brattyspence

[brattyspence]

please don't flop please don't flop

white noise | s.r

a/n: don't look at me i'm nervous for this

summary: spencer x reader -- a situationship defined by white noise; a metaphor for how we pacify ourselves and make stupid decisions to experience comfort, even when it hurts

word count: 1.2k (shut up okay)

masterlist

As you roll over in his bed, the soft white noise of feathers settling in down pillows and sheets crumpling up under your body echoes through your head. This white noise, his white noise, the sound of jersey sheets and an old ceiling fan and his heartbeat under your ear and him, which you've learned to fall asleep to more often than not.

It's cold in his room, but the still bed radiates warmth. There's a domestic quality to the way his fingertips trail up and down your arm, tracing lines over your shoulder absentmindedly. It's possessive somehow, in a way that says I’ve been here before, I’ll be here again. 

There's a trait to Spencer that you can't quite put your finger on. It's familiar. It's falling asleep with your back against his stomach, his breathing pattern long engraved in your physiology. Its the thrum of the engine in his shitty old Volvo when he picks you up from work when you're too tired to walk. It's forehead kisses and whispered things that replay in your mind when you're struggling to put together all of the pieces.

Spencer is white noise. 

You could be upset about it. You should, in fact. Spencer’s commitment to non-commitment haunts you more often than not. The domesticity of your situation sneaks up on you sometimes, in the form of remembered coffee orders, the lingering touch of his hand on your hip when you go out together. He’s perfected all the things to make you feel like you belong to him, but he just can’t find the words to make it true. Still, you’ve become so used to him that you’re not sure you can quit despite your feelings.

Sunlight just barely makes its way through his blinds by the time he’s awake. It's morning, earlier than you'd like it to be, but you always wake up with him when you're here. 

Your eyes flutter open and closed a few times before they focus, the room filled with the warm light emanating from the sconces. Light that hardens edges and raises new questions and drives a wedge between you, literally. This time of day has long become the bane of your existence. 

“Morning,” he murmurs. He brushes the hair out of your eyes with the softest touch you've ever felt. You instinctively scrunch your face, too close to sleep to process, and you don't realize what he's doing until he presses a kiss to your forehead.

Your only response is an inaudible mumble. He doesn't need words to know what you're saying. It's come back to bed, it's I'm so tired, and it's too early,

“Coffee’s on,” he says. 

“Hm,” you hum. 

And so it goes as it does every day. A mug–your mug–, filled with coffee made to your liking left on the kitchen counter for you. A toothbrush left in the holder in your favorite color. You both get ready in silence, a practiced ritual, making space for each other with lingering touches where needed. 

“Lock the door when you leave?” He asks. You can hear the sound of his bag being shucked over his shoulder, and in an instant he’s behind you, warm hands on your hips and a soft kiss to your shoulder. 

You spend the day waiting, as you always do, for him to invite you back in. You know its pathetic, that you should be better than this. You think of all the advice you’ve ever received about love and relationships and what not to do. How not to be desperate. The second his message crosses your screen, any semblance of logic fades. it doesn’t matter. 

When you finally stumble through the entryway to his apartment, the day drops to your feet like shattered glass, shoes and bags and jackets left on the floor, discarded, forgotten, because you’re here. You can go back to pretending for just a little bit longer. 

Its 11pm when you find yourself right back where you started. In his bed, wearing clothes that live in his drawers, the ceiling fan set to your preferred speed. You’re half asleep on the side of the bed that you’ve claimed as your own, at least for 5 nights a week, your cheek pressed into his chest, the rhythmic beating of his heart continuing to etch itself into your memory. 

The day weighs heavy on you as it always does. Almost as heavy as the weight of all the things left unspoken, which you’ve been carrying around as long as you’ve known him.

“Spencer?” You murmur, fingertips idlying toying at the fabric of his shirt. 

“Hm?”

You pause to listen to the sound of your fingers running over the fabric of his shirt. Theres the gentle hum of the heater, the flickering of a TV left on somewhere. There’s comfort to how things are. Asking the question in your mind could disrupt that. 

“Do you think,” you swallow, adjusting your head against him to look up at him. “That you’ll change your mind?”

“About us?”

“Yeah.”

He sighs, and your head bobs with the rise and fall of his chest. “I don’t know. Maybe one day.”

Silence lingers between you for a moment. It swells within every corner of your being.

“One day.”

“Maybe,” he corrects. It’s not biting or mean, but it's a deflection. “I don’t know, baby.”

It takes a lot to avoid the temptation to press him. He’s a hypocrite, at minimum. You could tell him all sorts of things about how he’s wrong, and how he doesn’t get it. That it’s not fair that he gets you in every form; asleep, awake, happy, sad, in bed, at work, and you get nothing to show for it. You could give him shit for being exactly how he is, but you don’t. Instead you choose to hold on to maybe. Maybe – an empty promise, but one you’ll accept in exchange for whatever time he will give you.

Instead you sigh, scooting closer. He tucks your head right into position, the same way you sleep every night, with practiced ease. His hands find their home against your skin, leaving warm spots on your back that lull you halfway to sleep before you try again. 

“I’m waiting for you,” you mumble. The words slip out before you can think about the weight of them. It’s an admission, a request, a plea. It’s stupid. It makes you feel sick in more ways than one, but it’s the truth.

“Go to sleep,” he replies.

It’s an open ended question. Its a chance to pick a fight, to force him to make up his mind. Its an opportunity to tell him off. Tonight, though, you don’t bother thinking about how his words lack substance. How he dances around every question. You don’t have time to notice just how upset you really are before he presses another kiss to your forehead. 

Tonight, you choose this. White noise; the illusion of belonging, his heartbeat under your cheek, hands running across bare skin, the quiet comfort of him –  his home, his space. Him. 

You choose white noise, static, empty promises, the comfort of being here as compared to anywhere else. Maybe tomorrow it will all matter. But not tonight.

[brattyspence]

JE-SUS CHRIIST (Frank Gallagher version)

A Distracting Fixation — spencer reid

"LOOK AT YOU — on your knees, drooling for it. You need this, don’t you? Need to keep that pretty mouth busy. So take it — deep, messy, just like that. Fuck, you're perfect."

SUMMARY: spencer notices the way you have to keep your mouth occupied.. and offers a better alternative to help your oral fixation PAIRING: spencer reid & fem!reader CAUTION: swearing, oral fixation, unprotected, blowjob, swallowing cum, creampie, aftercare WORD COUNT: 4.7K AUTHOR'S NOTE: not proof read - i love spencer sm

Spencer has been watching you for months, noticing things about you that even you haven’t picked up on. He notices everything.

The way your lips always seem to be occupied with something — a pen cap, your fingertips, the straw of your iced coffee that you absentmindedly swirl between your lips. The way your tongue flicks out to wet your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought, how you drag your teeth over the soft skin like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

He’s caught you sucking on the tip of your thumb absentmindedly while reading through case files, your brow furrowed, lips pursed around the pad of your finger. You only do it when you’re lost in concentration, not even aware of how utterly distracting it is.

Then there’s the gum. The way you roll it between your teeth, lazily pressing it against the roof of your mouth before sucking on it like you're teasing yourself with something you can’t have. He sees the way your jaw moves, the way your tongue works behind your lips, and it makes his cock twitch in his slacks every goddamn time.

But the worst?

The absolute worst is when you’re chewing on something — a pen cap, the arm of your glasses, even just tapping your fingernails against your lower lip, like you’re waiting for something to be put there. And when you’re really not thinking about it, when you’re fully lost in whatever you’re working on, you’ll let out these little sounds. Soft hums, barely-there whimpers, like you’re trying to satisfy some need that’s not being met.

And it drives Spencer fucking insane.

Because he knows exactly how to fix it.

The weight of the case pressed down on you, thick and suffocating, curling around your shoulders like an iron shroud. It had been another dead end, another frustrating attempt at deciphering a pattern that refused to reveal itself. The victims — three so far — had been taken with terrifying precision, their bodies left posed with meticulous care. The UnSub was careful, methodical, deliberate. Just like Spencer.

The thought flickered through your mind unbidden as you sat at his desk, your fingers idly tracing the edge of a case file, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. The dim glow of his desk lamp bathed the room in golden light, casting deep shadows across the scattered notes and open books surrounding you. The air smelled faintly of old paper and coffee, the scent of late nights and restless minds.

Across from you, Spencer sat hunched over a file, his gaze scanning each page with the kind of intensity that made it seem as though he was reading something the rest of the world couldn’t see. His fingers moved in that absentminded way they did when he was thinking —drumming lightly against the wood, tapping patterns only he understood. His lips were slightly parted, his jaw tight, his focus absolute.

But you weren’t focused.

You were chewing on the end of your pen, rolling it between your teeth, letting it press against your lips in slow, absent motions. It was a habit, something to keep your mouth occupied while your brain worked, though tonight, your mind wasn’t working at all. Instead, it was wandering — lingering on the way Spencer’s hands flexed when he turned a page, the way his mouth pursed slightly in concentration, the way his eyes flickered when something caught his attention.

You bit down a little harder on the pen cap.

A soft sigh slipped from Spencer’s lips. At first, you thought it was just another noise of frustration — another sign of how little progress you’d made. But then he shifted in his chair, straightening slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was sharp.

“You’re doing it again.”

The words sent a jolt through you, grounding you back into the present moment. Your gaze snapped up to meet his, heart stumbling slightly when you realized he wasn’t even looking at the files anymore. His attention was on you.

You let the pen drop from your lips, blinking. “Doing what?”

His jaw clenched.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his gaze slow, deliberate and assessing. The air between you thickened, tension creeping into the space that had once been filled with quiet concentration. You could feel the weight of his stare, the way it lingered, dragging over your lips, down to your throat, before flicking back up to meet your eyes.

Then, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his voice dropping into something quieter.

“You have an oral fixation.”

Your breath caught.

A slow, pulsing heat curled low in your stomach, coiling tightly at the casual certainty in his voice.

“I—”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, studying you. His face was unreadable, but his eyes… His eyes held something deeper, something unreadable and entirely dangerous.

“You chew on pens,” he continued, his tone impossibly steady. “You sip drinks even when you’re not thirsty. You touch your lips when you’re thinking. I’ve watched you do it for months.”

Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t the observation itself that sent warmth rushing through your veins — it was the way he said it. Like he wasn’t just stating a fact. Like he had spent far too much time noticing, cataloging, analyzing every movement, every unconscious habit.

“You notice that?” Your voice was softer now, breathier than before.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I notice everything about you.”

A shiver rippled through you, your fingers curling against your thighs.

He leaned in a fraction more, closing the space between you just enough for the warmth of his breath to ghost over your skin. “Do you even realize how often you do it?” His voice was lower now, more controlled, each syllable measured and deliberate. “Or how distracting it is?”

Your pulse thrummed wildly.

Distracting.

The word settled deep inside you, igniting something restless and needy.

You swallowed hard, your tongue darting out to wet your lips—another unconscious habit, but this time, you did it under the full weight of his stare. His eyes darkened.

“Spencer…”

The name came out softer than you intended, like a quiet plea.

His fingers twitched.

And then ever so slowly, he reached forward, his fingertips brushing the curve of your jaw. The touch was featherlight, but it sent a sharp jolt of electricity through you, your breath stuttering at the unexpected intimacy.

“I think,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, “you need something to keep your mouth occupied.”

The words sink into your skin, lighting a fire deep in your belly. Your thighs press together instinctively, your lips parting slightly as warmth floods through your veins.

He notices. Of course, he notices.

Spencer is a profiler before anything else. He sees the way your body responds, cataloging every flicker of arousal like a scientist analyzing an experiment.

His thumb drags lower, skimming your chin before tilting your face up ever so slightly. His touch is featherlight, teasing.

“If I were to give you something,” he continues, as if he’s simply musing over a hypothesis, “would you take it? Would you let me fill that pretty mouth of yours?”

Heat floods through you so quickly it’s dizzying.

“Spencer,” you breathe, the sound of his name falling from your lips like a plea.

His eyes darken. “That’s not an answer.”

You swallow hard, your throat tightening under the weight of his stare. Every inch of your body is humming, aching, the slow burn of tension winding so tight inside you that it’s almost unbearable.

“Yes,” you whisper, barely able to get the word out. “I would.”

His lips part slightly, his breath faltering for just a fraction of a second before he recovers, his hand tightening just a little against your jaw. He shifts in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, and you don’t miss the way his pants have grown tighter, the clear evidence of his arousal straining against the fabric.

“You’re so good at running that mouth of yours,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over your cheek, down the curve of your neck. “Always teasing, always distracting. But I think we can put it to better use.”

The words send a sharp jolt of arousal straight to your core. Your nails dig into your thighs, desperate for some kind of relief, but Spencer doesn’t give you a chance to focus on anything but him.

His hand slides into your hair, gripping just firmly enough to make you gasp. He watches your reaction, his eyes flickering with something dark and knowing before he tugs gently, guiding you forward.

“On your knees.”

Spencer is already hard by the time you slide off your chair and sink onto your knees between his spread legs, his cock pressing thick and heavy against the fabric of his slacks. He’s aching, barely keeping himself together, and you haven’t even touched him yet.

You press your palms to his thighs, feeling the heat radiating through his clothes, your fingertips digging in slightly as anticipation coils tight in your stomach. The air between you is charged, every second stretching longer, the weight of his gaze burning into your skin like it could set you aflame.

Spencer exhales sharply, his fingers sliding into your hair, gentle but possessive, pupils blown wide, jaw tight with restraint.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, almost like he can’t believe this is happening, like the sight of you there between his legs is more than he can take.

But you’re not hesitating.

Your hands move to his belt, undoing the buckle with slow, deliberate movements, dragging it out just to watch him squirm. His breath stutters, his fingers twitching in your hair, grip tightening ever so slightly as you free the leather and let it drop to the floor with a soft thud.

The tease has you buzzing, tension coiling low in your belly as you toy with the zipper of his slacks, letting the moments stretch, watching the way his chest rises and falls faster, lips parting just slightly when you finally drag his pants down, exposing him.

And Jesus fucking Christ...

Spencer is big.

Thick, flushed, his cock already leaking at the tip, veins prominent along the length, pulsing with every ragged breath he takes. He’s achingly hard, the sight of it stirring something hot and primal inside you, making your mouth water.

“You’re already drooling,” he mutters, voice wrecked with desire, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. He drags it down slightly, just enough to make your mouth part, the tension between you thick enough to cut. “You want it that bad?”

You hum, a low sound of affirmation, nodding as your lips part wider, the heat of him brushing against your cheek, teasing the both of you with the softest contact.

Spencer hisses, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “Fucking tease.”

A flicker of mischief sparks in your eyes as you glance up at him, and then — finally — you press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip of his cock, your tongue flicking out to catch the salty taste of his precum.

Spencer shudders, thighs tensing beneath your hands, his whole body wound tight with need.

You start slow, dragging your tongue lazily along the underside, tracing the thick vein from base to tip, savoring the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers curl into your scalp. Every reaction is a reward, and you want to drag it out as long as possible.

Then, you wrap your lips around the head, sucking lightly, teasing him with shallow strokes of your tongue, flicking against the sensitive slit, tasting him, moaning softly at the weight of him on your tongue.

Spencer groans, the sound rough and low, his hips twitching slightly forward, like he’s holding back, like he’s trying not to lose himself completely.

“Quit fucking around,” he mutters, voice strained, his hand tightening at the base of your skull. “Take it. Now.”

A rush of heat surges between your legs, your stomach clenching at the command, and you obey.

You sink down, letting his cock stretch your mouth, your jaw already aching as you take him deeper. Your tongue presses flat against the underside, tracing along every ridge and curve, feeling every pulse.

Spencer curses under his breath, his chest rising and falling faster, his fingers tightening in your hair as you take him all the way to the back of your throat, your nose almost brushing his stomach.

You pause there, letting your throat relax, your eyes flicking up to meet his. His chest heaves, his eyes dark and half-lidded, his lips parted as he watches you with barely restrained hunger.

“Jesus fucking—” He cuts off, breath catching when you swallow around him, your throat constricting, your tongue lapping against the underside as you hollow your cheeks and start to suck.

His reaction is instant - his hips jerk slightly forward, a groan spilling from his lips as his body trembles under your hands. His control is slipping, and you can feel it in the way he grips your hair, in the ragged edge of his breathing.

“Fuck, that’s—” His voice breaks, shaking as you bob your head, setting a rhythm that has his cock sliding slick and wet between your lips.

You make it messy, sloppy, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down onto his thighs as you take him deeper, the sensation overwhelming as your throat constricts around him with every pass.

Spencer’s breathing turns erratic, hips starting to move of their own accord, a raw need taking over. He’s close, and you know it.

“You’re so—” He hisses, cock twitching in your mouth, thighs tensing like he’s trying so fucking hard not to lose himself completely, not to just fuck your throat like he’s aching to.

But you want him to.

You press your hands against his thighs, urging him on, and Spencer groans, his hips snapping forward just slightly, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

You gag, throat tightening around him, a desperate, choked sound spilling from your lips as his fingers dig into your scalp, his entire body trembling with the effort to hold back.

“Fuck, I’m—” His voice cracks, breath coming in short, shallow gasps, cock twitching violently against your tongue. “I’m gonna—”

You don’t pull away.

Spencer’s groan is guttural, his entire body seizing up as he comes, hot and thick, spilling over your tongue in deep, pulsing spurts. His thighs shake, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps as you swallow every drop, your throat working around him until he’s whimpering from the overstimulation.

When you finally release him, Spencer slumps back against the couch, his chest heaving, a dazed look in his eyes.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his fingers brushing against your cheek, tilting your chin up so he can look at you, still catching his breath.

His eyes are dark, but there's still something hungry lingering behind them.

“You,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “are going to be the death of me.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths, his fingers tangled in your hair as he studies you, a flicker of something darker lurking behind his half-lidded gaze. You can see it—the shift from restrained control to raw, unfiltered hunger. He’s not done with you. Not even close.

“Get up,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, rough around the edges with the weight of his own arousal. His fingers tighten in your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you listen. “Now.”

A shiver runs through you at the quiet authority laced in his voice. You obey, your legs unsteady as you rise, the heat between your thighs unbearable.

The moment you’re standing, Spencer surges forward, one hand gripping the back of your neck as his lips crash into yours. It’s messy— hot, desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth without hesitation. You can taste him, the faintest traces of salt and heat still lingering. His other hand grips your waist, tugging you flush against his body, and you gasp at the hardness pressing into your stomach.

Already.

Already, he’s hard again.

You whimper into the kiss, your fingers fisting into his shirt, nails scraping against the fabric as his mouth moves hungrily against yours. He groans at the way you melt into him, his fingers digging into your waist before sliding under the hem of your shirt, dragging rough fingertips up your spine.

“Take this off,” he demands, voice breathless as he tugs at the fabric.

You don’t hesitate. You strip your shirt off in one swift motion, and before it even hits the floor, his hands are on you — palming your breasts through your bra, squeezing just enough to make you arch into him. His mouth leaves yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, his tongue flicking against your pulse before sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn’t stop there. His hands slide behind you, finding the clasp of your bra, and with one deft motion, he unhooks it. Before you can even shrug the straps from your shoulders, he’s already peeling the fabric away, exposing your breasts to the cool air.

You barely have time to register the sensation before his mouth is on you — hot, wet lips wrapping around a nipple, sucking hard enough to make you arch into him with a sharp gasp.

“Spencer,” you whimper, threading your fingers into his hair as he groans against your skin, his tongue flicking against the hardened peak before switching to the other, giving it just as much attention.

His hands are everywhere, roaming over your bare skin, gripping your waist, kneading your hips before sliding lower, curling around the backs of your thighs as he presses you against the desk.

Your hands move with frantic desperation, tugging at his tie, unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy, eager fingers. You need to feel him— his skin, his heat, the steady thrum of his pulse under your fingertips.

As soon as his shirt is gone, you push it off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Your palms splay across his chest, nails raking lightly over his skin, and he shudders under your touch. His lips find yours again, his kiss even rougher this time, all teeth and tongue and sheer, unrestrained need.

Then his hands are at your jeans, undoing the button in one swift motion, shoving the denim down your hips. You kick them off, standing before him in just your panties, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to the soaked fabric between your thighs. He drags a finger over the damp material, pressing just enough to make you whimper.

“Already this wet?” His voice is almost mocking, but his pupils are blown wide, his own need barely contained. His fingers toy with the lace of your panties before slipping beneath them, and when he drags his fingers through your slick folds, he groans. “You’re drenched.”

Your legs tremble as he teases you, his fingers moving torturously slow, spreading your wetness before pulling back completely. You make a noise of protest, but it dies in your throat when you see him.

Spencer is watching you with dark, ravenous eyes as he unzips his slacks completely, shoving them and his boxers down in one swift motion. He steps out of them, kicking them aside as he stands before you, completely bare.

He wraps a hand around his cock, stroking himself slowly, lazily, the head already flushed and leaking. The sight of him — so unabashedly aroused, so shameless in his hunger for you — sends another rush of heat straight to your core.

“Get on the desk,” he orders, voice steady but firm, leaving no room for argument.

You hesitate for half a second, and then he’s gripping your hips, turning you and guiding you backward until your ass bumps against the wood.

“Up,” he says again, stroking himself as he watches you. “Spread those pretty legs for me.”

The heat between your thighs is unbearable, need pooling low in your stomach as you do as he says, lifting yourself onto the desk, spreading your legs wide, letting him see everything.

Spencer’s breath shudders as he watches, his jaw clenching, his grip tightening on his cock. He steps closer, positioning himself between your thighs, his free hand sliding up your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin, dragging his fingertips closer and closer to where you need him most.

Then he grips the base of his cock and drags the tip against your slick folds, teasing you, coating himself in your wetness. You shudder, hips bucking slightly, but he just smirks.

He slaps his cock against your clit once, twice, the sharp sting sending jolts of pleasure through you. You gasp, hands fisting against the desk, body twitching with each stinging slap.

“Spencer,” you plead, your voice breaking.

He groans at the desperation in your tone, gripping your hips to hold you still as he teases you again, dragging his cock over your entrance, pressing just enough to stretch you open — but not pushing in.

Then he leans in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers,

“Hold on tight, sweetheart.”

And then he thrusts inside you.

Spencer’s cock sinks into you in one smooth, unrelenting thrust, stretching you open, filling you so completely that your head tilts back with a strangled gasp. Your fingers scramble for purchase on the desk, nails digging into the wood as your thighs squeeze around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you know there’ll be marks tomorrow. “You’re so goddamn tight.”

He pulls back just enough to drag the thick length of him against your walls before slamming forward again, knocking a breathless moan from your lips. Your body jolts from the force of it, the desk creaking beneath you, but Spencer doesn’t care. If anything, the sound spurs him on.

His rhythm is ruthless - deep, hard thrusts that send pleasure rippling through your entire body, forcing your back to arch, your mouth falling open in a silent cry. Every inch of you is hypersensitive, nerves alight with overwhelming heat, and then...

A sharp slap lands against your breast.

You yelp, eyes snapping open in shock, only to find Spencer watching you with dark, calculating eyes, his palm still hovering in the air. The sting blossoms across your skin, warmth spreading from the impact, and before you can fully process it, he does it again.

The second slap makes your cunt clench around him, a ragged moan spilling from your lips as the sharp sting melts into something heady and intoxicating.

Spencer groans, his hips snapping forward harder, deeper. “You like that, don’t you?” His voice is breathless, edged with something dangerous.

You can’t form words, can’t think past the pleasure consuming you, so you just nod frantically, gasping when he delivers another slap, this one harder than the last.

His free hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, needy. “Fuck, Spencer—yes, I love it.”

A smug smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Good.”

Then he gives you no warning before he picks up his pace, thrusting into you with a force that leaves you breathless, your legs wrapping tighter around him as he fucks you into the desk.

The wet, obscene sounds of your slick cunt taking him over and over again fill the room, mixing with your ragged breaths, your whimpers, the sharp crack of his palm against your breasts. He alternates between squeezing them roughly and slapping them, watching the way your body reacts, the way you tighten around him every time he does it.

You’re close, so unbearably close, your stomach tightening, your muscles trembling with the buildup of pleasure. Spencer knows it too.

His grip shifts, one hand sliding down your stomach, his fingers finding your clit. The moment he touches you, your whole body jerks, a strangled moan ripping from your throat.

“That’s it,” he breathes, circling your clit with quick, precise motions. “Come for me. I want to feel you squeeze my cock.”

That’s all it takes.

Your orgasm slams into you like a tidal wave, white-hot pleasure exploding behind your eyes as you cry out his name, your walls spasming around him. Your entire body shakes, thighs trembling as aftershocks wrack through you, pleasure so intense it borders on overwhelming.

Spencer groans, his pace stuttering, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic. He grips your hips hard, driving into you one last time before burying himself to the hilt, his cock twitching as he spills deep inside you.

A ragged moan rips from his throat, his head dropping forward as his release pulses through him, hot and thick, filling you completely. His fingers dig into your flesh, holding you still as he empties himself inside you, his breath shuddering against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you move, the only sounds in the room your shared panting, the quiet hum of the desk lamp casting light over your flushed skin.

Then Spencer pulls back slightly, lifting his head to look at you, his dark eyes clouded with satisfaction. A lazy smirk tugs at his lips as he drags his thumb along your cheek, his voice a husky murmur.

“Messy girl,” he muses, his tone dripping with amusement as he watches his cum drip from your still-throbbing cunt. “I guess I’ll just have to clean you up.”

The look in his eyes tells you he means every word.

He’s careful as he adjusts, lowering himself down to kneel beside you, his eyes studying you with an intensity that’s no longer sharp and commanding but tender, attentive. His thumb brushes along your cheek, wiping away a bead of sweat, and his gaze softens as he watches you blink up at him, slowly coming back to earth.

"Hey," he says softly, voice still rough but full of warmth, "you okay?"

You nod, your chest rising and falling with each breath as the tension in your body gradually unwinds. Spencer’s hand moves to your shoulder, gently massaging the muscles there, as though he can feel the strain of the night’s intensity. His fingers press into your skin, not with the same urgency they had before, but with careful, deliberate motions meant to soothe.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. He stands for a moment, disappearing into the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water running before he’s back with a damp cloth. He’s gentle as he wipes you down, making sure to be soft around your sensitive spots, taking his time.

Once he’s finished, Spencer grabs a blanket from the couch, wrapping it around your shoulders like a cocoon. He settles next to you, pulling you close, his arms enveloping you in warmth as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, his voice full of sincerity. "You did amazing."

Your head rests against his chest, and you can hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. The weight of the night settles into something quieter, more intimate—this quiet aftercare, where words aren’t necessary, but the tenderness in his touch speaks volumes.

Spencer lets you relax against him, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your skin as you both catch your breath. He doesn’t rush you. He just holds you. When you finally speak, it’s soft and a little hoarse from the intensity of the night.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Spencer simply nods, kissing your forehead in response. “Always.”

And for the rest of the night, he stays close, making sure you feel safe, cared for, and cherished. The outside world feels miles away, the two of you cocooned in your own quiet intimacy, where aftercare doesn’t just mean physical, but emotional tenderness that leaves you feeling loved, even after everything.

[brattyspence]

angst my lover. michaela my love

how did it end? - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader goes through all the memories of her and spencer's relationship after running into garcia and jj

requested by @darkmatilda hope you like it<3

genre: angst wc: 1150 warnings: post-breakup, implied love-bombing, bottling feelings, mention of alcohol, BRIEF IMPLIED mention of sex, spencer doesn't talk about things! a/n: this took ages! this is the same universe as what a bland goodbye but you don't need to read it first!

The feeling of leaving behind a relationship, declaring it post-mortem and carrying on is nothing like what literature and media says. It’s said to be sulking. Months are spent crying and eating chocolate ice cream. You know that’s not true. It’s much worse than that.

You had to throw out your bedsheets because they smelled too much like him even after numerous washes. Whether that’s because his scent wouldn’t leave, or he spent so much time in your bed he started smelling like your laundry detergent, you’re not sure. His sweaters still collect dust in your closet because you don’t think you can stomach seeing them. You’d remember the first time he let you borrow one, sliding it over your bare tummy before sliding his cold hands underneath. You think you’d be able to feel those hands on your waist if you even laid one eye on the soft clothing.

This place is the only place you’ve bothered to step foot in for the past six weeks. You’re thankful groceries can be delivered but being with Spencer has made you skeptical of the deliverers. He always said, “it’s easy access to you and your home.” So you stopped with that. You stopped a lot because of him. Now you’re at a harshly-lit grocery store that’s only a persistent reminder of your time together.

“Which ice cream?” he asked, fingers hovering over the handle of the freezer.

You chimed in with your answer and he never once argued. Spencer was happy to eat ice cream he didn’t like if you did.

And the pasta aisle, reading the ingredients and listing off the things Rossi taught him about it. He would talk about all the things at work except the work. It didn’t bother you. Sure, you wanted to know what he spent the days without you doing, but you were more focused on the attention he gave you. His lips covered your cheeks and neck and forehead every chance they got. It wasn’t until a rough case hit and he blocked you out that it started.

You pried. Too much. He would lock himself inside his mind until you weren’t sure he would ever return to you. He distanced and distanced, keeping you at arms-length. Your touch, a birthright, turned foreign as quick as it came. Nothing you did brought him out. The love you tried so hard to nurture burnt out like nothing. For him, that is.

As much as you don’t want to, you still love him, maladies incurable but treasured until the very end.

Unforeseen circumstances brought upon a reckoning that lasted what felt like forever. It didn’t help that you then had to explain it all to the whole of your friends. After breaking the news to several people, it became a recognizable pattern you could predict. One gasp. How did it end?

Your name, from behind you. You turn to look and it’s painful how bright. Her yellow dress just about burns your corneas until the ocean eyes of the other catch up. The recognition is instant, meaning no time to run, hide.

The light that is Penelope Garcia engulfs you whole. Her arms wrap around your shoulders tightly. She’s just happy to see you.

JJ, on the other hand, has that motherly presence that makes you want to bawl. She hugs you in a way that’s comforting, her hand rubbing your back.

“It’s been so long,” Garcia grins in that awkwardly happy voice.

You nod.

Spencer introduced the two of you a while back. You were allowed into the circle with open arms and alcohol. You had an invite to every girl’s night. The things you shared with them–too much–come back all together. The moments that were meant to be private but you were too eager to have a friend group. Those moments of intimacy, sweat. Those moments of vulnerability and fear. All the things to throw back in your face now that it’s over. They’ll picture those moments with a duller lens but it won’t take away their meaning. All the pieces that made up your mosaic.

JJ starts, “we haven’t seen you since…”

“Yeah.” Your eyes find the floor. You count each speck of gray on the tile.

Unbeknownst to you, there’s an exchange between the two ladies. Only with their eyes. JJ glares in warning. Penelope decides to do what she wants.

“Spencer never told us… how did it end?”

Nothing prepared you to hear the name from anyone’s lips. You haven’t in so long.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Spencer asked skeptically, eyes narrowed but a playful smile on his mouth. The mouth that was painted messy crimson from your own.

You hummed with a nod. You carefully placed the record in its rightful place and the needle on the grooves. When unnecessarily old music started playing, you knew you succeeded in gaining his praise.

It became something of a tradition. He came home and a record was on. For months, your life’s soundtrack was Mozart and Beethoven. It was the sounds of bare feet on carpet, contagious giggles and pouring coffee.

Until it wasn’t.

Until it was waking up to a running shower and spontaneous phone calls from work. Until it was no physical affection because he was tired and only getting attention when he had the energy. Until he never called.

Dreaming deflated and words turned agonizing. It all hurt and he never talked. He needed someone else and you weren’t ready to turn into that person.

But you didn’t know he never told his family that.

To interlopers glancing at the past, it would seem that you grew apart. You wondered if they saw it like that.

“What did he tell you?” you probe shamelessly. Probably showing your desperation.

“Just that it didn’t work out.”

Lost the game of chance. That’s all.

Because the reason for leaving each other wasn’t because you shut each other out, it was because you weren’t compatible. That was laughable and the furthest thing from the truth.

If that’s what they believe, they must think you're crazy. You’re walking in circles, barely able to exist. Everything you see brings upon tears and tragically beautiful memories you’d rather unrecall. Kissing in museums, parks and cars, anywhere where it was appropriate and some places where it wasn’t. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to forget the way his lips felt. The slope of his nose, the angle of his jaw. Your mind automatically fills in the blanks and creates a false narrative in which he’ll return to you.

It hurts–not because it’s fresh–but because it’ll last. You’ll spend the rest of your life pondering, wondering. You’ll spend it dreaming about every moment that you wish could’ve remained still. His touch will be a forever burn on your skin.

But the very worst part is, you’re not sure exactly how it ended.

[brattyspence]

updated guidelines for my inbox AND requests

★ dont be an asshole

★ literally ask me anything idc

★ i only write for spencer x reader at present

★ i also DO NOT accept requests for smut or smut related topics.

★ i do NOT write topics related to eating disorders or food.

★ please do not be offended if i don't fill your request! it has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me.

[brattyspence]

[brattyspence]

canva is down. i have a fantastic fic idea and canva is down

[brattyspence]

i love being included but i love seeing my friends included more :')

FLUFF MASTERLIST 2

Sobriquet by @siriuslylantsov

Germs by @enderlovez

Falling behind (suggestive) by @sanguineterrain 

Amethyst you so much by @boldlyvoid 

Nonexistent rizz by @miedei

Blurb 1 (suggestive) by @subspencer

Romantic lover by @starvu

Take a picture, it'll last longer by @brattyspence

Marked up (suggestive) by @drowning-rabbit

Greylist by @gold-onthe-inside

Blurb 2 by @brattyspence

Birds of a feather by @mariasont

Risk by @parfaitblogs

College lecture by @reginyani

Falling star by @galaxy-siren

Cinnamon sticks by @mariasont

The memory of your lips by @esote-rika

Blurb 3 by @r0rysreid

Blurb 4 by @r0rysreid

Suspiciously sweet by @mariasont

La vita è bella by @angellic4l

Warm reception by @ellesreids

Classified (suggestive) by @ovrgrwnivy

Ton 618 by @vatelixx

Sick day by @miedei

I can see you by @januaryembrs

Distracted by @gf2bellamy

Metal box by @amorre1989

A mystery benefactor by @moonlight-joy

Shut-eye by @siriuslylantsov 

Sleepless by @sincerelybubbles 

Roommate blurb by @miedei 

Used to, not to by @reidingandallthat

One single thread of gold by @gghostwriter

Glasses by @gf2bellamy 

Physics and racing… (of the heart) by @crsssie 

Kiss, kiss, fall in love (suggestive) pt2 by @rumplereids 

[brattyspence]

P I LOVE YOU THIS IS TOOO SWEET

little hearts everywhere

it’s cowardly to run, maybe. but spencer has never made you feel like anything less than whole, anything less than loved. so, he shields you like it’s second nature. he doesn’t care where you have to go to feel safe. he’d follow you to the ends of the earth if you needed him to.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: hurt comfort

content: established relationship spencer helps reader deal with a panic attack and comforts her after

word count: 2.2k

note: based on this ask! i havent had any personal experience with panic attacks (at least not recent enough for me to remember what they are like vividly) so i really tried to research and read up on them to portray them accurately. if anyone has any notes or edits you think this fic may need please feel free to let me know!!

a line: The tear-tracked cheeks, the too-quick, too-shallow breaths—Spencer doesn’t think. He runs.

From where Spencer’s standing, it’s not so much a hug as it is you barreling out of the house and crashing into the first solid presence you can find. JJ barely has time to brace before you crash into her, her arms tight around your shaking frame.

That alone is enough to make Hotch raise an eyebrow and to make Spencer’s stomach drop. You don’t run. You don’t break. The only time you ever fight restraint is when Spencer insists on triple-checking your vest.

Hotch presses a finger to his earpiece, listens for half a second before nodding sharply in Spencer’s direction. That’s all it takes—They know. Morgan has the unsub, Prentiss has the kid, JJ has the parents. 

Spencer has you.

He’s already moving before he has time to think about it. He weaves his way through the sea of people, through the wailing sirens. 

You all get shaken up in the field. Comes with the job. But the way you collapsed into JJ like your legs just gave out beneath you—No, that’s something else altogether, though Spencer’s not quite sure what. 

Then he sees you shove away from JJ, like you can’t stand to be touched, and that’s when he knows. The tear-tracked cheeks, the too-quick, too-shallow breaths—Spencer doesn’t think. He runs.

“Fine—I’m fine. Go!” he hears you say through haggard breaths. JJ hesitates, torn between ushering the parents away from the crime scene and staying with you. But Spencer gives her the smallest nod to follow your lead. It’s better this way. The parents don’t need to see one of their rescuers unravelling. They’re already frazzled enough. 

Once JJ steps away, Spencer barely has a second to open his mouth before you cut him off. 

“Don’t.”

One word. A simple one. It’s been your cornerstone—for the job, for the entirety of your relationship, for him.

“Don’t,” you say when he comments on your caffeine intake.

“Don’t,” you say when he reaches out mid-shootout to pull you back—Hotch had taken your side on that one. That’s a danger to both of you, Reid.

“Don’t,” you say when he comes looking for you after you linger too long in a victim’s room, usually children, devastatingly stuck on the minute details of their lives.

It’s not that you don’t appreciate it. You just won’t be coddled. You refuse to be the subject of anyone’s soft concern, not when you’ve worked so hard to be taken seriously. You’re already the only one who can turn the team’s resident genius into mush with a single smile—you don’t need any more remarks about that, either.

Spencer understands. So when you say don’t, he doesn’t argue. But he doesn't step back, he doesn't even turn away. He stays beside you, hovering like a helicopter, yes, but doesn't move to do anything else. There are things he could do, things he wants to do, but not here. You wouldn’t let him, anyway.

Still, for all the ways you unmake him, Spencer unravels you, too. And knowing that the rest of the team is tangled in the aftermath of the arrest, you let yourself take the only reprieve you’ll allow your hurting self—Him.

“I—chest feels tight—can’t—hard to breathe,” you manage, still hunched forward, half from the weight of it, half so he won’t see the tears streaking hot down your cheeks. When Spencer softens and says, “breathe with me, baby. In for four, okay?” in the loving way of his, you know he sees your tears either way. 

You nod, barely, and Spencer thinks, for a fleeting second, that you’ve got a handle on it. That he’s got a handle on it.

Until your whole body tenses, and suddenly, you’re shooting upright, eyes wide and wrong. Your breath stutters into something sharp. “Can’t—” You’re shaking your head and clutching at your chest, fingers twisting into the fabric of your vest. 

“I—my chest hurts—it hurts, I—Get it off, get it off, please, take it off—”

Spencer’s already looking around, scanning the scene, mind racing. The unsub is in custody, shoved into the back of a patrol car, but Hotch hasn’t called a close on the case just yet. The scene is still active, officers moving, clearing the last corners, securing evidence. There’s protocol to follow. The unsub could—

But then he hears you. Really hears you.

The way your voice shakes, the way your fingers claw desperately at the straps of your vest, nails scraping against the buckles.

“Please, baby, I—please—”

That’s all it takes.

Spencer doesn’t think about the statistics. Doesn’t think about the 5.1% of criminals who manage to escape police custody, the 2.7% who do it even in handcuffs. 

He just moves.

“I’ve got you, baby, I’m getting it off, I—I’ve got you—” he promises, hands already working the straps, unfastening them as quickly as he can. His fingers tremble, fumbling in his rush, in his concern for you, but he gets it, yanking the vest free and tossing it to the ground. “Okay, baby, it’s off, it’s off—breathe for me, sweetheart, can you try—”

You stumble forward a few steps, your breath coming in a little too fast, a little too sharp. The pressure is gone, but the panic isn’t. Not yet. You can feel it still crawling under your skin, weaving its way between your ribs, coiling around your collarbones, clenching hard around your throat. Your body is caught between fight and flight, and flight wins.

You turn away from the flashing lights and move—quick, desperate—until there’s something solid between you and the rest of the world. A hedge at the end of the road. It’s not much, but it’s away. Spencer follows close behind, swiping a bottle of water from a paramedic’s open kit, keeping pace without crowding you. 

When you find a patch of shade that feels like solace enough, he automatically steps in front of you and places himself between you and the rest of the crime scene. 

It’s cowardly to run, maybe. But Spencer has never made you feel like anything less than whole, anything less than loved. So, he shields you like it’s second nature. He doesn’t care where you have to go to feel safe. He’d follow you to the ends of the earth if you needed him to. He’ll stand guard. He’ll be whatever you need.

“Baby.”

You hold a hand out to stop him before you even realise what you’re doing. He hasn’t even tried to touch you, hasn’t overstepped at all but—God, you don’t know why you did that. You can’t breathe, let alone think. Everything is too much. Your skin feels wrong, your limbs are locked up, your pulse is beating frantically in your ears.

“Why—what’s happening to me?” Your question comes out small and tight. It’s painfully timid and nothing like what you usually sound like. You look up at him through wet lashes and his expression—so full of aching concern—You could sink into him. You would, if you weren’t being held hostage by your own damn body.

“You’re having a panic attack, sweetheart,” Spencer says gently, “we need to slow down your breathing. Do you think you can try that for me?”

“I—I—” You nod, unconvincing, then try again. “Okay. Okay, I’ll try.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. His voice holds something tender, something endless, something just for you. “Can I rub your back? Do you think that would help?”

Even now, he asks. He never assumes, never takes, never crosses a line without making sure it’s one you’re okay with him stepping over. Always the gentleman, Spencer Reid.

“I don’t—” You swallow hard. “Yeah. Yes. Please.”

Spencer’s hand is warm when it finds your back, tracing slow, sweeping passes. The other hand lifts to his vest, unbuckling it in practised motions, letting it fall to the pavement with a dull thud. And then—just as carefully—he pulls you in, lets you collapse against him, cradling your head to his chest.

“You feel my heart, baby?” he asks after some time. Spencer’s chin rests against the top of your head, one hand splayed against your back, the other smoothing over your hair. He feels you nod faintly, where your cheek is pressed to the fabric of his shirt. 

“It’s beating just for you, sweet girl,” he says again, fingers tracing slow patterns between your shoulder blades. “Let’s try to match it, okay?” 

Another nod, this one a little stronger.

Your eyes are shut, from what Spencer can see. He slows the strokes along your back and starts counting—instinct, habit.

You both stay like that for as long as he thinks you need to. Him, cradling and counting until he settles on approximately 120 beats per minute. Not quite where he wants it to be, but Spencer Reid has never been impatient with you. He knows progress when he sees it.

When he hears movement behind him, he glances back just in time to catch Morgan watching, concerned. Spencer shakes his head—not now—and that’s all Morgan needs before he disappears back into the fray. Spencer turns his attention back to you.

“Feeling better, baby? You want some water? I think it’ll help.”

You would roll your eyes if you had the energy for it. Typical Spencer Reid. The illusion of choice. You huff against him slightly, reluctant to shift from the comfort of his embrace as he hands you the bottle, already uncapped.

“That’s good, sweetheart. There we go.” 

You sniffle into his chest after a few weak sips. You hadn’t even realised how dry your throat was.

“Let's go home yeah?” Spencer murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your head while he still has you in his arms. You manage a sluggish hum of agreement. 

The rest of the case is a blur. You keep your head down, press your lips into a thin line when concerned glances are thrown your way. Try to steel your voice when you assure Hotch you’re fine to help with the case file. He assigns it to Emily anyway. Spencer keeps his hand firm against the small of your back the whole time. Nobody says anything about it, and you don’t pull away.

On the way home, you keep his hand in your lap. Sometimes intertwining fingers, sometimes giving it a light squeeze. Spencer likes the way you trace the little hearts on his palm the most though. You’re looking out the window for most of the ride, he’s certain you don't even realise you're doing it.

The cushions swallow you whole when you get home, barely making it to the couch before exhaustion drags you under. You don’t even realise Spencer had slipped into the bathroom until he returns minutes later, sleeves rolled up, towel slung over his shoulder. “Ran you a bath, honey.”

He kneels in front of you, hands moving—boots first, then socks. When he reaches for the buttons of your sweat-slicked shirt, there’s nothing clinical about it, nothing but tenderness. He peels back the fabric, undoes your pants with the same gentle efficiency, and you could cry from the softness of it. 

The word love just doesn't do Spencer Reid justice. The way he loves you—It’s utter devotion, raw and unfiltered. 

You whimper when he sets you down in the bathroom. You don't want to be alone right now. 

Does he still think you want that? That you need space?

You don’t.

Your fingers clutch weakly at his shirt, and Spencer stills instantly.

“Stay?”

His expression softens, surprise flickering for only a second before he nods. “Of course, baby. Anything you want.”

Then he undresses, too. You watch as he steps into the water first, sinking down against the porcelain, testing the temperature before looking up at you again.

“Cold?” you ask meekly. 

He shakes his head, watching you with that same quiet, unwavering adoration in his eyes. “S’perfect. Just like you,” he says, offering you a hand. You step in, easing down until you’re tucked against his chest, his arms circling you. They make you feel safe in a way you hadn’t all day.

His hand moves in slow, soothing circles along your legs. You have them tucked tight to your chest—not for space, though that's what you hope Spencer assumes. In actuality, you’re still unraveling from the aftermath, still trying to convince your body that the danger has passed. 

Spencer starts tracing patterns on the knobs of your knees that you can’t quite decipher—Absentminded, maybe. Intentional, always.

“That was scary,” you admit after a long moment. “I was scared.”

Spencer leans down slightly to press a lingering kiss to your temple. He tries not to let it show how pained he is from the fragility in your tone. You feel him sigh before he speaks. 

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs, “It was, wasn’t it? I was scared too,” he says, lips grazing your damp skin. “But you did so well for me.” 

He presses another kiss to the shell of your ear. “So proud of you,” he breathes. “My brave girl.”

You exhale, shakier than you’d like, and lean back into him, eyes slipping shut. Melt is the word. You finally let yourself take it all in. The rise and fall of his chest against your back, the soft sloshing of the water around the both of you, the fingertips kissing your skin in small designs. 

That’s when you feel it.

Little hearts, pressed in careful patterns against the slope of your thigh, the slant of your calf, the curve of your hip. 

Little hearts everywhere he can touch, little hearts everywhere you can feel. 

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

[brattyspence]

early season Spencer and his gf who’s a bit cynical and hyper independent but every time Spencer does something for her (like zipping up her coat and such) she’s can’t string a sentence together

Spencer loves you. He loves your frown and the way you scowl at almost everyone at any time of the day.

He’s figured out how to get a smile from you over the months of being together. It’s not so much a smile, it’s more an uptick of your lips and a pretty little stutter as you try to sift through your words.

You’re stubborn to a fault, you like your independence and Spencer likes you independent but every once in a while he puts his foot down and you acquiesce to what he’s asking of you.

Like now, he’s about to put his foot down and Derek can’t wait to experience this sternness.

It’s peak fall season in Virginia and you lose body heat easily. Still, you resist the sensible need of a sweater and Spencer hates how your lips go purple and your hands are icy.

Spencer has one of your sweaters in his bag, he’s just waiting for you to ask. He’s been waiting all day. He might end up waiting all day, you seem to have no intention of getting warm.

He calls your name and you look up, eyes meeting his over your computer. “Cold?”

You narrow your eyes and Spencer bites the inside of his cheek to hide a smile. “No, are you cold?”

Spencer shakes his head, and waits for the hustle of the lunch hour to approach you again. He digs through his bag and then approaches you.

“C’mere.” He murmurs, helping you stand and frowning when your hands are colder than they should be. “You lose heat too fast.” He mutters, helping you into the sweater despite your scowl. You note mutely that it’s your Hocus Pocus sweater- the warmest one you have.

Spencer can feel your heartbeat stutter, he hears the hitch in your breath as you say, “I know, s’normal.”

Spencer shakes his head. “It’s actually not. It can be linked to a lot of things. Have you ever checked it out?”

You bat his hands away as they sneak up the bottom of your sweater to fold it the way you like. Spencer smiles when you trip over your words, “I um, I have. It’s estrogen related.”

Spencer stamps a kiss to your temple, “I’ll make you a hot chocolate and bring your lunch.”

You go to argue, tell Spencer that it’s not necessary but he’s already off to the kitchen. You sit with a little smile on your face as you get back to your files.

You miss the way Derek grins, crunching on a carrot as Spencer sets the kettle on. “Okay, pretty boy! I see you.” Spencer’s cheeks are red hot.

[brattyspence]

An angel looses its wings whenever someone spreads the Taylor swift mgg agenda

[brattyspence]

Like I have such a deeply ingrained need to be extremely defiant and hard to handle around this Spencer I want to bite his shoulder too hard he gets lowkey mad

[brattyspence]

how many times can you self reblog before you become an asshole

[brattyspence]

white noise | s.r

a/n: don't look at me i'm nervous for this

summary: spencer x reader -- a situationship defined by white noise; a metaphor for how we pacify ourselves and make stupid decisions to experience comfort, even when it hurts

word count: 1.2k (shut up okay)

masterlist

As you roll over in his bed, the soft white noise of feathers settling in down pillows and sheets crumpling up under your body echoes through your head. This white noise, his white noise, the sound of jersey sheets and an old ceiling fan and his heartbeat under your ear and him, which you've learned to fall asleep to more often than not.

It's cold in his room, but the still bed radiates warmth. There's a domestic quality to the way his fingertips trail up and down your arm, tracing lines over your shoulder absentmindedly. It's possessive somehow, in a way that says I’ve been here before, I’ll be here again. 

There's a trait to Spencer that you can't quite put your finger on. It's familiar. It's falling asleep with your back against his stomach, his breathing pattern long engraved in your physiology. Its the thrum of the engine in his shitty old Volvo when he picks you up from work when you're too tired to walk. It's forehead kisses and whispered things that replay in your mind when you're struggling to put together all of the pieces.

Spencer is white noise. 

You could be upset about it. You should, in fact. Spencer’s commitment to non-commitment haunts you more often than not. The domesticity of your situation sneaks up on you sometimes, in the form of remembered coffee orders, the lingering touch of his hand on your hip when you go out together. He’s perfected all the things to make you feel like you belong to him, but he just can’t find the words to make it true. Still, you’ve become so used to him that you’re not sure you can quit despite your feelings.

Sunlight just barely makes its way through his blinds by the time he’s awake. It's morning, earlier than you'd like it to be, but you always wake up with him when you're here. 

Your eyes flutter open and closed a few times before they focus, the room filled with the warm light emanating from the sconces. Light that hardens edges and raises new questions and drives a wedge between you, literally. This time of day has long become the bane of your existence. 

“Morning,” he murmurs. He brushes the hair out of your eyes with the softest touch you've ever felt. You instinctively scrunch your face, too close to sleep to process, and you don't realize what he's doing until he presses a kiss to your forehead.

Your only response is an inaudible mumble. He doesn't need words to know what you're saying. It's come back to bed, it's I'm so tired, and it's too early,

“Coffee’s on,” he says. 

“Hm,” you hum. 

And so it goes as it does every day. A mug–your mug–, filled with coffee made to your liking left on the kitchen counter for you. A toothbrush left in the holder in your favorite color. You both get ready in silence, a practiced ritual, making space for each other with lingering touches where needed. 

“Lock the door when you leave?” He asks. You can hear the sound of his bag being shucked over his shoulder, and in an instant he’s behind you, warm hands on your hips and a soft kiss to your shoulder. 

You spend the day waiting, as you always do, for him to invite you back in. You know its pathetic, that you should be better than this. You think of all the advice you’ve ever received about love and relationships and what not to do. How not to be desperate. The second his message crosses your screen, any semblance of logic fades. it doesn’t matter. 

When you finally stumble through the entryway to his apartment, the day drops to your feet like shattered glass, shoes and bags and jackets left on the floor, discarded, forgotten, because you’re here. You can go back to pretending for just a little bit longer. 

Its 11pm when you find yourself right back where you started. In his bed, wearing clothes that live in his drawers, the ceiling fan set to your preferred speed. You’re half asleep on the side of the bed that you’ve claimed as your own, at least for 5 nights a week, your cheek pressed into his chest, the rhythmic beating of his heart continuing to etch itself into your memory. 

The day weighs heavy on you as it always does. Almost as heavy as the weight of all the things left unspoken, which you’ve been carrying around as long as you’ve known him.

“Spencer?” You murmur, fingertips idlying toying at the fabric of his shirt. 

“Hm?”

You pause to listen to the sound of your fingers running over the fabric of his shirt. Theres the gentle hum of the heater, the flickering of a TV left on somewhere. There’s comfort to how things are. Asking the question in your mind could disrupt that. 

“Do you think,” you swallow, adjusting your head against him to look up at him. “That you’ll change your mind?”

“About us?”

“Yeah.”

He sighs, and your head bobs with the rise and fall of his chest. “I don’t know. Maybe one day.”

Silence lingers between you for a moment. It swells within every corner of your being.

“One day.”

“Maybe,” he corrects. It’s not biting or mean, but it's a deflection. “I don’t know, baby.”

It takes a lot to avoid the temptation to press him. He’s a hypocrite, at minimum. You could tell him all sorts of things about how he’s wrong, and how he doesn’t get it. That it’s not fair that he gets you in every form; asleep, awake, happy, sad, in bed, at work, and you get nothing to show for it. You could give him shit for being exactly how he is, but you don’t. Instead you choose to hold on to maybe. Maybe – an empty promise, but one you’ll accept in exchange for whatever time he will give you.

Instead you sigh, scooting closer. He tucks your head right into position, the same way you sleep every night, with practiced ease. His hands find their home against your skin, leaving warm spots on your back that lull you halfway to sleep before you try again. 

“I’m waiting for you,” you mumble. The words slip out before you can think about the weight of them. It’s an admission, a request, a plea. It’s stupid. It makes you feel sick in more ways than one, but it’s the truth.

“Go to sleep,” he replies.

It’s an open ended question. Its a chance to pick a fight, to force him to make up his mind. Its an opportunity to tell him off. Tonight, though, you don’t bother thinking about how his words lack substance. How he dances around every question. You don’t have time to notice just how upset you really are before he presses another kiss to your forehead. 

Tonight, you choose this. White noise; the illusion of belonging, his heartbeat under your cheek, hands running across bare skin, the quiet comfort of him –  his home, his space. Him. 

You choose white noise, static, empty promises, the comfort of being here as compared to anywhere else. Maybe tomorrow it will all matter. But not tonight.

[brattyspence]

oh fuck i NEEDED THIS i needed big plotty yummy sink your teeth into vignette i needed some drama i needed spencer comfort i love this i love the internet i love Margot and tumblr

too violent for tears | s.r.

in which you get a Secret Service agent assigned to you after receiving a threat against your life

who? spencer reid x fem!reader content: angst content warnings: death threats, jealous/protective!spencer, blood, guns, snipers, emetophobia warning, anxiety, trauma/shock. word count: 3.53k a/n: this was supposed to be like 1k, not sure what happened there.

You were tapping the toe of your shoe against the carpeted floor in the elevator, the fibers stomped down by FBI agents over the years. When the door dinged, Felix, your newly assigned Secret Service agent, nudged you behind him, leading the way out of the elevator and to the bullpen.

Giving a wave to the familiar face who held the door open to you, you and your escort quickly garnered the interest of the BAU. Members had started trickling out for the day, but the A-team was still around. The last to leave, as always.

Your boyfriend was flipping through a book when he glanced up to see you, his expression softening at your arrival but morphing into confusion when he noticed the well-dressed man who would under no circumstances let you walk in front of him. Instead, you followed him single file until you could lean up against Spencer’s desk. “Hey,” you greeted him casually, hoping he’d ignore the six-foot former football player standing in his midst.

He peered up at Felix, sizing him up before rising to his feet, “Who’s your friend?”

“I’m borrowing a member of the president’s goon squad,” you offered, half-heartedly trying to make a joke.

Shifting on your feet, you watched as the two men reached across the desk between them and shook hands. “Agent Felix Sheffield, United States Secret Service. I’ve been assigned to Miss Y/L/N’s detail for the foreseeable future.”

“Detail?” Spencer responded quizzically, raising a brow at you as if to say What the hell is he talking about?

Your shoulders slumped forward helplessly. “You didn’t answer your phone when I called,” you tried to explain yourself. In your defense, you’d called his cell three times before deciding to put it off.

Knowing Spencer, his cell was probably buried somewhere, covered by enough papers and pens to fully muffle the sound of your ringtone. “What is going on?” He asked, glaring at your assigned agent as if he was the enemy.

“So, I was checking my email this morning, and I found an email that made me laugh, so I showed it to my boss, and it turns out it’s a death threat, and they take that stuff seriously,” you told him, your voice fading to a whisper toward the end. Even with your hushed tone, you felt the eyes of every member of the BAU train on you. To your embarrassment, Hotch and Rossi were now peeking out of their respective offices, trying to see what was going on.

Spencer’s eyes shifted to you. “You showed a death threat to the White House Press Secretary because you thought it was a joke?”

“Actually, she showed it to the Chief of Staff,” Felix interjected, playing the devil’s advocate.

You frowned at the Secret Service agent. “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

“I’m just supposed to keep you safe,” he clarified, nodding as if he was proud of himself. He smoothed out his suit jacket, fixing the button before he looked back to Spencer. “Don’t worry, I’ve got her.”

Spencer crossed his arms in front of his chest, straightening up and staring Felix down. “Well, you don’t need to stick with her while she’s here,” he said, adjusting his suit jacket so his firearm was visible.

Felix tilted his head to the side. “I have orders.”

You took a step back, wary of the turf war that was beginning—over you, no less. “Hey, guys—”

“I understand that,” your boyfriend interrupted, “but your UnSub isn’t going to get in here.”

The invading agent gave Spencer a dubious look. “No one armed has ever gotten in here when they weren’t supposed to?”

You cringed, recalling a few stories Spencer had told you about people in the bullpen, including an incident where the glass door needed to be replaced. “I’ll keep her safe,” Spencer assured him.

He didn’t like that answer. “My orders are not to leave her unless she’s safe inside her home.”

“And when I go to the bathroom, hopefully.” You tried to get yourself back into the conversation, but the two men had resorted to glaring at each other.

You glanced over your shoulder, sending a pleading look to JJ, but she didn’t seem any more ready to jump in than you were.

Mercifully, Felix’s phone rang just when you thought he was going to break. You took the opportunity to get closer to Spencer. “I thought you guys were seconds from breaking out the ruler.”

“What?” Spencer asked, furrowing his brows.

You shook your head. “Nothing. Hey, it’s just an email, but they have to take this stuff seriously. I was visible in a briefing today, and people had things to say.”

Spencer didn’t respond, waiting for you to elaborate on the content of the email you received.

Swallowing thickly, you shifted on your feet as you recalled the message that you would not soon forget. “I just… we made a statement about the NRA, and they took it personally. Sent some photos of a rifle and what they wanted to do to me,” self-consciously, you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. “People get, uh, creative,” you told him, though you were sure it wasn’t new information to him.

Spencer looked pale, but if he had any concerns, he didn’t voice them to you. He didn’t have time because once Felix was off the phone, he was back to torment him. “I definitely recognize you from somewhere,” he said, pointing at Spencer with his cell phone.

Hesitantly, you sat down on the edge of Spencer’s desk, his warm hand resting casually on your shoulder. “He scored the winning runs at the FBI-Secret Service game last year,” you said.

Felix’s smile dropped from his face, recalling the loss that had been personal to many on the opposing team. “Are you ready to go?”

To his chagrin, you ended up sticking around the BAU for another hour, waiting for Spencer to finish some paperwork before the Secret Service drove you home. You’d been warned against the metro. You’d been warned against most public places.

Ditching Felix at the front door, you were introduced to Caleb and Sally, who would be positioned at your front door and balcony, respectively. In an exhausted haze, you and Spencer ended up on the couch, pressing yourself against him so closely that you were practically sitting on his lap.

You were supposed to be reading; that’s what you usually did after dinner. Your book lay open in your hands while you stared at the jumble of letters on the pages, next to you, Spencer turned yet another page, keeping his place with his fingertips.

Nothing was making any sense to you; even the familiar leather of your couch felt foreign beneath your legs. Things like this were never supposed to happen to you. You were a low-level staffer in the White House, but the one time you end up on camera, it turns into a case.

Spencer turned another page, so invested in his book that he hadn’t noticed your bookmark was still in place.

Your eyes flickered to the balcony. Sally was facing the street, and you knew that Caleb was right outside the front door. Thumbing the worn corner of your book, you considered asking Spencer if you could just go to bed, but his eyes seemed so affixed to his book that you didn’t want to interrupt him. You didn’t want to go alone.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you tried to convince yourself that it didn’t mean anything. People in the public eye received them all the time. If you ever wanted to further your career, you’d have to develop a thicker skin.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you repeated to yourself, shifting slightly on the couch. You moved away from Spencer, cheeks warming when he moved his placeholder hand to pull you back to him. Squeezing your thigh before returning his fingertips to the page he was on.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you leaned your head on Spencer’s shoulder, smiling despite yourself when he placed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You relaxed into him, looking back at your book when it happened.

A loud popping sound came from the street. You practically tossed your book in the air in panic, looking around for a place to hide while Spencer calmly set his book down on the side table. “Hey,” he said with no harshness in his tone. His voice was so gentle that it was almost a coo. “It’s okay,” he put his arms around you while you watched Sally talk into her radio, “It’s just a car backfiring.”

You tried to take a deep breath, air catching in your throat and leaving you to choke on nothing. You erupted in a fit of coughs, covering your mouth with your arm while Spencer rubbed your back.

“You’re safe in here,” he whispered, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. “No one’s going to get in,” he reassured you, propping his chin on top of your head, enveloping you in him.

Feeling like a fool, you’d forgotten that your first line of defense was Spencer. He wasn’t going to let you get hurt. “I’m okay,” you muttered, keeping your eyes wide open when all you wanted to do was close them.

He hummed like he didn’t believe you, and he was right to think so. “It’s alright to be scared.”

You shook your head, pulling away from him and wiping a hand down your face. “I’m not; it’s just a guy with a sniper rifle,” you said your mantra out loud this time.

Spencer’s gaze narrowed at you. “Just a guy with a sniper rifle?” He was clearly bothered by your lackadaisical attitude toward your current set of circumstances, but letting him think you were indifferent was better than letting him know you were terrified. “You do know what sniper rifles do, right?”

His question was rhetorical, but that didn’t stop you from lifting your chin to respond, “They’re like giant party poppers.”

Relaxing his posture, you watched as recognition flashed in his eyes. You didn’t mind the fact that he was actively profiling you, so long as it meant he’d stop asking questions. You were afraid that with too many more questions, you’d break, and that was something you couldn’t afford right now.

So, he let you deflect, leading you into your shared bedroom with both hands, keeping your fingertips in his. You wondered, not for the first time that night, if asking to get his gun from the safe and leave it on the nightstand was too much.

Refraining, you laid down on the bed, sighing as Spencer dragged his hand up and down your spine, waiting for you to fall asleep before he considered it for himself.

“Really?” Felix asked, putting his hands on his hips while you crouched to tie the laces on your shoes for the nth time that day. “You’ve spent more time tying your shoes than we have walking,” he observed.

You hummed in response, “They keep getting untied.”

“Double knot them,” he suggested unhelpfully.

Rising to your feet, you took your coffee cup from the Secret Service agent and took a sip. “Then I wouldn’t be able to get them off. They’re new; the laces just need some grip.”

He didn’t look impressed with your explanation. “You should’ve worn different shoes then,” he chided you, turning around when you motioned for him to keep moving through Quantico.

Unfortunately, these were the only non-work shoes you owned, and they’d be easier to run in than any of your heels. That was, after all, the reason why you elected to wear them today. “Have you always been this way?” You asked begrudgingly, “Or have you been jaded by years on the job?”

“I’m not jaded; I’m just doing my job,” he responded, looking out warily for any sign of danger. Oddly enough, you felt safer here than you did at work; the presence of people you’ve known for years brought you comfort. It helped that your boss suggested you take a day off—a rarity in your line of work.

You stumbled slightly, a flash of light out of the corner of your eye disoriented your vision, exacerbated by your untied shoelace. “Wait,” you said to Felix, getting him to turn around and handing him your coffee again, but he refused to hold it, leaving you to set the cup on the pavement.

Crouching again to tie your shoe, you were pulling on the laces when you heard a sharp whistle. It’s only ever been described to you before, but you looked up from your shoes to see Felix just before he toppled over. You ducked out of the way of his body, frantically holding your hands over the fresh wound on his chest before you realized he wasn’t moving.

If you had been anywhere else, you would’ve been surrounded by chaos, but all around you were agents pulling their weapons from holsters and looking to the sky. You stood on shaky legs, allowing them to carry you to a corridor. You stumbled over your shoelace and rounded a brick column, gripping the cold stone as you hurled into the bushes, the distinct burn of coffee poisoning the foliage in front of you.

Dry heaving, you slid down the column, covering your hyperventilating chest with your palm and trying to listen to the cacophony of the world behind you. Everything was muffled, and your eyes had blurred despite the lack of tears in them—why couldn’t you cry? Someone had tried to kill you; you should be inconsolable. Instead, you were numb, so remarkably unfeeling that you might as well be dead. Your nose stung, and you moved your hands, the blood covering them had begun to dry, sticking a violent handprint over your heart.

You started to hear things, your name being called, familiar pet names thrown into the wind, but it all felt so far away. People were speaking in an entirely different universe than the one you were currently residing in. You tugged your skirt over your knees, your eyes pausing on the dried blood, encrusted between the ridges and fine lines of your hands. It was like you’d been through some sort of gruesome fingerprinting ritual.

Brown hair curtained in front of you; someone ducked their head behind your column, relief flooding her eyes as she knelt next to you. It took you a moment to recognize that Blake was speaking to you. “Huh?” Your voice felt like it was coming from someone else; a doppelganger sat on the concrete next to you.

She held her phone to her ear, inspecting your eyes as she talked on the phone. Her fingers pressed to your wrist, checking your heart rate. You weren’t sure if it was racing or slowing, you wanted to ask, but it felt as though your mouth had been filled with cotton.

You couldn’t get yourself to stand; the dexterity that you’d developed as an infant escaping you while you sat limply on the ground, flinching when footsteps seemed to shake the earth around you.

The golden eyes in front of you glowed in the sunlight, your cheeks cupped by familiar palms, forcibly pulling you out of whatever hell you’d buried yourself in. The world seemed to move very fast before it completely stopped, your head lolling to the side for a moment before Spencer righted it for you.

You didn’t remember much of the interim, and somehow, you’d ended up on a bench. Spencer was on the ground in front of you, gingerly cleaning debris from scrapes on your knees before bandaging them.  

“Do you guys need anything?” JJ stopped by to ask. You knew everyone was trying to keep their distance from you, giving you space to breathe. Rossi draped a blanket over your shoulders in silence.

Placing a gentle kiss on your knee, Spencer looked up at you before responding, “Could you try to find a water? Or juice, something cold.”

The blonde nodded, giving you a concerned look before walking back into the building, taking Penelope with her. The technical analyst had come out after the all clear was declared; everyone wanted to check in on you. Even Matt Cruz was out, over by an ambulance talking with Hotch and some agents that the Secret Service had sent out.

You took off your shoes, sock-covered feet touching the concrete in an attempt to ground yourself while Spencer tried to take one of your hands in his. You had a death grip on the bench beneath you, and he peeled your fingers off of the metal one by one so he could start to wipe off the dried blood. “He said he always had to be in front of me,” you spoke, your voice nothing more than a mumble, but Spencer had years of practice decoding it.

“That’s protocol,” he reminded you softly. Of course, you knew that. Somewhere in your trauma-addled mind were the rules that the Secret Service had presented you.

You pursed your lips, “But if he’d—”

“Honey, you’ll drive yourself crazy if you try to think of what could’ve been different,” he told you. A sharpness emerged in his voice, one you only heard when he was worried about you.

When your instinct was to run, you hadn’t thought what it would be like for Spencer to run outside and find your protection dead and you missing. He hadn’t yet had the opportunity to read the initial email, but he’d likely figured enough to know that the person who was after you had no interest in keeping you alive. “I didn’t…” You gasped, “I wasn’t…”

Spencer’s face fell, pulling himself up so he was sitting next to you on the bench. “Hey, it’s okay,” he hummed. “Just breathe, I’ve got you.”

You looked around frantically. “Did they get the shooter?”

He nodded. “You’re completely safe.”

Behind him, Felix’s body remained under a sheet, preventing anyone from taking photos, but outside of the cover, you could see his blood. It had seeped out of his body, mixing on the concrete with the coffee you had knocked over during your escape. When Spencer reminded you not to look, you went back to watching him meticulously clean your hands. “I threw up,” you told him, why you felt it was pertinent, you weren’t entirely sure, but you told him anyway.

“That’s okay,” he reassured you. “It’s a manifestation of stress when you go into fight-or-flight.” He didn’t add the fact that you hadn’t consumed anything other than coffee, which likely didn’t help your nervous stomach.

Confused, you frowned at him. “I didn’t fight.” You corrected him, “I ran.”

He paused for a moment, squeezing your hand even though feeling hadn’t returned to your extremities, “You told me you tried to help Felix before you hid, and that’s a fight in and of itself.”

“I did?” You asked, not remembering that prior conversation.

Spencer was solemn in front of you. “You’re in shock,” he observed as if your question had been the final clarification he needed to diagnose you.

You shook your head. “I’m not bleeding.” Though, looking at all of the blood that had gotten on your clothes, it would be easy to make that assumption.

“Emotional shock, baby,” he reminded you gently. “That’s why you can’t feel your hands,” he said.

The memory of telling him you couldn’t feel your hands evaded you, trying to think of the moment you’d told him you were numb, but nothing rose to the surface. You couldn’t even remember the moment your hearing had returned; at some point while Spencer and Morgan helped you walk to the bench, you thought. “My head hurts,” you murmured, shifting uncomfortably on the bench.

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you hit it when you fell?”

“I don’t remember,” you admitted. You didn’t even remember falling until Blake had brought Spencer bandages for your knees.

Nodding in understanding, Spencer set down the damp towel he had been using and looked at your eyes, probably checking your pupils before he carefully wrapped his arms around you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck while he spoke to you gently, “I’ll keep an eye on it. You don’t have to worry about anything, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

You hiccupped back a sob, moving your face to allow for easier breathing. Tears seared your lash line before you finally blinked them out, quiet cries muffled by Spencer’s shoulder as your body finally felt the release it had been seeking.

“Oh, honey,” Spencer cooed, pulling you closer to him. He didn’t care about who was watching; he only worried about being there for you. “I’ve got you.”

His words rang in your ears as you sobbed, your trembling arms reaching around him, pins and needles striking your fingers as you gathered the fabric of his jacket in your hands. Oddly enough, a sigh of relief escaped your lips.

[brattyspence]

Okay what about a role reversal, shy!reader tries to flirt back or even unintentionally does something that ends up flustering Spencer 🫣 love ya Jade

this fic implies that spencer is a bit taller than reader but you can pretend he’s more agile if you don’t want that <3

You're guilty only of teasing your boyfriend. You’re allowed —he’s your boyfriend, he chose you, asked you out without a wince nor flinch— but it really is getting mean. 

You’re sick of being the shy one, that’s all. It’s not purposefully cruel. You’re rewarded some nights with a clingy, warm, and overly tempting boy, one who cares about what you want and how it feels, if you’d just tell him, angel. You refuse to be caught, so you’ve waited a while between goes, and tonight’s the perfect time. He’ll forget how flushed you’d become trying to order him a drink, because you know exactly how he likes his coffee, but you’d been distracted by his hand playing with the back of your blouse and the smug look he’d given you when you’d offered to do it, as if you were some treasure for it. It was worse when you stammered and he said, “It’s alright,” quietly, stepping in to finish it, and kissing your cheek to give a simple thank you. 

You didn't deserve the thanks. You didn’t get his coffee. He hadn’t even let you pay. 

Coffee gone and dinner in the oven, Spencer lays on the couch, curled on one side with his e-reader held against a naked forearm. You haven’t spoken to one another in an hour beyond quiet Okays and Yeahs and move over, and you love it. You don’t need to speak. 

You won’t need to for this, either, but you’re in a rush. You want the reward. 

“Fuck,” you mumble, sure you’re in his eyeline in the kitchen, doors open, in a t-shirt too short for you when you feign reaching for the hot chocolate at the back of his cabinet. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks. 

You can feel his eyes on you. “Yeah! Just–” You huff, the beginning to get genuinely irked when you realise you actually can’t get it. “Can’t get this tub of hot chocolate.”

“Your first mistake was trying to make your own when you have a built-in drinks maker right here,” he says, almost not quite normal in his cadence. 

You make a leap for it and your shirt rises up your back. You don’t get what’s so special about your back, it looks the same as anybody’s (or, you think so, it’s not like you spend much time looking at it). Maybe it’s the arch as you lean, or the slip of skin nobody else usually sees. Boys aren’t usually very mysterious about why they might like to see your skin, but Spencer’s Spencer. One day he could tell you that the reason he likes it is because you have a stretch mark and two moles that make a smiley face and you’d believe him. 

“I actually can’t get it,” you laugh, falling back down onto your heels with a childish, loving pout. “Can you grab it, please?” 

He’s already in the kitchen moving you aside. “I’ll get it, I got it,” he says, his fingertips kissing your back as he does, no need for it and a private pleasure all your own to know that. “Why is it wedged?” He goes on tiptoes, and yanks it out, nearly blinding himself with a can of spaghetti quickly righted. “Done. Easy.”

“So easy,” you tease lightly. 

Spencer, already knocked off kilter, goes quiet and shy, pressing his cheek to the side of your face and staying there for a second, the hot chocolate still in his hand, his other flirting with the small of your back. “I know what you’re doing, you know,” he murmurs. 

You go hot all over, but don’t give in. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you murmur back sweetly, stroking a hand up his back, tickling him as he often tortures you. 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“No,” you say, speaking into his jaw, “I don’t.” You let your breath warm his skin, nose dragged to his ear. You press a whisper of a kiss to that sharp notch of his jaw. When his grip on you tightens, you let him hear your contented sigh. 

“Can your drink wait, do you think?” he asks quietly. 

Impolite. You’d tell him you want the IOU in writing, but his hand is creeping up the front of your shirt to caress your stomach, and suddenly the hot chocolate feels unimportant. 

[brattyspence]

heeeeee huuuuuuu hooooo um um um um um um um um

nsfw | mdni | spencer reid x reader | pegging, sub!spencer, pillow princess spencer, dom!reader, jesus reid

spencer was lying on his back, fists gripping the sheets as you fucked him slowly and gently with your fake cock. his beautiful brown eyes were looking up at you, glazed over with lust and love for you. his long brown hair was sprawled on the pillow while his face was contorted in a small “o” of pleasure.

“you look so pretty underneath me,” you murmured, thrusting your hips.

spencer let out a small moan, his cheeks reddening from the heat and the praise. “you feel so good,” he breathed out.

“yeah?” you laugh out a breathless chuckle.

spencer nodded his head, giving you a small smile. “faster?”

“anything for you, my dove,” you replied gently before snapping your hips harshly, giving no time for spencer to prepare.

spencer let out a choked moan of your name, throwing his head back in pleasure as you thrusted in and out of spencer at a brutal pace. “oh fuck,” he whimpered, closing his eyes. you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips as you watched spencer.

you moved your hips with purpose, the sound of your thighs clapping against spencer filled the room as you fucked him with your fake cock. “do you like that, baby?” you asked, licking your lips.

spencer whined, nodding his head. he looked at you with hooded eyes as he bit his lip. “love it so much,” he moaned.

“good boy, taking my cock so well,” you purred. you looked down at spencer’s cock, seeing the way it bounced with each rough thrust of your hips. it was so red and angry, begging to be touched. and who were you to deny such a thing? so you reached down and began stroking spencer’s cock at the same speed as your thrusts.

“o-oh my god!” spencer’s moans became pornographic as he got louder, not shying away from making noises. “gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum, oh my god!”

you could feel spencer’s cock stiffening in your hand. “go ahead, baby, cum for me, yeah?”

and that was all spencer needed before he let out a choked sob and bucked his hips, painting your hand and his stomach with ropes of his cum. you continued your thrusts, milking spencer’s prostate until he was whimpering from overstimulation.

you pulled out of spencer, removing the strap on and tossing it to the side on the floor. you looked at the genius who was breathing heavily and looking at you. “let me take care of you now?” he asked, reaching for you.

and then you spent the next while sat on spencer’s face as he ate you out.

[brattyspence]

procrastinating writing to say hi ily

ily2 this is my eldest daughter everyone say hi