spencer reid is adorable

I love spencer reid too much for my own good follow backs and likes from berrynarrybanana. Requests are open (please use one of the prompt lists reblogged!) 😘

[headkiss]

non bau! reader suggestion! : librarian! reader!!! oh how i love librarian! reader...

-🪲

tysm for your request!! <3 | 0.8k words, r wears a dress and is referred to as she twice

As a library assistant, you’re used to receiving phone calls. Turning on your customer service voice, answering questions, wishing them a nice day, hang up, repeat.

It’s one of the main things you do, stationed at the desk for most of the day until there are enough returns on the cart to put away. You’ve already answered four calls this morning. Easy ones, at least, about whether or not you have a book in stock or your hours.

It’s the fifth phone call that surprises you completely.

“Hi, my name is Spencer Reid, I’m with the FBI.” is what the voice on the other side of the phone says to you when you pick up.

“Oh! Um. How can I help you?”

“We’re working on a case here, and I’m looking for a book that might help us. Would you be able to see if you have it in stock?”

“Yeah! Yes, of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

“I’m looking for a copy of Wuthering Heights. It would have been checked out and returned recently, probably by a white male.”

Your stomach sinks a little. “Is that the, uh, guy you’re looking for?”

“He might be,” Spencer says. Then, as if he can sense your spike of fear, “Let us worry about that, you focus on the book.”

“Right,” you flex your fingers and turn to your computer, pulling up the records. “Yes, it looks like a copy was checked out on Monday and returned.. yesterday evening.”

“Would you be able to set that aside for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you so much,” he says, then the line clicks.

You keep the phone in your hand for a moment, grasping on to the fact that someone the literal FBI is looking for might have been here just yesterday. Hell, you might have even spoken to him before.

Just as you snap yourself out of it and set the phone down, the front door is pushed open, a gentle breeze ruffling the pages of the books nearby. Through it walks a man wearing a sweater vest over a button up, a tie around his neck. His hair gets ruffled by the wind, too.

“Hi, I’m Spencer. We spoke on the-” he pauses when he looks at you, his eyes flitting across your face to your nametag and back up. His voice is quieter when he finishes “-phone.”

It’s then that you notice the credentials he has clutched in his hand. “Hi! That was faster than I expected.”

“The precinct is just around the corner,” he says.

You nod. “Let me just go grab that book for you.”

Spencer watches you go, your dress sweeping against your thighs as you slip out from behind the counter and into the aisles. He rocks back and forth on his feet, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater.

When you come back, Wuthering Heights in hand and cardigan slipping off your shoulder, he almost forgets why he’s there in the first place.

“Here it is,” you say, walking up to him, the book held out in front of you.

“Thank you,” he takes it from you, fingertips brushing yours.

You scan his face, and he looks so gentle, so sweet, that you let your curiosity slip out. “Can I ask why you need a book to solve your case?”

“We think the unsu- the man we’re looking for might have left a clue behind in it.”

“Like, a highlighted passage or something?”

“Exactly like that.”

“Defacing library books and wanted by the FBI… this guy really sucks.”

Spencer laughs. A quick, surprised thing that makes you smile, too.

“I hope it helps you find him,” you say.

“Me too. Thanks again,” Spencer says, looking at your nametag again and then letting it slip from his lips. “I’ll bring it back as soon as we’re done.”

“You don’t need to do that,” you say. “It’s considered damaged and, well, I’d rather not have a book read by a killer on the shelves.”

Spencer nods, saying yet another soft ‘thank you’ before heading out the door.

He slides into the passenger seat of the SUV (he would have walked to the library but they were kind of in a rush, active killer and all), and Morgan is immediately suspicious. “What took you so long, pretty boy?”

“She had to find the book,” Spencer says, clearing his throat.

“Oh, okay. Weren’t getting your flirt on or anything, huh?”

“I wasn’t- she was nice.” Spencer can feel his cheeks warming. He hopes Derek doesn’t notice as they pull out onto the street.

He knows you said not to return the book, but Spencer thinks he’ll bring it back anyways. Eidetic memory works better on printed words and images, after all. Maybe he’ll just.. forget.

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

this is what it's supposed to feel like

pairing: spencer reid x reader

word count: 12.6k

summary: after a toxic ex stirs old insecurities, spencer shows up, protective and insistent, proving that you deserve better

includes: no use of y/n, smut (MDNI), coworkers/friends-to-lovers, insecure reader, bar/alcohol, ex jealousy/freakout, protective spencer, implied (scarcely mentioned) age-gap, reader has a small panic/anxiety attack, sarcasm as a defense mechanism, slow burn/teasing, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (pull-out), fingering, praise/dirty talk, mutual release, post-sex aftercare, intimacy, age gap/daddy kink undertones, bedroom setting, clumsy fumbling, lingering touches, sweat and heavy breathing, consent-focused

this is the longest one shot I've posted. usually I try to edit them down, because I don't want people to have to pause and try and come back later and remember where they were. but for this one I just kept writing, and I decided to leave it long as hell because why delete all that work? lol

based on this request

The room is too warm.

Sheets tangled low around your legs, twisted into something that feels more like restraint than comfort. The air smells faintly of him—soap and something sharper beneath it, something you’ve never quite been able to name but have always associated with this: these visits, these nights, this version of yourself.

He’s beside you, chest rising and falling, breath still uneven. Spent. Satisfied.

And you—

You’re not.

The difference sits heavy in the space between you, unspoken but obvious. Your body still caught somewhere in the middle of something that never quite reached its end. A tension with nowhere to go. A quiet, unfinished feeling you’ve learned not to look at too closely.

James shifts beside you with a quiet exhale, like the moment has already left him.

There’s no lingering touch, no absentminded brush of his hand against your skin—nothing that suggests he’s still here with you in any way that matters.

He stretches. It’s casual. Unbothered. Like this is routine. Like you are routine.

The mattress dips as he sits up, running a hand through his hair before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The air moves with him, cool against your skin where the sheets have slipped too low.

“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he says, voice rough but detached, already halfway somewhere else.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Because then he glances toward the door. Just for a second. And that’s all it takes.

The rest of it settles into place like it always does—quiet, practiced, familiar in the worst way. He doesn’t tell you to leave. He never has. He doesn’t have to.

You know the pattern. You know your place in it.

You sit up slowly, the sheets dragging against your legs as if reluctant to let you go—or maybe that’s just you projecting something human onto something that isn’t. Wouldn’t be the first time tonight.

James stands, already reaching for his clothes. There’s no urgency in it, no embarrassment. Just efficiency. Like he’s completing a task.

Like you were one.

Your chest tightens—not sharp enough to hurt, just enough to remind you it’s there. That something is.

You gather your things from where they’ve been discarded, movements quieter than they need to be. Careful. Always careful. Like if you take up too much space, the illusion might break completely.

Like if you don’t, maybe it won’t.

A soft buzz breaks the silence. Not loud. Not intrusive. Just enough to fracture what little stillness is left.

James’s phone lights up on the nightstand.

You don’t mean to look. You really don’t.

But your eyes are already there, dragged by something instinctive, something tired and aching and quietly bracing for impact.

The screen glows in the dim light.

You don’t read the message. It's the wallpaper that gets your attention.

The girl in the picture is pretty. Effortlessly so. Long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, bright blue eyes caught mid-laugh. There’s a softness to her expression, something open and certain. Happy.

James' arm is wrapped around her waist, pulled in close—familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop.

He’s kissing her cheek. And she’s smiling. Holding up her hand. A ring catching the light.

Your eyes close.

Fuck.

It’s quiet in your head for a second. Completely, unnaturally quiet. Like everything just… stops. No thoughts. No rationalizing. No soft excuses you’ve been feeding yourself for months—years, maybe. 

Just that image. Burned in.

You inhale slowly, but it catches halfway in your chest. Stutters. Doesn’t quite settle.

Of course.

Of course there’s someone else.

Of course there’s always been someone else.

Behind you, James exhales like nothing’s changed. Like the room hasn’t just tilted on its axis. Like you aren’t standing there, half-dressed and suddenly very aware of how little space you actually take up in his world.

He reaches for the phone. The screen goes dark. Just like that. Gone.

“You good?” he asks, glancing at you briefly as he pulls his shirt over his head.

Casual. Offhand. Like he’s asking if you remembered your keys.

Your throat tightens. You nod anyway. Because of course you do. Because that’s the part you know how to play.

“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out softer than you mean it to. Thinner.

He hums, distracted already, fingers moving over his phone now that it’s in his hand. Typing something out. Quick. Easy. Unbothered.

You wonder if it’s her.

You don’t ask. You won’t ask.

That would imply something you’ve never been allowed to be.

You finish gathering your things, movements slower now—not hesitant, just… heavier. Like each small action carries more weight than it should.

Like something has shifted, even if nothing outwardly has.

Your shoes. Your bag. Your jacket. You pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the fabric before you pull it on.

Waiting.

For what, you’re not entirely sure.

For him to say something, maybe. To stop you. To explain. To choose.

But nothing comes. It never does.

James doesn’t look up right away.

His attention stays on his phone, thumb moving in short, practiced motions. Whatever conversation he’s stepped back into seems to take priority over the one he hasn’t even bothered to finish with you.

Then, like he remembers you’re still there—

“I’m slammed this week,” he says, almost as an afterthought. His tone is easy, unaffected. “Meetings. Late nights. The usual.”

You nod once. Of course.

He glances up briefly, just enough to check that you’re listening. Not long enough to actually see you.

“I head out Saturday,” he adds, tugging his watch onto his wrist. Adjusting it with a small, precise movement. “But Friday’s open.”

There’s a beat.

Then, like it’s already decided—like it always is—

“Eight work for you? Just come here.”

Not do you want to. Not are you free. Not even your name.

Just an expectation. A slot in his schedule. A space you’re meant to fill.

You nod again. Because that’s what you do.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter this time. It barely lands in the room.

He hums in acknowledgment, already moving on. Conversation over. Box checked.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, like your body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that there’s nothing left to wait for.

There never is.

So you leave.

The hallway outside is cooler.

It hits your skin in a way that feels sharper than it should, like you’ve stepped out of something thicker than air. Something that clung.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound.

And that’s it.

No footsteps following. No voice calling you back.

Just quiet.

Friday comes anyway.

It always does.

But it feels different this time—not in any loud, dramatic way. Nothing that announces itself. Just a subtle misalignment. Like something inside you shifted a fraction to the left and never quite settled back.

You go through the motions of your day. Work. Conversations. Background noise. The steady rhythm of everything that’s supposed to feel normal.

The cursor blinks.

Steady. Patient. Indifferent.

You haven’t typed in—what, minutes? Longer than that. The document on your screen sits untouched, words from earlier staring back at you like they belong to someone else. Like they were written by a version of you that knew what it was doing. A version that wasn’t… this.

Whatever this is.

The office has shifted around you without you noticing. The low hum of conversation has thinned out, chairs scraping less frequently, the rhythm of people packing up settling into something quieter. End of day.

Your fingers rest lightly against the keyboard, unmoving. Your eyes fixed somewhere just past the screen, unfocused. The kind of staring that isn’t really seeing anything at all.

Eight o’clock.

The thought drifts through, uninvited. Lands heavier than it should.

Just come here.

Your jaw tightens—barely, but enough that you feel it. A slot in his schedule. A space. Something to fill.

“Are you coming?”

The voice cuts clean through the fog. You jolt.

It’s small, but sharp—your shoulders tensing, breath catching just enough to betray how far gone you’d been. Your head turns too quickly, like your body is scrambling to catch up.

Reid is standing a few feet away from your desk.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression—not quite concern, not quite surprise. More like confirmation. Like he’d suspected you weren’t really there long before he said anything.

His bag hangs loosely from one shoulder, one hand hooked around the strap. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way he does—too observant, too precise. It’s never invasive, exactly.

Just… thorough.

“The team’s going out,” he says after a moment, voice gentle but clear enough to anchor you back into the room. “Luke found a place a few blocks over. Apparently they have—” he hesitates, searching for the phrasing, “—statistically above-average reviews for their bourbon selection.”

A beat. His gaze doesn’t leave your face.

“We’re heading there now.”

There’s a pause—not empty, not accidental. Intentional. He gives you space to respond, but not enough to disappear into.

“Are you coming?”

The question lands softer than it should. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it.

You open your mouth—“Um”—but it doesn’t go anywhere. Your eyes drop instead, almost instinctively, to your phone where it sits on your desk.

Dark screen. Still.

He doesn’t comment on it, but something shifts behind his eyes—some quiet recalibration, pieces sliding into place. He’s good at patterns. Better at people than he likes to admit.

He’s seen this before. Not the specifics. Not the details. But the shape of it. Waiting. Hesitation. Obligation dressed up as choice.

You look back up.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t filled the silence. Just stands there, steady, patient in a way that doesn’t feel like pressure—but doesn’t let you hide either.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Sure.”

The bar is louder than the office.

Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that it fills the empty spaces in your head with something external—music threading through conversation, glasses clinking, laughter rising and falling in uneven bursts. Warm light spills across polished wood and crowded tables, the air carrying the sharp, sweet burn of alcohol.

Your phone glows dimly in your hand.

Thread open. Messages stacked one on top of the other, a timeline of something that always felt like more when you were in it than it ever looks like now.

Short texts. Late-night logistics. Half-finished conversations that never needed finishing because they always ended the same way.

You scroll.

Your thumb hesitates over one from a few weeks ago—You up?—and something in your chest tightens, small and familiar. Predictable.

It’s just after eight.

You glance at the time again like it might change if you look at it differently.

No new message.

No are you on the way, no where are you, no irritation at your absence. Nothing to acknowledge that you didn’t show. Nothing to suggest he cares that you didn't.

Your teeth catch the edge of your thumb before you realize you’re doing it.

Across the table, laughter breaks—Luke saying something you don’t quite catch, JJ swatting his arm, Rossi shaking his head with that low, amused huff. It’s easy, natural. Effortless in a way that feels… distant.

A glass taps down in front of you.

You blink, pulled back just enough to look up as Emily slides a shot onto the table with a small, decisive nod.

The glass catches the light—amber, sharp. You stare at it for a second like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to have it.

Then you pick it up.

Everyone cheers.

It’s loud, overlapping—Luke’s easy grin, JJ’s bright laugh, Garcia already halfway to a dramatic “bottoms up!” before the rest of the table catches up. Even Rossi lifts his glass with a quiet sort of approval, something softer tucked beneath it.

Spencer raises his glass of water too.

His fingers curl loosely around it, the motion a fraction delayed—like he’s watching first, cataloging, before participating.

His gaze flicks briefly toward you, quick enough that no one else would notice. Long enough that he registers the way your grip on the shot glass is just a little too tight.

Then you drink.

It burns. Sharp and immediate, a clean line of heat down your throat that should anchor you, should pull you fully into the moment. For a second, it almost does—your eyes squeezing shut, your breath catching on the exhale.

But it doesn’t last.

It never does.

Soon, the group begins to scatter.

JJ and Garcia vanish first, drawn toward the dance floor like it’s a magnet, laughter trailing behind them—bright, unrestrained, a kind of joy that feels almost dissonant after the quiet heaviness of the week.

Emily and Tara drift toward the bar, conversation already picking up mid-thought, something low and conspiratorial threading between them.

Luke and Rossi stay, leaning in over the table—voices dropping into that familiar rhythm of debate, something about whiskey aging processes and whether it actually makes a measurable difference.

And just like that, the space shifts.

Your shoulders drop before you even realize you’ve been holding them tense.

The noise of the bar swells and dips around you, laughter rising somewhere to your left, the low hum of conversation weaving in and out beneath it—but it all feels… distant. Like you’re listening through a wall. Like you’re not entirely in the room so much as adjacent to it.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s subtle, barely noticeable over the music—but you feel it. Your gaze drops immediately, like it’s been waiting for the excuse.

James.

Your thumb hovers for half a second before you tap the screen. The message is a picture. You don’t open it. You don’t need to.

You already know what it is—his version of an invitation. A summons, really. A wordless where are you? wrapped in something that’s never actually been about you.

You turn the phone face down against the table, like that somehow dulls the weight of it. Like it isn’t still sitting there, waiting. Expecting.

Your fingers curl loosely around the edge of the table instead.

You could leave.

The thought slips in quietly, familiar as a well-worn path.

You could make an excuse—say you’re tired, say you forgot something, say anything at all. No one here would question it. They’d nod, tell you to text when you get home, maybe tease you lightly about being the first to bail. And then you’d go.

Back to the hotel. Back to him. Back to something predictable. Easy.

Your teeth catch your thumb again before you can stop yourself.

You don’t belong here.

The thought settles in, heavy and certain.

You grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, and for the first time tonight you notice how small the space feels around you. Everyone else is laughing, moving, drifting through their easy rhythms like they belong here. And you… you’re just a shadow at the edge of it, fresh out of the academy, six months in, surrounded by people who’ve been this team for a decade. You’ve been trying to fit. Trying to catch up. Trying not to be noticeable.

You’re just a shadow at the edge, watching everyone else move like they belong here.

“Hey… you okay?”

Your chest tightens, breath stuttering. You snap your head up, startled, and your eyes catch Reid’s. He’s standing there, calm, patient, his gaze scanning you like he always does.

“I’m fine,” you say, softer than you mean to.

He tilts his head, suspicion flickering in his eyes. You know he sees through you, and the thought makes your stomach twist. You need movement, something to anchor yourself. “I’m getting another drink,” you tell him. “Anyone want anything?”

Rossi shakes his head without looking. “No thanks, kid.”

You nod, forcing yourself to push away from the table. The chair scrapes the floor, the sound louder than it should feel, echoing in the hollow space of your chest. Step by step, you move toward the bar, each one deliberate, grounding yourself in the smallest act of choice you’ve taken all night.

The hum of conversation and clinking glasses feels distant, muffled by the tension crawling up your spine. You take a breath, shallow, careful, like the air itself might betray you.

A quiet shift to your left makes you glance over. Reid’s there. Close enough that the warmth of his presence nudges your awareness, but not so close that it feels like intrusion. His hands rest lightly on the bar, posture relaxed, shoulders squared. Calm. Steady. The way he always is.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” you say, voice half curiosity, half challenge, like it matters.

He shrugs. “I don’t.”

You just nod, not because it surprises you—because it doesn’t—but because you need the distraction. Something to ground yourself in the ordinary. You catch the bartender’s eye, raising a hand.

“Vodka cranberry,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “Double.”

The words feel heavier than usual, like the alcohol isn’t just going into the glass—it’s for you, to hold on to, to push the buzzing of your chest down just a little. You watch the bartender pour, the ruby-red liquid spilling over ice, the glass catching the warm bar lights.

Reid doesn’t comment. Doesn’t question. Just leans there beside you, quiet, presence solid and patient. You can feel him cataloging, observing, and it’s both comforting and infuriating. His gaze isn’t demanding, not interrogating—it’s just… aware.

You shift slightly, curling your fingers around the glass when it lands in front of you. Cold against your palms, weight real and grounding. You lift it to your lips, sip carefully, and let the burn of it anchor you to the moment.

You glance at Reid over the rim of your glass, letting the drink settle on your tongue for a beat before you speak. The words are sharp with a thread of sarcasm, more shield than truth.

“Did you… just follow me here to watch me drink?”

Reid blinks, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s subtle, quiet, like he’s trying not to let the joke slip fully free, but it lands anyway. The kind of smile that reaches only his eyes and leaves the rest of him calm, unreadable.

“No,” he says, voice low, even, measured. But the smile lingers, a small curve of humor in the steady precision of him. “I—I thought you looked like something was bothering you.”

You don’t know why his words sting a little. It’s not exactly the concern you wanted, but it’s the first thread of recognition you’ve had all evening that someone—someone who actually sees—might notice you.

You set the glass down, careful, deliberate. Eyes meeting his, something in your expression half-asked, half-daring.

“You… you didn’t have to,” you mutter, voice low, and maybe it’s a statement. Maybe it’s a question. Maybe it’s both.

He tilts his head, that same patient tilt, as if weighing what to say, how much to share.

“I know,” he admits softly. “But I—” He pauses, eyes scanning you again, lingering on the tension you’ve carried in your posture, the way you brace yourself in space. “I just wanted to make sure you were… okay.”

You stare at him for a second. Normally, you’d nod, mumble, “Yeah, fine,” and push him away with a wall built out of routine, out of habit, out of every self-preserving instinct you’ve honed. But now… now something else is threading through you, quiet but insistent.

You let your mouth open before your brain can catch up. “My boyf—This guy I was seeing… It turns out he's engaged.”

“And of course he—he doesn’t care,” you blurt, voice catching on the last word. “I mean, not like it’s supposed to matter to me, right? We had this sort of unspoken agreement that this thing wasn't serious. But I was thinking about how if it was unspoken, was it really an agreement?”

Your hands gesture helplessly, tapping, twisting, grasping for purchase in the air. You hate how much of this is spilling out. You hate how much of this is just you, raw and unfiltered.

“And the worst part is that I couldn’t even… I couldn’t even hate him properly “ you continue. “James has always been like this, I've always known what this was. It's my own fault, really. I started thinking it was something more than what I deserve.”

Reid frowns. Opens his mouth, something on the tip of his tongue, but the words never leave his mouth.

They don't get the chance.

“What the hell?”

Your head snaps around. Heart stutters. There he is. Standing too close to the bar, shirt untucked, hair combed back, angry eyes locked on you.

“James?”

“You—” he starts, then cuts himself, eyes narrowing, voice low but tight. “You blew me off… for him?” His gaze flicks toward Reid, and you feel your chest tighten at the way he says it, the edge in his tone: him—like the word itself is a judgment.

You open your mouth, but your voice barely rises above a whisper. “I—James, it’s not—”

“Not what?” he yells, teeth clenched. “Not what? You’re supposed to care about me! I waited. I actually waited for you tonight!” His chest heaves.

You feel heat rush to your face, your chest tightening. Words stick in your throat. You try again, voice weak, small. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t,” he spits, waving a hand at you, eyes blazing. “You never do. You just… just take. Always taking. And now you’re here, with some… some old nerd?”

You can’t stop it. The word nerd bouncing off James’ teeth makes you snort before you even realize it. Small, sharp, ridiculous.

His eyes flick toward you, narrowing. “What—what’s so funny?”

You tilt your head, letting the corner of your mouth twitch. “You. You actually said that. Nerd. That’s… kind of sad, actually.”

The laugh dies quickly in your throat when you notice how fast his expression hardens. His jaw clenches. Fingers curl, like he’s balancing between self-control and something darker.

His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You—you think this is funny?”

You glare, something snapping in your chest that’s been coiled too long. The last weeks, the tension, the weight of always being small in his world, the image of her burning itself into your mind.

“No, actually, it's not funny,” you spit, voice sharper than you intend. “Because unlike you, some of us actually care about other people. You know, like, your fiancée. Or does that not matter in your little world?”

James’ nostrils flare, the heat in his face rising. “That’s none of your business!” he hisses, stepping forward, closing the distance, chest nearly brushing yours. His hand lifts, threatening—like he thinks he can push you back with sheer weight.

You don’t even flinch. Not because you’re brave—there’s no room for fear, no time for hesitation—but because Reid is already there.

In one fluid motion, Spencer’s hand clamps around James’ wrist, yanking it behind his back. His other hand presses firmly to James’ shoulder, and suddenly the ex is face-down against the bar, pinned with a precision that leaves no room for argument.

“Don’t touch her,” he says, voice low, each word clipped and deliberate—the same tone he’d use when taking a violent suspect into custody.

James struggles, shoving lightly at first, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Hey—what the hell, man?—”

Then a flicker of rage crosses his face. His eyes narrow, jaw tightening, as he shoves and strains against Spencer with increasing force.

“Do you know who you’re dealing with? You have no idea—no—” James’s face reddens, frustration mounting. “Get—off—me! You little—!”

“Let him go, Reid,” you say. “It's not worth it.”

Reid’s grip doesn’t vanish all at once. It loosens in increments, controlled and deliberate. Like he doesn’t trust the space yet. Like he doesn’t trust him.

You can see it—tension coiled in Reid’s arm, the restraint it takes to let go at all. And then James wrenches himself free.

It’s messy and abrupt, a sharp pull that breaks whatever control Reid had just barely eased into. James stumbles a half-step forward before he catches himself, chest heaving, shoulders tight with anger that has nowhere left to go but outward.

He turns to you. And for a second, you see it. Not affection, nor regret. It’s not even the hallow imitation of either he’s always fed you

It’s pride, bruised and ugly.

“You know what?” he snaps, “I’m done.”

The words land harder than they should. They’re expected, sure, but they’re still his. They’re supposed to mean something, they’re supposed to matter. You’d feared hearing those words from him for months.

“I’m done waiting around for you,” he continues, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Done dealing with your bullshit, your—your games.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want to throw yourself at—what, coworkers now? Fine. Have fun with that.”

Your throat tightens. You should feel something. You do feel something. Just not what you expected. You feel the sting you’d expect—the tinge of hurt. But beneath that, beneath the instinctive urge to apologize, smooth it over, shrink yourself into something easier to handle—

You feel relief.

James exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Whatever,” he mutters. “You’re not even worth it. This is pathetic.”

He turns sharply, shoulder clipping someone as he shoves his way through the crowd, muttering under his breath, anger radiating off him in waves that part people before he makes it to them.

It’s only then, in the space he leaves behind, that you realize just how many people were watching. 

The noise of the bar doesn’t stop, but it shifts. Warps around you. Conversations falter at the edges, eyes linger a second to long before pretending they weren’t looking at all.

There’s a circle. Not a full one, not obvious, but enough. Enough to make your stomach drop. Enough to draw your eye to the woman standing just a few feet away, brows drawn slightly together and a frown on her lips. 

Prentiss shifts forward when you make eye contact, and suddenly your chest caves in on itself.

She saw.

Every word, every crack in your voice. Your fingers curl in on themselves, nails biting into your palms. 

You want to disappear.

The thought hits hard and immediate. If you could just step back, just slip out, just vanish into the crowd and out the door—

You wouldn't have to see the way they’re looking at you. You wouldn’t have to feel it. The shame curling low in your stomach and sharp in your chest, worse than anything James said.

Your throat tightens, breath catching too high in your chest. You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here.

You take a small step back, then another. Your vision tunnels slightly, the edges of the room blurring as your focus narrows to one thing: out. You just need to get out.

“Hey, what ha—”

“I, uh—I just need some air,” you blurt, the words tripping over each other. You don’t wait for a response. 

You turn too quickly, nearly bumping into someone as you push past, murmuring a half-formed apology. The door is right there. You don’t think, you just move. Push.

The cool air hits you all at once. It cuts through the heat clinging to your skin. You inhale hard, too fast, like your lungs forgot how to do it properly and are scrambling to catch up. Cold air floods in. Again. And again.

Your hands come up instinctively, bracing against your ribs like you can physically hold yourself together.

It’s quieter out here—the traffic is slow, the music is muffled. Less noise, less pressure. 

You bend slightly at the waist, dragging in another breath, slower this time. Trying to make it stick. Trying to make it work.

Your breathing evens out first, but your heart doesn’t get the memo as quickly. 

It keeps racing, thudding hard and uneven. You take another deep breath and lean back against the brick wall, the rough texture pressing through your clothes. Solid. Grounding, in a way.

Your knees give out before you really decide to sit.

You slide down slowly, controlled at first and then not, until you’re on the sidewalk, the cold seeping through the fabric of your pants. It bites, but you don’t move. Your head tips back against the wall. Eyes close.

For a second, you wish you were a smoker.

The thought is absurd. But right now… right now feels like it would make sense. Something to do with your hands. Something to focus on.

The door creaks open behind you. Footsteps follow, measured and unrushed.

There’s a small, stubborn part of you that hopes that if you stay still enough, whoever it is might just leave. Give you a second longer to exist in the quiet, nothing expected of you.

The footsteps stop anyway, just to your left.

You crack one eye open, lashes sticking slightly where they’d pressed too tight together. Your vision takes a second to focus, the streetlight catching on something glassy, red—your drink.

You open your other eye, gaze tracking up to the person holding it out to you. Reid. 

He’s standing in front of you, one hand holding out your vodka cran, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. His poster is relaxed, but there’s something careful to it—like he’s making a conscious effort not to crowd you, not to overwhelm you.

His eyes flick over your face quickly, taking in more than you’d like him to. The slight flush still lingering on your cheeks, the uneven way your breath settles, the way your fingers curl loosely against your knees like you’re not entirely sure what to do with them.

Your gaze drops back to the glass in his hand.

“You—” your voice comes out a little rough, like you haven’t used it in a while. You clear your throat. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to leave the building with alcohol.”

“What are they going to do, arrest me?” he winces slightly, like he regrets his own joke before he’s even fully said the words.

“Well, then I guess you’re a repeat offender now, huh?” The words leave your mouth before your brain can veto them. You wince, exactly the way Reid just did.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

But Reid just lets out a quiet, low laugh. Sudden and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to say something like that. “Don’t be sorry. I joked first.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and reach for the glass. Your fingers brush his as you take it, the warmth seeping through your skin. “Thanks,” you murmur.

He doesn’t speak, just tilts his head and slides down onto the curb beside you. You stiffen immediately. “Don’t,” you whisper, a little sharp. “You’re… you’re wearing a suit.”

He glances down at the neatly pressed fabric, then back at you, corners of his mouth twitching in that faint, crooked smile that somehow disarms all argument. “I can,” he says simply. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he does.

Reid shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands. “Are you… okay?” His voice is careful, gentle, like he’s handling something fragile.

You glance down at your knees, still gripping the glass a little too tightly. “I’m… embarrassed,” you mutter. Your throat tightens. “My boss… just saw me get berated by some guy in a bar.” The words taste bitter on your tongue. You imagine her eyes on you, all judgment and concern, and you want to crawl into yourself, disappear.

Reid lets out a quiet laugh, soft but impossible to ignore. “She actually saw me pin him to the table,” he says, voice teasing, but still calm, controlled. “Arguably, that’s a worse situation.”

A laugh escapes you, small, shaky, but genuine. You shake your head, a little of the tension leaving your shoulders. “Yeah… okay. I’ll give you that. Definitely worse.”

He tilts his head, gaze curious, unreadable. “Prentiss doesn’t care that it happened. She just wanted to know if you’re okay.”

You swallow, letting the words settle. Somehow, knowing that she’s not judging, not holding it over your head, makes the heat of humiliation fade a little. “I… I think I am,” you admit softly, letting your fingers relax around the glass. “Thanks… for defending me.”

“Any time,” he says. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way. Not by him. Not by anyone.”

Your breath hitches a little. The words settle in your chest, heavy and warm, threading through the lingering embarrassment. You glance up at him, half-expecting teasing, half-expecting judgment—but there’s none. Just… that steady presence that makes it feel like the world outside this curb has stopped.

“You deserve better,” he adds, more softly this time. “Not just protection from him, but someone who actually respects your time, your space, your… everything.”

"You really think that?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. The skepticism is instinctive, a reflex you've built up over years of being told you're too much, or not enough.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. "I know it.”

You take a sip of your drink to hide the way your mouth wants to twist, letting the vodka burn sharp and distracting on the way down. You stare out at the streetlights, watching the traffic pass, needing to look at anything but him.

"Well," you say, letting your head loll back against the brick to look at him, your voice dipping into that familiar, jagged sarcasm you wear like armor. "Let me know when you find someone who does that, will you?”

Reid doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. He just looks at you, eyes soft but intent, reading past the deflection like it’s written in a language he’s fluent in. The traffic rushes by, filling the silence between you, but he doesn’t look away.

"I know someone who’s willing to try," he says.

The air between you seems to still, the rush of traffic fading into a dull, distant roar. Your grip on the glass tightens automatically, a knee-jerk defense against something that feels dangerously like hope. You search his face for the punchline, the awkward hesitation that tells you he’s just being nice, but there isn’t any. Just that steady, calm regard, like he’s stating a fact as simple as gravity.

It’s terrifying. It’s the most genuine offer you’ve had in years, and it comes from the person you least expected to dissect the messy, jagged parts of you and still want to stick around. You force a short, skeptical breath of a laugh, trying to shove the moment back into the box labeled ' impossible' before it can crack you open. "You," you start, your voice rougher than you intended, "you realize I'm a disaster, right? That's—that’s what tonight was. That’s what I am."

Reid just shifts slightly, turning his body toward you so his knees bump yours, a deliberate, grounding point of contact. "I don't think you're a disaster," he says softly. "I think you’re a person who’s been treated like an option for too long by someone who didn't know what he had." He glances down at the drink in your hand, then back up, eyes catching the streetlight with a quiet intensity. "I know the statistics on recovery. I know it takes time to unlearn that kind of treatment. But I'm good at waiting. And I'm very patient.”

You nearly choke on your next swallow, the burn of the vodka suddenly nothing compared to the heat rushing up your neck. You pull away, shifting so you’re not pressed quite so close to his side, putting a fraction of distance between you on the concrete.

"Wow," you breathe out, shaking your head as you stare at the traffic passing on the street. "You really... you actually just cited statistics at me to try and get me to sleep with you." You turn back to him, arching a brow, letting your lip curl just enough to be sharp. "That is—that is impressively unsexy, Reid. I mean, truly.”

The words barely have time to hang in the cool night air before the regret hits you. It’s instant and sickening, washing away the cheap defense of sarcasm and leaving behind the raw ache underneath. You watch his face, expecting him to bristle, to get up, to mutter some logical comeback and leave you there on the curb to finish your drink in solitary humiliation.

But he doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. He just looks at you.

He holds your gaze with that same steady, infuriating patience. He saw the twitch in your hand, the way you spiraled, and instead of calling you out on the cruelty, he just waited. Like he knows you're already punishing yourself enough for the both of you.

"I didn't mean that," you blurt out, the words rushing together in a desperate attempt to take it back. You set the glass down on the pavement beside you, your hands suddenly feeling useless and trembling. "I'm sorry. That was—that was mean. I was just... deflecting."

"I know," Reid says softly. The forgiveness is immediate, absolute, and devoid of the hesitation you’re used to receiving. “But I mean it. I know it’ll take time. I know it won’t be easy to believe. But I want to be the one who proves that you deserve more. Who actually gives it to you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, words catching in your throat. Your voice is quieter now, softer. “And if I… if I push back? Or yell? Or—”

“You will,” he says, eyes locking on yours. “I know you will. And that’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ll listen. I’ll… handle it.” His gaze doesn’t falter, doesn’t waver. It’s steady. Enough to make the rest of the night, the bar, James, and everything else fade just a little.

Your laugh is small, shaky, like a bird testing the air for flight. “You’re… insane.”

“Maybe,” he admits, corners of his mouth twitching in that crooked, infuriating smile. “Or maybe I just think you’re worth it.”

You lift your gaze, meeting his steady eyes again. There’s a pull there—something magnetic, something dangerous in the way he looks at you—but it’s not reckless. Not threatening. Safe. The kind of safety that makes your chest ache with longing you’ve barely let yourself feel.

You shift slightly, closer, more instinct than conscious thought, just enough to brush against the warmth of him. Your hand hovers near his arm, and before you know it, it’s resting lightly against his sleeve. You almost pull it away, reminding yourself of restraint, of boundaries—but the warmth of him there, steady, grounding, feels… essential.

Reid’s gaze follows your movement, patient but intent. He tilts his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t have to be careful with me,” he murmurs, voice low, a rasp that makes the air shiver around it.

His hand shifts subtly, brushing against yours, fingers threading just slightly, testing.

“Do you…?” Your voice trembles, small and unsure, carrying the question you can’t quite form. “Do you… want this?”

“I want whatever you want,” he says simply. “I want you. But only if you want me too.”

That’s enough to tip the fragile line you’ve been teetering on. Impulsively, hesitantly, you reach up, tracing the edge of his jaw with your fingertips, memorizing the planes of his face, the way his skin is warm beneath your touch. He leans slightly into the gesture, breath hitching just enough to tell you he notices, that he feels it.

The world narrows. Just you. Just him. The faint buzz of the city, the distant headlights, the cold concrete pressing against your legs—they all fall away until there’s nothing but the hum of possibility between you.

Your lips hover near his, and you freeze, heart hammering. You’re not sure if you want this—if you want him, or just the safety, the closeness, the heat of someone who sees you and still wants you. But the thought of pulling back, of losing this chance, makes your chest ache.

He tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering against your cheek. “You can stop,” he murmurs. “Or you can try.”

Something in you unravels—the careful walls, the sarcasm, the self-protective reflexes. You close the last fraction of distance, lips brushing his. Soft. Gentle. A spark, a question, a yes whispered in the language of a kiss.

Reid doesn’t hesitate. He meets it, tilting his head to deepen the contact, hand moving to cradle your face, the other brushing along your arm. Safe. Warm. Patient, but insistent enough to let you know he wants this too.

His hand is warm where it cups your face. Steady. Intentional. Not demanding—never that—but there, present, like he’s giving you something solid to hold onto while everything else inside you threatens to tilt.

You expect it to feel overwhelming. It doesn’t. It feels… quiet.

Your lips move against his again, a little more certain this time, testing the shape of it, the reality of it. And he follows—carefully, like he’s reading you even now, adjusting in real time to every shift in your breath, every slight change in pressure. There’s no rush. No taking. Just… meeting you there.

Your fingers curl slightly where they rest against his jaw, and you feel the way his breath catches—not dramatically, not exaggerated, just enough to tell you it matters. That you matter.

It does something dangerous to your chest.

You lean in a fraction more, and this time the kiss deepens—still soft, still controlled, but warmer now. Real. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek, a slow, grounding motion, like he’s reminding you that you’re here. That this is happening. That you can stop at any point and he’ll let you.

And somehow, that makes you not want to stop at all.

Your other hand shifts, sliding from his sleeve to his wrist, then up—hesitant at first, then more certain—until your fingers rest against the side of his neck. His skin is warm. Steady. You can feel his pulse there, quickening just slightly under your touch.

You like that.

The realization hits you quietly, but it lingers.

Reid exhales softly against your lips, and there’s something different in it now—something a little less restrained, a little more felt. 

“Hey…” you murmur, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Your voice is soft, a little breathless. “Walk me home?”

He blinks, just the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his features before it smooths into that steady, calm look you know so well. “Of course,” he says, the words low, sure, certain.

You stand, brushing the chill off your pants, and he falls into step beside you without hesitation. The city night feels quieter now, the hum of traffic and distant sirens softened by the rhythm of your walking. Your hand brushes his at first accidentally, then deliberately, and he doesn’t pull away—doesn’t need to. The warmth seeps through your nerves, that quiet shock that says you’re alive, that you’re wanted.

There's that look in his eyes again: steady, observant, but carrying a promise that he’ll meet you where you are. That he’ll wait, if necessary, but that he wants this, too.

Your chest tightens. The city lights stretch shadows across the sidewalk, painting him in sharp angles and soft curves. You wonder how it’s possible for someone to feel so steady and so incendiary at once.

When you reach your building, the air seems thicker, heavier with unsaid words and barely restrained energy. The lobby is empty, quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled behind the glass doors. You pause, hand brushing against the wall for something to hold on to, grounding yourself.

“You can… come up,” you murmur before your brain has time to talk you out of it. The words are uneven, hesitant, carrying all your insecurities. “If you want.”

He tilts his head, watching you carefully, reading every microexpression like he always does. “I do,” he says softly. And he follows you inside without hesitation.

You’ve done this before. Let someone follow you upstairs. Let it mean something it wasn’t supposed to.

This feels different.

The hallway stretches a little longer than usual, your footsteps echoing softly against the floor. You don’t look back, but you can feel him there. Half a step behind you. Like he’s giving you the space to stop. To turn around. To change your mind.

The key slips once in your grip before you manage to steady it, the metal clicking against the lock louder than it should be. Your pulse jumps with it. You push the door open and step inside, the familiar quiet of your apartment settling around you like something held too tightly.

For a second, you just stand there. Then, he steps in after you. The door closes with a soft click.

“You can still—” he starts, voice low, careful.

But you close the distance before he can finish.

Your hands find him first—fisting lightly in the front of his shirt, pulling him in like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. His breath catches, just barely, and then your lips are on his again. It’s different this time. Less careful. Less questioning.

There’s urgency in it now—something that’s been building, coiling tight all night finally snapping loose. You press closer, rising onto your toes, and he meets you immediately, hands coming up to steady your waist, your back—everywhere all at once, like he’s trying to keep up without overwhelming you.

You tug at him, guiding, half-walking, half-pulling him down the short hallway toward your room. He follows without resistance, but there’s a shift in him—something grounding, something deliberate beneath the heat.

The bedroom door bumps open. You barely register it before you’re turning back to him, hands already moving again, lips finding his jaw, his neck—anything you can reach. It’s a little messy, a little rushed, your breath uneven as it tangles with his.

And then—His hands catch yours.

“Hey—” he murmurs, voice low, breath warm where it brushes your cheek. “Hey… it’s okay.”

You blink, the moment stuttering. Your chest rises and falls too fast, your pulse still racing ahead of you, like you haven’t quite caught up to your own body yet.

“I just—” you start, but the words don’t land. You’re not even sure what you were going to say.

He doesn’t make you finish. “I know,” he says softly.

His thumbs brush lightly over your wrists where he’s still holding them, grounding, steady. Not restraining—just there.

“We can slow down,” he adds. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

The certainty in his voice disarms you in a way you’re not prepared for.

Your shoulders drop a fraction. Your breath stutters, then steadies, just a little.

“…okay,” you whisper.

The word feels fragile. New. But he treats it like something solid.

Reid’s hands loosen, giving you the space to pull away if you want—but when you don’t, when you stay right there in front of him, he lets his fingers slide more gently along your arms instead. Up. Slow. Intentional.

Like he’s learning you. Like he wants to.

His hands find the edge of your shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric where it clings to your skin. He pauses, lifting his gaze to yours, as if asking permission without a word. You nod, breath trembling.

His lips brush along your collarbone, soft and feather-light, following a trail only he seems to know exists. One hand slides up your side, fingertips pressing gently against your ribs, mapping the curve beneath the thin fabric. The warmth of him, the deliberate patience, makes your knees weaken.

“Do you… want me to?” His voice is low, rougher than usual, carrying that quiet certainty you’ve come to rely on.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, please.”

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and then it’s gone—lifted slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you time to change your mind even as it slides over your head.

He leans back in immediately, lips brushing yours, but your hands are fidgety, unsure, tangling in his shirt, pulling too hard, then too soft. Your fingers move to your pants, fumbling the button, and a tiny groan escapes you—half frustration, half embarrassment.

Reid chuckles against your lips, warm and low, the sound vibrating through you. It’s soft, not mocking, just amused, and somehow it makes you grin despite yourself. You can’t help it—a little laugh escapes between kisses, breathless and uneven.

You take a shaky breath and try again, dragging the fabric down with more determination, though you’re still clumsy, tugging at them too fast before pausing, then yanking them the rest of the way. They pool around your ankles, and you step free, kicking them aside—slightly off balance, but he catches you with a hand on your hip.

You tug him closer, heat building between you, and your hands find his, pressing them to the small of your back for a moment before slipping, guiding his fingers along the slope of your sides.

Your pulse hammers in your ears, and you can feel him stiffen slightly under your touch, a shiver running through him as you lead his hands upward to the clasp of your bra. The soft click of the hooks under your fingertips sends a jolt straight through your chest.

He pushes the straps off your shoulders, the soft fabric falling to the floor. 

The air feels cooler against your skin immediately. Sharper. You’re suddenly, acutely aware of it—of yourself.

Of him. 

You don’t give yourself time to think about it. Don’t let the hesitation creep in. Your hands are already reaching for him again, pulling him forward, chasing the warmth you just had—

“Wait,” Reid murmurs, voice low, threaded with something softer now. Something steadier.

Your breath catches, confusion flickering across your face as you look up at him.

“I—” you start, but the words falter when you see the way he’s looking at you.

Not rushed. Not hungry in that careless, consuming way you’re used to. Focused. Intent.

“I want to look at you,” he says quietly.

It lands heavier than anything else he’s said tonight.

Heat rushes up your neck instantly, blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening as your instinct is to turn away, to fold in on yourself, to hide. You almost laugh it off—almost deflect, make a joke, cover the sudden vulnerability clawing up your throat.

But his hands are still there, resting lightly at your waist.

His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t flick away to give you an out. But it’s not trapping, either. It’s patient. Open.

Like he’s asking. Like it matters.

Your fingers twitch at your sides before you force them to still. You draw in a slow breath that doesn’t quite steady you but helps enough. And then you nod.

Reid’s eyes move over you then—not in a way that feels like he’s taking something, not like he’s cataloging flaws or comparing or measuring. It’s slow. Careful. Like he’s trying to understand something he’s been given permission to see.

His thumb brushes lightly along your side, a small, absent motion that somehow keeps you grounded while his gaze lingers.

“You’re—” he starts, then stops, like he’s recalibrating, searching for the right word and discarding the wrong ones before they ever reach you.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“—you’re incredible,” he settles on, voice quieter now, like it’s something meant just for you.

Your heart skips a beat.

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. It’s a simple word. Easy. Overused.

But not like this. Not from him.

You swallow, gaze dropping for a second before you force yourself to look back at him, even as the heat in your cheeks refuses to fade.

Something shifts in your chest, a sudden, impatient flare that has nothing to do with words and everything to do with heat, want, the ache of waiting too long. You pull him toward you. Harder than planned. A startled breath escapes him, warm against your neck, and the sound alone makes your pulse spike again.

He stumbles slightly—both of you caught in the sudden motion—but instinctively, he catches himself. His hands land on either side of you, bracing against the bed, his chest hovering just above yours. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle tension in his arms, the deliberate strength that’s always been there but now feels dangerously immediate.

Your hands roam down his chest, fingers catching on each button as you work them open. The fabric parts beneath your touch, revealing warm skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing just a little less even than before.

Your hands drag down his chest, fingertips tracing the subtle lines of muscle beneath warm skin, feeling the way his breath shifts under your touch—just a little deeper now, just a little less controlled.

Then back up.

Over his shoulders, pushing the fabric down his arms, your palms following the movement like you don’t want to lose contact for even a second. The shirt catches at his elbows before he shrugs it off completely, letting it fall somewhere behind him without looking.

Your palms trace the warmth of his chest one last time before they drift lower, brushing the waistband of his pants. A rush of heat floods your chest, anticipation curling in your stomach. You inch your hands forward, imagining the weight and warmth beneath the fabric.

He stops you with a gentle but firm grip on your wrists.

“This… isn’t about me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something deeper. “It’s about you. I want to make you feel good first.”

You swallow, heat pooling between your thighs at the deliberate weight of his words. Your hands drop, and for a moment, you let yourself just be held, just feel him.

Then his hands are moving—sliding along your ribs, over your hips, brushing over the swell of your breasts, ghosting over your nipples.

Your chest lifts instinctively under the pressure, the featherlight friction making your pulse stutter.

He leans back just slightly, eyes locking onto yours, searching, reading every flicker of reaction. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, but the way he holds your gaze is unwavering—commanding but gentle. “Or not enough. I want to know.”

You arch, pressing into him without thinking, letting the heat of anticipation spill into something more tangible. “Not… not enough,” you whisper, voice low, trembling with want.

A small, satisfied sound escapes him—almost a growl, almost a purr—and his hands move with careful precision, cupping you fully now, thumbs brushing circles over your nipples, slow, deliberate, eliciting shivers that roll down your spine. You bite back a moan, but it escapes anyway, breathless, catching in the quiet of your bedroom.

His hands slide lower along your hips again, brushing teasingly over the swell of your thighs. 

“May I?” he murmurs, voice low, husky, as his fingers brush the waistband of your underwear. You nod, barely able to speak, breath hitching in uneven gasps.

He hooks his thumbs under the edges, letting his gaze lift to yours. No hurry, or shame. Just that commanding, attentive certainty that makes your knees weak.

He slides them down your legs, inch by careful inch, letting the fabric brush your skin, teasing, slow, patient, until he can discard them with the rest of your clothes. His hands drift back up your legs, tracing the curve of your inner thighs, stopping just shy of the place that’s already slick with need. You gasp, hips tilting instinctively toward him, heart hammering.

Finally, he lowers himself, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, feather-light at first, tracing circles that leave sparks behind.

The sensation travels inward, unhurried and deliberate, nothing like the frantic, selfish encounters you’re used to. When his mouth finally reaches where you need him most, the shock of it steals the breath from your lungs. It isn't rushed or performative; it’s attentive, his tongue moving with a focused precision that feels almost academic. One hand rests firmly on your hip, anchoring you to the mattress, a grounding tether as he begins to unravel you, lick by slow, devastating lick.

Your free hand finds its way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft waves to hold him close, your hips lifting off the bed in a silent, desperate plea. He hums against you, a low, vibrating sound of approval that only sends fresh waves of pleasure rolling through your nerves, encouraging you to let go. Every flick of his tongue is a question he already knows the answer to, reading the tremor in your thighs and the broken cadence of your breath like data points on a graph, adjusting the pressure and speed until the only thing you know is the heat of his mouth and the rapidly tightening coil in your belly.

The pressure builds to a breaking point, overwhelming and sharp, and when you fall over the edge, you do so with a cry that you try to stifle against your own arm, a lifetime of conditioning making you shy away from being too loud, too much. But Spencer doesn't let you hide; he carries you through it, slowing his movements to draw out every last aftershock until you’re a trembling, boneless mess against the sheets.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his lips start a slow, deliberate ascent from your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin. It’s a reverence in motion, a silent worship that has your eyes fluttering closed.

The scrape of his teeth against the curve of your hip draws a sharp, hitching gasp from you, your hips bucking involuntarily. He just smiles against your skin—a dark, knowing thing—and soothes the sting with his tongue, his hands continuing their slow, grounding glide up your sides. He’s taking his time, mapping the topography of your body like he has all night, like he has a lifetime.

His mouth finds the dip of your navel, lingering there, his breath hot against your stomach. Your muscles jump and flutter under his attention, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as the heat coils tighter, low and demanding. The sensations are overwhelming—every nerve ending feels raw, exposed, and terrifyingly alive.

He moves higher, tracing the line of your ribs with a devotion that feels almost holy. Your breath stutters, catching in your throat as the ghost of his breath feathers over your racing heart, the steady thump-thump-thump betraying just how undone you are. He presses a lingering kiss right over that frantic beat, as if trying to soothe the ache there with his own rhythm, his hands sliding up to bracket your waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your sides in a slow, hypnotic pattern.

He nips gently at the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and your head falls back against the pillow, exposing more of yourself to him in a gesture of surrender that feels foreign yet terrifyingly right. You can feel the tension in his arms where they cage you in, the tremor of restraint running through him as he takes his time, leaving a trail of fire in his wake that burns away the lingering memory of every cold, careless touch before him.

Finally, his face hovers above yours, blocking out the dim light of the room until he’s the only thing you can see. His lips are red and swollen, his breathing ragged as it mingles with yours in the scant space between you. He doesn’t kiss you immediately; he pauses, searching your eyes with that piercing, analytical gaze that sees too much, stripping away every last defense. Then he lowers his mouth to yours, slow and deliberate, and the taste on his tongue is you—salt and musk and a sharp, intoxicating proof of exactly how much he wants you.

He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still coming in ragged, syncopated bursts. The air between your bodies feels charged, electric with the lingering static of what just happened and the mounting pressure of what’s coming next. His eyes search yours, dark and intent, stripping away any last defenses you might have thought you had.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, the words low and rough, vibrating against your lips. His hand drifts down, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you can't look away, can't hide from the weight of the question. "I need to hear you say it."

Your pulse hammers against your ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm that matches the ache settling deep in your bones. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the deflective sarcasm or the practiced diffidence you usually hide behind. Not with him. Not like this. You force yourself to meet his gaze, to let the want show plainly on your face, raw and unvarnished.

"I want you to fuck me, Spencer. Please."

The words leave your lips in a rush, jagged and desperate, stripping away the last of your composure. You expect him to hesitate, to offer you another slow, sweet reassurance, but instead, his control snaps. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat—half-groan, half-growl—and his mouth crashes into yours, searing and demanding, swallowing the gasp that rises in your throat. There’s no patience left in him now, only a starving intensity that matches your own, his hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

He shifts above you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that feels grounding rather than trapping. You can feel the hard, deliberate line of him against your thigh, the heat radiating through his clothes, a stark reminder of how much he’s been holding back. He makes quick work of his belt, the metal buckle clinking softly in the quiet room, followed by the hurried slide of fabric. Every movement is precise, efficient, but his hands are trembling just slightly, betraying the depth of his own need. When he finally settles back between your legs, skin against skin, the sensation is overwhelming—a perfect, frictional fit that makes your hips lift instinctively, seeking more.

He pauses for a second, tilting his head slightly as his hand drifts from your hips to brush along your lower stomach. “Do you… want me to use a condom?” His voice is low, careful, giving you the space to answer.

You let out a sharp curse, half-laugh, half-frustration. “I… I don’t have any. James always—I don’t have any.” The words stumble out, messy, just like your racing heart.

He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but you cut him off with a hurried shake of your head. “Just… pull out,” you murmur, voice a little breathless.

He blinks. “What?”

“Please,” you say quickly, looking up at him, heat in your cheeks, pulse hammering. “I‐if you’re okay with it.”

There’s a brief pause—a beat of hesitation—but you can feel it more than see it, that careful weighing of trust, of boundaries, of desire. Then his hands settle on your hips again, steady, grounding, as his lips brush yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low and certain.

He pushes forward with a torturous slowness, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you, filling you so completely it steals the air from your lungs. It’s intense—a heavy, burning pressure that borders on too much—but it’s anchored by the way he’s watching you, his jaw tight with restraint, his focus entirely on the micro-expressions crossing your face. He’s waiting for you to adjust, treating your body with the same reverence he treats your mind, giving you time to catch up to the reality of him.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, uneven sound, and instinct overrides everything else. You surge up, crashing your lips against his, needing the distraction, needing the connection. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as you pull him closer, deeper, and your legs wrap around his waist, locking him in.

The movement changes everything. It breaks the careful control he was holding onto by a thread. He groans low into your mouth, a sound you feel vibrate through your chest, and his hips snap forward the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden depth drags a cry from your throat, which he swallows instantly, his kiss turning hungrier, more demanding. He doesn't withdraw; he stays there, deep and pulsing inside you, letting you feel the weight of him, the sheer reality of being this close, before he finally begins to move—no longer slow, but deep and rolling, matching the desperate rhythm of your heart.

A sharp cry tears from your throat as he sets a rhythm that obliterates your ability to think, each stroke hitting deep and precise, dragging a desperate sound from your lungs that you can’t hold back. Your body reacts instinctively, legs tightening around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders to anchor yourself as the intensity builds, threatening to pull you under. It’s overwhelming in the best way, a tide rising higher and higher with every thrust.

"I've got you," he breathes, the words ragged against your mouth, punctuated by the sharp, uneven cadence of his breath. "You're incredible—god, look at you."

He doesn't stop moving, doesn't let up, his hips snapping into yours with a focused, driving rhythm that feels relentless and careful all at once. But even in the middle of it, he finds the air to speak, his voice a low, rough hum that vibrates against your lips.

"So good," he murmurs, his forehead pressing tight against yours, the words ghosting over your mouth in between the relentless, deep thrusts that make your vision blur. "You feel so good, taking me like this. You have no idea." His voice cracks on a groan, the restraint finally splintering as he buries himself impossibly deeper, grounding you with the weight of his body and the raw honesty in his tone. "You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect."

Your fingernails dig into the sweat-slicked planes of his shoulders, holding on for dear life as the coil in your belly winds tighter, threatening to snap. Every praise feels like a brand, searing away the old, jagged memories of being too much or not enough, replacing them with the undeniable reality of how much he wants you right now. "Spencer," you gasp, his name sounding broken on your tongue, and he captures the sound with a searing kiss, swallowing your cries like they're something precious.

"I know, I know," he soothes, though his hips are losing their rhythm, becoming erratic, urgent. He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to make you see stars, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady for the force of his thrusts. "Let go for me. I've got you, always." He presses his lips to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, worshiping every inch of skin he can reach. "Come on, baby. I want to feel you."

Your body arches off the mattress, seeking more of him, more of this grounding, overwhelming connection, and when the release crashes over you, it blinds out everything else. It’s a blinding whiteout of sensation, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of him inside you, the weight of his body pressing yours into the mattress, and the sound of your own cry echoing in the quiet room. You clamp around him, your inner muscles fluttering and gripping as the pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and gasping in his arms, your fingers still digging desperately into his shoulders.

The way you tighten around him tears a ragged groan from his throat, his control finally shattering completely. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing turning harsh and uneven against your sweat-dampened skin. "That's it," he chokes out, the words strained and low, vibrating against your collarbone. "You're beautiful—so beautiful like this." He chases his own high then, his movements becoming jagged and desperate, thrusting deeper, harder, his grip on your hip almost bruising as he lets himself go.

You can feel the tension in every muscle of his back, the way his movements are becoming less calculated, more desperate, driven by pure instinct. He’s right there with you, hovering on that precipice, and for a second, you think he’s going to let go completely.

But then his rhythm stutters. He gasps sharply against your skin, and with a herculean effort that seems to cost him everything, he tears himself away.

The sudden loss of contact leaves you feeling empty, cold for a fleeting second, but he doesn't go far.

He moves his hand, but before his fingers can close around himself, your hand is there, brushing his aside.

He lets out a shattered gasp, his eyes flying open to find yours, dark and wide with surprise. The heat of him is heavy in your palm, slick and desperate, and you don't hesitate. You wrap your fingers around him, stroking firmly from base to tip, taking over the rhythm he had denied himself.

"God—" The word breaks apart on a groan, his head falling back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. His jaw goes slack, his lips parting on a silent exhale that turns into a low, guttural sound of pure surrender. He’s powerless to stop it, the tension in his body snapping like a wire drawn too tight.

The pleasure overtakes him in a rush, and with a guttural moan that sounds almost like relief, he spills hot and wet across your stomach. You don't stop; your grip stays firm and sure, thumb brushing over the sensitive head as you stroke him through every pulse, intent on wringing every last bit of pleasure from him. He shudders violently above you, his whole body bowing under the intensity, his hands fisting in the sheets on either side of your head to keep from crushing you as he rides out the aftershocks.

As the tremors finally begin to subside, the frantic energy leaves him, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. His arms give out, and he lowers himself carefully, mostly collapsing onto you but catching his weight on his elbows to keep from smearing the mess between you any further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, cooling gusts against your overheated skin, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs that gradually begins to slow.

You let your hand release him, fingers drifting instead to the hair at the nape of his neck, combing through the damp strands in a slow, soothing cadence. The room is quiet now, save for the shared sound of your breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

He presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then another to the curve of your jaw, seemingly unwilling to break the connection just yet, content to simply exist in the warm, heavy aftermath of it all.

But eventually, he shifts, pressing one last lingering, soft kiss to your forehead, and pushes himself up. The mattress dips and lifts as he climbs out, the cool air of the room rushing in to fill the space he left behind.

You watch him, your body still thrumming, muscles heavy and liquid, but your mind instinctively bracing for the shift.

This is the part where the silence gets awkward. This is the part where he finds his shirt on the floor, pulls it on, and mutters something about an early morning or a meeting.

But he doesn’t even glance at his clothes. He turns, padding silently toward the bathroom in his bare feet, disappearing into the slice of light spilling from the open door.

The water runs for a moment—the sound jarringly domestic in the quiet apartment—before cutting off.

You blink, staring up at the ceiling, your heart rate settling into something resembling normalcy even as your brain struggles to catalog this deviation from the script. You’re still bracing for the sound of a zipper, for the click of a belt buckle, but instead, you hear the soft tread of his return.

Spencer comes back into the dim light of the bedroom, a damp washcloth in his hand. He isn’t dressing. He isn’t rushing. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the dip in the springs shifting you slightly toward him, and reaches out with a gentle hesitance, waiting for a flinch that doesn’t come.

When he touches the warm cloth to your stomach, the heat is shocking—not painful, but incredibly grounding, chasing away the chill of the drying air and the sudden, hollow fear that you were just a convenience.

He wipes the skin with meticulous care, his eyes focused on the task as if it’s a delicate procedure requiring his full attention. There’s nothing perfunctory about it; he cleans you up with the same steady reverence he explored you with, drying your skin with the corner of the cloth before tossing it onto the nightstand.

He leans in then, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips—soft, unhurried things—and then he simply pulls the quilt up over you, his hand lingering on the sheet as he looks down at you, making it clear that for tonight, at least, he isn't going anywhere.

The silence stretches, comfortable but fragile, and suddenly the vulnerability of the moment feels heavier than the pleasure did. You feel a ridiculous lump forming in your throat, a shy, terrifying question sitting on the tip of your tongue. It’s just asking him to stay, but it feels like asking for everything.

"Will you..." You start, then stop to clear your throat, your voice barely above a whisper. "Will you lay with me?"

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t look for an excuse or a clock. He just turns those soft, serious eyes on you, his expression softening into something so open it makes your chest ache.

"Of course," he answers immediately, as if it were the only logical conclusion, the only option worth considering. He shifts, sliding under the quilt with an easy grace, and the mattress dips under his weight as he settles in behind you. There’s no fumbling for space, no awkward negotiation of limbs; he fits against you like he was always meant to be there, his chest pressing flush against your back. The heat of him is immediate and grounding, seeping through your skin and chasing away the last of the lingering chill.

He reaches out, gathering you up with a gentle, insistent tug, pulling you back until you are completely cocooned in his embrace. One arm slides beneath your pillow, cradling your head, while the other drapes over your waist, his hand splaying wide across your stomach to hold you close. You can feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat against your spine, a slow, hypnotic cadence that anchors you in the present moment and makes it impossible to spiral into your usual doubts. 

You let your body relax into his, melting against the solid length of him, and for the first time in a long time, your mind goes quiet. The insecurities, the voice that whispers that you’re too much or not enough, the habitual shrinking you do to make room for others—it all fades into the background, silenced by the undeniable reality of him holding you.

Spencer presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there with a reverence that feels like a seal, a promise that you don't have to be anything but exactly who you are right here. Safe, wanted, and held.

[spenceloria]

spencer reid can't help but hold your hand while he eats you out

spencer reid has never felt a touch quite as sanctifying as yours. his hands on you, yours on him, it set his core ablaze and sent his mind spiraling into the clouds.

he'd never been this close with anyone, this raw—intimate in a way that felt as though he allowed the sparks of your finger tips to slip behind his supple flesh and eviscerate his soul.

spencer was touch starved, so to speak, prior to you. he was foolish, harbouring a paralyzing aversion to something he was now ravenous for. if past him only knew that touch was something far, far more than a transfer of pathogens, simply transactional.

touch had become something that could never truly fill him, something that made his stomach swarm in a gluttonous guilt, something that he would always crawl back to.

he'd lay behind you tracing lazy shapes onto the fabric of your sweater, letting his hungry digits snag on the warmth of the texture, the warmth of you below it.

he'd slide his hands under the cloth, not to tease, just to feel. your breath inhaling and exhaling in his palm, examining the rise of your ribs with the percision of a physician, not allowing a single expansion to slip past his inspection.

spencer would absorb you through your flesh, as if your light reset him in some way, rejuvenating his spirit via skin to skin contact—mending him in that curative way only you were capable of.

and now here he lay, beneath you, where he knew he should be—your soft thighs caging his cheeks in a comforting pressure only you could create. his heaven on earth.

he watched as you writhed against pale sheets, the sheen of your skin illuminating in the natural light, an ethereal glow that starkly contrasted the dull air surronding you, a permanent halo.

he analyzed every twitch of your torso, his ears perked at every groan that bellowed in the pit of your core, he smelt the primal heat of your essence before him. how easy it was for spencer to lose himself in you.

he gripped onto the fat of your flesh, as if you were a dream that would vanish the second he dared to think of letting go. his touch burned so perfectly, boring deep into your skin in practiced familiarity, you would revert back to this moment each time you saw the evidence, spencer's signature branded to his muse.

you threw your head back, hips rolling to an uneven rhythm, as spencer felt the irregular beat of your heart on his tongue, the slick of your adoration nourishing him in a way nothing else could. it was too much, overwhelming in a way that threw your soul out of orbit, spencer saw stars in your eyes.

it struck you then, his palm raised, flat against yours, slotting perfectly where it belonged. warmth radiated up your spine, grounding you on the cusp of your high, pulling your mind back into your body so you could feel, really feel, every slip of a figure eight spencer curated, poetry receited on your most sensitive cluster of nerves.

"i love you" spoken wordlessly with his eyes as he watched your dazed expression return back to earth. you, his very own angel blessing him with your presence. the greatest honour bestowed upon him was to hold your hand in his.

written in the app so plz ignore any like formatting or grammatical errors its 1:35am and im sleepy turned on (dangerous combo) anyway spencer’s love is 150% this disgustingly devout. im so stupidly horny and in love with him i need to order 14 more of these right now. help! my pussy is sobbing!!!!

also i saw this exact like concept in a porn clip like a year ago and was foolish enough to LOSE IT? i genuinely have not been the same since that day. if someone can find a link i will genuinely kiss you on the mouth please do not be afraid to send me any similar video links im so deadass i need this. i think about it all the time. its all i want. please. thank you love you bye !!

[spenceloria]

➜ introducing user spenceloria’s … SPENCER REID MASTERLIST !

꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ oldest ➜ newest, * indicates smut!! 18+, personal favourites marked with ★ also see ➜ KINKTOBER 2025, CM MASTERLIST, MISC MASTERLIST

NEIGHBOUR!READER MASTERLIST ❤︎

fics !

holding you, holding me ... in which: you comfort your fatigued and stress-ridden boyfriend after a particularly difficult case. ★

princess treatment * ... in which: a series of events lead you and your new coworker to fall for each other, like something out of a fairytale… or maybe more like a cheesy romcom.

magic in your eyes ❤︎ its just like magic ... in which: you’re in desperate need of a little magic, and spencer reid is the perfect man for the job.

your hips, your thighs * ... in which: your coworker becomes completely captivated by you, though what begins as subtle, innocent admiration quickly spirals into something more… intoxicating. ★

believe the sting proves heart to me … in which: you doubt you deserve the softness he gives so freely, yet spencer stays, because loving you was never in question.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜

hcs + blurbs !

giving virgin!sub! spence a blowjob *

shy!reader x spence

sub!spence eating you out for the first time *

thighs, tits, or ass w the bau! *

spence + finger sucking *

early seasons whiny spence hcs *

cm p links! *

pegging spence… *

fingering + bj w spence *

early seasons spence fingering r for the first time! *

dryhumping turned breeding kink… *

modern!spence hcs

munch!spence again… *

spence + face sitting *

spence + breath play *

stepbrother!spence… *

spencer reid has sensitive nipples*

riding rambling spence*

spencer reid can’t help but hold your hand while he eats you out *

div by ianrkives !

[spenceloria]

HOLDING YOU, HOLDING ME

in which: you comfort your fatigued and stress-ridden boyfriend after a particularly difficult case

spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: toothrotting fluff, mentions of basic cm case stuff, comfort!! possibly inaccurate depictions of doctor who (i googled fun facts).. haven’t seen it since i was a kid im sorry..

div: anitalenia, dollywons

wc: 1.9k

req from @impossible2cache !! title/fic ib from the cas song (love them xp)

lowercase intended, no use of y/n!

it had been just about a week since you’d last seen spencer.

he called as often as he could of course, but you knew his job—being a profiler was excruciatingly demanding and meant sacrificing hours, days, even weeks of his time with you.

the tougher the case, the further away he seemed to drift, swallowed knee deep by evidence boards and witness statements. within the last couple days, your contact with spencer had fizzled into a few quick and annoyingly dry messages.

you understood the reality of his form of work, it was just the price of loving someone who saved lives for a living. despite your compassion for spencer’s dedication to the bau, an ache still lingered deep within you. your chest felt just a little too empty whenever he was away for extended periods of time.

so, when your phone buzzed and spencer’s contact flashed on the screen, you nearly dropped it in excitement.

his voice was seeping with exhaustion as he murmured through the phone, informing you that he was on his way back from the case in jacksonville, and was planning on stopping by your place.

you could tell he was trying to sound steady, as if the past week hadn’t sucked the life out of him, creating dark circles under his beautiful brown eyes. but you could hear it, in the soft tremor beneath his words and the weight of sleepless nights and slumped posture looming over him.

you’d never been great at comforting others with your words—it just didn’t come easily to you. but spencer never needed lengthy speeches, he needed a listener; warmth, to come home to something that didn’t demand anything from him.

you also knew other ways to cheer him up.

you got to work, pulling out the flour and sugar, throwing together a batch of your famous chocolate chip cookies. they were nothing special, just a recipe you stumbled upon online… but he loved them, and that was reason enough for you to treat them like gold.

as the scent of butter and chocolate consumed your senses, filling your kitchen with warmth and sweetness; your mind drifted to spencer, hoping you were going to provide him something soft and comforting to chase away the heaviness from his shoulders.

after sliding the tray of cookies into the oven, you made your way over to your living room, arms full of pillows and blankets, setting everything up until the couch looked more like a nest rather than furniture. you flicked on the tv and queued up doctor who, the very show that spencer had practically begged you to rewatch with him. sci-fi had never really been your cup of tea, but the way his eyes lit up as he launched into one of his impromptu lectures about space travel and paradoxes? that made it more than worthwhile.

you smiled to yourself, sinking into the chaos you had built on the sofa as one of his sweet rambles echoed in your memory,

“statistically speaking, approximately 11.13% of the program’s 871 produced episodes are currently absent from the BBC archives, primarily due to archival removal between 1967 and 1978, fascinating, right?”

you sighed, reminiscing at the memory and slipped one of spencers cardigans over your shoulders; the one you had shamelessly stolen ages ago, not that he minded. you took in the intoxicating scent that was undeniably him, aged paper, coffee, and the lingering smell of cologne he rarely remembered to apply. you longed for his arrival, curling up and tucking your knees into the fabric.

your eyes drifted towards the door every few minutes, as if staring hard enough could make him magically appear in front of you. you thought about putting on a pot of coffee to distract yourself and pass time.

and then, your ears perked up at the sound of three slow knocks.

your froze for half a heartbeat before launching yourself off the couch, nearly tripping on a stray pillow as you scurried to the door. you swung it open with full force, and lo and behold, there he was: dr. spencer reid.

he looked every bit as exhausted as you’d expected, his curls unkempt, brown leather messenger bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, appearance disheveled but not any less breathtaking. there were dark shadows under his eyes, but when he saw the smile on your face, they lit up like light bulbs.

his soft lips curved into a tired smile as your body crashed into his, squeezing him so tight you nearly knocked the air out of him. he breathed in your scent, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning over your skin.

“mm, you smell like cookies.”

you giggled at his muffled voice and reluctantly pulled away from his warmth as you gazed up at his exceptionally taller frame, towering over you.

“and you smell like a nap is long overdue.”

he sighed and rested his head on top of yours, rocking slowly against the curve of your body as he closed the door behind him.

“spence, i missed you.”

he inhaled the scent of your hair as he leaned down to press a soft, but deprived peck to your lips.

“couldn’t stop thinking about you.. missed you so much.”

spencer mumbled into your scalp as he tightened his grip around your waist. you two stood there for a long while, completely at peace, soaking up the serenity of the quiet moment together.

you only parted from his cozy embrace when a sudden ding echoed throughout your apartment.

“you should really go check on those before they burn.”

“but i missed you so bad, i don’t wanna leave you..”

“don’t worry sweet thing, im right behind—“

spencers words were cut off by a prolonged yawn, as he leaned back to stretch out his arms, long overdue for his tense and overworked muscles.

“how about you make yourself comfortable in the living room? i have everything set up for you.”

spencer gave you a tired smile and pressed and tender kiss to your temple, before kicking off his shoes and sluggishly making his way through your apartment, flopping onto the bundle of cushions awaiting him. the colourful mismatched socks fitted snugly to his feet stuck out over the side of the furniture.

you placed the cookie sheet on a rack for them to cool, more than eager to accompany your boyfriend in the pile of pillows and blankets on your couch.

“where are the cookies?”

“they still have to cool off silly.”

spencers expression was beyond adorable, lips contorting into the most pathetic and pouty frown you had ever witnessed.

spencer lifted his head so you could sit next to him, quickly resting his face against your thighs. your hands immediately found his hair, aimlessly twisting and twirling his dishevelled curls around your fingers, lightly massaging his scalp.

he melted in your grasp, finally relaxing for the first time in seven agonizingly long days. you two sat there, enjoying the comfort of quiet and each others presence.

“do you want to finish this episode? i really liked where the angel-thingy plot was going.”

spencer turned his head to gazed up at you from his place on your lap, typically he would correct your inaccuracies with obscure trivia you didn’t understand but adored anyway.

but tonight, he stayed quiet, lightly shaking his head and rolling onto his back so his eyes could meet yours.

“it was a tough case, wasn’t it?”

he closed his eyes as he nodded in response to your inquiry, leaning closer into your hands on his scalp.

“do you want to talk about it?”

“no…”

“are— are you sure? because if this is weighing on you—“

you made your best efforts to use your words to comfort him, inexperienced in that area of intimacy. but you were cut off mid sentence by spencer suddenly sitting up, keeping his distance from you and turning his head away from yours. his hands pushed back his unruly hair as he leaned forward with his head in his hands.

“listen, the unsubs that we deal with… their actions, they are completely gruesome and extremely disturbing—i don’t want to bring the graphic details of what i do home to you… what—what he did to those women was..”

spencer’s breath hitched as he turned to look at you, deep chocolate eyes adorned with a newfound stress, body still slouched over in fatigue. you gently grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into you, wrapping your arms around his tall but lanky frame.

“spence… you need an outlet, i want you to be able to talk to me about this. your feelings are the most precious and important things to me.”

spencer placed a soft kiss on your shoulder, falling into your warmth.

“why don’t you tell me about it over some fresh cookies, yeah?”

he couldn’t say no to that.

as the night went on, the plate of cookies on your coffee table was reduced to a few scattered crumbs as spencer lay atop of you, arms draped lazily over your sides as flashing blue lights illuminated your features from the tv.

he turned his head so his chin was resting on your stomach, you rotated your position so you could meet his eyes— you swore every time you did you nearly got lost in them.

“did you know—the programme of doctor who was originally—conceptualized as an educational tool—aimed at children?”

his ramble paused between yawns, tiredness painfully evident although he refused to admit it.

“is that so? must’ve been why you enjoyed it so much as a kid.”

despite his body’s not so silent screams for sleep, he beamed at your response, taking it as a greenlight to continue with his rant.

“precisely, they ingeniously—alternated narrative arcs between historically—based episodes and futuristic or extraterrestrial themes to—explore technological concepts.”

more yawns interrupted his words, you sighed as you cupped his soft, rosy cheeks.

“i think it’s time we headed to bed, yeah?”

spencer wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly close, preventing you from getting up.

“can we stay for a while— please?”

you chuckled as you grabbed the remote to flick off the tv, not wanting your adorably but occasionally sweetly childish boyfriend to get distracted by the film on the screen.

“okay fine, but you better not get mad when i wake you up in the middle of the night with a cramp in my leg.”

spencer burried his face into your abdomen, nudging his nose into the softness of your form below him.

“i could never be mad at you.”

he comfortably sighed into your skin as you reached into the pile behind your back to pull out a blanket large enough to envelop both of you in its warmth.

you watched spencer as his breathing steadied and his body slightly twitched, indicating he had fallen into a well deserved asleep.

“sweet dreams my smart boy, i love you.”

your voice was barely above a whisper as you pulled his cardigan close, inhaling his scent as you drifted off into a slumber of your own. hearts beating in sync in the calming silence of your apartment.

first fluffy fic completed hehe!! thank you so much for the request!! kept it short and sweet for my favourite pipe cleaner with eyes🩵🩵 also yes i based the case in jacksonville bc of the good place what about it…

[spenceloria]

YOUR HIPS, YOUR THIGHS

in which: your coworker becomes completely captivated by you, though what begins as subtle, innocent admiration quickly spirals into something more… intoxicating.

spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: SMUT! perv!spence, chubby!reader, spencer fantasizes… a lot, mentions of dacryphilia and a blowjob, reader wears makeup, semi public masturbation, sheet???sniffing???, panty sniffing(almost?), teasing, begging, degradation, almost humiliation kink?, praise, dryhumping (try to act surprised…), body worship, panty fucking(???), male masturbation, face sitting, cunnilingus, pet names (good boy…), uhhh implied shower sex kinda, uneaten pizza💔

wc: 7.8k (oh boy)

div: vysleix, chilumitos, enchanthings-a

im so sorry ive been so inactive… this fic took an embarrassingly long time to write… but i think it’s one of my best works yet so!!! hope u enjoy!! based on these reqs! (1) (2)

lowercase intended, no use of y/n

spencer liked to well… watch you.

he swore it wasn’t creepy. he told himself over and over that his intentions were pure, that it was harmless, innocent curiosity—at first.

but deep down, he knew there was nothing innocent about the way his eyes seemed to find you every time you stepped into the bullpen.

he’d seen you a few times before, drifting around the office in your quiet little routines, filing, organizing, doing the kind of mundane tasks no one else really noticed.

and maybe that was what first caught his attention: the way you moved with such effortless focus, a subtle kind of grace in the things everyone else took for granted. but then you wore that.

that skirt. the one that clung to your hips, skimming along the curve of your thighs, making spencer’s mouth go dry before he even realized he was staring. the way it outlined your softness, traced every line of you, it made his brain feel like static.

he froze the moment you passed his desk, his wide eyes dragging helplessly after the sway of your hips, and the way the fabric defined the roundness of your ass.

it was hypnotic, the rhythm of it, of you. the delicate yet deliberate movement that left him feeling like some awkward horny teenager again.

his heart jumped into his throat, embarrassment already burning through him. you affected him so much, without even trying. he had actually tracked the difference, in that precise way only spencer could, an exact 35% increase in his so-called “bathroom breaks” since the day he really noticed you. the numbers didn’t lie.

it maddened him, realizing how long it had taken to finally see you. you’d been there for god knows how long, and he had been too wrapped up in files, in cases, the team, in the endless pull of the workload to ever notice the other agents that filled his everyday life.

that was his flaw: tunnel vision. he gave so much of himself to his job, that he rarely let his eyes, or his heart, wander anywhere else. but the second he did, the second his gaze fell on you, really fell on you—it was over.

he regretted every day he’d wasted not memorizing the lines of your face, the sound of your laugh, the way your presence seemed to soften the sharp edges, warming up every room.

and then… it happened.

you spoke to him.

you, the goddess who had unknowingly unraveled him, the secret obsession of his sleepless nights, the only image burned into his thoughts when he woke in a sweat, restless and aching.

he tried—really tried, to focus on your question. on the actual words leaving your lips, on the tone of your voice, light and curious, directed at him for the very first time.

but his mind… it betrayed him. it slid somewhere darker, somewhere far less appropriate.

he honed in on the flutter of your lashes, the way they dipped and lifted with each blink. he imagined them slowed, heavy and dazed, batting up at him in the haze of something far more intimate than office chatter.

he noticed the way your chest pressed together as you leaned closer over his desk, the subtle brush of fabric tightening across your curves. his gaze fell to your mouth, soft, warm, impossibly inviting.

he wondered how it would feel to close the tiny gap between you. to tilt his head and capture your lips in a kiss that was far from gentle.

would it be messy? heated? the kind of kiss that left both of you breathless and aching, lips slick, noses bumping because neither of you could pull away long enough to breathe?

or worse… he thought about your lips stretched around him, swollen and glossy, wrapped in a fantasy so vivid it made his chest ache.

he swallowed, hard. his skin felt hot, tight, his collar and slacks suddenly too constricting. and then, like crashing back into reality, he realized just how long he’d been staring. just how blank his expression must have looked as you patiently waited for an answer.

“sorry—uh, what was that?”

he blurted, voice cracking slightly.

mortification hit instantly, crawling up spencer’s neck in a red flush. of course.

of course he’d manage to completely humiliate himself in his very first real conversation with you. the first time you’d ever willingly directed your voice, your attention toward him, and he was already fumbling, already proving just how much you affected him, disastrously unhinging him at every corner.

“sorry for bothering you, dr. reid—it’s just… okay, this is going to sound pretty stupid, but—”

dr. reid.

the way you said it sent a shiver straight through him. spencer’s lips parted slightly, the corner twitching as though he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite let himself. hearing you address him with such formality gave him something—a sense of identity, of being seen.

though, it also wasn’t enough. the honorifics added too much distance, a wall he desperately wanted to break. he needed to hear his name on your tongue, softly, familiarly. spencer.

“—well, they got a new photocopier down in the file room, and i can’t for the life of me, figure out how it works.”

spencer blinked, dragging himself back to reality. his eyes met yours with an unreadable sharpness, though not unkind. warm flecks of hazel caught in the deep brown of his irises, warm even under the harsh fluorescent glow of the office.

still, he just stared. blank. silent. the same fixed expression he’d had since you approached him.

panic curled in your stomach. was this stupid? probably. maybe the copier wasn’t that complicated and you were just overthinking it.

maybe this was just an excuse—a flimsy little reason to finally, finally talk to the smartest (and, annoyingly, cutest) guy you’d ever seen

but still, you weren’t faking the problem. you needed to get those those copies done like, yesterday.

“i understand if you’re busy, though! really, it’s fine—”

your words were frantic and rushed, already wanting to sink into the floor.

“no! It’s alright! i’m sure i can figure it out!”

spencer interrupted far too quickly. the words came out too loud, too confident.

jesus, cocky much? his stomach sank as soon as he heard himself. because in reality, when it came to technology, he was a lost cause.

but there was no way he could admit that now, not with you standing there, looking at him like that.

“thank you so much!”

you spoke with genuine relief, and then,

you smiled.

god. his entire chest seized at the sight of it, so close, directed at him. his pulse tripped over itself, heart pounding erratically.

he’d seen you smile before, short, soft, but never like this. never with him as the cause.

it was beautiful, almost blinding in its warmth. his face heated instantly, blood rushing to his ears, and yet he so foolishly basked in it, soaking it up greedily.

he was obsessed with you. that much was obvious now.

as you turned and began leading him toward the file room, spencer followed, his stride stiff, hands fidgeting with the hem of his sweater as he tried to keep his focus somewhere appropriate. but inevitably, his gaze slipped.

downward.

it wasn’t is fault—he told himself that over and over. not when you wore things like that. his mind travelled to the same place it always did when you wore those skirts.

stupidly perfect, form-fitting pencil skirts that hugged you in ways that made his mouth dry and his thoughts unspeakably indecent. the fabric clung to your body like it was made for you. it highlighted everything soft, everything he wanted to touch, and left little to the imagination. too little.

his mind filled in the blanks instead, running wild at a pace so obscene it made him dizzy. by the time you pushed open the door to the file room, he’d already undressed you a hundred times in his head, his mind looping through scenario after scenario, none of them remotely professional.

and the worst part? he couldn’t stop.

he couldn’t stop his thoughts from slipping into dangerous places as he fumbled uselessly with the photocopier.

his long fingers moved across the unfamiliar panel, pressing buttons with little confidence, cursing quietly at the modern “updates” that only seemed to make the machine more complicated. each beep, each error message, only added to the coil of stress tightening in his chest.

he was trying so hard. trying not to embarrass himself in front of you, and more than anything, he was trying not to get distracted by you.

because he knew the second he allowed his eyes to wander, even for a fraction of a moment, he’d be gone. one glance, and his mind would spiral into the same dangerous depths it always did when you were near, places that left him restless, aching, and guilty.

finally, after far too long, the machine whirred to life, spitting out your neatly collated copies. a victory, and as a reward, spencer allowed himself the smallest indulgence: to look at you.

even in the dim, yellowed lighting of the file room—lighting that made everyone else look washed out and dull, you looked… ethereal. absolutely unreal.

his gaze drank you in: the slight furrow of your brows as you leaned in to check the stack of papers, the faint pink blush across your cheeks that somehow looked permanent on you, perfectly complimenting your natural features.

your lashes caught in the light, thick and glossy, framing eyes that made him feel like he was unraveling every time they landed on him.

and then, because his mind was cruel, because he couldn’t help himself, he pictured you differently.

not soft, but wrecked. your perfect lashes clumped with tears, mascara smudged in black streaks across flushed cheeks. he imagined the delicate tremble of your lips when they were swollen, ruined from kissing, from crying, from him.

the image made his stomach flip, a rush of heat flooding through him so sharp it made him swallow hard. he forced himself to look back down at the machine.

then your voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. gentle, warm, paired with another smile so radiant it almost hurt to look at.

“thank you so much—you really helped me out!”

spencer nearly forgot how to breathe. praise. from you. directed entirely at him. he felt his chest swell with something dangerous, addictive.

he could get used to this. too easily.

and he did. after his heroic little performance with the temperamental photocopier, you and spencer began to fall into a casual, coworker type rhythm.

just little moments. passing words exchanged in the bullpen, conversations that stretched a second too long, the way you lingered by his desk when you had a spare moment. for spencer, each encounter etched itself into his mind with photographic clarity. he silently thanked his eidetic memory each time he mentally replayed every single conversation the two of you shared.

then came the milestone.

it was ordinary to you, perfectly reasonable, barely worth a second thought. but to spencer, it short-circuited his brain, fried every coherent thought into static.

he’d made a joke. a stupid one—silly, awkward, something so bad it wouldn’t even qualify as a proper dad joke. he cringed the second it left his mouth, already preparing to retreat into himself. but then… then you laughed.

and not the polite kind, either. you really laughed, your smile wide and genuine, your voice spilling out in a sound that was pure melodic perfection. it filled his senses like music, like warmth. he wished he could play it over and over, every night when he couldn’t sleep.

but the real breaking point was what followed.

you patted him on the shoulder.

just that. a regular, friendly gesture. your hand brushing his arm through the fabric of his shirt, barely a second of contact.

but for spencer? he didn’t know what to do with himself. his skin burned beneath your touch, tingling hot as though the heat had soaked straight through the barrier of his button-up. you’d never touched him before.

for someone who typically shied away from physical contact, who would normally stammer about germ transfer and pathogens, the last thing he expected was to want more.

and yet, the moment your hand left him, he found himself almost chasing after it—yearning for the touch to return, to linger, to press closer. not through fabric, but bare. intimate. skin against skin.

the thought sent his mind clouding, hazy, incoherent. blood rushed from his head at a startling pace, flooding downward until his body betrayed him completely.

he swallowed hard, desperate to regain composure, but it was useless. one laugh, one touch, and he was undone.

it was pathetic, really. at least, that’s what spencer told himself as he stumbled through some flimsy excuse, cutting your conversation short with a tight, awkward smile before retreating.

his heart pounded, his skin hot, and he didn’t dare let his eyes linger on you for another second.

he made a beeline for the bathroom—the only place where he could breathe, where he could shut a door between himself and the unbearable temptation of you. his hands shook as he locked himself inside, bracing against the sink as though it could anchor him.

it was humiliating, how little control he had. how quickly his body betrayed him, how hopelessly you unraveled him with the smallest things: a smile, a laugh, a fleeting touch. he should have been stronger than this. smarter. he knew better. and yet…

with you in his mind, with the echo of your voice and the ghost of your hand still burning on his shoulder, resistance was laughable. he closed his eyes and conjured you instantly—your lips, your warmth, the way your skirt hugged every perfect line of your body.

the fantasy sharpened so quickly it left him dizzy, and before he even realized it, his restraint had completely shattered. brown curls clad to his forehead with a thick sweat, hands slithering down his body to where the ache screamed for friction.

it didn’t take long at all.

hot sticky release pooled in his palm, and he scrambled to clean himself before the evidence of his crime stained his sweat soaked clothing.

he felt the rush of shame press down on him just as heavily as the afterglow. he leaned over the sink, palms pressed flat, chest heaving, hands shaking. his reflection in the mirror looked wrecked—pathetic, guilty, needy.

and still, even in the mess of it, his mind betrayed him one last time.

he wished it had been you.

as the weeks slipped by, you and spencer only grew closer. it wasn’t dramatic, not some grand shift—just small moments, steady, subtle.

and slowly, painfully, spencer realized you had begun to think of him as something more than a coworker. a friend.

he wished he was more than that, he longed to be more.

so when you asked him, so casually, so sweetly, if he could help you move some furniture into your new apartment, how could he possibly say no? you could’ve asked anyone else, someone stronger, more capable, someone who wouldn’t need to stop and catch their breath every few steps.

but you asked him. you wanted him. and spencer would never deny you anything.

in truth, you were doing most of the heavy lifting. he wasn’t built for this, not really. his arms ached, his palms stung, but he would have carried the world on his back if you’d only asked.

to him, it didn’t matter. being there with you, in your space, was more than he ever thought he’d have.

by the time you lugged the final chair into the kitchen, your phone rang—sudden, interrupting. you frowned, answering quickly, your voice low as you tried to calm your frantic friend on the other end. she was panicking about a date, clothes scattered everywhere, makeup smudged, disaster in progress.

spencer lingered nearby, chest still heaving from the last trip up the stairs, trying not to look like he was eavesdropping.

when you hung up, your face did nothing to hide your irritation. why now? why tonight? your first one-on-one time with him, ruined by your best friend’s meltdown.

you wanted to ignore her, to stay here basking in spencer’s shy smiles and careful words. but you couldn’t—too good of a friend to abandon her. still, you didn’t want to send spencer home.

“she only lives a few blocks away, i can be there and back in under an hour.”

you reasoned to yourself aloud, whispering under your breath to attempt to hide your annoyance.

turning to face him, you smiled apologetically.

“hey, spencer, sorry this is so sudden but… i have to help my friend with something really quickly! i’ll pick up a pizza or something on my way back? is that okay?”

spencer froze. the words barely processed. you wanted to leave him here? alone? in your apartment? his mind scrambled, torn between panic and desire.

being here with you was overwhelming enough, but being surrounded by everything that made this place yours, without you here to anchor him? he wasn’t sure he could trust himself.

still, he nodded, lips quirking in what he hoped was a casual smile.

“yeah, of course. that sounds… great.”

it wasn’t the pizza that distracted him. it wasn’t even your absence. it was the way you’d said his name. his first name. for the thirteenth time since you’d let him into your orbit.

and every single time, it carved a new space inside him, filled him with warmth and longing. butterflies churned in his stomach, so potent he almost didn’t notice you slipping on your shoes, grabbing your keys, disappearing out the door.

and then you were gone.

the silence was deafening.

he was alone. alone in your apartment. in your space. surrounded by your things.

spencer tried to restrain himself. he really did. he perched on the edge of your couch, hands clasped tightly, staring at the stack of boxes still waiting to be unpacked. he told himself to sit still, to wait, to be good. but the itch beneath his skin grew unbearable, and eventually, inevitably—he caved.

he snooped. just a little at first. he wandered.

your apartment was still half-finished, but the personal touches already bled through the clutter. framed photographs tucked on shelves, magnets in bright mismatched colours clinging to the fridge, the faint perfume that clung to the air.

the bathroom shelf that held your shampoo, your lotions, hair products, things he’d never admit to noticing, to memorizing.

and then—your bedroom.

the door was half open, the shadow of boxes spilling into the hall, but beyond that, it was undeniably yours. your bed, rumpled from mornings and nights he could only imagine. the faintest hint of who you were when no one else was watching.

spencer stood frozen at the doorway, pulse pounding, shame and desire colliding violently in his chest.

he shouldn’t. he knew all too well that he shouldn’t.

but he wanted to.

and spencer reid was a man who, despite all his brilliance, seriously lacked self-control.

he pushed the door open with the smallest creak, sucking air sharply through his teeth as he crossed into your most intimate space. it felt like trespassing. like sin. and yet, he stepped inside anyway.

his eyes roamed greedily, cataloging everything the way he would a crime scene, his fingers brushed across the shelves, ghosting over cracked spines of books you’d read and loved, tracing the edges of notebooks stacked haphazardly.

on your desk, he flipped through a few scattered papers, fingertips lingering over scribbled handwriting before drifting to your necklace stand. he let the chains slip through his fingers, delicate and glimmering, imagining how they would glint against the base of your throat.

then his gaze caught the mirror.

a polaroid was tucked into the corner of the frame—an unposed moment captured between you and the friend you were currently rushing off to help.

spencer barely glanced at her. his eyes locked only on you. your smile. the crinkles at the corners of your eyes. the way happiness radiated from you so effortlessly, so luminously, it felt like it could blind him if he stared too long.

“she’s so beautiful when she’s happy,”

he whispered under his breath, the words trembling, meant for no one but himself.

unable to resist, he perched on the edge of your bed. the mattress dipped beneath his weight, the springs sighing softly as though welcoming him.

slowly, cautiously, he lowered himself back until he was lying flat against your sheets.

your scent hit him instantly—sweet, warm, distinctly you. he clung to the smell, allowing it to fill his lungs until he thought he might suffocate on it. his eyes fluttered shut for a moment, guilt bubbling in his stomach, but even that guilt twisted into something darker, something that only made the sheets feel softer beneath him.

he had no plans to stop.

when his eyes opened again, they landed on your dresser.

his heart hammered. he knew better.

and yet, his body had a mind of its own, his feet carried him forward before his brain could protest. he hovered over the dresser, fingertips skimming the edge like he was afraid to touch it directly, afraid it might burn him if he pressed too hard. then, slowly, carefully, he reached.

a drawer cracked open just enough to reveal a glimpse of lace. spencer froze, heart pounding so violently he could hear it in his ears. he shouldn’t. he knew he shouldn’t. this was too far, it was perverted, filthy, disgusting.

but his hand was already reaching. already curling around the handle, tugging the drawer open an inch, then two. just enough to see the delicate fabrics inside, folded, intimate in a way that made his throat tighten.

his fingers brushed around the lace trim of a baby blue pair of panties. they were soft, impossibly soft—his breath stuttering out in a shaky exhale. the thought of you wearing them, pressed against your skin, the most intimate part of you covered by the thin fabric.

his chest ached with a want so sharp it bordered on pain, like a stabbing sensation in his ribs with every breath.

“fuck…”

he whispered, so quietly it battled the squeak of a church mouse, voice breaking, shame already thick in his mouth.

he bit his lip, lifting the fabric up to his face until—

“spencer?”

the sound cut through him like ice. he hadn’t heard you come in; he hadn’t registered the tiny clink of ceramic as you set two plates on the counter, the soft thump of your footsteps as you crossed the living room. he’d been a universe away, wrapped in the scent and the lace and the impossible idea that any of this could be real.

now, you were only a few feet away, standing in the doorway, and he felt as though everything he had built collapsed.

“i—i swear! i can explain!”

he stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush. his face must have been red enough to heat the room.

his life was over. he could see it now—your disgust, your fury, he pictured himself humiliated in front of the team, in front of you, reduced to some grotesque cautionary tale. that one creep. disgusting scum.

your eyes flicked from his face, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, to the trembling hand clutching the fabric, back to his face. those eyes.

for a second there was only silence, the kind that hums in the ears. sweat prickled along his hairline.

you always knew he stared at you sometimes, sure, it was just spencer being spencer: awkward, brilliant, occasionally oblivious. you had fantasized about the fact that maybe, just maybe, it was because he reciprocated your feelings, that they were mutual.

you had never, not even in the back of your mind, thought it extended to this. not to rummaging through your personal things, not to clutching lace like a confession.

you should scream, you thought. anyone with common sense would. you should tell him to get out, to never come back.

but as your gaze traveled over him, on how vulnerable he looked, how raw and humiliated, how pathetic. the image of him there, exposed and shame-faced, pressed a small, electric thrill to the base of your throat.

and then something unexpected unfurled across your features: not outrage. not anger. instead a hot, undeniable flare of something else—curiosity, surprise, and then, impossibly, a slow smile that made the air between you hum.

you surprised yourself by leaning forward a fraction, closing the distance not to punish but to inspect. up close, the embarrassment on his face was painfully real. his lips trembled.

“you shouldn’t be in my things,”

you said, voice low, trying on a tone that might have been reproach. It sounded softer than you intended.

“but….here you are. and you look ridiculous.”

he let out a strangled sound that resembled the whine of a naughty puppy.

“i’m sorry. i—god, i’m sorry. i don’t know what came over me. i didn’t mean to—i just—when you left—”

his hands flailed helplessly. clinging onto the last grasp of dignity he held, trying to defend himself.

“what? i left you alone for forty-five minutes and you couldn’t help but… snoop through my underwear drawer? naughty boy.”

you leaned closer, close enough to make him uncomfortable, to make him squirm. your breath fanned across his neck as you drilled into him, mockingly.

you giggled as you curled a finger in his hair, watching as he trembled in place, as if his feet were glued to the ground. stuck.

“hmm? you want me, but you’re too useless to do anything about it… so you decided to sniff my panties like a perv?”

heat hummed through him at the bluntness of your words. he had never expected that edge from you, you were usually gentle, soft, the kind of quiet that soothed him. though, this new firmness made something low and eager coil inside him.

you slipped your fingers through his hair, thumb brushing his scalp, then trailed a nail lightly along his cheek before giving him two deliberate, open-palmed taps that left a warmth spreading under his skin. you were dangerously close; he could feel the heat of your body, smell the faint scent of your soap, the quickening of your breath against his face.

“answer me.”

he didn’t know whether to be mortified or ecstatic. his mouth felt dry and large at once.

“i—”

he started, and then, when language failed him, he let his eyes do the speaking: wide, raw, utterly honest.

“yes.”

“you fantasized about me, about this. all the time.”

you said it with a soft amusement that sharpened the air between you. it should have been an accusation; instead it sounded like a confession you’d coaxed out of him.

“i—only sometimes.”

his voice came out small, ridiculous, threaded with shame. the sight of him like that, exposed, wanting… it filled you with more need than ever before.

“okay, then. tell me what you were thinking about.”

your voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper that scraped along his ear and made his pulse stutter.

he hesitated, colour rushing and flushing in his cheeks, burning his skin.

“come on, spencer,”

you teased, close enough that the heat of your breath ghosted his lips,

“you never had a problem letting your mouth run before.”

his throat bobbed as he swallowed, mind racing, every coherent thought scattering under the weight of your gaze. every syllable felt dangerous, like handing you the sharpest parts of him.

“i…”

his voice broke, thin and shaky.

“i thought about your lips. the way they’d feel… against mine. how soft. how warm.”

your brows arched, the ghost of a smirk tugging at your mouth.

“just kissing?”

his head jerked in a frantic shake, hair falling into his eyes.

“no. not just—not just kissing.”

you leaned in closer, nails grazing along his jaw, making him shiver.

“then what, spencer? tell me.”

his chest rose and fell too quickly, breath shallow, uneven.

“i thought about you in those skirts. the way they… hug you. i couldn’t stop imagining…”

his words faltered, shame blooming hot in his cheeks. he dragged in a shaky breath, forced himself to continue.

“…imagining pushing them up. seeing what’s underneath. touching you.”

your pulse skipped, heat sparking low in your belly at the broken, almost reverent way he said it.

“keep going,”

you whispered, the command laced with a sweetness that was almost dark, lustful.

his eyes squeezed shut, like he couldn’t bear to see your face as he unraveled.

“sometimes i pictured you—on my desk. leaning over me. or in my lap. your thighs around me. the sounds you’d make. i wanted to see your face after we were done—how your cheeks would be flushed and your makeup ruined.”

your breath caught at his honesty, at the trembling need spilling raw from him.

“god, spencer,”

you murmured, brushing your lips just short of his,

“you really are obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

he let out a shaky, desperate laugh, the truth too heavy to deny.

“completely.”

your breath mingled with his, so close it made him dizzy. his whole body trembled, waiting, straining.

hearing the way he said it, helpless, completely at your disposal. it was all you needed to hear, a final push over the edge.

you closed the distance, pressing your lips to his. soft at first—testing, tasting. his breath hitched, a strangled sound caught in his throat before he melted into you, kissing back with a hunger that betrayed how long he’d been holding himself back.

his hands hovered uncertainly at your sides, fingers twitching like he was afraid to touch, to take.

you grabbed his wrists and guided them to your waist, grounding him. his palms splayed wide, tentative at first, then tightening as he realized you weren’t going to pull away.

the kiss deepened. it turned heated, wet, his lips parting beneath yours like he’d been made for this, like he’d been starving.

you tugged lightly on his curls, pulling a groan from his chest. the sound vibrated against your mouth, low and desperate, and it made your thighs clench instinctively.

he broke away for half a second, gasping, forehead pressed to yours.

“i—i want to…”

he whispered, voice hoarse with need, eyes blown wide and dark.

you smiled, dragging your thumb across his flushed cheek.

“i know, baby.”

he surged forward, kissing you harder this time, sloppy, hungry, messy with weeks—months of repression spilling out all at once. his hands roamed, mapping the curves of your body through the fabric, like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.

you pushed him across the room until the back of his knees caught the edge of your bed—the same bed he had shamelessly sunk into minutes before, breathing you in.

he stumbled down onto it with a soft thud, and you were on him in a heartbeat, straddling his lap. your oversized t-shirt slid up and over your head, falling carelessly to the floor. his jaw dropped, eyes darting helplessly over the sudden, bareness of you.

“god—you’re so…i can’t even…”

his voice cracked, breath shuddering out of him.

you didn’t give him time to fumble. you pushed him flat onto the mattress, his body bouncing lightly against the springs before you claimed his mouth once more.

you were greedy, unrestrained. the kiss was all teeth, tongue, and want. you swallowed his gasp as though it belonged to you, devouring the sound until he melted beneath you.

“please…”

the word tore out of him, broken and needy. his chest heaved, eyes glassy and wide, pupils devouring the warm hazel.

you pulled back just enough to let your lips brush his, a teasing hum vibrating in your throat.

“hmm?”

he swallowed, trying to steady his voice, but it still trembled.

“i want you to—uhm…”

your nails dragged lightly down his sides, you felt so close through the thin fabric of his shirt, making him shiver.

“spit it out, you can do it.”

you murmured, egging him on, hot against his ear.

“can you… please… sitonmyface?”

the words tumbled out in one rushed, strangled plea, so fast you almost thought you imagined them.

for a heartbeat you froze, wondering if your ears had betrayed you. but then you saw it… the wild, desperate flicker in his eyes, the way his lips trembled like he’d just confessed something dangerous.

a sharp gasp clawed its way from your throat, echoing in your bones. heat licked at your skin, your pulse thundering in your ears. spencer reid, the man who could rattle off entire encyclopedias without breaking a sweat, was unraveling beneath you, begging.

you shifted deliberately, rolling your hips over his, slow and torturous. the friction dragged a broken moan from deep in his chest, his head tilting back against the pillow, curls damp at his temples.

“i didn’t quite catch that, what did you say?”

your voice lifted with a wicked sweetness as you ground down on him, just enough to make him squirm.

his eyes snapped open, glassy and pleading, his hands gripping the sheets so tightly the fabric strained.

you leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot against his skin.

“say it again, spencer.”

he swallowed hard, chest heaving, words stuttering on his tongue.

“i… i want you to sit on my face,”

he managed, louder this time, though his voice cracked with raw need.

“please. i need it. need you.”

the confession hit you like a spark, heat pooling low in your stomach. still, even as your own resolve chipped away faster than you cared to admit, you couldn’t resist teasing him a bit more, not ready to give in just yet.

you smiled against his jaw, pressing an open-mouthed kiss there, dragging your teeth lightly along the edge.

“good boy,”

you whispered, your hand sliding up his chest, nails teasing his throat before curling under his chin, tilting his face up to yours.

“beg a little more for me.”

his lips parted as if to argue, but all that came out was a choked whimper when you rolled your hips again, slower this time, deliberate enough to make him feel every shift of pressure.

“please…”

he gasped, voice already breaking.

you tilted your head, studying him with mock innocence.

“please what, spencer? you’re going to have to be a lot clearer than that.”

his throat worked as he swallowed, his eyes flicking to your mouth, your body, then back to your eyes, utterly undone.

“please… sit on my face,”

he repeated, breathless.

“mmm, better,”

you purred, dragging your nails lightly down his arms, watching goosebumps ripple in their wake.

“but i don’t know, spencer… i still don’t think you sound convincing enough.”

a whimper tore from him—humiliating, desperate, beautiful.

“say it again.”

“sit on my face, please. want it so bad”

he blurted, louder this time, his voice hoarse.

you rewarded him with another slow grind of your hips, his eyes fluttering shut, a strangled groan escaping him.

“one more time, please. like you mean it. show me how much you want me.”

he broke then, utterly, shamelessly.

“please, please let me taste you,”

he begged, voice trembling as his chest rose and fell like he’d just run miles.

“i need to feel you on me, above me—please, i’ll do anything, i’ll be so good for you, just—just let me have you.”

“okay.”

the single word fell from your lips like a verdict, whispered, almost inaudible. though the sound of it tore a guttural groan from his chest—raw, unrestrained, like he couldn’t believe this was finally happening to him.

his eyes tracked your every move, wide and glassy, as you hooked your fingers into the drawstring of your joggers. his breath stuttered, chest rising in quick, shallow bursts as you tugged, the knot slipping loose with infuriating slowness.

you lifted your hips, dragging the fabric down inch by inch. his gaze followed helplessly, hungry, starved, as though every new sliver was a gift from the heavens.

his breath hitched sharply as your thighs came into full view. his hands twitched against the mattress, curling into the sheets so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“god…”

he whispered, voice cracking, eyes raking over you like he was memorizing every dip, every curve, every bump. because he was.

you paused, just long enough to torment him, your joggers hanging loose around the base of your thighs, meeting your knees.

“don’t pass out on me now, spencer.”

he gasped, eyes never leaving you.

“i won’t, i couldn’t—i need to see all of you.”

you finally peeled the thick gray fabric all the way down your smooth legs, lifting your body in order to do so. toes flexing as you tugged them free and flung them carelessly across the room.

it didn’t phase spencer in the slightest—in fact, he didn’t even register where they landed. his eyes were locked too tightly on you, moving upward in a desperate, reverent climb until they stopped at the last barrier between him and everything he wanted.

plain, deep maroon. nothing lacy, nothing extravagant. just simple cotton stretched across your hips. but to him, they may as well have been made of gold. his breath caught in his throat, chest shuddering with every inhale, the sight alone had sent him reeling.

you smirked, slipping a finger under the elastic and tugging it back just enough to let it snap lightly against your skin. the sound made him groan, low and broken, his head tipping back against the mattress as if even that tiny bit of teasing was too much.

“like what you see?”

you asked softly, voice dripping with taunt.

“yes, i like—love it—yes…”

he gasped, frantic, stuttering over his words, nodding before they even fully left his mouth.

you let the silence hang for one delicious second longer before hooking your thumbs into the waistband. his eyes went impossibly wider, lips parting as he watched you drag the fabric down, inch by torturous inch, until finally, finally you rid yourself of them, the last flimsy piece of modesty hanging on your finger tip.

spencer’s entire body went taut, like he’d been struck by lightning.

“right, you have a thing for these, don’t you?”

you giggled and tossed your now soaked panties to him, watching him blush and fumble with the fabric before gripping them with one hand, eyes landing on you.

“oh my god,”

he whispered, desperation tangled in each breath.

you lurched forward, pulling your body over his, until you were situated just over where he needed you, hovering so close he could almost taste you already.

his hand finally left the comfort of your sheets, releasing itself from the fabric and onto you, the curve of your hips, the swell of your ass. his hand studied you like you were an undiscovered specimen, like a god, he was worshipping you above him.

“you’ll tell me if im hurting you, okay?”

it was less a question and more a demand, still he obliged, nodding as he tried to pull your weight on top of him. your hands dashed for the headboard, steadying yourself—pulling all of your mass into your legs as your swollen core finally made contact with spencer’s immensely eager lips.

he moaned at the taste of you. he was loud. he sent vibrations straight through your body, up your spine and to your brain, shocking you with pleasure.

he caught you by surprise, forcing you down, making your knees buckle, pulling you flat on top of him.

“spencer! spence—gah!”

he didn’t waste a second before diving back in, placing hot, open mouthed kisses around your cunt, swirling his tongue around your clit. he was eating you out like a mad man.

spencers mind was mainly filled with static, his brain completely buzzed, high on you, your taste, your sounds. but that small part of him that remained coherent was only thinking about how less than half an hour earlier, he thought his life was over… yet, now, he’d be more than willing to meet his fate right here beneath you.

dying between your thighs would be an honourable way to go.

apparent pro-multitasker, his hand sprawled out on your sheets, loosening his iron tight grip on your soiled panties. he groaned as he felt the slick between his fingers, mirroring that of which was currently dripping down his chin.

for a brief fraction of a second, he allowed the hand gripping the flesh of your thigh like a lifeline to travel towards his trousers, skillfully un zipping them with one hand.

the man couldn’t handle a pair of chopsticks to save his life, but of course he could whip his dick out while you were grinding on his face. of course he could.

his hand travelled back to your skin, palming the soft flesh with a gentleness that starkly contrasted the way he was making your thighs shake, devouring you.

“you’re doing—mmm..s—so good for me.”

your praise fell on grateful ears, following a satisfied hum that had you quivering forward, finding purchase on your headboard.

spencers hips bucked into nothing at the sound of your voice, reminding him that he currently had a sacred item at his disposal, that he had another fantasy to fulfill.

even when you humiliated him for his infatuation before, he couldn’t help the way blood rushed into his cock at the speed of light, forcing him to admit all the nasty things he’d dreamt up about you.

and now, he still felt infinitely ashamed. he had you exactly where he’d yearned to feel you for so long. still, he wrapped his panty clad palm around his length, whining into your heat at the contact.

you were too jacked up on pleasure to notice that he was fucking his hand, and your underwear. or maybe you just didn’t really care. you had decided to take the satisfaction you deserved as you grinded down on spencer’s face. fervently.

obscene wet slaps filled your apartment, through the echos of skin on skin and the squeaks of your mattress, you could make out a faint buzzing, no doubt your best friend. she was probably calling to complain about her date, maybe he didn’t complement her shoes or was shorter than what his profile had stated.

you’d call her back. tomorrow.

now, you were teetering so close on the edge you thought you might faint.

“jesus fucking christ! hah—spencer!..gah!”

spencer only groaned in acknowledgment, swirling his tongue around your swollen bundle of nerves in perfect figure eights, making your eyes roll back.

“so good… so so good f’me. fuck—you gonna make me cum? y—yeah?”

he nodded his head frantically, your words only egging him on to move faster, sucking up your slick like it was the last thing he would do.

“fuckkk fuckfuckfuckfuckkk”

your head whipped backwards as spencer sent you hurling towards your climax, his tongue collecting every last bit of your release as he let you ride out your high, revelling in the convulsions around his mouth.

you saw white, shaking on top of him. your mind blanked.

you fell back onto your mattress with a soft plop, the springs squeaking beneath the sudden weight.

“spencer. reid. hah… what the actual fuck.”

you panted, voice broken with laughter and exhaustion all at once. your chest rose and fell erratically, every inhale shaky as you tried, and failed, to catch your breath after literally seeing stars.

you finally turned your head, eyes finding spencer for the first time in what felt like hours. your gaze lingered on his face: damp lips, chin shining with evidence, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink. he looked wrecked, undone, you loved it.

then, your eyes dropped lower. and there it was—unmistakable proof of what he’d been up to while you were on top of him.

you exhaled, a crooked grin curling at your lips,

“you really are a pervert, huh? you’re lucky i like you way too much to care.”

you let out a breathless chuckle, leaning over to press your lips to his—gentler now, softer, slow enough to make him sigh. the taste of yourself on his tongue only made you smile into the kiss.

“you can keep those, by the way.”

his eyes flicked up shyly, lips twitching against yours in a smirk he couldn’t hide. he avoided your gaze like he was afraid he’d combust if he held it too long.

one clean hand slid instinctively around your waist, pulling you close as both your chests rose and fell in a messy, uneven rhythm. You felt sticky, utterly ruined. the two of you were in a hot, tangled disaster on sheets you’d literally just washed two days ago.

still, when you looked at him, your sharp edges dulled, your warmth flooding back in. the part of you that had just spent an hour taunting him now softened, tender.

“you’re so beautiful.”

spencer whispered, the words so quiet you almost missed them under the pounding of your own heartbeat.

but you heard. and it melted you.

your mascara was smudged into streaks, your hair knotted into a sweaty clump, your skin burning like you’d been trapped in a summer heatwave with no ac. and still, he looked at you like you were something out of reach, something celestial.

you couldn’t help but smile, pressing a kiss to his jaw before burying your face into the crook of his neck, clinging to his warmth.

“sooo… did you ever pick up that pizza?”

you pulled back just in time to catch the laugh sputtering from his throat, giggling yourself as you smacked his chest lightly in mock scolding.

“yeah… it’s been on the counter for a while, though. definitely cold.”

spencer stretched, half ignoring the comment, already fumbling his way out of bed and toward your kitchen.

“good. I’m starving.”

you bolted upright, catching his wrist and redirecting him down the hall instead.

“uh-uh,”

you corrected, tugging him toward the bathroom with a pointed look.

“we’re taking a shower first.”

“we?”

he teased, arching a brow, his smirk returning.

“hm?”

you hummed as if you didn’t hear the inflection in his tone.

he didn’t answer with words. instead, he smirked wider, finally giving into the urge that boiled in his stomach every time he trailed behind you. gripping the curve of your ass as he unfastened the buttons of his now-ruined shirt.

it was a like a lifelong goal had finally been reached. past spencer would never believe that present spencer actually got to touch you as he watched the way your ass jiggled from behind.

you rolled your eyes, though the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you, and reached to twist the faucet, letting the water heat up. testing it with your fingers, you stepped over the edge of the tub, letting the steam engulf you.

you heard spencer’s footsteps pad up behind you.

the curtain rattled softly as he tugged it open, enough to step into the space between you and the wall, his bare feet prickling against the cold tile.

his chest pressed flush to your back, his lips brushing over your damp shoulder, his breath hot and teasing.

he had a lot more fantasies to confess to you.

i actually edited this on the verge of passing out… so if its a little messy pls don’t jump me🙏 hope you all enjoyed! love you! 🩵🩵🩵

[spenceloria]

YOUR HIPS, YOUR THIGHS

in which: your coworker becomes completely captivated by you, though what begins as subtle, innocent admiration quickly spirals into something more… intoxicating.

spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: SMUT! perv!spence, chubby!reader, spencer fantasizes… a lot, mentions of dacryphilia and a blowjob, reader wears makeup, semi public masturbation, sheet???sniffing???, panty sniffing(almost?), teasing, begging, degradation, almost humiliation kink?, praise, dryhumping (try to act surprised…), body worship, panty fucking(???), male masturbation, face sitting, cunnilingus, pet names (good boy…), uhhh implied shower sex kinda, uneaten pizza💔

wc: 7.8k (oh boy)

div: vysleix, chilumitos, enchanthings-a

im so sorry ive been so inactive… this fic took an embarrassingly long time to write… but i think it’s one of my best works yet so!!! hope u enjoy!! based on these reqs! (1) (2)

lowercase intended, no use of y/n

spencer liked to well… watch you.

he swore it wasn’t creepy. he told himself over and over that his intentions were pure, that it was harmless, innocent curiosity—at first.

but deep down, he knew there was nothing innocent about the way his eyes seemed to find you every time you stepped into the bullpen.

he’d seen you a few times before, drifting around the office in your quiet little routines, filing, organizing, doing the kind of mundane tasks no one else really noticed.

and maybe that was what first caught his attention: the way you moved with such effortless focus, a subtle kind of grace in the things everyone else took for granted. but then you wore that.

that skirt. the one that clung to your hips, skimming along the curve of your thighs, making spencer’s mouth go dry before he even realized he was staring. the way it outlined your softness, traced every line of you, it made his brain feel like static.

he froze the moment you passed his desk, his wide eyes dragging helplessly after the sway of your hips, and the way the fabric defined the roundness of your ass.

it was hypnotic, the rhythm of it, of you. the delicate yet deliberate movement that left him feeling like some awkward horny teenager again.

his heart jumped into his throat, embarrassment already burning through him. you affected him so much, without even trying. he had actually tracked the difference, in that precise way only spencer could, an exact 35% increase in his so-called “bathroom breaks” since the day he really noticed you. the numbers didn’t lie.

it maddened him, realizing how long it had taken to finally see you. you’d been there for god knows how long, and he had been too wrapped up in files, in cases, the team, in the endless pull of the workload to ever notice the other agents that filled his everyday life.

that was his flaw: tunnel vision. he gave so much of himself to his job, that he rarely let his eyes, or his heart, wander anywhere else. but the second he did, the second his gaze fell on you, really fell on you—it was over.

he regretted every day he’d wasted not memorizing the lines of your face, the sound of your laugh, the way your presence seemed to soften the sharp edges, warming up every room.

and then… it happened.

you spoke to him.

you, the goddess who had unknowingly unraveled him, the secret obsession of his sleepless nights, the only image burned into his thoughts when he woke in a sweat, restless and aching.

he tried—really tried, to focus on your question. on the actual words leaving your lips, on the tone of your voice, light and curious, directed at him for the very first time.

but his mind… it betrayed him. it slid somewhere darker, somewhere far less appropriate.

he honed in on the flutter of your lashes, the way they dipped and lifted with each blink. he imagined them slowed, heavy and dazed, batting up at him in the haze of something far more intimate than office chatter.

he noticed the way your chest pressed together as you leaned closer over his desk, the subtle brush of fabric tightening across your curves. his gaze fell to your mouth, soft, warm, impossibly inviting.

he wondered how it would feel to close the tiny gap between you. to tilt his head and capture your lips in a kiss that was far from gentle.

would it be messy? heated? the kind of kiss that left both of you breathless and aching, lips slick, noses bumping because neither of you could pull away long enough to breathe?

or worse… he thought about your lips stretched around him, swollen and glossy, wrapped in a fantasy so vivid it made his chest ache.

he swallowed, hard. his skin felt hot, tight, his collar and slacks suddenly too constricting. and then, like crashing back into reality, he realized just how long he’d been staring. just how blank his expression must have looked as you patiently waited for an answer.

“sorry—uh, what was that?”

he blurted, voice cracking slightly.

mortification hit instantly, crawling up spencer’s neck in a red flush. of course.

of course he’d manage to completely humiliate himself in his very first real conversation with you. the first time you’d ever willingly directed your voice, your attention toward him, and he was already fumbling, already proving just how much you affected him, disastrously unhinging him at every corner.

“sorry for bothering you, dr. reid—it’s just… okay, this is going to sound pretty stupid, but—”

dr. reid.

the way you said it sent a shiver straight through him. spencer’s lips parted slightly, the corner twitching as though he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite let himself. hearing you address him with such formality gave him something—a sense of identity, of being seen.

though, it also wasn’t enough. the honorifics added too much distance, a wall he desperately wanted to break. he needed to hear his name on your tongue, softly, familiarly. spencer.

“—well, they got a new photocopier down in the file room, and i can’t for the life of me, figure out how it works.”

spencer blinked, dragging himself back to reality. his eyes met yours with an unreadable sharpness, though not unkind. warm flecks of hazel caught in the deep brown of his irises, warm even under the harsh fluorescent glow of the office.

still, he just stared. blank. silent. the same fixed expression he’d had since you approached him.

panic curled in your stomach. was this stupid? probably. maybe the copier wasn’t that complicated and you were just overthinking it.

maybe this was just an excuse—a flimsy little reason to finally, finally talk to the smartest (and, annoyingly, cutest) guy you’d ever seen

but still, you weren’t faking the problem. you needed to get those those copies done like, yesterday.

“i understand if you’re busy, though! really, it’s fine—”

your words were frantic and rushed, already wanting to sink into the floor.

“no! It’s alright! i’m sure i can figure it out!”

spencer interrupted far too quickly. the words came out too loud, too confident.

jesus, cocky much? his stomach sank as soon as he heard himself. because in reality, when it came to technology, he was a lost cause.

but there was no way he could admit that now, not with you standing there, looking at him like that.

“thank you so much!”

you spoke with genuine relief, and then,

you smiled.

god. his entire chest seized at the sight of it, so close, directed at him. his pulse tripped over itself, heart pounding erratically.

he’d seen you smile before, short, soft, but never like this. never with him as the cause.

it was beautiful, almost blinding in its warmth. his face heated instantly, blood rushing to his ears, and yet he so foolishly basked in it, soaking it up greedily.

he was obsessed with you. that much was obvious now.

as you turned and began leading him toward the file room, spencer followed, his stride stiff, hands fidgeting with the hem of his sweater as he tried to keep his focus somewhere appropriate. but inevitably, his gaze slipped.

downward.

it wasn’t is fault—he told himself that over and over. not when you wore things like that. his mind travelled to the same place it always did when you wore those skirts.

stupidly perfect, form-fitting pencil skirts that hugged you in ways that made his mouth dry and his thoughts unspeakably indecent. the fabric clung to your body like it was made for you. it highlighted everything soft, everything he wanted to touch, and left little to the imagination. too little.

his mind filled in the blanks instead, running wild at a pace so obscene it made him dizzy. by the time you pushed open the door to the file room, he’d already undressed you a hundred times in his head, his mind looping through scenario after scenario, none of them remotely professional.

and the worst part? he couldn’t stop.

he couldn’t stop his thoughts from slipping into dangerous places as he fumbled uselessly with the photocopier.

his long fingers moved across the unfamiliar panel, pressing buttons with little confidence, cursing quietly at the modern “updates” that only seemed to make the machine more complicated. each beep, each error message, only added to the coil of stress tightening in his chest.

he was trying so hard. trying not to embarrass himself in front of you, and more than anything, he was trying not to get distracted by you.

because he knew the second he allowed his eyes to wander, even for a fraction of a moment, he’d be gone. one glance, and his mind would spiral into the same dangerous depths it always did when you were near, places that left him restless, aching, and guilty.

finally, after far too long, the machine whirred to life, spitting out your neatly collated copies. a victory, and as a reward, spencer allowed himself the smallest indulgence: to look at you.

even in the dim, yellowed lighting of the file room—lighting that made everyone else look washed out and dull, you looked… ethereal. absolutely unreal.

his gaze drank you in: the slight furrow of your brows as you leaned in to check the stack of papers, the faint pink blush across your cheeks that somehow looked permanent on you, perfectly complimenting your natural features.

your lashes caught in the light, thick and glossy, framing eyes that made him feel like he was unraveling every time they landed on him.

and then, because his mind was cruel, because he couldn’t help himself, he pictured you differently.

not soft, but wrecked. your perfect lashes clumped with tears, mascara smudged in black streaks across flushed cheeks. he imagined the delicate tremble of your lips when they were swollen, ruined from kissing, from crying, from him.

the image made his stomach flip, a rush of heat flooding through him so sharp it made him swallow hard. he forced himself to look back down at the machine.

then your voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. gentle, warm, paired with another smile so radiant it almost hurt to look at.

“thank you so much—you really helped me out!”

spencer nearly forgot how to breathe. praise. from you. directed entirely at him. he felt his chest swell with something dangerous, addictive.

he could get used to this. too easily.

and he did. after his heroic little performance with the temperamental photocopier, you and spencer began to fall into a casual, coworker type rhythm.

just little moments. passing words exchanged in the bullpen, conversations that stretched a second too long, the way you lingered by his desk when you had a spare moment. for spencer, each encounter etched itself into his mind with photographic clarity. he silently thanked his eidetic memory each time he mentally replayed every single conversation the two of you shared.

then came the milestone.

it was ordinary to you, perfectly reasonable, barely worth a second thought. but to spencer, it short-circuited his brain, fried every coherent thought into static.

he’d made a joke. a stupid one—silly, awkward, something so bad it wouldn’t even qualify as a proper dad joke. he cringed the second it left his mouth, already preparing to retreat into himself. but then… then you laughed.

and not the polite kind, either. you really laughed, your smile wide and genuine, your voice spilling out in a sound that was pure melodic perfection. it filled his senses like music, like warmth. he wished he could play it over and over, every night when he couldn’t sleep.

but the real breaking point was what followed.

you patted him on the shoulder.

just that. a regular, friendly gesture. your hand brushing his arm through the fabric of his shirt, barely a second of contact.

but for spencer? he didn’t know what to do with himself. his skin burned beneath your touch, tingling hot as though the heat had soaked straight through the barrier of his button-up. you’d never touched him before.

for someone who typically shied away from physical contact, who would normally stammer about germ transfer and pathogens, the last thing he expected was to want more.

and yet, the moment your hand left him, he found himself almost chasing after it—yearning for the touch to return, to linger, to press closer. not through fabric, but bare. intimate. skin against skin.

the thought sent his mind clouding, hazy, incoherent. blood rushed from his head at a startling pace, flooding downward until his body betrayed him completely.

he swallowed hard, desperate to regain composure, but it was useless. one laugh, one touch, and he was undone.

it was pathetic, really. at least, that’s what spencer told himself as he stumbled through some flimsy excuse, cutting your conversation short with a tight, awkward smile before retreating.

his heart pounded, his skin hot, and he didn’t dare let his eyes linger on you for another second.

he made a beeline for the bathroom—the only place where he could breathe, where he could shut a door between himself and the unbearable temptation of you. his hands shook as he locked himself inside, bracing against the sink as though it could anchor him.

it was humiliating, how little control he had. how quickly his body betrayed him, how hopelessly you unraveled him with the smallest things: a smile, a laugh, a fleeting touch. he should have been stronger than this. smarter. he knew better. and yet…

with you in his mind, with the echo of your voice and the ghost of your hand still burning on his shoulder, resistance was laughable. he closed his eyes and conjured you instantly—your lips, your warmth, the way your skirt hugged every perfect line of your body.

the fantasy sharpened so quickly it left him dizzy, and before he even realized it, his restraint had completely shattered. brown curls clad to his forehead with a thick sweat, hands slithering down his body to where the ache screamed for friction.

it didn’t take long at all.

hot sticky release pooled in his palm, and he scrambled to clean himself before the evidence of his crime stained his sweat soaked clothing.

he felt the rush of shame press down on him just as heavily as the afterglow. he leaned over the sink, palms pressed flat, chest heaving, hands shaking. his reflection in the mirror looked wrecked—pathetic, guilty, needy.

and still, even in the mess of it, his mind betrayed him one last time.

he wished it had been you.

as the weeks slipped by, you and spencer only grew closer. it wasn’t dramatic, not some grand shift—just small moments, steady, subtle.

and slowly, painfully, spencer realized you had begun to think of him as something more than a coworker. a friend.

he wished he was more than that, he longed to be more.

so when you asked him, so casually, so sweetly, if he could help you move some furniture into your new apartment, how could he possibly say no? you could’ve asked anyone else, someone stronger, more capable, someone who wouldn’t need to stop and catch their breath every few steps.

but you asked him. you wanted him. and spencer would never deny you anything.

in truth, you were doing most of the heavy lifting. he wasn’t built for this, not really. his arms ached, his palms stung, but he would have carried the world on his back if you’d only asked.

to him, it didn’t matter. being there with you, in your space, was more than he ever thought he’d have.

by the time you lugged the final chair into the kitchen, your phone rang—sudden, interrupting. you frowned, answering quickly, your voice low as you tried to calm your frantic friend on the other end. she was panicking about a date, clothes scattered everywhere, makeup smudged, disaster in progress.

spencer lingered nearby, chest still heaving from the last trip up the stairs, trying not to look like he was eavesdropping.

when you hung up, your face did nothing to hide your irritation. why now? why tonight? your first one-on-one time with him, ruined by your best friend’s meltdown.

you wanted to ignore her, to stay here basking in spencer’s shy smiles and careful words. but you couldn’t—too good of a friend to abandon her. still, you didn’t want to send spencer home.

“she only lives a few blocks away, i can be there and back in under an hour.”

you reasoned to yourself aloud, whispering under your breath to attempt to hide your annoyance.

turning to face him, you smiled apologetically.

“hey, spencer, sorry this is so sudden but… i have to help my friend with something really quickly! i’ll pick up a pizza or something on my way back? is that okay?”

spencer froze. the words barely processed. you wanted to leave him here? alone? in your apartment? his mind scrambled, torn between panic and desire.

being here with you was overwhelming enough, but being surrounded by everything that made this place yours, without you here to anchor him? he wasn’t sure he could trust himself.

still, he nodded, lips quirking in what he hoped was a casual smile.

“yeah, of course. that sounds… great.”

it wasn’t the pizza that distracted him. it wasn’t even your absence. it was the way you’d said his name. his first name. for the thirteenth time since you’d let him into your orbit.

and every single time, it carved a new space inside him, filled him with warmth and longing. butterflies churned in his stomach, so potent he almost didn’t notice you slipping on your shoes, grabbing your keys, disappearing out the door.

and then you were gone.

the silence was deafening.

he was alone. alone in your apartment. in your space. surrounded by your things.

spencer tried to restrain himself. he really did. he perched on the edge of your couch, hands clasped tightly, staring at the stack of boxes still waiting to be unpacked. he told himself to sit still, to wait, to be good. but the itch beneath his skin grew unbearable, and eventually, inevitably—he caved.

he snooped. just a little at first. he wandered.

your apartment was still half-finished, but the personal touches already bled through the clutter. framed photographs tucked on shelves, magnets in bright mismatched colours clinging to the fridge, the faint perfume that clung to the air.

the bathroom shelf that held your shampoo, your lotions, hair products, things he’d never admit to noticing, to memorizing.

and then—your bedroom.

the door was half open, the shadow of boxes spilling into the hall, but beyond that, it was undeniably yours. your bed, rumpled from mornings and nights he could only imagine. the faintest hint of who you were when no one else was watching.

spencer stood frozen at the doorway, pulse pounding, shame and desire colliding violently in his chest.

he shouldn’t. he knew all too well that he shouldn’t.

but he wanted to.

and spencer reid was a man who, despite all his brilliance, seriously lacked self-control.

he pushed the door open with the smallest creak, sucking air sharply through his teeth as he crossed into your most intimate space. it felt like trespassing. like sin. and yet, he stepped inside anyway.

his eyes roamed greedily, cataloging everything the way he would a crime scene, his fingers brushed across the shelves, ghosting over cracked spines of books you’d read and loved, tracing the edges of notebooks stacked haphazardly.

on your desk, he flipped through a few scattered papers, fingertips lingering over scribbled handwriting before drifting to your necklace stand. he let the chains slip through his fingers, delicate and glimmering, imagining how they would glint against the base of your throat.

then his gaze caught the mirror.

a polaroid was tucked into the corner of the frame—an unposed moment captured between you and the friend you were currently rushing off to help.

spencer barely glanced at her. his eyes locked only on you. your smile. the crinkles at the corners of your eyes. the way happiness radiated from you so effortlessly, so luminously, it felt like it could blind him if he stared too long.

“she’s so beautiful when she’s happy,”

he whispered under his breath, the words trembling, meant for no one but himself.

unable to resist, he perched on the edge of your bed. the mattress dipped beneath his weight, the springs sighing softly as though welcoming him.

slowly, cautiously, he lowered himself back until he was lying flat against your sheets.

your scent hit him instantly—sweet, warm, distinctly you. he clung to the smell, allowing it to fill his lungs until he thought he might suffocate on it. his eyes fluttered shut for a moment, guilt bubbling in his stomach, but even that guilt twisted into something darker, something that only made the sheets feel softer beneath him.

he had no plans to stop.

when his eyes opened again, they landed on your dresser.

his heart hammered. he knew better.

and yet, his body had a mind of its own, his feet carried him forward before his brain could protest. he hovered over the dresser, fingertips skimming the edge like he was afraid to touch it directly, afraid it might burn him if he pressed too hard. then, slowly, carefully, he reached.

a drawer cracked open just enough to reveal a glimpse of lace. spencer froze, heart pounding so violently he could hear it in his ears. he shouldn’t. he knew he shouldn’t. this was too far, it was perverted, filthy, disgusting.

but his hand was already reaching. already curling around the handle, tugging the drawer open an inch, then two. just enough to see the delicate fabrics inside, folded, intimate in a way that made his throat tighten.

his fingers brushed around the lace trim of a baby blue pair of panties. they were soft, impossibly soft—his breath stuttering out in a shaky exhale. the thought of you wearing them, pressed against your skin, the most intimate part of you covered by the thin fabric.

his chest ached with a want so sharp it bordered on pain, like a stabbing sensation in his ribs with every breath.

“fuck…”

he whispered, so quietly it battled the squeak of a church mouse, voice breaking, shame already thick in his mouth.

he bit his lip, lifting the fabric up to his face until—

“spencer?”

the sound cut through him like ice. he hadn’t heard you come in; he hadn’t registered the tiny clink of ceramic as you set two plates on the counter, the soft thump of your footsteps as you crossed the living room. he’d been a universe away, wrapped in the scent and the lace and the impossible idea that any of this could be real.

now, you were only a few feet away, standing in the doorway, and he felt as though everything he had built collapsed.

“i—i swear! i can explain!”

he stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush. his face must have been red enough to heat the room.

his life was over. he could see it now—your disgust, your fury, he pictured himself humiliated in front of the team, in front of you, reduced to some grotesque cautionary tale. that one creep. disgusting scum.

your eyes flicked from his face, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, to the trembling hand clutching the fabric, back to his face. those eyes.

for a second there was only silence, the kind that hums in the ears. sweat prickled along his hairline.

you always knew he stared at you sometimes, sure, it was just spencer being spencer: awkward, brilliant, occasionally oblivious. you had fantasized about the fact that maybe, just maybe, it was because he reciprocated your feelings, that they were mutual.

you had never, not even in the back of your mind, thought it extended to this. not to rummaging through your personal things, not to clutching lace like a confession.

you should scream, you thought. anyone with common sense would. you should tell him to get out, to never come back.

but as your gaze traveled over him, on how vulnerable he looked, how raw and humiliated, how pathetic. the image of him there, exposed and shame-faced, pressed a small, electric thrill to the base of your throat.

and then something unexpected unfurled across your features: not outrage. not anger. instead a hot, undeniable flare of something else—curiosity, surprise, and then, impossibly, a slow smile that made the air between you hum.

you surprised yourself by leaning forward a fraction, closing the distance not to punish but to inspect. up close, the embarrassment on his face was painfully real. his lips trembled.

“you shouldn’t be in my things,”

you said, voice low, trying on a tone that might have been reproach. It sounded softer than you intended.

“but….here you are. and you look ridiculous.”

he let out a strangled sound that resembled the whine of a naughty puppy.

“i’m sorry. i—god, i’m sorry. i don’t know what came over me. i didn’t mean to—i just—when you left—”

his hands flailed helplessly. clinging onto the last grasp of dignity he held, trying to defend himself.

“what? i left you alone for forty-five minutes and you couldn’t help but… snoop through my underwear drawer? naughty boy.”

you leaned closer, close enough to make him uncomfortable, to make him squirm. your breath fanned across his neck as you drilled into him, mockingly.

you giggled as you curled a finger in his hair, watching as he trembled in place, as if his feet were glued to the ground. stuck.

“hmm? you want me, but you’re too useless to do anything about it… so you decided to sniff my panties like a perv?”

heat hummed through him at the bluntness of your words. he had never expected that edge from you, you were usually gentle, soft, the kind of quiet that soothed him. though, this new firmness made something low and eager coil inside him.

you slipped your fingers through his hair, thumb brushing his scalp, then trailed a nail lightly along his cheek before giving him two deliberate, open-palmed taps that left a warmth spreading under his skin. you were dangerously close; he could feel the heat of your body, smell the faint scent of your soap, the quickening of your breath against his face.

“answer me.”

he didn’t know whether to be mortified or ecstatic. his mouth felt dry and large at once.

“i—”

he started, and then, when language failed him, he let his eyes do the speaking: wide, raw, utterly honest.

“yes.”

“you fantasized about me, about this. all the time.”

you said it with a soft amusement that sharpened the air between you. it should have been an accusation; instead it sounded like a confession you’d coaxed out of him.

“i—only sometimes.”

his voice came out small, ridiculous, threaded with shame. the sight of him like that, exposed, wanting… it filled you with more need than ever before.

“okay, then. tell me what you were thinking about.”

your voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper that scraped along his ear and made his pulse stutter.

he hesitated, colour rushing and flushing in his cheeks, burning his skin.

“come on, spencer,”

you teased, close enough that the heat of your breath ghosted his lips,

“you never had a problem letting your mouth run before.”

his throat bobbed as he swallowed, mind racing, every coherent thought scattering under the weight of your gaze. every syllable felt dangerous, like handing you the sharpest parts of him.

“i…”

his voice broke, thin and shaky.

“i thought about your lips. the way they’d feel… against mine. how soft. how warm.”

your brows arched, the ghost of a smirk tugging at your mouth.

“just kissing?”

his head jerked in a frantic shake, hair falling into his eyes.

“no. not just—not just kissing.”

you leaned in closer, nails grazing along his jaw, making him shiver.

“then what, spencer? tell me.”

his chest rose and fell too quickly, breath shallow, uneven.

“i thought about you in those skirts. the way they… hug you. i couldn’t stop imagining…”

his words faltered, shame blooming hot in his cheeks. he dragged in a shaky breath, forced himself to continue.

“…imagining pushing them up. seeing what’s underneath. touching you.”

your pulse skipped, heat sparking low in your belly at the broken, almost reverent way he said it.

“keep going,”

you whispered, the command laced with a sweetness that was almost dark, lustful.

his eyes squeezed shut, like he couldn’t bear to see your face as he unraveled.

“sometimes i pictured you—on my desk. leaning over me. or in my lap. your thighs around me. the sounds you’d make. i wanted to see your face after we were done—how your cheeks would be flushed and your makeup ruined.”

your breath caught at his honesty, at the trembling need spilling raw from him.

“god, spencer,”

you murmured, brushing your lips just short of his,

“you really are obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

he let out a shaky, desperate laugh, the truth too heavy to deny.

“completely.”

your breath mingled with his, so close it made him dizzy. his whole body trembled, waiting, straining.

hearing the way he said it, helpless, completely at your disposal. it was all you needed to hear, a final push over the edge.

you closed the distance, pressing your lips to his. soft at first—testing, tasting. his breath hitched, a strangled sound caught in his throat before he melted into you, kissing back with a hunger that betrayed how long he’d been holding himself back.

his hands hovered uncertainly at your sides, fingers twitching like he was afraid to touch, to take.

you grabbed his wrists and guided them to your waist, grounding him. his palms splayed wide, tentative at first, then tightening as he realized you weren’t going to pull away.

the kiss deepened. it turned heated, wet, his lips parting beneath yours like he’d been made for this, like he’d been starving.

you tugged lightly on his curls, pulling a groan from his chest. the sound vibrated against your mouth, low and desperate, and it made your thighs clench instinctively.

he broke away for half a second, gasping, forehead pressed to yours.

“i—i want to…”

he whispered, voice hoarse with need, eyes blown wide and dark.

you smiled, dragging your thumb across his flushed cheek.

“i know, baby.”

he surged forward, kissing you harder this time, sloppy, hungry, messy with weeks—months of repression spilling out all at once. his hands roamed, mapping the curves of your body through the fabric, like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.

you pushed him across the room until the back of his knees caught the edge of your bed—the same bed he had shamelessly sunk into minutes before, breathing you in.

he stumbled down onto it with a soft thud, and you were on him in a heartbeat, straddling his lap. your oversized t-shirt slid up and over your head, falling carelessly to the floor. his jaw dropped, eyes darting helplessly over the sudden, bareness of you.

“god—you’re so…i can’t even…”

his voice cracked, breath shuddering out of him.

you didn’t give him time to fumble. you pushed him flat onto the mattress, his body bouncing lightly against the springs before you claimed his mouth once more.

you were greedy, unrestrained. the kiss was all teeth, tongue, and want. you swallowed his gasp as though it belonged to you, devouring the sound until he melted beneath you.

“please…”

the word tore out of him, broken and needy. his chest heaved, eyes glassy and wide, pupils devouring the warm hazel.

you pulled back just enough to let your lips brush his, a teasing hum vibrating in your throat.

“hmm?”

he swallowed, trying to steady his voice, but it still trembled.

“i want you to—uhm…”

your nails dragged lightly down his sides, you felt so close through the thin fabric of his shirt, making him shiver.

“spit it out, you can do it.”

you murmured, egging him on, hot against his ear.

“can you… please… sitonmyface?”

the words tumbled out in one rushed, strangled plea, so fast you almost thought you imagined them.

for a heartbeat you froze, wondering if your ears had betrayed you. but then you saw it… the wild, desperate flicker in his eyes, the way his lips trembled like he’d just confessed something dangerous.

a sharp gasp clawed its way from your throat, echoing in your bones. heat licked at your skin, your pulse thundering in your ears. spencer reid, the man who could rattle off entire encyclopedias without breaking a sweat, was unraveling beneath you, begging.

you shifted deliberately, rolling your hips over his, slow and torturous. the friction dragged a broken moan from deep in his chest, his head tilting back against the pillow, curls damp at his temples.

“i didn’t quite catch that, what did you say?”

your voice lifted with a wicked sweetness as you ground down on him, just enough to make him squirm.

his eyes snapped open, glassy and pleading, his hands gripping the sheets so tightly the fabric strained.

you leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot against his skin.

“say it again, spencer.”

he swallowed hard, chest heaving, words stuttering on his tongue.

“i… i want you to sit on my face,”

he managed, louder this time, though his voice cracked with raw need.

“please. i need it. need you.”

the confession hit you like a spark, heat pooling low in your stomach. still, even as your own resolve chipped away faster than you cared to admit, you couldn’t resist teasing him a bit more, not ready to give in just yet.

you smiled against his jaw, pressing an open-mouthed kiss there, dragging your teeth lightly along the edge.

“good boy,”

you whispered, your hand sliding up his chest, nails teasing his throat before curling under his chin, tilting his face up to yours.

“beg a little more for me.”

his lips parted as if to argue, but all that came out was a choked whimper when you rolled your hips again, slower this time, deliberate enough to make him feel every shift of pressure.

“please…”

he gasped, voice already breaking.

you tilted your head, studying him with mock innocence.

“please what, spencer? you’re going to have to be a lot clearer than that.”

his throat worked as he swallowed, his eyes flicking to your mouth, your body, then back to your eyes, utterly undone.

“please… sit on my face,”

he repeated, breathless.

“mmm, better,”

you purred, dragging your nails lightly down his arms, watching goosebumps ripple in their wake.

“but i don’t know, spencer… i still don’t think you sound convincing enough.”

a whimper tore from him—humiliating, desperate, beautiful.

“say it again.”

“sit on my face, please. want it so bad”

he blurted, louder this time, his voice hoarse.

you rewarded him with another slow grind of your hips, his eyes fluttering shut, a strangled groan escaping him.

“one more time, please. like you mean it. show me how much you want me.”

he broke then, utterly, shamelessly.

“please, please let me taste you,”

he begged, voice trembling as his chest rose and fell like he’d just run miles.

“i need to feel you on me, above me—please, i’ll do anything, i’ll be so good for you, just—just let me have you.”

“okay.”

the single word fell from your lips like a verdict, whispered, almost inaudible. though the sound of it tore a guttural groan from his chest—raw, unrestrained, like he couldn’t believe this was finally happening to him.

his eyes tracked your every move, wide and glassy, as you hooked your fingers into the drawstring of your joggers. his breath stuttered, chest rising in quick, shallow bursts as you tugged, the knot slipping loose with infuriating slowness.

you lifted your hips, dragging the fabric down inch by inch. his gaze followed helplessly, hungry, starved, as though every new sliver was a gift from the heavens.

his breath hitched sharply as your thighs came into full view. his hands twitched against the mattress, curling into the sheets so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“god…”

he whispered, voice cracking, eyes raking over you like he was memorizing every dip, every curve, every bump. because he was.

you paused, just long enough to torment him, your joggers hanging loose around the base of your thighs, meeting your knees.

“don’t pass out on me now, spencer.”

he gasped, eyes never leaving you.

“i won’t, i couldn’t—i need to see all of you.”

you finally peeled the thick gray fabric all the way down your smooth legs, lifting your body in order to do so. toes flexing as you tugged them free and flung them carelessly across the room.

it didn’t phase spencer in the slightest—in fact, he didn’t even register where they landed. his eyes were locked too tightly on you, moving upward in a desperate, reverent climb until they stopped at the last barrier between him and everything he wanted.

plain, deep maroon. nothing lacy, nothing extravagant. just simple cotton stretched across your hips. but to him, they may as well have been made of gold. his breath caught in his throat, chest shuddering with every inhale, the sight alone had sent him reeling.

you smirked, slipping a finger under the elastic and tugging it back just enough to let it snap lightly against your skin. the sound made him groan, low and broken, his head tipping back against the mattress as if even that tiny bit of teasing was too much.

“like what you see?”

you asked softly, voice dripping with taunt.

“yes, i like—love it—yes…”

he gasped, frantic, stuttering over his words, nodding before they even fully left his mouth.

you let the silence hang for one delicious second longer before hooking your thumbs into the waistband. his eyes went impossibly wider, lips parting as he watched you drag the fabric down, inch by torturous inch, until finally, finally you rid yourself of them, the last flimsy piece of modesty hanging on your finger tip.

spencer’s entire body went taut, like he’d been struck by lightning.

“right, you have a thing for these, don’t you?”

you giggled and tossed your now soaked panties to him, watching him blush and fumble with the fabric before gripping them with one hand, eyes landing on you.

“oh my god,”

he whispered, desperation tangled in each breath.

you lurched forward, pulling your body over his, until you were situated just over where he needed you, hovering so close he could almost taste you already.

his hand finally left the comfort of your sheets, releasing itself from the fabric and onto you, the curve of your hips, the swell of your ass. his hand studied you like you were an undiscovered specimen, like a god, he was worshipping you above him.

“you’ll tell me if im hurting you, okay?”

it was less a question and more a demand, still he obliged, nodding as he tried to pull your weight on top of him. your hands dashed for the headboard, steadying yourself—pulling all of your mass into your legs as your swollen core finally made contact with spencer’s immensely eager lips.

he moaned at the taste of you. he was loud. he sent vibrations straight through your body, up your spine and to your brain, shocking you with pleasure.

he caught you by surprise, forcing you down, making your knees buckle, pulling you flat on top of him.

“spencer! spence—gah!”

he didn’t waste a second before diving back in, placing hot, open mouthed kisses around your cunt, swirling his tongue around your clit. he was eating you out like a mad man.

spencers mind was mainly filled with static, his brain completely buzzed, high on you, your taste, your sounds. but that small part of him that remained coherent was only thinking about how less than half an hour earlier, he thought his life was over… yet, now, he’d be more than willing to meet his fate right here beneath you.

dying between your thighs would be an honourable way to go.

apparent pro-multitasker, his hand sprawled out on your sheets, loosening his iron tight grip on your soiled panties. he groaned as he felt the slick between his fingers, mirroring that of which was currently dripping down his chin.

for a brief fraction of a second, he allowed the hand gripping the flesh of your thigh like a lifeline to travel towards his trousers, skillfully un zipping them with one hand.

the man couldn’t handle a pair of chopsticks to save his life, but of course he could whip his dick out while you were grinding on his face. of course he could.

his hand travelled back to your skin, palming the soft flesh with a gentleness that starkly contrasted the way he was making your thighs shake, devouring you.

“you’re doing—mmm..s—so good for me.”

your praise fell on grateful ears, following a satisfied hum that had you quivering forward, finding purchase on your headboard.

spencers hips bucked into nothing at the sound of your voice, reminding him that he currently had a sacred item at his disposal, that he had another fantasy to fulfill.

even when you humiliated him for his infatuation before, he couldn’t help the way blood rushed into his cock at the speed of light, forcing him to admit all the nasty things he’d dreamt up about you.

and now, he still felt infinitely ashamed. he had you exactly where he’d yearned to feel you for so long. still, he wrapped his panty clad palm around his length, whining into your heat at the contact.

you were too jacked up on pleasure to notice that he was fucking his hand, and your underwear. or maybe you just didn’t really care. you had decided to take the satisfaction you deserved as you grinded down on spencer’s face. fervently.

obscene wet slaps filled your apartment, through the echos of skin on skin and the squeaks of your mattress, you could make out a faint buzzing, no doubt your best friend. she was probably calling to complain about her date, maybe he didn’t complement her shoes or was shorter than what his profile had stated.

you’d call her back. tomorrow.

now, you were teetering so close on the edge you thought you might faint.

“jesus fucking christ! hah—spencer!..gah!”

spencer only groaned in acknowledgment, swirling his tongue around your swollen bundle of nerves in perfect figure eights, making your eyes roll back.

“so good… so so good f’me. fuck—you gonna make me cum? y—yeah?”

he nodded his head frantically, your words only egging him on to move faster, sucking up your slick like it was the last thing he would do.

“fuckkk fuckfuckfuckfuckkk”

your head whipped backwards as spencer sent you hurling towards your climax, his tongue collecting every last bit of your release as he let you ride out your high, revelling in the convulsions around his mouth.

you saw white, shaking on top of him. your mind blanked.

you fell back onto your mattress with a soft plop, the springs squeaking beneath the sudden weight.

“spencer. reid. hah… what the actual fuck.”

you panted, voice broken with laughter and exhaustion all at once. your chest rose and fell erratically, every inhale shaky as you tried, and failed, to catch your breath after literally seeing stars.

you finally turned your head, eyes finding spencer for the first time in what felt like hours. your gaze lingered on his face: damp lips, chin shining with evidence, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink. he looked wrecked, undone, you loved it.

then, your eyes dropped lower. and there it was—unmistakable proof of what he’d been up to while you were on top of him.

you exhaled, a crooked grin curling at your lips,

“you really are a pervert, huh? you’re lucky i like you way too much to care.”

you let out a breathless chuckle, leaning over to press your lips to his—gentler now, softer, slow enough to make him sigh. the taste of yourself on his tongue only made you smile into the kiss.

“you can keep those, by the way.”

his eyes flicked up shyly, lips twitching against yours in a smirk he couldn’t hide. he avoided your gaze like he was afraid he’d combust if he held it too long.

one clean hand slid instinctively around your waist, pulling you close as both your chests rose and fell in a messy, uneven rhythm. You felt sticky, utterly ruined. the two of you were in a hot, tangled disaster on sheets you’d literally just washed two days ago.

still, when you looked at him, your sharp edges dulled, your warmth flooding back in. the part of you that had just spent an hour taunting him now softened, tender.

“you’re so beautiful.”

spencer whispered, the words so quiet you almost missed them under the pounding of your own heartbeat.

but you heard. and it melted you.

your mascara was smudged into streaks, your hair knotted into a sweaty clump, your skin burning like you’d been trapped in a summer heatwave with no ac. and still, he looked at you like you were something out of reach, something celestial.

you couldn’t help but smile, pressing a kiss to his jaw before burying your face into the crook of his neck, clinging to his warmth.

“sooo… did you ever pick up that pizza?”

you pulled back just in time to catch the laugh sputtering from his throat, giggling yourself as you smacked his chest lightly in mock scolding.

“yeah… it’s been on the counter for a while, though. definitely cold.”

spencer stretched, half ignoring the comment, already fumbling his way out of bed and toward your kitchen.

“good. I’m starving.”

you bolted upright, catching his wrist and redirecting him down the hall instead.

“uh-uh,”

you corrected, tugging him toward the bathroom with a pointed look.

“we’re taking a shower first.”

“we?”

he teased, arching a brow, his smirk returning.

“hm?”

you hummed as if you didn’t hear the inflection in his tone.

he didn’t answer with words. instead, he smirked wider, finally giving into the urge that boiled in his stomach every time he trailed behind you. gripping the curve of your ass as he unfastened the buttons of his now-ruined shirt.

it was a like a lifelong goal had finally been reached. past spencer would never believe that present spencer actually got to touch you as he watched the way your ass jiggled from behind.

you rolled your eyes, though the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you, and reached to twist the faucet, letting the water heat up. testing it with your fingers, you stepped over the edge of the tub, letting the steam engulf you.

you heard spencer’s footsteps pad up behind you.

the curtain rattled softly as he tugged it open, enough to step into the space between you and the wall, his bare feet prickling against the cold tile.

his chest pressed flush to your back, his lips brushing over your damp shoulder, his breath hot and teasing.

he had a lot more fantasies to confess to you.

i actually edited this on the verge of passing out… so if its a little messy pls don’t jump me🙏 hope you all enjoyed! love you! 🩵🩵🩵

[starspangledsteeve]

“I asked chatgpt–” I’m gonna stop you right there pal because I asked Penelope Garcia and she said you’re a whiny little bitch loser and we’re all laughing at you <3

[itzwillow]

Can I make you feel good? | Spencer Reid

⋆⭒˚.⋆ This is part two of do you want me to teach you

Pairing: s2!Spencer Reid x f!Reader

Summary: The buzzing feeling between you and spencer grows hotter with every moment. Words are unspoken but touch isn't and when you wake up the morning after the first lesson, you find him hard and needy.

Warnings/tags: 18+ smut and fluff!! oral (m!receiving), inexperienced spencer, experienced reader, blowjob, handjob, spencer whines, morning after and night of, kisses, lots of fluffy fluff, first time bj, soft mornings, unestablished relationship, begging, needy spencer, endearment, look of love, yearning.

Word count: 8.6k

Author notes

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ this is part two of do you want me to teach you! there was so much love towards dywmtty and want for more so here you guys are. sorry it took you so long to be fed, i was so busy with life:(

if you like or perhaps even loved this fic please do reblog, it helps the author out so much and reblogging is the way we grow!

also i plan to make a get to know the author post so if you have any questions about me send them into my ask box, it would be amazing if you could ⋆

⟶ masterlist

The hot water runs down the length of your body, the water slipping down the drain with the sweat and stickiness that used to be between your thighs. The tension that Spencer wrung from you, combined with the warmth of the water that soothes the ache woven into your muscles, has you sighing in contentment.

After you had both made out in bed for a while, you had become aware of how your release had dried between your legs, then the obnoxious itching came with it. Showering was an obvious must for you, not for Spencer, who just needed to wipe his fingers. 

That's why you were under the showers cascading heat alone, you didn’t mind being alone, you would have just preferred if you weren’t. You would prefer it if Spencer's hands were rubbing soap into your body instead of your own, but you knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

Showering together wasn’t really a lesson, but saying that, neither is the way he had kissed you when you came on his fingers or the words he spoke. 

“This doesn’t feel like just a lesson anymore”

The fact that you were cleaning yourself in his shower and then falling asleep next to him in his bed wasn’t lesson-worthy either, but something more. Something you were both aware of but not aware enough to speak about. You didn't think it would be spoken for a long time, for many more lessons that were much more emotional than just lessons.  

Whilst wrapping the towel around your damp body, you find yourself sweetly imagining tonight, the way Spencer's hands would feel around your waist, whether his head would rest in your neck, breathing hot air, or just above your head where it would lie all night.

You wondered if he would pull away, if you were to turn around in bed, face him and let the sheets shuffle down your breasts, if you leaned in and kissed him without the previous sex haze. 

If a sober kiss was what he wanted. 

After wrapping the softness of the towel around you and drying your hair with another smaller towel as much as you could, you unlock the bathroom door with a quiet click. 

When your elbow nudges the door open to Spencer's bedroom, you become aware of the silence that swallows the room. The bed is made neatly, the quilt without a wrinkle, the blue plaid blanket placed over the bottom of the bed is folded with precision, and the pillows are fluffed up and arranged perfectly. 

Nothing that gives away the fact that this was a place of worship less than an hour ago, not a stain or misplaced pillow that discloses the mess you were when you withered and arched your back to push yourself deeper into his mouth.

Your clothes, messily discarded on the floor when your brain was too pleasure-fried to care where they landed, are now neatly folded on the end of the bed. Your white lace underwear is at the top of the pile; you just hoped they weren’t too damp, that whilst Spencer had sorted them out, he had clocked how aroused you were before he even let his touch linger on your bare pussy. 

All of the neatness reeked of Spencer, the way he ordered his books, colour-coded his closet, and the little germaphobe thing he had going on was shown through the way he had gone through the room whilst you were in the shower and placed everything where he deemed tidy. 

You shiver slightly when the coldness drops from your hair and trickles down your back as though its goal is to send an unwelcome tingle up your spine. You tighten the soft cotton around your body in hopes of drying up all of the running water droplets that cascade down your skin, holding it to you like a warm hug. 

“Spencer?” you call out. You don’t have the energy to raise your voice or shout, so you can only hope that your airy question reached his ears.

He wouldn’t have gone out, you know he’s not like that, and even so, it is his house after all. You doubt very much that Spencer would feast on your pussy the way he did and then leave his own apartment so you could be alone. 

You know you're right when you hear the creak of floorboards, the floorboards you told him to replace multiple times because you still weren’t over the fact that the last time you were in his apartment, you had gotten a splinter in your foot. 

A splinter that he had later plucked out using tweezers, with your foot in his lap and your back against the chair's armrest. You still remember the small caress his thumb rubbed up and down your heel.

So co-worker like. 

Because that was normal.

You turn around the second you hear his footsteps and face the door as Spencer walks through. His hair is more controlled, the strands aren’t as dishevelled as they had previously been, and his cheeks are his normal shade, no longer correlative to a tomato; nothing shows the flustered state he was in, nor does his appearance come across as anxious.  

“What's up?” he responds with curiosity, his eyes gaze over your face, his brows furrowed with question. 

It’s only when he takes notice of the wet strands of your hair and the droplets falling down the side of your face, which annoyingly tickle, that his attention drops to the towel clothed around your body. 

He seems to come to a realisation that you are in the middle of his room, naked, in only a towel, and for some reason, the blush that wasn’t there for a good while makes a reappearance.  

He goes to turn around, reacting as he had just looked at something he wasn’t meant to, as though he wasn’t knuckle deep in you not long ago. “I- do you need some clothes?” 

He stumbles over his words; you can’t see him since his back is turned to you, but you already know his nonchalant attitude that he ‘tried on’ was replaced with a wide-eyed, guilty look. 

It had you blushing over the fact of the matter, the way Spencer's whole demeanour changes so quickly when it comes to you, you could bite your lip with frustration when looking through a case, and he would admire it, treasure such a thing. You never realised it until now, all the glances and reactions he would give you that you just brushed off as you being a woman in the presence of an inexperienced man. 

“Spencer, you can look, you know, you're allowed too” You smile even though he can't see it. “You don’t need permission, not after that” The last word spoken through your lips is said gently, close to a whisper.  

Cocking your head to the side, you watch as Spencer hesitantly turns around, his khaki eyes don’t find you until he’s fully facing you, and when they do, his gaze is only planted on your face. You almost feel the nervousness pulsing around him in waves, thick waves that weakly deplete when he becomes aware of the small smile on your face. The smile that eases the tension that’s built up in his shoulders. 

“Sorry”, he mutters, his face smooths as he copies your small smile, his own lopsided one planted on the lips you’d do anything to melt into again. 

He looks down at you through thick lashes, his brows slightly furrowed as he watches you step forward, one long step leaves you directly in front of him, chest to chest. 

His eyes sparkle in the dim lighting, the hazel more of a dark brown, so you can’t really make out the widening of his pupils, but you know it’s there. The fact that his attention is focused solely on you and your movements has your insides doing funny things, things that weren’t just a result of his warm breath fanning over your forehead, but because of the very non-friend-like feelings deep-rooted through your body. 

You hold eye contact with him, every breath you both take vibrates through the other; he exhales gently, pushing his chest closer to yours. Your hands, pressed around the towel, loosen. His eyes still don’t move from your face at the sound of the cotton hitting the floor. 

“You're really pretty”, he says softly, his hand coming to move a stand of wet hair from out of your face and tuck it behind your ear.

Your cheeks burn. 

“Always thought I looked better after an orgasm, lips puffy, flustered, you know,” you shrug playfully, “hot.” 

His eyes crinkle in amusement, and he nods with agreement, “You know, there are studies suggesting that after orgasm, the release of endorphins and oxytocin can temporarily relax facial muscles and increase blood flow, which may make someone appear more attractive from a neurological perspective.” 

Your brows raise, watching the way his mouth moves as he speaks, his tongue peaking out to swipe along his top lip. “So are you saying my attractiveness is placebo?”   

His cheeks warm at your words, “No thats- that’s not what I'm saying” 

Your smile broadens at his boyish state of embarrassment, worried that he said the wrong thing, and now stumbling over his words as a result. You lean on your tippytoes to get closer to him, your lips hovering over his and your hot breath mixing between the small space, getting lost dancing with each other's unspoken wants. 

“I know”, you smile against his lips, not quite a kiss but more of a whisper of touch, a ‘you can have this if you want it.’ 

His eyes finally move to your body, glancing down at your naked breasts pushed against his chest, the water that had descended your body now dried. 

“I think you're attractive, v-very very attractive” 

His hand comes to rest on the bare skin of your waist, the touch causing a soft sigh to slip from your lips, a soft sigh that makes a smug smile grow across his mouth, content with the conclusion of his touch. 

Tonight had been a huge change in your relationship with Spencer, going from close co-workers, friends who put their trust in each other daily, in the field with guns in hand or something as simple as trusting Spencer to hold your drink in a crowded bar. Friends who would tease each other all the time, like that month you both had an ongoing prank war that Derek insisted he was a part of. 

You loved him as a friend and a co-worker, and you could always rely on him. 

Now it was different.

You loved him, trusted him and relied on him just the same, but everything felt heightened tenfold. You're no longer catching glances with him or brushing his shoulder purposely when walking past him; you're now standing naked in his house with his lips hovering over yours, the same lips that were eating you out only a couple of hours ago. 

You made peace with the fact that you were falling for him, the moment on the jet just a few days ago when Spencer had confessed his inexperience, and you both met eyes, the second the sparks flew, you consciously became aware of your feelings. When you made the decision to send the drunken text that you blamed the alcohol for, your feelings were set in place. 

You could only hope and assume that Spencer had the same feelings as you, with the way he reacted around you and the words he spoke sweetly a couple of hours ago. And the fact that you both knew the moment his lips wrapped around your clit that it was no longer a lesson but a devotion of pleasure, a goal he had to make you feel the best his virgin fingers could. 

Because you were you. 

It’s a quick movement; in fact, you don’t really have to think about what you're doing, as you press your lips to his. It feels right when your lips meet, as though your life purpose was entwined with his touch.

His grip tightens on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough that you're aware he needs something to tether to, so he knows it’s real. It’s short and sweet, a kiss that makes you melt into each other; it eases everything in and around both of you. 

You pull back, Spencer chases it again, pecking your lips tenderly. Your forehead rests against his, and you catch the way his lips tilt up in a small side smile. 

“Are you sleeping like this?” he whispers, breaking the room's silence.

“Naked?” 

“Yeah”, he looks down at your body again, tracing your curves with his eyes. 

“If you're okay with it”, your voice is just as quiet as his, almost timid. 

He nods, looking down at you as you move off your tippytoes, leaving you to your normal height, almost a foot shorter than him. Your eyes move over his form, still in his grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, only now they were slightly more wrinkled than before, you wondered if that annoyed him. 

“Are you sleeping in this?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. Although soft and comfortable, you couldn’t help but hope it was his bare chest you would lie on tonight instead. 

“Um, what do you want me to wear?” his brows furrow as he waits for your answer, behaving like he would wear whatever you asked him to, no matter how stupid. 

You pick up on it, tempted to tease him, but decide a moment like this is best in its honest and vulnerable state. “Would I be too eager if I were to ask if you could sleep in just boxers?” 

His cheeks deepen a shade, and he swipes his tongue across his lip again, “I wouldn’t say eager, hopeful, yes. But I will, if you want me to. If that’s what you want” 

“So you're alright with it?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm alright with it” 

                            ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

After brushing your teeth and pulling your hair up in a ponytail, you find yourself wrapped in the warmth of Spencer's bedsheets. His pillows smell of peppermint, coffee, and a musky, masculine scent that has you feeling like an animal in heat. 

The warmth between your thighs has only just settled, the small ache that caused unwelcome friction at your entrance has thankfully eased, so you're able to lie on your side with your legs pressed together without any pain or discomfort. 

A soft yellow glow from the bathroom leaks from the crack at the bottom of the door. The buzz of Spencer's electric toothbrush is soon followed by the sound of him swishing his mouth out and spitting. After a few moments, you listen to the ruffle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him taking his clothing off, and folding them too, of course. 

When he eventually steps out of the bathroom and into the dimness of the bedroom, your eyes unapologetically descend from his shadowed face, trailing the length of his body and landing on the scattering of dark curly hair leading from his belly button to the top of his plaid boxers. 

You physically restrict yourself from scurrying out of the bed, kneeling and licking a line up his stomach, your hand bunches in the blanket draped over the quilt. 

You watch him walk around the bedroom, placing his clothes and messing up his hair a few times. The angles of his pacing do wonders for his appearance, the way the streetlights shine through the window paint the sharpness of his jawline and the soft slope of his nose.  

His body isn’t muscular or toned; you always knew that, but seeing him in just underwear proves just how right you were. He isn’t an unhealthy skinny, more of a tall skinny. Being that he’s six foot one, it would be hard to put on weight that would actually do much to increase his body fat, and his activity in the field burns more than he eats. 

His skinniness doesn’t change his attractiveness; it never did. His prominent V-line decorating his pelvis is the definition of masculinity; it’s pronounced against his stomach so beautifully. It’s as though his V-line is hills and the line of hair is a flowing river, so picturesque on such a perfect frame.  

You start to feel regret for not hopping out of bed and licking him as your thoughts had insisted. 

The bed is enveloped in the snuggness of body heat as he slides into the space next to you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and it has you sliding closer to him without even moving a muscle. 

His eyes soften when he meets your gaze, like he’s only just welcomed rest. But the small switch at the corner of his eyelid has you thinking he’s trying to stay awake longer than his body wants. 

It’s nice. How he scoots closer to you, his eyes never falling from your face. How his warmth radiates through you, not just the temperature from his body, but the electric charge he causes deep in your chest. How, through his drowsiness, he wills his hand to move off the mattress and onto the curve of your waist. 

Your breath stills with every gesture he makes, even the twitch of his slender fingers against your skin has your breath hitching and a small smile grazing your mouth.

You're not sure how long Spencer had been shuffling closer to you, but you become very aware of the proximity when your bare feet at the bottom of the bed knock his… clothed feet?

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you rub your feet against his, all while looking at the blush rising on his cheeks. “Are you wearing socks in bed?” 

He moves his feet, twitching his toes a little before he speaks up, “My feet tend to stick out; they get cold.” 

“Do they have to be odd?” you ask after peering beneath the covers, making out the patterns in the darkness. His right sock is baby blue with white and yellow poka dots, whilst the other one is a striped purple and pink design. 

“Good luck”, he nods after his words, an act he does to emphasise his conversation. 

“You do it for good luck?” 

“Growing up, it just became a habit of mine. And the one time I wore matching socks, I broke my ankle”, he says matter-of-factly, “additionally, asymmetry is quite comforting to me.” 

“I always wondered that about you. You seem so put together, neat and in order, just to have odd socks” You prop yourself up more, slipping your elbow under your head to get a better view of his emotions as he speaks, the light of the passing cars bouncing off his face now and then.

“It’s an occasional reminder-” his throat bobs “that not everything is perfect, or put together as you said. Sometimes I need that reminder, in the field, briefing or even, even talking to my mom” 

You notice the way his breath shakes at the talk of his mother, you file it away as something to ask him on a better date. 

“I like that”, you whisper. 

There's a comforting feeling that manipulates the air; it holds hands with the buzzing tension no one is doing anything about. His hand starts moving up and down the curve of your waist, the tiredness that you saw earlier in Spencer's eyes is reflected in your own as your eyelids begin to feel heavy, an effort to keep open. You find it almost impossible to stay awake when such a thing as Spencer's hand is almost pulling you under the pleasure of sleep. 

“Do you think, um, would you be okay with cuddling?” He asks, voice timid. 

“Silly question,” you speak in a light-hearted way. You knew he already knew your answer, or at least he had some suspicion.   

He huffs a laugh, his lips welcoming a tender smile, “I know, just thought I should ask on the off chance that you would say no.” 

“Do you want me to turn around or…” You shrug, questioning where exactly he wanted you, how he wanted to hold you and if he would find it hard falling asleep, depending on how he was wrapped around you. 

He nods twice; he doesn’t have to say anything, and you're turning around to face the window, watching the lights distort the room in a warm orange hue. 

The weight of his palm against your stomach settles over you. He pushes his hand against you to bring your back flush against his stomach without much effort. Skin-to-skin has never felt so nice, such a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of your daily life. It's just as if the buzzing and banging of your struggles in and out of work, the chaos of catching and killing, has suddenly tempered to a small, friendly hum. 

 The dictionary in your head toggles itself, changing the definition of comfort to a few words: the feeling you get when your curly-haired, genius, IQ of 187 coworker holds you close in the warmth of his bed.  

Your eyes close, welcoming sleep, answering its invitation that it had sent you many hours ago. A small, fleeting peck of the lips is left on the side of your forehead that you're partly aware of as you slow yourself into the realm of unconsciousness. 

                            ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The first three things that you take notice of as you wake up are that- 

One: The light of the morning sun enveloping the room, shining off everything, as though it's greeting you for another day. 

Two: The beautiful melody of the birds chirping and singing their hearts away, something you always look forward to when your eyes blink open every day without fail. 

Three: Warm hardness against your ass, clothed hardness that in this moment in time was unrhythmically rutting against your bare cheeks. 

Your whole body freezes, stilling so much your not even sure you're breathing. He’s asleep, you know that. 

But oh my god, he’s rock hard grinding against your ass??

Small whimpers fall from his mouth, his lips grazing upon the shell of your ear, his hot breath stutters, an occasional nondescript mutter unintentionally slips from his mouth and lands in your ear. 

You're not exactly sure what to do, what would someone do in a situation like this? You can’t just turn around and tell him you know that he was having some dirty sex dream that must have been so good that he was rutting against you like a needy dog who needed a release. 

Can you? 

The hot length underneath Spencer's boxers wasn’t stopping anytime soon; you were almost certain his unconscious self would keep going even after he cums in his pants. 

What bites into your skin, sinking its teeth into you, is the fact that you like it, you like feeling him against you, using you for pleasure even when he was unaware of it. Guilt gnaws at you, leaving you feeling lost in an unknown part of the world, unsure where to go or how to move. 

You're hesitant to proceed, cognizant of all of the pulse points in your body, the blood rushing around your body far too loud, your heart beating far too fast. 

It takes all of the courage you have to actually move a muscle, that muscle being a twitch of your finger… but it’s a start. 

When he stills for a moment, you take that as your opening, taking a deep breath before turning around as quickly but quietly as you can. You're not sure where to look first, his flushed face, mouth slightly open, eyes shut peacefully or down where his boxers are moulded against his cock, now visible since the cover has been relocated to the bottom of the bed. 

You didn’t want to embarrass him; this was normal, having sex dreams was completely normal, in fact, you’d woken up wet and needy a few times in the loneliness of your bed. Yeah, you suppose that it’s slightly different when it results in humping against your coworker unknowingly, but same hormonal reasoning and all, right?  

His cock twitches beneath his boxers, the action leaving its mark on you; your own twitching between your legs finding a steady rhythm. You inhale a breath louder than you anticipate, and Spencer stirs slightly in his sleep, turning around to lie on his back. Whether it is the outcome of your inhale, you're not sure. 

Fuck it. 

It isn’t an easy task to wake up Spencer because it turns out he sleeps like the dead. Okay, the first nudge was a feather touch to his shoulder, but you thought it would at least elicit a small jerk of his hand. The second and third nudges to his shoulder were harder, hard enough that you were absolutely certain he would open his eyes. 

He didn’t.

“Spencer?” you say lowly, not a whisper but not spoken at much volume either. 

Nothing. 

Courage finally decides to greet itself with you, some form of confidence holding your hand. “Spencer, wake up”, you groan as you shake his shoulders. 

That finally seems to get something out of him; he moans in confusion, eyes blinking open slowly to accommodate the brightness of the morning sun. His hands come up to his face, rubbing his palms into his eyes with the purpose of knocking some sense into himself. 

“What's wrong? Who's dead?” His voice is more groggy than usual, unused and rough.

“What?” You look at him with furrowed brows, your voice a pitch higher. “Do you say that every time you wake up?” 

“Every time I wake- what?” he sits up on his elbows, spotting a confused look. He has yet to notice the hardness throbbing between his legs; you're not sure if he will notice it on his own terms. “Do we have a case?”

“No- no,” you shake your head. You had managed to take enough deep breaths to calm yourself down, using fake courage to will some confidence into yourself. “Spencer.” 

“What’s the time?” his voice is still tittering on the edge of bewilderment, the morning haze making his brain foggy. He reaches for the clock on his bedside table. 

“Spencer”, you repeat, hoping with some greater glory his attention would turn to you. 

He hums with acknowledgement as he reads the clock, then turns his focus back to you. “I didn’t think you’d be awake at this time; you went to sleep quite late.” 

His eyes watch your face, taking in your slightly dishevelled appearance whilst waiting for your response. He looks so innocent, it has your insides turning to mush. His brown puppy dog eyes are the complete opposite of the whimpers he exhaled the previous minute. 

“Yeah, yeah, you kinda woke me up” You're half tempted to move your line of sight down to his boxers, but Spencer is bound to have double the embarrassment if you were to do such a thing. Honestly, you didn’t think words would help lessen his guilt much, but at least you could voice your understanding. 

“Oh. Did I- Did I snore?” You didn’t even know his puppy eyes could get more pathetic, but they do. 

You inch closer to him, and in response, Spencer lifts his arm to welcome you closer to him, accepting any comfort you were to offer him, as if it were a normal occurrence. As his arm comes to rest on you leisurely, you wonder if Spencer is aware of the hardness yet again pressed against you. Perhaps his mind was busy with something; perhaps the way he was looking down at you, observing everything you did, was the only thing on his mind.

“You didn’t snore”, you manage to whisper out, not breaking a single second of eye contact. Even when the look he’s giving you, furrowed brows, doe brown eyes, rewires your brain chemistry to the point where all you want to do is kiss him. 

“Sleep talk?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Um- not, not really” You stutter your words, spending a good few seconds figuring out how to word it right. “You woke me up, but you didn’t wake me up” 

Fuck that was fucking stupid. 

“Yeah”, he looks even more confused than he was before you offered him an explanation “, not really picking up what you're putting down.” 

Understandable. 

“You were very…happy” Your brows furrow at your own incompetence, “fuck- okay, you were obviously having a very good dream, and so you got um happy, you know” 

His eyes widen like he’s just clocked it, but is still missing a big puzzle piece, one you weren’t sure you were competent enough to say. “Did I touch you?” his voice drops, worry evident in the way he speaks. 

“Yeah, I guess, uh-humped.” You felt like every word you said was a spade to the mud, the hole dug deeper with every syllable spoken. “But- it’s okay, I swear,” you rush to reassure him, watching the way his eyes fill with guilt. 

“Spencer, it’s fine, honestly” Your hand comes up to his cheek, setting it on his skin softly. 

His eyes don’t stop searching yours, ready to apologise if any form of unease was to twinkle in your eyes. “I- did I make you uncomfortable?” 

The shake of your head is easy; you don’t have to think about it. “No, not at all. I-” I liked it. “It’s a normal thing, and since you were sexually active in some form last night, it’s probably just a response to it. Your body probably- possibly might have just wanted more” Your voice stills a bit, still on edge about saying the wrong thing, something that would worsen the guilt and embarrassment already holding Spencer's reins, “maybe.” 

“That's not really scientifically correct” 

Of course it’s not. 

“You're actually less likely to have a wet dream, nocturnal emission, after sexual activity” he looks as though he’s going through his ‘know everything’ catalogue that’s stored in his brain. “But since I didn’t uh orgasm, I suppose you're correct.” 

You almost gave yourself a pat on the back; you technically didn’t outsmart him, but you let your ego expand for your own peace of mind. 

“Do you want to?” you say. 

You don’t know which one of the little ‘inside out guys’ controlling your head, let that slip out of your mouth, but you want them fired, or promoted. Depending on the outcome. 

His eyes go a shade darker at the same time the tips of his ears go red, blush looked good on anyone, but sometimes you felt like it belonged to Spencer. “You want to make me orgasm?” 

Well, when he says it like that, it seems a little out of pocket, but yeah, you suppose he's right. You suppose you're thinking out loud comment was one of the better decisions you’ve decided to make, that and the white lace you wore last night. 

His cock had previously gone soft when he thought he had hurt you, but with the request from your pretty pink lips, it begins to grow against your thigh. 

Your fingernail softly draws a line down his stomach, starting from his collarbone down to the spot of hair above his boxers, where his stomach clenches in response. “Depends if you want me to, you can tell me what you like,” you say with a soft voice “, I can teach you about touch, what to say and do when someone touches you.”

The word teach feels bitter in your mouth, something fake you want to spit out, and you think the feeling is mutual with the way his eyes explore yours at the hollowness of the word, wondering if he was the only one who felt it.

When your hand moves lower and hesitantly cups Spencer's length, you discover how hard he has become, coupled with the pre cum soaking the front of his boxers. A soft groan slips from his throat, one you're not sure agreed with him before escaping his mouth. 

“Please”, he whimpers, his lips grazing your forehead. You feel an embarrassing amount of arousal leave your pussy at the sound you elicit from him. 

“Do you want my mouth or hand?” you say half teasingly, lifting your head to meet his eyes again. He looks as hungry as he did yesterday, only this time, hunger for his own pleasure. 

“Both? Is that an option?” he says, his tone mousey but needy all rolled into one. His hips buck up against your hand, an invitation that you were allowed to touch him. Well, more so that he wanted you to touch him, to slip your hand under his boxers and make him cum. 

Smirking slightly, you nod along to his words, “You're sure? It’s a lot for your first time.” 

“Yeah- I'm- I'm sure” his blinks are slow, fascinated by watching your half-lidded eyes flutter up at him “very sure actually.” 

The soft glow radiating from outside has the room glowing in more of a white-yellow rather than the warm orangey yellow it was when you woke up. The brightness of it splays across Spencer, the trees outside the window dancing in the breeze paint skinny, flowing shadows across his pale skin. The shadows don’t hit his boxers, so the brightness of the sun makes the hard length of his bulge very visible and, in your opinion, very appetising. 

Your thumb rubs over his clothed tip, precum leaking through his boxers. “Have- mh, have you done this before? Sorry, stupid- stupid question.” 

You smile at the stuttering of his words, the boyish embarrassment displayed over his cheeks. “Yeah, a few times, heard I'm pretty good at it.”  

Something like jealousy comes across his fixed gaze, but it leaves quickly, as though he, too, became aware of its presence. 

“How many people?” 

“Spencer- what?” 

“I'm just ask-” 

You roll your eyes, his inexperience shown through one simple question that would be best asked when your hand isn’t on his cock. 

“Spence”, you move your hand from his hardness and lift a finger in front of his face, something you find works well in silencing him. “There’s a rule you have when it comes to asking questions during any sexual encounter. Don’t ask a woman's body count or anything- just don’t” 

You don’t say it strictly, not with a raised voice or any sort of primal dominance, and yet he looks like a hurt puppy, subtle but definitely there. “I just thought- just- I mean, you’re you, so I just thought I could ask.”  

“I'm me?”

“We’re close, and I did kinda have you in my mouth last night. It didn’t seem like a silly question at the time,” he crinkles his eyes like he needs emphasis on the last sentence. 

Despite the fact that he looks like a sad puppy, his cock is still hard against you, throbbing with destitution that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. 

“It’s not silly”, you whisper with intent to soothe his worries. You avoid eye contact when you speak next, your focus solely on the way he twitches in his boxers “three.” 

“Three you’ve had sex with or just-” 

His words cut off, fading quickly at the glance you give him. Your eyes bore into his; no words need to be spoken because the look that burns into your gaze is enough to silence the conversation. To be fair, it's the kindest look you could have given him for attempting to speak the words ‘seriously, please stop’ through only your eyes.  

“Are you going to let me touch you now?” You ask cockily, raising your brows in question. 

“You’ve been allowed to touch me”, he looks at you with half-lidded eyes, his big brown eyes looking at you through thick lashes. 

“I mean touching you without being stopped” 

“I never told you to stop” 

You're not even sure Spencer meant to make it sound that dirty, but to you, as the words leave his mouth your almost certain that was the dirtiest thing ever spoken to you, the throbbing between your legs can testify. He didn’t say it lowly; his voice didn’t waver or drop to something rough; he said it like it was an absolutely normal thing to say. 

It should be his brain short-circuiting, not yours.

You shuffle your body down the length of his, stopping when your feet hang over the bottom of the bed, and the soft breeze wraps itself around your toes. Your face is so close to his cock that you can feel the heat practically radiating from him in waves. When you finally tear your eyes away from his cock to look up at him, you notice just how blissed out he looks, how eager he is to have you wrapped around him. 

His hair is bed messy, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open as if he was having problems regulating his breathing. And when you do finally grip the waistband of his boxers and nudge them down with the help of him lifting his hips, he looks even more flustered than before. And not just his face. 

Was it normal to think a dick was pretty? 

He was a lot more impressive than what his bulge gave away; he wasn’t thick as so, but he was long, like a good seven inches long. It half excited you, and the other half was more timid, thoughts on how exactly the physics of fitting that into your mouth was possible.   

The tip is flushed pink, with clear beads of precum pearling the slit; they gleam in the sunlight, like the cherry on top of something that already looked desirable. 

You can feel his eyes on you, not wavering for even a second as he watches what flits across your eyes. Desire you suppose. His body is tense, pulled tight as though he isn't sure of anything going through his head, whether he should buck his hips into your mouth to get what he so desperately needs or if he should wait for you to move first, with patience he wasn't sure he had. 

Saltiness swims your taste buds as you move down and caress the flatness of your tongue across his soft tip, you lick up every bead of precum like a delicacy to be savoured. Just the act of it is enough to elicit a soft gasp from Spencer; his hips bucking up a little, you assume he didn't have much control over it. His tip nudges your closed lips, and you gently open up to him. 

The head of his cock nudges into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the soft velvetness of it. It throbs against your tongue, demanding your attention. As you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, Spencer exhales a small, ragged breath.

All the noises spilling from his mouth edge you on; the whimpers and gasps give you a feeling of empowerment. 

“Feels so good”, Spencer weakly whimpers. 

“Yeah?” you ask, wittiness laced into your words. Your mouth pops off, and your hand comes to hold the base of his length for some sort of contact between the two of you. Facing him, you look into his half-lidded eyes, and you feel complacent over the way his face displays his emotions. “Do you want me to go deeper?” 

He nods eagerly as though he's never heard something he wants as much as that. 

You keep your hand wrapped around the base of his cock when your mouth comes down on him again. You let him in even more this time. He hits the back of your throat easily, and it takes a minute, but your throat accommodates him so that you're not gagging or salivating excessively but taking him in with genuine determination. 

After spitting on your hand, you enclose it back around the base of his cock, and after thinking about it, you decide that you want to try something you had only done once, but honestly, you loved it as much as the last guy did. It was such an easy thing to do for such a pleasurable reaction. 

“Can I try something?” you ask. 

“Mhm, what- what is it?” 

You smirk against his tip and don't answer him verbally, but instead show him. You spit on his dick, your bubbly saliva trickling down his length to where your hand sits. The movement of your hand sliding upward has Spencer whimpering, your hand tightens around his tip, and your mouth presses against the opening of your fist where his tip pokes out. 

When your hand moves back down his hardness, so does your mouth. You time it right so that with every stroke of your hand, your mouth copies. His tip slips in and out of your mouth with precision that you have mastered after only very little practice. 

‘That- holy shit, where did you learn that?” 

You would smile around in response to him swearing, but you didn't want his first time to be accompanied by you accidentally biting him or scraping your teeth against him. You hum against him, not much of an answer at all, but you wanted to acknowledge his words. It wasn't unusual for him to swear, but you had never heard it come from him so easily. 

You keep pumping your hand, occasionally switching to just a handjob or just a blowjob. You take notice of every reaction he shows, where exactly he likes to be touched more, and you show him just how good it can feel when the giver knows what the receiver wants. You take mental notes of when to flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, tighten your hand and moan around his cock. 

The room is filled with the noise of Spencer's whimpers and moans as well as the sexual sounds of your slurping, sucking and deep throating that had you groaning around him. 

It was a sound better than any song you had ever heard, something more special than the awakening of birds chirping. This was a sound to be treasured, something only you have ever had the opportunity to drink in; no one else but you has had the pleasure of being the cause of such sounds slipping from Spencer's mouth.

Billions of people treasured the sound of the birds chirping, and billions of people drank in the sound of the seaside. But only you had ever heard the melody of Spencer's wants and begs, his needs for more, his whimpers of thankfulness. 

You were the only person who knew how Spencer Reid sounded on the edge of an orgasm. 

You can tell how close he is based on the hand that grips your hair, the redness decorating his neck like watercolour and the way his breathing picks up. When the words “I'm close” claw themself out of Spencer’s throat, you take it as a slight indication too. 

Spencer has a weak attempt at pulling you off, tugging your hair with the same strength as a duckling. He doesn’t want you off him, it's so obvious, but of course, the gentleman he is, how would he ever allow himself to flood your mouth with his cum.

“You- mh- you don't have to, I haven’t drunk enough-” he gasps as you deep throat him “, I haven’t drunk enough water, it's probably not- oh god- nice or anything. You really don't have t-” Every word seems like a struggle, as though looking through a haze. 

The last thing going through your mind was his taste; it was at the bottom of your ‘I care about this’ list. You don't stop your mouth because you know he doesn’t want you to. The hand pulling your hair gives up after a few seconds, but when his hips buck, and a strangled gasp stumbles from his mouth, he tugs it back harder. 

You're blissfully aware that if he wanted to pull you off, he would have used that strength before. 

A small, barely there pain sparks in your scalp as he pulls you off his cock. Your hand slips from around him, and his own takes over the space yours abandoned. He jerks his length, chasing his high with purpose. His mouth is open on a silent gasp, his chest falls and rises nimbly, and the lust on his face is vibrant.  

His grip on your hair doesn't flatter; in fact, it tightens the closer he gets to his orgasm. Your face is still close to his cock, so close that with every upstroke, his knuckles nudge your nose. 

You can see the moment the elasticity in the pit of his stomach snaps, and the moment you do, sticking your tongue out seems like the only reasonable response. He sees your tongue as a welcome despite the way he pulled you off before, you don’t wrap your mouth around him, but instead let him watch as his cum lands on your tongue. It pools in your mouth, the warmth a pleasing feeling. 

His eyes don't leave your mouth, even when he’s spent dry, and the cum residing in your mouth drips down your chin and onto his stomach. He watches in awe, his eyes glowing boyishly as you bring your tongue in and close your mouth. 

He isn’t clumpy or uncomfortable to take down; his release is smooth and flows down your throat with ease. He doesn’t taste as bad as he was worried he would; it is more bitter than salty or sweet, but the copious amounts of coffee he consumes daily probably doesn’t help. He doesn’t taste amazing, but definitely not bad, you're sure you would have swallowed even if it was disgusting anyway. 

The blush on his cheeks and his dilated pupils seem like a deserving enough reward for you. 

“Mh’ sorry”, he says softly, the scratchiness of his voice a faintness. 

Your eyes soften, furrowing at the embarrassment in his voice, “Why?” 

“I didn't mean to- that quick and in your mouth” Avoiding eye contact, he watches his cock rest against his stomach in its worn-out form. 

“Spence”, you put two fingers under his chin to get him to look at you “It's okay. I wanted it in my mouth more than not, and the quickness, dont- dont worry about that. I would be slightly embarrassed if it took you longer; it's normal to finish that quickly for the first time. Honest.” 

His glance switches between your eyes, looking for any lie in your words. He's never going to find it because it's not there. Being his first was something special to you, and the way it went was perfect; you didn't want it any other way. 

“It didn't taste bad?” 

You shake your head. 

“Did it taste like coffee?” 

You laugh at that “slightly.” 

He tilts his head, the space between his eyebrows creasing, “You don't like the coffee I drink” 

Rolling your eyes, you huff out another laugh, “Yeah, well, I liked your cum” 

His eyes widen slightly, his puppy eyes making a reappearance, “I- am I meant to have a response to that?” 

“Not if you can't think of one” 

He seems content with that; he goes to lean in to plant a kiss on your lips, but you pull back with a smile before he can. “You have morning breath, and I've just swallowed your semen.” 

“Not even a peck?” he whispers, not at all deterred by your specifics. 

“One, you get more after we brush our teeth.” You cave in; you've never been one for morning kisses, but Spencer brings out things in you that you weren't sure were even there until he came along. 

You're surprised that he even wanted to kiss you, given his whole germaphobe thing, but perhaps he has a reason for it? 

He extends the kiss for longer than it needs to be, two seconds becoming five. His lips are softer in the morning, not as soft as the head of his cock, but soft in its own ‘sink in’ way. 

“Okay cmon” you nod your head over to the bathroom. 

“Can't walk”, he lies.

“Spencer, come and brush your teeth” 

“Come and kiss me again” 

“Spence”, you say firmly, determined not to fall flat on your face and crawl into his comfort. 

“Really?” 

You give him a look that gets him rolling his eyes, but thankfully, moving up. 

                           ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

“Do you really have to go?” he whispers against your lips, tightening his arms around your waist and pressing your chest closer to his. 

Your sat in his lap on the leather couch in his living room, the birds stopped chirping a while ago, sometime between the shower running and Spencer dragging you to the couch for his much-needed makeout session. 

His tie needs fixing again, you thought you had done it tight enough, but the hum he did when you pulled on it earlier was too much to resist, so it had become slightly loose. The top button on your top was undone, but that was a fashion choice; you're not so sure you're red and used lips were much of a statement, though.

Well, depending on what type of statement you were going for. 

‘Spencer, you're coming with me, Hotch asked for both of us on this case,” you chuckle, bringing the knot of his tie up more to tighten it. 

“I know”, he whispers, “but it means that we can’t do this, that this version of you, of us is gone.”

You search his eyes, not sure what to search for, but perhaps something that digs up his words and gives away the true meaning, “What is this version of us?” 

You find something, but you're not sure if it's what you want. 

“I'm not sure”, he hesitates, his thumb strokes the skin of your stomach where your top rides up. 

The conversation ends with a kiss, and another one and more after. They all have heaviness to them, unspoken feelings that you can't depict; his mouth is home, and you're not sure why. 

Climbing off him feels cold, packing your bag and pulling your shoes on feels wrong. Putting your gun in your holster and your badge in your pocket feels normal. 

You're a whirlwind of emotion when you step through the door, Spencer at your side. 

He’s in one of his sweaters that he wears to work, such a difference from the nothing he was wearing earlier. The air outside the apartment is easier to breathe in, or perhaps its placebo. 

You don’t look at him as you both walk down to your cars, you smile at him in the friendliest ‘I don’t still have your cum in my throat’ look you can manage. 

It's normal, your friendship is normal, and the way you act as co-workers together at work is normal, the briefing and plane ride are normal, but everything feels compact.

You're glad it's not awkward, that work isn't tension-filled, but occasionally you catch yourself wondering what's fake and what's not.

There is so much to let out of the box, and you're not sure when the box is to be opened. At the moment, it is tied up with a pretty bow that both you and Spencer had a hand in tying. 

tags: @anausr78 @killjoynotes @matilde-333 @mrs-spencer-reid26 @prettypan-blog2 @ayumimegami @dor4kk @somewhereingermany563 @s0rc3r3r @kissesbya @aalyyssa @patslondonstuff @baucumdumpster  @elle-wlkr @samanthaw16 @heypyre @cakebootyscaca @hobisunshine13 @perfectballoonblaze @hiddentattooodyssey @theoneeees @bxbyysstuff @acescutejeans-1247@somo-69@cynbx@random-writer-person @blasaah@jooordinary @aurorafloraa @cessixja@crazyobsessedsmutreader@amatiswayland@djfjbfh@z3ph-was-h3r3@emma-e-a@hellfirehottie@gglittergoddess@noxx-starr @karmel07 @atlasdreaming@mmmunson@lizzylynch1@waywardhunter95@bigchungusdrinksspritecranberry@boxcletter@itspalaly@sp1derst0rrr

to be added to the taglist go here

⤷ taglist

[itzwillow]

Do you want me to teach you? | Spencer Reid

⊹₊⟡⋆ read part two here ⟶ 2

Pairing: s2!Spencer Reid x f!Reader

Summary: Spencer revealed that he's inexperienced in the field of making women feel good, so through a stupid drunk text, you let him know you're down to teach him. What you didn't expect was for him to happily take up your offer and do an amazing job in the process.

Warnings/tags: 18+ smut and fluff!! oral (f!receiving), inexperienced spencer, clit play, pussy play, praise kink, vaginal fingering, spencer loves ur pussy, mutual pining, clothed grinding, nipple play, kissing, yearning, overthinking, begging, dumb and in love, alcohol, no drunk sex tho, drunk texting, making out, down bad reader, pantie... play i guess?

Word count: 10.4k (oops...)

Author notes

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ this fic was a lot longer than expected, but I didn't really know when to stop, still feel like it's not complete, so if you want more, just let me know, and I can whip up a part two or morning-after follow-up.

Important!! - I also just want to take the chance to say that if you like this fic, please, please reblog it as well as the likes you give, whilst I am really grateful for likes, they don't do much. reblogging on the other hand, does! I spent more than 30 hours on this, and reblogging would be really helpful for me in terms of sharing my work. much love x

⟶ masterlist

“Oh no, you absolutely did”, Morgan teases Spencer with a boyish grin. 

“I did not blush”, Spencer replies sheepishly, a red tint of embarrassment fleeting over his cheeks, speaking more than his words had with just a sheer colour change. 

The childish bickering of Derek teasing Spencer had been going on since the plane took flight, a whole ten minutes ago. You had drowned out the conversation for a few minutes, spending the passing time reading the same page of your book, having to re-read it five times to soak in the information. Every time the sound of Derek and Elle giggling or laughing reached your ears, you were blown off focus, which resulted in you becoming completely unaware of anything you had just spent the past minute reading.  

You had given up on it when it got too moving your eyes up the page for the sixth time. Placing the book next to you, you decide you need some other form of entertainment. 

“What are we teasing Spencer about this time?” You ask, sliding into the seat next to Elle and opposite Derek.

You already had a good idea about what it was to do with, and you definitely wanted to participate in the teasing this time. You were on the way back to Quantico after finishing up a case in Los Angeles, following a string of rapes and murders around a few of the popular strip clubs and nightclubs. 

You weren’t with Derek and Spencer when they were interviewing the girls in the clubs, but you can only imagine what Spencer was like. 

Everyone knew Spencer was pretty inexperienced with females, and when he was required to talk to one his age, he got pretty flustered. Fumbling his words, doing his awkward smile that they usually thought was weird (you thought it was cute), busying his hands and blinking faster, everything out of a pre-pubescent teenage boy textbook.   

“The fact that genius boy here does not know anything about women”, Elle answers in a teasing tone aimed towards said genius. 

“That’s- that's not true, I’ve read things ab-”  Spencer retorts, fumbling over his words. 

“Oh my god, guys spencer reads porn!” Elle fakes a gasp with amusement.

Your cheeks hurt from how hard you try to keep your laughter in. The look on Spencer’s face is nearly enough to knock you overboard to the point of no return. His cheeks get redder, almost the colour of a ripe tomato during the heat of the summer, something you were sure was impossible. 

“Fifty Shades of Grey? Brigertons? J.D Ward?” You say with curiosity, a teasing smile finds home on your lips as the words spill from them. 

Doubt was a very vivid emotion when it came to the possibility of Spencer reading erotica; it was porn on paper, for god sakes, there’s no way he would-

“I’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey before, but it wasn't very good”, Spencer starts, sitting up, something he does before he starts explaining facts and talking statistics. “I finished it out of curiosity. From a literary standpoint, the character development is… limited. Also, the contract section is surprisingly unrealistic.” 

Oh my god 

“But when I purposely look for information on... women, it’s mostly blogs on how to- talk and other things.” 

“I’m sorry, blogs?” Morgan raises his eyebrow “You read blogs on how to have sex?” 

“Wha- I didn't say sex”, He squints his eyes, he speaks the word ‘sex’ as if it’s the most outrageous thing he’s ever spoken or possibly even been accused of. 

“Yeah, you didn’t have to”, Elle mutters behind her glass, which she brings to her lips. 

A small smile spreads over your lips at the picture this makes in front of you.  Inexperienced, shy, nerdy, scared of women, Spencer reading ‘how to’ blogs in the dark of his apartment, wondering how to make a woman feel good whilst so desperately needing someone to touch him. 

Holy shit. 

You don’t know why, but that thought causes a heat in the bottom of your stomach. As a small throb makes itself recognised between your legs, you clasp your thighs together in a motion you hope goes unnoticed. 

And for fucks sake, apparently you're ovulating because you’ve also just noticed how good Spencer looks when he’s flustered.  

He’s got those pretty puppy eyes, his dark brows are furrowed in such a way that you almost lean over to kiss them. What the fuck? 

“Look, pretty boy, if you want tips on how to get laid, just ask me” Derek shrugs his shoulders; he’s got such an ego when it comes to the topic of getting laid or hooking up, his smugness is evident on his face. He nudges his broad shoulder with Spencer's. 

“Yeah, everyone knows you’re run through Morgan”, Elle comments with a chuckle laced in her words, and Derek responds with a playful eyeroll that you're surprised doesn’t reach his frontal lobe.

“It’s not- It’s not that, I just want to make a woman feel-” Spencer sighs like he already regrets his next word before he speaks it, “good.”

Spencer looks at you as soon as the sentence leaves him, a silence forms between you, and you have to wonder why the silence feels so heavy, why it has that buzz to it, the one that rings in your ears and through your bones. He looks away quickly, but quickly isn’t the way you describe the buzzing leaving, because it doesn’t. 

It doesn’t leave. 

“What do you mean by good? You know, there are thousands of ways to make a woman feel good,” You inquire, your tone sounding a little too interested in the matter. “Oral, kissing, fingering, licking, sucking, uh- words i guess, dirty talk maybe” You count them off on your fingers, you can feel Spencer’s embarrassment rise with every word spoken, and yet you find that’s the reason you're doing it. 

“Money”, Elle adds.

“That too”

“Touching and.. Tasting,” Spencer says softly, but also like he had to force them out at the same time. 

He looks so pretty flustered. And those words coming from his mouth sound the equivalent of dirty talking, at least they sound dirty to you. Is that weird? 

“I already see it”, Elle nods her head, “Proper munch.” 

As if you all have a sixth sense, you and the others turn around at the same time and face the eyes burning into you from the jet's couch. You had felt it, the way it always felt, like a parent scolding their children for misbehaving.

“Let’s not talk about Spencer’s sex life on the jet”, Hotch chides, glancing up from the file he had been reading. He has one of those looks that only went to one of the team members (Elle) but felt like it was aimed at all of you, even Spencer, whose cheeks still burn like the sun shining through the plane windows.

As though you were dogs just told they’ve been bad, you turn around again. The jet goes awkwardly silent for a minute before Elle’s poor mistake of trying to hold her laughter fails. You let a chuckle out alongside her, and when you hear one slip from across the table where Spencer sits, you look up.

Again, meeting his eyes, holding eye contact for longer this time. It speaks louder than last time, the absence of words wither at the heat between your glances. He smiles softly, it's genuine and warm and matches like a perfect pair with his golden eyes, they both shine from unimaginable heights and knock the breath out of you just the same. 

The rest of the flight is filled with those heated glances between you and Spencer, words not spoken because even if they were… they wouldn’t live up to the feeling of catching his eyes from across the table. 

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩   

After you and the team had gotten back to the BAU, Penelope had come up to you, Elle and JJ and asked if you could all go out for drinks.

 You knew you couldn’t say no; it was Penelope. 

Derek had also somehow managed to sneak himself into the plans to get pissed at the nearest bar, using his flirting tricks and good looks to sway Garcia. 

                                   ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ 

When Garcia normally pulled you to the bar after a long case, you had some control over yourself when it came to drinking, but tonight was different. Tonight, you had things on your mind that you wanted to push back into the farthest parts of yourself, and nothing did that better than shitty alcohol in a bar that stunk of cheap liquor and sweaty bodies.

You had been sitting in the booth at the far end of the bar for a while now, just observing with your hazy eyes and dizzy head. Elle and Penelope had ditched you for an interesting conversation with a lone guy sitting at the bar, and JJ had headed home half an hour ago, so you were currently alone and wallowing in the unspoken feelings that had been eating away at you since the jet.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Derek being rubbed on by a group of three females who all look like they are trying very hard to get lucky tonight. You don't think their attempt at dancing did much for them, though, but you could tell that Derek wasn't paying much attention to their so-called moves and more to the cleavage that was being moved about in his line of sight. 

He was very noticeably enjoying the female attention, a wide grin is plastered over his face, and his chuckle rings out when one got close enough to his lips in a teasing motion that you were surprised they weren't full-on making out in the middle of the room.  

Your head buzzes like you were a million miles away, and your head sways to the speaker's music with a motion you swear you don’t control. You had a bad habit of doing things you weren't particularly in control of when you were more than four shots deep. 

The words that came out of Spencer's mouth earlier on the jet had been vivid in your mind since: his cheeks that warmed as his words became more revealing, the way his voice went up a pitch when Elle had lightheartedly accused him of reading porn. And the genuine laugh when he looked up at you, the pretty one that sounded like a melody coming from a vulnerable place in his chest.

You tighten your legs together as the presence of the vision and the sound of his voice from earlier dance in your head, slow, fast, quiet, loud and oh so good. You’ve felt that way about Spencer a few times on occasion, but you always brushed it off as needing to get laid after so long. This was different in a way you weren't accustomed to, and you had no descriptive words for it other than… want. Pure unfiltered want.    

You blame your actions on the stuffiness of the bar and the six empty shot glasses in front of you as you pick up your phone that had been left on the table and click on the contact you only ever really texted when it related to a case or something another to do with work.

You thought about how to word your text to him, but it wasn’t exactly up to you as the vodka in your system took the reins and sent a text that sober you would have paled over.  

(you) 11:02 pm: do yu wnat me to teach you?

(you) 11:20 pm: please 

                                     ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You didn’t want to see Spencer; your only thoughts whilst riding the elevator up to the BAU were the hopes that Spencer was off sick. Well, not sick exactly, you’d rather he wasn’t actually unwell, you weren't that cold-hearted. 

But you were delusional enough to hope that once you stepped out onto the floor where you worked, you would come across an empty desk where Spencer would normally sit.

Your manifestations had come out cold and were not of any use as you hesitantly stepped through the glass doors to the BAU and met the hazel eyes at the desk you had so desperately hoped was empty. You look away as quickly as you can manage and speed walk to your desk at the other end of the bullpen so fast you send out a hissed curse when your hip comes in contact with the edge of the wooden table. 

The dividers between the desks kept Spencer out of eyesight as you slump down on your seat and let out a groan when your elbows rest on the desk with your head in your hands. You had fucked up so bad when you sent that text last night that you couldn’t even come into work the next day without feeling like you were committing a crime. 

Your chest had a burning feeling you couldn’t quite differentiate between guilt or a soul-eating dread; you had a good feeling it was the latter. 

You had woken up early that morning with a pounding headache that was later soothed with painkillers and a burning hot embarrassment (that was not cured with painkillers) as you checked your phone and saw the two blue ticks next to your stupid, so fucking stupid text. 

You had gotten ready with the pace of a snail as you contemplated crawling back into bed and pretending you didn’t exist. You couldn’t, but you came to the conclusion that you could pretend Spencer didn’t exist and that last night didn’t happen. And whilst that is hard to do because it is not only hurting you, but you're sure Spencer will start to feel hurt too, you have manipulated yourself to think that it's the best thing you can do as an outcome to your fucking stupid, drunk, pussy ass, fuck ass text that drunk, horny you thought was genius to send, just fucking genius.

You had asked yourself a million questions on the way here with an angry tone to your thoughts, and you only had two answers to them that you had only just admitted to yourself. 

You were attracted to Spencer Reid.

You wanted to teach Spencer how to make a woman feel good, and you badly wanted that woman to be you.

                                    ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You had managed two hours of writing reports and going through old case files, ones that contained photo evidence that had made your stomach twist, before you started heavily craving caffeine as the effectiveness of your painkillers depleted when the seconds ticked by. 

It took some persuading from yourself, but you get up and make your way to the bullpens' corner kitchen that you and your team only used for the coffee machine. 

You remember the last time you opened the off-white mini fridge in the corner, and the putrid smell of well gone of food had you and JJ gagging, you decided to hold your nose when you planted the mouldy chinese on Gideon's desk and told him to never leave it that long again. You remember leaving his office and hearing the soft huff that sounded a lot like a chuckle seep out from the crack of the half-closed door.

You had joined the Behaviour Analysis Unit two weeks after Spencer had joined, and since that day two years ago, you have come to find yourself a family, one that didn’t just have that family feeling during working hours but all the time. 

But out of everyone on the team who you held close to your heart and considered family, Spencer was your person, and he was like an extension of you most of the time. You suppose that's why you feel so much guilt about the text you sent him the night before; you didn’t want to fuck up the bond you both already cherished so deeply.

You knew you had always felt more with Spencer, but like, with pretty much everything in your life, you chose to ignore it. Until the results of your bottled-up feelings came out in a drunk text that had been weighing heavily on your heart since the morning.

You were so consumed in your own thoughts that you hadn’t been aware that you’d been stirring your coffee for at least a minute, that was, until you heard a honeyed voice behind you.

“You’ve been stirring for one minute and thirty-two seconds- and counting” 

It’s like your body short-circuits and stops working on you as you freeze up in response to Spencer's words. Turning around, you meet his gaze, and so many unsaid words drift in the space between you. 

You swear he looks more beautiful than the last time you saw him, but you can’t tell if it is your mind playing tricks on you, maybe it was the still-fading pain meds or just… just. Maybe it came down to the feelings you had only just admitted to yourself that were still new in your head.

He has a small wrinkle between his softly furrowed brows as he sets his eyes on you and then to the cup of ‘going cold by the second’ coffee on the counter behind you. 

“Yeah- yeah, I'm sure it's mixed by now” You turn back to your coffee and toss away the wooden stirrer into the trash can by your feet. You feel a warm heat travel up your neck, curl around your ears and settle like a blanket, a very heavy blanket, on your cheeks. You knew the whole ‘ignoring’ wasn’t going to last long, but three hours felt kind of feeble. You should have expected it wouldn't go on for long. Spencer had a habit of noticing when things were ugly or, more so, awkward in this case, between him and someone, and wanting to fix it as soon as he could, as soon as he found the courage for it.

“Did you- did you have fun last night?” Spencer says with a voice that made it obvious he was trying to hide the awkwardness that was surely settled deeply in him. 

“Yeah, it was good” You nod to your words and sip your coffee, trying to look at anything but him. 

“Derek told me you had a lot to drink and uh- showed me the video of the karaoke” 

You mentally groan so hard you accidentally let one slip out of your own throat that you don’t bother covering up. You only half remembered the poor attempt at singing to 22 by Taylor Swift after being dragged on stage by Penelope, but you find enough memory of it to know it involved drunken giggling, slurring and pure fumbling over your words that really wasn't attractive in any way.  

“I was way too out of my mind to even notice that he had been filming” 

“How out of your mind?” Spencer's voice was quieter than it had originally been, almost like he was getting his hopes up that you would give him the answer he wanted. 

Whatever that was.

“Spencer..” 

He takes a step closer, not a big one but one that shows he’s listening.

“Were you drunk enough that you’d say things?” he breathes out in soft frustration “, things that you didn’t mean”. His brows go up in question.  

You shake your head in disagreement as he takes another step closer; you had never witnessed Spencer so determined to get an answer from someone in such a way that he looked like he was holding onto every word said and every shaky breath you exhaled.

He looked at you through his thick lashes that you had always said you were jealous of, and you thought you might melt right there as a result of the tension swirling around the air.

“I need you to tell me what you're talking about so I don't say something stupid about a thing that's not even relevant to what you're on about” You ask gingerly.

Spencer was acting in a way you had never seen before, and you didn’t understand how you were meant to feel knowing it was the result of you, of something that you had caused.

“Well, last night you sent me a text-, do you remember?” Spencer questions as if he couldn’t actually decide whether you knew what he was on about, like the possibility of being too drunk to forget a text like that was a high chance. 

“Yeah, I remember- I know”. 

“Okay, then, tell me what you meant, " he remarks. 

You look down at the steaming mug in your hands, carefully moving your palms so the coffee would sway and malipulate small ripples across the surface ever so slightly. It was almost calming in a way, something so minuscule like the movement of your own hands was an enticing hypnosis. That was a habit you had had for a long time, moving whatever was in your hands as a way of distraction from the fact that you had to answer and were too flustered to even think of a right response. 

“That I wanted to teach you”

“I need more than that” 

“Do I really need to speak it out loud, because I'm starting to think this is a humiliation ritual” 

“I would prefer if you did” His pretty puppy dog eyes that he wore so well catch your eyes and hold contact as he waits for a response, " Please.” 

You exhale a sassy breath and look up to the water-stained ceiling above you so you wouldn’t have to hold eye contact and gauge his reaction in response to your answer. 

“You said on the jet that you wanted- this is so stupid- that you wanted to know how to make a woman feel good. It was all I could think about last night, so I sent you that text to let you know that I'm always here if you need… a lesson. A physical one” 

The prolonged silence rings out louder than any words ever could, and the burning behind your eyes starts with no grace or warning. Not with embarrassment or anxiety, but with an achy feeling commonly known as ‘I fucked up so bad, he hates me and thinks I'm a right weirdo, and why did I ever think he would want to go down on me, blah blah blah’.  

“Okay” 

Okay??

Tearing your eyes off the ceiling and blinking away your blurry vision, you take notice of Spencer's slicked back hair that you're sure looks more out of place than it had been before you looked up, as though he was running his hand through it absentmindedly. The tips of his curved ears are a shade darker on the blushed scale, and the pupils in the middle of his hazel eyes are a size bigger, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he looks more flushed and perhaps hungry in a way he wasn’t even certain he knew how to feel about. 

“Okay?” You repeat, trying to figure out what exactly he could mean by okay, okay was such a versatile word that could be taken any which way, depending on the tone of voice, but when the word drifted from Spencer’s pressed lips, he revealed nothing. 

“I- I’d like that, " he stutters, “If the offer is still up.” 

You stand there stunned for a while before you speak up, your voice wavering, “Actually?”  

“Unless the text was only a drunk thing- and you didn’t mean.”

“I meant it”, You say matter-of-factly, the previous unease within you flattens at the statement. 

You’d gone through all the possible outcomes of this conversation when he had come up to you a few minutes ago, and you didn’t have a single ounce of hope that Spencer would agree; in fact, it hadn't crossed your mind once that Spencer would be acquainted with the idea of a lesson between your legs.

“Good, good, well, I’ll Em- do you do Email?”

“Text me, Spencer” 

He nods, stepping away to walk back into the bullpen “Yeah- okay, I’ll do that”.

 A small smile graces his mouth before he walks away, and the contagiousness of the upturned lips passes onto you and lingers even after he’s sat down at his desk a few meters away and you start making your way to your own desk. Your desk that was covered in silly little figures that Penelope had planted there on your first day, she told you that the minute you had stepped into the bullpen, you had a look about you that came across to her as you needing some sparkle in your life. 

But the sparkle that had changed your life around for the good wasn’t the small unicorns that littered your desk, the pom pom pens in your tabby cat mug or the stickers decorating your name plaque, but instead it came in the form of bright hazel eyes, brown slick back hair, an IQ of 187 and a soft mouth grazed with frequent smiles that would soon find a place between your legs.

                                   ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You could swear you still felt a small curly hair tickle the soft skin of your upper thigh; you couldn’t exactly pluck out a pube in the middle of an apartment building hallway, so you could only hope that it was dark enough in Spencer's apartment that he wouldn't even notice the single hair on your otherwise smooth skin that you had shaved, scrubbed and moisterized more times than once. 

Every step closer to his apartment door had your heart beating faster in a way that was almost a cause for concern. 

You had received a text from him two hours ago, two days after the conversation in the BAU’s corner kitchen, and it only consisted of four words.

(reid >ᴗ<) 4:58 pm: Can you come over?

Shortly after reading it, you had sped into your bathroom and spent an hour under the warm rush of hot water whilst bending and stretching in awkward positions to shave the skin between your thighs, and when you were as satisfied as you could be, you had dried and moisturised with pure determination. 

Only as you had been ready to slip on your underwear had you replied to Spencer.

(you) 6:03 pm: black or white?

(reid >ᴗ<) 6:05 pm: Context? 

(you) 6:05 pm: doesn’t matter 

(you) 6:05 pm: just answer 

(reid >ᴗ<) 6:05 pm: Is this part of my learning?

(you) 6:05 pm: yeah, and it’s important

(reid  >ᴗ<) 6:06 pm: White.

(reid  >ᴗ<) 6:08 pm: And lace.

You gently rap your knuckles against the smooth wooden door, and on the final firm rap, you stop midway as you hear the unlocking behind the wood. The second you hear that small sound of the metal clicking out of place, your brain runs around frantically, overthinking every small thing you did whilst getting ready only a few minutes ago. 

Did you put enough deodorant on? Should you have drunk more of the sweet pomegranate juice that had been in the fridge for a couple of weeks that you knew would have its use at some point? Is the lace showing above your jeans slutty in a good way or a bad way? Is the black push-up bra that you got a size too small a bad fashion decision, or should you have matched it with your underwear? Is your pussy smooth enough? What if you didn’t exfoliate right? 

As the creak of the door opening sounds out, you meet the warmth of his gaze and the overthinking is reduced to a small buzz at the very bottom of your list of important things. He’s not wearing his usual work attire that normally consists of a tie and a kitted vest, but instead he’s traded it out for a loosely fitting long-sleeved grey t-shirt and a red, white and black plaid pair of trousers you recognise as pyjamas. 

You don't know why it feels so foreign to see him wearing his sleep clothes, and why the foreign feeling is quite a nice feeling that settles happily in your chest. You suppose not many people have the opportunity to see him in this state, so as you do now, you cherish it.

He opens the door up, and you turn one side of your mouth up in a half-smile as you walk through the door and into the warmth of his apartment. 

You’ve only stepped foot into his apartment once, one year ago, when you needed to sleep on his couch for the night, when the smell of wet paint churned your stomach so much you couldn’t stand sleeping in your own apartment until the renovations had been completed.

You found as much ease walking into the room as you did the first time; the feel of Spencer’s apartment had that effect on anyone who had the chance to visit. Since the last time you had been in the apartment, there were more spaces filled on the bookshelf and more worn books piled on top of the storage unit where his stereo sat against the far right wall in the open-plan living room.

Knowing Spencer, he’d probably read all the books he already had and needed to buy more or borrow some from the library to feed his reading addiction. 

“Would you like some coffee? Milk and three sugars?” Spencer asks from behind you; it’s very obvious he’s not got any idea how to create a sexually intense thread of tension between the two of you.

You had already told yourself that you would need to take charge and tell him what to do, to lead, but standing in the middle of his apartment with nothing in your palms to fiddle with, you didn’t actually know how to start something like this. With your previous relationships or hookups, you’d just lie there and let their mouth wander, and you’d never have to say or do anything but moan and look pretty as they tried their hardest to find the clit (they never did, and you ended up faking it 80% of the time). 

You couldn’t with Spencer; you had to teach, show him how to touch and taste and make you feel good so he would know how to in the future…for other women. That’s why you were doing this, you reminded yourself. So he would know how to make women feel good, not just you. 

“Just water”, your reply comes out softly. 

Spencer strides to the kitchen at the same time you sit yourself down on the brown leather couch facing the window. You hear the kettle boil as he makes his drink, and the turning of the sink as he pours yours. 

You reach behind the back of your head and undo the messy ponytail you put up in a rush on the drive here. Because you didn’t decide to bring a bag due to the fact that you had only brought your phone and keys, you slip it onto your wrist. You find yourself subconsciously flicking the black band on your wrist, not in a way that brings you pain or discomfort, but more so in a way your mind subconsciously finds soothing, a way to comfort the anxiety and dripping arousal.

As the sound of a cup being put down follows another, you watch the smooth movement of Spencer sitting down next to you, creating a small dip in the couch. The tension pulls between you, like a string being tugged or north pole and south pole magnets colliding. 

Spencer’s gaze flickers down to your lips in a motion far from subtle. You watch his chest rise and fall with a steady rhythm, a movement that shows he’s feeling something like need, like it’s a pure hunger flowing through his veins. 

“You know, if you're having your tongue on my pussy soon, it’s reasonable to kiss me” 

Your words have him moving his eyes from your lips. He nods nervously as he agrees, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense”.

Getting ready to flutter your eyes closed, you pause midway to closing them, and then you fully open them again. You had half expected Spencer to take charge of the kiss, but you were mistaken; he looked like he didn’t have the slightest clue about how to lean in and what was right. 

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” You question softly, shuffling closer to him. 

“Once in high school, but we got our braces caught together” 

You huff out a chuckle and shuffle even closer to him, watching his face for the emotions that fleet across his face, whether fast or slow. Accidentally bumping your knee with his thigh, Spencer’s finger tips graze over the top of your leg in a soft caress before settling his hand down like he wasn’t sure if you were about to tell him to take it off or press down even more. 

You don’t say anything, but look him in the eyes as you move your body so you're straddling his lap and pressing your chest to his. His hips buck up slightly at the sudden movement, but like it’s almost natural, and he’s gone through his head practising this. He moves his hand up your body, sending shivers up your spine with every touch of your atoms meeting.

He seems to know what to do this time, driven by desire, desire evident from the growing bulge beneath you, strained by the layers of clothes. It’s quick but not rushed as he plants his other warm palm on the side of your neck, ever so gently and tugs you towards him. 

The hand still resting on the side of your clothed waist squeezes gently as the rest of his body eases when your lips gently meet his in a way only described as euphoric. 

Your brain transcends into mush as you find yourself melting into the soft lips of your co-worker, the same co-worker who sends a thrill up your spine as he pushes on your waist, moving you forward and then pushing you back. He tries to chase the friction between both of you by manually moving your hips with his grip on you and grinding you down on him; he does it so gently, never gripping too hard.

He makes a small gasp into your mouth as your lips move together; there’s no tongue yet added into the mix, but the softness of each other's lips and the unfiltered lust drive you both enough as it is. 

When you do add tongue to the mix, Spencer is the one to initiate it as he opens his mouth and probes his tongue against your lips, swiping it against the slit in a question. 

Your answer comes as opening your mouth and accepting his tongue; you moan against his mouth as you meet halfway. He tastes like black coffee (or sugar with a side of coffee, you suppose) and desperation, both things you love when served by Spencer. 

Everything Spencer gives you, when he lets out a whimper, when he bucks up against you, when he pulls back and breaths heavily against your half-open mouth while looking up at you through his lashes, you take it. You take everything he gives you, and you make it yours.

His touch moves from where it resides and comes up to the hem of your ruffled shirt; it has you pulling back and looking at him.

“Can I?”

You nod. 

You feel the hot exhale against your bare collarbone after he slides your shirt off and drops it on the floor behind you. Your body shivers from where his fingers narrowly skim across the sensitive skin of your waist.

You feel intoxicated with every touch or breathy gasp exchanged, your mind is set at a current setting that only lets you think of touch, taste and the lust that's filtered through every expanse of your being.

Spencer is definitely an inexperienced kisser, and you can tell when he has the occasional slip-up or when he accidentally clashes his teeth against yours, but the sexual desire coming from a pit within him controls the movements of his mouth and body, and that is more attractive than any slip-up he could make. 

“I want to take you to the bedroom, I want to make you feel good”, He begs you, his voice sounding needy. 

You only had to whisper a plea, and he had stood up, you around him, without much effort. It surprised you that he did it with that much ease; he wasn’t exactly fit. He wasn’t unhealthy by any means; you just assumed that without the muscle building him up, that he wasn’t exactly capable of heavy lifting, but he had proven you wrong.

It was a short distance to his bedroom, and you have your head buried into the warm skin between his shoulder and neck as he walks with you in his hold. You feel safe in a way you have never felt before. 

He drops you down onto the softness of the mattress in such a gentle way that you feel like a treasured artefact. He positions you so your back is against the mattress, but your legs are half on the bed. You take your shoes off by pushing them against each other, and they fall to the floor by Spencer with a small thump. 

With only your socks covering your feet, you place them on the edge of the bed, bending your legs at the knee. Spencer stands before you, admiring the sight of you splayed out on the bed, not yet fully undressed but beautiful, with regard. The tent in his pants is visible, and the imagined vision of what was under the layers, just by guessing based on the imprint, was an intoxicating picture displayed in the front of your mind. 

He leans down, bracing a hand to the side of his head. He presses a quick kiss to your lips, the first kiss that didn't feel like lust or sexual desire but instead something unspoken, something that has you widening your eyes and feeling a precious warmth settle in your chest. 

You were doing this for Spencer, you were teaching him how to make a woman feel good, and yet your personal attraction to Spencer that you had become accustomed to recently was causing a hot wire in your head. You were allured by him with a captivating charm you had never experienced. 

His mouth was about to find home on your pussy, and you had to pretend like you weren’t falling for him even more every time he touched you. 

When he pulls away from the soft peck, you lay a hand on his jaw and turn him back towards your lips and turn the softness of his kiss to a needier sweep of your tongues. 

“Can- can you tell me what to do?” He catches his breath as he pulls away reluctantly and focuses on your face, his eyes moving from your lips. 

“Take my bra off” 

His dark eyes flicker down from your face and land on the black bra you had decided wasn’t as bad as you had thought earlier, because from your angle, your boobs looked amazing. 

The small pulse that came from the bulge resting on your leg told you he thought so to.  

You prop yourself up with your elbows, giving Spencer more space to move his hand behind your back. With one palm planted on the mattress beside your head, he uses his free hand to reach behind your back, trying and failing to unclasp the back of the bra. 

You admire the way he bites his bottom lip in concentration, his fingers fiddling with the metal clasps in an effort to strip your breasts bare. You feel the skin of his knuckles gently graze against your back; it sends pulses of arousal through your body, pulses that travel slowly to your lower stomach. 

“Spencer, do you want me-”

“No, I-” 

You feel the fabric behind you loosen. 

“Got it” 

His eyes hold a captivating look that spreads like glitter everywhere his glance settles on your silky skin. With the way you're propped up, the straps that were sitting on your shoulders now slip down your arms and rest at the crooks of your inner elbows. The cups of the bra still hold your breasts, no more skin shown except the strip of your shoulder that the straps were covering before they fell. 

Lying down again, the bra cups finally slip, and you pull it off the rest of the way, discarding it next to you, exposing the swell of your breasts and the rose coloured nipples that were perked up so beautifully.

Your body arches up in a wordless question, a wordless beg for touch. 

“Spencer, touch me” 

His eyes are stuck on your breasts, admiring them like they were the most gorgeous thing he had ever laid eyes on, like they were deserving of worship. 

“I- here?” He doesn’t take his eyes off your tits.

Gently holding his wrist, you move his hand to cup your breast closest to him. The first touch of his palm sends a thrill through your nipple, and a little gasp escapes from the confines of your mouth. 

“I- oh god- I don't know how” Spencer gently squeezes your tit with his hand before removing it. 

“Put your mouth on my nipple”

“Yeah, I know that- I just don’t know how to use it”

“Then watch me, look for reactions, and you’ll know what I like” You breathe out, desperation's presence is known. 

He watches you for a few seconds, just as though he was looking for permission, even though you had already solicited the act. 

He looked so innocent like this, unaware of what to do and on edge about the possibility of doing the wrong thing. It gave you a small thrill knowing it was you he was doing this with, that despite it being a lesson, you were still his first. 

Through half-lidded eyes, your attention forms on the shift of Spencer as he hesitantly flattens his tongue against your hard nipple; he licks a stripe along the peak, soaking the skin where his dripple lands. He moves so he’s lying on his side more than leaning, so he can get a better angle as he takes your nipple into your mouth. 

The first feel of the inside of his mouth feels like something equivalent to heaven, your eyes roll back, and your nipple gets impossibly harder on the soft bed of his tongue. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to calm down the throbbing of your ever-so-needy clit that was begging for attention. 

For someone who had never sucked a girl's tit, he was impressively good at it, combined with the magnetic pull that you already felt for him was the cause for the wildness you felt so deeply as he sucked and licked your sensitive flesh. 

Opening your eyes, you notice Spencer looking up at you through hungry eyes that also some way or another, still looked pure, even in the act of being the cause of such pleasure, that your sure was evident on your face. 

He examined every small gasp you made and every shiver that wracked your body. And when he sucked in the way that had you moaning his name, he drank it in and learnt how to draw out as much pleasure as he could using his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the other. 

He learnt how to pinch and twist using his hand, and when on the occasion it was too hard that you’d wince, he pulled back and kissed your lips with a whispered apology. 

Both nipples were dripping with his spit, and the redness from pinching the peaks was stark against your skin. Spencer looks boob drunk when he pulls away, his lips pink and swollen, drool running down his chin, something you never classified as hot until this moment. 

With newfound confidence, he reaches down to the waistband of your washed-out jeans and undoes the single button with one hand. Following his movements, he moves off the bed and again stands up before you. He leans down and unzips your jeans slowly, a small inhale slips through him as he moves his hands down to trace a finger against the lace of your panties that show through the opening of your jeans.

“Can I take your jeans off?” He asks.

“Please”, A small whimper slips out of you at the mere thought that you were only a couple of minutes away from having him settled over the throbbing wetness between your thighs. 

He doesn’t watch his own movements as he shimmies your jeans down your legs with your help and plops them on the floor, where your discarded shoes sit. All of his attention is on you as he observes the desire written over your face in the most enticing colour he could ever imagine.  

You bring the heels of your feet against the edge of the bed again, bending your legs at the knees; this time, you spread wider, giving Spencer more of a view. You can feel the wetness soaking your white underwear so much that it sticks to your pussy like a mould. 

Without question, he kneels, his knees lightly hitting the hardwood floor beneath him. The sight is enough for you to prop yourself up again, just to view him on his knees at a better angle. 

He experimentally brings his hand closer to the heat radiating in the middle of your thighs, stroking two steady fingers along the dampness seeping through the cotton. The gentle sweep over your covered clit has you opening your mouth on a silent moan, the bud his fingers are settled over throbs with hunger. 

“You wore them”, Spencer addresses, looking up at you through his dark lashes. His voice is still nervous, almost boyish. 

Spencer refers to the lacy underwear he had spoken about over text. You’d never told him what you had referred to when you asked him the question, ‘black or white’, but you guessed his IQ had come in handy when it came to the understanding of what you were on about. 

You only owned two pairs of white lace underwear, and one pair had holes that your ex had been the reason for, so the options were narrowed down easily. The pair that you are currently wearing are your newest addition to your sexy underwear. You didn’t have many, so you had decided a few weeks ago that you should save up and treat yourself to a few more. 

One of the best ideas you've ever had. 

“I like them”, he says softly, cherished.

He moves his slender fingers towards the lace decorating your panties, tracing the delicate, floral openwork that you wore so well. Every touch against your skin brings electricity through your nerves; it feels like he’s painting a graceful lightning strike across your skin that can only be admired through feeling.    

“You can keep them as long as you don’t rip them”  You exchange eye contact with him. 

“-keep them? I- why would I do that?”

You shrug as much as you can in the position you're in. “Smell them, wrap them around your cock?”

“People actually do that?” His eyes wide, and his voice is husky. 

You nod, and Spencer's eyes furrow lightly like he’s contemplating the idea; you're sure a pros and cons list is being visually drawn through his eyes. 

The pulsing of your clit only gets angrier with every awareness of time passing, every second Spencer is stuck in his thoughts and absentmindedly moving his fingers across the details on your panties and not on your clit like you desperately want them to be. 

“Spencer, please do something”, You whine, drawing him from his thoughts. 

“Hm? I'm sorry, so sorry,” he shakes his head like he's trying to clear his earlier thoughts out of his mind, a blush settles across his cheeks again, a sight you love to see. 

He pokes his tongue out slightly, dragging it across his top lip when his attention falls back to your weeping pussy in front of him, the soaked white fabric not doing much to cover your flesh. His blink is slow, as though he’s entranced with the sight before him. 

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, ready to do anything you ask of him with a simple word from your lips, “How should I make you feel good?”

“Most girls would want tongue first and then, whilst your mouth is on the clit add a finger, if you pull my panties down and-”

Your name falls out of his lips, and your eyes meet his as they glance up through a half-lidded gaze, “I don’t - I don’t want to know what other girls want, I want to know what you want” 

Your body tenses, goosebumps rise over your arms at the devotion slips from Spencer's lips. So much for the ‘lesson’.  

Holy fuck, that was so attractive. 

You almost squeeze your thighs together with the pleasure that travels up your spine, but at last it’s probably not a good idea to suffocate Spencer with them before his mouth is even on you.  

“What do I want?”

He nods, “What should I say and do to make you feel... good. Or the best I can make you feel, I suppose.” 

You hesitate. 

“Pull my panties down” 

His fingers come to the waistband of the lace decorating your hips. 

“Kiss my thighs and then my clit… if you find it”, You tease. 

“I’ll find it, I’ve looked at enough anatomy books” 

You huff out a laugh at his confidence. “Then put your mouth on me, suck, use your tongue, whatever and then spit on your finger and slip it inside of me”  

You close your eyes as you speak, heightening the sense of touch, the feel of his fingers holding your underwear in his grip, and grazing them against the inside of your thighs as he slips the fabric down your thighs, and then as he gets you to close your legs together so he can bring them over your knees and slip them off fully. 

Once he nudges his hand against your thighs and gets you to open your legs as wide as they were previously, he presses a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh, close to your knee. He hasn’t looked at your bare pussy yet, something he will cherish enough when he gets to it, you're sure. 

“And what do I say to you?” he whispers, his heated exhales making your skin jump with every meeting. 

“Praise me”

He nods and presses another kiss against your thighs, every press of his lips leading up higher than the last until you feel the smoothness of his lips press where it aches. 

You divulge a sound stuck between a gasp and a whimper, and the silk bedding finds itself tangled up in your hand by cause of your grip. Such a small contact between your clit and his lips has you wanting more; your mind only speaks in desire, it speaks in a language only Spencer knows how to talk in. 

He presses an open-mouth kiss right over your clit, and hollows his cheeks as he sucks gently. You respond by throwing your head back in pleasure, a gasp falling from your lips, one that edges him on.

‘There we go,” He smirks against you, proud of his achievements.   

His tongue spreads across your clit, and his mouth moves in a dance of sucking, licking and kissing so sweet you almost find it affectionate if it wasn't such a dirty activity. He takes his time dragging the pleasure out of you; he plants his hands just below your ass, gripping for hold as he feasts on the sweet arousal dripping from every moment his mouth makes on you.

He whimpers against your pussy, and the sound has you pressing your hips further against him in an attempt to get more of him, as much as he is willing to give you. 

For a man who’s never done this before, he sure is fucking incredible at knowing exactly how much pressure you want and when you want it, how long you want him to kiss for or what sounds he can make that have you shivering when they murmur against your clit. 

You look down at him, devouring you thoroughly, and the blissed out eyes that meet yours are those of a starving man who has just had his first taste of real food in as long as forever. 

He pulls back for only a second to mutter a few words, “You taste so sweet.” 

“Need your fingers”, you beg, you're so fucked out at this point that there is no embarrassment resting in any part of you, all you know is that you need him so bad that if you don’t, you might cry, so you're prepared to beg as much as you have too to get what makes your legs shake and your head buzz. 

“Yeah?” he teases. 

You eye him as he spits on a single digit and runs it across your entrance before gradually pressing it inside you, dragging out your pleasure. You feel every motion he makes, to the press of the finger at your entrance to the curl that presses against the spongy part of you. 

When Spencer reads at work, and his long fingers flick through the pages with velocity, you always find yourself watching the act in awe at how someone could do something so attractively with just a movement from their hands. His fingers were slender and long, something you had always admired. 

But the difference of having one inside you was that it wasn’t just long, but it was filling. 

You whimper loudly as he hits that precious spot inside of you that you can only reach on good days, the squelch of your wetness being played with stops, and so does the thrust of his finger.

“Is that a bad sound? Did I hurt you?” Worry is palpable in his tone, and it has your eyes softening at just how concerned he sounds.

“No, no, it’s good, really good”, You assure him, your fingers coming to thread in his hair, you push his head with encouragement to go back to the task at hand. He has an understanding of your wants; his finger brushes against your tight walls with a thrust, and he accommodates the feeling by sucking your clit between his lips and into the comfort of his mouth. 

He works you with his finger until he knows you're ready, and follows along by drenching another finger with your slick and pressing it into you with gentle ease. You flutter your eyes closed and exhale a whimper. He’s exactly where you want him, and he's doing exactly what you want of him. 

“Good girl” 

His words cause a splutter of white-hot pleasure deep in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around him with eagerness. His fingers fuck deeper into you; he’s obvious about how his words made you feel by the flushed look in your eyes and the grip your pussy has on him. 

You can tell he wants more reactions like that from you because his fingers are suddenly moving with more speed, and praises fall from him like prayer; every word he speaks is made against your clit, and it sends a vibration through you every time. 

He stops swirling his tongue around your sensitive, swollen bud, pulling off with a pop and exchanges it for kissing your stomach. He pecks along the fat at the base of your stomach; every peck feels like a comfort, something so soft and gentle compared to the ruin he was in the process of making you. The soft ‘mwah’ sounds he makes as he kisses you are a melody alongside your wimpers, moans and gasps that he drags out of you with determination. 

You start to feel a coil tighten in your stomach. 

“I'm close”, You manage to gasp out, wanting to give Spencer enough warning so you don’t just start spasming around him without him having any notice beforehand. 

His fingers start thrusting faster, and you shake your head, “No, No, same pace, means- mh- means you're doing right” You gasp out.

His movement slows down to the pace it was when you had told him you were close, the coil comes back, this time tighter. You look at him, his lips are no longer resident on your skin, just hovering over your belly, his eyes are glancing down and watching you greedily suck in his fingers. 

“Spencer- baby, kiss me” You beg and grip the back of his neck at the same time he perks up at your words, the heat coiling in your stomach burns hotter with every thrust of his finger. 

His lips clap around yours, full of desperation. It’s a hot and heavy kiss; there’s nothing kind about the way your tongue fights with his as his fingers encourage the orgasm building up inside.

“This doesn’t feel like just a lesson anymore”, He says.

Your orgasm comes before you can decipher his words properly.   

The coil snaps, and you pull your lips from the feisty makeout, pressing your forehead to his. Your orgasm washes over you in pulses, his fingers wring out every drop of release you have to give. Your vision goes fuzzy, and the self-control when it comes to the noises leaving your mouth was nonexistent. You gasp, moan and whimper as the charge of the orgasm reaches everywhere, every nerve ending in your body is not left untouched. 

His eyes move quickly between your face and the sight of his fingers plunging into you between your legs. No matter where his eyes glance, it’s still the same look, an awed observation. 

Once all the pleasure is wrung out from you, and Spencer's fingers retract from your soaked walls, you collapse for a better word. Your chest heaves as you gulp down all the air you can manage,your head hits the mattress, your body unable to keep holding you up.

Sweat tickles every where is runs, as though it’s teasing you with its fingertips.

“Are you okay?” Spencer's voice rings out, sounding as if he, too, is trying to get his heart rate down with the ragged breathing he expels. 

You nod weakly, “mhm” 

“Are you sure?” His voice is tense and on edge, his eyes never leaving your face. 

“Yeah, just- give me a- give- a second” 

                                  ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You start coming back to yourself, becoming more aware of your senses. You don’t know how much time has passed, but the faint buzz behind your ears tells you not too long. 

It smells like black coffee, sex mixed with sweat, and old books.

You taste Spencer, you don’t know how to describe it other than ‘Spencer’. 

And it feels.. Cold. Your forehead feels cold. Why does just your forehead feel cold?

You become cognizant of the pressure against your head, just above your eyebrows. Where it feels cold. 

“You said you were okay” 

You move your attention to your left, where Spencer sits beside you on the mattress, holding a damp cloth to your forehead. Worry is unmistakable; you notice the signs straight away. Tight lips, knitted brows and an increased blinking rate. 

“Did I pass out?” You question, concern lays itself heavy. 

“No-no, you just were a little out of it” He shakes his head. 

You sit up, noting the fact that you were still naked and sitting down in the same place you had been when his fingers had been giving you attention. It comes back to you without any flashes or pictures, just memories of a few moments ago, before you lost your sense of who you were. 

Your orgasm, his fingers leaving your heat, the kiss he pressed on your temple and then the quick rush of motion he made when he felt you burning up under his touch. He had left the room and came back with your discarded glass of water and a damp towel that was now resting against your forehead. 

“I'm sorry, I didn’t mean for my mind to go somewhere else” You softly apologise. 

“It’s alright- I was just scared I hurt you”

“You didn’t” 

“Yeah, I know that now”, he whispers. 

A beat of vulnerable silence passes. 

“Would you be okay with staying the night?” His voice breaks the quiet. 

Maybe the silent prayers you had sent up whilst getting ready earlier had worked; this seemed like a pretty good sign they had, considering one of the things you had pondered in your prayer had been whether you could have him longer than just a lesson went on for. 

“Like with you?” 

“In bed- sleeping. If that's okay” 

You hear the unspoken words behind it, the real intent. He was just like you, having the same thoughts about whether you could share a moment like this longer, longer than the hour his hands and mouth had been on you. You both wanted more than just sex.

You lean towards him and take him by surprise by pressing your lips to his; it speaks kindness and affection. He melts against your lips and deepens the kiss, his tongue finds home in your mouth, joining yours and tangling together, only breaking apart when either of you needs to catch your breath. 

When you pull back, Spencer chases the kiss and presses his lips against yours for as long as he can until you speak up.

“Yeah”, You smile with joy, just thinking about the non-sexual intimate act of sharing a bed is causing a warmth to line your cheeks.  

“Good because I’d like that alot” 

“A lot?” 

“Mhm, I also quite like your lips against mine”, Spencer says against your lips after he leans towards you to catch you in a kiss again. 

“Mhh, maybe I should give you a lesson on it” 

“I’d like that” 

“A lot?”

If you want to be added to the tag list for part 2, go here

⤷ taglist!

[wonderlanderings]

Practical Application

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.8k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: mdni, smut, early seasons Spencer, nerdy dirty talk, not proofread sry 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "Statistically, the success rate of practical application following targeted research is significantly higher than trial and error alone." Or: Spencer Reid has been reading. A lot. And he'd like to put his findings to the test.

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

𝐚/𝐧: Tumblr already decided this post needed to be reviewed while it was still in my drafts; apparently, a picture of female anatomy is a step too far.

It’s not as if the two of you haven’t done this before.

You’ve lost count of the evenings spent tangled together on his worn couch, the springs groaning softly beneath you both, or pressed into the rumpled sheets of your bed, your hips cradled in his lap as you grind down against him between slow, languid kisses. His hands always find your waist like it’s the only anchor he trusts—fingers splayed wide, thumbs tracing absent arcs through the fabric of your shirt, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you by touch alone. As if you might dissolve beneath his palms if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

But that’s usually where it ends.

There’s always a point—somewhere between the deepening breaths and the small, punched-out sounds you can’t help but swallow against his mouth—where Spencer’s rhythm falters. You feel it before you see it: the subtle tension bleeding into his shoulders, the way his clever fingers tighten, then freeze, like a clockwork mechanism seizing up. His eyes, half-lidded and dark, flicker with something caught between want and worry—a war he’s been fighting longer than you’ve known him. And then, softly, almost apologetically, he’ll ask you to stop.

You always do. However hard it is—and God, it is hard, your pulse hammering between your thighs and your lips swollen and slick, your body singing with a need that doesn't understand the word stop—you pull back without question. You untangle yourself gently, press a steadying palm to his chest, feel the rabbit-fast beat of his heart beneath his ribcage. Because crossing Spencer’s boundaries isn’t something you’re willing to do. Not for this. Not for anything. Not ever.

You’ve told him as much, more times than you can count. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. And he’d nodded, relief softening the sharp lines of his face, and kissed your temple with something like gratitude. You’d meant it then. You mean it still.

So when tonight's make-out session stretches past its usual breaking point—when his hips roll up to meet yours instead of faltering, when his breath comes in sharper, hungrier gasps and he still doesn't say the word—you're the one who pulls back first.

You blink down at him, chest heaving, your own body thrumming with a need you've gotten very good at setting aside. The absence of his mouth against yours feels almost cold. "Spencer." Your voice comes out rougher than you intended, scraped raw at the edges. "Do you… want to take a break?"

He doesn't answer right away.

His lips are reddened, kiss-swollen in a way that makes your stomach ache. His hair is already mussed from your fingers—dark strands falling across his forehead, endearingly dishevelled. And for a moment, he just looks at you like you've asked him a question he's been rehearsing an answer to for weeks. There's something fragile and fierce warring behind his expression, something that makes your heart pick up for an entirely different reason.

You can practically see the gears turning behind those dark eyes. Cataloguing. Calculating. Deciding.

Then his hands slide from your waist to your thighs. Slower than usual. Deliberate. As if he's crossing a line he's drawn in his own mind a hundred times before and only now mustering the courage to step over. His thumbs press small, warm circles into your legs, just above your knees—right where the hem of your shorts ends, skin meeting skin—and the gesture is so tender and so unexpected that your breath catches and holds.

"No," he says quietly. And then, even quieter, like a secret he's only just admitted to himself: "But there is something I want to try."

Your stomach flips. Every nerve ending in your body seems to wake up at once, pulling taut like piano wire. You should ask what. You should slow this down the way you always do, give him an off-ramp, make sure he's sure. But his hands are still warm on your thighs and his gaze hasn't dropped—he's looking right at you, steady and certain in a way you've never seen before—and the word leaves your mouth before you can think better of it.

"Anything."

That one word hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. You mean it. God help you, you mean it in ways you didn't fully realize until just now.

And then Spencer Reid—your sweet, shy, flustered-by-eye-contact Spencer—slides off the couch.

It happens so smoothly you barely register the movement at first. One moment he's beneath you, all long limbs and hesitant hands, and the next he's lowering himself to the floor. His knees press into the worn carpet. His palms come to rest on the tops of your thighs, grounding himself. Grounding you.

He settles onto his knees in front of you, looking up with those dark, clever eyes, and the world seems to tilt sideways.

For a second, you forget how to breathe.

He looks up at you from the floor, and there's something new in his expression. Something you've never seen before. Not hesitation. Not the familiar, flickering worry that usually clouds his eyes when things go too far. Instead, you see the same focused, methodical attentiveness he brings to a cold case or a complicated text—except softer at the edges, warmed by something that looks almost like reverence. Like you're not just someone he wants. Like you're someone he's been trying to find the courage to worship.

You watch, frozen, as his hands move to your knees. He's gentle—he's always gentle—but there's a new confidence in the way his fingers curl around the curve of your legs, parting them just enough. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Deliberate.

He leans in like he's approaching something precious and terrifying all at once—like you're a first edition he's afraid to breathe on, or a butterfly whose wings he doesn't want to bruise. And then he presses his lips to the inside of your bare leg, just above your ankle.

Your breath stutters.

Then higher. His mouth finds the delicate skin behind your knee, soft and warm. Then higher still—your calf, your kneecap, the sensitive inside of your thigh where the muscle jumps beneath his touch. Each press of his mouth is softer than the last, barely there, like he's tasting the air around you more than your skin. You can feel the soft whisper of his exhale through the thin fabric of your shorts, warm and unsteady.

He stops just shy of where you're already aching.

So close you can feel the heat radiating off his lips. So close that a single shift of your hips would close the distance. His breath fans over you—deliberate now, you realize with a jolt. This isn't hesitation. He's waiting. He's learned that this does something. That anticipation is its own kind of touch. That the things left unsaid, untouched, unfinished can burn hotter than anything else.

When he looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes, your heart nearly stops.

His pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing the warm brown. His lips are parted, slightly shiny from the trail of kisses he's left up your legs. And there's a flush climbing his neck, spreading across his cheekbones—not the embarrassed pink of someone caught off guard, but the deeper color of someone who knows exactly what he wants and can't quite believe he's allowing himself to have it.

"I haven't done this before," he admits.

His voice is steady—steady in that way he gets when he's reciting something he's memorized, facts and figures and dates locked behind that beautiful, brilliant brain—but you can hear the vulnerability underneath. The slight crack at the end of before. The way his throat works as he swallows. The quiet fear that you might say no. That he might get it wrong. That he might disappoint you.

Your chest clenches so tightly it almost hurts.

Every instinct screams at you to ask. Are you sure? We can wait. You don't have to do this. You want to make sure his first time going down on someone is for the right reasons—because he's ready, because he wants it, not because he feels pressured by some invisible clock he's invented in his head. You want to protect him from himself, the way you always have.

But then you really look at him.

Not at the Spencer who stammers and looks away. Not the Spencer who freezes mid-kiss and asks you to stop. This Spencer—the one on his knees in front of you, hands steady on your thighs, gaze unwavering—is someone you've only ever glimpsed in fragments. A version of him he's been hiding, maybe even from himself.

The flush climbing his neck. The way his fingers are trembling just slightly against your skin—not from fear, you realize. From want. The raw, open hunger in his expression, the kind he usually hides behind blinks and book spines and sudden changes of subject. The kind he's been suppressing for so long that finally letting it surface looks almost painful.

And you realize: he's already thought about this.

Probably researched it exhaustively. Probably read articles and watched videos and memorized techniques like he's studying for an exam he desperately wants to pass. Probably lay awake at night running through every possible scenario, every way it could go wrong, every way he might fail. Because that's who he is. That's how his mind works.

But he's here anyway.

On his knees. Looking up at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking himself for months.

"I did some research," he confirms, as if reading your mind. One corner of his mouth lifts—almost shy, almost smug, a combination that shouldn't be as devastating as it is. "I'd like to test that knowledge out. If you're amenable."

A laugh escapes you, breathless and half-disbelieving. Amenable. Only Spencer Reid would use the word amenable while kneeling between your legs with his mouth inches from where you need him most. Your fingers curl into the couch cushion beneath you, knuckles going white, because if you don't hold onto something, you're going to float away entirely.

"Statistically," he adds, tilting his head slightly—and God, the way the light catches his eyes, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip—"the success rate of practical application following targeted research is significantly higher than trial and error alone. For most skills, but particularly for—"

"Spencer," you interrupt, because if he keeps talking in that low, measured voice while looking up at you like that—like you're a problem he's desperate to solve, a text he's dying to decode—you're going to combust. Right here. On his couch. And then neither of you will have to worry about what comes next.

He stops. Blinks up at you, those dark eyes suddenly uncertain, like he's worried he said something wrong. "Yes?"

You cup his face in your hands. Your palms cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and you tilt his gaze up to meet yours. His skin is warm beneath your palms—warmer than usual, almost feverish—and you can feel the slight tremor in his jaw where he's holding himself back. Holding himself together.

"Who am I to deny a man of science?" you say softly.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then his smile widens—just for a second, bright and boyish and so achingly him—before his expression softens into something more focused. More intent. The shift is almost physical, like watching a camera lens click into focus. He's not Spencer-who-stammers anymore. He's Spencer-who-solves, Spencer-who-observes, Spencer-who-memorizes-every-detail-and-doesn't-forget.

He lowers his head again.

And this time, when his mouth meets your skin, there's no hesitation.

The first touch is just his lips—a gentle, almost chaste press against the damp fabric of your shorts. You gasp anyway, hips jerking involuntarily, and his hands tighten on your thighs to steady you. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't apologize. Doesn't ask if you're okay—not yet, anyway. Instead, he does it again, slower, like he's testing the texture, the taste, the exact sound you make when he applies pressure just there.

Your head falls back against the couch cushion.

He hums. Thoughtful. Curious. And you feel him catalogue your reactions—the way your thighs tensed, the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers tightened in the cushion. Filing it away in that brilliant mind of his for later reference. For optimization.

Then his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts. He tugs gently, not pulling yet, just testing—giving you time to stop him if you want to. And when you don't, when you just lie there trembling and waiting, he looks up at you one more time.

His pupils are blown wide now, dark as coffee, nearly swallowing the warm brown. His lips are parted, slightly shiny, and there's a flush creeping down his neck that you can see even in the low light. He looks wrecked already—and he hasn't even touched you yet.

"Can I?" he asks. Softly. Earnestly. Like he's asking for something far more significant than permission to take off your shorts.

You nod. "Please."

He pulls them down—slowly, so slowly, like unwrapping something precious, something he's been saving for months. The fabric slides past your hips, your thighs, your knees. You lift your hips to help him, and the movement makes you acutely aware of how bare you are beneath him now, how exposed, how completely at his mercy.

Your shorts pool around your ankles. He sets them aside carefully—folded, you realize distantly, he folded them—and then his hands return to your legs. Palms flat against your bare thighs now, skin to skin, and the warmth of him seeps into you like honey.

You're trembling. Actually trembling, in a way you haven't since your own first time years ago. And Spencer must feel it, because his thumbs stroke slow, soothing circles into your inner thighs, and his voice is impossibly gentle when he says, "You're shaking."

"So are you," you whisper back.

He looks down at his hands. They are shaking—just barely, a fine tremor running through his fingers where they press against your skin. He stares at them for a moment, almost surprised, like his body is betraying a truth his mind hasn't caught up to yet.

His fingers spread across your inner thighs, holding you open with a gentleness that makes your throat tight. There's nothing clinical about the way he touches you now—no detachment, no careful distance. Just Spencer, trembling slightly, looking at you like you're something sacred.

And when he leans in—when his mouth finally, finally makes contact with nothing between you but air and want—the noise that leaves your body isn't quite a moan and isn't quite a sob.

It's relief. It's disbelief. It's the sound of months of stopping and starting and pulling away finally breaking open into something that feels like coming home.

He starts with broad, experimental strokes of his tongue—tentative at first, then more confident as he maps you in real time. You can feel him learning you with every pass of his mouth: the way you gasp when he flattens his tongue, the way you arch when he circles, the way your thighs try to close around his head when he hits a spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

He's paying attention. Of course he's paying attention.

This is Spencer Reid—the man who can read a thousand-page case file in an afternoon and remember every detail months later. Every hitch of your breath, every involuntary clench of your fingers in his hair, every whispered there or like that or God, Spencer—he files it all away, adjusting pressure and pace and placement like he's running a diagnostic. Like he's determined to get an A+ in this particular subject.

And God, he's going to.

"You're doing so good," you breathe, because he needs to hear it, because his hands are shaking against your thighs and you know him well enough to know that somewhere behind that focused expression, he's terrified of messing up.

You feel him shudder against you. A full-body tremor that travels from his shoulders down to where his mouth is still moving, still working, still worshipping. His rhythm doesn't falter. If anything, it sharpens—like your praise hit something deep in his chest and lit a fire there.

He finds a spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. Your back bows off the couch. A sound tears out of you that you don't recognize—high and desperate and loud—and he stays there, relentless and focused, his hands anchoring your hips to keep you from squirming away from the overwhelm.

You can't squirm. Can't think. Can't do anything but feel—the hot slide of his tongue, the soft scratch of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the way he moans against you like he's the one being touched.

You're close embarrassingly fast. Minutes, maybe less. All that built-up tension from months of stopping short, all those nights you went home with your pulse still hammering between your thighs—it's all rushing to the surface at once, unstoppable now, inevitable.

"Spencer," you warn, voice cracked and desperate. "I'm—I'm gonna—"

He doesn't stop.

He doubles down, moaning against you like he's the one coming undone, and that sound—that low, guttural, hungry sound—sends you over the edge with a cry you don't bother to muffle. Your hips buck. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your fingers twist so hard in his hair you're half-convinced you'll pull some out.

And through all of it, he stays. He stays. His mouth stays soft, his hands stay steady, and he works you through every wave and aftershock until you're twitching and gasping and completely, utterly wrecked.

"Too much," you pant, finally, pushing weakly at his head. Your arm feels like jelly. Everything feels like jelly. "Spence, too much."

He pulls back immediately. Instantly. Like a switch flipped.

And when he looks up at you—chin slick, lips swollen and shining, eyes dazed and dark and impossibly proud—you've never seen anything more beautiful in your entire life. His cheeks are flushed high and pink. His hair is a disaster—tangled and sticking up in seventeen different directions from your fingers. There's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, soft and wondering, like he can't quite believe he got to do that.

"How was that?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. Cracked at the edges, raw in a way that makes something warm curl low in your belly all over again. "For a first attempt."

You laugh—breathless, disbelieving, giddy—and tug him up by the collar of his rumpled sweater. He comes willingly, collapsing half on top of you in a tangle of long limbs and warm weight, and you wrap your arms around him before he can even think about pulling away.

"Spencer Reid," you say, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then his nose. Then his mouth—God, you can taste yourself on his lips, salty and sweet and him, and the way he sighs into the kiss makes your toes curl. "You are not allowed to call that an attempt. That was a masterclass."

His smile, when it comes, is shy again—the return of the Spencer you fell in love with, the one who blushes when you hold his hand too long in public. But his eyes are bright. Glowing, almost. Like you've given him something he didn't know he was allowed to ask for.

"So you'd be open to more research?" he asks, and there's a hopeful lilt to his voice that makes your heart clench.

You pull him closer, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The movement presses his hips against yours, and you feel him—all of him, the hard evidence of just how much he enjoyed himself pressing against your thigh. He's aching. Has been this whole time, apparently. And instead of asking you to take care of it, instead of even mentioning it, he just... gave. And gave. And gave.

Your chest feels too full for your ribcage.

"Dr. Reid," you murmur against his ear, smiling when he shivers. "Write the grant proposal."

He laughs—a real laugh, bright and surprised and so wonderfully him—and buries his face in your neck. His breath is warm against your skin. His weight is solid and perfect on top of you. And when he presses a kiss to the spot below your ear, soft and lingering, you feel him smile.

[hotpinkbitch-breakfast]

Spencer would love putting you to sleep with his dick

You're either gonna cum or youre gonna doze off, either way youre relaxed and he's happy. Just slow thrusts and kissing your forehead, not even trying to cum, he just wants you to. He might have already, but he's so focused on your soft sighs that he can't remember anything.

And he laughs when he pulls out because you whine as if your eyes aren't shut already, too heavy to open back up

And he'll clean you up and tuck you in before he lays next to you, holding you in whatever position you'd ended up in. And it's all very warm and slow and gentle and he kisses behind your ear before he can doze off, wrapped around you.

Maybe one time you both fell asleep in the middle of it, but the waking up and separating was so uncomfortable and weird that he vowed to never let himself fall asleep before cleaning up.

And if he really can't fall asleep and he gets restless while you do, he'll get a glass of water for you to have ready in the morning, while telling you how much fluid is lost during intercourse so you should really hydrate.

He's happy to wake you up with it, too

[flashphotograph]

Djo silver cross

[maeafterdark]

no thoughts just spencer who explains to you the process of orgasms while he’s eating you out. (i dont know what is with my thoughts lately my bad guys)

spencer reid is the kind of guy that babbles during sex without realizing he’s doing it. it’s both endearing and sometimes infuriating when you’re so desperate for release, for the tiniest bit of friction against your clit or your mound, and he just won’t. stop. talking.

but other times, it’s like an educational experience. like right now as he’s licking stripes up your pretty little pussy, all wet and practically pulsating just for him. “did you know,” he slips a finger inside of you as he talks in a rather husky voice he didn’t even realize he had. “that an orgasm starts with blood flowing to the genitals?”

he continues as he pumps one finger in and out of your hole in a rather cruel pace, his other hand holding your hips down when they buck up into his touch. he grins at the way you gasp. “that’s what causes arousal. or, in layman’s terms, what causes my penis to become hard and what causes you to become wet.”

he adds another finger, continuing, “from there, the tension builds and builds like a sort of pressure. and then when it peaks - aka an orgasm - the muscles in your uterus and pelvis, and your vagina, contract roughly every second.”

he sucks on your clit for a few seconds, before he leans back to watch as his fingers move faster inside of you. they curl as he speaks again. his voice drowns out your sounds. “the brain, at the same time, is releasing so many endorphins and oxytocin— that’s the love hormone, produced in the hypothalamus.”

he watches as you practically grasp at the bed sheets beneath you as the peak of your orgasm begins. he watches your cunt to watch his experiment be proven correct, taking in your moans and light whimpers. “and that, that is the climax.”

once you’ve settled flat onto the bed post soul snatching orgasm, he crawls over top of you. one arm braces against your head as he kisses you deeply and sweetly.

“you ready to see what a male orgasm is like?”

[sweetlikenonsense]

Summary: New to the BAU and already labelled heartless, you surprise everyone when a frightened child chooses you. Everyone but Spencer.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x heartless(?) reader

Warnings: CM case themes, child distress (non-graphic), angst

WC: 870

JJ’s the one who said it first. Heartless.

Not in a briefing. Not as a joke.

In a moment of anger, after a long, brutal case where you’d given your facts in the same clipped, almost clinical tone you always did. And after a case like that… it must’ve felt wrong.

JJ’s voice had cracked, exhausted and frayed, and she’d thrown the word at you like it slipped out before she could catch it.

You’d been called worse than heartless before, so when JJ said it, you didn’t flinch.

You didn’t snap back. You didn’t explain yourself.

You just took the hit, shrugged it off, went back to work.

You only felt that small, familiar drop inside your chest; the one that always came when someone mistook silence for apathy.

You were new to the BAU, but not new to this line of work. You’d learned fast — too fast — that emotions don’t keep people alive. That getting attached makes you slow. That distance is the only thing that keeps your hands steady when the world is falling apart around you.

Because feelings don’t solve cases. Empathy doesn’t catch killers. You do your job, and you do it well. That’s all that matters.

But JJ didn’t know you yet. None of them did.

She’d thrown the word at you like a stone meant for someone else that hit you anyway.

“God, do you even care? You’re so—” A breath. A snap. “Heartless.”

She regretted it instantly. You saw it in her eyes. But you just nodded and kept talking, because what else were you going to do?

Morgan tried to smooth it over the next day, making a joke about you being the ice queen, trying to lighten the air. You let him think it worked.

But the universe has a sense of irony.

Because the very next case proves them all wrong.

—

The boy is eight.

Small for his age. Quiet. Shaking like a leaf in a storm.

He hasn’t spoken since the night everything shattered. JJ tried reaching him. Garcia tried over video. Hotch even kneeled to his level.

Nothing.

Everyone stands outside the observation room, tension heavy and unmoving. JJ’s biting her lip. Morgan’s pacing. Hotch is calculating options.

And then the kid flinches so hard at a dropped pen that your chest twists — sharp and fast — before you can lock it down.

You don’t ask. Don’t announce it. You just push the door open and walk in.

There’s a ripple of looks exchanged behind you —

What is she doing? She’s not a kid person. Why her?

Everyone except Spencer. He watches you step inside like he expected this.

You take in the way the boy is curled into himself, and instead of sitting across the table like everyone else, you lower yourself to the floor — cross-legged, palms loose on your knees.

Not looming. Not coaxing. Just… there.

“I don’t wanna talk,” he whispers.

You nod. “Good. I don’t either.”

He blinks, peeking at you through a curtain of messy hair, confused. “You don’t?”

“Nope.” You tug your sleeve over your knuckles. “Talking’s exhausting. And grown-ups never shut up.”

His lips twitch. The tiniest crack in his fear.

Behind the one-way glass, you know JJ’s eyes are widening.

You slide the untouched orange juice box across the floor with a gentle push.

“Not for you?”

He shakes his head firmly. “It’s gross.”

“Thought so,” you say, dropping your voice conspiratorially. “Tastes like floor cleaner. Don’t tell your mom.”

A tiny giggle escapes him. Thin but real. One no one expected to hear.

And Spencer, standing behind the one-way glass, goes still.

He watches the way your posture stays steady, how you keep your voice soft but sure.

How you don’t crowd the boy with sympathy. You simply give him room to breathe.

To choose you. To trust you.

After a long moment, the boy’s voice cracks.

“Is… is the bad man gone?”

Your jaw tightens — imperceptibly, but Spencer sees it. But your reply is calm. Softer than anyone around you had ever heard.

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” you say. “You’re safe now. And you did everything right.”

He hesitates. “But I ran.”

“Yeah,” you answer quietly. “That’s what brave people do when they want to survive.”

And just like that, the dam breaks.

The boy starts talking. Halting. Scared. Honest.

You stay on the floor with him the whole time, anchoring him without ever pretending you can fix his fear.

When you leave the room, your expression is neutral again. Professional. Untouched.

Except your fingers are trembling slightly where you curl them into your palm.

Spencer is already in the hallway, waiting like he wasn’t willing to miss a second.

His eyes are soft. Too soft. They always are. Like he’s seeing straight through everything you keep locked up.

He steps closer, his voice lowered.

“You did really well with him,” he murmurs.

You shrug. “Didn’t do anything.”

“That’s the part that amazes me,” he says, a small, breathless smile tugging at his lips.

It hits you then — the warmth in his gaze, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something complicated and gentle and precious.

Like he’s just watched your armor crack and found a pulse underneath.

P.S. No hate intended towards JJ ♥ she’s tired and stressed, we’ve all snapped before.

P.P.S. my requests are open including for Mr Spencer Reid 🙏🏼

[sweetlikenonsense]

i have a little idea for your blurb thing. reid x bau!reader where they’re secretly dating and it’s just sickeningly sweet late night talking after one of them sneaks over to the others hotel room to spend the night while on a case

wc: 526

P.S. As always thank you so much for requesting and don’t stop 🫶🏼

The knock is barely there — two soft taps, like he’s hoping you’ll only hear if you’re already awake. Your secret code. Six months of this, and you’ve both perfected it — the art of almost not getting caught.

You open the door, and there he is — cardigan thrown over sleep-rumpled clothes, hair a mess, eyes softer than the hallway light deserves. That tiny, guilty smile is back — the one that always ruins you.

“Reid,” you whisper, glancing both ways, scanning for any of your nosy teammates. “You realise this is, like, textbook suspicious behaviour?”

He just shrugs, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, quiet but sure. “Didn’t feel right without you.”

You try to roll your eyes, but your heart’s already gone warm.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He hums. “And you’re unfairly pretty when you’re tired.”

You tug him inside before he can see the way that makes you smile. The door clicks shut, muting the world. The room smells like hotel soap and burnt coffee, but somehow it feels like home — like him.

He perches on the edge of your bed, hands on his knees, unsure if he’s allowed to stay — even after all this time. You step between his knees and let your fingers slip into his hair, soft and messy and his.

He exhales — a small, shaky sound that makes your chest ache — and his hands find your waist, thumbs tracing slow circles through the fabric of your shirt.

“Long day,” you murmur- half question, half statement

He nods. “You were incredible today, you know.”

You snort. “Pretty sure I almost fell asleep during the briefing.”

“Maybe,” he says, smiling, “but you still caught details nobody else did. You always do.”

The way he says it — so matter-of-fact, so full of quiet awe — makes your throat tighten. You look away, but he tilts his head until you meet his eyes again.

“Hey,” he whispers. “You know I mean it, right?”

You nod, smiling small. “Yeah. I just… never know what to do with you when you’re sweet like this.”

He grins, the corner of his mouth curling like he can’t help it. “You could kiss me.”

You huff a laugh. “So forward, Dr. Reid.”

“Hypothetically,” he murmurs.

“Hypothetically,” you echo — leaning in anyway.

The kiss is slow, sleepy, certain. His hands stay warm at your waist; your heart feels like it might give itself away. When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, sharing the same breath.

“You’re getting really bad at pretending,” you whisper.

He smiles — soft, drowsy, undone. “Only when it’s just us Honey.”

Time folds a little slowly after that. You talk in half-whispers, laugh under your breath, tangle in sheets that smell like cheap detergent and something that feels like love. His fingers draw lazy constellations across your back, and you think — if anyone saw you now, they’d know everything.

And when he finally mumbles “I love you” against your shoulder — half-asleep, like it slipped out by accident — you don’t tease him for it. You just whisper it back, quiet but certain, because here in this fragile, borrowed night, it’s safe to mean it.

[sweetlikenonsense]

little drabble idea. spencer reid x pregnant!reader where they just found out they were going to have a baby and they’re already debating names, like full on first and middle and if it sounds good with reid as the last name. also i feel like it’d be kinda cute if the names were sort of nerdy, like spencer’s gunning for inventors and scientists names and reader is trying for philosophers and authors

wc: 762

P.S. Tysm for requesting! I enjoyed coming up with the names - hope you enjoy 🫶🏼

“We are not naming our baby that!”

Spencer looks up from his notebook, affronted — in that very specific Spencer Reid way, eyebrows knitting like he’s just been personally challenged to a duel of intellects.

“Why not? It is a strong, classic name. He revolutionised modern physics—”

“Because he’ll get bullied!” you cut in, incredulous. “You really think a kid named Einstein Reid is making it through middle school unscathed?”

Spencer blinks, looking like he is actually trying to calculate the odds - and you’re sure he is. “Actually, statistically—”

“—and our kid will never hear the end of it in physics class,” you interrupt. “Next.”

Spencer sighs, flipping a page in the baby name book. “Fine. If you veto Einstein, then I propose Albert.”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “You knew I’d shoot down Einstein, enabling you to sneak in Albert as the reasonable option. That’s manipulation, Reid.”

He gives a tiny, smug shrug — his little guilty smile a dead giveaway even he isn’t aware of. “I wouldn’t call it manipulation. More like strategic compromise.”

You hum, pretending to think. “You know, Einstein literally means one stone in German.”

That makes him pause. “It—what? How did you—”

You grin. “What, you think you’re the only one who researches name etymology around here?”

He squints at you, clearly annoyed that you’ve beaten him at his own game. “You’re dangerous.”

You shrug, flashing your wedding ring with a small smirk. “And yet you married me.”

His expression softens — the kind of look that makes your heart stumble a little — before he admits, softly,

“And I’d do it again in a second.”

You try not to melt — fail spectacularly — and lean in to press a quick kiss to his cheek before tucking yourself against his side. His arm curls around you automatically, hand settling over your stomach like it’s second nature.

You rest your hand over his and grin. “We don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl yet.”

Spencer leans over and presses a kiss to your shoulder. “So we’ll be prepared either way.”

You bump your knee against his. “You realise we’re going to spend the next eight months arguing about this, right?”

He smiles, eyes warm and more than a little dreamy. “I was kind of counting on it.”

You tilt your head toward him. “Well, you keep going for Nobel Prize winners.”

He grins. “And you keep going for philosophers and authors.”

You nudge him with your shoulder. “We can meet in the middle.”

He clears his throat, valiantly pretending he’s not smiling. “Ada, for Lovelace. Nikola, for Tesla. Marie, for Curie.”

“Marie Reid is adorable,” you admit. “Lovelace could be a cute middle name,” you add.

“She’d be destined for greatness,” he says, matter-of-fact, then adds, “Statistically speaking.”

You laugh. “And therapy. Statistically speaking.”

He grins, jotting it all down. “Alright, your list?”

You glance over your notes. “Jane, for Austen. Simone, for de Beauvoir. Eleanor, like Roosevelt or Oliphant. Or Theodore, because it works for both of us — Thoreau or Roosevelt.”

Spencer nods, impressed. “Theodore Reid,” he repeats, testing it. “That actually sounds perfect.”

You smile. “See? Philosophers and authors can hold their own against your geniuses.”

He hums. “As long as Albert stays on the table.”

You groan. “You’re still trying to make Albert happen.”

“It’s timeless!” he insists. “And statistically, names that end in ‘t’ sound trustworthy.”

You point your finger at him. “You can’t keep bringing up statistics when we’re trying to name our baby!”

He just smiles, smug. “You knew who you married.”

You did. That’s how you knew it was only a matter of time before he turned baby-naming into a research project.

Later, when he gets up to refill his tea, you glance over his notebook. For a girl, he has a neatly organised alphabetical list of Ada, Eleanor, Jane, Marie, and Simone. For a boy: Charles, Isaac, Nikola, and Theodore.

Each one neatly underlined, annotated, like a baby-naming dissertation.

You roll your eyes, pick up his pen, and quickly add Albert at the bottom — ruining his alphabetical order, but you know he’ll forgive you.

When he comes back, he spots it immediately. His eyes flick up, amused and so soft you almost regret being caught.

Almost.

He doesn’t say anything — just smiles that small, knowing smile of his.

And you both know the lists have just got a lot smaller.

P.S. The official shortlist currently stands at Ada, Eleanor, Marie, Theodore, and one mysteriously persistent Albert. Neither party is admitting to how it keeps ending up on the list.