brattyspence

[brattyspence]

NACHOS HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TONME

DREAM | s.reid x reader

pairing: spencer reid x reader content warnings: blowjob word count: 286 a/n: still trying to grasp the concept of writing smut lol enjoy!

"That's it, love. That's my good girl." Spencer let out a moan as his hand lightly caressed her head. "I know you can get a bit more of me into your mouth."

You shook your head negatively, despite your mind — and body — betraying you. 

"You can't? I thought you wanted to make me proud, love." he replied, then let out a tsk. His hands slowly let go of your hair. "Now I'm sad."

The false tone of sadness was noticeable to you, but at that moment your mind was only thinking of one thing: the faster he comes, the faster he'll fuck. And without any warning, you lowered your mouth a little further, taking in more of his cock. 

Spencer realized this and smiled, "That's my good girl! I knew you'd make me proud."

Spencer's hands gripped your hair again, this time a little harder. And you felt his cock twitching inside your mouth, the first drops of cum hitting the roof of your mouth.

Spencer moaned, his voice deep and thick in a way you'd never heard before. When you swallowed all the cum and showed him your empty mouth, after all, you were a good girl and you wanted to make him proud.

He pulled your body up, taking you out of the pool and positioning you right on the edge, while he positioned his body between your legs. His hands went up and up, until they reached the bottom of your bikini. Spencer was getting ready to untie your body part, when you heard a sound... a very familiar and characteristic sound.

It was your alarm clock, telling you that it was already 6am and that once again, everything was just a dream.

[brattyspence]

me next me next

Spencer and reader get stuck in the cold weather while on a case, and after Spencer rambles about body heat being a good source of warmth (or a similar fact); reader suggests testing that theory

oh i really liked this ask 😭 i always love writing for things i havent before! i actually thought id already posted this but i found it in my drafts

cw; 18+ mdni!! needy!spencer, softdom!spence if you squint, sexy science puns, lots of heavy petting, dry humping, fingering

The cold was unforgiving. It bit through every layer of clothing, sinking into your bones with a chill that felt almost personal. You wrapped your arms around yourself, blowing into your hands as you glanced at the snow-covered road stretching endlessly ahead. The SUV sat uselessly on the shoulder, engine dead, and the faint crackle of your radio confirmed that the rest of the team was still hours away.

Spencer stood a few feet away, pacing in a tight circle to keep his blood moving. His long coat whipped slightly in the wind, and his hair, unkempt from hours in the field, fell into his face. He pushed it back absently, his gloved fingers trembling slightly from the cold. His breath puffed in front of him like small, fleeting clouds.

“We’re going to freeze out here,” you muttered, your teeth chattering as you hugged yourself tighter.

Spencer paused mid-step and looked at you, his brows knitting together in concern. “Not necessarily,” he began, his voice wavering slightly from the chill but still steady enough to deliver one of his signature facts. “The human body has remarkable thermoregulatory mechanisms. For instance, shivering is a natural response designed to generate heat through muscle activity.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips quirking despite the cold. “Not sure shivering is going to cut it, Reid.”

He blinked, his face taking on that familiar, earnest expression as he shifted gears. “Well, there is another method that’s proven to be highly effective in conserving warmth. Sharing body heat—specifically, skin-to-skin contact—can significantly reduce the risk of hypothermia. It’s a technique commonly used in survival situations.”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a short laugh that fogged the air between you. “Skin-to-skin, huh?”

His eyes widened slightly, and he stumbled over his words, his hands flailing in a nervous gesture. “I-I didn’t mean it like that—I mean, not like that—just, you know, from a purely biological standpoint. It’s logical.”

You couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips, despite the fact that your face was half-frozen. “Relax, Spencer. I’m not accusing you of anything. You’ve got a good point.”

His head tilted slightly, his mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to decide whether or not you were teasing him.

“I’m serious,” you said, stepping closer and gesturing toward the SUV. “Let’s test that theory. Unless you’ve got another way to keep us from turning into popsicles out here?”

He froze for a second, his cheeks turning pink—not just from the cold, you noted. “Oh. Uh… okay. Yes. That—that makes sense.”

You led the way back into the SUV, grateful for even the limited shelter it provided. Spencer followed, his movements stiff and hesitant as if he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to be there. You shrugged off your heavy coat, setting it aside, and gestured for him to do the same.

He hesitated, his hands hovering near the buttons of his coat. “You’re sure about this?”

You rolled your eyes, though your tone was light. “Unless you want to freeze out there alone, yes, I’m sure.”

Spencer nodded quickly, shedding his coat and draping it over the seat. His movements were deliberate, precise, as though he were calculating every step.

“You know, this is purely for survival,” you teased as you slid onto the backseat.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice a touch too high-pitched to be convincing.

Settling beside him, you turned to face him fully. “So, how does this work, Doctor?”

“Well,” he began, his tone shifting into that of a lecture despite the awkwardness in his posture, “the idea is to maximize surface area contact to facilitate heat transfer. The skin is an effective medium for conduction, and by—”

“Spencer,” you interrupted, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice. “Just hold me.”

His lips parted in a silent “oh,” and he nodded, his cheeks darkening further as he opened his arms. Tentatively, you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. His body was lean and sharp beneath the layers, and his arms wrapped around you with a hesitance that made your heart squeeze.

“Warmer already,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you pressed closer.

He let out a nervous laugh, his breath brushing the top of your head. “That’s… good. It means the method is working.”

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, save for the faint sound of his breathing and the occasional rustle of clothing. Gradually, his grip on you became more secure, his hands resting lightly on your back. You could feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek—quick and irregular, as though he were nervous.

“You’re like a walking space heater,” you teased softly, breaking the quiet.

“That’s not entirely accurate,” he replied, his voice carrying a hint of his usual matter-of-fact tone. “The human body only generates a limited amount of heat—around 100 watts at rest, give or take. It’s not comparable to a—”

“Spencer,” you said again, a laugh bubbling up despite yourself. “I was joking.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He cleared his throat, and you could practically feel the embarrassment radiating off him.

You tilted your head to look up at him, finding his gaze already on you. His brown eyes were wide, soft, and filled with something that made your stomach flip—curiosity, vulnerability, and a hint of awe.

“It’s okay. I like when you ramble. Especially when you get all excited about sciencey stuff.” Your voice was soft, meant to soothe, and you tilted your head to meet his gaze. The small smile you offered was an invitation, a reassurance that he hadn’t overstepped. “In fact, it’s one of my favorite things about you.”

The effect of your words was immediate. Spencer blinked rapidly, his expressive brown eyes widening as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. His eyebrows shot up, almost vanishing beneath the tousled strands of his hair. He opened his mouth as if to speak but hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow.

“Oh,” he finally managed, his voice unsteady. “I, uh... thanks.”

You could see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his eyes darted to the side, searching for an anchor in a moment that felt too big for him. Your heart ached at his reaction, and without thinking, you raised a hand to rest your palm gently on his chest. The warmth of him seeped into your skin, and you felt the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your touch.

The muscles beneath your hand tensed slightly, a reflexive reaction, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stood frozen, his eyes fixed on yours, his vulnerability laid bare in the way he held his breath. You let your fingers drift upward, brushing over the edge of his collarbone and the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. The movement was slow, deliberate, meant to ground him.

Spencer’s breath hitched audibly, a faint gasp escaping his parted lips. His wide eyes flickered back to meet yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you, the snowy storm outside fading into insignificance.

“Y/n?” His voice was barely a whisper, your name fragile and questioning on his tongue.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in, closing the small distance between you to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. The sound he made in response—a soft, involuntary whimper—sent a ripple of warmth through your chest. His lips parted slightly against yours, his breath mingling with your own, and you could feel the way his body trembled ever so slightly under your touch.

The kiss deepened by degrees, slow and exploratory, as if neither of you wanted to rush the moment. His hand came up tentatively to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. There was a sweetness to his touch, a kind of reverence that made your chest tighten with affection.

When you finally broke the kiss, you stayed close, your foreheads nearly touching. Spencer’s breathing was uneven, and his eyes were dark, filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite name but felt all the same.

“I like when you ramble,” you murmured again, letting your fingers trace the line of his jaw. “It’s one of the things that makes you, you. And I love that.”

Spencer swallowed hard, his lashes fluttering as he looked down at you. “I... don’t think anyone’s ever said something like that to me before.”

“Then it’s about time someone did,” you said, your voice firm with conviction.

His lips curved into the smallest of smiles, shy and a little uncertain, but so genuine it made your heart squeeze. You leaned up to kiss him again, this time lingering a little longer, savoring the warmth of his lips against yours.

“Tell me something scientific,” you murmured, your voice muffled as you turned your face into the curve of his neck. Your lips found the soft spot beneath his ear, and you pressed a gentle kiss there, feeling the slight shiver that ran through him.

Spencer cleared his throat, his voice a little uneven as he obliged. “Humans have a remarkable capacity to generate warmth through muscle activity. For example, shivering alone can increase your metabolic rate by up to ten times.”

“That’s interesting,” you hummed against his skin, the vibration making him swallow hard. Your lips trailed lower, brushing against the tender skin of his throat before settling at the hollow where his pulse beat steadily. You kissed him there, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his breath hitched. “Do you know what else can generate warmth?”

For a moment, Spencer froze, his body stiffening slightly in your embrace. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight, and the single word seemed to catch in his throat. “Uh... friction?”

You grinned against his neck, the curve of your smile pressing into his skin. “That’s a good one.”

His exhale came out in a shaky mix of a laugh and a gasp, his nerves and amusement intertwining. “You- you think so?”

Shifting beneath him, you arched your back just enough to press your hips against him, and the reaction was immediate. Spencer groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your chest as you undulated again, slow and deliberate. “I really do,” you clarified, your tone teasing as you moved against him.

Spencer dropped his forehead to your shoulder, letting out a low chuckle tinged with exasperation. “God, Y/n. You’re ridiculous.”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” you shot back, your grin widening as you tightened your grip around him. The warmth of his body against yours was intoxicating, every slight movement feeding the growing tension between you.

He lifted his head, his expression softer now, his gaze locking onto yours. Without hesitation, he kissed you, his lips tentative but sweet as they met yours. “And I learned from you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words carrying a weight that made your chest ache. “Everything.”

His kiss deepened as he spoke, his tongue slipping past your lips to meet your own in a slow, intoxicating dance. “Everything,” he repeated, his voice husky as he pulled back just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. “Including this.”

Spencer rolled his hips against you, the hard length of him dragging against your center with a pressure that made your toes curl. The friction was maddening, delicious, and you gasped into his mouth, your hands clutching at his back as you arched against him.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Spencer whispered, the confession raw and unguarded. Despite his words, he didn’t stop moving, his rhythm steady and almost instinctual. “I just—fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugged at your heart, the mix of lust and affection swelling in your chest until it felt like you might burst. “You could never mess this up,” you said, your voice trembling slightly as your fingers traced the lines of his spine. “Spencer, I—”

The words faltered on your tongue, the depth of your feelings too overwhelming to articulate. How could you possibly express how much you cared for him, how long you’d admired him, how deeply you craved this closeness? The enormity of it all made your throat tighten, the emotions too big and too raw to put into words.

So instead, you kissed him. You poured everything you couldn’t say into the press of your lips against his, hoping he would feel the depth of your emotions in the way your hands held him, in the way your body pressed against his, in the way your heart beat wildly in sync with his own.

Spencer's fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, his palm tentative but burning hot against your side. His touch was so light it sent a shiver skittering down your spine, and your breath caught in your throat as he hesitated. “Can I...?”

“Spencer.” You reached down to capture his hand, guiding it higher and pressing it firmly against the flat of your stomach. “You don’t have to ask.”

He exhaled shakily, leaning in to kiss you again. This time, there was a hunger in his kiss that hadn’t been there before, an urgency that made your pulse race. His other hand found its way to your chest, and he palmed you through your bra, his movements still cautious but full of intent. “I want to be good at this,” he murmured, his voice low and raw against your lips.

You arched your hips into his, the movement slow and deliberate, eliciting a sharp gasp from him when his cock dragged against your clit. “You already are,” you whispered, your words a mix of reassurance and pure honesty.

He pulled back slightly, his lips parting as he searched your face. His gaze was soft but piercing, filled with a vulnerability that made your chest ache. “Really?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah.” You swallowed hard, your throat tightening with the weight of your emotions. “You’re perfect.”

The corners of his mouth lifted into a small, almost bashful smile, his face softening at your words. His gaze drifted downward, his lashes dark against his skin as he took in the sight of your bodies pressed together. “You are, too,” he murmured, the sincerity in his voice making your heart stutter.

Without warning, Spencer pushed himself up, his hands bracketing your hips as he knelt between your legs. His fingers fumbled at his belt, his brow furrowing in concentration as he worked to undo it. After a moment of struggling, he gave up with a quiet huff, opting instead to slide a hand into his jeans. When he began stroking himself, his lips parted on a soft, unbidden moan, and your stomach clenched at the sight.

The way his hand moved, slow and deliberate, combined with the way his jaw tightened and his breath came in ragged gasps—it was intoxicating. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, your mouth watering as you imagined replacing his hand with your own, with your mouth. You wanted to feel him, taste him, make him lose himself in you.

“Spencer—” you breathed, the single word thick with want.

But before you could finish your thought, he was shifting back down, his body settling against yours as his lips found your neck. “I want you to get off on me,” he whispered, his voice rough and urgent against your skin. His mouth trailed along your jawline, the light scrape of his teeth sending sparks of heat through you. “Is that okay?”

“Fuck, yes,” you gasped, your hands finding purchase on his hips. You dragged him closer, your fingers digging into the firm muscle of his ass to pull him against you.

The friction was delicious, the slow roll of his hips against yours making your head spin. The heat of him, the weight of him, the low, breathy sounds he made—it was almost too much and yet not enough all at once. You tilted your head back, offering him more of your neck as you ground against him, losing yourself in the rhythm of his body against yours.

Spencer gasped as your hips rocked up against his, the friction of his cock sliding over your clit drawing a soft moan from you. The two of you found a rhythm, slow and deliberate, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Each roll of his hips sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your veins, the growing pressure between your thighs impossible to ignore. His hardness rubbed against you with each motion, his movements unpracticed yet intoxicatingly eager.

He dropped his head to your shoulder, his breath hot and erratic against your skin. His groan was low and guttural, the sound vibrating through you as his body tensed. You couldn’t help the soft whimper that escaped your lips in response, your hands sliding up his back to hold him closer.

He felt incredible like this—hot, hard, and trembling with need in your arms. You pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, feeling the dampness of his hairline as you drew back to take in his face. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted, and his eyes... God, his eyes. They met yours, dark and stormy with a desperate hunger that made your breath catch.

“What do you want?” you asked softly, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.

Spencer’s gaze didn’t waver. “You,” he breathed, his tone raw and unguarded. “I want you.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest, high-pitched and giddy with affection and desire. You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. “You’ve got me, Spencer.”

His eyes fluttered shut as you rocked your hips against him again, drawing a sharp inhale from his lips. His voice was rough with longing when he spoke, barely more than a whisper. “I know. I want—I want to...” He trailed off, his brow furrowing in frustration as he struggled to articulate his thoughts.

You leaned in, your lips grazing his forehead before trailing down to his ear. “Tell me,” you murmured, your voice soft and coaxing. “Whatever it is, Spencer. Tell me.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your lips as he searched for the words. His breaths were shallow and uneven, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and ragged. “I want—fuck. I just want to make you feel good.” He exhaled sharply, his hand sliding between your bodies to cup you through your underwear. His palm pressed against your cunt, tentative but deliberate, and your breath hitched in response.

“I want to feel you come,” he continued, his words spilling out in a rush. His fingers twitched against you, his touch gentle but insistent. “Is that—can I—fuck—”

You silenced him with a kiss, your lips capturing his in a heated press that said everything words couldn’t. His hand flexed against you, and when you rocked against him, a strangled moan tore from his throat. You felt his hesitation melt away as his fingers pressed more firmly, his eagerness making up for any lack of experience.

“Yes,” you breathed against his lips, your hips moving in time with his touch. “Yes, Spencer. Please.”

The desperation in your voice seemed to spur him on, his confidence growing with every gasped moan and whispered plea that fell from your lips. His movements were clumsy but earnest, his need to please you shining through in every stroke and press of his hand. It was intoxicating, the way he gave himself to you so completely, so openly.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your breaths coming faster as the tension coiled tighter in your belly. “Spencer,” you gasped, your voice breaking on his name. “I’m—God, I’m so close—”

His response was immediate, his free hand sliding to your hip to hold you steady as he pressed harder, his movements matching the rhythm of your hips. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice shaking with both nerves and determination. “Let go. Please, I want to feel it.”

And when you did—when the tension snapped and a wave of pleasure crashed over you—it was his name that spilled from your lips in a cry, his hands anchoring you as you trembled in his arms. Spencer held you through it, his own breaths ragged and uneven, his forehead pressing against yours as he whispered your name like a prayer.

[brattyspence]

im banging my head into walls and screaming and crying lover u r everything to me this was worth every second of waiting jm sick im ill im

Addicted

In which Spencer meets a beautiful stranger at his local dealer, his addiction to weed rapidly turning into an addiction to her.

Pairing: stoner!spencer x stoner!fem!reader Genre: slight angst x smut (18+) Content warnings: weed usage (not promoting it! pls zont zo it), short mentions of tobias hankel and maeve, finger sucking, mutual masturbation, lazy high sex Word count: 3,6k A/n: my first fic inspired on a song! when i listened to 'denial is a river' by doechii, this fic immediately started to form in my mind

Spencer oftentimes wondered when he started becoming afraid of his own mind. Maybe there was never a starting point — maybe it was rooted in his bones, something he never had the chance to escape. An inherited terror, passed down like a family heirloom. 

He knew the descent into insanity was inevitable. That there would come a time when his mind, the thing he’s relied on all his life, would betray him. That he’d watch the pieces of himself scatter until his identity was nothing but a cruel mockery of who he once was.

What Spencer didn’t expect was for that moment to arrive so soon. He never imagined his first meeting with madness to be in a dark cabin as the sting of Dilaudid coursed through his veins. And what Spencer least expected was how he’d feel afterward — how, no matter the trauma, he would find himself aching for that sensation, longing for it to return.

With his reason still intact, he managed to sign himself up for a support group destined for addicts in law enforcement. Rehab might’ve been the hardest battle he’d had to face, and being clean is a title he still doesn't deserve. Because even though it’s been years since his arms last looked blue, he’s been smoking weed habitually. 

It started when a police officer in the program spoke up about his struggle with weed addiction, going into detail about the tranquilizing effects and how it left him unable to focus on the job. Whereas his story would sound appalling to most, Spencer found appeal in its descriptions. Cannabis offered the same calming qualities as Dilaudid, but with a lower overdose risk, and on top of that, it was far easier to obtain.

So when the officer casually slipped his dealer’s address in the middle of immersively sharing his story, Spencer made a mental note and found himself on the location later that day. The transaction was easier than he’d expected; showing the cash in his pocket was enough for the gruff man to hand him a small, opaque bag, its contents concealed. 

That same night, Spencer found himself sitting on his couch, supplies spread out on the coffee table before him. He remembered a guy from his PhD mathematics program, rolling a blunt in Yale’s community garden under the same big tree where Spencer would read his literature for the day. It gave him some of an idea on how to proceed. Once he had the wrap filled, he methodically pinched and smoothed the paper as he rolled it with his fingers, careful to avoid tearing. 

He didn’t feel much with the first drag, but as he inhaled deeper, a tingling sensation spread to his head and chest, almost coaxing him into a dosed state. The world around him instantly softened, and he sank further into the couch, as if a fuzzy, warm blanket had draped over him.

That moment marked the first of many, as Spencer would often return to the plant when experiencing withdrawal or when he started developing headaches later in his life. He frequently recalled how the officer mentioned performing less at his job while under the influence, but for Spencer, it had the opposite effect. He tended to approach cases too objectively and analytically. When he would go home at the end of the day and smoke before bed, his mind would suddenly make creative, out-of-the-box connections — connections he had never considered before. 

Spencer wasn’t ready to give up weed just yet.

———

You were lying down, your head resting on the armrest of the pink velvet couch that stood in the corner of your therapist’s office. For the past fifteen minutes, you’d been staring at a small star painted on the ceiling, which was part of a mural of the universe. It was supposed to help people ground themselves — to remind them that their existence was nothing more than a tiny spark in the entire cosmos.

“I don’t know,” you eventually responded in a sigh as your therapist questioned you once again. “This is a really dark time for me, I’m going through a lot.”

“By ‘a lot’, you mean drugs?”

You were thrown off guard by the inquiry, brows furrowing. “Um, I wouldn’t-”

“Drugs?” She repeated, her pen ready in hand, as her notebook rested open on her lap.

Your head shot up from its position on the armrest of the couch. “No, it’s a-”

“No?” She probed, her eyes raised up, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

“It’s a natural plant,” you stated, sitting up straighter.

“No, I’m not judging.”

You rolled your eyes at her attempt to reassure you. “I’m not an addict.” 

“I’m just saying-”

“I don’t think-”

“You wanna talk about it?”

———

The door slamming behind you was as much of a response as you would offer her. With hurried steps you walked out of the building, hand reaching into your pocket as you searched for your car keys. With a small click of the door, you entered your beat-up old car, shivering as you still haven’t been able to fix the radiator. 

You didn’t need to pull up the GPS — not that you even owned one — to know where you were headed. You speed-dialed your dealer as you rounded a corner, and maybe that was enough to confirm that you did have a bit of a problem with drugs. At least you were seeing a therapist; not many can say the same.

The sun was disappearing behind the clouds as you pulled into the familiar motell parking lot. There was a chill in the air, making you pull your jacket tighter around you as you walked toward room number 13. 

Your attention was drawn to a tall, lanky man with messy curls, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands tucked in his pockets as he stood in front of the door. It was a rare sight to see someone ahead of you in line — usually people would arrive one by one to not bring any attention to the scene, but then again, you made an appointment at the very last minute.

You walked up to him, standing beside him in an attempt to make the scene look like a casual visit. You offered a polite smile, which he returned with a brief wave of his hand. Awkwardly, you turned your gaze to the door in front of you, waiting. You could feel his eyes scanning over you, making you reach up to fix your hair, just in case something was out of place. He seemed to notice your action and turned his head.

After a minute, you cleared your throat. “Did you knock?”

He looked at you, and you weren’t expecting the flutter in your stomach as you met his deep, brown eyes. 

“I did,” he answered. “It’s been four minutes and twenty eight seconds, which, based on my previous encounters, gives him approximately three more seconds to open the door.”

You fell silent as the door opened, just like the handsome stranger had predicted. You reached into your jacket pocket, pausing when you found it empty. Your heart began racing as you checked the other pocket, then anxiously patted down your jeans.

“Fuck.”

“Are you okay?” The brown-haired man asked in concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just- I forgot my wallet.” 

“I could pay for you.” 

The casualty of his offer took you by surprise. “Really?” 

It was embarrassing that you didn’t turn him down, but you didn’t have the energy to be polite — today had been rough, and all you wanted to do was go home and relax. You felt a little less guilty when the stranger’s lips curled into a smile, as if he was happy to do this for you.

“Well, I don’t give a shit who pays. Just give the damn money — it’s cold.” 

The stranger’s lips tightened in response as he handed the man twice the usual amount of bills. The dealer handed over two small bags in return, closing the door behind him with a loud slam. 

“Here you go.”

You breathed out a soft ‘thank you’ as you accepted the bag from him. “I’ll pay you back next time.”

“That’s okay. I don’t mind,” he replied with a casual wave of his hand. 

You exchanged names, which led him to compliment yours and give you a brief history lesson on its origins. 

“I never expected to learn more about myself from a total stranger,” you chuckled. 

You didn’t notice he had walked you to your car until you stopped in front of it. “This is me. Where are you parked, or are you staying here?”

“I got here by subway, actually.”

You raised your brows, surprised. This wasn’t the safest neighborhood, especially at night, and Spencer didn’t strike you as the type to wander around here. 

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” you asked, just to be certain.

“Absolutely!” he answered, lifting up his shirt, revealing a gun holstered at his waist. “I can handle myself.”

Alarm bells blared in your mind at the sight, and you instinctively stepped back. 

“Wait! No, no, no,” Spencer put his hands up, showing you that he meant no harm. “I work at the FBI.”

He could read the doubt in your expression, slowly moving one hand to his jacket while keeping the other raised in the air. Carefully, he retrieved his badge and held it out, revealing it to you. You leaned in, observing the golden emblem and the ID picture beside it.

“Now, that wasn’t what I was expecting,” you said with a relieved sigh. “I guess I can offer you a ride, then?”

Spencer looked at you, as if considering all the possible outcomes of his answer. He ended up nodding his head and giving you a soft grin.  

“I’d appreciate that. Thanks.” 

The car ride was filled with a comfortable silence, the weight of the day settling over both of you. 

“You seem nervous,” he observed.

“How’d you know?”

“Your fingers are tapping against the steering wheel, and they’re out of rhythm with the radio, so it’s not like you’re tapping along with the song.”

“I guess I am.” You turned your head to him, then back to the road. “It has nothing to do with you, though. I feel oddly comfortable around you.”

When you glanced at him again, he was smiling, a glimmer in his eyes, shyly playing with his fingers. “Me too.”

———

You hadn’t expected Spencer to invite you in when you arrived at his house. He suggested you smoke together, saying you shouldn’t be driving while feeling anxious. 

Honestly, you didn’t care about the reasoning. You just wanted to spend more time with him. 

You were sitting beside him on the couch, legs pulled up and half draped over his as you took another drag from your joint. You didn’t know who started the conversation, but somehow you found yourself opening up about life and its struggles.

“I caught my ex cheating. He was supposed to pick up his stuff and leave the next day, but instead he crashed my place and just… destroyed everything I owned.”

His expression remained neutral, like he was trying not to judge, though his eyes said enough. After a beat, he spoke up again. “My girlfriend got shot in front of my face.”

Your eyes widened in shock, but the weed dulled your reaction. “Oh shit.”

“Yeah… shit,” he muttered in an exhale, picking up his joint again. 

Your eyes were drawn to his fingers, noticing the long, slender shape of them, the small bones shifting under his skin as he gripped the joint. The image of a tree flashed through your mind, its branches moving in the wind — or maybe it was just the weed making your mind wander. 

As he brought the joint to his lips, your gaze followed the movement, your breath catching when his pink lips parted just enough to reveal a hint of his tongue. A shiver ran down your spine as your eyes lingered there, entranced. He closed his lips around it, letting out a low hum that was almost a moan as he inhaled. 

He exhaled, filling the air with smoke, the rich scent enveloping you.

“Can I take a hit?” 

He didn’t question why you weren’t using your own. Instead he handed you the joint, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as you took it.  

You kept eye contact with him as you placed it between your lips, softly moaning at the contact, knowing his mouth had been right where yours was. 

Spencer took you in with dark, tired eyes. You threw your leg over his thigh, feeling the need to be closer to him as the air around you grew warmer. 

He didn’t seem to mind your clinginess, which gave you the confidence to lean in closer. Carefully, you reached out, your nails lightly grazing his jaw, making him shiver as he let out a quiet purr at the touch. 

“What are you doing?” he asked in a husky whisper, more intrigued than accusatory.

“I’m horny,” you whispered against his lips, fingers trailing down his jaw. 

His breath heaved at the proximity. “Evidence shows that cannabis can enhance sexual pleasure.” 

“Yeah?” you purred, lips brushing against his. “And what should I do about it?”

“You should touch yourself.”

“Should I now?” your voice teasingly sang as you leaned back, your hands sensually moving up the sides of your body before squeezing your breasts through your shirt.

“Like this?”

He blinked a couple of times, licking his lips. “A bit lower.”

You smirked, your hands trailing down your body, relishing how he was taking you in, unable to look away. Your hand stopped as you cupped your heat through your clothes, slowly rubbing your fingers in circles. “Here?”

He groaned at the sight, nodding his head in confirmation. “Right there.”

Spencer’s bulge pressed against your leg, which you had thrown over his lap. You couldn’t resist moving against it, making him gasp as he threw his head back.

“You should take care of that,” you suggested, nodding towards his pants. “Let me give you something to work with.” 

Spencer’s gaze was expectant, as he watched you slowly peel your clothes off. Inch by inch, you revealed your skin, leaving him desperate for more. 

Spencer mirrored your actions, undressing himself before he took a hold of your bare leg, placing it back on his lap, so that your legs were spread wide open. With one arm behind you, he pulled you in closer, his other hand reaching out to caress the skin in between your breasts, making you catch your breath. 

His hand trailed further up your skin, until his fingers were lightly tapping against your lips. “Open up for me,” he murmured.

You obeyed without hesitation, parting your lips for him to slide two of his fingers inside of your mouth. You responded instinctively, wrapping your lips around them, your cheeks hollowing as you started moving your head back and forth. Your tongue swirled in lazy circles, humming at the taste of his skin.

“Good girl,” he cooed in approval. “Get them all nice and wet, so that I can touch you.”

Spencer watched your eyes sparkle at his words. When a moan escaped your lips, vibrating around his fingers, he was reminded once again why he loved being high — it soothed his anxiety in a way that made his thoughts spill out without overthinking. And it thrilled him to see the effect his words had on you, words that would usually stay locked in his mind. 

The hand that had been resting around your shoulder wandered down to your breast, giving it an experimental squeeze. You moaned around his fingers, meeting his gaze, his nose nearly brushing yours as he watched you with intent focus. 

He pulled his fingers from your mouth with a pop, before he reached down to press them against your pussy. You closed your eyes in bliss as he rubbed his fingers up and down your slit, the combined juices of your slickness and your mouth made his fingers easily slip between your folds with every move.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered in awe as he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your mouth. 

“That’s your fault,” you teased, a playful smile tugging at your lips. He chuckled, his breath brushing your cheek. “I’ll take the blame,” he murmured before pressing his mouth to yours.

You hungrily accepted his kiss. Your hand slid between his thighs, finding his hard length pressed against his stomach. His cock felt warm against your palm as you wrapped your fingers around him, the movement causing a string of precum to form, connecting from his tip to his happy trail. 

Spencer groaned into your mouth, his tongue swirling against yours, deepening the kiss even further. You traced your thumb over the sensitive head of his cock, causing him to buck his hips and pressing his fingers harder against your clit in response. 

You squirmed at the intensity of his touch. His slender fingers continued to trail over your pussy, teasing with delicate strokes before slipping a finger into your dripping heat.

“Fuck, that feels good,” you moaned. 

You began stroking his length, squeezing him gently as you flicked your wrist. Every movement was a lazy, unhurried exploration of each other’s bodies. Savoring the haze of the high as it sharpened your every sensation. 

You broke the kiss, as you reached for the joint on the coffee table, turning toward Spencer with a playful glint in your eye. He gratefully parted his lips, as you placed the roll between them. He took a deep drag, the smoke curling into his lungs. You leaned closer, opening your mouth in anticipation to receive the smoky breath he exhaled, as you shared the pleasure.

Spencer took in the sight of you. Your swollen lips were slightly parted as you breathed in. Your nipples were hard with excitement, and your pussy glistened around his fingers as he slowly pumped them in and out of you. You were a sight to behold, and he couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten tonight.

He could look at you all day. He’s never felt so drawn to someone before, and he could easily finish just by watching your body as you sat bare in front of him. His cock fitted perfectly in your delicate hands. You were gripping him just right, bringing him closer to the release he’s been longing for.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, the words slipping out naturally. 

“So are you,” you replied just as sensually, your eyes tracing the way your hand palmed him, feeling his heavy weight in your grip. “I wanna know how you’d feel inside of me.”

A flush crept across his cheeks at your bluntness. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly, humming in response. “Bet you’d fill me up so good.”

“Jesus,” he groaned, swallowing hard as he could feel the way you clenched around his fingers.

“Are you clean?” you asked him, and he quickly nodded.

He eagerly grabbed your hips as you crawled on top of him, moaning softly as he felt the weight of you. His hand slid to your neck, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss, sucking your bottom lip.

You reached down between your bodies, fingers curling around his thick length as you guided him to your entrance. You let out a shaky whisper as he filled you up more than you expected. Spencer noted the furrow in your brow, but before he could remind you to take your time, you were already rocking your hips against him.

“Oh, baby,” he cried out, his hands sliding to your back as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Your thighs rolled over his, and he met your pace, thrusting up into you.

“You feel so good,” he continued moaning as his fingers dug into your skin. 

You could only whimper in response and you fastened your movements, your breasts brushing against him with each slide of your hips.

He could feel you tightening around him, your legs trembling against his. “Spencer, I-”

You didn’t need to finish your sentence for him to understand. “Me too, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Please, don’t stop.”

You kept moving, the urgency in his voice spurring you on. You leaned in to capture his lips one more time, and Spencer accepted with a desperate whine. 

The pressure in your core finally broke, and you cried out his name as an overwhelming pleasure washed over you. Spencer’s grip on your hips tightened, and he pushed up into you one last time, his body shuddering as the warmth of his release filled you.

“You’re so amazing,” he sleepily groaned, nuzzling his head into your chest as you came down from the high. You chuckled at the scene, unsure if he even noticed how clingy he was being. It had to be the weed that made him hold onto you like that, but the action still made your heart flutter, imagining how you could be the reason why he’s acting this way.  

“Can you pick up the joint for me?” he softly asked, his lips brushing against your stomach. 

You giggled. “You’re really an addict.”

“I’m just addicted to you.”

[brattyspence]

I WANT DRABBLES EVERYONE SEND ME DRABBLE IDEAS PLEASE IM BEGGING

[brattyspence]

do you believe me now? | 10

in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader manage to discuss the direction of their physical relationship between makeouts. reader isn't feeling comfortable at her apartment, so they plan their first trip together.

series masterlist

this fic is 18+ warnings/tags: d/s dynamics but not smutty, softdom!spencer/sub reader, mild pda?, hint at switch!spencer, they talk about sex/how r feels about her first time, making out, almost dry humping if you're standing several miles away, unresolved sexual tension, teasing/flirting. don't like? don't read a/n: yayyyyy hi guys!! no idea when part 11 will be out. I missed them. I love them so bad. they are my favorite ever. they are so special to me 4ever. hope u missed them and ur just as happy to see them happy as I am :")

“Do you like eyelet?” Spencer asks, reaching up to grab a set of sheets you couldn’t. He insists that you let him get everything from the top shelf because it’s been handled less. 

You shrug, distracted by the angle of his jaw and the line of his throat as he retrieves the plastic package. 

It’s Sunday. Three nights in a row spent with him—the longest sleepover streak thus far—and you don’t want to go back to sleeping alone tonight. But you know it’s time. Both of you have things to attend to tomorrow, and you’re not exactly in the habit of getting things done when you’re together. All weekend you’ve lounged in his lap on the couch or tangled yourself in his arms in bed—fully clothed, of course. Spencer had suggested the no-sex rule on Friday, and you’re glad for it. You feel no pressure to be doing more when he’s kissing you or holding you. 

Of course, the concept of having sex again crosses your mind—when you’re washing your face and catch a glimpse of the bruises on your neck in the mirror, or when the tips of Spencer’s fingers trace idly over a span of exposed skin on your lower back as you watch a movie on the couch and you’re struck with desire, or you move just right and feel a tiny lingering twinge of soreness. There was a time when if you had Spencer Reid to yourself for three nights, a Navy SEAL wouldn’t have been able to pull you off of him. Now, when you think about the fact that there will be a second time, you get that butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling—but you’re not sure if it’s good or apprehensive. 

Either way, it’d be too much right now. 

You do miss feeling that kind of closeness with him. That intimacy. It can’t be replicated, no matter how many naps you take together. Probably something to do with brain chemicals and hormones. He could explain it all, if you were brave enough to ask. 

So you know it’d be too much… but it’s not that you don’t want it. There is also, of course, the issue of the way he looks. It’s not helping your cognition. It’s not encouraging you to make good choices. 

You’re not supposed to be thinking about sex. You’re supposed to tell him if you like eyelet. 

“Yeah, I guess.”

Spencer gives you an exasperated look and sighs. He’s wearing his glasses today. His hair is freshly washed and fluffy. The navy blue sweater he’s wearing is about the only step between a button down and pajamas for him, and he looks good in casual clothing. You chew your lip. 

He doesn’t notice your ogling. “You’ve said that about everything.”

“I’m really not that passionate about the fabric of my sheets,” you defend, shoulders rising and dropping. 

“Surely you like some of them less and some of them more. Usually you jump at the chance to express an opinion.”

Okay. Uncalled for. 

He’s obviously kidding. You overreact anyway. 

“You suck,” you mumble, brushing past him in search of something suitable for your bed. 

Spencer processes this for a moment and then trails after you down the aisle. 

“I suck?”

“Here, look. Bamboo. That’s good, right?”

Your boyfriend glances at the package you’ve selected, probably holding back a whole host of facts about bamboo farming in China. 

“It’s fine. Why do I suck?”

“Because you implied I’m opinionated.”

“I didn’t imply it. It was an explicit statement.”You groan petulantly and put the sheets back on the shelf with force. Spencer picks them up and follows you deeper into the store. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“You didn’t,” you huff, turning around to face him once you’re safely sequestered in a new aisle. The store’s not busy—an elderly couple roams for fake fruit and towels, humming vacantly to the Muzak, and a single mom wrangles her kids in a cart. Back here, it’s just the two of you. “Not really.”

“Then what did?” He asks gently, stepping closer. Spencer’s not overly-affectionate in public, but the tone of his voice, the way he’s looking at you like he can see your thoughts, feels intimate. 

You’re helpless when he gets like this, and he probably knows it. It’s an abuse of power and when you can think straight again you’ll have to scold him for it. 

“It doesn’t even matter. You’re just gonna drop me off after this anyway.”

He tilts his head like a curious puppy, eyes alight with a good puzzle as he quickly strings together the facts in his head. 

“Is that it?”

You frown and hesitate, eyes catching on a loose thread at the hem of his sweater. 

“… No.”

“Yeah, it is. You’re upset because I’m taking you home.”

You scramble to deny. “That’s not it.”

“I think it is,” he murmurs, a smile playing at the corners of his perfect mouth. 

You study the waxen floor tiles intently. 

“Well… I mean, would that be weird? You’re gonna miss me too, right?”

You sound unsure—insecure, even. When you look back up at him, his eyes are melted chocolate, even under the fluorescents. He glances down at your mouth briefly and then over your shoulder. 

Pleasekissmepleasekissmepleasekissme.

He doesn’t, but you can tell he really wants to, which is almost as good. 

“Of course, I’m going to miss you. But we’ll see each other soon. Probably tomorrow.”

“Unless you get called out on a case. But it’s not even really that. It’s just—how am I supposed to… I don’t know! We just spent three nights together. How am I supposed to go back to sleeping alone for a whole week?”

Maybe you’re too attached to him now, because acknowledging the thought which has been lurking all morning opens the floodgates that were holding back a sea of dread, and you feel it in every inch of your body. Five nights alone stretch out before you like an infinite, impassable forest. Friday is an eternity away, and there’s no guarantee he’ll even be here Friday night, if the team gets a case. 

Spencer somehow regards you with both curiosity and innate wisdom, like you’re a new specimen in a familiar field, for a long enough moment that your cheeks begin to warm. 

“Sorry, that was embarrassing. I’m being weird, it’s fine—”

Just as you go to walk away, he pulls you carefully back in by the wrist, even closer than before. 

“No. You’re sweet,” he murmurs, hand warm even through the knit of your sleeve. Gingerly you look back up at him. 

“But you’re not gonna miss me as much as I miss you.”

“Do not undermine my capacity for yearning. I missed you when you were brushing your teeth this morning.”

“Ooh. So clingy,” you tease, though you’re obviously delighted by the information, and he borderline pouts. 

“Don’t say that. Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” you laugh as he pulls you to his chest, keeping you there with a hand to your back. 

“Okay. Now say you love me.”

For a moment you’re distracted by the proximity, the lowering of his voice as he brings you into his space and your faces are only inches apart. The smell of his body wash coming from both of you. 

“I love you,” you breathe, and it’s not as teasing as you’d meant for it to be as his eyes dart to your lips. 

Even though you’re bossy, is what you don’t say. 

This seems to please him, because finally, he’s tilting his head down and pressing a quick kiss to your lips. It’s still enough to make you lightheaded. 

“Apology accepted. I love you too,” he murmurs. And then he’s pulling back, trying to walk around you. “Do you wanna stop for coffee on the way back to yours?”

“Wait,” you order, suddenly listless and disoriented in the middle of the aisle. “You’re not gonna…”

Spencer frowns back at you.

“I’m not gonna what?”

“You’re not gonna… say it?”

“… I love you? I did say that.”

“No, there’s—usually when I do stuff you ask me to do, you say—”

Only when the first ray of understanding illuminates his face do you realize you actually shouldn’t have said anything at all. 

“Nevermind. Yeah, let’s just go.”

Spencer catches your arm again as you attempt to walk past him, laughing quietly as he leans down to speak in your ear. 

“I am not calling you good girl in the small decorative statues aisle.”

“What if we go back to the bedding aisle?” You ask, through the warmth of your own cheeks. 

It’s sort of a joke. 

“Remember what I said about appropriate context?”

“All those sheets, and duvet covers, and stuff. It’s basically the same.”

When he doesn’t respond, you gather the courage to tear your eyes from a little robot statue and look at him. Eyes ever-so-slightly narrowed, warmed only by a hint of humor. A barely detectable curve of the mouth. 

Oops. With all your blind-button pushing, you might’ve accidentally tapped the one responsible for all the marks on your neck—the one that makes him tick in a way which usually ends with you underneath him. 

And then, for the first time, you actually watch as he pushes it down—activates some sort of self-cooling system. Probably he understands that whether you meant to be provocative or not, this interaction isn’t headed in a salacious direction. Even if you weren’t in public, the rule is holding fast. 

His hand slides from your arm to intertwine with your fingers. 

“What are you doing next week?”

You blink at the sudden change in subject and tone. 

“Uh… I don’t know. Working, probably.”

“From home?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He chews his lip thoughtfully. 

“I… still have a few days of annual leave that I need to use. I don’t know if this is… this might be too much, and you can say no. But Rossi has a place in Shenandoah. It’s a cabin—it’s, it’s really nice, I’ve seen pictures. He used to use it for hunting, I guess now he rents it out in the summer and fall but it’s empty during the off-season and he’s always offering it to the team. It’s only like, an hour away. An hour and nine minutes actually, if you take the 66 Express outside the Beltway from Arlington. I looked it up, um… semi-recently. I’m sure he’d let us use it, if you wanted to come burn four days of leave with me. No pressure. Of any kind. I could also, just, y’know, stay home, and we could still spend time together that way. We could finish Deep Space Nine. Or watch something else. Or watch nothing. Whatever you’d like to do.”

Your heart rate has been increasing steadily since he started his impromptu speech—you’re glad he seems nervous inviting you. You’re a little nervous accepting. A trip together is definitely a new step. But getting the hell out of dodge with him for a few days sounds wonderful. 

“I’d love to go,” you say earnestly. 

Spencer’s face goes blank for a second, and then his eyebrows raise, like he wasn’t expecting you to say yes. 

“Oh. Oh! Great! Okay, I’ll—I’ll talk to Rossi about it tomorrow.”

He remains highly chipper as he hands his card over to the cashier for your new overpriced bamboo sheets. 

The promise of getting Spencer to yourself for four consecutive days and nights is the only way you’re able to fall asleep to a cold bed that night. 

It’s harder, at home now—you’re self-conscious of every and any noise. Music, cooking, talking on the phone. 

It doesn’t make sense, because you know you can’t hear your neighbors, so they shouldn’t be able to hear you, and Jerry’s a creep, who might’ve made the whole thing up just to get under your skin—but it’s all you can think about, when you’re there. 

Monday evening, Spencer comes to visit, as promised. You undo all the locks and open the door just enough for him to slip through. 

He kisses you hello as you close the door and sets his things down at the table while you relock. 

“No Jerry today?”

“Nope. I haven’t seen him since Friday.”

“Good,” Spencer says only once you turn, a distinct chill to his tone and a mostly unfamiliar frigidity to his eyes. It’s not directed at you, but it’s unnerving nonetheless, so you draw closer and wrap your arms around his waist—hoping to melt him back into your Spencer. 

He reciprocates, speaks softer now that he has you in his arms, and immediately you feel better. 

“Rossi said yes to us staying at the cabin and Emily said I can take the time off. Did you still wanna go?”

You’re pre-occupied with your face buried in his shirt, so you just nod, basking in the scent of his shower products once more. They’ve gone from simply comforting to intoxicating. 

“Is everything okay?” He asks quietly, brushing your hair over your shoulder. His fingers barely glance off your neck and you almost shiver. Want begins to pool deep and warm in your stomach as you lift your head and he looks down at you, so fondly. 

Want which you can’t afford to feel if you’re not willing to act on it. 

“I’m fine,” you breathe. Fuck. He’s too close. He’s too hot. You pull away and move to the kitchen. “Um, dinner. What do you want? We could make something. Or order something. I don’t have much, honestly.”

“I’ll be happy with anything. You sure you’re alright?”

“I don’t want to have sex!”

The words simply explode out of you, like a bat out of hell as you whip around. Just barely you manage not to clap a hand over your mouth in mortification. 

You stand, back to the fridge, watching Spencer nervously for his reaction. 

His brow knits. His lips part and close again several times. 

You’re wondering what the fastest and most convenient method of not being alive anymore would be when he finally answers. 

“… Okay. I wasn’t trying to initiate anything, did I—did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No! No, I’m sorry. I just… I wanted you to know that while I’m still, like, figuring things out—like, with my neighbor and everything—it’s just a lot, so… so I know this past weekend we agreed to not do anything and I think it would be best to… keep not doing anything. Just for now. I shouldn’t have said it like that—I didn’t actually… mean to say it. I was gonna, um, find a way to bring it up more delicately.”

You clear your throat and look down to study the patterned tile, cheeks burning. 

By way of several nervous glances up at him and back down, you watch Spencer silently come to lean against the counter across from you, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Okay. Thank you for telling me. We’re not ever going to do anything you don’t want to do. But, out of curiosity… is this just because of your neighbor? Or because you maybe don’t feel ready yet?”

He’s asking gently, because he wants to know, and you know there’s no wrong answer. It’s still nerve-racking.  

“Um… like, a combination of the two, I guess. Mostly… the neighbor. I think. But I’m telling you this because…” and here comes the worst part. “I need you… to… hold me accountable.”

“For what?” He asks plainly, but you know what he sounds like when perfectly suppressing a smile. The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your face as you close your eyes and forge ahead in the name of open and honest communication—something the two of you are trying to work on.

“If I… come on to you… you have to turn me down.”

This is not getting any less embarrassing. 

“Should I anticipate you coming onto me?”

“Probably,” you sigh, looking at him through your lashes and bringing your hands to your cheeks, hoping maybe they’ll cool you down and poor circulation will work in your favor for once. “I know myself. You know me. I like… asking you for things. But for the rest of the week, if I do… you know, want something from you—you have to tell me no.”

Spencer nods slowly. “What if you genuinely change your mind?”

“I won’t. I might think I have, I might even tell you I have, but don’t believe me, okay? I don’t think straight when I’m turned on, and if we do anything, I’ll like it until fucking Jerry is pounding my door down the next day, and I just can’t deal with that.”

Spencer’s face goes completely void of expression to the point that if it weren’t for context clues you’d have no idea he’s probably imagining pistol-whipping the guy. 

“Has he knocked on your door?” 

Testosterone. 

“No. Back to my point. I’m trusting you to keep me in check so I don’t do anything I’ll… I’ll end up regretting. Not that I regret the other night!” You scramble just as Spencer’s brow begins to furrow. “I don’t. I just regret that my gross neighbor had to get involved. And I don’t want that to happen again. So… is that… is that okay? Will you do that for me?”

“Of course I will,” Spencer says gently, without hesitation as he pushes off the counter. “Can I ask a follow-up question?”

You nod and regard the space between you, unsure if you want to eliminate it or keep using it like a buffer. By not coming to you, he’s giving you the choice. 

“You said this was mostly because of your neighbor. But you didn’t sound sure. It’s fine if you aren’t feeling ready yet. I just want to make sure I know what’s going on with you.”

“I don’t really know,” you admit, after a brief pause. “I feel like… as long as I know he’s on the other side of the wall I wouldn’t even be able to wrap my head around how I actually feel. It’s also confusing because, like I was saying, I… just because I feel like I want something in the moment, doesn’t necessarily mean I’m actually ready for it, you know? I don’t even know if… I don’t even know what being ready again really means or would look like.”

“You did the other night.”

“Yeah, but that was different. Because now I’m gonna think I know what I’m getting myself into, but that’s not necessarily true.”

Another pause in which you chew your lip and look away. 

“I don’t want you to overthink it, honey. I think being ready just means you’re comfortable, and you’re with someone who’s going to keep you safe, and nobody’s pressuring you, and you’re not, you know—pressuring yourself. Wanting it is actually really important, too. But what I’m hearing right now is that even if you might want it, you’re not in a place that feels safe. And that makes sense to me. So we’re just not gonna do anything until that changes, okay?”

Eyes still cast downward, your lips twist into a sardonic little smile. 

“I feel like I’m talking to my therapist.”

He laughs with a single breath. 

“I really hope your therapist doesn’t speak to you like I do. The ethics there would be highly questionable.”

The joke refreshes your courage and you look back up at him, smile still edged with humor but mostly unspoken gratitude. 

The half-smile on Spencer’s face, however, is fading steadily as he studies you in flickering passes. Like there’s something still on his mind. You were hoping for a subtle invitation back into his arms, but the space between you remains—infused now with a tension as it becomes increasingly obvious. 

“Also… this trip we’re going on. I feel like I should say this—I don’t know if it was even on your mind, but… I don’t want you to feel pressured to have sex just because of the timing. Me inviting you on a last-minute trip to an isolated cabin—it’s not a master plan to get you to sleep with me again, I promise. I really just wanted us to be alone. Not—not that kind of alone—I mean, we’ll be alone, but it doesn’t have to be like that. I was just thinking about how nice it was for us to get those three nights together, you know, and the whole weekend too, and with my job, that’s not always going to happen, so it just seemed like a good opportunity—”

“Spencer,” you laugh, letting the tension snap like a rubber band as you go to him, slinging your arms over his shoulders, delighted to be the one doing the interrupting and not the flustered rambling, for a change. “I know you don’t have an ulterior motive. As for what kind of alone we’re going to be… we’ll figure that out, okay? Don’t worry about me. I don’t feel pressured by you. I never have. If anything, I’m the one who pressures you for sex.”

You’ve got him smiling once more, as his hands find your waist and his gaze flips from your mouth to your eyes and back again. It goes very subtly mischievous in a way you don’t quite trust, but he’s dipping his head to kiss you, and something tells you it’s going to be a good one, so when your nose bumps against his, and you can feel his breath on your lips, you’re not at all prepared for him to speak. 

“Begging is not the same as pressuring, sweet thing,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing you so thoroughly you don’t even have time to be properly affronted. The offended gasp gets stuck in your throat, and melts into a tiny huff as it turns out the kiss is a very good one. You can’t think hard enough to be offended. Not even when he chuckles against you. 

“That’s not fair,” you mumble when he allows you a second to breathe. He hums, satisfying himself with kisses to your cheek and playing along. 

“What’s not fair?” 

“You… I was supposed to have the upper hand in that situation! You were the nervous one for once!”

Another hum, buzzing against your lips this time. 

“You have to learn how to take the upper hand, angel. I’ve had a lot of practice. It’s a big part of my job.”

Admittedly it’s hard to think when he talks like this, but you try. 

“So… you manipulate me? That’s not very romantic.”

He laughs quietly again. 

“No. I do not manipulate you.”

“You’re just a control freak,” you tease. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, immediately, still soft-spoken as he pulls back to carefully search your eyes. “Does that bother you?”

You search hands and knees for a crumb of outrage, for a hint of any of that strong feminist theory you’ve instilled into your brain over so many years. 

There’s nothing to be found. 

“No,” you admit, dejectedly, hanging your head as much as he’ll allow. “Should it?”

“Only if you don’t like it. When I take the upper hand like that, I’m really just… posing a yes or no question. So far, you lean towards saying yes. You let me win. But you don’t have to.”

“What happens if I… if I don’t let you win?”

He angles his head, coaxing you to look in his eyes once more. A hand comes up to swipe a dot of mascara from under your brow. He’s looking at you so serenely, like none of this is at all complicated. 

“Whatever you want. I wouldn’t be the one making the rules anymore.”

Oh. 

Oh. 

You laugh nervously. 

“That’s a lot of pressure. What if… I want you to keep making the rules? For forever?”

He kisses you again, insistently enough you have to tilt your head back. When he answers, it’s low, a promise, and pressed right against your waiting mouth. 

“Then I will.”

You loose a tremulous breath from your parted lips and you know he can feel it. He can feel how you’re clinging to his shirt, pressing yourself closer, how your skin has warmed and your breaths have hastened, he can probably taste how much you want him, how you’re already thinking about giving it all up for him—

And maybe that’s why he laughs dryly into your mouth before pulling away. 

Because he’s a good boyfriend. 

Spencer knits his brow and clears his throat as his hand slides down your arm, eyes narrowed like he’s wondering how things escalated so quickly. You certainly are. 

Suddenly he’s back to the nerd you met in a coffee shop all those months ago, and you like him like this, too. “So… dinner?” 

“Mhm. Yeah. We should… we should definitely eat. What do you wanna eat?”

You don’t miss the quick once over he gives you. Or the way his throat bobs once he tears his eyes away. 

“Um… how does Indian sound?”

You swear you don’t know how it happened. 

Everything was going fine—there was food on the coffee table, a show on the TV. Spencer made tea. It was wholesome. 

And then, somewhere between setting the plastic takeout bag down and actually opening it, you ended up like this. Kneeling next to him on the couch, one hand braced on his thigh, the other tangled in his hair as you kiss slow. Like this could actually be leading somewhere. 

“We should stop,” he reminds you, even as his hand traverses up your leg. You lean further into him—he has to tip his head back to meet your lips. 

“We’re kissing. It’s nothing.”

“You were—” kiss. “Just telling me—” kiss. “That you don’t want this right now.”

Deep kiss. The grip he has on your hip does not agree with his words. 

“This is just kissing. Kissing isn’t sex.”

Even as you’re saying it, you’re throwing your leg over his lap, landing in a straddle. 

“No,” he groans as if pained, throwing his head onto the back of the couch and depriving you of his mouth. “Baby. You have to get off. We can’t do this.”

“My bathroom—we could—it doesn’t share a wall with his apartment, we could go in there and turn on the shower and we could be really quiet—”

Suddenly there’s a hand over your mouth. It’s not yours. 

“Please stop before I say yes.”

You pull his hand away, fingers wrapped around his wrist. 

“You should. You should say yes. It’s a good idea, I know he wouldn’t be able to hear us over the shower—”

“It’s not about that. It’s about the fact that you asked me to turn you down not even an hour ago, no matter what you say, and I said I would.” He takes a shuddering deep breath. “And… I’m going to. I’m saying no.”

“No,” you whine, head falling to his shoulder, because you know he’ll keep his promise. He cups the back of your head—a kind, sympathetic gesture, which does nothing to alleviate the heat of your blood or the ache between your legs. You pout into his neck. “This is terrible. I might not survive.”

“I think you will.”

“Maybe if I enter a coma.”

He laughs and strokes your thigh. 

“There are worse things than sexual frustration.”

“Not right now. This is the worst thing I can imagine.”

“I’m so sorry. You poor thing.”

You pull back to face him, hands on his shoulders. 

“Oh my god. Don’t act like it’s not bothering you.”

“I’m not bothered.”

“I know that’s not true. You know how I can tell?”

The slightest adjustment of your hips draws attention to exactly what you mean. Spencer goes completely deadpan. 

“Stop,” he orders in monotone, and you laugh even you allow yourself to be tossed back onto the couch because you’ve successfully flustered him again. He puts a throw pillow over his lap and leans forward, hiding his blush beneath perfect hands with a tortured groan. “You’re terrible.”

The couch attempts to suck you in as you wriggle back from a lying position, propping yourself up on your elbows and grinning at him. 

“I did it,” you gloat. 

He angles his head toward you, revealing half a pretty face, still dusted red but now with all the markings of inquisition. 

“You did what?”

“I took the upper hand.”

Those dark eyes narrow and before you can think to retract your legs he’s wrapping his hands around your ankles, pulling them over his pillow and leaving you flat on your back once more. Again you giggle. 

“You took nothing,” he asserts, but you’re not bothered—still smiling as you accept your new position and toss your arms above your head casually. 

“Somebody’s a sore loser.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Eat your curry.”

“Sorry, I’m full. From, you know, the taste of victory.”

He exhales a dry chuckle, leaning forward to finally retrieve the containers of food. 

“I can’t believe I ever let you call me a nerd.”

The rest of the evening remains PG. Conversation flows and trickles comfortably over dinner on the couch, and afterwards, he suggests a documentary. From the outside, it might not look like much—but to you, with your head on his chest as the TV casts its flickering, ghostly light over the room, with the beating of his heart against your ear and his breath against the top of your head, it’s everything. Six months ago you didn’t know what it was to exist so comfortably around another person like this. Now, though he feels familiar and safe, you don’t take it for granted. The novelty of something so simple is not lost on you, and you feel like the luckiest girl in the world as your eyes begin to flutter. You’re lucky to have someone you feel completely safe with. 

Spencer murmurs your name like a question.  It buzzes against your ear. You hum in response. 

His thumb fans lines over your shoulder blade. “Can I ask you about something?”

“Mhm.”

“The other night… we didn’t really get a chance to—to debrief, afterwards. Which is fine, you were tired, it was late. But then the next morning I had to go, and everything with your neighbor happened, and we talked about that a little bit, but… but earlier, it sounded like maybe you… I don’t know. Maybe you weren’t feeling good about how it happened?”

“Spencer, I told you I don’t regret it,” you remind him, pushing up from his chest to look him in the eye. His hand slides down your back. 

“I know… I just wanted to give you another chance to talk about it. In case anything was on your mind.” He frets over your hair, an invisible speck on your skin. Like he’s nervous. “And I want to make sure you’re feeling okay about how it went. I know what happened the next day was an unfortunate addendum, and I’m sorry about that. As soon as you give me permission, I will have him arrested. But I don’t want that to overshadow your experience.”

“It’s… not,” you breathe, fiddling with a button on Spencer’s shirt. 

“So how did you feel about it? Barring anything external?”

“Good.”

Spencer strokes your jaw with a knuckle, gently admonishing. 

“Don’t just say that. Think about it.”

“I have,” you assure him immediately, cheeks warming as you realize just how swiftly you’d replied. 

What a lovely button. Mother-of-pearl. The shirt is a pale lilac. It looks good on him. One of your favorites, actually. 

Spencer lets you pick at it. He would probably let you pull the button off, tear every stitch on the shirt with a seam-ripper if it helped to soothe your nerves. 

“I’m not trying to embarrass you, or make you uncomfortable. We don’t have to go into explicit detail. I know it still feels weird to talk about. But it’s something we do have to talk about.”

“I know. And I would bring it up if something didn’t feel right. But it… was…” you chew your lip as you think of a way to phrase it that doesn’t sound too mushy-gushy. “Overwhelmingly… a very positive experience.”

“You sound like Yelp review,” Spencer says through a smile. You attempt to smother the continual heat of your embarrassment against his shirt. He’s seen you at your most vulnerable, more intimately than anyone ever has before. And you’re still shy about acknowledging that fact. 

“Shut up. Say something nice back.”

With a typically gentle hand, he pushes hair away from your ear. 

“I…” he begins meaningfully, taking a moment to sweep your hair over your back. “Feel incredibly grateful that you trusted me to take care of you. I know that’s big for you, and I know it can be a really scary thing. Mostly I’m happy you’re happy. And that I didn’t mess up irredeemably.”

“What would you have messed up?” You laugh, retreating from your shelter against his chest to knit your brow. 

He makes a face in the half-dark like he shouldn’t have said it. 

“Uh… that… veers into explicit detail… and possibly too much honesty.”

You laugh again and adjust to frame his sheepish smile between your hands. 

“I see. You have to keep your mystique in tact.”

“I really don’t think it’s that much of a mystery.”

“Well, I’ll spare your ego.”

“Wow, thanks. For the first time in your life.”

You go in for a chaste, smiley kiss, which stays sweet and kind even as it melts into something stickier. 

It comes to a turning point and Spencer inhales deeply, gently angling his head away and shifting to check his watch. You collapse on his chest, catching your breath. 

“I should go.”

“No. I feel like you’re going away to war.”

“I’m going to Court House. Where I live.”

“What if I never see you again?”

“It’s twenty minutes away. So you could always just drive.”

You frown. 

“I hope you get trench foot.”

“You know seventy seven thousand soldiers died from trench foot in World War Two?”

“Obviously I did not know that.”

“Well, next time you should just say you want me to die. Up.”

He pats the back of your thigh and you push off of him, only after considering trying to hold him hostage for a split second. 

You hover by the couch like a ghost, watching with increasing anxiety as he gathers together the empty containers from your meal and throws them in the kitchen garbage before collecting his things. 

There is one thing—one potentially difficult thing you haven’t mentioned to him that seems to be a direct consequence of finally sleeping together. 

You’re clingy. 

Clingier than you’ve ever been. It didn’t seem possible to want to be around him more than you already had, but now when he’s gone you feel his absence like a vacuous hole by your side. Without his warmth, you’re always a little colder. A little less comfortable. 

It’s embarrassing to admit that you’re starting to get separation anxiety, so you won’t put it into so many words—but you think, as he turns, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a knowing look, that he understands. 

At the same time, you begin to close the space, meeting gently in the middle, toe to toe. You keep your hands behind your back, afraid that otherwise you’ll try and glom onto him like a barnacle on a ship’s hull. 

“There are some things I’d like to get done this week so I don’t have to worry about them during our trip. So I might not see you for a day or two.”

Dutifully you nod, though you’re slightly crushed. 

“That’s okay. We’re grownups.”

“I don’t know,” he tuts. “I’m worried I’m gonna start writing my name with your last on all my notebooks.”

That stupid, stupid charm. 

“Mm… I’m kinda out of your league,” you grin. 

Spencer’s smile wanes slowly, but his eyes remain soft and aglow as they explore your face as reverently as his hands would. When he speaks, it’s in an honest, borderline whisper. “I’m acutely aware.”

Slowly his head dips, and your eyes flutter shut. A sweet, lingering kiss lands on your cheek. Then he’s pulling back. 

“That’s it?” You can’t help but ask, peering up at him and barely concealing a frown. 

He smiles that lovely smile, but by this point you’re attuned enough to his facial expressions to recognize the subtle heat playing just beneath the surface of those golden-oak eyes. 

“What? Did I give you the impression that I put out?”

“It’s just a kiss.”

That teasing edge becomes ever so slightly sharper as he regards you, head tilting. 

“Mhm. And the last time you said that—was it before or after you mounted me?”

You shoo him away pretty quickly after that—partly for discipline, and partly because the sooner he’s gone, the sooner you’ll go to sleep, and the sooner it will be tomorrow. 

And this trip can’t come soon enough, because you’re pretty sure you know exactly what kind of alone you’d like to be with Spencer Reid.

[brattyspence]

i

The sweating

The hair

The see though shirt

I’ve been baptized, reborn even

[brattyspence]

@spencersbabymama thanks for your contribution

trying to write a fic but everything turns into me thirsting over mggs hands.

[brattyspence]

trying to write a fic but everything turns into me thirsting over mggs hands.

[brattyspence]

nachrosas i love youuuyy

CHAPTER 01 | storm promise

pairing: spencer reid x unsub!reader content warnings: murder, case talk, mention of murders, serial killers, violence, manipulation, mentions of sex (in the future), sex (in the future), revenge, and i think that's all? (i will add more if there are more) word count: 4.1K a/n: i want to thank so much for everyone who jumped on board with this crazy idea and embraced the idea of an unsub!reader with both arms! i plan to (hopefully) post one chapter every week (if my job doesn't kill me lol)! hope you guys like it! (ps: the notes from the murders scenes are from a music, if anyone is curious)

[Friday, July 16, 2019, 02:00 am. Carlisle St, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania]

Night fell like a heavy veil over the city, drowning out any of the usual sounds the city produced. You walk down a deserted street, a forgotten artery in the body of the metropolis, where life seems to have given way to abandonment. The cracks in the asphalt tell stories of neglect, their crevices filled with small puddles of water that shone with the flickering light of the street lamps. But not all the lights survive. Some of the streetlamps have gone out, leaving stretches of the street immersed in dense shadows that move with the wind.

The small buildings around them have a tired appearance as if the structure itself were a victim of the weight of time. Peeling façades and almost erased graffiti do battle with the faded signs of businesses that are no longer listed with the tradesmen's union. In the midst of this deteriorating landscape, some traders insist on remaining in the neighborhood.

A snack bar at the end of the street still keeps its lights on. The yellowish light leaking through the dirty windows was enough to illuminate the plastic chairs lined up on the sidewalk. Closer to you, a convenience store displayed an old neon sign that struggled to stay lit, flashing the word “Open” with a few burnt-out letters. Inside, you couldn't be sure whether it was one or two indistinct figures moving around, but the environment was so quiet that it seemed abandoned, even though it was still in business.

Then the silence was broken. A muffled, irregular sound comes from above you: a television on somewhere. Your eyes search for the source of the sound, going up to the second floor of a nearby building. There, an open window lets out the pulsating blue glow of the set. The light dances on the sill, still wet from the rain, forming small reflections that move with the wind.

You approach slowly, your gaze drawn to the window as if it were inevitable.  Inside, the scene was simple, almost intimate. A modest room, decorated with weathered furniture. The faded sofa is slightly sunken in the center, and a coffee table is strewn with forgotten bottles. A lamp on the side casts a dim light as if it too were tired.

The television dominates the room, a heavy, old-fashioned tube figure. On it, the news anchor speaks with a seriousness that carries the weight of the moment. His voice, clear but distant, echoes in the street, resonating like a confession made to the void.

“The country is in shock after yet another brutal murder linked to the mysterious wave of crimes against influential CEOs. Margaret Ellison, chief executive of LifeTech Pharmaceuticals, was found dead this morning in her downtown penthouse.”

You feel a chill, but the anchor continues.

“Police sources confirm that the crime bears the signature of previous cases, characterized by extreme precision and a message left at the scene. We have contacted the FBI, but as of the closing of this report we have not received a response.”

Your eyes go down to the caption on the screen. The headline seems to scream at you: “DARK MENTOR: A NEW JUSTICE?”. The photo of Ellison, smiling radiantly at a charity-focused gala ball, is a cruel irony in the face of the gravity of what has happened.

The surrounding street seems to absorb the news as if every crack in the asphalt and every shadow on the sidewalk is attuned to the weight of the tragedy. The sound of the news continues in the background, now interspersed with images of the crime scene. Ellison's luxurious penthouse has been transformed into a macabre spectacle. Blood stains the walls, their asymmetrical patterns are almost artistic, like a dark signature of the killer.

Across the street, you notice a thin man leaning against the door frame of the convenience store. He smokes in slow gestures, releasing rings of smoke that crumble in the cold air. His eyes are fixed on the window illuminated by the television, but his face remains impassive as if he were used to listening to the darkest horror stories. He says something in a dismissive tone that surprises you:

“Another one, eh? These CEOs think they're untouchable, above everyone else… until someone decides to show them otherwise.”

The man stubs out his cigarette on the ground, crushing it firmly, and walks away. His footsteps echo in the deserted street, each one more distant than the last. The noise of the few cars that ventured out onto the street cut through the silence with their growing whine.

You look around, but the street seems unchanged, swallowed up by darkness and indifference. Above you, the sound of the news continues:

“Police sources suggest that the information about this case is the same as the cases in which the FBI has acted. So far, neither the police nor the FBI have commented on the case, leaving the population adrift from the growing panic that plagues the streets of the city.”

His gaze rises slowly, leaving the street behind as he captures the city in its vastness. The lights of the skyscrapers shine like stars, indifferent to the lives fading into the shadows below. The sound of the television news mixes with the murmur of the city, before disappearing completely. 

You remain motionless for a moment, staring into the void. The night has never seemed so heavy.

[Monday, July 08, 2019, 05:20 am. Spencer House, Washington D.C., Virginia]

Monday dawned shyly, tinging the sky with a gray-blue hue. Spencer woke up a few minutes before his alarm clock went off. The room was still plunged into dimness, adjusting to the familiar surroundings, but he sensed that something was different. It wasn't the light or the silence that surrounded him. It was a feeling — subtle but insistent — as if the universe was setting the stage for something bigger that he couldn't predict.

With a low sigh, he sat up in bed, his bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. The boards creaked under his feet, a sound he knew well. He ran his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes before letting his fingers rest in his messy hair. The clock next to his bed read 05:20. Earlier than he usually woke up, but there was no turning back. Sleep had abandoned him.

He headed for the bathroom, turning on the light with a quick click that echoed through the small space. The mirror reflected his image: his eyes were slightly reddened with tiredness, his thin beard was starting to grow and his hair was disheveled. With a mechanical gesture, he turned on the tap and let the cold water run through his fingers before washing his face. The thermal shock woke him up completely. For a moment, he stared at his reflection, trying to find in his own face some clue as to what was bothering him. Just him and the heavy silence that filled the room.

In the kitchen, Spencer's morning ritual began. He opened the cupboard and took out the coffee grinder, the fresh beans, and the filter. Everything was done with almost surgical precision: measuring out the exact amount of beans, adjusting the grinder to the perfect texture, and heating the water to the ideal temperature. It was a routine he had mastered, but that morning, even the familiar sounds — the whirring of the grinder, the bubbling of the water — seemed amplified, almost out of place.

As the coffee dripped slowly through the filter, the comforting smell filling the air, Spencer opened the fridge and grabbed the milk. He poured himself a bowl of cereal with calculated, almost mechanical movements. He sat down at the kitchen table, the steam from the coffee rising in slow spirals. Normally, this was the moment of peace he valued most in the day: the quiet minutes when he could open a book or mentally review the previous night's readings. But that morning, he didn't touch the book on the table. Standing there, he stared at the cup as if it held the answers he was looking for.

A shiver ran down his spine, even though the room was still warm. Something was wrong. He couldn't explain what, but he felt it. The silence seemed to have a new texture, denser, almost oppressive. He shook his head, trying to dispel the unease, but it wouldn't go away.

He got up, picked up the empty bowl, and washed it in the sink. The sound of running water was a temporary relief, filling the emptiness around him. When the clock struck 6.45, he returned to his room and began to get dressed. He chose a light blue button-down shirt, carefully ironed, dark brown serge pant,s and a discreet tie. As he adjusted the knot of his tie in the mirror, he felt the pang again: that inexplicable certainty that something big was about to happen.

Before leaving, Spencer picked up his bag and did one last check: badge, notebooks, pens, an Edgar Allan Poe book, and a packet of cookies at the bottom. Everything was in place. He looked around the apartment, the piles of books, the chair in the corner with a blanket thrown over it, and the paintings lined up on the wall. It was the same scene as every morning, but something seemed… different. Almost as if it were no longer entirely his.

“What nonsense…” he muttered to himself as he shook his head.

As he stepped out into the building's corridor, the fresh morning air enveloped him, bringing a brief sense of relief. But the feeling persisted as if it were an invisible shadow that accompanied his every step. The street was quiet, and the sounds of the city were gradually waking up. A car passed by him, the sound of its tires against the wet asphalt reverberating softly. He looked up at the sky but found only gray clouds covering the first glimmers of sunlight.

As he walked to the bus stop, that nagging intuition remained firm. He felt that the next few days were going to be complicated. He didn't know how or why. But something inside him already understood: the calm of that morning was only the prelude to a great storm.

[Monday, July 08, 2019, 10:00 am. Bureau Parkway, Stafford, Virginia]

The day had started with a sequence of small disasters for Spencer. First, he had woken up forty minutes earlier than usual, causing his entire morning routine to go down the drain. Secondly, the bus he always took stopped running halfway to the subway station, causing him to run through the wet streets towards the station with his bag slung uncomfortably over one shoulder and a cup of coffee in precarious balance in his other hand. Thirdly, he was sure that most of the people staring at him were mentally mocking him - even though he did everything possible to ignore the hurried glances of the people around him. Every second that passed made him calculate how much time he was wasting and how much he would need to hurry to catch up; an exercise that, ironically, was only delaying him further.

When he finally walked through the revolving doors of FBI headquarters, he was panting, his coffee was almost cold and his bag was pressing against his ribs. He passed through the metal detector, which beeped unexpectedly, only for an impatient security guard to point at the possible metal objects in his pockets. With a clumsy apology and nervous gestures, he took out a pen and a set of paperclips he had forgotten and passed through again. This time, he was released. Late and visibly disheveled, Spencer headed straight for the elevator.

As he passed through the main door and entered the corridor that led to the BAU, the familiar sound of keyboards, hurried murmurs and footsteps echoed around him, giving him the feeling that the day was already in full swing. Spencer glanced at the watch on his wrist. Forty minutes late. For him, whose whole life was made up of routines and timed schedules, this was an unforgivable slip-up.

The corridors of the BAU floor seemed endless at that point, but finally, he reached the double glass door that gave access to the bullpen. Pushing it open, he entered the familiar environment - a space that always evoked both comfort and an incessant load of pressure.

The bullpen was the perfect blend of order and chaos. The layout was functional: tables arranged in rows that allowed for efficient circulation, but with touches of personality that broke up the monotony. Morgan's desk was a great example of this: a pair of sunglasses rested casually on a notepad, next to a miniature motorcycle. Prentiss' station was clean, but with a hint of sarcasm: a pile of files labeled with small ironic stickers. Blake, on the other hand, was a festival of elegance. His desk was an altar of elegance, with books on linguistic phonetics, dictionaries of different languages, and crossword puzzles methodically organized.

In the background, an evidence board was eye-catching, with a map of a city, photos of suspects, and small notes connected by lines that formed an almost chaotic but meticulously organized pattern. The natural light coming through the windows was swallowed up by the fluorescent lamps on the ceiling, creating a sense of perpetual urgency.

He made his way to his desk with hurried steps, but the foot of his chair betrayed him. He stumbled, swung his coffee dangerously, and almost dropped the cup, saving it at the last second but spilling a considerable amount of liquid over his fingers.

“And there he is!” Morgan's playful voice reached him before he had even steadied himself; it was like an arrow, loaded with sarcasm and a smile that denounced the pleasure of amusement he was feeling. Derek was sitting on the edge of his own desk, arms crossed and grinning mischievously. “Pretty Boy tripping over his own rush. That's new.”

Spencer straightened up, wiping his fingers with a handkerchief he hastily pulled from his pocket. “The bus broke down, which, statistically, is a rare occurrence, but considering…” he began, but Morgan interrupted him with a theatrical gesture.

“You don't need to give me a probability lesson, Spencer. You know no one here is going to fight with you… well, except Hotch, maybe he will.”

Prentiss appeared at Morgan's side with a steaming mug of coffee in hand and an arched eyebrow. She leaned across the table from Blake, who was standing next to her and cast a conspiratorial glance at Morgan.

“Reid, late?” she feigned astonishment. “That hasn't happened since… well, ever. The world really is ending.”

Spencer sighed, taking his backpack off his shoulders and placing it on his desk. “It was a fault in the bus's transmission system,” he began, adjusting his glasses. “It happens in less than 2% of cases, but…”

“Reid, stop.” Emily held up a hand, laughing. “We believe you. No one here is judging you. Well, maybe Morgan is.”

“Of course I am!” Morgan retorted with a lopsided grin. “But only because it's fun!”

JJ, who was organizing a pile of files on the next table, laughed with a warmth that contrasted with the others' teasing.

“Don't worry, Spence. Hotch hasn't come down yet. You're technically on time… if we consider a different time zone.” JJ laughed softly, looking at Spencer with a warm smile. “It's rare, but even geniuses with IQs of 187 have their bad days.”

Before he could respond and thank JJ for his words, Penelope Garcia entered the bullpen like an explosion of energy and color. Her vibrant pink dress seemed to strongly defy the cold office lights, and she carried a stack of folders as if they were trophies.

“Oh my god, Spencer!” she exclaimed, her voice laden with exaggerated drama. “Is everything all right? I heard you were late today! That's like… a solar eclipse or something!”

“Thanks for your concern, Garcia.” he tried to smile but only managed a shy gesture. “It was just the bus. And actually, solar eclipses are more common than we realize…”

Garcia placed the folders on Prentiss's desk with a flourish and turned to face him, putting her hands on her hips. “Always the bus, huh? You really need a car. Maybe something discreet, like… I don't know, how about an electric bike? It suits your style.”

Before the group could continue their teasing, Hotch's office door opened with a creak. Aaron walked into the meeting room with his usual serious expression, holding a file folder. His gaze passed through the bullpen, assessing each one with the precision of a general. When his eyes landed on Spencer, the agent felt his face heat up slightly.

“We have a new case. Conference room, everyone.” Hotch said in his characteristically direct tone before turning and stopping suddenly in the doorway. ”And, Reid, glad you could make it.”

The bullpen went into immediate motion. Morgan patted Spencer on the shoulder as he passed him. 

“Easy escape this time, Pretty Boy.”

Prentiss smiled, taking the last sip of her coffee before heading into the meeting room. “Come on, little genius. We've got a case to solve,”

Blake and JJ walked past Spencer, smiling encouragingly, as Garcia straightened her briefcase and headed towards the meeting room. Spencer breathed a sigh of relief but felt a small weight on his chest. The delay was just the first slip-up of a day that, he sensed, would be more complicated than it seemed.

Despite the friendly teasing and the delay, something in the atmosphere that day seemed different, like an omen he couldn't ignore. As he climbed the stairs behind his friends, he felt the strange sensation that the next few days were going to be challenging, in a way that he still couldn't understand.

The BAU meeting room was a space made for focus and precision, but it also carried a certain symbolic weight. Its neutral walls were broken only by paintings with maps and graphs, a functional contrast to the round table in the center, which seemed to gather all the energy in the place. The table was made of solid dark wood, which was worn from use, reflecting the intense work that went on there. On the ceiling, the fluorescent lights cast a cold, even glow, leaving few shadows but highlighting every detail: open notebooks, pens laid out, and attentive gazes.

Spencer was the last to sit down, adjusting himself almost awkwardly in the chair between Emily and Blake — while they both just watched him. His hair was still a little disheveled, and his tie was still slightly askew, denouncing his lack of time to tidy up his appearance. With a notebook in hand, he leaned forward slightly, his eyes carefully scanning the folders in the center of the table. In front of him, Hotch was already seated, his posture erect and his expression as impenetrable as ever. Morgan was twirling a pen between his fingers, while JJ was leafing through a notepad. Rossi was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, seeming to absorb the atmosphere before the meeting began. 

Garcia entered the room next, bringing an energy that immediately broke the implicit tension. His heels tapped softly on the floor, each step accompanied by a smile that seemed intended to brighten not only the atmosphere but also the mood of everyone present.

“Welcome, welcome, my saviors of the homeland!” she exclaimed, balancing a tablet in one hand and a stack of colored folders in the other. ”I hope you're all 100% ready to face the horrific images I'm about to reveal. It won't be pretty, but that's why you're considered the best, right?”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. “Always with a flair for the dramatic, huh, Baby Girl?”

Garcia winked at him as he placed the folders on the table, distributing them with precision and agility. “Drama is my art, my dear. Besides, when you see what I've found, you'll understand why.”

She moved around the table, handing out the reports to each person. When it was Reid's turn, she held the folder for a moment before handing it over. “To my favorite genius, with extra graphs and tables. I know you love it.”

Reid gave a shy smile, thanking her with a nod while adjusting the strands of hair that stubbornly fell over his eyes. When everyone had their reports, Garcia positioned himself at the front of the room, connecting her tablet to the projector. With a touch of the screen, the main monitor lit up, displaying a map of the city of Philadelphia with four points marked in red. The room fell silent, the agents leaning slightly forward in unison. 

She stopped at Morgan's side, handing him an extra folder with a conspiratorial smile. “You'll want to look at pages 5 and 7 first. Trust me, Chocolate Thunder.”

“I always do, Baby Girl.” replied Morgan, winking at her as he opened the report.

“Thank you, Garcia. Let's get to the case, please.” interjected Hotch, his calm but firm voice signaling that it was time to focus on the case.

“Right, right! You're right.” began Garcia, his voice carrying a mixture of seriousness and empathy. “The city of brotherly love, better known as Philadelphia, is facing a series of… unusual murders. Not unusual, strange? Different? You know what I mean.” She pressed a button, and the photo of four victims appeared on the screen. “Four CEOs of major corporations have been murdered in less than a week. When I say 'big', I mean 'I'm buying a yacht just because I can' big.”

Spencer could hear a slight laugh escaping Emily's lips, even though she tried hard to hold it back.

“Lucinda Moreau, 52, CEO of the mining company Earth Axis Mining. She was found dead last Sunday in her home. The coroner's report indicates that the cause of death was strangulation. Of course, from the images, you can see that she… was tortured first.” 

The image showed Moreau in her dining room, tied to a chair, with financial papers scattered around. On the table, a handwritten note read: “IF YOU ARE THE DEALER, I'M OUT OF THE GAME.”

JJ leaned over to examine the details.

“Harrison Drake, 48, was the second victim. Founder of the oil company Blackstone Fuel International. The crime scene is equally symbolic.” Garcia moved on to the next image.

The photo revealed Drake lying on the floor of his luxurious living room, surrounded by a puddle of black liquid. The note next to him read: “IF THINE IS THE GLORY, THEN MINE MUST BE THE SHAME.”

Rossi shifted in his chair, staring intently at the folder in his hands.

“The third victim: Anya Volkova, 40, founder of the private hospital chain, Vitalis Healthcare Systems. She was found dead in her office.”

The images of Volkova showed her lying on a brown sofa, surrounded by syringes and medical papers. Next to her, a note read: “IF YOU ARE THE HEALER, IT'S MEANS I'M BROKEN AND LAME.”

Hotch stared at Garcia, waiting for her to continue.

“And, the latest victim: Elena Vasquez, 45, CEO of the oil company Aurora Energy Group. She was found in the garden of her home.”

Just like Harrison Drake's crime scene photo, Vasquez's body was surrounded by a black puddle. His note read: “YOU WANT IT DARKER, WE KILL THE FLAME.”

Silence filled the room for a moment. Spencer broke the silence, shaking his head slightly. “In the last victim's note, they used the word 'we'. Maybe we're dealing with more than one unsub or someone who has Dissociative Personality Disorder.”

“Or just someone who wants to fool us and the police.” Emily's face hardened as she spoke. ”Don't these phrases also seem to be something symbolic, some kind of warning?” 

Hotch looked up from the report and faced Garcia, his eyes firmly on her. “Garcia, is there any connection between the victims?”

“No, sir. So far I haven't been able to find any connection between the four.” Garcia denied it, shaking his head.

“Right.” Hotch nodded, absorbing the words. “As soon as we get there, JJ, I want you to contact the victims' families. I want more information about the last days of their lives, if they received any threats, etc. Prentiss, Morgan, you're going to start working on the suspect's profile. Reid, Blake, I want you at the last murder scene. See if you can find anything the local police missed. Dave and I are going to the police station to talk to the detective in charge of the case. And, Garcia, see if there are any patterns or connections between the victims that haven't been found yet.”

Putting the papers away in his briefcase and closing it, Hotch said. “Detective Howard will be waiting for us at the precinct. Grab your go bags and wheels up in 30.”

[brattyspence]

If you look between the lines you can actually see me screaming

hypothalamus

note: this is just me reidsplaining neuro i fear. and being horny. sorry? inspired by my real life final that i so bravely studied for without spencer's help </3

summary: in which spencer gets creative on helping you study for your exam

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, fem!reader, fingering, p in v sex, heavy praise kink, neuroscience jargon

wc: 2.3k

apologies in advance if it sounds too sciencey it is unfortunately the side effect of a woman in stem. bunsen burner! (divider by @firefly-graphics)

The dry erase marker crumbs stick to your hand as you angrily erase the whiteboard again, internally groaning as you restart drawing your diagram hopefully correctly this time. It’s not. After another few failed attempts you slump back in your chair and huff out in frustration, too deep in your sulk to hear the front door open.

“Hey I’m home!” Spencer calls out, bending down to remove his shoes.

“In the study.” you grumble out, a surprise he even heard you when he walks in a minute later. His gaze softens as he takes in the scene. Your notes strewn across the table, your whiteboard dark with marker smudges that match the side of your hand in which you used to erase it. The exhaustion clear as day on your face and the hint of defeat in your eyes is enough to draw him closer to you.

“Oh baby, what’s wrong?” he says softly.

You sniffle, not exactly crying but the stress was bringing you to the brink, “S’nothing, just trying to study and it’s not working. Feel dumb.”

He sighs and rounds the desk, sitting on the edge and reaching for your hands as he looks down at you, “What did I tell you about saying things like that?”

“To not to.” you mumble.

He laughs softly, “Well, yes. But it’s because you’re too hard on yourself. You were just explaining all of this to me yesterday.”

You whine, “I know and it feels like I forgot it already!”

“Maybe you just need to approach it differently,” he tucks a stray hair behind your ear, “Your whiteboard isn’t helping?”

“No,” you sigh, “I keep drawing it wrong and it’s frustrating me.”

The despair in your voice makes his heart ache, and all he wishes is to be able to take it away. Spencer remains deep in thought before something clicks in his mind, you see the shift in him but you’re unable to discern what epiphany he’s reached. His eyes sparkle with mischief as his entire demeanor changes, “I think you might need a different type of visual.”

Your eyes squint in confusion before you realize what he’s getting at, and you can’t help but laugh. “You’re not serious? This is a joke, right?”

He doesn’t break eye contact, “Humor me.”

The laughter dies down on your tongue as you take in and consider the very intentional nature of his words. “How so?”

“You’re studying brain structures right?” you nod, “Okay well, what better way to study than with some active learning?” 

You couldn’t look less convinced. Spencer chuckles, reaching for your hand to switch places with him so he’s seated on the chair. You move forward hesitantly, he holds a hand out to gently pull you closer while using the other hand on your hip guides you onto his lap. You part your knees on either side of him and situate comfortably on him, arms slinking around his neck.

“Hi, pretty girl.”

You soften, “Hi. Are you sure this isn’t a ruse to get me in bed?”

“Oh come on, we’ll kill two birds with one stone. A lot of the hypothalamic functions are very important during intercourse,” he trails his fingers up and down your side, “You’ll get to study with a real life application and relieve some of your stress.”

You move your hips slightly, smiling when you feel him harden beneath you at the simple movement, “Alright, I’m game.”

He matches your grin and presses a kiss to the base of your jaw, “Need you to help me with my pants for this to work, baby.”

The soft kiss already sends you into a dizzy fit, nodding mindlessly as you scoot back to allow yourself space to work on undoing his belt and zipper. You aren’t even sure what his plan is, but if it keeps him talking to you like that you’re afraid there might be nothing you won’t do for him. Spencer’s eyes are focused on you while yours are focused at your handiwork, unable to resist slipping a hand in and palming him through his boxers.

“Ah—h baby, not yet.” he hisses at the contact, reluctantly removing your hand, “S’about you remember? We’re studying. So, tell me something about the thalamus.”

“Okay, the thalamus functions as a relay center for both sensory and m—oh—tor functions.” you moan feeling his lips attach to your neck, slowly marking a path down the slope of your nape with chaste kisses.

He looks up at you briefly, smiling smugly, “Why’d you stop? Keep going.”

You clear your throat as he continues his descent towards your shoulder, motioning for you to lift your arms so he can take off the shirt you’re wearing. His lips immediately reattach before he stops in place once more, brown eyes peering up at you knowingly amid your silence.

“R—Right, so there’s a structure called the lateral geniculate nucleus, fuck.” you curse feeling him suckle a hickey into the crease of your neck.

“Yeah?” he mumbles, “And what does it do?”

His lips descend further down, teasing the lace edges on your bra. You yelp as he nips playfully, “It um, it helps send um…visual stimuli to the brain, right?”

A wicked grin spreads on his face, “That is right, smart girl.” His fingers trace the outline of your bra to the back where he expertly unclasps it, letting it fall to the floor. “You keep getting it right, and I’ll reward you each time, yeah?”

You nod hypnotically, eager to please him and seek his rewards. A soft gasp leaves you as you feel him latch onto your breast, letting his tongue swirl around the peak of your nipple and feeling it harden under his touch. You tighten your arms around him as he latches onto the other breast, moaning softly as he makes sure to give it the same special attention.

You grind your hips down and he lets out a low groan,  arm tightening around your waist, suspending your movement. “Can’t do that, sweetheart” he strains, “You gotta earn it.”

Another whine leaves your throat, dropping your head to his neck. He really wasn’t making this easy. “Okay, so ask me something else then.”

His nose brushes up the length of your neck before his hands reach for the notes behind you, “Anterior nuclei of the thalamus.”

Before you get a chance to think about the answer, you’re distracted by his wandering hands again. Only this time, they’re going down towards where you really need him.

“Spence,” you say breathlessly, letting yourself get lost in the pleasure for a moment.

“Nuh uh,” he pauses his ministrations, “Answer first, reward second. I told you the rules, don’t make me repeat it.”

You whimper and Spencer almost folds—almost. But for the sake of your education, and definitely not the way you look perched on his lap, he treks on.

He does feel a little pity and decides to show you a bit of mercy when he motions for you to lift up slightly so he can pull your pajama shorts all the way off.

“That feel better?” he whispers, hot breath fanning your face. You nod hastily. “Okay then. Anterior nuclei of the thalamus.”

“Um…the anterior nuclei is responsible for—“ your breath hitches as his finger traces the edge of your panties. “Memory, right? Hippocampus.” you rush out.

You feel him smile and nod, “Correct,” his finger hooks onto the fabric and pulls it to the side, the cold air not even hitting you before he swipes through your folds.

Your head drops to his shoulder as you let out a shuddering sigh, peppering kisses up his neck as his fingers provide the much needed attentiveness you needed. He chuckles softly, “Just relax. You’re doing good, pretty girl.”

He helps you remove your underwear, maneuvering you so he can smoothly slide them off your legs. His fingers collect the slick and glides up to circle your clit, grinning when he hears you whine loudly. He continues to move across your pussy before retracting his finger while you let out a soft whimper. You’re about to protest when you see the intention of his removal, watching his hand slip below his boxers to gently pull himself out. He gives himself a few pumps before laying flat against his body, guiding your hips so your cunt is flush with the topside of his dick.

He holds your hips down preventing you from moving, “Hypothalamus?”

The cock drunk state is getting to you and he’s not even inside you yet, “It’s a um…it regulates…stuff.” you trail off, his lips returning to your neck.

He sucks another hickey onto your neck, licking over it and pulling back to gently blow on it. “Not good enough,” he whispers, “Try again.”

You whimper, “Okay—Okay, it sends signals for…sympathetic response—fight or flight” the end of your voice lilting up as he begins to move your hips.

“Keep going.”

The sensation of your cunt sliding up and down his length is enough to send you into delirium, and you’re honestly impressed you’re still able to speak. “It also does,” you take a deep breath for regulation, “It signals appetite and eating…and…”

He slides you forward enough so the tip of his cock is barely breaching your entrance, “One more, pretty girl.”

You rack your brain as you try to force yourself to focus, and not think about the way his tip is stretching your opening, teasing you relentlessly. The answer comes to you in a lightbulb moment, “Intercourse,” you moan, “releases hormones for sex.”

Spencer grins again, “Good girl.”

He lifts your hips a little, and the shift in angle is enough to fully slide himself inside you, the feeling causing you both to moan in tandem. The stretch of his cock inside you splits you apart beautifully, making you feel so full.

You whine his name again as you try to move, getting louder when you realize his hands are still clamped to your side, holding you square in place, “Wanna move, please.”

“Oh baby, you know I love it when you use your manners,” he touts, pressing kisses up your chest, “One more question and I’ll give you what you need, okay?”

You nod quickly, waiting impatiently for his last question.

“Tell me the two hormones made in the hypothalamus.” he whispers against your skin.

“I know one is antidiuretic hormone…” you breathe out shakily, “But, there’s one more I can’t remember.”

“I’ll give you a hint.” his hands slowly begin to guide you up and down on him, a languished moan leaving your throat. The feeling of him pushing against your cervix is so detrimentally distracting, like all you’re focused on is the pure euphoria your body is chasing. It’s clouding your judgement, your senses. It’s all consuming as the pleasure spreads throughout you.

Wait.

Oh.

Spencer seems to sense that you’ve reached an answer and thrusts up into you, “Ah—Knew you’d get there. What is it, baby?”

You let out a sharp gasp before answering, “Oxytocin.”

He doesn’t give a verbal praise but his face splits into a wide grin, finally loosening the grip on your hips and allowing you full reign to chase your peak. You brace yourself on his shoulders and increase your pace, his hands returning to your sides facilitating your movements.

“Such a smart girl you are, baby,” he coos, “Taking me so well and getting all the answers right?”

“Spence…”

“You’re just so good, angel. My beautiful, intelligent girl,” he continues to praise, feeling you clench around him, “My good girl, isn’t that right?”

Any and every neuronal connection in your brain is fried at this point, melded down to nothing but atoms at the hands of Spencer Reid, clearly reveling in your fucked out state as evidenced by your incoherent babbling. His hands grip your sides tighter and pulls you harder when you sink down, the sound echoing throughout the study.

“ ‘m close,” you mumble as you slump into his shoulder letting him fully takeover. He stills his movements for a second before standing up with his hands under your legs to sit you on the desk in front of you. Your hands detach from his shoulders and hold you up from behind as you lean back and let Spencer pull your body towards him.

He continues to fuck into you, the new position allowing him better control for calculated thrusts and a faster pace. Words don’t exist in your lexicon anymore and you hope he can understand your babbles as you attempt to communicate with him that your orgasm is about to overtake you entirely.

He knows, obviously, because it’s you. He slides a finger down to your clit to further drive you to the edge, leaning down to whisper, “Come for me, baby. You’ve earned it.”

With a high pitched whine you crash into your peak with the full force of your body, vision temporarily going white before returning in splotchy spots. Spencer comes not too far behind you, fucking the last of his come into you before stilling completely.

You both pant heavily as you try to catch your breaths, and Spencer leans forward to rest his forehead on yours. “You alright?”

“I think you fucked me dumb.”

He laughs breathlessly, “Actually, I think I fucked you smart.”

You swat his shoulder lightly and laugh, “That was so bad.”

He smoothes your hair back before gently pulling out, using your discarded shirt to clean you up a bit. His lips press a kiss to forehead, then your nose, both cheeks, before landing on your lips kissing you deeply.

You pull back suddenly, “Wait, I still have like, five more sections to review.”

Spencer’s wicked grin returns. “Well, we better get to work.” He effortlessly picks you up from the desk as you giggle and wrap your legs around him. He reaches the bedroom and delicately tosses you on the bed, looking down as he stands over you at the edge.

 “Gotta make sure you get that A, pretty girl.”

[brattyspence]

good lord someone put me down

no talking in the morning

spencer knows you like quiet in the morning, so of course, he finds other way to keep his mouth busy

spencer reid x reader words: 1.8k cw: smut!!! 18+ pls, sort of somnophilia, nothing too extreme, fingering, munch!spencer (because of course), also soft dom!spencer, i'm writing smut after ages okay give me grace. also extremely nervous to post this.

The mornings were always something complicated for you. The sunshine as you sit on the balcony with your tea and a book is great but you also want some more minutes of sleep. But there was a certain peace in waking up early, not having to talk for a while, no erratic thoughts running inside your head and just some quiet time to yourself. 

Spencer had discovered early on that you didn't like talking in the morning, neither did you want him to talk. anytime he'd be rushing after a call from Hotch, waking you up loudly, you'd be in a sour mood. So he had never done it again. He usually just woke you up lightly to tell you he's leaving, but after a few weeks of dating, he just left a note on the bedside table. You were used to him being gone. 

The thought causes a crease in his forehead as he looks at your sleeping face, peaceful and beautiful, he thinks. He's gone for most mornings, atleast until you wake up and he dreads it everytime. 

Every time he wasn't away in the morning and he got to see you wake up, he'd see you look for him, your hands searching for him on the bed and then after you find him, you burrow yourself in him, hiding your face in his chest. 

It always was like that, you two fell asleep with his head on your chest, or he comes home and uses you as his pillow and you two wake up with you wrapped around him. 

He leans down to press a kiss on your cheek, almost featherlight, lips barely grazing, but he continues. A kiss to your jaw, another to your chin and he slowly travels down the column of your throat. He comes out of his haze and halts his movements when he hears the quietest whine as he sucks on the spot he always does to get a reaction out of you. He could feel himself hardening when he hears you moan in your sleep, your body reacting to his touches even when you were asleep. 

He gets bolder, his hands sliding under your shirt, rubbing circles on the skin, slowly sliding up to your chest as he keeps kissing your collarbone. He thanked you internally for wearing a tank top, to provide him a canvas that he could paint with his kisses. 

Eventually, the neck of the top interrupts his movements and he becomes impatient. 

As selfish as it was, he wanted you to wake up. He possibly couldn't keep doing this as you were asleep, and the tent in his pants was a good sign that he desperately needed you.

Spencer moves quickly, placing a quick peck on your lips before moving down, situating himself between your legs. He quietly whispers, “Angel, wake up, please.”

His hands slowly spread your legs, not too much, he still didn't know what the boundaries were. 

You had told him you absolutely wouldn't mind being woken up like this, but he had never taken the opportunity before. So he restrained himself to be patient and gentle, as much power it took and one of his hands slid up your thigh, caressing the soft skin. 

He'd always said he could stay here forever, in between your thighs, his face buried in your pussy as your thighs wrap around him. 

You're only wearing your panties, a consequence of the events last night. 

The flashbacks hit him, a slow montage of every single thing that you did together, every moan uttered from your lips and every expression on your face. He feels his dick twitch when he remembers the taste of your pussy, the sweet juice coating his tongue. 

His thumb rubs slow circles on your clothed cunt, desperately hoping this will be enough to wake you up. He needed to hear you, he felt he'd go insane if he didn't soon. 

He places kisses on the inside of your thigh, taking his time covering every inch of skin with his lips. 

Your body moves slightly, as if waking up, but not quite awake yet, your hands lazily search for him beside you. You could feel him touching you, never quite in the place you'd like him to be, which was enough to drive you crazy.

He takes your hand in his, “I'm here, honey.”

“Spencer…” You aren't completely awake yet, but aware enough to know what he's planning, so he gives you time to think of an answer.

He kisses your stomach, featherlight kisses as if you're made of glass, his eyes looking up at you as he sees your breathing get faster and slowly moves his way up to your breasts, taking one of them in his mouth, sucking on the hardened bud. A hitch in your breath and he feels a wave of satisfaction, his cock hardening at the sound. His other hand rolls the peak of your other breast, taking turns so that “one of them doesn't feel left out.”

He'd made that joke during sex once, you had laughed and then kissed him, so he took that as a positive sign. One of his very few successes at making jokes, or so he says, you seem to disagree.

He feels your hand in his hair and he smiles and tears himself away to look at you.

You look absolutely ethereal, your eyes laced with lust or sleepiness, Spencer couldn't tell. A lazy smile gracing your lips, hair splayed out around your head. 

“I'm sorry, you just look so pretty.”

You smile through closed eyes and pull him to you, just slightly touching your lips to his, not exactly kissing him yet,

“I literally just woke up.” You laugh, a soft one but he feels the compliment isn't enough. You look more than just pretty to him, but he's afraid that if he starts he might not be able to stop. And he knows you don't like talking too much in the morning, so he keeps his thoughts inside.

He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, running his finger down your nose, his eyes searching yours as if to ask, “Is this okay?”

He sees your eyes soften, which he didn't think was even possible in your current sleep-laden state, but it does and you take his face in your hands,

“Never, ever, apologise for waking me up like this.”

You say, putting emphasis on ‘never’ and kiss him. He tries to deepen the kiss when you protest and pull away,

“Morning breath.” 

He only rolls his eyes before leaning in again and continues kissing you, and this time as deeply as he can because he'd be an insane man to let morning breath stop him from kissing you.

His hands travel in between your legs, his fingers sneaking in between your folds, his fingers just slightly curved to tease but you whine in his ear and he looks at you earnestly, worried that he might have gone too far. So, he was obviously delighted to hear your next words,

“Take it off, please,” You say hurriedly with begging eyes, “Need you properly.”

And who was he to deny such a beautiful request?

He moves quickly but takes his sweet time sliding your underwear down your legs, pressing chaste kisses as he moves down. He spreads your legs and grips them tight, unknowingly, the sight of you enough to make him lose control.

“You're so wet, angel,” He asks, his fingers gently smearing your wetness, rubbing gentle slow circles over your clit, his eyes laser focused on his own actions, as if he hasn't done this a hundred times before,“Is this all for me?”

“Spencer, please…” You moan, your head thrown back, still overstimulated from last night, Even the slightest touches felt elevated.

“I know, baby, I know.” He says before diving in, licking long stripes up your cunt, keeping himself gentle but he feels your hips bucking into him and that does it. 

His tongue flattens against your clit again and again, each action like a punishment because he can't get closer. His head is spinning and he craves more so he keeps going, like he's a man starved. He brings his fingers to brush against your entrance, coating his fingers with your slick before inserting a finger inside you. It's only the first one but he can already feel you clenching around him. He pushes further until he reaches all the way and feels you squirming underneath him.  He kisses your clit again at the same time he curls his finger inside you and it’s all too much. 

“Oh, it's okay sweetheart,” He places soft kisses to your cunt as if to soothe you but only before intensifying his actions, this time his fingers working in and out of you.

Your grip on his hair tightens as the change settles in and a lewd sound comes out of you and you cover your mouth with your hand but Spencer is quick to stop you, halting his movements only to tell you, beg you,

“No, no, no, don't do that, I wanna hear my pretty girl.”

Then, he's on you all over again. His lips wrap around your clit and he whines when he sucks into your bundle of nerves. It's as if every single action of his is for your pleasure, everything he does has your back lifting up from the bed and tugging at his curls. 

“Spence, spence, I'm so-,” You manage to get out and he speeds up his movements,

“You're close? You gonna cum for me?” His words are muffled as he's pressed against your pussy, the vibration just adding to your pleasure, You gush around his finger and he licks and laps at your pussy like he needs it to breathe. His finger curls inside you while your hips rock against him, the grip you have on his hair loosening each second you come down your high.

He continues his movements even after you've come, your breath panting and heavy, and you already feel like your body can't move anymore. Your hand rakes through his hair, removing strands of them from his face when he looks up. 

His face is a mess, covered in your wetness when he wipes it off, leaning down again to kiss you. 

He's tentative when he's kissing you because he's sure his chin is sticky, but you don't seem to mind, kissing him back with a fervor. 

His lips find your neck, placing a string of light kisses when you whisper, “Do you need me to return the favor?”

A sheepish look appears across his face when he replies, “No, I'm good.”

He kisses you again before whispering against your lips, “You don't need to do anything, just let me have you.”

Maybe any other time, you would have insisted, or even argued against him but it's the morning, and he made you feel so good, who are you to refuse such an enticing offer?

[brattyspence]

let us take a moment and grieve for all the lives lost. so many thousand people have been murdered by the zionist entity in the last fifteen months. palestinians in gaza have lost too much, from friends and family to their homes and livelihood.

this ceasefire is not an end to our solidarity with gaza. we will all be here waiting and praying for palestine to be wholly liberated from the occupation and watch her people be happy and free.

in the meantime, please keep donating to palestinian fundraisers. it is essential to support families planning on rebuilding.

alaa is a mother of two young children. her fundraiser has been verified. i request you to help her by sharing and donating to her gofundme.

please donate here

[brattyspence]

I love over sharing on the internet yes I DOOO

[brattyspence]

matthew gray gubler as russell in the great buck howard

[brattyspence]

im so glad glasses Spencer Reid isn't a real person because I would lick the lenses and sob

[brattyspence]

every time this comes up on my feed I crash out

[brattyspence]

Spencer who learns that he loves when you play with his hair, and it's a total accident. He's so adamant that he doesn't like physical touch from the majority of people, and so the first time it happens, you're sitting together, watching a movie, and it's a mindless thing that you don't even realize you're doing. He probably shoots you a really confused look at first, like he's halfway ready to protest, but then he realizes oh actually thats kind of nice? and shuts up about it.

And after a while he learns to come to expect it from you whenever you're in close proximity, like maybe in bed or when he's reading at home. You never explicitly offer the gesture, and he never asks, but you kind of fall into a pattern that he just gets used to.

And then maybe one day you fall asleep before him and he's just lying there in bed like ??? uhh wait a minute??? because he's so used to falling asleep to you the feeling of your nails running across his scalp and he just has to sit there and remember how on earth he would ever fall asleep before that started. And then he would probably give in and try and get you to wake up by pretending that he's pulling you closer or something just to get you to stir enough that hopefully, you'll just do it on your own and you'll fall asleep like that, one hand still tangled in his hair and you just can't fathom that once this same man that rejected a handshake because germs requires physical contact to function.