Pairing: Penelope Garcia x Disabled!Reader
Summary: A slow Sunday morning, a body that won't cooperate, and a woman who shows up anyway with pancakes shaped like hearts and a Pinterest board full of intentions.
Tags: disabled!reader, myasthenia gravis, bad flare day, muscle weakness, fatigue, hurt/comfort, penelope garcia being the sun in human form, breakfast in bed, being fed with love and zero fuss, she notices everything, soft domesticity, no use of y/n, sunday light and slow mornings, weighted blankets, lavender candles, pillow fort architecture, fairy lights that have been waiting, snickerdoodles as an act of devotion, she never flinches, known all the way down, love that doesn't make the hard things disappear but lives beside them anyway, the kindest woman alive, fluff, cozy fic, gentle care without performance, reader is tired and held, you are not a burden here
Word Count: 3.6k words
The light comes in soft and unhurried, the way Sunday light always does—like it's made of a different stuff entirely than the light on weekdays, slower and warmer and less interested in demanding anything from you. You're already awake when Penelope's footsteps start up the hallway. That familiar syncopated rhythm of someone trying to be quiet and failing magnificently, a shuffle-and-pause, shuffle-and-pause that you could pick out of any crowd. You feel the corner of your mouth lift before you've even decided to smile.
You've been lying still since about seven. Not asleep—just lying there, doing the quiet inventory that's become as automatic as breathing, taking stock of what the night has left behind. Your hands are heavy this morning. Your neck is holding a low-grade complaint it'll probably keep all day. The muscles around your eyes feel thick, like they're working against something invisible. None of it is shocking. None of it is even new. But still, somewhere between the inventory and the light on the ceiling, you'd been hoping. You always hope on Sundays.
The bedroom door swings open with the particular flair that is entirely, unmistakably her.
"Breakfast in bed for my favourite human!"
She's holding a tray like she's presenting a coronation gift—arms straight, chin lifted, expression solemn with performed ceremony—and her hair is piled up in a bun that lists slightly to the left, and her pyjamas are the ones printed with tiny cartoon sloths in various states of peaceful inaction, wrinkled from sleep and absolutely perfect. The pancakes on the tray are shaped like hearts and stars. Of course they are. There's whipped cream already on them, a small mountain of it, listing the same direction as her bun, threatening to topple and entirely unconcerned about this. The sunlight catches the edge of the tray and throws a warm rhombus across the duvet, and for a moment the whole scene is so golden and so improbably sweet that it sits in your chest like a held breath, like something you want to press between the pages of a book to keep.
"Penny," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you meant it to.
She sets the tray on the nightstand with the focused care of someone who has definitely spilled things before—lowering it slowly, steadying it, waiting a beat to make sure it's settled—then turns to face you with a grin wide enough to be its own light source.
And then she actually looks at you.
Not the quick surface-level glance of someone checking that you're awake. She looks at you the way she always looks at you when she's paying attention, which is the way a person looks at something they know very well and are choosing to see anyway. The grin doesn't disappear—it softens, which is different, which is worse and better all at once, because it means she sees you. She always sees you, and this morning what she's seeing is the particular kind of stillness that your body wears on the days when the myasthenia has arrived early, before you've had the chance to get ahead of it.
It has its own logic, its own timetable, and it's entirely indifferent to the fact that it's Sunday. The signals between your brain and your muscles are misfiring somewhere in the gap, jamming up the line, so that what should be simple—sitting up, reaching out, holding something—instead arrives with this dull, dragging resistance, like every movement is being performed through wet concrete. Your muscles aren't painful, exactly. They're just not cooperating. The space between intention and action has grown several inches wider overnight.
You haven't reached for the fork yet.
You're not going to reach for it yet, because reaching will cost something, and you're adding up your costs this morning with the quiet precision of someone who's been doing this long enough to know exactly what the sums look like and what happens if you spend too much before noon.
Penelope sits beside you on the bed. The mattress dips under her weight, familiar and grounding, and she reaches up and brushes your hair back from your face with a hand that is warm and entirely unhurried.
"Hey, lovebug." Her voice has gone soft. "How bad is it?"
"Medium," you tell her, which is honest. Not the worst—not the crash-day kind of bad, the kind where you lie still and everything is negotiated down to almost nothing, where even speaking feels like it's drawing from a reserve that isn't there. But not fine, either. Medium is where the world is still accessible to you but costs more than the ticket price. Medium is wading through something thick and slow that nobody else can see.
"Okay," she says, and nods once, the decisive nod of someone filing a memo and moving immediately to action items. "Okay. Medium I can work with. Medium means magic hands are on duty. Medium means I'm in charge of all fork-related activities and any activity that involves lifting anything heavier than a remote control."
"Penny, you don't have to—"
"Nope." She says it gently, not a command so much as a door closing quietly in the face of the argument before it can get its foot in. "No protests. No 'I'm fine.' I know you're okay, lovebug—I can see you're okay. I also know that okay and 'doesn't need help' are two completely different postcodes."
You look at her. She looks back. Her eyes are very steady, which is not something people always clock about Penelope Garcia—they notice the colour, the warmth, the way she deploys them expressively like punctuation in a sentence—but underneath all of that there's a steadiness that has never once flinched at anything you've brought to it.
"Okay," you say.
She picks up the fork with the gravity of someone accepting a baton.
She makes a whole production of the first bite—selecting the best heart-shaped pancake with visible deliberation, tilting her head to consider it, adding an extra peak of whipped cream to the top with the care of someone applying a finishing touch to a sculpture—and then she presents it toward you with a small ceremonial flourish.
You laugh. The laugh is easy and loose and costs you almost nothing, which is its own small miracle.
"Open up," she says, in the voice she uses for feeding ducks at the park. "I slaved over these. Well—I stood over them. The stove did most of the slaving. There are some very abstract shapes in the bin downstairs that didn't make the cut."
"How abstract?"
"One of them looked like a map of a country that doesn't exist. Another one was... I'm going to say avant-garde. Spiritually, it was a star."
You're still laughing as she feeds you the first bite, and it's good—of course it's good—too sweet, more vanilla than flour, exactly the way you like them, the whipped cream dissolving cool against your tongue before the warmth of the pancake catches up.
"These are really good," you tell her, and mean it.
"I know." She cuts the next piece. "I've been perfecting this recipe for two years. I'm basically a professional at this point. You should see my Yelp reviews."
"You don't have Yelp reviews."
"Internally I do. Five stars. Zero complaints."
She feeds you bites between the two of you talking, slow and meandering the way Sunday mornings are supposed to go—she tells you about something Derek said on Friday that still has her mildly outraged on your behalf, her fork gestures growing more emphatic as the story escalates. She tells you about the film she watched without you on Thursday night, which she'd thought would be fine and turned out to be devastatingly sad, and how she'd had to text you at midnight just to say I miss you, come home soon even though you were asleep in the next room. She tells you her current theory about the coffee machine, which involves a trapped spirit and a grudge that predates the building.
"I'm just saying," she says, loading another piece of pancake, "it sounds different on Tuesdays. I've documented it."
"You've documented it."
"Voice memos. Six of them. I'm building a case."
"Against the coffee machine."
"Against whatever is inside the coffee machine." She points the fork at you, briefly, for emphasis. "There's a distinction."
The morning stretches out unhurried around you, warm and slow as the light pooling on the duvet. You're aware of your body—you're always aware of your body, it's the background music that never quite stops—but there's something about being taken care of properly, without fuss or performance, that lets you hold that awareness at a distance rather than right behind your sternum where it usually lives. The heaviness in your hands is still there. Your eyelids are doing the thing where they feel faintly reluctant to hold themselves up, that slight drag at the outer corners that's different from ordinary tiredness and that you've stopped trying to explain to people who don't already understand it. But you're here, in the golden light, and she's talking about a haunted coffee machine with absolute sincerity, and the pancakes taste like vanilla and care.
When you finish eating, she sets the tray aside and doesn't immediately reach for her phone or her laptop. She just sits with you. Pulls her legs up onto the bed and leans against the headboard and turns the TV on low—something comfortable, a show you've both seen enough times that it doesn't require attention—and asks if you want the weighted blanket or just the duvet.
"Duvet," you say. "But maybe both later."
"Both later, noted." She tucks the duvet up around you with the thoroughness of someone who has thought seriously about this, smoothing it along your sides, getting the cold spots at the edges, folding it back a little at the top so it's not sitting on your face. She makes small pleased sounds under her breath while she does it, entirely unaware of them.
"You're very good at this," you tell her.
"I've been training since the day we met," she says seriously. "You just didn't know you were being taken care of that whole time."
You think about saying something and decide just to let the warmth of it sit.
An hour passes, maybe more. The show murmurs on. Penelope gets her laptop at some point and tucks it open in her lap, working in the loose, unhurried way she only allows herself on Sundays, occasionally reading something out loud to you—a news headline, a sentence from an article she finds funny, a Wikipedia rabbit hole she's tumbled into. You answer when you want to and drift when you don't and she never seems to notice the difference, or she notices and simply doesn't mind.
Your eyelids start going heavy in the way that has nothing to do with tiredness you can push through. This is the other kind—the kind where your body has made a decision and is simply informing you of it, pulling resources inward, calling time on the morning without consulting you. The muscles holding your eyes open have been working all morning and they're done working, finished, and no amount of blinking is going to negotiate with them. You try anyway. Once, twice. The third time you don't try.
"Good." She's already moving—reaching for the weighted blanket folded at the foot of the bed, layering it over the duvet, tucking it down around your legs. She gets up to turn the TV down to barely a murmur, and then she uncaps the lavender candle on the dresser. She doesn't light it right away; she finds the lighter in the drawer, takes her time, cups her hand around the flame until the wick catches. A small bright point in the amber afternoon.
You realise she's been waiting to light that candle. She'd been saving it for this part of the day.
The smell reaches you slowly, soft and herbal and warm, unfurling through the room like something that was always there and is only now making itself known. The lavender and the weighted blanket and the low murmur of the TV press together into something that feels almost architectural—a structure built specifically around you, a room inside the room, the walls made of warmth.
She settles beside you on top of the blankets, back against the headboard, laptop open again in her lap. And then, without looking down, she starts tracing patterns on your arm. Slow, light, unhurried—looping figures-of-eight and idle spirals and lines that go nowhere in particular, the way you might hum a song without realising you're doing it.
"I'll be right here when you wake up," she says.
A pause. The candle flickers.
"Always."
It's softer the second time. More to herself than to you, the word landing like something private, like she's reminding herself as much as telling you.
You close your eyes.
The lavender is the last thing you're fully conscious of. Then the warmth of her beside you, solid and real and unhurried. Then the soft, rhythmic click of her keyboard, distant and regular as rain on a window. Then the pattern on your arm, getting slower, or maybe you're just getting slower, sinking down through the layers until the room and the candle and the low voice of the television are all very far away, and the only thing that's close is the fact of her being there.
You sleep.
When you wake up, the candle has burned lower—half an inch, maybe more—and the light through the curtains has shifted. The morning gold is gone, replaced by the mellow amber of mid-afternoon, heavier and more horizontal, the kind of light that leans. Penelope is exactly where she said she'd be, sitting beside you with her phone in both hands, scrolling through something with the focused expression she gets when she's in the middle of a plan.
You watch her without moving. You do this sometimes—hoard a few seconds of her before she knows you're back, the way you might save the last bite of something good. The candlelight finds the edges of her hair and gilds them. Her socks are mismatched. There's a small frown on her face that isn't a sad frown, just the frown of someone solving a problem they've invented for themselves.
"There she is," she says, without looking up, because she always knows. Then she looks up, and the frown becomes a smile, quick and warm as a lamp switching on. "How do you feel?"
You take a moment to actually check. Your hands are still heavy but less so—the sleep has done some work, loosened something, given a little back the way it sometimes does. Your eyelids feel more cooperative. The thick resistance that had been sitting across your shoulders all morning has quieted, not gone but no longer shouting.
"Better," you say. And it's true.
"Yeah?" Her face does the thing where relief moves through it and she doesn't quite let herself show it fully, because she knows you don't like being worried about.
"Yeah. Not a hundred percent. But better."
"Better is everything," she says, firmly, as though she's saying it for the record. Then she tips her phone toward you. "Okay. So. I've been planning."
The screen shows a Pinterest board—new, by the look of it—titled Sunday Rituals Vol. 2 in her handwriting, photographed and pinned as a header. Below it: cookie recipes with circled notes in the margins of the screenshots, architectural diagrams of pillow forts that she's clearly found and saved with genuine intention, a post about stringing fairy lights inside blanket structures.
"Walk me through this," you say.
She sits up straighter, the phone held between you like a presentation deck.
"Okay. So. Phase one: cookies. I'm thinking snickerdoodles because they're forgiving and they smell incredible and I want the whole flat to smell like cinnamon. Phase two: fort construction. I've identified the optimal load-bearing cushions—the big square ones from the sofa are structural, the throw pillows are decorative load, and the duvet from the spare room is going to serve as the primary roof panel."
"You've really thought about this."
"I have a Pinterest board and a methodology. Phase three," she continues, "is fairy lights, which I ordered on impulse three weeks ago and have been looking for an excuse to deploy. They've been in the hall cupboard. Waiting."
"And phase four?"
She looks at you. "Phase four is we get inside the fort and watch something terrible and eat all the cookies."
You look at her—at the wild optimistic mess of her hair and the sloth pyjamas and the earnest, delighted focus on her face, at the way she's holding the phone toward you like evidence in a court case she's absolutely going to win—and the feeling that moves through you is warm and complicated and doesn't have a single clean name. Gratitude is in there. Love is in there, so much of it that it doesn't fit anywhere in particular and just fills the room. Something else too, something quieter: the particular relief of being known all the way down. Not understood in the abstract, not accommodated out of obligation—known. The part of you that lives inside the ongoing negotiation with your own body, inside the arithmetic of what a day costs and what it leaves behind, the part you'd spent years thinking was too tangled to explain—she knows that part. She's never needed it explained.
You reach for her. Your arm moves more easily than it did this morning.
She comes without hesitating, tilting sideways until she's leaning against you, her head finding the space just below your chin as if it's a place that was designed for exactly this purpose, which, you've decided, it was. You settle your cheek against her hair. She makes a small contented sound and tucks her phone away.
"Tell me more about the load-bearing cushions," you say.
She lights up in a way that is entirely genuine and completely disproportionate to the subject matter, which is one of about forty thousand things you love about her.
Outside, the Sunday light is doing what it does best in the late afternoon—going slow and sideways across the room, finding the dust motes and turning them briefly golden, catching the edge of the curtain and making it glow at the hem. The lavender candle is still burning, its flame steady, its small bright point reflected faintly in the window glass. Penelope is talking about blanket ratios and cookie logistics and the structural integrity of the fort she's going to build, her voice bright and warm and full of the kind of joy that isn't performing anything for anyone—it just is, constant and particular and entirely her own.
Your body is tired. It'll be tired tomorrow too, and probably the day after, and next Sunday when you take the inventory again before the light changes. That's the shape of your life—not a tragedy, not something to fix, just a fact you've learned to hold without letting it hold everything else. There will be good days and medium days and crash days, and the arithmetic will keep being what it is.
But the room smells like lavender and the candle is still burning and she's warm against your side, and there are cookies that are going to happen and a pillow fort with genuine structural research behind it and fairy lights that have been waiting in a hall cupboard for three weeks for exactly this occasion. And you think—not for the first time, never for the last—that Penelope Garcia doesn't make the hard things disappear. She's never once pretended they aren't there. What she does instead is make it so the hard things exist in the same world as heart-shaped pancakes and coffee machine conspiracy theories and a Pinterest board titled Sunday Rituals Vol. 2 and always, said soft in the morning like a promise that doesn't need to be stated because it already simply is.
"The fairy lights are solar powered," she's saying, very seriously. "Which is technically irrelevant since we're indoors. But I respect the commitment."
"Very eco-conscious fort," you say.
"Exactly. Sustainable architecture." She tilts her head up to look at you. Her eyes are warm and a little smug and full of something steadier than either. "You feel okay? Honestly?"
"Honestly," you say. "Yeah."
She holds your gaze for a moment, checking, then nods once, satisfied, the way she does when she's filed something important and can move on.
"Good." She resettles against your shoulder, comfortable and unhurried, like someone who has nowhere else to be and knows it. "Because phase one starts in twenty minutes and I need you at full cookie-adjacent capacity."
You close your eyes and rest your chin against her hair and feel the room around you—warm and amber and smelling of lavender, slow with Sunday light—and you let yourself just be inside it. No arithmetic. No inventory. Just this.
You were in the middle of a mission when you received a call from your little girl's school. She has gotten sick and needed to be picked up at that moment. You didn't give any explanations to Robert, you just heard him in your ear warning you that leaving a mission would bring you problems. You didn't care, you had a 6 year old girl waiting for her mother.
Robert would be lying if he said that caught him all of a sudden. You were... probably the best one of the Z Team. The only one who didn't insult him every few minutes, who brought cookies once and matched his sense of humor. He didn't understand why would you risk your place on the team by leaving a mission.
Until next day, when you appeared in the elevator door, suit neat and hair tied up. And a little girl grabbing your hand and hiding behind your legs. You hear a few whispers around the office but try to ignore them while walking straight to Blonde Blazer's office.
Robert lifts his head from his cubicle after hearing the murmurs and sees you wearing your signature armor and the little girl... wearing a Mecha Man's t-shirt?
You knocked once in Blazer's office and forgot to close the door behind you and your daughter. The blonde blinks twice at your daughter and then at you.
"What is happening right now?"
You cleared your throat. “Sorry for the… unconventional arrival. My nanny canceled last minute and the school needs proof she’s recovered. I’ll keep her out of everyone’s way.”
"I don't think this is the right place for a kid, Y/N. This isn't daycare—" Blazer said, keeping it as professional as she could, even though she didn't like telling you that. She knows the struggles.
Robert appeared behind you before she could build momentum. The man moved like someone who had spent his life punching asteroids but was trying very hard not to look like he had spent his life punching asteroids.
“It’s fine! he said, with this easy shrug. “I can keep an eye on her. Chase owes me a favor, he’ll help. No disruption.”
You spun toward him, incredulous. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.” His smile had a softness you had never seen during briefings or combat drills. “Besides, Chase loves kids. And your kid seems pretty awesome already.”
Your daughter peeked out at him at that exact moment, big eyes blinking slowly and not breaking eye contact. Robert drew a kind smile and was already holding the door for you to get out of the office with your daughter.
"Robert, you really don't have to. I don't want to put more pressure on you, and I'm pretty sure Chase doesn't love kids."
“You’re not putting pressure on me,” he said. “You’re being a parent. That’s it. Nothing heroic about it, nothing villainous either. Just human.”
Your daughter clung to your hand like a tiny barnacle, watching him with this shy suspicion that children reserve for adults who seem too cool to be real. The Mecha Man painted across her shirt practically glowed under the office lights, and Robert kept sneaking glances at it like it was a ghost from a past life waving at him.
“She’ll be fine,” he continued. “She’s already got half the office wrapped around her finger. Chase included. He pretends he hates kids, but he cries every time Beefs licks his shoe.”
You snorted once, then sighed. “Still… it feels like a lot.”
“It’s not,” he said. “Let us help.”
His certainty hit you harder than it should have. You crouched down to your daughter’s level, brushing a few rebellious hairs off her forehead.
“Sweetheart,” you murmured, “can you introduce yourself?”
She blinked up at you, then very slowly rotated toward Robert, as if turning to face a giant robot. “My name is Faye,” she whispered into her own collar.
Robert crouched down too, hands resting on his knees, smile wide and warm. “Hi, Faye. That’s a cool name. I'm Robert.”
Faye fidgeted, twisting her fingers in the hem of her shirt. Robert pointed gently at her chest.
“That is a fantastic Mecha Man shirt.”
It was like someone flipped a switch inside her. Her entire face brightened, all shyness melting instantly. “Do you know who he is?!”
“I might’ve heard of him once or twice,” he replied with an innocent shrug.
She beamed, absolutely radiant, and Robert looked like he’d just been handed a secret he didn’t know he missed.
You pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Alright, my brave girl. Listen to Robert. Behave. Be polite. And don’t touch anything that glows or hums.”
She nodded solemnly, the vow of a small warrior.
You straightened and exhaled. “Robert… thank you. Seriously. Thank you. I owe you, like, a thousand thank-yous.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “Just go do your job. We’ve got this.”
Faye slipped her hand into his without hesitation. The image of her tiny fingers curled around his large ones tugged at something deep in your chest.
You turned to head toward the mission floor, feeling lighter than you expected. Behind you, Faye’s excited chatter drifted through the hallway. Robert had pull a chair by his side for her to sit.
“Do you think Mecha Man likes apple juice?” Faye said dangling her legs.
Robert’s gentle laugh followed. “I have a feeling he does.”
Faye kept swinging her legs, tapping her heels lightly against the chair as if powering some invisible engine. Robert pulled his own chair a little closer to hers so she wouldn’t feel swallowed by the giant desk, and the two of them settled into this strangely natural orbit like they’d always been meant to share a corner of an office together.
“What else do you know about Mecha Man?” Robert asked, leaning his elbows on his knees. “You seem like an expert.”
Faye straightened her spine with a smirk. “He saved a whole city once. And he fought a giant flame guy. And he did it with only one booster fist because the other one was broken.”
Robert huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “That was a rough day.”
She blinked. “You sound like you were there.”
“I… watch a lot of TV.”
That satisfied her completely.
She swung her legs again. “My mommy says he was the coolest hero ever. But I think he’s also the nicest.” Then she paused, thinking hard. “And I like how he doesn’t yell at anyone even when he’s mad.”
Robert couldn't hide his smile
“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I think he’d be very happy to hear that.”
Before she could reply, claws clicked against the polished floor. A snuffling sound. A sneeze. A thud.
Then a tiny but somehow wide dog barreled around the corner like a furry meteor.
“Beef!” Robert said, though his tone was more delighted than scolding.
Faye gasped so dramatically her entire torso lifted. “Dog!”
Beef trotted straight toward her, tail whipping so hard his whole back end wiggled. Faye dropped from the chair, landing on her knees, arms wide open.
Beef didn’t hesitate. He nudged his head right into her chest and licked her chin after deciding that she was perfect.
Faye squealed with joy and grabbed his face gently between her little hands. “Hi, Beef! You’re so fluffy!”
Chase arrived two seconds later, out of breath and annoyed in a very theatrical way.
“For the record,” he said, pointing at Beef, “he is supposed to stay in the lounge. He is not supposed to escape because he smelled ‘a new small human.’ His words. Not mine.”
Robert grinned. “Chase, meet Faye.”
Chase raised both eyebrows, then crouched down to her level. “So you’re the tiny chaos agent causing all this disruption.”
Faye blinked once.
Then narrowed her eyes.
Then delivered her judgment, very calmly: “You look like someone who takes naps at work.”
Robert choked.
Beef wagged harder, apparently approving of the burn.
Chase sputtered, hand over his chest. “I—what? Excuse me—”
Faye nodded, sealing the deal. “It’s okay. Old people get tired.”
Robert burst out laughing, loud enough that a few heads peeked over cubicles. Chase stood up, muttering something your daughter didn't catch while Beef sat proudly beside Faye like her loyal knight.
Faye hugged Beef again, burying her face in his fur. Robert watched the scene unfold, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes gentler than you had ever seen.
“You two are going to get along,” he murmured.
Faye popped her head up. “Robert? Can Beef sit next to me?”
“He already decided he’s your bodyguard,” Robert said. “You might as well make it official.”
Faye giggled, grabbed Beef’s ear, and began explaining (very seriously) the entire Mecha Man lore to both of them.
Robert listened too. Because hearing a child passionately recount his own adventures without knowing who he was? That was magic for him.
In the break, he took Faye to the vending machine and had to pick her up to let her choose whatever candy she preferred after promising that she wouldn't tell her mom. The bag with her lunch perfectly prepared was long forgotten.
"I want the twinkies!" She said with a bright smile, tapping the glass, then she added: "Please!"
"That's the best decision you could ever make, kiddo." Robert said, sitting Faye in the table while he pressed the buttons to take two packs of twinkies and a cup of coffee for him.
Then all of a sudden, Faye says: "My mommy called you a twink once."
She opened the plastic without any problems, staring at the letter of it. Faye didn’t say it with mischief. She said it with the same open sincerity she used to declare the sky blue or Beef fluffy.
Robert froze like someone had unplugged him.
“Uh,” he managed. “She… what now?”
“A twink.” Faye nodded gravely and shoved half a Twinkie into her mouth. “But she said it very nicely.”
Robert had faced down plasma cannons with more composure. His brain performed several regrettable somersaults. “Ha. Did she? Funny word to use... What else does she say about me?”
Faye swung her legs and examined the second Twinkie. “Mommy says you have twink energy. And that she likes your voice. And your arms.”
Robert’s soul left his body, filed for leave, and never returned.
“She—your mom? She said that? About my arms?” His voice cracked like a teenager bumping into their crush at a mall.
Faye nodded so hard her ponytail slapped her cheek. “She says you’re very polite. And she says you don’t talk too much but when you do, it makes her tummy feel funny.” Faye tapped her own belly like she was solving a medical mystery. “I think that means she likes you.”
Robert blinked slowly. “Does she. Huh. That’s… information.”
He sipped his coffee. Burned his tongue. Tried to pretend he hadn’t burned his tongue.
Faye continued, blessedly oblivious to the concept of emotional privacy: “Sometimes when she comes home from work she says, ‘Robert said the funniest thing today,’ and then she laughs and laughs even though I don’t know the joke because it’s about weird stuff.”
Robert set his coffee down a little too fast. “She laughs? I make her laugh?”
“Yep.” Faye took a dainty bite of Twinkie and spoke around the crumbs. “She smiles when she says your name.”
Robert attempted to gather his dignity and ended up gathering Beef instead, who had waddled over and pressed his snout into Robert’s knee like you okay, buddy? you need grounding? you spiraling?
Robert scratched Beef’s ears, eyes darting anywhere but Faye’s tiny truth-bomb face.
“Well… your mom’s pretty cool too,” he said, trying for casual. “She’s… brave. And kind. And she does this thing where she makes jokes under her breath that nobody else hears, but I hear. And she’s nice to me for some reason.”
“That’s ‘cause she likes you,” Faye said, as if it was the most obvious thing ever. She leaned forward. “Do you like her?”
Robert inhaled his coffee steam like that might help. “Uhh. I think your mom is… neat.”
Faye squinted like an old wise hermit. “Neat is a word mommy uses for socks.”
Robert winced. “Okay. Stronger than neat.”
Beef barked once, as if urging him on.
“Your mom is… great.” Robert rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s hilarious. And terrifying. And she’s smarter than everyone on the team. And she makes good cookies. And she leaves missions for you, which is kind of beautiful, actually.”
Faye tilted her head. “So you do like her.”
He exhaled in defeat. “Yeah, kiddo. I do.”
She grinned “I’m telling her.”
Robert nearly levitated off the break-room floor. “PLEASE do not tell her.”
Faye hopped off the table, hands on her hips. “You can’t stop me. I’m fast.”
Robert held up both hands, laughing helplessly. “Kid, listen. There’s a very complicated adult dance happening here, and your mom scares me in, like, a deeply attractive way.”
Faye gasped dramatically. “Mommy likes your arms and you like her scary!” She clapped. “You should get married.”
Robert paled. “We’re not getting married yet. Wow, Faye, that’s—ambitious.”
She shrugged. “Beef agrees.”
Beef barked again, absolutely supporting the union.
Robert buried his face in his hands. “I’m so fucked.”
"Fucked?" Faye tilts her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. The fear on Robert's face is instant.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. We don't say that word, Faye."
"You just said it."
"But that's because I'm dumb. People who are dumb say that word. You aren't dumb, right?"
"Nope!"
"Then don't say that word ever again."
Thank God, that was enough for her to not think about it anymore. Robert felt his chest smaller after the talk with the girl, or maybe it was just his heart getting bigger. He tried to not pay much attention to it, knowing that you kinda have a crush on him took him out a little.
Robert tried very hard to focus on anything except the emotional supernova blooming in his ribcage. He wiped a crumb off Faye’s cheek tenderly, then let her scamper back toward Beef, who immediately flopped over so she could rub his belly.
He watched her for a second. Kids are startling creatures, tiny engines of sincerity who toss truth around like confetti. And she had tossed a whole bucket at him.
He leaned back in the break-room chair and told himself to get it together. You liked him? That wasn’t supposed to be real. You were… well, you. The one who took disasters as lightly as he took paper cuts. The one who made terrible puns under your breath because you knew he’d hear. The one who had a daughter who loved Mecha Man without knowing she was sharing snacks with him.
He looked down at his hands and they were trembling. Just a little. Just enough.
The next hours of the shift were more relaxed, Faye was starting to get sleepy, dropping her head in Robert's shoulder with her little fists curling in Robert's shirt. He scooped her without any trouble, letting her sit comfortably on his lap and falling asleep almost instantly.
Robert sat very still, like if he breathed wrong, the spell would break.
And then the shift ended.
The elevator chimed.
You stepped out.
You froze.
Because there they were. Your daughter asleep in Robert’s lap, her cheek pressed directly against the broadest part of his chest, his hand resting gently on her back.
Robert looked up at the sound of your boots.
And for one heartbeat, the world went oddly quiet.
Something warm and ridiculous and enormous unfurled inside your chest, blooming like those butterflies people always talk about. But butterflies were too polite. This felt more like a whole migrating colony of cosmic moths slamming around in your ribs.
Robert opened his mouth, closed it, then spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, instinctively soft so she wouldn’t wake.
“She got tired,” he said quietly. “Didn’t want to say she was tired, obviously, because that would imply she’s mortal.”
You stepped closer, mindful of the moment’s fragile gentleness. “Yeah,” you whispered. “She does that. Fights sleep like it insulted her.”
He smiled, eyes flicking back to Faye asleep on him. “She’s… a really good kid.”
“She likes you,” you murmured.
The words slipped out without your usual protective quips. And you felt the heat crawl up your neck as soon as you’d said it.
Robert swallowed. Hard. His fingers twitched once against Faye’s shirt but didn’t move.
For a moment you just stood there. Close but not touching, both speaking softly.
“I should take her,” you whispered, stepping forward.
But Robert didn’t move, not out of reluctance, more like uncertainty. As though passing her over might feel like waking up from some strange dream he wasn’t ready to leave.
You reached out, gently lifting your daughter into your arms. She murmured and nestled into your neck, arms dangling loose with exhaustion.
Robert watched you with an intensity that almost ignited the air between you.
You adjusted Faye’s weight, then looked up at him. “Thank you… for all of this. I mean it.”
He leaned close enough you felt the heat of him, close enough the whisper brushed your ear.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
A pause.
Breathless honesty slipped into his tone. “I liked being around her. And I… like being around you.”
Your heart stuttered so violently you wondered if he could hear it.
You whispered back, “Did she told you anything?”
He huffed out a helpless laugh. “She told me just enough.”
Another pause. A charged one.
He looked down at his hands, then back at you.
Robert’s throat worked like he was swallowing gravel. Words hovered behind his eyes, trying to form, trying to gather the courage to jump the fence of his teeth. He wasn’t usually this skittish, you were a different kind of danger. The kind that could say no. The kind that could change everything.
His fingers flexed once, curling back into his palms. “There’s… something I should—”
Whatever he meant to say tangled itself into silence.
Your daughter’s sleepy weight in your arms, the faint warmth of her breath on your collarbone and the quiet hum of the building settling for the night. It all made the hallway feel like a snow globe of too-soft feelings.
You tilted your head just slightly. “Robert?”
The sound of his name seemed to shove him toward honesty. You watched him gather himself like someone preparing to leap across a very long, very uncertain gap.
“I was thinking,” he said, voice low and careful, “that maybe… sometime… maybe you and I could—”
He stopped again. Not because he changed his mind. Because fear punched him directly in the courage.
He cleared his throat. It didn’t help. “I mean, if you ever wanted to go somewhere. Not for work. Just… you know.”
You waited. Letting him work it out.
He squeezed his eyes shut once, like rebooting a very overwhelmed system, then tried again with a shaky exhale.
“I’d like to take you out.”
A beat.
“But if that makes you uncomfortable, or if it complicates things with Faye, or if you think it’s a terrible idea—”
“Robert.”
His mouth snapped shut.
Your eyes held his, steady in that dim hallway glow. He looked like a man braced for an explosion that might tear him in two.
You spoke gently. “You’re asking me out?”
He nodded with the smallest motion imaginable, as if anything bigger might spook his own resolve. “Yeah. I am.”
“I didn’t think you were capable of being this nervous,” you murmured.
He huffed something like a laugh, but it was shaky. “I’m terrible at this. Apparently asking you to dinner turns me into a malfunctioning vending machine.”
Your smile softened. “You didn’t malfunction.”
He gave a disbelieving snort. “I absolutely malfunctioned.”
“You tried,” you said. “You asked. That counts.”
A long breath left him, like he’d been holding it for twenty minutes.
“So… is that a yes?” he whispered, barely audible.
You shifted Faye in your arms and you stepped just one inch closer, letting the air between you warm.
“It’s a yes,” you said softly. “But we’re taking it slow. For her and for us.”
Relief hit him so visibly it softened the line of his shoulders, loosened something taut in his expression. A smile broke through the nerves.
“Slow is fine,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The elevator chimed again behind you, a polite reminder that the world still existed outside this moment.
You backed toward it, eyes still on his. “Goodnight, Robert.”
His voice followed you in a rough whisper that held far more than the words themselves.
“Goodnight.”
The doors slid closed and you had the dizzying sense that something had just begun like the first quiet click of a lock sliding open.
summary: you finally get cleared to live normally, so obviously, you’re uncle forces you on a lake trip.
word count: 4k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18)
thank you to @ilovesexymenonmytv for this idea, i hope i did it some justice, sorry if it's not the best, read the a/n at the end for an explaination.
_____
August starts to bring back a feeling of normalcy that you’re not sure if you can quite trust yet.
Two months ago, you were lying in a hospital bed with broken ribs, a concussion, and more bruises than you could count. Two months ago, every movement hurt. Every loud noise made you flinch. Every time someone left the room, some small part of your brain wondered if they were coming back.
Now you’re standing in a doctor’s office, listening to the words you’ve been waiting weeks to hear.
“You’re cleared.”
“Cleared?” you repeat.
“Cleared,” The doctor smiles. “You can go back to normal activity. Exercise, swimming, everything. The only restriction is that you listen to your body. If something causes pain, stop.”
Normal.
The word feels almost foreign.
“Okay,” you nod slowly.
The second you walk out of the appointment, your uncle is already making plans.
“We’re going to the lake.”
You stop walking. “What?”
Rossi doesn’t even slow down. “The lake.”
“Did you even hear what the doctor said?” you stare at him.
“Yes.”
“Then why are you already planning something?”
“Don’t argue with me. I’ve already decided.”
“You know that’s not actually how vacations work, right?”
“It is when I pay for the cabin.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.
_____
Logan flies in Friday night.
The second he walks through the front door, Rossi gets one arm around him in a hug that Logan immediately pretends to hate.
It’s weird how much things have changed.
A few months ago, the thought of laughing felt impossible.
Now you’re standing in the kitchen with Spencer beside you, your brother is in the living room arguing with Rossi, and for the first time in a long time you feel like yourself.
Spencer spends the night at Rossi’s house so everyone can leave early Saturday morning. Which means, naturally, Rossi finds every possible excuse to make sure everyone is awake before sunrise.
It’s not even daylight outside when he barges into your room, turning the light on, disturbing both you and Spencer from your slumber.
Spencer gets up without any fuss. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s still scared of your uncle, or because he’s used to wakes like these due to his job. Or perhaps a mixture of both. He leaves you alone in your bed, trudging to the bathroom. You let your eyes close again, trying to return to the state you were in before your uncle so rudely ruined it.
You don’t move. You don’t care that there’s a lake waiting for you. You don’t care that your bag is still sitting half-packed on the floor. You are warm. You are comfortable. And you are absolutely not getting out of bed.
A few minutes pass. You hear movement somewhere in the room. Not Rossi, Rossi doesn’t move quietly. You peek out of one eye to find Spencer standing beside your bed. And for a second, your brain takes a moment to catch up.
Because Spencer Reid is awake. Which is normal.
Spencer Reid being awake at six in the morning is unfortunately very normal.
But Spencer Reid standing beside your bed while he gets ready for a lake trip is something you’re not used to.
He’s already dressed from the waist down, wearing brown pants and his worn-in Converse. His hair is slightly messy, like he hasn’t bothered fixing it yet. A T-shirt is thrown over one shoulder, hanging loosely from his hand.
He’s still shirtless.
Not that he seems to notice. Of course he doesn’t. Spencer has never been particularly aware of the effect he has on people, or more specifically you.
“You know,” he says softly, “you still need to finish packing.”
“You’re wearing pants,” you say.
He looks down. “Yes.”
You let out a quiet laugh before immediately closing your eyes again.
“No,” you groan.
“No?”
“No.”
“You’re going back to sleep?”
“Yes.”
Spencer steps a little closer, placing a hand on your back.
“Y/N,” he whispers.
“You’re still shirtless,” you say.
He looks down at himself, a faint blush rushing to his ears.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling his belt through the loops of his pants. You let yourself look at him, starting at the careful movements of his fingers as he buckles his belt, then moving up to his unclothed area.
It’s strange how different he looks without the layers he’s always hiding behind.
He’s still unmistakably Spencer. A little awkward, still standing there like he doesn’t understand why you’re looking at him differently, but there’s something about seeing him like this.
His hair is messy from sleep, his glasses slightly crooked from where he pushed them up too many times, and his brown pants and Converse somehow make the fact that he’s still shirtless seem even more like him. Like he got distracted halfway through getting ready because he remembered he was supposed to wake you up.
He’s lean, not in the way people expect when they picture someone strong, but in a way that makes sense for him. He’s never been someone who spends hours at a gym. He’s someone who runs through airports, chases criminals, and carries too many books at once.
“You’re staring,” he says.
Your eyes immediately snap back to his face. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m tired.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re staring.”
You open your mouth, then close it. Because unfortunately, Spencer Reid is very good at noticing things when he isn’t the thing being noticed.
“Put your shirt on,” you mumble.
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“Soon,” he says, looking down at the shirt hanging in his hand. You roll over in bed, telling yourself that you’ll get up when he puts it on.
_____
The first problem happens while you’re finishing packing on your floor.
“Do you have swim trunks?” you ask him.
“...I think so,” he says slowly.
“You think so?”
“I’m fairly certain.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I haven’t been swimming since I was like fifteen.”
He digs in one of his bags, pulling out a pair of swim trunks that look older than you. You can tell they’re too short for him just from looking, but the waist is stretched out and so frayed that you think they might fall down.
“Absolutely not,” you tell him.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re ancient.”
“They’d still work.”
“Spencer,” you say, taking them from him. “They’re like three sizes too small.”
“I don’t think that’s accurate.”
“You are not wearing fifteen-year-old swim trunks.”
_____
The drive starts with Logan controlling the music. For exactly twelve minutes, until Rossi reaches over and changes it.
“Hey!” Logan protests
“No.” Rossi says sternly.
“You didn’t even ask what song it was.”
“I know enough.”
Logan looks offended. “You don’t know enough.”
“I’m your uncle. I know plenty.”
You end up taking over the music. Mostly because everyone agrees your playlist is better.
Except Spencer.
Not because he dislikes it, but because he’s actually analyzing it.
“You have three songs from the same album.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s good.”
“That doesn’t explain why they’re grouped together. You also have four songs in a row that are in the same key.”
“...neat.”
On the way to the lake, you stop at one of the tourist shops.
The kind that sells everything.
Sunscreen, fishing bait, inflatable tubes, terrible souvenirs, overpriced snacks, and most important to you, swimwear.
Spencer immediately walks toward the plainest black pair of trunks imaginable.
“No,” you say, shaking your head at him.
“Why?”
“Because.”
You disappear into another aisle. A few seconds later, you return, holding two matching swimsuits. Not matching in a cheesy way, just the same pattern. They’re light blue and covered in tiny, multicolored fish.
“Those have fish,” Spencer says, staring at you.
“They do.”
“They’re smiling.”
“They’re smiling because they’re about to be purchased.”
“I don’t know if these accurately represent my personality,” he says.
Logan walks up behind him. He looks between the trunks and Spencer a few times.
“I think they match you perfectly,” Logan says to him.
“How?” Spencer asks, sounding slightly offended.
“Because she’s not worth arguing with,” Logan whispers, but you still hear it.
He’s right.
The rest of the drive passes quicker. The roads weave through forests and hills, the sunlight flickering through the trees. The car gets almost silent once Logan dozes off, his head pressed awkwardly against the window. Rossi drives with one hand one the wheel, occasionally pointing out things outside the window.
Spencer spent nearly twenty minutes explaining why lakes remain cooler during the surrounding area in late summer, which you’re pretty sure is what put Logan to sleep. You listen, not because you’re particularly interested in thermal properties, but because you’re particularly interested in Spencer.
_____
The cabin is smaller than you expected. Not tiny, but for David Rossi’s style, it was much smaller and more rustic than you imagined. There’s only two bedrooms, and of course, your uncle immediately takes the master.
You expected two twin beds in the second bedroom. Or bunkbeds. Or a pull out bed.
Something other than the singular queen bed that stares at the three of you.
“So…” Logan says, looking between you and Spencer. “There’s no couch.”
“I can sleep in the middle,” you offer, sitting your bag on the floor.
“This is stupid,” Logan says, sitting his bag on the far side of the bed. Spencer puts his on the opposite end. “I swear to god, if I wake up to any weird sounds or moan–”
“LOGAN!” you shout.
“I’m just saying,” he argues.
“Stop talking.” you tell him firmly.
“Fine,” Logan says, pulling his shirt over his head. “I’m going to the lake.”
_____
You and Spencer follow a few minutes later.
Outside, the water shines beneath the sun. Families scatter along the shoreline, kids splash near the docks. Logan is already neck deep out in the lake, while your uncle is sitting on the dock, reading some old man magazine.
You adjusted the strap of your bag before stepping out from the cabin porch. Spencer followed a second later. The matching fish swim trunks had somehow become even funnier now that he was actually wearing them. Tiny brightly colored fish smiled cheerfully from pale blue fabric that reached just above his knees. They looked ridiculous.
Somehow, he didn't. He still managed to look unmistakably like Spencer Reid.
His glasses sat neatly on his face. His hair was already falling into his eyes despite having done absolutely nothing yet. He kept glancing down at the trunks every few steps like he still wasn't convinced they belonged on his body.
Rossi looked up from unfolding his chair. The second he noticed the two of you together, he slowly lowered his sunglasses. Very slowly.
"I don't know why I thought you two could be normal," he shakes his head.
You laughed. Spencer glanced down at himself again.
"...Nothing is actually wrong with these, right?" he asks.
"Nothing," Rossi answered.
"...That sounded sarcastic."
"It was." Rossi says.
Spencer reached over and effortlessly lifted your beach bag off your shoulder. Then your towel. Then your water bottle. Then, somehow, your sandals.
"You're carrying everything,” he says.
"I noticed you were carrying several things, so now you aren't."
He follows you and Rossi toward the water carrying nearly everything either of you had brought without questioning it once.
Derek was right.
You really did walk him like a dog.
The shore was busier than it had looked from the cabin. Families occupied nearly every stretch of shoreline, coolers sat buried in the sand, and children ran back and forth with inflatable tubes almost as big as they were. You found a spot a little farther away from the crowds where Rossi had already claimed a pair of chairs. Logan was already out in the lake.
You knelt beside your bag and dug around for sunscreen. The bottle had somehow migrated to the very bottom.
You squeezed some into your hand and started rubbing it across your face. A shadow crossed over you. Spencer.
"Hold still,” you tell him, standing from your couched position to be able to reach his face better.
"...What?"
"You need sunscreen, you’ll burn.” You tell him, reaching toward him. Your finger brushed the bridge of his nose. You rub it down, not realizing you had some on your pinky finger.A thick white streak spreads across one lens of his glasses.
"I'm sorry,” you apologize, holding back a giggle.
"It's okay,” he says, taking his glasses off. “I can clean them when we go back to the cabin.”
“You can put them on top of my bag, I’m going to the water,” you smile.
You expect him to sit his glasses down and follow, but halfway across the dock, you look behind you and realize he hasn’t stepped on it. Instead, he’s standing perfectly stair near the end wearing a bright orange life jacket.
"Why are you wearing the life jacket already?" You shout at him.
"Because we're near water,” he answers.
You start walking back on the dock, going to get him.
"We're thirty feet from the water,” you say once you reach him.
"Exactly."
"Come on," you say, pulling his arm forward. He doesn't budge.
"A single milliliter of lake water can contain anywhere from hundreds of thousands to several million bacterial cells depending on nutrient availability, temperature, and seasonal turnover. That's not including protozoa, algae, fungi, microscopic crustaceans, nematodes, or insect larvae.”
"You will be okay," you tell him.
Out in the lake Logan surfaced again, brushing wet hair out of his face. The second he spotted Spencer he grinned.
"SPENCER!" He calls,
"...Yes?"
"GET IN!"
"I'd rather not."
"The water's three feet deep!"
"I am aware."
"YOU'RE SIX FEET TALL!" Logan shouts, dunking himself under again.
Spencer looked back at you. "I don't particularly enjoy swimming."
"I know,” you say.
"I also don't enjoy not touching the bottom."
"You don’t have to go that deep."
“Promise?”
“I do.”
You laced your fingers through his and started walking backward down the dock.
The old wooden boards creaked beneath your feet. Water lapped softly against the columns holding it up underneath. Spencer followed a step behind you. He kept glancing over the edge of the dock every few seconds, as though the lake might suddenly decide to climb out and attack him.
"I don't dislike water,” he says
"No?" you say, slightly disbelieving.
"I dislike not knowing what's underneath it."
"You can literally see the bottom."
"I can see part of the bottom."
You reached the end of the dock, Logan was already floating nearby, watching the two of you with an amused grin.
"I've seen people convince cats to take baths faster than this,” he says.
Spencer ignored him.
You stepped down first, the cool lake water climbing from your ankles to your knees before settling comfortably around your waist. It felt wonderful after standing in the sun.
You turned back toward Spencer. He was still standing on the dock. You held your hand out for him to take.
He looked at your hand. Then at the water. Then back at you. For a long moment, he didn't move. Finally, he reached forward and took your hand.
"See? That wasn't so hard,” you smile
"I haven't actually entered the water yet."
"You will."
"I might."
"You definitely will."
Very gently, you gave his hand a tug. The second the water reached his calves, his shoulders tensed.
"It's cold."
The water reached his knees. He paused again.
"You've got this,” you squeeze his hand.
The lake rose to his waist, the bright orange life jacket bobbing slightly as tiny ripples spread around him.
"There," you said proudly. "You're swimming."
"I'm standing,” he says. A tiny fish darted between his ankles, causing him to freeze. "...Something touched me."
You immediately started laughing. “It was just a fish. It touched me too.”
"Okay.”
The whole time you were in the water, Spencer was right beside you. He never ventured farther than where his feet could comfortably touch the sandy bottom. Every so often he'd glance down through the clear water, making sure nothing unexpected brushed against his legs again.
Logan tossed him a football. Spencer caught it on instinct.
"You know, for someone who hates lakes..." you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “you seem to be having fun."
“I don’t hate lakes,” he argues, looking around. Logan and Rossi are arguing over rules to some game that Rossi does not even care about playing. The sun is setting just above the water, the reflection making the half sun appear whole over the lake. His gaze stops on you, and he smiles. “And I suppose I am having fun.
_____
Once the sun has fully set and you guys have left the lake, eaten dinner, and showered, Rossi insists on going outside to play cards on the patio. And no was not an acceptable answer. Spencer wins game after game, causing Logan and Rossi to get annoyed at him. You get bored of cards easily, instead you sit and watch as your brother gets more drunk, Rossi drinks, but doesn’t get crazy like Logan, and Spencer win another card game.
You smile to yourself, taking a quick photo of them to remember the moment. And for your Instagram to remember as well…
You can’t help but giggle.
"What are you laughing at?" Spencer asks.
"Nothing."
He narrows his eyes. "...That's suspicious."
"Nothing." You smile innocently. He chooses to believe that.
Once darkness fully settles over the lake, Logan drunkenly insists on ghost stories. Rossi tells one first, his sounding like it could be the plot of a novel. Spencer goes next, his version somehow becomes a detailed explanation of sleep paralysis, infrasound, carbon monoxide poisoning, and why human brains evolved to detect faces in shadows.
Logan and Rossi go inside after that. Logan being actually terrified by Spencer’s story.
“Spence,” you say once it’s just the two of you.
He looks over immediately.
“Yeah?”
There’s something about the way he says it that still catches you off guard. Like no matter what he’s doing, no matter what he’s thinking about, you have his full attention the second you say his name.
“Will you sit on the dock with me?”
“Okay.”
You smile back. Of course he says yes.
The dock is quiet. The kind of quiet you don’t get in the city. There’s no traffic in the distance, no neighbors, no sounds of people moving around. Just the gentle movement of the lake beneath you and the occasional rustle of trees along the shore.
You sit beside each other at the end of the dock, your legs dangling over the water. Spencer leans back on his hands and looks upward.
For a while, neither of you says anything. And you realize you like that about him.
With Spencer, silence never feels like something you have to fill. It feels like something you’re allowed to share.
“That’s Orion,” Spencer says out of nowhere.
You follow his gaze. “The one with the three stars in a line?”
He smiles. “Yeah. Technically, those are Orion’s belt. They’re three of the most recognizable stars in the night sky because they’re relatively evenly spaced and nearly aligned from our perspective.”
You laugh quietly.
“That’s actually one of the reasons Orion is interesting. Almost every culture has some kind of mythology associated with it. The Greeks believed it represented a hunter. The Egyptians associated it with Osiris. In some Polynesian traditions, it’s connected to navigation.”
You watch him as he talks. Because this is Spencer. This is the version of him you love the most. The one who gets excited about things most people don’t even notice. The one who remembers obscure facts and somehow makes them feel important. The one who can talk about something as simple as stars and make it feel like you’re learning a secret about the universe.
“And that one?” You point farther across the sky.
His eyes follow your finger. “That’s Cassiopeia.”
“The W shape?”
He shifts slightly closer, looking up. “She was a queen in Greek mythology. Although, historically, the constellation itself is much older than the story attached to it. Ancient astronomers used patterns in the sky to organize observations, but the human brain is actually really good at recognizing patterns even when there isn’t necessarily a connection.”
You smile. He keeps going. One constellation becomes another. Then another. He tells you about distances measured in light-years, about how some of the stars you’re seeing might not even exist anymore because of how long their light takes to reach Earth.
“That’s kind of sad,” you say.
“What?”
“That we’re looking at something that might already be gone.”
Spencer is quiet for a moment. “Not necessarily.”
You look over. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs slightly. “The fact that something changes or ends doesn’t mean it wasn’t real while it existed.”
The words settle somewhere deeper than he probably intended. Because Spencer does that. He says things that sound like simple observations, but somehow they always feel like they mean something more.
The breeze moves through the trees behind you, carrying the cool air from the lake. You, still in your fish bikini top, shiver slightly. It’s subtle, barely noticeable. But Spencer notices. Of course he does.
“You’re cold,” he points out.
“I’m fine.”
His eyebrows raise. Before you can say anything, Spencer is already moving. He pulls off the flannel shirt he’s wearing over his T-shirt and holds it out to you.
“Here.”
You look at it. Then at him.
“You’ll be cold.”
“I won’t.”
“You literally just noticed that I was.”
“Yes, but I’m wearing a T-shirt underneath. You’re wearing–” He stops himself.
You smile. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what were you going to say?”
He looks away. “I was going to say that you’re stubborn.”
He sighs like he’s annoyed, but there’s no actual frustration behind it. “Please just take the shirt.”
You do. Because you know Spencer well enough now to know that once he decides something, arguing is usually pointless.
You slip it on, pulling the sleeves over your hands. The flannel is still warm from him. It smells like him. And somehow that feels more comforting than the actual warmth.
Spencer watches you for a second. Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable. More like he’s memorizing the sight. Then he looks away.
“Better?” he asks.
You nod.
“Good.”
Spencer starts talking again. You ask questions because you like hearing him answer them. Because when Spencer talks about something he loves, he doesn’t just give you information. He gives you pieces of himself.
Your gaze drifts from the sky, down to him. The way his face changes when he’s excited. The way he talks faster when he gets to a particularly interesting fact. The way his hands move as he explains things, like he’s trying to physically map out the universe in front of you. The little smile that appears without him realizing it. The way he looks happier here than he does anywhere else.
"...Y/N?"
You realize he’s stopped talking. “Yeah?”
He’s looking at you now. A small, amused smile pulls at his mouth. “You’re staring.”
Heat immediately rushes into your face. You look away toward the lake. “I’m sorry.”
Spencer’s smile grows slightly. “Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s something you do a lot.”
“What?”
“Apologize when you haven’t done anything wrong.”
You glance back at him. He says it so casually. Like he hasn’t just noticed something about you that most people never do. You don’t know what to say. So you don’t say anything. And neither does he.
The lake ripples softly beneath the dock. Crickets sing from the tree line. A fish jumps somewhere out in the darkness, sending rings across the glassy surface of the water. Two months ago, silence meant pain. It meant hospital rooms. Empty chairs. Waiting. But tonight, silence was comforting. It felt safe. Warm. Nice.
And that was all thanks to Spencer.
_____
Read Part 34 Here!
Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist
All Works Masterlist
_____
a/n: lowkey sorry if this part isn’t the best, i tried, but like ⅓ of the way through my mom called me and told me that my cousin literally went on a psychotic break and is in the psych ward and literally thinks he’s god so now im thinking about that LMFAO
check out the masterlist for more! spencer requests welcome
summary: you’re just like many other college students with a crush on your criminology professor, spencer reid. sweet, handsome, oblivious spencer reid. except you were never one to ogle from afar. you were determined to be the one to seduce him.
tags and warnings: smut, no use of y/n, sub!spencer reid x dom!reader, afab!reader, pretty mean dom reader, professor x student, slight dubcon, dynamic implies age gap but not specified, masturbation (reader), implied fingering during masturbation, reader is a nasty gal!, reader wears a very mini skirt at one point, degradation, reader gets off on shaming spencer, p in v sex, oral (fem receiving), cowgirl position riding, face sitting (fem), slight blackmail for a moment, creampie, mentions of pregnancy but no preg bc WE DON’T DO THAT HERE, author is waaay into foreplay, most of spencer’s rambling is random stringed-together criminology jargon as i pretend to know what im talking about
a/n: inspiration for this fic! this is like if a smut fic was very silly. reader wants that cookie baaaad. this is a very small concept that stretched into a big long fic i hope no one gets bored. also IF YOU’RE READING THIS GET IN MY INBOX!!! I AM WILLING TO TAKE REQUESTS!!! I WANT SPENCER IDEAS, EVEN FLUFFY ONES!!!!
It was certainly hard to focus when in the class of Professor Reid. Almost every seat in the front row was taken up by a girl twirling her hair or chewing on her pen. Or both. And you really couldn’t say you were any better.
Spencer stood at the front of the lecture hall, adjusting his glasses with one hand while holding a stack of papers in the other.
He didn’t mean to be distracting, but he so very was. Tall, lanky, always dressed neatly in button-ups and vests, and his intelligence just radiated from him. And when he was teaching, his voice gained such weight and precision it was impossible for the attention of the room not to be drawn.
He was certainly handsome. And it was sweet of him to pretend he didn’t know it.
You couldn’t blame the ogling women. You'd be lying if you said you weren't taking this class at least partially for Reid. You sat near the middle, your notebook open but mostly blank. You’d spent the last ten minutes sketching tiny hearts in the margins instead of taking notes. you were listening. You just… liked looking at him, too. The way his hair fell slightly over his forehead when he leaned forward onto his desk, how he bit his lip when concentrating, how soft-spoken yet assured he sounded. It was all kind of unfairly attractive for a professor who probably didn’t even realize half these girls were here for him and not criminology.
But you were a woman of drive. A woman of initiative. And a woman of... well, perverse sexual desires, honestly. And Professor Spencer Reid would see that soon enough.
You pretended it was a coincidence that you’d arrived earlier than could possibly be accidental.
And it was a coincidence, technically. A class of yours prior had been canceled last minute, and now roaming the halls of the building, the open door to Spencer’s hall was just too inviting to possibly ignore.
You hadn’t planned to show up an hour early just to secure a good seat. But now here you were, walking in at 8:05 AM for a class that started at 9, eyes roaming over the empty front row with a giddy greed.
Part of you had hoped to spare just an extra minute with the handsome professor before his lecture began. But much to your pleasant surprise, he wasn’t one to arrive two minutes before class was to begin like your other professors. As you stand in the door, Reid stares back at you with brown eyes like saucers, mid-scribble on the board, slightly alarmed to see someone so early.
His hair was unruly. The eyebags under his eyes, not dark enough to be troubling, but just enough to make you wonder if he had spent more than a few hours resting.
Spencer straightened up quickly and nearly knocked over the empty coffee cup on his desk. He clears his throat, and gives you a stiff wave. “Oh! Uh… good morning.”
You clear your throat and shift your bag on your shoulder, moving to secure a front row seat. “…First one, huh?” you say, like it’d been accidental.
Spencer nodded, still slightly flustered by your presence. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re… pretty early! 53 minutes early, actually.”
He turned back to the board and picked up his marker again, but didn’t resume writing just yet. Just stood there shifting it in his grip awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that someone was watching him work.
He slowly turns back around. “Did you… uh… have a question? Or something I can help you with?”
It makes you a little giddy inside that he was talking to you directly now. Like being alone with a celebrity. It was quite invigorating to have a crush.
“Oh,” you wave your hand, settling into your chair. “Nope. No questions here.”
He stares at you for a moment, eyes just subtly roaming over your figure. “…Cool,” he said lamely, then turned back to the board and started writing again, a subheading to yesterday’s lecture notes.
Crossing your leg over the other, you tap your fingers on your knees. You sit front and center, watching Spencer like he’s on display. The silence is a little uncomfortable, the only sound in the room the squeaking of the marker as his hand flies across the board, but you didn’t care. You were too busy getting an eyeful of his derriere each time his blazer rode up with his arm.
Eyes still fixed on the prize, you muse, “You like to be early too, huh?”
Spencer nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I like to get everything set up before class starts. Y’know… organize the slides, make sure the projector’s working,” He gestures vaguely to the ceiling. “Helps to not feel, uh, overwhelmed, actually.”
“Ah. A lot to do, I imagine.”
“Mhm!” he hummed in agreement, scribbling more notes on the board, something about a list of common stress triggers in violent offenders.
“Anything I can help with, sir?”
He turns slowly, marker in hand. “Uh… no? I mean, I’m good.” He smiled awkwardly, then immediately went back to writing before the conversation could continue further.
Your face falls. The slight sting of embarrassment makes you grimace behind his back. “Not even get you another coffee? …You look like you need it, sir.”
At that, Spencer considers. “…Actually,” he said slowly, “that would be really nice.”
You pop up from your chair like a spring. Spencer is slightly startled. “I, uh, take it with a lot of sugar!” He calls as he watches you move to the door, then retracts it as soon as he feels too demanding. “Actually, just— just bring the sugar here, I’ve got it.”
“Aye, aye, professor.”
Five minutes later, you returned, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a generous amount of sugar packets between your teeth.
You climb up the steps to the stage, for the first time being on the same level as your professor. And just a few feet away at that. You bite your cheek.
He carefully takes the cup with a tiny, grateful smile, but hardly makes eye contact with you, much to your dismay. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”
He immediately ripped open three sugar packets, dumping them in at once. He stirred it with a spoon from his desk, watching the swirl of cream and sugar mix. When he finally sipped it… perfect. Strong. Sweet. Just how he liked it.
Still not looking at you directly, too aware that you were just standing there watching him oddly, he gave another quiet thanks.
You were lingering a little longer than necessary if you were being honest, eyes following the way his throat bobs as he swallows another gulp of the coffee.
Spencer stares at you awkwardly. You give a sheepish grin as you catch yourself. “Sorry! I’m not, uh,” you bite your lip, humming, “bothering you or anything by being here so early?”
“Oh, no! No, it’s— it’s fine,” he said quickly, setting the coffee down. He fidgeted with his cufflinks and finally looked at you properly for the first time since you arrived. Maybe you were obsessed and ready to froth at the mouth over scraps, but something about the eye contact felt intimate. “It was really thoughtful of you,” he says again, gesturing to the coffee. “Besides, your performance in this class is excellent, might I say,” he compliments.
You suppress a grin. Score. You knew furiously scribbling down those notes as your head spun from all the criminology jargon, studying all night until you could recite the pages back to him was all worth it just for that tiny compliment.
“—So I don’t think you’re in any need of extra help outside of class,” he continues, smiling with a nod, “Therefore you’re… more than welcome to come in right at the time of the lecture. Don’t feel like you need to arrive early or anything.”
You deflate a little at that.
Goodness, you hadn’t even considered that. A little private tutor session? Just you and Professor Reid? Goddamn it, none of it was worth it at all. You should’ve been failing.
Spencer seemed to notice the shift in your expression, how your smile faded. Whoops. You forgot to be subtle.
He backtracks quickly, “I mean… unless you wanted extra help?” He offers, raising his eyebrows slightly.
“Always more to learn!” You smile brightly, voice a little too chipper.
Spencer’s eyes brightened at your enthusiasm. “Okay! Cool,” he nods. “If you want, you can come by my office after class? I can go over some advanced profiling techniques for crime assessment and inputs.”
You struggle to keep the fireworks booming in your body from exploding out of your mouth. God, he had no idea. “Yes! Y-yes. yeah,” you nod rapidly. “Sounds great.”
He smiled, a genuine one that made her insides clench. “Awesome! My office is 208B,” he said, pointing down the hall with his thumb. “I’m usually there until around five?”
With a final nod, Spencer turns to organize some papers. You see the opportunity and seize it.
Leaning on his desk, you ask casually, “Ah, five, huh? Gotta… get home to the wife?”
His eyes snap back to yours, confused and startled.
“Oh! N-No, no, I’m not married.”
“Whaaat? Get outta here. Not even a girlfriend?”
He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then looks down at his papers, suddenly very interested in alphabetizing them. “…Nope.” Why was this conversation happening?
Meanwhile, you could practically fall over and die. “Wow. That’s… yeah, that’s crazy.”
He opens his mouth with the strange need to defend himself. “I… I mean… I just haven’t—” He cleared his throat and gestured stiffly to the board. “Anyway! Should probably finish this, uh, lecture prep.”
“Right, right! No, of course.” You shuffle away, moving to the steps to make your way off the stage. But you halt, pivoting on your heel. “…Aaanything else I can help you with?”
Spencer thinks. The room was quiet, the air thick with the smell of coffee and faint scent of whiteboard markers. He turns to spare you a glance, and realizes you seemed… eager to help.
“…You could hand me those slides?” He asked, pointing to a stack of pages on the side table that needed sorting into order.
“Hah, fuck…”
Laying back on your bed in your vacant dormitory, you let the back of your head hit the mattress again. Hair tussled, cheeks warm, a layer of sweat on your body.
As your fingers work between your legs, the only thought in your mind was your handsome professor. The thought of his lips greedily sucking your heat, dark locks falling over your thighs, as those long, wiry fingers work in and out of your cunt. The fantasy played out vividly in your mind, every detail sharp. His wide brown eyes shining with tears, his erection straining against those stiff pants he insisted on wearing to each class. His lips would be swollen and glistening from lapping and suckling. How sweet he’d sound, you think, with his moans muffled into your pussy as you grind against his face.
You fantasized about your Professor more often than you were ready to admit. When you were sure you were alone, the words “professor”, “teacher”, or “college” found itself in your laptop’s search bar frequently, often accompanied by your fist down your panties.
It certainly wasn’t the one fantasy you had. Gripping his wrists like a vice, fucking yourself on his dick while he could only watch helplessly— that was another contender. God, the sound he’d make if you yanked his hair just right. Or clamping a hand over his mouth as he sat between your legs, your fist working his cock faster than he could possibly keep up with. How flustered he’d be, stammering something sweet and nervous between kisses.
You thought of stuffing that tie in his mouth, of tugging that unruly hair, of bending him over your knee, of—
You lay back on your mattress, panting and flushed with a sheen of sweat, basking in the afterglow with your nerves still buzzing.
You hadn’t meant to get that carried away, but once you started thinking about him like that… it was impossible to stop.
You kicked your legs in the air, letting a breathless giggle escape you, the excitement of seeing him again so soon enough to send another rush of arousal through you.
You’ll admit, you were a little disappointed with the result of the small tutor session, none of the fantasies exactly coming to life.
“Well, I gotta say, I think you’re keeping up incredibly well,” Spencer flips a page in a file as he sits in his office chair across from you. “You’re remarkably competent. I mean, I don’t think you’re in need of any help outside of my class at all.”
You sat stiffly in the chair across from his desk, knees pressed together.
Remarkably competent. Keeping up well. That was… great. But also so boring. You wanted him to say something like “you’re stunning,” “I think about you constantly,” “let me kiss you.” But instead, it looked like you were losing the opportunity for these sessions.
“It’s… nice,” he says, looking up at you properly now, “to have someone actually enrolled who cares about the subject. It’s funny, did you know you’re just about one of the only students of mine actually registered?” He laughs lightly. God, you would eat him alive. “Turns out, most of the people I get in my lectures are only auditing, it’s… it’s a little disappointing, actually.”
“Yeah, I know,” you nod casually, far less oblivious as to the reason for that.
Spencer pauses, sensing something. “You… do?”
“Yeah,” you shrug.
“Oh!” He glances off to the side for a moment. “Well, it’s, uh… kinda weird, right?”
“I mean… have you noticed it’s only the girl students doing the auditing?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “…Yeah,” he says slowly, “I guess I have.”
With a slow, strange shock, you realize. “Oh, you actually don’t know.”
Spencer’s face scrunches slightly. “Don’t know… what?”
“Uh, well. They audit the class for you, sir.”
His lips part slightly. He blinks at her for a moment in surprise. “For me?”
“Yeah. Like… they think you’re cute.”
The color drains from Spencer’s face, then floods back in a rush of red.
“Oh,” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “Oh.”
“Mhm. Kind of flattering, no?”
Spencer is already not handling this well. His fingers tap nervously against the file on his desk. He can’t look at you. His eyes keep darting to the ceiling, then back down.
“It’s… um,” he stammers, “I mean… I don’t— I never considered that.”
He was so oblivious. Painfully so. “Yeah.” You fiddle with your pencil and decide to test the waters. “You could, like… fix your whole ‘single’ problem with just about any one of them.”
Spencer looks mildly horrified by the idea. “I don’t—” he starts, then stops, “I mean… I could, but I wouldn’t want to.” His nose scrunches slightly.
“You wouldn’t?” you ask quickly.
“No,” he says automatically. Then he suddenly gets a little shier. “I mean… it’s not appropriate. I’m their professor.”
“Oh,” you say softly. “So it’s a moral thing.”
He nods, happy to be understood. “Yeah, professional boundaries, and all that. It just… wouldn’t be right.”
“Yeah, but you’ve never liked something that’s wrong?”
Spencer frowns. That was a very specific question. He shifts in his seat, suddenly feeling very warm under his button-up. “…No? Not like that?”
“No?”
“I mean…” he swallows hard, “not in a way that would ever matter.” This conversation had suddenly veered very personal before Spencer had even realized.
You’re leaning closer across the desk than he remembers you were five minutes ago. “So, if you did, hypothetically, happen to like one of those students, you wouldn’t date them?”
Spencer’s hands clench slightly in his lap.
“…No,” he says quietly, but there's a strange waver in his voice.
The sly tease flies out of your mouth before you can help it, “…Are you considering it now, Professor?”
“I’m not—!” he starts, defensive. His eyes flicker to yours for half a second before darting away again.
Got him.
After letting the silence linger for just another tense second longer, you stand abruptly. Your chair screeches against the floor, and Spencer nearly jumps out of his seat at the sudden movement. Slapping laptop down and sliding it under your arm, you flash him a smile. “Much to think about!”
“Uh— wait,” he blurts, standing too. “M-Miss—!”
But you were already halfway to the door, bag tucked under your arm. “See you in class, sir!” you call over your shoulder.
The door clicks shut. Spencer stands there, frozen in the middle of his office, staring at where you’d just been.
His palms are sweaty.
He slowly sinks back into his chair and stares blankly at his desk.
What just happened?
A few days later, he’s a little startled the by the sound of a cup enthusiastically landing on his desk.
His eyes trail up the arm attached until he meets your sparkling eyes, and he immediately relaxes. “Morning!” You chirp.
This had become routine between the two of you now. Every morning you’d show up, steaming cup in hand, sugars and all.
“Ah, my prized student,” he says back warmly, and accepts the cup with both hands.
“Oh! Will that graduate to favorite student if I keep bringing you these coffees?”
Spencer’s lips twitch into a smile, his lips around the rim of the cup. “You’re already my favorite,” he admits without thinking. After a moment, he seems to catch on to his own words, and suddenly backpedales. “I mean— not in a weird way! Just… you bring me coffee.”
The smile on your face is downright perverted. “And sugar,” you remind him.
“And sugar,” he echoes, smiling shyly. He rips open four packets of sugar and dumps them in one heap.
You tap your nails against his desk idly and muse, “Y’know, I was studying for your class last night when I realized, I think I’ve finally found something I’m stumped on.”
Spencer perks up. “Oh! Okay, what is it?”
“Geographical profiling. Don’t understand it a lick.”
He brightens. “Ah, that’s actually really fascinating!” He says, setting his coffee aside. “What is it specifically you’re struggling with? Are you struggling with the mathematical algorithms or more the theoretical framework?”
You wave a hand. “All of it,” you lie, miming something flying over your head. “Whoosh.”
Spencer quiets for just a fraction longer than normal. All of it? That… seemed extreme for someone who had been acing tests so far. But he plays along. “Okay, well… let’s start at the beginning—”
“—After class, right? In your office?” You interrupt him eagerly.
“Oh! Uh, yeah,” he nods. “Sure. After class.”
“Wonderful. Wouldn’t wanna distract my mind before your lecture today, y’know?” You tap your index finger against your temple and smile at him warmly. Shifting your bag on your shoulder, you begin to walk to secure your front row seat.
But the moment you step out of the way of the desk, Spencer’s gaze drops before he can stop it. His eyes can’t help but roam over your lower half. Specifically your legs. Practically the entire expanse of your legs, in fact. You were wearing just about the shortest skirt he thinks he’s ever laid eyes on. A skirt that if it was even an inch shorter, there’d be a problem.
His brain short-circuits for a solid two seconds, long enough that the coffee cup tilts dangerously in hand. Then he chases himself away, his throat tight, awkwardly adjusting his tie. He busies himself with pretending to organize files that don’t need organizing.
As you shuffle down the steps, you call over to him, “Don’t you just hate when your mind’s distracted?” You don't dare peek at him over your shoulder, fearing he’d see the coy smile plastered on your face.
Spencer swallows hard. “Yeah,” he croaks out, “Hate it.”
That lecture is practically public humiliation for Professor Reid.
He stands at the front of the class as usual, his voice echoing across the hall as he speaks, gesturing with his hands for emphasis. But his fingers keep twitching. In minute and a half intervals— because yeah, you were counting— his eyes accidentally flick down to you, front row center, legs crossed primly.
He’s usually quite a smooth lecturer. Articulate. Confident. Lost in the thrill of sharing his knowledge. But today, he keeps stumbling over words, noticeably missing transitions between points, and a few of the students are beginning to exchange glances. Since when did Professor Reid lose track of his lectures?
Meanwhile, you’re watching it all unfold smugly from your seat. Your eyes haven’t left your dear professor since this class began. Which wasn’t out of the ordinary. After all, everyone in the class had their gaze on him. But Spencer’s only painfully aware of one.
You notice the way he begins to subtly avoid looking in your general direction. Each time he glances up to check for engagement, his eyes skip a whole section of students like there was a bubble around you.
He discreetly wipes his perspiring palms on his pants.
Unhappy with the lack of attention, you shift in your chair. Under the guise of getting more comfortable, you sink in your spot, legs uncrossing, your mini-est skirt in the world at risk of riding up with any strong movement. You casually lean back, stretching one leg out just a little further, the fabric of your skirt rising up just an inch.
Your shoe taps against the floor like a quiet Yoo-hoo, over here. And when you’re certain he’s looking your way again, albeit in his peripheral, and with the slowest, softest, subtlest movement you can manage, you idly flex your legs open and shut, open and shut. His throat bobs, and your lips curl.
You keep the motion slow, almost lazy, like you weren't even aware of it. Just tiny, imperceivable movements. Rhythmic, absentminded. The way one taps their fingers or twirls a strand of hair. But it might as well have been a flashing neon sign saying Look at me, with your thighs tensing under the thin material of your skirt over and over before relaxing again.
Each time your legs spread, if Spencer looked close enough, he’d catch the color of your thong.
He grips the edge of his podium, knuckles whitening. The lecture drags on, every second an eternity. He finishes his last point five minutes early, voice trailing off awkwardly. “…And that’s— that’s all for today.”
A beat of silence. The students blink at each other. Each person shuffles out quickly, confused by the abrupt ending, but not exactly complaining. Spencer just wanted it to end.
You take your sweet time packing up. Slinging your bag over one shoulder, then pausing to yawn, arms high above your head in a long stretch that makes your shirt rise up at the waist.
Spencer watches, against his will, as your shirt lifts just enough to reveal a sliver of skin, then as you reach higher, pulling your muscles in a different angle, and this time your back arches slightly.
He’s speechless atop the stage.
Frustratingly, you don’t spare him a glance as you file out alongside the other students that trickle through the door. “Bye, Professor,” he hears your voice above the rest.
“Bye,” Spencer mumbles back, robotic.
The second the door clicks shut behind you, he exhales like he’d been holding his breath the entire lecture. Miserably, he drops to his chair and presses both palms into his eyes.
What was wrong with him?
A light knock comes to his office door, and Spencer’s head jerks up. That's you.
He clears his throat. “Come in!” he calls.
In comes you, with the brightest smile, one he can hardly tear his eyes from. “Hi, Professor!” You chirp.
“Hi,” he says back, softer than intended. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit down, whenever you’re ready.” His hands are folded neatly in front of him. A professional, composed posture. But his heart isn’t listening.
Spencer notices the absence of the skirt immediately, the expanse of your legs hidden from view again. But why was he looking? Was he hoping you hadn’t changed?
You plop down in your seat across from him with a bounce. After light conversation and a moment to get settled, he grabs a folder labeled Geographical Profiling and cracks open a textbook. “So,” Spencer begins, flipping open the folder. “Geographical profiling is basically a way to predict where a serial offender might strike next based on their previous crime scenes.” He pulls out a map, already marked with locations. “It uses statistical analysis and spatial patterns—”
“—Can I come over to your side?”
Spencer stops, staring at you a little oddly.
You shrug a shoulder. “I just think I’d get it better looking at it from your angle.”
“Oh! Yeah, for sure,” he says, scooting his chair over to make space.
You stand and circle around the desk, dragging the chair behind you. As you sit down with your shoulders just barely brushing his, the smell of your perfume engulfs him. Pleasant, not too overwhelming. Girly in a way that made him nervous. He clears his throat, “Where— where were we?”
Refocusing on the map, his steady, academic tone returns easily. “So we’re looking at these crime scenes here and here—” His finger taps two dots on the paper.
As he talks, you lean closer to the paper. Which naturally results in you leaning closer to Spencer. Your arms brush at some point with featherlight contact.
He doesn’t react. Instead, he keeps pointing at the map, voice even despite his body temperature suddenly rising. “…And based on this pattern,” he continues, “the offender likely lives somewhere along this radius.”
Abruptly, you turn to open a drawer on his desk. You scan the contents inside, then move to the next.
“Uh…” he starts, watching you with bewilderment.
“Looking for a pencil.”
“Ah!” He fumbles in his own pocket and pulls out a clicky ballpoint. “Here,” he says, offering it to you. “You can use mine.”
“Ohh, your’s huh? I’m flattered. Promise not to chew on it.” You wink.
Spencer’s lips twitch. He watches as you take the pen, your fingers brushing. On purpose? Or was that just wishful thinking?
“Y-yeah, for sure. Just, um… just ask me next time, okay? I’d prefer it if you didn’t dig through my drawers.”
“Ah, I see,” you chuckle behind your lips.
“…See what?”
“I dunno. You hiding something dirty in there, Professor?”
Spencer’s face is mortified. “W-what? No!” He sputters, voice cracking slightly. “It’s just… paperwork! Notes. Th— that I’d prefer to keep organized.”
You bite back your grin. “You don’t have to be shy about it!”
“I-I’m not shy! There’s nothing to be shy about!” Spencer insists, a little too loudly.
He clears his throat awkwardly and tries to turn back to work like nothing happened. The paper and textbook stare back at him, completely uninteresting now. All he could focus on was how close you still were. How your perfume kept wafting over every time you moved. “So… statistically speaking, the offender likely lives within a three-mile radius of these clustered crime scenes.”
You nod along, but you're not really listening. You’re still watching him. The way his brow furrows when he concentrates, how his fingers tap the paper absentmindedly.
Spencer feels a poke on his shoulder.
“Hey.”
He turns his head sharply, eyes wide. “…Yeah?”
There’s a heartbeat of silence where you just stare into each other's eyes, your faces far too close. And for a moment, Spencer thinks this was going in a very different direction.
Then you smile. Soft, playful. “You talk with your hands a lot,” you observe casually. “I like it.”
“Oh,” is all he says at first. “Thanks?”
“Yeah, you’ve got good hands, you know?”
“Uh… yeah, thanks,” he mumbles again, voice weirdly small. “You too? I think?”
“Yeah? Mine?”
“Yeah, your—” Spencer gestures vaguely to your hands. They were nice. Soft-looking, well-manicured. Holdable. “I mean… they look… clean?”
“Hm. Clean.” You examine your own hands, spreading out your fingers and flipping them back and forth. You seemingly nod in agreement. “Don’t like to be messy, Professor?”
Spencer shakes his head quickly. “No, I hate messes,” he admits. “Germaphobe, honestly. The sheer amount of pathogens passed in a handshake alone is staggering, actually.”
“Really? What about… in a kiss? Now that’s gotta be dirtier.”
“Actually,” he says immediately, leaning forward slightly, “saliva contains millions of bacteria. Some studies estimate that a single kiss transfers 80 million microorganisms between people.” His voice gains the same weight you recognize from his lectures. “And it’s not just bacterial exchange either! There’s enzymatic activity too…”
Spencer’s scientific rambling slowly trails off mid-sentence as he takes notice, finally, of where your gaze is locked. His lips. His brain also finally acknowledges the warmth of your thigh deliberately pressed against his through the fabric of his pants, and he feels something stirring in his lower half he’d really rather ignore.
As Spencer’s mouth goes dry, a slow, wicked grin spreads on your face. “Sorry, I’m getting you all distracted again, aren’t I?”
He squirms slightly in his seat. “Y-yeah, a little.”
You nod to the paper. “You wanna… go back to telling me about geographical profiling?”
What was this, the third time now he’s had to begin again?
“Yeah. So… like I was saying, the offender’s most likely residence is here—”
For a while, you seem, to him, to be listening well. You occasionally nod, ask a question here and there to keep him talking. But your attention once again is curved by the handsome man sitting not even an inch away. And as he talked, the gears in your mind were turning.
You knew what came next. The big part. The one you’d actually practiced a humiliating amount of times. You squeeze your thighs together, your skin prickling with the thrill running through you.
Spencer doesn’t notice your distraction, too focused on explaining the logistics of distance decay. “And based on these crime scene locations,” he says, “we can calculate the mean center, which is essentially how all these points would balance if we put them on a scale.”
“Hm. Yeah, I just feel like I would see it better from your angle.”
Spencer stops as you interrupt him for the nth time. There’s no space left to scoot closer, but he still shifts a little— an instinctive, subconscious lean toward you. His shoulder is pressed flush against yours now. “Yeah… okay,” he murmurs, tilting the map slightly so you could see better, the proximity making his pulse erratic again.
You shiver a little at the closeness, subtly biting your lip. It practically takes all of your self-control to shake your head. “No, no, now you can’t see it.”
Spencer huffs a tiny, almost-laugh. “I assure you, I can see it. Not to worry. Besides, you should really be the one looking—”
“May I?”
“…May you what?”
“Move to a better angle for both of us, obviously.”
“Oh, right! Right,” Spencer scoots his chair back a generous amount to give you room, a little sheepish about having moved closer to you in the first place.
But you don't even acknowledge this. You rise from your chair smoothly, casually adjusting your clothes. Then, much to Spencer’s surprise, you lay a hand on his shoulder and move to stand between his legs, lording over him. He was suddenly at a disadvantage, looking up at you with eyes wide as saucers and watching your every move like a frightened animal.
You lock eyes with Spencer as you slide your arm around his neck. You feel the tenseness in his body, each muscle taut with anticipation. With a jut of your knee, you spread his legs and calmly perch yourself atop his thigh, effectively sitting in his lap. He nearly jumps back in shock, but pinned under your weight, he doesn’t have far to go. His body is stiff as a robot’s, so you take it upon yourself to grab his arm and effortlessly maneuver it until it’s wrapped comfortably around your waist, pressing his palm flat against your hip.
Spencer looks as though he’s been electrocuted. He’s completely paralyzed. You were in his lap. Your weight settled against him, your warmth seeping through his clothes. For a moment, he wonders if he’s just died.
“…What? You said I could.”
Spencer’s lips parted, but no sound came out. When his brain finally rebooted, all it could manage was a weak “I—I didn’t—”
You could somehow feel his heartbeat, wild and frantic, from where you sat on his knee. The rapid thump-thump of his pulse circulating through every vein like a trapped bird. Spencer could feel it too, betraying every ounce of panic and… something else he didn’t want to name. His fingers finally twitched slightly where they rested against your hip, like testing you were really there under his palm.
“Well, go on,” you feigned innocence, patting his shoulder twice. “Keep talking.”
Spencer’s mouth opened. Nothing. All he could focus on was the girl in his lap, your scent, your warmth, the soft fabric of your shirt under his palm. “…I,” he started, then stopped.
Poor guy. You suppose you should give him some help after being so cruel. “What’s that one mean?” you ask, pointing to a diagram in the open textbook.
Spencer’s gaze followed your finger to the diagram. He swallows hard. “That one,” he starts slowly, voice slightly higher than usual, “shows how crime scenes cluster around the mean center based on statistical dispersion.”
“Oh, I see. So what else do you have to teach me?”
Not this. He wasn’t qualified for whatever this was.
But his mouth moved anyway, defaulting to academia, his safety. “Uh… there’s also the concept of hotspot analysis, which uses kernel density estimation to identify high-crime areas—”
You weren't listening. Obviously. You watch his lips move as he rambles, gently trailing a manicured nail down his scruffy cheek, which briefly makes Spencer stutter.
“…And— and the—” He takes a shuddering breath. “…the algorithm accounts for temporal decay too, which means crimes are more likely to occur closer in time to previous events than further away. Th— there’s an equation for it, but I can’t… really remember right now.”
“Oh, dear, am I distracting you again Professor?”
“…A little!” he squeaks, a tight, bashful smile on his face.
“I was starting to think you never forgot anything.”
“I don’t, I— I just… I’ve never been distracted like this before.” It was true he had an eidetic memory. Something he was keen to remind everybody of. But right now, he was sure he couldn’t recall his own phone number if someone asked him.
“Never had a student on your knee?”
The way you phrased it, like this was normal, almost made him laugh at the absurdity. “N-no, no, never.”
“Well. Don’t let me distract you. Just trying to learn.”
You lean into his side almost affectionately as he talks, your nose brushing against his cheek. Spencer swallows hard. He falters, just barely, but it was enough to make his next sentence waver. “…and the weight is inversely proportional to distance from the epicenter, meaning closer crimes have higher influence on predicting future locations…”
You blow once on his ear.
Spencer jumps, his arm tightening around you involuntarily and his head tilted away from the sudden puff of air. He whispered-shouts your name, scandalized.
You snort. “Oops.”
“You’re— you’re messing with me,” he accuses, voice low but tinged with something begrudgingly playful.
“Who, me?” You bat your lashes.
A tiny, disbelieving laugh leaves his lips, nearly a scoff. “Yes,” he says, “You!”
You giggle, and Spencer feels some part of his brain turn mushy at the sound. “Okay, okay! Sorry, Professor. I’ll behave.”
He exhaled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured genuinely. “…So if we apply this methodology to an actual case,” he said, pointing at a crime scene map on the textbook page.
Before he can say much, he feels the lightest press of lips to his stubbly cheek, and his words quickly fade into an unintelligible, flustered mumble.
“W-we can predict with… um… reasonable accuracy where... mm…”
“Can’t hear you when you mumble, sir. How am I supposed to learn?” You nose his cheek.
He tried again, louder this time, “I said we can predict future crime locations with statistical modeling!”
God, this was torture.
“You’re getting kinda sweaty.”
“It’s— it’s hot in here,” he lied weakly, tugging at his cardigan.
“You can take that off,” you gesture to the sweater. “You don’t have to be professional with me.”
He laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, I… think I stopped being professional with you the moment I let you sit on my knee.”
You pull at his cardigan. “Take it off,” you whine.
“No! No,” Spencer grasps your wrists, his grip firm. He says your name in a scolding tone. “We’re still… on campus. I can’t just—”
“What, taking off a sweater isn’t allowed on campus?”
He exhaled through his nose. “I just… don’t feel comfortable, that’s all.”
“What, are you thinking of something gross?”
“No!” He blurts. “I just—I mean—I’m not—” He flounders for words, horrified by the accusation.
You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing. You double over slightly, still perched on his knee, shoulders shaking, and Spencer’s chest does a weird little squeeze. He didn’t know whether to be offended or charmed, but his frown softened into something almost shy.
Your laughter ends with one sweet sigh, and with your hand on his cheek, you lean in to press a chaste kiss to his temple. Grinning against his skin, you murmur, “Wanna know something?”
“…Yeah?” He whispers back, voice small and uncertain.
“I know this is turning you on.”
Spencer’s red down to his chest now. He sputters, “Wh— I— that’s not—”
“Mhm. Wanna hear what else I know?” You tilt his head up to peck his cheek twice. “I know you were staring at me in that skirt.”
Spencer couldn’t even form a coherent response to that.
“What were you thinking about? My legs? My ass? ‘Cause I’d say that’s pretty dirty, Professor.”
“No!” he whispers harshly, eyes wide. He squirms in his seat like he wants to escape. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—” His hand tightens slightly where it rests on your waist.
“So you were!” You giggle, pulling back from him and cupping his face in your hands. “C’mon, look at you. What happened to those… professional boundaries you were so worried about?”
Spencer’s expression twisted with shame and flustered panic. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a tiny voice, “You just… ruined them.”
“Oh, I did, huh? So it’s my fault? It’s my fault you were staring at me?”
Alarmed, he shook his head violently. “No! No, that’s not— I didn’t mean it like that, I-I meant it like—”
“Guess it’s just my fault you’re having all these perverted thoughts about your favorite student.”
“They’re not—” His chest rises and falls as he pants with desperate frustration. “I don’t have perverted thoughts!” he protests, voice pitching higher.
You laugh cruelly, “You do! Who knew? Professor Reid’s a big pervert who stares at the girls in his class.”
You shift in his lap, moving until your front is squished up against his, thighs clamped on either side of his legs, your hips putting unfortunate pressure on his pelvis.
Spencer presses himself as far back as he could in his chair, eyes darting everywhere except your face. “I-I’m not! No! No, it’s not like that!” His hands hovered in the air like he was trying to surrender. Every nerve in his body was screaming this is wrong, this is wrong, but his traitorous cock pulsed anyway.
“Gross. I can feel your dick getting hard.”
Mortification crashed over him like a tidal wave. “It’s not— I can’t help that!”
“What, are you turned on by this or something?”
Spencer just squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed, grip tight on the armrests of his chair. His silence was answer enough.
“Pervert,” You hiss.
His face burns a deep, humiliated crimson. “I’m not… I’m not a pervert, okay?” He whispered, voice trembling with shame and genuine distress.
You dip down slowly, lowering your forehead to his, your breath on his lips. “Then why do you wanna fuck me?”
Finally, reality laid bare. And with the arousal very clearly straining against his pants, Spencer sees the uselessness in denying it, though his lips still part reflexively. For a heartbeat or two, you stayed like that, faces touching, breaths mingling. Then at last, he moves, and slowly he presses his lips to yours in the softest, most unsure kiss of his life.
At first, you don’t seem to reciprocate. Your lips stay upsettingly still, he’s not even sure your eyes are closed. Spencer whines slightly in his mouth in embarrassment. The moment his lips shy away from yours more than an inch, however, your grip suddenly winds into his hair. With an abrupt and furious force, you tug him back, teeth nearly colliding as you devour his mouth. Instantly, he melts back into your taste, completely unprepared for the intensity but his body responding instinctively. His hands fly back to your waist and his lips clumsily attempt to keep up with your hungry movements as he drowns in you.
One hand slides up your back while the other grips your waist tighter. He makes a small, needy noise against your mouth. You kiss him like you’ve been starving for it. like this was inevitable, like Spencer had been yours all along. You bite his lower lip gently before diving back in, tongue sliding against his with a hunger that leaves him breathless. He clutches you closer, fingers twisting into the fabric of your shirt.
Time seems to blur as the world narrows. The chair creaks under your combined weight as you shift atop him, pressing yourself even closer. Your thighs tightening around his hips, your body molding against him, beginning to grind over his erection.
Spencer groans into the kiss, his palms sliding down to grip your thighs. Your hips move against his with deliberate pressure, rolling down in slow, smooth circles just to feel him twitch. He breathes raggedly through his nose, trying to force himself up to meet your body every time it rises off of him just to grind back down.
“You’re stupidly hard,” you growl the moment you part for air.
Spencer looks up at you through his lashes with a dazed expression. His lips are kiss-swollen, his face flushed, and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. “S-sorry,” he breathes out automatically.
“I haven’t even fucking done anything to you,” you smile wickedly. “I kissed you and you’re throbbing.”
Spencer nods frantically, his cheeks burning with humiliation and arousal. “You’re… really pretty,” he blurts out suddenly.
The compliment elicits some kind of reaction from you, something he can’t quite place. You smirk again, eyes briefly rolling back like he’d touched you. You hum in satisfaction. “I’ve waited so fucking long to hear you say that.”
Spencer’s chest swells with something warm. His heart pounds harder. He wants to say more now, clumsy and sweet things that aren’t usually his style.
“You want me to touch you?” you coos condescendingly in a way that makes him dizzy, cupping his face. “Yeah? You want my pussy? Want me to suck your filthy cock?” you say crudely.
He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know what the right answer is. Instead, his eyes dart down to your lips again, then lower, just for a split second, before snapping back up in panic.
“Answer me, Professor.”
“…Yes, y-yeah,” he finally squeaks out, the words so quiet it’s barely audible. Then he adds in a slightly louder whisper: “Please.”
“Yeah? Just like this?” One of your hands slides down to press against the front of his pants, right where he’s straining. He strains to not buck into your palm like a virgin.
His breath comes out in short, shaky puffs. He nods rapidly. “Yeah. Yeah, uh-huh. Like that.”
You rip your hand away suddenly like you’d been burned. In an instant, his collar is wrapped in your fist as you slide off his lap and yank him to his feet. He stumbles after you, wide eyed and bewildered. Spencer barely has time to process what’s happening before he’s being whirled around, practically manhandled, and he finds you both have swapped places. You seat yourself lazily in his chair and tugs him down with you, down until his knees hit the floor of his office, until his head is hovering between your thighs.
“Wha—?”
“Earn it.”
Spencer’s brain is scrambling. He stares at your spread legs and closes his jaw. He swallows hard. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do with them. He’s never done this before. But the thought of touching you, tasting you, it sends a thrill through him that overrides his nervousness.
You casually undo the button of your pants, stripping them from your legs and kicking them off carelessly with effortless confidence. Spencer watches, mesmerized. Without a word, you sling one leg until your ankle rests over his shoulder, the other sitting on his thigh.
Now here you are, half-naked in his chair while he kneels like a supplicant, and the view is unreal.
He’s suddenly hyper-aware of every detail. The warmth radiating from between your thighs, the faint scent that makes his stomach flip. His hands finally move, trembling as they reach for the hem of your fine, lacy panties— specifically chosen, to be sure. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slowly peels them down.
The lace slides down your legs easily, unveiling your cunt. Spencer’s not sure he’s seen a woman like this up close before, not in person. Not like this. His face burns as he stares for half a second too long. With tentative, almost reverent hands, Spencer leans forward and presses a single, feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. It’s not where you want him, but he needs a moment to steel himself.
His lips are soft. Nervous. The kiss is chaste, too innocent for what you want, but the warmth of his lips against your skin still sends a little shiver through you. You tilt your hips slightly, nudging his back with your heel. “Don’t be shy. Lick it.”
His face is inches from you, so close he can feel the heat.
He swallows hard, then slowly, painfully slowly, he leans in and drags his tongue over you in one experimental stroke. The taste is new. Sweet, musky. Spencer does it again, a little bolder this time, his tongue moving with cautious curiosity as he explores the soft folds of you, his hands gripping your thighs to steady himself.
You inhale sharply through your nose, threading your fingers into his hair to guide him. “Fuck, yes,” you grin.
The praise shoots straight to his loins.
He redoubles his efforts, following the gentle tug of your fingers in his hair. He presses a few open-mouthed kisses before finally sealing his lips around your folds and sucking gently. His tongue flicks experimentally over your clit before he laps at it properly.
Your back arches slightly, letting airy moans slip. Spencer might be a virgin at this, but he’s a smart boy. He adapts fast. His tongue works in small circles now, swirling the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pressing him closer, not that he even needs encouragement.
Spencer loses himself in the rhythm. Licking, sucking, following whatever makes you gasp. He drags his teeth very lightly over your clit before soothing it with a long swipe of his tongue. Fuck, he likes this. So much. He moans mindlessly into your cunt, the vibration of which travels through your body, making your hips jerk up into his mouth.
Spencer’s arousal is obvious, the bulge in his pants twitches with practically every movement. He’s so turned on by this, by the way you react to him, that it almost hurts.
You spread your legs further, pushing his head and shamelessly grinding up into his mouth. You laugh breathlessly, then let your head fall back in a moan.
He loves this. He lets you use him, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, helping guide your movements as he devours you with messy enthusiasm.
The office is quiet except for the wet sounds of his mouth on you and your hitched breathing. Spencer’s lips are glistening, his cheeks flushed. He can feel himself getting dizzy from the scent of you, from how good you taste. Each moan he pulls from you goes straight to his cock, aching in its confinement.
Spencer has no idea how hot he looks right now. Wild hair, flushed face, lips slick with you. But you know. You’ve been fantasizing about this for months now, him between your legs, his clever mouth working on you like this. And reality is so much better than any daydream you ever had. Months of imagining this, and Spencer is even better than any late night, desperation-fueled fantasy. His lips are so soft, his tongue so eager, like he genuinely wants to please you. It’s intoxicating.
A particularly good flick makes you gasp “Fuck!” You gasp.
Spencer has lost track of time, only aware of the warmth between your thighs, the way you squirm and moan above him.
Your fingers twist tighter in his hair, and you start rocking against his mouth faster. The realization that you’re close makes Spencer’s stomach flip with excitement. He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he doubles down with a greedy sort of focus, his tongue moving with more purpose.
Your thighs flex, hips jutting erratically as you near the edge. Spencer’s own body is strung tight, his cock leaking, his pants sticky, but he ignores it. All that matters is you and the way your breathing turns ragged, the cries escaping your lips. He wants to taste it when you cum.
Your back arches off the chair, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head as you cum with a sharp cry. He keeps going gently through your orgasm.
The aftershocks ripple through you in small twitches and soft gasps, and Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels. His lips are wet. His face is a mess.
When the last waves of pleasure subside, you slump bonelessly in the chair. Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels.
You exhale shakily, blinking down at Spencer, still between your legs, his lips wet and swollen. The rest of him disheveled. You laugh breathlessly at his ruined and endlessly attractive state.
Spencer wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still a little dazed, but your laugh makes him smile faintly. He’s never felt so satisfied, and he didn’t even get off.
“Did I…” he pants, “did I do okay?”
Through the bliss, you shrug, teasing him. “Took you long enough, didn’t it?”
Spencer’s face falls slightly. “It was my first time,” he mumbles defensively, a little hurt.
“Still,” You groan as you fix your posture, sitting up in the chair, “coulda figured out geographical profiling while you were trying to figure out what to do with your tongue.”
His lips purse, embarrassed. He stares up at you from the floor with unintentional puppy dog eyes. “I-I was trying…” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
From your elevated position, your eyes catch his cock is still straining in his pants. “Get on the floor, professor,” You push him back with a heel against his shoulder.
“Okay!” Spencer goes down without resistance, lying flat on his back now. He watches you from the floor, wide-eyed and waiting.
You slide out of the chair and drop to the floor, crawling atop him. You pop open the top button of his shirt. “Lie there and let me use your cock, or I’ll tell everyone Professor Reid licked his student’s cunt.”
Blackmail? His brain jumps back and forth between panic and pathetic arousal. “…Okay,” He nods quickly, hands hovering uselessly in surrender. “Okay, do whatever you want. Just… just don’t tell anyone, okay?”
She smiles in satisfaction. “So you know this is wrong.”
He swallows. Yes, it was wrong. It was all wrong. But it also felt so, so right, and he wanted this too badly to stop now. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I know.”
“Then you admit it, huh?” Your fingers suddenly grip his collar, undoing the knot of his tie. “You admit you’re a pervert?”
“…I’m not a pervert,” He says resolutely.
“Right.” His tie freed, You bunch it into a ball in your fist. “Then you’re not gonna, like… cum or something, right? ‘Cause that’d be pretty bad for your case.”
Yes. “…Nope.”
“Oh, good!” You grin, “Now we don’t have to worry about a condom!”
He opens his mouth to protest, and you swoops in to take the opportunity to stuff his tie between his jaw, effectively gagging him.
His muffled sound of surprise barely escapes. Panic spikes in his chest, but it’s too late. You're already moving, and Spencer can only lie there helplessly as you unzip his pants with a hungry gleam in your eye.
His cock springs free, hard and aching, and completely at your mercy. Spencer’s eyes are huge behind the gag. “Careful,” You whisper dangerously as you hover over his dripping cock, “don’t wanna get your student pregnant.”
Spencer whimpers nervously.
You don't tease. No, you waste no time. In one smooth motion, you sink yourself down onto him. Spencer’s body goes taut, a choked noise escaping around his tie. It’s too much. You're tight and warm and he wasn’t ready for this at all.
You bite back a groan as you sheath the entirety of his length, every inch swallowed. “Fuck, this all for me?” You laugh mockingly, “Look at you, oh, you’re so fucking hard. It’s pathetic.”
Spencer lets out a muffled, shameful whine. His hands finally move, clutching at your hips like he doesn’t know where else to put them. You allow it, if only because the touch of his hands still sends a thrill through your body. “Poor thing… if only your body were half obedient as your mouth. Must be so frustrated.”
Spencer is frustrated. Frustrated that he can’t kiss you, frustrated that you’re talking like this, frustrated you’re not moving. He squeezes your hips gently, begging without words as he squirms under you. Move. Please.
You admire the way his cock bulges slightly in your tummy. “What? Huh? I can’t hear you under there."
Spencer makes a muffled noise, a furious cry, and rolls his hips upward, trying to show you what he wants.
You gasp slightly at the movement, laughing under your breath. “Aww, are we getting impatient?”
Spencer nods rapidly. His hands slide up your sides, then back down to grip your ass this time. He’s already breathless.
“You want me to fuck you so bad it makes you look like a virgin.”
Spencer just nods again, his saliva soaking the tie.
“Last I checked, dildo’s don’t whine.” Finally, mercifully, you slide yourself back up to his tip, cock almost slipping out. “I’m gonna ruin you,” you purr, “and you’re gonna thank me for it. Won’t you?”
Spencer moans as he nods frantically, like a bobblehead.
The slow drag of you taking him back in makes his toes curl, the sensation electric. It’s so good he almost forgets to breathe. The stretch is perfect, the heat maddening. But the slow, careful movements as you adjust don’t last long. You grip the collar of his shirt for stability as you begin to move yourself faster, then faster, immediately setting an unforgiving pace.
Spencer’s entire body convulses with pleasure. Each sharp bounce of your hips punches the air from his lungs. His hands scramble to hold onto your waist, fingers digging in as you ride him hard. Muffled moans spill out continuously from behind the fabric in his jaw as his vision blurs at the edges. His stomach tightens, his thighs tremble.
The pace is relentless and purposeful. It sends a message. That you’re taking what you want from him, and Spencer is just along for the ride.
Through your own bliss, you laugh at his state. “Oh, you are gone.”
The laugh vibrates through him and sends another wave of pleasure down his spine. His hips twitch up weakly to meet yours with every bounce.
You lean forward, pressing your chest against his, the pace never faltering. You bring your lips to his ear, your breath against his skin. “Gonna make you cum so hard you’ll show me what a whore you are.”
The words send a shiver down his spine, and he clenches his eyes shut. So vulgar, so degrading, and yet Spencer’s cock throbs at the sound of them.
The pace doesn’t slow for a second. If anything, it gets harder, more punishing. Spencer’s muscles tense, his orgasm already building fast, and he knows he’s not gonna last. He moans and whines girlishly as he starts to writhe beneath you.
“Oh, poor baby,” you mock, “I thought you… mmm, said you weren’t gonna cum in me. Fuck. Don’t tell me I’ve got a little liar.”
His entire body is tensing, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts out his nose, but he shakes his head violently.
“Oh, so close. So close, aren’t you? I know. I know, and you don’t wanna cum. Don’t wanna get me pregnant, do you? Fuck, I bet you’d lose your job.”
He tries to hold back, biting down onto his tie. It’s agony trying to hold back. His balls are tight, his cock pulsing with every bounce of your hips. The threat of consequences makes it worse. He can’t cum, he really can’t, but you're making it impossible. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes from desperation.
“Too bad,” You hiss, leaning down again to whisper in his ear like a devil on his shoulder. “C’mon, just cum for me. C’mon, who cares? Who cares I’m your student? Make me drip with you.”
He tries to shake his head, but Spencer’s body betrays him. With a silent, shuddering convulsion, his orgasm rips through him. Even through the gag, his choked moans escape as he cums inside you, pulse after pulse filling you as pleasure tears through his entire being.
You let out an airy, girly moan and laugh at him, giddy and triumphant.
Spencer goes limp underneath you. He breathes heavily through his nose, still whining and squirming. After a while, his eyes flutter open as he weakly lifts his head. He stares at where you’re connected with horror, the haze fading and the clarity hitting him.
You notice. “You wanna see?”
Spencer nods rapidly.
You lift yourself from his softening cock, the globs of his release sliding down his length. You're dripping with him. His cum, so much of it, leaking down his own cock and dripping from your thighs.
The sight makes him nauseous. His chest rises and falls rapidly in panic. His eyes are blown open wide and searching yours for an answer.
Finally satisfied, you end the game. “I’m on the pill.”
Spencer's entire body sags with instant relief.
You chuckle, then grasp his cock from between your thighs, realigning it with your dripping entrance.
Again? His cock is sensitive, overspent, he’s still coming down from the high of his last orgasm. But you don't seem to care, just guiding his half-hard cock back inside without hesitation.
The moment you push yourself back down, it’s too much. Too sensitive. The oversensitivity makes his writhe involuntarily, a whimper escaping around his gag. He doesn’t know if he can go again, but you clearly expect him to try.
You don't give him time to adjust. You start moving immediately, rolling your hips in slow circles. His body responds despite itself, his cock stirring back to life, slowly hardening again inside you.
Spencer’s hands clutch at the carpet beneath him helplessly. It shouldn’t feel good. It hurts. But the sensation is undeniable, and his hips give tiny little involuntary thrusts upward.
You lean down, finally pulling the gag out of his mouth. “There we go,” You murmur, then kiss him, deeply this time.
Your lips are warm, your tongue sliding against his as you start to ride him again. To Spencer, it feels intimate. He hums into your mouth, kissing you softly. But it doesn’t take long before your pace stops being gentle.
You’re using him. Using his cock like a dildo, and something about it is dizzying. His hands find your waist again, gripping tight as you pick up speed, chasing your own pleasure now. He just lies there, letting you take what you want from his body.
The kiss breaks as you focus on riding him harder, faster. Spencer’s head lolls back against the floor. He’s just a thing to you right now— a toy, a tool. He’s much comparable to a ragdoll. He watches you from the floor as you use him, gritting your teeth and moaning.
You’re riding him erratically, moving yourself and his dick whichever way hits that spot inside you best. He watches your face, the way your brows furrow, how you bite your lip, and decides it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Even as a ragdoll, he can appreciate that.
Your moans get louder, coming out in shorter, clipped bursts. You're close. Spencer feels it, the way your thighs tense around him, how you grind down with purpose now. He stays perfectly still, letting your chase that high on top of him.
A sharp cry escapes you as your body locks up, and he feels the sudden tight clench around him. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you ride out the waves of pleasure.
When it’s over, you huff once, then slump forward, forehead pressed to his chest, and just breathe for a moment.
Spencer stays still, one hand hesitantly rubbing your back.
After a beat, You grab his face with a ferocity and force your lips back to his. With a dazed expression, Spencer eagerly accepts.
The kiss is messy and sloppy. Your post-orgasm haze mixes with any lingering adrenaline. And Spencer kisses back like he’s starving for it, his hands sliding up to cradle your face.
But you slip out of his grasp all too soon, and Spencer whines. Sliding yourself off his cock with a groan, you suddenly reach up to grip his hair, tilting his head back. “Open your mouth,” you command.
Albeit a bit confused, he obeys, lips parting. His heart is still racing, his body humming from everything that just happened.
You crawl up his body like a predator, and Spencer realizes with dizzying clarity, you want to straddle his face. And some part of him gets a thrill that he did it well enough the first time you would demand it again.
You don't have to guide him. He’s ready, eager even, holding out his hands to steady you. His palms slide up your thighs, and he tilts his head just right, lips parted expectantly. Please. That’s what the look in his eyes says.
You lower yourself onto his mouth with zero hesitation. Spencer inhales sharply through his nose, your scent is everywhere, before his lips press even against you.
This time, he doesn’t bother with the coquettish hesitation. He dives in. Immediately, he tastes himself on your tongue, the flavor of which strange, salty and musky. But he doesn’t mind. Spencer laps at you contentedly, his tongue exploring with more confidence than before, licking and sucking and kissing.
You inhale sharply through your teeth, your fist gripping his hair. You shudder atop him, your thighs squeezing around his head. “Oh my god,” You breathe out, genuinely surprised. His tongue is moving just right, his pressure is perfect. Your hips start rolling against his mouth, chasing the pleasure.
Spencer, for his part, is fully immersed, licking and kissing like he’s worshipping you. His cheeks and nose are damp with your arousal.
Your back arches into him as you practically ride his face, greedily taking everything his mouth has to offer. He holds your thighs steady, letting you grind against his lips, his tongue working tirelessly to give you exactly what you want.
You're close again, sooner than last time. Breathing raggedly, your grip on his hair tightens as you chase that second high.
Spencer can feel it, the way your body tenses, the tiny trembles in your thighs. A high, broken moan tears from your throat and you shake, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head. He keeps his tongue right where he is, letting it happen, letting you ride out the waves on his mouth.
You finally lift yourself from his mouth, taking the heat of your cunt with you. Spencer helps you crawl back to his lap as he catches his breath. He pulls your limp body gently into his arms. He can’t help but cradle you against his chest. It felt like the right thing to do. You slump against him without a complaint.
You’re both a mess. Sweaty, sticky, and exhausted, the smell of sex thick in the air.
You both lie there, boneless. The floor doesn’t make for the most comfortable spot to lie, but neither could especially move if you tried. The cool air conditioning, at least, is pleasant against your overheated skin.
Spencer exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “So, uh… what… what now?”
Your breath is still coming out in puffs. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”
Spencer purses his lips, suddenly nervous. He swallows. “…Are we… um… gonna talk about what just happened?”
You lie there wordlessly for a moment. “…I dunno. I didn’t really plan this far.”
Spencer nods slowly. Silence stretches between them, heavy and awkward. Then he suddenly frowns in thought. “You… you planned this?”
“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to fuck your brains out since I found out you weren’t another old, boring professor.”
Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. His cheeks flush again. “Oh.”
“Yeah, I mean… shit, everybody does. I just did it first. I tried to tell you.”
“Yeah, I, uh… thought you meant— well…” He thinks back to your conversation in his office, about the female students in his class, auditing only because they intended to spend the class ogling him instead of listening. “I assumed the fact that you were enrolled meant you… didn’t share the sentiment.”
“What, sitting in your lap wasn’t enough of a hint?”
“W-well, I think it hit me by that point, actually!”
You drop your head in exasperation with the knowledge that all of your flirting, this entire time, flew under his radar. Jesus, it was a miracle you’d gotten to this point at all.
You exhale theatrically, reaching up to pat his cheek. “You’re very dense. It’s very charming.”
He smiles, small and shy. “Thank you?”
You just hum. The both of you are silent again, slumped against each other. The clock ticks in his room, the AC rattles.
Spencer idly taps his fingers against your back, still staring at the ceiling. “Did you, uh… wanna… get coffee sometime? Or something?”
A lazy grin spreads across your face, Spencer feels it against his skin. “God, I could fuck you again.”
it literally doesn’t matter if you’re in your 20s or 30s or 40s or 50s or 60s or 70s or 80s or fucking 90s. if you’re still alive, you literally still have that chance in your hands. don’t let your mind or anyone or anything trick you into thinking otherwise!!!!
summary: Spencer takes you on a real date. Candles, dinner, and a satin black dress that your uncle definitely disapproves of...
Word count: 7.5k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), smut, but like sweet smut? idk lol ummm protected sex (yay good), perv!spencer a bit, yeah. awkward spencer hehe, um whimpering? idk what else maybe fingering and loss of virginity (spencer)
_____
Summer comes to a close without you really noticing. It slips through your fingers so easily through syllabi, a few too many trips to the campus bookstore, and the slow realization that you’ve stopped counting the days since the hospital.
The bruises disappeared weeks ago, the surgical incisions have turned from scabs to scars, and your ribs have stopped aching when you laugh.
Life hasn't returned to exactly what it was before. You're not sure it ever could. There are still moments when a stranger walking too close makes your shoulders tense before your brain catches up. You still wake from the occasional nightmare, convinced for half a second that you're back in the dark before remembering you're safe in your own bed.
But those moments are becoming fewer. They're no longer every day.
Your second year of college begins with more confidence than your first ever did. You switched to a hybrid of in person and online courses. You know where your classes are now. You recognize professors in the hallways. You don't have to pull up a campus map every twenty minutes pretending you definitely meant to walk in the opposite direction.
By Friday afternoon, though, your brain feels like it's been wrung out like a sponge.
Three lectures, two discussion sections and a journalism ethics assignment already due Sunday.
You drop your backpack onto your bedroom floor with enough force that one of your notebooks slides halfway across the room. You collapse onto your bed immediately afterward, staring up at the ceiling.
So much for easing into the semester.
Your phone buzzes beside you. It’s Spencer. You smile before you've even opened the message.
It's ridiculous, really. You haven't gone a single day without talking to Spencer Reid in months. Sometimes it's only a five-minute phone call before bed because he's on a case in another state. Sometimes it's three hours spent sitting on opposite ends of Rossi's couch while you do homework and Spencer reads journal articles aloud every few minutes because he found something fascinating.
You look down at the message.
SPENCER: So, how did your first week go?
YOU: i think my brain has liquified.
SPENCER: Good thing that’s not possible. I like your brain.
You smile. Your phone rings before you have time to answer.
“Hi,” you smile into the phone.
“Hi,” he says. His voice is quieter over the phone than it is in person. You can hear papers shuffling somewhere in the background.
"Still at work?" you ask.
"For approximately another..." he pauses, presumably checking the time. "...eleven minutes."
“So why are you calling me if you’re still at work?”
"I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner tonight,” he says carefully. “Like…a date?”
“A real one?” you ask, smiling as if he could see it.
“I wasn’t aware there were fake ones,” he says.
“You’re funny,” you tell him.
“So, is that a yes?” he asks.
“Yes, it is a yes.”
“Cool,” he says. You can practically hear his smile. “I’ll um…I’ll pick you up at 6:00?” He says it like it’s a question.
“What kind of ‘date’ is this?” you ask, meaning…attire? You assumed that was obvious.
“A real one?” he says, echoing your earlier statement.
“I meant what do I wear,” you say, giggling at how dense the smartest man you know can be.
“O-oh,” he realizes. “Um, just something nice,” he says.
“Okay,” you smile again. He can’t see it, you just can’t hold it back. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
“See you in an hour,” he repeats before hanging up the phone.
You sit your phone to the side and stare at your ceiling for a moment, thinking of what ‘nice’ means. A dress? That could be too formal. A skirt? That really depends on the top. Pants? Too risky for informality. You get up and look in your closet, hoping something jumps out at you. Somehow, you feel like you’ve never owned fewer clothes in your life.
The first dress you pull out is dark green and floor length, rhinestones outline the corset area. It feels far too formal, so you put it back. The next is shorter, light pink, with white and pale yellow flowers scattered everywhere. Too summer-y. You look at a few skirts. They all feel…professional.
You stare blankly into your closet like the right outfit might appear if you just look at it for long enough.
What does ‘something nice’ even mean?
You push through the entirety of your closet, the sound of hangers scraping along the metal bar starting to hurt your ears. At the very back, there’s a solid black satin dress with lace trim that you haven’t worn in…ever?
You take it off the hanger and stare at it, convincing yourself to just put the damn thing on before you drive yourself crazy by looking through your clothes for the third time.
It’s short, probably a little shorter than you would normally go for, but it wasn’t awful. It had thin spaghetti straps and sat low enough on your chest that made you feel a little…exposed, but it wasn’t completely whoreish; nothing a cardigan couldn’t make feel better. It hugs your waist in a way that feels elegant, highlighting the curvature of your body. You smooth your hands over the fabric, deciding that it was either going to be this, or you were cancelling.
Your eyes wander across your room until they stop on the back of your desk chair. Folded neatly over it is a grey cardigan that Spencer had left a while ago and just never took back.
You slip it on over the dress, leaving the buttons undone. The oversized sleeves fall just past your wrists, and the familiar scent of cedar, coffee, and whatever laundry detergent Spencer used had faded over time but never disappeared completely. It was comforting in a way you couldn't quite explain.
You glance back at the mirror. The black dress still looked like something you'd wear on a date. The sweater made it feel like a date with Spencer. Satisfied, you move into the bathroom to figure out something to do with your hair and makeup.
By the time you’re finished, the grandfather clock in the hallway reads 5:53.
Seven minutes.
You make your way downstairs, smoothing your hands over the front of your dress for what has to be the tenth time. It suddenly feels shorter than it did upstairs. Much shorter.
Your uncle is sitting in his usual armchair with a manuscript spread across his lap, his reading glasses balanced low on his nose. He looks up when he hears your footsteps. You can feel his eyes assessing you.
“What?” you ask, acting like you don’t know exactly what he’s thinking.
“I didn’t know you owned clothes that didn’t belong to Spencer,” he says, taking his glasses off and folding them on the coffee table.
“I mean, the sweater is his,” you say, fondling one of the buttons.
“Thank god,” he mumbles. You don’t know if he means ‘thank god the dress isn’t also Spencer’s’ or ‘thank god you’re wearing something to cover it up.’ Either way seems like a legitimate concern he’d have.
“So what’s the issue?” you ask.
“There isn’t one,” he says flatly, narrowing his eyes. “But there will be one if Spencer even looks an inch below your face.”
You can feel heat rush to your cheeks. If there was an award for worlds most embarrassing uncle, you’re fairly positive David Rossi would have it in the bag.
“It’s not even that bad,” you say. You don’t know if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.
Before he can answer, the doorbell rings. Your uncle stands to get the door on his own. He pats your shoulder as he walks past you.
“The sweater was a good idea,” he says, turning to the door.
You hear Spencer’s voice first. A little higher than normal, and a little hoarse. You can tell jus tby the way he sounds that his ears are red.
“Good evening, Dave,” he says.
“Evening,” your uncle answers, stepping aside to let Spencer in.
He'd traded his usual work attire for something just a little softer. Dark slacks instead of brown, a black and white flannel button down with a plain black jacket over it. His curls were still a little unruly despite what looked like an honest attempt to tame them, his glasses sat straight on his nose, you’d almost bet he made sure of it in the mirror of his car before coming inside, and his messenger bag was nowhere in sight for what felt like the first time since you'd met him.
Instead, he was holding a small bouquet of pale pink roses.
"...Hi," he says, somehow sounding surprised.
"Hi,” you smile.
His eyes meet yours. Then involuntarily drop. Not far, just from your eyes to the neckline of your dress, Almost immediately, like he'd burned himself, he jerks his gaze back up.
You can actually watch the color climb into his ears. He clears his throat.
"You..." His eyes betray him again, flicking downward for the briefest second before snapping back to your face. "...You look..." he pauses again, searching for words. "...beautiful."
He rubs the back of his neck, still refusing to let his eyes stay anywhere except your face for more than half a second.
"The dress is..." his voice catches in his throat. "...It's very flattering."
His eyes betray him again, looking a little lower, at your waist now. He forces them back up. He looks genuinely annoyed with himself.
Behind him, Rossi watches the entire exchange with folded arms. He notices every stolen glance, every panicked correction, every increasingly red shade of Spencer's ears. You’re grateful for his silence, because you know if he were to say anything, there was a better chance of Spencer bursting into tears than not.
Finally, Spencer remembers the flowers in his hand.
"Oh," he chirps, looking down at them as though he'd forgotten they existed. "These are for you." He holds them out a little awkwardly. "I know roses are the most common flower to bring on a first date, but pink roses traditionally symbolize admiration and gratitude rather than romantic passion, which I thought was more appropriate because we’ve been together for 146 days."
"They're beautiful,” you smile, taking the bouquet before he can say anything else.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. You simply look at him. He looks back, actually at your eyes this time, though it’s obvious it’s taking effort.
Rossi finally clears his throat. Loudly.
Spencer straightens so fast you'd think he'd been caught committing a federal crime.
"You ready?" you ask him, knowing he was just going to stand there until you made him move. He nods.
You slip your purse over your shoulder and walk toward the door. Spencer automatically reaches out, taking it from you before you can protest. As you step onto the porch together, Rossi follows close behind.
"You kids have fun,” he calls out.
"We will," you answer. Spencer nods politely.
Rossi points directly at him. One finger. Very serious.
"Reid."
"Yes, sir?" he answers.
"Be safe."
“I will be,” Spencer smiles.
They’re definitely thinking two totally different things.
Spencer opens the passenger door of his car for you, waiting until you buckle your seatbelt before shutting it and making his way to the driver's side. The car is silent as he pulls out of the driveway and starts down the road, not an awkward silence, just…a silence that is filled with a search for a conversation.
Spencer keeps glancing over at you. Between you and the dark road. Over and over again. After the sixth time, he finally speaks.
“Y/N,” he says sheepishly.
“Yeah?” you turn toward him.
“You look…” he glances at you. “so…” he pauses, seeming dissatisfied with every adjective his brain supplied. “...hot.”
“I know,” you smile.
“...You know?” he blinks.
“You’ve looked at my body far more than my eyes,” you say smugly.
“I-I’m sorry,” he apologizes, immediately feeling guilty. "I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't," you assure him.
"No?"
"No."
He risked another glance. "You really do look beautiful."
This time there wasn't any fumbling. No nervous explanation. No attempt to correct himself. Just simple honesty.
"Thank you."
He smiled to himself before looking back at the road. A comfortable silence settled over the car again. It lasted almost three whole minutes before Spencer spoke again.
"...Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
"You know what I mean," he sighs.
"I do."
"...Do you think Dave believes I'm a bad driver?" He frowned thoughtfully.
"...What?" you look over, confused on what could’ve made him think that thought.
"When we were leaving he told me to be safe," he explains. You hold back a laugh, because you know if you let it out, he’ll stop talking. And you are very curious where he is going with this.
"I've never been in a motor vehicle accident while operating one,” he continues. "I've also only received one speeding ticket."
"You got a speeding ticket?" you’re surprised.
"It was in Nevada."
"Of course it was."
"I was 20," he defends.
You smile. He glanced over briefly, smiling at your smile before his face falls again and he turns back to the road. "...Do you think he doesn't trust my driving?"
You stared at him for a second. "...Spence."
"Yeah?"
"You genuinely don't know what he meant?"
"...No?" He looked completely confused.
You tried very hard not to laugh.
"You have no idea?"
"No! What am I missing?”
You pressed your lips together. He was so earnest. So completely, painfully sincere.
"...Dave wasn't talking about your driving,” you start.
"Then what was he talking about?" Spencer interrupts.
"He meant..." You bit the inside of your cheek. "...Use a condom."
Silence. Absolute silence. Spencer's entire body went rigid. You watched the realization travel across his face in real time. Confusion. Recognition. Understanding. Humiliation. Mortification. So many emotions explode across his face all at once.
"Oh." His ears turned bright red. "...Oh."
He stared so intensely at the windshield you were fairly certain he forgot you were sitting beside him. You feel a little guilty for laughing, but you can’t help yourself.
“I thought he was expressing concern for road safety,” Spencer says, still looking horrified.
“He was expressing concern,” you crack.
“...Not about the road,” he says, running a hand through his hair nervously. “I am never speaking to David Rossi again.
“I don’t think that’s an option,” you laugh.
The car stills as you reach a red light. Spencer drops his forehead softly against the steering wheel.
“This is the worst day of my life,” he mumbles.
“No it’s not,” you giggle, reaching over and resting your hand on his forearm.
“...Top ten?” he asks, peeking over at you.
“Maybe top fifty,” you smile.
“I’ll take top fifty.”
The light turns green. Spencer lifts his head with all the dignity he could manage, which at the moment, is very little.
“I’d like to let you know,” he mutters after another minute of silence. “I had no intention of doing anything that would’ve required that to have been said.”
“I think that’s why he likes you so much,” you say.
“Really?” he asks, glancing over at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
“Yeah.”
A small smile finally finds its way back to his face.
“So…” you say, vaguely suggestively.
“No,” he groans, knowing you’re about to make fun of him for something.
“You’re saying you weren’t checking me out?” you ask.
“...Y/N,” he says, knowing he’s caught.
“I’m just asking,” you say innocently.
“I was,” he admits, letting out a long sigh. “you look…so good. I mean, you always look good, you just look…exceptionally beautiful tonight. And it’s distracting.”
“Is it?” you ask, feeling a blush warm your face.
“Very,” he nods, looking at you momentarily.
“I’m sorry,” you say, smiling anyways.
“No,” he protests. “Don’t apologize.”
“I thought apologizing was my thing,” you say.
“It is, I’m sorry–”
“So now we’re both apologizing?”
“Neither of us should be apologizing.”
“You’re rambling,” you grin.
“I know,” he exhales. “My point is…I find you very attractive.” He glances at you. “And that’s…normal. I mean, finding someone attractive doesn’t obligate them to have sex with you, I don’t expect that, a-and I don’t need that.” He winces at his last few words.
“Need what?” you ask.
“...Sex,” he clarifies.
“Oh.”
“...That came out wrong,” he says, sensing the disappointment in your tone. “Wanting something and needing something are psychologically distinct concepts. Human attachment isn’t dependent upon sexual intimacy, despite popular media implying–”
“So what you’re saying is you don’t want to fuck me tonight?” you interrupt.
His eyes go impossibly wide at your bluntness.
“NO!” He shouts loud enough to echo through the car. His voice quiets immediately. “I-I mean– That;s not–” he groans, trying to gather thousands of thoughts all at once. You would think he’d be better at that by now.
You’d think.
He takes a steadying breath, and lowers his voice impossibly low. If the sound waves weren’t trapped in the car you probably wouldn’t be able to hear him.
“...I do want to…fuck…you,” he whispers, not daring to look at you.
The curse comes out so softly it almost completely dissolves beneath the sound of the tires on the road.
“Well,” you smile. He braces himself, not daring to look at you. “...Good.”
“...G-good?” he echoes, peeking over at you with just one eye.
“Good,” you repeat. “Beecause I want to fuck you tonight too.”
He’s quiet for a moment as he tries to regain his composure.
“...T-that s-sounds…” he stammers. His entire face is completely red now and it threatens to spread down his neck. “...amazing.”
You smile at him, feeling a buzz deep in your stomach.
“B-but,” he continues. “I…” you can hear him swallow. “I don’t have…” he trails off, then his eyes widen all over again. “...Dave asked us to be safe.”
You laugh quietly.
“I mean, he–” he spits.
“Spencer,” you say, trying to calm his spiraling brain.
“...Yes?” he looks at you.
“We can buy condoms after dinner.”
“...Oh.” He nods to himself. “...right. That’s how stores work.”
“It is,” you giggle. For someone so smart, he can sometimes have the funniest realizations when he’s flustered.
“I’ve never…” he shakes his head with a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “...I’ve never gotten that far.”
“I’ve noticed,” you smile.
“I’ve never…this has never…” he stammers again. “I’ve never had to think about…potential logistical considerations after dinner.”
You reach across the center console and lace your fingers through his free hand that isn’t on the wheel. He squeezes gently, finally in control of his breathing. He smiles as he turns into the restaurant parking lot, parking in a spot away from any other car in the parking lot.
“We’re gonna need to sit here for a few minutes,” he says, his face going red again.
He grips the steering wheel hard enough his knuckles go white, redirecting blood flow. You watched him manually breath, in for three, out for three. Again.
“Okay,” he exhales, tapping his fingers on the wheel. He looks over to you. “Are you ready?”
“I’ve been waiting on you,” you smile at him.
“So have I,” he says seriously, but it’s funny. He can be very funny when he doesn’t mean to be.
He climbs out of the car, automatically circling to your side. He pulls your door open and holds out a hand to help you out. His hand stays intertwined with yours the whole way inside.
The restaurant is undeniably nice. The lighting has an ambery tint that spills out of the windows, soft jazz plays from hidden speakers, doing far more for the ambiance than it would seem. The tables are round with white table cloths and centerpieces of a single rose in a vase, a lit candle, and fancy ceramic salt and paper shakers.
This was a date restaurant.
Spencer gives his last name to the hostess, then follows as she leads the two of you toward the back of the restaurant. Your table sat beside a large window overlooking the city. The evening sun had long disappeared, leaving everything washed in deep blues beneath the orange candlelight.
Spencer pulled your chair out before sitting across from you. Neither of you immediately reach for the menus, you just looked at each other. His ears and cheeks were still faintly pink from the drive.
"So," he says. "We're on a real date."
"We are,” you smile. "I think you're handling it pretty well."
"I don't," he chokes. He looked down at the folded napkin in front of him before meeting your eyes again. "I've wanted to take you on one like this for a while."
"You have?"
He nodded. "I just...kept waiting for the right time."
"What made you decide now was the right time?"
"Do you want me to tell you?"
“I do,” you smile.
“I was worried that you were going to…get bored…of me,” he admits quietly. It almost sounds funny coming from his mouth. He nervously straightens the silverware that was already perfectly aligned. You reach across and put your hand on top of his, causing him to look up at you.
“I love you,” you tell him sincerely. “You don’t have to worry about me getting bored.”
“I love you too,” he smiles awkwardly. You can still feel his hand fidgeting below your hand.
A waiter arrives with water glasses and introduces himself before asking if either of you want anything to drink besides water.
“C-can I get a Root Beer?” Spencer asks.
The waiter looks a little confused. Normally people order…wine? But he goes to get Spencer his Root Beer nonetheless.
Once the waiter leaves, Spencer reaches for the menu.
“I already know what you’re going to order,” he says, opening the first fold.
“You do?” you tilt your head.
"You've ordered some variation of pasta at the last six restaurants we've gone to," he points out.
"You keep track of that?" You raise an eyebrow.
"I keep track of everything,” he says, like it’s somehow new information to you.
The waiter returns with Spencer’s glass of Root Beer and takes your orders. Spencer was right. You did get some variation of pasta.
As you wait for your food, you tell Spencer about one of your professors assigning a five page paper on the second day of class.
“He also quoted Spider Man,” you say.
“The professor?” Spencer frowns.
You nod.
“With great power comes great responsibility?” He asks.
“Yes,” you say, taking a sip of your water.
“Did you know that while that quote is commonly attributed to Spider Man, it was actually Voltaire that technically said it centuries ago? ‘T-they must consider that a great responsibility is the inseparable result of a great power.’ although there are even earlier parallels in French philosophy and religious texts. Spider Man just popularized it for post-modern audiences.”
You stare at him for a moment.
“Well, considering he had a ton of Marvel posters around the classroom, I’m going to assume he is part of the ‘post modern audiences’ that Spider Man got to…”
“You’re probably correct,” he says.
The waiter returns carrying two plates balanced effortlessly on his arm. He remembers whose plate is whose without having to ask. He checks your glasses to make sure they are still at an acceptable level before telling you to enjoy and walking to another table to check on them.
The food is delicious, by far one of the best pastas you’ve had from a restaurant, because obviously it couldn’t beat your uncles.
Every few minutes one of you would steal a bite while the other talked. Spencer absentmindedly gestured with his fork whenever he got excited about something, occasionally catching himself halfway through a sentence and setting it back down with an embarrassed smile. You caught yourself watching his hands almost as much as you watched his face.
“They’ve been married a long time,” Spencer says, gesturing toward an older couple in the opposite corner.
“How do you know?” you ask, covering your mouth because there’s a small amount of pasta still inside.
“Couples who’ve been together for years tend to mirror each other’s posture and timing without realizing it. They reach for their drinks at almost the same time and they’re doing the same gestures. Studies show that couples begin to match each ‘speech rhythm and in some studies they even synchronize blinking!”
You watch the couple for a moment, and sure enough, every time one of them smiles or took a drink or a bite, the other does the same.
“That’s really sweet,” you smile.
“Long term relationships change behavioral patterns in measurable ways–” he starts rambling again. You don’t process what he’s saying, your mind is far elsewhere.
“Do you think we’ll do that someday?” you interrupt. Your face gets a little warm after realizing what you said.
That was meant to be an inside thought.
“I’d like to,” he says without hesitation, taking a bite of his food like he didn’t casually steal all the air from your lungs with two words and a contraction.
You don’t say anything, just take a bite of your food as well while watching him. The warm light above the table catches the deep brown of his eyes every time he looks up. His hair is messy, but in a way that looks…hot. And not disheveled. He gestured with his fork while explaining something, only to stop halfway through each time because he forgot he was holding it.
He apologizes to the waiter every time he has to refill a water cup, even though the waiter assures him that it is his job. He thanks him every single time too. The waiter brings the check, and you can’t help but smile as Spencer pays.
You don’t argue, not this time. Because you know he wants this to feel like a real date. Not that the endless coffee shops and bookstores weren’t ‘dates.’ Those were just…casual. And this one is…formal.
Outside, the air is cooler than when you’d arrived. The atmosphere is something that is only captured in cities at night. Traffic is heard, there’s a train in the distance, somewhere down the road live music from a bar or a nightclub spills out. Streetlights cast warm toned circles across the sidewalk. There’s a light dribble of rain that falls from the sky.
Spencer slips his jacket over your shoulders before you can protest.
"You've already given me one sweater," you tell him, despite the fact that the jacket is already caped around you.
"This one's temporary," he says, resting his hand on your lower back through the layers.
"...Okay," you say a little suspiciously. You don't give it back.
His jacket still smells like him.
He opens the passenger door and helps you in again before walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, and just…sits. For several minutes. And doesn’t speak.
You don’t either, because despite your earlier confidence, and maybe cockiness, now there’s something sitting between the two of you. A conversation, or rather, a purchase.
“...So,” you say carefully, deciding to break the silence he had no signs of stopping.
“So,” he echoes, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel again.
“We should probably…” you start.
“Go,” he finishes. “Yes, go.”
He turns the engine on, a slight shake of the car making a loose curl fall in front of his eyes. He brushes it away. Spencer shifts the car into reverse, one hand settling over the top of the steering wheel while the other reaches behind your headrest. He twists in his seat to look through the rear window, checking carefully for approaching cars before easing backward.
Your breath catches. It should be such an ordinary thing. People back out of parking spaces every day. But somehow Spencer manages to make even that look unfairly attractive.
The sleeve of his flannel pulls back just enough to reveal the veins of his forearm, tendons shifting beneath his skin as he turns the wheel. His jaw is slightly set in concentration, lips parted just enough that his perfectly imperfect teeth peek through them while his eyes flick between the mirrors and the rear window.
He's completely focused on the parking lot and completely unaware of how fucking HOT he looks.
You'd spent months memorizing the way he looked when he laughed, when he read, when he got excited enough to ramble about constellations or obscure historical trivia. You hadn't realized "carefully backing out of a parking space" deserved a place on that list.
He looks so ridiculously handsome that it's almost offensive.
Oh, I'm in trouble.
Not because of the date. Not because of the dinner. Not even because of the conversation you'd had on the drive over.
Just because this absurdly brilliant man has absolutely no idea what he looks like when he's concentrating.
He straightens the wheel and glances over.
"What?"
"...Nothing,” you blink.
He narrows his eyes for only a second before returning his attention to the road.
“You have a staring problem and a lying problem," he says, dropping one hand off the wheel and onto your thigh.
Oh I am so fucking this man until he can’t form a single coherent thought.
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about,” you smile innocently at him.
"I don't believe you," he says, glancing over at you.
"That's okay."
He lets out a quiet, suspicious little hum.
You turn toward the window before the smile spreading across your face gives you away completely.
The pharmacy parking lot is almost completely empty. Spencer still parks toward the back. Neither of you moves, or speaks, or breathes.
“...Spencer?” you say quietly, getting his attention. He looks at you. “You carry a gun and chase serial killers for a living.”
“I do,” he says, looking at your mouth.
“But you draw the line at buying condoms?”
“...When you phrase it like that it sounds stupid,” he says.
“So come on,” you say, cracking your door open and stepping onto the pavement. Surprisingly, he follows. Like a dog.
The store is busier inside than it looks outside. It’s not busy per se, but there's more people inside than the three cars outside makes it look. The greenish fluorescent lights seem impossibly bright compared to the dim orange light of the restaurant.
Once you reach the aisle, Spencer just…stares. There are far more options than he could’ve ever imagined. You let him look for a while. He picks up a box and reads the entirety of both sides. Then another.
“This one has ribs,” he says. “For…increased stimulation.”
“Mhm,” you hum, playing around with a holographic bottle of lubricant.
“...Do you want…” he immediately stops talking. “That’s probably not a conversation we should have in aisle 7.”
A woman pushing a cart passes by. Spencer pretends to be deeply fascinated by the pregnancy tests, which somehow he deems less embarrassing than condoms.”
“Just get normal ones,” you say, leaning into him. You grab a box of three and hand it to him.
“Thank you for being significantly better at this than I am,” he says, fidgeting with the punched out hole on the flap that was used to hang it on the hook.
Spencer doesn’t look the cashier in the face once, just sits the box on the counter and pays, then mutters a small ‘thank you,’ on the way out.
By the time you're back in the car, the awkwardness has dissolved into quiet laughter. Spencer keeps one hand on the wheel and the other intertwined with yours as he starts the drive toward his apartment, the small paper pharmacy bag sitting innocently in the back seat like it hadn't just caused the two of you ten straight minutes of mutual panic. The hardest part, somehow, was over.
As Spencer drives out of downtown D.C., and storefronts become neighborhoods, four lanes become two, he cracks his window just enough to let cool air drift inside, the rain having subsided.
His hand transitions from holding yours to gripping protectively on your thigh, yours sitting atop his. You watch him as streetlights sweep across his face, painting him gold. When he passes under a bridge or a larger car, the lights get blocked and his features soften to a shadow.
You’d never met someone who wore their mind so visibly. Every tiny expression crossed his face before he realized it had. Every thought seemed to live just the smallest layer beneath the surface. You’d spent months memorizing Spencer Reid when he wasn’t looking.
The way he’d absentmindedly chew on the inside of his cheek while reading.
The way his eyebrows pinch together whenever he is concentrating.
The way he’d smile to himself after remembering some obscure fact, and then immediately share it without restraint.
“What?” he asks suddenly, not looking at you, snapping you out of whatever clouded state you were in.
“I love you,” you say, unsure of what else to do.
“I love you too,” he smiles, accepting your answer immediately as though it made perfect sense.
An old jazz standard drifted quietly through the speakers. Spencer hadn't turned the radio on. It must've come on automatically when he'd started the car. He listened for a few seconds.
"Do you know why music triggers autobiographical memories more effectively than almost any other sensory stimulus?" He asks, like he sort of expects you to know the answer.
"Why?" you smile.
"The auditory cortex has unusually strong connections with the hippocampus, which is heavily involved in long-term memory formation." His voice slipped naturally into the cadence you loved so much. "Because songs are processed rhythmically and emotionally at the same time, hearing one years later can reactivate entire neural pathways. People often remember where they were, who they were with, sometimes even what they were wearing."
He glanced over for half a second before returning his attention to the road.
"It's one of the reasons patients with Alzheimer's can sometimes remember lyrics long after they've forgotten conversations."
You nodded. Not because you were particularly invested in neuroscience. You weren't. You were listening because it was Spencer.
Because when Spencer talked about something he loved, the rest of the world always seemed to disappear. You could listen to him explain absolutely anything forever. The neurological effects of music. The migratory habits of geese. Tax law. The history of paperclips.
You honestly didn't care. You would still sit there smiling at him exactly like you were right now.
He kept talking, hands moving a little as he explained despite one remaining on the wheel. Outside, the city continued slipping past unnoticed. Inside, you quietly wondered how someone could make talking about the hippocampus feel romantic.
You still didn't have an answer. Maybe it was just him.
_____
You follow Spencer into his apartment, latching the door shut as he turns on the lamp. He turns back to you, sitting his keys down in the process.
“So, I was thinking–” he starts.
You don’t let him finish.
You tiptoe to press your lips against him with a hunger. He makes a surprised noise that melts into a low groan as he reciprocates the kiss. His hands over awkwardly at your waist before sipping under the cardigan and gripping the satin of your dress. You shrug the cardigan off, letting it fall to the floor as you push him toward his bedroom, helping him to shed his jacket and unbutton his flannel along the way.
He bumps you into the doorframe, a gentle bump, one that only results in a muttered ‘sorry’ into your mouth. You fall back down on the bed, pulling him down on top of you. He obediently settles with his legs between your thighs.
“Are you sure?” he asks, pulling back from the kiss to study your face. “Because I’ve never actually…I mean– we’ve done other stuff, but…this is different and I don’t want to ruin it or hurt you or–”
“Spencer,” you whisper seductively, pulling him close to you. “Fuck me.”
He exhales shakily, pressing his lips to yours again desperately. His hands slide over your dress, tracing every curve of your body like he’s studying a map.
“G-god this dress,” he murmurs against your neck, voice cracking. “You need to warn me next time you’re gonna look this good. I never want to hide another erection from your uncle again. That was mortifying.”
“I thought you had more self control,” you smile into his mouth, pushing his shirt the rest of the way off. You run your hand down his chest, to his abs, then down to the front of his pants, wrapping your fingers loosely around the outline of his cock. He lets out a small whimper into your mouth.
“I’ve been trying to act like a gentleman all night,” he says breathlessly as you lazily stoke him. “I-I don’t want to make you uncomfortable but you’re making it really hard.”
You laugh softly, squeezing him a little tighter in your hand. His face flushes darker.
“You know exactly what that dress is doing to me, don’t you?” he asks, more inquisitive than seductive.
You nod, squeezing your thighs together under him. His eyes darken slightly.
“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he asks, almost accusatory, but his voice is so shy and high pitched because he’s so turned on that he just sounds adorable.
He pushes one of the straps of your dress down, taking one out overtop the lace. He lowers his head just above it, almost as if he’s daring himself to take it in his mouth.
“C-can I?” he asks, looking up at you with doe eyes.
“You can do whatever you want to me, Spencer,” you say, ruffling your free hand in his hair.
His mouth is immediately on you. He sucks the nipple into his mouth as he brings his other hand up to palm the other through the dress. You can feel his hips starting to stutter into your hand, so you bring both hands around his neck. He pouts momentarily at the loss of friction, but seemingly remembers the plans that were made.
“Can you get on…top of me?” he asks quietly, already climbing off you. You roll over on top of him, straddling his waist in a way that makes your dress ride up past your hips. He stares up at you with his lips swollen and parted, looking in awe of you.
His hands come up, one resting on your waist, the other inching up your thigh. You grab his wrist, moving his hand between your legs. He picks up on your hint, two fingers pushing inside you. You moan a little provocatively, not having anything to stifle it as he curls his fingers just right, just the way you taught him, and his thumb finds its way to your clit.
“Y-you’re soaked,” he says quietly, sounding both awed and embarrassed.
“All for you, Spence,” you moan, rocking slowly against his hand. You brace yourself by holding his shins behind you, giving him the ability to push his fingers impossibly further into you.
“I’ve been trying so hard not to make you feel like I only think about sex,” he admits apologetically. Which is a little comical as he’s looking at his fingers dipping in and out of you rather than your face, or even your waist. Literally anywhere else. “Because I don’t.”
You know he doesn’t. He always made you feel loved. Always. Anything sexual was a product of you being emotionally fulfilled with him. But your emotional needs are some of the last things you're thinking about as you start to feel a familiar heat pooling inside of you.
“But tonight,” he continues, letting out a shaky breath. “I want you so bad, Y/N,” he whines.
His begging was enough to break the knot in your stomach. You clench around his fingers with a high pitch moan that has him shushing you. Your thighs tremble as the orgasm washes through you, but you don’t give either of you any time to recover.
“Fuck me now, Spencer,” you pant, rolling over and tugging him on top of you. “I need you. Please.”
His eyes go wide, pupils blown dark.
“O-okay. Yeah. Okay,” he stammers, sounding utterly overwhelmed. He fumbles in his pocket for the condom he’d shoved in there earlier, tearing the wrapper open with shaky fingers and nearly dropping it twice.
You sit up enough to unbutton his pants, tugging the zipper down. Spencer helps, pushing his slacks and boxers down his hips in one clumsy motion. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. He makes a tiny, embarrassed noise when it slaps against his stomach.
He tries to roll the condom on himself, but his hands are trembling too badly. After a couple failed attempts, he looks up at you with burning red cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, voice cracking. “This is probably so weird. I just… I’ve never done this and my hands won’t stop shaking and–”
“No, Spencer, it’s okay,” you murmur, taking the condom from him gently. “You’re okay. Let me.”
You roll it down his length with steady hands. He watches the whole time with parted lips and ragged breathing. The second it’s on, you guide him between your legs, helping line the head of his cock up with your entrance. He braces himself on his elbows above you, the bunched satin of your dress rubbing between your bodies.
He nudges forward sliding against you a few times before finally pushing inside on the third try. The stretch is intense and perfect. You moan at the thick feeling of him sinking deeper and deeper until his hips are pressed flush against yours.
The sound Spencer makes is filthy. A raw, guttural groan that sounds almost too dirty coming from him. His whole body shudders hard as he bottoms out, like the sensation is overwhelming every nerve he has.
“Oh my god,” he whimpers, voice high and broken. “This is better than I’ve ever imagined it being. Your… your pussy feels so much better than my hand.”
The second the words leave his mouth he freezes, eyes flying open in mortified panic.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be saying that,” he rushes out, face burning crimson. “I’m sorry, that was disgusting, I just–”
You pull him down into a messy kiss before he can spiral further, and he melts into it with a needy whine. Slowly, he starts to move. His thrusts are shallow and awkward at first, like he’s still figuring out how to do this. He’s an absolute whimpering, moany mess above you, soft desperate sounds spilling from his lips with every roll of his hips.
“Fuck… you’re so tight and… warm and wet,” he pants against your neck, voice trembling. “I’ve touched myself thinking about this so many times and it never felt this good. I’m sorry…I shouldn’t keep saying stuff like that but I can’t shut up–”
His hips stutter, losing rhythm for a second before he finds it again, thrusting a little deeper. The bed creaks quietly beneath you. One of his hands grips your waist through the dress, the other braced beside your head as he tries so hard to be gentle even while falling apart.
“I’ve wanted you like this for months,” he rambles breathlessly, words punctuated by shaky moans. “I never…oh god…imagined you in a dress…but…fuck…it’s almost better…I’m already so close. I wanted to last longer for you but you feel too good and I-I’m sorry.”
“You’re okay Spencer,” you moan, bringing a hand up to cup his jaw. “Cum for me.”
His thrusts grow a little faster, a little more desperate, but still uncoordinated and shy. He keeps pressing soft, apologetic kisses to your neck and shoulder between the filthy little confessions, like he can’t decide whether to worship you or be embarrassed by how badly he wants you.
A few more deep thrusts and Spencer buries himself inside you with a broken, overwhelmed moan. His whole body shakes as he cums hard, hips jerking against you in uneven pulses. The raw, desperate sounds he makes are almost pornographic.
Afterward, he collapses half on top of you, still buried inside, breathing hard against your neck. For a long moment he just clings to you, arms wrapped tight like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“I’m really sorry,” he mumbles into your hair, voice small and embarrassed. “That was… really short. And I said too much. I didn’t mean to be so… gross. I just… I’ve thought about you like that for a long time and actually being inside you was…a lot.”
You smile and cuddle closer, fingers playing with his messy curls. The black dress is still bunched around your waist, warm and damp with sweat.
“It was perfect, Spence,” you whisper. “I loved it.”
He lets out a shy, relieved huff of laughter. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
_____
Check Out Reader's Instagram (there's a new post hehe)
Read Part 35 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)
Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist
All Works Masterlist
_____
a/n: um hi this is an awkward spot to be at um did u guys like the smut or am i washed?
summary: Spencer Reid was always different. It was few and far apart that a woman would catch his eye, and when she did, the statistics of their relationship working out had him pulling away with little effort. However, when Hotch's new assistant walks into the BAU, it's like she's bewitched him. Now, no matter what he does, he seems to find himself working hard, and hardly working.
genre/tags/CWs: workplace romance, hotch's assistant!reader, sunshine!reader, pervert!spencer, infatuated!spencer, male masturbation, fem!reader, reader has a mom that is mentioned, 3&1times!fic, fast burn for Spencer, like Spencer meets reader and is set on fire
a/n: I've decided to post this in smaller chunks so I am more easily motivated to write because it feels less daunting, I hope you enjoy so much! this'll probably end up being four parts long with varying degrees of length :3
w/c: 3.7k
PART ONE: THERE'S A FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING.
Spencer Reid had always been different. His genius nature had ensured a childhood that was anything but normal. How could he, when he was applying for colleges before he had finished puberty? His high school experience was tumultuous at best, and he was also smart enough to know any girl who may have caught his eye was too many years his senior to consider as a partner. That’s how Spencer was about things– analytical. He crunched numbers, he ran probabilities and searched statistics in his ever expanding brain. Being different was something Spencer Reid was no stranger to.
However, when you joined the BAU, Spencer Reid had come to the realization that something within him was now different in an entirely new way.
You had joined the BAU, not as another profiler, or a new liaison under JJ’s wing, but as Hotch’s assistant. The scope of Hotch’s job was infinite, and he was often burdened by mountains of paperwork. Since Hailey’s untimely passing, the Bureau, which was normally incredibly unforgiving and less than charitable, decided it might be a good idea to pay someone to take things off Hotchner’s plate, if not for his own sake, then for Jack’s. Before Hailey’s passing, Hotch was expected to book hotels, check in, and communicate when the jet would be needed. He would have to mark all of the expenses made by the team and why the money was spent, filling out a ledger that oftentimes took over an hour to complete, over three if the team spent longer in one location than normal. Hotch took care of plenty of large tasks every day, but it was the million little tasks that kept him until the wee hours of the morning some weeks. With a young son, that was too much to ask.
So the Bureau hired you. You, whose task it was to pick up all of the little things before Hotch even thought of them. Fortunately for everybody, you were excellent at your job. You followed the rules your mother had taught you, who was a secretary years before you. You never left before Hotch did, even if that meant spending hours after hours, after long weeks of grueling work. You were constantly busy, but you never overburdened yourself, and you were always happy to help. You came to the bullpen every morning with a smile on your face and a shining gloss on your lips, and a chipper hello to share to all of your coworkers. You walked with a bounce in your step, and a seemingly never ending supply of pocket butterscotch to hand out to anyone who wanted one. Your task book, perfectly organized and personalized, was never far from your reach. You were regarded as the office sweetheart, and everyone but you knew it. You did your best every day, and were happy when you went home every night.
It was because of this absolute purity that Spencer knew there must be something very, very wrong with him. Because despite your innocence, your unwavering ability to bring joy to every room you entered, Spencer’s mind began to plunge into dark, dark places when you were around. Not that Spencer assumed you were some sort of celibate nun, nor that he assumed you didn’t have a sensual streak. You were a grown woman, and a beautiful one at that. He assumed that you had your pick of partners and chose them accordingly, and frequently. But even then, there was a goodness within you that Spencer felt move in the air around you. It was in your voice, it was in your perfume.
Spencer wished he could say he used to be normal about you. That he wasn’t always this way– but he had always been enamored, even upon your first meeting.
-
It was in the briefing room where he met you. Hotch moved aside to introduce you and you flashed your ever-bright smile, and Spencer felt something inside his heart twist. His palms grew sweaty, and his mouth parted slightly. Your white button up was tucked neatly into a knee length pencil skirt. Sheer black tights with not a single tear covered your legs, and a pair of sensible black heels were on your feet. Your hair was tousled just so, like you’d styled it, but not like you had obsessed over it. Everything about you radiated effortless beauty, and Spencer swallowed hard. Something was different about you, something other than the divergent ways Spencer was rebuffed from his peers. Something special, something that had his heart racing.
You met Spencer’s gaze in the room that day, saw the look on his face and felt the corner of your mouth twitch. You looked him up and down, and carefully took note of what you saw. A patterned tie tucked into a simple, cozy-looking cardigan. Fluffed, unstyled curls atop his head– and what must have been the cutest button nose you’d ever seen. His gaze was like a deer caught in headlights, and it made you want to giggle. You hadn’t seen a guy look at you like that since you TA’d a freshman class your senior year at university, and you had been dressed far less professional than today. You tossed him a wink and tilted your head just so.
Spencer finally seemed to register that you saw him staring, and as soon as you winked at him, something terrible happened to him.
His cock twitched in his slacks.
Spencer’s eyes went wide and immediately tried to play it off, giving you an awkward, flat half-smile before tearing his eyes away. Looking away from you felt like getting out of a warm bed before work– leaving the most comforting place in the world to face reality. His dick throbbed, stirring in his pants, the visage of that wink burned in his eidetic memory. Somewhere in that same memory floated reminded of pupillometry, studies suggesting the reason why a wink is disarming in relation to staring. Staring is a nonverbal threat, and by closing one eye and effectively breaking the gaze, the threat is mitigated, not to mention the social connotations of a wink. Should he have winked back? Did you register his gaze as a threat? All of these thoughts bounced around in Spencer’s head as his length continued to grow in his pants. All of a sudden, the gravity of the situation collapsed onto his psyche and all but one thought left his head.
He had a boner. For his new coworker, in a room full of his closest friends and his boss. His stomach dropped and he swallowed again.
You, of course, in all of your kindness noticed only the change in his face to pure discomfort and began to worry. You didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable– what a terrible first impression to make! You couldn’t see his cock below the table, which was jumping as it was trying to make a run for it. Just before you were about to say something, Spencer sat up straight and said, “Excuse me,” in a strangled tone, turning around in his spinning chair and walking straight out of the conference room. Your heart sank and brow furrowed. He hated you, you were sure of it, and you worried about the implications this would have on your relationship with Spencer as members of the same team. Meanwhile, Hotch looked out the door, face stony as ever, but glossed with concern.
“Is he okay?” You asked, unsure if this was typical behavior during a briefing. You hoped it was, feeling incredibly guilty.
Emily, the woman who had just introduced herself to you moments before, waved a hand. “I’m sure he’s okay. Weird of him to just get up and leave like that though,” she said. You frowned, and Derek cut in.
“He probably just realized he washed his hands two times instead of three after pressing the elevator button,” He said teasingly. The man named Rossi smirked. The meeting was almost over anyways, and Hotch soon released you to attend to your matters before the next case arose.
-
“Excuse me,” Spencer said, his tie suddenly feeling far too tight before trying to turn as fast as possible, not wanting anyone to get the slightest clue of what had him leaving in such a hurry. He stood and walked out the door, tugging down his cardigan as far as possible, anxious. He was practically jogging by the time he reached the single-stall restroom and locked the door behind him. Frantic, he panted while his back pressed against the door. What in the world was wrong with him? The image of your smile, your body, replayed in his mind and he buckled as he throbbed again. He took a deep breath, trying to think of anything else but you. His heart filled with guilt, which helped curb the continuation of any growth below. Was he so pathetic, so lonely, that a perfectly normal interaction had him running off to make sure he wouldn’t look like a pervert in front of all of the people he held closest? His face burned, and he moved to the sink to wash his hands and splash his face. The shame that now lived had successfully ceased the blood flowing to his clearly neglected cock. He dried his face and brushed his hair from his eyes.
He didn’t understand what had just happened. Well, physiologically, of course he did. But psychologically, he had no clue why you had such an affect on him, and he sighed deeply. He needed to get laid. Or to kiss someone, or jerk off more or literally anything if a beautiful woman paying him half a second of attention caused him to spiral in this way. He straightened his clothes and turned to unlock the door, praying this experience was singular.
When Spencer returned to the bullpen, he knew he had to rectify the situation post-haste. He probably freaked you out, and the thought of killing whatever professional relationship you could’ve had immediately after greeting you made him genuinely sad. Despite the strange display his body decided to throw at him moments ago, Spencer was a thoughtful man. He wanted to get to know you, find out things about you, become friends. He just hoped he hadn’t ruined his only shot.
You were sitting at your desk, now moved in just across Spencer’s, scribbling something into a to-do list when he approached you. You felt a pang of anxiety flow through you, remembering how uncomfortable he had seemed at your gesture earlier. You turned to face him, and tried to read his body language. He was obviously still nervous. He picked at his cuticles and would only meet your gaze for a few seconds before looking away.
“Uhm, hi,” he said, his throat dry. “I’m, uh, sorry for my behavior earlier. It- I was… nauseous. I tried a new bagel place this morning, and I guess it’s just not for me… Food poisoning is often associated with vomiting, but it can actually manifest in a plethora of ways due to improper food storage for an extended period of time?” His statement came out more like a question, as if he was asking you for verification of the plausibility of his story in correlation with is infodumping.
You gave him a confused smile and stood. “Okay… that’s good. Not good! I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, but I was really worried at first that I’d made a poor first impression. I have a habit of flirting, kinda. Not on purpose. And if I did make you uncomfortable, again, I apologize. It wasn’t my intention– I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Your kind confirmation made something in Spencer’s heart ache. For just a split second, his brow furrowed. He didn’t know why– he knew you were being polite. But Spencer’s feelings were hurt anyway. Not that he wanted you to mean something by it, but it might’ve been nice…
Spencer blinked and smiled back. “No! Not at all- it was just terrible timing. Digestion and all.” His awkward comment made you giggle to yourself and he felt his insecurity creep in once more.
“Of course,” you replied. You decided now was a good time to try a reintroduction. You stuck out your hand and told him your name. Spencer’s arm twitched, like it was trying to stay by his side. Of course, that moment is when Emily decided to look over and saw your mistake before you did.
“Oh! Sorry, but Spencer doesn-” Emily was cut off by the abrupt arrival of Spencer’s hand into yours, and he shook it firmly. Emily blinked as her mouth hung open. Spencer shot her a subtle look and she snapped it shut before turning back. “...Nevermind,” she mumbled.
You were confused, but glad to see Spencer smiling back at you. His heart raced, both at the contact with you just moments after his incident, and at the thought of the germs. Thankfully, however, he didn’t notice any abnormal pulsing going towards unwanted places. He exhaled and smiled back. “It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, but you can just call me Spencer. Or Reid. It’s all the same to me.”
You released his hand and Spencer felt the absence deeper than he should’ve. Your hand was soft, and warm, and even though he was sure his hands were clammy he wished you hadn’t let go. You gave him one more bright smile before sitting again.
“I’m excited to work with you,” You said finally before turning back to your notebook.
Spencer flushed a little. “I am, too,” he said, knowing all too well that some parts of him were far more excited than others.
–
That night when Spencer arrived at his apartment, he shouldered off his satchel and kicked off his shoes. He headed straight for his bedroom to lay down before remembering he still needed to shower. He huffed, and went to the bathroom to turn on the water. Once the water was hot enough, he stripped down and hopped inside. Spencer relished the feeling of the water– it almost burned him, it was so hot, but it was the only way he’d shower. He wasn’t the most built guy out there, and oftentimes, he found himself just barely too cold. The droplets quickly warmed him, and he tipped his head back to let it cascade down his curls. As the room filled with steam, he began recounting the day in his head. Despite its… unconventional start, the rest of his work went by smoothly. No cases that day, so he spent the time catching up on paperwork and organizing his desk. When he went for coffee at the break station, he ran into you again. You’d had a very pleasant conversation about his interests, how he got his start at the BAU, what he did in his free time. The whole time, even when he rambled on and on about statistics that most people would’ve ended up tuning out, he came to the realization that you hung on his every word. You asked follow up questions, met his passion with curiosity. He felt full of pride and appreciation after. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had actually listened to him for that long. He, of course, asked you questions in return. He found out you liked to shop and accessorize, and that your career choice was influenced by your mother. However, you did actually enjoy what you did, and didn’t feel overly pressured. You smiled as you recounted your university days, and how you preferred cats over dogs because of their self sufficiency. Spencer found himself entranced by you, eager to learn all he could. He wanted to know everything you had to tell him, and was in utter disbelief that you seemed to feel the same way. He hoped you’d become friends, and stay that way for a long time.
Once Spencer had finished scrubbing his scalp, he realized that at some point during his shower, his length began to grow again. The memories of you must have triggered something subconscious to revisit from this morning, and he groaned slightly. He was all at once disgusted with himself and hazy with lustful thoughts of the other things he had noticed about you. The way your clothes clung tightly to your figure, how your heels caused your hips to sway when you walked. Spencer took the base of his cock in a firm grasp and let out a low moan. He dragged his hand along his length. He knew it was unethical to be jerking off to his new coworker when they'd only met that day, but he convinced himself it was because he hadn’t been jerking off that he was so riled up. It had nothing to do with the way your perfume had etched itself into his nose, or how you were able to make professional attire as alluring as lingerie. Beads of precum dribbled from his tip as he stroked himself faster. He whimpered and brushed a thumb over his sensitive tip, the heat from the shower making the air feel thick. He pumped his dick over and over, taking on a punishing pace. He braced himself with his other hand against the shower wall when his knees began to buckle in the pleasure.
His moans began to break, whines that sounded strangely like your name. “Please…” he croaked out, before feeling his orgasm take over. He blinked rapidly as he painted his shower floor with thick ropes of cum. He typically wasn’t the masturbation type, as it was few and far apart when he found things worth fantasizing over.
Spencer panted as he rode out his high, his mind flooding with dreams of you being in the shower beside him. When he opened his eyes, he felt a pang of guilt and turned to scrub his body, trying to wash away the guilt he felt for his actions alongside it.
-
Thankfully for Spencer, in the weeks that followed, things were normal at work. Well, as normal as they could be. After your first real conversation by the coffee pot, there was some sort of silent agreement formed to meet there every day to talk. You liked Spencer– he was kind. He was a great listener, if a little ramble-y. Not that you minded, in fact, you’d told him once before you thought it was sweet. Spencer had gone red at that, and it made you smile. He was a cutie, and you weren’t fool enough to ignore the feelings you felt building for him.
Spencer would hold the elevator for you, as how work was going, listen as you groaned. You’d always worn your heart on your sleeve, and were acutely aware of how Spencer made your heart flutter. However, you also were smart enough to know that the BAU wasn’t necessarily the place to form a relationship. You didn’t want to wreck the team dynamic when you had only just joined, and decided to just let your crush comfort you in the quiet moments in that break area, content to keep it to yourself.
Well, content may not have been the right word. The first time you heard about the times Spencer had won women’s hearts during cases when you stuck behind at the police station made your heart ache. Apparently, when he was younger, he’d even made out with a witness under his protection after only 48 hours of knowing her. Lucky bitch, you found yourself thinking. You blinked. You weren’t usually so venomous about these things, and you could practically hear your mother’s voice chiding you in your ear.
“Green is not your color sweetie, don’t let it become your signature look.” She’d say. You frowned, and tried to push away the thought. For her information, you actually looked fantastic in green. But you knew the sentiment was right. It wasn’t like you to be so.. bitter. Spencer was changing you in ways you didn’t know how to handle.
Spencer, too, was going through his own kind of metamorphosis. He found himself yearning for things that he’d had no interest in previously. When he’d shook your hand upon your reintroduction, it caused him to picture what it’d be like to just hold it— walk in stride, comforted by each other’s contact. He wanted to know what it’d feel like to have your hands on his body, how your touch would roam over his chest, his shoulders… lower, too.
He wished he knew how to turn off the switch you’d so easily flipped in his brain. That he could get himself to think about anything else when you were around besides your smile made of sunshine. Wanted to redact the uncontrollable desire he had for you that was slowly encroaching in his life.
You wished you could read him easier. That you could see, clear as day, where the line was drawn in the sand. Sometimes, when you made small remarks that resembled flirting, Spencer was able to smile along and reply, bantering like you’d known each other for years. Other times, you’d make yourself less discreet, and his face would heat and he’d begin to ramble barely related statistics, like he was trying to distract you. A push, a pull. A growing tension that neither of you wanted to ignore.
A growing desire to see just how far you could go before the line was washed away by the tide.
spencer knows that up to 80% of women have faked an orgasm to appease their partners. when he catches his girlfriend pretending to experience one, he is so upset, but not at her! he's upset with himself for not being a better partner to her.
he's just arrived home from a grueling case, and he hasn’t been able to get inside of her for over a week, so he doesn’t last very long once he gets inside her warm, tight walls.
when she feels the rhythm of his thrusts start to falter, followed by the warm sensation of him starting to fill her, she clenches around him and starts writhing around, moaning and chanting his name.
he’s still inside of her and has been when she’s climaxed before, so he knows this isn’t how it normally feels against his cock. his mind is replaying every orgasm he’s ever given her, and this 'one' completely sticks out in his library of memories.
he doesn’t feel the usual fluttering of her walls, her back isn't arched, and her lips aren't parted like they usually are. everything about it just feels wrong.
she’s so embarrassed when he brings it up.
“baby, what was that?”
she’s immediately flushed and wide-eyed. he pulls out of her to lie next to her and stares at her so intensely. his eyes are still round and soft, though, conveying that he's not mad at her. if anything, it's the opposite; he's concerned.
“what do you mean?” her voices wobbles and she nervously bites at her lower lip.
“i know that wasn’t you having an orgasm. why did you do that?” his tone is stern, but not at all irate. he’s holding back anger at himself for making her feel like she had to do it, along with anger at any of her previous partners who might have made her feel this way.
she’s wringing her hands together and is so mortified that he caught her, “i’m sorry, i just know that you’re tired from being away for work and i didn’t want you to worry about me.”
he sighs and reaches out to smooth her hair. “please, don’t ever do that again. sex is only fun for me if you’re enjoying yourself too.”
she nods and whispers, “i’m sorry.”
he leans over to tenderly kiss at her neck, “no, i’m sorry. i appreciate that you were trying to be considerate, baby, but i’m going to take care of you properly now.”
his hand trails down her torso, squeezing and pinching at her breasts and nipples, ghosting down her sides and stomach, before resting at her pussy. she widens her legs for his access.
he gathers his cum that has leaked out of her and gently pushes it back in with two fingers, causing her to arch her back and let out a small moan.
“there you go, honey, just relax.” his lips brush against her ear as he speaks, causing chills to blossom down her arms.
he’s slowly and leisurely fingering her while kissing at her neck. it's so intimate and sensual that she can barely keep her eyes open.
he lets his fingertips graze the sensitive spot inside of her with each thrust, ever so slightly, and she can feel tears brew behind her eyelids. she tried to take care of herself while he was gone, but nothing compares to the sensation of him; his thick and rugged fingers, his lips stroking and sucking on her neck, even the smell of him brings her insurmountable pleasure.
“please, spencer ... feels so good,” she manages to breathe out.
“please what, baby? what do you need?”
“more, i need more.” she's trying to ask him to touch her aching clit, but she’s too far gone to be specific. when he presses a third finger inside of her, she gasps and reaches down to hold his wrist.
lifting his head from her neck, he uses his other hand to graze her cheek, he’s trying to be sweet and comforting, but at this point it feels almost condescending when he’s also asking her, “yeah? is that good?”
she can’t speak. she barely has enough air in her lungs to breathe, let alone to give him any words. she nods with her eyes squeezed shut. it does feel incredible, even if it’s not exactly what she wanted.
“hey, i need you to look at me.”
his fingers falter slightly in his ministrations when she turns her head and gazes at him with half-lidded eyes and blown-out pupils. a sly smile finds his lips at the sight of her like this. he knows her body like the back of his hand, and they both know it.
“there she is,” he whispers, and she responds with a high-pitched whine. she’s getting closer and closer to the edge with each pump of his fingers; he increases his pressure and speed with each thrust. she hopes he never stops.
when his thumb finally reaches up to caress her clit, she can’t help but close her eyes again, repeating “yes, yes, yes,” like it’s a prayer.
he completely stops all of his movements when her eyes close, though, and she groans in protest before a tear falls down her cheek.
his hand is already nearby to wipe it away and he says, “come back, baby, i need to see you.” he normally wouldn’t be so insistent on her keeping her eyes open, but he’s missed her so much that he craves her pretty eyes on his.
she follows his directions and looks absolutely destroyed when she does. he can barely see a ring of color with how much her pupils have expanded. her eyes and eyelashes are glistening and she looks so beautiful.
"thank you, baby. i'm sorry, i just missed you so much." his hand is still cupping her cheek, so she nuzzles against it as a means of replying.
he resumes the movements of his fingers, and it only takes a few more thrusts and a few more circles on her clit before she’s toppling over the edge of her orgasm. her jaw falls open, and her neck tips back. he can feel her gummy walls fluttering against his fingers. her thighs start to close against his hand, but he doesn't stop until she's ridden the entire high of her climax.
she maintains the eye contact that he wanted so badly to the best of her ability, but she's just barely squinting at him.
he whispers, “there you go... good girl,” as she cums (for real this time), and he lavishes the feeling of her walls pulsing around his fingers and the slight tremble of her thighs.
he hopes that he’s proven that he will always take care of her, no matter how tired he is or how long he's been away. he's already considering going down on her, too, thinking she deserves another orgasm for being so good for him.
18+ (smut)
wc: 3.3k
warnings: drunk sex, torn underwear
from this request
Dr. Spencer Reid is drunk.
Surrounded by his team in a booth in a dark and dingy bar. Tie loosened and hair mussed from running his fingers through it. His cheeks feature a healthy, pink glow.
He’s been trying to compose a text to his girlfriend for twenty minutes. Distracted by the conversations around him and frustrated with the small, blurry keyboard, he’s only managed to type i lov nd mis u
While attempting to hold a conversation with Rossi about the evolution of forensic science over the last decade, a beautiful woman who looks suspiciously like his girlfriend appears in his periphery.
Dave has only had a respectable two glasses of Scotch, so he notices that the genius has tuned him out almost immediately.
“Looks like your keeper is here.” Dave cheekily teases.
With his head in his palm, Spencer says dreamily, “Yeah, the keeper of my heart.”
Spencer was banished to the aisle seat of the booth after clambering over Emily to go to the bathroom for the third time in thirty minutes. The second she’s within his arm's reach, he grabs her waist and tugs her toward him, resting his chin on her stomach. He looks up at her adoringly, his eyes rounded and sparkling, as she laughs. “You’re here!” he exclaims, beaming.
Tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear, she giggles, “I am!”
“I was trying to text you.” He pouts.
“It’s okay, Hotch told me you were ready to be picked up?”
He doesn’t remember telling Hotch that; how did he know? As he ponders what his girlfriend said, Penelope squeals her name from the corner of the booth.
As the women converse about… well, Spencer doesn’t know, because he’s too distracted by the feeling of her body under his palms.
At first, his thumbs rest in her belt loops, and his slender fingers span down the curve of her ass.
As she continues talking with his coworkers, his hands sink down her hips and to the curve of her ass. His fingers just barely brush her back pocket when she reaches behind her to grab his wrists, halting his movement, and lifts it back up to her waist.
He whines as she stops his movement and juts his lower lip into a pout. His desperate expression only gets more pathetic when she glares down at him.
After a few minutes, once she’s invested in her conversation again, he tries a new method. Placing a hand on the back of her leg, he slowly drags it up to the crease where ass meets thigh.
He internally cheers when she doesn’t stop him this time. Getting bolder, he slides his palm over to the inside of her thigh, gently squeezing the plushness. If he just slightly stretches his fingers, he can brush them against her–
“Okay! Time to take this one home before he falls asleep on me.”
That pushed her too far. He groans in denial, grumbling, “I’m not sleepy.”
“Mhm,” she hums as she pulls his arms to lift him from his seat.
He collapses against her body with the majority of his weight, and she groans as she tries to hold him up, “Spence, baby, I need you to help me.”
His head perks up like she’s said a magic word. She needs him to help her? Okay! With what? Right now? How can I help? It’s like she’s sounded the bell, and he’s one of Pavlov’s dogs.
They wave their goodbyes to the rest of the BAU. On the way out the door, he’s scuffling his feet and tripping every few steps – getting him into the cab should’ve counted as a workout.
He only gets more handsy in the back of the taxi. Straining on the seatbelt to pepper kisses down her jaw and neck. Fingers trailing higher and higher up her thigh.
Spencer really doesn’t drink often, and is rarely this bold in public, so she looks over to ask him, “You okay, honey?”
A flush paints his cheeks and fades down to his collar, partially due to the alcohol he’s ingested tonight and mostly due to her. “Mm, I like it when you call me honey.”
She lightly giggles at him, “I know you do, honey…” Grabbing his hand that’s getting dangerously close to between her legs, she intertwines their fingers. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh! Well, I do have a little problem…” He moves her hand to guide it over the bulge in his pants.
Side-eyeing the driver, she leans close to his ear, “That is not a little problem, and you know it,” as she gently squeezes.
He whines at her touch and tilts his hips forward. The driver looks back at them through the rear-view mirror with furrowed brows. She gives him a polite smile as if her palm isn’t pressing on her boyfriend’s semi in the man’s backseat.
Spencer continues to try to touch her and have her touch him throughout the remainder of the car ride. Her promises to take care of him once they get home fall on deaf ears. The only thing on his mind is her, her, her, her, her.
He eventually huffs and leans back in the seat with his arms crossed, pouting. She’s torturing him. It’s not fair.
He’s vibrating with excitement as she pushes their front door open, finally. The second they’ve crossed the threshold, he’s grabbing her face and pulling her into a frantic and messy kiss. She gasps into his mouth, and he smirks against hers.
With one hand on the base of her neck, he skims down her back and waist with the other until he reaches her ass, unapologetically squeezing her. He pulls her flush with his body, lightly moaning when his aching cock presses against her hip.
He needs her.
She tries to retreat from the kiss, but he follows her fleeing lips until she rests her palms on his shoulders, gently pushing him back. “Spence, we shouldn’t.”
With hands sadly falling to his sides, he frowns, “What? Why not?”
“You’re drunk, it’s not right. I’ll feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
He tries to lean in to kiss her again, to convince her that he wants this, needs this. Her grip on him only tightens, causing him to emit a protestful whine.
“Please, baby. I want you. Please?” He shamelessly begs.
“I don’t know, honey…” She bites her lip as she trails off. Is she trying to kill him?
“Please? I consent. You won’t be taking advantage of me.”
Her head tilts as she gazes into his pleading eyes, “What if you regret it in the morning?”
His brows furrow in confusion. “I could never regret you. You’re the love of my life.” He rebuts, like it’s obvious. It should be, he thinks. Has he not made his devotion to her evident enough? Should he show her the ring in his–
“Okay.” She concedes. “But I’m only gonna do this,” She slides her hands down his chest to tug at his belt.
He groans theatrically. He really should take what he can get, but he wants way more than just her hand, albeit beautiful, wrapped around him.
Halting her fiddling with his pants, she asks, “Do you not want me to?”
“No– I mean, yes– I mean, no, I want more.” He stammers, shaking his head.
“Do you want my mouth instead?” She offers.
He wants to bang his head against the wall. Never could he have predicted that he’d be turning down a blowjob from her.
He shakes his head, “No.”
“Spence…”
“I want you to ride me in our bed.” Her eyebrows jump at his bluntness. “Please. Could you please ride me in our bed, please?” He tenderly runs his thumbs over the backs of her hands.
She sighs, “You’re drunk.”
"I don't want you because I'm drunk. I'm drunk and I want you." He looks at her in that impossibly earnest way that melts her heart.
“Plus!” He holds up his pointer finger. “I started thinking about it before I was drunk. Now, I’m just not embarrassed to bring it up…” He trails off, the blush on his cheeks getting darker.
He continues, “And you can say no. I’ll be a little sad and will probably sulk just a tad, but no means no… That’s all.”
She takes a step closer to him, “That’s all?”
His breath catches in his throat, and he quickly bobs his head, “Mhm.”
She nods, “Okay,” and takes another step towards him.
His heart is pounding in his chest, his eyes dart back and forth across hers. Breathlessly, he asks, “Okay?”
She moves close enough to brush her nose against his, and their breaths fan each other's faces. Spencer’s still has its usual strong minty aroma with only a tinge of whiskey peeking through. The scent of her cherry lip balm lingers and makes him feel light-headed. It’s taking all of his control and strength to not just kiss her.
She whispers, “I did promise to take care of you in the car,” before finally pressing her lips against his, gentle yet firm.
Spencer follows her lead, letting her set the pace, but his veins are thrumming with excitement and anticipation.
Once she deepens the kiss, slowly sliding her tongue against his, a desperate whine escapes him, but he still maintains his composure. Not pushing her or, rather, pulling her any closer towards him.
Gratefully for him, she moves his hands down to her hips, encouraging him to touch her. He can’t resist circling them around to her backside, squeezing and pulling her pelvis flush with his. He sighs at the relief of pressure from his throbbing dick; he’s been half-hard for her since she got to the bar to pick him up.
As the kiss continues, she wraps her arms around his neck, threading the fingers of one hand through the back of his hair. He unabashedly moans into her mouth, and her lips turn upward into a smile.
“Bedroom?” She whispers against his lips, and he immediately nods, eager and needy.
When she separates from him, leading him with their fingers tangled, he desperately keeps his other hand on her waist, not wanting her to get too far from him. He follows her into their bedroom, kissing her neck and whispering, “Thank you,” over and over.
Once they’re in their room, she rotates to kiss him, with immediate passion and fervor. He doesn’t notice that she’s steered them to the edge of the bed until she’s pushing him with a hand on his chest, and he drops backward onto their mattress.
As she yanks off her shirt and unbuttons her jeans, he intently watches with blown pupils. Biting his lip, he palms himself through his slacks at the vision of his girlfriend stripping for him. This is far from the first time that he’s seen her do this, but each time he witnesses it, he’s filled with gratitude and reverence. How did life lead him here? To her?
Left in just her bra and panties, she steps between his dangling legs, placing her hands on his cheeks. For the second time that night, she asks, “You okay, honey?”
He doesn’t answer. As he grabs her hips and pulls her on top of him, he falls on his back against their mattress. She giggles as they tumble, and the sound makes his heart sing a matching harmony. God, he loves her so much.
Their lips met again in a hungry kiss. As they retrace each other’s mouths, Spencer slides his hands up her back to skillfully unclasp her bra. It gets tossed to the floor, and he kneads and squeezes her breasts, swiping his thumbs over her nipples.
She lightly moans against him and grinds her hips down against his bulge. His head tilts back, and he grumbles a low, “Fuck.”
She bites her lower lip, concealing her entertained smile produced by his cursing. Drunk Spencer really has no filter.
Placing her hands on his chest, she continues circling her hips against him, and his palms tighten on her waist.
He inches his fingers across her thigh to the hem of her underwear, slipping under them until he’s met with her soaked folds.
As his fingers slide and caress her, she leans back to grant him better access, stabilizing herself with her hands on his knees.
“Baby,” she whines, tilting her hips upward in an attempt to show him where she needs him.
“I know, baby, I know.” He gruffs, frustrated with the constraint of her panties.
In a split-second decision, he tells her, “I’ll buy you new ones,” and before she can ask what he’s talking about, he’s tearing the lace. She looks down with a gasp at her now shredded panties.
“Oh my–” She cuts herself off with a moan; he’s sliding a finger in her entrance before she can fully process or say anything about what just happened.
He continues fingering her, eyes locked on the rapid rising and falling of her chest. Her head is tilted back, exposing her neck, and he wishes he could reach up to lick and kiss her there. She looks so beautiful and glorious like this.
One finger becomes two, and they can hear the wet squelching noise of her pussy with each thrust. As he curls his fingers upward, her arms get shaky from the pleasure.
“Fuck me, Spence…” She groans.
His lips twitch, “That’s the plan, baby.”
She rolls her eyes in mock annoyance, huffing out an amused laugh. A deep tension blooms in her belly as he continues his ministrations.
When he reaches his thumb up to her clit to rub smooth, slow circles, her thighs tremble against his hips.
She leans forward and grabs his wrist, “Fuck– Okay– I need you,” halting his movements.
Leaning down to kiss him, she unbuttons his pants and shimmies them down just enough to free his red, leaking, aching cock.
He groans as she wraps her soft hands around him, thrusting upward into her grip, “Mm, baby, please.”
After smearing his pre-cum over the head, she holds her hair back with the other hand and lets a string of spit drip onto him. His mouth falls open as she does this, eyes tracking the descent until it meets his dick. He’s so sensitive and desperate and enthralled that the slide of her saliva down his shaft has him moaning and whimpering.
Tossing the scrap of fabric that has become her panties onto the floor, she guides his tip to her entrance and slowly sinks down. They moan in tandem at the slick stretch.
Stabilizing herself with hands on his chest, she drops down until he’s buried deep inside of her, brows furrowed, and neck tilted back.
She then realizes something entirely stupid: he’s still wearing his tie and button-up. She groans and yanks on the fabric around his neck, throwing it, before making quick work on the buttons of his shirt, “Why are you even still wearing this?”
He can barely respond, his dick is finally where it’s meant to be, and she’s too frustrated with the barrier of his shirt to actually fuck him. He’s dizzy from the alcohol and the sensation of her tight, wet walls wrapped around him. He doesn’t know which variable is most responsible for making him feel this way anymore.
“You could’ve taken it off whenever you wanted,” he manages to gripe.
After unbuttoning just enough of his shirt to get her hands on his bare chest, she finally slowly rises and falls on his dick. His hands grip her hips, fingers pressing firmly into her ass. With a slack jaw, he groans, “Fuck– Yes– Thank you, baby.”
He continues babbling as she finds a steady rhythm, “Thank you so much, I love you so much, oh my God.”
His head rolls back and forth against the bed as she rides him into the mattress, broken moans and whimpers and whines escaping both of them with each plunge. Spencer soon guiltily realizes that he’s not helping her at all, so he assists in the movement of her hips with his hands and thrusts upward to match her pace.
Her nails scrape down his chest as the heat in her belly catches fire again. He hisses at the scratches, but he loves it when she does this, loves when the sharp pain blends with the intense pleasure.
“Shit– Baby– Not gonna last long–” He moans.
“Mm, ‘m close,” She agrees, moving a hand between her legs to sloppily rub her clit. He can feel the pulsing of her tight heat as her orgasm crests, and he’s clenching his jaw and hands to stop himself from cumming before she does. Even in his drunken state, her pleasure prioritizes his own.
“Fuck– Fuck– Fuck–” she chants and cries as everything starts to feel like too much. Her release coincides with a long, drawn-out, “Spencer…” and her eyes rolling to the back of her head.
Falling against his chest, panting, she continues a slow roll of her hips as he bursts inside of her with a raspy groan.
His body twitches and shivers as he cums, fingers slowly unlocking their tight grip on her waist. She won’t be surprised nor perturbed to find the shape of his fingerprints embedded in the skin there later.
His arms wrap around her back as his orgasm descends, caressing her warm skin. Burying his nose in her hair, he mumbles, “That was amazing. You’re amazing.”
She lightly laughs in agreement, pressing a sweet kiss to his collarbone.
They lay as a panting tangle of limbs until she hears his breathing even out, and she glances up to see his eyes closed, “Spence?” She croons.
He doesn’t respond.
“Honey?” She chuckles.
Still nothing. If she couldn’t feel his breathing against her skin, she’d be worried.
She gently shakes his shoulder, and he inhales sharply, “Mm?”
“Did you seriously fall asleep? You’re still inside of me!” She feels his dick twitch ever so slightly against her walls.
“No, ‘m not asleep.” His voice is rough and croaky.
“Mhm,” She indulges his blatant fib.
They both wince as she rises off of him. He feels cold without her warm heat wrapped around him, and she feels empty. She slides off the bed, grimacing slightly at the stiffness in her hips.
He’s quite the vision lying like this: hair a frizzy mess, a pink tinge to his cheeks, shirt halfway unbuttoned, softening cock peeking out of his pants. The floor only adds to the scenery, clothes scattered about like the frame on a piece of art – Spencer, of course, being the art. She catches a glimpse of her torn underwear (she honestly forgot about it until she laid eyes on it) and shakes her head in amusement.
After slipping on a new pair of underwear and changing into one of his old tee-shirts, the hem falling to her mid-thigh, she gathers pajamas for him. He peeks his eyes open as she unbuttons the rest of his shirt, murmuring, “You’re so beautiful,” when he sees her in his clothes.
“Thank you, honey,” she grabs his hands, “Can you sit up for me?”
He groans, but lets her pull him upright. Slumping against her body like a rag doll, he wraps his arms around her waist.
She manages to maneuver him limb by limb until he’s changed into his sleep clothes. While they’re in the bathroom, lazily brushing their teeth, he whines about going to bed without a shower after being in the sticky bar. She placates his concerns by promising to shower together in the morning – his favorite.
After he’s between the sheets with a glass of water within reach, she finds his phone and plugs it in for him. The screen turns on as the charger connects, and their text thread is displayed. She sees his barely legible attempt at messaging her and smiles, shaking her head fondly at how much he loves her. Warmth grows in her chest as she glances between the i lov nd mis u text and her boyfriend snoring softly into his pillow.
Leaning down to kiss his forehead, she whispers, “Goodnight, honey,” against his soft skin.
dirty little secret . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
spencer reid x reader
summary: spencer reid is a private person, and unfortunately it comes back to bite him when a case leads him to his girlfriend’s bar
Spencer Reid was one of the more private people of The Behavioural Analysis Unit, it was helpful to him on most occasions. It was easier for him to separate his work life and his home life. His coworkers were his family, of course they were he saw them everyday. But after a long day, he wanted his time in his own space, with his girlfriend and their two cats. It was easier that way and it always had been. His team didn’t know he had a girlfriend of two years, how they’d been living together for a year now. Or the two cats, named Mark Sloan and Rene Descartes. Respectfully.
That was up until The BAU ended up in the same neighbourhood as her music bar, The Live Wire. There was a string of murders in the area, the last one happened two nights ago, down the road from The Wire, as it was known in D.C. Two young women had been shot dead, just outside of where CCTV could capture it. Once in the chest, and then a second time in the head, and then their ankles were wrapped in newspaper. The police had kept an eye on the case, informing the families and allowing grievances. But this time it had deviated, same method, same appearance but this time it was a man. A well known bartender in the area, the other two girls were bartenders too, but not as known as the male was.
The Wire from the outside looks like a hipster bar cafe, plants everywhere and references to music everywhere, during the day it was. But the nighttime? It was a bustling live bar, with live music every Friday and Saturday, a different band each week, some more popular bands. It was a popular spot, everyone knew it. Even The BAU had been in there once or twice.
But they were in here on business, a few people were already in there having lunch, staff were zipping around the bar, trays filled with food that looked delicious. But Spencer already knew the food was good, the menu items he had already tried were good. Some of the staff knew him already, one or two had flashed him a smile already as he walked in with Derek Morgan and Aaron Hotchner. Morgan raised an eyebrow but brushed it off as a place Spencer would come in to read or something scholarly.
“Hey, would we be able to speak to the manager? Wherever he is?” Morgan flashed a smile to the girl behind the bar and flashed his badge. Hotch rolled his eyes at the flirting when they were on a case, not here for drinks.
“Morgan. The case. Please.” Hotch said, they were all at the bar now. The girl gave Spencer a look like she recognised him but brushed it off.
“Yeah, I’ll go grab her for you now. I think she’s just in the kitchen at the moment” She said before wandering off and leaving them with the male bartender who’d just come back with a tray of glasses.
A few moments later, the same girl came back with a woman who was dressed semi-professionally but also had some alternative vibe to her. She had a smile on her face when she approached the group, it was more of a knowing smile when she saw them. Knowing but professional.
“Can I help you guys at all?” She chirped, customer service voice was full throw.
“We were wondering if you had any CCTV footage from the murder of this man from the other day?” Spencer spoke in a voice sounding like it was reserved just for her as he handed her the photos from the incident. She took them from him, their hands brushing together accidentally. As if it were habit. Both Hotch and Morgan raised an eyebrow.
“Ohh, that’s Jonas! He worked across the street, lovely gentleman. God rest his soul” She sighed, taking in the photos before speaking again “Follow me”
Morgan and Hotch looked at each other as Spencer matched into step with her almost immediately. It was as if they knew each other, maybe a little too well, but maybe they were just close friends. Best friends maybe. Not what they actually were. She showed them to the office, it was a little cramped but they all fit. She sat in the chairs and was configuring the computer to get the footage up from the other night.
“See right there? Across the street? That’s the club Jonas worked in. Very popular. People do drugs and shit in there. It’s a good night.” She said, pointing to the CCTV where he leaving work for the night. “He usually finishes around twelve am, they’re sometimes open till 4 in the morning, depends. But, we keep our bar open until quarter to so he can come in for a drink.”
Spencer took more care than he usually would when listening to someone explain what was happening. If he did speak, it was in that same soft tone he used with her when explaining the case.
“But he didn’t come in that night did he?” Hotch asked, a professional voice. She looked up at him as the chair turned.
“Exactly, we got worried but we saw him walk away with a guy so we assumed it was a friend and they left” She shrugged, not thinking everything of it at the time. They were just told to stay vigilant with the murders of the two girls, not told a description of a killer.
“Did he usually walk off with friends after shifts?” Morgan probed
“Sometimes yeah, they would either leave or would come in here for a drink afterwards. Depends on how the shift goes really.” She chuckled softly “But that’s the way hospitality goes, I’m afraid. It’s different everyday”
“Seems like a tough shop” Morgan chuckled, Spencer did aswell, it was a soft chuckle. But a chuckle nonetheless. It would be missed by a passing person, but not a profiler. Definitely not by a profiler.
“You have no idea, FBI is light work.” She joked. It’s clear the mystery woman was cheeky. She had some mischief about her, it was fun. Spencer liked that about her the most.
“Uh huh sure” Morgan was a flirt, she’d heard about Morgan, she had. But didn’t expect that much of a flirt. Spencer really toned it down.
She raised a curious eyebrow, she didn’t ask questions. There wasn’t much time. A radio crackled on the desk, someone called after her, probably asking for something. or needed something fixed. She quickly put the CCTV footage onto a flash drive, handing it to Hotch. She knew he was the boss, even if he didn’t know that she knew. He looked like the boss.
“I have to go back now, so this is for you guys” She said as she quickly wrote down the bar’s number and her own incase they needed anymore information. Handing it to them. “If you need anymore information, please come pop in, or call me. Anything you need” She smiled, like she was asking for them to come by again. They were nice, she liked them.
She showed them out of the office, back into front of house. Walking towards the door, passing by customers who were eating lunch. As she was about to show them out the door, Hotch and Morgan already walked and Spencer held back. He paused in his step before turning around to face her.
“Are we still going ahead with movie night like we agreed on?” He asked quietly, Spencer liked routine and knowing what plans were.
“Yeah, I’m finishing at eight tonight. So I can bring pizza home?” She responded with the same kind of quiet, discreetly brushing his arm as a form of ‘I see you’
“That would be nice, I can find a movie for us to watch” He smiled, but pausing when he realised he had to go back to work now. Pulling away and going to catch up with where Hotch and Morgan were walking down the street. But not before whispering a soft “See you later”.
She watched them walk away from her bar, crossing her arms at her chest and smiling softly. Seeing Spencer would probably be the better part of her day, away from all the murders, the customers and the drivers who sent the bar’s delivery to the wrong restaurant. Going home to him later would be worth it.
As Spencer caught up with Hotch and Morgan, he had a clap on the shoulder from Morgan and an amused smile from Hotch.
“So who’s the girl, boy wonder?” Morgan chuckled
“She’s none of your business” He mumbled, his face turning red. But all Spencer could think was the pizza and movie night that was planned for four hours time.
you ask spencer a question about breath play. he gives you a lecture, a safety demonstration, and a mind-shattering orgasm. in that order.
pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, AFAB, reader wearing a skirt, breath play, choking (consensual), fingering, dirty talk, praise, experimentation, soft dom reid, power exchange, pet names, 75% smut and 25% love letter to spencer reid's fingers
wc: 4.1k
He’s torturing you. Actually, genuinely torturing you. Spencer Reid, certified genius, closeted sadist, worst man on Earth.
Except, well, obviously, he isn’t. You would qualify him as your favorite person in existence on any given day, and therein lies half the problem.
Because right now, he’s just sitting there, reading, while his fingertips scrap absent-minded shapes along the slope of your neck. Each harmless pass managing to turn your thoughts to mush and bones to jelly.
At this point, you’re convinced you’re less a person and more a limp collection of nerves slumped against his side, pretending (poorly, might you add) to watch a show you mentally abandoned about ten minutes ago.
You’re too busy contemplating just how blatantly you’d need to behave to distract him from those words and coax him into pursuits you deem far more exciting. Pursuits that involve significantly more touching.
His grasp on you briefly firms, just a heartbeat of strain if that.
You know it was surely accidental, but your body can’t compensate for the difference. You try to swallow the intrusion of indecent thoughts like sour medicine.
The dose doesn’t take.
You can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be pinned beneath him, discovering firsthand the perfect contradiction that is Spencer’s innate gentleness and the strength you’re suddenly craving from his hands.
You’re not crazy for this, you reassure yourself desperately. He’s safe. He’s the literal personification of comfort, disguised in scholarly tweed and tender kisses.
Fantasizing him into something rougher, a little less cautious... it doesn't cancel that out. It just colors it deeper. Some might consider it acceptable, even. Right?
“Spence?”
“Hmm?” He answers preoccupiedly, the pad of his finger wetting against his tongue before flipping another page.
“What do you, um… what do you know about breath play?”
You hate the way your throat tightens immediately as the question leaves your mouth. (The universe is a huge fan of irony, you’ve discovered.)
“You know I love when you ask me questions,” he begins slowly. “But something tells me this one isn’t purely theoretical.” His regard eases as his eyes track over your shoulders, now curving inward. “Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
You could try to pretend otherwise, but you’ve come to realize, faking it is futile with Spencer. You’re sure he already knows. He’s had months to figure you out, and he treats that like a privilege — just one he’s very good at using to his advantage.
“Alright, sweetheart. Enlighten me. What exactly has you curious?”
You flap your hand, unsure what you’re even trying to say with it, and instantly feel ridiculous. Silly even.
But Spencer smiles like he thinks you’re charming and suddenly your embarrassment feels a little less terminal.
“I guess like, what’s the science behind it? Is it an adrenaline thing? A psychological thing? Or is it just, you know… a thing?”
Spencer’s hand drops from your neck, sliding to rest on your shoulder instead. It’s not exactly abrupt, but it’s unexpected enough to spark a little twinge of disappointment that sneaks out in the form of a tiny frown.
You hurry to erase it, but not fast enough.
“I only moved my hand,” he clarifies, “because I don’t want to introduce any external variables into this discussion.”
You stare, brows pinching together. “External variables?”
“Yes.” He nods. “If I kept touching your neck while describing breath play, I'd risk subconsciously steering your reactions. Maybe stirring up curiosity, maybe aversion, or maybe something more complicated. Removing the physical cue ensures you form your opinion independently.”
You squint at him. “That’s… weirdly considerate. And possibly a tiny bit intense, Professor.”
“It’s an intense topic.”
“Oh. Right. Guess that tracks.”
He’s got that look now, that particular smile he only pulls out when you’ve made him laugh without intending to. You should feel annoyed. You’re not. It's more like lucking into treasure when you were content sifting through scraps.
“Okay, so… think of it like this,” he starts, already slipping into that half-professor, half-boyfriend tone. “When you restrict airflow, even briefly, your body interprets it as a stressor. That triggers a fight-or-flight response. Your heart rate spikes, adrenaline kicks in, and your brain releases dopamine to counteract the stress.”
He pauses slightly, eyes searching yours to ensure you’re still with him. You are, mostly. Enough, anyway.
“That dopamine rush is what makes it feel so good to some people. It’s the same principle behind things like sky-diving or high-intensity workouts, the brain perceives a mild, controlled threat and rewards you with a chemical high.”
You open your mouth to interrupt but Spencer’s lips are already curling into a sideways grin, like he’s already one step ahead of you.
“And before you ask, yes, it’s completely safe when done correctly. The key is control. It’s never about actual danger, just the illusion of it.”
You hesitate for a second, then ask, “I mean… how do you know when someone’s doing it right versus, like, actively trying to murder you?”
“First of all, it shouldn’t feel aggressive or sudden. You should feel an edge of intensity without genuine fear or distress. Your body’s reactions shouldn’t tip over into panic or actual pain.” He leans forward, his proximity suddenly sharpened. “And secondly, it has to be with someone you trust implicitly. This isn’t the sort of activity you’d want to try after a few drinks at a questionable frat party.” He lifts a brow. “Selfishly, I’d much rather you not explore something this delicate with anyone but me.”
“Spencer.”
“Just being responsible, angel,” he says lightly, completely unrepentant as he dips forward, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’d hate to imagine you in the inexperienced hands of someone less qualified.”
You press your lips together, glaring in a way you hope reads as stern instead of hopelessly flustered. “Don’t make fun.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Which, given his shit-eating grin, is an outright lie. His hand finds your knee and squeezes. “Any other pressing questions?”
“Have you ever done it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” You fumble momentarily, grasping to find footing that doesn’t involve imagining him with someone else. “Um, so, was it — did you like it?”
He tugs your knee a little closer. “I think you’re asking because you hope my experience will give you some clarity about your own feelings.”
You freeze, because, well, yeah, that’s exactly what you were doing. And hearing it out loud makes it harder to dodge.
“The thing is,” he continues softly, patiently, “my answer won’t really help, sweetheart. My role is fundamentally different, both physically and psychologically, from yours. You're the one feeling the rush. I’d be the one carefully controlling it.” He tilts his head, studying your reaction. “What you need to ask yourself is how the idea itself makes you feel.”
You stare down at your hands, willing an answer to manifest. But the truth is, you don’t have one.
Everything you know about this is secondhand. The way your friends talk about it, joking over drinks like it’s no big deal. The way it’s portrayed in movies, always intense and dramatic. The way a passage in a book makes you pause, reread it over again, just to be sure.
But all of that is distant, safely removed from your actual life. None of it feels like you.
“It’s complicated,” you admit, squirming under his gaze. “It feels interesting in theory. Like, hypothetically exciting. But actually enjoying it? That’s still an enormous, intimidating question mark.”
Spencer’s eyes flick over you once, assessing, before he nods.
“Alright,” he says. “Well, this is a safe, controlled environment. We can take it step by step, nice and logical, okay?”
You nod quickly — probably too quickly. Spencer’s mouth twitches, but he’s kind enough not to call you on it.
His hand moves back to one side of your neck.
“Let’s start by narrowing it down,” he continues, “If I touched you right here —” his voice dipping intimately, “— what’s the first thing you feel? Excited? Nervous? Both?”
Spencer’s hand is cold, just on the edge of uncomfortably so, but by now, you’ve learned to anticipate it.
The first time, he’d explained away the chill, intertwining your fingers while he launched into a gentle explanation about blood vessels, circulation, and temperature regulation, as if medical jargon might warm you up faster. Your dazed, crush-drunk state had earnestly tried to soak up every word.
The second time, however, there had been no hope of retaining anything. His fingers tracing circles around your clit, whispering against your neck something vaguely scientific — vasoconstriction, maybe? — the words entirely lost beneath your own breathy sighs.
Maybe some responsible corner of your brain caught it and tucked it away for later. But right now, all you can feel is the heat flooding your skin, surging up to meet those same chilly fingers, smothering any hope of remembering a damn thing.
You wet your lips. “Yeah, I…I think I like it.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Think?”
You try to swallow, but it’s clumsy. Like your brain forgot how, his touch is so light, it barely registers, and you're honestly not even sure he is touching you or if your brain's inventing it, already drunk on the idea.
“I do like it,” you clarify quickly, ears burning. “But it’s not like you’re doing anything unusual yet.”
“That's because I’d rather ease you into it than overwhelm you.”
His eyes remain locked with yours as he slowly adjusts his hand, four fingers resting on one side of your neck, thumb curving around to the opposite side.
“And this? How does this make you feel?”
You don’t plan to react, but your breath tangles mid-inhale, catching on something sharp. Too fast in, not enough out.
Your fingers tap aimlessly against your thigh, unsure where to go, what to do with all this feeling and nothing to burn it on.
Spencer must notice, because a second later, his free hand finds yours, cold fusing with warm.
“I like the weight of it,” you whisper, barely trusting your voice. “Feels… assertive. In a good way.”
Spencer hums before leaning in, close enough for you to see where his lashes clump at the tips, impossibly dark.
“Yeah, it probably does feel that way,” he says, thumb brushing under your ear. “Doesn’t mean I’m trying to take control. Just means I like knowing I have your attention.”
You almost laugh. He has your attention, your focus, your heart, and a few other things you probably shouldn’t name. But you just nod like he’s not entirely right.
“What now?”
“That depends on you,” he says. “We can take the next step, and I can apply gradual pressure to let you experience the sensation, monitor your response.” His eyes drag over your face. “Or we can pause. Talk it through. Or we can stop.” A squeeze to your hand. “There’s no wrong answer.”
“I want to take the next step,” you say, trying to hide the urgency. “But I might not react the way I’m supposed to.”
“There’s no supposed to,” he says, thumb sweeping over your wrist. “You don’t have to react in any particular way. We’re just exploring. No expectations.”
“Okay,” you nod. “Just… talk me through it?”
“Always.”
His fingers tighten. Just a little. Almost like a symphony getting louder, but one instrument, one beat at a time. You don’t breathe, just to feel it better.
“Let’s stay here a second. Let you get used to it.”
The size of his hand dwarfs your throat, fingers splayed wide directly over your jugular, encompassing delicate skin and fragile bone.
You’re not blind to the strength of him. But what strikes you is the control he exercises over it. The ease with which he could hurt and instead chooses to draw out something else entirely. Every move angled towards pleasure, not power.
He’s studying you now. You know it without meeting his gaze. You can feel the scrutiny everywhere, razor-sharp eyes stripping back every layer you thought you were hiding. Measuring. Tracking.
But you realize it’s more than just simple observation. It’s also craving, masked behind patience.
“Still okay?”
You nod.
“Alright I’m gonna tighten a bit. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He thumb sweeps over your windpipe without closing off any air. Your thighs clamp together accordingly, locking around your joined hands.
Spencer laughs, not at you, never that, but with the same quiet pride he gets when one of his obscure theories turns out to be correct.
Trust you to be another equation effortlessly solved by his clever fingers.
His hand slips from yours, redirecting to nudge your legs apart, stern enough that resistance doesn’t even cross your mind.
As he nestles between your thighs, you wonder if maybe you were purpose-built for this. Shaped by fate into the perfect receptacle for Spencer. It’s not the most absurd thought you’ve had when it comes to him.
“You know why this works?” His voice dips into something possessive, fingers kneading into the plush give of your thighs, sliding upward, a constellation of goosebumps being left in their wake. “Because you like knowing I could keep you here, but also knowing I’d never have to.”
You’ll never understand it — how Spencer manages to reach into the depths of your mind, extracting the exact words there, murmuring them back to you as though they were born on his tongue.
Your hips shift restlessly beneath him, craving friction you hadn’t even consciously acknowledged, your skirt climbs higher, revealing inch by betraying inch of skin without an ounce of remorse.
Spencer’s gaze falls instantly, eyes growing heavy, pupils expanding into endless darkness, mirroring the ache brewing inside you.
“I’m going to introduce something called intermittent restriction, okay?” he says. “That means I’ll apply pressure for just a few seconds, long enough for your brain to notice, but not long enough to make you light-headed. Then I’ll release. That cycle, restriction and releasing, triggers a rush of oxygen back into your system.”
His mouth finds your jaw, so softly that the rush of your pulse seems premature.
“Your nerve endings will become hypersensitive, responsive to even the slightest touch.” And just to prove a point, his fingertips slip between your thighs, tracing fire over already scorching skin. “This, for example,” he whispers, “will feel ten times as intense.”
The pressure on your throat fades as his hand shifts upward, finding a new home cradling the back of your neck, fingertips twining through your hair.
You’re left staring at his mouth, every heartbeat a fervent prayer — kiss me, please, please, kiss me.
Then, slowly, he tilts your chin upward, sweetening your unspoken wish.
When he draws away, your breath trembles, coming in shattered fragments. Your vision dims slightly at the edges, leaving only Spencer in vivid clarity.
“Is that something you’d like me to do?”
“Yes,” you breathe, everything in you reaching. “Yes, please.”
He nods slowly, pressing a kiss to your nose.
“Good. You know the safe word, but if you can’t talk and want me to stop, just tap my wrist twice.” He demonstrates against your neck. “The second it stops feeling good, we stop. No explanations needed.”
His hand settles again at the column of your throat, fingertips fitting into the tender hollow beneath your jawline. He tilts your head back, and for a second all you can think about is how exposed you are. The weird crease on your collarbone. That one spot that gets blotchy when you’re turned on.
You wonder if he sees all of it. If he likes all of it.
He looks at you like none of it surprises you. Like he expected every detail and already decided it was his favorite part.
“What if I do it wrong? Like, should I be —?”
“Hey,” he soothes, thumb gently rubbing slow circles against the underside of your chin. Gentle kisses trail along the line of your jaw toward your ear. “You can’t do anything wrong.” He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging. “Just relax and let me do all the work, angel.”
“Oh,” you exhale quietly as every part of you goes warm and liquid.
“That’s it,” Spencer murmurs. “There’s my girl. You ready?”
“Yeah,” you mumble, “love you.”
His smile deepens, fondness glowing through him as he bumps your chin with his nose. “Love you.”
His breath is minty when it brushes yours again, tinged with that strange clove candy he orders from some European site. You’re still trying to place it when his hand moves — and just like that, you’re out of air.
It should set off alarms, should terrify you, but strangely all it does is strip away the noise, everything crystallizing.
It’s exactly like the first morning after you fell asleep beside him, waking up in tangled limbs, realizing you’d never truly rested before him, the world realigning itself in high definition, as though you’d finally found the perfect pair of glasses after years of blurry half-truths.
Time seems to move in slow motion, each elongated second stretching into something much more infinite. When his fingers ease up, you feel the air whoosh back into your lungs, somehow sweeter than before.
“Good girl,” Spencer praises softly, lips curving into a smile you can feel even with half-closed eyes. “How did that feel for you?”
You pause. “I think I need a little more evidence before I can give a definitive answer.”
You conveniently omit just how much you liked it. How every cell in your body is quietly pleading for him to do it again, and soon. Immediately, if possible. Though judging by the look in his eyes, you’re not exactly fooling anyone.
“Ah,” he chuckles softly, thumb stamping over your bottom lip, “spoken like a true scientist.”
“Well,” you breathe, “there are worse traits I could’ve picked up from you.”
His fingers squeeze around your throat once more.
You’re dimly aware that his other hand has taken up occupancy on your thigh. How long had it been there? Five seconds? Five years?
Both seem plausible, neither important. It’s there, and your lower half is already chasing the feeling, searching in desperate little movements. Anything — his palm, the couch cushion, a miracle — would suffice to ease the fever spreading through your hypoxic brain down to the sticky heat between your legs.
His fingers skim down to the edge of your panties just as his grip on your throat dissolves. One sensation gives way to the other, making it impossible to know where relief ends, and desire begins.
You, however, don’t take the opportunity to gasp for breath. Instead, you chase Spencer’s lips, gifting him your last lungful of air in a kiss that is decidedly messy and anything but falling under the category of graceful. He takes your clumsy devotion in stride, hands moving to haul you tighter against him, slotting your legs tighter around his waist.
You pull back only when your body calls for it, not your heart. And when you do, your head spins a little, most likely oxygen-related, but it feels more Reid-related.
His mouth lingers barely an inch from yours. “Take a deep breath for me, angel.”
One shallow inhale, and then it’s gone. But it doesn’t matter, because his fingertips are dipping beneath your panties in the same motion, stroking through your folds, dragging pleasure through you so intensely, you’re scared you’ll break apart right then and there.
He was right, you’re so unbearably sensitive, nerves bursting open beneath his touch, each one catching like a spark on dry glass, spreading before you can stop it.
He clicks his tongue softly, clearly pleased. “Look at you, making such a mess for me.”
There’s nothing rushed about the way he moves, but your body doesn't seem to know that. Frantic anyway, trembling anyway, gasping like he himself is a trap you’ve willingly walked into.
He doles out air like it’s been earned, a mercy, always paired to the slow tease of his finger gliding up and down your folds, spreading you open, painting your clit with everything he’s pulled from you.
He gives you just the tip of his index, barely inside, and then pulls back like he's punishing you for wanting more than he offered.
You’re soaked now. Slick enough that it’s starting to drip where your pelvis meets his thighs, a growing mess that’s probably already bled through to the couch.
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he murmurs. “I wanna hear everything running through that beautiful head.”
“I’m not — there’s not much going on up there,” you confess. “Just need your fingers. ”
“You have them,” he says.
“Inside,” you whimper. “Need you inside.”
He releases your throat just as his finger slides in.
“That’s what you needed, huh?” He smirks. “You sound so pretty when you beg for it.”
And your body answers for you, clenching around the intrusion, like it’s trying to hold onto him, pull him closer, keep him.
You used to watch his fingers like a secret obsession. Long before he’d ever touched you. The slope of his knuckle, the faint ridge of old scars, the exact spacing between his middle and index finger — you’d count it, like maybe the detail meant something.
Now one of them is buried inside you, barely, and it’s already too much.
When the second slides in, it feels like being opened from the inside out. Again. Like every other time he’s had his fingers in you. Or his tongue. Or his cock. You’d think your body would be used to this by now. It never is.
A moan punches out of your chest unfiltered. Your hands reach up for something to hold, finding purchase at the overgrown curls at the nape of his neck, fingers tightening there.
He leans in, eyes half-lidded, voice hushed. “Always so tight for me.”
“Spencer…” You reach, fingers closing around his wrist, moving his hand back to your throat. Your voice comes out pleading, every bit as vulnerable as you feel. “Please?”
He stops. Breathes. Absorbs it like a gift he hadn’t expected to be given twice. But he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t need to.
“So polite, baby.”
Your next inhale gets caught beneath his palm. Your lungs stay empty, but your body lights up in its place. Pulsing. Drenched. Stretched open around his fingers. The sound of it is filthy, wet and messy and loud enough to drown out whatever noise you just tried to make.
You’re grinding down on him now, mindless, rutting against the heel of his palm like shame doesn't even exist anymore.
Your head is light, skin buzzing, orgasm barreling toward you like a tsunami you can’t outrun.
“I wish you could see yourself like this,” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek. “You’re so beautiful. Every single time.”
You want to answer. Maybe cry. Maybe laugh. Maybe beg. But your core answers first — vision goes spotty, thighs twitching uncontrollably.
And then everything clenches, cracks open and takes you with it.
There’s a second of silence, brain fogged with nothing but static. Heat, stars, white noise. You only notice his absence when your body jerks, still chasing pressure that’s no longer there.
Your hands find him clumsily, clutching at his wrist, trying to pull him back without a word.
“I’m here. You’re okay. Come here, angel,” Spencer says, already folding you into his chest.
Your face stays pressed to his shirt, breath still shaky where it escapes in uneven puffs. Spencer’s hands stay steady on your back, but you can feel his heart beating a little too fast under your cheek.
“Not gonna ask yet,” he says lightly, “but my brain is running a post-scene checklist at full speed. So just… squeeze my hand if anything feels wrong. Please.”
“What counts as feeling wrong?” You ask. His heart skips a beat beneath you, and you wince. “Not that I feel that way. I definitely don’t. I promise. I’m just curious.”
He strokes your hair once, twice.
“You’re sure?”
You nod, eyes fluttering closed as you nuzzle closer, lips brushing his jaw. “Mm. Yeah. Just a little floaty. And in love with you. But that’s normal.”
“Floaty and in love,” he repeats, pretending to consider. “Dangerous combination. Might have to keep you under observation.” He kisses your temple, voice gentling, “But seriously, if you feel off in any way. Dizziness, fingertips tingling, even a little headache, I need to know right away, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” you say, squeezing his shirt. “And, um… totally unrelated… how long is the average recovery time before we can do that again?”
“Realistically,” he starts, “we should wait a while. Especially since it was your first time experimenting with that.” Your lower lip starts to just slightly. He grins. “But… if you were interested in cutting off my oxygen, I might have a few ideas.”
You don’t even get the chance to react. One second, you’re in his lap, and the next — you’re airborne, guided up, forward, and set down over his face like he’s been planning this all night.
You let him take your breath. Now he gives you his in return.
💌 masterlist
taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs
it starts with ice on your tongue and ends with spencer trying not to picture what else his mouth might be good at
pairings: spencer reid x shy!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, not explicit smut but it's suggestive, post prison spencer, fem reader, fluff, reader has an oral fixation, talk of alcohol, alcohol consumption (wine), spencer having some semi super-naughty thoughts, he’s obsessed with her lips, he’s so down bad it’s not even funny. except it is. i find it hilarious. i feel like the ending was weird but i stared at it for like 6 business days and couldn’t figure out how to fix it so #word
wc: 1.6k
request: here
The autonomic nervous system, when overengaged, compulsively chases external release valves. Little, repetitive distractions employed to dissipate internal pressure. Cognitive behavior theory identifies these as primitive anxiety-management strategies. Lip-biting, skin-picking, hair-twisting.
For you, the chosen method consists of timed intervals involving ice cubes, precisely fourteen minutes apart. Pinching it between cautious fingertips, rolling it contemplatively, savoring the brief burst of cold against skin.
He watches, a reluctant voyeur to the slow meltwater streams trickling along your fingers in mercury rivulets, until finally disappearing past parted lips. His eyes shutter sideways, hurriedly silencing the part of his brain that longs to quantify the thaw rate versus thermal conduction properties of ice on the surface of your tongue.
You’re studying a painting in the corner of the restaurant — abstract oils bleeding into one another in nebulous fashion behind Emily’s shoulder. Spencer finds himself studying you, an equally abstract form of art. You’re a fan of art. He’s seen your tendency to pause at gallery plaques, eyes tracing curatorial notes while your fingers twitch involuntarily, as though fighting the impulse to physically touch the described textures.
He isn’t much different at this moment.
You’re never exacting, never critical of the things you see. You’re easy to please in the purest sense, content to absorb shapes and colors simply because they exist, acknowledging beautiful things without demanding it prove itself worthy.
It makes him wonder, morbidly, if you’re easy to please in other ways.
Do you make noises when someone kisses you properly? Would your thighs tremble if they whispered how lovely you were, over and over again? Could you come from just a few well-placed touches?
He knows how polymers behave under heat. He wants to know if you’re the same.
He shouldn’t be indulging these thoughts. He’s repeated the admonition several times already, a silent internal chant that does nothing to stem the tide because here you are, unknowingly feeding it.
Your lips gleam with condensation, a lone droplet suspended just above your mouth, a tiny, inadvertent physics demonstration awaiting disruption.
His thumb tingles impulsively, a raw, tactile curiosity urging him to test the exact point at which tension collapses, to feel moisture yield to pressure.
He blinks hard, almost violently, screwing his eyelids shut in an effort to sever the treacherous visual connection tethering him precariously to your mouth. His gaze then drops like ballast to the nearest neutral object — his plate, where a roasted carrot glares back up at him with bland contempt.
Spencer coughs into a closed fist, a pathetic smokescreen for the heat scalding up his throat, licking at his ears like flame-starved oxygen.
With determined resolve, he refocuses, or at least pretends to, zeroing in on Rossi’s dramatic discourse about the fermentation processes and barrel chemistry. Wine science, he assures himself, is safe, dry, deeply unsexy. Unlike you. Unlike the mental imagery of your mouth encircled around other, less work-appropriate things.
These team dinners are, in most cases, a slow bleed. A sensory minefield dressed in linen napkins and over-loud laughter. Spencer doesn’t resent the company, he loves them, every single one, but the sound never stops, the social current too nonlinear to keep up with.
Noise and light and movement pile upon each other until his nervous system blinks seven different shades of red.
So yeah, usually, he counts minutes and builds exit strategies.
But tonight, that never happens. There’s no grit behind his eyes, no anticipatory urge for flight. Instead, there’s only a strange sense of equilibrium and the certainty that it begins and ends with you.
Every shy laugh you offer at Morgan’s jokes, every awkward tuck of your hair behind your ear when attention veers too close to you, every furtive glance his way like you’re reassuring yourself he hasn’t dematerialized between breaths.
He notices it all. Worse, he likes it. Relishes it in a way that feels almost parasitic when he dares to think about it too long.
You inch closer, lowering your voice to be aimed at him. “Do you think Rossi would be crushed if he found out I genuinely can’t taste the difference between this and, like, Welch’s?”
Spencer bites back an immediate grin, angling himself toward you until the barest fraction of space remains between your shoulders.
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“So that’s a yes, then?”
“Pretty much.” He slides his glass your way. “Here, try this one. Rossi said it’s supposed to have subtle oak notes. I think that’s just the polite way of saying it doesn’t feel like lighter fluid.”
You accept his glass, fingertips brushing his as you take it.
Spencer’s eyes cling to your mouth as you sip, lips parting over the same place his touched, sealing over it perfectly like you were made to erase him and replace him in one motion.
When you pull back, the wine stains your lips in a dark, sultry crimson. He imagines pressing his mouth to yours until the color smears, until it becomes something new altogether — a hue birthed from shared breaths and synchronized heartbeats. He wonders what saturation your mouth would take on if it were shaped around his name.
Spencer recognizes that he might be one errant breath away from ruin.
There are other people here, he reminds himself. Polite company. His colleagues, no less, who are presumably not here to watch him experience this kind of deranged attention he’s directing toward you. He’s certain he must be blushing, overheating, or having a close, conversational strow. Each scenario feels equally plausible, equally shameful, equally likely to leave him socially incapacitated.
You tilt your head, eyebrows raised in patient confusion. Three long, interminable seconds crawl by before Spencer realizes you’re awaiting a response.
Shit.
“What?” he blurts, louder than intended.
“I said I don’t think I have the palate for this one. Kind of tastes like overpriced raisins.”
Spencer bobs his head eagerly. “Right. Yeah. No, I — agree.”
Your smile is soft but searching as you seem to follow his thought process and come up short. Spencer’s heart kicks harder in his chest. He fumbles for normalcy and overshoots.
“The raisin flavor, it’s probably residual sugar. Or the grape variety, certain grapes naturally have that characteristic. Sometimes they’re intentionally allowed to over ripen, concentrating sugars. Could also be oxidation. Or, possibly, microbial spoilage, though that sounds bad, it’s usually done on purpose, beneficial spoilage. Controlled spoilage.”
“What kind of grapes do they use for that, then?” Your voice is tentative, uncertain, as though worried the question might sound overly simplistic.
It’s not. It’s absolutely fine, ideal, even. Except Spencer’s concentration evaporates instantly when your tongue flicks gently across your lower lip, leaving behind a glossy sheen.
Suddenly, grapes don’t exist. Language doesn’t exist. Spencer himself might barely exist.
“Usually Muscat or Zinfandel,” he manages at last, “They, uh, leave them on the vine longer to intensify sweetness.”
You laugh under your breath, pushing the stem of the glass back toward him. “Makes sense, though I might not be the best judge. My mom used to say that anything that didn’t taste like peach schnapps wasn’t worth the bottle.”
Spencer’s mouth opens, poised to respond, but your hand is already in motion, fingers dipping into your glass for another cube of ice. He watches as your thumb gently glides over its edges. Checking for symmetry, perhaps. You bring it to your mouth and he doesn’t blink, can’t. There’s a fleeting glimpse of pink tongue against transparent ice, the slight hollowing of your cheeks.
All sentence structure evaporates, replaced by a pounding rush of blood to his temples and other less cooperative places.
“That’s…” he rasps, then clears his throat. “That’s funny.”
“What is?”
“Your um. Your mom’s schnapps rule.”
“Oh.” You cock your head. “I always thought it was kinda trashy.”
“It’s not,” he says, too fast. “I’ve heard worse opinions about alcohol.”
“Yeah?” Your purse your lips and the ice shifts, creating a temporary distortion in the shape of your cheek. “Like what?”
Spencer watches the dent smooth out, watches how the overhead lights refract across your skin — warmer along the apple of your cheek, cooler where it softens into shadow near your jaw. A perfect gradient, like a masterwork in motion. A living chiaroscuro. Oil paintings where the subject glows not because of the paint, but because of its depth was coaxed out by patient and loving hands.
He wonders who has painted you in that light.
You mentioned your mother and he wants to know more. What was she like? Did she nurture your curiosity, or did she scold it? Was she tender, or tired? Did she sing while she cooked? Did she let you cry, or did she rush to clean it up?
And your father, was he there? Was he gentle? Did he hug you with both arms, or with silence? Did he make you feel small in the way children should, protected, or in the way they shouldn’t, invisible?
Spencer hopes, deeply, that they were kind. That you were someone’s favorite part of the day. That you grew up held, not just housed.
He doesn’t think you’re seeing anyone romantically. Not seriously. He suspects he’d know, suspects there’d be signs. Someone waiting at the door. A name that surfaces too often.
But you probably have been with people before. Respectful ones, preferably.
“Like how some people can’t tell the difference between a five-hundred-dollar Bordeaux and… grape juice,” he finally says, quirking a brow. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“Not everyone’s tongue works quite as well as yours, Doctor Reid.”
Spencer sees the instant when your brain catches up with your words, cheeks flooding with heat, eyes widening incrementally, mouth parting in a mortified ‘O’.
“I mean — not like that.” You quickly stumble forward, hands fluttering uselessly in your lap, voice pitched high. “Refined taste buds. Taste buds, I meant, not… not tongue in any other context.”
Your expression is a fascinating disaster, eyebrows drawn tight, lips flattened into a line like you’re hoping the pressure alone might rewind time and vacuum every syllable back into your throat.
Meanwhile, Spencer’s imagination flickers to life, promptly supplying him with an intensely distracting scenario involving precisely how well his tongue works when applied directly to you.
“Right. Taste buds,” he echoes, voice two octaves higher than usual. “I knew what you meant.”
Except he hadn’t, not immediately. His heartbeat already sprinting ahead of him, generously pumping oxygen to regions he’d strongly prefer remain switched off. He briefly considers explaining the basis of verbal slips — the Freudian slip theory, perhaps — but decides against it.
Better to pretend that his mind hasn’t already replayed your words more times than strictly necessary.
One day he’ll show you.
shy reader is part of a stand-alone series! you can read more here!
💌 masterlist
taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs
Hii! I saw this gif earlier today and I literally had a brain wave of an idea for fan fic!
Based off this gif below. S2!reid x reader. Reader has called off sick for a few days now and Spencer has been “looking after them” (ifyky) and one of bau members actually comes to help them with their “sickness” and sees Spencer leave like the gif below and he is like “hey.. wow” awkward! (Can be light smug or implied, up to you!!)
Looking After You - S.R
a/n: um i loved writing this one tehe, ur mind is amazing and i thank you for trusting me to make it come to life
masterlist
pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smutsy, spencer giving head (i just know that man gives the best head i really can't think about it for long), reader is sick (kind of), morgan and garcia being nosy per usual
wc: 1k
His mouth was on you, head between your thighs as you pulled at his hair, whining his name between moans. He was a genius, yes of course in the literal sense, but you meant in bed. He was perfect and he ate you out like he was a man starving and this was his first meal in weeks.
You had been down with a cold for the past couple of days, finally seeing the end of the tunnel after some help from Spencer. You had been surprised when he showed up at your door with a plethora of home remedies and even more surprised when one of those remendies included his mouth being glued to your cunt.
Each breath you took, you could feel yourself getting closer—an electric tingle spreading from your toes to your fingers, the tight coiling of desire in your belly. That elusive peak was tantilizingly close, deliciously aching, but just out of reach.
Fate apparently had a twisted sense of humor and decided it would stay out of reach.
The knock on the door was like a cold splash of water causing you to jolt up, but Spencer's large palms clasped around your thighs as if to say, I'm not done with you yet.
The sharp intake of breath was involuntary, a reflex as you sunk back into the mattress. Whoever was at the door would get the message eventually. Right now, you were writhing against the sheets with hands forming fists in the curls of Spencer's hair, and that was all that mattered.
"Oh—yes, Spence, please." You weren't certain you were making sense.
He hummed against your clit, sending full body shockwaves through you as you finally released, like a taut rubber band finally being snapped. You were panting, mumbling something incoherent as your hands sought out Spencer's.
Another knock, more aggressive this time. You struggled to sit up, your mind still hazy, but Spencer's gentle touch coaxed you back down.
"I'll get it," he said, fingers tracing constellations from freckle to freckle on your ankle. "Do what you do best, sit and look pretty."
You laughed weakly, pressing your lips against his before you watched him disappear from the room.
Spencer moved to answer the door, his hand barely grazing over the handle before turning it, but as it swung open, the color drained from his cheeks, eyes widening at the people in front of him.
Garcia and Morgan.
He was suddenly aware of how he looked—hair strewn in every direction, glasses resting lopsidedly on his nose, mouth no doubt still covered in you. That thought prompted him to bring his sleeve up to his face, wiping the remnants away as he simultaneously ran a hand through his hair.
But it was too little too late, they had damning evidence against him now. His first instinct was to slam the door shut, but he hesitated, certain it would worsen the situation. So he remained still, opening and closing his mouth wordlessly, his eyes flickering to the soup and tissues they presented.
"Are we at the wrong apartment?" Penelope whispered, not-so-discreetly, to Morgan.
"Nope, this is definitely the right apartment." Morgan said, smirking as he clasped Spencer on the shoulder. "You've been taking care of her, huh, Reid?"
"Time out!" Penelope squealed, her hands jumping up, almost dropping the soup in the process. "You and—, and you guys are? You're lying. Oh my stars, wait, what were you two doing? Why do you look like you've been... oh, don't tell me!"
Spencer could feel the pink suffusing his face, fingers pinching his brow as he started to shut the door. He should know better than to check the peep hole before opening the door.
Morgan's hand stuck out, preventing the door from shutting any further.
"Hold your horses, pretty boy," Morgan teased, nudging Spencer aside without waiting for an invitation. His eyes darted around your living room as if he would find you. "At least let us do what we came here to do."
Penelope started to set her stuff on the coffee table, her face displaying her thrilled emotions like an open book.
"I can't wait for JJ to know about this, she's going to freak," Garcia says, clasping on to Morgan's arm.
Morgan laughed, patting her hand as he shook his head. "No one is going to tell anyone. Your secret is safe with us, pretty boy. We're a vault, aren't we, baby girl?"
"Yeah, okay, fine," Penelope started, lips pursing as she peered into the kitchen. "But just so we're clear, this is going to be like swallowing a live grenade of gossip.
Now it was Spencer's turn to laugh, head shaking as he pushed his glasses to the top of his nose.
"Thanks, guys. I'm sure she's going to appreciate this."
He nodded towards the items, disregarding their comments as he awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, walking them both to the door and hoping to the gods you would stay put.
"Alright, we'll let you get back to... whatever this is," Morgan conceded, hands shooting up in defense as he stepped out the door. "But hey, you make her cry, and I'll be using those spaghetti limbs of yours to mop the floor."
"Morgan!" Penelope said, slapping him on the shoulder.
"Unnecessary, but understood," Spencer said, waving towards the exit. "Now, if you wouldn't mind..."
He could feel the migraine coming on.
"Oh my god."
They were both looking behind him, he followed their gaze, seeing you standing there just outside the bedroom door, wearing his boxers and one of his Star Trek shirts.
Summary: you accidentally meet your boyfriends coworkers as he works on a case.
TW: none, I guess.
word count: 1.5k
Part 2
Part 3
masterlist
authors note: Its my first work in years (literally) so please be gentle. Also English is not my first language. Any tips are welcome 🥰
BIG SHOES TO FILL
Spencer knew his secret relationship with you might not be so secret anymore the moment he stepped into St. John’s Elementary School. The one you taught at. The one your eight-year-old son went to.
He looked around the quiet hall, thankful it was class time as he and Emily walked toward the principal’s office. The last thing he needed was to run into you or your son and pretend like he didn’t know you. Pretend you and Theo weren’t the most important people in his life since the day he ran into you at the food truck park on his way back after the BAU solved one of the hardest cases in the last two years.
You mesmerized him then, and you kept doing it every single day since he had basically moved into your little house.
Their latest victim was a teacher here and your coworker, so he was extra motivated to solve it as quickly as he could. You weren’t exactly friends with Aubrey, the murdered woman, but you weren’t enemies either.
“Looks like you’ve been here before,” Emily smiled as he confidently took a turn and walked up the stairs.
“I saw the map,” he mumbled as he stopped right at the door.
The truth was, he had picked up you and Theo so many times in the last few months that he could draw a map with his eyes closed. He knew your classroom was on the ground floor, second door to the left, and Theo’s was on the other side of the hall. But he would come up here for his French lessons every Tuesday.
The conversation with the principal was short but successful, giving them a few new leads that needed to be studied.
Spencer was about to thank his lucky stars that he hadn’t crossed paths with you yet, even though he desperately wanted to make sure you were okay, when they heard the loud ring and the hall suddenly filled with kids.
He looked around carefully as Derek and Hotch joined them after talking to some of the other teachers.
“Mr. Henderson said the victim was nervous the last few days. Extra jumpy. She had a note on her windshield a few days ago, but they assumed it was just a student prank,” Emily said quietly, looking around. The last thing she wanted was for some barely-teenager to overhear them.
Spencer opened his mouth to add his thoughts when a little body ran right into him and wrapped tiny arms around his waist.
“Spence! Hi! Are you here to pick me up? Mom said you’d be busy, but you’re here!”
Big blue eyes looked up at him hopefully as Spencer put an arm around the boy, exhaling nervously. At least he knew your son was safe.
“Hey, buddy. No, I’m here for work, I’m sorry. But I’ll try to pick you up from soccer practice tomorrow. How does that sound?” he asked, smiling at him while holding him steady against his body.
Hotch stilled, looking between his agent and the child. Morgan’s jaw dropped slightly, and Emily’s expression became a mix of shock and confusion.
“Alright...” Theo sighed, looking around the hall. “Mom said she’d be here soon. She doesn’t want me taking the bus today.”
“I’m sure she planned something fun for the two of you then,” Spencer nodded, smiling down at him, trying to cheer him up a little.
Reid knew how much Theo loved taking the bus with his friends after school.
“Can I call you tonight? Mom wasn’t sure. She said you might be too busy.”
“You can always call me, buddy. I’ll be waiting for your call,” Spencer smiled warmly just as you approached them.
Reid looked at you with those puppy eyes, immediately noticing the nervousness in your expression and the way you fidgeted with your fingers.
“Hi, baby. Is everything alright?”
You looked at him and then at the three other agents, biting your lip uncertainly.
“Hi. Yes, everything’s fine.”
“We’re here for a case,” Spencer explained softly. “You have nothing to worry about. We’re just talking to some people who worked with Aubrey.”
He wrapped his other arm around you and kissed your forehead. You relaxed instantly at the gesture, melting slightly into his side.
“Baby? Buddy? What are we missing here, Reid?” Derek’s voice cut through the air as he stared at the two of you dumbfounded.
Hotch seemed to shake off the initial shock, but Emily’s eyes bounced back and forth between the three of you.
Spencer sighed as he looked up at them with a shy smile, refusing to let go of either of you.
“This is my girlfriend, Y/N, and her son, Theo. Guys, this is Emily, Derek, and Hotch.”
“Girlfriend? Son?” Derek blinked at him before you could properly introduce yourself.
“Yeah. For a few months now,” you confirmed with a smile.
Theo bounced excitedly between the two of you, thrilled that he finally got to meet Spencer’s coworkers.
“Seven months, three days, and fourteen hours officially,” Spencer corrected.
You giggled at his response and shook your head before focusing back on the three agents.
“It’s nice to finally meet you. I guess the secret’s out.”
This was definitely not how you expected to meet his friends.
You had planned on inviting them over once you finished your backyard garden and hosting a barbecue, not running into them after a full day of classes in the middle of a busy school hallway. You probably had marker stains on your shirt and glitter on your cheek from the art projects you did with the first graders.
Theo, on the other hand, looked mesmerized as he took in the guns peeking out from their belts.
“Woooow, are you cool agents like Spence? You chase bad guys?”
You couldn’t help but smile softly at your son.
“Yes, sweetie, these are Spencer’s friends, and they’re working right now, so we’re going to say goodbye and let them do their jobs, okay?”
You took Theo’s backpack and threw it over your shoulder.
Spencer immediately took it from you, shaking his head.
“I’ll carry it to your car. See you guys in a minute?” he asked, waiting for a nod from Hotch before he started walking away with one arm around you and his other hand wrapped around Theo’s smaller one.
“Hope to properly meet you soon,” you called over your shoulder with a smile before turning back toward where Spencer was leading you.
“Alright, I knew he’d been different these last few months, but who would’ve thought our Spencer would be a stepdad in the making?” Emily asked as she watched the three of you walk away.
“Alright, man, what the fuck?” Derek looked at Spencer, clearly hurt by the secret family his friend had kept hidden from them.
“I know, I know. But I’m not sorry,” Spencer admitted. “I needed to make sure it was going to work out before I introduced you guys. And I was planning to. At the FBI family picnic next month.”
“I get that. But for half a year? A woman with a son? Are you sure, brother? Those are big shoes to fill.”
He studied Spencer carefully, noticing how protective his posture had become, like he was physically ready to shield you and Theo from any criticism.
“I love her,” Spencer said simply. “And I love Theo. I just... needed them to be mine for a little while before I shared them with anyone. And yes, Morgan, I’m sure. They walked into my life accidentally, and since then, I can’t imagine my life without either of them.”
His voice softened with affection as he spoke about you and Theo.
“So... now that the secret’s out, are you bringing her to Rossi’s on Friday?” Emily asked.
“Yeah, I guess so. If she wants to. I need to tell JJ too. Maybe she can bring the boys so Theo has someone to play with.”
“I’m guessing she already knows by now. Morgan made Garcia run a background check on your girl,” Emily teased.
Reid looked at his friend in horror.
“You did not.”
“Oh, but I did,” Morgan grinned. “And I like what I learned about Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N.”
He opened the door to the black SUV so they could head back to the office.
“Or maybe I should say future Mrs. Reid?”
He winked knowingly as Spencer went completely red, remembering Garcia freaking out over his credit card bill from last month only thirty seconds earlier.
summary: Spencer planned on asking one of the most important questions in his life. He didn't think he'll get even more important one in return.
warnings: none.
word count: ~3.7k
part three of big shoes to fill
part two
masterlist
authors note: I'm so happy with this little trilogy! Hope you love this as much as I do. Please be kind, English is not my first language. Proof read by my friend but you know how it can be.
Wrapped round your finger (say yes!)
Spencer: Date night. Tomorrow. 6 p.m. JJ wants to take Theo for a sleepover with the boys.
You looked at the text and bit your lip, smiling in the middle of the empty classroom during break. You loved when Spencer took the lead in planning. Especially because he took everything into consideration: both of your schedules and Theo. He never made him feel left out.
You: Bossy. What do you want me to wear, sir?
You replied, feeling a little like a high school girl with a crush. Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again, and then came the reply.
Spencer: Something nice. I plan to take it off you afterward.
You laughed softly before sending back a GIF of a woman's dress sliding down her legs. Then you locked your phone again. You'd be lying if you said it didn't make you feel things in your lower belly. Things you thought were dead before you met Reid.
The bell announced that break was over, so you cleared your throat, trying to compose yourself, and opened the classroom door to welcome your students back.
Spencer Reid remembered everything, especially when it came to you. He remembered that your favorite flowers were pink roses, that you only wore gold-colored jewelry, that you hated the smell of cigarettes and open-toed shoes, that if you could, you'd eat only pasta, and that your favorite animals were sharks. The last one still puzzled him.
On Saturday, he picked up Theo to drive him to JJ's. He watched as the boy hugged you extra tightly, promising he'd behave and call you before bed. You waved at them before heading back upstairs to get ready.
You picked out a nice baby-pink dress that hugged your curves just right, beige heels, curled your hair, and used your more expensive eyeshadows and lipstick.
You stood in front of the mirror for a moment longer than necessary, smoothing your hands over the soft fabric of the dress. There had been a time when getting ready felt more like an obligation than something enjoyable. Back then, you'd throw on whatever looked acceptable and leave it at that. Tonight was different. Tonight you found yourself actually excited. Excited to spend time with Spencer, excited to see what he'd planned, excited to catch the look on his face when he saw you. It wasn't really about the dress or the makeup. It was about feeling seen. About knowing there was someone waiting downstairs who would look at you like you were the most beautiful woman in the world, no matter what you wore.
"Baby? Are you ready?" Spencer called from the hall when he got back. He was dressed in a white shirt and suit jacket, dark slacks, and shiny shoes instead of his usual Converse.
"Wow," he mumbled the moment he saw you coming down the stairs.
"You like it?" you asked with a smile.
He nodded, his brain turning to mush.
"I love it," he finally said, taking your hand and helping you down the last few steps.
"Where are we going?" you asked after kissing him.
"Surprise. But you'll like it. I promise."
Once the two of you arrived at the parking lot, you looked outside, confused.
"Did we just get dressed up for a zoo?" you asked, staring at him.
Spencer only smirked and helped you out of the car without saying a word.
You looked at him again, more closely this time, but you weren't a profiler. You couldn't tell what he was hiding behind that expression.
A staff member greeted you and introduced himself before leading you inside through a side entrance. After a short walk through several corridors, you ended up in the aquarium section.
"Spencer, what's go—"
You froze the moment you saw what he'd arranged.
In the middle of the glass sea tunnel, surrounded by little sharks, were pink roses—at least four dozen of them—and a small dinner table.
"Surprise," he whispered into your ear.
You automatically followed him to the table, looking around in awe.
"You like it?" he asked, focused entirely on your face, wanting to make sure he'd done well.
"Like it? Spencer, I love it so much!" you yelped, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him.
He smiled against your lips before helping you into your seat.
"What's the occasion?" you asked after a moment, still looking around in amazement, especially when a small shark swam directly above your head.
"No occasion. I just wanted to do something nice for you."
The lie rolled off his tongue easily as the waitress served you pasta with your favorite cheese and broccoli sauce.
"Oh my God. I love you even more now," you sighed, picking up your fork.
"How was your day?" he asked eventually, and the two of you slipped into an easy conversation.
You were in the middle of a story about Theo chasing chickens around your parents' farm the moment he learned to walk when dessert arrived.
You looked at the chocolate and strawberry cake and nearly missed it.
Nearly.
You had to look again once your brain caught up with your eyes, stopping you mid-sentence.
There, written in neat white frosting, were four words you'd dreamed of seeing one day.
Will you marry me?
For a second, the entire world seemed to freeze.
The gentle music faded into the background. The movement of people somewhere beyond the tunnel disappeared. Even the sharks gliding above your head became nothing more than blurred shadows in your peripheral vision.
Your eyes stayed fixed on the cake.
Your heart was suddenly pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
No.
No way.
Slowly, almost afraid that looking away would somehow make the words disappear, you turned your head toward Spencer.
He wasn't sitting in his chair anymore.
Spencer had dropped to one knee beside you.
A soft gasp escaped your lips.
"Spence..."
His laugh came out nervous and breathless.
"Please. I-I do have a speech."
That was when you noticed it.
The slight tremble in his hands.
The way his shoulders were just a little too stiff.
The nervous smile he was trying very hard to maintain.
Spencer Reid—the man who could stand in front of serial killers and negotiate with terrorists without blinking—looked terrified.
And somehow that made your eyes sting even more.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black velvet box.
Your breath caught.
When he opened it, the ring caught the aquarium lights immediately.
It wasn't the typical single diamond on a band. He knew you well enough to know you didn't like that style. This ring was unmistakably you.
A simple gold band.
Six small diamonds.
A sapphire surrounded by delicate stones that made the entire design resemble an eye.
Elegant.
Unique.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
The realization hit you all at once.
He hadn't just bought a ring.
He had chosen your ring.
He had paid attention to every casual comment, every passing remark, every time you'd pointed out jewelry in a shop window and said what you liked or disliked.
Of course he had.
Spencer always listened.
"From the moment I met you," he began quietly, "I knew I wanted you permanently in my life. It was like my heart had known you forever and my brain just needed time to catch up."
Fresh tears gathered in your eyes.
Across the table, blue light from the aquarium glass danced across his face, making his eyes look even brighter.
"I know I'm a lot sometimes," he continued with a small smile. "Sometimes too much. Sometimes not enough."
You immediately shook your head.
He smiled at the gesture before continuing.
"But what I can promise is that I'll love and cherish you every day for the rest of my life."
His voice grew steadier with every word.
"I want everything with you."
The tears finally slipped down your cheeks.
"I want to watch Theo grow up. I want to help him with homework. I want to embarrass him when he's a teenager. I want to teach him how to drive and be there for every milestone he'll ever have."
You covered your mouth with your hand.
Spencer's eyes softened.
"And I want all of that because it means I get to do it with you."
A tear rolled down his own cheek now.
"I want Sunday mornings making breakfast together. I want movie nights on the couch. I want vacations and arguments over what color to paint the walls. I want grocery shopping and school pickups and every ordinary moment in between."
His voice cracked.
"I want to grow old with you."
You could barely breathe.
"I want gray hair and wrinkles and reading glasses. I want to be eighty years old and still reaching for your hand without thinking about it."
A watery laugh escaped you.
Spencer laughed too, shaking his head.
"Honestly, I want every version of our future."
His eyes locked onto yours.
"And I don't care if it's perfect. I just want it to be ours."
The tears were flowing freely down your face now.
"Will you marry me?" he asked softly.
Then his expression turned hopeful and nervous all at once.
"Please?"
You stared at him for half a second longer.
At the man who had loved you so completely.
The man who loved your son like he was his own.
The man who remembered every tiny thing about you and made you feel cherished every single day.
The answer had never been in question.
"Yes."
Your voice came out shaky.
You laughed through your tears.
"Yes. Of course I'll marry you."
Relief flooded his face so quickly it almost made you laugh again.
You reached for him immediately, cupping his cheeks in your trembling hands before pulling him into a kiss.
The moment your lips met, Spencer smiled.
A real smile.
The kind that transformed his entire face.
The kind you knew you'd never forget.
When he finally slid the ring onto your finger, you noticed his hands were still shaking.
Only now, they were shaking from happiness.
"I'm so happy you said yes," he whispered.
You looked at him like he was ridiculous.
"Of course I said yes, honey. How could I not?"
His laugh was wet with emotion.
"You're the best man I've ever met," you continued, brushing away one of his tears with your thumb. "And I can't wait to grow old with you."
For a moment neither of you spoke.
You simply sat there together beneath the drifting shadows of sharks and the soft blue glow of the water, staring at each other as though nothing else in the world existed.
Spencer happily let you take a trillion pictures of the ring, him with the ring, the cake, and the entire setup.
But he knew he wouldn't need any of them.
The look on your face when you agreed to marry him was already burned into his memory forever.
On the drive home, you couldn't stop staring at the beautiful stone on your finger as it sparkled beneath the streetlights. It was, by far, the most beautiful ring you'd ever seen.
Spencer, however, decided that you looked best when the ring was the only thing you were wearing, as he reminded you three separate times that night just how much he loved you.
The next day, the two of you drove together to pick up Theo.
From the interaction between JJ and Spencer, you assumed he hadn't told her exactly what he'd planned, only that the two of you needed a night to yourselves.
You kept your hand hidden in Spencer's back pocket so you wouldn't spoil the surprise too early.
On the drive home, you half-listened to Theo's story about pizza night with the boys—and how corn was okay on pizza if there was salami, but broccoli was awful in every form. He also told you how Uncle Will had read them a bedtime story about flying dinosaurs.
You nodded and smiled at the appropriate moments, letting Spencer handle most of the follow-up questions.
Internally, you prepared yourself to break the news to your little boy, wondering how he'd react.
You knew he loved Spencer.
But would he be happy that it was about to become permanent?
Once you got home, you stopped your son before he could run upstairs.
"Theo, sweetheart, can you sit on the couch? Spencer and I need to talk to you about something."
He looked up at you, worry immediately appearing in his eyes as he walked into the living room.
He sat down, and you and Spencer took seats on either side of him.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asked eventually.
You shook your head with a small smile.
"Not that I know of."
You squeezed his hand reassuringly.
He nodded but still looked uncertain.
"Remember when I told you that you and your mama are my family?" Spencer asked.
Theo nodded.
"Well, last night while you were at Auntie JJ's, I asked your mom to marry me. And she said yes. So how would you feel if we got married? We'd be husband and wife, just like Uncle Will and Auntie JJ."
You shot Spencer a grateful smile.
Theo looked at him, then at you, and then back at Spencer.
His small eyebrows furrowed as he processed the information.
"So..." he started slowly.
You could practically see the wheels turning inside his head.
"You'd be like my second dad?"
The question hung in the air.
Your breath caught.
You immediately looked at Spencer.
Neither of you had discussed this possibility.
Last night had been a whirlwind of tears, kisses, and celebration. On the drive home, you'd been so worried Theo might be upset by the news that you'd never even considered he might ask something like this.
For a second, Spencer simply stared at him.
The usually eloquent genius looked completely speechless.
You watched a dozen emotions flash across his face.
Surprise.
Hope.
Disbelief.
And then something deeper.
Something so raw it made your chest ache.
Because suddenly you realized this wasn't just a question for Theo.
It was a question Spencer had probably never allowed himself to ask.
Not out loud.
Not even in his own head.
He loved Theo fiercely. Anyone could see that.
He showed up for every school event he could attend. He helped with homework. He knew Theo's favorite cartoons, his favorite snacks, and exactly how many stuffed animals he insisted on sleeping with.
He loved him.
But he had always been careful.
Careful not to overstep.
Careful not to assume.
Careful not to take a place that wasn't his.
"If you want me to be," Spencer finally said, his voice quieter than usual, "then it would be the greatest honor of my life."
Theo stared at him.
"Really?"
Spencer nodded immediately.
"Really."
The little boy looked down at his hands for a moment.
When he spoke again, his voice was small.
"So you wouldn't leave?"
The question hit like a punch to the chest.
You saw Spencer physically freeze.
Theo kept looking at his lap.
"My other dad left," he admitted softly. "So... if you're my dad too, you won't leave, right?"
Silence filled the room.
Your heart shattered.
Spencer's eyes immediately filled with tears.
Without hesitation, he shifted forward on the couch until he was closer to Theo.
"No, buddy," he said gently.
His voice cracked.
"No. I won't."
Theo finally looked up.
Spencer swallowed hard.
"I can't promise that life will always be easy. Sometimes people have to travel for work. Sometimes things happen that we can't control."
He reached over and took one of Theo's small hands in both of his.
"But I can promise that I'll always come back."
A tear slipped down Spencer's cheek.
"I can promise that I love you."
Another tear followed.
"And I can promise that as long as you'll have me, I'll be here."
Theo stared at him for a few seconds.
Then another.
The room felt impossibly quiet.
Finally, a huge smile spread across the boy's face.
The kind that started in his eyes before reaching the rest of him.
"I do," he said immediately.
Spencer blinked.
"I do what?"
Theo laughed.
"I'll have you."
That was it.
That was the moment Spencer completely broke.
A laugh escaped him at the same time a tear rolled down his cheek.
You were crying now too.
Theo didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe he did and simply didn't care.
He launched himself off the couch and straight into Spencer's arms.
"Can I call you Dad now?" he asked as he wrapped both arms around his neck.
Spencer made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
You'd never seen him look happier.
Not once.
Not even last night when you said yes.
His arms immediately wrapped around Theo.
"You can call me Dad right now," he whispered.
Theo grinned.
"Great."
He squeezed Spencer tighter.
"Because you're already the best dad ever."
Spencer buried his face in the boy's shoulder for a second, trying and failing to pull himself together.
When he finally looked up again, his eyes were red.
"And you're already the best son ever."
Theo beamed.
Then, because he was eight and emotionally devastating one second and completely normal the next, he pulled back just enough to ask:
"So does this mean I can tell people I have two dads now?"
Spencer laughed through his tears.
"If you want to."
Theo nodded seriously.
"Cool."
Then he hugged him again.
Just because he could.
And watching them together, you realized something that made your eyes fill all over again.
Neither of them had been waiting for permission to love each other.
They'd already done that a long time ago.
FD:BLOODLINES @kitykatnumber - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
vaporwave
gracieabrams
romaincrisis
discoholicmusic
kianamaiart
stormborns
