THINKING ABOUT : spencer reid is a man of science, but what happens when his girlfriend is a girl of whimsy ?
pairing : spencer reid x whimsy!reader (fluff, established relationship)
notes : a little something based off this lovely request, while i procrastinate on writing my series... please reblog to boost it if you enjoyed, it's the best way to promote a post on tumblr !!
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ a whimsical person is unusual, playful, and unpredictable, rather than serious and practical. typically, spencer likes to rely on the dictionnary for better understanding of the world around him - but when it comes to the definition of this term that fits you so well, he doesn't quite agree with it.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ unusual, that you are. in the best way, constantly pushing out of the comfort zone he'd always hid in before he met you. you're not afraid of drawing attention, highlighting the joyful glint in your eyes with bright, vibrant colours and a laugh so melodic he'd record it just to play it over and over while he's away from you.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ opposites attract, to share the purest and most evident form of love he's ever felt. you never fail to impress him (and keep him on his toes) by adding a touch of sprinkles and glitter everywhere you go.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ like... literally. he was amused the first time you insisted on preparing his lunchbox, when he opened it in the middle of the neat and boringly pallid bullpen just to be met with heart shaped berries and his favorite cheese toastie cut to form a star.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ you taught him that maybe, life is meant for exploring new things and never settling for the simple routine he thought he'd forever endure. some things are repetitive still, and he loves every second of it.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ the weekly horoscope you read out loud at breakfast on sunday mornings while he opts for the newpaper, sipping on some new matcha recipe you decided to try, or the yoga sessions you've tried to get him to join, and failed. he'd rather let you flourish in your interests without imposing, and observe from afar with hearts in his eyes.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ for a boy who was forced to grow up too quickly, who never got to experience the magic of childhood to the fullest, he could swear you're straight out of a fairytale, and adores how you could turn the most mundane thing into something beautiful, healing his inner child in the process.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ the simplicity of things when it's just the two of you contrasts with the professional aspect of his life - one that he doesn't like to share with you, unless you coax him to open up - and he loves how you don't expect anything in return, you just want him to exist in your bubble of magic and optimism.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ now, he knows what it's like to have someone patch his physical wounds (with pink bandaids, too) and the ones in his heart with a deep conversation late at night over a cup of herbal tea, in the thrifted mugs you collect routinely.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ he knows that life can be beautiful when you take time to observe the smallest details, like the warmth and sweet scent of the woman laying next to him in bed, under floral sheets and a dozen of pillows.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ and he wants this, he wants you so badly he never wants to think about the possibility of his life without you in it. when you ballet flats join his worn out converse in the entryway, and your baby pink blouses find their spot next to his cardigans in the closet, he realizes he'd do anything for the girl of his dreams to stay around when he's awake.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ you've mentioned a couple of times the idea of a cottage in the countryside, filled with animals and freshly baked goods you'd want to share with him one day. with children, as well, though you didn't need to speak it into existence to know he wants that as much as you do.
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ and maybe, just maybe, that possibility of pure bliss and lifelong happiness lingered in his brain longer than it should've. for the first time in what feels like forever, spencer reid has hopes of a life and a home outside of the BAU, and it's just a matter of rings and paperwork until that fantasy could turn into reality.
getting reqs from my favourite writers always makes me feel so giddy, thank you for trusting me with this lovely idea :3
synopsis: in which spencer will do whatever he can to make sure you’re comfortable- and to maybe spoil you just a tad- during your pregnancy.
pairing: husband! spence x pregnant! reader
genre: fluff !!
wc: 1.3k
notes/tags: talks of pregnancy symptoms (cravings, pain etc), reader is a little grumpy and dramatic but they’re allowed to be !! spencer is a sweetheart as usual, girl dad! spence !!
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it helps promote the fic so much !!
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You blink awake to the very unwelcome feeling of throbbing across your lower back. It was becoming a common occurrence, but today it seemed to have a particular vengeance against you. Groaning, you shielded your eyes with one hand from the invasive glow of the sun, using your other to try and soothe the angry aching.
“Good morning.” A familiar gentle voice sounded from the doorway. You craned your neck to find Spencer standing there, the picture of warmth and comfort already dressed in a thick, cosy cardigan and with lazy curls framing his lovely face. “How are you feeling?”
“My back is broken.” You grumbled, attempting to roll over fully in his direction, before deciding the effort was just too much. He would have to come to you if that’s what he wanted.
“That’s no good.” He answered, and you heard the soft shuffle of socks on the carpet as he made his way over. “You think some breakfast might help?”
You whined like your heart had just been shattered, squeezing your eyes shut as you dramatically buried your face back into your pillow. “We ran out of those fancy muffins from the bakery across town. I think I’ll die if I eat anything else.”
The shuffling stopped in front of you, a shadow falling over the sunlight that had still been glaring through your closed eyes. Then, so subtly- as if you were imagining it in some hungry mirage, the sound of a paper bag rustling. Curiosity piqued, you let one eye pop open, but all you saw was your husband looming over you, one hand behind his back.
“Watcha got?” You mumbled half into the pillow, arching a brow that had him smiling down at you.
He crouched down, your view shifting from the loose threads of his sweater to his pretty face, his soft hair blocking the sun’s mean glare once and for all. Spencer leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, to the tip of your nose and finally to your lips as they at long last curled up into the smile he’d been waiting for.
“Enough flattery,” you lazily nudged at his shoulder, “what’s behind your back?”
Without a word, he revealed the paper bag with a flourish, beaming as your eyes lit up with recognition at the logo on the front. As if on cue a delicious aroma filled the air, the smell of fresh muffins (almost) alleviating the ache in your back as you scrambled to sit up.
“Woah, easy.” Spencer set the bag down on your nightstand before practically cradling you in his arms as he helped you.
“No time for easy.” You shook your head, reaching out for the muffins. “I can’t believe you drove all that way just for these.”
“I’d get you anything you want, all you need to do is ask.” He says, and you know he means it. After all, last week he spent hours driving store to store to store desperately searching for an out-of-season candy you’d been crying about the night before- and by some magic he’d found it. Spencer had never once made fun of your cravings, even when they were a little on the odd side. Even when they played with your emotional state like a ping pong ball, back and forth over and over. In fact, he loved to explain what was making you crave, which hormones wanted which chemicals and why they were so darn specific about it, anything to make this whole pregnancy thing feel just a little more normal for you. And no matter what, he always went to the ends of the earth to try and get them for you.
You took your first bite, the muffin melting into your mouth in a heavenly mix of sugar and warmth and all that is good in the world. You sighed, blissfully settling into your pillows. When you were in a better mood you’d make sure to spoil him rotten with compliments and cuddles, you made a mental note of it. One hand absentmindedly drifted down to your bump, thumb slowly strumming a melody across the fabric of your pyjama shirt.
“Better?” He asked gently, taking the empty wrapper from you and leaving it on the nightstand.
You tried to nod, but a sudden jolt of pain, sharper than you’d felt all morning, shot up your back. Wincing, you felt your shoulders tense as your back arched in a useless attempt to run away from the feeling.
“Why is she doing this to me?” You whimpered as Spencer rounded the bed, climbing in beside you.
“I know, honey, I know.” He cooed as your eyes scrunched shut. His hand found your back, fingers warm as they slipped beneath the hem of your shirt and massaged circles into your skin. The pressure helped a little, or maybe it was just him. “It’s normal, she’s just letting you know she’s growing properly.”
“No, she’s not.” You grumbled, but you melted into his touch all the same. “If that’s what she’s trying to do, she should have the decency to be gentler about it.”
Spencer huffed a laugh beside you, his hand still moving rhythmically against your skin. “The back pain comes from hormonal changes, from your muscles-“
“Loosening and changing and getting ready for birth etcetera, etcetera.” You nodded. “You’ve told me before.”
Spencer spoke again, his voice quieter and a touch more delicate. “I just don’t want you to worry.”
“I know.” You said softly, reaching to move his hand from your back and draping it over your stomach instead. Instinctively, his fingers cradled the curve of your bump, moulding to the shape of it like they were always meant to be there. “Do we really have to go to the doctor’s today? I don’t wanna get up.”
“I know,” he murmured sympathetically, his hand now sliding over yours on your stomach, “but we get to see her today. That’s exciting, right?”
“Yeah.” A fuzzy feeling spread in your chest at the thought. The first time you’d seen her on that screen, Spencer had cried, and you were sure you would too this time. You could feel her in there, squirming beneath your joint hands, a weird feeling at first but one that had quickly become a source of comfort. You were just beginning to feel better when a sudden pain shot itself through your back once again and you groaned. “You’re sure you can’t go for me?”
“You know I would if I could.” He sounded genuinely sad as he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “I’d do this whole thing for you if I could.”
You turned your head, staring up at him with what you were certain were embarrassingly lovesick eyes. “You’d be my seahorse?”
“In a heartbeat.” He leaned forward, planting a kiss to your lips, to your cheeks, then the tip of your nose until you were giggling and he placed a final kiss to your temple. “I’ll go and run you a bath.”
Spencer began to pull away, but you grabbed his arm and tugged him back with a whine. He opened his mouth to protest, but right on cue, your baby girl was quicker as she began kicking beneath your hand.
“Oh, Spence! Quick, get back here!” You gasped, reaching wildly for his hand as he settled back down. You guided it into place, your own hand cupping his, and through his eyes you saw the moment he felt it. They widened just a tad, Spencer completely mesmerised just as he was the first time. And the second. It didn’t matter how many times it had happened by now, he was always just as awestruck. His nose scrunched that way it always did when he was about to cry, and you knew he was a goner.
“Fine.” He huffed, though his smile was growing and his body was settling back beside yours, beside hers. “Five more minutes.”
summary: leaving the bar after a night out with the team isn’t as easy as it may seem when you’re disgustingly in love and the raindrops speak to you. genre: fluff!! so much fluff. tags/cw: literally pure fluff, kissing, established relationship, alcohol consumption, intoxication, pet names (angel, honey, baby), no use of y/n w/c: 1.3k. a/n: partially inspired by pink in the night by mitski. my first time posting any of my writing in years and first time ever posting it on tumblr! english is not my first language so if you notice any mistakes, please let me know!!! gif credits to @reidgif
masterlist
“Okay, um, I think it’s time we go home, huh?”
Days like these didn’t happen often at the BAU. Ones when six p.m. hit on a Friday and the team could leave work and go home after an uneventful week that didn’t require them to go out of state for any cases. It was actually quite a rarity, so when an offer to go out for drinks started going around, no one even thought to decline it.
And Spencer couldn’t think of a better way to relax than for you to be there with him, so he called you and invited you to come with him and the team.
Spencer wasn’t drinking, of course. You needed to get home somehow, and he was more than content just spending time with his friends in a non-work environment. You, however, were plastered and were currently leaning your head on his shoulder. He was pretty sure that if he gave you a few more minutes, you’d fall asleep right there. You tended to be a sleepy drunk, especially when you could feel him against you, all warm and cosy and completely in love, to the point where he couldn’t deny you anything ever, even if he really wanted to.
Hearing his words, you immediately lifted your head off his shoulder and looked up at his face. “But we’re having fun! Aren’t you having fun?”
“I am having fun, angel. I’m just getting a little tired.”
He wasn’t really, but he knew that if he let you know he could see that it was you who could barely stay awake, you’d immediately try to prove him wrong. Which would be pointless and would change nothing, because you’d still be tired and end up cranky after waking up way too early in the morning.
You sighed but nodded your head with a firm expression either way. “Okay, then. We’re going home.”
So you said your goodbyes, which was harder than it might seem when Penelope Garcia is drunk, and she’s in her I love you so much, I had so much fun, we really should do this more often, I can’t wait to see you again phase, and went to the parking lot, where Spencer’s beloved car was waiting.
You managed to take a few steps into the rain before stopping him in order to dig through your purse, trying to find something. Something Spencer had no idea why you would need right now.
“Everything okay?”
“Yup. Just looking for my keys.”
“You don’t need your keys, angel, I’m taking you to my place.”
“Really?” You asked, as if for some reason it was hard to believe you’d be spending the night at his apartment. Even though at this point in your relationship, you were pretty much together more often than you were alone when you weren’t working. “Okay then, wait a second.”
You said and stopped whatever you were doing, just to do something that confused Spencer even more. Still, he stood there and waited as you leaned your head back, eyes closed, and arms spread out.
“I’m sorry, honey, what exactly are we waiting for here? It’s raining pretty heavily, we should get in the car.”
“Shh, they’re talking.”
Spencer took a second to scan his surroundings, noticing there was no one in close proximity to where you were standing. He stayed silent, trying to listen to whatever you were hearing, but other than the now distant hum of music and conversation inside the bar you’d just left, there was nothing.
“...Who is?”
“The raindrops.”
“The… Raindrops?”
“Mhmm.”
“And what are they saying?”
“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love youuu,” You said, swaying gently from side to side as Spencer looked at you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and endearment. Because, unfortunately, just as he could never deny you, he would never, ever not indulge you.
“Is that a direct translation?”
“Yeah. We speak the same language.”
“Would that be… The raindrop language?”
“It’s the I love Spencer Reid so, so, so very much language.”
“Oh. Huh, I think I understand some of it, too. They’re saying something a bit like…” He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his warm, though now thoroughly rain-soaked, body. “This is a really sweet moment, but you need to get in the car because I love you so very much and don’t want you to get sick. No matter how romantic this is.”
You looked up at his face with a frown, lips in a pout as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Is that what they’re saying?”
“Mhmm.”
“Wow. Those raindrops are some real party poopers, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know… I think those are some seriously wise raindrops. They know what they’re talking about.”
He tapped his forehead gently against yours and gave you that look he always does when trying to convince you to do something. The one where he lifts his brows and his eyes go all chocolate and honey, and you feel like it’s enough to make you melt. Going home with him, however, sounds much nicer than being mixed into a puddle with the rain and dirt, so you easily comply.
“Alright, then. But only because we love you so much.”
He smiled down at you, possibly more amused now than ever before, and gave you a kiss so warm you could feel it seeping into your bones.
“Alright, then. Come on, Gaia.”
“Gaia?”
“The mythological Mother Earth. Since you’re all buddy-buddy with the rain now,” He explained as he led you by hand toward his car.
“Oh, okay. You’re just being a smarty pants. Thought that eidetic memory of yours has finally failed and you were mixing up your girlfriends,” You said with a smug expression on your face, even though, with your mind clouded by the alcohol, you did get worried about the name for a second.
“How could I possibly ever want anyone else when I know what it’s like to be with you? Who else would speak raindrop to me, you silly girl?”
–
In the morning, though it wasn’t really morning anymore since it was actually well past ten, you were woken up by tiny drops of wetness on your skin. Realising it was Spencer pressing soft kisses all over your body, you began to stir.
“Mm, good morning, angel,” He settled on top of you and kissed you, morning breath and all. It’s been a long time since either of you stopped caring about things as mundane as brushing teeth or thinking it’s gross. But then, the way he kissed you always was, he’d suppose. Messy, all teeth and tongue and desperation and so much love. And he loved it more than anything in the world – how you’d kiss him back just as eagerly. As if waking up had become a mission for both of you, to find each other and kiss as soon as humanly possible. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah, actually. Which is pretty weird because I usually wake up at the ass-crack of dawn after drinking.”
“It’s probably because of the rain,” He started explaining as he lay on top of you. “The drop of barometric pressure that comes along with rain reduces oxygen levels in the air, which can make you a little tired. The sound is also a type of pink noise – kind of like white noise, but a little more soothing. It creates a perfect sleep environment.”
Still a bit sluggish from sleep, you stared at him and giggled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing. Just remembered last night.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually,” He pressed another kiss to your lips, this one much quicker than the last. “I didn’t know you were such a polyglot. It’s impressive.”
“Oh yeah? Well, there’s a lot more where that came from, baby. I’m very serious about loving Spencer Reid.”
As he kissed you, he couldn’t stop thinking about how, even while being so silly, you made him feel things no one else ever has. Things no one else ever could. No one other than you.
a/n: so as I said, it is my first time sharing my writing on tumblr so I’d love to know what you think!!
LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader
summary: a follow-up doctor’s appointment leaves you with medical clearance, a filthy dream, and a rapidly deteriorating ability to act normal around your boyfriend spencer reid.
genre: smut (with a lil angst & hurt/comfort) tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI! reader is elle's sister, mentions of gunshot wound/surgery, sex dream, miscommunication (or more like lack thereof), pent-up horniness, incredibly tender & thoughtful spencer reid, making out, dry humping, fingering, oral (f receiving), handjob, very lovey dovey p-in-v sex, spencer calls reader angel & sweetheart, no use of y/n. title from the hozier song. 6.6k words
a/n: wow i missed writing smut!! hope you guys enjoy this one as much as i loved writing it. GIF creds to @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
The problem with bringing Spencer Reid to a follow-up appointment is that he takes follow-up appointments very seriously.
You sit on the paper-lined exam table in a gown that does nothing for your dignity. In the chair beside you, Spencer has his hands folded neatly in his lap, his expression locked into that polite, attentive mask he wears when he is one second away from making your life worse with a technically reasonable question.
You should have come to this appointment alone.
Instead, Spencer drove you here, walked you in, sat beside you in the waiting room, and then stayed because somewhere in the last few months, the line between your life and his got erased so thoroughly neither of you even pretended to look for it.
The doctor flips through your scans. “Everything looks good,” he says. “You’re healing well. Scar tissue is forming the way we want it to. You can keep increasing your workouts gradually, and as long as you’re comfortable, you can resume regular sexual activity, including intercourse.”
The room goes silent.
You look very deliberately at the anatomical poster of lungs on the wall instead of at Spencer.
He clears his throat.
“Doctor, would there be,” he asks, in the tone of a man trying very hard to sound like a normal person, “any concern about strain depending on positioning?”
The doctor nods thoughtfully. “Not particularly, but use common sense. If anything causes sharp pain, stop. Otherwise, there’s no medical reason to avoid it.”
You make a soft sound of despair.
The doctor smiles like this is all adorable instead of excruciating, gives you a few more instructions about physical therapy and scar care, and sends you on your way.
By the time Spencer gets you back to the car, your pride is on life support.
He starts the engine. Adjusts the air. Keeps both hands on the wheel.
Does not look at you.
Interesting.
You buckle in slowly, then turn to study his profile. “Are you going to pretend that didn’t just happen all the way home?”
Spencer’s grip on the steering wheel tightens by a fraction. “I’m not pretending anything. I’m driving.”
You glare out the windshield. Traffic inches forward. Somewhere up ahead, somebody leans on their horn.
The silence stretches just long enough to get weird.
Then Spencer says, very carefully, “If I embarrassed you, it wasn’t intentional.”
“You absolutely did embarrass me,” you say. “Just so we’re clear.”
His mouth twitches. “I know. I’m sorry.”
The apology is sincere enough to take the heat out of your irritation.
You shift carefully in your seat, one hand resting near your scar out of habit. Weeks of almosts flicker through your mind before you can stop them: Spencer’s hand lingering at your waist while helping you out of bed. A kiss in the kitchen that got hotter than either of you meant it to and ended with both of you breathing like idiots. Falling asleep beside him and waking up painfully aware of how hard he was against you.
You glance at him again. He catches it this time.
His voice is quieter when he says, “Are you okay?”
You look at the road ahead and answer honestly enough. “Yeah. I’m just never going to recover from hearing you ask my doctor about sex positions.”
That gets a laugh out of him, startled and soft. “It was medically relevant!”
“You’re such a loser.”
The light ahead turns red. Spencer reaches across the console and takes your hand without looking at you. His thumb brushes once over your knuckles, grounding and absentminded and familiar.
Your pulse does something deeply unhelpful.
When he lifts your hand and presses one quick kiss to the back of it before the light changes, you stare at him for a second too long.
—
That night, sleep gets hold of you slowly.
You drift under with the doctor’s voice still somewhere in the back of your mind, absurd and clinical and impossible to scrub out. Resume sexual activity. Including intercourse. No medical reason to avoid it. You hate that those phrases followed you home. You hate even more that Spencer spent the rest of the day being so perfectly normal about them that it somehow made everything worse. He made dinner. He asked if you wanted tea. He kissed your forehead before bed like a gentleman in a nineteenth-century novel and then laid beside you with both hands respectfully to himself, which should have been considerate and instead felt vaguely like psychological warfare.
So when your subconscious finally gives up and takes over, it does so with very little patience.
Now, his mouth is already on yours.
Hot, deep, and unhurried in a way that feels almost cruel, because he knows exactly how long you’ve both been waiting and is taking his time anyway. One of his hands is braced beside your head; the other is sliding slowly up your thigh, deliberate enough to make your whole body tighten around the wanting of it.
You make a helpless sound into his mouth and he swallows it like he’s starving.
There’s nothing careful about him here. No polite restraint. No respectful distance. Just Spencer, warm and solid over you, kissing you like he finally got tired of being good. His mouth drags from yours to your throat, then lower, and the scrape of his breath across your skin sends a sharp pulse of heat through your stomach. His fingers slide higher. Your back arches before you can stop it. He makes that low sound he only ever makes when you catch him off guard, and finally—
You wake up.
Dark room. Racing heart. Sheets tangled around you. Spencer asleep beside you, one arm loose over the blanket, sleeping face looking almost innocent.
Which is offensive, frankly.
You lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, willing your body to get a grip. You’re hot everywhere and exhausted and painfully aware of the man breathing softly inches away from you.
You shift carefully, trying to settle yourself without making the mattress move too much.
Spencer makes a sleepy sound and rolls slightly toward you.
His hand lands, warm and heavy, at your waist. Not low enough to be indecent, but not innocent enough to help. He blinks awake halfway, hair a mess, eyes barely open behind the smudge of sleep.
“Y’okay?” he murmurs.
You almost laugh. “Mm-hm.”
His thumb strokes once over your side. “But you’re awake.”
“Astute observation, doc.”
He gives a drowsy little hum that might be a laugh, then presses a soft kiss to your shoulder without opening his eyes all the way. “C’mon. Go back to sleep, angel.”
The tenderness of it nearly kills you.
You manage some kind of affirmative sound and lie there stiffly until his breathing evens out again. By the time you finally drift back under, you’re more irritated than sleepy.
Morning does nothing to improve your mood.
By lunch, you are deeply tired of yourself.
Spencer notices, of course. He notices when you answer too quickly, when you mutter at the coffee maker, when you snap at a cabinet door for existing too loudly. He lets the first few things go. Lets the next few go too. By the time the sun sets, you’re in the kitchen tidying absolutely nothing with far more aggression than the task requires when he leans in the doorway and says, very carefully, “Did I do something?”
You don’t look at him. “No.”
Spencer comes a little farther into the room. “You’ve been weird all day.”
You turn and look at him flatly. “That’s rich coming from you.”
His brows draw together. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” You gesture vaguely at his whole irritatingly beautiful existence. “You’ve been acting bizarre since the appointment yesterday.”
Something flickers across his face.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “So this is about the appointment.”
“Partly.”
Spencer folds his arms. “What’s the other part?”
You glare at him.
He waits.
You hate when he does that. Calm, patient, terrifyingly sure that if he stands there long enough, you’ll crack on your own.
“Nothing,” you mutter.
“That’s definitely not true.”
You exhale sharply through your nose and look away. “You’re just… being annoying.”
“Annoying how?”
You stare at him a moment and suck in a tight breath. “You’re being so polite and respectful that it’s looping back around into driving me insane.” The words come out too fast, almost tripping over one another.
Spencer blinks.
You push on before your pride can stop you. “Ever since the doctor said—” You cut yourself off, grimacing. “You know. Ever since then, you’ve been acting like if you touch me, a panel of experts is going to kick in my front door and revoke your boyfriend privileges. Which makes absolutely no sense, since the doctor essentially gave you permission to act exactly opposite of that.”
To your annoyance, the corner of his mouth twitches.
“This isn’t funny,” you say.
“I know.” He pauses. “It’s a little funny.”
You glare at him until the twitch fades.
Then Spencer sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I’m…” He trails off, visibly searching for the least embarrassing version of his own thoughts. “I’m trying not to make it feel like some sort of… medically approved finish line. Or a milestone we have to hit right away because somebody in a white coat told us we could.” He pauses, gaze softening into something even more earnest. “Sex with you is always a big deal to me, and I— I didn’t want it to feel forced.”
The room goes quieter around the truth of that.
You look at him for a long second, your irritation shifting shape. “That’s… annoyingly sweet. And very thoughtful,” you huff.
Spencer looks wary. “You say that like being sweet and thoughtful is a bad thing.”
“Sometimes it is a bad thing!” you tell him. “Because now you’re acting like a monk.”
His eyebrows go up. “A monk.”
“Yes. A weirdly hot, deeply annoying monk.”
That gets a laugh out of him. He ducks his head once, and the sound of it loosens something in your chest.
Then he looks back up, eyes softer now. “You know I want you. I just…”
“Just what?” you ask.
His jaw flexes. “I don’t trust myself to get this exactly right. I… I want it to be perfect.”
You let that sit for a second.
Of course that’s what this is. He’s been silently tying himself in knots because the first time after all this matters to him enough that he’s terrified of getting it wrong.
As if anything about Spencer touching you has ever felt careless. As if every time he’s ever had you hasn’t felt exactly, devastatingly right.
“Spence,” you say, quieter now. “You have literally never gotten this wrong.”
His eyes flick back to yours.
“You should give yourself a little more credit,” you add.
Something softer moves through his expression at that, but the tension in the room doesn’t entirely loosen.
“I’m sorry I’ve been on edge all day,” you mumble. “I just… uh, didn’t sleep well. And things were already weird after the appointment, and then you spent all day acting all monastic, and it was annoying.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “Monastic.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” He tilts his head slightly. “But I can see that there’s something else you’re not telling me.”
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t profile me, Reid.”
He gives you a look that says really?
You fold your arms tighter. “Drop it.”
Spencer steps a little closer. “Please, just tell me. Did I do something specific to upset you this morning?”
“No,” you say. “My annoyance started when you were still asleep.”
He blinks. “What does that mean?”
You drag your hand down your face and refuse to look at him. “It means I was already in a bad mood by the time you woke up.”
“Why?”
“Spencer.”
His voice drops. Gentle. Curious. Much too perceptive. “Why?”
You stare at the cabinet over his shoulder like it might save you. It doesn’t.
When you finally speak, it comes out flat with embarrassment. “Because I had a dream about you.”
He goes perfectly still.
You can feel the heat climbing your neck now, which is deeply humiliating and somehow still not enough to stop you from making it worse.
“A very explicit dream,” you add. “And then I woke up next to you, and you were being all sweet and sleepy and impossible, and I’ve spent the entire day trying not to lose my mind while you’ve been walking around like you’ve taken a vow of chastity.”
For one long second, Spencer just stares at you.
“Oh,” he says faintly.
You glare at him. “Yeah. Oh.”
His hand comes up to run through his hair, which should not be as attractive as it is, before taking one slow step closer. “You had a sex dream about me.”
“Please don’t say it like that.”
“How should I say it?”
“Preferably not at all.”
That almost gets a laugh out of him, but his eyes stay fixed on your face. On your mouth.
“And you’ve been angry at me ever since,” he says softly.
“Not angry.” You fold your arms tighter, then immediately regret the defensive posture. “Just… severely inconvenienced by your entire vibe today.”
Spencer huffs a quiet breath. “My vibe.”
“Yes. All of your weird, noble self-restraint bullshit.”
His gaze drops for half a second. When it lifts again, it’s darker. Less careful. “You want me to stop being noble?”
The question lands low in your stomach.
You look at him for one long second, then say, “I want you to stop acting like you have to be afraid of this.”
“That,” he says, voice rougher now, “I can do.”
You tilt your chin up. “Good.”
That does it.
He crosses the space between you and kisses you before either of you says another word, fast and warm and far less careful than he’s been in weeks. You make a startled sound into his mouth and then he’s got one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into him with a kind of urgency that feels so familiar it almost hurts.
You kiss him back just as hard, because whatever awkward, polite, maddening restraint has been sitting between you since the doctor’s appointment goes up in smoke the second his tongue slides against yours and his grip tightens on your body like he’s finally allowing himself to remember what it feels like to want you out loud.
He backs you into the counter.
Your hips hit the edge, and Spencer catches himself immediately, pulling back just enough to search your face.
“You okay?”
You could laugh at the reflexive question if you weren’t so busy trying to catch your breath.
“Yes,” you say, and then, because his eyes still look full of concern and guilt and about ten other things, you hook a hand into the front of his shirt and drag him back in. “Spence, please.”
That does something to him.
You feel it in the low sound he makes into your mouth, in the way his hands slide over your waist and hips and ass with a greedier kind of certainty now, in the way his body presses against yours until there’s nothing left between you except clothes and frustration.
You’ve missed this. Not just his mouth, not just his hands, but the particular electricity of being wanted by him. The way he’s never casual about it. The way wanting seems to move through his whole body like a current, making him shake just a little when he’s trying too hard to hold still.
You drag your fingers through his hair and he exhales against your lips, rough and wrecked enough to make heat slide lower in your body.
Then his hands are suddenly everywhere — one at your waist, one under your thigh — and before you can fully process it, he’s lifting you.
A startled laugh breaks against his mouth. “Spencer!”
“I know,” he murmurs, sounding like he absolutely does not know anything except that he needs you closer.
You hook your arms around his neck automatically, and he kisses you all the way down the hall, slow one second and hungry the next, like he keeps getting distracted by the fact that this is really happening. By the time he reaches the bed, both of you are breathing harder, the room suddenly too warm, the air charged with all the weeks of not doing this.
He sits on the edge of the mattress with you still in his arms, settling you into his lap like muscle memory.
You straddle him carefully, and for one suspended second, neither of you moves at all.
You can feel how hard he already is beneath you. He can definitely feel how wet you are. The realization lands between you like a match struck in the dark, and both of you go a little quieter with it.
Then Spencer lifts his hands to your face and kisses you again, slower now.
His fingers eventually slip under the hem of your shirt, and your breath catches. He peels the fabric up slowly, reverently, exposing skin inch by inch until he tosses it aside and just… looks at you.
Not at your breasts at first, though he notices those (obviously). Not at the waistband of your pants, though his hands twitch toward it. Instead, his gaze drifts to the scar on your side.
You suck in a sharp breath.
It isn’t that he hasn’t seen it before. He has, in bathroom fluorescents and early-morning light and the thin gray blur before dawn. He’s seen it while helping you change bandages, while handing you clean shirts, while pretending very valiantly not to stare as you step out of the shower.
But this is different.
This is the first time he’s looking at it with his hands already warm on your skin and his mouth pink from kissing you and want written so plainly across his face that you can’t hide from it. This is the first time the scar is here, in this moment, as part of something hungry instead of something clinical.
Some small, stupid muscle deep in your body braces before you can stop it.
Spencer notices, because of course he does.
His expression softens. He lifts one hand and traces the skin near the scar with the backs of his fingers, light enough to make you shiver. Then he bends his head and presses a kiss just above it.
Nothing dramatic or mournful. Just warm mouth, careful breath, and the kind of tenderness that makes your eyes sting before you can stop them.
He feels you react and looks up instantly. “Sorry, should I— Would you rather I didn’t?”
You shake your head too fast. “No, no. It’s not that.”
Spencer waits.
You swallow. “It just feels… different.”
Understanding moves through his face so gently it almost hurts.
His thumb strokes once over your waist. He nods softly, then he bends again.
This time, he lets his mouth linger. One slow kiss over the scar itself, then another just below it, then one at the curve of your ribs beside it, unhurried and unafraid and so heartbreakingly natural that whatever you’d been bracing for just… dissolves.
Not because he makes it disappear, but because he doesn’t.
Because he folds it into the wanting of you without making it something tragic or fragile or strange. Because he touches it like it belongs exactly where it is: on your body, in his hands, in this moment, as much a part of being wanted as any other inch of your skin.
Your fingers thread into his hair.
“Spencer,” you whisper.
He looks up, and there’s so much raw emotion on his face that your chest goes tight all over again.
“I need you to stop being perfect for, like, one second, or else I’m gonna explode.”
A startled, breathless laugh slips out of him. He ducks his head once, almost shy, then looks back at you with his mouth still curved.
“I’m just being myself,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “Exactly.”
He laughs, then mouths at your breast over the thin lace of your bra, and all coherent thoughts leave your body.
A broken moan escapes before you can stop it. Spencer groans softly at the sound and does it again, more deliberate this time, his tongue teasing through the fabric until your hips roll against him and he slides one hand around to your ass to help you move.
Your head falls back. The room spins pleasantly.
It’s not enough. Nothing about this feels like enough after waiting this long.
Your hands fumble with the buttons of his shirt, and he helps with shaking fingers, both of you half-laughing at how badly your coordination has abandoned you. By the time the shirt is open and pushed off his shoulders, you’re almost dizzy with relief.
His chest. His skin. His stupidly beautiful body, warm and solid under your hands.
You drag your palms over him, down his chest and stomach, and Spencer sucks in a breath that makes you feel downright vindicated.
“Missed this?” you tease.
He looks at you with pupils blown wide. “You have no idea.”
You hum. “Try me.”
Spencer takes his glasses off and drops them onto the nightstand with a clatter that would’ve made him twitch on any normal day. Then he cups your breasts through your bra with both hands, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden further under the lace.
“I’ve been trying,” he says quietly, and his voice has gone rough enough to make your thighs clench. “Every single day.”
Heat flashes through you.
You kiss him before he can see too much of that on your face, grinding down against him with a little more pressure this time. Spencer swears into your mouth and his hands tighten on you immediately.
“That,” he says, breathless, “is not fair.”
You do it again.
“Who said anything about fair?”
His laugh catches halfway to becoming a groan. Then he drags your bra straps down your shoulders before undoing the clasp and easing it off you with a slowness that makes your skin feel tight. The second he sees you bare, his whole face changes to that particular Spencer look, the one that says he’s overwhelmed by wanting and trying very hard to stay in his own body.
He kisses you like that too. Mouth at your throat, your collarbone, your breasts, one hand spanning your back while the other squeezes your ass almost helplessly whenever you make a sound he likes.
You’ve almost forgotten how noisy the two of you are together. How impossible it is not to be when everything feels this good.
“Take these off,” you whisper against his hair, tugging at his belt.
Spencer obeys immediately, getting you both undressed in a rush of hands and fabric and impatient mouths. Shirts first. Then his slacks and boxer briefs, your leggings and panties, one by one, until you’re both bare except for the mismatched socks he forgot to take off and you laugh so hard you nearly ruin the mood.
He looks down, mortified. “Oh no.”
“Keep them on,” you say. “It’s weirdly working for me.”
Then he’s laughing too, and the absurdity of it makes the whole thing sweeter somehow. Less like a medical milestone, and more like what it actually is: the two of you, still completely yourselves, finally getting each other back.
Spencer pushes you back onto the bed and kisses down your stomach and inner thighs with such obvious devotion that by the time his tongue finally drags through your slick cunt, you’re already shaking.
There’s nothing tentative about his mouth once he starts. Careful, yes. Attentive, obviously. But not tentative. He moves like he’s making up for lost time, like he’s learned your body by heart and spent the last two months being denied the chance to prove it.
Your thighs tighten around his head. Your fingers twist in the sheets.
“Spencer,” you gasp.
He groans into you at the sound of his name, the vibration going straight through your body. Then two fingers slide inside you and you practically sob with relief.
The stretch. The fullness. The filthy, perfect drag of his fingers while his mouth works your clit in the same steady rhythm that’s always destroyed you.
You come faster than you want to, sharp and bright and helpless, with both hands in his hair and his name falling out of your mouth like a prayer and a curse and a sob all at once. He works you through it with maddening patience until you’re twitching and trying to squirm away. He catches your hips, holding you open while he gentles, savoring you, listening to every little sound that spills out.
You drag him back up your body the second you can breathe.
Spencer kisses you then, deep and lingering, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He’s already so wound up that your first touch around his cock makes his whole body tense.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
“Hi,” you murmur, smug and breathless.
He gives you a desperate sort of half-laugh and lets his forehead fall to yours while your hand works him slowly. He’s always been beautiful when he’s close, but this is different. Softer, somehow. More open. He’s not trying to be polished or sexy or anything but exactly what he is: a man very much in love and losing his mind about it.
Your thumb brushes the tip of his cock and his hips jerk.
“Okay,” he says, a little wrecked. “Okay, if you, uh, keep doing that, I’m going to…”
“You’re going to what?”
Spencer looks at you, offended and helpless all at once. “You know what.”
You kiss him to stop being mean, and that’s what undoes him in the end. Your mouth on his, your hand around him, his own body too gone to hold back any longer. He comes with a broken sound against your lips, his forehead pressed hard to yours, one hand gripping your thigh tight enough to leave marks.
Afterward, neither of you goes very far.
He folds down beside you, still breathing hard, and you end up half tangled together in the sheets, your fingers drifting through his hair while his mouth moves lazily over yours, your jaw, your throat.
The heat doesn’t disappear. It just softens around the edges, turning tender without losing any of its bite. His hand keeps returning to your side in those absent little strokes that aren’t really absent at all, thumb sweeping the skin near your scar like some part of him still needs the reminder that you’re here, warm and real and under his hands. You kiss and kiss and kiss until he’s hardening again between you.
“You okay?” he asks after a few minutes, low and serious again.
You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Very.”
“Any pain?”
“Just from how annoyingly good you are at all of this.”
Spencer closes his eyes and laughs against your shoulder. “That’s not really what I meant.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
He hums, unconvinced, and shifts up on one elbow to look at you properly. His gaze moves over your face like he’s checking for something only he can see.
“I know you want this,” he says quietly. “I also know abdominal surgery recovery, especially from something like a major gunshot wound, can be deceptive once the surface pain starts easing off. So I need you to be honest with me for a second.” His hand slides slowly over your waist, then lower, skimming your thigh. “Are you actually comfortable enough to keep going, or are you trying to tough your way through it because you’re impatient?”
You reach up and touch his face, letting your fingers trail over his jaw. “I’m not toughing my way through anything.”
Spencer’s eyes stay on yours.
“I’m comfortable,” you say, more clearly this time. “I want this. And if something hurts, I’ll tell you.”
He searches your face for another beat, then nods once, like he’s accepting terms more than asking permission.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
He kisses you once, deep and unsteady, then reaches into the nightstand drawer without taking his eyes off you. You watch him roll a condom on with careful fingers, his focus so intense it nearly makes you laugh.
Spencer settles between your thighs slowly, bracing most of his weight on his forearms, as if the idea of pressing too hard against you is enough to make his whole body tense. One of his hands slides down to your hip, thumb rubbing once, soothing and nervous all at once.
“Still okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Promise.”
He nods, but you can feel the restraint in him. He kisses you once more, like he needs it, then reaches between you to guide himself into place.
The first nudge against your entrance is so careful it aches in an unexpected way — not physically, but just in how much emotion is packed into his restraint. Spencer’s breath catches. His forehead drops briefly to yours.
“You can stop me,” he says quietly. “At any point. Even if it’s halfway through. I mean it.”
Your fingers tighten on his shoulders. “Spencer.”
“Sorry.” He swallows. “I just need you to know.”
You soften, even through the heat thrumming low in your body. “I know,” you whisper. “Now come here.”
You take his face in your hands and kiss him softer than any of the other times tonight.
He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, with enough care that you can feel every part of the stretch as it happens. Heat, fullness, pressure — all of it building so gradually your body has time to register each sensation before the next one arrives. You inhale sharply, and Spencer goes still immediately.
“Talk to me,” he says, voice rougher now.
You take a breath. “I’m okay. Just— just give me a second.”
Spencer nods, motionless except for the trembling effort it takes to stay that way. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the line of your jaw while he waits, his hand stroking slowly up and down your thigh like he’s trying to soothe both of you at once.
When the initial intensity eases and your body finally starts to open around him, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and shift your hips the smallest bit closer.
“More,” you whisper.
Spencer’s eyes search yours. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
Spencer’s eyes close briefly at that, and then he slides in deeper.
It feels like being split open and soothed at the same time. Stretch and heat and relief so intense it’s as if your body is melting around him.
He still moves carefully, still watches your face for microexpressions. But the restraint loosens enough that each thrust gets a little deeper, a little less tentative, until the two of you find that familiar rhythm that belongs to you and no one else.
Spencer’s mouth stays everywhere. Your throat, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Every time you make a sound he likes, he kisses you harder. Every time your nails drag down his back, his hips stutter and he loses another inch of control.
You wrap a leg around his waist as best you can and pull him deeper.
Your orgasm builds slowly. It comes from the steady drag of his cock, the angle of it, the way one of his hands slips between your bodies to circle your clit without breaking rhythm. He’s so focused, so wrecked and earnest and needy, that you can feel yourself coming long before it actually hits.
“Spence,” you whine, and it comes out strangled.
His eyes lock on yours. “I know. I know, sweetheart. Come for me, please.”
You break around him with a cry, body clenching hard enough that Spencer shudders and nearly loses it with you. He keeps moving through it, slower now, like he can’t bear to stop just because either of you can barely think.
You drag him down into a kiss, and somewhere in the middle of it, the words come out:
“I love you.”
Before this very moment, you’d always assumed saying those words during sex would feel forced somehow. Cheesy. A little ridiculous.
But… it doesn’t. Right now, nothing else would be honest enough. There’s no other phrase in the English language that encompasses what you’re feeling quite like that one does.
Spencer goes still for half a heartbeat, then his whole face changes.
“I love you too,” he says tenderly. He kisses you once, hard and full and almost aching with how much he means it. “I love you so much.”
His movements start to falter then, because there’s only so much a man can do after weeks of restraint, one hand between your thighs, your cunt squeezing him on the heels of two orgasms, and an I love you still ringing through his bloodstream.
He comes with his face buried in your neck and your name on his lips, hips rocking once, twice, before he stills and just breathes, shaking a little.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
Then Spencer lifts his head just enough to look at you.
You look wrecked. He looks worse.
“Hi,” you whisper.
He huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Hi.”
You brush his hair back from his forehead. “You okay?”
Spencer kisses you once more, softer this time. “No,” he says. “I think I might actually be dead.”
“That’d be awfully inconvenient.”
“Very.”
You laugh, and this time it doesn’t hurt.
Later, after the condom is gone and the sheets have been straightened and Spencer has made you get up and pee and drink an entire glass of water, he slides back into bed in just his boxers, warm and familiar and yours.
His fingers drift to your scar again.
Your hand finds his hair. “Spencer.”
There’s so much in his face that for one impossible second, you almost can’t breathe. Love, obviously. Relief. Want that still hasn’t gone anywhere. Something close to awe.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
His expression says liar with devastating affection.
You lean in and kiss him before he can call you on it.
When you settle back against the pillows, Spencer draws you into him with one arm and tucks the blankets up over you. His hand stays splayed over your waist, warm and grounding.
For a minute, the room goes quiet except for the sound of both of you breathing and the faint hum of the city outside the windows.
Then Spencer laughs under his breath.
You tilt your head enough to look up at him. “What?”
His mouth twitches. “I still can’t believe you had a sex dream about me.”
Heat creeps up your neck all over again, and you bury your face back against his shoulder. “Can we not debrief the most humiliating parts of today now that you’ve benefited from them?”
Spencer’s laugh is warmer this time, low in his chest. “I’m not making fun of you.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m really not.” He tips his head down, trying to catch your eye. “I’m just… kind of flattered.”
You groan into his skin. “Please stop saying words.”
His hand slides slowly up and down your back. “You’re the one who told me.”
You lift your head again and narrow your eyes at him. “You pried.”
Spencer looks delighted by that accusation. “I asked one follow-up question.”
You should let it go. You really should. But instead, still dazed and loose-limbed and apparently incapable of self-preservation, you mutter, “It wasn’t even the first time.”
Spencer goes very still.
Slowly, very slowly, he shifts onto one elbow, looking at you now with open fascination. “What do you mean it wasn’t the first time?”
“I mean nothing. Go to sleep.”
His hand tightens at your waist, not enough to trap you, just enough to let you know escape is not on the table. “No, absolutely not. We are not moving on from that.”
You make a muffled sound of regret into his shoulder.
“When was it?”
You wave a hand vaguely. “A… while ago.”
“That’s not quantifiable. How long is ‘a while’?”
“A while, Spencer.”
He waits.
Of course he waits.
You should know by now that Spencer Reid can outlast almost anyone in a standoff, especially when curiosity is involved.
You stare at him, mortified, still a little dazed from the sex, too happy to put up a fight, and sigh.
“Do you remember when I had the flu, and you bribed Garcia with cake pops to get my address so you could check on me?”
His eyebrows lift. “Of course I remember. That was the first time I ever saw your apartment.”
“Right. And do you remember what I said when I first let you inside?”
You watch his face shift into that classically Spencer expression of deep focus as he searches back through his memories.
“Yes,” he confirms after a few moments. “I believe you said, ‘You woke me up from a dream,’ and then I—” He stops. “Oh.”
His expression softens so completely it almost hurts to look at.
“It was that kind of dream?” he asks, sounding genuinely stunned.
You shove your face back into his shoulder. “Yes,” you groan. “I was just getting to the good part when you knocked on the door, actually, so thanks for that.”
His shoulders shake with another laugh. “Wow.”
You glare up at him. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, which would be more convincing if he weren’t smiling like this is the best news he’s heard all week. “It’s just…” He shakes his head a little. “That’s a lot for me to process.”
“You’ll survive.”
He shifts, gentler now, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“That really was a while ago,” he muses.
You close your eyes and groan again, too tired to fake outrage properly. “Please drop it.”
He smiles against your skin. “In a minute.”
His hand finds yours under the blanket and laces through your fingers.
“If it’s any consolation, I had a crush on you back then too,” he whispers. “I’m sure you already knew that, but just so we’re clear, I did. I nearly passed out when you asked me to brush your hair and sent me into your bedroom to look for your hairbrush.”
You crack one eye open. “You hid it well.”
Spencer huffs a quiet laugh. “I absolutely did not.”
“No,” you admit, sleepier now, letting your fingers curl more tightly around his. “You really, really didn’t.”
That earns a softer smile from him. He brushes his thumb over your knuckles once, the gesture so familiar now it makes your chest ache in the best way.
“I’m glad you let me in,” he says quietly.
The words settle warm and heavy between you. You know he’s referring to you letting him into your apartment that day, but it could mean so much more than that.
You tip your face up just enough to kiss the underside of his jaw. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too.”
Spencer answers by drawing you a little closer.
You let him.
And sometime after that, with his hand still wrapped around yours, a dreamless sleep finally finds you.
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
⋆⭒˚.⋆ needle and thread - spencer reid x bombshell!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 after a near-fatal encounter on the field, you wake to find spencer at your bedside—shaken, unguarded, and revealing a side of himself you never expected. between confessions, defenses, and a nickname spoken too softly, the line between armor and intimacy begins to blur.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 cm typical violence, reader is attacked/drugged on the field, angsty stuff, spencer freaks out subtly, hospitals, very brief mentions of spencer past addiction, mutual pining, nicknames,
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 3.4k
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i felt that reader having this encounter worked really well with spencers past and it was a great opportunity to like lower both their defenses yay
𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
the case had felt wrong from the start. the kind of wrong that crawled under your skin, quiet and patient, waiting.
three overdoses in as many weeks, all staged to look like accidents—pills scattered across bathroom floors, needles abandoned in living rooms—but the toxicology never matched. it was precise, deliberate. someone playing god with dosage
the case had taken you here, to a rotting warehouse on the river’s edge. and now, boxed in by a profile and the fbi, he had nowhere left to run.
the squad split at the entrance, their voices low but sharp in your earpiece.
you moved in deeper, feet crunching against loose gravel and broken glass. the air reeked of mildew and rust. metal beams groaned under the weight of the building, every creak echoing too loud in the cavernous dark. your weapon was steady in your hands, but your chest thrummed with adrenaline.
“he’s here,” spencer’s voice crackled softly in your ear. not a guess—certainty. you pictured him in another hallway, long fingers wrapped tight around his gun, mind cataloguing every sound.
not the time.
then morgan: “copy. keep your heads up. guy’s desperate.”
you swallowed against the dryness in your throat. desperate was the worst kind of cornered. desperate men didn’t negotiate; they lunged.
you cut down one of the side aisles, rows of rusted machinery looming like shadows, blind corners everywhere. the chatter in your earpiece dimmed as distance grew, until it was just your breath and the faint drip of water in the rafters.
your instincts screamed at the silence. too still. too staged.
you swept your flashlight across the floor—scrap metal, discarded tools, then a scuff mark, fresh. a boot print dragging.
“west corner,” you whispered into your mic. “i’ve got sign.”
no answer. static.
the air seemed to thicken, pressing in. your fingers tightened around the grip of your gun, pulse tripping fast. you rolled your shoulders once, grounding yourself, then edged forward, each step a warning drumbeat in your head.
a scrape. close. deliberate. not debris. not the wind.
“come on,” you muttered under your breath, a prayer and a dare all at once. “just step out.”
your eyes caught a flicker of movement to the right, a blur in the shadows.
what the—?
the unsub lunged before you could reset your stance, a blur of fury and raw strength. the impact knocked the gun clean out of your hand, clattering uselessly across the dock.
instinct roared louder than fear—you braced, meeting his momentum head-on, both hands locking around his wrists as he shoved against you. his strength dwarfed yours, the kind of brute force that made your muscles scream with effort.
a guttural sound tore from your throat as you fought to hold him back. his face was twisted, wild, and you knew—he wasn’t just trying to escape, he wanted to hurt you.
adrenaline surged hot through your chest. you drove a knee upward, hard, just enough to stagger him back. you spun, angling for distance—just long enough to regroup—
—but he was faster. you barely registered the movement before the syringe was in his hand, the glint of it enough to make your body fold in on itself. fear hit sharp and sudden, stealing the air from your lungs.
you struggled, instinct taking over, but it didn’t matter—his grip closed around the back of your neck, firm, unyielding. a quick flick of his wrist, a flash of metal—then the sting, sudden and precise, driving into your arm before you could pull away.
you hissed on instinct. the pain hit first—sharp, white-hot—and then the realization as you glanced down. a syringe.
the world tilted.
liquid fire spread under your skin, radiating outward in pulses that felt wrong, foreign. his grip clamped down like iron, but instinct cut through the haze. you twisted hard, slammed your elbow into his ribs with everything you had, just enough to break free.
the needle still jutted from your arm. your hand hovered, trembling, before you yanked it out in one shaky motion. your vision blurred for half a second, your heart pounding too fast, uneven.
“fuck...” you mumbled, looking at the small indent in your arm.
where the hell is everyone?
and then—boots thundered behind you, heavy, certain. morgan’s tackle sent the unsub crashing to the ground, concrete scraping, cuffs snapping shut in an echo that should have been final.
but your body wasn’t following the script.
your arm ached, the burn spreading wider, hotter, like the drug was rushing to stake its claim over your bloodstream. your breath came too fast, chest rising unevenly.
keep it together. steady your breathing. don’t give them a reason to panic.
but the thought kept repeating, louder each time— you knew that if you had to remind yourself not to fall apart, it was because you already were.
morgan held the unsub down against the floor, cuffs shuffling with satisfying clicks before he turned, eyes scanning you.
“you good?”
your hand pressed hard over the puncture, like pressure alone could erase what just happened. you forced your voice even, swallowing past the thick, metallic taste in your mouth.
“i’m fine.”
too quick. too clipped.
and then spencer was there, suddenly filling your periphery. he was already assessing, already unraveling you with his eyes.
“what happened?”
“nothing, i—“ you cleared your throat, suddenly feeling as if you were swallowing rocks. spencer’s eyes narrowed. the stutter of your breath, the tremor in your fingers, the way your pupils seemed too slow to adjust under the warehouse lights. he recognized it all too well
“what was it?” his voice came low, urgent. “what did he inject you with? did you see the vial—?”
your body jolted at the sound, at the closeness. you flinched when his hand brushed your arm, though you weren’t sure if the shiver racing down your spine was the drug or the way spencer touched you like glass.
“i don’t know. didn’t exactly ask him for the label.” your laugh came jagged, forced. still, you fished the vial out of your pocket, extending it with a hand that betrayed you—shaking too violently.
“hey…” his brow creased deeper, gaze flicking from the vial to your hand. “you’re shaking—”
you shook your head, covering it with a small huff of a smile. the buzz in your head made you extend your hand, keeping him back by a weak hand on his chest as you’re gaze fell to the ground “i’m okay.”
but okay was a lie. the ground tipped and swayed beneath you, gravity not where you left it. you breathed in and out heavily.
he saw it. of course he did. his stare pressed in, sharp and unyielding, and something in your chest caved under the weight of it. you tried to twist your lips upward, make it look lighter than it felt. “i’ve got this.”
you wanted to believe it. wanted him to.
you felt his hand wrap around your wrist, gentle and cautious, but the edges of the world were already softening, bleeding together like water over ink. your legs turned to water, every step threatened to fold you in half.
just stand. just breathe.
breathe. breathe. breathe.
you blinked hard, trying to fix your vision on anything solid, and landed on his face. too close. too pale. his eyes wide, pupils blown, terror written in every line.
his other hand hovered midair, trembling like he was fighting himself—like some muscle memory told him to grab you, hold you, keep you steady, but fear kept him frozen.
why does he look like that?
“i can’t—” the words stuck thick on your tongue, each syllable too heavy to drag out. your knees gave first, buckling beneath you, body folding sideways like the strings holding you up had been cut. suddenly gravity was different—everything in you felt weighted, your arms, your chest, even your eyelids.
“damn it!—” spencer’s voice cracked, hands already there, catching you before the concrete could. his arms wrapped around you, one hand bracing your shoulder as he lowered you against him. “morgan! she’s going down!”
morgan’s answer thundered from somewhere far away, muffled under the roar in your ears. your pulse slammed in ragged bursts, then slowed, dragged, like your body couldn’t decide whether to fight or surrender.
spencer’s voice tore through the haze, sharp, breaking, a lifeline pulling at the edges of your slipping awareness. “emily, narcan, now! her pulse is—damn it—it’s crashing!”
your head lolled into the crook of his shoulder. your body refused to listen, limp and heavy, too tired to even flinch. the light overhead stabbed into your eyes, so you turned instinctively, tucking into the shadow of his neck, hiding from the glare without meaning to.
the dark pressed in, soft but sudden, like drowning under a velvet tide. just a nap, your mind whispered, weak, but the thought shattered as voices crashed around you.
everything was too much.
“she’s going out!” jj’s shout cracked sharp as a gunshot, crouching down beside spencer, her hand hovering helplessly near yours.
spencer’s palm pressed hard against your throat, searching, desperate. “she’s bradycardic—heart rate’s plummeting—we need reversal, now!” the last word broke off raw, almost a plea.
your chest stuttered, the rise and fall shallow, fragile. each breath dragged like glass.
“narcan’s coming!” emily’s voice rang out, fierce and fast, her boots hammering back from the SUV.
“keep her airway clear,” hotch snapped, clipped and steady in the way only he could be—an anchor against the panic seizing everyone else.
but spencer—spencer wasn’t steady. his hands shook where they held you, his breath stuttered as he placed his plam against your head, holding you to him and watching every flicker of your chest, every twitch of your lips. he wasn’t calm. he wasn’t collected. not when it was you. not when he could feel the life bleeding slow and fragile against his fingertips.
you weren’t just another victim, not just another case file. important in ways he couldn’t say out loud because he couldn’t even understand it. important in ways that broke him open now as you slipped further from him with every second.
“damn it, stay with me,” he muttered, half-command, half-prayer. his grip on your hand was white-knuckled, like he could force your pulse back just by holding on tighter.
his hands never left you—steady even when he wasn’t.
“i’ve got it!” emily’s voice cut sharp through the blur, the sound of plastic tearing and metal clattering against concrete.
spencer didn’t hesitate—his hands were already on you, steadying your jaw, tilting your head back just enough. “hold her still.”
emily was already moving, already jamming the injector into the side of your thigh.
a hiss. a burn. a split second of silence.
then your body jerked.
air tore back into your lungs all at once, too much, too fast—your chest heaving like you’d been underwater for minutes. you coughed violently, a wet, tearing sound, body bowing against spencer’s hold.
“that’s it—come on, come on—” his voice was frantic, almost breaking, one hand cupping the back of your head to keep you upright as the other pressed flat against your sternum, feeling the stutter of your heart.
the world came back wrong—too loud, too bright, too close. the warehouse lights stabbed into your skull, every sound echoing inside your head. your stomach lurched, bile sour at the back of your throat.
you choked on a gasp, hands clawing weakly at the air until spencer caught them, folding your trembling fingers into his. “it’s okay, i’ve got you—just breathe with me—”
your chest rattled, shudders tearing through you, as if your body couldn’t decide between fighting or collapsing again. the taste of metal coated your tongue, every nerve screaming awake too fast.
“easy, that’s it. you’re here. you’re safe.” spencer’s words were low, urgent, whispered against your hair like a mantra for himself as much as for you.
“pulse is climbing,” emily called, crouched low beside you both, relief tempered by the tension in her jaw. “narcan’s working.”
but spencer couldn’t look away from you—couldn’t stop holding on, couldn’t stop counting each ragged breath that clawed out of your chest. your face was pale, lips tinted with blue. but you were here. you were alive
“i feel like shit,” you groaned, grimacing with every movement your body could make. spencer let out a wet chuckle.
“don’t do that again.”
and though your throat burned, though your voice was shredded, thought you wanted to tease him, saying you had no choice in the matter, all you managed was a whisper, hoarse but steady enough to make his eyes snap back to yours.
“wasn’t—planning on it doc,”
—
the world came back in fragments—first sound, then light, then the weight of your own body. voices filtered through, muffled, indistinct, like they were on the other side of water. the sharp sting of antiseptic clung to the air, burning the back of your throat. you swallowed, but your mouth was desert-dry, tongue too heavy, head too slow.
you tried shifting, though every muscle felt weighted, like gravity had doubled just for you. your eyelids dragged open halfway, thick and reluctant.
“hey.” a voice cut through—low, fragile, and closer than all the rest. “don’t move too fast.”
spencer.
you blinked hard, forcing your eyes to focus. the curtain blurred into sterile white and then, finally, his face came into view. he sat at your bedside, too upright, too still, his knees angled awkwardly under the chair. his hands were knotted in his lap, gripping each other tight like if he loosened them, everything would fall apart.
“look at you,” you rasped, voice ragged and foreign in your throat. a crooked smirk tugged at your lips despite the ache in your chest. “still here. i'm starting to think you’re obsessed.”
normally, that line would’ve earned at least a twitch of amusement—some hint of that reluctant, awkward smile he always tried to hide when you teased him. but this time? nothing. not even close.
his expression didn’t shift; his eyes just stayed on you, sharp and restless, scanning your features like he was running diagnostics, like every flutter of your lashes or stumble in your breath was data he couldn’t afford to miss.
and it unnerved you more than the needle had.
because spencer reid wasn’t just watching. he was unraveling.
and you, broken voice and unsteady pulse, weren’t sure what scared you more: that you’d been taken down by a syringe in the dark or that you mattered enough to put that look in his eyes.
“how are you feeling?”
“like i got hit by a truck,”
he huffed a sudden laugh and although weak and nearly existent, you took it as a win. you smiled mumbling softly, “there you are,”
a silence stretched between the two of you, showing spencer struggle to find words or anything to ease your growing panic.
“you lost consciousness,” he said flatly, like stating it out loud would keep the memory anchored. “your pulse dropped. you stopped responding. do you—” he cut himself off, jaw locking, throat working.
you blinked at him, the weight of his panic pressing heavier than the drug still dragging your body.
“reid,” you whispered, softer now. “it was just a harmless nap.”
“don’t joke about that.” his voice snapped sharp before breaking low again. “don’t.”
for once, you didn’t have a quip ready. your smile fell as quick as it had appeared. you swallowed, gaze slipping to the ceiling.
“fine,” you murmured. “no jokes"
more silence.
you swore to god if you had to sit through another second of silence you were going to start wishing that syringe killed you off.
his silence stretched. and though you didn’t look back at him, you felt it—the air charged between you, blurred and fragile, like something had cracked open that neither of you had meant to touch.
“how long have you been here?” you asked, because silence pressed too heavy on your chest. it wasn’t curiosity so much as desperation—you needed noise, needed anything to fill the stillness between you.
“i—” he started, then stopped. his eyes didn’t lift to yours; they tracked the folds of the hospital blanket instead. “since you were out. three hours. maybe more..? i dont know, i lost track.”
you nodded slowly, your fingers working at the skin along your knuckles, little cracks that had started to sting. it gave you something to do, something to keep your hands from trembling.
spencer shifted, leaning forward, his palm pressed against his mouth as if holding himself together physically. the silence stretched again, taut as wire.
and then, almost too softly, he broke it. “i brought your makeup bag.”
your eyes flicked to him, startled enough that for a second you wondered if you’d misheard. “…what?”
“your makeup bag,” he repeated, a little clearer this time. “you usually keep it in your work purse. i thought you’d want it here—so when you woke up, you could…” he trailed off, fumbling at the edges of his words like he was embarrassed to have said them out loud.
your heart gave a strange little lurch, something sharp and disobedient, as if your body understood more than your mind was willing to admit.
“way to charm a girl, reid.” you managed a smirk, your voice curling into its usual armor. “is this your way of saying that i look like crap?”
his eyes flickered, just for a second, down your face—your smudged mascara, the dark tint of your lips that was due more to the cold and remaining lipstick than anything else, the hospital pallor, the way your hair clung stubbornly at odd angles.
you braced for the usual stammer, for him to retreat. but instead, he shook his head, quiet but steady.
“no. i brought it because i know it makes you feel more like yourself,” he said, his words careful, deliberate.
then, after a beat that stretched too long to be casual “though, for the record you don’t need it.”
the sentence landed like a drop of ink in water, spreading slow and impossible to ignore. not loud, not dramatic—just there. “there should be some makeup wipes there too
your heart dropped straight through you.
because there it was again—that raw, startling side of him you weren’t prepared for. the side that remembered, noticed, cared in ways you couldn’t dismiss with a joke.
the side that slipped past all your defenses before you even realized the gates were open.
and damn him for meaning it.
you leaned back against the pillows, letting the sterile sheets cradle you, but your gaze never left him. your lips curved, softer this time—no smirk, no armor. just a smile that felt almost shy. “thank you, spence.”
he wasn’t sure if you were thanking him for the bag, for the words, or for simply sitting there like a guard at your bedside. maybe it was all of it at once. maybe it didn’t matter.
the nickname, though—spence. it slipped from your mouth so naturally, so unguarded, that it sent a current down his spine.
it wasn’t clinical, wasn’t the careful “reid” or “doc” he was used to from you, the name you wielded like a tease.
he nodded faintly, trying to keep his expression neutral, but inside his head was spinning and reeling in ways that couldn’t possibly be healthy.
“it’s, uhm—” spencer’s voice caught, quieter than the beeping down the hall. he adjusted his grip on his knee, fingers flexing restlessly. “i know it’s what i would’ve wanted when..”
you remained quiet. “when i saw him stick the needle in you, it—” he stopped, jaw tightening, eyes flicking anywhere but you.
“it brought back… things. times when—” another cut-off, sharper this time, like the word itself burned.
he shifted, exhaling through his nose, trying again. “there was a case. years ago. i know what it feels like when… when you don’t have control of what’s inside your own body.” his voice dipped lower, rawer. “i couldn’t stand someone else endure what i—“
he stopped himself, visibly locking the words behind his teeth.
something inside you twisted.
this was spencer—careful, awkward, brilliant spencer—sitting here confessing something jagged and heavy and completely unknown to you, showing you a corner of himself no one ever really showed.
you should have been terrified. not of him—never him—but of what it meant.
yet, somehow, you didn’t want to run. you wanted to reach across that tiny, sterile space and peel back the rest of his words, see all the shadows he was hiding. you wanted to know.
and that terrified you more than anything.
because you weren’t built for this. not the way he was. not with his wide-open honesty bleeding through the cracks, his devotion stitched into every syllable. you didn’t know how to hold something so real without fumbling it, breaking it.
this was getting out of hand.
you did what you always did.
“you don’t exactly make it easy to keep my edge, you know that?” you said, soft but tilted into teasing, your lips curling faintly.
“maybe that’s the point,” he smiled, this time truthfully.
“good luck with that,” you pursed your lips. “it’s gonna take more than some morphine and heartfelt talks to make me break.”
and though you hated yourself for it, you watched the heavy fog in his eyes lift just a fraction, retreating behind something safer. something lighter. something you knew how to deal with.
𝜗𝜚 THINKING ABOUT spencer reid noticing the little things about you
spencer's hands were on your waist, gentle and reverent in a way that only he knew could make your mind feel hazy.
his touch had the particularity of never being enough, leaving you aching for more, yet having the power to send you past the point of satisfaction within mere seconds. it was mindwrecking. then again, you both had given up on trying to solve the quation of your love long ago - sometimes, it's better not to look for an explanation. especially when there are much better things to focus on - like a makeout session, perhaps.
just as he was about to lean in for another kiss, tilting your head in a silent demand for more and granting you with the gentleness of his soft, plump lips against yours - he stilled, mouth hovering above the spot on your neck he was just nipping at.
"did you- change your perfume ?" he asked breathlessly, looking up at you with... sad eyes ? you couldn't tell, squinting curiosly as you tried to look past the fuzzy veil of love surrounding you.
only then he seemed to notice how far gone you were and chuckled, caressing your cheek reverently with the back of his hand - if he thought that would make you come back to your senses, he was far, far from being right.
"i asked if you changed your perfume," he repeated, "you smell different."
you simply nodded, gulping down and trying to fix your hair. “yes. i ran out of the old one, it’s out of stock everywhere. this one is just a sample i had”
from the look in his eyes, you could tell he didn’t seem convinced by the point you were making. he’d always associated you with the sweet scent of vanilla, mixed with a hint of cinnamon you’d carried for as long as he’d known you. while out on a case, or walking past a bakery, the faintest smell of your perfume was enough to make him second glance.
his nose scrunched up. “i don’t like it,” he said.
you almost pouted at his remark, but knew that’s not how he meant it. change was something spence hated, despised, really. and as much as he could’ve tried to adapt to your newest decision, he decided not to.
only two days later, you found a handmade wrapped box on your vanity, with a beautiful perfume bottle inside it.
safe to say that somehow, a bubbly technical analyst and her nerdy best friend had something to do with it.
Could you maybe write a blurb or fic where Spencer just goes completely feral over how loud reader is in bed 🥵
a/n: im almost certain this is not what you asked for but i got this plot idea and hjhhhhhhhdhf
They say good couples share bad habits. This had become true in the six months you and Spencer had been together. The bad habit in question was being reported to the police for excessive noise by his really bitter neighbors.
Now, what kind of noise could a quiet FBI agent and a simple person, such as yourself, make, you may ask? Well, that would be the obnoxiously loud moans and cries that you used to let out during sex.
"Fuck, fuck!" you would have said more, but the fact that your knees were touching your breasts as Spencer had you in a mating press had scrambled your brain beyond the skill to speak.
He himself could only smile at the fact that your moans had overpowered the sound of moist skin lapping together. He loved when you were so loud, nay, he loved when he fucked you so good you had no choice but to share it with the world.
You could feel his entire shaft bury itself within you, the sensation of his testicles against your ass just serving as confirmation of the fact.
His member was tinted a vague white, the thing with Spencer is that you never understood where he got such stamina from. The speed of his thrusts were proportional to the decibels of your whimpers, the louder you yelled, the more eager he used to get.
Smack! A loud banging noise distracted you a little, causing you to shut up for a second. Spencer, however, did not give in to the sound of the door being pounded, eyes still on your flushed face, cock still hitting the deepest ends of your pussy.
"Can you please shut the fuck up?!" a stranger yelled from outside his apartment door "Come on man, shut your whore up! it's been two hours!"
You brought your hands to your mouth, trying to fight back the noises that you were making out of embarrassment.
"No, no." Spencer lowered his speed to talk "What are you doing? I need to hear you."
"Your neighbors can hear everything!" you barely whispered.
"They should be thankful." he reached for your wrists to open the path for your mouth again, pressing a quick kiss to your lips "I bet he touches himself to your moans." he bucked his hips forward slowly, and a whimper escaped you "Yeah, those delicious little sounds you make. Takes a simple exhale to have me rock hard, couldn't blame him if the way you screamed made him cum in his pants."
His narrative had gotten so filthy, so unlike him, a facade that you only saw whenever he knew he had you at his mercy, the sort of information he could only get by the sounds of pleasure he loved so much. Without your permission, your walks ended up clenching around him, aching for his previous pace to take over again.
"Oh, you like that, don't you?" he smiled in your direction, his forehead touching yours "I would normally be jealous, but you feel so good I can barely think straight."
"Spencer..." you muttered in a begging tone, a much lower one compared to what he liked.
"What was that?" his hips began to pick up their pace once again "Speak up, baby, he can't hear you."
"Spencer!" your tone began to raise once more as the thrusts became faster.
"That's good." he praised "Let's show him what my little whore can do."
