[ohcaptains]

act nice and gentle

pairing. frank castle x female! reader an. this is for the girlies that recced my fic in the comments of frank castle edits. comments and reblogs are v appreciated. luv u warnings. 18+. male receiving oral, female receiving penetration, dom/sub dynamic, sub space (but not named), objectification/degradation, pain kink, over stimulation, spit play, spanking, dubcon (kind of, reader knows she can say no with the colour system), heavy use of the word ‘sir’, hair pulling, choking – a lot of this kinda softens at the end. this is v explicit. if u are a minor, or not comfortable with these things, do not read. i am not responsible for ur media consumption. 

synopsis. you’ve been irritated and frustrated these past couple of days. franks been getting on your nerves with his lazy habits, or merely just by existing. he takes it, though, because he’s the one with the solution. 

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[ohcaptains]

two am automatic;

pairing. frank castle x female! reader warnings. swearing. alcohol, loud music, annoying neighbours. choking, female receiving fingering and penetration. ummm, talkative frank? i kno right. he says some nasty shit   an. yeah i kno. i kno okay? i kno, i kno i kno i kno. i finally wrote a fic about my fave boy. pls reblog and comment, yall kno the drill<33

synopsis. your neighbour is an asshole and plays her music at 2am. at first, frank is civil, then when she does it again, he’s not so civil anymore.

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[aerispilled]

frank castle, fem, peter cameo, 0.4k — reader's implied to work nights, bc who takes naps at dawn

Frank’s just about to tuck you in for a nap, kneeling by the bed and cooing at you, bringing the blanket up to your chin. You snort when he groans at a voice calling him from outside.

“Frank? Frank! Anybody home?” Peter knocks (more like pounds) the door of his boat, shouting for all of New York to hear.

Frank kisses your head and stands, muttering to himself while he closes the bedroom door behind him. He climbs the stairs and lets Peter into the makeshift living area.

“Would you lower your voice, kid? I got my girl sleeping in the other room.”

Peter scoffs, incredulous. “You don't have a girlfriend.”

Frank goes to the counter and pours a steaming mug of coffee without a word.

He stills. “No way.”

While Peter gapes beneath his mask, Frank sips on his coffee. “Did you need something? It's early.”

“How'd you two meet?”

Frank sighs roughly, shaking his head and closing his eyes in annoyance. “Christ.”

“Can’t I know? We're supposed to be friends!” Peter rounds and sits at the table eagerly, like a child cozying in bed for a bedtime story.

“What is this, like a wellness check?” Frank grumbles and takes another chug. “Kid, it's early. Go home. Sun’s barely up.”

Peter whines, “Come on!” when Frank pulls him by the ear and drags him out. He asks, quickly, “Is she nice? Does she eat your chili? Can I meet her—”

“Yes, no, and no,” Frank answers in rapid succession. He pushes Peter out the door. “She's a well-kept secret and it’ll stay that way.”

A slam from the front door rattles the bedroom. You yawn when Frank comes back to bed moments later, shrugging his robe off and slipping under the covers with you.

“Who was that?” You ask, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Frank clicks his tongue and settles on your pillow. "Just the kid.”

You throw your arm over his waist and nuzzle into his chest. “What’d he want?”

He grunts, rumbling his chest under your ear. A hand smooths down your hair while the other keeps your arm close. “Don't worry ‘bout it. Just sleep.”

“He should come over for dinner.”

“Baby.”

“Alright, alright,” you concur, dozing off and him with you.

(A well-kept secret, Peter grumbles to himself, when he spots you and Frank kissing and sharing meals at a diner while on patrol several hours later.)

[storiesoferoda]

not proof read

Frank's favorite part of the day is when you two are going to bed. He’s usually reading something, keeping busy like he did when he was away because old habits die hard. And you’re on your phone scrolling social media because, again, old habits die hard.

But the two of you are so perfectly intertwined together, as you use his arm for a pillow, curling into his side, his chest warm to combat the cold autumn night.

And sometimes, when the page is too boring or his eyes are getting too heavy to continue much longer, his hand will reach down to your head, playing with your hair. Planting soft kisses, distracting you from whatever video you were watching.

Eventually, when he’s really bored with the book, he’ll close it gently, turning off the lamp beside him. Turning over his eyes, meeting yours as he scoots down to meet you. Pulling the covers up more until both of you are covered.

He’ll plant one final kiss on your lips, muttering a simple “bedtime” against your lips. The mint from the toothpaste still lingering. He’ll reach over to force your lamp off too. The room dark, only illuminated by the soft glow of your phone, before his hands reach the power button, clicking that off too.

“I was watching that” as you put the phone to charge, because the tiredness is starting to take over you too.

“Not anymore. Sleep with me, baby.” his voice was low, a grumble basically.

“M’kay,” as you plant one final kiss on his forehead. Before the warmth of Frank's arms around you and the slow and steady rise of his breath put you to sleep.

——————

a/n: I can’t thank you guys enough for the love on the last couple of Frank Castle things I’ve posted!! Comments likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. If you want to read more of my Frank stuff click here !

[lokileaf]

When It Comes To You

Frank Castle x f!Reader drabble

Summary: a slow morning with Frank has you appreciating how good he looks after an altercation.

Warnings: fluff, making out, mentions of violence, Frank is a big softie for you.

The early morning light shone through the thin material of your curtains, cutting through the dim of your room and illuminating the strong bridge of his nose and curve of his jaw. You rubbed your still tired eyes and continued to stare at him.

He really was handsome.

He never listened when you said so, but you loved telling him anyway. You loved how big, strong, mysterious Frank Castle would visibly melt a little when you complimented him. The way his eyes would soften at the corners, lips quirking into a subtle smile as he suppressed a chuckle.

"What're you looking at, baby?"

His rough morning voice pulled you from your thoughts as you realized he was staring right back at you, deep brown eyes boring into your own.

"You," you reply simply, your fingers trailing up the bare skin of his arm beneath the sheets.

"What're you doing that for?"

"You're so pretty, Frankie."

He scoffed softly, the slightest flush rising on his cheeks as he rolled his eyes teasingly.

"What're you laughing at, hm?"

"M'not, baby," he mumbled, turning onto his side to face you. "Sorry you have to wake up to my ugly mug." You frowned up at him, bringing one hand up to cup his jaw, relishing in the rough feeling of his stubble on your skin.

"Don't talk about my man like that," you say seriously, giving his cheek a soft squeeze. His gaze softened, eyes flicking from your down to your lips and back. He slid a large hand up the curve of your hip and over your waist before pulling you against his chest. You wrapped your leg over his hip, settling yourself against the warmth of his body.

"Okay okay, sweetheart, I won't," was his raspy reply as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Your stomach erupted in butterflies at the depth of his voice, the low rumble of it against your chest. You let yourself stare at him for a few silent moments, scanning his face. Your brows furrowed when you noticed a fresh bruise blooming over the skin of his jaw, previously hidden by the position he was lying in.

"Frankie..." your voice trailed off as you ran your fingertips over the discolored skin. He took your hand in his and brought it down to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back.

"It's nothin', baby, I'm fine. I promise."

"You need to be careful, baby," you scolded. "Don't want you messing up this handsome face."

"Can't even get in a little scuffle without being lectured, now," he teased, tilting your face up to kiss him. You ignored the comment in favor of slipping your tongue past his lips, humming into his mouth as he rolled on top of you. One forearm held the majority of his weight as his free hand slid down to wrap gently around your neck, arousal beginning to pool low in your abdomen. He tugged your bottom lip between his teeth before pressing kisses across your jaw and down your neck, his mouth sucking deliciously against your skin.

"So who was it this time?" you asked, arms threading themselves around his broad shoulders.

"Neighbor across the street getting a little too cozy outside your building," he grumbled against the crook of your neck. "Had a little heart-to-heart and it shouldn't be a problem anymore." Despite the concern for his safety, you couldn't help the warmth that began to spread through your chest at the protective edge in his voice.

"You know you can try talking to people before you beat the shit out of them," you said absentmindedly, increasingly distracted by the sensation of his body on yours and his lips on your collarbone.

"Not when it comes to you, baby."

[wonderlanderings]

Qualitative Over Quantitative

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: early seasons spencer, a lot of data that might or might not be true, spencer rambling, talk about sex but honestly just pure fluff 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: In which Derek Morgan's teasing backfires spectacularly, and Spencer Reid accidentally reveals he's been keeping a very important secret.

: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]

𝐚/𝐧: I've been rewatching criminal minds and i can't stop thinking about him

The bullpen is winding down for the evening. The usual frantic hum of phones and keyboards has faded into a low, comfortable murmur—the sound of exhaustion finally winning the long war against urgency. Desk lamps cast small pools of amber light across scattered case files, illuminating coffee rings and margin scrawls in warm, fleeting gold. Somewhere across the floor, the ancient breakroom coffee maker hisses its last, bitter brew of the night, a sound almost like a sigh.

Derek Morgan leans back in his chair, the old springs groaning in protest. He tosses a pen idly between his fingers, a familiar, teasing smirk curving his mouth. “You know, Reid,” he says, loud enough for half the unit to hear, “for a genius, you really don’t know how to prioritize. All those encyclopaedic facts rattling around in your head, and you still haven’t figured out that Saturday nights are for living. Not for whatever obscure Russian novel you’re dissecting this week.”

Across the bullpen, Emily Prentiss looks up with the patient expression of someone who has witnessed this exact argument forty-seven times before. She doesn’t intervene. She’s learned.

Reid doesn’t look up from his case file, though his pen pauses for just a fraction of a second—a tell so small only someone watching closely would catch it. “Dostoevsky is hardly obscure,” he says, tone perfectly even. “And for the record, my Saturday nights are perfectly fulfilling, thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” Morgan chuckles, swivelling toward JJ and Prentiss like a talk show host inviting audience participation. “Tell me I’m wrong. Between the two of us—genius boy and yours truly—who do you think gets lucky more often?”

But before anyone can answer, Reid clears his throat.

“That's an entirely misleading metric,” he says.

Morgan's grin widens. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes, actually.” Reid sets his pen down with a soft click, and the team recognizes the signs immediately: the slight straightening of his spine, the way his fingers begin to tap a staccato rhythm against the table, the subtle tilt of his head as he shifts into lecture mode. He's about to do the math out loud.

“First of all,” Reid begins, holding up a finger, “‘getting lucky’ is a subjective, self-reported measure, which introduces significant recall bias and social desirability bias. People overestimate. Significantly. By as much as forty percent in some studies.” Another finger goes up. “Secondly, you're comparing two data points—you and me—without controlling for variables like opportunity, environment, or personal standards. You have a tendency to equate quantity with quality, which is statistically unsound.”

Morgan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we go.”

Reid ignores him entirely, already mid-stride into the argument. His voice picks up speed—not quite rambling, but close, the way it does when he's genuinely enjoying himself. “Let's say, hypothetically, you sleep with a different woman every week. Generous, but possible. However—” He holds up a finger, ticking off points like a professor during office hours. “—you've also mentioned, on multiple occasions, that you don't ‘mix work with play’ and that you need at least one night to decompress. That leaves Friday and Saturday as your only viable windows. So let's assume sexual encounters occur on Friday or Saturday night. That's roughly two opportunities per week—but even then, not every weekend yields a new partner. You have off weeks. You get sick. Sometimes,” he adds, with the faintest hint of smugness, “women say no.”

Morgan's smirk twitches. “Okay, first of all—”

Reid tilts his head, gaze going distant as he does the numbers behind his eyes. His fingers twitch like he's physically calculating in the air. You've seen him do this a hundred times—map a geographic profile, run a probability tree, recite the entire history of some obscure piece of trivia. 

“Accounting for statistical probability of rejection, scheduling conflicts, and the inherent inefficiencies of the modern casual dating landscape—which, by the way, is heavily skewed by algorithmic dating app fatigue—your actual frequency likely drops to one new partner every ten to fourteen days. Optimistically.”

JJ is already grinning, resting her chin on her hand like she's watching her favourite courtroom drama. “I feel like I should stop you both,” she says, “but I really want to hear where he's going with this.”

Prentiss leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Oh, he's going somewhere. You can always tell when he does the head-tilt.”

Morgan points a finger at Reid, though his voice has lost its edge—there's genuine affection underneath the exasperation. “Alright, fine. Let's say I'm one every two weeks. What's your number, pretty boy? Hm? When's the last time you even—”

“That's not the point,” Reid interrupts, a little too quickly.

He presses on, gaining momentum now. His voice picks up that familiar, rapid-fire cadence—the one that makes unsubs' heads spin and makes the rest of the team feel like they're sitting in on a TED Talk they didn't buy tickets for. His fingers have resumed their tapping, faster now, keeping time with the race of his thoughts.

"Now, consider a person in a committed, cohabitating relationship. Let's establish a baseline: the average frequency of sexual activity for couples in the early stages of domestic partnership—say, the first two years—ranges from three to five times per week, depending on variables like work stress, health, and general compatibility. Let's take the conservative estimate: every other day."

Morgan opens his mouth—to argue, to deflect, you're not sure—but Reid holds up a finger without looking, and Morgan closes it again.

"Now," Reid continues, "multiply that over a four-week month. The partnered individual is engaging in sexual activity approximately twelve to sixteen times per month. The single person cycling through weekly encounters—assuming one new partner per week, which we've already established is an overestimate—is averaging four times per month."

Morgan crosses his arms, jaw tight. He's not offended—they all know him well enough to recognize the difference—but he's definitely recalibrating. "So you're saying—"

He delivers the final blow with clinical precision, but there's something softer lurking underneath. 

"And you're not even accounting for quality of experience, emotional investment, or—most importantly—long-term satisfaction metrics," Reid continues, his voice quieter now, less performative. "A single meaningful connection, maintained over time, statistically outperforms high-frequency, low-retention encounters in nearly every category of reported happiness. The Harvard Grant Study—one of the longest longitudinal studies on human development—found that the single strongest predictor of life satisfaction wasn't career success or financial security. It was the warmth and consistency of close relationships."

He pauses. Swallows. 

"So, really, the question isn't who ‘get’s lucky’ more." His voice drops, barely above a murmur now. Intimate, almost. Like he's forgotten anyone else is in the room. "It's who ‘get’s lucky’ enough."

For a beat, no one speaks.

Then Prentiss raises her coffee cup in a slow, deliberate toast. "I believe you just got murdered by math, Morgan."

The tension breaks—but not entirely. JJ snickers. Morgan rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head, but there's no heat in it. "Man, I just asked a simple question."

"You asked a misleading question," Reid corrects, but his voice has lost its sharpness. He's retreating back into himself, the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, the way his gaze drops to the case file again. Like he's said too much. 

Morgan blinks, his smirk frozen mid-spread. He holds up a hand like he's stopping traffic. "Hold on. Hold on." His eyes narrow, processing, replaying something in his head. "You're talking about you."

Reid's mouth opens, then closes. A faint flush creeps up his neck—not the blotchy, embarrassed red of someone caught in a lie, but something softer. Pinker. The colour of someone who hadn't meant to say as much as he just did. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture he doesn't even realize he has.

Prentiss leans forward, delighted, her elbows on her desk like she's settling in for a season finale. "Reid. Are you telling us you're in a serious, every-other-day relationship?"

"That's… not what I said." He adjusts his satchel strap, suddenly very interested in the grain of his desk. His fingers find the edge of a case file and straighten it unnecessarily. Then straighten it again. The file doesn't need straightening. Everyone knows it. No one says anything. "I was speaking hypothetically. Broad statistical trends. Aggregate data."

"Uh-huh." Morgan plants both hands on his desk and pushes up slightly. His grin is slow, dangerous, and utterly delighted. "You just compared yourself to me. Which means you're the one having sex every other day. With a girlfriend." He drags the word out like he's tasting it for the first time. 

JJ crosses her arms, mock-offended, though her eyes are warm. "Spencer Reid, how long has this been going on?"

Reid swallows. Hard. His gaze flickers to the window—not looking for an escape route, but for a moment of stillness. A place to land. When he looks back at the team, they see something they don't often get from him: not deflection, not a lecture, not a rapid-fire recitation of unrelated facts to change the subject.

Genuine, quiet vulnerability.

"Several months," he admits, low enough that they have to lean in to hear.

The word lands like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward. Morgan's smirk softens at the edges. JJ's arms uncross. Prentiss sits back slightly, her teasing expression fading into something more careful. More respectful.

No one pushes. Not yet.

But they're all looking at him differently now. Like they're seeing a new version of Spencer Reid—one who exists outside the bullpen, outside the case files, outside the lonely apartment they'd all quietly assumed he went home to every night.

"Kid." Morgan shakes his head, and there's something different in his voice now—not teasing, not needling. Something almost admiring. "I take it back. Every single thing. Every joke, every 'maybe try a bar sometime,' every time I said you'd die alone surrounded by books." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, a brief, grounding pressure. "You've been holding out on us."

Reid ducks his head, but the smallest smile tugs at his lips—shy, yes, but unmistakably real. It's not his knowing smirk or his closed-off court testimony expression. It's something softer. Something private, accidentally spilled. Like he's been keeping a secret so long that the act of letting it see daylight feels physically strange—but not unwelcome.

"You asked about frequency," he says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug that's almost bashful. "I just answered the question."

"You really did," Prentiss says, grinning wide enough to crinkle her eyes. "In excruciating detail."

JJ tilts her head, studying him like a case file she's only just realized she misread completely. Her gaze is warm but probing—that particular JJ look that says I see you, and I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. "And for the record," she says, her voice gentle but pointed, "I'm going to need to meet this person. Several months and you never even mentioned her name? That's practically classified information. I'm officially offended."

Reid opens his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to recite something about privacy and healthy relationship boundaries, maybe to quote a study on the importance of keeping certain parts of one's life separate from one's workplace—but then he catches something over Morgan's shoulder.

His words die in his throat.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft, mechanical chime—the kind of sound so familiar it usually doesn't register anymore. But tonight, it cuts through the bullpen like a bell.

And there you are.

Standing by the elevator bank, keys looped loosely around your fingers, a worn file folder tucked under your arm. You've clearly just come up from the archives—there's a faint smudge of dust on your sleeve, pale grey against the fabric, and your hair is slightly askew from leaning over old case boxes, a few strands escaping to frame your face. The overhead light catches the curve of your jaw, the concentration in your brow.

You're not looking at them yet.

Your attention is still on the files in your hands—a thick stack, dog-eared and labeled in fading marker. You're flipping through them absently, lips moving just slightly as you read, your thumb holding your place in whatever document has captured your focus. 

Reid forgets how to breathe.

It's not dramatic—not in the way movies make it seem. There's no swelling music, no slow-motion montage. Just the sudden, startling realization that he has been holding himself together all evening, and now, seeing you, every carefully constructed wall is coming down.

You look tired.

He notices it first because he always notices it first—the slight droop of your shoulders, the way you're blinking a little too slowly at the pages in your hand. You've been in the archives for hours. Probably forgot to eat. Definitely forgot to drink water.

But you're also smiling. Just a little. A small, absent curve of your lips as you read whatever case file has captured your attention. It's the smile you get when you've found something good—a lead, a connection, a piece of the puzzle that was missing.

He loves that smile.

He loves the dust on your sleeve and the mess of your hair and the way you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating. He loves that you exist in the same building as him, the same world, the same moment.

He loves you.

And now everyone is about to know it.

Reid's flush, which had been fading to a manageable pink, returns with interest—creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks, brushing the tips of his ears. But here's the thing that makes Morgan's eyebrows climb: Reid doesn't look away. He doesn't duck his head or pretend to read something.

Instead, that small, proud smile stays.

Grows, even.

Morgan is the first to put it together. Of course he is. He watches Reid's face change—watches the shyness give way to something steadier, something almost protective—and then he follows Reid's gaze across the bullpen.

His eyes land on you.

His smirk doesn't just return. It blooms.

"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, disbelieving: "No."

Prentiss notices Morgan's reaction before she notices you. She glances at him, then at Reid, then follows the sightline like a guided missile. When she finds you—dust-smeared, distracted, muttering to yourself over a case file—her eyebrows climb.

She doesn't say anything. She just tilts her head, watching, cataloging, filing away every micro-expression on Reid's face for later analysis.

But her silence is louder than words.

The bullpen feels suspended. Held breath and half-finished sentences. Even the ancient coffee maker seems to have stopped hissing, as if it, too, is waiting.

Morgan turns back to Reid, slow and deliberate, like a man approaching a wild animal he's just realized is actually a house cat. His expression cycles through about six different emotions in the span of two seconds—confusion, disbelief, dawning recognition, and finally, something dangerously close to pride.

"You told us you were 'helping her with research.'" He makes air quotes, fingers curving with theatrical emphasis. "That's what you said. 'The archives are extensive, Morgan, and she's new, and it's purely professional, Morgan, stop reading into things, Morgan.'"

Reid's flush deepens—creeping up from his collar, brushing the tips of his ears, painting his cheekbones in soft, tell-tale pink—but he doesn't deny it. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't launch into a rapid-fire lecture about privacy or workplace relationships or the statistical unlikelihood of his personal life being anyone's business.

"I was helping with research," Reid says quietly. "That's how it started."

"And then?" Prentiss prompts, leaning forward like she's watching the season finale she didn't know she needed. Her coffee cup is still frozen in her hand, forgotten. She doesn't blink.

Reid's eyes don't leave yours.

The bullpen falls away. The desks, the case files, the amber glow of the lamps—all of it fades into background noise. There's only him. Only the way he's looking at you like you've rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.

"And then," he says, and his voice catches slightly—just a breath, just a fracture, but you hear it. You always hear it. "I realized I didn't want to stop."

[wonderlanderings]

Whiplash

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: hurt/comfort, I think, either that or fluff, mid-ish seasons Spencer, some very mild violence, mentions of blood and injury, protective Spence 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Spencer Reid has never moved that fast. Not in the field. Not in training. Not ever. But when a grieving father shoves you into a kitchen cabinet during an interview, Spencer is across the room before anyone can blink—hand on the man's chest, voice like steel, all that quiet intensity finally aimed at someone who deserves it. The team is stunned. Morgan is asking questions. And the secret you and Spencer have been keeping for months is about to come crashing down.

: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]

𝐚/𝐧: is this anything?

You’d been bracing for this the second you stepped through the door.

The victim’s mother had the same wild, searching look you’d seen a hundred times before—the desperate need to blame anyone, anyone, other than the abstract monster who took her daughter. Grief curdling into rage at the nearest warm body. You’d taken point instinctively, not because you were the senior agent, but because Hotch’s gaze had already flicked to you in silent question. Can you handle this? You gave a single nod. I’ve got it.

“Mrs. Hartwell, I know this is unbearable. But every piece of information you can give us—her schedule, anyone new she mentioned—”

“You don’t know anything.”

Her composure shatters on the word. Her hands claw at the air between you, fingernails catching the kitchen’s fluorescent light like small, dull blades. “You stand there with your fancy credentials and your clinical words. My Maggie is gone.”

You hold your ground, even as your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. Don’t flinch. Don’t feed the spiral. You’ve seen grief turn feral before—watched it coil and strike like a cornered animal. You’ve also seen what happens when you back away: it tells them their rage is justified, that you’re afraid of the very pain you’re asking them to relive. So you stay. Soften your voice, but not your stance. “I understand. And I’m so sorry. But the small details—her routine, anyone new in her life—those could be the thing that brings her home.”

That’s when the father snaps.

He’d been vibrating in the corner, a burly man with red-rimmed eyes and fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. You register the shift in his weight a half-second too late—the draw of his arm back, the pivot of his hips, the ugly twist of his mouth. 

There’s no room to dodge.

His palm catches you high on the shoulder—a glancing blow meant to shove, not strike. A warning, maybe. Or the last thread of restraint from a man who hasn’t slept in days. But the momentum is brutal. You slam backward into the kitchen counter. The granite edge bites into your lower back, a hot wire of pain that lances straight up your spine. Then your head whips forward and then back—the crack of your skull against the upper cabinet is a sound you feel more than hear. A wet, hollow knock that echoes inside your own skull.

White-hot splinters through your vision, stars collapsing and reforming behind your eyes. Your teeth click together so hard you taste enamel. Then copper, hot and sharp, blooming across your tongue.

The room tilts.

Your knees buckle.

You catch yourself on the counter, one hand slipping on a forgotten dish towel as the world lists sideways. Warmth trickles from your scalp down the nape of your neck, a slow, alarming heat that doesn’t match the sudden cold in your fingers. You blink, and for one long second, you can’t remember where you are. The faces in front of you are smears of colour and grief.

Before you can even draw another breath, a blur of motion cuts through your peripheral vision.

Spencer.

Not the lanky, cardigan-clad genius who stammers through small talk and apologizes for existing in someone's personal space. Not the man who once spent ten minutes explaining the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies because he couldn't read your social cues, who carries paperback novels in his satchel like other men carry wallets, who still flushes when you hold his hand in the dark of your apartment where no one can see.

This Spencer moves like a spring uncoiling. Like something kept on a very short leash just got loose—all that coiled tension, all those suppressed instincts, snapping into terrible, beautiful focus.

He crosses the kitchen in three strides you don't consciously track. One moment he's across the room, and the next he's there, inserting himself between you and the father with a speed that makes Hotch's head whip up from across the room. 

His right hand shoots out, palm flat against the man's chest, and shoves. Hard enough that the father's back hits the wall with a dry, echoing thud—the kind that rattles the framed school photos hanging nearby. A child's smile. Maggie's smile. The irony doesn't escape you. Neither does the way Spencer's arm doesn't tremble. He's not straining. He's planted—weight distributed, centre of gravity low, the stance of someone who's been trained to hold his ground and forgotten to mention it.

"Keep your hands off her."

Spencer's voice is low. Stripped of its usual breathy pitch, stripped of the tentative upward lilt that turns every statement into a question. The stammer is gone. The apologetic half-smile is gone. In its place is something you've only ever seen in glimpses—when he reads a case file a little too closely, when he stares down an unsub who's made the mistake of threatening a teammate.

It isn't a plea or a warning.

It's a fact. Delivered with the cold certainty of a ballistic report. The kind of voice that makes seasoned interrogators lean back in their chairs.

"Reid." Hotch's voice cuts across the kitchen, not unkind but pointed. A reminder. We're still here. We're still watching.

Spencer's spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His chin lifts. When he turns toward the unit chief, his expression is perfectly neutral—open, cooperative, the eager young agent who quotes statistics and fumbles with his words and never, ever pushes back against authority.

Hotch studies him for a long moment. That gaze—the one that sees everything, the one that's made unsubs confess just by existing—sweeps over Spencer from head to toe, cataloguing, assessing. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod.

"That was an assault on a federal agent."

His words come precise and clipped, each one landing like a hammer strike. No rambling. No tangential footnotes about statistical probabilities or legal precedents. Just steel. The kind of voice you've heard Spencer use exactly once before—on a hostage negotiator's training tape Hotch made the whole team watch three years ago. The one where a twenty-something Reid talked a man off a ledge in under four minutes, then vomited behind the squad car afterward.

"You raise a hand again, and I will personally ensure you spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell while we decide how many additional charges to file."

His jaw is set. A muscle ticks beneath his eye—the only sign that he's even breathing. The father is twice Spencer's width, built like a man who's swung a hammer for a living, shoulders rounded with years of manual labour and grief gone toxic. And yet he shrinks. His mouth opens, some bluster forming on his tongue—a denial, maybe, or a defence—something about not meaning it, about his daughter, about grief making him crazy.

Spencer cuts him off.

"Don't."

The word snaps through the air like a rubber band breaking. Sharp. Final. It lands in the small kitchen and seems to suck the oxygen out of the room. 

"Not a word." Spencer's voice hasn't lost its edge. If anything, it's sharper now—honed to a fine point. "You're going to sit down, and you're going to calm down. If you so much as look in her direction again, we're done here. And your daughter's best chance walks out that door with us."

The man sits.

It's not graceful. His knees buckle more than they bend—a controlled collapse masquerading as obedience. His back slides down the wall until he's a heap on the linoleum, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fight drained out of him in less than ten seconds.

The mother makes a sound—something caught between a sob and a gasp—and Hotch is already there, guiding her to a chair, murmuring something about cooperation and finding Maggie. His voice is low, practiced. The same voice he uses for panicked witnesses and grieving families a hundred times a year.

But you're not watching any of that.

You're watching Spencer's hand drop from the man's chest. You're watching his shoulders rise and fall once, twice—a deliberate breath, the kind he uses to ground himself during panic attacks, the kind he taught you to use after nightmares. You're watching the way his spine stays rigid even as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, knuckles still pale.

He's shaking.

Not much. Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. But you're close enough to see the fine tremor running through his forearm, the way his throat works on a swallow he's trying to hide. He just threatened a man twice his size into silence with nothing but his voice and his presence—and now he's trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.

Only then does Spencer turn.

His eyes find yours—and for a split second, the mask cracks. Beneath the steel is something raw, almost frightened. You did that to him. You realize it with a small, stunned jolt—the way your pain becomes his panic, the way he'd burn this whole house down if it meant you walked out unscathed. It's not a protective instinct. It's something deeper. Something that lives in his bones now, whether he's named it or not.

His fingers are cool against your heated skin as he tilts your chin toward the light—the overhead fluorescents, merciless and buzzing, the kind that make everyone look washed out and exhausted. He doesn't seem to notice. He's examining your head with the same hyper focused intensity he brings to cold cases and obscure scientific journals. But his touch is different. Softer. The pads of his thumbs brush the skin just below your hairline, following the ache you hadn't realized was radiating outward from your skull.

Feather-light. Almost reverent. Like you're something precious he's been trusted to handle.

His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, coming away with a thin smear of copper. You watch him look at it—that single red line across his skin—and something in his expression fractures. Just for a second. Just enough for you to see. The mask doesn't just crack; it shatters, and underneath is something raw and unguarded: a man who has spent his whole life being too much or not enough, who has finally found something he can't bear to lose.

"You're okay," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.

It isn't a question. It's the same declarative certainty he used on the father—that same steel-and-ballistic-report finality. But this time, it's wrapped in something tender. Something that sounds like I need you to be okay dressed up as a fact. Like if he says it enough times, with enough conviction, the universe will have no choice but to comply.

You nod. Just once. Small.

His throat works as he swallows—a visible, effortful thing, like he's pushing down something that wants to claw its way out. Rage, maybe. Or relief. Or something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that's been living in the space between you for months.

Then he blinks.

And the Spencer the team knows clicks back into place. The tension in his shoulders doesn't fully release—it's still there, a wire pulled taut somewhere deep—but he smooths it down, tucks it away into whatever internal compartment he's built for exactly this purpose. His expression cycles through three micro-corrections: softening the jaw, relaxing the brow, lowering the shoulders. A man putting on his own face again, like adjusting a mask before stepping through a door.

You've seen him do this before. In interrogation rooms, when a suspect hits too close to home. At crime scenes, when the victim looks like someone he loves. In the quiet hours of the night, when nightmares leave him gasping and he has to remember how to be a person before the sun comes up.

But you've never seen him do it this fast.

His hand finds your lower back. Warm. Steady. A pressure that says I'm here without a single word as he guides you a step away from where the father sits slumped against the wall, weeping quietly into his hands. The shift is subtle—just a few inches—but you notice. Of course you notice. He's positioned himself between you and the room.

Behind you, Derek Morgan stands frozen mid-step, one foot forward, having lunged a second too late. His eyes are wide—not afraid, exactly, but stunned. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who just watched his nerdy little brother body-slam a bully twice his size and isn't sure whether to be proud or deeply concerned.

"Did… did Reid just physically intimidate someone?"

The question hangs in the air. Not accusatory. Just genuinely bewildered. Like he's asking the universe to confirm that his eyes aren't deceiving him, that the laws of physics haven't somehow inverted, that Spencer Reid—who once apologized to a door he walked into—just made a grown man shrink.

A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Emily’s face. The kind she gets when she's witnessed something she'll be holding over someone's head for years. Her eyebrows have climbed so high they're threatening to disappear into her hairline.

"I think he just threatened a civilian with federal prison and gave him a time-out." She tilts her head, watching Spencer angle his body between you and the room—a human shield disguised as casual concern. "That's… actually impressive. In a terrifying sort of way."

She says it lightly. But there's something underneath. A question she's not asking yet. Her eyes linger on the space between you and Spencer—on the absence of distance, on the way he hasn't looked at anyone else since he turned around. Emily has spent too many years in deep cover, has read too many micro-expressions, to miss the way Spencer's hand is still hovering near your back, even though the threat is neutralized.

Curious, her expression says. Very curious.

JJ's gaze flicks between you and Spencer, her reporter's brain cataloguing every detail. The hand on your back. The way your weight has shifted slightly toward him. The blood on your lip that he hasn't let you touch again. She doesn't say anything. But her eyes narrow—just a fraction—and something shifts behind them. Noticing. Filing it away.

She's going to ask you later. You can already tell. Not at the scene. Not where anyone else can hear. But later. In the bathroom of the jet, maybe, or while you're both pretending to sleep on the flight home. JJ has a way of making questions feel like kindness, like she's not prying, just checking in. 

Spencer’s thumb has started moving. An unconscious back-and-forth, a tiny circle, a soothing pattern he probably doesn't even realize he's making. The heat of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with the pain still pulsing behind your eyes.

"You need ice," he says finally, practical now, his voice climbing back toward its usual register. But his eyes haven't left yours. They're scanning—forehead, temple, cheekbone, lip—with the same intensity he'd bring to a crime scene, cataloguing every shade of bruise, every smear of blood. "And probably stitches. One suture, maybe two. The temporal region bleeds disproportionately to the severity of the injury because of the superficial temporal artery, so the amount of blood isn't necessarily—"

But Morgan isn't done.

"Reid," he says slowly, drawing out the name like he's testing the weight of it against his tongue. "You just put a man against a wall."

Spencer stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath the attention. His hand flexes against your lower back—a nervous twitch, fingers curling like they're searching for something to hold onto—before he remembers himself and lets it drop to his side. The absence of his palm is immediate. You feel it like a missing step on a staircase, like a word left hanging at the end of a sentence, like the hollow ache where a tooth used to be.

He clears his throat.

"He was a threat to a federal agent." His voice is carefully neutral. Clinical. The kind of tone he uses when citing case law or explaining blood spatter patterns to a room of sceptical local PD. But there's a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck—the one he gets when he's been caught doing something embarrassing. Or something revealing. "Protocol permits reasonable use of physical intervention to prevent further harm."

Morgan crosses his arms. His head tilts—that slow, assessing angle he uses when he's already figured something out and is just enjoying the process of watching someone squirm. The ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mean. Just knowing.

"Uh-huh." He draws out the syllable, lets it hang in the air like smoke. "And the part where you haven't let go of her for three minutes straight? What protocol is that?"

Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. His ears are turning pink now, visible even under the horrible kitchen lighting—that particular shade of red that creeps up from his collar and stains everything in its path. 

His hands are now shoved deep in his pockets, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.

You watch him cycle through approximately four different responses in the span of two seconds.

It was three minutes and seventeen seconds—too defensive, too precise.

She was injured—too obvious, too flimsy, too easy to poke holes in. 

“That's not protocol, that's—” He stops himself before he can finish that sentence, but the word hangs in the air anyway, unfinished and damning.

That's personal.

Morgan lets the silence stretch, patient as a cat at a mouse hole. His eyes flick to you—just for a second—and there's something softer there now. Not pity. Understanding, maybe. The kind of look that says I see you, I see both of you, and I'm not going to make this harder than it needs to be.

But he's not going to make it easy, either.

"You know," Morgan says, feigning casual, "I've known you for years, Reid. Watched you freeze up around witnesses. Watched you stammer through interviews. Watched you apologize to furniture." He pauses, letting the contrast sink in. "I've never seen you move like that. Not unless someone on this team was about to get shot."

Spencer's throat works. His hands are still buried in his pockets, knuckles pressing outward against the fabric—a white-knuckled grip on nothing. "Situations evolve. People adapt. It's not—" He stops. Swallows. "It's not indicative of anything beyond the immediate circumstances."

"The immediate circumstances," Morgan repeats slowly, tasting the words. "Right. So if it had been me who got shoved, you'd have done the same thing?"

The question lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Spencer's eyes dart to Morgan's face—searching, analysing, trying to figure out the trap. Because it is a trap. You can see it. Spencer can see it. The only correct answer is the one that incriminates him.

Yes, he could say. It would be a lie, and Morgan would know it's a lie, and the lie itself would be a confession.

No—well. No would be even worse.

Spencer says nothing. His silence is louder than any answer he could have given.

Morgan's grin softens into something gentler. Something almost fond. "That's what I thought."

"I don't know what you think you're implying—" Spencer starts, but Morgan holds up a hand, cutting him off.

"I'm not implying anything, kid. I'm observing." He takes a step closer, dropping his voice so only the three of you can hear. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, more intimate, like the walls have leaned in to listen. "I'm observing that you just went full tactical on a civilian. I'm observing that you haven't looked at anyone else in this room for more than two seconds at a time." He ticks each point off on his fingers, slow and deliberate. "And I'm observing that you're standing so close to her right now that if I took a picture, it'd be Exhibit A in a 'why the hell didn't we notice this sooner' slideshow."

Spencer's jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendon in his neck straining. His hands have come out of his pockets—when did that happen?—and they're hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you again.

"I—" He stops. Starts again. "It's not—"

He can't finish the sentence.

He can't say it's not what you think because it is what Morgan thinks. It's exactly what Morgan thinks, and maybe more, and maybe worse, and maybe the most terrifying thing Spencer has ever had to name out loud.

[vanillachapters]

mwah.

tiny one-shot

pairing. spencer reid x bau!reader

genre. fluff, comedy, shy spencer, crush/ soft romance, domestic bullpen moments

warnings. none! pure fluff, blushing spencer, little teasing from the team, cute awkwardness.

word count. tbd

summary.

Finding a misfiled case report in the BAU bullpen is supposed to be routine work. Getting an accidental kiss on the cheek from you? That completely short-circuits Dr. Spencer Reid's brain.

"I swear it was right here," you muttered, leaning over the low partition of Spencer’s desk and shuffling through a stack of beige folders. "I had the case file from the 2011 Milwaukee case right on top of my stack before lunch."

Spencer looked up from the thick hardcover book he was reading, his hazel eyes blinking softly behind his messy bang fringe. He set his brass bookmark down and uncrossed his long legs from under the desk.

"Which Milwaukee case?" he asked gently, his voice soft in the quiet lulls of the bullpen. "The one with the forged bonds or the train yard incident?"

"The train yard," you sighed, running a hand through your hair with a frustrated laugh. "Hotch needs the behavioral profile cross-reference in ten minutes, and I’m ninety percent sure I left it in the main archive stack."

"Oh," Spencer said, a small, endearing light going off in his eyes. "It’s not in archives. Hotch moved that box to the secondary filing cabinet behind JJ’s office yesterday afternoon because the lower drawer jammed."

He stood up, his tall, slender frame unfolding from his chair. He smoothed down his knitted sweater vest, adjusted his satchel strap, and motioned for you to follow him with a timid nod of his head.

You followed him down the carpeted aisle to the quiet alcove by JJ’s office. Spencer knelt down in front of the tall gray cabinet, his long fingers moving over the labeled tabs with practiced ease. Within four seconds, he pulled out a thick, crisp manila folder.

He stood back up, holding it out to you with a tiny, victorious smile. "Here you go. Page fourteen has the exact profile breakdown you’re looking for."

"Spencer, you are a literal lifesaver!" you beamed, relief washing over you.

Without overthinking it, completely caught up in the relief of not having to face Hotch empty-handed, you stepped in close, reached up on your tiptoes, and pressed a soft, warm kiss directly against Spencer’s cheek.

Mwah.

It was just a quick, innocent thank-you. A split-second gesture of affection.

You pulled back with a bright smile, clutching the folder to your chest. "Thank you so much!"

Spencer froze.

He didn't move a single muscle. He stood there like a statue carved out of marble, his arms half-extended, his eyes wide and completely unblinking.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, his right hand drifted upward. His long fingers gently touched his cheek, resting right on the exact spot where your lips had been a second before.

A deep, rosy flush crept up from beneath his high shirt collar, spreading across his throat, burning through his cheeks, and turning the tips of his ears bright pink.

"Spence?" you asked softly, tilting your head, your own heart suddenly doing a little flutter at his reaction. "You okay?"

"I- uh- yes," Spencer squeaked out.

His voice was a full octave higher than normal. He cleared his throat loudly, his hand flying down to yank at his collar as if he’d suddenly been thrown into a sauna.

"You're... you're welcome," he managed to stammer out, his gaze darting nervously around the room, anywhere except directly into your eyes. "It was... the file... was just in the drawer."

From across the glass walkway, Derek Morgan stopped mid-sip of his coffee. He looked through the window, saw Spencer standing there looking bright red and utterly short-circuited, and let out a low laugh. Morgan leaned against the railing, catching your eye and raising his eyebrows in silent, hilarious appreciation.

Even Garcia, who was walking past with a stack of pink sticky notes, paused to gasp softly, clutching her hands to her chest with a giant, delighted grin.

Spencer noticed them both out of the corner of his eye and seemed to turn an even deeper shade of red. He swallowed hard, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his boots squeaking softly against the carpet.

"I should..." Spencer gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward his desk with his thumb, his fingers trembling just a tiny bit. "I should probably go back to... reading. About... uhm… yeah."

You couldn't help the warm, tender smile that bloomed across your face. He was so completely, helplessly adorable.

Stepping a little closer, you leaned up again, not to kiss him this time, but just to whisper near his ear: "I'll buy you a coffee on our afternoon break to say a proper thank you, okay?"

Spencer blinked rapidly, his hazel eyes soft and wide as he looked down at you. The blush hadn't faded a single bit, but a small, sweet, genuinely happy smile broke through his shyness.

"Okay," he whispered back, his voice soft and smooth again. "I'd... I'd really like that."

"It's a date, Dr. Reid," you winked, turning on your heel to head toward Hotch’s office, feeling a flutter in your chest that lasted all the way down the hall.

Behind you, Spencer stood in the alcove for three full seconds after you left, his hand creeping back up to touch his cheek one last time, a soft, dazed smirk finally spreading across his face.

thank you for reading ♡

reblogs and comments mean the world to me.

— written with love ౨ৎ

[shadowww-bunny]

「𝑶𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒆」 -𝑺.𝑹.

❥ The BAU thought they knew everything about Spencer Reid—until an unknown pretty girl walked into the bullpen with pastries, coffee, and zero regard for his personal space rules.

Or a short story about how you visited your boyfriend.

❥ fluff, secret relationship

Just an ordinary Tuesday at the BAU felt endlessly bleak. The team was sluggishly wrapping up paperwork after a grueling case in the Midwest, while Spencer had disappeared somewhere into the depths of the basement archives.

You walked into the center of the office right below the glass balconies, carrying a stylish pastry bag from a local bakery and a travel mug. No FBI badge, no tactical gear—just an aura of a person untouched by the horrors of the world.

Garcia was the first to react, freezing with her tea mug halfway to her mouth. Derek Morgan leaned back from his glass board, instantly switching into profiling mode.

"Well, well," Morgan said, resting his elbows on the railing and looking down with a charming, inquisitive smirk. "Are you lost, ma'am? Tours for civilians usually end at the lobby."

"Not lost, but thanks," you gave him a bright, unbothered smile. "I’m looking for Spencer. Is he around?"

The bullpen went dead silent.

Prentiss slowly put down her pen, completely forgetting about the documents on her desk and stood up.

"Reid?" Derek blinked, exchanging a bewildered look with Emily. "Dr. Spencer Reid? Our Reid? Tall guy, mismatched socks, carrying half a library in his shoulder bag?"

"That’s the one," you hummed, switching the bakery bag to your other hand. "He has a habit of forgetting to eat when he buries himself in old files. Thought I’d bring him some sustenance."

"Oh, my God..." Penelope whispered, dramatically clutching her chest. "She brought him food. Guys, did you hear that? She brought him sustenance!"

"Pardon our curiosity," Emily stepped forward, crossing her arms as her eyes subtly profiled you from head to toe. "How exactly do you know Spencer? Are you a cousin? An archivist from the Library of Congress? A witness from an old case?"

"Didn't he mention me?" a teasing smirk touched your lips "I'm his primary source of stress and his main dopamine hit, all wrapped into one."

Before the team could digest that, the elevator doors slid open and Reid emerged. He was balancing an absurdly high stack of case files, hair rumpled, looking completely absorbed in thought.

"Guys, I re-analyzed the 1998 Ohio data—" he began, not looking up, until he nearly walked straight into you.

The stack of files dangerously tipped over.

"Hey..." Spencer breathed, his eyes widening. An adorable mix of surprise, embarrassment, and something unbearably tender washed over his face. "What... what are you doing here? How did you get past security?"

"You put me on the visitor log yesterday, remember?" You stepped in, effortlessly taking the heavy stack from his hands to place it on the nearest desk, then gently straightened his messy collar. "You left without lunch again, Spence. I brought coffee and those lemon pastries you like. And, honestly, I missed you."

Spencer froze like a deer in headlights, acutely aware of three pairs of profiler eyes locked onto him. But as your fingers brushed against his neck, his shoulders visibly relaxed. He didn't pull away. In fact, his hand instinctively reached out, his long fingers casually intertwining with yours.

Across the room, Morgan’s jaw practically hit the floor.

"Wait," Morgan called out, pointing an accusing finger at Spencer. "Is this the same Dr. Reid who once told me:" he shifted into a terrible, high-pitched impersonation of Spencer "'Actually, Derek, shaking hands spreads twenty times more bacteria than kissing, transferring over 124 million viable colonies per contact'?!"

"I—I didn't say it quite like that, and the statistical average depends heavily on environmental humidity—" Reid immediately objected, gesturing nervously until you softly caught his wrist, cutting off his stream of words.

"And yet," you leaned closer, resting your chin on his shoulder, "he somehow manages to endure my terrible, germ-ridden hugs every single day."

"They're not... you're an exception," Spencer mumbled defensively, though a helpless, soft smile betrayed him completely as he squeezed your hand tighter.

"Okay, yep. They’re definitely together," Emily declared, a triumphant grin breaking across her face.

"Oh, sweet merciful angels, my boy has a girlfriend!" Garcia squealed in delight.

"Well, well," Morgan gestured vaguely in your direction, looking genuinely impressed. "The boy wonder pulled you? What's your angle? Is he holding your cats hostage? Is he doing your taxes?"

You laughed, lightly twisting a stray curl of his soft brown hair around your finger, making him want to run away from his own office—preferably straight to your apartment.

"He's brilliant, he has great hair, and he recites Shakespeare from memory," you glanced up at Spencer with a wink and dropped your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Plus, he's shockingly good at... a few other things."

Prentiss covered her mouth to muffle a sudden cough-laugh, while Morgan raised his eyebrows in pure, unadulterated respect.

"Damn. Okay. Reid, I see you!"

"Morgan, stop," Spencer squeaked, turning a shade of crimson never before seen by modern science. He quickly tightened his grip on your hand, attempting to pull you toward the exit to save whatever dignity he had left. "We're leaving. Right now."

You let Spencer guide you, blowing the team a kiss goodbye.

As you walked toward the doors, the bullpen exploded into collective teasing.

"Hey, Reid!" Morgan yelled over the railing, grinning ear to ear. "When`s the wedding? I need to get my suit tailored!"

"I'm already drafting the guest list!" Penelope chimed in, practically bouncing in her chair.

"Don't forget to invite the team, Spencer! We want to hear you stammer through your vows!" Emily tossed in.

Inside the closing elevator, Spencer dropped his head against your shoulder, hiding his burning face in his hands with a quiet, defeated groan.

"I hate them," he grumbled into your coat.

You ran your fingers through his hair, chuckling softly. "I think they're sweet. But serious question, Dr. Reid: when is the wedding?"

Spencer slowly lifted his head, his hazel eyes wide and still shimmering with bashful affection.

"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, "statistically speaking, autumn weddings have the highest rate of guest satisfaction. So... give me six months to finish the RSVP list?"

[snowynns]

𝒫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 ◞ 𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

Peter has been missing you a little too much and spending time together never is enough, so he comes up with an idea: giving himself something to look at whenever you're not by his side.

𝒯AGS ⸝⸝ 𝓦ARNINGS ˖ Smut with no plot recording séx creampíe cúmplay m!masturbation

navigation ◞ rules ◞ spiderman list 📨

“𝒞an I record you? ”

The first time Peter asked, he was kinda shy about it, which was ridiculous considering he’d had his head between your thighs not ten minutes earlier, licking you through two orgasms until your legs shook and you pulled his hair hard so he would stop for at least 2 minutes.

“Just a tiny video,” he said with the phone in hand and his thumb hovering over the record button.

His brown eyes had that desperate, pleading look that you’d learned meant he was thinking about the fear of losing you again. About the months when he was a stranger to you and he had to live with the ghost of everything you’d been to him.

“Nothing more than recording your pretty face cumming as I pound you.. Please?”

Your once again boyfriend had gotten used to missing people; Aunt May, the friends who no longer remembered him, the life he once had—it was a feeling he learned to carry without complaint until he started to have accumulated stress and the mutations in his DNA began.

Missing you was different because it wasn't heavy in the same way; it was also restless.

Even after months of reconnecting it settled beneath his skin like a parasite every time you kissed him goodbye, or your apartment door clicked shut behind him, or he found himself reaching for his phone just to hear your voice again.

So you said yes... Of course you said yes !

You would’ve said yes to anything that chased that haunted look from his eyes, and honestly, the idea of him watching you fall apart, of him needing that visual, made heat pool in your belly.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t have predicted—was that this single yes was it, the floodgates were opened.

The first video was sweet and tame. His phone was propped awkwardly against the lamp on the nightstand, the angle pretty crooked, capturing the way your mouth dropped open when he pushed inside you, the flutter of your eyelashes, the gasps that turned into moans.

He came so fast that time ! He just couldn't hold it, really. The idea of having a piece of media that he could come back to and watch those pretty expressions on your face once more was... too much.

He ended up burying his face in your neck, whimpering little soft thank you's.

The second time he just reached for the camera without much wording and at the third time, he bought a fucking tripod.

Every time Peter fucked you, the camera was there. Sometimes it was hidden in the corner of the room, others it was in his hand, capturing every little sound you made—from the way your breath hitched when he hit that spongy spot inside you, your thighs trembling as you were close, to the way your voice turned into desperate whines when you couldn’t hold back anymore.

He loved watching your face twist in pleasure, your lips parting in a silent scream as you came, your pussy clenching around his cock like it never wanted to let go.

Now, months later, Peter’s obsession has evolved into something meticulously documented. He has a system !

A super-encrypted, password-protected, probably-you-would-have-a-heart-attack-if-you-knew folder on his laptop and E.V system dedicated entirely to those videos with the name of: "The best of my girl".

Videos of your face when he first sinks into you, that moment of stretching fullness that makes your brow furrow and your eyes to get almost tiny hearts.

Videos of your tits bouncing when he picks up the pace, the way you grab at his shoulders or the sheets or your own hair if too stimulated.

Even from behind, his favorite angle lately, because he can see everything—the arch of your spine, the curve of your ass meeting his hips, and most importantly, the way your pussy swallows his cock.

God, he fucking loves watching that.

Those plump, overstimulated lips gripping him, slick and swollen and trembling from his mouth because Peter cannot fuck you without tasting you first.

He’s addicted to getting your cum on his tongue, to lapping into you until you’re over-sensitive, and only then does he slide his cock through that wetness, plapping your clit with his shaft, and push inside.

But as much as he likes to see what actually gets him through the lonely nights is the sounds.

He plays them with headphones on, volume cranked, so he can hear the hard twhack twhack twhack of his hips slamming against yours when he hits that meaty, syrupy spot deep inside you.

The g-spot gives way to your cervix when he angles right, and the noise you make—a choked, desperate little cry—is his favorite song.

He’s got seventeen separate clips of just that sound; seventeen.

He’s not proud of the number and he’s also not stopping. Perhaps he should make a compilation.

The thing is tonight you’re three states away, visiting family, and poor Peter is sprawled on his bed with his cock in hand and the laptop open to the folder.

He scrolls past thumbnails like he's possessed: your face twisted in pleasure, your legs hooked over his shoulders, your pussy stretched around him, the glistening mess of his cum dripping out of you after he’s finished as he—always, alwayyys— ends up playing with it afterward, pushing it back inside with his fingers while you squirm and whine.

He selects a recent one—last Tuesday, when he had you folded into a mating press, your knees nearly touching your ears, his cock pounding into you so deep you couldn’t even form words.

In the record, you’re babbling nonsense, and he’s talking to you back, his voice low and wrecked: “Yeah, I know babe, you can take all of it, fuck, look at you, so pretty with my cock inside you ah— I'm gonna cream this pussy —”

Peter strokes himself faster, matching the rhythm on screen, and when he comes with a groan, it’s nowhere near as satisfying as being inside you. It never is or will be.

He cleans up, catches his breath, and grabs his phone.

Peter : i miss you, when are you coming back? :((

He sends it as if he’s not planning what he’s going to do to you the moment you walk through the door. Like he’s not going to have you pressed against the wall with your jeans around the ankles before you can even say hello. Like he’s not going to fuck you so hard and so thoroughly that you’ll be walking funny for days.

Your reply comes through a minute later.

You: Tomorrow night, miss you too Spidey !

Peter smiles, sets his phone down, and opens the folder again; he needs to clear some space on his hard drive before tomorrow.

He’s going to need a lot of storage and an USB just for you.

[spenceloria]

I LIKE THE WAY YOU LICK THE BOWL

in which: baking for your first dinner with spencer's team should be a piece of cake, right?

spencer reid x neighbour!reader

warnings: smut, fluff, part of my neighbour!reader universe, established relationship, fem!reader, late seasons spencer, unspecified age gap, mentions of salmonella, r eats raw dough (scandal!), spencer reid is exceptionally talented in the kitchen!…, playful banter, spencer also has sneaky hands, groping, kissing,a little bit of biting, teasing, r is anxious about dinner so spencer helps her out!, oral (f), cunnilingus, spencer has a praise kink!, hair pulling, munch!spencer (HE IS AN EATER!!!), overstimulation, burnt cookies…, evil abrupt ending i'm sorry i ran out of steam... no use of y/n !

wc: 4.1k

gif: @reidgif

now playing: ariana grande - sweetener

masterlist ♡ meet the reader

(and then we lay it back / talk the rest of the night / things that we can light / make me say, “oh! oh!”)

spencer reid’s clumsiness may have affected his compatibility with certain athleisure related activities, but despite the impression his wiry fawn-like knees gave, he was no klutz in the kitchen.

in fact, he ran an annoyingly strict program. meal plans and prep had easily become his forte–when they were applicable… he travelled often, he had visited the same fast food chain in practically every state. (who cares about nutritional value when you’re hunting the darkest minds in the country?)

but anyway, you’d think having a boyfriend that got so technical in anything culinary related would be a good thing–a useful thing, especially for someone who prided themselves on their home baking. 

of course the reality of that thought was utterly and devastatingly incorrect. such incorrectness was made undoubtedly clear when you had taken the initiative to permanently blacklist spencer from aiding you in your baking process. in short, he had been banned from your kitchen. 

he was free to do as he wished in his own, you weren’t that controlling, not really, and of course it was nice having lunches made for you, being dotted on after a long day, while spencer whipped up some interesting foreign steak recipe he’d been dying to try… those were all good things, great things even. it was kind of (stupidly) sexy watching him in the kitchen. 

yet the most un-sexy thing this man could possibly do, was bother you when you were in your element. which was exactly what his culinary expertise had achieved. 

because who the hell actually only adds one teaspoon of vanilla extract to their cookies? your boring brood of a boyfriend. that’s who. that same old excruciatingly analytical man, who took every direction to heart, who'd developed a certain disdain for your “measure it with your heart” mindset.

every unsolicited  “well the recipe says this” comment had compounded exponentially. and now he was forced into the role of the silent observer. who observed you. silently.

and despite his many complaints, spencer was very well adjusted into this role. he took your word very seriously, and he adapted quite easily. 

which was why he would absolutely not insist you adjust your folding technique because you weren’t engaging in enough air circulation… or protecting the pockets in the batter… or whatever he whispered under his breath when he watched your arms work in quick yet soft circular motions. because that would be ludicrous. insane. unfathomable. 

he was a good listener. which was exactly why he held his tongue as he watched. with that stupid dorky smile that made you roll your eyes and chuckle each time you spared a glance his way. 

as much as he hated being cast away on time out, it was nice just being able to look at you without it being weird. 

he was your boyfriend… so why would it be weird? 

he had a little bit of a staring problem. a bad habit, something he couldn’t kick no matter how hard he tried. those stupid coloured honey eyes just loved to find pretty things to look at. 

never staring in a gawking at women as they passed him by way. he’d outgrown that. it wasn’t something that drew any attention. it was just nice to have a subject to focus on when he concentrated, when his mind liked to think up little things that required his attention. 

you just so happened to be his favourite subject. but of course, staring at someone with a stupid dopey smile wasn’t usually invited with open arms

now, he got to gawk at you, and think about you, without you being asleep (again, why did he sound like such a creep?) and just gaze. lovingly. adoringly. whatever you wanted to call it. 

and when you caught him, you were sure your fingers would catch a thick glob of drool if you wiped at his chin. 

“take a picture, it’ll last longer” 

did you have eyes on the back of your head? spencer flushed a rosy pink, cheeks and ears dusted with his crime as he averted his gaze with his tail in between his legs. 

the picture comment was supposed to be teasing, snarky. he knew that, but he may actually take you up on it. you looked lovely like this. and he would love a few candids for his wallet, bedroom, desk, literally anywhere a memory of you could fit. 

he loved photos because when he looked at them for long enough, he could remember taking them, and it was like he got to experience the moment all over again. but, because he always had to be just a little bit infuriating, he decided to hold off on the sentimental. 

“well apparently this is all i’m allowed to do, so…” 

he could be such a baby sometimes. you could only shake your head and roll your eyes. he’d teased that they would end up stuck like that, if you kept it up. but it was impossible not to when spencer spent so much of his free time being a brat, just to see that annoyed look on your face. for all his mocking little concerns, he sure did enable you.

“so cranky… and here i was thinking you could handle just sitting there and looking pretty for me.” 

total knock out. 

he sputtered. he never reacted well to compliments, despite how many you’d offered him, despite how much dirtier they could get. even one backhanded in nature had him immobilized. he was too easy. 

but it was annoying how fast he recovered. 

his stupidly long fingers slithered around your waist, warm palms sliding under your loose tank to stretch across your exposed flesh. thank god you weren’t wearing an apron! 

“can you not keep your hands to yourself for like… five more minutes?”

he only held you tighter as his chin found its rightful place nuzzled in between your neck and your collarbone, nipping ever so slightly at the skin when you shied away on impulse. 

“not when it comes to you, no.”

irritatingly charming, maddeningly disarming… describing spencer reid was exceptionally simple. 

you ignored him because you already had far too much on your mental plate to pay him any mind. you were baking for his coworkers for christ sake. and you were throwing these together the day of. you were off your game and paying for it. secretly spiralling all the while maintaining your slightly pissed off girlfriend facade. just an average late afternoon for you.

when you started delicately placing evenly rolled balls of dough on the cooking sheet, spencer decided he had been too nice, and you deserved a little mischief only he could provide, he pushed your buttons in such a special way. 

you hadn’t gotten rid of him yet, so hey, something must’ve been working. 

“aren’t you gonna let those chill for a while, angel?” 

you huffed in annoyance with another failed attempt to get him off your back. literally. the man was like a koala. 

“how observant spencer. you see, these would’ve gotten the optimal twenty four hour chill time, had you not spent yesterday evening distracting me.” 

that was the truth laid bare. you wanted to prep your dough in advance, like you typically did. you would’ve, if a certain someone hadn’t been so touch starved and antsy after work. spencer only smiled at the harsh tone in your voice and kissed your cheek. 

“correct me if i’m wrong, but i was under the impression that  you enjoyed my distractions?”

exasperated sighs had developed into a special kind of love language just between the two of you. 

thankfully, spencer let his iron grip around your waist loosen just enough to allow you to slide the tray into the oven. a baker's dozen, because you always managed to scrape just enough dough off the edges of the bowl for spencer’s non-negotiable taste test. to make sure the cookies were edible, of course. 

spencer’s gasp when you plopped a little bit of that extra dough into your mouth was so animated you had to hold back a giggle. it seems as though all he had been successful at was making you extraordinarily irritated, and then making you laugh as if he was prime entertainment. a jester maybe? that was what being a boyfriend entailed… right? was he getting an award? 

“woah woah woah, i can’t have salmonella taking out my beautiful and exceptionally talented girlfriend!” 

you rolled your eyes once again, this time at the genuine concern within his own. salmonella? from that little nibble? really? 

exceptionally talented. he was teasing you, but he was serious, his words were obviously meant to be reassurance for tonight. a casual dinner with his team. of course you had to bring something (despite spencer's insistence that you didn’t.)

you hadn't been panicking about dinner at rossi’s, not exactly, you had just been a little nervous! and deservingly so. despite the few times you had met his team, both accidental and planned, it had always been on charted territory. known environments. 

rossi’s mansion was unknown. you had never even been to a mansion. was dinner at a mansion ever really casual, or was that just what they wanted you to think? spencer always looked put together in his own dorky way, but what if this was less of a cute skirt get together and more of a whatever they wore to dinner in a literal mansion get together? what if they were secretly planning on humiliating you with their shined shoes and pristine fbi badges? 

“what can i say? i like living on the edge.” 

your words did not match your inner turmoil in the slightest, yet you kept the banter between you and spencer alive. being anxious over this was stupid. everything would be fine. you were fine. 

thankfully, your body language didn’t fail your attempts to sweep your bubbling emotions under the rug. you smirked as you moved to rinse your hands in the sink, he was hot on your tail, and you could almost taste the rant he was about to break into along with the chocolate on your tongue. 

“i’m being serious, just because the general risk of contracting salmonella via raw eggs and flour is low, doesn’t mean it's zero.” 

his hands found the small of your back as he continued,

“in fact, many outbreaks have been linked to raw cake mix and have led to recalls… hey! stop laughing, i’m serious!”

you covered your mouth with your hand in a lazy attempt to contain your fit of giggles. he was so cute when he got like this. 

“okay spencer. i’m sorry, i promise to stay away from raw dough from now on.” 

he knew you weren’t taking him seriously, especially when your laughing picked up again when you saw the look of utter disdain on his face. he pouted like a sad little puppy. 

“thank you. symptoms typically become noticeable after six hours, keep me updated on how you’re feeling, but it may take up to a week so monitor yourself and point out any anomalies no matter how small… not all cases require medical attention or antibiotics but you can never be too careful.” 

someone who was in the field so often had absolutely no place being so fussy over your own safety. how many times had he ran after an unsub without his vest? or backup? you would bet the statistics of his negligence of his own safety greatly outweighed yours. you also bet he would have an answer, if you asked him. next time. 

you were at a loss. spencer was undyingly persistent when it came to bacteria, which was strange, considering he was currently leaning in to kiss you on your potentially salmonella infected lips. 

you swerved it just to mess with him. keep him in his place and on his toes. a kind and honest girlfriend you were. 

“are you sure you want to kiss my bacteria infested mouth? how many pathogens are exhanged from kissing again?” 

spencer smiled as he popped one of the few remaining chocolate chips into his mouth, conveniently left in the bottom of the bag. coincidence? maybe. but you were sure he was starting to catch on. 

“a single kiss can transmit upwards of eighty million bacteria, though, i think i like my chances.”

he stole a kiss this time, a quick peck far too fast for you to have dodged. and then another. and another. there was a smudge of chocolate on the corner of his mouth, you managed to dart your tongue out right on time, and lick it off of him. 

“you licked me!”

you smiled as you pressed another chocolate chip between his lips, finally allowing yourself to embrace his hovering form as you looked up at him. 

“blame your sweet tooth.” 

apencer brought his lips down to meet yours, slower this time, softer and more reverent than the last. you did him one better by wrapping your arms around his neck and starting an even rhythm, a dance of sorts as you pushed your tongue past his plush lips and allowed it to meld with his. 

sweet chocolate enveloped your taste buds as spencer used his body to cage yours against the counter, pressing both his body and his mouth flush against yours. deeper. spencer reid couldn’t dance to save his life, but admittedly, he was a decent kisser. 

he pulled away too soon, leaving you just as quickly as he had wrapped you in his warmth, replacing his mouth with a warm hand against your cheek and a thumb prodding against your protruding lower lip. 

your eyes flickered open. were you seriously pouting? stooping down to his level of manipulation tactics? maybe the raw dough had already gotten to you, altering your brain before you had time to process it. 

“okay angel, fess up. what’s on your mind?”

caught red handed. you could only live in a perfect fantasy for so long. 

“what do you mean?” 

you were far too smart to be playing dumb with a profiler as a boyfriend. it was worth a shot.

“you’ve felt on edge all day, is something bothering you?”

you averted your gaze, or at least attempted to, spencer was still cupping your cheek, and he had comically large hands and an annoyingly strong grip. 

“no.”

you made eye contact. ammauteur. those stupid perfect puppy eyes were like… his best asset! you wouldn’t be surprised if they were used as an interrogation tactic. you could picture it so clearly, alright pretty boy, go put on your best googoo eyed look and find out where the third body is buried!

“yes.” 

folded in less than three seconds. new record! woohoo!

“are you nervous about tonight? it’s just a get together with my team, they all love you so much already, you have nothing to be worried about. honest.” 

having a boyfriend who was able to understand exactly how you felt so easily was a blessing and a curse. you were mentally cursing him right now, you wondered if he could tell. 

“okay. yeah. i don’t know… it’s stupid, but i feel… unprepared almost?”

spencer gave your forehead a gentle peck, offering you soft words of comfort, spoken into your hairline, as if to send them directly into your brain. 

“it’s not stupid, and completely understandable. but trust me, everyone adores you–like you could sit there in complete silence for two hours and they’d all be amazed.” 

you wanted to believe him, and you did, to a certain degree–but that tiny little twinge in your stomach was incessant and impossible to ignore. and somehow spencer also knew that. like he somehow knew everything. apparently you were an open book today. 

“there is a way i can make you feel a little less stressed and more reassured, if that’s what you want?” 

you raised your eyebrows questioningly, was he about to teach you a mantra to recite, or was the place your mind immediately went not entirely perverted?

“please, doctor. enlighten me.” 

you only called him doctor when you wanted to tease him, and you were perhaps feeling just the slightest bit vulnerable in this given moment.

“orgasms have been known to reduce anxiety based on a number of factors, mainly through the mix of brain chemicals released–such as dopamine. climaxing helps reduce adrenaline, which is a large factor in anxiety induced feelings…”

stupid sexy nerd casually mentioning that making you cum might make you feel better. how did you get this lucky again? this was a loud reminder to glare at anyone who eyed him in public extra hard next time. and there would absolutely be a next time. struggles of having a ridiculously attractive boyfriend who dropped bombs like this on you on the regular. 

“i think it’s worth a shot, hmm, what do you think, smart girl?” 

how were you supposed to think when he was running his hands up and down your sides like that? gentle with purpose, like he was trying to make you squirm. 

“make it quick, pretty boy.” 

nonchalance wins again. at least he had drawn your mind away from made up dinner disasters and on to how gigantic his pupils were. like completely blown-wide huge. just from looking at you? thinking about you? 

you knew you were done for when he started making his way to the ground, sliding ever so gently to his knees below you. his favourite place to be. 

spencer’s hands drifted from the cotton fabric of your tank top, instead travelling downwards and gripping the backs of your thighs, forcing you to brace yourself on the cool surface of the counter behind you. 

you leaned into his touch, pathetically. as if you were some sort of touch starved animal that lacked any and all self respect and dignity. 

as long as you didn’t start humping the air before he got your shorts off. 

“you’re so perfect.”

his voice was muffled by the soft skin of your thigh as he placed wet, open mouthed kisses on the warm flesh within his grip. spencer reid was nothing if not thorough. quickies were not exactly one of his (many) specialties. 

but he ate you like a man starved. so the poor time management was absolutely worth it. 

“i’m–not exactly in the mood for teasing.” 

your breath hitched as he looked up at you. making direct eye contact as he kissed your mound through thick fabric. embarrassingly enough, you could probably get off from just that, but what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. 

he smirked softly as he nipped at your inner thigh, he would’ve kept his eyes on yours, had he not been so ridiculously into this. captivated. he was simple, it did not take much to keep him happy. 

that much was obvious when he gripped the waistband of your shorts. 

you lifted your hips forwards as spencer managed to pull the fabric down before gravity did its job, dragging the fat of your bare ass back down onto the counter. completely sterile and totally sanitary!

your hands found their way into spencer’s hair as he mouthed your core through the sheer material of your panties. sheer from none other than your arousal. his lips were too busy to tease you for it, thank the lord. 

“fuck spence–that’s really good.”

he moaned at the taste of you, he may seem distracted, but your praises were not falling on deaf ears. everytime he got to have you like this, don’tcumdon’tcumdon’tcum repeated like a mantra in the back of his brain. he’d trained his hips to remain static, as a failure would not have been the first time. 

your panties were pulled down your legs in a haze, movements blurred and strung together, his lips barely left you, curling right back around your sensitive bud like being away from you physically pained him. he could feel the very force of his life draining each second his tongue was separated from your clit. 

the tips of your fingers pawed at his scalp, stretching ever so slightly as you pulled him impossibly close. every noise that passed your lips only made him more eager, devouring you with such fervour, his jaw would be sore if he wasn’t so focused on your pleasure. 

“you’re so pretty like this f’me”

spencer met your loving gaze half-lidded, as if to say you’re prettier through his eyes. he’d hold up a mirror so you could see just how beautiful the expressions you offered him were. he analyzed every shift, every microscopic twitch like a blessing, a gift from gods he didn’t believe in. 

his face was soaked, buried between your legs, pink tongue darting out to flatten against your clit. you’d taken his free hand in yours, pulling him impossibly closer to your warmth, stabilizing your shaking form above his. 

he had to hold back a moan when you draped a leg over his shoulder. 

you tried really, really hard to hold back. but spencer had a way of making that exceedingly difficult. this was about relieving stress, wasn’t it? you supposed that included using him… you could already feel the weight lifting from your shoulders as you let your knee curl around his neck. your heel strained against his spine, as if every bone in your body was itching to draw him closer. 

he could explain every reaction in factual detail if his mouth wasn’t so full of you. why where his lips pressed elicited the gasp that it did, and how he knew that when he started circling your entrance with his tongue, you would clench around nothing and start riding his face harder. 

he was an excellent study, well versed in anatomy, yours to be exact. he’d once told you that the clitoris had an average of over ten thousand nerve fibres, and now, you could feel the round curve of his nose shocking each ending with every buck of your hips. science in the most primal sense. 

“that’s really–fucking good. mm. fuck. you're way too good at this--hateyousomuch–”

a weird way of expressing your affection, but he knew you well enough to decipher your words as code for i’m seeing stars. 

he’d keep his pace exactly like this, tongue moving in tandem with every harsh grind of your hips, tip perfectly grazing that delicate spongy spot every time you moved. 

“just like that spence. don’t–don’t stop.”

he wouldn’t dream of it. he’d gladly kneel between your thighs for forever. he was high on you, on the sweet obscene praises that slipped past your puffy lips, bitten raw from futile attempts at holding back your moans. it was like hypnosis. he swore he would do anything you told him to without a second thought, brainlessly follow you to any corner of the earth. 

you just had that affect on him.

a particularly loud whine hit you when his lips returned to graze your swollen clit, tracing figure eights with just the right amount of pressure. 

you could barely remember why you were so nervous in the first place. 

if your brain wasn’t so fuzzy, you’d be a little humiliated at how quickly you were hurling over the edge. 

“spence–fuckfuckfuck”

your hips started to give out as you fell apart, stuttering and writhing against him, hot tears pricking at the corners of your fluttering eyelashes. 

spencer persisted with his ministrations, too enamoured with your taste to yield. too addicted to pay any mind to the way your legs started to tremble as you gripped his honey brown locks at the base of his skull. he only moaned at the sting and continued on. whore. 

“it’s too much–i can’t–” 

you threw your head back as rough waves of overstimulation crashed into you, capsizing your core. 

and then a harsh smell hit your nostrils and snapped you out of your delicious trance. 

fuck. 

you pulled away from him so fast, spencer was sure he got whiplash, body going limp against the metal of your kitchen drawers. you were still smothered all over his lips and cheeks.

thick clouds of black fumes emerged from the oven as you pried it open, in turn, triggering the blaring siren of your smoke detector. you fumbled with your oven mitts, using one to fan the evidence of forgetting to set a timer out of the air, and the other to set the baking sheet onto your stove.

when the smoke cleared, you were left with thirteen crumbly balls of asphalt. not a single salvageable cookie in sight. your gaze met spencers, eyes wide, pantless, with absolutely nothing to show for it.

so much for curing your anxiety. 

this took a ridiculously long time to write and i hate it… but atleast its done… i guess. 😭😭

i’m in such a weird writing slump and its been almost a month since i posted! unfortunately i did not deliver but i hope you enjoy anyway !! love u guys<33

[angellic4l]

la vita è bella - s.r

in which; sunshine!bau!reader and season2!spencer see a foreign film together after work.

content: fem!reader and season2!spencer, they’re so in loveee, fluffy fluff, mentions of drinking but no one actually does it, brief mention of spencer’s germaphobia, mention of the holocaust and ww2.

a/n: i wrote this all in one go bc my draft that i’m working on is so not ready, so i apologise if it’s bad. also, la vita é bella means life is beautiful, the Italian name of the film, which is why i called the fic that. WAIT I JUST READ IT AND I NEED TO SAY I DON’T THINK ELLE IS MEAN I LOVE ELLE! anyway, kisses!!

After a pretty rare, uneventful day at the BAU - just hours of paperwork, filing, reports, and a lot of team banter - the team of profilers begin to pack up. Coats are lifted from the backs of chairs, bags slung over shoulders, chairs put under desks, and a chorus of contented sighs coming from the agents.

The team, bar Hotch and Gideon, begin to make their way to the elevator together, walking in a huddle on their way out of work while making light conversation about their plans, considering everyone’s getting out early today.

“I say we all go the bar, a few drinks, maybe some darts, and lots of fine women,” Morgan suggests with a smirk, patting Spencer on the back when he says ‘fine women’.

Elle and JJ laugh, the thought of Spencer trying to talk to ‘fine women’, as Morgan called them, an amusing thought to the two of them.

Spencer, who’s walking in between you and Morgan, pushes his glasses up his nose with his index finger, his face sporting one of his infamous looks you’ve come to know, his brows furrowed as he silently questions Elle and JJ’s laughter.

“Actually, I was going to go and see a foreign film downtown, if any of you want to come. It’s an Italian film, but I can whisper translate, called ‘Life is Beautiful’, which is kind of ironic because it’s about a Jewish man and his son becoming victims of the holocaust, but-“ Spencer’s cut off by a comment from Elle about him being ‘dorky’, his face loses the small smile he’d had while talking about the film, and his once gesturing hands fall to his sides.

You think your heart might’ve actually shattered at the sight, Spencer’s dejected look never becoming easier to see, no matter how many times you do see it. The other three agents agree to go to the bar together while you and Spencer remain silent, walking in step with each other.

“You coming, sunshine?” Morgan asks, looking past Spencer to gaze at your face, Elle and JJ turning their heads slightly to look at you stood behind them, all of you coming to a stop at the elevator doors.

“No, I think I just want to have a quiet night in. I hope you guys have fun, though,” you reject them, a small smile on your face because only you know what you’re actually going to do.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

All of you step out of the FBI building, JJ, Morgan, and Elle splitting off to head to the bar, Spencer walking through the parking lot and starting his journey to the metro station, while you wait for the other 3 to be gone.

It’s not because you’re embarrassed of Spencer, no, you wouldn’t have cared about offering in front of the others, but you knew he’d probably be teased for it, and that’s the last thing you want. He’s so sweet to everyone, unbelievably kind to you, but everyone teases him regardless. It hurts your heart every time he goes quiet after being told to ‘shut up’ or someone comments on his rambling.

Once you’re sure Morgan, JJ, nor Elle are in earshot, you hurry over to Spencer’s slender figure that’s slowly dissipating, emerging with the dark night sky, becoming nothing but a shadow as he gets further.

“Spence! Wait, come back!” You call out, quickly realising his long limbs are no match for you and he was getting further by the second.

Spencer stops almost immediately, spinning on his heels when he hears your voice. He could recognise it anywhere, your sweet, melodic voice engrained into his brain; it’s one of his favourite things about you, how each word you speak seems to be infused with honey, ringing out sweet and soft.

Although, even if your voice is sweet and soft, despite the fact that you’re shouting, adrenaline spikes in his body - Why are you shouting him? Are you hurt? Are you okay? - the questions plague his mind, increasing his heart rate faster than anything ever has before. That’s saying something, considering he sees dead bodies, crime scenes, and confronts serial killers almost weekly.

Spencer’s legs have carried himself over to you before he’d even processed it, his own mind had distracted him, thoughts had clouded his head, and he only realises he’s stood in front of you and that you’re okay when he hears your melodic voice again.

“Spence? Spencer? Are you okay?” You ask, brows furrowed ever so slightly and pink lips pouted to express your concern for the brunette boy.

You didn’t ask him to ‘snap out of it’, make a joke about him being stuck in his big brain, or say ‘are you even listening?’. No, you just asked if he was okay. Spencer smiles softly at that, another gentle reminder that you really are an angel personified, despite his agnostic beliefs, regardless of whether he prays to a God or not, you are angelic to him.

“Yeah, yes, I’m okay,” Spencer reassures you, the soft smile on his face still there as he looks down at you. His brain catches up after he stops being dazed by your seemingly divine presence, in his opinion.

“You called me over, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s okay. Could I come and see that movie with you? I know some Italian and you said you’d whisper translate.”

Standing in the middle of Quantico’s parking lot, the pair of you clad in thick coats due to the recent spike in cold weather, your head tilted back so that you can look up at Spencer and his tilted down so that he can see you. You watch Spencer’s face go from a small smile to a full blown grin, his teeth peaking out from behind his pink lips making your heart warm in your chest, winter weather aside.

“Yeah? You’re serious?” Spencer asks, you nod.

“I’ll drive us there, no need for the metro. I’ll take you home, too,” you say, dangling your keys on your ring finger. The pair of you begin to walk to your car as Spencer explains what the movie is about, not being cut off this time.

In the car on the way there, he starts to talk about WW2, rattling off all of the details he knows about it, mainly ones he thinks will be relevant for context to the film. Smiles rest on both of your faces as he does so, his hands moving frenetically as he talks. When you know what he’s talking about, you’ll wait for him to finish before talking yourself, but mostly, you just listen to him.

Spencer stays true to his word and whisper translates the film to you, his voice in your ear something you like much more than you probably should, close proximity between the two of you because of it. His head is tilted towards you, lips by your ear but not so close that all you hear is his breath, Spencer’s very mindful of that.

At some point, you both reach for the popcorn between you without looking, his hand coming to rest on top of yours in the bucket. Suddenly, you’re very thankful for the dark room hiding the pink tint of your cheeks, completely unaware that he’s thinking the same thing.

Retracting his hand from the bucket quickly, he whispers a small “sorry,” secretly hating the loss of contact with your smooth, silky skin, warm fingers, no longer under his.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him quietly, eyes never leaving the screen in front of you for fear of him seeing the blush that’s painted your cheeks. You reach into your bag and hand him a hand sanitiser, knowing how he is with germs.

Spencer can’t help but wonder if you carry this just for him as he takes the clear bottle from his hands, reading the label as best as he can in the dim theatre and learning the hand sanitiser smells like vanilla. So do you, he notes, and he decides he doesn’t mind his hands smelling like you, in fact, he actually quite likes it.

An hour into the film, despite your best efforts not to, you succumb to sleep, the sound of Spencer’s voice in your ear every few seconds, the dim room, and how warm you are all lulling you into the unconscious state you currently find yourself in. Well, Spencer finds you in that state when your head drops to his shoulder, looking down at you through his glasses, and realising you’d fallen asleep.

He blushes at the sight of your head on his shoulder, the weight of it grounding him and sending him to some extreme height at the same time, your hair splayed over his shoulder making him smile to himself. In this moment, he decides that, despite all of the horrors he sees daily, the trauma he was subjected to growing up, and everything else in between, life is beautiful.

[angellic4l]

la vita è bella - s.r

in which; sunshine!bau!reader and season2!spencer see a foreign film together after work.

content: fem!reader and season2!spencer, they’re so in loveee, fluffy fluff, mentions of drinking but no one actually does it, brief mention of spencer’s germaphobia, mention of the holocaust and ww2.

a/n: i wrote this all in one go bc my draft that i’m working on is so not ready, so i apologise if it’s bad. also, la vita é bella means life is beautiful, the Italian name of the film, which is why i called the fic that. WAIT I JUST READ IT AND I NEED TO SAY I DON’T THINK ELLE IS MEAN I LOVE ELLE! anyway, kisses!!

After a pretty rare, uneventful day at the BAU - just hours of paperwork, filing, reports, and a lot of team banter - the team of profilers begin to pack up. Coats are lifted from the backs of chairs, bags slung over shoulders, chairs put under desks, and a chorus of contented sighs coming from the agents.

The team, bar Hotch and Gideon, begin to make their way to the elevator together, walking in a huddle on their way out of work while making light conversation about their plans, considering everyone’s getting out early today.

“I say we all go the bar, a few drinks, maybe some darts, and lots of fine women,” Morgan suggests with a smirk, patting Spencer on the back when he says ‘fine women’.

Elle and JJ laugh, the thought of Spencer trying to talk to ‘fine women’, as Morgan called them, an amusing thought to the two of them.

Spencer, who’s walking in between you and Morgan, pushes his glasses up his nose with his index finger, his face sporting one of his infamous looks you’ve come to know, his brows furrowed as he silently questions Elle and JJ’s laughter.

“Actually, I was going to go and see a foreign film downtown, if any of you want to come. It’s an Italian film, but I can whisper translate, called ‘Life is Beautiful’, which is kind of ironic because it’s about a Jewish man and his son becoming victims of the holocaust, but-“ Spencer’s cut off by a comment from Elle about him being ‘dorky’, his face loses the small smile he’d had while talking about the film, and his once gesturing hands fall to his sides.

You think your heart might’ve actually shattered at the sight, Spencer’s dejected look never becoming easier to see, no matter how many times you do see it. The other three agents agree to go to the bar together while you and Spencer remain silent, walking in step with each other.

“You coming, sunshine?” Morgan asks, looking past Spencer to gaze at your face, Elle and JJ turning their heads slightly to look at you stood behind them, all of you coming to a stop at the elevator doors.

“No, I think I just want to have a quiet night in. I hope you guys have fun, though,” you reject them, a small smile on your face because only you know what you’re actually going to do.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

All of you step out of the FBI building, JJ, Morgan, and Elle splitting off to head to the bar, Spencer walking through the parking lot and starting his journey to the metro station, while you wait for the other 3 to be gone.

It’s not because you’re embarrassed of Spencer, no, you wouldn’t have cared about offering in front of the others, but you knew he’d probably be teased for it, and that’s the last thing you want. He’s so sweet to everyone, unbelievably kind to you, but everyone teases him regardless. It hurts your heart every time he goes quiet after being told to ‘shut up’ or someone comments on his rambling.

Once you’re sure Morgan, JJ, nor Elle are in earshot, you hurry over to Spencer’s slender figure that’s slowly dissipating, emerging with the dark night sky, becoming nothing but a shadow as he gets further.

“Spence! Wait, come back!” You call out, quickly realising his long limbs are no match for you and he was getting further by the second.

Spencer stops almost immediately, spinning on his heels when he hears your voice. He could recognise it anywhere, your sweet, melodic voice engrained into his brain; it’s one of his favourite things about you, how each word you speak seems to be infused with honey, ringing out sweet and soft.

Although, even if your voice is sweet and soft, despite the fact that you’re shouting, adrenaline spikes in his body - Why are you shouting him? Are you hurt? Are you okay? - the questions plague his mind, increasing his heart rate faster than anything ever has before. That’s saying something, considering he sees dead bodies, crime scenes, and confronts serial killers almost weekly.

Spencer’s legs have carried himself over to you before he’d even processed it, his own mind had distracted him, thoughts had clouded his head, and he only realises he’s stood in front of you and that you’re okay when he hears your melodic voice again.

“Spence? Spencer? Are you okay?” You ask, brows furrowed ever so slightly and pink lips pouted to express your concern for the brunette boy.

You didn’t ask him to ‘snap out of it’, make a joke about him being stuck in his big brain, or say ‘are you even listening?’. No, you just asked if he was okay. Spencer smiles softly at that, another gentle reminder that you really are an angel personified, despite his agnostic beliefs, regardless of whether he prays to a God or not, you are angelic to him.

“Yeah, yes, I’m okay,” Spencer reassures you, the soft smile on his face still there as he looks down at you. His brain catches up after he stops being dazed by your seemingly divine presence, in his opinion.

“You called me over, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s okay. Could I come and see that movie with you? I know some Italian and you said you’d whisper translate.”

Standing in the middle of Quantico’s parking lot, the pair of you clad in thick coats due to the recent spike in cold weather, your head tilted back so that you can look up at Spencer and his tilted down so that he can see you. You watch Spencer’s face go from a small smile to a full blown grin, his teeth peaking out from behind his pink lips making your heart warm in your chest, winter weather aside.

“Yeah? You’re serious?” Spencer asks, you nod.

“I’ll drive us there, no need for the metro. I’ll take you home, too,” you say, dangling your keys on your ring finger. The pair of you begin to walk to your car as Spencer explains what the movie is about, not being cut off this time.

In the car on the way there, he starts to talk about WW2, rattling off all of the details he knows about it, mainly ones he thinks will be relevant for context to the film. Smiles rest on both of your faces as he does so, his hands moving frenetically as he talks. When you know what he’s talking about, you’ll wait for him to finish before talking yourself, but mostly, you just listen to him.

Spencer stays true to his word and whisper translates the film to you, his voice in your ear something you like much more than you probably should, close proximity between the two of you because of it. His head is tilted towards you, lips by your ear but not so close that all you hear is his breath, Spencer’s very mindful of that.

At some point, you both reach for the popcorn between you without looking, his hand coming to rest on top of yours in the bucket. Suddenly, you’re very thankful for the dark room hiding the pink tint of your cheeks, completely unaware that he’s thinking the same thing.

Retracting his hand from the bucket quickly, he whispers a small “sorry,” secretly hating the loss of contact with your smooth, silky skin, warm fingers, no longer under his.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him quietly, eyes never leaving the screen in front of you for fear of him seeing the blush that’s painted your cheeks. You reach into your bag and hand him a hand sanitiser, knowing how he is with germs.

Spencer can’t help but wonder if you carry this just for him as he takes the clear bottle from his hands, reading the label as best as he can in the dim theatre and learning the hand sanitiser smells like vanilla. So do you, he notes, and he decides he doesn’t mind his hands smelling like you, in fact, he actually quite likes it.

An hour into the film, despite your best efforts not to, you succumb to sleep, the sound of Spencer’s voice in your ear every few seconds, the dim room, and how warm you are all lulling you into the unconscious state you currently find yourself in. Well, Spencer finds you in that state when your head drops to his shoulder, looking down at you through his glasses, and realising you’d fallen asleep.

He blushes at the sight of your head on his shoulder, the weight of it grounding him and sending him to some extreme height at the same time, your hair splayed over his shoulder making him smile to himself. In this moment, he decides that, despite all of the horrors he sees daily, the trauma he was subjected to growing up, and everything else in between, life is beautiful.

[arachine]

❤︎ . . . early but wanted to post a little something for pete's birthday since i'll be busy writing. inspired by the scene in the oc where summer surprises seth for christmas :3

explicit. blow job. web as restraint. not proofread.

"Watch your step, watch your step," you giggle, guiding Peter from the couch to the bed.

You push him down by the shoulders to sit, waving your hand in front of his face to ensure his eyes are still closed behind his hands. "You aren't peeking are you?" you ask, narrowing your eyes.

"No, they're closed," he laughs, shaking his head. "What're you doing?"

Ignoring him, you walk over to the mirror and give yourself a quick once over, then take your place back in front of him, smiling mischievously. "Okay, open."

Hesitantly, he drops his hands, lets his eyes adjust to the light and to your stationary figure from across the room. You're wearing a tiara and a little black dress. Confusion settles over his features.

Stepping closer, you begin fiddling with the hem of the dress, voice low and seductive. "I hear you like comic books, Parker?"

Peter nods, patting his knees awkwardly. "This is true..."

Reaching for the zipper, you unzip it slowly, letting the dress fall to the floor. "Happy birthday, Pete."

Peter's jaw falls open, and he scans his eyes over your body from head to toe. You're wearing a Wonder Woman costume, the full getup. "Oh my god…" he breathes out, letting a nervous laugh escape his lips, "I think I'm gonna pass out."

You grab the rope from around your hip and lasso it around him, ushering him to stand as you pull him toward you. "You're not going anywhere."

"Okay," he says giddily, content with his current position.

Your arms encircle his neck and you press your lips against his, backing him up until the two of you topple over onto the bed. Quickly, you situate yourself atop his lap, straddling either side of him, and pin his arms above his head.

"No touching," you admonish with a tsk, wrapping his hands with the rope.

Satisfied, you begin moving down the length of his body, stopping when you reach the tent in his sweats. You palm him teasingly through the fabric, working him nice and slow until he's begging for you to touch him, and then you dip your hand underneath the waistband. The weight of him is heavy in your hand, and you can feel him pulsing against you, twitching with every minuscule movement.

You tug his sweats down his thighs and off his legs, and lower your mouth to his cock. He shivers when your breath fans his leaky tip.

"God, you look so pretty right now—like super pretty," he blurts, holding his hand over his mouth, "I've always wanted this."

"Yeah?" you ask, licking a long, wet stripe on the underside of his shaft. He twitches in response, and a dribble of pre oozes from his tip.

"Uh-huh, t-thought about it a lot—different characters too."

"Well, today's your lucky day."

Without ceremony, you take him into your mouth and watch as his head tips back in pleasure. You ease him into your mouth one inch at a time, until your nose is nuzzled against the patch of soft brown hair of his pubes. The second his tip touches your uvula, you pull off of him with a wet pop, then descend back down.

You alternate between stroking him and taking him back into your mouth, repeating the process over and over while he gradually begins unraveling beneath you. A self-satisfied grin forms on your face, and you fully commit this time to shoving him all the way down your throat, eyes closed and hands braced on his thighs.

For a second, you let yourself adjust around him, making an effort to be as still as possible so as not to trigger your gag reflex. Then, you slowly start to bob your head up and down his length, humming around him to distract yourself from the stretch.

"Oh, shit, baby I'm—" he moans, lurching forward, "I'm g-gonna come!"

Pulling off, you continue jerking him, and say, "Where do you want it, birthday boy?"

"O-on your face, want it on your face!" he chokes out, bucking his hips into your hand, abs flexing.

The pleasure simmering deep in his core is liquid-hot, and it burns hotter with every second that you continue to work him with your hand, lighting ablaze the edges of his self-restraint. You quicken your pace, and with a few more firm pumps, he lurches forward, and spurts his cum all over your face. Lazily, you continue to stroke him through his orgasm, cooing praises as his thighs tremble and shake from the sensation.

"So good, baby. Look how much is coming out," you praise, gesturing to the cum still oozing from his angry tip.

He offers a moan in response, and you smile from a job well-done, trailing zephyr-light kisses up the side of his shaft before placing a final one on his tip. You rise to your knees and kiss his cheek.

"Did you enjoy your present?" you ask, waiting patiently for him to catch his breath.

When Peter turns to you, his eyes are dark and lidded, and the air in the room has shifted to something more… charged. He makes his way over to you and pushes you against the bed, pins your hands above your head and locks them in place with his webs.

His hands move to spread your legs apart, and you watch with bated breath as his eyes trail from your cum covered face, all the way to the darkened spot of cloth between your thighs. You shiver under the intensity of his gaze.

"Oh, I'm not finished with it yet," he taunts, extending a finger to prod your slit, "wanna test how well this costume holds up. Think it can withstand Spider-Man?"

The costume doesn't stand a chance by the time he's finished with you.

© all rights reserved arachine 2026. do not repost, modify, plagiarize, or recommend my work outside of tumblr.

[hotchreiid]

⋆˚Jackie and Wilson

⋆˚꩜｡ unearth writing event

spencer reid x fem!reader

summary - spencer opens up about having a future with you that he never imagined he would have.

word count - 1.1k

content warning - pure fluff, mentions of having kids in the future

The late morning sunlight drifted through the windows, casting long, golden shadows across the crisp, tangled sheets. The room was filled with the warm, quiet hush that always followed the intense passion. The sheets were low around your hips, the soft cotton still warm against your flushed and tender skin. Spencer lay on his side, his long arm draped over your waist, his fingers drawing idle patterns along the curve of your spine, his movements subconscious. Your head was tucked under his chin, your breath fanning across the sensitive skin of his neck, your forehead against his collarbone. 

He was quiet, not in the way that he was usually quiet, this silence was something more profound. His mind was still spinning in its usual break-neck rapid speed, only this time he wasn’t filing through criminal profiles, statistical anomalies, or geographical mapping models. This time, he was thinking about dirt. 

A small patch of earth far away from the BAU, the dark interrogation rooms, the air in the cabin of the jet, away from the spilled blood and broken spirits. Something that was rich enough to grow things, something that he could tend to, use his fingers for something gentle instead of wrapped around the trigger. Spencer never let himself dream of a life, something beyond cold probability. He knew the numbers like the back of his hand, the odds of passing on his mother’s illness, the average lifespan of an agent in a behavioral analysis unit, the mathematical improbability of finding someone who could see every broken, hyper-fixated piece of him and choose to stay anyway. He had calculated his future down to a lonely zero. He had accepted it. 

Then he met you. Or rather, he bumped into you on a crisp autumn morning outside the library. There was never anyone there earlier than him, so when he had pushed open the heavy, oak double doors, and walked smack-bang into you, spilling your coffee onto the linoleum floor. Somewhere through panicked apologies and using his scarf to wipe the spilled drink from your shoes, he had offered to buy you a replacement. You hadn’t left his side since. 

He shifted slightly, pressing his lips into the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your honey shampoo, the faint trace of sweat on your glistening skin, and something so comfortingly you underneath it all. He pictured a house, not a white brick, modern house, but an old, weathered cottage, somewhere deep in the countryside, surrounded by open air and trees that turned auburn when the weather turned. It would have a porch, something that wrapped around the side of the house, and a swing that creaked under his weight. He would spend his weekends with his long legs stretched out, reading his way through a stack of vintage paperbacks, with you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder and your hands curled around a steaming mug of tea. 

A lump formed in his throat, the feeling not brought on by fear, but by something he never dared to allow himself before now. Hope. 

He imagined a little girl with your laugh, or a boy who had a habit of talking too fast when he was excited. He saw them running down a long hallway lined with mis-matched bookshelves and family photos in clashing frames, barefoot with wild hair. He pictured teaching them to play chess in the kitchen, carefully explaining the opening moves while you watched from the doorway with that affectionate smile you always gave him when he got overly passionate. He imagined waking up in the middle of the night not to the jarring, dread-inducing ring of a bureau phone calling him to a crime scene, but to the gentle pitter-patter of small feet seeking comfort from a thunderstorm. He would protect them. He would protect you. He would spend every waking breath ensuring that the dark, jagged world he spent his days fighting never touched a single hair on any of your heads. 

“Spence,” your voice was soft, bringing him back to the moment as you lifted your head out from where it had been tucked against his chest, your gaze meeting his in the dewy morning light. “You’re thinking.”

He smiled, his mouth curving softly as his fingers stilled against your lower back. “I am,” he replied simply, his fingers moving to gently brush a stray hair away from your face before brushing lightly down your cheek. “I’m calculating.”

“You always are,” a sleepy smile spread across your face. “What are the odds this time, Dr. Reid?”

He shifted, letting out a breathy laugh as he rolled onto his back to stare up at the dark beams of the ceiling, a quirk you noticed when he was saying something hard for him to admit, something he was terrified of being judged for. “I used to think a life, a real one, with a small house with too many books, kids who trailed mud in from the garden and waking up…” He swallowed, before turning to face you again, his eyes glistening in the early morning glow. “Waking up like this every morning for the rest of my life. I used to think it was an impossibility for me.” He admitted, his voice dropping into a confessional whisper. “I thought it wasn’t meant for me. But when I’m with you… I don’t care about the odds anymore. I just want to build that life with you.”

You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of his morning stubble under your palm. You kissed him softly, a slow, deep press of lips that tasted like promise and quiet mornings. When you pulled back, your eyes locked onto his, steady and full of an unwavering certainty that settled the restless, brilliant mind of Spencer Reid once and for all. “How many?” You asked softly.

Spencer shrugged, rolling to lay his arm over your waist again, his fingers resuming their lazy patterns across your spine. “One or two.” He murmured. “I wouldn’t want them to be lonely.”

“Of course not.” You smiled, resting your forehead against his. “And they could play chess together that way.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his nose scrunching slightly. His heart bloomed at the display of you knowing him so well, that you knew what he was thinking without him having to verbalise it. “Yeah. Exactly.” He agreed, his voice gentle.

“Better get practicing then.” You murmured, ducking your head to press your lips against his neck. 

“Again?” He chuckled softly, but the sigh that fell from his lips, and his hand curling around your hip let you know that he was more than happy to practice. As many times as you would like. 

[that-softgirl]

i’m squealing. i’m beaming. i don’t think i have ever read something so sweet in my life.

i need to give him it all and more, and i need to do it now.

[siriuslylantsov]

sobering

pairing: spencer reid x reader

description: morning after shenanigans

tags: MDNI smut, fem!reader, piv (from da backkk), oral (m!receiving), cute sickening stuff, porn little plot (i wish there was more plot tbh)

a/n: what is up siriuslylantsov nation. long time no see… i'm not entirely sure if i like this but i haven't posted in ages and wanted to do something. im also rewatching cm rn so spencers being extra annoying on da brain. this is genuinely from last april but i rewrote most of it so its new #ToMe anywhoooo lmk how you like it and happy reading!!

wc: 2.7k

you’ve never seen him this well rested before. spencer reid devoid of the perpetual dark circles that reside under his eyes, it's a wonder. especially because you slept so late last night. you’ve never had an excuse to let your eyes linger on his features for longer than deemed necessary. but now. you can see him so much better in the morning light, the low curve of his nose, the timid purse of his lips. he's beautiful. 

you allow a little pride to bloom under your chin at the thought of you putting spencer to ease and take it as the universe's sign to tuck yourself over his heart. his chest under your cheek is warm, the kind that makes you want to press closer and stay there, wrap your arms around tighter and squeeze. spencer moves before you have the chance.

first, a startled register of his environment and then, a confused glance at the very naked girl draped over his body. his arms come up, hovering, sputtering, and then politely putting his palms over your shoulders. nudging you to look up at him.

jesus christ, those eyes. 

“hi.”

so quiet. “hey, handsome.”

he lets out a long, contemplative sigh, thinking, thinking, thinking. when does this guy ever stop thinking? “we kissed,” he says it like a fact, but with questioning lilt that makes it sound otherwise. 

you prop an elbow on the bed, joint wedged into the space above his shoulder so you can see him better. the blanket keeping you decent slips a bit and spencer unconsciously tucks it more securely under your arm. you catalogue that for later. 

“we did a lot more than that. forgive me for being untoward but we fucked,” you clarify, innocent with your chin in the heel of your palm.

spencer groans, he groans! “don't be crude.”

“we're naked.”

“i know that,” he murmurs, disgruntled, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to your jaw and falling back into the pillow. you sport an amused little smile when you see the pout on his lips. 

you slept with spencer reid.

your coworker, your friend, the man you’d been terribly smitten with for who knows how long (7 months and 3 days.)

spencer reid who lingered by your side for hours last night, unassuming, unbothered, who smiled softly at your wine induced flush whenever he’d lean in to hear you better, who sat with you while you tipped your chin up at the sky to point out stars and asked him to name them, who pressed a sobering kiss to your lips in rossi's backyard after a clumsily delivered compliment.

you’re so pretty.

your response is a blur, forgotten, but you do remember how he drove you home with his hand idly playing with your fingers over the center console. how he tried but inevitably failed to be a gentleman as you led him up to your apartment, shared, hushed giggles echoing down the hallway and quite gracefully falling into bed leaving a very telling breadcrumb trail of clothes. 

and now, half a second of thought passes on whether you should ask him or surprise him. the latter wins and you dip down and kiss the corner of his mouth. you’re not evil, he deserves some warning before you really plant one on him. he wastes no time, bringing his lips to yours with those big hands cradling your face. 

his lips press against yours gingerly in a sweet, lingering kiss, followed by another and another. mouth slotted over yours, like perfect puzzle pieces, his tongue traces the seam of your lips and you grant him entrance, letting him gently lick into your mouth. you let out a small, needy sound at the warmth of his tongue against yours, melting into him. it makes him chuckle quietly.

“spence,” you gasp against his lips.

a subtle shudder makes its way down his spine at the desperation in your voice, the same need slowly fogging up his own brain, remnants of last night catching up. 

“i know, angel,” he cups your neck, what is happening?

“can i admit something?”

spencer smiles at you, boyish and stupid spread across his face, “please do.”

“you kiss nice, had i known you were this good of a kisser i would’ve done it ages ago,” you mumble, forcing words out to keep a sliver of your dignity.

he laughs again, a small pleased sound that makes you feel good. “you do too. you are wildly better than anything i have ever imagined–”

“you’ve imagined me?” you turn timid in a way that you hate but spencer kisses you and it melts away.

“of course i have. you’re wonderful.”

spencer pulls your leg over his and sits the two of you up, thighs bracketing his hips. the blanket falls unabashedly into the space between your bodies, pooled dangerously low over his lap. you thank whatever god there is for the enticing view of the scattering of light hair that trails beneath the covers.

you’re surprised with the ease in which spencer's hands drag down your sides, like he's done it a million times before. he pushes the pads of his thumbs into the area above your hipbone like he knows you’ll twitch when he does, and you do. damn his eidetic memory and damn his perfect mouth when he attaches his lips to your jaw, angling you as he lightly works the skin. he's careful enough not to leave a mark somewhere visible but it doesn't stop him from reminding himself he can do it elsewhere, somewhere more concealed.

“pretty girl,” he coos, kissing over your pulse point, below your ear, “lay back, please.” please. he murmurs against your skin, nodding behind you. he pecks your cheek, rather sweetly considering your state of undress and swiftly returns to your neck like he can’t believe he pulled away.

now wait.

you forget about your own hands through all of this, hanging limply over his right shoulder and heavy by your side. you thread your fingers into his hair and path something more devious for the other. spencer jolts when your fingertips graze over his cock, you’d think he’d expect it but he reacts like it's completely sudden. it scares you momentarily, were you too forward? but then he looks at you with something beggy and glazed over in his eyes and it motivates you to ease the shelter of the blanket fully off, baring him.

spencer pinks, tips of his ears to the top of his chest. you inch off his lap and sit in front of him. you watch the features in his face twist into realisation and cut him off before he can say something polite, "i wanna taste you, spence.”

you’ve stunned spencer reid. for the first time in his fucking life he doesn’t know what to say. so he pushes out a, “yeah? fuck, okay. yeah.” an embarrassing stutter of words but it's enough to reassure you. 

a firm finger pokes him square in the chest, not so hard that it hurts but enough to have him lean back against the headboard. he follows dutifully, letting the pillows take him, allowing him some semblance of solid ground beneath him. because he's convinced he might pass out at the sight of you settling between his outstretched legs, looking sinfully unaware of just how much you affect him.

although the effect itself becomes glaringly obvious when his cock twitches, two pairs of eyes darting down immediately. you can't tell if he's bigger than what you remember from last night, but you do know that you want him in your mouth immediately.

your head dips down, a slow hand curling around the base of his length, guiding it to your lips. the head, flushed and red, meets soft and plush, a light kiss against him. and spencer thinks he might die. your lips part, taking the tip into your mouth, tongue laving against his slit. your eyes flutter shut when a bead of precum settles over your tastebuds, slightly salty. you glide down, the weight of him in your mouth is deliriously good.

at some point between drawing back and swirling your tongue around his tip, spencer tangles his hands in your hair. fingertips soft over your scalp, he doesn't push, just holds you. your head bobs down again, forming a steady rhythm. your eyes start to water when he nudges at the back of your throat, breath faltering as the hair low on his stomach begins to tickle your nose. he immediately pulls you off with a gentle hand fixed to your jaw.

“you don’t have to do it all.” the concern in his eyes is sickening as he wipes off the saliva smeared to the corner of your mouth. you smile at him, a little sheepish, tilting into his palm. “i know.”

you press a kiss to his wrist and return to the task at hand, cock standing proud over his abdomen and possibly redder than when you left it. you lean down, letting a little dribble of spit fall from your lips to his length. decidedly, you wrap your fingers around him, letting the saliva act as a lubricant. you press a thumb to a vein running along the side of his cock, tracing it with every up and down of your hand. he lets out a shuddering exhale in response. 

you hope the look you give him is sultry at best, you don't know that his vision is starting to blur at the corners when your head dips down again. only to mouth at the tip this time, a sloppy makeout around the flushed head as your hand continues to work at the rest of him.

“god, angel. you’re so-” he cuts himself off with a moan when your wrist twists. “so good at that.”

you let the words get to your head, a burning heat that creeps up your neck. emboldened, you take more of him into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you go. spencer can't help the way his hips buck up and you almost gag again. you pull off with a breathless giggle, wiping your mouth while spencer regards you with that same sickening concern, except now there's guilt in his comforting touch when he inspects your face. he doesn’t find this funny at all.

you hold his wrist as you laugh again and put on your most reassuring voice, "i'm okay.”

a skeptical purse of his lips. you gravitate forward, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “i promise,” you whisper, followed by a nip at his skin. it elicits a gasped sound from the depths of his chest.

he pulls you into a kiss, relishing in the ever so slight taste of him on your lips as he turns the two of you around, you let him lay you down this time. the moment feels kismet when his fingers trail lower. one hand keeping him propped up and the other parting your folds. you're unbelievably wet, the lingering effects of last night and spencer on your tongue leaving you as much.

“oh, spencer.” your hips rise to his touch when he dips a finger into your entrance and he's immediately determined to make you say his name like that again. the way you gush around him as his finger curls up allows him to add another one to the mix. you think he’s ruined you forever with how fast the peak builds, a heavy, honey-like pressure pushing down on your stomach as his fingers move, relentless between your thighs. you stop him before he can put his thumb to your clit with an urgent gasp, knowing that if you come now you won’t be able to keep going, “fuck me.” swallow, “please.”

spencer pulls his fingers out, kissing your chin when your head tips back at the emptiness. he can't help the tug at the corner of his lips, eyes possibly filled with too much affection when your thighs give a needy squeeze around his hips. “i got you,” he whispers, pulling you closer with two firm hands at your hips. 

he pushes in, and it's an easy fit, you’ve been ready for what feels like forever. but where he lacks in overwhelming thickness he makes up for in length so it truly just keeps going. your hands brace at his side when he finally bottoms out. “i swear you weren’t this big,” you huff against his shoulder, almost exasperated. 

spencer laughs, though it skirts the edge of something aching, “ha-ah, you’re boosting my ego, sweetheart.”

“good,” you hum, eyebrows pinching when he begins to move. your walls flutter around him, adjusting, you don’t know how you took it last night without his rearranging you from the inside out. “you’re so- feels so good, spence.”

he whines into your neck, the speed of his hips increasing with every subsequent clench around his cock, he doesn’t know if he can handle this much praise. lewd noises fill the room, moans and flush inducing wet squelches echoing off the walls and forming into something tangible between your bodies. it's not enough, something's missing, you need him even closer. 

“baby, wait. flip me over.”

baby.

he hesitates before turning your body under his. upon re-entering you, it all clicks into place. you melt in satisfaction, cheek smushed against the pillow with your mouth stupidly hanging open. he gives an experimental roll of his hips, slow and deliberate, hitting places you never deemed possible.

“there?” he asks when you simultaneously mumble an incoherent y-uhuh, there, he lays over you and starts fucking you into the sheets.

his chest molds perfectly to your back, head fitted somewhere between your shoulders with his lips attached to the nape of your neck. he murmurs things, things you can't possibly comprehend with how deep he is, you swear you could feel him in your throat. your hips push back, meeting his thrusts with every persistent plap. sweat blooms. a light sheen everywhere your skin touches him, you feel warm all over. you feel him all over. spencer. spencer. spencer. 

spencer snakes a hand under your body with an unwitting amount of familiarity when he starts rubbing circles into your clit

you feel it again, pulsing, a pleasant ringing in your ears that drowns everything out except his voice. “gonna cum for me again? huh, angel? just like last night?” quiet encouragement, awe, tinged with a bit of condescension, it sends sparks down your spine, setting off fireworks between your legs. 

your head tips over to his arm, where it's planted beside you on the pillow, to sink teeth into flesh. canines dig into muscle, and if you were any more coherent, you would’ve drawn blood. your scream muffles against him, legs twitching out and shaking under his body, spencer blankets you with a heavy grounding pressure as your orgasm crests. his lips press to your cheek when you look over your shoulder at him, eyebrows imploringly upturned, he follows right after you and he is beautiful. 

he slumps, heavy. but the good kind. you welcome the pressure and the closeness for a minute while your breathing evens out. in and out.

“i need to pee, reid."

“oh please, don't call me that when i'm still inside you.”

you laugh into the pillow, shoulders shaking while he pulls out. funny boy. you pull a shirt over your head and watch as spencer stumbles trying to put on his underwear. he trails behind you quietly as you walk into the attached bathroom and pretend to ignore the pout he tries to hide when you close the door. 

you feel a little stupid talking to him from the toilet but it makes it somewhat easier to ask him. “can we do this again?” your voice muffles through the wood. 

he squeaks something panicked, “i don’t know if i can–”

you push an amused smile into your knuckles, “not now, spencer. at some point, in the near future.”

“yeah?” he asks, sickeningly hopeful. “would you let me take you to dinner first? preferably not at rossi’s house?”

spencer hears the flush and then the door clicks open. you have your hands joined behind your back, he takes a step forward.

“i’d really like that.”

you’ve got an expression on your face that doesn’t warrant a confirmation, still, spencer asks. “yeah?” 

you lean forward and kiss him, a few seconds too long. “it’s a date.”

reblogs and replies are appreciated :) | m.list

[masivechaos]

interrupted!

── ☆ spencer reid x fem! reader

Request: yes / no

Synopsis: After a call from Hotch interrupted a heated moment between the two of you, Spencer has a hard time hidding he's seeing someone

Warning/content: established relationship, no use of y/n or physical description, steamyyy but not smut (kinda fades to black?), typical cm case, not proofread

a.n.: 2.1k words- my spencer reqs are still opened hihi

masterlist / criminal minds masterlist / navigation / taglist

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.───･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.──

“S-Sorry–” Spencer mumbled as he quickly took a seat. 

He was late. Which was more than unusual for him. Morgan raised an eyebrow “Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” he frowned, not understanding why they were all giving him a look. He took a second to glance at himself. His shirt was not tugged in like usual, his hair was a real mess and one of his socks was put on inside-out.  

And there was the purple mark on his neck, next to his collarbone that he had to make a conscious effort hiding.

Spencer cleared his throat “Can we focus on the case?” he said, voice a bit higher-pitched than normal. 

“Sure,” JJ said with a knowing smile. 

He stared at his file the whole meeting. It wasn’t his fault. He was on a day-off and got a sudden call that he wasn’t prepared for. He was supposed to spend the morning with you like intended, to be able to keep kissing you and stay in bed with your body flushed against his– 

“Reid”

Spencer’s head snapped to see Hotch waiting for an answer… to a question he ignored…

“Uhm… sorry c-can you repeat?”

“I said… Do you remember the last time this MO was used?”

Spencer nodded “Yes, in 1986 in the same area we found four bodies killed in the same way, with the same puncture wounds to the chest. The unsub had never been found”

He felt Derek’s amused eyes on him. He just knew. What gave it away? The half fucked up tie? The way he walked in with his cheeks still flushed? The dilated pupils when he thought of you instead of working? 

Could they blame him? Last night he finally got to what he had wanted for weeks… you.

//

“Thank you for walking me home,” you smiled, still gripping his hands.

You and Spencer were standing on your doorstep. It had been your first ‘real’ date after weeks of talking : a nice dinner after seeing a play together. You hadn’t stopped smiling since the start of the night. 

“Of course,” he answered. Spencer’s eyes flee yours most of the time, but right now, they were looking straight into yours.

His big brown eyes. 

It truly was what you had noticed at first about him. And you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at the moment. You bit your lower lip to stop yourself from grinning. “Do uhm… do you want to step inside?”

You both knew what that meant. One step in and the two of you will be one.

Spencer simply nodded. But you didn’t move, didn’t want to step away. With your hand reaching behind you to open the door, you stayed in front of him. He got closer and you felt your cheeks heating up.

You had the time to hear the ‘click’ of your door opening before his lips were on yours. You closed your eyes as you leaned into it. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders to try to pull him closer somehow, because you weren’t close enough for your liking. A breath left his lips and you answered with a small, muffled sound. He walked you inside, still kissing you.

Spencer closed the door behind him without leaving you. Your hand cradled his cheek, angling his head to kiss him deeper. His hand trailed from your hip to slide under your top. Your skin shivered at the contact of his cold fingers on you. 

“Spencer,” you whispered. Your other hand was gripping the hair on the back of his neck and you swore you heard him let out a sound at the slight tug. It only made the knot in your stomach tightened. 

Spencer broke the kiss, breathless. You took a second to take in his appearance: his red cheeks, the hair that had fallen in front of his forehead, the top button of his shirt that you had somehow opened in the process. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and his hand stayed there, on your cheek. 

“Hi,” you breathed out before letting out a giggle.

“Hi,” Spencer answered. He rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in. Your fingers found the hooks of his pants to pull his hips closer. He leaned in again to start a new kiss. 

You kicked off your shoes, your lips still attached to his. You only broke the kiss to whisper a quick “The bedroom’s on the right” and let him lead you there. 

With your back against the mattress and his body hovering over yours, the world blurred and all you saw was him.

//

Spencer’s eyes darted the jet, trying to avoid Derek’s questioning gaze. He knew how fucked he was, as soon as there was one break, the questions will start. If that jet ‘meeting’ to talk about the strategy could last the whole flight, he wasn’t going to complain. 

Unfortunately, the chat ended. He glanced at his file, pretending to already start the geographical profile.

“Reid”

Shit.

“Yes?” he looked up to see Morgan sitting next to him. 

Derek grinned. “So you’re not gonna tell me what happened this morning?”

“Nothing happened,” Spencer answered too quickly.

Derek let out a chuckle “Sure, kid. You came here looking like a mess and you were late.”

Spencer swallowed “You’re imagining things”

“No. I think you have someone you want to hide” Spencer’s face was so transparent and telling that he couldn’t even hide it. He tried though, but he failed miserably “Come on! Just tell me I’m right”

“Fine–”

Derek grinned from ear to ear “There we go. What’s the girl’s name?”

“I don’t want to talk about it–”

“Talk about what?” Emily asked as she sat across Spencer

“Reid’s got a girlfriend” Derel said way too loud. 

And that got the whole jet’s attention. Even Hotch turned his head with a raised eyebrow. “Do you?”

“I… well yes but it’s not the point,” he was stumbling over his words. He could die on the spot at the way all their eyes lighted up. “Can we focus on the case?”

The team went back to their files but Spencer noticed the way their gaze lingered. He wanted to keep it for himself. At least for a little while, so he has time to make sure things were serious between the two of you. He hadn’t meant to… but the call caught him off guard while he was supposed to spend time with you.

//

Spencer rolled around and let out a sigh. He felt something against him, he opened his eyes and remembered. He remembered last night, the thrill and pleasure, falling asleep next to you, your head resting against his naked chest, his hands on your hips–

“Spencer?” you whispered as you woke up. 

“Yes?” he whispered, wrapping his arm around your middle. He wasn’t used to this, waking up next to somebody else. But it had been a nice surprise when he woke up, that was sure. His heart melted at the sleepy smile you offered him. 

You pressed your head to his neck and left a peck there “Slept well?”

“Definitely,” Spencer answered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” you said with a grin “That was a good night.”

He laughed, his cheeks heating up. “Yeah… it was”

You lifted your head to see him so flustered. With his red cheeks and big eyes and his disheveled hair from last night. “Cute,” you whispered before pressing your lips to his. How were you supposed to keep your hands to yourself when he looked this cute. 

Spencer melted into the kiss, his hand cupped your cheek to pull you closer. With your hips now pressing against his, he couldn’t resist you. He turned you around, now hovering over you. He kissed you again, harder. 

You hooked your leg over his hip and heard him let out a sound against your mouth. Your arms snuck around his shoulders while his hand started to trail down. You closed your eyes when his lips locked with your neck. That was so good. 

Spencer muttered your name and that only made you want more. You were ready and let out a whimper when his hand found you– 

A phone rang. Spencer froze. He glanced at the nightstand to see his cell ringing. “Sorry–”

He detached himself from you to answer the call. “Hotch? I… Y-yes. Yeah I’ll be there”

You chuckled, amused at how unsatisfied he looked. “Don’t laugh,” he said, trying to hide his small smile “It sucks”

“It does,” you said, pecking his lips “But you have people who need you”

“And what if I need you?” he answered which made it harder to keep your hands off of him. 

“Then you’ll have me when you’re back,” you whispered against his mouth. Spencer smiled and offered you a quick kiss

“I really need to go”

“You don’t seem to be moving”

Spencer let out a small sigh and got up and you weren’t going to stop yourself from staring. “You’re just making this harder,” he whined as he had to quickly get dressed. 

“I see that” you chuckled.

He shook his head, swallowing at the sight of you still sitting on your bed. “I uhm… Well since I’m here I don’t have my car… can you drive me to work?”

“Oh- yeah sure”

The ride was silent, Spencer focusing on trying to look normal and absolutely not unsatisfied. You left him a block away as he told you he didn’t want to deal with his colleagues’ teasing. He definitely had a good reason to worry about it

//

Spencer had finally managed to focus on the case. He had indeed been right and the unsub from 1986 was the same as now so the stakes were high. After two intense days of chasing after the man, they caught him. Spencer sat in their assigned room at the police station. He hadn’t taken the time to breathe properly. He looked at his phone to see a text from you 

‘Hi :) Tell me when the case’s over, maybe I can give you a ride home since you don’t have your car’

Spencer smiled without even meaning to

‘Hi, I would love that. Caught the guy so I should be back at the BAU by 8pm’

You instantly answered with ‘You’ll have a private driver waiting for you :P’

“Now, Reid. You can’t tell me it’s not her you’re texting”

Spencer turned around to see Derek “I wasn’t going to lie about it”

“So why didn’t you tell us on the jet?”

“I just… you were all staring and I hadn’t planned on talking about her”

“The hickey on your neck was talking for you” Derek said, loving messing with him. Spencer was so flustered, his cheeks redder than ever “Anyway… how’s it going?”

Spencer smiled “It’s going great. Except for the impromptu phone call,” he chuckled. “But uhm… yeah it’s doing great, we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks”

“And you didn't tell us?” Derek joked, faking offense

“Well it wasn’t anything at first, the other day it was our first date. Well; no but like our first date that we stated out loud was a date. Does that make sense?” 

“Sure,” Derek answered with a chuckle “Well I’m happy for you, kid,” he said as he got up before patting his back and leaving. 

Spencer was left alone and he stared down at his lap, smiling from ear to ear. He just wanted to get back to you. 

After the long wait on the jet and the last bit of work he had to do in office, he was finally free. He saw you, standing next to your car in the parking lot. You grinned when you saw him. His arms wrapped around you and smiled into your hair “I missed you”

You stepped away from him so you could kiss him. His lips against yours and his hands on your hips. It wasn’t even a heated kiss, just one that said you had missed each other. But it was enough for his team to cheer. 

You frowned as you turned your head to see… all his colleagues standing there, smiling. Even one of them gave Spencer a thumbs up. “What’s going on?”

“Uh… I might have not been very ‘put together’ when I arrived from your house”

You chuckled “No way”

“Can we just go?” he asked, a bit embarrassed.

You got into the car “They look nice, I should meet them someday,” you said as you saw a woman– wearing the most extravagant clothing you had seen in a while– looking ecstatic. 

“Yeah… you should,” he smiled “But for now, I just want you to myself”