I 🖤 Spencer Reid

Obsessed with all things Spencer Reid & MGG. Page dedicated to all the Spencer Reid fanfic goodness 💕 Izzie 🦄26 Follows back from @justlivinginadaydream

[mistiemoon]

He is SO boyfriend. This picture especially.

He lives in my mind rent free.

[fanfics4all]

A Ghost Between Us

Request: Yes / No

Requests are open, but for anything I write for but Riverdale, I’m not feeling much inspo for that right now! <3 Have a nice day/night

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Word count: 5601  

Warnings: Smut but also angsty! This ones kinda sad be warned! 

Y/N: Your Name 

A/N: I thought of this last night and could not get it out of my head so enjoy! 

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(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)

The key turning in the lock was the best sound I’ve heard all day. I set down the file I’ve been reviewing, cold case notes from the BAU archives that Penelope had digitized, and pushed myself up from the couch. My bare feet made soft sounds on the hardwood as I crossed the living room. Outside, the November rain streaked the windows in silver lines, but inside, the apartment was warm. Golden light pooled from the reading lamp I left on. The air smelled like the chili I made for dinner and the vanilla candle I lit afterward. 

The door swung open. Spencer stood there, rain dripping off his hair and his clothes slightly rumpled, his messenger bag slung low on one shoulder. His hair was wet at the temples. His tie was loosened to the third button. The sight of him, tall, lean, and those dark eyes finding me immediately, sent a familiar flutter through my chest. A year of him coming home to me and still, that flutter. 

“Hey,” I started, my lips curving. “How was-” 

He dropped his bag. It hit the floor with a thud that cut off my sentence. Before I could process the movement, he was on me. Long fingers cupping my jaw, tilting my face up, his mouth pressing against mine with an urgency that stole my breath. This wasn’t a hello kiss, or a welcome-home kiss, this was a need kiss. 

His lips parted mine, tongue sliding against my tongue, and the sound he made, low, throaty, and almost desperate, vibrated through my whole body. His other hand found the small of my back and pulled me flush against him. The wool of his blazer was damp. Beneath it, I could feel the heat of his chest, the rapid thump of his heartbeat. 

“What’s gotten into you?” I managed, the words half lost against his mouth. His response came between kisses, each word punctuated by his lips trailing to the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the sensitive spot just below my ear. 

“I need you.” Two syllables, spoken like a confession. 

“Rough case?” I breathed. He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. Raindrops clung to his lashes. His pupils were blown wide, the deep brown nearly eclipsed by black. 

“I don’t want to talk about the case.” 

Something flickered in his expression, something I couldn’t name. Then his mouth was on mine again, and I let the question go. We moved together in a clumsy, choreographed way of two people who’ve done this enough times to know the path by heart. His blazer hit the floor somewhere between the living room and the hallway. My fingers worked the buttons of his shirt while his hands slid under my sweater, palms warm and slightly rough from the cold outside. I registered the sensation in fragments, the cool metal of his belt buckle against my stomach, the way his breath hitched when I nipped at his lower lip, the soft thud of my back meeting the bedroom doorframe. 

We tumbled through the doorway. The bed caught us. His weight settled over me, familiar and anchoring, and for a moment, he just looked down at me. His hair fell forward, curtaining us both. In the dim light from the hallway, his face was all shadows and sharp angles. 

“Y/N…” He said. My name, just my name, but something in his voice made my throat tighten. 

“I’m here.” I whispered. “I’m right here.” 

He kissed me again, slower this time, deeper. His hand traced the curve of my hip, fingers hooking beneath the waistband of my leggings. I lifted my hips to help him, and the fabric slid away with a whisper. His shirt followed, then mine, then the rest. A trail of clothing left in the dark, leading from door to bed. Skin against skin. His chest pressed to mine, the sparse hair rough against my breast. 

His mouth left a hot trail down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. When his tongue circled my nipple, my back arched off the mattress. He spent time there, Spencer spent time there, cataloging my responses like he was memorizing data. The sharp inhale when he used teeth. The moan when he soothed the sting with his tongue. The way my fingers twisted in his hair and pulled. 

“Please…” I heard myself say. 

He shifted above me. One hand braced beside my shoulder, the other guided himself, and then… A sharp gasp. The slow, stretching fullness of him. He paused there, buried deep, his forehead dropping to mine. His eyes were squeezed shut. His breath came in short, uneven pulses against my lips. 

“Okay?” He asked. 

“Yes.” My voice was barely a whisper. 

He moved. Slow at first, almost reverent. Each thrust deliberate, deep, like he was trying to memorize the feel of me. My legs wrapped around my waist. My nails traced lines down his back. The rain had picked up outside, drumming against the window in a steady rhythm that matched the movement of our bodies. This was the Spencer I knew. Attentive, present, the lover who watched my face with those impossibly dark eyes, cataloging every flinch of pleasure, adjusting his angle when my breath caught, murmuring my name against my skin like a prayer. 

“Y/N…” He breathed. “Y/N-” 

His rhythm stuttered. His eyes squeezed tighter. His jaw clenched. I could feel the tension coiling through his body. The rigid line of his shoulders, the way his fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave marks. He was close. I knew the signs. The way his breathing turned ragged. The way his pace quickened, deeper, more urgent. I was right there with him. That bright, building pressure behind my navel. The way the world narrowed to just this, his body, my body, the slick heat between us. My head pressed back into the pillow. My mouth opened on a sound that might have been his name. 

“Maeve.” 

The name left his lips like a breath. Soft. Unconscious. My eyes flew open. He didn’t notice. His face was buried in the curve of my neck, his hips still moving, his body still chasing its release. I felt him shudder. Felt the warmth of him spill inside me. Felt the way he sagged against me after, spent and trembling. 

Maeve

The name echoed in my skull. I stared at the ceiling. At the way the shadows from the rain-streaked window moved across the plaster. I stared at anything that wasn’t him. My body was still humming with unfinished pleasure, but it felt distant now. Like a radio playing in another room. 

Spencer’s breathing slowed. His weight settled more heavily on top of me. After a long moment, he pulled out gently and rolled to his side, one arm still draped across my waist. He nuzzled into my shoulder. 

“That was…” He let out a breath. “I needed that.” 

I didn’t answer. The silence stretched. Ten seconds. Twenty. 

“Y/N?” His voice was sleepy now, content. “You okay?” 

I made myself breathe. Made myself blink. Made my lips curve into something that might pass for a smile if he wasn’t looking too closely, and he wasn’t. His eyes were already half closed, his body already sinking into that post-orgasmic haze. 

“Yeah.” I said. The word came out steady. Steadier than I felt. 

“Fine.” 

His arm tightened around my waist. He pressed a kiss to my shoulder. 

“Love you.” 

The words that I wanted to say lodged in my throat. I lay there for another minute. Maybe two. His breathing evened out, deepening toward sleep. His hand relaxed against my stomach. The rain kept falling. The vanilla candle had burned out.

Then I moved. I slid out from under his arm carefully, slowly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The air was cool against my bare skin. I could feel the mess between my thighs, evidence of what we’d just done. His release. Our last few moments together before everything tilted sideways. 

“Where are you going?” His voice was still sleepy, but there was a thread of slertness in it now. I didn’t turn around. 

“Just going to shower.” I said. “You know, clean up before bed.” 

“Don’t you want to cuddle first?” The question was so innocent, so him, my chest ached. 

“Of course.” I said, and I was proud of how normal my voice sounded. 

“But I also have to pee, so might as well just go shower too. We’ll cuddle after.” 

A pause. 

“Okay.” He yawned. “Hurry back.” 

I didn’t answer. My feet carried me across the bedroom, into the hallway, past the trail of discarded clothes. I didn’t pick them up. I didn’t look back. The bathroom door clicked shut behind me, and I stood there in the dark, naked and shaking, staring at my own reflection in the mirror above the sink. 

Maeve. 

His dead ex-girlfriend’s name. Spoken in our bed. While he was inside me. I pressed my palm flat against the cold porcelain of the sink. Breathed in. Breathed out. The shower would cover the sound if I cried. 

The shower ran for nearly forty minutes, not because I needed that long, but because I couldn’t bring myself to walk back into the bedroom. The water pounded against my shoulders, hot enough to turn my skin pink, and still I felt cold. 

Maeve.

The name replayed over and over. I know he loves me. I know that. A year together wasn’t nothing. Spencer wasn’t the type of person who stayed in a relationship halfway. He loves completely or not at all. But Maeve had been different. Maeve had been the great tragedy of his life. The woman he loved and lost. The woman who died in front of him. The woman whose name had fallen from his lips when he’d been at his most vulnerable. Most honest. I squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it meant everything… 

*Spencer’s POV*

I noticed something was wrong three days later. Y/N wasn’t avoiding me persay. She still kissed me goodbye. Still sat next to me if we were on a case. Still watched documentaries with me after work. Still fell asleep beside me every night. But there was distance now… Tiny things. The kind profilers noticed. The kind I definitely noticed. She stopped reaching for my hand automatically. Stopped resting her head on my shoulder while reading. Stopped stealing my sweaters. When I kissed her, she kissed me back. But sometimes she pulled away first. Sometimes she smiled without it reaching her eyes. And every single time, I noticed. 

“Are you okay?” I asked while we were washing dishes after dinner. 

She looked up from the sink. “Hmm?” 

“You seem…” I hesitated. “Distant.” 

She forced a laugh. “Distant?” 

“A little.” I studied her carefully. The same way I studied crime scenes, witnesses, and Unsubs. Looking for details everyone else missed. 

“Did something happen?” 

“No.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Spence.” 

She dried her hands. “I’m fine.” 

I didn’t believe her. 

A week later things hadn’t improved. If anything, they’d gotten worse. Not dramatically, just enough. Enough that I found myself staring at her across the conference table. Enough that I caught myself wondering whether she’s fallen out of love with me. Enough that I started replaying every conversation we’ve had over the last month, looking for something I missed. Something I’ve done. Some mistake. But I couldn’t find one… and that bothered me, because there was always a reason. People didn’t change behavior patterns without a catalyst, not usually. And Y/N was one of the most predictable people I’ve ever met. Not boring predictable, but consistent predictable. The kind of consistency I trusted. Which meant something had changed. I just didn’t know what. 

Three days later the team noticed. Profilers, worst possible coworkers to have relationship problems around. I was sitting at his desk pretending to read a file when Morgan appeared beside me. 

“You’re staring at the same page.” 

“I’m reading.” 

“No, you’re thinking.” 

I sighed. Morgan smriked. 

“Relationship trouble?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “That’s not at no.” 

Before I could answer, two more figures appeared. Emily and JJ, and neither looked subtle. Which was usually a bad sign. 

“What’s up with you two?” Emily asked immediately. 

I blinked. “What?” 

“You and Y/N.” 

JJ leaned against a nearby desk. “Something’s off.” 

I groaned. “Seriously?”

“You know we profile people for a living, right?” Emily asked. 

“You’re both acting weird.” 

“We’re not acting weird.” 

All three of them just stared at me. I lasted approximately four seconds, then sighed. 

“Okay, maybe she’s been a little distant lately.” 

“Aha.” Morgan said. 

“I knew it.” 

I rubbed my forehead. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“It sounds like a big deal.” 

“It isn’t.” 

“Spence.” 

I looked up. JJ’s expression softened. “Have you talked to her?” 

“Multiple times.” 

“And?” 

“Every time I ask, she says everything’s fine.” 

Emily snorted. “The classic answer.” 

“But she’s clearly lying.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. 

“Clearly?” Morgan asked. 

“Her behavior patterns changed.” I sat back in my chair. “Less physical contact.” 

Emily immediately winced. “Oh.” 

“Not like that.” 

“Still.” 

“Less eye contact, less spontaneous affection, increased emotional withdrawal.” 

Morgan laughed. “You make it sound like a psychological evaluation.” 

“It is a psychological evaluation.” 

“Of your girlfriend.” 

I frowned. “That’s not the point.” 

JJ smiled sympathetically. “You don’t know what’s wrong.” 

“No.” 

“And that’s driving you crazy.” 

“Yes.”

The answer came instantly, because it was. I hated missing information, especially when it involved someone I love. When it felt like I was watching them slip away one inch at a time. JJ and Emily exchanged another look. One of those silent conversations, women somehow managed without speaking. I never understood how they did that. 

Emily straightened. “I think she’s in Garcia’s office.” 

JJ nodded. “We can talk to her.” 

“What?” 

“You know.” JJ smiled. “Girl-to-girl.” 

Emily grinned. “See if we can figure out what’s going on.” 

I immediately looked skeptical. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Why?” 

“Because if she doesn’t want to tell me, why would she tell you?” 

Emily and JJ looked at each other, then back at me. 

“Because we’re women.” Emily said simply. 

“That’s not an explanation.” 

“It is to women.” 

Morgan burst out laughing. JJ shook her head. “Trust us.” 

I looked deeply unconvinced. But before I could argue further, Emily was already walking away. JJ following behind. 

“Hey!” I called. Neither stopped. Morgan clapped a hand on my shoulder. 

“Relax, Pretty Boy.” 

I watched them disappear down the hallway. My stomach twisting. 

“What if she gets mad?” 

Morgan laughed again. “If she gets mad, it’ll probably be at them.” 

“That’s not reassuring.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to be.” 

*Y/N’s POV*

Penelope’s office was my safe place; it always has been. Bright colors, plush toys, the smell of expensive tea and vanilla creamer, music playing softly from one of Garcia’s speakers while she happily organized files only she could somehow understand. Today was no different. 

“...and then I told Kevin that if he touched my limited-edition Doctor Who mug again, I was reporting him to HR.” Garcia declared dramatically, cradling her oversized mug. I laughed, taking another sip of my chamomile tea. 

“You wouldn’t.” 

“I absolutely would.” 

“You adore him.” 

“I can adore him and still threaten his existence.” 

Before I could answer, there was a knock on the open door. Emily poked her head inside. 

“There you are.” 

Garcia looked between the two women and grinned. “Oooh, that sounds serious.” 

JJ appeared behind Emily. “It kind of is.” 

My stomach sank. Emily walked inside while JJ closed the distance behind her. Garcia immediately looked at all three of us before slowly setting her mug down. 

“Should I leave?” 

“You can stay.” 

Garcia blinked. “Really?” 

JJ nodded. “It might actually help.” 

Garcia immediately scooted her chair closer to mine. Emily and JJ walked farther into the office. Neither of them sat. Emily folded her arms, JJ leaned casually against Garcia’s desk. The silence stretched just long enough for me to become suspicious. Finally, Emily spoke. 

“Okay, what’s up with you and Reid?” 

I looked between all three women. “What do you mean?” 

Garcia tilted her head. “Oh, sweetheart…” 

JJ gave me a sympathetic smile. “He can tell something’s wrong.” 

“And honestly? So can we.” Emily admitted. 

I frowned. “Nothing’s wrong.” 

Emily just looked at me. It was the exact same expression she gave suspects who insisted they had nothing to hide. 

“Y/N.” 

I sighed. “What?” 

“You’ve been acting different.” 

“I haven’t.” 

Garcia reached over and gently patted my knee. 

“Honey… you don’t have to pretend with us.” 

I looked away. JJ spoke softly. “Spencer’s worried. He says every time he asks what’s wrong, you tell him you’re fine.” 

Emily nods. “But he knows you’re lying.” 

The guilt hit immediately. I stared down into my mug. “He said that?” 

JJ nodded. “He doesn’t know what he did.” 

The words settled heavily in my chest. Emily waited another moment before speaking again. 

“So…” She softened her voice. “Talk to us.” 

I stayed quiet. My fingers traced the warm ceramic of my mug. I could feel all three of them waiting. Finally, I sighed. 

“Okay…but close the door.” 

JJ walked over and closed the door, locking it. 

I took a deep breath. “So…” 

I rubbed my forehead. “About two weeks ago…” 

The memory made my stomach twist. “Spencer came home really late.” 

Emily nodded once. 

“He was… needy.” 

Garcia’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but she stayed silent. 

“He kissed me deeply and we ended up having some… adult time.” 

Emily gave a tiny nod. JJ remained quiet, no judgment, just listening. I swallowed. 

“As he was…” I couldn’t finish the sentence at first. Garcia reached over and squeezed my hand. 

“It’s okay.” 

I nodded once. “As he was finishing…” My voice became barely audible. 

“He moaned someone else’s name.” 

Three pairs of eyes widened. Emily’s expression immediately became serious. JJ frowned. Garcia looked confused. 

“...Whoes?” 

I closed my eyes for a second. “...Maeve’s.” 

Silence. Utter silence. Garcia’s mouth actually fell open. Emily blinked twice. JJ looked like she had stopped breathing. Finally, Garcia whispered. 

“...Oh.” 

I nodded without looking up. “He didn’t even realize. He never reacted. He never corrected himself. He just…” 

I swallowed hard. “...kept going.” 

My throat tightened. “And afterward he told me he loves me.” 

The words hurt even saying them. “I don’t think he even remembers saying it.” 

Emily slowly sat down. JJ rubbed a hand across her forehead. Garcia still hadn’t let go of my hand. 

“I heard it.” I laughed weakly. 

“There wasn’t any mistaking it.” I looked down into my untouched tea. 

“I know he loved her. I know she was his first love. I know she died. I know the anniversary of her death had just happened, so logically…” I shrugged helplessly. 

“...I understand why she’d been on his mind.” 

Garcia’s eyes filled with tears. “But emotionally?” 

I finally looked at them. “I can’t stop hearing it.” 

My voice cracked. “He said her name while he was inside me…” 

The room feel silent again. “I’ve tried convincing myself it doesn’t mean anything.” 

I laughed bitterly. “But every time he kisses me…” 

Every word became harder. “...I hear it again.” 

Garcia’s free hand immediately came up to cover her mouth. “Oh, honey…” 

Emily’s expression softened completely. “And you haven’t told him?” 

I shook my head. “How could I? What am I supposed to say? Hey, remember two weeks ago when you accidentlly called me by your dead girlfriend’s name during sex? I can’t do that.” 

JJ frowned gently. “So instead you’ve been carrying this around by yourself?” 

“I didn’t want to hurt him.” 

Garcia immediately shook her head. “My sweet girl…” 

Her thumb rubbed comforting circles across the back of my head. “You’re protecting him so much that you’re breaking your own heart.” 

That was enough. My eyes burned. I blinked rapidly, refusing to cry. 

“I love him.” 

“I know you do.” Garcia whispered. 

“So much…” 

Emily leaned forward. “Y/N…” 

I looked up. “I’ve known Spencer for years.” 

“So have I.” JJ added. 

Emily continued. “I’ve seen how he loved Maeve, and I’ve seen how he loves you. They’re different. Not because one matters more than the other, but because grief and love aren’t opposites. They exist together.” 

JJ nodded. “And if Spence knew he hurt you like this, he’d be devastated.” 

Garcia agreed immediately. “He would never, ever intentionally make you feel like you were second to anyone.” 

I looked between the three of them. “But…” 

The question I’ve been avoiding finally came out. “What if he meant it?” 

None of them answered immediately. 

Finally, Emily spoke. “I don’t think he did.” 

“Neither do I.” JJ said quietly. 

Garcia squeezed my hand again. “And I would bet every colorful mug in this office that if you ask Spencer what happened that night…” 

She smiled sadly. “...he won’t even remember saying it.” 

I looked down again. “I just don’t know if I’ve ready to hear the answer…” 

*Spencer’s POV*

This was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Morgan had gone back to pretending to work, though every few minutes I’d catch him glancing in my direction with a grin that made it obvious he knew I wasn’t reading a single word on the file in front of me. I looked toward Garcia’s office for what had to be the twentieth time. 

“They’re still talking.” I muttered. 

Morgan didn’t even look up. “Uh-huh.” 

“What if she’s upset that they asked.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“What if she thinks I sent them?” 

Uh-huh.” 

I sighed. “Morgan, are you even listening?” 

“Nope.” 

He finally looked over. “But I know exactly what you’re doing.” 

“What am I doing?” 

“Overthinking.” 

“I am no.” 

“You’ve looked toward Garcia’s office every thirty seconds for the last fifteen minutes.” 

“...It wasn’t every thirty seconds…” 

Morgan smirked. “Forty?” 

I frowned. “It varied.” 

“That’s the Reid I know.” 

Before I could respond, Emily and JJ were walking back into the bullpen. Neither of them looked amused anymore. My stomach dropped. They walked toward us without saying a word. Morgan noticed their expressions immediately. His smile faded. 

“...Okay.” He straightened in his chair. “Maybe this is serious.” 

They stopped beside my desk. I stood automatically. 

“So?” My voice came out much more anxious than I intended. 

“Did she say anything?” 

JJ looked at Emily. Emily looked back at JJ. Then JJ looked at me. 

“Spence…” Her vice was gentle. “Maybe sit down.” 

Every muscle in my body went cold. “What?” 

“Just…” She gestured toward my chair. “Please.” 

I sat, slowly. Morgan looked between all three of us. He rubbed the back of his neck. 

“It’s bad, huh?” 

Emily shot him a warning look. “Derek.” 

“What?” 

“Not helping.” 

I looked from one face to another. No one was smiling. No one looked relieved. My heartbeat sped up. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Neither woman answered immediately. JJ took a slow breath. 

“Spence…” She chose her words carefully. “Do you remember about two weeks ago…” 

I frowned. 

“When you and Y/N had some…” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “...you time?” 

Heat immediately rushed into my face. “Oh.” 

Morgan’s grin returned instantly. “My man!” 

I buried my face in one hand. Emily gave him another look. He held up both hands. 

“I’m done.” 

I looked back at JJ, confused. “Did I hurt her?” 

JJ shook her head immediately. “No, nothing like that.” 

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’ve been holding. “Then what happened?” 

JJ hesitated. Emily finally stepped in. 

“Reid…” She spoke softly. “Do you remember moaning Maeve’s name?” 

Everything stopped. The bullpen disappeared. The conversation around us faded into background noise. I just… stared. 

“What?” 

Emily’s expression told me everything. It wasn’t a joke. She wasn’t mistaken. My mind immediately flew back two weeks. The rain. Coming home exhausted. The anniversary. Wanting Y/N close because I couldn’t bare being alone with my thoughts. Her smile when she met me at the door. The way she held me. The bedroom. The warmth. THe feeling of finally breathing again after days of feeling like I was drowning. Then… darkness. My eyes squeezed shut. A name. Soft. Barely more than a whisper. Maeve. My eyes snapped opne. The blood drained from my face. 

“Oh…” I whispered. 

Another memory surfaced. Y/N going completely still beneath me. Her silence afterward. The shower. Forty minutes. She hadn’t said “I love you” back that night. My breathing became uneven. 

“Oh my God…” I looked at JJ. Then Emily. Then Morgan. Then back at JJ. 

“...I did…” It wasn’t a question. I stared at my desk. 

“Oh my God…” My voice cracked this time. “I…” 

I couldn’t even finish the sentence. I pressed both hands against my forehead. 

“No…” 

“No, no, no…” 

Morgan’s expression had completely changed. “Pretty Boy…” 

I looked up, horrified. “I didn’t even know. I swear… I didn’t know.” 

JJ crouched beside my chair. “We know.” 

“I would’ve never…” 

“I know.” 

“I love Y/N.” 

“I know.” 

“I would never compare them.” 

“I know.” 

My chest felt tight. “So why would I…” 

The answer came before anyone else could say it. “The anniversary.” 

Emily nodded. “It probably wasn’t conscious.” 

I laughed once. It sounded broken. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Three confused faces looked back at me. 

“It doesn’t matter if it was conscious.” I swallowed hard. “She heard it.” 

The realization hit me with full force. “She had to lie there thinking I was imagining someone else.” I closed my eyes. 

“And then I asked if she was okay…” I felt physically sick. 

“Oh God…” 

Morgan rested a hand on my shoulder. “You didn’t mean it.” 

“I know.” I looked up at him. “But intent doesn’t erase what happened.” 

“She said she didn’t want to hurt you.” Emily’s voice was quiet. 

I let out a shaky breath. “Of course she didn’t.” That sounded exactly like Y/N, putting everyone else before herself. Even when it broke her heart. I stood so abruptly my chair rolled backward. 

“I have to talk to her.” 

JJ gently caught my arm. “You should, but don’t go in there trying to profile her or explain it away.” 

I nodded immediately. “I won’t.” 

“Listen first.” 

“I will.” 

“And Spence…” I looked at her, her expression softened. 

“She’s not angry, she’s hurt.” 

The distinction hit me like another punch to the chest, because anger faded, but hurt lingered. And for the first time in two weeks, I finally understood exactly why the woman I love looked at me differently every time I kissed her. 

I don’t remember walking to Garcia’s office. One second I was standing beside my desk, the next, I was half way down the hallway, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. She’s been carrying this for two weeks because of me… because I hurt her so badly she started questioning everything between us. 

I reached Garcia’s door and froze. THe laughter that usually spilled out into the hallway was gone. Instead, I could hear quiet voices. I lifted my hand and knocked softly. Garcia opened the door and for a second, no one moved. Y/N looked… tired. Not physically, but emotionally, like she spent two weeks carrying something far heavier than anyone should have to. My chest tightened. Garcia was the first to speak. 

“Hi, Boy Wonder.” 

I swallowed. “Garcia…” My voice came out rough. 

“Could…” I looked at Y/N before looking back at Garcia. 

“...could I have a minute alone with Y/N?” 

Garcia didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked at Y/N. Y/N held her gaze for a few long seconds. Then, after a small breath, she nodded. Garcia stood slowly. She leaned down and kissed the top of Y/N’s head. 

“You yell if he says anything stupid.” Normally I would’ve smiled. Today, I couldn’t. She squeezed my shoulder as she walked past. The soft click echoed through the room. Silence. Y/N looked down at her mug sitting in her hands. I stayed by the door for a moment. Unsure if I deserved to come any closer. 

“...Can I sit?” She gave a tiny nod without looking up. I pulled a chair over, leaving enough space that she wouldn’t feel cornered. For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. Finally… 

“I’m so sorry.” The words came out broken. Y/N’s fingers tightened around her mug. 

“I didn’t know.” I shook my head immediately. “I swear to you…” 

My throat tightened. “I didn’t know I said it.” 

She finally looked at me. There were tears in her eyes she hadn’t let fall. “I believe you.” 

That somehow made me feel even worse. “I’ve been replaying that night since Emily told me.” 

I laughed bitterly. “I remembered everything the second she said Maeve’s name.” 

I looked down at my hands. “I remember you going quiet. You taking that really long shower. You not saying ‘I love you’ back…” I closed my eyes. 

“And I didn’t understand any of it.” 

Silence. 

When I looked back up, she was watching me. “I am so, so sorry.” 

I shook my head. “I can’t even explain how sorry I am.” 

She stayed quiet. 

“I would never…” My voice cracked. 

“I would never compare you to Maeve… I know she was important to me. She always will be…” I swallowed hard. 

“But that doesn’t mean I love you any less. It doesn’t mean I was thinking about her instead of you.” I leaned forward slightly. 

“Y/N… I came home that night needing you. Just you. I needed your hug, your smile, the way you make me feel safe, the way you make our apartment feel like home.” My eyes burned. 

“I wanted you.” 

“Not a memory. Not a ghost. You.” 

She looked away. “Then why?” 

The question was barely above a whisper. I took a shaky breath. 

“I think…” I chose my words carefully. “I think I spent that entire week trying not to think about the anniversary. I buried myself in work. I kept pretending I was okay. I never actually… dealt with it.” 

She listened quietly. 

“And then I came home. I finally let myself feel something. You were holding me. You made me feel safe enough to stop holding everything together.” I looked down. 

“I didn’t remember saying her name. I didn’t remember even thinking about her. But grief…” I shook my head. 

“It just… appears.” 

Another long silence. 

“I know that’s not an excuse.” 

“It isn’t.” 

“It doesn’t erase what happened. I know hearing that…” My voice broke completely. 

“...must’ve been devastating.” 

Y/N finally spoke. 

“I thought…” She stopped. I waited. 

“I thought maybe…” Her eyes filled again. 

“...for a second…” 

“...you wished I was her.” 

The sentence shattered something inside me. “What?” 

She looked embarrassed she admitted it. “I know it sounds irrational.” 

“It doesn’t. It makes perfect sense.” I answered so quickly she looked surprised. 

“If I heard you say another man’s name…” I swallowed. 

“I would’ve been destroyed.” 

She stared at me. 

“I would’ve questioned everything. I would’ve done exactly what you did.” 

A tear finally escaped down her cheek. “I didn’t want to tell you.” 

“I know.” 

“I just…” She laughed weakly. “I kept hearing it.” 

“Every time you kissed me… I heard it again.” 

Without thinking, I reached for her hand. Then stopped halfway. 

“May I?” She looked at my hand for several seconds. Then slowly placed hers into it. I held it carefully, like something precious. 

“I’m so sorry.” I whispered. 

“I know saying that doesn’t agically fix this. I know I can’t take it back. If I could erase that moment for you… I would, in a heartbeat.” 

She sqeezed my hand just a little. 

“I love you.” The words came out quietly. “So much.” 

I felt my own eyes sting. “I love you too. There has never been a moment, not one, where I wished you were someone else.” 

I lifted our joined hands slightly. “I don’t love you because you’re replacing Maeve. I love you because you’re Y/N. The woman who challenges me. The woman who beats me at chess half the time.” 

She sniffled. “It’s more than half.” 

Despite everything, a tiny smile tugged at my lips. “I was trying to protect my ego.” 

A small laugh escaped her. The first real one I’ve heard in two weeks. 

“I know.” 

“I love the woman who drinks tea with Garcia every Thursday. The woman who steals my sweaters and leaves books open all over our apartment.” I squeezed her hand gently. 

“I love you. And I am so incredibly sorry that my grief hurt the person I love most.” 

Y/N wiped her eyes. “I don’t think this is something I’ll get over overnight.” 

“I don’t expect you to.” 

She looked at me carefully. “I just need time.” 

I nodded immediately. “You can have all the time you need. I’ll earn your trust back however long it takes.” 

She searched my face over for a long moment before quietly asking. “Can we start with a hug?” 

I crossed the space between us and wrapped my arms around her gently, carefully, holding her like she might break. She buried her face against my shoulder. I rested my cheek against her hair, and for the first time in two weeks, we weren’t pretending everything was fine. We were finally beginning the much harder work of healing it together. 

Tag list: @les-bio-lie @tashy-bear @ashwarren32 @hollie-blogs-blog1 @lover-of-books-and-tea @nerdygaloresposts @teenwolfbitches28 @kmc1989 @lady-of-lies @ravenmoore14 @ravenempress101 @cillianchamp @rowanthomasknapp @rachelxwayne @princessjayll @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @pettyjayy @answer-the-sirens @reidssmile @currentfangirl-futuremedexaminer @mggstyles @satans-0-spawn @emofairygay @thesoftestwarlock @liz-owl 

[bingbongsupremacy]

Knowing the Surprise

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Pregnant!Reader

Summary: You surprise Spencer about your pregnancy, only to find out he already knew.

There's no description of reader's body type, weight, skin color or hair.

The plan had been perfect.

You'd bought the tiny pair of socks weeks ago, hiding them in the back of your dresser drawer every time Spencer walked into the room. You'd rehearsed what you were going to say at least a hundred times.

Tonight was supposed to be the night. Spencer just got back from a trip to Ohio, one that'd taken him away from Virginia for over two weeks. You couldn't keep this secret for much longer. Your belly was starting to grow, and who knows how noticable it will be when Spencer comes back from his next case.

Spencer was working late on paperwork at the dining room table, glasses sliding down his nose as he typed away on his laptop. You stood in the hallway clutching a small white gift bag, your heart pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it from across the apartment.

"Spence? Do you have a minute, baby?" You ask softly while peering into the room, bag hidden behind your back.

"Hm? Yeah, what's up?" he answered without looking up.

"I got you something." You say stepping into the room and pulling the bag from behind you.

That made him glance up. His brows furrowed a bit in confusion. "A gift? It's not my birthday."

You smiled nervously. "Just open it."

He looked immediately suspicious. "You've been smiling like that for three days."

"I have not." You tried to suppress your grin.

"You have." He chuckled.

"I haven't!"

"You absolutely have."

You rolled your eyes and shoved the bag into his hands. "Just open it, Spence."

Spencer laughed softly and pulled out the tissue paper covering his surprise. Then he froze as his eyes landed on the bottom of the bag. He pulled out the pair of tiny white socks. They looked ridiculously small in his hands as he cupped them tenderly.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, his is eyes lifted slowly to yours.

You felt tears already threatening. "Surprise?"

The biggest smile you'd ever seen spread across his face. "I knew it."

You blinked and your jaw dropped. "Wait."

Spencer started laughing.

"Wait!" you repeated. "How did you already know? I've been so careful, so I could surprise you!"

"I suspected." Spencer holds your gaze.

"Spencer!"

"I'm serious."

"No! No, absolutely not. There is no way you knew." You shook your head.

"I didn't know for certain," he corrected. "I suspected."

You crossed your arms. " What? How long?"

Spencer looked almost sheepish. "About a month."

"A MONTH?!" You gasped. You couldn't believe this.

"You started drinking ginger tea every morning." Spencer pointed to the pack of ginger tea packets on the kitchen counter.

"That's not evidence!" You argued.

"You hate ginger."

"I could've changed my mind!"

He gave you an 'are you serious' look. "I very clearly remember you telling me you'd rather swallow tea made from boiled rusted nail water than eat anything with ginger."

"Okay, fair." You grumbled.

He stood from his chair and walked over to you, pulling you into his arms. His touch was warm against your skin.

"You were also nauseous every morning for almost two weeks. That's when I really started wondering if you were okay." He mumbled into your temple.

"Lots of things cause nausea." You pointed out.

"You cried because a dog in a commercial learned how to sit."

Your face burned. "That dog worked really hard."

Spencer laughed. "You've also been taking naps."

"I take naps."

"You've never voluntarily taken naps."

"...Okay."

"And-"

"There's more?!" You turned to look him in the eye. Sometimes you forgot how observant he was.

"There was the day you almost bought prenatal vitamins before realizing I was standing next to you."

Your mouth fell open. "I thought you didn't see that!"

"I notice everything about you. I love you, and I want to know everything that's going on with you."

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. "I spent weeks planning this surprise."

"It was still a surprise. I mean, I wasn't sure. You confirmed it for me." Spencer gently rubs soothing circles into your shoulders. "I knew something was different. I had a theory. But I wasn't going to say anything until you were ready."

Your chest squeezed.

Spencer reached for your hands.

Suddenly the tears you'd been holding back spilled over.

His smile immediately disappeared when he noticed. "Oh no."

You laughed through the tears. "It's happy crying."

"Statistically speaking, people say that right before more crying."

You nodded. "Accurate. I definitely feel more tears coming. "

Spencer gently wiped a tear from your cheek. "You're really pregnant?"

The wonder in his voice made your heart ache. You nodded. "Yeah."

For the first time all evening, he looked genuinely overwhelmed. His eyes became glassy. "You are."

"I am." You grinned slightly. These hormones were seriously throwing you all over the place.

"We're having a baby... I'm having a baby with my best friend." Spencer whispered. A disbelieving laugh escaped him. He seemed a bit shocked. "We're having a baby."

You laughed too. "That's generally how pregnancy works, yes."

Spencer wrapped his arms around you so quickly you nearly stumbled.

The hug was tight, like he couldn't quite believe you or this moment was real. You felt him press his face into your hair. "I've been reading parenting books."

You pulled back. "You WHAT?"

His ears turned pink. "Only six."

"ONLY SIX?"

"I wanted to be prepared."

"You thought I was pregnant and immediately started studying?" You were in disbelief. Of course Spencer would immediately hit the books.

"That's usually how I handle things."

You couldn't stop laughing. "You're unbelievable."

"I know."

"What if I hadn't been pregnant? You would've been wasting your time."

Spencer shook his head. "First of all, learning, no matter the subject, is never a waste of time. Second of all, if you hadn't been pregnant now, I'd be helping prepare for the future when we did get pregnant."

His hand settled gently against your stomach. The gesture was tentative, almost reverent. Neither of you could feel anything yet. It was far too early.

But his eyes softened anyway. "You know," he murmured, "our kid is going to be smarter than both of us."

You snorted. "That's terrifying." You imagined having a tiny genius child running around the house.

"Very."

"Absolutely dangerous."

"Society may not survive."

You laughed as he kissed your forehead. Then he kissed your nose, your cheeks and lips. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. "I can't wait to meet them."

The emotion in his voice nearly made you cry again.

Spencer noticed immediately. "Oh no."

"It's happening again."

"The crying?"

"The crying."

He sighed dramatically and pulled you back into his arms. "Okay."

"What?"

"I'll go get tissues."

You laughed through your tears. "Good plan."

And as Spencer held you against his chest, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, he thought that for once in his life, knowing the answer beforehand hadn't made the surprise any less wonderful.

[dontshootmespence]

Research

A/N: This is an anon request where the reader gets mind-blowing oral from Spencer, and the team happens to hear about it, so if smut isn’t your thing, I’d skip this one ;)

P.S. Two one shots in one night! Hope you don’t get sick of me :D

                                                 ————————-

You’d just settled in for the night with your boyfriend of four months. You were wearing an oversized sweatshirt of his with nothing underneath and he was in bed wearing flannel pajama pants. He looked over at you…almost mischievously. It was a little unlike him, at least around other people. But he was different with you. Different - yet still him.

“What are you thinking about? You look like your about to get into trouble,” you said, the sweatshirt slowly climbing up the columns of your legs as you crossed them.

“Nothing…” he said, with a gleam in his eye. “Just wondering if I might be able to conduct some research.”

You cocked your head to the side. He hadn’t talked to you about any research lately. “What kind of research?” you asked inquisitively.

“Well,” he started, sitting next to you and gently placing his hand on your bare leg, “I’ve heard that it takes a woman nearly 20 minutes of sexual stimulation in order to orgasm and I’d like to see if I can make it 10.”

You smiled as your mouth dropped open. “And how do you suppose we do that?”

“Now, if you’re not comfortable with it let me know. I know we haven’t been sleeping together for very long, but I’d like to try out some things.” He concluded, with an almost shy smile upon his face, despite the nature of the subject.

You laid back on the bed, grazing your hand against his arm. “You can conduct all the research you need, Spence.”

He leaned down to take your lips in his before placing gentle kisses upon his own sweatshirt on the way down your body, which was conveniently lacking in undergarments. The light in the room had been dimmed, which was always customary when you got home for the night, but Spencer leaned over to the switch to turn it on all the way.

“I want to look at all of you with nothing in my way,” he stated, looking directly into your eyes as he parted your legs with his right hand. Occasionally, he was very direct in bed - and it was such a turn on. Not that him as whole wasn’t a turn on, but this was unexpected from him, so it felt more taboo you supposed. He placed his first two fingers at your entrance, which was already slick with wanting, which he’d noticed. “I haven’t even done anything yet,” he chuckled, slowly pushing his fingers in to the knuckle.

You gasped, feeling your walls tightening around his nimble fingers. “I guess you just have that effect on me, Spence.” You let your eyes flutter closed as he worked his magic - and magic it was. His sweatshirt had ridden up your frame, leaving your bottom half completely exposed to him. You hadn’t done this yet. You’d only been sleeping together for a few weeks, and that had involved you going down on him and lots and lots of sex all over the apartment. You’d thought about him in this position, but the anticipation of the moment caught you off guard. Your breathing was already picking up pace and he’d barely done anything.

Slowly, he pushed his two fingers deeper, allowing his lips to join them. He started gently at first, performing a concert with his fingers and tongue. It probably wouldn’t be long before he made you sing. You gasped again when he removed his fingers, feeling bereft and wanting.

“Mmmm….” you moaned, lifting slightly off the bed.

“You are so beautiful, Y/N,” he breathed just above your sex. Your fingers entwined themselves in his as you both cradled your legs, allowing him access to the deepest parts of you.

His mouth hovered above you for what felt like hours. It was likely seconds, but the idea of having him so tantalizingly close was torturous and you groaned, “I thought you had a 10-minute timeline?”

He laughed quietly, finally dipping his tongue to your clit. You stiffened against him and he murmured against you, “I don’t think I’m going to have an issue with my timeline.” His tongue began its ministrations, pressing at the parts of you that had you squirming. “Ah…fuck…” you breathed, bucking your groin into his mouth. 

He continued working your center until he had to tighten his hold on your legs to keep them from shaking uncontrollably. You bucked up into him and called out his name, tensing your own grasp on his hands. As you came down from your high, you glanced over at the clock, but before you could see whether he had achieved his goal, he took your lips in his for a passionate kiss. You tasted yourself on him. “That was 7 minutes,” he said proudly, pulling your sweatshirt off completely.

“Well done, babe,” you giggled, wrapping your hands around his head. “Care to test out how many times you can make me cum?”

He laughed into your mouth, “Challenge accepted.”

                                                     ——————-

He’d excelled at the challenge. Four times in the course of an hour. Using just his mouth and fingers. You’d both lost track of time, staying up late, which left you both exhausted for work the next morning.

You walked into the BAU, ready to start the day, when Penelope joined you. “You had sex last night. Good sex from what I can see.”

“Dammit, Pen, how do you do that?” you asked laughing.

“I can see it all over your face,” she smiled. JJ and Emily walked over at the same time.

“You can see what all over her face?” asked JJ, before continuing on without an answer. “That she had great sex last night?”

“Oh yea, totally,” Emily confirmed. “Well, I don’t think any of us want the dirty details, considering it’s Spencer, but I have to know…how many times?” She looked expectantly.

“Four times in the first hour,” you retorted, smiling at the three of them before walking down the hallway to your office. “If you want more details, you’ll have to get me drunk.”

                                           ————————-

Morgan walked into the common area to Spencer pouring nearly an entire contained of sugar into his coffee. “Late night?” he asked.

“Very,” Spencer smirked.

“My man,” Morgan sing-songed back, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “You and Y/N had a good night last night?”

Spencer blew at the steaming hot coffee, hoping to cool it down enough so he could pump it into his system. “Uh-huh.”

                                          ————————-

After many hours of monotonous paperwork, you went to ask Spencer if he wanted a sandwich from the deli around the block. You wanted to get out of the office for a bit. Plus, you needed a bit go fresh air to wake you up. As you approached Spencer’s desk, you caught Morgan’s raised eye. “Hey Y/N, have a late night, you look tired?”

“Dammit, Spencer!” you said, looking down at your boyfriend.

“What?” he asked childishly, raising his hands beside his head. “You think women are the only ones that talk to their friends about that type of thing?”

[ropoto]

SPENCER REID IN 9x18 “RABID”

the bottom right Spencer is checking out other Spencers

[l0vinghimwasreid]

drunk in love 𖦹♡

18+ (smut) wc: 3.3k warnings: drunk sex, torn underwear from this request

Dr. Spencer Reid is drunk. 

Surrounded by his team in a booth in a dark and dingy bar. Tie loosened and hair mussed from running his fingers through it. His cheeks feature a healthy, pink glow.

He’s been trying to compose a text to his girlfriend for twenty minutes. Distracted by the conversations around him and frustrated with the small, blurry keyboard, he’s only managed to type i lov nd mis u

While attempting to hold a conversation with Rossi about the evolution of forensic science over the last decade, a beautiful woman who looks suspiciously like his girlfriend appears in his periphery. 

Dave has only had a respectable two glasses of Scotch, so he notices that the genius has tuned him out almost immediately. 

“Looks like your keeper is here.” Dave cheekily teases. 

With his head in his palm, Spencer says dreamily, “Yeah, the keeper of my heart.”

Spencer was banished to the aisle seat of the booth after clambering over Emily to go to the bathroom for the third time in thirty minutes. The second she’s within his arm's reach, he grabs her waist and tugs her toward him, resting his chin on her stomach. He looks up at her adoringly, his eyes rounded and sparkling, as she laughs. “You’re here!” he exclaims, beaming.

Tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear, she giggles, “I am!”

“I was trying to text you.” He pouts.

“It’s okay, Hotch told me you were ready to be picked up?”

He doesn’t remember telling Hotch that; how did he know? As he ponders what his girlfriend said, Penelope squeals her name from the corner of the booth.

As the women converse about… well, Spencer doesn’t know, because he’s too distracted by the feeling of her body under his palms.

At first, his thumbs rest in her belt loops, and his slender fingers span down the curve of her ass. 

As she continues talking with his coworkers, his hands sink down her waist and to the curve of her ass. His fingers just barely brush her back pocket when she reaches behind her to grab his wrists, halting his movement, and lifts it back up to her waist.

He whines as she stops his movement and juts his lower lip into a pout. His desperate expression only gets more pathetic when she glares down at him. 

After a few minutes, once she’s invested in her conversation again, he tries a new method. Placing a hand on the back of her leg, he slowly drags it up to the crease where ass meets thigh. 

He internally cheers when she doesn’t stop him this time. Getting bolder, he slides his palm over to the inside of her thigh, gently squeezing the plushness. If he just slightly stretches his pinky, he can brush it against her–

“Okay! Time to take this one home before he falls asleep on me.”

That pushed her too far. He groans in denial, grumbling, “I’m not sleepy.”

“Mhm,” she hums as she pulls his arms to lift him from his seat.

He collapses against her body with the majority of his weight, and she groans as she tries to hold him up, “Spence, baby, I need you to help me.”

His head perks up like she’s said a magic word. She needs him to help her? Okay! With what? Right now? How can I help? It’s like she’s sounded the bell, and he’s one of Pavlov’s dogs.

They wave their goodbyes to the rest of the BAU. On the way out the door, he’s scuffling his feet and tripping every few steps – getting him into the cab should’ve counted as a workout. 

He only gets more handsy in the back of the taxi. Straining on the seatbelt to pepper kisses down her jaw and neck. Fingers trailing higher and higher up her thigh. 

Spencer really doesn’t drink often, and is rarely this bold in public, so she looks over to ask him, “You okay, honey?”

A flush paints his cheeks and fades down to his collar, partially due to the alcohol he’s ingested tonight and mostly due to her. “Mm, I like it when you call me honey.”

She lightly giggles at him, “I know you do, honey…” Grabbing his hand that’s getting dangerously close to between her legs, she intertwines their fingers. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh! Well, I do have a little problem…” He moves her hand to guide it over the bulge in his pants. 

Side-eyeing the driver, she leans close to his ear, “That is not a little problem, and you know it,” as she gently squeezes. 

He whines at her touch and tilts his hips forward. The driver looks back at them through the rear-view mirror with furrowed brows. She gives him a polite smile as if her palm isn’t pressing on her boyfriend’s semi in the man’s backseat. 

Spencer continues to try to touch her and have her touch him throughout the remainder of the car ride. Her promises to take care of him once they get home fall on deaf ears. The only thing on his mind is her, her, her, her, her. 

He eventually huffs and leans back in the seat with his arms crossed, pouting. She’s torturing him. It’s not fair. 

He’s vibrating with excitement as she pushes their front door open, finally. The second they’ve crossed the threshold, he’s grabbing her face and pulling her into a frantic and messy kiss. She gasps into his mouth, and he smirks against hers.

With one hand on the base of her neck, he skims down her back and waist with the other until he reaches her ass, unapologetically squeezing her. He pulls her flush with his body, lightly moaning when his aching cock presses against her hip.

He needs her.

She tries to retreat from the kiss, but he follows her fleeing lips until she rests her palms on his shoulders, gently pushing him back. “Spence, we shouldn’t.”

With hands sadly falling to his sides, he frowns, “What? Why not?”

“You’re drunk, it’s not right. I’ll feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

He tries to lean in to kiss her again, to convince her that he wants this, needs this. Her grip on him only tightens, causing him to emit a protestful whine.

“Please, baby. I want you. Please?” He shamelessly begs.

“I don’t know, honey…” She bites her lip as she trails off. Is she trying to kill him?

“Please? I consent. You won’t be taking advantage of me.”

Her head tilts as she gazes into his pleading eyes, “What if you regret it in the morning?”

His brows furrow in confusion. “I could never regret you. You’re the love of my life.” He rebuts, like it’s obvious. It should be, he thinks. Has he not made his devotion to her evident enough? Should he show her the ring in his–

“Okay.” She concedes. “But I’m only gonna do this,” She slides her hands down his chest to tug at his belt. 

He groans theatrically. He really should take what he can get, but he wants way more than just her hand, albeit beautiful, wrapped around him.

Halting her fiddling with his pants, she asks, “Do you not want me to?”

“No– I mean, yes– I mean, no, I want more.” He stammers, shaking his head.

“Do you want my mouth instead?” She offers.

He wants to bang his head against the wall. Never could he have predicted that he’d be turning down a blowjob from her.

He shakes his head, “No.”

“Spence…”

“I want you to ride me in our bed.” Her eyebrows jump at his bluntness. “Please. Could you please ride me in our bed, please?” He tenderly runs his thumbs over the backs of her hands.

She sighs, “You’re drunk.”

"I don't want you because I'm drunk. I'm drunk and I want you." He looks at her in that impossibly earnest way that melts her heart.

“Plus!” He holds up his pointer finger. “I started thinking about it before I was drunk. Now, I’m just not embarrassed to bring it up…” He trails off, the blush on his cheeks getting darker.

He continues, “And you can say no. I’ll be a little sad and will probably sulk just a tad, but no means no… That’s all.”

She takes a step closer to him, “That’s all?”

His breath catches in his throat, and he quickly bobs his head, “Mhm.”

She nods, “Okay,” and takes another step towards him.

His heart is pounding in his chest, his eyes dart back and forth across hers. Breathlessly, he asks, “Okay?”

She moves close enough to brush her nose against his, and their breaths fan each other's faces. Spencer’s still has its usual strong minty aroma with only a tinge of whiskey peeking through. The scent of her cherry lip balm lingers and makes him feel light-headed. It’s taking all of his control and strength to not just kiss her.

She whispers, “I did promise to take care of you in the car,” before finally pressing her lips against his, gentle yet firm. 

Spencer follows her lead, letting her set the pace, but his veins are thrumming with excitement and anticipation.

Once she deepens the kiss, slowly sliding her tongue against his, a desperate whine escapes him, but he still maintains his composure. Not pushing her or, rather, pulling her any closer towards him.

Gratefully for him, she moves his hands down to her hips, encouraging him to touch her. He can’t resist circling them around to her backside, squeezing and pulling her pelvis flush with his. He sighs at the relief of pressure from his throbbing dick; he’s been half-hard for her since she got to the bar to pick him up. 

As the kiss continues, she wraps her arms around his neck, threading the fingers of one hand through the back of his hair. He unabashedly moans into her mouth, and her lips turn upward into a smile.

“Bedroom?” She whispers against his lips, and he immediately nods, eager and needy.

When she separates from him, leading him with their fingers tangled, he desperately keeps his other hand on her waist, not wanting her to get too far from him. He follows her into their bedroom, kissing her neck and whispering, “Thank you,” over and over.

Once they’re in their room, she rotates to kiss him, with immediate passion and fervor. He doesn’t notice that she’s steered them to the edge of the bed until she’s pushing him with a hand on his chest, and he drops backward onto their mattress. 

As she yanks off her shirt and unbuttons her jeans, he intently watches with blown pupils. Biting his lip, he palms himself through his slacks at the vision of his girlfriend stripping for him. This is far from the first time that he’s seen her do this, but each time he witnesses it, he’s filled with gratitude and reverence. How did life lead him here? To her?

Left in just her bra and panties, she steps between his dangling legs, placing her hands on his cheeks. For the second time that night, she asks, “You okay, honey?”

He doesn’t answer. As he grabs her hips and pulls her on top of him, he falls on his back against their mattress. She giggles as they tumble, and the sound makes his heart sing a matching harmony. God, he loves her so much.

Their lips met again in a hungry kiss. As they retrace each other’s mouths, Spencer slides his hands up her back to skillfully unclasp her bra. It gets tossed to the floor, and he kneads and squeezes her breasts, swiping his thumbs over her nipples. 

She lightly moans against him and grinds her hips down against his bulge. His head tilts back, and he grumbles a low, “Fuck.”

She bites her lower lip, concealing her entertained smile produced by his cursing. Drunk Spencer really has no filter. 

Placing her hands on his chest, she continues circling her hips against him, and his palms tighten on her waist. 

He inches his fingers across her thigh to the hem of her underwear, slipping under them until he’s met with her soaked folds. 

As his fingers slide and caress her, she leans back to grant him better access, stabilizing herself with her hands on his knees.

“Baby,” she whines, tilting her hips upward in an attempt to show him where she needs him.

“I know, baby, I know.” He gruffs, frustrated with the constraint of her panties.

In a split-second decision, he tells her, “I’ll buy you new ones,” and before she can ask what he’s talking about, he’s tearing the lace. She looks down with a gasp at her now shredded panties.

“Oh my–” She cuts herself off with a moan; he’s sliding a finger in her entrance before she can fully process or say anything about what just happened.

He continues fingering her, eyes locked on the rapid rising and falling of her chest. Her head is tilted back, exposing her neck, and he wishes he could reach up to lick and kiss her there. She looks so beautiful and glorious like this.

One finger becomes two, and they can hear the wet squelching noise of her pussy with each thrust. As he curls his fingers upward, her arms get shaky from the pleasure.

“Fuck me, Spence…” She groans.

His lips twitch, “That’s the plan, baby.” 

She rolls her eyes in mock annoyance, huffing out an amused laugh. A deep tension blooms in her belly as he continues his ministrations.

When he reaches his thumb up to her clit to rub smooth, slow circles, her thighs tremble against his hips.

She leans forward and grabs his wrist, “Fuck– Okay– I need you,” halting his movements.

Leaning down to kiss him, she unbuttons his pants and shimmies them down just enough to free his red, leaking, aching cock. 

He groans as she wraps her soft hands around him, thrusting upward into her grip, “Mm, baby, please.”

After smearing his pre-cum over the head, she holds her hair back with the other hand and lets a string of spit drip onto him. His mouth falls open as she does this, eyes tracking the descent until it meets his dick. He’s so sensitive and desperate and enthralled that the slide of her saliva down his shaft has him moaning and whimpering. 

Tossing the scrap of fabric that has become her panties onto the floor, she guides his tip to her entrance and slowly sinks down. They moan in tandem at the slick stretch. 

Stabilizing herself with hands on his chest, she drops down until he’s buried deep inside of her, brows furrowed, and neck tilted back. 

She then realizes something entirely stupid: he’s still wearing his tie and button-up. She groans and yanks on the fabric around his neck, throwing it, before making quick work on the buttons of his shirt, “Why are you even still wearing this?”

He can barely respond, his dick is finally where it’s meant to be, and she’s too frustrated with the barrier of his shirt to actually fuck him. He’s dizzy from the alcohol and the sensation of her tight, wet walls wrapped around him. He doesn’t know which variable is most responsible for making him feel this way anymore.

“You could’ve taken it off whenever you wanted,” he manages to gripe.

After unbuttoning just enough of his shirt to get her hands on his bare chest, she finally slowly rises and falls on his dick. His hands grip her hips, fingers pressing firmly into her ass. With a slack jaw, he groans, “Fuck– Yes– Thank you, baby.”

He continues babbling as she finds a steady rhythm, “Thank you so much, I love you so much, oh my God.”

His head rolls back and forth against the bed as she rides him into the mattress, broken moans and whimpers and whines escaping both of them with each plunge. Spencer soon guiltily realizes that he’s not helping her at all, so he assists in the movement of her hips with his hands and thrusts upward to match her pace.

Her nails scrape down his chest as the heat in her belly catches fire again. He hisses at the scratches, but he loves it when she does this, loves when the sharp pain blends with the intense pleasure. 

“Shit– Baby– Not gonna last long–” He moans.

“Mm, ‘m close,” She agrees, moving a hand between her legs to sloppily rub her clit. He can feel the pulsing of her tight heat as her orgasm crests, and he’s clenching his jaw and hands to stop himself from cumming before she does. Even in his drunken state, her pleasure prioritizes his own. 

“Fuck– Fuck– Fuck–” she chants and cries as everything starts to feel like too much. Her release coincides with a long, drawn-out, “Spencer…” and her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

Falling against his chest, panting, she continues a slow roll of her hips as he bursts inside of her with a raspy groan.

His body twitches and shivers as he cums, fingers slowly unlocking their tight grip on her waist. She won’t be surprised nor perturbed to find the shape of his fingerprints embedded in the skin there later.

His arms wrap around her back as his orgasm descends, caressing her warm skin. Burying his nose in her hair, he mumbles, “That was amazing. You’re amazing.”

She lightly laughs in agreement, pressing a sweet kiss to his collarbone.

They lay as a panting tangle of limbs until she hears his breathing even out, and she glances up to see his eyes closed, “Spence?” She croons.

He doesn’t respond.

“Honey?” She chuckles.

Still nothing. If she couldn’t feel his breathing against her skin, she’d be worried.

She gently shakes his shoulder, and he inhales sharply, “Mm?”

“Did you seriously fall asleep? You’re still inside of me!” She feels his dick twitch ever so slightly against her walls.

“No, ‘m not asleep.” His voice is rough and croaky.

“Mhm,” She indulges his blatant fib.

They both wince as she rises off of him. He feels cold without her warm heat wrapped around him, and she feels empty. She slides off the bed, grimacing slightly at the stiffness in her hips. 

He’s quite the vision lying like this: hair a frizzy mess, a pink tinge to his cheeks, shirt halfway unbuttoned, softening cock peeking out of his pants. The floor only adds to the scenery, clothes scattered about like the frame on a piece of art – Spencer, of course, being the art. She catches a glimpse of her torn underwear (she honestly forgot about it until she laid eyes on it) and shakes her head in amusement.

After slipping on a new pair of underwear and changing into one of his old tee-shirts, the hem falling to her mid-thigh, she gathers pajamas for him. He peeks his eyes open as she unbuttons the rest of his shirt, murmuring, “You’re so beautiful,” when he sees her in his clothes.

“Thank you, honey,” she grabs his hands, “Can you sit up for me?”

He groans, but lets her pull him upright. Slumping against her body like a rag doll, he wraps his arms around her waist.

She manages to maneuver him limb by limb until he’s changed into his sleep clothes. While they’re in the bathroom, lazily brushing their teeth, he whines about going to bed without a shower after being in the sticky bar. She placates his concerns by promising to shower together in the morning – his favorite.

After he’s between the sheets with a glass of water within reach, she finds his phone and plugs it in for him. The screen turns on as the charger connects, and their text thread is displayed. She sees his barely legible attempt at messaging her and smiles, shaking her head fondly at how much he loves her. Warmth grows in her chest as she glances between the i lov nd mis u text and her boyfriend snoring softly into his pillow.

Leaning down to kiss his forehead, she whispers, “Goodnight, honey,” against his soft skin.

[milla984]

Criminal Minds screencaps S07E04 Painless

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

»— Masterlists links in bio —«

[deerfawnn]

love — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer accidentally reveals your secret relationship by kissing you in front of the whole team—oh, and blurting out “I love you” for the very first time, too. content warnings: secret relationship , mention of a case , spencer being very worried about the unsub and case but its mostly fluff !! a/n: haiiii !!!!! hope you didn't miss my secret relationship fanfics too much </3 also i finished writing this like 10 minutes ago but i was too excited not to post it wc: 3.1k

Things were heating up.

You were getting closer, so close, to catching the unsub. The map was sprawled across the table in front of you, dotted with red circles.You traced another location with your marker, murmuring quietly under your breath, a habit you'd most definitely picked up from your boyfriend.

Spencer was nearby, slouched in a chair, mumbling to himself in a similar fashion. His brows were furrowed. You could tell this case was hitting him harder than most. Maybe it reminded him of something, or someone. Whatever it was, it weighed on him, and that meant it weighed on you, too.

You took care of him as much as you could, though it wasn’t easy with your relationship still hidden from the team. Last night, you’d slipped into his hotel room after everyone else had turned in, finding him already buried in files. You didn’t ask if he was okay, he wouldn’t have answered honestly. Instead, you’d wordlessly sat beside him on the bed, running your fingers through his hair until his shoulders finally relaxed.

“Want to cuddle?” you’d murmured, and he hadn’t even hesitated before nodding, letting you pull him down against the pillows. He’d tucked himself under your chin, his breath warm against your collarbone, and you’d held him, fingers carding gently through his curls until his breathing evened out.

Of course, sneaking out at 6 a.m. had been its own mission. It took you twenty minutes to escape Spencer’s sleepy, koala-like grip. He kept murmuring thank-yous against your skin, kisses trailing from your collarbones to your jaw, like punctuation marks of affection. It had taken everything in you not to crawl back into bed with him.

Now, back in the briefing room, you had even more reason to catch this unsub.

"I got it." Spencer’s voice broke through the silence.

His head snapped up, and the words came pouring out of him like a dam breaking. Facts, patterns, dates, connections. The rest of the team, who had been working in silence, immediately turned their attention to him, hanging onto every word.

“Okay. Morgan and Reid—I want you with me,” Hotch announced the moment Spencer finished unraveling the unsub’s pattern.

Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, sending the coordinates to their phones in a flurry of clicks. This was one of those rare, high-stakes cases where even she had to join them in the field. “Location’s live on your devices,” she said, her usual bubbly tone subdued. Hotch gave her a curt nod of thanks before striding toward the door, Morgan right behind him.

Spencer, however, seemed miles away as he snatched his brown coat from the back of his chair. His mind was already elsewhere, locked onto the unsub. Then, just before following the others, he turned to you.

You were still standing by the board, capping the dry-erase marker and watching him with a soft, worried smile. He seemed exhausted.

“Be careful,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, as if snapping back into himself for just a second, and mumbled, “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you later.”

His fingers caught your chin, thumb beneath your jaw, index curled gently under your bottom lip. Time stuttered. His kiss was fleeting, achingly tender, and then his lips brushed yours again as he whispered, "I love you," like it was the simplest truth in the world. And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Silence.

Absolute, suffocating silence.

A pin drop would’ve echoed like a gunshot.

“Oh. my. god.” Garcia’s shriek could’ve shattered glass.

Your fingers flew to your lips, still tingling from the ghost of his kiss. The rest of the team was frozen, Rossi’s eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline, JJ’s mouth was slightly open, and Emily looked like she was torn between laughing and demanding an immediate explanation.But you barely registered any of it.

Because Spencer had just said I love you. For the first time.And he’d done it in front of everyone.

Garcia was already flailing her hands, rapid-fire questions spilling out of her“Since when? How did I not know? Oh my god, the touching, the lingering looks, the—!”

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice, playing over and over in your mind like a broken record.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your face burned. Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t even notice Emily waving her hand in front of your face until her voice cut through the haze. “Earth to lovergirl,” she teased, grinning.

Blinking, you turned toward the team, all of them staring at you with varying degrees of shock, amusement, and sheer anticipation.

“What?” you managed, voice still breathless.

“That’s all you have to say?” JJ asked, plopping onto the edge of the desk in disbelief. She grabbed a Cheeto from an open bag, crunching loudly. Garcia was still gaping at you, hands pressed dramatically over her mouth. Behind her colorful glasses, her eyes were massive. Rossi sipped his coffee slowly, clearly judging the entire situation.

“Huh?” you repeated dumbly.

Emily’s smirk softened just a fraction. “You okay?”

You stared at her, still dazed, before muttering, “He said ‘I love you.’”

Another beat of silence. Garcia gasped. “That was his first time saying it?” Her hands flew away from her mouth, gripping the sides of her head like she might explode.And then chaos. Again.

“Oh my god—”

“Since when—”

“Wait, wait, wait—that was the first—”

You spent what felt like hours fielding an avalanche of questions, barely able to catch your breath between them. At first, you tried to dodge them, played dumb, gave vague smiles, busied yourself with the files on the table, but it was pointless. Garcia saw straight through you, pinning you with a look that practically screamed, You’re not getting out of this, sweetheart.

So you caved. “Six months,” you said quietly. There was a loud collective gasp. Garcia clutched her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. ( She was. ) “Six?! Six whole months? And you didn’t say anything?”

You winced. “We were trying to be subtle.”

“You failed!” she cried, throwing her hands up.

Emily laughed. “Okay, next—who made the first move?”

You hesitated, cheeks burning. “He did.” Another round of dramatic gasps echoed around the room. Even Rossi raised his brows, murmuring, “Didn’t peg him for the bold one.”

“He’s… not. Not usually,” you admitted with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress. “But with me… I guess he was.”

And on it went, question after question, as if they were making up for six months of missed gossip in a single sitting. It was messy, chaotic, borderline embarrassing, but it was also kind of nice. Being known. Being happy. Then came the final question.

JJ’s voice was quieter than the others, softer. “Do you love him too?”

You froze.For a moment, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Even Garcia stopped typing. You looked at JJ, then down at your hands, then back up again. And nodded.

Garcia screeched, practically launching herself out of her chair. “I knew it!” she howled.

Emily beamed, her smile so wide it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and even Rossi let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like a proud uncle.You were a little overwhelmed, okay, maybe a lot, but underneath the chaos, you also felt a sheer amount of happiness that you've never felt before.

Hotch interrupted the moment by calling Garcia. “Unsub’s in custody. We’re on our way back. Everyone’s okay.”

Your breath left you in a rush. Spencer was okay. Your heart, though, it hadn’t quite gotten the message. It was still thundering in your chest, hammering against your ribs with every second that ticked by.

The others must’ve noticed the way you kept glancing at the door, because JJ finally nudged you gently toward it. “Go wait. We’ll clean up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Garcia waved a dismissive hand. “Honey, please. You’ve got heart-eyes so intense it’s blinding. Go stand dramatically in the doorway like you’re in a movie or something. We’ve got this.”And so you did.

You found yourself hovering in the doorway of the conference room, a half-hearted folder in your hands, pretending to sort through paperwork as you stared through the glass. Watching. Waiting.

Then you heard it, the sound of the SUV pulling up outside. Every head in the room snapped up like it was choreographed. Honestly, for a team of professional FBI agents, they acted like a bunch of high schoolers most of the time.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Sure enough, all of them were watching you, wide-eyed and waiting like you were the final act in a romantic drama. You rolled your eyes with a half-smile, dropped the stack of files onto the table and walked out of the conference room.

As you left, you heard Emily mutter, “Garcia, don’t follow her.”You didn’t wait to hear the response.

The moment you reached the main hallway of the precinct, the doors opened and there he was.

Spencer stepped inside, his curls slightly mussed, cheeks flushed from the cold, and as soon as his eyes found yours, he smiled. That gentle, crooked smile that always made you smile.You barely registered Derek behind him, hand gripping the cuffed unsub and throwing you a confused look when you didn’t even acknowledge him. Even Hotch glanced over in surprise as you made a beeline for Spencer.

“Hey—wait, what—?” Spencer managed, eyes widening as you grabbed his arm and all but dragged him down the corridor.

You shoved open the nearest empty office, tugged him inside, and closed the door firmly behind you, leaning back against it.

“Did you mean it?” you asked, your voice urgent, breath a little uneven.

Spencer blinked. “Mean what?”

You stared at him in stunned disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” he said again, completely baffled. “What did I do? Did Morgan tell you about what happened in the field? I know I wasn’t supposed to go near the unsub without backup, but I swear, I had it under control—”He started to ramble, hands gesturing as he pouted in that way he did when he was simultaneously nervous and a little too proud of himself. “He had a weapon, but I de-escalated him. You would’ve been proud.”

“You did what?” you interrupted, your mind now juggling two emotional crises.

Spencer blinked again. “Wait—so Morgan didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you muttered, your voice flat with disbelief. You shook your head slowly, trying to process it all. The nerves, the kiss, the I love you, and the fact that Spencer genuinely hadn’t realized what he’d done.

Spencer’s expression shifted from confusion to concern in a heartbeat. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Did I do something wrong?”

His voice was careful, gentle, and far too kind for how scrambled your brain felt. “Can you tell me what it is?” he added, tilting your chin up just enough so your eyes met his.

Your mouth opened slightly, but the words were stuck. How could he not know? How could he be looking at you like that, all wide eyes and soft brows and pouty lips, and not know?

“Spencer,” you said finally, his name sharp on your tongue.

“Yes?” he replied immediately, those puppy-dog eyes locking onto yours like he was bracing for impact.

“You kissed me.”

His brows pulled together. “I’m—I’m sorry?” he said, clearly confused.

If you weren’t so worked up, you might have laughed at his face. But your heart was hammering, and your nerves were tangled in knots.

“You did it in front of everyone,” you clarified. And then you said it , softly, barely above a whisper. “And then you said—”

“I love you.” His voice cut in before you could finish.You watched as the memory clearly snapped back into place. Realization washed over his face, followed immediately by a bright, burning blush that crept up his neck and across his cheeks.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding slowly, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you studied his reaction.

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wide, flustered in a way that only made you want to kiss him senseless. “Oh,” he breathed, glancing away for a second before meeting your eyes again. 

“Yeah… oh.” you repeated. Both of you stayed silent for a second.

“I did mean it,” he stammered out.

A smile tugged at your lips, finally. After an hour and a half of bouncing knees, chewed lips, the words you’d been dying to hear had finally landed.

“I love you,” Spencer repeated, a little firmer this time, like he needed to hear it aloud again to make it real. Like maybe saying it twice would help his brain catch up to his heart.The warmth that bloomed inside you was instant. You weren’t sure you’d ever felt this happy in your entire life.

Then, of course, Spencer kept talking.

“Did I say it too soon? I’m not sure. On average, men say it around three to three and a half months into a relationship, while women usually wait closer to four months,” he rambled, already blushing furiously, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “And I know we’ve been dating for six months, so technically it took me twice as long, which isn’t statistically ideal, but honestly I almost said it on our first date, which definitely wouldn’t have been optimal and—”

He was spiraling. Fast.

So you did the only thing that would shut him up. You stepped forward, gently grabbed his face in both hands, and said, soft but certain: “I love you too, Spencer.”

He stared. Just stared, like he was trying to memorize this exact moment, burn it into his brain with all its warmth and disbelief and wonder. You watched his expression shift, first stunned, then relieved, then something so bright and boyish it made your heart lurch.You’d never seen him so happy before.

Well, once. That first time you kissed him. He’d looked a little like this, dazed and blissed out. But now he looked like his whole world had just clicked into place.

“Yeah?” he breathed, voice shaky with excitement, his grin stretching so wide it practically crinkled his entire face.

“Yeah.” You laughed through the word, nodding, the emotion bubbling up in your chest and spilling into every part of you. Your smile was a mirror of his.

Spencer let out a breathy laugh and pulled you into him, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you anymore. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, grinning against his skin.

“This is real, right?” he asked into your hair, voice muffled. “I’m not dreaming? Because sometimes I do dream about you saying that and then I wake up and it’s just—”

You cut him off with a kiss to the warm skin of his throat.“It’s definitely real,” you mumbled against him.

Spencer let out a shaky breath and held you tighter. You stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, both of you grinning like idiots. It felt absurdly, wonderfully perfect. Then you muttered into his neck, “You do know you outed our relationship to everyone, right?”

Spencer’s arms stiffened around you just slightly. “Yeah. Totally. I knew that. I did it on purpose,” he lied, too quickly, voice pitched a little too high.

You giggled and pulled back, hands still resting on either side of his neck. “You’re a terrible liar, Dr. Reid.”

He didn’t even bother to defend himself, just gave you an adorable, crooked grin and leaned in to peck your lips. “Yeah, I am,” he mumbled, brushing his nose against yours.

You kissed him back, just once, then poked a finger into the center of his chest. “Also, we’re going to talk about your little superhero stunt at home.”

Spencer blinked. “Right,” he echoed, suddenly very aware of his earlier reckless attempt to talk the unsub down without backup. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not not mad,” you replied, giving him a look. “But I love you, so I’m saving the full lecture for later.”

He winced slightly, then smiled. “Fair.”

You let your fingers drift through the curls on his forehead, brushing them back gently. “Well,” you sighed, “for now, we have to go out there… into the land of chaos and gossip.”

Realization dawned slowly on Spencer’s face. His eyes widened. “Oh no. Garcia definitely filled Morgan in already.”

“And Rossi’s probably already told Hotch,” you added grimly.

“And JJ and Emily—”

“—were there when it happened,” you finished.

You both stood there in mutual silence for a moment, dread creeping in. Spencer cleared his throat. “Maybe we could… go out the window?”

You laughed, smacking his chest lightly. “Nice try, genius.”

He gave a helpless little shrug. “I had to try.”

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed the handle of the door behind you. “Ready?” you asked.

“Absolutely not,” Spencer said without hesitation.

You squeezed his hand anyway. “Come on, lover boy.”

To say that the conference room was chaos would’ve been an understatement.Garcia let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal-gasp hybrid, immediately launching into a breathless barrage of questions that involved timelines and pet names. Morgan clapped Spencer on the back so hard he nearly stumbled, muttering something about “my boy finally growing up.” JJ just smirked from the corner, quietly sipping her coffee.Hotch had walked by at one point, muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “About time,” and kept moving without missing a beat.

The jet ride was somehow worse.

You’d sat next to Spencer, hoping for a quiet, post-case decompression. Instead, you were subjected to Garcia and Morgan playing twenty questions from across the aisle. Rossi, pretending to read, chuckled behind his wine glass the entire time. At one point, you tried to rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder, and he’d blushed so hard you thought he might combust.

You weren’t sure if he was embarrassed from the attention or just overwhelmed from finally saying what he’d been keeping in for months. Probably both.

But the days that followed? Even worse.

Because the teasing never stopped. Emily sent you heart emojis during briefings. Morgan kept calling Spencer lover boy, which you regretted giving him the vocabulary for. Garcia had created a mood board on her computer and refused to delete it. Even Hotch raised an eyebrow when you asked to share a rental car with Spencer.

But through it all, Spencer stayed by your side. Every awkward joke, every embarrassing comment, every not-so-subtle glance,he never flinched. If anything, he leaned into it. He held your hand in the bullpen and he kissed your cheek at the end of the day. It was domestic chaos.

Romantic disaster. Beautiful, awkward, completely perfect hell.

[l0vinghimwasreid]

absolutely LOVE your writing!!!! im afraid the spencer somno one made me pregnant........ and it gave me an idea. i saw your last post is a request and came to ask are you taking them???? cause i need spencer (i imagine first seasons but it doesn't need to be) completely obsessed with his girlfriend and the way she's so horny for him! like initiating sex at the most random domestic times cause he's so sexy all the time!!! and she needs him all the time!!!! he can't be more happy to have a gf that loves him so much and finds him so attractive so of course he let's her use him for her pleasure 😵‍💫😵‍💫 he's fascinated with the dynamic, "yes baby make yourself feel good" <33333 while she's crying bouncing on him and the sight is so good and so beautiful in his completely in love brain that he cums imediataly

spencer reid with a horny gf that he'd never say no to

UR SO SWEET (is it too soon to say i love you?) YES!!

ohhh he is so pleasantly confused by how attracted she is to him but he is Not about to argue, especially when she’s kissing on him and trailing her fingers over his waistband in the middle of the night

“mmm honey?” he grumbles and she’s sooo turned on by him all of the time but his sleepy voice gets her even wetter

“need you, spence, please.” she whines and he’s never going to deny her of anything she wants, but especially when it’s him

“yeah, baby, what d’you need?” he says between heated kisses and she just starts pulling on his pajama pants and boxers

“oh, fuck, okay, baby, okay” he lifts his hips up so she can get them down to his ankles

he trails his fingers inside of her sleep shorts and she’s not wearing any panties and he can immediately feel how wet she is

“jesus, honey, you’re this wet for me at this hour?” and all she can do is whine and rut her hips against his hand

“please, spence, please”

so he fingers her just enough to stretch her out for him, turns her on her side so they’re spooning, his chest pressing into her back, and slowly guides his pulsing dick inside of her

he loves when she gets like this and the sight and feeling of her makes it so he’s already twitching and leaking

he wraps his arms around her to pull her as close to him as possible so he can get so deep inside of her, just how she likes

he squeezes on her breasts and nipples with one hand and circles her clit with the other

they’re both moaning and panting and their neighbors can definitely hear them but they don’t care, they need and love each other so so much and the only thing they can think about is each other

she’d get frustrated that she can’t turn around all the way to reach his lips to kiss him properly if he wasn’t pleasing her in 3 different ways already

she pushes her hips backwards with each thrust and she’s too fucking hot and it’s the middle of the night so spencer knows that he won't last very long (he rarely can with her)

"yeah, baby, fuck yourself back on me, help me make you feel good"

he manages to make her cum once before he does, but she immediately turns around in his arms to kiss him so intensely and he knows she needs more

he can't believe that someone loves him this much and needs him so badly

he makes sure that she cums at least twice before he gets up to get a cloth to clean up with, smiling at himself in the bathroom mirror

he has hickies on his neck that she must have put there before he even woke up, his hair is a complete ruffled mess, and he’s never ever been happier

-

she’s just completely shameless for him and absolutely initiates sex whenever she can

while he’s reading, curled up on the couch in his glasses, with his fingers trailing over the pages, she curls up next to him and can’t stop herself from grabbing his hand to suck on his fingers

his looks over at her with his mouth opened into an ‘o’ and can already feel himself getting hard at the feeling of her warm wet mouth and tongue drenching him

she’s soon bringing his hand through her panties and literally using him to rub on her clit and she pushes his fingers inside of her

she’s moaning and writhing and all he can do is watch and let her use him, she’s so beautiful and he can’t believe that she’s his

“need you to fuck me, spence”

“yeah? let’s go to the bed?”

“no, i can’t wait, right here, please spence please”

and what else is he supposed to do but fuck her into the couch cushions!?

-

or when he’s in the kitchen making them coffee and breakfast on a weekend morning, sun painting everything golden

his pajama pants are loose around his hips and his shirt is riding up his sides, leaving a smooth strip of skin that she can’t help but touch

she wraps her arms around him from behind and kisses at the back of his neck as she unties his pants

“oh, good morning!” he squeaks out and she trails her hand down the front of his pants and into his boxers, stroking him until he’s groaning, head tilted back, and painfully hard

she hops up onto the kitchen counter, pulls his pants down just enough for his cock to spring free and she pushes her sleep shorts to the side, there’s no time to take them off, she needs him now

she pulls him toward her with one hand on his shoulder and the other on his dick, guiding him inside of her

the stretch is almost too much without any foreplay and first thing in the morning, but she doesn’t care, she loves how he feels inside of her and will take him no matter what

he's so loving and so concerned though, "you sure, baby? need me to finger you first?"

"no, spencer, i need you now"

so he places his hands on her thighs to open her up for him even more, and the sound of their moans mixes with the sound of the coffee pot brewing

he's stretching her so wide and he feels so so good that she starts tearing up

it’s then that he realizes that he hasn’t even kissed her today, so he leans forward to do so, and she immediately gets her tongue in his mouth and is nibbling on his lower lip

“fuck, honey, i love you so much” he says

“i love you, spence, you're so hot, fuck” she replies as she pulls his hips closer to push his cock in deeper

they both wish that they could start every single day like this

-

he knows he’s too down bad for her once she manages to convince him to have car sex, but he wouldn’t have it any other way

they’re having a date night and they’re supposed to be on their way to a movie after having dinner

but the way he looked in the candlelight, in his suit and tie, fingers wrapped around his glass that was dripping with condensation has her dripping for him

and he tipped 30% on their expensive ticket

her panties are absolutely soaked and she can’t think about anything other than his cock

she tells him to pull over onto a dark side street and at first he’s concerned that she’s going to be sick or something, maybe the food didn’t sit well with her? he’ll have to look up the ingredients that were in her meal and cross-reference them with things she’s had before to make sure this doesn’t happen again and-

oh- she’s leaned over the center console and is pulling him towards her by his tie and oh fuck now she’s making out with him and palming him through his nice dress pants

“honey, we can’t do this here!” he tries to tell her

she grabs his hand and shoves it between her legs so he can feel that her panties are completely drenched

“need you, spence, need to fuck you right now, i can’t go sit in a movie theater like this”

and he completely agrees, he doesn’t want her to be uncomfortable literally ever but especially not for the whole duration of a 2/3 hour movie

he doesn’t know what to do though, he’s never had car sex before

“okay, fuck, okay… should we get in the backseat?”

she just shakes her head and climbs over the center console to straddle him, licking into his mouth and grinding roughly on his hardening cock

she reaches her hand to the side of the seat and leans it back before he can even think about doing it himself

she unzips his pants and pulls him out of his boxers and he’s absolutely throbbing and she’s barely touched him yet

she hikes her dress up so she can rub herself against him, skin to skin, and he has no idea when she took off her panties but she’s completely exposed for him

she’s grinding back and forth on him, he can feel her folds sliding up and down his cock, and he’s not even inside of her yet, but he’s already moaning and gripping at her hips

“oh, yes, baby, use me so you can feel better? need you to feel better so we can go see our movie?”

she’s almost annoyed that he’s still thinking about the movie when his tip is catching on her entrance with every grind, but she just finds him so hot and so endearing and so hot

she grips his base to guide him inside of her properly and she looks so so beautiful tonight (all the time, actually, but especially tonight) and he’s nervous about someone seeing them, so he’s already biting his lip and closing his eyes to stop himself from cumming

“feels so good, spence, you always feel so good.” she tells him and he’s flushed down to his chest and he has to loosen his tie to get some air

“yeah, honey? fuck me so good”

“love when you need me like this”

“love when you use me like this”

his words only make her ride him even faster and harder, she leans to suck on his neck and the new angle is so delicious, it pushes him in even deeper

she’s rubbing her clit with one hand and has the other wrapped around his jaw to keep him looking at her

the new pace and angle and the sight of her like this has him cumming before she does, and she whines in frustration

she has tears in her eyes so of course he says, “it’s okay, baby, keep going”

he’s so overstimulated that it’s starting to hurt but he wants to be good for her, so he squeezes at her gorgeous tits through her dress and leans up to kiss her until she’s groaning and trembling all over him

she gives him a chaste kiss and thanks him before she climbs back over to the passenger seat

his dick is still out and he’s sweaty and completely awestruck

once he’s pulled himself together enough to drive them to the theater, he looks at himself in the car visor mirror to make sure he’s decent enough to be seen in public, and his lips are stained red from her lipstick, he has red marks scattered near his collar, and his hair is a wreck, he looks wrecked

once they’re inside he reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet to pay for their popcorn, and his fingers brush against damp lace

he looks over at her all wide-eyed and she just hums questionably and curls herself into his side, gazing up at him with this sparkle in her eye that he just knows is going to get him in trouble someday

hopefully they’re not pushing their luck too far when she starts brushing her fingers against his bulge in the back row of the dark theater

-

i hope u liked anon! had to start with a reverse somno situation since u mentioned that one! <3

[badathumanemotions]

Could you please do a fix where Spencer and reader return home after he's released from prison and she allows him to bite her and mark her all over because they both missed each other so much and she knows he needs something to be his again, after three months of having nothing?

Home Bound

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI Masterlist CW: Smut, Angst, Biting Kink, Marking, Rough Sex, Restraints, Oral Sex (R rec), Finger Fucking, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Aftercare, Emotions. WC: 11,237 Unofficial Part 2 for Homesick. (Not Proof Read) Updated Aug 28 2025

The apartment feels impossibly quiet, the kind of silence that presses against the skin, heavy and anticipatory. You’re curled into the couch, knees pulled up to your chest, heart thrumming with a tension that’s been building for months. Every small sound outside makes you flinch, every creak in the building a potential herald of his return. Three months of absence have left you wired, a taut thread strung tight, ready to unravel at the first touch. The lock clicks and your whole body reacts before your mind can catch up. You sit forward, breath caught somewhere high in your chest, and then he’s there. Spencer steps inside with the kind of careful quiet that has nothing to do with stealth and everything to do with fragility, as though the moment itself might shatter if he moves too suddenly.

You don’t rise to meet him. For a heartbeat you can’t. It’s too much all at once—the sight of him, the realness of him here in your space, the rush of grief and relief colliding in your chest. He drops the bag from his hand, forgotten, and then he’s kneeling in front of the couch, reaching for you with hands that hesitate at the last second.

That hesitation breaks you. You launch forward, arms circling him, pressing your face into his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt rough against your skin. He lets out a sound that is neither sigh nor sob, just a release of something held too long, and then he’s clutching you back, fingers tangled in your shirt, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Neither of you speak at first. Words feel too thin for the swell of what crashes between you. You breathe him in, the smell of his skin, his hair, the faint trace of cold air that clings to him. His lips press against the crown of your head in a frantic pattern, as if trying to anchor himself with the shape of you.

“I thought about this,” he whispers at last, voice hoarse, as if it hasn’t been used in days. “Every night. I thought if I could just hold on long enough, I’d get back to you.” His hands tighten at your waist, almost shaking. “But nothing came close to this. Not even in my head.”

Your throat burns. You shift just enough to look at him, your palms framing his face, and he leans into your touch with a desperation that steals your breath. His eyes are wet, red at the edges, but burning with something rawer, deeper. He presses his forehead to yours, and the quiet stretches again, heavy but alive now, filled with heartbeats and the fragile miracle of him being here, with you.

When he kisses you it’s not careful. It’s messy, clashing, a collision of hunger and grief and need. Your hands clutch at him, trying to pull him closer when he’s already pressed against you. His breath hitches, breaking against your mouth, and you taste salt, taste him, taste the months of absence unravelling into something feverish and unstoppable.

The kiss deepens, and with it comes a hunger that has been caged for too long. Spencer’s mouth moves over yours with a rough insistence, almost clumsy in its urgency, but it only makes your chest ache harder, because it’s him, it’s real, it’s everything you’ve missed.

You tug at his jacket, fingers fumbling, frustrated by the barrier of fabric. He catches your hands for only a second, as though he might slow you, but then he lets go, ripping the jacket off with a jerky motion, tossing it to the floor.

Your shirt is next, his fingers catching on the hem, pulling it upward, and you lift your arms without breaking the kiss. The shirt lands somewhere behind the couch, forgotten.

His hands are everywhere, clutching your waist, sliding up your back, pulling you closer until there is no space left to close. You tug at his shirt, desperate, the fabric refusing to move fast enough, and he breaks away only long enough to strip it over his head before crashing back into you.

You rise from the couch together, clinging, stumbling, his lips never straying far from yours. It’s messy, hurried, the kind of collision born from months of longing sharpened into something raw. He pushes you against the hallway wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding against the heat of your skin.

You gasp into his mouth and he drinks it in, lips tracing down to your jaw, your throat, biting harder than he ever has before.

You let out a sound you didn’t mean to, raw and sharp, and his grip tightens at your hip as if that sound alone could undo him.

He kisses like a man starved, like someone trying to reclaim not just your body but every day he spent without it, without you. Your back thuds against the bedroom door, and with a frantic twist he pushes it open, guiding you through without letting you go.

There’s no neatness to it, no grace, only the heat of stripping away months of separation with each layer shed. His mouth finds yours again and again, desperate, as though kissing you is the only way to prove he’s free, that he’s home.

By the time you reach the bed, shoes, clothes, pieces of both of you are scattered in a trail across the floor, the apartment marked by your reunion.

He pushes you back onto the mattress, breath ragged, eyes dark and alive in a way you haven’t seen in months. He hovers there for just a moment, staring down at you, his chest heaving, and you see it—how close he is to breaking, how much he needs this, how much he needs you.

He hovers above you, chest heaving, lips hovering close but not touching. His gaze roves over your skin like he’s already imagining what he’ll leave behind, the bruises, the marks, the evidence. When he dips his head, his teeth catch at your throat, sharp enough to sting, and you gasp, your wrists tightening instinctively in the sheets. He pulls back just enough for you to see the faint curl at his mouth.

“You’re mine,” he says suddenly, voice rough, almost broken, not even directed at you so much as dragged out of him, like a truth he’s been chewing on in the dark for too long. His gaze moves over you, fevered, frantic. “I need—everyone needs to see. To know. You’re mine.”

The words send a shiver through you, not frightening, but sharp and real. His lips fall to your neck, biting down hard again making you gasp, as he groans against your skin like the sound fuels him. He lifts his head again, hair falling into his eyes, and you see the shift, the raw edge of something claiming him as much as it claims you.

He pulls back from your throat, breathing hard, lips swollen, the faintest trace of your skin already reddening where his teeth caught you. His hand cradles your jaw, almost tender, but his eyes are wild, restless, flicking over you like he can’t stop imagining what he wants to do.

“I can’t stop at this,” he says, his voice low, frayed, as though it costs him to admit it. “Not tonight. I need more. I need to put my mark everywhere, I need to claim you in every way I’ve thought about.” His thumb strokes your cheek, the touch at odds with the desperation in his words. “Please. Tell me I can. Tell me I can take what I need.”

You can feel the tremor in him, the way he’s holding himself back, the way restraint is shredding at the edges. He presses his forehead against yours, his breath uneven, muttering again, softer this time, almost broken. “I won’t unless you let me. Say yes. Say I can have you like that.”

“Say I can bite you, bruise you, mark every inch until no one could ever mistake who you belong to. I need to hear you say it.”

Your pulse hammers in your throat, every nerve alight with the force of his need, the way he’s teetering on the edge of breaking. You tilt your head back, giving him more of your throat, your voice unsteady but sure.

“Yes,” you whisper, then stronger. “Yes, Spencer. Do it. Mark me. Take what you need.”

The sound he makes is almost guttural, a ragged exhale that shudders through his whole body. For a heartbeat he closes his eyes, as though those words alone are enough to undo him. When they open again, they’re darker, hungrier, the last tether of restraint snapping.

“Thank you,” he breathes, but it comes out more like a vow than gratitude. His hands clutch at your wrists, dragging them up over your head, holding them pinned for a moment before he pushes off the bed. He crosses to the closet with a suddenness that makes your chest tighten, rummaging until he pulls out coils of rope.

The sight of it makes your pulse race, a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your body. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. You know what he wants, what he needs, and you give it to him without a word, lifting your wrists in silent permission.

He ties you with shaking hands, not from hesitation but from too much urgency coiled inside him, the knots rough and fast. The rope bites into your skin just enough to remind you of its presence, firm and unyielding. He secures your arms above your head, then moves down to catch your ankles.

He binds your ankles to the bedframe with a grip that feels deliberate, almost punishing, his fingers rough as they finish the last knot. When he leans back, breath uneven, eyes dragging across your restrained body, he looks possessed by the sight. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip. “Perfect,” he breathes, and this time it’s not for him. “All mine.”

He steps back, only barely. The distance does nothing to temper the heat in his gaze. He rakes a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, and looks at you like he’s already undone. “Don’t move,” he says. It lands somewhere between a command and a confession. “Not until I’m finished. Not until every part of you shows who you belong to.”

Then he’s over you again, heavy and intent, and the first bite lands just below your throat, sharp enough to steal your breath. His mouth lingers there, lips sealing around the mark as if tasting your pulse, sucking until the skin burns red beneath him. He moves lower, teeth dragging along your collarbone, your shoulder, every scrape carving a deeper ache into you. Each mark is a vow. Each bruise a warning.

His mouth finds your chest, heat pouring from him as he latches on. One hand covers a breast with unyielding pressure, kneading in a way that’s far from tender. His teeth graze the other, catching on soft flesh before sinking in, hard enough to rip a cry from your throat. The sting floods you, bright and immediate, but his tongue is there right after, soothing, circling, claiming.

The ropes hold you open, nothing to do but feel. Your body arches instinctively, seeking more, every nerve sparking beneath his mouth, his hands. You moan, loud and needy, hips jerking against restraints you can’t escape. Slick gathers fast, thick and unbearable, a throbbing heat that pulses harder when you feel him grind into your thigh, the rigid press of his cock leaving no doubt he’s just as lost in it as you are.

“Fuck,” he groans into your skin, teeth closing over the curve of your breast, sucking deep. “You sound so good like this. Strung up. Taking everything.” He tweaks your nipple between two fingers, sharp and sudden, making you gasp. Your sound fuels him. His hips press harder, chasing friction, desperate and rough against your thigh.

You writhe. There’s no other word for it. The sound of the sheets beneath you grows louder, the bed creaking as your body strains to meet him. Every drag of his mouth, every scrape of his teeth, sends a deeper ache flooding between your legs, wetness spilling onto your skin. You can feel it, slick and hot, and so can he.

His mouth stays at your chest like he’s starving, unable to leave it. He palms one breast roughly, fingers digging into flesh, thumb sweeping across your nipple until it’s aching. The other, he takes between his lips, biting down slow and deep. The pressure borders on cruel, but you welcome it. You crave it. The sharpness of pain, the heat that follows, the flick of his tongue that feels too soft, too tender, against the mark he’s just made.

He does it again, slower this time, dragging the moment out. His lips close over the bruise and suck until your back lifts from the mattress. The ropes dig into your skin, holding you down even as your body tries to rise to meet him.

You’re unravelling under him. Every time he switches sides, every time his mouth leaves one breast swollen and flushed to claim the other, the ache in your core deepens. Your nipples throb, hypersensitive, and the contrast between the warm wet of his mouth and the sharp edge of his teeth makes your breath catch in your throat.

When he slaps the side of your breast, the sound startles you. You cry out. He does it again, harder this time, and the sting only tightens the clench of your cunt. You’re soaked. You know it. He knows it. His cock ruts against your thigh with increasing urgency, a smear of wet heat left in its wake.

He won’t stop. Can’t. He’s biting you like you’re his to devour, like he’s carving himself into your skin. You welcome every one of them. Your body sings for it, trembles for it, bound and stretched and shaking from how badly you want more.

When he finally lifts his head, his chest heaves. His lips are swollen, damp, flushed. His breath comes in harsh pulls, and his eyes— His eyes burn. They drag over you slowly, taking in every bruise, every flush of red he’s left blooming across your chest. One hand stays on your breast, thumb circling lazily around your nipple, the rhythm a cruel tease that leaves you gasping.

He spreads his fingers wide, pressing against the warm skin, then moves lower, trailing them over every raised mark as though counting them. His touch is slow, almost reverent in its precision, but there’s nothing gentle in the way his jaw tightens. Something animal scratches just under the surface.

His thumb presses into a fresh bruise and your whole body flinches. He watches you twitch. Watches your lips part. Watches how the ropes strain as you try to move. A breath escapes him, half-whisper, half-growl.

“Look at you.” His voice is ragged. “Everywhere I touch, I leave something behind.” His thumb finds another mark and presses into the tender skin until your eyes water. “Everyone will know you’re mine.”

Your thighs tremble at his words. The ache inside you pulses deeper, more urgent, wetness dripping down to the sheets. Your breasts are swollen, flushed and marked and aching, and still, he hasn’t had enough. His hands linger, squeezing, shaping, then letting go only to watch them bounce back, blemished and beautiful under his gaze.

He leans forward. His breath ghosts over your skin. Then his mouth drops lower.

He kisses down your stomach, soft at first. Lingered touches. Almost gentle. Then his teeth return, scraping lightly along your belly, nipping the soft flesh just above your navel. You twitch under him, wrists pulling at the rope, hips tilting toward his mouth.

But he only chuckles, low and pleased. “Can’t even keep still,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat. “That’s why I have to tie you down.” His mouth finds a spot just above your hip and bites down hard enough to leave your legs shaking. “So I can take my time.”

He kneels between your legs, gaze dropping to the wet, glistening heat between them. His breath catches, and he exhales hard through his nose, visibly straining against the urge to take you.

His hand slides between your thighs. Not to give, just to tease. Fingers barely brush your folds, light enough that you question if it happened at all. Your hips jerk, searching for contact, but his other hand presses you flat. Holds you still. Keeps you trapped beneath his weight and will.

And then his mouth finds your inner thigh. Hot. Heavy. He bites. Sharp. Unapologetic. You cry out again, louder, and his tongue is already there, soothing, tasting, sealing the bruise into you with heat and breath and want.

He doesn’t stop. Not yet. There are still so many places left to mark. When he pulls back, he doesn’t rush. He lingers, watching the shape of the bruise rise beneath his lips, admiring the flush of red turning purple at the centre. It’s only when your breath catches that he lowers his head again, this time to a fresh patch of skin further down your thigh, teeth dragging slow before biting in with purpose. Another mark. Another place that belongs to him.

His hand drifts closer, fingers tracing the inside of your thigh, so close to your centre it makes your whole body tighten. The contact is featherlight, maddening, a whisper of touch that barely grazes your slick folds. Instinct takes over. Your hips rise from the mattress, seeking more, but the ropes around your ankles hold firm, taut and unforgiving, stealing the freedom to chase what you need. He watches the movement, the desperation, with a glint in his eyes that borders on cruel satisfaction.

His thumb circles your clit with no pressure at all, just a ghost passing over already sensitive skin, a tease that sends a fresh rush of slick down your thighs. He bites the opposite leg hard, the sharp pain flaring bright, the bruise left behind darker than the rest. Your thighs are shaking, trembling from strain and ache, from pleasure denied and the heat spreading like fire under your skin.

Still, he doesn't touch you properly. Not yet. He switches between slow drags of his mouth across your inner thighs and maddening strokes of his fingers that stay just out of reach. A rhythm with no pattern, meant only to tease, to unravel. Your cunt aches, wet and empty, fluttering with need. Every brush of his fingers makes your breath catch, every scrape of his teeth forces another sound from your throat.

He pulls back to look at you. Your thighs flushed, covered in his mouth, his bite. Your chest rising too fast, body tense and shaking, skin shining with sweat and arousal. His hand rests just above your cunt, fingers damp with the proof of your need, and he stares at the way your body pulses for more. His cock jerks against his stomach, twitching with restraint he’s struggling to hold onto. He wants you wrecked. Wants you undone. Wants it slow enough to last.

“All mine,” he says again, quieter now, like it’s sacred. His thumb grazes your slick folds, barely a touch, but enough to make you whine—a raw, needy sound that slips out before you can swallow it.

Your wrists twist against the rope. You arch again, chest heaving, hips rolling upward as if you can summon more from him by sheer will. His mouth presses another hot kiss to the inside of your thigh, tongue sliding lazily over a bruise, but it's not enough. It’s not what you need. You need his fingers, his mouth, his cock, anything solid and deep and real.

“Spencer,” you breathe. It’s barely a sound, more broken air than voice. “Please. I’ve been so good for you. Please… touch me.”

The words fall quiet, like you’re afraid they’ll break the spell between you, but they land hard. You see it immediately—the way his eyes darken, the tension that coils tighter in his shoulders, the hand between your thighs suddenly going still.

“You’ve been perfect,” he replies, low and rough, the edge of restraint fraying in his voice. His thumb brushes you again, this time with the lightest hint of pressure. “So fucking good for me.”

He lifts his head. Locks eyes with you. And what you see there makes your breath hitch. Hunger, yes, but more than that. Possession. Worship. Obsession. He moves then, slow and sure, pressing the pad of his thumb against your clit and circling just right—firm and steady and overwhelming.

You cry out, loud and sudden, your body jolting at the pressure. It crashes into you all at once, every inch of you already strung tight and ready to snap. The heat that floods through you is blinding. Your moan echoes between the walls and his chest shudders in response, like the sound alone is enough to unravel him.

His fingers slide through your slick, dragging slow and deep between your folds, parting you with reverent precision. He finds the spot that makes your hips jump and circles it again, then again, each time slower, more deliberate, as if memorizing what makes you fall apart.

His mouth returns to your thigh, dragging his teeth across bruised skin with lazy ownership. Another nip, then a kiss, and all the while his fingers never stop, the rhythm building until you’re gasping, thighs trembling, your entire body tuned to the movement of his hand.

“That’s it,” he rasps against your skin, grinding slowly against your leg as he watches you fall apart. “So good for me. Just like this. Letting me take my time.”

The ropes, the marks, the control—it's a language spoken in sensation, in shared rhythm. Every part of you answers without hesitation. You give it freely, without holding back. All of you.

He leans down again, kisses your thigh where the bruise is deepest, and then his fingers curl inside you.

You gasp. Your back arches. He moves slow at first, dragging his fingers through your slick heat, curling them with a precision that feels devastating. He finds that spot inside you and presses, slow and firm, then pulls back just enough to do it again. And again. Until your body trembles with every stroke.

His other hand finds your hip, fingers digging in hard, nails dragging downward until red marks bloom in their wake. The pressure, the scratch, the way his fingers stretch you—all of it crashes together, making your breath come in broken pieces.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The sound of your moans, the wet glide of his fingers, the way your cunt clenches greedily around him—it’s all the answer he needs. He watches your body move under him, every reaction winding that hunger inside him tighter. His mouth is parted. His breath ragged.

You’re soaking his hand, slick coating his fingers and palm, dripping onto the sheets beneath you. And still, he doesn’t stop. Each curl of his fingers comes with purpose, pushing deeper, stroking with precision. Your moans build, tangled with the sound of your thighs slapping faintly against his wrist, the bed groaning beneath you.

Then, without warning, his mouth is there.

Your thighs tremble, muscles locking and releasing in broken rhythm as the wave pulls tighter. You’re not breathing so much as gasping, shallow and frantic, every part of you tightening around the heat he’s pouring into your body. Spencer’s tongue moves with maddening focus, a controlled chaos in the way he circles, flicks, then presses—flat, heavy, devastating. Each stroke hits a little different, a little deeper, never giving your body time to settle. There’s no mercy in the rhythm. Only hunger.

His fingers curl again, perfectly timed with the flattening of his tongue, and your whole body arches like you’ve been struck. You cry out—loud, sudden, a crack in the still air—and he groans against you, the vibration humming straight through your cunt. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. Just keeps going, lips sealed to your clit, dragging sounds from you that feel primal, unfamiliar, ripped from someplace deeper than speech.

The ropes creak with your every struggle, your wrists aching now, bound tight against the headboard, but the ache is nothing compared to the pleasure clawing its way up your spine. You’re soaked. Drenched. Every glide of his fingers spreads it wider, makes it filthier, your slick coating his hand, his wrist, dripping down between your cheeks.

His palm presses harder into the bruises at your thigh, thumb digging in near the edge of the newest mark, and the pain sharpens everything. Your pussy clenches violently around his fingers, and he moans again, louder, desperate. He shifts just enough to keep control, his weight keeping you pinned, his mouth never leaving you. He’s relentless. Intent. Like he’s memorizing how to destroy you with precision.

You’re gone. No shape to your thoughts, just fire. You buck helplessly against him, thighs shaking, back arched, sobbing his name in pieces. You can’t hold still. You can’t get free. And you don’t want to.

His fingers curl again, angled so perfectly you feel the stars behind your eyes scatter. He presses. Holds. The pads of his fingers dragging along that raw, electric spot deep inside you while his tongue circles once, twice, then flicks so fast your breath stops in your chest.

The world shatters.

You don’t mean to scream, but it rips out of you anyway. Your whole body locks, hips lifted off the bed in a trembling arc, wrists straining against the ropes, back bowing so violently the air leaves your lungs. The orgasm hits like a crash, all heat and white-noise, everything tightening in on itself before bursting open.

He groans into you, sucking harder, fingers still fucking you through it, keeping you high, keeping you wrung out. The pressure is too much, and not enough, and somehow still building even as you’re falling apart around him. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably, shaking under his hands, every inch of you soaked, fluttering, raw.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice hoarse, lips slick with you as he lifts his head for just a breath. His fingers don’t stop. “So fucking pretty when you cum. So loud for me.”

You can’t speak. Your chest is rising too fast, skin flushed and shining, tears caught at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. He watches the way you fall apart, breathes it in like it’s the only thing keeping him steady, his cock grinding against the mattress now, chasing relief but never leaving you.

And then he’s back on you, tongue dragging over your clit again. You scream, the sound strangled and wrecked. It’s too much. Too sharp. Your body jerks violently, another aftershock rolling through you, slick pulsing around his fingers. He fucks you through it, hand steady, tongue ruthless, holding you down with the weight of his mouth and the press of his palm into the bruises he made.

Your entire body convulses, twitching under his grip. You can’t stop shaking. You don’t even want to.

“Don’t stop,” you sob, and it barely sounds like words, just breath and ache. “Spencer, please don’t stop.”

He groans again, his cock dragging against the mattress with unrelenting need, and he pulls his fingers free only to press them against your clit in slow, slippery circles. The sound of it is obscene—slick, wet, greedy—and he watches every reaction like it’s sacred.

“You’re mine,” he says low, voice frayed, wild around the edges. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear you beg like that.”

You nod frantically, tears slipping free now, throat raw from moaning, from gasping his name. You’re gone. All reason burned out of you, left only with the feeling of his mouth, his fingers, the truth of what he’s done to your body.

He leans in again, tongue parting your folds as he groans deep, dragging it through the mess he’s made of you, tasting you like he’s addicted to it. His fingers return, thrusting in deep, curling again, thumb circling your clit without pause.

Your second orgasm rises faster. Meaner. Brutal in the way it builds, the way it owns you. You scream again, breath breaking apart as your body seizes under him, the ropes keeping you bound as your legs shake, vision blurring, every nerve alight with fire.

You don’t know how long it lasts. Time has dissolved. There’s only the heat, the wet, the stretch, the grip of his hand on your thigh. The marks he left burn hotter now, a map of where he’s touched, a living memory of his mouth and teeth.

You fall back into the bed, wrecked, trembling, pulse hammering through every limb. His hand slows. His mouth softens. Gentle now. Worshipful. His fingers slip free, and the loss makes your body twitch, over-sensitive, raw and swollen.

He lifts his head, gaze meeting yours, and the look he gives you isn’t smug. It’s reverent. Hungry still. But so full of awe you feel the burn behind your eyes again.

“I could do that forever,” he says, and his voice is a wreck, deep and trembling, as if he’s the one who’s been undone.

And still, he hasn't even fucked you yet.

His eyes never leave yours. Dark. Burning. Intent. You see it—the precise moment something inside him shifts. The second he makes the choice to ruin you.

A low growl rumbles from his chest, vibrating through your skin, sinking deep into your core. Then he doubles down. His tongue sharpens to a ruthless flick, relentless against your clit, while his fingers curl harder, pressing again and again against that devastating spot inside you. Perfect. Unforgiving. Expert.

The pressure on your thigh increases until it becomes a vice, his palm locking you down, giving you no escape. You're spread open, pinned to the bed, every inch of sensation forced deep into your body until you can’t separate pleasure from pain. Your back bows in one sharp motion, a cry caught high in your throat, trembling there as the first shockwave hits.

It doesn’t wash over you. It explodes.

White-hot pleasure erupts through every nerve, a burn so total it’s blinding. You jerk hard against the restraints, thighs spasming, mouth open in a wordless scream that finally tears loose as your climax crashes through you. Raw. Shattering. He stays locked to you through it, mouth never leaving your clit, tongue gentling only slightly, soothing and tasting while his fingers stay deep inside, coaxing each final pulse from your cunt. Drawing it out. Refusing to let you fall.

It borders on pain, the way he keeps going, and still, you want it. You give it. Body trembling, twitching, too far gone to speak.

When your limbs finally collapse, you melt into the bed, nothing but heat and sweat and aftershocks. The ropes keep you upright, wrists strained above your head, legs parted. You’re limp and wrecked, every inch of your skin aching. Your chest heaves. Bruises throb. Sweat clings to every curve.

Spencer lifts his head slowly. His lips are wet with you, chin glistening. He looks at you like a man starved.

Then, without a word, he slides his fingers out. The sound is slick, obscene in the hush of the room, and you feel every drop of it. He holds them up for just a second, watching the way your body jerks, then brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean. He groans low, slow, deep in his throat like he’s tasting something holy. Like he’s been waiting his whole life for it.

The sight alone sends another flicker of heat through your body, weak but real, a ghost of pleasure echoing in your still-throbbing core.

He moves quickly after that, his own need finally overtaking him. There’s urgency in every part of him now. He fumbles with the rope at your ankles, hands shaking, movements clumsy with desperation. The knot resists him at first, but he rips it loose, dragging the binding free. Blood rushes back into your legs, sharp and tingling, pain blooming as nerves reawaken.

He doesn’t touch your wrists. Doesn’t free your arms. He leaves them stretched above you, tied tight to the headboard, the rope biting into your skin as your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven gasps.

And he just looks at you for a breath. Long enough to make your skin prickle. His eyes are darker than before. His body tense. His cock flushed and leaking against his stomach.

He's not finished.

Not even close.

The blunt head of his cock drags through the wetness he’s already wrung from your body, slick and eager. That first push punches the breath from your lungs. The stretch is sharp, unforgiving, pleasure and ache twisted so tightly together they become the same thing. You cry out his name, your voice wrecked with need, and your back lifts from the bed in one violent jolt. His breath stutters against your neck, a broken sound torn from somewhere deep as he sinks deeper, inch by inch. The pace falters, messy and aching with how much he wants this, how long he’s gone without it.

When he finally bottoms out, buried deep inside you, everything stills. His body trembles, muscles locked, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder, damp curls clinging to skin already slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls against yours, every breath a struggle. The fullness is overwhelming, dizzying, your cunt fluttering around him like it knows nothing else, like it refuses to let him go. It steals your breath. Your vision blurs. Your nerves scream for more.

Then his teeth sink into your shoulder. Not soft. Not restrained. They hit deep, sharp enough to make you cry out again, the sting a perfect contrast to the molten stretch of him inside you. The bite tethers him to you, grounds him even as it sets your body alight. The sound he makes against your skin is not human. It’s guttural, something primal, raw with possession and relief.

When he starts to move, it’s messy and frantic. Control forgotten. He pulls out just far enough to slam back in, the force of it shoving you up the mattress. Every thrust tears a new sound from your throat. Each collision feels like a promise kept too late. It’s all hunger now. The pace builds fast, erratic, your sweat-slick bodies meeting with sharp, breathless rhythm. His teeth scrape your skin again. His mouth hovers close, always moving, always claiming.

The relief is blinding. Each push is a purge. Each thrust feels like his body is pleading for something it never thought it would have again. He is everywhere. Bruising you. Stretching you. Filling you in a way that feels endless. You feel it in your lungs. In your ribs. In the places where his hands grip you, tight enough to leave reminders.

He doesn’t stop. His hips keep pounding into you with growing desperation, but his head lifts from your shoulder. His eyes meet yours. Wide. Glazed with something darker than lust. They rake down your body, slow and consuming, cataloguing the wreckage he’s made. You watch him take it in.

His gaze catches first on the bite. The mark he left. A purple crescent already blooming on your shoulder, skin broken where his teeth sank deep. He growls, low and wrecked, something torn from his chest that rumbles between you like a warning. His thumb brushes across the mark, rough, unyielding. It’s not gentle. It presses into the sore flesh until you flinch, until the pain sharpens and your cunt clenches tight around him.

He groans, loud and guttural, and drops his forehead against yours.

Then his hips slam forward, one sharp thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. He watches your skin, watches the bruise darken beneath his thumb, blooming like a flower fed on pain and possession. His eyes stay locked there, drinking it in.

His gaze drifts lower, tracing the constellation of bruises along your hips, each one formed by the grip of his hands. They’re vivid now. Red and rising. His fingers tighten again, locking you to the bed as his rhythm stutters into something even more ragged.

He shifts his weight, covering you, pressing more of himself over your trembling body. His mouth finds your collarbone. Tongue hot and deliberate, tracing the bruise he left there, a silent act of devotion. His mouth is savage and soft all at once, as if every press of his tongue is an apology he’ll never speak aloud.

He’s losing rhythm. Losing the shape of control. Every thrust is harder. Deeper. Wrecked.

"Every mark. Every single one. I want you to see them tomorrow and remember how this cock felt. I want you to ache with it."

His voice breaks something open in you. The words sink beneath your skin like another bruise forming from the inside. He’s unravelling in real time, undone by the sight of your body covered in the evidence of him. Your slick clings to him. His chest is heaving. And still he moves, chasing something more.

He finds your throat again, mouth dragging up to the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, and sinks his teeth in hard. The bite is brutal. He doesn’t ease up. Doesn’t pull away. Just holds it there, pressing deeper until your skin throbs under his teeth, until you cry out again, too wrecked to think.

The thrusts come fast now, his hips slamming into yours, punishing and desperate. Sweat drips from his temple onto your chest. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and raw and rhythmic.

He fucks you like he’s trying to stay inside you. Like leaving your body would destroy him. Like being buried in you is the only thing that keeps him breathing.

You’re shaking. Jerking with every bite, every sharp press of his cock as it hits deep again and again. Your body can’t keep up. The edge rushes toward you and you have no defense. You’re gone. Owned. Every inch of you claimed.

His fingers dig into your hips with bruising force, grinding you into the mattress. He’s using your body like a lifeline, chasing his own destruction.

"You see what you do to me?" His voice is ragged against your ear, breath searing across your damp skin. "You make me a fucking animal. Look at your skin. Every mark."

His hand slides from your hip, wide palm dragging over your side until it finds one of the fresh bruises on your ribs. He presses down, hard enough to make you gasp, the pain sharp and immediate.

"You feel that? That's me. That's going to be there for days. You'll feel me every time you breathe."

A broken moan slips from your throat. You don’t recognize it. You don’t care. The stretch, the sting, the filthy sound of your bodies colliding—it’s all too much.

"Spencer..." His name falls from your lips, breathless and hoarse, lost against the damp of his shoulder.

"Say my name again."

His voice drops lower. Commanding. Shaken. He shifts his angle and suddenly the head of his cock drags across something electric inside you. Your whole body tightens. You cry out, voice cracking.

"I want to hear it. I want you to forget every other name when I'm inside you."

"Sp—Spencer," you gasp, nearly choking on it as he slams into that same spot again. The pleasure spikes hard, sharp as a blade, and your body jerks under him.

"That's it." His voice tears apart, words strangled, barely coherent. "God, the sounds you make. The way your cunt just... clenches around me. Like it's trying to keep me here. You trying to keep me here?"

You nod, but it's a mess of a motion. Your body says it for you. The way it grips him. The way you pulse around him. You want him to stay. You want him inside you until the bruises fade, until every mark is gone, and even then you’ll want him again.

And he knows it.

He feels it in every shudder of your body, every moan ripped from your lungs, every bruise painting your skin like a brand of devotion.

He’s not stopping. Not until he’s left you with nothing untouched. Not until you carry him everywhere.

Not until you cum again, choking on his name.

His mouth finds the fresh bite on your shoulder, tongue laving over the swollen skin, slow and heavy. His teeth press down again, not enough to break skin, but promising more. A deeper ache blooms beneath the surface. The bite and the stretch hit at once, sharp and searing, your cunt clenching around the thick, relentless drag of his cock.

His free hand twists into your hair. He doesn’t tug. Just holds you steady, guiding your head until you’re forced to look at him. His eyes are almost black now, pupils wide and blown, hunger spilling from the thin rim of color that remains.

"Look at me. Look at me when I'm fucking you. I want to see it. I want to see everything I'm doing to you behind those eyes."

You meet his gaze and it’s like falling into something too big, too fierce. He looks ruined by need, eaten alive by it, and yet he still wants more. There’s fury in it. Possession. Heat that borders on madness. It should scare you. Maybe it does. But your body answers before your mind can. Your pussy tightens around him, fluttering in a surrender that has nothing to do with control.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he breathes, awestruck and unraveling. "Taking every inch. Letting me ruin you. Letting me mark this perfect skin."

His thrusts lose any last trace of rhythm, hips snapping forward in a ragged, punishing pace that drives the bed into the wall with every slam. The sound is obscene—wet, fast, relentless—and the slick echo of your bodies meeting fills the room like a second heartbeat.

His forehead presses to yours. The air between you is ragged, breath shared, mouths brushing but not kissing. Each exhale from him fans hot across your lips.

"You like this, don't you?" he whispers, his voice low and wrecked. "You like feeling me claim you. You like knowing you're going to be sore tomorrow, that you're going to feel me for days. That you're mine."

You can’t find words. Everything in you is unraveling, stretched too thin. All you can do is nod, frantic and helpless, your body rising to meet each desperate thrust, a full-bodied yes that screams through the silence.

He groans, deep and savage, the sound of a man unspooling.

"Yeah," he grunts. "Yeah, you do. My good girl. My perfect, ruined girl. All mine."

His hand trails from your hair down to your stomach, slick with sweat. He doesn't pause. Fingers find your clit and press, thumb circling rough and fast, the friction too much. Perfect. Agonizing. It sends a jolt straight through you, pleasure flooding back in full force, raw and biting.

Your stomach coils, the tension building again, high and tight and brutal. You’re balancing on the edge of something you won’t survive intact. The pressure of his cock inside you, the sharp ache of the bruises, the brutal grind of his thumb—it’s all too much, and yet not enough.

His eyes drop. He watches you beneath him, your body straining against the rope, your arms drawn taut. The sight seems to tear something open inside him. His expression fractures, pure need spilling across his face.

"Need more," he growls, the words nearly swallowed by the force of his breath. "Need to be deeper. Need to feel all of you."

His hands find your knees, curling around the backs with a grip that shakes. He lifts and folds you in half, your legs pressed back toward your chest, thighs trembling under the strain.

The change is instant. His cock sinks in deeper, heavier, a stretch so sharp it robs the air from your lungs. The groan that tears from him sounds like it's pulled from the base of his spine.

He fucks into you harder, deeper, the angle forcing him to hit a spot that makes your eyes roll back, that makes your whole body seize around him. You sob, soundless at first, then full-throated, throat tearing raw as he drives into the heart of you with every thrust.

Your wrists strain against the ropes. Fingers curl uselessly. There’s nothing you can do but take it.

His gaze locks on the slick slide of his cock inside you, watching himself disappear again and again, hips rolling with merciless intent. His jaw clenches, eyes wild. Then he drags his gaze upward, slow and hungry, over your belly to your chest.

The sight of your tits, pressed tight together by the bend of your body, stops him. The bruises darkening there pull a noise from his throat. Something rough. Possessive.

His thumbs stroke your thighs as they tremble in his grip, calloused skin dragging over oversensitive flesh.

"Look at you," he breathes. His voice catches. "Fuck, look what you let me do to you."

He stares at the purpling marks on your chest, vivid and blooming, the teeth-shaped bruises he left there hours ago.

"My marks. Right there. On display for me."

He thrusts harder, a deliberate push that punches a cry from your lungs.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this. Tied up and bent in half for my cock. Taking me so deep. Your pretty tits pressed together, wearing my bruises. You were made for this."

His words are a filthy, hypnotic chant, weaving through the haze of your pleasure. His grip on your legs tightens, his fingers digging in, and you know without a doubt that by morning, there will be ten perfect matching bruises on the side of your thighs.

The pleasure is a live wire, sparking through your veins with every deep, grinding thrust. He finds a rhythm that is both punishing and exquisitely precise, each movement calculated to drag the swollen, sensitive head of his cock over that perfect, blinding spot inside you. The world narrows to the feel of his hands on your skin, the sight of his intense, focused expression, the sound of his ragged breathing, and the overwhelming, stretching fullness that is both a claiming and a completion.

You are moaning openly now, a continuous, broken stream of sound that is half his name, half meaningless pleas. Every part of you is singing, straining, coiling tighter and tighter toward a shattering peak.

You can feel the tension coiling in his own body, the way his thrusts are becoming less controlled, more frantic, the way his fingers tremble where they grip your flesh. The air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, charged with the imminent, explosive release you are both racing toward. He is holding on by a thread, his own control fraying as he watches you come utterly apart beneath him, poised to follow you over the edge into oblivion.

The thread of his control, stretched so taut and thin, finally snaps. It isn't a gentle unravelling but a violent, seismic break. A raw, guttural shout is torn from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated release that seems to shake the very walls of the room. His hips stutter, losing all rhythm, becoming a series of shallow, frantic jerks as he buries himself to the hilt inside you and lets go.

You feel it the moment he cums. A hot, pulsing rush deep within you, the first thick jet of his release hitting your deepest walls. It triggers your own undoing. The coil of pleasure that had been wound to an impossible tightness in your core suddenly, violently, unravels. Your orgasm doesn't crest; it detonates. A white-hot shockwave of pure sensation erupts from where you are joined, radiating outward in a paralyzing rush.

It seizes every muscle in your body at once. Your back arches off the bed as far as the ropes and his weight will allow, a silent, breathless scream caught in your throat. Your cunt clenches around him in a rapid, rhythmic series of spasms, milking his cock for every last drop of his release, each pulse wringing a broken groan from his lips.

The pleasure is all-consuming, a tidal wave that drowns out every other thought, every other sense. It’s a full-body convulsion of ecstasy that leaves you trembling, boneless, and utterly wrecked. Your vision whites out at the edges, the world dissolving into a haze of sensation—the hot, wet feel of him pulsing inside you, the brutal, perfect stretch of him, the aftershocks of your own climax that feel like smaller, echoing earthquakes shaking you apart.

He collapses over you, his full weight a heavy, welcome anchor that pins you to the mattress. His forehead presses into the sweat-damp pillow beside your head, his entire body shuddering through the last waves of his climax. His breath comes in ragged, shattered gasps against your ear, each one a hot, humid puff of air. You can feel the frantic, slowing hammer of his heart where his chest is crushed against yours.

For a long, timeless moment, neither of you moves. The only sounds are the ragged symphony of your breathing and the wet, soft sound of his cock still nestled deep inside you, spent and softening.

The air is thick and heavy with the scent of sex, a primal, musky perfume that hangs over you both like a blanket.

Slowly, carefully, his grip on your legs loosens. His hands, which had been vise-like, now stroke down the backs of your thighs with a tenderness that feels shocking after the previous brutality.

He gently guides your legs down, unwinding your body from its contorted position. A soft, involuntary whimper escapes you as your muscles protest the movement, the shift causing him to slip almost out before he settles his weight again, keeping himself sheathed within you. The feeling of him, still inside you in the quiet aftermath, is profoundly intimate. It’s a possessive, grounding presence, a physical tether to the storm that has just passed.

His body is a warm, heavy blanket atop yours, and you can feel the fine tremors that still occasionally wrack his frame. One of his hands comes up, his fingers clumsy with exhaustion, to gently work at the knot binding one of your wrists. The rope falls away, and your arm drops to the mattress with a leaden thud, the blood rushing back in a painful, prickling wave of sensation. He repeats the process with your other wrist, his movements slow and deliberate, his touch surprisingly gentle on the abraded skin.

With your hands finally free, you don't move them. You simply let them lie limp at your sides, every ounce of your energy utterly spent. He doesn't pull out. He remains nestled within the warm, clenching aftermath of your body, his softening cock a quiet reminder of the connection you still share. He shifts his weight slightly, just enough to take the bulk of it off you, but he keeps his hips pressed flush against yours, refusing to break the contact.

His lips find your shoulder, not in a bite, but in a soft, lingering kiss placed directly over the darkest of the bruises. It’s an apology and an absolution all at once. His breath begins to even out, his shuddering subsiding into a deep, contented stillness.

The frantic, desperate energy that had consumed him is gone, replaced by a heavy, sated lethargy that sinks into both of your bones. You are both adrift in the silent, hazy aftermath, bound together not by rope, but by something far more profound and exhausting.

The silence in the wake of your shared climax is profound, broken only by the ragged, slowing cadence of your breaths. The weight of him is a sanctuary, his skin slick and warm against yours. For a long time, neither of you moves, lost in the hazy, saturated stillness. Then, a sound breaks from him—a ragged, shuddering sigh that is more felt than heard. It’s a sound that carries the weight of three months of hell.

His face is still buried in the crook of your neck, but you feel the first hot, wet drop against your skin. Then another. A quiet, broken sob wracks his frame, a tremor that goes straight through your soul. His arms, which had been holding you with possessive strength, now cling to you with a desperate, almost fearful vulnerability.

“I dreamed of this,” he whispers, his voice cracked and raw, muffled against your skin. “Every single night on that thin cot. I’d close my eyes and it was this. Your scent, your warmth, the way it felt just to hold you...” His sentence fractures into another quiet sob, his body trembling with the force of emotions too long suppressed. “I thought I’d never get it back. I was scared they’d stolen it forever.”

Your own eyes well up, tears tracking silently down your temples and into your hair. Your hands, now free, come up to cradle his head, your fingers threading through his damp curls. You hold him as he shakes, as three months of fear, anger, and brutal isolation finally find their release against your skin. You don’t shush him. You just hold him, letting him pour out the poison of that place into the safety of your embrace.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your lips moving against his temple. “You’re home. You’re in our bed. They didn’t steal anything, Spencer. You fought your way back to me. You’re here.” You repeat it like a mantra, a soft litany against the nightmare of his memory.

He lifts his head finally, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy, his beautiful face blotchy with tears. He looks utterly shattered, and more beautiful than you have ever seen him. He frames your face with his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with a reverence that makes your heart ache.

“You were my only thought,” he confesses, his voice hoarse. “The only clean thing in that entire fucking place. Your voice on the phone. Your letters. The promise you made me… that you’d be here. That we’d have this.” His gaze sweeps over your face, drinking in every detail as if committing it to memory all over again. “I clung to it. It was the only thing that kept the walls from closing in.”

“I meant every word,” you whisper, pulling his mouth down to yours in a kiss that is nothing like the frantic, hungry ones from before. This kiss is soft, slow, and deep, a sealing of a promise finally kept. It’s a kiss full of three months of missed mornings and lonely nights, of fears unspoken and a hope that refused to die. It tastes of salt tears and shared breath and a love that has been tempered in fire.

“I’m never leaving this bed,” he murmurs, a ghost of his old humour touching his voice, though it’s thick with emotion.

You smile, a real, true smile that feels like the first one in months. “Good. You’re not allowed to.”

The room is quiet, heavy with the weight of everything that just happened. You both lie tangled together, sweat-slick, trembling, bodies still pulsing with the remnants of the intensity you shared. Spencer’s chest presses against yours, his arms wrapped around you almost desperately, holding you close, but neither of you moves. Words feel too heavy, too fragile, and for a long moment, there is nothing but breath, heartbeat, and the silent acknowledgement of what passed.

Your faces are so close that you can feel each other’s warmth radiating in waves, the brush of skin over skin grounding you, tethering you in a reality that feels almost unreal after the intensity of what happened. Spencer burrows his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair, of your skin, as if memorizing it again, imprinting it on himself in case the world ever tries to take it from him. You shiver in response, and he tightens his hold, a low hum vibrating through him, the sound of someone who is both exhausted and terrified of letting go.

You lie there entwined, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart under your ear—a sound you had feared you might never hear this close again. The frantic energy is gone, replaced by a deep, thrumming contentment, a peace that settles into your very bones. The bruises will ache tomorrow. The memories will sometimes surface. But in this moment, there is only this: his breath in your hair, his skin against yours, the profound rightness of being whole again.

He lifts his head just enough to look over your body, taking in the swell of your breasts, the marks along your thighs, the fingerprints left from where he held you down. Every new mark, every darkening bruise, every faint trace of his hands on your skin sets off a fire of protectiveness inside him. He needs to tend to you. He needs to make sure you’re okay.

“I need to… I need to take care of you,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough, almost shaking. His hands brush your hair from your face, sliding down your shoulder to cup it, gentle now where moments ago they were urgent and demanding. He presses a soft kiss over the largest bite mark, lingering, as if the pressure of his lips can soothe both the pain and the memory of it.

Slowly, carefully, he shifts, guiding you upright against his chest. His hands are everywhere at once, steadying you, touching lightly, memorizing where he needs to be gentle. “Come with me,” he whispers, voice low, almost reverent. “We should… get cleaned up. I should treat those bite wounds.”

He doesn’t rush the movement, simply guides you with a hand at the small of your back, his other hand finding yours, lacing your fingers together as he leads you from the warmth of the bed into the cool, tiled silence of the bathroom.

The light he flicks on is soft, not the harsh overhead glare, and it casts the room in a gentle, forgiving glow. He turns on the shower, testing the water with his hand until it steams, a cloud of warmth billowing into the room.

He steps in first, never letting go of your hand, and guides you under the spray with him. The water is a perfect, blissful heat that cascades over your shoulders, washing away the sweat and the lingering evidence of your passion. He reaches for a washcloth and a bar of soap, the simple, clean scent of it filling the air. He works up a rich lather, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Turn for me,” he murmurs, his voice a soft vibration in the steamy space.

You obey, presenting your back to him. His touch is exquisite, a world away from the frantic grasping of before. The soft, sudsy cloth glides over your skin, over the slope of your shoulders, down the length of your spine. He is meticulously careful, avoiding the darker bruises, skirting the tender bite marks with a reverence that makes your throat tight. He washes your arms, his fingers gently massaging the muscles, paying special attention to your wrists, where the rope had held you fast. He doesn’t scrub, he anoints, each pass of the cloth a silent apology, a promise of care.

He turns you back to face him, his eyes dark and soft in the mist. The washcloth moves over your collarbones, over the swell of your breasts, and you watch his face, the absolute concentration there, the deep focus he applies to this simple, loving task. He washes every part of you with the same tender attention, kneeling to run the cloth down your legs, his touch firm and soothing on your tired muscles. He is worshipping you, not with words, but with action, washing away not just the physical remnants of the night, but the ghost of his own desperation.

When he is finished with you, he quickly, almost efficiently, soaps himself. It’s not rushed, but it lacks the ceremonial care he gave you. This is a practicality. His focus remains entirely on you, even as he rinses the suds from his own skin.

He turns off the water and reaches for a large, fluffy towel, wrapping you in it before he even considers one for himself. He pats you dry with the same infinite care, blotting the water from your skin, his touch lingering on the now-clean marks he left behind. He leads you, swaddled in warmth, back to the bedroom and sits you gently on the edge of the bed.

“Stay right here,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead before crossing and retrieving a small, white first aid kit.

He kneels on the floor before you, opening the kit with a quiet click. His hands are sure and steady as he selects an antiseptic ointment. “This might sting a little,” he says, his voice low, his eyes flicking up to yours for permission. You nod, and his touch is feather-light as he dabs the cool cream onto the bite mark on your shoulder where the skin had broken.

His brow is furrowed in concentration, his full attention on minimizing any discomfort. He follows the ointment with a small adhesive bandage, smoothing the edges down with the pad of his thumb.

He does the same for the other small breaks he's made to your skin, his movements methodical and gentle. Once the bandages are in place, he takes a bottle of aloe vera lotion, pouring a generous amount into his palm. He warms it between his hands before taking one of your wrists.

He begins to massage the lotion into your skin, his thumbs working in slow, circular motions over the faint red marks left by the rope. The lotion is cool and soothing, but his touch is what truly heals, a constant, gentle pressure that seems to seep into your very bones, easing the memory of strain. He spends a long time on each wrist, not stopping until the skin has absorbed every drop and feels supple and new under his fingers.

He looks up at you, his task complete, his eyes searching yours. The atmosphere is so soft, so sweet, it feels sacred. He has taken the violence of his need and transformed it, through this meticulous care, into something profoundly loving. He has tended to every mark, not to erase them, but to honour them, and to honour you.

The first aid kit is set aside, its purpose fulfilled. For a long moment, Spencer remains on his knees before you, his hands resting gently on your thighs, his head bowed as if in quiet reverence. The only sound is the soft, steady rhythm of your shared breathing in the hushed room. Then, he lifts his gaze to yours, and the look in his eyes—full of a weary, overwhelming love—makes your heart stutter.

Without a word, he rises and guides you back, shifting you both until you are nestled deep within the pillows, the soft comforter pulled up to your waists. He doesn’t simply lie beside you; he gathers you into him, moulding your body to his as if trying to erase any possible space between you. One arm curls beneath your neck, his hand cradling your head, while the other wraps around your waist, his palm splayed possessively against the small of your back. Your leg hooks over his hip, and you bury your face in the warm, familiar hollow of his throat, breathing in the clean scent of soap and the essential, unique scent that is simply him.

You lie like that for what feels like an eternity, simply soaking each other in. The frantic, desperate energy of before has been utterly spent, washed away and bandaged over, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep calm. His fingers trace idle, lazy patterns on your skin—over your shoulder, down your arm, across the bandage on your collarbone—each touch a silent reaffirmation of his presence, his reality.

“I kept my promise,” he whispers into your hair, his voice a low, drowsy rumble you feel more than hear. “I endured. I held on. For this. For you.” His hand stills, pressing firmly against your back, holding you even closer. “It was the only thing that made sense in there. The thought of coming back to this. To you. Right here.”

You tilt your head up, your nose brushing against his jaw. “And I kept mine,” you answer softly. “I never let go. Not for a second.” You press a soft, lingering kiss to the pulse point at the base of his throat, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart against your lips. “You’re home now. Really home. And I’m never letting you go again.”

A shuddering breath escapes him, and he shifts to look down at you, his eyes glistening in the dim light. The intelligence, the quickness that usually lives there is softened by exhaustion and emotion, leaving only a raw, tender honesty. “Promise me,” he says, his voice thick. “Promise me we never have to be apart like that again. Promise me that every night from now on, I get to fall asleep just like this. With you in my arms.”

Tears well in your own eyes, but they are tears of relief, of a happiness so fierce it aches. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the arch of his cheekbone. “I promise,” you vow, your voice unwavering. “Every single night. No matter what. You’re stuck with me, Spencer Reid.”

A real, genuine smile—the first one you’ve seen in three long months—touches his lips. It’s a little wobbly, and it doesn’t erase the shadows under his eyes, but it is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He dips his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that is achingly sweet and impossibly soft. It’s not a kiss of hunger, but of belonging. A seal on the promise you’ve just made.

He breaks the kiss and simply rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “Then I’m home,” he breathes out, the words a sigh of ultimate contentment. “I’m finally home.”

You settle back into the cradle of his arms, your head finding its perfect spot on his chest. His heartbeat is a lullaby under your ear, his breath a steady rhythm in your hair. The world outside, with all its dangers and past pains, ceases to exist. There is only this quiet room, this soft bed, and the two of you, wrapped up in each other, finally whole, finally safe. The future stretches out before you, not as something to be feared, but as a promise—a long, unbroken line of nights just like this one, a lifetime of holding on, together.

[l0vinghimwasreid]

spencer reid somno

18+ (smut)

reader has told him that he can have full access to her when she’s asleep (or at anytime, really) since he tends to come back from cases late at night

he triple checks with her “really? are you sure?” and even alerts her on a phone call while he’s away that he may not be able to contain himself when he gets home: he misses her and needs to be inside of her so so badly

so when he gets back to their apartment at 2am and sees her asleep in their bed, with his shirt on, and lacy little panties barely covering her ass, he knows he’s fucked

or, more accurately, that she’s about to get fucked

sweetly and lovingly, of course

she’s asleep on her stomach with a leg sticking out from under the blanket and he wastes no time getting undressed for her, ripping off his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, and yanking his pants and boxers down his legs

she has to be awake for work early in the morning, so he really doesn’t want to disturb her too much, she looks so pretty and so peaceful like this

he carefully pulls the rest of the blanket away from her body and lays next to her in the bed

he trails gentle kisses down her shoulder and back until he meets the waistband of her panties

her legs are already separated enough for him to fit his head between them, so he kneels there and kisses at her pussy through the panties and she smells so sweet and there’s a dampness to her already

he looks up to check that she’s still asleep and he thinks she is, so he tentatively pushes her panties to the side and slowly trails his fingertip through her slit

he presses his fingertip inside of her, just the tip, nothing past his first knuckle or so, then gently traces up to her clit, back and forth, back and forth through her glistening folds

she unconsciously separates her legs even more for him and he’s biting back a smile at how good she always is for him

he rubs slow circles over her clit and kisses at her inner thighs until her breathing starts to shift and he moves his fingertip back to her pretty little hole

he slowly pushes it in all the way to his knuckle and has to bite his lip to suppress a moan, she’s so wet and so tight for him

he languidly fingers her up to two fingers before pulling them out of her and licking them clean, mentally promising her to eat her out until she’s a quivering mess in the morning

he pulls her panties down just enough to expose her pretty pussy and gorgeous ass before hovering over her with one hand propping himself up and the other takes his painfully hard cock and traces through her folds

he’s kissing her shoulder as he slowly pushes inside of her and he hears her gasp and she slurs out a “spence?”

“hey baby, it’s me, you’re okay.”

she grabs at his wrist that’s right next to her head as he buries himself inside of her, tandem moans escaping both of their lips

“mm i missed you” she manages to say

“i missed you so much baby” he responds as he slowly fucks her

the angle is so delicious, his view of her is making him feel dizzy, her ass on full display with her head turned, she looks so gorgeous

he’s so deep inside of her that she can barely speak, she can feel every vein and ridge of his cock in a way that she’s never felt before as he gradually picks up his pace

“feels so good like this” he tells her and she can only moan and whine in response, but he knows what she means

“yeah baby? feels so good for you too?” she nods and he leans down to kiss at the side of her mouth

doing so allows him to fuck her even deeper and she swears she can feel him in her stomach

the pressure of him inside of her mixed with the pressure of the mattress underneath her becomes too much and her legs start to gently tremble and she has no control over the noises coming out of her mouth

“i’m close too baby, please cum for me? i need to feel the way she tightens and pulses around me. please? i need it so badly” he’s begging and he’d maybe be embarrassed if it wasn’t what pushed her completely over the edge

he empties himself inside of her and collapses on her (carefully as to not hurt her) with a groan

“fuck baby. thank you for letting me do that” he deliberately kisses her now, their tongues sluggishly sliding together

when he pulls out of her and sees his cum dripping out of her pretty hole, he can’t help but suck and tongue it out of her, he can’t wait until the morning to get his mouth on her properly and she deserves another orgasm, she deserves all of the orgasms actually

she’s never trusted anyone else like this and he starts getting hard again at the sounds of her moaning and gasping through her second orgasm

maybe she can just call out of work tomorrow so he can spend the whole night and day making up for lost time?

[l0vinghimwasreid]

(18+, suggestive material)

wc: 3,168

spencer has never showered with anyone before and when bau!reader suggests it, he doesn’t quite understand, “together? like at the same time? in the same shower?”

“yeah, babe, i think you’ll like it.”

she don’t know if his touchiness is because their relationship is relatively new, or if it’s because relationships as a whole are new to him, but he’s so clingy and desperate for her to be near him at all times. she ravishes in the feeling. when they're away on cases it's hard on both of them to not be able to touch each other, but it's especially hard on him. as the days progress, he cares less and less about minimizing pda for the sake of 'professionalism'.

it's not like they're hiding their relationship from anyone, it's just so new that they want to keep it to themselves for as long as possible. they're private about it, not secret. disregarding that their coworkers are some of they best profilers in the world, even a blind man could see the love that they have for each other.

they get each other coffee, sit shoulder-to-shoulder over the same case file (which is completely unnecessary, there's always enough for each of them), he drapes his cardigans over her arms during late nights in the precincts, and they help each other put on their kevlar vests (which is also unnecessary).

one glance under the table would show their pinkies and ankles linked together. sometimes it would show a mismatched pair of his socks peeking out of her shoes: bright and patterned and unmistakably his.

they gravitate towards each other without even realizing it.

they’ve just gotten back to his apartment from a case, they spent a whole week in a shitty motel with questionable bedding and an even more questionable shower situation, not to mention the dirty feeling on their skin after being on a plane for hours.

he has a thing about getting in bed or on the couch without being clean typically, but he especially does after getting back from a case. this, plus his adherence to her body has her suggesting it.

he has his arms wrapped around her from behind as they enter his apartment, both of them are giggling at the awkward walk/waddle they have to do to be able to move. she turns around in his arms and places her hands on his chest, gently caressing him with her thumbs.

“if you don’t want to then that’s okay! you can go first and i’ll go after you.” she’s so kind to him and has been so delicate when it comes to his ‘firsts’.

“no! i definitely want to, definitely.” he rushes out, the thought of getting to see her naked and soapy within his arms reach has his mind reeling.

he’s fantasized about it before, especially before they started dating and he’d be jerking himself off in the shower. he never allowed himself to picture her in the shower with him, but he’d imagine what she would look like through glass: wet hair cascading down her back, breasts and ass covered in soap bubbles, her hands traveling all over her body.

he always felt so dirty and guilty after thinking about it, despite always doing it in the shower. he rarely allowed himself the fantasy, since he could barely meet her eyes at work the next time he saw her after doing it.

he wonders if he should tell her about his steamy fantasies, or if she'd be freaked out by it.

eventually, his database of a brain locates relevant information for the situation: “did you know that the studies show that couples who shower together experience increased emotional intimacy and reduced stress? it’s because the release of oxytocin, known as the ‘love’ hormone, can be triggered by the warm water and physical touch.” his brain always does this when he’s nervous, it’s like it has a priority path to his mouth and he barely has any control over what comes out of it. he has barely realized that he said the L word when she gently giggles at him.

“aw, that’s lovely, spence.” oh my god she (sort of) said the L word back to him! he’s so giddy and his heart is pounding, if he didn’t know any better he’d be concerned that it would pump right out of his chest.

she kisses his cheek before holding his hand and gently leading him towards the bathroom. he just follows her like a lost puppy, even though this is his apartment. he realizes that he would follow her anywhere, even into a burning building, if it meant that he could be close to her.

he’s fidgeting with his fingers as she starts the water and reaches into her hair to start pulling pins out of it. all he can do is watch. he feels separate from his body, like he’s watching both her and himself exist in the confined space of the room. his nervous system is pulling in two separate directions: one that knows that she equals safety, and one that is nervous about doing something new that he has limited data for.

“babe, really, if you’re uncomfortable we don’t have to do it, no worries.” she notices how small and frightened he looks. he can't stop replaying his debauched memories of his fantasies and he's never been so relieved that true mindreading is a myth. however, he's prided himself on having decent morals, and he feels uneasy about keeping anything from her.

“i have to tell you something.” he spits out, and she tries her best to not find that sentence anxiety-inducing.

“okay, you can tell me anything.” she's looking at him through the mirror. she has a makeup cloth in one hand and she grips the edge of the counter with the other.

“i’ve thought about this before.” his eyes are round and wide and if her chest wasn't still feeling tight at his abrupt words, she'd want to coo at him and tell him how adorable he is.

“about showering together?” she slightly tilts her head in question and he finds her so painfully endearing.

he slightly shakes his head ‘no’. “i’ve thought about you in the shower before. i’ve pictured you naked. in the shower. before.” he wants to disappear, he doesn’t even know why he’s admitting this to her, anymore.

“that’s okay, honey. i’ve thought about you in the same way.” he’s sure he looks like a dragonfly with how large his eyes widen, he didn’t consider this response from her.

she gently smiles at him and he allows himself to feel the comfort radiating from it. she turns around to face him and grabs his hands. “especially after i saw you naked for the first time, i wondered how you’d look in such a private space.”

her comforting glances and touches are no use against the guilt that bubbles up in his stomach. of course she only pictured it after seeing all of him for the first time, he thinks that he’s so strange for thinking about her in that way before even getting to hold her hand.

“what if… i thought about it before i saw your body for the first time.” he’s so nervous that she can almost feel it radiating from him.

“then that’s totally fine, honey. i’m not here to thought-crime you. what you think about in there is yours to keep. you can tell me any and everything, but you don’t have to, and i don’t want you to feel guilty for things that cross your mind.”

he knows this, especially after years in such a dark job, that things cross his mind at inopportune times and that he has to just redirect the thought back to the right file cabinet in his brain. everything just feels different with her. he doesn’t know the rules and he doesn’t want to break them, especially without even knowing what they are. he finds himself lacking his usual control around her, which would be terrifying if it wasn't so relieving to not have to be constantly on-guard.

he decides to leave the conversation at that, which he’s proud of himself for. she can tell that his anxiety is dwindling, so she squeezes his hands before returning to the mirror. the shower has been running for long enough to fog it up at this point, so she does her best to remove any makeup that lingers on her skin.

she then starts removing her clothes, and he takes that as a signal to remove his too. he loosens his belt and removes his pants, boxers, and tie with minimal issues. his fingers are trembling as he tries to unbutton his dress-shirt, though. he’s still working at it even as she stands completely naked before him. the sight of her does not help his struggle, so she reaches out to help him.

“sorry, i’m a little nervous, i guess.” he whispers.

“that’s okay, just tell me if you change your mind, okay?”

“i won’t.” she tilts her head at him again and his cheeks pinken as he realizes how it sounded. “i mean, i won’t change my mind.”

soon enough his dress shirt is wide open and he feels so vulnerable as she gently pushes it off his shoulders. he’s not really self-conscious about his body, but the stark lighting in the bathroom is making him feel so exposed. he realizes that his dick is soft, and he doesn’t know if she’s seen him that way before, so he brings his hands down to cover himself.

“you don’t have to do that, honey.” she wraps her soft fingers around his forearms and he's flushed down to his chest as he nods and pulls them away.

she tangles their fingers together with one hand and reaches around the shower curtain to feel the temperature of the water with the other. he feels so loved and cared for. he knows that he loves her and he’s fairly certain that she might feel the same, but he’s afraid it’s too soon to say so. regardless, he allows himself the luxury of feeling loved by her.

she’s soon stepping over the edge of the tub and he has to focus on following her without tripping. she untangles their fingers to quickly wet her hair as he stands at the edge of the tub, slowly getting cold, but not wanting to rush her.

“c’mere,” she murmurs, gently pulling him towards her and the water stream.

the warmth of the water cascading around them and the softness of her skin pressed against his is the most soothing thing he has ever felt. he wraps his arms around her waist and lowers his head to rest on her shoulder. “oh, this is really nice,” he tells her and she hums in agreement as her hands run up and down his back.

“i thought you’d enjoy it. now we can get all clean together and we’re probably saving water this way, right?” she giggles in his ear and he can feel goosebumps bloom on his neck.

he doesn’t really agree with her hypothesis, since he rarely spends this much time under the water stream without the purpose of actually showering, but he doesn’t say so. he's too captivated by this entire experience to do anything other than hum and slightly nod his head.

she slowly grazes one hand up to the back of his head, intertwining her fingers with the wet, but soft strands. she guides him back up until their foreheads are pressed together and they can feel each other's breath on their faces. the way she's looking at him is making it hard to breathe. the way he's looking at her warms her from the inside-out.

slowly, she presses her lips to his. his hands skim up the side of her torso to rest against her neck. his thumbs rub soothingly on her cheeks as she plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. her deft fingers cause his mouth to open ever so slightly, and the kiss deepens. their tongues move together, in tandem, so so slowly. the kiss is full of devotion.

eventually, she slowly rotates them so that he’s positioned directly under the shower head and she runs her fingers through his hair to help him wet it. he tips his head back to help her and she places a soft kiss on his chest. he lets his eyes flutter closed and he can’t fathom how he got here. he can feel warmth growing behind his eyelids and for the first time in his life it’s not because he’s sad. he’s so unbelievably thankful to have her in his life at all, but the fact that she’s his and he’s hers is so wonderfully overwhelming to him at this moment.

“do you want me to wash your hair for you, baby?”

oh my god he thinks his knees might give out from under him.

“that would be really nice of you, but you don’t have to.” his voice is light and airy, as it always is when he speaks to her.

the other men she's been with had booming voices that reverberated in small places like bathrooms and in her ribcage. spencer's voice is always so gentle with her, light and airy enough to intertwine with the thick steam in the room. others' voices were obtrusive enough to shatter any moment, but not his, never his. she doesn't consciously compare him to her previous partners, but the differences are so palpable that they're impossible to ignore.

“i know i don’t have to, i want to.”

“can i do yours too?”

“yeah, i would like that.”

he opens his eyes to see her lathering his shampoo in her hands. as she works it through his hair he allows himself to really take in the moment. he watches as beads of water catch in her eyelashes and trail down her skin. when she starts lightly scratching at his scalp, a small moan falls from his lips and he’s clears his throat afterward in hopes of hiding it.

“has anyone ever done this for you before?” she warmly asks, not judgmentally, just curiously.

“um, not really, except at the hairdresser i suppose.” his nose slightly scrunches as he tries to focus on responding and she’s so enamored by him. everything he does is so captivating, she hopes she can spend forever drinking in his features.

“thank you, by the way, you’re really good at it. way better than the hairdresser.”

she slightly tips his head back to rinse his hair of the shampoo and she chuckles at his admission.

“well, i would hope that you don’t find yourself in this position with your hairdresser,” she teases.

the rest of the shower goes slowly, yet purposefully. they carefully clean and take care of each other so delicately. for a while it feels like it’s just the two of them in the world. they can’t hear any of the usual city noises and nothing else is on their minds except for the other. it feels like magic: actual, true magic, not silly card tricks and disappearing coins.

she forgets to grab her toiletry bag from her duffle, so she has to use his soaps to get clean. for a brief moment he’s disappointed that she won’t smell like herself when they emerge from the shower, until he realizes that she’ll smell like him instead, and he’s fighting back a grin at the thought.

he’s never been so naked and so exposed in front of anyone before and he’s so immensely grateful for her. it feels even more intimate than their first time together, somehow. they don’t even do anything sexual, even though he slightly chubs up at the sight of her all soaped up in front of him. they’re so gentle with each other.

he’s genuinely sad when the shower is over and she turns off the water. “can we do this again?” his eyes are so round and soft as he asks.

“definitely, honey, any time you want.”

he blushes at the endearment and then even more at the promise. he briefly thinks about the other things that they can do in the shower together and is elated to do anything and everything with her.

she reaches for the towel rack and he softly holds her hip as she extends herself. she wraps one of the towels around his body for him and he just holds it there as he watches her dry off.

he wants to tell her that he loves her. the words are just about to fall out of his mouth, but he refrains.

he dries himself off too and slips out of the bathroom to retrieve clothes for them, not wanting her to have to brave the cold air that resides outside the safe haven they've created in the bathroom. he’s smiling as he grabs one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers for her to wear. he still can’t believe that this is his life.

he slips back into the bathroom, very carefully as to not let the coldness seep inside, and she kisses him as he hands her the clothes, "thank you, baby."

he combs her hair for her, so so gently, and wraps his arms around her waist from behind her after he’s done. he softly kisses at her neck without any heat behind it, it's romantic in the purest sense.

later, as they’re curled up on the sofa together, her donned in his clothes, the sunset spills in through the windows. they ordered takeout and are absentmindedly watching a documentary on his tv.

he can’t stop looking at her. she looks so beautiful in the evening light, her hair is still slightly damp, and she’s holding a box of chinese food.

“i want to tell you something,” he mildly says from beside her and turns to face her directly. the similar words are the only thing that reminds her of what he said earlier, everything else about how he says it is completely different.

“what’s that?” she turns toward him, still actively chewing her noodles.

“i love you. a lot. you don’t have to say it back because i know we haven’t been together for very long, but i really wanted you to know that, that i love you.”

her eyes are wide but still soft, always so soft for him.

“i love you too, spence. a lot.”

he grins and launches across the couch to her, wrapping her up in his arms and just holding her. she's laughing and manages to place her food on the coffee table before he lands on her. they're wrapped up in each other as a tangle of limbs. his head is completely flush with her neck, and she would be worried for his airways if he didn't soon speak.

“thank you for being here.”

“there’s nowhere else i’d rather be.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

a/n: hi friends this is my 2nd spencer fic ever! i'm more comfortable writing things like this than i am with smut, but eventually i will def write a steamy spencer shower sex scene lolz. i hope u liked! let me know if u did! pls don't hurt my feelings if u didn't! xoxo

[thirstforreid]

Look How Much You Love Them

Pairing: Spencer Reid x girlfriend!reader

Description: It starts as a harmless little test. It ends with Spencer Reid completely losing his mind.

Gener: Smut (MDNI)

Words: 2,110

Warnings: 18+, smut, established relationship, breast worship, praise kink, dirty talk, teasing, body worship, tit job, Spencer being obsessed, explicit sexual content, soft dominance, playful intimacy, affectionate/romantic smut (MDNI)

A/N: Celebrating weekend with a smut fic 😏🤤

The question had been a low, persistent hum in the back of my mind for three years. Three years of being with Spencer Reid - the brilliant, beautiful, endlessly surprising man who was, without a doubt, the most attentive and adoring boyfriend I could have ever dreamed of. Every man, I’d observed from friends’ anecdotes and pop culture, had a pronounced preference. An ass man or a tits guy. It was a silly, superficial thing, really. But with Spencer, whose mind was a labyrinth of complex, beautiful things, whose love was expressed in detailed, specific compliments about my intelligence, my kindness, the exact shade of my eyes in morning light, I found myself oddly fixated. I simply didn’t know.

He was the ultimate boyfriend. He told me I was beautiful every single day, not as a rote phrase but as a fresh discovery. He loved kissing me, slow and deep, like he was learning a new language each time. He had this habit of coming up behind me while I was washing dishes or reading, wrapping his arms around my waist, his chin on my shoulder, and whispering the sweetest, most poetic things into my ear - quotes from obscure novels, facts about the bonding habits of albatrosses that somehow felt like love sonnets. During sex, he was reverent and fervent. He’d murmur how good I felt, how hot I was, calling me his good girl, praising every sigh and shiver. His hands were everywhere, roaming, learning, claiming every curve and plane of my body. His mouth followed, kissing and licking from my temples to my ankles as if mapping a sacred geography. I loved it. I cherished it. And yet, the trivial mystery remained: where did his most primal, instinctive appreciation lie?

So, I decided to conduct an experiment. It was unscientific, biased, and utterly fun. The next time we were intimate, I decided to subtly shift the focus and observe his reactions. It started with kissing on the couch, his hands naturally settling on my hips. As things heated up, I shifted, arching my back to subtly emphasize the curve of my rear. His hands stayed, squeezing appreciatively, but his mouth traveled up to my neck, whispering, “God, you’re perfect.” Promising, but inconclusive. Later, in bed, I rolled onto my stomach. He nuzzled the back of my neck, his body covering mine, and I felt him hard against me. “I love this,” he breathed, his hands sliding down my sides. “Love having all of you under me.” Still, his attention felt evenly distributed.

The next test was more direct. I wore a particularly low-cut top on a casual day at home. I bent over unnecessarily in front of him to pick up a book, giving a clear view down my shirt. From the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze snap up from his own book. He didn’t stare; he watched, his eyes darkening for a fraction of a second before he smiled softly at me. “You dropped this,” he said, his voice a little rough. I sauntered over, and he pulled me into his lap, his face burying in the crook of my neck. “You smell incredible,” he mumbled, but his hands were splayed on my back, not venturing lower.

Finally, I went blatant. We were getting ready for bed, and I stood in just my panties, facing him. “Do you like this?” I asked, turning to give him a profile view of my backside. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, and he gave a warm, genuine smile.

“I like every single part of you,” he said, holding out his hand.

“I know,” I said, turning fully to face him again. “But if you had to choose… to look at, to touch…” I let my hands drift up to cup my own breasts, my thumbs brushing over the peaks. His gaze dropped instantly, locked onto the movement. His breath hitched, just slightly. The change was subtle but profound. The analytical gleam in his eyes softened into pure, unadulterated want. He didn’t just look; he devoured the sight.

“Come here,” he said, his voice no longer just warm, but thick with desire.

I walked over, standing between his knees. His hands came up, not to pull me down, but to gently replace mine. He held their weight, his long fingers spreading wide, his thumbs repeating the same tantalizing circles I had. A low groan escaped him. “These,” he whispered, almost to himself. “These are… a miracle of physics and beauty. The softest paradox.” He looked up at me, his eyes blazing. “Is that your answer?”

I grinned, my heart doing a victorious little flip. “I think it is.”

He pulled me down into a searing kiss. “I’m an everything-you-have guy,” he murmured against my lips. “But yes… God, yes. These.”

The day after my little discovery felt charged with a new, delicious electricity. I came home from work, my mind replaying the awed look on his face. Finding Spencer on the couch in our living room, a book open in his lap, was a pleasant surprise. Him reading was not rare; him having a weekday off from the BAU certainly was.

“Hey, you,” I said, toeing off my shoes.

He looked up, and that smile - the one that was just for me, that crinkled the corners of his eyes - bloomed across his face. “Hi. How was your day?”

“Better now,” I said, hanging my jacket and bag, dropping my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door with a familiar clink. I walked over to him, my movements purposeful. I’d chosen my outfit with care that morning: a simple, cream-colored button-down blouse that hugged my curves, the fabric straining just so across my chest. His gaze tracked me, and as I drew nearer, I saw his eyes dip. He licked his lips, a quick, unconscious gesture that sent a thrill straight through me.

Before I could say another word, his arm snaked out, his hand finding my waist and tugging gently. I stumbled forward, catching myself with my hands on his shoulders. He looked up at me, his eyes now dark and intent.

“I missed you,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

I smiled, leaning down to give him what was meant to be a soft, chaste, ‘I’m-home’ kiss. But the second my lips met his, he took control. One hand came up to cradle the back of my neck, holding me in place as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a hunger that made my knees weak. A soft moan escaped me, and I shifted, moving to straddle his lap properly, the book forgotten and tumbling to the floor.

The friction of my core against the growing hardness in his pants was instinctual, a slow, grinding roll of my hips. He groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through both of us. I pulled back, just enough to see his face - flushed, lips kiss-swollen, eyes nearly black with desire.

“Someone’s happy to see me,” I whispered, my fingers going to the first button of my blouse.

His eyes followed my movements intently. “Always,” he breathed.

I undid the first button, then the second, my eyes locked on his. His gaze dropped, watching the parted fabric reveal the lace edge of my bra. With each button, his breathing grew more shallow. When the last one was free, I shrugged the blouse off my shoulders and let it fall, tossing it behind me without a glance. His hands twitched on my hips, eager but letting me lead.

Reaching behind me, I unclasped my bra, letting the straps slide down my arms. I let it drop into his lap. For a moment, he just looked, his gaze hot and heavy, full of a reverence that took my breath away. “So beautiful,” he whispered, almost reverently.

Then his hands were on me, finally claiming what they’d been craving. He filled his palms with my breasts, his touch firm and possessive. A sharp gasp left my lips as his thumbs brushed over my nipples, already tight and aching for him.

“Spencer,” I sighed, arching into his touch.

“I dream about these,” he confessed, his voice ragged. He leaned forward, taking one peak into his mouth, his tongue laving it through the soft fabric of my shirt I still wore below. The wet heat made me cry out, my fingers tangling in his soft hair. “Taste like heaven. Feel like heaven.” He switched to the other, his hands never still, kneading and shaping, his touch leaving fire in its wake. “You figured me out, didn’t you?” he murmured against my skin, looking up at me through his lashes.

“Maybe,” I teased, grinding down on him again, feeling him jerk beneath me. “Wanted to be sure.”

“You’re sure now,” he said, a statement, not a question. He pulled my shirt over my head, leaving me bare from the waist up above him. His eyes drank me in. “Completely, utterly sure.”

I leaned down to kiss him, a messy, heated clash of tongues and teeth. His hands were everywhere - my back, my waist, cupping my face - but they always returned, magnetized, to my breasts. He pinched my nipples gently, then not so gently, pulling another moan from my throat.

“I need to feel you,” I panted, my hands fumbling with the button of his jeans. He helped me, lifting his hips so I could push his pants and boxers down just enough to free his erection. He was thick and hard, the tip already glistening. The sight, combined with the desperate look on his face, was incredibly powerful.

I wrapped one hand around his base, stroking him slowly as I shifted my position. Using my other hand, I pressed my breasts together, creating a soft, warm valley. I looked into his eyes, seeing the understanding and raw lust dawn there.

“Is this okay?” I asked, even as I guided the head of his cock between the swell of my flesh.

A strangled, “Fuck, yes,” was all he could manage, his head falling back against the couch.

I began to move, using my hand to stroke what wasn’t nestled between my breasts, using the pressure of my arms to squeeze around him. The slick sound of skin on skin, the feel of him, hot and velvety against my sensitive skin, was overwhelmingly erotic.

“Look at you,” I breathed, watching his face contort in pleasure. “Look how much you love them.”

His eyes flew open, blazing into mine. “I do. God, I do. You have no idea.” His hands came up to cover mine, helping me squeeze tighter, setting a faster pace. “You feel… so soft. So perfect. My perfect girl.”

“You gonna come for me, Spencer?” I whispered, leaning closer so my breasts pressed even tighter around him. “You gonna come all over my tits?”

His control shattered. “Yes-oh, God, yes.” His hips bucked up, meeting my rhythm. His moans were unfiltered, guttural sounds of pure ecstasy. “Right there, just like that… I’m close, so close…”

“Do it,” I urged, my own body singing with need, reveling in the power of his pleasure. “Mark them. Show me how much you love them.”

That was all it took. With a final, choked cry of my name, he came. Hot streaks of white painted my skin, over my breasts and collarbone. He pulsed in my hand, his body shuddering through the waves of his release, his eyes locked on the mess he’d made on my body, a look of awe and profound satisfaction on his face.

For a long moment, the only sounds were our ragged breaths. I slowly released him, sitting back on his thighs. I looked down at the evidence of his passion glistening on my skin. Holding his gaze, I brought my fingers to my chest, swiping through the warmth. I lifted them to my mouth and slowly, deliberately, licked them clean.

Spencer watched, utterly captivated, a fresh shiver running through him. He reached for me, his hands gentle now as they framed my face, pulling me into a deep, languid, post-coital kiss.

When we parted, he rested his forehead against mine, his eyes soft and sated. A slow, dazed smile spread across his face. “Honey,” he sighed, his voice hoarse and full of wonder. He glanced down at my chest once more, then back up to my eyes, his expression one of pure, defeated adoration. “You’re going to absolutely kill me with those tits.”

I laughed, a light, happy sound, and kissed him again. I had my answer, and it was better than I’d ever imagined.

[thedivinereverie]

whiny spencer that’s so obsessed with his lover he just wants to please her always. that man BEGS her to let him eat her out like genuinely it would make him finish

Okay so YES. Spencer Reid is a munch and that’s a hill I will die on, thank u

But here are my thoughts / scenarios (18+ minors do not interact!!! tags/warnings: f!bau!reader, this literally just talks about spencer being the munch he absolutely is.)

-> Spencer is hypersensitive to literally everything about you. The way your perfume smells when you pass by him or crowd his space, the way your laugh is purely infectious, the way your smile brightens the room, the pure thought of only him being able to have you. He could literally come from a smile and a wink in his direction from you.

-> It’s addicting and he literally craves you all. The. Time. The first time you let him taste you was a hazy night early into your relationship after the team went out for drinks. He was completely sober and you were only a couple of drinks in—not enough to be drunk, but enough to feel a little frisky. Your proximity and the smell of your perfume literally made him insanely needy, and those espresso martinis you sipped rather generously were swimming in your veins. Mix those two together? You both end up at yours and he’s saying he doesn’t need anything but to taste you because he just had a gut feeling that doing so would completely blow his genius mind to pieces. And what do you know? He was absolutely correct.

-> He’d give you subtle looks at the round table and you’d try to ignore it, but that glint in his eye was torturous as you’d picture his face buried between your legs, reminiscing on how his tongue felt against your aching pussy. Working cases side by side drove you both insane, but you thought he’d literally combust with the way he’d quietly beg you to come over to your hotel room later on in the evening. And of course, you’d say yes.

-> Sneaking around was a bit of a thrill (the team still didn’t know about the two of you just yet), but the hardest part of this all was learning to be quiet. It didn’t take Spencer very long to figure out your likes and dislikes, so when he’d press his tongue flat a certain way or suck on your clit with the right amount of pressure, it was extremely hard for you to stay quiet. You’d look down at him, moving his hair out of his face and nearly every single time his eyes would be closed in pure bliss. Like he was in heaven every time his tongue was buried in you. But those times his eyes were open? He looked completely pussy drunk, hazel eyes twinkling with pure fucking delight.

-> He’d never ask for anything in return, even if you offered it. He was happy just being able to please you. Everything about you was intoxicating to him, and he’d sheepishly admit he’s come once or twice to the taste of you and your reaction to him eating you like a man starved.

-> When you both had some time off from a case, he’d be at yours or you’d be at his. He’d itch to touch you, even if you two were doing something as simple as watching one of his favorite classic French films. He’d seen them so many times that he could recite them verbatim, so he’d begged you to let him eat you out on his couch, movie completely forgotten about. He’d even pull out those irresistible puppy dog eyes he knew you couldn’t resist. You’d joke with him by saying he’s going to give you a burn with his stubble rubbing on you too much. He ignored it and went on to recite statistics about orgasming via cunnilingus before giving you back to back orgasms.

-> Spencer found it preposterous that some men found eating pussy as a chore, only selfishly caring about their own needs, because that could never be him. He’d made it known to you from the very beginning, and he admittedly knew the begging and whining was a tad bit pathetic on his part, but he didn’t care. It led him to a euphoric bliss every time he got to bury his face between your legs, and if it were solely up to him, he’d stay there forever.

thank u for coming to my ted talk 🙂‍↕️

[minisangels]

Guys him in his hoodie <33 his so adorable..

My gif … figuring out how to make these is fun once you know how .. not the best quality but love it

Spencer Reid we love you 🥰 

[thedivinereverie]

i’m not sure if you take requests, but a spencer reid x reader fic where it’s their wedding (can u tell ur morning after the wedding post inspired me) and it’s spencer seeing reader in her wedding dress for the first time

this idea is so cute :’)

i definitely do not have an iq of 187 and being in the good doctor’s mind is intimidating so forgive me for the lack of sounding more like him in this blurb lol

thanks for the request, hope you enjoy <3

-

pairing: spencer reid x f!bau!wife!reader

rating: 18+, minors do not interact.

synopsis: wedding bells are finally ringing, and jitters are at an all time high—until spencer sets his sights on you in your wedding dress, and his whole world seems to melt into place.

word count: 1k

warnings: just fluff and a very small hint of promiscuity if you squint. reader is nondescript aside from mentions of being shorter than spencer. no use of y/n.

a/n: this is a prequel to Mr. & Mrs. ! the gif above is not mine, all rightful credit goes to the creator.

-

Spencer straightens his bow tie for the twentieth time, shoulders rising and falling as he takes another deep breath.

“You straighten that bow anymore, the fabric will start to fray,” Derek jokes.

Spencer meets Derek’s gaze through the reflection of the mirror he’s standing in front of, smirking at him with his eyebrows raised in amusement.

“I just–” Spencer pauses, swallowing nervously. “I don’t do well in front of big crowds.”

Derek steps up behind him, patting Spencer on the shoulder.

“Pretty boy, when you’re up there and you see her, I promise you no one else in that room will matter in that moment. You won’t even notice any of us are there.”

Spencer gives him a tight-lipped smile, looking down at his polished black dress shoes.

You’d tried to convince him to wear his Converse because you knew that’s what he’d be most comfortable in, but Spencer wanted to impress you wholly. Not that he really needed to, but he silently vowed and was insistent on looking his absolute best for you.

A knock on the door interrupts his small internal meltdown. Derek opens it only to reveal JJ and Aaron on the other side.

Aaron looks at Spencer with a fond smile to which Spencer returns.

“You ready?” Aaron asks, and Spencer purses his lips before slowly nodding.

“You’re not getting cold feet, are you?” Aaron teases, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer’s eyebrows nearly shoot up to the top of his forehead. “Oh, no, that’s not it at all. She’s literally my dream woman. I can’t believe she even wants to spend the rest of her life with me,” he half-jokes the last part.

“You’re a catch, pretty boy. You two bring out the best in each other and I really don’t think there’s another person on this Earth that’s more perfect for you than she is,” Derek tries to reassure him.

“Thanks, Morgan.”

“He’s right, Spencer,” Aaron agrees.

Spencer shifts his gaze to JJ.

“How is she?” He asks, mainly because not seeing you for the past nearly twenty four hours has been driving him absolutely insane, but he also wants to make sure you’re not getting cold feet. For his own peace of mind, he reasons.

JJ shoots him a bright smile.

“She’s glowing, Spence. She’s ready to walk down the aisle.”

Hearing those words immediately puts him at ease. He takes a deep breath in, exhaling slowly before he looks at the three before him, nodding subtly.

The next few minutes is a complete blur to him—walking down the aisle himself, hearing the beautiful string instruments being played, the groomsmen and bridesmaids walking down the aisle followed by the flower girls—and then you appear at the very end.

Then all time stands completely still as his eyes rake over you a million and one times. Your wedding dress fits you beautifully, your makeup done to enhance your stunning features, and you’re wearing the most radiant smile on your lips that makes him fall in love with you even more, as if that’s possible. You seem so close yet so far away as you walk towards him with you on your dad’s arm.

And it’s then that Spencer realizes Derek was completely right. All of the other people in the room didn’t matter at that very moment. It’s just you and him, ready to avow to each other that you want to spend the rest of your lives with one another.

All he sees is you. His beautiful bride, wife-to-be, future mother of his children.

When he looks at you, he sees his whole life ahead of him.

Spencer was rarely a crier, especially in front of other people. But he can’t help get teary eyed with the way you look at him. With the thought that he gets to spend the rest of his life with you.

You reach the end of the aisle and he steps down to hold his arm out for you to take. Your dad gives you a kiss on the cheek before handing you over to Spencer, giving him a pat on the shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.

Spencer’s eyes shift to you as he leads you back up the steps and you face each other.

“You look absolutely breathtaking, angel,” he whispers to you.

That shy look that he loves so much takes over your features.

“You look very handsome yourself, Spence.”

The rest of the ceremony becomes a blur, citing your vows to each other before slipping on each other’s wedding rings.

I now pronounce you as husband and wife.

You may now kiss your bride.

The six words that Spencer was dying to hear. He grabs your face gently and dips you, kissing you with so much passion that it steals the air from your lungs.

The cheers erupt from everyone before you, which pulls you both smack dab in the middle of reality once again.

You both pull apart from each other completely breathless, grinning from ear to ear.

You both walk back down the aisle together, kissing one more time at the end before you exit the doors. You’re both breathless and laughing as you make your way into a small room attached to the venue, taking in the moment for yourselves.

“We’re married,” you gush, draping your arms around his shoulders as you rest your forehead against his.

“We’re married, baby,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He gives you a loving squeeze, leaning down to kiss you softly.

Spencer relishes the quiet, charged moment between you two, pecking your lips a few more times before holding you close to him.

“You look ethereal, my love,” he whispers, leaning back slightly to give you another look. “The things you make me want to do…” he trails off, and you raise an eyebrow.

“And what would that entail, Mr. Reid?”

“Worshipping you.”

It’s such a simple answer, and yet those words steal the air from your lungs.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes.

You’re about to answer him before a knock on the door interrupts you.

“Mr. and Mrs. Reid? We’re all set up to take photos whenever you’re good to go,” your photographer calls through the door.

Spencer looks down at you with a heart melting smile.

“You ready?”

You look up at him with the same smile that’s had him smitten since the day he first met you.

“As I’ll ever be.”

[thedivinereverie]

Mr. & Mrs.

spencer reid x f!bau!wife!reader

rating: explicit. 18+, minors do not interact.

synopsis: you wake up with a new last name and bask in the morning after you said ‘i do’.

warnings: sweet lil fluffy fic, spencer is a simp for his wife (as he should be), spencer is a little cheeky in this one, smut (soft dom[?] spencer, fingering, unprotected piv, very brief nipple play, smut isn’t too detailed but it’s there), spencer and reader both work for the bau, penelope stays scheming (sorta) and we love her for that. reader is nondescript with no use of y/n.

word count: 2.1k

author’s note: this entire one shot is purely inspired by a tiktok i saw of someone filming their hotel room the morning after their wedding night, so here we are. the song ‘anyone’ by justin bieber also gave me a lil inspo for this :’)

hope you enjoy! feedback / comments / comment reblogs are much appreciated <3

It’s not the sunlight shining brilliantly through the soft curtains that wakes you. 

It’s not even the birds as they beautifully chirp their morning song. 

It is the warm naked body that’s pressed tightly against your own bare one, hand splayed on your stomach and the cool kiss of your husband’s wedding band against your hot skin that sends a shiver down your spine. 

Your husband. 

You grin like a fool in love (because really, who are you kidding? you so are).

You’d experienced the most perfect day of your life yesterday surrounded by everyone you love, and the most unforgettable night spent with your man. The smile he wore all night shined brighter than any sunny days you’ve ever seen, and you made yourself a promise to etch the image in your mind forever.  

You stretch slowly in his arms, taking in your surroundings. 

Two empty glasses of champagne on your bedside table, one with your lipstick print on it, sits next to your phone with a plethora of unread text messages from the girl’s group chat at the BAU. 

Your eyes catch on to your white heels and wedding dress strewn across the floor haphazardly, with his dress shoes and tux to match. 

Your matching lacy set that Penelope insisted you get for your wedding night isn’t too far from your dress. 

The way Spencer’s hungry eyes scanned you when he slowly slid your dress off of your body, only to find you in the pretty lingerie, did something absolutely unspeakable to him. 

Something deeply carnal had unfurled low in your belly at the sight of him as he fell to his knees in front of you, hands traveling slowly and deliberately down your body, kissing you below your navel and the apex of your thighs. 

Marveling at you. 

Worshipping you. 

His hazel eyes glowed in the soft light that emanated from the lamp in the corner of the hotel room, so expressive and full of love. 

You still feel the press and drag of his lips on your skin. His tongue everywhere that made your back arch and toes curl in pure bliss. His sweet whispered words as he made love to you for the first time as his wife. 

How he got rougher toward the third round as you kept begging for him to not stop. 

A kiss to your shoulder brings you back to reality. 

Spencer stirs, lips trailing from your shoulder to your collarbone. You softly laugh as you turn and run your fingers through his curls, revealing his handsome sleepy face. 

“Good morning, my angel,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep. 

“Good morning my handsome husband.” 

He grins widely at that, burying his face into your neck as he pulls you closer into him. 

“My wife,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your skin once again. “I can’t believe you’re all mine.” 

He lifts his head again, moving down to kiss your forehead. 

“Well believe it, Mr. Reid. You’ve got me for eternity,” your voice goes soft around the edges, and you know you’re looking at him with pure adoration. 

“I love the sound of that.” 

His hand slides down your bare body, and goosebumps raise on your skin at his touch. 

He sports a shit-eating grin because he knows just how much his touch alone affects you. 

“What was on your mind a few minutes ago? Your breathing increased quite rapidly.” 

You glare at him with fake unamusement. Ever the profiler. 

“Are you profiling your wife now?” You tease, bringing your face closer to his. 

He hums, hand sliding lower—close to where you want him. 

“It’s in our nature at this point,” he defends. 

“What do you think I was thinking about?” 

“I have a few ideas,” he quips, and you raise an eyebrow. 

You falter for a second as his fingers brush your mound, and you shiver. 

“Well you are a genius.” 

He huffs a laugh and leans in to kiss you softly as his fingers brush over your slick folds. Your legs fall open for him, and he grins against your lips before he slides his middle finger through your slit, bringing it back up to circle your sensitive clit. 

You gasp against his lips, but his mouth chases yours and kisses you deeply. Urgently. Your hands curl into his hair, tugging gently as your hips start to writhe with need. 

“I think,” he parts his lips from yours, voice sounding wrecked, “that you were having flashbacks about last night.” 

“Maybe I was.” 

“I was too.” 

“Spence,” you gasp as he slowly adds one finger into you, shortly followed by another. 

“My beautiful wife,” he whispers, switching positions so he’s now on top of you. 

Your gaze meets his, eyebrows threaded together, jaw slack at the feeling of his fingers working in and out of you expertly. 

Your fingertips trace down his back, one hand trailing around his front until you brush the wiry hairs above his stiff length. 

“I need you,” you breathe. And it might be a tad bit selfish considering all of the work he put in last night, but he doesn’t see it that way. 

He wants to please his wife over and over and over again at every opportunity he can possibly get. 

So that’s what he does. 

“Need me to what, angel?” He smirks, his fingers slowly sliding out of you as his other hand covers yours around the base of his cock.

He slowly moves your hand up his silky flesh. His eyes fall closed and he hisses at the sensation, shakily exhaling before opening his eyes back up to look at you. 

You’re both a trembling, wanting mess at this point, that same carnal desire wrapping herself around you both as she sinks her claws into your flesh. 

Your heart is pounding against your ribcage, and you almost want to laugh at how ridiculous it is that you still get like this with him. A trembling, needy mess with a hint of nervousness and enough yearning to last a lifetime.  

And you also hope that very specific feeling never goes away. 

With that feeling also sparks a hint of boldness, and you do with that what you can muster. 

“I need you to fuck your wife into this mattress, Dr. Reid.”

His eyes darken as soon as the word “Doctor” slips past your lips. Your bold choice of words hit home for him too, but something about you calling him by his title sends him soaring over the edge every single time. 

He groans at that, head hanging between his shoulder blades as he guides himself toward you, pushing into you slowly at first. He slides his hands up your arms, pinning your wrists above your head. 

He’s got that look of control and determination in his eyes. It makes the rumbling flame low in your belly spread into a full-fledged forest fire. 

You gasp as he reaches the hilt, and he’s hot and heavy in you. You’re breathless, and Spencer gives you a moment to collect yourself. 

It’s not long before the sweet words from last night that still hung in the atmosphere quickly dissipate, swapped out with far more intense vows of pleasure. 

It’s a side of Spencer you only ever got to see in the bedroom, but you love that it’s reserved for you and only you all the same. 

With his words, he picks up the pace of his hips significantly, practically pistoning in and out of you. 

A string of curses and whines flies past your lips, head tossed back against the pillows. He releases your wrists and your hands immediately fly to slide down his back, nails unintentionally scratching his skin. You wrap your legs around his waist, and it isn’t long before you completely succumb to the feeling of him once more. 

“Spencer—oh god oh god oh god,” you cry. He moves his hands to hold your hips down, fingers digging into your flesh. He leans down to kiss you, love and desperation tightly packed into the moment. It’s almost like a gut punch with the realization of how much love this man truly pours into you. 

His lips separate from yours, moving close to your ear as he rasps his next words. 

“You have me completely at your mercy, my beautiful wife. Especially when you say my name like that.” 

“I love you Spencer,” you say, looking into his eyes as he thrusts into you relentlessly. He sits up for a beat, bringing your ankles over his shoulders. The new angle nearly has you seeing stars, and you’re pretty sure the whole floor of this hotel knows exactly what you two are doing… for the fourth time in the last ten hours. 

He pauses for a second. You look at him with confusion before he kisses you again, and you completely melt into the mattress beneath you. 

“I love you too, angel. So fucking much.” 

He thrusts into you a few more times, reaching down to rub your clit to send you over the edge. 

That’s it, my pretty girl. So good. So fucking good. Look at you, my sweet angel.

It’s then that you completely unravel for him, his words having you at his mercy. Your breathless pleas encourage him to come too, and he follows suit not long after. 

You’re panting as his thrusts eventually slow and he slowly pulls out of you. You hiss at the loss of contact, trying to catch your breath. He pulls you into his side, kissing the crown of your head as he traces light patterns on your skin. He brings your left hand up to his line of sight, admiring the pair of rings that adorn your ring finger. He leans up to press his lips against your rings, and you can’t help the absolute love-struck girlish smile that spreads across your lips. 

You bask in the peaceful bliss of your little “day-after-I-do” bubble, enjoying the time you have with him away from the chaos of your daily lives. 

Until it’s shortly interrupted with the shrill ringtone from your phone that makes you both jump. 

You groan and pick it up, seeing Penelope’s bright smile in her contact picture flash across the screen. 

“Hey Pen,” you answer, shifting in Spencer’s arms. 

“Hiya gorgeous, are you both still wanting to have breakfast with us all? JJ, Emily and I have been trying to text you but I figured I’d just call.” 

“Oh, sorry about that. I was, uh, a little busy.” 

Spencer hums in amusement at your words, lips peppering your shoulder with kisses. 

Penelope chuckles on the other end of the line. 

“Guess that little white number I told you to get was worth it after all, huh?” 

Your body heats at her words. “You have no idea.” 

She laughs at that, and Spencer’s hand starts to trace your body again. He leans his head down to kiss your chest, playfully nipping at one of your breasts. You try to swat him away, but his mouth is already closing around a nipple. You inhale sharply and push him off gently. You glare at him, but he just smiles foolishly before innocently shrugging at you. 

“Give us like thirty minutes to freshen up, and we’ll meet you all down for breakfast.” 

“Sounds good, sweets. I’ll see you lovebirds soon!” 

She hangs up before you can say anything else, and you groan as you toss your phone back on the nightstand. 

“You know you have to behave yourself in front of everyone, right? I know they’re our friends, but we also work with them, Spencer,” you half-laugh-half-chastise him. 

“You’re so hard to resist though, Mrs. Reid.” 

You fawn over your new last name. 

“At least try. For me.” 

He kisses your forehead. “Anything for you.”

He sits up and stretches, and you gasp in horror as your eyes land on the red scratch marks that travel all the way down his back. 

“What?” he asks, turning his head to look at you. 

“I’m so sorry, Spence. Your back,” you whisper, trailing your fingertips over the red marks. 

He tosses you a smirk. “Just means I did something right.” 

You roll your eyes, tossing the sheets away from you before playfully throwing them his way. He heartily laughs at that, catching the sheets before flopping back down on the bed next to you, scooping you up into his arms. 

You both wish at this moment that you could just stay in bed all day and order room service. You know you’ll have to face the impending doom—better known as the relentless teasing you know your friends have fired up for the both of you—sooner rather than later. 

Even though your little bubble with just you and him being wrapped up in one another was short-lived and you have to face reality once again, you have comfort in knowing that you’re going out into the world as Spencer Reid’s wife. 

As a sickeningly, maddingly, ardently in love married couple. 

As Mr. and Mrs. Reid. 

dividers by saradika-graphics