abstract: they weren’t supposed to cross that line, not yet. but one quiet night, something shifted, inbetween soft laughter, sleepy touches, and confessions that had waited too long.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)
genre: explicit smut!! basically smut with a dash of plot lol, but also some fluff
note: i have been having terrible writer’s block and feeling a wee bit unmotivated so i’ve just been writing fluffy stories in order to try to get back into my mojo, and, a smutty fic somehow snuck in between the cracks, oopsie. so i thought i might as well post it while i keep trying to get my writing on par with my ridiculous expectations lol. (this goes out to my fiendish readers, i see you, babes.) this one is pretty explicit compared to my one other smutty fic so be warned!! i’d like to think i’ve improved from my one direction fic days but we’ll see how it’s received…insert devil emoji, jk. enjoy, my lovelies!
The street was still humming.
Not loud like it had been hours earlier, when the bar spilled laughter and neon across the sidewalk, when Emily was dancing on a curb and Morgan was ordering tequila like it came with a discount. Now, just past midnight, the storefronts were shuttered, windows aglow with the last flickers of life: someone washing a dish in their kitchen, a television muttering in a second-floor walkup, headlights sliding past in a lazy hush of rubber on wet pavement.
Spencer’s tie hung loose around his neck, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His sleeves were pushed up unevenly, one arm showing more skin than the other, and his hair—usually tamed by some miracle—was falling in soft, chaotic waves across his forehead. He looked untethered in a way he rarely allowed, and somehow it made him lighter.
Or maybe it was the bourbon.
Beside him, Y/N stumbled slightly on the curb’s edge, still in her heels — though the left strap was half undone and threatening rebellion. She steadied herself with one hand in the deep pocket of her coat, the other brushing his arm for balance. Her hair was a little windswept, eyes glassy with that soft, half-drunk gleam, and her mouth still wore the edges of a smile from something he’d said five minutes ago.
“Your definition of dancing,” she said, stepping carefully over a crack in the concrete, “is offensive to rhythm itself.”
Spencer shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “I wasn’t dancing. I was… responding to external stimuli in a kinetic way.”
“That sounds like how a robot would describe dancing.”
He tilted his head. “I didn’t want to break your concentration. You were—” He faltered for a second, clearing his throat. “You were having a good time.”
She turned to look at him, walking backward now, the city light haloing her in a golden blur. “So you were watching me.”
He paused mid-step. “You looked happy.”
That stopped her.
Not dramatically—just a small shift in her expression. Something quiet behind the eyes, like she wasn’t used to someone noticing that. Or maybe used to people noticing the wrong things.
She looked at him for a beat too long, then turned and kept walking. “So did you,” she said. “Happy.”
They didn’t say anything for the next block.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It never was with them. Just filled with city noise and the click of her rings against her shoes, and the brush of her coat sleeve against his every few steps.
When they reached the intersection, Spencer pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at it. “You live closer than I do.”
“Are you inviting yourself over?” she said, mockingly scandalized.
“I’m asking,” he said, with the kind of soft boldness that sounded foreign coming from his mouth. “If you want company. I’ll go home if not.”
Y/N stopped walking. They were under the streetlamp now, and her face was dappled in warm light and shadow, tired and flushed and pretty in a way that made his throat tighten.
“Don’t go home yet,” she said.
And that was that.
They turned the corner in sync.
Her apartment door clicked open with a low metallic sigh, the sound echoing faintly down the quiet hallway. The moment it swung inward, the air changed—cooler inside, tinged with the fading scent of sandalwood and something sweet, like dried orange peel or old perfume absorbed into the walls. Familiar, in the way her space had always felt to him.
“Don’t judge the mess,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting company tonight.”
Spencer smiled faintly. “I won’t.”
She stepped in first, flicking on the small lamp near the kitchen. A pool of golden light spilled across the hardwood, catching the curve of her shoulder as she shrugged out of her coat, letting it slip from her fingers to the hook by the door. She was in black slacks and a deep brown camisole, the kind of thing that walked a perfect line between casual and devastating, and her hair fell around her shoulders like she hadn’t even tried.
Spencer closed the door behind them and stood still for a second, adjusting to the hush of the space. It was like the city had pressed pause outside.
“Make yourself at home,” she said gently, tossing her keys into a ceramic bowl on the counter. “I have wine. Or whiskey. Or that plum soju Garcia left behind last time.”
“Dealer’s choice,” he murmured, loosening his coat and folding it over his arm before draping it on the arm of the couch.
She smiled at that—something small and lazy. “God, you’re always so polite. Even drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re tipsy and poetic,” she said, barefoot now as she padded into the kitchen. “Which is worse.”
He moved to the record player in the corner, almost by instinct.
“Can I?” he asked, fingers already ghosting over the sleeves.
“Please,” she called. The pop of a cork followed.
He flipped through a few records, pausing on one he recognized. Nina Simone. He smiled softly, fingertips grazing the worn cardboard cover before lifting it out and placing it on the turntable like it deserved reverence. A moment later, slow jazz bloomed through the room: smoky and sultry, older than either of them but more alive somehow. The kind of music meant for dim rooms and unspoken things.
“I like your place,” he said.
“You’ve been here before.”
“I know,” he replied. “I still like it.”
She looked up from where she was stood in the kitchen and towards him, and her eyes softened, just slightly. “That was very Reid of you.”
He grinned. “Can’t turn it off.”
“No,” she said, returning with two glasses of wine, deep red, nearly black in the low light, “but I don’t want you to.”
She handed one to him, fingers brushing just for a second, and lifted her own in a loose, crooked toast.
“To surviving the BAU social scene.”
He took the drink, ignoring the way her touch lingered like heat long after it was gone, and clinked his glass against hers. “Barely.”
They both sipped.
“Mm.” Spencer considered the wine, his brows drawn in mock-concentration. “It’s not terrible. A little tannic, but—”
“You’re such a snob.”
“You invited me,” he reminded her.
She raised one brow. “Still deciding if that was a mistake.”
He let out a laugh—low, surprised, and warm. The kind he never let himself have in briefing rooms or hotel lobbies or anywhere the world might listen. This was different. Here, no one else could hear it.
She curled onto the couch, tucking one leg beneath her and pulling a throw blanket into her lap. “Sit, Spence. I’m not going to quiz you on wine regions, I promise.”
He joined her, a little more hesitantly. His thigh brushed hers as he sat down, and he didn’t move away. Neither did she.
For a while, they just drank.
Talked softly. Laughed under their breath about Morgan’s karaoke attempt and JJ’s dramatic reading of a cocktail menu. The record spun on, humming something slow and smoky beneath the hush of their voices.
Y/N leaned back on the couch, wine glass balanced lazily between her fingers, her gaze flicking sideways with a mischievous glint. “You know that girl at the bar was flirting with you, right?”
Spencer glanced up, half-suspicious. “What girl?”
She scoffed. “The pretty one in the leather jacket. Red lipstick. Kept asking you questions she absolutely didn’t care about. Like if you came here often or believed in astrology.”
Spencer blinked, genuinely baffled. “She asked about Jupiter’s moons.”
“She asked if you wanted her number,” Y/N laughed, tipping her glass to her lips. “And you said, ‘Actually, there are seventy-nine confirmed moons—’”
“I was being polite.”
“You were being adorably oblivious.”
He rolled his eyes, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring a little more into her glass with exaggerated precision. “Says the woman who spent ten minutes explaining bourbon notes to the bartender while he tried not to drool on the counter.”
Her brow arched. “Are you jealous?”
He smirked, shrugging one shoulder. “Only if you are.”
She paused — just for a second too long — then gave him a coy smile. “Please. I have excellent taste.”
“Oh, I know,” he said, sipping slowly, “but you have no idea how many guys watch you when you’re not looking.”
Her smile faltered slightly, not from discomfort, but from the shift in tone. It had turned warmer. Quieter. Something flickering at the edges.
“You do,” she said softly.
“What?”
“Watch me.”
He met her gaze. Didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
The moment stretched — soft and electric.
And then she nudged his knee with hers. “Still not admitting the girl wanted your number?”
“I’d rather have yours,” he said, offhandedly, sure, but his voice was low now, almost surprised at his own boldness.
She stared at him for a breath too long.
And then smiled, slow and sure. “You already do.”
Their glasses got lower after that. The space between them shrank without effort. And the music kept playing.
At one point, she reached for the bottle again and leaned across him to pour, her wrist near his jaw, the scent of her shampoo flooding every neuron in his brain. He didn’t move. Just watched her fingers tilt the bottle and set it back down with care.
She sat back, looked at him, and tilted her head. “What?”
“You’re really close,” he said.
“You want me to move?”
“No.”
There it was again. That stillness. That moment just before something tips over the edge.
The music curled around them like smoke. The city outside kept breathing. But in here, it felt like nothing else existed except the way her gaze dropped to his mouth, and the way he didn’t stop her.
The needle kept spinning. Nina’s voice low and molten, curling like smoke around the edges of the room.
Y/N took another sip of wine, slow and deliberate. Her fingers lingered on the rim of her glass, nails tapping gently, thoughtfully, as she looked at him—really looked at him.
“You’re staring,” she said, not unkindly.
Spencer blinked, caught. “Am I?”
“Mhm.” Her lips curved, just barely. “Not that I mind. You’re just bad at being subtle when you’re drunk.”
“I told you, I’m not drunk.”
“Tipsy, then. Poetic. Loosened.” She leaned in a little, head tilted, voice dropping just slightly. “You get quieter when you’re like this. But not in a bad way. Like you’re… watching everything.”
“I do that all the time,” he murmured.
“Not like this,” she said.
“I told you I was watching you. In the bar.”
That stopped her for a beat, just long enough for his gaze to dip lower, flick to her mouth, then back to her eyes.
“You looked…” he began, then tilted his head slightly, voice rougher now, quieter. “Like you belonged to no one. Like everyone wanted a piece of you.”
She inhaled softly, her lips parting — the smallest shift, really.
“And you?” she asked, smile pulling at the edge of her mouth, almost breathless. “Did you want a piece?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“I wanted all of you.”
Her breath caught, barely.
And then she smiled again, slower now. More like surrender. “That’s a bold thing to say, Dr. Reid.”
He leaned in, just a little closer. His knee still pressed to hers. “It’s been a long night.”
Her eyes never left his.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s just starting.”
He set his wine glass down on the table, slow and careful, like the action might ground him. Like if he focused on the glass, he wouldn’t notice the way she was looking at him now—eyes soft, mouth parted slightly. Waiting.
Y/N’s gaze dropped to his lips for a fraction of a second before flicking back up. “You’re thinking too much again.”
“I always do.”
She nodded. “I know. But right now, maybe you don’t have to.”
The invitation was quiet. Threaded into the air between them like something sacred.
Spencer’s pulse thrummed in his throat. His breath faltered. The room seemed to still with it: the soft hum of the record, the golden pool of lamplight, the faint hush of the city breathing through the cracked window. He looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch her or if he already was.
And then — slowly — he reached out.
His fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light. She turned into the touch immediately, like her skin had been waiting for it. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes kissing her cheeks, and then opened again, heavy-lidded and searching.
He leaned in.
Not rushed. Not unsure. Just… drawn. Like gravity. Like she was inevitable.
Their lips met in a hush — no sudden heat, no gasp. Just a quiet, breath-warmed kiss that landed and stayed. She shifted toward him, hand slipping over his knee, sliding slowly up his thigh as she kissed him again, more certain now. Her other hand curled behind his neck, fingers threading gently into the base of his hair.
His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheekbone.
When he kissed her again, his lips parted slightly, letting her deepen it — and she did. Not with force, but with intent. Her mouth moved over his like a promise. Like something she’d thought about too many times not to get right.
He sighed into it, low and shaken, and let his other hand fall to her hip, drawing her gently across the couch until she was straddling him. The weight of her settled into his lap and he exhaled like it undid something in his chest.
Her forehead pressed to his as their mouths parted just slightly, breath mixing in the space between.
“I’ve wanted this,” she whispered.
He swallowed, his hand still resting at her jaw. “Me too.”
“How long?”
He laughed under his breath, one of those low, warm sounds that only came out when he forgot to be careful. “I think since the first time you rolled your eyes at me in a briefing.”
She smiled, nose brushing his. “You deserved it.”
“I know.”
She kissed him again. Slower. Surer. His hands moved over her now — waist, back, ribs — not grabbing, not greedy, just there. Learning her. Mapping her. Holding her like something sacred.
She rocked against him once, subtle and smooth and unable to help herself, and he gasped softly into her mouth, his hands tightening just slightly.
“You’re still thinking,” she whispered, breath shaky against his cheek.
“I’m trying not to,” he murmured, kissing just beneath her jaw. “But you make it hard.”
She smiled faintly, flushed and breathless. “Still thinking about that girl at the bar?”
He let out a quiet laugh against her skin. “She didn’t exactly leave an impression.”
“Oh no?” she teased, moving just enough to roll her hips against his, stealing his breath.
He gasped, actually gasped, then looked up at her, eyes wide and wrecked. “She didn’t watch me like this.”
“Like what?” she breathed.
“Like you’re watching me now.”
And then he kissed her again, deeper this time, like the air between them had finally gone thin, and she moaned softly into his mouth, letting the moment pull them both under.
But as they moved, slow and flush together, her lips brushing his jaw again, Spencer’s voice dropped lower, just a shade darker.
“You know…” he murmured between kisses, his mouth brushing the edge of her jaw, “I still can’t stop thinking about the bartender.”
She stilled slightly, not pulling back, just pausing, and opened her eyes to meet his.
“What about him?”
Spencer's gaze flicked to her mouth, then lower. His voice was quieter now, rougher. “The way he looked at you. Like he’d already decided you were his.”
She arched one brow, breath catching as she watched him curiously. “Still jealous, Doctor?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just kissed her, slow and claiming, before pressing his lips to her throat.
“I’m not good at sharing,” he whispered.
She smiled then, but it was different now. Less teasing. Her hands slid up into his hair, eyes suddenly darker, softer.
“Good,” she said, voice barely audible. “Neither am I.”
Neither of them moved for a long, loaded second.
And then he shifted, just slightly, gripping her hips more firmly, pulling her closer. The contact made her gasp — sharp and soft — her hands clinging to his shoulders like she needed him to anchor her.
“Spence—”
His mouth found her collarbone, biting down gently before soothing it with his tongue.
“You smiled at him like that,” he whispered against her skin. “Like you’re smiling at me now.”
Her breath hitched. “I didn’t—”
“I know,” he said. “I know. But he got to see it.”
He rolled his hips up into hers, slow and deliberate, just enough for her to feel the press of him, the need simmering just beneath the surface.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently. “Spencer—”
His eyes fluttered at the pull, his jaw tightening as he guided her hips down against him again, nothing rushed, nothing sharp. Just heat and ache, the slow grind of want, their bodies catching on each other like waves.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he murmured, voice rough, lips brushing her collarbone. “Him watching you. Wanting you.”
She arched slightly, forehead falling to his. “You have me.”
“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But I need you to feel it.”
She gasped as their bodies dragged together again — slow, desperate friction — and her spine arched, a soft moan breaking free.
“I do,” she breathed.
“You’re mine right now,” he said, still soft, still reverent, but with a quiet ache in it. “He doesn’t get this.”
Her moan cracked open in her throat, hips rolling harder now, chasing the edge he was teasing her toward. His hands steadied her, guided her, pressed her closer until their bodies fit like a lock and key.
“You like this?” he whispered. “Me jealous?”
She nodded, breathless, face flushed.
“Good,” he breathed, lips brushing hers. “Because I can’t watch you smile at someone else and pretend it doesn’t kill me.”
Her breath was coming faster now — shallow, open-mouthed, flushed against his cheek. Her hips moved instinctively, drawn to the way his hands guided her, but every roll of their bodies made the fabric between them feel heavier. Too hot. Too much.
Spencer’s hands flattened at her waist, gripping a little tighter — not to control her, but to hold her together. To hold himself together. She could feel it in the tremble of his fingers, the way his jaw clenched beneath her kisses.
“God,” he rasped, voice breaking as she ground down again, slowly, “we’re still—fully clothed—”
She let out a soft laugh, breathless, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”
His mouth found her jaw, then her throat, and then lower, kissing over the thin fabric of her shirt like he couldn’t stand not touching her properly. “You’re burning up.”
“So are you,” she whispered, dragging her hands down his chest, feeling the heat radiating through his shirt. Her fingers hesitated at the hem.
He looked up at her then, eyes wide, reverent, a little wrecked. “Do you want to stop?”
“No,” she said immediately, firmly, but soft. “Do you?”
He shook his head once. “Not even close.”
She smiled then, not coy, not teasing, but sure. A quiet kind of knowing.
Her hands slipped beneath his shirt, warm palms against his stomach, and he shivered beneath her. She moved slowly, pushing the fabric up inch by inch until he raised his arms for her. She lifted it over his head and tossed it aside, her fingertips grazing his skin on the way down.
Spencer looked up at her, breath caught in his throat.
“Okay?” she whispered, her hands settling at his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, awe-struck. “You?”
“Yeah.” She kissed him — soft and long — before guiding his hands to the hem of her own shirt.
His breath hitched. “Can I?”
She nodded.
He peeled it upward, slowly, reverently, revealing warm skin, inch by inch, until it joined his on the floor.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Still straddling him, still fully pressed together, but more bare now. More seen than before. Her hands on his chest, his at the curve of her waist. No rush. Just being here.
His voice was low, barely audible. “You’re perfect.”
She leaned down and kissed him again, mouths parting in the heat of it, her hands finding the back of his neck as she murmured against his lips, “So are you.”
Everything smelled like her: orange peel and wine and faint perfume and something he couldn’t name but knew by heart. Her skin was warm beneath his hands. Her breath brushed his mouth. She was close, so close, and yet something in him still hadn’t fully let go.
Y/N pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him.
Not teasing. Not smiling.
Just… looking.
His heart clenched.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice softer now, more fragile around the edges. Her fingers traced a lazy shape along his shoulder. “You’re quiet.”
Spencer swallowed hard. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His hands were still on her hips. Her body was still pressed to his.
But something needed to be said before they could lose themselves again.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to pretend after this,” he said, so quietly he wasn’t sure she’d hear it. It came out before he could stop it. Like it had been living in his chest for months.
Y/N blinked. And then she looked down — lashes brushing her cheeks, lips still parted, pink from kissing.
She didn’t move away.
“You don’t have to,” she said, like it was simple. But her voice caught faintly at the end, something flickering behind her calm. “We’re not in the field. You don’t have to be careful with me right now.”
“I always feel like I do,” he whispered.
Her hand slid from his chest to the side of his face. Not guiding. Just there. Her thumb brushed the hinge of his jaw, grounding him.
“You don’t,” she said again — firmer this time. Quieter, but sure.
Spencer’s throat worked. He nodded, barely. “I’ve thought about this,” he said, the words trembling as they left him. “For so long. And not like this—not drunk, not after a night out. But… I’d take it a thousand different ways if it meant getting here.”
She broke then — not fully, but beautifully. Her mouth softened. Her breath trembled. And then she smiled — slow and stunned and real.
“Hey,” she murmured, nudging her nose against his. “You’re not drunk.”
He exhaled, something sharp in him releasing. “No?”
“No. Just…” She smirked faintly, brushing her lips over his. “Seduced.”
That made him laugh — a real laugh, low and shaken and absolutely ruined. His head tipped back slightly as he did, and she watched the way it lit him up from the inside out. Watched the boyish part of him that still believed she couldn’t possibly mean it.
God, she did.
She kissed the edge of his mouth, slower this time. Tender.
“You okay?” she asked again, lips brushing his.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping. “Are you?”
She nodded, then added under her breath, “I just… didn’t expect it to feel this much like you.”
He kissed her back like it was an answer. Like it was yes. Like it was always.
And when they moved again, when her hands slid down his shoulders and his mouth found the curve of her shoulder, it was less about heat and more about reverence. Something holy in how they touched each other now.
Like they knew this mattered.
Like they knew what came next wouldn’t be careless.
Y/N shifted first, her hand sliding down his chest, slow and unhurried. Her fingertips brushed the edge of his waistband, and he inhaled like she’d touched a nerve. He looked at her — not with hesitation, but with something like reverence, like he couldn’t believe she was really here.
Her lips hovered just over his. “Okay?”
He nodded once, breathless. “Yeah.”
She kissed him then — soft, grounding — and began to undo the button of his pants. Her hands moved gently, fingers careful, like she wanted to give him every chance to stop her. He didn’t. He just watched her, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the tenderness.
When she eased the fabric down over his hips, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His eyes fluttered closed, then opened again as her hands slid back up his thighs, palms warm and reassuring. She leaned in and kissed his chest, just above his heart, and he trembled beneath her.
Then it was his turn.
His hands moved slowly, reverently — first to the waistband of her pants, fingers brushing just beneath the fabric like he was asking, are you sure? She nodded against his lips, breath catching as he kissed her again, deeper this time, fuller. Like he needed to anchor himself before daring to go further.
He slid her pants down carefully, his palms trailing over the curve of her hips, knuckles grazing the skin of her thighs. When the fabric caught around her knees, he stilled.
Lace.
Soft and black and clinging. His breath faltered.
The flush hit him high on the cheeks, heat blooming down his neck, and he tried not to stare, but he was already gone. She was still straddling him, bare from the waist down save for that thin, delicate lace, and it was nearly translucent with how wet it was. A dark patch where the fabric met her center. A glisten along the inside of her thighs.
Spencer swallowed hard, once, then again, like he couldn’t get enough air.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
She looked down at him, the barest hint of a smile playing at her lips, not teasing, not smug. Just knowing.
He ran his hands up her thighs, slow and shaking, and hooked his fingers under the lace. His breath stuttered as he pulled it down — past the curve of her hips, over her trembling legs, until she lifted to help him and it slipped away entirely.
And then she was bare.
Her skin damp, flushed, warm and real above him. His eyes dragged over every inch; the way her thighs flexed to keep balance, the way her breath hitched when his fingers grazed her again, even without meaning to.
“You’re—” he tried, voice wrecked and aching. “You’re so—”
“I know,” she whispered.
She was soft and flushed and real, breathing a little harsh, her chest rising and falling with quiet urgency.
“You okay?” she whispered, touching his face.
“I—” His voice cracked. “Yeah. You’re just… I didn’t know you could want something this much and still be this careful.”
Her smile broke gently, her thumb brushing his cheek. “That’s what you do to me.”
He just stared for a moment.
The kind of stare that wasn’t crude or possessive, but stunned. Quietly reverent. As if something had unraveled in his chest just from seeing her like this. Completely bare. Completely his.
His hands hovered at first, unsure where to begin, until she reached for him, wordlessly, her palm curling over his wrist and guiding his fingers to her waist.
He touched her like she was an answer he’d been chasing for years.
Long, slow sweeps of his hands down her sides, over her hips. His thumbs curved along the dip where her thighs met her pelvis. He exhaled softly when she sighed — a small, broken sound in the back of her throat — and glanced up immediately, eyes wide like he’d just solved something.
“Was that good?” he asked, voice hushed, fingers still resting against her skin like he wasn’t sure if he could do it again.
She nodded, breath catching. “Yes, Spence.”
He blinked slowly, lashes fluttering, as his hands resumed their quiet study. One hand slid up her back, over her ribs, tracing the shape of her spine with featherlight touches. The other moved between her legs — tentative, aching — and when his fingers brushed against her there, slick and swollen, he drew a breath so sharp it made her shiver.
“Oh my god,” he whispered.
His touch was delicate at first. Exploring. Mapping her with the same precision he used to dissect crime scenes or quote obscure physics. But now, now it was paired with breathless awe. A scientist, yes, but a man hopelessly in love, desperate to learn every inch of her.
When his fingers slid gently through her folds, she whimpered.
He looked up again, startled by the sound, his brows furrowing like he needed to know exactly what he’d done to cause it, and how to do it again. He adjusted, thumb slipping to circle softly where she was most sensitive, and her whole body jerked.
“Spence—” she gasped.
“That?” he murmured, hypnotized. “That felt good?”
Her hand gripped his shoulder. “Don’t stop.”
So he didn’t.
He kept his eyes on her the whole time, his fingers moving in slow, purposeful circles, the sound of her arousal soft and slick between them. Her breath grew uneven, shallow. Her thighs quivered around his waist. And every time her hips moved, every time she made that sweet, breathy little sound — he looked up, hungry and stunned, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
“Tell me what you need,” he breathed, his voice cracking around the edges. “Please, Y/N, I want to do it right.”
“You are,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, her body rolling toward his hand. “You are.”
And his thumb pressed just a little firmer, his fingers curving just so — and her head tipped back, mouth open, another soft whimper escaping her lips.
The sound of it undid him. He swallowed hard, face flushed, mouth parted like he was the one losing control. Like her pleasure was his.
“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, and he meant it. Every word.
His fingers kept moving, featherlight and trembling, like he was terrified of breaking her. But her body welcomed every motion; hips tilting toward his hand, her thighs falling wider around him, soft gasps catching in her throat as she whispered his name like it was the only word she remembered.
Spencer watched every reaction like it held a key to something he didn’t yet understand.
He traced lower, then up again, circling with his thumb, watching her tremble. Her lashes fluttered, lips parted as she tried to breathe through it, her voice catching on each exhale like she couldn’t keep herself quiet anymore.
“Spence,” she mewled, her hands gripping his shoulders, her hips stuttering as she pressed into him.
He flushed at the sound, gaze flickering between her face and where he was touching her, already soaked, already shaking. “You’re—God, you’re so soft,” he whispered, swallowing hard. “So warm.”
His fingers curved again, more pressure this time. She cried out, just a little, just enough. Her hand shot down instinctively, not to stop him, never that, but to anchor herself. And in the same breath, she touched him.
Her fingers wrapped around him, just barely, and he jolted like her skin was fire.
“Y/N—oh—”
She brushed her thumb across the tip — slick, flushed, impossibly warm — and Spencer’s whole body jolted beneath her like he’d been shocked.
“F-fuck, that feels—” His voice cracked, hips stuttering forward into her hand. His eyes fluttered closed, then snapped open again, wild and glassy. “That feels so good—”
She felt the wetness spread between her fingers, warm and slippery, his arousal smearing across her palm with each shaky movement. He twitched in her grip, pulsing against her skin like he was already on the edge.
“Yeah,” she gasped, her breath catching hard. “I want you, Spence. I need you.”
Her words knocked the wind out of him.
He let out a strangled moan, his hips jerking again, more desperate now, chasing the friction, his hands gripping her hips so tightly it bordered on reverent. His whole body was trembling, unraveling with every second she touched him.
“Don’t make me beg,” she whispered, curling her fingers tighter, teasing him again as slickness spread down.
But Spencer’s eyes found hers, pupils dark and unfocused, lips parted as he barely managed to speak:
“I want you to beg.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even confident. It was needy, desperate, like the sound of her pleading might be the only thing that could keep him from falling apart right there in her hand.
“Please,” he added a second later, broken and breathless. “Please. I need to hear it.”
She leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear, her breath shaky with want.
“Please,” she whispered. “Spence… I need you inside me. Need you to help me take it.”
His breath hitched, chest rising in short, sharp pulls.
“I want you to fuck me,” she murmured, voice trembling now, nearly a whimper. “I want to feel all of you, every inch. Will you let me?”
He let out a broken moan, high, desperate, like it had been waiting in his throat for years. One of his hands fisted in the blanket beside him. The other slid up, slowly, reverently, to her waist, then her ribs, then settled just beneath her chest, like he couldn’t decide where to hold her because he wanted to touch everything at once.
“I know,” he whispered. “I just… I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to rush.”
“You won’t,” she promised, leaning in to kiss him — slow and still — her hand cupping his jaw. “We won’t.”
Then she shifted her hips, aligning them with a softness that felt sacred. Her breath caught as she hovered above him, and his hands settled at her sides, fingers flexing as if he still couldn’t believe she was real.
“Okay?” she breathed again.
His head bobbed in a dazed nod, but she didn’t move.
Her hands slid up his chest slowly, deliberately, until her thumbs rested just below his collarbones, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath her fingers.
“I need you to say it, Spence,” she whispered, voice soft but steady. “With words.”
He blinked up at her, breath catching. His lips were parted, flushed, trembling. For a second, he couldn’t find the sound—just the feeling, all of it tangled up in his throat—but then he swallowed hard and rasped, “Yes. Please. I want you.”
She smiled, slow and warm, eyes flickering over him like he was the only thing in the world.
“Good boy,” she whispered, barely audible, her breath catching on the words.
Spencer let out a strangled sound — part gasp, part moan — and she felt it the moment it hit him. His hips twitched beneath her, jolting with a sharp, helpless pulse against her as if the praise had short-circuited him.
His hands clenched reflexively at her hips, fingertips digging in just a little, like he needed to hold onto something, anything.
“Jesus,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut for a second, already undone and she hadn’t even moved yet.
And then, inch by inch, she sank down onto him — slow, steady, trembling with the effort to stay present. Letting him feel every part of her choosing this. Letting herself feel the ache of being filled like that for the first time; all the way, all at once, like her body had been waiting for this exact shape.
Spencer’s head tipped back against the couch, jaw tight, lips parted.
“Oh my god—”
His voice broke.
The words left him on a gasp, soft and whiny, like his body had outpaced his ability to hold anything in. His hands fumbled at her hips, not to guide her, but to hold on. Like if he didn’t anchor himself to her, he might fall apart.
Y/N was already watching him; flushed, bare, her hands flat on his chest like she needed to feel the stammer of his heartbeat. Her thighs trembled slightly around his hips. Her breath caught in her throat.
She reached up and cradled his face with both hands, her thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks, her eyes shining with something unnameable.
He gasped again, almost disoriented.
“Yeah?” she whispered, her own voice shaking slightly now. Her lips ghosted against his jaw, then hovered by his ear. “Feel good?”
That pulled something raw out of him — a sound that wasn’t a word, just a broken, aching yes.
His hands slipped up her back, clumsy and reverent.
“You don’t even know,” he whispered, voice cracking like the moment was too full to carry. “You feel like—like everything.”
She kissed him then, slow and steady and deep, guiding his mouth back to hers like she was still teaching him how to breathe.
And he let her — let her hold his face and move against him and carry them forward, bit by bit, into something that no longer felt like the edge of want but the center of it.
Y/N moved over him in a rhythm that wasn’t steady anymore — not perfect, not planned. Just instinct. Just need. Her hips rolled because she couldn’t not, because the feeling of him deep inside her made her stomach twist and her breath stutter. She was trembling, not from nerves, not from effort, but from the ache that bloomed with every breath, every drag of skin, every tiny shift that made him gasp beneath her.
His hands gripped her waist, tight and unthinking, and her fingers clawed at his shoulders like she didn’t know what to do with her own body anymore. Her forehead bumped his, their mouths barely apart, eyes fluttering closed and open again with every shock of sensation.
“Spence—” she breathed, her voice broken now, lips brushing his.
He let out a sound that didn’t even sound like a word — just breath, just want, his mouth falling open against her neck. He couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t stop moving. She felt too good. She felt like nothing had ever come close to this.
Her nails scraped through his hair, and he moaned into her throat. “You—fuck, you feel—” He cut off again, lost in it, dragging her down harder as his hips pressed up to meet her.
“God,” she whispered, burying her face in his neck, her voice dissolving into a shaky cry as her body clenched down around him, tight and wanting. “Spencer, I—”
He was gasping now, jaw slack, fingers bruising at her hips. “I can’t—I’m gonna—Y/N—”
“I know,” she whispered, even though she didn’t. Even though she was already starting to fall apart, already shaking, already gone. “Me too.”
Their rhythm shifted — deeper, messier. Not graceful anymore, not careful. Just pure feeling. Her hips lifted and sank, dragged friction through the center of them both, and Spencer’s moans caught in his throat, softer now, more breath than sound. He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think.
Y/N could feel him unraveling; in the way his fingers flexed on her hips, in how he pressed up into her like he couldn’t not, like staying still was suddenly impossible. She was gasping too now, her forehead falling to his, their noses brushing as they moved together, lost in the drag and the ache and the heat.
“Spence,” she breathed his name like a prayer, like a plea.
“I don’t—” he tried, but couldn’t finish. His voice cracked. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she whispered, but it was half a gasp, her head falling back slightly as he shifted beneath her and hit that place that made her see stars. “You couldn’t.”
His hands gripped harder. “You feel—fuck, you feel—”
“I know,” she breathed, and her voice was shaking too now, coming apart at the edges. “I know, I—Spence, look at me.”
And when he did — when their eyes met — it hit her like a punch. His face was flushed and open and wrecked. His mouth parted, his eyes glassy and wide and too full of everything to speak. Just need. Just her.
And then he moved — all instinct, all surrender — pulling her down against him with a force that wasn’t rough, just desperate. Like he couldn’t take being apart from her for even an inch. Like he needed her closer. Needed all of her.
Their bodies fit like they were made for it. Every roll of her hips made his breath catch, every grind of him inside her made her thighs shake. And there was no room left for language now.
Her thighs flexed around him as she rode him, slow at first, hips lifting, circling, sinking again in a rhythm that made him groan, head tipped back, neck arched. She pressed her hands to his chest for balance, fingers splaying over his heart, and the shift in angle had her gasping too; her breath catching with every downward roll, every glide of him so deep inside her it felt like she was melting.
The couch creaked faintly beneath them, its old frame groaning in time with every rise and fall of her body. Her hair slipped over her shoulders in soft, undone waves, falling around his face like a curtain as she leaned into him, moving faster now, more sure. Her chest brushed his, damp with sweat, her breath stuttering near his mouth.
Every motion dragged a moan from him — helpless, wrecked — and she could feel it building in herself too, high in her chest, low in her belly, a flicker that turned into fire with every grind of her hips, every press of him inside her.
“Spence—” she gasped, voice breathless and thin. “I’m gonna—”
Her thighs began to tremble from the effort, rhythm faltering as the pressure inside her built too fast, too strong. She was still trying to move — hips lifting, circling — but it was falling apart, every breath catching, every motion stuttering as her body tried to keep up with the feeling.
“Spence—” she gasped, eyes fluttering, “I—I can’t—”
He saw it in her face, the way her mouth fell open and her brows pinched, her body struggling to hold on to the rhythm as pleasure coiled tight and threatening. And that was it. That look. That sound.
That’s what undid him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, breath shuddering, “Come here—”
His hands clamped around her hips, holding her in place as he took over — rolling his hips up hard, fast, brutal almost in his desperation. Their bodies met with wet, dizzying rhythm, the couch groaning beneath them, the air thick with breath and heat and the sharp, helpless sounds of both of them falling apart.
She cried out, body jolting with every thrust, hands gripping his shoulders like she was trying to ground herself, to hold on. Her head fell forward, forehead brushing his, mouth parted against his cheek.
“Spence—Spence, oh my god—”
“You sound so pretty,” he gasped against her skin, voice broken and raw. “So fucking pretty—look at me—please—”
She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes, and what he saw there made his breath catch: flushed and glassy, mouth swollen from kissing, trembling and wide open just for him.
“Come for me,” he whispered, voice almost pleading, hips still driving up into her. “Please, baby—come for me—”
She was right there.
Every breath spilled like it hurt to keep it in, her body drawn so tight it felt like she might snap from the inside out. Her thighs trembled as she moved, his name slipping past her lips in a soft, choked gasp. Every part of her was alive with sensation; her skin electric, her chest flushed and aching, her stomach coiled so tightly it felt like lightning wrapped around bone.
He saw it—felt it—in the way her rhythm stuttered, how her nails dug into his shoulders, how her mouth dropped open without a sound at first. Just air, no words. And then—
“Spencer—” she breathed, almost tearful. “I’m—Spence, I—”
He didn’t let up. Couldn’t. His hips kept surging up to meet her, driving into her with a desperate, focused rhythm. One hand still gripped her hip, fingers pressing bruises into her skin; the other slid up, caught the nape of her neck, tangled in her hair.
And then he leaned forward — lips finding her chest, his mouth open and hot and worshipping. He kissed her there like he needed to feel her heartbeat against his tongue, needed to know this was real, that this was happening. His teeth grazed the swell of her breast before he sucked gently at her skin, reverent and wild all at once.
That’s when she shattered.
Her back arched, neck long, jaw slack, the sound that tore from her throat was high and unrestrained, a broken, beautiful cry that echoed in the dim hush of the room. Her body clamped down around him, helpless and overwhelmed, her thighs squeezing his hips as her climax rushed through her in waves.
It was like being lit from within.
Her vision blurred, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and all she could see behind her lids was starlight. Not metaphor. Not fancy. Real constellations — Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major — all the ones he used to whisper about during stakeouts and long walks back from crime scenes. They bloomed behind her eyes like galaxies, like he’d left fingerprints in her brain and now they were burning, glowing, everywhere.
“Oh—fuck—” she gasped, voice raw and unrecognizable, her body convulsing with the force of it.
Still, he didn’t stop. Still, he moved beneath her — chasing her through the stars.
Then his hand tugged gently at her hair, grounding her. He leaned up, breath ragged, pulling her face down toward his. Their foreheads bumped, her breaths hot on his mouth.
“Let me see you,” he whispered, voice ruined. “I want to see you come.”
And she did.
Eyes fluttering open through the haze, locking on his as her body jerked in his lap again, one last wave tearing through her, eyes glassy, lashes damp. Her mouth trembled as she tried to speak — couldn’t. She just kissed him instead, open-mouthed and desperate, like she was falling into him and didn’t want to land.
It was too much.
The way her body still pulsed around him, soft and fluttering in the aftermath. The way her breaths landed against his mouth, shaky and stunned. The way her hands trembled as they cupped his face like she was still coming down and didn’t want to let go of him to fall.
And the sounds — god, the sounds.
She was whispering his name in that broken, honeyed voice, lips brushing his cheek like she couldn’t stop saying it. Like it was the only word that felt safe in her mouth. And her moans—soft, whiny, drawn out like ribbon—sank into his skin and rewired every nerve in his body. She leaned in, still dazed, still breathless, and murmured it against his ear:
“You feel so good, Spencer… you’re so deep, it’s perfect, it’s—god—stay just like that, please—”
He broke.
His brain — that hyperactive, endlessly connecting, wildly calculating brain — short-circuited. It couldn’t process anything but her. The smell of her skin, the echo of her moans, the slick grip of her body around him. It was data overload; no logic, no equations, no escape hatch through reason.
Just her. Just this.
“Fuck,” he gasped, hands clawing at her hips now, breath ragged, his body taking over. He couldn’t stop the way he thrust into her — desperate, erratic, hungry. “I can’t— I can’t hold it—”
She kissed him through it, soft and slow, but messy now, like she needed to feel him fall apart under her. Like watching him lose control was her favorite part.
And it was blissful torture: his body was spiraling, tightening, burning from the inside out, and her voice was there, soft and trembling against his mouth.
“Spence—” she whined, her forehead bumping his, lips brushing his. “Please—please, I need it—need you to let go for me.”
Her words undid him. Not just the sound of them, but the way she said it, like she was begging for him, like she couldn’t stand the thought of being without this moment.
“You feel so good,” she moaned softly, the words falling out like she couldn’t stop them, like she wasn’t even aware she was speaking. “Please, baby, I want to feel you—please…”
That’s all it took.
His eyes rolled back. His jaw slackened, lips parting in a soundless gasp before the wrecked, high whine finally spilled out of him — raw and breathless, almost broken. His brow furrowed hard, as if it hurt to feel this much, like the pleasure was too big for his body to hold.
And then his hips slammed up into her — sharp, uncontrollable, desperate.
Y/N cried out, her whole body jolting from the force of it, the sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Her fingers fisted in his hair, nails dragging against his scalp, and when the second thrust hit — just as brutal, just as deep — she bit into the curve of his neck, hard, like her body didn’t know how else to survive it.
She clenched around him; helpless, breath shattering, vision going hazy.
Spencer groaned again, louder this time, pitched and desperate. His hands gripped her hips tight enough to bruise, dragging her down onto him like he needed her fused to him, needed her everywhere all at once.
“Oh my god—Y/N—” His voice cracked again, soft and choked. “Fuck, you—”
The words died on his tongue, overwhelmed by the flood crashing through him. It ripped him apart. Every nerve was fire, every inch of him straining toward her, his release pouring through him like it had been waiting years to be set free.
His whole body convulsed — spine arching, chest rising in short, helpless gasps — and he buried his face in her shoulder like he couldn’t bear to be seen in this moment of ruin. She held him, breathless and clinging, skin pressed to skin, letting him tremble through every last wave of it.
It was too much; it was perfect.
His world narrowed to her: her breath on his neck, the clutch of her around him, the soft whimper she let out as he rocked up into her one last time, like he couldn’t stop.
“Don’t let go,” he murmured, half-delirious. “Please—please don’t let go—”
Her fingers threaded gently into his hair, her lips brushing his temple in a hush of warmth. Her voice was still trembling, still wrecked, but sure.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “I’ve got you, Spence. I’m right here.”
He clung to her like the world might fall apart if he didn’t.
And still, she held on.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing.
Slow, uneven, stunned.
The city still whispered outside, the faint hiss of passing cars, the low hum of a train echoing through the bones of the building, but here, wrapped in the heat of her living room, everything felt impossibly still.
Spencer’s head rested against her chest, eyes closed, arms looped tight around her waist like he didn’t trust the world not to take her away if he let go. His heartbeat raced against her ribs. His breath warmed the hollow of her throat.
Y/N’s fingers were in his hair, gentle now, smoothing back the strands she’d tugged too hard. She blinked slowly, dazed, every inch of her pulsing and flushed, barely tethered to the ground. Her legs trembled around him still, not from strain anymore, but from aftershock.
Neither of them spoke.
Until she let out the tiniest laugh: a stunned, breathless sound that made his lashes flicker against her skin.
He shifted, nose brushing her collarbone. “What?”
“I just…” she pulled back an inch, enough to look at him — cheeks pink, lips swollen, her expression equal parts wonder and disbelief. “We really—just did that.”
He smiled, small and awed, and didn’t let go. “We really did.”
Her hand slid down his shoulder, lazy and slow, until her fingertips traced the edge of his jaw. “You okay?”
Spencer opened his eyes, glassy, wide, soft. “I don’t even know where I am right now.”
That made her laugh again, this time louder — giddy and breathless and beautiful.
“You sure you’re not drunk?”
“No,” he said, blinking up at her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’m just completely fucking in love with you.”
That caught her off-guard — not the words, maybe, but the softness in them. The way he said it like it wasn’t new. Like it had always been true.
Y/N’s smile turned gentler. She kissed him once, then again, and then let her forehead rest against his.
And then she blinked, glanced down between them, and made a face.
“Oh my god.”
Spencer’s eyes followed hers, and his face flushed immediately.
She sat back slightly, still straddling him, hands braced on his chest. “We made a mess.”
“I—yeah,” he said, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” she cut in, grinning despite herself. “Just… wow.”
He buried his face in his hands. “God, I’m never going to recover from this.”
“You’ll be fine,” she said, leaning down to kiss his temple. “Eventually.”
When she finally moved — carefully, slowly — it was with a quiet whimper she couldn’t hold back. A soft, shaky sound as she lifted herself off of him, breath catching, body still trembling with the aftershocks of everything they’d just done.
Spencer let out a low, helpless moan at the loss of her — broken and warm in his throat. His eyes fluttered shut, head tipping back against the couch as he exhaled hard, like he was trying to slow a runaway train inside his chest.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
Y/N steadied herself on his shoulders, still catching her breath, hips aching in the best way. Her thighs felt like water. Her heart was still stuttering somewhere in her ribcage.
“Sorry,” she whispered with a sleepy wince. “Didn’t mean to crush you.”
“You can crush me whenever you want,” Spencer mumbled, voice rough and wrecked.
She laughed, low and dizzy. Her hand brushed through his hair, soft and absent, and then she stood — slowly, carefully, the stretch of her legs making her sigh again.
She reached for the hem of his oversized shirt and tugged it on, barely covering the mess of love bites blooming down her neck, the curve of her breast where his mouth had been, the bruises he hadn’t meant to leave on her hips. She didn’t care.
Spencer was still on the couch, dazed and staring like she was holy.
“Come on, doctor,” she murmured, tilting her head toward the hallway. “You can’t sleep in… that.”
He blinked once, then again — and finally stood, breath catching as he moved. His hands came to her waist instinctively, grounding himself.
“I’m not sure I remember how to walk.”
“Good thing I do.”
Their fingers stayed linked as they padded down the hallway, bare feet on warm floorboards, their bodies moving in lazy unison. The apartment smelled like them now. Like orange peel and sweat and wine and everything unspoken that had finally found its way into the light.
In the bathroom, she flipped on the softest light and reached for a towel, tossing it over her shoulder as she moved to the cabinet. Spencer leaned against the doorframe behind her, watching — half-naked, flushed, his hair an absolute mess.
“I feel like I just ran a marathon,” he said, voice soft.
She met his eyes in the mirror. “You kind of did.”
They smiled.
She ran warm water into a cloth, then turned to him and held it up like an offering. “Want me to—?”
Spencer stepped closer. “Please.”
So she cleaned him up — slow, quiet, unhurried. Her fingers ghosting over his skin. His hands finding her hips again, just because he could. Just because they were allowed now. She kissed his jaw when she finished, and he kissed her back like she’d just saved his life.
He pressed their foreheads together, eyes still closed.
“Stay,” he whispered.
“I live here,” she whispered back, laughing into his mouth.
“Oh.” His lips curved. “Right.”
She turned off the bathroom light with a sleepy flick, the hallway behind her cast in a soft golden blur as she padded back toward the living room. The apartment had gone quiet — save for the distant hum of city traffic and the low whir of the old fridge — but everything still felt hushed and glowing, like the night hadn’t quite let go of them yet.
Spencer followed, still loose-limbed and dazed, his hair a little damp where she’d smoothed it down, collarbone marked faintly from her mouth. He stopped at the threshold and just watched her — the curve of her in that worn oversized shirt, hem brushing the tops of her thighs, legs bare and warm and glowing in the spill of lamplight.
She crossed into the kitchen without a word, reaching for two mismatched glasses from the open shelf. The water ran quietly. She filled them both, fingertips resting lightly on the edge of the counter as she blinked slowly, dreamily, still floating a little.
Then she turned.
She handed him one glass, like it mattered, like it was sacred, like she was still giving him something of herself. He took it carefully, their fingers brushing, and she smiled.
“I’m not letting you leave ever now,” she murmured, voice low and certain. “You know that, right?”
Spencer’s face broke open into the softest, most astonished grin. He stepped forward, gently taking her hand again, pulling it up to his chest like it was some holy thing.
“Good,” he said. “I don’t want to go.”
She leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth, not rushed, not teasing, just real. “Come on. Bed. Before you collapse on my floor and I have to drag your genius ass.”
He let her tug him down the hallway, stumbling a little just for show, still grinning as they reached her room.
The lights were already low. The sheets looked soft, slightly rumpled, like they’d been waiting for this. Spencer followed her in with quiet steps, one hand wrapped around the glass she’d given him, still cold against his palm.
Y/N moved toward the dresser, hair falling in soft waves down her back, the oversized shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder as she crouched to open the drawer. He took a sip of water, then another, watching her, chest still rising a little too fast from everything they hadn’t quite come down from.
She stood, turned, and tossed him a shirt and a pair of boxers — grey, worn in, unmistakably his.
“Wait,” he said, catching them midair. “These are mine.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said innocently, turning to grab her glass of water from her nightstand after setting it down. “From your place.”
Spencer raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been stealing my clothes?”
She took a sip of water, then turned toward him, eyes wide with faux guilt. “Only the ones that smelled like you.”
He blinked. She smiled wider.
“And don’t act like you didn’t almost catch me,” she added, pointing at him with her glass. “That case in Denver? That grey sweater I wore in the precinct all day?”
“That was mine?!”
“I panicked when you stared at me for too long. I thought you were gonna say something.”
“I was,” he muttered, mock-scandalized. “I was trying to figure out why I wanted to kiss you even more than usual.”
She choked on a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re a thief.”
They both smiled as they changed; backs to each other, but grinning at the quiet of it, the comfort. She slipped on a pair of sleep shorts and tugged an oversized shirt back over her head, body still damp from steam and skin-warmth. Spencer pulled on the stolen boxers and that soft shirt like it was always meant to end up here.
She climbed onto the bed first, settling into the pillows with a sleepy stretch. Spencer crawled in beside her.
And then — dramatically, teasingly — she rolled toward him, climbed right into his lap again, curled sideways across his chest like a smug little blanket.
“Round two?” she whispered in his ear, all warm breath and dangerous sweetness.
Spencer let out a low, playful groan, burying his face in her neck. “You’ll kill me.”
“You’ll die happy.”
“I’ll die fast.”
She threw her head back laughing, one hand carding through his hair as he mock-growled into the curve of her throat. His arms came around her, pulling her in, and for a moment it was just that — tangled limbs, soft laughter, heartbeats finding each other in the dark.
Eventually, they shifted — limbs untangling just enough to fit side by side, her head on his chest, his hand tracing lazy shapes on her shoulder. The kind of quiet you only get when you’ve said everything you needed to without speaking at all.
She kissed his chest once, then again, slower this time.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Spencer breathed in, deep and quiet and stunned. “I love you more than anything.”
Outside, the city hummed on.
But here, in the hush of their shared bed, they let the stillness hold them. Fingers linked under the covers. A future tucked gently between their bodies.
Sleep came slow and sweet; like dusk, like memory, like something they could finally call theirs.
“Immigrants are taking up jobs.” Actually, they’re working the jobs you don’t want to work. Many of them are also in school, if we’re being honest.
“Immigrants are the reason crime rates are high.” That’s not true. Crime isn’t caused by a certain group of people. As Black people, we should understand this—remember when we were told we were the reason crime rates were high? Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?
“Immigrants have access to healthcare, housing, and food stamps.” So do we. I don’t know how other states operate, but when I lived in NYC, the process was fast and accessible. Everyone has access to these resources. And honestly, immigrants should have access to them, just like we expect access to resources when we travel abroad. In fact, in many cases, we’re paid to stay in someone else’s country, we earn more money, and we buy land and build houses there.
Life has a way of teaching compassion, and these so-called “immigrants” are some of the kindest, most hardworking people I’ve ever met.
Summary: Y/N and Spencer don’t get along but turn to each other for the one thing you need someone else for… A baby. You can plantonically start a family, right?
Prologue: A Powerpoint, Really?
Chapter 1: We could try, ya know… acoustically
Chapter 2: Would it help if I dressed up like Spock?
Chapter 3: You’re really going to waste a Good Witch on this?
Chapter 4: Frozen, fuck you.
Chapter 5: Could just be gas
Chapter 6: Well, she’s a blob right now, so I hope not
why did nobody tell me that spencer reid from criminal minds was so HOT? and WHY didn’t anybody tell me that matthew gray gubler was EQUALLY AS HOT???? i need ANSWERS
so the message from beetlejuice the musical is not to dwell on the past because if you do you’ll summon a trashboi demonbaby from hell and he’ll wanna marry you but it’s “jUsT a gReEnCaRd tHiNg” and then he’ll go back to hell because he’ll get a sandworm to eat his mom.
ellievsbear
izzy806
origamiaround
vaporwave
amandla
