you're an angel, i'm a dog or you're a dog and i'm your man you believe me like a god i destroy you like i am
➜ welcome to my blog !
#SPENCELORIA
technically my side blog… shows up as @spence-loria when i follow back!
ceo of kicked puppy bf spence. she/her. twenty. bisexual. lover of all things cute and pink. moa. dive. in the pitt. extremely criminal minds pilled, i fear i am a chronic rewatcher.
꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜
➜ this blog contains sexual content, and occasionally explores darker themes!! (18+)
asks are always open, fic requests will likely only be used as a guided inspiration of sorts… my bad
meet neighbour!reader shes my baby… please treat her kindly world!
CM MLIST ꩜ S.R MLIST ꩜ MISC MLIST ꩜ MOST RECENT FIC ꩜ KINKTOBER ꩜ NEIGHBOUR!R MLIST
taken anons ! 🧸, 🦇,🧁…
writings + rambles… i talk alottttt (i just want an outlet to voice my freaky thoughts im sorry..)
bdsm friendly… bring it on • MAJOR sub reid truther + insane lesbian prentiss advocate and hotch fangirl
RULES !!
HARD NO >.< ... scat, ingesting urine, male reader, masc reader, character x character, character x oc, illegal age gap, slave, pregnancy, major gore, major character death, baddd angst (can u tell i hate writing sad stuff…), suicide, noncon, daddy kink…, period sex, a/b/o
mystery fic revealed! event info here ˋ°•*⁀➷ 【 500 celebration 】
summary: your best friend gets drunk for the first time.
relationship: spencer reid x bombshell!bff!fem!reader
genre: fluff
word count: 3.3k
tags: alcohol consumption, reader pees, MILDLY suggestive thoughts (spencer is a man okay) but nothing explicit, brief suggestive content (mention of sex and offer to strip), cuddling, idiots in love
author's note: it has been three months since i proposed the blind fics ikik but FINALLY here is one!!! hope you enjoy <3
You're reclining on Derek Morgan's couch, head tipped toward the ceiling. With your eyes shut, long lashes fanned across your cheeks, anyone else might suspect that you've fallen asleep in the middle of his party. Spencer, however, is attuned enough to your physiology to realize that you're just blissfully tipsy; your breathing, while slow and even, is still not settled enough to be attributed to anything other than a generous helping of alcohol.
Despite the warmth coating your insides, your buzz is nothing compared to the euphoria that the team's resident genius is currently experiencing. For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid is properly drunk. Stumbling, slurring, uninhibited drunk. He's never been all that interested in alcohol, but he was feeling particularly anxious about tonight's gathering, and decided to nurse a seltzer to ease his nerves. Then, you had walked in, and the can had mysteriously drained itself.
Spencer hadn't intended to get shit-faced, really. He was, foolishly, hoping for some liquid courage to bolster his microscopic amount of confidence in talking to you. It's not that he lacked experience in that department; the two of you actually spoke more than anyone else in the BAU. Unfortunately for him, though, that talk tended to involve lots of intense friendzoning. Not long ago, you went so far as to refer to Spencer as your "platonic soulmate", and he had subsequently faked a virus so he could go home early and mope.
Now, his morbid depression is a thing of the past. Even if he ends up with his head in the toilet by the end of the night, at least he can say that his head was, at one point, resting in your lap. Granted, Spencer doesn't recall making a conscious decision to drape himself across the sofa like this, but he's not complaining in the slightest. Quite the contrary, in fact. Spencer is beyond content, unabashedly studying the features of your peaceful face. His vision is swimming a bit, but even with his impaired perception, he's confident that he's never seen anyone more perfect.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” he murmurs, voice barely carrying over the thrum of the music. For a moment, Spencer thinks his sentiment hasn't reached your ears, but then your full lips are tilting into an amused little smile.
Your eyes flick open, quickly finding his. His gaze is hazy, his blinking languid as he stares up at you. The dim lights sparkle in your wide pupils, reminding him of the night sky. Spencer thinks that the moment can't get more enjoyable than the pleasure of admiring your beauty, but then you coo, “Aren’t you cute.”
Spencer is far too hammered to note the mocking edge to your words. You're far less inebriated than he is, so you draw the (seemingly reasonable) conclusion that his words are fueled by the slew of alcoholic beverages currently flooding his bloodstream. You're wrong, your praise offered in jest, but it inspires his face to brighten nonetheless. His lips part in a lazy grin. “You think so?”
“Of course I do, silly," you affirm. Spencer's not really sure what's so "silly" about the words tumbling from his mouth, but your voice has that familiar, soft lilt to it as your lips form the word. You sound so pretty, he finds himself not really caring if you meant to insult him. Then, your slender fingers are brushing his flushed skin, sweeping an errant strand of hair away from his forehead. You smooth his hair away from his face before cupping the back of his head. Lost in the feel of your gentle touch, it takes his sluggish brain far too long to comprehend that you're trying to coax his head out of your lap.
Why are you pushing him away? Did he do something wrong?
Spencer flops beside you on the couch, dizzy from the sudden postural change. Only your shoulders are touching now that he's upright, and he's unable to prevent a pathetic pout from crossing his face. Immediately, he mourns the loss of physical contact between the two of you—a mere shoulder won't suffice.
Spencer shoots you a longing glance, incapable of masking his dissatisfaction. You quickly assuage his concerns by declaring, "I gotta go to the bathroom." Pleased that he hasn't done anything to upset you (and fantasizing about the prospect of resting his head in your lap again once you've returned), Spencer relaxes into the cushions. You softly pat his knee before rising from your seat, and in response to your touch, a wonderful warmth tingles beneath his skin. "I’ll be right back."
You haven't even taken a complete step toward the restroom before Spencer's stomach drops. “Wait!" he desperately exclaims. You look at him over your shoulder, brows furrowed in question. His voice borders on a whine as he pleads, "Don’t leave me here.”
You roll your eyes at his pathetic display, stating flatly, "Well, I’m not gonna take you in with me.”
Spencer blinks. “Why not?”
“I don’t need someone watching while I piss, Spence," you scoff, thoroughly entertained by his drunken curiosity. He sounds so genuinely surprised by your lack of invitation, as if the two of you regularly accompany one another to the bathroom. At your refusal, his gaze drops to the floor, and you can practically see the cogs in his mind trying their damn hardest to spin.
He looks up at you through his lashes, still frowning like a petulant child. Innocently, he swears, “I’ll turn around.”
Cursing his stubborn nature, you shake your head incredulously. Knowing that any further rebuttal is futile, you groan, “Fine.” With exaggerated annoyance, you snatch his hand out of his lap and tug him into a standing position. He sways, struggling to find his balance. Once you're certain that he won't tumble to the floor, you start weaving through the crowd, pulling Spencer along behind you.
Before long, the two of you have navigated the throng of partygoers and are entering the empty hallway. With the flashing lights and booming music behind him, Spencer's muddled senses become more aware of the feeling of your hand in his. Your hand is warm, and he hopes that his skin isn't too clammy or callused. He'd hate to disappoint you, even in a seemingly trivial way like this. He's almost tempted to ask, but you always tell him that he needs to worry less about what others think of him, so he resists that urge. Instead, he muses, “I like when you hold my hand.”
“That’s nice, dear," you reply absentmindedly, opening the bathroom door. Spencer's chest squeezes with affection at your response. He's no stranger to your pet names, yet they never fail to fluster him. He hums happily, wondering how he can coax another sweet sentiment from your lips.
As he steps into the cramped restroom, you lock the door behind him. Wasting no time, you grab his shoulders and guide him into the corner. He trips over his own feet as he turns to face the wall, smiling to himself when your grip tightens in an attempt to steady him. “You stand here," you command. "No peeking.”
“Okay," he nods, squeezing his eyes shut. It's not like he can see anything from this angle, anyway, but he figures you'll appreciate the effort.
“Good boy," you praise, squeezing his shoulders affectionately before striding to the toilet. It's fortunate that he's facing the corner; surely, you would tease him if you could see how splotchy his face has become as a result of your compliment.
The rustle of fabric is agonizingly loud in the otherwise silent room. Spencer is keenly aware of the fact that you're only inches away from him with your panties pulled down your legs, and he feels kind of perverted for sexualizing a fundamental bodily function, but it's not the function he's interested in, in his defense. He's so occupied with contemplating your undergarments that he doesn't even realize you've finished until the sink is running.
Spencer swallows thickly, awkwardly shuffling his feet as he turns around. You're utterly oblivious to his stiff posture, too busy drying your hands to psychoanalyze him. He shifts on his feet, preparing to exit the room once you've finished, but he freezes as your fingers dip into the neckline of your top.
Before he has time to question what he's witnessing, you've procured a thin tube of lip gloss. You're swiping the wand over your lips when you meet Spencer's stunned gaze in the mirror. You shrug nonchalantly. "No pockets," you say by way of explanation, smacking your lips together with a pop.
Spencer rubs an eye, nodding in acknowledgement of your reasoning. He hopes that the action looks as casual as you're acting, but he's sure that his amazement is likely written all over his face. He's never been such a… boy around you, but something about the past five minutes has reduced him to precisely that.
Satisfied, you cap your lip gloss and shove it back in your shirt. The sight of you reaching between your breasts was already erotic enough, but then you're adjusting your bra, fiddling with the underwire and ensuring that the cups lay exactly right. Spencer gapes at your reflection, eyes glued to your chest like a fucking pervert. He quickly snaps to attention when you face him, desperate to appear less… ogly.
“How are you feeling, my friend?” you ask, smiling brightly. Spencer forces his bleary eyes to meet yours, as tempted as he is to watch your shimmery pink lips open and close.
“G-good," Spencer stammers in response, coughing a bit in an attempt to clear his dry throat. Your eyes glint with fondness as you beam up at him. His eyes may be struggling to focus, but they still trace your delicate visage with rapt fascination. Suddenly, his self-doubt surrenders to overwhelming, alcohol-inspired bravery. Before he can bite his tongue, he blurts, “You’re so pretty.”
Your lips fold into a tight line, a sight that suggests you're suppressing a giggle. As always, your voice sounds melodic as you reply, “Thank you, Spence," but your words are laced with placation. Maybe he's misinterpreting something, but Spencer's distraught by the thought that you may not believe him.
“I think you’re the most beautiful person," he murmurs, speaking with as much conviction as can be conveyed through slurred syllables. He locks eyes with you, willing you to trust in the sentiment.
“Oh, stop it," you say instead, playfully rolling your eyes and lightly poking his shoulder.
“I’m serious," he complains, voice bordering on a whine.
He's trying to be romantic. Why are you being like this?
“You’re also plastered, hon," you answer sympathetically.
Oh. That's… fair enough.
“But—" Spencer attempts to argue, but then he realizes how lightheaded he feels, and then he starts worrying that he might pass out (or otherwise embarrass himself) in front of you, and then he forgets what he was going to say in the first place. Sheepishly, he admits, "The room is spinning a lil’.”
“Oh, Spence," you grimace. "Maybe we should take you home.”
“Okay," Spencer easily agrees, finding no reason to challenge you when he'd happily follow you wherever you go.
A bit later, you're carrying Spencer through his front door, encouraging his slumped form to inch forward.
“Home sweet home," you grunt, struggling to keep him upright. You have one arm supporting his waist, and the two of you are slowly shuffling toward his bedroom while he leans most of his body weight on your side.
“Mhm," he hums, too thrilled by your presence in his apartment to realize that his tall stature threatens to smush you with one misstep.
“Here, sit," you encourage, though the words have barely left your mouth before he's sprawling across his bed, the mattress bouncing beneath him. Certain that he lacks any sort of dexterity at the moment, you look at his Converse and mumble, "I’ll get those.” You're speaking more to yourself than him, of course; he's halfway to Dreamland already.
You plop down on his floor, guiding his hightops into your lap so you can untie the laces. Not entirely sober yourself, you fumble a bit with the knots before they come loose. Slipping his shoes off his feet, you deposit them in their rightful place in the closet, not wanting Spencer to trip over them in case he gets up in the middle of the night. At this point, he's breathing so deeply that you're almost positive he's asleep until he mumbles, “Thanks.”
“Please tell me you can handle the rest," you say half-jokingly, gesturing to his rumpled clothes. He squints at you through half-lidded eyes, watching as you cross the room to open his dresser.
“Mm, I can do it," he drawls, despite making no effort whatsoever to sit up.
“I’ll get you some water, then," you decide. After rummaging through a few drawers, you find some pajamas and toss them onto the bed. "Put these on.”
“Yes… ma’am," Spencer manages around a dramatic yawn. You snort, ignoring the affectionate pang in your chest.
It's nothing, you tell yourself. You just find him cute 'cause he's being a silly drunk.
Right.
You bustle around the kitchen, filling a glass of water before returning to his bedroom. You chuckle at the sight before you, but your laughter has the slightest hint of exasperation. Your eyebrows furrow as you ask, “What happened to your pants?”
Facedown on the mattress, Spencer grumbles, “Too hot.”
He may be your best friend, but he's a bit too modest to ever be seen in his boxers. Well, except for right now. He managed to change out of his party outfit, but evidently only got so far as tugging on a worn t-shirt before collapsing back onto his bed.
“Oh, you’re gonna be so embarrassed about this tomorrow," you muse. Poking him in the back, you offer, "Here, drink up.”
“Okay," Spencer obeys, slowly rolling over and somehow managing to sit up. He blinks sleepily, staring off into nothingness as he raises the cup to his lips.
“I’m gonna go crash on your couch in case you start hurling," you announce as he drains the glass and sets it on his nightstand. Ruffling his hair, you request, "Sleep on your side, yeah?”
Spencer's face contorts with confusion as he looks up at you. He looks certifiably adorable, with his tousled hair and big brown eyes. “But… I have a big bed.”
“You do indeed," you acknowledge. "Enjoy it.”
“You don’t want to sleep with me?” he says sadly. When you offer him a blank expression in return, he huffs. “Oh. Heh. It sounded like I meant intercourse.”
“Too sophisticated to say ‘sex’, huh?” you tease.
“No!" he retorts. With a dramatic shudder, he clarifies, "It just sounds so… dirty.”
“Uh-huh," you say flatly. Crossing your arms, you pointedly ask, "Why, exactly, are you trying to get me in your bed?”
“The couch is uncomfortable," he replies.
“Right," you hum.
“I just want you to sleep well," Spencer promises, injecting an exaggerated amount of sweetness into his statement. He lifts his eyebrows and shrugs, failing miserably to feign nonchalance.
“Thoughtful," you deadpan. "Total bullshit, but sweet.”
“Nuh-uh! I’m not lying," he insists, far too defensive to be believable.
“Yes, you are," you argue. "You know how I can tell?”
“How?” Spencer asks, crossing his arms defiantly.
You lean down. “‘Cause when you lie, your nose scrunches up the tiniest bit." You tap the tip of his nose. "Right here.”
He glares at you for a moment before relenting. With a hefty sigh, he confesses, “Fine. Maybe I think it would be nice.”
“To sleep together.”
“Yes!”
“You’re practically naked," you point out, gesturing to his bare legs.
Spencer's gaze falls to his boxers, seemingly losing himself in contemplation before he looks up and declares, “I can get completely naked if you want.”
“That was so totally the opposite of what I meant," you chide, reaching up to rub your temple.
“Oh," Spencer mumbles. Without another word, he crawls under the sheets, staring up at you like a child waiting to be tucked in. You stare back, motioning for him to turn on his side. He groans loudly, but obediently rolls over. You move his trash bin to the side of the bed before heading for the door, feeling his eyes on you the entire time. Before you hit the lights, you hesitate.
“Can I borrow pajamas?” you ask.
Spencer drops his head onto his pillow and, for a second, you think he might ignore you. Then, he sighs tiredly and croons, “If you sleep in my bed.”
“Insatiable," you complain. "You’re gonna cuddle me to death, aren’t you?”
His head pops up, his wide eyes finding yours across the room as he replies unconvincingly, “No…?”
You shoot another unimpressed expression in his direction before huffing, “Fine. I suppose I accept your conditions.” You figure that sharing a bed is innocent enough; besides, there's no chance you'll allow him to try anything more in his drunken state. If he wants to make a move, he'll have to man up and do it while he's sober.
With that in mind, you head to his ensuite bathroom to change. A few minutes later, you emerge with a fresh face and a ridiculously comfortable ensemble, his shirt and sweatpants swallowing you. Spencer's curled up, facing away from you. Once again, you think he's knocked out until he murmurs, “Beautiful.”
“You should be sleeping," you chastise, stomach flipping at his compliment.
“I was waiting for you," he replies with a sense of longing that suggests a deeper meaning.
“Well, here I am," you reply, flipping the light switch and sliding into bed beside him. You settle on the far end of the mattress, leaving a generous amount of space between the two of you. Your weight has barely hit the sheets before Spencer sighs.
“Come closer," he pleads quietly.
“Don’t tickle me," you warn, though you don't have any serious reservations about moving.
“Of course not," he promises, sounding absurdly serious. It's as if you've just asked him to keep a government secret.
Something about the quiet calm of Spencer's dark room makes you feel safe enough to shift closer. You're just sober enough to register the significance of this moment, to process that this seemingly innocuous decision holds the power to forever change the trajectory of your relationship.
Still, you shift closer.
You're laying on your back, Spencer's breath puffing against your cheek. It's too dark to see each other, but he's somehow sensed your movement. In one swift motion, he throws his arm over your chest, tucking himself against your side.
He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, and you can feel his throat vibrating as he slurs, “See, this isn’t so bad.”
“You’re squishing my boobs," you say flatly in response, not wanting to admit how delightful this arrangement truly feels.
“Sorry," Spencer immediately apologizes, muscles tensing as he prepares to reposition himself.
You find his forearm in the inky black, holding him in place. “No, don’t move.”
“But you said—”
“Don’t argue with me," you scold.
“Okay," Spencer acquiesces. He relaxes into your side once more, his weight pressing comfortably against you.
“Good boy.”
Your praise renders him speechless for a moment, but you can feel his lips tick into a soft smile against your shoulder. After several seconds, he interrupts the silence to declare, “This is even better than holding your hand.”
Your heart swells with adoration. You grin into the dark, in pleasant disbelief at how the night has unfolded. Instead of voicing an equally mushy sentiment, you tease, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have a little crush on me, Spence.”
His breath catches in his throat, but instead of sputtering a retort like you expect, he exhales in a rush, whispering, “It’s not little.”
also. like this is so weird but i feel like a few years ago a total switch flipped in my brain. like i used to genuinely only have friends online and be super shy and shit and then all of the sudden i became extremely extroverted like overnight and now i find it crazy easy to make friends literally everywhere and never talk to anyone online like what happened
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.8k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: mdni, smut, early seasons Spencer, nerdy dirty talk, not proofread sry
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "Statistically, the success rate of practical application following targeted research is significantly higher than trial and error alone."
Or: Spencer Reid has been reading. A lot. And he'd like to put his findings to the test.
𝐚/𝐧: Tumblr already decided this post needed to be reviewed while it was still in my drafts; apparently, a picture of female anatomy is a step too far.
It’s not as if the two of you haven’t done this before.
You’ve lost count of the evenings spent tangled together on his worn couch, the springs groaning softly beneath you both, or pressed into the rumpled sheets of your bed, your hips cradled in his lap as you grind down against him between slow, languid kisses. His hands always find your waist like it’s the only anchor he trusts—fingers splayed wide, thumbs tracing absent arcs through the fabric of your shirt, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you by touch alone. As if you might dissolve beneath his palms if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
But that’s usually where it ends.
There’s always a point—somewhere between the deepening breaths and the small, punched-out sounds you can’t help but swallow against his mouth—where Spencer’s rhythm falters. You feel it before you see it: the subtle tension bleeding into his shoulders, the way his clever fingers tighten, then freeze, like a clockwork mechanism seizing up. His eyes, half-lidded and dark, flicker with something caught between want and worry—a war he’s been fighting longer than you’ve known him. And then, softly, almost apologetically, he’ll ask you to stop.
You always do. However hard it is—and God, it is hard, your pulse hammering between your thighs and your lips swollen and slick, your body singing with a need that doesn't understand the word stop—you pull back without question. You untangle yourself gently, press a steadying palm to his chest, feel the rabbit-fast beat of his heart beneath his ribcage. Because crossing Spencer’s boundaries isn’t something you’re willing to do. Not for this. Not for anything. Not ever.
You’ve told him as much, more times than you can count. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. And he’d nodded, relief softening the sharp lines of his face, and kissed your temple with something like gratitude. You’d meant it then. You mean it still.
So when tonight's make-out session stretches past its usual breaking point—when his hips roll up to meet yours instead of faltering, when his breath comes in sharper, hungrier gasps and he still doesn't say the word—you're the one who pulls back first.
You blink down at him, chest heaving, your own body thrumming with a need you've gotten very good at setting aside. The absence of his mouth against yours feels almost cold. "Spencer." Your voice comes out rougher than you intended, scraped raw at the edges. "Do you… want to take a break?"
He doesn't answer right away.
His lips are reddened, kiss-swollen in a way that makes your stomach ache. His hair is already mussed from your fingers—dark strands falling across his forehead, endearingly dishevelled. And for a moment, he just looks at you like you've asked him a question he's been rehearsing an answer to for weeks. There's something fragile and fierce warring behind his expression, something that makes your heart pick up for an entirely different reason.
You can practically see the gears turning behind those dark eyes. Cataloguing. Calculating. Deciding.
Then his hands slide from your waist to your thighs. Slower than usual. Deliberate. As if he's crossing a line he's drawn in his own mind a hundred times before and only now mustering the courage to step over. His thumbs press small, warm circles into your legs, just above your knees—right where the hem of your shorts ends, skin meeting skin—and the gesture is so tender and so unexpected that your breath catches and holds.
"No," he says quietly. And then, even quieter, like a secret he's only just admitted to himself: "But there is something I want to try."
Your stomach flips. Every nerve ending in your body seems to wake up at once, pulling taut like piano wire. You should ask what. You should slow this down the way you always do, give him an off-ramp, make sure he's sure. But his hands are still warm on your thighs and his gaze hasn't dropped—he's looking right at you, steady and certain in a way you've never seen before—and the word leaves your mouth before you can think better of it.
"Anything."
That one word hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. You mean it. God help you, you mean it in ways you didn't fully realize until just now.
And then Spencer Reid—your sweet, shy, flustered-by-eye-contact Spencer—slides off the couch.
It happens so smoothly you barely register the movement at first. One moment he's beneath you, all long limbs and hesitant hands, and the next he's lowering himself to the floor. His knees press into the worn carpet. His palms come to rest on the tops of your thighs, grounding himself. Grounding you.
He settles onto his knees in front of you, looking up with those dark, clever eyes, and the world seems to tilt sideways.
For a second, you forget how to breathe.
He looks up at you from the floor, and there's something new in his expression. Something you've never seen before. Not hesitation. Not the familiar, flickering worry that usually clouds his eyes when things go too far. Instead, you see the same focused, methodical attentiveness he brings to a cold case or a complicated text—except softer at the edges, warmed by something that looks almost like reverence. Like you're not just someone he wants. Like you're someone he's been trying to find the courage to worship.
You watch, frozen, as his hands move to your knees. He's gentle—he's always gentle—but there's a new confidence in the way his fingers curl around the curve of your legs, parting them just enough. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Deliberate.
He leans in like he's approaching something precious and terrifying all at once—like you're a first edition he's afraid to breathe on, or a butterfly whose wings he doesn't want to bruise. And then he presses his lips to the inside of your bare leg, just above your ankle.
Your breath stutters.
Then higher. His mouth finds the delicate skin behind your knee, soft and warm. Then higher still—your calf, your kneecap, the sensitive inside of your thigh where the muscle jumps beneath his touch. Each press of his mouth is softer than the last, barely there, like he's tasting the air around you more than your skin. You can feel the soft whisper of his exhale through the thin fabric of your shorts, warm and unsteady.
He stops just shy of where you're already aching.
So close you can feel the heat radiating off his lips. So close that a single shift of your hips would close the distance. His breath fans over you—deliberate now, you realize with a jolt. This isn't hesitation. He's waiting. He's learned that this does something. That anticipation is its own kind of touch. That the things left unsaid, untouched, unfinished can burn hotter than anything else.
When he looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes, your heart nearly stops.
His pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing the warm brown. His lips are parted, slightly shiny from the trail of kisses he's left up your legs. And there's a flush climbing his neck, spreading across his cheekbones—not the embarrassed pink of someone caught off guard, but the deeper color of someone who knows exactly what he wants and can't quite believe he's allowing himself to have it.
"I haven't done this before," he admits.
His voice is steady—steady in that way he gets when he's reciting something he's memorized, facts and figures and dates locked behind that beautiful, brilliant brain—but you can hear the vulnerability underneath. The slight crack at the end of before. The way his throat works as he swallows. The quiet fear that you might say no. That he might get it wrong. That he might disappoint you.
Your chest clenches so tightly it almost hurts.
Every instinct screams at you to ask. Are you sure? We can wait. You don't have to do this. You want to make sure his first time going down on someone is for the right reasons—because he's ready, because he wants it, not because he feels pressured by some invisible clock he's invented in his head. You want to protect him from himself, the way you always have.
But then you really look at him.
Not at the Spencer who stammers and looks away. Not the Spencer who freezes mid-kiss and asks you to stop. This Spencer—the one on his knees in front of you, hands steady on your thighs, gaze unwavering—is someone you've only ever glimpsed in fragments. A version of him he's been hiding, maybe even from himself.
The flush climbing his neck. The way his fingers are trembling just slightly against your skin—not from fear, you realize. From want. The raw, open hunger in his expression, the kind he usually hides behind blinks and book spines and sudden changes of subject. The kind he's been suppressing for so long that finally letting it surface looks almost painful.
And you realize: he's already thought about this.
Probably researched it exhaustively. Probably read articles and watched videos and memorized techniques like he's studying for an exam he desperately wants to pass. Probably lay awake at night running through every possible scenario, every way it could go wrong, every way he might fail. Because that's who he is. That's how his mind works.
But he's here anyway.
On his knees. Looking up at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking himself for months.
"I did some research," he confirms, as if reading your mind. One corner of his mouth lifts—almost shy, almost smug, a combination that shouldn't be as devastating as it is. "I'd like to test that knowledge out. If you're amenable."
A laugh escapes you, breathless and half-disbelieving. Amenable. Only Spencer Reid would use the word amenable while kneeling between your legs with his mouth inches from where you need him most. Your fingers curl into the couch cushion beneath you, knuckles going white, because if you don't hold onto something, you're going to float away entirely.
"Statistically," he adds, tilting his head slightly—and God, the way the light catches his eyes, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip—"the success rate of practical application following targeted research is significantly higher than trial and error alone. For most skills, but particularly for—"
"Spencer," you interrupt, because if he keeps talking in that low, measured voice while looking up at you like that—like you're a problem he's desperate to solve, a text he's dying to decode—you're going to combust. Right here. On his couch. And then neither of you will have to worry about what comes next.
He stops. Blinks up at you, those dark eyes suddenly uncertain, like he's worried he said something wrong. "Yes?"
You cup his face in your hands. Your palms cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and you tilt his gaze up to meet yours. His skin is warm beneath your palms—warmer than usual, almost feverish—and you can feel the slight tremor in his jaw where he's holding himself back. Holding himself together.
"Who am I to deny a man of science?" you say softly.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then his smile widens—just for a second, bright and boyish and so achingly him—before his expression softens into something more focused. More intent. The shift is almost physical, like watching a camera lens click into focus. He's not Spencer-who-stammers anymore. He's Spencer-who-solves, Spencer-who-observes, Spencer-who-memorizes-every-detail-and-doesn't-forget.
He lowers his head again.
And this time, when his mouth meets your skin, there's no hesitation.
The first touch is just his lips—a gentle, almost chaste press against the damp fabric of your shorts. You gasp anyway, hips jerking involuntarily, and his hands tighten on your thighs to steady you. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't apologize. Doesn't ask if you're okay—not yet, anyway. Instead, he does it again, slower, like he's testing the texture, the taste, the exact sound you make when he applies pressure just there.
Your head falls back against the couch cushion.
He hums. Thoughtful. Curious. And you feel him catalogue your reactions—the way your thighs tensed, the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers tightened in the cushion. Filing it away in that brilliant mind of his for later reference. For optimization.
Then his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts. He tugs gently, not pulling yet, just testing—giving you time to stop him if you want to. And when you don't, when you just lie there trembling and waiting, he looks up at you one more time.
His pupils are blown wide now, dark as coffee, nearly swallowing the warm brown. His lips are parted, slightly shiny, and there's a flush creeping down his neck that you can see even in the low light. He looks wrecked already—and he hasn't even touched you yet.
"Can I?" he asks. Softly. Earnestly. Like he's asking for something far more significant than permission to take off your shorts.
You nod. "Please."
He pulls them down—slowly, so slowly, like unwrapping something precious, something he's been saving for months. The fabric slides past your hips, your thighs, your knees. You lift your hips to help him, and the movement makes you acutely aware of how bare you are beneath him now, how exposed, how completely at his mercy.
Your shorts pool around your ankles. He sets them aside carefully—folded, you realize distantly, he folded them—and then his hands return to your legs. Palms flat against your bare thighs now, skin to skin, and the warmth of him seeps into you like honey.
You're trembling. Actually trembling, in a way you haven't since your own first time years ago. And Spencer must feel it, because his thumbs stroke slow, soothing circles into your inner thighs, and his voice is impossibly gentle when he says, "You're shaking."
"So are you," you whisper back.
He looks down at his hands. They are shaking—just barely, a fine tremor running through his fingers where they press against your skin. He stares at them for a moment, almost surprised, like his body is betraying a truth his mind hasn't caught up to yet.
His fingers spread across your inner thighs, holding you open with a gentleness that makes your throat tight. There's nothing clinical about the way he touches you now—no detachment, no careful distance. Just Spencer, trembling slightly, looking at you like you're something sacred.
And when he leans in—when his mouth finally, finally makes contact with nothing between you but air and want—the noise that leaves your body isn't quite a moan and isn't quite a sob.
It's relief. It's disbelief. It's the sound of months of stopping and starting and pulling away finally breaking open into something that feels like coming home.
He starts with broad, experimental strokes of his tongue—tentative at first, then more confident as he maps you in real time. You can feel him learning you with every pass of his mouth: the way you gasp when he flattens his tongue, the way you arch when he circles, the way your thighs try to close around his head when he hits a spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
He's paying attention. Of course he's paying attention.
This is Spencer Reid—the man who can read a thousand-page case file in an afternoon and remember every detail months later. Every hitch of your breath, every involuntary clench of your fingers in his hair, every whispered there or like that or God, Spencer—he files it all away, adjusting pressure and pace and placement like he's running a diagnostic. Like he's determined to get an A+ in this particular subject.
And God, he's going to.
"You're doing so good," you breathe, because he needs to hear it, because his hands are shaking against your thighs and you know him well enough to know that somewhere behind that focused expression, he's terrified of messing up.
You feel him shudder against you. A full-body tremor that travels from his shoulders down to where his mouth is still moving, still working, still worshipping. His rhythm doesn't falter. If anything, it sharpens—like your praise hit something deep in his chest and lit a fire there.
He finds a spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. Your back bows off the couch. A sound tears out of you that you don't recognize—high and desperate and loud—and he stays there, relentless and focused, his hands anchoring your hips to keep you from squirming away from the overwhelm.
You can't squirm. Can't think. Can't do anything but feel—the hot slide of his tongue, the soft scratch of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the way he moans against you like he's the one being touched.
You're close embarrassingly fast. Minutes, maybe less. All that built-up tension from months of stopping short, all those nights you went home with your pulse still hammering between your thighs—it's all rushing to the surface at once, unstoppable now, inevitable.
"Spencer," you warn, voice cracked and desperate. "I'm—I'm gonna—"
He doesn't stop.
He doubles down, moaning against you like he's the one coming undone, and that sound—that low, guttural, hungry sound—sends you over the edge with a cry you don't bother to muffle. Your hips buck. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your fingers twist so hard in his hair you're half-convinced you'll pull some out.
And through all of it, he stays. He stays. His mouth stays soft, his hands stay steady, and he works you through every wave and aftershock until you're twitching and gasping and completely, utterly wrecked.
"Too much," you pant, finally, pushing weakly at his head. Your arm feels like jelly. Everything feels like jelly. "Spence, too much."
He pulls back immediately. Instantly. Like a switch flipped.
And when he looks up at you—chin slick, lips swollen and shining, eyes dazed and dark and impossibly proud—you've never seen anything more beautiful in your entire life. His cheeks are flushed high and pink. His hair is a disaster—tangled and sticking up in seventeen different directions from your fingers. There's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, soft and wondering, like he can't quite believe he got to do that.
"How was that?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. Cracked at the edges, raw in a way that makes something warm curl low in your belly all over again. "For a first attempt."
You laugh—breathless, disbelieving, giddy—and tug him up by the collar of his rumpled sweater. He comes willingly, collapsing half on top of you in a tangle of long limbs and warm weight, and you wrap your arms around him before he can even think about pulling away.
"Spencer Reid," you say, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then his nose. Then his mouth—God, you can taste yourself on his lips, salty and sweet and him, and the way he sighs into the kiss makes your toes curl. "You are not allowed to call that an attempt. That was a masterclass."
His smile, when it comes, is shy again—the return of the Spencer you fell in love with, the one who blushes when you hold his hand too long in public. But his eyes are bright. Glowing, almost. Like you've given him something he didn't know he was allowed to ask for.
"So you'd be open to more research?" he asks, and there's a hopeful lilt to his voice that makes your heart clench.
You pull him closer, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The movement presses his hips against yours, and you feel him—all of him, the hard evidence of just how much he enjoyed himself pressing against your thigh. He's aching. Has been this whole time, apparently. And instead of asking you to take care of it, instead of even mentioning it, he just... gave. And gave. And gave.
Your chest feels too full for your ribcage.
"Dr. Reid," you murmur against his ear, smiling when he shivers. "Write the grant proposal."
He laughs—a real laugh, bright and surprised and so wonderfully him—and buries his face in your neck. His breath is warm against your skin. His weight is solid and perfect on top of you. And when he presses a kiss to the spot below your ear, soft and lingering, you feel him smile.
do any of u remember my penelope pfp era when i first started this account… i dont really talk about myself much but we are crazy similar. i love her so bad
spencer reid can't help but hold your hand while he eats you out
spencer reid has never felt a touch quite as sanctifying as yours. his hands on you, yours on him, it set his core ablaze and sent his mind spiraling into the clouds.
he'd never been this close with anyone, this raw—intimate in a way that felt as though he allowed the sparks of your finger tips to slip behind his supple flesh and eviscerate his soul.
spencer was touch starved, so to speak, prior to you. he was foolish, harbouring a paralyzing aversion to something he was now ravenous for. if past him only knew that touch was something far, far more than a transfer of pathogens, simply transactional.
touch had become something that could never truly fill him, something that made his stomach swarm in a gluttonous guilt, something that he would always crawl back to.
he'd lay behind you tracing lazy shapes onto the fabric of your sweater, letting his hungry digits snag on the warmth of the texture, the warmth of you below it.
he'd slide his hands under the cloth, not to tease, just to feel. your breath inhaling and exhaling in his palm, examining the rise of your ribs with the percision of a physician, not allowing a single expansion to slip past his inspection.
spencer would absorb you through your flesh, as if your light reset him in some way, rejuvenating his spirit via skin to skin contact—mending him in that curative way only you were capable of.
and now here he lay, beneath you, where he knew he should be—your soft thighs caging his cheeks in a comforting pressure only you could create. his heaven on earth.
he watched as you writhed against pale sheets, the sheen of your skin illuminating in the natural light, an ethereal glow that starkly contrasted the dull air surronding you, a permanent halo.
he analyzed every twitch of your torso, his ears perked at every groan that bellowed in the pit of your core, he smelt the primal heat of your essence before him. how easy it was for spencer to lose himself in you.
he gripped onto the fat of your flesh, as if you were a dream that would vanish the second he dared to think of letting go. his touch burned so perfectly, boring deep into your skin in practiced familiarity, you would revert back to this moment each time you saw the evidence, spencer's signature branded to his muse.
you threw your head back, hips rolling to an uneven rhythm, as spencer felt the irregular beat of your heart on his tongue, the slick of your adoration nourishing him in a way nothing else could. it was too much, overwhelming in a way that threw your soul out of orbit, spencer saw stars in your eyes.
it struck you then, his palm raised, flat against yours, slotting perfectly where it belonged. warmth radiated up your spine, grounding you on the cusp of your high, pulling your mind back into your body so you could feel, really feel, every slip of a figure eight spencer curated, poetry receited on your most sensitive cluster of nerves.
"i love you" spoken wordlessly with his eyes as he watched your dazed expression return back to earth. you, his very own angel blessing him with your presence. the greatest honour bestowed upon him was to hold your hand in his.
written in the app so plz ignore any like formatting or grammatical errors its 1:35am and im sleepy turned on (dangerous combo) anyway spencer’s love is 150% this disgustingly devout. im so stupidly horny and in love with him i need to order 14 more of these right now. help! my pussy is sobbing!!!!
also i saw this exact like concept in a porn clip like a year ago and was foolish enough to LOSE IT? i genuinely have not been the same since that day. if someone can find a link i will genuinely kiss you on the mouth please do not be afraid to send me any similar video links im so deadass i need this. i think about it all the time. its all i want. please. thank you love you bye !!
