Hey I saw your fic "heavenly" and I indeed was wanting to ask for a steamer one where their ripping their clothes off 🫶😏
𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑺𝒐 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒍𝒚 (𝑺.𝑹)
wc : 687 | F!Reader (Established Relationship – First Kiss) | cw: intense makeout, sexual tension, confined space, emotional vulnerability, nervous rambling, Spencer being quietly confident, teasing friends, party setting, soft dominance, mutual pining release
A/n : sorry i needed a break life was a mess, but I'm back, everybody!
Seven minutes. Just seven minutes.
You murmured the words like a lifeline, even as the door sealed shut behind you with a soft click. The closet swallowed you both, dim and stifling, steeped in the scent of aged wood and spilled beer. Spencer was inches away—close enough that the warmth of his body reached across the space between you, igniting every nerve.
Last week, he was just your best friend. The one who quoted obscure facts mid-sentence and wore mismatched socks like a badge of honor. The one whose gaze always lingered a second too long, and who knew the exact rhythm of your breath when you were lying.
But now he was your boyfriend.
And the air around you felt different—thicker, charged like the stillness before a storm.
You hadn’t planned to end up here. It was supposed to be a quick appearance, a happy birthday, maybe a slice of cake before sneaking out. But Spencer, in his ever-watchful way, had insisted on coming. Crowds were his kryptonite—loud, erratic, unpredictable. But still, he came. Because it was you.
Now here you were, hearts racing, lips still untouched, standing in a closet designed for adolescent fumbling and whispered dares.
"Okay, technically, we don’t have to do anything," you said, voice barely above a whisper, tinged with a nervous laugh. You folded your arms, trying to create some sense of distance, even if the walls themselves conspired against you. "I mean, people act like this game is a mandate, but it’s just peer pressure in a broom closet. We could just… talk. Right? We always talk."
Spencer tilted his head. The low light carved soft shadows along his cheekbones. "We do talk a lot."
"Exactly," you breathed, nodding, the words rushing now. "So this can just be more of that. Except with—uh—less oxygen."
He didn’t move. Just watched you, his smile soft, thoughtful.
And God, you wished he would move. Just an inch.
You cleared your throat. "It’s not like we’ve… you know…" The words got stuck in your throat. You dropped your gaze to his collarbone, unable to hold his eyes. "Kissed."
A pause stretched long between you.
Then, his voice—low, measured: "We’ve got approximately four minutes and twenty-six seconds left."
You looked up, pulse hammering. "So… what do you want to do with that time?"
He didn’t answer.
Instead, Spencer closed the distance, a slow, deliberate movement that made your breath catch. His hand rose to your face, brushing your cheek with fingertips as soft as silk. The other found your waist, firm and grounding.
And then—
He kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was heat and hunger laced with reverence. A week’s worth of withheld tension—and perhaps years of silent longing—unspooled in the space between his mouth and yours. You gasped, and he took that moment to deepen the kiss, tongue brushing yours with gentle precision.
The back of your head hit the wall. His body pressed into yours, and your fingers clawed at his shirt before sliding up into his curls. You tugged once—curious, breathless—and were rewarded with a deep, guttural groan that vibrated against your chest.
He tasted like spearmint and recklessness. Like something sweet that could ruin you.
You moaned into him, your legs threatening to give out. There was nothing gentle about the way his hips pinned yours to the wall, nothing innocent about the way his mouth trailed down your jaw to your neck, teeth grazing, lips burning a path to places you didn’t know could ache.
"Spencer—" you gasped, not sure if it was a plea or a warning.
His hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, resting on your hips. Not demanding. Not yet. But present. Intentional. Claiming.
"We shouldn’t…" you whispered, even as your fingers worked open the buttons of his shirt.
He nodded against your throat, but didn’t stop. "I know."
Still, he kissed you again—desperate now, mouth slanted against yours like he needed this to breathe. Like he’d waited his entire life for these seven minutes.
The closet felt smaller. Hotter. Your pulse a thunder in your ears.
Knock, knock.
“Time’s up, lovebirds!” a voice sang from the other side, punctuated by laughter and someone’s cackled moan.
You flinched, a half-laugh escaping you as your hands fell away from Spencer’s chest. "So… that happened."
He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged, lips swollen. "It did."
You didn’t open the door. Not yet. The real world could wait a little longer.
His voice, rough and low, curled around your spine like silk. "We should get out there before someone sends in a search party."
You nodded, lips brushing his again, feather-light. "Yeah. Just… give me a second."
When the door finally creaked open, the hallway lights hit you both like a floodlight on a crime scene. Spencer’s curls were mussed from your hands. Your shirt was skewed off one shoulder, his buttons done up all wrong. The air outside the closet was cooler, sobering—briefly.
But then came the hoots and hollers.
"Well damn! Took you long enough!" someone jeered, and another voice followed: "Hope you used protection—in the closet, man? Really?"
You ducked your head, laughing despite yourself. Heat crawled up your neck, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Spencer’s hand found yours—fingers lacing through with casual ease, like the world wasn’t still spinning from the kiss you’d shared.
"You okay?" he murmured, leaning closer so only you could hear.
You nodded, eyes flicking up to his, still dazed. "Yeah. Just didn’t expect… all of that."
"Me neither," he whispered, voice laced with something raw and reverent.
The crowd of your twenty-something friends kept laughing, making exaggerated kissing noises and suggestive groans. Someone fake-swooned. Someone else held up a phone, pretending to record. You rolled your eyes and flipped them off with a smirk.
"They’re just jealous," you said, squeezing Spencer’s hand. "You made it hard for the next pair to follow that."
He flushed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "I didn’t mean to… I mean… you started—"
You shot him a look, half warning, half amused. "You definitely finished."
That made him laugh—quiet, boyish, wrecked. And for a moment, the hallway, the party, the chaos—all of it—faded away.
Because when he looked at you, really looked, it wasn’t just lust or adrenaline in his eyes. It was something slower. Something dangerous.
NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
Spencer being a top is such a non issueeeeeee time to get a jobbbbbbbbb pmooooooooo god forbid he fictionally puts his penis inside of u while on top god sorry he isn't shaking and crying and stumbling on his words sorry a 35 year old man acts like he's seen a vagina before like why u so bothered by it like not every writer is writing for season 1 fun fact if you wanna go bottom out Spencer that's fine babe I love that for u feminismmmm like I see you peg ur boyfriend ill cheer u on girl like literally get his ass hoeeeee but I love to lay on my back also what if someone has really bad back pain and has to be on their back what if they're in a back brace..........? moral of the story lets all hold hands and be friends... ok luv it ty
Spencer had been giving you exactly what you needed—those sharp, deep thrusts laced with the confidence and precision that only experience could bring. He moaned low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he leaned over you, holding one of your legs high against his chest to open you up just right. That angle. God, that angle. Your vision blurred at the edges, your thoughts flickering into static, your skull knocking lightly against the headboard with each powerful stroke.
"Spence," you whimpered, voice cracking with need. He was so deep you could barely think. So deep it felt like your bones had liquefied. You clenched around him involuntarily, and he gasped against your throat.
"You're so fucking tight," he groaned, lips dragging along your jaw. "Feels like you’re made for me."
You could only nod, trembling, nails digging into his back. Your body burned, a slow spiral of heat in your belly. His hips snapped forward again, and the pressure inside you swelled—
—and then he froze.
His brow furrowed. Not in discomfort. In concern.
"Wait—hold on," he whispered, voice tender now. He slowed his thrusts and eased back slightly, and your stomach plummeted at the change in his expression.
"What?" you asked, breathless. You tried to hide the panic in your voice, but your gut already twisted with embarrassment.
Spencer sat back on his heels, still inside you but gentle now. He looked down—
—and you saw it too. Red. A smear of it across your thighs. On him. On the sheets beneath you.
Your heart seized. You bolted upright with a strangled gasp, pulling the sheet around yourself like it could rewind the moment.
"Oh my God," you choked, horror flooding your system. "Oh my God, Spencer, I—I didn’t know, I didn’t feel—"
"Hey. Hey," he interrupted quickly, reaching for you with those steady hands, the same ones that had just been gripping you like lifelines. "Look at me."
You didn’t want to. You kept your face buried in your hands, burning with shame, but he wouldn’t let you disapp, notNot like this.
"Look at me, sweetheart. Please."
You finally glanced up through your fingers, and what you found in his eyes wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t revulsion. It was softness. Concern. Love.
"It’s okay," he said quietly, brushing your hair from your face. "You didn’t do anything wrong."
You tried to speak, but your throat locked. All you could do was shake your head, whispering, "I’m so sorry. That’s so gross—"
"Stop," he said, gently but firmly. "Don’t say that. It’s not gross. It’s just... your body. It’s natural. It happens. Actually—statistically—about 30% of people with periods have reported unexpected onset during intercourse due to a variety of physiological triggers."
You blinked, stunned into silence as he adjusted the sheet around your waist with the same care he used handling case files and fragile crime scene evidence. "Also, menstrual blood isn't harmful in any way. It’s composed of roughly 50% blood and 50% other natural bodily components, like cervical mucus and uterine tissue."
"Spencer," you said weakly, but there was a smile threatening the corners of your mouth now. "Are you... giving me a period TED Talk right now?"
He shrugged, a bashful grin touching his lips. "I have three PhDs. One of them includes human physiology. It's hard to turn it off."
You snorted, the embarrassment slowly starting to burn off into something else. Relief. Affection. Love.
And he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your shoulder, and whispered, "But we can stop if you're uncomfortable. Or..."
You looked at him, your heartbeat steadying. His eyes were still so full of want—tempered now with care.
"I want you to keep going," you whispered. "If you're okay with it."
He kissed your shoulder again, lower this time. Slower. More reverent.
"I'm more than okay with it," he murmured against your skin. "Let me make you feel good again."
And when he eased you back against the pillows and touched you like you were precious—still precious—every ounce of self-consciousness bled away.
He moved with care now, slow and deep, every thrust more of a caress than a claim. His hand held your cheek like he was grounding you, his mouth whispering soft nothings between kisses—your name, his name, stars, science, everything blurring together.
"You know, during arousal, the cervix actually elevates, which—" He groaned when you clenched around him, interrupting his own monologue with a breathless laugh. "Okay. Okay. No more stats right now. Just—God, you feel incredible."
You were trembling again, this time not from embarrassment but from how deeply he adored you. His lips found yours, and you melted into him, rocking together in that slow, aching rhythm that said this wasn't just about sex—it was about trust. About knowing you'd shown him a vulnerable part of you, and he had only drawn you closer.
You came with his name on your tongue, gasping into his shoulder, his arms wrapped around you like he wanted to shield you from the world. And he followed seconds later, groaning low, pressing deep before stilling, resting his forehead against yours.
Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just the soft sound of breathing, your heartbeat in your ears.
Eventually, he slipped out gently, kissed your knee, and murmured something soft against your skin. Then he was gone, padding quietly into the bathroom. You heard water running—first the faucet, then the tub.
A moment later, he returned with a warm, damp towel and knelt between your legs. His touch was gentle, reverent, as he cleaned you up, murmuring little apologies even though there was nothing to apologize for. You watched him, heart aching with something deep and fragile.
Then, with that same calm tenderness, he cleaned himself, tugged on a pair of boxers, and reached for your hand.
"Come on," he whispered. "I ran you a bath. Let’s get you comfortable."
The bathroom was filled with soft steam, the tub nearly full. He helped you in with both hands, steadying you like you were something sacred. The warm water enveloped you, and your muscles sighed with relief.
He brushed your hair back, tucked it behind your ears, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I’ll be right back," he said gently. "I’m just going to strip the bed, rinse the sheets, see if the stain will come out. Shouldn’t be too bad if I get to it quickly—oxidization is the real enemy with blood, you know."
You gave a small laugh through your exhaustion. Of course, Spencer Reid would think of everything.
But as he turned to go, you reached for his wrist with water-slick fingers.
"Spence," you mumbled, head tilted back against the porcelain. "Fuck the damn sheets. We can buy new ones. Just... get in with me. Please."
He blinked, halfway to the door, caught off guard by your voice—so soft and tired and raw. His shoulders relaxed, and a crooked smile tugged at his lips.
"Yeah?" he asked, toeing off his boxers again.
"Yeah," you breathed, watching the steam curl around his silhouette.
Spencer stepped into the tub behind you, easing down with a quiet groan of comfort. The water shifted, rising around your bodies, and then his arms were around you, tugging you back against his chest.
You exhaled, sinking into him completely.
"This okay?" he asked, lips brushing your temple.
"Perfect," you whispered.
He kissed your damp shoulder, then rested his chin in the crook of your neck. "Sheets can wait. Holding you can’t."
learning sign language so you can make inappropriate comments to spencer while at work and you sign “want to suck your cock” and spencer just looks at you all bewildered like “since when did you know ASL?”
dirty talking to spencer in ASL
genre: sfw with sexual innuendos
word count: 1,8k
a/n: a lil something while i'm working on kinkfest :)
Spencer Reid is a man of many talents. People say — well, specifically, Spencer once told you that learning a new skill is easiest around the age of ten and how the process will be more difficult once you reach the age of eighteen. Something about neural connections forming rapidly, the unconscious system, the critical period… To be honest, you lost your focus the moment he mentioned the new skill he’d learned: sign language.
Spencer was excited to tell you about this new skill. He already knew a handful of languages, from Russian to Yoruba, but what appealed to him most about ASL was the hand motions. How he didn’t need to pronounce any of the words. You still chuckle to yourself when the memory of him pronouncing a Spanish sentence pops up in your head. How vividly you could picture Elle correcting him. There was nothing funny about him using ASL, though. In fact, you remember the way your throat tightened and your cheeks heated when his hands started moving — long fingers, decorated in veins, flexing into different symbols at a speed that other beginners would envy.
“That means ‘I love you, and that sweater looks pretty on you’.”
You had laughed. Had leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I love you,” you replied. A hot pink flush made its way onto his face, a shy smile tugging on his lips.
“Does this mean you’ll be speaking to me in sign now?”
Your comment was meant as mere teasing, but Spencer had taken it as a challenge. He’d made sure to at least communicate a couple of ASL sentences to you every day. You could imagine it being a good way of practice for him. For the both of you, actually. Because over time you started to recognize some of the movements. A sign you had mistaken as rock and roll before, you had now concluded meant I love you. A swipe of his hand over his face? Pretty. There were a few others you could recognize, but as the sentences grew longer and his signs faster, you gave up.
You had always assumed everything Spencer signed to you was something sweet. You’d smile, kiss him as a thank you, and forget about it, assuming he was complimenting you. That was until Derek caught Spencer in the act, signing something to you before the elevator doors closed in front of him, ready to head over to the lab for another case you were on.
“My man,” Derek chuckled heartily, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
Your brows furrowed, the smile that had lingered on your face moments before dropping instantly. “What?”
He kept laughing, not noticing the clear confusion you were in.
“Derek!” you said, giving a soft punch to his arm to catch his attention.
“Oh, you don’t-” He raised an eyebrow, pointing to you and the closed elevator doors before laughing even harder.
“Stop it!” You cried, getting embarrassed by the scene you were causing in the middle of the bullpen. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, pretty girl,” he started, taking a deep breath to recover, still grinning widely. “Pretty Boy over there should be getting the title of Dirty Boy from now on.”
Your mouth opened, then quickly closed when no words came out. “I don’t understand.”
Derek looked around the bullpen, finding no one near. Still, he leaned in, shielding his mouth with his hand as he recited Spencer’s words to you.
You gasp, hand clutching your chest dramatically as if starring in a soap opera. “He didn’t,” you say in full disbelief.
“Oh, yes he did,” Morgan smirked in full pride.
“How would you even know that?”
“My buddy works at a youth center. I teach the kids football from time to time. Some speak ASL.”
You scoff. “Kids have taught you these words?”
Derek shrugs. “What can I say? It’s the dirty words that are most fun to learn.”
-`♡´-
You had struggled to think of anything else after that encounter, your mind wandering to every possible naughty sentence when Spencer signed to you from then on. It was frustrating, really, how he must be gleaming knowing you had no clue what he was saying. As long as he knows that you’re also up for a challenge.
After work that day, you told Spencer you’d be home later, having to pick something up from a friend’s house. It wasn’t completely a lie — you had to pick something up, just from a different location. You parked your car in the parking lot in front of the public library, feeling like a criminal as you knocked on the glass doors. A woman in her late sixties greeted you, her kind beady eyes framed by thin glasses that hung low on her nose.
“You’re the one who called? From the FBI?”
You nodded, smiling. “Hi, yes, that’s me. I am so sorry to be bothering you at this hour, but we’ve got a killer on the loose, and it’s very urgent.”
The older woman cringed at the mention of a killer, muttering some words under her breath, and turned to grab an entire stack of books. You reached your hands out, accepting the heavy weight of the books, the title A Beginner’s Guide to ASL written on the top one.
Her hand trembled lightly as she tapped the front cover. “This one comes with a DVD.”
“Oh, that’s perfect. Thank you for your help.”
“You better catch that bastard!” You nodded confidently in response as you turned on your heel.
-`♡´-
Unfortunately, Spencer was right: learning a new language as an adult was far from easy. Especially with the lack of time you had because of working a demanding job. You had to make do with the rare free weekends and some late nights during the week to study as much as possible.
You were tucked underneath a blanket on the couch, laptop in your lap, as you were watching a YouTube video Derek had recommended: “Sign Dirty to Me: A Guide to Dirty Talk in Sign Language”.”
“The next sentence we’ll be learning is ‘I want to give you a blowjob’.”
“A what?”
You screeched, lifting yourself up on the couch at a speed that made the laptop fall on the ground with a thud. You mutter a string of curses as the video continues playing, using your foot to stomp the laptop shut.
“Jesus, Spencer, can’t you knock?”
You turn your body, spotting your boyfriend's tall figure leaning against the open bedroom door, an amused smile lingering on his lips. “I think you’ve forgotten that you’re in my house.”
You groan at his smug grin, trying to find an excuse.
“What were you watching anyway?” He asks in curiosity before you could explain.
“Nothing!”
He takes a stride toward you, and you scramble from the couch to grab the laptop, holding it tight in your arms as a safety measure. Spencer leans on the plush frame of the couch, appearing rather relaxed as a gleam sparkles in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you were watching-”
“No!” You exclaim in offense.
“I wouldn’t mind it if you were.”
“I was not watching anything.”
The content look doesn’t fade from his face. He looks rather pleased by the scene you’re making. The tips of his fingers brush against the bare skin of your arm. Those damn fingers. “I don’t mind, angel. I would just offer you my help instead.”
You swallowed. He was distracting you, and you were not going to fall for his dirty ploys yet again. No way.
“I’m good,” you squeak, hurriedly standing up from the couch. You point at him while your other hand clutches your laptop. “I will go to the bedroom now, and you will stay here. Don’t even think about moving an inch.”
Your words were only making you sound more suspicious, but you didn’t care. It would be worth it in the end.
-`♡´-
Two weeks had passed since you and Derek had exposed Spencer’s dirty, little secret. Two weeks in which you had spent all your free time learning ASL. You had been nervous all morning while getting ready for work, trying to resist the urge to sign something to him. But you wanted to do it in the bullpen; you needed to see him get flustered in a crowd.
Your fingers had been nervously tapping on your desk, eyeing Spencer at his desk opposite yours. You were waiting on Derek, who you had promised could be there for the “big moment”.
“Where are we going?” Penelope’s voice sounded through the bullpen as Derek grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the desks. You throw your hands up in frustration, it wasn’t the plan to make it that big of a show. “Are you kidding me?” You mouth toward Derek.
“Now,” he mouths back as he stays at a safe distance against the far wall.
Here we go.
A single kick to Spencer’s shin was enough to grab his attention. “Ouch! What did you do that for?”
Biting down on your lip to hide your smile, you began moving your fingers, a little exaggeratedly, to make sure he understood.
Look what new skill I learned.
Spencer beams, smiling brightly as the realization dawns upon him. “Hey! Since when did you know ASL?”
You don’t give him an answer right away, not wanting to get out of your flow, so you continue signing the variety of sentences you’ve learned, each one even dirtier than the last.
You knew you were doing a good job when a few snorts came from your right at certain words, Derek understanding what you were saying. Looking at Spencer confirmed it — his eyes stood wide open, red blotches of heat forming on his neck as his lips moved in a struggle to find the words.
Stop it. Right now. He eventually signed.
You grin, pride washing over you as you can understand him. This new method of communication truly opens up worlds.
But I mean it. You sign back.
He hides the small smile that forms on his face, tugging away a piece of hair before finding the courage to respond back to you.
What else would you like to do, then?
Penelope nudged Derek, looking puzzled. “What are they doing? Are they…? Oh my god, they’re trying to get in each other’s pants? Right in front of us?!”
Derek threw his head back laughing. “That’s right. They’re not so innocent anymore, huh?”
“But dirty talk is our thing!” Penelope protested.
Derek shakes his head. “I hate to break it to you, baby girl, but they’re outdoing us.”
Pairing- early seasons!Spencer Reid x bombshell!Reader
Summary- You’re completely and totally enamored with Spencer Reid. When you have to flirt as part of a case, he is not happy.
Contains- not proofread we die like men, fem!reader, mention of reader's boobs and ass, the most unhinged work place flirting you've ever seen, Spencer is Horny, the case isn't rly canon compliant but fuck it we ball, nasty suspect who reader has to flirt with, Spencer gets insecure, they make-up and make out on the jet
A/N: divider from @saradika-graphics !!!
The soft, golden glow of sunlight filters through the window. The glimmer coats the BAU in an extra layer of warmth from the early spring chill. You adjust your light pink blouse as you approach the desk of your favorite coworker, Spencer Reid. You prop yourself up on his desk, your floral skirt pulling taut around your hips as you settle.
You swing your legs playfully, waiting for him to turn his attention away from his case file and on to you. A small smile curves his lips, and you know you got him. A heeled foot hooks behind his shin, running along the length of it until his gaze finally finds you. His eyes shine when they meet yours, a large hand moving to grip your ankle and bring it to his knee. He keeps it there, a soothing thumb rubbing the expanse of the skin there.
Your heart flutters at the action, his own cheeks tinting pink at his temerity. This has been a recent update between the two of you, Spencer's touch, his affection. Since you started at the bureau, only a few short months after him, you've been fascinated by the genius sitting beneath you now. At first, he was shocked by your immediate friendship, not used to such affection without having to earn it. In the past few months, though, his hands will graze your waist, his hugs lingering a moment too long. This change in behavior sparks a flicker of hope in your chest. Hope that, maybe, he sees you the way you see him.
You see him now, looking up at you with sparkling brown eyes. The early morning light highlights the caramel tone seeping through the dark brown. It captivates you. Your eyes drift down the rest of his face, it's all you can do to not get completely lost in him, in those eyes.
"Whatcha looking at, handsome?" you drawl, sweet as honey as you reach for the case file on his desk.
You can't help the small smile that forms as heat rushes into his face, deepening his complexion a deep red.
"It-" his words catch in his throat, which he clears before continuing, "it's for a potential new case. From Hotch."
His tone is clipped, as if he's forcing himself to sound casual. He does that when he's nervous, you've come to find out. You wonder if the pointed toe heel resting delicately on his knee has anything to do with that. You press the ball of your foot into him playfully, reveling in the way he flushes even deeper.
"Can I see?" you ask lightly, tilting your head and pouting your lips, "I want to see if it's the one I passed along to him on Monday. I still haven't heard back from him about it."
You hop down from his desk, grabbing the chair adjacent from his desk. Maybe you pull it a little too close to his chair, but you can't seem to care too much once his bicep grazes your own. The smallest touch sends shock waves through you, a surge of electricity pumping straight to your heart.
You hear his breath pick up as you reach across his lap to grab the file. A small smile spreads across your lips as Spencer nods his head frantically, long, deft fingers passing the file to you.
"Yeah-yeah, I think it is. The white collar case on Cape Cod, right?" he asks, and you nod.
"Yeah, he wanted you to look at it?" you look towards him with bright eyes, hopeful. "I wasn't sure he'd be okay with us picking this one up. It's not really something we normally cover, but I have a feeling about it. Something's not right..." you trail off, scanning the details once more.
"I agree," he says, and it's almost laughable how relieved you feel at his approval. "I couldn't help but notice the fraud charge. They wired the money to an account in Germany. If this crosses country lines then we might be dealing with something more than just fraud."
"That's exactly what I was thinking!" your fingers latch onto his forearm in excitement. His eyes flash to your touch, his breath catching again.
Your eyes linger on his face, tracing each freckle of his smooth skin. His eyes flit up to yours, and the contact stops time. Everything around you comes to a standstill, you and Spencer are the only ones that exist in this moment.
A tap of a manila folder snaps you out of your Spencer-induced-haze, cheeks heating as you look up to find Hotch. A knowing look glimmers in his eye, and you twist your hands in your lap.
"Get ready to leave for Cape Cod," is all he says, tone definitive before he goes to brief the rest of the team.
Spencer's heart clutches in his chest as they exit the plane, right onto a coastal beach. She's dressed for the occasion, an airy, floral sundress ebbing and flowing around her gorgeous figure. He shoves his hands in his pockets, willing his gaze to focus anywhere else. He finds solace in his Converse, the way they squish against the sand deters him from the way her dress dips lower at the chest.
He shakes his head, as if to rid himself of the thought, as guilt creeps into the pit of his stomach. He's been fighting these feelings ever since she joined the bureau. The magnetic pull she has on him, the grip of want clutching his heart, his lungs, until he can barely breathe. As always, she saddles up next to him, as if she knew she's on his mind. She's always on his mind.
A mix of coconut and chemicals fill his nostrils, her sunscreen infiltrating all his senses. Her bare arm grazes against his, her proximity nearly suffocating. He'd rather die than move away from her, though.
They're assigned the same task, analyzing the letters sent to and from various money launderers. She's bent at the waist, palms flat against the white folding table set up on the beach. Hormones rage through him, he feels like a perverse teenager, but the way she pops her hip out nearly gives him a heart attack.
His arm lifts, almost involuntarily, his hand lightly grazing her elbow as he makes his presence known. He revels in the way her eyes light up as they find him, her hand finding his shoulder. He feels dizzy when she gives it a light squeeze, the prettiest smile painting her glossy lips.
"What have you found?" he ponders. She raises her brow at him.
"We've been here for not even five minutes. How do you know I've found something?" she inquires. A light chuckle escapes his lips, his eyes finding the letters she's been scanning.
"You have that crease in your brow when you know something," he mentions softly, her smile widening. "What is it?"
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, the plump flesh ever so tempting. She's so beautiful when she works, it takes his breath away.
"This. Look at this sentence, here," she points about halfway through an old, crinkled letter. It catches his eye immediately.
"'It's been handled. There's nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.' What do you make of that?" he asks, though he has some theories himself.
"A partnership. It almost seems romantic, 'pretty little head'," she repeats, "it's almost flirtatious. Like he wants to take care of the partner, man or woman."
Spencer has no idea how the perfect combination of beauty and brains found him, of all people, but God, is he thankful.
"I agree, nice work," he smiles at her, and he revels in the way she preens at his praise. The sun coats her skin, and the natural light makes her shimmer like an angel.
"Thanks, Spence," she nudges his shoulder with hers, and his cheeks heat. It's not from the sun.
An arrest is made not long after they touch down- a 25 year old manager of a local golf club. He's a broad, muscly type, the kind of guy that's always made Spencer feel smaller, less-than. He sees it. The moment he clocks her. It makes him sick.
He's handcuffed, Hotch dragging him along the beach to the interrogation space. On his way there, his eyes lock on the girl right next to him. Acidic bile rises in his throat as his eyes scan up and down, sizing her up like a lamb for slaughter.
Hotch approaches them a few minutes later, his gaze directed at her.
"He says he'll only talk to you. He wants 'the pretty one'," Hotch informs. A shiver unzips Spencer's spine at that, the sick feeling from earlier creeping up his throat once again. He can't help but link his pinkie finger through hers, a reassuring gesture that she's more than this.
Hotch leans closer, his voice a low timbre. "Between us, this guy is a bona fide creep. You don't have to do this if you don't want to."
A wave of relief rushes through Spencer at this, though his stomach drops when she removes her pinkie from his. He sees her straighten her spine in his peripheral, and his head snaps up to look at her. He knows the second he sees her. She's going to do it.
"No," she says to Hotch, almost defiant, "I can do it. I want to help in any way I can."
Hotch studies her for a moment, his brow furrowing in a concern Spencer shares. He nods tersely, and Spencer knows fighting this is a lost cause.
"Alright, let's go," Hotch says lowly, letting her go before both of them.
Spencer follows. It's against his better judgement, he knows he'd probably be of better use elsewhere. He can't let her go in alone, though. Not even if he tried.
Your heart is thumping in your chest, your blood thrumming in your veins as you near the interrogation room. Spencer's behind you the whole time, you can tell. A tiny flame of hope flickers in your chest as he stands at the glass, a white knuckle grip on the table beneath him.
You make eye contact with him one last time before opening the door. You see the restraint in his big brown eyes, how badly he wants to tell you to not go in. You take a deep breath and open the door anyway.
A sickly feeling creeps its way into your stomach, acid bubbling in the deepest part of you. You watch as he sizes you up, his gaze lingering a little too long on your chest. You're used to this, to men treating you like a piece of meat. It never gets easier, but you find a small bit of comfort in the fact that you're helping your team. So, you plaster your sweetest smile, falling into the role that's expected of you.
"Hi! How are you doing? Uncomfortable?" you pout your glossy lips, tone sickly sweet as you perch on the edge of the table. His eyes linger on your ass, the fat of it emphasized by your weight on the table. You arch your back slightly. You know you look good, you decide to lean into it instead of focusing on the man in front of you.
"What do you think, sweetheart?" he asks, sarcasm lacing his tone as he rattles his cuffs. "You help, though."
Your stomach churns, but your smile never falters. Your experience with men like this isn't foreign to you. You know every button you need to push.
"Yeah?" you drawl, your manicured nails crawling to his forearm, resting gingerly there. "Anything I can get you? Food? Water?" you bat your lashes sweetly. The glint in his eye reeks of objectification, and you swallow the lump in your throat.
"Get me a cheeseburger and fries from Louie's. Oh- and a chocolate milkshake, cherry on top," he winks at that last line. You pity him for how proud he seems of it.
You place a hand on his forearm, leaning in so your face is parallel with his. You watch his eyes flit down to your chest, now even more exposed in your position.
"You got it," your tone is saccharine, your nails dragging lightly against his arm as you stand to leave. You make sure to sway your hips a little extra as you leave, looking over your shoulder one more time before opening the door.
You exit the interrogation room to the shocked expressions of your team members, most are impressed, others in pure shock. You catch Spencer, though, and it doesn't take a genius to see the incredulous expression on his face. His brows furrowed, a pout hanging low on his lips.
"Way to work it, honey," Morgan claps you on the back. Hotch nods his agreement.
Pride swells in your belly at their praise. You can't shake Spencer's lack of enthusiasm, though. His inability to look you in the eye sparks a flame of disappointment, blazing through the content you felt just moments before.
You weave your way through the small room, linking your fingers around Spencer's wrist and pulling him out into the precinct. He still can't look at you.
"Spencer, what's wrong?" you're not really sure where to start. You hope this gets him talking.
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong," his voice is high pitched in the way that it does when he's lying. "I just- I can't watch you put yourself on display for someone that looks at you like a piece of meat! Is that just your natural state? Since it clearly comes so easily to you."
He mumbles the last part under his breath, and it shocks you into silence. Frustration flares in your chest, spreading like wildfire from head to toe.
"You don't have to watch, then, Spencer," you spit out his name, and he flinches at your tone. "I'm trying to help our team solve this case. If you can't watch, then maybe your skills would be used better somewhere else."
You stalk off, hurt piercing through every nerve in your body. You wiggle your fingers, stretching your neck side to side as you try to shake off the feeling. It finds its way back to you, no matter what you do, rising like bile up your throat.
You open the door back to the interrogation room, watching the man behind the glass eat his food without a care in the world. You stew for a moment, letting yourself sit in the hurt, the anger. You decide to let it fuel you.
You reach your hands into your dress, pushing your boobs up so they rest perkily above the neckline. You turn to Hotch, who looks like he regrets the day he was born, fire blazing in your eye.
"I can crack him," you say assuredly. Hotch nods in response, and you turn the knob to the interrogation room.
Spencer can't help but find his way back into the interrogation room. He sits in the back, behind Hotch and Morgan, back hunched, arms crossed over his chest. His brows are furrowed, the pout on his lips everlasting.
Guilt boils in his stomach as she saunters back in the room. The way his eyes light up when he sees her makes Spencer physically ill. He clears his throat uncomfortably, which causes Derek's head to cross over his shoulder, finding Spencer immediately.
Spencer shrinks into himself even more as Derek moves to join him at the back table. They sit for a moment, watching as she bends over the table at the waist, popping her hip out in a way that's sinful. Spencer bites his lip, completely giving up on hiding his feelings from Derek. He figured him out months ago.
"The way I spoke to her, Derek..." Spencer trails off shamefully. He shakes his head, unable to look at her without feeling nauseous.
"She's going to forgive you. She just needs to know you're coming from a place of concern, not judgement," Derek says, his poignancy grating Spencer's nerves even further. How dare he have such good judgement?
"How do you know she'll forgive me?" Spencer murmurs. He can't remember the last time he sounded so weak.
"Because I know," his certainty draws Spencer's gaze up to meet Morgan's. They sit in loaded silence, the only sound cutting through is her saccharine tone from the other side of the glass. It churns in Spencer's stomach like bad milk.
Derek moves back to where he was before, next to Hotch at the glass window. It's then that Spencer finally wills himself to look at her. She's got her hands on her hips, all her weight resting on one foot in a way that highlights her figure. She flips her hair, and the suspect is completely drawn to her.
"You're a smart guy, I can just tell..." she croons, moving closer towards him, "but being smart doesn't mean you can hide from me, you know?"
The suspect blushes at this, though a smug smirk paints his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about, baby. I didn't do anything."
Spencer white knuckles the table beneath him. It's all he can do to not go in there and wipe that smile right off his face.
"I know you're not used to pretty girls pushing back. Most of them just fall for that smile, huh?" her voice is lower, more intimate, as a nail traces the shape of his lip.
The suspect tenses then, turning his gaze down to his hands. Spencer sits up at this, adrenaline striking him at the suspect's discomfort.
"I...I didn't do anything. I swear," the suspect emphasizes that last part, and Spencer knows she's got him.
"You really think I'm going to let you get away with that answer, when I know the truth?" she's resting on the table now, her hip delicately perched just inches away from the suspect. "It's okay to let go, you know," a nail lightly grazes up his arm. He shivers. "You've lost control already, haven't you?"
The last question comes out as a whisper. The suspect jolts away from her, the legs of his chair scraping the floor.
"I didn't mean for it to go this far, okay?" the suspect exclaims. Spencer stands fully upright now, moving to stand in-between Hotch and Morgan.
"She's got him," Morgan mumbles, and Spencer's chest swells with pride.
"But it did go that far, didn’t it? And now you’re here. You can’t run anymore. What happened that night? I’m right here. You can tell me," she's batting her eyelashes, yet venom laces her tone.
"It was just supposed to be money laundering. They told me I'd be making seven figures if I did. That's all I wanted. I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," he groans, head falling back.
Spencer, Hotch, and Morgan all exchange weary looks, brows raised in surprise. Pride blossoms in his chest like an early spring flower, his cheeks warming at the sight of his best friend. He's so, so proud of her. He was such an ass earlier. He'll spend the rest of his life making it up to her.
Her head tilts to the side, a faux pout painting her lips. She pats his shoulder definitively before standing.
"Thanks, babe," her tone is sarcastic now, and she winks before leaving the room.
She's caught off guard to see Spencer there, stopping in the doorway just briefly before closing it behind her. The pride swelling in his chest dissipates to that boiling guilt from before, bubbling deep in his stomach.
"Good work," Hotch nods at her, a prideful smile on her lips, "Morgan, have Garcia research any connections to our unsub. He said 'they', we may be looking for a team."
Hotch follows Morgan out, and he's left alone with her now. It dawns on him that he's never been speechless with her before. She's always made him feel comfortable expressing whatever's on his mind. Now, as her eyes gleam with hurt, he doesn't think he's earned that right.
"You did it," he breathes. He gets a heavy scoff in response.
"I knew I would, since it comes so naturally, I thought why not lean into it?" her venomous tone pierces through his heart as she walks past him. She pats his shoulder the same way she did with the unsub, is skin aflame at the contact, even though she's mad at him.
A wine glass is perched between your fingers as you curl up on the jet. It's a celebratory drink, insisted by Morgan for your involvement in solving the case. You look out the window to the setting sun over the coast, the sparkling water. You take a deep breath before taking a long sip.
It's not soon after you take off that night falls, your teammates falling asleep in waves. One certain member hasn't, though. You feel Spencer's eyes on you as you make your way to the back of the jet, spilling out the remaining contents of your glass in the small sink at the bar.
You relent on your way back, the blaring anger you felt earlier dulled to a hum of frustration. He looks tired, vulnerable in his current state, curled up on the couch of the jet. You crouch in front of him, a delicate hand perched on his shoulder. His eyes meet yours in record time, regret flashing through them almost immediately.
Your heart aches, as if two large hands are squeezing as hard as they can. You've missed him. It doesn't feel right to celebrate your win without him. You push back a strand of hair that's fallen in front of his eye, and they gleam at your touch. You can't help but smile at his softness.
"Spence..." you start, but he cuts you off.
"I'm so, so sorry, honey," the words burst out of him. Your heart clutches at the pet name.
"It's okay," you smile meekly, but your acceptance is sincere all the same.
"No. No, it's not," he says as he sits up, facing you properly now. "I should have never said what I did, it was-it was awful of me. I never want to make you feel like that again."
"Why did you say it, Spencer?" you inquire, the breath robbed from your lungs, "it was so unlike you. It hurt, but it caught me by surprise more than anything."
His eyes squeeze shut at the confirmation that he'd hurt you, and you rest a delicate palm on his forearm. A sincere gesture now, compared to the hollow touches you'd doled out earlier.
"Spencer, I want you to talk to me," you whisper, and he shudders at the softness in your voice. You know he thinks he doesn't deserve your forgiveness.
"That guy, the way he looked at you, he looks nothing like me..." he trails off, and it clicks in your brain.
He wasn't mad at you for flirting, he was scared you were leading him on. That he wasn't as important as a guy who looked like that.
"Oh, Spence..." you can't help yourself, you plop right in his lap. You pull his neck into your shoulder, a deep hug as he breathes shakily.
"You're just so beautiful, any guy like that could have you. Yet you pay attention to me. Why?" he pulls back and looks up at you, eyes glimmering with unshed tears.
"Spencer, for one, that guy is being charged with fraud and murder in the first degree. Don't compare yourself to him," a teasing lilt laces your tone, and he groans playfully into your neck.
You cradle him for a moment, and can't help but notice how normal this feels, how right it is to be with him in this way. You're so in love with him. You have been ever since you first met him, and you need him to know.
"Spencer, you don't give yourself enough credit for how hot you really are," you smirk. He scoffs at that, an involuntary noise that almost wakes up the whole jet.
"Shhh!" you giggle, nails scraping the back of his scalp. You watch the way he shudders at the action, you give him another little scratch before continuing.
"You're so beautiful, Spencer," you cup his cheeks, pressing your forehead into his. "I'm sorry you don't see it."
"Do you see it?" he asks, and you know what he really means. Do you really love me? Or are you just being kind?
"Of course I do, Spencer. I see your kind eyes, your full lips, your hands..." you trail off, finding his hand splayed on your back. You grab it, putting your palm flat against his.
"My-my hands?" he laughs out in disbelief. His cheeks are tinted pink, and you don't think you've ever wanted anyone this bad in your entire life.
You nod. "Yeah, your hands, Spence. They're huge," you lace your fingers together then, and he shudders at the touch.
"But it's not only what's on the outside, though I do enjoy it so very much," he blushes even more profusely. You never want him to stop. "Your heart, Spence. It's so kind, and loving, and forgiving, I'm sorry you don't see yourself as enough. I'll spend as much time as you'll let me proving you wrong."
He looks you in the eye, then. His brows furrowed, lips pouted. The air between you thickens in the silence, your chests move up and down in time together.
"I love you," you whisper, and the shuddering breath that leaves Spencer's lips makes you want to cry.
He buries his face in your neck once more, the heat from his still-red cheeks radiating off of him.
"Oh, angel. I love you, too. I'm so sorry. I love you, I don't deserve you-"
You cut his rambling off with the sweetest kiss to his lips. He groans into it, pulling you closer into him with his hands.
"This dress, honey. I haven't been able to keep my eyes off you all day," he whispers in between kisses.
You let out the smallest whimper at that, the thought of driving him crazy just from your outfit giving you a confidence boost for the ages.
"Yeah?" you ask playfully, moving his hand to rest against a bare spot on your thigh. He looks up at you, submission gleaming in his eye as he nods.
You could just destroy him.
"If you guys start to hook up on this jet, I'm snitching," you and Spencer both jump at the voice coming from behind.
It's Morgan, sitting awake amongst the rest of the sleeping team. Your heart pounds from the shock, though a smile still splays across your face. Spencer looks the same, flushed but content, his cheeks bunching up around his eyes.
"It is about time. We've had a running pool throughout the whole office over who was gonna cave first. Looks like I'm getting a cut, thanks, pretty girl," Derek ruffles your hair as he walks past, going to make himself a coffee at the bar.
"Morgan!" Spencer whines, his head falling back against the couch.
You giggle, too in love to care that you were caught. You snake your arms around his neck, leaning in to whisper in his ear.
"We'll finish what we started when we get home," you're seductive in your tone, and you can tell you're successful from the goosebumps rising on his flesh.
He shivers as you move off his lap, settling into his side as you begin to descend on Quantico. A flight home has never felt so long.
