Spencer Reid | Oneshots

Fuzzy Pants 🔥 (E)

Summary: Spencer needs your help... and to borrow your thigh.

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Content Warning: Masturbation (male), thigh riding (male), orgasming in pants, praise, teasing, a lot of aftercare

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It would be cynical for me to say that most days I returned to an empty home. Even if it were true that Spencer was nowhere to be found, whether he be halfway across the country or simply hunkered down at Quantico, it felt equally empty without him.

But it wasn't every day. It wasn't even most days, really. It just felt like it. His absence was so notable; a lacking that was impossible to miss.

The more optimistic way to look at it, I suppose, was that some days I returned home to feel an immeasurable joy. A feeling unlike any other, brought about by a pair of scuffed Converse high tops with mismatched laces that rested innocently on the welcome mat.

"Spencer?" I called, but any semblance of a reply was so brief I'd almost missed it.

It was a soft, thrilling sort of sound coming from the direction of our bedroom.

"Is everything alright, baby?"

But 'alright' was too innocuous, too simple of a word to describe what I found waiting for me in my bed. There weren't enough powerful words to do the image justice, and I had no interest in wasting my time finding them. Rather, I let the sights and sounds surround me and soak into the deepest part of my memory.

Spencer was sprawled on silk sheets with his knees slightly bent just enough to hide his actions. But I could hear it, the soft slapping of wet skin and the rustling of the fabric as his toes curled from the pleasure.

And the way that he stared at me; I would recognize it anywhere. The pink tint that had filled his cheeks was cascading down his neck and over his chest as he basked in the pleasure that he provided himself. But his eyes, burning with tears and barely able to stay open, told me that his hands would never be enough.

Perhaps that was why his other hand was clutching my pillow, why his whole body writhed the second he saw me waiting at the doorway.

"Naughty boy..." I sighed, and he shuddered at the sound. "You couldn't at least wait for me to come home?"

As if to argue in his own defense, Spencer clutched the blanket from my side of the bed and buried his face in the fabric. He whined louder, shaking his head before he answered me with neither a yes nor a no.

"Please," he begged, instead, "Please, help me."

The sound made my heart stop. The pure desperation, the raw vulnerability of shredded vocal cords that ached to sing my praise. I hadn't even so much as touched him, and he should've counted himself lucky that he looked so damn cute. Otherwise, the misbehaving brat would've been given nothing.

But it was so hard to tell him no when he looked so pitiful, disheveled and still dressed in his work clothes. I'd missed him so badly, and I knew this was his roundabout way of showing me just how badly he'd craved me in the nights he was forced to spend away.

"Not yet, baby," I caved. "You need to change and get ready for bed first."

"But—" he started, but with one swift finger to his lips, the sound stopped.

"I'll help you, come here."

The offer was enough of a consolation prize for him to surrender. Then again, I got the feeling that he would've done just about anything in that moment if it meant he would get what he'd wanted.