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Oml this was beautiful!!!

A Study in Anchored Souls

Pairing: ghost!Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: In which the ghost of Spencer Reid discovers that in order to unveil his unfinished business and finally lay at rest, he must somehow enlist the help of the woman who now inhabits his apartment. Category: MATURE (18+) Content: Strong language, mention of weed, ghost shenanigans (?), female masturbation, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), brief handjob, unprotected p in v sex, Spencer is invisible for all of that LMAO Word Count: 11.8k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: God, I love ghost smut. That was a goddamn blast to write! Like you don't even know how giddy it made me putting these words to the keys. I even put in extra effort and made a little photo banner, which I’ve never done for a one shot before, and I’m kinda obsessed with it ngl 😂 I hope you love this one as much as I do! <3 Written for @imagining-in-the-margins Autumn Air writing challenge!

———

ACT I: Girls' Night

Spencer Reid always knew he would die.

It was a cold, hard fact of life that at one point, everyone would die. It was unsure when or how, but it happened. There was no escaping it. That thought alone was enough to squander most of his anxieties about death— even after a few near-death experiences and the constant danger his line of work tended to throw at him throughout his lifetime.

Still, the one thing he couldn't stand to think about was the "after". He wanted truly to believe that what happened after death was just nothingness, but after his encounter with Tobias, it stirred up all sorts of questions and unexplainable possibilities that were just too vast for even his brain to try and comprehend.

Then, of course, there was the fact that he was currently standing in his old apartment, watching somebody else live her life, completely invisible to her. He tried talking to her, too, but nothing. It was like he wasn't even there.

But why? It's not like he had unfinished business or anything. The unsub who shot him was shot down immediately afterwards. He watched him die before passing out himself. Why was he "awake" now, nearly 5 months after the fact, and not when his friends were grieving him? Where were his friends, and why has the afterlife chosen to tie Spencer to a place rather than the people that knew and loved him?

Logically it seemed reasonable but really, he just missed his friends. He missed his life.

He hated the afterlife, he decided then. There was no reason he needed to keep doing this when he couldn't even leave the confines of the apartment. He couldn't walk through walls or touch anything or sit down on the woman's gross floral couch. If he wanted to enter another room, the door needed to be opened, otherwise he was stuck right there in the living room, the kitchen, and the open dining space that connected the two. If he was allowed to live his afterlife with his mom, or playing Chess with Gideon, or travelling the world, free to go anywhere and see anything without hardship, it might have been different.

But no. He was stuck watching this woman struggle to move furniture by herself.

He didn't know her. Had never seen her before. She wasn't a student of his or a victim he'd saved or even a fling. She was a complete stranger. A complete stranger who unfortunately had terrible taste in decor and an even more unfortunately beautiful face.

Her name was Y/N. From what he could gather, she didn't have any family, at least not nearby. Her two best friends were the only other people in her circle that he'd seen in the apartment, and when they were all together it was... interesting. There was a lot of loud laughter and wine, and oh God, the sex talk...

It felt intrusive, but he couldn't leave. He could migrate to another room, maybe, but his ears still worked, even a little too well. His eyes, too, seemed to be as sharp as ever, any imperfections to his vision completely mended. He was simply over aware of everything, and yet hollow at the same time, and he hated everything about it.

But what could he do? He couldn't even touch anything or communicate to anyone, so how could he possibly figure out what was keeping him here and how he could get out of it? Did his new roommate hold some sort of knowledge or ability to help him solve this mystery, or was he destined to watch her live out her life in this place that he once called "home"? Was there any connection between them at all?

He didn't know.

Usually he liked puzzles, but this one was rather annoying.

He just wanted to rest.

Y/N had been moved in for just over a month (yes, there was a whole month of just standing there learning everything about a stranger because there was simply nothing else for Spencer to do) when finally, there was a small glimmer of hope.

Heavy on the small.

It was Girls' Night. Friday. It always consisted of too much wine and movies and snacks and discussions about whatever they were reading or watching. Despite the differences in the routine, the camaraderie made Spencer miss his friends. He wondered what they were all up to. Maybe, if this all worked out, he could actually find out.

But for now, he had to focus on the baby steps.

When the girls showed up with a Ouija board, he couldn't help the incredulous laughter that escaped him.

Y/N, it seemed, felt the same disbelief. "You guys, what the fuck is that?"

"What does it look like?" the first friend, Maya, retorted.

The other, Robin, added, "You were the one that said you felt like you weren't tooootally aloooone in this apartment..."

Her haunting inflection elicited a backhanded thump to the arm, Y/N groaning as she closed the door behind her. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean I would want to know what or who it is! Besides, I'm probably just paranoid. It's just being in a new place and the anxieties that come with it, that's all. You guys are insane."

"Only one way to find out!"

Was Spencer really going to entertain this? A goddamn Ouija board? He enjoyed his fair share of spooky things and researching superstitions, but that was out of his realm of belief. On the other hand, one could technically consider him a ghost... He could look down and see himself, but nobody else could see or hear him... Y/N had obviously voiced a concern for feeling a presence to her friends, but how much of that feeling was accurate and how much of it was, in fact, 'new home anxieties'?

As the girls unboxed the board and set up their things, Spencer sighed, mumbling to himself, "Only one way to find out..."

Maya closed the curtains and turned all the lights off, meanwhile Y/N and Robin were collecting and lighting any candle they could find. They cleared off the low coffee table in front of the couch where the girls sat and set everything up there, Spencer taking a seat on the floor opposite the group. It was then that Y/N said something that made him laugh.

"Wait, shouldn't we give the couch to the ghost?"

"What?"

"Well, what if it's an angry ghost? And then we make it sit on the floor, and it decides to exact vengeance on us? Maybe we should... I don't know, be more hospitable?"

"Hmmm, maybe you're right," Robin said, standing up. "Do you hear that, Ghost? We're only being nice to you, so please don't kill us, m'kay?"

Spencer sighed. Little did they know, he couldn't actually sit on the couch. Or a chair. Or anything that wasn't the floor. It was like the ground was the only physical thing he was anchored to. Still, the girls had no way of knowing that, so they shuffled their way to the other end of the table, flipping the Ouija board so it would face the other way. Spencer got up and moved then. He'd have to stand uncomfortably in the small gap between the table and the couch, bending down at the waist to use the board, provided he could even touch it.

He had no idea how this was going to work, if at all.

It was all starting to sound and feel absolutely ridiculous.

The girls each put a finger on the planchette, nervous laughter emanating from them, and Spencer gave one last deep breath before reaching out to touch it himself, anticipating the moment of truth.

His hand hovered over the board, feeling a block just before he would make any contact. He couldn't touch it. His hand wouldn't even go through. He retreated and huffed, wondering if there was something he could do to communicate with them otherwise. He tried to blow out one of the candles, but with no luck. He could feel his breath against his own skin (could you even call it that at this stage?), but the objects in front of him were completely oblivious to his presence.

He was about to give up and call it a night, leaving the girls to have their fun, but then one of them gasped.

"Wait, don't we have to use two fingers? Is that how it works?"

"Shit, I think you're right."

They adjusted their positions and Spencer sighed, but indulged them just in case.

His hand lowered again, middle and pointer fingers approaching the planchette in anticipation. He half-expected there to be resistance again, but this time, a cool rush of wind gusted up in between them as his fingers made contact with the wood.

"Holy shit!" all four of them exclaimed in unison.

"Did you feel that?" Maya squealed excitedly. "Wicked..."

"No, not wicked!" Y/N whined. "We should stop!"

"Really? You know for sure now that there's a ghost living in your apartment, and you're just not going to ask it questions to make sure it's not harmful? Be smart about this, bitch," Robin countered playfully.

Spencer wanted to cut to the chase. He moved his hand, spelling out a word, and the girls collectively gasped before reciting each letter out loud hesitantly, like they couldn't believe what was happening.

"H-A-R-M-L-E-S-S"

"Oh my God! You have a Casper!"

Y/N shook her head furiously. "You guys, stop fucking with me, I mean it. This isn't funny."

"I didn't move it!" said Robin.

"Me either," said Maya. "Besides, you felt that wind right? How could either of us have done that?"

"I don't know, because you're a fucking wizard or something! Cut it out!"

"Hey, if you didn't want to do it that badly, you would have taken your hand off the planchette... Hey, Ghost, have you ever seen Y/N naked?"

"Robin!"

Maya cackled and Y/N went pale. If he wasn't already dead, Spencer would have probably gone pale as well.

The truth was, he had. Seen her naked, that is.

He wasn't proud of it. It happened by total accident. Sort of. He was following her around the apartment all day because he was bored, and he'd ended up locked in her bedroom with her. Either he was truly horrible at reading people (which seemed impossible considering his profession) or she had just gotten a random spurt of excitement, because the moment her door closed, she whipped her shirt off, exposing her bare torso to him, and he couldn't move. He was frozen, completely shocked at the sight before him. She reached down to take off her pants, and he turned around then, quickly becoming aware of the situation.

She rustled behind him and he tried desperately to walk through the door. Any time he got close, the barrier would stop him. He couldn't do anything but stand in the corner and pray to whatever that she was only changing.

She was, in fact, not changing.

Spencer swore in that moment at the table that he could still hear the low hum of her vibrator and every single sound that came from her body and mouth that night, and he was absolutely mortified.

He'd only dared to glance back when he heard the end, her breathing slow and the humming gone. It was silent for a while before he turned around entirely, only to find her asleep, sprawled completely bare over the covers. He wished he could have draped a blanket over her, but his hands were more or less tied.

Thankfully she was only asleep for about a half hour before she forced herself awake to clean up and actually go to bed.

Spencer never followed her around the apartment ever again. Just in case.

"Don't answer that, Ghost," Y/N rushed, "Robin's just fucking around. We promise to ask you serious questions from here on out."

Maya faked a snore. "Come on, Y/N, this is supposed to be fun. The ghost is harmless."

"No, the ghost said it was harmless. Doesn't mean it is."

Spencer thought for a moment as the girls went back and forth, and then he spelled out another word— or an acronym, rather.

"It's moving again!" Robin gasped, spelling out the letters.

"F-B-I"

"Holy shit did you work for the FBI, Ghost?" Maya inquired.

Spencer moved the planchette to the "YES" at the top of the board.

"Maybe... Maybe we should stop calling them Ghost..." Y/N took a shaky breath and closed her eyes for a brief moment before nodding. "Ummm... Spirit Who Resides Here..." Robin and Maya snorted. "What is your name?"

Spencer wished he could tell her she didn't need to be formal, but it was amusing watching her do it anyway. He spelled out his name, first and last, and the girls made a collective hum of acceptance. A normal name and not something concerning.

"We should Google him," Robin said matter-of-factly.

Maya hummed in agreement, but Y/N swallowed and asked another question. "Spencer, you're not... Going to hurt me, are you?"

He moved the planchette to "NO," and watched the relief take over her body, relaxing her muscles and her posture for just a brief moment. He could tell she was still wary, but it was a step in the right direction.

"See? Told you he was harmless."

"He still could be lying," Y/N mumbled. Then she sat up straight. "Not that I don't believe you, Spencer. I'm sorry. You just have to understand that I'm a woman living alone, and the thought of a man I can't see haunting my apartment is just... It's extremely terrifying."

He felt bad for her. As annoying as his situation was, he couldn't imagine being in hers. He almost wished he hadn't entertained the Ouija board at all and put her worries to rest, but since it was too late, all he could do was try and reassure her that he wasn't a threat.

His fingers moved again.

"U-N-D-E-R-S-T-A-N-D"

And then a pause, before: "S-O-R-R-Y"

Y/N's eyes dropped, and her friends made a collective "Awwwww," before a knock sounded at the door, jolting them all to move away from the Ouija board.

Spencer was knocked backwards, and he expected his newfound sense of touch to disappear once the connection had broken, but to his surprise, he found himself safely seated on the couch. His hands reached over the fabric, testing, and despite his distaste for the floral pattern on it, the cushions were suddenly the greatest thing he'd ever touched. He was grateful for this couch. And for the Ouija board, and for Y/N and her eccentric friends.

Speaking of which, Robin yelled out, "Pizza's here!" and got up with Maya to abandon the board. Pizza apparently seemed more interesting than a ghost, but for two women who Spencer could now tell (no thanks to his upgraded sense of smell) were a little high, that seemed reasonable.

As her friends happily greeted the pizza delivery man, Y/N reached out to touch the planchette again, just for a moment, and gently whispered, "Thank you, Spencer."

He returned it with an earnest, "You're welcome," but he wasn't sure if she'd hear or not. She looked around the area for a few seconds before turning around, and it wasn't clear whether she had.

But she seemed relaxed now, and that was a start.

As the girls sat at the dining table and ate pizza, Spencer tested out his new senses just a few steps away. He found himself thankful to be in a familiar place, even if the decor was different. The walls were the same and the bookshelves still stood, now filled with bright Romance novels and trinkets and photos that laid out Y/N's personality quite perfectly. He smiled, running his fingers along the spines of the books, missing the feeling even if they weren't his own.

He wanted to see if he could read one, just for the sake of feeling a book in his hands again, but he figured he'd wait until Maya and Robin were gone and Y/N was asleep.

Until then, he continued to touch things without making them move, not wanting to raise anyone's eyebrows.

And then, a gasp sounded from the dining table.

"I found him! I have his obituary right here!"

"Holy shit, let me see!"

Spencer made his way to the table to observe.

The girls passed around Maya's phone, looking at his obituary photo. Robin made a low whistle, then called out into the air on her left. He was standing to her right, unable to help the dry laughter that escaped him at the irony of the situation.

"Spencer, you were hot!"

Maya shook her head and sighed. "Yeah. What a damn shame. Sorry, man."

Robin seemed more amused than anything, turning to Y/N, who was reading through the obituary. "Hey, at least you can rest easy knowing you've got a hot FBI ghost watching over you."

"Yeah, but... Why? Do you think he lived here? In this apartment?"

"I don't know. Maybe we should ask him."

Y/N sighed, handing Maya her phone back. "I'm sure he has more exciting ghost stuff to do on a Friday night than entertain us three. All I know is he promised not to hurt me, so I don't really care if he stays."

He was glad for her ease of anxiety, but he certainly cared if he stayed. However, she sounded exhausted, and it was fair. Finding out your new apartment was haunted by a ghost (even a harmless one) sounded like a reasonably stressful situation. He wanted desperately to figure out how to finally move on, but for now he could accept the simple fact that he could actually touch things now, and let Y/N rest easy.

Even if he couldn't yet.

ACT II: X's and Oh's

Every time she came home, Y/N would greet Spencer kindly. Probably out of precaution (you know, just in case he really was lying about being harmless), but brightly all the same.

"Spencer, I'm home! I... I don't know if you're haunting me or the apartment, but... I hope you had a good day, just in case it's me."

He smiled, wishing he could greet her back.

Eventually, he found small ways to do it.

He fogged up a spot on her bathroom mirror, that way the next time she showered before bed, the heat would reveal a message on the glass: "Good night. —S.R."

Y/N talked to him that night, dressed in her pajamas and walking around the apartment like she was deciding where to talk to him. Eventually she decided on standing in her bedroom doorway.

"Spencer? You said good night so you might not even be in here, but... I guess this is me saying good night back...Thanks for being a nice ghost, I really appreciate it. If... If there's anything I can do for you, let me know, okay? Okay... Goodnight."

If only there was a way she could hear him. Communicating in mirror-notes was hardly good for anything more than a simple "good night," and despite the fact that he could touch things, he couldn't grip them, so writing on paper was out. He'd kept trying to open a door with the handle, and with no luck. It was starting to get irritating, wondering what the next step was to evolving as a ghost.

He couldn't even believe he'd thought up the phrase. Ghost evolution sounded absolutely insane, but he supposed it was his current reality regardless of how it sounded...

Tonight Y/N was out rather late. For a brief moment Spencer started to worry, but then the key turned in the doorway and relief settled in when she finally stepped inside. She seemed rather tired, but greeted him with a gentle smile all the same.

"Hi, Spencer."

"Welcome home, Y/N."

She didn't hear him, obviously, but it still felt rude not to say it back. He wondered if he could try to touch her in greeting. Maybe a brief brushing of hands or a tap of acknowledgement on the shoulder. But he didn't want to scare her, so he'd have to figure that out.

Thankfully, she seemed to have felt his curiosity somehow.

Later that night, as she laid in bed, she called out, drawing his attention from the living room where he tried to open a cabinet. Still no luck there.

"Spencer? Are you there?"

He wandered over to the bedroom, glad to see she'd left the door cracked open so he could get in. He hesitated before moving, hoping she wouldn't freak out when she saw the door open.

When he did finally gather the courage to move the barrier and step inside, he heard her gasp as she sat up in bed.

"Spencer? Was that you? Um... Move the door again if it was..."

He obliged, swinging the door shut gently as he stepped inside the room. The second the door clicked, he realized his mistake.

Now he was trapped in here with her. Not that it was a bad thing necessarily, but the last time this happened, he'd accidentally intruded on a rather intimate moment. His essence warmed at the thought.

"Holy shit. Um... This is kind of weird... I've gotten your notes and talked to you through the Ouija board, but... seeing you move things in front of me is... only slightly terrifying."

Her nervous laughter endeared him but also made him want to comfort her.

He walked over to the side of the bed closest to her body, hoping she'd be willing to communicate more thoroughly somehow. The two of them together could surely come up with something.

Again, their brains seemed to be on the same wavelength.

"If I hold out my hand... Would you touch it? Just to... let me know that it's you?"

Her arm outstretched, and Spencer slowly brought his middle finger down to touch hers, ever so lightly.

The second there was contact, there was a shock. Spencer jolted and Y/N yelled and yanked her hand back, her whole body shuddering as she kicked her legs. "Oh my God, holy fuck!" And then she laughed, reaching out to search for his touch again. He felt... different somehow, but he was still invisible to her. Her fingers wiggled and Spencer helped her out, gently holding her hand to keep it steady, as if to convey, "I'm right here, and it's okay."

"Hi," she said through a smile, her breathing heavy. "It's... Nice to... finally meet you. Kind of. Kind of meet you, I mean... Not kind of nice. I'm sorry."

He rubbed his thumb gently over the top of hers in response.

"I'm still wrapping my head around this whole thing, I... I guess I just wanted some extra confirmation that you were really here. Can I ask you some questions, Spencer?"

He rubbed her thumb again, and she breathed out with a smile.

"Okay um... Maybe draw a circle on the back of my hand for yes and an X for no... That sound good?"

Spencer traced a circle against her skin, and she nodded. "Good! Okay, cool. This is cool. Um... Did you live here? In this apartment?"

A circle.

"Is... that why you're here now?"

An X, and then a question mark.

"No... You don't know why you're here then?"

A circle.

Y/N pondered for a moment. "Could there be something of yours that's holding you here? Something we have to find or a mystery we have to solve?"

Spencer drew another question mark, then sighed. As much as he liked Y/N, he was pretty sure she would not be able to answer any of those questions. But there had to be another way to... level up, so to speak. To make him visible or audible.

"I'm sorry," she said somberly. "From what I've read, you seem like you were a good person. I hope you figure it out, whatever it is. And... I meant it. If there's anything I can do to help you, I will."

He drew a circle on her skin, but kept going around a few times, his symbol of appreciation.

Y/N warmed at the sentiment, smiling and hanging her head to look down at the hand he was holding. He didn't know it, but her skin was tingling at his invisible touch.

"Spencer... I know this is probably going to be weird... But the night I first met you, when my friends were with me... Robin asked you if... you'd uh... If you'd seen me..."

She wouldn't look up, like she was afraid to look at him even though she still couldn't see him. She didn't finish her sentence, seeming to be embarrassed about the punchline, but Spencer didn't need it. He knew exactly what she meant. Before she had time to retreat or move on, he drew a slow circle on the back of her hand.

Her head lifted. "You did see me? Naked?"

Spencer let out a shaky breath. Hesitated. Then drew another circle, followed by S-O-R-R-Y.

"Oh, I'm not upset, I promise. You don't have to be sorry."

Something shifted in her eyes then and she paused, and Spencer realized that before when she'd asked, she wasn't embarrassed. She was simply feeling the water before diving in.

He swallowed hard.

"Did you like what you saw?"

Her voice was soft, but simultaneously hard with mischief. He looked at her then— truly looked at her with his overly-perfect Afterlife vision, and even in the dim light emanating from the open curtains and the streetlights beyond it, he could see her clear as day. Rather than the big tee-shirt she always wore to bed, tonight she was wearing something lacy and lavender.

And her door was closed. He couldn't leave this room.

Although, he had a feeling right then that it didn't matter anymore. Because his hand tightened over hers instinctively and he felt himself get hard beneath the suit pants he'd been buried in.

That's new, he thought through a sigh of excitement, quickly recalling that night he'd seen her. And heard her. Feeling was growing in his joints, and he found himself flexing his hands with a new strength he hadn't felt since being alive.

"Fuck," he hissed, shaking his head in disbelief.

I think she may be slowly bringing me back to life.

He drew a slow, sensual circle on the back of her hand, and she laughed through a grin. "I was hoping you'd say that. I was also hoping that maybe we could try something a little... unconventional. The truth is, I've always hated living alone. It's too lonely, and I hate it... Now that I have you to keep me company, though... It's not nearly as bad."

She shifted her fingers, grabbing his hand and slowly bringing it to her face. Spencer caressed her as he came closer, his knees now touching the edge of her mattress. She closed her eyes and reveled in his touch, goosebumps forming along her skin.

"Will you touch me, Spencer?"

His name falling suggestively from her lips was quite possibly the greatest thing he'd ever experienced, among life and death. The afterlife. Whatever. None of it mattered, nothing mattered right then except for Y/N and her needs.

He drew a circle on her cheek and she laughed, the sound dissolving into a rather wanton sigh when he traced his middle finger down her jaw and over her throat. Just the gentlest of touches, barely even a touch at all.

"You want this just as bad as I do, don't you?" she asked, lolling her head to the side as his finger traced her collarbone and then her shoulder.

"I do." He focused on the way her chest heaved, slowly up and down as she melted into his touch, and then traced the strap of her nightgown until he reached the front, just at the curve of her breasts.

Y/N arched her back and pulled the covers away from her body, revealing herself to him in full as she got comfortable. She scooted and leaned back against the headboard, pulling Spencer along the side of the bed. He gladly followed.

"I give you permission to touch me in any way you see fit, okay? I... I want you to do whatever feels good to you. How does that sound?"

At the invitation, he quickly let his mind wander to extremely filthy places and wondered if he had the ability to taste again...

The thought alone made him twitch beneath his pants, and suddenly there was no going back.

He let out a long breath and touched the bottom hem of her nightgown. It was already short to begin with, but since she'd moved around in bed and her feet were flat, knees pointed upward, the fabric rode up to the very tops of her thighs. He drew another continuous circle right there, just below where it ended, and Y/N instinctively started to spread her knees apart.

Spencer stopped her, gripping one knee and spelling out W-A-I-T before slipping his shoes and jacket off. She arched an eyebrow, confused at first, but then looked down to the floor when she heard his shoes being kicked back and his clothing falling there.

And then, when he was ready, she looked back to the bed in front of her as Spencer climbed and knelt, positioning himself in front of her. Her eyes watched the mattress move, and a flicker of excitement danced over her features, amusing him.

He placed his hands on her knees, and even though she'd given him permission, he asked anyway, drawing a question mark against her skin.

She nodded. "Please."

Slowly, his hands pulled her legs apart. He drew it out as long as he possibly could, curious to know how long he could test her anticipation threshold. He still planned to give her everything she wanted, of course, but there was something oddly erotic about being touched by somebody you couldn't see that she was obviously keen to explore. So he would take his time until she begged him otherwise.

Sure enough, her stare was laser-focused on her body as he moved it to his liking, her breath hitching once her legs were far enough apart for him to realize she wasn't wearing anything underneath her nightgown and he paused. Already she was glistening with arousal, a sight that nearly made Spencer go completely slack.

"How long have you wanted this..." he wondered aloud, overwhelmed and in awe as his hands traveled firmly down her inner thighs. She squirmed under his bold touch, and leaned her head back against the headboard with a soft thud.

"Please," she whimpered, her hands reaching out to grip whatever bunched up fabric she could find on the bed.

He had planned to test the waters a little longer, ever so the scientist at heart, but figured that was as good of a plea as any to give in and finally give her what she wanted.

And so, Spencer ran a gentle, steady hand down through her heat, dragging his middle finger along the seam until he barely entered her, then came back up.

The long, desperate moan that Y/N drew out was like Heaven to his ears, and he'd never been more grateful for his heightened senses than in that moment. Every breath she took, every gloriously wet sound her body made as he explored her, every rustle of her hands through the sheets... All of it was sharp and crisp, and no other symphony had ever sounded so beautiful.

He wanted more of it.

One finger became two, and Spencer looked up to watch her face as he fingered her slowly. Parted lips and focused eyes fighting to stay open despite the pleasure she was feeling made for quite the perfect view, he almost didn't want to look away. But there was so much to beauty see between her soft facial features and the curves of her body and the obvious arousing sight below him. It was overwhelming how hot he felt in that moment, he could have sworn he was glowing.

His pace quickened, and Y/N had finally given into the temptation to close her yes, her head falling back again as she rolled her hips. He was getting impatient now.

With his other hand, against the inside of her thigh, Spencer spelled out "T-A-S-T-E-?"

"Oh, God, please. Yes."

Still hesitant to scare her even though his fingers were already deep inside her, rather than diving in as he so desperately wanted to, he slowly brought his head down to meet the area between her legs. He turned to press his cheek to the soft flesh of her thigh, and she gasped, the sound fading to a low laugh as she took in the feeling of his mouth and his hair caressing her skin. He kissed her then, tentatively darting his tongue out to taste her and sighing with relief once he realized he could actually taste again. Once he had that revelation, there was no going back. He was a man starved, his kisses growing more hungry as they traveled up and up and up...

Once his tongue made curious contact with the hood of her clit, Y/N gasped again, clutching her bed sheets and rolling her hips up to meet him. Spencer groaned, and a selfish part of him wished she could hear it. He wanted her to know just how crazy she was driving him, how much he wanted her. She could certainly feel it, her reaction to the vibrations causing her muscles to flex and her toes to curl, and he decided then that it would have to do. He was just going to have to make her feel his desire so deeply that it rattled in her bones and lingered there for the rest of eternity. He wanted to ruin everybody else for her, to stay with her until the end of time.

She reached and felt around for his head, fingers threading through invisible curls as she cried out.

"Spencer, you're so— so good..."

He hummed his approval at the praise and continued to work her, adding a third finger and sucking on her clit to feel her fingers tugging at his scalp. The sensation alone had him nearly lightheaded, and he wanted to stay there forever, lost in her taste and her touch and her noises.

God, her noises...

She sighed and whined, and stretched and squelched around his fingers, and he was convinced that had he not already been dead, he would have begged whoever was listening to keep him alive just to experience her forever.

The second she struggled to keep her legs open, trapping his head between them, he knew she was quickly approaching her orgasm, and he couldn't wait. He'd heard her climax before, but being right there as it was happening felt like a privilege he would always be grateful for. He wanted to replicate everything he'd heard that night and get to feel it, too— get to be the one to make her feel that way.

"Fuck, don't stop, I'm s— so close..."

Spencer groaned into her as if to say, "I know, I can feel you." Oh, how he wished he could talk her through it, to tease her with his words... Alas, he had no choice but to encourage her with his actions, so he used his free hand to search for one of hers. She gave up her hand to lace their fingers together, and his thumb continued to draw mindless circles into her skin as she clenched and released, over and over again until she was coming.

"Spencer!" she cried to the air, over and over again as if she could will him into existence again. It was a desperate plea, a manifestation, and the both of them secretly hoped that it would work.

She wanted to see him

He wanted her to see him, too.

He felt her climax subside, and then he slowly eased his fingers out of her and trailed his tongue down to keep tasting. A part of him was scared to realize he might not actually be visible like he hoped, but he pushed the potential disappointment aside and luxuriated in the way she tasted. He delved in and gripped the underside of her thighs to keep them steady, and with a delighted groan as he pushed his tongue inside, Y/N gasped.

"Fuck, I can hear you..."

The words excited him greatly.

"Thank God."

Spencer kissed her, tasted her until she was writhing and begging him to stop.

"Please, Spencer, kiss me."

He pulled away and looked up at her, smiling even though she still couldn't see him. "I am kissing you," he replied, pressing his lips to her thigh.

"You know what I mean. Come here..."

He laughed and obliged, kissing his way up her legs and crawling up her body. He slowly dragged his hands up her stomach, bunching up her nightgown and sliding it up her body the farther he got. Her eyes watched in allure as the fabric rode up and up and up, seemingly on its own. But she knew better, she knew who was undressing her and worshipping her, and it made her squirm.

She lifted her arms over her head and let him take the clothing off, revealing her chest to the chilly air. She watched as the fabric flew to the ground, and then felt Spencer's hands return to her skin, gentle fingers raising goosebumps all over. Her nipples pinched and hardened the closer he got to them, and soon enough he was palming her breasts as he pressed his forehead to hers, wedging his body between her legs.

"Kiss me," she breathed, feeling his nose touch hers. His breath was hot against her own, and her eyes fluttered shut. "Please..."

"Anything for you, sweet girl..."

She sighed as his mouth finally collided with her own, the heady and prominent taste of her arousal growing stronger the deeper he kissed her. Their bodies couldn't stop moving, wandering hands and urgent hips, and with his newfound ability to speak to her, Spencer spoke in gentle praises. He sighed out her name reverently, telling her how good and sweet and perfect she was, and she returned every word with a whimper, in awe that he was really there. He was becoming more and more present, and she couldn't get enough.

"I want to feel you," she said against his lips, dragging her hand down his invisible chest. She fingered through every button of his shirt until it was loose and open, and the cool hum of his skin as she explored his torso made her hands numb.

Spencer kissed her jaw and groaned, feeling himself throb at her words. "Let me help..."

He grabbed her hand and guided her to the bulge in his pants, even though she could have just as easily stumbled onto it herself. The intimacy of it all was almost overwhelming, so much so that when her grip tightened softly on his clothed erection, Spencer almost came undone right then and there.

"Fuck, Y/N... I'd say you're going to be the death of me, but..."

They laughed together until she kissed him again, deeply and with a sigh. "You're becoming more and more real, but... this feels like... it feels like a dream."

He understood what she meant, and it filled him with a tinge of sadness, but her hand slowly palming him was becoming harder and harder to ignore. He gripped her wrist and his breath hitched in her ear as he nipped at it.

"Trust me, sweetheart... I am very real."

She shuddered at his words and squeezed him tighter before fumbling for his belt.

"Spencer... Do you think..." Her hands successfully undid the confines of his pants and started to slide them down over his hips, trying not to mess up her words as he sucked marks into her neck. "Do you think that if you fuck me... I'll finally be able to see you?"

"Mmm, God, I hope so," he groaned earnestly, repositioning themselves so he could kick off his pants and rest her head on the pillow. She let him take the lead, her breath getting heavier with anticipation as he positioned himself between her legs and grabbed her wrist. Once again, he was guiding her hand to his cock, hard and, this time, bare. She cursed under her breath as she gripped him and he helped her languidly stroke himself in exploration. His fingers were strong over hers, and he applied just the right amount of pressure to draw out a groan from the both of them.

"Please," she sighed out desperately through shallow breaths. "Spencer, please, I need you..."

How could he resist?

He didn't even want to entertain the thought of trying.

"Then let me take care of you, sweet girl," he cooed, hiking her thighs to rest over his hips and slowly sinking into her with ease.

Once he was all the way in, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, comforting her through the low burn. He slowly rolled his hips forward as she cried out his name, her fingers coming up to grip his shoulders. "You feel that?" he whispered into her skin. "How perfectly I fit inside you? It's like you were made for me..."

"Uh-huh," she stuttered in agreement.

He stopped teasing her then, pulling back to start fucking her nice and slow as she adjusted to him. Her fingers curled and knotted into the loose material of his shirt. She would have slid it off of him, but the grip on something steady was nice as she let him focus on his ministrations. He seemed to be doing just fine with the shirt on, anyway, and it was hard to even think about anything other than how good he felt.

She wondered then, as he picked up momentum and started peppering kisses down her jawline, what she looked like to the night. If she were standing there, outside her own body, watching herself being thoroughly and beautifully wrecked by something invisible and obviously enjoying every second...

Her eyes rolled back at the image, just as Spencer started going harder. His hips snapped into hers with a strength and precision that felt like it was rattling worlds. It very well could have been, and neither of them had any mind to care; They were so intensively intertwined with each other that it was a different world entirely.

They started to burn hot, that familiar warm chill of impending pleasure creeping up through their bodies and setting them alight. Y/N snaked her arms up to Spencer's neck and brought him down for a searing kiss as she melted into him, and he returned it with a fervor that elicited the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. He felt it all the way in his bones, felt the waves of pleasure start to drag him under as she squeezed him with her limbs and started to come undone herself.

The atmosphere around them was purely electrifying, bright snaps of skin and sharp whispers of mouth combining to brew a perfect storm that nothing would ever survive. It was wild and unconstrained, glimmering and grand, and in their wake, the two entities left their desire lingering in the air for the dead of night to stew in for as long as it would allow.

Spencer collapsed on top of her with a hefty sigh, and he was grateful to be able to finally share his voice with her. The mystery and simplicity of the X's and O's were fun to indulge in at first, but now that they'd grown closer and created something beautiful and memorable together, he had to tell her exactly how he felt— no symbols, no mysteries...

He kissed her softly and pulled back to look into her eyes, dragging a thumb over her cheekbone as he told her the truth.

"You're perfect."

Her eyes went wide, welling with tears as she reached up and ran a finger softly along the bridge of his nose.

"You're beautiful."

Relief and something else—something warm—stirred in Spencer's chest at the confirmation that she could finally see him, and that she was moved by what she saw. Who she saw...

He couldn't help the smile that adorned his face, and the soft joyous laughter that escaped him as she continued to explore his features with the pads of her fingertips, like she was trying to memorize him from touch alone in case he suddenly disappeared again.

"I mean it, Spencer, you're... even more beautiful than I imagined."

"You imagined me?" he inquired rather suggestively.

With a laugh, she brought him down for a slow, searing kiss. "Duh..."

Even though they were tired, they stayed like that for hours, kissing and exploring and sighing until the sweet lull of sleep took hold and carried them through the night.

For a solid few hours until he awoke, Spencer completely forgot that he wasn't alive.

ACT III: Unfinished Business

Y/N had never done so much research in her entire life. She liked Spencer, and she was more than happy to help him out, but man... Reading dozens of articles and textbooks and blogs about the different types of spirits and how to lay them to rest was a long, exhausting road that led pretty much nowhere. There was no way to know what type of ghost Spencer was or how to help him move on, not that she could see, anyway. She didn't know if he'd age with her, or be 'undead' long enough to become vicious and bitter like a lot of the spirits she read about, and Spencer's research was just about as inconclusive as her own.

A selfish part of her hoped she'd never find out, to keep him around forever... But she also knew that wasn't fair to him. No matter how lonely she was or how much fun they had and how they enjoyed each other's company, well... The fact of the matter was, he was dead.

And he deserved to rest.

In the meantime, in the hours between headache-inducing frustration at the lack of answers, Spencer told her about his life. His friends, mostly— the best people he'd ever known. The way he described them, she had a feeling that they might hold the key to his dilemma. If not directly, perhaps there was something about him that they knew, something that might give Y/N some insight into his ghostly purpose, so to speak. Not that she couldn't ask Spencer directly, but they'd already discussed a lot of back-and-forth on enemies and people that could have wanted to harm him, all of which were surefire impossibilities. Not to mention the fact that he seemed tied to this apartment and not anything else. Maybe that didn't have anything to do with it, but neither of them knew.

It was the only other option she had.

They laid next to each other in her bed, her head laying on his chest. Her ear warmed gently, and tried as she might to hear a heartbeat, all she could hear was a faint white noise, almost like he was merely a figure of tangible energy rather than a body. She supposed that was technically what he was, but as much as she'd grown to know and like Spencer, it was hard to think of him that way. It was... sad to think of him that way.

She frowned and nestled into him, trying to push away that petulant nagging in the depths of her soul that screamed "This isn't fair!" and she told him the most difficult thing she'd ever had the courage to push past her lips.

"I think I have an idea... You can say no if you think it's too weird, but... It might help you. Maybe."

"Mmm, what's that?" he responded, curious but not audibly hopeful. It made Y/N even more sad to think he probably figured he'd never find peace.

"What if I go talk to your friends? Do you think they might know something you don't?"

There was a beat of silence before she felt his chest heave with gentle laughter. "Derek Morgan definitely wouldn't think so..."

Recalling some of the funny stories he'd told her about him, she smiled. Still, she pressed. "I mean it. What other outlets do we have? Where else is there to look? If there's anyone who knows you better than anyone else, wouldn't it be them?"

Spencer sighed, giving it a thought. His fingers raked through her hair and massaged her scalp to the point of gentle, comforting numbness, another one of those domestic moments that had her feeling absolutely conflicted.

And then, he said, "Actually... I think I know exactly who you should talk to..."

———

There was a deep chill in her bones as she approached Penelope Garcia's apartment building, but not because of the lively, rustling October wind. In fact, she wanted to throw up at the thought of having this conversation. But not because she didn't want to help Spencer. She did, more than anything.

She was just afraid of being arrested.

Spencer assured her that it would be fine and that Penelope was harmless, and while the latter she could believe, it still nerved her to wander up to a woman's door and announce that she lived in the apartment of her beloved dead co-worker and needed to help him fulfill his destiny as a spirit. It sounded like a cruel joke.

"If anyone would believe you, it would be Penelope," he'd said, comforting her with a pat on the shoulder.

Maybe it was true, but she didn't want to find out if it wasn't. It was one thing to have the door slammed in your face by a grief-stricken loved one, but a grief-stricken loved one who worked for the fucking FBI was ten times worse; There were a lot more horrifying outcomes that came with that combination.

Still, she trusted Spencer on a level she'd barely trusted anyone else, and he wasn't even alive for God's sake... So she strapped on her boots, threw on her most comfortable jacket, and braced the wind and whatever fate blew with it.

For Spencer.

"For Spencer," she muttered under her breath as she rapped on the door. Three times. Third time's the charm, three's a crowd, three clicks of the heel and you're home... Three seemed like a lucky number. Three was inviting, friendly, not intended to inflict emotional damage.

Please, God, don't let her hate me, Y/N prayed to whoever was listening. Don't let this go horribly wrong.

A bright voice was yelling beyond the door, and with every millisecond that it got louder and closer, her heart started to beat faster. Blood thrummed in her ears, and she kept repeating, "For Spencer, for Spencer, for Spencer," on a loop to remind her why she was going through all this anxiety.

The voice got closer, but still muffled, until the door swung open. Then it stopped altogether. Y/N blinked and stood there with a stiff back and sweaty palms, in front of Penelope Garcia. The woman was obviously expecting somebody else to be at the door, but she didn't look disappointed, just confused.

"Oh. You're not Luke. How can I help you?"

"Um... My name is Y/N. I... Before I tell you why I'm here, I need you to know that I'm not trying to play a trick on you, and I don't want to make you sad or upset, and if there's anything you need or want to know about me in order to trust me, then I'll gladly give you that information, but this is really important and I need you to know that I'm not crazy or harmful, I just want to help him."

Penelope's eyes went wide as she reached out and grabbed her hand. The thrumming in her ears got louder as she took a deep breath and waited for the yelling to start, her body to be thrown to the ground, or a sharp piercing sting of a backhand.

The only thing she felt, however, was a tug at her heart and the gentle dissipation of nerves as Penelope spoke one simple word.

"Spencer."

"How... How did you know?"

"Ever since he... Since he's been... I just knew something didn't feel right. Everyone told me that it was just grief, and for a while that's also what I told myself, but... That feeling was just too... Wait, who did you say you were again?"

Y/N stuttered her name and gripped Penelope's hand tighter, hoping to create some rapport. "I live in his apartment. He's been... Visiting me."

Something in her eyes softened and then saddened at the confirmation that her friend was somehow still among the living. "A visitor in his own home... Poor Boy Genius..."

She couldn't help but smile at the nickname. "He said you called him that often..."

Wide eyes welling with tears, Penelope nodded and tugged at her visitor's hand. "He was the smartest person I ever knew. Kindest, too. Here, come on inside, I'll make you some tea. Do you like tea? Maybe some hot chocolate?"

Her hospitality as she ushered her inside was both comforting and saddening to Y/N. It was in her nature to be that way to guests, even strangers, sure, but it also acted as a shield from the somber feelings she'd been rushed with at a moment's notice, no thanks to said stranger.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, Penelope," Y/N rushed as she shrugged her coat off. "You don't have to make me anything."

"Oh, I know I don't have to, but would you like something warm to drink?"

She was practically begging for the distraction, something to do with her hands as she had time to process and prepare for what was about to happen.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you."

"Perfect, I'll get it started. Make yourself comfortable, Sweets."

She carried her coat over her arms, holding it to her chest like a tether to reality. None of this felt real, even though she could still feel the warm glow of Spencer's energy all around her, like it had burrowed into the pores of her skin and made a home there.

As she looked around at Penelope's bright and colorful space, she thought about him... How often had he been here? What did they do together, and where did they hang out? She imagined the laughter and the stories and the cooking... She wished she would have known him then, been a part of his life. As scary as he told her it was at times, she knew there were also plenty of bright spots, and she knew Penelope was definitely one of the brightest.

Y/N smiled, hugging her coat tighter.

"I like your apartment," she complimented, sitting down at a small dining table in the corner.

"Thank you! I always told Spencer he should get some more color, but... What can I say, he really loved his neutrals."

The familiar detail brought a smile to her face. "That doesn't surprise me. He told me that even though he likes me, he really hates my floral couch and that it looked weird in his apartment. I told him he was boring." And, that technically, it was her apartment now. In fact, her exact words after the fact were, "What are you going to do, haunt me?" before they both laughed and continued making out on said couch.

But she didn't need to remind Penelope of the fact that he was gone. Or to inform her that she was intimately involved with his ghost.

Just the thought alone was enough to make the low, ever-present hum of his imprinted memory on her skin even more intense, and she smiled.

"Oh... I know that look."

Y/N looked up at Penelope, who was grinning with the most mischievous gleam in her eye.

"What look?"

"You think he's cute, don't you?"

"I... I don't..."

"Well, I suppose even if you can't see him, I'm sure he's charmed you anyway. And you probably Googled him."

"How did you—"

"It's what I would have done... So?" she prompted, still waiting for an answer of some kind.

Y/N sighed, defeated and impressed by Penelope's skills at quickly retrieving information. But she also didn't want to lie to her, so she had no choice but to answer her questions with the truth anyway. "Well, I can see him. But I couldn't at first. My um... My friends came over one night, and they brought a Ouija board. We used it for shits and giggles because I'd joked to them after I moved in that I didn't feel totally alone, and well..."

"It wasn't a joke?"

Penelope brought over the tea, steaming and aromatic. Y/N took it with a nod of thanks and sighed as she sat down across from her.

"No. But I didn't actually think I was living with a ghost, I mean... I didn't believe in that stuff. But I also wasn't going to risk pissing him off, so I tried to be nice to him. I only knew his name, and then my friends looked him up and we read his obituary, and... I don't know, I guess I just thought he seemed like a good person, so he deserved some kindness in the afterlife. I said hello to the air every time I came home from work, I yelled out a good night before going to bed... And then he started leaving me notes on my bathroom mirror, and I guess... I don't know, the more he and I got to know each other, the easier things became. Eventually he could touch things, and then soon after he was audible, then visible..."

She conveniently left out the details of that journey, though her skin warmed again at the memory.

"And now that we can communicate, it's become clear to me that he doesn't know where he's going— Why he's not at rest... I feel bad for him. He deserves..." Her breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed hard before looking down at the mug in her hand. "He deserves to move on."

Penelope was quiet for a moment as Y/N sipped her tea. Her hand reached out to grab hers, and the gesture almost had her in tears.

"You sound... Sad about that."

She couldn't help the pressure that pulsed behind her eyes, stabbing at her throat... Still, she made herself speak, barely above a whisper to prevent that inevitable cracking of the voice that would surely break the dam she was trying so hard to keep still and strong. "I... I know it sounds absolutely crazy..."

"You're falling in love with him."

Though the words didn't come from her own mouth, they came flying at her like a sucker punch to the gut. The wind was knocked out of her for a moment, until all she could do was exhale and let the tears fall silently as she nodded.

Penelope let her cry for a minute or two without a word while holding her hand, until she was ready to elaborate. "But I can't... I can't keep him here, it's not right. If he doesn't have any unfinished business, then he should be put to rest. And I... I don't know how to help him. I thought maybe, if I could talk to the people who knew him the best... I could get an idea."

"Oh, Honey, I... I'm sorry, but I don't know any more than you do." She was talking through tears herself, and Y/N squeezed her hand back. "His mother's been gone for years now, and there's no other family that he was close enough with to even consider, other than us, but... Truthfully I don't know if we really count in the grand scheme of things... I'd like to think that we do..."

"You might not be blood-related, but you were his family. He loved you so much, I could tell by the way he spoke about all of you. He... He misses you a lot. I just wish he didn't have to feel that loss anymore."

Penelope frowned. "I wish I could give you an answer... When you go back to him... Will you at least tell him that we love him?"

"He already knows. But yes. I will."

"And I'll keep on thinking. Whatever you need, you got it. I have access to pretty much everything so if there's information to be had, I will get my paws on it, and you will know. Thank you for coming to see me. And for telling me that Spencer's okay... He is okay, right?"

Y/N hesitated. She wasn't entirely sure how to answer without giving away their extra-curricular activities. "I think so. He's tired, I can tell. But I do my best to keep him happy. The last thing I need is to have him angrily haunting me."

Penelope laughed, then sighed. "Unfortunately, I think that means you better get rid of that glorious couch, then."

The laughter was a welcome break from the tears, which had already started to dry on her skin, leaving her cheeks itchy. "I really appreciate you being so kind, Penelope... Losing Spencer must have been absolutely impossible, and having a complete stranger show up at your door and pour salt in the wound... I couldn't imagine..."

"Y/N... If there was any person on this planet who could have moved into his apartment and helped him through this... I think I speak for the whole BAU when I say that he's lucky it's you."

The sentiment made her chest tight, and an involuntary pout tugged at her mouth. "You... You really mean that?"

Penelope laughed and squeezed her hand again. "Oh, Darling, you even pout like him... You're kind of perfect for each other."

"I don't know whether to be happy or sad about that," she replied through a fit of hysterics, and Penelope joined her.

It was clear then that these two women were meant to bond seamlessly over the loss of someone dear, one in life and the other in death. They were two sides of the same coin, a best friend and an anchor to the other side. It was a solace that neither of them had expected, but welcomed with open arms and warm understanding.

They exchanged stories and laughs and phone numbers and hugs, and joked about exchanging addresses, and a while later, just as Y/N was about to go home, fastening her coat, Penelope stopped her.

"Wait... I don't mean to make you sad or anything, and maybe this isn't the answer that either of you were looking for... But after today? If I didn't know any better, I'd say that Spencer's unfinished business is you."

The thought froze her entirely. It would stand to reason that they were meant to find each other, only to let each other go. Because, of course. Nobody was ever that lucky, especially neither Spencer nor his new roommate.

Sensing her overthinking, Penelope continued. "I know it's unfortunate given the circumstances, but... You did say that the more you got to know him, the more... alive he became. At least as alive as he can be. And I've only known you for about an hour, but I can confidently say that you are about as perfect for Spencer as somebody could be for anybody. And..."

She shifted on her feet, unsure of whether she should actually say what she was about to tell her, but obviously needing to make her point with as much context as possible. "You know, he's tried. He watched many of us find love and have families of our own, and he's always wanted that, but... He never got to have it. I think... that was the one thing that he always truly and completely wanted, especially after his mom passed and he had no one left but us... Somebody to go home to, somebody who understood him and cared about him and wanted to spend the rest of their lives with him... A soulmate. And... Y/N, I think it might be you."

Her head was swimming and tears were blurring her vision again. As much as she wanted to believe it, ever the lover of grand romantic endings, it didn't make sense. She didn't really believe in soulmates, did she? Then again, she didn't believe in ghosts, either, until recently...

"How could you possibly know that?" she whispered to Penelope, hoping for a switch in her brain to flip. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to dash home and confidently confess to the ghost living in her apartment that they were made for each other and that she could finally set him free.

And... Then what?

There had to be another explanation.

"I wish I could tell you how, definitively," Penelope answered sadly, "and like I said, I don't want to upset you... But it's just a feeling. And my feelings are hardly ever wrong. Hey, I mean I had a feeling that Spencer was still out there somehow, and that turned out to be true, right?"

"I... I guess," she sniffled.

"Just... Do me a favor, okay? Think about it. Spend tonight with him, like you normally do, and really really think about it. And tell me you don't feel it."

It almost sounded like a playful challenge rather than a request. Y/N wiped at her eyes and sighed. "You're really sure?"

"Positive."

Y/N wasn't really sure if she believed it still, but there was a conviction in Penelope's voice that was too sincere to ignore. And Spencer trusted her, which obviously meant a lot.

So, she promised that she would think about it anyway, bade her new friend farewell, and made her way outside, where the wind had died and left the streets lifeless and quiet.

———

Something was different about Y/N when she came home.

Spencer tried to let her go about the night and refrain from saying anything, but after regretfully informing him that Penelope had no wisdom to offer her about their situation but would get back to her if anything did come to mind, she was... odd. Perhaps she was just as tired as he was in trying to solve this mystery, or just tired in general. But he didn't want to push her if she didn't want to open up, so he did what he could and offered his company.

Still, she didn't seem right.

He thought maybe a flurry of warm, tender kisses along her skin would put her in high spirits, but the longer she let him worship her skin without so much as a sigh in return, it started to sink in that something was deeply wrong.

"Are you okay?" he asked sweetly, stroking her jaw with the back of his hand as he looked her in the eye. She looked at him for only a few seconds before averting her gaze, like if she allowed him to meet her eyes for any longer, he'd pull something from her that she'd rather not share. It sent a small wave of panic through him. "Y/N, talk to me, please... What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"No," she said unconvincingly.

"You don't... have to talk about it if you don't want to... But you're upset about something, and I want to help you. I'll do whatever you need me to. I'll listen, I'll leave you alone, I'll kiss it better... Whatever you want. It's yours."

She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, defeated. "God, you FBI people are too good at getting information out of people, it's annoying."

Spencer laughed. "It wasn't my intention to make you feel interrogated. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay, you didn't do anything wrong. I'm just... I'm..."

She couldn't seem to get out the words, like there was a frustrating lack of understanding how to convey them. He drew continuous circles gently into her palm and waited patiently for her to open up, silently promising that he would be there for her when she finally found the right words.

It was a question that she finally settled on. "Have you ever been in love? Like... Really in love?"

Something inside him jolted at the thought of where this conversation might lead. If he had a heartbeat, it would have raced and thrummed so heavily that the organ might have failed. In truth, he'd been thinking about it for a week or two now. Ever since the night he realized that his interactions with her were the key to becoming more sentient, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps she was the thing he was tethered to.

He didn't dare say it out loud, or to her face, because... Well, it was too soon, wasn't it? And it wouldn't have mattered anyway, because once he was lain to rest, they could never be together.

It was complicated.

"I think I was, a few times," he finally answered in earnest. "And to be fair, just because things didn't work out with them, it doesn't mean I didn't really love them. I did. But... I think deep down I knew they weren't really The One... Does that make sense?"

"I think so... I don't think I've ever been in love before. Even with long-term partners, we said the words, and I felt something that was happy and I thought was love, but..." She paused, avoiding his eye again before rapidly blinking back tears. "Now I feel this... this anchor to you that I can't let go of... I want to be around you all the time and I know it's not fair because you deserve to rest, but I can't help it. Spencer, I... You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And I'm afraid that once I really admit it out loud, you'll be gone forever."

He knew, then, that this was it. Listening intently as she confessed, absorbing every word and allowing himself to feel and admit what he knew to be true for a while now, his body began to tingle. It was so dull at first, he almost mistook the feeling for 'butterflies'. It felt cruel not to tell her that he was starting to fade, but he didn't want to ruin the moment or panic her. He didn't want to tell her that she was running out of time. That they were running out of time.

So, instead, to try and ease the blow, he told her something sweet.

He told her, "I love you."

Her eyes glossed over at the confession. She reached urgently for his hands, her grip strong and willing like she knew what was going to happen. And maybe she did. Still, she sat there and listened to him, her eyes taking in every inch of his presence and committing him to memory.

He aimed to make it a memory she would never forget.

"I don't know when we'll see each other again, but I don't doubt that we will. Not for a second. And until then, my only wish is that you keep allowing yourself to fall in love. Don't be afraid of it. You shouldn't deny yourself just because I'm gone. Can you promise me that you'll try?"

Y/N blinked away tears and tugged at his hands. "What if I can't?"

"You will, my sweet girl. And I promise, I won't be mad at you."

She laughed despite herself, then almost cried again when she felt his presence start to fizzle and break in front of her eyes. She was desperate to hold on to him, clutching his hands for dear life and breathlessly whispering, "I love you, Spencer Reid," as if the conviction alone would be enough to keep him here. As if whatever cruel deity was putting them through this would see how much she needed him and decided to spare her the misery.

"I wish I could have known you when I was alive," he told her, leaning in closer. "Maybe we could have been neighbors."

She smiled through tears and pressed her forehead to his, the contact making her skin go numb. Silently she hoped that wherever he was going, she would be sucked in with him. "Then I would have invited you over for dinner."

He squeezed her hands, already feeling his grip fading, his essence nearly numbing him. Still, he willed himself to stay long enough to paint this life for the two of them—one they would never get to have, except only in dreams and perhaps in another life entirely. Anything was possible, after all.

"And I still would have made fun of your ugly couch."

"And I would have pushed you onto it and made you take it back."

"And I would have refused."

"And I would have kissed you ."

"And I would have kissed you back."

"And I would have fallen in love with you immediately."

"And I would have sworn that I'd fall in love with you in every universe."

She closed her eyes, feeling the very last remnants of his presence as she whispered, "I think it's safe to assume that you already have."

"And I think I'm inclined to agree."

THE END

[0o-junebug-o0]

CHIPPPP 😩

[0o-junebug-o0]

Kiss

Spencer leans over you as he gets your attention. He’s gone from a germaphobe to an affectionate lover. You cup his face in your hands and kiss him softly, you shift on the couch in case he wants to join you. He knees the couch as he sighs into the kiss, deepening it as he gets closer. He leans more into you pushing you lower into the furniture. He tries to put a hand behind you to stop him from crushing you but you stop him pulling him against you. He yelps giving your tongue access, you grin against him, his blush growing. His knees are on either side of you.

“Angel…” he mutters against your lips. “ M’heavy.”

“Don’t,” kiss. “Care.” kiss.

Spencer’s tongue seems to explore every crevice in your mouth, his hands running up and down your sides. He pulls you slightly into him before setting you back down again.

“Your neck.” he explains but you can hardly care.

You try to move out of the kiss, the need for oxygen winning but he whines and slots his lips back on yours. He’s breathless as he ruts into your leg, his hands sneakily going under your shirt. He reminded you of an animal going into heat.

“Spencer?” you break off the kiss again, turning your head for air.

“M’yeah, need you, need you really really bad, please.” he kisses down your neck still rutting into your leg. “Please, Please, Please.”

“Where do you need me?” even though the answer is glaringly obvious.

“Stop teasing.” he whined into the crook of your neck.

“Alright.” you chuckled. He looked up at you, his hair was a mess, his glass were so lopsided that you took them off for fear of them falling, his face was flushed and his eyes glossy, his lips were swollen and he was a complete mess. You could feel his ‘need’ evident in his pants.

“Use my leg.”

[0o-junebug-o0]

STFU SHES SO HOTTTTTT 😭😭😭😭

[0o-junebug-o0]

Bad, bad news - 18+

Main masterlist | Kinktober Masterlist

"Bad, bad news, one of us is gonna lose, I'm the powder you're the fuse...just add some friction." You and Spencer play to see who can control themselves the longest. Loser is at the winner's mercy for the rest of the night.

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

DISCLAIMER You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Minors do not interact at all. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read.

WARNING: Smut: Switch!/dom! Spencer, switch!/sub! reader, cock-warming, nipple play, dirty talk, edging/orgasm denial, clit stimulation, one singular spank, no use of protection, pet names (sweet girl, good girl, etc). Not proofread. Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 2.9K See notes at end for authors note & spoilers.

Rolling around half naked in your bed sheets is like a harmonious duet on most days. You and Spencer mindlessly slip into your roles using non-verbal cues. Today was not one of those days. Today was a messy battle for dominance and your sheets bore the brunt. 

“Give in,” Spencer whispers, his knee strategically pressed against your heat. “You know you want to.”

You wiggle your wrists out of his grasp above your head and flatten your palms against his chest as you push him back down. He doesn't react fast enough and you’re straddling him again. You claim his mouth in a roaring kiss and swallow a desperate moan.

“Baby, if anyone’s going to give in it’s you.” You taunt, pulling away.

Without warning, Spencer bucks his hips up, rubbing his hardness against your core. It makes you jolt. 

“Yeah?” He licks his lips and flashes you a cocky smile.

“Y-yes.” You’re quick to regain composure, not wanting to let him rob you of the upper hand. “You can barely control yourself.”

He harshly cups your jaw in retaliation and pushes himself up until his lips are almost brushing yours. You have to brace yourself against his shoulder and his eyes lock in on yours. He lingers there for a second, his breath tickles your skin. Your eyes flicker between his eyes and his lips. His hold on your jaw loosens as the two of you slowly lean in. 

“I’m not the one that needs to be controlled.” It’s a low gravel that vibrates against your mouth as he retracts his head, making you chase after the kiss. 

Before you can catch his lips, he rolls you over and pushes himself on his knees. The noise that leaves you upon impact is something between a squeak and a grunt. He doesn’t give you time to assimilate, flipping you over and yanking you by your hips. Your cunt slams against his bulge and you groan, gripping the sheets. He grabs your hands, pinning them behind your back. You try to squirm out of his grip, but he’s got you pinned firmly. 

“Hey, that is not fair!” You whine. 

“Oh? Why not?” 

“You’re biologically stronger than I am!”

“Aw, poor baby.” He pouts with a mocking coo. 

You huff and make another futile attempt to set yourself free.

“Just give in and I’ll let go.” He chuckles. 

“Fuck off–ah!” A firm smack on your behind cuts you off. 

If that wasn’t so hot you could have at least pretended to be upset, but the way you involuntarily grind your hips gives you away before you can even make the effort. Spencer hisses in response. His eyes rake down your back to your ass pressed against him. So that backfired. 

You’re just as stubborn as he is and he doesn’t have the patience to wear you down. He needs to watch you squirm as you beg for him. He wants to feel how desperate you are for him. Using a featherlight touch, his hand travels up your back. He leans in, torso hovering over your back and brings his lips to your ear. 

“How about I make you a deal, hmm?” A trail of kisses starts from below your ear to your jaw.

“A deal?” You repeat, falling into a slight daze.

His fingers stop skimming over your back when he reaches the clasp of your bra and he undoes it in one swift motion. You can feel your heartbeat as your breasts spring free. 

“Mhm.” He releases his hold on you and moves off you to sit up against the headboard. 

“What deal?” You question as you sit up, eyeing him curiously.

“Well, it’s more of a bet.” 

Part of the reason you and Spencer work so well is because of your ability to keep up with each other's competitive nature. 

“Go on.” You rid yourself of the bra hanging on your shoulders. 

He tries to hide it, but, being met with your bare chest has an immediate effect on him. The silent but sharp inhale, the way he tries oh so hard to keep his eyes on your face and the way his lip rolls between his teeth. You can practically feel your arousal pooling in your underwear. 

“Come here.” He beckons you closer with his fingers.

A shrewd smirk tugs at the corners of your mouth. You position yourself on your hands and knees, effectively crawling toward him. It shouldn’t feel as alluring as it does, but the sight makes his cock twitch. Part of him wants to grab you and pull you onto his lap the second you’re within reach, but he waits for you to get there on your own, watching you intently with every step. 

His palms caress the sides of your ribcage as you straddle him and he swipes his tongue between his lips. You drape your arms on his shoulders, wrapping them so your fingers run through his hair. You let him kiss you on the chin, jaw and shoulder, but when he tries to go lower, you pull on his hair by the base. He turns his head back up to you and you both rest your foreheads together.

“You are impossibly stubborn.” He groans. 

“I wouldn’t have to be if you would simply do as I say.” 

“I should tie you up and make you watch as I take care of myself in front of you.” There’s an underlying playfulness in his sigh. 

“That sounds like a punishment.” You quirk your eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t have to if you had let me take care of you as I’ve wanted from the start.” 

“You won’t. At all.” You state point blank, indicating he's not the one in charge.

Spencer tsks and brushes his thumb against your nipple. You playfully slap his hand away. You don’t know it yet, but he’s already noting everything he’ll punish you for when the time comes. 

“Do you trust me?” 

You nod, giving him a cautious stare. 

“Do. you. trust. me?” He repeats, unsatisfied with the non-verbal confirmation. 

“Yes!” You huff. 

“Up.” He drops his hands to your hips, gripping the flesh and pushing it away from him. 

You lift yourself off him and on your knees. Spencer then lifts his hips, tugging his boxers down providing ample room for his length to bounce out. Looking down you can see just how hard he is. His tip’s swollen, pink and leaking with pre-cum. If you weren’t so turned on right now, you’d question what he’s up to. 

There is no shortage of things you want to do to him and he can tell as much when he runs a finger through your slit, pushing the fabric to the side. The action is unexpected and you have to use his shoulders for support, a whimper escaping your lips. You glare at him but he pays you no mind.

“Fuucck,” He breathily groans, “you are soaked.” 

It always takes you a little off guard when Spencer swears. He rarely does, saving it for when he feels very passionately about something. It makes you clench around nothing. Spencer guides your hips a little lower and runs his tip between your folds. You can only chuff in desperation as you try to keep yourself composed. 

“Sit.” He commands, lining himself up with your entrance. 

You’re sceptical but comply nonetheless. You slowly sink on his length and his fingers dig into the plush of your hips. The two of you exchange a gasp as you attempt to ground yourselves. Something about how he stretches your walls open is so delicious and palatable, that it makes you forget all sense or reason.

“Now what?” 

“Now,” his voice floats in and out of short breaths, “you sit still.” 

“I beg you pardon? Still?” Your perplexity makes him chuckle.

Shock waves travel between your cores and you squirm. 

“Uh-uh.” His grip on your body tightens as he holds you in place. “You heard me. Sit still.” 

You mull over his words and it clicks.

“Cockwarming?” 

“Precisely.” 

“That’s your deal?”

“Bet.” He corrects. 

A silent pause takes over the conversation. You try to study his challenging stare, but honestly, all you can focus on is how enchanting his eyes are. How ethereal they look when you have him begging for you. You’re smart enough to recognise that the only shot you have of making that happen is if you indulge him for now. 

“Okay, genius, I’ll bite. What are we betting on?” 

“Control. More specifically, which one of us is better at exhibiting control.”

“So not you.” You snort. 

He rolls his eyes but he’s unsure if it’s because of your comment or how warm you feel around his cock. He doesn’t point out that he’s already demonstrating a great amount of control by not flipping you over and fucking the shit out of you, because it might not work in his favour.

“What happens when I win?” 

Your follow-up question brings him back to you with brows raised in astonishment. 

“When you win?” 

“Or when you lose. Whatever way you wanna look at it.” 

His eyes narrow and his tongue swipes the inside of his cheek. Maybe if he brought up how good he is at holding his tongue, he could make a point about how much more control he’s in. 

“Whoever wins gets to do whatever they want to the other. For tonight.” 

You twist your lips to the side in contemplation. Spencer tracks every shift in your features. 

“Deal.” You answer with a genuine smile. 

“Thank you.” His gratitude is relayed in a husky whisper.

You don’t know if it’s the way he speaks or the words he says, but it makes you clench. You don’t realise until he hisses and throws his head back. 

“You can’t be doing that.” His thumbs caress the skin they’re resting on. 

“What? This?” You repeat the action intentionally and give him your most convincing doe eyes. 

Oh the things he plans to do to you. His thoughts hide behind a half-smirk and his eyes drop to your breasts. The look on his face borders between unsettling and erotic, sending shivers down your spine. Spencer lets his hand drift up your sides, stopping so his thumbs brush your nipples again. The feeling provokes goosebumps all over. 

You unintentionally whimper when he gently rolls them between his thumbs and forefingers. At first, Spencer was only trying to tease you for your antics, but the sound of your voice made him want to coax more out of you. He adds pressure to his hold and tugs. Your walls tighten around him again and he lessens the pressure to keep himself composed. If you don’t stop, he will. Your hands move to cup his wrists in place and you try to hold back the pathetic sounds threatening to spill out of you. 

“Can’t have your cake and eat it too, sweet girl. Tell me what you want.” His voice is a coo masking a command. 

“For you to stop playing games and give up already.” You try to keep your voice steady but fail. 

“You’re just delaying the inevitable at this point. The longer you fight, the harder you’ll have to beg.” He relays it like a scientific fact that can’t be proven wrong. 

“And you’re delusional if you think that’s happening. I won’t beg for you.” 

“That’s two bets you’re losing tonight.” 

You scoff but before you can get another word in, he pulls your taut nubs with a tighter grip than before. You have to fight the urge to lean away and roll your hips. Your breathing quickens, it’s almost as if you're quietly heaving. Then you make the mistake of looking down. Slender fingers toying with your hardened peaks and cock so deep inside you that your cores are touching at the base. 

Your senses feel heightened. Everything you sense is jumbled. You can practically taste the sweet ecstasy that fills your body when he’s driving into you so hard that he’s pressing against your stomach. You don’t realise how close you are to the edge, but Spencer does. He can tell by the slight shake in your legs as you try to keep yourself still. And the way your nails dig into his wrists. 

All your focus is on keeping yourself from clenching because you don’t want him to stop. The coil in your stomach has almost completely unravelled; you just need to sit still for a few more seconds. 

Seven. In your distracted state you let a few tiny moans slip out. 

Six. It elates Spencer, he almost feels bad for what he’s about to do. 

Five. As you grow louder, Spencer begins shushing you in his soft voice. 

Four. You shut your eyes, anticipating your release.

Three. Almost there, your lip rolls between your teeth. 

Two–

Your efforts are wasted because Spencer lets go right as you’re on the brink. 

“NofuckWHY?!” You speak so fast that you join your sentence into one word. 

A brash chuckle erupts from him. He releases his wrists from your grip.

“Come on, you didn’t actually think I was going to let you cum.” 

You let out a frustrated huff. 

“Only good girls get to come. Are you a good girl?” He adds, intertwining his hands with yours. 

It seems like an intimate act, but you can see past it. As always, the sneaky bastard has found himself a loophole. The truth is, Spencer doesn’t have more patience, he’s just too good at achieving results. He’s basically admitted defeat and you’ll still be the one to lose. You can only give him a narrowed stare, scouring his eyes with your jaw hanging.

“No?” He prompts when your silence is too long. 

This time, he only gives attention to one of your nubs and his other hand lands on your clit without warning. He doesn’t ease you into his brutal pace, flicking over your bud with his middle finger. The strain against your sensitive nipple, the stimulation on your inflamed bud and his erection still buried inside you. It’s an overwhelming sensation and you’re unsure of what to focus on. The result is a loud, strangled moan you try to muffle in the crook of his neck.

“Fuck! Spencer!” 

It doesn’t take long for the tension in your abdomen to start building again. You try to focus on your breathing and relieve the intensity by pressing your nails into his shoulders. Spencer remains undeterred and you can’t escape the feeling. It’s building fast and it’s going to run through you like a tidal wave. 

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck– oh God– oh fuck–” 

Your stringed obscenities are matched by Spencer's more silent hums and groans. He’s enjoying this, probably more than you are. His begins to twitch inside you at random intervals, he could cum just from this. 

“You’re close. Maybe I should stop. Hmm?” He mumbles his words as close to your ear as he can. 

“Pleaseplease–fucking–please– don’t stop. Don’t stop!” 

“Admit that you’re my good girl.”

“Spenc– mmh–” 

It’s too much but not enough at the same time. The tension inside is brewing too thick, you’re about to snap. 

“You’re not cumming until you say it,” Spencer warns sternly, “say you’re my good girl.” 

The sound of his voice only adds to your desperation. All you give him in return is your lewd mewls. He’s brought you back to the edge, you only need one final push. 

“Still nothing? You must not want it bad enough.” He starts to slow down his pace, indicating that he’s about to stop. 

The threat alone makes you break. 

“No!” You yelp. “Nonono– I’m a good girl– I’m your good girl! Please don’t stop!”

You’re panting frantically. He’s won.

“Yeah? You think so?” 

Yet he’s still going to make you work for it. He quickens his pace again and you don’t even try to keep yourself still anymore, squirming in his lap. 

“Mhm..” It’s a broken beg, your face still hiding in his neck. 

“Look at me.” He hisses gently, struggling against the friction you’ve started to build. 

You lazily lift your head to meet his eyes. He has a victorious smirk on his face. Your eyes struggle to stay open and you flutter your lids.  

“Oh, you look so pretty. All flushed and desperate.” He teases. “Tell me, what are you?”

You need release, now. Your legs try to close around his body. 

“I– ah– shit– I’m–fuck your g–good girl!” Your words exit as more of a moan than a coherent sentence. The coil in your stomach is about to burst any second. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t hear you.” He’s relishing in your struggle. 

You let out a frustrated whine. 

“I’m your good girl!” 

Spencer chuckles at just how agreeable you’ve become because of how badly you want to cum. Your brows furrow and you throw your head back, eyes squeezing shut. Just as you’re about to get your sweet release, Spencer stops. You snap your sights on him, utterly dazed, annoyed and confused. Spencer leans in, getting close enough for his whisper to reach you.

“Prove it.” 

Spoilers: Smut.

AN - When I said edging, I meant it. We’re all getting edged. Anyway first kinktober piece, I can’t promise I’ll deliver all of them in October. I’m just a girl (uni takes priority sorry guys). Also, this is kinda overdue now but thank you for 1K <3

TT has ruined so many things for me. I couldn’t write this without thinking of “asserting dominance” and giggling.

Thank you for reading!

[0o-junebug-o0]

spencer reid in 2.02

[0o-junebug-o0]

north star ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you're up late doing an assignment, and spencer reid has a nightmare. 

pairing: spencer reid x uni student!reader genre: comfort  tags: post prison reid. & his trauma. & his fears. casual nudity (showering together). hurt/angst but its secondhand. which is what we call empathy... yes... reader mentioned being hurt in a nightmare. word count: 2.3k a/n: i got a request recently with a similar sort of premise to this, so while it isn't exact this is indeed for you... north star is one of my all time favourite searows songs. here's to being spencer reid's north star. and also a university student awake at 4am. 

Spencer Reid had not slept in his own bed in three weeks.

The couch in the centre of his apartment had become a constant pile of blankets and pillows, a — probably permanent — indent of his body pressed into the cushions. The coffee table a littering of books he had read through, contact solution, and, when he wasn't reading, his glasses. Always.

You had gotten used to sleeping alone in an apartment somebody else was residing in after the first few days, leaving the bedroom door open so you could hear the sound of pages of a book turning, and faintly see the silhouette of your boyfriend out in the living room. It was comforting enough that it willed you to sleep, though the longing for him to be beside you never dulled.

Tonight was no different. In fact, the only slight change from your usual routine, was the fact that you were the one still awake, and he was fast asleep. Albeit, it was four in the morning, and you most certainly should not be up. 

Your face was illuminated uncomfortably by the blue light of your laptop, a knee beneath your chin as you stared blankly at the half written essay in front of you. You were tired, and all you wanted was to be in bed. Unfortunately, your university had the worst deadlines imaginable, and three o'clock in the afternoon was creeping up on you and this unfinished assignment fast. 

Your head lifted at the sound of blankets rustling, expecting to be met with the sight of a peacefully sleeping Spencer Reid. Instead, he was sat upright, blanket covering his silhouette, though not hiding the heaving of his chest; the rise and fall of his shoulders. 

"Spence?" you called out from his desk that you were currently residing at, still slightly unsure if he was actually awake — he had sleep walked one of the earlier nights. 

He didn't respond. You watched as he hunched over, and you could make out the action of his fingers burying in his hair. 

Assignment be damned, you pushed the wheelie chair back and stood up, hands fidgeting with one another as you headed over to the couch. 

"Spencer?" you said his name again as you hesitantly got closer, not wanting to startle him too much if he was about to start sleep walking. 

His head lifted, and you felt your heart slow in relief when his eyes met yours. Short lived relief, however, for the soft glow of the lamp across the room illuminated him just enough for you to catch the glassiness in his eyes, the sticking of his hair to his forehead from sweat, and the frightened look on his face. 

"Hey," you greeted, quietly, one step after the other carrying you over to him, and you crouched down in front of the couch. 

"Nightmare," he muttered, simply, voice hoarse. 

"Ah," you nodded in recognition, hands flexing by your side with the need to touch him. "You wanna talk about it?"

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but you didn't press any further for a response as he zoned out on the coffee table behind you for a few moments. When his gaze finally landed back on you, he stared blankly at your face, finding the words inside his brain. 

"They hurt you," he managed to choke out successfully, voice heavy with whatever was lodged in his throat. 

You didn't have to ask who they were, your eyes flickering in acknowledgement of what he was telling you. "They can't," you settled on saying. 

"I know," was his response, eyes dropping to his lap, the blanket falling from his shoulders as his posture hunched over even more. "But they did. And I couldn't do anything about it."

You despised being speechless in front of him. The silence layering over the two of you in a dimly lit room, a heavy blanket translating your lack of words for what he was going through. He always knew what to say to you, and yet, Spencer Reid being traumatised from prison was a concept you could never seem to grasp no matter how hard you tried. Not fully, at least. What on Earth is there to say to somebody who was having nightmares like this? What comfort could you provide?

You hesitated, then reached out, clasping one of his hands within your own, bringing it to your face. Every action was cautious on his end, but you managed to splay his fingers across your cheek, palm resting against the skin. Gently, for despite everything that had changed about Spencer in prison, his gentleness for you had not.

"I'm okay," you whispered to him, and it was then that he registered what you were trying to do. 

He carried more weight in his hand, committing the feeling of your warm, active skin to memory. His fingers stretched and found the pulse of your neck, for no reason other than to feel it beat against the tip of them. It was minutes of sitting in this silence, his eyes firmly shut, while yours studied his face. Every parting of his lips, every irregular breath he took in and exhaled, every slight twitch in his eyebrow. Everything. 

When he finally opened his eyes, breathing a little less erratic and gaze a lot less afraid, you spoke. "Shower?" 

Wordlessly he nodded his head, and allowed you to lift him to his feet, trudging after you with short steps, that you waited for patiently. 

It had taken a week for Spencer to shower again upon coming home. And since then, you had needed to be there for every single one. A stark contrast to the man who isolated himself much more now — needing to be able to see you as he showered. He never explained it, but you sort of knew why.

He stripped of his shirt at the same time as you, his torso no longer the palette of purple and yellow it had been weeks ago. Which should be comforting to you. And yet, as his bruises faded, so did his already dampened spark. The excitement of coming home wearing off, as he was forced to face everything he had endured for a quarter of a year. 

And you tried not to hold it against him, or even be upset about it. It is not his fault existing everyday has become an uphill battle, and it certainly isn't his fault he's horrified of seemingly normal things. But you missed him. It. The light of the man you fell in love with.

The two of you stepped into the shower, in silence, once you had rid yourselves of your clothes, and despite the cold air nipping at your bare skin, you let him stand under the water for as long as he needed to. Visibly watching him sink further into his skeleton, shoulders drooping. He reached for you, hesitantly, and you allowed him to decide where to place his hands. Eventually, one looped around your waist and pressed against the small of your back to step closer to him, the outer water droplets from the showerhead spraying uncomfortably onto your face. Your face scrunched, and your head jerked back, and his lips pulled into a frown. 

"Sorry," he mumbled, stepping back, and your heart sank at the frown on his lips. 

"It's okay," you answered, voice soft. "Can I wash your hair?"

"Yes," he confirmed with a nod, ducking his head down when you reached for shampoo. 

Shaking, your fingers worked lathered shampoo through his hair. Your heart sank at the sight of him, for his shoulders were tensing with every stroke of your fingertips against his scalp. 

"You're stuck in your head," you observed, guiding his head back under the water to rinse the soap out of his locks. 

"Mm," was all he replied with.

"How can I get you out of it?" 

"I can't even get myself out of it," he mumbled.

You don't know what to say. Again. There's only so much you can say to him when he's like this, and even then, most of the time he won't listen. Too overwhelmed with the flashing images of you hurt, usually, the screaming guilt in his brain.

"I'm not hurt, Spence," you decided to tell him instead. 

"I know," he responded, voice pleading, though you knew he wasn't pleading with you. "But I can't get the image of you like that out of my mind."

You fell silent. Again. 

"Sorry," he repeated, his apologising incessant. Though, you knew better than to tell him not to apologise anymore.

Instead, while your fingers worked conditioner through the ends of his hair, you brought up another idea. "How about we go to the roof?"

"It's four in the morning," he murmured. 

"Like that's ever stopped you from doing anything ever," you huffed, and his lips twitched.

"It'll be cold," he argued, watching your shoulders deflate with his second denial of the idea. His own heart dropped. "Yeah, okay. We can go to the roof."

"We don't have to," you said, guiding his head back under the water. "Not if you don't want to."

"I just don't want you to get sick," he replied.

"Don't worry about me."

"I do."

You knew that. It was his constant worry for your wellbeing that led you to these moments.

"Come on."

Stepping out of the shower, you handed him the first towel, wrapping one around yourself afterwards. You picked up both toothbrushes and gave him one of them, leaning against the edge of the sink.

Every movement he now completed was calculated. Hesitant. He was almost completely stationary as he brushed his teeth, if not for the slight shake in his arm with each stroke. But he was staring at you, and it was the kindness in his eyes that kept your heart from falling apart in front of him. 

By the time you had reached the roof, he was a little more conversational, even smiling at your attempt at a joke (though, you were pretty sure that wasn't very genuine).

"Come here," you said, holding your arms out in front of you, walking backwards. He caught up to you, clasping your hands within his own, movement akin to a rag doll as you tugged him closer. 

"No," he protested when you placed his hands on your waist, clocking precisely what you were doing with him within seconds. 

"Yes," you argued, encircling your arms around his neck. "Humour me for a bit."

"I thought we were looking at the stars."

"You thought wrong."

Despite himself and his disdainful grumbling, he let you sway your two bodies, a silent dance amongst the distant, quiet hum of car engines. 

"I don't like dancing," he said, after a few long minutes.

"I know."

"So why did you take me up here to dance?"

The sharp sentences had become a staple in Spencer Reid's speech, though usually unintentional, and usually going unnoticed by him. They still hurt.

"Because," you began, forcing your eyes to fixate on his face, and not the scattering of stars and silhouettes of buildings you could see stretched out behind him. "You're thinking about how much you don't like dancing."

"Yes. I am."

You stilled your bodies and stared at him for a few beats, expectantly, until it rolled over in his brain, and he realised what you were doing. You had, successfully, distracted him from the nightmare. 

He didn't say anything more, but his eyes had softened, and you knew from that he was thankful. Silent communication had become your shared best friend with Spencer.

"I don't know how to stop them," he mumbled, head bowing and unkempt curls covered his face, that you were quick to brush back, hands resting on either side of his jawline. "The nightmares."

"I don't know either," you answered, hating the sound of the words coming out of your mouth. You despised not having all the answers for him, like he probably would for you. "Therapy, I guess."

"I've been doing therapy. Everyday. It isn't helping."

"You've been home less than a month."

"But it isn't getting any better."

Your chest ached, meeting his gaze once again as he snapped his head up on his words. Uncomfortable desperation dressed his face, and it was as though he was crumbling right there in front of you — your hands unable to pick up the shattered pieces quick enough. 

You hadn't dealt with a trauma wound this bad, this fresh, ever. You weren't equipped for that. A university assignment, that sat incomplete in a softly lit apartment, for a degree you were yet to claim, proved that. Spencer knew that. He knew you wouldn't have the answers he needed; they were answers even he didn't have. 

"I'm sorry," he said, quietly. "This isn't fair on you."

No, it wasn't. And you don't want to imagine how you would be in his position instead, but you were pretty sure you'd be just as bad, if not worse. 

"Please don't apologise for feeling things," you decided to say instead. "You're allowed to feel things."

"I've been horrible."

"You've been human."

He fell silent at that, and when you were sure he didn't have any other incessant apologies or heartbreaking discoveries to drop on you at — what was now probably — five o'clock in the morning, you offered him your arms. Arms he took, and arms he allowed to wrap him up in an embrace you wanted to die with. 

Silence communicated words you couldn't say to one another. Echoing I love you's ricocheted around in your brain, and you hoped they did in his too. 

I love you. I love you. I love you. 

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[0o-junebug-o0]

13.04

[0o-junebug-o0]

Lesson learned

PART 3 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Unit Chief!Spencer x BAU!Reader Your boss decides to teach you a lesson when you question the motivations behind a certain case.

Content: (18+) 6k, breath play, fingering, a little case description, BDSM discussion, softdom Spence but borderlines to dom because hello this is breath play and reader being judgy judgy but don’t worry he’s here to teach you a lesson or two a/n: The initial plan was to make him a hard dom but breathplay is already overwhelming so I decided to go the educational route. I am, by all means, not as smart as him, so there might be some inaccuracy

You would think that after joining the BAU for two years, you’d start to understand the twisted logic of a criminal’s mind. But you don’t. Not really. You’ve dissected motives, uncovered patterns, and profiled suspects more times than you can count, and yet this case makes no sense. 

Your eyes go over the photographs pinned to the board again. And again. And again. It’s become almost a ritual now, like maybe if you look at it just one more time, the pieces might finally fall into place. But all you find staring back at you are three victims with the same marks on their necks. There was clearly a sign of struggle, but not one of fear. Not one that fits any pattern you know.

“I don’t get it,” you say. “The profile suggests the victims knew their attacker, but this doesn’t look like anything close to rage. Or brutality.”

Spencer shifts beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he leans closer to the board. “It might not have been an act of violence,” he observes thoughtfully. “Not in the traditional sense, anyway.”

You furrow your brow. “If it wasn’t violent, then what was it?”

“The bruising pattern is too symmetrical, and there’s no sign of panic or defensive wounds on their hands. I think there’s a chance the victims might have willingly participated.”

“Willingly?” Your eyes snap at him. “What do you mean, ‘willingly participated’? No one willingly gets strangled.”

He meets your eyes for a second before looking back at the board. “I know it sounds unlikely,” he admits, “but not impossible. See how the bruises are evenly spaced? They wrap around in perfect circles. The pressure is distributed just enough to leave a mark but not to crush the windpipe.“

“Spencer, that’s exactly what happened. The windpipe was crushed.”

“Yes, but not immediately. That’s the point.” He turns towards you again. “The intention wasn’t to kill them outright. The unsub wanted to bring them to the point of unconsciousness but not over it. At least, not at first. He was counting on their trust before pushing it too far.”

You let out a huff. “That’s insane.”

“It might seem that way to you, but it’s not unheard of. Sexual asphyxiation is a consensual act for some people. The lack of oxygen when someone’s airflow is restricted can trigger a euphoric sensation which intensifies pleasure."

You stare at him like he’s just spoken a different language. “So, you're saying they get off on... not breathing?”

“More like they find excitement in giving up that control."

You cross your arms and study him, tilting your head with a skeptical frown. “How do you even know this?”

The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile. “I read,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You have a book on sexual asphyxiation?”

“It’s more comprehensive than that. The book covers a wide range of kinks, fetishes, and other forms of sexual exploration which are considered extreme by societal standards.”

"You’re telling me you read up on BDSM practices in your spare time?”

"I think of it as research,” he replies. “It’s part of understanding human behavior. You can’t afford to be ignorant about the complexities of people's desires."

"Huh." Your eyes travel back to the images again. "You know, I still don't understand. I mean, willingly letting someone cut off your breath? That’s not just trust that’s… I don’t know, crazy?”

His eyes narrow towards you as if he's carefully considering how much to say.

“It's not crazy,” he insists carefully. “For people who engage in it, it’s not only about losing control. It’s about reaching a heightened state of awareness, finding excitement in walking that line.”

"But what if that line gets crossed? What then? How could anyone think that sounds… fun?”

“Well, have you ever tried it?”

“Of course not!” you reply quickly, almost laughing at the absurdity. “Why would I?”

“Then you wouldn’t know,” he counters, his tone calm but pointed, like he’s presenting a fact rather than an opinion. “You can’t really understand the mindset until you’ve experienced it. It’s not something you can fully grasp from the outside.”

"I don’t think I could ever trust someone enough to do that to me."

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person to trust.”

You scoff. “What? Are you offering?”

You laugh at your own joke, and you expected him to do the same. Or perhaps a quick “Of course not”, even some rambling about how he didn’t mean it that way. But when all you’re met with is silence, your laughter dies down, and your eyes dart back to him.

Spencer’s not looking at you, his eyes are fixed on the photographs pinned to the board. He’s studying the bruises, the faces, the details like he always does, but there’s a stillness in his expression, a tension in the set of his jaw that makes you think he’s considering something else entirely. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s really thinking about the victims or the case at all.

Maybe you shouldn’t joke about things like that. He is your boss, after all, and even though there isn’t exactly a strict superior-subordinate dynamic between the two of you—he’s always been more of a peer than an authority figure—you wonder if maybe this time you crossed a line.

Spencer’s eyes remain on the photos for a long, agonizing second, and you think maybe he’s not going to respond at all. But then, slowly, he turns his head and looks at you, and the room suddenly feels impossibly small.

“If I were to offer,” he says quietly, “Would you take it?”

His words knock the breath from your lungs, and all you can do is stare back at him. You don’t know what to make of the question. Was it a dare? A test? Or perhaps something more?

There’s a part of you that wants to laugh it off. The conversation was absurd to begin with, so brushing it away like it’s nothing would feel like the safest option. The easy way out. But there’s another part—one you don’t want to acknowledge—that can’t help but wonder what it would mean to say yes.

What if you did? you ponder.

What would it feel like to trust someone like that?

What would it feel like to trust him?

But before you can reply, the door to the meeting room creaks open, the noise echoing through the dimly lit space of the police precinct. A uniformed officer pokes his head inside.

“Dr. Reid, we found a new lead on the vehicle.”

Spencer’s eyes stay locked on yours for just a beat longer as your heart hammers in your chest. Then, without a word, he nods to the officer, and any trace of whatever passed between you dissolves like it never happened at all.

The next few days turn into a blur. The lead on the unsub’s vehicle takes you across town, a chase that ends with the suspect cornered in an abandoned old house. It’s almost anticlimactic how quickly it all happens—sirens blaring, doors kicked in, and in less than an hour, the unsub is in handcuffs. The case is finally closed, and it’s the kind of victory that usually brings a sigh of relief.

But today, you can’t find that peace.

Back at the precinct, the rest of the team has already moved on to debriefing. You’re left cleaning up the mess of photographs and notes scattered across the table. But your movements are slow, distracted, your fingers fumbling over the papers. There’s a prickling awareness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you know exactly why.

It’s because Spencer is watching you. You don’t even need to look to feel the weight of his gaze. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, hands tucked in his pockets, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes track your movements.

You pause, photos in hand, and finally address him. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushes off the wall and starts walking toward you. He stops just short of arm’s length.

“Have you thought about what we discussed the other day?”

You feel a rush of embarrassment, and the awkwardness of the moment makes you shift uncomfortably. Clearing your throat, you turn your attention back to the table, hastily grabbing a stack of photographs and shuffling them into a folder.

“We didn’t discuss anything,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze. “It was just a joke.”

“Was it? You don’t joke about things like that unless you’ve thought about them at least a little.”

You let out a dry laugh, keeping your eyes firmly on the table. “I wasn’t being serious. We were in the middle of a case, and we were all exhausted. I just said whatever came to mind.”

Spencer tilts his head, the way he does when he’s analyzing something, his eyes flickering over your face as though he’s cataloging every twitch of your expression.

“Maybe,” he concedes, and takes another step forward. “But the offer wasn’t a joke, and you didn’t say no.”

Your fingers freeze over the photographs, the papers crinkling under your touch.

“I didn’t say yes either.”

You mentally wince at how weak that sounds, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself. You slowly look up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but all you find are those intense brown eyes staring back at you.

It unnerves you how calm he is, how easily he’s holding this conversation when your mind is spinning in a million directions.

“You do realize what you’re offering?” you start to press, feeling the need to put it out in the open. “What this means?”

Spencer doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact for a second. “I do.”

“Do you? Because it seems to me like you might be taking this too lightly."

“I’m not taking it lightly. I’m acknowledging that there’s more to it than what you’re seeing on the surface.”

“And what makes you think I want to see beyond the surface?”

He leans in closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, but not enough to cross any boundaries. “I’m offering a perspective, not forcing you to accept it. Understanding doesn’t always come from reading about something. It comes from experience.”

You can’t quite decide if his words make sense or if they’re completely absurd. It’s like he’s challenging your logic, your assumptions, but at the same time, there’s a strange clarity to what he’s saying.

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

Because he’s your boss? Because someone in his position always tries to make sense of everything for everyone else?

“Because shaming people for their interests, for something they might find pleasure in… it isn’t fair, and it isn’t right.”

Now that was something you didn’t expect him to say.

“I wasn’t shaming,” you protest quickly, the words coming out defensive even to your own ears. “I was just…”

“Curious,” he finishes for you. “And curiosity isn’t a flaw. Neither is wanting to understand, and if you’re willing to explore that curiosity, then I’d rather you experience it in a way that’s safe. That you know is controlled.”

“So what?” you snap back. “You want to prove me wrong? Show me I’ve been looking at this the wrong way?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not playful. It’s gentle, almost thoughtful, as if he’s carefully weighing each word. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t want to prove you wrong. I want to teach you.”

You blink at him. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first, the words tangled somewhere between shock and disbelief. It takes a few seconds until you manage to find your voice.

“You… want to teach me?”

“A lesson, if you will,” he explains, and the way he says it—so calm, so certain—makes your heart stutter. “Not to prove you wrong, but to help you understand. You have your perceptions about… control and trust. I think the only way to really understand is to experience it yourself.”

You don’t know what to say, what to do, and all that comes out is a shaky, barely-there laugh.

��A lesson,” you repeat, trying to make sense of the concept.

He nods, and there’s no pressure in his voice, just an offer. Simple and clear. “But only if it’s what you want.”

You aren’t sure what to feel, much less what to say, and the uncertainty must show on your face. Sensing your hesitation, Spencer takes a step back, giving you space.

“It’s a lot to consider, and I’m not expecting an answer now. But the offer still stands… whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, he gives you one last smile and turns away, leaving you alone with your conflicted thoughts.

You’re pacing in your hotel room, your footsteps muffled by the worn carpet as you make the same path back and forth over and over again. Every time you try to sit down, your leg bounces with restless energy, so you’re back up again, moving without purpose but unable to stop.

You tell yourself it’s just stress. The case, the pressure, the weirdness of being in a small-town motel with creaky walls and awful lighting. But you know better. You know exactly what’s got your mind spinning and your stomach doing flips.

Spencer. And his damn offer.

You scoff to yourself, trying to laugh it off like you always do, but the joke doesn’t land when it’s just you, alone with your thoughts. And, really, what’s the harm in admitting the truth—to yourself, at least? That maybe the whole concept doesn’t seem as insane as it did a few days ago. That maybe you’ve found yourself wondering what it would feel like to trust someone that much.

You stop pacing, staring at your reflection in the mirror across the room. There it is, that nagging curiosity, that flicker of intrigue that Spencer saw before you even knew it was there. You let out a sigh, the weight of the realization hitting you.

God help you, but you’re actually curious.

And that might just be the scariest part of all.

You slip into your shoes and take a deep breath before stepping into the hallway. The motel’s quiet, most of the rooms dark as you walk past, and for a moment you hesitate, wondering if this is a mistake. The team’s staying one more night here, the last bit of downtime before flying back tomorrow. A chance to decompress, to shake off the adrenaline of the case. Yet here you are, anything but relaxed, heading out because you can’t stand one more second of pacing back and forth.

Your footsteps come to a stop outside Spencer’s room, and you stare at the numbers on the plaque for a moment. You could turn around right now. You could pretend you didn’t walk all the way down the corridor with his words echoing in your head. But as much as you try to convince yourself that walking away is the logical choice, your hand moves on its own, and you knock.

Spencer doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door. Without waiting for an invitation, you push past him, barging into the room before you change your mind.

“If we’re going to do this, I have some ground rules,” you blurt out, the words rushing out all at once. “I don’t know what you think this is going to be like, but I need control over some things. Non-negotiable.”

He closes the door with a soft click. “Of course,” he responds calmly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“First,” you say, spinning around to face him. “I’m in control of when this starts and when it stops. If I say no, then we stop. Immediately. No questions, no convincing, none of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Second, I need to know exactly what we’re doing. No surprises. You explain everything to me before we do anything.”

He quickly nods.

“And third… this doesn’t leave this room. We don’t talk about it to anyone else. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever.”

He takes a step forward towards you. “This stays between us.”

You let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline settling into a nervous, thrumming pulse beneath your skin. “Okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, trying to process the reality of what you’ve just laid out. “Those are my rules.”

Spencer takes another step forward, close enough now that you can smell the faintest trace of him. A mix of something clean and warm, like soap and worn cotton, an understated scent that’s distinctly him.

“Then those are the rules we follow,” he reassures you. “Your terms. Your pace.”

“Thank you.”

He nods his head again. “Is there anything else you want to discuss?”

There is, actually. There’s a question that’s been hovering in the back of your mind. It feels awkward to say out loud, but the uncertainty gnaws at you, and finally, you force the words out.

“Are we… are we going to have sex?”

He holds your gaze. “Do you want to have sex?”

You go quiet again, letting the silence settle around you as you think about what you want, what you came here for. You slowly shake your head. “No,” you reply. “No, I don’t.”

“Then we won’t. There’s more to explore in this than just sex.”

“Right, that’s—good.” You clear your throat. “I have… one more question.”

He gestures for you to continue.

“You’re not going to fire me for this, are you?”

His soft chuckle fills your ear, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him genuinely smile tonight. “No,” he confirms, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m not going to fire you. Whatever happens between us won’t affect your work, I promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling a little of the weight lift off your shoulders.

“Okay, so… now what?”

“Now,” he says gently, “We take it slow.“

He guides you toward the edge of the bed, and you find yourself moving automatically, sitting down on the mattress. The bed creaks slightly as he settles beside you.

“If we’re going to do this,” he starts, turning slightly to face you. “I want you to be comfortable. And that means talking. You can start by telling me what you’re thinking. ”

“That’s… it? We’re just going to talk?”

Spencer’s mouth lifts into a soft smile. “Yes,” he confirms, “If that’s what you want. There’s no pressure to do anything else.”

The idea of just talking feels safe, but there’s also a flicker of curiosity that you can’t quite shake. You shift on the bed.

“What if I want to do something more?”

Spencer’s eyes search yours, and he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t do anything that could make the moment feel rushed. “If you want to, then we can. Something simple to start.”

Your fingers trace the fabric of the bedspread. “Like what?”

“Something small. It could be as simple as letting me guide your breathing. A way to practice trust without anything overwhelming.”

You swallow, the idea feeling both intimidating and oddly… reassuring. There’s comfort in the way he talks about it, the lack of pressure, and the way he makes it feel like there’s nothing to fear.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Let’s try that.”

He moves a little closer to you. “We’ll take it slow,” he promises. “Try to focus on your breathing and follow my lead.”

You close your eyes, feeling your breath shallow and quick, your heart racing as you try to find a steady rhythm.

“Take a deep breath,” he instructs softly. You inhale deeply, feeling the air fill your lungs, and when you open your eyes for a moment, you find his face inches from yours.

“Good. Now let it out… slowly.”

You follow his lead, exhaling, and you can’t help but notice he’s mirroring your breathing—his chest rising and falling in time with yours. It’s oddly comforting, and a little unnerving, like he's syncing with the rhythm of your pulse.

“Again,” he guides. “Deep breath in… hold for a count of three… then let it go.”

You do as he says, feeling your nerves steady slightly with each breath. In, hold, out.

“You’re doing really well,” he murmurs, leaning just a fraction closer. His lips are so close that you can feel his breath brushing your skin. “I’m going to ask you something, but I need you to know you can say no. At any point.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Can I touch you?” he asks gently, his words so soft they almost melt into the air around you. “Just on your shoulder, or your hand. I want to see how you feel about being touched while you focus on your breathing.”

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, but you manage another nod. His hand moves carefully to rest on your shoulder, but even with the light pressure, you feel your body stiffen. Spencer notices immediately.

“You’re tense,” he observes, his thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder.

You let out a small laugh, one that comes out more like a nervous exhale than anything close to amusement. “It’s kind of hard not to be,” you admit. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“That’s okay. It’s completely normal to feel nervous.” He pauses for a second before continuing, his tone thoughtful, like he’s considering what might actually help. "There are a few things that can help when you’re feeling this way. One of them is focusing on your breathing, which we’re already doing. But there’s also physical touch."

"Physical touch?”

"Kissing, for example," he explains, “can actually help regulate your nervous system. It releases oxytocin, lowers cortisol levels. Basically, it signals your body to relax."

Your eyes fall on his lips. "Really?"

A flicker of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, but it’s only helpful if it’s something you feel comfortable with.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Would you like to try?”

You meet his gaze again and, before you can overthink it, find yourself nodding, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat. “Yeah… okay. We can try.”

Before you even finish the sentence, Spencer leans in, his lips brushing yours with the kind of gentleness that catches you off guard. It's soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, and you can feel the slight hesitation in his movements as if he’s making sure you’re comfortable. It’s sweet, almost too sweet, and for a second, you wonder if this is how he kisses—gentle, thoughtful, deliberate.

But as the kiss deepens, you feel the warmth of him pulling you in. Your heart’s doing this erratic thing where it skips every other beat, and your mind’s racing to catch up with what your body’s already starting to enjoy. And sure, maybe the science behind this kiss makes sense after all, because there’s a part of you that’s actually relaxing, even with the buzz of nerves still humming beneath the surface.

Then he pulls back, just enough for your lips to barely part, his breath warm against your skin. “How are you feeling?”

It takes three heartbeats to find your voice. “Uh... yeah, good,” you manage, a little breathless, a little more flustered than you’d like to admit.

“Do you want to keep going?”

You pause, thinking it over, and despite the swarm of nerves in your chest, curiosity wins out again. You nod, maybe a little too quickly. The moment you do, Spencer leans in again, and this time his kiss is deeper, more intent. The softness is still there, but there’s a quiet intensity in the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand lightly cups the back of your neck.

Then his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, and a ripple of goosebumps spreads across your skin. You part your lips for him, and the sensation of his tongue slipping past m has you gripping the fabric of his shirt a little tighter.

Just when you think you’re getting used to it, his hand shifts, sliding up to wrap gently around the front of your neck. Not tight, not restricting—just enough to make you aware of it. The warmth of his palm against your throat sends a jolt of something sharp right through you. He seems to notice instantly, and without pulling his hand away, he breaks the kiss.

“Are you okay?” His thumb gently strokes the side of your neck. “I don’t want to push you, if it’s too much—”

But before he can finish, you shake your head quickly, surprising even yourself with how fast the words leave your mouth. “No, I… trust you.”

His eyes soften at your words, and his grip on your neck stays gentle, almost protective. “Would it be okay if I touched you more?”

Your pulse beats rapidly beneath his fingers, a rhythm you’re sure he can feel, as if your heart is answering for you. “…yes.”

“Do you want to lie down? Would that be more comfortable?”

You feel the heat travel along your veins. “I think… that would be good.”

Spencer nods as he helps you shift back onto the pillow. He stays close but doesn’t crowd you, his hand returning to rest lightly on your neck, that same soft pressure that keeps your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

“Remember, focus on your breathing,” he reminds you. “The way your body responds is tied to how much you let yourself feel. Trust that.”

His other hand begins to move. His hand trails up toward your shoulder, then lightly brushes over your breast. It’s barely a touch at first, like he’s testing the boundaries, waiting for your body to tell him how far to go. Your breath catches for a second, but when you don’t tense up, he takes that as a sign to continue.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” you manage to whisper, your voice a little breathless than you expected. And, God, you mean it. It’s more than okay—it’s… unexpectedly good in a way that feels almost too intimate to think about.

His hand moves lower now, tracing a path down your side, before sliding gently across your leg. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you feel his fingers brush against the inside of your thigh.

“How about this?”

You nod, biting your lip as you meet his gaze.

Spencer’s lips curls into the faintest smile. His hand inches higher, moving up your thigh with excruciating slowness until his fingers finally reach the heat between your legs.

Oh. Oh.

Your hips instinctively tilt toward him, your body responding before your mind can even catch up. The heat pooling low in your belly intensifies as his fingers press lightly against you.

“Still with me?”

You nod, but internally, your mind is spinning. He begins to move in slow, circular motions, his fingers dragging against the fabric in a way that makes you bite back a moan. The friction sends jolts of pleasure through you, and you can feel your arousal sticking uncomfortably to your panties. It doesn’t shock you—you know understand how being touched like this will make you wet—but what surprises you is how much more intense it feels when his grip around your neck tightens.

Your breath hitches, and before you can stop yourself, a moan escapes your lips.

He pauses for a moment, his grip relaxing just enough for you to catch your breath. “I want you to feel the difference,” he explains. “The pressure changes everything. It makes you more aware of every sensation, more focused on how your body responds. But if it’s too much, you tell me, okay?”

You nod, your breath still coming in uneven gasps. “I’m good.”

His thumb traces the outline of your jaw. “Do you want me to continue?”

“…yeah.”

His hand travels towards your hips, fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. “Should we get rid of these?”

You don’t have to think about it for long. The answer is already there.

“You can take them off.”

Spencer’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants before tugging it down. But as the fabric pools around your ankles, you hesitate for a second before your hand instinctively reaches for your shirt. You fumble with the hem, glancing at him as you pull it halfway up, your breath coming out in a small, awkward laugh.

“I mean, it’d feel weird to be naked from the waist down and still… you know, fully dressed on top.”

His eyes linger on you, and his reaction is subtly amusing. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Without thinking too much about it, you tug the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. Your bra follows, quickly joined by your panties, and before you know it, you’re lying naked on your boss’s bed.

Or, technically, the bed he’s been sleeping on these past couple of days.

Spencer’s eyes move over you slowly, lingering on the curve of your perky breasts, your smooth skin, and the unmistakable wetness between your thighs. His gaze is careful, appreciative but never lingering too long in one place, like he’s taking you in while still giving you space to breathe.

“You’re so pretty.”

Pretty? The word feels almost quaint given the situation, but the way he says it makes it feel like it’s more than that. Like he’s seeing all of you, the parts you don’t often reveal, and he still thinks you’re beautiful.

And somehow, that simple compliment leaves you more exposed than the fact that you’re lying naked in front of him.

“I can’t believe we're doing this,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His hand brushes along your arm. “You don’t have to overthink it. You’re in control here. We can stop whenever you want.”

“I know.”

He tilts your head with his hand. “Is this okay so far?”

You offer him a smile. “It’s okay.”

His other hand lands on your knee. “Can you spread your legs for me?”

You feel the nerves buzzing beneath your skin, but there’s also a warmth, a curiosity, a pull toward him. You inhale deeply, letting the breath steady your nerves, and then, without letting your mind spiral any further, you slowly part your legs.

His palm glides along your inner thigh, and then he touches you again, only this time, there’s no barrier between you. You can feel the rough pad of his fingertips as they gently caress your folds that it pulls a sharp breath from your lips.

“Does this feel good?”

You nod. It’s more than just good—it’s everything. The way he’s paying attention to every inch of your body is overwhelming in the best way. His fingers trace a slow path along your skin, finally pausing as they brush against you between your folds. Without hesitation, Spencer slides a finger inside you. The sudden stretch pulls a gasp from your lips.

The slick wetness between your thighs coats his fingers almost instantly, and you feel yourself responding to him, opening up in ways you didn’t even know you could. He studies the way his finger moves in and out of your cunt, and the more he touches you, the more your hips begin to move on their own.

He takes your response as a sign to continue.

"I'm going to wrap my hand around your neck again," he tells you, without waiting for more than a slight nod of your head, his fingers curl around your throat.

"The pressure here," he begins, his thumb lightly pressing at the side of your neck. "Isn't just about cutting off your air, it also means restricting blood flow to your brain.”

He pushes another finger inside you, and the increased fullness draws a sharp intake of breath from you.

“By limiting the blood flow like this,” he continues, applying a bit more pressure around your throat. "It triggers your body to release adrenaline and dopamine. That rush you’re feeling? It’s your body chasing euphoria."

Euphoria. You never really thought about it like this before, how something so controlled could unlock a part of your body that felt so overwhelming. The feeling isn’t just pleasure, it’s a raw intensity that borders on something deeper as your cunt clenches around him. Your breath stutters, caught in a sharp contrast between the slow burn in your throat and the urgent heat flaring between your legs.

He’s unraveling you, pulling you apart thread by thread, yet leaving you desperate for the moment he puts you back together again.

You need more.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs soothingly. The words send a new wave of heat rushing through your body. Your hips move restlessly, and you can hear the soft whine escaping your throat, growing louder with each thrust.

Spencer notices immediately, his fingers slowing just for a moment. “Too much?”

You quickly shake your head, almost frantic, the last thing you want is for him to stop. The moment you do, his grip on your throat tightens slightly and your eyes flutter closed as a wave of euphoria washes over you. Head falling back against the pillows, your vision starts to blur. You feel the air restrict in your throat.

“I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart.” His thumb strokes lightly against your neck. “The more you control your breathing, the better it’ll feel.”

That word alone almost undoes you. It rolls off his tongue like it’s meant to be soft and soothing, but instead, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight through you. Your chest rises and falls as you do exactly what he says, because apparently, being called sweetheart with his fingers wrapped around your neck makes you want to obey him, more than you’d care to admit.

"That’s it, keep focusing on your breathing."

You force your eyes open, but everything feels hazy, unfocused. You’re not sure if it's from the lack of air or the way he’s looking at you, but you can feel yourself losing control. Your eyes flutter half-closed again, lips parting in a breathless moan, and before you realize it, your tongue slips out, barely grazing your lower lip.

Spencer knows you’re close. His thumb presses just a little harder against your throat, not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough for your inner walls to grip his fingers tightly.

“I know, I know, I've got you,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just let go whenever you’re ready."

You can’t decide if the sound of his voice is making it easier or harder to hold on. There’s a brief moment where you think you might hold it together, but then your body betrays you. Your muscles tense, your breath catches in your throat, and all the control you had slips away in an instant. It’s as if your brain is giving in to exactly what he said it would—a surge of chemicals that makes your limbs feel heavy and light all at once.

Your orgasm slams right into you, the most intense thing you’ve ever felt. It floods your senses so completely that your lungs struggle to catch up. The tremors rack your body, and it’s only when your legs give a final, uncontrollable shake that he finally releases your neck, allowing the air to rush back into your lungs in a dizzying, breathless moment of relief.

Before you can fully recover, his lips are on yours in an instant. He moves against your neck, kissing the very spot where his hand had held you. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

When you manage to catch your breath and blink through the lingering haze, he lies down on the bed and pulls you into his arms. It takes a whole minute before your breathing fully steadies, his hand stroking your hair the entire time.

“How are you feeling?”

You don’t know what to make of it all, so you laugh breathlessly instead, the only response you can muster.

“Like I’m about to pass out.”

“What?” He looks at you in alarm. “You are?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just… it was really intense.” But the worry doesn’t completely leave his face, so you try again, placing your hand on his chest. “Good intense. I’m okay, I promise.”

He lets out a slow breath and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “So I take it you liked it?”

A flush of embarrassment washes over you, and you can’t quite meet his eyes as you nod. “Yeah… I did,” you admit, your voice soft, almost sheepish. “Go ahead, you can gloat. Tell me I was wrong.”

Instead of taking the bait, he gently traces his fingers along your neck. “It was never about proving you wrong. The judgment you made that day, about not getting why someone would like this… it’s hard to fully grasp until you feel it yourself.”

“I wasn’t judging,” you murmur, feeling a need to defend yourself.

“Maybe not intentionally,” he says thoughtfully. “When it comes to BDSM, there’s a lot of misunderstanding or assumptions people make from the outside, it’s really more than just control or pain. There’s trust, communication, boundaries. And I think, in a way, that’s what happened tonight. You trusted me enough to let go.”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing what he’s saying. “Are you suggesting I could be into all of this?”

“Not necessarily,” he replies carefully. “But I think it’s possible that there’s more to it than you realize. You trusted me tonight, and that’s the most important part. That’s where it all starts.”

You chew on his words for a second. It’s not something you’d ever considered before, but now that he’s brought it up, you can’t deny that the thought has sparked something.

“So you think I might want to explore this further?”

His lips curl into a soft smile. “It’s not about what I think. It’s about what you want. If you’re curious, then we can explore it together.” He leans in slightly. “Is that you want?”

The spark you felt moments ago? It flickers stronger now. The idea is both thrilling and terrifying, but with him, it feels… possible. Safe, even.

You feel a tightness in your chest.

“I think… maybe, yeah.”

His smile deepens just a fraction. “We’ll take our time,” he reassures you, his thumb brushing lightly over your throat. “We can talk about this when we get back. You need to rest for now.”

You shift closer to him, feeling the rustle of his clothes against your bare skin. “Can I stay here tonight?”

His chin lands on top of your head. “You can stay with me as long as you want.”

What a dangerous offer, you think as you sink further into his arms. But not as dangerous as the way your heart flutters at the thought.

[0o-junebug-o0]

oh to be paper

[0o-junebug-o0]

Criminal Minds | S05E21

[0o-junebug-o0]

goddess, soft

Pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x fem!reader

Warnings: more angsty that i planned to, happy ending, 18+ Minors DNI, protected AND unprotected p in v sex, canon typical violence, insecure and jealous!spencer, switch!spencer, switch!reader (barely), um lmk if i missed anything!

Summary: something something religion, something something goddess for the man of science.

also, i tried my best, anon! hopefully you like it but my brain is not braining lately. based on this request from this prompt list, a part of the CM FWB Challenge by @imagining-in-the-margins: A is blindsided by jealousy when someone shows an interest in B + A completely defies B’s expectations of what they’re like in bed.

My masterlist

Spencer Reid is not a religious man, as he said, he is a man of science. There isn’t any quantifiable scientific concept of blessings, there are only a cocktail of brain chemicals—endorphins, dopamine, serotonins—released during certain activities, including this one, where his cock is buried deep inside your pussy, his mouth on the side of your head, whispering filthy things to your ear.

“You feel so fucking good, baby,” he says. “S’good for me, really made for me.”

“Spence—” you gasp. “M’really close!”

“That’s it, baby, need to feel that pussy squeeze me, c’mon, give it to me, come on my cock,” Spencer encourages. “Be a good girl and come for me.”

And, like clockwork, he feels your walls tightened around him. You moan in his ear, and the sound triggers his own release. His hips stutter, lodging his cock deep inside you, relishing in the way your nails drag over his skin, the sounds you make going straight to his chest, your leg caging him still on top of you. 

It’s hard to stay true to his beliefs when you exist, when you can make him feel this exhilirated just by letting him fuck you from time to time.

He rolls off of you, letting himself breathe before taking off the condom and tying it off. He knows then that he should leave, like usual, to keep the line between friends with benefits to actual lovers. 

You beat him to it.

“This has to be the last time,” you say, rolling over to your side to look at him. Spencer raises an eyebrow, challenging you. “I’m serious!”

“Sure,” he muses, thinking back to all the times you have said the same thing, just to let him back in again. 

You sigh, sitting up now. Spencer watches your bare skin, barely covered with your white sheets, glows in the moonlight. “I’m communicating now. I like you, Spencer, and I’m starting to approach love territory here.”

A part of his heart flutters at the confession. A part of him wants to come and kiss you and tell you he feels the same. But a bigger part of him, a bigger part of him that wins every time the same battle starts, tells you that he’s not looking for that. That he can’t commit because he knows he’ll end up disappointing you anyway. That with all the damages he’s got, he can’t give you what you want. 

A part of him wants to drop to his knees and devote his entire life to you, but he knows you’re better off without him.

“I—” he starts, then takes a deep breath. “You know what this is when we first started.”

It was a custodial interview in the Atwater federal prison, something-something similar MO, something-something the guy knew whoever the unsub was back in the day. Spencer was actually on his mandatory 30 days break, answering a seminar request from his old stomping grounds in CalTech when Emily called and told him to babysit the rookie for the interview. 

Calling you a rookie was petty, really, since you had been in the BAU for a year by that time. Luke calls you rookie because Penelope wouldn’t stop calling him newbie.

The air conditioner in your room was busted and you showed up in short-shorts and almost-see-through tanks in his room in the middle of the night. 

The rest was history. Well, as historical as five-months-ago can be. 

“I do,” you roll your eyes. Spencer scolds himself for finding it hot and adorable at the same time. “That’s why I need this to stop. I want more than what you’re willing to give me and it won’t do us any good if we keep going.”

Spencer tells himself it’s the sex he misses—the benefits that he doesn’t have access to anymore a month after that conversation. He’s constantly on edge, having his stress relief taken away from him, and yet he still has to interact with you every single day at work, especially since his period of mandatory breaks had come to an end. 

You, on the other hand, fall back into the rhythm of just being his friend seamlessly. You make a cup of whatever herbal tea you’re having every time on the jet back to DC, you bring back his clothes that have found their way to your wardrobe.

It's like you're trying to erase every part of the non-platonic parts of your friendship and he doesn't know how to deal with that.

You're a profiler. You have certifications in trauma counseling, psychological first aid, and a bunch of other stuff that Tara also went to school for. You should be more emotionally mature than this.

You try. You try so hard to push the heartbreak aside, but you know it's for the better. The routine helps, at least a little. The routine being you still doing the stuff that you do when you and Spencer were just friends without the sex. It gives you a sense of normalcy while allowing yourself to show your love for him in small drips.

A part of you selfishly still wishes that he'd at least try. That you'd finally be the girl that he tries to have a normal committed relationship with. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you can still feel him next to you, especially if you're wearing one of his sweaters that you have neglected to return.

“Stare any harder and you'll shoot lasers from your eyes,” Emily teases, nudging Spencer's elbow. 

Spencer thinks California has it out for him. From Lila and now you, he seems to never agree with the state.

It's another case of Halloween weekend murders, a fairly popular time for serial killers to get the highest possible emotional gratification from killing their victims. You had walked into the precinct with a little devil's horns headband on your head, earning an disapproving yet amused look from Emily.

As if Spencer needs another reason to love you.

Someone else thinks the same way he does, though, namely Officer Baby Face who's been chatting you up this whole time.

He has his arms resting on his hips, a smile so bright that it might just be veneers, classic Los Angeles boy with dirty blond hair and ego as big as their earthquake magnitudes.

“I'm not staring,” Spencer denies, darting his eyes back to the map in front of him.

Emily snorts. “Please. You're lucky I didn't report you both to Internal Affairs when you hooked up in the file room that one time.”

Spencer closes his eyes, rubbing them with his fingers. “You knew about that?”

“I'm Unit Chief for a reason,” she smirks, then straightens up again. “Look, I know something happened, and I won't ask if you don't want me to, but I hope you both figure it out. I hate seeing you both all mopey.”

“I'm not mopey!”

“Whatever you say, Reid.”

A survivor, not unheard of but highly unlikely in their cases. A woman, now in her twenties, was only sixteen when she was attacked. After Emily's timely press conference, she came forward with only one stipulation: the BAU will interview her in her home.

Emily, though promising to back off, still has some tricks up her sleeves. She sends you and Spencer to do the interview.

“Hey,” you pipe from the passenger seat. “How much do you remember from when you went to Caltech?”

Spencer only glances at you, eyes only moving from the road for half a second, but it's enough for you to see his raised eyebrow.

“Right, stupid question. Eidetic memory, duh,” you chuckle nervously. “And when you went it was probably so different, anyway than now. I bet there was still a sizable amount of Indigenous population in the area.”

You cringe at yourself, feeling the painful delivery of your painful attempt at a joke right through your chest. You open your mouth to apologize, but Spencer beats you to it.

“You're not much younger than I am,” he reminds you. “What's this about?”

“I've always wanted to go visit The Huntington,” you confess, fingers fidgeting on your lap. “And Officer Brady offered to be my tour guide. I'm thinking of asking Emily if I can stay an extra day.”

To your surprise, Spencer scoffs. “I know Emily is generous but that's taking it too far, don't you think?”

You whip your head to look at his scowling face, not expecting that he'd actually be hostile towards the idea. It's the first time that you hear Spencer talk that way to you. Maybe towards local law enforcement when they were being reckless, or to trainees who didn't understand the concept of personal boundaries, but not you. 

It shocks you so much that you can only close your open mouth, swallowing down whatever reply you have. He’s starting to get on your fucking nerves.

When you get to the house, it's eerily silent. The sun has begun to set, casting a golden orange glow everywhere. Spencer's hair shines under the sunlight, and you'd bet his eyes would too if it wasn't for the sunglasses on his face.

You shake yourself out of your reveerie, taking the first steps to the driveway.

“Wait,” Spencer says, but you ignore him. “Wait!”

You stop when Spencer's fingers curl around your arm. 

“What? You doubted my integrity and now you're doubting my ability, too?”

“No,” Spencer sighs. “It's too quiet. I—I have a bad feeling about this.”

You hold your breath and listen, and as much as you hate it, he's right. The light on the porch is busted, the bushes out front are dying. There's no light or movement coming from inside the house.

Then, there's a crash.

Spencer and you exchange a look, before he pulls out his phone and calls Emily.

“I need back up here,” Spencer says to his phone, then turns to you, who already has your gun drawn. “We'll wait for backup.”

You start to nod, but you're cut off with a scream and sounds of a struggle.

“Spencer, we have to go in,” you say urgently.

“But—” his protests are cut off by another scream. “Emily, we're going in,” he pockets his phone again, before commanding, “You go up front, I'll take the back.”

You follow his order diligently, trusting him. Sure enough, the front door is unlocked, and you're greeted by darkness when you walk in. 

You find them in the kitchen. 

Shined only with your flashlight, there's a woman in her twenties, dark hair falling around her face, hands gripping the knife embedded on a man's thigh. 

“FBI, drop your weapon!” You announce. Soon enough, Spencer joins you, gun pointed at the other two people in the room.

“No!” The woman wails. “No! This is—this is my revenge!”

You share a glance with Spencer, who nods at you, trusting you to talk her down.

“Gabriella,” you call, earning her attention. You raise your arms in front of your body, making a show of putting your weapon back into its holster. “Gabriella, we're with the FBI. We talked on the phone, remember?”

“You said you'd come!” She cries. “You said you'd come and you took too long. I had to—I had to—”

“It's okay, it's okay,” you slowly move towards her. “I'm sorry we're late, but we're here now. Can you give me the knife?”

“No, I can't—I can't—I have to—”

“You don't have to do anything,” you say. “Let us help you, Gabriella. Let me help you.”

Her eyes on you are stone cold. No fire or fury behind them, just utter determination. Tears are streaming down her face, lips pulled into a sad smile.

“Do you know what it's like to be damaged goods?” She starts. “Ever since he—he—I was never the same. I can't eat properly, can't sleep without pills, and I'm broken.”

“You're not damaged goods, Gabriella,” you insist. “You're not. You're human, you're a survivor. There is nobody on this earth that's broken, you hear me? You're whole, even when you're hurting. Let us help you.”

More footsteps enter the house, hurried and heavy.

One last attempt on your end. “Please.”

Gabriella starts to loosen her grip on the knife, blood all over her hands. The man on the ground stirs. Then, in a second, a flash of light from behind you, enough to startle you and Gabriella. You can barely process everything when Spencer jumps in front of you, effectively tackling the man to the floor. 

“Clear!” Spencer shouts. “We need medics!”

The bright light goes out, and you get your bearings together. You run to Gabriella, who’s cowering in the corner, shaking. 

You stay with her the entire time, until they wheel her into the ambulance and JJ rides in with her. You sit on the back of another ambulance, letting a paramedic clean up and bandage the barely-there cut on your arm.

“Agent,” Officer Brady calls. He has his head tuck into his chest, and you swear you can see the tail tucked between his legs. “I want to apologize for the flood lights—”

“Hey!” someone shouts. It’s Spencer, walking with determination and purpose towards where you sit, or, more accurately, towards Officer Brady. He stands between you and the officer, chest puffed out and spine tall. “Next time you want to act stupid, make sure none of my team members’ lives is on the line.”

“It was a high tension situation, it was dark, I thought I can help—”

“Did you get authorization to turn on the flood lights from my unit chief?” Spencer presses. “Well? Did you?”

Officer Brady takes a step back from the snarling agent. “No—no, sir.”

“Then I guess it’s pretty fucking clear—”

You stand up, coming up next to angry Spencer. “Spencer!”

Officer Brady turns to you. “Listen, I just want to apologize—”

“Maybe don’t create a situation where an apology is necessary—”

“Back off!” You insert your body between the two men, then you push your hand against one of Spencer’s shoulders, gaining his attention. “Spencer, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Me? You’re asking what’s wrong with me?” His eyes are like molten lava. “Officer Baby Face almost got you killed!”

You match his tone, your face close enough to his, challenging, daring him to keep going. “It's just a fucking scratch!’

“That’s enough!” comes from, surprisingly enough, Rossi. Emily stands behind him. 

You don't move from your position, you're breathing hard, both because of the adrenaline and your anger. He suddenly wants to go all alpha-male on you? While Officer Brady is stupid and wrong, you truly don't think he deserves a public berating. 

Maybe you don't know how Spencer was before he went to prison, maybe you don't recognize the sweet, awkward boy Penelope and JJ would tell stories about, but you know this Spencer. The Spencer that will body slam a sleazy suspect for Tara, the Spencer that will stand between you and a threatening person of interest, the Spencer that throws his book on the wall if he's frustrated.

You think he's doing better about that, though. 

Back then, when he just got out, you'd have him for thirty days and you'd lose him for a hundred. You think that must be how Hades feels every time Persephone leaves for spring.

He's a former fling and you're just the poor girl who's in love with him.

And then sometimes, sometimes he'll look at you like the way he's looking at you now, like you're an angel sent to pull him out of purgatory. 

But he's not religious and you're no angel.

Emily sends a sharp glare to Spencer. “Reid, go ride with Connor.”

That’s how you find out the man’s, the unsub’s, name is Connor.

Spencer knows better than to protest. He follows Rossi towards the ambulance that carries the injured unsub without another glance at you. 

Emily turns to you. “You can go back to the precinct, rendezvous with Luke there.”

You nod, about to leave, but Officer Brady’s voice stops you. You forget that he’s even there. “At least let me drive her back, ma’am.”

You actively try to stop an eye roll, about to protest to Emily before your trusty unit chief shakes her head, “I think you’ve done enough, officer.”

Spencer says in the hospital the entire time you, Emily, and Luke tie up the case in a nice pretty bow. Exhaustion riddles your bones, but the adrenaline is still pumping. After your second cup of coffee, Luke has to physically wrangle you into the car and take you back to the hotel.

You take a shower, try to sleep to the mindless sound of whatever soap opera you can get your hands on, but it doesn't work. You debate on whether it's worth drinking whatever's in the minibar, but decide against it.

Fuck it. 

Slipping on the hotel slippers, you decide wandering the hotel will exhaust you. Though, as you open the door, someone is in your way.

“Spencer,” you whisper, surprised to see him at your door. 

He looks worse for wear, eyes sunken and hair sticking out in a weird shape. He doesn't have his vest on anymore, or his suit jacket, just his white dress shirt with a couple of buttons undone.

“Do you really believe that?” He asks, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “What you said to Gabriella, that no one's broken, that I'm—that people are still whole even if they're hurting?”

“I do,” you say, wholeheartedly, without hesitation. You, especially, you add in your head.

That answer breaks him. His knees buckled, his weight is almost entirely supported by the door frame.

Spencer sniffles, then he calls out your name. “—darling, baby, I–”

And you know. You know.

Because as much as you tell yourself that you can handle his rejection, you can’t. As much as you tell yourself that you’re fine without him, you’re not. You are wearing his sweater, after all. 

It's you who bridges the gap first. It's you who pulls him in by his jaws, crashing your lips together. It's you who breathe in his scent, hands around his shoulders after you slam the door behind him.

He responds with the same fervor. 

Spencer's arms are around your waist, pulling you close to him, with his back against the door.

You've done it, now. You've set alight both your hearts and your skin and there's nothing that can extinguish it except for the two of you.

Spencer slots his knee between your thigh, and you suppress a moan. You claw your way down the buttons of his shirt. 

“Wait, wait,” he says, stopping your hands just before you can push his shirt off his shoulders. “I don't want you to think that this is just another—that I came to you for this–”

“Spencer—”

“Because it's been so hard to breathe without you, I–”

You cut him off with a kiss.

“Spencer,” you call. “I know.”

He’s sitting on the bed now, and you’re standing between his thighs. Your lips are still on him, but you’re waiting. 

You’re waiting for the moment he forces your underwear off, or the usual throw-you-on-the-bed with the kind of force that sends you dripping for him. 

But it never comes. Instead, his hands are gentle on your thighs, caressing you soft and light underneath your shorts. His touch is featherlike, lips slowly going over the exposed skin of your chest, your stomach, like he’s scared you’d disappear, like he’s savoring every second he can before you vaporize in front of his eyes. 

There’s vibrations against your stomach. It’s his lips, you realize, whispering words into your skin. 

“I love you,” you manage to make out. He says it over and over again. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Your hand runs through his hair, pulling it just with enough to have him look at you. 

“Spence,” you call. He isn’t looking at your eyes, though, fixated on the bandage on your arm. “Look at me, pretty boy.”

His eyes are shining, looking up at you like a puppy, like a dog, ready to fulfill your every command and wishes. 

You get down to your knees, slowly, maintaining eye contact with him. Spencer’s breath hitches, anticipation filling his bones. You make a slow work of his belt, his pants, keeping eye contact with his pleading eyes. 

Your nose hit his member first, not quite hard underneath his boxers, but as soon as your tongue makes contact, you feel him grow. 

His hip buckles, hand coming up to your head to urge you. 

You pull away. “Hands to yourself.”

He groans, but obliges. You pull his boxers down, and he kicks them all off as your hand squeezes his cock, veiny, red and angry at the tip, desperate. 

Spencer throws his head back, a deep frustrated noise coming out from the back of his throat. 

“Eyes on me,” you command, putting his tip inside your mouth when his eyes meet yours. 

Fuck. He looks so pretty like this, lips parted, eyes glassy, hands gripping the sheets for dear life as you play with him. 

Spencer had never really let you take control before. He’s always been so dominating, imposing, taking what he needs while also being attentive to your reactions. He relished in the way you moan in his ears, begging, pleading, and he likes to sing you praises because he knows you like it. 

Now, though, the table has turned. 

There’s a certain vulnerability and trust in every act of sex, but for someone so guarded, so riddled with trying to control everything that he can control, letting you lead is the highest praise you can get from him. 

“Please,” he chokes out, begging. 

You find that you like to make him beg. 

“What do you want, Spence?” You ask, lips still in contact with the tip of his cock as you pull him out of your mouth. You hand grip him tight, slowly pumping. “Tell me, use your words.”

“I need you,” he says. “Need to touch you, need to be inside you, please. I miss you so much.”

It’s almost a whine, most definitely a plea. 

You stand to your feet, making a show of taking off your remaining clothes—shorts and underwear, climbing up to his lap. Spencer’s hands hover over your hips, trying hard to show restraint like you wanted. 

“You can touch me, sweet boy,” you say, your own arms wrapping around his neck. Spencer breathes in relief, calloused palm holding you in place. You move your hips, your wetness coming in contact with his hard one. Your gasp matches his.

“I don’t have any condoms,” he confesses. 

You’re not worried about STDs, remembering the mandatory health check-up every quarter that the team just did three days ago. “I’m on birth control.”

Spencer groans. “Are you sure?”

“Are you?”

“More than anything.”

You’re still leading, hand coming down to line up his cock to your waiting pussy. Slowly, you push yourself down, letting him fill you without barriers for the first time. 

It’s overwhelming for the both of you, with Spencer’s fingers digging into your hip to hold you still, trying to catch his breath. He feels so good inside you, better even, because you feel every inch and every veins. He’s curved so deliciously inside you, but it’s the way his heaving chest grazes your nipples so delicately that fogs your head. 

“Fuck,” you curse. “Feel so good, Spence.”

“I need to move,” he says, letting your forehead rest against his. “Can I move, please?”

“Move, Spence.”

And he does, over and over again.

His eyes are like chocolate, melted, milky smooth and sparkling. You love his eyes, because despite everything, despite all the violence he has witnessed, they still look at you so softly. 

You try to extend that to him, try to tell him, show him that he’ll feel nothing but gentleness and comfort with you, nothing but softness. 

Like this, like making love instead of fucking. Tender, all consuming. 

You throw your head back when he hits that particular spot. He knows your body better than yourself, and you relish in it. 

Spencer takes the chance to latch his lips onto your exposed neck, licking, biting, leaving marks he had previously never before. His, he’s saying. All his, all his. 

You flip yourselves, pulling him down on top of you as your back hit the mattress. I trust you, you’re saying. I’m all yours. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “The most beautiful human that ever walks the earth, the most beautiful hands that ever touched me.”

Your lips find his again, legs wrapping around his hips to pull him down deeper into you. Your hands scratch the skin on his back, the first marks that come from love instead of violence. 

You can tell he’s close by the way his rhythm flattered, his stuttering as you moan in his ear. 

“I need you to cum for me,” he pleads, fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles on your bundle of nerves. “Please, I can’t—you feel so good like this, squeezing me so tight like you’re made for me. Always so good for me, darling, the only one I want.”

The heat in your stomach has been building up quickly, and his praises snaps the last thread that holds you together. Spencer matches your moan as you clamp around him, your release triggering his own. 

“Oh god,” he groans. “Jesus—”

His cum spurts inside you, painting your insides white. Spencer stills, savoring the way you milk his pulsing member, the way he can hold you in his arms again, the way his lips captures yours. He never wants to let go. 

Spencer waits for you as you clean up, his rant about UTI instilled in your brain. 

And as you walk back towards him, naked and glistening with sweat, he knows that you're the closest thing to a goddess, and this love is his religion. 

He pulls you close, head resting on your chest, arms tight around your waist. 

“I love you too, Spencer,” you whisper to his hair, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. For taking so long, for going batshit crazy about you and Officer Baby Face. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll forgive you if you take me to The Huntington tomorrow,” you promise, can’t help but smile at him so soft and tender. 

“I’ll make it worth the wait, I promise.”

You don’t doubt him.

After a moment of silence, each of you just trying to process everything, savoring the moment and the relief and the way you feel against each other, you snort. 

“Officer Baby Face?” you giggle. “Really?”

Spencer groans. “Please do not bring him up ever again.”

[0o-junebug-o0]

Hi!! Could you please write something for Spencer where r is used to men being like really loud and rough and all that (maybe bc of her father or smth) and just her getting used to how gentle Spencer is and almost thinking it’s too good to be true?

Thank you for requesting angel <3

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 905 words

It happens when you’re still half asleep. You fumble for your phone on Spencer’s nightstand, your alarm chiming, and knock a picture frame off instead. You’re fully awake by the time you hear the sound of glass shattering against the floor. 

You mumble a curse. Spencer hums questioningly into his pillow. 

You get down from the bed, managing to step over the glass, but you’re not thinking clearly enough. When you sink onto your knees, little shards prick the skin. You pick the frame up carefully. It’s a picture of Spencer and his mom. An old one, of her chasing a three or four-year-old Spencer around someone’s yard. They’re both laughing, her arms outstretched towards him and his face turning to look over his shoulder. It’s obviously a sentimental photo. 

Your cursing intensifies, though you keep it internal now. You feel awful. 

Spencer’s head appears over the edge of the bed as you’re scraping the glass into a pile. His eyes are half-open, expression still weighted with drowsiness. 

“What happened?” he asks. 

There’s no accusation in his tone, but you feel suddenly teary. You haven’t fought with Spencer yet, and you weren’t expecting to be yelled at first thing this morning. You suppose you’ve earned it, though. 

“Spence, I’m so sorry.” 

“What are you doing?” 

“I—I knocked over your picture. The frame broke. I feel awful, I’ll get you a new one o—or I can replace the glass if the frame is important to you.” 

“What?” Spencer blinks, brows furrowed as though he’s having trouble grasping this. “No, it’s—stop. Don’t do that.” 

You still, looking up at him hesitantly with your hands cupped around the glass pile. “What do you want me to do?” 

“You can’t clean glass up with your hands.” He shuffles his way out from under the covers, taking a big step over the class to stand behind you. His hands wrap around your elbows. “Get away from there.” 

His tone conveys some upset, but not nearly as much as you were prepared for. And his grip on your arms is gentle. You can’t make sense of it. 

You let him guide you into the bathroom, sitting up on the counter when he prompts you. Spencer takes your hands in his, looking them over and brushing his fingers lightly across your palms before determining there’s no glass in them. His eyes skim you over. When they land on your knees, his expression pinches. 

“Why did you do this?” You expect him to grasp your knee roughly, but his fingers wrap around it with care, thumb rubbing over the soft underside as though to soothe you. 

“I wasn’t thinking,” you say softly. “I feel so bad about the picture with your mom, I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Spencer sounds surprised. His eyes flit up to yours, soft brown, curious. “I can get a new frame. You didn’t need to hurt yourself.” 

“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose.” Your voice drops to a murmur as Spencer bends down, opening a drawer to take out first aid supplies. 

He pulls each tiny piece of glass from your knees with heart-aching care. One hand stays on the back of whichever knee he’s working on, to steady him and to comfort you, and it’s a slow, attentive, tender process. Gradually, a realization seeps into you. 

Spencer isn’t going to blow up at you. Maybe someday, but not about this, not over just anything. You’re not sure how you could have been so expectant of someone who’s been nothing but kind and gentle with you turning harsh and forceful at the first upset. 

You don’t even wince as Spencer cleans up your knees. He’s careful to give you no reason to, every touch considerate and sweet. He straightens after smoothing bandages over the cuts, still holding your lower thighs in his hands. 

“That wasn’t a very nice way to wake up,” he says. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you say, but you hold your arms out for a hug anyway. 

Spencer’s happy to oblige you, his hips fitting between your legs and palms sliding across your back. He smells like sleep. You hook your chin over his shoulder, contentment filling your belly like warm honey. 

“You seemed upset,” he murmurs, a question if you choose to answer it. 

“I was nervous,” you admit. “I thought you’d be mad.” 

“For knocking the frame over?”

“Mhm. I still feel really bad.” 

Spencer draws a line between your shoulders. “Don’t feel bad. You didn’t do it on purpose.” 

You hum. “You’re a lot less loud than most guys, do you know that?” 

He pauses. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No.” You pull away from him, cradling his face in your hand. “I’m just not used to it, is all. I keep expecting you to yell at me, but that doesn’t seem like it’s really your thing.” 

“I guess I don’t think of it as my thing,” Spencer agrees, mouth curving as he repeats your words. “My mom says I was always a quiet kid. I guess I just never thought yelling would get me anywhere.” 

“Don’t start.” You grin, and his cheek dimples under your palm. “I like you like this.” 

“Okay, I’ll try not to.” He tilts his face into your touch. His hands drop back to your knees, skimming down the unharmed sides next to the bandages. “And you shouldn’t get angry at yourself on my behalf anymore, either.”

[0o-junebug-o0]

he’s so baby

[0o-junebug-o0]

i keep you clean; you surrounded me

in which husband!spencer reid spirals after realizing he can't be your daughter's hero forever.

angst, fluff warnings/tags: this fic is about spencer's past addiction, and how he's afraid it will impact his relationship with his daughter, conversation about alcohol, this is a fix-it fic for my life, ends on a hopeful/positive note, lots of self-loathing from Spencer, uses the phrase "shooting up", PLEASE do not read if this is going to upset you!! PLEASE!! fem!reader a/n: this felt healing in a way for me but that might not be your experience reading if you also have issues with a parent with addiction so please tread lightly and make the right choices for you. CHOOSE YOUR MENTAL HEALTH OVER MY DUMB FANFIC I CAN'T STRESS THAT ENOUGH!! and ily

“Daddy?”

Ada’s not asking for you, but you look to her anyway. She’s squeezed between you and Spencer on Rossi’s swing, and her cheeks are still feverish—remnants of a recent and rather hysterical fit of giggles. She has a glass of lemonade between her little hands (you’re trusting her with a big girl cup, if only because it’s not your glass or your house) and she peers into it intently. Her little grass-stained feet kick. Spencer pushes the swing back ever so slightly, for her entertainment. 

“Huh?”

She holds her glass up for him. 

“Our drinks are the same color.”

“They are,” he nods. “Do you like yellow?”

Ada shrugs. It’s exaggerated—one of her favorite moves as of late. “It’s okay.”

Spencer glances at you like he always does when he sees glimpses of you in your child, eyes sparkling as if her opinionated and bluntly honest nature is in any way reminiscent of you. 

“Yeah, I agree. Yellow is just okay.”

She leans against him and he’s quick to accommodate her, affectionately brushing his knuckles over your bare shoulder as he slings his arm across the back of the swing. 

“Daddy?”

“What, lovebug?”

You smile, letting your head fall back and your eyes close. The sun is warm on your face. 

“Mommy’s drink is red.”

Nothing gets past her. Rossi had pushed the drink into your hand almost the second you stepped through the door, insisting it would go well with lunch. It sits otherwise untouched on the glass table. 

Spencer hums. The swing rocks gently. 

“That’s because she’s not having lemonade like us. She’s having a grownup drink.”

“Oh.”

You think that’s the end of it, that she’s satisfied with the answer, until another moment passes, and her voice, sweet as the tinkle of little fairy bells, is posing a very loaded question. 

“Why don’t you ever have grownup drinks? Me and you always have the same.”

Spencer’s already looking at you, brows drawn as you sit up. Your eyes, open now, go wide, and you shake your head slightly to signal you have no idea how he’s supposed to respond either. 

His hand goes to Ada’s hair, gently scratching her scalp as his eyes dart over your face. You can see the gears turning in his head. This is one of very few things he clearly didn’t read about in any of the literature on raising kids when you were pregnant. 

“I… some people don’t like grownup drinks.”

It’s an inadequate answer, especially coming from Spencer—just this morning he explained to Ada why the sky is blue. Rayleigh scattering. Blue light scatters more than any other kind of light. Which then led to an impromptu lesson on oxygen molecules and other basic chemistry in the car on the way here. 

So there are standards. 

“Why not?”

You interrupt, unable to watch Spencer flounder any longer. “Ada, why don’t you go see what Henry and JJ and Uncle Dave are doing? That looks fun, right?”

You gesture down the yard to where JJ and Rossi are teaching Henry to play cornhole. 

She looks at you with big brown eyes—the set of them, the color—those are all Spencer.

“Can you and daddy come?”

You straighten out her dress and take the half-full glass from her little hands, setting it next to your own on the table. 

“In a minute. Go ahead.”

Spencer’s hand slips from her hair as she pushes off the swing and bounds down the yard. You make sure she arrives to her destination without incident, before scooting closer to your husband and taking his vacant hand. 

“Spence?” You ask quietly, leaning in to try and insert yourself into his eye line. He doesn’t look away from Ada. 

“That was bad.”

“It wasn’t. She doesn’t understand. It’s fine.”

“I didn’t—”

He looks down, lips pressed together, and your heart twists and drops like overripe fruit from the vine as you realize his eyes have glossed over. 

“Baby,” you whisper, relinquishing his hand only so you can rub his back. Your other finds his knee, drawing as close as you possibly can. “It’s okay.”

“How am I supposed to explain it to her?”

A tear falls, making a dark splotch on the fabric of his pants. 

“You don’t have to. She’s only five. I guarantee she’s already forgotten all about it.”

“I will. I’ll have to tell her one day. She thinks I’m perfect, how am I supposed to—”

He stops himself, voice tightening to a halt. You watch him hold back a cry like you haven’t seen in years. It’s an old, familiar ache for you. You can’t imagine how it feels for him. 

“Spencer,” you coo. “She adores you. She loves you so much. That’s never going to change.”

His nose twitches. 

“I’m going to disappoint her.”

“How? How are you going to disappoint her?”

“I think it’s pretty disappointing to find out your dad is a junkie.”

His tone isn’t particularly harsh but the words are like a slap anyway. 

“Spencer…” For a moment you don’t know what else to say. It’s not a secret that he’s ashamed of that chapter in his life, but you had no idea he was contending with this much self-loathing over it, even after all this time. It seems like such a distant point in the rearview mirror that the two of you almost never need to talk about it anymore. “You are not a junkie. It’s been, what—a decade?”

“I don’t want to have to tell her what drugs are, let alone that I... she thinks I’m the smartest guy in the world, and one day I’ll have to tell her that drugs are extremely dangerous, and I was shooting up for four months anyway. No matter how I try to explain it to her the ultimate takeaway is going to be that I’m weak and I wasn’t smart enough and she’s never, ever going to forget that. How am I supposed to—I can’t be a role model for her. I fucked up so badly.”

Your chest aches, somewhere deep and hollow, as he leans forward, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, only for a moment—before Ada shrieks and his head snaps back up. Henry is chasing her with a worm. Spencer watches on, tears still leaking from his eyes and expression otherwise neutral. It’s bittersweet to hear him express such deep insecurity about the thing he’s best at in the world, even as those parental instincts kick in and he’s setting aside his own feelings to keep an eye on her. He’s never trusted himself. He’s never seen himself the way you do. 

“Baby, you are her dad and she loves you. Her love for you is not contingent on your past. You are so, so good to her. That’s all she knows, okay? She doesn’t care what you were doing when you were 25. She cares about whether you’ll be home for dinner, and if you’ll play dolls with her, and if you’ll tuck her in. That’s all she needs to love you.”

JJ wrangles the kids and after a moment Spencer looks down again, brow furrowed deeply as drops like rain dot his lap, but he hardly makes a sound. You lay your cheek on his shoulder. “And until she’s old enough for the whole story, which involves a lot more violence than I am comfortable with her being subjected to right now, you don’t need to explain it to her. You have time.”

“She wants to know now.”

“She also wants icecream for every meal. But I can’t make her understand why that’s a bad idea. What she wants and what she needs and what she is capable of understanding are all different categories. I know you love answering all her questions, and you’re a really good teacher, but you can’t make her understand something as complex as addiction.”

Spencer sniffs. 

“Developmentally she’s only really capable of understanding the world as it exists in relation to herself.”

“Exactly. So give her some time, and give yourself some time.”

“What if she asks again?”

“Then… you say you don’t like how it makes you feel. And tell her to clean up her toys. Condition her to stop asking.”

Spencer stumbles over a teary laugh he hadn’t been expecting. You sit up straight, holding his face between your hands and encouraging him to look at you. His cheeks shine with tears, but you wipe them away tenderly. 

“You’re perfect to her,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to one cheek, “and you’re perfect to me.” He cups your elbow as you kiss the other and looks at you with so much sheer adoration you could get all choked up, too.

“Wow,” he sniffles, and takes a deep breath, pulling you into him, “I don’t deserve you.”

“Of course you do,” you mumble into his shirt, eyes fluttering shut as he presses three kisses to the curve of your neck where he’s buried his face. 

“I could be canonized as a saint and not deserve you.”

Sainthood. You ponder that. 

Saints have to live virtuously. They also have to be dead. 

You hold him a little tighter. You like him exactly how he is: technically imperfect. Probably not getting into heaven. Still venerable. Very much heroic. Alive, and with you.

“I’m really glad you’re not a saint.”

He chuckles. His hand slides up your back, and then side to side—a path it’s made time and time again which has only ever led you to wonderful, perfect places.

“Me too.”

[0o-junebug-o0]

that side profile damn..

[0o-junebug-o0]

Something about a dnd session just makes me want to draw. We had our first session of a new campaign and I overcame a months long art block. Hell yeah. It’s great