Prompt: Dr Spencer Reid
Fandom/Characters: Criminal Minds/NCIS; Spencer Reid/Tony Dinozzo
Genre: Smut. Seriously.
Rating/Warnings: M. Because: smut.
Word Count: 1762
Notes: Apparently, a prompt for the smartest character currently on tv requires a response of sexy times. Because: Tony and Spencer. Naked. Together.
Synopsis: Sometimes, Spencer needs to get out of his own way.
He dropped his bag and keys, kicked off his shoes and headed straight for the bathroom, stripping off clothes stale from two days and a six hour flight. Cranking the shower handle up high, Spencer waited until steam started billowing before stepping inside.
The heat and pressure against the tight muscles in his back and neck felt so amazing it was painful.
Another ugly case in a series of them; weeks of a one-two punch of casework and internal politics. Strauss was breathing down Hotch’s neck — again — and last week Spencer had spent four days interviewing the parents of missing children. His bones ached with exhaustion, but he was too tired to sleep, particularly hated and unfair condition. His mind, a double edged sword at the best of times, continued to turn over; composing the report due on Monday while recalling the three cases he was consulting on — the missing person case in Georgia was almost certainly a break in pattern, not an early indicator of an emerging serial —
This kind of physical and mental state made his skin itch, the need for a shot of Dilaudid burning in his veins, a craving for the drug’s ability to quiet his mind. For a few hours, at least, until the high faded and his thoughts scattered like light refracting on glass, sliding from his grasp and encouraging the need for another —
Spencer increased the water temperature, letting the subtle pain of too-hot water on his skin break that destructive thought pattern. First rule of being a recovering addict — don’t dwell on things you can’t change.
After ten minutes, he knew he risked either scalding or drowning — statistics for household accidents in bathrooms ran through his head, broken down by demographic, type, and time of day — but it took another moment to manage turning off the water.
He made it to the bedroom, considered pajamas, and collapsed, wet and naked, on the cool sheets of his bed. And lay there, unable to turn off his mind and sleep as his body demanded.
Faint strains of Chopin were audible on the other side of his apartment wall. Spencer counted his breaths and listened, hoping it would help. When the piece ended and the incomparable notes of Ray Charles began, he gave it up as a bad job, rolled out of bed, and staggered to the laundry basket.
Wearing cotton pants, an old CalTec teeshirt, and barefooted, Spencer snagged his keys, walked down the hall, and unlocked the door.
Tony was playing — of course he was, Tony was always playing. If not the piano, then the violin or the guitar. There were pages scattered around the living space, a sure sign he’d been composing. If he was lucky and Tony felt like he’d produced something, Spencer would get to hear his friend’s efforts before he performed it in public.
“Hey, Special Agent Genius. What’s — ” The former cop glanced over his shoulder. “That bad, huh?”
Spencer made a vague noise and made it to the sofa, collapsing on it. “I’ve had longer weeks, but they involved defending a thesis or terrorist acts, so. . .”
“I hear you.”
It wasn’t false sympathy; Tony DiNozzo had been a cop until a near-fatal shooting had cost him a spleen, a kidney, and his badge. He’d gone back to college to complete a law degree, but it was the solace he’d sought in music that had become a career. He’d moved into Spencer’s building two years before; they’d become friends several months later.
Spencer had realized six months ago that he was deeply attracted to his friend — watching the man play in a low-lit jazz club, pouring his passion and heart into a complex and beautiful song — and concluded that Tony had at least a passing interest in return a few months after that. At this rate, he might made a stumbling, embarrassing move in another year or so.
“I’m exhausted,” Spencer managed. “Too tired to sleep.”
“Sucks,” Tony murmured, then changed songs again. Something soft and playful was coaxed from the keys; Spencer didn’t recognize it. “I won’t wake you if you manage to fall asleep.”
“You should fuck me.” Tony missed a note and turned to stare at him.
Apparently his brain-to-mouth filter was gone. Fantastic.
“Not that I’m opposed, Spencer, but I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be making decisions like that right now.” He frowned and Tony gave a little laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re so tired you can’t stand upright, Spence. You might as well be drunk.”
“I’m tired, not intoxicated.”
“Didn’t you tell me that people are more impaired by lack of sleep than by alcohol?”
He knew he was pouting. “The law doesn’t see it as impeding consent.”
“The law once judged tight jeans and short skirts as implied consent, Spence,” Tony said dryly. “The law is somewhat behind morality on the nuances of the matter.” Sighing, he rose and offered his hand. “C’mon.”
Spencer staggered to his feet, letting Tony guide him to the bedroom. “Then you’ll —”
“If you make the same offer after ten hours of sleep, Spencer, I will enthusiastically take you up on it.”
“Going to,” he muttered, letting Tony tug off his shirt and nudge him into bed; it was larger than Spencer’s. “Love watching you play. Love your hands.” And had masturbated, repeatedly, to the thought of them.
“We’ll compare hand fantasies later.” Thumbs dug into his shoulder muscles, working out knots; Spencer moaned at the release of tension. “I hope you remember this tomorrow, Spence.” Hands worked down his spine —
— the clock said 10:21; the sun was out. The sheets were blue, not gray.
He could smell coffee.
Spencer made it to the kitchen before he remembered, then debated between humiliation and caffeine. Caffeine won. He snagged the cup sitting on the counter and inhaled it.
Then he glanced up at Tony, who watched him with amusement.
Tony, who he’d propositioned; who was half-naked, his chest displayed by low-slung sweatpants. Bullet wound, surgical scars, and a steel hoop piercing his right nipple and all. “Um.”
Coffee came with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast; Spencer’s stomach reminded him that he’d gone more than ten hours without food and wasn’t happy about it. When the food had vanished, Tony was nowhere to be seen, but there was a toothbrush on the counter; Spencer claimed it and retreated to the bathroom.
He might wish to flee back to his apartment, but he should be a grownup and talk about . . . things. Probably.
Tony was waiting in the kitchen. “Feeling more human?”
“Yes. Tony —”
“I feel much better. Tony —”
“Good.” He was crowded up against the counter by a body the same height but larger than his own. Spencer rapidly recalled that he was also shirtless, mostly because there was hot skin against his from collarbones to waist. “Now, about your suggestion. Was it the rambling of an exhausted mind — or something you want even when you have the self-control not to say it?”
He could see the pulse throbbing in Tony’s throat; Spencer swallowed. “I — really want you to fuck me.”
He was drawn into a bruising kiss; they made it down the hallway with minimal injuries despite being unable to separate. The door jam caught Tony on the shoulder as Spencer pinned him in place to bite at his pulse. Pianist hands slid past his waistband and over his ass.
He ended up flat on his back, Tony straddling his hips and sucking marks along his collar. “I don’t just say things like that, you know. I don’t really think of people that way.”
“Affection first, then attraction, right?” Tony lifted up enough to push their pants over their hips.
“Usually.” Spencer eyed the man’s cock, then reached out to touch the scrotum piercing. “How many —?”
“The two you can see, and a guiche.” He inhaled sharply as Spencer gave into his curiosity and sought the aforementioned piercing; there was another metal hoop behind Tony’s scrotum, warm from body heat.
“Not something you expect from a cop.”
“I went through a period of confirming that I was alive and still attractive. My post-recovery slut-phase.” Spencer frowned at the term, though he understood the psychology of Tony’s life affirming actions. “Slut is only an insult if you think it’s one. I tend to consider it a lifestyle choice.” Then he grinned, shifted, and bent down to swallow the head of Spencer’s cock.
He made a soft noise, arched his head back, and wallowed in the best blowjob he’d ever had.
“I didn’t expect you to be quiet in bed,” Tony mused as he sat back up. “It’s charming.” Spencer flailed a hand, unable to speak while he was lingering on the edge of orgasm. The snick of a cap was warning enough that he wasn’t surprised by a slick hand wrapping around him; he managed to lift one of his own to join Tony’s where the man pressed their cocks together and stroked.
“Want you to fuck me,” Spencer reminded him.
“Oh, gorgeous, this is just to take the edge off.” Spencer lifted his eyelids to watch Tony; the way his arm moved steadily and the arch of his throat. “I’m going to watch you come, then stretch out that amazing ass of yours — and then I’m going to get you absolutely filthy again.” The description was accompanied by a sharp tug along his shaft while two fingers slid back to find his perineum. He groaned low in his throat and came all over himself and Tony.
“Fuck.” Tony wrapped Spencer’s hand around his cock and used it to jerk rapidly. “Fuck, Spencer, you’re better than music.” He came over Spencer’s belly with a harsh noise. “We aren’t leaving this bed until we pass out or Monday comes.”
“I have nowhere else to be.” Spencer ran a hand through the semen on his stomach, then lifted his hand; Tony groaned and sucked two fingers into his mouth. “Do you need a minute? Or should we shower and get started on the next phase of your plan?”
Tony laughed, dragged them both out of bed, and slapped Spencer’s ass sharply on the way to the bathroom. Spencer retaliated by pinning him to the shower wall and doing a detailed examination of his piercings. That led to . . . well, Tony excelled at meeting his obligations. Repeatedly.