Mrs Reid

♡Spencer Reid FF acc ♡ this blog is 18+ bc there is a lot of smut on here♡ ♡requests are open♡

[l0vinghimwasreid]

period sex w spencer!!! yep

spencer reid x fem!reader period sex

18+ (smut)

ngl this was supposed to be short and sweet like my other ask requests have been, but i wanted it to have a more poetic vibe? so it somehow became 7000 words. i hope u still like!! also i named the docs file 'girl in red' and thought that was funny and wanted to share lolz

Spencer thinks absolutely nothing of the prospect of having sex with her when she’s on her period; it’s just a natural bodily function. He’s entirely unaffected. 

They’re lying on his couch, evening light dispersing through the curtains and painting everything a soft golden. Lying horizontally and facing each other, faint conversations turned into soft kisses that tumbled into something sensual. 

Her fingers tangle in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer to her. His hand raises to rest on her cheek, angling her neck upwards to grant him easier access to her.

Their tongues tangle and slide together; the moist sound blends with their quiet sighs. The documentary on his TV has long been muted.

His hand trails down her arm, leaving sparks under her skin in its wake. His palm lands on her hip and firmly tugs her lower half closer to his. The feeling of his growing arousal is present against her thigh: thick and warm.

“I’m on my period,” she warns him, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. 

“Yes?” he already knows this. What kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t have her cycle memorized? He knows exactly when to estimate the start of her menstruation, and can feel the tension increase in her body in the preceding days. How else would he keep her favorite ice cream stocked in his freezer for her to delight in?

“So, we can’t.”

“Well, we can,” he smirks, “but not if you don’t want to.” His eyes are intensely earnest.

“I always want to, but what about the mess?” Her gaze meets his, and she looks so unassuming and adorable; he needs her so badly.

“Let me worry about that.”

As he presses his lips to her neck, “orgasms can help alleviate your cramps. The hormones released after are natural painkillers.”

He’s the only person who can extract her thoughts from her head simply by being close to her; he knows this. He’s turned her stiff body into putty, and she’s on her way to being a liquid for him. Her eyes flutter shut, and she exposes her throat for his access, instinctively.

As his lips part and he starts to draw in her skin, “Oh- okay… Wait, I need to go to the bathroom and…” she gestures at her pelvis while biting on the inside of her cheek. 

His lips twitch into a smile, “Of course, baby, I’ll get us set up on the bed.” He’s so amorous for her that he would’ve worked around a pad or removed a tampon for her without question. He has to suppress a laugh at his own desperation. 

She tentatively untagles her limbs from his and rises from the couch to scamper into the bathroom.

After she leaves, he rolls onto his back and gazes at the ceiling, trying to pull himself together. He’s always eager to be intimate with her, but the anticipation of getting to see her during such a private epoch has his mind reeling. He thought he’d be impervious when the thought first occurred to him, but as the idea settles in, eagerness begins to hum under his skin. 

His most beloved part of making love to her is getting to see the proof of their arousal on their skin. When they’re glistening with juices, sweat, and spit, he can barely contain himself. She has the ability to turn him into a person that he didn’t know he could be. His carnal desires transform into something almost animalistic, just for her.

Eventually, he rises from the sofa and gathers a large towel, a glass of water, and her favorite chocolate bar to bring into his bedroom. He assembles each piece with careful precision. The towel is layered over his bedsheets, and the water and chocolate get placed on the nightstand.

He takes pride in his penchant for taking care of her and foreseeing her needs. Like a scout, he needs to be prepared for anything: if she gets light-headed or changes her mind.

He strips down to his boxers and settles onto the edge of the bed as she emerges from the bathroom. Gaze slowly descending her body, taking in the sight of her clad in just her black bra and matching underwear, his breath catches in his throat. As she tangles her fingers in front of her stomach, he rises from the mattress and extends his hand toward her. 

“C’mere, baby.”

Palms settling on her hips as he draws her in, their bodies connect like moths to a flame. His thumbs rub soothing circles on her skin, relieving the pressure she carries there. His touches always unravel her.

“Hi,” she whispers, coyly.

“Hey, beautiful.”

He lowers his head to nuzzle his nose against hers. His breath fans in soft streams against her face. Her eyes close intuitively, and she angles her neck upward. She feels like candlewax melting near an open flame. 

Finally, their lips meet again. The way he tugs her body towards his is reminiscent of the way he did so on the couch, but this time, they meet core to core. The soft, warm heat of him at her lower stomach mitigates the deep tightening that’s lived there for days. 

Their lips fit together like puzzle pieces: delicate, but firm. They’re still damp from their earlier ministrations on the couch. He gently pulls her upper lip between his. The kiss is soft and velvety, and it perfectly toes the line of being exactly what they need and not enough. 

He leaves a hand on her hipbone and brings his other to rest on her cheek, expertly tilting her head backward to deepen their kiss. Tracing her bottom lip with his tongue, her hands rise to find purchase on his chest. 

The hand on her hip circles around to her ass, and his gentle squeeze allows a soft gasp to escape her. A knowing smirk rises on his lips as they turn upward against hers. He knows exactly how to reduce her to warmth and instinct, and he revels in that feeling.

Her parted mouth allows him to properly slide his tongue against hers. For a moment, she forgets where they are and what’s occurring in her panties. All she can feel, smell, and touch is him. 

He knows this; he’s felt all of the tension unravel in her body, so he seizes the opportunity to rotate their bodies so the backs of her legs make contact with the mattress. 

He regretfully separates from their kiss, resting his forehead against hers. “Are you sure?”

It reminds her of their very first time together. His earnestness is familiar in the sense that he gives it to her constantly, but right now it feels different. It feels deeper and heavier.

She nods her head and hopes she’s conveying her genuine sincerity in her eyes, “I’m sure.”

There’s a thrill in knowing that they still have milestones to discover together. They both hope that the list never ends. They intend to spend the rest of their lives learning and relearning how to make the other tick. 

He flattens her onto the bed, on top of the soft towel he placed before. The stiff, bone-deep ache in her spine dissipates as she settles into the mattress. She’s surrounded by softness; his skin presses into her front, and her back is cushioned by the plush towel.

Positioned on top of her with a knee between her thighs, he leans over her. He curls an arm around her head as he leans in to slot their lips together again. He’s less patient than he was previously, and he wastes minimal time before slipping his tongue back into her mouth. 

His other arm grazes her upper arm and shoulder-blade, and he sensually slides her bra strap down. She knowingly arches her back so he can reach under her to unclasp it. He’s done this for her so many times before that he’s able to unfasten it with one hand, and without his mouth faltering on hers. 

She sighs in relief as the restrictive fabric loosens, and he pulls the article off her body before tossing it to the floor. His lips trail from the corner of her mouth to her jaw, cascading down her neck. His mouth is moist with a mixture of their saliva. 

As his hand cups her newly exposed breast, a timid moan escapes her. She’s always so reactive and sensitive to his touch, but right now her body is on fire for him. She feels heavy and full in his hand. He softly squeezes her as he sucks a mark on the junction where her neck meets her shoulder. 

“Spence…” she emits during a long exhale.

“I know, baby, let me take care of you.”

His thumb brushes around the edge of her nipple, easing her into his ministrations. He continues the descent of his mouth down her chest, kissing and leaving pink marks on her skin. 

He tends to her dense breasts reverently. He uses both hands to squeeze the fullness of them, lightly skimming circles on her nipples. The relief she feels is already euphoric, and he hasn’t even touched her where she’s aching and pulsing for him. 

The knee between her thighs drifts closer to her damp, aching core. She just barely feels the ghost of his kneecap against the apex of her inner thighs. Rutting her hip downward towards him, she feels pleasantly dizzy and can’t control the tilt of her head against the pillow or the air that escapes her lungs.

She’s so sensitive, it’s like he has direct access to her nerve endings. When he flattens his tongue over her nipple, she gasps and arches her back sharply. He rolls her other nipple between his thumb and forefinger ever so slightly, before alternating his touches. 

He retreats from her just enough to see his saliva glistening around her areolas and bites his lower lip in pleasure at the sight. The curve of her breasts is slightly swollen from her menstruation, and he feels so fortunate to have this access to her.

He returns his lips to hers and lightly caresses one hand down her arm to her hipbone. His other hand comfortingly strokes her hair. He’s being so soft and gentle with her, like her skin is glass. 

His thumb rests on the skin of her hipline, and his palm feels warm and firm. He lets his thumb brush underneath the elastic of her waistband, and he slowly eases his hand inside of her panties. His body shifts to create easier access to her.

She separates her thighs and pushes her hips upward as a means of telling him where she needs him. Her arms rise to cup his face with her hands, pulling him even closer to her. 

His palm slides down her center, and he dips his middle finger into the wetness that has accumulated at her core. 

“Oh, baby.” He whispers against her lips. She’s completely drenched in a mixture of blood and arousal. She feels so warm and so so wet; he’s enraptured by the feeling. A low keening noise emits from low in her throat.

His finger glides with ease through and around her folds. When the tip of it grazes her clit, her hips jerk involuntarily. She feels so sensitive and vulnerable. She feels charged and heightened, like a livewire. He maintains eye contact with her as his finger enters her slick hole. He can feel the heat emanating from her. She feels like soft, silken sheets in the summertime. 

He leisurely pumps his fingers, and they can both hear the squelching noise of her moisture. It’s already so lewd. She’s soaked down to her inner thighs.

He studies her face as he easily inserts a second finger alongside his first. There’s barely any stretch, and her hole pulls his fingers deeper on its own accord. A gravelly moan escapes her against her will.

His fingers seem to be reaching the low and constant ache that resides deep inside of her. Each pump of his fingers chips away at it, while introducing a new, more pleasant pressure for her to focus on.

He curves his fingers to stroke her most sensitive spot with each thrust. Her hands shift to his neck, pulling him against her so she can bury her face in his chest. Her deep moans reverberate against his skin. 

He wants to tell her how badly he needs to be inside of her, but he doesn’t want to pressure her. He wants to give her space to change her mind, if she wants. 

It’s all he can think about, though, as her drenched, silky pussy envelopes his hand. He can barely wait to get his cock wrapped in her tight, warm, wet heat. If he were a lesser man, he’d pull her panties down right now.

As he continues fingering her, her nipples feel electric as they pleasantly press against his chest. The smell of him travels up her nostrils and seems to blanket her brain. He smells crisp of cedar and coffee.

He raises his thumb to roll over her clit, and her body shudders against his. 

“Oh, fuck, Spence,” she whines.

“Yeah, baby? How’s that feel?”

“So good, Spence. I need you inside me.”

“I will, baby. Just relax for me, I wanna make you cum before I do.” He leans down to kiss her again, sensually sliding his tongue inside her mouth. Her moans vibrate between his lips and onto his tongue. He tangles a hand in her hair, not pulling, just holding her. 

As he gradually increases the speed and pressure of his fingers, the squishing noise between her thighs grows louder. 

A low moan escapes him as she clenches around his fingers. Her thighs tremble, and her jaw goes slack against his. Soft whimpers enter his mouth, and her back arches slightly off the bed.

“There you go…” He mutters as he watches her head tilt back, and her eyes squeeze shut.

She feels the white-hot pleasure of her orgasm rolling through her. She feels like a struck match that’s slowly burning down to nothing. Sparks glow behind her eyelids.

Spencer continues the movements of his fingers until her thighs start to close around his hand and her hips squirm away from him. He then removes his hand from her panties and rests it back on her hip. His fingers are warm and wet and sticky on her skin.

She’s completely breathless, and as she opens her eyes, her vision is blurred at the edges.

He litters kisses down her neck, to her chest, and back to her breasts, sucking one of her nipples back into his mouth. Her hands tangle in his hair to attempt to pull his mouth back to hers, but he groans in pleasure at the feeling of her touch and maintains his hovering position over her tits.

He lets a slow string of spit fall from his lips and land on her red, swollen nipple. She whines as it makes contact with her overworked skin. He watches as his saliva settles into her skin with a focused gaze.

He lets his gaze fall to his messy fingers, and his brain short-circuits when he sees the proof of her stained all over them. Underneath them, her hip is red with his fingerprints. 

He loses himself in the sight of it, and she starts fearing that he’s disgusted by what he sees. 

“Spence? Do you still… want to?” 

His head snaps back to her face, where he finds her worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, and a soft crease has formed between her eyebrows. 

He uses his dry hand to pull at her bottom lip, and it forms into a pout. He kisses the crease between her brows and softly grinds his hips against her outer thigh.

“Yes, baby, I absolutely still want to.” 

She feels the proof of his statement in the warm, hard pressure against her leg and sighs in relief. He maintains eye contact with her as he lifts his fingers to his mouth, sexily licking them clean of her blood and arousal.

Her jaw slackens in shock at the sight of him like this, and his eyes close in pleasure as he tastes her. She tastes both familiar and entirely new. He then winks at her. Her concerns regarding his desires fall away. 

His fingers remain somewhat stained, and a red spot is left on his bottom lip.

As he moves down her body, he sucks her nipple into his mouth and rolls it between his lips. She whimpers and places her hand on the back of his head. He releases her with an audible ‘pop’ noise and kisses slowly down her stomach and to her waistband. He now has a perfect view of the mess that’s grown along her inner thighs. 

He places tender kisses along her lower stomach, exactly on the places where her cramps typically form. Following his lips comes the weight of his palm, which caresses her softly.

He understands her well enough to know that her first orgasm softened her nervous edges enough for him to remove her panties, but he still looks up at her in question as he hooks his fingers into them. 

She nods enthusiastically, and he smiles as he tugs them down her legs. 

They suction to her cunt on the way down, and her slick mess is slowly revealed to him as if he’s unwrapping a present. In a way, he is; getting to be with her at all is a gift.

After carefully folding her panties and placing them on the edge of the towel, his gaze meets her exposed cunt. He’s completely entranced by the red smears that paint her inner thighs and pelvis. He impulsively bends her legs to set her feet flat on the bed, granting him an even better view of her soaked core.

Seeing her blood-smeared pussy, exposed just for him, a low and desperate groan escapes him. Blood trickles through her folds and onto the towel beneath her.

Spencer needs to get inside of her. He needs to feel her warm lubrication wrapped around his cock. 

He leaves a quick kiss on her inner thigh before sitting up to hurriedly push his underwear down his legs. He barely has the wherewithal to get them off his feet. 

He gathers some of her bloody slick with his fingers and strokes his throbbing cock to lubricate himself. Repositioning himself on top of her, he draws one of her knees against his waist and props himself up with the other by her head. 

For a moment, all he can see is the pink and red and maroon that litters her body. Pink are her cheeks. Red are her lips, the marks he left scattered over her neck and chest, and her bitten nipples. Maroon is the handprint he left on her hip. 

“Thank you for letting me have you like this. You look absolutely divine, baby.” 

The pink on her cheeks blossoms into a red. Only Spencer would take the time to compliment her so dearly before he’s about to fuck her into the mattress. Only Spencer would abandon his own needs to provide her with this tender moment.

Their pupils are equally dilated and expanded, matching each other in darkness and intensity.

He slowly drags his tip through her slickness, mesmerized at the way her blood catches and stains his smooth skin. She gasps and jerks her hips upwards as he contacts her clit with each slide. 

He’s completely painted with her from tip to base, smeared into the soft hair that’s littered there. 

He lowers himself down to kiss her as he lines himself up with her entrance. She gasps into his mouth at the ease with which his tip slides inside of her. He has to stop himself from gliding all the way inside of her to the hilt. She’s so slick and so wet that he could do so with ease, but he won’t before she’s ready.

She wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him in to the hilt; she can’t wait anymore. She craves the feeling of him deep inside of her. The impact punches the air out of both of them. The descent was completely frictionless; they could feel her walls softly stretching to accommodate him.

“Fuck-” He moans at the feeling of her completely enveloping his cock: thick and warm and wet. 

She can feel him pulsing and throbbing inside of her. She reaches for his shoulders to hold him for purchase, her nails pushing into his skin.

The biting sensation of her nails brings him back to reality, and he realizes he’s been stagnant inside of her for an unknown amount of time.

As he starts moving, it’s nearly impossible for him to control his thrusts; everything is so slick and slippery. Each thrust is filthily easy with wetness and moisture. Each slap of their hips produces an obscene, wet smacking noise.

Each drag of him along her sensitive walls has her writhing and arching underneath him. Her sopping pussy pulls him in even deeper with each thrust.

Spencer is enchanted. Normally, he treasures having eye contact with her during sex, but he’s fascinated by the sight of her smearing all over his cock. His eyes are wide and round, and his mouth falls open in shock. 

He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed by the sight of her like this, but he didn’t expect his attraction to her to grow impossibly stronger. 

His eyes are locked on where they meet, gaze laser-focused on her. His grip on her thigh tightens with each thrust of his hips.

“Look at you, baby. You’re making a mess all over me.” He sounds as fascinated as he looks. His eyes are full of devotion.

She sits up to meet his eye line where his core slams into hers. As she shifts, she unconsciously clenches against him, and her greedy walls suction him in even deeper. Her nails dig deeper into his shoulders.

Her upright position makes them moan in tandem. Her eyes widen as she sees her smearing blood on his pelvis and V-line. It’s collected around the base of his cock and has spread through his pubic hair, gathering in the soft strands. Her inner thighs are coated with a crimson stain that ascends to her lower stomach. 

The sight of him pumping in and out of her makes her head spin on a normal day, but this vision has her entire body tingling with desire. It awakens something deep and carnal inside of her. 

For a moment, all she can see on him are the red details. His lips are kissed red. Her nails have left red crescents on his shoulders. His chest is flushed a reddish pink. His pelvis is painted red with her. With each thrust, she can see the blood that has accumulated around the base of his cock. It tapers out into his soft, curly pubes and has started collecting in the groove of his hip.

She feels a feral sense of pride brewing in her stomach at the sight of what she’s done to him.

Her gaze flitters over to the faint fingerprints he left on her hip, and her jaw falls open in a pleasant shock. 

“So pretty like this, baby, so so pretty.” The repetitiveness of his adjective is a testament to how far gone he is. His grip on her thigh tightens as his thrusts become more and more rigorous. 

“Oh fuck me.” Her head tilts back, elongating her throat. He surges forward to suck more marks on her smooth skin, darkening the ones he’s already left there. 

Her veins are so flooded with pleasure that she falls backwards onto the pillow, dragging him down with her. One of her hands tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, needing something to hold on to. 

With the new angle, she can feel his tip kiss her cervix with each thrust; she emits low moans, “ah, ah, ah,” like a prayer with each penetration.

His hand that was propping his body up now slides down the sheets to grab hers, intertwining their fingers like he can’t get close enough to her; as if being inside of her and covered in the evidence of her biology isn’t enough. She grips it like it's her lifeline, and he can still feel the pleasant sting of where her fingernails had done the same into his shoulder and upper back.

“Shit- you feeling okay?” his head is burrowed in the crook of her shoulder, and his breath collides with her heated skin. 

“Mhm,” she emits a high-pitched moan, “feels really good.”

His voice is wrecked, “Good, baby, let me take care of you. Feels so good for me too, you always do.” His hand spans her thigh as he lifts it high above his waist, opening her up even further. She can feel a new wave of blood and fluids gush out of her as he spreads her open. 

She’s clenching around him with a tenacity that would normally push him outward, but she’s so drenched that it seems to only draw him in further. The blood-slick glide feels phenomenal for both of them. Breathless gasps intersperse with deep moans that blend with the squelching noise at their cores. It creates the most erotic melody they’ve ever heard.

He lifts his head from her bruised neck, watching her facial expressions as his cock punches into her again and again and again. Up close, the vision of each other’s glistening lips is too tempting to resist. They can see the evening sun filtering in through the curtains out of the corner of their eye, and it’s now painting the room with an alpenglow. The sides of their faces are backlit by a heavenly light.

They’re so intensely attracted to each other, and the light only strengthens their desirability. Their mouths crash together into something wet and desperate. Tongues slide with a frenzy. 

Running out of air in his lungs, Spencer just slightly pulls away from the kiss, so close to her that she’s somewhat blurry. A string of spit connects their mouths, and he closes his eyes with a low groan that comes straight from his chest.

He likes his sex messy. He never thought he would, but being with her has made him obsessed with the sight of her sheer sweat, their glistening saliva, and his milky cum painting her skin. Her bloodstains hit him deep in his stomach. The obvious proof of what they’ve done has his dick twitching in excitement.

She thrusts her hips up to meet his, smearing more and more of her around his pelvis and hipline. The thrusts become deeper and faster and even messier. The pressure of him in her stomach seems to be canceling out any pressure from her uterus. 

This entire experience is so erotic that Spencer can barely keep himself together; he’s a ball of yarn being slowly unraveled. She’s so plush, pliant, soft, and warm underneath him that he wishes he could stay like this forever. Rough groans that seem to be coming from his stomach sound foreign to their ears; he’s never sounded so pleased or satisfied.

Each point of contact with his skin feels heightened and hums beneath hers. She feels akin to a tree without its bark, raw and exposed. 

The clenching of her walls falls into a steady rhythm, and the thigh he’s been holding against his side trembles beneath her skin. Her writhing hips become erratic. 

His fingers untangle with hers to fit his hand between their bodies. Just the feeling of him hovering over her clit has her jittering. When he connects with it, drawing slow, wet circles on the nub, she knows the fire that's been growing inside of her is about to explode; his touch is the gasoline. His fingertips slip and slide with ease.

“I’m close,” she whimpers into his ear.

“I know, baby, let go for me. I need to feel you cum around me like this, please.”

Her veins feel like a lit stick of dynamite as she approaches her climax, slowly burning into an explosion of sparks and fire that spreads up to her eyelids. It blazes through her, leaving none of her atoms untouched. She’s left as a pile of embers as it dissolves.

He can see the fireworks boom behind her eyes, and her chest arches up into his. They’re so slick with sweat that their torsos glide together.

Her walls pulse as her orgasm descends, causing his to follow behind it after a handful of haphazard thrusts. He buries his cock to the hilt, cumming deep inside of her.

He collapses on top of her body, nuzzling his head into her neck. She can feel his hot air against her skin and the rapid rise and fall of his chest against hers. 

Her hand sticks to the strands of hair at the back of his neck, also moist with perspiration. The room is humid and smells of sex and something that’s distinctly them. The last traces of the sunset are starting to transition into night.

“Wow.” She manages to say between gasps for air. 

“I know.” He mumbles into her neck; the vibrations of it are almost too much for her sensitive nerves.

Some time passes where they lie in a comfortable silence. Needing to regain control of their breathing and not wanting the moment to end. 

Eventually, his head rises from the home it found on her shoulder. His eyes are glazy with passion and affection. Hers are half-lidded and adoring.

Her body feels gelatinous, but she manages to lift her head enough to press a firm kiss to his mouth. His reaction is slightly delayed, as if everything is moving in slow motion. 

After they break apart, her lips brush against his jaw, down to the sweaty moisture that’s started to dry on his neck. He smells so palpably like himself there that she can’t help herself from darting her tongue out to lick at the dampness.

His head falls back in pleasure, and a guttural groan escapes him. If there’s anything Spencer loves more than his saliva spreading on her skin, it's hers connecting with his.

His hips shift against hers instinctively as a chill almost meets the surface of his skin.

This reminds both of them that his cock is still buried deep inside of her. She envelopes him in a warm and wet heat that he doesn’t want to pull away from.

“Oh my god, you’re gonna get stuck in there.” She jokes with a tired giggle.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Like that’s not exactly what I want.” He smirks, and she affectionately rolls her eyes at him.

He carefully extracts his hips from hers. The blood that's collected there has started to dry into something slightly sticky. The squelching sensation blends with the faint clinging of their skin.

Both of their pelvic areas are completely painted red and crimson with her blood. It’s like various red wines have been spilled and left to absorb into the fibers of their skin. 

The feeling of his cum dripping out of her entrance blends with trickles of blood. It feels like a gutter emptying after a heavy rainfall. The heat under her skin slowly retreats as the air conditioning breathes over her damp body. 

He can’t stop his temptation to see his cum mixed with her blood, so he shifts his body down the bed until he’s positioned between her thighs. It drips out of her as a soft pink before it combines with dark red. He’s so intrigued that he can’t look away.

“How’s it look, Doctor?”

“Completely marvelous, my love.” The air from his speech makes contact with her folds, making her shudder.

He lets a long string of spit fall from his lips and watches in wonder as it softly lands in her folds, making her whimper.

He licks a firm, wide stripe from her fluttering hole to her clit. He meant to ask, not wanting to cross any of her boundaries, but it’s like her cunt and his tongue have a magnetic pull. 

“Oh! Spence!” she exclaims, arching her back and gripping his hair 

He pulls back slightly, lips and chin already smeared with red. “I’m sorry.” Lips pursed and shifted to one side. “I should’ve asked first. Can I?”

“I’ll never say no to that, but you really don’t have to. I’m sure it tastes like pennies.”

He shakes his head, accompanied by quiet laughter, “Not at all. You always taste so good,” and dives back between her thighs.

He has to clean her up; he always does. He continues licking wide stripes up the expanse of her pussy, flicking at her clit on the way up each time. Her body jerks each time he does it, the line between overstimulation and pleasure softening with a blur. 

She does have a slight metallic taste, but it makes him think of beautiful things like jewelry. She’s still sweet and tangy underneath it, a flavor he’s addicted to. 

He wraps his arms around the underside of her thighs, opening her up just for him to explore. 

“I’m so lucky to see you this way.”

He hopes that nobody has ever had her like this before. He knows it’s territorial and possessive to think that way–maybe even slightly problematic–but he’s never felt intimacy like this with anyone else. Regardless, he hopes he can do this with her every month for the foreseeable future.

As he sucks and inserts his tongue into her hole, his nose grazes her puffed clit until she’s writhing underneath him. Her soft whimpers and whines are music to his ears. The corners of his lips turn upward as his grip on her thighs tightens. 

He’s drowning in her juices, his cum, her blood, and his saliva. He’s exactly where he wants to be.

“Spence,” she whines. The distant sound of her voice mixed with the squelching in his ears creates the most wonderful song he’s ever heard. 

He licks wider stripes up her pussy, and he briefly wonders how much of a mess he’s making on his own face in the name of cleaning her. He loves seeing her arousal glistening around his mouth and chin when he normally does this. The thought of the proof of her pleasure being even more prominent has his stomach doing somersaults. 

He shifts his mouth to meet her clit, softly sucking it into his mouth. Her whines tumble into proper moans, her grip on his hair tightens, and her thighs push against his arms.

He releases one of her thighs to push his pointer finger inside of her. He softly caresses her satin walls, ensuring to make contact with her most tender spot with each thrust. A low moan releases from her throat, and her newly freed thigh closes on the side of his head. He can feel it trembling against his cheek and can see her lower stomach tensing. 

The experience has him letting out a low and soft moan that vibrates against her skin. Pleasuring her satisfies something deep within him.

The expanse of his devotion has warmth growing behind her eyes. Nobody has ever been this committed to taking care of her in any aspect. She’s never gotten close to trusting anyone to this extent, with her body completely at their mercy.

She feels the knot in her stomach tighten until it snaps, like a pulled thread. The oscillations of his voice are what drive her over the edge. Her orgasm tangles and rolls through her. He pulls at her seams until she comes undone, unraveling her completely.

He continues his ministrations until her grip on his hair starts pulling him away from her core. He sees her eyes squished shut, and her hair has formed a halo around her head on the pillow: perfectly accessorizing her angelic body.

The rapid rise and fall of her sweat-coated chest makes him want to rise to lick it all off of her, but he prioritizes her sensitivity over his own desire. 

She looks down at him and gasps, wide-eyed, and covers her mouth with her hand. 

“Oh my god, honey, you look scary.” She laughs into her palm.

“Scary?! That’s not nice,” he mockingly pouts at her. “So I can’t have a kiss?” he purses his red-stained lips at her. 

“Just a little one,” she concedes and gestures with her thumb and forefinger, showing him the gap between them. He laughs and shakes his head at her, ascending her body to press a soft and brief kiss to her lips. She tries to lean forward to meet him halfway, but she’s still enduring a deep tremble that seems to be coming from her bones. Her limbs feel soft and melted.

“You do taste like pennies… and keys… and nails.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he teases, eyes fused to her red-stained lips. “Should I be worried about your dietary habits?”

“See, I was wondering if I should be worried about yours. You’re not secretly a vampire, are you?” Her eyes twinkle with amusement as she playfully squints at him.

He just laughs and shakes his head at her before leaning down to steal another brief kiss.

He considers wiping himself with the edge of the towel underneath her, but decides against it in favor of seeing her mess all over him in the bathroom mirror. Her blood has mostly dried and begun settling into his skin, anyway.

“Shower?” He asks her.

“Definitely.”

He rises from the mattress and helps her sit up enough to sip the glass of water he prepared for her. The moisture glossens her lips, collecting in the corner of her mouth. A droplet dribbles down her chin and to her neck, so he leans down to kiss it off her. 

“Is that for me?” she points at the chocolate bar resting unassumingly on the wooden nightstand, looking up at him wide-eyed and curious, biting on her lower lip to subdue a smile. 

“Oh, no… I got this for me,” he teases with a sly smirk, as he picks it up and holds it to his chest, in jest. She justs her lower lip out at him and gives him doe-eyes, sending a jolt to his chest. He’d do anything for her regardless, but that look could convince him to follow her into a collapsing, burning building. 

He tears the package open and places a piece between her lips. As she nibbles at the square, his eyes scan her debauched body. Various red stains litter her skin in marks on her neck, chest, and breasts, all leading down to the red sea that laps her hipline, pelvis, and thighs.

He finds her utterly ethereal. Being intimate with her was already the most sacred experience in the world, but this experience is ineffable. He’s so grateful to have her, and he’s so thankful that she trusted him to do this with her.

He reluctantly leaves her side to pad over to the bathroom to start the shower for them. After twisting the handle, he finally turns to see his reflection in the mirror.

His eyes widen, and his lips separate at the vision of himself. The entirety of his lower face is coated with evidence of his debauchery. It surrounds his mouth, chin, and there’s even a smear on his cheek from her thigh closing in on him. 

His gaze filters lower on his body, where he finds more confirmation of their activities together. The blood that surrounds his pelvis has dried into a deep maroon and mahogany. He’s frozen in place, in awe of the contrast of it on his pale skin. Her blood blooms and spreads from his softened cock to his pubic area, hips, and to his lower stomach.

He doesn’t want to wipe any of it away. He wishes he could tattoo it onto himself to admire for the rest of his life. 

Ultimately, he rinses his face in the sink and watches mournfully as the diluted blood flows down the drain. A red tint lingers on the skin surrounding his mouth. 

As he reenters the bedroom, she tells him, “I don’t know how I’m gonna get to the shower.”

“I’ll take you.” He replies with ease, tucking his arms under the towel, then under her knees and upper back before she can even ask what his plan is. 

He holds her body close to his chest and ducks down to kiss her properly. Her arms tighten around his neck as she sighs happily into his mouth. The love they have for each other is so full that it could spill out of their bodies.

He carries her into the bathroom and sets her gently onto the shower floor, ensuring her legs are steady before he releases his arms. The towel gets crumpled, mess side inward, and tossed toward the bathroom corner. 

She’s already started rinsing herself when he steps in behind her. They watch as the blood fades into a pale stream down her thighs, legs, and to the drain. Minimal words are shared as they clean each other off; they don’t need to. They can feel the adoration emitting from each other's bodies, and it can be seen in the recesses of their eyes. 

The water runs steadily around them. Periodically, they lean into each other, her head to his chest and his arms around her waist. There are soft kisses and even softer whispers. Nothing is rushed or demanded. They bring each other comfort in the small space. They stay there longer than necessary.

Afterward, Spencer gathers clothes for her and helps her prepare her menstrual product. He cooks her an iron-rich meal that he knows she will like, and they eat it while curled together on the couch. As a movie plays on the TV, he finds his mind drifting to replay the memories of their time together over and over in his head.

-

i fear i need to put the thesaurus down but i also am proud of this but i also am scared to share LOL be nice to me!!!

[l0vinghimwasreid]

3 times Spencer overhears fem!reader talking about her crush and the 1 time he realizes it’s him - kind of definitely a crack fic but idc! i had fun writing this!

wc: 4,097

fluff with some suggestive content

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

1: “...His eyes, Penelope, they’re so pretty and round, like I could drown in them. I want to drown in them.”

He overhears her talking to Penelope as they walk past his desk.

His hand freezes over the case file he’s writing in. She has a crush. A crush that, from that description, can’t be him.

He’s never really thought about his eye color, but now he wishes that they were blue so she could drown in his eyes. Whatever that means? The only conclusion he could make from her words is that her apparent crush must have blue eyes that look like water. That’s what she has to mean by it?

2: “...And he’s so smart, which is so attractive for some reason! And the way he looks when he plays chess? Why do I find that hot?”

He catches part of a conversation she’s having with Emily in the break room as he’s walking by.

He thinks he’s smart. He knows that he’s smart. He wants her to find him attractive for any reason.

And so what if this guy plays chess? It’s not that impressive! What should impress her is all the plays and strategies that he has had memorized since he was 6 years old.

He thinks he could beat this mysterious crush of hers in chess with his eyes closed. He knows he can. He doesn’t want to think about having to meet this guy, though, because soon he’s imagining her comforting him after losing a game to Spencer. “You’ll get ’em next time,” she’d say, because she’s always so encouraging.

Then, the thought of having to be face-to-face with a man who she’s this enamored by makes him feel like he’s losing something he never even had the chance to hold.

He doesn't think that anyone could ever find him hot. Most people can barely look past his awkwardness long enough to notice him at all. The thought of her noticing someone else in that way is devastating.

He’s forgotten where he was even headed before he passed by the break room.

3: “...He’s so good with kids, I can't help but picture him with his own. I mean, you've seen the way he is with yours and JJ’s kids! I just know he’ll be a great dad someday.”

The team is all together in Rossi’s backyard, and she’s talking to Hotch. He feels his heart drop in his chest. He feels his fingers tighten around his glass. She’s really imagining an entire life with someone else. 

As the godfather to JJ’s kids, he feels that he should know who this mysterious man is who has been hanging around them and being so great that she’s thinking about having children with him. Things must be going really well with her apparent crush (no, lover, apparently) for her to already be talking about their future children. 

It must be a serious relationship if she’s talking to Hotch about it. 

He wants to disappear into the bathroom to try to calm himself down, but his mental spiral is interrupted by Henry asking him to show Michael a magic trick.

*ੈ✩ He drives her home after a team night out at the bar. She’s completely wasted, so he cracks the window for her to feel the fresh night air on her face. He has to force himself to keep his eyes on the road and not admire how she looks in the moonlight, her hair twisting and twirling in the wind, her chest lightly rising and falling in a top that really accentuates her—

He’s clenching his jaw and gripping the steering wheel to keep himself grounded. He really needs to get over this crush he has on her. It’s absolutely crushing his soul to think about her and the fact that she belongs to someone else.

He pulls up to her apartment, and she slightly stirs in the passenger seat. “We’re home?” she whines out. He has to stop himself from picturing an actual shared home with her. He’d get her any house she wanted. 

“You’re home. I’ll help you up, just… stay there.” He holds his hands out to gesture at the seat, and she grabs at his fingers. Every nerve in his body feels like a live wire at the feeling of her touch.

“You have pretty hands, did you know that?” She says it like she’s solved a mystery. Her eyelashes are fluttering, and her eyes are glazed over. His brain knows that he shouldn’t take what an extremely drunk woman is saying at face value, but his heart doesn’t care.

“Um… no, I didn’t know that. Thank you.” He reluctantly slides his hands out of her soft grip before he does something stupid, like intertwine their fingers together and never let go, and opens his door to step out of the car.

“Wait! Where’re you going!” She’s wide-eyed and pouting, literally pouting: her lower lip is jutted out, and she’s literally pouting at him. He’s starting to think that offering her this ride was an act of self-harm.

“I’m coming to help you out, honey. Just stay right there, okay?” The endearment just slipped out of his mouth; he didn’t even think about it. How could he not call her that when she’s looking at him like that?

“Ohhhh, okay!” She settles back into the seat and crosses her hands in her lap, patiently waiting.

He opens her door for her and holds his hand out to help her out of the car. She places her hand in his and tries to get up, but she’s still buckled in, so she doesn’t make it very far.

“Oh, oops,” she whispers before reaching for the clasp to try to fiddle it open.

“Help? Please?” Of course, she’s still polite even when she’s like this.

He bends down and leans over her to unbuckle the seatbelt for her, and he purposefully keeps his head facing away from her. He doesn’t trust himself to look at her in this close of proximity and not do something irresponsible like count the freckles on her nose or, worse, kiss her.

“You smell good.” She announces. He wants to jump in front of the metro. He can’t handle this. 

“Oh, um, thank you.” He responds, slightly too late. He dares to make a quick glance at her, and his heart skips a beat. She’s staring at him so intensely, and her eyes are sparkling. She’s smiling and nibbling at her lower lip.

He quickly diverts his eyes from her lips and meets her eyes again.

“Your eyes are so, so pretty, Spence, I could definitely drown in them.” His mind is absolutely reeling.

“But they aren’t blue?” he dumbly says. He’s immediately cursing himself for shying away from her compliment.

“They don’t have to be blue, silly! It’s just a vibe, I don’t know.” She shrugs as she’s ending her sentence, and he’s still so close to her that he can barely breathe.

“Oh, uh, good to know.” He nods. “Thank you.”

He straightens back up and helps lift her from the car. Her knees nearly buckle on the way up, so he quickly grabs her waist to keep her upright.

“Oops! This is so embarrassing,” she whines out and scrunches her nose. Her cute, freckled nose that he was trying so hard not to think about.

“It’s okay, you’re not embarrassing, don’t worry.” He shakes his head at her in a way that he hopes is reassuring. She leans into his touch, so he gathers that it was. He reaches into his pocket to lock the car before guiding her arm around his neck, keeping his grasp firm on her waist. He’s starting to feel dizzy from the feeling of being surrounded by her.

Eventually, they make it to her front door. She reaches into her bra for her key, and he averts his gaze; a blush creeps up his neck to his cheeks.

“Whaaat? It’s a secure place!” she giggles.

“More secure than, say, your pocket?”

“Mm, it could fall out, or someone could steal it from my pocket, and I wouldn’t even know!” She laughs and leans even further into his side as she unlocks her door.

“Fair enough, that’s smart.”

“Wow, the smartest man on the entire planet just called me smart!” He can’t help but chuckle as she says this like she’s talking to an audience.

He had originally planned on just making sure she made it inside safely, but he realized less than halfway to her door that she would probably need help getting settled into bed. That feels entirely too intimate for him to witness, though. Just seeing the inside of her apartment from the hallway feels too personal.

“Is your boyfriend awake? Could he help you get into bed?” he reluctantly asks her, not wanting to trigger a conversation about the mysterious lover she’s been raving about for weeks.

“Boyfriend?! I don’t have a boyfriend!” She laughs at him. Well, not at him; he guesses she just finds everything to be funny right now. He’s extremely confused by her admission. Maybe she’s too drunk to remember the guy she’s clearly been falling for? Regardless, he’s relieved that there isn’t a man inside of her apartment.

“Oh, okay, sorry, uh… is it okay if I come in to help you?” He really doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable or cross any boundaries. He also doesn’t want her boyfriend-not-boyfriend to catch wind that another man helped his girlfriend (-not-girlfriend?) out like this. Spencer wouldn’t love to hear that about a woman he was with, and he doesn’t really know anything about the mysterious man. What if he wants to fight him? Or worse, challenge him to a game of chess that Spencer would have to let him win to appease him. 

“I’m fine, Spence, really, thank you though.” She waves him off and pushes her door open and stumbles through the doorway. He instinctively grabs her waist again to steady her so she doesn’t faceplant into the wooden door.

“Okay, maybe I could use a little help,” she admits.

He nods and enters her dimly lit apartment. She points in the direction of her bedroom, and he leads her there. He gently sits her on the bed, and she immediately flops backwards, giggling at the way the bed bounces under her. God, she’s so cute and endearing, he’s so screwed.

“Okay, so, where are your pajamas?” He glances around her room and finds himself smiling at the way it’s decorated. It’s so perfectly her.

She points in the general direction of her dresser, and he follows.

“This drawer?”

“Mhm.”

She doesn’t even look up when she hums at him, but he has his back turned to her, so he doesn’t know.

He opens the drawer and is swiftly met with an eyeful of her underwear: a mixture of lace and cotton and light and dark colors. He quickly slams the drawer closed.

“That was not the right drawer.” She props herself up on her elbows and sees his hands on the handles of her top drawer. She laughs and covers her mouth with one hand.

“Oh my god, Spencer Reid just saw my underwear.” He’s certain that his entire body is flushed red and pink.

“I didn’t see anything!”

“You saw enough to know that it wasn’t the right drawer!” She’s teasing him, he can tell by her sing-song tone and her raised eyebrows. She’s so precious like this, he can’t help but think.

“Please inform me of the exact location that contains your nightwear, ma’am.” He’s fighting a smile. This entire situation is so ridiculous.

“They are enclosed in the bottom drawer, sir.” He’s slightly afraid this is a trap, but he doesn’t know why she would have two drawers full of her undergarments, so he decides to trust her. He’s very slow about opening it, though.

Luckily, she was not pranking him, and he found her pajamas. When he turns to face her with them in his hands, he sees her struggling to get her shoes off.

He sets her pajamas on the bed next to her. He kneels on the floor in front of her and gently unties them before gently slipping them off of her feet. After, he looks up at her and finds her so beautiful that he’s speechless. Her hair is windswept from the window being down in the car, falling slightly in front of her eyes. Her eye makeup is slightly smudged, and the way she’s looking back down at him makes his breath catch in his throat.

She soon lowers her hands to the hem of her shirt and starts lifting it up her torso. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t choke and cough.

He quickly covers his eyes with his hands and squeaks, “Uhm, I don’t think you want me to witness you undressing.”

“And what if I do?” He can hear her smirking as she says it.

“Then I’d rather for that to occur under… different circumstances.”

“Ugh, you’re such a gentleman.” He’s never been complimented with such an irritated undertone before.

“I’m going to get you some water so you can change. Can I open my eyes so I can do that?”

She says, “Yes,” so imagine his surprise when he slowly moves his hands to see her shirtless, with just a lacy bra covering her breasts. He quickly moves them back over his eyes.

“Ughhh, you’re killing me.” She giggles at him.

“Okay, okay, I am sufficiently covered now.” He slowly peeks through the gaps between his fingers to see her covered by her sleep shirt.

“Your face is a bit red.” She’s smiling, and her fingers are in front of her mouth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he quickly retorts before scampering out of her room and towards her kitchen. He holds the cool glass to his forehead and cheeks to try to subdue the heat there, but every time he closes his eyes, he can still see her lace-covered—

He shakes his head in shame. He feels like he’s being tortured by some higher power tonight. He can’t blame her for drunkenly flirting with him, so he’s resorted to blaming gods that he doesn’t believe in.

When he gets back to her bedroom, she’s beneath the covers and looking at her phone with one eye closed. He’s a tad confused by this method, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

When she sees him standing in the doorway with the glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen, she opens both eyes and makes grabby hands at him. Somehow, her eyes are still sparkling in the soft light of her bedroom.

After he helps her take a sip of water and as he’s placing the items on her bedside table, she says, “See, I knew you’d be a great dad someday, you’re so good at taking care of people.”

He freezes in his movements. She’s directly referred to two of the three instances that he overheard her talking about her mysterious lover. He’s replaying the other qualities she described in his mind, which leads him to say possibly the dumbest thing ever.

“Do you think it’s hot when I play chess, too?” He dares to look at her, and he knows that any progress he made in soothing his blushed face has been completely undone. She’s also laughing, which is not reassuring.

“Um, yes? Why?”

“No reason!” He wants to disappear. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go now. You should take some of the medicine when you wake up.” He gently takes her phone from her grasp and plugs it in for her. “I’d recommend not using this until you wake up, either.”

He’s halfway to her bedroom door when she says, “Wait! No goodnight kiss?”

He has his back to her, and he looks up at the ceiling. Maybe this is all a punishment because he doesn’t pray. Maybe he should start. Right now.

He turns around to face her, and she’s pouting again. Fuck.

He slowly approaches her and gently places his hands on the sides of her head before lowering himself and pressing a kiss to her forehead. He really hopes that she doesn’t have a boyfriend. “I’ll give you a real one if you ask me tomorrow, okay?”

She eagerly nods. “Okay!”

“Alright, sweet dreams. Call me, and only me, if you need anything.”

“Sweet dreams, Spencer, love you.” She says sleepily with her eyes closed. She probably doesn’t even know that she said it, he thinks. She definitely didn’t mean it, he thinks. He thinks he might burst into flames if he doesn’t get out of her apartment right this second.

He’s halfway back to his car when his phone starts ringing. Nobody ever calls him at this hour. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and it’s her.

“Hello? You okay?” he says, concernedly.

“Come back,” she whines.

“I- I really shouldn’t. We should both get some sleep.”

“You should sleep here. So I can get my kiss when I wake up.”

He doesn’t have it in him to argue with that logic, so he turns around mid-step and heads back to her door.

“Okay, I’m coming.”

“Yay!”

When he gets back inside, he tries to tell her that he’ll sleep on the couch, but she’s not having that. She tries to convince him to sleep in her bed next to her. He, sort of, complies. He lies next to her in the bed, over the covers. He strokes her hair until she falls asleep, then moves a blanket and pillow to the floor next to her side of the bed. He tells himself that he should be close by just in case she gets sick or something.

When she wakes up in the morning, she thinks that he has left. The bed is cold where he was lying, and her couch is empty when she looks through the doorway of her bedroom. It’s not until she sits up and flings her legs over the side of the bed that she sees him asleep on the floor.

She gently pokes him with her foot until he starts to stir awake. “Spence, Spence, what’re you doing here?”

His blood runs cold. She doesn’t remember anything from the night before. He knew this was a possibility with how drunk she was, but he doesn’t know how to ask her if the mysterious man was actually him all along. He was really hoping that he’d get to kiss her.

“You asked me to stay? Remember?” he grumbles and wipes at his eyes.

“No, I know, I mean, why are you on the floor?” she giggles. He audibly sighs in relief. Okay, she at least remembers asking him to come back and stay.

“Oh, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He sits up, and she’s never seen him like this before. He’s in a t-shirt, first of all. One he must have had on under his dress shirt. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him without a tie on. The shirt is rumpled, and his hair is sticking in about 14 different directions. He’s still wearing his dress pants. At first, she feels bad that he didn’t feel comfortable enough to take them off, but then she smiles at the realization that he didn’t want to freak her out. If he wouldn’t sleep in the bed next to her, he definitely wouldn’t strip down to his boxers.

“Ah, you are such a gentleman." She softly smiles. "I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night.” Oh fuck, she does remember. Oh fuck. Oh god.

“No, no, you were fine. Uh, how much do you remember, exactly?” He reaches a hand up to the back of his neck; it's warm under his touch.

Their cheeks now have matching pink splotches on them.

“Um, everything, I think.” She looks down at her feet and starts shyly rubbing them together.

He slowly rises from the floor and gently squeezes her knee. She’s tracking his every movement like she’s afraid he’ll sprint out of her apartment and straight to HR. He grabs the water and painkillers that he left there and hands her the glass before opening the bottle. 

He’s shaking two pills into his hand when he finds the courage to say, “I thought you had a crush on someone. Someone who isn’t me. I actually thought you were in a relationship with him.”

He gently deposits the pills into her palm when she asks, “Why would you think that?”

Shit, now he has to admit that he’s been eavesdropping on her conversations for a month, maybe even more. But he didn’t even do it intentionally! He genuinely just happened to be nearby whenever she was gushing about this man. 

Wait…

“Have you been describing me around me?”

She just shyly smiles and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She swallows the medicine and places the glass back on her nightstand.

“Yes, you do! You talked about a man with drownable eyes, who’s smart and plays chess, and has been hanging around Hotch and JJ’s kids! I haven’t heard them talk about a random man who’s been near their children, so I’m struggling not to conclude that the man is me!” He’s sure he sounds hysterical, but she’s smiling and giggling at him with that glistening look in her eyes as he rambles, so she at least doesn’t think what he’s saying is ridiculous. 

“I’m almost grateful for my overall embarrassing-ness last night,” she admits. “I was trying to get your attention all along, Spencer. Literally everyone knows that I’ve been crushing on you except for you.”

Spencer just stares at her.

Literally everyone knows?

He thinks his brain might actually be short-circuiting. Weeks of jealousy and longing suddenly rearrange into something warm and dizzying. He needs to sit down, so he lowers onto the bed next to her.

“You—” he starts helplessly. “You were talking about me?” He points at his chest.

She snorts. “Spencer, you're the only man I know who fits into all of those categories.” 

His face feels like it’s on fire. He’s opening and closing his mouth, and for once in his life, he doesn’t know what to say. 

He’s looking at her like she’s said something life-altering, which she has. He’s looking at her like she just said the sky is actually purple, and it always has been, didn’t you know?

She smiles a little shyly and says, “So… I think I was supposed to ask you for something?”

Spencer immediately nods. “Yes. Of course. Anything. Anything at all ever.”

She laughs quietly. “A good morning kiss?”

His breath catches. He’s surprised that his lungs are still functioning at all. The last 12 hours have completely rewritten his miserable existence that he’s been trying to cope with.

“Yes,” he says softly while nodding. “I can do that.”

He moves toward her carefully, like she might disappear if he goes too fast. His hand rises to rest against her cheek, warm and tentative, and she leans into it. He’s afraid that he’s dreaming. Maybe he slipped and hit his head at the bar last night, and he’s actually in a coma. Yes, this all has to be an amazing coma-dream.

She reaches out for his other hand and messily intertwines their fingers together. That nearly kills him. Maybe he is actually dead, and this is all a creation of his brain trying to peacefully transition him into nothingness.

He slowly moves closer to rest his forehead against hers. A few moments pass, and they can feel each other's breath tickling their lips.

“You’re sure?” he whispers, searching her eyes for any signs that this is all fake, a joke, a fluke.

“Yes, Spencer. Please.”

He finally closes the gap. Her lips are so warm and soft against his. She slightly tightens her grip on his hand, and he lightly squeezes back. There’s no tongue, no heat, it’s just pure affection. He never wants this moment to end, but he’s been breathless since she first got into his car last night, so he has to pull away.

He doesn’t go far; he can’t bring himself to, so he rests his forehead back on hers. 

She laughs, and for a moment he’s afraid that she wasn’t happy with the kiss. “I can’t believe you were jealous of yourself.”

Spencer softly groans and shuts his eyes. “Please don’t say it like that.” 

She leans in and kisses him again.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

[l0vinghimwasreid]

absolutely LOVE your writing!!!! im afraid the spencer somno one made me pregnant........ and it gave me an idea. i saw your last post is a request and came to ask are you taking them???? cause i need spencer (i imagine first seasons but it doesn't need to be) completely obsessed with his girlfriend and the way she's so horny for him! like initiating sex at the most random domestic times cause he's so sexy all the time!!! and she needs him all the time!!!! he can't be more happy to have a gf that loves him so much and finds him so attractive so of course he let's her use him for her pleasure 😵‍💫😵‍💫 he's fascinated with the dynamic, "yes baby make yourself feel good" <33333 while she's crying bouncing on him and the sight is so good and so beautiful in his completely in love brain that he cums imediataly

spencer reid with a horny gf that he'd never say no to

UR SO SWEET (is it too soon to say i love you?) YES!!

ohhh he is so pleasantly confused by how attracted she is to him but he is Not about to argue, especially when she’s kissing on him and trailing her fingers over his waistband in the middle of the night

“mmm honey?” he grumbles and she’s sooo turned on by him all of the time but his sleepy voice gets her even wetter

“need you, spence, please.” she whines and he’s never going to deny her of anything she wants, but especially when it’s him

“yeah, baby, what d’you need?” he says between heated kisses and she just starts pulling on his pajama pants and boxers

“oh, fuck, okay, baby, okay” he lifts his hips up so she can get them down to his ankles

he trails his fingers inside of her sleep shorts and she’s not wearing any panties and he can immediately feel how wet she is

“jesus, honey, you’re this wet for me at this hour?” and all she can do is whine and rut her hips against his hand

“please, spence, please”

so he fingers her just enough to stretch her out for him, turns her on her side so they’re spooning, his chest pressing into her back, and slowly guides his pulsing dick inside of her

he loves when she gets like this and the sight and feeling of her makes it so he’s already twitching and leaking

he wraps his arms around her to pull her as close to him as possible so he can get so deep inside of her, just how she likes

he squeezes on her breasts and nipples with one hand and circles her clit with the other

they’re both moaning and panting and their neighbors can definitely hear them but they don’t care, they need and love each other so so much and the only thing they can think about is each other

she’d get frustrated that she can’t turn around all the way to reach his lips to kiss him properly if he wasn’t pleasing her in 3 different ways already

she pushes her hips backwards with each thrust and she’s too fucking hot and it’s the middle of the night so spencer knows that he won't last very long (he rarely can with her)

"yeah, baby, fuck yourself back on me, help me make you feel good"

he manages to make her cum once before he does, but she immediately turns around in his arms to kiss him so intensely and he knows she needs more

he can't believe that someone loves him this much and needs him so badly

he makes sure that she cums at least twice before he gets up to get a cloth to clean up with, smiling at himself in the bathroom mirror

he has hickies on his neck that she must have put there before he even woke up, his hair is a complete ruffled mess, and he’s never ever been happier

-

she’s just completely shameless for him and absolutely initiates sex whenever she can

while he’s reading, curled up on the couch in his glasses, with his fingers trailing over the pages, she curls up next to him and can’t stop herself from grabbing his hand to suck on his fingers

his looks over at her with his mouth opened into an ‘o’ and can already feel himself getting hard at the feeling of her warm wet mouth and tongue drenching him

she’s soon bringing his hand through her panties and literally using him to rub on her clit and she pushes his fingers inside of her

she’s moaning and writhing and all he can do is watch and let her use him, she’s so beautiful and he can’t believe that she’s his

“need you to fuck me, spence”

“yeah? let’s go to the bed?”

“no, i can’t wait, right here, please spence please”

and what else is he supposed to do but fuck her into the couch cushions!?

-

or when he’s in the kitchen making them coffee and breakfast on a weekend morning, sun painting everything golden

his pajama pants are loose around his hips and his shirt is riding up his sides, leaving a smooth strip of skin that she can’t help but touch

she wraps her arms around him from behind and kisses at the back of his neck as she unties his pants

“oh, good morning!” he squeaks out and she trails her hand down the front of his pants and into his boxers, stroking him until he’s groaning, head tilted back, and painfully hard

she hops up onto the kitchen counter, pulls his pants down just enough for his cock to spring free and she pushes her sleep shorts to the side, there’s no time to take them off, she needs him now

she pulls him toward her with one hand on his shoulder and the other on his dick, guiding him inside of her

the stretch is almost too much without any foreplay and first thing in the morning, but she doesn’t care, she loves how he feels inside of her and will take him no matter what

he's so loving and so concerned though, "you sure, baby? need me to finger you first?"

"no, spencer, i need you now"

so he places his hands on her thighs to open her up for him even more, and the sound of their moans mixes with the sound of the coffee pot brewing

he's stretching her so wide and he feels so so good that she starts tearing up

it’s then that he realizes that he hasn’t even kissed her today, so he leans forward to do so, and she immediately gets her tongue in his mouth and is nibbling on his lower lip

“fuck, honey, i love you so much” he says

“i love you, spence, you're so hot, fuck” she replies as she pulls his hips closer to push his cock in deeper

they both wish that they could start every single day like this

-

he knows he’s too down bad for her once she manages to convince him to have car sex, but he wouldn’t have it any other way

they’re having a date night and they’re supposed to be on their way to a movie after having dinner

but the way he looked in the candlelight, in his suit and tie, fingers wrapped around his glass that was dripping with condensation has her dripping for him

and he tipped 30% on their expensive ticket

her panties are absolutely soaked and she can’t think about anything other than his cock

she tells him to pull over onto a dark side street and at first he’s concerned that she’s going to be sick or something, maybe the food didn’t sit well with her? he’ll have to look up the ingredients that were in her meal and cross-reference them with things she’s had before to make sure this doesn’t happen again and-

oh- she’s leaned over the center console and is pulling him towards her by his tie and oh fuck now she’s making out with him and palming him through his nice dress pants

“honey, we can’t do this here!” he tries to tell her

she grabs his hand and shoves it between her legs so he can feel that her panties are completely drenched

“need you, spence, need to fuck you right now, i can’t go sit in a movie theater like this”

and he completely agrees, he doesn’t want her to be uncomfortable literally ever but especially not for the whole duration of a 2/3 hour movie

he doesn’t know what to do though, he’s never had car sex before

“okay, fuck, okay… should we get in the backseat?”

she just shakes her head and climbs over the center console to straddle him, licking into his mouth and grinding roughly on his hardening cock

she reaches her hand to the side of the seat and leans it back before he can even think about doing it himself

she unzips his pants and pulls him out of his boxers and he’s absolutely throbbing and she’s barely touched him yet

she hikes her dress up so she can rub herself against him, skin to skin, and he has no idea when she took off her panties but she’s completely exposed for him

she’s grinding back and forth on him, he can feel her folds sliding up and down his cock, and he’s not even inside of her yet, but he’s already moaning and gripping at her hips

“oh, yes, baby, use me so you can feel better? need you to feel better so we can go see our movie?”

she’s almost annoyed that he’s still thinking about the movie when his tip is catching on her entrance with every grind, but she just finds him so hot and so endearing and so hot

she grips his base to guide him inside of her properly and she looks so so beautiful tonight (all the time, actually, but especially tonight) and he’s nervous about someone seeing them, so he’s already biting his lip and closing his eyes to stop himself from cumming

“feels so good, spence, you always feel so good.” she tells him and he’s flushed down to his chest and he has to loosen his tie to get some air

“yeah, honey? fuck me so good”

“love when you need me like this”

“love when you use me like this”

his words only make her ride him even faster and harder, she leans to suck on his neck and the new angle is so delicious, it pushes him in even deeper

she’s rubbing her clit with one hand and has the other wrapped around his jaw to keep him looking at her

the new pace and angle and the sight of her like this has him cumming before she does, and she whines in frustration

she has tears in her eyes so of course he says, “it’s okay, baby, keep going”

he’s so overstimulated that it’s starting to hurt but he wants to be good for her, so he squeezes at her gorgeous tits through her dress and leans up to kiss her until she’s groaning and trembling all over him

she gives him a chaste kiss and thanks him before she climbs back over to the passenger seat

his dick is still out and he’s sweaty and completely awestruck

once he’s pulled himself together enough to drive them to the theater, he looks at himself in the car visor mirror to make sure he’s decent enough to be seen in public, and his lips are stained red from her lipstick, he has red marks scattered near his collar, and his hair is a wreck, he looks wrecked

once they’re inside he reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet to pay for their popcorn, and his fingers brush against damp lace

he looks over at her all wide-eyed and she just hums questionably and curls herself into his side, gazing up at him with this sparkle in her eye that he just knows is going to get him in trouble someday

hopefully they’re not pushing their luck too far when she starts brushing her fingers against his bulge in the back row of the dark theater

-

i hope u liked anon! had to start with a reverse somno situation since u mentioned that one! <3

[angelstatistic]

would u write smth like reader works in the bau with spencer and they have a age gap relationship or something like that u can interpret it however you’d like

hii! yes of course i hope uou like it im sorry its a little bland

——————

Not once s.r x reader

|| After some words exchanged about your relationship indirectly, you take matters into your own hands.

⊹₊⟡⋆ spencer x reader, age gap, spencer is like mid 30s and reader is early 20s. some angst but mostly fluff, a little bit of insecurity from spencer

w.c 1.5k

warnings: none

~~~~~

The conference room was too cold.

That was the first thing you noticed when you walked in that morning, cupping both your hands around your coffee for warmth as Garcia dimmed the lights and the projector flickered on. The second thing you noticed was Spencer.

Well, Spencer noticing you.

It was quick. Barely even there. A glance from across the table, warm brown eyes finding yours for half a second before he looked back down at the file in front of him. Professional. Controlled.

Completely unfair considering he’d kissed you breathless in his apartment not more than 12 hours earlier.

You slid into your seat beside Emily, setting your coffee down carefully. Spencer sat across from you near Rossi, tie slightly crooked, curls messy like he’d run his hands through them one too many times.

You knew exactly why they looked like that.

The memory made warmth creep into your cheeks.

“Alright,” Hotch started, “three victims across two states. All couples. The unsub appears to specifically target relationships he deems… immoral.”

Morgan grimaced. “Which is apparently a very broad category because this guy’s internet history is basically just him being angry at everyone.”

“Interracial couples, remarriages, unmarried partners,” JJ listed from the file. “There’s a pattern of moral superiority.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Self-righteous killers are always the worst. They think they’re cleansing society.”

You watched Spencer quietly flip through the autopsy photos. His jaw was tight.

Hotch continued. “Victim number three stood out. Twenty-three-year-old woman dating a man fifteen years older than her.”

Something in Spencer’s posture changed almost imperceptibly.

Most people wouldn’t notice it.

You did. You noticed everything about him.

The way he went still when something bothered him. The way his fingers tapped against his coffee cup when he was anxious. The way he avoided eye contact when he was overthinking.

And right now?

He was doing all the above.

Rossi shook his head lightly. “That kind of age gap definitely fits the unsub’s worldview. A lot of people see relationships like that and immediately assume manipulation.”

Emily shrugged. “Depends on the relationship.”

“Sure,” Rossi said. “But statistically, large age gaps can create power imbalances.”

You saw Spencer’s hand stop moving entirely.

It hit harder because of who it came from.

Rossi was family to him.

Hell, Rossi had practically watched Spencer grow up.

And you knew Spencer worried about this. Not openly. He’d never once made you feel judged or ashamed or lesser for being younger than him, but sometimes late at night, after particularly difficult cases, he’d go quiet and ask things like

“Do you ever think people will treat us differently?”

Or

“Does it bother you that I’m older?”

Every single time, your answer stayed the same.

No.

Never.

Because Spencer wasn’t just older.

He was Spencer.

Gentle. Brilliant. Kind in a way that felt rare nowadays.

You’d never once felt small with him.

But apparently the rest of the world had opinions.

Morgan leaned back in his chair. “I mean, if both people are adults and healthy, who cares?”

“People care,” Rossi replied simply.

The room went quiet for a second.

And then,

“Well, maybe they shouldn’t.”

Everyone looked at you.

You kept your voice calm as you took a sip of your coffee. “People act like age gaps automatically mean something sinister when most of the time it’s just… two people loving each other.”

Spencer’s eyes lifted slowly to yours.

Rossi raised a brow. “You feel strongly about this?”

You shrugged. “I think it’s weird how people infantilize grown women the second they date someone older.”

Emily made a quiet little hum of agreement.

You continued before you could second-guess yourself.

“If someone’s in their twenties, has a career, lives independently, makes their own decisions… why does everybody suddenly act like they’re incapable of choosing who they love?”

The room stayed silent.

Not tense.

Just listening.

You could practically feel Spencer staring at you now.

Rossi crossed his arms. “Sometimes experience creates imbalance.”

“Sure,” you said easily. “Sometimes. But that can happen in any relationship. One person can have more money, more confidence, more emotional experience. That doesn’t automatically make it unhealthy.”

Morgan nodded slowly. “She’s got a point.”

“And honestly,” you added, “I think people judge age gaps harsher when the woman’s younger because there’s this assumption she must be naive or manipulated.”

JJ tilted her head. “You’ve definitely thought about this before.”

If only she knew.

You smiled faintly. “I just think people should stop assuming the worst about relationships they know nothing about.”

Spencer looked away first.

That alone told you how much this conversation was affecting him.

Hotch cleared his throat lightly. “Regardless of personal opinions, for this unsub the relationship represented moral corruption. That’s our focus.”

The meeting moved on.

Profiles. Timelines. Geographic patterns.

But every so often you caught Spencer glancing at you.

—————

By the time the sun set and the moom was shining, the bullpen had mostly emptied out. Apart from you, Spencer and Hotch, who was in his office. Garcia was also back in her lair.

You were going through files from your desk when a voice behind you said softly

“Hey.”

You turned.

Spencer stood there with his arms at his side, exhaustion lingering beneath his eyes. But there was something else there too.

Something warmer.

You smiled immediately. “Hi.”

He glanced around the mostly empty floor before stepping closer to your desk. “Can we talk?”

“Of course.”

He hesitated.

Which meant this mattered.

You followed him into one of the empty conference rooms, shutting the door quietly behind you.

The second you turned around, Spencer spoke.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Your brows pulled together. “Do what?”

“At the roundtable.” His voice was quieter now. “Defend… that.”

You leaned against the table. “I wasn’t defending a hypothetical.”

His expression flickered.

“I know.”

Silence settled between you.

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dropping briefly to the floor. “I just- sometimes I worry people see you and think…” He exhaled softly. “I don’t know. That I took advantage of you somehow.”

Your chest ached instantly.

You stepped closer and lessened the space between the two of you before he could retreat further into his own head.

“Spencer.”

He looked up.

“You know what I see when I look at you?”

A faint crease appeared between his brows.

“I see the man who sacrifices his own sleep some nights just to read to me when I'm having a hard time.” You stepped even closer. “I see the guy who falls asleep reading papers at three in the morning because he cares too much about saving people.” Another step. “I see someone who asks for my opinion before making decisions because he respects me.”

His throat bobbed.

“Youve never made me feel small,” you said softly. “Not once.”

Spencer looked wrecked by the sincerity of it.

“You’re not controlling,” you continued. “You’re not manipulative. If anything, you overthink so much about doing the right thing that it’s actually kind of ridiculous.”

A startled laugh escaped him at that.

“There he is,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly.

His eyes crinkled slightly.

“You wanna know the truth?” you asked.

He nodded once.

“I forget we even have an age gap most of the time.”

That earned a full laugh, quiet and breathless.

“You forget?” he repeated.

“Yes, because you’re secretly eighty years old emotionally.”

“Okay, that’s-”

“You own three cardigans that are basically identical to ones my grandpa wore.”

“They’re different colors.”

“Barely.”

He shook his head, smiling now despite himself.

And there it was.

The tension melting from his shoulders.

You reached up, smoothing his crooked tie absentmindedly. “Rossi’s comments bothering you doesn’t make you guilty of anything, you know.”

Spencer’s gaze softened. “I know.”

“But?”

“But I love you.” His voice turned almost painfully honest. “And sometimes that makes me scared.”

Your breath caught.

Not because he hadn’t said it before. He had. Many times. But Spencer said I love you like it physically hurt to keep it inside.

Carefully. Attentively. Like handing someone his heart with both hands.

You cupped his face gently. “You don’t have to be scared with me.”

His eyes fluttered shut briefly at the touch.

Then he leaned forward just enough for his forehead to rest against yours.

“You were very intimidating today, by the way,” he murmured.

You grinned. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Rossi looked terrified.”

“He was not terrified.”

“He blinked twice.”

“That means fear?”

“With Rossi? Absolutely.”

You laughed quietly, and Spencer finally smiled fully against your skin.

For a moment, the world outside the room disappeared.

Just Spencer’s hands slipping carefully around your waist like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to hold you.

“You know,” he said softly, “for someone in her early twenties, you’re very wise.”

You gasped dramatically. “Oh my god. Was that an age joke?”

A rare mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. “Maybe.”

“You’re hilarious. Truly. A comedic genius.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“By who?”

“You. Last night.”

Your face burned instantly.

Spencer’s smile turned smug.

“Shut upp-“ you murmured against his lips leaning in.

[angelstatistic]

spencer reid x super mega sweetheart reader who wouldn’t hurt a fly. but she meets one of spencer’s highschool bully’s (they can be on a case or just like out on a date, you pick!) and she just goes absolutely off on the bully that spencer has to literally hold her back

I love sweetheart reader x Spencer so much.

—————

Sweet girls bite

|| sweetheart reader protecting Spencer against one of his high school bullies.

༝༚༝༚

w.c 2k

Warnings: none

~~~~~

The first time Spencer Reid met you, he thought you were too soft for the BAU. Not weak. Never weak.

You smiled at everyone. You remembered Garcia’s complicated coffee order after hearing it once. You brought JJ’s boys little dinosaur stickers from airport gift shops. You cried over injured children in case files and apologized to bugs before scooping them into cups and releasing them outside Quantico.

Morgan once watched you spend 25 minutes trying to save a bunny trapped in a fence on a case.

And Spencer

Spencer had fallen in love with you so quietly he almost didn’t notice it himself.

It was in the small things.

The way you’d sit beside him during flights because you knew he hated turbulence more than he admitted. The way you listened when he rambled. Really listened. Not politely or patiently. Enthusiastically. Like every fact coming out of his mouth mattered.

You touched him carefully, too.

Never suddenly. Never in ways that made him tense. A hand on his sleeve. Fingers brushing his wrist. Your shoulder against his during late nights in the bullpen.

The team called you their sunshine.

Spencer privately thought that was inaccurate.

Sunshine could burn people.

You never did.

Until Cincinnati.

The case itself was awful enough already- a series of murders tied to a private high school where students were being targeted one by one. The unsub had a fixation on “punishing cruelty,” according to the profile.

Which was how they ended up interviewing the teachers of the victims.

Including Todd Mercer.

The moment the man walked into the police station conference room, Spencer went still beside you. Not visibly, maybe. Nobody else noticed.

But you did.

You always did.

His shoulders locked.

His breathing changed.

And when Todd laid his eyes on him, he grinned. Actually grinned.

Spencer looked down at the table like he was 15 again instead of a twenty something FBI agent with three PhDs.

Todd Mercer was broad-shouldered and expensive-looking in the sleazy way certain men were. Perfect teeth. Overwhelming cologne. The kind of guy who peaked at 17 and built an entire personality around it.

“Well, what do we have here,” Todd said, staring at Spencer. “Reid?”

Spencer adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Mercer.”

Todd barked out a laugh. “Still talking like a robot, huh?”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed instantly.

You looked between them carefully.

Todd leaned back in the chair officers had set up for him. “Damn. Haven’t seen you since high school. You look…” He paused dramatically. “Less pitiful.” Like it was a compliment.

Spencer smiled tightly.

The kind of smile that wasn’t a smile at all.

“We’re here to discuss the case.”

“Right, right.” Todd snorted. “You were always such a freakin’ narc.”

Heat prickled up your neck.

You glanced at Hotch, expecting him to intervene, but he was watching Spencer carefully- gauging whether Spencer wanted help or not.

Spencer kept his voice even. “Did you know the victims well?”

Todd shrugged. “Some of them.” Then he smirked again. “Funny though, it’s crazy seeing you act confident after spending four years terrified of eye contact.”

“Okay that's enough.” You cut him off “You’re here for a case, so please Mr Mercer, be focused”

Todd looked at you then.

His eyes lingered.

“Oh,” he said knowingly. “No way.”

You raised a brow.

He pointed between you and Spencer. “You two together?”

Spencer immediately said, “That’s irrelevant.”

Todd burst out laughing.

Actually laughing.

“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “Reid pulled a girl like that? Jesus Christ, miracles are real.”

Morgan physically shifted forward.

Emily muttered, “what a dick.”

But Todd wasn’t done.

He looked directly at you.

“You know this guy used to get shoved into lockers almost daily?”

Spencer went rigid beside you.

“Todd,” he warned quietly.

“No, seriously,” Todd continued. “Kid was weird as hell. Used to cry when people touched his books.” He laughed again. “Still does, don’t you Einstein?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

Spencer stared at the table.

Not speaking. Not even defending himself.

And something inside you cracked.

Because Spencer Reid- the kindest man you had ever known, the gentlest, brightest person in every room- was sitting there letting this man reduce him to a frightened teenager again.

Todd shook his head. “Can’t believe you bagged such a gorgeous girl. What’d you do, read her a dictionary?”

The room went silent.

Spencer inhaled softly beside you. Like he was preparing himself to endure this.

Endure.

Not fight back.

“Oh, shut the hell up.”

Everyone froze.

Including Spencer.

Todd blinked at you. “Excuse me?”

“No, actually, I’m serious,” you snapped. “Shut. Up.”

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up so fast they practically disappeared into his hairline.

Emily looked delighted.

Todd gave an incredulous laugh. “Whoa. Claws out.”

“You think tormenting a teenager makes you impressive?” you shot back. “You’re a grown man bragging about bullying someone in high school like it’s an achievement.”

Todd’s smile faltered slightly.

You stepped forward.

Spencer immediately grabbed your wrist gently.

“Hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay.”

Your voice shook with anger.

Not fear.

Pure fury.

“You made his life miserable for fun.”

Todd scoffed. “Oh my God, it was high school—”

“And?” you cut him off sharply. “Do you think that magically erases it?”

Spencer moved with you, trying to calm you. “Honey- ”

“No, Spencer, absolutely not.”

The entire team stared.

Because you didn’t get angry.

Ever.

Todd leaned back with a smug expression that made you want to throw the table at him.

“He survived, didn’t he?”

You lunged forward before you even realized you were moving.

“YOU- ”

Strong arms wrapped around your waist instantly. Spencer physically hauled you backward against his chest.

“Come on sweetheart-“ Spencer mumbled as he tried to calm you. You on the other hand were struggling against his grasp.

Not really trying to get free- just furious enough that your whole body vibrated.

“You think this is funny?” you snapped, struggling against Spencer’s grip as he held you against his chest. “You think treating people like garbage makes you important?”

Todd opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak.

“No, because let me tell you something.” Your voice shook now- not with fear, but fury so deep it hurt. “You don’t get to stand there and laugh about making someone’s life miserable like it was some stupid joke.”

Spencer’s arms slowly eased around you seeing you talk more calmly.

“Honey”

“You don’t get to act like it didn’t matter,” you continued, eyes locked on Todd’s. “Because maybe for you it was just high school. Maybe for you it was funny. But for him?” Your voice cracked slightly. “You made his life miserable just because you were an insecure little asshole.”

The room had gone completely silent.

Todd’s smug smile started slipping.

Good.

“You mocked him for being smart. For being quiet. For not fitting into whatever pathetic little box you thought people should fit into.” You took a sharp breath. “And now he spends every single day saving people who are terrified and grieving and broken, while you’re still acting like a 17 year old who thinks cruelty is a personality trait.”

Todd shifted uncomfortably. “Okay, wow, somebody’s dramatic- ”

“Dramatic?” you repeated incredulously. Your voice raising and stepping closer to him made Spencers arm back on your waist, pulling you backwards.

“You humiliated a kid for years and you’re calling me dramatic?”

Spencer looked genuinely alarmed now because your voice kept getting louder.

“You know what the worst part is?” you said. “He’s still polite to you. He still sat there and treated you with respect after everything you did to him, because that’s the kind of person he is.”

Todd looked away first.

“Coward” you muttered under your breath

“And you know what kind of person you are?” you whispered harshly. “The kind that only feels big when somebody else feels small.”

You lurched forward again before you could stop yourself.

Spencer physically hauled you backward this time, one arm locked around your waist.

“Honey,” he said weakly, somewhere between horrified and stunned, “please do not commit felony assault in front of the local police department.”

“He deserves it!”

“You are threatening a civilian.”

“He spent years taunting you!”

The words ripped out of you so fast your own eyes stung afterward.

Because that was the real issue.

Not the insults now.

The fact that Spencer had looked down at the table the second Todd walked in.

Like some part of him was still that lonely 16 year old boy expecting people to laugh at him.

Todd looked unsettled now. Actually unsettled.

Possibly because the sweetest person any of them had ever met looked genuinely ready to claw his eyes out for Spencer Reid

“You know what?” you snapped at Todd. “I hope every time you try to sleep at night you remember exactly the kind of person you were. A fucking scumbag.”

The room fell silent.

Todd looked away first.

Hotch finally stepped in smoothly. “I think this interview is over.”

Todd muttered something under his breath and stood quickly, escorted out by a uniformed officer.

The second the door shut behind him, the room exploded.

Morgan doubled over laughing.

JJ looked stunned. “I have never seen you yell before.”

“I didn’t know she could yell,” Rossi admitted.

You were still breathing hard, face burning with leftover anger while Spencer slowly loosened his grip around you.

Then realization hit.

Oh shit.

You had just nearly attacked someone in an interrogation room.

In front of your boss.

You turned toward Spencer immediately, horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

And somehow that made him look even more shocked.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have- I just- he was awful to you and I- ”

Before you could finish, Spencer kissed you. The entire room went dead silent again.

Spencer Reid was not usually a public affection kind of man. But he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you like he couldn’t help himself.

Like he’d been wanting to do it since the moment you stood up for him.

The rest of the team slowly left the room to Continue asking Todd the questions, leaving you and Spencer alone.

When he pulled back, his cheeks were pink.

“You were going to attack him for me,” he said softly.

You frowned immediately. “Of course I was.”

Like it was obvious.

Because to you, it was.

Spencer stared at you for a long second with this unbearably tender expression.

“You’re insane,” he whispered.

“He was being a dick, I wasn’t just gonna stand there and let him” you said, still upset about it.

You looked appropriately ashamed for approximately three seconds.

Then you muttered, “He deserved worse.”

Spencer made a startled choking noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Later, after the case wrapped and they finally made it back to the hotel, Spencer found you sitting cross-legged on the bed still stewing quietly.

The second he walked in, you said, “I hate him.”

Spencer shut the door behind him carefully.

“I gathered.”

“He hurt you.”

The softness in your voice now nearly undid him more than the yelling had.

Spencer sat beside you slowly.

“I’m okay.”

“But you shouldn’t have had to be.”

God.

You looked genuinely heartbroken over something that had happened to him years ago.

Spencer touched your hand carefully. “You know, statistically speaking, most people wouldn’t threaten bodily harm over high school bullying.”

You glared at him instantly. “Don’t use statistics right now.”

He smiled.

A real one this time.

“I’ve spent most of my life being the person people protect last,” he admitted quietly.

Your expression softened immediately.

“And then there’s you.”

You leaned into him without hesitation, arms wrapping carefully around his waist.

“Always,” you mumbled against his chest.

Spencer closed his eyes.

He thought about high school him.

Awkward. isolated. hurting.

If someone had told that boy one day a girl this kind would love him so fiercely she’d nearly throw hands in an interrogation room for his sake?

He never would’ve believed it.

Spencer pressed a kiss into your hair.

“You know,” he murmured, “for someone who ‘wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ you’re terrifying when motivated.”

You pulled back just enough to look offended.

“I still wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

A pause.

“Todd Mercer, however-”

Spencer laughed so hard he had to hide his face in your shoulder.

——————-

Taglist: @craftyglitterluvr @teenagepenguincollectorfan

[thedivinereverie]

Mr. & Mrs.

spencer reid x f!bau!wife!reader

rating: explicit. 18+, minors do not interact.

synopsis: you wake up with a new last name and bask in the morning after you said ‘i do’.

warnings: sweet lil fluffy fic, spencer is a simp for his wife (as he should be), spencer is a little cheeky in this one, smut (soft dom[?] spencer, fingering, unprotected piv, very brief nipple play, smut isn’t too detailed but it’s there), spencer and reader both work for the bau, penelope stays scheming (sorta) and we love her for that. reader is nondescript with no use of y/n.

word count: 2.1k

author’s note: this entire one shot is purely inspired by a tiktok i saw of someone filming their hotel room the morning after their wedding night, so here we are. the song ‘anyone’ by justin bieber also gave me a lil inspo for this :’)

hope you enjoy! feedback / comments / comment reblogs are much appreciated <3

It’s not the sunlight shining brilliantly through the soft curtains that wakes you. 

It’s not even the birds as they beautifully chirp their morning song. 

It is the warm naked body that’s pressed tightly against your own bare one, hand splayed on your stomach and the cool kiss of your husband’s wedding band against your hot skin that sends a shiver down your spine. 

Your husband. 

You grin like a fool in love (because really, who are you kidding? you so are).

You’d experienced the most perfect day of your life yesterday surrounded by everyone you love, and the most unforgettable night spent with your man. The smile he wore all night shined brighter than any sunny days you’ve ever seen, and you made yourself a promise to etch the image in your mind forever.  

You stretch slowly in his arms, taking in your surroundings. 

Two empty glasses of champagne on your bedside table, one with your lipstick print on it, sits next to your phone with a plethora of unread text messages from the girl’s group chat at the BAU. 

Your eyes catch on to your white heels and wedding dress strewn across the floor haphazardly, with his dress shoes and tux to match. 

Your matching lacy set that Penelope insisted you get for your wedding night isn’t too far from your dress. 

The way Spencer’s hungry eyes scanned you when he slowly slid your dress off of your body, only to find you in the pretty lingerie, did something absolutely unspeakable to him. 

Something deeply carnal had unfurled low in your belly at the sight of him as he fell to his knees in front of you, hands traveling slowly and deliberately down your body, kissing you below your navel and the apex of your thighs. 

Marveling at you. 

Worshipping you. 

His hazel eyes glowed in the soft light that emanated from the lamp in the corner of the hotel room, so expressive and full of love. 

You still feel the press and drag of his lips on your skin. His tongue everywhere that made your back arch and toes curl in pure bliss. His sweet whispered words as he made love to you for the first time as his wife. 

How he got rougher toward the third round as you kept begging for him to not stop. 

A kiss to your shoulder brings you back to reality. 

Spencer stirs, lips trailing from your shoulder to your collarbone. You softly laugh as you turn and run your fingers through his curls, revealing his handsome sleepy face. 

“Good morning, my angel,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep. 

“Good morning my handsome husband.” 

He grins widely at that, burying his face into your neck as he pulls you closer into him. 

“My wife,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your skin once again. “I can’t believe you’re all mine.” 

He lifts his head again, moving down to kiss your forehead. 

“Well believe it, Mr. Reid. You’ve got me for eternity,” your voice goes soft around the edges, and you know you’re looking at him with pure adoration. 

“I love the sound of that.” 

His hand slides down your bare body, and goosebumps raise on your skin at his touch. 

He sports a shit-eating grin because he knows just how much his touch alone affects you. 

“What was on your mind a few minutes ago? Your breathing increased quite rapidly.” 

You glare at him with fake unamusement. Ever the profiler. 

“Are you profiling your wife now?” You tease, bringing your face closer to his. 

He hums, hand sliding lower—close to where you want him. 

“It’s in our nature at this point,” he defends. 

“What do you think I was thinking about?” 

“I have a few ideas,” he quips, and you raise an eyebrow. 

You falter for a second as his fingers brush your mound, and you shiver. 

“Well you are a genius.” 

He huffs a laugh and leans in to kiss you softly as his fingers brush over your slick folds. Your legs fall open for him, and he grins against your lips before he slides his middle finger through your slit, bringing it back up to circle your sensitive clit. 

You gasp against his lips, but his mouth chases yours and kisses you deeply. Urgently. Your hands curl into his hair, tugging gently as your hips start to writhe with need. 

“I think,” he parts his lips from yours, voice sounding wrecked, “that you were having flashbacks about last night.” 

“Maybe I was.” 

“I was too.” 

“Spence,” you gasp as he slowly adds one finger into you, shortly followed by another. 

“My beautiful wife,” he whispers, switching positions so he’s now on top of you. 

Your gaze meets his, eyebrows threaded together, jaw slack at the feeling of his fingers working in and out of you expertly. 

Your fingertips trace down his back, one hand trailing around his front until you brush the wiry hairs above his stiff length. 

“I need you,” you breathe. And it might be a tad bit selfish considering all of the work he put in last night, but he doesn’t see it that way. 

He wants to please his wife over and over and over again at every opportunity he can possibly get. 

So that’s what he does. 

“Need me to what, angel?” He smirks, his fingers slowly sliding out of you as his other hand covers yours around the base of his cock.

He slowly moves your hand up his silky flesh. His eyes fall closed and he hisses at the sensation, shakily exhaling before opening his eyes back up to look at you. 

You’re both a trembling, wanting mess at this point, that same carnal desire wrapping herself around you both as she sinks her claws into your flesh. 

Your heart is pounding against your ribcage, and you almost want to laugh at how ridiculous it is that you still get like this with him. A trembling, needy mess with a hint of nervousness and enough yearning to last a lifetime.  

And you also hope that very specific feeling never goes away. 

With that feeling also sparks a hint of boldness, and you do with that what you can muster. 

“I need you to fuck your wife into this mattress, Dr. Reid.”

His eyes darken as soon as the word “Doctor” slips past your lips. Your bold choice of words hit home for him too, but something about you calling him by his title sends him soaring over the edge every single time. 

He groans at that, head hanging between his shoulder blades as he guides himself toward you, pushing into you slowly at first. He slides his hands up your arms, pinning your wrists above your head. 

He’s got that look of control and determination in his eyes. It makes the rumbling flame low in your belly spread into a full-fledged forest fire. 

You gasp as he reaches the hilt, and he’s hot and heavy in you. You’re breathless, and Spencer gives you a moment to collect yourself. 

It’s not long before the sweet words from last night that still hung in the atmosphere quickly dissipate, swapped out with far more intense vows of pleasure. 

It’s a side of Spencer you only ever got to see in the bedroom, but you love that it’s reserved for you and only you all the same. 

With his words, he picks up the pace of his hips significantly, practically pistoning in and out of you. 

A string of curses and whines flies past your lips, head tossed back against the pillows. He releases your wrists and your hands immediately fly to slide down his back, nails unintentionally scratching his skin. You wrap your legs around his waist, and it isn’t long before you completely succumb to the feeling of him once more. 

“Spencer—oh god oh god oh god,” you cry. He moves his hands to hold your hips down, fingers digging into your flesh. He leans down to kiss you, love and desperation tightly packed into the moment. It’s almost like a gut punch with the realization of how much love this man truly pours into you. 

His lips separate from yours, moving close to your ear as he rasps his next words. 

“You have me completely at your mercy, my beautiful wife. Especially when you say my name like that.” 

“I love you Spencer,” you say, looking into his eyes as he thrusts into you relentlessly. He sits up for a beat, bringing your ankles over his shoulders. The new angle nearly has you seeing stars, and you’re pretty sure the whole floor of this hotel knows exactly what you two are doing… for the fourth time in the last ten hours. 

He pauses for a second. You look at him with confusion before he kisses you again, and you completely melt into the mattress beneath you. 

“I love you too, angel. So fucking much.” 

He thrusts into you a few more times, reaching down to rub your clit to send you over the edge. 

That’s it, my pretty girl. So good. So fucking good. Look at you, my sweet angel.

It’s then that you completely unravel for him, his words having you at his mercy. Your breathless pleas encourage him to come too, and he follows suit not long after. 

You’re panting as his thrusts eventually slow and he slowly pulls out of you. You hiss at the loss of contact, trying to catch your breath. He pulls you into his side, kissing the crown of your head as he traces light patterns on your skin. He brings your left hand up to his line of sight, admiring the pair of rings that adorn your ring finger. He leans up to press his lips against your rings, and you can’t help the absolute love-struck girlish smile that spreads across your lips. 

You bask in the peaceful bliss of your little “day-after-I-do” bubble, enjoying the time you have with him away from the chaos of your daily lives. 

Until it’s shortly interrupted with the shrill ringtone from your phone that makes you both jump. 

You groan and pick it up, seeing Penelope’s bright smile in her contact picture flash across the screen. 

“Hey Pen,” you answer, shifting in Spencer’s arms. 

“Hiya gorgeous, are you both still wanting to have breakfast with us all? JJ, Emily and I have been trying to text you but I figured I’d just call.” 

“Oh, sorry about that. I was, uh, a little busy.” 

Spencer hums in amusement at your words, lips peppering your shoulder with kisses. 

Penelope chuckles on the other end of the line. 

“Guess that little white number I told you to get was worth it after all, huh?” 

Your body heats at her words. “You have no idea.” 

She laughs at that, and Spencer’s hand starts to trace your body again. He leans his head down to kiss your chest, playfully nipping at one of your breasts. You try to swat him away, but his mouth is already closing around a nipple. You inhale sharply and push him off gently. You glare at him, but he just smiles foolishly before innocently shrugging at you. 

“Give us like thirty minutes to freshen up, and we’ll meet you all down for breakfast.” 

“Sounds good, sweets. I’ll see you lovebirds soon!” 

She hangs up before you can say anything else, and you groan as you toss your phone back on the nightstand. 

“You know you have to behave yourself in front of everyone, right? I know they’re our friends, but we also work with them, Spencer,” you half-laugh-half-chastise him. 

“You’re so hard to resist though, Mrs. Reid.” 

You fawn over your new last name. 

“At least try. For me.” 

He kisses your forehead. “Anything for you.”

He sits up and stretches, and you gasp in horror as your eyes land on the red scratch marks that travel all the way down his back. 

“What?” he asks, turning his head to look at you. 

“I’m so sorry, Spence. Your back,” you whisper, trailing your fingertips over the red marks. 

He tosses you a smirk. “Just means I did something right.” 

You roll your eyes, tossing the sheets away from you before playfully throwing them his way. He heartily laughs at that, catching the sheets before flopping back down on the bed next to you, scooping you up into his arms. 

You both wish at this moment that you could just stay in bed all day and order room service. You know you’ll have to face the impending doom—better known as the relentless teasing you know your friends have fired up for the both of you—sooner rather than later. 

Even though your little bubble with just you and him being wrapped up in one another was short-lived and you have to face reality once again, you have comfort in knowing that you’re going out into the world as Spencer Reid’s wife. 

As a sickeningly, maddingly, ardently in love married couple. 

As Mr. and Mrs. Reid. 

dividers by saradika-graphics

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

off the record

part one: on the clock

pairing: spencer reid x stripper!reader

word count: 7.8k

summary: a wrong assumption lands you in a holding cell, and you come face to face with the one man you didn't read right

includes: smut (MDNI), technically has a plot but not really, no use of y/n, dom!spencer, reader giving brat/switch energy (me again?), power imbalance, reader was arrested (but like it wasn't her fault tho), unresolved feelings, mutual frustration, teasing leads to escalation, car sex, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink hehehe, power and control dynamics, professional lines getting absolutely obliterated, morally gray behavior, not enemies or lovers but a third (worse) thing, technically he's at work but once again... priorities

The room is uncomfortable.

The metal of the bench bites through the thin layer of your stockings. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, one bulb flickering every so often. No velvet. No shadows. No places to hide.

You sit with your arms crossed, spine pressed back against the wall like you’re daring it to push first.

You're freezing.

You're still in your “uniform”—lace, straps, barely-there fabric that was never meant for fluorescent lighting or cold metal benches. The stockings are slightly torn at the knee, a ladder running just enough to catch your eye every time you shift. Your heels are gone, lost somewhere between the squad car and booking, leaving your feet flat against the floor.

Disgusting.

One of the deputies had muttered something about “a statement” before disappearing.

You haven’t been told anything since.

Typical.

Your jaw tightens as you replay it again—his hand, the way it grabbed, entitled and careless. The slap that followed, sharp enough to turn heads. The way his expression twisted after, ego bruised deeper than his cheek.

Assault, he’d said.

Like you were the problem.

You huff under your breath, shifting slightly on the bench, the movement making the windbreaker slide higher up your thighs. You tug it back down without thinking, irritation prickling under your skin like static.

“Comfortable?”

The voice cuts through the room cleanly.

You look up prepared to snap at another officer, then freeze when you see him.

For a second, your brain doesn’t quite catch up. It’s like seeing him out of context has knocked something loose. No low lighting. No quiet room. No heat curling between you.

Just Spencer.

Your lips part before you can stop yourself. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s the lighting, you think distantly. That’s what makes it feel wrong. He doesn’t belong under fluorescent buzz and chipped paint, doesn’t fit between scuffed floors and holding cells. The last time you saw him, everything had been gold and shadow and heat—something soft-edged and dangerous.

This is… sharp. Real.

And it’s been weeks.

Not a few days. Not a blur you could brush off as a one-night lapse in judgment.

Weeks.

Long enough for him to settle into memory instead of expectation. Long enough that you stopped glancing at the door during shifts. Long enough that “later” started to feel like a lie you told yourself.

And yet—

Here he is.

Your gaze drags over him, slower this time, taking him in properly. He's wearing a button-down, sleeves neatly cuffed, a sweater vest pulled over it like something out of a lecture hall, tie slightly loosened at the collar. Dress pants, leather shoes, windbreaker folded over his arm. He looks basically the same as he did that night at your club.

One corner of his mouth lifts—not amusement, not quite—but something close. “Nice to see you again, too.”

You let out a short breath through your nose, still staring at him like if you look long enough he might glitch out of existence.

“Don’t tell me this is your usual hangout,” you mutter, shifting on the bench. “What are you doing here—are you like… what, an office assistant or something?”

It’s meant to be dismissive. A little sharp. Something to take the edge off the way your pulse picked up the second you recognized him.

Spencer’s brow lifts slightly, like he’s filing the comment away for later.

“Office assistant,” he repeats, almost tasting the words. Then, dry, “That’s new.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “You’ve got the whole academic thing going on,” you add, gesturing vaguely at his outfit. “Thought maybe you alphabetize reports or something.”

“I don’t,” he says simply. “I was called in.”

“Called in,” you echo slowly. “To…?”

"Your case was flagged."  

You just stare at him."I don't know what that means.”

Spencer shifts his arm slightly, a small, careful motion—like he’s not trying to draw attention, but refusing to hide it any longer.

The windbreaker slips down his forearm.

And there it is.

A badge. And a holstered weapon at his hip.

Your brain takes a second too long to process it.

Not because you don’t see it. Because you do. Very clearly.

Your gaze drops again, slower this time, like if you look at it from a different angle it’ll turn back into something normal. Something explainable. Something that fits the version of him you’ve been carrying around in your head for weeks.

It doesn’t.

He's an officer. You flirted with an officer. You were fingered by an officer.

“I… honestly thought you were, like, a doctor or something before,” you admit.

“I am, technically,” he says. “Doctor Spencer Reid. I’m part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. I was investigating your club the night we met.”

Silence snaps into place. It’s not loud. It’s worse than loud.

You let out a short laugh that doesn’t have any humor in it. “Oh? You mean the night you fing—?”

“I’m not here to discuss that,” he says evenly.

Your head tilts. Something in your chest tightens, hot and ugly.

“Right,” you say slowly. “Of course you’re not.”

You look away from him then, just for a second, because if you keep looking you might do something stupid like remember the way his hands felt instead of the badge you just saw.

The fluorescent light buzzes overhead like it’s laughing at you.

When you speak again, your voice is quieter. Worse somehow.

“So let me get this straight,” you say. “You walk into my workplace undercover, you let me flirt with you, you let me think you’re just some random guy, you don’t tell me you’re FBI, and then I get hauled in here because some cop groped me. And my case was flagged because, what, I work at the club you're investigating?”

“Yes, that exactly,” he says. “I have some questions to ask you. I'm here to take you to Quantico.”

“Quantico,” you repeat flatly.

Spencer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften it. Just holds your gaze like he’s waiting for you to catch up to a reality he’s already standing in.

You exhale through your nose, sharp. Annoyed. A little stunned. A lot of both.

You push yourself off the bench.

The metal complains under your shift in weight, cold peeling away from your thighs as you stand. The windbreaker slides again, too big, too useless, and you tug it down out of pure spite more than modesty.

“Alright,” you say, like you’re agreeing to a schedule change instead of your entire life tilting sideways. “Let’s go then.”

Spencer’s gaze drops as you step forward. His expression shifts. “Where are your shoes?”

You glance down at your own feet like you’ve forgotten they belong to you at all. Bare against the cold floor, toes curling slightly as if that might somehow fix the situation.

For a second, you just stare. Then you shrug.

“I don’t know.”

It comes out simple. Almost bored. Like you’re talking about a missing pen instead of your entire dignity.

Spencer doesn’t respond immediately.

That’s worse.

He looks past the bars, briefly, toward the hallway where the deputies had brought you in. His jaw tightens by a fraction, so small you almost miss it.

Then his attention comes back to you.

Still calm. Still composed. But sharper now.

“Did they remove them when you were booked?”

You lean your weight onto one hip, arms folding again like you can physically hold yourself together through sheer irritation.

“I guess?” you say. “Everything happened kind of fast.”

A beat.

Another.

His eyes flick down again, slower this time, taking inventory without lingering where it doesn’t belong. Stockings. Torn knee. Bare feet on institutional tile.

Then back to your face.

“I brought this for you,” he says, holding out the windbreaker tucked over his arm.

You glance down at it like it might’ve grown teeth since you last looked at it. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“I know.”

That, somehow, makes you bristle more.

You shift your weight, arms still folded tight across your chest like you can physically out-stubborn the situation. “I don’t want it.”

Spencer doesn’t react right away. He just looks at you.

Not the kind of look that slides over skin or lingers in the wrong places. Something steadier. He’s not evaluating your body, your outfit, your attitude.

He’s waiting you out. Like he has time.

The silence stretches.

Fluorescent light hums. Somewhere down the hallway, a radio crackles and dies again.

You tilt your chin slightly, daring him to break first.

He doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Your jaw tightens. “Are you always this annoying when you’re working?”

“I’m not being annoying,” he says calmly. “I’m being patient.”

“Same thing.”

A faint flicker crosses his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the idea of one, carefully restrained.

Then he lifts the windbreaker slightly.

“I brought it because it’s cold,” he says. “And you’re clearly underdressed.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Spencer doesn’t even blink at your tone.

It’s almost worse that he doesn’t. Like you’re the only one in the room reacting to anything at all.

His grip tightens slightly on the windbreaker, just enough to crease the fabric.

“It means,” he says evenly, “stop being difficult and put on the jacket so I can get you out of this damn holding cell and out of being arrested for an act of self-defense.”

The words land clean. Too clean.

Like he’s already said them in his head a dozen times before ever walking in here.

You stare at him. Then at the jacket. Then back at him again, incredulous.

“Self-defense,” you repeat slowly, like the concept itself is insulting. “So you do know what happened.”

“I do,” he says.

“And I’m still in here.”

“You don't have to be.”

Your jaw tightens. You hate that your body is cold enough to make this even remotely persuasive. You hate more that he noticed before you even said anything.

With a sharp, irritated exhale, you snatch it from him.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Happy?”

“I will be when you’re warm,” he replies.

That earns him a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass.

You turn your back to him just enough to shrug into it, the oversized fabric swallowing your arms first, then your shoulders. It smells like him in a way that’s annoyingly subtle—like sage and old books, something that makes your brain misfire for half a second before you can stop it.

You refuse to acknowledge that.

Absolutely refuse.

You adjust it roughly, yanking it the rest of the way on like it’s guilty of something. It hangs long, brushing mid-thigh, covering more than you expected and somehow still not enough.

Spencer watches the whole thing without comment.

When you finish, you cross your arms immediately over your chest.

“I’m not zipping it,” you say.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

You narrow your eyes. “Good.”

The hallway is worse than the cell. Too bright, too open, too aware. Everything echoes here—your heels would’ve clicked if you had them, but now it’s just the soft, slightly uneven sound of your bare feet against the floor.

You reach the front desk. The officer there straightens slightly when he sees Spencer, posture shifting into something more attentive.

“Doctor Reid,” he says.

“Is she cleared for release into federal custody?” Spencer asks.

The words are calm. Professional.

A pause. A glance at you. Then back to him. “Yeah. She’s yours.”

Yours.

You hate the way that lands in your chest, like it shouldn’t fit there but does anyway.

Spencer doesn’t react to it. Just nods once. “And her personal effects?”

The officer doesn’t answer right away—just blinks, like he’s been pulled out of autopilot.

“Oh—right. Yeah. I’ll grab it.”

He disappears down the hall with a kind of hurried eagerness that wasn’t there a second ago, like Spencer’s presence alone rewrote the tempo of the room.

When he comes back a moment later, he's carrying a clear evidence bag, the plastic crinkling softly with each step. “Here we go,” he says, holding it out toward Spencer first, then adjusting mid-motion and offering it to you instead.

Inside: your shoes, slightly scuffed. A thick wad of cash, folded tight with a rubber band. Your lipstick, cap a little loose like you’d shoved it in a hurry.

You take it without a word. The plastic is cold in your hands.

“Sign here,” the officer adds, sliding a clipboard across the counter.

You shift the bag to one hand, scribbling your name with the other. It’s messier than usual. You don’t care.

“Thanks,” you mutter, already stepping back.

You don’t bother stepping aside.

You just hook your fingers into the straps of your heels, lift your foot slightly off the ground, and slide them on—one, then the other. Smooth. Balanced. Like you’ve done it a thousand times without thinking.

Because you have.

The leather settles against your skin like something familiar, something that belongs to you in a way none of this does. The extra height shifts your posture instantly—shoulders back, chin up, weight redistributing like a switch flipping back into place.

Armor, in its own way.

When your heel clicks softly against the floor again, you straighten fully.

Better.

You adjust the windbreaker once more, tugging it into place like you’re negotiating with it instead of wearing it, then glance up at him.

“Happy now?” you ask, tone dry.

Spencer’s gaze lingers for half a second—taking in the shift, the regained composure, the way you’ve rebuilt yourself piece by piece in under ten seconds.

Then he nods once. “That’s more practical.”

“Thrilling answer,” you mutter.

He doesn’t rise to it. Of course he doesn’t.

Instead, he gestures subtly toward the exit. “We should go.”

Outside, the air hits different. Cooler. Cleaner. Real in a way the station wasn’t.

It slips under the edges of the windbreaker, brushes your bare thighs, makes you more aware of your body than you’d like to be. The night is quieter here, stretched thin beneath a half-moon that hangs low and watchful above the parking lot.

Spencer walks beside you without touching you.

Not guiding. Not hovering. Just… there.

It’s strange. After everything, you almost expect his hand at your elbow, his voice telling you where to go next. But he doesn’t. He lets you walk at your own pace, heels clicking steadily against the pavement, each step grounding you back into something familiar.

Then you see it.

All black. Clean lines. Government-issued, but polished enough to feel intentional.

He steps ahead of you just slightly, reaching for the passenger door and pulling it open.

You pause, one brow lifting as you glance between him and the SUV.

“Fancy,” you say, the word dipped in sarcasm, like you’re testing how it sounds in your mouth.

Spencer doesn’t take the bait. He just stands there, one hand on the door, waiting.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, like maybe you can force a reaction out of him through sheer stubbornness.

Nothing.

Your lips press together, something like a huff slipping through your nose before you slide into the seat.

The leather is cold. Smooth. Too nice for the kind of night you just had. He shuts the door behind you with a quiet, solid click.

A moment later, the driver’s side opens. Closes. The engine turns over, low and steady, like it knows exactly what it’s doing.

Figures.

The ride is quiet.

You sit with your arms crossed, angled slightly toward the window, watching the world slip by in streaks of dim streetlights and empty roads. The half-moon follows, or maybe you’re following it—hard to tell.

Your reflection stares back at you faintly in the glass.

Windbreaker too big. Hair slightly out of place. Lipstick faded at the edges.

You look… off.

Not wrong. Just… not put together the way you like.

You hate that he saw you like that. You hate more that he didn’t say anything about it.

The silence stretches.

Five minutes. Maybe ten.

You lose count somewhere between one streetlight and the next.

Spencer’s voice finally cuts through the quiet, measured but softer than before.

“You seem upset.”

You don’t turn right away.

You let the words sit there for a second, like you’re deciding whether they even deserve a response. Then your eyes flick toward him, flat, unimpressed.

“I am,” you say. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Can I ask why you're taking me to Quantico?”

“You owe me.”

The words land cleanly. Like a fact. Like something already filed away in his head.

You blink once, then turn toward him slowly.

“Oh, I owe you now?” you repeat, voice raising in disbelief.“Do you think you did me some amazing favor?”

His brow lifts slightly, like he’s genuinely trying to understand where you’ve lost him.

“Uh—yes,” he says.

That gets a sharp laugh out of you. Not warm. Not amused. Something edged.

“Of course an FBI agent would think he did me a favor,” you say, leaning back into the seat. “By, what? Taking advantage of me while I was at work?”

Spencer’s hands tighten on the wheel.

“What? No.” The words come out too fast for his usual control, clipped by something sharper underneath. “I got you out of an assault on an officer charge.”

You tilt your head, watching him now like he’s suddenly more interesting than the road.

“Wow, thanks,” you say slowly. Then you glance at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you want in return? A blowjob?”

The SUV swerves half a fraction before Spencer corrects it immediately. His head snaps toward you.

“Could you stop being so dramatic?” he says, incredulous. “I want information.”

“Information.”

“Yes.”

You study him for a moment. His jaw is set, his attention never fully leaving the road—even when he’s speaking to you, like control is something he refuses to loosen even for a second.

“And if I don’t have any?” you ask.

Spencer’s gaze flicks to you briefly. Then back forward.

“Then after the interview, I’ll take you home,” he says, voice leveling out again, “Your home.”

Your lips twitch before you can stop them.

“Generous,” you murmur.

The silence in the SUV thickens after that, like the air itself has decided to stop pretending this is professional.

Outside, the road unspools in pale ribbons of streetlight. Inside, everything feels too contained. Too aware. The kind of quiet that starts listening back.

You shift slightly in the seat, one leg crossing over the other with slow intention, the hem of the windbreaker sliding higher up your thigh again. You don’t fix it this time.

His eyes stay forward, hands steady on the wheel, but there’s a subtle tightening in his grip. A small betrayal of composure.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says after a beat.

You hum lightly. “Doing what?”

“That.”

You glance at him, feigning innocence. “I’m sitting?”

His jaw ticks once, barely there. “Adjusting your posture.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “And the jacket.”

A soft smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “Maybe I’m just cold.”

“You’re not cold.”

That lands sharper than it should.

“And you're not telling me the full truth.”

He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s complicated.”

You laugh under your breath. “That’s FBI for ‘I don’t want to explain it.’”

Spencer glances at you, quick and sharp this time. “It means there’s an ongoing investigation, and you’re connected to it whether you like it or not.”

“Charming,” you say. “So you show up, you take me out of a holding cell, you put me in your car, and suddenly I’m what… evidence?”

“You’re not evidence,” he says immediately.

The speed of it catches you slightly off guard.

You watch him for a second longer. “Then what am I?”

“A lead.”

You lean back into the seat, letting that settle.

“A lead,” you repeat slowly. “That sounds less flattering than I think you meant it to.”

“It’s not about flattery.”

“No,” you agree softly. “It never is with you, is it?”

That earns you a glance. Longer this time. A little less controlled.

“You’re upset,” he says again, like he’s circling the same conclusion from a different angle.

You sigh, tipping your head back against the seat. “Observant again. Give the man a medal.”

“Is it because I didn’t come back?”

You blink once.

Then again.

Your first instinct is to laugh it off. To turn it into something sharp, something light, something that doesn’t stick to your ribs on impact.

“Not everything is about you,” you snap.

The words land sharp, like you meant them to cut and not just deflect. The inside of the SUV feels smaller immediately, air tightening in a way that has nothing to do with physics and everything to do with him suddenly going very still beside you.

Spencer doesn’t answer. No correction. No rebuttal. No gentle unpacking of your tone.

Just silence. Spreading over the next minute.

Until, finally, you give up.

A small, irritated exhale slips out of you as you lean back harder into the seat, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended you.

“Fine,” you snap, the word sharper than you intend. “Yes.”

Spencer glances at you—too long, just a fraction past what’s safe—and then forces his attention back to the road. The car stays steady anyway.

“What can I do,” he asks quietly, “to make up for it?”

You stare at him for a moment.

At the way his hands are still fixed at ten and two, knuckles just a shade too tight against the wheel. At the way his jaw has that quiet tension in it again, like he’s holding himself in place piece by piece. At the way he asked that—what can I do—like he actually meant it.

Like he doesn’t already regret it.

So, naturally, you go for the worst possible answer.

Your lips curve, slow and deliberate, something sharp-edged and a little reckless. “Let me give you that blowjob.”

Spencer doesn’t even blink.

“I’m getting the impression,” he says, eyes fixed on the road ahead, “that you’re used to getting what you want by saying things like that.”

The response lands softer than a rejection—and somehow cuts deeper for it.

Your smile falters.

Just for a second.

You recover quickly, of course. You always do. Your chin tilts, your expression sliding back into something sharper, more practiced.

“Is that a no?” you ask innocently, batting your lashes.

Spencer doesn’t answer.

Not a word. Not even a glance.

It’s almost impressive, the way he just… absorbs it. Like you tossed something sharp at him and he decided it wasn’t worth catching.

Your smile lingers anyway, a little tighter now, a little more deliberate.

Fine.

You shift in your seat, slow, testing. Then you lean toward him.

Not all the way. Just enough that your shoulder angles in his direction, your body turning slightly, like curiosity instead of intent.

Nothing.

His eyes stay on the road. Hands steady. Posture unchanged.

If anything, he looks more focused.

Your tongue presses briefly against the inside of your cheek.

Alright.

You move closer.

The seat creaks faintly under the shift, your thigh brushing the center console this time, your space bleeding into his. The windbreaker slips again, fabric dragging higher, exposing more skin than it covers. The seatbelt tugs against your shoulder, resisting the movement like it knows better. Your breath is closer now, your presence impossible to ignore.

And still—

Nothing.

Something in your chest tightens. Annoyance. Challenge. Something sharper hiding underneath both.

So you push.

Slowly, deliberately, you lift your hand. You don’t rush it. Don’t make it sudden. You let it happen in stages. 

Your palm settles against his thigh. Warm through the fabric of his slacks. Solid. Real.

His leg goes rigid under your hand, the muscle locking like a reflex he refuses to follow through on.

You shift your wrist just slightly, letting your touch travel higher along his thigh. Not rushing. Not forcing. Just testing the line he’s drawn like you’re seeing how much ink will smudge before the page gives out.

Still no glance your way.

You tilt your head, watching him from the corner of your eye like this is all still a game you’re meant to win.

“Still focused on the road?” you murmur softly.

His jaw tightens.

“Yes,” he says, clipped. Controlled.

It makes something in you flare hotter. Your hand continues upward.

The car feels smaller with every inch. The space between you and him no longer behaves like space at all. It behaves like pressure.

Your fingertips brush him through the fabric again, firmer this time, and that’s when everything changes.

Spencer inhales sharply through his teeth.

A clean break in his composure.

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening in an instant. The car stays steady, but only because he forces it to.

“You’re going to get us killed,” he says, voice lower now, rougher at the edges.

“Seems dramatic,” you tease. “Do you want me to stop?”

Spencer goes very still. His eyes stay on the road. Hands locked at ten and two. Jaw set like he’s holding something back by force alone.

Then, quieter than before, he says, “No.”

The smile on your face is immediate.

You don't wait for permission or a second warning; your hands move with practiced efficiency, undoing his belt with a metallic click that sounds deafening in the quiet cabin. You tug his fly down and reach in to pull him free without a hint of hesitation.

You waste no time on theatrics or teasing. You unbuckle your seatbelt, lean over the center console, and take him into your mouth in one smooth, deliberate motion. The heat of him against your tongue is immediate and overwhelming, and you hear the air leave his lungs in a harsh, stuttering gasp.

"Fuck—"

The curse is barely out before the SUV lurches to the right.

The vehicle grinds to a halt on the shoulder of the road, throwing you forward slightly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you moan around him, the vibration drawing a ragged sound from deep in his chest that is half-groan, half-desperate warning.

His hand is in your hair immediately, fingers tangling into the strands.

You don’t let up. If anything, the sudden stop and his reaction just spur you on.

You flatten your tongue against the underside of him, dragging it up slowly, deliberately, relishing the weight of him on your tongue before taking him deep again.

His hips jerk involuntarily, followed by a ragged groan.  It’s a raw, unfiltered noise—completely different from the composed, clinical agent persona he’s been projecting.

You hum around him again, a low, satisfied sound, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair to the point of pain.

He’s trying to hold back, trying to keep some modicum of control, but the way his breathing has turned into shallow, desperate hitches tells you he’s already losing the battle.

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue over the head, teasing the sensitive slit before sinking down again.

The response is immediate—his head falls back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as a string of curses escapes his lips, quiet and harsh in the confined space. 

It’s intoxicating, him coming undone like this, stripped of his composure and reduced to nothing but sensation.

You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, and listen to the way his breath catches, the wet heat of your mouth drowning out everything else.

You can feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his entire body is drawn tight like a bowstring. You double your efforts, bobbing your head faster, letting your teeth graze him just enough to elicit a sharp hiss. 

The sounds he's making now are unrestrained—broken moans and harsh exhales that he can't seem to swallow, and you know you've won.

The rush of power is intoxicating—a heady, electric surge that makes your blood hum. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, ready to push him right over that edge, ready to finally crack him wide open.

But then his hand in your hair changes.

It stops cradling the back of your head and tightens—sharp, sudden, insistent. The sting radiates across your scalp, enough to make your eyes water, just enough to make you freeze.

"Stop," he breathes out, the word ragged but absolute.

He doesn't give you a chance to argue or tease, just applies firm, upward pressure with his fist tangled in your hair. The message is clear, stripping away the power play in an instant and replacing it with an undeniable command.

You pull back, the suction breaking with a loud, wet pop that seems obscenely loud in the sudden, heavy stillness of the car.

You sit up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your breathing uneven. You look at him, expecting to see bliss or surrender, but what you find is even better.

He’s wrecked—face flushed, chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy.

"Get in the back," he says, his voice rough, stripping away the last veneer of the composed FBI agent.

You blink, stunned for half a second by the sheer authority in his tone. It’s not a request. It’s a command.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you scramble to obey, clambering over the center console with clumsy haste. 

You barely have time to find your balance before Spencer is there, crowding into the space after you with a frantic lack of grace that makes your breath catch.

He doesn't give you a moment to recover or to regain the upper hand—his hands are on you immediately, gripping your hips to pull you flush against him while his knees hit the floor mats with a dull thud.

The windbreaker is shoved off your shoulders without ceremony, left to pool forgotten on the seat as he looms over you, his gaze dark and heavy enough to pin you in place without him even touching you.

He kisses you then, and it’s nothing like the careful, composed man you’ve been dealing with all night. It’s messy and desperate, teeth clicking together as he pours every ounce of his fractured control into the slide of his mouth against yours.

One hand tangles back into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slides down your body, skimming over your waist to grab the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up and over his hip.

The movement presses him flush against your core, the rough fabric of his slacks and your torn stockings dragging together in a way that makes you gasp into his mouth.

"God," he mutters against your lips, the word muffled and wrecked. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“No idea,” you gasp against his mouth, the words breathless and ragged. “Show me.”

He lets out a low, ragged groan that vibrates against your mouth, pure frustration finally snapping its leash. There’s no hesitation left in him, no careful testing of the waters.

His hand slides from your hip and dips straight under the lace covering you.

He doesn’t give you a second to adjust, to breathe, to regain any semblance of the upper hand you thought you held. His fingers slide up the inside of your thigh, blunt and demanding, tracing the wet heat there with a kind of intent focus that feels more like an interrogation than foreplay.

When he finally pushes two fingers inside you, it’s sudden and unrelenting, forcing a cry out of you that he swallows immediately with his mouth, kissing you deeply to stifle the sound.

The angle is awkward, the space too cramped, but he makes it work with a desperate kind of efficiency.

He curls his fingers, and you shudder violently, your head falling back against the headrest. 

The heel of his hand presses firmly against your clit, grinding down in a way that makes your vision go white at the edges. You gasp, your hips bucking up against him involuntarily, desperate for more friction, more anything to ease the ache he’s building inside you.

He slows his pace—just enough to be tormenting—dragging his fingers out almost to the knuckle before pumping them back in, slow and deliberate.

He pulls his mouth back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your lips, his voice a low, rough scrape that sounds more like a challenge than a question.

"Did you miss this?"

He punctuates the question with a deliberate curl of his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body jerk. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and heavy, drinking in every gasp and tremor like data he needs to collect.

"Is this what you’ve been thinking of all night?" he murmurs, his tone shifting, dropping into something lower, almost mocking. "While you were dancing on that stage? While you were in that holding cell? Is this the scenario you were hoping for when you decided to test my limits in the front seat?”

"Fuck you," you gasp, the words scraping out of your throat, jagged and breathless. You try to inject it with venom, try to make it sound like an insult, but it comes out wrecked—punctuated by a sharp cry as his fingers crook inside you again.

His mouth ticks up at the corner. It’s not a kind smile—it’s sharp, knowing, and entirely too pleased with himself. "So close to asking for what you want."

A high, broken noise tears out of your throat as his fingers curl again.

Your hips jerk up off the seat, chasing the friction, chasing the pressure, your body entirely betraying the sharp retort dying on your tongue. The heel of his hand grinds down against your clit in slow, deliberate circles that are just shy of enough, keeping you suspended on that agonizing edge where every nerve ending feels raw and exposed.

"God," you gasp, your head falling back against the headrest, your eyes squeezing shut as your hands fist desperately in the fabric of his shirt. "Please—"

"Please what?" he asks. He doesn't stop the movement of his wrist, but he slows it, dragging his fingers against that sensitive spot with maddening precision until your thighs are trembling around his hand. "You’re a smart girl. You know how to use your words. Ask me for what you want."

"Fuck me," you breathe out, the words ragged and scraped raw from your throat. It’s not a request; it’s a demand, a desperate, breathless command born of frustration and a need so deep it feels like it’s eating you alive from the inside out. "Hell, Spencer, just fuck me."

The composure he’d been clinging to shatters instantly. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't tease—he just moves with a sudden, frantic efficiency. He grips himself, lines up, and pushes into you in one hard, deep thrust that punches the air out of your lungs.

The stretch is sudden, a sharp, stinging burn that fades immediately into a deep, overwhelming ache. You cry out, your head falling back against the leather as your body struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion.

It’s too much, too fast, and for a second, you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but cling to his shoulders and ride out the shock of it.

Spencer stills.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and hot against your skin, but he doesn't move. He holds himself there, giving you a moment to catch up, his hand shifting from your hip to cradle the back of your head almost gently.

"Need you to breathe for me, sweetheart." His hand strokes through your hair, soothing where his grip had been demanding only moments before, the contrast making your head spin.

Slowly, almost agonizingly, he starts to move. He pulls back just an inch, then presses forward again, testing your give, watching your face with an intensity that feels like he’s cataloging your every reaction.

"That's it," he breathes, his voice dropping into a warm, approving tone that makes your chest tighten. "You take it so well. Look at you, being so good for me now." He rocks deeper, the slow drag forcing a broken whimper from your lips, and he rewards you with another kiss, this one lingering and impossibly tender. "So beautiful when you let go."

The deliberate pace is a torture of its own design. He keeps his thrusts measured and deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, but he never rushes, never lets the rhythm fracture into something messy. He’s holding all the strings, orchestrating every gasp and shudder with a terrifying, gentle precision.

When your nails dig into his shoulders, desperate for more friction, he just captures your mouth in a kiss that swallows the sound, murmuring, "I know, I know. You can handle it. You're doing so good, just a little more for me, okay?"

He shifts the angle of his hips slightly, grinding into you rather than thrusting, and the change in pressure makes your back arch off the seat. A breathless moan tears from your throat, and instead of silencing you, he catches your earlobe between his teeth, nipping gently before soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Perfect," he breathes, the word sinking into your skin like a brand. "Look at you—so beautiful. Not arguing, not fighting me. Just taking exactly what I give you."

The praise wraps around your senses, warm and dizzying, effectively blurring the sharp edges of your own defiance until there's nothing left but the friction of his body against yours and the overwhelming need to please him. Every time your internal muscles flutter around him, he lets out a low, hum of approval, rewarding your surrender with deeper, harder strokes that make it impossible to think.

The coil inside you tightens to a breaking point, a trembling inevitability that steals the air from your lungs. "Spencer, please," you gasp, the words tumbling out without permission, stripped of any demand and left as pure, desperate pleading. "I need—"

"I know," he cuts in softly, not unkindly, but with that same quiet authority that makes your bones feel like water. "I've got you. Let go for me." His rhythm never falters, driving into you with a deep, rolling precision that feels less like he's chasing his own end and more like he's guiding you inevitably toward yours. "Come on, sweetheart. Be good and let me feel you."

The command snaps the last thread of your control.

The pleasure crests and breaks, a white-hot wave that tears the air from your lungs. Your body seizes, back bowing off the seat, and in that moment of absolute unraveling, your legs clamp around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him impossibly deeper.

It’s the involuntary lock of your thighs around his hips that finally does something.

His rhythm—which has been so measured, so controlled, so agonizingly perfect—stutters. A sharp, ragged gasp tears from his throat, his composure fracturing instantly under the sudden, tight heat of your release. He tries to hold back, you can feel the way his muscles lock up, the strain radiating through his shoulders as he fights to keep from taking you too hard, but it's a losing battle with you.

"Spencer, please—don't hold back," you gasp, your voice wrecked and trembling, barely recognizable as your own. The desperation claws at your throat, making each plea jagged and raw. "Fuck me like you mean it, let go—please, I can take it, I promise, just let go for me."

The words seem to snap the last tether of his restraint. A low, guttural sound tears from his chest, something between a groan and a growl, and the careful, measured rhythm shatters entirely. He pulls back, hands gripping your hips with an almost bruising force, and then drives into you with a deep, punishing thrust that knocks the air out of your lungs.

The control is gone, replaced by a frantic, desperate rhythm as he finally takes exactly what he needs. He fucks you into the seat with hard, relentless strokes, the leather creaking beneath you, the world narrowing down to the friction and the heat and the overwhelming feel of him losing himself inside you. "You feel so good," he grits out, his voice ragged and breathless, dropping the praise into your ear like a confession. "Taking me so well—god, I'm gonna—"

It’s not a graceful ending. It’s a chaotic, messy collision, the last of his discipline dissolving entirely under the force of his release. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, broken shout that he tries unsuccessfully to muffle against your jaw, his whole body seizing up as he spills inside you.

The rhythm fractures into short, shallow jolts, his grip on your hips turning desperate and bruising as he rides out the shockwaves, anchoring himself to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

For a long moment, the only sound in the car is the harsh, uneven synchrony of your breathing, the air thick and humid with the scent of sex and heat. 

Spencer collapses against you, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his weight solid and grounding. You can feel the frantic thud of his heart against your ribs, beating a frantic rhythm that matches your own. His hands slowly loosen their hold, one coming up to cradle the back of your head again, with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

Gradually, the reality of the cramped backseat starts to intrude—the awkward angle of your legs, the leather sticking to the cooling sweat on your skin.

He shifts slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the pulse point below your ear before pulling back just enough to look at you. The dark intensity is gone from his eyes, replaced by a soft, slightly unfocused haziness that makes him look younger, stripped of his defenses.

He reaches out, tucking a strand of sweat-dampened hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. "You okay?" he asks softly, his voice raspy and wrecked, sounding less like a question and more like a need to reassure himself.

A breathless laugh escapes you, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, light and dizzying. "Yeah," you manage, your voice sounding scratchy and used. "I'm... I'm good. So good."

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, the vibration humming through you both, before he pulls away.

He shifts carefully, bracing one hand beside your head so he doesn’t crush you with his weight, his other hand already moving with quiet purpose.

You feel it before you fully register what he’s doing.

The brush of his fingers at your hip. The gentle tug of lace back into place where it’s twisted wrong. The slow, deliberate smoothing of fabric over your thigh, thumb grazing just a second longer than necessary before moving on.

Just like before. Like this is just… something he does, putting you back together.

You watch him as he works, your head still tipped back against the seat, your body loose and heavy in a way you’re not used to. He doesn’t look at you right away. His attention stays on his hands, on the small, precise adjustments—fixing a strap, pulling the windbreaker back up over your shoulders, tugging it closed just enough to cover you.

“I'm sorry,” he says once he's done.  “For not coming back.”

You look at him properly now, and it’s disorienting in a way that has nothing to do with what just happened in the backseat. His hair is a mess, his tie half undone, his lips still flushed, but his eyes are steady.

Too steady.

“I meant to,” he continues, voice low, rough around the edges but controlled in a way that feels deliberate. “That night wasn’t… it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I was there to work. I shouldn’t have—”

“You did,” you cut in.

He stops.

You swallow, your throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with earlier.

“You did,” you repeat, softer this time. “And then you just… disappeared.”

There’s no bite in it now. No edge to hide behind.

Spencer’s jaw tightens slightly, like he’s absorbing that instead of arguing it.

“I know,” he says. “And I should have handled it differently.”

A humorless breath leaves you, something that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t quite make it.

“That’s one way to put it.”

The words hang there for a second, not sharp enough to cut, not soft enough to soothe. Just… there. Like something set down between you that neither of you feels like picking back up.

Spencer watches you for half a beat longer, like he might say something else. Like there’s a version of this conversation where he explains, where he untangles all the threads he left knotted.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales quietly, the sound controlled, deliberate. A reset.

“We should get going,” he says, voice steadier now, slipping back into something more structured, more familiar. “We’ve been here longer than I planned.”

You blink at him, the shift almost jarring in its normalcy. “You’ve got a curfew?”

“Not exactly,” he replies, already reaching for the door, pushing himself back toward the front seat with a kind of quiet efficiency. “But my team will start asking questions if I’m gone much longer.”

You sit up slowly, adjusting the windbreaker around yourself again, fingers smoothing the fabric like it matters more than it does.

You sit there a second longer after he moves, the backseat still warm, still holding the ghost of everything that just happened like it doesn’t quite know how to let go.

The door opens. Shuts. The soft thud feels louder than it should.

Then the faint shift of weight as Spencer settles back into the driver’s seat. Fabric rustling. The quiet click of his seatbelt. The small, controlled exhale he gives like he’s putting himself back into a shape he recognizes.

You don’t follow.

You could. It would be easy. Slide forward, reclaim the passenger seat, rebuild that thin line of normalcy he’s clearly trying to restore.

But you don’t.

Instead, you lean back into the leather, one leg stretching out across the seat, the other bent slightly, your heel tapping once against the floor before going still.

Spencer doesn’t look at you directly. Just a flick of his eyes, quick and measured, through the rear view.

Then he looks back at the road and keeps driving.

[gilverrwrites]

NSFW ALPHABET | SPENCER REID

Req: Omg I see you write for criminal minds. If you please may write a NSFW alphabet for Spencer. Thank you! - Anon

ᝰ.ᐟ A = Aftercare

Aftercare is a different ballpark of intimacy that Spencer needs time to warm to. It’s not that he doesn’t want to provide you with comfort, but he needs time and repetition to feel comfortable both expressing and providing what is needed on both ends, respectively, and the type of aftercare he gives/requires depends on what exactly the two of you have been doing.

He’s not a particularly cuddly person, but he will be if it’s what you need from him. In fact, there is very little you can ask of him that he won't provide if, as mentioned above, he’s given the opportunity to grow comfortable with it, and he will do it well, with a level of care and attention to detail that most cannot even comprehend.

On his end, he’s not really high maintenance in that department. He’s happy with a few chaste kisses and a meaningful compliment. If you’ll hang around and talk to him for the rest of the night, even better.

ᝰ.ᐟ B = Body part

His hair. Yes, he knows it gets quite a bit of slack for being so boy-band-esque, but his hair is actually something he takes pride in being able to care for, and he finds a lot of solace in fidgeting with it, especially when it’s longer.

On a spicier note, he adores having it pulled. To the point that he can barely bite back from smiling if you so much as run your fingers through it while you’re out in public. Having his scalp scratched is cathartic, and feeling your knuckles all tangled up in his roots, pulling hard, keeping him in the moment instead of getting lost in the taste and feel of your pussy while his tongue is deep inside it makes him moan uncontrollably every time.

On you, and I hate to put it so crassly, but he’s a tits guy. He’s discreet about it. You’re unlikely to catch him unless you’re looking for it because he plays the gentleman very well, but if you have even an inch of cleavage on show, he will clock it, and he will peek a glance every single chance he gets.

Once he gets his hands on them, you will not be leaving him without aching nipples and a chest full of hickeys.

ᝰ.ᐟ C = Cum

He doesn’t really have any eccentricities around cumming. He believes in statistics, and what’s safest for the two of you is birth control and condoms. He cums into the condom as is it’s intended purpose.

He is, however, sensitive and highly amenable to your wants. He can’t just cum on queue as is, but blended with the right sort of stimulation, and your voice whining for him to ‘please, please I want you to cum’ or coaxing him, ‘are you gonna cum now? Are you gonna cum for me?’ will have him losing control for you on the spot.  

ᝰ.ᐟ D = Dirty secret

See ‘body parts’ ⤴︎

Reid can’t keep his eyes to himself, especially when you’ve got something on show. Luckily, he’s only got eyes for you.

You and that skirt, which rides up and shows off just a little too much thigh to be professional. Or you and those trousers that hug your ass when you’re stretching to reach something.

If you don’t have your own strict organisational system, I can see him re-arranging your wardrobe if you’ll allow him. Optimised to help you get ready in a speedy manner, he claims—he knows a lot about that, given his line of work and the fact that he often loses time when he gets his nose stuck in a pile of books.

He totally will not betray your trust and put the items of clothing he likes in such a place that makes you more likely to reach for them in the mornings.

ᝰ.ᐟ E = Experience

Not in the practical sense. Spencer is more than unlucky with the ladies, as we know. However, if you didn’t know that fact, you would never figure it out because he knows more than enough to make up for it.

He vehemently understands your body better than you do; how it ticks, how to make it do or feel the way he wants it to in excruciating detail. He’s got you clocked.

ᝰ.ᐟ F = Favourite

He wants to maximise your pleasure during sex, and it’s scientifically proven that the best positions to improve female enjoyment during sex, are ones that easily allow for clitoral stimulation. So, missionary with a pillow under your hips, or doggy style that lets his long arms reach around your waist.

Or best of all, cowgirl, which comes with the added benefits of putting you in control and him being able to stare up at you in total adoration. He’s in total awe of you anyway, so you bet he’s watching you ride him with complete and utter reverence every time.

ᝰ.ᐟ G = Goofy

He’s unintentionally funny. He’s not trying to lean one way or the other; it’s just that there is something undeniably funny about the way he will stutteringly info-dump to you about the commonality of anal sex in ancient Rome between quiet gasps as you press your pinkie finger into his ass.  

Or telling you about a recent study that revealed how ⅓ of men still don’t believe the clitoris exists, meanwhile your own clit is swollen and tender, your pussy practically pulsing for attention, your brain all soft and empty after he’s made you finish multiple times just from rubbing your clit with his thumb.

ᝰ.ᐟ H = Hair

Well trimmed for sure. He tries to maintain it at that perfect level between overgrown and overly trimmed. Too short and it itches, too long and it becomes overwhelming. It’s very fine and wispy, with a short treasure tail that leads up to his belly button.

ᝰ.ᐟ I = Intimacy

Oh, he’s so, sooo loving. Of course, he has desires of his own, but a lot of his higher-ranking ones revolve around pleasing you. Making sure you feel comfortable and happy, and that you’re having a good time. He doesn’t really talk dirty, but he’s not afraid to be soppy with you; murmuring praise, ‘you make me feel so good’ and sweet nothings, ‘you’re so beautiful’ as he kisses the arch of your neck, and tenderly runs the tips of his fingers over the curves of your body.

ᝰ.ᐟ J = Jack off

Before you started sleeping together, Spence definitely spent a few nights alone in his apartment, stroking his cock to memories of the shape of your body, the scent of your perfume, and the feel of your hand straightening his tie or your fingers lingering on his as you’d passed him a coffee or something. He’s a yearner. He dreams about how you’d look lying naked on his worn-out couch, watching him intently with that intense look you get on your face when you’re concentrating.

ᝰ.ᐟ K = Kink

When I say he’s not a kinky guy, I don’t mean that he has no kinks; I just mean that they’re very tame.

Once he’s comfortable really exploring you, and knowing that you enjoy it, Reid goes hard on the body worship. Your breasts, your belly, your legs, even and maybe especially your feet.

He’s very observant, he likes it when you get dressed up, likes to see you in hosiery and jewellery, especially when he can tell you’re enjoying it and feeling yourself.

He gets lost in his own head and routines sometimes, so free use could be a big one for him. Giving you the freedom to interrupt whatever he’s wrapped up in, pulling a stack of files from his hands and situating yourself on his lap would be good for him.

ᝰ.ᐟ L = Location

He likes his home comforts. Sure, your place is nice, but given the choice, he’d rather be at his own apartment. The surface doesn’t matter, the bed, the couch, the kitchen counters, whatever is closest, really.

And it’s not purely a sexual thing either. He loves seeing you amongst his organised chaos just as much as he likes seeing your lives combined. Your perfume on his bathroom counter, your shoes beside his; next to the door, your snacks in his cupboard. All those little things that help him acclimatise to such a dramatic change in his life.

ᝰ.ᐟ M = Motivation

Challenge him in any capacity. Try to out-smart him, or tease him. He’s got such a competitive streak it’ll rile him right up.

I can also see him losing his mind when he opens up his overnight bag when he’s in a crappy motel 10 states away from you, only to find your used panties or a risqué picture of you. He’s calling you on the spot, rubbing his hard on through his corduroys as he listens to you giggle down the phone.

ᝰ.ᐟ N = No

We all know that Reid has some very intense mommy issues, but they do not present sexually. In fact, the concept of calling you mommy gives him a massive ick. Similarly, he’s not into being called daddy either.

ᝰ.ᐟ O = Oral

He’s 1000% a giver, and I touched on how he gives back in the ‘body parts’ ⤴︎ section, so I’m gonna use this spot as a chance to talk about him receiving because Spencer doesn’t get rough, not really. Not until you’re on your knees, teasing his length with your tongue and seeing how far you can take him down your throat.

When he’s right on the edge, spindly muscles all tight and jerky, desperate to fill your smart mouth with his load. That’s when he can’t help it for a moment, when he locks his hands at the back of your head, apologising as he holds you still while he ruts against your face, jerking himself between your pretty lips until he unleashes a hot load straight onto your tongue as he tells you how good it feels, how well you’re taking it.

ᝰ.ᐟ P = Pace

Generally, when given the freedom to do things without limitations, he likes to take things slowly. He wants to be present, committing every act in detail to his memory bank, to enjoy every second, and to make sure you’re doing the same. Asking you how you’re doing and if you like that isn’t uncommon.

But as time goes on and he gets closer and closer to his own climax, his tempo starts to speed up drastically until he’s pumping into your sensitive pussy, begging you to let him keep going just a little longer until he’s so, so close, please baby, please.  

ᝰ.ᐟ Q = Quickie

“I can give you three hours to work on a reconstruction.” “I can do it in two.”

Reid loooovvvveeees a quickie because he sees it as a challenge, and he loves to overcome a challenge. The chance to get the blood in his brain and his dick pumping at the same time is bliss to him.

That said, there’s a time and a place for those sorts of activities. Feeling frisky, but you’ve got dinner reservations in 20? Hell yes. In the middle of a case or at the office? Absolutely not.

ᝰ.ᐟ R = Risk

Nothing dangerous. He understands the psychology behind riskier kinks, but he’s just not into it. He sees enough pain and has experienced enough in his day-to-day life.

He doesn’t want to inflict anything like that on you, and he certainly doesn’t need to undergo any more of that. Intimacy to him is about making you feel good and letting his own walls down in a safe environment.

That doesn’t mean he’s not down to roleplay or dip his toes into kinks he’s not tried before, especially if it’s something you want. But it's kinkier stuff that's going to take a lot of convincing. He’s a sweet vanilla boy.

ᝰ.ᐟ S = Stamina

The phrase ‘suck his soul out through his dick’ was conceived about earlier seasons Spencer. It doesn’/t matter how many caffeinated electrolyte drinks you have him chugging, the poor guy needs a hot minute and then some before he’s ready for round two.

Later seasons Spencer is another story, however. He’s still human, but he’s not so easily debilitated; he could easily go multiple rounds with intermittent breaks and snacks.

ᝰ.ᐟ T = Toys

He’s surprisingly open to toys. Generally, he’s of the opinion that sex feels good enough as is. It’s one of the few things he'd apply the if it’s not broke, don’t fix it opinion. New things can be intimidating, especially in the sensation department, but he trusts you.

He likes exploring with you, so if you want to bring in some massagers or some hot and cold lubes, those sorts of things, he’d be excited to try that with you.

ᝰ.ᐟ U = Unfair

He likes to tease a moderate amount, but he really, really likes to be teased.

He can be incredibly playful, and he likes it when people meet his wits. Being able to match his energy is honestly a recipe for very sexy disaster.

Sometimes it starts subtly. Playing with his hair and fixing his tie before sending him off to Quantico without a kiss. The slow burn of it will eat him up for hours, days, even depending on the case.

When he finally gets home, he kisses you like a man starved, his normally gentle hands greedily roaming your body. “You know what you did.” He chides when you knowingly, goadingly ask what’s gotten into him.

By the time you stumble to the bedroom, lips barely leaving each other's long enough to catch your breath, your hands are already popping the buttons of his cardigan, pulling the clothes of his body with the same ravenous hunger he greeted you with, but the moment your legs hit the bed, knees buckling and lowering you down, Spencer’s done. He’s curling up under a pile of blankets, claiming to be too tired for anything more, lips pulling into a tight grin, whether you play along or not.

ᝰ.ᐟ V = Volume

Not loud at all. He whispers and whimpers a lot. He can't help but babble to you throughout, but it's always breathy, certain words catching in his throat, pausing on the tip of his tongue and fracturing as your hips slap together.

ᝰ.ᐟ W = Wild card

Did you know, it’s commonly believed that there are 12 types of female orgasms? You will do, and you’ll know in detail once Reid explains them all to you. There are better-known ones, like clitoral and vaginal. Lesser-known ones like anal and nipple… wait, nipple? Yeah, having your breasts massaged, kissed, and sucked on triggers the release of oxytocin, which can lead to what is colloquially known as a nipple-gasm. Blended orgasms, which are achieved by stimulating multiple erogenous spots at once.

But why does he want you to know all this?

Well, one because Reid is the king of info-dumping.

But also because he obviously needs to verify this information himself. If you’re down, he’ll take his time, nice and slow, listening and following along with whatever you need. You can decide this is an ongoing mission or one intensely mind-blowing night.

ᝰ.ᐟ X = X-ray

It's by no means a monster cock, nor is it overly girthy or veiny, but it's long. Slighly curved upward, with wispy hairs at the base and a pinkish-brown head that blushes darker when he's hard.

ᝰ.ᐟ Y = Yapper

I'm gonna sound like a broken record here, so I won't say too much here; just that Spencer talks a lot. Before, during, and especially after.

ᝰ.ᐟ Z = Zzz

He already struggles to sleep, and your presence is a major distraction. He'll be up with you until one of you physically cannot keep your eyes open any longer. Usually you.

And when you do nod off, he'll watch you sleep. With time, whether you're a calm sleeper or a snoring mess, he'll eventually find a sense of calm in watching.

You can make him fall asleep first, however, by reading to him.

[vateral]

Schopenhauer, and other nihilistic mindfucks,

s3-4ish! Spencer Reid x fem!reader

SMUT !! PwP. Spencer is more than willing to get down on his knees like a dog for a semblance of pleasure.

──── intelligent equals who drop the equal act behind closed doors.

+ Autistic Spencer, engrained into all of my one-shots re: him. (should’ve been canon i say as they drag me away kicking and screaming)

Warnings: sub spencer (like total, tell me what to do i am beneath you spencer), soft dom reader (with explicit mentions of her being hard dom, she’s versatile i love her), inexperienced spencer (but not a virgin this time !!!! oh my god, we’re making progress), crying, condescension, praise, some light degradation, copious amounts of begging (take a shot every time spencer uses his manners and says please), handjobs, head (reader receiving, spencer mentioned to receive), sex on every surface — SEX MARATHON (oh my god someone sedate them holy shit???????), they’re cute if you can believe me after reading all of that.

— this one is kinda academic!! learn something new while you goon guys!!! intellectual gooning!!!

w.c: 3.2k

A/N: tap tap tap is this thing on??? I apologise, it has been like a year and I can’t promise how consistent I will be with posting henceforth, but here i am…..

────────────

Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Midnight. The world feels pale and weightless, rinsed out and left to dry. He’s airy, courtesy of the Cabernet Sauvignon split over dinner.

Not drunk, he tells himself. Outside the restaurant, the light bleeds off the street lamps in a slow haemorrhage. He stumbles, wayward in movement: flushed cheeks, wine-soft mouth, half-unraveled already.

You’re standing beside him, and he never learnt how to talk to pretty girls. Not really. Not when it matters.

His mind won’t stop. Alcohol affects cognitive function, warnings smeared across college bulletin boards. He can confirm; right now, he is not functioning remotely. He should’ve told you, god he really should’ve told you that you’re beautiful. That he saw you a month ago and has been ruining himself in the weeks between.

If this is a humiliation ritual, then he will gladly regard it as a kink.

What do you think of him? The question nags.

Spencer, Spencer who you think is too soft. He wears a halo like the crooked glasses he traded last fall. Intellect like the black-hole in his stomach.

He is too good, too good for you, too good for anyone. He’ll stare at you like a wounded animal, but feed from touch regardless.

He’s a mess and you’re relating him to divinity. Well, divinity and wing-clipped birds.

Here. Now. In this moment that spills back into time, his brain is a blur of obscure facts, futile etymology, half-formed footnotes. Freud’s death drive loops behind his eyes, fucking Thanatos—right now?

“Good?” you ask. “Maybe we shouldn’t of ordered a bottle, ostentatious.”

Spencer laughs boyishly. He can’t believe you agreed. Internally, he’s 14 again; all elbows and unbrushed hair, holding the kind of loneliness that calcifies into something permanent.

He remembers the way girls used to approach him: lacquered nails tapping against lockers, mascara-heavy eyes, dressed in body spray and spite. Daring each other to flirt with the boy who could recite the periodic table backwards.

He fell for it. Fell for it until it carved something mean into his stomach. Something he never quite outgrew.

“It’s etiquette,” he argues, too earnestly.

“Ettiquette. Right. Next time, we should order everything off the wine menu and see how long it takes for us to get kicked out.”

Spencer is too strangled by the notion of a next time to even discern the rest of your sentence.

He blinks at you. ”Next time?”

“Yeah, Einstein.” your shoulder knocks into his. “Next time.”

You say it so definitively. Like you know, are terrifyingly consciously aware, that you own the noose looped around his throat.

Spencer is fine suffocating, if it means his mind will call cease-fire. Shut up shut up shut up. That last glass of wine was a big mistake.

He thinks of Pascal’s wager, betting on belief, even without certainty. No, he thinks of Camus’ absurdism, the conflict between humans search for meaning. No. Japanese ma (間) - the space between, the silence that holds tension. Fuck fuck fuck.

The smart ones always make dumb decisions. He should’ve never picked up the bottle in general.

So what’s he going to do? Word vomit. (…. nothing screams successful end-of-date behaviour like a spontaneous lecture on metaphysics and emotional dysfunction).

“You know, Schopenhauer believed that existence is driven by this blind, irrational force—The Will—and that it, um… well, compels everything to keep striving, desiring, even though fulfilment is always temporary.“

Great start. He’s going to die alone. “So we chase, we want, and we think that when we get the thing we want, we’ll be at peace, but we’re not, because..”

He makes a small, helpless gesture, like he’s trying to pull the words to him..

“The Will just,… finds something new to want. We’re built to be dissatisfied. We’re—we’re biologically wired for hunger, for longing. Even this, even you, saying next time—it lights up every neuron in my brain, every craving, every ridiculous, hopeless part of me that wants to hold onto you and know there’ll be more. But if Schopenhauer’s right, it’s all just… another loop. Another itch I can’t scratch.”

Spencer wonders if there’s a fault in his binary coding. “I’m sorry— that’s a lot. I just…. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to just… let myself want something without dissecting it to death.”

He’s still half-laughing, half-apologising, all stuttered ‘i’m sorry’s’ and ‘Derek is going to kill me for fumbling this’ when you cut through.

“Spencer. Genuinely, who cares?” You catch his wrist, sharp enough to register. “I’m not telling you there might be a next time. I’m telling you there will be.”

When you make decisions for him, it feels like a relief his prefrontal cortex can’t justify; you’ve short-circuited his need for autonomy by offering something even more seductive: certainty.

If he pops a boner right now, please have the decency to look away.

You sigh, “Stop running theoreticals in your head, genius. You just have to show up. Think you can manage it?”

Spencer swallows. “Um—yeah. Yeah. Definitely. I’ll uh,” he gives you this awkward, ‘I’m really trying!’ smile, “I’ll write it into my calendar…?”

“Preferably in red ink. With a little exclamation mark.”

“Oh. Okay. Yes ma’am.”

─────────

Spencer likes dates. Like when your knees knock under tables, likes your ankle hooked around his, likes the drag of your thigh when you shift in cramped spaces.

His favourites exist in coffee shops, when you overstay, just to psychoanalyse a stranger three tables over. When you stand up to stretch, soft and godless. He picks lint from his sweater like it means something, shows up with flowers and dumb memorabilia; pressing receipts into your palm, ‘Keep this, it’s from the night we first met,’ all wide-eyed intimacy that comes in a soft package.

He wears your hair tie like a wedding band around his wrist. Starts to humour horoscopes, simply because your star-signs match. If they decide to deem you ‘incompatible’ one day, he will resort back to fuck the stars, what are they anyway? Hydrogen and helium gas bombs. They’re wrong,… baseless.

Seventh date. You have him up against a bookcase, and he can only recite [ Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxyg… ] as you carve your way down his neck.

He keeps pausing, to highlight the legal risks of public indecency, to compare you to the Golden Ratio. 1.618: he can trace the sequence in your bone structure. He’s found it in autopsies and blood spatter and now, somehow, in the curve of your eyebrow.

“You should um…. come back to my place.” Spencer winces. “Ha, that sounded like a proposition. It’s not. I mean—I don’t think it is?”

He laughs, dropping his head to your shoulder. “I just…. have this list of movies I want to watch with you. Because people, normal people, do that right?”

“Last time I checked…”

“Okay. Yeah. Good. Um, here’s your warning. My TV buffers randomly, and the subtitles are stuck in Dutch for some reason, but… I have good snacks?”

Your hands bleed through his hair, sinking to the scalp. If he moans right now, he will kill himself.

Instead, he just blushes, pulling his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m aware I’m not selling this well.”

“Heeey. I like subtitles. Subtitles are good. I’m a talker, so it’s probably for the best—“

“—You like talking. I love talking. Everyone always looks at me weird when I pause 12 angry men to explain how Juror 8’s entire argument hinges on cognitive bias theories that weren’t even formalised until decades later, but! but! they’re so obvious if you just know where to look—“

He cuts himself off, goes to apologise (for the nth time this week). You beat him to it.

“Or when you try to explain how Solaris isn’t about space at all, it’s about the impossibility of human connection and how every interaction we have is just a projection of ourselves on the other person. Yup. Been there. My friends hate me. Movie nights are banned. It’s a crime.”

Fuck. Everything. You simply exist, talk all your pretty intellectual words, and now nothing else feels sufficient for him.

Queue the vows.

Sometimes, he gets off on the thought of exclusivity, commitment. Statistically, he knows that’s not marketable. Porn doesn’t cater to emotional stability.

Monogamy. Eye contact. Not exactly a thriving niche in adult content.

“Right. OK. You just summarised Solaris in one sentence. Cool.” he blinks, then again…. “Let’s get married.”

He stares. Kicks himself mentally. Attempts to backtrack. “I mean… platonically! Intellectually! The cost of living is too high right now to live alone— not….”

You scoff. “Platonically? You just had my tongue down your throat.”

“What? And you don’t kiss your friends?” he says, before holding up his hands in surrender. “That’s um, I was joking. I have never done that, won’t ever do that—can we leave now?”

“Scared we’re gonna get caught?”

“Yes, actually. I’m ah, a very serious FBI agent. It would be…. distasteful?… to be seen in such a compromising position.”

“You’re into it.”

“Yeah…” he sighs, like he’s disgusted by his own perverted actions, “Potentially.”

─────────

Spencer’s place is quiet, paper-soft around the edges—patchwork blankets thrown over mismatched furniture, books stacked into every miscellaneous corner.

The city outside is slick. Shitty late night weather: puddles that reflect sodium streetlights, fractured constellations smeared across the asphalt. It’s humid, everything outside smells of petrichor and old stone.

You’re both splayed across the couch, watching old re-runs as you debate over a movie. Dumb little arguments, interrupted by messy kisses that escalates into tangles of limbs and skin, and ‘oh? what was I saying?’

He lives in his own untouchable haze of domesticity. Leaving behind pen smudges and ringed coffee stains. He’ll let you kiss him, sweater half-on, collared shirt underneath creased. Pausing to pull himself together, only to ruin it all over again when his lips return obediently to yours.

Right now. Present moment. You’re straddling him. Bunched up fabric and heated touches He makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

He wonders if you believe in limbic resonance. Wonders if his nervous system has attuned to yours emotionally.

“I want…” (he pauses, the words you, you, you lingering in his horny, sleep-deprived mind). “I want to.. be able to show you how I feel,” he says, which is an odd way of saying ‘I want to make you feel good.’

He’s just glad he can speak. Everything feels like glass and balanced china.

“This… yeah, .. shit Spence. “ — you can feel the pressure, the prominent bulge that presses between your thighs.

Maybe you’re hedonistic for dragging your hips against it. Earning a choked whimper from Spencer, who looks like he’s about to unravel.

“But—“ your voice drops mean. But what? You have the physical manifestation of warmth beneath you? What could possibly be more important than taking care of him?

“We should really figure out what movie we’re watching. I still haven’t seen Rashomon, which is a crime in itself….”

Interesting use of free-will.

It’s bait. Spencer knows it’s bait. Still, he’s a naive loser with a hard-on and prominent inexperience, so he bites, predictably. “Yeah. Huge crime.” pause. “Oh— ohmygod, you’re torturing me. That’s worse. That’s the actual crime here.”

His hips arch up to meet yours. Yes, yes please. He does not get out a lot (read: at all), and this is an amalgamation of every wet-dream, come to reality.

If he wakes up to tangled sheets, sweaty with damp in his pants, he will sue.

“You’re the worst.” he whines, “I really really don’t care if it’s bad manners, I want to kiss you again. I want to do a lot—don’t… please, I will beg. I have no dignity, I don’t care.”

You think there might be fatal consequences if you don’t remove his clothes in the matter of seconds. So, diligently, like a good house-guest, you work on his tie: tugging at the knot, unravelling it to start on his shirt.

“Thank you,” he says , genuinely terrified you’d leave him half-hard to watch a movie about the philosophy of justice.

Torso bare: he’s lean under those grandad clothes. Skinny, with olive-toned skin and sensitive nipples. Whore, you think, virginal, you settle on.

“Please—“

“Please what?” you repeat, pushing your hand against his chest, palm outstretched, forcing him back against the cushioned surface. “Use that big brain of yours to tell me what you actually want. I need words Spence, i’m sick of hearing pointless begs.”

“Anything,” he whimpers out. Little ah ah’s that bounce off the walls of his very grown-up apartment. In contrast, he feels like an angsty teenager now. “You could do anything to me. That’s what I want— I’m… I’m very good at following instructions!”

He will debase himself. Because, hello? He’s hard, throbbing and needy, and if you want to use force to coax him into coherence, then yes please…

No complaints here.

Your top comes off. Discarded fabric marking its way across his hardwood floor. Something incriminating. Perhaps it constitutes as evidence; that you have him, painfully awkward Spencer Reid, who averts his eyes and fumbles over sentences, all blushed and undone on the same couch he litters with academic journals.

Of course anything academic has been sidelined; he’s too busy marking his way across your breasts, messy lips latching onto nipples, leaving behind tethered strings of saliva, to care about…. IQ’s and WAIS scores.

“Do you think about this often?” you tug at his hair, pull him off your skin like a leashed dog. “Spencer. Listen to me when i’m speaking to you.”

“Mhm,.. ‘m sorry…”

He looks like he’s about to cry. He’d argue tears of fucking joy.

“Do you touch yourself and think of me?”

Everything is coming out wrangled. “Yes—“ he whimpers, “All the time. I can’t stop…. That’s bad. I’m sorry. That’s really bad….”

The TV is still playing. To Spencer’s dismay, it doesn’t muffle every indecent word that leaves his bruised lips undisclosed.

“I think about you every time I do—do that.”

They’re going to take away his badge, demote him to some office rookie. He will be punished for every night he’s stuck his hand down his pants and came to your name.

“The other day… when you dropped me off, when you got really close, I had to um,… you know, in the shower.”

He has the audacity to follow that confession up with: “I respect you, so much. But—you’re making me dirty. And I—“

Spencer’s hand clasps around your wrist, dragging your palm to his erection, the fabric soaked through with pre-cum.

He bucks up. Whines, like he can’t handle the consequences of his own actions.

“It’s a— a psychological process.” he says, in a last ditch attempt at maintaining (some) semblance of control. “When you see something you like, the visual stimulus affects your autonomic nervous system, which is.. um, linked to your hypothalamus. I’m, ah.. I’m a little overwhelmed,… if that helps?”

A pained whimper tears through him. “Oh— oh,” he can’t help himself in grinding against your palm.

You’re having a psychosexual effect on his brain. Everyone point and call out shame shame shame. “I need you,… just, just take care of me. Please?”

“Oh look at that, you asked so nicely. That was an actual request, well done.”

“I can be nicer.” Spencer argues; pathetic. So pathetic that it aches.

Someone collect his backbone on the way out.

You remove his pants, his stained boxers. If there’s anytime to play coy, it’s now, when you’re wrapping a hand around his cock: long, curved, with cum pearling around the pretty flushed tip

Everything is messy. The soak of saliva and lubricated arousal. “How does that feel? Poor baby, so deprived…”

It might be time to admit that he’s in over his head. How you’ve managed to reduce his thought process to base instinct is beyond comprehension.

It’s impressive. Spencer wants to study your skills in a lab.

“Feels,..” his words spill into sloppy whines, head falling back against the couch to bare the unmarred expanse of his neck. “You’re good. Too good! This is— you’re… I can’t last. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

It’s mean. Mean, making him watch as your hand drags down his length. He’d take notes, if he wasn’t so gone, because fuck, his own palm never felt this good.

This is corruption. Everytime you brush your thumb over his tip, he is being tainted. Left with too much pleasure for his big, yet so so dumb, brain!

Swollen lips part, forming a little o. He’s liquid, melting, coming apart at the seams. The orgasm itself makes him choke back mewls; it feels like warmth, it feels like he just debunked Schopenhauer, because for the first time, in his jagged life, he’s satisfied.

Personal record. He lasted 30 seconds. At least he didn’t cry,… improvements improvements. (A mercy kill sounds ideal right now.)

He doesn’t care about eloquence. Noise control, a filtered disposition. You’re kissing him through it, gentle parenting at this point, talking out soft praises that he’ll repeat later as he pre-orders a ring.

( ‘So perfect. There’s my boy. Shh shh, I know it’s a lot, you can take it.‘ ) Spencer wants your words under his skin. ( ‘Mm. You really needed this. It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.’)

This is a well-respected FBI agent. Condolences to the victims of the cases he works on.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that—“ he’s clambering over you, a fervid tangle of limbs, trying to communicate through actions.

He fumbles with the button of your jeans, stuttering out sorry! sorry! when his hands fail at simple tasks.

“Shh—slow down. Hey, eyes on me.” you say, coaxing his gaze to yours. “Chill out, Einstein. I’m not going anywhere. Literally, you’ve kinda got me cornered here.”

“Mm, yup. Can we stay like this forever?” he laughs, abandoning task to kiss you again. “Well, y’know… after i’ve gotten you off, of course.”

“Wow, a real gentleman.”

“The best. You should probably keep me.”

“Every intention. Knees.”

Spencer drops immediately. Like he was born to be reduced to such a demeaning position. There, he hooks his hand around your ankle and repositions you: legs draped over his shoulder, thighs parted - adequate room for him to slot between.

“I have an oral fixation. So, yeah. You can shut me up like this anytime. In fact,” he looks up, smiles, inches from your clit. “I insist.”

He’s not careful, nor considerate. He’s still strangled by the belief that he needs to repay you for making him see constellations. Burdened with the holy weight of being wanted, his tongue drags across your swollen clit, collecting wetness, before drawing it into the heat of his mouth.

Face drenched, cheeks smeared, he buries himself, sees god as he traces halos. He really really doesn’t want to do a subpar job. His mind has fixated, so now he’s going to overcompensate.

He is so so good at pleasing. He wants you to be proud, to give him a gold star and glowing reviews. He wants to be needed, to find some use in himself. To appease and provide and let you dictate his entire existence.

Your thighs tighten, groans, punctured moans crowding the stuffy air with noise. You feel the push of his fingers, long, deft digits, filling up hollow space, carving their methodical touch inside.

“Fuck—Just like that. There we go. So much better when your mouth is preoccupied.”

You can hear him whimpering, muffled little begs, careless and hurried, as he suffocates. He pushes through, abandoning trivial concepts like oxygen, pft—unnecessary. It’s a myth, Priestley was wrong. Lavoisier named a fallacy.

“Good boy. Good fuckin’ boy.”

Spencer stares up at you with a mouthful of pussy. Doe-wide eyes, glossy. “Just for you.”

Then, he’s returning to the task: tongue dragging between folds, leaving him to sloppily suck at your swollen clit.

He’s not sure who’s getting off on this more.

His fingers curve, earning a strangled gasp that has him nudging closer. You can only cant your hips upwards, limbs flagging, squirming as the bliss runs through. Snaking its way around your body until you’re overstimulated, hiccuping broken sounds.

In the aftermath, he has the audacity to press a chaste kiss to your clit. To clean up his mess, like a respectful citizen.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Pointless. Every inch of him is smeared. There’s cum on the couch, and Spencer is currently situated on his knees, looking all too confident in his ministrations.

“Maybe we should’ve done this in the shower,” you say, knocking your thigh against his flushed cheek. “Shit, i’m going to ride you so hard for that.”

“Right now? Is that an option? Please say that’s an option.” he stands, stumbles, nearly knocks over a book as he fights the need for friction. “Because im hard again. And yeah—ow.”

He eats his own words.

Every sexually-suppressed nerve in his spent body is assiduously destroyed. You christen his kitchen, his bathroom, bed and dining table. He cries into the sex, let’s you bully him through every thrust: ‘Cmon, harder. I know you have it in you. Don’t make me disappointed.’

He genuinely, hand over heart, sobs when you take his overused, very confused, cock into his mouth later. His entire body is a bruise. You own every scrape. Tears spill down his flushed cheeks, wetting the soft skin there. “Shut up,’ you say, ‘Just stand there, look pretty and fucking take it.’ Or, ‘Behave. Show me that I’ve trained you well.’

And you have! You really have! Because he does shut his mouth, and he does thankyou after.

Refractory periods are apparently banished, you seem hellbent on corrupting him in every position, angle, and—

He has blame. Vindictive, censurable blame. If, mid-way through attempt 2 of after-care, he gets a little too fixated on the sight of your slick-wet skin, the steam of the shower, and his wandering touch.

And sure, maybe he drops to his knees the moment you suggest Star-Trek for background noise.

Every part of him is impure. Maybe he was born to live inside you.

Post-touch, stretched out across the mattress, the sheets are kicked aside: relinquished, probably in dire need of being burnt, entropy spilled between linen. Spencer turns to meet your stare.

“This is so unhygienic,” he mutters, pressing the pad of his forefinger to your bottom lip, cracked open, still branded by his teeth. “I’m gonna have to bathe myself in hand sanitiser.“

“Well I clearly can’t trust you in the shower.”

“Hey.” he pouts. “I want a do-over. Let me wash your hair. Then you can wash mine, and it’ll be just like that one shampoo ad I saw.”

“Mm, nothing makes stocks sell like the promise of domestic bliss.”

“Exactly!” he rolls over, rests his chin between your breasts—the same ones that are stained red, imprinted with Spencer-owned bruises. “Hear me out on this: shower, nap, movie marathon.”

You laugh, gather his face in the palms of your hands. Watch, real time, as he softens into molten gold “Yeah, OK. You’re on.”

There’s this study on Oxtocin, how it creates memory impressions during intimacy; a clinical way of saying that he will remember every detail of this until the day he dies.

Not to be dramatic, or anything.

[pittsick]

ִ ࣪ ⋆ 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐃 headcanons.

( +18 ) mdni / fluff, slice-of-life, suggestive.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!! requested.

Spencer keeps a running list in his head of things you casually mention liking. You’ll forget you ever said you loved a specific obscure author, and months later he’ll hand you a first edition copy like it was nothing, adjusting his sleeves awkwardly when you stare at him too long.

He's shy the first time you both get in bed, not that is inexperienced, but he likes you so much and he's afraid that he won't meet your expectations.

He doesn’t realize when he’s flirting, like... at all. He’ll go on a five-minute tangent about synesthesia or probability theory while slowly getting closer to you, then stop mid-sentence when he notices the way you’re looking at him, blinking like he’s the one who got caught doing something intimate.

Spencer reads aloud when he can’t sleep, not for himself but for you. Even if you’re already half-asleep, he’ll sit beside you with a book resting against his knee, voice low and steady, occasionally pausing to explain a word he assumes you already know.

He likes when you pull on his hair during sex, or when you kiss his throat. There's always the prettiest noises escaping his throat and he gets all shy about them. You won't let him cover his face just to see the pretty blush on his cheeks.

He secretly loves when you call him petnames, and it can be anything. Of course, being Spence is already something he likes. But hearing you say baby, angel, pretty boy makes his knees wobble.

When he gets jealous, it’s quiet: he won’t interrupt or act possessive. He’ll just go still, observing, overanalyzing every interaction until it eats at him—until you notice and pull him back with something simple like your hand in his.

He loves when you play with his hair, even though he’ll try to keep talking like it’s not affecting him. His words start to slow, his sentences getting softer, until he’s practically melting under your touch.

During sex, he likes being submissive. He can totally step-up if you need to, but his default mode is being a good boy for you; he's obedident, likes being told what to do or how to do it.

He overexplains his feelings the first time he confesses them. It comes out like a ramble—probabilities of attachment, psychological patterns, fear of loss—until he finally just blurts something simple and raw that means more than everything else he said combined.

Spencer would absolutely get flustered if you teased him in public: a hand on his thigh under the table, a whisper too close to his ear and he’d freeze for half a second, brain short-circuiting, before trying (and failing) to act normal.

taglist ﹏ @userhotd @i-t0ld-ya @nekkiotine @fawnettewinchester @clementinestars @ravensreadingrecs @allegedlygrandmoth @nomajdetective @alexxavicry @prismozo @lvve-talks @kathh01 @jclolz22 @dumbbandpoetic @i-cant-stfu @bluestrd @khxna @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @jiminie-08 @stqrfirez @libbyaller @cxlt-lamb1 @heldbycas @avasarchve @chronic-fangirl-222 @blushhbambi @antlerlove @flwer555 @voidsuites @qardasngan @aerangi @if4tmn @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @agustd202204 @deansdeer @archxve @rafs127 @cup1dssorrow @mimisitaugu ( to be added )

[glossiercheek]

making out with spencer reid to distract him!!!!!!!! bc that’s hot

a/n: my other spencer blurb got so much traction. i’m eternally grateful, so here’s a little gift. x

warnings: making out, suggestive, and OFC i have season 2 glasses spencer in mind because thats my favourite version of him

“Spence? You coming to bed?” Your slurry voice calls out. You lean against the doorpost, looking at your boyfriend. The white moonlight pours through the windows of your shared flat. The world is asleep, even you were. Until you realised you missed Spencer’s warm arms around you. That’s when you knew something was not right.

This is the fourth time this week you find Spencer sitting on your sofa, bowed over dozens of loose papers spread out all over the coffee table: transcripts of interrogations, crime scene photos, and other important documents that help build the case.

Your boyfriend is still in his work clothes. A dark blue knitted jumper, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His silver watch glistens in the cool light, and his glasses rest low on his nose. His chocolate-brown hair tousled from endlessly dragging his fingers through the strands, and you can’t stop thinking about wanting to mess up his hair even more. Spencer’s eyes are narrowed in focus. He doesn’t look up at you when he says: “One moment, baby. I’m almost done.”

His voice is low and slow. The term of endearment immediately makes you lightheaded. But of course, Spencer’s never been aware of how attractive he is. He’s so frustratingly perfect and hardworking, never mean to you and always sugary sweet. Smart and attentive, gentle and kind, without a doubt. Even when he’s busy with a case.

That is when you decide to set your little plan in motion.

You take one tentative step into the living room. The only source of light is an old stable lamp, casting a warm, yellow light onto Spencer’s side profile. His skin is milky and smooth, like an iced cake. “I can’t sleep without you.” You whisper into the dark, hoping he’d hear the desire in your voice.

That makes Spencer look up at you. He looks somewhat dumbfounded, still not comprehending he just looks so attractive sitting there, legs spread, on the sofa, hunched over stacks of papers, occasionally gnawing on the pen in his hands. The eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses spur open in surprise as your boyfriend opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. “I—”

Spencer’s eyes follow your figure as you make your way toward his sitting frame. “Don’t say anything,” You coo. Your hand slides over his chin in a smooth glide. His faint stubble itches your skin, and you love the sensation. It makes him more domestic, more yours. “Just focus on me.” Almost automatically, you find your place on his lap as your knees dig in the material of the sofa underneath you. The doleful sound of your boyfriend’s pen clattering to the ground echoes through the room, as well as his heavy breaths in your ear.

He looks fucking pathetic under you: his eyes are zeroed in on your lips, brows scrunched up in pleasure, breath coating your wet lips. “Baby, I’m—”

You both don’t say anything for a moment. Tension lingers in the air with a knowing weight. “That’s enough work for today, okay?” You plant a lingering kiss to the corner of Spencer’s mouth, taking longer to fully pull back. Your boyfriend’s hands rest on your lower back with a magnetic force, tracing the line of your spine and the sensitive skin of your sides, as if caressing you grounds him.

“I’m starting to feel neglected. Like you don’t love me.” Another kiss to his pretty nose. The motions between you are so deliberate, so calculated. Spencer’s chest rises and falls in quickening intervals as his hands roam over your skin.

You continue to pepper dots of kisses all over his face, except for his lips. “I’m so sorry. So sorry,” He breathes out, voice desperate and broken. He cranes his neck up so that his lips hover over yours. “Let me make it up to you.”

The air is pulled taut between you when you finally allow him to kiss you. His lips cover yours with warmth and delicacy, they feel sweet and his kisses are sticky and precise. His gentle hands wander all over your back, around your waist, on your hips, up your ribs. It makes your breath hitch in a silent gasp, as you your hands travel to the short brown strands of his hair. You lightly tug on the locks to move Spencer’s lips to yours like how you want it.

A pitchy mewl is swallowed in your kiss when you feel your boyfriend’s hands creep under the hem of your tee, on your bare skin. And in that moment, it feels like you’re completely losing yourself in his lips, his smell, his hair, the comfortable feeling of his thighs supporting you from under. Spencer feels the same.

He’s addicted to the taste of your lips, the feeling of your plush skin under his fingers. The little pulls of his hair, and how you subtly demand to control him. It makes him lose his mind, all of his paperwork completely forgotten. “I just miss you,” you whisper again as you pull away to catch your breath. “Your dorky jumpers,” your nails scratch lightly over his fabric-covered chest. Shivers run down Spencer’s spine. “Your cute face.”

Your hands cup his face again to bring his face closer to yours. And Spencer closes his eyes for a long moment. You’ve completely convinced him to disregard his work and come back to bed. His slender fingers clamp around your waist. “Yeah, yeah— I’ll come to bed.” He whispers with frantic, enthusiastic nods of his head.

And let’s say, when you two finally fall asleep, the sun is already up.

[cherrygarcia-07]

i know its not mothers day internationally, but it is for me in the uk! so thank you anon for this perfectly timed req! <3

Sugar & Pancakes // Spencer Reid 🥞

synopsis: spencer and his stepdaughter surprise you with breakfast in bed for mother’s day, leaving him thanking his lucky stars for blessing him with the two of you.

genre: fluff

wc: 4.2k

notes/tags: reader and spencer are engaged !! written with post-prison spence in mind (despite the pic❤️) but it’s not specified so go crazy, daughter is unnamed for your benefit🫵, talks of spencer’s childhood (as always), grandma! diana mention!!! super duper sappy

masterlist // if you enjoy pls reblog it really helps promote the fic !!

————————————🥞———————————

It took a few moments for Spencer to work up the motivation to detach himself from where you’d clung to him like a koala to a tree in your sleep- a fairly regular occurrence at this point, but that never made it any easier. It was so hard when he glanced over and saw you oh so comfy in one of his old shirts, cheek squished against his chest and your arm around his waist. It was even harder when you started mumbling, sad little grumbles in your sleep when your slumbering self sensed him trying to peel you off of him.

He sighed, letting his eyelids flutter shut for just another couple minutes more while you settled back down. These moments always stirred up a funny feeling in his stomach, something akin to butterflies as childish as it sounded, with you clinging to him like there was nowhere else in the world neither of you needed to be. But of course, there was. Unbeknownst to you, he’d promised to help your daughter with her ‘Super Top Secret Mother’s Day Mission’ after she’d insisted his FBI title made him the only person qualified for the job.

Oh, but what he would give to soothe the sun back to sleep just for an hour or so more, to lay here with your warmth radiating through his clothes, through his skin, through his bones as you melted into him. There were days, long, long ago, when Spencer had felt like a stranger in your house. When no matter how much you reassured him he just couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong, or rather that this life- this domesticity- could never belong to him. He hadn’t done anything to earn it. He looked around and saw photos on the wall that framed the life you’d led just fine without him until now, the matching bright smiles of you and your daughter that you’d worn long before he had shown up. He saw this perfect house with its doodled height chart along the kitchen doorframe and drawings pinned up on the fridge and he saw a life that he was terrified to touch in fear that it would all tumble down beneath his fingertips.

Yet now when he looked around he saw his clothes on your body, his glasses on your nightstand. The nightlight you’d bought for him was plugged in, a moon-shaped one that cast little shadows where its craters were along the walls of your bedroom. His ties sat folded in your drawer, his socks next to yours and his cardigans mixed in with your sweaters in the wardrobe. For the first time in a long time when he looked around he felt comfort. He felt safe.

You let out another sleepy hum as you nuzzled your face further into his chest, suddenly reminding him he had a very important Top Secret Mission to be attending to. With another reluctant sigh he sat up ever so slightly and as slowly as possible, grabbing his pillow from behind him with the arm that wasn’t preoccupied around your shoulders. With almost comical stealth and precision, he carefully tucked his pillow into your arms as he climbed out of bed, cringing with every creak of the mattress that echoed through the serene air of the morning. With bated breath he waited, half expecting your eyes to shoot open before your arms shot out too and dragged him back to bed. Your brows pinched for a moment, another few unintelligible mumbles spilling from your lips before your body relaxed into the pillow and Spencer was officially off the hook. Phase one: complete.

-

Spencer was shuffling down the hallway as soon as your bedroom door clicked shut behind him, fuzzy mismatched socks silently padding along the wooden floor leading up to your daughter’s room. Her door was decorated with all things glittery and sparkly, including the colourful sign with her name on it that he’d helped her make back when he was just ‘Mom’s boyfriend’. He couldn’t help but smile at it as he raised a fist to the door, knocking gently in the secret rhythm the two of them had made up between them. When there was no answer he cracked the door open, soft, pink light streaming over his face from her own nightlight beside her bed.

“Hey,” he said quietly, calling her name before fully stepping into the room. Unfortunately for him, she was as deep a sleeper as her mother. In a couple of strides he was across the room, crouching in front of her bed as he gently brushed her hair away from where it had spilled over her face through the night. “Honey.” He tried again.

Familiar grumbling made him smile before tired eyes slowly blinked open and met his own. As soon as she registered Spencer in front of her, it was as if a match had sparked and she was up and leaping out of bed with an excited grin lighting up her face.

“I take it you’re ready?” He chuckled as he tucked her teddy bear back under her covers, something he knew she did every morning.

“Let’s go!” She whisper-shouted before grabbing him by the hand and pulling him back out into the hallway and down the stairs.

-

The sun was still rising in the sky, its golden rays still warming up as the two of them skidded into the kitchen giggling and shushing each other like children who’d woken up early on Christmas day. They were both still in their pyjamas, hair still sticking up in every which direction and sleep clinging to the corners of their eyes. Yet, they were like lightning as they flashed through the kitchen, digging for the supplies they’d expertly hidden in the back of the cupboard, the one they knew you never looked in.

They’d gone shopping two days earlier. Spencer had left work early, calling you from the elevator as he desperately tried to persuade you to take your time on your way home from your own job, telling you to stop for coffee or a ‘sweet treat’- as he knew you called them, and as he knew you couldn’t resist. He could somehow hear the suspicious arch of your brow through the phone, but if you had caught on you’d had the courtesy not to say anything. Meanwhile he was rushing to pick your daughter up from school and get to the grocery store before you got home with as much urgency as if he were back at work.

Now, the kitchen looked like some kind of homely café as the scent of lemon and sugar wafted through the air. He’d made sure to buy the good stuff, the richest chocolate chips he could find and your favourite fancy syrups that you hardly ever bought yourself and your daughter had insisted on buying heart shaped novelty pans, both of them of the same consensus that you simply deserved the best.

“Okay.” Your daughter commanded with her hands on her hips. It always amused Spencer how naturally she took charge, and it always amused her how naturally he followed. “First things first we need to mix the batter.”

“Yes, chef.” Spencer nodded earnestly, perfectly measuring out each ingredient from memory for her whilst she tugged a colourful apron over her head.

There was something about the way she stood over the counter, brows furrowed and tongue poking out of her mouth, that sent an ache through Spencer’s heart. She reminded him so much of himself, yet not at all. He could remember being a boy about her age, maybe a little bit older, spending many mornings just like this standing on his tiptoes in an empty kitchen. He could remember making breakfast, lunch, dinner for his own mother while she rested in bed, but he could never remember doing it so happily. Never had he done it for fun, it was always with a frown on his lips and a knot in his chest as he wedged the door open so he could listen out for her if she needed him and all before the sun was even shining behind the curtains that always stayed closed. It was a blessing, he thought, to be able to see your daughter cook for you with a smile on her face and no worries in her head. It was a blessing that her experience could be so much better than his.

“What next, chef?” He asked once everything was mixed.

She set her hands on her hips again, drawing a lip between her teeth in concentration as she considered the floury mess the kitchen had become. After a moment she clapped her hands together once, making Spencer suppress a grin as she strode over to the pile of lemons and chocolate.

“We have to add the flavours.” She said confidently.

“Of course.” He concurred, making his way over to where she stood opposite him on the kitchen island. “We can’t have boring, bland pancakes, can we?”

“No!” She shook her head dramatically with a frown on her face as if even just the idea of a plain pancake was of the greatest offence to her. She was just about to reach for the zester with a lemon already sat in her other hand, when Spencer panicked. He’d grazed his little fingers too many a time as a kid in a similar way, having to stop his cooking to wrap them up in bandages or a towel while ignoring the stinging in his eyes. If he stood witness to your little girl getting even so much as a scratch on his watch, it would eat at him for days.

“Why don’t I handle the zesting, huh?” He suggested, calmly plucking the metal out of her small hands.

“Why? I can do it.” She puffed. “I’m the head chef!”

“You are, and I know you can do it. But do you know what else a head chef does?” He reached over, slowly dragging the bowl of chocolate chips over like a bribe. “They taste-test.”

Beside him she hummed, her eyes darting back and forth between the bowl and the lemon in her hand. Spencer shook the bowl a little in his hand, the smell of the rich, luscious chocolate practically steaming through the air like they were in a cartoon. She was a very determined little girl, it was one of the things Spencer adored about her- but like every little girl, she had a weakness.

“Chocolate, please.” She sighed, dipping her hand into the bowl as soon as Spencer set it in front of her with a chuckle.

She nibbled as he worked, the aroma of lemon filling the room as a pile of tiny little yellow shavings built up before him. Occasionally she popped a chocolate chip down on the counter, a wordless offering to which he graciously accepted with a happy hum and a cheery ‘thank you’ and a reminder to ‘make sure you leave enough for your Mom, though’. Eventually, they split the batter in two, filling one with chocolate chips and the other with lemon.

As they stood side by side over the stovetop, heart-shaped pan in hand, it suddenly hit Spencer how right this all seemed. The weight of this little girl leaning into his side felt as though it had always been there. He felt that without it he might lose his balance completely, tumble and stumble until he was completely lost. Right here, as he glanced down at this child in pyjamas and unicorn slippers, he felt grounded.

It’s quite the father-daughter activity, he thought, cooking breakfast in bed for Mother’s day.

Just as quickly as he’d thought it he shook his head, effectively shaking the idea away too. Your daughter still had yet to call him that, and so he hadn’t earned the right to call himself that either. You’d assured him that it was coming but truthfully, it surprised him that he didn’t really mind. Legalities can’t decide when a child is ready and neither could the diamond on your finger and he knew that. He knew all too well what it was like to grow up with a single mother, to grow up with such a tight bond and nobody you needed to share it with. Just the fact that your daughter had let him in at all was enough for him, after all he’d even asked for her blessing before he proposed to you. But if you were serious? That it really was coming? Then he couldn’t wait to be able to call it that in the future.

“Spencer!” She giggled beside him, snapping him back to reality. He found himself thinking that just his name meant enough to him, so long as she always said it with that toothy grin and that laughter in her voice.

“Hm?” He arched a brow at her, registering a slightly toasty smell in the air all of a sudden.

“You’re burning it!”

Spencer’s eyes widened. His gaze shot down to the pan and sure enough the pancake was browning around the edges and an angry noise sizzled from beneath it. He scrambled with a slight yelp, ushering your daughter to stand behind him as he wrangled it out of the pan and onto a nearby plate. All things considered it wasn’t too bad, if it were just for him he would probably still eat it. But it wasn’t just for him. It was for you. And anything less than perfect simply wouldn’t do.

“Well, it’s a good thing we made so much batter.” He said as he prodded at the sad, discarded pancake with his spatula.

“So we can make thousands and thousands of pancakes.” Your daughter grinned triumphantly.

“I’m not sure if your Mom could eat that many pancakes, honey.” He grabbed a fork and split the pancake in two, spearing half of hit on the prongs and handing it to her with a smirk. “But we probably could.”

-

Several more burned (and eaten) pancakes later, there was finally a stack of beautiful, golden heart shaped goodness on a plate, hot steam curling delicately in the air and carrying the scent of sugar with it. On the tray, Spencer placed an assortment of your fancy syrups alongside a hot mug of coffee whilst your daughter gave the two of them a little proud round of applause.

“Excellent work, chef.” Spencer stood back, punctuating their hard work with a high five. It looked like something off of a menu, the kind of mouth watering pancakes you get one time in a diner you simply passed by and dream about for the rest of your days.

“Oh!” She jumped, rushing off to the living room in a flash. Spencer was about to call after her when she came dashing back with her little polaroid camera in hand. “Can you take a picture of me with the pancakes?”

“Of course.” He nodded chivalrously, like it would be his greatest honour. “A breakfast this well done has to be documented.”

She squealed as she ran around the kitchen island, carefully pulling the tray towards her before posing with a bright beam, her hair somehow even messier than when she woke up and her pyjamas covered in flour. Spencer wondered how often she’d look back at this day when she was older. His heart warmed to think her memories of cooking in the kitchen would be filled with floury footprints on the floor and of stealing chocolate chips from the batter.

Snap.

He gazed down at the photo as it printed, smiling to himself with a pang in his chest. A moment later there was a little head popping up in front of him, having burrowed under his arms to get to the camera. She leaned her head back, grinning up at him with starlight in her eyes.

“Can I take one of you?”

“What?” He asked, finding his voice had come out rather small. “You want a picture of me?”

She nodded and time seemed to slow around him. He felt well and truly winded for a moment, utterly taken aback. The thought of your little girl wanting him cemented, ink on paper, in her memory of a day as sacred as Mother’s Day- a day the two of you had spent alone together for so long up until now- it was enough to make him cry.

“Yes.” He smiled, swallowing down a lump in his throat. “Yes, of course you can.” He gave her a gentle squeeze before letting go, making his way over to the pancakes waiting on the counter.

-

You were still asleep by the time the two of them reached your doorway, arms still slung over the pillow decoy. Spencer trailed behind your daughter into the room, meticulously balancing the tray in his hands and trying not to panic every time the coffee splashed against the rim of the mug.

“Mommy!” She called, skipping over to where you lay, still very much in dreamland. She tried again, gently shaking your shoulder. “Mommy, wake up.”

At last you stirred, grumpily shielding your eyes from the offensive morning light as you blinked yourself awake. You softened when you took in the scene in front of you. The room felt hazy with bliss as you watched your fiancé shuffle through the doorway, morning curls sticking up this way and that and stubble poking its way through his skin, and your daughter with hair equally as messy practically bouncing in place in all her excitement.

Stretching out an arm, you gestured for them to come closer. “Well good morning, my loves.” You cooed, your voice low and thick with sleep. “What’s all this?”

The mattress dipped dramatically as your daughter leapt up into bed beside you, nestling herself under your arm and gazing up at you as if you’d brought the sun up yourself.

“Me and Spencer made you pancakes!” She announced proudly as you showered her with a flurry of sleepy kisses. When you pulled away, you thought they almost looked alike in the way that they both beamed at you.

“Really?” You asked, wide eyed and genuinely confused. With no one else in the house to remind you, in years passed you’d usually forget about Mother’s Day until your daughter would thrust a glittery homemade card in your hand. “What’s the occasion?”

“Because,” Spencer began, kissing the top of your head as he leaned over to gently rest the tray on your lap. “It’s Mother’s Day.”

“Oh,” you sighed, touched. “You remembered.”

“You’re the best Mommy ever.” Your daughter said, decisiveness lacing her words in a way that said her opinion on the matter was final and not to be argued.

“Seconded.” Spencer simply nodded and set himself down on the edge of your mattress, watching his girls as you tucked into your breakfast.

-

She stayed for a while, excitedly reciting her morning with Spencer and periodically stealing bites of your pancakes before leaving eventually, bounding out of the room muttering something about leaving her teddy bear alone for too long- ‘on Mother’s Day of all days!’

With the space beside you now empty, Spencer settled back into his side of the bed and instinctively his hand found your hair, fingers tenderly combing back loose strands and tucking them behind your ears.

“It sounds like she had a lot of fun.” You said softly, offering him a bite before popping it into your mouth when he declined.

“She definitely enjoyed playing head chef.” He laughed, deflecting, but your gaze stayed fixed on him.

“I meant it seems like she had a lot of fun with you.” He tried to look away, but you reached out, tilting his face back towards you with a gentle touch of your hand. “She really loves you, you know.” Taking the final sip of your coffee and the final bite of your pancakes, you put the tray on your nightstand and turned so you were facing him fully.

Spencer was silent for a moment, wheels turning in his brain as he tried to muster something up, but his mouth ran dry. “Why are we talking about me?” He said quietly, breathing an awkward chuckle. “It’s your day- we should be talking about you.”

“Maybe,” your hand found his arm, rubbing slow circles into his skin, “but it’ll be Father’s Day soon enough. I know for a fact she’s already planning for it.”

Spencer’s mouth fell open and once again it felt as though time had stopped. “For who?”

“For you, silly.” You giggled with a playful poke to the rib. “Obviously for you.”

“Right.” He nodded, but he could barely register his own words as he felt a sharp, but sweet pang in his chest. “Right, obviously.”

He tried to picture it: you sneaking out of bed and waking her up the same way he had that morning. The two of them on their very own ‘Super Top Secret Mission’, as he was sure your daughter would call it again, in their pyjamas and their bedhead setting something up in the house they’d built together, that now by some miracle included him. The ring on your finger would be gold by then, matching one that would be honouring his own hand, and there would be new photos on the walls of the three of you- a family. He’d wake to his new stepdaughter shaking him by the shoulder proud of whatever she’d put together and eager to wish him- him- a happy Father’s Day. Spencer had never felt more at home in his life.

“You okay?” You leaned forward, combing down his unruly morning hair.

“Yeah.” He took your hand in his, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand. Your ring was cool against his lips. “Yeah. Thank you so much.”

“You’re thanking me? For what?”

He thought for a second. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the English language, and of a handful of other languages, too. He could recite thousands of romantic poems and novels at the quick snap of his fingers. Yet, you had rendered him speechless. There was nothing he could do to articulate the depths of his gratitude for you, and for your daughter, nothing at all.

“For everything.” He whispered, besotted. “For letting me into this life you’ve created. You know I’m relatively agnostic but-“ He paused, taking an enamoured breath in. “I think you might be undeniable evidence of an angel.”

“You’re always so theatrical.” You teased, but with your hand still in his you’d be lying if you said you couldn’t feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

“I’m serious.” He chuckled back at you. “You’re an incredible mother, and you’ve brought up an incredible little girl. I don’t know what I did to deserve you both.”

Pouting at him, you found yourself shifting closer to him once again, tucking yourself into his side as his arm instinctively cradled your shoulder just as it had that morning. “You deserved it,” you started, leaning up to press a kiss to his stubbly jaw, “by bringing me delicious pancakes in bed.” Another kiss. “And by being your wonderful self.” And another. “And by being the best dad she could ever ask for.”

You could sense he was about to cry, so in an expert manoeuvre you shifted positions again, propping yourself up on your elbow to meet his lips with a kiss. The return was immediate, his mouth moving against yours like it was all it was programmed for. When you pulled away, his eyes were big and soft and sappy as they gazed down at you.

“Are you going to call your mom?” You asked as you settled back into his side.

He shrugged, but you could feel the weight in it. “I’m going to try.”

“If you get through do you mind if I talk to her too?” Spencer didn’t yet know, but you’d had flowers sent to her already- just from you.

“You want to talk to my mom?” His voice was tender, touched yet fragile.

You nodded, before gesturing to the hallway that lead to your daughter’s room. “I’m sure she’d love to talk to her too. She was telling me how excited she was to have another grandma.”

“She-“ He started, but his voice broke around the word. His thoughts came to him in fragments, bits and pieces of love and adoration and disbelief he couldn’t possibly string together. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure my mom would love that.”

You said something, a little comment as you cosied up further into his side, but he didn’t hear it. His heart felt like it had grown several sizes since he woke up, and right now it was threatening to burst. The lump in his throat had returned, but it didn’t hurt. Oddly, it was comforting. He was used to tears hurting, he was used to them falling like water from a burst dam the second a door was shut behind him and he was alone. He was used to tears meaning frustration, hurt, fear, abandonment. How wonderful it feels to cry simply because you’re just so happy. The thought that you and your daughter loved not only him, but his mother, that welcoming him meant welcoming her too. That he was in fact deserving of the life he’d only dreamed of, that he’d seen on TV and in his teammates as they left one by one to pursue what he thought he’d never have.

For that he owed you everything. Not just today, but always.

-

[girllblogging777]

𝜗𝜚 𝑰𝑻'𝑺 𝑵𝑶𝑾 𝑶𝑹 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹

summary : spencer wants to put an end to the teasing and attempts to set him up during a night out. so, he blurts out his bigest secret - involving a mysterious woman, the promise of forever, and a tiny vegas chapel word count : 1.5k pairings : spencer reid x secret wife! reader (highschool sweethearts, hidden relationship) notes : based on this request, hope u like it !!

“come on, pretty boy” morgan laughs out in reaction to spencer’s hundredth glare he’s thrown at his colleague since the beginning of the evening. “live a little. the bar is full of girls and you’re staying here with tolstoy ?”

he points to the book on his lap, that spencer thought he’d made a good job at concealing.

“it’s pushkin,” reid mumbles under his breath in correction.

the abrupt beat drop cuts off their conversation and he finally releases a breath, right before a quite drunk and giggly emily decides to add in.

“yeah, and he’s pushing !”

and really, he was.

actually, everyone tonight seemed to be doing nothing but pushing spencer to the edge, making him lose all of his very minimal leftover patience after this week’s case. going out with the team was supposed to lighten up their mood, and let them bond over drinks and a fun time.

but it was all he hated. loud music, sticky hands and the heavy smell of sweat in a room full of people he couldn’t care less about. simply being here felt like the biggest chore for him, when all he wanted was to be home.

home, where you were.

his thoughts wandered to you, a predictable path he’d learned not to resist anymore. in the quiet of your shared apartment, far away from the bar and its buzzing energy, you were probably curled up on the couch right now, waiting for him to come back.

fingers clenching reflexively against his emotional support copy of the captain’s daughter - the second hand one, he wouldn’t dare take the special edition he’d gotten from you to a bar, of all places - he closed his eyes.

breathe in, and out.

five things he can see - the table with its empty glasses, reflecting the light of the dusty disco ball. a half full ashtray, the girls’ purses he was supposed to keep an eye on, where were the girls ? his own messenger bag, his cardigan thrown over the chair.

“hey, reid !” jj shouts over the music, coming back with another round of drinks, the glasses are full this time. for now.

“cute girl over there at the bar keep staring at you !” she says in attempt to lighten things up.

don’t look up, it’s no bother. she’s not her anyway.

four things he can smell - alcohol, strong and biter. sweat, cigarette smoke, hand sanitizer.

when he does turn to look around, all of the team is back in time for refreshments. sitting back down around their little table, cramped in the booth and its leather seats, he tries to drown out the thoughts.

“you know,” emily slurs right into his ear “they’re right… you deserve to allow yourself to have a good time, genius.”

and her intentions are nice, although masked by a fair share of alcohol. all of his friends only want the best for him, after all… if only they knew.

penelope chimes in, giddy at the fact that her favourite topic on earth - spencer’s love life, or lack thereof - found its way to the table.

“hey, be nice to him !” she warns, pointing an accusatory finger towards emily. “we know reid can pull, that’s a given. the only reason he doesn’t is because he refuses to waste his time on people who don't deserve him... like the absolute diva he is.”

three things he can hear - morgan chuckling. because obviously, the last part was directed to him. another stupid techno song coming on. and glasses clinking.

“cheers to that, kiddos !” rossi winks.

spencer takes ahold of his drink, trying to keep himself busy with the glass instead of spilling any lemonade - or secrets he'd later regret.

the cold beverage soothes his throat, helping him stay focused on something other than the heavy gazes currently piercing right through him. a few feet away at the bar, those girls weren't exactly subtle about staring at him. such a neat looking guy, with silky chocolate curls and an almost shy slender figure, stood out from the friday night crowd.

breathe in, and out.

it's all too much, he can't handle it anymore. his hands reach for the wallet in his back pocket, he'll just pay and leave. mutter something about a migraine, and finally head far away from here.

"you know," morgan adds, unaware his palm on spencer's shoulder does nothing but fuel his inner panic and send him into further turmoil. "one of these days, we might just have to forcefullly introduce you to someone. 'bet the girls over there would love to be that someone."

"enough !"

he doesn't hear himself speak. ears ringing from the atrocious music he can't bear anymore, he feels as if he was floating outside of his body.

nothing could've prevented him from what he said next.

"i already have a someone, okay ?" sharp, the tone he uses is unlike him, and surprises all of them. "and i don't need you to tell me what to do, or who to be with. i'm not a kid, i'm married !"

if a disco ball had a soul, pretty sure the one above his head would look down at him and sigh, reflecting nothing but the cutting fragments of the frustration he emanates.

the truth needs to be faced.

but the truth, no matter how beautiful and real, didn't exactly need to come out tonight, when alcohol and teasing had taken over all of his friends. he saw it in the way penelope stilled, jj's jaw dropped, and emily's stoicism turned into wide eyes and raised brows.

only hotch stayed his usual calm, collected self. he'd seen the marital status on spencer's file ages ago, and never bothered to mention it again. after all, a good profiler didn't need to see a ring - they all should've read into spencer's mysterious phone calls in empty conference rooms, and meticulously packed lunches covered in pink sticky notes.

however, no one seemed to care that much. enough, at least, to figure out he was married.

"...since. when." questions penelope, whose heavy bracelets jingle when she covers her mouth with her hands.

spencer's answer comes dry, fumbling with the wallet he'd just taken out. meticulously, he pulls out a small picture he'd carefully kept tucked away for, well, ages.

"since... ever ?" he attempts, head tilting shyly. "the wedding in vegas took place two thousand and sixty seven days ago. but technically, we've been together since before i joined the bau. i was seventeen," he corrects factually.

seventeen when the stars aligned, the universe granting him what would become his anchor in the sea, his shelter during the storm. at the mention of a wedding, memories of a rainy summer night led by impulsive decisions rushes back. he'd never been one to act precipitately, but the decision you two had made that night, he'd never regretted.

none of them can believe what he’s saying, looking at him as if he’d just taken a bomb out of his messenger bag and displayed it right there, on the sticky wooden table.

“MARRIED ? IN VEGAS ?”

then, it's kind of all a blur. he vaguely remembers showing the tiny black and white photograph to them, ears turning slightly pink. a plethora of questions hit him, to which he answers obligedly. as hard as it is to admit, spencer likes to be able to talk about you without any barriers, for once.

"do you guys live together ?"

"how come we've never met her ?"

"does she know you don't talk about it at work ?"

"is she a cat or a dog person ?"

all of a sudden, it seems as if they all want to know the most uninteresting and mundane aspects of his life, each question more surprising than the last - the latter coming from a very thrilled penelope, buzzing with some sort of girl power energy and from a lot of cocktails.

two things he can smell - curiosity, strong and pulsating through them. an imminent desire to crawl back to your safe arms.

then, the floodgates open, and he lets it all out. he mentions the first day of highschool, how lost and lonely he felt. his mother's trips to the hospital, your hand in his everytime. a shy kiss on the mouth after graduating, the one of many not so shy ones. summer vacations to his birth state. a guy dressed as elvis. i do's and cheap rings a size too small.

when spencer's heart feels lighter and the adrenaline subsides, he promises everyone he'll introduce you to them. then, he wastes no time calling a cab for his drunken friends whose inebriety he feels deeply grateful for - he knows he'll ned to face the remarks later, but it gives him some time - and rushes home.

stairs, fifteen steps. his key in the lock.

the door opens to you, half asleep and smiling brightly. you're wearing one of his shirts that’s a little too big for you, slightly showing your shoulder. the sound of his familiar footsteps made your earls perk up.

"they know," he blurts out, arms wrapping desperately around your waist. "i told them everything, i couldn't hold it anymore"

giggling, you don't ask. simply lean into him and laugh, because you figured it out the minute you saw his distraught expression.

one thing he can taste - your soft lips against his.

a/n : don’t forget to reblog and comment if you enjoyed reading !! love u mwah mwah

@tateshifts @gf2bellamy @xervoxs @kaz-03 @cynbx @sleepysleepnomore @emerkinsella89 @sweetheartspence @g4rvez-r3id @peanutalergy @keirareidss @eternlmoonshine @khaleesibeach @xbluereid @spencilweidblog @corollaim @mostofmeghan @siriuslyval03 @midn1ght-ra1n @rose-of-the-grave @copper-rose-strings @irisinlovee @thecrimsonfog @glossiercheek

[writinggivesmeserotonin]

Hands

Summary: just a few headcanons about our favourite nerd with pretty hands

Tags: 18+, MDNI, fluff/smut, hand kink, oral, smut under the line

A/N: I don't really write like this lol, I just got the sillies for Spencer and then I couldn't control it

• The first time he went all profiler and figured out why you were staring at his hands, he was baffled.

• 'You think my hands are attractive? Why? They're simply...body parts. Purely utilitarian.' he says.

• 'Yeah well they can util my tarian any time.' You say like the eloquent profiler you are, and he furrows his brows, before giving up trying to understand it and smiling instead.

• He adjusts, though, now that he knows you like them. Before, he might've hugged you from behind while you were washing dishes. Now, he places his hands on your waist, sliding them up and down while leaning into your space, enjoying the way you melt into it

• He'll take extra care to run his fingers through your hair, stroke your jaw softly, brush your cheek with the back of his fingers, and watch with a smug smile when it makes your eyes flutter and distract you from whatever work you were doing

• He's dexterous, too. Despite not being able to eat with chopsticks, he can spin a pencil between his fingers, and it makes you wanna bite them. So you do. You stop his hand, bring it to your mouth, and bite a knuckle

• 'Why...are you biting me?' He'll ask, freezing, book forgotten

• 'Crunchy.' You say, his knuckle still held gently between your teeth. You gnaw on it softly, before kissing it

• 'I don't understand why you like them so much.' He'll murmur, but he won't take his hand away either.

• When things feel like too much, you'll grab his hands and place them on your face, shielding your eyes from the pain of seeing, because sometimes sensory deprivation via boyfriend is the only solution to all your problems

• It translates to your bedroom, of course, and fingering you becomes his favourite activity. Any way he can make you come is always a win for him and he loves having his face buried between your legs, eating you out with abandon, but that doesn't let him study your expressions

• Having his fingers deep inside you, probing and curling and all the while studying your face, what makes you twitch and what makes you whine, and making you come only when he's decided he's done running his little experiment

• If you're in a hotel room, he'll shove two of his fingers in your mouth to shut you up, pushing them all the way in until you're gagging on his fingers while he fucks you.

• 'We have to be quiet, sweetheart, can't let our coworkers hear us, hm? No, they'll never let us hear the end of it. Mm, as much as I love how loud you are, we really can't afford, baby. Here, I'll help you out.'

• After some imploring from you, he even agrees to try autoerotic asphyxiation, but only after he's thoroughly read the literature and can pin down the appropriate technique and force used to a T.

• He's a natural at it, squeezing the sides of your neck while crooking his fingers inside you, watching with satisfaction as he makes your eyes roll back in your head, your thighs shaking violently

• When he feels like a tease, though, he'll pin you down by the stomach and stroke you with the back of his fingers until you're hypersensitive and twitching at even the wind brushing against you

• 'Oh, sweetheart, that looks painful—oh, look at you twitch. Mm, so pretty, but I don't think you're happy to see me—you're crying, aren't you? Or is it drool? Yeah, is your pretty pussy/cock drooling for me? What do you want, baby? My fingers, my mouth...my cock. All of me is at your disposal, you know this—you just gotta ask. Don't get shy now, it's so unlike you.'

• It doesn't matter what you ask for, unless he's actively rewarding you for something he'll follow his set pattern—making you come once on his fingers, once on his mouth, and once on his cock. If he's feeling particularly mean, he might even make you come a fourth time afterwards.

• Because of work, you two don't get to have proper sex beyond rutting against each other every morning before leaving, if that, so when you do manage to have a few hours to yourself, he likes to drain every last orgasm out of you. It's relaxing for him, too, being so single-mindedly hyperfixated on a task that doesn't involve blood and gore, only you, happy and relaxed and potentially crying a little.

• And then afterwards he'll do his silly little smile, where he purses his lips into a pout with the slightest curve at the edges first before flattening them into a pleasant line. You kiss that line every chance you get, because it's the best thing you've ever seen

[everlastingephemera]

slip into you, slip into me

— or the one where you and Spencer get snowed in inside your apartment but neither of you really mind. [Spencer Reid x fem!reader]

Word Count: 5.3K. Proof-read.

Content Warning: Content Warnings: (18+ MDNI) FLUFF + SMUT. SECOND-PERSON POV. No use of Y/N. Where do I start, oh my God... Oral (F!receiving), munch!Spencer at his finest, overstimulation, oral fixation, if you squint (Spencer is for once the perpetrator of that), unprotected p-in-v sex, fluffy smut — the tooth-rotting kind, submissive!Spencer undertones but the ground is mostly pretty even, trust me, Spencer Reid is a tease™, reader is also a tease™, they are so in love, it makes me sick.

Author’s Note: Getting snowed in for a week resulted whatever this is. I like to call it what-happens-when-my-need-for-Spencer-gets-unbearable. I mean it when I say that I really try to keep my fics a normal length but I just cannot. Same with them being mostly descriptive and not dialogue-heavy. I am trying to work on it but there is only so much that I can do. Oh, and I thought to mention that the gifs that I use are the Spencer era that I picture for each fic, but of course, that is my personal touch and no one needs to abide by it. That is all, I guess. Hope that you enjoy this because I fear what I have to offer next is going to be... A Lot. GIF CREDIT @reidgif/@dilfreid on Twitter. Title inspired by Not For Radio’s Slip.

“I told you we should’ve stayed over at yours, instead.” You sigh, settling further down against the mattress as Spencer practically wraps himself around you, a rather futile attempt at getting even closer to you, if that was possible. 

Only it wasn’t. 

Not in your tiny (that is, compared to his) bed that he can barely stretch his limbs or turn around in without his socked feet escaping the warmth of the covers and dangling off of the furthest edge of the mattress. He’s so tall for it, it’s almost comical. 

Even now, with his right leg tossed over your hip and his face buried against your neck, he’s struggling to stay in place and cover himself properly.

“Mm-mm, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” His breath is hot where it hits your neck, makes warmth rise from there to your cheeks until they overheat. It has nothing to do with the cosiness of the blankets and the comforter you’re under, and everything to do with his half-sleepy murmurs and butterfly kisses on your shoulder that make your stomach flip, “I’ve never been more comfortable and warm in my life.” 

Your pointed stare, which he feels well enough and doesn’t actually have to open his eyes to see, does not faze him at all. His words come out muffled against the soft bareness of your skin, laced with the most loving hint of a smile, “You can glare at me all you wish. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s true.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at that, yet allow him to pull you in closer. And closer. Still.

“Right, I’m sure that having to make yourself fit in a bed that barely accommodates my size and stretching needs and having to sleep almost fully clothed because the radiator in my apartment is faulty, all in the wake of a snowstorm, is the most comfortable and warmest you’ve ever been. Sure it is, Spencer.”

Spencer doesn’t respond to your light teasing, not immediately. When he does, he simply shrugs and mutters something unintelligible, still half-asleep, face buried on your neck. Something along the lines of — It actually might be, yeah.

It’s easy for you to melt further at that, and so you turn to glance outside the window, then. Snow is falling just as steadily as it did last night, although kinder and lighter now, covering rooftops and streets in a blanket of white, crushed velvet. You can hear faint laughter, child-like and joyous, from the frontside of nearby buildings where families must’ve brought their children out so they can celebrate this wintry gift safely. Besides that, the rest of the world outside seems quiet enough, matching the innate mood of such a day completely.

The heavy, but most importantly, unanticipated snowstorm last night had left you both practically stranded, for all intents and purposes, at your apartment. Spencer had found it more practical to have dinner there before you went on to visit the classical film festival you’d been planning to for weeks. He did so, mainly because he’d forgotten to stock up on groceries, what with the huge amount of paperwork the BAU had to tackle that past week. You’d argued that you could grab what you needed from yours and head to his to cook and enjoy dinner there, anyway, since you’d be heading out next. Only, of course, you didn’t get to.

You’d always preferred his apartment as a hang-out spot to your own — it was cosier, spacier, filled with just enough of all kinds of his interests to pass the time. Plus, you’d always slept better there. Spencer didn’t think it had so much to do with the place, rather than the fact you got to sleep together (in any possible way), but you were certain enough it did. He doesn’t mind you craving his personal space that much, though, quite the contrary. Still, he doesn’t seem to miss it as much as you do, now that you’d have to spend the day tucked away here instead of there. Until the streets were clear enough, at least.

He catches you off-guard mid-yawning, breaking you out of your trance, turning around with you inside his embrace so that you’re now lying face to face with each other, bodies flush together still.

“Mhm, you know,” He starts, brushing his way down from your cheek to your neck with his nose sweetly, “for someone who’s so worried about the cold, you’ve barely managed to shield yourself from it properly.”

He’s referring to the fact you’re clad in just a lilac shirt of his (your favourite one, you’d simply announced back when you’d snatched it from his wardrobe to put it on, much to his content), a pair of pyjama shorts, and white, fuzzy socks that barely make it up to your calves. He, on the other hand, had taken advantage of the pyjamas he’d thankfully once left behind there — dark flannel pants and a ridiculously old white t-shirt he had no idea what the stamp said before it met its untimely demise — as well as his grey cardigan he’d worn under his coat yesterday.

“I believe I was referring to your warmth levels, not mine,” You half-hum, half-giggle as you succumb to his gentle affection. Once he’s finally facing you, loving hazel eyes and messy fringe still carrying the weight of sleep, you wrap your arms around his neck. “I’ve never had much trouble with the cold.”

“You coughed four times in your sleep last night.” A lazy hint of a half-smile appears on his lips when you scoff, trying to claim that doesn’t mean anything. It only becomes bigger when he notices you’re almost flustered, reminded of how carefully he pays attention to you during all states of consciousness. “You wouldn’t really know that, actually, is my point. Keeping yourself exposed to cold temperatures first weakens your immune system’s defences which then makes you susceptible to viral infections, the onset of symptoms of which can vary anywhere from one to up to fourteen days from initial exposure…” He pulls the fabric of his shirt further down your hips, to prove a point, “…which is why this isn’t a proper outfit for the—uhm, I want to say, thirty degrees outside and sixty degrees—that is, thanks to your faulty radiator—inside temperature in your apartment right now.”

“And good morning to you, too, beautiful.” You brush his fringe away from his eyes kindly, failing to stifle your grin. He turns, cheeks tinted a light pink, kissing the crook of your elbow over your shirt pliantly as you play with his hair. You’d been surprised at his choice of haircut all those months ago — I thought I’d try something short but different this time, he’d explained, much too worried for your liking at what you’d have to say — though not at all unpleasantly; that’d be impossible when Spencer is the most beautiful man you’ve ever known, no matter what his hair looks like. Still, you inwardly rejoice when you notice his hair starting to curl at the sides once again. “Can you please talk to me about something more exciting than how prone I am to catching a cold now that you’re awake?”

“Good morning, honey,” He kisses you just because, a small, tender peck against your lips like he does every morning. “I definitely could. Although I’d be more inclined to do so if you please did not make us get out of bed.”

“Don’t we have to?” You ask, fingers still grazing his scalp softly. “You’ve said it before. Something about staying in bed longer than you have to after waking up disrupting your circadian rhythm…”

“A day of sleeping in won’t be detrimental to our sleep health, baby,” He coaxes as you trail off, all quiet and whispery, leaning his weight forward. “The weather calls for it, anyway. Give me another reason.”

“Breakfast?” You try, though you’re glad to sink back on the mattress when he finally climbs on top of you. “I’ve got blueberries in the fridge for your favourite pancakes.”

“Not hungry.” His mouth finds your neck, then your jawline, before it lingers over your own. “What else?”

Your mind blanks momentarily. He’s infinitely pretty where he looms over you, so beautifully close, cast in white light and endless gentleness, pressing against you carefully yet persistently enough. 

“Well... I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

Spencer smiles fondly, and once again, you feel it more than see it given his proximity. He wastes no time before he presses his mouth to yours between each sentence, “Don’t care. I love you. Morning breath and all. Anything else?”

“…I’m bored?”

That’s when he quirks an eyebrow and leans back just enough, the covers sliding down to his waist.

“Oh, that is a very important reason.” 

You watch as he toys with your shirt’s buttons, lowering his head against your chest, resting his chin there. You almost pull him back up to you, craving to feel the plumpness of his kiss-bitten lips against yours again.

“But…” He says then, the syllable stressed by a gentle pull of your last button. Then, the second to last one. “I’m sure we can find something to do about it without getting out of bed.”

He leans forward then, buries his face against your lower abdomen where he lavishes the soft protrusion of skin with eager affection.

Oh.

“There are two pens and the five latest editions of the New York Times on the nightstand.”

It was sort of your tradition to solve the crossword puzzles together whenever you had the chance, or at least some of them. Spencer even changed his habit of checking the crossword puzzle first thing in the morning, just in case you might end up solving it together later on that day.

Still, his response to your light jest comes in a small groan against your palm. He looks up at you, eyes wide in that signature way that reminds you he’s ruined you and you’re glad this is the case. 

“That’s not what I had in mind,” He trails his way up higher, kissing and nuzzling against the bare skin he’s met with as he unbuttons the rest of your shirt and you let him. “Not right now, at least.”

You hum, voice low yet warm. “And what exactly is it that you have in mind?” 

He kisses his way down to your stomach once more, only now his hands are also travelling upwards, caressing the curves of your legs until they hook under the waist pant of your pyjama shorts. 

He pushes it down just enough, just so that his warm breath hitting your navel can make your own catch in your throat. 

The playful glint in his eyes as he stares up at you, comfortable as ever from where you are most sensitive, is as unmistakable as his bargain. But like always, he asks. Just to ask. Because he loves to and he knows you love that he does.

 “…Made my point yet?”

“Not quite.” Your hand disappears between his messy locks, tugging at them just enough for the molten gold in his eyes to darken. “Care to elaborate a little more?”

“So you want me to beg? Is that what this is about, honey?”

“Maybe.” You urge, arching into his touch almost involuntarily as he nips the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Would you?”

Spencer struggles to bite back his grin, already following your lead where your hips tilt, accommodating the removal of your shorts and underwear. His eyes remain locked in yours the whole time, even when you’ve kicked the fabrics between the duvet and the sheets, and your hands battle with the latter for anchoring.

“You know the answer to that, baby.” He breathes over your thundering pulse point, his free hand skimming its way further upwards still, until they find your pooling heat. He does not shy away from demonstrating how much he means it, wrapping his pretty mouth around your fingertips, his cheeks hollowing around them. You gasp, hips twitching, and Spencer simply chuckles around your digits. “I can always beg for you.”

And he’s already rushing to prove his point as he buries his face between your thighs, meeting you halfway. He starts slowly, his lips caressing your throbbing bundle of nerves to tease those first choked moans out from you, the ones that you offer him when he takes his time with you. Today calls for that kind of lavishing, the coaxing of pleasure that comes in languid waves, building the burning tension in your body until it demands to overwhelm each part of you, each muscle, each nerve.

“Spencer.” 

He’s quick to keep your legs apart when you struggle to do so yourself, even more when he hums in response to your hushed whimper of his name, his hands grabbing onto the plush of your hips, marking the flesh just so.

His tongue delves between your slick folds, mouth wrapping around you so completely that it both feels and looks overwhelming. He laves at you fervently, with an eagerness so profound, it casts you breathless. You’re a mess because of it but so is he — hungry moans against your damp skin turning into unabashed whines. Spencer thinks he’ll never get enough of how you taste, he could spend hours upon hours pleasing you, and in turn, discovering new realms of pleasure for himself. 

It becomes clearer and clearer that this is exactly wha he plans to do, for he wasn’t lying about how gladly he’d beg for you time and time again.

He moves against you as if he is a puppet on a string, pushing and pulling according to your wishes, until every last thought inside your head, including the passional warning of your undoing, vanishes completely and you snap before he can bend you anymore.

Still, he doesn’t stop.

He shushes you, surely, lips trailing towards the spots his nails had dug in order to steady you for his taking, whispers of praise and encouragement following each loving kiss. Sweat clings his messy locks to his forehead, sunlight painting him bright and soft at the edges as you half-dazedly gaze down upon him.

Your chest rises and falls, breath coming in pants, as you call for him to return on top of you. He’s immovable, head shaking deliriously against your stomach.

“Not yet, angel. Give me one more. Just one more, like this.” He pleads, audaciously, as if he won’t have his way with you, anyway. As if he doesn’t have you wrapped around his finger, as if you’re not merciless in your need to be doted on by him. Your doe-like gaze is unblinking as he returns between your thighs, lips pressing together in his struggle to accommodate your needs. He’s always undeniably careful, even when he’s yearning for you. Perhaps even more so then. “Let me feel you come apart once more, just like this.”

“Mhm—Yes, Spencer. Please.”

The way that he moans against your mound makes you clench around thin air, hips pressing down against the tangled-up sheets desperately. 

“Easy, baby, I’ve got you.” He promises, voice husky with need and affection muffled against your skin, “Here, let me—” A squeal passes through your own lips as he positions your thighs over his shoulders, making you cling onto him by his shoulders. “There we go, honey. Alright?” 

You croon in acknowledgement, thumbing at the nape of his neck. He offers you a warm, honest smile, one that says he’s proud of making a mess out of you. One that says he’s happy to not yet be done with you.

“Perfect girl, right where I want you…” He murmurs, all swooning and sweet, thumbing half-formed love letters on your thighs until you’re pliant and steady for him once more, “Right where you want to be, huh?” 

Your words barely make it past your lips as he returns to your clit, sucking on it lightly at first, teasing you into further submission, before he indulges in you even more. Your head lolls back against your pillow and you fist at the fabric of his cardigan to keep yourself in place, no matter how pointless it seems.

Spencer’s even more relentless with you this time around. He can’t help it, won’t apologise for it. Not when you taste so good, not when this is the closest thing to heaven he’s ever going to know. His tongue is merciless as it swipes up and down, back and forth, ‘causing you to squirm against his face with abandon. When your eyes meet once more, your gaze carries an aching amount of need that can’t help but be translated in the slight rocking of your hips against his face.

Spencer’s eyes fall shut as your thighs practically imprison him between them, your body coming alive in ways that your consciousness cannot care to control. Not when the promise of what’s to come lingers across every part of your body.

“Fuck, Spencer, I’m—” What you’re trying to tell him is that you’re sorry, unbearably apologetic as you are to have him flush between your thighs so tightly, his cheeks smudged by the thickness of your thighs. 

But Spencer won’t have that happen, won’t have you go there when he’s exactly where he wants to be. He’s surrounded by your essence, feeling it against his lips, his nose, his body, and it’s the most perfect kind of bliss he could fathom.

And so he moans against you, breathing something unintelligible where he fucks you with his mouth, tongue diving deeper where you need him most, following the pace you’ve set for it with your thrusts. He doesn’t allow you to question his level of comfort even for a second, not when he becomes louder every time your thighs twitch around him, caging him against your core completely. He’s begging to dissolve against you, kissing and lapping at you until your mouth falls open into that divine shape, until you’re cursing and praising, until you melt against him in a way that deprives him of his sanity.

On his tongue, you are all honey and warmth, your climax washing over you in tidal waves that he’s glad to sink under. He’s filled with you, doesn’t miss a single one of your throbbing thrusts with his wide, pleading mouth. He takes and takes and takes until you’re writhing, until you’re silently begging for mercy which he merely offers because he knows you need him closer to you. Still.

He doesn’t rise on top of you just yet, no. He still has inches of skin to litter with praise and the lightest of touches, sore muscles he has to tend to with tender caresses just enough to ensure you’re cherished with placidness. 

“Right here, sweet girl. I’m right here with you.” He shushes you with soft kisses against your neck when you pull him closer, trembling legs still hovering uselessly around his waist. “Breathe for me.”

But you’re not looking to breathe, not really. 

As the haze of your second orgasm abandons you and clarity settles across your senses, all you’re looking for is to burn around him entirely, to feel him inside of you, to have him take you again until your limbs become feather-light and you feel like you’re floating.

You bring his forehead against yours, brush your lips against each other’s. You glance between his eyes shyly, as if you’re too embarrassed of the charming disarray surrounding you both inside your room, all the tossing and turning, the pushing and pulling it’s been a witness to.

Spencer can’t help the amusement that clouds his glowing countenance at the state he’s put you in, the way he’s tenderly ruined you.

“Are you with me, angel girl?” He leaves a soft kiss on the tip of your nose, then the top of your upper lip, “I haven’t lost you, have I now?”

That’s when you scoff, when you roll your eyes pointedly (or at least attempt to do so, rather poorly.) In reality, his humorous teasing only pleases you further. It shows, as it always does, that he cares about you in ways that words cannot describe. That his need and his love for you is as compassionate as it is fervent in its intensity.

You make your point known by snapping the button of his cardigan open. “Off?”

“If you say so.” He obliges, helping you push the material off of his shoulders, and carelessly towards the edge of the bed. His t-shirt comes next, followed by his trousers. When he’s left only in his underwear, he gasps at the feeling of your bare core swiping against his clothed one. Gently, he lays you back down, pulling away just enough to undress himself without ruining the moment unceremoniously.

He’s hard and hot where he brushes against your thigh, so much so that you whimper as he settles over you.

“Hey. Look at me, sweetness,” You do so, although your eyes are still glossy and half-closed, your skin shivering slightly. “You’re really sensitive right now. Are you sure this is what you want?”

He asks you, half-proudly, half-apologetically, but more than anything, with complete earnestness. It’s in his nature to do so. He’d be damned if he ever pushed you over an edge he cared more than anything for, that of your comfort.

“You know well enough I can handle it,” You don’t have to ponder on it at all when you speak, biting back a loving smile. “Or is it that you want me to beg, too?”

“Of course, you can, baby.” Spencer chuckles. The sound vibrates against your skin where he leans to press his lips against your collarbone. “No, not right now. I’m doing all the begging today, right?” He muses, pulling the fabric of his shirt from your body ever so slowly until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Right?”

“That’s right.”

“So, let me beg…” His voice takes on a low, seductive tone. You swallow hard, new-found warmth blooming inside your stomach, as he lines himself at your entrance. “Are you going to let me take care of you, baby?”

But this is a game you’re apparently losing at, anyway, since a desperate plea leaves you the moment his tip brushes against your slick.

Spencer laughs. He lifts his head from the crook of your neck to look right at you, prolonging your agony by choosing to brush hair away from your face gently.

“Oh, angel. What happened to no begging for you?”

“You know I don’t mind begging, either,” You admit, mouth ghosting over his jaw. A beat passes with you staring at him as he leans back, his eyes hazy with desire. Then, you whisper against his ear, “Please, Spencer. Fuck me?”

His cock twitches where it begs to slip inside of you, his resolve coming far too close to snapping at your words. Still, he maintains his control by seizing the opportunity to kiss the crudeness out of you, mouth pressing against yours hard and hot.

He takes hold of your legs, wrapping them around his middle so that you’re as close as you can be. From the way you’re looking at him, he knows it’s exactly what you both need, and that fact, that instant recognition makes both of your insides burn. 

“You’re going to keep your legs wrapped around me the whole time, okay?” You immediately nod, your hips rising on instinct as he steadies himself over you. “I will give you exactly what you want by having you like this. You know why?” You shake your head, blinking up at him. He lowers his forehead to rest on top of yours, “Because you were so good for me, honey. You were perfect. You always are.” His tip pushes in just so as his lips skim your temple. They press on the skin lightly. “And I’ll always give you what you deserve.” He sinks into you, inch by inch, slipping into your warmth, finding no resistance due to how soaked you are as you engulf him completely. “Always.”

He doesn’t move immediately, although he craves to just as much as you do. It’s not just about restraint, but mostly about savouring this. Taking his time with you. Feeling you surround him entirely. His breath is heavy as it coats your quivering skin, as your hardened nipples brush against his where your chests rise and fall together. You hug him close to you, allow him to christen you with as much affection as he wishes to before he is ready to make love to you.

When he looks up at you, both of your eyes are full of palpable devotion that only intensifies the moment that he thrusts forward, rocking his hips against yours.

Like this, it’s impossible to know where either of you begins and ends. Each part of you stains each part of the other. And God, do you love it. You grab onto his waist with one hand, as the other loops around his neck. He, on the other hand, has his forearms pressed on either side of your head against your pillow, so that he surrounds you completely.

As he moves, first slow and gentle, then faster and with more eagerness, he sinks on top of you even more the deeper his cock buries inside of you. It’s a revelatory kind of madness, one that you both respond to in the same way — by more so grinding against each other than anything else. 

“Fuck, you have no idea…” 

He claims, but goodness, you do.

You’re achingly tender as you stretch to his every beckoning, only to clench around him when he proves how much he loves the feeling. Pleasure overflows inside of you, fills you to the brim as you moan against the skin of his shoulder.

“You’re perfect, Spencer—”

“Not as perfect as you, honey—”

His right arm slips further down the mattress until it finds your waist. It twins around it, aiding your indulgent arching, as he picks up his pace determinedly, not a single inch of your bodies remaining apart as his thrusts take on a steady rhythm which has the sole purpose of making the both of you melt further against each other.

When he tries to kiss you, it’s to no avail. You’ve already buried your face against his neck, murmuring the same sentence over and over again in between the softest nips and mewls — I love you, I love you, I love you.

It only spurs him on further, the evidence of his steadfast passion accentuated by the obscene sounds emanating from between you. White-hot pleasure starts building up within you as he drives himself into you with careful precision, slow enough so that the extent of your sensitivity renders you impossibly speechless, and lures him closer to his own undoing.

“Fuck, that’s it—” You moan brokenly, shuddering as your muscles clench around his hips, the heels of your feet skimming against the back of his thighs as he pins you to the mattress. “Right there, Spencer.”

“I know, baby. Fuck, I know—” He smiles, leaning back just enough to nudge your face towards his, and finally kiss you. The moment your lips meet and move in tandem with the rocking of your hips, you clench around his length, heat pooling dangerously lower and lower as your eyes roll back. Spencer tilts his body just the right way so that your clit is stimulated with his every thrust, abandoning your waist to lock both of your hands together on the pillows. 

He has one request for you as he gets you closer to the edge. He whispers it softly against your lips, “Let me look at you when you come for me, sweet girl. Please?”

Moist burns behind your eyes as your body responds to his call and your hands tighten around his. And just like that, the coil of fiery pleasure snaps, and your sanity slips away from you as you come, walls fluttering mercilessly around Spencer’s cock.

It’s that image and those eyes, those beautiful, tender eyes of yours that look into him with striking vulnerability, carrying infinite tenderness, that overwhelm him to the point of ecstasy. He’s unable to fight it, has no reason to do so anymore, and so he rewards you with a raspy, broken grunt of your name as he ruts forth firmly twice, spilling himself inside of you. You’re fawning at the sight of his larger frame sinking against your molten one as he rides out the remnants of his orgasm, still half-delirious yourself.

Silence surrounds you then. It’s abrupt but more than pleasant, a warm quietness that fits the sight of your spent, entangled bodies just as much as it does the snowy landscape outside. You’ve both slipped into a lavish peacefulness that’s too heavenly to be disrupted. You want nothing more than to remain entrapped in it for as long as possible.

Stained with the gentleness of post-coital bliss, you could’ve sworn that you were the first to come to — only Spencer’s already laying next to you on his side, briefs pulled over his softening-cock haphazardly, arm looped around your waist where he’s covered your body with the duvet.

“Do not move.” You’re more than inclined to follow his orders, sore as you are from the onslaught of pleasure you’d welcomed from him. He pulls the fabric of his shirt over your shoulders as well as he can, though you’d much rather cling to him than to the covers or his shirt.

He doesn’t complain about it, though. Instead, he pulls you closer, brushing strands of hair behind your shoulder and kissing your heated skin wherever. 

“Too warm?”

“Just enough.”

He nods gently at you, hands reaching down to your thighs, where he starts massaging the tender skin absentmindedly. 

You let him do so for a while, until he calls for you, his voice a simple breathy kiss against your ear.

“Sweet girl?”

“Mhm?”

“Where did you say you kept those copies of the New York Times?”

You beam at him when you open your eyes fully, met with a disheveled and soft figure equal to yours that makes your heart flutter, “Bottom drawer to your right.”

You bargain with him on who shall go first, as well as who shall solve more of them quicker. You promise to cook him his favourite pancakes and stay in bed until the afternoon, no matter what, if he wins. He promises you an hour-long bath and to only read the novels that you choose today, if you do.

To his credit, he manages to get through four of the puzzles before he breaks his record of five-and-a-half-minutes solving time, which means he doesn’t go too easy on you. And although you’ve always been an especially sore loser, you’re not too sore a one when you spend the rest of the day tucked inside his warm embrace, shielded from the cold and the frozen, snow-covered city outside your window.

It helps that he does draw that hour-long bath for you, anyway.

It helps that he does forsake his preference for Hemingway in front of your own for Fitzgerald when he reads two of his novels to you that night until you fall asleep, feeling content, loved, and warm beyond words.

And it does help that he coaxes your slipping into that tender version of intimacy you’re both needy for that day, more than happy to beg for you to, more than at peace with the fact that only you can ever tear his resolve apart the way you do so without even trying, twice more that day.

The day calls for it, anyway.

[certaimromance]

✦ Five Reasons To Date a Genius.

Spencer Reid x Secret Lover!reader

2k tea party | main masterlist

Summary: The first time you go out with the team without Spencer, they make it their mission to explain why you should absolutely date him. The problem? You already are. And have been for months.

Words: 4,4k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. secret relationship. mentions of alcohol, injuries, typical cm stuff. neither hotch nor rossi are present because it is a conversation not approved by parents. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Welcome to the first fic of my 2k celebration! I had so much fun writing this and I really hope you enjoy it. I missed writing Spencer so badly, my beloved boy♡

Seeing the things you saw every day never got easier. It never dulled. Not truly. No matter how many cases you closed, how many reports you filed, or how many reassurances you whispered to yourself that it was “just part of the job,” the images lodged themselves stubbornly behind your eyes. They resurfaced in the fragile, half-lit space between waking and sleep, where logic dissolved, where the world felt unmoored and memory ran riot. Some nights, they came at you in jagged shards. Faces without names, eyes wide with terror, blood that would not wash from your hands, screams that looped endlessly in your mind, refusing to be silenced. Other nights, the horror didn’t take shape, didn’t insist on narrative. It simply pressed down, a dull, omnipresent ache inside your skull that pulsed with every heartbeat, dragging your thoughts through viscous fog. Hours after the case had technically concluded, you still felt it there, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness, leaving you unsteady, as if your brain itself had lost the ability to process the world normally.

Pretending you were fine, the practiced mask you showed the victims’ families as they sobbed into your shoulder, had long become second nature. But pretending you weren’t in love with your coworker required a level of discipline you could only maintain for so long.

Especially not here, wedged into a booth at a dimly lit bar with the low hum of conversation pressing in from all sides. The room was full of profilers, which somehow made everything worse. Too many observant eyes. Too many people trained to notice the smallest deviations in behavior, the slightest changes in posture or tone. You nursed your drink carefully, letting the cold glass ground you, while Emily sat close enough that her knee bumped yours every time she shifted, and Penelope hovered on your other side like a bright, determined force of nature, utterly committed to the idea that you were going to have fun, whether your nervous system agreed or not.

Morgan and JJ laughed loudly at something Penelope said, and for a moment you let yourself smile along with them, letting the music and the alcohol blur the sharp edges of the day. They kept refilling your glass, kept asking questions, kept dragging you into conversations that required just enough focus to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to the case. It was sweet, really, their way of anchoring you to the present, but it also made the knot in your chest tighten. Because Spencer wasn’t there. And without him across the room, without the subtle weight of his gaze finding you instinctively, you felt off-balance, like you’d lost a familiar point of reference.

But he had taken a few days off. A minor injury, he said, just a cut and a bruise above his eyebrow, the result of protecting you from an unsub who had come too close. Now he was away, tending to his mother, and the world felt off in his absence. It was selfish, of course, to miss him this much. And yet, every instinct in your body longed for him: the quiet presence across the table, the faint scent he left on his coat, the way his nervous energy somehow steadied your own. You traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly, wishing for him to materialize from the crowd, wishing for the familiar tilt of his head, the low hum of thought behind his eyes.

Damn.

“That guy definitely wants something,” Emily said beside you, leaning in with a grin as she gestured toward the bar. You followed her gaze to the man who had been stealing glances at you all night, confidence written into his posture. A moment later, a bartender appeared, setting a sleek, expensive-looking drink in front of you with a nod in the man’s direction.

You barely hesitated before sliding the glass away. “I’m not interested, thanks,” you said, firm but polite, pushing it back toward the bartender.

JJ raised her eyebrows, amused. “Wow. Not even a sip?”

“I didn’t ask for it,” you replied, shrugging, though your fingers curled a little tighter around your own glass.

Penelope gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Do you realize how hot you have to be for strangers to just send you drinks? You’re wasting valuable flirting potential.”

Emily laughed. “She does this every time. Completely unfazed. It’s impressive, honestly.”

“You know,” Morgan said suddenly, eyeing you over the rim of his bottle, a teasing glint in his eyes, “this would be a lot easier if you just had a boyfriend.”

JJ nodded along, grinning. “Seriously. It’d save us all the trouble of watching men strike out all night.”

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m doing just fine without one.”

“Uh-huh,” Morgan said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you are. You turn down free drinks, avoid flirting, and spend half the night staring at the door like you’re waiting for someone.”

JJ tilted her head, studying you with that calm, perceptive expression that made suspects crumble. “You know,” she said slowly, “you don’t act like someone who’s single.”

Oh.

You laughed, a little too quickly. “There’s no correct way to act single.”

Morgan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Sure there is. And you don’t fit it. You turn down drinks, avoid flirting, and spend most of the night talking about work or—” he paused, grinning, “—Reid.”

“What? I do not,” you protested.

Emily smiled into her glass. “You do. Constantly. Did you even realize you quoted one of his fun facts earlier?”

“That was relevant,” you said defensively. “And we’re friends.”

“Friends,” Penelope echoed, drawing the word out. “Interesting. Because the way you say his name is not very platonic.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm. “He’s my coworker. We work well together. That’s all.”

“Oh no,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “You don’t just work well together. You orbit each other. It’s painful to watch.”

JJ nodded. “You finish his sentences. He checks your reactions before he answers questions in briefings. And don’t think we haven’t noticed how you always end up sitting next to each other on the jet.”

“That’s coincidence,” you said immediately.

Except it wasn’t.

Not really.

Coincidence didn’t explain the way your fingers found each other in the narrow space beneath the shared blanket on long flights, skin brushing just once before intertwining. Didn’t explain the quiet weight of his hand resting against your knee when the lights dimmed and everyone else slept. Didn’t explain the chess table in hotel lobbies, the board between you like plausible deniability while his thumb traced slow circles against your knuckles. The way you both froze at the slightest sound, then smiled innocently when someone passed by.

You had learned how to hide. How to make it look accidental. How to pull away a second before it became obvious.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Because I’ve taken three different seats to test that theory, and somehow you two still end up shoulder to shoulder.”

Your stomach dipped. You forced a careless shrug, lifting your glass as if this were amusing rather than terrifying.

“The jet isn’t exactly spacious,” you said. “Statistically, proximity is inevitable.”

Penelope leaned in closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Also, he brings you coffee. Not just coffee, your coffee. No one memorizes an oat-milk-to-cinnamon ratio like that for a friend.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “He’s thoughtful. That’s just how Spencer is.”

“Exactly,” JJ said gently. “Thoughtful. Kind. Loyal. And completely in love with you.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “He is not.”

Morgan smirked. “Kid looks at you like you’re the only stable thing in his universe.”

Emily added, “Like you make the world quieter for him.”

Penelope sighed dreamily. “Like if the universe ever collapses, it’ll be because you weren’t holding his hand.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands for a second. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“Are we?” JJ asked softly. “Because I’ve seen him panic when you’re hurt. He forgets procedure. He forgets everything except you.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ve never seen Reid jealous before. Then some consultant flirted with you and suddenly he’s giving me a ten-minute lecture on territorial behavior in primates.”

You stared at your drink. “We’re just friends,” you repeated, quieter now, like saying it enough times might make it true in the way they needed it to be.

Emily clinked her glass gently against yours. “Then you should start to date him.”

You smiled, a reflex more than a reaction, and let your gaze drop to your hands. If only she knew. If only she knew that “starting” had happened months ago, not with a confession or a dramatic moment, but in the slow accumulation of small things. In conversations that stretched past midnight because neither of you wanted to be the first to say goodnight. In the way Spencer learned the exact cadence of your voice when you were tired and adjusted himself accordingly, by speaking softer, moving closer, offering presence instead of solutions.

By the time the night stretched into that hazy, in-between hour where the music grew louder and the conversations looser, the team had clearly decided this was no longer casual teasing.

This was a campaign.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle like he was delivering a closing argument. “Okay,” he said, grinning, “let’s be logical about this. You have to date Reid, and we have reasons. One: free lectures on literally anything. Guaranteed safety on trivia nights. And if you ever forget a birthday? He won’t. Ever. Man’s brain is a steel trap.”

You scoffed lightly, even as your heart gave an involuntary, traitorous flutter. “I don’t need to date someone for trivia night.”

What you didn’t say was that Spencer already remembered the dates that mattered, without prompts or reminders or jokes made at his expense. He remembered the day your fingers brushed for the first time, both of you startled by how electric something so small could feel. He remembered the anniversary of the case that left you hollowed out, the one that made your hands shake for days afterward. He remembered the exact time you had once texted him I can’t sleep, the message sent in the dead of night when you were sure no one would answer, and how he’d shown up at your door less than twenty minutes later, hair rumpled, jacket half-zipped, eyes dark with concern, holding two mismatched mugs of tea like they were offerings meant to ward off your fear.

And of course, he remembered the first time you kissed. That quiet moment before a case, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, his hands trembling slightly where they rested at your waist. The way he’d paused, breath warm against your cheek, asking softly if this was okay, as if you might change your mind at the last second. The way the world had narrowed to just the two of you when you hadn’t.

Penelope leaned across the table then, bracelets chiming as her eyes sparkled with unfiltered conviction. Her voice dropped, earnest and conspiratorial all at once.

“Wrong,” she said. “You need to date someone who adores you. And Spencer Reid?” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Worships the ground you walk on. Respectfully. With footnotes.”

You swallowed because that wasn’t exaggeration. Not even a little. Spencer loved you the way he loved knowledge: with reverence, with humility, with a kind of awe that treated you as something to be understood and safeguarded rather than claimed. He asked before touching you, even after months together, even when your body already knew the shape of his. Asked if he could hold your hand, if he could kiss your shoulder, if it was okay to stay the night. Every question spoken softly, like consent was not just a rule but a philosophy he lived by.

And when you teased him for it, when you smiled and told him he didn’t have to ask every time, he would flush, ears going pink, eyes impossibly sincere as he said, very seriously,

“I never want to assume I have the right to you.”

The memory settled heavy and warm in your chest, almost painful in its tenderness. You stared down at your drink, the ice melting slowly, and wondered how long you could keep pretending this was all just hypothetical.

JJ laughed. “Two, he’s amazing with kids.”

Oh.

Oh no.

You choked on your drink, the burn sharp as it went down the wrong way, coughing as you leaned forward, eyes watering slightly.

“Why,” you managed, setting the glass down harder than necessary, “are we talking about kids?”

Emily shrugged, smirking. “Because I’ve seen him with Henry. He kneels to talk at eye level, explains things like they matter, and somehow turns explaining space-time into a bedtime story.”

Your laughter never came.

Instead, your thoughts slipped traitorously inward, drifting to a quiet night you rarely let yourself linger on for too long. The room had been dark except for the thin spill of streetlight through the curtains. Spencer had been staring at the ceiling, hands folded tightly over his chest, voice unsteady in that way it only ever was when he let himself be vulnerable with you. He’d said he wasn’t sure he’d ever be good enough for a future like that. Not just kids, but the whole fragile idea of permanence. A house. A dog. A life where someone depended on him in ways he might fail.

You’d rolled onto your side then, traced the familiar line of his jaw with your thumb. You’d told him that he was already the gentlest person you knew. That gentleness wasn’t weakness. That it was rare. Necessary.

He’d gone quiet after that. Too quiet. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining, glassy in the dark, like no one had ever named that part of him before. Like no one had ever framed him as enough. And then, hesitantly, like he was testing the safety of the idea, he’d started talking about names with interesting meanings, about how parenting shaped a person forever, about how words and care and patience could alter the entire trajectory of a life. You’d listened, heart aching in that hopeful, terrifying way, knowing how much trust it took for him to even imagine it out loud.

Morgan snapped his fingers sharply, pulling you back to the present.

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “That man is dad material.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead. “We are not doing this.”

“We absolutely are,” Penelope said. “So, three, picture it. Reid as a husband? He’d over-research wedding venues. Color palettes. Statistically optimal cake flavors.”

JJ nodded thoughtfully. “He’d cry during the vows. And then apologize for crying.”

Emily added, “And then quote something obscure but devastatingly romantic.”

You stared at them. “You’re all insane.”

Morgan grinned. “You’d be insane not to marry him.”

“I am not marrying Spencer Reid,” you said quickly, and stopped. Because the word yet pressed so hard against your teeth it almost slipped free.

Penelope gasped. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate. That denial was practiced.”

Because it was. Because you’d rehearsed it in your head every time you watched Spencer fall asleep beside you, glasses carefully set on the nightstand, one hand curled loosely in your shirt like he needed proof you were real. Because you already knew what forever would look like with him, and loving him in secret felt safer than risking a world that might take him from you.

JJ smiled into her glass. “Four, you already defend him like a spouse.”

“That is not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Emily said easily. “Every time someone underestimates him, you go feral.”

Morgan laughed. “Remember that sheriff who called him ‘the kid’? You verbally disassembled that man.”

“He deserved it.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Wife behavior.”

You buried your face in your hands again. “He’s my friend.”

“Friends don’t memorize each other’s stress tells,” JJ said gently. “You know when he’s about to spiral before he does.”

“And he knows when you’re pretending you’re fine,” Penelope added. “He brings you books instead of asking questions.”

Emily tilted her head. “You know what that’s called?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Don’t say it.”

“Domestic,” Emily said.

The table erupted in laughter.

Morgan wasn’t done. “Five, let’s talk logistics. You’d never argue over directions. He already knows the fastest route everywhere.”

JJ laughed. “Your kids would be terrifyingly smart.”

“Okay, absolutely not,” you said quickly. “We are shutting that down right now.”

Emily smirked. “Too late. I’m picturing curly-haired little geniuses who quote Shakespeare.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And carry FBI badges at career day.”

You shook your head, cheeks burning, heart doing something dangerously unprofessional in your chest. “This is ridiculous.” And so lovely to imagine.

“Is it?” JJ asked softly. “Because every reason we’re giving you…you already know.”

For a moment, the teasing eased, not gone, just quieter. The music filled the space between you, the bar lights blurring slightly at the edges. You took a slow sip of your drink, staring down at the condensation on the glass.

Penelope smiled at you, gentler now. “We just think you deserve someone who looks at you the way Spencer Reid looks at you.”

Morgan nodded. “Like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”

You nodded slowly, still silent, heart pounding.

If they only knew that you already were.

That the man they were trying to convince you to date was the one who kissed your temple before briefings, who texted you goodnight even when you were in the same building, who held your hand in the dark when the world felt too heavy. That you were already his, in every way that mattered.

You took a slow breath, forcing your expression to stay neutral, even as your chest overflowed with something secret and devastatingly sweet.

Because they could give you a thousand reasons to date Spencer Reid.

And not a single one of them would come close to the reasons you already loved him.

The night unraveled slowly, the way nights like that always did, as if no one quite wanted to be the first to admit they were tired. Laughter faded into softer smiles, jokes trailed off mid-sentence, and the table became crowded with empty glasses and half-forgotten napkins, evidence of a shared attempt at normalcy. The music blurred into something distant and indistinct, no longer demanding attention. You said your goodbyes in a haze of hugs, promised Penelope—twice, because she insisted—to text when you got home, and accepted one last lingering look from Emily and JJ. It wasn’t accusatory. Just fond. Observant. It settled in your chest like a question they didn’t ask.

The cold air outside wrapped around you immediately, clearing the last traces of alcohol from your system. You breathed it in deeply as you walked, shoulders drawing up, the city quieter now, lights reflecting softly off damp pavement. By the time you reached your apartment building, the exhaustion you’d been holding at bay finally settled in. The familiar hum of the hallway lights greeted you, and you moved on autopilot, unlocking the door, slipping inside.

Your shoes came off just past the threshold. Your keys landed in the ceramic bowl by habit. You sighed, long and deep, body sagging as if it had finally been given permission to rest.

And then you froze.

There was a light on in the living room.

Not harsh. Not alarming. Just warm and unmistakably familiar. Your heart skipped, then stuttered, then began to race in earnest as you moved further inside, steps slow, breath shallow with anticipation. You didn’t call out. You didn’t need to.

Spencer was there.

He sat on your couch, leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees. A book rested open beside him, forgotten, a marker of a thought interrupted. He looked up the moment you appeared, eyes softening instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. His curls were more unruly than usual, falling into his eyes, and his jacket had been folded neatly over the arm of the couch, as if he’d taken care to make himself small in your space. He stood too quickly, movement a little uncoordinated, nerves evident in the way his shoulders squared.

“Hey,” he said softly.

The sound of his voice wrapped around you and your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, even as your body betrayed you, carrying you toward him without hesitation.

“I came back early,” he said, swallowing, fingers flexing as if he didn’t know where to put them.

Your brows furrowed. “Spencer, you were supposed to be with your mom until tomorrow.”

know,” he said quickly, then slowed himself down, forcing a breath. “I was. But you sounded tired earlier. On the phone. And you said your head hurt.” His gaze flicked to your face, so careful. “And you paused before answering, which you only do when you’re trying not to worry me.”

You stopped in front of him, hands already reaching for his sleeves, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.

“So I changed my ticket,” he finished, voice quieter now. “I thought…statistically, after cases like this, you’re more likely to minimize how bad you’re feeling. And I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Something in you melted completely.

You stepped into him, resting your forehead against his chest, breathing him in. His arms came around you immediately, no hesitation this time, no uncertainty. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gentle in your hair, the other settling at your waist. He held you like he was anchoring you to the present, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, voice muffled against him.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair. “I wanted to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye, careful not to touch where you were still sensitive from the headache.

“I want to take care of you,” he said again, quieter this time, like a promise meant only for you.

Your chest ached. Because this was who Spencer Reid was. He loved quietly, deliberately. He showed up. He noticed. He acted.

It was the thousandth reason to love him as you already did.

He pulled back again, eyes scanning your face with practiced concern. “Did you eat something there?”

You huffed a soft, tired laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s not an answer,” he said, lips twitching.

“Barely. There’s no real food in a bar.”

He nodded, already turning toward the kitchen. “Okay. I made that instant soup you like just in case. It’s…not burned.”

You watched him move through your space like he belonged there, because he did. His shoes lined up neatly by the door. His glasses case on your coffee table. His presence woven so seamlessly into your apartment it felt wrong when he wasn’t there.

While he reheated the soup, you leaned against the counter, watching the careful way he stirred, the way he tasted and adjusted, brow furrowing in concentration.

“You didn’t have to come back early,” you said again, softer now. “I know you wanted to be with your mom.”

He glanced at you, expression earnest. “I know but she was okay, probably even tired of me talking so much about you. And I wanted to be here when you got home. And I figured…after nights like this, you usually can’t sleep.”

Your throat tightened, the words sitting heavy for a moment before you let them out.

“They were talking about you all night.”

Spencer paused mid-motion.

The ladle hovered above the pot, a thin ribbon of steam curling up between you. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, like his body had registered the information a second before his mind caught up.

“Oh,” he said.

You smiled faintly, watching the way his fingers tightened around the handle. “They think we should date.”

That did it.

His ears flushed immediately, color blooming so fast it felt almost unfair. He swallowed, blinked once, then again, like his brain was rapidly sorting through several possible responses and rejecting all of them.

“Oh,” he repeated, voice cracking just slightly, traitorously.

You stepped closer, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He smelled like soup and clean cotton. His body relaxed at the contact even as his mind clearly did not.

“They gave me reasons,” you added softly. “Lots of them.”

He resumed moving, carefully this time, ladling soup into a bowl with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.

“Were they…logical?” he asked.

You laughed under your breath. “Painfully so.”

That earned you a shy smile, the corner of his mouth lifting as he set the bowl down with great care, adjusting it so it was perfectly centered on the counter.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “They’re not wrong. I mean—about the logic. Not about the…dating part. Because we already—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, flustered. “I mean, it would be redundant.”

“I know,” you said gently, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed your knuckle automatically. “They don’t.”

He nodded, lips pressing together in thought as he handed you a spoon, making sure it wasn’t too hot.

“Maybe we should…tell them someday,” he said carefully, like he was testing the idea for structural integrity.

“When we get married,” you replied easily, absentmindedly studying your bare finger like you could already see it there. Like it was an inevitability, not a joke.

Spencer’s brain left the building.

He froze completely, eyes widening, breath catching so sharply you were genuinely concerned he might tip over. The spoon in his hand clinked softly against the counter.

“What?” he said, voice several octaves higher than usual.

You looked up at him, amused, soft, devastatingly calm. “Imagine their faces when they get the invitation.”

He stared at you like you’d just proposed rewriting the laws of physics.

“You’re drunk,” he said faintly.

“I’m in love,” you corrected, crossing your arms behind his neck, pressing yourself closer. You kissed his cheek once. Then again. And once more for good measure. “So in love.”

He made a small, helpless noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, hands lifting instinctively to steady you at the waist. His ears were fully red now, eyes bright, and smile completely unguarded.

“Now I need to know,” he said breathlessly, “exactly what they told you, because this amount of affection is…unusual. Even for you.”

You laughed, forehead resting against his.

“Oh, Spencer,” you murmured. “You have no idea what they already know.”

[everlastingephemera]

infinity (the start of time)

— or the one where you cannot quite wrap your head around the concept of the universe being infinite and Spencer, who is more than glad to explain it all to you, realises the truth of the matter is perfectly mirrored in how you feel about each other. [Spencer Reid x fem!reader]

Word Count: 4.5K. Proof-read.

Content Warnings: (18+ MDNI) FLUFF + SMUT. SECOND-PERSON POV. No use of Y/N. Potentially inaccurate physics talk about the universe (not being a STEM girl and loving Spencer is indeed hard), soft-dom!Spencer (if you are asking me, that is), established relationship, THIGH RIDING (fucking finally), oral fixation (if you squint), unprotected p-in-v sex, reader is on top, domestic and fluffy lovemaking because Spencer yearns for that kind in my books, they are in love and were always meant to be™.

Author's Note: Happy 2026 — this was written purely because I always yearn for pre-prison season 12!Spencer and because I have an unhealthy obsession with thigh riding (no, I will not hold back on admitting that.) I spent the whole night rereading it to the point where I started blushing and felt like sharing it here as well. Hope that you might enjoy it, too! ☺️

“I still don’t get it.”

You frown, reaching for the freshly-peeled pomegranate slice that Spencer offers you. You’re gazing up at him, your head on his lap, as he settles back against the couch, pieces of green and purple grapes and slices of brie cheese that he’ll surely regret munching on later in his plate. 

Today was one of those rare occasions when Spencer got to leave the office earlier than normal, long before sunset as it was when he appeared on your doorway, surprising you entirely and in the best way possible. You’d fallen inside his arms and were quick to put your coat and shoes on when he’d suggested you went browsing around the market taking place downtown on Fridays. After you picked up some much needed groceries for his apartment (you never knew how long he’d have to be away from home when the next case called for it), as well as the rare first editions of Nietzsche and Wittgenstein that Spencer had eyed last time Mr. Schmidt, the sweet German bookseller you’d come to make acquaintances with, was in town, you decided to hang out at his apartment for the rest of the day. You’d both decided to make a charcuterie board with some of the groceries you’d bought — fruit, butter biscuits, honey, chocolate bars, as well as slices of cheese and ham — since neither of you were particularly hungry, before settling on his couch, watching a documentary about the history of the universe.

“Which part?” His free hand brushes stray hair you’re too lazy to take care of yourself away from your eyes, and although you know he’s not exactly teasing you, you stick your tongue out at him playfully when you notice how he’s smiling down at you. He pinches your cheek lightly in equal jest and you blush.

“If the universe is actually infinite, how does the Big Bang play into it? I mean, isn’t it supposed to be the point where it all began?”

“Well, technically speaking, the universe being infinite is still a theory. It’s just the most plausible one.” He begins, his lips twitching into a bigger smile when your eyes widen and you tilt your head in concentration. Your eagerness to listen and learn and question, your curious nature, has always been able to make his heart flutter. “But if you subscribe to the theory, which a lot of cosmologists do, the Big Bang is not the start of the universe, but the creation of spacetime as we know it from quantum states, when entropy began to increase and everything materialised. It’s a matter of when it all started to expand into what we know and can experience it to be now, 13.8 billion years ago.”

“So, basically, it’s not as if nothing existed before the Big Bang, but that we haven’t yet found out what it was?”

“Precisely. See, the observable universe extends 46 billion light years in every direction from us, and is in that case finite, but scientists more than suspect that this isn’t all there is to it. It helps to use the Big Bang as a measurement of time to look into the past because it’s easier to calculate the speed at which objects are travelling in the universe that way. Just like we don’t know how or if the universe will end, though, we also don’t know if the cosmic microwave background, those remnants of the early observable universe, signify the actual beginning of time, if there was one.”

Spencer pauses for a moment, noticing your furrowed brow and the way you turn to look between the television and him, nodding faintly. You lean into the cradle of his palm, and he’s worried he’s rambled a little too much for your liking (you’ve told him many times before no such thing is possible), until you speak up again after you’ve reached for the dark chocolate bars, offering him one and waiting for him to take it before beginning to munch on the other.

“And does that reflect on time as it relates to space, too? I mean, if the universe is infinite, does that not mean that time could be as well?”

“Well, like I said, the fact that we treat the Big Bang as the beginning of space and time as we know it doesn’t mean that those didn’t exist before that happened. But since we do, we treat time as a linear concept, but the fact that the universe may or may not come to an end — you know, either keeps expanding until everything in it is torn apart and it collapses in on itself, or it keeps expanding forever until it reaches maximum entropy and no physical process can occur anymore — doesn’t say much about time itself, only about what we know of it.” 

You tsk, “Sounds very philosophical after all.”

Spencer chuckles fondly. He leans forward to press a kiss on your forehead and take a fig piece and a butter biscuit from the board. “Almost everything ultimately is, honey. Even infinity. It’s not a tangible thing, neither is the math required to study the approach of it, if that’s ever possible. It’s a concept to be thought of in the abstract.” 

“See, you say that so casually, but I don’t understand how you scientists can live with all these theories and still not have solid answers in the end. It’s scary.”

“It sure can be. But not everything in life has to be about solid answers. Sometimes, studying the probability of how what came to be happened and what has yet come to be might happen has its own perks.” He cracks open the fig, fingers digging into the richness of the seed, and shrugs, “Plus, I’m not really a scientist.”

“Mhm, no, you’re just a genius.” 

“Admittedly, I am.” 

His cheeks flush a shade of pink that looks even more beautiful in the dying sunlight filling the living room. You smile upon noticing it, your heart speeding up just a little bit at the effect you and your words have on him. 

You catch him by surprise when you move around to sit on his lap, knees perched on either side of him as he blinks at you and licks the excess juice from his fingertips obliviously enough. Warmth spreads all over your body at the sight, nerves burning and tingling, and you leave your own plate next to his on the side table.

“Well, genius boy, what if I told you that I disagree? About infinity being intangible and only a concept to be thought of in the abstract?”

He narrows his eyes, leaning back as you wrap your arms around his neck and use your free hand to run your fingers through his hair softly. “I fear I’d ask you to elaborate.”

You smile, pleased with his answer. It’s exactly what you wanted him to do. 

“There’s this quote I love that a certain genius once told me about, from one of his favourite scientists. It goes, “The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” 

Spencer hums in acknowledgement, eyes bright and loving as he settles his left arm around your back. His face almost hurts from how big the smile adorning it is.

“Well, I’ve always loved that thought. Science is romantic in its own way, you know?” 

Again, he flusters. He drags his palm along small of your back almost soothingly, inhaling sharply when you lazily scrub through the pomegranate in your hand with your index finger, only to press the seed on your fingertip in your waiting mouth. Warmth now overcomes his own body, seeping through his veins to the point it overwhelms him. 

“According to that one law — what’s it called now, let me think… The one about energy never disappearing?” 

“Law of the conservation of energy?”

“Yes, that’s the one!” You exclaim, and despite what he previously thought, Spencer can smile even bigger at your enthusiasm. “So, energy, while not infinite per se, cannot be destroyed or disappear, only transform, right?” You wait until he nods to continue, “Much like the cosmos, much like the universe when the Big Bang happened. Whatever existed before, while not insignificant in any sense, pales in comparison to what starts after. Maybe people are like that, too. I know I feel like I am.” You pause, the heat rising from your neck to your cheeks making you feel hot to the touch. Spencer’s touch doesn’t falter, though. Not as you focus on the crooked knot of his tie, loosening it just enough to tie it properly again. He waits until you can look at him again, feel ready to finish your thoughts, when his hand finds the curve of your neck. “If we carry the cosmos within us, if all the chemistry and the physics in the world proves that we persist beyond finiteness as we know it through transformation, then I choose the moment I found you as my start of time.”

It’s tumultuous, what Spencer feels as he looks at you, cradling your head with almost trembling fingers. There are a lot of things science can explain but not quite how your love makes him feel, he’s come to realise. It doesn’t trouble him at all. “I’d say that’s a lovely yet reasonably faulty leap of logic, technically speaking.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. Shrug, “Ah, but you see. That’s my theory on how the universe begins and ends and transforms into being. It has a logic of its own. No one has to subscribe to it but me.” You bite into the slice of pomegranate you’re still holding, sucking lightly on what’s left to be devoured from the crop. 

It’s a sight that’s both arousing and sweet beyond comprehension.

Spencer laughs. It’s a sound that’s tinged with adoration and fondness and that particular kind of disbelief as to how something can be so right for you and how you’ve come to have it in your life. The one that quickly transforms into pure gratitude. He pulls you towards him unapologetically, and when you squeal, the fruit dropping carelessly to the side, he kisses you tenderly enough, as if to say you’re as much a nerd as he is and he loves it. That he doesn’t really mind whether your theory abides by the laws of this nature, of this universe. Not as long as he is the object of that love. Love, he has come to find, against all odds and statistical probability, has its own laws and rules, all of which he’s glad to follow if you and him are a universe of your own.

You kiss him back, the heartily sound of his laughter still ringing inside your ears, filling your stomach with butterflies. There’s no prettier sound than it in the world. Your teeth sink into his bottom lip and you toy with it, a heavy, primal sound echoing from the depths of his throat that only amplifies how much you crave him. You can still taste the sweetness of figs, honey, and soft butter in his mouth. He can still taste the richness of dark chocolate mixing with the tartness of the pomegranate seeds you’ve just finished devouring in yours. You sigh, melting under his touch as one hand of his finds your hip and the other cups your cheek. You pull away to breathe, even if for a moment, but Spencer’s eyes darken when he notices the fruit’s juice dripping from the corner of your lips. 

It’s then that his kiss becomes gluttonous, all teeth and craving, that he licks and sucks as if it’s nectar, as if it’ll bind him to your universe the way those seeds once bound Persephone to the Underworld. Your mouth opens for him, and so does your whole body, hugging him close to the point where no space exists between you. You’re that hungry for each other.

Soon enough, the heat and longing you’re tangled with is translated in the shy but definite rocking of your hips against his. Your seal of lips remains unbroken as Spencer indulges in it, moaning along with you at the delicious friction, as his hips rise to meet yours. His desire is as undeniable as yours, thick warmth flowing straight to his core swiftly.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, only that you both eventually need more to happen. Your fingers work their way through the buttons of his cardigan while you lips move to the column of his neck, kissing and nipping, almost in tandem with the circling of your hips he’s aiding with his touch against him.

“Spencer, I’m—“ 

“That’s okay, baby. I’ve got you, yeah?” He shushes you when you look at him again, his hands travelling underneath your sweater, “Anything you want, you can have it.”

Your response is wordless and only comes through the pressing of your hips firmer against his thigh. His head falls back, eyes half-lidded and coated with eagerness and pleasure alike as he teases your clothed centre, driving his knee up to graze over it deliberately, “Is that it?” Your broken whimper should be answer enough, but he’s clearly in the mood to tease you into submission, and therefore still prods, “Honey? Words?” 

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his as you whisper, “Yes, please.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. 

“Up.” He calls, helping you come to a stand as he moves to sit towards the edge of the couch. He takes a moment, fingers drawing mindless shapes on your thighs over your tights, you’re sure, until he looks up at you, hazel eyes shining in the dying golden sunlight. “These are very pretty.” 

You almost roll your eyes at the comment, though you feel your face overheat in response. Even more when you notice he’s lining the small polka dots together into the shape of constellations. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Spencer.” He hums questioningly, leaning into your touch when you brush a stray curl away from his forehead and moon softly, “Take them off?” 

“Gladly,” He professes, a faint hint of a smile creeping onto his lips. His hands rise under the material of your skirt, hooking into the hem of your tights as he drags the fabric of it down along that of your underwear with excruciating slowness, his eyes not once leaving your own. You tremble when the coolness of the air and his fingers meet your burning flesh and he’s quick to soothe the sensation by kissing your thighs and knees as they’re exposed. Once he’s helped you out of the unneeded clothing, he brings you to sit down on his leg, one hand anchoring you by your waist, the other resting on your bare thigh. “There we go, that’s better, right?”

You nod helplessly, your desire only fuelled by his gentle provocation. You’re certain you’ve already dampened the spot where his trousers meet your searing hot core. When he stirs his thigh just enough to coax you into moving, you have to grip his shoulders for support, “Spencer—“

“I’m right here, sweet girl. Right here.” He promises, his lips finding the sweet spot on your neck where he murmurs, “Right here and all yours, yeah? Soothe the ache away the way you love to, honey, come on.”

You’re already succumbing to the need before he’s finished asking you to, hips gliding back and forth against his clothed thigh in a steady but precise rhythm. Spencer lets you settle into the pattern of movements that you need to coax yourself into abandon, more than glad to kiss your face and caress and knead the plush of your thighs where they rest on either side of his leg. Like this, with your palms pressed to his chest and your sweet mewls filling his ear, you’re the image of a siren whose song Spencer will always respond to. Willingly, without hesitation. 

“That’s it, honey. Just like that, back and forth, exactly the way you love.” Your breathing starts coming heavier and your pulse quickens underneath his lips, where his teeth scrap against its thundering ever so lightly. When your back arches under his palm, he starts bouncing his thigh up and down, just the way he knows you need, and your head falls back. Pre-cum stains his briefs at the sight of your open mouth and messy hair from all his tugging, the gasping sound of his name as it falls from your mouth, broken yet repetitive. He matches your quickened pace, any intention of teasing you further completely disappearing in front of the promise of your impending release. “Goodness, baby, look at you. You’re divine, honey. The most gorgeous sight I’ve ever known. So good, the stars pale in comparison.”

The promise of hot pleasure coils undeniably under his onslaught of praise and kisses, as you rock and thrust against him, your body trembling under his grasp. Your eyes lock with his, carrying all the primal need that only he was made to quench in every way there is, and you find him to be as breathless as you are, biting on his bottom lip harshly to keep himself in order. You’re overwhelmed almost beyond return, so much so that you try and jerk away from his thigh, but Spencer holds you down because he knows it is what you want.

“Fuck, Spencer, that’s—I’m going to—“

“Do it, baby. Let go for me.”

It’s with that sweet command that your composure is gone, your thighs shaking violently around his leg as everything snaps, bliss erupting everywhere inside you as your release washes over you. Spencer anchors you throughout it all, accommodating you with gentler movements until you clench around him for a final time, and your body sinks inside his embrace. 

“Good girl, honey. That was perfect. You were perfect.” He cards his fingers through your hair, holding you close until the remnants of your orgasm have stopped flicker in the depths of your stomach, your hips still stuttering until they finally still. A few moments pass before you look at him again. “Okay?”

“Mhm, yeah. More than.” You litter his jaw with kisses and he lets you, sighing fondly at the feeling. You rise slightly, still kissing him, until your hips are hovering over his, your hands coming to cup his face. “Your turn now.” 

He swallows hard at that, his Adam’s apple bobbing under your thumb. You can’t help yourself from leaving a tiny kiss on the protrusion, teeth lightly scrapping it. Spencer’s groan vibrates through his body in response to the touch, and you smile down at him, revelling in the flustered mess he is. 

“Yeah?”

“Please.”

Your lips meet again, although this time the kiss is slower and softer than before, though still just as fervent and deep. In the midst of it, you help him discard his own clothing — first his cardigan, then his loosened tie, and when he pushes your sweater over your head, you work on his zipper while he undoes his belt. Once his trousers and briefs are tugged down past his knees, he brings you closer, his hand travelling to your core where he feels just how soaked that you were. 

He mouths a half-formed curse and you whine at his fingers dragging back and forth against your folds before he holds them up for you to taste. Newfound warmth spreads throughout your body, mixing with the evidence of your previous orgasm, as Spencer gazes into your eyes when you let his fingers go with a popping sound, his voice clouded with a longing that could set the room on fire as he quietly asks, “Like this?”

You mutter an equally soft affirmation, desperate to properly sink against him. Yearning for him.

“Alright, honey. Go on.”

Reaching between your bodies, you wrap your hand around him — God, he’s already so fucking hard — and spread some of the leaking pre-cum over his tip, before you line him to your entrance. His hands are carefully positioned at your waist as he helps you sink against him and you moan together at the feeling.

“Ah, fuck, Spencer—“

“My God, honey—“ His mind is clouded because of how perfect you feel wrapped around him, his body aching to go ahead and take you the way you both need, but he finds his composure quickly enough so that he can make sure you’re good to go and not in any discomfort. “We’ll take it slow, yeah? There, you’re being so good for me, sweet girl. Breathe,” He calls you by your name for good measure, to make sure you’re not going to go ahead until you’re ready to as your arms settle over his shoulders. He lets you unbutton his shirt a little further until you’ve fully adjusted to the feeling of him inside you, and then he kisses you — from the crook of your elbow, to your shoulder, to your throat, to your jaw, to your mouth. “Look at me, honey. You can go on.” 

When you begin to move, it’s slow enough, yet so goddamn fulfilling. In this position, he always stretches you in a way that leaves you especially breathless. You can feel him everywhere as he aids your light bouncing, his fingertips burning your flesh as you fist at the soft material of his shirt. It’s not long before languid moans slip past your lips, exacerbated by Spencer’s groans grumbles, the half-coherent praise he can’t help but christen you with. 

“Feels so—fuck—you’re perfect, Spencer,” You breathe, heavy and hot, with your mouth against the bareness of the top of his chest as it slowly ascends — kissing his collarbone, his neck, his jaw, his cheek, until you are face to face with him. “Need—ah, ah—need more, baby, I’m—“

“I know, baby. Go on, as fast as you want, I’ve got you.”

And he does. He does as the sounds emanating from between you become obscene, the clashing of your hips where your cores meet a love affair quite as violent and passionate as that of the waves and the shore’s. He bounces the material of your skirt in his hands, cupping your ass to maintain enough leverage to fuck into you with perfect precision. Your hands find their way to his hair, tugging and pulling enough to make him moan against your pounding heart. It only takes a few moments for his tip to brush against that spot inside of you and for your fuzzy walls to beg to begin fluttering.

“Oh. Oh, Spencer, don’t—“

Don’t stop, you wish to say, but you’re so dizzy as you ready yourself for what’s to come, your voice betrays you.

“I won’t, baby.” He promises, voice gruff with need as he looks up at you, knowing exactly what you need. He adjusts your bodies, just enough so that the meeting of your hips helps stimulate your clit and when you whimper, he smiles triumphantly. “I know, sweet girl, I know. Right there, huh?”

“Yes—Please, Spencer—“ You look at him through glazed-over eyes, the words broken into a filthy moan as they leave you.

“Shhh, everything, baby. You can have everything.” He always means that. There’s not a single thing that he wouldn’t give you, especially not when you have him wrapped around your finger the way you do at times like these. It’s the fiery pleasure he can feel inside of you, that perfect clenching of your aching core around his cock, that brings him closer and closer to his own bliss. “So warm and tight, honey. So fucking perfect wrapped around me, you have no idea—“

You lean forward, taking him by surprise as you kiss him mid-sentence. Languid and tender and with so much passion that his hips stutter under the overwhelming strain of sensations. 

“Lo—fuckfuckfuck, Spencer, I—Mhhh, fuck, I love you—“

“I’m with you, I love you—“

This was all it took for the heavenly pressure in your stomach to snap and your orgasm to rip through you, leaving you a breathless, quivering mess on top of Spencer. You’re looking at him throughout it all, holding on to him for dear life as he takes care of you through the waves of your orgasm — but so is he, as he adjusts his rhythm and thrusts into you with less technique yet more firmly, leading him to follow suit and reach his own climax with a raspy groan. 

Spencer buries his face against your neck as he falls back on the couch, spent and panting, but bringing you along with him, still holding your body carefully. You slump against him, trying desperately to catch your breath along with him. You’re a mess of tangled limbs, hot and heavy and exasperated, bodies glowing from the last rays of the dying sunlight coming through his curtains.

Spencer comes to first, though he doesn’t move from his place. He focuses on coaxing you into placidness, soothing the trembling muscles on your back and thighs with his gentle touch. He doesn’t rush you into offering him a verbal response, not until he softens underneath you, slipping out of you clumsily, and you whimper.

“Sorry, honey.” He apologises but you pay no mind to it, your body beginning to rise again. His grip tightens just so, ensuring your movements don’t bring you any discomfort. “Hey, take it easy, angel, yeah?”

“‘m alright, Spencer.” It’s true — there’s a soreness present in your limbs and your inner thighs are sticky where they meet his skin, remnants of his own climax having leaked down there just so, but you are alright. More than, if you say so. He fixes your skirt, and although it doesn’t make any difference when you’re completely bare underneath it, the gesture is so kind it warms you up immediately. 

A beat passes where you both stare gaze into each other’s eyes, blissed out and radiating with love and peacefulness, as the sun finally sets outside behind you, and dusk settles in its place.

Everything transforms around you, constantly, no matter what. 

“So…” You nudge his chin with the tip of your nose, just as Spencer blinks at you, pushing your hair over your shoulders kindly, “You didn’t tell me what you think about my theory. Does infinity get more tangible than this?”

The corners of Spencer’s lips twitch upwards into a bright, adoring grin. He mulls over his thoughts for a moment — the before and the after, how you’ve come to shape what he now knows, how you’ve managed to prove him wrong for believing it was statistically improbable for him to ever know what it’s like to love and be loved in return, how you recognise each other in such an incredibly profound way that no amount of scientific laws could prove or disprove on their own, how the world makes a little more sense ever since you came into his life.

How he’s certain there’s no end to this, to what he feels about you. There’s a beginning he can place into a fixed point in time, sure, though that doesn’t ensure it all came into being then. 

In many ways, Spencer feels like he’s always loved you, even before he knew you. It’s illogical and paradoxical yet he carries it as his own truth, just the way you do, and that’s more than enough — a universe of its own making.

“No,” He whispers breathlessly, overcome with the safety of that truth which has taken roots in the deepest parts of his own soul, “I don’t think it does, honey. Not at all.”