Spencer Reid | Oneshots

Rewrapped 🔥 (E)

Summary: Reader tries to be cheeky, but regrets it a little too late to do anything about it.

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Content Warning: Penetrative sex, unprotected sex, teasing

——————————————————

I'd never been that much of a romantic. I loved the idea in theory, but any time I tried to imagine myself as the one being swept off her feet, the movie quickly turned to a comedy. It was simply too awkward, too strange and foreign to picture me spread out amongst rose petals and covered in lace.

But I really, really wanted Spencer to see me that way. Sometimes when he looked at me, I swore I could see hearts amongst the hazel. Other times I second guessed whether he was even attracted to me at all. I wrote it off as my own insecurity. After all, he told me that he liked me, and he was rarely wrong.

I wanted him to see me as a thing of beauty; a woman worth spending his time on. I wanted to have that experience of my body drawing and holding his attention like gravity. I wanted him to want me, unabashedly.

Clearly, I needed help.

My friends, all much more practiced in romance than myself, initially jumped at the opportunity. But after nearly three hours of suggestions (always followed by pep talks and reassurances that became less enthusiastic by the second), they were ready to give up on me.

They didn't seem to understand that Spencer wasn't like most men. He wasn't the kind of person who wanted me to dress in ornate lingerie — he could hardly get my bra off half the time. And while he was easy to arouse, he seemed to want to take things painfully slow.

Then it came to them; an epiphany that seemed perfectly suited to my desire to jumpstart our sex life without going overboard. A simple gesture that I might be able to do without laughing, and he would be forced to at least address the situation.

It was the first time Spencer Reid was going to spend the night at my place, and I was completely naked.

Granted, I had been hiding under the sheets and drowning in embarrassment and anxiety ever since he called to tell me that he was on his way. I knew it took him half an hour to get here, and he was meant to text me when he pulled in. I'd given him a key, but I wanted a warning, anyway.

You know, in case I changed my mind and didn't want my barely-boyfriend to walk in on me in my birthday suit.

The clock seemed to both lag and skip. It was impossible for me to guess what it would read when I looked at it. Einstein's jokes on relativity were mocking me, and I could hear them all in my head with Spencer's voice. I couldn't trust my sense of time, but I trusted the clock. When the thirty-minute mark hit, I knew that he had to be coming any second.

I panicked.

In an absolutely chaotic frenzy, I'd jumped from my safety under the sheets and raced to find something, anything more interesting than myself. Unfortunately, as the completely boring blob that I knew myself to be, I had nothing like the usual easy fixes my friends described. No negligees, corsets, or sexy bralettes around. Just an old t-shirt splattered with paint from when I'd moved in.

I didn't think about what I looked like, I figured I still had time. Spencer still hadn't texted me, and I was honestly expecting that when he did, it would be because he was telling me that he'd changed his mind and was heading to his own home instead.

I didn't think about what I looked like, bent over my laundry basket with no bottoms on while trying to grab the last clean item I'd thrown over it in my frustration.