you’ve decided it’s time to have a baby—with or without a partner. working at the BAU hasn’t exactly left room for candlelit dinners or whirlwind romances, so you’ve started looking into a donor. simple. sensible. entirely under control… until Spencer Reid overhears you talking about it and, in true Spencer fashion, decides to make things complicated in the most endearing way possible.
Thank you for tagging me @whoswitchybabyanyway 🫶❤️
1. Color: I am unable to make decisions, so I have three: green, blue, and purple. Not necessarily in that order. I also love pastels!
2. Listening: Heavily fw OllieAmbience on YouTube for Zelda BOTW/TOTK background music. I have horrid ADHD and can't concentrate on my studying or assignments without background music. Outside of studying: Fall Out Boy, Jimmy Eats World, Lit, Yellowcard, The All-American Rejects and others.
3. Reading: The Fragile Threads of Power by V.E Shwab (physical book) and Falling by Christie Laurie (kindle version).
4. Watching: I'm rewatching Supernatural (and finally past the point I stopped watching it the first time), also watching Bon Appetite your majesty, Snow White with the Red Hair, The Nanny, and desperately waiting for the newest season of Dan da Dan
6. Coffee or tea: I love both! Lately I've been leaning more towards coffee though because I need the caffeine. I'll drink coffee and tea hot or cold depending on the weather and my mood.
5. Craving: Apple cake, pumpkin donuts, and hot chocolate. I'm a fiend for sweets of all kinds tbh. Savory cravings include mozzarella sticks, and jalapeño poppers.
Tagging @pentopaper23 @haileighsfeed no pressure :)
summary: you and spencer are sent on a routine search in a crumbling, horror-movie-ready house. Spencer swears it’s not haunted (despite clinging to you like it is), but when things get spooky, he blurts out something he’s been too afraid to say out loud.
includes: no use of y/n, spooky setting, casual banter, injury & hurt/comfort, bau case backdrop, confession under pressure, spencer being a scaredy cat, fluff, reader gets injured but like you're fine tho
halloween 2025
The house looks like it’s auditioning for a horror movie. Sagging roof, cracked shutters, ivy crawling up the siding like greedy fingers. The porch steps groan beneath your boots as you and Spencer approach, and you swear you hear an owl hoot at the exact same time.
Spencer slows to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. “You know,” he mutters, peering up at the darkened windows, “Victorian architecture like this is more likely to creak and shift because the foundations were often built with—”
“Spence,” you interrupt, already smiling, “are you stalling?”
His eyes dart to yours, wide and unconvincing. “No. I’m… contextualizing.”
You bite back a laugh. “Contextualizing the haunted house?”
“It’s not haunted,” he insists, even as he shivers and fiddles with the strap of his satchel. “There’s no scientific basis for—”
The wind howls, cutting him off, rattling the shutters so violently he jumps half a foot. You clap a hand over your mouth, snorting, and push open the door. “Come on, Reid. If anything jumps out, I’ll protect you.”
Inside, the place smells like mildew and dust. Your flashlight beam cuts across peeling wallpaper and cobwebbed furniture. Spencer sticks close, practically pressed to your shoulder, whispering under his breath like a human podcast.
“You know, the human brain is evolutionarily predisposed to interpret ambiguous stimuli as threatening. That’s why—”
“Spence.” You shake your head, grinning. “Breathe.”
You check the ground floor, then the second story, finding nothing but empty rooms and enough creaks to keep a sound engineer busy for days. Finally, you reach the basement door. The air is colder here, the wood swollen and warped. You glance at him, and Spencer is pale as chalk.
“Don’t say it,” you murmur, amused.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he whispers. His voice cracks. “Except—statistically, basements are the most dangerous parts of a house.”
You raise a brow. “Really?”
“Well… no. But they are the creepiest.”
You laugh outright, the sound bouncing down the dark stairwell. “Guess that means we’re going.”
Spencer shakes his head so fast you half-expect it to spin off. “No. Absolutely not. Do you know how many horror films start in basements?”
“Good thing this isn’t a horror film,” you tease, nudging the door open. The smell of damp earth rises up. “It’s just you and me. Which means…” You give him a wink. “…if there’s a monster, you’re definitely bait.”
“Not funny,” he hisses, but he still follows you down, one careful step at a time.
The basement stairs groan under your weight, every step threatening to splinter. Your flashlight beam wobbles over cement walls lined with shelves of rusted paint cans and ancient boxes. The air is damp, thick, and cold enough to crawl under your skin.
Behind you, Spencer is a ghost of himself—silent now, no more fun facts, no more nervous rambling. Just wide eyes flicking to every shadow, every drip of water echoing off stone. His breathing is shallow, clipped, like he’s afraid to breathe too loudly in case something hears.
A low creak shifts through the dark.
You feel him flinch against your back.
Another sound—something rolling across the concrete.
“Spence,” you whisper, barely hiding the smile tugging at your mouth, “if you squeeze my jacket any tighter, I’m gonna suffocate.”
“I’m not—” he starts, but then your flashlight flickers once, twice, and dies completely.
In an instant, he’s pressed against you, arms gripping you like a lifeline, chin practically on your shoulder. You feel the tremor in his hands, the frantic staccato of his breath hot against your ear.
And in the absolute, smothering dark, you can’t help it—you grin. “Wow,” you murmur, leaning close to his ear, “didn’t know all it took to get you to hold me like this was a broken flashlight.”
You can feel him scowl even if you can’t see it. “This is not funny.”
“Mm, maybe not to you,” you tease, fumbling to smack the flashlight until it sputters back to life, beam shaky but working again. You catch his face in the glow—pale, wide-eyed, and utterly betrayed.
“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses softly.
“A little,” you admit, bumping his shoulder gently. “But don’t worry. If anything jumps out, you can hide behind me.”
For a second, he just stares at you, mouth opening and closing like he wants to argue. Then, impossibly, he huffs out the smallest laugh—a weak, breathless thing, but a laugh all the same.
The basement feels like it goes on forever, one long corridor of shadows and damp. Your flashlight beam cuts across a jumble of broken furniture, a mattress slumped in the corner, shelves sagging under decades of dust.
And then—
BANG.
The crash rattles the whole basement. Spencer jolts so hard he nearly drops his gun, eyes wild. His breath comes fast, sharp, panicked.
“I never got to tell you—” His voice cracks. “And now we’re gonna die—”
“Spence,” you cut in quickly, steady, “we are not gonna die.”
But he barrels on, desperate. “I love you.”
The words hang for half a second, heavy and raw.
Your heart stutters. “What—?”
But then there’s another crash—heavier this time—and a shadow bolts toward the stairs. Without thinking, you surge forward, flashlight beam swinging as you take off after the movement.
Behind you, Spencer’s curse breaks the silence. He turns the other way—because there’s a second set of footsteps, someone else cutting across the basement in the opposite direction.
You split without a word, instincts pulling you apart: you charging after the figure on the stairs, him tearing after the shadow in the dark.
The house groans under your sprint, every board shrieking in protest. The unsub ahead of you barrels down the hallway, shoving over an old side table in their wake. It crashes, scattering broken picture frames and ceramic across the floor. You leap over it, heart hammering, light cutting through the dust.
“FBI! Stop!”
They don’t. They vanish into a room at the end of the hall, slamming the door wide open as they go.
You follow, gun raised, breath sharp. The room is still—eerily still. Dust motes hang in the flashlight beam. Cobwebs shiver faintly. The only sound is your pulse in your ears.
Empty.
You step in, every nerve buzzing, sweeping your light over bare walls and stacks of old boxes.
Nothing.
And then—
Movement.
They explode out from behind the door, slamming into you hard. Your shoulder cracks against the wall, pain spiking white-hot as your gun clatters to the floor. You stumble back, trying to regain your balance, but they’re fast, shoving you again—this time with a blade flashing in their grip.
You twist, catching your arm on the edge of a broken shelf as you crash down. Fire lances up your side. You grit your teeth, kicking out hard, catching them in the knee.
They stumble, curse, and bolt for the hall again.
Adrenaline drowns the pain. You drag yourself up, snatch your weapon, and tear after them. Your arm screams where it’s bleeding, but you don’t stop, not when they’re pounding toward the stairs.
They’re fast, but desperation makes you faster. At the landing, you lunge—slamming into them with your good shoulder. You both hit the floor hard. They thrash, but you press down, breath ragged, gun jammed against their ribs.
“Don’t move!” you snap, voice sharp as steel.
They freeze, heaving, pinned beneath you.
The night has quieted into the messy hum of sirens and radios, crime scene techs swarming the old house like ants. You sit at the back of an ambulance, jacket off, arm freshly wrapped in gauze that throbs every time you shift. Your feet dangle above the gravel, boots scuffed, adrenaline finally starting to ebb.
Your side throbs, blood damp under your jacket, but they’re down. Caught.
“Hey.”
You glance up. Spencer’s standing there, hair mussed, tie crooked, the faintest smudge of dust on his cheek. His eyes flick immediately to your arm, wide and worried. “Are you okay?”
You wiggle your bandaged arm a little, offering him a small smile. “Don’t worry. It was way less scary upstairs.”
He gives you the Reid look—half exasperated, half fond, but mostly exhausted. “Why did I have to chase the one that stayed in the basement?” he mutters, almost to himself.
You laugh, a warm sound that makes his lips twitch despite himself. “Luck of the draw?”
For a moment, it’s easy. Just the two of you and the soft glow of flashing lights. Then you tilt your head, watching him carefully.
“So,” you say, light and deliberate, “about what you said down there.”
His whole face goes crimson in an instant. “I—I didn’t mean—you weren’t supposed to—”
“Spencer.” You reach out, your good hand brushing his sleeve, grounding him. “Calm down.”
He blinks at you, startled quiet.
You smile, teasing but gentle. “You could’ve just asked me on a date, you know. Way less dramatic.”
His mouth opens, then closes, and for once, Spencer Reid is completely speechless.
“So,” you continue, letting the smile curve softer now, “what do you think? Dinner sometime?”
A stunned beat, and then he nods—so quickly it makes you laugh again. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Good.” You lean back against the doors, studying him. Then, with deliberate mischief: “So how would you feel about a horror movie for our first date?”
The horror on his face is immediate. “You’re kidding.”
The sudden laughter makes your side ache, but it’s worth it—the sound bubbling out until even he can’t help smiling, shaking his head at you.
summary: spencer comes home worn down from a long day, only to find you waiting with something new to show him. based on this request
includes: no use of y/n, smut (MDNI), established relationship, striptease/lap dance, dirty talk, teasing, so much teasing, oral (f receiving), rough sex, p in v, reader wears a nightgown, spencer a lil possessive bc *swoon*
The sound of a key turning in the lock drifts into your room just as you’re finishing up at your vanity. You smooth the last of your night cream into your skin, tug the sash of your satin robe tighter, and glance at your reflection. Beneath, your nightgown glimmers—a slip of lace and silk that’s far too pretty to waste on sleep alone.
Spencer’s voice calls your name low, careful, as he steps inside. A moment later, he’s in the doorway, jacket already shrugged off, tie loosened from a long day. His hair is mussed, his shoulders sag with fatigue, but when his gaze lands on you, something sharpens.
“I didn’t expect you to still be awake,” he admits, dropping his satchel by the door.
You rise from your seat slowly, letting the robe swish around your thighs. “Was about to head to bed,” you murmur, walking toward him barefoot. The silk clings to your legs as you move, the robe catching the light with each sway. Then you smile, sly. “But since you’re home… maybe I’ll stay up a little longer.”
He blinks, weary curiosity flickering in his brown eyes. “Why?”
You stop in the middle of the room, tilting your head. “Because I’ve been practicing something new. And now I have the perfect audience.”
Spencer’s brow furrows. “Practicing?”
“Mhm. Routine for main stage. I need to make sure it works.”
His lips part, like he's not sure if he should argue or beg. “You—you mean here?”
“Unless you think you can’t handle it.”
His spine straightens, pride bristling even through his fatigue. “I can handle it.”
You flash him a smile, catching his wrist before he can think too hard about what he’s agreed to. “Good.”
The word purrs off your tongue as you tug him gently down the hall, the satin of your robe whispering with every step. He follows without protest, long strides keeping pace, like his feet have a mind of their own.
When you reach the living room, you guide him to the couch and give a little push at his chest. He sits obediently, eyes wide and watchful, a little dazed as he watches you.
You thumb through your phone, pick a song with a low, pulsing bass, and set it playing. The sound fills the apartment, lazy and sultry, and you step into the rhythm easily.
“This,” you murmur as your hips begin to sway, “is where I have to get people’s attention.”
Spencer’s lips part, his hands curling on his knees. His voice comes out rough, certain. “You already have mine.”
The corner of your mouth curves, heat sparking in your belly. “Good.”
You glide a few steps closer, rolling your shoulders with the music, letting the satin robe ripple around your frame like smoke. Every movement is deliberate, languid, drawn out for the single set of eyes fixed on you.
Spencer’s gaze clings like gravity. His tie hanging slack at his chest and his mussed hair don't quite match how he sits too straight on the couch—as if posture will disguise the fact that his breath is already uneven. His fingers tap against his knee, restless, betraying nerves he doesn’t even realize he’s showing.
“See,” you murmur, circling slowly, “I can’t let them look away. Not even for a second.”
You drag your fingertips down the edge of your robe, over your waist, hips swaying to the bass. You twirl once, letting the fabric flare before catching it against your thighs again.
You catch his eyes flickering down, then back up like he’s punishing himself for looking.
You laugh under your breath. “Caught you.”
He shifts, long legs spreading a little wider, palms pressing hard to his knees like anchors. “I wasn’t—” He cuts himself off, cheeks warm, eyes glassy.
“Mmhmm.” You trail closer, tugging at the sash of your robe, teasing it loose an inch at a time. His focus narrows, his chest rising faster, pupils blown.
The knot falls slack, but you don’t shed the robe yet. Instead you let it slip open just a little, enough for a glint of lace and silk to peek through before you pull it closed again, smirking when his throat works on a dry swallow.
“Patience,” you chide softly. “That’s the trick.”
Spencer’s jaw flexes. He shifts again, fidgeting, his hands curling tight. The need in his eyes is raw, unguarded, and you feel it pulse between you like a current.
You step between his knees, lean down just enough that the robe gapes at your chest, your perfume mingling with the warm scent of him—soap, coffee, work lingering on his skin.
Then, deliberately, you slip the robe from one shoulder. The fabric slides down your arm in slow motion, catching in the crook of your elbow.
Spencer makes a low sound in his throat—something between a sigh and a groan—and his hands twitch off his knees, like he has to physically fight himself not to reach.
You let the other shoulder of your robe slip free next, the satin sliding down to catch at your elbows. For a moment, you hold it there—half-wrapped, half-bared—each roll of your hips making the silk tremble and sway like it has its own rhythm.
Spencer’s breathing hitches audibly, his eyes flicking from your chest to your legs and back again, like he doesn’t know where to land without drowning.
You sway closer, hips rolling to the bassline, bending just enough to let the robe brush against his knees, the faintest whisper of fabric against his trousers. “Have to build it slow,” you murmur, words molten. “Let them ache for it.”
He looks like he is aching. His knuckles blanch where his hands dig into the couch, fingers twitching like they’re bound.
You straighten, turning in a slow, deliberate circle, letting the silk drag around your thighs before you finally give it up. With a flick of your wrists, you shrug it off, letting the robe tumble down your arms and pool at your feet in a decadent heap.
The nightgown clings, lace catching the dim light. You run your hands down your sides, smoothing the fabric as though displaying yourself, and Spencer’s chest rises like he’s been punched.
“Now,” you whisper, swaying back toward him, “they’re watching only me.”
You cross the last inch of space between you, sliding a knee over his thigh, then the other, settling into his lap slow enough to make it sting, silk whispering against his trousers as your nightgown rides higher with every shift of your hips. His eyes dart down, catching where the hem flutters up your thighs before he jerks them back up like he’s scolding himself.
You smile, wicked. Caught again.
Settling against him, you let your fingers trail to his loosened tie, winding the silk around your hand. You tug it lightly, just enough to pull him closer without breaking your rhythm.
His breath hitches, his hands twitch up on instinct—fingers brushing your waist.
You catch them before they land, a sharp little swat against the back of his knuckles. “Uh-uh. No one touches me while I’m dancing.”
His eyes snap up to yours, wide and wrecked. “Not even me?”
You lean in close, lips grazing his ear as you murmur, “Not even you.” Then you smirk, grinding down just enough to make him groan.
His chest rises hard against yours, breath hot and uneven. His eyes flick down again, betraying him, catching on the way your nightgown slides higher and higher up your thighs. The lace is barely covering anything now, and his gaze sticks there like he’s helpless to look away.
You laugh softly, rolling your hips slower, tighter, as you drape your arms around his shoulders. “They love this part,” you whisper. “When I climb into someone’s lap. Makes the rest of the crowd ache, wishing it was them.”
Spencer groans low, the sound rumbling from his chest. He shifts beneath you, thighs tensing, his body hard and desperate under your teasing sway.
You trail your lips along his jaw, not quite kissing, just close enough that he feels the ghost of your breath. “The trick,” you murmur, grinding slower, “is to never give them what they want right away. You make them wait. Draw it out. Keep them hungry.”
His fingers flex against the couch cushions, the veins in his hands standing out. “Y-you’re…” His voice is raw, frayed at the edges. “You’re killing me.”
“Good.” You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, smirking when you see how blown his pupils are, how ragged his restraint has become. “Means I’m doing it right.”
You roll your hips again, harder this time, dragging a broken sound from him. He tips his head back against the couch, throat bared, eyes fluttering shut.
You reach for his tie again, looping the silk tighter around your fingers. With a sharp little tug, you yank just enough to pull his head back up, forcing his eyes open.
“Don’t look away,” you order, voice low and molten. Your thighs squeeze around his, rocking against the hard line of him beneath the silk of your nightgown. “This is all for you.”
His gaze locks on yours, pupils blown wide, breath shuddering through parted lips. He looks like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him afloat.
“That’s it,” you purr, giving another slow roll of your hips. “Keep your eyes on me. Watch how I move for you.”
His throat works on a swallow, his hands flexing helplessly at his sides, knuckles white from holding on to his own restraint. But his gaze doesn’t falter—it drinks you in, devours every sway of your hips, every inch of lace flashing higher up your thighs.
You smirk, releasing his tie only to trail your fingers down the silk, then down the buttons of his shirt until your hand rests flat against his chest. His heart is pounding, wild beneath your palm.
“Feel that?” you whisper, leaning close enough that your lips almost graze his. “That’s what I do to you.”
Spencer groans, raw and desperate, his head tipping forward until his forehead brushes yours. “You have no idea—” His voice cracks, choked off when you grind down harder, stealing the rest of his breath.
“Oh, I think I do,” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly across his chest as you rock your hips again, silk whispering, lace riding up high enough to make his eyes flicker downward in helpless betrayal.
You catch it instantly, smirking as you tug on his tie again, forcing his gaze back up to yours. “Eyes here, Doctor. Don’t you dare miss a second.”
He groans, teeth sinking into his lower lip, body trembling with restraint.
And when you roll your hips again, slow and deliberate, you lean to his ear, voice a sultry whisper: “Tell me how long you can last like this before you break my rule.”
As you rock your hips, the strap of your nightgown slips from your shoulder, sliding down the curve of your arm in a slow, sinful drop.
Spencer’s breath stutters. His eyes catch on the bare skin revealed, lingering there for a heartbeat too long before snapping back up like he’s trying to discipline himself.
You smirk, savoring his struggle, and let the strap dangle loosely against your arm. “See?” you whisper, leaning close enough that your lips graze his jaw. “Sometimes the smallest slip drives them the craziest.”
His throat works on a hard swallow, his voice wrecked when he finally speaks. “It’s—working.”
Your fingers toy with the strap at your shoulder, drawing it down inch by inch until silk slithers across your skin, baring more with every roll of your hips. Spencer’s gaze catches helplessly, his breath stuttering as if the sound itself could betray him.
Your fingers trail to the hem of the nightgown, gathering the silk between them. Slowly, deliberately, you start to tug it upward. The fabric slides along your skin, whispering higher and higher until it skims over your ribs, baring the soft curves beneath.
Spencer’s breath catches, his hands tightening on the cushions like he’s bracing for impact.
“Normally,” you murmur, pausing with the gown just under your chest, “there’s always one last layer. A bra, matching lace. Something to keep the fantasy just out of reach.”
Then, locking your gaze with his, you tug the silk the rest of the way over your head and let it fall to the floor in a pool of red and lace.
Spencer makes a strangled sound, pupils blown, his gaze dragging over every inch of bare skin like he’s burning the sight into memory. His restraint frays with every second, his knuckles whitening against the couch.
You roll your hips once more, slow and deliberate, whispering in his ear, “You get what no one else ever will.”
That’s when his control shatters. With a desperate groan, his hands clamp onto your hips, grip fierce, and you let out a squeak as he hauls you off his lap, flipping you onto the couch beneath him in one fluid, hungry motion.
The cushions dip, your hair spilling across them, Spencer braced over you, his tie dangling, chest heaving.
You’re still catching your breath from the sudden flip when you manage a shaky laugh. “What happened to no touching? Thought you agreed to the rules.”
Spencer looms above you, tie dangling against your chest, pupils wide and dark. His voice comes rough, torn from somewhere deep. “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what you were doing.”
Heat licks up your spine at the way he says it—accusation tangled with adoration.
Your smirk wavers when he drags his hands up your sides, palms reverent despite their roughness. He cups your ribs like you’re fragile, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts, and the shift in his expression makes your breath catch.
Because for a second, he doesn’t look wrecked. He looks in awe.
He bows his head, mouth finding the curve of your collarbone, and then he’s kissing lower, dragging his mouth down the slope of your sternum, over the rise of your ribs. You shiver when his stubble scrapes lightly, leaving heat in its wake.
By the time he reaches your stomach, your breath is coming uneven. He kneels between your thighs, big hands sliding them apart, spreading you wide. His gaze flicks down, pupils dark and glassy, lingering on the damp lace clinging to your center.
“Spencer—” you start, a quiver in your voice.
He shushes you, pressing a kiss just above your navel, then another lower. “You let them look.” His voice is rough silk as he hooks his fingers in your panties and tugs them slowly down your legs. The fabric peels from your slick skin, and his eyes are locked on the way you glisten for him in the dim light. “But only I get to taste.”
The last word breaks into a growl as he dives in.
His mouth seals over you, tongue dragging through your folds in one long, reverent lick that makes your hips jerk off the couch. He moans at the taste, a guttural sound vibrating against you, and the vibration makes your thighs shake.
He kisses your clit first, slow and wet, then latches on and sucks, gentle at first, like he’s savoring. Your back arches, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard when he flicks his tongue quick over the swollen bud.
It’s worship, but it’s also hunger—he devours you with both. His tongue dips lower, circling your entrance, pushing inside with slow, filthy precision before gliding back up to tease your clit again. He murmurs against you, the words lost but the vibrations sinful, and then he’s fucking you with his tongue like he can’t get deep enough, his nose pressed firm against your clit until you’re gasping, your thighs trembling against his ears.
“Spence—oh, fuck—” Your voice breaks on a moan as his hands pin you down, broad palms locking your hips against the couch so you can’t escape the relentless rhythm of his tongue. You’re wet, messy, spreading over his mouth, and he drinks it down like it’s his only sustenance.
You’re still gasping when he crawls back up your body, his tie dragging across your bare skin, his mouth crushing to yours. His hands cradle your face like you’re fragile even as his body crushes you into the cushions, his weight hot and heavy over you.
Spencer kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside your lungs, like your breath is the only air he wants. His hips grind down into yours with punishing force, hard length pressing against your soaked folds, only the thin barrier of his trousers separating you.
“Spence,” you gasp against his mouth, clutching at his shirt, yanking it half free of his waistband. He doesn’t bother with patience—buttons pop, some missing entirely as he tears it open, baring the smooth lines of his chest. He leaves his tie loosened around his neck, like he couldn't be bothered to yank it off as well. You drag your nails over his skin, sharp enough to make him shudder.
When he finally drags his mouth from yours, his lips are wet, swollen, his breath breaking ragged against your cheek. “God, you’re—” He swallows, voice trembling. “You’re unreal.”
You open your mouth to tease, but the words die as his hips grind down hard, the thick press of him straining against his trousers. He curses under his breath, teeth gritted, like he can barely control himself. His hands drag down your ribs, your waist, your thighs—like he needs to map every inch of bare skin, commit it to memory before he loses the last threads of restraint.
“Spencer—” you breathe, arching beneath him.
That’s all it takes. With a guttural groan, he’s yanking his belt open, fumbling at the button and zipper with shaking hands. You reach down to help, but he growls low, catching your wrist and pinning it above your head. “No—let me. Let me take care of you.”
The words make your pulse stutter.
His trousers are shoved down just far enough, his cock freed and flushed, leaking against his stomach. He groans when your thighs part wider for him, his gaze locking on the slick glisten between your legs, pupils blown black.
“You’re soaked,” he rasps, stroking himself once, hard, like it takes everything not to bury himself inside you in one motion. His thumb drags over the head, smearing precum, and his jaw clenches. “All this for me?”
You nod, breathless. “Always for you.”
That undoes him. With a shuddering exhale, he lines himself up, pressing the blunt head against your entrance. He sinks in slow, agonizingly slow, stretching you inch by inch until your back arches and your nails dig into the cushions.
“Oh, fuck—” His voice breaks, head tipping back, throat bared. “You feel… god, you feel so good.”
He bottoms out with a desperate groan, staying there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours. His breath trembles, his hands gripping your hips like he’ll shatter if he lets go. “I don’t—don’t think I can be gentle.”
“Then don’t,” you gasp, rolling your hips up into his.
The sound he makes is primal. His restraint snaps.
He pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in, hard enough to make the couch jolt beneath you. You cry out, clinging to his shoulders, and he does it again, and again, each thrust rougher, deeper, his breath ragged in your ear.
But even as he pounds into you, there’s worship in every touch—his hands sliding reverently over your sides, cupping your breasts, brushing his thumbs over your nipples with aching tenderness before gripping your hips to hold you open for him. He presses his mouth to your throat, your shoulder, your chest, kissing, mouthing, marking as though he can’t decide whether to devour you or worship you.
“You’re perfect,” he gasps against your skin. “So perfect. Mine.”
“Yours.”
His tie dangles against your chest, brushing with every thrust. You grab it, wrap it around your fist, and yank him down for another kiss. It’s messy, teeth and tongue, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths as he fucks you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to carve himself into your bones.
You’re spiraling, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge. His name spills from your lips like a mantra, and he groans each time, like hearing it feeds his hunger.
One hand slips down between you, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing harsh, perfect circles in time with his thrusts. The roughness makes you cry out, arching up into him, body seizing with the pressure building inside you.
“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”
His lips crash to yours again, swallowing your cries as the orgasm tears through you—white-hot, blinding, your body clenching around him in waves. Spencer groans, the sound guttural, broken, and his rhythm unravels.
He slams into you once, twice more, then spills inside with a shuddering gasp, hips grinding deep as he empties into you. His whole body trembles, collapsing over yours, forehead buried in your neck, breath hot and frantic against your skin.
Even as the aftershocks ripple through you both, his hands roam your body—gentle now, loving. He presses soft kisses against your damp skin, across your collarbone, up your throat, finally to your mouth, where he lingers in a kiss so tender it makes your chest ache.
“You’re…” His voice is ruined, breathless. “You’re everything.”
summary: after spencer finally watches you perform for the first time, the quiet jealousy simmering beneath his buttoned-up exterior spills over. that is, until you remind him exactly who you take home at the end of the night.
includes: no use of y/n, smut (MDNI), established relationship, jealousy kink/spencer is a lil possessive, lap-sitting, teasing, tension, oral (m receiving), praise and a lil power play, reader wears makeup and heels, completely inaccurate layout of strip club dressing room lol
The bass still thrums through the floor even though your set is over. You feel electric, skin still warm from the lights, glitter catching the low amber glow of the club. You’d picked someone from the crowd—tall, smug, obviously rich. He tipped well and didn’t touch, which made him a decent prop for the night.
But it wasn’t him you’d been aware of.
It was the quiet man at the far end of the bar. Dressed like a fed trying to blend in, sipping club soda like it was poison, and looking at you like he’d just watched you tear his thesis in half.
You step into the dressing room and find Spencer exactly where you expected him: sitting on the little couch in the corner, back straight, hands folded in his lap like he’s trying really hard not to fidget. It’s the first time he’s stayed for a set. He’s dropped you off, picked you up, brought lattes and fresh-baked muffins, and read paperbacks while you got changed. Your friends know him by name—Dr. Reid, Boy Wonder, Book Club Boyfriend.
But he’s never seen you perform. Not until tonight.
You smile as you tug a robe over your shoulders and kick off your heels, catching his eyes in the mirror.
“Enjoy the show, Doctor?” you tease.
He shrugs.
That’s it.
No smile. No clever statistic about crowd engagement or stage presence. Just a shrug.
You turn around, eyeing him with a slow, amused raise of your brow.
You cross the room and lean against the makeup counter, arms folded. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m not,” he says too fast.
You lean in slightly, teasing. “You look like someone just kicked your puppy.”
“I don’t own a dog,” he mutters.
“Okay, cat, then. Or maybe a very emotionally attached ficus.”
That earns you a tiny smile, but it's gone in a second.
You study him a moment. The way his jaw is tense. The way his fingers curl tightly in his lap. He isn't just quiet.
He's bothered.
You let the silence hang for a moment before your lips curve into a wicked smirk.
“Spencer Reid…” You draw his full name out like silk, slow and teasing. “Are you jealous?”
His head jerks up, and his ears go bright red before the rest of his face catches up.
“What? No!”
You laugh softly, stepping closer. “That wasn’t just a no. That was a catastrophically bad no.”
Spencer makes a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan. “I’m not jealous. I just didn’t realize how... intimate the performance was.”
You cock your head. “Spence. You knew what I do.”
“I did. I do. I just—” he gestures vaguely with one hand, flustered—“seeing it is different.”
You step closer, slow, deliberate. His knees are almost brushing yours now, and he looks up at you like you’ve got him pinned in place with nothing but eye contact.
You plant your palms on the arms of the couch, bracketing him in, close enough that you can feel his breath catch.
“The flirting,” you murmur, eyes locked on his, “the dancing... that’s my job. You’ve always known that.”
His mouth parts like he’s going to protest again, but you don’t give him the chance.
“But you,” you say, leaning in just enough for your lips to ghost the shell of his ear, “you are the one whose bed I end up in.”
A flush spreads across his cheeks again, blooming down his neck like it’s trying to crawl under the collar of his shirt.
“You’re the one who gets me after the stage makeup’s off,” you whisper. “The one who sees me when it’s not a performance.”
Your fingers slide gently along the side of his throat, down to the top button of his dress shirt. His pulse is jumping under your touch.
He swallows, voice thin and careful. “I—know that.”
You smile.
“Good.”
You let your weight shift, straddling his lap slowly, your thighs settling on either side of his. His hands hover at your hips like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch. That hesitation, that soft awe in his expression—it drives you wild.
“You can touch me,” you say, just above a whisper. “No stage. No audience. Just us.”
His fingers grip your waist instantly, like he’s been holding back this entire time and finally let himself breathe.
“God,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you. “You were driving me crazy out there.”
You smile, triumphant, and roll your hips just slightly—enough to feel the tension already building beneath you. His breath hitches.
“That was barely even a five on the scale,” you tease, fingers running down his chest, undoing buttons as you go.
Spencer’s hands slide up your sides, trembling slightly. You run your fingers through his hair, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp just to feel him shiver.
“Do you like my makeup tonight?” you ask sweetly, tilting your head. Your lashes flutter, your lipstick’s still perfect—deep, sultry, the exact shade that drove Spencer crazy from across the club.
He blinks up at you, clearly struggling to form a full sentence with you in his lap.
“Y-Yeah,” he says, voice cracking just slightly. “You look… stunning.”
You grin.
“Good.” You lean in, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Because I want you to ruin it.”
You pull back just far enough to wink, and Spencer’s entire body tenses beneath you like he’s forgotten how breathing works.
You kiss him once—deep, dirty, and promising—and then you slide off his lap.
Down.
Knees to the floor, hands on his thighs.
Spencer’s eyes widen, following you like he can’t quite believe what you’re doing—what you’re about to do. You look up at him from beneath your lashes, a smirk playing on your lips.
“Sit back, Doctor,” you murmur, already working at his belt. “Let me help you forget all about that guy on stage.”
He’s still flushed, still trying to find words—his breath stutters, hands hovering midair, unsure if he should touch you or hold onto the couch for dear life. You reach out and guide one into your hair with a soft look and a squeeze of your fingers.
“You can touch,” you whisper. “I want you to.”
That’s all the permission he needs, fingers tangling in your hair, the other hand curling around the edge of the seat as you free him from his slacks.
He’s already hard and twitching in your hand, flushed. You hum in appreciation, licking your lips just to watch him break a little.
You start with a soft kiss to the tip.
Spencer exhales like he’s been punched in the chest.
You trail your tongue along the underside slowly, letting it drag. Then you take him into your mouth, inch by inch, watching the muscles in his thighs tense beneath your hands.
“F-Fuck,” he breathes. “You—God, you look...”
He can’t finish. You smile around him.
You hollow your cheeks, relaxing your throat, taking more of him in, and the choked sound he makes above you is downright sinful.
Your hands grip his thighs as you set a steady rhythm—deep, slow, controlled. Every time your nose brushes the soft skin of his abdomen, he groans your name. Every time your tongue swirls just right, his grip tightens in your hair.
Your mascara’s already starting to run. Your lipstick? Long gone—smeared all over him now.
You glance up at him again, and the look in his eyes wrecks you: glassy, reverent, like you’re both heaven and hell wrapped in one perfect disaster.
“I’m close,” he gasps, voice raw, hips twitching.
You take him deeper.
You moan around him.
And that’s it.
His whole body stutters. With a guttural moan, he comes, spilling into your mouth, and you take every drop, swallowing like it’s instinct. You hold him there gently, stroking him through it, until his body goes limp and he melts into the couch like he’s been unplugged from reality.
When you finally pull off, you lick your lips, then swipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb and suck it clean.
Your mascara is ruined. Your lipstick’s destroyed. You look like sin and satisfaction in glitter and sweat.
You crawl back into his lap, straddling him again, and kiss him slow and deep—letting him taste himself on your tongue.
When you pull away, he’s dazed and panting, flushed down to his chest.
You grin. “Still jealous?”
He laughs—barely—and drops his head back against the wall. “If that’s what jealousy gets me, I might fake it more often.”
You hum, lips brushing his throat. “Careful. I might start giving you shows just so I can wreck you after.”
Spencer cups your face with both hands, eyes soft and dark. “I’d let you.”
And judging by the way his hands are already trailing down your sides again, you're not done ruining things tonight.
summary: A blown case in the field ignites the worst fight you and Spencer have ever had. After three days of petty tension, ignored looks, and power plays, you get sick of it.
includes: no use of y/n, established relationship, argument > unresolved tension > smut (MDNI), dom(ish?)!reader x sub!spencer, pettiness and teasing as foreplay lol, begging, praise, slight power play, Spencer tries (and fails) to be a brat, kiss and make up type beat
You yank off your vest and storm away from the perimeter. Your boots crunch against the dry earth with every furious step, dust kicking up in your wake. Your heart is still pounding from the chase, your skin buzzing with leftover adrenaline, but all you can feel is rage.
The unsub had been right there. Cornered. Vulnerable.
And then Spencer pulled you back.
He yanked you out of the way like you were some rookie who couldn’t handle yourself. Like your judgment didn’t count.
You hear your name shouted behind you, sharp and breathless. Spencer’s voice. “You don’t get to be mad at me for saving your life!”
“Don't get to–?” You scoff. “Maybe I wouldn’t need saving if you trusted me to do my job!”
Gravel skitters under your boots as you whirl a corner of the crime scene tape. His hand catches your arm. Firm, but careful. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make you stop. You spin on him.
His curls are tousled, cheeks still flushed from the run. His eyes—usually soft—are wild, furious.
“You’re cocky,” he snaps, breathing hard. “And that cockiness is going to get you killed.”
Your jaw clenches. “And you’re scared. So scared that you’d rather let a murderer walk than risk anything going wrong. That kind of fear is what’s going to get someone else killed.”
The words hang between you like lightning about to strike. For a second, you swear he flinches. Then his expression hardens, voice dropping to something quiet but weighted.
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
You take a breath, steadier now, though your heart still hammers like a warning. “I don’t need a savior, Spencer. I need a partner.”
His gaze flicks away like the words cut too close. Then he looks back at you—cool now, composed in a way that feels almost distant.
“Maybe I’m not the partner you want.”
The sentence lands with more force than you’re ready for. Before you can respond, before the sting of it can fully register, he turns on his heel and walks away, posture stiff, steps heavy.
You almost go after him.
You shift forward, a breath already forming—but Hotch calls your name. It's not loud. Not angry. But there’s weight in it. A warning.
You stop. Shoulders tense, jaw tight. You don’t look back at Hotch, just huff out your frustration and rake a hand through your hair. Then you turn back to the scene, back to your job.
The aftermath of the fight settles in fast—and cold.
You expect tension, maybe even a little snappiness, but what you get is something worse: indifference. It gnaws at you.
Spencer barely looks at you the next morning, his words clipped and only ever related to the case. No warmth, no lingering looks, no small touches.
He keeps his tone neutral, his eyes carefully distant, like you’re just another member of the team. Like he doesn’t sleep in your bed. Like you’re not his.
The others pick up on it fast. Maybe because of the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Maybe because of the way your eyes follow Spencer when he pretends not to notice you. Either way, Hotch starts pairing you off differently.
Spencer goes with Prentiss. You go with Morgan. Every time. Clean split. No room for conflict.
Two days of that, and it’s driving you insane.
So you decide to push.
If he’s going to keep pretending you’re just another coworker, fine. You'll make damn sure he remembers you’re not.
You start with a shirt—a subtle choice. Lower neckline. A little tighter. You know how it fits. You know how he looks at you in it.
And sure enough, during a tense debriefing, his eyes flick down for half a second.
You catch it.
You also catch the way he looks away fast, jaw clenched.
It fuels something in you. Maybe childish. Definitely petty. But cathartic.
You don’t stop there.
When one of the local deputies starts flirting with you—clearly more charm than substance—you let it happen. You let him hover too close, don’t shut him down right away. You don’t flirt back, but you don't back away either. It’s harmless. Harmless and petty.
Spencer doesn’t say a word. But his back stiffens. His shoulders go tight.
He keeps his focus on the whiteboard. Pretends like nothing’s happening.
So you keep going.
You lean over desks more than necessary. Let your shirt ride up just enough when you reach for files or pens or coffee. You wear your hair the way he likes it, loose and soft around your face, knowing exactly how much it makes his fingers itch to touch it.
Then, during a profile briefing in the sheriff’s station, you make a move.
Spencer’s standing near a desk, flipping through a folder. With a sweet smile and an innocent-sounding “Excuse me,” you step in front of him to get to your seat.
The space is narrow. You don’t make it easier.
Your back brushes right up against him—soft, slow, and unmistakable. Not quite a grind, but definitely not innocent. Your ass presses into his front for the briefest second, and you feel it.
The catch of his breath. The way his body locks up, like he’s doing everything he can not to react.
You sit down like nothing happened. Flip open your tablet. Lean forward casually, pretending to study the crime scene map. Your shirt tugs just slightly. Your hair falls over your shoulder—the way he likes it. And you don’t have to look to know he’s burning a hole in the back of your head.
He doesn’t say a word.
But his silence says plenty.
It’s petty. You know it. But at this point? You don’t care. You like seeing him uncomfortable. You like knowing you’re under his skin—because you’re still mad, too. And he can ignore you all he wants, but you won't make it easy for him.
By the time the suspect is in cuffs three days later, you’ve run him ragged.
Spencer’s tense. Coiled. You’ve seen his hands shake when he thought no one noticed. Seen how much effort he’s putting into not reacting.
You’ve been under his skin for seventy-two straight hours. And it shows.
On the flight home, you slide into the seat beside JJ. Start talking before Spencer even boards. You don’t look his way—but you know he sees it.
You know he gets the message.
He doesn’t speak on the drive home either. No music. No glances. Just the quiet hum of silence, tense and thick.
You don’t try to break it.
You just drive. Hands tight on the wheel. Frustration simmering low in your chest—twisting with something else. Something that feels a lot like hurt.
This is the first fight that’s lasted more than a few hours.
When you pull into the driveway, the silence is so thick it feels like a second passenger. The car idles longer than it should. You kill the engine. Spencer gets out without a word.
You follow, shutting the car door a little harder than necessary.
Inside, he drops his go-bag by the door like it weighs a thousand pounds and heads straight down the hall toward the bedroom without a glance back.
“Seriously?” you snap, the word sharp in the quiet. “You’re going to keep giving me the silent treatment?”
He stops but doesn’t turn. His voice is tight. “I’m tired.”
“That’s not an excuse and you know it.”
He finally turns, eyes flashing. “What do you want me to say, huh? That I’m pissed you put yourself in danger? That I hated watching you flirt with some deputy while pretending I don’t exist?”
You cross your arms, biting back a grin even as your anger simmers just under the surface. “I wasn’t flirting. And you do exist. You were the one acting like I didn’t.”
He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, exasperated. “I was trying to stay professional. I didn’t want our personal issues affecting the case.”
“It was already too late for that,” you mutter.
He turns again, done with the conversation—or trying to be.
“Spencer,” you say sharply. He hesitates. “Sit down.”
He glances back at you. His jaw ticks. “Why?”
You just raise an eyebrow and point to the couch.
He stares for a beat too long. You can practically see the battle behind his eyes—pride, frustration, and something darker flickering beneath the surface.
Eventually, with an annoyed huff, he flops onto the couch. “Fine,” he grumbles.
You bite your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. You step fully into the living room, leaning against the back of the couch, arms still crossed. The heat between you is shifting, softening into something slower, heavier.
“Good boy,” you murmur under your breath, just loud enough.
His head snaps toward you. His cheeks flush, but he rolls his eyes and turns away like it didn’t land.
You know better.
A smirk twitches at your lips. Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely.
You circle the couch slowly, letting the silence coil tight. Spencer doesn’t look at you, but his fingers twitch on his knee, his jaw clenched too tight. He’s trying too hard to seem unaffected.
Which only proves how affected he is.
“You’ve been a brat all week,” you say.
The words are soft, but they land like a punch. Spencer’s spine goes rigid. His hands ball into fists in his lap.
You let it breathe. Let it simmer.
“I’m not the one who was flirting with strangers and using sex appeal like a weapon,” he mutters, low and bitter.
You cock your head. “No. You were the one pretending we’re nothing.”
He flinches. Barely, but you catch it. His lips stay sealed.
"You going to keep ignoring me, Spence?" you ask, voice low now, tinged with something soft, something dangerous.
Nothing. No response.
So you move.
You plant a knee on the couch beside his thigh. Then the other. His eyes flick to your legs, watching the way your skirt rides up your thighs before darting away again. Slowly, deliberately, you lower yourself into his lap, straddling him without giving him the chance to squirm away. Not that he does.
He stiffens beneath you—shoulders going ramrod straight, legs locked in place, his breath catching for just a second. But he doesn’t stop you. His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you but won’t let himself.
“Still don’t want to talk?” you murmur, close enough for your breath to brush his ear.
He says nothing.
You shift your hips slightly—just enough to drag your center along the bulge already forming under you. His breath stutters.
“I think you do want to talk,” you say softly, dragging your fingers down the line of his chest, over his tie, down the buttons. “You’d rather pout. Is that it?”
Still no reply. But his fists clench again, knuckles pale.
The control he’s using? Delicious.
“Look at me,” you say.
Nothing.
You trail your nails over his sternum. His chest rises slow and shaky beneath your touch.
“Spencer.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second—burning with want—before darting away again.
“You want to act like a brat, fine,” you murmur, fingers teasing the edge of his collar. “But I know what you want.”
No answer.
So you lean in closer—your lips brushing the edge of his ear. "You want me to make you stop."
You roll your hips again—slow, steady, not even trying to hide it now. His breath hitches hard, his head tipping back against the cushion with a low groan.
Still, his hands stay where they are.
"Good boy," you whisper again, just to watch the way he shivers. Just to feel the tension radiate off him.
This time, he grits out, “Stop.”
But it doesn’t sound like he means it. Not really. His voice is thin. Strained. Like his restraint is about to snap.
"Stop what?" you ask sweetly, hand around his tie. “Stop reminding you who you belong to?”
His nostrils flare. His fingers flex.
“You want to touch me so badly it hurts.”
His jaw clenches.
“Don’t you?”
He hesitates. Then barely, barely whispers: “Yes.”
You smile against his skin. “Then beg.”
That gets a reaction. His head snaps toward you, eyes wild. Frustrated. Needy.
“You want me to—” He cuts himself off, voice fraying.
“I want to hear you say please,” you murmur, grinding down once more, slow and deep, feeling every inch of him through his pants. “I want to hear how bad you need it.”
“I—” He gasps as you rock again. “Fuck. I hate you.”
You grin. “No, you don’t.”
Your hands drift up, fingers threading into the curls at the nape of his neck.
“Say please,” you whisper again, lips brushing his jaw. “And maybe I’ll let you.”
You can feel how badly he wants to break—see the restraint unraveling in his every twitch, every hitched breath. His knuckles are white against his thighs.
“I’m not—” he starts, but then your hips roll again. A helpless, broken sound escapes his throat.
You smile.
“Say it.”
He doesn’t speak. But his hands shoot up—grab your hips, grip them tight—and you freeze.
“Oh?” you say, tilting your head. “Did I say you could touch?”
His hands instantly let go, like the contact burned him. You sit up straighter on his lap, reaching down and grabbing his wrists. Gently, but firmly, you guide his hands above his head—pinning them against the back of the couch.
His breath is shaky. Pupils blown. Face flushed.
“Is this what you wanted?” you ask. “You wanted me to make the first move? To climb into your lap and make you break?”
He groans, head falling back . “You’re killing me.”
You lean in, lips barely grazing his. “You like it.”
He doesn’t argue.
You rock your hips again—slow and teasing—and feel the way his cock throbs beneath you. His mouth falls open again, breath shaky.
You reach down between your bodies with one hand and unbutton his pants. Slow. Teasing. He watches, eyes hooded, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. When you finally get him out, his cock is flushed and leaking, twitching against his stomach.
His thighs tense beneath you, and his hands curl into fists above his head.
You shift your hips and grind down, the seam of your underwear rubbing against him—just enough pressure to make him gasp.
He hisses through his teeth. “You’re—fuck, you’re not playing fair.”
You lean forward and kiss just below his ear, your breath hot against his skin.
“I’m not here to play fair,” you say. “I'm here to make you beg.”
He whines. Actually whines—quiet and desperate—and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.
You keep going.
Not fast. Not enough for release. Just enough to keep him on edge—tormented, trembling, right on the verge. His thighs shake. His hands keep twitching, desperate to move, to grab, to ground himself. But he doesn’t. He’s too trained. Too obedient.
Too fucking good for you.
You press your hips down again and stay there, letting him throb against you, not giving him anything more.
He’s a wreck now—eyes unfocused, skin flushed, mouth open like he’s trying to breathe through it.
“Please,” he chokes out. “Please, let me touch you—I’ll be good, I swear.”
You drag your fingers down his chest, slow and firm, nails catching on the fabric. He arches up slightly, involuntarily chasing the contact.
“I don’t believe you,” you murmur.
“Wha—why?”
“Because good boys don’t sulk. Good boys don’t ignore their girlfriends for three days and act like they’re above feeling jealous.”
He flinches.
And you don’t let up.
“Good boys ask for what they need instead of acting like they don’t care.”
His throat bobs. “I do care.”
“I know.” Your voice softens just enough to sting. “But you still acted like you didn’t.”
You lift your hips off his cock, just barely. His whole body jerks. He bites back a sob.
“Please, don’t—don’t tease—”
You kiss the corner of his mouth, featherlight.
“You haven’t earned it yet.”
“I-I’ll do anything,” he gasps. “I’ll apologize—I’ll make it up to you—just, please—I need you—”
You settle back over him and reach between your bodies. You stroke his cock slowly, thumb brushing the tip as you position yourself. He shakes as you sink down onto him with a soft moan.
You ride the edge for a few beats longer, letting every twitch of his hips, every ragged gasp, feed something deep in your chest. This is where you have him—bare, trembling, begging. Not because you’re cruel. Not really. But because this? This is the only way he lets go. When you make him.
When he doesn't have to think. Doesn’t have to control.
Just feel.
You lean forward, lips barely brushing his jaw. “You want to come?” you whisper, voice syrup-sweet, cruel in its softness.
He nods desperately, breath hitching, eyes clenched shut like he’s holding something back. “Please—yes—please—”
You press your lips to his throat and grind.
He moans–high-pitched and shameless–hips bucking up before you still him with your hand on his chest. His whole body is on fire under you, desperate and undone.
His voice breaks, fragile and raw. “Please—I’ll do anything—you own me, okay? Just… please.”
The confession hangs heavy in the air between you. Final. Shattering.
And perfect.
You pause, just long enough to let it sink in, your lips hovering over his skin, your breath hot against the damp flush of his throat.
“Say it again,” you whisper.
His eyes find yours now, wide and glassy, overflowing with everything he’s been holding in. “You own me,” he repeats, softer this time. “I’m yours.”
That—that—is what you were waiting for. You rock your hips, slow and deliberate, taking him deeper. His breath stutters into a gasp, his head falling back with a groan before you still your hips, buried deep, and wrap a hand around his throat—not tight, just there. Just a reminder. His eyes snap open. Dark. Dazed. Aroused beyond reason.
“You come when I say, Spencer,” you murmur. “Not a second before.”
He nods, eyes wide and desperate.
“Good boy,” you murmur. “Now keep your hands where they are. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”
His fingers twitch against the couch, but he nods again.
You set a rhythm—steady, controlled, the kind that punishes more than it satisfies. Every grind is slow, every drag of your slick heat over him measured to drive him closer and closer without tipping him over. His muscles are straining now, sweat blooming at his temples, his jaw tight with effort.
He’s trembling. Desperate. Every breath a plea in disguise.
“Do you still hate me?” you ask, voice like honey and poison all at once.
He shakes his head wildly. “No—no, I never—I just—fuck, please—”
You slide your hand into his hair, grip it gently but firmly, tugging his head back just enough to bare his throat.
“Then tell me what you do feel.”
He swallows hard, chest heaving. “I love you,” he says, the words ripping out of him like he’s been dying to say them. “I love you, and I’m sorry—I’m so fucking sorry.”
You freeze for half a second.
Not because you’re surprised. But because the way he says it—like it’s the last thing keeping him tethered to earth—makes something inside you fracture and melt at the same time.
Your grip on his hair softens. Your lips brush his jaw, his cheek, his mouth.
“I know,” you whisper.
Then you move.
Not slow this time. Not careful. Your hips snap against his, hard and fast, and he chokes on a cry, finally breaking. His hands fist above his head, his whole body straining for release. He’s panting now, barely holding it together, every muscle coiled and trembling beneath you.
“Are you going to come without permission?” you ask against his throat, biting down just hard enough to make him whimper.
“No—no, I won’t—I’ll wait—please, just don’t stop.”
You smile. “You really are a good boy.”
You don’t let up after that.
Even as he gasps beneath you, cock twitching inside you, even as his thighs tremble and his breath stutters—especially then—you keep moving.
Your rhythm is ruthless. Not frantic, not fast—deliberate. Deep, grinding, claiming strokes, every roll of your hips angled for your own pleasure, not his. You chase your own high with single-minded focus, riding him hard. He whines, the sound barely human. His head falls back, jaw slack, eyes wide and glassy.
He’s wrecked. Flushed. Glowing with sweat and need and desperation.
And still, you don’t stop. You use him, ride him like he’s yours to take—and he is.
He is.
He’s gone pliant under you now, barely able to hold on, but still obedient, still holding himself back like the good boy he wants to be. You can feel how close he is, how much it costs him not to give in.
And gods, that makes it better.
Makes you wetter. Tighter. Closer.
Your climax crashes into you hard—hot and sudden, your body clenching around him as you gasp his name, your thighs shaking, your head falling forward as you grind through every wave, using him to wring it all out of you. You ride it out without mercy, letting it wrack through your body, letting him feel how good he made you come.
Only when you’ve taken everything you need—when your breath finally starts to steady, when your muscles go warm and loose and satisfied—do you slow.
You don’t move off of him. You stay seated right where you are, still wrapped around him, feeling every twitch and pulse of his cock still buried deep inside you.
And then, finally, you lean down, breath brushing his cheek.
“Should I let you come now?” you murmur, soft and cruel. “You think you’ve earned it?”
His eyes snap to yours—wide and glassy with tears he’s too proud to let fall. His voice is hoarse, completely wrecked. “Please.”
You tilt your head, smiling faintly. “Please what?”
His throat works as he tries to form the words. “Please let me come.”
“You’ve been so good,” you whisper, rocking your hips just slightly, just enough to make him choke on a breath. “Beg me again. Like you mean it.”
He crumbles.
“Please,” he gasps, the words tumbling out now, unfiltered, raw. “Please, I’ve been trying so hard—I didn’t—I didn’t mean to be like that, I’m sorry—please, I’ll be better—I'll be so good for you, I swear—just let me come—please—I need it, need you—I’ll do anything—please.”
You kiss the corner of his mouth.
“Then come for me,” you whisper, grinding down again. “Come for me, baby.”
He does—loud and helpless, crying out your name like a prayer. His whole body seizes under you, hips jerking up into yours as he spills inside you with a groan, his arms finally wrapping around you like he’s falling and you’re the only solid thing left. He shudders through it, shaking, panting, broken open in your hands. You keep moving, riding him through it, watching every twitch and shudder and gasp. He whimpers through the comedown, wrecked and beautiful.
You don’t stop until he slumps back fully against the couch, panting and boneless, chest rising in short, uneven breaths.
You brush a hand through his hair, gentle now, letting him come back down.
“You did good,” you murmur.
He lets out a shaky breath, like the last of his resistance leaving his body.
Wrecked.
Used.
Yours.
You let the silence stretch a moment longer, both of you still tangled together, bodies slowly settling, breaths syncing. Then, carefully, you shift back just enough to see his face.
You take it in your hands, fingers brushing the damp curls from his forehead, thumbs cradling his flushed cheeks. His eyes flutter open, heavy and glassy, but they lock onto yours.
Your voice is quiet, but firm.
“Don’t ever act like that at work again,” you say. “Especially not in the field.”
He doesn’t flinch—just swallows hard, guilt flickering across his expression.
“I need you to trust me,” you continue, steady now. “To let me do my job. I need to know we’ve got each other’s backs, not that you’re going to panic or shut me out because you’re scared.”
He nods slowly, barely more than a tilt of his head. “I know. I’m sorry.” His voice is wrecked and raw. “I just—I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”
You soften.
You lean in and kiss the tip of his nose. “That being said…” you murmur, “I get it. Why you pulled me back. Why you got so pissed.”
His eyes close for a moment. You feel the tension drain from him like an exhale.
“I’m sorry too,” you say softly. “I’ll be more careful. Less reckless.”
His arms tighten around you a little, present. Grounded.
You lean in and kiss him—slow this time. Soft. Full of everything you couldn’t say earlier. No anger. No power games. Just you and him and the mess you made trying to protect each other.
His lips move against yours with that same honesty, slow and sweet and worn thin. There’s no urgency now. Just truth.
When you pull back, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Are we okay?”
You nod, thumb brushing along his jaw. “We’re okay.”
summary: after spencer finally watches you perform for the first time, the quiet jealousy simmering beneath his buttoned-up exterior spills over. that is, until you remind him exactly who you take home at the end of the night.
includes: no use of y/n, smut (MDNI), established relationship, jealousy kink/spencer is a lil possessive, lap-sitting, teasing, tension, oral (m receiving), praise and a lil power play, reader wears makeup and heels, completely inaccurate layout of strip club dressing room lol
The bass still thrums through the floor even though your set is over. You feel electric, skin still warm from the lights, glitter catching the low amber glow of the club. You’d picked someone from the crowd—tall, smug, obviously rich. He tipped well and didn’t touch, which made him a decent prop for the night.
But it wasn’t him you’d been aware of.
It was the quiet man at the far end of the bar. Dressed like a fed trying to blend in, sipping club soda like it was poison, and looking at you like he’d just watched you tear his thesis in half.
You step into the dressing room and find Spencer exactly where you expected him: sitting on the little couch in the corner, back straight, hands folded in his lap like he’s trying really hard not to fidget. It’s the first time he’s stayed for a set. He’s dropped you off, picked you up, brought lattes and fresh-baked muffins, and read paperbacks while you got changed. Your friends know him by name—Dr. Reid, Boy Wonder, Book Club Boyfriend.
But he’s never seen you perform. Not until tonight.
You smile as you tug a robe over your shoulders and kick off your heels, catching his eyes in the mirror.
“Enjoy the show, Doctor?” you tease.
He shrugs.
That’s it.
No smile. No clever statistic about crowd engagement or stage presence. Just a shrug.
You turn around, eyeing him with a slow, amused raise of your brow.
You cross the room and lean against the makeup counter, arms folded. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m not,” he says too fast.
You lean in slightly, teasing. “You look like someone just kicked your puppy.”
“I don’t own a dog,” he mutters.
“Okay, cat, then. Or maybe a very emotionally attached ficus.”
That earns you a tiny smile, but it's gone in a second.
You study him a moment. The way his jaw is tense. The way his fingers curl tightly in his lap. He isn't just quiet.
He's bothered.
You let the silence hang for a moment before your lips curve into a wicked smirk.
“Spencer Reid…” You draw his full name out like silk, slow and teasing. “Are you jealous?”
His head jerks up, and his ears go bright red before the rest of his face catches up.
“What? No!”
You laugh softly, stepping closer. “That wasn’t just a no. That was a catastrophically bad no.”
Spencer makes a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan. “I’m not jealous. I just didn’t realize how... intimate the performance was.”
You cock your head. “Spence. You knew what I do.”
“I did. I do. I just—” he gestures vaguely with one hand, flustered—“seeing it is different.”
You step closer, slow, deliberate. His knees are almost brushing yours now, and he looks up at you like you’ve got him pinned in place with nothing but eye contact.
You plant your palms on the arms of the couch, bracketing him in, close enough that you can feel his breath catch.
“The flirting,” you murmur, eyes locked on his, “the dancing... that’s my job. You’ve always known that.”
His mouth parts like he’s going to protest again, but you don’t give him the chance.
“But you,” you say, leaning in just enough for your lips to ghost the shell of his ear, “you are the one whose bed I end up in.”
A flush spreads across his cheeks again, blooming down his neck like it’s trying to crawl under the collar of his shirt.
“You’re the one who gets me after the stage makeup’s off,” you whisper. “The one who sees me when it’s not a performance.”
Your fingers slide gently along the side of his throat, down to the top button of his dress shirt. His pulse is jumping under your touch.
He swallows, voice thin and careful. “I—know that.”
You smile.
“Good.”
You let your weight shift, straddling his lap slowly, your thighs settling on either side of his. His hands hover at your hips like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch. That hesitation, that soft awe in his expression—it drives you wild.
“You can touch me,” you say, just above a whisper. “No stage. No audience. Just us.”
His fingers grip your waist instantly, like he’s been holding back this entire time and finally let himself breathe.
“God,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you. “You were driving me crazy out there.”
You smile, triumphant, and roll your hips just slightly—enough to feel the tension already building beneath you. His breath hitches.
“That was barely even a five on the scale,” you tease, fingers running down his chest, undoing buttons as you go.
Spencer’s hands slide up your sides, trembling slightly. You run your fingers through his hair, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp just to feel him shiver.
“Do you like my makeup tonight?” you ask sweetly, tilting your head. Your lashes flutter, your lipstick’s still perfect—deep, sultry, the exact shade that drove Spencer crazy from across the club.
He blinks up at you, clearly struggling to form a full sentence with you in his lap.
“Y-Yeah,” he says, voice cracking just slightly. “You look… stunning.”
You grin.
“Good.” You lean in, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Because I want you to ruin it.”
You pull back just far enough to wink, and Spencer’s entire body tenses beneath you like he’s forgotten how breathing works.
You kiss him once—deep, dirty, and promising—and then you slide off his lap.
Down.
Knees to the floor, hands on his thighs.
Spencer’s eyes widen, following you like he can’t quite believe what you’re doing—what you’re about to do. You look up at him from beneath your lashes, a smirk playing on your lips.
“Sit back, Doctor,” you murmur, already working at his belt. “Let me help you forget all about that guy on stage.”
He’s still flushed, still trying to find words—his breath stutters, hands hovering midair, unsure if he should touch you or hold onto the couch for dear life. You reach out and guide one into your hair with a soft look and a squeeze of your fingers.
“You can touch,” you whisper. “I want you to.”
That’s all the permission he needs, fingers tangling in your hair, the other hand curling around the edge of the seat as you free him from his slacks.
He’s already hard and twitching in your hand, flushed. You hum in appreciation, licking your lips just to watch him break a little.
You start with a soft kiss to the tip.
Spencer exhales like he’s been punched in the chest.
You trail your tongue along the underside slowly, letting it drag. Then you take him into your mouth, inch by inch, watching the muscles in his thighs tense beneath your hands.
“F-Fuck,” he breathes. “You—God, you look...”
He can’t finish. You smile around him.
You hollow your cheeks, relaxing your throat, taking more of him in, and the choked sound he makes above you is downright sinful.
Your hands grip his thighs as you set a steady rhythm—deep, slow, controlled. Every time your nose brushes the soft skin of his abdomen, he groans your name. Every time your tongue swirls just right, his grip tightens in your hair.
Your mascara’s already starting to run. Your lipstick? Long gone—smeared all over him now.
You glance up at him again, and the look in his eyes wrecks you: glassy, reverent, like you’re both heaven and hell wrapped in one perfect disaster.
“I’m close,” he gasps, voice raw, hips twitching.
You take him deeper.
You moan around him.
And that’s it.
His whole body stutters. With a guttural moan, he comes, spilling into your mouth, and you take every drop, swallowing like it’s instinct. You hold him there gently, stroking him through it, until his body goes limp and he melts into the couch like he’s been unplugged from reality.
When you finally pull off, you lick your lips, then swipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb and suck it clean.
Your mascara is ruined. Your lipstick’s destroyed. You look like sin and satisfaction in glitter and sweat.
You crawl back into his lap, straddling him again, and kiss him slow and deep—letting him taste himself on your tongue.
When you pull away, he’s dazed and panting, flushed down to his chest.
You grin. “Still jealous?”
He laughs—barely—and drops his head back against the wall. “If that’s what jealousy gets me, I might fake it more often.”
You hum, lips brushing his throat. “Careful. I might start giving you shows just so I can wreck you after.”
Spencer cups your face with both hands, eyes soft and dark. “I’d let you.”
And judging by the way his hands are already trailing down your sides again, you're not done ruining things tonight.
summary: When a retired working dog named Roxy shows up on your porch one afternoon, you're not expecting to meet her too-handsome, very flustered owner. But Roxy has a plan—and she’s not taking no for an answer.
includes: no use of y/n, no physical description of reader, roxy is the ultimate matchmaker, soft/flirty banter, reader has so many plants, cozy porch vibes, basically just fluff
You first meet her on a Thursday afternoon–sleek, alert, and looking like she just leapt out of a working dog calendar.
She’s striking, with a coat like brushed smoke and amber eyes that seem to size you up in an instant. Her ears are perked, her posture proud, but there’s no tension in her stance. You’re in the middle of repotting a succulent on your porch when she just… walks up your steps like she lives here.
You take a cautious step forward, but her tail gives a friendly sweep across the wooden floorboards. Her tag reads:
Roxy.
And beneath it:
If lost, call LUKE.
You smile. “Hi, Roxy. You’re not lost, are you?”
She’s clearly well-trained, probably used to being in control of every situation. And yet here she is, letting you stroke behind her ears like you’ve known each other forever.
Roxy offers no comment. You grab a bowl, fill it with water from the sink, and set it down. She laps it up gratefully, tail swishing like you’ve passed some invisible vibe check.
That’s when you hear the footsteps–quick, heavy, and a little desperate.
“Roxy!” a man calls.
A moment later, he jogs into view. Tan skin, dark hair, a T-shirt that clings in all the right places, and a look of stunned relief when he sees the dog–and then you.
“Oh, thank you,” he says, resting his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “She got off leash at the end of our run and just booked it. I’ve been chasing her for three blocks.”
Roxy, smug little traitor, lays down at your feet like this has been her plan all along.
“Is she always this… independent?” you ask, amused. “She didn’t seem lost.”
“She never does,” he mutters. “She’s a retired working dog. Knows how to open doors, manipulate humans, play innocent...”
You glance down at her. “That tracks.”
He steps closer, scratching behind Roxy’s ears with one hand while still catching his breath.
“I'm Luke, by the way.”
You introduce yourself with a smile and reach out for a handshake. “Nice to meet you.”
Luke nods toward the empty water bowl. “Thanks for giving her something to drink. She acts like she’s dying if she’s not pampered every five minutes.”
“She earned it. She showed up like she pays rent around here.”
Luke chuckles, and it’s a low, soft sound that somehow makes Roxy wag her tail even harder. He watches you for a beat longer than necessary, then clears his throat.
“Well, we’ll get out of your hair. Sorry for the intrusion.”
“Not an intrusion,” you say. “She was great company. Smarter than most of my neighbors, honestly.”
Luke grins. “Yeah, she has that effect on people.”
You linger for a second, not quite ready for him to leave–but what are you supposed to say? Hey, want to come back tomorrow with your unnaturally perfect dog and distract me from my entire afternoon again?
Instead, you just nod. “Take care, Roxy. Try not to break any more speed records.”
Roxy huffs like she’s making no promises. Luke gives a half wave as they head off.
And that’s that.
Or so you think.
Roxy returns four days later.
Same time, same confident strut. You’re drinking an iced coffee and reading on your porch swing when you feel eyes on you. Look up. Boom. There she is–majestic, smug, and with a purposeful sway in her gait like she knows you’ve been thinking about her.
“Well, hello,” you say, setting your drink down.
She flops down at your feet like it’s a ritual. You scratch behind her ears again because, well, you’re weak and she knows it.
Luke shows up ten minutes later, walking at a much more casual pace this time.
“She made it all the way back again?” he asks, like it’s a shock.
You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t even hesitate. Came straight up the porch steps like she had GPS coordinates.”
Luke shrugs, trying to look innocent. “She’s got a good memory.”
“Uh-huh.”
Still, he stays longer this time–leaning against your porch railing, trading easy banter with you while Roxy naps at your feet like a satisfied cat. You learn he likes black coffee and jazz records and once taught Roxy how to open a fridge door on command (a decision he now regrets).
He learns you’re into old movies, bake when you’re anxious, and have a minor obsession with your houseplants.
“Oh, those?” you say, nodding toward the vibrant cluster of greenery on the porch. “Yeah, they all have names.”
Luke raises a brow, smiling. “They do?”
You point to a dramatic, purple-tinged succulent. “That’s Prince.”
He chuckles. “Of course it is.”
“The fern is Cyndi. As in Lauper. She droops when she doesn’t get enough sun, but she just wants to have fun.”
Luke snorts, and you grin wider, enjoying his reaction.
You move to a tall, finicky-looking fiddle-leaf fig. “That’s Bowie. He’s temperamental and needs constant attention, but he’s worth it.”
Luke shakes his head, clearly charmed. “This might be the most chaotic garden I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not chaotic,” you say. “It’s curated.”
Eventually, he glances at the setting sun and sighs. “Alright, we should go.”
You nod, already missing the warmth of the moment.
As he reaches the end of the path, you call after him. “Hey, Luke?”
He turns. “Yeah?”
“You sure you didn’t teach her to do this?”
He hesitates–just a beat–and then gives a laugh that’s almost a confession.
“No comment.”
Roxy comes back.
Not just once, but again. And again. And again.
Nearly every week now.
Sometimes in the mornings, when your porch still smells like fresh coffee and lemon dish soap. A few times, she shows up just after dark, scratching politely at your front door like some kind of four-legged door-to-door salesperson. Always calm, always certain, like she’s showing up for an appointment you never scheduled.
And every single time, Luke follows.
He never shows up right behind her–just enough of a delay to be believable. Sort of. But eventually, the pattern becomes too perfect to ignore.
The first time she appears in the rain, you open the door already smiling.
“Well, you’ve got commitment, I’ll give you that.”
She saunters in like she owns the place. You towel her off, she shakes dramatically in your kitchen, and then curls up like she’s done you a favor.
Luke arrives six minutes later, drenched, looking sheepish.
“She really likes you,” he says, water dripping from his hair, shirt plastered to his chest in a way that you definitely try not to stare at.
“Mmhmm,” you hum, handing him a towel. “Pretty sure she likes my couch.”
He grins. “Might be both.”
The next time, it’s a weekend. Early. You’re in pajamas and mismatched socks, nursing a mug of tea and a stubborn case of writer’s block, when a familiar shape appears at the glass door.
You raise your eyebrows. “You again?”
Roxy wags her tail and paws the door.
This time, you don’t wait. You just open it and let her in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Luke shows up twenty minutes later, holding a peace offering: a potted ivy.
“This is Tina,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You blink at the plant, then at him. “Tina.”
He shifts his weight a little, suddenly self-conscious. “Like… Tina Turner.”
You raise an eyebrow. “No, I got that. I’m just…” You trail off, studying him. “You remembered.”
Luke rubs the back of his neck, offering a lopsided smile. “Hard to forget Prince, Cyndi, and Bowie. Honestly, I’ve been wondering when Stevie or Madonna might make an appearance.”
You take the ivy from him, still a little stunned. “Well. Tina’s a solid addition.”
Roxy lets out a short, approving bark, like she agrees.
You glance down at her. “Did you help him pick it out?”
Luke looks at her too. “She was more interested in the automatic doors at the garden center, but I like to think she was emotionally supportive.”
You laugh, setting Tina on the edge of the porch with the others. She already looks at home.
You crouch to arrange Tina beside Cyndi, giving her leaves a gentle fluff like she’s auditioning for the role of “ivy most likely to survive your inconsistent watering schedule.” Luke watches, arms folded loosely across his chest, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
“She’s already judging the others,” you say. “Total diva energy.”
“Well, she is named after Tina Turner. I expect nothing less.”
You stand and glance over your shoulder at him. “I’m guessing this means I passed Roxy’s evaluation? Couch privileges, plant humor, all that?”
Luke nods solemnly. “Oh yeah. She’s selective. You’re in rare company.”
Roxy rolls over onto her back like she couldn't care less.
You tilt your head, playful. “So, what’s your deal, then? Do you come with a name tag and a number in case you get lost?”
He laughs. “No, but clearly I need one. Might help speed things up.”
You step closer, close enough to see the way the light catches the faint gold flecks in his eyes.
“Speed what up?” you ask, feigning innocence.
His smile turns just a little crooked, just a little nervous. “Maybe... asking if you want to grab a drink sometime. Or dinner. With someone who is technically not the dog.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Technically?”
“I make no promises. Roxy’s a terrible chaperone.”
You glance down. Roxy’s watching the exchange with what could only be described as smug encouragement.
“I could be convinced,” you say, slow and teasing.
Luke brightens–relief, hope, the tiniest dash of oh-thank-god all dancing across his face.
He reaches into his back pocket. “Let me give you my number–”
But you hold up a hand, grinning. “Don’t worry about it. Already got it from your wingwoman.”
His brows draw together. “My–?”
You point to Roxy’s tag.
Luke looks down. Realizes. Laughs–big and unguarded this time. “Wow. I’ve been outmaneuvered by my own dog.”
“She’s good,” you say. “Strategic.”
“She’s ruthless,” he replies. “I never stood a chance.”
You nudge him gently as you step back toward the porch. “You’ll get the text.”
He lingers for a beat, eyes soft, then gestures toward Roxy. “Alright, c’mon, matchmaker. Let’s get home.”
Roxy gets up with a dramatic sigh like she’s been burdened with everyone's emotional labor.
As they turn to leave, Luke glances back over his shoulder. “Hey,” he calls. “If this works out…”
You lift your chin. “Yeah?”
He smiles. “We’re naming the next plant Cher.”
You laugh, the sound rising easily into the warm air. “Deal.”
And just like that, Roxy trots down the steps like a queen in retirement, Luke trailing behind with the swagger of someone who finally got the answer he was hoping for.
May I present my contribution to the Arcane fandom (is it still active?). Jayce confessing his love to Viktor- heavily inspired by the fact that I started reading Pride and Prejudice and watching Bridgerton around the same time.
301 word blurb that I'm heavily considering expanding in the future.
“You are everything that I could ever want, everyone that I have ever loved, and I cannot lose you. I could not bare to part with you, now or ever, and I do not care for the fact that we can never truly be together. In fact, I spit in the face of this truth- refuse to believe in it's barbed tongue. For how can we be split apart? How could we only ever function as plain friends after this- after everything that we have been through?
How can I live in the way that you have suggested- how could I function being forced to stare at the man I love, pretending to be a Godly fellow when you are the only one that I ever want to kneel before? Tell me- I am begging you, please tell me how this could be- how I could live such a life, so devoid of value and worth and love?
Because I love you Viktor, and I'll never stop loving you, and it is woefully unfair of you to expect me to pretend as if I have even been given the chance to act as if you are not the singular most important person in my life, as if you are not the only creature in this earthly existence that has power over my heart.
It is you, and you alone- now, then, and always. How can you stand in front of me- in such a selfish manner as to ask me to forget you? As if I have the choice? As if I could continue to live without you in my heart? And how could I, when you are the sole thing that keeps my heart beating?
It is you. It has always been you. How could it have been anyone else?”
summary: emily comes over after a rough day. You've wanted this—wanted her—for so long, but something's not right.
includes: takes place during/after the events of 3x17, no use on y/n, reader is part of the team, angst, emotional hurt, smut (MDNI), oral, fingering, complicated relationship dynamics, one-sided feelings (x2??), heartbreak themes, Wilifer happens and we're sad
i promise i know how to write things that aren't sad lol
The sun is starting to set through the tinted glass of the Miami precinct lobby, painting the tile floors in soft orange hues. The latest case has finally wrapped–tired eyes, typed reports, handshakes, closure. You’re walking toward the exit with Reid and Morgan, gear bags slung over your shoulders, the weight of the case beginning to lift, if only a little.
That’s when you see her.
Emily is standing just inside the entrance, near the front desk. Her hands are in the pockets of her black work pants, her stance relaxed–but her expression is hard to read. Blank, maybe. Or distracted. Her head tilts slightly to the side, eyes fixed ahead.
You follow her gaze.
JJ and Will are kissing.
Not the quick, professional kind either. It’s full of feeling–hands, closeness, history. You slow your pace without realizing. They’re just inside the lobby, half-oblivious to the rest of the team as the world outside begins to dim.
"Well, finally," Morgan mutters beside you, lips quirking in a grin.
Emily’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp and clipped. "Thought she was never going to admit it."
She turns on her heel before anyone can respond and heads for the doors.
Reid chuckles awkwardly. "Yeah, what’s it been–like a year?"
You watch Emily walk away, her shoulders just a little too stiff. Something about her expression didn’t quite match the sarcasm in her voice.
"Yeah, something like that," Morgan says as the three of you follow behind.
But your eyes linger a little longer on the door Emily disappeared through.
The jet is silent most of the flight home.
The others sleep, or fake it. Reid’s curled into a window, Morgan’s hoodie pulled up over his eyes. JJ sits near the back, earbuds in, her head leaned against the window.
Emily says nothing the entire flight.
She’s got her laptop open but untouched, the blue glow illuminating her face while she stares at the screen. Her arms are crossed tight over her chest. Every now and then, her foot bounces. She looks out the window. She shifts in her seat.
You don’t say anything, but you notice it all.
Even after all this time with the team, Emily isn’t easy to read–but tonight, she isn’t trying to hide it. Not very well, at least.
You wonder if anyone else noticed the way she left the precinct.
By the time the plane touches down, it’s past midnight. Everyone’s tired, worn thin, the silence between conversations filled only by the mechanical whine of the hangar.
Emily is first off the jet. She's already halfway to the cars when you come down the stairs.
You hesitate for a second, then jog to catch up.
"Hey," you say, falling into step beside her. "You okay?”
She doesn’t look at you right away. Just keeps walking, hands in her pockets again.
"Yeah," she says eventually, softly. "Fine. Just tired."
The words sound automatic. But her voice isn’t sharp. It’s… softer. Frayed, maybe. Like she doesn’t have the energy to lie well tonight.
The others are catching up behind you–duffel bags, car doors opening, tired laughter. Emily slows just slightly, then turns to you.
"Wanna come over?" she asks, quiet. Her eyes meet yours for the first time since Miami. "Or... I could come to yours. I just don’t feel like being alone right now."
You blink, surprised at the invitation–but you don’t hesitate.
"Come to mine," you say. "It’s closer.”
The ride back to your apartment is mostly silent. The kind of silence that hums beneath the skin.
Emily doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t sigh. But something about her feels sharp–like a rubber band pulled too tight. She stares out the window, arms crossed, face unreadable in the wash of streetlights. You glance over at her once, and her jaw is clenched.
She seems angry. But you can’t tell why.
You’re used to Emily being composed–dry wit, level voice, that calm edge she wears like armor. This version of her–quiet, simmering, brittle–is new.
You want to ask what’s wrong. But you don’t know how to word it without sounding like you're prying. So you stay quiet.
When you pull up to your place and unlock the door, she follows you inside wordlessly, shedding her coat, her boots. She moves with purpose, not hesitation.
You’re just turning to ask if she wants something to drink when she suddenly grabs you by the hips and kisses you.
It’s not soft.
It’s not hesitant.
It’s urgent, all teeth and breath and hands–her mouth finds yours like she’s been starving. Your back hits the wall before you register it, her hands already sliding under the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer.
It knocks the air from your lungs. But not in a bad way.
You gasp into her kiss, fingers gripping her shoulders. You’ve dreamed of this–of Emily choosing you, needing you. Wanting you like this.
You kiss her back hungrily, dizzy with disbelief, like if you stop to think, she might disappear.
She pushes you toward your bedroom without a word, never breaking contact. Her mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, her hands sure and fast, like she knows exactly where she wants to be.
Your heart is racing. Your skin is on fire under her touch. She's never looked at you like this before. Like she really sees you. Like she really needs you.
She guides you backward, her hands on your hips, steering you until the backs of your knees hit the mattress.
“Sit,” she murmurs, low and firm.
You do.
Her hands move fast–her fingers working at the buttons of your shirt with a kind of reckless urgency. One pops off and hits the floor. Neither of you cares.
You think about stopping her–just long enough to ask, Are you sure? But then she leans in, pushes the shirt from your shoulders, and presses her lips to your collarbone like she’s been waiting years to do it.
Your breath catches.
Her hands trail down your back, pulling you toward her. She keeps undressing you, your bra unclasped, your pants undone in one fluid motion. She’s not rough, but she’s not exactly gentle, either. It’s all purpose. No hesitation. The kiss deepens–hotter, hungrier. Her teeth graze your bottom lip and your hands move on instinct, sliding up under the hem of her white blouse, feeling the warmth of her skin.
She lets you.
She pulls back just long enough to yank the blouse over her head and toss it aside. Her bra is black lace–predictably Emily. Elegant and sharp all at once.
You try not to stare.
But she’s breathtaking.
And she’s kissing you again, harder now, guiding you back until you’re lying flat, her weight above you, anchoring you to the bed. One knee presses between your thighs and you can feel how warm she is, how close.
You arch up toward her without thinking.
She exhales against your neck. It sounds like a shiver.
You’ve imagined her like this before–pressed above you, breathless, needing. But nothing in your imagination ever got close to this. The weight of her, the smell of her perfume still clinging faintly to her skin.
You can barely keep up with her.
Emily kisses you like she’s drowning and you’re the only breath left in the world. Her mouth is hot and demanding, tongue sliding against yours, her hand already slipping between your thighs like she needs to know exactly how wet you are for her.
And you are. God, you are.
She groans into your mouth when her fingers find you soaked through your underwear. She drags her hand down again, slow, deliberately pressing her palm there, rubbing small firm circles that make your hips buck.
“Jesus,” you gasp, clutching at her arms. “Emily–”
She pushes your underwear down your legs and throws them somewhere across the room. You don’t see where. You don’t care.
And then–when you’re naked, half-dazed–she slows.
She moves down, on her knees in front of you, palms trailing up your thighs, thumbs brushing your hips.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, gaze dark and steady. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Your breath catches.
She leans in, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Then higher.
“I’ve thought about this,” she says, voice rough. “Thought about how you’d taste. How you’d sound.”
You whimper, hips lifting slightly, chasing her mouth.
She chuckles low in her throat, holding you down with one hand.
“Patient,” she says, her lips brushing your skin. “I want to enjoy this.”
Then her mouth is on you.
She licks you slowly at first, savoring, her tongue parting you with practiced ease. She hums like you’re exactly what she needed—exactly what she’s been craving.
You gasp, your fingers threading into her dark hair.
“God–Emily–”
“Mmm,” she murmurs, glancing up at you. “That’s it. Just like that.”
She keeps eye contact as she drags her tongue over your clit, again and again, unrelenting. You’re already shaking. Already falling.
“You’re doing so good for me,” she says, her voice warm now–almost tender. “So sweet. So perfect.”
Your hips jerk against her mouth, and she groans, gripping your thighs harder to hold you still.
“Let me hear you,” she whispers. “Don’t hold back.”
You don’t.
You cry out as her fingers slide inside you—two at once, deep and sure. She curves them just right, like she already knows where to touch. Like she’s memorized you without ever having had the chance.
“Emily–fuck–please–”
“You’re so wet,” she says, breath catching. “So tight around my fingers. You feel like heaven.”
You fall apart.
It crashes into you like a wave–heat and pressure and light exploding behind your eyes. You sob her name, your whole body tensing, clenching around her fingers as she works you through it, mouth still soft on your clit, not stopping until you’re gasping, trembling, overstimulated.
Emily shimmies her pants down her legs and kicks them away, revealing skin you’ve imagined too many times. She settles against you, her thighs pressing into your hips, her bare skin flush with yours. You can feel how warm she is–fever-warm, pulse-quickening–as she leans in and kisses you again
“You’re incredible,” she whispers against your mouth. “I knew you would be.”
You reach for her, dizzy with her praise, the world blurring around the edges. You want more–of her, of this, of the way she makes you feel seen.
Your hands slide up the curve of her spine, fingers spread wide, savoring every inch of contact. Her muscles shift beneath your palms. You trace the soft dip of her lower back, then up again, until your fingers find the clasp of her bra.
You undo it slowly. Her weight shifts against you as it comes undone, the straps slipping down her shoulders. You guide the fabric off her arms, watching her chest rise and fall with uneven breaths. She doesn't cover herself. She doesn’t flinch. She just looks at you, her lips parted slightly, waiting.
You pause, just long enough for her to nod–barely a motion, but enough.
You move carefully.
Your fingertips trail down her sides, mapping out the ridge of her ribs, the soft give of her waist, until your hands rise again–cupping her breasts, warm and full beneath your palms. Your thumbs brush over her nipples in slow, gentle circles, and her breath catches audibly.
She leans into your touch with a low sound in her throat–not a moan, exactly. More like frustration and need tangled together.
“God,” she murmurs, her eyes slipping shut. “You’re so good at that…”
You feel heat bloom in your chest at the words.
Emboldened, you lean forward, pressing your mouth to the skin just beneath her collarbone, then lower, until your lips close around one of her nipples. She gasps, her hips rocking forward instinctively. Your tongue circles her slowly, then again–firmer this time–and her fingers tangle in your hair, holding you there.
You hum against her skin, and she lets out a quiet curse, her thighs tightening around your waist.
“You’re driving me crazy,” she breathes.
You kiss back up her chest, your hands still teasing, still learning. One palm slides down her stomach–slow, slow, not rushing–until your fingers slip between her legs, just beneath where her thigh presses into your hip.
You feel her wetness before anything else. Hot, slick, unmistakable.
She hisses softly when you stroke her there–just once, exploratory–and grinds her hips harder against your hand.
“That’s it,” she whispers. “Right there.”
You press into her more firmly, rubbing slow circles over her clit while she moves against you, using your thigh for leverage. She’s panting now, her mouth on your neck, biting down just enough to leave warmth in her wake.
Her pleasure is unfolding above you, and you want to memorize all of it–the way her breath stutters when you move your fingers just right, the way her nails dig into your shoulders, the tremble in her thighs.
She’s close. You can feel it in the rhythm of her hips, in the way she mutters a string of curses between gritted teeth.
You kiss her again–mouth open, tasting her moans–and slide your fingers lower, easing them inside her. She’s tight, hot, and her whole body arches into yours with a strangled gasp.
You move slowly at first, giving her time to adjust, your thumb still circling her clit. But she meets your rhythm, pushing back against you, chasing the friction with reckless need.
Her forehead presses against yours, eyes squeezed closed, her breath hot and uneven. She’s falling apart in your arms–because of your hands, your mouth, your body. You feel powerful and terrified all at once.
And that’s when she says it.
Soft. Barely audible.
“JJ…”
The name lands in the air like a slap.
You go still beneath her. Your hand–the one still inside her–stops moving. Your heart stutters violently in your chest, confusion crashing into realization.
Emily freezes. Her breath catches, her whole body tense against yours.
And then she pulls back just enough to see your face–and you see it hit her too.
Her eyes go wide. “Shit,” she breathes. “Shit, I didn’t–I wasn’t–”
You pull your hand away gently, sitting up just slightly. You can feel everything rushing in now–cold against your flushed skin, clarity where there was only heat.
Emily stares at you like she’s already ruined everything.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” she rushes, stumbling over the words. “I wasn’t thinking– I’m sorry, I–”
“It’s fine.” The words fall out of your mouth before you’ve thought them through.
Emily blinks. Her mouth opens, like she’s going to argue, but you force a shaky smile–and that stops her.
“We don't need to talk about it,” you say, quieter now. You're not sure which one of you needs to not talk about it more.
She watches you, uncertain. Her hands are still on your hips, but they’re trembling a little.
You lean up to kiss her–soft, slow–because you don’t know what else to do. Because you’re not ready to let go of her warmth, even if it’s borrowed.
She kisses you back.
She doesn’t say JJ's name again.
But you can feel it between you like a bruise neither of you wants to touch.
After, Emily lies beside you, still and silent, her breath gradually evening out. You don’t speak to each other.
You curl up, facing away from her. The sheets are twisted around your legs, your skin cooling fast.
You close your eyes, pretending sleep will come easily.
At some point–maybe an hour later, maybe two–you hear her shift behind you. The mattress creaks as she sits up. There’s the soft shuffle of fabric, the zipper of her jeans, the quiet click of her belt. She’s getting dressed carefully, quietly, like she doesn’t want to wake you.
You keep your breathing even, stay still.
Keys jingle faintly in her hand. Then silence.
She pauses at the door. You hear her inhale. Hold it. Then:
old enough to remember when smut was called ‘lemons’ but young enough that i had absolutely no business knowing that smut was called ‘lemons’ at the time
pixelskylines
germansingergirl
2087
prguitarman
titsay
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