hello ! im vivi, im 20 years old and im from brazil. this blog is dedicated mainly to matthew gray gubler and spencer reid, i also talk about criminal minds and the whole cast.
im a swiftie so i will occasionally talk about taylor here. this is not an nsfw blog but i might reblog fics that have nsfw content.
i love to talk and interact so dont be shy to dm me, comment on my blogs or send me asks, i greatly appreciate it !! ( ੭ ˘ ³˘)੭°｡⋆♡‧₊˚
you can also find me on twitter, pinterest, spotify and airbuds, for more matthew content you can see my mgg folder on pinterest and for more cm content i also have a criminal minds folder.
ive been mia as hell im sorry lol But my classes are back which weirdly enough means ill be kore active again ! (i love to procrastinate and social media are purrrrfect for that)
also little rant i told myself im gonna compromise this year and try to be more social on fandoms cause i love it here and theres way less bs than twitter so expected to see more from me 🙂↕️
A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.
category: smut, fluff
word count: around 8k
content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count?
a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry
You’re doing it again.
You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.
Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.
It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.
Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.
Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.
Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.
Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.
Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.
“Don’t you agree?”
Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”
“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”
This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?
Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."
“You’re such a guy."
“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."
“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”
“Are you saying I have no personality?”
Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”
You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.
Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.
You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut.
You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.
Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.
But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.
You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.
“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”
Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”
You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.
The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.
“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”
She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”
“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”
There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”
“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.
Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.
“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”
The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”
Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”
“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”
“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”
You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.
“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”
“Seventeen days late."
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.
"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”
He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.
“It’s not that bad,” you insist.
“I still don’t understand the appeal.”
Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.
This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.
It makes you very bold.
Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.
You’ll have him taste his own medicine.
You, too, can play with fire.
“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”
He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”
“I do.”
He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.
Will you show me?
And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.
It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.
It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.
And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.
The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.
It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.
Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.
“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.
“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”
He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”
“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”
“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”
That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.
You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.
“Sweet.”
“Huh?”
“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”
Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”
Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”
You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.
“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”
Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.
“You think so?”
“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”
Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”
“I’m just being honest.”
It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.
“What are you doing?”
“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”
His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”
You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”
“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”
Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.
You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”
“I’m listening.”
The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.
“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”
“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”
A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”
You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.
Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.
His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.
And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.
His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.
“What do you think?”
“I think we should drink champagne every day.”
Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”
“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”
You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.
There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.
You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.
This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.
It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.
A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”
“Champagne or me?”
“Both.”
Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”
He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.
There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.
Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.
“Is this what you had in mind?”
He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”
Spencer sinks into the cushion.
“This might get a little messy.”
His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.
You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.
He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Can you blame me?”
Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.
When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.
Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.
You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”
His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.
"Spence?"
His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.
“I think… it’s very intimate."
“Too intimate?”
"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"
You're bobbing your head up and down.
“Then I'd really, really like that.”
You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"
"More than anyone."
“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"
"Anything."
You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”
He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”
His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.
Your eyes widen in surprise.
Oh my.
“What’s wrong?”
When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.
You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.
“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.
And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.
You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.
"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.
Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”
"Are you sure?"
"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."
His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”
Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.
And you want him. So fucking bad.
“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.
“I am relaxed,” you huff.
“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”
Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.
“Should we move to your bed?”
He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.
“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”
There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”
“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”
His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”
“Until I can’t feel my legs.”
The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.
“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”
“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”
His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.
“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"
Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
"You're still tense."
Kiss. Kiss.
“Really need you to relax.”
You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.
His name slips in a desperate whisper.
"Hm?"
"Stop teasing."
His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.
He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.
"Better?"
The question is entirely rhetorical.
You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.
Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.
It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.
Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.
"Do you think you can take a third?"
Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”
Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?
Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.
"Does it hurt?"
You let out a loud exhale. "No."
"Tell me if it hurts."
"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."
He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.
A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.
You need him inside you.
“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”
He has the audacity to shake his head.
"I'll decide when you're ready."
Your breath stutters even more.
Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?
Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.
It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.
“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”
He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”
“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”
He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.
His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”
Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.
“Tell me again while you fuck me.”
You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.
“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.
And Spencer is one to keep his promises.
He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.
He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.
Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.
The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.
He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.
“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”
His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
“You won’t—”
You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.
“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.
Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.
“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”
You shake your head.
“You want it rough.”
It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.
His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.
The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.
Still. Not. Enough.
“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.
What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.
A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.
“Like this?”
The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.
“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”
Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.
Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.
Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.
Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.
It happens all at once.
You’re trembling.
You’re shattering.
You’re pathetically whining.
Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.
One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.
He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.
His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.
You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”
His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.
You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.
“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.
“Was I not obvious enough?”
You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”
To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.
“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”
“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.
You make a sound of disapproval.
“We definitely need to change that.”
-
Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.
He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.
But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.
He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.
Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.
The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.
“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”
The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.
“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.
“We slept in?”
“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”
He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.
If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.
"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."
Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.
"Oh."
That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.
"What?"
"Um."
It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.
He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.
Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you??
Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you?
Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM??
Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you?
Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!
Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.
Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning.
Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me.
Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive?
Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS.
Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.
"I think she's onto us."
It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.
"What should I tell her?"
Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.
And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.
Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.
He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.
"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."
You’re quiet for a while.
“Are you sure?"
For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.
So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?
Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?
The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"
You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.
"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.
He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"
"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."
Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.
"Do you like me?"
What kind of question is that?
"Did I seem not to like you last night?"
"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"
He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.
He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.
The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.
But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?
Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.
What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.
“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”
A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.
“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”
Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”
“Before we even kissed.”
The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.
“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”
His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”
“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”
“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”
“Last month?”
“Even before that.”
You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”
But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.
Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.
“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”
“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.
“I’m a terrible liar.”
He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.
Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.
“What took you so long then?”
Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.
That, and bad timing.
Countless abductions.
A never-ending chase after unsubs.
Death of a team mate.
And prison.
God, prison.
He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?
The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.
“I’m sorry.”
For waiting so long.
For not saying this sooner.
For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.
He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?
You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.
“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.
“If you must know, I do like you.”
But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.
"I more than like you,” he decides to add.
It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.
A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”
The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”
“You’re never getting rid of me now.”
His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.
He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.
Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.
His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.
Six minutes.
That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.
"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”
A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”
You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”
He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.
Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.
But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.
Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.
And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.
Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.
God, your taste.
He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.
in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader manage to discuss the direction of their physical relationship between makeouts. reader isn't feeling comfortable at her apartment, so they plan their first trip together.
series masterlist
this fic is 18+
warnings/tags: d/s dynamics but not smutty, softdom!spencer/sub reader, mild pda?, hint at switch!spencer, they talk about sex/how r feels about her first time, making out, r has long hair, almost dry humping if you're standing several miles away, unresolved sexual tension, teasing/flirting. don't like? don't read
a/n: yayyyyy hi guys!! no idea when part 11 will be out. I missed them. I love them so bad. they are my favorite ever. they are so special to me 4ever. hope u missed them and ur just as happy to see them happy as I am :")
“Do you like eyelet?” Spencer asks, reaching up to grab a set of sheets you couldn’t. He insists that you let him get everything from the top shelf because it’s been handled less.
You shrug, distracted by the angle of his jaw and the line of his throat as he retrieves the plastic package.
It’s Sunday. Three nights in a row spent with him—the longest sleepover streak thus far—and you don’t want to go back to sleeping alone tonight. But you know it’s time. Both of you have things to attend to tomorrow, and you’re not exactly in the habit of getting things done when you’re together. All weekend you’ve lounged in his lap on the couch or tangled yourself in his arms in bed—fully clothed, of course. Spencer had suggested the no-sex rule on Friday, and you’re glad for it. You feel no pressure to be doing more when he’s kissing you or holding you.
Of course, the concept of having sex again crosses your mind—when you’re washing your face and catch a glimpse of the bruises on your neck in the mirror, or when the tips of Spencer’s fingers trace idly over a span of exposed skin on your lower back as you watch a movie on the couch and you’re struck with desire, or you move just right and feel a tiny lingering twinge of soreness. There was a time when if you had Spencer Reid to yourself for three nights, a Navy SEAL wouldn’t have been able to pull you off of him. Now, when you think about the fact that there will be a second time, you get that butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling—but you’re not sure if it’s good or apprehensive.
Either way, it’d be too much right now.
You do miss feeling that kind of closeness with him. That intimacy. It can’t be replicated, no matter how many naps you take together. Probably something to do with brain chemicals and hormones. He could explain it all, if you were brave enough to ask.
So you know it’d be too much… but it’s not that you don’t want it. There is also, of course, the issue of the way he looks. It’s not helping your cognition. It’s not encouraging you to make good choices.
You’re not supposed to be thinking about sex. You’re supposed to tell him if you like eyelet.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Spencer gives you an exasperated look and sighs. He’s wearing his glasses today. His hair is freshly washed and fluffy. The navy blue sweater he’s wearing is about the only step between a button down and pajamas for him, and he looks good in casual clothing. You chew your lip.
He doesn’t notice your ogling. “You’ve said that about everything.”
“I’m really not that passionate about the fabric of my sheets,” you defend, shoulders rising and dropping.
“Surely you like some of them less and some of them more. Usually you jump at the chance to express an opinion.”
Okay. Uncalled for.
He’s obviously kidding. You overreact anyway.
“You suck,” you mumble, brushing past him in search of something suitable for your bed.
Spencer processes this for a moment and then trails after you down the aisle.
“I suck?”
“Here, look. Bamboo. That’s good, right?”
Your boyfriend glances at the package you’ve selected, probably holding back a whole host of facts about bamboo farming in China.
“It’s fine. Why do I suck?”
“Because you implied I’m opinionated.”
“I didn’t imply it. It was an explicit statement.”You groan petulantly and put the sheets back on the shelf with force. Spencer picks them up and follows you deeper into the store. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t,” you huff, turning around to face him once you’re safely sequestered in a new aisle. The store’s not busy—an elderly couple roams for fake fruit and towels, humming vacantly to the Muzak, and a single mom wrangles her kids in a cart. Back here, it’s just the two of you. “Not really.”
“Then what did?” He asks gently, stepping closer. Spencer’s not overly-affectionate in public, but the tone of his voice, the way he’s looking at you like he can see your thoughts, feels intimate.
You’re helpless when he gets like this, and he probably knows it. It’s an abuse of power and when you can think straight again you’ll have to scold him for it.
“It doesn’t even matter. You’re just gonna drop me off after this anyway.”
He tilts his head like a curious puppy, eyes alight with a good puzzle as he quickly strings together the facts in his head.
“Is that it?”
You frown and hesitate, eyes catching on a loose thread at the hem of his sweater.
“… No.”
“Yeah, it is. You’re upset because I’m taking you home.”
You scramble to deny. “That’s not it.”
“I think it is,” he murmurs, a smile playing at the corners of his perfect mouth.
You study the waxen floor tiles intently.
“Well… I mean, would that be weird? You’re gonna miss me too, right?”
You sound unsure—insecure, even. When you look back up at him, his eyes are melted chocolate, even under the fluorescents. He glances down at your mouth briefly and then over your shoulder.
Pleasekissmepleasekissmepleasekissme.
He doesn’t, but you can tell he really wants to, which is almost as good.
“Of course, I’m going to miss you. But we’ll see each other soon. Probably tomorrow.”
“Unless you get called out on a case. But it’s not even really that. It’s just—how am I supposed to… I don’t know! We just spent three nights together. How am I supposed to go back to sleeping alone for a whole week?”
Maybe you’re too attached to him now, because acknowledging the thought which has been lurking all morning opens the floodgates that were holding back a sea of dread, and you feel it in every inch of your body. Five nights alone stretch out before you like an infinite, impassable forest. Friday is an eternity away, and there’s no guarantee he’ll even be here Friday night, if the team gets a case.
Spencer somehow regards you with both curiosity and innate wisdom, like you’re a new specimen in a familiar field, for a long enough moment that your cheeks begin to warm.
“Sorry, that was embarrassing. I’m being weird, it’s fine—”
Just as you go to walk away, he pulls you carefully back in by the wrist, even closer than before.
“No. You’re sweet,” he murmurs, hand warm even through the knit of your sleeve. Gingerly you look back up at him.
“But you’re not gonna miss me as much as I miss you.”
“Do not undermine my capacity for yearning. I missed you when you were brushing your teeth this morning.”
“Ooh. So clingy,” you tease, though you’re obviously delighted by the information, and he borderline pouts.
“Don’t say that. Say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” you laugh as he pulls you to his chest, keeping you there with a hand to your back.
“Okay. Now say you love me.”
For a moment you’re distracted by the proximity, the lowering of his voice as he brings you into his space and your faces are only inches apart. The smell of his body wash coming from both of you.
“I love you,” you breathe, and it’s not as teasing as you’d meant for it to be as his eyes dart to your lips.
Even though you’re bossy, is what you don’t say.
This seems to please him, because finally, he’s tilting his head down and pressing a quick kiss to your lips. It’s still enough to make you lightheaded.
“Apology accepted. I love you too,” he murmurs. And then he’s pulling back, trying to walk around you. “Do you wanna stop for coffee on the way back to yours?”
“Wait,” you order, suddenly listless and disoriented in the middle of the aisle. “You’re not gonna…”
Spencer frowns back at you.
“I’m not gonna what?”
“You’re not gonna… say it?”
“… I love you? I did say that.”
“No, there’s—usually when I do stuff you ask me to do, you say—”
Only when the first ray of understanding illuminates his face do you realize you actually shouldn’t have said anything at all.
“Nevermind. Yeah, let’s just go.”
Spencer catches your arm again as you attempt to walk past him, laughing quietly as he leans down to speak in your ear.
“I am not calling you good girl in the small decorative statues aisle.”
“What if we go back to the bedding aisle?” You ask, through the warmth of your own cheeks.
It’s sort of a joke.
“Remember what I said about appropriate context?”
“All those sheets, and duvet covers, and stuff. It’s basically the same.”
When he doesn’t respond, you gather the courage to tear your eyes from a little robot statue and look at him. Eyes ever-so-slightly narrowed, warmed only by a hint of humor. A barely detectable curve of the mouth.
Oops. With all your blind-button pushing, you might’ve accidentally tapped the one responsible for all the marks on your neck—the one that makes him tick in a way which usually ends with you underneath him.
And then, for the first time, you actually watch as he pushes it down—activates some sort of self-cooling system. Probably he understands that whether you meant to be provocative or not, this interaction isn’t headed in a salacious direction. Even if you weren’t in public, the rule is holding fast.
His hand slides from your arm to intertwine with your fingers.
“What are you doing next week?”
You blink at the sudden change in subject and tone.
“Uh… I don’t know. Working, probably.”
“From home?”
“Yeah. Why?”
He chews his lip thoughtfully.
“I… still have a few days of annual leave that I need to use. I don’t know if this is… this might be too much, and you can say no. But Rossi has a place in Shenandoah. It’s a cabin—it’s, it’s really nice, I’ve seen pictures. He used to use it for hunting, I guess now he rents it out in the summer and fall but it’s empty during the off-season and he’s always offering it to the team. It’s only like, an hour away. An hour and nine minutes actually, if you take the 66 Express outside the Beltway from Arlington. I looked it up, um… semi-recently. I’m sure he’d let us use it, if you wanted to come burn four days of leave with me. No pressure. Of any kind. I could also, just, y’know, stay home, and we could still spend time together that way. We could finish Deep Space Nine. Or watch something else. Or watch nothing. Whatever you’d like to do.”
Your heart rate has been increasing steadily since he started his impromptu speech—you’re glad he seems nervous inviting you. You’re a little nervous accepting. A trip together is definitely a new step. But getting the hell out of dodge with him for a few days sounds wonderful.
“I’d love to go,” you say earnestly.
Spencer’s face goes blank for a second, and then his eyebrows raise, like he wasn’t expecting you to say yes.
“Oh. Oh! Great! Okay, I’ll—I’ll talk to Rossi about it tomorrow.”
He remains highly chipper as he hands his card over to the cashier for your new overpriced bamboo sheets.
The promise of getting Spencer to yourself for four consecutive days and nights is the only way you’re able to fall asleep to a cold bed that night.
It’s harder, at home now—you’re self-conscious of every and any noise. Music, cooking, talking on the phone.
It doesn’t make sense, because you know you can’t hear your neighbors, so they shouldn’t be able to hear you, and Jerry’s a creep, who might’ve made the whole thing up just to get under your skin—but it’s all you can think about, when you’re there.
Monday evening, Spencer comes to visit, as promised. You undo all the locks and open the door just enough for him to slip through.
He kisses you hello as you close the door and sets his things down at the table while you relock.
“No Jerry today?”
“Nope. I haven’t seen him since Friday.”
“Good,” Spencer says only once you turn, a distinct chill to his tone and a mostly unfamiliar frigidity to his eyes. It’s not directed at you, but it’s unnerving nonetheless, so you draw closer and wrap your arms around his waist—hoping to melt him back into your Spencer.
He reciprocates, speaks softer now that he has you in his arms, and immediately you feel better.
“Rossi said yes to us staying at the cabin and Emily said I can take the time off. Did you still wanna go?”
You’re pre-occupied with your face buried in his shirt, so you just nod, basking in the scent of his shower products once more. They’ve gone from simply comforting to intoxicating.
“Is everything okay?” He asks quietly, brushing your hair over your shoulder. His fingers barely glance off your neck and you almost shiver. Want begins to pool deep and warm in your stomach as you lift your head and he looks down at you, so fondly.
Want which you can’t afford to feel if you’re not willing to act on it.
“I’m fine,” you breathe. Fuck. He’s too close. He’s too hot. You pull away and move to the kitchen. “Um, dinner. What do you want? We could make something. Or order something. I don’t have much, honestly.”
“I’ll be happy with anything. You sure you’re alright?”
“I don’t want to have sex!”
The words simply explode out of you, like a bat out of hell as you whip around. Just barely you manage not to clap a hand over your mouth in mortification.
You stand, back to the fridge, watching Spencer nervously for his reaction.
His brow knits. His lips part and close again several times.
You’re wondering what the fastest and most convenient method of not being alive anymore would be when he finally answers.
“… Okay. I wasn’t trying to initiate anything, did I—did I make you uncomfortable?”
“No! No, I’m sorry. I just… I wanted you to know that while I’m still, like, figuring things out—like, with my neighbor and everything—it’s just a lot, so… so I know this past weekend we agreed to not do anything and I think it would be best to… keep not doing anything. Just for now. I shouldn’t have said it like that—I didn’t actually… mean to say it. I was gonna, um, find a way to bring it up more delicately.”
You clear your throat and look down to study the patterned tile, cheeks burning.
By way of several nervous glances up at him and back down, you watch Spencer silently come to lean against the counter across from you, arms crossed over his chest.
“Okay. Thank you for telling me. We’re not ever going to do anything you don’t want to do. But, out of curiosity… is this just because of your neighbor? Or because you maybe don’t feel ready yet?”
He’s asking gently, because he wants to know, and you know there’s no wrong answer. It’s still nerve-racking.
“Um… like, a combination of the two, I guess. Mostly… the neighbor. I think. But I’m telling you this because…” and here comes the worst part. “I need you… to… hold me accountable.”
“For what?” He asks plainly, but you know what he sounds like when perfectly suppressing a smile. The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your face as you close your eyes and forge ahead in the name of open and honest communication—something the two of you are trying to work on.
“If I… come on to you… you have to turn me down.”
This is not getting any less embarrassing.
“Should I anticipate you coming onto me?”
“Probably,” you sigh, looking at him through your lashes and bringing your hands to your cheeks, hoping maybe they’ll cool you down and poor circulation will work in your favor for once. “I know myself. You know me. I like… asking you for things. But for the rest of the week, if I do… you know, want something from you—you have to tell me no.”
Spencer nods slowly. “What if you genuinely change your mind?”
“I won’t. I might think I have, I might even tell you I have, but don’t believe me, okay? I don’t think straight when I’m turned on, and if we do anything, I’ll like it until fucking Jerry is pounding my door down the next day, and I just can’t deal with that.”
Spencer’s face goes completely void of expression to the point that if it weren’t for context clues you’d have no idea he’s probably imagining pistol-whipping the guy.
“Has he knocked on your door?”
Testosterone.
“No. Back to my point. I’m trusting you to keep me in check so I don’t do anything I’ll… I’ll end up regretting. Not that I regret the other night!” You scramble just as Spencer’s brow begins to furrow. “I don’t. I just regret that my gross neighbor had to get involved. And I don’t want that to happen again. So… is that… is that okay? Will you do that for me?”
“Of course I will,” Spencer says gently, without hesitation as he pushes off the counter. “Can I ask a follow-up question?”
You nod and regard the space between you, unsure if you want to eliminate it or keep using it like a buffer. By not coming to you, he’s giving you the choice.
“You said this was mostly because of your neighbor. But you didn’t sound sure. It’s fine if you aren’t feeling ready yet. I just want to make sure I know what’s going on with you.”
“I don’t really know,” you admit, after a brief pause. “I feel like… as long as I know he’s on the other side of the wall I wouldn’t even be able to wrap my head around how I actually feel. It’s also confusing because, like I was saying, I… just because I feel like I want something in the moment, doesn’t necessarily mean I’m actually ready for it, you know? I don’t even know if… I don’t even know what being ready again really means or would look like.”
“You did the other night.”
“Yeah, but that was different. Because now I’m gonna think I know what I’m getting myself into, but that’s not necessarily true.”
Another pause in which you chew your lip and look away.
“I don’t want you to overthink it, honey. I think being ready just means you’re comfortable, and you’re with someone who’s going to keep you safe, and nobody’s pressuring you, and you’re not, you know—pressuring yourself. Wanting it is actually really important, too. But what I’m hearing right now is that even if you might want it, you’re not in a place that feels safe. And that makes sense to me. So we’re just not gonna do anything until that changes, okay?”
Eyes still cast downward, your lips twist into a sardonic little smile.
“I feel like I’m talking to my therapist.”
He laughs with a single breath.
“I really hope your therapist doesn’t speak to you like I do. The ethics there would be highly questionable.”
The joke refreshes your courage and you look back up at him, smile still edged with humor but mostly unspoken gratitude.
The half-smile on Spencer’s face, however, is fading steadily as he studies you in flickering passes. Like there’s something still on his mind. You were hoping for a subtle invitation back into his arms, but the space between you remains—infused now with a tension as it becomes increasingly obvious.
“Also… this trip we’re going on. I feel like I should say this—I don’t know if it was even on your mind, but… I don’t want you to feel pressured to have sex just because of the timing. Me inviting you on a last-minute trip to an isolated cabin—it’s not a master plan to get you to sleep with me again, I promise. I really just wanted us to be alone. Not—not that kind of alone—I mean, we’ll be alone, but it doesn’t have to be like that. I was just thinking about how nice it was for us to get those three nights together, you know, and the whole weekend too, and with my job, that’s not always going to happen, so it just seemed like a good opportunity—”
“Spencer,” you laugh, letting the tension snap like a rubber band as you go to him, slinging your arms over his shoulders, delighted to be the one doing the interrupting and not the flustered rambling, for a change. “I know you don’t have an ulterior motive. As for what kind of alone we’re going to be… we’ll figure that out, okay? Don’t worry about me. I don’t feel pressured by you. I never have. If anything, I’m the one who pressures you for sex.”
You’ve got him smiling once more, as his hands find your waist and his gaze flips from your mouth to your eyes and back again. It goes very subtly mischievous in a way you don’t quite trust, but he’s dipping his head to kiss you, and something tells you it’s going to be a good one, so when your nose bumps against his, and you can feel his breath on your lips, you’re not at all prepared for him to speak.
“Begging is not the same as pressuring, sweet thing,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing you so thoroughly you don’t even have time to be properly affronted. The offended gasp gets stuck in your throat, and melts into a tiny huff as it turns out the kiss is a very good one. You can’t think hard enough to be offended. Not even when he chuckles against you.
“That’s not fair,” you mumble when he allows you a second to breathe. He hums, satisfying himself with kisses to your cheek and playing along.
“What’s not fair?”
“You… I was supposed to have the upper hand in that situation! You were the nervous one for once!”
Another hum, buzzing against your lips this time.
“You have to learn how to take the upper hand, angel. I’ve had a lot of practice. It’s a big part of my job.”
Admittedly it’s hard to think when he talks like this, but you try.
“So… you manipulate me? That’s not very romantic.”
He laughs quietly again.
“No. I do not manipulate you.”
“You’re just a control freak,” you tease.
“Yeah,” he agrees, immediately, still soft-spoken as he pulls back to carefully search your eyes. “Does that bother you?”
You search hands and knees for a crumb of outrage, for a hint of any of that strong feminist theory you’ve instilled into your brain over so many years.
There’s nothing to be found.
“No,” you admit, dejectedly, hanging your head as much as he’ll allow. “Should it?”
“Only if you don’t like it. When I take the upper hand like that, I’m really just… posing a yes or no question. So far, you lean towards saying yes. You let me win. But you don’t have to.”
“What happens if I… if I don’t let you win?”
He angles his head, coaxing you to look in his eyes once more. A hand comes up to swipe a dot of mascara from under your brow. He’s looking at you so serenely, like none of this is at all complicated.
“Whatever you want. I wouldn’t be the one making the rules anymore.”
Oh.
Oh.
You laugh nervously.
“That’s a lot of pressure. What if… I want you to keep making the rules? For forever?”
He kisses you again, insistently enough you have to tilt your head back. When he answers, it’s low, a promise, and pressed right against your waiting mouth.
“Then I will.”
You loose a tremulous breath from your parted lips and you know he can feel it. He can feel how you’re clinging to his shirt, pressing yourself closer, how your skin has warmed and your breaths have hastened, he can probably taste how much you want him, how you’re already thinking about giving it all up for him—
And maybe that’s why he laughs dryly into your mouth before pulling away.
Because he’s a good boyfriend.
Spencer knits his brow and clears his throat as his hand slides down your arm, eyes narrowed like he’s wondering how things escalated so quickly. You certainly are.
Suddenly he’s back to the nerd you met in a coffee shop all those months ago, and you like him like this, too. “So… dinner?”
“Mhm. Yeah. We should… we should definitely eat. What do you wanna eat?”
You don’t miss the quick once over he gives you. Or the way his throat bobs once he tears his eyes away.
“Um… how does Indian sound?”
You swear you don’t know how it happened.
Everything was going fine—there was food on the coffee table, a show on the TV. Spencer made tea. It was wholesome.
And then, somewhere between setting the plastic takeout bag down and actually opening it, you ended up like this. Kneeling next to him on the couch, one hand braced on his thigh, the other tangled in his hair as you kiss slow. Like this could actually be leading somewhere.
“We should stop,” he reminds you, even as his hand traverses up your leg. You lean further into him—he has to tip his head back to meet your lips.
“We’re kissing. It’s nothing.”
“You were—” kiss. “Just telling me—” kiss. “That you don’t want this right now.”
Deep kiss. The grip he has on your hip does not agree with his words.
“This is just kissing. Kissing isn’t sex.”
Even as you’re saying it, you’re throwing your leg over his lap, landing in a straddle.
“No,” he groans as if pained, throwing his head onto the back of the couch and depriving you of his mouth. “Baby. You have to get off. We can’t do this.”
“My bathroom—we could—it doesn’t share a wall with his apartment, we could go in there and turn on the shower and we could be really quiet—”
Suddenly there’s a hand over your mouth. It’s not yours.
“Please stop before I say yes.”
You pull his hand away, fingers wrapped around his wrist.
“You should. You should say yes. It’s a good idea, I know he wouldn’t be able to hear us over the shower—”
“It’s not about that. It’s about the fact that you asked me to turn you down not even an hour ago, no matter what you say, and I said I would.” He takes a shuddering deep breath. “And… I’m going to. I’m saying no.”
“No,” you whine, head falling to his shoulder, because you know he’ll keep his promise. He cups the back of your head—a kind, sympathetic gesture, which does nothing to alleviate the heat of your blood or the ache between your legs. You pout into his neck. “This is terrible. I might not survive.”
“I think you will.”
“Maybe if I enter a coma.”
He laughs and strokes your thigh.
“There are worse things than sexual frustration.”
“Not right now. This is the worst thing I can imagine.”
“I’m so sorry. You poor thing.”
You pull back to face him, hands on his shoulders.
“Oh my god. Don’t act like it’s not bothering you.”
“I’m not bothered.”
“I know that’s not true. You know how I can tell?”
The slightest adjustment of your hips draws attention to exactly what you mean. Spencer goes completely deadpan.
“Stop,” he orders in monotone, and you laugh even you allow yourself to be tossed back onto the couch because you’ve successfully flustered him again. He puts a throw pillow over his lap and leans forward, hiding his blush beneath perfect hands with a tortured groan. “You’re terrible.”
The couch attempts to suck you in as you wriggle back from a lying position, propping yourself up on your elbows and grinning at him.
“I did it,” you gloat.
He angles his head toward you, revealing half a pretty face, still dusted red but now with all the markings of inquisition.
“You did what?”
“I took the upper hand.”
Those dark eyes narrow and before you can think to retract your legs he’s wrapping his hands around your ankles, pulling them over his pillow and leaving you flat on your back once more. Again you giggle.
“You took nothing,” he asserts, but you’re not bothered—still smiling as you accept your new position and toss your arms above your head casually.
“Somebody’s a sore loser.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Eat your curry.”
“Sorry, I’m full. From, you know, the taste of victory.”
He exhales a dry chuckle, leaning forward to finally retrieve the containers of food.
“I can’t believe I ever let you call me a nerd.”
The rest of the evening remains PG. Conversation flows and trickles comfortably over dinner on the couch, and afterwards, he suggests a documentary. From the outside, it might not look like much—but to you, with your head on his chest as the TV casts its flickering, ghostly light over the room, with the beating of his heart against your ear and his breath against the top of your head, it’s everything. Six months ago you didn’t know what it was to exist so comfortably around another person like this. Now, though he feels familiar and safe, you don’t take it for granted. The novelty of something so simple is not lost on you, and you feel like the luckiest girl in the world as your eyes begin to flutter. You’re lucky to have someone you feel completely safe with.
Spencer murmurs your name like a question. It buzzes against your ear. You hum in response.
His thumb fans lines over your shoulder blade. “Can I ask you about something?”
“Mhm.”
“The other night… we didn’t really get a chance to—to debrief, afterwards. Which is fine, you were tired, it was late. But then the next morning I had to go, and everything with your neighbor happened, and we talked about that a little bit, but… but earlier, it sounded like maybe you… I don’t know. Maybe you weren’t feeling good about how it happened?”
“Spencer, I told you I don’t regret it,” you remind him, pushing up from his chest to look him in the eye. His hand slides down your back.
“I know… I just wanted to give you another chance to talk about it. In case anything was on your mind.” He frets over your hair, an invisible speck on your skin. Like he’s nervous. “And I want to make sure you’re feeling okay about how it went. I know what happened the next day was an unfortunate addendum, and I’m sorry about that. As soon as you give me permission, I will have him arrested. But I don’t want that to overshadow your experience.”
“It’s… not,” you breathe, fiddling with a button on Spencer’s shirt.
“So how did you feel about it? Barring anything external?”
“Good.”
Spencer strokes your jaw with a knuckle, gently admonishing.
“Don’t just say that. Think about it.”
“I have,” you assure him immediately, cheeks warming as you realize just how swiftly you’d replied.
What a lovely button. Mother-of-pearl. The shirt is a pale lilac. It looks good on him. One of your favorites, actually.
Spencer lets you pick at it. He would probably let you pull the button off, tear every stitch on the shirt with a seam-ripper if it helped to soothe your nerves.
“I’m not trying to embarrass you, or make you uncomfortable. We don’t have to go into explicit detail. I know it still feels weird to talk about. But it’s something we do have to talk about.”
“I know. And I would bring it up if something didn’t feel right. But it… was…” you chew your lip as you think of a way to phrase it that doesn’t sound too mushy-gushy. “Overwhelmingly… a very positive experience.”
“You sound like Yelp review,” Spencer says through a smile. You attempt to smother the continual heat of your embarrassment against his shirt. He’s seen you at your most vulnerable, more intimately than anyone ever has before. And you’re still shy about acknowledging that fact.
“Shut up. Say something nice back.”
With a typically gentle hand, he pushes hair away from your ear.
“I…” he begins meaningfully, taking a moment to sweep your hair over your back. “Feel incredibly grateful that you trusted me to take care of you. I know that’s big for you, and I know it can be a really scary thing. Mostly I’m happy you’re happy. And that I didn’t mess up irredeemably.”
“What would you have messed up?” You laugh, retreating from your shelter against his chest to knit your brow.
He makes a face in the half-dark like he shouldn’t have said it.
“Uh… that… veers into explicit detail… and possibly too much honesty.”
You laugh again and adjust to frame his sheepish smile between your hands.
“I see. You have to keep your mystique in tact.”
“I really don’t think it’s that much of a mystery.”
“Well, I’ll spare your ego.”
“Wow, thanks. For the first time in your life.”
You go in for a chaste, smiley kiss, which stays sweet and kind even as it melts into something stickier.
It comes to a turning point and Spencer inhales deeply, gently angling his head away and shifting to check his watch. You collapse on his chest, catching your breath.
“I should go.”
“No. I feel like you’re going away to war.”
“I’m going to Court House. Where I live.”
“What if I never see you again?”
“It’s twenty minutes away. So you could always just drive.”
You frown.
“I hope you get trench foot.”
“You know seventy seven thousand soldiers died from trench foot in World War Two?”
“Obviously I did not know that.”
“Well, next time you should just say you want me to die. Up.”
He pats the back of your thigh and you push off of him, only after considering trying to hold him hostage for a split second.
You hover by the couch like a ghost, watching with increasing anxiety as he gathers together the empty containers from your meal and throws them in the kitchen garbage before collecting his things.
There is one thing—one potentially difficult thing you haven’t mentioned to him that seems to be a direct consequence of finally sleeping together.
You’re clingy.
Clingier than you’ve ever been. It didn’t seem possible to want to be around him more than you already had, but now when he’s gone you feel his absence like a vacuous hole by your side. Without his warmth, you’re always a little colder. A little less comfortable.
It’s embarrassing to admit that you’re starting to get separation anxiety, so you won’t put it into so many words—but you think, as he turns, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a knowing look, that he understands.
At the same time, you begin to close the space, meeting gently in the middle, toe to toe. You keep your hands behind your back, afraid that otherwise you’ll try and glom onto him like a barnacle on a ship’s hull.
“There are some things I’d like to get done this week so I don’t have to worry about them during our trip. So I might not see you for a day or two.”
Dutifully you nod, though you’re slightly crushed.
“That’s okay. We’re grownups.”
“I don’t know,” he tuts. “I’m worried I’m gonna start writing my name with your last on all my notebooks.”
That stupid, stupid charm.
“Mm… I’m kinda out of your league,” you grin.
Spencer’s smile wanes slowly, but his eyes remain soft and aglow as they explore your face as reverently as his hands would. When he speaks, it’s in an honest, borderline whisper. “I’m acutely aware.”
Slowly his head dips, and your eyes flutter shut. A sweet, lingering kiss lands on your cheek. Then he’s pulling back.
“That’s it?” You can’t help but ask, peering up at him and barely concealing a frown.
He smiles that lovely smile, but by this point you’re attuned enough to his facial expressions to recognize the subtle heat playing just beneath the surface of those golden-oak eyes.
“What? Did I give you the impression that I put out?”
“It’s just a kiss.”
That teasing edge becomes ever so slightly sharper as he regards you, head tilting.
“Mhm. And the last time you said that—was it before or after you mounted me?”
You shoo him away pretty quickly after that—partly for discipline, and partly because the sooner he’s gone, the sooner you’ll go to sleep, and the sooner it will be tomorrow.
And this trip can’t come soon enough, because you’re pretty sure you know exactly what kind of alone you’d like to be with Spencer Reid.
★ anon! Hello again, so sorry I died. I randomly lost the motivation to write or be on tumblr but it’s back! I would love to write. but idk what about ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Please give me some ideas for Reid hcs !!
Ty sm !!
-★ anon
OMG HI LOVE i was wondering where you were just the other day can you believe it ? im glad youre back 🫶
im once again living for dad!spencer so id love hcs on that if its something youre comfortable writing
or just domestic stuff about physical touch honestly im pmsing so im seeking comfort lol
i hate to alarm everyone but wildest dreams is about alexander skarsgaård 😞❤️
rumored to be!! 🫣
im playing bb its just a theory cause a lot of things in the songs overlap so i like to imagine and think that its about mgg and honestly i dont think its impossible
i LOVED ur suburban legends/mgg theory, and hear me out — I think there’s a chance wonderland could be about him too. obviously she dated HS in the 1989 era so there’s a big chance it’s about him instead, but I feel like wildest dreams, suburban legends, and wonderland all have the same energy/themes. maybe im just delusional and im devastated he and taylor didn’t have a long term relationship though LMAO 😖
THANK YOU SOSOOSO MUCH 🥹 im insanely proud of this theory im so glad you like it
and dont worry about being delusional cause , what if i told you im working on another theory , and that this time is connecting wonderland x wildest dreams x suburban legends , what if,,
rafa (my partner on gublerswift thoughts always) has been begging me to finish it for more than a month now and i promise ill get back on it 😖
now that im saying this on tumblr ill have more motivation to write again cause ill know i said id commit so hopefully by the end of the week ill post it !
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
annaxmalina
germansingergirl
andulkaphoto
jbbartram-illu
