves it. he craves it. he’ll ask for it in whispers, beg for it in bed, dream about it with his fist wrapped tight around his cock and your name on his tongue.

and when he finishes in your mouth?

he’s gone—blinking down at you like you just changed his religion.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer eats you like he’s starving. like he’s been dreaming about it all day. like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

and honestly, it might be.

he doesn’t just go down on you—he consumes you. he spreads your legs wide like he owns them, growls when you squirm.

'you better stay still,' while dragging your thighs up over his shoulders.

because this isn’t a favor. this is penance.

he starts with soft kisses—slow, open-mouthed, like he’s apologizing for every second he’s not between your legs. then his tongue flicks over your clit once… twice… and then again with purpose. by the time he locks his arms under your thighs and settles in, you’re already whimpering his name, already fisting the sheets.

but he’s not stopping. not when you beg. not when you come. not even when you cry.

'spence—i can’t, i can’t—' 'yes, you can,' he murmurs into your cunt. 'you said i could do whatever i wanted. i want this.'

he moans into you when you come again. grinds against the bed. ruts like a feral thing because he loves the taste of your orgasm more than his own release. he lives for the sound of your thighs shaking, your voice breaking, your legs locked around his head like you’re scared he’ll leave.

he won’t. he’s not going anywhere. you might have to physically drag him off your pussy. because in phase four, spencer reid eats like it’s his last meal.

he tries to let you take control. swears he can handle it. swears he’ll behave.

he’s lying.

because the second your mouth wraps around the head of his cock? he breaks. a low, guttural, soul-snatching moan leaves his throat.

'holy fuck,' he rasps, already panting. 'oh my god, baby—'

he whimpers. fists the sheets. shoves one arm over his eyes like he can’t even look at you or he’ll come on the spot. but he can’t resist for long.

his hands sneak into your hair. his hips twitch. his thighs start to shake—and not even a genius like him can remember words when you’re sucking him like that.

he’ll beg. he’ll curse. he’ll try to warn you.

'wait—please, baby, i’m gonna—i’m gonna come—'

but your hand tightens. your mouth gets wetter. you moan around him and he loses it. and now he's pushing his hips and thrusting down your throat. he finishes so hard it leaves him breathless, blinking at the ceiling like he’s just had a near-death experience.

then he pulls you up. kisses you filthy. tells you he’s going to repay the favor for the rest of the night.

because now you’ve got him worked up again. and phase four spencer doesn't stop at just one orgasm.

p is for pace ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three and four only

there’s something dangerously precise about the way spencer reid fucks.

it’s never random. never careless. never forgettable.

every thrust, every roll of his hips, every stutter in his rhythm—is deliberate. studied. memorized. he catalogs your responses in real time, syncing his movements to every gasp and grip and bitten-back moan like he’s running an internal algorithm titled how to absolutely fucking wreck you.

and he does.

in the early stages, he’s hesitant—awkwardly gentle, a little too careful, holding back because he doesn’t want to mess it up. he'll start slow. painfully slow. holding eye contact, whispering if it’s okay, adjusting with every flicker of your expression.

but the second you whimper? the moment you say, 'harder, spence. please.'

it’s like a switch flips.

that genius brain of his registers your request like a command line input—and now he’s pressing you into the mattress, hips snapping in perfect time, one hand locked around your thigh to keep you open for him, the other sliding up your spine with reverent fingers like he’s tracing constellations on skin.

by phase three? he’s confident. and confident spencer reid is terrifying.

he sets a punishing rhythm when he wants you speechless, and a languid, teasing one when he wants to hear every broken syllable of his name fall from your lips like scripture.

sometimes he stops entirely. buries himself deep and holds it, waits until your fingers claw at his back, until you plead. Until he hears that desperate, breathless 'move, please'.

then he starts again, slower this time, crueler somehow, making sure you feel every inch of him.

by phase four?

you don’t stand a chance.

he has your body timed to the second. he knows exactly how many strokes it takes to get you close. he counts them in his head. and he won’t let you finish until he’s decided you’ve earned it.

one hand around your throat, the other fisted in the sheets.

'not yet,' he’ll whisper. 'you’re gonna come when i say so.'

because now his pace isn’t just physical. it’s psychological warfare.

he goes slow when you want it fast. fast when you’re close. holds still when you clench. grinds instead of thrusts. fucks you in circles—until you’re crying from the frustration of it. until you’ve forgotten your name but not his. never his.

and just when you’ve reached your breaking point?

he fucking ruins you.

with one last perfectly timed thrust—he brings you over the edge like he planned it that way all along.

which, of course, he did. because he’s spencer fucking reid.

q is for quickies ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

they don’t technically have sex in phase one. but holy hell, the things you do to him could be classified as psychological warfare with a side of pant-rubbing terrorism.

and the worst part?

it always happens when there’s no time. in the hallway outside a briefing room. in the back seat of an suv after a stakeout. once ( he still has nightmares ) in the goddamn elevator.

you press him into corners like a certified menace, lips near his ear whispering filth like it’s nothing.

'is that a gun in your pants, dr. reid… or you just happy to see me?' 'spence, i can feel you through the your khakis. that’s not very professional.' 'you came in your pants last time i touched you. should we try for round two?'

you rub him over his slacks with just enough pressure to make him desperate. but never enough to tip him over. you always leave him a mess—

chest heaving. skin flushed. dick rock-hard and leaking in his boxers, with no relief in sight. and he lets you. every single time. because even when he’s trembling, clutching the edge of the seat, stuttering out your name like a prayer—

'p-please… d-don’t stop—please, i-i need—'

you always stop.

you leave him twitching and aching and so goddamn close he can barely walk. and worst of all? you smile sweetly, fix your lip gloss, and saunter back into the bau like you didn’t just edge america’s favorite fbi genius into another mental breakdown.

if anyone ever finds his browser history, he’s ruined. if anyone ever sees the way he looks at you when you do this, he’s doubly ruined.

but god help him—

he lives for your quickies. even if they’re fully clothed. even if he never gets to come. even if you leave him harder than he’s ever been in his life with exactly one grind of your hips.

because spencer reid is many things. subtle is not one of them. and he is so fucking in love with you, he’d let you ruin him forever.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

this is the phase where things shift. where all that tension from phase one boils over into messy, frantic, barely-legal territory. because while you still haven’t had actual sex yet—

that hasn’t stopped either of you from getting your hands on everything else. spencer’s quickies in phase two are pure desperation.

it’s always fast. always half-dressed. always somewhere you shouldn’t be.

his apartment kitchen counter at 2am, clothes still on from the jet. the bathroom on the jet—his pants halfway down, your skirt hiked up. a locked bau supply closet. ( he came in his socks, that time. you haven’t let him live it down. ) and he tries—he really tries—to slow down.

'w-we should wait—wait until we have time—' 'this isn’t… ah—n-not how i imagined—'

but then your hand slips into his boxers and all that logic goes right out the fucking window.

these aren’t the chaste dry humps of phase one. these are hands-down-your-pants, open-mouthed, soaked-through underwear moments.

you’ll palm his cock under the desk with the team just outside. he’ll slide his fingers inside you while you’re straddling his lap, shaking and moaning into his neck. sometimes you both finish in a blur of panting and praise, his forehead pressed to yours—

'you’re so—so fucking perfect, i-i can’t—god, i’m gonna come—'

and other times, he finishes first and you make him watch—eyes wide and lips parted as your fingers work yourself to orgasm just inches away from his still-twitching cock.

the post-orgasm guilt still lingers. but it’s quieter now. because it’s you. and you touch him like he’s wanted—like he’s allowed to fall apart in your hands.

and spencer, he wants quickies. he needs quickies. because he doesn’t know how to not want you anymore.

even if it’s rushed. even if it’s risky. even if he has to sit in a staff meeting with your cum on his fingers.

he’d do it all over again.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three is when it all breaks loose. the teasing? the edging? the weeks of built-up tension?

it erupts into a pattern of reckless, rabid, obsessive sex. but quickies in this phase? oh, baby. these are not soft, tentative experiments. these are 'i need to be inside you right now or i will die' kind of quickies.

spencer is smart. but he is dumb for you now.

gone is the restraint. gone is the guilt. gone is the idea that he shouldn’t. because the second you gave him permission, the moment you let him have you?

he lost all sense of moderation.

'we don’t have time—' 'then don’t waste any,' he whisper, already dragging his zipper down, like the sex hungry fiend he has become, that you turned him into.

where do these quickies happen? against the bau bathroom sink, both of you panting into each other’s mouths as he ruts up into you like a man possessed.

in your apartment entryway, the door barely closed behind you before he's fucking you still half-clothed.

inside his office, door locked, desk cleared in a clatter while you’re bent over it whispering, 'be quiet, baby. be good for me.'

he’s the one moaning now. the one with shaking hands, the one who clings to you after, muttering 'thank yous' and 'i missed you,' even if it’s only been two hours.

these quickies are not tidy.

you’re soaked before he even gets your panties down. he’s already leaking as he pushes into you—no time for foreplay, no need for words.

'fuck—fuck, i’m gonna come already—' 'then do it,' you hiss into his mouth. 'come in me. i want it, spence.'

and he does. hard. fast. usually biting your shoulder or forehead pressed to yours as if you’re his only tether to the planet. and afterward there is no time to clean up. no time to reset.

just flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and the frantic scramble to act normal even though his cum is still making a mess in your panties and dripping down your thighs.

phase three is the feral stage. and quickies are not a backup plan anymore. they’re a necessity.

'i don’t think i can wait until we get home,' he’ll whisper in your ear.

and you’re already pulling him into the nearest closet.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

there is no more pretending. no more innocence. no more teasing tension. this is filthy, urgent, dangerous, and completely out of control

he’s so far gone for you, it’s visceral. obsessed, addicted, and owned. quickies aren’t occasional. they’re constant.

'you’re all i think about. all i need. i can’t—fuck—i can’t go an hour without you.'

he has zero shame now. he begs. he whimpers. he gets off on being used by you.

in a conference room at quantico, minutes before a briefing—panties pushed to the side, your skirt bunched in his fist, your hands smacking the glass wall as he fucks you from behind.

inside a dingy bar bathroom while your hanging out with the team, desperate gasps muffled into his shoulder as he slides in and whispers 'take it. just take it, baby.'

against a bookcase in the bau's evidence room, where you both swore you’d 'just be five minutes.' ( he finishes in under two. apologizes. then drops to his knees to make it up to you. )

literally inside the car, parked behind a gas station off the interstate, your leg up on the dash while he grinds into you and moans your name like a prayer.

he gets off on the danger. he wants to get caught. he wants someone to know how good you are to him. and worst of all, e wants to mark you. with his cum. his teeth. his cock. his name.

'you think anyone else could make you come like this?' 'say it—say it’s mine. say this pussy’s fucking mine.'

( you say it. you scream it. every time. )

these quickies are intense. animalistic. sometimes even degrading.

they’re so fast and messy that half the time he doesn’t even get all the way undressed—and neither do you.

it’s just zip—thrust—moan—release.

'god, i’m not done. we’re not done. get back here.'

and after you’re wrecked. he’s ruined. you can’t walk straight. he’s got nail marks down his back. he tucks your panties into his pocket with a smirk and no intention of giving them back.

you return to your desks like nothing happened. except you can’t sit down without gasping. and he can’t stop smiling like the cock-drunk menace you’ve made him.

r is for risk ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

risk is everything for phase one spencer—but not in the obvious, clothes-on-the-floor kind of way.

no—this is the charged, teeth-gritting, pulse-pounding tension of doing almost everything while technically doing nothing at all.

because you haven’t had sex yet. not even close. but god, are you flirting with danger. most of phase one takes place at work—which means the stakes are high.

you’re on the jet, knees barely brushing, breath catching when turbulence bumps your bodies together and neither of you pull away.

you’re thigh to motherfucking thigh at the precinct, totally innocent—until you shift just a little too much and feel him twitch next you.

you’re leaning over his shoulder at the bullpen, your bralette peeking out, whispering something about file formats—but he knows you’re really just toying with him.

every move you make feels calculated. every brush of your hand, every accidental graze, every too-long stare.

and spencer, he’s trying to survive. he’s trying not to show how badly he’s sweating beneath that cardigan. because one wrong move and the whole team might notice.

penelope is watching. hotch is always watching. and god help him if Morgan figures it out. this man is a bundle of nervous energy and catholic-level guilt.

he knows what you’re doing. he knows it’s wrong. and he still can’t stop imagining you pressed up against the nearest filing cabinet with his tie between your teeth.

and even though you haven't crossed that final line, everything about your teasing is.

'...borderline unethical. probably unprofessional. fefinitely inadvisable.'

and still, he lets you. he wants you to. because deep down, he likes the thrill of how close you're getting to the edge.

you palming spencer through his pants in the car ( and pulling away like nothing happened ). you whispering filth into his ear on the jet, then innocently asking if he’s okay when he stammers and flees to the bathroom.

dpencer jacking off next you and again in the hotel shower after you fell asleep grinding on his thigh—and hating himself for not waking you up to make you stop.

reader accidentally brushing her foot up his calf under the table during a team dinner. ( spencer chokes on his water. morgan raises an eyebrow. you just smile .)

phase one risk isn’t about getting caught mid-fuck. it’s about almost getting caught wanting to. it’s the kind of danger that makes spencer’s voice shake.

the kind that makes him curse his eidetic memory—because he’ll be thinking about this forever.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

the tension has snapped—you’ve touched. you’ve tasted. you’ve gotten each other off. but still… you haven’t had sex.

which makes everything feel worse. because now, the risk isn’t just theoretical. you’ve crossed a line and now you’re dancing on the knife’s edge, daring the universe to knock you off it.

whats changed is spencer has seen you come. you’ve watched him stroke his cock, red-faced and breathless. he’s let you sit in his lap, rock against him until his pants are soaked with cum, and still whispered, 'we shouldn’t be doing this.'

but you're doing it anyway.

and it’s that exact moral tug-of-war—his brain saying 'stop,' your mouth saying 'please,' his cock saying 'I’ll take the risk'—that defines phase two.

its spencer giving you an orgasm in a public bathroom stall, biting his knuckles to muffle your moans as your fingers claw at his sweater vest.

its you going down on spencer in the back of a parked suv—while on a case—right before going back into the local precinct to debrief a sheriff.

its spencer giving you mutual handjobs on the jet, under one of those scratchy fbi blankets, while the team is asleep in arm’s reach.

its you straddling him during stakeout surveillance, fully clothed, just grinding slow and steady until he whines—and then making him stay hard and focused for the next two hours.

'god, if hotch saw us like this…' 'then you better be quiet, doctor.'

spencer is cracking.

his risk aversion is being actively sabotaged by how good you make him feel. he still hates the idea of getting caught. still overthinks everything. still whispers things.

'we could lose our jobs.' 'this is wrong.' 'what if someone hears?'

and yet, he’ll still let you suck him off in the hotel bathroom with only a paper-thin door between you and morgan.

because you’re like gravity now. you pull him in even when his hands are shaking.

the key difference in this phase his he’s not passively suffering anymore. he’s participating now.

risk isn’t just something happening to him. he’s choosing it. he’s chasing it. he’s following you down this rabbit hole, and telling himself he’ll worry about consequences later.

but he won’t.

because when it’s your hand on his cock, or your voice in his ear, the only thing he can think is—

'i’ll risk it. for you, i’ll risk anything.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

the brakes are gone.

the line? crossed.

the tension? exploded.

you’re having sex now. regularly. ravenously. riskily.

and spencer reid—rule-abiding, cardigan-wearing, seatbelt-evangelizing dr. spencer reid—has become a walking hr violation with zero fucking shame.

its sex in the back seat of a bureau suv. parked in the quantico lot. middle of the afternoon. he’s whispering

'god, you feel so good, please don’t stop.' while gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

pulling you into a closet at the field office during a lunch break. he’s rutting into you from behind with your hand over your mouth, while he mutters about how reckless this is—but doesn’t stop. not for a second.

you straddling him on a conference room chair, door locked, blouse undone, skirt hiked up—and spencer literally biting his own hand to keep from moaning.

sex in an elevator. he’s pressed against the wall, hands trembling as he lifts you just enough to thrust into you—and then prays to every deity he can name that no one calls the elevator.

he’s gone.

like, morally and emotionally feral. he's still anxious, still riddled with guilt when he’s alone in his apartment—but in the moment? he’s just desperate.

desperate to feel you. desperate to make you come. desperate to take what he’s been craving for what feels like forever. he no longer whispers 'what if someone sees?'

he whispers 'we’ll be quick' or 'just five minutes' or 'I need you too much to wait.'

the stakes are higher. the risks are bigger. the orgasms are more intense than ever.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

by phase four, all bets are off. like, truly—morality? gone.

decorum? dead.

spencer’s internal risk calculator? fucking shattered to bits.

he doesn’t just take risks anymore. he initiates them. with his mouth. his fingers. his goddamn genius brain plotting how to make you come in the most high-stakes places imaginable.

the risk level in phase four is un-fucking-hinged.

sex during an active case?

you’re bent over the edge of a cold autopsy table between interviews. his vest is still on. his gun is on the counter. his fingers are knuckle-deep and his voice is tight in your ear.

'be quiet. you don’t want hotch to come in here, do you?'

spencer going down on you in the bau tech room. ( don't tell pen. ) you’re squirming in a chair, hands twisted in his hair, and he’s whispering.

'be still, baby, i’m almost done.'

fingered in the elevator ( again ). but this time is not parked. moving. he’s holding your leg over his arm, your skirt pushed up, your moans muffled against his neck. the doors open. you’re both breathless. the team is waiting. reid just says : 'sorry. technical difficulties.'

phone sex during a stakeout. he’s in another car. you’re in your motel room. you’re trying to be good. but he’s teasing you over the phone—muted mic, earpiece in, voice like silk and sin.

'touch yourself for me. two fingers. you know how i like it.'

you’ve made a monster out of the once-shy genius. a brilliant, filthy, obsessive monster. and he doesn’t care who knows—except the people who actually can fire him.

his thought process is no longer 'what if we get caught?'

it’s 'can we finish before anyone notices?'

his blood runs with adrenaline and your moans. his every fantasy is a blend of shame, exhibitionism, and unholy pleasure. and when he’s not taking you somewhere dangerous? he’s thinking about the last time he did.

he's willing to risk getting caught by hotch. losing his job. dying with your name on his tongue

he doesn’t just want you—he wants to be inside you while danger creeps closer. while your nails dig into his back and his whole fucking career teeters on the edge of your thighs.

he’s not just a man anymore. he’s yours. tethered to you by lust, obsession, and the undeniable thrill of knowing that if hell is real—

he’ll be going down with your taste still on his lips.

s is for stamina ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer is not experienced. not in real-life scenarios. not with someone like you. he’s all theory, all potential energy—and you’re the spark that finally sets it off.

so no—his stamina isn’t perfect. but oh god, his recovery time is scary fast.

the first few times, let’s be honest, he finishes fast. over his pants. in the bathroom. in your hand. he tries to hold out—but he’s so wired, so overstimulated, so high on your attention that he’s basically a human pressure cooker with zero release valve.

you breathe on his neck the wrong way and he’s clenching his jaw and apologizing with tears in his eyes. but here’s the thing, he bounces back like a champion.

he’s so embarrassed that it happened fast that he immediately wants to go again. and again. and again.

'just give me a second, i can—i want to do it right.'

he learns quick. he adapts quicker. each round is better than the last—not just because of stamina, but because his desperation is addicting. the way he mutters 'fuck, you’re perfect' into your shoulder while trying not to finish too soon again?

unreal.

'i need to last longer. she deserves that.' 'i want her to fall apart for me. not just once—every time.' 'she touched me. she wants me. i can’t fuck this up.'

so yes, he's cums fast. but also hard again in five minutes if you even look at him a certain way. he has stamina—just not all at once.

he’s like a broken vending machine that just keeps giving out free snacks.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer is still soft, still reverent, still somehow embarrassed every time he makes you come—but he’s also dangerously in control of himself.

because after phase one he practiced.

alone. in his apartment. in the staff bathroom at work with the door locked. sometimes with his legs shaking and his hand hovering, whispering your name just to feel how fast it spirals.

'don’t finish yet—she’d want you to last.' 'this is what she deserves. don’t give in.'

he still doesn’t last forever—you’re still his ultimate weakness—but his stamina is significantly better because he’s not just relying on instinct anymore.

he’s prepped. conditioned. he’s trained himself to hold back.

he palms himself through his boxers until his stomach tenses, then stops. bites his lip. breathes through it. waits. practices restraint like a man possessed.

so when you're finally on top of him in phase two—your hand or mouth on him, or maybe his on you, skin on skin for the first time—he still feels like he could burst instantly.

but he doesn’t.

he holds on. longer than he thought he could. because it’s not about how long he lasts anymore—it’s about how long he can keep you on the edge.

fast. still ridiculous. he finishes once and still wants more—because by now, he’s addicted to you. your hands. your voice. the look in your eyes when he surprises you with how long he can last.

'can i… do it again? i wanna go again, baby. please.'

in summary, phase two spencer is dangerous because he still has all that boyish desperation, but now it’s caged, controlled, sharpened into stamina that serves your pleasure first.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

spencer reid isn’t hoping he’ll last—he knows he will. because you’ve already taught him how and he’s learned everything you’ve shown him.

he’s still the brainiac with the big heart, still reverent, still fully gone for you—

but now, he’s confident. he knows how to draw it out. knows how to push you to the brink again and again without ever letting you fall… until he says so.

'not yet, sweetheart. you can give me one more.' 'use me. however you need.' 'you wanna ride it out or let me ruin you?'

by this point, spencer has the control of a seasoned lover, but still the hunger of a man newly, utterly obsessed. he can go multiple rounds—easily, hold back until you’ve come once, twice, maybe more—then let go. keep going even after he finishes, if you want him to ( he’ll do anything you want. )

he might finish once inside you then kiss you, flip you over, and start again with his fingers or his mouth.

'i’m not done with you yet.'

his recovering time is quick. almost unnervingly so. he’s sensitive, yes, but that doesn’t stop him anymore. he wants the overstimulation. he wants to be a little wrecked if it means giving you everything. he’ll twitch, he’ll whimper, but he’ll keep going if you ask.

'spence, you don’t have to—' 'i want to. please.'

spencer has fully entered his prime. he’s dominant without being cruel. hungry without being greedy. stamina made man.

he lasts as long as you need—because at this point? he’s no longer trying to survive your touch.

he’s weaponizing it.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer reid is not normal. he’s feral. he’s possessed. he’s so deep in you ( emotionally, physically, spiritually ) that his only goal is obliteration—yours and his.

gone is the sweet boy begging for permission. gone is the shaky man with his hands in his lap. this version of Spencer?

'you’re gonna let me fuck the brat right out of you.' 'i’m not stopping till you forget your own name.' 'you wanted me like this. you made me like this.'

there is no 'one and done.' no round limit. no end in sight.

he finishes inside you and then pulls out just to finish again on your stomach. then again in your mouth. then again while he’s holding a vibrator to your clit, murmuring filth in your ear like it’s liturgy.

you think he’s satisfied? wrong.

he’s just getting started.

he has unlocked spite stamina.

he’s horny, yes—but more than that, he’s consumed by obsession ( because no one else gets this side of him ), possessiveness ( because he’ll die before he shares ), and proving a point ( because all that teasing you did in phase one? yeah. payback’s a bitch. )

and when you’re crying from overstimulation? he kisses your tears.

'you begged for this, baby. you said you could handle me.'

he can go for hours. he’ll make you beg him to stop, and then keep going until he decides you’ve had enough. you can feel his heartbeat in his cock, but he doesn’t slow down.

he wants the ache. he wants the twitch. he wants to come so hard he forgets his own theories.

even when he finishes, it’s not a finish. he’ll use his hands. his mouth. the toy he bought just for you. or just… watch you fall apart on his cum-slicked cock for the fifth time that night.

spencer is a man on a mission.

his mission is to destroy you—in the most loving, reverent, horrifyingly effective way possible.

and he will not stop until you forget your name, cry from pleasure, and thank him for every second of it.

t is for toys ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer hasn’t had sex in so long he’s practically forgotten what it feels like to come with another person in the room. so, no—he doesn’t own any sex toys. not because he’s against them, but because the only thing in his nightstand drawer is a spare set of glasses, a pen, and a neatly folded microfiber cloth for his glasses.

the truth? spencer doesn’t think of himself as someone worthy of pleasure. or maybe he does, but he’s just never prioritized it. he jerks off quickly, quietly, always alone—half out of necessity, half out of shame. there’s no candlelit ambiance, no curated playlist, no satin lube. it’s all done in secret, like a crime of need.

the idea of you using toys, though? that’s a different story.

he’s haunted by the thought. his brain eats itself alive wondering whether you own any—what kind, what color, how often you use them. do you have a vibrator hidden in your nightstand? one of those rose-shaped ones he saw in an ad once? do you ever lie in bed and moan his name while pressing it to your clit?

the idea fills him with a mix of shame and arousal so intense he doesn’t know whether to jack off or go for a cold shower.

in the rare moments when his imagination runs wild ( usually after one of your more teasing remarks ), he finds himself picturing you : head thrown back, legs spread, something buzzing against your cunt while your other hand twists in the sheets. and always, always—he imagines you whispering :

'spence...'

he has no idea if it's real but it doesn’t matter. because in phase one, spencer might not be using toys—but the fantasy of you using them?

it ruins him.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer knows you use toys—because you’ve told him. casually. over takeout. like it was no big deal. you were sipping chai iced tea when you tilted your head and asked.

'ever used a toy on someone before?'

he had almost choked on his pad see ew.

it becomes very clear, very fast, that you’re far more experienced in that arena than he is. not just with toys in general, but with using them with a partner. and that both intimidates and excites the hell out of him.

you tease him mercilessly about it, of course.

'do you even own lube, spencer?' 'not the kind i think you’re asking about,' he mutters.

he’s a little shy the first time you introduce something—just a slim, quiet vibrator, nothing extreme—but he’s fascinated. he watches with wide eyes and parted lips as you press it to yourself, as you gasp and arch and show him how it’s done. and when you finally let him take over?

it awakens something in him.

scientific curiosity collides with your unrelenting heat. he studies your reactions, adjusts angles, notes your sounds like you’re a one-woman research grant.

he starts reading up on types of vibrators, lubricant ph balance, riding crops versus paddles ( not that he has either, yet—but still ). it becomes another thing he wants to master, not just experience.

and as for using toys on him?

he doesn’t even know it’s something he wants until you sit on his thighs one lazy afternoon and ask softly :

'do you trust me?'

he does. god help him—he does.

so yes. by phase two, spencer owns lube. and a bullet vibe. and an app-controlled toy he hasn’t even opened yet.

he’s still not entirely sure how it got from point a to point b—but his nightstand drawer now holds a lot more than spare glasses.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, spencer is… unhinged. quietly. deliciously and dangerously.

he’s gone from curious and cautious to possessive and precise. toys are no longer a supplement—they’re a method. a tactic. a promise.

and every single one of them is used with the singular goal of ruining you.

he still keeps everything in his drawer, of course. organized. labeled. cleaned thoroughly and regularly with a specialty spray that smells faintly like lavender. but now there’s a lock on the drawer. not because he’s ashamed—because he knows he’d never survive if someone else found them.

( especially not the one he had custom-ordered. the one in your favorite color. the one that vibrates at the exact frequency that makes you sob. and may or may not be his exact size and shape. )

and now spencer lives to watch you sob.

the wand becomes his favorite. not the buzzy little one you started with—oh no. he’s upgraded. corded. heavy-duty. no-frills. he makes you hold it against yourself until your thighs are shaking and your voice is raw. or he’ll use it while he’s inside you—soft at first, then stronger, until your body doesn’t know what to respond to.

and restraints?

you didn't even have to ask.

he bought silk ties first. then cuffs. then under-the-mattress straps that keep your wrists spread wide, trembling for him. he doesn’t use them every time. but when he does? he takes his time. all of it.

because by phase three, spencer has developed the kind of confidence that turns genius into danger.

he makes you come once with his fingers. once with his cock. then adds the toy and starts all over again.

he’ll say, 'you can take it,' in that soft-spoken, lab-coat voice of his—right before cranking the setting just one notch higher.

and when you shatter? when your voice breaks? when your whole body jerks like a pulled string?

that’s when he finally kisses you again.

like you’re his reward.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

the toys are no longer just for fun. they're for study. exploration. worship. and—let’s be honest—a little bit of obsession.

spencer has researched you. memorized you. calibrated his collection to your pleasure like it’s a dissertation he plans to defend in front of god. and if phase three was about pushing your limits, phase four is about perfecting them.

he has a toy for every mood. every whimper. every shift in your breath.

a rose-shaped clit sucker he uses on you when you're overstimulated and flushed and already ruined, just to watch your thighs quake one last time.

a steel plug chilled in the freezer for five minutes because you once said the contrast between heat and cold makes you feel everything.

a pair of nipple clamps with delicate gold chains—not because he’s into pain, but because the sight of them tracing down your sternum makes him groan into his own palm.

and then there’s the remote control toy—the one he slips into you before dinner with the team. you blush through appetizers. he pretends to check his phone. but he’s watching you. closely. turning the speed up when he knows your in the middle of a conversation with penelope.

he's not afraid to edge you anymore. or overstimulate you in public. or whisper in your ear that if you're quiet through dessert, he’ll let you come when you get home—on his thigh, under the buzz of your favorite wand, held down by his teeth in your shoulder.

there’s even a cock ring now. a sleek, velvet-textured one that keeps him hard longer than should be legal. you begged for it once—called it your 'stretch study.' he laughed. then gave you the longest orgasm of your life.

you don’t even ask for the toys anymore. you just look at him. and he’s already opening the drawer.

because by phase four, spencer’s not just using toys—he’s composing symphonies with them and every single one ends with you screaming his name.

spencer reid is no longer a man.

he’s a problem.

an absolute danger to your sanity.

and the proud owner of a custom-made vibrator modeled exactly after his own dick.

not a generic toy.

not a close enough match.

no—this thing is the exact length and curve that ruins you. the same width that stretches you to tears. and yes, the same damn vein that pulses under the real thing and makes your legs shake.

'if you’re going to use something inside you when i’m not home, you’ll use me.'

it started with a photo. multiple angles. measurements. a mortifyingly clinical process. and Spencer submitting everything—all of it—to a specialty shop under a fake name.

the toy arrives discreetly. he doesn’t say a word. not until the night he catches you touching yourself when you thought he was asleep.

and then, he pulls it out. so non-fucking-chalantly that it makes your head spin. from the drawer beside the bed. still sealed in its velvet bag. and he says.

'put that away. use this instead.'

you think it’s a joke. some clever flex. because no way in fucking hell did spencer reid just hand you an exact replica ( and yes it was exact, you should know ) of his fucking cock.

but the moment you slide it inside? you know, you scream.

your back arches. your vision whites out. and spencer—watching from between your thighs—just grins.

he doesn’t just let you use it. he supervises. encourages. guides. one hand on your ankle, the other wrapped around the toy’s base, pumping it slowly until you’re gasping his name.

he times the thrusts with a bullet vibe to your clit. he praises you when you take the whole thing. he warns you not to come too soon.

and to make it all the filthier, he is mutter the nastiest, hottest, horniest things you think you have ever heard.

'you’ll come when i say. not before.' 'that’s your toy, sweetheart. you earned it.' 'you think i didn’t notice how obsessed you are with that vein?' 'squeeze down like that again and i’ll take it away.' 'say thank you for your gift while i fuck it into you, baby.' 'no hands. just fuck yourself on it. show me how greedy you are.'

and it is not just for when he’s away.

no, no.

this is not a long-distance replacement.

this is a tool. a punishment. a toy he uses on you. spencer likes watching you fall apart on fake-him before he wrecks you with the real thing.

sometimes he fucks you with both. sometimes he makes you choose. and sometimes—when he’s feeling really possessive—he holds the vibrator in one hand and your throat in the other.

'you’re not coming until the real one’s inside you.'

you’re his favorite science experiment and he's fucking rigged the lab.

you never stood a chance.

u is for unusual ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ not specific to any phase

spencer lives to edge. not you ( well, sometimes you—but mostly himself ).

because he loves the pressure.

the ache.

the slow, painful build until it feels like he’ll cry if you don’t let him finish.

and you?

you’re a menace.

you learn how to straddle his thighs and grind just right. you get off on holding him at the edge. you tease him

'just a few more seconds. i like seeing your cock twitch like that.'

and, god, if you actions weren't already pushing him precariously towards the edge of a cliff, your words were the shove. he’s so sensitive—so desperate for permission—that sometimes, when he finally comes, it’s embarrassingly fast.

a single stroke.

a stuttered breath.

and he’s ruined your stomach, your thighs, the sheets, everything.

he calls it 'data loss.' you call it 'hot.'

secondly, he lives to see you cry.

not in pain. not in sadness. but when you’re overwhelmed but him that you just can't help but let the tears flow.

when the orgasm hits so hard it leaves you shaking. when you’re too full, too overstimulated, too drunk on him to even speak. and tears just spill down your cheeks?

spencer melts.

'there she is . . . my beautiful little fucking mess.' 'that’s my favorite face. keep crying for me.' 'you’re crying on my cock, baby—fuck, that’s so pretty.'

he’ll stroke the tears away. kiss your cheeks. but he won’t stop. not until you’ve cried again.

last but not least, he has all time favorite position ( and it’s not what you think )

no, it’s not missionary ( though he loves eye contact ) and it’s not doggy ( though your ass is basically his kryptonite ). it’s you on your back. feet pressed to his chest. knees by your ears.

it’s scientific.

it’s intimate.

it’s filthy as hell.

and he can get so. fucking. deep.

plus, he gets to watch your tits bounce. your stomach tighten. your eyes roll back. your mouth fall open in disbelief every time he thrusts in that final inch.

'there. that’s the spot, isn’t it?' 'god, i love watching it hit you like that.'

v is for volume ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

it is all tension and restraint—like a taut string holding back a symphony.

he tries so, so hard to be quiet. he bites the inside of his cheek. grinds his teeth. buries his face in his pillow or curls his fist into the sheets when he’s alone. because the sounds he makes when he doesn’t hold back? they scare him. embarrass him. expose him.

but you’ve heard a few of them slip.

a tiny whimper when you teased him on the jet. a strangled breath when your thigh brushed his hard-on in bed. a low, panicked moan when your hand slipped into his lap and stayed.

he’s not loud in this phase, but that’s what makes every cracked gasp feel like a secret.

phase one is all about :

muffled moans into pillows, into his own fist, or under his breath. if he’s alone? you best believe your name is whispered like a damn prayer.

breath catches and the hitch in his throat when you say something filthy and innocent in the same breath.

whimpering—god, he whimpers—not often. but when he does? tt’s shaky and needy and entirely involuntary. the kind of sound he’d deny if you ever brought it up.

shaky begging ( if you push ) and a softly-spoken, nearly cracked, 'please—please don’t stop' or 'oh god… i can’t—please.'

he’s so terrified of being caught wanting. of being too much. so he shoves it down, pushes it back, smothers it.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer is still quiet—but he’s cracking. you’ve kissed him now. touched him skin on fucking skin. you’ve made it clear he isn’t just a fantasy. that you want him.

and so, the sounds come easier . . . but they still embarrass him.

he blushes when he realizes how loud he was the night before. buries his face in your neck, hiding the faintest 'fuck' under his breath. you’ll tease him for it—and he’ll shy away—but you’ll feel the way his hips buck when you say 'you sound so pretty when you beg.'

he’s not shy because he doesn’t want to make noise. he’s shy because he wants to make noise for you.

phase two is now breathier moans—still stifled at first, but increasingly involuntary as you touch him. you’ll learn the exact sound he makes when your mouth wraps around him : a choked, needy 'oh my god—' followed by a long, ragged breath.

name-sighing but now to your face. he says your name under his breath like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. quiet. reverent. sometimes—most times—followed by a shaky 'please.'

he's becoming more talkative.

'do you like that?' 'tell me what you want' 'you feel so good…'

but he says it through panting and gasping, and sometimes he can’t finish the sentence without moaning partway through.

accidental whines are more common. when you edge him. or deny him. he whines. soft, pathetic, and completely involuntary. the kind of sound that makes you immediately want to do it again.

you’re unlocking him slowly.

and with every new sound, you learn exactly how much of him is yours now.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, spencer’s silence has shattered.

there’s no hope of him holding back now—not when your body’s on his, not when he knows how you look when you come, not when he’s learned just how much you crave the sounds he makes.

you’ve trained him beautifully.

you’ve coaxed every moan, every stammered whimper, every breathless, broken 'please' from his throat. and in this phase—when it’s messy and hungry and you’re climbing each other like animals—he is loud.

not reckless. not unthinking.

just honest.

his volume in phase three has changed dramtically.

full-fucking-bodied moans. the kind that ripple out of his chest when you’re riding him, fast and wet, his head thrown back and hands clutching at your hips like you might disappear. he doesn’t bother hiding it anymore.

muttered filth.

'jesus, you feel so good,' 'i wanna stay inside you forever,' 'you’re gonna make me cum, fuck—'

all in a low, breathless growl. half-moan, half-confession.

pleading, spencer begs in this phase. he begs because you’ve made him need it.

'don’t stop,' 'please, please, just like that,' 'let me come, i’m gonna cum—'

sharp, guttural gasps, especially when you edge him. or when you slide down slow and deep, and his cock hits that spot that makes his whole body jerk. he gasps and chokes out your name like a prayer.

and sometimes? when you lean in close and whisper, 'you’re being loud, spence,' he’ll whimper and try to bite it back.

but he can’t.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

he is so far gone for you it’s not even fair. his walls are down, his restraint is wrecked, and when it comes to noise?

he’s a mess—and he doesn’t care who hears it.

he’s not just vocal now. he’s intimate about it. sensual. confessional. desperate in the most beautiful, undone way.

because in phase four, when he’s buried deep inside you and knows you’re his—completely, shamelessly, irrevocably—he wants you to hear how good it feels.

he wants you to know.

his volume in phase four is un-fucking paralleled.

your name, again and again. gasped, groaned, whispered into your shoulder or shouted into the pillow.

'oh my god—baby, please—'

he says it like he’s trying to memorize how it sounds while he falls apart.

raw, unfiltered sounds he can't help but let you hear. spencer moans now without even thinking. high, breathy, guttural—whatever sound his body makes when your nails dig into his back or when your pussy clenches around him as you cum? that’s what he gives you.

filthy praise, that he has mastered. he doesn’t hold it back anymore.

'so wet for me, fuck—so fucking tight,' 'god, i love fucking you,' 'you take me so good, baby.'

his voice is thick with reverence, his words soaked in worship.

whining and whimpering is dialed to a thousands. especially when he’s close. especially when you’re teasing him. you reduce him to whines, half-sobs.

'don’t stop, please,'

and when you tell him to be quiet? that only makes it worse. now he’s moaning through his attempts at silence, trying to be good—but utterly failing.

afterward? still soft, still breathless. he pants your name like it’s a lullaby, whispers little

'you feel so good' and 'i missed you' and 'you wreck me, you know that?' between kisses to your shoulder and neck.

in phase four, spencer's volume isn't just about sex. it's about vulnerability. he's not scared of what he sounds like anymore. not when it's for you.

w is for wild card ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ takes place in phase three

you’re not sure when the room stopped spinning. or if it even has. you’re sprawled across spencer’s chest, utterly boneless, legs still trembling from your third—or was it fourth?—orgasm.

his cock is still inside you, thick and warm, softening only slightly with every minute that passes. and you’re still dripping.

his cum is leaking down the insides of your thighs in lazy rivulets, making a mess of the sheets beneath you. but he hasn’t made any attempts to let you move.

he won’t. his arms are locked around your waist, and when you shift—just the slightest twitch of your hips—he lets out a groan so guttural it punches straight through your core.

'don’t,' he whispers hoarsely. his voice is ruined. low and cracked from everything he’s done to you. 'you’re gonna make me hard again.'

you smile weakly into his chest. 'maybe that’s what i want.'

a shaky laugh spills from him. he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. 'you’re insatiable,' he murmurs, and there’s so much love in it, you nearly melt.

you lift your head off his sweaty chest, only slightly. but you wanted to see his face. 'you're insatiable, spence.'

he gaped, but he didn't deny it. he couldn't. he flushes red before continuing. 'how can i not be? you feel so good like this. so warm. so fucking perfect.'

you hum, content. exhausted.

his hands drift up your back, one settling over your heart like he’s trying to memorize its rhythm. the other drags down to your hip, where he strokes slow circles over your skin. he’s still inside you. still buried. and even though he’s not moving, you swear you can feel him twitch.

'can I ask you something?' he whispers.

you nod.

'did i hurt you?'

your heart breaks a little. you lift your head again and kiss the worry right off his brow. 'no,' you promise, voice soft. 'never. you were perfect. it was . . . everything.'

spencer exhales, shaky, relieved. then his expression shifts. darkens. then softens. grows impossibly more intense. like the five stages of horniness, where he can't decide if he wants to fuck you again or let you rest.

he settles on whispering the filthiest of sentences into your skin.

'i love seeing you like this,” he murmurs, cupping the back of your neck. 'full of me. dripping all over the place. you’re such a good girl for taking it. for taking me.'

your walls flutter around him and he groans, head thumping back against the pillows. 'jesus, sweetheart,' he grunts. 'we can’t go again. you’ll break.'

you smile sleepily. 'then don’t move. just . . . stay.'

and he does. he stays buried inside you while his cum slides slowly out of you and down your thighs, while your breaths even out, while the world settles.

he doesn’t pull out. he doesn’t clean up. he just wraps you up in the blanket of his body, in the heat and the mess and the intimacy, and holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

and maybe you are.

x is for xray

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

first things first, the man is deceptively built. tall, lean, all sloping shoulders and long limbs that make him look soft at first glance—but then you see him with his sleeves rolled up and realize he’s secretly hiding forearms that could ruin your entire moral compass.

the kind of muscle that comes not from the gym, but from nervous pacing, frantic casework, and the low-grade tension of holding the weight of the world on his own damn back.

he doesn’t carry bulk—he carries purpose.

and then there’s his hips. his stupid, sharp, unfairly sensual hips. the way his belt rides low, the barely-there dip just under his hipbones, the v-line that shouldn’t be that defined for someone who eats like a raccoon in a vending machine.

but he’s spencer fucking reid. the man breaks all logic. including the logic of your thighs staying closed.

and now… the cock report™ ( aka : why you lost your mind after the first time ).

his length is above average. like dangerously so. not comically huge—not porn-star big—but big enough that you have to adjust. big enough to make your stomach flutter with nerves and your jaw go slack when he first pushes in. it’s the kind of size that makes you feel it for hours. days. maybe the rest of your life.

the girth decent. enough to stretch you just right. the kind that fills, not splits. the kind that nudges your sweet spot like he knows exactly what he’s doing—because, spoiler alert, he does because you taught him,

he is veiny. they are visible and prominent. a little too prominent, if you ask your dignity. especially when you’ve got a hand wrapped around him and he’s panting through his teeth because of it.

its got curve to it, a subtle upward tilt. nature’s cruel joke. it means he finds your g-spot every single time—whether you’re on your back, on top, or bent over his desk with your name moaned like a curse.

spencer's cock has a rosy head, flushed shaft. pretty. almost innocent-looking. until it’s leaking on your stomach or twitching against your tongue.

and its sensitive as fuck. he’s so fucking responsive. one touch and he’s already gasping, bucking, stuttering your name. you barely have to try. which, of course, you absolutely exploit.

he also has moles on his chest and shoulders. you count them when you’re sprawled across him, cheek to his ribs. he has a patch near his collarbone that you kiss every time.

a slight dusting of hair below the belly button. fine and soft. fades lower into a happy trail that leads exactly where your hand wants to go.

his thighs. man oh man, you weren’t ready for the thighs. they’re not bulky, but they’re taut. strong. dangerous when they flex as he ruts into you, especially when he holds you open with one while he finishes.

he’s built like a quiet weapon—thin blade, silent cut. you don’t see it until you feel it. and when you do, you’re wrecked. every fucking time.

y is for yearning ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

it’s the not knowing that kills him.

the sudden shift.

the way his eyes catch on your lips when you’re talking.

the way your perfume follows him down hallways, sticking to the fabric of his brain like it’s been chemically engineered to target his nerve endings.

he doesn’t understand why it’s happening.

why now? why you?

why his best friend? the person he shares coffees and crime scene banter with, now makes his heart race like he’s being interrogated by hotch and his cock ache like he’s back in college.

he yearns in silence—horrified silence.

because it starts small.

a hug that lasts a beat too long. the way your tank top slides off your shoulder when you stretch. the time your fingers brush when you both reach for the case file and he forgets how to breathe.

and then it snowballs.

hard.

he starts avoiding you—not because he doesn’t want to be near you, but because he can’t be trusted when he is. you make him stupid. you make him want. you make him horny as fuck. and he doesn't have enough clean pants to be around you everyday of the week.

you laugh too loud. you wear those stupid short skirts when the team’s on downtime. you touch his arm too gently and too often and he'll lay awake at night—cock in hand, guilt in his chest—thinking about your moans, imagining the look on your face if he slid two fingers up the hem of that godforsaken skirt.

he can’t help it.

he yearns with everything in him. quietly, respectfully, miserably. he catalogs the curve of your spine when you bend over and then immediately opens his phone and googles 'am i a terrible person if i think about my best friend while jerking off.'

he avoids your eyes on the jet because every time you fall asleep on his shoulder, he’s one heartbeat away from dragging you onto his lap and begging for forgiveness.

he apologizes to God. he apologizes to you in his head.

he apologizes to the imaginary version of you in the shower who lets him fuck you against the tile while telling him how good he feels inside you.

and he aches.

physically. emotionally. existentially.

because he doesn’t think you know and worse—he’s not entirely sure you’d want to. but still he watches. still he dreams. still he yearns. still fucks his hand almost every night to a picture of you.

in quiet desperation.

in hidden heat.

in the curve of his palm and the soaked-through briefs he tosses in the hamper at two am, cheeks flushed with shame.

he doesn’t know what’s happening to him. but he knows it has your name on it.

and god help him—he doesn’t want it to stop.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he’s tasted you now.

felt your slick on his fingers, watched you come apart—messy, needy, greedy for more—and yet somehow the yearning has only worsened because now he knows.

now he knows what you sound like when you beg.

now he knows how hot you get when he tries whispers poorly worded filth in your ear.

now he knows how many times he can make you come in a single night without even getting fully naked himself.

and yet . . . he hasn’t fucked you yet.

which makes the yearning unbearable. torturous. a constant, throbbing ache in his gut and his cock and his brain.

it’s like every neuron in his brilliant mind has restructured itself into a six-letter prayer.

'please.'

please let me have her. please let her want me again. please let this not be a dream.

he yearns between your thighs, face buried in your heat as if he can make up for the things he’s too scared to say with the flick of his tongue.

he yearns when you palm his cock over his boxers and murmur 'next time, spence…' but then leave him aching in his own hands that night.

he yearns when you arch into him and breathe his name like it’s a secret, and he has to bite his tongue not to tell you how deep it runs.

he wants you so badly he can barely look at you sometimes.

like you’re the sun.

like you might burn him alive if he stares too long.

and the worst part is you know. you know exactly what you’re doing. you’ve seen the flush that climbs his throat. felt the tremble in his hands. heard the crack in his voice when you say 'spencer, please.'

you’re the worst kind of temptation : patient, playful, and intentional. you touch him like you’re coaxing a theory from him. you touch him like you already know the answer.

and he aches for it. he aches for you. for the moment when you finally say 'spence, i need you inside me.'

but until then, he’ll wait.

he’ll yearn.

he’ll grip the sheets in your bed with his cock pressed to your thigh and pray you can’t hear the moan he bites into your pillow when he comes untouched.

because wanting you is a full-time job. and loving you is starting to feel like his new religion.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, spencer is just starving.

not in the physical sense. not even in the way he used to be in phase one, all self-deprecating guilt and trembling hands and helpless wet dreams.

no.

now, it’s something deeper. something feral. because now that he’s had you—

now that he’s fucked you, felt you clench around him, listened to you whimper his name into the sheets as you shatter.

nothing else compares.

he yearns in the aftermath. when your body is still shaking beneath him and all he can think is, more. when his cock is softening inside you and he still can’t bring himself to pull out—because leaving you, even for a moment, feels unbearable.

you could be wrapped around him, wrists pinned, lips bruised from kisses that turned into bites and spencer is still whispering.

'please… one more, baby, just one more.'

because he needs to watch you fall apart again.

needs to feel the way you shudder and clench and sob when he overstimulates you with his cock and his mouth and his praise, like a man making up for years of wasted time.

he yearns in the space between orgasms.

while you’re trying to catch your breath, he’s already pressing back inside you—aching, needy, desperate to feel that connection again. you’re not just his best friend anymore. you’re his everything.

he’ll fuck you until he’s dizzy.

until he’s hoarse from saying your name.

until he’s pumping you so full you can’t keep him in—and even then, he’s still whispering, 'you can take it, sweetheart. you’re so good for me. please—just a little more, i promise.'

because yearning in phase three isn’t theoretical anymore.

it’s physical.

palpable.

it’s the ache in his chest when you pull away to go shower.

it’s the twitch of his cock when you walk by in one of his t-shirts.

it’s the need to mark you—to keep you messy, keep you claimed, keep you coming until there’s no room left for anyone but him.

he’s had you.

he has you.

and still—he wants. more of your skin. more of your trust. more time. more touches. more nights. he yearns like he’ll never be satisfied.

because even buried balls-deep in the girl of his dreams, spencer reid still feels like it’s not enough.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer doesn’t just yearn now.

he hungers.

it’s not a craving, not a slow ache like it once was—it’s feral. it’s obsession under his skin, lust in his marrow, devotion wired into every frantic heartbeat.

spencer doesn’t pine quietly anymore.

he doesn’t suffer in silence.

he takes.

but somehow—somehow—even when he’s in you, on you, all over you, it’s still not enough. because in phase four, he doesn’t just want your body writhing under him.

he wants it engraved with him. he wants your pussy trained to clench on nothing but the memory of his cock.

he wants you dripping with him—hours later, days later, aching in your bones and thanking him for it.

yearning is no longer subtle. it’s no longer soft.

it’s this man snarling when you tease him in public because he can’t bend you over a table right then and there. it’s him ripping his belt open before the front door even clicks shut.

it’s him fucking you so deep you’re crying, and still he’s gasping, 'deeper. i need to be deeper.'

he can’t get close enough. he yearns in every filthy, possessive moan of mine.

he yearns when he comes in you and stays there, panting and trembling, refusing to pull out because he wants to feel you keep him forever.

he yearns when you fall asleep after four orgasms, and he slips his hand between your legs again because god, you’re so wet for him still, and he can’t help it—he just has to taste it.

he wants your soul. not in the sweet, metaphorical way.

no, he wants to fuck you so hard and so deep and so many times you forget your own name and remember only his. he yearns in the feral way he ties your wrists—not to restrain, but because you asked him to.

because you trust him.

because you want to give him everything, and he’s not above getting on his knees for it.

he yearns in every 'can i come inside?' that doesn’t mean the apartment.

he yearns in every 'one more?'

every time he says, 'you’re not tired, are you, sweetheart?' while you’re shaking under him—ruined, wrecked, so full of him it’s leaking out.

spencer reid in phase four is fucking insatiable.

he could fuck you every night for the rest of your life and still whisper, 'i missed you.' because that’s the kind of yearning this is.

the you’re mine, and i need to make sure every inch of you knows it kind. and when he finally lets you rest—finally lets your body go limp under his—he’s right there again the moment your eyes open.

hungry.

needy.

yearning.

like a man who’ll never have enough of the girl he finally gets to call his.

z is for zzz ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

spencer doesn’t just fall asleep.

he fucking sinks.

once he’s taken care of you—every sweet touch, every whispered word, every ounce of love and reverence poured into aftercare—his body melts against yours like warm wax, pliant, content, wrecked.

he clings.

even in earlier phases, before sex, when things were still uncertain and new, spencer always needed physical closeness to settle his mind. you’d notice it : how he’d press his chest to your back under the covers, or drape an arm over your middle like he had to keep touching you or else he’d float away.

sleep always came easier when you were there—when he could feel your breath against his collarbone, when your fingers idly played in his hair.

by the time phase three and four roll around—when he’s inside you, when it’s raw and messy and real—he’s done. his brain can’t function past the blissed-out daze that settles in once he’s come in you and held you through every shiver afterward.

and he stays in. literally.

spencer doesn’t pull out unless you ask him to. because in phase three and four, he needs to sleep buried inside you.

even if he has to pull away—just to clean you up, just to grab water—he's the one that tugs you back into his chest and you grab his still half hard cock and push it back in to your messy cunt.

and that’s all it takes. he’ll groan something half-delirious like 'still so warm, sweetheart… gonna fall asleep right here, ‘kay?' before collapsing against your back.

you’ve learned to expect it. that sleepy slur of his voice. the foggy kisses he plants on your shoulder. how he holds your hips like he’s anchoring himself to you.

sometimes he’s too out of it to move at all—just leaves his cock softening inside you, cum dripping slowly between your thighs, your bodies pressed so close it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins.

he doesn’t always remember falling asleep. but he always wakes up exactly the same way, wrapped around you, still half-hard, mumbling a groggy 'hi' like you’re a dream he can’t believe is real.

sometimes you’ll catch him watching you before your eyes open, dazed and blinking and smiling, because he still can’t believe how safe he feels like this. how fucking whole.

so yeah. spencer reid doesn’t just crash after sex.

he nests.

he clutches.

he melts.

he sleeps best when you’re stuffed full of him, tucked against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. because no matter the phase—you’re home.

and nothing puts him to sleep faster than that.

🔖 . @Sammyreidslut @mggskny @theburgundyonmytshirt1989 @nesiamenick @Alastorssimp @oldmanbunnylover @nfwmb-gvf @kmc1989 @sillymuffintrashflap @reidsbabyhoney @qardasngan @cynbx @g3n3zshack @blueliketheseaa @joonbread @abllor @noirecherie @namgification

#fic recs #that should be me #nereid nsfw

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nereidprinc3ss · 10 days ago

Text

Hello this was soooo crazy SO HOT

SPENCER REID x FEM!BSF!READER . ᵒ . ➛ TW explicit sexual content, sexual themes involving power imbalance ( e.g., inexperience vs. experience ), intense psychological/emotional vulnerability, erotic language and descriptions, dubious consent fantasy elements ( phase one spencer’s secret masturbation / voyeuristic context ), praise kink, degradation kink, overstimulation, edging, etc. depending on phase, masturbation ( solo + mutual ), deep internal monologues bordering on obsession, insecurity-based arousal and shame, light manipulation ( reader teasing ), sexually explicit metaphors and imagery, reference to past trauma/insecurity ( emotional, not physical ), swearing, explicit dialogue

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHORS NOTES this took absolutely forever, im sorrrry to the anon who first requested it. and to my first request anon ( i dub thee 🌟 bc you are a STARRRR! ) this is Freaky ( with a Capital F just like you asked 😏 and tumblr freakin ate your ask while i was replying to it lmao ). also every letter has four phases to coincide with each phase of spencer as shown on the series masterlist ( that is why it took literally forever for me to finish this ). it is not required to read the other parts of the series, but it will give some context. this is only A-L, part two is M-Z ( had break it up bc tumblr would let me post that many words lmao )

. ᵒ . ➛ WORD COUNT ~ 16.2k

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist | requested!!!

a is for aftercare ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

it takes spencer exactly one second after coming to regret it. not the act—never the act—but the idea that maybe he was too rough, or too quiet, or too eager, or not eager enough. that maybe you didn't enjoy yourself as much as he needed you to.

so the second your body stills beneath him, spencer is already scanning you for signs of distress. his breathing is heavy, uneven, and so is yours—but his is more panicked. yours is post-orgasmic. he can’t quite tell the difference yet.

his hand, shaky and trembling, cups the side of your face with the kind of delicate awe reserved for museum glass and rare books. 'did i—are you okay?' he asks. 'please tell me i didn’t… was it too much?'

you smile. you try to speak, but your lips are swollen and your body is jelly. he looks utterly torn, its almost adorable.

he doesn’t move off of you right away—he’s too worried that pulling away too fast will hurt you somehow. he’s never done this before. not like this. not with you. so when he does pull out, it’s slow, like he’s afraid you’ll break. his eyes flicker to where your bodies part, and he flushes from the neck up.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but something about seeing your slick on him short-circuits his brain and then he’s up—naked and fumbling, asking you where the towels are even though this was his apartment and they are his towels. he brings back a warm one from the bathroom, mumbling an apology every time he dabs too close to a sensitive spot.

'sorry—sorry. i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t have—no, wait, that’s not right, i wanted to, i just—god, i hope that was good for you.'

once he’s convinced you’re okay, he clambers back into bed with a gentleness that breaks your heart a little. he wraps himself around you, one arm across your waist, lips pressed to your temple like a benediction.

there’s a moment of silence. then he whispers against your hair: 'was it ok?' the question was actually quite ridiculous for the moment because your sweaty bodies were pressed together in every single way possible and you were almost a hundred percent sure you were still shaking in post-orgasmic thrill.

his soft cock had drifted while he wiggled to get comfort. now sitting comfortably between your slick hot thighs and you wondered if he could feel the way you were still leaking for him, despite your oversensitivity.

spencer reid in phase one is the kind of man who would tuck your hair behind your ear, ask if you need water, offer to rub your back, ask again if you're sure you're okay, and then lie awake for hours watching you sleep—not in a creepy way, but in a 'how did I get this lucky' way.

and just before he finally dozes off, he murmurs it. barely audible. barely brave enough. 'i want to be good at this for you.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

you’ve barely caught your breath before he’s already on you.

not sexually—affectionately. his fingers are already ghosting down your arm, across your waist, smoothing along the softest parts of you like he’s trying to calm a storm he started.

he’s flushed, hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. you’re both a little wrecked—your legs shaky, your lips kiss-bruised—and yet spencer looks at you like he’s still starved.

'okay?' he whispers, even though your whimpering praise had all but answered that minutes ago.

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, then down your neck—his hand slipping possessively over the curve of your shoulder. you nod, and he melts. 'you looked so pretty like that,' he murmurs. 'fucking beautiful.'

his words come easier now. praise and sweetness. he mumbles them into your hair. into your throat. into the flushed skin just beneath your collarbone as he starts to kiss you again—not like before, not hungry or rushed. but soft.

'i don’t want you to move,' he tells you. 'i want you to stay just like this.'

but he moves anyway. forces himself up and out of the warm tangle of limbs, tugging on his boxers as he heads to the bathroom to get a warm washcloth. he cleans you up with the kind of devotion that borders on religious—murmuring soft apologies when you flinch, even if it’s just from sensitivity.

after, he gets back into bed and pulls you onto his chest.

'you were so good for me,' he breathes. 'i hope i was good for you too.' and then he holds you like a secret. like he’s scared someone might take you from him if he loosens his grip. his hand draws slow, absentminded shapes over the curve of your spine, and he’s so close to sleep—but his mouth keeps going.

'i think about you all the time.' he breaks off, suddenly shy. 'not just like this. i mean… always.' you smile against his chest. he kisses your forehead, and that’s when you know : he doesn’t just want to be inside you. he wants to be in your life.

he wants the nights and the mornings and everything in between.

spencer reid in phase two aftercare is clingy, chatty, and deliciously lovesick. he praises you so much you nearly blush. he cleans you up like it’s a sacred act. and he falls asleep curled around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded to earth.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

you're panting, wrung the fuck out and barely coherent.

and spencer is still looking at you like he wants more, but he doesn’t touch. at least not right away. because you’re trembling, and that makes something primal in him snap—the same way it did when he came into you ( in to a condom, because this is still fresh ) while growling how tight and perfect you felt around his cock.

his hand goes straight to your thigh, fingers splayed, grounding you. his touch is a brand now—you belong to me etched into your skin without a word.

'you’re shaking,' he says, voice low. almost scolding. he doesn’t mean to, but his voice is rougher now. post-sex spencer doesn’t speak with his usual soft concern—he’s wrecked. so gone for you he’s trying to hold himself together.

'you okay, baby?'

he waits. makes you meet his eyes and when you nod—barely able to muster the strength—he exhales like he’d been holding his breath since the second he came.

then he moves. fast, comically so.

he practically scoops you up, tucking you into his lap, one arm locking around your waist while his other hand starts rubbing down your back. he’s whispering now—urgent and reverent.

'you were perfect. you’re so perfect.' 'i don’t think i’ll ever get over that.' 'you’re not allowed to leave. you hear me? not after that.'

he keeps petting you—down your spine, over your ribs, behind your neck. he needs you close. needs to touch you. he’s not done claiming you, even if the sex part is over.

and when he finally lays you down to clean you up?

he’s all focus.

gentle hands. kiss to your knee. apology when he sees the marks he left. another kiss to each one.

'you okay?' 'you need water?' 'do you feel sore? i can—' he stops, swallows. then adds softly : 'i don’t want to hurt you. i never want to hurt you.'

it’s quiet for a minute while he takes care of you. you’re too soft to speak. too warm. too full of love and dopamine.

he climbs back into bed behind you—wraps his entire body around you like he can physically shield you from the world. you smile. then melt as his hand splays over your belly and pulls you back, snug against his chest.

he doesn’t sleep for hours.

he just holds you. watches you. breathes you in like a drug. and when you wake sometime near sunrise, you’ll find his fingers still tangled in yours.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

you’re gone.

totally used up—back arched, legs still twitching, your throat raw from begging him not to stop.

you’ve come more times than you can count. you’ve even cried a little and he hasn’t even come yet.

he’s too focused on you.

so when your body finally collapses into the mattress, trembling and marked from his hands, teeth, belt—spencer drops the act like a switch flipped.

his whole body softens.

'hey. you with me, sweetheart?'

he’s off the bed in seconds—wet washcloth in hand, water bottle already opened, blanket pulled over your shoulders before you can shiver. one of his hands rubs small circles into your back while the other brushes sweaty hair off your forehead.

'there you are,' he whispers. 'there’s my pretty girl.'

gone is the man who just made you cry while choking on his cock. gone is the man who called you his little slut while he fingered you until your voice broke and the sheets soaked.

now? now he’s your spencer. your everything. and he’s treating you like something fragile and holy.

'drink for me,' he says, voice low. 'just a few sips.'

you’re so far gone all you can do is let him guide the bottle to your lips. you drink. he watches.

then he kisses you.

soft, so fucking soft. barely there. not to start anything. just to ground you.

'you’re okay. you did so good for me. the best i’ve ever had.'

you start to whimper—emotional, overwhelmed—and spencer immediately hushes you. 'i know, baby. i know. you’re okay. i’ve got you.'

he lies beside you, pulling you into his chest, hand sliding over your chest to feel your heartbeat. not sexual—he just needs proof you’re real.

because after what you let him do to you? after the filth he spilled into your ear, the bruises he left behind, the way you smiled through it?

he’s never loved anyone more and he can’t let go. not now. not ever.

he presses a kiss to your temple. one to your neck. one to every fingertip.

you mumble something—half-conscious—and he whispers back :

'i’ll run you a bath when you’re ready.' 'you don’t have to move. i’ll carry you.' 'i’ll clean the sheets. just sleep, my sweet girl. just sleep.'

and you drift off—head on his chest, safe and warm—before you can even make it to the tub.

b is for body part ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

your thighs. specifically : the soft, warm, needy flesh of them grinding against him in your sleep.

he can’t un-feel it.

that night in the hotel bed changed everything. you were asleep, sure. dreaming. unaware. but your legs had wrapped around his like you were meant to be there. your knee had pressed right into his aching cock and your hips had rocked, and you had moaned, and he had listened to all of it—biting his lip and gripping the sheets while he jacked off beside you like a man possessed.

now he can’t stop looking at your thighs.

he stares when you wear pencil skirts. he flushes when you fold your legs beside him on the jet. he remembers the weight of your leg slung over his, how slick you’d been. how warm. how tight.

when you finally touch him again—really touch him—he’ll gasp when you climb onto his lap. his hands will go straight to your thighs. his mouth will follow.

because now he knows how they feel. he just wants to know how they taste.

his neck.

specifically : the spot just below his ear.

it started by accident.

you had leaned in to whisper something during a case briefing, and your lips had brushed that tender patch of skin. he’d flinched. his ears had gone red. and you’d smiled, because now you had intel.

you start doing it more often. leaning in too close. tilting your head so your breath tickles just below his jaw. he gets so flustered—and then you’re grinning to yourself for the next hour.

but then, he tells you what happened that night. the wet dream. the fact that he stayed perfectly still while your moans and movements drove him to finish in that shared bed.

you’re not mad. not at all.

in fact, the next time you two are alone, you tilt his chin, lean in, and press a kiss—right there.

his hands fly to your waist. his breath shudders and you whisper, 'told you that spot would kill you.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

your mouth.

at this stage, spencer is deep in the 'i should not be thinking this' phase. he is riddled with guilt and confusion—obsessed with you in a way that makes his stomach hurt. and it starts with your mouth.

he watches it constantly. when you talk. when you laugh. when you bite your lip while reading something. when you lick whipped cream off your spoon at the coffee shop and he nearly drops his book.

and then there’s your smile—that teasing little i know what i’m doing to you smirk that haunts him at night.

he’s not proud of it, but he thinks about it. ahat your mouth would look like wrapped around his cock. would you drool as he pushed it is as far down your throat as he could, would you gag. what you’d sound like if he kissed you, really kissed you, until your lips were red and swollen and desperate.

he knows he shouldn’t, but that’s what makes it worse. 'she probably doesn’t even mean to do it,' he tells himself. 'or maybe she does. god. maybe she knows. maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing.'

and suddenly he’s hard again.

for you, its his hands. no contest.

you stare at them all the time.

long, elegant fingers that twitch when he’s nervous, that spin pens and fiddle with sugar packets. that brush over file folders like they’re something sacred. that tug at his tie when he’s flustered.

and then you imagine them doing everything else. gripping your hips. curling inside you. pinning your wrists down. gripping the headboard while he finally loses control.

you’re not subtle about it either. you give him pens just to watch him fiddle. you touch his fingers unnecessarily when passing case files. you make excuses to show him things on your phone so he’ll hover behind you, hand braced on the desk beside your thigh.

you love his hands and you can’t wait to find out what else they can do.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

your hips.

specifically : the dip where your waist curves into the bone—where he can grip, pull, anchor.

by now, he knows. knows you’re teasing him. knows you want him just as bad. and when he finally gets to touch you, spencer’s hands will find your hips first. like he’s been waiting for permission to hold you still.

he’s bolder now. his hands splay over your curves like he owns them. not out of dominance, but worship—because they’ve haunted his dreams. he uses your hips like a map and a metronome: holding you down when you grind against him, guiding your pace when you ride him for the first time.

his fingers leave light bruises. his mouth presses kisses along every inch he can reach. and when you whimper and tell him you can’t take anymore, he digs his fingers just a little deeper into the flesh there and says:

'yes, you can. stay still for me, sweetheart. i need—god, i need to feel you take it.'

and when you do?

he falls apart all over again.

its still his hands. ( what can you say? )

specifically : his fingers. the ones that turn pages and cradle coffee cups—and now, fuck you so tender it makes your whole body tremble. because when spencer finally stops hesitating—when he chooses to put those brilliant, clever fingers on you—everything changes.

he learns fast. he asks questions. he watches your body and listens to what it needs. when you tell him how to touch you, he doesn’t just obey—he memorizes. he practices. he wants to be perfect for you.

and he is. you could write essays about his fingers. the way he curls them just right. the way his thumb finds your clit like he was born to touch it. the way he looks up at you from between your thighs, glasses fogged, tongue out, and murmurs, 'that’s it, baby. show me how you like it.'

you love his hands so much, you start holding them all the time. in meetings. on walks. under tables. over your chest while he fucks you slow.

one day you say, 'god, spence—your hands are perfect.'

he’ll blush, because of course he will, but later that night? he’ll say—

'you like them better here?' as he slides two fingers into your pussy.

'or here?' as his palm presses flat against your tummy while he fucks you from behind.

'or maybe…' as he brushes your hair back, cups your cheek, and kisses you so deep you forget your name.

and the answer is always:

yes.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

your throat.

and not just for the obvious reasons. ( though those reasons definitely count. )

in this phase, sspencer’s obsession sharpens. the playfulness of phase one, the awe of phase two, the worship of phase three—it all fuses into something hot and dangerous and feral in the best fucking way.

he loves your throat because he can watch it work when you swallow his cum.

he loves your throat because he can feel your moans vibrate against his palm when he gently wraps his hand around it.

he loves your throat because he can lean in during an argument and whisper—

'careful. you keep pushing, and i’m gonna fuck you until your voice breaks.'

and the next morning?

he’ll kiss your sore throat better. with tea and honey and guilt-laced affection.

but he’ll still smirk when you flinch a little at the memory of him growling 'open for me' with your head tilted back against the wall.

he touches your throat when he’s soft, too. when he’s falling asleep with your pulse against his fingertips. when you say something tender and he cups your jaw like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

because at the end of the day, it’s not just about sex. it’s about how you make him feel alive. how he wants to feel your heartbeat to remind himself : she’s real. this is real. i don’t have to be alone anymore.

his cock. there’s no delicate way to say it.

you love everything about him—his brain, his hands, his back, his mouth—but by phase four?

his cock is your new religion.

and it's not just about the size ( though it’s so good, thick and long and pretty, flushed pink with that slight curve that drives you insane ). it’s not even just how he uses it ( though that’s gotten filthy, hasn’t it? ). it’s the way he loses control when you give it attention.

you touch him and he unravels. you lick him and he whimpers. you ride him and he worships.

you love how vocal he is. how needy he gets. how he tries to hold back but always ends up begging.

'please—god, please, don’t stop.' as you hollow your cheeks and suck.

'feels so good, sweetheart. you feel so fucking good.' as you grab his thigh and force him to go further into you your mouth.

'i can’t—i’m gonna come. gonna come for you, baby—please—' as his tip grazes down your throat.

you can feel how much he wants you in every thrust. every twitch. every desperate grip on your hips, your thighs, your jaw.

you love how his cock fits in your mouth. how it stretches your cunt. how it leaks like he’s been ready for you—like he’s just been waiting for permission to ruin you.

you’ll tell him, breathless and smug and completely fucked-out :

'this is mine, spence. all of it.'

and he’ll say, without hesitation— 'yours. always.'

phase four is not about restraint.

it’s about relief.

the full-body exhale after holding back for too long.

c is for cum ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer hasn’t meant to cum in any of these early moments of phase one. he’s not even thinking about orgasm as a goal. he’s just trying to survive.

you’ve kissed him once—maybe twice. you’ve touched him barely. you’ve said a few devastating things that hit him square in the libido and then acted like you didn’t even notice. he doesn’t know what’s allowed, what’s wanted, what’s imagined, and what’s real.

all he knows is cock has never behaved this way before.

it’s always messy. always mortifying. always unexpected. he finishes :

in his pants in the jet bathroom after you text and ask he needs help with his hard on that you most definitely caused.

in his bedroom the night that you ask 'did you think about me when you touched yourself on the jet?' in the middle of the bullpen when he was supposed to be doing paperwork.

in his hand while guilt-jacking it to the sound of you moaning his name and fucking yourself on his thigh. and then again in the shower to the memory of your soaked thighs grinding on him in your sleep.

in your car, when your hand slips over his clothed cock and strokes him so sweetly he doesn’t even get the chance to warn you—he just chokes out your name, spills over his boxers, and pants apologies like a sinner in a confessional.

every single time, he’s horrified by how quickly he comes. every single time, he spirals afterward.

'i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to— i can clean it up— i just— you— i— i didn’t—'

he doesn’t understand how you can stay so calm. he thinks he’s ruined everything. ( he hasn’t )

you’re just sitting pretty, pretending not to be the orchestrator of his entire sexual collapse.

his thoughts rang from, 'you’re disgusting' to 'you couldn’t even hold out thirty seconds' to 'she’s going to laugh in your face.'

you’ve seen it all—his stammering, his blushing, the way he avoids eye contact after he finishes like a schoolboy caught passing a dirty note.

you just smile.

'don’t worry, spence,' you tell him. 'we’ll work on your stamina next time.'

his soul leaves his body.

his cock twitches again.

he has no idea what to do with you.

he doesn’t just like cumming—he likes cumming because of you.

the way you say his name when you know he’s close.

the way your fingers wrap around him, just curious, just careful.

the way you don’t make fun of him when he spills too fast, too hard, too full of want.

he starts to crave the release—but also the praise. the tiny gasps you make when he moans. the way your lips part when you realize he’s close. the look on your face when you ruin him.

by the end of phase one, he’s still shy, still guilt-ridden, still unsure.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

you’ve had the talk.

you know that he knows about the wet dream. the handjob. the shower.

you were not mad. you were turned on. which honestly broke spencer’s brain for a second.

now you’re in this hazy, delicious middle-ground : not dating. not just friends. definitely not innocent.

and he’s discovering something about himself : you make him needy.

this is mutual masturbation territory. the first time you both do it in front of each other, it starts slow. you’re teasing him verbally like always—just soft whispers :

'show me how you do it when i’m not there.' 'do you touch yourself when you think about the car?' 'tell me what you think about when you come.'

he resists—at first. but he’s so worked up, he’s aching. you don’t touch him this time. not directly. you just sit there, legs parted, fingertips teasing your waistband.

and spencer—god.

he fists his cock, groaning your name before he can even stop himself. it’s messy. loud. gut-wrenching. he finishes fast again, but this time he doesn’t spiral.

this time you tell him :

'good boy.'

and spencer ascends.

she wants to see me come. she likes it. she touches herself thinking about me. she touches herself for me. i can let her watch.

his orgasm isn’t just physical anymore—it’s performative in the best way. he still feels a little shy, but he’s starving for your reaction.

he loves the gasp you make when he leaks down his own fist. he loves the tiny moan you let out when he pants your name.

he loves that you keep your eyes on him the whole time.

'don’t stop watching,' he begs one night, breathless.

and you don’t.

spencer doesn’t want to cum alone anymore.

he wants to be beside you, across from you, under you—whatever it takes to feel that connection when he finally lets go. he’s beginning to understand that pleasure isn’t something to be ashamed of, especially not when it’s with you.

and he’s starting to think…

maybe you don’t want to stop. maybe this isn’t just a phase. maybe this is becoming something more.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

at this point, the gloves are off—literally and metaphorically. you and spencer are doing it. regularly. desperately. obsessively.

he’s still your best friend, still sweet, still babbles post-orgasm, but now?

he begs. he curses. he cries when you edge him long enough. and when he comes—it’s an event.

spencer doesn’t just cum in phase three. he falls apart. he crumbles. he writhes. he gasps your name like it’s sacred.

you’ve figured out the exact way to ruin him :

two fingers under his jaw to make him look at you, a filthy praise-whisper in his ear ( like 'don’t you dare finish until i say so' )

a rhythm that he’s not allowed to break

he asks permission now, every time. he says it like he’s going to die if you say no.

'please, i can’t—please let me—i want to be good, i need—'

sometimes you say yes. sometimes you wait until he’s shaking so hard he’s tearing up. when you finally say 'now,' he explodes. and then he thanks you for it, breathlessly, repeatedly, until you kiss the words off his mouth.

this isn’t just about lust anymore. this is emotional. sensory. total surrender.

spencer doesn’t care if he whimpers, or moans, or sobs into your chest. he doesn’t care if he cums too fast or too hard or too loud.

he just wants you. every second. every nerve. every ruined breath.

spencer finally understands that pleasure can be exquisite and still be safe. that it’s okay to need something intense—because you make it okay.

he learns how far he can go. how much he can take. and that the second he looks into your eyes and says 'i can’t take it'—you’ll say 'yes, you can. just one more for me, baby.'

and he will.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

sex with spencer is no longer about discovery—it’s devotion. not just heat, not just hunger—it’s soul-deep, bone-shaking, terrifyingly good.

when spencer finishes now?

it’s slow. it’s tender. it’s devastating.

he comes with his face buried in your neck, your name whispered like a prayer, body trembling from restraint he’s long since lost. he holds you tighter than ever—like he thinks you’ll disappear if he lets go.

there’s no shame now. no guilt. no second-guessing. he wants you to see him fall apart.

you’ve seen him cry with your name on his lips.

you’ve watched him come so hard he can’t stay upright after. you’ve whispered things in his ear that he’ll remember on his deathbed. you’ve taken him apart and put him back together a hundred times—and he trusts you to do it again.

spencer cums with complete surrender in phase four. he holds eye contact. he holds your hand. he might say thank you, might say fuck, i need you, might just say more.

you don’t need a rhythm anymore. you just need him. and he just needs you.

he no longer begs to finish—he just asks where.

''inside you?' 'on your stomach?' 'your chest?' 'your mouth?'

and when you tell him?

he listens.

he obeys.

and he thanks you like you’ve given him a gift every single time.

d is for dirty talk ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn’t mean to talk dirty.

he honestly can’t help it when he is around you.

it’s less about confidence and more about desperation—the kind that leaks out when he’s too worked up to self-censor. he’s not giving you a rehearsed fantasy; he’s muttering the exact, raw thoughts spinning through his spiraling brain.

his mouth moves faster than his filter, and that’s what makes it so devastating.

it’s accidental, breathless, panicked arousal.

'f-fuck, d-don’t stop—don’t stop, please—' 'god, do you even know what you’re doing to me?' 'i’m not gonna make it. i’m not—i can’t—'

he says the quiet parts out loud. things he meant to keep to himself, things like :

'i think about your mouth when i’m trying to work.' 'i’ve imagined you doing this since the first time i saw you.' 'you’re so fucking pretty it hurts.'

sometimes he gasps things he doesn’t realize are audible. whispers against your throat when he’s too far gone to care.

'you’re evil.' 'i’m so hard it hurts.'

and the worst part? he blushes as soon as he realizes he’s said any of it out loud. he’ll try to backpedal. stammer an apology. hide his face in your shoulder and groan :

'i didn’t mean to say that—oh my god—forget i said that—'

but you never do.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he’s evolving.

there’s still shyness. still blushes. still that nervous energy thrumming just under the surface—but something’s shifted. he knows now that you want him. that you like him. that he doesn’t have to keep everything locked behind his teeth.

so he starts experimenting.

and once he gets a taste of how wrecked his words make you? he can’t stop. he doesn’t always say it smoothly. but when it lands? it lands hard.

'you wore that on purpose, didn’t you?' 'you like being a distraction? fine. now you’ve got my full attention.'

sometimes, it’s soft and reverent. other times, it’s ragged—growled through gritted teeth while he’s rutting into you with a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

'you’re so fucking soft.' 'you don’t even know what you do to me.' 'i think about you like this all the time.'

and sometimes—just sometimes—he whispers what he wants to do next.

'i want you to moan my name.' “let me be on top.”

he doesn’t realize how filthy he sounds. He’s still shocked when you moan louder in response. Still stunned when your eyes roll back because of a sentence that just slipped out of his mouth.

but god, does he love your reactions. they feed him. they build him. and the more he gets? the bolder he becomes.

there are moments in phase two where the dirty talk becomes domineering. not because he wants power—but because he craves your submission. not control. not force.

just need.

you’ll see it in the way he pants :

'tell me you want me.' 'say it. say it again.'

and when you do? he’ll lose every last shred of composure he worked so hard to keep.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three spencer reid is dangerous.

not because he’s cruel—never that. but because he knows exactly what he’s doing now.

he’s past the blushing. past the guilt. past wondering if he’s imagining it when you tremble at his words.

he knows what gets you there and he uses it.

ohhh, he use it.

dirty talk in phase three isn’t just filth for the sake of it. it’s a fucking strategy. he says things that no man should say in that voice. that low, velvety, wicked voice.

'is that what you needed, baby? my fingers in you, nice and deep?' 'i can feel you clenching. you’re already close, aren’t you? you get off on this.' 'you’ve been teasing me for weeks. you earned this.'

he’s a scholar of your body now—knows how it ticks. he maps it with his mouth. marks it with his words.

'you’re my favorite thing to study.'

phase three spencer is a goddamn menace when you’re on the edge. he talks you there. keeps you there. then backs off, just to hear you whine.

'beg for it. say please, and maybe i’ll let you come.' 'look at you. fucking soaking. did i do this to you?' 'this pussy’s mine now, you know that, right?'

he’s smug. he’s relentless, but he’s so attentive.

when you fall apart?

he’s right there to whisper it into your hair :

'that’s it, baby. that’s my girl. so perfect for me, soakin my fingers.'

by now, he’s not afraid to name things. to ask for things. he’ll even suggest them with that casual, scholarly tone.

'next time, i want your hands tied.' 'would you let me film you coming for me?' 'let’s try that thing you looked up last night, sweetheart. i saw your search history.'

you will combust and he will smile.

because phase three spencer reid knows he’s got you wrapped around his long, clever fingers—and that his voice alone is enough to bring you to your knees.

he’s filth. he’s power. he’s a walking, talking thesis on how to fuck someone senseless using only words.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer reid is unrecognizable from the bashful, blushing boy he used to be. he's still sweet. still soft. but only after. because when he’s inside you?

he’s filthy. he's unhinged. he is fucking possessive.

and his dirty talk? it drips with ownership.

at this stage, you belong to him—and he makes sure you feel it in every word.

'you’re gonna take it, baby. you’re gonna take every inch, just like that.' 'so cockdrunk you forgot your own name, huh? good thing you only need to remember mine.' 'i love how loud you get when i fuck you deep. you know the neighbors hear you, right?'

he says it right into your mouth. into your ear. onto your skin as he bites your shoulder to keep from moaning too loud himself.

he doesn’t hold back anymore—not with his thrusts, and not with his mouth.

phase four spencer doesn’t ask. he tells.

'open your legs wider. that’s it.' 'put your hands behind your head—i want you to watch your tits bounce when you come.' 'rub your clit for me. come on now.'

and the moment you hesitate, he chuckles—darkly.

'what’s wrong, sweetheart? suddenly shy? you weren’t shy when you begged for my cock in the elevator.'

he talks you through every orgasm. describes it in real time.

'look at that. you’re shaking so hard. so fucking pretty when you come for me.'

he toes the line between worship and ruin.

'you’re such a fucking mess for me, baby. ruined that pretty pussy on my fingers alone.' 'you beg so well, i almost feel bad teasing you. almost.' 'god, i love it when you cry like this. you wanna come that bad, huh?'

then—without fail—he’ll pull you close, brush the hair from your face, and murmur :

'mine. all mine.'

because phase four spencer is possessive in the bedroom. gentle outside of it. but here? in the dark? on your knees?

he’s merciless.

and the worst part?

he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

e is for experience ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

he is, in a word, inexperienced. but don’t confuse that with clueless.

he’s a genius, after all and the fact that he hasn’t done much? only makes everything ten times hotter.

he knows the mechanics. he knows every scientific study on erogenous zones. can recite entire Kinsey reports from memory.

but when it comes to you?

to your bare skin under his trembling hands? he's overwhelmed to say the least.

'you feel… so much softer than i expected. not that i—i wasn’t imagining, i just—'

he blushes. he stammers. he can’t stop looking. you catch him staring at your bra like it’s a quantum puzzle. he’ll murmur things like :

'i didn’t think i’d ever get this close to someone like you.' 'are you… sure you want me to…?' 'what do you like? i want to… get it right.'

he’s terrified he’ll mess it up. that you’ll compare him to someone else. that he won’t know what to do with his hands. ( he doesn’t. )

so you guide him and when he listens? he really listens. the first time he kisses down your stomach, it’s not smooth. it’s hesitant and careful. like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he goes too fast.

but when your fingers thread into his hair and you sigh—he exhales like he’s been blessed.

'i didn’t know it would feel this… electric.'

afterward, he fumbles to pull your shirt down.

'are you okay? did i—was it… okay for you?'

you tell him yes. of course.

but that’s not enough for him. he wants proof.

he wants to memorize every twitch, every moan, every breath you took while wrapped around him.

because he doesn’t just want to be good at sex.

he wants to be good for you.

and phase one spencer reid?

he may be inexperienced but he learns very fast.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he has done a lot of thinking and a lot of touching.

most of it? behind closed doors. in the shower. in bed. in hotel bathrooms with a hand clamped over his mouth while replaying your voice in his head.

'did you think of me when you touched yourself on the jet last week?'

yeah. that question lives rent-free in his brain. he absolutely did. he still does.

he's still not experienced in the traditional sense but he’s mentally catalogued every sound you’ve made near him. he’s committed your reactions to memory—filed under 'use this to make her shake'.

he’s a little braver now. a little bolder.

he touches himself with you in mind. not just a vague fantasy version—you.

your voice. your laugh. the way you looked at him over your coffee that morning.

he strokes himself with your name on his tongue. sometimes he finishes faster than he wants to—because your smile is enough to undo him.

he hasn’t actually had sex with you. not yet.

but you’ve palmed him through his pants. you’ve whispered filthy things in his ear. you’ve brushed your lips against his jaw and asked, 'what are you thinking about, spence?' in the most devastating voice imaginable.

and he has so much pent-up experience now—secondhand, yes, but sharpened to a dangerous point by longing.

if he ever gets the chance?

he won’t just be good. he’ll be unhinged.

phase two spencer can tell you, with academic precision, exactly how to make a woman orgasm.

but he doesn’t need to anymore because by now?

he’s dreaming of your moans on a loop. he’s memorized the tension in your thighs when you tease him. he knows how it feels when you grind on his thigh in your sleep.

and maybe, when he’s alone—tugging at himself in the dark—he wonders what it would be like if you really touched him. if you watched. and maybe, maybe… he comes with your name on his lips.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

spencer reid is no longer imagining you.

he has you.

your body. your moans. your praise. your nails in his back. he knows what you taste like, sound like, look like when you fall apart—and he is addicted.

he might not have been your most experienced partner in the beginning, but by now? he’s borderline feral and his experience is intimately, exclusively, dangerously tailored to you.

the quietest man in the room is now the one who pins you to the mattress and fucks you so slowly you forget your own name.

he’s so hungry for you it’s embarrassing. he’s been studying—you, your body, your sounds—and he uses everything he’s learned. Every angle. every breath.

he’s not just a fast learner—he’s a devoted one and now that he knows how to get you to shake?

he won’t stop until you do.

he wants all of it.

not just your body. not just the high.

he wants the learning curve. he wants to memorize how your breath hitches when he curls his fingers just right. he wants to build you from the inside out. he wants to write essays in his head about what your pleasure sounds like.

and then he wants to make you sob it all over again.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

by phase four he not just experienced.

he is confident.

not cocky or careless. but deeply, devastatingly self-assured in the way only someone who’s loved you—known you—worshipped you—can be.

he knows what you need before you say it. he knows how to pull it from your throat before you think to beg. he doesn’t ask, 'did you like that?' anymore.

he tells you :

'yeah you liked that. i felt it.'

and then he does it again.

he takes his time—every time—because he knows how much it ruins you when he drags it out. he teases you not because he’s insecure, but because he knows exactly how to hold you on the edge.

knows how to touch you until your thighs shake and your eyes flutter and you’re whimpering his name like a prayer. knows when to still his fingers and whisper, 'you’re not ready yet. be patient.'

he doesn’t need to prove anything anymore.

you already taught him that he’s everything you want. now he wants to show you just how much he’s learned.

and oh, does he show you.

he’ll push your body to limits you didn’t know it had. hold you through overstimulation. whisper corrections when your hands shake too much to undo his belt properly.

'eyes on me, sweetheart. that’s it. you’re doing so good.'

his voice is deeper now when he’s buried inside you. thicker. rougher. laced with years of yearning and practice and love. and when you clench around him and cry out, trembling?

he kisses your damp cheek, strokes your hair, and murmurs :

'perfect. just like that. you gonna cum on my cock again, baby?'

because you made him this way.

all that teasing in phase one? all the longing in phase two? the holy-shit-i-can’t-believe-this-is-real wonder of phase three?

it’s all still there. but now, it’s funneled into the man above you. the one gripping your hips. the one fucking you like you’re the last person on earth.

and when he comes, he always comes deep. pressed flush against you, whispering broken things against your skin. sometimes your name. sometimes a full dissertation on how tight you are and how good your squeezing him.

f is for favorite position ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

he is in the deep end of uncharted waters now—flustered, overwhelmed, barely holding on by the thread of his last clean pair of slacks.

he’s never had to think about this before. favorite position? It’s a miracle he’s not short-circuiting from just imagining you naked.

still, if you pressed him—if you leaned in real close, batted your lashes, asked all sweet and sly—

'spence, tell me your favorite position…'

he’d stammer for a bit, push up his glasses, mutter something about how it’s really just about proximity to emotional intimacy and mutual safety—before quietly admitting:

'uh… probably missionary.'

and it’s not because he lacks imagination.

it’s because it’s the one where he gets to see you.

its because he wants to know what your face looks like when you come. because he wants to bury his head in your neck when it’s too much. because the thought of holding himself above you—watching you squirm, cry out, wrap your legs around him?

it's enough to make him absolutely combust.

'i think about it,' he’d whisper later. 'your legs hooked behind me. your hands in my hair. you saying my name like that…'

he never finishes the sentence. but the pink blooming in his cheeks tells you enough.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer is newly deflowered, in every possible way—emotionally, physically, spiritually ( you wrecked him, and he liked it ).

he’s no longer a trembling virgin, but he’s still awkward, reverent, and achingly in love with you. and now that he knows what it feels like—how your body fits under his, around him, on him—he’s hooked.

so what’s his favorite position?

You riding him. ( with his hands on your hips like you’re going to disappear. )

because it lets him watch everything.

your tits bouncing.

your mouth slack with pleasure.

your eyes—half-lidded, drunk on him.

and god help him if you grab his hands and press them to your chest. if you tell him to just relax and let you take care of him?

he melts. he melts.

he never realized how hot it would be to be so completely, deliciously used—until you leaned in and whispered :

'don’t think, baby. just feel.'

and now? he craves it.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three spencer is a man transformed.

he’s confident and commanding. utterly insatiable. gone is the stammering virgin with trembling fingers. now he’s got your wrists pinned, your name on his tongue, and a roughness in his voice that should be illegal.

so what’s his favorite position?

from behind. but not just any kind of behind. chest to your back, one hand in your hair, the other on your throat or between your legs.

because he likes the control now. he likes watching your face in the mirror—your eyes fluttering, lips parted, that dazed expression he put there.

because it lets him guide your pace. whisper filth into your ear. wrap a hand around your throat and feel your pulse flutter every time he thrusts deeper.

he loves hearing you beg—loves how desperate you get when he slows down just to tease.

'spencer, please—' 'i know, sweetheart. i know. but i’m not done with you yet.'

and if you try to push back into him?

mistake. he’ll grip your hips so tight they’ll bruise, groan into your neck, and make you pay for being greedy.

in the best way, of course.

his second favorite?

over his desk. clothes bunched. legs shaking. he still files his reports at that desk—still thinks about it every time he sits down.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer is devastating.

he’s not just confident—he’s obsessed. comfortable in your body. in his own. in you. everything he does now is deliberate, filthy, and tailored to exactly what he knows makes you lose it.

so what’s his favorite position?

reverse cowgirl. with your back arched, his hands gripping your hips, and his eyes locked on the way you take him.

because spencer is completely gone for you.

it’s visual torture in the best way.

he gets to watch the drag of your body as you sink down onto him. see the bounce, the reverberation, the pure sin of it. trace every curve with greedy, possessive eyes and run his hands over your ass, your waist, your thighs like he owns you ( because honestly at this point, he does, and you love it ).

'jesus christ, you look unreal,' he pants, watching your slick thighs tremble. 'i want you to see what you do to me—look.' he no longer waits for permission and he grabs your phone. records it. just for him. just for you.

when you grind? his hands slip to your stomach. one travels up, between your breasts, over your throat. he doesn’t choke—he holds.

firm. reverent. worshipful.

'you’re so perfect,' he whispers, voice wrecked. 'so fucking perfect. you were made for this.'

he lets you ride him whenever you want because spencer lives to be used by you, but when he initiates?

it’s slow, deep. utterly unforgiving.

and after?

he kisses every inch of you. tells you how beautiful you looked, how good you were for him. strokes your skin like it’s priceless.

g is for goofy ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

goofy spencer is endearing in every single way, but in phase one—before either of you has admitted what’s going on—it’s especially adorable.

because he doesn’t mean to be funny. he’s just… spencer.

starts rambling mid-flirt because he’s nervous. you’ll say, 'you always this red when you get teased?' and he’ll launch into a fact about vasodilation and increased blood flow until he realizes… you’re grinning at him.

laughs like a dork when you poke his side. like full-on snort. then gets embarrassed about it.

says something wildly inappropriate by accident and immediately panics:

'god, you’re just trying to ruin me.' then it sets in. 'i–um—i don’t mean ruin as in—you know—sexually—like—um—emotionally, i guess? or intellectually? . . . i’ll stop talking now.'

you catch him watching you one day and say, 'see something you like, dr. reid?' and spencer, deadpan, says :

'i was admiring the structural integrity of your penmanship.'

then immediately blushes so hard he has to turn away. ( he was definitely watching the curve of your ass. he just panicked.)

sometimes you flirt too well, and he fumbles.

'i bet i could make you come in under two minutes.' 'you mean… arrive? like… come over? because i live… farther? from here?” ( brain blue screens )

He’s the king of awkward giggles, scientific facts in very wrong moments, and accidentally saying 'moisture content' when talking about kissing.

and you?

you love every second of it.

h is for hair ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn't mean to notice your hair the way he does.

he tells himself it’s harmless—just an idle observation. a scientific curiosity. aesthetic appreciation. nothing more.

but then you lean over your desk and it falls ( he’s catalogued all your hair textures in his mind like a walking pantone wheel of temptation ). he gets distracted—loses his train of thought mid-sentence because the overhead lights just hit you so—and his hands twitch like they want to touch. just one strand.

he imagines what it feels like constantly.

wonders whether it’s soft like cotton or heavy like silk. if it smells like your shampoo or like something that’s just you.

wonders what you’d do if he asked to tug on it.

wonders what kind of sound you’d make.

and when you sit next to him on the jet, nodding off after a long case, your head lolled gently toward him and your hair brushing his arm?

he wants to bury his face in it. suffocate in it. he wants to know what it would be like if your head was on his chest, not just his bicep.

he also thinks a lot about what’s underneath.

your pubic hair, specifically. ( he’s mortified by how often he thinks about it. )

are you shaved? trimmed? bare? natural? do you wax? do you care? would you let him see it? touch it? mouth it?

he bets it’s the same shade as what’s on your head. he bets it’s beautiful. he bets it would drive him out of his goddamn mind.

as for him?

he’s self-conscious about his own body hair. always has been.

his curls? he those tame, gelled behind his ears in phase one. wild they frame his face, soften his jawline, fall into his eyes when he’s reading. while he is working, his ear length hair is slicked back.

you’ve told him—casually—that you like his hair this length. called it cute. tugged it once teasingly. he thought about that for hours.

( you don’t know that he almost offered to let you braid it one night on the jet. he chickened out. he still regrets it. )

below the neck?

spencer keeps things neat but natural.

he trims down there, mostly for hygiene, but he doesn’t go fully bare—he read an article once about skin irritation and ingrown hairs and decided he’d rather not risk it. besides, he thinks you'd like it. think you’d scratch your nails lightly through it while you kissed your way down—

( he stops that thought every time. it never works. )

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

it starts with your shampoo.

that first night at his apartment—your first almost-date—you'd washed your hair in his shower. left his bathroom foggy and fragrant, the scent trailing behind you like perfume.

spencer didn’t mean to sniff the air like a lunatic.

but he did and then he buried his face in the throw blanket you'd wrapped around your shoulders and inhaled like a man starved.

he recognizes that scent now. knows it better than anything. can pinpoint it when you walk by in the bullpen, when you leave his desk after teasing him senseless. when you lean over the evidence board and your hair brushes the paper beside his hand—he feels it like a live wire.

he doesn’t stop there.

he touches.

when you lie on his couch watching reruns, he’ll sneak his hand up to cradle the back of your head. pretend it’s about comfort. stability. but really? he just wants to card his fingers through it. slowly. absentmindedly.

he plays with the ends while you ramble about something that isn't him. he knots it around his finger like he's tethering you to him.

he brushes it back from your cheek just to see your face—just to look—and his fingers linger too long every time.

you never complain. you never pull away. ( that might be what ruins him most. )

he hasn’t touched your hair down there yet. but god, he wants to. he’s thought about it. desperately. vividly. late at night, he curls a pillow behind his head and jacks off slow to the thought of your thighs pressed open for him. imagines what your pussy looks like—bare or trimmed or messy and soft.

he’s ready for anything. doesn’t care what’s there or what isn’t. he’d mouth over it either way, tug at it gently with his teeth if you let him. he thinks he’d love the texture of it on his tongue.

you’ve seen the hair on his chest now. not all of it—just a flash that first night he peeled off his sweater and sat beside you on the bed, pretending not to notice the way your eyes dropped.

he caught your glance and now he keeps the top few buttons of his shirts open on purpose. he doesn't know what you'd do if you saw the rest of it—the trail down his stomach, the soft hair dusting his thighs. but God, he wants to find out. he wants you to touch. to kiss. to tug when he fucks you so slow he makes you cry.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

he fists your hair when he kisses you.

not hard. not at first.

it starts gentle—curious fingers weaving through the strands at the nape of your neck, thumb tracing the shape of your skull like he’s cataloguing it. he tucks the hair behind your ear just so he can lean in and whisper something filthy, and when you shiver, he smiles.

but when your mouth opens beneath his?

when your tongue meets his, needy and greedy, and you tug at his shirt like you want to climb inside him—

he grabs a handful and he pulls. he learns quickly what you like.

how tilting your head just right makes you whimper. how soft tugs at your roots make you melt, but sharp ones make you gasp and clench around his fingers when they’re inside you.

he’s obsessed.

obsessed with the way your hair tangles in his sheets. with the way it clings to your forehead with sweat when he’s got his mouth buried between your legs. with how it smells, how it tastes when it gets caught between his teeth because he won’t stop kissing your neck long enough to push it away.

you get your revenge.

your fingers in his hair—curling in those long chestnut waves he never quite manages to tame. you thread your hand through them when he goes down on you, encouraging him, holding him in place like he isn’t already starving for you.

he never knew his hair could be such a weak spot until you tugged—really tugged—right as he made you come. he groaned like it hurt, like you’d dragged it out of his soul, and now he can’t stop chasing that sound.

his body hair becomes another fixation.

he’s always been shy about it—but never shaved his chest or his stomach, never trimmed anything but what seemed polite. now, he sees the way your eyes trail over him when he pulls off his shirt. sees the way your fingers stroke lower and lower when you’re curled together in bed, lips trailing after them.

and when your nails rake through the hair on his thighs as you sink to your knees in front of him? the way you grab his wrists and guide his own hands into your hair, making a makeshift ponytail. the way you groan against his heavy cock when he tugs on it hard.

he swears he blacks out for a second.

and when it’s over, when the sweat dries and the sheets are soaked and he’s still wrapped around you like he’ll die if you leave—he strokes your hair for hours. twirls it, studies it, kisses your temple through it.

he’ll bury his face in it when he thinks you’re asleep and whisper the things he’s not brave enough to say aloud.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer is addicted.

not in the bashful, hesitant, slow-burn way he used to be. not even in the reverent awe. this is different. this is need. this is the way your hair lives on his pillow, the way your scent clings to his sweaters, the way his fingers curl into the back of your head on instinct—like his body knows you’re his before his brain can catch up.

he loves all of it.

clean or messy. styled or tangled. damp from the shower or damp from sweat. he loves the way it gets in your mouth when you're laughing. the way it fans across your back when you’re face-down in the sheets. the way you let him brush it out after long days, humming under your breath while he works from root to end, gentle and methodical like it’s an equation with only one right answer.

and when it comes to what’s beneath the silk and strands—he’s got every inch memorized.

he kisses the soft skin behind your ear before curling his fingers into your hair and tugging you down onto him. he trails his lips down the path your part carves into your scalp. he mouths at your temple, your crown, your jaw, worshipping the parts of you others overlook. and when your hair sticks to your skin after he’s ruined you, when he pushes it back to get a better look at your face, he always murmurs—

'you’re so pretty like this.' 'please don’t hide from me. i wanna see everything.'

he lets you play with his, too.

sometimes he sits at your feet while you braid it, twist it, fluff it just because it makes you happy. he lets you use conditioner in the shower, even if it smells 'too sweet.' he groans when you tug on it, especially if you do it while straddling him with purpose.

and when you run your fingers through it absently while reading on the couch—his head in your lap, eyes fluttering closed—he’s convinced that nothing, not even sex, feels more intimate than this.

curtains and drapes?

he doesn’t care. never did. not about yours, not about his.

trimmed, bare, bushy, dyed—he loves you in every form you take. but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice. he notices everything.

the first time you dye it? he stares for ten minutes before saying a word, then spends the rest of the day touching it like it’s holy. the first time you cut it short? he keeps murmuring 'you’re still my girl' like you needed reminding. and when you get it done just for fun—maybe styled, blown out, twisted up—he cannot keep his hands to himself.

when he’s between your thighs, he uses your hair like a leash.

fingers wrapped. fist clenched. holding you steady while he whispers 'you’re doing so well for me.'

and when you’re on top, riding him slow and steady, he uses it to anchor himself—tugging you down so your foreheads touch, his mouth panting out half-formed praise against your lips, a whispered 'you’re mine, baby, mine—mine—' falling hot and broken between breaths.

he’s not afraid anymore.

he’ll tell you when you look good. he’ll groan when you fluff your hair in the mirror. he’ll drop to his knees and bury his face between your legs just because he loves how it smells.

i is for intimacy ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer is terrified of intimacy.

not because he doesn't want it. god, he aches for it—deep down, bone-deep, where he’s spent his whole life compartmentalizing. but he’s awkward. scared. still trying to convince himself that what you’re doing isn’t flirting. that you couldn’t possibly mean the touches, the teasing, the looks. that he must be projecting.

so the intimacy? it sneaks up on him.

it’s your hand brushing his when you pass him a file. the way your pinky lingers for half a second too long and he thinks about it for days.

it’s you falling asleep on his shoulder during the jet ride and him forgetting how to breathe. how your hair smells like shampoo and citrus and something soft and warm that makes him dizzy. how your weight against his arm feels better than anything he’s ever earned.

it’s your knees bumping under the conference table. your laughter when he nervously stumbles over a word and the way you nudge him like it’s an inside joke. like you’ve already memorized all his little tells.

you call him spence in a tone no one else uses. he thinks about that, too. he thinks about you, constantly.

but Spencer doesn’t understand intimacy in the casual, effortless way you seem to. for him, it's built from the ground up. studied. tested. analyzed. intimacy isn’t easy. it’s not even safe.

but you make it feel almost okay.

you sit too close. you touch his wrist when you laugh. you tuck his hair behind his ear once, and he damn near malfunctions.

you let him ramble. you listen.

you memorize how he takes his coffee and you never tease him when he double-knots his shoelaces or uses two straws for iced drinks. you ask how his mom is. you ask if he’s okay in a way that’s not just polite—it’s real.

and it terrifies him.

because this—this is real intimacy. and if he lets himself believe it’s more than friendship, if he lets himself hope . . .

well, he’s not sure he’ll survive it if he’s wrong.

so he pulls back sometimes.

he stammers. gets flustered. tries not to look too long when you lean over his desk and your perfume hits his nose and short-circuits his frontal lobe.

but late at night—alone, in bed—he replays it all.

the way you said his name. the brush of your fingers. the sleepy sigh you made when you curled into his side without even thinking.

and he wonders if you feel it too. if you're afraid like he is. if intimacy has ever wrecked you the way it’s already started to wreck him.

because he’s falling and it feels a lot like flying straight into the sun.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he is beginning to understand that what’s happening between you isn’t just friendship.

you’ve crossed lines now—delicate, invisible lines drawn in jet cabins and late-night hotel rooms. there have been touches. moans. mutually broken silences. but still… no formal acknowledgment. no confessions. just tension that simmers under every word, every glance.

intimacy in phase two is unguarded vulnerability, cloaked in denial.

you come over for dinner.

you sit on his couch, your legs tucked beneath you like you belong there, and you ask about his favorite books. not just what he likes—but why.

and he tells you.

tells you too much. pens up about stories that saved him as a child. tells you about loneliness, about hope, about fear of losing control. he tells you things he hasn’t told anyone—because you asked. because you looked at him like his words mattered.

you listen without blinking.

you ask again.

and then you tell him something real—something about your past, or a fear you haven’t shared before—and suddenly, you’re sitting in the kind of silence that means everything.

this is the intimacy of shared laughter over dinner dishes. his hoodie on your shoulders because you said you were cold. your socked feet brushing under the blanket while you watch something neither of you are really paying attention to

and he notices everything.

he notices when you lean your cheek into your palm while watching him speak. notices when your eyes flick to his mouth. notices that your smile always comes slower, softer when it’s just the two of you.

he’s obsessed with it.

he’s terrified by it.

because he wants you now—not just physically ( though god knows that hasn’t lessened )—but emotionally. profoundly. intellectually.

intimacy for spencer is him stealing glances when you’re not looking, memorizing the way you laugh when you’re tired, the sleepy rasp in your voice when you call him late to say goodnight.

it’s the moment he confesses what happened in the hotel room. the one-bed incident. how he couldn’t help himself.

he expects you to pull away.

but you don’t.

you blink. you smile. you say you wish you’d been awake.

and he swears the earth tilts a little.

intimacy is inch by inch with him, especially now. it's the kind that lingers in the air after you’ve left. it’s a heartbeat louder when your fingers accidentally touch. it’s falling in love with someone who’s already halfway in your arms—but neither of you have dared to look down.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

this is where the dam finally breaks.

there’s no more plausible deniability. no more unspoken maybe’s. you’ve touched. you’ve teased. you’ve crossed every line you once pretended not to see.

and spencer is yours. emotionally, physically. wholly but the intimacy in phase three isn’t just about lust or even possession.

it’s about recognition.

this version of intimacy is quieter than people expect. spencer brushing your hair out of your face while you sleep. the first time you call him 'baby' and he blushes so hard you think he might combust.

the way he presses his forehead to yours and breathes you in after sex, like he’s trying to memorize what happiness feels like.

he’s still awkward. still rambles when he’s nervous. still stammers when you call him handsome like you mean it. but he wants to be close now. desperately. freely.

he touches you without hesitation : a hand on your back when you walk through doors, fingers tracing your knee when you sit beside him, lips pressed to your temple for no reason at all.

he smiles more.

he starts saying 'i missed you' even if it’s only been a day.

he learns to ask—not just about your day, but about your feelings. about your past. about your fears. he listens. remembers. repeats it back at the perfect moment to remind you he was always listening.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer is now undone. he’s not shy about it anymore. not tentative, not afraid. there’s no mask left—only hunger, devotion, and a love so intense it borders on worship.

it isn’t just woven into your sex life—it’s in everything he does.

he touches you like he’s trying to memorize the soul beneath your skin.

he looks at you like you hung the constellations with your bare hands.

he speaks to you like there’s no one else in the world who could possibly understand.

this is the version of Spencer who slides into your side of the bed just to steal your warmth. grumbles if you leave the house without a goodbye kiss. puts your name in his phone with a heart next to it and checks it when he misses you ( which is always ).

you’ve become his safest place.

that’s what intimacy means now.

it means pulling your hand to his chest when he has nightmares. letting you hear him cry for the first time and not apologizing for it.

whispering 'i trust you' against your shoulder when the weight of the world gets too heavy.

physically, he’s more open than ever. he undresses slowly in front of you now—no hesitation, no shame. he lets you press your lips to the scars and the softness he once tried to hide.

he initiates more than he ever used to—not out of lust, but because he needs your closeness like breath in his lungs.

and when he talks to you? it’s vulnerable and messy and honest.

'i don’t know what i’d do without you.' 'sometimes i wake up and panic, because i think this is a dream.' 'no one’s ever loved me like you do. i hope i make you feel even half that.'

by now, spencer doesn’t just crave your body—he craves your presence. your voice. your opinion. your hand on his back when he’s stressed. your silence when he’s overstimulated.

he’s stopped hiding how much he needs you.

and every time he breathes you in, every time he whispers your name against your skin, you can feel the truth in it. you are his entire world.

j is for jacking off ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn’t plan on doing it. he doesn’t mean to. but lately, it’s become more of a necessity than a choice.

because spencer is frustrated and borderline desperate. teetering on the edge of a spiral every time you so much as touch his arm or say his name in that voice. and he’s confused—because you’re still his best friend, but now you’re also a walking temptation in tiny skirts and soft perfume and teasing eyes that linger a little too long.

so he jacks off a lot. shamefully and quietly and always to the thought of you.

it usually happens after the team goes their separate ways. after the tension from the jet or the hotel or the bullpen has nowhere else to go.

he’ll close the door to his apartment and immediately feel the weight of it pressing against his zipper—the ache that’s been following him around since you made that comment about how big his hands are. or how you leaned over to show him something on your tablet, and your bralette—navy blue, he noticed—was the only thing shielding your breasts from his face.

and suddenly his resolve cracks like a matchstick.

most of the time, he doesn't even make it to the bed. Sometimes it's the couch. Sometimes the bathroom. Sometimes the shower, turned too hot, his forehead braced against tile while his hand works himself in fast, angry strokes.

because he feels guilty. like a pervert. like a bad friend. but your name is right there on the tip of his tongue as he pants into his palm, and the fantasy is so vivid—so real—that his toes curl and his thighs tremble before he can even stop it.

he imagines you a couple different ways. you on your knees, tongue out, eyes wide. you straddling his lap, gasping into his mouth.

you asleep beside him, soft and warm, and—God—grinding on his thigh without even realizing it. ( that one isn’t a fantasy. that one actually happened. )

and afterward, he lays there. shaky. spent. sticky and ashamed.

he tells himself it has to stop.

but it never does.

because he’s already hard again the next morning—just from the sound of your laugh echoing through the hallway.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer knows by now you want him. you’ve made it impossible not to. he still second-guesses everything ( because he’s spencer ), but the line between fantasy and reality has started to blur—and it’s driving him insane.

you’ve kissed. touched. you’ve even said things—filthy, whisper-soft things in the dark—that make his knees go weak just remembering. but you haven’t fucked yet.

and that’s the problem.

because now when he jacks off, it’s not from afar. it’s not fueled by guilt and secret shame. it’s fueled by you. the real, tangible, maddening you. and it’s so much worse.

he’ll be alone in his apartment, pacing.

because he wants to wait. because he wants it to be perfect.

because you said you weren’t ready—not yet—and he respects that, he does. but he’s already ruined three pairs of briefs this week thinking about your tongue in his mouth and your hand on his belt, unbuckling him with slow, teasing fingers while you whisper.

‘is this what you think about when your alone?’

( it is. )

so when he jacks off in phase two, it’s slower. needier.

he’ll lie in bed with the lights off, one hand fisted around his cock, the other clutched over his mouth to stop the whimpering. he’s embarrassed by how easily he unravels—how sensitive you’ve made him, how just the memory of your breath in his ear is enough to make his spine arch off the mattress.

he comes with your name punched from his lungs, like he’s apologizing to the air. and then he texts you :

‘im sorry. i thought about you again.’

and you always reply :

‘good. i hope you made a mess.’

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

he doesn’t have to imagine you anymore.

he shouldn’t have to jack off at all, not really—not when you’ve touched every inch of him with your mouth and your hands and your words. not when you’ve kissed him into moaning submission against your living room couch and ridden him so thoroughly he forgot how to spell his name. not when his sheets still smell like your shampoo.

and yet it’s worse now. because now he knows exactly what you look like when you whimper. how your hips stutter when you’re right on the edge. how you say his name when you’re about to fall apart.

now, when he jacks off, it’s no longer fantasy—it’s memory.

he’ll try to hold out. He will.

he’ll tell himself not tonight, you just saw her, and you can wait, you have a meeting in the morning—but his hand betrays him the second he pictures the outline of your thighs wrapped around his waist.

it starts with just a touch. just a little pressure through the front of his boxers. but soon he’s panting like a man fucking possessed, muttering curses under his breath, fucking up into his palm like it’s your fist around him instead.

he gets vocal now. he never meant to—but you ruined him. you told him he sounded hot when he begged. and now, every time he closes his eyes and hears your voice purring.

'are you gonna come for me, spence?'

he knows he’s lost.

he finishes fast and hard, a total mess—spilling across his stomach.

'fuck, baby—yes, oh god—ugh'

and bites down hard on the side of his hand to keep from saying your name so loudly the neighbors complain.

sometimes—especially the nights he misses you—he calls you afterward. voice still hoarse. breathing still shallow.

you always know and you always say :

'did you finish, sweetheart?'

to which he breathes :

'not enough. i need the real thing.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer barely has time to jack off.

but when he does, it's because he physically has to.

because you’ve been gone all day lecturing at a conference in another city, and he needs you like he needs oxygen. because he spent all night replaying that moment in the hallway when you tugged his tie and whispered you wanted to ruin him after dinner—and then had the audacity to leave before dessert.

so now he’s in your shared bedroom, still in his slacks, fist clenched around his cock, fucking into his hand with quiet, determined gasps—head tipped back, lips parted, flushed pink all the way down to his chest.

it’s no fantasy. it’s memory soaked in devotion. he’s not imagining your tits bouncing above him or your mouth around his cock—he’s remembering it in four—fucking—k clarity. he knows exactly how you smell, how your voice trembles when you say his name. he knows what you look like when you come with your hand in his hair, your thighs trembling around his ribs.

and even then, even with all that—the realest reel of all reels playing in his mind—it still isn’t enough.

he finishes with a groan, his body curling forward with the force of it, cum streaking across his hand, chest, belly. he pants hard, shaky, and a little embarrassed at how fast he unraveled—how needy he still is after everything.

then he cleans up, tugs on one of your shirts, and crawls into bed on your side, pressing his face into your pillow, just to smell you.

because even after you’ve made love to him a hundred times, after you've taken him apart and worshipped every inch of him—spencer still jacks off like he’s starving for you and he always will.

k is for kinks ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

when this all starts, he honestly doesn't think he has any kinks. ( he absolutely fucking does. )

he's still telling himself you're his best friend. still pretending he doesn’t fantasize about your mouth or your thighs or the way you say his name when you’re tipsy and teasing. still convincing himself that the boners you give him in the bullpen are just unfortunate accidents, not evidence of some very specific desires bubbling to the surface.

but spencer’s biggest phase one kink? verbal submission. not yours. his.

he doesn’t know the term for it yet, but something about the way you talk to him in that silky, smug voice—the way you lean close and purr.

'is that a blush, dr. reid?' or 'did you just flinch when i said cock?' makes him un—fucking—ravel.

you talk him into things. you talk him off. you tease him until he’s squirming and then you coo, 'use your words, spence.'

and God, he wants to.

he wants to say he’s hard. that he’s aching. that he needs help, yours specifically. that if you keep edging him with your dirty little questions, he’s going to finish in his pants like a virgin.

he wants to beg, and that terrifies him.

he doesn’t know how much he likes being coaxed and bossed around until you start doing it in the smallest, most innocuous ways

'sit down, sweetheart.' 'hands on the table, baby, i’m not done talking to you.'

his brain short-circuits every time.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

things have officially crossed the line. you’ve kissed. you’ve touched. you’ve broken through the teasing and stepped into something far more dangerous: exploration.

this is the era of awkward confessions, blurted admissions, and getting caught staring. it's the phase where you're not fucking yet—but you're circling it, circling each other, slowly removing the layers of denial. and with that vulnerability comes the first real talk about what you like. what he likes.

and he really likes : praise kink ( his, not yours ).

spencer craves your praise the way a starved man craves sunlight. the second you whisper 'good boy', he is done. melting. blushing. eyes fluttering shut as if the words physically affect him.

you tell him he’s smart when he figures out how to undo your bra one-handed. you tell him he’s so good with his hands when his fingers slip into your panties. you call him perfect when he whimpers against your mouth.

he needs it—desperately—and you quickly learn how to weaponize it.

he is also a huge fan of consent play and gentle dom/sub dynamics. you ask for everything in phase two.

'can i touch you here?' 'do you want me to take it out?' 'spence… can i make you cum?'

spencer is already submissive, but now he’s discovering that the asking turns him on just as much as the act.

he’s never had a partner treat him like this before—like he’s worth asking, worth waiting for, worth ruining. you call the shots, and he follows beautifully, but only because he knows you’ll never push him too far.

mutual masturbation is a big one in phase two because of the fact that the two of you haven't actually fucked yet.

neither of you have had sex yet—not with each other at least. but you’ve watched each other. and oh God, Spencer’s kink for being watched begins to blossom.

he’s embarrassed. he hides behind his hands, pants still around his thighs, and he can’t believe he’s letting you see him like this. but the second you say, 'don’t hide from me, baby. let me see,' he moans so pretty you almost come on the spot.

watching you touch yourself? he nearly cries. he’s never seen anything more erotic in his life.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, sex is on the table. and on the floor. and up against the wall of your apartment because you were arguing about who started it and now he’s got your thighs around his waist and you’re both panting into each other’s mouths like starved animals.

this phase is hungry. it’s messy. it’s greedy. spencer’s kinks start to go from soft-focus fantasy to full-throttle reality—and he is so ready to give you what you want… even if it scares him a little.

you’ve discovered that you love pulling the strings—and now you want to see what happens when he snaps.

he never in a million years thought that hair pulling would be one of his top three kinks but with you everything has been flipped upside down and turns on it's side.

he really didn’t know he liked it until you tugged during a particularly frantic make-out session. the whimper that left his mouth? ungodly. and now he can’t stop thinking about your fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp while he’s buried inside you.

number two is being pinned down. he still wants to be in control. but when you push him down on the mattress and straddle him? he lets go and when you lean over, whispering 'stay still or i’ll stop'—he’s not going anywhere.

you riding, though, that has got to be his all time favorite. this is a huge turning point. spencer starts to love watching you take what you need. he’s obsessed with the way you roll your hips, the way you grind slow at first just to tease him.

the view? immaculate.

the loss of control? delicious.

now things are starting to get nasty because phase three spencer, he's got a spit kink.

oh, he tries not to think about it. but the second you lick your fingers before stroking him? he’s fucking obsessed. gone fucking feral over it.

and when you ask him to lick yours too? he does it without question—eyes locked on yours, brain short-circuiting with the intimacy of it all.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four is the final act of mutual ruin.

by now, you and Spencer know each other’s bodies better than your own. the sex is still sweet—but it's no longer tentative. the teasing, the boundaries, the experimental sparks have all collapsed into one deep, simmering inferno of obsession, comfort, and knowing.

this is when the dirty talk is fluent. where the bruises are intentional. where he doesn’t ask—he tells and you don’t hesitate to give it right back.

spencers phase four kinks consist of breeding kinks, mirror play and a good ole possession kink.

the breeding kink started as a whisper. a drunk mumble. a breathless, 'i want to fill you up' while he was too far gone to filter himself. now he says it sober. now he looks you in the eye when he says 'stay still. i’m not done with you yet.'

the mirror play is fucking feral. he doesn’t just want to watch you—he wants you to watch, too. wants you straddling his lap in front of the hotel mirror, wants to see your eyes when he ruins you from behind. wants to say, 'look how pretty you are when you’re mine.'

his possession, it’s subtle—but intense. his hand at your throat, not for pressure but for presence. his bite marks on your inner thighs. his cum leaking out of you hours later.

spencer is still soft, still slow, still sweet��but he’s deliberate now. every orgasm is a claim.

the mutual masturbation has also been turned up to an all time high. he used to be shy. now he asks to watch. sometimes it’s during long-distance calls. sometimes it’s just across the room, sprawled out, breathless, making eye contact while you tease each other. because now you both like to show off.

l is for location ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

at this stage, you and spencer haven’t technically done anything . . . not really. but the tension? it’s nuclear. every shared space becomes a new form of psychological warfare—your favorite game.

phase one spencer is still clinging to the belief that he’s virtuous. you, on the other hand, are slowly dismantling that fantasy with your flirtation and well-timed positioning. so while the two of you haven’t officially crossed the line yet, certain locations are already branded with tension—and are destined to become the first battlegrounds.

the bau sanctioned jet is where you first teased him. where your bralette ‘just so happened’ to peek out while you leaned over to show him something on your tablet. where you asked if he needed help jerking off in the tiny airplane bathroom.

that seat—second from the left, near the window—is now forever cursed. he hasn’t been able to sit there since.

the bullpen, a technically public place. technically risky. technically very, very inappropriate ( even though it was very empty at the time of your little game. )

that didn’t stop you from sliding your foot up his calf one night, all soft and slow, while asking him the most mundane question about a file. you knew what you were doing. he almost spilled his coffee.

the hotel room was next. the night you rolled onto him in your sleep. the night you moaned his name into his neck. the night he jacked off right next to while you were sleeping and again in the bathroom like a sinner because he couldn’t handle how good you looked wrapped around his thigh.

this location haunts him. he sees the numbers two-fourteen and he fucking flinches.

phase one ends with a very memorable car ride. you offered him a ride home. he said yes and then your hand was on his cock, and he was too tired to stop it—too gone to care.

when he came in his pants just as you pulled into his complex, the location of your car became a personal circle of hell. one he’ll gladly visit again. frequently as he fucking can.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

now the line is crossed—and you’ve both leapt over it like it never existed. you’re no longer just teasing spencer; you’ve tasted him, touched him, unraveled him. and he’s hooked. addicted. willing to take you anywhere you let him.

but that doesn’t mean he’s reckless. oh no. phase two spencer is still spencer—anxious, calculating, obsessively thoughtful. which means he chooses locations with precision. and if he doesn’t get a say in the setting? he’ll still make the most of it.

his favorite spots with you include his apartment living room, specifically his couch. after your first time, spencer didn’t want to rush you. so instead of dragging you to the bedroom, he let it happen on his couch—slow and soft and nervous and needy. that creaky, secondhand couch has now become his altar.

it’s where he kisses your knees while you're curled up in his oversized sweater. where he lays his head in your lap after long days and lets you card your fingers through his hair. where you straddled him for the first time, whispering 'let me take care of you' into his mouth.

next is the shower, preferably his because it gives him some semblance of control.

spencer didn’t expect to like showering together as much as he does—but something about you all slippery and giggly under the spray of warm water undoes him. it’s the intimacy, the nudity, the trust. it’s the way you tilt his chin up to rinse shampoo from his curls. the way he uses his long fingers to massage conditioner into your scalp like you’re the most delicate thing on earth.

sometimes it leads to sex. sometimes it doesn’t. but it always leads to spencer kissing your wet shoulder with reverence.

the library has surprisingly because a favorite. you went in to help him shelve books for a lecture he was preparing. you came out wrecked—tucked into a corner behind the 306s, muffling your moans into his neck while he made you come on his fingers. the library will never be the same.

( and neither will dewey decimal classification 306.7. )

honestly anyway private enough to kiss you fucking senseless his a win for him. the office copy room? yes. you make some excuse about needing help changing the toner and he is the first one to volunteer. then your pulling him into the room and backing him up to the door and when he asked about the toner, your already kissing him. his lips his neck. your hand gripping his sweater vest like its the only think keeping you grounded in the moment.

an empty conference room after hours. that one secluded hallway in quantico with the weird vending machine no one uses. of course, your dragging him in there and before the door his even closed you grabbing at his belt and palming his cock through his slacks.

spencer doesn’t always plan these moments—but once he starts kissing you, once his hand slips beneath your blazer or under your skirt or around your jaw, he doesn’t stop. he can’t.

he needs to be touching you. holding you. anywhere you’ll let him.

even if he’s red-faced for the rest of the day.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

the game is gone. the teasing, the dancing, the uncertainty—burned up in the heat of full-blown obsession. you’re not just lovers now. you’re something dangerously close to addicted. to each other’s skin. each other’s voices. each other’s bodies.

as spencer spirals deeper into the messy, heady high of you, he stops giving a damn where it happens—so long as it does.

but the thing is? he’s still spencer.

so while he’ll let you pull him into a bathroom stall, or ride him half-dressed in a locked file room, he still remembers every single place you’ve ever touched him. every surface you’ve ever gasped his name against. and that memory? fuels him. it controls him.

his favorite spots, now that he is hooked, range drastically.

up against a wall. any wall. all walls. you’ve made him associate drywall with orgasms.

it started in his apartment—your back to the hallway wall, his hands in your hair, hips pinning you in place while you whispered, 'i want you to lose control.'

he did. he does. he will—again and again, every time you push him back with that look in your eye.

walls are sturdy. reliable. you can climb him like a tree, dig your nails into his back, grind against him until he forgets every word he’s ever learned.

he’s ruined at least one framed print that way.

your kitchen countertop? yes please.

it happened one night after dinner. you were tipsy. he was jealous. some guy at the restaurant had smiled at you for too long, and you had smiled back.

so spencer kissed you with his hands under your thighs and lifted you straight onto the counter. pushed aside your plates. fucked you slow and intense with his tie still on.

now he eyes that countertop every time you make pancakes. every time you sit there swinging your legs. he wonders if you know what you do to him—right there in your own home.

and his desk, that has become your favorite.

he didn’t plan it. god, he really didn’t.

but it was a late night. you were helping him with paperwork. you looked up at him like he hung the stars and whispered, 'would it help if i sat in your lap?' ( it didn’t help. )

not with the paperwork, anyway.

now his desk is stained with ink, your cum, and memory and the echo of your breathless whimper when he slipped a hand up your shirt and you told him you wanted to thank him properly.

and lastly the passenger seat of your car. there’s just something about you behind the wheel. all confident and in control. something about him sinking into the seat, exhausted from the day, and letting you drive.

it’s become your little ritual now. a hand on his thigh. soft music. the slow creep of anticipation every time you take the long way home.

once, you didn’t even wait. you pulled into the garage, unbuckled him, and made him come with your hand fisted around him while the engine was still warm.

now the passenger seat smells like sex and summer and your shampoo—and spencer has never loved a car so much in his life.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

you could fuck spencer anywhere—and he’d let you. fucking gladly and desperately.

but that’s the thing : you don’t need to sneak anymore. there’s no hiding, no pretending. no more blurred lines or messy justifications.

you're his. he’s yours. fully. totally. irrevocably. how ever the fuck you want to define it.

now he wants you in the places that mean something.

not because he’s afraid of getting caught—but because being with you has finally started to feel safe. and still : he’s filthier than ever.

your shared bed is a big one. with the sheets half-peeled off. the place he makes love to you the most.

it’s not always sweet. sometimes it’s rough. sometimes it’s sleepy and slow. but always, always, it ends with him wrapping his arms around you like he’s never letting go.

spencer pulls the blankets up to your chins after. kisses your temple. traces circles over the bite mark he left behind.

it’s his sanctuary now. the safest place on Earth. because it smells like you. like sex. like lavender detergent and vanilla skin.

next is the bathtub. he’s a romantic, your spencer and now he’s got the confidence to show it. he’ll draw the bath himself. light a candle or two. say it’s for you, of course—but he slides in behind you anyway, letting you lean against him as warm water laps over both your thighs.

you ride him slow in that tub. whine against his neck. whimper his name while water sloshes over the rim and he fucks you deeper than you thought possible with just his hips beneath the surface.

when you collapse back against him, he holds you like treasure. washes you tenderly. massages your scalp. murmurs sweet nothings.

the living room couch, you clothes are still half on. you're both still shy about the possibility of guests—even if there are none.

which makes it all the better.

it’s always when you’re watching something—documentary, movie, nothing that matters—when he turns to kiss your bare shoulder. or when you toss your legs in his lap with a knowing smirk.

the tv still playing while he tugs your panties aside. one hand braced on the cushion. the other pulling your mouth to his to muffle the sounds of both your moans.

you’ve broken that poor couch in so many ways now. but neither of you care.

against the bookshelves in his apartment is a particularly filthy one. you were reading. he was watching you. then you were pinned.

your cheek pressed to the spine of crime and punishment. his hand wrapped in your hair. your moans muffled by dostoevsky.

one hand flicking your clit and the other around your neck as he drives you into the bookshelf. slapping skin and wood creaking is just the tip of the sensations.

after that, he swore you were never allowed to wear that sweater in his library again. the one that rides up when you stretch. the one he swears is cut just to tease him. the one you wear on purpose.

now you read in his lap. and the shelves hold more secrets than any of the books.

lastly, the elevator in your building. too many late-night visits. too many heated goodbyes.

one night you didn’t wait. you were kissing before the doors even closed. he had you against the mirror before the first floor dinged.

now he pulls you in by your coat collar every time you step inside. you pretend to protest—every time. but he knows better. you’re already lifting your skirt before the doors shut.

because fuck, you just can't wait any longer. your cunt is throbbing and you had been staring at his fuck hard ass cock for the last thirty minutes.

once, the elevator got stuck between floors.

neither of you minded.

🔖 . @sammyreidslut @mggskny @theburgundyonmytshirt1989 @nesiamenick @alastorssimp @oldmanbunnylover @nfwmb-gvf @kmc1989 @sillymuffintrashflap @reidsbabyhoney @qardasngan @cynbx @g3n3zshack

#fic recs #that should be me #fic motherfucking recs #nereid nsfw #smut lover 4 life

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