Just had a thought: Oblivious reader licking a spoon x Lucifer who's had a crush on them for weeks and is currently in the lusting stage -
oh you've done it now
Lucifer had invited you to share the pastries you were raving about just yesterday but they were hard to find in hell. of course, it was no big task for the king of hell!
the big task was confessing to you, but lucifer prided himself for taking things slow, he had a plan okay...
you hummed delightfully as the flavour settled over your tongue, and as licked the spoon, you moaned in delight. just a soft little “mmh—” like you’ve just tasted heaven itself. you turned to thank lucifer for this -
A sharp inhale, a choked half-sound—something between a cough and a failed attempt at dignity—escapes him before he can stop it.
You turn immediately, concern flickering across your face. “Luci? you okay?”
he is not okay.
gold blooms across his cheeks, fast and traitorous, and he covers his face with his hands. “splendid!” he blurts, voice pitching up in a way that absolutely betrays him. “everything is magnificent, even—”
he cannot look at you. if he looks at you, he might actually die.
“I must go.”
“what?”
"I just - gotta go - I suddenly remembered an urgent task Charlie gave me, bye!' and, poof, he was gone.
Here you were sitting alone, thinking you might have done something wrong, meanwhile lucifer was taking a cold shower...
my headcanon: Spence “I don’t have email” Reid would get an email when he realizes he can send you long messages when he’s away about how much he’s missing you, the book he’s reading, what the city he’s in is like etc etc etc
at first, he’s hesitant, muttering that phone calls are fine and he’s not great with technology anyway, but the first time he’s gone for more than a week, he starts to miss you so much it hurts.
he has so many things he wants to tell you: what the city he’s in looks like, the book he was reading, the funny thing rossi said on the jet, how he thought of you when he saw a certain flower blooming on the side walk.
when he gets home from that trip, he asks, if you’ll help him set up an email. you're more than happy to help.
it starts small. his first email is just a shy little “hi. i'm in denver. it’s cold. i miss you.”
but then, as soon as you respond with your sweet words and a silly little story about your day, his emails change.
suddenly, he has to pour every thought that reminds him of you. over time, his emails become long. very long. they're almost essays.
he’ll describe the exact sound of the rain hitting the motel roof and how it reminds him of the first night you fell asleep on his shoulder.
he’ll tell you about the smell of an old library he ducked into between interviews and how he wished you could’ve seen how pretty it was.
you can feel how much he misses you in every line.
“i kept thinking about what you’d say about this.”
“if you were here, you’d probably laugh at me because—”
at some point, spencer gets self-conscious about how long his emails are. he’ll add little disclaimers: “sorry this is so long, i know you’re busy.”
but you never are too busy for him. you always read every word, sometimes twice.
he also starts checking his inbox first thing when he wakes up and last thing before he goes to sleep. he even prints some of your emails and keeps them folded in his bag, worn from rereading.
Spencer Reid x afab!reader || Masterlist || Spencer playlist
Started my period today and cramps are kicking my butt. So, nataurally, I wrote some Spencer fluff to self sooth.
word count: 1.3k
warning/tags: Reader is on her period. Mention of cramps and cravings. Spencer is a sweetheart. Roommate au. Mutual pining. Fluff and comfort. This hasn't been proofread, so apoligies for any potential mistakes <3
You groan slightly as you clutch a cushion to your chest, trying to settle on the couch while a wave of discomfort washes over you, the familiar twinge in your lower abdomen, an annoying reminder that your period has arrived. You wish you could curl up under a blanket and disappear for a few days, which life doesn’t usually allow for, but it is Friday, and there is at least that little sense of relief that the weekend is here.
You take a deep breath, feeling the cushion’s softness against you, and allow yourself to sink a little deeper into the couch, squeezing your eyes shut for a brief moment as another cramp ebbs and flows. Just as you’re about to let yourself wallow in self-pity, you hear the gentle sound of keys jingling and the front door creaking open.
The slight shuffle of footsteps makes your heart flutter. You can almost picture him as he hangs up his jacket next to yours. It’s not as if you officially have designated places on the coat hanger, but you both seem to instinctively know where your things go: your coats to the right, his jackets to the left, closest to the door. It’s a tiny ritual, an unspoken symmetry: your shoes on the top shelf of the shoe rack, Spencer’s on the bottom. It’s comforting, a bit like the hot fudge brownie you’re currently craving—soft, warm, and reassuring.
Spencer’s voice calls out your name, breaking the quietness. It’s soft, laced with a gentle curiosity that always makes you smile, even when you’re feeling less than great. “Are you home?”
“Yeah, I’m on the couch,” you reply, trying to keep your voice upbeat, even though your abdomen protests with another cramp.
“Hey,” Spencer’s voice is warm, as he peaks around the corner, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern as he takes in your curled-up form. The way he looks at you—soft brown eyes wide with worry as his gaze lands on you makes your heart swell, even amid the discomfort.
“Hey,” you reply, forcing a smile. You could use some comfort right about now, but you’re not sure how to express it.
He tilts his head, his brow furrowing slightly as he takes you in. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you reply, sitting up a little straighter and attempting to brush off your discomfort.
Spencer’s brow still knit with concern as though your discomfort is a puzzle he wants to solve. “Are you sure? You seem... a bit off.”
You hesitate for a moment, debating whether to open up. But there’s something in his eyes, a soft understanding that makes you feel safe. “It’s just— you know, girl stuff,” you mumble, biting your lip. His expression softens, instantly changing from concern to something gentler—perhaps empathy, or just the simple desire to help.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, lingering by the doorway, his hands fidgeting with his messenger bag. The sight of him, warm and slightly disheveled from his day at work, makes your heart swell. He looks so sincere, and it’s hard not to smile.
Falling in love with your roommate was the furthest thing from your mind when you moved to D.C. a year ago and desperately looked far and wide for a place to live. But here you are, head over heels for the man who has a penchant for collecting obscure facts, making the best cup of coffee you’ve ever tasted, and hanging his coat on the left side of the coat hanger while yours resides on the right.
He hates how the water makes his hands pruny and how the leftover food on the plates turns mushy when doing the dishes, which you have never really minded, but he loves vacuuming, which you on the other hand have never been a big fan of, and he tolerates the tedious routine of folding laundry just about as much as you do. So you wash the dishes and he dries off the plates and silverware you hand him, and on Sundays you fold your laundry together and every time you do so, you fall a little harder.
“Maybe some chocolate?” you admit, a hint of shyness lacing your words. It’s a little embarrassing, even though it shouldn’t be, but it feels good to be honest with him.
“Chocolate it is,” he replies, a bright smile breaking through his initial concern. You can see the shift in his mood, and it warms you to know your simple request has lifted some of the weight on his shoulders.
He disappears into the kitchen, and you hear the soft clattering of cabinets opening and closing as he rummages for something sweet for you as well as the familiar clinking of cups and the sound of water hitting the bottom of the kettle. The comforting rhythm of those sounds gives you a moment of solace, allowing you to let your body sink back into the couch, still cradling the cushion against your chest.
You close your eyes again, letting your mind wander as you anticipate the moment Spencer returns. You feel a little guilty for making him work for your comfort the second he comes back home from work, the drive from Quantico is long, but he was the one who asked. And the thought of him moving around the kitchen, searching for that little bit of happiness on your behalf, brings a flicker of warmth to your heart and you have every intention of sharing your chocolate with him.
A few minutes later, you hear his footsteps returning and he appears with your chocolate and a big cup of tea, the steam rising in delicate tendrils and the pleasant minty scent wafting through the air. “I read that peppermint tea can help with cramps. It’s supposed to be soothing.” He hands you the mug with delicate care, his fingers lingering on yours for just a moment longer than necessary. “Here you go,” he says, his tone casual, but you notice the way his eyes linger a little longer on you, taking in the moment.
You take the cup from him, the warmth radiating through the ceramic and into your hands. You can’t help but feel a little bit like the luckiest person in the world as you settle back against the cushions. There’s something about the way he takes care of you—whether it’s tea for cramps or the endless supply of random trivia that somehow always manages to make you smile—that makes your heart ache in the most beautiful way.
“Thank you,” you whisper, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. He smiles back at you, the slight curve of his lips lighting up his face and making your heart race just a little faster.
“Of course,” he replies, settling down on the couch beside you, the cushions shifting slightly under his weight. He reaches for the remote, flicking through the options before finally deciding on an old classic—something light-hearted to distract you both.
You take a sip of the tea, letting the comforting warmth seep into your bones. As you do, Spencer settles on the couch next to you, his presence a comforting weight of safety and familiarity as you take the chocolate bar Spencer had brought from the kitchen, breaking it in two and handing the slightly bigger piece to Spencer. A little smile gracing your lips as you watch him take the piece from your hand, and even amid your discomfort, the gesture feels like a tiny moment of victory. The simple act of sharing, of being taken care of, fills your heart with a warmth that competes with the soothing tea in your hands.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. You steal a glance at him, the way his curls fall slightly over his forehead, the way he occasionally glances and smiles just for you—moments that seem small, yet mean everything.
summary: you stained spencer's bed sheets and clothes and think he's going to be mad but you couldn't be more chill about it
based on: MY PERIOD CRAMPS WERE KILLING ME BAHAHAHAHA
word count: 685
a/n: i stained my bedsheets during my afternoon nap the other day and i wished i had a spencer to take care of me because my cramps are BRUTAL (and i'm just a sucker for period fics overall lol) @angellic4l my beautiful proofreader, our baby is here.
t.w: mention of blood and very briefly a knife wound
The sound of the shower running awoke you and even in your sleepy state, you smiled because that was a sign that Spencer was already home.
You sat up and that’s when you saw the bags of groceries that were plopped beside the bedroom door, one was from your favorite take-out place, and the other from the corner store down the street, you knew for sure that it contained all the treats you love and your smile widened when you realized that Spencer knew everything you needed just from reading the text you sent a few hours ago
-these cramps are killing me. going for a nap, don’t wake me up when you get home-
You were already opening the package of Sour Patch Kids when you noticed the brownish-red stain in the spot where you had woken up. You instinctively looked down at your sweatpants, Spencer’s sweatpants, and surely, a stain in the same shade of red could also be found there.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…” you grunted
“Is everything okay angel?” your boyfriend inquires getting out of the bathroom with wide eyes
“No, oh my god your bed sheets, oh god”
“My, my bed sheets? What’s wrong with them?” he asks but his eyes have already landed on the stain and a relived ‘oh’ escapes his lips
“Baby I thought something had happened; you scared me for a moment,” he said with a slight smile.
“No, something did happen, did you not see your sheets? And also, your sweats,” you say pointing down “Oh god they look disgusting” you spit out.
“Oh no, don’t say that angel,” he says reaching for your hand but you take a step away and start talking again
“I destroyed them, Spence. It looks horrible. They looked expensive too,” you say, pointing at both the bed and the pants. That stain is so huge, too. It probably reached your mattress,” you say, your face contorting into an emotion Spencer can’t describe.
“What no, you didn’t destroy them, they will be perfectly fine after a wash or two”
“Spence that blood literally came from inside me,” you say with an overly serious tone
“Well, it would be concerning if it had come from anywhere else angel” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips
“Haha, what a perfect time to curate your humour doctor,” you say trying to hide a chuckle because this is one of the occasions where Spencer was funny.
“But seriously it’s not a problem angel I don’t care about the sheets, or the pants, at all. I can literally think of more than 30 ways to clean off those stains.” He says pulling you into a hug.
“Are you sure you’re not completely and utterly disgusted by my bodily fluids?” you ask smiling.
“Not at all, I see too much blood daily to be disgusted by that” he replies looking down at you
“But I mean, that’s period blood, it’s different from blood from like a knife wound or something like that,” you say still looking up at him
“And? Seeing period blood is actually better angel” he says while resting his chin atop your head.
“Are you sure?” you ask with a slightly unbelieving tone
“I am completely sure,” He said leaving a kiss on your forehead “So, how are your cramps? I got you ibuprofen”
“Oh, I left some last time I was here and I have some in my bag too, but thank you, Spence”
“No problem angel,” he stated as he got away from the hug “Now go take the bath I prepared for you, while I take care of these stains, you’re so worried about”
“And then we can cuddle?” you ask with the same wide grin you had when you woke up.
“And then we can cuddle however long you want.” He replies with a smile as wide as yours mirrored in his face.
And as you took your shower and smiled stupidly at the wall you couldn’t stop questioning yourself about how this man kept making you fall in love with him over and over again
pairing: Vampire!spencer reid x afab fem!reader (no use of y/n)
‘i will love you till the end of time, i would wait a million years’ - Blue jeans Lana del rey.
Rating: MDNI, NSFW, Sexually explicit content 18+
synopsis: Centuries after accidentally killing his mate, the love of his life. Spencer Reid sees you on a rainy street—you look exactly like her, maybe you are her…Drawn by grief and desire, he can’t resist approaching, and what follows is a dangerous, intoxicating reunion of hunger, love, and fate
wc: 8.1k
warnings: | NSFW | Vampism | Mentions of murder | very slight Blood drinking | Oral (f) | unprotected p in v | Age gap (obviously he’s a vampire) | Dirty Talk | Biting | soft dom! spencer | emotional spencer | Male Yearnningggg | soft as hell | intimate and soft aftercare | Sad as hell
Masterlist reqs open
a/n: did someone say vampire spencer reid 🥳🤓
The rain came down in sheets, bouncing off pavement slick with oil, cascading across the roofs of cars as they sped past with harsh hisses of water. Streetlights burned a muted amber, halos diffused through the storm, casting long, rippling reflections over every wet surface. To anyone else, the night was miserable. To Spencer, it was a reprieve.
The storm masked the things that usually plagued him: the sharp tang of sweat, the sweet-sickening perfume of warm blood pumping beneath fragile human skin, the metallic sting of old coins carried in pockets. Rain dulled the world, smothered it, let him breathe without constantly being reminded of what he was.
He adjusted his coat, collar pulled high, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he wandered nowhere in particular. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. Wandering. He had time—endless, gnawing, unyielding time.
After Everett Lynch, he had told himself he’d had enough. The BAU had drained him, and though no one on the team would ever truly know why he couldn’t stay—why the weight of death had finally broken him—it wasn’t just the violence of man that exhausted him. It was the violence in himself. The thing inside him that had never, no matter how hard he tried, gone away.
The thing that had once taken everything from him.
He was halfway across the block when he saw you.
You weren’t doing anything remarkable, and that was the first cruelty of it. Just standing beneath the dripping awning of a small café, fumbling with a cheap umbrella that refused to obey its hinges. But Spencer stopped dead in the street, frozen as though a hand had shot out of the dark and grabbed his chest.
Cars swept by, spraying water up onto the curb, horns blaring as he failed to notice the crosswalk light changing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He could only stare.
Because it was you.
Not you—not really, not rationally—but her. The same arch of cheekbone, the same soft slope of your nose, the same impatient little crease between your brows as you fought with the stubborn umbrella. The same exact shade of blood that rushed beneath your skin, hot and bright and intoxicating, even through the downpour.
His mouth went dry. His throat burned.
It couldn’t be. You weren’t supposed to exist.
The last time he had seen you—her—you had been lifeless in his arms, head tilted back at an angle too fragile, skin pallid, throat torn open by his own reckless hunger. He had been so young then. So utterly lost. Newly turned, freshly cursed, with instincts sharp as knives and no discipline to blunt them. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until it was too late, until the taste of your blood turned metallic, the rush of it fading. Until you were gone.
He had never forgiven himself. He had never forgotten. And despite centuries, despite lovers and distractions and fleeting attempts at something like a life, he had never moved on.
And now—now you stood across the street as though pulled from the grave, as though God himself had set out to torment him.
Your hair clung to your cheeks in damp strands, rain dripping down your jaw. Your lips, flushed from the cold, parted with a frustrated little huff as you shook your umbrella. Spencer’s body reacted before his mind could argue. His chest ached with something dangerously close to longing, his fangs ached with the sharp throb of hunger.
He could smell you. Her. The same exact fragrance of blood, familiar in a way that almost made him sick. Sweet, alive, unbearably tempting. His hands curled into fists in his coat pockets to stop himself from moving, from crossing the street and pressing his mouth to the fluttering vein in your throat like a man starved.
It was uncanny. It was impossible. It was you.
His decision was instinctive. He couldn’t lose you—not again. Rationally, he knew you weren’t her, couldn’t be her, but logic had never mattered when it came to you. To her. To the ghost he’d carried like a scar through centuries.
Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was cruel. But the idea of turning his back, of letting the storm swallow you into anonymity—he couldn’t. Not when fate had dragged your face back into the light.
So he moved, quick and certain, weaving through the flow of traffic, ignoring the spray of tires and the curses of drivers. Rain plastered his curls to his forehead, slid down the column of his throat, soaked through his coat in a way that would chill any man. But Spencer wasn’t like other men. The only thing he felt was the pull toward you.
He cleared his throat as he reached the awning, rain dripping off his shoulders, his heart—or what passed for one—thundering. “I, uh…” His voice sounded raw, too quiet against the storm. “Sorry. Did you…need help with your umbrella?”
You looked up.
And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
Same eyes. Her eyes. Wide and bright, carrying the same impossible warmth he had once drowned in. His body went taut with the ache of recognition, and he was grateful the rain masked the sharp tremor that went through him.
You blinked at him, then down at the stubborn umbrella, a faint smile tugging at your lips—the lips he remembered kissing, worshipping, destroying. “Actually, yes. That would be helpful.” You let out a soft laugh, self-deprecating and sweet. “Thank you.”
The sound of your laughter twisted in his gut. It was uncanny, the way it struck some buried nerve, a sound he thought had been lost to the grave.
He forced himself to smile, careful, controlled. “Of course,” he murmured, taking the umbrella from your hands. His long fingers worked at the crooked hinge, deliberate and gentle, because God help him, if he let himself touch your skin he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.
A quick snap, a twist, and the metal clicked into place. He shook it once, tested the frame, then handed it back to you. “There you are.”
You took it, your fingers brushing his just slightly, warm against his cold. His stomach coiled tight.
“Thank you,” you said again, beaming up at him. “You’re a lifesaver.”
The words sliced him open.
He managed a faint twitch of his mouth, but it wasn’t a smile. Not really. Not when every cell in his body screamed the opposite. He wasn’t a lifesaver. He had killed you once—killed her—and all the centuries in the world hadn’t washed the blood from his hands.
Before he could respond, you tilted your head, studying him. “Do I…know you?”
The air punched out of him. His eyes widened.
Did you—? No. No, that was impossible. Recognition wouldn’t pass across lifetimes. Would it?
“I, uh…” His throat was tight. He forced himself to look at the wet ground, then back at you, trying to read the question in your eyes. “I don’t think so?” The answer came out more like a question than he intended.
You frowned faintly, then shook your head, brushing wet hair from your face with a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make that weird. You just…look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
If only you knew.
Desperate to deflect, he nodded toward the umbrella. “Well…your umbrella’s fixed. That’s something.”
You let out another small laugh, and the sound pulled at every hunger inside him. “It is. And now I owe you. At the very least, your name, umbrella fixer?”
He blinked, startled by your lightness, by the way you offered him a way in so casually. His lips parted, then closed. He almost said the wrong name—her name—but caught himself.
“Spencer,” he said finally, voice low, careful. “Uh. Spencer Reid.”
You repeated it back to him, rolling it over your tongue. “Spencer.”
The simple sound of his name on your lips made his chest ache. Centuries of silence, and now here you were, saying it again as though nothing had ever been lost.
He gave the smallest nod, swallowing down everything else—the desire, the guilt, the desperate need to reach out and touch you just to make sure you were real. “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “That’s me.”
You gave him a soft, polite smile—already half turned away, already slipping from his grasp. “Well, Spencer…thank you. But I should get home.”
Something in his chest seized. You were going to walk away. Just like that. Gone, swallowed into the night. He had lost you once. He couldn’t lose you again—not to him, not to fate, not to the dark.
The words left him before he thought them through. “You’re walking?”
You paused, brows lifting slightly. “Yes?”
His mind scrambled for justification. He didn’t want to sound…what? Dangerous? Desperate? God, he already did. “It’s just—” He shook his head quickly, rain dripping from the tips of his curls. “Is it okay if I walk you? At least halfway. I don’t need to know where you live or anything, it’s just…dark.”
The plea in his voice was too naked, and he knew it. To you, he was a stranger. A drenched, awkward man you’d spoken maybe twenty words to. Jesus, what was he thinking?
You hesitated, studying him in silence. The pulse in your throat ticked steadily, betraying a little spike of caution. He couldn’t stop watching it, the way the fragile line of your artery fluttered just beneath your skin.
Then you nodded. “Okay. Halfway is reasonable.”
The tension in his chest loosened. He didn’t let it show, but inside something sharp and triumphant bloomed.
“Thank you,” he murmured, falling into step beside you as you set off down the slick, lamp-lit street.
Rain misted against your umbrella, pattering faintly overhead, while water still rolled cold down his temples and neck. He barely felt it. What he felt was you. Every inhale carried your scent—sweet, mineral, alive—threaded through with the metallic tang of blood beneath the surface. The sound of it rushing, the steady rhythm of your heart, pressed into his ears as if the night itself amplified it.
You talked as you walked. Not in the way most people did—small, cautious pleasantries—but freely, with an openness that unsettled him. You spoke the way she had: a spirit unburdened, curious, gentle.
A small detail caught his eye. Your handbag swung at your side, cluttered with dangling charms and trinkets. His gaze snagged on one in particular—a carved moonstone talisman, worn smooth by touch.
“You’re into spirituality?” he asked, his voice careful, testing.
You glanced up at him, eyes bright under the umbrella’s shadow. “Yeah. A little bit of everything, really—crystals, tarot, meditation. I like the idea that there’s more to the world than what we can see.”
His lips parted. He nearly said there is.
Instead, he cleared his throat. “That’s…interesting. Most people I know would call it unscientific.”
“Maybe.” You shrugged lightly, water dripping from the edge of your umbrella. “But science can’t explain everything. Some things are felt, not measured.” You paused, tilting your head as though deciding whether to share more. “I actually believe in reincarnation.”
The words nearly stopped him in his tracks.
Reincarnation.
The cruelest irony.
He swallowed hard, keeping his stride steady, but inside his mind was a storm. If only you knew. If only you understood what you were saying, what you were to him.
You glanced at him again, searching his face. “You probably think that sounds silly.”
“No,” he said quickly, too quickly. His voice was low, rougher than he intended. “Not silly.”
Your smile softened. “Good. Most people would argue.”
Spencer forced a small smile in return, but inside his thoughts were ravenous. If you believed in reincarnation…if your soul had returned…could he tell you? Could he confess the truth—that you had lived and died in his arms, that your blood was already on his conscience, that your eyes had haunted him for centuries?
No. That was insane.
And yet…your nearness made the words itch at the back of his throat.
Your hand brushed his arm as you adjusted your umbrella, just the lightest graze. The heat of it seared through the damp fabric of his coat. His hunger flared, sharp and dangerous. The need to taste you, to feel your pulse throb beneath his tongue, pulsed through him with the same insistence as desire.
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, nails biting crescents into his palms. He couldn’t let himself slip. Not again.
“Spencer?”
He blinked, snapping back to you.
“You went quiet.” Your voice was warm, teasing. “You think too much, don’t you?”
A laugh escaped him, soft and self-conscious. “Yeah. I…do.”
Your grin widened. “Good. Then maybe I won’t have to do all the talking.”
He let himself look at you—really look—and for the briefest second, he allowed himself to imagine that this wasn’t chance. That this was fate. That he was meant to have you again.
And that terrified him more than anything.
The walk stretched on, steady and quiet except for the hiss of passing cars and the rain drumming against your umbrella. Spencer had kept his hands buried in his pockets, jaw tight, his every inhale filled with you. The scent of your blood rode the damp air, subtle but sharp, winding around his senses like smoke. He could hear your heart, unhurried and steady, pulsing in time with your stride.
The question slipped from him before he could stop it.
“Do you believe in fate?”
You slowed a little, brows lifting, and glanced up at him beneath the glow of a streetlamp. To you, it might have sounded like the kind of line men on dating apps tried too hard to use. But Spencer wasn’t smirking, wasn’t charming. He looked…serious.
“Very deep conversation to be having with a stranger,” you said lightly, the corners of your mouth curling in amusement. “But…I guess the answer is yes. I believe everything happens for a reason.”
He nodded once, too quickly, like he was processing data. That was exactly what he was doing—running every possible way he could follow that answer without sounding unhinged. How do you tell someone they were the love of your life…a life you ended yourself?
“Most people don’t,” he said at last, his voice soft, careful. “They think everything is random, chaos. Statistically, chaos does make sense.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking to you and then away again. “But…I’ve seen too much not to believe in patterns.”
“Patterns?” you echoed, curiosity tugging at your tone.
“History repeating itself,” Spencer clarified, gaze fixed on the wet pavement. “The same choices made over and over. The same people finding each other, no matter the circumstances.”
The words hung between you, heavier than they should have been. You studied him for a beat, searching his face. There was something strange about him—about the way his eyes seemed older than the rest of him, carrying centuries of grief.
You tilted your umbrella slightly toward him, sheltering him more from the rain. “You’re not talking about statistics anymore, are you?”
The gesture disarmed him. The closeness of you, the small kindness—it was unbearable. He forced a small laugh, nervous, self-deprecating. “No. I guess I’m not.”
You smiled faintly, as if indulging him. “Then what are you talking about?”
His lips parted, the truth pressing against them, clawing to be free. You. I’m talking about you. About the way I killed you centuries ago and have never stopped regretting it. About how I’d recognize your heartbeat in a room of a thousand strangers.
But he couldn’t say that.
Instead, he breathed out, “Just…that some connections feel inevitable. Like they were meant to happen.”
Your chest tightened at the weight in his voice. He sounded almost pained, as though this wasn’t a line but a confession. You weren’t sure what to make of it, but it made something in you stir.
“Do you have someone like that?” you asked quietly, surprising yourself with the softness of the question.
His jaw clenched, the muscles working. He kept his eyes on the rain-slick sidewalk. “…I did.”
The past tense sent a pang through you, though you couldn’t say why.
You didn’t push. Instead, you let your hand swing at your side, brushing lightly against the sleeve of his coat as you walked. The fabric was cold and damp, but beneath it his body was solid, unyielding. The brief contact made his breath catch—barely audible, but you noticed.
Spencer’s thoughts roared. He wanted to reach for you, to lace his fingers with yours, to feel the heat of your palm and reassure himself you were real, alive. Instead, he dug his nails into his pockets harder, grounding himself in pain.
“You think everything happens for a reason,” he murmured, almost to himself. His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Then maybe…maybe there’s a reason I saw you tonight.”
You looked up at him, heart stuttering at the intensity in his gaze. His eyes weren’t predatory—not exactly—but they burned, heavy and unblinking, as though he were memorizing every detail of your face. It was overwhelming.
You broke the tension with a small laugh, trying to lighten the air. “Well, maybe the reason was so I wouldn’t have to keep fighting with my umbrella.”
He smiled faintly at that, but his eyes didn’t lose their hunger.
Inside, he was screaming.
Not her. Not really. But close enough. And if fate had brought you back to him, then he wasn’t going to let go this time.
The storm had gentled to a mist by the time your street curved into view. Water dripped from gutters in a steady rhythm, pooling at the edges of the sidewalk.
You should have told him goodbye long before this point—after all, “halfway” had passed blocks ago. But something about him kept you from speaking the words.
You weren’t usually like this. You didn’t let strange men walk you home, didn’t strike up conversations in the rain. But with him…God, there was something different. Something familiar in a way that made your skin prickle, not with fear but recognition.
Earlier, you’d brushed it off by teasing him about looking like he’d seen a ghost. But as you walked, your heart only beat louder against your ribs, telling you you weren’t imagining it. It wasn’t just him. It was you too.
You knew him. Somehow.
His eyes. That was it. You knew those eyes.
Your throat tightened. Without meaning to, you broke the silence. “Can I say something crazy?”
He looked at you quickly, water still dripping from his curls, eyes catching faint streetlight. “Sure,” he said. There was the smallest twitch of amusement in his lips. It reminded you of something—or someone—you couldn’t place.
It only emboldened you.
“I know you.”
He stumbled in his step. Almost choked. His gaze snapped to yours, too sharp, too intent.
You kept going, even though the words felt fragile on your tongue. “I mean…I don’t. But I do. I don’t know how. Maybe I’ve seen you before? Served you at work? I—I run the bakery on Fifth Avenue…”
The excuse sounded thin, even to yourself. You’d never seen him before in your life. You would have remembered.
No. This was deeper. More impossible.
His pulse—if he even had one—roared in his ears. He hadn’t felt this kind of hope in centuries, not since before he’d lost you the first time. Maybe this was insane. Maybe he should keep quiet. But the storm of your voice saying I know you cracked something open in him.
He licked his lips, his throat dry, and let out a breath heavy with nerves. “Can I say something crazier?”
You tilted your umbrella toward him, meeting his eyes. “Promise not to freak out,” he added quickly.
Your curiosity sparked at the raw edge in his voice. You nodded. “Go on.”
His fingers tightened in his coat pockets until the fabric creaked. “I know you,” he said softly. Then, firmer: “I mean you. You remind me of someone I lost. Scarily so. You look like her. Act like her. And you believe in reincarnation…” His laugh was brittle, shaky. “And I never did. Not until tonight.”
The street seemed quieter somehow, the rain no more than a whisper.
You stopped walking, staring at him. “…You don’t look old enough to have lost someone and think they could’ve been reincarnated into me. I’m in my twenties. How does that make sense?”
He opened his mouth, closed it. The centuries crowded his tongue, fighting to spill out, but how could he tell you everything? How could he tell you that he’d buried you centuries ago? That he had drained your body until it went limp? That every woman since had been a shadow of you?
“It’s…complicated,” he managed, voice husky. “But you feel it too, don’t you?” He took a half-step closer, his eyes almost desperate. “You said it yourself. You know me.”
You swallowed hard, your umbrella trembling slightly in your grip. His intensity should have sent you running. Instead, it sent a rush of heat through your chest, low in your belly. You hated that it made you ache.
“Spencer…” you whispered.
His name on your lips nearly broke him. He was pleading now, his voice raw. “Please. You see it too. You remember me.”
You couldn’t explain why, but you didn’t pull away. Because deep in your chest, where reason had no hold, something whispered that he was right.
And that terrified you more than anything.
Your voice soft but cutting through the silence. “My place is…right around here. Why don’t you come in?”
He blinked at you, startled. Of all the responses he’d expected, that hadn’t been one. He should have said no, should have turned and left you safe in the doorway of your life—but instead he nodded. He couldn’t resist.
You weren’t even sure why you asked. The words had slipped out, impulsive, irrational. But it felt the way it does when you stumble across an old song you haven’t heard in years and every lyric comes rushing back—you didn’t choose it, it was just meant.
The two of you walked the final stretch in silence. His coat was plastered to him, the faint scent of rain and something older clinging to the wool. When you reached your steps, you set your umbrella aside, water sliding off the stone. You pushed the key into the lock, and the door creaked open with the soft familiarity of home.
When you turned, he was still outside. Hovering at the threshold. Watching you.
You frowned. “You can come in, you know.”
The moment the words left your lips, he stepped inside—as if he had been waiting for the invitation.
Something about that pricked at your mind, but you shook it away. You reached for his coat, tugging it gently from his shoulders. It was heavy with rain. You hung it up beside your own.
He stood awkwardly in the entryway, shoulders tense, lips parted as if half a dozen confessions pressed against them all at once. He looked like he was unraveling inside his own skin.
You gestured toward the couch. “Sit.”
The room was pale and inviting—white curtains, lace-trimmed pillows, old wood softened by candlelight. A strange kind of gothic brightness, not harsh blacks but worn ivory, like faded memory.
He sat stiffly at one end, hands laced, jaw tight. You sank onto the other cushion, leaving space between you. The air buzzed with unspoken things.
Finally, you exhaled. “Why do I feel like I know you?” You turned your head toward him, searching his face. “And I think you know.”
His lips pressed together, his throat working. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice cracked at the edges. “You’re going to be scared.”
Your brows furrowed. A sane part of you whispered he was a stranger, that you should laugh, tell him to leave. But no—he wasn’t a stranger. Not to you. Something inside you believed him before he even spoke.
“Please,” you whispered, leaning toward him without realizing it. “I’ve never felt this before. Don’t hold it back.”
He closed his eyes, a trembling breath escaping. His long fingers flexed against his knees, desperate for something to hold. Anything. You.
“This is going to sound…” He swallowed hard. “It’s going to change everything about how you see the world. So just…listen. Okay?”
You nodded, pulse thrumming in your neck.
“I’m—” he faltered, almost choking on the truth. “I’m a vampire. I’m centuries old. And the woman I loved—the woman I lost—” his voice cracked. “She looked like you. Sounded like you. You. Everything about you is her. It’s like she’s back.” His gaze dragged over you, raw, starving. “You even smell like her.”
The words hung heavy in the air. You blinked, reeling, your heart stuttering.
“I’m not her,” you said quietly, voice small but steady.
His head shook almost violently. “I think you are. Somehow—you’re her. You remember me. You said it yourself. You knew me.” His voice was unraveling now, desperate, breaking. “You didn’t even flinch when I told you what I am. Because you already knew, didn’t you? Some part of you…remembers.”
Your throat tightened. His pleading eyes cut straight through you. Sadness welled unexpectedly in your chest. “…What happened to her?”
His breath hitched. His shoulders curled inward as though the memory itself clawed at him.
“I—I was new. I’d barely been turned. I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t…” He shook his head violently. “I lost control. I—fed from her. From you. And I couldn’t stop. I didn’t mean to—”
You went still, his words burning into you. “You killed her?”
Your voice was soft, fragile, but it made him crumble.
Tears stung his eyes as he nodded. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice broke entirely. “I didn’t mean to. I swear to you, I never meant—”
Before you could move, he was on the floor in front of you, knees sinking into the carpet. His hands hovered at your thighs, trembling with restraint. You didn’t stop him when his palms finally pressed there, warm and shaking. He bowed forward, pressing his forehead to your knee, a broken prayer spilling from his lips.
“Please. Please remember me.” His voice cracked into something between a sob and a plea. His breath trembled against your skin. “I can’t lose you again. Not again.”
You froze, every nerve ending firing. Your neck throbbed with a strange, phantom ache—like a wound reopening. Flashes stirred at the edges of your mind. Heat. Darkness. The press of lips and teeth.
Your lack of reaction to his confession should have been a red flag. Instead, it felt like déjà vu.
Maybe—just maybe—you were remembering him.
The tear that slid down your cheek didn’t make sense. You didn’t even know why you were crying. It wasn’t just him—though seeing a man like Spencer Reid, brilliant and broken, sobbing at your knees was enough to twist your chest. No, this ache came from somewhere else. A place your conscious mind couldn’t name, like grief from another lifetime pressing against the walls of your skull.
His hands trembled against your thighs, his forehead still pressed to your knee like he was bowing at an altar. His voice cracked, ragged from centuries of silence.
“Please… anything, just—remember me,” he whispered, a plea wrapped in desperation.
You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve told him to leave. But instead, your hand lifted, almost against your will, and slid through his damp hair. The strands clung to your fingers, soft despite the rain, and you combed through them gently. The motion soothed him instantly and shattered him at the same time.
He choked out a breath, his voice raw. “She… she did this for me when I got upset. When the world felt too loud, when I couldn’t control the noise in my head, she’d—”
You cut him off, the words slipping from your mouth before you even thought them through. Words that didn’t feel like yours at all.
“—let you rest with your head on her chest.”
His head snapped up so fast you startled. His wide eyes locked onto yours, searching, disbelieving. “Y-you… remember that?” His voice broke again, but this time on a note of hope.
Your throat tightened. “I… I don’t even know how. I just—” You shook your head, a fresh tear sliding down. “I just know it.”
His hands tightened on your thighs, as though anchoring himself. The haunted look in his eyes shifted, softened into something rawer.
“I love you,” he breathed, and it wasn’t a line, wasn’t performative. It came out like a confession ripped from his ribcage. “I love you. God, I’ve loved you every single day since the moment I lost you. And I’m so—so sorry. A day hasn’t passed where I didn’t feel disgusted with myself, guilty about what I did. You didn’t deserve that… you deserved better than me.”
His words bled into your bones, that ache in your neck pulsing harder. You didn’t remember everything—your life, your death—but your body was beginning to.
“Spencer…” you whispered, and his name felt like something you’d said a thousand times before.
He lowered his gaze, kissing your knee softly, reverently. When you didn’t push him away, he let his lips linger, then pressed another kiss a little higher. His breath was warm against your skin, contrasting the damp chill from the rain.
Your breath hitched.
His voice dropped, shaking but deep, carrying the weight of centuries. “I shouldn’t touch you. Not like this. Not when I’ve already taken too much from you. But… I can’t stop. I’ve missed you so much, I…” His lips brushed the inside of your thigh now, the words muffled against your skin. “…I don’t know how to let you go again.”
Your hand was still in his hair, and without thinking, you tugged gently. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and endless, hunger and heartbreak tangled together.
“Then don’t,” you whispered.
It wasn’t permission so much as surrender—your body answering before your mind could. Because the truth was you didn’t feel fear. Not when he said he was a vampire. Not when he confessed to killing you. All you felt was that aching familiarity, the pull in your chest, the way his touch sparked something buried deep inside you.
His fingers curled tighter into your thighs, the pads of his thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin like he was trying to memorize you all over again. “If I start… I don’t know if I can stop.” His voice was gravel, low, as though he was warning you. Pleading with you to protect yourself from him.
Your pulse stuttered, heat pooling low in your belly. The ache in your neck grew stronger, sharp and insistent. You knew what he was implying, but instead of recoiling, you leaned in slightly, your voice softer now.
“Then don’t stop.”
Spencer’s breath caught in his throat, his pupils blown wide. His restraint cracked in his eyes as though he were clinging to the last threads of control. His lips ghosted over your inner thigh again, higher this time, and you could feel how badly he wanted—needed—you.
The silence between you burned, alive with unspoken memory, old love, old hunger.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was ruined with want.
“I’ve dreamed of you for centuries.”
And then his teeth grazed your skin—lightly, testing—while his trembling hands gripped your thighs like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.
“God, you’re—” he broke off, his breath ragged as he gripped your tights and tugged. The fabric gave way with a harsh tear, seams splitting under his long fingers. He didn’t even give himself time to regret the sound, too frantic, too reverent, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses along the newly bared skin of your thighs.
Your legs parted instinctively, welcoming him, and his whole body trembled at the sight—at your offering. He sank lower, on his knees before you, hands spreading over your thighs like he could brand himself into the moment. You could feel the heat of him even through the damp chill of the room, his forehead brushing against your skin, his lips trailing higher and higher.
When his fingers found the edge of your panties, he hesitated just long enough to meet your eyes. Seeking permission. Begging silently.
You nodded. “Yes,” you whispered, breathless, voice barely there but enough.
That was all he needed. With a groan so low it sounded like it had been locked in his chest for centuries, he hooked the fabric aside. His gaze fixed on you—your cunt, glistening already, wet with want for him—and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“The same,” he murmured, voice trembling with awe. “God, you’re the same. Every detail. Every—” His words faltered, broken by another groan as he leaned closer, the heat of his breath ghosting over your folds. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed this.”
Then his mouth was on you.
His tongue pressed flat against your slit, dragging from your entrance to your clit in one long, deliberate lick. Your back arched immediately, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. He moaned into you, the vibration making your thighs twitch.
“Taste—” he broke off, circling your clit with his tongue, “you taste exactly the same. Sweet, perfect, I—” Another hungry lick. “I could live on this.”
You tangled your fingers in his damp curls, tugging him closer, and he groaned again at the contact. He latched onto your clit now, sucking softly, his tongue flicking in quick, desperate movements that made you shudder.
“Oh my god, Spencer—”
He pulled back just long enough to look up at you, his lips and chin already slick with your wetness. His pupils were blown wide, his eyes fever-bright.
“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he said, voice rough, needy. “Do you have any idea how many nights I dreamed of this? Centuries of lying awake—imagining your thighs around my head, your taste on my tongue. And now you’re here. You’re here.”
Your hips bucked against his mouth, his words sending heat straight to your core. He groaned and dove back in, licking into you now, fucking you with his tongue. His nose pressed against your clit, grinding with each movement, and you whined, tugging his hair harder.
“That’s it,” he rasped against you between licks. “Use me. Please. I need you to come on my mouth. I need to feel you fall apart.”
The desperation in his voice was matched only by the reverence in his touch. His hands squeezed your thighs, thumbs stroking circles against your skin as though grounding himself while he devoured you like a man starved.
You couldn’t stop the sounds leaving your throat, broken moans, gasps of his name. He moaned right back, every sound you made fueling his own pleasure.
“Yes—just like that,” he whispered against your clit, flicking his tongue faster now. “You’re so wet for me. Always so responsive. I remember this. How your body knows me. How you let me—fuck—how you let me worship you like this.”
The praise sent a shiver racing through you. You could feel your climax building fast, too fast.
“Spencer—I’m gonna—”
He cut you off, pulling your clit between his lips and sucking hard, his tongue lashing it at the same time. His grip tightened on your thighs, holding you still as you cried out, your orgasm crashing over you in sharp waves.
He moaned against you as you came, drinking in everything you gave him, his eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting salvation.
When you finally slumped back, shaking, trying to catch your breath, he didn’t let go. He kept his mouth on you, gentler now, slow licks, coaxing you through the aftershocks.
When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his hair wild, his chest heaving. He rested his forehead against your thigh again, his voice ruined and reverent.
“I love you. I’ll never stop loving you. Not in this life, not in the next.”
His words settled into your bones like truth—like memory.
His lips crashed into yours before you could even take another breath. The kiss was messy, desperate, his hands threading into your hair like he was anchoring himself to reality. He groaned into your mouth when your tongue met his, the taste of you on his lips mingling with the taste of yourself from his mouth. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, perfect.
“God,” he panted against your lips, kissing you again, harder. “I need you. I can’t—” His forehead pressed to yours, his voice raw. “I’ve waited too long. Please. Tell me you want this.”
“I do,” you whispered, tugging at his soaked shirt. “I want you.”
That was all it took.
He hauled you into his lap, guiding you backward until your body sank into the couch cushions. Your thighs spread open beneath him, his weight pressing you down into the fabric. His mouth never left yours, kissing you with bruising intensity, his hands sliding down your sides until he hooked under your knees and shoved them wider. You could feel the thick length of him straining against his pants, grinding into you as if he couldn’t help it.
“Perfect,” he murmured between kisses, his hips rutting into you with barely restrained desperation. “You feel what you do to me? I’ve never wanted anything—anyone—like this. Except you. Always you.”
Your hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, tearing it open enough to push the wet fabric down his shoulders. He groaned when your palms flattened against his bare chest, his heartbeat pounding fast—far too fast for a vampire, like his body was betraying just how undone he was.
He kissed down your jaw, biting softly at the hinge, then dragging his lips to your throat. His breath hitched there, hovering, trembling, his fangs just grazing your skin. He stilled, fighting himself, his entire body taut with restraint.
“Not yet,” he rasped against your pulse, kissing over it instead. “I can’t—I won’t lose you again.”
Then he was moving lower, his mouth finding your collarbone, your chest, kissing every inch as he pushed you further into the couch. His hands tore your ruined tights the rest of the way off, your panties following in the same desperate motion. His own pants and boxers were gone in a blur, his cock thick and heavy, flushed dark as he wrapped a hand around the base, stroking himself once as he looked at you sprawled out beneath him.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he breathed, almost reverent. “You’re wet for me already. Open for me.” He stroked his cock again, the head glistening, and groaned. “I’m going to fill you up, sweetheart. Finally.”
You nodded, your own need overwhelming now. “Please, Spencer—”
He lined himself up, his hand pressing your thigh open wider, and pushed in slowly. Inch by inch, stretching you, filling you in a way that made you cry out and clutch at the cushions. His head fell forward, his mouth dropping open as a broken groan ripped from his throat.
“Fuck—” His voice cracked as he bottomed out, his hips flush to yours. He buried his face in your neck, shuddering. “You’re so tight. You feel—exactly the same. It’s you. It’s really you.”
He didn’t move at first, just holding himself inside you, trembling with the effort of control. You ran your hands over his back, whispering, “It’s okay. I want you to move.”
That undid him.
He pulled back slowly, dragging his cock out until only the tip remained before thrusting back in with a force that made you gasp. He moaned into your skin, his hips beginning a steady, deep rhythm, every stroke deliberate, hitting the spot inside you that made your legs shake.
“Yes—yes, that’s it,” he groaned, kissing your cheek, your lips, your jaw between words. “You take me so well. God, you were made for me. My perfect girl.”
Your moans spurred him on, his thrusts growing rougher, needier. His hands gripped your hips tight, anchoring you as he fucked into you, each snap of his hips harder than the last.
“I love you,” he gasped, his voice breaking, his forehead pressed to yours. “I love you—I’ve loved you for centuries. Do you—do you feel it too? Tell me you feel it.”
“I do,” you panted, nails digging into his back. “I love you too, Spencer.”
He groaned loud at that, his thrusts faltering for a moment as his lips found yours again, desperate, wet kisses swallowing both your moans.
“Gonna make you come,” he whispered against your mouth, thrusting deep again. His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. “Come for me, sweetheart. Please—I need to feel you come around me.”
The dual sensation—the stretch of him inside you and the pressure on your clit—sent you over the edge. You cried out, clutching him as your orgasm tore through you, your walls clenching around his cock.
The feeling broke him.
“Fuck, yes—” he growled, his thrusts erratic now as he chased his own release. “So tight—milking me—can’t hold on—”
And then his fangs sank into your neck.
The sharp pain melted instantly into white-hot pleasure, your orgasm spiking all over again as his mouth latched onto your pulse. He groaned against your skin, drinking deep as his hips snapped hard into you, his cock pulsing as he came inside you. The combination—the pull of his mouth, the flood of his release—made you arch and cry out, clinging to him as your own climax dragged on, endless.
“Mine,” he growled into your throat between swallows, his voice guttural, primal, as he filled you. “You’re mine—forever.”
When he finally pulled back, his lips were slick with your blood, his eyes blown wide and wild—but softer, too, awed. He kissed your neck, then your mouth, desperate and sweet, tasting of copper and salt and everything that was him.
And through the haze of trembling limbs and the warmth of his body pinning you to the couch, you knew: this time, there was no losing each other.
Your eyes slipped closed, your chest heaving, every muscle trembling with the aftershocks. You were limp against him, boneless from the back-to-back orgasms, your throat slick where his mouth had been.
Spencer froze.
“—no, no, no.” His voice cracked as his hands cupped your face, tapping lightly against your cheeks. “Open your eyes. Please—open them, don’t do this to me, not again.” His breathing was erratic, bordering on frantic, and for a second the world tilted for him, the memory of centuries ago flooding his mind. Her body, limp. The stillness. His fangs in her throat.
He was shaking. “I didn’t—god, I didn’t mean to—”
Your lashes fluttered, your lips parting as a breathy sound escaped you. Not death, not loss—just recovery. Your hand slid weakly over his wrist, squeezing. “Spencer,” you whispered, voice hoarse but steady enough. “I’m okay.”
His eyes closed tight, a sharp exhale breaking from his chest as relief surged through him. He pressed his forehead to yours, trembling like he was about to fall apart. “I thought—I thought I’d lost you again.”
“I’m here.” Your lips brushed his, soft and reassuring. “You didn’t hurt me.”
He groaned low, burying his face against your shoulder, his arms winding so tight around you it almost hurt. And still—still—he didn’t pull out. His cock throbbed, still seated deep inside you, as if his body refused to let go. He shifted, maneuvering the both of you until you were straddling him again on the couch, his back against the cushions, you in his lap, your chest pressed to his. His arms locked you there, every muscle taut with possession and fear.
“I can’t,” he whispered raggedly into your hair. “I can’t pull out. I need you here, I need to feel you around me. I need to know you’re real.”
You kissed the side of his jaw, your fingers threading through his damp curls. “Then don’t. Stay inside me. I want you there.”
His chest rose sharply, his breath unsteady. He leaned back enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, dark with love and hunger. His hands held your hips gently, reverently, his thumbs tracing circles over your skin as though he could memorize you anew.
“You don’t understand,” he said softly, his voice cracking. “Every night, for so long, I’ve dreamed of this—of you. And then I’d wake up and you weren’t there. But now—” His voice trailed off as he pressed a shaky kiss to your lips, barely holding it together. “Now you are.”
You smiled against his mouth, slow and certain, your hips shifting just a little around him. The movement pulled a groan from his chest, deep and unguarded. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured. “You’ve got me.”
His eyes squeezed shut, a tear escaping down his cheek. You kissed it away, and he kissed you back with gratitude so raw it stole your breath.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered between kisses, his hands sliding up your back, holding you flush against him. “So warm, so alive, so mine. God, you feel like heaven. Do you know what you do to me? How good you are?”
You rocked gently in his lap, both of you shivering at the slight movement of him still buried inside. He hissed through his teeth, his head falling back against the couch. “Fuck—you’re still so tight. I can feel every flutter. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
You obeyed, slow and languid, grinding down in his lap. The pace was unhurried, not the frantic thrusts from before—this was grounding, tethering. His hands roamed your body like he couldn’t decide where to touch first, cupping your breasts, cradling your jaw, sliding down to grip your hips again.
“That’s it,” he panted, kissing you feverishly. “Take me. Take everything. You’re doing so good for me.”
Your moans were soft but steady, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “You feel so good inside me, Spencer. I love being full of you.”
He groaned so deep it vibrated against your chest. “Say it again,” he begged, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Please.”
“I love being full of you.”
His thrust upward was instinctive, sharp, but he slowed immediately, kissing your shoulder in apology. “Sorry. I just—fuck—you saying that. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear it.”
You cradled his face, forcing him to look at you. “Centuries,” you said softly, knowingly.
He blinked at you, eyes wide, undone. And then he kissed you again, desperate, his hips rocking up to meet your slow grind, the two of you moving together in a rhythm that was more about closeness than release.
The blood on his lips had dried, faint copper lingering, but when he whispered your name against your mouth, you knew he was tasting you in every way.
“Stay with me,” he pleaded, still holding you close, still buried deep inside. “Promise me you’ll stay.”
“I’m not leaving you,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Not in this life. Not ever again.”
And for the first time in centuries, Spencer let himself believe it.
synopsis: Spencer is a little nervous for his first date. You offer him some advice and a chance to practice.
this story is 18+!!! minors DNI!! scram!!!
contains: explicit sexual content, nipple play, fingering (f!recieving), oral (f!recieving), Spencer is a little too good at this for it to be his first time but idc its hot, I picture early seasons Spencer Reid here, also this is lowk canon divergent I just started making things up
You’d known Spencer since you were in college. Both at the same school, you had been pursuing your undergrad degree, and him; his first PHD. As a neuroscience student, your psychology professor had been quick to give you his information and the instruction that he “needs the interaction”, and with you being two years his junior, the two of you could get along well.Spencer, from the day you met him, timidly knocking on his office door, had been kind and calm, always patient and willing to listen.
Slowly, tutoring sessions turned into dinners together, or movie nights, or article critiques, and suddenly, Spencer was your best friend. He’d helped you all through college, coaxing you through countless papers, and buying you lunch to get you through the day, spending most of his time outside the BAU with you.The two of you were so close, in fact, that you seemed to attract rumors wherever you went.
In sophomore year, two girls had started one that Spencer had secretly been giving you money in exchange for your affection, calling you the ‘campus prostitute’ for the rest of the year. You’d been crushed, crying in his apartment for hours, while he silently plotted ways to ruin their lives. Coincidentally, and by some miracle (that Spencer swears he had nothing to do with), they didn’t return to school the next summer.
With your frequent trips to the BAU, you’d been accused of being Spencer’s girlfriend many times, and had denied these rumors vehemently, much to Garcia and Morgan’s chagrin.But it’s not like you didn’t want to be with Spencer. He was effortlessly the most attractive person you’d ever met, with his intelligence, looks, and personality.
Truth be told, you’d wanted him since the day you met him, but it seemed quite obvious he only felt platonically about you. Sure, there were times when you’d get a little too close to be “just friends”, but that was simply how your friendship worked!And it was now, that you found yourself in Spencer’s apartment while he prepared for his date.
It was hours away, but Spencer had insisted the two of you set aside your entire morning and afternoon to get ready for it. You’d helped him choose his outfit, his flowers, the restaurant, and even the cologne he wore. Now, in the hour before he left, he was pacing anxiously around the apartment, rambling as you went through a mental list of everything he might need for the night ahead.
“Oh! Spencer!” His head snapped up, eyebrows raised,“Don’t forget condoms, y’know, just in case.” You tried to laugh it off, but your heart clenched at the idea of another person getting to see Spencer in such an intimate light, one that you’d never seen him in before.
Spencer’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, face knitting into a mix of shame and fear. “I…” he began, unsure of how to proceed. “I don’t have any.” He said. Then, in a smaller, quiet voice, he added “I’ve never… done any of that before. I’m not sure I know how.” You shrugged, trying to play off your shock.
You’d always assumed that Spencer was a prude, and that’s why he never spoke of his activities with partners. You knew he rarely went out, and very rarely stayed the night elsewhere, but it had never occurred to you that he simply hadn’t had experience. Or maybe, he wanted to save himself.
Either way, it wasn’t really your place to judge and you tried your best to not think about Spencer in bed with another person that wasn’t you.
“Not to be crass, but you could always just eat her out instead… I’m sure she won’t mind if you don’t want to do that with her just yet.” Your cheeks were on fire, and no sooner had the sentence left your mouth that you regretted saying it. Spencer stiffened, ears turning a bright shade of red that seemed oddly reminiscent of a fire hydrant.
“Never mind!” You said quickly, trying to change the subject. He fell silent for a few moments before stopping his pacing to sit in front of you. “I’ve never done that either..” he mumbled, obviously ashamed of his lack of experience. Your face flushed again, and you stammered out apologies for prying, for being too nosy. He shook his head, like he was trying to rid it of a specific thought, and glanced at his watch before continuing his pacing about the room.
After a few minutes of silence, Spencer turned around to meet your eyes, face grave. “Could– could you teach me? I don’t want her to think I’m not experienced. Could I maybe… practice with you?” The words took a moment to register in your mind before you reacted. He’d said it so softly, so quietly, that you barely heard his timid whisper. Immediately he began apologizing. A flood of I shouldn’t’ve said it’s and I’m not sure what’s gotten into me’s escaped his lips, but you were silent, truly, you’ve been waiting for this moment.
Spencer, your beautiful, innocent mentor-turned-best-friend was asking to eat you out with no strings attached? The idea seemed almost too good to be true, but you just gave him a little nod. He paused his rambling immediately, staring at you. “What’d you say?” He looked dumbfounded. “You can practice. On me– that is, if you want.” Spencer paused for a moment, as if to think about his next action, then nodded emphatically, eyes never leaving yours.
In seconds he’s on you, lips meeting yours, hands reaching towards your hair but not making connection, like he’s straining to hold himself back, like he’s scared to break you should he place one finger wrongly.Quickly, you open up to the kiss, lips parting to let your tongue explore his mouth, searching, deepening.
Spencer grunts and pushes you to lie down on the couch, crowding you into the cushions. Where his knee meets the crease between your thighs, you can feel him, hot and heavy and wanting. Disentangling from his hair, your fingers wander down his chest, touching everywhere they can before resting gently on the waistband of his slacks.
He breaks the kiss like it pains him, gasping out a “No no no– this– this is about you, not me,” into your ear.His hand fiddles with the hem of your shirt, and you’re happy to oblige his silent request by sitting up to pull it off of your chest. He stares. Open mouthed, gaping, at your tits. Honestly, it’s a little endearing how whipped he seems to be for two remarkably normal boobs. You’re only wearing a pink bra from Target, but you might as well have on a sheer bralette from the look on his face.
“Can I…” he breaks off before he can finish the request, fingers itching to touch, grab, feel. You nod, blushing a little at the heat of his attention on your body, but you’re quickly distracted by his hands pulling the cups of your bra down and his mouth attaching to your nipple. Spencer sucks hard, a cry escaping you as you arch your back into his mouth, trying to get more. His hand reaches up to toy with your other nipple as he continues suckling on you, like he’s determined to suck the life out of you.“Spencer–” you gasp, “--touch me please”.
As if your words help him remember what he’s here for, he detaches from you quickly and moves backward down the couch, dipping his head to mouth at your bare stomach.“Can I… start?”
He looks up, positively hungry, and motions towards your shorts. With your help, he quickly removes them and your underwear, and suddenly you are completely bare before Spencer Reid.
It’s a little hot, honestly. The way your body is laid out for him, for his touch, for his mouth, yet he still has his purple sweater vest and slacks firmly on, feet socked, tie loose. He groans, head bowing so you can't see his face for a moment, but you can see the shake of his shoulders as he takes a deep breath, evidently trying to compose himself. Suddenly, you jolt as a tentative finger slides up your slit.
His eyes are fixed on your core, brows knitted in deep concentration as he works his finger through the wetness that has accumulated. “Fuck– Spence put it in– please,” you beg, hips twitching into his hand, as he carefully eases a long digit into your hole, curling it slightly enough to bring you pleasure. You’re seeing stars, and
Spencer is staring at you in an almost clinical way, like he’s trying to memorize what actions make you feel good. You cry out as he eases another finger into you, palm grinding against your bundle of nerves. Your breath hitches, and his tongue pokes through his lips in concentration. “You–” he speeds up his fingers, looking to you with eyebrows raised as if to ask how he’s doing, “You can– fuck Spence, you can use your mouth, too. If you want.”
Spencer pauses, then bends down and licks a thick stripe over your slit, groaning at the taste. Immediately, his mouth is wrapped around your bud, sucking, while his fingers enter you again. Quickly, you can feel your orgasm building, pulsing somewhere behind your stomach as his ministrations continue. Finally, he delivers a hard lick to your bud, and you shatter, clenching around his fingers while your legs shake.
Immediately, you’re up, grabbing for him, feeling for the bulge you’d seen in his pants minutes ago. “Oh..” he blushes, noticing the path of your hands. “That’s… taken care of itself.” He seems embarrassed, with red tipped ears, hands fidgeting in his lap. The crotch of his pants is dark from his come, and suddenly it becomes increasingly clear to you just how much he enjoyed tasting you.
Grabbing his hair, you kiss him hard on the mouth, then whisper “cancel your date"
Thankyou for your support! This has definitely been an interesting few months for me with so many people suddenly following and even being able to start a Patreon!,and I appreciate it! I'm glad you like my art and would like to give back as thanks!
I'll be doing an art raffle! I'll randomly select one person to request a full illustration like the ones above!
💛How to enter! Follow and reblog this post and you'll be entered! If you reblog on a side blog and follow from your main blog,make sure to note it in your tags! And that's it!
(If you're already a follower you just need to reblog)
💛Rules for requests once you've been chosen!
SFW only
No poly relationships/no canon character x canon character
Results will be given on September 13th :) Thankyou once again for your support and goodluck <3
something something...putting on the strap with spencer and fucking him silly...something something...i MEAN what huh who??? the??? hell said that?? eueueu???
hey so this is actually the exact type of filth i was searching for anon….. thank u for submitting this you’re doing everyone a big service trust… also i’ll admit it loud and proud IM SAYING ALL OF THIS!!! WE (YES WE) SAID THAT!! WHAT!!
ive actually thought abt this a few times… like imagine you’re an absolute professional procrastinator… to the point where it’s genuinely concerning.
so maybe that one specific thing that you swore up and down you would clean for weeks on end is still… filthy… and yet everytime spence offers to do it you refuse “i can handle it! i swear it’ll get done tomorrow!”
spoiler: tomorrow comes, and “it” is no where near done… it gets to the point where you need certain… motivation.
maybe spencer was joking, just trying to motivate you with the ruse of something you had mentioned a few times in passing, maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly, maybe he didn’t really mean it… but when you hear “i swear to god if you get this done i’ll let you peg me” SOMETHING SWITCHES IN YOUR BRAIN RIGHT THEN AND THERE.
all of the sudden he’s getting texts from u while sitting at his desk in the bullpen, typical…and then he opens ur messages to see a photo of that completed task, along with many other outstanding tasks,,, finished. done. mission accomplished. completely spotless, shiny enough to see your own reflection… even the floor in the kitchen looks like you could eat right off it..
and ofc that’s followed by a “sooo can we stop by spencers when i pick you up from work?;)))” (the store lmfao)
turns out all you needed was a little push in the right direction (and a promise to make your greatest dream come true)
what the hell had he gotten himself into???
the next thing he knows he’s laying on his back,,, eyes dazed, head lolled over, fucked completely stupid on your strap:(((( hot pink ofc bc why shouldn’t it be???? your treating spencer like he’s your BITCH (lets be real, he is…) one of his stupidly lanky legs is propped up on your shoulder, drilling into him with a pace unmatched by animals in heat…
and the only thing on his mind is… why haven’t you two done this sooner???? (win win reward for both you and him) his genius brain is reduced to absolute mush… and he’s whimpering and whining like the pathetic baby he is (oh im dying)… stupid neglected cock twitching at the stimulation!!!
“yeah??? are you gonna be a good boy and cum without me even touching your useless dick???” AND HE’S GONE… BEGGING AND NODDING LIKE URGHHH #NEEDTHAT (firm believer that spence could cum in his pants from being called “good boy” yep..)
and yk whats even hotter??? riding him while fucking him with said neon pink dildo???
don’t ask me how awkward or flexible you have to be to make this happen… just trust that you will🙏🙏🙏 you’re grinding into him while leaning back, flicking your wrist and pounding into him with your cock at an unrelenting pace??? does this count as double penetration???
and trust spencer is absolutely stupid beneath you… completely embodying the meaning of “dumbification” which is a truly impressive feat for someone like dr. reid (congrats!)
he’s lost track of time… and probably space as well at this point, the overstimulation of his third??? fourth?? orgasm paired with the way you’re sucking up his dick??? completely milking him dry???
don’t expect him to be able to speak, let alone from a coherent sentence… the resident blabbermouth of the bau has been reduced to nothing but gasps, whimpers, and moans that have you neighbours banging on the walls (they’re just jelly they arent getting sum..)
i feel like a whore after writing this but look at him??? HE WANTS IT… BAD!!!
like yep! that is the face of a man that is begging to be dicked down i said what i said… (don’t think this means i’m only sayin this abt early seasons reid TRUST even post prison is a submissive loser oh im reeling just thinking abt it ok…)
the one where Spencer convinces reader to ride his face.
wc 1.4k
18+ mdni (smut)
tags + the rundown: fem!reader, afab!reader, softdom!spencer x sub!reader, oral f receiving, face riding, but like sweet and gentle yk, it's reader's first time face riding and she's nervous, piv sex, cr*amp*e (hate that term wow), pet names, praise, established relationship, mentions of suffocation but jokingly
a/n: my first smut and my longest fic yikes! need him so bad tho it's crazy. feedback always welcome come say hi to me!
~
The door opens and closes so softly it almost doesn’t wake you. Even as Spencer settles into the space next to you, you’re tempted to think it’s a ghost, or a figment of your half-dream state. It’s not until he speaks, half muffled by the pillow, that you’re sure it’s him:
“You’re still in your clothes.”
You turn to face him, taking in his loose tie, cardigan half-slipped from his shoulder, parts of his hair looking stiff, probably from dragging his hands through it a million times. Even with the jagged exhaustion, his eyes on you are nothing but kind. You offer him a smile.
“Fell asleep waiting for you,” you answer in an equally gravelly tone. You’re about to ask if he’s eaten, if he wants water or a shower, but then his lips are pressed to your forehead for what feels like a small eternity.
“Missed you, angel girl,” he finally whispers. You smooth your hands over his back as he rubs small, tender circles on your thigh, fingers brushing under the skirt you had failed to change out of before you fell asleep.
“Missed you, too, Spence.”
“Yeah?” The circles he makes remain tender, but become more intentional as one of his hands snakes between your legs. “How much?”
His fingers find their way to your underwear, and you let out a whimper at the dampness you didn’t even realize was forming there. Spencer hums, deep and wanting.
“Feels like a lot, baby. Did you miss me a lot?”
“Mhm.”
“Mhm,” he echoes. His touch is soft, careful, but burns through your core all the same as he hitches your leg up, giving him easier access to remove the nearly-soaked cloth from your body. “Let me taste you, please.”
You can’t help but kiss him, your hands wandering anywhere they can find purchase as the floor becomes a stockpile of clothes: Spencer’s tie and cardigan, pants and skirt, both of your shirts. You start to settle beneath him, utterly desperate to move things along, when he pulls away.
You glance up at him, breathless and hazy from the loss of his body heat.
“Not like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, thumb rubbing circles on your wrists to satiate you. “I’ve eaten you out a hundred times like this. I want us to try something different.”
Your brow furrows, though the sheer eagerness that curls in your chest is undeniable. “Different?”
He nods and laughs lightly.
“You’re always so good for me, honey. Always trusting me to take the lead, hm?” His lips brush your nose, warm and patient.
Your pulse stutters as he shifts the two of you, settling you on top of his thighs. You whimper as your hands anchor themselves on either side of his head.
“Spence…” you’re not sure what you’re trying to ask, what you need from him, but the sound comes out frayed anyway.
“It’s been a long week, I’m so tired. All I’ve been thinking about is coming home to you, feeling you like this.”
His hands are anchored to your hips. He grinds up slightly, but just enough to make you dizzy. Your throat feels tight as you try to hold back an embarrassing moan, your head falling forward.
“You can do this for me, right? Help me feel better?”
The questions are rhetorical, you know, but you find yourself nodding with a shameless amount of instinct.
“That’s my girl. Come here, baby.”
Even though you’ve been like this a hundred times, and you’ll be like this a hundred more, you feel irrevocably bare and seen as Spencer’s eyes take their time with you. Before you can register it, he’s pulling you forward, inch by inch. You can’t find your voice as you naturally shift your weight, knowing nothing but trust for the man beneath you.
Spencer’s eyes hold yours, taking in every twitch of uncertainty.
“Need you to help me take care of you tonight” he whispers. Your hands find a hold on the headboard now, your knees lifted to keep you hovered because if they don’t, you’re pretty sure you’ll cut off a very-necessary airway for the good doctor.
“You always take care of me” you whisper, confusion tainting your throat. He hums.
“That’s true. Haven’t taken care of you like this, though.”
“Spence, I don’t think I can– What if I–”
“Breathe.”
You nearly scoff at the irony.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You couldn’t if you tried, angel” he strokes reassuring lines down your thighs, his face looking annoyingly adorable framed between them. “Do you know how much oxygen the human body can store? Even if you blocked my mouth and nose completely, I’d have more than enough time. You’d get tired long before I was in danger.”
“Still feels weird,” you mumble. He’s quick to shush you.
“Not weird, just different. I know you can do it. Need you to.”
For better or worse, you find yourself incapable of denying Spencer anything. So when he plants a kiss and tender nip on your thigh, and tells you to sit, who are you to disobey?
He’s wrong, at first it is weird. You can’t grip his hair like you want, can’t spread your legs, and you’re still holding part of your weight in your knees because god forbid you suffocate the world’s handsomest genius.
But then, Spencer’s tongue is licking into you with an all-too-familiar hunger, leaving you a puddle of moans. The sound of your pleasure is all he needs to hear as he finds a rhythm that’s slow and full and has you breathless.
“Fuck, that feels good,” you manage. He laughs a little, the vibration shaking through your wet core to your bones as he lifts his head up slightly.
“Told you so.”
He’s back at it before you can retort, adjusting so that his nose brushes your clit with every stroke of his tongue. It’s that sensation that makes your legs go completely weak, and before you have the decency to be mindful of Spencer’s oxygen supply, you’re fully seated on his face. He moans, torturously long and deep.
“Spencer!” you squeak, attempting to lift yourself up again but failing as he grips your thighs, anchoring you in place and sucking your cunt like his life depended on it.
“Taste so good, baby,” he miraculously manages from between your legs, though you’re unclear whether it's the sound of his words or the movement of his mouth against you that lets you decipher his message.
Spencer’s tongue moves like a goddamn paint brush against your walls, practiced and wholly devoted to coating every inch of you. He alternates your clit between his nose and his mouth, coming up for air but not letting up on your body as he sucks the sensitive bud with gentle teeth.
It goes on like this for you don’t know how long, unable to keep track of the time with the way your brain is a fuzzy mess of sensation and you’re chanting Spencer’s name like it’s all you know.
“God, Spence, I’m so close,” you warn him. He responds with a knowing mhm as you clench and flutter around him.
How you ever survive oral sex from Spencer Reid you’ll never know.
Your orgasm floods your entire being, and he takes his time drinking in every last drop before finally coaxing you from on top of him, mindful of your shakiness as he shifts and settles you underneath him. He lines himself with your entrance, peppering you with kisses and gentle musings to distract you from the slight overstimulation.
“So perfect. Did just what I asked, baby. My good girl let me taste you exactly how I needed and now you’re gonna let me fuck you, yeah? Let me keep taking care of you?”
Your moans match his thrusts, which are altogether-consuming but still slow and intimate and full of pleasure. You squirm and weakly attempt to wrap your legs around his waist, needing reprieve but also needing him as close to you as possible.
“I love you,” you whimper, gripping his shoulders as a second orgasm creeps up and out of you. Spencer kisses you deeply as his own shoots through you, searing hot and deliciously grounding.
“I love you too, angel. So much.”
He lays next to you and you curl into him instinctually, burying your head against his chest. He plants a kiss firmly on your hair before whispering:
Pairing(s): Spencer Reid x Reader
Word Count: 2.2k word
Warnings: NSFW, smut, swearing, p in v sex, oral (f!receiving), sort of exhibitionism (getting caught and not caring), idk what else...
A/N: So I've had the biggest writer's block since my Valentine's event and I am just now getting back into it so forgive me if I still don't post too often after this. But thank you for your patience, and please bear with me as I get back in the groove. I hope you enjoy this little fic of my favorite autistic man!
Spencer thinks it's worthy to note that he's not nearly as shy as he used to be—and you would agree. When you met him, he was an anxiety-ridden, can't-look-you-in-the-eye, speaks-too-fast-even-he-can’t-keep-up boy that blushed every time you looked at him.
He's still all of those things but at least now he can kiss you without feeling like his heart might give out—just stutter a bit.
But it's not like it's come easily. You've practically thrown him into exposure therapy when it comes to relative public humiliation. He doesn't mean that you actively embarrass and/or harass him like it's some sort of life purpose—of course not.
But it's important to understand that you are Morgan's best friend and roommate. So when you and Spencer start dating—worse, when you start having sex? He learns what exactly that really means. And so does Derek, who stands in the break room with his favorite mug—courtesy of Penelope Garcia—refilling his coffee for the third time in the past couple of hours.
Emily is armed to the teeth, fully prepared to pick on him when she steps into the room to tease him and his wrinkled, un-suave looking shirt. “Well, you look like something the Strauss dragged in,” she smirks, teeth flashing with her amusement when Derek flinches slightly as he sees her looming over his shoulder. “What's wrong with you?”
She steps to the side just to take him in and really revel in this new, slightly unkempt version of the sleek Derek Morgan. His eyes are marked with exhaustion, and he looks at Emily like he might just pass out right there.
“Pretty boy.” The way he says has so much spite that Emily can't help but snort. He'd scoffed and shaken his head and looked off into space like he was plotting.
Emily takes the coffee pot from his lazily offered hand and starts pouring her own cup. “What? Were they talking all night?” She mixes in her creamer, fully unaware of what she's walking into. “What is it that they even do? Stare at each other and play Sudoku? The occasional shy peck on the cheek?”
“Are you sure you've met my roommate?” he asks, the look on his face way too vexed to simply be you and Spencer rambling at 2 A.M.
It's as if she's being summoned as JJ walks into the room, cup empty and hand already reaching for the pot. “The one dating Spencer, right?”
“The only one I have? Yeah, that one,” Derek says, leaning back against the counter with one ankle crossed over the other.
JJ is unfazed by his tone. “What’d she do this time? Or is it just the shoes again?”
“Actually, it's Spencer this time,” Emily corrects.
“Well, what'd he do this time?”
“Actually,” Derek says, “it's both of them this time.”
JJ rolls her eyes. “Who did what when?”
“Say that five times fast.” Emily laughs, much to Derek's dismay. Which makes JJ laugh, much to Derek's dismay.
“If someone says ‘time’ one more–” He cuts himself off, sighing and hanging his head in defeat as the two cover their mouths and laugh at Derek's general dismay.
“So what happened?” Emily says, refocusing the topic at hand because she really wants to know who to thank for her ammunition and why.
~
Really it's his own fault. At this point of their relationship, Derek should know by now that when it comes to Spencer, there's little that will keep you from him. You've been obsessed with the boy since Derek introduced you, head over heels and so deeply protective of him—in a way that's both fun and dangerous to tease.
Spencer adores it. He can't believe there is someone that loses her mind any time anyone even looks at him the wrong way. He has to reassure you that he's okay just so you don't fight a man who happens to shove shoulders with him on the street.
But it also means there is nothing that will pull you away from him when you've got the pleasure to give him pleasure (and vice versa).
Not when you're straddling his lap in the living room, square on his back on the couch while you make out with him until he's dizzy with adoration.
“You have an entire room,” Derek reminds, brow raised as he looks over at you from where you glance at him over the couch.
“Yeah, but we were already out here,” you shrug. It's not a convincing argument but you apparently don't have time to finish it because you're already cradling his red cheeks and kissing him silly again. He's already forgotten about Morgan, holding you to him like there's nobody there, at all.
And you definitely weren't pulled away when Derek opened the door to said room this morning, a question on his tongue when he foolishly forgets to knock. “Did you–”
Spencer startles in the form of a brief shout and a sharp jolt of shock. You don't share that reaction—in fact, you don't react at all, besides the instinctive shift to cover Spencer with your body, which you continue to rock feverishly back and forth atop him in a desperate search for the ends of your pleasure (which doesn't quite exist when it comes to Spencer).
Panting, your hands on Spencer's shoulders tighten slightly as you roll your hips deeply. “What?” you huff over your shoulder.
“I did not want to see this today,” Derek says, not to himself but to you as a half-gripe.
“You're the one who didn't—mmph—knock.”
“I thought he was gone.”
“Can you please close the door?” Spencer's voice shakes from a moan he tries to keep in as he covers his face with his hands, which had once been on your waist that you now miss. His face is burning with embarrassment, flushed red with humiliation and pleasure alike.
Derek doesn't quite pay attention to him, gaze focused solely on you still bouncing on top of him as you allow little moans to slip from your lips. “So I'm guessing you don't need a ride to work?”
“No, he's got me,” you say, looking down at him with źa smile and gently encouraging one hand from his face to see him. He glances at you, warm with exertion, pupils blown wide with lust, smiling down at him in a way that makes him forget about his current predicament. “Right, Spence?”
Spencer would be thinking of cradling your face and kissing you silly, of hugging you until you run out of breath, of holding your hand and staring into your eyes forever or until some cruel force comes to pull him away—if you weren't currently riding his cock like it's the one thing you were meant to do. Instead, all he can think about is how beautiful you look on top of him, how he wants to spread your pretty thighs and devour you, how he wants to make you cum over and over and over again.
“Yeah,” he nods, panting as he goes. “I got you.”
“See?” You smile at Derek, still rocking and still occasionally whimpering between fast, shallow pulls of breath. “All good.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “Okay, well, I'm gonna go bleach my eyes before work. I'll see you later.”
You bite your lip looking down at Spencer's half-blissed face (the other half is still still pure embarrassment, because shame would insinuate being ashamed of giving you pleasure and that would never be an option). “Look so pretty, honey,” you whisper breathily, partially forgetting Derek's in the room.
And as such, “And my ears, too, while I'm at it.”
“Oh, wait,” you glance over your shoulder once more to catch his gaze. “Can you get me after work? Spencer's got a thing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, already turning to close the door behind him. As he's doing so, a shocked whimper falls from Spencer's lips when the blunt edges of your nails begin to dig slightly into his chest. “Or maybe I'll just gouge ‘em out.”
~
“Oh,” Emily says, brows raised and lips pursed. “I didn't know our boy got down like that. Respect.”
“Yeah, and I didn't need to know how much,” Derek shakes his head woefully as he takes another generous sip from his mug.
“How much?” JJ echoes. “This is a common occurrence?”
Derek drops his face in one hand, like the mere memory of the two of you and your “activities” brings him pain and despair. “You don't know the half of it, because the kid definitely isn't innocent in all this.”
~
Derek nudges your door open when you answer his knock. Glancing around, he notices a suspicious lack of your boyfriend, usually glued to your hip and at your every beck and call. You're alone at your desk, your fingers still on your computer as you work away on something.
“Hey, I was gonna get somethin’ to eat. Where'd the kid go?” His brow furrows as he glances around for a moment.
You look at him with eyes just a bit too wide, lips pursed as you look at him with far too much attention. You smile a bit, your words so slightly slurred. “Oh, he just went to do the same.”
“Weird, I didn't…” Derek watches you, suspicion in his gaze as he looks you up and down, tucked neatly into your desk. “I didn't hear him leave…” He trails off at the end, studying you suspiciously. Your eye twitches lightly, like you're trying not to close it as your fingers tap repeatedly on the desk.
Derek's grimace is strong. “Aww—c'mon, really? Couldn't’ve warned me or anything?”
You drop some of your façade, the remains more for the sake of his sanity than your dignity—there is nothing at all undignifying about being worshipped by Dr. Spencer Reid. Your mouth goes mostly slack, your eyes get droopy. You have enough handle on your voice for now not to moan in his face when you tightly say, “The knock was your warning. Whoops.”
“‘Whoops’? You let me walk in on you fuckin’, and all you say is ‘whoops’?” He rolls his eyes, not nearly as infuriated as he seems (he's so incredibly glad two of the people who mean most to him are together and happy, just sick of witnessing them together and happy).
Spencer doesn't seem like he's letting up anytime soon either. Within the cover of the desk, he spreads your legs just a bit wider as he leans in ever closer to you. You feel the slightest scratch of the barely-there stubble beginning to grow on his cheeks at the inside of your thighs and have to bite your lip to keep your sounds in.
“We're n-not fucking,” you say. “This doesn't count.”
“It does to me,” he raises a brow and crosses his arms over his chest. It doesn't necessarily feel like all this talk-back is really warranted if he's the one standing there talking to you instead of leaving now that he knows what's actually happening.
“Do you need anything, Derek?” The pleasure is creeping up your spine, and you're not totally keen on cumming on Spencer's mouth while Derek Morgan is staring you down. Is this the first time he's “witnessed” one of your orgasms? No. But that doesn't mean it needs to be a common occurrence.
He grabs the door again. “Are you hungry?”
“We're good,” you nod, your voice thin.
He's beginning to pull the door closed when Spencer pulls away from between your legs, looking up at you with glistening lips. “Wait, I'm a little hungry,” he murmurs to you, a shy smile ready on his lips.
You roll your eyes playfully, one hand coming to stroke gently at the back of his as it gently squeezes your thigh. “Ugh, fine. Derek.” He peeks his head in. “Send me the menu, I'll text you.” He sticks out a thumbs up and closes the door.
You turn back to Spencer, whatever is on your computer long forgotten. You smile, “I hate you.”
“Oh,” he says. “I can fix that.”
He spreads your thighs a bit once more and dives between them with the enthusiasm of a starving man to a buffet. His tongue laps at you until you moan too loudly, and then he's sucking at your clit like a straw. “Oh, fuck.”
~
The attention of the three agents is pulled to the door when the perpetrator suddenly walks in with a coffee cup in one hand, a wooden stir in the other, and a really confused look when they're all looking at him with varying expressions.
Spencer looks between them, eyes widening slowly as he nervously shifts from foot to foot. “What?”
Emily and JJ look at each other before falling into a fit of surprised laughter. Derek rolls his eyes, walking past the two, and then past Spencer with a small shake of his head.
His gaze follows Derek until he's behind him, confusion etching deeper into his face as he turns back to Emily and JJ with worried brows. They leave next, and Spencer is left to his own confoundment.
hii I found your blog recently and I love it so much! It’s the first time I make a request so I hope I’m doing it right. Sooo I was thinking about Post Prison Reid x Wife reader.
The idea is like the trend on the TikTok where the bridesmaids give him some random spicy Polaroid of reader during the party after the ceremony and it’s end with him showing her what the Polaroid did to him once they go back home.
That’s the idea but feel free to change it or ignore it if you don’t like. xxx 🩷
The champagne flows, the music is warm and honey-thick, and your cheeks ache from smiling so much—but you wouldn’t trade a second of it.
You’re Spencer Reid’s wife.
Wife.
Not fiancée. Not girlfriend. Not the woman who spent 18 terrifying months holding his hand through prison visitations and counting the days until he could finally come home. You’re his now. Completely. And tonight, everyone knows it.
“Mrs. Reid,” Penelope giggles, slurring a little as she flings an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close on the outdoor patio.
You grin. “You have no idea how good that sounds.”
“Oh, we know.” JJ appears with a devilish smile and a stack of white envelopes tied together with gold ribbon.
“Wait—what’s this?” you ask, reaching for them as JJ’s eyes twinkle with mischief.
“Something special. Just a little something from your bridesmaids. We thought Spencer could use a reminder of what’s waiting for him after tonight.”
You raise an eyebrow, heart thumping. The ribbon unties with a flick of your fingers.
The first envelope contains a Polaroid: you on the edge of the bed in white lace, legs spread slightly, garter strap snapped taut against your thigh. Another shows you from behind, peeking over your shoulder in that barely-there silk robe, your ass round and soft beneath it. The third—oh, God—is you, lips parted around a finger, eyes closed, that same white lingerie just slightly damp between your thighs.
“Jesus,” you whisper.
Emily leans in. “We helped you take them, remember?”
“I didn’t think we were actually giving them to him,” you say breathlessly, fanning yourself.
“Oh, we did.” Penelope winks. “Morgan made the handoff.”
You swallow.
Across the lawn, Spencer looks up from his conversation with Rossi, a Polaroid clenched in his long fingers.
His eyes find yours.
And darken.
There’s no mistaking the sharp inhale of his chest or the way his jaw tightens, his knuckles whitening around the edge of that photo like he might break it in two. He looks at you like a man starved. Like he’s been polite all damn day and has finally—finally—been reminded of what’s his.
You shiver under the weight of that gaze.
And then he crooks one finger.
Back home.
You barely make it through the front door before he’s on you.
Spencer slams it shut with one hand, the other already bunching up the silky layers of your dress.
“You—” he growls, “—have no idea what you’ve done.”
You gasp as he presses you into the door, mouth hot and desperate against your neck. “S-Spencer, the photos—”
“Do you know how hard it was to sit through that reception with my cock already leaking in my pants?”
His voice is hoarse, a little broken. Hungry. You clutch at his lapels as he ruts into you slowly through his dress slacks.
“You were so good,” you whisper, “so patient—”
“I’m done being patient.” He nips your earlobe, one hand fumbling beneath your dress until he finds the garter. He snaps it with a growl. “You wore this for me?”
You nod, gasping when he slides a hand between your thighs.
You’re wet. You have been since the moment you saw that look in his eyes across the lawn.
“Oh, baby…” Spencer moans, pulling back to look down at you. “Did showing me those pictures turn you on?”
Your eyes flutter. “I imagined what you’d do.”
“And now you’re going to find out.”
In the bedroom.
He doesn’t let you undress.
Instead, he bends you over the edge of the bed, hikes your dress high, and pulls the lace of your panties to the side. His mouth is on you in seconds—devouring, hungry, unrelenting.
“Oh—fuck—Spence,” you whimper, grinding back into his face, his nose buried in your ass, his tongue licking deep and possessive like he wants to brand you from the inside.
He pulls back with a wet, filthy sound. “You taste like mine,” he groans, lips shining. “You always do.”
Then he flips you over, shoving his slacks down just far enough to free his aching cock. It slaps against his stomach—thick, flushed, leaking. Your breath catches.
That same Polaroid is still in his hand.
He holds it up beside your face as he settles between your thighs.
“You looked so sweet in this,” he murmurs. “But you’re sweeter like this. Laid out for me. Ready to take all of me.”
“Show me,” you beg.
His expression darkens. “Oh, I will.”
He slides in slow—inch by inch—eyes locked on yours as your walls stretch around him. You moan long and loud, head falling back as he bottoms out.
“You feel like fucking heaven,” he rasps.
You’re too far gone to answer. All you can do is clutch at his shirt and wrap your legs around his waist as he begins to move, deliberate and deep, grinding into that perfect spot over and over again.
Each thrust is a statement. A reminder. You’re his. You always have been.
And tonight, you’re his wife.
Mirror, mirror.
Later, when your dress is finally off and your legs are weak, Spencer pulls you to the floor-length mirror beside the bed. You’re naked but for the garter belt, his hand firm on your jaw as he makes you look.
“See how beautiful you are?” he says softly, his cock pressing against the small of your back.
You whimper as he bends you slightly forward, one hand on your hip, the other fisting his cock. “I couldn’t stop staring at the Polaroids,” he murmurs, stroking himself. “But this? This is what they didn’t see.”
You watch in the mirror, transfixed, as he slides into you again from behind—slow and reverent. You both gasp.
“You look so good taking me like this,” he growls, wrapping a hand around your throat lightly. “Eyes glazed, mouth open—fuck—taking all of me. Like you were made for it.”
“Spencer—” You moan his name like a prayer, your body burning, trembling under the weight of his praise.
“That’s right. Say my name. Let them all hear who made you come tonight.”
His hand slips between your thighs, rubbing quick, desperate circles until you’re unraveling, coming hard with your eyes locked on the image of him owning you in the mirror.
He follows with a hoarse cry, spilling deep inside you as his hips stutter and his lips find your shoulder, moaning your name like it’s salvation.
Afterglow.
Later, tangled in sheets and slick with sweat, he kisses your wedding ring.
“I wanted to marry you the day I got out,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to waste a second more.”
You cup his face gently. “You didn’t. You’re mine now. And I’m yours.”
He smiles—sleepy, soft, sated.
But even as his eyes drift closed, you spot the Polaroid tucked into the nightstand.
And the look he gives you as he slides his hand between your thighs again?
Spencer wakes up with you in his arms—and quietly falls harder.
cw: none major fluff
wc: 819 ( short n sweet)
this is for those who voted this to number 1 in my poll :))
...
You’re lying side by side after a movie—some slow-moving foreign film Spencer had insisted was “essential viewing”—and at some point between the opening credits and the third impassioned monologue, your eyes had fluttered shut.
The warmth of his comforter, the soft rhythm of his voice as he translated in a whisper, the faint smell of clean laundry and old paper—all of it lulls you into sleep before you even realize what’s happening.
It’s not until 3:17 a.m. that Spencer stirs awake.
He blinks at the dim light filtering through his curtains and instinctively reaches for the book on his nightstand, only to freeze mid-movement when he feels it: your weight curled into his side, arm draped across his middle, your nose buried in the rumpled fabric of his shirt.
For a moment—maybe two—he just lies there, motionless and stiff, like his neurons are short-circuiting.
You're in his bed.
You’re asleep in his bed.
Your body is warm and soft against his, and there’s the faintest puff of your breath against his neck with every exhale.
Spencer’s heart starts beating faster.
Not in a panic, not like when he’s faced with danger or stress.
No—this is something gentler, but no less intense.
He’s just never had someone do this before. Fall asleep in his bed like they belonged there. Like he was the comforting one.
He wants to commit every detail to memory.
Not just the way you look—though he catalogues that, too—but the weight of you, the trust in your unconscious touch, the way your legs have tangled with his like it was instinctual.
But of course, this is Spencer Reid. So naturally, his brain kicks into full nerd mode.
“Studies show that physical touch, particularly during sleep, can improve emotional bonding and release oxytocin,” he murmurs softly to himself, eyes flicking to the ceiling as if it holds the peer-reviewed evidence.
You shift slightly, making a sleepy sound—something soft and content—and Spencer’s voice dies in his throat.
He glances down at you. The movement makes his arm brush your waist. You don’t wake. Instead, you snuggle closer.
Spencer’s breath catches.
Oh. Oh no.
He’s definitely not going back to sleep now.
Instead, he lies awake, completely overwhelmed by the chaos in his own head. He wants to touch you—gently, maybe wrap his arm around you, maybe tangle his fingers in your hair—but he doesn’t want to wake you or make things weird or overstep boundaries.
So he settles for stillness.
Still and quiet, except for the occasional twitch of his fingers, like they’re aching to move.
At some point, he starts tracing the ceiling tiles in his head and mentally reciting the Dewey Decimal System, trying to calm his racing thoughts.
You wake up around 8:00 a.m. to the smell of coffee and the gentle sound of pages turning.
Spencer is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back leaning against one of the bed’s many pillows—he has at least eight, in various sizes, none of them matching—and he’s got a hardcover in his lap. He looks up as you stir.
“Oh—um, good morning,” he says, instantly tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.
His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat. “Did you, uh, did you sleep well?”
You smile sleepily, stretching under the covers. “I did. I hope it’s okay I passed out like that. Your bed is absurdly comfortable.”
He nods quickly.
“Yes. I mean, yes, it’s okay. I mean—of course it’s okay. You can sleep here anytime. If you want. Not like any time, I mean, I don’t want to assume you’d want to again but if you did, that would be statistically… I mean—” He cuts himself off with a tight-lipped smile and a visible cringe. “Sorry. Talking too much.”
You giggle, sitting up, the covers still pooled around your waist. “I liked it. You talking, I mean.”
He glances at you, then away, ears a soft shade of pink.
“Thanks,” he mumbles. “Also, uh… you were very cuddly in your sleep.”
You blink, surprised—and then you laugh.
"Was I?”
He nods, looking flustered but determined to be honest. “Yeah. You, um, wrapped around me. Like a koala.”
You snort. “Well, you’re warm. And safe. You make a good tree.”
Spencer’s laugh is quiet, but genuine.
“I didn’t mind,” he adds after a second, voice soft. “Actually, I… liked it. A lot.”
You reach for his hand over the duvet. He lets you take it.
“Next time,” you say, thumb brushing over his knuckles, “you’re allowed to cuddle back.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Next time?”
“Unless you don’t want a next time.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he looks at you—really looks—and there’s something marveling in his expression, like you’ve handed him the moon and told him he could keep it.
pairing- later seasons!spencer reid x plus size!liason!reader
summary- rossi throws a pool party for the team and spencer has a very difficult time keeping his eyes off the new bau hire
warnings- alcohol consumption, it’s late seasons spencer but the og team is there cuz i said so 😚 dating experiences as a bigger girl (mentioned), insecurities as a bigger girl mentioned, but we’re on the self love healing journeyyy 🌈✨🩷, spencer’s a teensy bit insecure of his post prison bod, so much sexual tension??, cute team antics with the girls!!!! making out!!!!!! so much making out!!!!!! touching!!!!! a lil grinding!!!! but no fr fr smut sry yall im a teacher
a/n- besides the fact that the reader is plus size and a woman, there are no other physical descriptors in this fic :D pic is just for bikini reference 😚 dividers from @saradika-graphics !!
you can’t remember the last time you’ve been this relaxed. your skin shines under the golden warmth of the sun, your head spins just slightly from the frozen daiquiris you and penelope have been drinking all afternoon, you’re in your new favorite bikini- hot pink floral print with a matching sarong draped over your hips. your perch yourself on your boss’ teakwood chaise lounge in the midst of his crowded backyard, one of david rossi’s infamous pool parties in full swing.
you lean back and sip your drink, head turning towards commotion at the front gate. cheers and happy greetings are exchanged as someone enters, though you can’t see who behind the partygoers who’ve gathered to say hello. your large sunglasses thankfully disguise the anxiety laced in your gaze, a knot tightening in your stomach when you see who’s arrived- spencer reid. he’s become quite elusive in your time at the bureau, seeing as you were hired on while he was wrongfully imprisoned. he barely talks to you, won’t do so much as look at you when there’s not a case. you still think he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.
his silence is never offensive, just reserved. when you’d first met him, he was stunned at the fact that they’d hired someone new in his absence, very untrusting of outsiders since his time behind bars. it’s understandable, you’d probably react the same way if you were in his shoes. you can’t help but long for his affection, his friendship. hell, you’d take a civil conversation by the coffee pot at this point if it meant getting to know more about the dr. spencer reid.
you see the way he moves with ease throughout the swarm of people at the gate, greeting him with open arms and wide smiles. he’s comfortable as he responds to these people, you can tell from his relaxed shoulders to the smile lines arching his cheeks. you ache to be a part of that, down to the bone.
you shift in your seat, gaze turning to your lap as you awkwardly sip your drink. his presence burns into your stomach, looming over you like a ghost haunting a child in the night. he floats across the pool deck, his shadow leading to the very center-the prime tanning location, penelope insisted- where you two still lay on your chairs.
“spencer!!” penelope squeals, jumping up to give him a hug.
“hey, penelope,” you hear him breathe out, hushed and tender, lips pressed to her forehead.
you adjust yourself to sit up, your feet now slipping into your sandals laid out on the concrete. your palms lay flat on the tops of your thighs as you fidget in your seat. awkwardness twists up your insides as penelope finally lets go of the man, his bright smile fading into a soft grin.
“hi,” he chirps, and it’s the most animated you’ve ever heard his voice. it’s nice, like the soft ring of birds early in the morning.
“hello, dr. reid,” the formality slips off your tongue before you can remember you’re not at work. the title pushes a laugh from deep in his chest, the apples of his cheeks tinting pink.
“oh! oh no, it’s- you can call me spencer,” he presses his lips together in an endearing half smile.
“ok…spencer,” you try the name out. it’s sweet on your tongue, absorbing the flavor of him like a hard candy. you wonder briefly if there are any other sweet parts of spencer that you can sink your teeth into.
you shake out the thought as quickly as it came, once again fidgeting in your chair so you’re facing the pool, and not your intimidatingly tall coworker.
“you should come sit with us, spence!” penelope suggests, eyes wide as she pulls over another chair. three now lay in a row, yours in the middle, and you’re entirely certain you won’t be able to last a millisecond with a shirtless spencer reid tanning next to you.
you lift your sunglasses, piercing penelope with your fiercest glare. she just smirks, cozying back into her spot as she innocently sips her drink. you let your shades fall back onto the bridge of your nose, masking your eye roll. her, emily, jj, and tara all know of the secret flame you hold for your teammate, thanks to a girls’ night featuring too many margaritas.
you couldn’t count on all your fingers and toes the amount of times they’ve all insisted that he’s just shy, that he’s never been good with beautiful women. you know what they’re trying to tell you, you just can’t let yourself give into the thought unless you hear it from him. you’ve grown to love your body, every dip and curve, your stretch marks and cellulite. still, that hurt young girl who never had a date to the school dance lingers inside, deep in a pit in the bottom of your stomach. she can’t let go of the possibility that he can’t look at you because he’s repulsed, turned off.
penelope reaches over and squeezes your hand, somehow able to read your mind. you suppose it might have something to do with the pout weighing down your lips.
“i guess bringing wine was a bad call,” you hear from beside you, and you whip your head towards spencer, nodding towards your frozen drink.
“oh!” you gasp as you connect the dots, “oh, i don’t think so!” your cheeks burn under his gaze, a hint of uncertainty in his big brown eyes, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk to him when he’d opened his mouth. you see the risk he’s taking, your heart pounding in your ears. you immediately jump to validate his worry, “rossi’s never going to complain about alcohol, you know that.”
he softens, his brow relaxing, mouth ticking upward at the corner, “that’s true, though it’s useless bringing any other type of alcohol when rossi gets his frozen margarita machine out,” spencer playfully rolls his eyes.
“that much is true, too,” you giggle, taking another sip of your drink, “he’s got daiquiris in one, margaritas in the other,” you explain, “at one point me and penelope mixed them. would not recommend,” you shudder at the memory, the tart citrus of the margarita was not so complimentary to the sweetness of the strawberry daiquiri.
he huffs out a laugh at that, one that throws his head back, “good to know…would you maybe want to come with me, see what else might be over there?” he nods back to the bar, every inch of its surface covered by a bottle of alcohol, surrounded by huge tables of food.
your heart stops, and it feels like water is swirling through your ears, the pressure pounding in your head, “yeah,” you rush out breathily, “yeah, i’d like that. i think i need a refill, too,” you gesture to your now empty cup, but you stumble as you stand from your chair.
“woah…” he holds his hands out, lightly grazing your elbows to steady you, “you sure? i can get you some water instead, maybe,” his concerned tone tells you that although it sounds like he’s giving you the option, he’s really not. you suppose he’s probably right, he is a genius, after all.
“okay,” you shrug, the mix of vitamin d and alcohol floating to your head, warming you from the inside out, “but only if you get a margarita!” you poke him in the chest, hands on your hips as you stand parallel to him. your eyes bore into his as you take in your proximity, how you can smell the sweetness of his sunscreen. in your tipsy haze, you allow your eyes to linger on his neck, just for a moment, wondering what it’d taste like to lick one long stripe up the length of it.
“deal,” he muses, slipping his own shoes back on before walking across the backyard with you. he lets you go first- ever the gentleman- and hovers his hand over the small of your back, as if he’s anticipating you to fall back into him at any moment.
“you don’t have to do that, you know,” you flip your hair over one shoulder as you gaze back at him. you can see the amusement sparkling in his eye, and your heart thumps against your chest just a bit harder, “i’m totally fi-” you’re cut off with a gasp as your sandal catches onto a rock. you would have planted face first into the tough concrete, had it not been for the long, strong arms that wrap around you in the nick of time, pulling you flush against his chest.
he’s pressed up against your back, his heart thumping a mile a minute against your shoulder, his breathing heavy in your ear, “what was that?” he murmurs into your temple, and you can feel the smirk dancing on his lips. your lashes kiss your cheeks as you let out a heavy sigh, “i’m fine,” you insist, stepping away from him and walking ahead to one of the coolers, a plastic water bottle crinkling between your fingers.
“sure you are!” his tone leaks with sarcasm, shining you his infamous close lipped smile.
you roll your eyes as you approach him at the bar, his clear plastic cup now a pale shade of yellow as his long, deft fingers lift it to his lips.
“thank you,” you relent sweetly, smiling back warmly, your heart fluttering when he returns it, “you know, i think this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me outside of the office,” your forwardness stuns you, another unfortunate symptom of the alcohol you’ve already consumed.
it takes spencer aback as well, his neck lengthening, shoulders rolling with the movement, “oh! yeah, yeah i’m sorry about that,” he responds, sheepish, but genuine, “adjusting back to my old life after being released has been tough. there-uh- there hasn’t been much time for new people in my life recently.”
the energy shifts in that moment, tension percolating between you two. you’re still at the bar, leaning your elbows on it behind you while spencer stands in front of you. very closely, all of a sudden. uncertainty strikes through his chocolate irises like lightning, your heart twisting up in knots at the sight.
“spencer, you don’t have to explain your healing process to me,” you begin, as earnestly as possible. he smiles softly at that. you continue, “you’re plenty cordial to me at work, but i would like to get to know you more, if that’s something you’d feel comfortable with?” your voice is soft, soothing, though your heart is pounding a mile a minute, anxious acidity pooling in your stomach.
you see his eyes light up, a happy little sigh escaping his lips. your cheeks heat up at the endearing noise, and you hold your breath as he prepares to speak.
“you-”
“REID!” he’s barely able to get a syllable out before he’s cut off by derek across the pool deck, seemingly quite upset that spencer has not yet followed through on his promise to swim with him.
he turns to morgan, then back to you, face flushed a furious red. he purses his lips as he tries to think of what to say. you do him one better.
“let’s go!” you chirp sweetly, heading toward the pool area, “i’ve been meaning to dip my toe in all day!” you walk in front of him, letting him watch you as you strut away.
spencer takes a minute as she walks away, his eyes scanning up and down her frame shamelessly. her bright pink bikini hugs every peak and valley of her soft figure perfectly, showcasing her body in ways he never thought he’d be lucky enough to see. the skirt draped over her hips sways hypnotically as she walks, his eyes practically rolling out of their sockets at the sight.
he saunters behind her slowly as they cross the pool deck, reveling in the show she’s giving him. his eyes grow lazy, addicted as he watches her, his tongue lolling out lazily to wrap around the plastic straw in his margarita. he sips the cold drink, the alcohol immediately rushing to his...other head, clouding his judgement until his brain is fuzzy. he finally reaches the chair penelope grabbed for him, and stops in his tracks.
she’s laid out on her own chair, mere inches from his, her body now laid out on display. she’s leaning back on her elbows, her legs extended in front of her, one knee propped up just slightly. she’s unreal, just breathtaking. his heart is beating a mile a minute the closer he approaches, and he nearly vibrates out of his skin when he sits next to her, their arms inches apart. it’s like his ears are filled with water, the world moving around him in slow motion as the only thing taking up his expensive brain is the bombshell next to him.
he’s never this needy, this gluttonous, but the sight of you electrocutes his heart, a shocking desire he feels from the deepest corner of his heart to the very tips of his toes. he can’t help but wish he’s on your mind as much as you’re on his. she may have put on a cute act by the bar, but she was right for calling him out, too.
he doesn’t speak to her, but it’s not for lack of want. when he was in prison, all he wanted was to go back to the bau, to see his family. when that day finally came, she was the last thing he’d expected. her eyes paralyzed him that day, wide and bright as she cordially welcomed him back to his position. whenever she catches his eye from his desk, or walks past him, allowing him a whiff of her shampoo, he’s frozen all over again. he feels like he’s 13 again, and he just got assigned to sit next to the prettiest girl in his ap calc class. giddy, fluttery, terrified.
he takes one last sip of his drink, for now, as he knows derek is very impatiently awaiting his company in the water. he instinctively reaches to pull his shirt off, his fingers dancing along the hem. he stops himself when his eyes catch his tummy, protruding over his swim shorts ever so slightly. he’s never really struggled with his self image all that much, but the little pouch wasn’t there before he was wrongfully arrested, so it’s a new part of his body he’s made adjustments to. the next coming of aphrodite laid up next to him was not helping his confidence, acidic nerves bubbling in his stomach.
his gaze snaps over to her, sighing a breath of relief as he sees her focus on penelope. he drops his hands, turning to wade into the pool steps. derek meets his gaze with a knowing smirk, heat spreading over his already pink cheeks.
“morgan-”
he can barely get out another syllable before he’s cut off, “let’s go, pretty boy!” he calls from the water, where he impatiently waits, “cmon, you can race me for penelope’s diving sticks,” he flashes him a classic derek morgan smile, drawling a soft, sarcastic ‘loverrr’ that only spencer can hear as he further enters the pool.
“that only sounds fun for you!” spencer flicks water at his friend, who laughs and splashes back, “what, you just gonna get your shirt soaked?” morgan asks. spencer freezes, the water only reaching his knees.
he knows derek’s only asking out of concern, he probably thinks spencer forgot. he’d never put him on the spot like that if he really knew why he’d left it on. his heart rate picks up again, and this time it’s dread pooling in his stomach, overthrowing the desire his organs housed previously. his head is fuzzy, and that’s why he acts on immediate impulse, his head whipping back to her and penelope sitting on their chairs. she’s looking right at him, of course, anxiety flooding his chest like a tsunami.
his hand involuntarily drifts to his tummy as he fiddles with a button on his hawaiian shirt, but before he can do anything, she stands. he’s wholly unprepared for what happens next- she loosens the tie holding her sarong together, and exposes even more of herself for him. she looks him right in the eye as she patters across the deck to the pool. he’s mesmerized at the light jiggle in her thigh as she walks, unable to stop his brain from imagining a scenario in which he could give her skin another reason to do that.
his gaze follows her shamelessly the entire time she moves, until she’s on the same step of the pool as him. his mouth is slightly ajar, no doubt looking like a love struck cartoon character with hearts beating out of his eyes. she seems unphased as her delicately manicured fingers lightly graze his forearm.
“i can put it back on your chair, if you’d like?” she asks sweetly, melting his heart into a lovesick puddle.
something about the way she’s looking at him, eyes soft and so, so genuine, puts his worries at ease. his fingers reach to the top button and pops it open, all while they stare each other down like they’re in an interrogation room. butterflies swarm in his gut, palpitating his heart as the tension builds, thickening with the heat.
she wades deeper into the water, his eyes glued on her figure. the water covers her up more and more, and he gulps, shaky fingers fiddling with the rest of the buttons. he’s thankful derek and penelope are too tipsy and too invested in timing his speed underwater. if they noticed this near pornographic level of tension between him and her, they’d make sure everyone else on the pool deck did, too.
she moves like she knows he’s watching her, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder, taking a peek at spencer right as he’s peeling his shirt off. he feels more exposed than ever now as he slips his arms out of his sleeves. he turns to toss the shirt onto the chair, and as his body twists, he notices the way his tummy pudges over the waistband of his shorts, the little rolls that weren’t there before prison.
he feels the water ripple around him, and he turns to find her approaching the steps he’s been frozen on for almost five minutes now. they don’t speak as she exits the pool, his brow incredulous, “you’re getting out?” he stutters, wide eyed and completely caught off guard with the way her hips sway as she climbs the steps.
she stops and turns to him, one leg straight on a step, the other reaching up to the next one. the angle she’s at makes his head spin, her figure twisting into the most delectable position, it’s a challenge for his eyes to not dip below her waist.
“i just wanted to cool off a bit, i’m gonna lay in the sun a little more while it’s still light out,” she responds sweetly, and he feels like a deer in headlights.
she wraps herself in a towel as spencer turns to derek, who had seen the entire interaction, if the smile on his face was anything to go by.
“you told me you’d swim with me!” derek accuses teasingly, pointing a finger at spencer.
spencer rolls his eyes and trudges the rest of the way in, “i’m not racing you.”
as the sun started to set, rossi and hotch each took their stance at the grills in his backyard, doling out hotdogs and hamburgers to the hungry partygoers. you sit at a long table, family style with the rest of the team. an old university sweatshirt is draped over your frame, your bathing suit now dry from your earlier escapade in the pool.
penelope immediately started whispering to you the moment you’d exited the pool, eyebrows raised like she’d seen a unicorn, “what was that?” she whispered, spencer and derek then occupied with their boyish argument.
“you saw that too?” you’d hissed back, relief flooding your chest at her validation.
“yes! girl, if you don’t do something about that…” she insinuated, and you bit your lip, glancing back at spencer. you remember the way the sun shone off his shoulders, the way his back muscles flexed as he swam. now, you sit at the team’s table, thinking about what kind of scratches you’d be able to leave on that back, how it would flex under your palms.
you’re ripped from your thoughts by the chair next to you scraping against the concrete. your head snaps up to meet the very object of your thoughts, your face immediately heating up.
“oh-sorry,” he smiles sheepishly at the grating noise, making sure to lift the chair slightly as he pushes himself into the table.
“that’s ok,” you smile sweetly, unable to be annoyed with him, “how you feelin’? derek didn’t tire you out too much?” you nudge his shoulder lightly with yours, and he blushes at the touch.
“no, no, not really,” he shakes his head, smiling down at the picnic table, “it was fun, but i missed you at the bar a few times after that.”
your heart races at the lightness in his tone, his lips flirtatiously curling upward, “well, if i’m not mistaken, some doctor told me that i needed to drink water earlier this afternoon,” you respond.
he laughs at this, and it emboldens you so much, you can’t help but reach forward, your fingers deftly moving a strand of hair that’s fallen in front of his eye. he smiles sheepishly at this, and you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of making him blush. you’re staring at each other in a comfortable silence, like two lovesick teenagers at the lunch table. it’s awkward and nervous, but giddy and exciting all the same.
“you look really pretty when you’ve spent all day in the sun,” spencer comments, and the breath is stolen from your lungs, “you’re glowing in a way i haven’t seen at the office.”
“well, being under fluorescent lights all day provides a much different glow than lounging in a chair all day,” you instinctively inflect, a natural reaction you’ve developed to compliments over the course of your life. you’re trying to be better at that, though, so you sigh, and continue, “thank you, though. that’s very nice.”
he nods at this, seeming very pleased to have made you happy. your attention is then stolen by the commotion of the team, drinks and laughter melodically flowing throughout the yard. aaron walks around taking a plethora of pictures, waiting until everyone is seated to get his own plate, of course. he’s parallel from you and spencer, his phone pinched between each of his pointer fingers and thumbs.
“smile!” he chirps to you and spencer, and the space immediately fills with tension once more.
you revel in it this time, leaning into him with a cheesy smile for the picture. his arm instinctively comes up to wrap around the back of your chair. you wish it was your shoulders, but you applaud his attempt at being respectful, despite your near debauchery by the pool. you scoot closer just slightly, wide-smiling cheeks press together as aaron clicks the photo.
you catch the glint in your unit chief’s eye as he takes the photograph. he’s profiling your body language, a knowing smirk teasing at his lips. he makes eye contact with you, raising his brows before moving on to snap pictures of the rest of the team. you take pause after the interaction, the breath being stolen from your lungs at the validation.
the rest of the meal was more of a group event, but neither you nor spencer minded. you love moments like this with your team, where you can be with each other when the circumstances aren’t so grim. as always, you’ve ended up in a juicy gossip sesh with the girls- jj, penelope, emily, and tara. you’ve talked about everything from the hottest people of the 80s and 90s- emily and tara gushed over jessica lange and jodie foster, jj and penelope both said leonardo dicaprio, while you opted for river phoenix- to how nobody’s replaced the oat milk in the work fridge. jj and penelope were particularly heated about that one, you, emily, and tara were just fine with your half and half, though.
your tipsy cackling rings through the air, mixing with the sound of jack and henry’s laughter, the low, booming voices of your superiors at the other end of the table, the clinking of glasses. the sun sets, a vision of pinks and oranges. the darker it got, the more people begin to filter out his back gate, nearly everyone was sent with tupperware full of leftovers in their hands, the classic signature of a rossi dinner party.
soon enough, it was dark, and the only people left were the team. the humidity that clings to the night air moves the party back over to the pool. some were swimming, but your toes were dipped in the water, still sitting with your girls. you catch spencer sitting on the other side of the deck, nursing a beer with derek and luke.
he’s already looking at you when you see him, a dangerous glint in his eye that wasn’t there earlier this afternoon. the pool lights cast him in a soft, angelic glow, illuminating the teasing in his brown eyes. your heart speeds up, breath hitching as his lips curl up in a smirk.
you’re eventually swayed back into the pool with the girls for a bit. it’s not long before the girls start heading inside, but it’s long enough to complete two essential tasks- the first is filling them in on everything you’d been through with spencer this afternoon alone.
you tell them about the stares, the moment in the pool, him peeling his shirt off like some action star. all four of them have extremely loud verbal reactions, penelope even splashes the water out of reflex. it draws the eyes of the rest of the team, and you have to stop yourself from glancing over at spencer, attempting to maintain a semblance of subtlety. they volunteer to eventually herd the rest of the group indoors, so that way you can have some time alone with spencer. butterflies swarm your chest at the thought, and you can’t help but take a glance at him. he’s still looking at you, the fire in his eye burning brighter.
the second task of the evening included penelope assigning mermaid tail colors to each of you, of course. each of you squeal and laugh with girlish glee at the idea, you so rarely get moments like these to be so carefree and silly. she hits the nail on the head with her assessment, too- she gives tara purple, emily is green, jj’s blue, you’re pink, and lastly, she reserves yellow for herself. the five of you laugh, reminiscent of years prior, when your biggest worry was if you’d all get your favorite color. you all did this time.
after that, emily and jj were among the first to head inside, aaron and dave following soon after. penelope and tara followed, ushering derek and luke inside as well. you stay in the pool, though, eyes burning a hole through spencer’s. you can see him gulp, and you swim to his side of the deck. you fold your arms on top of each other, ensuring your chest lays nicely atop your arms. he swallows again, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
“hi, spencer,” you nearly whisper, your tone delicate yet cunning, “wanna come in for a bit? we can go inside and dry off after?” you surprise both spencer and yourself with that last question, the insinuation burning white hot between you.
he nods absentmindedly as he stares at you, his eyes nearly going black as he, once again, tantalizingly peels his button up off. he takes the long way, teasing you no doubt, rounding the edge of the pool to the steps. you meet each other in the middle, breathing heavy between you two.
“hi,” he whispers.
“hi,” you whisper back.
then, his lips are on yours.
it’s all encompassing, the soft touch of his lips flooding your senses until you’re dizzy. his large hands grab hold of your face, parting his lips just so, inhaling more of you with each shaky breath. your arms snake around his neck, pulling him closer. he moves his hands underneath the water, practically moving in slow motion as he pulls your thighs up so that your legs hug his waist. he rubs patterns into your plush skin, squeezing and massaging your softness.
“you’re so beautiful, it drives me absolutely insane,” he confesses, breathless between kisses.
“you really think so?” you whisper, tucking your head in the crook of his neck to pepper some soft kisses there. his hands creep up your thighs until they’re cupping your ass, reveling in you as his fingers sink shamelessly into your softness. his neck tastes like chlorine and sunscreen and you could eat him up. you sink your teeth into his soft skin, just slightly, and he lets out a small yelp.
“hey!” he whines, and you creep your hand up the back of his neck, lightly tugging on the hair there. you pull your head out of his shoulder to see his eyes desperate as you do it, a light ‘ooh!’ escaping his lips. you kiss him again, and again, and again. he’s just about to slip his tongue into your mouth, when an insanely bright light is shone on the two of you.
“hey, lovebirds! get outta my pool!” david shouts, and you can hear the team wolf whistling from inside.
you bury your face in the crook of his neck once more, mentally preparing yourself to face your team inside, soaking wet in a bikini, hand in hand with dr. spencer reid.
📚 Context: Spencer and BAU!Reader have been married for a couple years (1-2 years).
📚 Author's Note: N/A. 😭😭
It was an ordinary Thursday off—well, as ordinary as life could be for two members of the BAU. The day was a rare gift, a full 24 hours to just be. To enjoy each other’s company without the looming threat of an urgent call or a new case. You’d both taken the morning to run errands, wandering around Union Station in D.C., stopping at a bookstore where Spencer got lost in searching for a childhood favorite.
You’d been having a peaceful day, no bad guys to chase, no profiles to crack, just the quiet hum of people living their lives.
It was all so normal.
“I’ll be right back,” you told Spencer as you headed off toward the pharmacy a couple of stores down. “I just need to grab something real quick. I’ll be back in 10 minutes.”
He looked up from a dusty pile of old books, his face lighting up with that familiar, concerned expression. “Do you want me to go with you? I don’t mind. We can come back afterward,” he offered, his voice soft, like he was afraid you might be up to something.
You smiled at him, trying to keep things light. “It’s fine, Spence. You’re busy looking for that book, remember? I’ll be quick.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding, but he still didn’t look entirely convinced. You could tell he wasn’t really buying it. But you needed to go alone. The moment felt important.
The pharmacy was quiet, early enough in the day that you could walk the aisles undisturbed. You moved slowly, scanning the shelves filled with pregnancy tests. Your stomach did flips as you looked at the colorful boxes, each promising to give you answers, but none of them were going to answer what was truly weighing on you.
You’d missed your period last month. You’d been feeling off for a while now. And while a part of you wanted to be excited—wanted to believe this was a new chapter, you were also terrified. Your heart raced as you picked up one box, then another, then another. Three seemed like a good number, right? Just to be sure.
But what if you weren’t ready for this? What if Spencer wasn’t? He was always so thoughtful, so meticulous, you couldn’t help but wonder if he would be ready for the kind of commitment being a parent would require. You didn’t want to disappoint him, but you weren’t sure if you were ready either.
As you stood there, reading the back of yet another test, you bumped into someone.
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t—” You froze. It was Spencer.
He was standing there, his brow furrowed, holding your wallet with an almost confused look on his face. “The last time I checked, this wasn’t the menstrual aisle.” His voice was a little playful but laced with concern. “You forgot your wallet when we left the car,” he added. He held your wallet out to you like it was just another ordinary moment.
Your heart stopped. You tried to hide the tests behind your back, your cheeks flushing crimson. “Uh… just taking the scenic route,” you muttered, not quite meeting his eyes.
Spencer’s brow quirked, and even though you could tell he was trying to keep it light, there was a spark of suspicion in his gaze. “You’re not menstruating, at least not for another two weeks. And I bought you pads last week. Are you sure you’re okay?”
You gulped. Spencer knew you better than anyone else, and you had a hard time hiding things from him. You wanted to say something, anything, to distract him, but your hands felt clammy. He was already piecing it together.
He gently grabbed your hand and pulled the pregnancy tests into view. His eyes softened, and you saw that faint flicker of realization. His voice dropped to a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the moment. “Are we going to be parents?” He didn’t sound scared or nervous, just in awe, as though he had been waiting for this moment in some quiet corner of his mind for a long time.
You swallowed hard. “I know we didn’t plan on it for a couple more years, but I missed my period last month.” You trailed off, feeling the weight of the moment settle between you.
Spencer’s expression softened even more. There was no fear, no judgment, just a warm, gentle understanding that left you breathless. He cupped your face with one hand, thumb tracing the outline of your cheek as if grounding you, reassuring you that no matter what came next, you weren’t alone.
“Sweetheart,” he began, his voice steady but filled with emotion, “I’ve wanted to be a dad for a long time. I’ve thought about it, what it would be like to raise a little one with you. I don’t want you to feel scared, or like you have to carry all of this alone. You don’t. We’re in this together, okay?”
You felt your eyes well up with tears at the sincerity in his voice, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to speak. Spencer, as always, seemed to know exactly what you needed. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“It’s okay to be nervous,” he said, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “We’re both nervous. But I know that I want this with you. I want to be a father with you. I just need you to know that I’m here for you, no matter what you decide.”
Your heart fluttered at his words. He was so sure, so confident in his feelings, but also so incredibly patient with your uncertainty. That was what you loved about Spencer—his ability to make everything feel like it would work out, no matter the obstacles.
You nodded slowly, feeling a weight lift off your chest. “I do want it. I’m just scared,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. “I’m scared we’re not ready.”
Spencer smiled, a small but reassuring smile, before placing a soft kiss on your lips. “Change isn’t always a bad thing. It’s just different. But we can do this. We’ll figure it out together. And if it’s tough, we’ll lean on each other. We always do.”
With his hand around yours, Spencer led you back to the counter, the three pregnancy tests now carefully tucked away in a small paper bag. He paid for them, then gently guided you toward the door, the weight of the moment settling between you, but also a sense of peace.
At Home
Back at your townhouse, the tests sat on the kitchen counter. You couldn’t help but pace. Spencer watched you, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. He didn’t push you. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace.
“I’m nervous too,” he admitted, his voice soft. “But whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”
You nodded, resting your forehead against his chest. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” you whispered.
He smiled and pulled up a chair for you at the kitchen island, making you sit and face him. “Hey,” he started, his tone trying to lighten the mood. “You’re working yourself up over something you don’t have control over.”
You stopped walking and gave him a look. “Spence, we both know damn well that we did have control over what happened and what will happen.”
He chuckled and sat down next to you, pulling you gently into his arms. “I mean, technically we don’t have control over it. Whether or not a sperm fertilizes an egg is random. Sure, we can try to time things, but the actual fertilization process? That’s all up to chance, which sperm makes it, and whether the egg is viable at the right time. It's not as simple as we think.”
You couldn’t help but let up a little, laughing despite yourself. “It still doesn’t change the fact that this is all happening because of… well, you know you kind of had to–,” you said, giving him a pointed look.
Spencer raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a sly smile. “Oh? So I’m the reason we’re here, huh?”
You rolled your eyes but smiled, a little tension easing. “Well, you did have to, you know... make it happen."
He chuckled, his hand resting gently on your back. “I can’t exactly say I regret it.”
You laughed for real this time, the warmth of his embrace making everything feel lighter. He kissed your forehead, his fingers tracing soothing patterns across your skin, grounding you as you both let the reality of the moment settle.
“Let’s just take a breath, okay?” Spencer said softly, his voice full of sweetness. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together.”
You smiled, your heart lifting as you leaned into him. You were far from being sure about everything, but in that moment, surrounded by Spencer’s love and patience, you felt like you could take the next step.
The timer for the tests went off. You both stood and walked toward the bathroom door, but you stopped before you opened it.
“I can’t look,” you whispered, suddenly overcome with nerves again.
Spencer squeezed your hand gently. “We’ll look at the same time,” he suggested.
With a deep breath, you both counted to three, then looked down at the tests.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
Spencer let out a breathless laugh. “We’re going to be parents,” he said, voice thick with joy.
You turned to him, eyes shining. “We made a life, Spence.”
He placed another kiss on your cheek, the soft brush of his lips making your heart flutter. “So... are we gonna have to move?” he asked, his voice light but filled with that underlying excitement you couldn't quite ignore.
You smiled, thinking ahead to the future—a tiny room with a crib, little baby shoes scattered around. It was a thought that still felt surreal. “Probably,” you said, your smile widening. “We only have a two-bedroom townhouse. We’re going to need a couple more rooms.”
Spencer’s eyes lit up with something between joy and playful curiosity. He stepped a little closer, his hand finding the small of your back as he tilted his head to look at you, his gaze intense but warm. “A couple more rooms, huh?” he teased, taking a step closer, his breath warm against your skin. “How many to be exact?”
You rolled your eyes, but the playful smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Well, how many do you want?”
Spencer’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. He leaned in, just close enough that you could feel the heat from his body, his thumb gently brushing against your cheek. He kissed you then—soft, sweet, and entirely teasing—a brief, chaste kiss, but one that made you feel like you were the only two people in the world.
When he pulled back, he was still grinning, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of love and playful mischief. “I’m sure we’ll figure that out, eventually.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if sharing a secret just between the two of you.
You leaned into him, letting the laughter bubble up from your chest. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you close, as if you were both savoring the moment before it could slip away. You rested your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your ear. His hands gently stroked your hair, fingers combing through it in a slow, calming rhythm.
The world felt simple and perfect in that moment—just the two of you, with all the joy and uncertainty of the future ahead, but knowing that, no matter what, you'd be okay.
“Yeah,” you whispered, the smile still on your lips. “We’ll figure it out, Spence. Together.”
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