summary: Your Uncle Rossi didn’t tell you there was going to be a handsome genius with an unending amount of facts about everything at the dinner he was hosting for his coworkers. And you really wish he would have, because you probably would’ve chosen to wear something more…appealing.
word count: 3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (see about section below) but nothing too crazy and its not a kink thing i promise.
about: my idea is that this takes place sometime around season 3, as my headcannon for reader is to be fairly young, probably 18 or 19, so in my head i feel most comfortable with a 24/25 year old spencer. i also had glasses reid in mind while watching this because he’s just so cute and i know 18/19 year old me couldn’t get enough of him lol
You moved in with your rich uncle David Rossi a few months after turning 15. It was a strange thing, as you abruptly lost your parents, and you moved states away to live with your rich godfather who the last time you saw was five years ago at your older brother’s graduation. You barely knew the guy, you knew nothing of Virginia, and honestly, it was weird.
It was strange being in a four bedroom mansion with a man you barely knew, albeit are related to, in a new state with people you didn’t know. For the first few years he was home all day every day, but last year, your Uncle Dave returned to the FBI in the unit he founded: the Behavioral Analysis Unit.
He was much busier now. Sometimes you wouldn’t see him for weeks on end. But you were older now, out of high school and working on a journalism degree at an online university. You warmed up to your uncle over the years, after all, he’s been all you’ve known as a parental figure for the last five years. And as much as you thought you wouldn’t in the beginning, you’ve come to love him.
_____
You got back home at around 8:00pm. You had a test that had to be taken with a proctor today, and ended up meeting some friends for dinner afterwards. You were a bit intimidated to walk into the house. Your Uncle Dave had warned you that he was hosting a dinner party for his team tonight at 7:00, so you knew there was a dining room full of professional FBI agents waiting for you to walk through in your flannel pajama pants and super old grey Doctor Who hoodie with paint stains on it.
But you had to go inside, surely FBI agents weren’t judgemental, and if they were, well, whoops. You take a deep breath before opening the front door, a loud suction sound echoing as you closed it from the weight of the giant door that leads into the giant house. You hear the banter of the team quiet as you enter. It was almost silent, but there was one voice that continued on.
You heard a voice deeper and more sharp speak over the other, the words “Reid.” filling the dining room, hushing the other voice.
Your uncle had mentioned Reid multiple times over the last year since he returned to the FBI. He described him as a genius, but you weren’t so sure. I mean, of course he was probably incredibly smart to be in the FBI, but you were sure your uncle and the rest of the team were just as smart as him, people were likely just impressed by him because he’s the youngest on the team.
You hear your uncle’s voice echo from the dining room. “Y/N? Is that you?”
You blink, almost wishing he didn’t acknowledge you. “Yeah,” you respond.
“Why don’t you come in here, I want to introduce you to the team,” he says.
You knew he wasn’t going to let you leave the corridor without stopping by. You take your hair out of the bun you have it in. At least if you’re going to be introduced to FBI agents your hair could look good.
You walk into the dining room. At the long table you see a tall man in a black suit and tie with dark hair. His face looks serious, but his eyes greet you. “Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief,” Rossi introduces him as.
“Hotch is fine,” the man echoes, giving a polite nod.
“Derek Morgan,” your attention shifts as your uncle continues around the table. The man sitting beside Hotch is tall as well, muscular, and bald. But he pulls it off well. He leans back comfortably in his chair, one arm draped over the back of it. Unlike Hotch's stern professionalism, he looks completely at ease. His sleeves are rolled up slightly, his tie loosened just enough to suggest that dinner parties aren't something he takes particularly seriously.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, smiling.
"You too,” you say, smiling back.
There's something immediately easy about him, the kind of person who could probably hold a conversation with anyone.
"Derek thinks he's charming," a woman across the table says.
Morgan points at her.
"Ya think?"
Your uncle shakes his head. “That’s Emily Prentiss,” he says, the woman who spoke smiles. She has dark hair that looks like it always does what she wants it to do. She looks effortlessly put together.
“Hi,” she says. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
You blink. "My name's come up?"
Emily glances toward Rossi. "Occasionally."
Your uncle looks mildly offended. "I don't talk about her that much."
"No," Morgan agrees. "Mostly just things like, 'My niece is using all my expensive paint supplies,' or 'My niece left seventeen coffee mugs in the living room.'"
"It was like four,” you say.
"Jennifer Jareau, JJ," your uncle continues.
The blonde woman beside Emily offers a warm smile. She seems kind immediately. Not fake nice. Actually nice.
"It's good to meet you," she smiles.
"You too."
Then your uncle gestures farther down the table. "Penelope Garcia."
The woman lights up."At last!" You blink. Garcia points at you dramatically. "The mysterious niece."
"There is nothing mysterious about me,” you giggle.
"Honey, that’s exactly what a mysterious person would say," she says.
You laugh.
Garcia beams like she's accomplished something. She looks exactly like the kind of person who fills every room she walks into. Bright colors. Bright smile. Bright personality. Everything about her feels larger than life.
"It's nice to meet you," she says.
"You too."
"Also, I love the pajama pants," she says, her voice so genuine, almost like she’s envious of them.
You glance down.
"You're the only one."
"Nonsense. Confidence is sexy."
“Watch it,” your uncle says. He’s been very overprotective of you since you moved in. A little too overprotective in your opinion, but he didn’t want to hear it.
He gestures to the last person at the table. “And of course, Dr. Spencer Reid.”
Your attention drifts toward the youngest man at the table. Spencer Reid. The genius. The rambler. The one your uncle complains about, albeit affectionately.
He's quieter now that the attention is on him. A little awkward. A little more than a little awkward when she gives a small wave.
His eyes flick toward you before quickly looking away again.
Then back.
Then away.
And that's when you notice him looking at your hoodie.
Not your face.
Your hoodie.
Specifically the faded blue police box printed across the front.
His eyes widen. "...Is that a first edition Bad Wolf Tour hoodie?"
You blink. There is absolutely no chance anyone should know that.
"What?" you say, shocked.
"The stitching," he points. "The original merchandise run had different lettering than the later reproductions."
The entire room goes silent. You stare at him. Spencer stares at you.
"You know that?" you finally ask him.
Spencer looks confused. "Of course."
You immediately turn toward your uncle. "Why have you never told me the FBI hired cool people?"
Morgan nearly chokes on his drink. The thought of someone referring to Spencer Reid as cool was asinine.
Spencer visibly brightens. "You watch Doctor Who?"
You laugh. "Watch it? I own a sonic screwdriver."
Garcia gasps. "No."
"Yes," you say, smiling.
"No," she says in the same tone.
"Yes."
Spencer pushes his glasses up. "You own which one?"
You pause, then smile. "The Fourth Doctor's."
Spencer immediately points. "Best one."
"Exactly,” you say
"Exactly."
Garcia slams a hand onto the table. "OH MY GOD."
Emily starts laughing. "There's three of them."
Morgan looks horrified.
"There are three of them," JJ agrees.
Rossi looks deeply exhausted, like he regrets inviting you, but of course, in a humorous way. Rossi takes a seat next to Hotch, leaving an open seat between him and Spencer, and across from Garcia.
“Please can she stay,” Garcia says, facing your uncle and motioning to the chair in front of her.
He blinks and looks at you. “It’s up to you,” he says.
Garcie looks at you, putting her hands together in a fist and doing a begging motion.
You smile, and pull out the chair. “For a little while,” you say.
Maybe twenty minutes later Spencer is explaining the history of Gallifreyan language structures while you and Garcia are actively participating. Not pretending to participate, actually participating.
Which is apparently a completely new experience for Spencer. Most people tune him out after about three minutes. You ask follow-up questions. He answers them. Then you answer one of his. Then Garcia’s.
Then suddenly you're discussing science fiction literature, paradoxes, alternate timelines, and whether the Weeping Angels or the Silence are more terrifying.
The rest of the table slowly stops paying you guys any attention altogether.
Eventually Morgan stands. "I'm going outside."
"Same," Emily follows.
Then Rossi and Hotch.
JJ lasts another five minutes before quietly escaping too.
Nobody ele announces it. They just leave one by one. Until only you, Spencer, and Garcia remain.
"So wait,” Garcia looks at you. "You actually collect stuff?"
You grin, "Want to see?"
Garcia is already standing.
You lead them around the house and upstairs to your room. You linger on the doorknob before opening it, turning to face them. “Now, when Uncle Dave told me he was inviting you guys over I specifically asked for him to leave my room out if he did a tour. So you two should feel extra special.”
You open the door, and you watch as Spencer’s eyes widen and Garcia’s face all but explodes.
A shelf spans one wall: books, action figures, collectibles, replica props, years worth of obsessive collecting fills the shelves.
Spencer walks closer. His eyes land on a rare figure. Then another. Then another. "You have the discontinued Face of Boe set," he states.
"Still in the box," you brag.
"They only made twelve thousand," he says.
You smirk. “I know.”
"You know,” he says, in awe. Spencer looks genuinely impressed. Which somehow feels better than it should.
“Can I touch?” Penelope asks, looking at you wide-eyed.
“As long as you don’t break,” you smile.
Garcia is already holding a collectible and taking pictures. "You are officially my favorite Rossi."
“Yeah, well Dave is kind of a loser,” you joke.
_____
Downstairs, the rest of the team is sitting on the patio chatting and listening to faint excited yelling coming from the second floor.
Morgan glances up. "Should we be worried?"
Rossi takes a long sip of wine, "No."
"Really?" Morgan says?
"About what?" Rossi asks.
There’s a pause.
"...Maybe Reid?" Morgan says sternly.
Emily nearly chokes on her drink. "What?"
Rossi looks up.
Morgan is staring toward the second floor. "You heard me."
"You think Reid is a threat?" JJ asks, sounding amused.
Morgan shrugs. "Normally? No."
A loud burst of laughter echoes faintly from upstairs. Garcia's unmistakable voice follows. Then Spencer's. Then yours.
Morgan points upward. "Tonight? Maybe."
Rossi's eyes narrow slightly. The sound of Spencer laughing isn't unusual. The sound of Spencer laughing repeatedly is. Emily notices the expression immediately.
"Oh no," JJ says looking at Rossi.
"What?" Rossi asks.
"You just profiled something."
"I didn't profile anything."
"You absolutely profiled something," Emily says, staring at Rossi.
Hotch quietly takes a sip of his drink. "He's profiling it right now," he says.
"I am sitting on my patio," Rossi states.
"You've got the look," Hotch says
"What look?" Dave is starting to get annoyed.
"The look you get when you're about to tell us something nobody wants to hear,” JJ says.
Rossi looks toward the second floor again. The house falls quiet for a moment. Then another round of excited voices drifts downstairs. Spencer's voice, Your voice. Spencer's again. A pause. Your laugh. Rossi’s stomach drops.
Morgan grins. Rossi slowly turns toward him. “No,” he says.”
“No?” Morgan repeats.
Emily is trying not to smile. “You know,” she says, “now that I think about it…”
“Don’t,” Hotch says, trying to let the situation dissolve.
"She did sit next to him."
"Emily." Hotch says with a warning tone.
"And she's the only person I've ever met who voluntarily asked follow-up questions during one of Reid's monologues," Emily continues.
"Emily." Hotch scolds her this time.
"Several follow-up questions," Morgan adds.
"She was looking at him a lot,” JJ joins in.
"You think so too?" Rossi asks.
"I'm just making observations,” she says.
"You're all making observations with no proof to back them up.” Rossi says, trying to lie to himself.
Upstairs another burst of laughter rings through the house.
Emily winces. "Yeah, that's not helping."
"No," Morgan agrees. "It's really not."
Rossi's jaw tightens. It isn't that Spencer is a bad guy. If anything, that's the problem. Spencer is brilliant, kind, a little awkward, and completely incapable of manipulating anyone. If Rossi had to pick someone on the team to trust with his life, Spencer would make the list.
That doesn't mean he wants him anywhere near his niece.
Those are entirely different things.
"You guys are overthinking this," Hotch says.
"They're just talking,” Rossi says, siding with Hotch.
"They've been talking for almost an hour,” JJ adds.
"They have a shared interest. And Garcia is there"
Morgan snorts. "A shared interest."That's how it starts."
"Unfortunately, he's right,” Emily says, siding with Morgan.
Rossi looks horrified. "You're all insane."
"Maybe," Emily says. "But if I walked upstairs right now and asked Garcia who Y/N has spent the entire night talking to, who do you think she'd say?"
Rossi doesn't answer. Because he already knows the answer. And he hates it. A lot.
Hotch finally sets down his glass. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."
Rossi relaxes slightly.
Then Hotch continues. "Yet…"
The relaxation immediately disappears. Rossi stands. The entire team watches him.
"Where are you going?" JJ asks.
"Checking on them." Rossi says.
Emily grins. "Checking on them,” she mocks.
"Yes."
"See? He hates it." Morgan laughs
"I do not hate it."
"You absolutely hate it."
Rossi pauses. "I have to believe it to hate it. And I don’t believe it."
That only makes everyone laugh harder as he heads back into the house, already preparing himself for whatever he's about to walk into upstairs.
_____
"Yeah, well Dave is kind of a loser," you joke.
The sound of someone in the doorway clearing their throat fills the room.
All three of you jump. Your uncle stands there with a glass of wine in one hand. "You invite people into your room and immediately start slandering me?" He says, a joking tone.
"You walked into my room uninvited,” you say.
"It's my house,” he states.
"It's my room,” you argue.
"It's my house."
"It's my room."
Garcia points between the two of you. "This is exactly how I imagined your relationship."
"You imagined our relationship?" you ask.
"Frequently,” she says.
Spencer laughs quietly. You immediately glance toward him. His hand flies up to cover his mouth like he hadn't meant to laugh out loud.
Which somehow makes it even cuter.
Not that you're thinking that.
At all.
Definitely not.
Your uncle notices. Because of course he does. He's a profiler. And unfortunately a good profiler. His eyes narrow slightly.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing,” he says.
"That wasn't a nothing face."
"It was a nothing face."
"It was absolutely not."
Rossi points toward Spencer. "You."
Spencer freezes. "What?"
"Stop encouraging her."
Spencer looks genuinely confused. "I haven't done anything."
"Exactly."
Emily appears behind Rossi. One look into the room and she immediately starts laughing. Morgan's head appears over Emily's shoulder.
Somehow your entire room has become a spectator sport.
Garcia immediately points. "Everybody out."
"You don't have authority here," Morgan says.
"I have passion."
"That's not the same thing."
"It should be."
While the argument continues, Spencer wanders toward your bookshelf. His attention lands on a worn hardcover sticking out from the shelf. His expression changes immediately.
"You have this?" He says in awe.
You glance over. "Oh, yeah I do."
The book. A first-edition collection of Isaac Asimov stories. You'd spent nearly a year hunting it down online.
"It took forever to find."
Spencer carefully pulls it from the shelf like he's handling a museum artifact. He holds it in front of him and looks toward you with puppy dog eyes.
Your heart does an annoying little thing.
"You've read it?” He asks, voice so delicate.
You snort. "I own it."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"Of course I've read it."
His eyes light up. And suddenly the rest of the room disappears again.
You spend the next ten minutes debating science fiction authors. Garcia contributes enthusiastically despite admitting she's only read half of them. Emily eventually drags Morgan back downstairs.
Until only Rossi remains leaning against the doorway.
Watching.
Spencer doesn't notice. He's too busy explaining why certain science fiction writers accidentally predicted modern technology. You don't notice either. You're too busy listening.
Actually listening.
Not politely waiting for him to finish. Not pretending to understand.
Listening. Asking questions. Arguing back Engaging.
Rossi watches the interaction for another minute. Then quietly smiles to himself. Because in the year he's worked with Spencer Reid, he's seen people react to him in one of three ways.
Confusion. Intimidation. Or boredom.
He's never seen someone look at Spencer like he's the most interesting person in the room. And judging by the way Spencer keeps glancing at you when he talks, he's never seen Spencer look at someone like that either.
Rossi takes a sip of wine. Then immediately decides this is absolutely not becoming his problem tonight. Unfortunately, he knows it's already too late. But maybe, in the morning, he can decide to forbid you from ever seeing the boy genius again.
Or he can at least try…
_____
Read Part 2 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: to any of my fans (joking tone, but on a real note i know most of you guys follow me for the Spencer Reid A-Z Series) i promise i will be posting more parts to that soon. but i also have a ton (over 100) recommendations in my inbox, and some of them i would really like to try to do, so i will be posting some one shots as well for a while. my inbox has some pretty old recommendations (as early as 2023) and i am aware that people often tend to fall in and out of being into fanfics and stuff, so i will likely not write from any specific requests from anything more than a year ago (2025). but please feel free to send me requests, either for my A-Z series or just for one shots and i will try my hardest to be much more timely about them for at least the next few months while i’m on summer break!
guys my friend just told me she thinks i could actually pull MGG and we asked her parents and showed them a few of his exes (willow, kat, ali michael) and they were like yeah i could see it i'm going to cry my ego is so high i'm going to think about this for the rest of my life
i love my bf but i WOULD leave him for one night with mgg. i'm well aware that that isn't good, but it's the truth.
i've actually never had a happier moment in my life i need to go mgg hunting right now and test my luck
summary: you absolutely despise spencer reid. and you make it your mission for everyone to know. but despite how cruel you are to him, he can’t help but find himself in love with you.
word count: 2.7k
warnings: perv!spencer, sub!spencer, dom!reader, bully!reader, humiliation kink, lots of degration, some praise, edging, crying during sex, lowkey dacryphilia, spencer is literally a helpless fucking loser, mentions and descriptions of masturbation (m), oral (m & f recieving) unprotected sex, cream pie, lowkey kind of like 'size matters' talk idk lol, use of 'little boy' once i have no idea fucking why it's not in an age play way she's just being evil, probably some other shit too
_____
The atmosphere of the BAU bullpen was nothing shy of normal; papers were files, feet shuffled, phones rang, everything was as normal as it had ever been. But all Spencer Reid could focus on was her. The sharp-tongued, confident agent who seemed to make it her personal mission to make his life a living hell since she transferred into the BAU six months ago.
You arrived in Quantico like a tornado, as Penelope Garcia says. You were quick, confident, and cunning when the job asked. Fresh off a high profile unit, you fit into the BAU team effortlessly. From day one, you seemed to zero in on him. Maybe it was his rambling during briefings that set you off. Maybe it was the way he corrected minor details in everyone’s profiles. Whatever the reason, you hated him. Everyone knew it.
The way you rolled your eyes dramatically when he launched into statistics or probability models. The cutting remarks about his “freakish brain” tossed casually in the break room loud enough for others to hear. The way you’d “accidentally” bump his shoulder just hard enough to spill his coffee down his shirt, followed by a mocking “Oops, sorry, genius.” It all told the story.
You were a bully. Plain and simple. Beautiful and brilliant. And most noticeably, brutal. And your one and only target, Spencer Reid, was hopelessly, pathetically, and desperately in love with you.
He knew the odds were abysmal. Negative probabilities. Statistically impossible. You were everything he wasn’t. Confident, bold, the kind of agent who walked into a room and commanded it without even trying. He was just Spencer. Awkward, rambling, the kid who got bullied at every school he’d ever attended, the one who still flinched at loud voices sometimes. Yet he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t stop staring at the way your hair fell across your shoulder when you leaned over case files. He couldn’t stop replaying the rare moments your fingers brushed his when passing reports. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the late night fantasies that consumed him.
Back in his apartment, Spencer would lie in bed, hand wrapped tight around his cock, eyes squeezed shut as he gave in completely. In his mind, he had you pinned against the wall of the filing room, the door locked, the risk of someone walking in only making it hotter. He imagined dropping to his knees, pushing your skirt up your thighs, burying his face between your legs while you tugged his hair and called him pathetic. He pictured the way your body would feel around him. Tight, hot, wet, clenching as he finally sank inside you. Hips snapping desperately while you mocked him for how badly he needed this. How badly he needed you. He’d stroke himself faster, thumb swiping over the leaking tip, imagining the sounds you’d make, the way your nails would dig into his shoulders, the way you’d laugh at how quickly he fell apart for you.
Every single time, without fail, he’d cum while moaning your name, broken and desperate, spilling over his fist in thick pulses. Then the guilt would crash in hard. He’d lie there sticky and ashamed, staring at the ceiling, hating how he had made himself addicted to you. Every time you sat near him in the round table room, crossing your legs in that particular way, or leaned over to point something out on a map, or even just laughed at one of Morgan’s jokes, a rush of blood would flood straight to his crotch. His brain would short-circuit and loop right back to you. Always you.
The fantasy version of you riding him on his desk, the imagined taste of you on his tongue, the way he’d give anything for you to look at him with something other than contempt.
He tried to be normal. Or at the very least tolerable. He brought you coffee exactly how you liked it, stayed quiet during meetings unless directly spoken to, he even attempted to dress a little sharper some days, though the sweater vests always won out in the end. But none of it mattered. He was just Spencer. And you saw right through every awkward attempt.
On a particularly late night, one in which you thought you were the last one here, you return to the bullpen from cleaning up the board in the conference room. Much to your dismay, you found Spencer sitting at his desk.
“What the fuck are you still doing here, Reid?” you snapped, dropping your bag with a thud. “Don’t you have some little apartment to go back to?”
Spencer swallowed hard, cheeks already flushing under your gaze. “I was cross-referencing some geographical patterns from–”
“God, shut up,” you cut him off, walking closer until you were looming over his desk. You leaned down, palms flat on the wood, close enough that he could smell your perfume and feel the heat radiating off you. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”
Spencer’s breath hitched. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying, and failing, to hide the way his body was reacting to your proximity. You noticed. Your eyes flicked downward, catching the obvious bulge straining against his slacks.
“Oh,” you breathed, straightening up slowly. Your voice lost some of its bite, replaced by genuine surprise. “You’re… you’re actually getting hard right now? From me standing here yelling at you?”
Spencer’s face burned. He tried to cross his legs, mortified, hands fidgeting in his lap.
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I know you hate me. I just… I can’t control it when you’re close like this. You’re… you’re incredible. Even when you’re mad at me. Especially when you’re mad at me. It’s pathetic, I know.”
You stared at him for a long moment, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“Jesus, Reid,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair. “All this time I thought you were just an annoying know-it-all. But you’ve been fantasizing about me bullying you?” You leaned closer again, voice quieter. “Why? Tell me why you let me treat you like this and still look at me like that.”
Spencer looked down, voice barely audible. “Because I like you. A lot. More than I should. I know the odds are terrible. I know you’re out of my league. But I can’t stop. Every time you walk by, every time you say my name, even when you’re insulting me, my brain just…goes to you.”
You stare at him. There is something absolutely pathetic about him. Part of you wants to just completely destroy his confidence and make fun of him. But another part of you, a part you don’t quite fully understand, wants him.
You grab his tie, yanking him forward from his chair onto his feet. You pull him into a deep, messy kiss. A kiss like you owned him, tongue immediately entering his mouth before you spin him around against his desk, manhandling him. Your hands roam possessively over him, letting your nails scrape softly down his chest through his shirt.
“You’re such a pathetic little genius,” you growl against his swollen lips, biting the bottom one just enough to make him whimper. “Getting so fucking hard just from me being mean to you?”
He shakes at your words. You push your thigh mercilessly in between his legs, grinding it ever so softly against his throbbing bulge. He moves his hips to meet your subtle rocking, small moans leaving his mouth.
“Can’t believe this whole time, I thought you were just acting small around me ‘cause you were scared of me,” you say, bringing your knee up harder into him to give him more friction. “But it was actually because you were getting hard from every mean thing I said.” You pull him down to you by the back of his hair in order to put your lips right next to his ear. “You’re such a desperate little slut, Reid.”
Spencer moaned into your mouth, hips twitching helplessly. He suddenly pushes your body away from him by your shoulders, gasping and panting.
“What’s wrong?” you smirk, admiring his bright red face and dark, lustful eyes.
“...I-I’m about to cum,” he whispers, mortified.
You laugh, loud and mocking. “Oh my god! I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re about to blow your load just from kissing me? Who knew you were so fucking pathetic.”
“I’m sorry,” he babbles desperately. “I’m so sorry, I just– you feel so good and I’ve wanted this for so long–”
“Shut up,” you cut him off, still chuckling. “Take your pants off. Now. Let me see if you’re even worth it.”
He fumbled frantically with his belt, shoving his slacks and boxers down his thighs. His cock sprang free, impressively long and thick for his skinny frame, flushed a deep, angry red, rock-hard and leaking steadily from the slit, the head glistening and shiny. It twitched visibly under your gaze, another bead of pre-cum dares to drip out.
You laughed again, delighted and cruel. “Fuck, look at that. Such a big, pretty cock on such a desperate, skinny loser. Maybe if I would’ve known you had all this I would’ve done this sooner”
As if on cue, it twitched again hard, more pre-cum leaking out. Spencer groaned in humiliation and covered his face with both hands.
“Stop hiding, baby,” you soothe, pulling his hands away. “Let me see how much of a perverted, leaky mess you are for me.”
You finally wrapped your fingers around his throbbing length. He felt heavy in your hand and so so warm. He gasped loudly, hips bucking up involuntarily. You started stroking him torturously slow, twisting your wrist over the sensitive head and spreading his pre-cum down the shaft, making every glide slick and audible.
“Listen to you,” you mocked as you continued stroking him. “You’ve been touching this pretty cock every night thinking about me, haven’t you?”
“Yes! Yes, every night,” he gasps, his head falling back and hips stuttering desperately into your fist. “Please–please I’m s-so close!”
You keep jerking him until you feel his cock swelling impossibly harder in your hand and can feel the veins pulsing through your hand. When he looks like he’s about to cum, you halt your movements completely, squeezing the base firmly.
“No, please,” he pleads, looking at you with betrayal in his eyes. “I need–”
“I thought this was what you wanted, baby?” you mock. “You wouldn’t want it to end so soon, would you?”
He shook his head frantically. “I’ll be good, I swear.”
You gave him a brief moment to regroup, stroking his trembling thighs gently while his cock throbbed angrily in the cool air, dripping steadily onto his stomach. Then you acted like you were going to stroke him again, only to drop to your knees at the last second and swallow him down in one smooth, wet motion.
Spencer lost it almost instantly. A loud, broken moan tore from his throat as your mouth took him, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head, sucking hard. The wet heat and suction were overwhelming. His hips bucked involuntarily, pushing deeper into your throat. You bobbed your head faster, taking him as deep as you could, gagging slightly around his impressive girth, saliva dripping down his shaft.
You’re not there for long before he has to physically pull your head off him with shaking hands.
“S-stop. God I’m gonna– I can’t–” he pants, not able to form a full sentence.
You smiled up at him, lips shiny with spit and his pre-cum. “Such a good boy for not cumming without permission. You’re learning so fast for me,” you praised, voice husky.
He moaned loudly at the praise alone, his cock twitching hard in the air, another thick bead of pre-cum dripping down.
You stood up, pushed his chair back, and hopped onto his desk. You pulled him forward by his tie until he was right between your spread legs. Cupping his face gently, you rubbed your thumb along his flushed cheek. He looked up at you with wide, adoring puppy eyes, completely ruined and willing to do whatever you could possibly ask for.
“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispered reverently, voice hoarse. “T-thank you.”
You smiled down at him. “Do you want to thank me properly?”
“Yes. Anything. Please.”
You opened your legs wider and pulled him closer by the hair. “Make me cum with that mouth of yours, and then I’ll let you cum.”
Spencer gulped visibly. “O-okay… anything for you. I’ve…I’ve never done this before.”
“Well, you’d better figure it out if you want to cum, genius,” you said, hiking your skirt up and pulling your soaked panties aside, exposing yourself to him.
He grabbed the backs of your thighs with shaking hands, hoisting your hips slightly. Once your legs were draped over his shoulders and he was seated comfortably in the chair at perfect level, you looked down at him expectantly.
He started eagerly but clumsily, tongue licking broad, wet stripes through you. The first touch of his warm tongue made you sigh. It took him a moment of tentative exploration, but the genius quickly adapted,learning exactly how your hips jerked and your breath hitched when he circled your swollen clit with firm strokes, what made you moan loudly when he sucked, how you clenched around nothing when he dipped his tongue inside your tight heat. Soon he was devouring you with wet, obscene, hungry sounds, moaning loudly against your pussy the entire time, the vibrations sending sparks of pleasure up your spine.
You glanced down and saw his free hand desperately wrapped around his own throbbing cock, stroking fast and sloppy while he lapped at you.
You pushed his head back firmly, breaking the seal of his mouth on your clit. “Selfish little boy,” you laughed breathlessly. “Can’t even focus on making me cum because you’re so fucking desperate to touch your pathetic, leaking cock. How greedy can you be?”
“I’m sorry,” he gasped immediately, eyes wide with panic, lips shiny with your arousal. “I’m so sorry, I just needed–”
“Shut up.” You slid off the desk and straddled him in the chair, lining his painfully hard cock up with your soaked entrance. You grab his face with your free hand, forcing him to look at you. “I’m going to fuck you until I cum. You better not even think about cumming until I say so. Understand?”
He nodded frantically. “Yes. Yes, anything for you. Please.”
You sank down onto him in one smooth, deep motion, taking every thick, veiny inch until he was buried inside you. You felt full, the head pressed perfectly against the sensitive spot inside you. Both of you moaned loudly at the sensation.
You don’t start slow, instead, you’re relentless. The chair rolls slightly beneath the two of you as you rise up and down on him.
“Fuck, you’re so big,” you groaned, boucning on his cock faster. He can feel your wetness drip down his shaft as you rise on him.
You notice a tear slipping down his cheek, immediately making you slow your movements.
“Are you okay, Spencer?” you ask sincerely, true concern in your voice.
“Yes. Yes, please keep going,” he begged, voice completely wrecked with overwhelming pleasure. “You feel so good. Please don’t stop.”
Realizing he was crying from pure, overwhelming pleasure made you even wetter. You praised him breathlessly, grabbing one of his hands and bringing it to your swollen clit. “Use your fingers, baby. You’re doing such a good job right now. Being such a good boy.”
You rode him harder, as you chased your orgasm. You can feel the pressure build inside you. You lean down to his ear and whisper to him, “I’m about to cum. You can either cum with me or not at all.”
“Inside?” he gasped, eyes wide and desperate, more tears falling. “Please let me cum inside you.”
“Yes. Fill me up, Spencer,” you moan as you cum hard, clenching rhythmically around his thick cock, milking him as waves of intense pleasure crashed through you. Spencer followed immediately with a loud, broken sob of your name, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled everything he had.
His orgasm outlasts yours, the countless edging having built up an intense load for him. Seemingly endless ropes of cum flood you in powerful spurts, filling you until it started leaking out around his shaft with every twitch. He held onto you like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality, whispering broken thank yous and your name over and over between shaky, overwhelmed breaths as the last pulses of his orgasm drained him completely.
this is a one shot about playin chess wooth spencer but i wrote it while drun k so yeah.
You have always refused to play chess with Specer. No mater how mant rimes he asks you, you always say no. Mostl y becauseyou;ve bever played chess before. ANd because you knw he;ll win and be really annoying about it. SO when he sits the board on the tabel, you dearth stare him.
“Absolutey not!” you say.
“Why>” he asks opening the top of the box antman.
“Because your IQ is like 300.”
“It doesn’t even go that high.”
“It thought you thought intelligence couldn’t be quantified”
“i want to play cheese.”
“BUrt I don’t want to play a game im going to automotively lose”
“If you play chess now i’ll let you pick what we play for hte next two wekes.”
That is a dael that you cannot refuse. Spencer ried was going to be playing Chutes & Ladders™ for the next two weeks. ANd you were exfcitetd.
“Okat deal. And we get to go to Olive Garden for dinner.” you say, hinting at him that you want olive garden. dude olive garden is so fiucking good. i love oliva garden.
“That’s fine,” he smiles. and starts carefully seting up the chess board. you just watch him. becaust you have no idea wher eall the little guys go. theres so many little guys on a chess board and they all have assigned seating!
“befor we start i should give you the backstory so yo u understand why chess.” he says.
“I knew that we wouldn’t just play’ you say, listneinganyhways.
“Most historians believe modern ches evolved from an indian game form the 6th century called chaturanga. the original pieces were tohougt to be the calvary, infantry, eleapgants, and the chariots, which eventually became the pawn, knight, bishop and rook. The game then spread to persia where it becante nown as shantanj then through ismal and europe and eyah.”
girl you do not give a fuck what this man si yapping about you just wnat olive garden.
You pick up the queen. “why is she so good?”
spencer smiles .”thats oene of my favoite parts.”
feminist king lowkey.
“in early chess the queen was arguably the weakest piece, she could only move diagnal one Squarepants. It wasn;t until the late 15th century when europe changed the rules and made her the strongest piece.”
“Why?”
i actually don’t know why so just pretend splunker explains why.
“Thats cool” you say.
SPencer finally got hte board all set up. he looks at you.
“So there are twenty possible ways this game can start.”
You look at him. “Only twenty?”
"For whites first move."
"Oh."
"But after black responds, there are 400 possible positaions."
"Oh."
"After each player has made to moves there are 197,281 positions."
"...You know that off the top of your head?".
"By move 3 there are over 9million positions."
He moves one of your pawns fortworht expriatmientally.
"There are also whats called opening systemic." He points at the board. "For example, if you move this pawn two spaces, that's the King's Pawn Opening." He moves a different one "If you move this one instead, that's the Queen's Pawn Opening."
"Please don't tell me one is called the Left Pawn Thing." you say. moving the furthest left prawn
"It isn't."
"...Good."
“After thse they are called the silicon defenec and the french defense and the caro kahn defence and theres the scandinavian def-”
“can we just play?”
“yah, ill make yiu listen to me explain all the different defenses at olive garden.”
oh my god i want breadsticks and alveoli so fucking bafd.
The first 5 minutes of the game is enough to conivne psiecer that teahfing yo u chess is going to be a much longer process than he hasd anticipate.d You ask him four times what direction the bishop can move. you call the rook a castle and tell him that your castle takes his horse. he doesn;t like that. he corrects every incorrectgname of of the piece. you know hte correct names, you just want to annoy him for maing you play this stupid agame.
chess isnlt stupid i odnt’ actually mean that i actually really love chess and was in chess club in highschool and di chess competitions im not a fraud i love chess.
it only takes you seven move s to leave you queef wive open. and spener notices as soo as it happens, probably before honestly and hes just waiting to see if yu fix it. you dont’
“you know i can take your queen;” he say.
“can you oretned you don’t seee that?”
“I acnat”
:Wht if i aksed you really really nicely:”
‘That does’t change the rules.”
“What if i blink like a fish at you??”
“I don’t know what that means, and I still have to take your QUEENLATIFIAONLINE
sorry that’s my aunts old tik tok username and it recommended it when i was tyojng and i oculdnt pass it upp. that s swopped to say queen.
“CAn I do takey backsies?” you ask, staring to move your queen back ot where it was before.
“I’ll allow it this one time.”
“THANKS 🙂”
The game continues and spencer takes like all but four of your pieces minus your king and queen. he still has 80& of his little guys. you squint at the board for like one billion hours before making your move. spinnaker waits patiently , not rushing you at lall.
you pick up your queen and movie tit to a compelety random Squarepants. Spinker looks confused.
“Why did you do that?” the ask.
“I like that square” you say.
He looks between you and the road for a logn time befor ehw does anything. He’s convinced you have to be baiting him, because not even a two yard old could make a ove that bad that didn’t seem to do anhitnbg.
IF he takes the queen, then your bishop…no, yur bishop can’t even reach that suqpr3.
maybe your knight? no.
Unless?
He leans footwad, his eyes moving around the board.
three moves, five moves, seven moves.
“What are you doinging>” you ask him
“Thinking about your move.”
“It wasnt’ a very good one.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you tinking so ahrd?”
“Beacse it wasnt’ a very good move.”
he studes the board for like five more minutes. confused because lterayly notone would vonutantarily put their queen there. unless you knew he’d think that. which meands…no you don’t know…or do you>?
Spencer finally rdecids not to take your queen and instead make waht he deems the most safest move plausible.
you move a random pawn in response. and he does another move that has prboably been stcriptd out in his head for like fifteen mintjues.
you move a random rook.
“Wait,” spener says, looking closely at the board. he studies it like foir tiems over. “You just won.”
“How?”
“becase yoru going ot take my king”
“oh my god i just beat you at chess”
“You jsut beat me at chest.”
“Can we go to olive garden now?”
_____
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summary: When the unsub grabs you, the whole world shifts under Spencer’s feet. He’s always tried to balance logic with love, but now he’s coming undone. He argues with Hotch and Morgan. And when Emily tries to calm him, something breaks, and the truth comes out.
word count: 2k
warnings: Abduction of reader (no intense details), emotional distress, shouting, restraining a teammate, accidental pregnancy reveal
The team was scouted out at a storage shed. Everyone moved fast, focused, and tactical. Spencer was none of those things. He paced. He snapped. He wouldn’t sit.
Then Hotch blocked the door to the suspect’s building.
“Reid, you know I can’t let you go in there,” Hotch said, his body physically barring Spencer’s path.
“Y/N is in there, Hotch,” Spencer snapped, eyes blazing. “I have to.”
“We don’t know if she’s alive,” Hotch said flatly. “This is too personal for you. We cannot do it.”
“You have to.” Spencer moved again, trying to push past.
Derek caught him by the arm. “Kid, you know you can’t go in there.”
“I need to know if she’s okay. I need to go now,” Spencer yelled, trying to break free.
Hotch didn’t flinch. “Reid, you have to remain professional.”
“That’s my girlfriend!” Spencer shouted, louder than anyone had ever heard from him. His voice cracked.
Hotch stayed firm. “Yes. And the unsub knows that. If she is alive, the second you walk into that shed, her chances are over. You know that.”
“I need to know if she’s okay, damn it!”
He shoved at Derek’s shoulder, trying to shake loose, but Morgan gripped him tighter, now pushing Spencer backward toward the SUV.
“Just because this case is personal doesn’t mean you get to act irrational,” Hotch barked. “Morgan, leave him in the SUV with Prentiss. Let’s go.”
“No, no, no-”
But it was too late. Derek shoved him into the back of the SUV roughly, Spencer still trying to escape his grip.
“You’re not going in there, Reid,” Morgan snapped. “I know you’re scared, kid,” Derek said, voice a notch softer, “but we’re gonna get her back. You’ve got to trust us.”
He left the door open behind him. Emily was just steps behind him, climbing in the back and shutting the door.
Spencer looked like a different person. Pale. Shaking. Sweating. He sank into the seat, hands in his hair. His whole body heaving.
“Spence,” Emily said gently. “Look at me.”
He did. Barely.
“She’s going to be okay,” she said gently.
“You don’t know that,” Spencer snapped before he could stop himself.
Emily raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “No. I don’t. But I believe it.”
“She shouldn’t have been out there,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “She said she was just going to help with coordination. That she’d be inside.”
“She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She;s a great agent in the field.”
“I know.” He hid his head in his hands, filling his fists with his hair.
“Spence.”
He didn’t look at her.
“I’ve never seen you like this.”
He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Neither have I.”
“Talk to me.”
His fingers curled tighter into his hair. “I keep seeing it. That alley. Her badge on the ground. No struggle. No gunshots. Just…gone. Like she was erased.”
Emily’s face fell.
He finally looked at her.
“I’ve never… I’ve never been this scared.”
She didn’t speak, just nodded, encouraging.
Spencer’s voice lowered. Barely above a whisper.“I used to think the worst thing was not knowing someone. Trying to get into the mind of a killer. Wondering what made them snap.”
He swallowed hard. “But it’s not. The worst thing is knowing someone completely, and still not being able to stop the bad thing from happening to them.”
Emily’s throat tightened. “She’s going to come back.”
He looked down, blinking rapidly, fighting something behind his eyes.
“I just… I need them back safe.”
Emily froze.
“…Them?”
Spencer blinked, too late.
Emily’s expression shifted in a flash, understanding breaking behind her eyes.
“Oh my god,” she breathed. “She’s pregnant.”
He didn’t answer. That was the answer.
Emily stood slowly, covering her mouth. “When did you find out? She shouldn’t even be in the field-”
“I know!” Spencer shouted suddenly, “I told her that. She said she’d stay in. And she had been! I swear to god, Emily, she wasn’t doing anything dangerous. She was at the precinct! She was running maps…” He choked off.
Emily placed both hands on his arms. “Spencer. Breathe.”
“She said she’d be careful,” he said. “She promised. And I let her. I let her talk me into staying quiet because I didn’t want her to feel like we were putting her in a box.”
“You weren’t wrong to trust her.”
“I was wrong to think any of this was safe.”
Emily held his eyes.
“Hotch is going to be furious.”
“Then let him be,” Emily said. “As long as we get her back. Both of them.”
Shepulled him into a hug. He didn’t fight it. He buried his face in her shoulder and sat there shaking, hands fisting in the back of her blazer like if he held tight enough, he wouldn’t fall apart.
“Do you have a name picked out?” she asked softly, trying to ease his mind as much as she could in this situation.
He laughed, cracked and raw. “No. We weren’t even… We hadn’t thought that far.”
“Well,” she said, voice thick. “You better start.”
They stayed like that until the door open and Rossi leaned in.
“Hotch wants you out here. We’ve got something.”
Spencer pulled away and wiped his face. He didn’t speak.
He just stepped out of the van with a fire in his chest that burned hotter than anything he’d ever known.
“He’s not here,” Hotch said, looking at Spencer almost as if he was waiting for him to snap. He didn’t.
“So, now what?” Spencer said, almost broken.
“We’re going back to the precinct and rerunning geo-profiles. Now.”
The tension in the precinct felt like a thunderstorm sitting on everyone's shoulders. Spencer stood near the digital board, arms crossed so tightly they ached. His jaw was locked. His eyes never left the screen.
He hadn’t spoken much since the slip.
Emily had told Morgan and Rossi. Quietly. Grimly. No one had said anything out loud. But now they knew. And every time someone looked at him, Spencer could feel it. Not judgment. Not blame. Just the collective weight of understanding.
They all knew what it meant now. They all knew what it would mean if they didn’t get her back.
Garcia’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Guys, hot lead. Surveillance from 11:13 PM on a warehouse two blocks south of the suspect’s last known job site. There’s movement. Someone’s tied up. It’s blurry but…I think it’s her.”
Spencer was out the door before Hotch finished saying, “Go.”
They moved fast.
SWAT breached the warehouse first, standard protocol. Rossi and Morgan were close behind, weapons drawn. Spencer wasn’t supposed to be there, he wasn’t technically cleared to follow, but Hotch didn’t stop him this time.
There was no sound of gunfire.
Only the echo of boots against concrete and one voice shouting:
“Clear!”
Then another:
“We’ve got her! She’s alive!”
Spencer ran.
Faster than he thought his legs could carry him.
When he turned the corner into the back of the warehouse, he saw you, tied to a metal chair, duct tape peeled halfway off your mouth, wrists chafed but free now, a medic already checking your vitals.
You looked up.
Your eyes met his.
And you crumpled into a sob.
He dropped to his knees in front of you and pulled you into his arms.
You were shaking. Absolutely trembling. But you were warm and real and alive.
You wrapped your arms around his neck like you were afraid to let go.
“I’m okay,” you whispered against his collar. “I’m okay. He didn’t…he just wanted to talk. To scare me. He said he didn’t want to hurt me. I’m okay.”
Spencer held you tighter.
His heart felt like it was going to rip through his chest.
He should’ve yelled. Should’ve scolded you for going outside alone, for not telling Hotch sooner, for keeping the pregnancy a secret.
But all of that rage had been swallowed by the wave of something much bigger.
Relief.
“I thought I lost you,” he breathed.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes wet, lip trembling, your face framed in sweat and dust and light.
“You didn’t,” you said.
His hands cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing gently beneath your ears.
“You’re really okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Shaken. But okay.”
He leaned in and kissed your forehead, your cheek, your mouth.
“I swear to god,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”
Behind you, Emily was crouched with the med team, watching with quiet tears in her eyes. Morgan and Rossi stood guard near the door, scanning the perimeter, not saying a word. They didn’t have to.
Everyone saw it now. This wasn’t just about two agents. It was a family.
____
The hum of the engines was steady, soothing, but the tension in the jet hadn’t entirely lifted.
You sat beside Spencer in the back row, curled under a blanket Garcia had packed in your go-bag weeks ago. Your wrists were bandaged, your eyes heavy, but your head rested on Spencer’s shoulder, and for the first time in hours, your body felt still.
Across from you, Emily caught your eye. She gave you a small smile, full of comfort and quiet understanding.
Then Hotch appeared in the aisle.
“Reid. Y/L/N.”
Your stomach dropped a little. Spencer straightened beside you.
Hotch motioned toward the conference nook of the jet, the far corner, out of earshot. His tone left no room for debate.
You followed Spencer silently. He held your hand the whole way.
Once seated, Hotch stood across from you both, arms crossed. His face was unreadable. Exhausted. Controlled. But something churned just beneath.
“I’m going to keep this simple,” he said. “And I want complete honesty.”
You both nodded.
“You’re pregnant,” he said to you, voice level. “How far along?”
You hesitated. “Nine weeks.”
Hotch’s jaw ticked.
“And you’ve both known since…?”
“March 12th,” Spencer answered. “That’s when we confirmed it with a test.”
“So you’ve been concealing it for over a month.”
“Yes, sir.”
“While remaining active on a tactical team that regularly enters active crime scenes.”
You flinched.
“I was not in the field,” you said quietly. “Not since the confirmation. I’ve stayed back in precincts, worked data, built profiles. I’ve made sure to avoid any contact zones.”
“And when were you planning on telling me?” Hotch asked. “When it showed?”
“Honestly?” you said. “I wasn’t sure.”
Spencer spoke up then, not defensive, just firm.
“She didn’t want to be treated differently. Not yet.”
Hotch exhaled. “I understand that instinct. But it doesn’t make this less dangerous.”
“I know,” you whispered.
“I understand your motivations,” Hotch continued. “But this job relies on trust. You don’t get to make choices that affect the team without full transparency. If something had gone differently today-”
“I know,” Spencer interrupted, his voice sharp, ragged. “If she’d been hurt… if she’d lost the baby…” He stopped himself. Took a breath. “I know.”
The cabin went quiet for a moment.
Hotch softened, not much, but enough to feel the shift.
“I’ve seen what parenthood does to agents,” he said. “What it takes. What it gives. You’re going to face decisions harder than this one. You’ll need support.”
“We know,” you said.
Hotch nodded slowly.
“I’m not taking you off the team,” he said to you. “But starting now, you’re off the front line. No tactical entries. No active field contact. We make accommodations, not exceptions. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” you said.
He looked between you and Spencer.
“I’m not mad that you’re starting a family,” he said. “I’m mad that you kept it a secret when your lives depend on full disclosure.”
You both nodded.
Hotch’s voice dropped lower.
“I want you both to go home. Take two days. Rest.”
“Thank you,” Spencer said.
“And when you come back…” He gave you a rare, small smile. “We’ll start planning ahead.”
He turned and left, heading back toward the cockpit without another word.
You and Spencer sat in silence for a beat. Then Spencer leaned over and kissed your temple.
“Well,” he murmured. “That could’ve been worse.”
You gave a tired laugh. “Let’s never keep a secret from Hotch again.”
“Deal.”
You leaned into him.
And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you were hiding anymore.
_____
next chapter: T is for Trip
other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist
view the masterlist in a calendar version!
_____ BUY ME A COFFEE _____
a/n: accidently deleted the other post :(
_____
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summary: Spencer takes you on a real date. Candles, dinner, and a satin black dress that your uncle definitely disapproves of...
Word count: 7.5k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), smut, but like sweet smut? idk lol ummm protected sex (yay good), perv!spencer a bit, yeah. awkward spencer hehe, um whimpering? idk what else maybe fingering and loss of virginity (spencer)
_____
Summer comes to a close without you really noticing. It slips through your fingers so easily through syllabi, a few too many trips to the campus bookstore, and the slow realization that you’ve stopped counting the days since the hospital.
The bruises disappeared weeks ago, the surgical incisions have turned from scabs to scars, and your ribs have stopped aching when you laugh.
Life hasn't returned to exactly what it was before. You're not sure it ever could. There are still moments when a stranger walking too close makes your shoulders tense before your brain catches up. You still wake from the occasional nightmare, convinced for half a second that you're back in the dark before remembering you're safe in your own bed.
But those moments are becoming fewer. They're no longer every day.
Your second year of college begins with more confidence than your first ever did. You switched to a hybrid of in person and online courses. You know where your classes are now. You recognize professors in the hallways. You don't have to pull up a campus map every twenty minutes pretending you definitely meant to walk in the opposite direction.
By Friday afternoon, though, your brain feels like it's been wrung out like a sponge.
Three lectures, two discussion sections and a journalism ethics assignment already due Sunday.
You drop your backpack onto your bedroom floor with enough force that one of your notebooks slides halfway across the room. You collapse onto your bed immediately afterward, staring up at the ceiling.
So much for easing into the semester.
Your phone buzzes beside you. It’s Spencer. You smile before you've even opened the message.
It's ridiculous, really. You haven't gone a single day without talking to Spencer Reid in months. Sometimes it's only a five-minute phone call before bed because he's on a case in another state. Sometimes it's three hours spent sitting on opposite ends of Rossi's couch while you do homework and Spencer reads journal articles aloud every few minutes because he found something fascinating.
You look down at the message.
SPENCER: So, how did your first week go?
YOU: i think my brain has liquified.
SPENCER: Good thing that’s not possible. I like your brain.
You smile. Your phone rings before you have time to answer.
“Hi,” you smile into the phone.
“Hi,” he says. His voice is quieter over the phone than it is in person. You can hear papers shuffling somewhere in the background.
"Still at work?" you ask.
"For approximately another..." he pauses, presumably checking the time. "...eleven minutes."
“So why are you calling me if you’re still at work?”
"I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner tonight,” he says carefully. “Like…a date?”
“A real one?” you ask, smiling as if he could see it.
“I wasn’t aware there were fake ones,” he says.
“You’re funny,” you tell him.
“So, is that a yes?” he asks.
“Yes, it is a yes.”
“Cool,” he says. You can practically hear his smile. “I’ll um…I’ll pick you up at 6:00?” He says it like it’s a question.
“What kind of ‘date’ is this?” you ask, meaning…attire? You assumed that was obvious.
“A real one?” he says, echoing your earlier statement.
“I meant what do I wear,” you say, giggling at how dense the smartest man you know can be.
“O-oh,” he realizes. “Um, just something nice,” he says.
“Okay,” you smile again. He can’t see it, you just can’t hold it back. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
“See you in an hour,” he repeats before hanging up the phone.
You sit your phone to the side and stare at your ceiling for a moment, thinking of what ‘nice’ means. A dress? That could be too formal. A skirt? That really depends on the top. Pants? Too risky for informality. You get up and look in your closet, hoping something jumps out at you. Somehow, you feel like you’ve never owned fewer clothes in your life.
The first dress you pull out is dark green and floor length, rhinestones outline the corset area. It feels far too formal, so you put it back. The next is shorter, light pink, with white and pale yellow flowers scattered everywhere. Too summer-y. You look at a few skirts. They all feel…professional.
You stare blankly into your closet like the right outfit might appear if you just look at it for long enough.
What does ‘something nice’ even mean?
You push through the entirety of your closet, the sound of hangers scraping along the metal bar starting to hurt your ears. At the very back, there’s a solid black satin dress with lace trim that you haven’t worn in…ever?
You take it off the hanger and stare at it, convincing yourself to just put the damn thing on before you drive yourself crazy by looking through your clothes for the third time.
It’s short, probably a little shorter than you would normally go for, but it wasn’t awful. It had thin spaghetti straps and sat low enough on your chest that made you feel a little…exposed, but it wasn’t completely whoreish; nothing a cardigan couldn’t make feel better. It hugs your waist in a way that feels elegant, highlighting the curvature of your body. You smooth your hands over the fabric, deciding that it was either going to be this, or you were cancelling.
Your eyes wander across your room until they stop on the back of your desk chair. Folded neatly over it is a grey cardigan that Spencer had left a while ago and just never took back.
You slip it on over the dress, leaving the buttons undone. The oversized sleeves fall just past your wrists, and the familiar scent of cedar, coffee, and whatever laundry detergent Spencer used had faded over time but never disappeared completely. It was comforting in a way you couldn't quite explain.
You glance back at the mirror. The black dress still looked like something you'd wear on a date. The sweater made it feel like a date with Spencer. Satisfied, you move into the bathroom to figure out something to do with your hair and makeup.
By the time you’re finished, the grandfather clock in the hallway reads 5:53.
Seven minutes.
You make your way downstairs, smoothing your hands over the front of your dress for what has to be the tenth time. It suddenly feels shorter than it did upstairs. Much shorter.
Your uncle is sitting in his usual armchair with a manuscript spread across his lap, his reading glasses balanced low on his nose. He looks up when he hears your footsteps. You can feel his eyes assessing you.
“What?” you ask, acting like you don’t know exactly what he’s thinking.
“I didn’t know you owned clothes that didn’t belong to Spencer,” he says, taking his glasses off and folding them on the coffee table.
“I mean, the sweater is his,” you say, fondling one of the buttons.
“Thank god,” he mumbles. You don’t know if he means ‘thank god the dress isn’t also Spencer’s’ or ‘thank god you’re wearing something to cover it up.’ Either way seems like a legitimate concern he’d have.
“So what’s the issue?” you ask.
“There isn’t one,” he says flatly, narrowing his eyes. “But there will be one if Spencer even looks an inch below your face.”
You can feel heat rush to your cheeks. If there was an award for worlds most embarrassing uncle, you’re fairly positive David Rossi would have it in the bag.
“It’s not even that bad,” you say. You don’t know if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.
Before he can answer, the doorbell rings. Your uncle stands to get the door on his own. He pats your shoulder as he walks past you.
“The sweater was a good idea,” he says, turning to the door.
You hear Spencer’s voice first. A little higher than normal, and a little hoarse. You can tell jus tby the way he sounds that his ears are red.
“Good evening, Dave,” he says.
“Evening,” your uncle answers, stepping aside to let Spencer in.
He'd traded his usual work attire for something just a little softer. Dark slacks instead of brown, a black and white flannel button down with a plain black jacket over it. His curls were still a little unruly despite what looked like an honest attempt to tame them, his glasses sat straight on his nose, you’d almost bet he made sure of it in the mirror of his car before coming inside, and his messenger bag was nowhere in sight for what felt like the first time since you'd met him.
Instead, he was holding a small bouquet of pale pink roses.
"...Hi," he says, somehow sounding surprised.
"Hi,” you smile.
His eyes meet yours. Then involuntarily drop. Not far, just from your eyes to the neckline of your dress, Almost immediately, like he'd burned himself, he jerks his gaze back up.
You can actually watch the color climb into his ears. He clears his throat.
"You..." His eyes betray him again, flicking downward for the briefest second before snapping back to your face. "...You look..." he pauses again, searching for words. "...beautiful."
He rubs the back of his neck, still refusing to let his eyes stay anywhere except your face for more than half a second.
"The dress is..." his voice catches in his throat. "...It's very flattering."
His eyes betray him again, looking a little lower, at your waist now. He forces them back up. He looks genuinely annoyed with himself.
Behind him, Rossi watches the entire exchange with folded arms. He notices every stolen glance, every panicked correction, every increasingly red shade of Spencer's ears. You’re grateful for his silence, because you know if he were to say anything, there was a better chance of Spencer bursting into tears than not.
Finally, Spencer remembers the flowers in his hand.
"Oh," he chirps, looking down at them as though he'd forgotten they existed. "These are for you." He holds them out a little awkwardly. "I know roses are the most common flower to bring on a first date, but pink roses traditionally symbolize admiration and gratitude rather than romantic passion, which I thought was more appropriate because we’ve been together for 146 days."
"They're beautiful,” you smile, taking the bouquet before he can say anything else.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. You simply look at him. He looks back, actually at your eyes this time, though it’s obvious it’s taking effort.
Rossi finally clears his throat. Loudly.
Spencer straightens so fast you'd think he'd been caught committing a federal crime.
"You ready?" you ask him, knowing he was just going to stand there until you made him move. He nods.
You slip your purse over your shoulder and walk toward the door. Spencer automatically reaches out, taking it from you before you can protest. As you step onto the porch together, Rossi follows close behind.
"You kids have fun,” he calls out.
"We will," you answer. Spencer nods politely.
Rossi points directly at him. One finger. Very serious.
"Reid."
"Yes, sir?" he answers.
"Be safe."
“I will be,” Spencer smiles.
They’re definitely thinking two totally different things.
Spencer opens the passenger door of his car for you, waiting until you buckle your seatbelt before shutting it and making his way to the driver's side. The car is silent as he pulls out of the driveway and starts down the road, not an awkward silence, just…a silence that is filled with a search for a conversation.
Spencer keeps glancing over at you. Between you and the dark road. Over and over again. After the sixth time, he finally speaks.
“Y/N,” he says sheepishly.
“Yeah?” you turn toward him.
“You look…” he glances at you. “so…” he pauses, seeming dissatisfied with every adjective his brain supplied. “...hot.”
“I know,” you smile.
“...You know?” he blinks.
“You’ve looked at my body far more than my eyes,” you say smugly.
“I-I’m sorry,” he apologizes, immediately feeling guilty. "I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't," you assure him.
"No?"
"No."
He risked another glance. "You really do look beautiful."
This time there wasn't any fumbling. No nervous explanation. No attempt to correct himself. Just simple honesty.
"Thank you."
He smiled to himself before looking back at the road. A comfortable silence settled over the car again. It lasted almost three whole minutes before Spencer spoke again.
"...Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
"You know what I mean," he sighs.
"I do."
"...Do you think Dave believes I'm a bad driver?" He frowned thoughtfully.
"...What?" you look over, confused on what could’ve made him think that thought.
"When we were leaving he told me to be safe," he explains. You hold back a laugh, because you know if you let it out, he’ll stop talking. And you are very curious where he is going with this.
"I've never been in a motor vehicle accident while operating one,” he continues. "I've also only received one speeding ticket."
"You got a speeding ticket?" you’re surprised.
"It was in Nevada."
"Of course it was."
"I was 20," he defends.
You smile. He glanced over briefly, smiling at your smile before his face falls again and he turns back to the road. "...Do you think he doesn't trust my driving?"
You stared at him for a second. "...Spence."
"Yeah?"
"You genuinely don't know what he meant?"
"...No?" He looked completely confused.
You tried very hard not to laugh.
"You have no idea?"
"No! What am I missing?”
You pressed your lips together. He was so earnest. So completely, painfully sincere.
"...Dave wasn't talking about your driving,” you start.
"Then what was he talking about?" Spencer interrupts.
"He meant..." You bit the inside of your cheek. "...Use a condom."
Silence. Absolute silence. Spencer's entire body went rigid. You watched the realization travel across his face in real time. Confusion. Recognition. Understanding. Humiliation. Mortification. So many emotions explode across his face all at once.
"Oh." His ears turned bright red. "...Oh."
He stared so intensely at the windshield you were fairly certain he forgot you were sitting beside him. You feel a little guilty for laughing, but you can’t help yourself.
“I thought he was expressing concern for road safety,” Spencer says, still looking horrified.
“He was expressing concern,” you crack.
“...Not about the road,” he says, running a hand through his hair nervously. “I am never speaking to David Rossi again.
“I don’t think that’s an option,” you laugh.
The car stills as you reach a red light. Spencer drops his forehead softly against the steering wheel.
“This is the worst day of my life,” he mumbles.
“No it’s not,” you giggle, reaching over and resting your hand on his forearm.
“...Top ten?” he asks, peeking over at you.
“Maybe top fifty,” you smile.
“I’ll take top fifty.”
The light turns green. Spencer lifts his head with all the dignity he could manage, which at the moment, is very little.
“I’d like to let you know,” he mutters after another minute of silence. “I had no intention of doing anything that would’ve required that to have been said.”
“I think that’s why he likes you so much,” you say.
“Really?” he asks, glancing over at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
“Yeah.”
A small smile finally finds its way back to his face.
“So…” you say, vaguely suggestively.
“No,” he groans, knowing you’re about to make fun of him for something.
“You’re saying you weren’t checking me out?” you ask.
“...Y/N,” he says, knowing he’s caught.
“I’m just asking,” you say innocently.
“I was,” he admits, letting out a long sigh. “you look…so good. I mean, you always look good, you just look…exceptionally beautiful tonight. And it’s distracting.”
“Is it?” you ask, feeling a blush warm your face.
“Very,” he nods, looking at you momentarily.
“I’m sorry,” you say, smiling anyways.
“No,” he protests. “Don’t apologize.”
“I thought apologizing was my thing,” you say.
“It is, I’m sorry–”
“So now we’re both apologizing?”
“Neither of us should be apologizing.”
“You’re rambling,” you grin.
“I know,” he exhales. “My point is…I find you very attractive.” He glances at you. “And that’s…normal. I mean, finding someone attractive doesn’t obligate them to have sex with you, I don’t expect that, a-and I don’t need that.” He winces at his last few words.
“Need what?” you ask.
“...Sex,” he clarifies.
“Oh.”
“...That came out wrong,” he says, sensing the disappointment in your tone. “Wanting something and needing something are psychologically distinct concepts. Human attachment isn’t dependent upon sexual intimacy, despite popular media implying–”
“So what you’re saying is you don’t want to fuck me tonight?” you interrupt.
His eyes go impossibly wide at your bluntness.
“NO!” He shouts loud enough to echo through the car. His voice quiets immediately. “I-I mean– That;s not–” he groans, trying to gather thousands of thoughts all at once. You would think he’d be better at that by now.
You’d think.
He takes a steadying breath, and lowers his voice impossibly low. If the sound waves weren’t trapped in the car you probably wouldn’t be able to hear him.
“...I do want to…fuck…you,” he whispers, not daring to look at you.
The curse comes out so softly it almost completely dissolves beneath the sound of the tires on the road.
“Well,” you smile. He braces himself, not daring to look at you. “...Good.”
“...G-good?” he echoes, peeking over at you with just one eye.
“Good,” you repeat. “Beecause I want to fuck you tonight too.”
He’s quiet for a moment as he tries to regain his composure.
“...T-that s-sounds…” he stammers. His entire face is completely red now and it threatens to spread down his neck. “...amazing.”
You smile at him, feeling a buzz deep in your stomach.
“B-but,” he continues. “I…” you can hear him swallow. “I don’t have…” he trails off, then his eyes widen all over again. “...Dave asked us to be safe.”
You laugh quietly.
“I mean, he–” he spits.
“Spencer,” you say, trying to calm his spiraling brain.
“...Yes?” he looks at you.
“We can buy condoms after dinner.”
“...Oh.” He nods to himself. “...right. That’s how stores work.”
“It is,” you giggle. For someone so smart, he can sometimes have the funniest realizations when he’s flustered.
“I’ve never…” he shakes his head with a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “...I’ve never gotten that far.”
“I’ve noticed,” you smile.
“I’ve never…this has never…” he stammers again. “I’ve never had to think about…potential logistical considerations after dinner.”
You reach across the center console and lace your fingers through his free hand that isn’t on the wheel. He squeezes gently, finally in control of his breathing. He smiles as he turns into the restaurant parking lot, parking in a spot away from any other car in the parking lot.
“We’re gonna need to sit here for a few minutes,” he says, his face going red again.
He grips the steering wheel hard enough his knuckles go white, redirecting blood flow. You watched him manually breath, in for three, out for three. Again.
“Okay,” he exhales, tapping his fingers on the wheel. He looks over to you. “Are you ready?”
“I’ve been waiting on you,” you smile at him.
“So have I,” he says seriously, but it’s funny. He can be very funny when he doesn’t mean to be.
He climbs out of the car, automatically circling to your side. He pulls your door open and holds out a hand to help you out. His hand stays intertwined with yours the whole way inside.
The restaurant is undeniably nice. The lighting has an ambery tint that spills out of the windows, soft jazz plays from hidden speakers, doing far more for the ambiance than it would seem. The tables are round with white table cloths and centerpieces of a single rose in a vase, a lit candle, and fancy ceramic salt and paper shakers.
This was a date restaurant.
Spencer gives his last name to the hostess, then follows as she leads the two of you toward the back of the restaurant. Your table sat beside a large window overlooking the city. The evening sun had long disappeared, leaving everything washed in deep blues beneath the orange candlelight.
Spencer pulled your chair out before sitting across from you. Neither of you immediately reach for the menus, you just looked at each other. His ears and cheeks were still faintly pink from the drive.
"So," he says. "We're on a real date."
"We are,” you smile. "I think you're handling it pretty well."
"I don't," he chokes. He looked down at the folded napkin in front of him before meeting your eyes again. "I've wanted to take you on one like this for a while."
"You have?"
He nodded. "I just...kept waiting for the right time."
"What made you decide now was the right time?"
"Do you want me to tell you?"
“I do,” you smile.
“I was worried that you were going to…get bored…of me,” he admits quietly. It almost sounds funny coming from his mouth. He nervously straightens the silverware that was already perfectly aligned. You reach across and put your hand on top of his, causing him to look up at you.
“I love you,” you tell him sincerely. “You don’t have to worry about me getting bored.”
“I love you too,” he smiles awkwardly. You can still feel his hand fidgeting below your hand.
A waiter arrives with water glasses and introduces himself before asking if either of you want anything to drink besides water.
“C-can I get a Root Beer?” Spencer asks.
The waiter looks a little confused. Normally people order…wine? But he goes to get Spencer his Root Beer nonetheless.
Once the waiter leaves, Spencer reaches for the menu.
“I already know what you’re going to order,” he says, opening the first fold.
“You do?” you tilt your head.
"You've ordered some variation of pasta at the last six restaurants we've gone to," he points out.
"You keep track of that?" You raise an eyebrow.
"I keep track of everything,” he says, like it’s somehow new information to you.
The waiter returns with Spencer’s glass of Root Beer and takes your orders. Spencer was right. You did get some variation of pasta.
As you wait for your food, you tell Spencer about one of your professors assigning a five page paper on the second day of class.
“He also quoted Spider Man,” you say.
“The professor?” Spencer frowns.
You nod.
“With great power comes great responsibility?” He asks.
“Yes,” you say, taking a sip of your water.
“Did you know that while that quote is commonly attributed to Spider Man, it was actually Voltaire that technically said it centuries ago? ‘T-they must consider that a great responsibility is the inseparable result of a great power.’ although there are even earlier parallels in French philosophy and religious texts. Spider Man just popularized it for post-modern audiences.”
You stare at him for a moment.
“Well, considering he had a ton of Marvel posters around the classroom, I’m going to assume he is part of the ‘post modern audiences’ that Spider Man got to…”
“You’re probably correct,” he says.
The waiter returns carrying two plates balanced effortlessly on his arm. He remembers whose plate is whose without having to ask. He checks your glasses to make sure they are still at an acceptable level before telling you to enjoy and walking to another table to check on them.
The food is delicious, by far one of the best pastas you’ve had from a restaurant, because obviously it couldn’t beat your uncles.
Every few minutes one of you would steal a bite while the other talked. Spencer absentmindedly gestured with his fork whenever he got excited about something, occasionally catching himself halfway through a sentence and setting it back down with an embarrassed smile. You caught yourself watching his hands almost as much as you watched his face.
“They’ve been married a long time,” Spencer says, gesturing toward an older couple in the opposite corner.
“How do you know?” you ask, covering your mouth because there’s a small amount of pasta still inside.
“Couples who’ve been together for years tend to mirror each other’s posture and timing without realizing it. They reach for their drinks at almost the same time and they’re doing the same gestures. Studies show that couples begin to match each ‘speech rhythm and in some studies they even synchronize blinking!”
You watch the couple for a moment, and sure enough, every time one of them smiles or took a drink or a bite, the other does the same.
“That’s really sweet,” you smile.
“Long term relationships change behavioral patterns in measurable ways–” he starts rambling again. You don’t process what he’s saying, your mind is far elsewhere.
“Do you think we’ll do that someday?” you interrupt. Your face gets a little warm after realizing what you said.
That was meant to be an inside thought.
“I’d like to,” he says without hesitation, taking a bite of his food like he didn’t casually steal all the air from your lungs with two words and a contraction.
You don’t say anything, just take a bite of your food as well while watching him. The warm light above the table catches the deep brown of his eyes every time he looks up. His hair is messy, but in a way that looks…hot. And not disheveled. He gestured with his fork while explaining something, only to stop halfway through each time because he forgot he was holding it.
He apologizes to the waiter every time he has to refill a water cup, even though the waiter assures him that it is his job. He thanks him every single time too. The waiter brings the check, and you can’t help but smile as Spencer pays.
You don’t argue, not this time. Because you know he wants this to feel like a real date. Not that the endless coffee shops and bookstores weren’t ‘dates.’ Those were just…casual. And this one is…formal.
Outside, the air is cooler than when you’d arrived. The atmosphere is something that is only captured in cities at night. Traffic is heard, there’s a train in the distance, somewhere down the road live music from a bar or a nightclub spills out. Streetlights cast warm toned circles across the sidewalk. There’s a light dribble of rain that falls from the sky.
Spencer slips his jacket over your shoulders before you can protest.
"You've already given me one sweater," you tell him, despite the fact that the jacket is already caped around you.
"This one's temporary," he says, resting his hand on your lower back through the layers.
"...Okay," you say a little suspiciously. You don't give it back.
His jacket still smells like him.
He opens the passenger door and helps you in again before walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, and just…sits. For several minutes. And doesn’t speak.
You don’t either, because despite your earlier confidence, and maybe cockiness, now there’s something sitting between the two of you. A conversation, or rather, a purchase.
“...So,” you say carefully, deciding to break the silence he had no signs of stopping.
“So,” he echoes, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel again.
“We should probably…” you start.
“Go,” he finishes. “Yes, go.”
He turns the engine on, a slight shake of the car making a loose curl fall in front of his eyes. He brushes it away. Spencer shifts the car into reverse, one hand settling over the top of the steering wheel while the other reaches behind your headrest. He twists in his seat to look through the rear window, checking carefully for approaching cars before easing backward.
Your breath catches. It should be such an ordinary thing. People back out of parking spaces every day. But somehow Spencer manages to make even that look unfairly attractive.
The sleeve of his flannel pulls back just enough to reveal the veins of his forearm, tendons shifting beneath his skin as he turns the wheel. His jaw is slightly set in concentration, lips parted just enough that his perfectly imperfect teeth peek through them while his eyes flick between the mirrors and the rear window.
He's completely focused on the parking lot and completely unaware of how fucking HOT he looks.
You'd spent months memorizing the way he looked when he laughed, when he read, when he got excited enough to ramble about constellations or obscure historical trivia. You hadn't realized "carefully backing out of a parking space" deserved a place on that list.
He looks so ridiculously handsome that it's almost offensive.
Oh, I'm in trouble.
Not because of the date. Not because of the dinner. Not even because of the conversation you'd had on the drive over.
Just because this absurdly brilliant man has absolutely no idea what he looks like when he's concentrating.
He straightens the wheel and glances over.
"What?"
"...Nothing,” you blink.
He narrows his eyes for only a second before returning his attention to the road.
“You have a staring problem and a lying problem," he says, dropping one hand off the wheel and onto your thigh.
Oh I am so fucking this man until he can’t form a single coherent thought.
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about,” you smile innocently at him.
"I don't believe you," he says, glancing over at you.
"That's okay."
He lets out a quiet, suspicious little hum.
You turn toward the window before the smile spreading across your face gives you away completely.
The pharmacy parking lot is almost completely empty. Spencer still parks toward the back. Neither of you moves, or speaks, or breathes.
“...Spencer?” you say quietly, getting his attention. He looks at you. “You carry a gun and chase serial killers for a living.”
“I do,” he says, looking at your mouth.
“But you draw the line at buying condoms?”
“...When you phrase it like that it sounds stupid,” he says.
“So come on,” you say, cracking your door open and stepping onto the pavement. Surprisingly, he follows. Like a dog.
The store is busier inside than it looks outside. It’s not busy per se, but there's more people inside than the three cars outside makes it look. The greenish fluorescent lights seem impossibly bright compared to the dim orange light of the restaurant.
Once you reach the aisle, Spencer just…stares. There are far more options than he could’ve ever imagined. You let him look for a while. He picks up a box and reads the entirety of both sides. Then another.
“This one has ribs,” he says. “For…increased stimulation.”
“Mhm,” you hum, playing around with a holographic bottle of lubricant.
“...Do you want…” he immediately stops talking. “That’s probably not a conversation we should have in aisle 7.”
A woman pushing a cart passes by. Spencer pretends to be deeply fascinated by the pregnancy tests, which somehow he deems less embarrassing than condoms.”
“Just get normal ones,” you say, leaning into him. You grab a box of three and hand it to him.
“Thank you for being significantly better at this than I am,” he says, fidgeting with the punched out hole on the flap that was used to hang it on the hook.
Spencer doesn’t look the cashier in the face once, just sits the box on the counter and pays, then mutters a small ‘thank you,’ on the way out.
By the time you're back in the car, the awkwardness has dissolved into quiet laughter. Spencer keeps one hand on the wheel and the other intertwined with yours as he starts the drive toward his apartment, the small paper pharmacy bag sitting innocently in the back seat like it hadn't just caused the two of you ten straight minutes of mutual panic. The hardest part, somehow, was over.
As Spencer drives out of downtown D.C., and storefronts become neighborhoods, four lanes become two, he cracks his window just enough to let cool air drift inside, the rain having subsided.
His hand transitions from holding yours to gripping protectively on your thigh, yours sitting atop his. You watch him as streetlights sweep across his face, painting him gold. When he passes under a bridge or a larger car, the lights get blocked and his features soften to a shadow.
You’d never met someone who wore their mind so visibly. Every tiny expression crossed his face before he realized it had. Every thought seemed to live just the smallest layer beneath the surface. You’d spent months memorizing Spencer Reid when he wasn’t looking.
The way he’d absentmindedly chew on the inside of his cheek while reading.
The way his eyebrows pinch together whenever he is concentrating.
The way he’d smile to himself after remembering some obscure fact, and then immediately share it without restraint.
“What?” he asks suddenly, not looking at you, snapping you out of whatever clouded state you were in.
“I love you,” you say, unsure of what else to do.
“I love you too,” he smiles, accepting your answer immediately as though it made perfect sense.
An old jazz standard drifted quietly through the speakers. Spencer hadn't turned the radio on. It must've come on automatically when he'd started the car. He listened for a few seconds.
"Do you know why music triggers autobiographical memories more effectively than almost any other sensory stimulus?" He asks, like he sort of expects you to know the answer.
"Why?" you smile.
"The auditory cortex has unusually strong connections with the hippocampus, which is heavily involved in long-term memory formation." His voice slipped naturally into the cadence you loved so much. "Because songs are processed rhythmically and emotionally at the same time, hearing one years later can reactivate entire neural pathways. People often remember where they were, who they were with, sometimes even what they were wearing."
He glanced over for half a second before returning his attention to the road.
"It's one of the reasons patients with Alzheimer's can sometimes remember lyrics long after they've forgotten conversations."
You nodded. Not because you were particularly invested in neuroscience. You weren't. You were listening because it was Spencer.
Because when Spencer talked about something he loved, the rest of the world always seemed to disappear. You could listen to him explain absolutely anything forever. The neurological effects of music. The migratory habits of geese. Tax law. The history of paperclips.
You honestly didn't care. You would still sit there smiling at him exactly like you were right now.
He kept talking, hands moving a little as he explained despite one remaining on the wheel. Outside, the city continued slipping past unnoticed. Inside, you quietly wondered how someone could make talking about the hippocampus feel romantic.
You still didn't have an answer. Maybe it was just him.
_____
You follow Spencer into his apartment, latching the door shut as he turns on the lamp. He turns back to you, sitting his keys down in the process.
“So, I was thinking–” he starts.
You don’t let him finish.
You tiptoe to press your lips against him with a hunger. He makes a surprised noise that melts into a low groan as he reciprocates the kiss. His hands over awkwardly at your waist before sipping under the cardigan and gripping the satin of your dress. You shrug the cardigan off, letting it fall to the floor as you push him toward his bedroom, helping him to shed his jacket and unbutton his flannel along the way.
He bumps you into the doorframe, a gentle bump, one that only results in a muttered ‘sorry’ into your mouth. You fall back down on the bed, pulling him down on top of you. He obediently settles with his legs between your thighs.
“Are you sure?” he asks, pulling back from the kiss to study your face. “Because I’ve never actually…I mean– we’ve done other stuff, but…this is different and I don’t want to ruin it or hurt you or–”
“Spencer,” you whisper seductively, pulling him close to you. “Fuck me.”
He exhales shakily, pressing his lips to yours again desperately. His hands slide over your dress, tracing every curve of your body like he’s studying a map.
“G-god this dress,” he murmurs against your neck, voice cracking. “You need to warn me next time you’re gonna look this good. I never want to hide another erection from your uncle again. That was mortifying.”
“I thought you had more self control,” you smile into his mouth, pushing his shirt the rest of the way off. You run your hand down his chest, to his abs, then down to the front of his pants, wrapping your fingers loosely around the outline of his cock. He lets out a small whimper into your mouth.
“I’ve been trying to act like a gentleman all night,” he says breathlessly as you lazily stoke him. “I-I don’t want to make you uncomfortable but you’re making it really hard.”
You laugh softly, squeezing him a little tighter in your hand. His face flushes darker.
“You know exactly what that dress is doing to me, don’t you?” he asks, more inquisitive than seductive.
You nod, squeezing your thighs together under him. His eyes darken slightly.
“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he asks, almost accusatory, but his voice is so shy and high pitched because he’s so turned on that he just sounds adorable.
He pushes one of the straps of your dress down, taking one out overtop the lace. He lowers his head just above it, almost as if he’s daring himself to take it in his mouth.
“C-can I?” he asks, looking up at you with doe eyes.
“You can do whatever you want to me, Spencer,” you say, ruffling your free hand in his hair.
His mouth is immediately on you. He sucks the nipple into his mouth as he brings his other hand up to palm the other through the dress. You can feel his hips starting to stutter into your hand, so you bring both hands around his neck. He pouts momentarily at the loss of friction, but seemingly remembers the plans that were made.
“Can you get on…top of me?” he asks quietly, already climbing off you. You roll over on top of him, straddling his waist in a way that makes your dress ride up past your hips. He stares up at you with his lips swollen and parted, looking in awe of you.
His hands come up, one resting on your waist, the other inching up your thigh. You grab his wrist, moving his hand between your legs. He picks up on your hint, two fingers pushing inside you. You moan a little provocatively, not having anything to stifle it as he curls his fingers just right, just the way you taught him, and his thumb finds its way to your clit.
“Y-you’re soaked,” he says quietly, sounding both awed and embarrassed.
“All for you, Spence,” you moan, rocking slowly against his hand. You brace yourself by holding his shins behind you, giving him the ability to push his fingers impossibly further into you.
“I’ve been trying so hard not to make you feel like I only think about sex,” he admits apologetically. Which is a little comical as he’s looking at his fingers dipping in and out of you rather than your face, or even your waist. Literally anywhere else. “Because I don’t.”
You know he doesn’t. He always made you feel loved. Always. Anything sexual was a product of you being emotionally fulfilled with him. But your emotional needs are some of the last things you're thinking about as you start to feel a familiar heat pooling inside of you.
“But tonight,” he continues, letting out a shaky breath. “I want you so bad, Y/N,” he whines.
His begging was enough to break the knot in your stomach. You clench around his fingers with a high pitch moan that has him shushing you. Your thighs tremble as the orgasm washes through you, but you don’t give either of you any time to recover.
“Fuck me now, Spencer,” you pant, rolling over and tugging him on top of you. “I need you. Please.”
His eyes go wide, pupils blown dark.
“O-okay. Yeah. Okay,” he stammers, sounding utterly overwhelmed. He fumbles in his pocket for the condom he’d shoved in there earlier, tearing the wrapper open with shaky fingers and nearly dropping it twice.
You sit up enough to unbutton his pants, tugging the zipper down. Spencer helps, pushing his slacks and boxers down his hips in one clumsy motion. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. He makes a tiny, embarrassed noise when it slaps against his stomach.
He tries to roll the condom on himself, but his hands are trembling too badly. After a couple failed attempts, he looks up at you with burning red cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, voice cracking. “This is probably so weird. I just… I’ve never done this and my hands won’t stop shaking and–”
“No, Spencer, it’s okay,” you murmur, taking the condom from him gently. “You’re okay. Let me.”
You roll it down his length with steady hands. He watches the whole time with parted lips and ragged breathing. The second it’s on, you guide him between your legs, helping line the head of his cock up with your entrance. He braces himself on his elbows above you, the bunched satin of your dress rubbing between your bodies.
He nudges forward sliding against you a few times before finally pushing inside on the third try. The stretch is intense and perfect. You moan at the thick feeling of him sinking deeper and deeper until his hips are pressed flush against yours.
The sound Spencer makes is filthy. A raw, guttural groan that sounds almost too dirty coming from him. His whole body shudders hard as he bottoms out, like the sensation is overwhelming every nerve he has.
“Oh my god,” he whimpers, voice high and broken. “This is better than I’ve ever imagined it being. Your… your pussy feels so much better than my hand.”
The second the words leave his mouth he freezes, eyes flying open in mortified panic.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be saying that,” he rushes out, face burning crimson. “I’m sorry, that was disgusting, I just–”
You pull him down into a messy kiss before he can spiral further, and he melts into it with a needy whine. Slowly, he starts to move. His thrusts are shallow and awkward at first, like he’s still figuring out how to do this. He’s an absolute whimpering, moany mess above you, soft desperate sounds spilling from his lips with every roll of his hips.
“Fuck… you’re so tight and… warm and wet,” he pants against your neck, voice trembling. “I’ve touched myself thinking about this so many times and it never felt this good. I’m sorry…I shouldn’t keep saying stuff like that but I can’t shut up–”
His hips stutter, losing rhythm for a second before he finds it again, thrusting a little deeper. The bed creaks quietly beneath you. One of his hands grips your waist through the dress, the other braced beside your head as he tries so hard to be gentle even while falling apart.
“I’ve wanted you like this for months,” he rambles breathlessly, words punctuated by shaky moans. “I never…oh god…imagined you in a dress…but…fuck…it’s almost better…I’m already so close. I wanted to last longer for you but you feel too good and I-I’m sorry.”
“You’re okay Spencer,” you moan, bringing a hand up to cup his jaw. “Cum for me.”
His thrusts grow a little faster, a little more desperate, but still uncoordinated and shy. He keeps pressing soft, apologetic kisses to your neck and shoulder between the filthy little confessions, like he can’t decide whether to worship you or be embarrassed by how badly he wants you.
A few more deep thrusts and Spencer buries himself inside you with a broken, overwhelmed moan. His whole body shakes as he cums hard, hips jerking against you in uneven pulses. The raw, desperate sounds he makes are almost pornographic.
Afterward, he collapses half on top of you, still buried inside, breathing hard against your neck. For a long moment he just clings to you, arms wrapped tight like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“I’m really sorry,” he mumbles into your hair, voice small and embarrassed. “That was… really short. And I said too much. I didn’t mean to be so… gross. I just… I’ve thought about you like that for a long time and actually being inside you was…a lot.”
You smile and cuddle closer, fingers playing with his messy curls. The black dress is still bunched around your waist, warm and damp with sweat.
“It was perfect, Spence,” you whisper. “I loved it.”
He lets out a shy, relieved huff of laughter. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
_____
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a/n: um hi this is an awkward spot to be at um did u guys like the smut or am i washed?
summary: spencer gets back from a week long case and surprises you with two things.
word count: 3.6k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), smut (dry humping, oral (both m&f receiving) cum swallowing, talk of cum swallowing, sort of awkward sex talk (but it’s very spencer to me)
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It had been exactly one week since Spencer left you on his bed at 6:00 AM while he left for a case. A case that lasted far longer than anyone expected it to. You spent about 80% of the week worrying. Which seems like a lot, but with your uncle and your boyfriend are actively risking their life for seven days straight, it makes sense.
Spencer called you the second he got back to the BAU after the case was over. He told you Hotch had waived the paperwork to Monday because of how exhausted everyone was and that if you wanted to come over, he should be back in 20 minutes or so.
And of course you wanted to come over. You packed a bag faster than you ever had, not even bothering to change out of your flannel pajama pants or put a bra on under your tank top. You only put your shoes on and quickly threw a hoodie over your head. The quicker you moved, the quicker you’d get to see Spencer.
You wrote a quick note for your uncle and placed it on the kitchen island for him to see when he got back.
Went to Spencer’s. We will be back for dinner tomorrow! –Y/N <3
You felt a little bad leaving Uncle Dave to come home to an empty house after a long case, but you also knew that he usually liked to just go to his bed after, so you didn’t feel too guilty.
You practically ran all the way to your car with your bag. It didn’t even register to you that it was raining until you got in your car and the interior lights illuminated the droplets on the windshield.
The rain was coming down steady by the time you pulled out of the driveway. The streets were darker and emptier than you’d ever seen them, likely because it was almost midnight during a storm. But there wasn’t a single other car that you saw. It was peaceful in a way.
You drove carefully with your hands tight on the steering wheel. The river beside the highway was black, the only sign of it being water rather than pavement was the reflection of the streetlights.
Your heart was racing from the excitement of finally seeing Spencer again. After seven whole days of not really knowing if he was okay, only accompanied by checking your phone every five minutes, or trying not to spiral every time the news would mention anything related to the case. The worry never left the back of your mind. You’d tried everything to keep yourself busy, drawing, studying, cleaning, organizing your bookshelf, organizing Rossi’s bookshelf, but none of it ever really kept you from thinking about the imminent danger that Spencer and your uncle were in.
But now that they were both on their way home, the relief felt better than any high ever could.
You turned onto Connecticut Ave., the street that leads to Spencer’s apartment complex. The rain was heavier here, the drops sounding dense as they hit the roof of your car. You turned into the parking lot and sat in your parked car for a moment, debating on waiting for the rain to stop.
But the second you remembered that Spencer was waiting for you inside, you knew you couldn’t wait. You’d run to him even if there was a tornado outside. You grabbed your bag and pulled your hood over your head, and made a run for the entrance.
By the time you made it up to his door, your hoodie was completely soaked. Luckily for you, it got the worst of it and you could easily take it off.
You knock lightly on the door. Spencer answers almost immediately.
He stands there in his work clothes, kind of. His tie is gone, and his collar is unkept. His sleeves are rolled up unevenly on each arm, and his hair is messier than normal. He looks exhausted.
“Hey,” he said, his voice thick from a laugh of sleep. “You came.” He sounded almost surprised.
“Of course I did,” you say, stepping inside. “I missed you.”
Spencer closed the door behind you, his eyes flicking over your soaked hoodie and damp hair. “You’re soaked,” he said, concern creasing his brow. “It’s pouring out there.”
You glanced down at yourself, realizing for the first time how wet you actually were. “Oh yeah, it’s mostly just my hoodie. I just need to take it off.”
He nodded quickly. “That’s fine. Here, let me take your bag.”
You handed him your bag and shrugged off the soaked hoodie, draping it over the back of a chair to dry. Your tank top was a little wet too, the thin fabric clinging against your waist.
You heard Spencer’s breath catch in his throat. You wondered if it was from your tank top. It usually was.
Before you could say anything, Spencer’s eyes moved past you to the living room. “Oh yeah,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world, “I got a shelf for you.”
You turned to look where he was pointing. A new, simple wooden shelf sitting next to his desk. It had two neat rows, and everything on it was yours.
Your spare charger. The hoodie you’d left months ago. The book you’d been reading and forgotten. A few hair ties. The purple highlighter you lost a few weeks ago and had to make an emergency trip to get a new one of. Even the small blanket you liked to steal when you got cold on his couch. There was also a little basket with some of your favorite snacks and the pair of fuzzy socks you always complained were missing.
You stood there, staring at the shelf, and felt your eyes start to sting.
Spencer noticed immediately. “Y/N? What’s wrong?” He said quickly, stepping between your line of view of the shelf. “Did I do something wrong?”
You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “No, Spencer. I’m crying because this is literally so sweet.”
He looked confused for a second, then relieved. “Oh. Well… I didn’t want you to cry.”
You laughed through the tears, stepping forward to wrap your arms around him. “I’m crying because I’m happy, you dork.”
“Oh,” he said again, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “I guess that’s okay then.”
You looked up at him, and he was staring down at you with a huge grin on his face, the one that made his eyes crinkle and your heart do flips. You reached up, pulled his face down, and kissed him.
The kiss started soft and grateful, full of all the missing you’d both felt over the past week. But it didn’t stay soft for long. Spencer’s hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. His tongue brushed against yours, warm and eager, and you melted into him, fingers threading through his hair as you kissed him back just as hungrily.
You stumbled backward together, still kissing, moving from the entryway into the living room. Your legs hit the edge of the couch, and Spencer sat down on it, pulling you into his lap without breaking the kiss. His hands roamed your sides, sliding under your shirt to touch bare skin as the kiss grew heated.
You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. Your voice came out breathy and soft. “I missed you so much.”
Spencer’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen from kissing, and he looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “I missed you too,” he whispered, voice rough.
You leaned in and kissed him again, deeper this time. His hands slid further under your shirt, palms hot against your bare skin as he rocked up against you. You moaned softly into his mouth, grinding down against the growing hardness in his pants.
The kiss grew messier, more desperate. You could feel how much he’d missed you in every touch, every soft groan he made against your mouth.
Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark. “You look really hot,” he whispered, voice rough.
You smiled, still rocking slowly against him. “Yeah? Why?”
He got shy immediately, ears turning red. He tried to kiss you again to avoid answering, but you pulled back, grinning.
“Tell me why you think I look really hot,” you said, teasing. “I want to know.”
Spencer’s face and ears went even redder. He looked away, embarrassed. “Your… your tank top,” he mumbled shyly.
You smiled, still grinding against him. “Yeah, I know you like when I wear tank tops. Why? Tell me. It’s okay.”
His voice was barely audible. “They make y-your boobs look really good.”
You smiled, leaning in to kiss his jaw. “You can touch them if you want to.”
His eyes got wide with excitement. “R-really?”
“Yeah. Go for it.”
Spencer’s hands slid up your sides, hesitantly at first, then bolder as he cupped your breasts through your tank top. He squeezed gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you moaned, grinding down harder against him.
You continued dry humping with you on top, his hands playing with your boobs as you rocked against his hardness. The friction was perfect, the rough fabric of his slacks dragging against your soaked underwear with every movement.
You reached down and started using your hand to jerk him off through his pants. Spencer let out a broken moan, hips bucking up into your touch.
“T-that feels s-so g-good,” he whimpered, head falling back against the couch.
You smiled, stroking him faster through his pants. He felt thick and heavy in your hand. You pulled him down real close to your face by his collar, lips brushing his ear. “Can I suck your dick?”
He could only nod really fast, too overwhelmed to speak.
You kiss a thin line gently from his ear to his mouth. You let your lips hover just off of his. “If you need me to stop, tell me, okay?”
He nods in response again.
You slid off his lap and knelt between his legs. You unbuttoned his slacks and pulled them down just enough to free him. He was bigger than you expected, and far prettier than expected as well. He was rock hard, long, and fairly thick. The tip was a deep pink and was leaking. He had the kind of cock that could make someone’s mouth water at the sight, and he was completely unaware of it, which was even better.
You took him into your mouth, starting slow. You started with just the head at first, swirling your tongue around it, licking up the precum that kept leaking from the slit. Spencer’s breath hitched, his fingers threading through your hair as he tried to stay still.
“F-fuck! Y/N– that feels– oh god!”
You took him deeper, bobbing your head slowly as you worked him with your mouth and hand. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and Spencer let out a broken whimper, hips jerking slightly. You loved the way he tasted, honestly He wasn’t too salty, more bitter, likely from the amount of coffee he drinks. You moaned around him, the vibration making him twitch in your mouth.
You pulled back for a second, stroking him with your hand as you looked up at him. “You’re so big,” you whispered, voice husky.
Spencer’s face was bright red, eyes glassy with pleasure. “Y-you don’t have to say that,” he stuttered, embarrassed.
“I mean it, Spencer” you said, leaning down to lick a long stripe up the underside of his cock. “You’re gorgeous.”
You took him back into your mouth, sucking harder this time, taking him as deep as you could. Spencer’s hips bucked involuntarily, and he let out a loud, broken moan, fingers tightening in your hair.
“Fuck Y/N! I can’t– I’m–”
You hummed around him, bobbing your head faster, one hand stroking what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. You could feel him getting closer, his thighs trembling on either side of you, his cock twitching on your tongue.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Cum in my mouth, Spencer,” you whispered, stroking him fast. “I want to taste you.”
He came hard with a loud, broken whimper, spilling into your mouth in thick pulses. You swallowed everything, moaning softly around him as he shook and gasped above you.
When he finally stilled, breathing hard, you pulled off with a soft pop, licking your lips as you looked up at him.
Spencer’s face was flushed, eyes glassy, and he looked completely wrecked. “That was… I’ve never felt anything like that,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
You smiled, crawling back up on the couch next to him. “Good. Because I loved it.”
Spencer turns to you, his eyes still full of lingering desire. “Can I finger you?” he asks, somehow sounding innocent in the way that only he could.
You smile at him. “You really don’t have to,” you say. “If you want to be done we can be.”
“No, I want to,” he says sincerely. He lowers his voice. “I want to…make you cum.”
“Well I guess since you’re offering,” you tease, taking his chin in your hand and kissing him.
You turn to have your back against the arm of the couch, extending your legs down. He settles between your thighs, hooking his fingers on the waistband of your flannel pants and underwear at the same time.
He eyes you up and down before he does anything.
“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he says. “You’re just so perfect.”
You smile down at him, tangling your fingers in his hair and scratching his head. He gently pulls your pants and underwear down. You help him kick them off.
Once your pants are off, he wastes no time before inserting two fingers into you, your body giving very little pullback as you were already very wet. He curled his fingers exactly the way you showed him how to.
He slips a third finger inside of you, curling his middle and ring finger while letting his index finger go into you at full length. He uses his thumb to press firmly on your clit, a much much needed attention. You grind your hips into his and as you feel your high already approaching.
“Fuck, Spencer,” you moan, tuggling slightly on his hair. “I’m close.”
His thumb suddenly halts its movements. His fingers continue moving in and out of you. Without warning, you feel his tongue press onto your clit. You involuntarily squeeze his face with your thighs, causing him to giggle into you.
“Is this okay?” he asks, not slowing his fingers movements at all and barely having taken his mouth off you.
“Yes,” you practically scream. “Oh my god, yes, Spencer.” You use your grip on his hair to push his face into you. He sucks gently on you as his fingers keep their rhythm steady inside you.
You begin to feel the tightness in your stomach, knowing you were about to come loose. You buck your hips, which only makes Spencer lick and suck harder on you, which is just what you needed to be pushed over the edge.
“Oh my god, Spencer.” You moan. He feels you clench around his fingers, knowing this means you are cumming.
He hums into you, the vibrations making your hips buck like crazy into his face. He slows his fingers as he feels you begin to come down, licking circles around your clit. Once he’s satisfied you’ve finished, he returns to hover above you.
He looks down into your eyes. His hair is sweaty against his forehead, cheeks red and hot, and oh my god his lips and chin are absolutely soaked with you. Just the sight is so… god.
You bring your hand to the back of his neck, pulling him down to you. You kiss him with passion, open mouthed, wanting to taste yourself on him. “God, you…” you can’t even find the words to say. He’s staring at you with a goofy grin on his face, clearly proud of himself. “I fucking love you, Spencer.”
“I love you, Y/N,” he says, letting his forehead rest against yours. “Do you want to maybe go cuddle in my bed?”
You smile at how cute he is after just making you forget your name. “Sure.”
He smiles back, that small, relieved smile that always makes your heart squeeze. The two of you stand slowly, neither of you seeming particularly interested in letting go of the other.
Spencer slips his hand into yours as he leads you down the short hallway to his bedroom. The room is exactly how it always is.
Neat. Books stacked on the nightstand. A cardigan folded perfectly across the desk chair. His comforter pulled halfway down from where he'd clearly gotten ready for bed before you'd arrived. Spencer quietly turns on the bedside lamp. Warm yellow light fills the room, replacing the harsh overhead light with something softer. Much softer.
He pulls the blankets back for you without thinking. You laugh quietly.
"What?" He asks, confused.
"You always do that." You say.
"...Do what?"
"You always make sure my side is ready before yours."
"I do?"
"You do."
He looks surprised. "I didn't realize–"
"I know." You smile, climbing into his bed and immediately burrowing beneath the blankets. Spencer follows a second later.
The two of you shuffle around, each trying to find that comfortable position you somehow always ended up in. Your head settles against his chest. One of his arms slides beneath your shoulders while the other wraps around your waist, holding you close enough that you can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. Your leg hooks lazily over one of his. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head. Perfect.
Neither of you says anything for a while. Outside, the rain continues tapping softly against the bedroom window. The apartment is quiet. Safe. His fingers absentmindedly begin tracing little circles against your back beneath your tank top.
"...Can I ask you something?" He asks out of nowhere.
You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. "You can ask me anything."
He nods slowly. "...Okay." He pauses for a long moment. "...Do you like it?"
"No, no." You laugh softly. "You brought it up. What are you talking about?"
He hesitates, cheeks already turning pink. "...I don't know how to say it without sounding... weird."
“It’s okay, just ask me.”
“Do you like… swallowing semen?”
You can’t help but laugh. “First of all, please don’t call it semen.”
“Sorry.”
“Second, it’s kind of complicated.”
“How?” He looks at you with genuine curiosity in his eyes.
You smile. “It’s not that I like enjoy it,” you explain. “It doesn’t really taste the best. And it can hurt my stomach sometimes. But I do like doing it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t really know. I guess it’s a way for me to feel close to you. And it’s sort of sexy in a way.”
He nods the way he does when he learns information he’s never been exposed to before. He’s silent for a few minutes, but the kind of silent that feels like he’s thinking
He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Do you think it’s weird that I like to…you know…”
“I don’t know,” you giggle.
“I only know the scientific word for it and I’m not allowed to say that apparently,” he teases.
“You can say it.”
“Do you think it’s weird that I really enjoy performing cunnilingus on you?”
You giggle again, feeling a little like you were making fun of him, which you weren’t intending to do. “No, Spencer, I don’t.”
He smiles, almost relieved. “What do you want me to… call that? And is that something I can…ask to do?”
“You can ask me.”
“How?”
“Just be like ‘hey y/n can I eat you out?”
“Eat you out…eating you out,” he repeats quietly under his breath. “Okay. Okay cool.”
You reach up and brush a piece of messy hair off his forehead.
“I really love you, Y/n. I’m glad you came over.”
"I don't think I'm letting you leave ever again."
You felt him laugh against the top of your head. "I don't think Hotch would approve." "
I don't care what Hotch thinks."
"I figured."
"You can just work from home."
"I don't think the FBI works that way."
"It should."
"I'll suggest it at the next staff meeting."
You smiled against his chest. "Good."
Spencer shifted just enough to pull the blanket a little higher around your shoulders. "You always get cold," he murmured.
"I wasn't cold."
"You were about to be."
"...Probably."
"I know."
You smiled. Of course he knew. His fingers combed gently through your hair. Not because he was trying to. Just because he liked touching you. You could've stayed like this forever. Your eyelids were beginning to feel heavy.
"So..." you murmured sleepily.
"So?"
"Goodnight."
He smiled. "Goodnight. I love you."
You didn't even open your eyes. "I love you too."
He kissed the top of your head. Soft. Slow. Like he had nowhere else to be. Your breathing gradually evened out, matching his. The rain continued outside. His heartbeat became slower beneath your cheek. You felt his fingers tighten around your hand one last time before relaxing completely. The last thing you remembered before sleep finally claimed you was the quiet certainty that, after the longest week of your life... He made it home.
_____
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a/n: guys i’m not gonna lie, i genuinely have no idea how long the next part is going to take me. i have some very ambitious plans for it, and it may take time for me to figure it out. I’m can already tell that I am going to be very perfectionistic about the next part. I’ll be sure to post some proof of life while I work on it, maybe some updates and sneak peaks. I plan to also post my planner on @spencereidluver-blog so follow if you’re interested in that
