Tired and Caffinated

Call me Elara. 21. Spencer Reid Requests open

[ghosts-to-reid]

Welcome!

~Requests open~

~Spencer Ried~ -Angst -Fluff -Smut

~Masterlist~

~Neo Gothic Bibliography~

My name is Elara, Im 21 and i've been writing fanfics for a LONG TIME, feel free to send a request! I’m a gothic lit major (shocker to no one) and mainly write fanfic to help myself write better, and also for the enjoyment for you all so any sort of request is very much welcome and appreciated!

Old Masterlist (Multifandom)

[cherrygarcia-07]

Hands On Learning // Spencer Reid🎬

synopsis: when you find yourself curious about kissing, spencer suggests learning by example.

pairing: s2 glasses! spencer x reader

genre: kinda flirty fluff

wc: 980ish

notes/tags: established relationship, my sleep deprived delusions got the best of me sorry, spencer infodumps about love chemicals, they just wanna kiss so bad

masterlist // if you enjoy pls reblog it helps promote the fic so much !!

————————————🎬———————————

The light from the TV flickered in the reflection of Spencer’s glasses as you stared up at him, the distorted picture of the couple in the cheesy romcom playing nothing more than a flimsy blob of colours. It hadn’t been that long since you two had begun dating and although you’d spent a lot of nights cuddled up watching a movie on his sofa it still gave you a funny, fluttering feeling in your chest to see him this close. It felt like the glass case had been removed from a work of art, and somehow you had been given the privilege of examining this masterpiece up close. The slight shadow on his upper lip, so faint you never really notice it outside of moments like this, the stray eyelash on his cheek begging for you to pluck up the courage to reach over and gently brush it away- all of it had your heart in your throat.

Tearing your gaze away, you turned back to the screen. You hadn’t really been following even though you picked the movie, too distracted by the way his thumb rubbed circles into your calf absentmindedly, intimidatingly natural for the man who swore he had no romantic instincts. The couple were standing close, staring at one another longingly, before leaning in. Narrowing your eyes, you watched as their lips met and curiosity took ahold of you.

“Why do people kiss?” You mumbled, tilting your head.

“Hm?” Spencer shifted his attention to you, turning his head to look at you through warm eyes.

“Why do people kiss?” You repeated. “It’s kind of weird when you think about it.”

“You don’t like it?” He asked hesitantly, his motions on your calf slowing as he tilted his head back at you.

“No, no! No, I do.” You panicked, watching his tense shoulders relax. “But why? It’s just pressing your mouths together.”

Spencer chuckled, a slight flush on his cheeks as he pondered your question. He cleared his throat before speaking, preparing his voice for that teacher-y cadence you adored so much. The one that gave you butterflies right in the centre of your stomach. “Kissing causes a chemical reaction in our brains that releases the typical ‘happy’ hormones- oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin.”

You tracked his hand as it waved through the air to the rhythm of his words like a hypnotist’s act, brows furrowing and un-furrowing as he went. His voice grew low and slightly raspy as he talked, like his thoughts were moving too fast for his breath to keep up with. All of it sent a shiver down your spine.

“In fact oxytocin is often known as the ‘love hormone’- when it releases it forms a sort of bond between two people, creating feelings of affection and trust.”

You hummed as you considered his words. “I get that. But like, why? What is it about kissing specifically that makes you all hormonal?” It wasn’t that you didn’t understand. You did. So much. Especially when his soft, pink lips were doing so much moving right now. If you were just a little bit bolder, perhaps, you could imagine yourself reaching over, confidently pulling him in by his tie and testing out his theory until his lips were red and swollen- but you would never do yourself the disservice of cutting his rambling so short.

“The skin on our lips is highly sensitive,” Spencer’s gaze nervously darted down to your own, before darting back up to meet your eyes, “there’s a higher amount of nerves that make our brain send out those signals. And dopamine is what makes kissing feel,” he paused, trying to disguise a shy gulp as his focus fell back to your lips, “addictive. It’s what makes us want to keep on kissing.”

Tilting your head coyly, you let out a sigh of mock frustration, shamelessly begging him to take the bait.

“You know, uh-“ he started, voice wobbling as he angled his body clumsily towards you, “- some people learn better with a hands on approach.”

In an instant the movie was gone, completely forgotten as you saw yourself take its place in the reflection of his glasses, wide eyed and blinking up at him. His fingers twitched restlessly against your calf as if he were resisting reaching out just as much as you were. He looked painfully adorable.

“I think that might help.”

Spencer released a shaky breath, something between relief and disbelief as a shy smile flashed across his face. For a second, his nose scrunched before an equally shaky hand reached out, cupping your jaw with a gentleness that had your stomach doing flips. You felt your eyes fluttering shut, shuddering breaths counting the seconds before you finally felt what you’d been chasing after.

Soft lips met yours, moving slow and tender and careful and you felt your whole body crumble. A sigh tumbled out of you, your mouth falling open as the kiss deepened. An almost desperate hum left Spencer’s lips as his hand slipped from your jaw to the nape of your neck, sliding into your hair and pulling you closer with a gentle urgency like he couldn’t bare to have even a millimetre of distance between you. Like a man starved, you thought. You felt time disappear as you tasted the coffee on his tongue, as your hand drifted up to curl around his wrist, to keep him close as his mouth continued moving against you in a way that made you absolutely dizzy.

You don’t know how long it was before you pulled away, but when you did the TV screen was black. Spencer pressed his forehead to yours with a nervous giggle.

“Think you get it now?” He managed eventually.

“I think so.” You smiled, cupping his face with both hands. His cheeks were warm. “But just in case I think you’d better show me again.”

-

[qutequeersstuff]

@dragqueen-eddie’s works

New Girl

The Rockstar

Graduation

Wasting Love

[ghosts-to-reid]

It’s Autumn?

LETS GET SPOOKY BITCHES

[horror-aesthete]

Barbarian, 2022, dir. Zach Cregger

[pineweasel]

THE X-FILES (1993-2018)

What is the point of all this? To destroy a man who seeks the truth or to destroy the truth so no man can seek it? Either way, you lose.

[superhoeva]

i’m just really not interested in mourning a white supremacist thanks BYE

[reidgif]

[c3rvida3]

My roommate (the one who hates septum piercings so much they make her gag) thinks my art is the most disgusting and ugly shit on the planet, and every time I announce that I've sold a piece or gotten into a show, she makes the kind of facial expression you'd expect of someone eating chili at a live autopsy and says, "I'm glad you're having fun! :)"

[c3rvida3]

You're all misunderstanding; I love her so much and I'm having a great time. It's like when you're a kid and you chase other, less cool kids around the playground with a fun worm you found.

[c3rvida3]

She doesn't consume any media besides sitcoms and reality TV, and doesn't have social media besides Facebook, so when I come to her with something even remotely bizarre, she just has absolutely nothing to compare it to. Like, when I show her something mildly weird that made like this:

She's just fully convinced that I personally invented the concept of body horror all on my own specifically to make her life a living hell. She thinks I'm the only person like this alive. It's so funny. I love her.

[thereckless-and-thestupid]

The most unrealistic thing in X-Files so far, the printer immediately kicking into life in an high pressure situation and printing the file

[raekensluver]

PLEASE domestic morning at reader’s apartment, it’s spencer’s first time staying over the night with anyone and he enjoys the comfort and blooming relationship or whatever

masterlist | main masterlist

so so adorablee !!!!

contains: fluff

spencer reid x fem!reader

it takes him a moment to remember where he is.

the ceiling’s unfamiliar - slightly cracked paint, a soft flicker of morning light through curtains that don’t belong to him. there’s a candle on the nightstand that smells like lavender and something sweet. your books stacked haphazardly. your hoodie slung over the chair. a strand of your hair on his pillow.

you.

your breath is warm where it ghosts along his collarbone, and your leg is tossed lazily over his. one of your hands is curled near your face, fingers barely brushing his chest. you’re still asleep.

and spencer...doesn’t want to move.

he should. he usually does. every night he’s spent with someone - though, honestly, those nights are few and far between - he’s never stayed past sunrise. there’s always been a sense of distance to maintain, some invisible wall to protect himself behind. but this -

this feels different.

he lets his eyes close again. not to sleep, but to listen.

there’s the faint hum of your old fridge in the next room. the rustle of sheets as you shift slightly in your sleep. the slow rhythm of your breathing, the occasional soft sigh. you feel so real here. tangible. not something he imagined on the way home from a long case. not something fragile he needs to analyze into pieces.

just you. just this.

eventually, you start to stir. you nuzzle closer into his chest with a low, sleepy noise, your voice muffled as you say, “you’re still here.”

he smiles, eyes still closed. “yeah. i am.”

you lean up just a little, squinting at him through your sleep-heavy gaze. “you okay?”

he nods. then nods again, like he needs to double down on the truth of it. “i think this is the first time i’ve stayed.”

“with someone?”

“mhm.”

you look at him for a moment, quiet, but your fingers start tracing over his sternum, slow and thoughtless. “do you want coffee?”

“only if you’re making it.”

you grin. “you just want me to get up first so you can steal my blanket.”

he’s already doing it, tugging the comforter higher up his chest like a criminal caught mid-heist.

eventually, you get up, hair a mess, still in his t-shirt from the night before. he watches you pad barefoot into the kitchen and hears the click of the machine starting, the clink of mugs. and something shifts - gently, quietly - in him.

he’s always thought of love as complicated. fragile. dangerous, even. but this-

the smell of coffee. your toothbrush next to his. you humming something under your breath while you open the fridge. your hand brushing his back when he joins you.

this is simple.

and he thinks, for the first time, that maybe love doesn’t have to hurt to be real.

maybe it can just be this.

you, leaning into his side while he holds his coffee with both hands like it’s something precious. you, looking up at him and saying, “you can stay over whenever you want.”

and spencer, smiling softly, quietly stunned at how much he already wants to.

[lovinglotsacharacters]

Hello bestest sister of mine (wink wink) could you pretty please write about Spencer finding out you own a snake and holding it for the first time? Thank youuuuu

Yes ofcourse dearest brother of mine >:D

Not Noodle

Reader introduces Spencer to their snake!

I have a headcanon that Spencer is either the type to love or hate creepy crawlies, zero in-between. For the sake of it, lets say he's afraid of them

CW: Snakes, fear of snakes, talk of salmonella and vomiting

𓆏 It was pleasant. Walking side by side with someone who had the potential to be with you forever. Like right now.

Spencer was taking an early morning walk with his new girlfriend- god how he loved saying it. Even thinking it. You had started talking, then going on dates, then you confessed that you wanted to put a true title to it and his heart was set aflame.

"It's not that I'm afraid of them, I just... would actively choose not to upset one."

"So, you're afraid of them?" You grinned, nudging him with your elbow.

He dodged a passerby and sighed. "Maybe I am- so what?"

You hummed in mock thought, tilting your head. "Well, I know my snake would love you-"

"Snakes can't feel love, actually. It's something in their brains called-" but he stopped, noticing the way your eyes got sad. "I-I uh- I'm sure he's very happy with you? Uhm- s-snakes understand the feeling of safety- which is still very special!"

You shook your head, putting a hand on his arm. "There's so many negative assumptions about them!" You sigh, now stopping in the middle of the path. "In my personaly experience, snakes are lovely! They're curious and they grow fond- they aren't vicious things like media portrays and it's sad!"

Spencer looked down at you, sighing. You were too kind to everything, especially things 'unloved' by most... maybe he could make you feel better if you had 'changed his mind'?

"I'd like to meet your uh... 'little guy,'" he said, watching your eyes light up.

He was probably going to regret that.

𓆏 Now, he walked hand in hand with you to your home. It was a colder evening, and your face was partly burried in the collar of your jacket, a sight that made Spencer happy to have already memorized your features.

"She's on the smaller side- so she likes to curl up on my chest." You explained with a giddy smile.

"I fail to see how the two correlate-"

"Shush!" You laughed, playfully elbowing him. He pretended to squeak, but looked at you with a smile. "She'll like you- you have warm hands. She may also try to get further up your body, but-"

He furrowed his brow and looked down, squeezing your hand. "Have you ever gotten salmonella?"

You shook your head, squeezing his hand back. "Nope! Just wash any parts she touches!"

His smile seemed tense, and yours warm, as you pulled him into the lobby of your apartment. Spencer understood that people had a tendency to give certain animals bad reputations, and he was trying to overcome an irrational fear. It wasn't like he was going to hold a black mamba or some kind of constrictor! So why did his anxiety bubble in his chest?

As you both stepped out of the elevator, he sighed out a breath. Fearing the moments to come.

"We're heere!~" you sang, bringing his hand up to kiss his knuckles. He chuckled at the gesture and pressed a kiss to you forehead.

The first thing he noticed was that the apartment smelled of you. He also noticed the decore, that looked like the personification of your personality. Pictures of friends and loved ones, fairy lights instead of the overhead light, a small, but clearly very loved kitchen. It eased his nerves, being in a space that was very clearly created by you, for you.

He smiled as he heard you cooing, likely doting on the snake. Spencer turned the corner and saw you peering down at a, not even three feet long, corn snake with pale orange and pink markings. It was on the smaller side likely didnt need that big of an enclosure. He knew you well enough to know that you probably spoiled your pets more than your people.

"Do you wanna say hi?" You asked, glancing over you shoulder. You had your finger pressed to the glass as the snake slowly inched closer to boop itself through the glass.

A jolt of adrenaline ran through him as he hesitated. "I- uh- w-well- she- she seems pleasant-?" He offered, much to your amusement.

"You don't have to hold her! you can just pet her- hell, I'd let you sit and watch her!"

The offer gave him a grain of ease. It was a small little noodle, right? It probably couldn't even bite his ring finger- and corn snakes arent even venomous!

"Spencer?"

"I- I can hold her!"

He almost felt his soul leave his body with the words. But he refused to take them back, so he would stand to mentally curse himself.

'Coward'

You smiled and nodded once as you straightened, guiding him to the kitchen to get something.

"Eating things naturally produces serotonin," you explain, standing on your tip toes to kiss his cheek. "I'm at least gonna try to put you at ease- want some cereal?"

Spencer was both impressed and appreciative. Usually, he was the one who knew things. He did know the fact, but you were the first to speak it. He nodded, unconsciously muttering "uh- yeah... sounds good..."

It was cruel, how content you were while Spencer was holding his breath. You had a smile as you carefully scooped up the snake, keeping it in your palms despite its efforts to go towards Spencer.

"This is Joan~" you practically beamed as you stroked the reptiles spine. "She's very friendly- do you want to let her smell you?"

Spencer hesitated before nodding and extending his hand. He kept an arms distance.

Joan flicked her tongue at him before booping one of his knuckles, recoiling quickly. "Most reptiles are very curious" you explained, twirling your finger to retract the small living rope. "That's why there are so many videos of people in the everglades being followed by crocks! They're just... scaly puppies!"

He glanced up at you with a cocked brow, biting back a smile as you giggled. "I dont think puppies eat their pray whole- and methodically too!"

"They eat the head first so the limbs dont get in the way!" you finished in sync, excitment growing with each word. You shared a beaming smile, no one knew snake facts, and no one liked sharing knowledge like Spencer.

"You're the first person to know that!"

"You're the first person to finish a fact with me instead of interrupting!"

Apparently, snakes can sense collective happiness, since Joan was trying to get closer to Spencer while dodging his gesturing. "Careful!" You giggled, taking her in your other hand.

You both stood there, simply admiring the curious noodle in silence.

"Why'd you name her Joan?" He asked, cocking his head.

"Indiana Jones is afraid of snakes," you respond, extending the snake in silent offer. "I was going for irony, but people just think of Joan Jett." As Spencer, too, extended his hand.

"She's- She's wrapping around me-" He gasped after a second, glancing between you and Joan. "Wh-what do I do?"

His fear earned him a chuckle from you as you shook your head. "Chill out- just breathe." Now, Joan was curling around his fingers, still joining the two of you. "You're ok, she likes you-"

He handled his panic fairly well. Was he afraid? Yes. Hyperventilating? Maybe he took 'breathe' too literally.

But Joan? Joan was loving him! She slithered around his wrist, his palm, his fingers. Eventually, she nested with her tail around his thumb, body twice wrapped around his palm, and her head resting contently between his middle and ring fingers.

He slowly lifted his hand, twisting slightly so he could better admire her. A choked, nervous giggle escaped him as he looked back to you.

You nodded at him, giggling back at him. "See? You're alright."

It was a jittery moment, but sweet all the same. He conquered a fear, you saw him smile, win win.

You put your forearms on his shoulders as you stood on your tiptoes, careful not to touch him with your hands. "Having fun?" You teased, bumping your noses together.

He hummed, putting his other hand on the small of your back. "I always have fun with you."

You pressed a peck to his lips. "Even when I force you to hold a salmonella ridden, living pitri dish?"

He grimmaced and shook his head. "Get away from me."

But he didn't oblige when you kissed him again.

[deerfawnn]

You could either do this as a fic or ideas if you want. But, Spencer either dating or married to someone who is very crafty. Like knitting, cross stitch, crochet, making their own clothes.

They make the BAU’s birthday cards, and Christmas cards.

Came to me as I currently make my mum’s birthday cards for the next 8 years… 8 different red panda cards

spencer is so impressed by your ability to create things with your hands. he’ll sit with you while you work, head tilted in awe like,

“do you know the average person knits at about 60 stitches per minute? you’re above average. obviously.”

you make him hand-knit socks, cardigans and scarves. when cases get rough, spencer comes home to find you’ve made him something soft, a new blanket, a sweater or mismatched socks.

“this one has uneven sleeves,” you say, crushed because of your small mistake

“so? that just means I know which side is the left sleeve,” he says, already wearing it with a big smile on his face.

you two have a cozy corner in your home filled with yarn, embroidery floss, needles, and books. it’s both chaotic and organized.

he’s terrible at crafting himself, but he tries. you once tried to teach him to crochet and failed miserably. however, he insists on holding the yarn for you when you work. he just wants to feel useful (and secretly loves the excuse to sit near you for hours).

every birthday, holiday, or special occasion, the team waits for a handmade card from you. they are practically legendary. you personalize each one. ( garcia’s are always bedazzled to the max. )

spencer brags about you at work. and whenever he sees one of the handmade cards you made, sitting on someones desk, he smiles proudly.

[whisperedmeg]

AFTERSHOCK ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x liaison!reader

summary: you were held at knifepoint. spencer wasn’t there, but now he is — sitting outside the shower, whispering sea otter facts, and touching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.

genre: smut, hurt/comfort | w/c: 3.9k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, reader works for the BAU, friends/coworkers to lovers, story starts after a hostage situation/being held at knifepoint, mentions of bruises and cuts and blood and a gunshot but no major injury (to reader), fingering, p in v, spencer asks for consent like a million times #king, kind of open ending

a/n: omg my first request 🥲 i made reader an assistant media liaison bc i liked the idea of her having minimal field experience + working closely with JJ. i was envisioning like young, s2 spencer here (specifically glasses reid when he goes to check on Elle in her hotel room hence the header but hey, imagine what you wish). hope you enjoy, kind anon! 🦦

The lights were too bright.

Not in a metaphorical way, but literally. Overhead fluorescents buzzed in the corner of your vision as a paramedic waved a penlight in your eyes, asking questions you could barely process.

“You know your name?” he asked. You nodded. Or at least you thought you did. Maybe you answered him verbally — you couldn’t say for sure. “Good. You’re gonna be okay. Just some bruising and minor cuts. We’ll get your neck bandaged up then you’ll be good to go.”

This time, you heard yourself thank him, but your voice didn’t sound like your own.

In the moments after the standoff ended, everything had blurred. You remembered the moment you realized he was about to slit your throat — and how you kept your voice level anyway, how you kept talking to distract him until the team broke through the front. You remembered Hotch yelling your name, and Derek rushing forward as the unsub yanked you tighter against him — right before the single shot that brought him down rang through the air. You remembered insisting you were fine. “It’s just a few scratches.” But your hands had trembled when you signed the incident report, and your voice had cracked as you hugged JJ and tried to tell her you were okay. You remembered blood on your blouse, though it hadn’t been yours. And then you thought of Spencer.

Spencer.

You hadn’t seen him since before you’d gone into that warehouse backroom, when he was told to stay at the precinct while you were sent in to try to talk the unsub down. You were the suspect’s type — it seemed like it made sense, at the time.

Now, hours later, your ears still rang faintly with the sound of a gunshot and sirens. The scent of sweat and antiseptic clung to your hair. You were stiff from tension, from crouching for too long, from being held with a blade tight against your throat. And though the medics cleared you, your body didn’t quite feel like it was yours.

So when you got back to the hotel and opened the door to your room, you weren’t surprised to find Spencer already sitting there.

His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, white-knuckled. His legs bounced slightly, shoulders curled inward. As soon as he saw you, he stood so quickly it looked like it surprised even him.

You stared at him for a moment. He somehow managed to look even worse than you felt.

“Hi,” you said softly.

His throat bobbed. “Hi.”

You closed the door behind you. Leaned against it, unsure what you needed, only that it might be him.

“JJ told me you weren’t seriously hurt.”

“I’m not. Just… tired. Shaky. A little out of it.” You tried to smile, but it faltered. Your knees felt too weak to hold the weight of your composure.

“Could you—” You paused. Swallowed. “Will you stay? Just for a little while?”

He didn’t answer. He just nodded and stepped forward, his arms coming around you so gently it nearly broke you.

—

You had worked with Spencer Reid for nearly two years. As assistant press liaison, your job at the BAU was mostly behind the scenes — handling media inquiries, prepping briefings, coordinating with JJ. Occasionally you went into the field, like you had today. And over time, you’d gotten closer to the team. Closer to Spencer.

He was your best friend. The kind who noticed when you were quiet for too long. The kind who annotated articles he thought you’d like. Who remembered your coffee order down to the exact milk-to-cold brew ratio. Who once lent you his beloved purple scarf because you were shivering, and never once asked for it back.

You’d always told yourself that’s what it was — just friendship, albeit the rarest and gentlest kind. You two had never crossed the line. Never even came close.

But still, there were moments.

The brush of hands when passing files. Gazes that lingered a little too long when you laughed. The quiet way he always listened intently as you spoke, even in a room full of louder voices.

It was nothing. It was everything.

And you didn’t let yourself dwell on it.

Not until today — when you saw him across the hotel room, eyes wide and wounded, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. That look wasn’t friendly. That look was something else entirely.

—

You sat together on the edge of the bed for a while — not really speaking, just breathing the same air. You noticed the redness in his eyes, the way he rubbed his palms together like he needed to feel something real.

“I should probably shower,” you said eventually, your voice small. You were still in the same clothes from the scene, crusted with dirt and dried blood. “But I don’t… I don’t really want to be alone.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I could sit in the bathroom with you, if you want. I won’t, uh, look or anything. I’ll just— I’ll be there.”

You nodded, your chest aching.

The hotel bathroom was a little dated, the kind with a plastic curtain and a light that hummed faintly when switched on. You undressed slowly, hands trembling, and stepped into the spray. Warm water hit your skin, but the shivering didn’t stop. You called out for Spencer to let him know he could come in.

“I’m here,” Spencer said gently from the other side of the curtain. You heard the soft thud of him sitting down, back against the tub.

“Thanks,” you said. Your voice sounded a little steadier than you felt.

“Did you know that the human body has over two million sweat glands? They’re actually most concentrated on the soles of your feet.”

You laughed — a surprised, soft sound. “That’s… weirdly interesting.”

He chuckled too. “I read once that just hearing someone else talk about non-threatening subjects can help slow down your heart rate. It activates the parasympathetic nervous system.”

You swallowed as you massaged shampoo into your scalp. “Keep talking, then.”

So he did. He told you about an article he read on sea otters. About how they sometimes hold hands and cuddle while they sleep so they don’t drift apart. About how Saturn’s rings are made mostly of ice and dust, and how they’re slowly disappearing. About a study on how people who read a lot of fiction are generally more empathetic, and how he thinks that’s probably true, especially when applied to you and your collection of romantasy novels.

When you turned off the water, you stood there for a moment, breathing in the steam.

You reached outside the curtain for the towel you’d hung on the hook earlier, wrapping it around yourself before you stepped out carefully onto the mat. Spencer stayed seated, gaze averted, but lifted his arm to offer you the white fluffy hotel robe.

“Here,” he said, voice soft, still not looking.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it from him with fingers that brushed his. You slipped it on over the towel, grateful for the extra warmth, and tied the sash tightly around your waist.

He finally glanced up then, eyes scanning your face for any sign of how you were holding together.

“Can we go sit down?”

He stood immediately. “Of course.”

Together, you stepped out of the bathroom, his presence quiet beside you. You sat on the edge of the bed and he joined you, leaving space but not distance.

It was then you finally noticed it: he looked so tired. His shoulders sagged like he’d been carrying something too heavy, and you wondered how long he’d been holding it all in. There were shadows beneath his eyes and something raw in the way he held his hands — like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Spencer blinked a few times and stared down at his knees. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked.

“I… I didn’t realize how scared I was. Not really. Not until I saw you standing here again. When I was back at the precinct and heard what was going on, what he was doing to you, I—” He stopped himself, swallowed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

Your chest ached again. You reached for him instinctively — not with any plan, just the need to touch something steady. Your hand found his face, palm against his cheek, and you felt the tremble in his jaw.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

He turned into your touch slightly, eyes fluttering closed. A breath escaped him — a shaky, wordless thing.

“I keep thinking about what could’ve happened,” he murmured. “About how close it was. And I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“You don’t have to finish that sentence,” you interrupted gently. “I’m here, Spencer. It’s over.”

The silence stretched.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked at you like he was finally seeing something he’d never dared to let himself look at too closely — not until now.

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then back to your eyes. Then away entirely, as if embarrassed.

You smiled, small and a little awkward. “Spencer…”

He didn’t move. Just stayed there with your hand pressed to his cheek and his gaze trained on the sheets, as if he was terrified the moment might dissolve if he shifted even an inch.

“I know it’s not helpful to spiral into hypotheticals, but… I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about how close it was. How close I came to never seeing you again. And it made me realize…”

He trailed off, brow furrowing like he was debating whether to keep going. His fingers fidgeted in his lap. You waited.

“I realized that if I lost you,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t just miss working with you, or… talking to you, or being your friend. I’d miss you. Everything I never said. Everything I always pretended I didn’t feel because it wasn’t—because it wasn’t appropriate, or logical, or fair.”

Your breath caught. He still wouldn’t look at you.

“I just don’t know if… if you’ve ever thought about it. About me. About… us. About, um, being more than just friends.”

The room spun gently. Not in a bad way — more like the moment had tipped sideways and you were falling into it, a new gravity you hadn’t dared even imagine until now.

You stared at him.

For a second, your brain scrambled to fill the silence with something. A joke. A change of subject. A safer version of the truth.

But the look on his face — the quiet devastation of it, like he was already preparing to apologize for crossing a line — cut straight through every instinct to deflect.

Because of course you’d thought about it.

Every late night on the phone. Every smirk across the briefing room. Every friendly touch on your shoulder that lingered half a second too long. You’d buried it all under layers of friendship and professional distance.

But it was there. It had always been there.

And after everything you’d been through today, you were tired of pretending it wasn’t.

“Spencer,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

His breath hitched, and he finally lifted his eyes enough to meet yours.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” you admitted.

His eyes widened slightly. You could feel the warmth radiating off him. The tension. The fragile possibility hanging in the space between your bodies.

“Really?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Course I have.”

“Then can I—” He stopped and laughed a little, awkward and embarrassed. “God, I don’t even know how to ask.”

You smiled. “Try anyway.”

“Can I kiss you?”

You took a long, deep breath, then whispered, “Please.”

He leaned in slowly, hesitantly — and when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t confident or practiced. It was cautious. Careful. A little awkward and clumsy. But it was him, and it was you, and it was real.

His mouth moved against yours like he wasn’t sure it would last. You kissed him deeper, steadier, until you felt him melt a little — into the moment, into you.

He held your face like you were something sacred. You tugged him closer like you’d die without the contact. He whispered your name against your mouth, like he was still trying to make himself believe you were there.

The kiss stayed soft for a long time — tentative, exploratory. Like neither of you wanted to break the spell. Like you were both waiting for the moment one of you might pull away and realize this was a mistake.

But you didn’t, and when his hands drifted down to your waist, he paused.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper against your skin. His fingers trailed across the terrycloth material of the hotel robe. “You’re… you’re not wearing any real clothes right now. Maybe we should stop.”

You laughed softly. “Don’t you dare stop. It’s definitely okay.”

Still, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he needed to hear it in more than words.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting anything. We don’t have to—”

You shook your head before he could finish, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I know. You’re not messing anything up.”

His eyes searched yours, still uncertain.

“I want to. I want you,” you whispered.

You reached for him, guiding his hand to your chest like you needed him to feel how steady your heartbeat had become — proof that this wasn’t panic. This was choosing. Choosing him.

He took a long breath, then slowly, he eased you down onto the pillows.

When his fingers brushed the tie of your robe, he paused again. “Okay?” he asked, eyes flicking to yours.

You answered not just with a nod, but by threading your fingers through his hair. “Spencer. Please, I need this.”

He let out a soft, quivering breath, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along without even knowing it.

And still, he didn’t rush.

He loosened the tie and slipped the robe from your shoulders like it was something precious. Beneath it, the towel clung to your damp skin, and when you let it fall open, he didn’t look away — but he didn’t devour, either. He just gazed at you like you were something precious and rare, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to see you this way.

He undressed, too — slowly, thoughtfully — until there was nothing between you but skin and breath and unspoken things neither of you had ever dared say before.

Between each move he made, he kissed you again — your temple, your shoulder, the soft curve of your wrist, your neck just above the bandage covering your cut. And every time he asked if it was okay, you gave him a variation of the same answer:

“Still okay.”

“Still yes.”

“Still want you.”

His hands moved with aching care — not wandering, but learning. He touched you like he was trying to memorize every inch of skin, every breath you took beneath him. His mouth found the bruise along your ribs and lingered there, brushing a kiss so gentle it nearly undid you.

When he rose up on his elbows, his hair fell softly around his face. You reached up and tucked it behind his ear, and the way he smiled — shy, grateful, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real — made your heart twist.

Then he kissed you again, slower this time, more sure. It was gentle, then a little deeper. Then everything, all at once. His mouth opened against yours and you welcomed him in, arms winding around his back to pull him closer. You felt his weight shift, the warmth of his thigh sliding between yours, the subtle grind of his hips.

His hand found your cheek again before sliding down to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, your breasts — then lower. When his fingers finally brushed between your legs, you gasped.

He pulled back instantly, worried. “Too much?”

You shook your head, breathless. “Not at all. Just… it’s you. My brain’s still processing.”

His eyes softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

“Keep going,” you whispered.

His fingers moved with cautious intent, like he was still learning you, like he was determined to get it right. He traced slow, deliberate circles, his touch light enough to tease but steady enough to draw a soft moan from your throat.

“That good?” he whispered.

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere behind your breath. “Better than good.”

He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, your lips again — never straying too far from your mouth, as if needing that closeness to anchor him. One finger slipped inside you slowly, then another, stretching you with exquisite care. His other hand cradled the side of your face, grounding you in the moment, in him. Every stroke of his fingers sent heat curling through your belly, your hips tilting toward him without conscious thought. He was watching you now, eyes dark and tender, his breath uneven with each sound you made.

“God,” he murmured, brushing the pad of his thumb softly across your clit. “You’re so responsive.”

You managed a breathless laugh, clinging to him. “Guess we’re finding out a lot tonight.”

He swallowed hard, like he didn’t know what to do with that — like it meant more than either of you were ready to say aloud. But his pace never faltered. He curled his fingers experimentally, eyes never leaving yours, and smiled when you moaned softly.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that.”

You could feel it building, not fast but steady — pressure, heat, ache. But before it crested, before it could consume you entirely, you reached for him.

“Spencer,” you breathed.

And he knew what you meant.

He withdrew his fingers, kissed you like it was the only language he knew — and as your body trembled beneath him, aching for more, he paused.

One hand stayed at your cheek, the other braced beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight between your thighs, lining himself up with deliberate care. He looked down at you then — really looked — as if the entire world had narrowed to the space between your bodies.

“Still okay?” he asked in a soft, comforting whisper. “We don’t have to, you know. We can still stop.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. You reached up, brushing hair back from his forehead again, and held his gaze.

“I know,” you murmured, “but I want this. I want you.”

His breath hitched — and only then did he move.

Slowly, carefully, he eased into you with a soft, broken sound, his breath catching in his throat as your body welcomed him in.

You gasped again, overwhelmed — not just by the sensation, but by the way he fit against you like he was always meant to be there. Like this was what you’d always been waiting for.

You held his gaze like it tethered you to something solid — like it kept you both from slipping back into fear or doubt or the thousand what-ifs still echoing from the day.

He moved cautiously — each roll of his hips asking if you still wanted this, and each time, your body answered by drawing him closer, moaning his name like a promise.

A soft sound escaped your lips as he pressed deeper. You tightened around him, and his breath hitched.

“God,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “you feel… incredible.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, your chest rising to meet his. “You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, exhaling shakily as his hips stilled. “I can’t stop.” His voice dropped, cracked and honest. “This is surreal. And I keep thinking about what could’ve happened if the team didn’t find you in time.”

“Spence,” you said gently, cupping his cheek, “I’m here. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

He rocked into you again, the motion tender and deliberate. “I’m not,” he whispered, “not when I’m with you.”

You gasped softly, clutching at his shoulder blades as he began to find a rhythm, unhurried but overwhelming.

“Talk to me,” you breathed. “You always talk when I need it. Can you still do that?”

His forehead rested against yours as he nodded, his voice warm and broken between thrusts. “You’re so beautiful like this. I mean, you’re always beautiful. I’ve always thought that. But this is… something else entirely. And you’re so soft, so open.” He kissed you, slow and searching. “I can feel every part of you. It’s—God, it’s even more than I thought it would be.”

You arched into him, breath catching in your throat. “More?”

He groaned softly, moving deeper, a flicker of something reverent in his eyes. “More real. More… you. You’re letting me see all of you, and I—” His breath faltered. “I don’t want to miss any of it.”

You smiled, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer weight of it all. “You’re not. I’m right here.”

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your breath, your softness, your heartbeat against his. And then his hand slid between you, fingers circling where you needed him most — slow at first, then firmer, perfectly in rhythm with the gentle thrust of his hips.

“Let go for me,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking with restraint. “Please. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You clung to him, gasping his name, overwhelmed by the way every nerve in your body seemed to fire at once — not just pleasure, but everything: safety, want, the ache of almost losing this before you ever got to have it. Your body arched into him, chasing the edge he offered so tenderly, so completely.

When you finally broke, it was all-consuming — a tremble that started deep inside and rippled outward, your nails digging into his back, your eyes wet, your breath catching on a cry. And as you came apart in his arms, you felt him follow, felt the shudder in his body as he moaned your name against your neck and held you like you were the only real thing in the world.

Afterward, he didn’t move far. Just wrapped his arms around you and held you like a lifeline — like he couldn’t bear to let go even for a second.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence said it all.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you sooner. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, your fingers still trembling slightly. “You were exactly where you needed to be,” you murmured. “Somewhere safe. And you’re here now. We both are.”

He kissed you again — softer this time, slower. Like something steady. Like a promise.

—

Later, beneath the hum of the hotel air conditioner and the softened static of silence, you let your body sink into his. The worst had passed, but the aftershocks of what happened earlier in that warehouse still lived in your body — in the ache behind your eyes, in the way you reached for Spencer without thinking, in the unspoken things now pulsing between you like fresh bruises.

Spencer stayed awake beside you, his fingers tracing quiet, grounding patterns along your spine as his other hand held yours tightly. He looked down at your intertwined fingers and thought about the sea otters again, a small, barely-there smile curling at his lips.

You didn’t know what this would become — only that something had shifted. But as you felt the hush of his breath against your neck, you drifted off. And for first time all day, you didn’t feel like you were bracing for the next wave of tremors.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

[renegadesstuff]

His face when he realized 🥺🥺

[goshdoggett]

Special Agent Fox Mulder Pencil Pitcher

[reidrum]

,,,, hey ,,,,, how y’all doin ,,,,,

[ghosts-to-reid]

Tumblr you are a beautiful thing