cw; +18 content! minors dni!, THIS IS FILTHY. NAAAAASTY, you’ve been warned. mean harsh dom! spencer and bratty sub! reader, nasty make outs, spanking, hair pulling, cursing, degradation and praise (not quite towards you), use of good girl (again, not towards you), dirty talking, oral sex (s! receiving), face fucking, edging, gagging, facial, multiple orgasms and rounds implied, teasing, begging, hickeys, choking, spencer being a little bit of a pervert, piv sex, using cum as lube, unprotected sex (guys don’t do this), scratching, pussy talking, breeding kink, creampie, squirting, slapping, spitting, spencer has crazy stamina…
from this request.
@cherriesinthespring & @brattyspence 💋
you were actually exhausted. whole body aching, the last thing you needed was to talk to him, but as always, there he was. your asshole of a flatmate. with his stupid glasses on as his amber eyes strolled through the pages of his book miles per hour.
“well, look who it is. past midnight. seems like cinderella by how fucked up you look.”
you rolled your eyes at the smirk on his tone, kicking off your heels. “fuck off reid, i’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”
your relationship had been strained from the start… you two were like oil and water. always had been, since the two of you were five and had the sufficient conscience to choose if you liked each other or not. and believe me, if you had had another choice… you wouldn’t have even taken up the offer to live with him. but your mother, diana’s best friend, as soon as she had learnt that you had been given a promotion and needed to move to quantico? had told the blonde, who excitedly told her that spencer was looking for a flatmate. that sealed your destiny. and now there you were. sharing space with the person you loathed most in the entire world.
“hell, okay, you’re not fucked up at all, ‘cause getting some dick wouldn’t have left you like that.”
you groaned, your head throbbing, full body tense. “well at least i get to fuck, not like you, you only get off to letters on paper.”
and he dared to chuckle, fucking chuckle. he closed his book and put it aside, tall frame leaving its seat at the sofa to slowly stroll over you.
“well isn’t your vocabulary a delight?” he crooked his head. “now why don’t you tell me what’s gotten you all bothered, princess. ‘cause i’m sure my incredible presence cannot be it.” he said sarcastically, but he seemed intrigued to know what had happened. “hard day at work? did starbucks ran out of caramel drizzle? or is your rose toy dead?”
“you little…” your hands were reaching for his throat, but he was faster, his tongue clicking as his strong long fingers surrounded your wrists, stopping you centimeters away from his warm skin.
“really, doll? trying to choke an fbi agent? such a bad girl…” you gasped as he pinned you against the wall. “you could get in a lot of trouble for that. maybe i should use my cuffs on you. or maybe not, i’m sure you’d end up enjoying it.” he muttered that last part against your ear, your cheeks reddish in both anger and embarrassment.
“fuck you.” you spat, and he chuckled, dark and teasingly against the skin if your neck. you were not done. he wanted to play dirty? two could do that. “and what do you say about extortion of people by your power, huh? an fbi agent trying to make me kneel under him for his status? i could easily get you fired. you should be ashamed, reid… but… it seems like you are more like… excited, huh?” and with a roll of your hips against him you confirm what you had suspected: he was hard. rock hard at that.
he smirked at you, ignoring your jab as he leaned over you. “are you threatening me?” he muttered against your lips, his tongue wetting his bottom one.
your eyes followed the movement, and your throat dried up. you squinted at him. “are you?”
“you know… all this brattiness of yours is really getting on my nerves.”
“really? by how hard you are… i would believe you’re enjoying it.” you muttered back. your breaths were mingling. there was heat pooling down on your lower stomach. and the tension exuding from your bodies could be cut with a knife.
“you need to learn to keep your mouth shut.” he growled, eyes dangerous.
“but wouldn’t you like it wide open…, reid?”
you could feel the moment he said “fuck it”, his brown eyes now completely pitch black. “yeah? then open the fuck up.”
and next thing you knew? his tongue was deep into your mouth, which had willingly fallen open for him. the two of you groaned, and the tight hold he had on your wrists turned bruising. it was as if he hated the idea that he desired you so much. maybe he did. maybe you did. but right now the only thing you could focus on was on his hard cock pushing against your belly, and how soaked your panties felt stuck against your throbbing clit. when had you gotten so wet?
a moan left you as his plush lips surrounded your tongue and sucked, a hum leaving his chest when he then moved to your neck, sucking some more on the skin there.
“i think i ought to teach you a lesson, don’t you?” you whined as he bit down on your pulse point. “answer me.” a choked gasp left your lips when one of his hands, the one that wasn’t holding now both your wrists up, came down harsh against the side of your thigh on a smack.
“yes.”
“that’s what i thought.” he purred, and your eyes almost rolled back at the sound of his deep voice. “on your knees.” he ordered as he let go of you, and busied his now free hands on unbuttoning his slacks. you got lost for a minute there as you caught sight of the wet patch decorating his boxers, but he was quick to get you back on page. your eyes widened when his hand took harshly your face. “do i need to repeat myself?” he hissed and you shook your head. “then. get. on. your. fucking. knees.” you complied, knees on the hardwood floor, puppy eyes staring right onto his. “that wasn’t so hard, wasn’t it? let’s hope you suck cock better than you follow orders.”
your pussy fluttered. fuck. why was this turning you on so much?
“show me that tongue.” you stuck it out to him. pink. salivating. ready. he hummed and pushed down his boxers and pants down his thighs. your eyes widened at the sight of his thick cock. “let’s keep that dirty mouth of yours busy, yeah?” and before you could even react, you were gagging around him. it hurt. your lips were fully stretched around him, and your jaw was about to give up by the uncomfortable stuffiness. but god… it felt so good… he tasted so good… reid groaned, fingers winding into your hair and tugging as his hips snapped and his cock hit down your throat. “fuck. so that mouth is actually good for something, huh?”
your eyes couldn’t help but water, your nails scratching at his thighs as he didn’t even give you a chance to adjust before starting to fuck your face. you couldn’t help but moan, eyes rolling as the air in your lungs thinned. he was literally fucking you dumb. and you couldn’t love it more.
“such a fucking slut. look at you. you act harsh but as soon as a dick is shoved into your throat you start to act like a good girl, hm?“ you whined, thighs squeezing against the other, throat swallowing around him and making him grunt. “jesus, you’re tight. wonder how your pussy will be. probably will have to stretch it open first, break it in since you haven’t brought anyone home to fuck since you moved in, huh?” he chuckled. “the walls are thin, you know? you think i don’t hear you pumping your fingers into your little cunt every night? poor thing. you’re so desperate for cock you would take anyone’s, huh? even mine. but, actually… i’m starting to believe it’s the one you’ve been wanting the most, isn’t it?” you whimpered. “hm? what’d you think about while fucking your pussy, doll? did you think about me listening to you? that the reason why you’d moan louder? for me to hear? wanted me to come into your room and show you what a good orgasm is supposed to feel like?” you nodded, too lost to actually try and hide how the idea of him listening to you masturbating just a few doors away made you squirt all over your sheets. he chuckled. low. mockingly. “of course you did.” he pushed down your throat even harder. “all that time acting as though you hated me and you just liked me, huh?” you gasped and coughed as he pulled out of your mouth, smacking his wet leaking cock against your flushed cheek.
“i hate you.” you swore and his eyes glinted.
“yeah? well, for someone who hates me, you really love sucking my cock.” he chuckled when, while gliding his tip along your bottom lip, your mouth subconsciously opened. “you want it?”
you kept silent. what could you say? you couldn’t say no. that would be a lie. but you also couldn’t say yes, that’d would make it too easy for him. but before you could catch yourself you were…
“please.”
begging.
his smile was that of the cheshire cat. “atta girl.” you moaned when he fed it back to you, pumping it down your throat over and over again. you relished on the musky scent, on the tuffs of hair of his base kissing your nose, on his tip making you gag over and over again until you became so messy and sloppy that trails of spit dribbled down past your lips and chin onto your thighs. “thaaaat’s it. so messy. can’t help but want to…” and then you’re gasping as hot spurts of cum hit your face, making you even more messier. spencer moans as he strokes every last drop out of his breeding tightening balls. “fuck. look at you. so pretty like this…” your mouth stays open for the dripping of it, the salty release hitting your tongue and making you hum.
when you open your eyes, your cunt throbs. he looks gone. wild in pleasure. and starving.
“get up.” your legs shake and you almost trip by how fast you complied. “i’m not done with you yet.”
not even 10 seconds go by before you’re being thrown onto his bed —his bedroom being the nearest one of the two—, and another 10 is what it takes him to get you bare before his eyes. his eyes appreciatively took the sight of your heaving chest and rosy nipples in, the smoothness of your tummy, the plush of your thighs…
he pumps his still rock hard cock. how does he manage to have that much stamina? it hadn’t even gone down —not in the slightest— after making a mess of your face with his cum.
“it’s not gonna-” you try and say, but his words cut you off quickly enough.
“mouth shut. eyes on me. legs open. i’ll make it fit. even if i have to break apart your pussy for it.” you swallow, and god, if you hadn’t you’d have died of embarrassment by the whimper that tried to leave your throat.
you open your legs for him. pussy lips spread, soaking wet just for him, hole twitching in need of being fucked and clit puffy and sensitive pleading to be touched.
“knew she’d be pretty…” he groans, licking at his lips, hand tightening around his dick. his fingers come to your sticky cheek and gathers ropes of his cum, and before you could inquire him about it, he’s stuffing them into your needy little cunt. “jesus, she’s tight. can’t wait to break her open…” your eyes roll as he sinks them to the knuckle and curls up up up until he hits that spongy spot that makes you sing the prettiest moans late at night when you know he can hear you.
“spencer…!” you whimper, your legs falling further apart, hips twitching for more.
“that’s it. open up for me.” he smirked, pushing a third finger inside that has you choking on a scream, walks tightening down hard around his digits he grunts. “trynna milk me so soon, baby? i haven’t even put it in.”
he fucks you open with harsh strokes, but he’s diligent, he makes sure you’re slicked up and ready, loose enough for his puffy head.
but when he aligns it up with your entrance, his jaw ticks. “it’s gonna be a tight fit. now, say ‘biiiiig stretch’ for me, mh?”
“biiiig—ngh!!!!” you can’t even comply, not when he’s basically splitting you in half. your nails dig on his back as he pants and tries to fit in past the first ring of muscles.
“jesus.fuck.” with a ‘pop!’ his tip presses in, and you two moan in unison. your lungs feel like you’re on fire, and your eyes sting. but fuck if it doesn’t feel good being so full. “good girl…” he praises. and at first you think it’s directed towards you. but no. his thumb sweetly circles your clit and you cry. “taking me so good… you’re doing so good for me… now, open a little bit more for me, hm?”
he’s talking. to your pussy.
but it’s not “little” how much it has to open to accommodate him. every fucking inch is devastating. and by the time his balls hit your ass, his tip —if it could be possible— would have breached your cervix and fucked itself into your womb.
he falls onto you the moment you clench, and groans against your neck. “if only i had known you’d feel this good… i would have fucked you much sooner.” he then looks at your dizzy eyes and faded face. you’re half brain dead on his cock. he can’t help but chuckle. “so this was the fastest way to make you behave and shut up, huh? good to know.” he slaps at your cheek, and you blink, breathing ragged and heavy, his hips grinding deep against your cervix, making you whimper. “don’t you dare tap out on me. i haven’t had my way with you yet.”
and then he’s fucking you. reeeeeally fucking you.
your back arches, your nails draw blood down his back, and your cunt gushes in lewd wet sounds that resonate around his room by how hard and deep he plunges into you.
“fuck. so good… best pussy i’ve ever had. made for me, aren’t you, gorgeous?” he murmurs, and you are so lost… he’s mean. his hands are rough as they grip your hips in a way you know will bruise, and his cock is so harshly fucking you open that you believe he’ll leave the imprint of himself permanently molded to your walls.
you can feel every vein, every ridge.
“spencer, spencer, spencer…!” you cry and he chuckles in between grunts.
“so now it’s ‘spencer’, huh? what happened to ‘reid’? you’re so happy to get dicked down that you’re calling me by my name now?” one of his hands surrounds your neck, and when it tightens… your pussy does as well. “fuck! and here i thought you couldn’t get tighter…”your legs cage him, making your back arch and his dick reach deeper in places no one ever had. “needy little girl… feels good, huh?” you moan, mouth open and he takes the chance to spit on it. and when you quickly and obediently swallow what he gives you? he speeds up. “fucking slut. you love this, don’t you? love the fact that i’m breaking you apart. fuck. you even let me go in raw, bet you’ll even let me breed you if i wanted, huh?” your cunt flutters and his head hangs for a second as a strangled moan leaves him. just for a moment there, he almost lost control and busted. “you want it, honey? want my cum deep into this pretty little womb of yours?” you moan and he lets go of your neck to slap your cheek again, softly, but harsh enough to make your clit twitch. “answer me.”
“yes, yes, plea-“
“not you.” he grunts, going harsher, deeper, faster. “i’m not talking to you. i’m talking to her.” your breath leaves your lungs once two of his fingers meet your puffy clit, rolling it, pinching it. your pussy squelches. and he hums. “yeah? you want it that much?” another squeeeelch!, you’re dripping down to his sheets. “then take it, pretty. it’s all yours.” and you scream, ‘cause the way in which you’re coming when his thick warm ropes of cum fill you is insane. it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. your ears ring, your vision darkens at the corners, your brain seems to melt, and your pussy squirts in little unstopping spurts that soak his cock, balls, sheets… your juices are everywhere, and fuck if it doesn’t make spencer come even harder…
by the time his balls are drained and his hips halt, his cock up to the base inside you to keep you plugged in with his cum, you’re basically passed out, eyes crossed as you try to focus back onto the present. you can’t even remember your name. fuck, you can’t even remember how to breath.
and your legs shake like crazy when in a flip he’s got you on all fours —well not all, since one of his hands has your face smudged against one of his pillows—. “again.” he says, breathless as he pushes in his still hard cock into your abused and stuffed cunt. “show me how you squirt again. i wanna see it again.”
summary: you have to go undercover as your rival’s girlfriend.
relationship: spencer reid x rival!fem!reader
genre: smut - MDNI!
word count: 6.3k
tags: definitely unrealistic undercover proceedings, banter about virginity & sex, idiots in love, dom!spencer, sub!reader, explicit sexual content - MDNI!, kissing, making out, oral (reader receiving), degradation ? (dumbification of reader), edging, thigh fucking, more edging, implication of further intimacy
author’s note: feeding into the post-prison dom!spencer delusions here even though i am a firm sub believer… hope y’all enjoy these freaks
based on requests one & two
If it were up to you, you’d be on an actual date tonight. Unfortunately for you, being a member of the BAU entails surrendering control of your schedule; day in and day out, you’re forced to drop everything at a moment’s notice to pursue a case. While you love your job and being on-call is rarely more than a nuisance, it’s turned into quite the headache tonight, namely because you’re currently undercover with your least favorite teammate.
Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. You don’t actually dislike Spencer Reid—quite the opposite, actually. He’s more of a frenemy than an outright nemesis, and you genuinely find engaging in sharp-tongued banter with him to be quite entertaining.
Your rivalry started practically the minute you joined the BAU; the day you arrived, you had proudly announced that your favorite book was some shitty, slutty romance novel. You had seen the stack of Penguin classics on Spencer’s desk and plucked the arbitrary title from the depths of your mind solely because you knew a fan of real literature would be insulted by your choice. Of course, he had fallen for it. You were one hundred percent bullshitting him, yet he took personal offense to your self-proclaimed favorite. Predictably, he’s been determined to prove his intellectual superiority ever since, and your apparent indifference while he does so grates his nerves to no end. Honestly, you find it hilarious that you’ve been on the team for nearly a year at this point, and he still insists that your “childish preferences are a reflection of your greater incompetence.”
Just the thought of him saying so has you threatening to giggle.
“Here.” Spencer’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You tear your eyes from their absentminded stare as he slaps a tall glass onto the table, a rivulet of clear liquid dribbling over the lip. Your brow furrows as you assess the cup with an unimpressed glare.
“What the hell is this?” you ask as Spencer slides into the booth. He opts to sit on the same side as you, trapping you between him and the wall, sliding the glass closer to you. You lean forward, cautiously sniffing its contents.
“Sprite,” he answers, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, relax.”
“Excuse me,” you retort sharply, lifting the glass to your lips and taking a dainty sip. The soda fizzes pleasantly as you swallow, warmth sliding down your throat. You shoot a sidelong glance at Spencer and murmur, “I wouldn’t put it past you to get me drunk so you can take all the credit when we catch this guy.”
The rest of the team is stationed outside, ready to intervene once the unsub arrives. He’s a sexual sadist who’s been targeting women in the area. More specifically, women he deems guilty of infidelity. It’s an easy enough setup; fawn all over Spencer before approaching the unsub, and you’re sure to piss him off. The most fallible aspect of the plan isn’t even luring the unsub outside; it’s playing a convincing couple. While you find Spencer ridiculously attractive, it’s become second nature at this point to tease him until he’s red in the face—from either embarrassment or blatant irritation.
Spencer snorts. “I don’t need to get you drunk to do that.”
According to Garcia, the unsub is en route to the bar, but won’t arrive for another several minutes. Essentially, this information translates to: you still have a few minutes to go tête à tête without having to monitor your facial expressions. You say pointedly, “So you admit that you’d step on everyone on your way to the top?” You offer Spencer a smug smirk over the lip of your glass.
“Not everyone, just you,” he replies flatly. You huff with amusement, gaping at him with faux indignance.
“Aw, is that any way to talk to the only girlfriend you’ll ever have?” you coo, a disappointed pout downturning your lips.
“Fake girlfriend,” Spencer tersely responds, as if the thought of verifiably dating you horrifies him. A glint of mischief flits in his eyes as he mocks, “Or are you so obsessed with me that you forgot?”
“You’re not my type,” you lie easily. The two of you have fallen into this sort of flirtatious teasing so many times, you’ve almost convinced yourself that you’re telling the truth. Almost.
Spencer sighs dramatically, his lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Well, that’s a relief.”
“Yes, your virginity lives to see another day,” you deadpan. Blinking harshly at him, you add, “Phew.”
Narrowing his eyes, his smile looks downright feline. “At least look like you’re enjoying yourself while you spit unoriginal insults at me.”
“I am enjoying myself,” you boast gleefully. “It’s actually pretty cathartic to—”
“Shut up and get your ass over here,” Spencer whispers, words laced with a frantic yet insistent energy.
“I beg your—” you scoff, but before you can finish vocalizing your thought, he’s grabbing you by the hips and planting you firmly in his lap. Not only are you in his lap—you’re straddling it. Your dress is riding up your thighs, and you’re very thankful that you had the foresight to wear some spandex shorts beneath the skirt. You gape at him, simultaneously shocked and turned on by how easily he’s thrown you over his thighs.
The movement jostled a curl from behind your ear, and Spencer reaches up to tenderly tuck the hair back into place. With one hand cupping the back of your neck and the other gripping your hip, he leans toward you. Your breath hitches, and for a brief moment, you allow yourself to indulge in the delusion that this is real. Spencer angles his lips toward your ear and murmurs, “He’s here. Just do your job.”
His words course through your veins like icy water, effectively cooling the heat in your core. Refusing to let any disappointment show, you plaster on a joyous smile, which isn’t all that much of a challenge when the hottest man you know is smirking at you like you’re the prettiest little thing he’s ever seen.
“Bossy,” you tease through your teeth. Your hands lift to his shoulders, fingers fiddling with the collar of his dress shirt. Just playing the part, you tell yourself. Another plus of those spandex? He can’t tell how wet you’re getting. Weakly, you taunt, “Admit it, you just wanted an excuse to put me in your lap.”
“You are so—”
“Lovely?” you interrupt, injecting as much sweetness into your smile as possible. Spencer squints at you, and you sigh, “Come on. If you’re gonna manhandle me like a caveman, the least you can do is call me pretty or something. I get enough denigration from you on a daily basis.”
Your hands fall to his chest. You try to make the motions appear absentminded, like you’ve touched him a thousand times, but you’re relishing the feeling. On one hand, you’re tempted to look over your shoulder, curious if the unsub is buying your little show, but on the other, you’d like to pretend that it’s just the two of you here.
“You poor thing,” Spencer croons, his hand trailing from the back of your neck to cup your jawline. “Fragile ego?”
You laugh like he’s just referenced some kind of inside joke as opposed to insulting you, exaggerating your amusement for anyone who’s watching. You sigh, meeting his eyes as you answer, “Aw, it’s so cute how you think your words have any power over me.”
“If they don’t, what do you need the praise for?” Spencer quickly retorts.
“Because your job tonight is to be a convincing boyfriend, and right now, you’re not making me wanna date you,” you chide quietly. In a combination of self-indulgence and an attempt to get under Spencer’s skin, you lean closer. With the way Spencer’s thumb has been stroking your cheek, it probably appears to anyone watching that he’s preparing to kiss you. Your eyes flit between his as you tut in mock disappointment, “We might have to break up.”
You don’t miss the strain in his eyes, the way he appears to be refraining from looking at your lips. Then again, he can probably still see them in his periphery. Your own gaze falls to his mouth as the corners of his lips twitch into a small smile. “Are you saying you normally wanna date me?”
“Only in your most unrealistic, most horny dreams, Reid,” you purr, lying straight through your teeth. You sit back in his lap, finding the position quite comfortable. His hand falls away from your face, settling back on your hip.
Spencer rolls his eyes, though there’s a fondness in the motion that only comes from months of familiar bickering. “So charming.” His voice is flat—unimpressed—but there’s a gravely quality to his low tone that has your stomach pitching as if he had sounded even the slightest bit flirtatious.
“I know,” you hum. “Must be why I’m the star of all your fantasies.”
Spencer barks out a laugh at that. The sound is sharp, edged with surprise; almost like you’ve struck a chord, appealed to some truth he’s not yet willing to admit. He huffs, “You seem awfully interested in my fantasies for someone who says I’m not their type.”
“I’m just worried about your health,” you assure him, voice dripping with feigned concern. “All that pent-up sexual frustration cannot be good for you.”
“Neither is being stuck on a case with you,” Spencer quips, though he doesn’t really sound that broken up about it.
“So you admit that you’re sexually—”
“Just go talk to him,” he interrupts, unwilling to concede your point.
“Yes, sir,” you oblige, softly patting his chest before you slide off his lap, heels practically sticking to the dirty bar floor. Before Spencer can offer a witty retort, you amend, “Oh, sorry. I’ll try to keep things vanilla for your sensitive soul.” Blowing him a kiss, you mouth, “Later, loser.”
Spencer looks like he might try to fit in a final word, but he clamps his mouth shut and you look away, focusing on the objective ahead of you.
You’ve just emerged from your hotel suite’s bathroom when a firm knock sounds on your door. Instinctively, your gaze shoots to the clock on the nightstand; its bright red digits confirm your suspicions. It’s late, late enough that there’s no reasonable explanation for someone to be bothering you.
You’re exhausted after this evening’s events. Between the emotional turmoil of being around Spencer—of sitting in his lap, for Christ’s sake—and the stress of closing a case, you’re determined to sleep for at least the next ten hours. It’s no surprise when your voice comes out as a disappointed groan. “Who is it?”
“Open the door and find out, smartass,” Spencer retorts, the amusement in his tone evident even from the other side of the door.
“Tempting, but I think I’ll just keep pricking your voodoo doll,” you quip. You’re debating just flopping into bed and ignoring him; you’re so exhausted, even incessant knocking probably wouldn’t keep you from a heavy slumber, at this point. Yet, that stupid little sliver of your mind—the horny part, that is—wants to see him.
“Funny,” he says flatly.
“Maybe, but the chest pain you’re about to feel isn’t.” You’ve never given much thought to voodoo, but there’s something tantalizing about the thought of stabbing a little needle right through Spencer’s plush heart after his aggravating behavior earlier. You huff to yourself.
“Open the door,” he commands, sounding wholly unimpressed by your witticism.
Relenting with a dramatic sigh, you pad across the drab carpet and unlock your door. As soon as Spencer catches sight of you, his eyes are trailing down your body, seemingly admiring the oversized t-shirt and baggy shorts currently serving as your pajamas. You wouldn’t think that there would be much of interest to admire, but Spencer’s gaze lingers on your bare legs just the same.
“It’s late,” you mutter, pretending for all the world like you’re not also drinking in his appearance. Since you last saw him, he’s changed into loungewear of his own—a worn tee and flannel pants. Clearing your suddenly dry throat, you arch a brow and ask, “Shouldn’t you be jerking off?”
Spencer’s gaze snaps back to your face, and he shoots you a withering glare. “You’re exhausting. Don’t you ever get tired of yourself?”
Not dignifying his snippiness with a response, you taunt, “If you came here to steal some panties, I’d rather you just be honest.” You look over your shoulder, gesturing vaguely to your neatly-packed suitcase, propped in the corner of the room. “See, ‘cause I have this lace pair I really don’t—”
“Shut up. For once, stop talking.” Spencer steps into your room, crowding you against the door as it clicks shut behind you. You tilt your head to look up at him as he murmurs, “You think you’re so smart, huh? You think you have me all figured out?” He pauses, and you’re tempted to cut in with a sharp retort, but then he’s diving back into his rant. “Well, you’re a shittier profiler than you think. All this talk about me being a virgin, all this teasing me about being sexually frustrated—” he jabs a finger into his chest, and then redirects his pointing to you, “—when you’re the one who was about to get yourself off thinking about me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you chide, scrunching your nose in distaste as if the thought has never crossed your mind. You fold your arms across your chest, elbow almost poking him in the process with how close he’s hovering. “Why are you here, Reid?”
“I thought I’d offer you some help,” he says simply, not bothering to be remotely subtle as he ogles your chest, crossed arms pushing your breasts together, even under your loose shirt.
“With what?” you ask, though you’re sure you know what he’s implying. With a mock gasp, you joke, “Oh. Cute. No. I don’t do that kind of charity work.”
Spencer’s eyes drag up the column of your throat, landing back on your face after a tense moment. He shrugs and takes a step back, moving like he’s waiting for you to step away from the door so he can leave. “Suit yourself.”
“You idiot,” you scowl. “You think you can just show up at my door and I’ll drop my pants? You think I’m some kind of slut?”
“No, but I do think you’re desperate,” he replies instantly.
“Wow,” you scoff. “You sure know how to charm a lady.”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong,” Spencer challenges. You roll your eyes at his self-assured tone, leveling him with an annoyed look.
“You’re wrong,” you state, heat creeping up your neck at the realization that it’s more difficult to lie to him than usual.
Perhaps you’re just tired of lying to yourself.
The corners of Spencer’s lips twitch into an irritatingly charming smirk. He croons, “That was a good try, but I said my eyes, not my lips.”
“Fuck you,” you hiss.
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he replies smoothly.
“You’re goddamn annoying,” you complain, uncrossing your arms and grabbing the door handle. Admittedly, your heart’s not completely into the notion of kicking him out, but you’ll do it to avoid him having the upper hand. “How about instead of assuming I’m so obsessed with you, you ask yourself this: why would anyone want to be with someone who’s so abrasive, and haughty, and authoritarian—”
“Because you like when I’m authoritarian,” Spencer confidently interrupts. For a moment, he waits for a response, likely expecting you to counter his statement with a petty argument. When you remain silent, glowering at him—though it’s unclear whether you’re more pissed at him or yourself—he sighs and says, “Fine, you don’t wanna admit it? I can go first. I’ve been crazy about you for a long time. The only reason I put up with your ginormous goddamn attitude is because I can’t stop thinking about kissing you to make you shut up.” Your stomach drops at his confession, a flicker of heat sparking in your abdomen. It’s been obvious that the two of you have been dancing around these feelings for some time now, but to hear him say so has your insides twisting with desire. “You think I’m abrasive? Well, I’m not the one constantly degrading you because I’m too much of a coward to admit that I actually like you.”
Damn. It doesn’t necessarily feel good to be called out so explicitly, but he’s not wrong, per se. You have been a bit of a coward, using humor as a defense mechanism when you’ve been sure that Spencer would reject you if you made your interest overt.
“That’s some grand speech for a hookup,” you mumble, still unwilling to drop your bravado.
“I don’t just want a hookup, but I’ll settle if that’s what you’re into,” Spencer admits. His face is, shockingly, a mask of cool indifference; while it’s usually so easy to fluster him, to get under his skin, he seems perfectly comfortable right now, like he hasn’t just been utterly vulnerable with you. Oh, how the tables have turned.
“Isn’t it kind of backwards to fuck and then go out to dinner?” you question pointedly, quirking a brow.
“I did take you out for drinks earlier,” Spencer responds easily. At this point, you’re still cornered against the door, and you lean against the wood for support. After all, his confession has you slightly winded, and you don’t trust your wobbly legs to keep you upright all on their own.
“For a job,” you argue.
“Semantics,” he says dismissively.
“I knew you liked me,” you answer, speaking more to yourself than to him.
“And I knew you were massively overcompensating with all your teasing,” he replies, his unimpressed expression morphing into that familiar, smug countenance.
“Teasing?” you repeat, brow furrowing as you innocently pout. “I’m not a tease.”
Spencer takes a step closer once more, towering over you. He huffs with amusement, and his breath puffs across your face. Cracking an amused smile, he goads, “Prove it.”
You cock your head. “Aren’t you gonna make me, Spence?”
The bright grin drops off his face as he solemnly responds, “Only if you call me ‘sir’ again.”
Your heart stutters. You have half a mind to laugh, to write off what he’s just said as sarcasm, but something in his dark eyes gives you pause. “Oh,” you gasp, “are you serious?”
He breaks character, devolving into a low chuckle. “Fuck no.”
Without further ado, his hands are cupping your jaw, and he’s tilting your face toward his. Your arms have been hanging limply at your sides since you uncrossed them, but they instinctively loop over his shoulders as he pulls you into a deep kiss. His movements are fiery and tender all at once, like he’s been fantasizing about this moment for far too long, but doesn’t want to rush things. His lips insistently press against yours, mouth moving in an expert rhythm.
His fingers trail your throat, falling to the nape of your neck as he pulls you impossibly closer. His thumbs are pressed against your pulse point, and you’re vaguely aware that he knows how rapidly your heart is racing—how affected you are by his touch. The thought should embarrass you, but you’re too delighted by the feel of his body molding to the contours of your own to think twice about it.
While he had initially inched you closer to him, he’s now backing you against the door, seeking leverage as he continues to ravish you. Before you hit the wood, one of his hands tangles in your hair, simultaneously protecting your head from a blow while he holds you in place. The duality of his intentions—the combined need to protect you and consume you—doesn’t go unnoticed as you continue to reciprocate his kiss.
Eventually, Spencer’s lips part from yours, and a breathy sigh escapes your lips before you can contain it. As he works to catch his own breath, he mutters, “You know, there’s something you said earlier that I can’t stop thinking about.”
“I know, I’m hilarious,” you smirk, somehow able to feign confidence while your head is spinning, dizzy with the thought of surrendering control to him. “What in particular amused you?”
“How wrong you are about me,” he answers, busying himself with peppering kisses across your jaw and down your neck. Between pecks, he clarifies, “How you think I’m… vanilla?”
“You didn’t come here to ask me to join some sort of BDSM cult, did you?” you attempt to tease, but your voice comes out breathy and very blatantly aroused.
“No, nothing like that,” he replies, huffing against your throat. Lifting his head to shoot you an amused glance, he teases, “Why? Would that interest you?”
“That’s a good question,” you shamelessly admit, unable to deny your fascination with the idea.
“Huh,” Spencer hums, ducking his head again to continue laving at the junction of your neck and shoulder. He starts to lightly suck at the sensitive skin, and the pleasurable sting is enough to make you gasp, your grip tightening on his shoulders.
“Is Twenty Questions your idea of foreplay or something?” you joke half-heartedly, cheeks burning as your arousal builds. With a mildly embarrassing whine in your tone, you complain, “I thought you said you wanted to help.”
“Oh, I do,” Spencer promises, lifting his head to assess you through half-lidded eyes. “I was just curious.” His gaze falls to your shirt, the material practically swallowing you. He drags a finger across the embroidery right above your sternum, smiling delightedly to himself. “This is cute.”
“I feel like you’re stalling. Trying to prepare a good line, are we?” you taunt, though your chest is rapidly rising and falling beneath his touch. You’re not fooling anyone, and you know it, but you’re stubborn as all hell.
“Not at all,” Spencer denies with a minute shake of his head. His curls flop around, and you’re struck with an overwhelming temptation to run a hand through them. At the rate things are going, though, you’re guessing you have a good chance of doing so by the time the night’s over. “It looks good on you. Of course, it would look better on the floor, though.”
“There it is,” you say flatly, pretending like his words don’t have you wanting to strip naked right then and there. Spencer hums knowingly, stepping away from you. Immediately, you crave his proximity, missing the warmth of his body against yours.
He nods over his shoulder, gesturing to your bed. “Go sit down.”
Your mind fumbles to produce a witty response. You should tell him not to boss you around, that you won’t listen to any man, that he can go to hell, but…
Your feet carry you across the room, and you’re plopping down on the edge of the bed. You watch him expectantly; he hovers by the door for a mere second before following you, stopping right in front of you. Your knees are tightly pressed together, and your hands are clasped in your lap as you look up at him. The air feels dense with tension. Despite having already kissed him, you want so much more, that the desire threatens to suffocate you.
“I don’t want to fuck you,” Spencer murmurs, and you practically hear a record scratch echo through the room. Your immense disappointment must show on your face, because he quickly amends, “I don’t want to fuck you tonight. But I do want to make you feel good.”
One of his hands falls to your knee, gently coaxing your legs apart. He steps closer, slotting himself between your legs. You swallow thickly as you silently watch him, as his slender fingers drag up your barely-covered thighs and begin fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
“I’m gonna take this off now,” he declares in a low voice. Despite his commanding tone, his brows lift in a concerned expression, seeking your agreement. “Okay?”
Your heart lurches at the realization that you’re about to be half-naked in front of him, yet the thought is exceedingly exhilarating. You feel kind of pathetic for bowing to his whims so easily, but his promise has you slowly nodding your consent.
He lifts your shirt, slowly revealing your bare skin. You’re so absurdly turned on by this entire ordeal that even the tiniest shift of fabric against your chest has your nipples hardening. Naturally, Spencer’s gaze flits to your breasts, his pupils blowing wide at the sight.
Then, he kneels between your legs, his hands settling on your waist. More specifically, the waistband of your shorts. You sit back on the heels of your palms, lifting your hips for him before he even has to ask—or tell. While he had removed your shirt with a languid fluidity, he wastes no time tugging both your shorts and your underwear down your legs.
Your cheeks flush with heat once you’re bare before him. He takes a generous moment to stare at your glistening folds before dragging his attention back to your face. Seeing your evident embarrassment, he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of one thigh. The sensitive skin prickles under his touch.
His strong hands grip your hips, digging into the flesh as he guides you closer to the edge of the mattress. Once he’s satisfied with your position, he returns his focus back to the junction of your thighs.
He inches closer, nipping at the skin just beside your core. You jump at the sensation, but quickly relax as he soothes the spot with his tongue. He seems like he’s debating teasing you further, but he takes one look at your glistening folds, and he’s lapping at your arousal, dragging his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one smooth motion. You jolt, a hand instinctively clutching his hair for leverage as he starts to devour you.
His tongue swirls your clit, a light stimulation that sends electricity coursing through your abdomen. As a pleasured sigh escapes you, Spencer encircles your clit with his mouth, sucking on the sensitive bud.
His hands, which had been resting on your hips, keeping your legs spread for him, start to wander. One hand travels up your waist, cupping your tit and squeezing gently. You think you may come just from his ministrations thus far, but then his other hand snakes between your legs, and your heart skips a beat.
Collecting your arousal on his fingers, he prods at your entrance. It doesn’t take much effort to slip one digit into your sopping pussy; it quickly sinks inside of you, and you moan at the drag of his finger inside of you. He hums his approval against your clit, and the vibration only furthers your pleasure.
He crooks his finger against a spongy spot deep within you at the same time as his other hand toys with your nipple, the pinch going straight to your core. You feel yourself growing wetter around Spencer’s finger, and he must notice, too, because he carefully inches another one inside of you. While his fingers are slim, they’re still thicker than yours, and there’s a dull ache as he stretches you open. You try not to think about how many times he must have done this with other women in order to know just how long to give you to adjust to the feeling. After a short time, he crooks his fingers and begins pumping them in and out of your pussy, hand moving in time with his mouth.
You mewl, a pathetic little whimper that has him huffing against your core. You would be indignant at his response if you weren’t so fucking lost in arousal right now. Your thighs begin to tremble as he continues to lick and suck and fuck you open; his hand that had been fondling your breast moves to grip your thigh, holding you in place.
You moan, your breaths devolving into shaky little pants. You’re helplessly gasping and whining as Spencer expertly works you toward your climax.
“Spence, fuck—” you cry, stomach tightening as you race toward release. He’s unrelenting, mouth practically attached to your pussy.
Like a taut rubber band, the pressure in your core threatens to snap. You’re so close that tears are starting to burn in your eyes as you approach that intense pleasure. Your body tingles with the anticipation of it, but right when you feel yourself creeping over the edge, Spencer pulls back.
Cool air hits your core like a bucket of water dousing an inferno. Your hazy eyes snap to his as he retracts his fingers from inside of you.
“N-no,” you whine, voice no more than a breath.
He sits back on his heels before rising from the floor, looking down at you with a devious glint in his eyes. Your mind runs through a list of the most insulting expletives you can conjure, and you’re about to unleash a snappy complaint when you stop yourself.
As promised, he had made you feel good—better than good. Fucking incredible. You’ll be damned if you ruin this for yourself by telling him off. You can handle a little bit of edging. It’s not ideal, but you can play this game how he clearly wants you to.
“P-please,” you beg.
“Aw, you sound so sweet,” Spencer coos, settling onto the mattress. You glower at his mocking tone, but your face is bright red with a combination of arousal and… something at his demeaning statement. He cracks a cheeky grin, tapping the tip of your nose as he says, “Don’t be embarrassed, baby. Please what?”
You grit your teeth, admitting, “I want… more.”
“Yeah?” he asks. Surely, he’s just feeling cocky and wants to hear once more how badly you want him. Asshole.
“Mhm,” you nod weakly.
Spencer leans toward you, brushing a sweaty strand of hair away from your ear as he murmurs, “Then stand up for me.”
Your brow furrows in confusion at his command. You’re not sure what to expect next, but you’re far too invested in the situation to refuse. You oblige, shakily rising from your seat and angling your body toward him, awaiting further instruction.
Spencer pats his clothed thigh and purrs, “Sit right here.”
You blink harshly, wondering what sort of gratification he would possibly get from you doing so. You’re positively soaked, and you would only ruin his pants. You try to vocalize this thought, yet all that comes out is a soft, “But…”
“What? You don’t wanna make a mess?” he croons, clearly reveling in your suddenly shy demeanor. You jerkily shake your head, but your gaze darts to his lap, to his spread legs. He waits until your focus returns to his face before asking, “Even if I want you to?”
You consider this for a moment. It would be super hot. “Well…”
“Oh, come on,” he coaxes. “Be good.”
You had told him earlier tonight that you didn’t like constantly being teased by him, but there’s something so attractive about his mock praise in this context that has you wanting to do whatever he asks. So, after a minuscule internal debate, you step toward him, sinking onto his thigh. His hands immediately fall to your hips, holding you in place as you straddle his leg.
He’s gotten you so damn worked up that the mere feeling of his flannel pants pressing against your clit has you holding back a shiver. You’re desperate for friction, but you’re well aware that doing this means that things will change between you—more than they already have, that is—and that you can never go back.
“Atta girl,” Spencer praises, thumbs brushing against your bare hips. His fingers are dangerously close to kneading your ass, and you would almost prefer if he would start guiding your movements. Yet, he’s looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to make a move. “What?”
“‘S embarrassing,” you complain in a small whisper, unable to stop a dismayed pout from crossing your face. He grins in response, clearly enjoying finally having reduced you from a confident brat to a submissive little lamb.
“Aw, don’t be embarrassed,” he tuts. “You wanna come, don’t you?”
“Mhm,” you hum reluctantly.
“Pretty girl, all you have to do is roll your hips,” he says, patting them in encouragement. As desperate as you are to feel some release, there’s something vaguely humiliating about getting yourself off in front of him. Your embarrassment is only heightened when he teasingly instructs, “C’mon, put on a little show for me.”
You scowl at him, narrowing your eyes at the humorous lilt in his voice. To spite him—or perhaps to tease yourself—you shift forward slightly, dragging your core along his thigh. You had meant the motion to be a stubborn display, to appear like you’re not as helplessly interested in him as you are, but the friction is delicious, and the tension in your body starts to melt away.
“That’s it. Just like that,” Spencer murmurs, gripping your hips tighter as you resign yourself to grinding against his leg. “That feel good?”
“Mhm,” you confirm, quickly losing yourself in the sensation of rocking against him. Once more, your clit catches on the fabric of his pants, and you bite your lip to suppress a satisfied groan.
“You’re so cute, getting all worked up like this,” he praises, and his words resonate deep in your stomach, adding to the building tension there.
He had brought you so close to orgasm moments ago that it’s not long at all before you’re rutting in his lap with fervor, abdomen tightly coiled with your impending climax. Once more, little whimpers and moans tumble from your lips, and their increased volume indicates that you’re close to coming.
“Stop,” Spencer commands, his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you in place. He’s not gripping you tight enough to truly prevent you from continuing to grind on him, but that submissive part of your brain obediently freezes.
“No, Spence, please—” you whine.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he promises, lifting one hand to card his fingers through your damp hair. He meets your gaze with dark, lust-filled eyes. “Just for a second, alright?”
“Mm, wanna…” you whimper.
“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, smoothing your tousled hair.
“Please, can I…?” you plead.
“You gonna make yourself come all over my thigh?” he asks, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. You hang your head, panting at the sight of his clothed erection just inches away from the mess you’ve made on his thigh.
“Mhm,” you hum.
“Go ahead,” he permits, loosening his hold on your hips just enough so that you can move freely again.
“Thank you…” you breathe, instantly returning to your desperate pace. As you continue to rut against him, dragging your pussy along his thigh, he grips your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, and you can taste your arousal on his lips.
You’re so worked up, you think you may sob as your orgasm begins to wash over you in an all-consuming wave. You unseal your lips from his, huffing against his mouth, “God, ‘m gonna… ah….”
“I got you,” he assures you. “Go ahead, baby.”
“Mm… ah…” you moan, riding his thigh for all you’re worth. Mercifully, you finally come, and the sensation causes your vision to dance with dark spots and your body to erupt in a pleasant tingle. You yelp, biting your lip to hold back a scream. All of Spencer’s teasing has only ensured that when you finally reach the precipice, you have the most intense orgasm of your life.
Your hips still to a halt as you tremble on top of him. You’re left feeling absolutely boneless, a satisfying warmth blooming in your abdomen. As you puff and gasp for air, Spencer peppers your face with tender kisses.
“So good,” he murmurs. “You’re so good.”
For a moment, you allow yourself to be the recipient of his unadulterated affection. Once the initial wave of bliss passes, however, the reality of the situation comes crashing down on you, and you bury your face in your hands.
“Oh God,” you groan. “Oh my God, that was so embarrassing.”
“If by ‘embarrassing’, you mean ridiculously fucking hot,” Spencer quips. When a moment passes and you still haven’t met his eyes, he starts pressing a kiss to each knuckle on your fingers. His gentle touch is enough to have you lowering your hands and glancing at him with a worried look.
“There was one thing you were right about earlier, by the way,” he notes.
“Yeah?” you ask nervously. “What’s that?”
“This is like my horny dreams,” he replies lightheartedly, though his expression suggests that he is anything but joking.
You huff, smiling sheepishly as you mutter, “Fuck off.”
“What?” he squawks, slapping a hand to his chest in an offended gesture. “I mean, sure, I can go handle this myself, but I’d much rather stay.” His gaze falls to the tent in his pants, and then he looks up at you through his lashes, a hopeful sparkle in his eyes.
“You’re not invited,” you decree, clambering off his lap and standing up.
“Aw. Shame,” he tuts, clearly unconvinced. Then, seeking clarification, he meekly asks, “Really?”
Echoing his words from earlier, you declare, “Fuck no,” before mimicking his actions and moving to kneel before him.
The two of you have quite the night ahead of you, but you’re going to make the most of it. After all, it’s been a long time coming.
For the blurb thingy: him fucking you into overstimulation and you weakly try to push him off but you can't so he just guides you to hold onto your plushie while he keeps fucking into you...<3
s. r. blurb 9
contents: afab!reader, dom!Spencer, penetrative sex, overstimulation, mentions of a safe word but not used, corruption of a plushie, MDNI
You aren't sure where Spencer gets his stamina in bed.
You love him, really you do, in all his lanky, nerdy glory, but Spencer Reid can barely run up two flights of stairs without losing his breath. He cannot run like a normal person while holding his gun, often leaning on one side as if the gun weighs more than it actually does and is dragging him down.
Yet somehow, without fail, he manages to last multiple rounds of sex
At first, you assumed he's trying to compensate for something. He reaches his climax quite quickly—Being buried inside you seems to set every nerve in his body on gasoline, white hot flames licking just under his skin and erupting without warning. You both cry out, his in pleasure, and you out of surprise, your head thrown back as he spills deep inside your cunt. He pushes through the orgasm, taking advantage of the slick that’s gathered inside your walls to fuck you even harder.
You thought he’s just being thorough. He wants you to climax as well, after all, he’s simply being a thoughtful lover.
All delusions of that fly out the window by the time you come down from your high for the second time in a row, and he’s still going. Fingers at your clit, alternating between infinite circles and playful pinching, he fucks you hard and deep even as your vision swims and you’re barely coherent.
The sheets are ruined beneath you, your slick dripping down your ass and thighs and soaking the bed. His cock is slick, a ring of creamy white gathered and coating the base, evidence of your release that’s mixed and dripped out from your swollen, sensitive folds.
For someone who’s so adamant about exchanging germs and bacteria, Spencer Reid can be awfully filthy in bed. It’s overwhelming. Dizzyingly so. But something about your hazy, dreamy state only fuels him during nights like these, so he slows down, deliberately keeping himself on edge as he cups your breasts in his big hands, catching your nipples between his long fingers.
Your hands lift up, sluggishly pushing his forearms away, and he pauses.
“Too much?” he rubs his palms over your chest, before they skate down your back, easing his rhythm to something more gentle and tender, “Need your safe word?”
You mumble something incoherent, eyes closing as his cock slides out. Your cunt tightens around him greedily, because despite everything, you relish this just as much as he does. The mind numbing sensitivity is simply too euphoric to ignore, the way you can feel your cunt ease up or squeeze around him is downright addictive, and even the loud, sinful sounds of wet skin slapping hard into each other is music to your ears. You love that his strength and stamina seems reserved specifically for you and your intimate nights, that he has something of a reservoir of physicality that he keeps hidden away from people.
You whimper again, twisting to the side.
“Darling? Talk to me.” he croons, laying his body over yours. His weight presses you into the mattress, cock sitting heavily inside your walls. It helps ground you enough to extract an answer.
“I’m fine. I’m fine, keep going.”
“You sure?” he kisses your jaw, tongue licking up to your ear, hot and wet and filthy, “We can always stop.”
You clench around his cock in response.
A breathless laugh. He lifts himself on one elbow, his other arm reaching for the closest fluffy thing he could find, which happens to be a large penguin plushie. “Here, hold onto Mr. Butters for me, love.”
You moan, one arm holding the toy to your chest, the other grasping his hand desperately, “We’re corrupting Mr. Butters.” you whimper as he begins to move again, pulling out of your delicious heat before snapping back inside.
“Not the first time we’ve done so, unfortunately.” he chuckles, finding a steady rhythm, “You still with me?”
“Mhm hmm,” you nod, gasping as he lifts your hips for a better angle. You swear you feel him in your stomach like this, reaching spaces so deep, spaces only he’s able to feel.
“That’s it,” he groans, roughly thrusting into you, “Good girl. Just hold onto Mr. Butters.”
So you do. Poor Mr. Butters, with you through thick and thin, bearing witness to your childhood fears and teenage folly, and now, your very adult activities.
summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?
cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius
tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat
a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff
also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks
slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack
title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift
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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.
From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.
And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.
He was also really, really, really hot.
It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.
But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?
He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.
You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”
And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.
It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.
With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.
So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.
All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.
And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.
It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.
Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.
—
The case is going terribly.
What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.
And now she won’t stop calling.
Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.
“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“
“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“
“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”
A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“
“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”
You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.
Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.
The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.
Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.
You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.
So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.
Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.
“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”
“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”
He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.
“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“
“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”
“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.
“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”
You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”
Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.
“You don’t want to see her.”
He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.
It is a fact.
“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”
You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”
He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”
“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”
“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”
“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”
He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”
You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.
“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”
You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”
His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.
And then it’s gone.
“Of course.”
—
For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.
You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.
Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.
All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.
It’s a win because you saved the evidence.
It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.
Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.
Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.
The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.
“Hotch, I’m sorry—“
He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.
“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”
“I just thought—“
“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”
You frown. “I do follow your orders.”
He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”
That… doesn’t make any sense.
Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”
“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”
Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”
You blink. “Oh.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”
You shake your head, your world turned on its head.
He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“And agent?”
You look up.
“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”
He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.
So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.
So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?
You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.
“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”
It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.
“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”
He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.
Oh shit.
“Sorry, what?”
His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”
You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”
“About?”
See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.
You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”
He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”
You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”
He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”
The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”
“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”
“To help people.”
“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”
“Do I even have to answer that?”
He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”
Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”
He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”
The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”
He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.
A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.
It should concern you, unnerve you.
It doesn’t.
“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”
You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.
“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”
“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”
“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”
“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”
“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”
You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.
But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.
“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”
“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”
You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”
He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”
That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.
You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.
—
You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.
“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”
You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”
Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”
You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.
You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.
You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.
“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”
“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”
“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”
To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.
“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”
“But I’m still coughing.”
“Have you given it any time to work?”
“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”
He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”
You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”
“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”
“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”
“You never joke.” JJ says.
“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.
You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”
“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“
Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”
JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”
Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”
“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”
“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“
“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”
“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”
“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”
JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”
You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”
“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”
“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”
“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”
“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”
Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.
Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.
“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”
You frown. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“
“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“
“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”
You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”
He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”
You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”
He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”
The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.
The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.
The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.
“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“
“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”
“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”
He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”
You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”
“Drink it anyway.”
You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.
You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.
With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.
“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”
Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.
“Ah, there she is.”
“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”
“Cold medicine must be working.”
There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—
You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”
“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”
Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—
“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”
You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.
You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”
“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”
“We’re both profilers.”
“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”
“I do not!”
You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.
A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”
If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.
“Who said anything about dragging?”
“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“
“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”
“They keep staring at me.”
“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”
You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”
You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”
Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.
Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?
Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.
You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.
Just for a few minutes.
—
“She out?”
“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”
A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”
A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”
A beat passes.
“You got her?”
“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”
—
When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.
Oh god you fell asleep on the table.
You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—
Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.
Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.
You slept the entire day away.
Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“
The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.
You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.
“Hotch?”
“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”
You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”
He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”
“He bet against me?”
“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”
“How long did you bet for?”
He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”
You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”
“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”
You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.
“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.
You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.
You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)
“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”
He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”
“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“
He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”
“No. Keep it.”
“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.
“I’d be fine with that.”
What. The. Fuck.
You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”
You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.
Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—
No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.
Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.
This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.
You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.
You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.
—
The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.
You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.
Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”
“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.
“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.
You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.
You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”
He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”
“This isn’t your seat.”
“We don’t have assigned seats.”
“No, but you always sit over there.”
“And now I’m sitting here.”
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.
You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”
“Is that even a thing?”
You shrug, eyes falling shut again.
After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.
He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.
The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.
—
“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”
“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”
“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”
“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”
“Ah, the joys of youth.”
A beat passes. Then another.
“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”
“Emily don’t start—“
“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”
“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”
“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”
“…No.”
Silence.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”
—
Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.
When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
He nods. “In my office.”
You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.
He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.
“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”
He blinks. “For?”
“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”
Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.
He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.
“Do you know why I chose you?”
“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”
“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”
He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.
Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.
“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”
You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”
He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”
He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”
You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”
“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”
Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.
A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.
“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”
You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”
“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”
“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”
“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”
It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.
“You should go home.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”
“Maybe I am.”
“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”
You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”
“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”
You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.
Stupid genius co-workers.
—
The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.
Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.
Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”
He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.
“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”
“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.
You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.
Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.
The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.
You leave the mug there.
You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.
You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.
You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.
You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”
Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”
Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.
“But… the paperwork.”
“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”
You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.
He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.
“It’s cold.”
“That does tend to happen in winter.”
When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.
“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”
“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”
“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”
“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”
“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.
“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”
“How about Spencer?”
His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.
“…What rhymes with Spencer?”
“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“
“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”
“You know dis comes from—“
“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”
He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”
“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”
He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”
You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.
Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”
You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.
Smooth.
—
The next case is… really rough.
Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.
Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.
No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:
“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”
The son was killed before anyone could intervene.
Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.
A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.
Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.
You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“
“Are you okay?”
You blink. “What?”
“Are you alright?” He asks again.
“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”
Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.
“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”
You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.
You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.
You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.
If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.
You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.
You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.
Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.
Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.
You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.
The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.
You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—
“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”
“I’m fi—“
“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”
Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”
“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”
He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.
You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.
Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.
A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.
“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“
“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”
You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.
“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“
“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”
He says the last part a little desperate.
You sniff. “Okay.”
You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.
“Let’s go home.”
He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.
He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.
He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.
It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.
He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”
You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”
“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”
You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“
“Please let me do this for you.”
The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.
He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.
“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”
“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”
The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.
You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.
You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.
When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.
You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”
“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”
He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!
You really do tear up then.
He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“
You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”
His face softens. “Oh, honey.”
He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.
Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.
After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.
He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”
You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”
“That’s why we invented washing machines.”
He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.
Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.
When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.
“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”
He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.
He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”
You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”
He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.
The muscles in his jaw work.
“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“
You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.
He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.
You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”
He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”
“Crying and sad?”
“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”
You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“
“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”
“Just?”
“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”
He presses a kiss to your forehead.
“And this,”
He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.
“But mostly this.”
He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.
“Really?”
“Really.”
It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.
“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”
“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”
“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”
You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:
“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”
He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.
You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:
“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”
જ⁀➴
EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)
EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)
in which you and Spencer try something new in bed, with a hands off approach (for you, at least)
margotober
who? spencer reid x fem!reader
category: smut (18+ mdni)
content warnings: super very much established relationship, explicit consent, bondage (w/ rope), sensory deprivation, softdom!spencer, sub!reader, there is a clear safe word, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v sex, praise kink, lowkey voice kink, aftercare
word count: 3.77k
a/n: writing the content warnings for smut is always a humbling experience. anyways, welcome to kinktober.
“You’re too tense,” Spencer murmurs against your neck, continuing to leave wet, open-mouthed kisses along your bare skin.
You part your lips as he sucks gently just below your collarbone, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough for your brain to go fuzzy. “Am not,” you counter, leaning your head to the side in an attempt to give him a broader surface area.
He hums against your skin, sending vibrations through the entirety of your body as he leaves one more kiss before pulling away to look at you. You were propped up in his lap as if you were on display—but only for him. “You know the rules,” he says, a light warning in his voice telling you that your plans might change.
Nodding, you hold your hand up to list off the big three, “Open communication, deep breathing, and trust in your partner.”
“Do you trust me?” He asks, reaching his hand up and sweeping some of your hair behind your shoulder, keeping his other hand stable on your waist.
Realistically, you wouldn’t have asked him to do this with you if you didn’t trust him. “Yes,” the answer comes easily to you as anticipation thrums through your body.
Spencer squeezes your waist reassuringly, using the pressure to garner more of your attention, “Your heart is racing. Take a deep breath for me, angel,” he instructs.
You’d approached him two weeks ago and asked if he would be willing to tie you up. You knew he liked to be the one in control, you knew he liked to show you new things, but you hadn’t anticipated him being so willing. Taking a deep breath, you seek his reassurance, “Will you walk me through it again?”
He hums in confirmation, gently sliding you off of his lap, he uses his hands to guide you to the mattress. There’s no force in his actions, barely touching you with his fingertips until your head hits the pillow. Tentatively, he takes both of your hands in his before crossing your wrists over one another and bringing them above your head, using one hand to secure your wrists while dragging the other down your side, “Once you’re ready, I’ll bring your hands up here, and I’ll tie your wrists together.”
Spencer previously explained that he wouldn’t use handcuffs on you, citing it as a personal boundary that he wouldn’t cross. He had given you a few binding options, and you chose a lavender rope. It was soft enough to avoid irritating your skin but had enough grip that a knot wouldn’t come undone the moment you tugged on the restraints. You take another deep breath.
“It won’t be too tight,” he continues, “but it’ll be enough to severely limit your range of motion.” Spencer releases his grip on your wrists but maintains his position hovering above you. “At its core, bondage is sensory deprivation. I’m taking away your sense of touch.”
You nod, confirming your understanding as you lift your hands, placing them on either one of his shoulders, “I’m giving it up to you.”
He smiles softly down at you, obviously pleased with the level of trust you’re displaying toward him. “Your heart is still racing,” he observes quietly, leaning down and kissing both of your cheeks.
Raising your eyebrows, your face warms at his observation, “I’m horny, of course my heart is racing.”
“C’mere,” he hums, dragging you back into his lap and holding your face in his hands, “What’s our safe word?”
Settling your knees on either side of his hips, you return your hands to their previous station, “Cactus.” The remarkably unoriginal word was inspired by the plant that was currently resting on your coffee table.
Spencer moves his hands, skimming his palms up and down your bare arms, “What happens if you use the safe word?”
“Full stop,” you answer dutifully, “You stop everything, and the rope gets cut.” Despite its pretty color, Spencer told you not to get attached to the binding – he’d hold no issue with grabbing the shears from your bedside table.
“What happens if I use the safe word?” His intent was for the question to be a challenge, but you know his boundaries as well as you know your own.
Shifting on his lap, you easily recall the discussion from last night, “Full stop. If you can’t release me, I can try to undo the knot on my own.”
He nods in silent confirmation before hooking his finger beneath your chin, getting you to make eye contact with him, “Are you going to try to undo the knot on your own otherwise?”
“No,” you breathe. It was for your own safety more than anything else—if you were to try to undo the knot on your own, you’d risk hurting yourself, but to Spencer, it was a trust thing. If you want him to untie you all you need to do is ask.
Dropping his hands, Spencer slips them beneath the cotton of your t-shirt, skimming his palms over your bare torso and leaving goosebumps in their wake, “Good girl.”
Your breathing hitches at his praise, unable to decide if you want to focus on his words or the way his hands are slowly making their way toward the band of your bra. Tentatively, you poke your head forward to kiss him, wanting to make sure you’re both moving at the same pace.
While you have a slight height advantage from your perch on his lap, he tips his head back so that your lips can connect, satisfying an itch that you were desperate to scratch. Spencer’s lips were always soft in a way that was unfair to the rest of the world population. You consider yourself lucky that you have them at your disposal, working against your own as he slips a hand beneath the fabric of your bra.
When your lips part at the sensation of him gently palming your breast, Spencer wastes no time in deepening the kiss, maintaining control even from his place beneath you. You whimper slightly as he pulls away, moving his hands to tug your t-shirt over your head before fiddling with the clasp of your bra.
You watch as a switch flips in his brain, pupils dilating with lust as he studies the vision of you in front of him. It didn’t matter that you’d been naked in front of him hundreds of times by now, Spencer always made you feel just as special as the first time.
Spencer reaches his hand to the side of your neck, letting his forearm rest on the slope of your breast as he takes you in, “You’re so pretty,” he coos, “My pretty girl.”
Sighing as a direct result of his words, you thumb the hem of his t-shirt, signaling to him that you want to level out the playing field before it becomes rigged in his favor. Silently, he complies, lifting his arms above his head so you can toss the fabric next to yours on the floor.
You lean forward, taking pleasure in the way your skin sits against his, the push of your breasts on his chest. Ignoring the slight tremble in your hands, you run your palms over his chest, admiring the dips and curves of his torso—taking in every part of him before he binds your arms over your head. “It’s alright to be a little nervous,” he assures you, dropping a soft kiss to your bare shoulder.
Swallowing thickly, a thought crosses your mind, “I can… Can I use my mouth on you?”
“No,” he answers almost instantly, “It’s not about me today. It’s about you.”
His response surprises you, “I just want to make sure you feel good too. If I can’t use my hands to touch you, then I want to make sure you find this uh…” you search for the right word, “Fulfilling?”
Spencer chuckles lightly, the vibrations from his chest emanating through your body like an electric current, “Trust me, I’ll find this plenty fulfilling.”
Chewing on your bottom lip, you wonder if he’ll catch onto your hesitation—your desperation to be able to reciprocate your impending pleasure, but his double entendre doesn’t go over your head.
“Baby,” the softness of the pet name relaxes your shoulders, “Do you think I don’t find pleasure in sex with you?”
You shrug helplessly, “I just know you like it when I touch you.” Your hands in his hair. Shallow scratches along his shoulder blades.
Holding your chin between his index and his thumb, he guides your eyes to meet his own, “I’m going to fuck you, and while your arms are bound above your head, I’ll get a full look at the way you writhe beneath me.”
Butterflies swarm in your lower belly at his words, you have to hold back from panting in his lap.
“Fucking you is my pleasure,” he tells you, holding your face in place. “Watching you squirm below me,” he trails a finger from his free hand down your torso before letting it rest on the waistband of your shorts. “The way your cunt clenches around my cock and flutters after you come around me,” his voice deepens with want.
A pathetic moan escapes your lips at his words, causing you to clasp a hand over your mouth.
Spencer snatches your hand away, “Don’t do that. I want to hear all of the pretty little noises you make. I want you to tell me if you want me deeper or slower. I want to hear you.”
Nodding quickly, you feel more and more of your composure slip away as the damp sensation in your underwear grows. “Okay,” you breathe, keeping your eyes on his as you slide off of his lap.
He stands up, making quick work of his sweatpants before propping himself back up on the bed. Of your own volition, you lean back, letting your legs fall open as he climbs over you. You keep your eyes on him, minding the way his body moves above you, the way his cock peeks out from the waistband of his boxers.
From the moment his lips reach yours again, you know you’re a goner. Lifting your head from the pillows in order to tug at his bottom lip with your teeth, you savor the way he groans into your mouth.
In response, Spencer takes both of your hands, intertwining his fingers with yours one at a time and pinning them at either side of your head. He settles his hips in between yours, adding a torturous pressure at your core.
Slowly, your hips grind up into him, it’s a mainly reactive response—your body needs the friction, the relief. Ending your kiss, a low whine bubbles in your throat, “Do you think you’re ready?”
With your hands already pinned to the bed, you let your head bob in confirmation, “Yes.”
Your eyes follow his movements as he kneels between your legs, grabbing the rope from your nightstand before taking your wrists and crossing them one over the other. “It’s soft,” you observe about the material, you’d never actually put it on your wrists before, only touching it in the store with your fingertips.
“That’s why we picked this one,” Spencer reminds you; he had been the one to encourage a softer material, wanting to protect your skin from a rough, fibrous rope. “Tug on it,” he says, leaning back and inspecting the knot.
Tugging on your binds, all you’re capable of doing is pulling your body higher on the bed, and you yelp when Spencer grips your hips and pulls you back down to him. “It works,” you squeak, suddenly conscious of how you’re splayed out for him.
He hums lowly, the soft, sensual sound causing your hips to buck, “Good,” he murmurs, “Take a deep breath for me.”
You comply, blowing air out of your nostrils as he rests his head in the crook of your neck, leaving timid kisses down the column of your throat, an exorbitantly shy action for someone who had bound you to the bed.
His head continues to make its way down your body, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses across your breasts, “You’re too tense,” he tells you, an echo of himself.
Mindfully, you take a deep breath, sinking your body into the mattress and looking down at him, the saliva on your chest shining in the lamplight—he was going to be the death of you. “I don’t know what to do with myself,” you whispered.
“You don’t have to do anything, baby,” he reminds you gently, “Let go. Let yourself feel it.” His thumb gently rubs circles over your hip bone, bunching up the fabric of your shorts beneath his fingerprints.
You look down at him, lying down between your legs, resting his cheek on the inside of your thigh. The lovelorn look in his eyes causes your chest to tighten, and you gasp at the sensation, your face warming as you remind yourself that he hasn’t even touched you yet.
Spencer hooks his fingers on the elastic of both your shorts and your underwear, pulling any remaining fabric off of your body with a deftness that threatens to take your breath away. “You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, nearly licking his lips at the sight of your wetness. “My pretty, pretty girl,” he continues, pressing tender kisses up your thigh, inching closer and closer to your core.
Peeling your eyes away, you can’t bear to watch the way he peers at you through his eyelashes as he lowers his mouth to your aching cunt. “Spence,” you breathe at the sensation of his tongue licking a broad stripe through your folds and pressing a gentle kiss to your clit.
He bows his head, snaking his arms around your thighs to hold them open, stopping you from closing your legs, and without the use of your arms and your legs, you’re defenseless against his relentless movements. His tongue peeking out of his mouth just enough to tease where you’re most sensitive, kitten licking your clit until you’re panting beneath him, desperate to lift your hips from the mattress, in need of more—so much more.
You pull on your restraints, and he doesn’t stop his movements. Instead, he changes the placement of his hands, using one to massage your thigh while the other finds a home between your legs, his index finger teasing your entrance. A pathetic whine escapes from your throat as you get one step closer to the relief that you so desperately need and the relocation of his hands allows you to rotate your hips, meeting his knuckles when his finger sinks into you with ease.
“So wet,” he whispers, coming up for air and reveling in the way your mouth gapes as he adds a second finger, “So wet for me, darling girl.”
Taking a shuddering breath, you nod in acknowledgment as his head drops again, puckering his lips to gently suck on your clit as his fingers work their way in and out of you. The crude, wet sounds emanating from your pussy second in volume only to the breathy moans that continue to slip through your lips.
You imagine yourself reaching your hands down, weaving your fingers through his curls, and tugging on the tendrils in encouragement, but you recall his request to hear you. Since you can’t touch him, you gasp, a small knot forming in your lower belly as he continues thrusting his fingers in and out, “Oh, god,” you choke, looking down to see his hair falling in front of his forehead. “Spence,” you whimper, eyes screwing shut as you beg for your orgasm.
A curse slips from your lips while your back arches off of the mattress, the sheet sticking to your sweat-coated skin as your orgasm washes over you, sending volts of electricity through every extremity until you come down. Vaguely aware of how his fingers continue to move inside of you, the two phalanges curling in a way that makes you shudder.
Spencer tenderly shifts your body up, relieving some of the strain on your shoulders which had become a secondary concern while he had his head between your legs.
You pant helplessly at him, “Ah, ’s too much,” you tell him, walls clenching around his idle fingers as the aftershocks of your orgasm begin to ebb.
Immediately, he withdraws his fingers and brings both of his hands up, mindful not to get his slick-covered hand near your hair, “How are you doing?”
The check-in doesn’t come as a surprise to you, and he wouldn’t do anything until he manages to wrangle an answer out of you. His brown eyes study you with a sensual curiosity as your breathing balances out, switching from the breathlessness of your peak to the gasps of desperation as you find yourself wanting more. “Good,” you answer, “That was so— fuck.”
There was something to say about the effects that losing your sense of touch had on sex, the inability to distract yourself by touching Spencer kindly forcing you to focus on nothing else but how he was making you feel. Leaving you to absorb pleasure percutaneously—this was the kind of sex people start wars over. “Do you want more?”
“Please,” you respond, maybe a tad too quickly.
His responding chuckle does horrible things to your psyche, the butterflies in your stomach coming out of their brief hibernation to flutter through your insides, “What do you want, darling?”
You sigh, “You. I want you, baby, please.”
Spencer hums in response, ducking his head to leave slow, intentional kisses on your chest, enveloping your nipple in his mouth while he brings a hand up to even out the sensation on your chest. Releasing you with a wet pop, he looks up at you with lust-blown pupils, “You have me,” he assures you. “I’m right here, where do you want me?”
Embarrassingly, a high-pitched whine makes its way past your lips—he was going to make you beg for it, and you were going to do it. “In me,” your plea comes out faster than you can control, “Please fuck me, please please.”
He groans in response, “Your fucking manners are going to be the death of me,” he tells you, moving to slip his underwear off, leaving absolutely nothing in between you as he rests his cock in between your folds. “Such a good girl,” he coos.
It didn’t help that you were beginning to feel like you were going insane, waiting for him to finally slide inside of you, “Please,” you add for good measure, the butterflies in your stomach spinning as he moves his hand out of your line of sight, tapping the tip against your swollen clit before finally breaching your entrance.
With an almost startling gentleness, Spencer cranes his head down to press a kiss to your lips. Using his tongue to part your lips, kissing you deeply, you can taste yourself on him, the sensation causing a ripple effect, your walls clenching around his shaft as he sheathes himself inside of you. “I love you,” he mutters against your lips, pulling out of you as he starts to find a rhythm.
“I— ah,” you cry out when he snaps his hips into yours, “I love you too,” you breathe, your eyelids fluttering as he seemingly finds his rhythm.
Spencer takes your thigh in one hand, pushing it up to spread you wider for him as you meet his eyes, the steady rhythm eliciting nothing but a metronome of ah, ah, ahs out of you.
Dropping his head in the crook of your neck, your boyfriend moves his free hand to play with your clit, his thumb circling around the sensitive nub as he continues to fuck you. He moans into your ear, causing your hips to involuntarily lift from the mattress, meeting his thrusts as they start to grow messy.
“’m gonna come,” you tell him, leaning your head back as the rubber band in your abdomen snaps, the pulsing of your cunt only driving him closer and closer to his own orgasm.
His hips stutter against yours, the pacing that he had so perfectly set leaving as he loses himself, hot cum painting your insides as he slows to a complete stop, letting your leg fall to the side as he pulls out of you.
A low keening sound slides from your throat as Spencer skims his hand up your side, “Spence,” you mumble, relaxing into his gentle touches.
He hums against your skin, making his way up until he’s fully sitting next to you, reaching over your head to release your arms from their silken prison. Tenderly, he takes your wrists in his hands, bringing them down gradually so that you can have time to adjust. “Are you alright?”
Spencer’s voice was a very welcome sound, his thumbs gently kneading at the indent marks on your wrists. Your head bobs in response, reaching out for him to help you sit up. The dull ache in your shoulders gave you reason to lean into him, your back against his chest while his nimble fingers found a place on your bare skin, continuing their earlier motions, this time on your shoulders.
Reaching out a hand, you grab the top sheet and pull it snugly to your torso, “Cold?” Spencer asks, his voice no more than a whisper, he presses his lips to your shoulder. “Come on, angel, words,” he beckons, the movement of his lips on your skin causing goosebumps to form.
“Cold,” you confirm, the high of your orgasms vacating your body, leaving you dependent on Spencer for body heat.
Spencer kisses the crook of your neck, “Why don’t we get cleaned up and reconvene on the couch? We’ll watch a movie,” he offers thoughtfully. “We can order in for dinner,” he says, taking advantage of your pliant state and rocking back and forth.
You sigh in his arms, “Can I pick the movie?”
“If you let me pick dinner,” he replies, pulling a throw blanket from the end of the bed and laying it over your lap. “Are you still cold?” He murmurs, a tinge of concern creeping into his voice.
Shaking your head, you adjust yourself in his arms, the tingling in your shoulders beginning to subside, “I’m lukewarm now,” you offer, smiling dazedly up at him, “I’m okay.”
He presses a soft kiss to your hairline, “You did so well,” he praises, his words threatening to melt you.
summary: you start flirting with spencer when he talks about science, poetry, and facts. thats all :)
includes: no use of y/n, BAU setting, teasing/flirting, workplace banter, Reid blushing/flustered, miscommunication (but for literally only a second), soft confession, fluff, mutual pining
from this request :)
“Why is it called a murder of crows?” you mutter, eyes locked on your report, pen tapping lightly against your lips. You’re not expecting an answer—just thinking aloud while the bullpen hums with quiet workday energy.
But Spencer looks up from his paperwork like he’s been waiting his whole life to answer exactly that.
“It comes from the 15th century,” he says, matter-of-fact and quick. “Poets created colorful collective nouns for animals—like a pride of lions, a parliament of owls, a murder of crows. They thought it sounded appropriately ominous.”
You nod, impressed. “That’s… actually kind of cool.”
The next day, you make it a game.
Spencer is talking to Emily about ancient mythologies, and you time it perfectly.
“Actually, the myth of Icarus is often misinterpreted,” Spencer says, as he skims a myth reference in a case file. “Daedalus warned Icarus not to fly too high or too low, because both extremes were dangerous.”
“You could talk about Greek tragedy all day and I’d still want to marry you,” you say casually, sipping your coffee.
Spencer stares at you like you’ve just spoken Elvish. Emily chokes on her drink as she laughs.
“I—what?” he stammers.
You tilt your head innocently. “That voice? That brain? Dangerous combo, Reid.”
He flushes again. You walk off with your coffee and a wicked little smile.
It only gets worse for him.
By Wednesday, the whole team has noticed. Not your comments, necessarily. They're often quiet, not questioned out loud if they're heard. But Spencer’s reactions? Those were fireworks.
Every blush. Every flustered stammer. Every time he knocks something over. It’s like watching a human lie detector short-circuit in real time.
“You okay, Pretty Boy?” Morgan asks after Spencer stumbles into a chair for the third time today.
“I’m fine,” Spencer mumbles, ears burning.
You pass behind him and whisper, “That theorem you quoted earlier? Sexy as hell.”
He freezes. Morgan cackles.
Later, you’re crammed into a table at a diner during a late-night post-case debrief. Spencer rambles about forensic fiber analysis—velocity, fabric types, absorption rates.
“You’ve got to stop,” you say, resting your chin on your hand.
He falters. “Stop what?”
“Being this attractive when you talk about science. I’m running out of excuses to pretend I’m not in love with your brain.”
He turns pink. Like, full-body blush pink.
Hotch raises an eyebrow. Morgan snorts into his sandwich. JJ pretends not to notice.
Spencer tries to hide behind a menu.
Thursday, you don’t let up.
When Spencer explains how REM sleep affects memory consolidation, you sigh dreamily. “I want to take a nap just so you can explain what’s happening in my brain the whole time.”
When he drops a fact about ancient ciphers while walking to the elevator, you say, “Do you know how hard you’re making it to stay professional right now?”
When he references fractals during a briefing, you lean toward him and whisper, “You say the word ‘Mandelbrot’ again and I might kiss you in front of the team.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even move. Just sits there with red cheeks, blinking at the whiteboard like it might swallow him whole.
It’s adorable.
On Friday, Hotch ends the briefing with a sharp, “Wheels up in thirty,” and the team starts packing up their folders and files.
You’re halfway to standing when Spencer says something under his breath about the aerodynamics of turbulence—some quiet aside about jet wings and oscillation and lift.
You catch just enough of it to feel that now-familiar spark ignite in your chest.
You turn toward him, lean in with a smirk, and say, “You know, if you keep casually inventing ways to make physics sound sexy, I’m going to have to request you sit next to me on every flight.”
Spencer’s head jerks up. His entire face flushes red from his ears down to his collarbone. His mouth opens like he might say something—but then he just… doesn’t.
He looks down instead, fiddling with the edge of the file, suddenly hyper-focused on nothing in particular.
The rest of the team filters out. You’re nearly at the door when you glance back and see he’s still seated, still red, still not moving.
You hesitate—then turn around and head back into the room.
“Hey,” you say softly.
He doesn’t look up.
“You okay?”
His hands shift minutely, fidgeting with the edge of a paperclip. His knuckles are pale. He still won’t meet your eyes.
Then he says, quiet but clear, “Can you stop?”
“Stop what?”
His eyes flick up just for a second—guilty, shy, unsure—but then drop again.
“The fake flirting,” he says. “The teasing.”
“I'm sorry,” you say, raising a brow. “Fake flirting?”
Spencer exhales and shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m used to people making fun of me. I talk too much, I ramble, I throw around obscure facts nobody cares about—”
“Spencer.”
“—and I know it’s weird. I’ve always been weird. You’re not the first person to find it funny when I get caught up in facts, or statistics, or obscure history. I just… I didn't expect it from you. Not like that, in front of the team.”
“Wait—.” You hold up your hand, trying to process. “You think I was mocking you?”
He doesn't say anything, which confirms everything.
You almost laugh. “Spencer, yeah, maybe it was a little teasing,” you say. “But it was most definitely not fake flirting.”
That makes him look up again—sharply this time. “What?”
You stare at him, stunned. “You really didn’t know?”
He looked flustered all over again, the defensive wall starting to crack. “No. I mean, you’re… you, and I’m just... me.”
“Yeah. You. With the brain that casually drops Renaissance poetry and neuroscience over breakfast. The guy who blushes when someone calls him cute and reads four books on the jet. Do you know how attractive that is?”
His mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
You take a breath and soften your tone. “I love that you know a thousand things I don’t. I love how passionate you get when you talk. That’s not weird, Spencer. It’s—”
“Hot?” he says, a faint smile appearing.
You laugh. “Exactly.”
He huffs a quiet, nervous laugh and finally stands. “I don’t know how to do this,” he says. “I don’t know how to flirt back.”
“You don’t have to,” you say, shrugging. “You just have to believe me.”
He looks at you for a long moment, studying your face like a puzzle he’s finally solving.
Then: “So what happens now?”
You reach for his hand, give it a soft squeeze. “Now you ask me out. Or you let me ask you.”
Spencer licks his lips, still clearly overwhelmed, but he nods. “Okay. Um. Would you—would you want to get dinner with me? Or coffee? Or maybe a museum? I’m better with quiet spaces.”
Your smile grows. “Yes. All of the above.”
He blushes again, but this time, he lets it happen. Doesn’t run from it. Just looks at you, soft and pink and maybe a little stunned.
You grin. “And just so you know… if you say something smart during the date, I will kiss you.”
an extremely self indulgent brooklyn 99 and criminal minds crossover
pairing: spencer reid x reader (with a tiny bit of almost jake peralta x reader for funsies)
words: 3.0k
warnings: none, this is fluff and comedy <3
summary: Spencer Reid’s grip on sanity? Loose. (Y/n)’s patience? Tested. Jake Peralta? Accidentally in the middle of a romcom finale with no snacks. There’s banter, jealousy, a tasered vending machine, and one (1) emergency love confession.
a/n: crossover episode my beloved; this was extremely fun to write lolllllll, hope you like it <3
Spencer was already three tangents deep into the geographic profile, talking fast, hands moving like the words were trying to escape faster than his brain could handle. (Y/n) had learned years ago to just let him go. He’d loop back around eventually. Usually.
“The spacing of the disposal sites suggests he’s sticking to a routine. All within a tight radius— three miles or so. That kind of pattern almost always means it’s familiar territory. Could be work, could be home base. Most likely night shifts, given the dump times— between 2:10 and 3:30 a.m. Which means fewer witnesses, less traffic—”
“Or he just likes moonlight and solitude,” (Y/n) said absently, scribbling something in her notebook. “Creepy guys tend to romanticize the weirdest stuff.”
Spencer didn’t look up. “That’s… statistically consistent with other narcissistic or compulsive offenders, actually.”
She glanced over at him. “You know you could just say ‘you’re right.’ It won’t kill you.”
He did look at her then, quick, with the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’m not sure I’ve tested that hypothesis thoroughly enough to risk it.”
She snorted. “Tragic. I thought you loved me.”
Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I do. But not enough to sacrifice academic integrity.”
“Wow.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Wounded. Devastated. Utterly betrayed.”
“Noted,” he murmured, turning back to his screen with an annoyingly smug look.
Derek leaned forward from his seat across the aisle. “Are y’all gonna do this the whole flight?”
JJ didn’t even look up from her file. “They’re gonna do this the whole case.”
“I’m sitting right here,” (Y/n) called over.
“And yet, you keep doing this,” Emily muttered, sipping her coffee. “Every case. Without fail.”
Spencer turned his tablet toward (Y/n), pretending not to hear them. “There are five possible buildings inside the comfort zone. Abandoned commercial spaces, all accessible. No cameras.”
She leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “That one. Tucked behind the construction site. No visibility from the road.”
He nodded. “I had that ranked third.”
“I outrank your list.”
“You outrank logic?”
“I outrank you, Reid.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Bold claim for someone who once tripped over their own shoelaces during a takedown.”
“You’re never letting that go, are you.”
“Absolutely not.”
(Y/n) sighed, grabbing her coffee and slumping back in her seat. “You’re lucky I find your chaos charming.”
Spencer, without looking up, murmured, “You’re lucky I find you charming.”
And just like that, she paused.
It wasn’t even the words— it was the way he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t meant to land the way it did.
Her fingers stilled on the coffee cup. Just for a second. Then she shook her head, eyes narrowing. “You trying to throw me off before we hit the ground? Because that’s a dirty tactic, Reid.”
He smiled, faint. “If I wanted to throw you off, I’d bring up that time you accidentally used your taser on the vending machine.”
“That was one time.”
“I still have the video.”
Derek threw up his hands. “Okay, I need noise-canceling headphones or a fire alarm. One or the other.”
“Let them have their foreplay,” Rossi grumbled from behind his paper. “Just as long as it doesn’t slow down the case.”
(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop smiling. Not even a little.
And Spencer? He didn’t say anything else.
But his knee brushed against hers under the table.
And he didn’t move it.
——————————————————————————————————
The precinct was pure, barely-contained chaos. Phones ringing, printers jamming, someone yelling “I said decaf!” from the breakroom. (Y/n) stepped in behind the team, her eyes scanning the flurry with the kind of calm that only came from years of being thrown headfirst into crime scenes that smelled like old pizza and adrenaline.
Then— like he was summoned by the gods of caffeine and chaos— a voice cut through the noise.
“FBI? Oh thank god. Tell me you’re the FBI. If one more lieutenant hands me a case file on raccoon-related vandalism, I’m going to start speaking in riddles.”
The guy had two coffees in one hand, a folder under his arm, and the kind of face that said yes, I’m sleep-deprived, but I’ve made it part of my personality now.
“Detective Jake Peralta,” he added, stepping forward and immediately handing one of the coffees off to a passing officer. “You must be the reinforcements. Welcome to our deeply unfortunate circus.”
(Y/n) stepped forward with a polite smile. “Agent (Y/l/n), BAU.”
Jake looked at her and forgot what vowels were.
“Oh. Cool. Yeah. Wow.” He blinked. “Hi. Sorry. That was… a very professional reaction to a federal agent. I’m super normal.”
(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, amused. “Totally. You look extremely normal.”
Jake pointed at her like he was confirming her existence for himself. “And funny. She’s funny, too. Great. Just awesome.”
Spencer, two steps behind her, tilted his head the tiniest bit. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that Emily, walking next to him, noticed immediately.
“So,” Jake said, already spinning on his heel and motioning them toward the evidence board, “we’ve got three victims, matching M.O., a dump site triangle, and a ton of questions. I’d love to walk you through it. Bonus: I also know where the best snacks are hidden in this precinct. Critical intel.”
“Let me guess,” (Y/n) said, falling into step beside him, “you keep gummy bears in a murder folder?”
Jake gave her a wide-eyed, deeply serious nod. “Listen, I can’t solve murder with low blood sugar. That’s just biology. Forensics and fruit snacks— two pillars of modern justice.”
She actually laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “That’s what you’re going with? Fruit snacks and felony charges?”
“Look,” he said, glancing at her with a grin, “some people have badges, some have instincts— I have a snack drawer and a vibe.”
(Y/n) shot him a look. “And a lot of confidence, apparently.”
“It’s the only thing holding me together.”
Spencer, still watching from behind, clenched his jaw and stared very intently at the murder board— as if sheer willpower would make Jake Peralta spontaneously combust.
Derek leaned over slightly. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” Spencer said. Way too quickly.
“Uh-huh.”
(Y/n) looked over her shoulder, smiling. “Spencer, you coming?”
Spencer blinked. “Right behind you.”
Emily raised an eyebrow as he passed, giving him that look— the one that meant I know, and I’m about to say it out loud.
He walked faster.
Behind them, Emily whispered to JJ, “We have now entered full-blown Jealous Spencer territory.”
JJ winced sympathetically. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”
——————————————————————————————————
The dump site was taped off, abandoned and eerie in the late afternoon light. A narrow alley backed by cracked concrete walls, discarded furniture, and silence— except for the occasional buzz of Spencer’s pen clicking in his pocket. Repeatedly.
Jake and (Y/n) were walking ahead of the rest of the group, ducking under the tape, their steps crunching through gravel.
“Okay,” Jake said, scanning the alley. “I know it’s not exactly a five-star view, but I promise this is the cleanest murder site we’ve had all week. That’s a weird sentence.”
(Y/n) laughed. “It’s fine. We spend half our lives in parking lots and basements. Honestly, this is kind of charming.”
Jake pointed at a tipped-over dumpster. “Ah, yes. Classic small-town ambiance.”
She crouched near a drainpipe, tilting her head. “He’s dumping at night. No cameras. But the dumpster’s too obvious— too accessible. He’s not just hiding the bodies, he’s watching them.”
Jake blinked. “Okay. That’s… both creepy and very insightful. You do this a lot?”
She looked up at him, playful. “Solve murders? Yeah. Flirt at them? Not usually.”
He smirked, a little lopsided. “Hey, I haven’t even started flirting yet. That was just me being charming.”
“Oh, just charming?” she teased.
Jake leaned against the wall, watching her. “Let me know when you’re ready for the full Peralta experience. It includes sarcasm, emotional baggage, and an impressive knowledge of Die Hard trivia.”
(Y/n) stood, brushing off her knees. “That’s a lot to take in on a first crime scene.”
He grinned. “So you’re saying there’ll be a second?”
A beat. Just a pause. She didn’t answer right away.
Spencer, across the lot with Derek and Emily, had stopped mid-sentence, his entire expression shifted from mildly focused to openly horrified.
“She’s laughing,” he said flatly.
Emily glanced up from her notes. “Yeah, that tends to happen when people are enjoying themselves.”
“With him.”
“Oh no,” Derek muttered. “We’ve lost him.”
The rest of the team returned to the SUV, but Emily stayed behind, as if she knew this wasn't done yet.
“She’s laughing at his jokes,” Spencer repeated, eyes still locked on the two figures across the alley.
“She laughs at yours,” Emily said.
“That’s different. She knows mine are objectively not funny.”
“Okay, you know what?” Emily snapped her folder shut. “We’re doing this now. Let’s go, Genius.”
Spencer blinked as she grabbed his elbow and dragged him toward the SUV.
“What? No— I’m working.”
“You’re spiraling,” she corrected. “And doing it in a crime scene, which is new.”
Behind them, (Y/n) was still talking to Jake, standing closer now, arms crossed and leaning in like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.
Spencer’s voice dropped. “Emily, I’m fine.”
“You’re jealous,” she said, eyes sharp. “And for a guy who can read microexpressions from thirty feet away, you are shockingly bad at clocking your own.”
“I don’t get jealous,” he said, almost insulted.
She gave him a look.
“…Okay, I am jealous,” he admitted under his breath. “But I don’t know what to do about that.”
Emily leaned against the SUV, watching Spencer like she was trying to figure out whether she needed to slap sense into him or hug him. Maybe both. Probably both.
He was pacing. Not frantically, just… tightly. Hands in his pockets, jaw tense, doing that thing where his eyes tracked the ground like the answers were written there.
“I mean, it’s fine,” he said finally, like he was trying to convince the air. “She’s allowed to laugh at someone else’s jokes. I’m not— entitled to anything.”
Emily stayed quiet.
He glanced back at the alley where (Y/n) was standing with Jake. She was leaning on one foot, comfortable. She looked happy. And it gutted him.
“It’s just— he’s charming,” Spencer muttered. “And funny. And he’s got that whole casual swagger thing going on. I mean, who even has swagger in 2025? Apparently, Jake does. And she’s… she’s smiling.”
“You’re allowed to be upset,” Emily said, her voice soft, even.
Spencer didn’t answer. His hands were twitching in his pockets now.
“I’ve had… crushes,” he said finally, like it was painful to admit even that much. “A few. Not a lot. But some. And usually they’re easy to understand. You think someone’s cute. You like their voice. You want them to notice you.”
He shook his head.
“This isn’t that.”
Emily just watched him.
“I notice everything,” he went on, his voice quieter now. “Not because I’m profiling her. Not because I’m analyzing anything. I just… do. I know when she’s about to make a bad joke because she gets this look— like she’s proud of it already. I know she only pretends to like black coffee when we’re around local PD because she thinks it makes her look tougher.”
A pause. His voice dipped even lower.
“I know the sound of her laugh when it’s real. I know when she’s tired, even if she’s smiling. I know when she’s faking being okay. And I know when she’s actually okay. And I know that right now…” He looked up, eyes fixed on her across the lot, where she and Jake were still talking, still laughing.
“…She’s really okay. With him.”
Emily stepped closer, gentle. “Spence.”
He didn’t look at her.
“I think about her all the time,” he said, like he was just realizing it out loud. “Not in a way I… planned. Just— suddenly I’m at a bookstore and wondering if she’d like the cover of something. Or I hear a song and I can’t tell if I like it until I know if she would. It’s— constant.”
He laughed once, breathy and humorless. “And statistically, I know crushes fade. The brain adjusts. The novelty goes away. But this? This has been over a year. Maybe longer.”
Emily tilted her head. “And?”
Spencer blinked.
“…And I think I’m in love with her.”
A pause. Then—
“Oh,” he breathed. “Shit.”
Emily smiled, just barely. “Took you long enough.”
He ran both hands over his face. “I don’t— what am I supposed to do with that?”
“You tell her,” she said gently.
“What? No, I can’t.”
“You can.”
“Emily, she's quite possibly the closest friend I have. What if it ruins everything?”
Emily didn’t answer for a second. She just looked at him— really looked at him— and said, “Spencer. You're already miserable. At least ruin it with some dignity, damn it.”
He looked back at (Y/n). She was saying goodbye to Jake now, walking back toward the team, tucking her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was distracted. She looked like home.
Emily nodded. “Yeah. You are. Oh, and for the record, I thought I was your closest friend, and honestly, I feel so attacked right now."
"You'll live."
"Hey!" retorted Emily, followed by a smack to his arm.
——————————————————————————————————
The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the precinct lot. The case was wrapped, files turned in, media dodged. (Y/n) was leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, sipping from her now-cold coffee like it was still doing something.
Jake jogged up to her, slowing as he approached. Not suave. Just… trying.
“Hey,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “So, weird question for the end of a triple homicide, but— any chance I could take you to dinner sometime?”
(Y/n) blinked. “Oh.”
She smiled, a little surprised. “Jake, you’re— great. I had fun working with you.”
Jake’s grin faltered just enough to be human. “But…?”
“But—”
“Wait!”
Both of them turned.
Spencer was standing about ten feet away, looking like he had sprinted here but didn’t want to show it. His hair was windswept, his shirt slightly crooked, and his expression somewhere between resolute and deeply alarmed.
(Y/n) blinked. “Spencer?”
Jake glanced between them. “Should I…? I can come back.”
“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, stepping forward. “You’re fine. I mean— not fine, you’re not staying. I mean, yes, you’re staying right now, I just—”
He looked at (Y/n), all the air gone from his lungs.
“I need to say something.”
(Y/n) tilted her head, cautious now. “Okay…”
Spencer glanced at Jake. Then at her. Then back at Jake.
“This is going to be weird with him here,” he muttered.
“I can pretend to be a lamp,” Jake offered, backing up slightly. “I’m excellent at furniture-based camouflage.”
“Jake,” (Y/n) said, half-laughing, “you don’t have to—”
“I really think I do,” he said, hands raised. “There’s a lot of emotion in the air and I don’t want to get hit by it.”
Spencer ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said softly. “I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That we had too much to lose. That maybe I was just… projecting.”
He swallowed. “But then I watched someone else get to make you laugh. I watched you lean in, and talk like he already belonged in your world. And I realized— I’ve been pretending that I didn’t already live there.”
(Y/n)’s breath caught.
Spencer took another step closer. “I know the way you look when you’re solving a puzzle you don’t know you’ve solved yet. I know how you take your coffee differently when you’re pretending you’re fine. I know that you hum when you’re reading case files, and that you’ll always find a way to make the worst days seem funny, just to keep us all going.”
He paused, voice low. “I notice everything about you. Not because I’m profiling you. Just… because it’s you.”
Jake mouthed oh my god to himself, backing up another step.
(Y/n) stared at Spencer, wide-eyed. “You— you’ve never said any of this.”
“I didn’t know how,” Spencer admitted. “But I’m in love with you. And it took me way too long to say it. So if you’re going to say no— please do it fast, before I combust.”
Silence.
Then—
“Spencer,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “You’re an idiot.”
His face fell— until she reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.
It was fast. Then slow. Then somewhere in between. Like they’d been waiting for years but were still trying to catch up.
Jake, standing off to the side, made a quiet choking sound.
“I am so intruding,” he muttered. “You know what? I’m gonna go. I’m gonna walk into the woods and never come back. I’ll start a new life. Join a wolf pack. Change my name. Just... yeah.”
They didn’t hear him.
(Y/n) pulled back just slightly, forehead still resting against Spencer’s.
“You’re in love with me?”
He nodded, breathless. “Deeply. Disastrously.”
She let out a laugh— half relief, half disbelief— as her forehead rested against his. “Oh, thank God. It was killing me thinking it might just be me.”
Jake was halfway to the sidewalk when Spencer called out— without looking—
“Thank you for not asking her out.”
Jake froze. “I did. You just… intercepted mid-sentence.”
Spencer blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”
Jake clapped once. “Well, that was the best romcom finale I’ve ever witnessed. I’m gonna go cry in my car.”
He turned again, walking toward his car like a man who had just lost a bet to fate.
God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this from Rosa.
summary: spencer struggles with attachment, until he realizes you’re home
The jet is quieter than usual.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet — the kind that lingers after a case that went too far.
The unsub had kept his victims alive for days.
You’d all seen worse. But Spencer had been different this time. Withdrawn. Hyper-focused. Silent in that way that meant his brain was moving too fast and not at all at the same time.
Now the rest of the team is asleep.
The overhead lights are dimmed. The hum of the engine is steady. You’re sitting beside him, close but not touching. He’s staring at an open book in his lap.
He hasn’t turned the page in fifteen minutes.
You don’t say anything at first.
You’ve learned that with Spencer, silence is a language.
After a while, you gently nudge your knee against his.
He doesn’t look at you.
But he leans into it.
“Your heart rate’s elevated,” he says quietly.
You smile faintly. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Monitoring everything.”
There’s a pause. A longer one this time.
He closes the book but keeps his hand resting on it. “Statistically, heightened vigilance after trauma is adaptive.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He finally looks at you.
There’s something fragile there. Not broken — just thin. Like glass stretched too far.
“I don’t believe in safe places,” he says suddenly. Matter-of-fact. Clinical. Like he’s delivering a profile. “I believe in statistical probability. And statistically speaking, safety is temporary. Attachment increases vulnerability by approximately 62 percent.”
You study him.
“Is that what this is?” you ask softly. “A vulnerability calculation?”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I lost Maeve because I believed proximity equaled protection.” His voice is steady. Too steady. “I went to prison because I believed I could outthink every possible variable. I relapsed because I believed I was strong enough not to.”
There it is.
The pattern.
Belief leads to loss.
Confidence lead to punishment.
Attachment less to pain.
“So you think,” you say carefully, “if you don’t believe in safe places, you can’t lose one.”
He doesn’t answer.
And that’s answer enough.
You shift closer now, your shoulder brushing his. He goes still at first — like he’s deciding whether to brace for impact — but he doesn’t pull away.
“Spencer,” you murmur, “look at me.”
He does.
God, he does.
You reach up and gently tuck a curl behind his ear — slow, deliberate. Giving him time to move if he wants to.
He doesn’t.
“Statistically,” you say, mimicking his tone slightly, “the BAU has one of the lowest internal relationship failure rates of any federal unit.”
His brow furrows faintly. “That’s not verified data.”
“It is in my heart.”
That almost makes him smile.
Almost.
You slide your hand down until you’re holding his. His fingers tense automatically — reflex — and then slowly relax around yours.
“I’m not a variable,” you continue. “I’m not a risk assessment. I’m not a probability curve.”
His voice is quieter now. “Everyone is.”
“No,” you whisper. “I’m a choice.”
That lands somewhere deep.
You see it.
“I choose you,” you say. “Not because the odds are good. Not because it’s safe. Not because I think nothing bad will ever happen.”
You squeeze his hand.
“I choose you knowing it’s terrifying.”
The jet hums softly around you.
Spencer swallows.
“I don’t know how to do this without calculating the worst outcome,” he admits. “My brain doesn’t— it doesn’t stop.”
“I don’t need it to stop.”
That surprises him.
“I just need you to let me sit with you while it runs.”
His eyes flicker.
“Even if the probability of losing you is non-zero?” he asks.
You nod.
“Especially then.”
Something in him gives. Not a collapse. Not a breakdown.
A release.
He exhales — shaky, like he’s been holding that breath since prison.
Since Maeve.
Since before that, maybe.
“You’re not going anywhere?” he asks, and this time he doesn’t sound like a profiler.
He sounds like a boy who’s lost too much.
You lean your forehead gently against his.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s speak your language.”
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“Statistically, I have survived every hard thing I’ve ever been through.”
He watches you closely.
“Statistically, I have stayed when things were difficult.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles now. Unconscious.
“Statistically,” you finish softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”
His breathing changes.
You feel it before you see it — the way his shoulders drop slightly. The way his grip tightens like he’s anchoring himself.
“I don’t want to be your vulnerability,” he murmurs.
“You’re not.”
“What am I?”
You smile, small and steady.
“You’re my safe place.”
He freezes.
That word.
Safe.
For a second, you think he might argue.
Instead, his hand comes up — hesitant — and cups the back of your neck. His forehead presses to yours more firmly this time.
“I don’t believe in safe places,” he whispers again.
“Then believe in me.”
Silence.
Then, very softly:
“I do.”
It’s barely audible over the engine.
But it’s there.
He shifts, pulling you closer — careful, like you’re something breakable. His chin rests against your hair. His heartbeat is still fast, but steadier now.
He doesn’t promise forever.
He doesn’t promise nothing bad will happen.
He just holds you.
And for the first time since the case started — maybe longer — Spencer Reid lets himself exist without calculating the end.
And when you drift toward sleep against his chest, he doesn’t measure your breathing.
He doesn’t calculate loss percentages.
He just presses a quiet kiss to your temple and thinks:
Maybe safety isn’t a place.
Maybe it’s a person.
And maybe — just maybe — statistics don’t stand a chance against choice.
note: happy december i hope ur all doing well <3 a little something to hold u over until next friday when i start 12 days of reidrumas ok love u
summary: in which you and JJ are the ones held hostage in truth or dare
cw: spoilers for 14x15 truth or dare, hurt/comfort, angst, fem!reader, a heated makeout, reader wears a dress and heels, take a shot everytime reader tears up
wc: 3.6k
p.s. i am a glutton for praise if you couldn't tell from any of my fics but i love hearing what y'all think so plsplspls lemme know your thoughts in a comment or drop in my ask box!!!!
You’re not really sure where it went wrong.
When you joined JJ to pursue Casey, it was out of convenience. You both were simply closer to his last location. No one could’ve predicted he’d take you both hostage or make you play a twisted game of truth or dare at gunpoint.
No one could have predicted that Casey would force you and JJ to reveal details that hadn’t seen the light of day. He didn’t even care for those secrets, egging you both on to reveal something that would satisfy his masochistic itch. When he realizes that neither of you would break, he ups the ante by angling the gun to the middle of your head. JJ panics and speaks before she can even process what she said.
Because as you’re staring down the barrel of the gun clocked at your forehead, you realize the bullet isn’t inside the cylinder, it’s in JJ’s next words.
I’ve always loved Spencer.
You look at her mouth agape, blood draining from your face and tears springing to your eyes. She returns your gaze with one full of remorse and pity. To any onlooker, it would seem like a harmless confession. But they didn’t know the times you confided in JJ about your feelings for Spencer, the late nights at the office she’d stay with you giving advice and words of wisdom, when all JJ wanted was for her friend to be happy.
But now, how much of that can you believe to be true?
Casey seems to be satisfied with your reaction as he lowers his gun, with you reacting quickly grabbing your hidden second pistol and gunning him down. The only audible noise left is the heavy breathing of you both, the adrenaline rush starting to fade. JJ says your name remorsefully, but she’s interrupted by the rest of the team and police arriving to the scene.
The next thing you remember is sitting outside on the back of an ambulance rig, blankly staring out at your new reality. JJ loves Spencer.
You couldn’t compete, how could you? She was JJ. and you were, you. You had lost before you even began, you might as well toss the towel now.
It makes hugging Spence for what could be the last time—not to be dramatic—bittersweet. To know that this is an insignificantly normal moment he won’t remember, but one that you’ll play on repeat for the rest of your life.
Spencer holds you close into his chest with his arm smoothing out your back, “Thank god you’re okay, are you hurt?”
You scoff internally. Yes, but not in a way that can be fixed. In a way that you are not privy to yet, but once you are it will rip us to shreds.
“I’m fine, just a few scratches.”
He nods while examining you with his own mental checklist, “Okay, if your head starts hurting or your vision gets blurry you need to tell the EMT.” you nod as he adds on, “I’m gonna go check on JJ, you’ll be okay?”
No, no I won’t. There is no reality that exists where I can be okay anymore.
“I’m good. Go.”
He squeezes your shoulders and with another nod he walks over to where JJ rests on another ambulance rig, her arms instantly opening to welcome Spencer’s warm embrace. His back is facing you and JJ’s face rests over his shoulder, her eyes meeting yours in a look of sadness, grief. You look away before you can read more into it.
Wrapping the foil blanket around you tighter you let your head fall back and stare at the night sky, hoping there was a message out in the stars that would tell you what to do.
Your relationship with Spencer was, on the surface, nothing more than a friendship. He had joined the BAU only a year prior to you and when you came along it was clear from the first second that you two would be inseparable. Small talks in the bullpen quickly turned into mornings spent at the coffee shop, into weekly movie nights debating the superior science fiction franchise, to holding his hand when he needed a friend.
To Spencer, you were his anchor. Through all the trials and tribulations his life had dealt him, he knew he didn’t need to worry so much as long as you were around.
To you, Spencer was all consuming. He was threaded through every neuron and vessel in your body, intricately and impossibly tethered to you that it would take the work of the divine to painfully separate him from you.
Or, one Jennifer Jaraeu.
You don’t even realize tears are falling down your face until the EMT taps your shoulder and asks if anything has started to hurt again. Quickly shaking your head, you unravel yourself from the foil blanket and hand it back to her. You spare one last glance back at Spencer and JJ, eyes immediately zeroing on their joined hands, his thumb gently brushing the top of hers.
Your feet trudge you back to where the team is set up, one look to Emily and she’s already excusing herself from her conversation. She walks over to you phone up to her ear, saying something about you. You’re not really sure, it’s all water noise.
“Anderson will be here in about five minutes to take you home,”
You nod silently, not willing to make eye contact. Emily could sense your turmoil from a mile away, chalk it up to the Pisces moon in her but behind the hard exterior she put up there lay Emily, your empathetic friend who just wanted to hug your shattered pieces back together.
“You’ll be okay?” The second time you’ve been asked, your answer is still unchanged.
No. “Yeah.”
She sighs knowingly. The reason the two of you were such close friends was because of your similar ability to remain emotionally bottled up until it was too late, resulting in an outburst enough to take out armies and yourselves.
Anderson honks the car as he pulls up, alerting you of his arrival. Emily looks from the car back to you, “I should go check on JJ.”
“Woman of the hour, it seems.” you chuckle under your breath.
Emily gives you that look, the conflicted ‘I’m sorry our friend made you feel this way, I still have to check on her.” look.
You brush her off, your casualness hopefully sending the message that the situation isn’t that deep. For her, you think.
The sound of the car unlocking rings through your ear as you hop in the passenger seat. Anderson tries to make small talk with you to no success, settling for the late night 00s radio station as he pulls up to your house, driving off as you bid him goodnight with a wave.
The breeze of your empty apartment greets you as you open the door, the air chillier than you’d expect for the season. You tug your shoes off harshly, placing your keys on the mail table next to the door. Your heart drops as you catch sight of a floral embossed card lying on top of your mail on the table.
Rossi’s wedding.
The one you were told to absolutely prioritize, the one in which JJ had helped you find a dress for, the one where you hoped you’d feel brave enough to tell Spencer how you truly felt.
You sigh deeply knowing you still had to show up and look presentable tomorrow despite being held hostage only 24 hours prior. But, maybe this is how you make a clean break. All this time you’ve been in love with Spencer and nothing has happened, despite all the signs you think you’re giving him. Maybe this is the opportunity to save Spencer from further tension, albeit unknown to him at this point, and let him finally be happy.
You knew about the Redskins game, how excited he was to go with JJ and yet it turned into something he hadn’t anticipated. You were new to the BAU at the time but your heart still ached for him, unable to understand how anyone would pass up on someone so special like Spencer Reid. It seems she’s finally come to her senses.
You take your dead phone out of your pocket to place it on the charger and you head into the bathroom to take a quick shower. The hot water loosens your tense muscles enough to prick tears in the back of your eyes, and you turn off the water before you can get too worked up. Once you’ve dried off you check on your phone on the bedside table seeing it’s turned back on, a flurry of missed texts and calls showing up.
11:14PM - Emily: Get home safe?
You heart the message and reply with a simple ‘Yes.’, scrolling to the next messages.
10:09PM - JJ: Did you get home?
10:10PM - Missed Call from JJ
10:15PM - (2) Missed Calls from JJ
10:24PM - JJ: I’m sorry, please let me explain.
10:25PM - Missed Call from JJ
You consider leaving her on read, not willing to entertain a conversation at this point, but you settle for an ‘It’s fine.’ for the sake of having communicated your safety.
10:13PM - Spence: Hey, where are you?
10:20PM - Spence: The EMT said you took off? Did you leave?
11:34PM - Spence: Emily just told me Anderson drove you back. You could’ve told me, I would have taken you home.
Your chuckle sadly at the text, Spencer hated driving but he would do it for you. It almost makes you think that your relationship could withstand the harsh weathering it’s been subjected to.
12:07AM - You: Sorry, phone died. I’m home now.
A response dings through a minute later.
12:08AM - Spence: I’ll go to the store tomorrow and get you a portable charger to keep in your bag. You should get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow for the wedding right? Well, the wedding that’s today seeing as it’s past midnight. You know what I mean.
A single tear falls down your face at his rambling words. Oh, how you’d miss this once he learns what’s really happened.
12:10AM - You: I’ll be there. See you tomorrow, or today? You know what I mean. Good night.
12:11AM - Spence: Good night :)
—
You smooth out your dress before going up the steps, making eyes with Penelope at the top. You’re wearing a silk chiffon dress in purple, deliberately picked for Spencer’s favorite color, some strappy heels and some dainty jewelry painting you in as the picture of elegance.
“Hey hot stuff, look at you!” Penelope exclaims squeezing you tightly, “You look sooo pretty, doesn’t she look so pretty?” she gestures to the two men behind her you now acknowledge to be Luke and Spencer.
“Like a dream.” Luke agrees.
“Yeah,” Spencer clears his throat, “You look…beautiful.”
Penelope the Oracle of All Time quickly senses the
atmosphere created and grabs Luke’s forearm, “Come on, you owe me that dance now!” She looks back and slyly gives you a thumbs up before dragging Luke further onto the dance floor.
Spencer slips into the vacated space to be right next to you, “How are you feeling?”
You know he’s asking about how you were held hostage at gunpoint, and not about how he’s about to become the loss of your life.
“ ‘M fine,” you swirl your champagne glass, “You?”
“Better now.”
A ghost of a smile creeps up on you, but you don’t let it travel further than that. He’s just being nice.
“Well, I’m just going to find the bathroom really quick.”
He holds a hand out for your glass, “Here, I’ll hold it.”
Your smile returns with bearings this time as you wander off in search of the bathroom. You’d feel embarrassed by how long it took you to find it but this place was massive, the Rossi money ran deep. Retracing your steps back to the main room you find Spencer and your glass not in the same place he was when you left. You scan the room looking for him and finally find him deep in conversation with—oh.
They’re too far for you to be able to hear them, but you can imagine that it’s the conversation. You watch JJ squeeze his forearm with affection and suddenly you can’t take it anymore. You couldn’t stand there and watch yourself become collateral in real time. Spencer turns at the sound of rustling up the spiral staircase followed by a door closing, catching the last glimpse of purple before it vanishes.
Spencer feels sick. He’s overwhelmed and overstimulated at the new information he’s learned about what really happened in the gas station. Then he comes to the realization of how walking in on him and JJ talking must have made you feel. His feet are carrying him up the stairs before he even realizes he’s made the choice.
He finds you at the end of the hallway and calls out your name with a firmness you’d never heard from him. But you’ve cut all the strings of sanity by now, and you whip around and snap, “What?”
He doesn’t like that tone. “JJ told me what happened.”
You snort and don’t meet his eyes, “Oh, did she?”
His brows furrow, “Yes, she did.”
“And?”
“And what?”
And what? Is he serious? Did you have to spell it out for him? It borderlines sadist the way he’s putting you through the ringer.
“What happens now, Spencer?” you exasperate, “Is this the part where you tell me we can’t be friends anymore because she finally confessed?”
Confusion colors his face more, “Why wouldn’t we be friends?”
A halfway scream—groan leaves your throat in frustration. “Spencer, come on.”
“Honey, I don’t understand—“
“That! See, you can’t just say things like that knowing what has to happen, and expect me to react like a normal person.” you exclaim with hands flailing.
“I’m really confused—“
“Because I’m in love with you!” you cry, “Now do you see why?”
Time all but stills in the hallway you’ve found yourselves in. You don’t know how long you’ve been up here. It’s a little farther down from the stairways so there’s no threat of evesdroppers, but with how worked up you’re getting the proximity renders itself useless. The faint muffle of animated conversations and lively jazz music fills the silence between you and Spencer, who looks like…well, actually for once you can’t decipher what he’s feeling.
He looks like he’s about to open his mouth when you both turn your head to the ascending footsteps—JJ looking for you, or Spencer probably, to come cut the cake. Spencer darts his eyes between the walls, a nervous tic you’d caught on to, before you realize he’s looking for a door and pulling you inside one. You yelp at the unexpected force and quickly quiet down again. The light switches on and based on the furniture you conclude that it’s a powder room, because of course Rossi’s venue has a powder room.
It’s a tiny room, big enough for a vanity table and a chaise lounge. Small enough to not have any room to leave without going past him. You stand an arm’s length away from him, the faint muffles of talk and music replaced by your sniffling. You shouldn’t have come, you start to realize. Having to say goodbye to him in person might actually rip you apart. Your chest weighs heavy with that familiar sad irony of mourning someone who hasn’t even told you they’re leaving yet. Preemptive measures that turned into routine practice.
You sniffle, “Look, it doesn’t matter anymore, not that it ever did. I’m sorry I just sprung it on you like that, that was unfair. JJ…I thought JJ was my friend, I guess she is still but I’m not too sure now. But…she’s JJ and I’m just me and I know both of your pasts with each other so obviously it would be her. I’m making this too big a deal, I think. I just want you to be happy, in whatever capacity that looks like and I know it’s not with me so—“
Spencer stops your rambling by silently reaching out for your arm to pull you right in front of him, his hands reach to cup your face up to his, thumbs naturally swiping away the tears. He says your name like a coo, with a softness and delicacy you don’t feel you deserve right now. It hurts your heart entirely.
“Please don’t make this harder than it is.” you whisper through soft sobs.
You don’t know when it happens. Maybe in between scrunching your eyes or staring at your feet—but it happens. A cold pressure, then warmth, his lips are warm when he kisses you. A little surprising that he still tastes like Penelope’s sugary mocktail from earlier. A welcome pressure on your face as he holds you in place, as if you’d slip away further if he let go.
He stills in place, thinking he’s overstepped, until you finally remember that his lips are on your lips. You return the force back with as much as he gave you and let your arms loop around his neck, his own sliding from your face to take purchase on your hips.
That’s when Spencer starts kissing you. His hands grip your hips and tug you even closer as he deepens the kiss, plunging deeper back into the plush of your thighs to sit you on top of the vanity table. He slots himself between your legs, your hands wandering up to tug at the hairs on the nape of his neck. A soft groan leaves his throat and he detaches from your lips to amble down your neck, leaving a trail of lovebites in its wake.
This is wrong, like so wrong. You’re practically opening a salt box and pouring its entire contents on your wounds. But dammit, if this is the only time you’ll ever get to kiss Spencer, you’re sure as hell going to make the most out of the fleeting moment.
He mumbles something in between kisses to your neck, you instinctively ask him to say it again not expecting a response, and you immediately regret it as you feel his presence get lighter as he pulls away.
One more kiss to the spot behind your ear, he feels you preening below him and makes note of this—amongst everything else—for later, he pulls back to meet your eyes again.
“I love you.”
Your face drops, “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not being funny.”
Yes he is, he has to be. Because the universe in which Spencer Reid allows a piece of—the whole of it according to him, unbeknownst to you—his heart to be fully yours is not this one. You’ve never had luck like that.
“Then you’re lying to me, and that’s worse.” your voice cracks, Spencer feels the same crack imprinted on his heart.
“Sweetheart, I’m not lying. I love you.” He says it again to your surprise, the tenderness of his touch returning as he deliberates how to disarm you. The defensiveness you have isn’t surprising to him, it’s the note of insecurity in your tone he isn’t ready for, like you are unable to even believe it could be you.
You’re a dandelion, he thinks, the puffballs teetering attachment to their base with one wrong move sending them astray into the wind. He’s wading treacherous weather but he finds that for you he’d do anything and everything eyes closed if he had to.
“…Really?” you ask meekly. He nods slowly, never breaking his gaze on you. “But…JJ.”
His eyes soften and he nods in understanding, “There was a point in my life where, yes that was all I was waiting to hear,” he starts, “But, I am no longer at that point in my life anymore. I’m here now. She knows that.”
You’re unconvinced, Spencer can see it clear as day. Maybe it’s more apprehensive than unconvinced, but no one could blame you. How are you to believe anything when you went through what you did in the last 24 hours? You look defeated if anything, like you’d accepted your fate of always coming second place.
Spencer racks his brain hard trying to think of a way to show you that the podium doesn’t even exist, it’s only ever been you.
He pulls out his wallet and rifles through the many things inside, finding what he’s looking for before handing it to you. You look up at him in confusion when you make it out to be a movie ticket stub from the Korean film festival you’d both attended a little after you started at the BAU, the first time the two of you ever spent time together. The edges are soft and smoothed out as a result of time, like it’s been held and comforted for many days.
“There’s more in my apartment.”
“Movie ticket stubs?” you ask bemused.
“Commemorations of you,” his fingers brush the span of your arm up and down soothingly, “I probably have something for every time we’ve ever hung out. If it reminds me of you, I have it.”
Tears well up in your eyes for the umpteenth time, a few spilling over rapidly.
“Hey no, you’re not supposed to cry at that.” he whispers softly between you, his thumb taking the rightful and familiar place under your eye to catch the tears.
You shake your head, “I don’t think I’ve ever been loved like this.”
His heart tightens, “No? Well, I think you have to get used to it now.”
“No choice?” you pout.
He catches the timbre of humor in your voice and smiles widely. He hugs you tightly, pressing your head into his chest, “I guess you don’t have to. Just because you’re not used to it doesn’t mean I’ll stop. If you’re like this now, wait till you see the box I have of our things.”
You sniffle again, your head reeling as your tears stain his shirt and the scent of him invades your being. It’s overwhelming and all consuming, just how you know Spencer to be. He doesn’t expect you to believe him right away, you’ve been through so much that it would be unfair to ask that of you. You don’t know what tomorrow holds, or even the rest of this night, but one thing you have learned is that to Spencer you are known, and therefore you are loved.
summary: spencer subtly flirts with you on a case and you act like it doesn’t affect you, but it does
The first thing you notice is that he doesn’t hesitate anymore.
It’s subtle, so subtle that no one else seems to clock it, but you’ve worked with Spencer long enough to feel the shift the second he steps off the jet.
He walks a little slower now. Not unsure, but more deliberate. Like he knows exactly where he’s going and doesn’t need to rush to get there. His shoulders are broader somehow, posture straighter, eyes sharper. There’s something quieter about him too… but heavier.
And when his eyes land on you? They linger.
“Ready?” you ask casually, adjusting the strap of your go-bag as the team gathers.
Spencer hums, tilting his head just slightly. “Always am.”
His voice is lower. Not by much. But enough. You ignore the way your stomach flips.
—
The case is messy, small town, multiple victims, timeline gaps that don’t make sense. Everyone splits up to canvass, and somehow, without either of you saying it out loud, you and Spencer end up paired together.
Of course. You walk side by side down a quiet street, the late afternoon sun stretching your shadows across the pavement.
“You’re quiet,” you say, glancing at him.
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re always thinking.”
He glances at you then, really looks at you, and there’s something almost amused in his expression.
“Not always about the case.”
Your steps falter for half a second. You recover quickly. “Oh? Should I be concerned?”
“Depends,” he says smoothly, eyes flicking ahead again. “Do you usually get concerned when people think about you?”
Your breath catches. Oh.
You let out a small laugh, hoping it sounds normal. “Reid, are you flirting with me on an active investigation?”
He shrugs lightly. “I can multitask.”
Your cheeks warm instantly, and you hate that he can probably see it. You turn your head slightly, pretending to scan the houses.
“Focus on the case,” you mutter.
“I am,” he replies, too quickly.
You risk a glance back at him and he’s already looking at you. Like he’s waiting and he knows exactly what he’s doing.
—
By the time you get back to the precinct, you’ve convinced yourself it was a fluke.
A weird, one-off moment. Except it isn’t. Because during the briefing, when you’re explaining your geographic profile at the board, you feel his gaze again. Heavy. Intent.
You shift slightly, pointing to the map. “If we assume the unsub is operating within a comfort zone of—”
“—eight to ten miles,” Spencer finishes for you.
You nod. “Exactly.”
But when you glance over, he’s not looking at the map, he’s looking at you. When your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away.
Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. Heat creeps up your neck.
You clear your throat. “So… we should focus our search in this radius.”
“Good idea,” Morgan says, completely oblivious.
Spencer finally looks away, but not before you see it. That quiet, knowing look.
—
It gets worse or maybe better. You’re not sure.
At the crime scene, you’re kneeling near a piece of evidence when Spencer crouches beside you. Close. Too close.
“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “You missed something.”
You frown slightly, leaning in. “Where?”
He reaches past you, his arm brushing yours, lingering just a second longer than necessary, and points.
“There.”
You follow his finger, but your focus is completely shot.
“Right,” you say quickly. “Good catch.”
“Mm,” he hums.
You can feel his eyes on you again.
“You’re distracted.”
“I’m not,” you say immediately.
He tilts his head, studying you, “You’re blushing.”
“I am not blushing.”
“You are,” he says softly, almost like he’s testing the words.
Your heart is pounding now, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“It’s hot out here,” you deflect, standing up quickly.
Spencer stands too, slower this time. Deliberate.
“Of course,” he says, but there’s a hint of a smile in his voice.
And you know he doesn’t believe you.
—
By the time the case wraps, you’re exhausted. Not from the work, from him.
From the way every glance, every word, every tiny shift in his behavior feels intentional. Controlled. Like he’s playing a game you didn’t even realize had started.
You’re back on the jet, the team scattered in their usual spots. You’re pretending to read, but you haven’t turned the page in ten minutes.
You feel him sit beside you before you even look up.
“Good work today,” he says.
“You too.”
Silence stretches for a moment.
He spoke up, “You never answered my question.”
You glance at him. “What question?”
His eyes flicker with something warm. “Do you usually get concerned when people think about you?”
Your stomach flips again. You close your book slowly. “Depends who it is.”
“Mm.” He leans back slightly, studying you. “And if it’s me?”
Your pulse stutters. You try to keep your expression neutral. “Why would it be you?”
Spencer’s gaze softens, but there’s confidence there. A quiet certainty that wasn’t there before.
“Because it is.”
Your breath catches. And for a second you forget how to pretend this isn’t affecting you.
That’s all he needs. A small smile tugs at his lips, “I knew it.”
You narrow your eyes, trying to recover. “Knew what?”
“That you feel it too.”
Your cheeks burn, and you look away, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Statistically speaking,” he says lightly, “that’s not untrue.”
You huff out a laugh despite yourself.
Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Softer. Warmer.
“You’re not as subtle as you think,” you mutter.
Spencer glances at you. “I’m not trying to be.”
Your heart skips, “Oh.”
He leans a little closer, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you do.
“Besides,” he adds quietly, “you’re worse.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“You act like it doesn’t affect you,” he says, his voice gentle now. “But it does.”
Your breath falters.
“And I like that it does.”
There it is. No teasing. No deflection. Just honesty.
You swallow, your composure finally cracking just a little. “You’ve changed.”
Spencer considers that. Then he nods, “I have.”
His eyes meet yours again, softer this time, but no less intense.
“Does that bother you?”
You hesitate. Because it should. It should make things complicated. It should make this harder. But it doesn’t.
“…No,” you admit quietly.
That small smile returns, “Good.”
And this time, when you blush, you don’t try to hide it. And he definitely notices.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader
Category: Smut 18+ MDNI
Summary: You have several (stereotypical) assumptions about your nerdy coworker; he proves how wrong you are about them.
Content: 3.2k, early season dom!Spencer Reid, bratty reader, reader has hair that can be put in a ponytail, brat taming, BDSM dynamics, sensation play (feather tickler hehe), reader is ticklish, spanking, making out, thigh riding, coworkers hooking up (are we even fucking surprised), hopefully still soft and sweet and hot.
a/n: Listen I know I keep saying I’m taking a break but unfortunately I’m ovulating HARD; this is the last one for May, but there will be a part 2, I’m already planning it. I wrote this completely piss drunk (my friends can probably share screenshots as proof oops) and then sobered up enough to edit (might have missed some stuff). Based on a request that Tumblr ate 😭 but basically, BAU reader teases Spencer about sex only to find out he's a kinky BDSM dom. Hope u enjoy!
Part 2
“What would you know about BDSM?” The question, spoken with a carefree laugh and just a hint of condescension, is directed at your coworker, who is currently stirring copious amounts of sugar into his coffee beside you.
Dressed in a tweed blazer that overwhelms his slight frame, Spencer Reid only tilts his head to the side, honey eyes keen and flashing with something you can’t quite place. You lean against the counter in the pantry, intrigued by his response. You’d expected a blush, chin tipping down, hair falling over his pretty eyes, lips uttering bashful, stuttering words.
Not… this. Regarding you with a frank, unblinking calm that has you shifting in place.
“Oh, right,” you roll your eyes teasingly, unwilling to let him see how easily his nonplussed reaction has fractured your easygoing facade, “You’ve read about it extensively, haven’t you? What do psychology textbooks have to say about whips and blindfolds, Dr. Reid?”
“Quite a lot,” he replies with a serenity that unnerves, “Some attribute it to the feeling of being safely back inside the womb.”
You scoff, “Right, because thinking of your mother during bondage is so sexy.”
“But,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you, patient but warning, “There’s often explanations that go hand in hand with biology. Deprivation of one sense tends to heighten the other. Physical restriction offers the same feeling, which then leads to altered states of pleasure. In a more emotional sense, surrendering your power to a partner communicates the highest level of trust, offering a deeper sense of intimacy for some people.”
So he does know a lot about it. Still, you don’t drop your teasing grin as you reply, “God, how do you manage to make BDSM sound so clinical?”
“Because it is a little clinical, if I’m just explaining it in polite conversation. The communication is better enjoyed if the actions match.
“Is that so?”
“Mhm hmm,” he smiles, dimples flashing, a show of innocence. A mask.
“And this information is from experience?” you tease.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His tone carries implication and it settles upon your stomach, heavy and warm. That makes you perk up, but you fight the urge to show your intrigue. Instead, you scoff, “As if there’s anything to know.”
He’s quiet. Sipping at his coffee, honey eyes twinkling over the rim of his mug. It’s infuriating.
“No way.” you huff, finally breaking. The lightness of teasing leaves your voice, shifting to something darker, more accusatory, “You expect me to believe you have experience? In BDSM?”
“Announce it to the entire office, why don’t you?”
You pause, looking at him almost in betrayal. Really, how could you not? Spencer Reid, who looks like his nose would start bleeding from the slightest sexual attention from a living, breathing person, has BDSM experience? The man who wears sweater vests and slicks his hair back like he’s a seventy year old librarian? You survey him today, in all of his rumpled, mismatched glory, trying to find one hint of his apparent favored pastimes.
He looks almost smug as he meets your gaze, cocking his head to the side.
“No way.” you repeat.
“You possess an awfully limited vocabulary for today.”
“Shut up, stop pulling my leg,” your eyes narrow suspiciously, still in disbelief.
“I’m not pulling your leg,” he says, allowing a small, almost imperceptible smirk to curve up his lips for one split second, before his face gets hidden by the coffee cup again.
“Prove it, then.”
The words startle both of you, but you’re stubborn enough to see it through. Meeting his gaze with a confidence that would seem sincere to the untrained eye, but Spencer has worked with you long enough to know it’s all bravado.
He looks at you, unsure. “Prove it?”
“Look who's vocabulary is limited now.”
He scoffs and lowers his voice, “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”
“I know what I’m getting into, I’m a grown woman, thanks.”
“Then I’ll fax you a copy of my rules. If they still seem like something you’d want to try out, come to my apartment Saturday night—that is, if we aren’t called in for a case.”
You shrug, the perfect picture of nonchalance. “Great, sounds like a plan. Don’t forget to fax.” You both know he wouldn’t.
By some universal twist of fate, that Saturday is devoid of any last minute cases. You spend the whole morning poring over the sixteen-page document that Spencer had sent over on Friday, reading through the risks—a lot of which you already know from your own research—his specific set of rules, and what he’d normally allow for a beginner. You don’t have the same perfect memory he does, but you’re sure you’ve memorized everything by the time you knock at his apartment.
“So you came,” he says, offering you a cool glass of lemonade, looking perfectly at ease as he leads you into his bedroom.
“Of course,” you say, looking around as you sip on the drink, taking it all in, “I was serious when I said prove it.” It’s dim, but nothing else is inside that rouses suspicion. It looks completely normal—a neat bed, a messy desk, haphazard piles of books—until your eyes land on the items on the dresser.
Silk ties. A paddle. Something that looks similar to a feather duster, but you assume it’s made with a different activity in mind. Your cheeks are aflame.
“You know the safe word?”
“Yes. Jupiter—you’re such a nerd, by the way.”
He laughs, taking you half finished glass and setting it down. “Do you have any objections to the terms I’d laid out? Additions?”
“I just need you to make a promise.”
“For what?”
“That this stays between us.” You face him, searching his eyes for any deceit. It’s always a risk, being a woman and engaging in anything that could be considered deviant, especially in an environment like the BAU, which is honestly a glorified boy’s club.
“You have my word. Everything that we do stays in this room.” he vows, stepping closer.
“And,” you bite your lip, “No sex, right?”
He shakes his head, “None. We’ll focus on sensations tonight, just to let you get a feel for things.”
It seems more intimate, just trusting him to tease and play with your body, but you’re glad that the boundary is set in place. Spencer seems to have gotten a lot of experience at this, and briefly, you wonder just how many other people has been in your place.
You push the thought away and smile at him. “Okay. Then that’s all on my end. I accept all your terms, and I remember the safe word.”
He hums, turning you around. Standing so closely behind you, his heat warms your back like a gentle fire. Long, elegant fingers that carry the lingering musk of old books and coffee gather your hair into a ponytail at the base of your neck. He secures it with a thin elastic, before leaning in, breath whispering goosebumps into your skin.
“Strip.”
There’s a sudden loss of heat as he steps back. You’re surprised to miss it, already, but even more surprised by his command. “What?”
“I said strip, angel.” he says, walking to your front with an expectant look on his face, “Down to your underwear.”
You sputter, looking up at him incredulously, but his face is serious. Patient, but serious.
“Do you need your safe word?”
You don’t reply, realizing that it’s begun and this is exactly what you agreed to do. To submit to him and his commands. The weight of this reality sinks in, rendering you mute and frozen, and he immediately softens.
Hands cupping your cheeks, Spencer looks at you with concern, “Hey, we can stop.”
“No,” you reply, forcefully. Stubborn pride pulsing through your veins—no way you’re stopping before you’ve even done anything, “I don’t want to stop, it’s okay. I just—okay. Strip.” you step back, nodding and muttering to yourself, “Okay, yes, I can do that.” Looking down, you fumble at the buttons of your blouse, undoing them with clumsy, unsure fingers.
He steps back to the dresser, retrieving the bundle of feathers, never averting his gaze. Wide brown eyes take you in as you lose your shirt, and then your pants, standing before him in matching lace underwear. A slow grin spreads over his lips, “You dressed up for me?”
You feel your cheeks burn, “No.”
“So you just wear expensive lace sets for no reason, even on Saturdays?”
“You don’t know what I like.”
A step closer, “I’m about to,” he says in a low, smug tone that has your breath catching, “Stay still.”
Stay still. Easy enough. Your eyes follow his movements, the way he brandishes the feathers in his hands. Your head cranes back as he circles you, and he tuts in disapproval.
“I said stay still,” he murmurs, hand cupping your jaw and adjusting your head forward.
“But—”
“But?”
“Nothing.” you squeak as you look ahead again. Your heart makes itself known, drumming in an exaggerated, hurried way that makes you want to shift. But Spencer said stay still, so you do.
A small part of you wants to scoff—why are you following Spencer Reid’s orders? This is ridiculous. Say the safe word and this would all be over. He’d never mention it to anyone else, like you both agreed earlier. You can get out, and you know for a fact that Spencer wouldn’t judge or protest.
But you don’t.
Because a larger, more significant part of you finds this whole thing incredibly hot.
Several seconds pass. Agonizingly slow. He’s drawing it out, you realize, testing how long he can get you to stay still. Or maybe he left. No, he wouldn’t—couldn’t, you’d hear his footsteps. Finally giving in, you look over your shoulder, brows knitted in confusion.
You’re met with a disapproving look and a shaking head. “Didn’t I tell you to stay still?”
“You’re taking too long,” you pout.
“That’s the second time you’ve disobeyed me, angel,” he tuts. The heat of his body envelops you as he steps into your space again, his chest pressing to your back. A hand skims over your side, warm and firm as it finds the swell of your hip, and sits there. A warning. “You know what’s going to happen when you do it thrice, don’t you?”
Your mind flashes back to the conversation and the list, the rules he laid out so painstakingly for you. Thoughtful and attentive, Spencer had made you read through pages of what he expects from this dynamic, the rules you must follow as his submissive, the punishment that will be enforced should you disobey.
Three strikes and you get spanked.
“I do,” your words drift out the most delicate breath, heart hammering even more now. “I remember.”
He hums when you are finally still. Lips land on your bare shoulder, chaste and warm, while his hand travels up your side, featherlight and teasing. They skim up your ribcage and you can’t help but gasp, fighting every cell in your body to keep from moving. Your compliance is rewarded by another satisfied hum, and then finally it touches you.
The feather.
Crawling up the back of your left thigh, soft as a whisper.
Ticklish.
“Fuck,” you gasp, jerking away from his grasp in surprise. You find yourself missing the feel of his hand on your waist before you realize your mistake.
“That’s the third.” he says, shaking his head.
“I wasn’t expecting it on my thigh!” you snap, suddenly feeling so exposed. To shield yourself, your arms cross over your shoulder defensively, voice lowering by way of apology, “I’m ticklish!”
He considers it for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed, but his eyes remain trained on you. Gauging your reaction, the same way he’d talk to a skittish witness. You find yourself shifting again, unused to being on the receiving end of such a stare. When he speaks, his voice is calm, as if he’s soothing a ruffled creature, “You’re welcome to say your safe word.”
The easy way out. But you’ve already gone this far, stripped out of your so-called armor, down to your lace underwear and allowed him to regard you in ways far too intimate for coworkers. It would be such a waste to back out now. Besides, he said the punishment would just be spanking, how bad could that be?
“No,” you reply finally, voice breaking through the silence that settled and swelled in the room, “No, I’m okay, I’ll—I’ll take the punishment, like I agreed to.”
He sits up straighter, “Are you sure?”
A gulp. “Yes.”
He pats his lap, “Come here then.”
You’ve lost count of how many times you felt warmth at your cheeks, but this feels like a wildfire has started now, smoothing over your face before spreading all over your body in an all consuming blaze. Flashes of those kinky magazines and news articles you’d rolled your eyes over flit through your mind, the models now replaced by the image of you and Spencer. He’s asking you to bend over on his lap to receive your punishment.
With a nod, you join him on the bed, your torso draping horizontally over his lap. Your legs are laid on the bed, and you hold yourself up by your elbows. From this position, he has perfect access to your ass, a large hand smoothing over one cheek.
You squirm, “Your hand’s cold.”
He laughs, “God, you never stop complaining, huh? I should add another one just for that.”
“Sorry, I can’t help it.”
He sighs, “I know. You’re doing fine, all things considered. I’ll just do three, okay? For every time you moved.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to count.”
You inhale so sharply you almost choke on nothing. That had no business being as hot as you found it. His hand is on your ass again, and you have to dig into your brain to focus and answer, “Okay.”
The first strike comes quickly, a sharp sting followed by a cool, gentle hand soothing over it. You exhale a gasp along with the word, “One.”
“Good girl.”
Jesus Christ.
Another smack, this time on the other cheek. “Two… three.”
It’s over before you know it, barely even lasting three minutes, but it’s still managed to take your every breath away. You find yourself wishing he had added another strike, just so you could feel the sharp sting again.
“Are you okay?” his voice pulls you from your reverie, hands helping you sit back up beside him, “Do you need a break? I could get you some lotion—”
You tune him out, staring as he offers different ways to soothe the stinging. His hands keep making lazy strokes up and down your arms, eyes completely focused on you. Words are flying past his lips, attempting to reach you through this haze, solutions and probably another reminder of your safe word, but all you can think about is how close he is, how pretty with his earnest brown eyes and pouty lips, but also how hot and since when was Spencer Reid hot?
A familiar sensation settles low in your belly, slickness between your thighs, and oh my god you just want to kiss him.
So you do.
His lips are soft, pausing mid sentence for just one moment, before he’s kissing you right back, open mouthed and desperate, his hand cradling the back of your head, tilting it up so his tongue can dive deeper into your mouth. You moan, kissing him back with just as much fervor, scrambling forward in an attempt to get even closer. He tastes like mint and cinnamon, the oddest combination that has you sucking on his bottom lip, eager for more.
An arm wraps around your waist, and you find yourself on his lap again—no, on his thigh. Singular, straddling it with nothing but a tiny scrap of lace and his trousers in between your skin. Two degrees of separation. You moan again, biting down hard.
“Wait,” he pulls back, breathless, thrown off, “Wait this isn’t part of the agreement.”
You laugh, “I’m sorry, I don’t really care about it right now.”
Soft brown locks tickle your jaw as he ducks his head. Lips run over your collar, moist and gentle as he speaks, “I wasn’t really prepared for this. I don’t have a condom.”
“Oh.” you seem to deflate in his arms, despite the incessant pounding in your chest, the buzzing at your fingertips.
He looks up, surveys you like a puzzle to be solved. On his thigh, with barely anything on, practically throwing yourself at him. Muscle flexes and shifts beneath you, eliciting a gasp from your lips. It moves again, just as his hands hold onto your hips and keep you in place.
Your lips fall open, “Oh.” you repeat, but this time, it’s a low, breathy moan.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you with a small smirk, “Move those hips for me, angel.”
You don’t need to be told twice, pressing down hard onto his thigh. The pressure gives your clit enough stimulation, pulling another moan from your lips. Louder this time. Loud and pretty, as his hands keep you steady, and your arms wrap around his shoulder, fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Oh god,” you gasp, staring right at him, at those intense hazel eyes that have turned nearly black. You ride his thigh shamelessly, finding a rhythm that you know will have the pleasure snapping within minutes. Paired with Spencer’s praise, the sweet kisses he’s laying on your jaw, you find yourself trembling in his arms as you rub yourself along his muscular thigh.
All of the anticipation seems to have built up to a fever pitch, his teasing, the spanking, it all floods back until your orgasm hits you like lightning. Razor sharp, every nerve of your body seems to sing and tremble from pleasure as Spencer keeps his thigh gently moving, helping you come down from your high.
“Fuck,” you whisper, burying your face into his neck.
He laughs, wrapping his arms tightly around you, “Are you okay?”
“Better than okay.”
Slender fingers card through the back of your head, tangles into your hair, “You did really well. We went a little off script, but it seems like you found it pleasurable, which is always the goal.”
Pleasurable is the understatement of the century, but your only response is a breathless chuckle. At the moment, that’s all you’re capable of.
“Okay,” you whisper into his neck, losing all ability to extricate yourself from him. He doesn’t seem to mind though, his hold on you just as tight, free hand rubbing warm circles over your bare back. “Okay, you’ve proved your point. You seriously are a dom.”
“Mhm.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“What? You can’t believe it? I literally just gave you one of the most hands on demonstrations anyone could ask for.” he says with a laugh. It rumbles through his chest, and the feeling makes something in your stomach clench pleasantly.
You lift your head, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes flash with mischief when you reply, “I don’t know, I might need another one to fully understand it.”
He smiles back, wide and catlike, “Well then, I think that calls for an encore.”
Thank you for reading!!! also if you could give me some encouragement for my thesis that’d be much appreciated i’d give you so much brain kisses MUAH.
The day that people accept that Frank Zhang is more than just an insecure but strong softie is the day I rest because WHY does nobody remember little vro being canonically pessimistic as fuck. Even if he didn't say half the things he thought (which he most certainly did), the guy was absolutely the mayor of frown town at times.
What do you mean you never realized he was bitter and resentful outside of Leo? You missed the part where he started acting out after his mother died? HE SHATTERED HIS GRANDMA'S FINE CHINA DAWG. Brochacho constantly got frustrated by how perfect Percy was. He was pissed when Hazel held hands with Leo. HE CHOKESLAMED CALIGULA?? THAT TRIP GUY? He definitely CONSIDERED beating the shit out of Nico when be couldn't heal her. WIPED OUT A FLEET OF THOSE POISON SPEWING COWS?? he set himself on FIRE. That man can turn himself into a dragon, a swarm of bees, and fuck knows what else. A praetor with Mar's ability to control the dead.
OBVIOUSLY Frank is a gentle guy, but it's BECAUSE he's GROWN to be emotionally mature enough to deal with most of those emotions. That dude had Ares AND Mars telling him to beat the shit out of fuck ass da grease ball. HE SHOVED A SOCK IN A GODDESSES MOUTH, HIS OWN DAMN SOCK.
I need more angsty Frank that isn't just him hating his body or Leo. Those were just the tip of the iceberg for a whole mother load of issues.
Percy's the son of a sea god, right? So it'd make sense for him to be able to make any water he can reach with his powers become salty. But here's the thing: this ability isn't just theoretically powerful, it's downright cruel.
You can't drink saltwater. And if you were to theoretically sprinkle it over the land, that would devastate any natural fertility that land would have, preventing future generations from harvesting food, and wrecking the natural ecosystem, possibly harming nature spirits like dryads and satyrs.
And what if he targeted important water sources directly? New wells would have to be dug, if possible, if the sources he targeted didn't leak over into others (which he could cause with earthquakes). Or what if he just targeted the water in your body? Fuck dying by having all your water being drawn out you, your body is now full of seawater, and you are screwed.
So yeah. Water salination. Combine it with water manipulation and natural disaster related powers, and you get a pretty scary Percy.
SUMMARY ⋮ ⌗ ┆Your father calls you mid-shift to make you feel how he always does: Like he couldn’t care less about his only daughter. You try to push through and keep your head up, be the lovergirl everyone knows you as, but you can’t help but crumble, because all you want is to be enough for your father. Special to him.
Who’d show you just how special you really are but the day shift attending?
PAIRING ⋮ ⌗ ┆grumpy!michael robinavitch x sunshine!reader
CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ ⌗ ┆18+ SMUT AHEAD. MDNI. age gap (r! is in her 20’s, robby’s in his 40’s), r! is heavily implied to have anxiety. panic attacks. hurt comfort. r! is sort of a social worker but also a doctor. medical inaccuracies. other pitt characters featured. #alsomadeupcharactersfortheplot. small description of patient fall and sustained head injury. brief mention of blood. r’s father’s a deadbeat. briefly established backstory ⤷ ゛ ˎˊ˗ dom!robby. sub!reader. afab!reader. quick escalation. big dick robby. . .unprotected piv sex. tummy bulge. praise. cunnilingus (r!receiving). fingering (r!receiving). major daddy kink. two uses of little girl. slight fauxcest? (if you want to read it that way). pussydrunk!robby. use of pet names (kiddo, kid, sweetheart, babygirl, and honey are all used). palming. brief handjob. kissing. creampie. slight breeding kink.
WORD COUNT ⋮ ⌗ ┆ 6.7k
LYNNIE'S TEA ⋮ ⌗ ┆☕︎ started this on a plane ride and did not expect it to go as far as it did. . .everybody thank my own paternal issues for this one. . .i’m also not 100% i like this buuut hopefully someone else does ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა
ּ֯ . ❥ ּ֯ ┆꒰ I'D RUN AWAY .ᐟ ꒱
AND HIDE WITH YOU.
“I NEED EXTRA HANDS in Trauma 2,” boomed the unmistakable sound of Dana’s voice across the ER. “Where the fuck’s our lovergirl?”
That was usually your cue, but you didn’t catch it at first. If you had, you’d’ve probably bolted the other way, extending your already too long break that’d went from a five minute call to a fifteen minute panic attack. One more stressor and you’d be down for fucking the count.
“Right here,” you said with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, approaching the center desk. Too late to back out now. “What’s the case?”
“Six-year-old fell from her treehouse. Robby’s already in there,” said Dana. She gave you a quick once over, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Y’okay, hun?”
You blinked back tears at the genuineness of her tone. “Yeah. Fine. I’m on the case,” you said with a nod and a tight smile. Not too obvious, nor too shallow.
This was your poker face. This, you had to be good at. Because with even half the things you went through on the daily, it’d be foolish not to have mastered it.
You felt like an idiot for letting your father make you feel this way. For giving him so much leverage over your outlook on life. The people around you thought you loved wholeheartedly because you’d learned it from someone else, but the reality was far more complicated than that.
You loved the way you did not because of someone you knew, but someone you wanted to. Someone who loved like the word had no limits, like the way you did.
Your father was incapable of such treatment. When you left Boston for Pittsburgh years prior, he barely bat an eye. Just wished you well and asked you come back for the holidays, but never complained when you didn’t. Never cared that you didn’t. The man hardly cared about you, period.
And so he calls sometimes. Tries to be a father. Tells you he’s thinking of you, but it always feels like you’re a check on a to-do list. An afterthought. Like talking to you is an obligation, a thing he does because he has to, not because he wants to.
He’d called you in the breakroom the minute you got the door closed. You’d forgotten about the juice you were about to indulge in before answering the phone, wondering what he wanted. The man had promptly asked for help with the bills, and you being the angel you were, unable to ignore someone in need, no matter how salty, sent it without complaints. He hadn’t even told you he loved you when he hung up. Just told you this is what your responsibility was as a daughter now. He’d taken care of you, nurtured you after your mother had left. So you should be thanking him.
Man, you thought. Your old man had a twisted sense of family.
That call had you questioning your own validity. What had you done to deserve the loneliness you’d accumulated? To have a father who used you like an ATM? Friends who knew you but didn’t see you? It felt like the world was on your shoulders, too heavy for one person to carry, especially for someone so young.
The last place you wanted to be carrying all these feelings was the PTMC. But life didn’t stop just because you were having a go at it. So neither could you.
You all but sprinted to Trauma 2, not ready to get back to work, but at least able. Eleven in the morning was early for a fall out of a treehouse, and you’d hate to be the little girl who’d taken the damage, so you made quick work of your feet, willing them ahead until you arrived.
At the bedside were Doctors Santos and Garcia, as well as Langdon, Javadi, and your attending, Doctor Robby. Behind Santos and Garcia were the parents of the children who were in inconsolable tears, being comforted to no avail by Doctor Javadi.
“Still no consciousness,” said Santos with her lip between her teeth, her hands working quickly at the bleeding gash across the little girl’s forehead.
“How high’s this fucking treehouse?” said Garcia, ever the blunt one. You shook your head.
“Garcia,” you chided, because that was often your role. Keeping the flow of empathy in a room at any given time alive. Especially when that room contained people in dire need of it.
“Am I happy to see you,” said Robby. He excused himself from the bedside while the other doctors worked, handing you a chart. “Talk to the family before you jump on. Girl’s named Hailey, mom and dad are Janet and Carl Atkins. You know the drill, yeah?”
“Yes. Yes, of course, Robby,” you said with a nod. You tapped your fingers against the cardboard of the chart as you read its contents, like that’d somehow snap you back into doctor mode.
It’s the thought that counts, right?
“You’re an angel,” Robby said.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Atkins,” you said when you approached the parents, introducing yourself. “Why don’t we take a step outside?”
“We’re not leaving our daughter,” said Mrs. Atkins, who was still in tears.
“I understand your pain, Mrs. Atkins, but these doctors are doing everything to care for your little girl. Soon, that’ll mean lots of blood and sights you won’t want to remember of her. I promise you can come back in as soon as they’re finished.”
Mrs. Atkins, Janet, looked at her husband with teary eyes. He nodded and turned to you. You took that as your cue to lead them out of the room. Robby nodded as you made your exit with the parents.
“What happened this morning?” you asked gently, keeping any accusation out of your voice. You knew from experience that families of patients never responded well to that.
“H- Hailey wanted to play outside. It was beautiful out. We went into our backyard after breakfast, a- and Carl and I were having a bit of coffee after helping her into her treehouse. She’s a smart girl, so I thought—“ Janet stopped her sentence short to heave a sob. Carl rubbed her back.
“You thought you could trust her, like all parents do,” you finished. “She’s six. Still small, but she’s learning about the world in her own way, and you want to let her. There isn’t anything wrong with that. Then, what?”
“We didn’t even see her get out. Usually she stays inside and calls for one of us when she’s ready to come down. But this time, I guess she thought she could do it on her own,” Carl said. “She’d just hit the ground when we ran over. And we called 911.”
“I see. It’s to my understanding that Hailey’s very lucky,” you said after taking a good look at the chart. “No noticeable fractures, minimal chance of long-term brain damage. The worst she should walk away with is a concussion and a sprained ankle, but apart from that and her visible wounds, she should be back to health in no time,” you said.
“Then why is she not waking up?” said Janet.
“Her age and nature of the impact are likely to blame for her unconsciousness. Falling hard on your back is generally more dangerous, especially for teenagers and children. That doesn’t mean her injuries are severe,” you said calmly. “Hailey’s your only child?”
Janet nodded. “She’s the best little girl in the world. She was everything we prayed for.”
“Your love for her is palpable. You’re first time parents who are navigating the ups and downs of what it takes to raise a child. Mistakes don’t negate your progress. There’s no benefit in being hard on yourselves,” you said. “This wasn’t your fault. Children are naturally curious and occasionally unpredictable. That doesn’t mean you’re to blame for what happened today. The most you can do now is be there for Hailey. That’s all you can do.”
Janet sniffled, moved by your words. That was just the effect you had on people.
Most people, anyway.
It was your job at the PTMC to provide comfort to families in time of need, as well as finding balance in being a good doctor all the same. But it occurred to you more often than not that you had yet to acquire that same balance in your personal life.
As per usual, that wasn’t the matter at hand right now.
The other woman took your hand in hers and squeezed. You squeezed back.
“Thank you. You’re a great doctor,” she said.
You smiled. “No, thank you. Now, why don’t you two take a seat over here? I’ll come back out with any updates on Hailey.”
After the parents sat on a bench outside Trauma 2, you braced yourself and went back in. Robby eyed you as you returned.
“Worked your magic out there, kiddo?”
You gave that same fabricated smile you’d offered Dina not too long prior and nodded, grabbing a pair of sterile gloves. “Sure did.”
He didn’t have to know that was just more of your magic.
After half an hour or so, Garcia finally threw her hands up, exhaling a sigh of relief. “My services are no longer required.”
You’d been helping keep Hailey stabilized beside Robby, while Santos had been next to Garcia. Javadi and Langdon had since left to handle another case. You checked the monitor to view the girl’s heart rate and blood pressure and nodded your agreement.
“All set. Thanks for your help,” you said.
“Sure thing. Call if you need the jazz hands again,” Garcia said before heading off.
“Good work, you two. Couple hours and she should be waking up,” said Robby.
“Great. I’ll give the parents the good news,” you said.
You discarded your gloves and put some hand sanitizer on before turning to face the parents who were still seated outside Trauma 2. They both stood up with urgency, looking frantic at your return.
“How is she?” said Janet.
You smiled. “Little Hailey’s going to pull through. She’s still unconscious, but we’ve completely stabilized her and she should incur no lasting brain damage from this incident. She’ll wake in a few hours.”
Janet threw her arms around you, and you responded with a little “Oh!” before reciprocating the hug.
“Thank you so much,” Janet said.
“Can we see her?” said Carl.
“Of course. Right this way.”
You led the way back into the room, where Robby was still standing opposite Santos. The latter backed away to allow the parents room to see their child.
“Thank you, Dr. Robby,” said Carl.
“You’re very welcome,” said Robby.
The two of them sat at their daughter’s bedside. Carl instantly grabbed Hailey’s hand, squeezing gently.
“We’re so sorry, honey,” Janet whispered in a quiet sob.
“Daddy loves you so much, Hailey,” Carl sniffled beside his wife. “We’ll never let anything like this happen again. I promise.”
I promise.
At the little declaration, you felt your throat tighten with a weird feeling. It felt like plain sadness at first, salt on the wound after your interaction with your own father. But it was more than that. Deeper.
It felt like fucking jealousy.
Tears filled your eyes and threatened to spill at the scene as Carl whispered all the ways he loved his daughter. The promises to take care of her. The dedication to doing better. All things you wish your father could do for you.
It was too much.
“Um, if you’ll excuse me,” you said with your fake smile, though you weren’t sure how convincing it was now that it was paired with teary eyes and a broken voice. You practically sprinted out of there subsequently, and didn’t stop until you reached the breakroom.
You slammed the door closed behind you and went for the sink. Everybody was busy with their own cases—it was just one of those kinds of days—so there was no one around to see you break down for a second time that shift. While it didn’t necessarily feel good to be alone, you weren’t sure you wanted anyone to see you like this.
Splashing water on your face was futile for your nerves. The sobs you heaved that came from the innermost parts of you were so much more than tears. It felt like all the things your father had said to you since he created you, the words or lack thereof that you’d tried and now failed to suppress, were bubbling to the goddamn surface.
You were in the middle of pressing your thumb to your palm, a trick for anxiety you’d heard from Dr. Collins, when the sound of the break room door opening snapped you out of your thoughts. You took a large breath and didn’t immediately turn around, because you couldn’t give yourself away, couldn’t be vulnerable. Not on a day like this. Maybe not fucking ever.
You thought so, anyway, until the sound of Robby softly saying your name made your resolve crack in two.
“Y- Yeah?” you said without facing him.
“You alright? You kind of ran out of there,” he said. You could hear him coming closer.
“Oh, yeah, j- just needed a glass of water. Dehydrated,” you lied.
“Hydration is important,” he humored you. Yet his tone of voice gave way to the fact that you were a terrible liar. “But I’m not convinced that’s what this is.”
Fuck.
Tears spilled from your eyes. You still didn’t turn around, but when you felt your throat constricting again, your breath picking up speed, you realized it didn’t matter if Robby could see you or not. Your body language was going to betray you.
“I just need a m- minute,” you said, and that did him in. Your body started to shake with a familiar force, one nobody knew you dealt with on a daily basis.
A panic attack.
“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” Robby said as your legs started to fail you. He didn’t say anything about the mascara that was probably coming down your cheeks, or the blatant redness in your eyes when you finally turned around. Instead, he sat you down in one of the chairs in the breakroom, rubbing your back. “Head between your legs.”
You did as told. This tactic did sometimes work for you. But it wasn’t enough to stop your heaving sobs or uncontrollable breathing.
“Come on, s’okay, in through your nose, out through your mouth,” Robby said. “It’s not forever. S’all temporary, s’all temporary. Come on, kiddo, breathe with me.”
Robby’s words felt like honey. But even the sweetest of candies can’t overpower the taste of salt.
It wasn’t Robby’s fault. Robby didn’t know. He didn’t know much about your life beyond the city you’d come from or who you are now. No one did.
But that was just the thing. Even without truly, truly knowing you, Robby still wanted to help. That was more than your own father could ever say.
“It’s going to be okay,” Robby said finally. “Breathe with me.”
Every word had your nervous system slowly regulating again, and you tried to listen to the sound of his voice. After a few minutes of crying and shaky breaths, the world started to come back into focus.
“That’s a girl, just breathe. Breathe with me,” Robby hummed. “Let me get you some water.”
You felt the aftermath of your panic attack starting to hit the moment Robby returned with a glass of water. You drank it down in one quick gulp as your breath finally slowed back to normal pace.
“I’m. . .sorry you had to see that, I—“
“Don’t apologize. It happens to the best of us,” Robby said. You’d never seen the older man look so concerned. His eyebrows were wrinkled with worry, and there was a frown pasted on his lips.
After a beat, Robby spoke up again. “Did you. . .wanna talk about it?”
You shrugged, looking away. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry.”
You shook your head and let out a bitter laugh. You’d tell anyone else the same thing, but you felt stupid for feeling the way you did about a man you’d known for a long time would never change. The stupid thing was holding out hope that he would.
“My dad called me. Just before I hopped on that case,” you said shakily. “He didn’t even ask how I was or what I was doing. He. . .he needed money f- for his bills. So I just sent it without thinking twice. He didn’t even tell me he loved me or anything before he hung up. Just told me this was my responsibility now. So that little girl. . .her father caring so much,” you sniffled. “Just felt like salt to the wound.”
You looked away from Robby completely now, turning your head to the side. “It’s dumb, right? I’m in my mid twenties and I’m still getting hurt by the man when he’s always been this way. Anyone else would have given up by now, but not me.”
“Now, that’s not entirely true,” Robby said sharply. “You need your father today as much as you did when you were born. Your age doesn’t have anything to do with it, kid. And if he can’t show up like he’s supposed to, that’s on him.”
Robby tilted your face to meet his and caught your eyes. “He has no idea what he’s missing.”
You sniffled at the sweet reassurance, leaning your cheek into his palm.
“You’re sure you’re fit to stay?” Robby asked, stroking your cheek.
You almost thought you’d misheard him. There was a loudly spoken rule about all hands on deck at this hospital. Confusedly, you returned, “It’s been crazy in here today. Don’t you guys need me?”
Robby shrugged. “We have the staff, for once. If you’re not 100%, we’ll be okay if you need to leave. Seems like you need to relax, and this place is definitely not helping with that.”
You giggled at that. “Yeah, probably not,” you agreed. Your smile then faded. “But it’s alright. I took the bus here and with midday traffic, who knows how long I’ll be waiting, anyway,” you sniffled.
“That’s true. And you can stay if you want,” Robby said as he stood up. “Or I can bring you home.”
You looked up at him confusedly. “Bring me home? But, Robby, you—“
“—Jack wanted to come in early,” Robby said. “S’no problem.”
The offer made your heart ache. “You’re sure?”
Robby gave you a small smile. “Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”
That’s what wound you in the passenger seat of Robby’s truck the second Jack walked into the ER. He opened the door for you and buckled you in before getting into the driver’s side, putting the keys into the ignition.
“I’m sorry I’m making you do this,” you said with a small voice, leaning your head against the window. Even after his reassurance, you still felt guilty for pulling him away from work. “You have a job to do.”
“You’re not making me do anything. And Jack’s a good doctor. He’s got it under control,” Robby said. “How far are you?”
“I’m a little far. It’s about a half hour commute,” you replied. “You really don’t have to bring me, Robby.”
“How about we go to my place instead? It’s closer. You’ll want to decompress sooner rather than later, I imagine.”
You nod. “Okay,” you replied. Robby did the same and began to drive.
Your hands were still restless from the aftermath of your attacks. You leaned your head back against the leather seat, closing your eyes while shaky breaths left your lips. Robby didn’t say anything until he heard you hiccup another sob. He’d stopped at a red light and turned to look at you.
“Sweetheart? You okay?”
You cringed at the whimper that left your lips. “I don’t know.”
“Hey,” Robby said. He reached over and looped his fingers through yours, squeezing your hand to reassure you. “Don’t think about him. It’s not doing you any good. Put the window down, kiddo. That’ll help.”
You did as told, putting the window down ever so slightly. You used Robby’s hand like a lifeline while he drove, and not once did he let go.
Leaving the Pitt made you realize instantly how drastically it was affecting you. You had your anxiety under control most days, but it was easy for anybody to snap in a place like that. Now that you were here, you didn’t feel so frenzied. How Robby could run the show on a daily basis like he did, you had no idea.
The drive was mostly silent, save for the wind from your window and the low hum of the radio. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, not with Robby’s hand in your lap and intertwined with your own, grounding you throughout the trip.
He pulled up to a family home about fifteen minutes later. It was a beautiful place with flowers out front and two stories. Robby opened your door for you as you got out, and smiled when you immediately slotted your hand through his again.
“Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you inside,” Robby said.
You followed behind him and watched him unlock the door, letting you inside before following. You took the place in, shockingly neat for your sarcastic attending, while he slipped his shoes off at the door.
“You can shower upstairs if you want. I can give you some clothes to change into,” Robby said. “Are you hungry?”
“I don’t think I’m ready to eat yet. But thank you, Robby. A shower would be nice,” you said.
“Okay, sweetheart. Come on, you can have your pick of my closet.”
You followed Robby upstairs, taking in the various picture frames that lined the walls of the staircase. Most were with Jack or your other coworkers in group pictures. You were even in some of these.
Robby opened the door to his large room, his bed messy with strewn pillows and scattered books on the nightstand. There were some clothes on the floor and Robby grimaced as he retrieved them.
“Sorry about the mess. Don’t ever have company,” Robby said. “You can look through my dresser.”
“Don’t be sorry,” you said as you approached it. You went through his drawers and picked out an old band tee and baggy sweatpants. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll get you a towel.”
After Robby did so, you took the shower you’d been in desperate need of, hoping the cold water would cleanse your nerves. They still felt incredibly frayed even after leaving work, and part of you was still in panic mode.
Most of it was just plain sadness.
When you came out of the bathroom, Robby was sitting on the edge of the bed, which was now neatly made. He perked up when he saw you, standing up and pulling the covers back. “You didn’t like the sweatpants?”
You shook your head. The tee was long enough to cover the bareness underneath it, and your body temperature wasn’t regulated enough for pants yet. “No. I’m hot,” you said, folding the pants neatly back into the dresser.
“I see,” Robby said. “Feeling better?”
You shrugged, approaching the bed and settling in. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” you said meekly.
“I don’t. But I want to,” Robby said. He tucked you in and turned the TV in the room on, handing you the remote. “I’ve got a few streaming platforms. Watch whatever you’d like. Let me know when you’re ready to eat.”
With that, Robby turned to leave the room, evidently wanting to give you your space, but before he could, you sat back up in bed. “Robby?”
Robby turned to look at you with a foot out of the door. “Yeah, kiddo?”
“Stay? Please, don’t. . .don’t go.”
Robby looked slightly startled by the request, but his expression shifted back into a smile just as quickly. He closed the door and joined you in bed, laying down over the covers. “Whatever you need.”
You turned the TV on and pretended to be interested in the channels, but even entertainment couldn’t do its part in distracting you. You flipped a random movie on before turning to Robby, laying on your side.
Robby rubbed your forehead, then stroked your hair with such care that you thought you might cry all over again. Maybe you would. “Comfortable, kiddo?” he asked.
You nuzzled into his touch, scooting closer. “Mhm. Thank you, Robby.”
“You’re welcome,” Robby said. “You let me know if you need anything, yeah?”
That simple comment worked you right up again, tears brimming in your eyes. All this sweetness from your somewhat gruff attending, the one who’d tucked you in after taking you home and giving you his clothes, no less, had you wondering how hard it really was for your father to do the same.
“Oh, honey,” Robby said as you broke down all over again. “Come here, baby.”
You followed the instruction of Robby patting his lap, sitting up and settling into it. You buried your face into his neck while he held you, cradling you like you were a baby. The gesture made you sob harder as he soothed you, rubbing your back tenderly while he shushed away your tears.
“Your father doesn’t deserve you. You’re too sweet to feel so neglected by him,” Robby said.
“Wh- What’s wrong with me? I just want him to care and somehow I feel like an asshole, because all I do is beg for the man to love me.”
“That doesn’t make you an asshole. It’s normal to want your father. Even more normal when he’s mostly absent.”
“I just want to be enough.”
“You are enough. More than enough,” Robby reassured you.
You pulled back to look at Robby, tears swimming in your eyes. “You’d. . .you’d take care of me, right?” you said without thinking. “If I was your daughter? You wouldn’t let me go?”
Robby smoothed his thumb over your cheek. “No, baby. I wouldn't ever let you go.”
You moved impossibly closer to Robby at the reassurance, now sitting up with your thighs on either side of his legs. He had a hand on your waist, the other coming up to cradle your cheek as he watched you stare.
“What is it, kiddo?” he said softly.
“I. . .I want. . .” you whimpered, bottom lip between your teeth. You of all people knew how unprofessional this position alone was, with your attending, no less, but you were craving more. Comfort. Touch. Love. All things Robby was willing to give you. All things your father never had.
Before you could overthink it, and before your brain could even process what you were doing, for that matter, you leaned slightly forward in Robby’s lap so that your lips ghosted over his. You pressed your hands to his chest in a silent plea, hitting him with those sweet eyes he’d known and admired since you joined PTMC.
But it was different now.
“Please?” you whispered.
“Sweetheart,” Robby huffed. He held his hand on the small of your back and left it there, making no effort to pull you closer or push you away. “We shouldn’t. Hell, I shouldn’t. Shouldn’t even be holding you like this.”
“I know, Robby, but. . .please, I won’t say anything. No one will ever know, I just. . .” you trailed off.
Too late to back out now.
“Make me forget. Forget him, forget everything,” you said. Your fingers dug into his shirt, another wordless beg for more. “Please.”
Robby stared at you for a few long seconds, the silence louder than the sobs you’d heaved earlier in the breakroom. Your head was spinning from said tears, and it occurred to you that you should go home, lay in bed, pretend this never happened—
Until Robby cupped your cheek with a gentleness you’d hardly known he possessed, and pulled you in for a kiss.
The kiss was electric despite its initial slowness. He was soft with you like he was afraid to break you, as if you needed to be handled with fragility. Except when aggression is all you know, it’s natural to exert—which is why you push your tongue past his lips and wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.
Robby understands instantly and settles a hand on your hip, the other finding its way to your neck. He holds but doesn’t squeeze, again, like you’re too soft to be handled in such a fashion, and works his lips against yours ravenously. You can already feel the hardness of his cock below you and it has you embarrassingly soaked.
“That what you needed, baby?” Robby said with a small smile, cupping your face as he said it. You shook your head, to which he replied, “Oh, no? Then, what?”
You let your hand drift downwards before you could think twice about it, rubbing the aching bulge in his pants with shaking fingers.
“Fuck, honey,” Robby groaned. “Big girl words.”
“I. . .I want your cock, Robby,” you whined.
“That right?”
“M- Mhm, please,” you managed through a few more rubs. Then, the cherry on top to completely seal the deal—
“Please, Daddy.”
He’d said to use your words, right?
“Shit,” was all Robby said. His pupils were completely blown at the name, but the disgust you half expected to see when you looked at him wasn’t there. No, when you looked at him, he held a different expression entirely.
And it looked a lot like lust.
“Y’want me to be your daddy, huh? Guess you really meant you wanted to forget,” Robby hummed like it was a normal Tuesday, and you hadn’t just asked your attending of all the people to play the part. Luckily, for you, Robby was happy to oblige—evidently so, as he yanked you closer by the waist, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth.
“S’okay, sweetheart. I can be his replacement.”
With that, Robby flipped you onto your back and pinned you underneath him with his body, using a hand to prop himself up. You continued to rub at the bulge in his scrubs, only now, you’d begun to tug them down, already ready for more.
Robby followed your lead and released his hardened cock from his jeans, the tip aching and bright. You tried not to think too hard about how the hell that’d fit inside you as you started to stroke him carefully.
“Let me take care of you, Daddy,” you said. “After everything you did today.”
“You’re such a sweet girl, honey,” Robby said through a grunt. “But I’m afraid that’s your Daddy’s job, now, isn’t it?”
The sentiment made your cheeks flare, and you simply nodded.
“Good girl,” Robby cooed. He slowly tucked his dick back into his pants. Confusion filled your face until he started to lift your shirt—his shirt—up so that your skin was exposed to him. He smirked at the sight of you without panties on.
“Someone was ready,” he teased. He tucked his dick back into his pants and pressed featherlight pecks to your belly, then started his descent down your body, starting with your inner thighs. He kissed and sucked at the skin there which had you squirming instantaneously, watching your every move to gauge how you were feeling.
“This okay?” he asked. You nodded.
Robby did the same and continued his ministrations. When he finally locked eyes with your pussy, a little sigh left his lips at the sight of your wetness. “Fuck, honey. You’re soaked.”
“Couldn’t h- help it, Robby. Need you.”
“Ah-ah, that’s not my name,” Robby chided with a sharp bite to your inner thigh. “You wanna try again?”
“I need you, Daddy,” you corrected.
“Much better, sweetheart,” Robby said. With that, he finally licked his first stripe up your pussy, groaning at the taste of you. He started slowly to watch your reactions, tonguing your puffy clit in steady circles while his fingers joined the ministrations, entering your aching hole.
Robby alternated between licking your clit and diving between your folds, but whether that was more for you or him was unclear. He was completely drunk on your pussy, and paired with the sound of your pleasured noises, he was eating you up like a man starved.
“Fuck, babygirl, your pussy’s perfect. You’re perfect,” Robby grunted, driving his fingers inside you. You arched back with a particularly loud moan, the new nickname making you dizzy.
“F- Feels so g- good, Daddy,” you moaned. Robby smirked.
“Yeah? S’your Daddy making you feel good, kiddo?” he grunted between your folds, though it felt like he was talking more to your pussy then to you. “You deserve it, honey. My girl deserves to feel so good.”
He lifted your legs above his shoulders so he could dive deeper into your cunt, and you gasped at the change in position, his face almost completely blocked by your own body.
“D- Daddy, can you even breathe like that?” you asked worriedly.
Robby chuckled against your cunt, the sound vibrating between your legs. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. Just focus on feeling good.”
With that, he started to eat you out again, only this time, it felt completely different. This time, with his hands wrapped around your thighs and your knees hooked over his shoulders, there was no limit to what Robby could do to you. His tongue entered your hole this time while his big nose rubbed against your clit, and you were convinced you were seeing stars.
“Fuck, D- Daddy, m’gonna—!” you moaned loudly, bucking your hips into the heat of his mouth. You were grinding against his face shamelessly now. Thankfully for you, Robby didn’t seem to mind.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go, Daddy’s got you,” Robby cooed before flicking his tongue against your clit, and not letting up until you were practically exploding against his face, coming with a loud cry.
Robby eased you through your orgasm with small licks against your sensitive clit. When the feeling became overstimulating, he switched gears and pressed kisses to your inner thighs, peppering them in a gentle path up your abdomen soon afterwards. He continued until he was hovering you again, and you took the opportunity to press your lips against his.
You tasted yourself on his mouth and felt your wetness from his beard, both facts working you up even so soon after your last orgasm. You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he immediately caught on.
“Needy little girl. So eager to cum again, huh?” Robby said, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You nodded, to which Robby chided, “None of that, babygirl. You tell Daddy what you want.”
“Want you inside me, Daddy. Want your cock,” you managed through shaky breaths, bucking your hips against his for emphasis. “Please.”
“You sound so sweet when you use your words, honey,” Robby cooed. For the second time, he freed himself, only this time he was visibly more hard. The tip of his cock was an angry red and dribbling bouts of pre-cum, and, fuck, did he look so much fuller than before. You gasped as he ran his head between your folds.
“You’re sure you want this, sweetheart? Absolutely positive?”
“Yes, Daddy, m’sure. I want you so bad. Please.”
Robby didn’t need another word before he was thrusting inside you completely, filling you to the brim.
You’d thought he was big before, but this stretch was completely different. There was a visible bulge where your bodies were conjoined which became more prominent with every little thrust into your pussy. Robby watched, utterly transfixed, at the sight of his large cock causing such an imprint on your skin.
“Y’okay?” Robby grunted. He had one hand on your belly and the other next to your head.
“M- Mhm. You’re so big,” you huffed.
Robby chuckled. “Hope that’s a good thing, sweetheart.”
“I- It is, I—oh!” you were cut off by the feeling of Robby’s hips snapping against yours, trying to find his pace. His stamina isn’t exactly what it used to be, but he’ll be damned if he leaves this room without making you feel good.
“Too much, kiddo?”
“N- No, not at all.”
“Good,” Robby said. He kept a steady albeit rough pace, reaching the deepest parts of you. It wasn’t your first time having sex, but it was with a man who was set on really taking care of you and not chasing his own pleasure. The thought made it feel all the more better.
You pulled Robby in for a kiss he answered gladly. As your tongues pushed against each other, his hips rocked even harder, driving his thick cock into your spongy walls. He was starting to hit the part of you that made you see stars, and you weren’t doing a good job of hiding it.
“That’s it, babygirl. That feel good?” Robby grunted against your lips.
“M- Mhm, y- you’re s- so good, Robby. Feel so good,” you said.
Robby chuckled and decided to let the use of his name slide, deciding you were probably too fucked-out to even remember your own right now. “You feel good, too, sweetheart. You’re so pretty like this,” he praised.
It was only a few minutes before Robby’s steady pace was replaced with a stronger one, as much faster as it was rougher. At the blown look of your pupils, he figured as much that this was what you wanted, what you needed, and he was right.
His cock was driving so far into you that it felt like he was in your throat. Every push had your back arching off the bed, unable to make any noise beyond a few broken whimpers and moans.
“That’s it, sweet girl. I got you, I got you,” Robby said gently, a stark contrast to the way his dick was bullying into your pussy.
“You—fuck—you promise, Daddy?”
“I promise, honey. M’never letting you go, alright? Never,” Robby assured. Despite the pace, his words had your heart lurching, and you almost got emotional all over again.
“Robby,” you gasped. “I’m g- getting there again. Close.”
“S’okay, kiddo. Your Daddy wants you to feel good,” he groaned. He wasn’t so much looking for his pleasure as he was trying to give you yours. “What do you need?”
Easy.
“Just don’t stop,” you said.
And Robby didn’t. He pressed kisses down your neck and sucked hickeys into your skin while he fucked you hard and fast, setting an absolutely lethal pace. The same pressure from earlier when you’d cum in his mouth was starting to return, and you were seconds away from your second orgasm.
“Cum with me, Daddy, please, please, I wanna feel you,” you begged, framing his cheeks with your hands. Robby had his on either side of your head while he smirked down at you.
“Yeah, you want my cum, baby? Want me filling your pretty pussy with my load?”
You nodded quickly, pulling him in for another kiss. “Yes, please. S’all I want.”
“That’s what you’ll get,” Robby said.
He didn’t stop until you were right on the edge, and when you were, he kissed you through it, rocking his hips into your pelvis and driving his dick hard into your cunt while your second orgasm crashed over you. You clenched hard around his cock as he spilled into you, securing your legs even tighter around his waist so that every drop stayed inside.
Robby got the message and gave a few last thrusts that stirred his cum deep inside you. When he pulled out, small ropes of white dribbled out of your hole and stained the bed, while the rest of it remained nestled within you.
“Who knew my little girl could be so dirty?” Robby teased, kissing your cheek.
You giggled. “It takes two, you know.”
“Fair enough,” Robby chuckled. “I’m going to get a towel, honey. Get you cleaned up.”
As he made his move to leave, however, you tugged his arm. Robby was at the edge of the bed. “Robby, w- wait.”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Did you. . .mean it? When you said you’d. . .never let me go?” you asked. “That you’d be his replacement?”
Robby smiled at you and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, nodding. “Yeah, sweetheart. I meant every word.”
shes trouble disguised beneath silk, gloss and lots of shiny things. high maintenance and a sharp tongue for flirting. hes smart enough to know it — and hopeless enough not to care.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ meet the bombshell!
here is where you can find everything about bombshell!reader and her universe!
it’s an interconnected universe where one can choose to read the parts as standalones (unless specified) | timeline starts around season 3
⋆.𐙚 ̊ categories
৻ꪆ fluff | 𖦹 angst | ⟢ smut
signed in lipstick | ৻ꪆ
⤷ a dazzling new face struts into the BAU, mistaken for everything you aren't—until you shatters expectations, cracks patterns no one else can, and leave the team reeling in your wake-- specifically a fellow genuis.
where the seams give way | ৻ꪆ 𖦹
⤷ called back to the BAU for a case in miami, you slip past assumptions and into the team’s circle—your sharp edges giving way to a surprising softness that even spencer reid can’t ignore.
the sweetest victory | ৻ꪆ
⤷ in the quiet bullpen, a debate over something as small as coffee turns into playful sparring between you and spencer with stolen glances, pink ears, and a victory that tastes sweeter than caffeine.
catalogued | ৻ꪆ
⤷ over drinks with the team, you stumble into unexpected territory when you realize spencer remembered a subtle detail about you—and, with one nervous smile, he leaves you wondering if he actually just flirted with you.
with sugar and black coffee | ৻ꪆ
⤷ on a brutal day of overstimulation and frayed nerves at, a sharp snap at spencer leaves you drowning in immediate regret.
needle and thread | ৻ꪆ 𖦹
⤷ after a near-fatal encounter on the field, you wake to find spencer at your bedside—shaken, unguarded, and revealing a side of himself you never expected. between confessions, defenses, and a nickname spoken too softly, the line between armor and intimacy begins to blur.
freezing point | ৻ꪆ
⤷ a freezing night at the bau. arms full, heels deadly, and no coat. when you’re one step from disaster, spencer appears with quiet help and unexpected warmth.
margins of you | ৻ꪆ
⤷ a birthday dinner lingers into something quieter, where jokes, small gestures, and a ride home start to feel like more than they should. somewhere between teasing and silence, the space between two people shifts—subtle enough to ignore, but not quite enough to forget.
carnations in december | ৻ꪆ
⤷ christmas eve was supposed to be another ordinary night spent alone. instead, it becomes grocery store aisles, half-finished ice-cream bowls, ancient library documentaries, and the quiet comfort of being understood by someone who remembers the smallest things.
locked in limbo | ⟢ +18 MDNI
⤷ an unsub locks you and spencer reid in a utility closet. turns out the lack of personal space is significantly more dangerous than the unsub.
cards for the dead | ⟢𖦹 +18 MDNI
⤷ the midnight doorman leaves playing cards on dead women. you leave your pride at spencer reid’s door at two in the morning and your dignity somewhere between kissing him and convincing yourself you never should have.
practicing indifference | 𖦹
⤷ it turns out there’s nothing crueler than getting exactly what you asked for.
borrowed courage | 𖦹
⤷ after three weeks of pretending you’re okay, it only takes four tequila sodas and one phone call to prove you’ve never been less convincing.
how to hold porcelain | 𖦹 ৻ꪆ coming soon…
⤷ after one drunken phone call and a night spent trying to outrun the inevitable, spencer reid shows up at your apartment with breakfast in one hand and every conversation you’ve been avoiding in the other.
get crazy perverted about spencer NEEEEOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW please
dadbf!spencer reid headcanons ⋆˚꩜｡
MDNI. fauxcest, age gap, prof!reid, smut, orgasm denial, praise and degradation and dumbification, we eatin' good tonight my fellow freaks, fem!neurodivergent!student!reader. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ masterlist.
—𖥔. thinking about post-prison dadbf!reid, who was surprised at himself for liking this... relationship so much. initially, he felt guilty. you were so young, still in college, and worst of all, his student. just the ethical dilemma is enough to send him into a spiral.
—𖥔. but once he'd stumbled into your orbit, try as he might, he couldn't leave. your gravity was too strong, too tempting—your bright eyes, staring up at him like he'd given you the world (wellhisdick'sjustasbigamiritewhaaat), your breathy giggles as you passed by him in the hallways, chatting with your friends. he didn't know he could love a sound so much. sound—scientifically, at least—is nothing but vibrations. molecules being disturbed just so to communicate. how can that be so attractive, he wonders.
that is, until he hears you moaning beneath him for the first time.
—𖥔. your relationship is an exasperating game of push and pull. two forces—one constant, pulling with increasing magnitude, and one who's just weak. the slightest push and you're bent over his desk. the slightest pull and he's ignoring you. telling you i'm too old for you, sweetheart. i'm your professor. do you even understand what's at risk here? you've got your whole life ahead of you. this is not a good decision. at least until you tug at his tie, pulling him into the storage closet, batting your lashes just so, and suddenly he's forgotten what the word ethical even means.
—𖥔. you aren't just young. you're stubborn. and probably unhealthily attached. but is it really your fault? you've never had this. never had somebody take care of you. never had a lovely man who's way too old for you scolding you on skipping breakfast, leaning over your shoulder to explain the mistake in your assignment he damn well knows you're too smart to make. you like his voice, is that a crime? is it a crime to purposefully bring home a bad grade and be punished for it? you revel in just how dumb he makes you feel, scolding you, how you should've tried harder, how look, you've made dad upset now, i don't like punishing you either, but we've gotta discipline somehow, right? you're far too spoiled, making you promise you'll do better next time, not letting you come even when you beg. he leaves you right there, sweaty and trembling on the bed, handing you your backpack with a stern look.
—𖥔. maybe sometimes, if you've got a test in his class, he fails you on purpose. gaslights you into thinking that he hadn't marked it wrong, that you didn't answer correctly, slapping your drenched cunt when you try to dispute it because how dare you? d'you think you know better than dad, hm? we need to work on your manners, baby.
—𖥔. and when you do in fact bring home an A? he is so proud. puts it on the fridge and everything. kisses your forehead, murmuring just how much of a good girl you are, how you work so hard, and he knew you could do it, my smart girl, and how dad is just so proud of you, that you deserve a reward. he does let you come this time. tells you to lay back, not allowed to lift a finger, whispering there you go, thaaat's it, kiddo, let go. you've deserved it into your neck as his fingers work on your third orgasm.
—𖥔. you don't need to lift a finger outside of your sex life either. like your coffee made a very specific way, in that one special mug, at the exact same time before school? it's on the counter, every morning, at the same time, made the exact same, without fail. nothing to eat? dad's got it. you just rest, sweetheart. exhausted from school? he's already got his arms open the second you get home, wrapping you up, getting rid of your bag and your coat, tying up your hair 'cos it's so hot, i dunno why i wore it down today, rocking you in his arms right there in the entryway. kisses on your temple, his hand warm under your shirt, aw, honey, s'okay. you jus' rest now, yeah? i've got you murmured into your ear. he waits for you to relax a good amount before gathering you in his arms, carrying you to the bedroom. undresses you himself, pulling your favourite pajamas over your head, wiping away your makeup oh so gently. you're practically half-asleep, head lolling to the side. he has to hold you up to ensure he's gotten all of it off, 'cos you'd be upset otherwise and we can't have that, can we? he'd always vowed to take care of his sweet girl. he'd like to make good on that promise.
—𖥔. he's annoyingly caring about your health, too. mental and physical. tracks your cycle, has not only pads but chocolates and warm tea ready. notices you being extra quiet in class, shoulders hunching in on yourself, leg bouncing beneath the desk, shrinking away from all the noise, so he calls you to his office for a 'talk', which, really, is an invitation for you to decompress before your next class. keeps a pair of noise-cancelling headphones in his desk drawer, hair ties, chewing gum, your favourite snacks, fidgets, and your favourite cardigan of his—that worn knitted navy blue one, embroidered with little yellow stars along the hem. it's so old it hardly fits him in anymore, but on you? it's perfect.
a/n: thank u for the req!! not sure what exactly u had in mind, but i had someone (@craftyglitterluvr ty for opening my eyes babes. ily) asking for spencer under my dadbf!matt hcs post. I litr have another request older than this asking for the exact same thing. is it the same anon😭 idk, probably. but I'll also probably do smth with that too. but thats a maybe. I fear i make too many promises and don't live up to them. anyways, enjoy you freaks.
