as some of you may notice, there is a substantial amount of content missing from this blog. for more information on how I lost literally hundreds of thousands of words of my own writing, please refer to this post. âĄ
if youâd like something specific for a character whoâs requests are closed (see the characterâs individual masterlist to check), please feel free to drop me a message regarding commissioned works!!
spencer reid who always lets you take that one window seat, even though it's his favourite spot on the jet.
spencer reid who will make as little noise as possible to ensure you are able to sleep.
spencer reid who stops breathing when you inevitably end up leaning on him.
spencer reid who will shift, carefully, in his seat, disregarding his own comfort so you can rest your head on his shoulder.
spencer reid who, when asked, continues to tell the team you aren't a couple, and that he is just being polite to a coworker in need.
spencer reid who starts packing a blanket for you in his go-bag.
spencer reid who offers to read aloud to you one evening when your headphones die. the human voice, he says, is proven to be as soothing, if not more so, than music.
spencer reid who realises after two weeks that you've been lying about your headphones dying on almost every flight, but continues to read to you anyways.
spencer reid who has been reminding himself that you aren't a couple more than he has been reminding the team.
spencer reid who makes you coffee when you wake up: triple shot, two sugars, six ounces of warm milk. he has never asked how you take your coffee, but he gets it right every time.
spencer reid who keeps a notebook full of potential date ideas. each one comes with its own list of pros and cons, as well as the statistical likelihood of you saying yes.
spencer reid who is always too afraid to ask.
spencer reid who views your friendship as the most important thing in his life; something fragile, and something he cannot risk ruining with the devastating weight of his feelings.
spencer reid who is content to live with the constant ache of wanting more, who will savour these fleeting moments thirty thousand feet in the air, and who will continue to sacrifice his comfort, and the space inside of his bag, for the sake of yours. because these moments, however brief, mean everything to him. you mean everything to him, even if he cannot yet find the courage to tell you.
these hoes are not ready for the tidal wave of fanfiction that will flood tumblr's every crevice when this new Einstein show drops. Matthew Gray Gubler playing an eccentric misunderstood genius with a unique fashion sense and is unconventionally involved with the law?
Do people have any idea how disheartening it is to spend hours/days/weeks writing something, already being anxious about putting it out there because this is your workâsomething youâve poured your heart into to make it enjoyableâand then to be accused of it being AI?
Like it genuinely wants to make you stop writing because thatâs how easy something youâve written gets written off by someone if itâs a certain way, or has too many words etc.
Iâve literally been writing fanfiction since I WAS 12.
honestly this is part of the reason I've lost a lot of motivation to write/post on here or my sideblogs bc just using grammar like '-' or ';' gets accusations of AI flying instead of assuming people simply having an understanding of grammatical tools.
more to the point - VERY few people manage to make any kind of money by posting works here unless they write commissions, so if people are using AI to write for them, then posting it, they're doing it for...what? followers? on a social media platform that quite literally is only still standing due to fandom content? a social media platform with its most popular accounts essentially just being people who are funny and appeal to the masses for being quotable/memeable? people using AI to, for example, write actual books for them that they then get published, "makes sense" (it doesn't and is stupid) bc they're doing so to effectively cheat at getting actual money; what's the point of using AI to write content for you, just to post it on fucking TUMBLR?
this phenomenon has never made sense to me. I've seen comments on other platforms that are clearly AI generated, or dating profiles in which people have very obviously used AI to make themselves (ironically) sound more interesting, but I've never seen any writing on here that I've read and thought "this is AI đ" bc there is categorically next to nothing to gain from using it here, so why would I ever suspect it, let alone accuse someone in a scenario where I don't typically assume it's commonplace?
Idk, maybe I'm in the minority w this opinion bc I'm not as regular in reading fanfiction here as I have been, so maybe it has become a bigger issue in more recent months and I've simply not seen it but regardless, I cannot fathom why anyone would choose to use it to gain literally nothing
⥠now let me first clarify, the love Spencer feels for any child of his is in no way dependent on the gender of the child; he will love any Reid Jr of any gender equally, but there are some specific scenarios to go over depending on whether heâs initially raising a perceived miniature of you or of himself
⥠regardless of gender, when that baby is born, Spencer feels the centre of his gravity shift. the very world that surrounds him now orbits the tiny bundle of limbs that fits in just his two hands
âShh, shh, sweet boy.â Spencer whispers to the baby crying against his chest as he paces your hospital room, gently rocking him. âI know, I know you have so much to share with us, and we canât wait to hear every single syllable.â He reassures, rubbing the gentlest of circles in his sonâs back to further soothe him.
âI know youâre frustrated that you canât talk to us yet, but I promise, youâll learn.â Spencer commits a quiet oath to the baby still fussing in his hold, who slowly begins to settle, the longer heâs spoken to. The thought that your son is comforted by the sound of Spencerâs voice brings a trembling smile to his lips.
âAnd weâll learn, too. Weâll learn you, and weâll love you, always.â He murmurs, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your little sonâs scrunched eyebrows.
Spencer sits down at your hospital bedside with a huff, your tiny daughter bundled against his chest with her head tucked into the crook of his neck. âHospital lights are neither conducive to your recovery or to pleasing our angel. While her vision is incredibly restricted at this stage of her development, she is sensitive and vulnerable to all stimuli.â His voice is soft for the babyâs benefit, but firm in the sentiment heâs delivering.
In response to her fatherâs voice, your little girl lets out the tiniest gurgle.
âPrecisely.â Spencer nods, as though she had voiced her very own astute argument. âAnd, furthermore, should the staff disallow my dimming of the lights in this ward and you suffer any even-temporary negative impact to your sight, sweet girl, Daddy is going to sue this hospital and the electrical company that wired the building.â Spencer coos his legal threat, kissing his daughterâs cheek so that her eyes can remain protected in the shadow of the crook of his neck.
⥠thereâs absolutely no stopping him from monitoring the babyâs every milestone with microscopic obsession. first gurgle, first smile, first laugh - all of it recorded to the microsecond and written down in a notebook (one of many that will culminate over the babyâs childhood) that someday, Spencer intends to go over with your child
⥠he does not abide by enforcing gendered stereotypes on your child; should they prefer pink, tea parties, monster trucks, dressup - he is there in full force
⥠consider: Spencer trying to maneuver his newborn-deer limbs into a princess dress that was not at all made with his proportions in mind and explaining the history of the first recorded tea parties while your little one struggles to place a tiara on his head
⥠consider: Spencer finding the perfect toys pertaining to your little oneâs unique interests (a plush praying mantis, a handbuilt trainset, a plastic replica of a historically significant tea set, every comic book pertaining to the favourite superhero)
⥠whatever the wholesome interest of his child, Spencer will encourage it with every available means
⥠no Reid Jr will ever lack for love or attention; their every observation will be treated as fantastic, every discovery never-before-seen
⥠having grown up the outcasted child himself, Spencer will never allow his child to worry about whether their own interests are âacceptableâ or âcoolâ
⥠and if your child ever shows an interest in chess? oh, theyâll have the best tutor in the world
⥠due to his own childhood, Spencer has a lot of understandable worries pertaining to any of his childrenâs socialisation; as empathetic and nurturing as he can be to his child, he can never wholly trust that the world (or, in a much smaller scale: other children) will be as kind
⥠so you can imagine he has never experienced higher levels of stress than on your childâs first day at daycare
⥠naturally, Spencer spent several weeks researching and comparing data and reviews pertaining to every local daycare centre to calculate the safest (in his words: most hygienic and mentally stimulating without being overwhelming) option for your child
⥠he suffered multiple sleepless nights on the days leading up to your childâs first day at daycare, plagued with anxieties regarding how other children would treat them. whether they would be kind, gentle enough, friendly - everything he had craved other children would be towards him when he had been a child himself, and everything he was consequently deprived of
âIt would be morally incomprehensible and a breach of every child and their familyâs privacy for me to request Garcia hack the daycareâs security system and livestream it to a tablet I may or may not have purchased for that specific and entirely hypothetical purpose.â He mutters to himself as you watch your little girl toddle over to a group of other small children in the daycare to introduce herself and the prized teddy bear (named Einstein) she clutches under her little arm.
âI didnât ask.â You remark with fond, quiet amusement.
âIt was an internal enquiry.â Spencer sniffles, vision beginning to blur as he watches your little girl sit - in the signature clumsy way that she simply drops to the floor - prompting his hands to twitch at his sides with the urge to run to her and steady her back.
âI had suspected the probability of befriending Susan Winters to be high: her mothers have been married seven years and are well respected members of the local council, both pioneering more ecological benefits for the area. They only post pictures on their social medias with Susanâs face blurred, so are aware of child protective measures, and-â Spencer is rambling with your son held to his hip, having begun to receive the requested debrief pertaining to his first day, in which he had made reference to his new friend.
âSpencer,â You never interrupt his rambles, but feel the need to interject on this occasion. â-tell me you didnât conduct background checks on every family involved in this daycare.â
Sensing you teetering on the edge of disapproval, Spencer bashfully ducks his head. âOnly his class.â He murmurs, lifting one hand to straighten your sonâs glasses.
⥠every time your child resembles you - either in action, expression, any idiosyncrasy - Spencer is flooded with the deepest and most profound love; the desperate desire to gather you and them in his arms and keep you safe from all harm
⥠but every time your child resembles him, his throat and chest will tighten, moved in feeling love for things that had belonged to him (perhaps even things he had been insecure about or ridiculed for) and now belong to the child born of the love shared between you
⥠and every night, he refuses to fall asleep without first kissing you goodnight. you donât know it, but that kiss is a silent âthank youâ he presses to your lips for the life you have given him, that he never truly believed he would be lucky enough to have
The issue I have with writers doing a "plus-size reader being insecure, so sex is the solution" trope is that it just sexualizes us. Insecurity can also stem from sexualization, just like it can from rejection. Plus-size people face objectification every day, and you're a part of it. It's also so unrealistic; if I'm feeling insecure about my body, the last thing I'd want is someone groping my naked body. Imagine if you were really thirsty and instead of someone giving water, they spit in your face and say, "Well, it's a liquid." That's what y'all are doing with those fic tropes. You're saying, "Oh, you have insecurities? Here's a fic about you getting your puss ate." Also, 99% of these authors who write plus-size characters like that are not plus-size themselves. So, instead of doing research or even talking to a bigger person, they write a crappy, half-assed fic that they think is so different. They praise themselves like they're fucking Liberace. I can give you a quick outline of these fics.
âąreader tries on dress
âąreader is insecure
âącharacter comes in
âąreader cries
âącharacter and reader have sex.
You're like everyone else who treats us like we are not more than our bodies, you're just doing it in a performative way. You're not different, nothing you're doing is new, and if I'm being honest every insecurity->sex fic I've seen has been fucking trash.
boosting this and adding as a petite girly: same rule applies for petite/x short!reader content - NOT EVERY SHORT PERSON IS BUILT LIKE A CHILD. not every petite person is stick thin. not every petite person is flat-chested. not every petite person is completely devoid of curves. not every short person is insecure about âbeing shortâ, but being TREATED as though theyâre incapable; not every short person IS EVEN INSECURE about being short at all! I am tired of almost every âx short!readerâ assuming Iâm debilitatingly insecure/bratty when anyone mentions my height or it causes some kind of inconvenience for me!
sometimes, people arenât insecure about fundamental facts of themselves - sometimes they want to be ROMANTICISED, NOT SEXUALISED, and it is important to note that distinction.
I know the problem is nowhere near as severe as plus sized content bc despite not being a plus sized person myself (so not in the habit of actively seeking out that content bc it doesnât apply to me as the reader), even Iâve noticed the exact tropes opâs talking about in this bc they are everywhere, and I wanted to add that this is a consistent problem across the board of people who are incapable of expanding beyond their own personal experiences for some reason.
I know itâs not new, but I thought Iâd make a post on it!
If a user messages you and says they âreported youâ and asks you to send a friend request to this guy âelituckertumblrrâ on Discord, it means they got hacked! Please donât message him </3
Personally, Iâd try to find other accounts of theirs (that arenât on Tumblr) and let them know about it. But if you ask and they do know they were hacked, then obviously donât harass them about it and just move on, cause likely they know what next steps to take.
BUT if you do message Eli Tucker on Discord, heâll ask for your username, DOB, and country. Then heâll ask for you to change your email to some Outlook email. DO NOT DO IT. Thatâs how they get access to your account.
For next steps, Tumblr suggests you to report the account for âspamâ.
But yeah! Please stay safe online and be weary on who messages you <3
For further reading on how to protect your account (written by Tumblr Staff):
A/N: challenged myself to write something about him thatâs just good. just happy. he deserves nothing more âĄ
2.9k words
Adam x she/her!reader
The first moments of life are something few remember, and he is no exception. It is with gratitude that he recognises he has forgotten the confusion and pain of waking in the world alone in a body too big for how infantile he had felt. Pieces remained: the name of his creator, the smell of fire, the sensation of falling into water, but beyond that those memories are what most would consider to be lost to childhood; the irony of which was all the more lost to him.
Instead, Adamâs first true memory is of the first beautiful sight his eyes had ever beheld: the moon. Her face had been a guiding light through the first darkness he had found himself in with open eyes. Her glow had cast a path for him through the trees, granting him passage in a world unknown. And unlike everything else he had ever known, she had stayed with him. Even on the cloudiest of nights, Adam would feel her presence above him. The moon, without any sentience as far as he could discern, had become his constant, for she did not turn her back on him; he understood that during the day, she was simply resting to spend another night watching over him. Some evenings, Adam regarded this with guilt stirring in him. He did not request anything of her, yet she remained there. Her reflections showing in water that he learned to drink, curving around the berries he learned to eat. To Adam, the moon was his first understanding of what a lady is: a being beyond his reach and comprehension in her loveliness, yet her nurturing knew no bounds despite his form that turned men from or against him. Her face held no disgust or disdain towards him, and for this it was her face he found himself giving his first smiles too, when he had been practising them for those who may not ever stand his presence long enough to witness them. Still, he thought, if the moon could watch him for as long as she had, someone else would learn to. Someday.
He held hope in her.
The sun had been far less kind. Its heat burned, its light exposed. Its warmth had been a gift long forgotten until Adam stood upon the ice and felt it through tear tracks. Perhaps the moon had sent such warmth, for she was not capable of doing so herself, he had surmised. A sunrise, a symbol of rebirth at the end of his trail of vengeance, was the reprieve only a kind being would deliver to him. The sun had granted a more pleasant journey home than the fire that had burned in his veins on his journey there. Home, which had once been a foreign concept that he was not privy to, was to become an abandoned mountaintop shack. Overlooking a small town of people he could watch and enjoy as seasons passed. Having learned to remain hidden long ago, it was not difficult for him to partake in nightly travels once more, sticking to the shadows and alleyways as he explored. From a tailorâs window, he better learned how to craft clothes that would fit his form; from a bakers and butchers windowsills alike, he better refined his tastes for foods he enjoyed rather than simply tolerated (his first taste of a steak and ale pie had him tipping his gravy-dripping chin to the sky to smile up at her amongst the stars, that she might share the pleasantness of this new discovery); from the trees edge that opened to a stream where children played, he learned what amusement was to be found in silly games of catch, tag, hide and seek. More than once, he had covered his own eyes and counted under his breath, then remained behind the tree where he hid and attempted to spot each of the children in their hiding places before the one who was sent to find them. Never crossing into their lines of sight, of course. He knew better than to attempt such a thing. But through this, he rediscovered what it was to feel simple joy blossom in his chest.
The town would hold festivals and dances sometimes. Seasonal events, Adam had concluded from overhearing the peopleâs conversations regarding them. They would dress well and dance jovially in the square, with lanterns and feasts, and he found great pleasure in the music they played. He learned to dance by watching, and wondered if the stars that surrounded the moon were dancing with her, too. In the years that passed, Adam grew accustomed to the townâs schedule, where people would be at particular times of the day, and he would dress well on the same days they did in the clothes he had fashioned for himself that were somewhat clumsy by comparison, but better than the tatters he had been adorned in before.
There was one such event in the town that held particular interest to Adam, in which the people - particularly the children - would wear masks and costumes to knock on the doors of houses, at which time they would be gifted sweet treats. All Hallowsâ Eve, he had heard the townspeople call it. Pumpkins and turnips would have faces carved into them that intrigued Adam to no end. In amongst painted faces and masked miniature monsters of pretend, he began to wonder if perhaps, he could create something of himself in such an event. He had overhead parents tell their children tales of mythical fiends to frighten them into behaving well, and considered how he could form a narrative of his own. And so, by the next Hallowsâ Eve, he had a plan in motion.
Positioned at the treeline by the stream in his finest handmade attire (for his form would surely horrify enough without the need for his clothing to do so as well, he had thought), he placed his own pumpkin. There was a somewhat humiliating pile of pumpkin corpses forming outside his mountaintop cabin due to the failed attempts of fine-tuning his own strength in the delicate task of carving, but eventually he had managed to illuminate the friendliest smile his own hands and blade could conjure. The night was dark enough for Adam to remain concealed so long as he did not step out beyond the treeline, and there, he waited. Some hours passed before the children ventured to this side of the town with their pillowcases of treats already claimed. One by one, they stopped each other and began to point at the sole pumpkin on the other side of the stream, for none had ever seen one placed there before. Adam held his breath and glanced up at the sky for reassurance, where she glowed so prettily above him and reaffirmed his stance.
An adult joined the children then, a lady in a dress which was orange for the autumnal festivities. A beautiful lady, of course, as all ladies were. The children pointed again to the lone pumpkin, and the lady smiled with the same intrigue sparkling in her eyes that the children possessed. Taking the hands of two most hesitant looking children, the lady led the group over to the stream and knelt at its edge; the body of water laid between them and the treeline as though impossible to cross, when all knew it was merely a few inches in depth.
âDoes a fiend of Hallowsâ Eve dwell in the forest?â You called out with unmistakable fondness in your voice, giggling as the childrenâs reactions ranged from shocked gasps to beratements insisting that you should not tempt such devilry.
This was it, Adam thought to himself. Mustering every ounce of courage he had ever possessed, he cleared his throat.
âNo fiends reside here. I protect the town from that which dwells in the forest.â He recited one of the lines he had been rehearsing, his voice loud and focussed on remaining unwavering.
The entire groupâs eyes widened, even yours, and Adam waited. For revulsion, the anticipated rejection, the screams and runnings of those terrified to their very cores.
Naturally, the children were all frightened, but to his surprise, your smile only grew.
âNot a foe, but a friend, then! A guardian against the fiends.â You concluded, and Adam felt a splutter in the rate of his deadened heartâs pace.
âYes. A friend.â Adam spoke again, cursing that his tone dared to soften despite his resolution to pantomime a creature of far greater strength than he felt he had.
âSee, children? There is nothing to fear! A friend lives in the forest, and his pumpkin smiles for us! He is here to show you that no dangers from the forest will ever harm you.â The smile blessed each childâs face after another, encouraging them until they all shared your contentment in this newfound truth, and began to smile themselves.
âHave you slain werewolves?â One of the children spoke up, a question directed at the treeline.
Behind the tree, Adam felt the first threads of success and lowered himself to a seated position, now that he knew he would need to so urgently flee a scene of mobs and torches.
âYes. Ghouls and goblins alike.â He answered, and was shocked to feel himself smiling into the darkness of the forest's shadows as the children shared another gasp, this time in wonder.
For the next few minutes of unparalleled bliss, the children begged for tales and confirmations of the fiends that Adam - the friend of the town - had saved them from without their knowing. In their minds, he resembled a hero, and that was an entirely unfamiliar notion. The beautiful lady knelt on the grass with the children bore an expression of fondness and wonder, which Adam did not understand. The whimsical nature of children left room for him to be something magical, but the tarnished perspectives of adults aged by the world left no such space for any truth beyond the cynical. Yet you allowed yourself to linger in what you must have known to be folly.
As the children began to tire into the growing night, you sent each of them the short distances to their homes until only you remained. Rising from the streamâs edge, you surprised Adam further by lifting your dress above your ankles and stepping through it, only lowering your dress once more when grass returned beneath your shoes.
âTownâs friend.â You greeted him, but your tone was no longer one of pretend for the childrenâs amusement. Instead, only fondness remained.
âDo you have a name?â You had asked the shadows where his voice had come from, and his breath caught in his throat.
ââŠAdam.â His voice was quieter now, hesitant, uncertain.
âAdam.â You repeated, your smile growing again in a way that made eternally frostbitten fingertips twitch with the urge to trace the shape of your lips. âThank you for entertaining the children this night, and protecting them on any other.â Your gratitude was sincere beyond that which he had ever received, and for a moment, he knew not how to respond. âTo them, you may remain a mystery in your appearance, but I wondered if I might thank you more traditionally.â Your offer was genuine too in its intention, this Adam knew, but he felt what novels had described as nervous butterflies beginning to churn in his gut.
âI am notâŠfit to be gazed upon by a lady.â He had answered, voice notably shakier than it had been at any other time tonight.
Despite himself, Adam was lifting his trembling limbs from the grass. Remaining hidden in the darkness that existed behind the trees, but standing to his true height. The moon illuminated your face, guiding his eyes to memorise your every feature from this new vantage point, but for the very first time Adam needed no assistance from her in seeing that which would heal him most.
âI think what is fit to be gazed upon by a lady, is to be decided by a lady. No lady can make such a decision in advance of seeing that which claims to be unfit for her eyes.â You presented a game of wits that delighted Adam to no end.
His heart hammered like a living thing. Something so simple as a few words exchanged with you made him feel truly alive for the first time in all his miserable existence.
âMy lady, IâŠâ Adam cleared his throat again, bowing his head in shame that you could not witness. âI do not wish to frighten you.â
For a moment, you considered this in careful silence. It was obvious this friend of the town had founded reservations in being perceived, hence his efforts, but this only served to strengthen your resolve in bridging that which existed between you in the same way you had stepped through the stream to reach him.
âIf I swear to close my eyes and keep them closed until you grant me, would this suffice?â You carefully adjusted your offer to better suit the personified mystery enshrouded in shadow before you, and he needed no time to deliberate that which was so easily outweighed by the sincere yearning that fuelled his very being.
âYes.â No one syllable had ever sounded gruffer falling from Adamâs mouth, and it fell without conscious thought.
Satisfied, you simply closed your eyes, and the shadows held him for but a moment. Testing whether you would truly trust him enough by voice alone to momentarily sacrifice your vision for his comfort. When your eyelids showed no signs of fluttering, Adam dared to step out from the treeline and into the moonlight with you. His footsteps were audible, branches crunching under heavy footfall, alerting you of his movement. Somewhat uncertainly, you held out a hand to him as if to shake his in a formal greeting he had never before been given. Adamâs own hand swallowed yours entirely, long fingers trembling as they curled around yours infinitesimally; terrified to harm the delicate bird that was your hold. But you did not shake his hand. No, you took it upon yourself to surprise him further.
Your other hand lifted to his arm, that you could better find now that one of his hands held yours, and you used this to better navigate him in front of you. All without opening your eyes, you rose to your tiptoes, and on an instinct Adam did not know he possessed, he lowered himself until his back was almost painfully hunched, but he felt no such pain. The warmth of lips pressed to a stitch of his cheek, and all air escaped his lungs in one shaken exhalation. His towering form nearly crumbled, was on the brink of collapse, but he was frozen in place. So afraid that you would run, now that you had felt something as grotesque as one of his stitches. In his panicked delirium, Adam bound himself to the belief that if he never dared to breathe or move again, he could exist in this one moment for eternity. Even if that eternity meant only a few more seconds in your closeness.
It was not until your own breath could no longer be felt against his scarred cheek that Adam realised his own eyes had closed, and you had lowered yourself to your own standing height.
âThank you for granting the town your company, Adam.â Your words sounded a thousand miles away, hundreds of feet below the surface of the water that drowned him, as far away as a dream.
âIt is my hope that you are not cursed to only appear on All Hallowsâ Eve. Should you be so inclined to visit again tomorrow night, I will wait for you by the stream.â Another offer, but one that felt eerily closer to a promise; an oath that was less a secret and more a blessing.
ââŠTomorrow, my lady.â How the words found their way past Adamâs lips, he will never know, but he managed to force his eyes open at the precise moment you turned away from him and crossed the stream.
He remained fixed in place where he stood, a statue of crumbling stone carved in your honour. Watching until you disappeared from sight in your own home, noting that you did not look back because you had not received his permission to gaze upon his countenance. Yet still, you had wished to spend more time in his company. So soon as the following night. Adam breathed in deeply, certain he could trace the sweetness of you lingering in the air. His limbs had not found it in themselves to recollect how to move just yet, but he had remembered the simpler motion of blinking, and tilting his head back to gaze up at the sky. There she was, the light that had guided him along the path that led to your smile, your voice, your tenderness. To the first trace of companionship. The stars around her seemed to blink down at him in congratulatory applause. For the briefest moment, Adam allowed himself to linger on the mere possibility that perhaps, by the next time the townspeople danced in the square, he may have someone to dance with himself.
That was far from the first time Adam had smiled up at the moon, but it was the first time he had done so bashfully.
i love how, as a community, not only did we all agree that spencer reid is a munch but we also unanimously agreed that it turns him on so much that he cums in his pants every time.
â or the one where Spencer comes home for the first time after Millburn, swamped with fear and self-loathing, lost in ways he has never felt before, and all that he really knows is that he needs to remember how it feels to be safe, how it is for things to feel right again. [Spencer Reid x fem!reader]
Word count: 11.1K. Proof-read.
Content warning: Where am I supposed to even start? (18+ MDNI) ANGST + SMUT. SECOND-PERSON POV. No use of Y/N. Established relationship, mentions of injuries, religious metaphors, oral (fem!receiving), unprotected p-in-v sex, just the sweetest, most tooth-rotting and fluffy smut I have ever written, inner monologues with pessimistic undertones + self-loathing, happy/hopeful ending, canon deviation if you squint.
Authorâs Note: This has been in the works for almost three months and was loosely inspired by a tweet of mine after one of my rewatches of Green Light/Red Light. There is a lot I can say about it, but mainly, it has felt quite cathartic to actually have finished it. Iâm really proud of it... If I donât think about it too much. Anyway, I hope whoever takes time to read it likes it and that it doesnât take me three months to post something new. And maybe that I learn how to keep things less word-y by then. P.S. Yes, Jeff Buckleyâs version of Hallelujah was the namesake for this fic and I donât regret it. #decontextualisationisanart
The first time that youâd ever found yourself tucked away in the solace of Spencerâs bedroom, your bare body completely wrapped in dark grey linen sheets that smelled of lavender and sandalwood, you hadnât been prepared to bare your soul quite as much as youâd ended up doing.Â
It had come quickly enough, had been entirely too easy, that it felt like youâd done so all your life â loving Spencer, trusting him, allowing yourself to be loved by him.Â
With his right arm wrapped around your waist, his fingertips drawing absentminded circles on your lower back, while he used his left hand to tuck stray hairs away from your face with a tenderness that almost ached, youâre so entirely blissed out, your bare body adorned with the evidence of your lovemaking, that you almost miss his question. You have to blink twice before it even registers.
Have you ever been in love before?
Youâre momentarily taken aback, both because of the nature of it, of what it means and what it comes with, but also because of how he asks it. Quiet enough for it not to disturb the comfortable silence engulfing you, yet an edge persists in how he stresses each syllable, as if he desperately wants to know the answer.Â
The moonlight reflecting across his skin and turning him into a breathtaking, living masterpiece is what casts him visible enough for you to notice thereâs nothing demanding about how he observes you back, nothing that begs to take what youâre not ready to give. Whatâs there, instead, behind his bright, kind eyes and his faintly present, fond smile, is an earnestness thatâs enough to tear you apart and put you back together because of one truth alone â the fact that Spencer continues to want to know more about you, that heâs not looking to let you go now that youâve finally been naked in his arms, months into your relationship.Â
Itâs not that you believed he would, but then again, youâve only ever hurt yourself because of your wishful thinking before he came around. Part of you was constantly ready to have the other shoe drop. Now that there wasnât a reason to feel that way, youâre bound not to know how to react.
Initially, youâre not sure how to respond, how to explain whatever there is to explain. That youâd been here before, spasming inside arms that never held you tightly enough, breathless from drowning in feelings that never seemed to be reciprocated. Would that count as ever having been in love? Youâre not sure. Not anymore. Not now that thereâs Spencer.
It didnât matter that those three syllables hadnât yet been uttered by either of you, not when you could feel they were true enough for both of you. It was only a matter of time until it happened. Youâd be glad to be the braver of the two and do it first. You almost do it then, thinking the answer is fitting enough for his question, true enough of a confession.
But something holds you back, like it always has. Something calls for you to wait (for what, youâre not sure of.) And when Spencer tries to apologise without having any reason to, your only option seems to be to say it without actually saying it.
You shake your head, moving closer to him if possible. If I have been, you shrug, Iâm not entirely sure it was love. Not in a way that mattered.
Spencerâs arm twitches around your hip as he attempts to hold you tighter. He doesnât say anything but he doesnât really have to. You can tell from his furrowed brow that his silence is an invitation for you to go on.Â
You ponder how to. Thereâs not a lot you can say about never having known true reciprocity.
Thereâs a⊠uhm, thereâs a quote I read once, you swallow hard, toying with the frayed edge of his blankets between you. You know Roland Barthes? Youâre not sure why you ask, because if thereâs anyone who understood your obscure literary references, itâs him. When he merely hums (despite clearly having more than enough facts about him ready to share with you), interest further piqued, you continue. Am I in love? Yes, since Iâm waiting. The other one never waits. The loverâs fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits. You clear your throat softly, trying to ignore the burning sensation bubbling up in it. I never really knew why Iâve always seemed to resonate with it but I do. As far as Iâm concerned, Iâve done my part waiting. Perhaps for longer than I can admit. Maybe I just⊠Maybe itâs always been a part of me. I just donât know if it was ever in a way that mattered.
Itâs a tender admittance, delicate even in the harshness that it carries. To have spent so much of your life questioning whether youâve ever really fallen in love, whether youâve ever known how it feels to be loved in return is a prison of its own making. Itâs no badge of honour, itâs not something to be proud of. For the longest time, it was just something that simply was. Youâd tried to ignore it and youâd paid it its due share of attention alike. No option was wiser, no feelings towards the truth of the matter were enough to exorcise it.
But that was then. Before Spencer. Before his gentle touch, before his earnest appreciation, before youâd known how your name sounded coming from the mouth of a person who uttered it like a prayer of some kind, both inside the haven of his bedroom and outside of it.Â
Youâre not exactly avoiding his gaze when his voice breaks through the startling silence your words left in their wake. Youâre not hiding from him, not really. No, in reality, youâre just silently praying youâve not just managed to ruin the most wonderful thing youâve had happen to you by being too honest, by opening yourself up too much, too soon, too detrimentally. You knew itâd happen, could guess that itâd do so after heâd mapped each inch of your body with no barriers of clothing stopping him, after youâd exposed yourself to him in the most devastatingly sincere way possible.
Knowing itâd happen doesnât mean you didnât know itâd hurt, too, though. How much itâd hurt.
Youâre terrified of looking into his eyes and seeing anything but affection in them, that quiet doting that has turned you into mush every day youâd known him. Once youâre too close to shying away from the cradle of his arms, he follows your movements, anyway. Cages you kindly as he hovers above you, not quite ready to have you escape from his arms or his questions yet, if ever.
Itâs through a low whisper that he presses on, wanting to know whether you think youâre still waiting. Thereâs only one answer to that, and itâs as tangible a reality as his heart beating against yours where your chests touch, as his warm, golden eyes gaze back into yours. Itâs an answer he already knows, youâre sure of it. Of course he does. Itâs Spencer. Hasnât that always been the case?
For once, you find yourself feeling glad that someone does. That itâs Spencer who does.
I think I am, you decide, fingertips tracing the outline of his bicep delicately, your eyes following the path they travel until they come to rest over his pounding heart. I am, you reaffirm, refusing to bite back the loving smile creeping on your lips, but this time, this time⊠I think itâs worth it.
A beat passes where both of you marvel at each other, where Spencerâs body settles fully on top of yours, and your fist wraps around his wrist as his hand comes to cup your face, his lips meeting yours with breathtakingly tender affection. You melt underneath him, inside his arms, giving in to everything he is and everything he offers you, until youâre once again a mess of tangled limbs, fervent exhales, and burning flesh.Â
Itâs much later into the night when youâre settled against his side, almost fully passed out thanks to the return of the dull but pleasant ache of your muscles and the rhythmic back and forth of his fingertips brushing your hair over your shoulder. Still, you manage to capture his words in your half-asleep state, and youâre back to feeling like you are glowing from the inside out.
Youâll never have to worry about the waiting being worth it. Not ever again. Iâll make sure of it, if only you let me.
It aches, how Spencer seems to christen you with that promise, how his lips press against your forehead and remain there, how he tightens his arms around you as if youâre his lifeline and heâs scared youâll vanish into thin air. It aches because even now that youâre almost unconscious, you know well enough Spencer means what heâs telling you. You can feel as much. It aches because for once, you find your armour loosening and because for once, it doesnât seem to scare you, and it doesnât stop you from pulling him closer in return.
Itâs that same promise that still replays inside your head when youâre back in his apartment a week later, slipping out of his en-suite in a white, worn-out jumper of his from his Caltech days thatâs oversized on you, enough to cover the biker shorts youâre wearing underneath almost entirely. Spencer was sweet enough to let you borrow it for the night after youâd been caught in a sudden downpour on your way there, just like he was sweet enough to ask you to stay over for the night. Heâd only just made it back from a horrible case in Texas (the details of which youâd not been privy to, insistent as heâd always been about that), as well as a disappointing meeting with his motherâs doctor that followed after. Heâd excitedly told you about studies and medicine trials heâd looked for in the hopes of helping her out with her Alzheimerâs diagnosis, only for all of it to end up going south so far in his pursuit. Your heart broke for him in more ways than one each and every time he did as you hoped there was anything you could do to help him, even more when heâd tell you that your being there for him was enough.
Youâd argue the opposite, except his eyes light up the moment you near his bed and he looks up from his book, already freeing his right hand to invite you on his lap.Â
You oblige immediately, feeling all warm and tingly at the sight of him in a grey jumper and pair of dark plaid pyjama pants, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. You try to ignore the fluttering of your heart as he buries his hand underneath his jumper on your waist, try not to feel too light-headed at the thought of his promise, try not to get too carried away at the prospect of him loving you the way you are completely sure you do him.
But itâs all in vain, and you only realise that after you lift your head from where you were peppering small kisses on his neck, when he answers your murmured question on what heâs been reading.
Noticing itâs nothing other than Barthesâ A Loverâs Discourse once he holds it between you, the book youâd mentioned last time you were there, the light-headedness only intensifies. Itâs as certain as itâs all-consuming and youâre teetering past the point of no return, agreeing that there are countless of reasons it has made a home in you. That he has made a home in you.
You momentarily ponder whether this is your chance to ask him the same question heâd asked you last week, whether youâre ready to hear what heâd have to say. Something holds you back from it, and as always, you hate that it does, but the alternative you settle on is good enough for right then and there. Mindlessly playing with the curls on the nape of his neck, you decide you want to know if he has a favourite passage himself, and Spencerâs quick to flick through the pages heâs scribbled on the margins of until he finds it.Â
Dream of total union: everyone says this dream is impossible, and yet it persists. I do not abandon it. âOn the Athenian steles, instead of the heroicization of death, scenes of farewell in which one of the spouses takes leave of the other, hand in hand, at the end of a contract which only a third force can break, thus it is mourning which achieves its expression here ⊠I am no longer myself without you.â It is in represented mourning that we find the proof of my dream; I can believe in it, since it is mortal (the only impossible thing is immortality).
Your breath had been caught inside your throat as you followed every word of his, and if it hadnât been for your name slipping past his lips after heâd finished his recitation, youâd still be looking at him all dazed. The breathlessness doesnât cease to exist when you break the thundering silence, wanting to know why that passage was the one which resonated with him.Â
Like you, Iâm not entirely sure, but I thinkâWell, I know that Iâve spent most of my life trying to live up to other peopleâs expectations as much as I have my own. And there was a time when I started to wonder if being in the FBI was what I really wanted, ifâI donât knowâif it was who I really am. The more that I thought about it, the more I realised that there was just⊠something incredibly right about devoting myself to this job. I am who I am because of it, because I chose to do it. Thereâs no me without it. Iâve always imagined love to be the same way. The smile on his face as he brings both of your hands between you and holds them together is softer than any youâd seen on his lips before. You donât hesitate to intertwine your fingers with his, squeezing them tight, as he continues. To be completely honest with you, Iâve neverâYou know I havenât had much luck when it comes to loveâI hadnât really known it⊠But whenever I thought about how itâd feel like, I always came back to that feeling of rightness, the fact that there shouldnât be one without the other. I believe there isnât.Â
Itâs as startling a revelation as yours had been a week ago, as deep and truthful a bearing of his soul as youâd wish for in return. Like you did a week ago, heâs saying everything without actually saying everything. The only difference is that Spencer doesnât try to shy away from the certainty the way you did, doesnât try to look away from you while you process all that heâs told you.Â
He has never thought of himself to be brave, not particularly. You beg to disagree, more keen to prove it to him than ever before in the time youâve known him.Â
Yeah, you lean in, nuzzling slightly against your intertwined hands, I think I believe that, too. Spencerâs response comes in a huffed chuckle where his chin rests on top of your head, and although that You think so? that follows is clearly his way of teasing you, you recognise the tint travelling from his neck to his ears for what it is â him worrying that heâs somehow, still, gone too far, too soon.Â
Eyes locked with his now, you cradle his face with the delicacy one should hold the most precious thing they know, and thumb his glasses back in place properly. Your mouth is a breath away from his when you finally murmur, I am certain that I do.
Itâs the way that Spencer follows your lead next, when his lips start moving against yours slowly and deliberately, that sends all your fears to be washed away into the night with the rain thatâs pouring violently outside the window. Itâs in the way that you hug him closer, tighter, and he sighs and melts into your embrace, that you understand heâs right about love being a dream of a total union, that there really canât be one without the other.Â
Thereâs nothing that separates you from Spencer nor Spencer from you. You feel as much in every sigh of his you swallow, every soft sound of yours that he smiles at despite struggling not to stop kissing you, every temporary mark your touch leaves behind on each otherâs skin as you rid one another of your clothes.Â
When allâs said and done, when heâs once again on top of you, and your sweet giggles at the foggy state of his glasses (he surely canât see you any better with them like that than without them, so the decision to fold them and place them on the bedside table is an easy one) morph into the dreamiest of moans as your heat welcomes his thickness. He moves against you with a need thatâs both calm and overpowering alike, rocking you both, pulses mixing, as you merge entirely. You yearn for it, yield to it, and itâs the realest proof of your mortality that either of you has ever known. Itâs no longer a promise, itâs a fulfilment. Thereâs no escaping this union, thereâs no possibility of separation, not when you know what coming together like this feels like.Â
At least, there shouldnât be. Thatâs what Spencer said. You keep telling yourself that, even if the irony of your having not seen him since that night isnât lost on you now.Â
It wasnât his fault, not initially. Heâd got called in on a case before dawn managed to break, and you, ever so attuned to the reality that he can easily be taken away from you, had woken up and watched the scene unfold, not as fazed as you shouldâve been in hindsight.Â
How could you have known what was about to come, though? How could that still blissed out version of you that Spencer had kissed goodbye with utter adoration, promised that he wouldnât be away from for too long, responded to the final calling of his name with an acknowledgment far too certain and incapable to be dismissed, know that itâd be three months since youâd hear and see from him again?
Youâd still been lost, terrified by the mere existence of your ignorance, as you made it to the BAU offices in Quantico, where Spencerâs boss and colleague, Emily Prentiss, had asked to see you. It hadnât been the first time youâd met her but it had been the first time youâd ever been to his workplace, called there by someone other than him, nevertheless.Â
For all your fears and uncertainty when youâd sat opposite her, you still couldnât have believed what youâd be told by her, just how much, how hard your world would crumble in seconds â because Spencer, in his quest to do the right thing, to be brave for him and the person he loved most in this world, had initially found himself jailed in Mexico, before being extradited to the US.
There wasnât much that Emily could do to console you as you struggled to process what youâd been told, both because sheâd also been struggling to grasp the facts herself, and because there was no time to be lost when Spencerâs future, his life, was at stake. All that she could do and that she made sure to do was to reassure you that whatever was happening, Spencer was innocent, and that everything he did was an attempt to save his mother.
There wasnât much that anyone could do to help you, much less yourself. All you wanted, all you needed, was for Spencer to come back. Not just to you, but to his mother, to his team, to the world that he belonged in. Thatâs all you kept asking for â that and a way to get in touch with him, to see him. If not initially, then after youâd been told that heâd been sent to prison to serve a sentence. A sentence that could keep him away from you, from his mother, from his team, from the real world for twenty five years.Â
Only he didnât let you.
At first, you thought youâd been mistaken when youâd heard it. That surely, Emily must have meant it was a temporary thing. But Spencer didnât budge, not once. You couldnât understand why. There wasnât a single minute of those 91 days spent away from him where you could stop wondering why. Emily had tried her best to ease your worries, had done everything she could to assure you that they would get him out of there, that heâd be alright. And you appreciated her, her effort alone was remarkable, but nothing about what was happening was enough to make you believe her.Â
The only person who could make you believe that it was all going to be alright was the one person you couldnât see or even talk to. Because he chose to have that happen. And you? You were left with no choice but to wait. For what, you werenât sure. You couldnât be. Because in doing the right thing, Spencer had gone back on his promise to you, that youâd never have to wonder if the wait was worth it anymore. And the worst part was that you didnât hate him for it, didnât allow yourself to care about it as much as you cared about him. That was his only fault â not letting you wait for him in a way that you knew was worth it.Â
That was the selfish part of this reality. You were mourning the only true union youâd ever known and your version of its farewell was losing the fight against time each day you spent without him. There was nothing hopeful about the mortality of your love for Spencer anymore. For all that you knew, your waiting for him would prove to be fatal and it wouldnât matter. Not to you.
Thatâs what youâd forced yourself to think, at least. Youâd done a good enough job, however constant the struggle and the uncertainty, the wait remaining worthy through what Emily did share with you when she managed to, including any updates on Dianaâs well-being. Through those, your need to feel close enough to Spencer, keeping one of the parts you cherished most about him alive, was somehow satisfied, twisted as it may have sounded to anyone else. Emily, thankfully, understood it well enough. She was even fond of it, you were almost sure noticing how she responded to how genuine your affection for Spencer and anything and anyone he loved was.
But even those few updates on Diana became scarce, and it had almost been three days since Emily had last texted you, and that was when you started to question just how much of a good job youâd done keeping your feelings and thoughts at bay. Because itâd been 92 days without any word from Spencer, 92 excruciating days of losing sleep over not knowing how bad things were for him, if heâs actually as alright as he can be under the circumstances, or if youâd ever see him again. Because what if he spent the next 25 years of his life rotting in prison for something he didnât do, surrounded by people who are nothing like him? Or what if he gets out of there and you never get to know because he doesnât want you to? Because he doesnât want you anymore?
There were so many possibilities youâd ruined yourself over and the worst part of your spiral is that youâd somehow found yourself climbing the stairs to Spencerâs apartment almost without realising it. If youâd been able to rationalise your thoughts, youâd conclude it happened because the handful of times youâd spent at his apartment were the safest youâd felt in a while. Undoubtedly, there must be some psychological study that could back up that claim. Spencer would know if there was. Heâd explain which part of the brain was responsible for that feeling of safety with his characteristic eagerness while youâd smile and make the physical about the emotional like you always did, admitting to yourself and to him that whatever your body has translated into a feeling, he was the cause of. Thatâs when heâd preen and get flustered and have no other choice but to kiss you because itâs you and your words and what you feel for him that caused that.
But Spencer wasnât here to do all that. And with each step further into his apartment that you take, it only becomes clearer to you that youâd made a mistake coming here. That seeing his cluttered stacks of books, and his pile of manila case folders and notes, and his favourite half-empty mug that he always leaves unattended on the kitchen table would do little to ease the pain his absence has caused. That standing in the middle of the space that still smells like old paper, sandalwood, and coffee â like him â didnât feel right, didnât feel good when it was stained with the aftermath of the loss of him and not of constancy of his presence.Â
Maybe Spencer was wrong in more ways than one after all. You were much more faint-hearted than he thought now that you had no one to believe in you, that you had to go back to knowing how it feels to exist in this world without him.Â
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the copy of A Loverâs Discourse heâd read you from that very last night you saw him, the one heâd scribbled his thoughts down on and underlined passages on for you to flip through that next morning after heâd left. Moist appears behind your eyelids almost immediately, has you thinking that maybe not taking it with you after you left was not a mistake after all. Or if it wouldâve been, itâs one youâre willing to make now. Youâre certainly about to.
Until the small yet startling sound of the front door closing breaks the silence that surrounds you and stops you from it. Youâre sure youâd already shut it after youâd entered. Youâre sure no one had managed to follow you and creep up on you this way. Youâre sure that even at the minuscule chance youâd left it half-open, itâs not the wind that closed it. Youâre sure thereâs only one possible answer as to what had just happenedâ
And as you turn around, still frozen in your spot by the couch and the coffee table, you find out that youâre right.
That itâs no one other than Spencer thatâs standing just barely past the threshold, keys still in hand, eyes wide and lips parted in shock that completely matches your own, both of you unable to comprehend that youâre not in the presence of a ghost of a life long past.Â
Because Spencerâs in front of you, inches apart after three months of inexplicable agony on your part, and inexpressible pain on his, and heâs not at all how you remember him. Of course, youâre not an idiot. You didnât expect him to stay the same, not under any circumstances, especially not under those he had to endure. You try to silently remind yourself of that as you process that heâs here, heâs back, and heâs alright â in the sense that heâs alive and breathing and in front of you.
But thereâs something so intimidating about the way his figure looms by the entrance, the way his eyes are heavy and empty of that usual glint which was as evident up close as it was from a distance, the way he canât seem to register heâs home. Itâs paradoxical how heavy he seems when heâs lost enough weight that his suit jacket sags at his shoulders, when the outline of his face looks sharper and more defined even behind his scruffy jawline.Â
Once he speaks, though, once your name falls from his lips in that quiet, unmistakeably gentle tone, every last bit of denial and trepidation vanishes, and youâre once again wounded in your breathlessness. âHâYouâHi.â
âHiââ Your croak, fighting hard to keep your composure. You donât move from your spot but he does, almost striding to close the remaining distance between you â until you inadvertently back into the couch, nails digging into your palms.Â
Spencerâs face falls when you flinch, although he doesnât blame you for it, canât say heâs surprised thatâs your reaction. Itâs more than called for, heâs selfless enough to admit that. There hasnât been one day that he had to spend in that tiny, muggy cell when he didnât think of you, didnât long to see you, didnât want to explain himself to you. His selflessness was what kept him from asking you to come to him, ensured you stayed far away from a world you didnât belong in, and now he was paying the price for it. Willingly or not.
In a (uncharacteristic to him) masochistic sense, he craves it. Craves the hostility, craves the anger thatâs undoubtedly burning up inside you, craves any indication you might snap at him, put him in his place for what he put you through. Maybe itâs because heâs come to know so much of it in prison, has become so used to co-habiting with the monsters heâd chased away all his life, that he feels like heâs become one and the same with them. Heâd let you do it, no doubt about it. But he knows youâre not built that way, knows youâd never treat him the way heâs been treated, knows that what heâs carrying inside his soul and what his bodyâs now marked with is not your burden to bear. However vehemently youâd deny that claim.
Itâs amidst this remarkable conscious battle, this return to his older, kinder self that your presence elicits, that his hands clench and unclench tightly, stained with the need to reach out to you. As much as thatâs your first instinct â to keep yourself from taking up too much space, to offer him any distance that he might need â Spencer knows in a deeper, more profound way than he ever has before, itâs not his. He doesnât want space and he doesnât want solitude. He wants you. Close, too close, inches apart. Exactly how you used to be.
Itâs true that Spencer has spent the past three months not knowing what to do in more ways than one, but this, right now, was a whole other thing all-together. Youâre a whole other thing all-together. And heâs known that since the moment he first laid eyes on you, but a changed manâs conscience is a frightful thing, violent in its power. Because youâve always been consolatory in your beauty, mending parts of his heâs always thought werebroken by default, and youâd done so by just existing.Â
Standing in front of him, in the middle of his home once more, looking like nothing short of an angel, he reconciles with his mortality again in the only way that matters. Understands exactly why you donât know what to do, either. Feels safe because of it, because of you. Thereâs no without. Not unlessâ
âI can go, if youââ
Of course, you opt for the choice to leave. Because it is a choice, and sometimes, it is what is needed.
Spencer disagrees. He has always disagreed, has made that known to you as often as he could. Itâs a leap of faith heâs been more than glad to take for your sake as well as his.
âNo.â He swallows hard, inhales sharply. He doesnât miss a beat, doesnât try to move from his place in the middle of the hall, the distance between you still aching. âI meanââ Right, stepping back from the need. As always. Ever the sacrificial lamb. Especially now, now heâs the shell of the man you once knew and fell in love with.âIf you want to, thatâsâyou canââ Your gaze finally softens, and for a brief moment, after months of feeling cold, Spencer feels like he is burning up from the inside out. His hands stop trembling. You are here â you could go, you could leave, but right now, you are here.Â
Is that enough? He doesnât have it in him to think it over now. He has already decided.
Spencer has spent a lot of time choosing sacrifice. Years and years of betraying, of lessening, of shrinking himself down for people who werenât ever meant to get it. He didnât really mind, not then. But it was different now, everything was different now. Now that there is no without again. Maybe that is the reason why selfishness comes so easy to him, so clearly for once, right then and thereâ
âBut I want you to stay.âÂ
It is only half the truth.
Spencer curses himself â You are better than that. You have always been better than that. You are not the only one who knows it anymore. You have not been for a long time. Itâs the truth sheâs always wanted from you. Itâs the truth she deserves. â and, just the way that selfishness made its return, so does brutal honesty.
âI need you to stay.â
His words fail to register properly at first, but once they do, theyâre all you require to remain where you are. If you were honest with yourself, you couldnât have imagined leaving him even if he asked you to. You needed to stay, needed to be with him, needed so much from him after those three months youâd both endured.Â
Where were either of you to even begin?Â
âYouâYeah, okay, yeahââ You nod, your feet moving before you could even process it as you head for the kitchen, âI canâMaybe I can get you somethingââ
You have barely made it past him when you feel his hand brush against your wrist, fingertips briefly wrapping around it until you halt. Before you know it, Spencerâs right in front of you, chests almost touching.Â
It takes a mere second of you looking at each other, gazing desperately between each otherâs eyes, until your lips meet. Initially, both of you startle at the touch, neither of you daring to move either to deepen the kiss or to break apart from it. But Spencer loses that battle first, finds his hands moving on their own accord, takes your face in them, and opens his mouth to start kissing you properly with eager passion.
Like every time before, you melt into it, become light and pliable under his touch. You let him kiss you as he wishes to, open your mouth just the way he needs, but still donât dare touch him.Â
When the inside of his palm grazes your cheekbone, the rough indentation of a scar youâd never felt before through his touch meeting your soft skin, you break. Tears form and fall from your eyes, alerting Spencer to your fragile state in an instant.
âHey, heyââ He exhales, overcome with worry, pulling away enough so he can look at you properly, âIâm sorry, I shouldnât haveââ
âNo, no! Itâs okay, I donâtâI didnât mean toâIâm sorryâŠâ
âDonât apologise,â Spencerâs words are pained while he thumbs at your cheeks, wiping away your tears. It takes him a moment to notice itâs the fact heâs touching you that makes you shudder. It shouldnât have been hard to discern, and the version of him three months ago wouldnât have failed you that way, and heâs so terribly sorry. âItâs not okay, youâre crying, I shouldnât haveââ
âPlease,â You paw at his shoulders, still scared to fully touch him. Silently, youâre begging for him to understand that you need him to hold you, terrified as you are of leaning in to it. âPlease, I didnât mean toâI just canât believe youâre hereâŠâ
A sad smile appears on his lips, one that carries more meaning than words could adequately say. âI am here,â he mutters, coiling a strand of hair behind your ear. âI am here and Iâm so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am.â
You want to tell him that he doesnât have to be sorry, you really do, but you allow yourself to be the selfish one now. âI thought Iâd lost you,â You donât sound angry as much as you sound devastated, the fact heâs there still not enough to make the pain of that what-if go away, âI didnât know if you wereââ A sob rises from the depths of your throat, slips past your lips. âI thought you didnât want to see me anymore, you didnât let me come see youââ
âOf course, I wanted to see you,â He understands heâs hurt you with his decision, knows youâre entirely right to hold it against him. He refused to have you believe it was because he didnât want to see you. âEvery single day, I did. But not if it had to be like that. Not by letting you in on that world. Not for mine or anyoneâs sake.â
The sentiment, however fitting to his character it was, didnât move you at this time. âYou didnât belong there, either.â
Spencerâs heart aches at how you still look at him and see the person he was before he went and screwed everything up. Heâd betrayed your trust and hurt you by pushing you away, and still, you loved him. He wonders if you still would if you knew everything that happened to him in prison. If you knew he wasnât the same man youâd fallen in love with anymore, the man who was once deserving enough of you.
Right.
âWe should probably talkââ
âNo, we shouldnât.âÂ
He sighs. Says your name pointedly because he knows deep down you agree, yet you donât budge.
âWe shouldnât talk, not if you donât want to talk.âÂ
Again, itâs not surprising how fiercely you defend him for who he is, for not trusting words easily in times of adversity. Youâre admirable in your need to understand him, but heâs gotten quite good at that, too. âBut you want to talk.â
Itâs true. There are so many things you want to know â if his mom is safe and sound, if the scar across his palm is the only physical mark he still carries with him from his imprisonment, if he remembers his promise to you right before everything went up in flames.Â
You are willing to let that need gnaw away at your insides, however. At least for now.
Because Spencerâs in front of you again, and his hands are cradling your face, and goodness, all you truly want is to be one with him again.
Itâs a breathless admission but itâs firm and honest when it slips from your mouth, your gaze unwavering. âI want whatever you want.â
Spencer gulps. His fingers twitch where they rest on your jawline. He canât deny heâs glad to hear you say that and mean it. Leaning in, he rest his forehead against yours, and inhales deeply.Â
Youâre barely able to plead before he relents and youâre back to kissing each other with a passion of a thousand burning suns. The emptiness inside you is filled with it and youâre desperate to cling onto it lest heâs going to disappear again.
His hands travel from your neck to your waist and back again the whole time you stumble towards his bedroom, gripping his jacket for dear life.Â
Youâre so hesitant to touch him and itâs not lost on him. If anything, it only fuels his self-loathing immeasurably. It shouldnât be like this, you shouldnât be afraid to touch him. Heâs the one who should feel like this. Stained with cruel depravity, carrying memories thatâll haunt him for the rest of his life, the mere pressing of his hands on your body is an act of murder. A murder of innocence, of what little good heâs known in this world. If heâs ever wondered whether the abyss has swallowed him whole, itâs now more than ever.
He guides your hands to his lapel, holding them there, and you flinch, the reaction enough to break the kiss.
âWe really donât have toââ
Youâre all starry-eyed as you look at him, comforted by the realisation that in spite of everything, the Spencer you know is still standing in front of you. âIf itâs what you want, itâs what I want. What I need.â
âThen I need you to be able to touch me, angel.â
Youâre struggling not to tear up again at the term of endearment, chest tightening undeniably because of the emptiness that had settled there for far too long. Another apology gets caught inside your throat but Spencer makes sure it doesnât have time to fall from your lips. Thereâs no need for it, he understands everything all too well. Still, heâd be damned if he couldnât feel your touch now. He needed it, needed you, needed everything you were willing to give him.
He doesnât rush you as you discard his jacket, doesnât mind how careful you are loosening his tie. On the contrary, he basks in it â in your gentle care, the delicacy of your touch. It helps anchor him to the present, proves to him he doesnât need to be at war with what heâs known and who heâs been away from you.
If it wasnât for the small but heavy gasp youâd tried to suppress as you unbuttoned his shirt, met with his still evidently bruised skin, heâd still be stuck in his reverie. He imagines the warm, orange lamplight filling the bedroom from his living room is rather unforgiving, canât even begin to hide whatâs been done to him. He wishes he didnât have to smile sadly at you, didnât have to be undressed by you while soothing your worries. Youâve worried enough about him as it is.
âItâs alright, Iâm okay.â He smoothens your furrowed brow with his thumb, traces the curve of your profile until he meets your pulse point. Fast but steady. âTheyâre not as bad as they look.â Knowing you donât believe him doesnât stop him from continuing to try, effortlessly noble as he is, lips skimming across your forehead for good measure.
It only gets worse when his shirtâs finally off, and your hand trembles as it runs over the part of his forearm covered by gauze. That injury is far too recent, will definitely take a long time to heal. Maybe thatâs why he allows you to pay more attention to it.
Not for too long. Just until you can look at him again, until he knows you feel assured enough to return to the moment.
Only heâs left breathless when you start kissing his bare chest and murmuring apologies against his skin, instead. You intentionally shy away from his bruises and itâs enough to ruin him. Decidedly enough, he tilts your face up by your chin. Breathes quietly, âLay down for me?â Youâre quick to comply and heâs quicker to kiss you tenderly. Itâs almost a reward.
Your shoes are kicked off haphazardly before he comes to kneel on top of you, hands already reaching for the hem of your sweaterâuntil he pauses before heâs even begun.
âWhatâs wrong?â
Youâre lost as you try to understand whatâs behind the way he stares down between your eyes and his hands. Thereâs something heavy behind his hesitance to respond. Clearly heavy enough to make him question everything about the moment all over again. You wonât allow that.
You take your hands in his the way he did just moments before, snapping him back into action. Your consent is a sweet whisper on his mouth as you sit up to accommodate him â You can take it off, Spencer. Please.
Itâs that explicit sound of your eagerness he seeks as he continues to undress you, the keenness of your arching into him as he kisses down your exposed front once your sweaterâs thrown to the floor, too, and your trousers are pooling at your ankles.Â
His mouth is excruciatingly precise where it latches onto, returning to curves and dips and marks heâs mapped and doted on before, though youâre not sure the ferventness of his touch can be compared to any of them. Every pressing of his mouth on your body is deliberate, bearing enough devotion to leave you breathless, unable to look away from him.
âAre you okay?â Heâs back to facing you when youâre left clad in your underwear, palm resting where your heart pounds.Â
Heâs not satisfied when you only nod in return, but heâs content not to immediately seek a verbal response from you, if only because of how beautiful you look underneath him, adorned in white lace, warm and pulsating with affection and need.Â
He says your name quietly, watches you quite literally blossom because of it as if heâs the sun and youâre a flower deprived of its light for far too long. One cannot get used to being loved this way, Spencer knows it better now. He hopes he never does.
âIâm alright, yeah.â Itâs true enough in that youâre more alright than youâve been in a long time and you honestly donât know how to deal with it.
âYouâre too quiet for me to believe that, angel.â
âI donât know what to sayâŠâ But youâre not willing to mull over that right now, âIâve just⊠Iâve missed you so much, Spencer.â
âI know. So have I, honey. You have no idea how much.â His hand finds its way to your back right as you begin to card your fingers through his hair. Itâs enough an invitation for him to unclasp your bra, though he doesnât try to remove it yet. âIâll never be able to tell you how sorry I amââ
âI donât want you to do that.â You insist before youâre back to pleading with him, âPlease, donât do that. Please justââ
He shushes you with a kiss, knowing he needs to return to loving you just as much as you do.Â
Spencer lost three months of his life locked inside a prison cell for a crime he didnât commit. 92 days, 2,208 hours, 132,480 minutes, 7,948,800 seconds away from you. And yet, thereâs no rush to how he kisses down your chest, how his hands pull the lacy fabric of your bra off of your body until it lies forgotten on the mattress, how he cradles your body as if he gets to hold you for the first time.
âYouâre the prettiest thing Iâve ever known,â He confesses, words muffled in between kisses and licks and nips of your sensitive skin. Your breathing picks up as he alternates between taking each of your nipples in his mouth, his hands steadying you against the mattress by your hips as you lightly tug at his curls. The feeling causes him to sigh as he travels further down your body, litters your skin with more endearments, easing you into pliancy with his praise, âSo soft, so warm, so beautiful⊠Youâre everything.â
A strangled cry falls unabashedly from your lips, edged with need as his face hovers where youâre most sensitive only momentarily before you visibly react. Youâre burning there already, and this is a sight able to make your stomach flip and your heart feel ready to burst alone, but youâre too desperate to feel him to submit to that need.Â
Spencer respects your willingness to give far too much to put into words, but he knows well enough it works the other way around, too. Thatâs why itâs easy for him to plead with you, as he settles between your thighs, âLet me do this? Please?â
Fuck, fuck, fuck â How could you deny him this? How could you deny him anything?
âSpencerâYou donât have toââ
âMhh, thatâs beside the point.â His lips ghost over your knee, his eyes kind and imploring as he looks up at you, âI know that I want to. If you want it as well. So⊠May I?â
Itâs not new, how persistent Spencer is in knowing youâre earnestly receptive to his every offering. He wants you alert, fully immersed in the moment, but never at the expense of your comfort. You could swear, though, that thereâs more thatâs implicit in his call for your agreement. Youâre desperate to know just exactly what that is, hope heâll offer you the honest truth when you inevitably try to pick apart his behaviour.
But not now.
âYes. Yes, you may.âÂ
Itâs barely an exhale but Spencerâs so completely focused in everything about you that he couldnât miss it if he tried. Newfound warmth pools inside your stomach, and further down, down where you need him, when his lips find the back of your knee before they travel further up, christening you with expressions of gratitude.Â
Your heartâs at your throat as your hips rise instinctively, accommodating him in dragging the material of your underwear down your legs. Heâs glowing, the light emerging from the other room and outlining his bare shoulders transforming him into the most heavenly sight. Itâs an overpowering scene unfolding â he and those honey gold eyes youâd happily drown in if you could, his gaze unwavering, his lips dancing across your sensitive skin, leaving your body no choice but to surrender completely. Gladly, without hesitance.
Bare and trembling with anticipatory desire, you watch him watch you for a luscious beat, eyes growing darker the moment he spreads you open. He inhaled deeply, mouths something intelligible you canât quite catch, before he comes to hover above you once more, taking you by surprise (though itâs not unpleasant, not at all.)
The silence becomes overbearing, much too powerful, but you have no time to break it because he leans in and kisses you, this time with a softness so raw it could make you cry.
âI love you.â You melt underneath him as he speaks, hands caressing your sides lightly, âI know Iâve never told you so enough before, but thatâs going to change now. Iâll make sure of it. Is that okay with you?âÂ
You know he knows the answer to that. Still, you wish heâd let you say it back before he returns between your thighs.Â
âYouâre perfect, do you know that?âÂ
Youâre ready to quip back at him, challenge him with what he already knows as a man of science â that perfection is a man-made myth, something that doesnât exist in life â but heâs already using his index and ring finger to force your folds apart, gliding them against your wetness and then against your exposed clit. He circles it tentatively, just enough to get you to part your legs for him even more. He succeeds at it and he rewards you with a fond smile and a kiss just shy of where youâre aching.
Thereâs nothing holy about what follows, the way that Spencerâs tongue works against your clit, how he actually moans now that heâs back to loving you in every way he can. Itâs violently blissful, the epitome of sublime, how he devours you like heâs starving for you, like youâre an oasis heâs been praying to find.
âOh my God, SpencerââÂ
His fingers dig into the plush of your thighs, keeping you where he needs you as you cry out for him. Heâs immovable, lapping at your centre with fervent passion, drawing halos with the flat of his tongue, meeting your every buck and twitch as your arch onto him. Ecstasy builds up for the both of you, goosebumps travelling across your bodies as you shudder from the violent bliss.
Your gaze is hazy with tears, mouth agape as you mewl and whine, clinging onto the bedsheets next to you until you reach for his curls. You feel him nod, pushing further against you as you tug at them desperately, the act enough to make him build his rhythm up, promising your unravelling.
âGoodness, Spencerââ His tongue is a wicked thing, glorious in its dexterity, spectacular in its precision. He delves further as you keen, peers up from between your thighs as he sucks with clear avarice at your clit. âFuck, thatâsââ You tremble and gasp, entranced by the sight of his mouth moving fervently against you. Heâs gentle and unrestrained all at once, something to be marvelled at (though youâre certain heâd claim thatâs all you right then and there), and you canât hold that truth out on him, âFeels so good, so perfect, oh myââ
You find the strength to escape the daze youâre in, push a lock of hair back from his sweaty forehead. Abandoning one of your thighs for your hand, he leans into your palm, forces his eyes shut only for a fraction of a second to bask in your touch. Then, he holds your hands together on your stomach, a grip soft yet firm at the same time.
Momentum builds, your nerves starting to crystallise as you start to tense. The promise of pleasure has indisputably made a home in you, leaving you helpless as your head lands back on the pillow with a tiny thump. You know that Spencer knows what heâs about to do to you, itâs unmissable and heâs decidedly attuned to that fact.Â
âYouâreâSpencer, if you donât stopâIâm going toââÂ
His acknowledgement is gruff, almost inaudible exactly because heâs set on having you give yourself to him no matter what. He latches onto your core and you turn into a weightless thing, feeling ready to float, only Spencerâs not willing to let you. Never again is he going to let you slip through his fingers. Thereâs unmistakable hunger behind the way he looks at you, a silent pact sealed between you as your brow furrows and your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hands squeezing his in yours.Â
Itâs not that, however, that breaks you, has you choke on his name as his tongue drives you to abandon. Itâs the tender brush of his thumb where your pulse throbs under his touch, the glassiness of his eyes that makes the hazel turn into molten gold, lovingly as they look at you the whole time that you spasm underneath him. He anchors you down, to the moment, to the bed, to his lavish affection because heâs not done showing you how sorry he is, how much heâs missed you, how much he loves you quite yet. He eases only slightly, just enough so that you get to chase your climax with the freedom that you need, lets you guide his licks and swirls as you wish even in your most vulnerable state.Â
Love blossoms in his chest, brings him back to the first time he discovered you were the answer to a prayer he never intended to make, but heâs oh, so glad happened. He takes everything you give him, canât get enough of savouring your taste as its waves gush into his mouth.Â
He only lets up on his hold of your hands when youâve decidedly had enough, when you need to breathe properly again, but that doesnât mean heâs set to leave you cold. His mouth maps the inside of your thigh, fingers stroking you gently as you begin to relax.
You can barely feel and see him through the blissful haze, though the evidence of all heâs done to you surely extends beyond your sex â inside your thighs where his scruff has burned you, against your hips where his fingertips have left their temporary imprint. Youâre flushed, still trembling when you actually make out his figure where heâs standing by the bed, discarding his trousers and his boxers so youâre both even in your nakedness.
You swallow hard when you notice thereâs gauze wrapped around his thigh as well, and that he also limps when he has to make his way back to you. Youâre much too eager as you pull him down so heâs on top of you again, hugging him by his neck while he returns to soothing your muscles with his touch.
ââs okay, Iâm right here, everythingâs okay,â He affirms repeatedly, kissing your temple as you fully come to. Leaning back so he can stare at you, at the beauty that you are in such aftermaths, your hair falling down your shoulders and your mouth half-open, he canât hold back his smile. He doesnât want to. âReady?â
Of course, you are. Youâve already guided him where he belongs, leg slightly propped around his waist as you cradle his face in your hands. You take a moment, then breathe, âWhenever you are.â The pads of your thumbs run across the apples of his cheeks, feeling their sculpted-like edges, before you pull him in for a small kiss. âJust want to look at you when youâŠâ
He nods as you trail off, doesnât need you to ask twice for something like this, something he needs equally as much. âOf course, angel. Of course,â He promises, settling between your legs, forehead resting against yours. Vulnerability oozes from every part of him as he watches your hand travel down his front, stroke his skin delicately. âOh, my sweet girl,â He sighs against your mouth when you take him in your hand, pumping him slowly. Jesus Christ, he wants to cry because of how much heâs missed you. Heâs grateful for his restraint, though heâs not quite sure how it still exists as he fucks your hand and you lean forward to pepper kisses along his jawline. It lasts for a moment, until he only slightly twitches, leading him to guide your hand back to his chest, right against his heart. He brushes a few strands of hair behind your ear, lets the moonlight trace your skin unrestrictedly.Â
Like this, under your tender touch, your yearning gaze thatâs full of love and devotion, the promise of your union, the safety that Spencerâs known ever since you came into his life returns. And heâs more than ready to give in to it, give in to you, confess and repent, body and soul, praise a God he doesnât believe in just because thereâs you.Â
He lines the tip of his cock at your entrance and heaves along with you as you tighten your legs around his hips. Eyes locked with yours, he asks one last time, âAre you sure?â
âAlways.â You confess, yielding to him completely.
Everything becomes what it should be once again as he pushes inside you, carefully and slowly, submitting you both to completion. Heâs barely breathing as your walls stretch to accommodate him, arms trembling where they rest on either side of your face. Youâre no better, mesmerised by the sight of him above you, parted lips and eyes sparkling with tears as your chests rise and fall in tandem.
A soft whimper escapes him as he bottoms out inside you, and itâs then you pull him closer against you if humanly possible. âHey,â You call as your cores meet, breath hitching as he focuses on you. Ever curious and attentive, affection butterflies in your chest because heâs Spencer and because you love him and because nothing matters other than that. âIâm right here, yeah?â You trace his bottom lip with your knuckles, allow him to kiss them softly as you whisper, âWeâre alright, weâre here. Youâre safe, Spencer.â
Right then, the tears which pooled inside his eyes start to fall freely down his face. Thereâs nothing rueful about this moment. On the contrary, itâs because his chest is heavy with contentment now that heâs back to safety, to peace that he cries, lets himself be. Recognition is evident in the way he looks at you, the way he kisses you, as he begins to move inside of you. Gently, slowly, just enough to remind himself and you of that promise.
Together, just like that, you return to the closeness that youâve known and chosen all that time ago. Deliberately, on purpose. With an arm around his waist, you encourage that first thrust that engulfs him in your warmth. A delicate whine escapes you, makes itself known, followed by a soft moan on his part. Easing into that precious back and forth like no time has passed, you both soften impossibly in each otherâs arms, dissolving into a pliancy that feels almost pious.
Your walls are slick with warm as they tighten around him, welcoming him back, and heâs unable to think straight. All that he knows is that heâs looking at you, that heâs back to being one with you, and heâs feverish because of it. Feverish with love, with need, with gratitude.
âFuck, youâre perfect,â His lips find the crook of your neck, your name a murmured sigh as he starts to pick up his pace the more vocal you become in response to his movements, âYou feel so good, fuck, Iâve missed you so much.â
You preen under his kisses and his words, the unabashed praise heâs christening you with as your lips meet his ear, âFuck me, Spencer, thatâs perfectââ It lands as a moan, mouth grazing the birthmark on his jawline, a soft spot for him, as he settles deeper and deeper inside of you with every thrust, âOh my fucking God, I love youââ
Itâs those words that make him snap, right as one of your arms tightens around him, nails digging into his skin, and he loses all sense of self as he fucks you with an intensity that burns. Thereâs no him without you, nor is there a you without him â he can hear it in the obscene sounds both of you are making as you merge, he can feel it in how you clench and unclench around him, he can smell it in the air surrounding you that reeks of your signature vanilla perfume, sweat, and sex.Â
Heâs relentless as he grinds deeper and deeper still, until he meets that spot, right where youâre all fuzzy and soft and begging to be felt. Leaning back, he knows itâs not enough for him to feel this, he needs to see it, too. He always does.
âSpencerââ You gasp, mouth inches apart from his, hips rising and falling exquisitely as he steadies you around him.Â
âI know, honey, I know,â He soothes, pounding into you faster and faster, âRight there, yeah? Thatâs it, isnât it?â Once again, heâs indeed right. Youâre nothing but a mess underneath him, giving and taking and being rendered speechless the more that he continues to open you up, âIâve got you, angel, Iâm here. Iâm right here, yeah? Iâm all yours. You donât have to wait for anything anymore, yeah? Look at me, Iâve got youââ
You tremble and whimper as you meet his gaze, recognising the need his voice is stained with because you feel it, too. Itâs everywhere and youâll be damned if you donât look at him in the eye when it inevitably takes over you both, when thereâs no hiding from it, when thereâs no turning back from it.Â
âPlease, Spencer, pleasepleasepleaseââ Youâre begging for something you know youâll get, regardless, but you canât refrain from voicing it. Itâs been far too long since you last did and you need him to know this is exactly what you want, that itâll always be exactly what you want. You and him, united beyond comprehension, in every possible sense of the word.Â
Spencer curses in return, reaches blindly for your right hand with his left where it rests against the pillow, squeezes it tight. Groaning deeply, he feels the ricochet of pleasure travelling up his spine and he slurs your name out, âIâve got you, Iâm right there with you, Iâve got youââ
Heâs barely able to hold himself back, grateful he doesnât need to, because the moment his promises echo in the dead of night alongside a few more rolls of his hips, you begin to spasm relentlessly, coming undone for him. You arch desperately, pushing and pulling as he fucks you through it, overwhelmed by the pleasure taking over your entire body, crawling inside every part of you as you flutter around him.
Spencer follows mere moments later, burying himself deep inside you as you pull him close, looking at him with a devotion so earnest it borderlines on reverent. He swears his heart stops when you return those soothing murmurs at him, cry out softly that youâre there, urge him to let go for you, even in your misty, blissed out state. Itâs exactly the same way he looks back at you, too, as he plunges low and spills himself inside you, filling you. Heâs hot, searing almost, and you want to cry because of how right it feels.Â
Youâre surrounded by love, by tenderness, utterly spent. You have succumbed entirely to a trance it takes a while to recover from but you wouldnât have it any other way. Spencerâs face buried against the crook of your neck, his fingertips absentmindedly tracing your back where itâs still slightly lifted off of the mattress, while your free hand runs through his unruly curls, and youâre nuzzling your face against your intertwined hands next to you, kissing his much larger one wherever you can.
Heâs first to come to, though he doesnât quite move from where heâs settled on top of you. His lips latch onto your chest without following a specific path, his mind set on coaxing you back to consciousness as gently and kindly as possible. His heart aches when he sees you nuzzling against the bandaged spot on his forearm, apologetic for harm youâd never be responsible for. You had a tendency to do that.
âShhh, shhh, youâre alright. Stay still for me, honey.â He whispers, lips pressed sweetly against your cheek. His chest tightens at your tiny whimper once he removes himself from inside of you, his cock softening and his essence running down your thighs just slightly. The way you try to cling onto him is almost enough to keep him there. Almost. âIâll be right back, yeah?âÂ
It takes him a moment to make good on his promise, and of course, you havenât made good on yours. Impossibly stubborn as you always are, youâre lying down on your stomach when he returns from the bathroom, hugging his pillow to your chest.
Once you notice the damp cloth in his hands, you scoot back, features softening as you watch him climb back on the bed. Your legs part for him, a dreamlike sigh slipping past your lips at the feeling of the warm cloth washing away the evidence of what had just happened between you.
You settle against his shoulder, eyes focusing on the bandaged spots on his forearm and his thigh. When he finishes up his work, the words spill before you could notice, âDo you need to change those?â
He blinks down at you, momentarily confused before he realises what youâre referring to. He shakes his head, âTheyâre fine.â
âRight.â Is he, though? You ponder, watching as he rises from the bed, hobbles back inside the bathroom, and leaves you confused as to what youâre supposed to do. Are you supposed to stay here? Are you supposed to leave? If you stay, then youâll inevitably have to talk â about everything. Frankly, youâre terrified of that, albeit not as much as Spencer must be. If you leave, youâre not quite sure youâll be able to return, if only for fear Spencer wouldnât want you to. But then what was all this for?Â
Youâve waited long enough with your thoughts, it seems, because when your eyes snap into focus next, Spencerâs next to you again. Heâs debating whether itâs a good idea to touch you, to bring you closer to him. You donât let him do so for long, crawling back inside his arms.
You break the stifling silence first, do it by calling him out using his words from before, âYouâre the one being much too quiet now.â
He chuckles, the sound a huff of air breathed through his nose. Itâs enough to make butterflies erupt in your stomach.Â
âYeah, guess Iâm the one who doesnât know what to say now.â
âHow uncharacteristicâŠâ You tilt your head back, observing him as he stares at the ceiling while absentmindedly stroking your hair, a faint hint of a smile against his lips. âDo you want me to go?â
He doesnât miss a beat as he answers, âThatâs the last thing I want.âÂ
While thatâs good to know, and itâs enough to make heat rise from your neck to your face, itâs still not quite enough. It doesnât help you understand what youâre supposed to do with yourself and with him. âI think the last thing you want is to talk.â
He looks down at you then, coils a strand of hair behind your ear. Resting his hand at the nape of your neck, he sighs, âWeâll talk. I promise we will.â
When he blanks, the only thing you can do is nod faintly. Because the truth is that youâve always been understanding to a fault and youâve never known anyone who deserves that dignity more than Spencer. âJust not tonight?â
He purses his lips and silently thanks whatever force has brought you into his life, whether that be a God he doesnât quite believe in, the universe, or the good heâs done in a past life heâs being rewarded for in this one. Pressing his forehead against yours, noses brushing together, Spencer vows that no matter how much everything that happened may have changed him, he will remain deserving of you, spend the entirety of the rest of his life making up for lost time, making sure the wait is worth it, if only because there canât be him without you, not anymore, not ever. âJust not tonight.â
Itâs a promise youâre sure is worth any wait there might be, a settlement youâre more than willing to make. Because like this, with Spencerâs arms wrapped tightly around you and his lips softly pressed against yours, you are back to feeling safe again, back to knowing all that thereâs to know, back to feeling mortal enough to suffer any blow that can be proved prove fatal, back to understanding there truly canât be you without him.
the desire to rewatch kraven is to me what the north star was to pirates except they navigated the sea while I can pinpoint the exact peak in my ovulation
visual is for vibes only, readerâs appearance is nondescript!
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
summary: during your maternity leave, you pay a surprise visit to the team
warnings: brief mentions of new-parent anxieties and hypothetical death, daughterâs name is natalie
word count: 1.8k
a/n: this ended up being a little more hotch-centric than i wanted it to be, but enjoy girl dad spencer anyways!
Youâd had your baby.
Ten weeks of sleepless nights, soft lullabies and a love deeper than anything youâd ever known. You couldnât be happier.
Spencer had insisted on taking his full paternity leave, determined to spend every moment that he could with the baby. He wanted to be there for every sound and move she made.
Returning to the BAU hadnât been as seamless for him as heâd hoped. Heâd always been able to compartmentalise, but now, every child-related case hit a little too close to home. Every missing kid made him picture Natalieâs face. Every grieving parent reminded him of how much he had to lose.
He was constantly on edge now, always thinking ten steps ahead and not just for the case, but to protect the life heâd built with you.
Natalie Anne Reid.
Anne had been his choice - after Lucy Maude Montgomeryâs âAnne of Green Gablesâ.
He wanted his daughter to grow up to be brave and curious and kind. Assertive. Imaginative. Intelligent, like her father. He wanted the world for his Natalie.
Heâd been back at work for just two weeks when the teamâs curiosity hit his breaking point. No number of pictures or phone calls was satisfying their hunger for time with you both.
Which led to this morning, when youâd bundled up your daughter and accompanied Spencer to the BAU for the first time since she was born.
âKnock, knock,â you called with a smile as you stepped through the double doors of the BAU, cradling a swaddled Natalie to your chest and Spencer trailing behind you.
Morgan and Prentissâs heads snapped up from their desks in perfect unison at the sound of your voice.
Morganâs eyes locked onto the bundle in your arms, and a grin spread across his face, âIs this her?â
âThis is her,â you replied fondly, adjusting your baby girl so he could see her tiny face peeking out, already grinning up at her new admirers.
Morganâs smile grew even wider, âGarcia!â
The squeak of Penelopeâs swivel chair echoed from across the bullpen, and you saw her duck her head out of her office, âYes, angel, baby, love of my life?â
âBabyâs here.â he smiled softly.
âOh my God!â she squealed, launching from her chair as soon as her eyes landed on you and the newest addition to your family.
A chorus of coos erupted around you as Garcia rushed over, eyes already shining with tears as she looked down at Natalie.
âSheâs perfect,â she whispered, hands clasped over her heart, âI mean, I knew she would be, but look at her little face! Sheâs an angel.â
You laughed softly, feeling Spencer step just a little closer behind you, his hand brushing against the small of your back in quiet support.
Heâd gotten ridiculously protective since youâd given birth and was hardly even letting you walk to the kitchen for a glass of water without hovering nearby, just in case.
Normally, you loved the attention. But this wasnât pampering. This was anxiety. Deep-rooted and persistent.
Youâd always been the one driving yourself mad when it came to your health, but lately, it felt like the two of you had switched places.
You were calm. Logical, even.
And Spencer? Heâd practically wrapped your entire apartment, including Natalie, in metaphorical bubble wrap and literal baby-proofers.
No one had even gotten close enough to try kissing your baby. And at ten weeks, she was more than safe to be around people. But Spencer had all but nailed a âNo Entryâ sign to her vicinity.
âSheâs adorable,â Spencer affirmed, a little breathless as he watched Garcia ogle Natalie. His fingers twitched at his side, the instinct to hover almost overpowering.
You reached for his hand without looking, and he laced his fingers with yours automatically, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch.
Garcia swayed on the balls of her feet,, her eyes locked onto your daughter like she was the eighth wonder of the world.
She gasped suddenly, eyes wide, âShe smiled at me!â
âDid you see that? I think she smiled!â she looked between you and Spencer excitedly.
âSheâs been doing that more lately,â Spencer said, a proud smile blooming on his face.
âItâs not actually reflexive anymore. At about six to twelve weeks, social smiling becomes more intentional. Natalieâs ahead of schedule, of course.â
You gave him a knowing look, smiling amusedly, âOf course.â
He didnât notice your teasing, too wrapped up in watching his daughter as he continued his ramble.
âShe recognises voices now,â Spencer added, his voice excited, âShe knows Garciaâs. And Y/Nâs. And mine.â
Desperate to see her excel, heâd gone as far as to record himself reading several storybooks, ones Natalie couldnât yet understand, just so she could hear his voice at night.
He blinked hard, clearing his throat. He still couldnât believe she was real, âEspecially mine.â
At that, you squeezed his hand. You knew heâd been reading every book, journal and case study on infant development since the day you found out you were pregnant.
But none of them had prepared him for what it would actually feel like to have his girl in his arms, and his life.
Down the hallway, blissfully unaware of all the hullabaloo, in the break room, was Hotch, pouring himself a, not un-rare, second cup of coffee.
Heâd been up since before sunrise, working through the latest case files and trying not to think about how quiet the office felt with Reid still only half-present and you completely absent.
An excitable laughter interrupted his train of thought.
He paused halfway through stirring his coffee, frowning slightly at the sound. It wasnât often the bullpen erupted like that, especially not this early in the morning.
Mug in hand, he stepped out, expecting maybe a surprise birthday or some inappropriate joke from Morgan. But when he turned the corner, he stopped short.
There you were, baby in your arms and swarmed by the rest of the team, who could barely contain their excitement.
His footsteps slowed.
âYou brought her in,â he said, eyes slightly wide at the sight of you, back at the BAU so soon.
âJust for today,â you nodded, âDidnât think it was fair for her to go any longer without meeting the team.â
Hotch stepped closer.
Whilst Reid moved to the side of you both with the others, to give you some space, he stayed nearby, eyes never quite leaving you. You felt him ease up a bit when Hotchâs gaze settled on Natalie.
âSheâs beautiful,â Hotch said, a small smile tugging at his lips, âCongratulations.â
âThank you,â you replied, swallowing around the unexpected lump in your throat.
You shifted Natalie again, more to centre yourself than anything. Her little hand peeked out of the blanket, curling softly against your chest.
âHotch,â you said, carefully. His eyes met yours, sharpening almost immediately.
âThereâs something I wanted to ask.â
Hotch paused, setting his still-steaming mug on the nearest desk, âOf course,â he nodded, folding his arms across his chest.
âWeâve⊠Iâve been thinking about this a lot,â you began, glancing back at Spencer briefly. âYou know, our jobs are so high-risk, and we wanted to know thereâd be someone there for her, if, God forbid, something ever happened to us.â
You took a steadying breath to stop yourself from rambling.
âHotch, I want you to be Natalieâs godfather.â
At your words, a mix of emotions flickered across Hotch's face. Surprise, honour, and a pain that he was trying very hard to hide. You saw right through him.
His eyes remain fixed on the baby in your arms, and a moment passed, in which the weight of your request settled.
âAre you sure?" he asked gently, like he was scared you would take back the offer if his voice held too much grit.
You nodded, blinking back tears, âYouâve taken care of me all these years in the field . Made me feel so and safe loved here⊠Hotch, thereâs no one Iâd trust more.â
Hotch looked up at you, his usually unreadable face softening. Your words seem to hit a nerve in him and, for a moment, he struggled to speak.
âI...I'd be honored to.â he finally managed, voice uneasy.
Stuttering.
SSA Aaron Hotchner. Your boss. Your mentor. The man who had never been seen blinking in front of the team was tearing up over your daughter.
Your heart nearly burst.
Hotch looked down at Natalie again. His knuckles gently brushed against her cheek. She mewled, smacking her lips in her sleep.
You noticed the way his gaze lingered on her in a sort of dumbstruck awe, softer than it had ever been, âWould you⊠would you like to hold her, Hotch?â
He looked up, caught off guard, but the answer was written all over his face.
âI would,â he said, with a small, genuine smile. He was already smitten with your girl.
You didnât even have to say anything. Hotch took Natalie into his arms with a natural ease. He supported her tiny head, one large hand nearly enveloping her entirely. She let out a soft huff, cuddling closer to his chest.
âThank you,â you whispered, as you wrapped your arms around him, tears slipping down your cheeks now.
He held you there for a moment, Natalie still in the crook of his arm. He seemed to hesitate briefly, almost like he was scared youâd disappear, and Natalie along with you.
âYou don't need to thank me," Hotch said, holding you a little tighter and his voice choked up.
âI do. Not just for this.â you said quietly, letting your head rest against his shoulder.
Your words weighed a ton.
He swallowed hard, his free arm tightening around you further, until you were sure heâd snap you in two. He was shielding you, handling you with just as much care as he would your daughter.
Hotch knew the struggle youâd been through to get here. The battles youâd fought in your own mind. The fear of things never changing. Now, you were glowing.
He couldnât help but feel proud of you.
His eyes drifted to Reid across the room, your now husband, animatedly telling the others how Natalie had grabbed his finger for the first time. How, not to brag, but sheâd done it earlier than 78% of babies in her age bracket.
Hotch smiled. The two of you truly were perfect parents.
He took a quiet moment to gather himself, then said, with more love in his voice than youâd ever heard:
âIâd do anything for you. You know that.â
It was then that the rest of the team came bundling over again.
You quickly wiped your eyes, just as Garcia dramatically announced that she was going to die if she didnât have Natalie in her arms in the next two seconds.
Hotch let out the smallest chuckle, carefully transferring Natalie to her next set of loving arms.
And, in that moment, you couldnât be more grateful for the honorary family that youâd found in the BAU.
. After the events of the Nostromo, you and Ripley wanted to get away from it all, using the money she got from suing the company she bought some land and a ranch for you to spend the rest of your lives together in peace.
.Only uses pine soap, it's one of her signature scents, along with any musky vanilla smell she can gets her hands on. She knows it drives you crazyyyyyâŠ
.You give her riding lessons because you are forever a horse girl and she wants to be apart of that. She has an Ardennais horse and a German Shepherd and Jonesy is the man of the house⊠obviously.
.She always has her nose in a book when sheâs not working on the ranch, sometimes sheâll be oblivious to what youâre doing because sheâs so engrossed in her silly little books.
.Picks flowers for you every so often, she likes to put them in your hair. :)
.Hugeeeee hat collection!!! even though she only wears one, it has stars embroidered on it courtesy of you.
.Scuffed brown boots are her go to choice of footwear, even when youâre going out someplace nice, even in the house.
.Pretends to be annoyed when you steal her hat but deep down thinks itâs adorable.
.BIGGG whisky drinker, i mean after the horrors you would be the same.
.Gets sunburn almost every day but she persists because she likes doing all the farm work for you.
.She WILL be running you both a bath every night, it helps with the nightmares but she also wants an excuse to be close to you. Your ranch has a very old tub but it has charm.
.She wonât stop kissing your head until you fall asleep peacefully in her arms. <333
did a double take on âYou give her riding lessonsâ bc I thought this was a diversion from our stonetop canon gf wife boyfriend lore but quickly realised I was being whorish đ«¶đ»đ
tiktok gifted me a higher education than any academic establishment on the day it taught me that the âaaaaaaaaaaaaaahâ part of Toxic by Britney Spears was made entirely for post-prison childless-dilf Spencer Reid, approximately 13 years prior to his existence. case in point: ⥠⥠âĄ
Summary: Spencer cannot stop fantasizing about you
Request: A fic where Spencerâs crush on BAU!Reader is so intense and heâs having all these sex dreams about her and his main dream for him is to go down on her. He wants nothing more than to go down on her and taste her and worship her.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!ReaderÂ
Category: Smut
Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) Spencer is a bit of a pervert, sex fantasies and dreams, there was only one bed, male masturbation, description of oral (fem receiving) and fingering, coming untouched
Word count: 1.9k
Masterlist
It had to be your scent.Â
Floral, sweet and absolutely mesmerizing.
For weeks Spencer had been trying to figure out what it was about you that slowly drove him mad. He even looked at the latest research about physical attraction, only to come to the conclusion that the two of you apparently were a perfect match.Â
Only you didnât know that yet.Â
So Spencer had no choice but to indulge in his fantasies about you to soothe his yearning for your nearness.Â
It all began a few weeks ago, just a couple of days after you had started working at the BAU. Spencer stood behind you at your desk, leaning over your shoulder to read over the case report you had just finished.Â
He had every intention of giving you constructive feedback but his mind went completely blank once he noticed your scent. It wasnât some perfume, Spencer was sure about that. It was like your neck emanated some sorcerous haze that rendered him completely speechless.Â
Lucky for him, you hadnât noticed how dumbfounded he suddenly felt around you.Â
Later that night, when Spencer was fast asleep in his bed, you visited him in his dream. He noticed your sweet smell before he saw you, waiting for him completely bare, ready to be devoured. There was no hesitation, no holding back before Spencer fell to his knees to worship every part of you.Â
He woke up painfully hard the next morning, a desperate sigh escaping his lips when he realized it was only a dream. Spencer felt bad to taint you like that but he couldnât help but touch himself to the thought of you.Â
With closed eyes he let his mind flood with your images. The way your chest vibrated when you laughed, the way you looked at him with wide eyes when he explained something to you.Â
A determined hand pulled down the waistband of his pajama pants to free his aching cock. Wrapping his fingers around it, he began moving slowly. A different memory of you appeared inside his head with every stroke. Â
He thought about when he watched you stretch your arms over your head at your desk and a small patch of skin became visible just beneath the hem of your blouse. Then, the memory of your scent hit him like a train.Â
Desperately, Spencer let his thumb swipe over the leaking tip of his hardness before speeding up his strokes. Biting down on his lips, he held back his desperate whines.Â
He imagined how your skin would smell when heâd kiss down your body. How it would intensify the closer he got to your core. He thought about you spreading your legs for him and how your honeyed wetness would taste on his tongue.Â
That was what threw him over the edge. With a pathetic whimper he came, spilling his essence over his hand and stomach. The cool shower that followed was not enough to wash away the guilt he felt for doing something so sinful while thinking about the purest thing heâd ever seen - you.Â
However, it was nothing compared to how mortified he was when he actually saw you that day. His cheeks were blooming bright pink and he could barely stutter âgood morningâ once he laid eyes on you. Only focussing back on his job allowed him to take his mind off you for a couple of hours.Â
Over the following weeks, Spencer felt like he was going insane anytime he stood too close to you.Â
It was the same every time. He sensed your wonderful smell and he was a goner for the rest of the day, already knowing what would happen once he fell asleep that night. The dreams of you became more vivid each time, so much so that Spencer had trouble telling fantasy apart from reality whenever he woke up the next morning.Â
When he woke up today, he could have sworn he could still taste you. Lively was the memory of the way your silken folds felt under his tongue and how enchanting your heady aroma was. Only it was not a memory, it was just his mind playing tricks on him.Â
Over the past few weeks Spencer had learned to act normal around you despite the peccable thoughts he had whenever he was alone. That was until the two of you were told to share a room on the current case.Â
When you noticed that there was only one bed in the room, you let out a breathy laugh, âOf course.âÂ
Spencer avoided your eyes when you turned to him and you noticed how his cheeks turned pink. âI uhâŠ,â he stuttered. âUhm I could ask someone to switch rooms?âÂ
âIâm okay with this if you are,â you told him. âThereâs enough room for the both of us.âÂ
Spencer, however, was not okay with it but had no intention of letting you know that. Not because he didnât crave your nearness but because he was certain it would be his downfall. After clearing his throat, he tried as best as he could to get his composure back and nod.Â
It was already late and both of you were exhausted after working on a very tiring case all day. Spencer was the first one to take a shower and settle down on one side of the bed, a book in his hands, pretending to read until youâd find your home under the covers, too.Â
When you stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but flimsy pajama shorts and a white tank top, Spencerâs brain almost short-circuited. It was so bad, he couldnât even hide his staring. The natural curve of your breasts was visible under the fabric of your shirt, a view Spencer had only imagined so far.Â
When he felt too much blood rushing down to his center, he quickly averted his eyes back to the book in his hands, hoping you hadnât noticed his staring.Â
âItâs weird, isnât it?âÂ
Your words brought Spencer back to reality. He found your eyes and raised his eyebrows.
âSeeing each other like that, I mean,â you clarified. âItâs very different from our usual work attire.âÂ
Spencer looked down at his washed-out Caltech shirt. âYeah, thatâs true.âÂ
He tried not to look at you when you slid beneath the covers right beside him but he couldnât help but watch the way your body moved from the corners of his eyes. You turned off the nightlight on your side of the bed before laying down.Â
âYou can keep reading if you want, I donât mind,â you whispered as you closed your eyes.
âNo, Iâm really tired,â Spencer said as he turned off the lights on his side and put the book down. âGood night.âÂ
Once he had laid down, he felt wide awake though. As he listened to your steady breathing, your scent filled the room and began clouding Spencerâs brain. Minutes passed as he just laid there, contemplating how inappropriate it would be for him to make a move. He thought about rolling to his side, wrapping you into his arms and kissing your neck. To keep his indecent thoughts at bay, he forced himself not to take this fantasy any further.Â
Finally, his body started feeling heavy and sleep began dulling his senses, relieving him from the torture that was reality. That was until he felt your fingertips gently brushing over his arm, a sensation that almost shocked him.Â
âAre you still awake?â He heard your hushed voice.Â
âYes.âÂ
You turned and slid closer to him until your face was mere inches away from his. There was little light in the room but it was enough for Spencer to notice the smirk on your face.Â
âI canât sleep,â you said. âI canât turn my mind off.âÂ
Spencer cleared his throat. âBecause of the case? Do you want to talk about it?â
âNo, itâs not the case,â you purred. âI just canât stop thinking about how much I want to kiss you.âÂ
Before he could ask any more questions, he felt your mouth against his. It was as if a dam broke when he felt your nearness, there was no more holding back. Spencer pulled you closer, his hands on your back pressing you into him, not allowing any distance between the two of you.Â
His lips were greedy and demanding, kissing you like he was starving. In a way, he was. When a whimper escaped your throat, he saw it as an invitation to deepen the kiss. His tongue met yours, tasting you for the first time as you two melted into each other.Â
It wasnât enough, though.Â
Spencer turned you on your back and hovered over you as he began kissing and nipping down your neck, taking in your sweet smell.Â
âYouâre mesmerizing,â he breathed against your pulse point before licking along your neck. âI canât get enough.âÂ
Hurriedly his hands grabbed the hem of your shirt and you moved with him as he pulled it over your head. His palms were on your breasts before your back could touch the mattress again. His mouth followed his fingers, caressing your chest and hardened peaks until the sounds of your pleasure filled the room.Â
âPlease, Spencer,â you moaned. âI need you.âÂ
There was no need to explain any further what you needed, he understood. Slowly, Spencer kissed down your stomach before licking along the seam of your shorts. Then, he sat up and slid the fabric down your thighs before you spread them for him.Â
He wished there was more light so he could see all the glory your body had to offer but he had to rely on his other senses to explore you. Spencer lay down between your legs and began kissing your inner thighs while breathing in your infatuating scent.Â
The mewls falling from your lips once he licked over your slit with a flattened tongue were driving him insane. But it was nothing compared to finally tasting your heady dew on his tongue. With the utmost care he kissed and licked over your folds, tasting every bit of you while imprinting your uniqueness into his brain.Â
Spencer barely noticed how painfully hard he was as he rocked his hips against the mattress ever so slightly. Tasting you and feeling you writhe beneath him was the best sensation he had ever experienced.Â
When he let two of his fingers gently glide into you, Spencer was sure he just entered heaven. The way you enveloped his fingers while releasing even more of your honeyed wetness was absolutely magnificent.Â
When you began pulsing around his fingers while crying out his name, Spencer couldnât help but indulge in this sensation with you. He released himself into his pajama pants while grinding against the mattress.
Spencer's eyes shot open while a sigh left his lips. The morning sun was already coming through the curtains of the hotel room window. You were asleep, your back turned to Spencer. He looked at you, wondering how he had just laid between your legs, and now you were lying fully clothed an arm's length away from him.Â
He thought back to moments ago. What he first thought was a memory began to blur and fade away. Slowly he realized that none of it had been real.Â
It was yet another dream.Â
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