ooohhhh sleeper build Spencer Reid you are calling to me oooohhhhh sleeper build Spencer Reid who accidentally manhandles reader and it turns her on oooooohhhhh
the five times your daughter made spencer feel part of the family, and the one time she officially invited him in.
word count- 6.4k
content warnings- mom!reader with a five year old daughter - Lily, fluff, no mention of bio dad. i love step-dad spencer he will be returning :p
1- The Bedtime Story
The rain against the windowpanes in your house had settled into a soft, steady hum. The exact kind of white noise that usually lulled five-year-old Lily to sleep within ten minutes. Tonight, though, the bedroom was bathed in the amber glow of a small nightlight, and Lily was sitting bolt upright in the middle of the mattress, clutching her faded stuffed rabbit by one long, worn ear.
You were leaning against the doorframe, standard shift weariness settling deep into your bones, when Spencer emerged from the hallway. He had already swapped his sweater for a navy t-shirt, his hair slightly damp from a quick post-case shower. The faint, clean scent of cedarwood and lavender soap drifted with him.
"She’s refusing to settle?" Spencer whispered, stopping just beside you. His hand found the small of your back, his thumb rubbing gentle, reassuring circles through your shirt.
"She says the blanket is 'too loud,'" you murmured, smiling softly against his shoulder. "And that the story I picked wasn't long enough."
Before you could push yourself up to try round two, a tiny voice piped up from the bed.
"Spencer?"
Spencer paused, blinking through his wire-rimmed glasses. He stepped fully into the room, his long frame folding naturally as he crouched down by the edge of the mattress to bring himself eye-level with her. "Yes, Lily?"
Lily kicked her feet under the duvet, the fabric rustling. She looked from you to him, her eyes wide and full of that solemn, deliberate gravity unique to five-year-olds making a big decision.
"Can you read the book?" She held out a battered, hardcover copy of Where the Wild Things Are. "Mommy’s voice is tired. And you know all the big words."
A sudden, complete stillness washed over Spencer. For a man who could recall the exact casualty stats of a century-old train derailment without blinking, he looked entirely caught off guard. His breath caught, a tiny, sharp intake that made his chest expand, and his fingers twitched against his knee.
You watched his throat work as he swallowed, his hazel eyes darting to you for permission, for reassurance, for a map to navigate a moment he clearly hadn't prepared a script for. You gave him a warm nod, your heart swelling so fast it felt almost tight in your chest.
"I... I would be honored," Spencer said, his voice dropping, soft and careful, as if handling antique parchment.
He sat down on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight, and Lily immediately scooted closer, tucking her small shoulder directly against his hip. Spencer froze for a fraction of a second, a habitual physical restraint borne from years of feeling awkward or out of place, before his posture visibly softened. He adjusted his legs, settling into the space beside her as if he’d been doing it forever.
He took the book gently from her hands. His long fingers brushed the worn corners of the cover.
"Did you know," Spencer began, his voice taking on that low, rhythmic cadence you loved so much, "that Maurice Sendak wrote this story in 1963, and he originally wanted it to be about wild horses, but he realized he couldn't draw horses very well?"
Lily tilted her head up, looking at him with absolute fascination. "He couldn't?"
"Not very well at all," Spencer said, a faint, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So he drew 'Things' instead. Which I think turned out much better."
He opened the first page.
You watched from the doorway as Spencer began to read. He didn't rush. Usually, when Spencer spoke about something he loved, the words tumbled out like water over a dam. But tonight, he held back the current. He measured every syllable, letting the sentence cadence rest naturally in the quiet room.
When he reached the line about the forest growing in Max's room, Lily leaned her head entirely against Spencer's arm. Spencer shifted slightly, lifting his elbow just enough so she could nestle comfortably against his side. The contrast was striking, his tall, slender frame clad in dark cotton, and her tiny form wrapped in pink pajamas, completely at ease in his space.
He's terrified of breaking something so delicate, you thought, watching the way he carefully turned the page with just his fingertips, and yet he's the safest place in the world for her right now.
His inner monologue, you knew, was likely a whirlwind, calculating whether his pitch was soothing enough, whether he was sitting at the correct angle, whether he was doing this "right." But on the outside, there was only warmth. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythms. The faint rustle of turning paper, the low murmur of his voice, and the soft sound of rain formed a perfect, unbroken sanctuary.
By the time Max was sent to bed without any supper, Lily’s eyelids were fluttering shut. Her breathing slowed, deepening into the easy, heavy rhythm of sleep. Her hand loosened its grip on the rabbit, her fingers resting lightly on Spencer’s knee.
Spencer kept reading, lowering his voice to a gentle, velvet whisper. He turned the last page, pausing on the final sentence.
He closed the book with a quiet thud. For several long moments, Spencer didn't move. He sat in the dim light, looking down at the little girl fast asleep against his side. The line of his shoulders eased completely, the lingering tension from his work week melting away in the simple reality of the bedroom.
He slowly, meticulously slid his arm out from under her, tucking the duvet up to her chin with practiced gentleness. He kissed the top of her head, a feather-light touch against her soft hair, before standing up.
He walked toward you on quiet feet, stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door until it clicked softly into place. In the faint light of the hall, you could see the faint flush on his cheekbones, the slight shine in his eyes behind his glasses.
"How did I do?" he asked softly, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit he couldn't quite shake. "I wasn't sure if the trivia about Sendak was too dry for a five-year-old, or if my pacing-"
You reached up, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down into a deep, lingering kiss. Spencer let out a soft sigh, his long arms wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. When you pulled back, his chin rested on top of your head as he held you, his heart beating a strong, steady rhythm against your chest.
"You were perfect, Spencer," you whispered against his shirt. "She loves you."
Spencer squeezed you a little tighter, buried his face in the crook of your neck, and breathed in deeply.
"I love her too," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I really do."
2- The Pigtails.
The scent of toasted sourdough and strong black coffee filled the kitchen, cut through by the sharp, crisp air drifting through the half-open window. It was 7:15 AM on a Tuesday, a race against the clock that you were currently winning, if only by a hair.
You were standing at the stove, turning over a couple of eggs in the skillet, while Spencer sat at the small wooden table in his crisp white dress shirt and loosened tie, mid-bite into a piece of toast while scanning a research paper on linguistic patterns.
Lily sat next to him, swinging her legs rhythmically so her light-up sneakers clacked against the chair rungs. A bowl of oat cereal sat before her, though she was currently more focused on dissecting a strawberry.
Suddenly, her legs stopped swinging. She wiped her hands on her napkin with great ceremony, picked up a pink plastic hairbrush and two purple elastic bands from the center of the table, and shoved them directly over Spencer’s paper.
"Spencer," she said, her voice carrying the absolute authority only a five-year-old could muster. "I need piggies today. For school."
Spencer paused mid-chew. He looked down at the bright pink brush resting on top of his academic journal, then at the purple bands, and finally up at Lily, his hazel eyes wide.
"Piggies?" he repeated, the word sounding entirely foreign on his tongue.
"Pigtails," you clarified over your shoulder, turning off the burner. You leaned against the counter, spatula still in hand, watching his brain instantly go into overdrive. "Two equal sections of hair tied on either side of the head."
"Right. Pigtails," Spencer murmured. He swallowed his toast, his hands hovering uncertainly over the brush. "Lily, usually your mom does your hair. I'm... well, my own hair isn't particularly complex to style, and I lack experience with structural tension in human hair-"
"Mommy's busy making eggs," Lily interrupted, leaning forward and placing a small, sticky hand over his thumb. "And you have long hands. You can do it."
Long hands. Spencer stared at his own fingers, long and slender, before looking back at her solemn face.
You saw the exact moment his anxiety melted into sheer, focused determination. A faint flush crept up his neck, but he nodded once, solemn as taking an oath. "Okay. Okay, piggies. We can do this."
He carefully set his paper aside, and shifted his chair closer to hers. Lily spun around on her seat so her back was facing him, quietly going back to her strawberries as if she hadn't just handed him a high-stakes engineering puzzle.
Spencer took the pink brush. His movements were ridiculously gentle, almost comical for a man who spent his days handling crime scene evidence. He held a section of her fine, soft hair between his fingers like it was spun glass, terrified that a single wrong tug would hurt her.
"If I pull too hard, you have to tell me immediately, okay?" he whispered, his voice dropping into that earnest register. "The pain threshold for scalp nerves varies, but-"
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped Spencer’s chest. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though his concentration remained absolute.
You stood by the counter, heart aching in the sweetest way possible as you watched him work. Spencer had his tongue tucked subtly into the corner of his lip, a habit he only fell into when he was intensely focused. He carefully parted her hair down the middle using the edge of the brush, his eyes squinting behind his lenses to ensure the seam was straight.
"According to basic geometry, symmetry is key here," he muttered to himself, his long fingers carefully gathering the left side into a neat bundle. "Positioning needs to be equidistant from the sagittal plane..."
He wrapped the first purple band around the hair. His fingers were large compared to the tiny elastic, and he fumbled slightly on the third twist, his brow furrowing. But he didn't give up. He adjusted his grip, secured the twist, and gently smoothed down the stray flyaways with the palm of his hand.
When he finished the second side, he leaned back, his hands resting on his knees, examining his work with the intense scrutiny of an art restorer.
One pigtail sat slightly higher than the other, giving her a lopsided, utterly adorable look.
"All done," Spencer said softly, sounding equal parts exhausted and triumphant.
Lily turned around, reaching up to pat the two low bunches bobbing on either side of her head. A huge, toothy grin spread across her face. "I love it! Look, Mommy!"
"It looks amazing, sweetie," you said, walking over to place a plate of eggs in the center of the table. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Spencer’s cheek. He smelled like cedar, toasted bread, and the sweet strawberry scent of Lily’s hair detangler.
Spencer looked up at you, his hazel eyes glowing with an unfiltered pride that made your breath catch.
"The symmetry was slightly off by approximately three centimeters," he admitted in a quiet whisper as Lily reached for her fork, entirely oblivious and happily shaking her head to watch the pigtails swing. "I think the elasticity of the rubber band threw off my tension control."
"Spencer," you murmured, reaching out to smooth the collar of his dress shirt, your thumb resting against his jawline. "She loves it because you did it."
Spencer looked from you to the little girl happily munching her breakfast, a soft, beautiful smile slowly washing over his face. He reached out under the table, his long fingers finding yours and lacing tightly through them, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
"I'll... practice," he said softly, his voice full of a steady warmth. "I'll get the symmetry right next time."
–
3 - The Drawing.
The late afternoon sun was slipping down behind the buildings outside, casting long, honey-colored rays across the living room rug. Spencer was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a chaotic spread of case files, thick medical journals, and a scattered pile of construction paper.
He was supposed to be reading a report on geographic profiling, but his focus kept drifting to the tiny artist sitting two feet away from him.
Lily was lying on her stomach, her light-up sneakers kicking rhythmically in the air behind her, deeply immersed in a brand-new box of sixty-four crayons. The nostalgic scent of wax and pencil shavings hung in the warm air, mixed with the rich aroma of garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove where you were making dinner.
"Spencer," Lily piped up without looking away from her page, applying so much pressure to a bright blue crayon that the paper beneath it squeaked. "What color is your brain?"
Spencer blinked, his long fingers pausing mid-page-turn. "My brain? Well, biologically speaking, living brain tissue is actually a pinkish-gray color due to the blood flow, though people often refer to it as 'gray matter' because-"
"I don't have pinkish-gray," Lily interrupted flatly, completely unbothered by the anatomical breakdown. She held up a crayon. "I'm using lavender."
"Lavender is an excellent choice for a brain," Spencer agreed softly, a tiny, affectionate smile tugging at his lips.
You leaned against the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand, watching the two of them. The contrast was lovely, Spencer in his vest and rolled-up sleeves, his long legs folded awkwardly to accommodate a five-year-old’s workspace, and Lily, entirely in her element, tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth in concentration.
For the next twenty minutes, the only sounds were the bubbling of the sauce, the rustle of Spencer’s case files, and the scribbling of wax against paper.
Finally, Lily let out a loud, dramatic sigh of satisfaction. She sat back on her heels, wiped her dusty hands on her leggings, and picked up the sheet of thick white paper.
"It's done," she announced. She didn't offer it to you first. She turned directly to Spencer, extending the paper toward him with two hands. "Look."
Spencer reached out, his movements instinctively careful, catching the paper by its edges so he wouldn't smudge her work. As his hazel eyes swept over the page, his whole body went entirely still. On the left was a figure with long hair, wearing a bright green triangle dress, clearly you. On the right was a smaller figure with two purple circles on either side of her head,holding a giant pink heart. And standing in the middle, holding hands with both of them, was a tall, gangly figure drawn in brown crayon. The figure had brown stick-leg trousers, and a massive purple cloud drawn directly inside its head.
At the bottom, spelled out in wobbly, backwards-D kindergarten handwriting, it read: MOMMY, ME, AND SPENSER.
A breath caught in Spencer’s throat. His eyes stayed locked on the paper, tracking over the shaky brown lines, the shared grip between the stick-figure hands, the lavender brain. His chest rose and fell in a slow, uneven hitch. To a man who spent his life analyzing human behavior, reading between lines, and looking for where he fit into a world that often felt too fast and too loud, the simple math of the drawing was staggering. He wasn't an addition to the margins. He wasn't drawn off to the side, or standing in the background. She had put him right in the center.
"That's... that's us," Spencer whispered. His voice was unusually thin, cracking slightly on the second word.
"Yeah," Lily said, leaning her chin on his knee and looking up at him as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "That's Mommy, that's me, and that's you. You're holding my hand so I don't fall in the mud, and I drew your brain lavender because you know a lot of things."
Spencer swallowed hard. You could see the subtle flush rising from his collar, painting his cheekbones, the faint shimmer of unshed tears in his eyes. His long, slender fingers trembled just a fraction against the edges of the paper. He looked up at you in the doorway, a helpless, overwhelmed expression in his eyes, a look that silently asked, How did I get to be this lucky?
You smiled softly, setting your spoon down and walking over to kneel beside them on the rug. You rested your chin on Spencer’s shoulder, your hand coming up to rest gently against the back of his neck, feeling the warm, steady pulse there.
"It's beautiful, Lil," you murmured, brushing a thumb over Spencer’s warm jawline. "Where should we put it?"
"On the fridge," Lily declared, already scrambling up to search for the strongest magnet. "At the very top so everyone can see it."
Spencer didn't move for a long moment, his eyes lingering on the three little stick figures standing together in a row. He slowly brought the paper up, pressing his lips gently to the top corner of the page in a silent, reverent gesture before handing it to Lily.
As she ran off toward the kitchen, Spencer turned his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His arms came around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest, his long frame sinking into you with a deep exhale.
"She drew me with you guys," he breathed into your skin, his voice thick with emotion, his heart pounding a steady, beautiful rhythm against your ribs. "Can I have it? I want to frame it and put it on my desk."
"Of course, Spence,” you whispered back, lacing your fingers into his soft hair.
–
4- The Cake.
The kitchen counter looked like a flour bomb had gone off in a bakery. It was 10:00 PM on the eve of Lily’s sixth birthday, and Spencer was standing in the center of the disaster, wearing an apron that was too short for him, with a smear of pink buttercream across his left cheekbone. On a wire cooling rack in front of him sat the cake.
When Lily had asked him three days ago, holding his hand in the grocery store aisle and looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, if he could bake her birthday cake instead of buying one, Spencer had immediately plunged into research. He had read four different baking books, calculated the exact thermal conductivity of our oven, and cross-referenced flour-to-liquid ratios for optimal crumb structure.
He had not, however, factored in the reality of cake assembly. The result was... a visual marvel, though not in the way he had intended. The two layers had slumped to the left, giving the cake a distinct six-degree tilt. The pink frosting, which Spencer had meticulously colored, was uneven, partially melted on the right side because he’d gotten impatient and frosted the bottom layer before it had fully cooled. To compensate, he had tried to construct a stabilizing buttress out of rainbow sprinkles and white chocolate chips, which only made it look like a charmingly chaotic pastel meteor.
"It’s structural failure," Spencer muttered for the fourth time, pacing the length of the kitchen rug, his hands flying in frantic, sharp gestures. "The specific gravity of the buttercream exceeded the load-bearing capacity of the sponge. I should have leveled the crowns with a serrated knife. Why didn't I level the crowns?"
You leaned against the doorframe, a mug of warm tea between your hands, trying desperately to keep your laughter from bubbling over. "Spencer, honey, it’s fine-"
"It’s not fine!" he squeaked softly, stopping in front of the counter and staring at the leaning tower of sugar with horror in his eyes. "It’s asymmetrical. It’s slumping. She’s six tomorrow, and six is a very important age for spatial perception! What if she looks at it and feels disappointed? What if she wanted a smooth, professional cake like the ones from the bakery?"
He ran a flour-covered hand through his hair, leaving a white streak across his forehead. He looked so genuinely panicked, his brain spinning out in a hundred catastrophic directions, terrified of failing the little girl who had stolen his entire heart.
You set your mug down, stepped up behind him, and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back. "Spencer. Look at me."
He turned in your arms, looking down at you with a mix of exhaustion and deep anxiety.
"You baked a cake from scratch after a twelve-hour shift," you whispered, reaching up to gently wipe the flour off his brow. "You stayed up until ten o'clock making pink frosting because she said pink was her favorite color this week. It’s perfect."
"It's leaning," he insisted, though his posture softened slightly as he rested his forehead against yours, letting out a long, shuddering breath. "I just... I want her day to be perfect."
The next morning, the breakfast table was decorated with streamers, a small stack of wrapped presents, and the center of attention, the cake, now sporting six bright pink candles.
Lily came bouncing into the dining room in her birthday sash, her light-up sneakers flashing red and blue. She halted right in front of the table.
Spencer stood rigid beside her chair, his hands tucked nervously into his back pockets, his entire body tense. His eyes darted from Lily’s face to the cake and back again, practically hyperventilating as he waited for her reaction.
Lily walked slowly around the table. She leaned in close, her eyes wide, inspecting the leaning structure, the avalanche of sprinkles on the downhill side, and the thick, uneven swirls of pink frosting.
Spencer swallowed hard. "Lily, I- I know it's a bit crooked. The thermal density of the lower layer was slightly off, and I didn't let it cool long enough, so if you'd rather we go to the bakery and get a regular-"
"It's a castle," Lily breathed out, interrupting him completely.
Spencer froze. "A... a what?"
"It's a leaning castle!" Lily clapped her hands together, a massive, toothy grin bursting across her face. "Like in a story! It's wonky on purpose so the dragons can't climb up it!"
She turned around, threw her tiny arms straight around Spencer's thighs, and buried her face in his knee.
"It's the coolest cake ever!" she shouted into his trousers. "Thank you, Spencer!"
Spencer’s entire frame went lax with relief. The air rushed back into his lungs, and a breathy, unbelieving laugh spilled out of him. He quickly dropped to one knee, bringing himself down to her level, his long arms wrapping around her small shoulders, pulling her into a tight, warm hug.
"You... you really like it?" he asked, his voice thick, burying his face against the side of her head.
"I love it more than anything," she declared, pulling back to point at the side that was slipping. "Can I eat the big pile of sprinkles first?"
Later that afternoon, after she had opened a brand-new scooter from you and a massive set of advanced art supplies from Spencer, Lily spent the entire evening ignoring her new toys. Instead, she sat at the kitchen island with a paper plate, carefully eating a second slice of the leaning cake, talking animatedly about how the chocolate chips were "defending the pink tower."
Spencer sat on the couch across the room, a light blanket thrown over his legs, watching her with a warmth that lit up his whole face.
Once Lily was done, and finally ran off to play with her new toys, you sat down beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. Spencer raised his arm, wrapping it around you and pulling you close, his thumb tracing patterns over your arm.
"See?" you murmured softly, looking at the half-eaten, wonderfully ugly cake sitting on the counter. "I told you."
Spencer smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head, his heart beating slow and steady against your side.
–
5- The Daddy & Daughter Lunch.
The flyer had been stapled into Lily’s orange homework folder, slightly crumpled at the edges. Printed in bright, bold bubble letters across the top, it read: ANNUAL DAD’S DONUT LUNCH!
You were standing by the front door, slipping on your shoes for work, when Lily marched over and held it out to Spencer. Spencer was sitting on the hallway bench, balancing his coffee mug on one knee while lacing up his worn leather oxfords. He took the bright blue paper, his eyes scanning the text with his usual terrifying speed, three seconds flat.
Then, his gaze hit the second line: Bring your Dad or special father-figure to school for a donut and storytime!
His breathing faltered. His long fingers tightened on the edge of the paper, crumpling the corner just a fraction. "My teacher said we can bring our dads," Lily explained, leaning her elbows on his knee, her eyes looking up at him through her messy morning bangs. "Or our special person if we want. And I want you to come."
Spencer’s head snapped up, his hazel eyes wide. His gaze darted frantically to you, full of an overwhelming, heart-stopping panic. Dad. The word hung in the hallway, heavy and luminous.
Spencer had spent his whole life carefully defining his boundaries, keeping himself in neat, predictable boxes framed by statistics, logic, and distance. But over the last year, those boundaries had been completely dismantled by a six-year-old girl.
"Lily..." Spencer’s voice cracked softly. He swallowed, his adam's apple working hard against his crisp collar. "I... I would love to, but are you sure? The flyer says 'Dad,' and I don't want your classmates to be confused, or for you to feel like-"
"You're my Spencer," Lily interrupted with the ironclad logic of a six-year-old, stomping her light-up sneaker for emphasis. "And you do my piggies, and you made my dragon cake, and you live with us. So you have to come eat a chocolate donut with me."
Spencer looked down at her, his throat visibly tight. A faint flush spread across his cheekbones, his chest rising and falling in a slow, shaky breath. He carefully folded the flyer along its original creases, his hands trembling slightly as he tucked it into the inner pocket of his tweed jacket, right over his heart.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll be there."
At 11:45 AM on Friday, the elementary school cafeteria was a chaotic symphony of screaming children, squeaking sneakers, and the heavy smell of powdered sugar and floor wax.
Spencer stood just inside the double doors, looking out of place among a sea of men in construction boots, polo shirts, and suits. He had taken a long lunch break, rushing straight from a briefing. He wore his grey trousers, a dark green vest, and a tie that he had re-tied three times in his rearview mirror before walking in.
He was wringing his long hands, his eyes darting anxiously over the sea of tiny tables, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Then, a high-pitched scream cut through the noise.
"SPENCER!"
Before he could react, a tiny blur in denim overalls launched herself across the linoleum and slammed directly into his legs. Spencer caught his balance, dropping instantly to his knees despite the hard floor. Lily threw her arms around his neck.
"You came!" she squealed into his shoulder.
Spencer’s arms wrapped tightly around her small frame, burying his face in her hair, smelling faintly of green apple shampoo and playground dust. The suffocating anxiety that usually gripped him in loud crowds completely evaporated.
"Of course I came," he murmured into her hair, his voice steadying. "I promised I would."
He stood up, letting her drag him by two fingers toward a tiny wooden table with chairs that were far too small for a six-foot-two FBI agent. Spencer awkwardly folded his long legs, his knees practically knocking against his chin as he wedged himself into the small plastic chair.
On the table sat two pink paper plates, each holding a chocolate frosted donut with sprinkles.
"This is Mason," Lily announced proudly, pointing to a boy across the table who was currently smearing strawberry jam on his napkin. "And his dad, Mr. Dan."
Dan, a broad-shouldered man in a baseball cap, offered a friendly nod. "Hey there. Nice to meet you."
"Spencer Reid," Spencer said automatically, extending a long hand across the tiny table to shake Dan's.
"Are you Lily's dad?" Mason asked through a mouthful of donut, tilting his head. "You look different than her."
Spencer froze. His posture went instantly rigid, the old, familiar insecurity flaring up in his chest. His fingers twitched on his napkin as he searched his vast mental encyclopedia for a gentle way to explain step-parent dynamics and non-biological guardianship to a kindergartener.
Before he could utter a single syllable, Lily piped up, taking a massive bite of her chocolate donut.
"He's my Spencer," she said simply, chocolate smudged on her upper lip. "He knows everything about space, and he does my hair, and he's the smartest guy in the whole world."
Dan chuckled, leaning back in his tiny chair. "Sounds like a pretty great dad to me."
Spencer’s breath caught in his chest. He looked down at Lily, who was happily swinging her legs under the table, completely unbothered, pushing the chocolate donut toward him.
"You have to eat the sprinkle side first," she instructed sternly. "It makes it taste better."
Spencer let out a soft, breathy laugh, a sound so full of unadulterated relief that his shoulders dropped three inches.
"Is that a scientific fact?" he asked, his hazel eyes shining behind his lenses.
"Yes," Lily said solemnly. "I tested it."
"Well, I can't argue with data," Spencer whispered, leaning down to take a bite.
For the next forty minutes, Spencer sat in the middle of the loud, sticky cafeteria, happily letting Lily chatter about recess, showing him her favorite rock from the playground, and wiping a streak of chocolate off his nose with a thin paper napkin.
When the bell rang for the kids to line up for class, Lily hugged his waist tightly once more. "Thanks for coming to my lunch, Spencer."
Spencer crouched down, his long hands framing her tiny face, his thumb gently smoothing over her rosy cheek.
"Thank you for inviting me, Lily," he said, his voice dropping into that warm, grounded register, his heart swelling so large it felt like it might burst right through his vest. "It was the best lunch I've ever had."
As she skipped away to join her line, turning back twice to wave, Spencer stood up in the hallway. He reached into his jacket, his fingers brushing against the folded flyer in his pocket. He smiled, a real, radiant, unfettered smile, and walked back out into the afternoon sun.
–
+1- All About My Dad.
Spencer was sitting at the kitchen island, his tie loosened and the sleeves of his blue dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. He was intently focused on annotating a stack of academic journal articles, his red pen moving in quick, precise bursts. Beside him, a mug of chamomile tea let off a thin curl of steam.
You were stirring a pot of soup at the stove when the front door clicked open, followed immediately by the familiar, thumping sound of light-up sneakers on the hardwood.
"Mommy! Spencer! Look!"
Lily burst into the kitchen like a tiny whirlwind, her yellow raincoat dripping slightly onto the floor, her backpack swinging wildly off one shoulder. In her hands, she held a large sheet of bright pink poster board, carefully folded in half to protect whatever was inside.
Spencer immediately capped his pen, shifting in his stool to give her his full attention. "Welcome home, Lily. How was-"
"We did a big project today," Lily interrupted, out of breath as she scrambled up onto the stool right next to him. She set the poster board flat on the island, smoothing her hands over the paper with immense pride. "For Family Week. Mrs. Gable said we had to make a poster about our dads and present it to the whole class."
Spencer’s movement faltered. His hand remained resting on the edge of the counter, his posture subtly stiffening. You turned around from the stove, holding your breath. You knew how carefully Spencer treaded around these topics, how terrified he was of overstepping or taking up space he thought wasn't rightfully his.
"A poster about dads?" Spencer repeated softly, his voice gentle, though his hazel eyes darted nervously to you for a fraction of a second before returning to her face. "That sounds like a very nice project, Lil. Did you... did you write about a family member?"
"No," Lily said, looking at him like he was being exceptionally silly. "I wrote it about you."
Spencer stopped breathing entirely. With a grand flourish, Lily flipped open the pink poster board.
Across the top, spelled out in bold, rainbow-colored bubble letters cut from construction paper, it read:
ALL ABOUT MY DAD
Directly beneath the title was a large drawn picture. It featured Spencer- drawn extraordinarily tall, wearing a brown vest and a lopsided smile. Standing right beside him was Lily, holding a pink cake.
All around the drawing, filling every available inch of the poster board, were Mrs. Gable’s neat handwriting transcribing Lily’s dictated answers:
My Dad's name is: Doctor Spencer
How old is my Dad? 100 years old (he knows everything)
My Dad's job is: He helps people and solves big puzzles and reads very fast
My Dad's favorite food is: Coffee with six sugars, chocolate sprinkle donuts and mommy’s chicken soup.
My Dad is really good at: Doing my piggies, reading long books without stopping, catching bad guys and being smart.
Why I love my Dad: He hugs me tight when I get scared, he holds Mommy's hand, and he is the smartest and best Dad in the whole wide world.
Silence stretched across the warm kitchen, broken only by the simmering of the soup on the stove and the steady drumming of rain against the glass.
Spencer stared at the board. He didn't move. He didn't blink. His hazel eyes tracked slowly across every single word, over the wobbly rainbow letters at the top, over the brown crayon lines of his vest, down to the bottom sentence.
My Dad.
His chest hitched, a sharp, ragged intake of air. You watched the flush creep rapidly up his neck, flooding his cheeks. His eyes glistened, brimming with sudden, overwhelming tears. His long, slender fingers hovered over the poster board, trembling slightly, terrified to touch it as if the ink might smudge away into a dream.
He spent his life analyzing human nature, collecting data, searching for logic in a world that often made no sense. But no equation in his vast, brilliant mind could have prepared him for the weight of those three little letters.
"Lily..." Spencer whispered, his voice cracking so hard it barely carried across the counter. He swallowed, his throat working heavily as he tried to find his words, but for the first time in his life, the genius profiling agent was entirely speechless. "You... you made this for me?"
Lily tilted her head, reaching out her small hand to pat his arm, her thumb brushing against his rolled-up sleeve.
"Of course I did," she said softly, her eyes shining with uncomplicated devotion. "I love you, and you are my daddy."
The word hit him like a physical tide.
A quiet, breathless sob caught in Spencer's throat. He buried his face in his hands for a brief second, his shoulders shaking as the suffocating joy of the moment broke through every defense he had ever built. When he lifted his head, tears were spilling freely down his cheeks. He didn't even bother to wipe them away.
He slid off his stool and dropped straight to his knees on the kitchen floor, bringing himself eye-level with her. He reached out, his long arms wrapping tightly around her small frame, pulling her so close to his chest that she was practically buried in his shoulder.
"I love you too, Lily," Spencer choked out into her soft hair, his hands cupping the back of her head with a tender, fiercely protective grip. "I love you so, so much."
Lily wrapped her tiny arms around his neck, resting her chin on his shoulder, completely unfazed by his tears. "Don't cry, daddy. It's a good poster."
A wet, breathless laugh burst from Spencer’s chest, a sound so full of pure, unadulterated happiness that it made your own eyes overflow. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands framing her cheeks, his thumbs gently wiping away a stray speck of glitter from her nose. His heart was pounding a strong, steady rhythm, anchoring him completely to this room, to this life, to this precious family.
"It's the best poster ever made," Spencer breathed out, his smile radiant. "In the entire history of the world."
You stepped over, kneeling down beside them on the hardwood floor. Spencer reached out with one long arm, catching your waist and pulling you tightly into the fold, resting his forehead against yours as Lily giggled, squished happily between the two of you.
"We need to frame it," Spencer whispered against your skin, his voice thick with a grounding, beautiful certainty, his eyes shining as he looked at the girl who had given him the greatest title of his life. "We have to hang it right in the front hallway."
Can’t stop thinking about Clark cumming in his pants from kissing and him being absolutely mortified :’)
YESSSSSS. WOOHOOOOOO
pairing: clark kent x reader
warnings: smut-adjacent (dry humping, making out, clark finishes on accident)
add yourself to my taglist!
——————————
Clark was sweet. A wonderful coworker, a thoughtful friend. A really fucking good kisser.
You were laid back on your couch, Clark on top of you with his glasses pushed up into his hair. He’d told you about Superman earlier that evening. You’d taken it exceptionally well, and he was grateful. Like… really grateful.
You hadn’t thought the guy had it in him, since he blushed if you so much as smiled at him for too long at work; but he had you under him in record time.
“Fuck,” you breathed out through a giggle. His hands wandered down your waist. “Didn’t think you liked me this much.”
He hummed once. “I’ve had a crush on you for a while. Jimmy makes fun of me all the time.”
You smiled through another kiss, fingers brushing his jaw. He deepened the kiss, hands bringing your legs up around his waist. Your arms snaked around his shoulders, hips rolling into his.
“Oh… g-geez,” he gasped, his lips trailing from yours to your neck.
“Come on, Smallville. Give me something to work with.”
He chuckled through a moan, sucking a soft mark into the base of your neck.
“Like what?”
You rolled up into him again. “Like that.”
His breath got shakier, kisses sloppier as he obeyed. He ground into you slowly, nibbling on your skin. You drew his face back to yours, capturing his lips in a slow kiss. His tongue pressed to yours, memorizing the taste of you as his cock throbbed in his pants. He was certain he was in love. Or just really horny. It was hard to tell.
His hands ran over your thighs, your stomach, up to your face and back down.
“Shit,” you sighed, nipping his lip. “You’re so hot.”
He groaned, hips more eager against yours. “You’re gorgeous. Gosh, I really like you.”
You chuckled softly, his tongue sliding against yours shutting you up quickly. He groaned again, soft noises slipping from his lips at every movement. It was cute, you thought. He was so eager. Really, really, crazy eager.
His breathing sped up as he kissed you until he moaned into your mouth in a way that sounded a little different. His hips slowed, then stopped.
“Clark?” He made a quiet hum in the back of his throat. You pulled away, his cheeks red. “Are you okay?”
He nodded quickly. “Y-yeah. Um… I, uh…”
You looked at him, embarrassment suddenly clouding his features. The puzzle pieces clicked into place slowly, realization on your face making him even more nervous.
“Did you…”
“N-no! I mean, I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh my god.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You came?”
He whined, eyes squeezing shut. “I really didn’t mean to.”
“Clark.” You huffed a laugh. “It’s okay. You… god, that’s actually so hot.”
“What?”
“It’s hot. Seriously. You were that excited?” You grinned.
His face flushed further, the color sneaking down into his collar and to the tips of his ears. “Honey…”
You chewed your lip, the low rumble of his voice speaking that pet name only making you more excited.
“Maybe next time we can make that happen the proper way?”
His eyes snapped up to yours, suddenly more enthusiastic than embarrassed. “Next time?”
hi omg i’m so excited to send this my first ask goes to You
ok anyways 😑 the people yearn for more step brother spence…. like i don’t even have a plot for u i just know i need it and i need it BAD!!!!
ok have a good day / night / morning…..🤔can i claim 🧁 anon ilove this emoji
dddne stepcest … read at your own risk !
i am so very honoured to have been your first ask!!! (and what a delicious ask it was…) welcome 🧁anon!
stepbrother!spence is suchhhh a dry humper… the three d’s (dry humping, degradation, and dumbification) are truly his forte. disgusting little freak. of course i've mentioned this concept before... more than once (maybe i'm the freak) but he is such a pathetic little loser!!! he gets absolutely no game, which is why he has to retort to his very own step-sister... and you most definitely will not let him live it down.
thinking about pinning him down, hands above his head, shaking and crying while you straddle him. you don't even have to move, despite being on top, spencer is putting all the work in, mindlessly rutting into you like a dog, brain already all fuzzy and melted:(. and he's soooo loud! you have to press your plam firm against his mouth, fingers sliding just over his nose for good measure, as he writhes and squirms beneath you and takes it! "do you want to wake up the entire house and have everyone know what a slut you are?"
in my last stepcest spence post (whoops) i mentioned gross pervy spence who steals your panties while doing your laundry... now what if you forced him to wear said lace fabrics he was so desprate to have! palming him through the sheer material, leaving a dark trail of rough bites along his neck... teasing your thumb around his sensitive tip... FUCKKKKK "do you feel pretty spence? hmm? is this what you did in your room when you thought i couldn't hear you?"
thinking about Spencer reid who is such an enthusiastic giver in bed. he’s so so so eager to make you feel good. he just wants to be so good for you. he wants nothing more than to see you fall apart. maybe it’s the scientist in him- he wants to study how you react when his fingers curl a certain way inside of you. maybe it’s because of the praise you give him, hearing you cry out because it’s just so good. he has to fight back a sob every time he makes you come- watching you write in pleasure all because of him is almost too much for him to take.
maybe that’s why it doesn’t come as a surprise when you asking what he wants in bed, anything he wants, something new you’ve never tried or some form of you touching him this time- he answers in a whisper, “let me taste you?”
his eyes are watery and his voice shakes, almost like he’s ashamed to even ask. when you let him fulfill his wish, he moans into you when his tongue meets your cunt for the first time. tears well up in the corners of his eyes as he mutters thank you thank you thank you, the vibrations of his voice traveling all the way up your spine. his forehead rests on your lower stomach as his nose rubs against your clit. he whines when your hands tangle in his hair from the pleasure.
it’s not just the pride he feels from giving you pleasure, it’s the sounds you make, the way you taste, the way you feel against his tongue. he’s openly crying now, muttering something against you about how grateful he is, how good you taste, how much he loves you. the sensation of being completely surrounded by you is what drives him over the edge right in sync with you. he continues cherish you with his mouth throughout both of your orgasms, not wanting to deprive himself of you for anything.
needless to say this is not the last time you’ll give him whatever he wants
something about spencer using your panties to get off and sniffing them… sighhhhhh
mhm mhm smth about him stealing your panties and getting excited to use them to get off when he’s alone!!
I’ll 100% write this cuz I love making him do stuff that he thinks are soo not like him just to reveal his sexually repressed true self 🙂↕️🙂↕️
A dash of moral dilemma never hurts.
He can totally use his imagination and memories of what you usually do to him.. but the panties get all his senses to work. He sniffs them while taking care of himself.. maybe chews on them to muffle his noises (and to feel as close to you as possible 🤷♀️)
we can go a bit filthier and let him wrap the fabric around his dick while he’s jerking off for extra friction AND cuz he loves being disgustingly close to anything that smells or tastes like you #what are germs
does it make him feel gross and perverted? Yes. does is make him question his self-control?? Yes.
does it make it a bit harder to look you in the face??? Yes.
will you find out and make him feel more ashamed???? YES!!!
I want to turn this into a character study cuz smut is always better when we pick Spencer’s brain apart 🙏🙏
btw this is the same amazing person that first sent the clicker training idea a month ago.. and now it’s a real fic and I’m addicted to turning Spencer into the dog he truly is 😋
•°● his go bag is in his car. it would take two minutes to get his own pyjamas. spencer reid, who doesn't let anyone else touch him, would rather share your clothes than walk away from you. ●°•
summary: spencer reid stays the night. that's literally it just tooth rotting fluff
(no sexual content the title is just for jokes) (sorry guys)
tags: reader x spencer reid, gender neutral reader, reader has no physical description, mutual pining, friends to lovers, coworkers to lovers, fluff, hurt/comfort, i had season 5 in mind but can be read as whenever, spencer gets nightmares, happy ending, part 3 of u wld get what u want
w/c: 1421 ★ crossposted on ao3
the soft thud of your bag on the carpet echoes around your hall. you step out of your shoes and leave them by the door. spencer copies carefully.
he's been to your apartment before, but not like this. he's been here for work parties and occasional friendly favours and that one time penelope insisted on a team movie marathon. staying the night is new, it blurs the lines of professional and friendly and something else. something you'd resigned yourself to yearning for quietly, something you've never been this close to touching.
you cross to the kitchen and spencer follows. he's mirroring you with precision, as if afraid of disrupting your way of living. or trying to prove he could fit into it.
he keeps picking at his nails. you could put a hand over his. even better, you could take his hand in yours, and lace your fingers together or press his palm against your waist, or press his fingers against your tongue or put your tongue in his mouth –
you hand him a glass of water.
he thanks you quietly and takes a sip. absentmindedly taps his fingers against the glass.
"do you have anything i can sleep in?"
his go bag is in his car. it would take two minutes to get his own pyjamas. spencer reid, who doesn't let anyone else touch him, would rather share your clothes than walk away from you.
you loop an arm into the bend of his elbow and guide him into your bedroom. you rummage through your drawers, find something that looks like it might fit him, and turn your back while he changes.
the soft flannel looks cute on him. the old band shirt is a little too tight, but you can't help but be grateful for the view it offers.
spencer reid is wearing your clothes. spencer reid is sleeping in your clothes.
climbing into bed is so easy. you've been falling asleep on your feet since you stepped out of his car. the golden glow of the lamp warms his skin angelically.
"do you wanna keep the light on?" you ask.
"no, thank you, i'll be alright," he mumbles into your pillow.
his fear isn't unfamiliar to you. you've seen how he tenses up when stakeouts stretch into the night, heard him squeak when the electricity fails.
"are you sure?"
"definitely. you're here."
you click the lamp off and settle into the blankets, close enough to hear his breathing, not quite touching.
until his fingertips find yours.
★
movement startles you awake. sitting bolt upright next to you is spencer, eyes wet, both hands clamped over his mouth as his shoulders silently shake. you stir and he jumps.
"i'm sorry, i'm really sorry, i didn't mean to wake you, i'm so sorry, i can be quieter, go back to sleep..."
you sit up and wrap both arms around him. he freezes, like he doesn't know what to do with the affection, like he's not used to being treated gently. then he relaxes into you, curling up to make himself smaller and turning to hide his face against your shoulder.
you rub circles into his back and murmur soft reassurance. he clings to your t shirt. his breath keeps catching and you can feel his lips trembling against the bare skin of your neck as he tries to quiet himself.
slowly, he relaxes, allowing himself to sob openly. a small part of you almost likes it.
you don't want him to hurt, of course, but you like that he lets you see him like this, wrecked and vulnerable. you've known about his nightmares for years but there's a difference between asking about his dark circles in the morning and holding him while he cries at night, a new intimacy that makes your skin buzz. getting to be the one to comfort him means he trusts you.
as his sobs start to fade, you slow your hands, pulling away enough to look at him. his grip on your shirt tightens. you brush your thumb along his cheek, drying his tears. he won't meet your eye.
"do you wanna talk about it?" you whisper.
"not really."
"do you wanna go back to sleep?"
"not yet."
"i'll make tea."
"yes please."
you guide his hands away from your shirt and drag yourself out of bed, and he actually whines at the loss of your touch.
you circle the bed and lean into him, wrapping yourself around him to give him one final squeeze before you move to the kitchen. spencer follows you silently, bare feet padding across the tile. he stays close to you, so close you can feel the warmth of his skin, still afraid to touch you first.
so you reach for his hand and kiss his knuckles.
which is all the invitation he needs to wrap his arms around your waist.
and his arms stay around you while you boil the water, and while you pick out two mugs - one that looks like a planet for him, one with purple cats on it for you - and while you find the tea bags. the need to be as close to you as possible overwhelms him and he presses his face into the back of your neck.
he carries both mugs to the coffee table. you could have done it yourself, but he looks so lost and small, you figure letting him feel helpful might be good for him.
you flop on the sofa and he sets the mugs down gently, as if trying not to startle something small, then settles next to you. you raise your arms towards him and he melts into them.
traces of early morning light illuminate the steam as it rises from the two mugs and mixes into one cloud.
"why do clouds get darker when it rains?" you ask suddenly.
he answers, something about the density of the water restricting how much light gets through, without pulling away from you. his words are muffled where his mouth is pressed into your shoulder.
and you ask about light waves, then sound waves, then music, until he's rambling and chatting and happy. he stays pressed against you, though, still clinging to your arm with one hand, long after the nightmare has been forgotten.
when you crawl back into bed, less than two hours before your alarm, he curls into you without hesitation, pressing himself against you as if he can never get close enough.
★
you're a tangle of limbs when the alarm goes off.
peeling yourself away from spencer feels like a crime.
he asks to use your shower, and you let him go first. when you finish washing yourself, he's already made you both breakfast.
he's strangely quiet while you eat. he's clearly avoiding looking at you. he puts the breakfast plates away, washes the mugs you'd left out last night and folds the borrowed pyjamas neatly. once again trying to disrupt you as little as possible, erasing any evidence of his presence.
you'd never seen him cry before. there are still damp spots on your pyjama shirt from where he'd sobbed into you. at the time it had felt sacred, proof that you're special to him. but now, as he ties his shoes and reaches for the door, he's trying to pretend nothing happened.
can we talk about this tomorrow?
this is the closest you've gotten to something real. if you let him leave, the distance will grow again and this will be a blip, the thing you both think about but neither of you mention.
"hey, so. um. last night," you begin, "how much did you hear? on the jet?"
he pulls away from the door handle.
"i presume all of it," he says hesitantly, "considering i hadn't fallen asleep to begin with. i was trying to, but i don't think i would have slept much at all if you'd left me to go home. that's to say, yes, i heard everything."
"so you know that i..."
"yes."
"so... what do you think?"
"i think you should ask me."
your cheeks are burning, you're sure you're flushed down to your neck, the silence is loud enough to give you a headache. he already knows, why does he want you to spell it out for him?
the sight of him in your doorway, those big, dark eyes full of hope and fear, undoes your frustration and erases your nerves.
"spencer."
"yes?"
"would you get coffee with me sometime? as a date?"
"yes, i'd like that very much."
final part !!! im so baffled by the love this series has gotten, i wasnt expecting anyone to rly find my account when i started posting O.o might do a cheeky bonus blurb abt morgans reaction or smth idk we'll see ;) ty for reading !!!!
your flirtations towards him have grown far beyond a game, or petty desire for attention. you care about him in a way you've never really cared about anyone... the way he flinches away if anyone else gets too close then happily leans into your touch gives you hope.
summary: some of the ways u tried to get closer to doctor spencer reid. prequel-ish ? to u would get what u want (series)
tags: gn!reader x oblivious!spencer, fluff, accidentally got kinda angsty at the end oops, mutual pining, confident flirty reader, shy spencer, reader is hot, spencer has self esteem issues, reader is lowkey unhinged, like the flirting is so over the top it's almost embarassing, icl thats how i behave when i have a crush, it worked tho my s/o is adorable, maybe seasons 2-5ish, time jump between each section, switching between reader's and spencer's perspectives, hand kink if u squint
w/c: 2.9k crossposted on ao3
warnings: heavy flirting, alcohol consumption (emetophobia safe), kinda sad ending FOR NOW (pspspspsps read the other parts)
flirting comes naturally to you. you know how people look at you, you see the lingering glances and double takes and nervous smiles. there comes a point where you can't deny the effect you have on people.
you've never taken it too seriously. more like a game. never letting anyone get too attached, never liking anyone enough to take it further than a one night stand. you just enjoy the attention, the process of seeing how far you can push people, the knowledge that you're desired.
so when you were first introduced to the team almost a year ago, and a beautiful genius jumped gracelessly out of his seat and stammered his full title, you knew you would have fun.
you'd played all your usual moves: letting your gaze follow him, tilting your head when his eyes met yours; asking for his help with your bag, even when you were perfectly capable of carrying it yourself, and brushing your fingers against his when he took it from you; smiling with all your teeth when he walked into the room. that was usually all it took, but he never made any moves of his own.
what you weren't expecting is how sweet he is, how genuine. his kindness seems unconditional, and he offers it to everyone, not just you. even when he stares at you it never feels disrespectful.
by now, your flirtations towards him have grown far beyond a game, or petty desire for attention. you care about him in a way you've never really cared about anyone else.
he flusters so easily, always gravitating towards you, always eager to pull you into a conversation. he may never have flirted back but the way he flinches away if anyone else gets too close then happily leans into your touch gives you hope.
★
after a lifetime of rejection, it's easy to start to expect it. how could spencer think he's beautiful when no one's ever told him so?
when you follow hotch into the bullpen for the first time, radiant and electric and glittering, spencer is immediately stunned. his overactive brain quiets and he automatically recites his full title, wincing at how his voice cracks. you smile, and that's it. he's infatuated. but he knows what happens to people like you. everyone falls in love with them. he's not special for that. if you can have whoever you want, why would you ever notice him?
the only reference spencer really has for how friends treat each other is derek morgan and penelope garcia. so when you link an arm into his and tell him that the veins in his hands are gorgeous and that he should let you lick them to celebrate solving your first case, he's just grateful to have you as a friend.
★
paperwork sucks. you're sure the worst tasks are being given to the two youngest team members on purpose. part of you wants to fight it, prove that unexperienced doesnt mean unskilled, but a bigger part of you is just grateful to be paired with spencer. you've barely gotten a chance to speak with him since your first case, so when you were asked to work in a small room alone with him you'd just about exploded with excitement. but sitting in silence filling out forms is far less thrilling than you anticipated.
it's so hard to focus with spencer next to you, so close you can smell him, clean and warm and bookish with just a hint of coffee.
the way he reads is mesmerising. running his fingers down each page, lips forming the shape of each word.
there's no point trying to focus.
you close the file you're on, turn towards him and lean forward, staring intently at the way his lips move, imagining them on your skin, memorising the sharp line of his jaw and gentle slope of his nose.
he takes a breath and looks up at you, questioning wordlessly.
"your cheekbones are amazing."
"what?"
"your cheekbones. i wanna bite them."
like a deer in headlights.
his focus darts between your eyes and your lips as he processes.
"um, you-" he swallows, pink creeping up his neck, "you can if you want."
you lean further forward and hook a finger under his chin, forcing him to keep looking at you. you run a thumb along his cheekbone, never taking your eyes off his. then slowly, gently, you turn his head to the side. you lean in closer, mouth less than an inch from his cheek, and his breathing hitches.
you don't bite him.
you press a kiss into the bone.
★
bau nights out have never appealed to spencer, but when you're the one orchestrating it, he can't say no. sticky floors and wasted teammates are a small price to pay in exchange for being around you.
the day finally ends and the team crowd into the elevator. you discreetly twist your little finger around his.
"who's coming tonight?" spencer asks the room innocently.
you stare at him, lips pressed together harshly in an expression he can't decipher, then carefully smooth your face back to neutral.
"ooooh, where are we going?" penelope chimes.
spencer glances back at you hesitantly, "you said drinks, right?"
"yeah, i was thinking of trying that new place a couple blocks away?"
you sound normal. you look happy enough. but when you pull your hand away from his, spencer replays the conversation in his head, trying to figure out what unspoken social rule he'd broken.
the bar is nicer than he expected. quieter and cleaner, with dried flowers hanging on the walls and a small library at the back. which is where he retreats when half the bau are crammed into one booth and you're stuck about as far from him as you could be, on your third drink and barely looking at him.
books have always been a sort of comfort to him. but he's only halfway through his first book of the night when you appear in the library doorway. just watching him. he waves, and you nod back. you linger, not coming closer, not leaving, just long enough for him to wonder if you're okay. he starts towards you, turning to put the book down, and when he looks back up, you're gone.
he can't focus much after that.
he manages one more chapter before deciding to go after you, but by the time he finds you, you've already settled into a group of strangers. you don't look like strangers though, from the way some girl is sprawled across your lap, and your arm is draped over her waist while you talk animatedly, the whole group laughing. you've clearly enchanted them. you always do.
spencer knows he can't be with you in the way he wants, but that doesn't mean he has to torture himself watching you choose people you don't even know over him.
but he still has to say goodbye.
you pause as soon as you notice him.
"i'm gonna head home," he informs you quietly.
"okay," you say, the nonchalance - almost relief? - in your voice boardering on hurtful.
but then you down the rest of your drink in one go and slide off the bar stool, wobbling slightly.
"my leaving doesn't have to dictate whether you stay! i'm just not- " spencer starts, but you cut him off.
"no point being here if you're not. hey, can i lean on you?" you clumsily take his arm without waiting for an answer. it's easy to have more than you mean to when you never have to pay for your own drinks.
maybe it's just the alcohol, but at least for now, his mystery blunder seems forgiven.
he guides you out of the bar and starts mentally mapping the most efficient way to get you home when you pull him towards the park.
"it's kinda creepy at night, right?" you grin, climbing over the unlocked playground gate and beelining for the swings. he sighs at the loss of your grip on his arm.
spencer follows you into the playground, clear headed enough to remember how to open the gate, and balances haphazardly on the swing beside yours.
you look so calm, not quite swinging, but swaying, your head thrown back as you search for stars.
you may be the one who's drunk, but he's far more intoxicated.
your forgiveness is sacred. he shouldn't ruin it.
he needs to know.
"what did i do?"
"what?"
"you've barely acknowledged me all night. i never want to cause you suffering, if something i did or said was hurtful to you i want to make it better but for that to happen i need to understand. i need you to talk to me."
slowly, dizzily, you turn your head to look at him.
"why did you ask everyone else to come with us?"
"did your invitation not extend to everyone?"
"you invited everyone, spencer. i only invited you."
the implications of that aren't lost on him. nor is the blush growing on your cheeks or the hazy shine in your eyes as they focus on him.
both of which are signs of alcohol consumption, which he knows you recently participated in. and there are numerous platonic or professional reasons you might have wanted to be alone with him.
the signs are there.
but so is the fear.
if you were less lovely he might think it were worth the risk. but it's you. incredible, intelligent, brave, beautiful you, who could have anyone and anything you want. you have no reason to want him. if he allows himself to suspect, or even just hope, that you feel anything for him, the inevitable disappointment would devastate him.
so it's safer to convince himself you were asking in the name of friendship. he's so, so grateful to get to call you his friend.
so he guides you to your apartment.
so he helps you take your shoes off, he places tylenol and a full water bottle on your nightstand, he turns his back while you change into your pyjamas.
so once you're curled up on your side, he flicks your light off, closes your apartment door in careful near-silence, and walks home alone.
★
you fucking told him last night. then he left you alone. and he's acting like it never happened.
you'd be less offended if he was mad. if he snapped at you and muttered quick petty insults, or shut down and ignored you entirely. but he just seems unaffected.
the coffee he drops on your desk is the last straw. it's the exact same coffee he's brought you every morning for the past year, but the routine of it is what irks you. the normalcy of the gesture when nothing feels normal.
he scoops a stack of papers from his desk and disappears around a corner.
you follow, catching up easily despite his long stride, and touch his shoulder. he turns to face you, eyes softening when they meet yours. anger dulls into a nervous ache. he's so close you can see the gold flecks in his irises.
"can i talk to you?"
spencer nods. shifts the paper stack to one arm. presses his newly free hand between your shoulder blades and leads you to an empty conference room.
"what are we doing?" you sound so tired.
"um. i was headed for the copy room, and you... appear to have been following me?"
"i mean," you sigh, "what are we doing? i don't know how to make it any more obvious. do you like me or not?"
"you think i don't like you?" he says gently. the idea seems to genuinely sadden him. "of course i like you, you're my only friend."
friend.
spencer reid. who can figure out anyone's tell five minutes after meeting them, who correctly guessed your favourite band based on the colour highlighter you use most, who negotiates with serial killers on the regular. his perceptiveness boarders on superhuman. there's no way he could be genuinely this oblivious. surely it's intentional, his oh so gentle way of letting you down.
his hand is still on your back. he's practically hugging you. so you wrap your arms around his waist, press your face into his chest and close the distance.
"okay," you say, muffled by his cardigan. "friends is good."
★
you've accepted that spencer reid doesn't love you. at least not in the way you want him to. but in place of what you're sure would be movie-worthy romance and mind-blowing sex is loyal, devoted friendship. his gentle kindness was what drew you to him in the first place, and this way, you at least don't miss out on that.
spencer has proudly announced, on more than one occasion, that you're his best friend.
and if penelope has taught you anything, it's that there's nothing wrong with flirting with a friend. it can be innocent. playful. like a game.
so you call him "babe," and you tell him he's pretty, and you play with his hair and his hands, and you find excuses to sit in his lap. and you laugh at him when he gets flustered, stroking his cheeks while you tell him how red they are and squeakily repeating his words back to him when his voice goes high with panic.
and you adore how, when it gets too much for him, he hides from you by burying his face in your neck.
spencer has never seemed opposed to touching you.
even before you really became friends, he'd never flinched away from you like he does everyone else. in fact, he'd seemed drawn to you, always compelled by some invisible force to press his knee against yours under the briefing room table or brush your hair out of your face. even the hand touches he famously hates stop being a problem when it's you.
which is half the joke when you offer him an alternative.
on hotch's introduction, a captain gordinski extends a hand and spencer declines, "the number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering." you could almost swear he looks at you when he adds, "it's actually safer to kiss."
and it's all too easy to lean in just slightly too close and ask, "is that how i should be greeting you every morning?"
the flush that blooms on his cheeks is more than worth the scolding glare from hotchner.
predictably, spence misses the joke, stumbling over his words as he earnestly searches for a professional answer.
he begins to list the benefits of kissing before changing his mind and interrupting himself to recite statistics about the exchange of pathogens and the amount of bacteria present on an average human hand until hotch draws the attention back to the case.
you've accepted that spencer reid doesn't love you. and it definitely doesn't give you butterflies that none of his panicked, rambled half-answers mean no.
★
two years.
two years of wanting him.
two years of him acting like he wants you, then pulling away when you try to make it real.
how had you fallen into this? how did you wind up being friends with spencer reid? you could have anyone else you wanted. how did you fall so badly for the one person who doesn't want you?
he's leaning against you, reading in the way he does. he seems to have gotten used to you openly watching his fingers glide across the paper. you could never get used to the sight. you're nearly foaming at the mouth by the time he looks up.
"there's a caninae hybrid - between a wolf and a spaniel, specifically - at an animal park in poland."
you've always been fascinated by how spencer communicates. facts are his way of telling you he sees you. it would be blasphemous not to entertain him.
"woah, how does that work?"
he lights up when you listen to him, bouncing like an excited puppy.
"it's more common than you might expect. there have been entire studies into wolf-dog hybridization patterns, for example a project in italy found significant y-chromosome variation in male wolves which suggested dog ancestry, indicating it may not be irregular for wolves and dogs to breed in the wild. a study in the caucasus mountains found that twenty percent of wolves and thirty-seven percent of dogs share mitochondrial halotypes, which suggests an estimated twelve percent of wolves and ten percent of dogs within the region may be interbred."
"do the dogs integrate into wolf packs? or is it only lone wolves mating with dogs?"
"lone wolves don't actually exist in the way you're describing, the concept of the packless wolf is greatly misunderstood: wolves are, in fact, highly social animals. typically, a solitary wolf will only ever be without companionship temporarily, separating from its previous pack in order to develop or locate a new one. a wolf who spends too long in isolation would not only become miserable but would also lack fundamental survival mechanisms inherent to group dynamics, making it significantly more vulnerable than its social counterparts."
he keeps going, animated and alive, eyes shining and locked on you. you listen eagerly and stroke the back of his hand. he doesn't pull it away.
sharing information has always meant the world to him. it's how he navigates your emotions and regulates his own. it's how he shows you he pays attention, notices, cares.
spencer reid doesn't love you like you want him to. but he does love you. he tells you every day through cups of coffee and facts about the stars. and even as a friend, you could listen forever.
a/n: PLS tell me u got the symbolism at the end 🥺 i felt like it was too subtle so i went back and added stuff but idk if its too heavy handed now?? lmk if u think i got the balance right 👉👈
explanation in case anyone missed it: (initial mention of hybrids & interbreeding) reader is characterised like a wolf and spencer feels to me like a golden retriever & often gets described as a kicked puppy so this is his way of saying "hey we could make sense together". (lone wolves arent happy) he's just saying u shldnt be alone, he's able to tell ur lonely but he doesn't know it's abt him
the entire bau know how u feel abt spencer. morgan gives u advice on the jet while spencer sleeps... or so u think.
tags: fluff, gn!reader x spencer reid, sleepy spencer, big brother morgan, feels maybe season 4-5 to me but can be read as whenever, mutual pining, written as a one shot but can be read as a part 2 to u don't mind sharing with me, do u? written at 2am and not proofread <3
warnings: none i think ? one use of fuck, ending maybe cld be interpreted as sexual but thats not rly the intention
wc: 948 crossposted on ao3
part 3! ★ u wld get what u want series masterlist
spencer reid sleeps curled up like a deer. elegant hands tucked under his chin, legs hanging off the end of the sofa like he isn't completely aware of his own height, fluffy hair almost halo-like. all long lines and soft edges. the case had been hard on him and you're relieved he's able to get some peace.
the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest is difficult not to watch. it's almost meditative.
"your crush on him is so blatant," derek's voice appears behind you.
"i don't see the point in trying to hide it. i don't think he feels the same though... i've given him so many hints, so many opportunities to ask me out and he never does."
derek chuckles. "yeah, he doesnt really do that sort of thing."
reid doesn't date. that should make the rejection feel less personal but the disappointment is just as bitter.
"he's not used to being wanted," derek adds, making your heart clench. "he assumes he misunderstood something, or that he's reading too deep into it, or he just gets scared of messing up or being disappointed. you could literally hold up a sign that says *i want to fuck you* and he'd think you meant as a friend or a joke."
oh.
"have you actually asked him? or just tried to get him to ask you?"
his headphones are back on before you can reply.
you curl up in your seat and rest your forehead against the jet window. the low lights and gentle hum of the engine make it hard to keep your eyes open. if you focus you can almost hear spencer breathing.
★
the jet lands sooner than you expected. the airport feels liminal as the team stumble through it, all half-asleep. hotch mercifully announces that paperwork can wait until tomorrow and orders everyone to get some rest.
"do you want a ride home?" spencer falls into step as you begin your trek to the bus stop. you're not even sure any buses run this late.
"yes please," you murmur.
the drive is quiet. the car is comfortable, vintage with soft seats and a good heating system and a clean, bookish scent that reminds you distinctly of spencer.
he wakes you with a gentle hand on your shoulder, his thumb stroking soft circles through your hoodie. you hadn't even realised you were falling asleep.
your apartment complex looms over the car and you start to climb out, dreamily mumbling thanks.
"um," he's barely loud enough for you to hear, but you pause, car door still open, swaying on your feet. brown eyes catch yours, and his pink lips open then close again, contemplating how much he should say.
"did you-" he interrupts himself. starts again, "can i walk you to your door?"
"yes please."
you don't know exactly how your hands end up wrapped around his arm but he doesnt object.
the elevator ride is quiet. you lean into spencer. his cardigan is soft under your cheek, his arm warm under your palms.
halfway to your floor, he opens his mouth to speak, then changes his mind.
at your door, he places a hand over yours, as if asking you not to let him go.
"i, um," you say, "i need my hands back? to get my keys..."
he releases your hands and you peel them reluctantly away from his arm, already missing the softness and warmth and comfort of him. you open the door with a soft click. you turn back to spencer, instinctively reaching for him. he slides his hands into yours.
wide eyes scan your face, reading every microexpression, studying all the emotions you're too tired to conceal. his throat bobs as he swallows nervously. you squeeze his hands in reassurance.
"did you want to ask me something?"
your eyes snap up to his.
it's a perfectly innocent question. there are a thousand things he could be referring to. a thousand less difficult, less terrifying, less vulnerable things. but it's been less than three hours since derek spoke to you, less than three hours since derek told you - oh, god, right in front of spencer - to just ask.
"you heard that?" you manage to whisper.
"morgan's right. i realise it's somewhat hypocritical of me to say, but if you want something, you should ask for it. you're... you would get what you want."
mortified, you bury your face in his neck. he traces his hands up your wrists, up your arms, across your shoulder blades, spreading his fingers across your back and gently pressing you into his chest. you reach for his waist and grab two fistfulls of his cardigan.
"take your time," he soothes.
he's soft and warm and you don't want to move, but you're almost falling asleep standing up and you can feel his grasp on you starting to soften.
"can we talk about this tomorrow?" you mumble.
"yeah. yeah, okay, see you tomorrow. goodnight." he says, detangling himself from you. a hint of disappointment clouds his eyes, but he smiles at you, giving your hand a final, gentle squeeze before turning back towards the elevator.
you watch him walk away.
and you don't want to let go.
"it's late," you call out.
"yes, it is."
"it's late, spence. and, um, it's like a twenty minute drive back to your place, so by the time you get to yours it'll be even later. and it's not safe to drive when you're tired."
he practically trips over his own feet in his hurry to get back to you.
"what are you suggesting, exactly?"
"you could stay here. with me. if you want."
"do you have a guest bed?"
"no, just the one."
i wanted this to feel sleepy and dreamlike, almost like a bedtime story... only one bed trope jumpscare sry :P
thinking abt being a new bau agent who doesn't know spencer doesnt like sharing food and offering him a bite of ur snack or smth but he accepts ?? and he tries to insist its not a big deal but atp everyone already knows what it means that he's comfy sharing with u ;)
tags: gn!reader x spencer, season 2 or 3 maybe? mutual pining, reader has no physical description, silly fluff, lowercase is intentional, my first fic pls be kind!!!
wc:444 crossposted on ao3
i dont think any warnings apply <3
part 2! ★ u would get what u want series masterlist
being the newest member on an old team was proving easier than you'd expected, mostly thanks to the efforts of doctor spencer reid. he'd introduced himself with his full title - a habit, he said, formed to encourage people to take him seriously in spite of his youth. you knew the struggle all too well and soon a sort of workplace friendship formed.
you couldn't deny he was pretty. but the first time you tried to make a move it seemed to go over his head, and after your sixth attempt you had to assume it was intentional, that his affection towards you was only platonic. so when you noticed his eyes fixed on you on the jet, you figured it was about the pack of mini cookies in your hand.
"want one?" you offered, holding the packet out towards spencer.
he blinked in surprise, then took one, humming in thanks.
somewhere across the jet, rossi whistled. emily stifled a laugh. the focus had shifted to you in a way you couldn't quite name.
"jesus, if you all wanted me to share you just had to ask," you grumbled, moving to pass the pack around. jj took one, but something in her face was far too amused to be about the cookies.
you didn't notice the tips of spencer's ears turn pink.
★
the case led you across state lines. the bau was needed in two different cities, and it was decided that you, morgan, hotch and spencer would make the two hour drive.
summer in the south was intense. the dry heat was suffocating and an hour and a half into the drive, you groaned as you realised you'd already finished your water.
"is there a gas station near here?" you asked, hoping to buy another bottle.
morgan twisted around to look at you - he'd called shotgun, of course - and grinned wolfishly. "i'm sure pretty boy wouldn't mind sharing."
the dig went over your head and you turned hopefully to spencer. his hair fell forward, hiding his flushed face, as he was already leaning down to pull his own bottle out of his bag while mumbling something about efficiency and the urgency of the case and the average amount of time taken in gas stations.
you didn't notice how he gasped when your hands touched as he passed you the water, or how his eyes fell on your lips wrapped around the bottle.
morgan laughed - you could swear you even caught hotch's lip twitch in the rear view mirror - and spencer became suddenly very fascinated by the strap of his bag.
you didn't know what you'd missed but you knew you could ask spence later.
so nervous to share this but doing things that scare us is how we grow!!!! silly fluffy ficlet (?) while i get comfy with the concept of posting, hope u enjoyed <3
⋆˚࿔ I want to push you, love you, and ruin myself with you 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
Summary: Trapped in a snowed in cabin in Virginia during a BAU case, you and Spencer are completely cut off. After almost a year of pretending nothing's going on at the office, the power goes out, it's pitch black, and the tension just takes over.
📢 Warning: +18, p in v, cum inside, fingering, oral sex (f rec), fluffy, too much yearning, pillow talk ⚠️🔞‼️…
Note: English isn't my first language and this is my first time writing, so sorry for any mistakes! Hope you like it!
The air in the cabin smelled like old wood, cold tea, and the heavy snow coming down outside. It was past three in the morning. Stuck in the middle of nowhere in the Virginia mountains, completely disconnected from the of the BAU, the comms in the SUV had been dead for hours. The only thing moving was the fire in the hearth.
You pulled your sweater tighter around yourself, sitting on the worn out couch. Across the table, Spencer was flipping through some old book way too fast. He only did that when he was trying to block out the one person he couldn't just analyze and ignore.
You two had been doing this weird dance for almost a year. At Quantico, it was all professional super polite, quick handoffs of case files, total team-player vibes. But outside of that, the air between you was suffocating. Spencer lived in numbers and logic, but you were the one variable he couldn't figure out.
"You should sleep," he said suddenly, not looking up. His voice was deep, low from staying up all night.
"Same to you, Agent Reid," you murmured, resting your chin in your hand.
A heavy silence fell over the room. Spencer closed the book slowly and set his teacup aside. When he reached across the table, his fingers brushed against yours.
It was just a split second, but Spencer froze. His breath hitched, and you could see his pulse racing in his neck. You stopped breathing too. Neither of you pulled away.
"The room is twelve degrees Celsius," he blurted out, hiding behind facts like he always did. "Mild hypothermia messes with your circulation, and being awake for thirty hours straight impairs your brain's ability to regulate emotion..."
"Spencer," you cut in softly, sliding your hand over his.
He stopped mid sentence and looked up. His eyes were dark, filled with a look so intense it was almost painful.
Right then, a spark popped in the fireplace, and the only light in the room went out. The cabin plunged into darkness, lit only by the faint glow of the embers.
Spencer stood up. He walked around the table until he was standing right over you. He completely towered over you, his heat hitting you before he even touched you.
He reached out, his hand shaking slightly as he cupped the back of your neck, his fingers burying into your hair.
"You have no idea," he whispered, leaning in so close his breath brushed your lips. "You don't know what this year has been like. Walking into work every day, forcing myself not to look at you... knowing I'm going insane because all I want is to push you, love you, and ruin myself with you."
"Spencer..." you barely managed to say.
That was all it took. He closed the gap and kissed you, hard.
It was messy and desperate. He held your face in his hands like he couldn't get close enough. He grabbed your waist, lifting you up to sit on the edge of the couch and sending the cushions hitting the floor.
Your legs parted instinctively and he stepped right between them, pressing his hips against yours. A gasp escaped you at the sudden pressure. Spencer caught the sound in his mouth, deepening the kiss, his tongue taking over completely.
His hands slid under your sweater, his warm palms hitting the bare skin of your back. You arched into him as he let out a low growl, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you flush against him until you could feel exactly how hard he was through his pants.
He dragged his mouth down your jaw, biting softly at your neck. You held onto his shoulders, fingers digging into his shirt, messing up his hair.
"Tell me this is real," he breathed against your skin, pulling your sweater down to expose your shoulders. "Tell me when we go back, you're not going to act like we're just coworkers."
"It's real," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist. "It's always been you."
Spencer pulled your sweater all the way off and tossed it to the floor. His gaze went dark as he looked at you in the dim light. His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs rubbing over your nipples until a sharp sound was pulled from your throat.
He leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard while his tongue swirled against your skin. You threw your head back, hands clutching his back as the heat sent a shiver straight through you.
His hand slid down your stomach, unbuttoning your pants. He pulled the zipper down and slipped his hand inside your underwear, finding you already completely wet. He let out a low curse against your skin.
"You're so wet for me..." he muttered, his voice wrecked, pushing a finger deep inside you.
You gasped as he started moving, his thumb pressing right against your clit. He added a second finger, working a deep, steady rhythm that had your legs trembling around his hips.
You reached for his belt, undoing it with shaky hands. You pulled him free—hard and pulsing against your touch. Spencer groaned into your neck as you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him up and down.
"Don't do that if you want me to take my time," he warned, his breath ragged as he shoved your pants down past your knees.
He positioned himself right at your entrance, rubbing his tip against you, teasing you until you were practically begging.
"Spencer, please..." you choked out.
He pushed in slow, heavy, and deep, filling you completely in one stroke.
The feeling made you gasp, a sound he caught with another kiss. He stayed still inside you for a second, eyes closed, just taking in the feeling of being wrapped around you.
"God... you feel so good," he whispered, his voice uneven as he started to move.
He started slow, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in deep, making the couch creak under his weight. But the control didn't last. Months of built-up frustration took over, and his pace turned fast, hard, and relentless.
He hit the exact same spot over and over. Your thighs shook against his waist while he held you pinned, getting deeper with every thrust.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice dark.
You looked up, completely dazed, seeing pure obsession in his eyes. He picked up the speed, hitting you so hard your back arched off the sofa. His thumb found your clit again, pressing down right as he drove in deep.
That was it. You locked up around him, an intense wave of pleasure crashing through you as a loud groan tore from your throat.
Feeling you clench around him broke whatever control he had left. He gave three final, brutal thrusts before letting out a rough sound, completely losing it as he came deep inside you.
He collapsed over you, heavy and breathing hard, his chest heaving against yours. The only sound in the room was your heavy breathing and the dying fire.
Neither of you moved for a while. His face was buried in your neck, his lips resting against your collarbone.
"This violates like seven different BAU protocols," he muttered into your skin, his voice raspy.
A weak laugh escaped you. "Are you really thinking about work right now?"
Spencer lifted his head. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, and he was looking down at you with this raw vulnerability.
"No," he admitted, a tiny smirk touching his lips. "Honestly, I'm just trying to process the fact that I was completely wrong about us. I thought if I said anything, it would ruin the team. I thought you'd pull away."
"You're a genius, Reid, but you're an idiot," you whispered, pushing a strand of hair out of his face. "I've been waiting for months."
He closed his eyes for a second, leaning into your touch. "It wasn't that. I was just scared," he said, dead serious now. "I see the worst stuff every day. Everything is so fragile. Having you around... it was the only thing keeping me grounded. I couldn't risk losing that."
"You're not losing me," you said, pulling him back down. "But we have to go back tomorrow. What happens when we're back at the office?"
Spencer kissed you soft and slow this time. "Hotch knows," he murmured against your lips.
"Wait, what?" You blinked, suddenly wide awake. "He knows?"
"We're terrible at hiding it," he admitted, kissing down your jaw. "He basically told me to handle my personal life so I'd stop being distracted."
You buried your face in his shoulder, groaning in embarrassment while Spencer let out a quiet laugh.
"Don't worry about tomorrow," he whispered, grabbing your chin to make you look at him again. "We're stuck here, the roads are blocked, and we still have a few hours before the sun comes up."
"And what are we doing with those hours, Dr. Reid?"
Spencer smirked, his hands gripping your hips again as he stirred inside you.
"I have a few more ideas."
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
You let out a soft groan as you felt him grow hard inside you again. He smirked against your lips, his hips starting a slow, torturous roll that had you melting right back into him.
"Statistically," Spencer murmured, his voice dropping low, "it's way better if we don't stop now."
"You talk too much, Reid," you gasped, digging your nails into his shoulders as he lifted your hips to get deeper.
"And yet you love it," he whispered back, surprisingly confident, his eyes locked onto yours.
Before going any faster, Spencer pulled out slowly, making you whine at the sudden cold. But he didn't leave you waiting. He slid down your body until he was kneeling between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs and pulling you right to the edge of the couch.
"Spencer... what are you doing?" you breathed out.
"Making sure you can't focus during tomorrow's briefing," he muttered.
He leaned down and buried his face between your legs. The second his tongue hit your clit, you gasped, your fingers immediately flying to his hair. He didn't rush. He took his time, licking you with long, slow strokes, tasting you until you were squirming under him.
His grip on your thighs tightened as his tongue worked over you with terrifying precision. He swirled right over your spot before sucking gently, pulling high, broken sounds out of you. You tangled your hands in his hair, completely helpless.
"Spencer, please..." you begged, arching into his mouth.
He growled against your skin and pushed two fingers deep inside you while keeping his mouth right on your clit. The double sensation sent you over the edge almost instantly. His mouth moved faster, messier, eating you out until your whole body went rigid and you came hard right against his face.
Spencer licked you clean before pulling back up. His lips were slick, his eyes dark as he looked down at you.
Without waiting another second, he lined himself up and drove all the way back in with one hard thrust, making you cry out as he locked into a fast, relentless pace that carried you both straight over the edge again.
Synopsis: A bullet hit your chest and yet it's Spencer's heart that is bleeding. With you so close to death, maybe it's time for him to finally accept how he feels.
Warning/content: pre-relationship, mention of being shot, blood, surgery. unsub on psychosis break, mention of abusive childhood. hurt/comfort i guess, poorly proofread, this is not related to any episode so it's spoiler free
a.n.: 2.8k words- i'm not sure how i feel about this one but i hope you guys will like it <3
You knew something bad was going to happen. When you were working on a case, you could always sense how things were going to evolve. From the get-go you’d knew if it was going to be a tight and dangerous case. Not that any case was safe, obviously. But some were safer.
And as you were standing hidden behind a wall, gun in hand, you knew you had been right. That was going to end badly. The unsub was in a psychosis break and somehow still evolving. Getting out of that situation without anyone hurt was going to be a tough job.
Spencer and you had arrived to the unsub’s house ten minutes ago. At that time, he was still a suspect and it was supposed to be a simple, unarmed, talk. But right as you had been about to knock Spencer’s phone had rung. Hotch on the line telling you the guy was the murderer.
The rest of the team was on their way but you didn’t have time to wait for a bullet proof vest. One glance by the window had been enough to notice he wasn’t alone. A woman was by his side, sat on the sofa. The gun to her chest stopping her from moving.
It was tricky. The unsub was in such psychosis, not able to tell reality apart from his thoughts, you had to get that woman out of there as soon as you could. Hotch and the others would be here in 15 minutes. He was going to pull the trigger before that.
With a nod, you let Spencer know you were ready to barge in. Spencer kicked the unlocked door opened. “Gary Royd, put your hands where I can see them!,” he shouted, his gun pointed at the unsub.
Royd’s eyes widened. Pupils dilated. He was in another world. “GET OUT!” he yelled, grabbing the woman to keep her in a headlock.
“That woman isn’t your mother,” you said, weapon clutched tight in your hand. The sweat in your palm from the stress wasn’t helping you keep it steady. Royd’s eyes danced between you and the victim. She was crying, the cold metal of his gun against her temple. This was going so bad. You knew there were cases you couldn’t win. Cases where no one was saved. Cases where you lost teammates. But if you could avoid any of these situations today, you would be grateful.
You let a deep breath fill your lung. Each word needed to be calculated or Royd’s finger would press the trigger. You tiptoed with the words in your mind, telling him straight away that his abusive mother was dead and that he didn’t need to kill every woman that slightly looked like her would be too straightforward and could make him panic even more.
“I know you are angry. We know what your mother did to you. We believe you, Royd”
Royd’s nervousness grew. He shook his head, still refusing to let the woman go. “No! You don’t know what she did! Everyone thinks I lie!”
Spencer took a tentative step closer. You looked calm from the outside but inside you were praying he wasn’t taking a big risk with this move. If something happened- no, you couldn’t think about it “Your mother abused you your whole childhood,” Spencer said, he lowered his hand just slightly- enough to make Royd not as threatened but still ready to shoot if needed. “You stayed silent, never said a word. And when you finally spoke up about what happened, they said you were a liar, didn’t they? They said you were a monster?”
Royd was starting to focus more on Spencer than the woman. Good. You hoped that if he could keep it up for a few more minutes, you’d be able to slip the victim away. “I’m not a monster!” he shouted
“You’re not,” Spencer nodded. “You are a victim of your mother. And we are here to help you”
After three more minutes of intense convincing, Spencer shot you a look. You needed to get to that woman now. You took a step forward “Royd. We don’t want to hurt you. Let her go now”
Royd’s head snapped in your direction. Like he forgot you were even here, and it’s like you destroyed the whole work Spencer just did. The unsub snapped, your presence threatening him. And before you could react, you heard the sound of a gunshot.
Then another.
And you were on the ground. The pain didn’t take long to wash over you, sharp in your torso. Spencer was quick to join you “I’m okay,” you whispered. It was a lie. You had no idea what the bullet hit “Go get her”
So he did, and at the same he was relieved to hear the sirens of the rest of the team arriving. “HERE!” he yelled “I NEED AN AMBULANCE. OFFICIER DOWN!” Spencer saw Morgan rushing inside who was already calling for the medics. He was taking in the sight, you laying on the ground with blood, the unsub down- shot in the leg by Spencer, and the latter trying to take care of the victim while his eyes were very clearly on you.
“I’ll take care of it,” Morgan said as he crouched by the victim’s side.
Spencer ran to you, his hand trying to figure out where the wound was. It looked bad. He had a hard time figuring out, the ripped fabric and the blood blurring together on your skin. You lifted your head to try and see
“It’s okay…” he breathed out, trying not panic. He saw the sheer fear on your face, an expression he never saw before and, in that moment, he decided to do everything to never have it happen again. “It’s okay,” he squeezed your hand “Don’t look at it”
Don’t look at it or you’ll notice how close it is to your lung was his real thought but it would be no help right now. “It’s bad?” you whispered, your voice broken. You struggled breathing- did it hit your lung? Spencer looked you, his hand changed from your hand to your cheek, his other one was pressing on your wound, hoping it’d be enough until the medics arrived. His thumb brushed your cheek, soothing both you and him. Your eyes slowly closing and the deep frown between your brows from the pain and the way your mouth was slightly open to let out weak painful breath. No, no, no. There was no way he was losing you.
“Keep your eyes open,” Spencer said, his voice wavered despite his will. “Please” he whispered. You fought against the way your eyelids felt so heavy. Spencer’s voice followed you all the way into the ambulance. Once you were monitored, you allowed yourself to give in and slip away, his hand still clutching yours.
“Sir you need to get out,” a medic informed. “We need to start acting now”
The world around Spencer blurred. Acting now? That wasn’t good. He was now 94% sure the bullet had hit your lung. Your life was on a line and he couldn’t even help. What a shitting move it was to let you grab the woman. It was all his fault. If you were dead, he’d be the one to blame and-
“Reid”
Hotch’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. Spencer’s glossy eyes made Hotch’s face soften. “You’re not to blame”
“You don’t know what happened Hotch. I gave her the signal to move and that made him shot.”
“And she decided to follow your signal because she thought- just like you- that it would work. Both you and I, and her, know an armed unsub on psychosis break is one of the most dangerous person we can come across in this job” Hotch’s tone was firm. Spencer knew it was necessary and that he was right but the guilt kept digging deeper and deeper into his stomach.
Spencer stayed silent for a bit, his thoughts running wild in his head. “Hotch,” he said “By the angle of the shot and the depth that I managed to see… there’s a 93% chance she has a punctured lung. It’s a risky surgery that has up to 62% of death rates in certain condition, not to mention the 90% chance of internal bleeding if the bullet hit th-“
“Reid,” Hotch called “I know it’s hard. But overthinking this won’t help. We need to trust the doctors”
//
Spencer paced back and forth in the hospital. They were still waiting for news. You had been in surgery for three hours and they still didn’t know the extend of the damage. He couldn’t help but imagine the worst.
Instinctively, his hand reached his mouth and he bit down his nail. He couldn’t lose you. You had always been here for him. You had been the only person he could talk to when his mother’s health decline, or when his migraines went crazy. Sometimes, he thought you were the only person who could keep him sane.
As he closed his eyes, Spencer remembered all the little thing he loved about you. The scrunch of your nose when you were focus. The way you’d roll your eyes when a man made a stupid comment. When you’d laugh before even finishing your joke, a tear rolling down your cheek. The huge grin you offered him when you gifted him mismatched socks for the BAU’s secret Santa. How you’d hook your pinky with his during the take-off of each fly because despite flying multiple times a week, you still hated the sensation.
All those things, he never thought much about before. Sure, he knew he loved them. And he was good at noticing when it came to you. But now that the idea that maybe he wouldn’t see you again brushed his mind… he felt his life depended on you. Like your presence lingered in every little thing you’d do and that made him able to keep going.
Spencer remembered what Rossi told him…
“Why don’t you tell her how you feel? I’m telling you, life is better with a woman at your side”
And he had just brushed it off. Answered with a simple nod, cheeks red and dying of embarrassment inside. But now… he wished he had told you how he felt. What if you felt the same? He maybe would have spent months knowing what it’s like to love you openly.
A sound pulled him of his thoughts.
His heartbeat quickened as a doctor stepped in. Spencer was so scared to hear the update. What if you were gone-
“She’s stable”
Spencer let out a puff of air. He hadn’t been able to breathe properly since he saw you laying on the ground. “Is she going to be okay?”
The doctor gave him an empathic look. “The surgery is still ongoing but she’s stabilized. The bullet punctured her lung and it will take her around 2 months to recover. No driving, no flying. No lifting anything heavy. Obviously, no smoking but that goes without saying. I’ll come back when she’s out of surgery.”
The next hour of wait felt like forever. Even though Spencer’s chest was lighter, he still couldn’t wait to see you again. His heart was pounding loud in his chest, the anticipation and fear gnawing at him, minute by minute. As soon as he could, he walked into your room. His throat tightened as he saw you unconscious and monitored.
Spencer didn’t even know how long he stayed, waiting for you to wake up. Hotch had insisted on staying in the hospital until you woke up as he was your boss but he had sent the rest of team home to rest and be ready for a potential case. Spencer had refused. He didn’t even get out of the room once.
His excuse was that it had been ‘his responsibility’ or ‘his fault’. Hotch knew better but he just gave him a nod and a ‘Suit yourself’.
//
You let out a small moan of pain. Your throat was dry, and your chest hurt like hell. Slowly, you remembered what happened. Royd shooting you. Struggling to breathe. The panic making it worse.
And Spencer.
Spencer who reassured you even though he was terrified himself. Spencer who held your hand as long as he could. Spencer who looked at you like losing you was losing everything.
Spencer who was looking at you right now. Eyes wide and glossy. “You’re awake…” The words left his lips like he didn’t believe them. He shuffled closer, pushing his chair against your bed “How do you feel?”
His voice was calm, knowing you probably didn’t need anything loud at the moment. He always noticed. The small swallow motion that made him offer you water. The squint of your eyes that made him turn the big light off. He could read you.
But right now… he was struggling. Your eyes… were you scared? Or grateful? Or both.
“I… I’m glad you’re here” you whispered, your hand reaching out for his. You closed your eyes when you felt his fingers wrap around your skin.
“I couldn’t leave you alone. I thought… I thought I would lose you”
You didn’t need to open your eyes to know he was almost crying. You heard it in the slight way his voice flinched. “I’m here now”
Spencer brought your hand to his mouth to leave a small kiss on your palm. His lips lingered on your skin and you let him. “I was so scared. If you die… and it’s my fault-“
That made you look at him. Your eyebrows knitted into a frown “It’s not your fault. He was unpredictable. And it’s me who decided to come in without waiting for the team. And the bulletproof vests.”
“But-“
“No, Spence” The nickname made him shut up, his lips pressed together. “I just need you around. I don’t want your guilt I just… I want you here”
Spencer pressed another kiss to your palm “Okay,” he whispered against your skin. Your lips tugged up slightly and it made him kiss your hand again. He couldn’t even explain how much he wanted you to smile.
“I wouldn’t have make it without you, Spence”
His eyes brightened “I’m glad I could help”
“Help?” you said with a small laugh that hurt “You did more than help me. It if wasn’t for you, I would have panicked and probably would have died”
Spencer glanced at his lap for a second “Morgan was ready to help you too”
“It’s not the same” His eyes were back on you “You know me. You know how I panic and how I relax. You know when I’m in pain and when I’m terrified. And I don’t need to tell you anything. No one else would have grabbed my hand and would have known that I need circles on the palm and not the back like most people.”
“You noticed?” he asked
“It’s hard not to when my eyes are always on you” you answered, your huge grin already back. That made blood rush to his cheeks
Spencer noticed you trying to lift your arm. He frowned, not understanding what you were tying to do. “Come here,” you explained, unable to move as much as you wanted because of the pain.
He leaned forward until you could wrap your arms around him. You pressed your face to his neck. Rossi’s words resonated in his head once again. ‘Tell her how you feel’
“You know… what I meant when I said I couldn’t lose you… I meant like…”
You pulled away slightly to look at him directly, a soft smile on your lips “Like?”
“Like I genuinely wouldn’t be able to live without you around. When I feel suffocating I just need to see you to breathe again. My heart stopped when I saw you bleeding out. I-“
Your lips pressed to his shut him off. His words died into a small sound against your mouth. Your lips felt dry against his but he didn’t care for a second. This was all he wanted and more. He thought you were gone, you had been so far from him and now… Now he could finally get to you. He moved slow against you, gentle. You were here. He had nothing to rush.
He pulled away and noticed how tired you look. “You should sleep,” he whispered
“Boring”
Spencer chuckled “Don’t act like you didn’t just get out of a 4-hour long surgery”
“Nah,” you said “I’m tired because you kissed me oh so good”
He shook his head amused. Your kiss had been far from heated. It had been slow and tender. A comforting idea that you were around. “Rest,” he insisted.
You let out a resigned sigh. “Fine. But do not eat my Jello while I’m asleep”
“Now,” he said, his lips finding your forehead “There are things I can’t promise”
❥ You just wanted to help your exhausted friend stop overthinking and finally get some sleep. You didn't expect the "radical therapy" to work this well—or to leave you needing a cure for your own newfound exhaustion the next morning.
❥ smut, idiots in love, workplace romance, hurt/comfort, fingering, safe sex, gentle dom!reader, hand job, desk sex, porn with plot (at least I hope so), overwhelmed and emotionally vulnerable Reid, fluff ending
❥ w/c 3k
Spencer Reid looked as though he hadn't slept in an eon or two. Then again, the statistics didn’t lie: over the past four days, he had accumulated barely six hours of fitful, restless sleep.
Another brutal case in snowbound Michigan had drained the entire BAU team. But while the other agents had turned in to their rooms in the sleepy provincial motel to pass out until morning, Reid continued to torment himself.
You stood in the dim corridor, watching the thin sliver of light cutting through the gap under his door. You didn’t have tea or sleeping pills in your hands. You had a plan. And more importantly, you had a scientific justification.
The idea sounded insane, of course, but what choice did you have? Pour him a mug of chamomile? Force-feed him sedatives? Try to lull him to sleep by reading a research paper aloud? Pure nonsense.
Spencer wasn't an ordinary man—his hyperactive brain, wired by constant analysis and trauma, simply ignored standard relaxation techniques. He didn't just need physical fatigue; he needed a massive sensory and emotional reboot strong enough to overwrite the horrific crime scene imagery loop running in his head.
And once you candidly admitted to yourself who you’d been dreaming of using as that "reboot" for the past few months, the picture clicked into place perfectly.
Quietly turning the handle, you slipped inside.
Reid sat at a modest wooden desk, stripped down to his vest and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked rough, to put it mildly. His tie was crooked, his curls had been raked through dozens of times, and a mountain of case files lay spread out before him.
"Spencer," you called softly, shutting the door behind you.
The genius flinched, snapping his head around. His hazel eyes were clouded over with a thick, painful haze of exhaustion, dark shadows carved deep beneath them.
"What...? Did something happen? A new unsub?"
He immediately made a move to stand, professional reflex kicking in faster than his exhausted brain, but you gently pushed him back down.
"Sit. No new unsub. The only disaster here is your reticular activating system refusing to shut down."
"I know." Spencer let out a quiet sigh, dropping his face into his hands. "Chronic insomnia reduces cognitive function by thirty percent. But I can't sleep. My brain just keeps running through the evidence."
"Which is precisely why we need to apply radical therapy." You waited until his attention shifted back to you, adopting that same lecture-ready, confident tone, mirroring his cadence. "According to research, a sudden surge of oxytocin and endorphins drops blood cortisol levels by 45%, dampens amygdala hyperactivity, and guarantees deep slow-wave sleep."
Spencer blinked slowly, his brow furrowing as he tried to process the data.
"Well... theoretically, endogenous opioids do facilitate a reduction in emotional distress, but the most efficient trigger for their release is..."
You didn’t let him finish. Smoothly, with unhurried grace, you dropped to your knees on the worn carpet right between his parted legs.
Spencer froze. The exhaustion on his face gave way to utter bewilderment, a faint flush creeping up his pale cheeks.
"Wait..." He stammered, frantically reaching out to grab your wrist just as your fingers brushed against his belt "You don't have to do this. You shouldn't force yourself into something like this just because I..."
He trailed off and averted his eyes, but you caught the fleeting emotion beneath the fatigue. It wasn't disgust or reluctance—far from it. Those wide hazel eyes held hesitation mixed with a latent, desperate hunger you’d recognized in your own reflection for months.
"Shut up," you whispered, squeezing his trembling palm. "I'm doing this because I want to. Besides, if you pass out during tomorrow's briefing, who's going to grab my coffee?"
You leaned forward, your hands sliding up his thighs, applying firm, deliberate pressure. Spencer let out a choked gasp as you lightly nipped the spot right above his knee through the cloth, before dragging your palms upward toward the epicenter of his rising heat.
The clink of the belt buckle undoing seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room.
The thin fabric of his boxers offered little resistance, stretching taut over the impressive length of him. Your throat went instantly dry at the sight. He was already hard, pulsing with a restless, desperate need.
Damn. Poor guy. You should have done this much earlier.
You moved your hand in slow, deliberate strokes, sliding from the warm base all the way up to the swollen tip that pressed insistently against your palm. The sensation of him—thick, rigid, and already slick with pre-cum—sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
"You're... you're completely out of your mind..." he rasped, his eyes half-closed, his breath hitching every time your thumb rubbed over the sensitive head through the cotton.
"Just observational data, Spencer," You leaned in close, enjoying the sudden flare of heat off his skin, "Look how fast your pulse is racing. Or do you want me to stop?"
"No," the answer punched out of his lungs instantly. "Please, don't."
"Good boy"
You leaned closer, intent on taking him into your mouth. Honestly, watching the BAU's resident genius completely unravel under your hands was a thrill you could definitely get used to.
But the sudden shift in intimacy, the sheer vulnerability of the moment, made him hesitate. He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands hovering near your shoulders, unsure of where to land as a fresh wave of shyness hit his exhausted mind.
"Spencer?" you asked gently, pausing and resting your chin against his thigh, looking up at him.
It took him a few seconds to respond. When he slowly lifted his head, his face was flushed, his eyes shiny with unshed tears of pure fatigue and overwhelm.
"I'm sorry. My mind... it won't stop. I want this, I really do, but I... I feel like I'm losing my grip."
"You're not losing anything. You're just exhausted. Let go of the control, Spence. Let me take over."
The tension in his shoulders finally snapped, melting into profound relief. The desperate need to bridge the remaining distance overwhelmed his usual restraint.
Instead of moving lower, you rose to your feet, gently catching the lapels of his shirt. You coaxed him upward, and he followed blindly, yielding completely to your quiet authority. With a fluid motion, you hopped onto the edge of the desk—sending a stack of case files cascading to the floor without a second thought—and drew him into the space between your parted knees.
The sudden shift in gravity made his pulse spike. The papers scattered on the carpet were forgotten. Nothing existed except the dim motel room, the howl of the winter wind outside, and Spencer looking at you as though you were both his only salvation and his most dangerous temptation.
He placed his hands gently on your waist. His long, nimble fingers—the ones that usually flipped through ancient volumes at lightning speed—explored your skin with a reverent, almost trembling gentleness, as if you were a priceless manuscript he was terrified of ruining.
With every touch, the frantic edge bled out of him. It was working. Your presence, your enthusiastic consent, and this unexpected intimacy were soothing his nervous system better than any sedative.
He leaned in, pressing a soft, almost hesitant kiss to your mouth before growing bolder. His lips traced the curve of your jaw, leaving a trail of warm, desperate heat in their wake. He sought out the pulse point at your neck, his breath ghosting over your collarbone as he mapped every inch of skin he could reach with reverent, lingering devotion.
"So?" you breathed out, arching your back as he worked your jeans down your hips. "Feeling relaxed yet?"
"It's remarkable..." his voice was wrecked, trembling slightly as he gripped your waist like a lifeline. "Physiologically speaking, natural lubrication indicates complete receptivity..."
Lord, he was a massive nerd even when he was half-naked. Not that you were complaining.
"Spencer," you murmured, brushing a stray curl from his forehead to cut through the nervous academic babble.
The words died in his throat. You could physically see the moment his intellectual shield fractured, the desperate need finally overwhelming his meticulous self-control. The brilliant, rapid-fire mind of the BAU's youngest agent surrendered entirely, leaving only a raw, unguarded man seeking solace in your hold.
"I just need you... God, I need you so much it hurts. My brain… it's too loud, and you're the only quiet thing left. Please..."
Your heart gave a painful tug at the sheer vulnerability in his plea, a rush of fierce affection surging through your veins.
"Shh, I've got you, I'm right here. Just follow my lead, okay?"
"Okay"
You guided his hand down, letting his meticulous fingers find the slick, aching readiness of your body.
You bit back a soft gasp, leaning back on your palms as he slowly eased a finger inside. He moved with agonizing care, testing the hot, pulsing tightness, before smoothly adding a second. His touch was meticulously precise, as though he were mapping out the exact geography of your pleasure.
You watched his chest heave, watched the harsh lines on his forehead smooth out as his entire focus shifted to you—leaving behind the blood, the evidence, and the dark thoughts.
And that was the best thing you'd seen all week.
"Look at you... Still trying to profile me mid-act, Doctor? You really can't turn that brain off for even a second, can you?"
Spencer swallowed hard, a faint blush dusting his cheekbones. But he didn't stop. He pushed deeper, his thumb maintaining a relentless, maddening rhythm on your clit. The wet friction echoed softly in the quiet room. He anchored your thigh with his free hand, keeping you securely on the edge of the desk as he found a pace that made your toes curl.
You shifted your hips, wordlessly guiding him to the exact angle you needed. He learned with terrifying speed, his genius mind adapting to your subtle cues as he angled his touch, pressing right against the most sensitive bundle of nerves.
When he finally withdrew his fingers, an involuntary shiver ran down your spine, your hips instinctively chasing the retreating heat. But before doubt could creep into his mind, you sat up, nodding toward your discarded jeans on the floor.
"In the pocket, Spence."
On autopilot, he reached down and pulled out the small foil packet. His eyes widened, his brilliant mind racing as he looked from the wrapper to your calm, slightly smirk-laden face.
"You... you brought a condom with you? Meaning your hypothesis accounted for..."
"Insomnia is a serious condition, Doctor Reid," you interrupted with playful sternness, rolling your eyes. "And I care about my partner enough to mitigate all potential risks."
A quiet, genuine smile broke across his face—warm and unburdened—though his hands shook slightly as he tore open the foil; not from exhaustion now, but from a surge of pure, intoxicating adrenaline.
He hovered over you, a sudden wave of shy hesitation freezing him in place as he realized the magnitude of what was about to happen. Taking pity on him, you reached up, threading your fingers into his messy curls to pull him down into a slow, reassuring kiss. He melted into it instantly, pouring all of his unsaid feelings into the embrace as he tentatively, carefully guided his broad tip against your wet core.
"Statistical models suggest... my cortisol levels are dropping significantly. However, I'd like to conduct a more thorough investigation... if you'll allow it."
You were out of breath. From the way he looked at you—with that raw, unadulterated devotion—and from the agonizingly slow way he nudged against your wet folds, your own self-control buckled. You wanted him so badly your teethached.
"And who am I to interrupt an ongoing study?"
He pushed forward. Slowly, with excruciating care, Spencer slid all the way inside you.
The physical reality of it—the searing heat, the tight, rhythmically pulsing walls wrapping around him—hit his exhausted, sensory-overloaded brain like a shockwave. You gasped, fingernails digging into his back through his shirt as he filled you completely.
And then Spencer froze.
He didn't pull back, but his breath hitched sharply. The rigid control he’d held onto all night finally cracked under the sheer weight of the pleasure. He dropped his head forward, burying his flushed face deeply into the crook of your neck and shoulder. He leaned his full weight against you as if his spine had suddenly given out, his long fingers tangling tightly into the fabric of your shirt, clinging to you like a drowning man.
"I... I can't," he choked out, his voice muffled against your skin, trembling and broken. "It's too much... I—"
"Spencer, hey," you soothed, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist to lock him close. You cupped the back of his head, running your fingers through his damp curls. "I've got you. You're safe."
You pressed a warm kiss to his temple, holding him through the overwhelming sensory crash. "You don't have to control everything right now. You don't have to be the genius, or the agent, or fix anything. Just be here with me."
Those words shattered the final barrier in his mind.
He began to move. At first, his thrusts were deep and slow, guided by a desperate reverence, but quickly the pace quickened. The accumulated trauma, the nightmares, the horrors of the case—it all burned away in the fiery rhythm between you. His hands dug into your hips, anchoring you as the desk creaked under your weight.
As the coil in your gut tightened to a unbearable pitch, you felt him shudder. His movements became frantic, erratic as he hit his peak.
"It's okay," you breathed into his ear, meeting his sharp thrusts. "Let it go, Spencer..."
A shattered sound escaped him, and as your inner muscles clamped tightly around him in a wave of intense orgasm, Spencer drove into you with a few final, powerful thrusts, spilling himself completely into the protection.
You held each other tightly as the world slowly settled back into place. Spencer’s heart hammered against your chest, his heavy, hot breaths fanning across your collarbone.
"So, Doctor Reid...How's the amygdala?"
Spencer let out a quiet, deeply relieved chuckle against your skin, making no effort to pull away.
"The amygdala has been successfully muted. Hypothesis... fully validated."
He carefully withdrew, tied off the condom, and tossed it into the small wastebasket by the desk. He barely had the energy to wash his hands at the sink before pulling you toward the single large bed in the room.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
"I overdid it,"
You thought to yourself hours later, lying under the heavy motel blanket. Serves you right for trying to outlast an FBI agent whose brain literally never stops.
You listened to Spencer's slow, steady breathing—he had passed out the second his head hit the pillow. You, on the other hand, lay awake a little longer.
A sweet, heavy languor draped over your limbs. Your muscles ached pleasantly, a lingering, warm throb between your thighs acting as physical proof that the night hadn't been a dream.
You turned your head slightly on the pillow.
Spencer slept peacefully, bundled in the blanket, his nose pressed right into your shoulder. Even in his sleep, his long fingers held tightly onto the hem of your shirt.
He looked almost entirely different—the sharp, defensive posture he carried all day had melted completely into the mattress, leaving him looking soft, grounded, and entirely unguarded.
Watching his chest rise and fall, a soft smile touched your lips. You both needed that spark—to shed the weight of other people's horrors and anchor yourselves in a rare moment of quiet intimacy.
You pressed a gentle kiss to his messy hair before finally letting exhaustion pull you under.
The next morning, the motel lobby was bustling with the team's usual routine.
Derek Morgan stood holding a cardboard tray of coffees, casually chatting with Emily. Hotch was reviewing paperwork near the entrance, while Garcia’s voice chirped loudly from JJ’s speakerphone.
The elevator doors chimed and opened. You and Spencer stepped out.
The contrast was immediate.
Spencer Reid looked impossibly refreshed. His curls fell in soft, healthy waves, and his eyes held a bright, clear spark the team hadn't seen in months. He practically glided across the floor.
You, meanwhile, dragged your feet slightly. Your body still remembered every second of last night's "therapy," your muscles were stiff, and your eyes heavy from needing about three more hours of sleep.
The team froze in unison.
Morgan slowly lowered his coffee cup, his eyes darting from a glowing, bright-eyed Spencer to you—disheveled, exhausted, yet wearing a completely unbothered expression.
Derek exchanged a look with Emily. Prentiss raised a single eyebrow with a look so loaded with subtext you briefly considered retreating back into the elevator.
"Good morning, everyone!" Spencer announced brightly, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. "It’s a fantastic day for a flight. Humidity dropped by twelve percent, which significantly reduces the likelihood of atmospheric turbulence!"
"Riiiiight..." Morgan drawled, narrowing his eyes as he sized Reid up. "Great weather, Spence. You look... remarkably well-rested, kid."
"I slept extraordinarily well, Derek," the genius replied with absolute, childlike sincerity, completely oblivious to the subtext. "My REM cycle lasted over five hours, and my oxytocin... that is, my baseline cortisol levels have completely normalized."
You coughed abruptly into your travel mug to muffle a groan.
Emily casually drifted over to your side, patting your shoulder with a sympathetic, amused smirk, leaning in to whisper in your ear.
"Rough night? Looks like our boy wonder absorbed every last drop of your life force."
"Insomnia is a serious medical condition, Emily," you replied with a stone-face and absolute dignity, fighting back a smile. "Someone had to administer emergency intervention."
"Oh, I bet," Morgan chuckled, passing by and flashing a sly wink at the two of you. "Just make sure those 'clinical protocols' stay inside your private lab, Doctor Reid."
Spencer’s rambling ground to an abrupt halt. It took his overtired brain exactly two seconds to process Morgan’s double entendre. He stiffened, clearing his throat and adjusting the strap of his satchel with sudden, frantic precision.
"Medical confidentiality is, of course, strictly observed," he muttered, refusing to meet Morgan’s eye. But as he hurried past the team toward the glass doors, he shot a quick, sideways glance at you—a flash of pure, unapologetic smugness that told you he didn't regret a single thing.
Spencer's eyes roll back as you move against him, hips rotating, lifting off him and sinking back down at a pace that is criminally slow, and so, so delicious. There are nights where Spencer must have you, nights where you're pulled together like magnets, taking what you need without a single thought. Then there are nights like this one. The sun is setting outside the window, the room is pleasantly warm, all heat generated by the connection of your bodies. His hands never leaving your skin, roaming the peaks and valleys of your body like a sensory dream. If he really, really focuses through the fog of pleasure radiating through his abdomen, he can feel the stretch mark at your side, the pad of his thumb moving back and forth across it. You're so perfect to him, he lets out a soft moan at the thought alone. Adoration sets his heart alight, and he becomes tender so quickly that he tugs at your arm gently, prompting you down for a kiss. When your chest presses against his, he relishes in the warmth, taking the new angle in stride as he plants his feet on the mattress and begins thrusting into you, deep and slow. The sound you make makes his chest feel warm, makes him let out a soft, breathy chuckle as a smile graces his lips. His eyes are half lidded, and so are yours, cheeks reddened, face covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He knows you don't like how you flush, but he loves it. Physical evidence of your arousal, of what he is doing to you. When his lips meet yours, he gently bites at your lower lip, and it prompts you to kiss him harder, forcing his head back down against the pillow. He could do this forever. Cock sliding in and out of you, pleasure thrumming mutually between you both, unrushed and full of love.
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