[redstonedust]

being too warm during the day: well, this sucks, but this temperature makes sense because the sun is up, and the sun is making me warm. i am unhappy but logically i can deal with it for now.

being too warm at night: what if i kill everybody.

[whisperedmeg]

spencer walter reid? no. to me, he’s spencer “cums-in-his-pants-anytime-he-eats-you-out” reid. spencer “keeps-his-glasses-on-while-his-head-is-between-your-thighs” reid. spencer “soft-dom-until-he-turns-into-a-whiny-lil-desperate-baby-anytime-you-get-on-top” reid. spencer “can’t-stop-biting-you-(affectionately)-during-sex” reid.

it is canon to ME!

[artistformerlyknownasbutttrumpet]

i was training a young person at work, and she referred to sexual assault as "SA" out loud, and i immediately was like, "no, it's sexual assault, call it what it is," bc idgaf if the algorithm overlords have taught y'all that you should fear direct language, how tf do any of you expect to ever address real issues with any amount of seriousness if you can't even say the words? imagine an advocate looking a sexual assault survivor in the eyes and asking "did he grape you?" it's absolutely fucking absurd, but these young interns and new hires are coming into an environment where we deal with survivors of all different kinds of abuse, and they're coming with the mindset that the words are as bad as the actions, and that makes them shitty at the job and look juvenile af

i HATE self-censorship for a lot of reasons, but being in crisis work makes it even more frustrating. who are you censoring for? like i am being so fr, WHO are you censoring for? have you even thought it through? people who have been raped know that they have been raped. if someone attempts suicide or is grieving someone who did, saying "sewer slide" isn't going to protect them from any of the feelings. a murder victim's family isn't going to feel better bc you said "unalived" instead of murdered. if anything, it's just extremely invalidating and othering. it's saying "what happened to you is so bad that i won't even say the word," which is NOT trauma-informed care. you are not protecting survivors/victims when you self-censor. the ONLY things you protect when you self-censor are the puritanical ideologies that are being encouraged by rich fascists who want your money and obedience

say the fucking words, guys. just say the goddamn words before i go insane!!!

[milowing]

sometimes u headcanon a character as a sexuality but then also ship things that contradict that. sometimes you ship things you would NEVER EVER want in canon. this is because these things are fun and silly and not legally binding.

[reidouji]

I think Fem!Spencer Reid does not own one matching set. Her underwear consists of silly designs, AND SHE WEARS BOY SHORT UNDIES!!!! #TRUTH

[lostalioth]

(smut) dbf! jack abbot- this is lowkey a wild ask so it's completely up to you if you want to write it or not but... like soft smut where reader is scared of pelvic floor exams. asked jack about pain with penetration and he said he'd examine them if they wanted that. time passes before reader finally agrees, jack coming over to their apartment- let's just say it ends with stubble burns against their thighs.

✶ match box 06 — 3k follower event.ᐟ

✦. ─ cw: dbf!jack abbot x younger fem!reader, 3.2k wc, fluff, smut, medical inaccuracies, nicknames [kid, sweetheart, honey], inappropriate physical pelvic exam turned oral, prob missed some.

— I LOVE WILD ASKS please never ever be afraid to send ‘em i really loved this one. 

As you had gotten older, you allowed your yearly pelvic exam to come and go. Sometimes you would get the courage to make the appointment and tell yourself this year you’re gonna do it. You’re gonna face the music, anxiety be damned and go get checked out. Then as it inched closer and closer to the date you chicken out and cancel.

 

You were beyond scared of getting one. You knew exactly why too, losing your virginity had not been nearly as fun as all your friends made it out to be, sex hurt. When you told your girlfriends this they looked at you a little funny and asked maybe he didn’t do it right, it wasn’t exactly supposed to be painful, not the whole time anyway. So you did a few experiments of your own, cause maybe they were right and the guy just i don’t know did it wrong?

You bought a toy, a not too big but average to smaller sized dildo, online as going in store was too much to handle. And one night when your college roommates were out, you tried using it but it hurt just the same, you even tired just using your fingers but that wasn’t much better. From then on for years, you avoided sex as much as you could. All subsequent boyfriends who managed to persuade you into it just told you it'd be “Much better with me trust me baby” and it never really was. 

When you bring it up to one of your friends again, they point something out that you had been trying to avoid thinking of. “Hey, isn't one of your dads friends a doctor or something? Why haven’t you asked him about it?” oh that guy. Yeah the one you are kinda a little too attracted to who’s not just your fathers friend but his best friend, who makes your brain short circuit each time he calls you sweetheart? That one. Yeah you’d rather not talk about how sex is painful to the older man, who is the closest person to your father. You just might have to though if you ever wanna actually enjoy sex in your life. 

When you see Jack a few days later for your dads weekly dinner night he hosts, you manage to pull him away telling your dad it’s private girly medical related questions, he shuts up shortly after that. 

“What's up kid you okay?” Jack asks, concern evident in his voice. You rarely asked him anything medical and he was a bit worried you’re about to ask him how long is it normal for a woman to go without getting her period. “How…” you squeak out. Oh god here it comes. Before you start again you clear your throat. “How um common is, you know pain during sex…” the word sex leaves your lips in a meek and quiet tone, Jack tries his best not to chuckle as to not embarrass you further, but he’s happy it's not the question he was expecting. “Pretty common kid, at least the first time” he explains calmly, his casual demeanor easing your anxiety only a bit. “And how about every time?”

The idea of you having sex multiple times shouldn't be making Jack's chest ache the way it is, you’re a young beautiful girl after all, he tries telling himself it’s only cause it’s apparently painful and he cares for you. This time he straightens up a bit, “if the guys aren’t being rough, it's less common, it shouldn’t be every time” he watches as your eyes go a little wide and shake your head no in response to the first half of his statement. “Have you had an exam lately kid?” This is a purely professional question so it shouldn’t feel as dirty as it does coming out of his mouth.

“I um normally cancel them” Jack can only sigh out in a bit of frustration. “You should really get them regularly sweetheart” he misses the way your thighs lightly squeeze together at the use of the nickname. “I’m scared s’ all, anything going um inside hurts and doctors offices only make me more nervous” you explain. He smooths a hand over your hair, sympathy lacing his voice. “it’s okay i don’t mean to make you feel bad about it kid i swear” “How-” he stops himself, his eyebrows furrowing as if he was debating something in his head. “What?” you prompt, trying your hardest to not buckle at the knees from the way he’s practically petting your head. Physical touch is a quite rare thing between you too minus a few hugs on birthdays or pats on the back. “How about I give you one?’ oh sweet jesus that sounds wrong. He clears his throat, his face a little flush now at his own words but he doesn’t backtrack. “I’m a doctor, that you know, so it’s less scary” “No appointment needed if that makes you more comfortable” as you are processing his words he continues on. “I could do it at your apartment, where ever you feel most comfortable”

  

Your throat shouldn't feel as dry as it does, but the idea of Jack examining your pussy makes your head spin and slick settle between your legs a little. Maybe you should just see a regular random doctor, not one you have a wildly inappropriate crush on. You leave him with a small “Thank you, I'll think about it” and run off with the excuse of using the bathroom. You leave before Jack that night without much of any goodbye to him, he tries not to dwell on it, he really hopes he didn’t upset you.

You however dwell for days on Jack’s suggestion. Without the underlying nerves you feel because of being attracted to him, it is a good idea. You’d feel far more comfortable, maybe too comfortable being examined by him rather than a doctor you hardly know. You don’t bring it up to anyone as you’re too embarrassed but you think about it for days. When you get a reminder for the last gyno appointment you were brave enough to make, you cancel it without another thought and text Jack. 

All he does is thumbs up your message but for the next few hours you are anxious as all hell while waiting for him to knock on your door. You had given yourself the time both to calm down but also clean your apartment. Even though he was literally coming over to give you a vaginal exam and wouldn't care what your place looked like, you wanted it to be neat. Even if this was going to be probably the weirdest event in your life to date.

You are startled out of your train of thought by a knock at the door, you glance at the clock — 3pm exactly. Damn older men and their punctuality or was it a doctor thing? Shaking your head you nervously make your way to open the door, greeting Jack with a little awkward wave. He chuckles softly, the sound calming you as you step back from the open door to invite him in. “It’ll be alright, i’ll be gentle kid” his voice runs over your skin leaving behind goosebumps. You don’t know what you’re more nervous over, the expected pain of the actual examination or, the idea of Jack's hands on you, his fingers in you. 

Without wasting much time Jack settled into a semi professional but still comforting balance as he puts down the small bag of stuff he needs on the floor of your living room. You appreciate his effectiveness, as he tells you to sit on your couch facing him. You listen and watch as he sits on top of your coffee table. “This will be a little awkward because we are here and not a hospital, so I don't have a few things sweetheart” he starts to explain. “The no gown won’t be too hard, you have a skirt on so if you could just take off your underwear i can have access without-” he paused a moment as if thinking “leaving you too indisposed” the way he snaps a pair of blue latex gloves on shouldn’t be making as wet as it is, fuck. 

“Can-” you stutter out, your face hot but he seems to pick up on what you’re asking, nodding softly he turns his head away to give you some semblance of privacy. Bunching up your skirt you hook your fingers into the waistband of your slightly soaked panties and pull them down your legs. You kick them under the coffee table so they’re out of sight and tap Jack on the shoulder, he shakes his head softly at your shyness before turning to face you again. 

“Put your feet up either side of me on the table, won’t be the same as stirrups but close enough” tugging at the end of your skirt to cover yourself a bit more you do as he says and place your feet up flat on the low table. He adjusts them slightly, grabbing your foot one at a time and slides them a bit so they are more half off not so far back. “Scooh more to the edge of the couch kid, lean back ‘n tilt your hips up a lil more f’ me” the way you listen so well to Jack has him smiling softly at you and muttering out a small “Atta girl” 

He pressed lightly around on your abdomen through your shirt and skirt, eyes glued to your face gauging your reactions. “No pain or tenderness when I do this, right?” when you shake your head no he stops. “My hand is gonna go under your skirt for a second okay?” your face grows hotter and you nod, your voice has yet to find you again but so far nods are an effective enough communication with him. He reaches down between your legs but only presses around again, this time he is much closer to your pussy but he remains on the outside, pressing over the mound of it and on your pubic bone. “No pain?” Once again your head shakes side to side. His hand pulls away, your eyes follow his movements as he reaches down to grab a small bottle out of his bag.

He holds it but doesn’t do anything with it yet, his eyes find yours again “This next part i have to put my fingers inside, that okay sweetheart?” you gulp softly, nodding yes slowly as your nervousness grows again. “That’s the part that us- usually hurts” you explain in a small voice. It’s Jack's turn to nod now, "Penetration?” you let out a ‘mhm’ in agreeance as he squeezes the clear substance onto his pointer finger. “This is lube to make it easier and I’ll go slow, only one finger” his other hand reaches around your leg to touch the back of your calf, rubbing soothing lines up and down the muscle. “If you’re relaxed it might not be as painful” he explains, waiting on your go ahead before reaching down under your skirt once again. 

Pushing his lube coated index finger through your folds the tip of it finds your entrance, he gauges your face, when you nod again he proceeds by pushing it inside. 

Your sharp intake of air makes him stop once only the first bend of his finger is inside. “Come on, relax f’ me sweetheart” his low honey dipped voice makes your body go a bit lax, he inches his finger forward again and when you show no sign of pain he goes all the way til it's completely inside. “How’s that kid?” he sounds as breathless as you feel but you try to ignore it. “A little pain” you squeak out. “Give it a second, relax and it might go away”

“Don’t know how to relax more” you whine out, the sound going straight down Jack’s spine and up again, he shivers a bit and wills it away before it travels further south. “I’m gonna try something…do you trust me sweetheart?” you’re already nodding again in response before he fully finishes his question. 

Bringing his thumb up he parts the lips of your pussy til it finds your clit. You gasp out and slightly scare him, “That hurt?” “No no m’ sorry surprised me is all” you mumble out, biting your lip to hold in any more noises from getting free, like an accidental moan. Jesus christ why did you think this was a good idea again? If you had to bet you’d say you were soaking his gloved finger, even with the sting you felt from it inside, it felt good at the same time. You never even reached this type of feeling with your own fingers.

His thumb on your clit presses down lightly and starts rubbing in circles, you let out a small little sigh that makes Jack smirk a bit. “There you go honey, come on” “Un-tense your shoulders” your body listens almost instantaneously “Good girl” you can’t help the whimper that comes out at his words, he doesn’t say anything in response. “Feel any better?” he prompts, his eyes remain on your face, no matter how bad he wants to peek under your skirt to watch the way your little bud twitches under his touch. “Mhmm a bit” you answer softly, trying to push away the odd feeling bubbling up in the pit of your stomach. 

“Can I put in another finger, we’ll see how that feels?” he whispers, he definitely has enough information that he thinks he knows what’s wrong already but you don’t need to know that. “Yeah” you pant out, shaking your head a little too eagerly, if Jack notices he doesn’t say a word. With ease his middle slips in alongside his pointer, his thumb still circling your clit. “No pain honey?” the motion of your head once again answers his question. “Wanna try something else…can I move my fingers sweetheart?” 

“Please” you plead, head to fuzzy to care how desperate you sound. Slowly pulling his fingers back he watches your face as he pistons them back in, repeating the motion. “That feel good?” “Mhm no pain, fuck! feels really good” you whine out, your hips now bucking up against his fingers. He speeds up, still waiting to see if it hurts or if you stop him. “Jack” you moan out, his cock throbs in response. 

“Yeah kid?” “Need- Mm” you cut yourself off, pinching your lips in a line and tilting your head back. “Nuh-uh come on honey, tell me what ya’ need” he prompts, curling his fingers up to hit a different spot inside you that has you letting out a pornographic noise you didn’t know you were even capable of. “Need-” you huff out, before he stops you “Look at me when you say it, come on kid” “Use your words”

Lifting your head you look into Jack’s eyes, his breath hitches at the sight of your glazed over lust filled eyes, batting your eyelashes you start again. “Need more” you sob. His stomach just about hurts now from how hard he is in his jeans that feels all too tight. “Yeah? What more honey? Another finger or something else?” he asks, consciences be damned he’s not gonna leave you hanging even if your old man would fucking kill him if he ever found out about this. “Somethin’ else please” you whine, not even knowing what more you want. Jack however seems to when he takes his free hand off your calf and lifts your skirt, his head ducking under it. His fingers don’t stop positioning in and out of your slick cunt even if you squeal a bit at his motion. The noise morphes into a moan, your body melting into the couch when his warm tongue pokes out and makes contact with your pussy, licking at your pussy. “Still feel good kid?” he mumbles out, before his thumb leaves your bundle of nerves only to be replaced by his mouth as he sucks at it. 

“Yeah- Yeah feels s’ good” you breathe out, letting go of your skirt, he grabs at your one leg, lifting your foot off the table placing it over his shoulder, prompting you to do the same with your other before his fingers slip out of your pussy. 

You whine at the loss, “Jackkk” making him chuckle softly against you. “Hang on sweetheart” he coos as he uses both hands to grab at your hips, pulling you up and half way off the couch to get you closer to his mouth, lapping at you hard splitting your folds with his pointed tongue before sucking at your clit. “Ah- Ahhh ooh fuck” you wail out, your hands frantic to steady yourself. One finding purchase on his shoulder before sliding down his back under his shirt where your nails scratch at his skin. The other holding on for dear life to the edge of your couch cushion, your legs tighten a bit around his head. 

“Holy shit” you whisper out in breathless disbelief, the odd feeling from before coming back to quickly build in the pit of your stomach. Jack's large hands cupping your waist squeeze at your flesh, as he shakes his head side to side a little, flattening his tongue against you. Your thighs burn a bit at the friction of his stubbly face rubbing against them. He moves back to harshly sucking at your clit, your pussy and his mouth coated in his spit as he practically slurps at your juices.

“Huu- shit” “Wait wait! Jack- mhm feels like m’ gonna pee” you try pushing at his head to stop him, even if you desperately didn’t want his mouth off you. That feeling in your stomach was teetering on the edge. “Ya’ don’t have to pee sweetheart, that’s a orgasm you feel” he grumbles out, the explain making your hand ease up from pushing instead it rakes through his curls “S’ okay cum for me kid” 

“Promse s’ okay” you whine out, staring down at his head between your legs. “Yeah, you can do it” “cum f’ me it’s okay honey” "Promise it’ll feel good, no pain” his reassure is all you need to let your high wash over you, legs shaking on his shoulders, “There we go, fuck” he moans out. Your back arching as you cum on his tongue with a loud wanton moan filling your apartment coupled with his praise, “Atta girl, sweetheart” “Such a good girl f’ me” he laps at your cum. “Taste so fucking sweet, like i knew ya’ would” he mumbles out, that one you think was meant more for himself.  

Managing to reluctantly pull his head from between your soft thighs, Jack used his hold on your hips to place your body back onto the couch. You stare at him wide eyed when you notice his face all wet, covered in you. “Got somethin’ on my face kid?” you nod meekly. He chuckles and pinches at the collar of his shirt to bring it up and wipe at his mouth. “No pain after?” he asks. “No, never done that before” you whisper out, flicking your head down to where your skirt now covered your puffy but satisfied pussy. 

“Just needed an older man huh sweetheart, help ya’ relax a little and the pain melts away” he states, reaching down to rub at your knee. “Fucking little boys” he tsks but your eyes are glued to the large bulge in between his thick thighs. You’d have to be extra relaxed to take that monster on…

— would the position jack eats you out in, be at all comfortable for that old man's back? fuck no and lowkey it’s a hard to physically imagine it but jack’s strong s’ fineeeee i got a little too lost in sauce when writing clearly oops…this was also only like half proofread.

[hotchreiid]

She asked you to leave.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Spencer steps in when your ex shows up at your new apartment. word count- 2.4k content warnings- fluff, a bit of angst, neighbour!Spencer, reader's ex cheated, controlling ex. ellie talks- i pictured season 1 Spencer when i wrote this so... yeah! first Spencer fic kinda nervous

Spencer liked where he lived. It was quiet, he liked the way that his mind was able to run as fast as he let it without interruptions. His neighbour on the right hand side was a sweet older lady, the only noise that drifted through the walls was the occasional laughter from whatever tv show she had playing whilst knitting or the whistling of the kettle a few times a day. The left hand side had sat empty for most of his residence, eerily quiet. Until you moved in. 

You had turned up in the middle of the night, the sound of your car pulling into the lot had made his eyes drift from the book he was reading whilst curled up on the window seat, over to where you were slamming your car door closed, attempting to balance cardboard boxes that had become damp in the rain and using your foot to push open doors with your keys dangling from your mouth. It wasn’t until he heard the boxes land on the wooden floor next door that he realised he should have helped you, offered to open doors or carry boxes or… anything really. But he hadn’t, he was too distracted figuring you out. Who you were, where you were coming from. Judging by the lack of boxes and personal belongings, he had figured you were either moving out of your parents home for the first time, or moving out from a shared home, be that with a partner or a friend. His answer came two days later when he heard your muffled voice through the wall. He couldn’t make out any words, but you sounded upset, and angry, speaking in half-choked sobs and sending your phone clattering to the floor when you hung up. 

You introduced yourself a week later. His arms had been full of mail from the mail locker in the lobby, and lifted his head at the moment you dropped from the last step, your hands tucked into the pockets of a leather jacket. His fingers curled around the letter in his left hand tighter as his eyes darted away from yours quickly, before he could linger too long on the shiver it had sent up his spine. He had introduced himself quickly in return, and disappeared upstairs before you could engage him in small talk and he ended up embarrassing himself by telling you a strange fact that you didn’t need to know. You had found it odd, but shrugged it off as him not being sociable, and carried on with your day. Spencer had paced his apartment until he felt like he was leaving grooves in the floor.

He had ignored you since. Not completely, but answered your questions shortly, didn’t engage in small talk, and when you had made cookies for the neighbours, he had returned the plate by leaving it outside your door, no knock, no note. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you, no. It was in fact quite the opposite. That the morning after that interaction by the mail locker, he had been in the line of fire at work when Morgan had noticed his silence after having to call his name three times before he looked up. After some intense, friendly, interrogation, Spencer had caved, and told Morgan about you. His advice was unhelpful to say the least, and so he had been stuck in his head trying to figure out a way to talk to you without coming across as weird. 

The apartment settled around you a little heavier than usual, the door closing behind you sounded more dull than you ever remembered it being. Your feet dragged heavily through the apartment, not avoiding the creaky floorboard like you usually did and immediately regretting it when the sound vibrated through your bones. The couch all but swallowed you when you flopped against the cushions, staring blankly at your reflection in the black mirror of your TV screen. Today was meant to be your three year anniversary. You were more angry than sad, annoyed by the fact that you had found the evidence of Connor’s affair in your own home, angry that you were the one who had to move, angry that you were angry, angry that the cute guy next door hadn’t spoken to you in weeks. You had set out to have a good day today, to forget all about Connor, and the lipstick on his shirt, the perfume on his jacket, the women's underwear under the bed. You booked a nail appointment, took yourself to your favourite coffee shop, treated yourself to an afternoon in your favourite book store and even bought yourself two new novels. But it had still felt empty, and you were angry that doing these things for yourself hadn’t helped you take your mind off the lingering thoughts. The lingering insecurity that came with his infidelity, the shame of not recognising the obvious signs, the humiliation of having to tell friends and family that you had been betrayed in the worst of ways. Your hands pushed through your hair as you leant your elbows onto your knees, letting out a long exhale. 

The knock at the door came when you were almost finished with dinner, about to add the finishing touches to the plate when the sound rattled the door in its frame. Your brow creased, the plastic packaging of the basil rustled as you placed it down on the counter. As you made your way over to the door, you felt your stomach dropping with the weight of apprehension, as if your body knew there was something wrong behind that door. The cold metal slipped in your hand as you turned the handle, only to be greeted with an all too familiar scent that had a lump rising in your throat. The overwhelming smell of Axe body spray almost had your eyes burning when you inhaled, forcing you to take a step back, and clear your throat. 

“You gonna let me in?” Connor’s voice was lower than when he normally spoke, the tone he used when trying to manipulate you into believing him, or into forgiving him. Your jaw tensed at his words, teeth grinding against each other with the audacity he possessed to turn up at your door. 

Spencer shouldered open the door to the apartment complex, a paper bag filled with groceries in the crook of each arm. His breath punched out of him in an irritated exhale when he saw the “Out Of Order” sign hanging on the elevator door. He flicked his hair out of his eyes and began his walk up the stairs, the last thing he needed after a long day in the office. As he trudged up the stairs, the sound of muffled voices grew louder, his brows furrowed as he reached his floor, and heard the voices more clearly, one he recognised immediately as yours, the other remained unknown to him. His chest flared at the waver in your voice, like you were trying to put on a confident front while hiding how truly distressed you were. He stopped on the second to last step, the one that kept him hidden from view, and listened to the conversation, his eyes darting around as he tried to grasp the situation, 

“C’mon.” Connor said, the floorboard creaking underneath his weight as he tried to step closer to gain access to your apartment. “Just wanna talk to ya.” He pressed, bringing his arm up to lean against the doorframe above your head, always trying to dominate your space. 

You folded your arms, hoping that the action would conceal the way your hands were shaking. It wasn’t that you were scared that Connor would hurt you, although you also hadn't thought he would cheat on you and yet here you were. It was more that he was unpredictable, that you genuinely had no idea what he could want from you, and if you would be able to get him back out once he was in. 

“No.” You said, your fingers tightening on your biceps. “We have nothing to talk about.” You nodded, as if you needed the confirmation to yourself that you were saying the right thing, judging by the short exhale through Connor’s nose, he wasn’t too happy with your decision. 

Spencer winced slightly at the quiver in your voice, his eyes dropped to the floor, running over the worn carpet as his teeth worried his bottom lip, feeling his heartbeat pick up to 160bpm, his guess given by the way it was rushing through his ears. He took a breath in and lifted himself onto the last step, bringing both you and the man you were talking to into his line of view. 

“Goodnight.” You began to close the door, but Connor’s hand slammed against the wood, the bang making you jump, your eyes widening as you looked at the way his palm flattened against the door. You swallowed, and his hand dropped back to his side.

Connor’s jaw set, and he cleared his throat as he tried to look past you into your apartment, making you close your door back over a little more, trying to protect the peace you had created for yourself without him. “Nah.” He sniffed once, his fingers drumming against the doorframe, “let me in, we can talk, looks like you’ve done the place up real-”

“Excuse-” Spencer cleared his throat, and your eyes lifted over Connor’s shoulder, seeing your neighbours’ wide, brown, doe eyes through his glasses, and his furrowed brows as he shifted awkwardly, his paper bags crinkling in his arms. “Excuse me,” he repeated, a little firmer this time. “But she said she doesn’t want to talk to you.” 

You inhaled as Connor turned around to eye Spencer, your gaze softened as Spencer looked at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in support. Connor turned back to you, catching the lingering tenderness in your eyes, and his hand curled into a fist at his side. “Who’s this freak?” Connor gestured back towards Spencer without taking his eyes off you, “stalkin’ you or somethin’?” 

Spencer’s head tilted at the insult, more puzzled than offended but he stepped forward towards his own front door as he spoke. “Most stalking cases involve someone the victim already knows. Former intimate partners account for a significant proportion of reported incidents, particularly when there's a history of controlling behaviour or a difficulty accepting the end of a relationship.”  He said as he stopped just outside his door, Connor’s eyes darkened, and Spencer either didn’t notice or chose not to acknowledge it, his eyes moving back to you. “Persistent unwanted contact after someone has clearly asked for space is also one of the behavioural indicators professionals look for when assessing escalation risk.” He paused, his eyes meeting Connor's. “You've been asked to leave twice now.” 

Spencer finally squared his shoulders, standing a little straighter than before despite the tension radiating from the man in front of him. His gaze wandered back to Connor. “Now I believe she made her stance pretty clear?”

Connor ran his tongue over his teeth, taking a calculated gaze between you and your neighbour before he scoffed, a sharp, humourless sound. “You think you’re funny?” 

Spencer didn’t answer, letting the silence linger with a blank look which only irritated Connor further. He took a deliberate step forward, invading Spencer's space until only a couple of feet separated them. "You got a habit of stickin' your nose where it doesn't belong?" Connor muttered, his voice low. "This has nothing to do with you."

"It became my business when she told you to leave and you ignored her."

Connor scoffed. "You don't know what you’re talkin’ about."

"No," Spencer agreed evenly with a tilt of his head. "But I know enough to recognize when someone isn't respecting another person's boundaries."

Connor's eyes narrowed. "Oh, you know enough?" he sneered. "You some kind of expert now?"

Spencer adjusted the grocery bag against his hip, reaching into his jacket pocket for his keys, the movement pulled the edge of his jacket back to reveal the leather badge wallet clipped to his belt caught the dim lighting. Connor's eyes dropped to it as it glinted, his expression changed almost instantly. "...FBI?"

Spencer looked down briefly, as though he'd almost forgotten it was there. "Yes." He answered plainly.

The confidence drained from Connor's face. His shoulders lost some of their rigid tension, though the irritation remained. "You could've said that."

"You didn't ask."

Connor looked between Spencer and you, jaw working as if he wanted one last cutting remark. Whatever he'd been about to say died behind his clenched teeth. After a long beat, he took a reluctant step backwards. Connor's gaze lingered for another moment before he gave Spencer one last wary look. Then, with a shake of his head and a curse under his breath, he turned and stalked back toward his car.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, pushing his key into the lock, not taking his eyes off his hand as the door opened. You cleared your throat, pushing your hair back behind your ears and nodding as you leaned against the doorframe. 

“Yeah.” You said, your voice too shaky to be convincing. 

"He'll probably come back." He said, glancing up into his apartment before finally looking at you. His expression softened when he noticed the colour drain from your face. "I don't mean immediately," he clarified gently. "But people who are used to getting the last word, or controlling how a conversation ends, don't typically accept being told no the first time. Especially if they believe they can change someone's mind." He paused, his tongue pulling his bottom lip into his mouth as if thinking, considering something. "I don't want you sitting in there by yourself if that's a possibility." He said finally.

You looked up at him.

"If you're comfortable with it..." He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can wait in my apartment for a while. We don't have to talk if you don't want to. I was just going to unpack my groceries and make some tea."

You blinked, your grip finally loosening on your arms, and your hands dropping to your sides, the invitation so welcoming that it caught you completely off guard.

"I've got books," he added after a beat, as though that might somehow make the offer more convincing. "And... statistically, it's safer than you being alone if he decides to drive back."

A breath of laughter escaped you despite yourself, and Spencer looked faintly relieved.

"You don't have to decide because I offered," he said quickly. "I just thought I'd rather know you're somewhere you feel safe."

You glanced back into your apartment before looking at Spencer.

"...Tea sounds nice."

The corners of Spencer's mouth lifted into a small, genuine smile.

[x-strwbrry]

pathetic little secrets

♡ simon ghost riley x virgin!female reader ♡ 18+

words count: 6k

You didn't mean to bring it up. Hell, you didn't even mean to think about it. It was just that the air in the safe house was too thick, the silence between you and Simon was too heavy, and the bottle of whiskey you'd been nursing had made your tongue loose and your filter non-existent.

You were perched on the edge of the rickety bed while he leaned against the wall, cleaning his rifle with the methodical focus of a saint polishing a relic. The only light was a single naked bulb, casting a jaundiced glow and carving his face into a landscape of harsh shadows.

The conversation had been about nothing. Mission fatigue, the shitty food, the way the rain sounded like nails on the tin roof. Then, you'd made a joke. A stupid, clumsy joke about a fellow soldier who couldn't keep it in his pants.

"Man's a walking liability," you slurred, a little too loudly. "Thinks with his dick, gets himself into all kinds of trouble."

Simon just grunted, his eyes never leaving the barrel of his gun. But you, feeling the warm, reckless burn of the whiskey, pushed on.

"At least he's getting some, I guess. Not like some of us are dying over here."

That got his attention. His head lifted, his dark eyes pinning you in place. "That what's on your mind, Sergeant? Dying for a shag?"

The way he said it, so casual, so dismissive, should have made you shut your mouth. Instead, it acted like gasoline on a fire. "Maybe," you retorted, trying for bravado and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pathetic. "What's it to you, anyway?"

He set the rifle down with deliberate slowness, the clatter of metal on wood sounding like a gunshot in the small room. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space in two long strides. He was a tower of muscle and barely contained violence, and you were suddenly aware of how small the bed was and how close he was.

"You sound like a bloody teenager," he rumbled, his voice low and dark. "It's just a fuck. It's not a holy grail."

And that's when it happened. The words tumbled out, a drunken, shameful confession that you couldn't claw back even if you tried. "Well, maybe I wouldn't know, would I?"

The air in the room changed, going from thick with tension to frozen solid. Simon stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of surprise, the slow-dawning realization, and the subtle shift in his posture.

"Say that again," he commanded, his voice quiet, cutting through the whiskey haze.

You shook your head, a wave of intense heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting with a mortification so acute you thought you might be sick. "Forget it," you mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.

He crouched down in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. His gloved hand reached out, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes were searching, dissecting you.

"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a kind of breathless awe that was somehow worse than mockery.

"Shut up," you hissed, trying to jerk your head away, but his grip was firm. The shame was a living thing inside you, clawing at your throat. You felt exposed and raw, like he'd peeled back your skin and found something soft underneath.

He let go of your chin, but he didn't move away. He just stared, his mind clearly working behind those dark eyes. You expected him to laugh, to call you a kid, or to tell you to get the fuck over it. Instead, he said something that shattered you completely.

"You want me to fuck you."

It wasn't a question either. It was the most terrifying, exhilarating statement you'd ever heard. Your denial was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unbearable vulnerability. "No! I didn't say that. I just..." You trailed off, because what could you say? You did. You wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted him. The terrifying, scarred, lethal man who now knew your most private secret.

His lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It wasn't mocking; it was hungry. "You're a shit liar," he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made your skin pebble. "Is that why you've been lookin' at me like a lost puppy? Hoping I'd bend you over and show you the ropes?"

The crude, direct language sent a jolt straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, a pathetic attempt to relieve the sudden, throbbing ache. "Fuck you, Simon," you whispered, but it sounded weak and breathless.

"That's the idea, sweetheart."

So it had started as a joke, a stupid, whiskey-fueled slip-up that you'd both tried to bury under layers of snark and forced professionalism. For a few days, it was like a bizarre, unspoken truce. He didn't mention it, and you tried to pretend you hadn't basically offered up your virginity on a silver platter. You trained harder, kept your head down, and avoided his eyes like they were the abyss.

But the world had shifted on its axis, and you couldn't unsee it.

You started noticing things. The way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached for a high shelf, the fabric straining over the solid muscle of his shoulders. The way his tactical gloves creaked when he balled his fists. The scent of him that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd left a room.

His eyes were the worst. Before, his stares had been assessing and analytical. Now, they were heavy, weighted with a new kind of intent. You'd feel them on you during a briefing, a heated, lingering sweep from your boots to your face that made your breath catch and your cunt throb. He was looking at you like he was picturing you naked, and the constant, low-level humiliation of your secret acted as a toxic aphrodisiac.

He was harder on you, too. His critiques in the field were more cutting, his expectations higher. He'd push you during PT until your lungs burned and your muscles screamed, his voice a low, relentless bark in your ear. "Again, Sergeant. Is that all you've got?" It felt like a punishment, or maybe a test, and every time you pushed through it, you felt a flicker of pride, followed by the hot rush of imagining what he'd do to you if you really impressed him.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wire vibrating at a frequency only you and he could feel. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.

It was a normal enough afternoon. The whole team was sprawled in the common room, the low hum of the TV and Price's cigar smoke filling the space. Johnny was recounting some wild story about a bar fight in Prague, his voice boisterous and animated. You were trying to laugh, trying to be normal, but all you could feel was Simon's presence on the other side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a beer bottle in his hand. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at Johnny, but you could feel his attention like a physical touch.

Then Johnny, the glorious, oblivious bastard, said something that twisted the knife.

"Aye, but you know what it's like, Si," he said, grinning. "Sometimes you just gotta get in there, get the job done, no matter how tight the fit is. Am I right?"

A beat of silence. Your heart stopped. Simon's eyes, slow and deliberate, slid from Johnny to you. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, Johnny," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to be directed only at you. "Sometimes you just have to be patient. Make sure they're ready before you... make your move."

Johnny laughed, clapping Gaz on the back. "See? The man's a poet."

But you weren't hearing it. Your blood was roaring in your ears. He was going to tell them. The paranoia, the toxic cocktail of shame and fear, exploded in your chest. He was going to expose you, right here, in front of everyone. He'd tell them you were some pathetic virgin who'd begged for it, and they'd all laugh, and you'd have to leave the task force.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood up, your movements sharp and jerky. "I need some air," you mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes.

You didn't make it two steps before Simon's voice stopped you. "Sergeant. A word."

Your stomach dropped. You turned to see him pushing off the wall, his expression unreadable. He mystic jerked his head towards the hallway. "Now."

The others were already back to their conversation, but you felt their curious glances as you followed him out of the room and down the hall, your boots feeling heavier with every step. He pushed open the door to his quarters and you followed him inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hissed, the words tearing out of you the second the door was closed. "Are you going to tell them? Just get it over with and humiliate me, you bastard!"

He turned to face you, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Tell them? What the hell are you on about?"

"Don't play dumb!" you shot back, your voice cracking. "You're going to tell them I'm a... that I'm... that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"

His face softened just a fraction. The anger bled out of him, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his masked face. "I'm not going to tell them anything. That's your business, not mine."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?" you demanded, your breath catching in your throat. "Why are you always fucking looking at me?"

"Because you're driving me fucking insane," he ground out, taking a step towards you. "I'm trying to give you space, trying to be a fuckin' gentleman, and you're over here thinking I'm about to announce your sexual history to the whole squad?"

The sheer absurdity of it, the relief mixed with the lingering fear, was too much. The words you'd been holding back for weeks finally burst free. "Just fuck me and get it over with!" you blurted out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Just do it so I can stop thinking about it!"

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly commanding.

"No."

Your heart plummeted. "What?"

"I said no." He took another step closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.

You stammered, your brain short-circuiting. "I-I don't understand. You... you want to, don't you?"

His eyes flashed, a dark fire igniting in their depths. "Wanting to and fucking you are two different things, Sergeant. I'm not going to take your virginity because you're having a fuckin' panic attack. You'll wait."

"Wait?"

"You'll wait until you're sure. Until you can ask me properly." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And you'll ask me in my bed, after everyone's asleep. Then, and only then, I'll consider it."

The shift in power was dizzying. He wasn't rejecting you; he was setting the terms. And God help you, you wanted to agree to every single one.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, a gesture of both command and curiosity. "Okay, what?" His gaze was piercing, demanding.

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The old shame was there, but it was being drowned out by a new, more powerful feeling: a desperate, clawing need to please him. You sank to your knees on the cold, hard floor of his room, the movement feeling both shameful and right. You looked up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.

"Please, Simon," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Please... fuck me."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, visible even around the mask. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a surprising tenderness.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Now get up and go back to the others. Act normal. I'll see you later."

You didn't remember much of the rest of the evening. You sat through the briefing, you ate dinner, you even managed a few stilted laughs at Johnny's jokes. But all of it was a blur, the background noise to the roaring in your head. You were going to Simon's room tonight. The thought was a live wire in your stomach, sparking terror and anticipation in equal measure.

Hours later, the base was quiet. The hallway was deserted, the only light coming from the red glow of the emergency exit signs. You moved like a ghost, your bare feet silent on the linoleum as you made your way to his door. You didn't knock. You just turned the handle and slipped inside.

He was waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask illuminated by the single lamp on his bedside table. He'd taken off his tac vest, leaving him in just a tight-fitting black t-shirt and his cargo pants. He looked human, and terrifyingly sexy.

"Lock the door," he said, his voice soft but firm.

You did, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. You turned back to him, your body thrumming with nervous energy. And then you noticed the room. It was different. The usually stark, military-neat space was softened. The bed had clean, crisp sheets on it. And there were candles, a few simple tea lights flickering on the windowsill and the dresser, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room.

"You... lit candles," you said, your voice small.

"I wanted you to be comfortable," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the space on the bed next to him. "Come here."

You went, your legs feeling unsteady. You sat down, a careful distance between you, your hands twisting in your lap. He didn't rush you. He just watched you, his dark eyes patient.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "If you've changed your mind"

"I haven't," you said, a little too quickly. "I want this. I want... you."

He nodded slowly. "Good." He reached out and took one of your restless hands, his grip warm and steady. "We'll go slow. We'll go as slow as you need. And you tell me to stop if you want to stop. Understand?"

You nodded, your throat tight. "I understand."

He leaned in, and for the first time, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his forehead against yours, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made your eyes sting. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.

"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."

Then he did kiss you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was slow, soft, exploring. His lips were warm and firm against yours, and the fact that you could feel them, that the mask didn't cover them, made it incredibly intimate. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping out to taste you. He tasted like mint and the faint, bitter hint of coffee, and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever experienced.

You kissed him back with a clumsy, desperate enthusiasm, your hands coming up to clutch at his t-shirt. He let you, his own hands moving to your waist, guiding you. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap, and you could feel the solid, hard plane of his chest against yours.

"Simon," you breathed against his lips, his name a prayer on your tongue.

"Shhh," he soothed, his hands sliding under your shirt. His fingers were calloused, rough against the soft skin of your back, and you shivered at the sensation. "Just feel."

He kissed his way down your jaw, to your neck, his lips and tongue tracing a path that made you arch into him. He pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in your simple cotton bra. He reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease, letting it fall away.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his hands coming up to cover your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The praise, so sincere, so raw, sent a bolt of heat straight to you. You'd been so focused on your own inexperience, you hadn't considered that he might actually want this, want you, with the same desperate hunger.

He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, and continued his exploration. He kissed every inch of your exposed skin, his touch reverent. He was taking his time, so much time, working you up with a maddening slowness that had you writhing beneath him.

He started kissing your tits, his mouth hot and wet as he closed his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The sensation was electric. And in your head, the old, ugly thought surfaced: He's done this a hundred times. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're just another body in his bed. The thought made you squirm, a mix of jealousy and insecurity twisting your gut.

He must have felt the change in you, because he pulled back, his eyes searching your face. "What is it?" he asked. "Talk to me."

"I just..." you couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing. But he just waited, his gaze patient and unwavering. "I just... I know you've done this before. With people who know what they're doing."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I have," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble. "And do you know what I've learned?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've learned that nothing is hotter than watching someone fall apart for the first time. I've learned that I fucking love being the one to make it happen."

He moved down your body, his hands hooking into the waistband of your pants. "I'm going to eat your pussy now," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to let me hear every single sound you make. No holding back. Understand?"

You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow pants. He pulled your pants and underwear down in one go, leaving you completely bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue on your cunt was like a lightning strike. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your back arching off the bed. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

"Fuck, you're wet," he rasped, his tongue lapping at you with long, slow strokes. "So fuckin' wet for me."

He ate you out with a devastating skill, his tongue finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling and sucking until you were a whimpering, moaning mess. You could feel his spit mixing with your own slickness, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room.

While he worked, his hands found yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your hips. It was an anchor, a connection in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. He held your gaze, letting you watch him, his eyes dark with lust as he showed you exactly what his tongue was doing to your swollen, aching clit.

"Tell me how it feels," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Talk to me."

"It feels... so good," you gasped, your nails digging into the backs of his hands. "Your tongue... fuck, Simon, don't stop."

His grip on your hands tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your plea. Your pussy was burning, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more. You felt a fullness in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that was wound so tight it was almost painful.

He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. The stretch was intense, a dull burn that quickly melted into pleasure. He was watching your face, reading your every reaction, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.

"You're taking my fingers so well," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at that. So fuckin' tight." He pumped his fingers in and out of his mouth, his tongue still working your clit.

The dirty talk, the sight of him between your legs, the feel of his fingers and tongue, it was too much. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You came with a loud, broken moan, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it, drawing out every last shatter of pleasure.

He finally released you, crawling back up your body and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You could feel his erection, a hard thick line pressing against your thigh, and you were suddenly desperate to feel it, to feel Ghost.

You reached down, your hand palming his cock through his pants. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made you feel. You wanted to show him how desperate you really were.

You pushed at his shoulders, surprising him. He let you roll him over, until you were straddling his thighs. You quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing his cock. It was even more intimidating up close, long, thick, and flushed dark red at the tip. A bead of pre glistened there, and you leaned down, licking it off on a whim.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Show me," you whispered. "Show me how you like it."

His eyes snapped open, dark with lust. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "Like this," he said, his voice strained. "Spit on it."

You did, your saliva glistening on the head. He used it as lube, his fist moving in a smooth, steady rhythm. You watched, utterly mesmerized, as he pleasured himself.

"Your turn," he grunted.

You replaced his hand with yours, your grip tentative at first. You mimicked his movements, and he let out a low, encouraging sound. "Yeah, just like that, love. Tighter. Squeeze the head when you get to the top."

You followed his instructions, your confidence growing with every groan you elicited from him. He was leaking steadily now, his pre-cum making your hand slick.

You leaned down and flicked your tongue over the head again, tasting the bitter saltiness of him. He twitched in your hand, a guttural sound escaping his lips. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue around him. The taste, the feel of him on your tongue, the power of having this strong, dangerous man at your mercy, it was intoxicating.

"Jesus, fuck," he gasped, his hand flying to your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "You're gonna make me come, you little minx."

You smiled around his cock, a surge of feminine pride washing over you. You cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your hand, marveling at the weight of them. You even ran your fingers through the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock, finding the fact that he was unshaven, so naturally and undeniably male, incredibly hot.

"Christ, stop looking at me like that," he groaned. "You're gonna make me blow my load before I even get inside you."

You pulled off him with a wet pop, grinning. "Sorry."

"You're not," he said, sitting up and kissing you hard. He flipped you over again, pinning you beneath him.

He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom and ripping it open. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency, his eyes never leaving yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you.

"Last chance," he said, his voice serious. "Tell me to stop."

"Don't you dare," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.

He pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, the stretch immense. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. It burned, but it was a good burn, a sign of the connection you were making. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.

"You're doin' so good," he murmured, his voice strained. "So fuckin' good. Just breathe."

You did, and as you did, he slid in deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was seated fully inside you. The feeling of fullness was absolute, overwhelming. He was so deep, so much a part of you, it brought tears to your eyes.

He kissed them away, his lips gentle. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move, his thrusts shallow and slow. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours, anchoring you as he began to fuck you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It wasn't frantic or rough. It was deep, intimate, and devastatingly slow. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his lips worshipping your body as his cock worshipped your cunt.

You could tell he was holding back, his body trembling with the effort of not pounding into you. His thrusts were angled perfectly, stimulating a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. The pressure built again, a slow, rising tide of pleasure that was even more intense than the first.

"That's it," he panted in your ear. "I can feel you gettin' tighter. Are you gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna come all over me?"

His words, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure, sent you over the edge again. You came with a silent cry, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shaking with the force of it.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his rhythm finally faltering. "I can feel you comin'. So fuckin' hot. So goddamn perfect." He slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was coming with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled the condom.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly syncing up as you came down from the high. After a long moment, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you back into his chest.

You were silent, your mind reeling. You felt different. Changed. The shame, the insecurity, it was all gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.

Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.

You didn't need to be asked twice. You cuddled closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the morning, things would be different. But for tonight, in the warm, candlelit glow of his room, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The only thing more shocking than the fact that you'd just lost your virginity to Simon 'Ghost' Riley was the realization that you wanted to do it again. And again.

The first few days after were a weird, hazy blur. You moved through your training exercises on autopilot, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache. A deep, pleasant soreness that was a constant, throbbing reminder of the way he'd felt inside you, the way he'd held you, the sounds he'd made. Every time you caught sight of him across the compound, a dark, imposing figure against the grey concrete, a jolt of heat would shoot straight to your core.

You expected things to be awkward. You'd braced yourself for smirks from Johnny or a pointed, knowing look from Gaz. But there was nothing. Simon was the consummate professional on the field, his commands sharp, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If anything, he was a little more distant, a little more controlled, as if he was holding himself back with a supreme effort. And Johnny just thought you were hungover.

That first night back in the safety of your own room, you'd slid your hand into your panties and touched yourself, trying to replicate the devastating pleasure he'd given you. It was useless. Your own fingers were a poor substitute for the thick, insistent stretch of his cock, the expert roll of his hips. You came, but it was a hollow, fleeting thing, and it only made you miss him more.

It took three days of this simmering tension before you snapped. You were in the gym, pounding away your frustration on the treadmill, when he walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. He didn't look at you, just gave a curt nod and headed for the weights. But you saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands flexed at his sides.

You hit the stop button on the treadmill, the machine's whine cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "My room," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt. "Ten minutes."

He didn't even turn around. "I have a briefing."

"You'll be quick," you retorted, a sharp heat rising in your chest. You saw his shoulders shake with a silent, dark laugh before he gave you a single, sharp nod.

You were waiting for him, your heart pounding when your door creaked open. He slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him with the same quiet efficiency he did everything. He didn't say a word. He just crossed the room, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It wasn't sweet or slow this time. It was a kiss born of days of frustrated denial. His tongue was in your mouth immediately, claiming, possessing, and you met him with equal desperation. You clawed at his tank top, pulling it over his head, and he did the same to yours, his hands rough and impatient on your skin.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he growled against your lips, backing you towards the bed. "About this tight little body. About how you felt squeezing my cock."

His filthy words sent a rush of wetness between your thighs. You whimpered, your hands scrambling for the button of his pants. He shoved his trousers down, kicking them away, and then he was on you again, his naked, scarred chest pressing you into the mattress. He was already hard, his cock heavy against your stomach.

Si was tearing at your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking them away along with your panties. He was between your thighs in a second, his cock nudging at your entrance. You felt the tear of a condom packet and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

"Don't," you said, your voice breathless.

He stilled, his eyes searching yours. "You sure?"

"I'm on the pill," you rushed out. "And I trust you. I just... I need to feel all of you. Please, Simon."

He stared at you for a long, tense moment, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. Then he crushed his mouth to yours, the condom forgotten. He pushed into you in one long, smooth stroke, and the sensation was overwhelming. No thin barrier, just the hot, silky feel of him, every vein, every ridge. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, you could feel him everywhere.

"Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back. "You feel so good."

He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking in protest. "You feel like fuckin' heaven," he gritted out, his face buried in your neck. "So wet, so bloody tight for me."

You wanted more. You needed to be in control, to set the pace, to take what you needed. You pushed against his chest, and he let you roll him over with surprising ease. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you, and braced your hands on his chest.

The sight of him below you was breathtaking. His chest was heaving, his muscles tensed, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. And his mask, it had shifted slightly during the tussle, riding low on his nose, revealing more of his face than you'd ever seen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar there. He looked wild, untamed.

You started to move, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hands found your hips, then slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh as he guided you, helping you take him deeper.

"Simon," you panted, your head lolling back. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. You've done this to me. I'm obsessed."

His grip on your ass tightened, his eyes blazing. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me what you're thinking about, sweetheart."

"Thinking about how full you make me," you whimpered, feeling another orgasm coil low in your belly. "How you stretch me so good. Si, please... please don't stop filling me up."

That was what broke him. With a groan, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and crushing you to his chest. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting as he drove up into you, meeting your downward thrusts with powerful, desperate strokes of his own.

His mask was pushed down further, and you turned your head, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, kissing the scarred skin there. "You feel so good, LT," you whispered in his ear. "So fuckin' good inside me."

He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you, the hot, thick flood of his cum triggering your own release. You came with a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him, milking him for every last drop. You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening but not gone, a warm, comforting presence. He reached up and gently adjusted his mask, pulling it back into place. The intimacy of the gesture, the quiet trust it implied, made your heart ache.

"Now you stay the night," you murmured into his neck, not a question, but a statement.

He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, and that was answer enough. You knew, with a certainty that this was no longer just about getting rid of your virginity. This was something else entirely.

And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you realized you were in way deeper than you'd ever planned to be.

[madeofstardustluv]

Ｐｒｏｆｉｌｅｄ

Spencer Reid X f!reader (no use of y/n)

Summary: Being in love with your coworker is an HR nightmare. Being in love with Spencer Reid is somehow worse.

Tags: fluff, reader is in denial (aren't we all), workplace romance, friends to lovers, mutual pinning, they both have it bad for each other, idiots in love, slow burn

w/c: 1.2k

Notes: Hey, so this lowkey might turn into a mini series cus I have so many ideas for this dynamic. If you enjoy pls interact; it's greatly appreciated (pls lets bring back old fandom culture)

The LAPD precinct was chilly as the AC continued to blast, little goosebumps forming along the exposed skin of your arms, the end of a pen lolling near your mouth. Your eyes were fixated on the open villain folder, images of a brutally murdered woman filling your peripheral vision. With a long exhale, muttering under your breath, “ Insecure men…” 

Reid perked up from where he sat beside you. Leaning over awkwardly, desk chair creaking as he tried to get a better look at whatever was upsetting you. “Insecure men?”

“No offence, but your kind is a blight on the world”

“None taken.” He glanced quickly from the folder back up to your face with that stupid smile of his, catching on quickly. That was the problem with Spencer; he was bright, too bright. He caught every bit of nuance in as little as a single conversation, his brain working overtime to understand everyone around him— including you.

Even with the team's “no profiling” rule, he saw through you: extending kindness when he didn't have to, remembering coffee orders and the time you usually got to work. 

“Another day, another case of a sad, lonely white dude getting off by killing innocent women. Honestly, if I had a penny for every case like this we've worked, I’d be able to retire early.”

Reid leaned back in his chair, adjusting his glasses before speaking, "There's actually a psychological phenomenon called aggrieved entitlement. It's when someone believes they're owed status, affection, or attention, and when reality doesn't match that expectation, some individuals externalize the blame. In extreme cases, that resentment can escalate into targeted violence." His hands wandered as he spoke, animating whatever it was he saw in his head. 

Blinking at him for a moment, the silence settling. 

"Sorry, I'm trying to be more conversational.” He squeaked out that last part. Avoiding eye contact, he tried to busy himself with a notebook that lay forgotten in our little corner of the table. 

Swerving in your chair, back now facing Spencer, you made your way over to the evidence board. “Huh… well, it's not working, but I applaud your effort.”

That’s the other thing that pissed you off about Spencer: for all he makes up for in book smarts, he lacks in social skills. This six-foot-tall grown man was the embodiment of Bambi: skittish, clumsy, shy with big brown eyes. Incredibly inconvenient for you, your mind had recently developed the annoying habit of wandering whenever Spencer Reid was involved. 

Makes you wonder what he’d look like on his knees—God, you were no better than a man. 

Without realizing it, your gaze had drifted over your shoulder. Watching the boy genius fuss over his notes: fidgeting with his fingers, tapping them against his temple, bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

You wouldn't go as far as to say you had a crush on Spencer; you were just co-workers. 

Co-workers who flirt constantly and happen to go on coffee dates. 

Besides, you were almost certain Hotch didn't want to deal with whatever HR nightmare you two had going on. His attention preoccupied with Morgan and Garcia’s not-so-workplace-friendly commentary. That, however, doesn't mean you couldn't appreciate the piece of eye candy, that is Dr. Reid. There was no harm in it, especially since it went right over his head. 

Having yet to decide if that’s a good or bad thing.  

“You're cold…” The words cut through your daze, pulling you back to reality. 

“Sorry?”

Spencer shifted his eyes, meeting you halfway. “You have goose bumps all over your arms, and you're currently crossing them over your chest in order to maintain your core body temperature.”

He absentmindedly picked up an image from the evidence folder, flipping it once between his fingers before making his way around the table to the board. 

Looking down at your arms, which were in fact crossed over your chest, a strange warmth bubbled somewhere deep within you. Normally you’d wear shirts with sleeves to work or, at the very least, bring some kind of cover-up. You meant to take one with you this morning. You really did, but had forgotten it in the hotel room, leaving you in your current predicament of dress pants and a tank top. 

“My bad for assuming it's gonna be hot in LA,” you teased, a smirk plastered on your face. 

Stepping up beside you, he spoke in an almost hesitant voice. “You can take my cardigan if you're cold; it's on the back of that chair.” He nodded to the right, leading your eyes along to the chair in question. The room was tense for a moment as his offer buzzed in your head; you were cold, but you also had dignity, and Morgan would never let you live this down. 

“Thanks for the offer, Reid, but I'm good.” Plucking the picture from his hand, you grabbed a thumbtack off the board. You could feel the shift in his demeanour; his shoulders sank almost imperceptibly as he turned. 

Sparring him no attention, almost missing the flush that rose over his ears and the tip of his nose. Silence washed over the room as the picture left your thumb and index finger. Taking a step back, side by side with Spencer, his eyes scanning the board in its entirety. 

You almost felt bad. You knew he meant well. It's not his fault you're having an internal battle of how long Morgan will dangle pretty boy's cardigan over your head. 

He looked like a kicked puppy; it made you almost regret saying no. 

“I’m glad you're not like them.” The words were almost a whisper as they left your lips. Spencer tilted his head in your direction, a question already bubbling behind his eyes.

“Insecure, that is. You don't care what other people think of you; you are unapologetically yourself …  It's admirable.”  

His eyes softened for a moment, the discouragement of his rejected offer no longer lingering in the forefront of his mind. “Well, I'm not the greatest at pretending to be anyone else, but I'll take it as a compliment.”

“Spencer, promise me not to be anyone else.” Finally, turning to look at him face to face, you felt a fading unease awaiting his reaction. 

He looked at you, really looked at you, as if you were another piece of evidence he had just been handed. 

You were gonna throw up... Why did his gaze do this to you? 

“I won’t,” he nodded along, almost satisfied. Unfortunately, the moment didn't last long as Emily barged into the conference room spewing words your brain was not processing. 

She paused abruptly, giving the two of you a double-take.

“Am I interrupting something? …”

Putting as much distance between yourself and Spencer as you physically could, you blurted, "What? No, no—we were just talking about the case... You know what? Never mind." 

Emily nodded, unconvinced, "Well... Hotch and the others are on their way back—" 

Spencer thankfully opened his mouth before you could embarrass yourself any further, gathering the pile of notes on the desk. “Thanks, Emily. We'll gather what we got so far, and we'll meet you there.”

“Thanks, Reid,” you sputtered out. Heat rushed to your face as you escaped into the hallway. Behind you, Spencer chuckled quietly to himself.

Damn it.

[marcidstars]

like a heathen clung to the homily ⋆˚࿔ spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer returns home in the middle of the night, exhausted beyond words and in dire need of a snack. who are you to turn him down?

genre: smut (MDNI) word count: 2.9k

tags: fem!reader, oral (f receiving), munch!spencer, fingering, kissing, spencer is a tease, yes of course he's wearing glasses, title from a hozier song, written in a morrisons car park, proofread (please hold your applause)

notes: on god he's devouring that shit like it's his last meal

Coming home late is an art that Spencer Reid has learned to master. He’s studied which floorboards creek, which ones groan, and which ones scream bloody murder at the slightest misstep. He’s learned how to unlock and open every door without making a sound. He’s adapted to staying light on his feet and traversing the apartment, soundlessly, in complete darkness. 

Every inch of this place is memorised; every sharp corner, every piece of furniture, every lip of every thick woollen rug that he once would trip over almost every day. He even knows where you are most likely to leave your belongings, and he accounts for them, whether they are there or not, as he goes about his silent routine.

There used to be a time where he could make as much noise as he wanted to, within reason. A time where he could flick on the lights and hum a happy little tune to himself without fear of disturbing any sleeping lovers. But it isn’t just him anymore. His once solitary apartment—his bachelor pad, as Morgan used to call it—is now a shared space, and he wouldn’t change it for the world. He would happily spend the rest of his late nights fumbling around in the dark, holding his breath, if it meant that he got to return home to you.

But tonight, though he does continue with his usual dance in the dark, the last thing on Spencer’s mind is letting you sleep.

“Psst. Hey.”

You wake disoriented, half-buried among your hoard of soft pillows and softer blankets. You’re sprawled out like a starfish, limbs strewn across your shared bed, with your face partially obscured by your favourite purple and orange quilt—a birthday gift handmade by Spencer.

Leaning over you is Spencer himself. Hair tousled. Glasses sitting halfway down his nose. Backlit by the light of the moon peeking through the blinds and looking very much like a guardian angel.

All you manage in response is a low grumble. Words feel too far out of your reach as you squint up at him, face all scrunched up in this confused, sleep-riddled expression that is probably about as far from sexy as you can get. 

You’re dimly aware of the state of your hair, and of the fact that you’re sleeping in a shirt that very obviously isn’t yours; you like maths, sure, but not enough to parade yourself around in a shirt displaying a right-angled triangle with the words “I’m always right” printed under it in big, ugly lettering. You’ve told Spencer to throw this shirt out more times than you can remember, and yet here you are wearing it when he isn’t around. If he hasn’t already figured you’ve been missing him, then he’s bound to find out as soon as he sees that cursed shirt.

“…Spence?” you mumble, struggling to keep your eyes open.

He greets you with this huge smile, bright and excited in all the ways that are sorely inappropriate for such a late—or early—hour. 

“There she is.” He leans down to kiss your cheek, and he stays there for a moment, letting his words hit your skin as he murmurs, “there’s my angel.”

“You’re back,” you observe, stating the obvious. You rub your eyes, still trying to pull yourself out of your haze as he settles down beside you.

“I am.”

He sounds far more enthusiastic than you do, peppering your face with kisses like he’s been away for months, and not a week—six days, technically.

He was due to come home tomorrow night. At least, that’s what he told you. You wouldn’t put it past him to lie for the sake of surprising you like this.

“How did it go?” Your fingers find his face in the dark, and you cup his cheek. “The case. Did you—”

“Shh.” Spencer presses his lips to yours, silencing you with a kiss that seems to thrum with something more, something unspoken, but he pulls back before it can be explored. “Just let me kiss you.”

“Spence,” you whine, but your protests are quickly muffled as he kisses you again.

Still, despite your attitude, you lean into him. Your hands slip into his hair, and you thread your fingers into the silken brown strands as you pull him closer. You try to sit up, but he gently pushes you back down.

“It went well,” he eventually murmurs. “I missed you.”

“’Missed you, too. How well is ‘well’?”

Spencer sighs against your mouth, and he pulls away with a barely contained smile. He tilts his head slightly as he looks down at you, studying you in all of your sleep-ruffled glory. “We caught the unsub,” he says, “no one on the team got hurt, and Los Angeles can sleep well knowing they don’t have a serial killer to worry about.”

“Only paparazzi.”

“And celebrity stalkers.”

“Same thing.”

“Very true.” He kisses the tip of your nose. “But that’s enough about me. How have you been? Have you been sleeping okay?”

“Well, I was…”

He flashes you this faux-sympathetic pout. “Sorry.”

“Empty words,” you mutter, shaking your head. “I was having such a nice dream, too.”

“Oh?” Spencer shifts, bringing himself closer to you as he props his head up with his hand. “What were you dreaming about?”

You shrug. “Oh, you know…some pretty FBI agent, a queen-sized bed, and…” your voice trails off for a moment, and you puff air into your cheeks before adding, “whipped cream.”

Spencer’s brows shoot up, and he nods along animatedly as though you’ve just uttered something profound. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Sounds like fun.” He trails his fingers, touch feather-light, along your jaw. His glasses continue to slip until they’re balancing precariously on the end of his nose, and you’re certain they’re about to fall right off and hit you in the face. “But I feel like whipped cream on a queen-sized bed would just result in quite a…sticky mess, right? I mean, the amount of laundry that would come of it—”

With your index finger, you push his glasses back into place. “Shh, let me have my fantasies.”

“Okay, okay,” he concedes with a sigh—light and breathy, almost like a laugh. “And I’m very sorry that I interrupted such an…interesting dream.”

“Very interesting,” you say.

“I’m sure it was.” His hand is holding your jaw, barely. He’s handling you with such an impossible gentleness, angling your face towards his with such subtlety, that you hardly even notice he’s doing it. “Let me make it up to you?”

“Hm…maybe.” You find yourself leaning into his touch instinctively, gazing up at him with love-laced curiosity as you ask, “what do you have in mind?”

Spencer purses his lips for a moment, pretending to be deep in thought as though it isn’t painfully obvious that he has, in fact, come in here with a plan. His hand leaves your face, and he begins carefully peeling away your blanket. “The same thing I’ve had in mind for the last week.”

“I’m listening.”

The words come out a fraction quieter than you had been intending. You try to bite back a smile, but your efforts prove futile as Spencer pushes the blankets aside to reveal you in just a t-shirt and underwear. Again, his t-shirt. One that he clearly recognises, because his face lights up with this stupidly smug grin. When you roll your eyes in response, he leans down to kiss your cheek.

"It suits you," he murmurs, almost whispers, and he follows it up with another quick kiss before sitting up. 

He nudges your knee, silently asking something of you. Your brain is, admittedly, still a little foggy, so there's a moment where you just stare at him, buffering, before you spread your legs and hope it's the correct move. Thankfully, it is. 

He settles between your legs, on his knees, and leans over you. One arm braced against the mattress, the other brushing hair from your face. He inches his face closer to yours, taking a long moment to just…look at you, admire you before (hopefully) kissing you again.

You decide he's taking too long, so you cup his cheeks and pull him down until his lips meet yours, and it seems that every ounce of restraint he had been exercising thus far dissolves in a matter of seconds. He kisses you like he's been starved of oxygen, need-driven and thoughtless—as thoughtless as Spencer Reid can get, that is—like he'd devour you whole, if physics allowed it. 

His glasses, no longer in place on his nose, press against your browbone, and you break the kiss just long enough to take them off and set them aside, out of harm's way, before turning back to him. Lips still parted, ready for him to dive back into you.

But Spencer's focus has now shifted to your neck. He trails his lips down until they meet the junction between your neck and shoulder, where he knows you're most sensitive. He nips lightly at the skin, and you feel him smile, proud, as your breath catches. Then, he works his way back up until his teeth find your earlobe.

"You know, it's a generally accepted theory that erotic dreams may be representative of latent non-sexual desires, or needs, that aren't being met," he explains in this soft, honeyed tone as he pulls back. His hands travel down your body, palms brushing over your curves through your (his) shirt. "They can come about as a result of loneliness, or a need for safety—even low self-esteem."

His fingers hook under the band of your underwear, and you raise your hips without hesitation. He pulls them down slowly, so slow it’s almost hard to watch, because he just loves making you wait, skimming the fabric along your legs before casting them aside. 

"There's also a possibility that you may see qualities in this pretty FBI agent that you lack in yourself," he continues, lifting your leg to press a kiss to the inside of your knee before progressing, steadily, down your thigh, "such as…attention to detail, maybe. Or perhaps…orderliness…a level head…"

"Spence…"

At the sound of your voice, Spencer looks up at you, brown eyes wide. Almost innocent-looking. You never should have told him that those eyes, and that damn deer-in-headlights look, were your weakness—all he’s done since then is use them against you.

"Mhm?"

"We agreed to keep Freud out of the bedroom," you say.

Spencer grins, baring his teeth against your thigh as he chuckles softly. "I know, but it's kind of difficult. He's so relevant."

"I’m sure he is," you mutter, doing your best to look unamused despite the smile tugging at your lips. "I have an idea."

"And what would that be?"

"Stop talking."

He gasps, faking offence as his hands squeeze your thighs. "I thought you liked my ramblings."

"I do," you say, "when we're not…like this."

"Oh, I see…you're getting impatient."

You stay quiet, denying him the satisfaction of a response. If you disagree, then odds are he'll drag this out even longer. And if you agree, if you validate him, then it'll just go straight to his head. And his ego is already big enough as it is.

"I could be a lot worse," he adds with an unassuming smile, "if you—"

"Spencer."

"Yes?"

"…please."

The word is an admission in itself, but it beats the alternative.

Spencer sighs. "Well…if you insist." He lowers himself, settling fully between your legs as he brushes his nose against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him to be. "I suppose I won't boreyou with all the dreams I’ve had while I’ve been away…"

"Wait, what—"

A sharp gasp cuts through your words as Spencer's mouth finds your clit, and any coherent thought vanishes, replaced with hot static and an overflow of need that has built up in his absence. His fingers press divots into your thighs, keeping them open as he works you with a proficiency that only he could manage; that eidetic memory serves him well when it comes to memorising you. Your body, your essence, your nuances; all the little things he can play to that have you writhing beneath him, forgetting everything that isn't the way his mouth feels, and the hunger that it ignites within you.

Need mounts almost to desperation as you lift your hips in a silent plea for more, and you whine when he gently presses you back down against the mattress. Your fingers find their way into his hair, curling into the chestnut strands as you push his face deeper into you. He makes this noise in response; a low, pleased hum, and it reverberates through you in a way that has you fucking reeling with pleasure. 

He releases his grip on one of your tensed thighs, and the next thing you know he's slipping a finger inside you with ease. A second finger follows and, before you know it, you're arching your back and trying to stifle moans in the hopes that the neighbours won't hear you as Spencer finger fucks you with practiced, calculated precision, hitting that sweet spot repeatedly and bringing you closer and closer to the edge at a carefully controlled pace. He knows you, inside and out, probably better than you know yourself—no, definitely better than you know yourself, because not once have you managed to achieve this kind of high when you've flown solo. It's second nature to him, something he can do without thinking—something he needs, just as much as you do, after such a long week.

His name tumbles from your lips, whispered like a prayer between hymnal moans. He looks up at you and, for a moment, his gaze locks onto yours. What you see in those dark eyes in that split-second is nothing short of worship. Tainted around the edges with a smugness that he can never quite hide when he has you like this, especially when you start to devolve into helpless whines and whimpers and choked, breathless curses. The way you always do just before he brings you over the edge.

The orgasm hits you right when he wants it to; halfway through whining his name, so all you can manage is a weak “Spence-” before the tension snaps and you lose yourself completely. You moan into your hand, and your thighs clench around his head—not that he seems to mind—as he continues guiding you through it, squeezing every ounce of bliss out of you before it all subsides, and you melt beneath him, dazed and drunk on your own ecstasy.

Spencer sits up, red face glazed with a thin sheen of sweat, and wipes his chin with the back of his hand. He watches you for a moment, gaze travelling across your form like you're a work of art in his stupid t-shirt, and he allows you to catch your breath before leaning down and capturing your still-parted lips in a slow, tender kiss. Your hands return to his hair, and you pull him that little bit closer, unable to stop yourself from moaning softly as you taste yourself on his tongue.

You trail a hand down his body until your fingers brush against his prominent erection and, when you do, Spencer breaks the kiss with a gentle shake of his head. His fingers close around your wrist, and he pulls your hand away even as you whine in protest.

"Not tonight, sweetheart," he whispers.

"Why not?"

"Because," he punctuates his words with a kiss to the corner of your mouth, "I just want this to be about you."

You pout. "Why can't it be about both of us?"

All Spencer does in response is flash you a knowing smile—one that raises far more questions than it answers—before lowering himself until he's lying flush against your body, being careful not to put too much weight on you. 

"You're weird," you mumble.

"You like it."

"I do."

Spencer nestles his face in the crook of your neck, and you can still feel him smiling against your skin as you run your fingers through his hair. It's hard to believe that he's only been gone for a week; it feels like it's been so much longer than that. Too long. 

You'd ask him to never leave again, if you thought you could. But you know exactly what his answer would be; soft-spoken, sympathetic, disappointing. He can't be here every night, not without giving up his job, and you'd never ask him to do that. 

Instead, you go a different direction.

"So…" you murmur, "about those dreams you mentioned…"

He lifts his head. Eyes narrowed; brow raised. "Oh, now you want to hear about them?"

"Yes. I’m curious."

He purses his lips for a long moment, keeping you on edge until he finally shrugs and says, "no."

You frown. "No?"

Spencer nods, and that smug, knowing little smile returns. Only now it's tinged with a hint of something disconcerting—something sinister, almost. He kisses your cheek once, then your nose, and then, finally, your lips.

"I think it'll be better if I show you," he says, keeping his voice light and innocent. "Tomorrow."

[ginsoakedheart]

holding hands in the shower

tags: spencer x bau!reader, no use of y/n, someone switched the fluff machine back on, 5 plus 1 fic, hand-holding, coworkers to crushes, reader has an idea, spencer's mostly just being polite about it, UNTIL

warnings: germ talk, spencer mentions hypothetical medical conditions

word count: 6.7K

summary: five times you take spencer's hand and one time he takes yours.

note: suggested by @emmadellaposta-blog in this comment:

May I propose to you a fic where Spencer tells reader he wants to get over some of his Germaphobia so she just randomly throughout the day starts holding his hand and when he asks what she’s doing she replies “exposure therapy” but it just leads to them realizing they have feelings for each other

title is from a glistening pleasure song. the song has ZERO connection to the fic i just love those words in that order.

~*~*~

ONE

"What the hell is that guy's problem?"

You don't recognize the voice at first, but you do recognize the face of the cop who's still not done rolling his eyes when you and Spencer turn the corner of the hallway at the local precinct. He's the one who spent more time glaring at Spencer than he did actually working when you were all at the crime scene earlier, as if Spencer not shaking his hand was some kind of personal insult and Reid hadn't evaded everyone's handshakes.

His fellow uniform, whose back is to you, shrugs, completely oblivious to the first guy's panicked expression when he sees you approaching. "It's the BAU. You probably have to be just a little crazy to do that job. Maybe he's just crazier than the rest of them."

"It's not strictly speaking a requirement, but it definitely helps," you say brightly, stopping several feet away from them. "We talk to so many assholes everywhere we go, a little bit of craziness helps us power through."

Next to you, you can tell that Spencer has gone rigid; you're not sure if he stopped walking because you did or if he actually froze.

There's really no way to pretend it isn't obvious that the two street cops are talking about him. Especially with the way they glance awkwardly at him and scurry off down the hallway without even acknowledging your comment. Probably lucky that this didn't turn into a full-blown discussion, Hotch wouldn't be impressed if he heard you talked to the locals like that. He'd do his whole Disappointed Dad routine of not shouting but looking very disappointed as he told you he expected better.

You turn to look at Spencer, pulling a face that makes it clear exactly what you think of those guys, but Spencer shakes his head at you.

"I'm not crazy," he says. "Actually my Mysophobia is quite mild. I just don't trust other people to keep their hands clean, and neither should anyone else."

You don't say anything about the disinfectant wipes in his desk drawer back at Quantico, or the way his shoes are lined up neatly in his hallway at home. (The temptation to nudge one of his chucks out of alignment had been almost too great to resist, but you had honestly been worried he'd retaliate by doing something to your car and it'd smell of rotten eggs for six months. He'd do the calculations and decide that revenge was worth having to take a taxi to work until the metro was running again. Or he'd get a ride from Emily.)

"Fuck them," you say dismissively.

"I'd rather not." He pulls a face and it takes you a second to realize he's joking. When you snort with laughter, he smiles at you, looking just a little smug.

"No, that'd probably be even more unhygienic," you agree. He opens his mouth to speak and you hold up a hand to stop him. "Nope. You will not give me any stats on that, you will not ruin sex for me forever."

Spencer closes his mouth like a fish.

"Thank you," you say, nodding.

"Perhaps it'd be easier, though," he says, making no moves to start walking again.

"Never having sex again?" Is he about to give you some honest feedback on your dating life?

"No." He shakes his head, too caught up in his own train of thought to really notice what you asked. "If I just shook people's hands."

"I mean, maybe," you agree, because it probably would make some things simpler. Just, none of those things are important. "But don't make yourself do something you don't want to do because that guy's a douche canoe."

"I'm not," he insists, looking down at his hands.

"Give me your hand sanitizer," you say, reaching out, palm up.

"What?" He frowns at you but immediately digs into his pocket for the small bottle. He squeezes a blob of the cool gel into your cupped palm and you rub your hands together, carefully spreading it on both of them before the alcohol evaporates and it dries out. Spencer is still watching you as he pockets the hand sanitizer.

When you're done, you hold up both hands to him, showing off just how clean they are and he raises his eyebrows in what you assume is approval. So you reach out and take his hand, not to shake but to hold.

"What are you doing?" His hand is stiff but he doesn't pull away.

"Exposure therapy," you say, squeezing.

The muscles in his hand relax slightly, but you can feel his palm getting sweaty. His hand is warmer than you thought it'd be, his skin softer. Somehow you expected calluses and dry skin, but his hands are as soft as the rest of him.

He wraps his fingers around your hand, submitting himself to the project.

"Spencer?" you ask a few seconds later.

"Hmm?"

"Are you counting?"

He looks like he's going to deny it but then he smiles, slightly shamefaced. "Yes."

"One minute, okay?" you tell him.

"Okay," he agrees, nodding, looking both ways as if he's worried someone will see the two of you standing in the middle of a police station hallway at 1 in the morning holding hands.

Some fears are more rational than others, you think to yourself as Spencer mouths, "59, 60," and then quickly lets go of your hand and shoves his own in his pocket.

TWO

You're in Garcia's office, sitting behind her as she types away, making things appear and disappear on her many monitors. Next to you Spencer is leaning against the desk you're perched on, his hands at his sides.

You indicate his pocket with your index finger and he pulls a "what?" face. When you mime rubbing something into your hands he looks at Garcia and then at you before he slowly pulls the hand sanitizer from his pocket and squirts some of it into your hand.

Garcia doesn't notice at all, still typing away, and you reach for Spencer's hand. He lets you take it, but you can see his eyes going slightly wide with panic.

"There are still more than a thousand hits," she says, taking a break from typing and starting to turn around in her chair.

"Can you limit it to just women who were divorced in the last six months?" he asks quickly, moving your joined hands behind your back where hopefully Garcia won't be able to see them.

"I never knew that was your thing, Doctor Reid," she jokes, turning back to her screens. "But I can indeed."

"It's not my thing," Spencer argues, "but it looks like it might be the UnSub's."

"No, I think Penelope's onto something there," you joke. Next to you Spencer is tense, but you're pretty sure it's more to do with the fact that you've got a firm grip on his hand than the joking. So you keep talking as a way to distract him. You're doing him a solid, basically. "How long after the ink is dry on the divorce papers do you make your move, Spencer? Do you hang around outside Family Court, scouting for future girlfriends?"

Penelope lets a giggle slip out, clearly appreciating the absurdness of the joke. Spencer Reid scouting for girlfriends anywhere. You're honestly hilarious.

Spencer on the other hand doesn't even dignify your joke with an answer. You think he might let go of your hand, but no. It hasn't been 60 seconds yet and you're pretty sure he's counting.

"Catching them on the rebound," you go on, smirking. You're going to keep it up until he reacts. "Clever to get them at their most vulnerable."

"Are you projecting?" he asks, head tilted innocently as he looks at you. "It sounds like you've thought about this a lot."

Touché, Doc.

"Ooooh," Garcia hums, sounding impressed.

You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back and then lets go.

If nothing else, this project is going to give you a very good idea of just how long 60 seconds is.

THREE

The case was exhausting, both physically and mentally, and practically everyone is asleep in their seats, with the exception of Hotch who is reviewing paperwork in the seat behind you while JJ snores quietly across from him, her own file abandoned on the table between them.

Next to you Spencer is sleeping with a pillow against the window, forced to make do after Morgan beat him to the bench where he's sleeping soundly under a blanket.

You shift, trying to get comfortable, accidentally hitting Spencer with your elbow.

"Sorry," you whisper when he opens one eye to look at you.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asks, opening his other eye.

You shrug, because you don't really want to admit that he was right and you were wrong, you shouldn't have packed your jacket in your hold bag, and you shouldn't have turned down a blanket when Rossi offered you one, and now you're too cold to sleep while Rossi is curled up across the aisle from Hotch, warm and comfortable under the blanket you refused.

Spencer doesn't say anything, just shakes his head at you with a faint smile, and then rearranges his blanket until it's covering you both. You lean closer to him so he can wrap it all the way over you.

"Thanks," you mumble, leaning your head against his shoulder, relaxing in the delicious warmth of the pre-heated blanket.

"Mhmm," he says, pushing his pillow back in place and tilting his head against it once more. When he settles, his hand brushes yours, knuckles moving against your fingers, and you chase him, pushing your hand into his. You might as well make the most of this time and do another therapy session.

Not acknowledging what you're doing in any other way at all, he turns his wrist so he can wrap his hand around yours properly, both of your hands falling into your lap. When you squeeze, he squeezes back, and then you feel his shoulder relax as he settles.

You wait with your eyes closed for the minute to pass, but when the 60 seconds are up he doesn't let go, so you don't either. Maybe he's ready to go for two minutes. You're nodding off when you finally feel his hand move, but instead of pulling it back, he's intertwining his fingers with yours.

His breathing is slow and even, you're pretty sure he's sleeping. Somehow it feels wrong to still be holding his hand when he's not aware of it, like you're… overstepping some boundary, tricking him. You try to pull away your hand, loosening your grip on him so you can push his hand back in his own lap, but he tightens his grip. It's not exactly firm, but definitely determined.

You smile, closing your eyes and burrowing closer to him until you're comfortable.

You're woken up a few hours later by him gently nudging you with his shoulder and then saying dryly, "You drooled on me."

His fingers are still braided through yours under the blanket and you use your other hand to wipe your chin and then the knit of his cardigan. "Sorry."

When you look at him his face is so close you can't really interpret his expression, but you don't think he looks disgusted.

Also, he hasn't let go of your hand.

"We're landing," you say, looking out the window at the Quantico air strip coming into view.

"That's why I woke you up," he replies.

"Oh." You honestly thought it was to complain about the drooling.

His thumb brushes a soothing circle on the back of your hand, and then he carefully releases you, pulling his hand away just in time to be able to give the blanket to JJ so she can stow it away.

You smile at him, impressed, and he smiles back.

FOUR

The bar is crowded but Emily and JJ managed to secure a table big enough for the whole team. There's a constant shuffling of seats, people drifting to the dance floor and back again, going to buy rounds of drinks, using the restrooms; and somehow you end up nursing your second piña colada pressed into Spencer's side while he's discussing interrogation techniques with Hotch and you're trying to understand what Penelope is telling you about the changes she made to her computer setup in excruciating detail.

Spencer shifts, moving even closer to you when Morgan pushes onto the rounded bench on Hotch's other side, and his hand ends up trapped between your thighs somehow. You move closer to Garcia, giving him space to pull his hand free, trying to pretend you don't notice the way his hand strokes your leg when he removes it.

Because he's not stroking your leg, he's just… moving his hand.

You clear your throat and nod, because Penelope looks like that's the reaction she's expecting, and she grins. "You weren't listening, were you?"

Spencer's hand is resting on his thigh now, but you're sitting so close to him that his pinky finger is still brushing your leg every time one of you moves. You're maybe moving a lot, not particularly comfortable on the bench seat.

You grimace in apology, your own hand settling on your thigh, so close to his that you could probably just stretch out your pinky and touch his.

"Well if you don't want to talk about my computer you can just tell me all about the date you went on last week," Penelope says and you realize this was her plan all along. Sneaky bitch, oh how you love her.

Next to you Spencer shifts again, his whole body going rigid when his pinky touches yours. You can feel him turn to look at you and when your eyes meet, he's frowning. You can guess what's bothering him, of course. Your hands touching under the table and you haven't been anywhere near hand sanitizer for well over an hour. What you have been doing is touching all sorts of unclean things, like the bar and the bench and money, the ultimate culprit in the exchange of germs, or so you've been told once.

Well, good. Time for him to lose the training wheels, you decide, and take his hand in yours, smiling with what you hope looks like encouragement.

His frown deepens, like he's thinking through a complicated game of chess, or maybe trying to talk himself off a ledge, and then he curls his fingers around yours, turning back to Hotch, his focus clearly going back to the conversation he and Morgan are having.

"Oh, it was great," you tell Penelope, feeling a little spark of excitement at how well Spencer's doing with his whole desensitization. You're kind of a genius for coming up with this, you tell yourself, pleased little butterflies fluttering around your stomach while Spencer's thumb rubs against your hand. "Yeah, he told me after dinner that he forgot his credit card so I had to pay, then suggested we both go back to his place because then we could share the taxi I'd also be paying for."

Penelope snorts. "And did you?"

You scoff. "No! I gave him three bucks and told him to take the metro, then I took a taxi home. By myself."

She laughs, delighted and you launch into the whole sorry tale about this absolute turd of a man you had to spend nearly two hours sitting across from at a restaurant because you hadn't organized a fake emergency call.

Next to you, Spencer's back goes less rigid as he clearly gets used to holding another person's unsanitized hand in this uncontrolled environment.

You squeeze his fingers, trying to convey how impressed you are by his progress.

He squeezes back, moving in his seat so his arm isn't bent at an odd angle under the table, making sure you're sitting so close that your joined hands aren't noticeable to anyone else. Your hands are resting on your thigh, his long fingers brushing against your tights. Or, well, not so much 'brushing' as, sort of, kind of stroking your leg, maybe? Not deliberately, of course, you know that, it's just what happens when you're both forever being jostled around as other people move around you.

Penelope gets up to go to the bar and really, there's plenty of space on your other side now, you could move away from Spencer's side, but then you'd have to let go of his hand, so you stay where you are, reluctant to let go before he does. He's doing so well, you want to see just how long he's able to do this for.

The room isn't cold, but somehow you still have goosebumps.

"Sorry about your date," he says suddenly, head tilted towards you, voice so low that no-one else can hear him.

You turn to look at him. "Don't be. My friend Katie set me up, she has terrible taste in men. The only surprising thing about that date is that she didn't want him for herself."

"Still. It sounded like you had a pretty bad time."

You shrug, one arm moving against his. "It's fine. Not the end of the world. There will be other dates, and maybe they'll be less terrible."

Spencer frowns, then nods. "Yeah, definitely."

"Why do you look so unconvinced? You think I'm doomed to a life of terrible dates?"

"No." He's shaking his head, but that frown isn't going anywhere. "That's not it."

"Then what?"

Under the table, Spencer's grip on your hand tightens and he looks uncomfortable. You wonder if he managed to forget he was holding your hand and now he realized it and wants to let go.

"It's fine," you tell him, because it is. He's been holding your hand for almost half an hour, your shoulder is actually getting a little stiff by this point. "You did really well."

"What?"

You squeeze his hand, since you can't exactly blurt out 'you're doing a very good job holding my hand' in front of all your teammates. Who knows what they'd read into that?

Spencer blinks. "Oh. Right. Thanks."

When you let go of his hand, it takes a few seconds for his fingers to loosen their grip, but when he does, you catch him surreptitiously rubbing his hand against his knee, not quite like he's trying to wipe you off, but still. Kind of like that.

When he gets up to leave half an hour later, he looks kind of uncomfortable when he says goodnight to you, raising his arms, and for a mad second you think he's going to hug you, but then he adjusts his satchel and you realize it was just falling off his shoulder.

FIVE

One of your favorite things about Spencer is, although his head can get kind of deep in the work clouds, once the case is over, if there's time before the jet takes you back home, you can pretty much always tempt him to go book shopping with you.

Sometimes you don't even really have to tempt him, because he has that eidetic memory, and he remembers you once telling him how you spent an entire day in your favorite bookshop in the world when you were in high school and now here you are in Portland and JJ has dismissed you both since you weren't on the team that did any actual apprehending of anyone, so there's less paperwork for you to do.

Spencer glances at his watch and then at JJ and then he tilts his head towards the exit while looking at you. And half an hour later, you're in heaven.

Book heaven.

You get distracted in the used books section, browsing biographies, and lose track of Spencer. When you resurface in Poetry it's been almost an hour and you realize you should probably find him. If you make everyone wait for you at the jet, they're not going to look the other way when you sneak off ever again.

You go through the aisles, looking for him, fairly certain he's in the used books section as well. There's enough to look at here, he wouldn't have made it to the new books, soulless historyless paperbacks.

You're not sure how you know that he's close, you just do. He's in the next aisle, definitely, and you're trying to decide if you should sneak up on him or that'd be a mistake considering what you both spent the last four days doing.

But then you hear it: "We have the paperback version as well, if you prefer."

You don't actually have to look to know this woman is flirting with Spencer. Her voice is so loaded with it, it's amazing the fire alarms aren't going off.

"Oh, that's fine. I prefer hardbacks." Spencer is polite but friendly in a way that's definitely not a rejection and you give in to temptation and remove a few books from the shelf so you can peer into their aisle.

18th century philosophy. Because of course.

And of course that woman is pretty with her nose piercing and purple-tinted hair and t-shirt that's just a little tighter than it's probably supposed to be, but in the most flattering way. A t-shirt that says, very loudly, "I can get you all the books you want, anytime, just come to bed with me."

Not literally, that would have been super weird to put on a work uniform, but it's definitely what the shop logo stretched out across her chest is implying.

"Well, if you need anything, just let me know. I'm Frankie, by the way." You wonder if the fire alarms are silent but fire trucks are actually on their way.

"Oh. Thanks," Spencer says and you can see his cheeks going all splotchy and red like he's too warm.

You stand up on tiptoes, which changes your view, and you realize why he looks like he's boiling.

She's touching his hand.

How unprofessional!

For just a second you think you've turned into your grandmother, who also cares way too much how people in the service industry behave even if their behavior has zero impact on her, and you think you might ask to speak to the manager, but then Spencer shakes his head no to something this absolute trollop just said, and which you didn't hear because your ears were ringing with righteous indignation, and she releases him.

And you realize something. You try not to, but you can't help it.

Because you're relieved. You don't care that this woman talks to customers like she wants to lick honey off of them, just so long as those customers aren't Spencer.

And you'd feel bad that clearly your exposure therapy hasn't really worked yet, because he couldn't have looked less comfortable and you know he gets shy sometimes, and it seemed clear that he liked her, and maybe if you had done a better job preparing him for this he would have been okay with her touching him.

Maybe you should also feel bad about the fact that there's a little part of you that's delighted that he'll let you hold his hand and not that woman.

No, you should definitely feel bad about that. Except you don't want any woman holding his hand other than you.

Once the aspiring honey-licker is gone, you walk into Spencer's aisle, trying to look like you didn't know he was there. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just holds up the book he definitely already read most of and tells you he's going to buy it.

"You wouldn't prefer the paperback?" you ask innocently. He doesn't know you know, after all.

He looks at you, then at the gap in the bookshelf you forgot to refill, then back at you. "No." He says it like it's simple and your whole world didn't just spin on its axis.

Oh.

Your stomach does a little flip as you try not to read anything into that completely innocuous answer. Then he starts walking towards the cash registers, moving the book to the hand that's further from you, the one closest to you hanging loosely at his side.

You take it, carefully wrapping your hand around his, and he does the same, his fingers curling themselves around you.

You pass the woman he didn't want touching him earlier, and you think he might let go of you, but instead he just smiles politely at her, his grip on you not changing at all.

She smiles back, and then she smiles at you, looking all friendly and maybe a little bit apologetic and not at all like she wants to claw your eyes out.

You hope you smile back, but you honestly aren't sure what your face is doing at all.

You just know you're holding Spencer's hand and you don't want to let go.

Terrifying.

ONE

This was your idea. Spencer has reminded himself of that fact 27 times on his way from his apartment to the cinema.

He had asked Emily to go to the Eisenstein festival with him, she had made up some transparent excuse like he wasn't a professional lie detector, and you had said, "I'll go with you, Spencer. It sounds like fun."

And his lie detector just short circuited right then and there.

There's no part of him that thinks you're going to enjoy sitting through any one of the three movies that are playing back to back today, but he didn't question it. He did rewind mentally to make sure you had heard enough of the conversation to understand what he had been suggesting, and yes. You were there the whole time, actually sitting next to Emily when he had first brought it up.

But if you only said it sounded like fun because you felt sorry for him that no-one wanted to go with him to his black and white, Soviet era movie marathon, then he was going to just pretend he didn't notice.

And then he'd sit next to you in that cinema for at least 278 minutes, depending on the versions they were screening which the poster had been frustratingly vague about. Plus commercials. All in all, he'd estimate at least five hours. Sitting next to you. In a dark cinema.

Spencer doesn't believe in prayers or wishing on shooting stars, but he would have done both yesterday if he thought it might have done anything to lower the risk of a case coming up and cancelling your plans together. But he didn't need to, because here he is.

You're already there when he arrives, standing under the awning outside looking at your phone, and for just a second he's worried there's a text from JJ and you're being called into work, but his own phone hasn't said anything at all, and when you look up and spot him you smile, not apologetically or with anything like regret (real or pretend), but like you're genuinely happy to see him.

"Perfect timing," you say when he stops in front of you.

Spencer is seven minutes early. He smiles.

"Katie has been texting me non-stop." You hold up your phone as if to show him, and it actually beeps and lights up as if you planned it.

"Your friend with terrible taste in men?" There could be other Katies, obviously, but he's pretty sure this is the only one you've mentioned knowing.

"Uhhuh. She found another gem. She started dating a guy who's—and I could not be more certain of this—involved in some Ponzi scheme. He's got a friend who's single and she's convinced we'd hit it off." You open the text and read it, rolling your eyes, and then you shove your phone at him.

'Come on just give him a chance. What do you have to lose?' Spencer hands the phone back to you. "Does she mean, other than your money?"

You snort. "Who cares about money, Spencer? What about my dignity?"

He smiles, blowing an amused huff of air out through his nose. "I suppose there's that as well," he agrees. How much dignity does he have left considering the fact that he's about to spend his Sunday with you watching movies he knows you won't enjoy, when he could have explained to you that you wouldn't enjoy them and why, but he chose not to, because he didn't want you to back out?

Considering the fact that you spending time with him out of pity doesn't stop him looking forward to it? Considering the fact that he spent the entire morning wondering if you're going to take his hand in the cinema and actually getting excited at the prospect of sitting in a dark cinema screen holding his colleague's hand because she thinks she's curing him of… caring about hygiene?

Spencer isn't sure how dignity is measured, but he is pretty sure he doesn't have a whole lot of it left to measure.

"We're getting popcorn, right?" you ask, walking ahead of him into the cinema.

Spencer had planned on getting a coffee, maybe some pretzels. It's barely 11AM. "Of course."

At the concession stand you start picking up bags of candy at what he assumes is random, but then you show him two bags of pretzels, holding them up in turn. There's a third option, but he's never eaten that one in the office and you haven't touched it. He shrugs because he's fine with either and you throw both on the counter. "And a large popcorn with butter and a diet coke and a coffee with more sugar than you think should be legal. Actually, once you hit that point, just add a little more."

The teenager behind the counter looks at you, wide-eyed and a little scared.

"Three sugars," Spencer corrects you and you smirk.

He shakes his head at you, nudging you away from the counter before you can do any more damage. Doing some quick calculations based on what you've picked up, he throws some money on the counter before you can get your purse open.

"I was going to pay," you say, eyebrows furrowed. "You got the tickets."

Spencer, who can see the remainder of his dignity escaping out the door as he goes through the rites of an actual date, just shrugs. "You're doing me a favor, coming with me. The least I can do is feed you."

You look up at him. "Oh. I figured we'd go out for food after?"

He looks at the mountain of snacks you picked up, the tub of popcorn in your arm, bigger than your head. There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, not when you basically said you want to go out for dinner. With him. "And what's this? Appetizers?"

"No." You hug the popcorn closer like he threatened to take them away from you. "But aren't these movies seven years long? I feel like Russian movies are going to be long."

"They're not that long." He holds the door open and you walk into the screen ahead of him. The room is about half full, with people mostly centered in the middle rows. The front and back rows are both empty.

You stop, turning to look at him. "Where do you want to sit?"

Normally he'd prefer the front row, for his eyesight, but he nods his head towards the back row instead. You look just a little surprised, but walk in ahead of him, settling in one of the seats in the middle of the row.

He deposits your appetizers on the little table attached to his seat and sits down next to you. And then he waits.

You spend the first half hour eating popcorn, offering the tub to him at regular intervals, and then you open the bag of twizzlers, slowly chewing your way through one of them as you squirm in your seat.

"Are you scared you'll fall asleep if you sit still for too long?" he leans in and whispers.

You jump, startled. "No. I'm just hoping I can find the right angle and then this will make sense to me."

"It won't," he whispers. "Sit still."

Then he very casually and not at all deliberately puts his lower arm on the armrest between your seats, his hand within easy reach. It has worked well in the past, after all, there is previous evidence that his method is sound. If he makes his hand available, maybe allows his fingers to touch yours, more often than not you will take his hand.

It's a pretty devious thing to do, he's aware of that, and he's not really sure when your supposed exposure therapy stopped being something he allowed you to do because you seemed so determined to help him, and instead changed into something he didn't really mind before finally becoming something he actually wants you to do.

He wants to hold your hand, he wants to touch you, and he does not want your friend Katie to set you up on any more dates. Because you're right: statistically, eventually one of them will be a nice guy, and you'll like him.

But he won't - and this is the real problem here - be Spencer.

The first movie ends and you still haven't made any moves to touch his hand. You haven't actually moved much at all, and for a while he thought you had fallen asleep, but no. You were staring at the screen, your nose scrunched up adorably as you tried to follow the narrative.

Maybe Spencer should have double-checked that there would be subtitles…

When the lights come on for the 15 minute break between screenings, you get out of your seat. "I've just gotta—" you trail off, pointing at the exit to the lobby and the other people making their way out.

"You forgot your purse," he says, grabbing it from your seat and holding it out to you after you've passed him.

You turn and stare at him. "What?"

"If you're going to sneak off." He's mostly joking. Mostly. He's also a little bit worried you do want to leave.

But then you smile, shaking your head at him like he's being silly, and he feels like maybe he was.

"We can do something else," he offers all the same. Maybe you don't want to get away from him, but you could still want to get away from Eisenstein.

You take a step back towards him, almost but not quite knocking your knee against his. "Spencer, we're not leaving. There are two movies left, I'm coming back."

"You just want me to feed you," he says. Mainly to remind himself that's something you said you expected to happen.

Dinner and a movie. Would it be possible for you to do anything more date-like? In a completely platonic way, of course. Two more movies left for you to platonically take his hand.

"Exactly," you say, and this time you do actually nudge him with your leg. Luckily you aren't looking at him, so you don't see the way he has to suck a pleased smile all the way into his mouth.

This time, he lets you walk away, and when you return nine minutes later, you're holding another coffee for him. "You take it black, right?" you joke, handing it to him.

He takes a sip and you ordered it just the way he likes it, which he knew you would. "Thanks."

When he puts the coffee back in the cup holder between your seats, he brushes against your arm, sitting on the edge of the armrest. Strictly speaking the thing isn't wide enough for two, it's very much a territory to negotiate over, but you're taking up less than half of it.

Spencer spends about ten minutes wringing his hands in his lap, trying to decipher the situation. You shift, twice, but your hand doesn't move. It's still there, half on, half off the armrest.

Like it's undecided, or like it's trying to run away and you aren't letting it, or like it wants to be there and you don't want it to.

How is he supposed to know what to do?

The answer is probably that he isn't supposed to do anything. This isn't a date, it only looks like one from a distance, and just because he can't focus on the movie because all he can think about is holding your hand, that doesn't mean you want him to. You haven't technically told him that his exposure therapy is over, but you haven't held his hand since Portland, two weeks ago.

Like maybe doing it in public was some kind of graduation ceremony and didn't make him want to stay in that bookshop forever, never mind catching the jet back to Quantico.

He shifts, sighing deeply, only realizing how loud it was when you turn to look at him. "Sorry."

"You okay?" you whisper, leaning a little closer to him.

He's not, not at all. He's spiraling just a little bit. "Yeah, of course."

You look at him carefully, like maybe you don't believe him, and he turns back to face the screen so he doesn't have to look you in the eye. Then he takes a deep breath and places his arm on the armrest, taking up most of the remaining space on it.

His pinky finger is maybe an eighth of an inch away from yours and he digs it into the velvet of the armrest to stop it from twitching and accidentally touching you, although he's not quite sure why.

Maybe because it feels too much like begging to be touched, suddenly, after not being touched at all for so long?

But then, while the score crescendos dramatically, he suddenly feels it: Your pinky finger feathering along his and then away. At first he thinks he imagined it, but then it happens again, and again. And this time, it actually settles against his.

When Spencer turns to look at you, you're staring intently at the screen, looking for all the world like you're completely engrossed in the movie.

He moves his pinky so it's covering yours.

You don't move. At all.

He moves his pinky a little more, until it's settling on your ring finger.

You still aren't moving.

He feels his heart rate increase, the way it might do ahead of a myocardial infarction, or possibly a panic attack. But there's no pain in his left arm, no cold sweats, no shortness of breath.

He swallows, then he places his hand over yours, covering it completely.

Your thumb twitches but you don't pull away, so Spencer decides he might as well go for broke and wrap his fingers around your hand.

That's it, he's done it. He's holding your hand.

And then you move, your hand shifting. He's about to release you, worried he overstepped, but all you do is turn your hand and intertwine your fingers with his, pulling his hand off the armrest and into your lap.

Spencer double-checks the signals his body is sending him, just to make completely sure this isn't a heart attack.

He turns to look at you, and he's pretty sure you're smiling, your eyes still on the screen. "Okay?" he asks.

You turn your head and now he's sure you're smiling. "Of course."

When the second movie ends, you don't get up. Your hand is still intertwined with his, resting in your lap, and Spencer hopes you'll never move.

"This, um, this exposure therapy has really worked well," you say and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you.

"I guess," he says, because he's not convinced it has, really. He's pretty sure he won't be shaking anyone's hand unless it's yours.

You lift up your joined hands to show him. "I mean, we've been holding hands for like an hour."

He blinks.

"It's nice." Your voice is soft and you aren't looking at him, so he lets himself smile at your words.

'Nice' doesn't really cover it at all. "Yeah."

The final movie starts and he doesn't let go.

[moonstruckme]

Hi Mae! I just watched s15 e4 of CM, the one where the BAU spends a random Saturday off, it’s also where Spencer ends up in that rlly oversized Washington DC sweatshirt/tee outfit. He looks sooo adorable, and I was wondering if I could request something where reader sees him in casual comfy clothes like the for the first time and her brain short circuits? (pre or already established relationship it’s up to you) thank you!!!

Gorgeous I don’t think I’d watched s15 since my first watch of the show so I went there just for you (and to see Spencer in the sweatshirt), ty for requesting!

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 757 words

Possibly the cruelest thing Spencer can do to you on a Saturday morning is to leave you before nine a.m. 

It’s for a good cause, or so the less selfish half of you tries to reason. The FBI is having a volunteer event, so half of the bureau has gone to a food pantry to distribute groceries to those who line up. It’s supposed to be community-building. The thing is (the more selfish, petty half of you argues) they’re only really spending time with each other, which they already do all week long, and Spencer is hardly ever in D.C. If there’s any member of the community he should be spending his Saturday with, it’s you. 

And you’re being very brave about it. 

Without Spencer here to entertain you with facts about sea slugs or the emerging research on light-matter particles or whatever else he’s reading at the moment, the morning drags by. You roll in and out of sleep, only rousing fully when you hear the front door reopen. 

You contemplate staying put so that Spencer will have to come join you in bed, but ultimately your eagerness takes you out into the kitchen. 

“Hi.” Spencer looks up as you emerge, hair wind-ruffled and holding a small cardboard box. And wearing an overlarge hoodie that says Bread for the City. “I got donuts in case you’re still mad at me.” 

You frown, recalling only vaguely clinging to his leg and making somnolent threats as he got out of bed. Your bravery has its limits. 

“I could never be mad at you,” you say now. 

Spencer’s dimples play hide-and-seek as he pushes the box toward you. 

“Thank you.” You grab a donut, staring a bit. Not at the donut. The hoodie is strange on Spencer. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him in anything so casual, though you’ve never thought about it before. Your boyfriend is just someone who owns a lot of sweaters and pressed shirts. “How was it?” 

“Good,” Spencer says, selecting a donut for himself. “It’s nice getting to help people in a way that doesn’t involve violence, for once.” 

“Mhm.” He looks insanely huggable. Maybe it’s because you know the material of the hoodie would be soft, or…or maybe it’s that it makes him look bulkier, somehow. The effect cannot be explained by science. 

Spencer thinks you’re making eyes at him. “What?” 

“Nothing. Just, you’re in different clothes than you left in.” 

“I am.” A small smile, bemused. “They gave us these hoodies to keep.” 

“That’s nice,” you say. You catch yourself biting your lip and stop. “It looks good on you.” 

Spencer looks like he might find you amusing, but he hasn’t quite decided yet. His eyes are scrutinizing. “Yeah? You really think so?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Are you flirting with me?” 

You shrug and lick some sugar glaze off the corner of your lips. “Seems that way.” 

Spencer blinks in genuine surprise. Which would be precious on a regular day, but now…you have got to get lips on him. Pronto.

He laughs, setting a hand on the small of your back as you sidle around the counter to oh-so-casually kiss him on the cheek. “This is what does it for you?” he teases. 

“So far,” you answer earnestly. 

The blush that pinkens his cheeks only intensifies the whole thing he’s got going on. Later, you’ll have to get Spencer to re-explain to you how exponents work, because you’re pretty sure that’s what’s happening now. He’s exponenting, his handsomeness compounding onto itself with every tiny thing he does. 

“It’s just,” you try to justify your behavior as you kiss the sugar off his lips, “really, really cute. You should wear it all the time.” 

“I will, if you like it,” he says, so totally serious. You’re going to implode. “You look really cute, too, by the way. Did you just get out of bed?” 

You spot an opportunity and heave a great sigh, heightened for effect. “Yeah. There was no cuddling, so I didn’t have much to do. Speaking of, you owe me at least thirty minutes of that.” 

“Of cuddling?” 

You nod forlornly.

Spencer’s dimples flash again as he fights a smile. “If you want, I can make up for that time now. We can have our breakfast in bed.” You must look very eager, because he picks up the box of donuts and begins shepherding you back from whence you came. “Just let me put my pajamas back on.” 

“Sure, if you want. Just keep the hoodie on, please?”

[marisatomay]

sure he understands leftist theory but does he believe feminism is a worthwhile and rigorous school of thought which is inextricable from class struggle

[pun1shedbylove]

so what if i say beginning season 1 is my favorite spencer?? the one who physically jumps at confrontations with unsubs?? the one who is on the verge of crying every moment because he’s just the most gentle and tender-hearted being on the earth???

i do not care for late seasons spencer or post prison spencer like at all (i respect that he’s canon but they are completely separate people to me)

i will always reach for the baby deer first

[mango-lovrr]

S1 Spencer is so spencery. Like that’s who Spencer is at his core (plus when he gets a little more comfy with the team and starts to be a little silly with them later on). I think Spencer tries so hard to repress his 22 yr old self as the show goes on that s1 him feels very vulnerable and, intimate isn’t the right word here but it’s what I’m going with. It’s like seeing baby videos of a friend and really figuring out who they are deep down. Idk it’s late and I’m getting emotional thinking about his big sad eyes and fawn like clumsiness

[l0vinghimwasreid]

virgin!spencer who's nervous about touching fem!reader for the first time, so he's asked her if he can watch her touch herself

18+ smut

wc: 1,530

spencer pulls up a chair to sit at the foot of the bed, watching intently as she opens her legs for him and props them up.

he’s still dressed in his work clothes while she’s completely naked.

studying her like a textbook, his eyes dart all over her exposed body.

she's entirely bare in his bed, on his sheets, and the actual sight of her like this is better than any fantasy he's ever conjured.

he watches as she squeezes her own breasts, gently pinching her own nipples, his gaze sporadically flickers up to her face to observe her expressions.

he watches as she slowly moves a hand down her torso, fingertips lightly grazing against her ribs, stomach, pelvis, and hips.

“do you want me to explain what i’m doing, spence?”

“you’re preparing your mind and body for arousal. doing so increases your natural lubrication, resulting in increased pleasure. this triggers the release of dopamine and oxytocin… i’ve read about the importance of foreplay and the various types.”

“good boy. you’ve studied everything, haven’t you?” she tells him as she dips her fingers into her wetness.

he’s too enthralled by the vision of her to tell her yes, of course i have. i want to be ready for you. i want to properly pleasure you.

she’s caressing her slit, circling the edge of her clit, and just barely pressing her fingertip inside her hole.

he’s biting his lip and has leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, with his fingers delicately placed over his mouth.

his mouth opens as she pushes her middle finger inside her hole, eyes flicking back and forth between her cunt and her face. he notes the way she rolls her nipple between her fingers as she touches herself.

once she’s gathered her slick, she moves her finger back up to her clit, rubbing softly on the nub.

she lets out a sigh of relief and lets her legs fall completely open.

“you know what this is, right?” she teases him, slightly breathless.

“yes, you’re touching your clitoris. women consistently report that their male sexual partners struggle to locate it.”

“mhm, that’s true, but you already knew exactly where it is, didn’t you?”

“yes, of course. i’ve referenced many diagrams to ensure i could locate it on each one. i don’t understand why men can’t find it, it’s very easy to identify.” spencer knows the exact number of vaginal anatomical diagrams that he’s referenced, but he doesn’t think he should tell her how many he’s seen. besides, she’s moving her fingers back down to her hole now, and he’s completely awestruck by the sight of her.

his eyes are glistening and are slightly glazed over. he's mesmerized by how ethereal she looks.

he glances back up at her face and sees that her eyes are closed, her head is tilted back, and her lips are slightly parted. her other hand gently squeezes at her breast every now and then.

“you’re so beautiful.” he tells her and she lightly smiles.

“thank you, spence. you’re so sweet.”

she inserts her middle and ring fingers inside of herself. he sees her curling her fingers upwards as she gingerly pumps them.

he wants to impress her, so he says, “i think you’re stimulating the gräfenburg-spot, or g-spot, now.” spencer thinks it’s absolutely ridiculous and abhorrent that part of the female body is named after a man.

“yes, spencer, good job.” her praises send a jolt through his body. it reminds him of how he felt receiving perfect grades on his school assignments. he hopes he gets to study his favorite subject, her, for the rest of his life.

her eyebrows are slightly furrowed now and she’s rutting her hips up against her hand. he realizes that she can stimulate her clit against the heel of her palm this way.

she does this for a while and he thinks that she might be close to reaching her orgasm, but she removes her fingers from inside herself and shifts them back to her clit.

he can see that her fingers are thoroughly lubricated with her slick. a low whine escapes his parted lips.

“this is something else i like to do.” she tells him with a rough and strained voice, and he realizes that she’s still focused on teaching him even when she’s this deep in pleasure.

she’s rubbing her clit slightly rougher now than she was before, and she moves her hand that’s just been resting on her breast down to her lower stomach.

“i’m not sure why this works, but if you press down right here, it feels even better.” while looking at him, she presses down on her lower stomach with a flat palm.

“if i kind of, like, pull upwards when i do it then i can expose my clit a little more too.”

“you’re likely stimulating the g-spot externally.” he barely has any air in his lungs, he doesn’t know how he manages to tell her that.

she just moans in response to him. her head moves back and forth across the pillow, and her back is slightly arched. her breasts jiggle as her ministrations grow more and more desperate.

“it also feels good if i squeeze my hole, probably does more g-spot stim-…stimulation.” her faltering speech makes him realize that’s exactly what she’s doing as she’s speaking to him.

she’s not even talking dirty to him. she’s just explaining what she’s doing, almost in a clinical way. however the way she’s describing everything to him has him palming himself through his pants. he doesn’t dare to touch himself properly; he wants to keep his full attention on her. he presses on himself just enough to relieve some of the pressure.

it relieves him slightly to hear that she doesn’t even know the technical reasons that her actions bring her pleasure; she’s likely just learned what she likes and what works over time.

he's eager to do the same with her. watching her do this has made him realize that he's more prepared to please her than he thought.

her hips jerk upwards slightly, and her breathing has increased, “i’m getting close, spence.”

“are you gonna cum for me?” he tries to say seductively, but it somehow comes out as both a whisper and a squeak.

"mhm" she whimpers.

her thighs and stomach are trembling and she’s letting out the softest whines. he hopes that he can make her sound like that, and more, whenever he touches her.

he realizes that she's biting on her lower lip, suppressing her sounds, "let me hear you, baby."

she retracts her teeth, and he watches as her head tilts even further back. her back is arching and her hips are traversing across the sheets. she maintains eye contact with him for as long as she can, but eventually she can't help but close her eyes. it seems like she has no control over her body, other than the ministrations of her fingers. his mouth falls open as he watches her climax.

she continues touching herself as the waves of her orgasm roll through her until her legs seem to be closing on their own accord.

she’s still breathing heavily as she removes her fingers from herself. her wrist falls limply onto the sheets next to her.

the shine of her slick on her fingers is being illuminated by the moonlight tapering in through the curtains.

“can i taste you?” he barely has the confidence to ask.

“really? yeah, um, just give me a minute. still a bit sensitive, you know?”

he’s blushing as he says, “i mean on your fingers.”

"oh," she giggles, she's still in a haze from her orgasm. "absolutely, baby."

she sits up on the bed and holds her hand out toward him. he tenderly wraps his fingers around her wrist as he takes in the sight of her glistening fingers up-close.

and then, spencer ‘it’s actually safer to kiss than shake hands’ reid sensually sucks her fingers into his mouth to taste her juices on them.

she simultaneously tastes so sweet and so tangy, he can't help but close his eyes as he runs his tongue over and around both digits.

“well? what did you think? learn anything new?” she smiles as she raises her eyebrows in question.

“i learned that i really really can’t wait to touch you.” his lips purse and his cheeks get impossibly redder.

“can i watch you before you do?” she asks him, eyes flitting down at the bulge in his pants.

he thinks she’s kidding, so he chuckles until she starts fumbling with the buttons on his dress shirt with her lower lip between her teeth.

"please?"

it’s only fair that they swap positions: she takes his place in the chair as he gradually lies on his back on the bed.

he's completely naked in front of her, and he's flushed from his hairline to his chest.

she's slipped on his button-down, but left the buttons open. her hair is tousled from rolling her head on the pillow. the sight of her wearing it alongside his new memories of seeing her please herself has him cumming embarrassingly quickly.

clearing me drafts!

[datadegroove-deactivated2026042]

stop deactivating

[datadegroove-deactivated2026042]

i thought we all agreed we were here forever

[kirishima-hates-terfs]

[illdiealonelyguy]

you and me... potentially? (Spencer reid x fem!reader)

Summary: you've been keeping your massive crush on spencer reid a secret, that is until you go to the movies with him and realise he might just feel the same way about you.

CW: fluff, basically shy!reader, fem!reader, she overthinks a lot, has low self esteem. mentions of Project Hail Mary but no major spoilers, but lots of references to Grace's science pun t-shirts lol.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: yay finally!! I had so much fun writing this, inspired by a conversation with my lovely moot @mango-lovrr and our headcanon that spencer reid would absolutely wear science pun t-shirts.

You were kind of going crazy.

Dimpled smiles. Wispy chestnut hair. Impossibly soft cardigans.

The man sitting at the desk adjoining yours - Doctor Spencer Reid.

You were also kind of hoping no one noticed - the way your cheeks reddened and smile broadened - when you both talked. About the most mundane things, too. The weather, what you ate for dinner, anything for goodness sake.

Basically, you kind of had a massive, raging crush on Spencer, and you could only pray no one noticed. Including him. Especially him.

Because you really weren't the type of person to go shouting about it, or confide in anyone the way most people do in, for example, 2000’s romcoms. You were a girl who did not confront, because you knew there was always someone better out there, much prettier than you, who Spencer probably deserved more. Because he was gorgeous - and way, way out of your league. 

Plus, you had an idea of his type, what with the case in LA a few years earlier and a gorgeous blonde by the name of Lila Archer, whom Spencer made out with. In a pool. Psyching yourself out was something you did a lot, really. The slight burn in your chest, sparkling with a twinge of hope while simultaneously decaying your self esteem. 

Penelope had invited you to countless girls nights at O'Keefe's, urging you to pick up a man. “Have a little fun, show off some of your charm!” she’d exclaim, while you knew that you were more of a spluttering and stuttering sort of charmer. Awkwardness no one seemed to desire in a woman, but yearned for in a man. 

Which was greatly ironic, considering the circumstances: the dimple adorned, wispy haired, soft clothed agent sitting opposite you, somehow emitting a warmth under the unforgiving and oppressive fluorescent lights of the bullpen.

“Hey, you okay?” Spencer questioned concernedly, craning his neck over the desk divider to peek at you as his eyebrows raised.

“Um…uh-huh” you replied unconvincingly, cheeks burning at the thought of being caught staring. 

Spencer nodded, soft curls unfurling from behind his ear as he returned his attention to the case file on his desk. Part of you wished you could reach right over, tuck the hair back in place again. 

Your stomach pulled at the wanting that you were so unfamiliar with, it seemed to come out of nowhere.

***

The clock struck five. 

You’re not usually the type of employee to immediately stop working when it’s time to leave, simply because absolutely no one else is, and you’d rather not appear like you're eager to go, what with the serious nature of your job and all.

So you hang on a few minutes. Usually until Spencer starts packing his things. Not in a creepy way.

He stands, pulling his coat on and slinging his worn messenger bag over his shoulder, before looking at you. 

“Have you seen that new sci-fi movie yet? Project Hail Mary?” he enquired politely.

You and Spencer shared a love for film - especially the sci-fi genre - and regularly discussed new releases. This is what made your wanting so consuming. You shared so many similar interests, the discussions serving as a reprieve from your gruelling job. 

You considered his pretty simple question carefully, not because it was particularly mentally challenging, but so that your mouth could catch up with your brain and form a coherent response.

“I haven't actually, but I've been wanting to. I’ve heard good things about it!” 

“Me too! I've been anticipating its release for a while, actually. It was originally a book by Andy Weir, who's the author of The Martian - a book that’s also been adapted into a movie. I really recommend reading them too, surprisingly I found the movies just as enjoyable - which, you know, isn't always the case. Also, Project Hail Mary’s portrayal of astrophysics, relativity and spacecraft engineering is highly accurate, so that’s good.” 

A pause. 

“Would you… like to watch it with me? It's showing this evening at the local movie theatre, not far from my apartment. I could, um, drive us and then… drive you home?”

Heart fluttering stupidly in your chest, you said: “I would love to!”

Not bad. No stuttering, at least.

Spencer waited patiently as you gathered your belongings, before following him towards the elevators, oblivious to the fact that your discussion had attracted a little audience across the bullpen.

“How long has it been? Three years now?” queried Emily.

“What, since he’s been looking at her like she hung the moon?” JJ joined.

“Nah, more like she’s been looking at him like that.” corrected Derek.

“Whatever, can they just- ugh - do something about it already!” exclaimed Emily, losing patience.

***

“You totally cried!” you exclaimed while grinning brightly under the darkened sky. You always loved exiting a movie theatre after the sun had gone down. It was like entering a new world. 

The sidewalk was wet with fresh rain, petrichor pungent in the air. You walked side by side with Spencer, a newfound electric energy between you as you excitedly discussed the movie.

“I did not…cry,” Spencer said so unconvincingly it caused a chuckle to bubble from your chest, “I… teared up. But so did you! I did see you reaching for the tissues in your pocket, you know.” 

“Well, I really thought Rocky was…” you started.

“I know, I know, me too. But he wasn't! The end was incredibly… heartwarming.”

“Yes, it was.” you agreed, peering at him as you stopped once you reached his car. “Are you sure you’re okay to drop me home? I really don’t want to be a bother, the metro journey isn't too bad-”

“Please, I insist,” he earnestly said, cutting you off while opening the passenger door for you.

You peered into his eyes, impossibly dark, and you could have sworn they glistened like stars under the night sky. He looked so earnest as he stood there. Before you could be accused of outright staring, you thanked him before getting into his car. Of course, being the gentleman that he is, he closed the door for you too. Which could mean nothing.

***

Everything looked blotchy as the raindrops on the windows blurred everyone's car lights  together, a warm toned distortion against the navy sky. With the heater on (since Spencer noticed you shivering) you felt incredibly cozy, the rhythmic sound of the indicator almost drifting you to sleep.

It was quiet in a way that confirmed two people were comfortable enough in each other's presence to not force words, and the silence continued for a good ten minutes before Spencer spoke.

“I liked his t-shirts.”

“Hm?”

“Grace’s t-shirts. The science puns. You know… ‘I Had Potential’” Spencer chuckled.

“Oh yeah!” you realised, “they were pretty fantastic, weren't they?”

“Definitely” he agreed.

Eventually, Spencer halted the car outside of your apartment complex.

“...Thank you. Not just for dropping me off, but for this evening too. I really enjoyed the film,” you psyched yourself up for your next words, “...and spending time with you.”

Spencer let out a breath, shifting in his seat to look at you more directly. “I enjoy spending time with you, too. Well um, you know, they’re probably going to be more movies. That we both enjoy. To, um, watch together.” he stuttered.

Your heart wouldn't stop doing that stupid jumpy thing as you undid your seatbelt, the pure warmth of your face becoming unbearable.

“Yes. For sure” you nodded.

“Wait, let me-” he said, swiftly getting out of the car and walking around to your side, opening the car door for you. 

You could barely keep it together as you exited his car, stuttering a goodbye as he waved, supposedly waiting until you were safely in your building before driving away.

***

It had been about a week since you attended the movie theatre with Spencer.

Fluorescent lights, rhythmic typing, and the smell of coffee. The usual for a monday morning inside the BAU.

You were early that morning - thankfully - as you beelined to Spencer’s vacant desk. You hoped no one saw as you planted a gift bag next to his keyboard. You picked a bag that looked the most unassuming, a plain dark blue. Successfully, the bullpen was empty enough to not attract wandering eyes to your activities. 

Or so you thought.

“Pretty girl, whatcha got there? Is it pretty boy’s birthday or something?”

Derek.

“Um. No… It’s just something. For him. That I thought he’d like.”

Way to play it cool.

“I see, I see,” he acknowledged with the most shit eating grin on his face, “you’re all sweet on him, aren't you?”

“What! I simply-”

“He’s all sweet on you too, you know that right? The way he looks at you? It’s driving Emily insane, how oblivious you both are.”

“I really don’t think he-” you began, before Derek cut you off again.

“Look… I understand you’re both not the type for a big fuss, so I'll leave this here: say something, do something.” Derek spoke with such understanding that, surprisingly, the shock of feeling seen didn't really feel like shock at all. It felt like relief. 

“This is me doing something.” you motioned towards the bag with your head.

Derek nodded, satisfied, and walked away.

***

About half an hour later, Spencer walked through the bullpen doors.

Once at his desk, he eyed the blue gift bag curiously. Your best effort to appear unassuming included pretending to be absolutely absorbed in the case file open on your desk, when in reality, you were hyperaware of his movements, watching them from the corner of your eye. 

He opened the bag, pulling out the first bundle of fabric and unfolding it curiously. You then heard a surprised laugh. 

“Was this you?” he asked with such delight, holding up a t-shirt with the words ‘I had potential’ on it, as well a potential energy graph. 

You couldn't help but laugh, too, at his joy.

“I just had to! It being a science pun and all, they reminded me of you.”

Spencer rummaged further into the bag, pulling out another t-shirt, this time one with a periodic table printed on it, with the phrase ‘I wear this shirt periodically’ beneath it.

His laughter increased, while you grinned sheepishly at him. 

“I love them. Thank you.” he spoke earnestly. His face softened, looking at you with such…longing?

“I’m glad you didn't think it was weird or anything.” you mumbled pathetically.

Spencer took a seat at his desk, carefully folding the shirts back up and gently placing them back into the bag. “You’re kidding right? This is one of the best gifts I've ever received.”

Again, a familiar moment of silent reflection, until:

“Ive never met anyone who's understood me so well,” he began with a serious expression, “I know I'm not for everyone, some people make that explicitly clear, but with you,” he gazes, “I feel like I can be myself.” 

He places those words between you like they’re fragile, vulnerable. 

“Me too,” you reassure him, "it's always so easy with you.”

You take a breath.

“Would you like to make our next trip to the movie theatre… a date? We could get dinner afterwards. If you want.”

Spencer’s mouth opens in what you could only call amused disbelief, “you know, that’s funny. I was about to ask the same thing. A date.”

That’s it. You’re dead.

“I guess it’s settled then,” you confirm.

“I guess it is.” 

You can’t help the upturn of your mouth, which he reciprocates, before you both try so hard to begin your work for the day.

Derek catches your eyes from across the room. He winks. You smile.

God, you’re pathetic.