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aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

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Doesn’t exactly kiss—just holds it there.

You're literally the best intimacy coordinator on Spencer Reid fanfiction tumblr but you knew that Chappel Roan

“I don’t need the eidetic whatever to remember anything about you. I pay plenty of attention, and there was no freckle.” “So you have every mark on my body catalogued?” “All dermatological anomalies are thoroughly mapped.”

“No. But you should probably let me check for more.” A kiss lands suspiciously close to the waistband of your shorts. “Are you opposed to a quick scan?” You aim for dry sarcasm. Miss by a few breathless centimeters. “Not opposed. But I’m pretty sure I was thoroughly scanned in the shower by my doctor.” “It never hurts to be vigilant. And you shouldn’t shower with your doctor. That’s egregiously inappropriate.”

Moving forward, I'm actually not going to be giving you commentary on any fic your write ever and just shove them in my faves for fic recs.

Regards,

;

aloe barbadensis

in which you and spencer reid just want to lay around in your room after a day at the beach. the team does not respect your privacy.

fluff (suggestive content) warnings/tags: implied intimacy, someone knocks on the door as things r getting steamy, the team razzes u for getting it on hehehe a/n: @mariasont spring break event was so good I was inspired to put the whole team in one air b and b!! She is the bau vacay blueprint!! do you guys remember me...... cause I missed u...... kisses smooches ily!!!!! yayayay summery happy fluff!! I can't believe I wrote this in like two days??? I've been praying for times like this

The air smells clean and too warm, like a laundry detergent that isn’t yours, underscored by the rich, herbal scent of conditioner in still-damp hair. A ceiling fan swirls the heat and dust around the room more than diffuses it—but you don’t mind. It still feels good on your sunned skin.

So too do the tips of Spencer’s fingers, as they drift up and down the softness of your thigh. It’s too hot for him to be pressed right against you, so he’s a little ways away—prone flat halfway down the mattress, whereas you’re sprawled out on too-firm pillows. The comforter has long been kicked to the ground.

Carefully, you push wet hair out of Spencer’s face. It gets richer in color, when he's just out of the shower like this. More a lustrous dark bronze than his usual chestnut. Everything is more vibrant in this light, including his nose, which smolders wildfire pinkish-red.

“You’re so burnt.”

“Hm?” he hums, turning his face up toward you languidly, blinking against the pooling gold. You soften. It’s possible you’ve never seen him this relaxed. This healthy looking, all the perpetual winter leached from his veins—cheeks glowing, eyes shining and satisfied and low.

“I’m worried about your nose.”

Spencer pulls your hand to his lips. Doesn’t exactly kiss—just holds it there. Lets his eyes flutter closed again. Mumbles, “I’ll be okay.”

“But… skin cancer.”

“Is very treatable.”

“You’re not worried enough.”

His response comes on autopilot. Eyes still closed. Words low and honeyed, one sliding into the next, like they’d melted in his head after so many hours under the sun.

“My body is responding to the cellular damage caused by UV rays via rapid immune response, which means increased blood flow to the dermis, which means more passive metabolic activity is required to maintain homeostasis, which means…”

It’s a cue to fill in the blank. You respond softly.

“You’re sleepy.”

“Mhm. Very.” He kisses the back of your hand in reward. “Too sleepy to be worried.”

“But it looks like it hurts. Maybe you should put aloe on it.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. He strokes over the delicate skin of your wrist with a thumb.

“Would it make you feel better if I put aloe on it?”

“I just don’t want you to hurt.”

“I don’t hurt, sweetness. But thank you for looking out for me.”

Your capitulation is careful and unsure. “Mhm.”

Distant crashing waves fight with the ceiling fan to fill in the silence, but only for a few seconds. You’re not relaxed. You’re emitting a frequency of your own, too low to be detected by anyone who is less attuned to you than Spencer is. You watch as he senses it, and blinks his eyes open once more. Chooses consciousness, rolling onto his side, pushing up to his elbow, and pressing a kiss to your knee before swiping it away with his thumb.

“This is new,” he murmurs, voice sanded by a rough grit into something almost smooth. Like salted driftwood.

“What is?”

A stray hand traverses all the way up the inside of your thigh and back down, briefly distracting.

“This freckle.”

You laugh. Eyes alight, he looks up in time to catch it.

“You’re making that up.”

Spencer tilts his head solely to give you an incredulous look. “You think I don’t know what your skin looks like? It wasn’t here this morning.”

“No, I’m not doubting your eidetic whatever, I’m just saying—I don’t believe that you paid enough attention to my knee this morning to remember that there wasn’t a freckle there, and to notice that now there is.”

“I don’t need the eidetic whatever to remember anything about you. I pay plenty of attention, and there was no freckle.”

“So you have every mark on my body catalogued?”

“All dermatological anomalies are thoroughly mapped.” He plants another kiss to the freckle. “And I am promising you with one hundred percent certainty that there wasn’t a freckle here this morning.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Spencer buries a smile against your skin. Kisses softly up your thigh and stomach—so softly you hold your breath. A breeze disturbs the drapery and you breakout in goosebumps.

“You know, if you’re so worried about skin cancer, you should be regularly examining your body for irregular markings.”

The words buzz, tickling. Traces of SPF and coconut chapstick stain your tongue as teeth worry at your bottom lip.

“I don’t think one new alleged freckle after spending the whole day in the sun means skin cancer.”

“No. But you should probably let me check for more.” A kiss lands suspiciously close to the waistband of your shorts. “Are you opposed to a quick scan?”

You aim for dry sarcasm. Miss by a few breathless centimeters. “Not opposed. But I’m pretty sure I was thoroughly scanned in the shower by my doctor.”

“It never hurts to be vigilant. And you shouldn’t shower with your doctor. That’s egregiously inappropriate.”

You let him hook his fingers into your shorts and tug down almost past the point of indecency, painting your hips with kisses—before a knock at the door startles both of you.

His displeasure comes as a slow breath against your skin, before he’s pulling your shorts back up into place and turning awkwardly over his shoulder to address the door. Which is locked, ideally. You can’t remember. “Yeah?”

The blatant irritation must be as obvious to whoever’s knocked as it is to you, because there’s a brief hesitation before they speak.

“Rossi made pasta. I was tasked with retrieving the two of you. If you’re not, uh, busy.”

Morgan. That burning feeling in your cheeks can’t be attributed to sun exposure as you throw your head back into the pillows and cringe.

“We’ll be right down.”

Retreating footsteps.

Spencer looks up at you from your hips, lips parted and pinker than ever. For a moment, there is only tense silence—then you can’t help but laugh and lace your fingers through his hair as he drops his head to rest against your stomach.

“That was…”

“It’s fine. At least it wasn’t your boss.”

“No, it was just the guy who doesn’t feel a professional obligation to refrain from commenting on my personal life. Explicitly and ad nauseum.”

“We weren’t even doing anything. We were napping, until, like, one minute ago.”

Spencer sits up, half-smiling and gaze trailing after his hands as they drag down your bare thighs. “I think I blew our cover when I snapped at him.”

You reach out for Spencer, and he lowers himself carefully atop you. The light coming in from the window is hotter up here. Onyx eyes catch the fire of the setting sun and turn molten amber, throwing light back at you in dazzling, liquid prisms.

“What if we don’t go downstairs?” you whisper, gaze flitting between either of his eyes, hard-pressed to pick just one.

He dots a kiss to your nose.

“I think we should probably make an appearance. Then we can retire early, no questions asked.”

“Deal.”

Mindful of his burn, you press a very careful kiss of your own to his nose. Spencer huffs, pleased and warm. Charmed by your gentle show of measured affection. His lips find yours. Just once. Just for a moment.

And then again.

And again.

His affections are considerably less restrained.

The two of you creep out onto the back deck twenty minutes late for dinner, in lambent and unmistakable disarray. Plates are mostly clean and eyebrows are very high, but nobody says anything as you squeeze yourselves into the remaining spots around the table. Spencer clears his throat awkwardly into a glass of lemon water. You serve yourself cold pasta and press your lips into a thin line, trying with all your might not to laugh.

“How was dinner?” Emily asks Spencer, breaking the silence. He nearly drops his glass, spluttering hopelessly as water goes down the wrong pipe.

“She was putting aloe on my nose,” he insists, wiping droplets from his chin as his entire face goes sunburn red.

Morgan claps him on the back. “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

#; fic recs #fluff #*!

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aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

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if your blog is mdni then what about writers that are minors? do u just pretend they don't exist? u can't possibly know every minor's blog bc so many don't even put their ages in.

I don't flat out ignore them if we're in say, like a server, but I don't interact with their blogs most of the time. If the blog only posts sfw work and one comes across my dash and I like it, then I'll reblog it. But if there's nsfw works anywhere, I just don't interact (and sometimes block if they keep showing up on my dash/interact with me).

As for knowing when a minor is behind a blog, there's always signs. Also mutuals & writers talk, so if there's a minor interacting in spaces they shouldn't be we will find out eventually. Now obviously there might be slip ups here and there because you can't deeply vett every blog before reposting them, but that's where anons help (which I'm so grateful for).

#; answers #✉️ from anon

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aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

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"Objectively, I am. I'm smarter than most people." "Humble, too." "Shush," he bounces his knee to nudge you, and you only reply with a giggle. "But, I find your brain fascinating. I wouldn't be with you if I didn't. You're beyond smart to me."

I hate how good you are writing banter actually. I hate good banter. It makes me feel lonely. Because he's not real. FARK Lia.

love language ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you come home after failing a test, and spencer reid helps you feel better — in a few different ways.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut (18+ mdni) tags: college!reader. unspecified age gap. oral (f receiving). fingering. praise. sorta soft dom spencer. losers in love. word count: 1.9k a/n: i once was doing so awful on a chemistry test my teacher stood in front of my desk and spoon fed me the answers at lunch once everyone else had left. this is for my angel piper wiper who heard about this idea and then asked for it to be a chemistry test. even though it already was. and also bc she leaves tomorrow :((

"I fucking hate chemistry!"

He can hear your voice before he sees you. Before the jingling of keys falling into the bowl next to the front door, and before the sound of your footsteps against wooden flooring. Perched on the couch, Spencer's head lifts from the nearly complete Sudoku puzzle in his lap, and finds the ears-steaming, grumbling ball of frustration that is you, angrily walking into his apartment.

"You were telling me just yesterday about how cool you think it all is," he replies, placing the puzzle down on the coffee table as you manoeuvre around to stand in front of him.

"That was a past me. A me who had no idea what she was getting into. She's been cheated, played for a fool," you snap, "chemistry fucking sucks."

"Do you have context coming soon, or are you just going to keep insulting chemistry?" his head tilts, arms reaching out to coax you into them.

You relent quite easily, climbing into his lap and burying your face into the space between his shoulder and his jaw. Your lips move against his skin, voice muffled as you mumble, "I failed."

"You failed?" he repeats back. "The test?"

"Mmhm," your head moves in a nod, hair tickling his jawline. "By one mark, mind you. One. I don't even..." you jerk back suddenly, eyes blown wide as you stare at him, "Spencer I studied for days. Weeks. I had you helping me. You were confident I'd do really well!"

Tears prick the waterline of your eyes, and his heart cracks a little in his chest. He doesn't enjoy seeing you like this, and yet he's sure there's very little he can do to make you feel better. Academic guilt is too high of a hurdle to jump over just like that.

"I know, honey," he's pulling you back in with gentle hands, hands that entangle in your hair, followed by lips that kiss your jaw.

"I don't understand," you huff. "I don't fail, Spencer. I don't."

"You're spiralling," he comments. How observant.

You nod your head, falling silent as you let every complaint and word of frustration manifest on your tongue, and then swallow them down. You know it won't help, talking deprecatingly about yourself, and it certainly won't change anything.

"Sorry," you finally sigh, and you can feel him shake his head against your own.

"You don't need to apologise to me. I know how you're feeling."

"No you don't," you grumble, though there isn't any malice behind your words.

He pauses, then, "No, I don't."

It makes you laugh, quietly, face burying in his chest as you end the laugh with a groan. "I hate your stupid smart brain. I hate that you're smarter than me."

"I don't think I'm smarter than you," he says, and you fight back a scoff.

"Yes you do," you narrow your eyes at him, pulling back just so he can see your glaring gaze. He barely even flinches, even goes so far as to let a humoured smile stretch across his lips instead.

"Objectively, I am. I'm smarter than most people."

"Humble, too."

"Shush," he bounces his knee to nudge you, and you only reply with a giggle. "But, I find your brain fascinating. I wouldn't be with you if I didn't. You're beyond smart to me."

"Not smart enough to pass a stupid college chemistry test, though."

"It was one test, honey," he murmurs. "It doesn't define how smart you are. It won't matter in a year, anyway."

"I know," you sigh. "Still."

His hands are warm on your skin when he brings them down to your thighs, a comforting touch, as he brushes his lips against your nose. It crinkles as you smile. Again. A black hole opened in the pit of your stomach, yet a few simple words from your boyfriend, and you're unable to wipe the joy from your face.

"I think you're the smartest person I know," he says, lips moving down to your neck and, at the same time, his hands find their way to your inner thighs. You don't have it in you to argue with the statement, instead letting a contented sigh fall from your lips. "And the prettiest," he presses a kiss below your earlobe, "and the kindest."

"Flattery won't get you into my pants, Reid," you mumble, and his breath fans against your skin as he laughs.

"Not flattery," he replies, fingers digging into your thighs. "I do think I am successfully getting into your pants, though."

"Mm-mm," you deny him with a shaking head, smiling lips hiding away against his chest.

"No?" he feigns shock, careful with his movement as he stands from the couch, you still in his arms. "I think I am."

"I think you're delusional," you say. "I'm sad and stressed out. Stop taking advantage of me. You're terrible. Insatiable, some could say."

"Just trying to help ease the stress," Spencer replies, and he's forgiving as he lays you down on his bed. Evergreen cotton surrounds you, and you relax into the embrace of the smell of him.

"Uh-huh," the fight leaves your body the second his head is at your stomach, and instinctively, your legs part for him.

"Uh-huh?" he mimics back to you, but his lips are making a strong point on the sides of both knees, and all of your arguments evaporate.

"Spencer," you say, and though it's supposed to be a scold—for his slow teasing, his mocking—it comes out on a breath. A whispered moan, that only prompts him to go further.

"I know, pretty girl," he says. You hate how easily he gets you flustered.

His hands hook under both of your knees and bend them, palms sliding beneath your thighs. Featherlight, and erupting a path of goosebumps in their wake.

Brown eyes meet with yours, a kind gaze liquidising every cell in your body as you nod, and he's baring you to him with a gentle tug of fabric. For a moment, you focus on the glaze in his eyes, dilated pupils as he watches for your micro expressions.

Then, he's back to kissing you. Your thighs. You lose any train of thought about how beautiful his eyes look when they are locked with yours, and are reduced to surface level emotions as his lips travel higher up your legs, and his breath is suddenly directly over your cunt.

Your tense, anticipating muscles relax almost instantly the second his mouth is on your clit, rolling his tongue over it, white hot pleasure shooting through your veins.

Like a trigger, your vow of silence breaks, and you're already sighing out his name amidst a string of moans. Never relentless, your eyebrows pinch and your mouth falls open as his tongue flicks against your clit.

Your hands—desperate for something to grasp onto that isn't sheets pulled too tight over a mattress—find his, fingers interlacing together just as his tongue drops to dip around your entrance.

Every single thing you do he memorises into storage in his brain. Every twitch, every eyelash flutter, every nails-digging-into-palm squeeze. A silent prayer of gratitude to whatever resulted in his eidetic memory, for there are these sights of you so beautiful he desires to replay them well into his afterlife.

Every weighted self-doubt from the past two hours dissipates inside of you, fading to dust under the power of his lips on you.

Your head falls back as he lifts his own and stubble grazes against you, tongue circling your clit once again. His alternating between abusing the bundle of nerves and teasing your wanton entrance, combined with the approaching two full weeks of being too busy to entertain the concept of a sex life, results in a steady knot forming in your stomach.

"Spencer," you say his name, again, and his hands squeeze yours in recognition. The sound of your voice—cracking from pleasure—and the way your hips twitch and attempt to lift from the mattress key indicators to your approaching orgasm. "Spencer, please," you're begging for no reason. You know he'll give you what you want no matter what you do.

He registers your orgasm. You know he does, because his hands slip out of yours and instead return to your thighs, holding them in place in a bruising grip. A silent scolding for your writhing, that has your heart stuttering in your chest. You know he does, because his tongue slows slightly as you ride out the last of it, gentle as he works you back to normalcy.

Then, you have to question if he registered it at all. As quick as he was to ease you through your high, his tongue never gives up, and he's still going.

"Spence—no, mm-mm," you choke out, the pleasure building with a speed and intensity you'd all but forgotten in recent days. "Please."

"One more," he says, meeting your blown-wide eyes. He cuts you off when you go to protest, "You can. I know you can. C'mon, angel."

"I can't," you moan, again, but there's the undertone of desperation that says otherwise.

"You can," he repeats, pulling back and replacing his tongue with his fingers. Slipping two through already wet folds, and flicking your clit. "Look at you, you're doing so well for me, honey."

"Too much," you argue, neck stretching as your head presses into the bed beneath it. "Spence—ah."

"No it's not," he replies, and you glare at the ceiling because, shit—he's right.

"Yes it is—oh fuck," you shudder as a finger pushes into you, his thumb replacing it at your clit, and your nerves near explode. "Please."

"Need to come again?" he asks, and watches as your head frantically nods in place.

He adds a second finger and you whine at that. Then, he curls them inside of you, and you whine again.

"Words, honey."

"Yes—fuck—I need to come again. Please, Spencer. Oh, God," your hands fly to his wrist, fingers wrapping around it and nails digging into his skin. He barely even reacts, your grip weak, and his determination strong.

It feels like milliseconds between your begging and when he pulls you over the edge. It could've been hours.

"There you go," he murmurs as you let out a shuddering breath as the high passes, and your hands fall limply by your sides on the bed.

Silence fills the air, nothing but the feeling of his fingertips mapping out your skin as your drunken eyes stare at the barely there detailing on his bedroom ceiling. For a few minutes, you bask in it, smiling to yourself as dopamine and oxytocin and whatever other hormones just released by your body swirls within you—really, you could just ask Spencer. Covering up the stress from earlier easily.

"Hey," you tilt your head down to look at him, his head now on your stomach as he lays atop of you. He lifts his own, eyebrows furrowing in question. "Up top," you raise your palm.

"What?" he's confused.

"High five. That was my first orgasm in two whole weeks. I think that's a personal best for us," you say, and he blinks once, then twice, and then laughs, and weakly slaps his palm against yours.

"Go to the bathroom. Loser," he rolls off of you, nudging you off the bed and towards his ensuite.

"You are the textbook definition of a loser, by the way. Keep your mouth shut," you say with a pointed look, lazily swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. After a few more minutes of contemplating it, you finally stand up.

"Go."

You disappear into his bathroom in a fit of giggles.

#; fic recs #smut #SR #soft dom! spencer

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aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

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glad to have u back queen

glad to be back gorgeous 💙💙 can we get an emoji for u what's ur fave emoji

#; answers #��

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aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

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I remember when you bragging about the hurt you were gonna cause me by this fic after I came back and I'm so angry that for the first time ever in history you weren't lying to me......

Yet, you're a soul on the ceiling, watching an uninhabited sack of skin walk towards the banging fist, turn the door handle, and let an uncomfortable flood of light into the apartment.

I wash just shot out in daylight in a street full of people but no witnesses

Well, fuck, Spencer. Guess you know everything there is to know about everything.

laugh out loud

Your stupid, incessant need to have somebody there at all times. Why can't you sit with yourself? Alone? You grew up alone, right?

Wait I forgot the premise and I'm just now remembering the premise, Lia you know you didn't have to do this right....

So much of your energy is exerted into pounding your fists against his chest, and he just lets you. Every word you spoke corresponding with another hit. He doesn't do anything until you exhaust yourself, and your hands fall limply by your sides again.

NO!!!! NOOOOOOO!!! NO!!!!! 😭 THIS IS ACTUALLY KILLING ME HO!!!! I SWEAR TO GOD

Then, he speaks, in a voice so calm you think you imagined your outburst. "What have you found?" "What?" "What have you found?"

How about what is he hiding hold awn

What a breathtaking reveal of your expert victimisation. "I'm being mean?" his tone is incredulous. "Me? Coming from the girl who said I'm, what, exhausting to be around? To know? I'm the mean one?"

I can't explain this but I'm being gaslit, omg he's gaslighting us RUNNNNN

"Did you think I didn't want you anymore? Or when I didn't call you back for two days because I was on a case? Those little things?"

NOOO IT ADDS UP YOU'RE RIGHT OMG READER DON'T FALL FOR HIS BS FIGHT HIM!!!!!!

"Then, I don't understand why you can't just talk to me. Why can't you just talk to me? Why do I have to be insulted before you communicate with me? It feels almost unfair."

They both have communication issues idc idc Spencer shoulda been communicating from the start reader is not crazy guys!!!

Outside of this untouchable blackout, you're apologising to him. Over, and over, and over.

....

"I'm here because I like you," when you open your mouth to mock him, he cuts you off, "did you know I think about you constantly? Everything I do I think of you. I find books I've rea

Wrap it up bud why is this the first she's hearing of this ???

But I can't reassure you every week that I do like you." You stare at him. "Then you don't really know me. I said really early on that I'm insecure."

He's mad because she's exactly what she said she'd be nawww vote him off the island next

Quietly you murmur, "Then I can't do this." "Yeah," he breathes. "Me neither. You're exhausting too."

beat his ass omg girl stand up !!!!!!!

You pick yourself up off a floor you don't remember falling to, stumbling over feet too fast for your brain, trying to get away from here. Here, where he yelled at you, and you; him. Here, where he told you your brain is too bad for him to deal with. Here, where he left you.

There, through the phone, you can hear him breathing too.

Reader's not guilty idc idc omg she just needs therapy and love and more therapy and more love and less of this version of Spencer 😂 lia sleep with one eye open 😂

i knew it, i know you ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your boyfriend comes to find you amidst radio silence, and you finally let out all your frustrations and insecurities.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst tags: ambiguous ending. certified overthinker reader. effie trinket would hate you for what you do to mahogany. argument. they yell at each other. everyone is angry n mean. :(. word count: 3k a/n: me when fine shyt starts flirting but i've already convinced myself everything he says is a genius manipulation technique that i need to outsmart before he adds me to his list of gullible weak victims. this was a vent piece from like 3 weeks ago. still relevant. love u.

You'd be a very successful magician. Vendors and patrons would move Earth just to see your disappearing act in person, to see if it's as brilliant and mind boggling as people say it is. If you were as talented as rumours say.

You'd say so.

A flickering lamp illuminates mahogany. Mahogany you hadn't cleaned in weeks. Mahogany you hadn't sat at in weeks. A thin layer of dust tells the story of how it sat untouched. Neglected. It's wondering of when you were coming home. If you were. If you'd ever swipe a rag over it again, lay down a tablecloth, set it with silverware you only have one set of.

You would. You would. You promised you would. You placed a hand on it when you left that odd Thursday and whispered you'd return eventually. A silent deal with yourself you'd never get rid of it. Spoken aloud when you inherited it from grandparents now deceased. Then, swept up in an ill fated fairytale that kept you from coming back to it. Another table, not quite as nice, not nearly as expensive, discovered the lines of your palms amidst debate. The edge of your elbows to hold up forkfuls of food. Your thighs, pressed up against the sides. Attention given to something cheaper, and the dust sprites atop this table taunt you for it.

You're not staring at it, though. Transfixed, instead, on how the lamp barely provides light for the rest of the apartment. Cautioning on the side of blowing any second now. You'd be thrust into darkness so fast you wouldn't know how to react. Maybe you'd stumble around a bit; try to find your phone for a light. Maybe you'd sit in the black. Let the air still, seeping into your bones until you are as good as air that does nothing. Perhaps you already are.

You don't get the chance.

Somebody's fist raps against your front door. You know who. It's politely quiet, but eagerly fast. Seeking you out quickly after seven damp days of radio silence, to find if you've died or not.

You should be hastier. A soon to follow knock announces that for you. Yet, you're a soul on the ceiling, watching an uninhabited sack of skin walk towards the banging fist, turn the door handle, and let an uncomfortable flood of light into the apartment.

He must recognise the hollowness in your eyes, because he doesn't say anything as he enters your apartment. A quip about how you didn't invite him in manifests on your tongue, but then you remember he doesn't know there's a problem between you two.

"What a joyous apartment you have," he says, flicking the light switch to light up the rest of your neglected apartment. The last book you were reading found on the edge of your couch, face down and open, the spine creased beyond repair. A glass once full of water now sits empty — evaporated — on the kitchen counter. A duffel bag of two people's mixed clothes and travel sized shower products on the floor next to your feet.

"What're you doing here?" you ask him, feet firmly planted in the entryway. You couldn't move even if you wanted to.

He does, though. He freely moves around and it's as if no time has passed. He is more at home in your apartment than you have been all week. Guiltily, you feel resent well in your stomach. How dare he come in and act as though nothing has happened?

He doesn't know. He doesn't know. You repeat the mantra until he speaks again, for it is not his fault you are upset over something you made up in your head. A narrative only the worst parts of your brain can entertain.

"Well, you disappeared for a week," he states, palms pressed against your kitchen bench as he leans against it. "I got worried."

"Why?"

What a stupid, stupid question to ask him.

"Because you disappeared for a week," his words come out tantalisingly slowly, as if he's trying to explain to a toddler. Perhaps he is. As old as you are, you seem to feel like the five year old who resides inside you more often than not. Pathetic sentiment.

"Forgive me for not being a constant presence in your life," you say. It isn't meant to bite, but your tone of voice comes out too sharp for it to not, and he is all too quick to catch it.

"Sorry?"

You freeze. Time stands as still as it has all week. The light bulb of your desired lamp blows, and you distantly hear it pop. It no longer matters; your overhead lights are on, courtesy of the man standing before you. You feel plunged into the dark anyways.

"I didn't mean that. Sorry," you deflect, and a smile that doesn't reach your eyes is sent his way. Not that you look at him. Too afraid of what his eyes will say to yours if you lock them together, you keep your gaze on your couch.

"Yes you did."

Well, fuck, Spencer. Guess you know everything there is to know about everything.

You accept the defeat. "Yes I did."

"Explain, please?"

Wordlessly, you shake your head, and the inside of your cheek finds its way between teeth. "It's mean."

"Then be mean."

"No. I—I can't," you shake your head. "It doesn't really matter."

His lips press together, and you can feel the nausea in your stomach churn. "It doesn't matter?"

Your head shakes again, "Mm-mm."

"Well, great. You've got an issue with me that causes you to disappear for a week, but it's all good because it doesn't matter?"

Oh.

"I don't have an issue with you," you lie, but God forbid you do such a thing in front of a profiler.

"You do. Clearly, or else you wouldn't be this hostile with me. What have I done?" he's gotten off the kitchen bench. He's closer to you. Or, maybe, he's just risen his voice, and he hasn't moved an inch.

You're entirely not present enough to figure out which it is.

"Spencer, you haven't done anything. It's all stuff inside my head," you shake your head, again, and it's done so violently you can feel the contents of your brain shake within your skull.

No you can't. No you can't. You're imagining that to worsen your own feelings. Nobody can feel that. Everything inside of it is so loud, and Spencer is no longer Spencer. Rather, a lifeless, faceless entity occupying your apartment. You don't even recognise him.

"Then tell me what's inside your head, honey, please—"

He doesn't even sound like Spencer anymore.

"—It's so mean. I can't."

You don't sound like you.

"Then be mean!"

"You're exhausting to be around!"

You snap, and he falls silent. For once, he doesn't have something to respond with. You're grateful, somewhere inside of you. The same place the urge to backtrack and try to make things alright again comes from. You're usually ruled by that place.

Today, you are not.

"You are so exhausting to know. I am so fucking exhausted. I spend my life jumping through hoops to get you to talk to me, to notice me. I mean, you only care when I'm doing exactly what you want. Naked. You only care when it's convenient. When there is nobody else there to satisfy you, nobody you actually want, you will call for me. Right? You have to fill the hole in your heart somehow. Your stupid, incessant need to have somebody there at all times. Why can't you sit with yourself? Alone? You grew up alone, right?"

It's such a mean thing to say. For a second, you're outside your ablaze mind, and instead watching you say all these awful things to the man you claim to love. Love. How could you possibly love anyone you speak to like this? "You've been alone before. You can't be alone some more?" he's taken steps towards you, and gentle hands on your waist have you inhabiting your body once again. You're crying. Warm, fat tears falling down your face, but he doesn't try to wipe them away. "Why am I just a piece in a—in a fucking chess game? Does that analogy make it make sense for you now, Spencer? You are playing me like chess. How fucking dare you!"

Then, he speaks, in a voice so calm you think you imagined your outburst. "What have you found?"

"What?"

"What have you found?"

"Nothing," panic rises in your chest. "I—I don't understand why I had to have found something—"

"—This isn't coming from nowhere," he observes. Then, it clicks. His understanding of your brain coming to the forefront of his mind. "Unless it is. All this talk about my inability to be alone, did I leave you alone for too long? Is that where this is coming from? Are you spiralling and making up a narrative about me and then, evidently, taking out your frustrations at a made up problem on me?"

"No," your voice strains. "I mean, I did find something, but it's stupid now."

"It's stupid now," he parrots, condescendingly. "Stupid as in, you think you're going to be ridiculed for being upset about something valid, or stupid because it is not valid at all?"

"That's—you're being mean," you stammer, but even as you say them, the words sound unjust.

He must laugh mockingly, or maybe he's belittling you with it. Unkind words being thrown, and now you're trying to make him the bad guy. What a breathtaking reveal of your expert victimisation.

"I'm being mean?" his tone is incredulous. "Me? Coming from the girl who said I'm, what, exhausting to be around? To know? I'm the mean one?"

Yeah, okay, you deserve that.

"You're invalidating what I'm saying—"

"—I'm regurgitating your own words back at you!" he snaps. "You said it was stupid. You. Not me."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—The latter, then. You're embarrassed to admit that."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—Whatever it is you found, I don't care. I can't imagine you've found anything."

You stare at him, waiting. Waiting for him to continue, to berate you some more, to offend you so deeply you can find a real reason to be upset with him. Right now, there is nothing but overthinking his gestures, and blowing things out of proportion.

"It's little things."

"Little things," he clarifies.

"Yeah."

You hear him sigh. He's exasperated. "I'm gonna need more than that."

"Like—like..." you're stammering again, your brain folding over itself to find something you can bring up to him that doesn't sound utterly insane. You aren't insane.

Right?

"Like when I left early the morning after sex for work?" he cuts in, and your chest tightens. Not because his words are mean — though, they are — but because they are true. "Did you think I didn't want you anymore? Or when I didn't call you back for two days because I was on a case? Those little things?"

"I guess."

"Right," he nods. "So, again, did I leave you alone for too long you spiralled into making up narratives about me?"

"They're not narratives—"

"—You've wholly convinced yourself I am a bad person!" you flinch at how loud his voice is, and for a moment, he pauses. He softens, his tensed arms relaxing, and he's sure to take a comforting step back from you. "You're so sure of this idea that I am using you for sex, and I don't want you for anything else, and only when I am bored, or lonely," still silent, he studies your face for a reaction. Whatever he finds mustn't satisfy him, because he continues. "I don't text you constantly because I don't want to be overbearing. I don't hierarch my friendships by how often I talk to someone. Rather, by what I spend my time with them doing. Being with you is so easy. I love being with you. Yes, I like having sex with you too, because I am attracted to you, and that's something we've established. If that has changed, and this is a long, winding way to tell me that, then please—"

"—It hasn't changed," you're quick to correct him.

"Okay," he nods again, firmer this time. "Then, I don't understand why you can't just talk to me. Why can't you just talk to me? Why do I have to be insulted before you communicate with me? It feels almost unfair."

It is unfair. You know that. The thought appears in your brain every single time an insult flies out of your mouth.

Yet, you can't stop.

"You're ridiculing me right now. Why do you think I can't communicate with you? You make me feel small. Like—like my feelings aren't valid, and I'm crazy! Am I crazy? Do you think I'm crazy, Spencer? Do you hear me say all these things I think about you and go, fuck, this girl is a psycho? You must. Or else you wouldn't be here," there's a look of recognition behind your eyes that scares him. Your lips twitching, a sardonic laugh leaving them. "You find it fascinating, don't you? Figuring out my brain. Why I do the things I do, why I feel the way I feel. I have a brain you can psychoanalyse for your sick pleasure, so of course you don't leave!"

"No. That's not why I'm here," he speaks so calmly, and you know you've touched a nerve. You feel bad, somewhere. Outside of this untouchable blackout, you're apologising to him. Over, and over, and over.

"I'm here because I like you," when you open your mouth to mock him, he cuts you off, "did you know I think about you constantly? Everything I do I think of you. I find books I've read in stores, and think of you, and how you'd love them. I see posters for movies I have no desire to watch, but consider asking you to go see them because you mentioned liking the lead actor in passing. Every case, I am picking up the phone on the first ring in case it's you asking how it's going. I care so deeply for you, and this is confusing me a lot, hurting me a lot, because I didn't realise you weren't aware of that. But I can't reassure you every week that I do like you."

You stare at him. "Then you don't really know me. I said really early on that I'm insecure."

"I didn't think it would be this bad."

This bad.

"It's not my fault you can't step outside yourself."

This bad.

Your chest aches, and you can feel every single familiar feeling in your body dissipate. Once again, just a sack of skin standing in the centre of your apartment, looking at a boy who has so much distaste for you in this moment, his anger is silent.

Quietly you murmur, "Then I can't do this."

"Yeah," he breathes. "Me neither. You're exhausting too."

And then he's gone.

Silence.

There is so much silence when you are alone like this. His final words echoing in your brain, following your conscience down to the depths of it. Ruminating beneath years — decades — of mistreatment, insults. Every single layered brick that built the person you are today rotting in the pit of your brain, with the last thing Spencer Reid ever said to you, fresh; hot.

He left, and you're stuck with the silence of your apartment. The door that fell shut taunting you, for it was the last thing you possess to feel the touch of his hands. Gentle hands that used to hold you as you cried like this, letting you soak his skin with tears and then taking you out to the rooftop to watch the stars. Loving hands that used to push buttons you never knew to exist until he pushed them, emitting sounds you didn't know you could make until he emitted them. Kind hands, that would hold your waist when in a crowd of people; your face as he kissed you.

You find your bathroom.

Uncomfortable, fluorescent lighting blinds you as you find solace in the cold tiling; the chipping painted cabinetry. Trembling hands fish your phone out of your pocket, and you stare at the black screen on the device for so long you must go insane. Burning the barely there image of your teary face into your mind, going over every single thing he said to you tonight. Every single cruel thing you said.

Guilt creeps up on you, twisting its way through your gut and up to your throat. Choking you, until you're gasping for air, eyes wide.

"No," you stutter, the word leaving your lips too many times, your head spinning. Fingers burying into your hair, phone clattering to the floor. "No."

At some point, sobs calm down, and tears dissipate. You find your footing within yourself again, furniture becomes furniture again, objects are objects. Your brain is no longer closing in on itself.

You unlock your phone and find his contact.

It rings for minutes. Probably only seconds. So loud in the silence of your apartment, and every ring inches open the door of regret.

The line clicks. Quiet follows.

Quiet, not silence. Though you are breathing heavily to yourself, you are not alone with your thoughts, and it is not the only sound you can hear.

There, through the phone, you can hear him breathing too.

#; fic recs #angst

401 notes · View notes

aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

Text

“Yeah?” Spencer rises to sit on the bed to sit next to your lying body, his hand smoothing down your face to take place on your neck, “Left my poor baby all alone.” “So cruel of you.” “So cruel,” he echoes.

I love when he does this. Gets me every time. LIFE IS WORTH LIVIIIINNGGGG OOH OUH OOH OUH 🎶🗣

But if you were to really ask him, he would say Apollo for how you could simply smile at him with the radiance of the sun and heal him entirely.

OH MY GOD THEY ARE SO IN LOVE ARYA I'M SO IN LOVE WITH YOU

false god | s.r.

A/N: hehehehehineedhimcarnallyheheheheh.

summary: in which spencer finally comes home from a case after you've just finished exams and can't resist showing you just how proud he is

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, university!reader, p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, fingering, oral (f receiving), heavy petting, praise kink, pet names, aftercare

wc: 3.3k

The apartment is quiet when Spencer slowly opens the door, twisting the knob back into place with so much care that not even the faintest click could be heard. It’s been nearly a week since he’s been home, since he’s seen you. While in normal times it would be bearable because he’d call and facetime you every day, you were unfortunately also too busy with school and finals to even engage or drop a quick hello to him. You knew he was busy, he knew you were busy right back. Time got so far away it jumbled your synchronized schedules.

He missed you, a lot, is what he’s trying to get at.

Careful not to make any noise, he slides his shoes and satchel off and leaves it by the door. Spencer walks to the kitchen as he takes off his suit jacket to hang it on the chair, and opens the fridge to grab a glass of water. He notes that while he’s been trying to be quiet, the apartment has been quiet. You’re probably sleeping, he knows how exhausted you’ve been the past couple weeks.

Spencer should feel guilty when he walks to the bedroom, mindlessly undoing the cuffs of his dress shirt. He can’t bring himself to feel such a way when he finds you sprawled out on the bed—your shared bed, he still thinks in disbelief—softly snoring away while your hair fans around you and your pajamas crumple about your body.

You stir slightly at the sound of his footsteps and he freezes, watching you settle back into deep sleep right as he reaches the edge of the bed. He kneels down to be level with your face and reaches a hand out to gently brush your hair back, no longer concerned with not waking you and suddenly overwhelmed with the dire need to see your eyes.

“Hi angel,” he murmurs, “I’m home.”

You sigh and flutter your eyes open, a lazy smile growing in recognition of the face in front of you, “Spence, missed you.”

He has to consciously hold back a groan. The way you even just say his name is enough to bring him to his knees—evidently so by his current position—but he has to be a gentleman and considerate of how tired you must be.

“Missed you too,” he continues to stroke your hair, “You alright? Exams go okay?”

“Mhm, all A’s.”

Spencer beams, “That’s my girl.”

You preen under his soft touch, “Case go fine?”

He nods, “Took a while but we got him, glad to be home now.”

“Oh good,” you mumble, “come to bed now.”

“Let me go change first and I’ll join.” he almost stands to his full height before he feels your hand stopping him, “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t go.” you whine.

His thumb goes to rub over your outreached hand, kneeling back down to your face, “I’ll only be five minutes.”

“Too long,” you sigh, “need a kiss first.”

Spencer lets himself be pulled closer to you and presses his lips to yours. He smiles into you, but it’s a deep kiss that shows how much you missed each other. Your lips deepen the kiss and your hand holds the back of his neck close to you. If he wasn’t so attuned to you he would have missed the faint whimper you let out. But he knows you like a native language, subconsciously able to pick up on the nuances you give.

“What’s really wrong?” he mumbles against your lips.

You pout, “Missed you.”

He chuckles softly, “You said that.”

“Meant it,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Spencer rises to sit on the bed to sit next to your lying body, his hand smoothing down your face to take place on your neck, “Left my poor baby all alone.”

“So cruel of you.”

“So cruel,” he echoes. You’re laid out on the bed with a blanket barely covering you, leaving him no question that you’re wearing the silk pajama set he bought you a few weeks ago. He’d seen it in the window of a shop walking home from the library one day, and walked about three blocks thinking about you in the set before turning around to purchase it.

You don’t usually splurge on luxury items, you found it made you feel silly to spend that kind of money on yourself when it could go towards bills or other important necessities. Spencer did not find it silly, in fact he found it imperative that you are spoiled and shown how loved you are. He doesn’t buy into materialism, he knows the way he loves you speaks louder than any item or string of words can hold. But he’ll argue it’s a compulsion, a way of life even.

“Cute pajamas.” he says, trailing a hand down the length of your arm.

A lazy smile grows on your face again, “Thanks, my boyfriend bought them for me.”

He grins, “He must really like you.”

“Something like that.” you giggle.

“You look really nice in it.” You can tell he’s restraining, for who’s sake is still up for question.

“Just nice?”

“I’m trying to be polite here, pretty girl.”

“But what if I wore it because I don’t want you to be nice?” you push.

Spencer lets his hand rest on the inward curve of your hip, squeezing slightly at your taunt. “You’re not tired?”

“Not for you.”

He hooks his fingers below your waistband and lingers, “I think you’re too good to me.”

“Sometimes I think it’s not enough,” you grin.

“Oh it’s more than enough, angel. Don’t worry.”

His fingers travel further down and ghost the front of your panties, the flutter of your eyelashes giving him all the confirmation he needs to keep going. He gently strokes a digit back and forth, watching as your breathing deepens quickly.

“Shh, I got you,” he coos, “just relax.”

He wraps an arm around your shoulder to help you curl further into him, his other hand lazily stroking lightly against your slit. “Must be so tired from all that studying, hm?”

You nod into him, your lower lip pouting as his strokes begin to take root in pleasure. “Needed you.”

He hums, “I know baby, I’m sorry. I’m here now, can I make it up to you?”

A sharp gasp leaves you as his finger dips below the fabric, swiping intently and slowly up your folds before returning to above your panties, “Please,” you beg.

Spencer smiles and hooks two fingers onto the fabric covering your core and tugs it to the side, using his index finger to hold it in place. He uses his middle and marriage to collect the slick at your entrance and smear it all over your cunt, finally using his thumb to work it into your clit with soft circles.

You moan out at the intense sensation, deeper breaths escaping as he dips his fingers into your cunt. “Fu—uck, Spence.”

“Feels good?” he asks, you nod quickly digging your head further into his chest, “Good, look so pretty like this baby.”

He pumps his fingers at a deathly slow pace, more so for him to feel every ridge and inch of you as he enters and leaves. He was gone for so long, and while his eidetic memory has served him well, there is nothing in this realm that will ever compare to the feeling of you at his mercy. He would sit in his hotel room and stare at the ceiling, trying his hardest to move heaven and earth to materialize you out of the atomized memories he has of you tucked away into his hippocampus.

It’s no use, he’s come to realize. Nothing will ever capture the way your face contorts when his long fingers brush against that spot inside you, how you say his name in that breathy moan that makes him wonder with all parts doubt in how he could ever leave you alone to your own devices. Someone like you should never have to lift a finger in their life, should never feel pain or sorrow or anger.

So in an act of repentance, he snakes the arm that was around your shoulder down to your chest and lets his hand dip under the silk tank top to cup your breast. He catches your nipple between his thumb and index and rolls with love, with a yearn to fill the void of lost time and to present himself with the worthiness of forgiveness.

You grant him salvation, in the form of you preening at his fingertips like a goddess in full divinity, soft moans falling from your lips in sacred prayer.

He speeds up his fingers when he feels you clamp around him every other thrust, “Close?” he murmurs.

You hum deliriously, “S—So close,”

It’s only one, two, three more deep strokes until you come undone all over his fingers, his pace not letting up as it takes you to the peak and leaves you floating above. Only does the gentle circling of his thumb on your clit regain your consciousness and tether you back down to the ground.

You weakly push a hand against his arm, “Too much,”

“Okay, okay,” he gently removes his fingers and immediately pulls them into his mouth, softly moaning as he swirls his tongue and swallows all of you.

God, does he love how you taste. His eyes roll to the back of his head—you’re practically nectarious, a testament of what truly stood in the way between Eve and sin. Spencer finds himself moving on his own accord, much like Eve entering the Garden of Eden, because he simply cannot resist temptation any longer.

“Spence…what are you,” you whisper, words slurring in your post orgasmic haze.

He kisses down your shoulder and trails down your chest into your torso, slowly climbing further down your body until he’s reached the crest of your hip bones. His thumbs smooth the expanse of the skin, pushing the silk fabric of your shorts up to reveal the lacy panties you’ve chosen to wear that night. Lavender, his favorite.

You feel the ends of his curls tickle the inside of your thigh, and it’s then you realize his goal. “Baby, I don’t think I can…oh—ohh.” You’re cut off by him pressing a firm kiss to your clothed cunt, his thumbs symmetrically kneading the flesh of your thighs.

“Good, don’t want you to think,” he mumbles, “just want you to feel me.”

He hooks his fingers into the sides of your shorts and panties, pulling them off you in one fell swoop. You take a sharp inhale at the exposed air reaching you, but he quickly soothes it by returning his lips to the crevice where your thighs meet your core.

“I don’t mean to sound crass, but I need you to know that I had every intention of coming home to you and just letting you rest. Maybe fuck you to sleep once if you were a little more awake.” he wraps his arms around your legs and locks down, “I’ll take the fault for thinking I could be satiated with just a little taste of you, but it’s not my fault you were laid out looking so beautiful and tired. You understand I had to do something, right?”

He slowly lets his tongue trail from the bottom to the top of your cunt, your face contorting with deep pleasure and his eyes fluttering shut.

“My apologies, pretty girl.”

His tongue dives back into you like a selfish man, in a way that shows indulging in you is merely an incentive for him and no one else. Your voice singing out his name in breathy moans is a worthwhile bonus. He laps up every drop of you while you drift in and out of consciousness, the exhaustion of the past few weeks coming to a head and dispersing at the mercy of Spencer Reid.

“Spence—oh,” you whine, your hand going to lazily perch in his hair to tug lightly. He groans into your cunt and grinds down his own length into the bed, the insatiable hunger building between his own legs yet his desire too desperate to be anywhere but between your own to take care of himself properly for now.

He unhooks an arm around one of your thighs and slips two fingers into your hole, nearly whimpering at how easy you took them in.

“There we go, there’s my girl. All ready for me,” he murmurs, “just need one more from you like this and I’ll give you what you want, angel. I’ll give you anything you want.”

You inhale sharply, voice getting caught in the overwhelm of it all, “G—Gonna come,”

“ ‘m right here baby, come all over my mouth. Need it so bad.” he begs.

Spencer Reid rubbing his own length onto your bed while he lays between your legs with his tongue buried deep inside you, begging you to come for him because he sounds like he might actually die if you don’t—is what sends you over the edge.

Your second orgasm washes over you like a soft wave hitting the shore, deceptively calm yet sneaking into every crevice and corner of your being and occupying it with full intention and purpose. Your back arches and falls back to the bed with a thud, your chest heaving up and down as it tries to bring you to rest.

“You okay?” Spencer grins up at you from between your thighs with that stupid smile that makes you feel all funny inside, an added bonus when it’s glistening with you.

You hum in soft agreement, hands aimlessly reaching for him. “C’mere, please.”

He slowly slides back up your body atop you, your arms linking behind his neck and tugging him down to kiss him resolutely on his lips. You start off with little pecks, peppering in little I love you’s between each one, you don’t even realize he’s turned your bodies so you’re both laying on your sides facing each other.

Spencer breaks the kiss reluctantly, his hands smoothing down your torso before gently turning you around so your back is flush with his chest. “Think you can give me one more, sweet girl?”

In all the rustling and movement he’s somehow rid himself of his underwear, evidenced by you utterly melting as he lines himself up at your entrance. Spencer wraps his arms around your stomach, one finger ghosting over your clit as he guides himself to your core. He lets the head drag tauntingly between your folds, gathering all the slick and spit onto himself to coat in.

“I—I don’t know,” a low groan escapes you, “i—if I can.”

“Oh baby, I know you can take it.” he coos, slipping himself into you inch by inch, “always take what I give you, hm? That’s why you’re my good girl, my best girl.”

You whimper as he sinks further into you, the overstimulation from your previous orgasms catching up to you.

He bottoms out, nuzzled in between your legs and into the crook of your neck, and moans out softly at how your close proximity is soothing every ailment he claimed to have in the time spent away from you. If he had to compare your divinity to a being, he could be basic and say Aphrodite for all the obvious reasons in which your beauty is a weapon. But if you were to really ask him, he would say Apollo for how you could simply smile at him with the radiance of the sun and heal him entirely.

For now, he’ll settle by giving his appreciation through slow thrusts and low murmurs in your ears. His hips pull back and gently push forward, lips immediately tacking onto your neck.

“Oh, angel girl,” his voice drips with wreck, “missed this so much, missed you so much.”

Your senses are on fire, every last one of them screaming with the memory of your previous peak, and the one before that. And yet, in thinly veiled love disguised as sadism, the burning ceases and all you can feel is him.

Suddenly, it’s not nearly enough.

Your hand reaches behind your body and clasps onto his cheek, holding him in place and close to you—as if there’s anywhere else he’d rather be. “More,”

He doesn’t think twice and hooks an arm under the bend of your knee, holding your leg pulled back towards him, and opening you up beautifully for him to thrust deeper into you.

“This what you want?” he pants, beginning to thrust at a relentless pace, “my baby just needed me to come fuck her dumb, hm?”

You whine out again, nodding mercilessly as he picks up the pace and adds two fingers to your clit. He circles the nub furiously, biting back a groan as you clamp down on him every other stroke like you did before on his fingers.

“Fuck,” you whimper, the familiar coil tightening in your gut, “think I’m go—oh—nna come.”

His fingers move faster on your clit, his thrusts deeper, “That’s it, baby. Come on, let go f’me. I got you.” he whispers.

For the third time in the last hour, your orgasm crashes onto you. Silently, you preen against his chest in absolute and total pleasure overtaking you. Spencer continues to fuck you through your peak, feverishly chasing his own high.

You fall limp against the bed, Spencer holding you against him for a few more deep strokes before spilling himself into you. He whimpers into your neck as he pushes through the overstimulation and fucks every last drop of come into you, whispering sweet nothings as you both calm back down.

He follows suit and limps behind you, an arm lazily swung around your torso still as your deep breathing syncs up. “Feel okay?”

You giggle dreamily, “More than okay, oh my god.”

“Good, baby. Don’t move, let me clean you up.”

“Don’t think I could move if I tried.”

He delicately slips out of you with a soft exhale and goes to the bathroom, wetting a washcloth with warm water before walking back over to the bed. He tries to suppress his moans as he parts your legs to see his come dripping out of your hole like a work of art. He swipes the washcloth gently between your legs making sure to take away every last sticky spot, and massaging the skin with love and care.

Spencer walks back to the bathroom and drops the dirtied washcloth into the hamper, washing his hands before walking over to his dresser to grab a pair of boxers to slip into.

He walks to the kitchen to grab you a glass of water and the Ghirardelli caramel chocolate squares from his satchel that he picked up on his way home. When he enters the bedroom again he grabs one more pair from the dresser to slip you into, and opens the window to let the fresh night air in before sliding back into bed with you.

He gingerly drags the clean boxers over your legs to rest on your hips, then hands you the glass of water and watches you to make sure you chug the whole thing down. He smiles when you present him with the empty glass, and rewards you with a chocolate square.

“My favorite!” you gasp, “I love you.”

“I love you too, I’m proud of you by the way.”

You moan again at the taste of chocolate melting in your mouth, “Sorry, this is so good,” he chuckles as you swallow and continue, “I know, thank you. Means a lot.”

You make him eat a square too before licking the excess chocolate off his fingers, a fit of giggles flowering the bedroom before you both doze off tucked into each other’s arms. It’s the best sleep both of you have had in weeks.

#; fic recs #smut

1K notes · View notes

aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

Text

He knows how polymers behave under heat. He wants to know if you’re the same.

I love it when you talk dirty to me

Ok sorry

“Not everyone’s tongue works quite as well as yours, Doctor Reid.” “I mean — not like that.” You quickly stumble forward, hands fluttering uselessly in your lap, voice pitched high. “Refined taste buds. Taste buds, I meant, not… not tongue in any other context.” “Right. Taste buds,” he echoes, voice two octaves higher than usual. “I knew what you meant.”

This is physically hurting me why didn't they kiss Maria why did they not smooch I'm hurt. Anyways spectacular, you write so good always!!!

GLUE MYSELF SHUT

it starts with ice on your tongue and ends with spencer trying not to picture what else his mouth might be good at

pairings: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, not explicit smut but it's suggestive, post prison spencer, fem reader, fluff, reader has an oral fixation, talk of alcohol, alcohol consumption (wine), spencer having some semi super-naughty thoughts, he’s obsessed with her lips, he’s so down bad it’s not even funny. except it is. i find it hilarious. i feel like the ending was weird but i stared at it for like 6 business days and couldn’t figure out how to fix it so #word wc: 1.6k request: here

The autonomic nervous system, when overengaged, compulsively chases external release valves. Little, repetitive distractions employed to dissipate internal pressure. Cognitive behavior theory identifies these as primitive anxiety-management strategies. Lip-biting, skin-picking, hair-twisting.

For you, the chosen method consists of timed intervals involving ice cubes, precisely fourteen minutes apart. Pinching it between cautious fingertips, rolling it contemplatively, savoring the brief burst of cold against skin.

He watches, a reluctant voyeur to the slow meltwater streams trickling along your fingers in mercury rivulets, until finally disappearing past parted lips. His eyes shutter sideways, hurriedly silencing the part of his brain that longs to quantify the thaw rate versus thermal conduction properties of ice on the surface of your tongue.

You’re studying a painting in the corner of the restaurant — abstract oils bleeding into one another in nebulous fashion behind Emily’s shoulder. Spencer finds himself studying you, an equally abstract form of art. You’re a fan of art. He’s seen your tendency to pause at gallery plaques, eyes tracing curatorial notes while your fingers twitch involuntarily, as though fighting the impulse to physically touch the described textures.

He isn’t much different at this moment.

You’re never exacting, never critical of the things you see. You’re easy to please in the purest sense, content to absorb shapes and colors simply because they exist, acknowledging beautiful things without demanding it prove itself worthy.

It makes him wonder, morbidly, if you’re easy to please in other ways.

Do you make noises when someone kisses you properly? Would your thighs tremble if they whispered how lovely you were, over and over again?

He knows how polymers behave under heat. He wants to know if you’re the same.

He shouldn’t be indulging these thoughts. He’s repeated the admonition several times already, a silent internal chant that does nothing to stem the tide because here you are, unknowingly feeding it.

Your lips gleam with condensation, a lone droplet suspended just above your mouth, a tiny, inadvertent physics demonstration awaiting disruption.

His thumb tingles impulsively, a raw, tactile curiosity urging him to test the exact point at which tension collapses, to feel moisture yield to pressure.

He blinks hard, almost violently, screwing his eyelids shut in an effort to sever the treacherous visual connection tethering him precariously to your mouth. His gaze then drops like ballast to the nearest neutral object — his plate, where a roasted carrot glares back up at him with bland contempt.

Spencer coughs into a closed fist, a pathetic smokescreen for the heat scalding up his throat, licking at his ears like flame-starved oxygen.

With determined resolve, he refocuses, or at least pretends to, zeroing in on Rossi’s dramatic discourse about the fermentation processes and barrel chemistry. Wine science, he assures himself, is safe, dry, deeply unsexy. Unlike you. Unlike the mental imagery of your mouth encircled around other, less work-appropriate things.

These team dinners are, in most cases, a slow bleed. A sensory minefield dressed in linen napkins and over-loud laughter. Spencer doesn’t resent the company, he loves them, every single one, but the sound never stops, the social current too nonlinear to keep up with.

Noise and light and movement pile upon each other until his nervous system blinks seven different shades of red.

So yeah, usually, he counts minutes and builds exit strategies.

But tonight, that never happens. There’s no grit behind his eyes, no anticipatory urge for flight. Instead, there’s only a strange sense of equilibrium and the certainty that it begins and ends with you.

Every shy laugh you offer at Morgan’s jokes, every awkward tuck of your hair behind your ear when attention veers too close to you, every furtive glance his way like you’re reassuring yourself he hasn’t dematerialized between breaths.

He notices it all. Worse, he likes it. Relishes it in a way that feels almost parasitic when he dares to think about it too long.

You inch closer, lowering your voice to be aimed at him. “Do you think Rossi would be crushed if he found out I genuinely can’t taste the difference between this and, like, Welch’s?”

Spencer bites back an immediate grin, angling himself toward you until the barest fraction of space remains between your shoulders.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“So that’s a yes, then?”

“Pretty much.” He slides his glass your way. “Here, try this one. Rossi said it’s supposed to have subtle oak notes. I think that’s just the polite way of saying it doesn’t feel like lighter fluid.”

You accept his glass, fingertips brushing his as you take it.

Spencer’s eyes cling to your mouth as you sip, lips parting over the same place his touched, sealing over it perfectly like you were made to erase him and replace him in one motion.

When you pull back, the wine stains your lips in a dark, sultry crimson. He imagines pressing his mouth to yours until the color smears, until it becomes something new altogether — a hue birthed from shared breaths and synchronized heartbeats. He wonders what saturation your mouth would take on if it were shaped around his name.

Spencer recognizes that he might be one errant breath away from ruin.

There are other people here, he reminds himself. Polite company. His colleagues, no less, who are presumably not here to watch him experience this kind of deranged attention he’s directing toward you. He’s certain he must be blushing, overheating, or having a close, conversational strow. Each scenario feels equally plausible, equally shameful, equally likely to leave him socially incapacitated.

You tilt your head, eyebrows raised in patient confusion. Three long, interminable seconds crawl by before Spencer realizes you’re awaiting a response.

Shit.

“What?” he blurts, louder than intended.

“I said I don’t think I have the palate for this one. Kind of tastes like overpriced raisins.”

Spencer bobs his head eagerly. “Right. Yeah. No, I — agree.”

Your smile is soft but searching as you seem to follow his thought process and come up short. Spencer’s heart kicks harder in his chest. He fumbles for normalcy and overshoots.

“The raisin flavor, it’s probably residual sugar. Or the grape variety, certain grapes naturally have that characteristic. Sometimes they’re intentionally allowed to over ripen, concentrating sugars. Could also be oxidation. Or, possibly, microbial spoilage, though that sounds bad, it’s usually done on purpose, beneficial spoilage. Controlled spoilage.”

“What kind of grapes do they use for that, then?” Your voice is tentative, uncertain, as though worried the question might sound overly simplistic.

It’s not. It’s absolutely fine, ideal, even. Except Spencer’s concentration evaporates instantly when your tongue flicks gently across your lower lip, leaving behind a glossy sheen.

Suddenly, grapes don’t exist. Language doesn’t exist. Spencer himself might barely exist.

“Usually Muscat or Zinfandel,” he manages at last, “They, uh, leave them on the vine longer to intensify sweetness.”

You laugh under your breath, pushing the stem of the glass back toward him. “Makes sense, though I might not be the best judge. My mom used to say that anything that didn’t taste like peach schnapps wasn’t worth the bottle.”

Spencer’s mouth opens, poised to respond, but your hand is already in motion, fingers dipping into your glass for another cube of ice. He watches as your thumb gently glides over its edges. Checking for symmetry, perhaps. You bring it to your mouth and he doesn’t blink, can’t. There’s a fleeting glimpse of pink tongue against transparent ice, the slight hollowing of your cheeks.

All sentence structure evaporates, replaced by a pounding rush of blood to his temples and other less cooperative places.

“That’s…” he rasps, then clears his throat. “That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Your um. Your mom’s schnapps rule.”

“Oh.” You cock your head. “I always thought it was kinda trashy.”

“It’s not,” he says, too fast. “I’ve heard worse opinions about alcohol.”

“Yeah?” Your purse your lips and the ice shifts, creating a temporary distortion in the shape of your cheek. “Like what?”

Spencer watches the dent smooth out, watches how the overhead lights refract across your skin — warmer along the apple of your cheek, cooler where it softens into shadow near your jaw. A perfect gradient, like a masterwork in motion. A living chiaroscuro. Oil paintings where the subject glows not because of the paint, but because of its depth was coaxed out by patient and loving hands.

He wonders who has painted you in that light.

You mentioned your mother and he wants to know more. What was she like? Did she nurture your curiosity, or did she scold it? Was she tender, or tired? Did she sing while she cooked? Did she let you cry, or did she rush to clean it up?

And your father, was he there? Was he gentle? Did he hug you with both arms, or with silence? Did he make you feel small in the way children should, protected, or in the way they shouldn’t, invisible?

Spencer hopes, deeply, that they were kind. That you were someone’s favorite part of the day. That you grew up held, not just housed.

He doesn’t think you’re seeing anyone romantically. Not seriously. He suspects he’d know, suspects there’d be signs. Someone waiting at the door. A name that surfaces too often.

But you probably have been with people before. Respectful ones, preferably.

“Like how some people can’t tell the difference between a five-hundred-dollar Bordeaux and… grape juice,” he finally says, quirking a brow. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Not everyone’s tongue works quite as well as yours, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer sees the instant when your brain catches up with your words, cheeks flooding with heat, eyes widening incrementally, mouth parting in a mortified ‘O’.

“I mean — not like that.” You quickly stumble forward, hands fluttering uselessly in your lap, voice pitched high. “Refined taste buds. Taste buds, I meant, not… not tongue in any other context.”

Your expression is a fascinating disaster, eyebrows drawn tight, lips flattened into a line like you’re hoping the pressure alone might rewind time and vacuum every syllable back into your throat.

Meanwhile, Spencer’s imagination flickers to life, promptly supplying him with an intensely distracting scenario involving precisely how well his tongue works when applied directly to you.

“Right. Taste buds,” he echoes, voice two octaves higher than usual. “I knew what you meant.”

Except he hadn’t, not immediately. His heartbeat already sprinting ahead of him, generously pumping oxygen to regions he’d strongly prefer remain switched off. He briefly considers explaining the basis of verbal slips — the Freudian slip theory, perhaps — but decides against it.

Better to pretend that his mind hasn’t already replayed your words more times than strictly necessary.

One day he’ll show you.

shy reader is part of a stand-alone series! you can read more here!

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

#; fic recs #smut #fluff

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aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

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Jareau! reader my beloved I was so filled with joy but then god

“He’s okay, he asked me to move in with him, but I’m—“ “You should do it,” he interrupted you again

Margot you make me ILL. I know they end up together but still.

mirrorball | s.r.

in which coping with Emily's return leads to tension between JJ and you, her sister, and Spencer, her best friend. it just ends up pushing the two of you closer together.

jareau!reader masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (hurt/comfort) content warnings: takes place during the events of 7x2 "proof", spencer's addiction, suicide, idiots in love word count: 2.92k a/n: happy memorial day 😎 have a fanfic, as a little treat

Durant, Oklahoma

Your sister had spoken to you ad nauseam about Spencer lashing out at her, which probably explained the way your heart rate spiked when you saw her approach Spencer in the conference room. Glancing over your shoulder, you flashed a concerned look at Emily, who had desperately been trying to smooth things over with the team since her rise from death.

“Spence,” JJ called, the nickname she’d started using when the two of them were kindred spirits and nothing more. “Look, we gotta talk about this,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief that he was acting out at work.

You weren’t surprised, though. Spencer had been holding in a lot of resentment since Emily returned from Paris and JJ left the Pentagon, and he’d been confiding in you. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Spencer answered, grabbing a file from the table and quickly flipping through it.

He wouldn’t, not at work and not in front of so many people. He’d withhold his real emotions until the sun went down, and once it was you and him in his bedroom—him lying to the team and you lying to your boyfriend—he’d talk about it until the sun rose. “I get it, okay? You’re disappointed with the way we handled Emily.” You tried to step forward, to stomp out the fire before it had a chance to ignite, but an arm reached out. Derek pulled you back, wanting to cause less of a scene.

“Listen, I have a lot going on, alright?” He said, abstaining from meeting her eyes and instead focusing on the folder in his hands. Spencer was right, the team was in the middle of a case, but you knew JJ would have a hard time working if she didn’t resolve her issues with Spencer.

She frowned, adjusting her stance like she was getting ready for a fight. “You know what I think it is?”

Exasperated, Spencer sighed, looking up at your sister expectantly, “What?” His voice was sharp, bitterness tinging his tone.

“You’re mad that Hotch and I controlled our micro-expressions at the hospital, and you weren’t able to detect our deception.” Her guess was as good as a nail in a coffin. She was making an entirely human issue about Spencer’s intelligence because that’s all he’d ever be to her—187.

He swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared your sister down with hurt, brown eyes. “You think it’s about my profiling skills?” He asked, bordering on tearful before he regained his composure, “Jennifer, listen, the only reason that you were able to manage my perceptions is because I trusted you. I came to your house for ten weeks in a row, crying over losing a friend, and not once did you have the decency to tell me the truth.”

Red rimmed your sister’s baby blue eyes as devastation sunk in, “I couldn’t.” The words were forced out of her mouth, her voice constricted by emotion.

“You couldn’t? Or you wouldn’t?” Spencer challenged, tilting his head at her in the same way he did when he was cajoling an UnSub.

You walked forward again, this time uninterrupted, so you could hear the two of them better. “No,” JJ insisted, “I couldn’t.”

Spencer didn’t look surprised. “What if I started taking Dilaudid again? Would you have let me?”

JJ faltered, her head tipping back slightly before she poked it forward, “You didn’t.”

“Yeah,” he conceded, “But I thought about it.” The worst part of it was that he wasn’t lying, and when he needed someone to tell him the truth, you’d been the one there to pick up the pieces. The one to beg him to tell you where he’d put the vials so you could properly dispose of them.

One look at her and you knew Spencer had cracked your sister’s armor, the same way yours had that night, with his head in your lap as you begged him to sleep so he wouldn’t continue to yearn for the dreams that had nearly killed him years ago. “Spence,” she said, her voice breathy with shock. “I’m sorry.”

Spencer put his hands up in surrender, stepping away from her, his back facing you. “It’s too late, alright?”

Behind his back, your eyes met JJ’s. She silently pleaded with you to say something in support of her, but instead, you stayed silent while Spencer stalked away and Emily called after him. Your sister’s glare instinctively narrowed, frowning at your refusal to take her side, but if there was anything you learned from your time as her sister, you never wanted to be in between her feuds.

Emily faltered, thinking about following after Spencer but deciding against it, nearly tripping over her own feet when she resolved herself to stay behind. Her brown eyes found you in the chaos of her indecision, asking you to go after him, and instead, you walked to the conference room where your sister was licking her wounds. “I can’t believe him,” she muttered under her breath, fingertips trembling as she tried to grab a stack of papers from the table.

You could. You’d seen him like this before, right after JJ had told you Emily was dead. He was hurting, and he tended to lash out when he felt vulnerable. Now this, this convoluted reciprocal grief where he—and the rest of you—were no longer mourning the loss of your friend, but the versions of yourselves that had spent six months coping with Emily’s death, only to find that she had been alive the whole time.

On the jet, on the way to Oklahoma, you’d observed her in discreet silence, wondering what her life had looked like during that brief intermission. Had she gone to explore in Paris? Watching the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower while you were barely holding yourselves together.

It wasn’t unlike yourself to push aside your own grief for the sake of someone else’s, you vaguely remember doing it when your oldest sister passed away. What a heavy burden it was, to be four years old and taking responsibility for every smile that came around in that old house. You tried now, to be someone else, setting a gentle hand on JJ’s shoulder and whispering, “It’s been hard for him. It’s one of those things where you just never know what someone else is going through.”

You’d selected your words carefully, concerning yourself with the secrets you’d kept from your sister, protecting yourself and Spencer while trying to reassure her. You clipped the wire to a ticking time bomb, and you’d chosen the wrong one. “That’s rich, coming from you,” JJ responded, setting her jaw and looking at you expectantly.

Forgetting yourself for a moment, you flinched back at her words as surely as she’d struck you across the face. Slowly, you looked around to see if any of your other team members had heard what she said, just to find them all still lingering by the evidence boards.

Desperately, you found yourself staring at Hotch, parting your lips to explain your departure, but he already knew. He nodded at you once, giving you the okay to follow after Spencer, so that’s exactly what you did. Emily’s hand skimmed over your shoulders as you pointedly refrained from looking back at your sister before walking out the front door of the precinct.

The brightness of the sun stung your eyes as you searched the parking lot, looking for Spencer before your eyes caught him, getting into the driver’s seat of one of the SUVs before starting the car. Swallowing the distaste that your sister had left in your mouth, you jogged over to the black car, opening the door and swinging yourself into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”

“What?” He asked, looking at you in disbelief, shocked that you had followed him into the parking lot.

You shrugged, pulling the seat belt over your shoulder and clicking it, “There’s a park just down the road. We could go there for a little while—get some fresh air,” you offered, pointing to the left of the precinct toward the park you’d seen on your way in.

Silently, Spencer considered your offer and put the car in reverse, pulling out of the parking lot and following your directions to the park.

Neither of you moved to get out of the car once it was stationary. Spencer ducked his head down, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Hey,” you spoke softly now, unbuckling your seatbelt and tilting your head to the side in concern. “Do you have a migraine?”

He shook his head, mumbling something unintelligible from behind his hands before dragging them down his face, “Did you know?”

You frowned for a moment, wondering what he was asking while you unscrambled the thoughts in your mind. He was asking if you had known about Emily. If you had known the whole time he was breaking down that Emily was still alive. If you were another name he needed to add to his list of betrayers. “No,” you assured him. “I had no idea.”

Thankfully, he believed you, nodding while seemingly melting back into the driver’s seat before looking out at the playground. School was still in session, so the playground was mostly abandoned, save for a few toddlers running about. “I went to her house for ten weeks straight before… that night. She never told me anything other than how sorry she was.”

Trying to ignore the way he stumbled over his memory of that night, you nodded, commiserating with him. After the night in question, he’d resorted to coming to you for anything he needed, the life preserver in the middle of the sea of grief that he had practically begged your sister to throw. You weren’t interested in a conversation regarding who was right and who was wrong. You knew how Spencer’s brain worked well enough to know that this wasn’t about moral philosophy, it was about how JJ left Spencer to drown when he needed her most.

Part of you had tried to forget the night you’d gone to his apartment, convincing his neighbor to buzz you in and picking the lock to his front door before getting into a screaming match with him. A fight that had ended with his head in your lap, combing your fingers through his hair while you whispered reassuring things. Telling him childhood stories about you and JJ, a funny story about something Henry had done—anything it took to get his mind off of his grief and away from the drug that he so desperately craved.

He never intended to use his addiction as a weapon, but at some point in his time as an addict, his brain had crossed its wires. It was common for addicts, and maybe it was because you’d never known Spencer before that became part of him, but it seemed like you were able to wrap your mind around it in ways that no one else on the team could.

“Thank you for coming after me,” Spencer said after the extended silence, reaching out for your hand before thinking better of it and returning his hand to his lap.

Your chest ached at his choice, but you understood why he’d made it. Everything about your friendship had become so convoluted, but the two of you never crossed that bridge. “I had to get out of there too,” you admitted, your eyes burning with the promise of tears, giving you the excuse to cross your arms across your chest.

Spencer cocked his head to you, “What do you mean? What happened?”

“Uh,” you faltered over your words, “I tried to defend you to JJ, and she… didn’t like it.”

Across the center console from you, Spencer set his jaw, “What did she say to you?” He asked with a curiosity so genuine you wouldn’t believe it if it were coming from anyone else.

Skipping some of the words, you picked at the skin around your nails, “How much do you know about Roslyn?” Even her name burned at your throat, vague memories of someone who shared your genes scratched at you, leaving your voice hoarse.

“Just how she died,” Spencer admitted, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning so he could face you better.

You frowned, avoiding his eyes at all costs, “JJ blames me for her death.”

Though you couldn’t see him, you heard Spencer struggling with the information that you’d just given to him. He shifted uncomfortably on the seat and did the mental math in his head, “You were only four when she died. You couldn’t have caused her suicide.”

Nodding, you spared a quick look at him, but the sympathy in his eyes was too much to bear in the confines of the car. Scrambling for the door handle, you opened the door to the car and nearly fell out, sitting yourself on the curb so you could feel the wind prick at your skin. “JJ calls me Ducky because it’s a nickname that Ros gave to me,” you explained once he came around the back of the SUV.

“You don’t need to explain,” He tried to offer. Selfishly, you wanted him to know. You wanted him to understand you better, offering a piece of yourself that no one outside of your immediate family had. You knew Spencer would take that piece and hold it close to his heart, treating it better than anyone else ever had.

You took a deep, trembling breath, “When I was learning how to walk, I did more of a waddle, and Ros said I looked like a little duck. She used to come to the elementary school when I was in kindergarten and walk home with me, because the kids had bullied me so badly on the bus that I was petrified of ever getting back on.” You laughed in slight disbelief, “I didn’t even ask her, she just offered to walk me home. She always stayed after the high school got out and met me in front of my school.”

It was innocent, really, when she called out my nickname to get my attention so we could walk home, but some other kids had overheard her. The next day, we were doing a craft in school, and this one kid—Peter Fuller—dumped a bunch of glue and feathers on my seat when I got up to get a colored pencil. I sat in it, and they all stuck to me. I still remember the way it felt to have everyone point and laugh at me.” You wiped a few stray tears from your cheeks. “My mom picked me up and helped me pull the feathers off of me, but the skirt was a goner. When Ros got home, I yelled at her. I told her I hated her and that she was a bad sister, and the next day…”

Spencer opened his mouth to speak, but you interrupted him, “JJ found her in the bathroom. She’d slit her wrists with our father’s razor blades.” You hugged yourself tightly, “Jennifer told dad what I had said, and he was the first one to blame me. She just followed suit. We’ve gotten past it, mostly, but sometimes things get ugly between us and that’s always the first shot to be fired.”

“It’s a defense mechanism,” Spencer said, lowering himself down to the curb, sitting next to you. “She hits where it hurts because she feels like her walls are down.”

You nodded weakly, “I know. That’s why she always goes for Ros. That’s why she went for your profiling skills.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Spencer asked innocently, trying to gain insight on your sister through you. “That she can’t be confronted without returning fire?”

Thinking about it for a moment, you shrugged, looking at him through teary eyes, “It never changes the fact that she’s my sister. We promised each other a long time ago that we’d never let anything get in between us, so, I don’t think there’s any secret we couldn’t come back from.” You watched him stand up from the curb, holding a hand out for you to take. “She’ll apologize to you in a few days, you just have to wait her out,” you told him as he pulled you to your feet.

You looked up at him, curiously gazing into his brown eyes, he murmured, “I’m glad it’s not just me under fire.”

Nodding, you swallowed thickly before responding to him, “I’ll always be here when you’re under siege.” You noticed the way his eyes were studying your face, “Spencer,” you whispered, “I’m—“

“How’s Garrett?” He asked abruptly, inquiring about your boyfriend unprompted, watching your facial expressions for an answer before you even opened your mouth.

You pursed your lips thoughtfully while he took a step away from you, mindfully putting space between the two of you. “He’s okay, he asked me to move in with him, but I’m—“

“You should do it,” he interrupted you again, putting his hands in his pockets before rounding the car. “We should get back to the precinct,” he said, turning the key in the ignition before you could even comprehend what had just happened.

I’m confused was what you had intended to say to him, and now you were leaving with more questions than you had arrived with. Blinding pawing at the door handle while you prepared yourself for the silent car ride back to work.

"I think I want to be in love with you, but I don't know how." — Angela Carter

#; fic recs #angst

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aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

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everytime I read a fic this domestic about husband spencer reid it sends me into a deep despair and I have to listen to lover you should've come over while hugging my pillow and blanking out into space because WHY CAN'T THIS BE ME WHY CAN'T HE BE REAL :( thank you user girllblogging777 I'M SICK

LATE NIGHT LOGIC 𝜗𝜚

husband!spencer reid x reader (fluff)

↳ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 : 2k

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 : after a leg injury, spencer has to stay home. you try to keep him occupied with games and enigmas, but your husband just happens to be smarter than einstein

click. click. click. the soft and repetitive sound of the your fingers on the keyboard was beginning to make you drowsy.

you couldn’t tell how long you’d been writing, but based on the way the moonlight was streaming through the curtains of you and spencer’s living room, it had been a while.

you looked up, blinking twice and slowly emerging from that article you had been assigned to redact. a soft smile creeped up your face at the sight of your favourite brunette in front of you.

today marked a week since spencer had come home injured. a week since the last case. a week since he hadn’t been able to work. and as much as you incredibly adored having your husband around, he was getting restless.

right now, he was leaning against the kitchen counter, eyes narrowed as he focused on the jar he was holding like it was his personal nemesis. you didn’t have much time to question what exactly he was doing with it, before he met your gaze and spoke up.

“did you know that the average american eats approximately 8.5 lbs of pickles a year ?”

you chuckled. of course, your husband would break a comfortable silence between the two of you with this sort of information

“seriously, babe ?”

he shrugged, shifting his weight to his left leg and trying to disguise a wince.

“i just happened to be reading the ingredients of your oh-so-lovely jar of pickles and-“

“woah, you’ve definitely reached peak boredom. this has gotta stop, spence.“

he sighed, leaning down to look back at the damn pickle jar, before putting it down.

“i know, i know. but i can’t help it, i’m going crazy. i’ve done everything i could, reorganised all your books on the shelf and re-read every single article you wrote since you started working. i need to do something with my brain or else i’ll go crazy-“

you cut him off gently, speaking in an understanding tone. anyone would enjoy a week off work, but rest was not a word in spencer reid’s vocabulary.

“put the jar down, you. come here”

he didn’t think twice, obeying you like he always did. in a couple of long strides, although he was still limping a bit, he sat down next to you on the couch, hands fiddling with the sleeves of his striped pj shirt.

you reached for your stack of documents, frantically searching through them. you knew exactly what you were looking for.

“hey, what are you doing ?” he asked curiously, shoulders sagged as if he was disappointed not to be getting your attention

“there it is.”

he looked at the sheet you’d just handed him.

“huh, eistein ? really ?”

you nodded, a playful glint in your eyes “yeah, the zebra puzzle. they passed it around at work, it’s a pretty difficult thing. you should give it a try”

and obviously, he wasn’t listening anymore. brows creased, nose scrunched, he was already back in working mode within seconds as his eyes scanned the enigma.

you couldn’t take your eyes off of him for a moment, a soft smile on your lips. he just looked so handsome like this, when he was so focused that you could practically hear the gears turning in his brain.

“see, this should keep you occupied for a while” you spoke, leaning back against the couch and shifting your attention back to your laptop.

he didn’t bother answering, way too concentrated to even be able to look up from the paper. soon enough, the comfortable silence between the two of you was back.

click. click. click.

for a moment, he seemed to have forgotten all about his injured leg and impracticality to work. no more reading off random ingredient lists or wandering mindlessly around the apartment.

just you and your wonderful genius sitting on the couch, keeping yourselves busy with your respective tasks.

“just so you know,” you said, glancing at what he’d began scribbling on the sheet, “it’s really complicated”

“no, there’s a pattern… it’s actually pretty simple to find out once i get the-“

“the color of the house. the pet. the drink. the brand of cigarettes.” you enumerated while you kept writing, picking up on something he mumbled incoherently under his breath.

his lips were shaped in that signature upturned smile you dreamt of kissing away, and you kept going. “i mean basically, it’s gonna take you a good thirty minutes before-“

“done.”

you looked up, your brows raising. “what ?”

“i’m done. first to fifth house, left to right. this one owns the zebra”

you couldn’t help but freeze for a second, before pinching the bridge of your nose. “are you kidding me ? it took me an hour to figure it out !”

he shrugged, head tilting to the side as he answered like it was the easiest thing in the world. “well, i wouldn’t deserve the title of genius if i hadn’t been able to do it.”

“yeah… you definitely are a genius. fine. and here i thought this would keep you occupied for more than a minute”

spencer leaned in, brushing a wild strand of hair behind your ear in the most casual way possible. instantly, the rhythm of your pulse accelerated, and you could simply hum when he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

“thank you, though. for keeping up with me.”

you shook your head, reassuring him “it’s fine. should’ve known i wouldn’t be able to finish up that article before you’d drop another fun fact”

“oh, you love my knowledge about pickles.” he attempted in a flirty tone, but since it was spencer, it just sounded like he was actually expecting you to agree and ask more about it.

you simply giggled, nodding before he spoke up again “by the way, considering how many pickles i’ve seen you consume within the past week, you’re way above average”

yeah. it was definitely going to be something, having to keep your husband occupied for the rest of his sick leave.

and even though the constant rambling and attention he needed should annoy you, those brown eyes of his were enough for you to selfishly hope he’d stay around forever.

a/n : had to solve this enigma the other day and my first thought was “i bet spencer could do this within minutes”… anyways, hope y’all enjoy whatever this is !!

@gf2bellamy @iamgonnagetyouback @reidscherrylady @xervoxs @kaz-03

#; fic recs #fluff #SR #domestic! spencer #*

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aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

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would you ever write for any body other than spencer? I love your writing and I honestly wish you wrote for others *cough*hotch*cough*bucky*cough*

My attraction is limited to tall socially inept nerds with high IQ's and an interest in knowing 💙

Trying to write for anyone else is a challenge (I've tried) and uninspiring. There's tons of great writers out there for Hotch and Bucky though! Except I don't know anything for bucky, but for Hotch start there's @mariasont and @mggslover and more (I also don't know too much about the Hotch side I'm sorry 😭)

#; answers #✉️ from anon #guys pls rec stuff if u have it help an anon out

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aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

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I have nothing to say this was so yummy. I read this more than once tbh...

Greedy

PAIRING: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: You give Spencer head for the first time as he guides you through it.

CONTENT: (18+) Blowjob. Praise. Crying. Gagging. Bon Appetit.

WORD COUNT: 1.8k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: this is totally formatted weird because i did this on a whim in my car at work without my laptop. i also didn’t proofread, sooooo if you see any typos, no you didn’t ❤️

*************

"Do you like having your dick sucked?"

Spencer is silent for approximately seven seconds before you continue, shock rendering his brain utterly useless.

"Sorry. That was a stupid question."

"N—no, it's not at all, I'm just... I didn't expect you to say that out of the blue."

You shuffle your position next to him, coming up to lean on your arm as he looks up at you. You bite your lip and avoid his eyes, his hand coming up to stroke your arm as you consider your words. "Well, I just... I've been thinking about it. I mean, we've been sleeping together for a while now and I've never done it, and I didn't know if it was something you actually cared about or... or what..."

Hearing you ramble and trail off makes him laugh to himself, his hand trailing up to lock your fingers with his. "Do you want to?"

It's your turn to laugh, the breath laced with worry, and regret for even bringing it up. "I'd love to, but... I'm not good at it."

Spencer pauses again, far less than seven seconds this time, the pieces slowly starting to come together. "I doubt that's true, but even if it is, there is not a single thing you could be bad at, in bed or otherwise, that would make me like you any less."

Still, you're relentless in your insecurity over the matter. "No, you don't understand, I'm astronomically bad at it— I can't even brush my teeth without gagging and crying!"

Somehow, despite the laugh that tumbles from him, the brief image of your pretty face flushed and puffy, eyes wet with tears, causes something wicked to stir in him. Still, he aims to comfort you first and push it aside in the meantime—perhaps forever if it would mean your contentment and happiness. To reiterate this point, he leans up and kisses your jaw. "Well, I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to until you're ready. Or at all.”

Your body relaxes a little, though your voice remains unsure and small as you ask him, “Can I try?”

Spencer kisses you again, pulling you on top of him and letting your lips bring him one step closer to Heaven. You kiss him softly, sensually, and his body reacts to it with such visceral need that he wonders how he’s lived so much of his life without you.

“Do anything you want, my love,” he whispers against you when you pull away for air. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

You melt at his words, literally, as your body comes down over him. It’s like a tidal wave, trust and love and desire all crashing into him at once. There isn’t a single ounce of him that isn’t set alight at the mere phantom of your touch. So, when you’re on him in full force, a careful methodical mission to please him, he may as well be a living embodiment of the sun, burning and blinding and hot.

He watches you intently, trying not to let his eyes close as you continue your descent down the length of him. Your lips are slow and molten, each and every kiss sending a shockwave of excitement coursing through his body. Every so often, your tongue darts out to taste his skin, and the closer it gets to his waist, the harder it is for him to focus.

God, he thinks with a grin, you haven’t even undressed me and I’m already a fucking mess…

Your hand comes up to trace along the seams of his underwear, occasionally slipping underneath, teasing, as you nip and lick at his lower abdomen. And then, when you finally press your palm to the hard and aching weight of his desire, he can’t help the sound that escapes him—desperate, low, and downright pornographic.

Spencer half-expects you to laugh and tease him for being needy, but his need for you only builds your confidence; You gently squeeze him through that pesky thin cotton layer and swipe your thumb along where the underside of his tip is. Your mouth moves lower, teeth tugging at the waistband of said cotton, and he thinks you might actually be the death of him.

Watching you intently and steadying his breathing, Spencer lifts his hips as you tug the fabric down, at first with your teeth and then, finally, with your hands. The slight whimper that leaves your mouth at the sight of his flushed cock is a sound he never wants to forget, though the sound you make when you finally press your warm, welcoming tongue to his shaft is even better.

You moan and lick, slowly and all the way up to the tip, like you’ve just tasted Heaven. Your tongue explores and swirls, and your lips occasionally close around his balls, never fully taking him into your mouth but making him wet and aching all over.

Your exploration is slow. Deliberate. Sultry. Your eyes flick up to meet his every once in a while, never faltering your movements, but Spencer can tell every time that your body is physically crumbling under the weight of his gaze. The pure unabashed lust swimming about in his entire being is at a level that is new and overwhelming, threatening to sweep him away in a tidal wave and take you with him.

He wants to be greedy, but for now, he will wait.

You seem to sense this, pausing the movements with your mouth to talk while you strike him gently in your hand.

“Can I confess something?”

Even if he had an answer, he couldn’t have given it, his ability to speak rendered utterly useless when your fist squeezes firmly over his tip. His mouth falls open in a silent sigh of pleasure as you continue.

“The thought of choking on your cock is making me really wet…”

You punctuate your confession with a gentle, searing kiss to his belly. Right where his greed is pooling and aching to be set free.

All he can do is groan, throwing his head back and clutching at the sheets below him.

“Would you like that? Fucking my throat and making me take it until I’m crying?”

Spencer’s hips jerk involuntarily, and he barks out, “Yes. Fuck.”

You do laugh this time, but only for a second before bracing yourself. Your mouth parts, taking the tip of him between your lips and getting yourself used to having him inside you this way. Your tongue finds a comfortable way to caress him as you go down slowly, lower and lower, until—

You tense and retreat, barely making it down his cock half-way before you’re choking, a line of drool following your poor, pouting lips.

At first, Spencer thinks maybe you’ve changed your mind, and he’s ready to tell you it’s okay and that you can stop.

And then, you’re going again, your eyes never leaving his as you take him in your mouth once more. Slowly, and this time more relaxed. Your tongue glides around him differently, trying something new, making more room for him, but it’s still not enough to keep you from gagging.

Your eyes gloss over and your throat contracts, but you make yourself stay for two seconds longer before you’re audibly gagging, going back up and blinking away tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, catching your breath. “I’m trying.”

Spencer reaches and caresses your jaw with the back of his knuckles, his dick practically throbbing in your fist.

“I know, pretty girl. And you’re doing such a good job.”

The words are merely meant for comfort and reassurance, not to make you keep going, but they seem to encourage you anyway. Your watery gaze rises to lock with his, and you start to lazily stroke him again.

“Really?”

“Yes. You’re so perfect. I mean it.”

“I can’t even make it halfway down,” you whine in protest, but he’s immediately shaking his head.

“So what. You still feel incredible.”

You look up at him like you don’t believe him, but you’re determined to keep trying anyway, shifting yourself and bringing him to your lips one more time.

His hand is there for comfort at first, cradling your jaw, but then he finds himself guiding you, lifting your head back up once you start to go down too far. He keeps you right on the edge of your limit, feeling your throat tense every once in a while, but not enough to overwhelm you.

Spencer can feel your excitement, your movements getting more rhythmic and your tongue finding a perfect mold to the intruding length of him.

“That’s it,” he coos, trying to keep his breathing even. Both of his hands are on your face now, keeping you steady as you look up at him. “You look so pretty like this.”

His words are fuel, something darkening in your eyes as he expels them, and then you’re taking the reins, gripping his waist and plunging yourself lower onto his cock in one swift motion.

“Fuck!” he yelps in surprise, still holding your head as you hold yourself to the base of him and gag, for one, two, three seconds before lifting.

It’s not long before you’re going down on him again, finding a new, quick and sloppy rhythm that takes him deeper down the back of your throat each time. You choke, you gag, you drool, and you cry.

God, do you cry…

Spencer’s thumbs catch your falling tears, a steady stream that paints your cheeks beautifully and fulfills that deep-brewing greed thrashing around in the pits of his belly.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cry,” he rushes out, close to orgasm.

At this, you whimper, which causes you to choke, which causes Spencer to finally let go, and he holds your head and thrusts up into your mouth. Over and over again.

He praises you through it, swiping lovingly at fresh tears and feeling his cum trail down his cock with your saliva, because of course there was no way you’d be able to swallow it all.

“That’s my good girl,” he chokes out, his thrusts softening. “Taking my cock so well… Just like I knew you would.”

Eventually his orgasm fades, and your mouth finally has reprieve. Still, Spencer cradles your face in his hands as he studies the aftermath.

He hadn’t been aware that you were wearing any mascara, but now it’s evident, watery black streaks cascading down the slopes of your cheeks. Your face is red all over, eyes puffy and lips even more so. You smile faintly, exhausted but happy—proud—and he can’t help but think—

“God, you’re beautiful…”

And right then, looking at him look at you, with adoration and wonder in his eyes, the thin fog of lust settled like firework smoke around you, you can’t help but think back—

“Mmm, so are you.”

#; fic recs #smut

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aliteralsemicolon · 5 days ago

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what the FREAK I just want peace why would you

it's not home without you

spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer's been gone for a long time and it's hurting you

word count: 1.3k

contains: cw: mentions of falling from a big height, reader is lowkey depressed, hurt (/comfort?), a severe lack of communication, reader is feeling pretty lonely (writer projecting moment), a text from garcia!, this is before prison era reid becauuuse i haven't gotten that far in the show yet hahaha

You sit on the ledge, your back to the street below and your legs on the cool concrete that is thankfully masked by the fabric of your pants. Looking over your shoulder at the busy street below elicits the dangerous idea of falling, falling, falling, so fast and hitting the pavement so hard and so sudden. A breeze pulls through the air and you shudder, cursing yourself for neglecting to bring a sweater with you.

It’s almost peaceful on the rooftop of your apartment building. It’s a quiet that replaces the hum of the TV in your apartment downstairs that plays absentmindedly, it's a sanctuary from the yucky feelings you can’t seem to shed down there. Instead, the air swirls with the faint sounds of the traffic going on somewhere below you, distant crosswalk beeps and tire screeches. Beyond the cacophony lies a different tortuous noise– the high-pitched ringing in your ears that replaced Spencer’s exit nearly four weeks ago.

It all started with a phone call from Hotch. Just like every case does. And just like every other case, Spencer was quick to take off, apologetic– but of course, you had understood. That’s just how it goes. Stay safe, okay? And you get it. Spencer can’t always reach you when he’s tackling those cases. You’ve seen how they consume his mind and his body. You estimated a week tops– like you always do– until his text We’re about to take off. Be home soon <3 buzzed your phone and you could go about your life with peace of mind that Spencer would be in your arms soon.

To be fair, you’d gotten a text. Just not the one you wanted.

Hey, just wrapped up the case but Hotch got a call for a new one in California. I’m so sorry, hopefully we can finish it up fast. I love you <3

Trying to look on the bright side, you’d taken it as a bonus that he was in good condition. If anything had gone seriously wrong, they’d never let him take on the next case. You added another week to your wait.

On the thirteenth day without him, you’d gotten another text. You nearly jumped out of your seat hurdling yourself to your cell phone, desperate for that On the way home message.

Your stomach dropped at the name Penelope Garcia waiting instead.

Hiii just wanted to let you know the team got called to another case they’re hoping to stop home before flying again but doesn’t look like they’ll have time :(((

That one made your heart hurt a little more. The apartment was beginning to feel like a cell rather than a home.

It ended up being twenty-three days total since he had left. When he finally did get home he collapsed in your arms, well worn and too exhausted to do anything besides apologize for not having the energy to stay up late with you.

Now, four days since then, he’s been stuck at work, a seemingly endless pile of case reports to work through. You wake up to empty bed sheets, knowing he's been having to leave for work early. Then he comes home and he can hardly hold his eyes open, insisting that a cup of coffee could mean a movie night with you, but you reject it, knowing better for him. You feel kind of stupid for that, Why did I say no when I've been missing him so much? but you know he needs his rest, probably more than he needs to be spending time with you.

There must have been something there, a look in your eyes when you told him no, because it was met with a droop of his shoulders and a soft, Are you okay? that felt like a stab to the gut. You told him, Yes, I’m just tired, I guess and somehow leveraged that into your escape to the rooftop. The fresh air was relaxing, but it made you feel even more poisoned for abandoning Spencer downstairs.

Since he’s gotten home, you still don’t feel like you’ve gotten him back. He’s right there, but so far out of your reach. It’s a numbing feeling. Too hurt to hurt any more.

It’s almost peaceful on the rooftop.

You hear him before you see him. It almost makes you freeze because no one else should be up here with you, but the exhale he lets out as he shudders through the chills gives him away– you know the sounds he makes like the back of your hand.

You don’t say anything though. You wait for him to make the first move.

And so he does.

“When I asked if you were okay earlier,” he begins, “You told me you were tired, and I probably would’ve believed you,”

“What gave me away?” You finally turn to meet his eyes. He’s standing close to you, but not close enough.

“That. The sound of your voice.” He answers softly. “You’re quiet. You do that when you’re upset.”

“Is that my tell?”

“One of them.”

“What are the others?”

“Nice try.” Spencer raises his brows, not letting the conversation shift from the topic. “Really, what’s the matter?”

You go quiet. Suddenly the view of the lampposts below you are more appealing than the heavy eye contact between your eyes and Spencer’s own hazels.

He takes the quiet moment as an opportunity to take a seat beside you.

“Hey.”

You meet his eyes, and you feel like you could die. He looks so worried, and you feel just so pathetic for even existing right now.

“You know you can tell me. I’m not going to think any differently of you no matter what it is. Did something happen at work?”

You shake your head, shutting your eyes. “No, no, nothing like that.”

You expect him to press, but he doesn’t. He stays quiet, waiting for you to continue.

But you don’t know how.

Words can wait.

You press your head into that warm spot between his neck and his shoulder, sighing contentedly as his arm comes to hold your shoulders.

It’s comfortable like this for a moment, then Spencer hears you sniffle.

“I just missed you.”

Maybe it’s the crack in your voice, but you get the sense that the one plain sentence hits Spencer like a dump truck. He suddenly inhales, like he’s trying to stifle a gasp. He recovers quickly though, disguising it with a brief sigh, and sinks into you like you’re melting him into a puddle.

You swallow hard, determined to make it through this conversation without tears. Focusing on your breath, you try to continue.

“It, umm… it gets quiet when you’re not here.”

You can practically hear the gears turning in Spencer’s head. Why does he have to think so damn loud? You know he’s visualizing it. He can see it as clearly as it happened– weeks of you, alone, in the apartment. Merely existing day-to-day, occupied by the nagging question of Is Spencer Reid going to come back to me in one piece? and trying to be okay with the lack of text, lack of phone call, lack of email. He can see you in bed late at night, buried in one of his old academy hoodies and crying into the pillowcase just because you missed him.

You knew it was pathetic. But you could only exist without that piece of your heart for so long.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, Spence–”

He says your name softly but urgently, “Please,” He moves to grab your face, ever so gently, with deft fingers. “I should’ve let you know. Instead of leaving you here without any word on what was happening.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s not your fault.”

Instead of words, he meets you with another tight hug. Your nose is pressed into his neck and you’re left with no option but to inhale him. It’s like a curse. You’re so drawn to him, so attached, so bound, that being away hurts more than anything else could.

But if that’s the price of love, you’ll take it any day if it means Spencer Reid can be yours.

“I’m here now, okay? I promise I’m here now.”

You know he can’t offer you much solace than that. His presence is enough though.

“I know.”

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#; fic recs #h/c

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