Pay Gorn - I’ve never done smut before and I don’t have a penis, so - Dicks - precum - raw dick in the ass - teasing - age gap - dad’s bsf son trope - Jack Abbot being naughty
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—
Jack considered himself a funny man. His humor was something that caught others off guard and occasionally warm in the chest when it ended in praise. He was a man who spoke when it was necessary, and no more. His wife said he was a secret comedian.
Jack Abbot also had other secrets between him and his darling wife.
Like the fact that he could spell lavender forwards and backwards and she eyed every woman with long brown hair. They were soulmates - but there was a reason they never had children. He was heartbroken when his wife died, even if they didn’t connect the way traditional couples did. But damn if they weren’t good at playing the part.
When she passed, it left Jack with community, friends. ‘Sorry for your loss’ in a million cards and in every hard pat on the back. Jack felt the most guilt not at the fact that she bled out in the car accident and he was a doctor that could have saved it if he wasn’t unconscious in the driver's seat - but at the hopeful seed growing in his chest that now he could give in to his desires, albeit quietly. A deal of their marriage was no cheating, stay devoted, sleep in the same bed. They’d both kept it all 14 years of their marriage. BUt they also promised each other if the other passed - they’d take it as a sign of the universe to pursue what their heart really yearns for.
She was a lawyer, he was in the army and still going out on SWAT calls. They both thought it would be him.
But when one of Jack’s old military friends hosts a barbeque and guilts him into attending he realizes maybe the universe was right, because he’s strangely stuck in place when he finds a specific pull toward the back of the yard and tucked into a hammock is his friend’s son. He’d never gotten to know him as a kid, and that was for the best he supposed and would make him a creep as the not-so-innocent thoughts of having the now college aged male underneath him. Jack Abbot spent a good chunk of his life firing guns, getting blown up, and putting people together - but at this moment there wasn’t anything on his mind but how his calloused fingers would feel against the soft and unscarred skin lying in the hammock. How impressionable was he? If he was told to stay, would he obey? Or would he say ‘fuck you’ and need a dose of discipline Jack himself once needed.
—
The thought is exhilarating and pushes him to find out, and find out he does. Jack manages to hold a beer, the condescation slicking his fingers as he moves to that hammock under the shade. He keeps it casual and cool, he’s an old man with a missing leg after all.
Somehow god is on his side, and you’re sweeter than he imagined.
You say ‘yes, sir.’ when he asks you to take him inside and show him the bathroom, and when he falls into you enough to pin you against the hallway wall with all the intention of blaming his clumsiness on his leg you don’t look bothered in the slightest.
Your hand cups his crotch that's already half hard against your palm. Your eyes beckon him like sin.
God, what is he doing?
But when you drop your hand back to your side and so sweetly ask to show him your bedroom he follows like the old dog he is. He’s made to follow orders. He’s convinced he’d take your cock in his mouth right in the hallway if you asked for it.
Your sheets are blue plaid and cooler than he expected, and he notices there’s a draft coming from the open window. The window grants a perfect view of the backyard, and his heart skips at the thought of someone seeing him in here with you.
His attention is drawn back when you drag your t-shirt over your head and look expectantly for him to do the same. He slowly strips himself down to his boxers, though he seems almost embarrassed at having a creaky prosthetic when he sits at the edge of your bed.
You assure him in a soft voice that ‘it’s ok, your cock still works, right?’
‘I’m not that old, kid.’ He grunts, letting out a choked noise but nodding, and his dick jumps underneath your palm as you touch where the fabric bulges. His legs are spread, your body perched atop his with one foot on the ground to balance yourself.
Your own cock is yearning and he finds his calloused, worn palm touching the front of your bulging trunks before he finds the waistband and gives it a tug. It doesn’t take long for you to shimmy out of them, leaving you bare with your cock pointing at him and glistening at the tip.
It’s your turn to be bashful, turning away with red cheeks.
‘No, no, it’s ok. Look at me.’
He demands, voice gravelly and low. There’s a half smile on his face as his eyes search yours.
His hips shift as he pulls his briefs down his legs, and then stands before you with his large hands on your warm skin. One cups your hip, the other grips your shoulder.
‘Lay down on your back.’
His hand moves from your shoulder to your face, his thumb drifting over your bottom lip before he pulls away entirely and waits for you to obey.
‘Just relax.’
He instructs, stepping to the edge of the bed once you’re laid before him. Your legs are bent at the knee, your face nervous and eyes a bit wide. He leans over you, one hand finding your left knee and pushing it to the side, wider, spreading you out before him. His right hand presses to the middle of your chest and he tilts his head.
‘I’m not fucking you until you calm down.’
He teases, voice low as he feels your pulse thrum. His thumb brushes across your skin.
He pulls your knees until they’re pressed to either sides of him, against his hips. His thumbs caress your skin, hands holding under each knee now as he gazes down at you and gives little encouraging nods of his head. He breathes deeply himself, hoping you’ll catch on.
Once he’s convinced your heart isn’t running like a jackrabbit he lifts his right hand to his face and sticks his thumb against the inside of his cheek. He pulls his slicked finger from his mouth, his left hand spreading you wider. His wet thumb finds your puckered hole and boldly presses against it, testing the resistance.
He chuckles under his breath, pointer finger lifting to press your leaking tip as your cock twitches with every touch.
He presses his thumb in, face concentrating on your expression, taking it in.
‘No, no, no…relax.’
He coaxes as he feels you tighten around his thumb. It isn’t even past the nail and he’s paused.
‘My cock’s never gonna fit if you don’t calm down.’
He chides, then shifts his stance and bends his good leg against the edge of the bed for some cushion. He leans into where he starts to press in again, thumb sliding into your ass slow and steady.
‘There you go, knew you could do it.’
He praises softly, eyes gentle as his knuckle slides into you. He starts moving his thumb in and out, curling so the pad of his finger brushes a particular spot that has you jolting.
‘Gonna push my cock right there, it’ll feel so much better. You want my fat cock fucking you?’
He teases, clearly enjoying the red in your face and the furrow in your brows. Your fingers are digging into his hand where the left holds your leg at his side. HIs thumb is fully inside of you know, seated until he moves it in and out at a steady pace - then faster.
After a good few strokes has you moaning, he waits until your head is tipped and your concentration is to the ceiling before he pulls his thumb out and replaces it with the tip of his leaking cock. His precum smears against your pulsing hole. His mushroom tip squelches softly as it pushes against the resistance of your tight ass even with his quick preparation.
The stretch is a little much, it has your hips shifting and a choked protest forming on your tongue. His body settles over yours quickly, his hands moving away from your leg to steady himself and press close next to your head. His other hand grabs your hip. He stills for a moment, tip perfectly pushed inside as he allows you a moment of grace to adjust around the stretch.
Then he ruts forward, dull nails forming crescents into your skin. He grunts low in his throat, his other hand fisting the sheets next to your head. He watches your expression shift, and he dips his head so his lips catch yours in a hungry kiss to muffle your soft sob.
He loves the way your nails dig into the freckled skin of his back, dragging downward to anchor yourself. The hand that gripped the sheets next to your head slides underneath him, settling in the middle of your back before dragging down to cup your ass. His heavy body settles over your, pinning it into the mattress as his hips shift and his cock drags slowly in and out of you.
His kisses are rough, hungry, and messy. His tongue presses to yours and then licks at your teeth before sucking your lip and pulling away.
‘You ever been fucked by a cock this fat before?’
He asks against your lips, panting as he picks up speed.
At some quip you give about his age he grunts against your chin and really slams into you, balls smacking against your ass.
‘You wanna say that again?’
He asks harshly, picking up pace without mercy even as you choke on your gasps and your eyes bead with tears. His cock angles perfectly to hit your prostate, and even the burn of his girthy cock starts to feel euphoric as it slams into you. Your cock twitches against your stomach, precum dribbling down.
He grunts against your throat, cock shifting inside you, twitching at the oversensitivity.
‘Gonna cum..You better fucking cum with me.’
He rasps, voice heavy. His hips quicken with every movement in and out until they stutter and he pathetically moans against your neck. It almost sounds like a sob. His body stills, pressed to the hilt of you while his cum spurts and fills your ass. He holds you tight to his sweaty chest, your cock shifting between the two of you as you cry out, back arching off the comforter as your dick spills spend all over your stomach.
Jack breathes heavy but doesn’t let his weight crush you. Instead, he rolls over and pulls you over his chest, right above his pounding heart. He grunts at the effort, but shuts his eyes. One arm is lazily slung over your hip while the other finds your hair, pushing it back. His cock is still lazily jumping inside of you, rivulets of cum seeping from between your legs.
Just as he leans back to look you in the eyes, the scene shifts.
-
Jack jolts awake, covered in sweat and his boxers wet like he’s a fucking teenager. His grey curls are plastered to his forehead, his hands hurriedly hauling himself to sit against his headboard and flick the bedside lamp on. He rips the duvet off his lap, cock still twitching in his boxers. His face is red and he’s panting.
“Fuck - dammit.”
He curses. He feels guilty, dreaming about his best friend’s son. God he’s a filthy old man. His prosthetic is laid across the nightstand, almost taunting him as he fumbles for a box of tissues. He cleans himself up in silence.
He isn’t sure how he can face his friend - or you for that matter - at the fourth of july barbeque that’s happening later in the day.
But he has until 2pm to figure it out.
And more importantly, how to make the dirty fantasy his dreams chalked up a reality.
Summary: For years, Spencer Reid has kept his feelings for his best friend locked away, certain she would never feel the same way. But Spencer, ever the profiler, can't stop noticing certain patterns in her behaviour. The data is right there in front of him, he's just too afraid to trust it. What happens when he can't ignore the evidence anymore?
Genre: Smut (and some fluff. But mostly smutty smut.) 18+ mdni
Word count: 7000
Warnings: Idiots in love trope, no use of 'y/n', oral (m & f receiving), fingering, protected p-in-v (we are sensible), aftercare, use of pet names ('angel' and 'sweet girl'). This is porn with minimal plot. (Let me know if there's anything I've missed).
A/n: Thank you to everyone who read my last (first) fic, I wasn't expecting that many people to even notice it, so all the notes meant a lot. This one has been sat in my drafts for so long, every time I read it I change something, so I think it's finally time to put it out there into the universe before I drive myself insane. I have a few other drafts/ stories on the go, but my requests are open if anyone would like to send me any of their ideas.
This one is very self-serving - I get off on giving late-seasons Spencer Reid a happy ending. He deserved so much more. Anyway, happy reading my loves.
(Divider by @strangergraphics)
Spencer looked up at you from across the room. You were at your desk, staring at the same paragraph of a consult report you'd been trying to finish for the last hour. Your eyes kept drifting, your mind wandering.
He'd been doing that more often lately. Watching. Not the clinical way a profiler watched a suspect, more like an astronomer studying a newly discovered star, trying to make sense of something that had rearranged the shape of his universe. You hadn't noticed, of course.
Across the bullpen, Spencer Reid sat at his desk. He'd been fidgeting all afternoon. More than usual. His pen tapped against his legal pad in rhythms you'd learned to read over four years of friendship. Morse code for anxiety, for something tugging at his brain that he couldn't quite articulate.
You knew him, maybe better than anyone.
What you didn't know, what you couldn't have known, was that Spencer had spent the last three weeks cataloguing data points. Not for a case. For you.
Your head tilted slightly as you read, and your right hand moved to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was automatic, unconscious, and Spencer had seen you do it thousands of times. But now he let himself notice the shape of your ear, the way your fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary, the way your lips parted just slightly as you reached the end of a paragraph.
He looked down at his own hands. They were trembling. His heart rate (he'd counted) was sitting at a steady ninety-four beats per minute, which was textbook sympathetic nervous system activation. This had been building for weeks, ever since he'd started letting himself catalogue the evidence instead of dismissing it.
The pupils. That was the one he couldn't explain away. Three days ago, you'd brought him coffee during a briefing. When you handed it to him, your fingers had brushed his, and your eyes had met his for exactly two-point-three seconds. He'd counted. And in those two-point-three seconds, your pupils had dilated. Not dramatically, but enough. Enough that someone trained to notice micro-expressions would catch it.
Spencer had caught it.
And then he'd spent the next seventy-two hours constructing and deconstructing arguments for why it might not mean what he desperately wanted it to mean. Maybe the lighting had shifted. Maybe you were experiencing an adrenaline spike from the case. Maybe he was projecting, imposing his own inconvenient, persistent, all-consuming feelings onto perfectly platonic physiological responses.
He was good at that. Convincing himself he was wrong. He'd had years of practice.
But the pupils weren't the only data point.
Your proximity. In any room you always found yourself close to him. Like the way you'd leaned into his shoulder on the jet last Tuesday, your breath evening out as you drifted off, your body choosing him over the empty seat across the aisle.
There was the way you mirrored his body language. When he leaned forward at the conference room table, you leaned forward. When he crossed his arms, you crossed yours beat later. When he took a sip of coffee, you reached for your own mug. Mirroring was a subconscious indicator of rapport - every profiler knew that - but you did it with him specifically. Consistently. Exclusively.
There was the way you reached for him when you were uncomfortable. A hand on his arm during difficult briefings. A shoulder pressed against his in the elevator after a bad case.
There was the way you called him. Not Garcia, not JJ, not Emily. *Him*. When your car had broken down at two in the morning, you'd called him. When you couldn't sleep because a case had wormed its way into your subconscious, you called him. He always answered. Even at 2am. Even when he was busy. Exhausted. It didn't matter. And when your voice cracked on the other end, something in his chest pulled tight with the need to fix it, to be whatever you needed him to be.
You'd done the same for him, of course. After prison, when sleep became something to fear, when closing his eyes meant being dragged back into that cell, you'd slept beside him. Held him. Your body warm and solid and real against his, anchoring him to a world that didn't always feel worth staying in. With your hand on his chest and your breath steady against his shoulder, he'd found something that felt almost like safety.
It would have been so easy to kiss you then. In the dark, with your body curled against his and your hair smelling like roses and your fingers tracing unconscious patterns on his shirt.
He hadn't.
Because what if he was wrong? What if the thing he saw in your eyes was just friendship? Deep and genuine and real, but friendship nonetheless? What if kissing you meant losing you? He couldn't lose you. He'd lost too much already. His mother, in a way. Maeve. The years the FBI had taken from him. Pieces of himself he wasn't sure he'd ever get back.
But the evidence was mounting. The data was irrefutable. And utterly terrifying.
Spencer closed his file and stood. His chair scraped against the floor, and you looked up from your report. Your lips curved into the small smile you reserved just for him, the one that made his chest ache.
"Hey," he said, crossing the distance between your desks. His satchel hung from his shoulder, and he kept his hands in his pockets. Casual. Like his heart wasn't hammering against his sternum.
"Hey Spence. Everything okay?"
Spencer blinked. "Yes. I mean... Yes. Everything's fine. I was just thinking."
"About?"
About the way your voice softens when you say my name. About the statistical improbability that you could ever feel the same way I do. About how I've memorised the exact shade of your eyes and I'm terrified that telling you the truth might mean I never get to see them again.
"Case," he said.
Your eyebrow lifted. "Which case?"
"The..." He scrambled for something plausible. "The Albuquerque arson case. The accelerant pattern doesn't match the profile."
"We closed that case three weeks ago."
Spencer ran a hand through his hair. "I know. I just... I can't stop thinking about it."
The lie felt flimsy, and he could tell you didn't buy it. Your head tilted and your eyes searched his face.
"Spence." Your voice dropped, quiet enough that no one else in the bullpen would hear. "Talk to me."
And there it was. The opening. The opportunity he'd been waiting for. The moment he'd rehearsed a hundred times in his head, always with a different outcome. Sometimes you smiled and kissed him. Sometimes you looked at him with pity and gently explained that you didn't feel that way. Sometimes you just walked away.
He could let the moment pass. He could make a joke, deflect, retreat to the safety of statistics and comfortable silence. He could bury his feelings so deep that even he forgot they were there.
But the pupils. The mirroring. The way you'd held him through the worst nights of his life and never once made him feel broken.
The evidence was there.
And Spencer Reid had never been able to ignore evidence.
"Can we… I need to talk to you. Not here."
Your brow furrowed. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Yes. I just - " He swallowed. "My place? Or yours. Either. Whatever you prefer."
Something in his voice. A tremor beneath the words. You'd heard it before - in the weeks after Millburn, when he'd wake up gasping and you'd be there, already reaching for him in the dark. But this wasn't that. This was different.
"My place," you said, saving your file and shutting down your computer. "Let me grab my coat."
The drive took fourteen minutes. Spencer counted.
He counted because it gave his brain something to do other than imagining every single way this conversation could go wrong, every possible sentence he could fumble, every micro-expression that might cross your face when you realised what he was trying to say. Every way you could let him down. When you finally pulled up outside your building, Spencer followed you inside without a word. The latch of your apartment door clicked into place behind you. Final. Irrevocable. A quiet, ordinary sound that, to Spencer, felt like a point of no return.
Your apartment was warm and cosy. Books stacked on every available surface. A record player sat by the window, a stack of well-worn vinyl leaning against its stand. And there, stuck to your fridge, a photo of the team. Worn soft at the edges like you'd looked at it more than once. He stood in the middle of your living room, hands still buried in his pockets, shoulders tight.
"Spence." You hung your coat on the hook by the door and turned to face him. "You're scaring me a little."
"Don't be scared. Everything's fine. I just need to... I need to talk to you about something."
He pulled his hands from his pockets and gestured toward the couch. "Can we sit?" You nodded and settled into your usual corner, tucking your legs beneath you. He sat, but not close. A careful foot of distance between you. Unusual. Spencer turned to face your direction, but his eyes remained fixed on the floor. This was it. It was now or never.
"I've been observing something," he started, and the words came out stilted, rehearsed. Like he'd been practicing them in his head for days. "Patterns. Behavioral patterns. Specific to you. And me. Us."
Your breath caught. He heard it - the slight hitch, the way your chest stuttered. "Spencer."
"Just - let me finish. Please. If I don't get this out I'm going to lose my nerve."
He took a breath. Rapid. Shallow. "Your pupils dilate when you look at me. I've measured, I have three weeks of data. Not consistently, but with a correlation coefficient that's statistically significant."
You didn't say anything.
"You mirror my body language," he continued, the words coming faster now, tumbling out like he was reciting a paper from memory. "Crossing your arms when I cross mine, leaning forward when I lean forward, even adjusting your breathing rate to match mine, which is a phenomenon called interpersonal synchrony and it's been well-documented in dyads who share a close emotional bond but it's typically most pronounced in..." He stopped. Swallowed. "In romantic partnerships."
Your lips parted. Said nothing.
"You reach for me," he said, and the words caught in his throat. "Instinctively. When you're uncomfortable. When you're scared. When you're upset. You reach for me. When we're in a room together, you position yourself within arm's reach of me regardless of the spatial configuration. Your body orients toward mine. Your feet point at me when we're talking. You find reasons to touch me - my shoulder, my wrist, your knee against mine. You're not… you don't do that with anyone else. I've checked."
Your mouth opened. Closed. You stayed quiet.
"And at first, I dismissed it. All of it. Because it didn't make sense. I know correlation doesn't equal causation. I know there could be other explanations, I've considered all of them. I thought, there's no way. I'm projecting. I want it to be true so badly that I'm manufacturing evidence to support a conclusion I've already drawn. That's confirmation bias. It's a classic cognitive error."
He paused. You still hadn't moved.
But the pupil dilation," he broke off and looked at you. Finally. His eyes, those impossible hazel eyes, held yours with an intensity that stole your breath. "It's a physiological response mediated by the autonomic nervous system. You can't fake it. And your pupils dilate for me."
The silence that followed was deafening. Spencer's heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his temples. His hands were trembling. You watched him notice you notice, and he folded them together in his lap, knuckles whitening. Then he turned to face you fully, and though his hands still shook, he didn't try to hide it anymore. "I'm terrified that saying what I'm about to say might ruin everything. But I can't... I can't ignore the evidence anymore." He braced himself. "I'm in love with you," he said. "I have been. For a while. A long while. I don't know exactly when it started, but I know that when I was in that cell, when I couldn't think of anything worth surviving for, I thought of you. I thought of your laugh. Your smile. The way you ask me questions when I'm rambling about something no one else cares about. The way you make me feel like my brain isn't something to tolerate but something to..." His voice broke again. He pressed his lips together, composing himself. "Something to celebrate. And I know... I know that the probability of someone like you having feelings for someone like me is statistically very low. I know I've never been the person people choose. I know I'm broken in ways that might never fully heal."
You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but watch him unravel before you, this brilliant, beautiful man who had no idea how completely he owned you.
"I'm a profiler," he said, quieter now. "And I see things. I see how you look at me. And as improbable as it might seem, every piece of evidence I have suggests you might feel the same way. I need to know if the data means what I think it means. Because if it doesn't, if I'm wrong, I need to find a way to be okay with that. I need to find a way to keep being your friend without this - this hope - eating me alive." His voice dropped to something raw and unguarded. "So I guess my question is," he said, rough, scraped bare, "am I wrong? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm reading into things that aren't there, and I'll stop. I'll never bring it up again. We can pretend this conversation never happened, and I'll be fine. *We'll* be fine. I just need to know, because I can't keep - " His voice broke. "I can't keep hoping for something that might not exist."
The tears spilled over. One traced a path down your cheek, and Spencer's fingers twitched with the urge to brush it away. "Do you have feelings for me?"
For a long moment, you didn't speak. Couldn’t.
Spencer counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. His heart pounded hard enough to shake his ribs, and his palms were sweating, and he was already mentally preparing himself for the rejection, already constructing the argument for why this didn't have to change anything, already drafting the apology.
Your hand found his cheek, warm and stubbled and so familiar. His breath caught. His eyes - wide, terrified, hopeful - searched your face like he was memorising it for the last time.
"Yes" you said, a smile appearing on your face despite the tears that were still falling. Despite the evidence, to hear you say it out loud... he didn't believe what he was hearing.
He blinked. "You do?"
"I've been in love with you for years, Spencer. Years." A laugh bubbled up from your chest, wet and disbelieving. "I thought you didn't see me like that. I thought I was just your friend. Your safe person. And that was enough. God, that was more than enough, just being in your life. But I never let myself hope for more."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I was scared." He laughed, and the sound was shaky and raw and more honest than anything he'd said in years. "I'm still scared. Terrified, actually. Because if this goes wrong, if I mess this up, I lose the most important relationship in my life. I lose you. And I can't... I can't lose you."
"You're not going to lose me." You reached for his hand. "Spencer, you're never going to lose me. You're the best thing in my life."
The world stopped. Spencer couldn't speak. His throat had closed up, and his eyes were stinging, and everything he wanted to say felt too big for words.
So he kissed you instead.
It wasn't calculated. It wasn't one of the forty-seven scenarios he'd run in his head. It was gentle at first. Tentative. His lips pressed to yours with a reverence that made your chest ache. His hands were on your cheeks, cradling your face like you were something precious.
Your hand came up to cup his jaw, and you kissed him back.
The confirmation that you wanted this - that you wanted *him* - broke something open inside Spencer's chest.
He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding into your hair, the other finding your waist. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between your bodies and he could feel the hammering of your heart against his chest.
*Matching rhythm,* he thought distantly. *Our hearts are beating in matching rhythm.*
You pulled back first, gasping for breath, and Spencer's forehead dropped to rest against yours.
"Hi," you whispered, and your smile was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Hi," he whispered back.
You kissed him again, harder, and the sound he made - a small, broken thing from the back of his throat - ignited something in your belly. This time, there was nothing gentle about it. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt. His hands slid down to your hips and gripped, anchoring you to him. The kiss deepened. Opened. His tongue brushed your lower lip, a question, and you answered by pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left to close.
Somehow, you ended up in his lap. Straddling him on your couch, knees bracketing his hips, your hands fisted in his hair. His mouth was everywhere - your lips, the corner of your jaw, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss a discovery. Each gasp a confession.
"Wait," he breathed against your collarbone. "Wait, wait."
You stilled immediately. Your hands loosened in his hair. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. No, nothing's wrong, that's - everything's right. That's the problem. I just need to know." He lifted his head and met your eyes. His pupils were blown wide, dark swallowing hazel. "Are you sure? Are you sure about this? About me? Because if we do this, if we - there's no going back. I can't - I can't lose you. Not you. Anyone else, but not you."
Your heart cracked open. Right down the middle. You cupped his face in both hands and held his gaze.
"I have never been more sure of anything in my life," you said, and you said it slowly, deliberately, so he could profile every microexpression, every involuntary tell that proved you meant it.
"If we do this, I can't - I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I don't want casual. I want... I need something real in my life."
"I want the same thing. I want you. All of you. Everything. The parts you think are broken and the parts you think are too much and every single thing in between. I want all of it, Spencer. I love you."
He kissed you again, slower this time. Deeper. His teeth caught your lower lip, drawing a soft whimper from your throat, and the sound sent a rush of heat spiralling through his veins.
"Then we're not doing this on the couch," he murmured.
Before you could respond, he bent down and scooped you into his arms.
You made a startled sound, your arms wrapping around his neck. "Spencer!"
You laughed, and the sound was bright and surprised and so lovely that Spencer felt his chest ache with it. He'd made you laugh. He'd kissed you and you'd kissed him back and now he was carrying you to your bedroom, and this was his life. This was actually his life.
He carried you down the hallway toward your bedroom, and the movement, the easy strength of it, sent heat pooling low in your belly. Spencer - lanky, bookish Spencer, who got winded walking up three flights of stairs - was carrying you to bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He laid you on the bed gently. Reverently. The mattress dipped under your weight.
He lowered himself onto the bed, his body covering yours, his weight braced on his forearms. Your legs parted to accommodate him, and the fit was perfect; your hips aligned, your chests pressed together.
Spencer looked at you. Your lips were swollen. Your cheeks were flushed. Your pupils were blown wide, and he didn't need a textbook to tell him what that meant.
"You're beautiful," he said, and the words came out reverent. Worshipful. "You're so beautiful. I've always thought so. Even before - I've always thought so."
You reached for him. Your fingers found the hem of his sweater and brushed the warm skin of his stomach underneath. He shivered. A full-body tremor that you felt through the mattress.
"Can I?" you asked.
He nodded, and you pulled the sweater up. He raised his arms to help you, and the fabric slid over his head and fell somewhere on the floor. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you smiled at the sight of him - flushed, disheveled, and entirely undone.
Your turn.
He undressed you slowly.
Piece by piece. Button by button. And he let himself savor every inch of skin he uncovered. The curve of your shoulder. The hollow of your throat. The way your breath caught when his knuckles brushed your collarbone.
The last button slipped free, he pushed the fabric aside and the blouse joined his sweater, discarded somewhere on the floor.
He finished undressing you with the same deliberate care, mapping your body with his hands and his mouth.
When the last piece of fabric was stripped away and you were bare beneath him, he looked at you and he made a sound. Low. Almost pained.
"_Wow._"
His pants and boxers were next. You undressed him carefully, pressing kisses to each new inch of skin revealed - his narrow chest, the jut of his hipbone, the pale stretch of his thigh. He was trembling by the time you were done. So were you.
Naked together. Nothing between you. The air was cool and his skin was hot and when he settled beside you on the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, you turned toward him on instinct.
His hands found your breasts. Palms first, cupping the weight of them, and you exhaled sharply at the contact. Then his thumbs circled your nipples, and you arched into his touch. He catalogued your responses - the way your breath caught when he applied pressure, the way your hips shifted when he rolled a nipple between thumb and forefinger, the way your mouth fell open when he bent his head and took one peak into his mouth.
"Oh," you gasped.
He worked your breasts with his mouth and his hands, switching sides, learning what made you gasp and what made you moan and what made you fist your hands in the sheets. The flat of his tongue. The edge of his teeth. The gentle suction that made your back bow off the mattress.
"Spence, oh my God."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close, and he let himself get lost in the taste of your skin, the sounds you made, the way your body arched into his touch.
His mouth found yours again. Different now. Hungrier. The gentle reverence was still there, an undercurrent, but layered over it was something more urgent, more desperate.
His hand slid lower. Over your stomach. Down to the junction of your thighs.
"Can I?" Another question. Always checking. Always making sure.
"Yes. Yes."
You gasped as his fingers finally, finally slipped between your legs. You were wet. So wet. His fingers slipped through your folds and you shuddered, a full-body tremor that he felt in his own bones.
"You're so - " He didn't finish the sentence. Couldn't, apparently. His vocabulary abandoned him entirely as his fingers explored you. Slow. So agonisingly slow. His index finger traced the outline of your clit, so gently it was barely there.. Your hips bucked involuntarily, and you made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a curse.
"I've got you," he said. "I've got you.
He applied more pressure now. Circled his finger, slow and deliberate, working you higher, higher, until you were trembling beneath him.
"I want - " you started, but the words dissolved into a moan as he applied slightly more pressure.
"What do you want?"
"More," you whispered. "Please."
The please nearly undid him.
He gave you more.
He pressed two fingers against your entrance, sliding in with an ease that made both of you groan. His thumb found your clit at the same time and began drawing circles while his fingers curled inside you, searching.
When he found the spot - that rough patch of tissue on your anterior wall - your whole body jolted. "There," you gasped. "Right there. Oh god, Spencer, right there."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He hit it again. And again. Over and over.
His fingers worked you with almost surgical precision while his thumb continued its maddening pattern.
"It's _too_ good. It's... I need... faster. Please."
He adjusted immediately. His fingers quickened, his thumb pressed harder, and the pleasure sharpened into something almost unbearable.
You were babbling now, words dissolving into sounds, your hands fisted in the sheets and your head thrown back.
He lowered his mouth to your breast again, sucking in rhythm with his fingers, and you screamed.
"I'm going to - " you started.
He pulled his fingers out.
You made a sound of pure frustration, and Spencer laughed - a low, dark sound he hadn't known he was capable of making.
"Not yet."
The kiss he pressed to your lips was brief. Then he kissed your chin. Your throat. Your sternum. The soft skin of your stomach. Your hipbone. Lower. Lower. Until his breath ghosted hot on your inner thigh.
His mouth found your clit and you bucked against him.
His tongue was flat and hot and when it dragged over your clit, your vision whited out. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping, anchoring. He hummed against you, and the vibration pushed you even higher.
He slid two fingers inside you while his mouth worked your clit, and this time he didn't hold back. His fingers curled, found that rough patch of tissue, and pressed. Over and over. With the same surgical precision he'd used moments ago only faster now, harder, more insistent. The rhythm building toward something that had your thighs trembling and your breath coming in ragged gasps.
The dual stimulation was overwhelming. His fingers inside you, precise and relentless. His mouth on your clit, soft and slick and perfect.
He sucked, gently at first, and your thighs clamped around his head.
"Right there, right there, oh my God, Spencer, right there - "
He didn't stop. Didn't pause. His free hand pressed your thigh back, holding you open for him, and he sucked harder.
You broke.
Your orgasm hit you hard. It was an implosion. A collapse inward. Your body folded around the pleasure, every muscle clenching and unclenching in rhythm, and you cried out something that sounded like his name.
He worked you through it, gentler now, softer, until your body went limp beneath his hands. Then he pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh and looked up at you.
His lips were swollen. His eyes were bright and awed and a little bit smug. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, and your eyes were glassy and distant and so, so beautiful.
You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe. You reached for him blindly, and he understood. He crawled up your body, arms bracketing your shoulders, and let you pull him down into a kiss.
"Are you okay?" he murmured against your mouth.
You blinked. Focused on his face. And then you smiled. "Yeah. Yes. That was..." You laughed, breathless and giddy. "That was intense."
He smiled at you. "Good." Then he fell quiet, eyes locked on yours, like he couldn't bring himself to look away.
You kissed him again, deeper, and felt his erection heavy against your thigh. Hard and hot and leaking. "Your turn."
He pulled back slightly, brow furrowing. "You don't have to. If you're tired or sensitive or... "
When you wrapped your fingers around him, he made a sound you'd never heard from him before - a broken, desperate whimper.
"You're..." he started, and then your thumb swiped across the head of his cock, collecting the bead of moisture there, and he forgot the rest of the sentence.
"I'm what?" You looked up at him through your lashes, eyes sparkling with mischief and wonder.
"Perfect," he managed. "You're perfect."
You pushed at his shoulder. He let you roll him onto his back, his head finding your pillow, his hair fanning out in a messy halo.
You took your time. The same deliberate reverence he'd shown you. Your lips traced the line of his sternum, the dip of his navel.
"You're beautiful," you said as you kissed down his body. "I don't know if anyone tells you that enough. But you are."
Spencer's throat tightened. "No one tells me that."
"Then I'm going to tell you every day." You pressed a kiss to his hipbone. "Every single day." Another kiss, lower. "Until you believe it."
You kissed the inside of his thigh and he shuddered, his hands fisting in the sheets.
Your hand wrapped around the base of his cock. The contact made him gasp, his hips jerking involuntarily, and you tightened your grip in response.
You stroked him slowly. Once. Twice. Learning the shape of him, the weight of him in your palm.
"You're... that's... *oh.*"
You traced the ridge of his frenulum, slow and deliberate, and his hips jerked off the bed. You pressed a hand to his stomach, holding him still.
"Be patient," you murmured against his skin.
"I've been patient for four years," he gritted out. "I'm at capacity."
You laughed - couldn't help it - and took him into your mouth.
The sound he made was inhuman. Your name, half-sob, half-prayer. His hand flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding. Anchoring. You worked him slowly, learning his shape the way he'd learned yours. Your tongue traced the ridge of his frenulum and he gasped.
"Oh."
You did it again. Slower. Your tongue flat and warm, tracing the ridge of the glans, probing the sensitive spot just beneath the head. His hands fisted in the sheets. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts.
"You like that?"
"Yes. Please. Keep... keep doing that."
You did. You took him into your mouth, inch by agonising inch, your lips stretched around his girth, your tongue pressing against the underside of his shaft. The wet heat of your mouth was overwhelming. The suction. The rhythm. The way you hollowed your cheeks and pulled back, only to sink down again, deeper this time, until the head of his cock nudged the back of your throat.
"Oh my God," he breathed.
You hummed around him. The vibration traveled through his entire body, and his hips bucked before he could stop them, and you made a small choking sound and pulled back.
"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to - "
"It's fine." You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and your smile was absolutely devastating.
Then you took him back into your mouth, and Spencer stopped being able to form coherent sentences. Your hand worked the base of his shaft while your mouth focused on the head, sucking and drawing patterns with your tongue. Then you pulled back and pressed the flat of your tongue against his frenulum, and he saw stars.
"Fuck. Fuck."
Your thumb found the sensitive spot. Rubbed small circles over it. Your tongue traced down his shaft, lower, until your lips were pressed against his balls, and the dual sensation - your hand on his cock, your mouth on his sac - made his vision blur at the edges.
"I'm - I'm close." he managed. "If you don't stop, I'm going to come. And I really, *really* want to be inside you when that happens."
You lifted your head. Met his eyes. His pupils were so dilated they'd almost swallowed the hazel entirely.
You kissed the head of his cock once, and pulled off immediately. His cock throbbed at the loss of contact, and he made a sound that might have been a whimper.
"Condom," you said. "Nightstand drawer."
He fumbled for it while you watched, chest heaving, skin flushed. His fingers were less steady than usual - he dropped the foil packet twice before tearing it open with his teeth, which stirred something in your chest. You took it from him and rolled it down his length, slow, deliberate, watching his face contort with the effort of holding still.
"Okay," you breathed. "Okay."
You swung your leg over his hips. His hands found your waist, steadying you, and his eyes never left yours as you positioned yourself above him.
The first press of him against your entrance made you both freeze. Eye contact. Held. Suspended.
You sank down slowly.
The first inch stole his breath. The second made him groan. He filled you inch by inch, and you watched his face as you took him in; the way his jaw went slack, the way his pupils blew even wider.
"Oh my God," he whispered.
"Yeah," you agreed, your voice thin and reedy. "Yeah."
The stretch was incredible. He could see it on your face; the way your lips parted, the way your brow furrowed. He could feel it in the way you clenched around him, tight and hot and perfect.
Then you bottomed out. He was fully inside you. And for a moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just _felt_.
"Are you okay?" he managed.
"Yes." The word was breathless.
You stayed like that for a moment, both of you adjusting, both of you trembling. Then your hips began to move. Slowly at first. A grinding motion that had you both gasping. His hands found your hips, steadying you.
"You feel - " He couldn't finish. Had to swallow. Tried again. "You feel _amazing_."
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and began to move. Up and down. A slow, rolling rhythm. His cock dragged against your inner walls with every stroke.
"Oh my god," you breathed. "Spencer, you feel - "
"I know. So do you. You feel - I can't even - you're incredible."
You lifted your hips and sank back down. Lifted and sank. The angle, the depth, the fullness - it was everything. It was too much and not enough and exactly right all at once.
His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. "You're so beautiful," he said again, because he couldn't stop saying it. "So, so beautiful. I've wanted this for so long. I've wanted you for so long."
"I'm here." You leaned down to press your forehead to his.
Tears pricked your eyes. You blinked them away, leaned down, kissed him hard. He kissed you back, one hand still cradling your face, the other sliding down to your hip to guide your movements.
You rode him like that - foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, eyes locked - until your thighs burned. Until his breathing went ragged and his grip went bruising and you could feel him straining toward the edge.
"Lie down, angel," he whispered.
The endearment slipped out before he could stop it, but your eyes went wide and soft.
You smiled and slid off him. He followed you immediately, rolling you onto your back, settling between your thighs. Your arms reached for him as his cock found your entrance again, and he pushed in with one smooth stroke.
"Yes," you hissed. You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him deeper, closer, _more_.
He started thrusting. Slowly at first - savoring every sensation, cataloguing every response. But his control was fraying, and your legs were tightening around him, and the sounds you were making were driving him out of his mind.
He built speed.
He set a pace that was almost punishing. Fast. Deep. His hips snapped against yours and the sound of it - wet and rhythmic and obscene - filled the room. His chest pressed against yours. His breath was hot against your ear.
He angled his hips, searching for that spot he'd found with his fingers, and when you gasped - loud and sharp - he knew he'd found it again.
Then his hand was between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
The dual stimulation. Again. But different this time - sharper, more urgent, his cock inside you and his thumb on your clit and his voice in your ear.
You were begging now.
"Oh god - Spencer - don't stop - please don't stop, it feels so good, I'm so close - "
"I won't stop." His voice was wrecked. "I've got you, sweet girl. I've got you. Let go for me."
You did.
Your orgasm hit like a detonation.
It was bigger than the first one. Deeper. Your vision went white, then black, then exploded into stars. Your body arched off the bed and locked there, every muscle seized, every nerve firing. You might have screamed. You might have said his name. You didn't know. You didn't know anything except the pleasure, rolling through you in waves that crashed and retreated and crashed again.
Somewhere in the haze, you felt him follow.
His release slammed into him with the force of a freight train. He buried himself deep and came with a moan that was almost a sob, groaning your name into your throat. His face pressed into the curve of your neck, his body shaking against yours. His grip on your hip tightened almost to the point of pain.
And then stillness. Silence.
You didn't know how long you stayed like that - bodies tangled, breath ragged, hearts pounding in matching rhythm.
His weight was warm and solid on top of you, and you didn't want him to move. Ever.
Eventually, he became aware of your hand stroking his hair. Of your lips pressing soft kisses to his temple, his cheek, his jaw.
He lifted his head. Looked at you with something like wonder, something like disbelief.
Then he kissed you. Your forehead. Your eyelids. The tip of your nose. Both cheekbones. Your chin. Your lips. Every inch of your face, pressed with soft, reverent kisses that made your throat tight and your eyes sting. You smiled beneath his lips, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Eventually - reluctantly - he pulled out and rolled onto his back. His hand found yours immediately, lacing your fingers together. He laid there for a while, just breathing, before he lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
"I'll be right back," he whispered.
He disappeared into your bathroom. You heard water running. Cabinets opening and closing. His soft footsteps returning. And then a warm washcloth, gentle between your thighs. You watched him with heavy-lidded eyes as he cleaned you up. Gentle strokes. Careful hands. The same reverence from before.
When he was done, he tossed the washcloth towards the hamper and climbed back into bed beside you. His arms wrapped around you, your head found the hollow of his shoulder and your hand splayed across his chest. His fingers traced absent patterns on your upper arm.
"You should go pee," he said. "To avoid a UTI. The risk of urinary tract infections after intercourse increases by approximately 50 percent. Postcoital urination reduces the risk by - "
You burst out laughing. "There's my nerd."
He smiled. You felt it against your hair. "I'm serious. The urethra is in close proximity to multiple bacterial sources and during intercourse those bacteria can be - "
"I'm going. I'm going." You pushed yourself up, still laughing, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Don't go anywhere."
"Unlikely."
You padded to the bathroom. When you returned, he was still there. Still in your bed. Still looking at you with that expression - like he couldn't quite believe you were real.
You climbed in beside him and he pulled you close immediately, his arms wrapping around you like he'd been doing it for years. Like he'd never let go.
"I love you," he whispered into the darkness. "I've been telling you I love you for years in the only way I knew how. Every word. Every look."
"I love you too, Spence."
His arms tightened. His lips pressed to your forehead.
"Goodnight, my angel."
You felt his breathing slow, felt his body relax against yours — the tension he'd carried for months, years, finally bleeding away. Your eyes grew heavy, your limbs warm, and all you could think was how much you loved him. How much you'd always loved him. How ridiculous it was, that you'd both spent so long terrified of something that felt this right.
Sleep came quickly. The last thing you were aware of before you were pulled under was the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, and the weight of his arm, warm around your waist.
summary: you know you shouldn't sleep with spencer, he is your roomate after all...yet you both can't stay away...
pairing: spencer reid x roommate fem!reader
warnings: 1k words 18+ MDNI, porn with no plot, unprotected p in v, soft!dom spencer, brief fingering, kinda forbidden love if you squint (god i'm awful at warnings, you fuck okay?)
(any series spencer is applicable, picture used does not necessarily depict fic spencer)
Part Two Here - Revelations
“This really is the last time” You told Spencer whilst his hands tightened in your hair. His lips attached to the sensitive part of your neck.
“Sure it is” He mumbled against your jaw, his hot breath making you feel weaker at the knees.
You said the same thing to him a week ago. Both of you knew this wasn’t going to be last time. Ever since you came home slightly tipsy and horny, seeing Spencer walk out of the shower with his towel hung low around his hips, hair messy and wild, your brain said fuck it and removed his towel and sunk onto your knees.
The next morning he approached you as you were cooking breakfast. Didn’t say a word, just slid his hand in your hair behind your head and kissed you like you were the air he breathed, before picking you up and putting you on the counter, taking off your shorts and proceeding to eat you out like you were his last meal.
You both knew if you were fucking that day as soon as you woke. It would be in the air, the slightest imperceivable shift in the atmosphere of understanding that would lead to the both of you ravishing each other on the sofa before you even said one word.
Today was one of those days. He walked out of his bedroom, looked you in the eyes and you knew. Nothing needed to be said as it was apparent in the way he looked at you.
Spencer's hands were holding you up by the back of your thighs as he walked the both of you to his bedroom, kicking the door with his foot, all without breaking the kiss. His colleagues said he was uncoordinated, you failed to see where they came to this conclusion.
He placed you down on the bed, his body sliding in between your legs instantaneously. The heels of your feet rubbed down the back of his calves as your fingers twisted in his hair.
You palmed him through his thin boxers, his hips jutting forward to chase the friction, moaning against your mouth. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip before your tongue glided in.
Spencer’s cock twitched under your palm, already half-hard and thickening fast as you rubbed him through the thin cotton. He ground down harder, letting you feel every inch of him swelling against your hand while his tongue pushed deeper into your mouth, hot and insistent.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear and yanked them down in one rough tug. He didn’t waste time, two thick fingers slid straight through your folds, finding you already slick. He circled your clit once, twice, then pushed one finger inside you, curling it deep as his thumb kept working that sensitive spot.
He pumped his finger in and out, before sliding in another, the wet sound of it filling the room. His free hand shoved your shirt up, exposing your chest, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing the stiff peak while his fingers kept fucking you.
You arched up into him, legs spreading wider around his hips. Your hand slipped inside his boxers and wrapped around his bare cock, stroking him from root to tip, thumb swiping over the leaking head. Spencer groaned into your breast, hips jerking forward into your fist.
He pulled his fingers out, brought them to his mouth, and licked them clean before shoving his boxers down just far enough to free himself. The thick length slapped against your inner thigh, hot and heavy. He lined himself up, rubbing the head through your wetness a few times, then pushed in with one steady thrust until his hips met yours.
Spencer didn’t give you time to adjust. He started fucking you hard and deep, the bed creaking under the force of his thrusts. Each snap of his hips drove his cock all the way in, the head hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. Your nails dug into his back as he buried his face in your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin while he pounded into you.
“Still think this is the last time?” he growled against your throat, voice strained as he kept driving into you. His hand slid between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, your pussy clenching around him every time he bottomed out.
He shifted his angle slightly, grinding down harder on each stroke, and your orgasm hit fast—your whole body tightening as you came around his cock, pulsing and squeezing him. Spencer fucked you through it, pace never slowing, chasing his own release while you trembled beneath him.
Living with Spencer was like living with Dr Jekyll, the composed, kind and well mannered man who asked how you were. Sex with Spencer was Mr Hyde, the man who ignored all reasoning and fucked you until your legs were sore. The polarity between the two was a mental whiplash to decipher. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.
He drove into you quicker now, the sound of skin on skin slapping in the otherwise silent room, eyes interlocked. Mouths inches apart as you shared the same air. How could something be so intimate with so little words shared between the two of you? You didn’t know, you didn’t care.
His cock hardened within you, you squeezed your walls tighter in response. He thrusted hard once, twice, three times before he spilled into you with a low groan, dropping his head onto your forehead. You interlocked your feet at his hips, keeping him locked in place.
You saw the second Mr Hyde left and Dr Jekyll returned, his eyes changing from dark brown, almost black to light honey hazel. Lust changing to tenderness. He rested on his elbow as he pushed one strand of hair away from your face.
You did the same, moving one curl away from his eyes, tucking it gently back into place. It was only then did you realise that this really should be last time, not when he’s looking at you with so much admiration you don’t know what to do with it.
But you know there will never be a last time.
a:n I got horny so I wrote this to make me feel better :) might make this into a short fic series with no real plot, just an excuse for me to write smut
-Mistie xx
Taglist (comment if you want to be added): @sweet-t33a @unlikelylovebarbarian @cocoabears.
AN: FEM!READER in this one. This one got a little spicy. Sorry if it sucks ive never writing anything REMOTELY spicy :p. Reader wants to be a MOM! Thoughts of Pregnant reader. Spencer popped a boner cause he thought of reader pregnant. (Someone give this man kids.) (I volunteer!! As tribute ofc ;))
WC: 2k+ words
CW: one moment of pregnant reader, a little spicy 16+ readers only!! (You are in charge of your OWN media consumption. Reader is good with kids. Spencer thirsting over reader. FLUFFFFFFFF. Tooth rotting actually.
Anyways sorry if it sucks <3 lots of love!!
The case was finally over. The unsub was officially, finally, in custody. The mother, who had been kidnapped, was found alive— Exhausted, terrified, but safe.
Now all that remained was waiting for the mother to be transported back to the local authorities. Which had left one energetic eighteen-month-old sitting in the corner of the sheriff’s conference room. He had remained in that room, wandering with wide curious eyes for the last twelve and a half hours.
He was far too young to answer questions. Far too young to understand why his mommy wasn’t in the room yet. So the little boy did what toddlers do best. He continued wandering.
Emily smiled as he toddled uncertainly across the carpet. She murmured, “someone’s got places to be.”
Morgan chuckled, “Little man is on a mission.”
The mission turned out to be you, as it became obvious the second he spotted you. His entire face lit up. The chub of his baby fat lifting as he smiled his gums up at you, eyes squinting in with soft wrinkles forming around his big doe eyes.
“There you are!!” You beamed, immediately crouching down and meeting his eyes. “Hi sweetheart.”
In response, the little boy squealed. Mouth wide, eyes shut, excited squeal. The sound made your smile wider. Oh how that noise soothed your soul.
Tiny feet pattering as fast as they could carry him before he practically launched himself into your arms. You laughed, catching him with practiced ease.
“Oh my goodness!” She semi-squealed back in excitement. The baby boy buried his face into your shoulder for exactly two seconds before leaning back to look up at you. Then he giggled again.
“Oh that's a happy baby boy,” you whispered. A hand coming up to cradle the back of his head so he wouldn’t lose balance.
Spencer couldn’t help but smile.
“You’ve only known him for a few minutes,” Morgan commented.”
She turned towards him, eyes never actually leaving the baby you cradled. “I’ve been the one hes most comfortable with while you guys were catching the unsub.”
She leaned down to press her forehead into his before rubbing it and blowing a raspberry in his neck. “So give or take 2 and a half hours.” You spoke to Morgan in a baby voice. The baby giggles infectiously as he fights to flee from the ticklish feeling.
Only for him to plop into your lap. Staring at you with those large curious eyes, the little boy reached up and patted your cheek. You gasped dramatically. Whispering a small, “high five?”
Then he slapped your face instead. It didn't hurt, his little cubby hands did nothing but softly plap against your cheek, but Morgan’s roaring laughter could, in fact, be heard.
He quaked with laughter, “He got you good!”
The smile never left your face as the toddler began clapping for himself.
“So proud,” Emily smiled. You had sat down fully onto the carpet. The little boy wasted no time and climbed into your lap. Then back out. Then into your lap again.
“Busy day? You asked him. He answered with complete and utter nonsense. You nodded solemnly, “I completely agree.”
Spencer finally looked up from where he was pretending to review paperwork. He tilted his head, “…What, exactly are you agreeing with?”
You simply shrugged, “He made a pretty compelling argument." The little boy giggled, almost as if in agreement. Spencer smiled despite himself
A few minutes later, the toddler wiggled away from you. He took off across the room in that wonderfully unstable toddler run that looked more like falling with confidence. Or the first few steps of a baby deer, shaky legs but pure determination.
“Oh no..” Morgan muttered.
You saw it too. The lip of the rug in the middle of the room was lifted. Just enough for the toddlers' feet to catch if they went for it. Which this baby boy was gunning for. The little boy's foot caught on the edge of the rug, pitching him forward.
While everyone else inhaled, you reacted. You threw yourself sideways, rolling across the carpet just enough to slide your arm underneath him before her could hit the floor.
Instead of landing face-first, he landed on you. There was a moment of silence, where the little boy looked down at your face. Looked back up to where he was walking. Then back down at you. You crossed your eyes dramatically and made an awfully embarrassing noise. A dramatic “Heyuck” left your lips.
He exploded into giggles. The loud, breathless kind that bade his small baby body bounce.
“Oh!” You laughed. “Was that funny?”
He reached over and grabbed your nose. You pretended to be absolutely shocked. Squealing about how you lost it, and more squeals and giggles left his small body.
Spencer had completely stopped reading. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. The way you never seemed embarrassed. How you didn't even think before you threw yourself onto the floor. The way you currently held the boy so gently. How the boy looked at you like you hung the moon.
“He really likes her,” Emily said quietly. Morgan snorted, “Likes?”
The toddler had already crawled back into your lap. Again. He began reaching both of his little arms toward your face. Then leaned his forehead against your own. Two little hands fisting your hair. Morgan smiled, “That kid is obsessed.”
”Kids are a good judge of character,” Rossi folded his arms.
Hotch watched as the little boy looked around the room. The second you shifted to grab one of his toy cars, he wined. Soft little hands opening and closing in your direction. You came right back. Whispering, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Instantly the baby was once again content. Emily made a hushed comment on how the baby didn't seem interested in anyone else. As if to prove her point, Morgan crouched down.
“Hey buddy,” he murmured lowly. Coaxing the baby toward him with open arms. The toddler looked at him. Then immediately turned back toward you, burring his face against your shoulder. He chose to instead peek out of the small space between your shoulder and where he was nuzzled into it to look at Morgan.
Derek Morgan, ever the dramatic, clutched his chest. “I’ve been rejected,” he sighed dejectedly.
You giggled at his little show. The little boy leaning back to show you a giant gummy smile.
Spencer couldn’t stop the smile from forming on his face.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Soon the boy had to be returned to his mother. Though it was sad to watch as he whined and reached for you, it didn't take more than seeing his mother for him to become distracted.
“So,” Morgan started, “If none of us worked here, what would you be doing?” The question had come as a surprise. You looked at him confused, watching as he looked pointedly at each person in the jet. You looked over at JJ, confused, only to see her swamped in files.
Emily answered first, “I’d still end up in law enforcement somehow.”
“I’d probably be writing,” Rossi chuckled.
Hotch put his report into his lap and looked up. “I honestly don't know,” was all you received before he was back into his work.
Nodding, you watched as Morgan turned to Spencer. “Pretty boy?”
Spencer paused, thoroughly thinking through the question. “I think I would pursue academia. Teaching, research…maybe even something like forensics.”
You smiled at his answer, it was very much like him. Morgan nodded along with the rest of the team. Then everyone turned to look at you. You winced under their piercing gaze, even Hotch lowered his report to raise an eyebrow.
“Your turn.” Morgan prodded before you could even question their stares. Honestly you didn’t think you’d be involved in this conversation. You had only worked for them for roughly a year. So with a sigh, you murmured a small, “my biggest dream?”
“I would want to be a mom.” your chest warmed. “Whether stay-at-home, or working,” you clarified. Offering a shy smile.
You heard the silence stretch across the cabin. and you shrugged lightly, almost embarrassed at your own answer.
“I dont kno. it might sound simple, but I’ve always dreamed of a little house. Nothing huge,” you gestured with your hands. “Just big enough, and a garden. One growing an abundant of fruits and veggies to support us.” You smiled.
”one with those tomatoes that no matter how perfect they look always taste better than store bought,” You caught as Rossi started to smile. ”i want flowers around the fence. Sunflowers, daisies too. I want herbs that I accidentally forget to water until it rains.”
Emily snorted at you. IT didnt deter the fire burning in your heart. “I want a porch swing, and a dog. One that tracks mud through the entire house and into the kitchen for a snack.” You paused and smiled wider, remembering how the little boy clung to you so tightly when you had to part. “I want finger-painted masterpieces that are..” you giggled, “..objectively terrible. But they’re mine.”
Morgan couldn’t help but smile as you continued, fidgeting with your fingers. “I want a bunch of little ones running around. I want to bake cookies and get flour on the floor. To bandage their scraped knees. To cheer embarrassingly loud at soccer games, or dance practice. And every Halloween i want to make their costumes, even if they’re crooked.” Your smile began to soften.
Fading into something more…comfortable. “I just want to spend my life, making a home where each and every person who comes in, whether it be forever or for a night, that they will feel safe. And so… unbelievably happy.”
Another silence stretched. But this one wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t harsh. No one rushed to fill it. Every word that had left your mouth twisted and transformed the atmosphere into something softer. The words that had left your mouth genuine and excited for what the future might hold.
It sounded heavy all the same, as if you’d been carrying it for years. Long enough to mull in over in your head, repeatedly. Enough so, that sometimes you feel as if its right in front of you but yet, so far out of reach.
Looking around, as if snapped out of a trance, you could see everyone staring at you. Their eyes softened, fondness shining especially bright in Rossi’s eyes.
“I’ve never heard anyone describe a dream like that,” he smiled at you. Almost fatherly in the way his face wrinkled at the corner of his eyes. You smiled sheepishly
Across the aisle, Spencer hadn’t said a word. He couldn't. His brain had stopped somewhere around: ‘A garden in the back yard.’ Or was it a bunch of little ones running around’
His hand slid slowly down his face, pulling the skin with it before he slouched over. Shuffling towards the window. Morgan noticed first. Upon realization he nudged Emily. Emily looked, then quickly snapped her head away to hide her grin.
Rossi followed their gaze. He saw Spencer staring at you with the most hopelessly softened expression he’d ever seen. Rossi turned toward Hotch. He whispered a small, “He’s gone.”
Hotch didn't even pretend to misunderstand. He glanced over at Spencer. Turning his gaze back to Rossi, he quietly replied, “Completely.”
Spencer prayed and hoped they would stop staring. The straining in his tight dress slacks was starting to become too prominent. He pressed the pillow which had been behind his head, into his lap. Whether to search for friction or to cover the evidence, he didn’t know. The image of you pregnant and glowing was burned into his mind every time he closed his eyes. All he could see was you. Waddling, a beautiful hour, a gorgeous garden. God how he wanted it. That image burned into the depths of this mind.
Curse that eidetic memory of his. Curse how you were so beautiful that you left him nothing but a puddle of need. Curse how you made him feel like a teenager stuck in a rut.
Curse that you didn't even know how it affected him.
It's hot out. Hotter than hot, actually. Sweltering, Spencer would say. And he does, as he lays sprawled across the sofa, the fan in the corner moving at its highest speed, though its efforts are in vain against the heat swarming you both. Hes in shorts, a rarity, and you love him all the more for it. It's very endearing, the shorts, tank top combo that you remember being surprised that he even owned.
Youre sitting on the floor in front of him, as little clothing as possible adorning your own body.
You glance over at Spencer, his eyes closed, a cold rag on his forehead, and you let your eyes move over his features.
His sweat damp curls are sticking every which way, a result of him pushing them away from his forehead while grumbling about needing a haircut soon. Theres a light sheen of sweat covering his skin, one that makes him shine, even in the darkness of his living room. Your eyes trail down his arms, the soft circular scars in the crook of his elbow.
You glance down his long legs, the faint patches of hair, barely visible due to their lightness. You let out a soft chuckle at the sight of his mismatched socks, the ones he refuses to take off, even in the heat because he can't stand the way the floor feels on bare feet.
You swallow, mind turning back to the scars. Your eyes follow. You take a sip of water, swallow harshly and think about how far hes come. You blink, heat going to your brain as you lean forward and let your lips brush the scars there.
You press a few soft kisses there, backing away as more heat rushes to your cheeks when you look up and see Spencer peaking at you curiously.
You offer a small smile and his eyes watch you for a few seconds longer. You feel it as you stare back, the analysis of every micro expression you're not even aware youre making. You hope, in amongst the subconscious movements, he finds love.
It takes a few minutes, but he does relent, exhaling softly as he tugs at your shoulder. "C'mere."
You scoot yourself closer, leaning in as you pet down his messy hair.
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, movement gentle, almost like hes coaxing the muscle to loosen before he leans up, pressing his lips to yours gently.
It goes on for a few seconds, before he parts, leaving one peck at the corner of your mouth before he says, "I wish it weren't so hot. Otherwise I might keep going."
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks once again, and you pick up your hand fan, turning away as you try to bring cooler air to your face. You don't see him smirk at you, but you do hear his breathy chuckle, full of affection, and most certainly, love.
Masterlist
Please stay safe in this heatwave, yall. It's brutal. wanted to put photos on this, but couldn't decide on which ones to pick!
❥ 4 times you and Spencer pretended to be friends and 1 time it became too obvious.
❥ fluff, workplace romance, idiots in love, secret relationship
Your relationship with Spencer had become the BAU’s collective headache and favorite topic of discussion. Two geniuses, constantly dancing around the edges of friendship, completely oblivious to what was happening. You were both absolutely, phenomenally blind.
Or maybe you were just incredibly good at pretending.
⟡₊ ⊹
It was a rainy, wind-swept wasteland on the outskirts of Seattle.
You stood by the police barrier, clutching your notebook with white knuckles. The weather had turned on a dime—the sky bruised into a heavy slate gray, and a freezing sleet turned the ground into a muddy swamp. You were wearing a light dress shirt, which did absolutely nothing to keep out the damp.
Spencer, who had been studying the UnSub’s footstep patterns, suddenly turned to look at you. His hazel eyes narrowed with instant concern behind his rain-speckled glasses.
"You have a stage-one tremor. Your peripheral blood vessels are constricting to preserve heat for your vital organs. This is highly counterproductive."
Before you could even squeeze a word in, Reid unbuttoned his olive-green cardigan in one swift, decisive motion. He stepped right into your personal space—so close you could smell his cologne, old books, and coffee.
You didn't pull away. Instead, you cooperatively lifted your elbows, letting him drape the oversized, warm knit over your shoulders.
"My, my. So chivalry isn't dead after all," you teased softly.
Spencer`s lips twitched into a tiny, comfortable half-smile as he carefully wrapped the lapels over your chest and did up a couple of buttons. His hands lingered on your shoulders just a beat longer than hypothermia protocol required.
Right at that moment, Derek Morgan stopped next to you.
"Hey, kid," Morgan arched an eyebrow, fighting back a smirk. "Decided to play the chivalrous martyr? That’s... actually pretty sweet."
Spencer didn’t even blink, however he quickly adjusted his satchel strap.
"It’s pure pragmatism, Morgan. Studies show that cognitive function drops by fourteen percent when core body temperature falls below normal. She is the lead analyst on this profile. I’m simply keeping her brain operational."
Morgan nodded slowly, throwing you a highly expressive look.
"Right. Sure. 'Operational.' Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid."
⟡₊ ⊹
The case was brutal. The team hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours. The bullpen was a disaster zone of empty coffee cups, scattered crime scene photos, and maps. JJ had crashed on the couch in the breakroom, Hotch and Rossi had locked themselves in the office, and you and Spencer were left staring at the murder board.
You were sitting in one of the office chairs, legs stretched out. Your fingers were lazily and methodically running through Reid’s soft, messy brown curls.
Spencer was currently lying on the floor and holding a tablet, his head resting face-up right in your lap. Your fingers gently massaged his scalp, untangling the messy locks, and Reid`s eyes fluttered shut in sheer bliss every time your nails lightly scraped the back of his neck.
Penelope Garcia, carrying a tray of fresh donuts, froze on the threshold. Her eyes went wide behind her round pink glasses, her mouth dropping into a silent, delighted gasp.
"Oh," Penelope whispered, pressing the tray to her chest. "Am I... interrupting a session of highly intellectual bonding?"
You didn't even take your hand out of Spencer’s hair, just offered a tired, amused smile. Reid, without moving an inch or even lifting his head from your lap, calmly replied:
"No, you're not interrupting anything. She is helping me stimulate my cerebral cortex. It lowers cortisol levels and increases blood flow to the frontal lobes, helping..."
"That's friendly support, Garcia" you chimed in with a soft laugh.
Spencer nodded seriously, but when your fingers scratched a particularly sensitive spot on his neck, a sharp sigh escaped his lips, and the genius melted into your lap.
⟡₊ ⊹
The jet shuddered violently, the cabin walls groaning under the turbulence. Most of the team was dozing off. Rossi was reading a book, and Hotch was skimming through reports.
You were walking, buried in a case file, when the plane suddenly dropped, hitting a massive air pocket. You gasped, the file flying out of your hands as momentum pitched you forward.
Spencer, sitting right across the aisle, reacted with lightning speed.
He caught you by the waist, saving you from a nasty collision with the table, and pulled you flush against him. You ended up sitting squarely on his lap, facing him. Your hands instinctively gripped his shoulders, while his long fingers locked securely around your lower back to anchor you.
The jet kept shaking, but neither of you panicked. It was comfortable, safe, and entirely logical. You rested your hands on his shoulders, while Spencer kept his grip firm and natural, holding you as easily as if you did this every single day.
Rossi slowly lowered his book, peering at you both over his reading glasses. Hotch, too, looked up from his paperwork. A very loud, heavy silence filled the cabin.
"What?" You looked back at them with a straight face.
"Uh, kids," Rossi said smoothly, raising an eyebrow. "I appreciate the safety precautions in turbulent weather, but I’m fairly certain there are still empty seats on this aircraft"
Spencer, whose heart was currently hammering against your ribs at a frantic pace, cleared his throat, giving his voice a lecturing tone.
"According to the laws of dynamics and mass distribution, under angular acceleration, two bodies bound to a single center of gravity experience a significantly lower moment of inertia. We just minimize the risk of closed-head trauma from colliding with cabin fixtures."
Hotch let out a sound that was suspiciously close to a choked laugh, turned a page of his report, and said dryly:
"Just make sure your 'single center of gravity' is buckled in if the turbulence gets any worse."
⟡₊ ⊹
It was barely 7:00 AM. The bullpen was empty, bathed in the soft, pale light of dawn. The air smelled of freshly brewed coffee and floor wax.
"Spencer, hold still for a second," You called out, catching up with him in the hallway.
You reached up, your fingers deftly catching the cool silk of his tie. Spencer immediately went quiet, his eyes softening as he looked down at you. He stood perfectly still, barely breathing, as you got closer—so close your shoes were nearly touching.
With practiced, gentle movements, you began to adjust his collar and slowly knot his tie. Your knuckles lightly brushed against his collarbone, sending a subtle shiver through him.
"You know," you purred, twirling his tie on your finger, "if you keep showing up looking like you fought a wind turbine and lost, Hotch is going to start questioning your cognitive efficiency."
A lopsided smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Actually, my current state is a direct result of circadian rhythm disruption. And technically, my tie was only skewed at a twelve-degree angle. That's well within acceptable margins."
"Keep telling yourself that, genius," you gently patted his chest, lingering you hands there, right over his heartbeat, which was rapidly speeding up. "There. Now you look like an actual FBI agent instead of a chaotic academic."
"Thank you," Spencer murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his gaze locked onto yours. A quiet, heavy warmth settled between you, neither of you making any move to step back.
"Good morning, early birds," a dry, amused voice echoed from the stairs.
You both almost jumped, but slowly turned your heads. Emily Prentiss was standing there, holding a travel mug. She looked at your hands, still resting on Spencer's chest, then at Spencer’s face, which was now flushing a light pink, and finally at how ridiculously close you two were standing.
"Let me guess," Prentiss said, tilting her head. "This is another friendly thing?"
Without breaking physical contact, you and Spencer answered in perfect, synchronized unison:
"Obviously."
⟡₊ ⊹
The rest of the team had already gone home. The bullpen was dark, and only the deep basement archives, buried under endless shelves of closed cases, flickered with a dim, yellow light. You had volunteered to help reorganize files from a decade-old case Hotch wanted double-checked.
You were standing by the back shelf, stretching on your tiptoes to reach a heavy archive box on the very top rack.
"Need a hand?" a soft voice murmured right behind you.
You spun around, finding yourself pinned between the cold metal shelves and Spencer. He had approached soundlessly and his tall frame completely blocked out the hall light. Reid reached up with a long arm, effortlessly sliding the box down, but he didn't step back.
In the shadows of the archive, his eyes looked incredibly dark. The exhaustion of the last few days, the sleepless nights, the whispered conversations, and all those "scientific" excuses you both used to shield yourselves suddenly evaporated. There was only a heavy, electric silence.
"Spence..." your voice caught.
His gaze dropped to your lips. "I... I know the statistics. The probability of co-workers transitioning into..."
"Screw the statistics, Reid," you breathed.
Something in Spencer snapped.
All his formulas, theories, and defense mechanisms crumbled to dust. He took that final step forward, erasing the last few inches between you. His large, cool hands gently cupped your cheeks as if you were made of spun glass. His fingers tangled deep into your hair, and he leaned down.
The kiss was soft, almost hesitant for a fraction of a second, before bruising into something deep, desperate, and hungry—a dam breaking after months of waiting.
You pressed into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer, erasing any boundaries left. Spencer let out a soft sigh against your lips, his grip on your waist tightening.
The sharp creak of the archive door made you both spring apart.
Morgan stood on the threshold, a forgotten jacket dangling from his hand. He froze. You and Spencer were flushed against the shelving—your lips were slightly swollen, your breathing shallow, while Spencer was panting, his tie askew, and a faint smudge of your lipstick marked his jawline.
Morgan’s gaze drifted from Spencer to you. Slowly, the widest, most victorious smirk you had ever seen spread across his face. He crossed his arms and leaned casually against the doorframe.
"Well," Derek drawled, his grin practically split his face. "I'm all ears. What scientific theory explains what I'm looking at right now? Oxygen deprivation? Salivary synchronization? Preventive measures against the common cold?"
Spencer opened his mouth to speak, his eyes darting frantically across the bookshelves. He looked down at you, but you had already hidden your burning face against his chest, sharing his utter embarrassment. For the first time in his entire life, the genius couldn't find a single fact.
"We... we were just..." He let out a breath, nervously adjusting his glasses, and muttered, "Damn it, Morgan, just close the door."
tags: spencer x bau!reader, no use of y/n, someone switched the fluff machine back on, 5 plus 1 fic, hand-holding, coworkers to crushes, reader has an idea, spencer's mostly just being polite about it, UNTIL
warnings: germ talk, spencer mentions hypothetical medical conditions
word count: 6.7K
summary: five times you take spencer's hand and one time he takes yours.
note: suggested by @emmadellaposta-blog in this comment:
May I propose to you a fic where Spencer tells reader he wants to get over some of his Germaphobia so she just randomly throughout the day starts holding his hand and when he asks what she’s doing she replies “exposure therapy” but it just leads to them realizing they have feelings for each other
title is from a glistening pleasure song. the song has ZERO connection to the fic i just love those words in that order.
~*~*~
ONE
"What the hell is that guy's problem?"
You don't recognize the voice at first, but you do recognize the face of the cop who's still not done rolling his eyes when you and Spencer turn the corner of the hallway at the local precinct. He's the one who spent more time glaring at Spencer than he did actually working when you were all at the crime scene earlier, as if Spencer not shaking his hand was some kind of personal insult and Reid hadn't evaded everyone's handshakes.
His fellow uniform, whose back is to you, shrugs, completely oblivious to the first guy's panicked expression when he sees you approaching. "It's the BAU. You probably have to be just a little crazy to do that job. Maybe he's just crazier than the rest of them."
"It's not strictly speaking a requirement, but it definitely helps," you say brightly, stopping several feet away from them. "We talk to so many assholes everywhere we go, a little bit of craziness helps us power through."
Next to you, you can tell that Spencer has gone rigid; you're not sure if he stopped walking because you did or if he actually froze.
There's really no way to pretend it isn't obvious that the two street cops are talking about him. Especially with the way they glance awkwardly at him and scurry off down the hallway without even acknowledging your comment. Probably lucky that this didn't turn into a full-blown discussion, Hotch wouldn't be impressed if he heard you talked to the locals like that. He'd do his whole Disappointed Dad routine of not shouting but looking very disappointed as he told you he expected better.
You turn to look at Spencer, pulling a face that makes it clear exactly what you think of those guys, but Spencer shakes his head at you.
"I'm not crazy," he says. "Actually my Mysophobia is quite mild. I just don't trust other people to keep their hands clean, and neither should anyone else."
You don't say anything about the disinfectant wipes in his desk drawer back at Quantico, or the way his shoes are lined up neatly in his hallway at home. (The temptation to nudge one of his chucks out of alignment had been almost too great to resist, but you had honestly been worried he'd retaliate by doing something to your car and it'd smell of rotten eggs for six months. He'd do the calculations and decide that revenge was worth having to take a taxi to work until the metro was running again. Or he'd get a ride from Emily.)
"Fuck them," you say dismissively.
"I'd rather not." He pulls a face and it takes you a second to realize he's joking. When you snort with laughter, he smiles at you, looking just a little smug.
"No, that'd probably be even more unhygienic," you agree. He opens his mouth to speak and you hold up a hand to stop him. "Nope. You will not give me any stats on that, you will not ruin sex for me forever."
Spencer closes his mouth like a fish.
"Thank you," you say, nodding.
"Perhaps it'd be easier, though," he says, making no moves to start walking again.
"Never having sex again?" Is he about to give you some honest feedback on your dating life?
"No." He shakes his head, too caught up in his own train of thought to really notice what you asked. "If I just shook people's hands."
"I mean, maybe," you agree, because it probably would make some things simpler. Just, none of those things are important. "But don't make yourself do something you don't want to do because that guy's a douche canoe."
"I'm not," he insists, looking down at his hands.
"Give me your hand sanitizer," you say, reaching out, palm up.
"What?" He frowns at you but immediately digs into his pocket for the small bottle. He squeezes a blob of the cool gel into your cupped palm and you rub your hands together, carefully spreading it on both of them before the alcohol evaporates and it dries out. Spencer is still watching you as he pockets the hand sanitizer.
When you're done, you hold up both hands to him, showing off just how clean they are and he raises his eyebrows in what you assume is approval. So you reach out and take his hand, not to shake but to hold.
"What are you doing?" His hand is stiff but he doesn't pull away.
"Exposure therapy," you say, squeezing.
The muscles in his hand relax slightly, but you can feel his palm getting sweaty. His hand is warmer than you thought it'd be, his skin softer. Somehow you expected calluses and dry skin, but his hands are as soft as the rest of him.
He wraps his fingers around your hand, submitting himself to the project.
"Spencer?" you ask a few seconds later.
"Hmm?"
"Are you counting?"
He looks like he's going to deny it but then he smiles, slightly shamefaced. "Yes."
"One minute, okay?" you tell him.
"Okay," he agrees, nodding, looking both ways as if he's worried someone will see the two of you standing in the middle of a police station hallway at 1 in the morning holding hands.
Some fears are more rational than others, you think to yourself as Spencer mouths, "59, 60," and then quickly lets go of your hand and shoves his own in his pocket.
TWO
You're in Garcia's office, sitting behind her as she types away, making things appear and disappear on her many monitors. Next to you Spencer is leaning against the desk you're perched on, his hands at his sides.
You indicate his pocket with your index finger and he pulls a "what?" face. When you mime rubbing something into your hands he looks at Garcia and then at you before he slowly pulls the hand sanitizer from his pocket and squirts some of it into your hand.
Garcia doesn't notice at all, still typing away, and you reach for Spencer's hand. He lets you take it, but you can see his eyes going slightly wide with panic.
"There are still more than a thousand hits," she says, taking a break from typing and starting to turn around in her chair.
"Can you limit it to just women who were divorced in the last six months?" he asks quickly, moving your joined hands behind your back where hopefully Garcia won't be able to see them.
"I never knew that was your thing, Doctor Reid," she jokes, turning back to her screens. "But I can indeed."
"It's not my thing," Spencer argues, "but it looks like it might be the UnSub's."
"No, I think Penelope's onto something there," you joke. Next to you Spencer is tense, but you're pretty sure it's more to do with the fact that you've got a firm grip on his hand than the joking. So you keep talking as a way to distract him. You're doing him a solid, basically. "How long after the ink is dry on the divorce papers do you make your move, Spencer? Do you hang around outside Family Court, scouting for future girlfriends?"
Penelope lets a giggle slip out, clearly appreciating the absurdness of the joke. Spencer Reid scouting for girlfriends anywhere. You're honestly hilarious.
Spencer on the other hand doesn't even dignify your joke with an answer. You think he might let go of your hand, but no. It hasn't been 60 seconds yet and you're pretty sure he's counting.
"Catching them on the rebound," you go on, smirking. You're going to keep it up until he reacts. "Clever to get them at their most vulnerable."
"Are you projecting?" he asks, head tilted innocently as he looks at you. "It sounds like you've thought about this a lot."
Touché, Doc.
"Ooooh," Garcia hums, sounding impressed.
You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back and then lets go.
If nothing else, this project is going to give you a very good idea of just how long 60 seconds is.
THREE
The case was exhausting, both physically and mentally, and practically everyone is asleep in their seats, with the exception of Hotch who is reviewing paperwork in the seat behind you while JJ snores quietly across from him, her own file abandoned on the table between them.
Next to you Spencer is sleeping with a pillow against the window, forced to make do after Morgan beat him to the bench where he's sleeping soundly under a blanket.
You shift, trying to get comfortable, accidentally hitting Spencer with your elbow.
"Sorry," you whisper when he opens one eye to look at you.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asks, opening his other eye.
You shrug, because you don't really want to admit that he was right and you were wrong, you shouldn't have packed your jacket in your hold bag, and you shouldn't have turned down a blanket when Rossi offered you one, and now you're too cold to sleep while Rossi is curled up across the aisle from Hotch, warm and comfortable under the blanket you refused.
Spencer doesn't say anything, just shakes his head at you with a faint smile, and then rearranges his blanket until it's covering you both. You lean closer to him so he can wrap it all the way over you.
"Thanks," you mumble, leaning your head against his shoulder, relaxing in the delicious warmth of the pre-heated blanket.
"Mhmm," he says, pushing his pillow back in place and tilting his head against it once more. When he settles, his hand brushes yours, knuckles moving against your fingers, and you chase him, pushing your hand into his. You might as well make the most of this time and do another therapy session.
Not acknowledging what you're doing in any other way at all, he turns his wrist so he can wrap his hand around yours properly, both of your hands falling into your lap. When you squeeze, he squeezes back, and then you feel his shoulder relax as he settles.
You wait with your eyes closed for the minute to pass, but when the 60 seconds are up he doesn't let go, so you don't either. Maybe he's ready to go for two minutes. You're nodding off when you finally feel his hand move, but instead of pulling it back, he's intertwining his fingers with yours.
His breathing is slow and even, you're pretty sure he's sleeping. Somehow it feels wrong to still be holding his hand when he's not aware of it, like you're… overstepping some boundary, tricking him. You try to pull away your hand, loosening your grip on him so you can push his hand back in his own lap, but he tightens his grip. It's not exactly firm, but definitely determined.
You smile, closing your eyes and burrowing closer to him until you're comfortable.
You're woken up a few hours later by him gently nudging you with his shoulder and then saying dryly, "You drooled on me."
His fingers are still braided through yours under the blanket and you use your other hand to wipe your chin and then the knit of his cardigan. "Sorry."
When you look at him his face is so close you can't really interpret his expression, but you don't think he looks disgusted.
Also, he hasn't let go of your hand.
"We're landing," you say, looking out the window at the Quantico air strip coming into view.
"That's why I woke you up," he replies.
"Oh." You honestly thought it was to complain about the drooling.
His thumb brushes a soothing circle on the back of your hand, and then he carefully releases you, pulling his hand away just in time to be able to give the blanket to JJ so she can stow it away.
You smile at him, impressed, and he smiles back.
FOUR
The bar is crowded but Emily and JJ managed to secure a table big enough for the whole team. There's a constant shuffling of seats, people drifting to the dance floor and back again, going to buy rounds of drinks, using the restrooms; and somehow you end up nursing your second piña colada pressed into Spencer's side while he's discussing interrogation techniques with Hotch and you're trying to understand what Penelope is telling you about the changes she made to her computer setup in excruciating detail.
Spencer shifts, moving even closer to you when Morgan pushes onto the rounded bench on Hotch's other side, and his hand ends up trapped between your thighs somehow. You move closer to Garcia, giving him space to pull his hand free, trying to pretend you don't notice the way his hand strokes your leg when he removes it.
Because he's not stroking your leg, he's just… moving his hand.
You clear your throat and nod, because Penelope looks like that's the reaction she's expecting, and she grins. "You weren't listening, were you?"
Spencer's hand is resting on his thigh now, but you're sitting so close to him that his pinky finger is still brushing your leg every time one of you moves. You're maybe moving a lot, not particularly comfortable on the bench seat.
You grimace in apology, your own hand settling on your thigh, so close to his that you could probably just stretch out your pinky and touch his.
"Well if you don't want to talk about my computer you can just tell me all about the date you went on last week," Penelope says and you realize this was her plan all along. Sneaky bitch, oh how you love her.
Next to you Spencer shifts again, his whole body going rigid when his pinky touches yours. You can feel him turn to look at you and when your eyes meet, he's frowning. You can guess what's bothering him, of course. Your hands touching under the table and you haven't been anywhere near hand sanitizer for well over an hour. What you have been doing is touching all sorts of unclean things, like the bar and the bench and money, the ultimate culprit in the exchange of germs, or so you've been told once.
Well, good. Time for him to lose the training wheels, you decide, and take his hand in yours, smiling with what you hope looks like encouragement.
His frown deepens, like he's thinking through a complicated game of chess, or maybe trying to talk himself off a ledge, and then he curls his fingers around yours, turning back to Hotch, his focus clearly going back to the conversation he and Morgan are having.
"Oh, it was great," you tell Penelope, feeling a little spark of excitement at how well Spencer's doing with his whole desensitization. You're kind of a genius for coming up with this, you tell yourself, pleased little butterflies fluttering around your stomach while Spencer's thumb rubs against your hand. "Yeah, he told me after dinner that he forgot his credit card so I had to pay, then suggested we both go back to his place because then we could share the taxi I'd also be paying for."
Penelope snorts. "And did you?"
You scoff. "No! I gave him three bucks and told him to take the metro, then I took a taxi home. By myself."
She laughs, delighted and you launch into the whole sorry tale about this absolute turd of a man you had to spend nearly two hours sitting across from at a restaurant because you hadn't organized a fake emergency call.
Next to you, Spencer's back goes less rigid as he clearly gets used to holding another person's unsanitized hand in this uncontrolled environment.
You squeeze his fingers, trying to convey how impressed you are by his progress.
He squeezes back, moving in his seat so his arm isn't bent at an odd angle under the table, making sure you're sitting so close that your joined hands aren't noticeable to anyone else. Your hands are resting on your thigh, his long fingers brushing against your tights. Or, well, not so much 'brushing' as, sort of, kind of stroking your leg, maybe? Not deliberately, of course, you know that, it's just what happens when you're both forever being jostled around as other people move around you.
Penelope gets up to go to the bar and really, there's plenty of space on your other side now, you could move away from Spencer's side, but then you'd have to let go of his hand, so you stay where you are, reluctant to let go before he does. He's doing so well, you want to see just how long he's able to do this for.
The room isn't cold, but somehow you still have goosebumps.
"Sorry about your date," he says suddenly, head tilted towards you, voice so low that no-one else can hear him.
You turn to look at him. "Don't be. My friend Katie set me up, she has terrible taste in men. The only surprising thing about that date is that she didn't want him for herself."
"Still. It sounded like you had a pretty bad time."
You shrug, one arm moving against his. "It's fine. Not the end of the world. There will be other dates, and maybe they'll be less terrible."
Spencer frowns, then nods. "Yeah, definitely."
"Why do you look so unconvinced? You think I'm doomed to a life of terrible dates?"
"No." He's shaking his head, but that frown isn't going anywhere. "That's not it."
"Then what?"
Under the table, Spencer's grip on your hand tightens and he looks uncomfortable. You wonder if he managed to forget he was holding your hand and now he realized it and wants to let go.
"It's fine," you tell him, because it is. He's been holding your hand for almost half an hour, your shoulder is actually getting a little stiff by this point. "You did really well."
"What?"
You squeeze his hand, since you can't exactly blurt out 'you're doing a very good job holding my hand' in front of all your teammates. Who knows what they'd read into that?
Spencer blinks. "Oh. Right. Thanks."
When you let go of his hand, it takes a few seconds for his fingers to loosen their grip, but when he does, you catch him surreptitiously rubbing his hand against his knee, not quite like he's trying to wipe you off, but still. Kind of like that.
When he gets up to leave half an hour later, he looks kind of uncomfortable when he says goodnight to you, raising his arms, and for a mad second you think he's going to hug you, but then he adjusts his satchel and you realize it was just falling off his shoulder.
FIVE
One of your favorite things about Spencer is, although his head can get kind of deep in the work clouds, once the case is over, if there's time before the jet takes you back home, you can pretty much always tempt him to go book shopping with you.
Sometimes you don't even really have to tempt him, because he has that eidetic memory, and he remembers you once telling him how you spent an entire day in your favorite bookshop in the world when you were in high school and now here you are in Portland and JJ has dismissed you both since you weren't on the team that did any actual apprehending of anyone, so there's less paperwork for you to do.
Spencer glances at his watch and then at JJ and then he tilts his head towards the exit while looking at you. And half an hour later, you're in heaven.
Book heaven.
You get distracted in the used books section, browsing biographies, and lose track of Spencer. When you resurface in Poetry it's been almost an hour and you realize you should probably find him. If you make everyone wait for you at the jet, they're not going to look the other way when you sneak off ever again.
You go through the aisles, looking for him, fairly certain he's in the used books section as well. There's enough to look at here, he wouldn't have made it to the new books, soulless historyless paperbacks.
You're not sure how you know that he's close, you just do. He's in the next aisle, definitely, and you're trying to decide if you should sneak up on him or that'd be a mistake considering what you both spent the last four days doing.
But then you hear it: "We have the paperback version as well, if you prefer."
You don't actually have to look to know this woman is flirting with Spencer. Her voice is so loaded with it, it's amazing the fire alarms aren't going off.
"Oh, that's fine. I prefer hardbacks." Spencer is polite but friendly in a way that's definitely not a rejection and you give in to temptation and remove a few books from the shelf so you can peer into their aisle.
18th century philosophy. Because of course.
And of course that woman is pretty with her nose piercing and purple-tinted hair and t-shirt that's just a little tighter than it's probably supposed to be, but in the most flattering way. A t-shirt that says, very loudly, "I can get you all the books you want, anytime, just come to bed with me."
Not literally, that would have been super weird to put on a work uniform, but it's definitely what the shop logo stretched out across her chest is implying.
"Well, if you need anything, just let me know. I'm Frankie, by the way." You wonder if the fire alarms are silent but fire trucks are actually on their way.
"Oh. Thanks," Spencer says and you can see his cheeks going all splotchy and red like he's too warm.
You stand up on tiptoes, which changes your view, and you realize why he looks like he's boiling.
She's touching his hand.
How unprofessional!
For just a second you think you've turned into your grandmother, who also cares way too much how people in the service industry behave even if their behavior has zero impact on her, and you think you might ask to speak to the manager, but then Spencer shakes his head no to something this absolute trollop just said, and which you didn't hear because your ears were ringing with righteous indignation, and she releases him.
And you realize something. You try not to, but you can't help it.
Because you're relieved. You don't care that this woman talks to customers like she wants to lick honey off of them, just so long as those customers aren't Spencer.
And you'd feel bad that clearly your exposure therapy hasn't really worked yet, because he couldn't have looked less comfortable and you know he gets shy sometimes, and it seemed clear that he liked her, and maybe if you had done a better job preparing him for this he would have been okay with her touching him.
Maybe you should also feel bad about the fact that there's a little part of you that's delighted that he'll let you hold his hand and not that woman.
No, you should definitely feel bad about that. Except you don't want any woman holding his hand other than you.
Once the aspiring honey-licker is gone, you walk into Spencer's aisle, trying to look like you didn't know he was there. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just holds up the book he definitely already read most of and tells you he's going to buy it.
"You wouldn't prefer the paperback?" you ask innocently. He doesn't know you know, after all.
He looks at you, then at the gap in the bookshelf you forgot to refill, then back at you. "No." He says it like it's simple and your whole world didn't just spin on its axis.
Oh.
Your stomach does a little flip as you try not to read anything into that completely innocuous answer. Then he starts walking towards the cash registers, moving the book to the hand that's further from you, the one closest to you hanging loosely at his side.
You take it, carefully wrapping your hand around his, and he does the same, his fingers curling themselves around you.
You pass the woman he didn't want touching him earlier, and you think he might let go of you, but instead he just smiles politely at her, his grip on you not changing at all.
She smiles back, and then she smiles at you, looking all friendly and maybe a little bit apologetic and not at all like she wants to claw your eyes out.
You hope you smile back, but you honestly aren't sure what your face is doing at all.
You just know you're holding Spencer's hand and you don't want to let go.
Terrifying.
ONE
This was your idea. Spencer has reminded himself of that fact 27 times on his way from his apartment to the cinema.
He had asked Emily to go to the Eisenstein festival with him, she had made up some transparent excuse like he wasn't a professional lie detector, and you had said, "I'll go with you, Spencer. It sounds like fun."
And his lie detector just short circuited right then and there.
There's no part of him that thinks you're going to enjoy sitting through any one of the three movies that are playing back to back today, but he didn't question it. He did rewind mentally to make sure you had heard enough of the conversation to understand what he had been suggesting, and yes. You were there the whole time, actually sitting next to Emily when he had first brought it up.
But if you only said it sounded like fun because you felt sorry for him that no-one wanted to go with him to his black and white, Soviet era movie marathon, then he was going to just pretend he didn't notice.
And then he'd sit next to you in that cinema for at least 278 minutes, depending on the versions they were screening which the poster had been frustratingly vague about. Plus commercials. All in all, he'd estimate at least five hours. Sitting next to you. In a dark cinema.
Spencer doesn't believe in prayers or wishing on shooting stars, but he would have done both yesterday if he thought it might have done anything to lower the risk of a case coming up and cancelling your plans together. But he didn't need to, because here he is.
You're already there when he arrives, standing under the awning outside looking at your phone, and for just a second he's worried there's a text from JJ and you're being called into work, but his own phone hasn't said anything at all, and when you look up and spot him you smile, not apologetically or with anything like regret (real or pretend), but like you're genuinely happy to see him.
"Perfect timing," you say when he stops in front of you.
Spencer is seven minutes early. He smiles.
"Katie has been texting me non-stop." You hold up your phone as if to show him, and it actually beeps and lights up as if you planned it.
"Your friend with terrible taste in men?" There could be other Katies, obviously, but he's pretty sure this is the only one you've mentioned knowing.
"Uhhuh. She found another gem. She started dating a guy who's—and I could not be more certain of this—involved in some Ponzi scheme. He's got a friend who's single and she's convinced we'd hit it off." You open the text and read it, rolling your eyes, and then you shove your phone at him.
'Come on just give him a chance. What do you have to lose?' Spencer hands the phone back to you. "Does she mean, other than your money?"
You snort. "Who cares about money, Spencer? What about my dignity?"
He smiles, blowing an amused huff of air out through his nose. "I suppose there's that as well," he agrees. How much dignity does he have left considering the fact that he's about to spend his Sunday with you watching movies he knows you won't enjoy, when he could have explained to you that you wouldn't enjoy them and why, but he chose not to, because he didn't want you to back out?
Considering the fact that you spending time with him out of pity doesn't stop him looking forward to it? Considering the fact that he spent the entire morning wondering if you're going to take his hand in the cinema and actually getting excited at the prospect of sitting in a dark cinema screen holding his colleague's hand because she thinks she's curing him of… caring about hygiene?
Spencer isn't sure how dignity is measured, but he is pretty sure he doesn't have a whole lot of it left to measure.
"We're getting popcorn, right?" you ask, walking ahead of him into the cinema.
Spencer had planned on getting a coffee, maybe some pretzels. It's barely 11AM. "Of course."
At the concession stand you start picking up bags of candy at what he assumes is random, but then you show him two bags of pretzels, holding them up in turn. There's a third option, but he's never eaten that one in the office and you haven't touched it. He shrugs because he's fine with either and you throw both on the counter. "And a large popcorn with butter and a diet coke and a coffee with more sugar than you think should be legal. Actually, once you hit that point, just add a little more."
The teenager behind the counter looks at you, wide-eyed and a little scared.
"Three sugars," Spencer corrects you and you smirk.
He shakes his head at you, nudging you away from the counter before you can do any more damage. Doing some quick calculations based on what you've picked up, he throws some money on the counter before you can get your purse open.
"I was going to pay," you say, eyebrows furrowed. "You got the tickets."
Spencer, who can see the remainder of his dignity escaping out the door as he goes through the rites of an actual date, just shrugs. "You're doing me a favor, coming with me. The least I can do is feed you."
You look up at him. "Oh. I figured we'd go out for food after?"
He looks at the mountain of snacks you picked up, the tub of popcorn in your arm, bigger than your head. There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, not when you basically said you want to go out for dinner. With him. "And what's this? Appetizers?"
"No." You hug the popcorn closer like he threatened to take them away from you. "But aren't these movies seven years long? I feel like Russian movies are going to be long."
"They're not that long." He holds the door open and you walk into the screen ahead of him. The room is about half full, with people mostly centered in the middle rows. The front and back rows are both empty.
You stop, turning to look at him. "Where do you want to sit?"
Normally he'd prefer the front row, for his eyesight, but he nods his head towards the back row instead. You look just a little surprised, but walk in ahead of him, settling in one of the seats in the middle of the row.
He deposits your appetizers on the little table attached to his seat and sits down next to you. And then he waits.
You spend the first half hour eating popcorn, offering the tub to him at regular intervals, and then you open the bag of twizzlers, slowly chewing your way through one of them as you squirm in your seat.
"Are you scared you'll fall asleep if you sit still for too long?" he leans in and whispers.
You jump, startled. "No. I'm just hoping I can find the right angle and then this will make sense to me."
"It won't," he whispers. "Sit still."
Then he very casually and not at all deliberately puts his lower arm on the armrest between your seats, his hand within easy reach. It has worked well in the past, after all, there is previous evidence that his method is sound. If he makes his hand available, maybe allows his fingers to touch yours, more often than not you will take his hand.
It's a pretty devious thing to do, he's aware of that, and he's not really sure when your supposed exposure therapy stopped being something he allowed you to do because you seemed so determined to help him, and instead changed into something he didn't really mind before finally becoming something he actually wants you to do.
He wants to hold your hand, he wants to touch you, and he does not want your friend Katie to set you up on any more dates. Because you're right: statistically, eventually one of them will be a nice guy, and you'll like him.
But he won't - and this is the real problem here - be Spencer.
The first movie ends and you still haven't made any moves to touch his hand. You haven't actually moved much at all, and for a while he thought you had fallen asleep, but no. You were staring at the screen, your nose scrunched up adorably as you tried to follow the narrative.
Maybe Spencer should have double-checked that there would be subtitles…
When the lights come on for the 15 minute break between screenings, you get out of your seat. "I've just gotta—" you trail off, pointing at the exit to the lobby and the other people making their way out.
"You forgot your purse," he says, grabbing it from your seat and holding it out to you after you've passed him.
You turn and stare at him. "What?"
"If you're going to sneak off." He's mostly joking. Mostly. He's also a little bit worried you do want to leave.
But then you smile, shaking your head at him like he's being silly, and he feels like maybe he was.
"We can do something else," he offers all the same. Maybe you don't want to get away from him, but you could still want to get away from Eisenstein.
You take a step back towards him, almost but not quite knocking your knee against his. "Spencer, we're not leaving. There are two movies left, I'm coming back."
"You just want me to feed you," he says. Mainly to remind himself that's something you said you expected to happen.
Dinner and a movie. Would it be possible for you to do anything more date-like? In a completely platonic way, of course. Two more movies left for you to platonically take his hand.
"Exactly," you say, and this time you do actually nudge him with your leg. Luckily you aren't looking at him, so you don't see the way he has to suck a pleased smile all the way into his mouth.
This time, he lets you walk away, and when you return nine minutes later, you're holding another coffee for him. "You take it black, right?" you joke, handing it to him.
He takes a sip and you ordered it just the way he likes it, which he knew you would. "Thanks."
When he puts the coffee back in the cup holder between your seats, he brushes against your arm, sitting on the edge of the armrest. Strictly speaking the thing isn't wide enough for two, it's very much a territory to negotiate over, but you're taking up less than half of it.
Spencer spends about ten minutes wringing his hands in his lap, trying to decipher the situation. You shift, twice, but your hand doesn't move. It's still there, half on, half off the armrest.
Like it's undecided, or like it's trying to run away and you aren't letting it, or like it wants to be there and you don't want it to.
How is he supposed to know what to do?
The answer is probably that he isn't supposed to do anything. This isn't a date, it only looks like one from a distance, and just because he can't focus on the movie because all he can think about is holding your hand, that doesn't mean you want him to. You haven't technically told him that his exposure therapy is over, but you haven't held his hand since Portland, two weeks ago.
Like maybe doing it in public was some kind of graduation ceremony and didn't make him want to stay in that bookshop forever, never mind catching the jet back to Quantico.
He shifts, sighing deeply, only realizing how loud it was when you turn to look at him. "Sorry."
"You okay?" you whisper, leaning a little closer to him.
He's not, not at all. He's spiraling just a little bit. "Yeah, of course."
You look at him carefully, like maybe you don't believe him, and he turns back to face the screen so he doesn't have to look you in the eye. Then he takes a deep breath and places his arm on the armrest, taking up most of the remaining space on it.
His pinky finger is maybe an eighth of an inch away from yours and he digs it into the velvet of the armrest to stop it from twitching and accidentally touching you, although he's not quite sure why.
Maybe because it feels too much like begging to be touched, suddenly, after not being touched at all for so long?
But then, while the score crescendos dramatically, he suddenly feels it: Your pinky finger feathering along his and then away. At first he thinks he imagined it, but then it happens again, and again. And this time, it actually settles against his.
When Spencer turns to look at you, you're staring intently at the screen, looking for all the world like you're completely engrossed in the movie.
He moves his pinky so it's covering yours.
You don't move. At all.
He moves his pinky a little more, until it's settling on your ring finger.
You still aren't moving.
He feels his heart rate increase, the way it might do ahead of a myocardial infarction, or possibly a panic attack. But there's no pain in his left arm, no cold sweats, no shortness of breath.
He swallows, then he places his hand over yours, covering it completely.
Your thumb twitches but you don't pull away, so Spencer decides he might as well go for broke and wrap his fingers around your hand.
That's it, he's done it. He's holding your hand.
And then you move, your hand shifting. He's about to release you, worried he overstepped, but all you do is turn your hand and intertwine your fingers with his, pulling his hand off the armrest and into your lap.
Spencer double-checks the signals his body is sending him, just to make completely sure this isn't a heart attack.
He turns to look at you, and he's pretty sure you're smiling, your eyes still on the screen. "Okay?" he asks.
You turn your head and now he's sure you're smiling. "Of course."
When the second movie ends, you don't get up. Your hand is still intertwined with his, resting in your lap, and Spencer hopes you'll never move.
"This, um, this exposure therapy has really worked well," you say and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you.
"I guess," he says, because he's not convinced it has, really. He's pretty sure he won't be shaking anyone's hand unless it's yours.
You lift up your joined hands to show him. "I mean, we've been holding hands for like an hour."
He blinks.
"It's nice." Your voice is soft and you aren't looking at him, so he lets himself smile at your words.
❥ No case in BAU history had ever felt as complex or baffling as the one Morgan suddenly overheard developing behind the closed doors of the conference room. Now, finding out what is happening inside between Reid and you —and, more importantly, figuring out how much money the team is about to lose in the betting pool—becomes a matter of national security.
❥ fluff, workplace romance
A blessed silence filled the BAU bullpen—the kind that only happens after a grueling case is finally closed. Half the team had already retreated to their offices to tackle the mountains of paperwork, while Derek Morgan, lazily swirling a coffee mug in his hand, headed toward the conference room to grab his tablet.
He already had his hand on the doorknob when a soft, ragged gasp drifted through the half-drawn blinds.
"Oh god, Spence, be gentle, that’s a sensitive spot!"
The voice was undeniably yours, a breathless, strained whisper with a distinct edge of tension.
"I'm...I`m trying!" Reid’s panicked falsetto rang out. His own breathing sounded quick and uneven, as if he’d just run a marathon. "But if you don't stop squirming, I'm only going to make it worse. Please, just relax."
"How am I supposed to relax when your hands are shaking so badly? You’re the genius, find the right angle."
"The angle has nothing to do with this! Statistically speaking, pain tolerance decreases when—"
"Not now, Spence! If anyone walks in here because Dr. Reid can’t find the right position, I am replacing all your coffee with decaf!"
Morgan pressed his palm to his face, feeling his professional profiler brain wage war with his inner loyal friend. His imagination, unprompted, immediately conjured up pictures completely inappropriate for the FBI headquarters.
At that moment, soft footsteps approached from behind. Emily stepped off the elevator, looking at Morgan with a mix of amusement and skepticism as he practically glued his ear to the conference room door.
"Derek? What are you doing?"
Morgan whipped around, slamming a finger against his lips, and urgently gestured for her to come over. Intrigued, Prentiss stepped closer.
Suddenly, the sharp sound of tearing fabric echoed from inside, followed by your highly expressive, drawn-out groan.
"Oh my god, not so hard, you’re going to rip my shirt! That hurts like hell!"
Something clattered to the floor, and the table creaked loudly, as if someone had heavily leaned their weight against it. Then, Reid let out a heavy sigh and started rambling nervously.
"Okay, okay, I get it. Take off your jacket. Now hold on to me. Like this..."
Emily’s eyes widened to an almost comical size. In a matter of seconds, she went from the shocked “Oh my god, they’re finally doing it!” stage to the sudden realization of “Oh my god, they’re doing it on Hotch’s table!”.
Morgan and Prentiss leaned into the door in perfect synchronization, so utterly consumed by trying to reconstruct the scene inside that they completely missed the significant cough behind them.
"May I ask, ladies and gentlemen, whose profile you are currently analyzing through a keyhole?"
Rossi stood a few paces away, holding a cup of espresso. But before he could even form a guess, Prentiss grabbed the sleeve of his expensive jacket and pulled him into the huddle.
"Spence, wait, you’re squeezing too tight." Your voice broke, followed by a wet sniffle. "Your hands are freezing! Take it out!"
"If we stop right now, it’ll be unhygienic and counterproductive," Reid replied stubbornly. "Please, just trust me. I know what I'm doing."
Rossi froze. A whole spectrum of emotions flashed across his face—from sheer shock to a deep, paternal satisfaction, which he immediately masked with his signature nonchalance.
"Wow," he murmured softly. "And here I thought we’d have to wait until next Christmas for this."
"What’s going on?" Penelope practically sprinted up to the group, her sparkly pen in hand, the moment she caught wind of their frantic whispering. "You guys look like you just caught the Replicator."
"Worse, baby girl," Morgan whispered, nodding toward the door. "Looks like our genius finally moved from theory to practice."
"Oh my goodness!" Garcia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. She almost shrieked, but Morgan clamped his hand over her lips just in time.
Within a minute, the door had gathered a full-blown strategy meeting. JJ appeared around the corner with a case file, only to be yanked into the pile by Morgan. And as the final touch, Hotch stepped out of his office. Seeing half of his elite unit huddled outside the conference room with dead-serious expressions, he frowned and walked over with heavy, commanding strides.
"What is this unauthorized gathering about?" Hotchner eyed the team suspiciously.
Morgan silently pointed to the crack in the door. From inside came a final, overwhelmingly loud cry.
"Yes! Yes, Spence... oh god, finally."
Hotch didn’t hesitate. With the face of a man ready to storm a terrorist bunker, he decisively threw his shoulder into the door and stepped inside. Behind him, holding their breath, the rest of the team clustered together, expecting to witness the most scandalous and long-awaited sight in FBI history.
But reality proved to be much more literal.
You were sitting on the edge of the conference table, your blouse unbuttoned at the top and draped loosely over one shoulder. Spencer was stepped deep between your knees, his torso pressed flush against yours to get a closer look.
One of his thighs was wedged snugly between yours for balance, pinning you lightly against the table. His hands were braced firmly on your bare collarbone and shoulder, while you were clinging to the lapels of his jacket like a lifeline, your fingers wrinkling the fabric.
Surrounding the two of you were rolls of gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and medical tape. Reid looked completely disheveled, mostly because you had been tugging at his clothes while he tried to treat a nasty gash on your shoulder.
Reid blinked in utter confusion at the frozen team in the doorway. He opened his mouth, likely to spout some scientific justification for administering first aid, but you cut him off.
"What’s the matter, guys? Judging by your faces, you were expecting at least a ritual sacrifice."
You shifted your bandaged shoulder and defiantly tilted your chin up, even though your cheeks flushed a faint pink.
Morgan recovered first, letting out a booming laugh as he slid down the wall. Rossi just shook his head, while Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose.
"False alarm, Reid’s still a saint," Emily smirked, gently nudging a giggling JJ and a deeply disappointed Penelope back out the door.
----------------
When the door clicked shut, leaving only the two of you in the room, Reid slowly turned his head back to you, his cheeks flaring a bright, furious crimson.
"They... they thought we were..." he stammered, his brain finally processing the double entendres of your conversation. His voice dropping an octave. "Mathematically speaking, the probability of them misinterpreting a basic wound treatment shouldn't have been that high, considering they are trained profilers."
You couldn't help but chuckle, wincing slightly as you pulled your blouse back up. "Spence, we were screaming about 'angles,' and 'fingers,' Honestly, I'm just glad Hotch didn't tackle you to the ground."
Reid looked down at the medical tape in his hands, a shy, surprisingly soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Well... for the record," he murmured, looking up at you through his eyelashes, "if I were to ever... do that... I wouldn't need a statistical breakdown to find the right angle."
Now imagine a soulmate au where your soulmates name is written on you, right?
You've known the name "john price" long before you knew how to write your own, child fingers tracing the letters on your arm, reverent.
You tried finding him, of course you did, but as it happens john price is far too common of a name. You give up on your dreams eventually. life demands you to actually live it instead of waiting for the signal to go.
As it happens, on one of your nights out you stumble upon him.
John price. You had noticed him in the bar earlier, drawn to him in a way you couldn't explain, and now it's him approaching you. He nods at your exposed arm, body between you and the rest of the crowd, almost possessive. "You are my soulmate, yes?"
Your name rolls off his tongue like honey, has your soul thumping at the thought of the one.
John price is big, strong, and dangerously handsome. He smells like whiskey and smoke and expensive cologne that tells you the gold around his neck is real. He keeps glancing at your mark with a smile, awestruck the same as you.
"Can i see my name? I want...I want to feel it." You tug at his leather jacket impatiently.
"Ah, bad idea. I was...hurt. left a scar right next to it, looks quite gruesome." He frowns, redirecting your hand to his lips for a kiss. You understand, soulmarks are personal, add in insecurity about scars and...you decide not to push.
Still, when his hand slides low on your back, eyes lidded in desire, you follow him home.
God are you thankful john is your soulmate, you're not sure how you could enjoy another man after the night he gave you. Entire body sore and pleased, face-down on his bed.
That's the exact image nikolai sends price, your soulmark clear in the frame. Followed by the message "warmed it up for you, john ;)"
johnny getting so transfixed on the sight of your thong peeking out of your pajama shorts.
you’re both sprawled out on the living room couch, johnny on his back, and you lying stomach down on top of him with your cheek resting on his chest. your knee is hiked up a bit over his hip just enough to be comfortable. he’s holding a book up in the air with one hand.
he’s not the biggest reader, but simon recommended it, and he has trouble saying no to simon.
his other hand explores you absentmindedly. nothing inherently sexual yet. but then he feels the waistband of your thong that had ridden up the curve of your hips from the position you’re in. he calls it serendipitous.
it’s not in a place where it’s bothering you at this point, just a slight bit of pressure. he can’t help but tug the cotton up just a little bit, waiting to see if you’ll flinch.
he pretends he’s still focused on his book when really he lost his place about five minutes ago.
you shift, readjusting and cramming yourself further into johnny’s chest, if that’s even possible at this point.
you murmur a tired “stop it,” and johnny’s hand move up your back and away from your underwear. a few more minutes of johnny pretending to read pass, and you’ve reentered that floaty state between sleep and consciousness.
he feels your breathing even out, and his hand wanders back to the band of your underwear. this time he gives it a firm yank upwards.
you screech, shooting up from his chest, now straddling his hips. you can feel his cock chubbing up through his trousers and groan in disgust.
“ugh! johnny you are such a freak, you know that?” you slap his chest, and he grabs your wrists to stop your swatting before it reached his face.
then you’re storming off, yelling one last “disgusting!” his way.
