Might be a weird request, but could we get a fic where the reader has a headache or migraine and Spencer decides to help relieve the reader’s pain by eating her out because he remembered reading a theory that orgasms can help relieve headache and migraine pain, and he tests that theory out because he hates seeing the reader in pain?
⋆.˚ Headache.
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader
Your boyfriend Spencer has the perfect remedy for your headache.
ellie talks - my first request, yay! (also, not weird at all!) this one was so much fun, thank you so much for requesting this! i can't wait to do more requests so please send me any ideas you have! also i just thought i'd say that i'm actually only on season 2 of criminal minds which is why i tag s1!Spencer in all my fics because thats the only Spencer i know, and don't know how accurate it is to the later seasons
wc- 1.3k
cw- s1!Spencer, oral f!receiving, established relationship
The soft, rhythmic scratching of Spencer’s fountain pen against his journal was usually the exact kind of white noise that could put you to sleep. Tonight, however, every stroke felt like a tiny needle pressing into your temples. You winced, shifting on the couch and pressing the heel of your hand against your forehead. Spencer noticed instantly, the scratching stopped, and a shadow fell over you as he leaned forward, his hair falling into his eyes. “Hey, you alright?” He asked softly, “You look uncomfortable.”
“Just a headache,” you muttered, keeping your eyes squeezed shut. “It’s a really bad one, I think the office lights finally broke my brain.”
You heard him set his journal down on the coffee table, the couch cushions shifting as he moved closer, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. “Likely a tension headache or an early stage migraine.” He said, his voice dropping into a soothing, low tone. “Have you taken any ibuprofen?”
“An hour ago. Didn’t touch it.” You groaned, pulling a throw pillow over your face. “Just let me hibernate until morning.”
Spencer let out a breathy laugh, reaching over to the table by the side of the couch to dim the lamp, picking up the remote to switch off the television as he brought his hand back to his lap. His fingers tapped against his knee, a dull, rhythmic thud against the fabric of his pants. “Actually,” He said tentatively, sucking his teeth as if he were hesitant to continue, but ultimately deciding to go ahead with his idea anyway. “There’s a much faster, non pharmaceutical alternative.”
You peeked out from under the pillow, one eye open. “If you’re about to suggest a weird herbal tea mix or acupressure points on my feet, Spence, I love you, but no.”
“No, not tea,” he said, a faint flush creeping up his neck, though his eyes remained locked onto yours with absolute sincerity. He cleared his throat, his fingers curling against his knees. “During an orgasm, the brain releases a massive surge of endorphins and oxytocin. Endorphins act as natural analgesics, effectively binding to the opiate receptors in the brain to block pain signals. A study found that up to forty-four percent of migraine sufferers experienced total relief after climax.”
You blinked at him, the sheer absurdity of his delivery temporarily distracting you from the throbbing in your skull. “Spencer. Are you trying to analyze my headache into a hookup?”
“I’m presenting a clinically proven, neurological solution,” he countered, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He pulled the pillow away from your face, letting it land on the floor with a low thud. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your jawline, his breath warm against your skin. “And as your boyfriend, I feel a distinct medical and personal obligation to assist with the administration of said solution.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, but you didn't pull away as his hands slid down to your waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles through your shirt.
“I’m efficient,” he corrected softly as he nudged your knees apart, sliding off the couch to kneel on the floor as he settled between them. “Just close your eyes. You don’t have to do any of the work, let me take care of it.”
The pain in your head was still there, but the sudden, heavy warmth pooling in your stomach was rapidly taking over. Looking down into his bright, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't have the energy, or the desire to argue with his logic.
"Fine," you breathed, a breathless smile catching on your lips. "But if this doesn't work, I'm writing a very bad review."
"I accept those terms," Spencer murmured. He leaned in to kiss you, slow and deeply thorough, his hands already sliding purposefully up your bare thighs, leaving a trail of sparks that made you forget all about the pain. His fingers curled under the hem of your shorts, pulling the fabric down over your legs, dropping them to the hard wooden floor with a soft thud. His lips pressed against the inside of your knee, brushing against your skin softly as he let out a soft hum that vibrated up through your thigh, right to your core. You sighed, your head tipping back against the cushions of the couch as he moved his mouth higher up your thigh, his tongue dragging across your skin gently.
His nose brushed against the edge of your underwear as he kissed his way higher up your thigh, his fingers sliding underneath the waistband of your underwear, the lace soft against his palms as he moved it down over your hips, dropping it on top of your shorts. Your hand pushed into his hair as he maneuvered your thighs apart, lifting one over his shoulder before anchoring one hand on your hip to shift you closer to the edge of the couch, the other moving between your legs, using two fingers to part your lips. He hummed as he dipped his head lower, his tongue dragging a long line towards your clit before his mouth closed around the bud. Your toes curled against the back of his shirt, fingers twirling around his brown locks as his tongue flicked against your clit. Spencer moaned against you, the sound vibrating against you, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine.
His fingers slid down, his middle finger tracing your entrance before slowly sinking inside. You opened your eyes, lifting your head to look down at him, watching the way his eyebrows furrowed as his tongue circled around your clit, matching the languid pace of his finger moving back and forth, curling upwards, stroking your g-spot slow and soft with each movement. You gasped as your head dropped back against the cushion again, your hand wrapping the back of his head to hold his mouth against you. Spencer smiled against you as your hips rolled against his face, arousal dripping down his chin as his tongue flattened against your clit, his ring finger slowly eased into you, keeping the pace tender as you moaned louder, your other hand curling into the cushion behind your head.
“Feeling better?” He murmured, pulling his mouth away from you by an inch, his lips brushing against you.
“No don’t stop-” you whined, pulling the back of his head until his mouth was against you again, feeling his smile as he resumed flicking his tongue against your clit. His eyes closed as he focused on his rhythm, responding to each roll of your hips, each moan from your lips, each time your fingers tightened in his hair. Your breathing grew ragged, your chest heaving as your stomach tightened, your thighs bracketing his head as his pace picked up a fraction. Your head grew dizzy as the pressure built in your thighs, Spencer’s fingers massaged the sensitive spot inside you as he sucked your clit into his mouth, moaning softly as your back arched, the vibration only tightening the coil in your gut more.
Your eyes squeezed shut as your fingers tugged in his hair, your thighs pressing against his ears, trapping him against you as pleasure rippled through your body. Your toes curled, moaning loudly as your chest heaved, the muscles in your thighs and calves tense. Spencer’s pace didn’t slow, keeping the intensity as you squeezed around his fingers, the pressure of your thighs around his head, hoping to keep your high going for as long as he possibly could, until you were writhing in overstimulation, pushing at his head with giggles between heavy breaths.
He finally lifted his head, withdrawing his fingers from you before opening his eyes to meet yours as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, before resting his cheek against your skin as you ran your fingers through his hair, your eyes trailing over his face, his glistening chin, the adorable, satisfied smile on his face. “Was my theory correct?” He hummed, his fingers tracing along your hip gently.
“When are your theories not correct, Dr. Reid?” you breathed, the words leaving your mouth between heavy breaths as you reached down to pull him upwards. He laughed softly, crawling up onto the couch to lay between your legs, his head resting on your chest.
smutty thought bubble incoming about spencer reid bc my brain isn’t working to write a full fic rn
18+, spencer reid x reader
but sleepy morning sex with spencer reid??? he hasn’t received a call to be in yet… got back late the night before. went to bed immediately when he got home, just happy to be next to you. but in the morning, you’re both needy :3 but it’s early, he wakes up before you, because he’s still somewhat restless, never sleeps well. his fingers skim over your shoulders, waist, hips, as you’re pressed against him. he’s buried his face into the crook of your neck as he slooowwwwllly rocks against you, trying to let you wake up as naturally as possible- if that’s even possible. your breathy sighs let him know you’re up, or barely, eyes still closed, hazy from sleep. but you can feel him, pressed against what little you wore to sleep. his hands run underneath your thin tank top, pressing against your stomach. he’s slow to move your panties aside, slow to drag himself along you, feeling every inch of you as if he doesn’t everytime he gets the chance. and the fucking isn’t fast, isn’t desperate. it’s slow, sweet- comforting in a way. he kisses you softly through it, along your neck, along your collarbones, your cheeks. spencer likes how you squeeze around him when he calls you angel and you like it, especially in his morning voice, that’s raspy in your ear.
and when you’re both done, he doesn’t pull out. just holds you against him, ‘till you’re both ready to wake up. fully.
Spencer finally makes his move after watching you dance with another man at the bar, and it goes better than he ever could have expected.
ellie talks- my god this got out of hand, i hope you enjoy because i really loved writing it.
wc- 4.4k
cw- jealous!Spencer, s1!Spencer, unprotected p in v, idiots in love
The flashing neon lights of the crowded bar did nothing but give Spencer a headache. Statistically, the ambient noise level in the room was somewhere around eighty-five decibels, sustained exposure could cause acoustic trauma. But that wasn’t why his chest felt compressed. No, that was all you. The thumping bass vibrated straight through the floorboards, but he couldn’t feel it, he was completely numb. Slouched in the corner of a booth, Hotch and Morgan conversing from either side of him, each word spoken falling onto deaf, ringing ears. His forgotten drink sat sweating in front of him, the condensation forming a pool around the bottom of the glass. His eyes, usually so bright and animated when explaining a new theory, were fixed entirely on the center of the flashing strobe lights. On you.
You were out on the floor with Penelope, the two of you laughing, spinning and carelessly screaming the lyrics to each other. To anyone else, you looked like you were having the time of your life, but every few seconds, under the guise of tossing your hair, or turning to the rhythm, your eyes did a subconscious sweep of the room. You were looking for the only person in the bar wearing a cardigan, one that never matched his socks, and the prettiest brown eyes you’d ever seen. When you found him, your heart squeezed in the most familiar way. Every time you laughed, Spencer’s chest tightened with an agonizing ache. He had loved you in silence for months, entirely paralyzed by his own insecurity. The conversation around him stopped, Morgan waving a hand in front of his face to bring him back to the moment. Spencer blinked, his cheeks flushing as he glanced at Morgan before focusing back on his drink as if it could save him from the upcoming topic of conversation.
“If you stare any harder, you’re gonna burn a hole through the back of her shirt. Go. Over. There.”
Spencer swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he adjusted his collar. “Statistically, invading someone’s personal space while they are engaged in an enjoyable activity reduces the likelihood of a positive reception. I can’t just interrupt her when she’s dancing with someone else.”
Hotch set his drink down at Spencer’s other side, the glass clunking against the table. His face was a mask of deadpan seriousness. “Sure you can. It’s only Garcia.”
Spencer blinked, caught off guard. “Hotch, that’s a violation of social-”
“Watch.” Morgan interrupted with a grin, shooting Spencer a wink before sliding out of the booth. He strolled onto the dance floor with an easy, unbothered confidence. With a smooth laugh, Morgan slid right between you and Penelope, spinning her into his arms and pulling her into a dramatic, laughing dip. She shrieked with delight, completely distracted and leaving you standing alone in the center of the crowd. You laughed, your bright, brilliant laugh, as you watched Morgan spin Penelope away.
Spencer’s heart leaped into his throat as he watched you scan the crowd, he could practically see the cogs in your brain turning, wondering whether to stay, to get another drink, to retreat entirely. Your eyes caught his, and you gave a smile and a small wave. For a second, you held your breath, silently begging him to just come over. You had been nursing a massive crush on him for months, tired of the stolen glances over case files and the lingering touches when handing off coffee cups. You wanted him here, with you. Before he could slide out of the booth, a tall, broad-shouldered man, a local detective from the precinct they had spent the week working with, stepped into the void Morgan had left.
“Mind if I steal a dance?” the detective asked over the music, flashing a handsome, easy smile. A sudden spark of defiant annoyance flaring up in your chest. If Spencer was going to stay glued to that booth forever, you weren’t going to spend your night waiting around.
“Not at all,” you said, returning the smile. You stepped closer to him, intentionally leaning into the heavy rhythm of the song. As the detective’s hand came to rest firmly on the small of your back, your eyes drifted back to the booth, one last lingering glance at Spencer before the detective leaned down to talk over the music again.
Spencer froze, his breath hitching.
The detective leaned down, his lips dangerously close to your ear as he shouted a joke over the bass, and you threw your head back and laughed. You let your hands rest lightly on the detective’s chest, moving fluidly with him under the flashing strobe lights. Every time the strobe light cut through the darkness, it illuminated the agonizingly small distance between your body, and this other man’s. Seeing you move so easily with someone else, seeing your hands on another man’s chest, snapped something inside Spencer. A heavy wave of jealousy, entirely foreign to his gentle nature, flooded his veins. The suffocating anxiety vanished, replaced by a sudden, reckless confidence driven by sheer desperation. He couldn’t just sit here and analyze his own heartbreak anymore, or he was going to lose you.
Hotch’s eyes lifted as Spencer stood from the booth, following him up, for once not slouching to minimize his lanky frame. “Atta boy.” He muttered into his glass as he took a sip.
He didn’t hesitate, pushing his way through the sweaty bodies on the dance floor, still muttering apologies to everyone he bumped into until he reached you. Your eyes widened slightly in surprise as Spencer stepped directly into your space. “Excuse me.” He said, the words were aimed at the detective, but his eyes didn’t leave your face. His voice wasn’t frantic, it was low and steady, carrying an unexpected authority that made the detective blink in confusion.
“Spen-”
His hands, usually so careful, so hesitant to initiate physical contact, lifted to your face, cupping your head between his hands, cutting you off by bringing his mouth down to yours before he could think twice. The kiss knocked the wind right out of you, it was frantic, needy, and fuelled by a desperate jealousy that poured straight from his soul to yours. The music faded around you, becoming nothing but a vibration under your feet. You let out a soft whimper against his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull your body flush against his. One of his hands moved to the small of your back, lifting you slightly as he anchored you against him.
Behind you, the detective opened his mouth to protest, but a quick, warning glance from Morgan over the top of Penelope’s head made him think twice. He raised his hands in defeat, disappearing into the crowd, muttering under his breath.
When Spencer finally pulled back, just a fraction of an inch, both of your breaths came in ragged gasps as his forehead rested against yours. “Don’t do that to me again,” Spencer murmured against your lips, his voice thick with a quiet confidence that made you shiver. “Don’t make me watch you dance with anyone else.”
You smiled against his lips, tangling your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Ask me before anyone else does then.”
He laughed breathlessly, pulling his lip into his mouth as he shook his head gently. “You’re dancing with me now.” He said, bumping his nose against yours gently.
“Oh yeah?” You teased, laughing softly as he nodded, his eyes dropping to your mouth as his hands moved to your waist, his thumbs brushing your hips through your clothes. “I think I might be done dancing…” You said, your hands brushing against his forearms as you tilted your head. “Wanna get out of here?”
Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed. “Oh,” he murmured, a wave of disappointment flooding his face as his thoughts rushed through his brain, wondering why as soon as he wanted to dance with you, your mind changed- “Oh.” He repeated once the penny dropped, his eyebrows raising in realisation, the look of amusement on your face making his cheeks flush pink. “Um.. yeah- yes.” He nodded,
“Yeah,” you hummed, your hand finding his on your waist and lacing your fingers through his, pulling him away from the dance floor. Hotch and Morgan shared a look of amusement as Spencer stumbled after you as you made your way to the exit. The cold air hit you both like a wall, the scent of petrichor surrounding you as the sheets of rain fell over the sidewalk.
“The hotel is exactly point-four miles away,” Spencer said, a breathless, boyish grin breaking through his previous intensity. “It would take approxim-”
“Shut up and run!” you laughed, squeezing his hand as you took off into the pouring rain. You both were instantly soaked, the warm summer rain drenching your clothes and flattening Spencer’s hair against his forehead. You ran down the slippery pavement, your shared laughter echoing off the brick buildings. Spencer’s long legs easily kept pace, his fingers locking tightly around yours. The sheer, chaotic joy of sprinting through a rainstorm with you made his chest feel like it was bursting.
By the time you burst through the heavy glass doors of the hotel lobby, you were both completely breathless, dripping wet, and giggling like children. You stopped near the front desk, puddles already forming around your shoes as Spencer’s hand lifted to your jaw again, his eyes softening as the remnants of laughter lingered in the creases around his eyes. He leaned down, his lips ghosting yours, only to freeze at the sound of a gravelly clearing of someone’s throat, the noise cutting through the private bubble around you like a knife.
Spencer straightened, and both of you turned towards the noise. Standing near the elevators, holding a paper cup of black coffee and a folder of case notes, was Jason Gideon. His expression unreadable, observant and entirely impossible to fool. His sharp eyes scanned the two of you, taking in your tangled hair, Spencer’s crooked collar, and the close proximity of your bodies. “Um.. hi.” Spencer greeted him, his voice tight, “What are you… It’s the- what are you doing down here?”
“I was getting a coffee, Reid.” Gideon answered, calmly taking a slow sip from his cup. His eyes flicked down to your hands, still joined together, and then back up to Spencer’s face, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t stay up too late.” He said, his voice dripping with dry amusement, stepping past you both as your face burned, your fingers loosening on Spencer’s hand, trying to maintain some semblance of professional boundaries, but Spencer actually tightened his grip, refusing to let go. “We have an early flight back to Quantico tomorrow. Both of you.” He said as he patted Spencer’s shoulder and stepped into the elevator.
The moment the doors closed, and Gideon was out of sight, you looked up at Spencer, his wide eyes meeting yours. There was a split second of silence before you both fell into another fit of giggles as you buried your face against his wet shoulder. “Oh my god, I think I just felt my soul die.”
Spencer laughed, his chin resting on the top of your head for a moment before the second elevator doors opened, and he pulled you inside. The elevator ride up to the fourth floor as a masterclass in agonizing restraint. You were both dripping wet, the elevator’s fluorescent lights reflecting off the damp sheen of Spencer’s skin and the dark hair plastered to his forehead. Every time the elevator jolted, your shoulders brushed, sending a shock of electricity straight down your spine. Spencer’s eyes were fixed on the illuminated floor numbers tracking slowly upward, his hand still tightly wrapped around yours. The doors chimed and slid open on the fourth floor, and you stepped out of the elevator, tripping over your own feet as you tried to keep up with his pace, laughing breathlessly as you fumbled in your bag for the plastic keycard.
“Spence, wait- I cant find-”
“I got it.” He muttered, his large hand reached into your bag, his fingers brushing yours as he snagged the card. He swiped it against the electronic lock, the little light flashing green with a heavy click. The moment the door swung open, you pulled him inside by the lapel of his cardigan, the door heaving shut behind you, the lock engaging with a snap. The room was pitch black, illuminated only by the city lights filtering through the sheer curtains, but you didn’t need to see. Spencer’s hands caught your waist as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling your damp bodies against each other as his mouth found yours in the dark.
It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of hands and heat. Neither of you wanted to break the kiss, which made navigating the small entryway completely disastrous. You walked backwards blindly, your heel catching on the edge of the carpet. You stumbled, letting out a sharp gasp, but Spencer’s grip on your waist tightened, his long legs adjusting to keep you both upright. You giggled against his mouth, Spencer’s own breathless laugh catching it as you continued to move.
You reached for his wet button down, your fingers slipping against the damp fabric as you tried to undo the buttons. Your movements were clumsy, fueled by a desperate need to feel his skin, and you accidentally ripped the third button right off the threads. It hit the carpet with a tiny, unnoticed thump. Spencer groaned into the kiss, his hands moving from your waist to the hem of your wet shirt. He tried to pull it up, but the damp fabric clung stubbornly to your skin. You had to break the kiss for a fraction of a second, both of you laughing breathlessly, your arms getting tangled in the fabric as he helped you yank it over your head and toss it blindly into the darkness.
The moment your skin was free, his hands were back, warm and trembling slightly against your ribs. He backed you up further into the room, his knees bumping against the edge of the heavy wooden nightstand. A stray notepad and a hotel pen rattled loudly, threatening to fall, but neither of you cared. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck again, pulling him down and meeting his lips with an intensity that made your head spin.
Spencer’s hands shifted to your hips, his thumbs digging in gently, guiding your steps until the back of your knees hit the mattress. You collapsed backward onto the bed, the sudden shift pulling Spencer down right on top of you. He caught his weight on his forearms, framing your head, his chest heaving as he looked down at you in the dim light. His wet hair dripped a single, cool drop of rain onto your collarbone, making you shiver, but the heat radiating from his body completely erased the chill.
Spencer looked at you, his brown eyes wide, vulnerable, and completely consumed by you. The reckless confidence from the bar was still there, but now it was mixed with a raw reverence that made your chest tight.
"You're freezing," he whispered, his thumb gently wiping a stray drop of rain from your cheek.
"I'm not," you breathed, reaching up to cup his face, pulling him down until there was no space left between you at all. "Fix it.”
Spencer didn’t need to be told twice. He let his weight settle completely against you, the heavy, grounding heat of his body pressing you deep into the mattress. His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, a low groan vibrating in his chest as your fingers tangled firmly into his damp hair.
Every touch felt charged, a chaotic release of months of tension. His hands fumbled at his own shirt, finally managing to strip the ruined, wet fabric from his shoulders and toss it to the floor. When his bare chest pressed against yours, a gasp caught in your throat. He felt solid, warm, and entirely yours. You let out a shaky breath, your hands sliding down the smooth plane of his back, feeling the tense muscles of his shoulders relax under your touch. Your fingertips continued down his back, a shiver running up his spine at the gentle touch.
He let his hips roll forwards as your leg moved over his hip, his hand sliding down to your thigh to keep it against him. The friction had him gasp into your mouth, his skin goose-pimpling under your fingertips as you skimmed over his waist towards his belt. He broke the kiss to lower his eyes, his forehead resting against yours as he watched you pull open the buckle of his belt, the metal cool against your fingers. He met your eyes when you lifted them to his, watching his eyebrows soften as you pulled open the button, followed by the zipper of his pants.
His face dropped to your neck, his mouth teasing at the skin just below your ear as he moved his hand that was firm against your thigh to return the favour. His fingers easing open the button of your pants as you pulled his own past his hips. “You-” he whispered against your neck before bringing his head back up to look at you, his hair hanging in your face, and his pupils blown, locked onto yours. “You're sure?” He asked as his fingers curled around the waistband of your pants, a flash of his usual anxiety crowding his face before he masked it.
You brought one of your hands up to his face, the back of your fingers gently tracing along his cheek as you nodded. “I'm sure, Spence.” you murmured, your thumb tucking underneath the waistband of his briefs, the action making a soft groan escape his mouth as his eyes squeezed closed. He kicked off his pants, the fabric landing somewhere on the carpet, before his trembling fingers slowly shifted yours past your hips. You lifted up to make the motion easier for him, his eyes tracing every new inch of skin revealed to him as he peeled the wet fabric from your legs. His breath caught at the sight of you beneath him, your chest heaving behind your bra, a sliver of lace at your hips. He swallowed hard, his hand landing tentatively at your calf before sliding up your smooth skin as he leaned back down, the only barrier between you now was two thin pieces of fabric.
His arousal became incredibly clear as he pressed himself flush against you, the hard line of his cock straining against his briefs as his fingertips traced up your ribs, his touch feather-light as he brushed them against your breast. His hand cupped you through your bra when he heard your soft moan, his lips pressing against your neck as he massaged gently. His thumb ghosted over your nipple, making your back arch up, pressing harder against him as your eyes fluttered closed. “Spence,” you sighed, your nails scraping his shoulder gently as his lips continued their path towards yours, catching them in a reverent, searing kiss. Your other hand moved down, gently palming at him through his briefs, stalling his movements as his brain froze, every neuron in his brain firing south.
He moaned against you as your hand dipped beneath the fabric, your palm wrapping around his length, the contact making his jaw stutter open, gasping against you as his eyebrows furrowed when you began to move, slow, and sensual with a deliberate small twist of your wrist. “Oh-” he sighed into your mouth, “my god..”
You smiled, the movement of your wrist staying steady in the same, gradual rhythm, enjoying the soft moans, and the twitching of his stomach, his hips bucking forwards into your hand with each movement of your palm against him. He regained composure enough to move his fingers, pulling back the lace covering your breast, and lowering his lips to your nipple. His lips brushed the peaked bud, his tongue tracing your sensitive skin, tasting the lingering rain water, and something so uniquely you that it lit his nerve endings on fire. You moaned, your hand closing around his cock tighter, the extra pressure forcing a whimper from his throat as he shifted his weight, freeing his hand to slide underneath the lace of your underwear.
His long, slender fingers dipped through your folds, gathering your arousal to circle your clit gently, matching the rhythm of your hand against him. “Fuck- Spence-” you sighed, your back arching, as you wrapped your free hand around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him into a fervent kiss. The reaction from your body giving him the confidence to slide his middle finger inside you, inhaling deeply as your hand tightened around him in return. He continued the measured pace, his finger crooking at just the right angle to coax more soft moans to spill from your lips, pouring into his mouth. His cock twitched against your palm, his hips bucking into your hand, desperate for more, desperate to close the distance he had been wishing away for months. The twitching grew more frantic, and you lifted your hips, and he wasted no time, withdrawing his finger and pulling the lace down your legs, before awkwardly kicking his briefs off, shaking his foot with a breathy laugh as the fabric caught around his ankle. You giggled as his cheeks flushed from embarrassment, and reached up to pull him back down between your thighs.
His forearm settled by your head, clearing his throat softly as he twisted the end of your hair between his fingers, pressing another soft, gentle kiss to your lips. His hand moved down, positioning himself against you, his eyes shifting back up to you, locking onto yours with the silent question of permission. When you smiled softly, he inhaled a deep, shaky breath, and pushed his hips forward, sinking into you inch by inch. “Oh my go-” He whined, his forehead dropping to yours as his eyes squeezed shut tightly. You moaned, your fingertips dragging across his shoulders before digging into his biceps, your back arching and your chest pressing flush against his.
“Spencer- fuck-” You whispered as he pulled back before rolling his hips forward again, setting a tender, gentle rhythm. His fingers curled around your jaw as his mouth lowered back onto yours, both breathing heavily into each other’s mouths, chests heaving against each other, growing slick with sweat as he continued. His head spun with the sensations, feeling you beneath him, your head in his hands, your body enveloping him as you lifted your leg to hook over his hip. The way your nails were biting into his shoulders, sure to leave little marks behind, spurred him on as his hair fell into his eyes, brushing against your forehead. His anxiety was being kept quiet by the sounds you made, the moans, the gasps as he rolled his hips forward, the way you kissed him back with the same passion he felt for you.
The drag of his cock through you had your head dizzy, the scent of him, sweat and rain and his one of a kind cologne, all bringing your body to a high you had never felt before. One of your hands moved into his hair, tightening in the strands to pull another whimper from him. His hips stuttered as he whispered against your lips, “you feel incredible.”
He felt you tighten around him at the words, his hand resting against your hip, holding your thigh against him. His fingers dug into your skin as he buried his face against your neck, desperately trying to hold onto his composure, but with the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way you squeezed around him with every drag of his hips, and the way you sighed his name, soft and breathy into his ear, was making it incredibly difficult.
You reached a hand between your bodies, the pads of your fingertips finding your clit, circling slowly, in time with the movement of his hips. He gasped as he brought his lips back to yours, not kissing you, but resting his lips against yours as you moaned louder, the sound combined with the way you were fluttering around him, the way you were desperately grasping his hair as if you were trying to pull him impossibly closer, it became his undoing. Lightning shot behind his eyes as his hips stalled, groaning loudly into your mouth as his body locked up, his hips stuttering as the pleasure rippled through his body. His release triggered yours, your eyebrows furrowing as you tugged his hair harder, pulling his forehead against yours.
The heavy downpour had finally tapered off into a soft, steady hum against the windowpane. Inside the dimly lit room, the air was warm, and quiet. Spencer lay on his back, his chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. One of his long arms thrown over his head, his hair now dried and splayed against the pillow. You lay next to him, your head resting against his shoulder, tracing lazy, soft patterns against his palm. Without opening his eyes, Spencer interlaced his fingers with yours, tightening his grip just enough to anchor you to him. You smiled into the darkness, pressing a soft kiss to his bare shoulder. “M’not going anywhere.” You mumbled against his skin. “All yours.” You teased in a sleepy whisper. A soft laugh, vibrated against you, the sound beautifully warm against your hair. He opened his eyes just a crack, looking down at you in the shadows, his brown eyes incredibly soft and entirely devoid of his usual hyper-analytical tension.
“Actually,” Spencer murmured, his voice thick with sleep, “statistically speaking, contact during the initial stages of sleep regulation reduces cortisol levels and increases oxytocin production by up to forty percent. It… it stabilises the sleep cycle.”
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, squeezing his hand. Even completely exhausted and blissfully content, he couldn’t help himself. “Is that right, Dr. Reid?”
“Mmhm,” he hummed, his eyelids fluttering shut again. He lifted your joined hands up, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles before settling them back against the mattress. “But qualitatively speaking… I just like holding your hand. I’ve wanted to do it for a really long time.”
Your heart melted, a deep wave of affection washing over you. “Me too, Spence.” You whispered, shifting closer to curl against his side as his arm wrapped around your waist. His grip on your hand remaining firm, warm, and utterly unyielding as you both finally drifted off to sleep, safely tangled together in the quiet of the night.
⋆.˚ The four times you shot your shot with Spencer Reid, and the one time it worked.
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader
⋆.˚ ellie talks- entirely based on this one image I saw on pinterest yesterday and had to write something.
wc-875
cw- s1!Spencer, whole lotta fluff, basically you keep buying socks for Spencer until he gets that you have a crush on him.
⋆.˚Pair One- The Welcome Back Socks.
The bullpen was loud, buzzing with the collective relief of a closed case. But Spencer’s desk was a quiet island of clutter. It was his first day back after a brutal, sleepless week recovering from a concussion, and he looked incredibly fragile sitting beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.
You walked over, clutching a small, neatly wrapped paper bag. “Hey,” you said softly. “Welcome back.”
Spencer looked up. His brown eyes blinking behind a strand of hair that had fallen into his face. “Oh. Thank you. Statistically, the transition back to high-stress cognitive environments post-concussion is most successful when-”
“Spencer,” You interrupted gently, sliding the bag onto his desk. “I got you a little ‘glad you didn’t die’ present.”
He opened the bag with precise, careful movements. Inside was a pair of thick, luxurious wool socks, patterned with tiny, anatomically correct brains and stacks of books.
“They’re… wool.” He murmured, staring at them as if they were a rare manuscript.
“They have brains on them,” you pointed out, smiling as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and folded your arms, leaning your thigh against his desk. “Thought they might keep your feet warm in the archives. It gets drafty down there.”
“Actually, thermoregulation is vital for cognitive performance,” Spencer said, his face lighting up with that brilliant, boyish enthusiasm that always made your chest ache. “The sheep wool has natural crimps that create pockets of still air, which-”
“You’re welcome, Spencer,” you laughed, patting his shoulder as you stood. You let your hand linger for just a second too long, hoping he’d look at you, and see the affection in your eyes.
He just beamed at the wool brains.
Shot one, completely missed.
⋆.˚Pair Two- The Birthday Socks.
For Spencer’s birthday, the team threw a small, chaotic party in the breakroom. After the cake was cut, and JJ and Penelope were busy teasing Morgan, you nudged Spencer’s elbow and nodded toward the quiet hallway. He followed you, curious.
“Here,” you said, slipping a small gift box into his hands. “Happy birthday, Spence.”
He unwrapped it to find vintage style socks, featuring retro, 1960’s space invaders and a blue police box. You’d spent three weeks sourcing them online. Along with it was a card that read: For the guy who’s entirely out of this world. I’m glad we share a planet.
Spencer gasped. “Are these… the original 1963 BBC licensed colour palette? The dye consistency on these is incredibly rare. They stopped using this specific thread count in the mid-seventies because of textile manufacturing shifts in-”
“Do you like them?” You asked, stepping closer in the quiet hallway. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, your heart a frantic tap dance against your ribs.
“I love them,” he said softly, his voice dropping a register as he looked down at you. For a fleeting, breathless second, you thought he might actually get it. He reached out, gently grasping your wrist. “How did you find these? The probability of locating an intact pair from this batch is less than three percent.”
You sighed, a fond, helpless smile breaking across your face. “I have my ways. Happy birthday, Spencer.”
Shot two, close, but still entirely platonic in his brilliant, stubborn mind.
⋆.˚Pair Three- The Mid-Flight Constellations.
It was 3:00 AM on the BAU jet. The cabin was dark, save for the single reading light casting a warm glow over Spencer’s face. He was shivering slightly, his long legs pulled up to his chest as he tried to read a dusty volume on medieval folklore.
You unbuckled, quietly padding over to his seat. You sat in the space next to him, your thigh pressing against his as you lifted your feet to rest against the table in front of you. “The jet’s heating system relies on bleed air from the engines,” Spencer mumbled, his teeth actually clicking. “It’s notoriously uneven. I forgot my heavy boots.”
“Lucky for you, I’m a mind reader.” You pulled a pair of ultra-plush, navy blue cabin socks from your bag. They were printed with the silver-threaded constellations of the Northern Hemisphere. “I picked them up from that store opposite the hotel. Put them on.”
Spencer stared at them as he reached out, taking the soft fabric into his hands. “Are these… Ursa Major? And Cassiopeia?” He ran a thumb over the constellations. “These are compression-blend cabin socks. They improve venous return and reduce the risk of deep vein thrombosis during long flights.”
“I bought them because they looked like the night sky,” you mumbled, “And because I don’t like seeing you cold.”
He slipped them on immediately, letting out a soft sigh of relief as his feet warmed up, before looking at you, his eyes incredibly dark and soft in the dim light of the cabin. “Thank you, this is incredibly thoughtful. You always seem to know exactly what I need.”
You stared at his mouth, waiting for the penny to drop. Instead, Spencer smiled warmly, wrapping his hand around yours and squeezing gently. “You should get some sleep. Sleep deprivation impairs the prefrontal cortex.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Shot three, deflated.
⋆.˚Pair Four- The Good Luck Socks.
Spencer was pacing the bullpen like a caged animal. He had to testify in a high profile federal case in two hours, and his anxiety was peaking. He was reciting the chemical composition of court approved paper stock to anyone who would listen.
You walked up to his desk and slid a pair of socks over his stack of files. They were deliberately mismatched, one bright yellow with coffee cups, the other teal with Albert Einstein’s face.
“What’s this?” his eyebrows furrowed, picking them up.
“Good luck charm,” you said, straightening his crooked tie. Your fingers brushed his collarbone, and you felt his pulse spike under your touch. You held his gaze, refusing to look away. “You’re going to be brilliant today. Just like Einstein. And you’ll be properly caffeinated. Wear them.”
Spencer gripped the socks like they were a life vest. “Mismatched socks are statistically proven to break tension in formal environments by introducing a mild element of absurdity.” He mumbled underneath his breath. “You want me to be grounded.”
“I want you to know I’m always in your corner, Spence.” You said. Your voice thick with unspoken meaning. “No matter what.”
He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “Thank you.”
He wore them to court, delivered a flawless testimony, and later told you the tactile sensation of the reinforced heels kept him from hyperventilating. He thought you were the greatest best friend in the world.
Shot four, a swing and a miss.
⋆.˚Pair Five- The Valentine’s Day Socks.
It was Valentine’s Day, and you had decided this was it. The final, desperate attempt before swallowing the rejection and making an attempt to move on. Before Spencer arrived at his desk, you left a small, beautifully wrapped package. Inside was a pair of bright red socks, patterned with highly accurate, detailed anatomical hearts, complete with pulmonary arteries and veins. Next to them, you placed a card, signed with a ridiculous pun you found by googling ‘nerdy valentines day puns’ the previous night.
Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you’re Cu-Te!
When Spencer arrived, you watched from the breakroom as he opened the box. His face went entirely pale, then bright red. He read the card once. Twice. Three times. And then his brain completely stalled. You watched him frantically tap his fingers on his desk, his eyes darting around. He clutched the anatomical heart socks, stared at the card for a moment before stuffing it into his satchel as if it were a live grenade. He pulled the socks on, but he didn’t move. He didn’t come and find you, he just stared blankly at his computer screen.
Your heart sank. Shot five. A disaster.
An hour later, Spencer was still staring at his screen, wearing the bright red heart socks, looking like he was trying to solve a differential equation using only his eyes.
Morgan strolled by, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. He stopped, his gaze dropping to Spencer’s ankles. “Nice socks, kid,” he commented, leaning against the edge of the desk. “A little bold for a Tuesday, no?”
Spencer blinked, pulling his eyes away from his monitor. He looked down at his ankles. “Actually, the anatomical representation of the left ventricle is surprisingly accurate for a novelty cotton blend. They were a gift.”
Morgan’s eyebrows shot up. He slowly set his coffee cup down as he glanced over to you in the breakroom, washing your cup. “On Valentine’s Day?” He asked, turning back to Spencer.
“Yes,” Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly finding a paperclip on his desk very interesting. “She also gave me a card, with a… a cute little science pun.”
“And what did you say?”
“Nothing,” Spencer admitted, clenching his jaw and furrowing his eyebrows. “I didn’t want to misinterpret it. It could be a friendly gift. Statistically, seventy percent of non-romantic acquaintances exchange gifts on holidays to reinforce social cohesion, she’s a very empathetic person.”
“Reid.” Morgan cut him off, deadpan. “I didn’t get socks. Hotch didn’t get socks. Garcia didn’t get socks.” He paused long enough for Spencer to look at him. “She’s been buying you custom socks for six months.”
Spencer froze. His pen slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the keyboard. “What?”
“The brains? Space invaders? The stargazing ones?” Morgan laughed, shaking his head with a fond, exasperated grin. “Pretty boy, she isn’t trying to keep your feet warm. She’s trying to sweep you off them. She’s crazy about you. Go.”
Spencer’s eyes went wide. The entire puzzle of the last six months suddenly clicked together in his head. The lingering touches, the soft looks, the incredibly thoughtful, highly specific gifts. He hadn’t been receiving friendly gestures. He had been receiving a love letter, piece by piece. “Oh my god,” he gasped, his chair flying backwards as he scrambled to his feet. “I’m an idiot.”
“We’ve been waiting for you to realise that,” Morgan shouted after him as Spencer sprinted toward the breakroom.
You were standing by the coffee maker, staring at the drip of the liquid into your cup when the door burst open. Spencer stood in the doorway, chest heaving, his hair wild, and wearing the ridiculous red anatomical heart socks with his dress shoes.
“Spence-”
“I’m incredibly stupid,” he blurted out, taking three long strides to close the distance between you. “Well, objectively, my IQ is 187, but emotionally, in this specific department, I am operating at a severe deficit. I thought you were just being nice and then I thought I was projecting my own wishes onto your actions because I’ve wanted to ask you to dinner long before the socks.”
Your breath hitched. “You.. you have?”
“Yes! Practically since the day you started working here but I was terrified of making things awkward, and then Morgan pointed out that you were trying to sweep me off my feet, which is a highly effective idiom since you literally bought me footwear, and-”
You cut off his frantic rambling by reaching up, grabbing the lapels of his cardigan, and pulling him down into a kiss.
He went stiff for a fraction of a second before he let out a soft, shaky sigh. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back with a sweet, desperate intensity that made your knees go weak.
When he finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, and a brilliant, breathtaking smile was spreading across his face. “So,” he cleared his throat. “Dinner?”
“Uh-huh.” You hummed, your hand sliding round to the back of his neck to pull his mouth back against yours, his fingers tangling in your hair as he cupped your face, laughing gently against your mouth without breaking the kiss as Morgan whistled from the bullpen.
girlie, u are absolutely spoiling us with all these Spencer fics <3333
Love your writing ✨
Thank you so much!!! He's so fun to write for, I love him so much, after this one today, I do have a Hotch one coming but then it's back to Spencer lmao he's just so cutie and fun!
⋆.˚ the four times you shot your shot with Spencer Reid and the one time it worked. in which you gift Spencer five pairs of socks until he understands you have a crush on him.
⋆.˚when JJ hands Spencer your photograph, announcing you as the most recent victim in a kidnapping case, he is thrown into a race against the clock to save your life from a killer who is becoming more erratic and dangerous by the second.
ellie talks- i did way too much research on soil properties, quarries and brickworks in Virginia for someone who lives in the rural north west of england. anyways... enjoy!
wc- 4.6k
cw- S1!Spencer, reader is a kidnapping victim, angst, reader and Spencer are high school exes, Spencer loses his shit.
Everything blurred, the air around you freezing, smelling of damp earth, rusted iron. The walls were brick, dark, dingy and crawling with moss. Your back pressed hard against the cold metal of the chair, coarse rope biting into your wrists, chafing your cheeks. Every breath was a battle, fighting against the panic clawing up your throat. The heavy, rhythmic drip of water leaking from the ceiling was your only clock, measuring out the agonizingly short amount of time you had left. You closed your eyes, trying desperately to dissociate from the pain in your bruised ribs, and the terrifying sound of footsteps pacing in the next room.
The bullpen of the Behavioural Analysis Unit was usually a cacophony of controlled chaos, phones ringing endlessly, papers shuffling hurriedly. But the moment the latest victim’s photograph was handed to the team, the room fell dead silent.
Spencer Reid dropped his pen. It rolled off the edge of the mahogany table, clattering against the linoleum floor, but he didn’t even blink. Your name barely pierced through the ringing in his ears as JJ announced it to the team, his fingers curled tighter around the photograph until his knuckles were white.
“... Twenty four. She was taken from her apartment parking lot in Alexandria late last night. If the unsub’s timeline holds, we have less than six hours before he-”
“Four hours.” Spencer interrupted. His voice was hoarse, but it cut through the room like glass, his eyes still didn’t lift. He stood so fast that his chair scraped violently against the floor.
Hotch’s eyes locked onto him, “Reid, what do you mean?”
“The geographical distribution of the dump sites indicates a comfort zone with a radius of no more than twelve miles, but the escalation in his cooling off period suggests a severe increase in his disorganized erraticism," Spencer rambled, his eyes still locked onto your photograph, your smile, your bright eyes. “He isn’t going to keep her for twelve hours like the others. He’s spiraling. He’s going to kill her in four. Maybe less.”
Gideon leaned forward, his dark eyes studying Spencer’s erratic pacing, the way he hadn’t looked away from the photograph in his hand once since JJ had given it to him. “How do you know her?” He asked in his calm, quiet tone.
Spencer’s chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, a shocked silence settling over the group as his eyes finally lifted to Gideon.
“She’s… She was my girlfriend.” He said, the word sounding foreign yet heavy on his tongue. “In Vegas, before Caltech.”
A look exchanged throughout the room, one of understanding as Morgan stood, placing his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, he flinched gently under the touch, and lifted your photograph to look at your smile again. “You never…”
“We broke up because she was… she got into her dream program, I got into Caltech,” He swallowed, a hard lump forming in his throat. “I didn’t want to hold her back.”
Hotch caught up with Spencer as they walked towards the jet, a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. His face had drained of colour, pale and terrified. Hotch was trained to look for cracks, and right now, Spencer was fracturing right in front of him.
“Reid,” his voice dropped to a low and steady tone. “If you’re too close to this, I need to know now. I can’t have you in the field if you’re compromised.”
“I’m not compromised.” Spencer shot back instantly, his voice rising a pitch, he looked around at the teammates ahead, his chest heaving. “I’m the only one who can do the probability modeling on this unsub’s geographic regression fast enough. I know her baseline behavior. I know how she reacts under stress, she’s highly resilient, she won't panic immediately, which means she might buy us time, but we don’t have time. If you sideline me, you’re losing thirty percent of your analytical speed!”
Silence settled between them, Hotch held his gaze, Spencer’s chest heaving. “I won't miss anything.” He said, his voice cracking as his brows furrowed, almost pleading, “I promise you. I won’t miss a thing.”
Hotch swallowed, before nodding once. “Okay.” He said calmly, patting Spencer’s shoulder before the two of them jogged to catch up to the others.
Spencer’s fingers leafed through the crime scene photos, the photograph of you safely tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt. He was running numbers, calculating probabilities, mapping the unsub’s previous movements with frantic energy.
“Reid, you need to take a breath,” Elle said gently, “We’re going to find her.”
“I can’t breathe, Elle,” Spencer said, his voice cracking as he looked up, his wide brown eyes swimming with a rare, raw terror. “Do you know what she did when I was twelve years old, and the kids at school zip-tied me to a goal post? She didn’t laugh. She sat on the grass next to me and read me The Count of Monte Cristo until the janitor came with a wire cutter. She saw me. Not a freak. Just me.” He gripped his hair, pulling slightly as if he could force his brain to work faster. “Now he has her. If she dies because I was too scared to-”
“Hey. Look at me.” Morgan said, leaning over the table to force Spencer’s eyes to him. “That is not going to happen. Focus. What is your brain telling you about this guy? Where is he keeping her?”
Spencer forced his eyes closed. He shut out the rumble of the engine, the flicking of pages and murmuring of agents, the phantom scent of your perfume and feel of your hair in his hands that always seemed to linger in his memories.
Think.
“Police sent over the security footage from her apartment complex. The abduction took less than forty seconds. He was waiting for her.” Hotch said as he scanned the file in front of him, his eyes momentarily flicking to Spencer, his knee anxiously bouncing and his jaw tight as he stared out of the plane window.
“Did he target her specifically, or was it a crime of opportunity?” Morgan asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“Opportunity.” Spencer said, taking a deep breath in before turning to Morgan. “He doesn't know me, and he doesn’t know her. The previous three victims all shared the same physical profile and were taken from transit points within a three mile radius of the interstate ninety-five corridor. It’s random. It’s entirely random… The unsub uses a white van with rusted wheel wells,” Spencer murmured, his thoughts tumbling out. “The soil transfer on the victims shoes was rich in iron oxide.”
Hotch stared at Spencer for three long seconds, the tension in the plane palpable. Finally, he gave a single firm nod. “Alright, you stay on the geographical profiling, JJ, get on the phone with local field office and pull every traffic camera feed within five miles of her apartment. Gideon and I are going to her place to walk the scene.”
The air in the concrete cell grew colder as the afternoon bled into evening.
Your head throbbed, a dull, agonizing pulse behind your eyes. You tried to shift your weight, but a sharp spike of pain in your ribs made you gasp, the sound muffled by the rough rope tied around your mouth. Through the high, barred slit near the ceiling, the weak Virginia sunlight was beginning to fade, casting skeletal shadows across the damp brick walls. Three hours. By your own estimate, you had been in this room for at least three hours. In the next room, the pacing had stopped, replaced by the heavy, dragging sound of metal scraping against concrete. You swallowed the dryness in your throat, forcing yourself to focus on the ceiling, on the rhythmic, maddening drip of water. One drip every four seconds, you calculated, your mind clinging to the structure of the math because it was the only thing keeping the terror from consuming you entirely. It was a habit you picked up years ago, from a boy who used to explain the mathematical probability of rain just to calm you down during summer thunderstorms in Nevada.
“If you look at the cloud density and the barometric pressure, it’s actually a beautiful equation,” his voice echoed in your mind, so clear that it made your chest ache.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden door to the kiln chamber creaked open. Your breath hitched, your eyes squeezed closed for a fraction of a second, then you forced them open, you wouldn’t let him see you vulnerable. He stepped into the room, large, imposing, with clothes stained with grease and dried mud, his eyes vacant and deeply bloodshot. He didn’t look angry, he looked frantic, his hands shaking as he carried a heavy roll of wire and a rusted iron pipe. His movements too fast, his breathing too shallow. He stopped in front of you, staring down with an unsettling, detached curiosity. He reached out, his dirty thumb tracing the line of your jaw, and you flinched away, your teeth clenching. “You aren’t screaming. Why aren’t you screaming?”
You glared at him through your tangled hair, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, but you kept your gaze steady. The man grunted, a dark, frustrated sound, and raised the heavy iron pipe. “We’ll have to fix that.”
“She lived alone, but she didn’t live isolated.” Gideon murmured, tracing his fingers along the edge of a neatly arranged bookshelf. “She was organised, careful, The neighbours said she kept to herself, but she was always polite. She moved here six months ago. Why Alexandria?”
“Maybe a fresh start.” Hotch suggested, stepping into the small hallway that led to the bedroom. “Had a break-up, fell out with a friend.” He theorised. The bedroom was modest. A neatly made bed, a dresser with a few framed photos of your family, a small writing desk near the window. Hotch approached the closet, pulling it open, while Gideon walked over to the bed. He knelt, his eyes catching on something tucked just beneath the dust ruffle. He reached under and pulled out a faded, purple cardboard shoebox.
“Hotch.” Gideon called out softly.
Hotch turned, watching as Gideon sat on the edge of the mattress and removed the lid. Inside the box were dozens of envelopes, bundled neatly with a blue piece of twine. Gideon slid the top envelope out from under the string. The paper was slightly worn at the edges, handles many times. He turned it over, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read the postmark.
Pasadena, CA. October 2000
Then his gaze fell on the sender’s handwriting. It was incredibly precise, small and frantically slanted. “Reid.” Hotch murmured, stepping closer. It wasn’t a question. He recognised the erratic, rapid-fire flow of the penmanship instantly. Gideon untied the string and opened the most recent letter in the pile. It was dated nearly four years ago. He skimmed the page, his eyes softening as he read the dense paragraphs, a dizzying mix of complex astrophysical theories, ramblings about Caltech’s library, and, woven between the lines, a profound, aching vulnerability.
…I tried to calculate the probability of us staying together despite the geographic distance, but the variables are too volatile. I don’t want to be the gravity that pulls you away from your own orbit. You deserve to fly. But please know that even if the universe expands forever, my coordinates will always find yours.
“She kept every single one of them.” Gideon said quietly, folding the paper back into its creases. “He stopped writing because he thought he was protecting her.” He paused as he looked at Hotch. “She moved here to be closer to him.”
“But she never called him,” Hotch observed, his voice tinged with a rare touch of solemnity. “She wanted to see if he would reach out first.”
Before Gideon could reply, Hotch’s cell phone rang, cutting sharply through the quiet apartment. Hotch held the receiver to his ear. “Hotch.”
On the other end, Morgan’s voice crackled through, thick with urgency. “Hotch, we have a location. Reid cracked the soil analysis. The iron oxide and calcium carbonate point to the old Lorton Brickworks kiln chambers, right off Interstate ninety-five. We’re five minutes out.”
“We’re on our way.” Hotch said, his eyes locking onto the purple shoebox. “We’ll meet you there.”
The sirens of the local police cruisers wailed in the distance, but the tactical team moved in absolute, synchronized silence.
The old Lorton Brickworks loomed in the gray evening light, a crumbling monolith of rusted steel and decaying masonry. Heavy rain began to pelt the concrete as the SWAT team, flanked by Morgan, Elle, and a visibly trembling Spencer, stacked up against the primary entrance to the underground kilns.
“Breaching in three… two… one…”
The heavy iron door was blown open with a deafening metallic screech. Spencer didn’t wait. He pushed past the tactical shield, his flashlight beam slicing frantically through the darkness of the subterranean corridor, screaming your name into the abyss, his voice cracking with sheer desperation. The team swept through the chambers, the beams of their flashlights illuminating nothing but empty space, piles of discarded gravel, and decades of undisturbed dust. There were no chairs, no ropes. No signs of recent life.
“Clear!” a SWAT officer shouted.
“Clear!” another echoed from the back.
Spencer froze in the center of the main kiln chamber. He shone his flashlight at the ground. The dust on the concrete floor was thick, even, and completely undisturbed. No footprints.
“No.” Spencer murmured, his eyes wide and frantic. “No, no, no… this is wrong. This is all wrong.”
Morgan stopped at his side, his hand landing on his shoulder. “Reid, talk to me. What do you mean it’s wrong? The soil report-”
“The soil report in Sarah Jenkins’ shoes had calcium carbonate-” he paused, bending to run his fingers through the soil, “but the Lorton Clay Pit has a high concentration of alumina.” He rambled, his voice climbing to a panicked breathless pitch. He stared at his dirty fingers as if they held every answer he was looking for. “Aluminia is acidic. But the soil on Sarah’s shoes was alkaline. The calcium carbonate wasn’t from the clay itself… It was a shifting agent from limestone runoff. From the Occoquan River.”
He scrambled backward, pulling his folded paper maps from his pocket with shaking hands, tearing the edges. “The Occoquan Clay and Brick Manufactory,” Spencer gasped, a tear of pure horror spilling over his eyelashes. “It’s six miles south. It closed in ninety-four when the quarry flooded. It’s the exact same architectural layout, built by the same parent company, but the geological runoff is entirely different. I miscalculated the geographic regression because I assumed he was staying close to the interstate corridor, but he isn’t trying to stay near the highway, he's trying to stay near the water.”
Hotch and Gideon sprinted into the chamber, their faces grim. “Reid, what is it?” Hotch demanded.
Spencer looked up, his face entirely drained of colour. “We’re in the wrong place. He has her at the Occoquan facility. It’s twelve minutes from here.”
“How much time do we have left on your timeline, Reid?” Gideon asked, his voice steady but urgent.
Spencer looked at his watch. The ticking of the second hand felt like a physical hammer to his skull. “Eight minutes.” Spencer whispered, his chest heaving as he stared at Gideon. “In eight minutes, he kills her.”
Twelve minutes of driving had to be forced into six. The black SUV roared down the rain slicked, winding roads toward the Occoquan River, tires skimming over deep puddles. Inside, the silence was suffocating, punctuated only by the furious, rapid-fire tapping of Spencer's fingers against his knees. “Four minutes,” Spencer murmured, his eyes fixed on the dashboard clock. “We have four minutes.”
“I’m driving as fast as the road allows, Reid,” Morgan growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he navigated a sharp, blind curve.
“It’s not fast enough!” Spencer suddenly yelled, a rare, uncharacteristic burst of anger cracking through his panic. He slammed a hand onto the dashboard. “He’s going to kill her, Morgan! He’s going to kill her because I spent three years hiding from my own feelings in California!”
No one in the car spoke. Elle reached forward from the backseat, gently squeezing Spencer’s shoulder, but he was too far gone to feel it, drowning in the mathematics of his own failures. Up ahead, through the heavy downpour, the dark outline of the Occoquan Clay and Brick Manufactory finally broke through the trees.
Inside the concrete kiln, the shadows had stretched so long that they swallowed the room. Your chest burned with every shallow breath. The pacing in the corridor had stopped. There was only the low, wet drag of boots stepping through the shallow puddles of groundwater on the brick floor. You pulled against your bonds, the harsh rope tearing through the skin of your wrists, but the knots were professional, unyielding. The heavy metal door of the chamber groaned on its hinges. The man stepped inside, carrying the same rusted iron pipe. The weapon scraped against the wet brick with a high pitched, metallic screech that made your stomach roll. “The water’s rising.” He muttered, his voice hollow and frantic. He looked up at the ceiling, then back at you. “They’re close. I can feel them. They’re trying to take you away from me, but I have to keep the sequence clean. Three, then four. It has to be complete.”
You didn’t close your eyes, staring straight at him, your jaw trembling but your gaze fierce. You thought of a boy under a starry Vegas sky.
The pipe began its downward swing-
The SUV hadn’t even fully stopped before Spencer threw his door open. He hit the gravel running, his boots skidding as he sprinted toward the gaping, dark mouth of the Occoquan kiln entrance. “Reid! Wait for tactical!” Hotch’s voice echoed through the storm, but Spencer couldn’t hear him over the roaring of his own pulse.
Spencer burst into the cavernous, pitch-black underground network. His flashlight beam swept wildly over crumbling brick arches and deep, stagnant pools of flooded water. The labyrinth of identical corridors stretched out before him like a physical manifestation of his worst nightmare. He stopped, holding his breath, desperately trying to listen over the sound of the rain hammering the roof above. A muffled, metallic clang rang out from the deep left corridor.
Spencer took off. He rounded a corner, his foot catching on a piece of debris, sending him crashing hard onto his shoulder against the wet brick wall. Pain shot through his arm, but he barely registered it. He scrambled back to his feet, throwing his weight against a rotting wooden door at the end of the hall. The door splintered inward.
The beam of his flashlight caught the terrifying tableau in an instant, the unsub, the raised steel pipe, and you. Tied to a chair, eyes wide with terror.
“FBI! Hands where I can see them!” Spencer screamed, his voice raw, completely devoid of his usual restraint.
The unsub swung around, his face twisting in rage as he charged at the lanky agent with the pipe. Spencer didn’t retreat. He didn’t wait for Morgan, or Hotch. With a desperate cry, he tackled the larger man, the two of them slamming violently into the muddy floor. The pipe clattered away into the dark as the unsub clawed at Spencer’s face, pinning him down, but Spencer fought back with an agonizing, furious strength, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs. Just as the unsub grabbed Spencer’s throat, Morgan and Hotch burst into the room. Morgan threw himself onto the suspect, ripping him off Spencer and slamming him face first into the wet brick to cuff him.
Spencer lay on the ground for a fraction of a second, gasping for air, before scrambling on his hands and knees over to your chair. His hands shook violently as he pulled at the knot around your wrists. “I’m here, I- I’m here, I’ve got you.” He choked out as the knot came free. The moment your arms were free, you threw them around his neck. His hands moved to the rope at the back of your head and pulled, releasing the gag from your mouth as you collapsed against him, sending him back to the floor. “Spencer-” You sobbed, your voice a broken whisper against his ear. His long arms wrapped around you, burying his face in your wet hair as he cradled you in his lap, holding on so tightly it felt as if he were trying to pull you directly into his chest, away from the cold, away from the horror, away from the years you had spent apart.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes swimming with tears when you pulled back to look at him. They flicked over your face, the lines of grease and dirt where the unsub had touched you, the drip of blood from a cut above your eyebrow, the skin rubbed raw by the rope gag around your mouth. “I’m so sorry, I- I…” His hand moved from your head to your jaw, his thumb gently tracing your cheek. You leaned into his touch, a small, bruised smile pulling at your lips. “Are you okay?”
Paramedics rushed in, sirens wailed in the distance. “Let’s get her to the ambulance, Reid.” Hotch said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let the EMTs look her over.”
The back of the ambulance was relatively quiet, a stark contrast to the storm outside. The rain hammered a steady, muted rhythm against the metal roof. The doors were pulled shut, leaving the two of you in the warm, sterile glow of the interior lights. You sat on the gurney, a heavy, orange blanket dread over your shoulders. The paramedic had finished cleaning the cuts on your lip and eyebrow, and bandaging the raw, chafed skin of your wrists, leaving you with a small cup of water before stepping out to give you some space. Spencer stood just inside the doors, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. He had a white blanket wrapped around his own shoulders to combat the chill of his soaked clothes, his wet hair curling at the ends. He stared at his mismatched socks, suddenly feeling very vulnerable, and very lost.
“Spence?” You said, your voice soft and scratchy. He looked up, his brown eyes wide as he walked over to the edge of the gurney, his movements hesitant, as if he were afraid to startle you if he moved too quickly.
“Are you… are you okay?” He asked, gently settling next to you on the edge of the gurney. “The medical examiner- I mean, paramedic said your ribs are only bruised and not fractured, and your wrists…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to the white gauze wrapping your wrists. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I miscalculated the Lorton put. I should have realised the soil runoff variable sooner. I cost us twelve minutes. I almost-”
“Spencer.” You reached out, your bandaged hand cutting off his rambling as you gently took hold of his fingers. “You saved my life.” He let out a shaky breath, his fingers slowly curling around yours. “And with a hell of a tackle too.” You added, smiling gently. He looked down at your joined hands as he let out an exhale that could have been a laugh if not for the circumstances, and the dam finally broke.
“I was so scared.” He murmured, his voice cracking. “When JJ handed me your photo, my entire brain just… stopped. I’ve spent years training myself to be objective, to compartmentalise, to analyze everything through mathematical probability. But the moment I saw you, the math didn't work anymore. I couldn’t breathe.” He swallowed, eyes locked on the way your fingers slotted perfectly between his. “Gideon found the letters under your bed.” He confessed quietly, his eyes lifting to meet yours, swimming with tears. “He showed them to me while they were…” He gestured at your wrists with his free hand. “I… I stopped writing because I thought I was doing the logical thing. I thought I was saving you from having to choose between your dream and a boy who was too weird, too complicated, too… broken to keep up with you.”
You felt a tear slip down your cheek, but you didn’t look away. “Spence…” You whispered. “I moved here because I hoped that if I was close enough, maybe the universe would find a way to slide us back into the same orbit. But I was… I thought the letters stopped because you had moved on.”
“I could never move on from you.” He answered instantly, reaching up with his free hand, his long, slender fingers trembling as he gently brushed a damp strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was incredibly light, as if you were made of glass. “I love you. I never stopped, not for a single second.”
A soft smile broke through the pain on your face, watching as a tear finally fell over his lashes. “I never stopped either.” You whispered, watching his whole face soften, his shoulder turned as he moved to face you. He was still trembling slightly, the residual adrenaline of the rescue humming through his veins. He looked down at you, the shadows of the ambulance cast soft lines across your face, highlighting the dark bruise on your cheekbone, the spit on your lip. To anyone else, you looked battered, the victim of a terrible crime. But to Spencer, you were the same girl who had sat in the dusty desert grass, holding his hand when the rest of the world felt too loud. There was no hesitation, no distance of four lost years, no unanswered letters between you anymore. Just the undeniable, magnetic pull that had always existed.
His fingers gently cradled your jawline, so careful, his thumb lightly tracing just below the bruise on your cheek, treating you like something infinitely precious. When he leaned down, you met him halfway.
The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if he was terrified of hurting you. He pressed his lips to yours with a quiet, aching reverence, a silent apology for every day he had spent letting the silence stretch between you. But as your hand moved to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, the hesitation dissolved. He let out a shaky, ragged sigh against your mouth, deepening the kiss. It was a chaotic rush of warmth, of relief, of a profound love that had survived years of distance and the brink of death. He pulled you closer, his other hand splaying flat against your back, holding you to him as if to convince himself that you were truly here, safe and alive.
When you finally parted, neither of you moved away. Spencer rested his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling in the space. He smiled, a small, genuine expression that reached his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “My heart rate is currently one hundred and forty-two beats per minute,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion but carrying a hint of his familiar, nerdy charm. “Which is physiologically consistent with acute cardiovascular arousal, but I’m fairly certain ninety percent of it is just because of you.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your eyes shining with fresh tears as you pulled on the back of his neck again. “Shut up.”
“Okay.” He mumbled against you as you brought his lips back to yours.
After a four day long bout of insomnia, Spencer calls you to help him through it.
ellie talks- this ended up being WAY longer than i thought it would, which is why it's late. but i actually loved writing this sm. i love him your honour.
wc- 4.2k
cw- s1!Spencer fluff, oral f!receiving, Spencer is an eater okay, protected p in v.
Spencer’s hands pulled through his hair, pushing it back as his elbows dropped to his knees. A long, laboured exhale left his lips as he looked up at the clock on the bedside table, and scratched the back of his neck. 3.17am. The numbers burned into his retinas, a glowing green reminder of his latest failure to do what billions of people accomplish every night. Fall asleep. This was his fourth night in a row being unable to sleep for more than two hours, and it had begun to be noticeable, Morgan had pointed out the purple crescents under his eyes at the morning’s briefing. He brushed it off, but the truth was that he was struggling. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw images, dismembered limbs, case files accidentally memorised, even this morning’s paper's mathematical equation that he hadn’t been able to solve because he was just so tired. He had tried everything he could think of, reading, both fiction and non-fiction, pacing the hardwood floor, drinking copious amounts of “Night Blend” tea. Nothing was working. The silence in his apartment was too loud, too suffocating, too… lonely.
He reached for his phone, flipping it open and blinking in the light from the small screen as his thumb pressed down on the button to move through his contacts. There was Morgan, who probably fell asleep hours ago after picking someone up from the bar. Then Hotch, who was almost definitely asleep next to his wife. His thumb stopped when his eyes scanned your name, realising that you might be the only person that he couldn’t be sure what you were doing. The probability that you were asleep was high, and that the phone call would wake you up before a long day did cross his mind. He didn’t want to wake you, he didn’t expect you to answer, he just needed to feel, even for a moment, that someone might. His thumb pressed onto the phone button, and held the phone to his ear, counting the rings as they vibrated against him. One. Two. Thr-
“Spencer?”
Your voice was quiet, sleepily soft and raspy, his back straightened at the sound of it. His chest tightened with guilt, immediately regretting his decision, that he had interrupted your night’s sleep.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose as he cursed his insomnia fuelled decision making. “I didn’t think you’d answer. I’m so sorry, I just… I couldn’t sleep, and my probability calculations for waking you were much lower than reality, and I should let you go back to sleep-”
“Hey, Spencer… breathe,” you interrupted gently, and he could hear the shifting of your comforter as you sat up against your pillow. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. No… Physically, yes. Cognitively, I’m at a standstill.” He murmured, dragging his hand down his face as he flopped back against his bed, his free hand resting on his stomach. “It’s been four days. I just… I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Your heart dropped at the profound exhaustion in his voice, the tremor of defeat that bled through. Spencer had opened up to you about his insomnia before, and you recognised how bad it had gotten. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” You said, pinning your phone between your ear and your shoulder, already pulling on your sneakers.
“Wait, no it’s-” He sat upright, his fingers curling into his t-shirt as he heard the jingle of your keys through the line. “It’s past three in the morning, the safety risks of driving at this hour-”
“I’ll lock my doors. See you in fifteen, Spence.”
The call ended with the dial tone and he pulled it away from his ear, staring down at the phone as he flipped it closed. A warmth spread through his chest as he realised how quickly you had helped, without even needing to be asked. And the way you had called him “Spence”.
When you arrived at Spencer’s apartment twelve minutes later, he opened it after your soft knock, and your heart ached a little at the sight of him. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, his hair mussed at the back where he had been tossing and turning against his pillows. His eyes dropped to your pyjama pants, green and white striped with little cartoon characters dotted around the fabric, and the oversized hoodie that hung from your shoulders. “You didn’t have to come.” He said, though he stepped aside to let you in, his eyes fixed on you as if you were a holy being.
“Well I’m here now.” You smiled softly, setting your keys on the counter as he closed the door with a gentle click. “You eaten anything? Had something to drink?”
“I had tea. It didn’t help.” He said, shuffling awkwardly behind you as you moved to his worn velvet couch. He sat down stiffly beside you, his hands tucked between his knees, looking like a nervous guest in his own home.
“Talk to me.” You said. “Or don’t. You don’t have to explain anything.”
Spencer looked at you, his brown eyes wide, and glassy with fatigue. He paused for a moment, his shoulders losing some of their tension as he watched you sitting comfortably in his apartment, as if you belonged there. “Can I just…?” He gestured vaguely towards you, a rare moment of hesitation from someone who usually had all the words.
You nodded, lifting your arm along the back of the couch. He didn’t need to be told twice. Spencer shifted, sinking sideways against you, hesitating for a fraction of a second before letting his head drop onto your shoulder. His long legs tangled awkwardly on the small couch, but as your hand dropped back down to his shoulder, you felt him sigh, finally letting go of the tension he’d been holding onto for days.
“Your heart rate is remarkably steady,” Spencer mumbled, his eyes drooping slightly from the warmth of your body, the comforting scent of you enveloping him. “It’s roughly sixty-five beats per minute.” You smiled at his calculations, even when he was suffering with insomnia, his mind still wouldn’t stop noticing things. “It’s very soothing.” He added quietly, almost as an afterthought.
“Good.” You said gently, resting your cheek against the top of his head, tracing slow, lazy patterns against his arm, just below the hem of his t-shirt sleeve. “Focus on that.” You hummed.
For a few minutes, he kept talking in a low, drowsy monotone, his voice vibrating softly against your collarbone. “There’s a biological phenomenon known as physiological synchrony.” He mumbled, his eyelids fluttering as he fought to keep them open. “When two individuals are in close physical proximity, especially during moments of shared trust… their autonomic nervous systems begin to mimic one another.” He paused as your hand moved up into his hair, slowly brushing your nails along his scalp. “Your steady heart rate is effectively acting as an external pacemaker for my overstimulated amygdala… lowering my cortisol levels… by approximately…”
His voice trailed off, the precise percentage losing its battle against his exhaustion. The spaces between his words stretched longer, turning into quiet, shallow breaths.
“...it’s very…efficient.” He sighed deeply. You held your breath for a moment, listening. The frantic, nervous energy that usually radiated off him had completely evaporated. His breathing had deepened, turning into a rhythmic, peaceful rise and fall against your chest. He was asleep. Truly, deeply asleep.
You gently leaned back, holding his head in careful hands as you maneuvered it into your lap, his cheek pressing against your thigh as you let go. You ran your fingers through his hair again, looking down at him, completely safe, using you as a pillow. And you had no intention of moving until morning.
The pale glow of afternoon light filtering through the blinds was what finally woke Spencer. He didn’t move at first. His brain, usually firing at a mile a minute from the second he opened his eyes, was blissfully quiet. He became aware of three things in record timing, even for his brain: the heavy weight of exhaustion lifting from his chest, the faint scent of familiar perfume, and the fact that he was still completely sprawled against you on his narrow couch. You were awake, propped up against the arm rest, your eyes watching the muted TV while your hand was still tangled in his hair.
You looked down as Spencer slowly lifted his head from your lap, and let your hand drop from his hair. He looked away as his cheeks flushed, finding the textbook on the coffee table more interesting than it should be. You pushed yourself more upright from the slouched position you had been in for the last ten hours. “How are you feeling?” You asked, leaning forward slightly in an attempt to catch his eyes, but they were fixated on the book.
“Yeah-” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, shaking his head in embarrassment before trying again. “Better. Um… I’m sorry for essentially using you as a human sedative and trapping you against the couch.” He said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“There are worse places to be.” You laughed softly. That made him look at you, his eyes quickly moving between yours as if trying to deduce a deeper meaning from your statement. “Besides, you desperately needed sleep.”
His fingers twisted together between his knees, and his gaze dropped to his fidgeting hands. His lips pursed as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, his brows creased in thought. The blush on his cheeks didn’t fade, if anything, it crept down his neck. Finally, he spoke. “I didn’t just sleep because I was tired.” He murmured, his voice dropping to that quiet, vulnerable tone he rarely used.
“What do you mean?” You asked, meeting his brown eyes as he looked back up at you, searching your face with the analytical precision of a profiler, but stripped of all professionalism. “I’ve tried prescription medication, cognitive behavioral therapy, white noise machines, sleep deprivation techniques…” He said softly, gesturing his hand as he listed his methods. “Nothing overrides the hypervigilance. But last night… my brain calculated the highest probability of safety simply because you were in the room…” He looked down at his hands again, swallowing thickly. “Because I was holding onto you.”
You felt your breath hitch a little, your eyes darting between his. “Spencer… you don’t hav-”
“No, I-” He started, running his hand through his hair before realising how abruptly he had cut you off. “Sorry… I just- I noticed it months ago, how my anxiety decreases significantly whenever you’re around, how my heartbeat increases when I can see you from afar,” he continued, taking a slow, shaky breath. Unconsciously leaning in a fraction closer as his thumb picked at the skin around his finger. The slight shift had the space between you feeling charged, and you dipped your head to attempt to meet his eyes. He noticed, and lifted his eyes to you, they moved slower than usual, lingering on your mouth before finally meeting yours. “There was nothing statistical about the way you comforted me last night.” He admitted, the honesty of it hung in the quiet afternoon air.
The corner of your mouth lifted slightly, watching the way Spencer anxiously chewed on his lip. Your arm lifted, reaching out to brush your fingers against his jaw, before your hand settled against his face. “Spence..” You murmured, your eyes dropping to his lip as his teeth finally released it, his throat bobbed as he swallowed, his lips parting as he leaned forward another inch. His skin goose-pimpled underneath your fingertips as you mirrored the action, bringing your faces inches apart. His eyes fluttered closed, and nose brushed yours as his head tilted slowly, your breaths mingling in the minimal space between you. His lips brushed yours gently, not a kiss, but more of a question, asking for permission. Your fingers moved into his hair as you finally closed the gap, sliding your lips between his. The sigh that he let out against you was one of relief as his hands moved to cradle your head, his long fingers holding you against him as if he never wanted to let you go.
The way his lips slotted against yours grew more heated, his fingers curling into your hair as his apprehensive trembling faded. He gasped as your tongue flicked against his, one of his hands moving from your hair to the back of your neck, before his fingertips moved down the line of your spine, the motion sending a shiver through you. You began to lean back, using both arms wrapped around his neck to pull him down with you. He scrambled against the couch to a more comfortable position as he leaned down over you, the hand that had been tracing your back dipped underneath your hoodie, his thumb gently brushing your hip, as he braced himself on the other arm to hold himself above you. His tongue traced against yours, letting out a soft hum in satisfaction of the feeling of you against him.
Your hands tugged at his hair softly, tilting your head as your lips moved against his in a slow, sensual rhythm. His lips pulled away momentarily as he repositioned his head, his eyes stayed closed, his nose brushed against yours, his breath hitching as he leaned back in. His hand traced up your side, his thumb gently caressing the dip of your waist as his body settled flush against yours, melting against you. “Spence.” You mumbled against his lips between kisses. He pulled back, his brow furrowed in concern, his mind racing with the possibilities of what you were about to say, had he done something wrong? Had he taken it too far?
“What is it? What’s wrong?” He panicked, his voice quivering with both want, and nerves. You smiled gently, tucking a stray hair behind his ear before resting your palm against his face.
“Nothing.” You shook your head, pulling your bottom lip into your mouth, watching his eyes drop to the movement, his pupils dilating and his breathing growing more laboured. “Just wondering if you own a bed, or whether you just sleep on the couch every night.” You hummed, twisting his hair around your fingers absently. He let out an amused exhale, half his mouth lifting into a sheepish smile, ducking his head and squeezing one eye closed as he nodded.
“Yeah… Yes I-” He sat back, letting his thumb brush against your waist slowly. “Yes, I own a bed.” He finished, his voice dropping to a quiet, almost shy tone. You stood from the couch, Spencer's hand still on your waist, tilting his head to look up at you for a moment before following suit.
His bedroom was what you would call an organised mess. Books scattered across every surface, empty abandoned mugs around the room. The glow from behind the orange curtains made his features look softer, and the smell of a burnt out candle enveloped you, comforting and warm. Spencer’s hands wrapped around your hips as yours settled against his shoulders as his mouth lowered back to yours, more sure now that he knew you wouldn’t pull away. His fingers toyed with the hem of your hoodie, silently asking for permission. You broke away to pull the hoodie over your head, your shirt coming with it, leaving you in only your bra. Spencer swallowed, an involuntary, breathy “wow,” leaving his lips before he could stop it. You smiled softly, lacing your fingers through his and pulling him with you as you backed towards the bed.
He kneeled on the bed as you lay back, pulling his shirt off before settling over you, his body between your thighs. His skin was warm against yours, his lips catching yours in another deep, deliberate kiss as your fingertips traced down his back, the contact pulling a soft moan from his throat as his hips shifted against you. His lips moved down to your jaw, pressing a line of soft kisses along your neck towards your collarbone, the soft brush of his mouth combined with his breath against your skin had your back arching, pressing your chest against his.
“Is this okay?” He asked as his lips moved down over your chest, pausing just above the line of your bra. You nodded, lifting yourself up slightly to unclasp your bra, and pull it from you. Spencer swallowed thickly, before lowering his mouth back to your skin, slowly moving his lips down toward your nipple. He closed his mouth around the sensitive bud, his hands steady on your ribs as he dragged his tongue over your sensitive skin, his confidence growing with the breathy moans that left your lips. He lifted his eyes to watch the way your head tilted back, the way your lips stayed parted around sighs and gasps as he continued, responding to when his actions gained an arch of your back or a tightening of your fingers in his hair.
Eventually, he brought his mouth away from your chest, only to press soft kisses along your stomach, shifting backwards on the bed as he brought his mouth lower. His shaky hands moved to the waistband of your pyjama pants, eyes flicking up again, his brow creased in a question you answered by lifting your hips to give him the space to drag them down. His tongue moved out to wet his lips as he pulled your pants down your thighs, placing them gently on the floor as if he would hurt the fabric by throwing it carelessly. He inhaled unevenly, his eyes still locked on yours as he lowered himself down towards you. His lips landed on your hip first, his fingers gently tracing your inner thigh as he moved his mouth down further with each kiss. You gasped when his mouth finally closed around your clit, a soft, gentle movement that already had your body writhing and desperate for more. Spencer’s head spun with want, eagerly obliging in your twitching hips, delving his tongue deeper through your folds. He moaned at the taste of you, a low vibration shaking through your core, his eyes closed as he focused on flicking his tongue in the way you liked.
His fingers drew up your inner thigh until they reached where his mouth was already hungrily lapping at you. You moaned as one finger gently pressed into you, slowly at first, working you open with extreme preciseness and care as he gradually pushed it further. He crooked his finger in time with his tongue, his other hand gripping your hip as he responded to every signal your body gave him. Every moan, every tightening of your stomach, every time your fingers tugged at his hair, every time he felt his hand wet from your arousal, he studied them, locking the information safely in his brain to calculate the best way to bring you to your peak. He moaned against you again as he inserted another finger, feeling you clamp down around them as he curled them just right.
“Spencer…” You moaned, the sound of his husky name from your lips sent ripples of pleasure through his body. “Right there, Spence..” You sighed, your hips bucking into his face as he continued moving his tongue over your clit. Time slowed as he watched you fall apart, the way your body clamped down on his fingers, your thighs closing around his head, squeezing him as you moaned loudly, the sound echoing off the walls. He slowed his movements, letting you ride out your high as your back arched, your fingers tightly tangled in his hair. When your moans turned to laboured breathing, he lifted his mouth away, and carefully withdrew his hand from you.
“What that… Was it okay?” He asked softly, his brow furrowed in genuine question. You opened your eyes and propped yourself up on your elbows, he smiled at the way your hair was messed from the pillows, and the flush across your skin that hadn’t faded.
“More than.” You said, your voice still breathy, and your chest heaving as you tried to regain composure. You watched him wipe his mouth on his arm, and you sat up fully, your hands trailing down his stomach to the top of his sweatpants. His breath hitched as your nails gently scraped his skin. “Do you have…”
“Oh, um… yeah. Somewhere. Hold on.” He moved almost immediately, his long frame extending as he leaned over the edge of the bed to rummage through his pile of clothes. He located his wallet, and pulled out a blue wrapper. “Just check it’s still…” He murmured as he turned it over in his hands to find the expiration date, it had been a long time since he needed one of these. “Yeah it’s um-” He glanced back up at you, at the way you were propped up on one arm, your hair falling behind your back, tangled around your shoulder, the light filtering through the curtains painting you as some kind of sun goddess. “You’re so pretty.” The words rushed out of him in a single breath as he moved back towards you. You smiled gently, using one leg to wrap around his hip and pull him down over you, his mouth met yours with no hesitation this time. Your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled, he dropped one hand to help, the other stayed in your hair as he kissed you deeply.
Once his sweatpants were discarded, your hand moved to his cock, wrapping around the considerable length as his eyes squeezed closed. “Oh-” He rasped, his mouth staying open and eyebrows shooting upwards as your hand slowly moved. His jaw stuttered as you worked him slowly for a long moment, he finally found it within him to close his mouth, and swallowed hard.
“Okay?” You asked, smiling when he nodded desperately, unable to form any other coherent thought than the feeling of your hand wrapped around him, moving so deliciously slow. Eventually, he fumbled with the wrapper for a moment before finally tearing it open, only then did you let go for him to roll the latex down his length. He leaned over you as you lay back, eyes flicking to yours as he positioned himself, and rolled his hips forwards. He moaned against your lips as you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails biting into his soft skin as he dropped to his elbow. “Spence-” You whispered as he pulled his hips back before setting a slow, steady pace. His breath was against your ear, his eyes squeezed closed as he let out a low groan at the feeling of you wrapped around him.
“You- God… You feel so-” He choked out, every thought slipping his mind other than the way you felt digging your nails into his shoulders, the way your leg lifted to hook over his hip and pull him deeper, the sounds you were making every time he pushed forwards. He moved his mouth back to yours, catching your lips in a fierce kiss, his tongue tangled with yours as he kept his steady, aching pace. Your chest pressed against his as your back arched, one of his hands splayed across your thigh, holding it against him as if he couldn’t bear to have any part of you not touching him. His cock dragged through you slowly, a perfectly gentle pace that had you moaning against his mouth, your hand threading through his hair. His slow, deep thrusts had your head spinning as you reached your free hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit to rub tight circles. The extra stimulation had you clenching around him already, his hips faltering for a moment as you grew tighter around his cock.
“I-” He stuttered against your mouth, “I’m gon-” he couldn’t finish his sentence as the ripples of pleasure washed through him, his stomach tensing as he came, his forehead pressed against yours and his eyes squeezed closed, and his fingers tightened on your thigh. Long, loud moans spilled from his mouth as he stilled, his breathing ragged and uneven. As his head stopped spinning, he lowered it to your shoulder, nuzzling his face into your neck as your arms wrapped around him, your fingers carding gently through his hair as his breathing returned to its normal pace. His mind was quiet, for once in his life, he could enjoy the moment, enjoy the feeling of your body under his, enjoy the-
“Spence.” Your soft voice broke his train of thought, and he lifted his head to look at you with sleepy eyes. “You might wanna take that off.” You said, at first, he furrowed his brows, unsure of what you meant, but then it registered, and he laughed softly before reaching down to pull the condom off, before rolling over to discard it in the trash by his bed. He wasted no time returning to his position with his head on your shoulder, his arm slung over your stomach, listening to your heart rate returning to normal as you traced your fingers up and down his spine.
He could definitely get used to this cure for insomnia.
ok i love that you started this blog - you're lowkey bringing my criminal minds hyperfixation back 🫠
i'm so curious if you've seen that edit on tiktok of hotch and reid as twin ghostfaces 👀 🤭 i immediately thought of you because of that kurt ghostface fic you were writing!
Yay I'm so glad! I'm enjoying having motivation back for writing! Turns out I just needed a new nerd to write for
jacobvanloon
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