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There’s nothing that irritates her quicker than ignorance and Spencer Reid, for all his book smarts and that big ol’ brain of his… he’s ignorant of so many things.

Ignorant of how good he looks dressed to the nines and on the verge of drunk, his hair curling in just the right way to make her body ache; ignorant of how his smile goes straight between her legs when she’s had more than a few bottles of mediocre beer. And when she’s sober. And in the in-between. Especially right now: he’s explaining a magic trick to Morgan, tucked in the corner of the bar with his back to her and shirt pulled tight across those broad shoulders of his, and she’s nursing her beer and wondering if his fingers will be just as agile when they’re knuckle deep inside her.

Cool it, Elle, she tells herself sternly, and takes another slow pull of her drink. Throat dry and skin flushed, she’s glad her team have all distracted themselves elsewhere, because it’s been months since her last tumble and damn is he pushing all of her buttons tonight. She shifts, uncomfortable, and tightens her thighs.

He glances at her, smiles, tilts his head. Coaxing her over. She considers it, for a moment, but the booth they’re in is small and Morgan is splayed on his side. She’ll have to sit next to Reid, pressed right against him and she caught a whiff of his cologne on the way in. It’s new, something different, and her skin warms with the memory.

Maybe she needs to find a random, some poor fool with clever hands and a pretty mouth, and take him home to work out her frustrations on.

Her cell hums on the bar, nudging her beer. She eyes the screen.

Spencer: You look lonely over there. Come sit with us.

She snorts, rolling her eyes at him, but he has his back to her again. –Not on your life, friend. Morgan gets loud when drunk. I value my hearing—

He laughs. She hears him from here. It’s a giddy sound, and her head spins with more than just alcohol. He’s drunk.

Spencer: Alright. But at least have fun with JJ. I don’t like seeing you sitting alone. Please?

To make him happy, she does. Maybe she’ll hang around a few hours. Just a few.

Maybe things will get interesting as the night goes on.

 


 

They get interesting.

They’re playing some game that Morgan suggested with a wink and a grin, some game that brings back memories of being an awkward teenager with a box of wine coolers and no real sense. They’re playing a game, and Reid lies. Most interesting of all, only she sees it.

“Alright, alright,” Morgan is saying, his eyes bright, and Elle had finally caved and joined them in the booth, so her side is one hot line of heat and Reid, her skin thrumming with pleasure every time he shifts position. “Never have I ever… been saucy over text.” JJ barks out a laugh, a shouted bullshit, and Reid’s hand twitches towards his drink. It’s a minute move, a mere shift in the muscles of his wrist, and only she sees it. JJ and Morgan are arguing now, Garcia is joining in eagerly after taking a drink that surprises no one, and Hotch has long bailed on them and gone home.

Interesting.

She’s refrained from joining in, so she leans back and slips her cell from her pocket, trying not to give the game away by glancing at him in her peripherals as his hums against her leg. She shivers with it as he reaches down with a surprised lift of his eyebrows.

—I saw that. Bad Spencer indeed ;)—

The screen is tilted away so she can’t see the reply he taps out swiftly, forced to wait impatiently for it to bounce to her phone. They’re close enough their knees are knocking together, texting like teenagers, and the thought is oddly thrilling.

Spencer: It was a dare.

Of course it was. Reid is nothing if not tantalizingly easy to mislead. She’s not even sure she blames this faceless other; if he’s half as clever with his words in bed as he is out of it, he probably had them gagging for it on the second text.

“New game plan,” she says suddenly, leaning forward, and she feels Reid stiffen nervously. “Truth or dare… if we’re being childish, we may as well go all the way.” She looks at him and smiles, and only half suspects she’s imagining the darkness to his eyes.

“Shit yes,” says Morgan, JJ groaning, and in Elle’s pocket, her cell hums without Reid breaking eye contact. Clever little shit.

Spencer: That’s *mean*. You’re mean.

She is. And reckless. Which is why she does what she does next.

—I am. You should get me back for that. I *dare* you—

He shifts closer, taking a drink from his glass that and leaves his lips deliciously damp, and cocks his head down, leaning close to her ear to be heard over the thump of music without shouting. “Are you proposing our own game?” he asks, and she feels him smile as he sways and bumps her ear with his mouth. “Who keeps score?”

“Don’t need to keep score,” she replies, pertly, leaning back and away to avoid making this even more uncomfortably intimate than it already is when she looks at him. “I’m gonna kick your skinny white ass, genius.”

All he does in reply is smile. His hand shifts in his pocket.

Spencer: Game on.

 


 

She watches him as he leans on the bar, waiting for their round. There’s a girl next to him: single, bored, in a dress just a shade too short for her comfort—Elle can see creases where she keeps tugging it down—and, most importantly, absolutely interested in the lanky stranger next to her.

—My turn first. Lady in white to your right. Kiss her—

She’s confident this is a winning ploy. In the year she’s worked with him, Spencer Reid has never once been suave, and she’s almost sure he hasn’t got the game to talk a random stranger into kissing him at a bar. So, she’s watching as he checks his phone, cocks an eyebrow in surprise, and bites at his lip.

Perhaps he’s considering surrender already. Pity. Disappointing, almost.

Morgan taps her arm, drawing her attention to some story she’s only half listening to, and there’s a hazy five minutes where everything is loud and distracting, until she realizes Reid hasn’t returned. When she looks, he’s not at the bar.

Neither is the girl.

—Where are you—

“Drinks!” he says suddenly, appearing like a wraith next to them and sliding into the booth. His hip bumps against her: she doesn’t move to make way for him, there’s lipstick on his collar and his lip is damp. “Sorry, got turned o—about at the bathroom.”

He smells of some fruity kind of something, and Jesus fucking Christ is she turned on looking at the pink on his cheeks and the glint to his eye. There’s a roguish flick to his hair where perhaps someone had run their fingers through, and she leans over and brushes her own hand against it, pressing it back down.

“Your turn,” he says quietly, handing her a drink, and raises his own in a celebratory teasing toast. “Be prepared. I don’t lose easily.”

It’s a little unnerving, and she’s beginning to wonder if perhaps she’s outclassed.

 


 

Spencer: Dance with that man there.

The man he’s referring to is the quiet sort, the gentle sort, and Elle can already tell from looking at him that he’d be sweet and careful in bed, and utterly boring. She sighs. Dull.

But she goes.

“Dance?” she asks, and the man agrees. He’s exactly how she thought he would be as they move with the music, even with alcohol pushing them both onwards. He’s perfunctory with his hands, keeping a careful space between them even though she can tell he wants more as she crowds closer and coaxes with the sway of her body.

Reid’s watching, she can feel his eyes burning on the back of her neck, and she may as well give him a show. The beat pulses and she tugs her partner closer, lets his hands settle on her hips, wrapping her own arms around his torso and splaying her fingers across his spine. The alcohol helps make it all a senseless rush of sound and light and touch, and it’s all too easy to forget that the man she’s dancing with is a stranger and not the one she’s thinking about.

Almost too quick, the song is over and her new friend walks away with a smile and a dazed kind of thanks. Heart thudding, pulse racing, she feels keyed up, let down, her body on the cusp of wanting something more. To stave it off, she fumbles for her cell, waiting to calm down before walking back to that booth.

—Why him— She needs to know. He was an odd choice, especially for a profiler, and she’s curious. The reply is immediate. He is watching her.

Spencer: He’s kind. I knew he’d be a pleasant partner. I saw him dancing earlier. Didn’t you have fun?

That earns a snort. There is more to dancing than kindness, but she doubts bebe Spencer with his glasses and his sweater vests knows much about that. —What are you, my papi? Kind is boring. I like a bit of *spice* when I dance—

Spencer: Duly noted. Spice?

Spencer: Sorry, I mean, *spice*?

It’s reckless. She wouldn’t have done it if she wasn’t drunk.

—If I win the next round, dance with me and I’ll show you—

There’s a long pause. She doesn’t look at him, and she’s pretty sure she doesn’t breathe. This could go wrong very, very quickly. He’s her colleague, she has to sit next to him every day and look him in the eye, and she’s veering dangerously close to flirting.

Spencer: Deal.

 


 

—Easy one, Papi. I’m gonna ask you a question and you’re gonna answer me truthfully, and you know I’ll know if you lie, understand? —

He looks nervous.

Good.

There’s a nod, a tiny twitch down of his chin, as he smiles at JJ and delves into a slightly slurred tirade about math that immediately has both her and JJ’s brains switching off, even as they listen in awe of his ability to be even semi-coherent this many drinks in. Even Garcia has given up on words and is mostly communicating by waving her hands around by now. And his spelling hasn’t slipped at all, damn him. She’s really hammering her auto-correct to not make a fool of herself, and it’s slowing down her responses.

—Tell me what that big ol’ brain of yours was thinking when I was dancing. I know you were watching, perve—

His mouth slips open, his words skipping, and his gaze hops up from his lap and darts towards her. Clumsy. JJ looks suspicious for a moment, before seemingly assuming he’s just being Reid and excusing herself to the bathroom.

Reid swallows twice, his throat bobbing with the movement, reaching for his drink with a hand that shakes. Leaning back in her seat, the sticky leather squeaking under her, she smiles at him and rests a hand on the table, finger tapping on the wood. Come on that fingers says, tap tap tap. I’m waiting, tap.

He staring straight down, and she’s glad they’re alone because it’s not half obvious that he’s entirely focused on the message he’s painstakingly typing—he must be drunk, because there’s no more clever texting without looking going on—and that she’s entirely focused on him. Emotions shift on his expressive face. Worry, caution, guilt. The guilt intrigues her. A flash of something warmer, something heated. When the reply hums in her hand, she almost drops her phone in her haste to swipe the message open, and he’s still staring at his lap with his cheeks glowing.

Spencer: I was thinking that you looked beautiful. Sensual. And I was sorely disappointed that I didn’t use my dare to ask you for a dance of my own.

The warmth shifts to her stomach, pooling up to her chest and throat, but he’s withholding. —That’s not all you were thinking, boyo. Come on. Participate

It’s immediate. She bets he was sitting there with his thumb on the send button, second-guessing himself.

Spencer: I was also perhaps a little jealous of his hands.

The pull in her gut goes all the way to her cunt, and she shifts on the seat. If he’s saying this, there’s a million things he’s not saying, and she wants to hear them all. Wants to inch closer, slide around to his side of the table, let him curl his body around her and whisper them into her ear with his breath hot on her skin and her hand between his—she coughs, and draws her legs tighter, rubbing the back of her hand across her face to hide the flush.

Saucy. Would you have been as *kind* as he was

No reply. He’s frozen, eyes locked on his screen. She’s not letting him off that easy.

She’s not exactly thinking with her brain at this point in time, and she suspects he isn’t any more either. If he’s actually capable of thinking with his cock, anyway. There’s also a slight suspicion that he never lets it take control, and that’s probably half his problem right there.

How would you have touched me, if it were you

Spencer: I forfeit my turn. You win this round.

She’s disappointed, embarrassed, and the rush of cold that comes with that text is enough to knock her off the edge of being stupid. But before she can stammer out something, make her escape, her cell hums again.

Spencer: Which means you owe me a dance. And I am *all* about demonstrations.

 


 

He pulls them to a corner of the packed dancefloor, hidden from view, and she’s for once thankful that Morgan always talks them into going to the busiest places. There’s no sign of her team, barely any room to move, and Reid is uncomfortable with the press of people around them.

“Focus on me, not them,” she scolds him, and can tell he’s thrown, curling back into himself mentally, eyes flickering around the flashing barrage of bodies shifting around them. “Oi. Look at me.” Jabbing her knee into his, his attention rapidly shifts back to her, his hands coming down to settle wide and warm on her hips.

“Sorry,” he says, dipping his head forward to talk to her, his hair brushing her cheek. “Not great with crowds. Or dancing, actually. This was very over-confident of me.” But his fingers are moving in strange circles on the hem of her jeans, rhythmic. He’s tactile, Reid is, he needs to touch. An odd quirk for a man who worries about germs, but those worries seem behind him as he crowds closer to her to shelter her from wayward elbows since they’re standing still like weirdos in the middle of the dancers, and tenses those hands against her.

“Fake it till you make it,” she suggests, leaning and coaxing him into at least attempting to sway to the music, sliding her arms around him and pulling them closer, still with a carefully measured distance between them. His head is low, his mouth parted and eyes heavy, and he lets her guide him as the beat picks up and speeds along with her pulse.

Someone bumps him and he steps closer again, his hand slipping up with the movement. Under her shirt, brushing the skin of her belly; she shivers and he feels it. Those fingers flex, testing, tracing a pattern as he runs his hand around to her back. They’re close, getting closer, the music and the alcohol serving to set the world to spinning with each other the only fixed point, and all she can focus on is those hands, those fingers, as they fumble along the base of her spine.

“Mm, you’re warm,” he murmurs, his breath hot and beery, and she feels his fingers curl against the waistband of her jeans.

Fuck this, she thinks hazily, her heart jack-rabbiting in her chest. She steps against him, hooking her arms around his neck and pulling him flush against her body, tucking her head against his shoulder and breathing in cologne mixed with sweat and alcohol and the faintest undertone of a scent she recognises at purely him. His heart is just as quick, just as uneven, and his hand on her back coax her into bumping her hips forward, rolling them with the bass, and she actually feels his breath hitch.

He’s hard. Under those sensible pants he’s wearing, she can feel him responding to her, at least one part of him pressing eagerly back against her hungry touch. He tries to shift away, embarrassed, but she tightens her arms and shifts her hips closer, lets her thigh push against that suggestive length. He shivers and his fingers bite into her skin, wanting. Rocking back into her, ever so slightly He wants and she wants more, her nipples hardening as their movement brushes the satin of her bra against them, her cunt tightening at the first realization that he’s just as into this as she is.

She’s wet, desperate, but not at all done teasing him yet.

The song ends. His head is on her shoulder now, his breathing ragged, and she thinks with a rush of glee that it would be so easy to overstimulate the poor guy, to tease him beyond what he can handle and have him helpless against her. Instead, she steps back, carefully avoiding looking him up and down in the dark glow of the dim club that hides his excitement, and murmurs, “Thanks for the dance,” before sauntering away. “Your turn.”

 


 

They’re curled in the booth and the night has skated closer to morning then evening. JJ’s gone, Elle’s vaguely sure, and they have no idea where Morgan and Garcia have slipped off to. They’re not so much side-to-side anymore as she is almost in his lap, and they both know how this night is going to end. If Elle doesn’t give him a heart attack leading him there.

But he hasn’t given her his dare, and she’ll be damned twice over if she doesn’t take the chance to find out what the brain of Spencer Reid comes up with when hyper-focusing on getting fucked. Their cells are in their hands, hers lax on her lap and his tense and waiting. She knows he’s overthinking it. They’re close enough they could simply talk, but there’s something tantalizing in waiting for his fingers to tap out a message solely to her, and she suspects it allows him to disengage just enough to be suggestive.

There’s a bottle of water in front of them that he’d pressed on her after taking two mouthfuls himself, his almost empty glass of scotch next to it, and she knows it’ll be their last. Watches the ice melt slowly as his brain ticks over, just enjoying the moment with his chest warm against her back and his hand on her thigh.

“You’ve got until that ice melts,” she says, leaning her head back so she can see his face in her peripheral, and he merely brings his mouth around and nips at her ear, shockingly. It’s a brush of teeth and lips and breath, and she gasps with surprise.

“Don’t rush me,” he says, his voice a rumble, and his hand begins those strange circles again, along the inner seam of her jeans. “I’m thinking.”

“Think faster,” she breathes, as he rests his mouth against her lobe and hums thoughtfully. “Stop thinking. Just do.” Her fingers trail along his pants, tapping suggestively against the front, pressing down. He shifts with a cough and a nervous look around, but they’re alone, and he’s already stiffening against her palm. “What turns you on? Come on, sugar, ain’t no one gonna give you this free range again. This is your ticket.” His hand grabs hers, pulling her away, and she smirks. His heart is tha-thumping against her back in a rapid tempo, and he’s embarrassed of his arousal.

Or not.

Bringing her hand around to her front, he rests it on her stomach, his own sliding down until his fingers are enticingly tucked between her skin and her jeans, running along the thin lace of her panties. Her forgotten phone hums against her leg, making her jolt, and his breathing is heavy. After a beat, she checks it.

Spencer: These it says, and nothing else.

She slips out of his grasp, feeling hot, feeling slick, knowing she’s beyond aroused and knowing he can tell, and stands unsteadily. He looks up at her, his pupils wide and dark and cheeks red.

“Last drink,” she replies, “I’ll be back.”

The walk to the bathroom is long and doesn’t feel real at all.

 


 

The glass is empty when she returns. “Come on then,” she says, feeling slightly more human after washing her face, despite losing her make-up to the cause. He doesn’t care. He’s the last person to care about cosmetics and what face she’s wearing when she fucks him; he’s the only person she knows who’s only ever seen her for her, no matter the mask she puts on.

He follows placidly to the exit, and she lets him sling an arm around her, tucking herself against his firm body and allowing herself a moment of just enjoying this. Then they’re outside, stepping down from the doorway, turning right, and she hears his cell hum as the message she’d tapped send on in her pocket bounces to his.

Pocket

He tenses. She feels him slip a hand into his pocket, feels him go rigid with surprise and something more as his fingers find the satiny softness, noting how warm they still are, his eyes shuttering and becoming dark and hungry as he realizes how wet they are.

“My turn,” she breathes, because he’s looking at her now and there’s nothing kind or familiar in his expression, just need and want, and she’s almost shaking. “If you still have the ba—”

He crashes against her, her back slamming into the brick of the wall, fingers carding roughly into her hair and body bowed around her, panting into her mouth as he kisses desperately. Mouthing at her, nipping, eagerly accepting permission when she lets her lips slip open and invites him in. One of his hands shifts down, his hand cupping her ass and dragging her against him to grind their hips together; he’s so fucking hard her eyes water in sympathy, and she can feel her panties crushed in the grip of the hand around her ass.

Someone whistles nearby and they fall apart hastily, breathing irregular and bodies needy.

“My dare,” she chokes out, glancing around. “Find somewhere. Now. Now. And you touch me how you want to. Everything you want and I swear to god, if you don’t hurry up and get your cock inside me—”

The noise he makes is a cross between and cough and a groan, and it sounds painful. She winces with him, wishing one of them had driven, wishing they were closer to home—

He grabs her hand and hauls her bodily down the side of the club. It’s an alley, hooked at the end and narrow, and grimy as fuck. “You’re kidding,” she says with a choked laugh, but then her back is against the wall, his hand is down the front of her pants, his fingers on her clit, and she doesn’t really give a flying fuck about their location anymore because he’s talking, the little shit, he’s talking and he’s filthy.

“I was thinking about this,” he’s panting, his fingers working their way down and dipping in, pressing at her without actually pushing inside, and she swears and tries to wriggle down onto them. “Thinking about if you were wet, if he was making you wet, how I could do it so much better.” He’s in with a hiss, three fingers, no pause, working her hard with his other hand easing her pants down and out of the way, the brick cold against her ass. “It’s simple. Responding to your bodily cues, your physiological response to my touch, learning what makes you—” He finds the spot that makes her back arch and curls his fingers against it, his own body shuddering as he feeds off her groan. “—do that, oh fu—Elle, Elle, Elle.”

Her turn. She works his pants down, undoing his belt with a savage yank and only rolling her eyes at his checkered boxers. Pulling him hot and heavy into her hand and stroking around it once, twice, tightening her grip and feeling his hips roll up and into her touch. “Don’t stop talking,” she growls, “for once in your life, Spencer fucking Reid, do not stop talking.”

He pulls his hand free, clumsy in his eagerness, wiping his fingers on his pants without even glancing at them, his eyes locked on her mouth. With a surge of movement, his body is flush against her, her shoulders grating on the brick, his cock rubbing between her legs as he kisses her and works his way along her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. The angle is wrong so he can’t fuck her like she wants him to, needs him to, but he’s still talking and that’s doing a damn fine job of getting her off on its own.

“On the dancefloor,” he’s saying into her sweaty skin, punctuating it with flicks of his lips and tongue, “I was thinking about touching you—” His hand slips up her shirt, undoing her bra and working its way smoothly around to trace a thumb around her nipple, almost rough, almost uncomfortable, and she craves it, “—everywhere, your body laid naked and open in front of me, gorgeous—” It’s really just words and wanting at this point, and she hooks her leg up with a hiss around his waist, tilting her hips forward. Angles. He’s into math, work out the fucking angles to get him in, fuck, “—and then I was thinking how much I wanted to f—fu—” He stops, he’s blushing, and she chokes out a frustrated laugh.

“This?” she says, shifting around and reaching down to curl her fingers around his cock, the warm skin slippery from where he’s been rubbing it along her. “After everything, you can’t tell me how much you want to fuck me without getting all cautious, boy scout?” He just turns a pretty shade of shy, licking his lower lip as she works him in her hand and awkwardly manoeuvres him into position, the head of his cock dipping right where he only needs to thrust a little to get where she needs him. “Need some help with that mouth of yours?” She’s teasing, but only a little. “What do you want?”

His eyes are intent and he twitches in her grip. “You.”

She wriggles closer, pressing him ever so slightly in and tensing around him, feeling her muscles tightening around his cock, begging him to thrust a little, come inside, come on. “More specific.”

“I want…” He breathes deeply, his hips nudging forwards. Pushes in slowly, almost as though he’s worried he doesn’t have the right. “To…”

“Fuck me. Say it. Say it, damn you.” She pokes his stomach, ignoring his wounded look and half-smile. “Come on, Papi, just say it.”

The smile vanishes and she feels him getting, somehow, harder.

Hello, kink, she thinks gleefully, and he pants once, loud, and then pushes hard into her. Her ass hits the brick again, he’s already balls deep with their hips knocking together, and he’s gone; too much, too long, and she knows he better get her off fast because he’s already dancing on the edge of coming to a messy end.

Teeth at her ear again and he growls deep in his chest, the sound rumbling through her, pulling out and thrusting back in in one long, smooth stroke before setting a rhythm that’s hard and needy and doesn’t give her a chance to catch her breath. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he says, and his voice doesn’t sound like him anymore, shy and cautious: it’s rough and hoarse and makes her cunt pull in tighter and a dark, hot something begin to build within her. “Me to f… fuck you like this.” He pauses on the f, but she curls her hands around his back and digs her nails in and coaxes him on. “Is this what you were hoping for when you were teasing me all night, arousing me—”

“Was I successful?” she asks, eyes squeezed shut, and she’s almost too much, almost too frantic, she needs to come with his cock thrusting into her or she’s not going to come at all, needs something more, just a little more, his voice or his fingers or mouth—

He steadies into a deep pace that strokes up and in and hits every right spot, panting into her skin with his hands leaving finger-shaped bruises on her hips. She’s close, so close, pushing over— “Yes,” he groans, missing a beat, and he’s going to come, she’s going to make him come, “—I was hard as soon as I received your first text.”

Oh. Oh. She comes, hard, nails in his back and rigid against him; he’s probably still talking but she can’t hear through the rush of blood in her ears. Can’t see with her eyes squeezed shut as she rides every last wave of pleasure he’s giving her, but she fucking feels it what feels like seconds later when he chokes out a raspy, “God, you look amazing when you come,” and follows her over; feels the hot pulse of him inside her as he adds to the mess she’s already made of herself, impossibly full even as he begins to soften, as their breathing returns to normal and the cold begins to nip at their sweaty skin.

He pulls out before she’s recovered, and she feels him moving around, feels the gentle touch as he uses her poor panties to clean the worst of the mess from between her legs. Opens her eyes to see his shit-guilty expression as he examines them. “Keep them,” she says when she finds her voice, smirking at his eyes widening. “You’ll get more from them than I will.” She winks as she says it, tugging her pants up. The crotch of her jeans are dark, damp, and it’s not half fucking obvious what they’ve been doing. His aren’t much better.

Once again, she underestimates him. He smiles, shrugs, and falls into step behind her as they slip from the alley and back to the main road. Hailing a cab, her cell hums.

Spencer: And should I inform you whenever they become… useful?

The jolt is slow, coiling, and she’s fucking worn out now but it promises more. She stares at that text and then turns to him, standing with his hands slung in his pocket and an innocent smile plastered across his face.

“You fucking better,” she warns him, holding the cab door open. He looks confused. “Come on. I don’t do breakfast, but I do wake up horny. You and that gorgeous dick of yours may as well be conveniently located.”

She swears he almost teleports into the cab. With a snort, she follows. Men.

Even the smart ones.