free fruit roll-ups

𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 | 21 | 𝐬𝐡𝐞/𝐡𝐞𝐫 | 𝐢 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬

[reidecorating]

L'amore Vero È Così (True Love is Like This)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader  

A/N: Woke up with a killer headache after celebrating the end of 2020 and thought writing something loosely based off events that took place on NYE would be a good cure. Hope this year’s been treating you all well!

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Summer nights and Spencer Reid make it hard for anyone to keep their hands to themselves. Add David Rossi’s holiday mansion and wine to the mix, and watch a dangerously hot fuse ignite

Warnings: Language (as in cursing AND me just completely butchering Italian), unprotected sex, penetrative sex

Masterlist

Maybe it was the Sauternes. Like a spark igniting along the fuse of dynamite, the sweet sting of white grape travelled down her throat, every sip exploding in kaleidoscopic vision and unfiltered words. Even so, it wasn’t the alcohol she was drunk on. No, not drunk - she wasn’t drunk - she was absolutely intoxicated. Not by anything of substance, but by an overwhelming desire for the man she had arrived with. 

Spencer Reid often felt out of place standing in any absurdly large entranceway, belonging to the old Italian with new money, recurrently settling for shifting from shoe to shoe, before taking a deep breath and pressing the doorbell with the hand unoccupied by a bottle he wouldn’t be drinking from. However, his sobriety was far from the cause of his imposter syndrome. Rather, it was the way he always arrived alone, while, what felt like, the rest of the team trickled in with their spouses or significant others. Whilst pairs would dance to vinyl sounds of Bowie, leaving little room for him and the odd number his presence formed in the abacus of the group, he would loiter in a corner, or, on occasion, entertain his godson with a pack of cards. More frequently, he would rattle off excuses about needing the restroom, only to spend his time exploring the corridors of a rather impressive house. A get together at David Rossi’s holiday home was uncommon, and the last time Spencer had wound up here, he found himself inspecting the tiny forgotten library the man housed, attempting to decipher the various foreign books residing on its mahogany shelves as he heard his friends stumbling their way through the Salsa downstairs. L'isola di Arturo, with sterling lettering on its ageing spine showing a familiar pen name, had quickly become his favourite. When he’d first translated the pages, he had chuckled at the parallels between himself and its disconsolate protagonist. However, after years of his ongoing solitude, and lonely arrivals to a castle full of people, he finally had someone on his arm. 

“Wait, what does this mean? I can make out the ‘amore’ but not much else,” That someone now squinted at the words his index finger underlined as he read her the words of that very book, aloud. “Hm?” He was visibly distracted by the Patchouli blend of orange and jasmine emanating from her skin as she leaned against his shoulder to read the page herself. “L'amore vero è così,” she whispered, unsure of the correct pronunciation but attempting it anyway. “Non ha nessuno scopo e nessuna ragione, e non si sottomette a nessun potere fuorché alla grazia umana,” she finished in a whisper, affecting Spencer in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Through fluttering eyelashes, she looked up at him, awaiting his rendition, and suddenly the temperature felt as if it had risen. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been here almost as many times as him; she knew her way around Rossi’s holiday home, but Spencer had insisted on showing her his favourite room, claiming she hadn’t seen it yet. Diverting her attention from Emily’s anecdotes, “I kind of want you all to myself for a little bit,” he whispered in a kiss on her shoulder, proceeding to take her hand and pull her away from chatter over a jug of Cuban rum and homemade pizza - making sure to dissect, in explanation, nearly every painting adorning the maze of hallways on their short trek. He cleared his throat, prying his gaze away from the skin her little black dress revealed, unabashedly scanning her lips before using his own to form words. “True love is like this,” he subtly eyed her reaction to his words as he tried hard to not transliterate the European language. “It has no purpose and no reason, and it does not submit to any power except human grace.” Spencer’s voice was a newly inked quill, ebbing and flowing through the hot air of the dimly lit room. The dark winged butterflies that had been floating around her stomach all evening fluttered in a frenzy at his words, and the way the chartreuse of his eyes had been absorbed by black as they laid on her. “For such a dark story, it’s so beautiful,” she exhaled in a hushed tone, stare not leaving his as he slowly slid the book into the hollow slot where it had previously inhabited, too occupied by reading her demeanour to pay the book any more attention. “You think so? The author, Morante, Elsa Morante, was actually considered the greatest writer of Italy’s postwar generation, at one point.” Spencer began to rest his weight against the wall as they conversed. “I feel as if we always hear about Bassani or Parise, and all the unorthodox things Landolfi wrote in the fifties. It’s very refreshing to hear of a woman getting some well deserved recognition in such a male dominated niche,” she remarked. A dimple appeared on Spencer’s cheek as he grinned at the way she sounded a lot like him. “Agreed. In fact, Morante actually claimed she wished she’d been born a boy, so that she could have all of these heroic adventures. Once, when she was asked about the hero of that book,” he pointed towards the worn copy of L'isola di Arturo, “she commented: ‘Arturo, c’est moi!’,” 

“Living vicariously through him? Interesting,” she tilted her head slightly, “I also think its remarkable how beauty can emerge from so much pain,” she mulled aloud. His eyebrows raised at her words and the flux in her tone of voice. Slowly, she stepped towards him, forearms resting on his shoulders, entangling behind him. 

Earlier, she’d had the privilege of styling him as he stood in front of their shared mirror, muttering complaints of how he had 'nothing to wear’. Now, she repeated maledictions to herself regarding the clothing she had chosen, in her head, as she admired the way his black shirt was rolled up at the sleeves - displaying intricate nerves shadowing his fingers and arms - and simultaneously unbuttoned temptingly low on his chest, exposing the silver chain presenting a small initial, hers. The summer night had made sure a thin veil of sweat coated his collarbones, glistening with his movements under the lamp light. “It’s not a surprising process though - I mean, after the year you’ve had, just look at how pretty you are,”

“Did you just-” he gulped, chuckling, “use the copious amounts of semi-resolved trauma I harbour to romance me?”

“I may have,” she whispered into the skin below his ear, both hands now tangled in his hair as he remained pressed up against the wall, grateful that every wound, fight and flaw had led them here. And she never ceased to make her gratitude known. Tonight, though, ever since she’d caught sight of his hand gripping a cold glass, the strong concoction presumably belonging to Luke, she hadn’t been able to stop envisioning his body on top of hers. Unbeknownst to her, his thoughts had been very similar from the second she’d chosen to wear the satin fabric, claiming it matched his shirt, while leaving very little to the imagination. “Y/N,” he spoke, his body involuntarily leaning into hers. “We can’t- Not now.” His body language betrayed his words. “I don’t study behaviour for a living, unlike everyone else here, but Spencer, right now, yours tells me we can,” she brought down a hand to squeeze his wrist, which was resting against her lower back. He couldn’t breathe. Tongue in cheek, he shook his head at her, a smirk breaking way. “You, my pretty lady, are something else,” he caved, switching their position in a more urgent manoeuvre than either of them anticipated. Spencer’s hands grasped her jaw, his breath fanning over her before his lips collided with hers, messily. A hand cradled the back of her head, heeding any impact with the wooden blockade behind her, fingers and hair tangling together. Her hands travelled along his body, pinky tugging on his necklace in pursuit of closeness, while her lips roamed around his bobbing Adam’s apple, eliciting an exquisite string of moans. Spencer’s leg wedged itself between hers, slowly grazing his thigh against her, using a firm grip to guide her hips downwards, her soft sighs and tugs at his roots only encouraging him. 

The euphoria was short lived. A rapping on the library door tore them apart, its hinges creaking and giving way to an astounded looking Penelope Garcia. “Naughty!” she factitiously gasped. “I didn’t think the good doctor and his fine missus had it in them, but I was very, very wrong,”

“We were just-“ Y/N began, only to be cut off by the tipsy agent. “Save the excuses, beautiful lady. I was simply quested to find you two, and let you know that the rest of us are off to take a dip in the spa. Bring your boy toy, and scrumptious self, and join us ASAP - oh! And no funny business! There are children here,” Penelope gestured her two fingers away from her spectacles and towards each of them as a silent threat of ‘I’m watching you’. Y/N and Spencer exchanged a look, both flushed in different shades of red, on their way to creating a colour wheel. As Penelope spun on her heels and rushed to shut the door behind her, “Thank you, Penelope!” Y/N squeaked, Spencer exclaiming a timid “And sorry!” The two of them broke out into a fit of laughter, still frazzled. “I think I’m getting a little too comfortable with your team,” she grimaced, earning a laugh from the doctor. Later, as Spencer led her towards a bathroom, her arms occupied by a stack of towels, his hand on the small of her back, he dreaded the amount of self control he would need to invoke when the two of them would undress to change. 

What she had said wasn’t entirely untrue. She was indeed very comfortable with his team. If Spencer could have met himself, a year ago, anxious to introduce who he was sure was the love of his life to his dearest friends, he would flick himself in the head. She, not alarmingly, managed to get along with everyone, almost better than he did. Somehow managing to find common ground, even with Aaron Hotchner. He recalls, one night, months ago, listening to her and the usually stoic man debate about which broadway production was better: The Producers or The Phantom of the Opera. Spencer also recalls exactly how riled up he became as he watched her put the ex-theatric-gone-lawyer in his place after calling upon Spencer for some Tony Award statistics. Admittedly, he actively needed to combat the green eyed monster on his back whenever she would go jogging with Luke - but the way she kissed him before leaving, on her tiptoes in her running shoes, whispering ‘I love you’, and ‘I’m really only going for Roxy’, helped. She had become family, the invisible stamp of approval having been silently awarded when they all saw the looks the two of them shared, the three subtle squeezes in their woven hands, and the way Spencer now smiled with his teeth - the way they way they would move the moon and the earth for one another. 

Packed into the watery sauna, words exchanged between the group travelled into the atmosphere, a waxing gibbous eavesdropping overhead. She watched as Spencer squirmed across from her at the nearness to so many sweaty bodies, shoulders, elbows, knees and toes, belonging to anybody and everybody, poking him. Her eyes trailed along the dips and swells at the base of his neck, decorated in its usual, dainty, shimmering pendant, the bones there protruding as he slouched forward. Spencer’s hair was matted, condensation ironing chestnut ringlets to his forehead, complimenting his heated crimson cheeks. The butterflies returned, her stomach flipping as he ran his hand through the mop of curls to ease his discomfort. More of him - that was what she wanted. She hadn’t noticed, but she had been biting her lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. Pulling her back from her thoughts, a heavy exhale travelled past her left ear, changing the course of the steam emerging from the water - a stream of air enough to deflate a person, she noticed. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed.” The blonde rested her head against the barrier of the tub, seeing bright patterns on her eyelids as they shut over her eyes momentarily. Y/N reached over and grasped one of her shoulders in a clinical manner. “Who are you, and what have you done with Jennifer and the gruelling tension in her neck and jaw?” She interrogated, lightheartedly. “What can I say? Stress is my middle name,” she chuckled. “While we’re on the topic, though... Maybe you could give me one of those trigger-point massages,” she opened one eye, an iris burning sapphire, the blue only rival to that of the one from The Tell Tale Heart, finding Y/N’s face. Retreating her hand, having made her point, she let out a laugh at JJ’s words, “I’m afraid that’ll cost y-” Y/N’s eyes widened at the familiar dialect of the words, a charlatan on JJ’s tongue. “Wait a minute, can you repeat what you just said, but slowly?” 

“Oh, I know you heard me perfectly clear,” JJ smirked at her, eyebrows raising as her eyes shifted between the flustered woman and Spencer. 

They had a friendship of unfamiliar closeness, which JJ cherished. After nights of babysitting turning into wining with Merlot and dining on flaming dreaded cheese puffs, stashed away in an airtight container, upon JJ’s arrival home, the two had grown close. The agent was grateful for conversation veering away from work, and for someone seeing her from a different lens; one through which she wasn’t fizzled down to a petrie dish of a mother through a workaholic microscope. Y/N was curious to know how her famous mandatory-Spencer-de-stressing-trigger-point massages had come up in conversation between JJ and her, now guilty looking, boyfriend. She crossed her fingers in hopes that he’d spared the details of the events that usually took place following the neck rubs - another kind of de-stressing altogether. “Do you guys hear that? I think Will’s calling me- and I should go put Henry to bed… It’s quite late…” she exaggerated, wearing a redolent expression as she slunk away with a towel around her cold frame. “We’ll talk later, Jareau,” she looked up at JJ, after the shivering woman squeezed her shoulders in a bid goodnight, waving to the small crowd. Swiftly, Y/N’s gaze met Spencer’s, her figure not having left his vision once. 

The yard and small pool was clearing out, save for Luke and Tara bickering in the corner, so, through the bubbling water, she waded in Spencer’s direction, noticing the way he was evidently mentally undressing her. As if by his telepathy, a thin strap of her bathing suit slipped from its place, causing the gears in Spencer’s head to stop turning as he swallowed thickly. “Hey handsome, long time no speak.” A soft smile graced his lips, adoration for her evident, in place of his muted response. Wordlessly, he slipped a finger beneath the strap, tentatively putting it back in place, refusing to break eye contact in some unspoken play for power. “What’re you up to?” She squinted, wondering exactly what his motives were. “Nothing much,” he pulled her closer by the waist, whispering in a gravelly voice only she could hear, “I’m just thinking about how you didn’t get the chance to finish what you started, earlier,”

“Are you implying that you want me to…” she floated onto his lap, hands draping around his neck to steady herself, “pick up where we left off?” The question left her mouth in a breathy whisper, straight into his ear. He turned to look at her, unblinking. “I’m implying, that I’ve had those pretty noises you make replaying in my head all night, and that I’d like to hear them again,”

“Remind me, doctor, which one of us said ‘we can’t’?,” she mocked his whine, rolling her eyes back. “I have a better suggestion, how about you remind me which one of us struggled to stand the last time we played this game?” The calmness of his voice was the antithesis of the fire she was feeling inside her. Satisfied with her speechlessness, his eyes drifted down her body as she pried herself off him, settling in the plastic indent of a hot tub seat to his side. The attention of the pair of lovers were drawn to Tara’s laughter as she stepped into a robe, calling it a night. “What’d we miss?” Spencer’s clueless innocence returned, as if the words he’d spoken before were now out of mind. Devilishly, Tara responded, “Oh, you know, just me completely destroying this man’s ego,”

“Doesn’t take much does it?” Y/N offered Tara her fist in solidarity. “No it does not,” Tara chuckled, bumping it with her own. “You guys do realise that I’m right here?” Luke scoffed, also drying himself off. “I think that adds to their point?” Spencer offered, pursing his lips, amused. “Well, I’m going to go and catch some sleep, and maybe even shed a few tears over what’s been said about me,” he playfully scowled at Tara walking away, throwing a middle finger at him through the air without looking back. “Trust me, they are very professional,” Spencer promised, turning towards his only remaining company in laughter. “I’m sure they are,” she joked returning a smile. 

The two of them talked beneath an ink sky, stars like pinpricks in a blanket twinkling through their conversation, until she found herself on Spencer’s lap, once again, the ambience shifting to something far more carnal. Throughout the night, like a band of elastic stretching between two fingers, the tension between them had heightened. Now, they both tested the limits, anticipating its snap. His chlorine skin tasted electric on her tongue as she painted his neck and chest with a lilac rendition of the silver initial dangling there, letting his sighs catch in the shells of her ears. Allowing her tongue to explore his mouth, his hands tightened around her waist. “Mhm, no, Y/N,” he spoke, regaining his fleeting conscience. “This,” — kiss — “is a bad,” — kiss — “idea,”

“Spencer, look,” she glanced over at the house, and his eyes followed suite, craning his neck slightly. “What do you see?” She asked. “Aside from a house bigger than my entire apartment complex?” Her face was a deadpan. “All the lights are out, Spencer,” she gave him a look that said, come on, profiler, figure it out. Not a single connection formed in his head as he stared at the way the luminous blue of the night time water cast ripples on her skin - skin which was all over his. “All the lights are out… It’s late… and everyone’s asleep,” he reasoned, more to himself than in response to her insinuation. “We have no real chance of getting caught, plus…” her dark eyes were obscured by the eyelashes sheltering them as she tilted her head. “Would it be so bad if we did?” Two of her fingers danced along his chest, walking towards the damp hair at the nape of his neck, using the strands to pull him closer. “Everyone knowing exactly how good you make me feel?” She purred the last part in his ear, tugging at the cartilage with her teeth. Spencer partially whimpered. “Don’t hold back, gorgeous boy. You sound as good as you taste.” His eyes shut as his head hit the rim of the spa - only briefly losing himself once her mouth was on him again. “Someone’s talking like they’re in charge,” he tilted her chin up towards him, forcing her eyes onto his own. “I seem to be the one doing all the work here,” she teased. He kissed each of her collarbones, eyes still trained on hers. “You shouldn’t speak so soon.” With that, he undid the top of her swim suit, exposing her chest to the frigid night air, compelling a gasp. “Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about doing this a majority of the night.” The bass in his voice reached her core. “For someone who is so fastidious about cleanliness, you sure have a dirty, dirty mind, doct-” She never had the chance to finish the honorific, his lips moulding around a hardening nipple, allowing his fingers to toy with the other. Rolling his tongue around the bud, he smiled to himself as he heard her call out his name, over and over, as if her voice was coming through a scratched vinyl. “Where’s all the talk from before?”

“You’re evil,” she groaned, her hips bucking against his board short clad body. 

Spencers lips travelled along the valley of her breasts, only to hike back up them at a tantalising pace, prehensile fingers covering the ground his mouth couldn’t. Her hands grasped so tight in his hair, he was sure the strands would fall out. A groan of his own left vibrations reverberating through her body, causing her heart to jump. “Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he gnarred, as his hands gripped her wrists, holding them behind her back. With his unoccupied hand, he dipped his fingers into what was left of her apparel. “Is this all for me?” He smirked at the ease with which his fingers slipped over her. “Don’t flatter yourself, we’re in water,”

“You’re so impolite - even when I’m spoiling you,” tutted Spencer. Retroceding his hand, determined to leave her on edge, and her skin a mirror image of his, he continued to pin her fragile hands back against the base of her spine. “S-Spencer, please,” her words struggled to make any sense, “please, I need more,” she panted out, moving purposefully along the growing outline in his shorts. The pleasure was overwhelming. Spencer fiddled with the material still covering her, pulling it aside to make way for himself in between her legs. His eyes softened, silently seeking permission, even as she impatiently pulled down his waistband. When she nodded and eased his ailing with a soft, lingering kiss, he slowly pushed himself into her, never failing to be acutely attentive to her comfort as if it was their first time together. “This was what you were after?” Teased Spencer, his hips speeding up. “So badly,” she uttered out a sigh. “Then take it like you want it.” She craved his adept touch, and she made that known. “S- Spencer, oh god,” she groaned, “you feel so fucking good.” His breathing became heavier, softs grunts and hisses filling her ears with every movement. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, whining in a destitute way at the full feeling. At a slower pace, one of Spencer’s hands guided her hips along himself, while the other traced infinity on her sensitive nerves. “Sweet girl- fuck, you feel like a dream,” he moaned as she tightened around him. Her toes curled, the warm water of the pool splashing her bare skin. Spencer occupied all of her senses, the same way she did his. “I’m so close,” she whimpered, before he used his nose to nudge her face upwards, her momentarily open eyes reflecting constellations. Spencer kissed her once more. Her hands long freed from his grip, she left traces of herself in the form of tiny red sickles on his freckled back as her nails released some frustration. 

Dragging her fingers along his torso, she felt the muscles of his stomach tighten, hers doing the same. Shaky sighs wavered from her lips at the bliss Spencer was providing. “Keep your eyes open for me, angel,” she tried her hardest to focus on his lustfully blown pupils. “That’s it. Just look at what you do to me,” he gasped out, head falling backwards, eye contact broken - only for a second - before he gulped and looked back at her. “You’re breathtaking,” she whispered, hoarsely, stroking his sweaty cheekbone with her thumb.  She could recognise the golden gates of heaven in his eyes as he came undone inside her, warmth spilling over her in every aspect. The knots in her stomach loosened shortly after his, curses spilling from both of them. She rode him through his release, fond of the way he left light kisses on her temple, whispering compliments and confessions of love. Once he was sure she’d caught her breath, and some air had returned to his own lungs, he kissed her, gently, in the summer sauna heat, beneath the stars.

A loud cough startled the two. Stood in the open French doors of the veranda, scotch in hand, and eyes screwed shut, was David Rossi. Their minds were in the same place, wondering why they hadn't listened to Penelope’s drunken advice. “When you two are done, please remember to turn the tub lights off - and put the filter on high.” She hid herself in Spencer’s chest, heartbeat in her ears, contemplating holding her breath for a really, really long time. Spencer was flushed red, his own nose buried in her neck so as to not face the older man. “Or better yet, put some money together to buy me an entirely new spa,” Rossi, laughed, opening one eye to catch sight of Spencer giving him a shameful thumbs up. Even as Rossi wandered away, their embarrassment remained a fresh burn. Spencer groaned as her tired hand fumbled with his disastrous hair, “I don’t even want to begin thinking about how much of that he heard,”

“Or saw,”

“Don’t!”

“I’m never going to be invited here ever again, am I?”

[kissesfromkiki]

Tears

“Hey, don't be embarrassed. It’s… it’s nice to be adored, feel adored. It just feels misplaced.”

“Misplaced?” You quirk a brow in confusion. Conrad was your boyfriend, any and all adoration for him could never be misplaced.

“I’m just doing your dishes, and you’re looking at me like I personally hung the moon for you.”

You track his movement as he sets down a wet bowl on your drying rack and swallow.

Or

Conrad Fisher commits acts of service.

pairing: Conrad Fisher x fem!you (established relationship)

wc: 1.6k

a/n: kinda hate this, kinda don’t. (let’s ignore the fact that I haven’t posted a piece in over a year, okay? okay.)

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Conrad’s amused words cut through your daydreams.

You quickly glance down at your laptop shaking your head slightly, as if shaking away the thoughts, the feeling of a flush creeping into your skin.

“Like what?” You blink back up at him.

“I don’t know, it’s just,” He raises one of his hands from where he’s doing dishes to make a circular motion towards you. “It’s just like… like that first time you looked at me in the library. When I grabbed that book off the shelf you couldn’t reach. You looked like you were in complete awe at me over such a simple act. I remember it so vividly, it almost knocked me off my feet.”

Your skin feels hot as you blink rapidly. trying to regain your brain function. “Oh.”

“Hey, don't be embarrassed. It’s… it’s nice to be adored, feel adored. It just feels misplaced.”

“Misplaced?” You quirk a brow in confusion. Conrad was your boyfriend, any and all adoration for him could never be misplaced.

“I’m just doing your dishes, and you’re looking at me like I personally hung the moon for you.”

You track his movement as he sets down a wet bowl on your drying rack and swallow.

“Maybe, but you’re doing my dishes, in my kitchen, in my apartment, and without me asking. I would’ve gotten to them eventually, but you just took it upon yourself to do them for me.”

“Well, I mean, you’ve been so focused on this project for your engineering internship,” He gestures towards your laptop. “I know how important it is to you, but I also know you focus better in a clean environment. I just wanted to help you out.”

And you just can’t help but melt at the sentiment, “C’mere.” You jut your head back in a nod, signaling him to come closer.

Conrad rounds the counter and you swivel on your stool to face him properly, your knees knocking into his legs.

“Thank you.” Your tone is soft and sincere, dripping in affection.

“Yeah, of course,” He runs a hand through his sun lightened hair. “I just like feeling useful.”

You reach out, taking the hem of his button down and rubbing it between your fingers. You tug on the soft fabric, wanting him to bend down closer to you. Conrad of course obliges, leaning in closer to you. Once close enough, you tilt your head up to meet his, kissing him gently. An action of thanks and appreciation.

You weren’t home yet, so I just let myself into your apartment.

Hope you don’t mind.

nah you’re good

I gave you the key for a reason

make yourself at home

I’ll be back soon

You’d received the texts forty minutes ago while you were out grocery shopping. Conrad and you had plans to stay in and work on your respective projects for a bit before making dinner and watching some movie. However, he was early, like always. You finished up your shopping and headed home, only to now be struggling up the stairs with your groceries. Once you make it to the door, you slide the key into the lock and push the door open.

Conrad looks up from his spot on the floor, a few pieces of wood scattered around him, along with a few tools. At the sight of you with your multiple grocery bags, he scrambles to his feet and towards you, taking the bags from you and walking over to your kitchen.

“Y/n,” He practically whines. “Why didn’t you let me know you were back? I would’ve helped you with these bags.” He sets the bags on your small table.

“There’s only four bags, I didn’t think they’d be that heavy. I thought I could handle it.” You pout.

He walks over to you, “I know what you thought, but asking for help doesn’t make you any less capable Y/n.” He places his hands on your shoulders as he looks down at you.

You sigh, “I really hate it when you’re right Con.”

He cracks a smile at that and you laugh softly as he drops his hands from your shoulders.

You mourn the loss of his touch and decide to take a moment to survey the mess scattered around your living room.

Your lips turn up in a smile and you can’t keep the humor out of your voice, “What you got going on here bud?”

“I um,” He smiles sheepishly. “I saw the boxes for your new desk and chair, so I decided to put them together for you.”

“Well, I see the beginning of a desk. Where’s the chair, or have you not gotten to that piece yet?” I giggle.

Conrad huffs amusedly, “No, the chair was easy. It’s already in your room. It’s this desk that’s giving me the most trouble.”

You bite down your laugh. “Okay, how about this,” You move your hands to his upper arms, “We’ll open up some beers, and finish the desk together.” You slide your hands down to his. “And then we can order some dinner instead of cooking.”

“What? You don’t want grilled chicken?” He asks sarcastically with a teasing smile.

Your nose scrunches up in fake disgust, “Um no.”

He lets out a loud laugh and you can’t help but join in.

Three hours later the two of you are lounging on your couch, your legs draped over Conrad’s lap as he mindlessly strokes your thigh and a movie playing on the tv.

He clears his throat, “Y/n, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Uh… okay.” You sit up slightly.

“Nothing bad, I promise. Just wanted to run something by you.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, “Okay, what’s up?”

“So, you know how I wasn’t going to go to my mom’s memorial ceremony at the garden because of my job at the lab, but then I, um… got fired.”

“Yes, I remember.” You say softly.

“Right.” He swallows, “Well, as you know I saw my aunt Julia today, and well she convinced me I should go.”

It’s simple and, oh so easy, you know he needs to go. “I agree.”

“You do?”

“Of course. I mean I know you weren’t necessarily looking forward to going back there, being around your dad, and so on, but I also know you wanted to go and give your speech, for your mom.”

“Do you think it’s stupid that I’m feeling anxious about this?”

“Of course not Con. You’ve stayed away for your own good, you’ve been protecting your peace. However, now that you have that availability to go again to the ceremony, you should. It’s what Susannah would’ve wanted.”

“Okay, I’m going to go. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about since you said I should go though.”

“Well go on, I’m listening.”

“I want you to come with me.”

You stutter slightly, “Come with you? To Cousins?”

“You put me at ease, I want you next to me Y/n.”

Your mind is made up before he even finishes speaking, “Yeah, okay. I’ll come with you.”

“Really?” His eyes shine with hope.

“Of course Conrad. I would love to come with you, to visit Cousins.”

You can see the way his face melts in relief, “Thank you, so much, for doing this for me.”

“No, thank you for inviting me, for considering my thoughts and feelings about this whole thing.”

He smiles, “No need to thank me for that Y/n, that’s just basic consideration when you’re in a relationship. You talk things out.”

You lean forwards and kiss him. He’s taken aback at first but easily slides into response, moving his hand to the nape of your neck and tangling in your hair. You move your hand up his chest to rest on the side of his neck and feel his pulse jump when your fingers brush his pulse point. You break away slightly, needing air and nuzzle your nose against his.

“Quite the kiss just for us having a conversation.” He breathes out.

“Not just for that, for everything. For always taking me into consideration. Doing my dishes occasionally, getting me a matcha before class because you know I had a rough night, keeping my favorite snacks in your cabinets even though you hate all that highly processed junk, reading books you see me read so I have someone to talk to about them, bringing me food because you know I get in the zone with my work and forget to eat… building that chair and stupid desk.” You all but whine with a shrug of your shoulders. You move your hands to cover your face.

“Hmm… those aren’t even things I actively think about doing ahead of time, I just do because I want to.”

You pout affectionately, “Conrad Beck Fisher, where did you come from?”

“Boston.” He retorts and you burst into giggles.

He kisses you, soft and slow, savoring the moment. You can feel the smile on his lips and smile to.

Eventually he moves around on the couch, standing up, “Come on.” He holds out his hand to you, “We need a dance break.”

You place your hand in his and he pulls you to your feet, walking you guys in front of the coffee table. He pulls you into his arms, taking one of your hands and resting the other on the small of back. You bring an arm up around his neck and rest your head on his shoulder. He pulls you firm against him, resting his head on top of yours. The two of you sway to the background music of the movie.

I love you. Conrad thinks.

masterlist

taglist: @hannie-squirrel00 @jackierose902109 @watercolorskky @kcd15 @laurasdrey

[astralsummers]

Chamomile Kisses

Conrad Fisher x Girlfriend!Reader Rating: M Summary: You're sick, but your boyfriend is determined to nurse you back to health. Word count: 1.8K Warnings: No smut, but there are mentions of showering together and the reader mentions in passing Conrad fingering her so... do with that what you will. For the most part, this is some fluff. Notes: I'm working on another fic that is LONG. Needed a break from a minute, so I figured I'd crank out this cute little scene. I usually don't take requests, but fulfilled this one.

You and Conrad had spent the entire weekend partying. He just received his residency match, and after four years of him working hard and going through rotations, he felt like he could finally let loose. Half of Saturday was a haze, followed by a bottomless Sunday brunch and an afternoon at the sports bar for a Red Sox game. 

You woke up slightly out of it on Monday, but by Tuesday, you realized it wasn’t just a hangover that was dragging you down. Your neck felt swollen, and you could barely breathe through your nose. Conrad wasn’t in bed with you at that point; he’d already left for his morning run. 

You groaned as you dragged yourself to the bathroom, hoping that the steam from a hot shower would give your sinuses some relief. As you washed your hair, you heard the door to the bathroom open, and you knew it was your boyfriend. You spun around to face him just as he pulled back the shower curtain and stepped inside.

“Don’t kiss me,” you warned. “I’m sick.” 

Conrad frowned as he stepped closer to you. “What are your symptoms?” He grabbed a bar of soap right behind you, as he observed you.

“Sore throat, runny nose, congestion,” you replied, as he began to wash himself. Then, after another beat.  “Fatigue.” 

“Any cough?” You shook your head. “And it’s your first day of symptoms?” 

You shrugged. “I felt off yesterday, but I thought it was from a hangover.” 

“Right.” He placed the bar of soap back down, then shuffled around you to rinse himself off. “I’ll look more when I’m outside, okay?” 

“Okay."

The two of you finished showering quietly, mostly because your throat hurt too much for you to talk much. It was the antithesis of how your mornings usually went when you showered together. Conrad and you usually would kiss as you swapped places to be underneath the water, and sometimes, he’d slip one of his fingers inside you.

But that morning, he turned off the faucet without kissing you once. When he peeled back the curtain, he grabbed a towel off the rack and immediately wrapped it around you. Then he stepped out, grabbing his own towel on the way. He held out his hand for you as you stepped over the edge of the tub. You slightly shivered as you felt the cold air, and he reached his hands out to help dry you.

“Let’s get you dressed,” he said, as pulled you by your hand back to your shared bedroom. 

Whenever you had even a slight problem, Conrad went into overdrive to fix it. So you stood behind him as he grabbed underwear, one of his crewnecks and a pair of cotton sweatpants for you to wear. He handed the pile of clothes to you, as he found his own outfit for the day.

He changed into a pair of Levi’s and a t-shirt. “Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the bed. You followed his orders. When he was done changing, he grabbed both of your towels to hang back up in the bathroom, eyeing you as he stepped out of the room.

When he was back, he had a popsicle stick in his hand. He stood in front of you, and you peered up at him. His hands first touched the sides of your neck, right underneath your jawline. You practically moaned from how nice it felt to have two of his fingers press gently on the area.

“Your lymph nodes are swollen,” he said. “Now open your mouth.” You opened up, and he used the popsicle stick to press your tongue down slightly. The other hand was holding his phone up, which he was using as a flashlight to peer into the back of your mouth. He turned it off, and set the popsicle to the side. “Okay, now I need you to just breathe for me.” You did as he asked, and he leaned closely to you, as he pressed one of his hands on your low back and the other on your thigh.

He leaned back, and he pressed one hand against your forehead. “No fever. I don’t have a stethoscope so it’s not the best analysis, but it doesn’t seem like it’s anything other than a cold.” You already knew that, but you also knew you just had to let Conrad fuss over you. Knowing your boyfriend, he needed to come up with a plan to fix a problem on his own. “I’m gonna grab you some stuff. Wait here baby.” 

He picked up the popsicle and walked out of the room. You shifted so you could lay underneath the duvet again, eager to be back underneath the sheets. You heard him shuffling around cabinets. When he walked back in the room, he had a pill bottle cap in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He passed you the pill cap first and you saw three pills in it.

“It’s Sudafed and Ibuprofen,” he said. “You need to take both.” You nodded your head, plopped the pills in your mouth and took a gulp of the water he handed you. You heard the tea kettle whistle, and he grabbed the pill cap out of your hand before heading out of the bedroom again.

When he returned later, he was holding a steaming mug. He set it on the nightstand next to you. “There’s chamomile tea with honey and lemon. No coffee or caffeine until you feel better. I’ll come back with more sudafed in four hours or so.” 

You reached out your hand to touch his arm. “Conrad, you don't need to fuss over me. Thank you though.”

He looked at you and shrugged. “I like taking care of you.” He ran one of his hands over your head, cupping the back – right near your neck. “You’re the prettiest patient I have.” 

You giggled, even though it slightly hurt your throat. “I’m lucky to have such an attractive doctor.” Conrad seemed to have a gleam in his eyes. He dropped his hand from the back of your head, and then reached into a drawer in your nightstand, pulling out a small jar of Vick’s Vaporub. 

“All right, move over for a second,” he said, lifting up the duvet and sheet. You scooched to your left just a little, and Conrad slipped in. Once he was settled, he reached over, grabbing you by your thighs to pull you into his lap. He buried his head in the slope where your neck met your collarbones and pressed a light kiss right there. “Relax, I’m going to take care of everything.” 

He lifted his head up, pushing your hair to one side. He then opened the jar of Vick’s and dipped his fingers in, then started rubbing it along the back of your neck. Just the smell was bringing you immediate relief as is, but his hands felt even better as they worked your neck. He was gentle when he lightly touched your lymph nodes with it. You let out a small moan at the relief, and you heard Conrad chuckle. 

“God, it’s torture being around you when you make sounds like that,” he murmured. His hands then reached around your waist, pulling you somehow even closer to him and he buried his head in your neck again. The fabric of his crewneck that you were wearing prevented him from getting any of the balm on his own face.

“Conrad, I don’t want you to get sick,” you said weakly. You were yearning to kiss him, but you didn’t want to give him any of the cold you had. 

“Oh, get me sick. Who cares?” he whispered softly. “I gotta be near my girl. Besides, this is a part of your treatment plan.” 

You giggled again. “What is exactly?” 

“Me, holding you,” he said. “Maybe kissing you later, if you’ll let me.” 

“Mm, maybe.” 

Later that day, you moved to the couch. He followed the same regimen – making sure you were taking Ibuprofen and Sudafed when you needed to, passing you more tea and water to drink, and of course, holding you. You loved being tucked into his side as his hand ran up and down the side of your leg. He put on reruns of Real Housewives of Salt Lake City, one of your comfort shows.

When you woke up from your nap, Conrad was in the kitchen, leaning over a pot. You stretched out in an almost catlike manner, before sitting up. You looked at him for a minute, studying his broad shoulders and the way he towered over the stove. 

“Hi baby,” you said gently. Conrad spun around, grinning, and your heart swelled. 

“Hey, I’m making some soup,” he said. “Uh, it might not be my best work, but it should help.” 

You slowly stood up, nodding your head. “I’m sure it’s gonna be good. Thank you.” 

Already, the nap had made you feel better, even though you still had some congestion and a tender throat. You padded over to the kitchen, watching him use a wooden spoon to stir in a pot. He reached out his left arm to wrap around you, and you leaned into his side as he kept stirring. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of your forehead. “Any better? 

“Yeah, a little.” You yawned. “Still a little sleepy, obviously.” 

He smiled at you. “Go lay back down,” he said, jutting his chin toward the couch. “I’ll be back soon.” 

You nodded your head, walking back over to the couch. You curled up again, watching him instead of the show. After a few minutes, he walked back over to you, holding two bowls. He handed you one of the bowls, then plopped down next to you with the other one in his hand. You both ate in comfortable silence as the show played, though every now and then, Conrad would laugh at something happening on screen. When you were done, he picked up your dish and set it in the sink.

When he was back, he pulled you into his lap again as he stretched out across the couch. As you settled, you whispered to him, “I love you. Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Always, I love you too,” he said, as he looked down at you. “How about that kiss?” 

You pouted. “I don’t want you to get sick,” you replied. 

“Nah, it’s doctor’s orders,” he said, slightly shaking his head and grinning. “C’mon, just one. Indulge me.” 

You rolled your eyes. “I guess since it's the doctor's orders.” You leaned up and pressed a light kiss on his lips. He reached his hand behind your neck and deepened it. When you disconnected, you noticed how smug he was. 

***

The next morning, you heard Conrad sneeze in the kitchen, and you knew the two of you were in for a long week of taking care of each other.

[riickgrimes]

CHRISTOPHER BRINEY as CONRAD FISHER THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY (2022-2025) 3.02 | "Last Christmas"

[angelkissesox]

Conrad fisher x girlfriend! Reader

18+, smut, p in v, safe sex,aftercare, soft dom Conrad

Conrad and you had just gotten back to Conrad’s place after a romantic dinner which resulted in Conrad carrying you while you held the umbrella over you both as he walked you both back to his SUV. Once you were seated safe and he safely got you both back to his place, again carrying you to the door so your feet don’t get wet—he wasted no time once you got behind closed doors.

Im talking a nice opened mouth kiss, not rushed or aggressive but very needy, you even swear you got some whines out of him. “You have looked ravishing all evening and I’m sorry darling but I had to taste your lips” he whispers ever so softly when he began to pull away, you both out of breath, a string of saliva connecting you both.

“S’ okay love…just caught me off guard” you chuckled softly at his confession before he scooped you up and walked you to his bathroom—well your bathroom since you stay at his place so often you might as well live there too. He undressed you carefully—treating your evening gown with the most care before hanging it in the closet while you stepping into the glass shower. He soon joined you, pressing against your back gently.

The entire time you two showered it was silent and nothing inherently sexual but you knew this along with the romantic dinner and the shopping trip he took you on prior to dinner was all foreplay. He washed your body like you were fine china, softly massaging your favorite shampoo into your hair with the care of someone petting a kitten to sleep. Once you both were clean, hair conditioned and detangled…Conrad threw you over his shoulder and hauled you off to bed.

Conrad softly set you down on the bed before kissing from your ankle to your inner thigh. “Hey… is this okay? You know we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to okay? If at any time-” you cut him off with a breathy moan of consent, “yes I want this. And if I don’t I’ll tell you.” He smiled against your thigh before dipping between them. His tongue lapping at your clit, sending shivers all over your body. He dove his tongue into your leaking hole along with gently kissing your puffy folds which caused you to arch your back—breasts to the ceiling—as guttural moans escaped your lips.

Conrad’s eyes went black, almost primal, but not aggressive. If anything he just relaxed and let himself taste you, hearing that he was giving you such pleasure made him continue at the pace he had set. You snaked your hand down into his hair, your long manicured nails scratching his scalp as you grabbed his hair—smothering his face with you cunt. If this was how Conrad was to die he’d die a very happy man.

No matter how many times Conrad fisher went down on you, you always came in a matter of minutes. Once you did he happily lapped up your release before kissing up your torso—his mouth latched onto your breast gently—licking and sucking while you ran your hands through his now crazy hair.

“Mm feel better baby?” You asked him softly before he looked up at you—unlatching from your breast—before replying, “mhm..now I really wanna do you” to which you both chuckled.

Conrad ripped a condom open before rolling it into his leaking length. To be extra careful Conrad lubed up two of his fingers to gently stretch you out—again no matter how many times you’ve slept with him—which is like a handful, he still stretches you out. He then added some lube to his cock before slowly sinking into you, your hands holding onto his forearms tightly. “Baby are you okay?” He paused his entry as he looked at you with worried eyes, you knew he was serious when you called you “baby”. You nodded, Conrad frowned.

“Use your words. I will not continue until I hear verbal consent.” You took a quick breath, “mhm I’m okay…keep going” and he did. He started with deep, long, slow strokes and once he started to get moans you began to speed up to a tasteful speed but his strokes were still deep and long. When he noticed the tiny bulge in your belly, he rested his hand over it, “can you feel that? Can you feel me..?” He had this cute hopefully look on his face. He always did aim to please.

“Yes darling, you’re doing so good…I feel so full” you thumb gently rubbed over his bottom lip before giving him a soft, semi-sloppy make out with many moans passed between one another. You knew he was as close as you are when his thrusts became sloppy, and he knew because your walls kept clenching around him like a vice. He came with a deep groan, leaning close with his head buried into your neck as you came at the same time with an arched back and your eyes in the back of your head.

Once you both came down from the crashing waves of ecstasy—he slowly exited you—causing you to whimper. “Mm so sensitive…I felt good huh?” He chuckled against your cheek before picking you up and hauling you both off for a bath and much needed aftercare.

[lolastung]

THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY 3.11, “At Last”

[gashofleastresistance]

from yearning, tortured and obsessed to feral alley cats freaky in the sheets

[thatonekimgirl]

THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY || Conrad and Belly in 3.05 "Last Dance" That night, that was the last time we were ever together like that. What if I hadn't fucked it up four years ago? What if I hadn't pushed her away like I always do?

[nereidprinc3ss]

in the dead of night

in which spencer wakes up in the middle of the night with an overwhelming desire to feel you

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: fem!reader, soft dom!spence (certified nereidprinc3ss classic), sub reader, fingering, piv sex, praise, overstimulation, cr**mp*e (god pls we need a new term) a/n: this is probably THEE most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. but.... lowkey favorite smut i've posted thus far..... i'm such a sucker for disgustingly sleepy needy sex. just.... read it and u will see.... and as usual i love you!!! PLEASE tell me what you think!! MWAH

When Spencer got home around one in the morning, he’d been too dead on his feet to do anything more than get undressed, fall into bed, pull you close, and pass out. Now he’s slightly disoriented as he stirs, pinned between sleep and wakefulness as he realizes how you’ve curled into his side—your face is buried in his shoulder to the point where he’s concerned about your access to air—but each warm puff against his neck assures him you’re breathing alright. One arm is slung haphazardly over his shoulder and your top leg is wound around his. Without thinking, his hand cups the back of your thigh, stroking the bare skin where it presses against his hip. You’re never so soft as you are in sleep; plush, easy, gentle. Spencer realizes with some degree of frustration that he has to fuck you. That’s why he’s awake, and he condemned himself to the fate of it as soon as he touched you. 

Sometimes the impracticality of sex becomes so apparent he resents his own mammalian, biological drive to reproduce. It was never like this before he met you. You reduce him to nothing more than a primate doomed to follow its basest instincts. You make him feel stupid. 

God, he loves you. 

It’s with this in mind he drops his head to kiss your shoulder—a gentle sort of wake up call, as his hand snakes further around to your inner thigh and he presses his lips to your ear. 

“Baby?” he murmurs, kneading the smooth warmth of your leg. It doesn’t take much to wake you up. He thought after you’d been staying at his apartment on a semi-regular basis you’d begin to sleep through him getting up and coming home at odd hours, but if anything, you became more sensitive to the floor creaking or the mattress dipping. 

“Hm?” 

His fingers brush the fabric of your underwear. Your hips twitch. 

“Is this okay?”

You inhale deeply, readjusting your arms around him and nodding into his chest. 

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

The words aren’t desperate. They’re sleepy, mumbled, maybe even a little annoyed that he’s making you jump through hoops. The corner of his mouth twists in amusement at your perfunctory politeness and the way it poorly disguises your habitual impatience. 

“Thank you,” he says, rewarding you with his fingers pushing between your folds through the fabric. You say nothing more as he unhurriedly rubs your clothed clit, but he feels the way your breath catches for a moment—before pouring out in one deep tide. He presses slightly harder, transitioning from passes to slow, tight circles that elicit the tiniest, sleepiest moans. This goes on for a while until your hips begin grinding in isolated circles, chasing his hand. 

“Touch it,” you beg quietly. He can feel how damp you are through the fabric and realizes he was probably torturing you for several minutes, but sometimes he just gets so lost in touching you it becomes almost meditative. He pulls his hand away and snakes it between your bodies, sliding beneath your underwear and dragging his fingers over your puffy clit. You whimper but he quickly gets distracted when he realizes just how wet you actually are. Spencer sinks his fingers into you and moans lowly at the sound, rubbing at a spot deep inside you and rutting his palm against your clit rather than pumping his fingers. 

“Breathe,” he reminds you when he realizes how still and silent you’ve gone. A small amount of air escapes in a tremulous little cry as your hips roll gently against his hand—whether to escape the sensation or get closer is unclear. “You’re all wet, baby. Were you touching yourself before I got home?”

“Mhm,” you hum weakly against him. “Couldn’t come.”

Spencer feels like he could finish at the thought alone—the nightly phone calls while he’s away occasionally devolve into desperate phone sex and he’s gotten off to the image of you playing with yourself in his bed on more than one occasion. 

“We’ll make you come,” he promises, dragging his fingers from your soaked heat with bated breath. 

He pushes your underwear down first, until you can kick it off your feet (you’ll have to search for it between tangled sheets tomorrow) and then his own, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth as his cock brushes your tummy. Spencer hoists your bent leg further up his body, exposing your cunt a little more and reaching underneath your thigh until he can guide himself between them. 

The head of his cock pushes between your folds momentarily before he’s teasing your swollen clit, slipping the underside of his tip over it in lazy, noisy circles until you whine. 

“Stop it,” you beg, voice still strained with sleep, “need it inside.”

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing his lips to your hair as he notches his cock at your dripping entrance and slowly begins to push in. “You’re being very patient—”

He cuts himself off as the two of you moan in filthy harmony. You’re so worked up for him, so defenseless in your half-unconscious state that he slips in with far less resistance than usual. 

“Fuck, me,” he groans under his breath, hissing and bucking his hips when you tighten around him and cry out. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the Goncharov conjecture in an attempt to control himself; the i-th cohomology of the complex is isomorphic to the motivic cohomology group—and then he’s fine. He’s at least learned to stop rattling off mathematical paradoxes out loud during sex. “You okay?”

The only answer you have for him is an indecipherable whine that makes his chest ache. He rubs your thigh in sweet, soothing passes. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” A thought occurs—he chuckles breathily, seeing stars as you throb around him. “You never let me in that easily.”

“Mm,” you squeak, gripping his shoulder hard enough that it aches and he truly couldn’t care less, “you feel good.”

He exhales shakily, pulling out slightly before grinding his hips even deeper into yours. 

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, and he takes it as a sign that you’re ready to be fucked. Spencer’s not thinking about a whole lot as he withdraws all the way and you clench around him desperately—but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s realizing how much he loves your dirty mouth. When he was younger and dumber, he thought he’d prefer a girl who was soft-spoken and rarely (if ever) cursed. Now that he’s had you, he realizes how compelling and endearing the contrast of your soft voice is when you’re swearing like a marine. 

“God, I missed you,” he breathes into your hair as he leisurely finds the right pace and you melt against him. “I missed how soft and wet you get for me,” Spencer admits gently, eyes screwed shut as he rambles from a place of profound affection and not at all thinking clearly, “and I missed how you cry when you need it so bad it hurts, and I missed how sweet you are when you let me fuck you right after I get home and you’re so tired, just like this. You’re always so good, honey, I don’t know what I did to deserve you—” You whine and clench so hard around him it becomes an effort to push back in, and he groans as he realizes you’re already coming. “Good girl, baby. Holy fuck.”

That last part is more so whispered to himself, but he can’t help it as he feels you painting his cock with your release. You’ve never come this quickly before, and he slips his arm beneath the crook of your knee, pulling up and granting himself more access to fuck you harder and faster. You moan brokenly, sinking your nails into his back. 

“‘m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he quickly assures you, breathing hard, “that was so good, baby. It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

It seems the brief window between climax and over-stimulation has passed, and a gasp falls from your dropped jaw, arching into him as your body unconsciously tries to find relief from the sensation. 

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

“You can take it, we’re getting close,” he promises. Not a demand, but meant as encouragement. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”

“I don’t know,” you slur, the words rising to squeak. 

“I think you can. Come on, show me how you were touching yourself earlier.”

You whimper, but slide your hand from his shoulder and push it between your bodies. A gasp accompanies the jolt of your muscles as you make contact with your clit, probably demanding too much of it. Soon, however, the conflicted mewls melt into a rhythmic string of delicate, short moans, so pretty it’s like a practiced song. Spencer’s brain, usually overflowing with words, is nothing but a void of swirling fog—each of your perfect sounds, a little burst of light. Soon he’s making noises of his own, which you obviously adore if the way you tense around him is any clue. Usually he sublimates them into words, but he’s too tired, and you feel too good. Your combined moans, along with the sound of him fucking you and the sheets moving over skin make for a truly dirty soundscape. 

“Will you come inside me?” you beg breathlessly, and he can feel the movement of your hand speeding up as you get desperate. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at your plaintive request—the words bring him that much closer to finishing. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Spencer—” and somehow, when you say his name like that, he knows exactly what you want. He bows his head and finds your lips, mostly blind in the dark, kissing you messily until that split second where his grip on reality becomes tenuous before the building pressure finally bursts. Multicolored fireworks explode behind his eyes as he moans against your lips and continues fucking you through his orgasm in strong thrusts for as long as he can. Thankfully you finish again just as he’s running out of steam. He rubs the spasming muscles of your thigh deeply as you writhe against him in your typical push-pull style—you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it. After a moment you quiet down, stilling in his arms except for the continued expansion and contraction of your lungs. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so embarrassing.” Spencer chuckles breathily—kisses your forehead with his eyes still shut and slips a hand under your shirt to rub your back. 

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

“I have never—it’s never been so fast! It’s not supposed to be!”

“Why not?”

You huff.

“You’re the man. Men come too quickly. Not me.”

“I’m sorry you had to have two orgasms instead of one. Next time we’ll make sure you don’t come so we can even it out.”

You bury your face in his shoulder once more, immediately softening. 

“No! I take it back.”

“I thought you might.” His hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass affectionately. “Let's rally. We need to clean you up, angel.”

The pillow muffles your voice as you say, “I can’t. I’m asleep.”

“Can I record you saying that for playback in the morning when you ask me why I let you go to sleep with my come inside of you?”

“Spencer, I am seriously not moving. You woke me up. This is not a me problem.”

That makes him laugh, and he presses his lips to yours softly. After a long moment of his mouth moving slowly against yours, a needy little whine rushes from your nose, and it becomes evident he’s successfully kissed the attitude from you.

“You were so good, honey,” he murmurs against your lips. Another (shorter) kiss. “Did so well. I’m proud of you, baby.”

A second soft whimper from you as you chase his lips and he gives in once, briefly—knowing he can’t make you get up after this. How could he do that to such a sweet girl when she’s obviously completely exhausted? Jesus, you have him whipped. He recognizes that. And he made peace with it a long time ago. 

“Go back to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, already slipping back into unconsciousness like you knew you’d get your way. Knowing your boyfriend, you probably did. “I love you.”

“I love you. Even though you’re a princess.”

You laugh. 

Ten-ish minutes later, once he’s done the best he can cleaning you up and is throwing the covers back over both of you, you startle him slightly by speaking. He thought you’d been asleep. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you sigh dreamily, snaking your arms around him once more. Spencer’s cheeks heat up at the memory of the praise he’d shamelessly lavished upon you not long ago. He’s glad you’re barely awake, because he’s too flustered to think of a response. 

He loves it when you do that. 

[liaissante]

guess ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer really likes changing the way in which he wakes you up. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut (18+ mdni) tags: soft dom!spencer. oral (f receiving). spencer bought the underwear r is reading (it's described). very brief nipple stuff bc i hate writing that word xoxo. healthy sex discussion midway through!! communication yippee!! desired somnophilia (it doesn't actually happen). fingering. spencer's a little shit (who's surprised). not proofread!  word count: 2.5k a/n: the lacy black pair with the little bows 💃💃 the ones i picked out for you in tokyo 💃💃💃imagining s13 spencer specifically in that episode he has his firearms exam. u know the one mhm mhm! 

You were indescribably pretty, in Spencer Reid's very professional opinion.

In every form. Even your sickest, most disgusting form — according to you — when you had gastroenteritis that one time after being away on holiday. You were pretty when you dressed up for a date with him or drinks with your friends. When you had just gotten out of the shower and had wet hair and were wearing your pyjamas (either being a matching set or one of his stolen t-shirts). And, his most recent obsession; while you were sleeping. 

Which might be sick in some way shape or form. How much he liked watching you while you slept. The rise and fall of your chest, the blankets bunched up and falling just below your hips — showing the skin of your legs, because the weather was warm and Spencer's apartment was always warmer. 

Yes, it probably is sick. But it's not like he did anything about it. In fact, he usually just watched you until the clock ticked to a time he deemed unreasonable to still be in bed, and he got up and went on about his day (thinking about you the entire time, of course). 

But it was a Sunday, and you had made him promise to be there when you woke up that morning; too sick of finding him out in the kitchen already showered and making food. When all you wanted was to lie in bed for — at least — an hour with him before your days began. 

Your rule was probably the only reason Spencer's mind wandered away from their usual thoughts about you in the morning. But he also wanted to blame it on the fact that your hair was freshly washed and his sheets now smelled of your shampoo, and your legs brushed against his own so many times he thought you might be awake already. 

You were just so, so pretty. And his shirt on you had risen just the right amount, your stomach peeking through, and really, Spencer should not be held accountable for any of his actions that morning. He was but a man, at the end of the day. 

Despite everything he wanted to do to you, he was still a gentleman, and this was a boundary of consent you were yet to cross together. Hence; the arm snaking around your waist, pulling you into him, and the kisses he had begun leaving along your cheek, jawline and neck, hoping to coax you awake, gently. 

Hope that had been answered, because he heard you groan quietly beneath him — the sound, embarrassingly so, shooting straight to the pit of his stomach like he was a teenager. But you were awake. 

"Good morning to you too," you had murmured, voice riddled with morning husk and a layer of exhaustion no doubt still there. 

"Morning, honey," he answered, lifting his face from your neck to your own face, lips twitching a little as you blinked your eyes open. He was quick with it, connecting his lips to yours and eliciting a quiet squeak from you, which simply had him smiling. 

"I have morning breath," you said, though both of you knew he could not care less. He never did, which was almost laughable for a man with such a big phobia of germs. 

"I'll need to brush my teeth after this too, anyways," he had replied, and your stomach flipped in the best way possible. 

"What's this?" 

"Hopefully," he began, placing one last peck to the corner of your mouth, before he shifted your bodies enough so he could trail kisses down to your peeking collarbone. "You'll like it."

"Promise?" you asked him as he hooked fingers beneath his t-shirt, eyes searching yours for approval, before he pushed it up and over your chest.

"Promise," he said with a confirming hum, trailing kisses down your sternum, before kissing back up and taking a nipple into his mouth. 

He decided he liked you like this; still waking up, too out of it to properly silence yourself the way he knew you would if you were in any fully conscious state of mind. It was arguably his least favourite trait of yours — how much you hid when all he wanted was to hear every little noise you made (a thought that shocked him too, the first time he thought it). 

But your back arched and barely functioning limbs pressed down against the mattress when you mewled, and it was beautiful and he was repeating the motion of his tongue flicking over your nipple once, then twice, just to hear it again. 

He smiled at your breathless whimper of his name when he detached his mouth, a hand dropping to your hip and rubbing gentle circles into it. 

"So impatient when you're tired," he murmured, almost scoldingly, gaze flickering up to catch your expression. Not that there was much to look at — you were watching him through half-shut eyelids, lips pulled into a content smile. He moved his head to take the other nipple into his mouth. Goosebumps rose on your skin, and so he comforted the other (now neglected) peak with his thumb. 

But, he was a man on a mission. And so despite how much he wanted to tease you, he had other, far more exciting plans for you. 

Lips kissed down your stomach, stubble scratching delicately at your skin, making you squirm and evoking a hum from Spencer, who glanced up at you with an arched brow. 

"Stubble," you explained, almost breathlessly, and his lips pulled into a smile in acknowledgement. Which was sweet. 

What wasn't sweet was the way he grasped your hips between his hands and pushed them into the mattress and said, in his (incredibly arousing) low voice, "Need you to keep still for me."

"You don't want my hips punching you in the face?" you asked. He laughed at that — it had happened one time. 

"If I can help it, no," he punctuated his sentence with his fingers squeezing your left hip, and you only hummed in response. Then, "Aren't these the ones I bought for you?"

You looked down, and his fingers were hooked under the waistband of your underwear, black bows resting on either side and flipped up on his fingers. 

"Uh... yeah. I must've put them on by mistake last night," you told him, and his eyebrows only rose. "What?"

"By mistake?" he mused, one of his hands letting go of the waistband to trace his knuckle across the top and down over the centre of them, eliciting a shudder out of your lips. 

"I haven't done laundry?" you offered your second excuse. His bewilderment only deepened and he pulled his hand away from you.

"You wanna tell me the truth?"

Damn him. "Okay, so, I was planning on trying to do something with you last night. I did an everything shower and everything," very complex sentences you were creating, clearly. "But then I fell asleep."

"I see," he said, and amusement crossed his features. 

"I wear them all the time!" you protested. "They're comfortable. Also they're really pretty. You would know if you tried to have sex with me more often."

He laughed, only because he could see the faux pout on your lips, and he knew you weren't serious. "I already have sex with you a lot."

"Twice a week isn't a lot."

"I'd argue it is," he said, placing a kiss to the inner side of your thigh — the recognition of what position you two were in whilst having this conversation being somewhat jarring, but mostly humorous. "Do you want me to have sex with you more often?"

"If I say yes, will you?"

"I'll do whatever you want me to," he answered, hair tickling your skin as he tilted his head to the side, resting it on your thigh. 

"Then yes," you breathed out. 

"Okay," he nodded his head, picking it back up to refocus on his task at hand. "Can I take this underwear that you apparently wear all the time off now?"

"Yeah."

Even in the warmth of his apartment, you shivered when he tugged the black lace down — with some resistance he no doubt expected, but still reacted to with a barely audible hiss. You smiled at that.

"So pretty," he murmured, like it was the first time he was ever seeing you. 

He met your eyes one last time, and you watched that stupidly gorgeous smile stretch across his lips, before he was leaning forwards and licking a stripe down the centre, eliciting a breathy whine from your lips. 

He was painfully good at this — a fact that popped into your head every single time he had his mouth on you. You wondered if he was simply born with the knowledge of your body already catalogued in his brain, because even the first time he ate you out, you were immobile for thirty minutes (though, he did make you come four times at once, so maybe it was that). 

"Angel," you felt a nip on your thigh, and your head snapped down, eyebrows furrowing when you met Spencer's gaze. "Focus on me."

"I am," you huffed in response.

"Really?"

In theory, yes. You were thinking about him. Just a distant, past him. 

"Am I boring you already?" 

"Maybe. You might wanna speed up," you replied, always taking the opportunity to have some form of attitude towards him. 

"I miss when you were half-asleep," he sighed, but he gave you what you wanted regardless. 

Lips attached to your clit and his tongue flicked over it, and any retort you had died on your tongue. He liked to shut you up this way, it seemed. Hands that were still holding your hips pushed you into the mattress instinctively, having premeditated the bucking of them. A whimper escaped you when he sucked, head pressing down into the pillow beneath it, and you could feel the muscles of his face move as he smiled against you. 

He always ate you out like he was starved, and if you didn't know better, you'd think he was. He was almost pathetically down bad for you when he was horny, though, and even if you were promising him pleasure, his mouth would find its way to you no matter what. Something about being a service dom or whatever. He had told you about it one time while he was knuckle deep in you, and you clearly didn't retain much in that state. 

"Oh," you breathed out when he dropped his head lower, his tongue circling your entrance, nose bumping your clit. 

You could feel his eyes on you when he flattened his tongue, watching every micro expression you made. 

Now, Spencer Reid was never smug about his knowledge. All those memories and his ability to quote just about anything at the drop of a hat and he never bragged about it. But knowing you? That he could brag about for hours and then some. Because truly, he knew you.

He knew he could make you come just like this; obscenely eating you out. In fact, it was quite easy to. But he found no fun in giving you what you were expecting. It was the only reason he was returning his lips to your clit, a hand dropping down from your hip, sliding over the skin of your thigh, before brushing through your folds, teasingly. 

"Spencer."

He repeated your name in the same whiny tone of voice as your own, mockingly so, and if you weren't so hellbent on reaching an orgasm, you probably would've kicked him.

A finger pushed into you embarrassingly easily, and you moaned, louder than you had yet that morning, which he knew. 

Indecent sounds left your lips continuously, and you eventually stopped fighting them. Much to his satisfaction, clearly, because he had curled his finger in just the right way at the same time he sucked on your clit and you were crying out and hands that had otherwise been heavy on the mattress were flying to his hair. 

You felt and heard him laugh at your reaction, only for him to do it again before you could argue. 

"Fuck, Spencer." 

"I know," he said, lifting his eyes back up to meet yours, twisting his finger and flicking his tongue over your clit. "Taste so good, angel. Could stay here for hours, you know?" You did know. He probably would, unless you had a mass protest to hold. 

"Please," you gasped out, pathetically so.

"Please what?" he mused. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but he chose that exact moment to push another finger into you, cutting any sentences you had off with a moan. 

"You've gotta use your words, sweet girl." You shot a glare at him, and he barked out a laugh. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

He was sorry, because he resumed his ministrations without so much of a delay, both fingers pushing in and out of you, filling the air with vulgar wet sounds to accompany your gasps and moans. 

You moaned his name again, and he mumbled another gentle, "Yeah?"

"Wanna come," you said.

"I know," he said, voice oh so soft, juxtaposing his every action. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling," you replied, almost huffily, and he laughed, increasing the pace of his fingers only slightly. 

"You don't wanna ask me?"

"Do I need to?"

"Maybe you should start."

"Spencer."

He laughed again, and you felt him nod his head against you. "Okay, okay. Making you come. Relax, sweet girl."

Arguably, you were the most relaxed you could possibly be. But you no longer had enough fight in you to argue, because he was rutting the tips of his fingers up against that spot inside you, and his tongue was moving faster, and you were gone; seeing stars. 

Maybe one thing he loved more than eating you out, was making you orgasm from eating you out. The way your fingers that almost always ended up in his hair scratched at his scalp, your thighs clenching around his head just enough that he had an excuse to pin them open, your voice going breathless and high-pitched. He had watched and felt it happen so many times it was burned into his memory, and yet he was still in awe of you regardless. 

Coaxing you through it and teetering on the edge of overstimulation was another bonus, because your breathless moans turned into whines and you always, always tried to escape him, and he got to remind you how much stronger he was, arms hooking under your thighs and tugging you closer. 

"Spencer," you whimpered. "No more. Please."

That was his cue to stop, and he pulled back, lips upturned in a lovesick grin as he looked up at you, face glistening. 

He pecked up your body until he had reached your face, and then he was kissing you again, regardless of the remnants of your release covering his skin. 

"Did so good. You're always so perfect for me, sweet girl," he murmured against your lips, swallowing your quiet whines. 

"Love you," you managed to mumble out, and he smiled against the cheek he was now kissing. 

"Love you too."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

[sinfulspencer]

Noted.

Prompt: Spencer’s girlfriend is pregnant. He likes it a little too much.

Rating: M (Mature, minors DNI, 18+)

Warnings: SoftDom!Reader, Sub!Spencer, pregnancy kink, lactation kink, masturbation (female), teasing, nipple play, hair pulling, oral sex (male receiving), fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie.

Words: 7k

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[ssaprincess]

spencer reid x fem!reader microfic; 800 words; smut-adjacent, embarrassed spencer, slice of life

The light is low and golden, flooding the room from the lamp by her bed. Her hair is on his cheek and his nose; fragrant strands smelling like her conditioner and the faint notes of her perfume brush against his skin. Spencer tilts his head slightly and brushes his jaw against the crown of her head. It’s strange, he muses, to want to be so close to someone all the time.

The silence between them is easy and languid; they’ll both be asleep soon, and tomorrow is Saturday, and Spencer tries to remember if he’s ever felt relaxed like this before, so often and so predictably.

Her skin is mostly bare against him; it’s a ghost of the memory of earlier, when his hands wandered over her hips and the expanse of skin on her back, and she leaned into him with ease and trust that makes him want. He knows why; there’s a psychology behind the appeal of someone who trusts you, but it doesn’t account for the way it makes him feel all the way to the tips of his fingers, electrified and awake.

He puts his hand on her waist and wraps his arm over her and doesn’t think about it, one in a series of small miracles that have been occurring since they met.

And then, like a chain reaction, she tilts herself back; her hips shift and her body follows, inevitable, until she’s slotting into place firmly pressed against him, from her delicate shoulders down to her waist and her thighs, encompassing him with touch.

The friction of the pale pink cotton that stretches with a perfect fit over her hips and just below the small of her back against the bone of his hip and the soft hair beneath his own looser cotton catches Spencer by surprise. He was lost, thoughts wandering. Her hips against his bring him back to the moment, a moment too late.

The soft sound that spills out of his mouth is out of his control; he moans without meaning to, blood rushing through heated veins and senseless touch clouding his sense of himself. He feels it in the relaxed putty of her muscles under his hand when the sound meets her ears. She tenses; relaxes; and turns toward him all in the space of a second.

The romantic glow of the moment slips away from Spencer: he flops backwards onto her bed, his curls buried in the cotton of her pillowcase, and feels the vessels light up in his cheeks as he flushes tulip pink.

She laughs. It’s warm, and soft, and real and he knows— somehow, inherently— that she isn’t making fun of him, she’s endeared to him and she likes him and that sort of makes the mortifying ordeal worse.

He flings his bare arm over his eyes and everything goes dark as he squeezes his eyes shut.

Her voice floats in from above him. “Are you embarrassed?”

She sounds delighted.

“Yes,” Spencer answers, insistent.

A second later, she’s tugging his hand away from his face and pinning it wrist-up to the mattress and Spencer looks up into her face, and— oh.

Where he’d expected to find amusement, there’s something else on her face. Something darker and smoldering and focused in her eyes. The sound of his heartbeat intensifies in his ears, and he tilts his head back to look at her as she moves with focus, bracketing his hips and waist with the soft inner skin of her knees and leaning down over his bare chest. There’s a part of himself breaking off and floating downriver with the look on her face; he’s losing his grip on what he had to be embarrassed about as she looks endlessly at him, and he swallows hard enough to feel it in his throat and then—

All at once, she’s kissing him. Her chest pressed to his, a breath of air between her waist and the clenched muscle of his stomach. Her hand is still on his wrist, not forcing but holding in place. It feels like security as every synapse in his body lights up, and he can’t help it when he moans again, the sound trapped between her lips and his teeth and lingering, lingering.

She smiles into their kiss. Like she knew what she was doing. Spencer realizes it a moment too late.

With a rush of heady, bright confidence, he gently wraps his fingers around the width of her palm and braces his other hand on her waist; in one fluid motion, he flips them. She hits the bed with a breathless little sound and looks up at him like she wants to be taken, to belong.

He’s not always good with emotions. He doesn’t always know what someone wants just by looking at them.

Tonight, he knows. Tonight, he takes.

[geryone]

I Will Tell this Story to the Sun Until You Remember that You are the Sun, Erin Slaughter

[mortuusflores]

“And so I try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him.”

A Little Life, Hanya Yanagihara SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

[timotaychalamet]

“I don’t understand how someone can make love without being in love.”

The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1988) dir. Philip Kaufman

[fightingdragonswithwho]

SPENCER REID IN TO A BETTER PLACE (13X02)

[hotch-girl]