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#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fluff

prettyevermores

can’t take my eyes off you, aaron hotchner x rossi!reader

in which: david rossi’s buoyant spanish linguist niece finds herself enamoured by ssa aaron hotchner

part one!

#reidreadersbookshelf

prettyevermores

can’t take my eyes off you, aaron hotchner x rossi!reader

in which: david rossi’s buoyant spanish linguist niece finds herself enamoured by ssa aaron hotchner

part one!

urfavoritewritersfavoritewriter

aaron hotchner x younger!reader texts

authors note: just testing the waters :)

mistiemoon

One Last Time

summary: you know you shouldn't sleep with spencer, he is your roomate after all...yet you both can't stay away... pairing: spencer reid x roommate fem!reader warnings: 1k words 18+ MDNI, porn with no plot, unprotected p in v, soft!dom spencer, brief fingering, kinda forbidden love if you squint (god i'm awful at warnings, you fuck okay?) (any series spencer is applicable, picture used does not necessarily depict fic spencer)

Part Two Here - Revelations

“This really is the last time” You told Spencer whilst his hands tightened in your hair. His lips attached to the sensitive part of your neck.

“Sure it is” He mumbled against your jaw, his hot breath making you feel weaker at the knees.

You said the same thing to him a week ago. Both of you knew this wasn’t going to be last time. Ever since you came home slightly tipsy and horny, seeing Spencer walk out of the shower with his towel hung low around his hips, hair messy and wild, your brain said fuck it and removed his towel and sunk onto your knees.

#reidreadersbookshelf

shadowww-bunny

「Blind profiling」 -S. R.

❥ No case in BAU history had ever felt as complex or baffling as the one Morgan suddenly overheard developing behind the closed doors of the conference room. Now, finding out what is happening inside between Reid and you —and, more importantly, figuring out how much money the team is about to lose in the betting pool—becomes a matter of national security.

❥ fluff, workplace romance

A blessed silence filled the BAU bullpen—the kind that only happens after a grueling case is finally closed. Half the team had already retreated to their offices to tackle the mountains of paperwork, while Derek Morgan, lazily swirling a coffee mug in his hand, headed toward the conference room to grab his tablet.

He already had his hand on the doorknob when a soft, ragged gasp drifted through the half-drawn blinds.

"Oh god, Spence, be gentle, that’s a sensitive spot!"

The voice was undeniably yours, a breathless, strained whisper with a distinct edge of tension.

"I'm...I`m trying!" Reid’s panicked falsetto rang out. His own breathing sounded quick and uneven, as if he’d just run a marathon. "But if you don't stop squirming, I'm only going to make it worse. Please, just relax."

"How am I supposed to relax when your hands are shaking so badly? You’re the genius, find the right angle."

"The angle has nothing to do with this! Statistically speaking, pain tolerance decreases when—"

"Not now, Spence! If anyone walks in here because Dr. Reid can’t find the right position, I am replacing all your coffee with decaf!"

Morgan pressed his palm to his face, feeling his professional profiler brain wage war with his inner loyal friend. His imagination, unprompted, immediately conjured up pictures completely inappropriate for the FBI headquarters.

At that moment, soft footsteps approached from behind. Emily stepped off the elevator, looking at Morgan with a mix of amusement and skepticism as he practically glued his ear to the conference room door.

"Derek? What are you doing?"

Morgan whipped around, slamming a finger against his lips, and urgently gestured for her to come over. Intrigued, Prentiss stepped closer.

Suddenly, the sharp sound of tearing fabric echoed from inside, followed by your highly expressive, drawn-out groan.

"Oh my god, not so hard, you’re going to rip my shirt! That hurts like hell!"

Something clattered to the floor, and the table creaked loudly, as if someone had heavily leaned their weight against it. Then, Reid let out a heavy sigh and started rambling nervously.

"Okay, okay, I get it. Take off your jacket. Now hold on to me. Like this..."

Emily’s eyes widened to an almost comical size. In a matter of seconds, she went from the shocked “Oh my god, they’re finally doing it!” stage to the sudden realization of “Oh my god, they’re doing it on Hotch’s table!”.

Morgan and Prentiss leaned into the door in perfect synchronization, so utterly consumed by trying to reconstruct the scene inside that they completely missed the significant cough behind them.

"May I ask, ladies and gentlemen, whose profile you are currently analyzing through a keyhole?"

Rossi stood a few paces away, holding a cup of espresso. But before he could even form a guess, Prentiss grabbed the sleeve of his expensive jacket and pulled him into the huddle.

"Spence, wait, you’re squeezing too tight." Your voice broke, followed by a wet sniffle. "Your hands are freezing! Take it out!"

"If we stop right now, it’ll be unhygienic and counterproductive," Reid replied stubbornly. "Please, just trust me. I know what I'm doing."

Rossi froze. A whole spectrum of emotions flashed across his face—from sheer shock to a deep, paternal satisfaction, which he immediately masked with his signature nonchalance.

"Wow," he murmured softly. "And here I thought we’d have to wait until next Christmas for this."

"What’s going on?" Penelope practically sprinted up to the group, her sparkly pen in hand, the moment she caught wind of their frantic whispering. "You guys look like you just caught the Replicator."

"Worse, baby girl," Morgan whispered, nodding toward the door. "Looks like our genius finally moved from theory to practice."

"Oh my goodness!" Garcia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. She almost shrieked, but Morgan clamped his hand over her lips just in time.

Within a minute, the door had gathered a full-blown strategy meeting. JJ appeared around the corner with a case file, only to be yanked into the pile by Morgan. And as the final touch, Hotch stepped out of his office. Seeing half of his elite unit huddled outside the conference room with dead-serious expressions, he frowned and walked over with heavy, commanding strides.

"What is this unauthorized gathering about?" Hotchner eyed the team suspiciously.

Morgan silently pointed to the crack in the door. From inside came a final, overwhelmingly loud cry.

"Yes! Yes, Spence... oh god, finally."

Hotch didn’t hesitate. With the face of a man ready to storm a terrorist bunker, he decisively threw his shoulder into the door and stepped inside. Behind him, holding their breath, the rest of the team clustered together, expecting to witness the most scandalous and long-awaited sight in FBI history.

But reality proved to be much more literal.

You were sitting on the edge of the conference table, your blouse unbuttoned at the top and draped loosely over one shoulder. Spencer was stepped deep between your knees, his torso pressed flush against yours to get a closer look.

One of his thighs was wedged snugly between yours for balance, pinning you lightly against the table. His hands were braced firmly on your bare collarbone and shoulder, while you were clinging to the lapels of his jacket like a lifeline, your fingers wrinkling the fabric.

Surrounding the two of you were rolls of gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and medical tape. Reid looked completely disheveled, mostly because you had been tugging at his clothes while he tried to treat a nasty gash on your shoulder.

Reid blinked in utter confusion at the frozen team in the doorway. He opened his mouth, likely to spout some scientific justification for administering first aid, but you cut him off.

"What’s the matter, guys? Judging by your faces, you were expecting at least a ritual sacrifice."

You shifted your bandaged shoulder and defiantly tilted your chin up, even though your cheeks flushed a faint pink.

Morgan recovered first, letting out a booming laugh as he slid down the wall. Rossi just shook his head, while Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose.

"False alarm, Reid’s still a saint," Emily smirked, gently nudging a giggling JJ and a deeply disappointed Penelope back out the door.

----------------

When the door clicked shut, leaving only the two of you in the room, Reid slowly turned his head back to you, his cheeks flaring a bright, furious crimson.

"They... they thought we were..." he stammered, his brain finally processing the double entendres of your conversation. His voice dropping an octave. "Mathematically speaking, the probability of them misinterpreting a basic wound treatment shouldn't have been that high, considering they are trained profilers."

You couldn't help but chuckle, wincing slightly as you pulled your blouse back up. "Spence, we were screaming about 'angles,' and 'fingers,' Honestly, I'm just glad Hotch didn't tackle you to the ground."

Reid looked down at the medical tape in his hands, a shy, surprisingly soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Well... for the record," he murmured, looking up at you through his eyelashes, "if I were to ever... do that... I wouldn't need a statistical breakdown to find the right angle."

#reidreadersbookshelf

dismalflo

canNOT stop thinking about the idea of hotch dropping everything to go help his partner if they’re sick or hurt 😭 he’d be the sweetest about it i just know it

- 🫐

i can't stop thinking about it either!!! Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader ✩ 896 words cw: migraine/headache

There's a tricky line to walk when you're dating the boss. A million little unwritten rules designed to make sure you don’t take advantage of Aaron’s good nature, and Aaron doesn’t show favouritism towards you at work. No personal conversations on the clock, no obvious displays of affection beyond the occasional squeeze of a hand beneath a desk, the job comes first and each other second.

All those rules leave you in a difficult spot as the steady hum of the jet and Spencer’s tangential train of thought begin to blur together, every sound muffled and distant, like you're underwater. You should be listening. There’s a serial killer to catch when the plane lands, and the brainstorming sessions on the jet are important. But the pounding behind your eyes drowns out almost everything. The only things that seem able to cut through it are Aaron’s voice as he guides the victim analysis back on course, and the warmth of him in the seat beside you.

“...no type, there are no connections between victims…” the words drift into focus and you follow them, finding Emily perched on the sofa.

You know it's unfair, these lapses in concentration, it'll mean the team has to pick up your slack while you catch up once you arrive. They're all kind enough to pretend you're as alert and helpful as usual. But when all your energy is going into pretending you’re paying attention, it's no use.

urfavoritewritersfavoritewriter

aaron hotchner x younger!reader texts

authors note: just testing the waters :)

honeybeekissed

Cursive Words

Summary: You always wore the same necklace everyday, but one day, it falls off during work and you left without noticing. Luckily, Spencer did. So one trip to your apartment and thunderstorm later, you two were set to have an embarrassing day at work Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader Word: 1.8k a/n: It’s officially school holidays where I live which mean 2 weeks without school!!! Also I cannot believe I wrote this in one night

You wore the same necklace everyday, same polished gold, same name written out in swirls. No matter where or when, even if you had to hide it under your shirt, it was clasped around your neck like a personal identification card. And it had always been sturdy, enduring endless cases and live firings out in the field.

Up until now, that is. Because right as Spencer had finished packing up his bag, his eye caught a small shine from under your desk. Walking closer, he kneeled down and ducked under the desk. Managing to grab the object, thanks to his longer fingers, he brought it closer. Spencer immediately knew it was your necklace before he even read the name.

“Reid?”

Spencer jerked his head up out of instinct, hitting the underside of the table with a bang before quickly moving back and standing up. “Uh, wha- yeah.” Was all he could get out, rubbing the spot on his scalp he’d hit. Morgan was standing in front of him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “What are you doing under that desk?” He asks, which was a fair enough question.

Spencer held out his hand and showed his friend the necklace. Morgan’s eyes go wide, he knew how important that necklace was to you, and seeing it anywhere other than around your neck was an odd sight. “She never takes that thing off,” Morgan says. Spencer took a deep breath, like he always did when he was about to info-dump.

“Actually, I don’t think she did, you see, the clasps on most necklaces are put under the most stress from pulling and rubbing against skin on a daily basis. If you look closely, you can see how this bit of the clasp is bent in a way where it will fit, but, the second tension is applied it would unclasp.” Morgan looked at Spencer, brow knotted slightly. “Pretty boy, you know how much she loves that necklace, when she notices it’s not with her I can’t even imagine how distraught she’ll be. You need to get it to her now.” He emphasised.

Spencer hesitated a bit. “I’m not sure, wouldn’t it be weird if I just, showed up to her apartment without notice?” He questioned, toying with the chain. Morgan placed a large hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “You know she loves seeing you, I swear her face gets brighter when she sees you in the mornings.”

Spencer smiles, flashing back on the mornings you would walk in looking like you were despair incarnated, just to gain the biggest smile when you spotted him. “In that case, I should probably leave before it gets too dark.” He says decidedly, gently stuffing the necklace into his pants pocket.

Morgan watched him walk out of the door, just a little faster than he normally walks. Garcia smoothly rolled over in a wheely chair, chewing on an impossibly glittery pen. “Where’s he off to in such a hurry?” Morgan leaned against your desk and chuckled. “He’s eager to return someone’s necklace.” Garcia's jaw dropped before she let out a squeal of excitement.

“Wait, so you know he likes..?”

“Yep.”

“And that she likes..?”

“Uh huh.”

She spins around on her chair, both hands over her heart. “Oh, it’s so adorable!” Then she gets a sneaky look. “10$ says they kiss?” Morgan looks down at her with an equally challenging smile, “your on.”

Spencer had to practically force his hand to knock on your apartment door. He thought he’d worked through his nerves during the 20 minutes he’d spent sitting in his car fixing your necklace, but the camera rushing back just a bit too soon. He could hear the sounds of carful footsteps from inside, and knew you were checking through the peephole.

The creamy door swung open to reveal your beaming face staring up at him. You had a towel in one hand and the door handle in the other, dressed in shorts and a worn out band t-shirt, topping it all off with freshly washed wet hair. Spencer could feel the heat travel up his neck, and deeply hoped it didn’t show.

“Spence!” You remarked, tilting your head slightly, letting your hair sway. “What are you doing here?” He buffered for a few seconds, before snapping back to reality and opening his hand out to you, showing you the necklace. “I, uh, this was on the floor under your desk. I fixed the broken latch for you.” He explained, rubbing the back of his neck with awkwardness.

You gasped, grabbing the jewellery from his palm before wrapping your hands around his one. “Thank you so much, I was so scared I was never going to find it.” Now he knew his face was red. “I was going to drop it off at the front office, but decided it would be better to drop it off myself.”

Spencer watched as you eagerly clasped the chain around your neck. He really wished he was the one doing that, but you were more than capable of doing that yourself. Turning around to walk back to his car, he saw through the glass wall that it was pouring down with rain, accompanied by the sounds of thunder somewhere in the distance.

Great, just great. He let out a tired sigh, running his hand through his hair. The parking lot was like a 5 minute walk from the nearest covered area, he’d probably end up catching a cold and he didn’t think the germaphobe in him could handle that.

Spencer heard the sound of you sucking in air through your teeth. Turning back around, you spoke first. “If you want, you can come inside and wait out the rain?” Spencer smiles at your invite, you’d always been the first to offer up your place when others on the team couldn’t go home. “Yes, actually, that’d be great.”

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure how he got here, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. The two of you were curled up together on the couch, you cuddled up against his side and his arm around your shoulders, covered in a blanket watching 27 Dresses. He’d always imagined what your nights would look like if you were together, this was pretty much it.

He had already figured out how the movie was going to go, so instead he watched all your reactions. By the time [protagonist's name] had started her dress montage, you’d noticed his constant gaze. Tilting your head up to meet his eyes, you ask quietly. “What are you thinking about Spence?”

He responded without thinking, which he would regret almost immediately.

“I want to kiss you so bad.”

Spencer’s eyes go wide when his brain catches up to what he said. For such a super genius, that was a pretty stupid move. He waited for you to lurch back, make a disgusted face, tell him he’s insane. But instead, your smile grew a slight bit more. Before he could react, your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth was on his.

Spencer fell back onto the couch, blanket falling to the ground. He instinctively steadied you, gripping you by the hips. Your lips felt warm against his, the strong taste of mint from your toothpaste mixing in his mouth. One of your hands ran up the back of his neck and raked up and tugged on his hair, causing a little gasp to slip out of his throat.

Then, he got into it. Spencer was properly kissing you back now, head tilted and all. His mouth travelled away from yours, brushing down your jaw all the way to your neck. He wrapped his index finger around your necklace chain and gently jerked you closer, colliding his lips with your now much hotter skin.

You let out a squeak that quickly turned into a satisfied groan, letting your head fall down into the crook of his neck. The sounds of the movie dialogue were replaced with the echos of Spencer sucking at your neck. Your nails dug into his neck to the point it was surprising you didn’t draw blood.

By the time Spencer looked back up at you, your neck was littered with reddish purple marks. His eyes had turned glassy and his breath was shaking. Then, much to his surprise, you leaned down and trailed kisses right down his neck before whispering. “My turn.”

When you and Spencer woke up the next morning, the rain had cleared up and the sun was shining through the windows. You sat up from your spot lying on Spencer and Spencer lifted himself off the couch, the leather peeling away from his skin. He looked up at you with a gleeful smile. “Good morning.”

If you weren’t so distracted, you would have been completely flustered. But something felt off, it took a minute but Spencer felt it too. Then, your phone buzzed with a text from Garcia that lit up your phone screen.

9:57am

You two were so late. Quickly scrambling up, you didn’t even bother to change clothes and ran out the door. You took Spencer's car and speeded your way to work. It’s honestly impressive that you weren’t pulled over. You walked into the office first, Spencer waiting back for a bit to be inconspicuous. Well, as inconspicuous as you could be.

Sitting down at your desk across from Morgan, he smirked at your dishevelled state. “Looks like someone had a fun night.” You rolled your eyes at him. “Yeah, yeah, I got drunk, so what?” You lied, unpacking your bag. Morgan snorted, “your neck says that wasn’t the only thing that happened.”

You froze for a second, before grabbing your phone and flipping the camera to selfie mode. Your neck was completely covered in dark hickeys, clearly fresh. “Shit.” You dug around in your purse but remembered your emergency concealer had run out a week ago. And because the universe had such comedic timing, Garcia appeared behind you with a gasp.

“Oh my gosh! Someone didn’t sleep alone last night.” Sinking down into your chair, you popped the collar of your shirt to help hide the marks. At that moment, Spencer walked past the little gathering and over to his desk further away. And to your absolute horror, he wasn’t left unscathed either.

He had his fair share of hickeys too, but it was paired with red scratches down his neck. Morgan and Garcia both looked at each other and connected the dots, massive grins growing on their faces. You, on the other hand, quickly got up from your chair. “I’m going to the bathroom, be right back.”

While walking by Spencer’s desk, you gesture at your neck and make a scrunched up face at him. Spencer’s eyes went wide at the damage he’d done to you and got up out of his seat. Supposedly to go check his own neck in a mirror.

Morgan reached into his pocket and pulled out 10$, handing it to Garcia. “How on earth did you know that was gonna happen?” He asked. Garcia flashed him a smile, “sorry, magicians never tell.”

#reidreadersbookshelf

indecisivemuch

fun fact

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)

Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years

Word count: 10.9k (sorry)

toomanyfanficrecs

OH MY GOD OH MY GODDDDDDDDDDD

Had me giggling and smiling and kicking my feet like an 8th grader ohmylord

Normally I pick out sentences that I loved but all of this was PERFECTION lowk kill me now I'm never gonna find a Spencer Reid

Amazing. Just amazing. What a debut fic 😭😭😭😭💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

Don't stop writing (don't go bald either)

Much love !! xxxxx

#reidreadersbookshelf

maroonkurta55

He went from "I'll have her home by 8"

to "and she calls me daddy too."

reidologyy

wRoNg (Spencer Reid)

summary: Haunted by his cases, Spencer Reid seeks physical and emotional escape in a volatile, codependent, and intense arrangement, fully aware that he cannot offer the romantic commitment the reader craves.

pairings: Spencer Reid x reader (angst, toxic, codependency, smut).

notes: This is my first time writing smut, so let me know how it is; I also wasn't sure which warnings to include.

～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～

It started so simply, as most catastrophes do. It was a loud, crowded get-together organized by a mutual friend of Penelope Garcia. They thought you and the BAU's resident genius would hit it off, a harmless setup in a dimly lit apartment smelling of a cheap wine and expensive perfume. And for a while, you did. You had found him hiding in the kitchen, clutching a plastic cup, looking like an island of pure, concentrated academia amidst a sea of civilians. It was easy banter at first -shared trivia, a debate about architectural history, a genuine connection. He told you that night, with a soft, rare smile, that you had a dope mind.

But somewhere along the line, the easy friendship fractured under the weight of an undeniable, suffocating tension. The late-night texts about books tuned into lingering stares across crowded rooms. The accidental rushes of hands turned into a magnetic, heavy pull that neither of you knew how to handle. He was man who spent his life analyzing the darkest parts of the human psyche; he knew a disaster when he saw one. He made the boundaries clear from the start, warning you his own clinical, detached way: I'm a problem with problems. I know who I am. And I'm not no good.

The knock on your door came exactly 2:14 AM. You didn't need to look through the peephole to know who it was. The rain battered the glass with a rhythmic, constant fury, drowning out the noise of the city, but not the hum of anticipation in your veins. He had just landed from a two-week case in Seattle, and there was only one person who showed up at your apartment at this hour, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and smelling faintly of stale hotel coffee and rain.

You opened the door, and Spencer stepped inside without a word. His tie was already undone, hanging loose around his neck, and his usually immaculate hair fell in a dark, damp tangle across his forehead. There was a thick, familiar silence between you -the unspoken rule of the toxic arrangement you were both trapped in.

You both knew it, even if neither of you dared to say it out loud. In the daylight, Dr. Spencer Reid was an untouchable genius. He was statistics and geographical profiles, a man with a brilliant mind who could rattle off the probability of being struck by lightning, but who was entirely incapable of navigating the complexities of a real relationship. But here, in the dark, under the soft, dim light of your hallway... it felt so fucking right.

You closed the door behind him, and the click of the deadbolt seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room. Instead of moving to the sofa, Spencer lingered by your entryway console, his anxious fingers tapping a staccato rhythm against his thigh. He began meticulously stacking your scattered mail and magazines into perfect, geometric alignment, trying to ground himself.

“Stop it, Spencer,” you snapped, the sudden sharpness in your voice cutting through the heavy silence. You reached out, snatching the damp envelopes right out of his trembling hands.

He flinched, taking a sharp step back as if you had struck him. His wide, honey-colored eyes met yours, flashing with a volatile mix of exhaustion and cornered panic. “I’m just... ensuring the chronological order of your letters is physically mirrored in a stacking system. It aids in visual organization.”

“I don't care about the organization!” you yelled, tossing the mail onto the floor. The sound of the paper slapping against the hardwood echoed like a gunshot. “I care that you show up at my apartment at 2 AM, dripping wet and looking at me like I'm your only lifeline, only to completely shut me out! You're not at the FBI right now. Stop treating me like a crime scene you need to manage.”

His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering furiously in his cheek. The meticulous, over-analytical agent was fracturing, revealing the raw, bleeding man underneath. “I shouldn't have come,” he muttered, his voice rough and defensive. He turned, reaching for the doorknob.

“Don't you dare walk away,” you challenged, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat, grabbing the damp wool of his sleeve. “You do this every time. You use me to quiet your mind, and then you run.”

He spun back around, ripping his arm from your grip, his chest heaving. “I told you from the beginning that I can't give you what you want!”

“And what do I want, Spencer?” you demanded, stepping right into his space, refusing to back down.

“You want me to be whole!” he shouted back, the volume of his own voice seeming to startle him, though he didn't stop. His eyes were dark, manic, entirely consumed by his own self-loathing. “You want romance. You want a promise. But it doesn't work like that for me. Baby, some people are meant to be loved,” he choked out, the words laced with absolute bitterness, “and others just make it. We just survive.”

The harshness of his confession hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. You stared at him, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs.

He stepped closer, looming over you, his voice dropping into a lethal, venomous whisper meant to hurt you before you could hurt him. “You can have me tonight or never, I thought you understood that by now. So take what I'm willing to give. Love it or hate it.”

The cruel finality of his words should have broken you. It should have made you open the door and kick him out into the rain. But instead, it ignited a reckless, burning anger inside you—an anger that mirrored his desperation perfectly.

You grabbed the collar of his ruined shirt, pulling him down to your level. “Then give it to me.”

You didn't wait for his brilliant mind to process the shift. You crashed your lips against his.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claim fueled by anger and desperation, a spark that had been smoldering for months erupting into a violent wildfire. He froze for a millisecond, a computer encountering a catastrophic syntax error, and then he was kissing you back with a feral fervor that stole the air from your lungs. His hands came up to frame your face, his touch rough at first, then sliding back into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back. You moaned into his mouth, and the sound seemed to break whatever restraint he had left.

The meticulous, over-analytical FBI agent vanished, replaced by a man driven entirely by the physical need to forget. His usual verbosity disappeared, replaced by a raw, hungry silence. He walked you backward, his body pressing yours against the cold, solid edge of your kitchen counter. The granite dug into your lower back, a sharp counterpoint to the heat flooding your system.

His mouth left yours, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your throat, his teeth scraping lightly over your collarbone. “I have calculated,” he breathed against your skin, his voice thick, “the precise angle and velocity required to make you come apart against this counter. The variables are… compelling.”

You laughed, a breathless, shaky sound born of pure adrenaline. “Talk dirty to me with math, Spencer. I dare you.”

He nipped at your neck, his hands pushing your cardigan off your shoulders. “Your cervical curvature is within the 99th percentile of ideal ergonomic alignment for deep penetration.” His fingers made quick work of the buttons on your shirt, parting the fabric to reveal the lace beneath. He stared, his breath catching. “The areolar pigmentation is a hexadecimal code I could memorize. The sensitivity is… is a hypothesis I need to test repeatedly.”

He bent his head, his mouth closing over the lace, sucking the fabric and the nipple beneath into the wet heat of his mouth. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his soft, chaotic hair, holding him to you. He switched to the other breast, his tongue laving, his teeth grazing, his glasses digging slightly into your sternum. You pushed them up, onto his forehead.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “Don’t stop.”

He straightened, his eyes blazing in the dim kitchen light. “I have no intention of stopping. The probability of me stopping before you are completely, thoroughly fucked is zero.” He unzipped your jeans, letting them pool around your ankles. His fingers hooked into the sides of your panties, and he tore them, the sound of rending lace obscenely loud in the silent apartment. The cool air hit your bare skin, followed immediately by the heat of his palm cupping you.

“Lubrication is already present. Significant. My initial theory about your arousal state in my proximity appears to be confirmed.” He slid a finger inside you, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Internal temperature is elevated. Muscular contractions are… remarkable.” He added a second finger, curling them, finding a spot that made your knees buckle. You gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

"You're so tight," he murmured, his academic tone fraying at the edges into something ragged and desperate. "The coefficient of friction is... exquisite." He worked his fingers in and out, his thumb circling your clit with a precision that was utterly maddening. You were babbling, pleas and curses spilling from your lips, your hips rocking against his hand. He watched your face, cataloging every flinch, every gasp, as if committing your pleasure to memory.

"Now," you demanded, your voice ragged. "I need you inside me. Now."

He didn't need to be told twice. His own clothing became a frantic obstacle. The tie was yanked loose, his belt buckle clattering against the floor. His pants were pushed down just enough to free his erection, which was thick, flushed, and impressively hard. He fumbled for his wallet, procuring a condom with shaking hands. You took it from him, sheathing him yourself, your fingers lingering on his length, feeling him jerk under your touch. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound you'd never heard from him before.

He gripped your hips, lifting you fully onto the counter. He positioned himself at your entrance, his forehead pressed against yours. His breath was hot and fast. "I want to hear you," he whispered, his voice stripped bare of all pretense. "I want every sound. I want to know what it feels like when I'm buried so deep inside you that you can't think."

He pushed in, not slowly, but with one relentless, perfect thrust that filled you completely, stealing the air from your lungs. You cried out, a sharp, broken sound that echoed off the walls. He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Oh god," he choked out. "You feel... you feel like a perfect fit. A statistical anomaly of perfect fit."

Then he began to move. His thrusts were measured, deep, and devastatingly effective, each one angled to stroke that brilliant, screaming spot within you. He held your gaze, his eyes dark with an intensity that was almost frightening. "Tell me," he gritted out, his hips driving into you. "Tell me how it feels."

"Good," you gasped, arching your back. "So good. Harder."

He complied, his pace increasing. Sweat beaded on his brow, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. He leaned over you, bracing one hand on the counter beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, hiking it higher over his hip to sink even deeper. "I've thought about this," he confessed, the words ripped from him. "On the jet. During briefings. The synaptic pathways associated with you are the most frequently activated in my cerebral cortex. It's obsessive. It's illogical."

"You're fucking me on my kitchen counter," you managed to say, a wild laugh caught in your throat. "Nothing about this is logical."

A sharp, almost predatory smile touched his lips. "The impulsive shift in our dynamic adds a 37% increase in perceived risk, which directly correlates to a heightened adrenal response and increased dopamine release." He punctuated his sentence with a particularly deep, grinding thrust that made you see stars. "Is your dopamine level elevated? Tell me."

"Yes," you sobbed, your climax coiling tight in your belly, inevitable and terrifyingly close. "Spencer, I'm gonna—"

"Not yet." He slowed, almost stopping, pulling back until just the tip of him remained inside you. You whimpered in frustration, your body clenching around nothing. He watched you struggle, his expression one of rapt fascination. "Your physiological response to denial is even more pronounced than the literature suggested." He pushed back in, slow and torturous, then withdrew again. "I want to map the exact contours of your desperation."

You were beyond words, reduced to raw need. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him back into you, taking control. "No more maps," you growled against his mouth. "Just fuck me."

He surrendered with a shattered groan, his control breaking. His thrusts became frantic, powerful, driving you across the granite with their force. One of his hands slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight, quick circles. The dual assault was too much. Your orgasm tore through you, violent and blinding, a silent scream on your lips as your body convulsed around his. The intensity of your contraction triggered his own release. He cried out, a raw, broken sound of your name, his body slamming into yours one final, perfect time as he emptied himself inside you, his frame shuddering with the force of it.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint hum of the refrigerator. He stayed buried inside you, his weight heavy and warm, his face buried in the curve of your neck. But as the adrenaline faded, the reality of the room set back in. The genius, the man terrified of ruining anything good, returned.

He pulled out of you, the loss of him making you shiver, and disposed of the condom. He helped you down from the counter, his touch excruciatingly slow now, filled with a quiet kind of heartbreak.

"Don't," he whispered, his thumbs stroking the exposed skin of your stomach as you adjusted your clothes. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" you whispered back.

"Like you're looking for something I can't give you." He let out a shaky breath, resting his forehead against yours. "I know what you want. I'd go out of my way to treat you right, but I can't... I can't be what you need me to be."

It stung, even if it was the absolute truth. You were looking in the wrong place for his love. As always, before the first ray of sunlight peeked through the blinds, he dressed in the dark. You kept your eyes closed, listening to the rustle of his clothes, the click of the front door's deadbolt. He was gone.

The silence of your apartment felt like an open wound for ten long days. The rain had been replaced by a dry, biting cold that seeped through the windows. It was 3:12 AM on a Tuesday when the cycle bit down again. There was no soft knock this time. There was a low, urgent, almost frantic pounding.

When you opened the door, Spencer didn't even wait for you to step aside. He pushed his way in, kicked the door shut with his foot, and cornered you against the wood in one fluid, lethal motion. He looked thinner, more haggard, but his eyes burned with a dark hunger that made you tremble.

"I tried not to come," he growled against your mouth, before devouring it. His hands didn't hesitate this time. They were everywhere. Under your clothes, gripping your waist, squeezing your hips with a force that promised bruises the next day.

The sensual tension was suffocating, thick, addictive. The way he breathed your name in the dark felt like a religion. He slid one of his long legs between yours, pressing his thigh exactly where you needed it most, tearing a sharp moan from you that echoed in the hallway.

"Tell me to leave," he begged, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his right hand slipping dangerously low down your stomach, grazing the edge of your underwear. "I'm toxic for you. I'm going to destroy you."

His words said one thing, but his fingers, dipping into your heat, claiming you with expert possessiveness, said something entirely different. The psychological dependency was mutual; he needed to lose himself in you so he wouldn't shoot himself with his own thoughts, and you needed the illusion that, at least physically, he was completely yours.

"Don't leave," you gasped, arching your back against the door, losing all composure when his fingers did exactly what they knew would drive you crazy.

He let out a guttural, almost animalistic sound, lifting you in his arms to carry you to the bed. That night was harder, more intense, devoid of any illusion of romance or academic dirty talk. It was pure instinct. His hands pinning your wrists against the mattress, his body moving over you with a heavy, relentless cadence. He made you beg, took you to the edge over and over again, punishing himself through the pleasure he gave you. But at 4:30 AM, like a ghost whose time was up, he dressed in the dark and fled without saying goodbye.

The third visit happened in the middle of a thunderstorm that shook the building's foundation. 2:45 AM. This time, you heard the click of the spare key turning in the lock.

He appeared in the doorway of your bedroom, drenched, his hair plastered to his face and his breathing shallow. He had taken off the suit; he was only wearing slacks and a white undershirt that clung to his lean torso like a second skin, transparent from the rain. He was on the verge of an emotional collapse.

You got out of bed and went to him. There were no words. No warnings about how he was a problem. He fell to his knees in front of you, wrapping his long arms around your hips, burying his wet face in your stomach. He was shaking violently. You caressed him, tangling your fingers in his soaked hair, letting his silent dependency consume you.

When he finally stood up, his eyes were bloodshot, but they burned with an intensity that made your knees weak. He pushed you backward until you fell onto the mattress. There was no softness. He stripped you of the little you were wearing with desperate pulls. His mouth descended, searing and demanding, traveling down from your neck, over your breasts, until he reached your center.

The contrast of his words echoing in your head with the absolute devotion his mouth worshipped you with in that moment was mental whiplash. You closed your eyes, gripping the sheets, while he used all his intellect, all his clinical observation, to find every nerve ending in your body and make it burn. He completely dismantled you, licking and sucking with a relentless rhythm, bringing you to a climax so hard your vision went white.

And when he finally hovered over you, sinking in deeply with a single thrust that left you both breathless, you knew you were fucked. His hands intertwined with yours, his hips crashing against yours in a frantic, dirty, perfect rhythm. He whispered your name like an incantation, pushing deeper, losing himself in the abyss of your body.

He didn't have the capacity to love right now. Maybe he never would. But as his hands marked your skin and the shadows of the room swallowed you both, as he emptied himself inside you with a muffled cry against your throat, the only truth was that you were both addicted to this poison.

At 5:15 AM, the side of the bed next to you was empty again. The smell of rain, sweat, and sex permeated the sheets. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling the dampness between your legs and the dull ache in your chest. There was no resolution. No closure. Only the absolute, burning, masochistic certainty that when the world broke him again, he would return to your door, and you would, inevitably, let him in to do it all over again.

～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～

Hello! Could you please let me know if this is coherent and flows naturally? English isn't my first language, so while it makes perfect sense in my native language, I'm not sure if it sounds natural in English. I'd really appreciate your honest feedback—if anything feels awkward, confusing, or out of character, please let me know what you would change and why. Thank you!

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itzwillow

i wanna ride pathetic blabbering season one spencer reid. what the fuck

l0vinghimwasreid

18+ (smut)

f!reader riding spencer reid and telling him that he can’t touch her — not for any specific reason, just to see if he can do it. he loves experiments, right? well, this is hers.

he’s clenching his hands by his sides, digging his nails into his palms, and gritting his teeth to stop himself from reaching up and grabbing her waist, tits, or face.

“baby, please, please let me touch you.”

“mm-mm honey, gotta keep ‘em to yourself.”

he’s already a whiny and whimpery mess during sex with her, but he’s never been this desperate and needy and honestly pretty pathetic.

when she tilts her hips to feel him deeper, his tip settling against her cervix, she throws her head back into a deep moan.

he starts crying.

she feels too good and he loves her so much and she’s so beautiful.

she places her hands on his shoulders for leverage, to ride him even faster and deeper, and he instinctively reaches up to hold her hands.

she knocks him away with a stern glare, “what did i say?”

he sniffles, “no touching…”

as a deep tightness forms in her belly, she reaches down to sloppily rub her clit. she’s panting and moaning his name like he’s the one doing anything. like he’s been anything more than a human dildo for her.

he watches her fingers slide through her slickness with envy. normally he does that for her. those should be his fingers.

when her warm, silky walls clench and pulse around him, and she collapses forward with her head in his neck, breathless, his hot cum spurts deep inside of her as he groans.

his hands hover over her back. is he allowed to touch her now?

lipstickandreid

THANK YOU FOR NOTICING

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

summary: Spencer Reid spends six months flirting. You spend six months not realizing he's flirting. The BAU spends six months losing money in Rossi's betting pool.

word count: ~2.5k

authors note: should I be sleeping? yes. will i be late for work tomorrow? yes. do I care? Not really.

just light rom com spencer x reader. not proof read.

masterlist

~♡~

The thing about Spencer Reid was that he was terrible at being subtle, at least according to everyone else.

You, unfortunately, were completely immune to recognizing romantic interest when it was directed at you.

Which was why, six months after joining the BAU, you still hadn't figured out that Spencer was hopelessly, ridiculously in love with you.

The betting pool started because of a Tuesday.

Not a dramatic or life-changing Tuesday.

Just an ordinary Tuesday when you mentioned, in passing, that you hadn't slept well.

That was it. One sentence.

The next morning there was coffee waiting on your desk.

The morning after that there was coffee again.

And the morning after that.

Three weeks later Spencer was still showing up with coffee, exactly how you liked it.

No one mentioned it. At least not to either of you.

But Rossi quietly slid twenty dollars toward Emily. Emily accepted it without question. Across the room Luke raised an eyebrow. Garcia looked delighted.

Spencer remained completely unaware. You remained completely unaware. Everyone else was suffering.

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lipstickandreid

THANK YOU FOR NOTICING

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

summary: Spencer Reid spends six months flirting. You spend six months not realizing he's flirting. The BAU spends six months losing money in Rossi's betting pool.

word count: ~2.5k

authors note: should I be sleeping? yes. will i be late for work tomorrow? yes. do I care? Not really.

just light rom com spencer x reader. not proof read.

masterlist

~♡~

The thing about Spencer Reid was that he was terrible at being subtle, at least according to everyone else.

You, unfortunately, were completely immune to recognizing romantic interest when it was directed at you.

Which was why, six months after joining the BAU, you still hadn't figured out that Spencer was hopelessly, ridiculously in love with you.

The betting pool started because of a Tuesday.

Not a dramatic or life-changing Tuesday.

Just an ordinary Tuesday when you mentioned, in passing, that you hadn't slept well.

That was it. One sentence.

The next morning there was coffee waiting on your desk.

The morning after that there was coffee again.

And the morning after that.

Three weeks later Spencer was still showing up with coffee, exactly how you liked it.

No one mentioned it. At least not to either of you.

But Rossi quietly slid twenty dollars toward Emily. Emily accepted it without question. Across the room Luke raised an eyebrow. Garcia looked delighted.

Spencer remained completely unaware. You remained completely unaware. Everyone else was suffering.

cherrygarcia-07

Superhero // Spencer Reid🧸

synopsis: when spencer’s daughter asks him to speak to her class about his time in the fbi, he spirals about what kind of example he’s setting for her, and about what kind of path he’s encouraging her peers to go down

pairing: post s15 dad/husband! spence x reader

genre: flangst? hurt/comfort? not sure

wc: 2.3k

notes/tags: spencer is retired from the FBI!, brief talks of prison. brief talks of spencer dying, spencer being the best dad in the world but being too much of a worrier to see it as per usual, proofread but only once pls lmk if there’s any mistakes🙂‍↕️

masterlist // if you enjoy this pls reblog it helps promote the fic so much !!

————————————❤️———————————

Your fingers tapped on the counter as you debated with yourself, humming in thought. You were never one to snoop, not with your husband and not with your daughter- but something about that afternoon was bugging you. When they’d both come home they’d been all smiles and laughter, Spencer swinging her hand in one of his and her pink school bag in the other. She’d hugged you both before running off to her room, leaving Spencer to put her coat and things away. That was when his smile dropped.

You’d watched as he opened her bag, fishing out a sheet of paper with that worried look that often came to him too easily, before crumpling it up and shoving it back inside. Now as he worked away in his study you just stared at it, chewing the inside of your cheek as you tried to convince yourself not to pry.

You couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like Spencer to keep things from you, especially when they involved your daughter. With a sigh you caved, reaching into her bag for the scrunched up ball of paper. A school logo confronted you first, followed by big, bold letters.

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